#pebble stone siding | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

heich0e · 4 months ago

Text

"I find you exasperating."

You go out of your way to step on a particularly dry looking leaf along the path—stained a deep, golden colour and curling at the edges where it rests waiting for the weight of your foot—just to hear the way it crunches beneath the sole of your shoe. At your side, Kakashi's attention is still on the book in his hand, the pages spread open only with his thumb and pinkie finger while the other three support the cracked spine. He doesn't spare you a glance, but he does deign to respond with a curious little hum.

"That's an awfully big word."

The lazy way he says it is enough to irritate you, but his condescending words are almost too much for you to bear. You stop in your tracks, fists curled tightly at your sides, and the white haired young man doesn't so much as slow in recognition of it.

It's fall in Konoha, and while the days are still warm and bright, the breeze that whisks through the village's winding streets is cool. The annoyance you feel prickling under your skin is enough to insulate you from the chill. To numb you to its bite.

You swoop down, dragging your hand lightly along the path to retrieve a handful of small, smooth stones—no larger than the tips of your fingers. Without a moment's contemplation, you launch one at the back of Kakashi's head, and watch as it bounces off dully.

He keeps walking.

"Irksome."

Another pebble hits the ground after ricocheting off the back of his headband.

"Vexatious."

The next makes contact with his right shoulderblade.

"Antagonistic."

He catches this one—just like he could have caught any of the previous three—without even turning around to watch you throw it. His hand, the one not holding his book, shoots up to protect his ear before the pebble can make contact. He holds it pinched between his thumb and forefinger for a moment, still leisurely walking away from you, before he flicks it to the ground.

"You're being so childish today," Kakashi calls back over his shoulder. "Are you sure I'm the antagonist here?"

You hear it then, the smile in his voice, and even though it would only serve to legitimize his accusation it almost makes you stomp your foot petulantly.

"Kakashi!"

Finally, he turns to face you, and even though his mask conceals most of his expression, you can tell it's hiding a grin beneath it. He tilts his head to the side, as though waiting for you to continue.

"How many times have you read that stupid book?"

The familiar novel is closed now, and his page marked, though you're not entirely certain when he did either of those things. He glances at the paperback, as though considering it carefully.

"How many times am I allowed to admit to before you call me a pervert?" he asks.

"You are a pervert," you answer, immediate and sure, while slowly walking towards him to close the gap he put between the two of you. "And you would be even if you were illiterate."

"That's not very nice of you to say," he says, tipping his head back and sighing profoundly as though your insult caused him great pain.

"It's the truth, though."

Kakashi peeks down at you from the corner of his eye as you stand by his side. Without thinking, you reach out and grab the sleeve of his jacket, averting your gaze.

It's quiet for a moment. Just the two of you, the fall breeze, the scattered pebbles, and that atrocious romance book.

"You've been gone for a month," your voice is quiet when you finally speak again. So soft it risks being carried away with the wind.

Kakashi didn't even tell you he was leaving before he was sent off on this last mission; you had to find out from another shinobi the next morning, and all they could tell you was he was gone and they weren't sure when he'd be back.

This isn't unusual with Kakashi. It's happened more times than you care to count. Missions that force him to leave the village at short notice are unavoidable—assignments like that to be expected for any shinobi, but particularly for one of Kakashi's rank.

It doesn't make it any easier.

You've thought about bringing this up to him before. Thought about asking him to tell you when these sorts of things come up. Thought about explaining to him how awful it feels to be the last to know. Thought about telling him what those long days apart feel like in this village without him.

But you don't.

Part of it is pride, you think. You're too stubborn to be the one to show your hand like that. To be vulnerable in front of him in such a mortifying, humbling way. Somehow the mere idea of making any of those admissions seems more embarrassing than trailing along behind him tossing rocks at the back of his head.

Another part is fear. You don't want to be the one to speak this thing between the two of you into existence. To give it shape. To breathe life into it by giving it a name. You and Kakashi have always lived in intentional ambiguity. A certain uncertainty. You're not quite friends, you're not quite lovers, you're not quite anything at all.

You're just the one who's left waiting for him to come home.

And then there's the last part—the biggest part—that holds you back. The part you don't quite know how to explain. The part that tells you to bear the pain of missing him, to swallow down your longing, for his sake if not your own. The last thing Kakashi needs is the burden of knowing his duty makes you ache while he's away. That his absence keeps you awake at night. He's got enough he needs to shoulder without you adding to the weight, and this is the least you can do to try and help him carry it.

You let his sleeve slip from your grasp.

"Sorry," you mutter under your breath, shaking yourself from your momentary stupor.

"Are you acting out because I haven't given you enough attention?" Kakashi asks, only his voice is different now than it was a moment prior. Sincere in a way that upsets you more than when he's being intentionally annoying.

You finally bring yourself to look at him, but only to shoot him a narrow-eyed glare.

His own gaze is disarmingly soft when you meet it. Unexpectedly tender. Perceptive in ways you usually choose to overlook.

So much so, in fact, that you're too stunned to even flinch when he taps his book against your forehead.

"Ok, ok," he says with a shrug, spinning on his heel and continuing on down the path at an idle pace, leaving you dumbfounded in his wake. "If you wanted to borrow it, you could've just asked!"

#kakashi x reader #hatake kakashi x reader #kakashi hatake x reader #naruto writing #naruto drabble #writing

602 notes · View notes

whitewizard89 · 2 years ago

Photo

Pool Infinity in San Francisco

#An illustration of a large Tuscan side yard stone with a uniquely shaped infinity pool fountain stone exterior #in-floor cleaning #led lighting #pebble interior #pools with hot tubs #indoor-outdoor living #custom swimming pool

0 notes

bellarkesupernova · 2 years ago

Photo

Pathway (Bridgeport)

#Design suggestions for a summertime side yard stone garden path that is medium-sized #traditional #and drought-tolerant. beige pebble landscape #stepping stone walkway #black fence #landscape planting #retaining brick walls #lawn and garden

0 notes

drgnflyteabox · 3 months ago

Text

red ochre [2]

series masterlist previous || part two -> woad and weld || part three -> orpiment

pairing: viking goap x fem! nun reader summary: you recover from the boat, and wonder why you were taken w.c: 3.9k tags/warnings: pain, caretaking, food, stomach issues, threats, mean simon, fears of rape (doesn't happen), viking-typical slavery, unwanted cuddling / massage / touching, alcohol, scars, violence, hunting, laswell hello!, reader has some puritanical attitudes / assumptions but she was a nun so, power imbalance, dubcon comfort, crying, religious themes (dldr)

You're a stone sunk to the bottom of the ocean, pulled under by exhaustion and turmoil. It's the sleep of the dead, dreamless and unreachable.

Vaguely, in moments of semi-consciousness, you hear voices and feel softness against your skin, warmth all around you. The brush of fingers against your cheeks.

When you do wake, it's like crossing between different worlds, with a head full of cotton and fog. Your sense of smell comes alive before anything else, the smell of food permeating the air around you.

Fish. Cream. Something herbaceous, something earthy. A fire crackles closeby, warming the air, warming you. You can feel fur touching your arms and legs, draped over you and flat underneath you.

It only serves to soften to blow of pain, overwhelming pain. True awareness comes then, waking you with a gasp that alerts-

"Did she just-"

"Sh!" Simon's voice, coming closer. "You awake?" his face comes into view above - you only recognize him by voice.

He's scarred, big and small, but the most eye-catching one bisects his face, splitting it into two from his cheekbone to his jaw on the other side. It's deep, raised, angry even if you can tell it's healed.

You scream.

It's a weak sound, the cry of somebody that knows it's pointless and yet can't help but shout into the void and hope that something will answer.

Before, that would have been god. You'd have prayed, lived as a hermit, sequestered yourself to a cave and live as one of the great ascetic saints. A life even further dedicated than nunhood.

Since he had refused to answer you on the boat, you turn away, and whimper like an injured dog when that scarred face turns to a mask of stone.

"Ha!" Johnny doesn't pick up on the tension that's rising, slowly, as you tremble under Simons gaze. Or maybe he does, and he doesn't care. "Havnae seen his ugly mug yet, have ye? Dinnae worry, lamb."

Guilt curls in your belly, dampening your fear. Simon doesn't look shamed, but you weren't afraid of his scars - truly, you were disoriented, barely clothed and towered over by the same man that took you.

"He won't bite," Johnny continues. He walks over and lays a hand on Simons waist, fingers curling in the off-white fabric. "Well, not ye."

A wink.

"Hush!" Simon barks. "Get her up, she needs to eat."

There's no hesitation. Johnny leans down to you, pulling you until you sit up with a wince. You bite your lips to keep from crying out again, pain lancing through your muscles. You're seized by muscle spasms, by the fiery hot pain of your chafed wrists and a gnawing, deep hunger in your stomach.

"How-" you choke, throat dry and voice unused. Johnny pauses helping you up to listen. "How long have I been asleep?"

"Few days, lass. It's the evening," he grins. "Ye should thank us. Kept ye warm, washed, slipped ye broth into that lovely mouth-"

Simon puts a wooden bowl down onto the table, louder than necessary. There's a grumble from Johnny, but he gets you up and waits while your legs get used to weight on them again.

You're half-dragged, mostly carried to the table. All you're wearing is that shirt, nipples pebbled against the front from the cold. Hard to care too much when your muscles scream even holding yourself sitting up.

You lean on Johnny as Simon ladles soup into bowls, hunched over the kitchen hearth, silent as the grave.

"Eat slowly," is all he says.

It smells good, herby and warm. Your stomach groans and gurgles and begs you to eat, but you're weary. Afraid. Only when the men eat that you pick up a carved wooden spoon and hesitantly slurp.

Heat. Satisfaction. Eating is incredible, and you discover the wonderous ingredients loaded into the soap; salmon, potatoes, a green herb that tastes like sharp, citrussy grass.

Then your stomach cramps, and you tilt with nausea.

"Too fast?" Johnny coos, rubbing a big palm up and down your back. "Awe."

"That's enough, then," Simon goes to take your bowl, but you're too fast. You pull it close to your chest, spilling a little onto the table and drops soak into your shirt. "You can have some later. I said that's enough."

You hold fast. Your stomach hurts, but you're desperate for some form of control. All the terror and all the uncertainty rises, rushing through your finally conscious brain into a battle of strength. You took me but I have agency! it says. You took me but I can take this!

He's too strong.

The wood bowl clatters against the ground with a crack, hot soup spilling on the floor. You heave with the force of your breathing, afraid and too-aware of your predicament.

Taken, snatched, at the mercy of men whose intentions are unclear.

You're too slow to cower when Simon's arm shoots forward and grabs your jaw, hard and mean, giving you a squeeze.

"Now we've been nice to you," he starts. His voice is as solid as his arm. You start to shake. "But I can just as easily put you over my knee. That what you want?"

You shake your head.

"That's what I thought."

Johnny leaves after the soup is cleaned and you're tucked back into the bed again, muscles trembling still with the exertion of your first meal. Small, electric spasms make you wince every one in a while. Your wrists are bruised and scabbed, but healing. They feel hot and itchy, but Simon tells you as he rubs an ointment into the wound that they're healing well.

You try to shy away, hide yourself, when he notices your grimace and reaches for a calf. The look he gives you stops you, takes your breath, until he shakes his head and starts rubbing deep circles into the tenderest spot of your muscle.

"God!" you should. A wonder how badly you can hurt from just laying in bed. He snorts. "Ow!"

"Don't be dramatic," his thumb presses deeply, moving down, then back up. Squeezing. The bed dips with his weight as he scoots closer to you.

You take a moment to look around you. The cabin is made of wood, warmed by the fire, and is full to the brim. Clay pots, furs, tools, a couple barrels- they're everywhere, unorganized. Makes you wonder about the sacred items they'd stolen from your convent.

"Why did you take me?" someone bolder has possessed you. Your mouth twists when Simon's eyes find yours.

His hands don't stop moving. They switch legs, pulling the finished one onto his big thigh. It does feel better, relaxed and tender in a good sort of way, pain not so unbearable anymore.

"You're our spoils," he moves down, digging into your arch. You almost yelp. "D'you know what we gave up for you?"

Something in your chest squeezes, something scared and unpleasant. You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

"That's alright," Simon murmurs. Your anxiety fights against the comfort he's giving you. "You'll be alright."

He flits his gaze downwards, eyeing you. Your breath catches when you realize that the position has left your legs open, shirt ridden up, and he's looking right at your bare cunt.

"Ah!" you pull your knees shut, hands finding where you're exposed and folding over, cupping yourself, face ablaze. Tears prick at your eyes again, fear winning over comfort.

Simon doesn't let you panic for long.

"I won't force myself on you, pet," he grunts. "We won't."

There isn't much choice but to hang on to his words for dear life, to believe that he won't force you. The hope is fragile, but it's there. You take the chance to pull a soft, worn blanket over your body.

"Am I to be your slave?" your voice wavers.

"No," he says simply.

For a long time, you watch him. He putters about, moving things, unloading boxes no doubt full of supplies used for raids. You wonder if that means he doesn't intend to go on another one, then wonder what they'll do with you if they do leave.

Johnny comes back flushed, smiling. You smell sweetness under his sweat, something you can't recognize. His eyes crinkle when he sees you.

"Two nights," he breathes, looking at you but talking to Simon. "They'll celebrate in two nights."

Your stomach tenses, roiling, eyes fluttering with the effort to stay awake. Even a short time is much for you after your journey.

"Price's back?" Simon asks. He's pulling a sealskin from a burlap bag, smoothing it out with his hands onto the table. The silvery, spotted skin reflects the fireplace.

"Tomorrow," Johnny pulls leather boots off his feet, then thick socks. He wipes himself down with a rag from a tub, shuffling to the bed when he finishes. "Then we feast."

Your eyes are heavy slits, mouth open. You hardly move even when Johnny sits next to you and brushes a thumb over your cheek, smiling toothily down at you.

"Awe, she's precious," he says, lowering his voice. "Go to sleep now, little lamb."

You wake the same way as before. A tilt of one world into the next, sliding down into consciousness as slow as thick porridge.

Only this time, you're surrounded by a warmth not brought by thick furs. It's skin, all around you, boxing you in. On your face you feel hair, prickly and soft, comforting and frightening all at once.

Behind you, a chest breaths against your back. Your eyes open, alarm cutting through grogginess.

Johnnys big hand is clutching your breast, squeezing every few moments, snuffling into your neck like a sleepy animal.

You try to extricate yourself, lifting yourself to find Simon looking down at you, eyes half lidded but aware. There's warning there, but there's also contentment. Scars big and small litter his skin, pocked and torn and scraped, all shapes and sizes. Some are silvery while others are such a deep red you'd think they were still fresh.

He looks past you at Johnny, and turns to his side.

"Weren't planning on running, where you?" his voice is low, so as to not wake the other man.

"No," you whisper. Johnny shuffles behind you, sliding a thigh between your legs. "Please help me." you wiggle, trying to move.

Simon sighs, sitting up. He shuffles to the edge of the bed, then reaches to peel Johnnys hands off you. His hand slides against the soft spring of your breast, hands sliding under Johnnys to pull, brushing your nipple on the way up.

"Thank you," you're still whispering, not wanting to wake Johnny up lest it irritate Simon. You roll until you're out of his grasp, body feeling less pained than it did the day before.

"Hungry?" Simon moves towards the kitchen. "Got one more day to relax."

The feast, you think. The divide, the celebration. Frissons climb your skin until your scalp prickles.

"Yes, please," you sit up, weary of Johnny finding your heat in the bed.

The smell of animal fat and the sound of sizzling fills the cottage then. You look around, noting an improvement for the clutter. The sealskin is gone, replaced by two standing up boots.

"They're yours," Johnny says. You startle, almost leap, but he catches you by the hips and puts his face into your hair. "Simon stayed up all night."

"Gets cold," he dismisses. Eggs jump in the pan in front of him, popping in the hot tallow.

You have to be helped again to the table, but it's not so bad this time. You arm goes around Johnnys waist, his under yours, fingers barely brushing the underside of your breast.

Breakfast is good. Fried eggs, seasoned by the fat, over gruel. It fills you with an internal sense of strength, and you can actually finish it all today.

"Good girl!" Johnny claps your back. "Gonnae be choppin all our wood for winter, eh?"

After, Simon has you change into a simple brown wool dress. You try to ignore them looking at your nakedness as you drop the other shirt, but the wool is nice and warm and there's even a soft pale shift to go underneath it.

Then he slips pants on your legs, tied at the waist under the dress, and wraps wool around your calves.

"You're gonna run errands with me," Simon says. He wraps your feet again in wool, securing them with leather twine. "Get your strength up."

His eyes find yours where he's kneeling, squinting at you, expression turning stormy.

"I don't want to re-injure your wrists," he motions to them, and you look at the healing scabs. "But if you try to run, I'll drag you back by your hair n' tie 'em back up. You pick."

Outside, you wince against the light. Simon holds you by the elbow, walking at your weak pace. It's a tight village, houses clumped together, shops close. It's a wonder you haven't heard anyone from inside Johnny and Simons home, until you see how thickly the walls are built when the door opens.

The street is wet with mud, and you're grateful for the footwraps. They're warm against the chill, sliding through the mud beneath you when you lose your footing, legs feeling as new as a fawn.

"Here," Simon leads you to a market-like stall. Dried meats hang from the ceiling in bunches. The smell is pungent.

"Nik!" He shouts. A huge, burly man steps out.

They talk like they've known each other a long time, though not quite friends. An image of two great bears crosses your imagination, both big and still respecting the other. A rare alliance.

Simon hangs a bag off of you, a salty-smelling bag full of cured and fermented meats. The man looks down at you and grins as you leave, laughing lowly.

You bristle, but follow - what else is there to do?

The next stop is a real shop, only you can see a homestead behind a wooden counter.

It's a girl this time, lovely and soft. She smiles at Simon, wordlessly fetching another man from the homestead behind the store.

"Big man!" it's one of the raiders - the young one. Gaz. "And the nun." his brown eyes find yours, friendlier than the last time you saw him.

They talk, too, more amicably than the other man. Gaz folds his forearms over the counter and laughs, peeking at you every once in a while with intense eyes.

"Right," he claps his hands together. "I won't keep you."

You're starting to feel tired, overexerted.

Gaz comes back out with a wrapped package, the soft girl from before on his arm. The apples of her cheeks are high with a smile.

"See you!" she sits back down on her stool, wide hips wiggling until she's comfortable.

"See ya around," Gaz says. He winks at you.

Simon carries this package himself, not looking at you as he leads you further into the village.

People make way for him, not in fear, but because of his size. He's bigger than most, even some of the other men.

The third and final place has you panting, hunched with the effort of keeping yourself up.

It's a house not unlike Simon and Johnny's, just bigger. A wide, squat wooden house with a wide open door and goats bleating from a pen closeby.

Simon glances at you out of the corner of his eye, putting his hand on your lower back as somebody steps out of the doorway.

"Hello again, Simon," it's Price. The leader, or perhaps the chief. It would make sense - his authority, his size, the number of scars on his skin. Nearly as many as Simon. "You bring your end of the bargain?"

Straight to the point then. Price doesn't look at you once, which doesn't do much to assuage the fear that you're the end of the bargain.

"If you've got yours," Simon leaves you behind to follow him inside, where you can hear them talking. Jovial, like old friends.

By the time you get back home, you're wiped. Exhaustion pulls at you like invisible strings dragging you to the bed. Even Johnny with his smarmy expression and his patting the mattress doesn't stop you from crashing.

The men have brought you to a celebration. After letting you sleep a majority of the day after your errands, Simon dressed you in the same wool dress and wrapped a thick cape around your shoulders to ward off the chill.

It's a welcome home. Simon had been the first to see Price at his home - he and a band of fledgling warriors had sailed right past the village and gone hunting.

Price is not the chief, as you had assumed. He is a leader, an explorer, the ambitious spearhead of overseas raids. Nodding heads and a sense of respect, of deference, follows him wherever he goes. Even as an outsider you can see it.

The chief is a woman. It's not something you expected, not with the sheer size of the men around you, not with the brutality in which they regale their exploits. Many of them have wives that trail them, welcome them, carry their children on their hips, or are welcomed as fellow warriors.

These are the fledglings?

You're in a wild, barbaric place.

When you reach the longhouse, a building as short as all the others but stretched much farther and lit orange with light and the smell of honey, you're bathed in warmth.

No, not honey. Alcohol, sweet and cloying on the breath of each viking. Their depravity seems to know no bounds. It's the same sweet smell you'd smelled on Johnny that night he'd left - presumably to speak to the chief.

Laswell, they call her. The chief. She stands on a raised dais with Price, murmuring between themselves, nodding toward Simon and Johnny when they take their seats.

"Right here," Simon spreads his thighs. There are no other spaces on the bench.

"I don't mind standing," you try. He pinches the back of your knee until you buckle into him, tucked into the cradle of his arms. Your heart pounds in your chest.

"Not lettin' ye sit apart from us," Johnny brushes your cheek, and you look past him to the rest of the people gathered.

Decorated, scarred, hardened warriors. Price joins the group, taking a heavy seat by the man from before - Nik - and exchanging claps on the back. Gaz, a woman with dark hair, but Gaz's soft girl is nowhere to be found.

"Welcome!" Laswell shouts. The hall goes silent. "Drink, eat - celebrate a job well done by our boys."

Eruption; noise all around. She's a carefully controlled, steady woman, yet she's inspired this group of a few hundred into the loudest cacophony you've ever heard.

Simon cups his hands over your ears. You try not to be grateful.

Debauchery. You witness debauchery- drinking beyond your most twisted imagination, dancing surely enough to summon a demon, maybe the devil himself. It's enough to make you pray under your breath, turning away from public displays of affection.

Above you, in front of you, conversation. It doesn't slip your mind how high up on the table Simon and Johnny are, right across from Price and Gaz and next to Laswell at the head of the table.

Even she laughs, imbibes, discusses the distribution of goods with a content sort of smile.

"And the nun?" eyes turn to you. Laswell has focused her gaze on you, sharper than before. "You're satisfied with just her?"

Johnny takes a long pull of his mead, before pressing his shoulder to Simons.

"Thas'right!" he only slurs a little. "Found ourselves a proper little wife, we did."

A chill moves through you. A slow freezing. You tense in Simons lap, spine rigid, heart flipping in your chest. Carefully, you try not to show a reaction.

Wife?

"Och! Sorry, lamb," he turns to you and takes your hands. "Didnae mean to ruin the surprise."

"Quite the surprise," Gaz chirps. His girl has found him, and he's made a place for her beside him. You're jealous of her autonomy, especially now. Taken as prisoner, as spoils, and now?

"You promised," you mumble. "You said you wouldn't."

"What's that, love?" Gaz again, but you aren't listening. Blood rushes through your ears.

"You said you wouldn't force me," you look up now, at Simon and his deeply scarred face. He betrays nothing. "Why lie?"

"Didn't lie," he grunts. "Now be quiet."

"When's that, then?" Price asks.

"Before next summer."

The walk back is silent except for the wet slaps of your feet against the mud. The chill is worse at night, biting at your nose and your fingers. At least your future husband - husbands - don't want you to freeze.

The thought hits you like a boulder, heavy and immovable. You stop walking, drawing the attention of the observant men.

"Too tired?" Johnny asks.

You run.

Or try to, as fast as you can.

It's hard in this terrain, slippery and with the cold burning your cheeks. You have no direction in mind, only obeying the mindless terror coursing through your blood, unleashed by this night of truths.

Simon is the one to catch up to you not ten feet from where you started, grabbing the back of your cape and pulling hard until you fall on your butt.

It hurts, the ground has slowly been freezing with the onset of fall and Simon is not nice as he captures you back.

"Ow," you sniffle, fingers wet and muddy.

"Yeah I bet that hurt," his voice has gone hard. "Where did you think you were going?" a laugh, harsh and grating.

"Didnae mean to scare ye," Johnny says. He helps Simon in dragging you back to to cottage.

"In!" Simon barks when you reach the door. You plant your feet, frustrated tears prickling hot and then falling down your cheeks in heavy droplets. "Stupid girl- get inside."

The insult adds salt to the wound as you stumble onto your hands and knees. Pain lances up your wrists.

"Did'ya think you'd be able to what, survive by yourself?" he scoffs. Johnny helps, but mostly just acts as if you're a doll, in removing your cape and sodden woolen dress.

The shift is wet, too. Less muddy than the dress, but still wet. Johnny slips it over your head and you cross your arms to hide your nakedness, still crying.

"Hey," Simon crouches. He puts his face close to yours, noses touching, eyes deadly. "I didn't lie. We won't force you, you'll come to us."

"You'll go to hell," you're upset now, but it only serves to make them shake their heads and laugh breathily, silently. "You stole me."

"Aye, we did," you're wiped dry by big hands. "And you'll be our wife."

Another slip goes over your head, thin and rough on your skin, well-worn.

"Get in bed."

Johnny listens and brings you with him, wiping the tears from your face as he lays you down. You're as helpless as a lamb.

"If I have any choice," you start. "I won't be your wife, and I won't-"

"Wheesht!" Johnny pulls you to him, hand over your mouth, making room for Simon. His other hand goes over your stomach, squeezing. Warmth surrounds you. "You're overexcited, ye need some rest."

God help you, you're so tired you do.

#simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley #soap x reader #john mactavish x reader #john mactavish #soap cod #goap x reader #soap x ghost #drgnfly writes #cw dubcon #tw dubcon #honestly feels filler-y but #feels good to get it out #2am posting #hopefully not everyone is asleep ahaaaahaa #red ochre

490 notes · View notes

gay-dorito-dust · 3 months ago

Text

SYLUS, the kind of guy who’d always bring your hand back to where it was before you decide to pull away, griping your wrist gently but still firm enough to keep you from pulling away as he guides your hand back to his arm, his hair or against his face. He sighs deeply and his whole body relaxes the moment your touch is back on him, almost as though calming him and reassuring you that he could never find your touch to be too much, or even too repulsive to him.

He would tighten his grip on your wrist every time you tried to tug your hand away. He’d press kisses against your palm and even going so far as to nibble on it from time to time whilst gauging your cute reactions, engraving them into his mind as he smiles soft, his sharp crimson eyes were now soft pools of burgundy filled with longing affection and silent pining.

Calm had returned to his mind in the form of your touch.

SYLUS who while gets you expensive gifts, would find a pretty stone on the side of the road somewhere and stopped in his tracks to pick it up. At first it didn’t look like much other then a common stone he’d seen countless times, however when he moved it to a certain angle, that’s when he saw what made this pebble more unique then the rest. He immediately thought of you and your previous conversations about mating rituals between penguins.

��Penguins give smooth, pretty stones to the ones they love.’ You once said, holding the penguin plush he had just won you close to your chest, smiling as brightly as the stone he held in his hand.

‘I can give you things much more worth than a simple stone’. He replied at the time.

‘That’s true…and while I love your gifts, not all of them have to be so expensive. It could be a simple as finding a pretty stone on the sidewalk and I’ll treasure forever.’ You tell him, keeping your eyes downcast as he raises a brow. ‘Is that an indication of something?’ He asks and you immediately say no, but it was far too late for Sylus.

It was in that moment where he realised why the stone caught his eye, it reminded him of you. The natural beauty it possess if one were to look at it correctly and unlike all the diamonds, rubies, sapphires, you were more than content with what you were and what you had already to lead a happy life. You never needed much to be happy but he always thought you could be happier and so he took the simple looking pebble with the pretty hues and made it into a necklace.

The very same necklace you then proceeded to wear days on end upon receiving it.

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace x you #love and deepspace imagine #love and deepspace imagines #lads imagine #lads imagines #lads x reader #lads x you #lads x y/n #sylus imagine #sylus x reader #sylus x you #sylus x y/n #sylus imagines

797 notes · View notes

sun-kissy · 5 months ago

Text

crystals | r.b.

regulus black x whimsical!reader

“Baby,” Regulus’ voice comes out two parts affection and one part exasperation as he feels your knees pressing down into the bed on either side of him. You hum distractedly in response, mind wandering to places he knows he can never follow.

He cracks his eyes open, a small smile involuntarily making its way onto his face at the sight of you. You’re as pretty as you always are, so pretty he wonders if you’re actually a dryad of some sort. You certainly look the part, with daisies braided into your hair and miniature toadstool earrings.

He watches as you outstretch your fingers to fiddle with the chain on his neck, your eyebrows bunched in concentration. Your tongue juts out of your lip adorably as you bite down on it, and he resists the urge to kiss you senseless.

The chain Regulus was wearing was nothing more than a thick black string, but it was knotted around various small crystals, courtesy of your hobby of collecting them. When he had first asked you out with a ring, you had shyly given him this string with a single crystal hanging from it – a rose quartz. “For my unconditional love,” you had mumbled, blushing so hard he thought you mirrored a rose. But the pink that coated your cheeks was a lovelier shade than any flower he had laid his eyes on.

From then on, you would knot new crystals onto the string whenever you found them. Regulus was pretty sure some of them had to have been rocks or pebbles, but he loved you too much not to indulge you.

“Mon chéri,” he tries again, amusement seeping into his tone. “It’s 5 in the morning.”

“So?” you ask distractedly, your fingers still tugging and pulling his necklace from side to side. “5AM is when the crystals are most active, you know. This is when they pull the most power from the core of the earth,” you explain matter-of-factly, so dedicated to your task that you don’t notice his smile widening.

You sway forward slightly, unable to balance on the balls of your knees. Regulus silently wraps his palms around your hips, tugging downward until you’re comfortably seated on his stomach.

That was when he noticed you had odd-shaped stones in one of your hands, sunlight reflecting off of them to give a pale blue glow. “What are those?”

You perk up at his question, abandoning your task of trying to tie the stones onto the string. Your head tilts upwards to give him a sunny smile. “They’re aquamarine crystals, obviously.”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, his smile softening. It doesn’t matter how many times you do this, it’s always just as endearing to him. The way you smile fondly at him – like he’s silly for not knowing.

“Yeah,” you beam. “I found these in the stream nearby, the one next to the big daisy field with all the horsies.”

“You walked into the water again, then?”

It’s too laden with fondness to sound accusatory, but you turn slightly sheepish anyway, nodding. Your hands find their way back to his necklace, and this time you manage to loop the string around a crystal successfully. Your face lights up, obviously pleased with your work.

He huffs out a laugh, leaning forward to run his hands down your long skirt. As expected, he finds it damp and sticky. “You’ll have to take a bath, mon amour.”

“In the stream?”

“No,” he mutters, trying but failing to conceal his amused grin. He presses his elbows into the mattress, hoisting himself upwards to press an amorous kiss to your forehead. He can’t help himself, the blush on your cheeks and the shy smile too much for his heart to handle. “In the shower, baby.”

“Oh,” you reply as a way of answer, and Regulus can’t help but chuckle at the slight disappointment in your voice. “Maybe I can shower in the water tomorrow, then? With all the ducks. These ducks are nice; they eat the bread I throw at them. You can come too if you’d like.”

“Maybe,” he replies indulgently, with absolutely no intention of letting you bathe with the ducks instead of with him — but he was never one to deny you anything you asked for.

835 notes · View notes

inknopewetrust · 1 year ago

Text

𝔉𝔬𝔬𝔱𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔭𝔰 𝔬𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔖𝔱𝔞𝔦𝔯𝔰

summary: in the blistering summer evening heat, you and felix play a little game. [felix x fem reader. WC: 2.6k]

warnings: smut. minors dni (18+ only). p in v, fingering (fem receiving), saltburn bathtub, slight voyeurism, dirty, dirty talk, some degrading language, not the dirtiest thing but still like… kinda hot?

Though the sun had set long before, the lingering scorch of the sun sat like a film on your skin. Its thin veil dry and aching to shrivel against the boiling water of the tub. You felt the sticky nature disappear under the trails of steam that painted the surface of the water.

A bead of sweat pebbled from your temple to cheek to chin to neck.

But you lit a cigarette anyway. And if you listened close enough, you could hear the crackle.

A blistering bud sizzles; the porcelain was drawing cool waves against the skin of your arms and for once, in the vast nothingness of the bathroom, the heat that rose from its surface made the ghosts vanish.

It made them disappear in house once home to Kings.

Now, as it boiled under the night sky, it was home to something other. It had bled itself into the walls and the ghosts wished to witness not the haggard scrounging of wealth that festered within.

But you imagined Henry the Eighth liked to stare as you bathed. They all did. Felix had told you that once a few summers ago.

How they all wanted to touch you in the ways that he did. How they wanted to whisper in your ear that they were better than him. No one truly was and it kept you crawling back with the poor souls who got sucked into a heated whirlpool of pity each and every summer.

Nevertheless, you envisioned Henry in the corner itching to touch.

They all trembled to flutter their hands onto your skin, onto your breasts, squeezing pieces of you dipped below the waterline.

If his ghost could smile, Henry’s ghastly teeth gleamed.

‘Fuck off, Henry,’ you saw the paunchy apparition lounging in the chair in the corner with a bead of sweat dribbling from his own temple.

Oh, envy, King Henry.

A bit of ash fell onto the tiles below.

“You’re making a mess of it.”

You tapped the cig on the side of the tub as another bit of ash wilted to the cold floor.

Felix hummed.

Stocky Henry vanished. If you gazed toward him, Felix’s eyes bore deep. Heavy and brooding, downcast at a peak of what existed beyond the bubbled suds.

Dinner had long passed. Everyone was supposed to be in bed.

He could feel you in inches. The soft skin of your back, the plush thighs that laid between his own. A hand of his traced over the skin of your collarbone gently as the ash continued to drift.

You were nearly on fire. In the swelter of the stone walls and the patterns of the paper before him, you glowed in a red sweat.

“You’re letting it die.”

“I was thinking,” you murmured.

“About what?”

“King Henry.”

“King Henry?” Felix’s voice peaked. His head leaned to rest on your shoulder, his smile leaving a trail as it grew. His nose drew a delicate line on your dampened skin.

You liked Felix in this way. So quiet and removed. But Saltburn always kept pace in the background.

“Yes, King Henry,” his hand glided along your own, gently taking hold of the cigarette and placing it between his lips.

The smoke of the puff rose high into the air beside you. It’s curls twisted like your insides aching for a touch too far but never too close.

“I like to imagine them sitting… staring at us now.”

“Now?” Felix questioned. “So erotic in an ugly tub. I can see him now,” he pointed to the corner of the room, “he just popped one. Can’t you see it? In his trousers there.”

You grinned. Your laugh filled his chest with a shuddering life. So fulfilled and free yet trapped in this same world as he.

And he was never far away. Here, in Saltburn, always waiting in the same shadows for the opportunity to strike while the others weren’t around. No sister or friends or parents or mewling poor fighting for his attention. They were retired for the evening; all snuggled in beds with curtains drawn and fantasy dancing in their heads.

“He isn’t the only one.”

You tipped your head to the side. The profile of your face meeting his forehead as he dipped his own downwards. The cigarette still burning from his fingertips. It was a mere bud now.

You could feel what waited for you on your lower back.

“I can feel that, you know?” You feigned an innocence he liked. Keen and blatant, but cunning with sin.

“Is it Henry that makes you feel that why?” You whispered, lips ghosting his chin.

Felix breathed in deeply. The same chest that shuddered with joy in anticipation.

Every summer.

The excitement would stir within his bones as the gates would open wide and beside his family would be the one steady thing he had everything to give.

“I hope,” Felix hushed, “for your own sake that’s not the fucking case.”

“So it’s me?”

Felix groaned as you pushed against him. The gentle pressure of your body arching into him without a touch, he begged to put his hands on you.

The cigarette fell to the floor in its end.

Felix took his hand and turned your head back to face him with a firm grip on your jaw. The water around you sloshed. It cleared the bubbles from your chest.

“I want to play a game,” he suggested in a dusty, breathless tone. “Want to play, darling?”

“Can I win?” You suggested. His hand loosened, letting the fingers dance along the column of your neck before beckoning up toward your mouth once more.

His index finger traced the outline of your lips. In a slow glide, Felix pulled your lower lip out slightly, gathering the wetness with his finger before inching it back to the space where your lips had parted.

You kissed his finger with your tongue as it found purchase in the suction of your mouth. The plushness of your tongue, the slight drag of your teeth as it emerged from between your lips.

“I don’t want to play if I can’t win, Felix,” you whispered.

His eyes now hooded with a thick want. He watched his finger redraw the lines of your lips again as you begged with doe eyes to win. A near child’s play of a woman’s ability to seduce.

“You can win,” Felix huffed as his other hand snaked itself from the edge of the tub to your torso under the water. “But I’ll need you to be quiet. We have guests and as much as I do love our dear, sweat guests, I can’t have them imagining the way I fuck you, can I?”

“No,” you relished in the way his hand returned to the base of your throat and squeezed with the slightest amusement. “I’ll be quiet.”

“Good,” Felix smiled at you. Your heart squeezed in the same way your cunt ached for his fingers to gather the strength to follow through.

“What do I win?”

“Whatever the fuck you want. You just have to be quiet.”

You smiled deviously that the thought.

“I can’t see how we’d be able to look a boy like Ollie in the eyes if he heard the sounds that come out of your mouth.”

His hand swooped past your center and to your leg, drawing one over his own which sat you straighter in his hold. You felt his cock jump at the pressure of you pushing on him. Felix flitted his finger tips from your knee to waist, switching hands to bring his wet palm to your breast while the other perched your opposite leg over his other.

The pebbled nipple was taut as he kneaded the skin in circles. He pressed down hard, pulling up on your nipple to elicit the sounds he wanted so badly to hear but knew you’d repress.

You were like him in many ways. He too wanted to win a game of control.

With you in his hands like a play of putty, he felt in control but with one hand on the wheel.

As he palmed your breast, his hand gripped your thigh. His mouth traced a pattern of hot breath along your neck as his tongue relished the salty sweat that had gathered at its leisure. The goosebumps that rose from your skin welcomed his breath kindly.

“I want this house to ourselves,” Felix moaned. “So we don’t have to be quiet.”

“Tell me what you’d do,” you asked him, placing your hand over his own and bringing his fingers to you. He cupped your heat as you groaned, guiding him back and forth to gather the wetness he could feel different from the water of the tub.

“Tell me what you’d do to me.” You spoke faintly. “Tell me and I’ll be quiet.”

You guided one of Felix’s fingers in you as he shushed the sounds that threatened to speak themselves into existence.

He put his lips on your ear as he began to pump his fingers in and out of you with a slow glide. So plush and tight, he thought to himself. It sucked him in and dared not to spit him out.

“I would fuck you on the floor,” he breathed out against your cheek. “I’d spread you wide and taste your sweet pussy as the sun bathes the floor. And when I’m done, we go to the pool-“

Felix pulled out his finger, tracking it along your folds before going in with two. You arched against his back, drawing up as he pulled you back down and rested his hand on your waist.

You curled the toes of your right foot down the edge of the tub.

“-we’d go to the pool and sit out in the sun. You’d give me head in one of the chairs and I’d paint your fucking face with my cum.”

You clenched around his fingers. His thumb pressed into your clit, another jolt aching to send you squirming but he held you down as he patterned circles on the gentle flesh.

“You like that, don’t you?” He breathed in the smell of you. “And maybe we’d go for a walk through the maze after dinner. I’d fuck you in the center and you could scream as loud as you fucking want. No one could get to us. No one would hear us.”

“F-F-“

“No, no, no, shh,” Felix shushed. “Good girls only win by being quiet, yeah?”

You nodded, clenching onto his fingers again as a strangled ‘fuck’ tumbled out of his lips. He could imagine the coil building. Felix wasn’t going to let you finish alone.

Felix pulled his fingers from you and felt the disappointment in the wither of your body.

“But I don’t want to imagine what’d I’d do if we were alone,” Felix blanked. “Turn around.”

As the water sloshed around you, you turned to wrap your arms around his neck. Like you, Felix had sweat beading from his jaw that glimmered in the red light of the bathroom. He looked intoxicated, entranced but in control of what he could.

“I want to see you ride me like the fucking whore you are.”

You weren’t a whore. But for Felix, you could be anything.

At the nape of his neck, you gripped the back of his hair and drew his head back as your other hand gripped him under the water.

Hard and lengthy, his cock was a welcome intrusion every time. You pumped him in your hand slowly. The sounds of water creating currents was soothing against the sounds of your battered breaths kissing his own. You lifted yourself on your knees, leaning against Felix as he squeezed your ass tightly, watching as you lowered yourself onto him under the water. Slender and veined, your cunt molded to him like art. You both would never tire of the feeling so profound.

It would never be like this with anyone else.

Loose pants left his lips as you sat completely full of him. A fit for a King in his own home, he supposed. Once you had settled with him inside, you moved above him.

The water moved languidly too. Meeting the fiery skin of two intoxicated minds too oblivious to see the peering eyes between the crack of a door.

“Right there, baby, right there,” Felix mumbled as you rose again and again, drawing him in and out as he stretched you with every swell and spur he could muster on his own.

“You’re such a good girl, darling. So good for me.”

You could peer down at him from above. Your breath fanning his face and lips but never seeking to truly kiss him as your hand tangled in his hair.

Bits of water spilled over the tub and splashed onto the floor. It soaked the ash tray and the speckles of ash and bud that littered the floor.

“Don’t stop baby. Don’t fucking stop,” Felix crooned in the room’s empty sounds. Only the pleasured sighs and gasping breaths filled the air.

You bounced on his cock with a measured pace. Each stroke of his manhood against your velvet walls lured him deeper into you, entangled with the missing links of a year gone by.

“Felix,” you broke the rules to whisper in his ear. He was taken away by the insatiable need of his rapture. He listened. He beckoned to your call.

“Tell me that you love me.”

From the shadows, Oliver Quick felt his blood run as hot as the sun. He loved Felix.

“I love you.”

Whom did not love him back.

“Tell me you need me.”

He was enamored by the idea of Felix.

“I need you.”

Who was enamored with the idea of Oliver.

“And what do you want from me?”

He was taken by the sight before him.

“I need you to cum, baby. I need you to fucking cum for me.”

Oliver was taken by the gleam of your skin. The way Felix’s throat bobbed as a strangled groan escaped his lips and the way your own melted onto his forehead in a silent struggle to come down from a high.

You placed both hands on his slender chest, careening like winged victory in a heated satisfaction.

Your fingers shook.

He had never seen a woman shake so elegantly before. The tremble of your lips as you breathed in shaking respite, the jolt of your shoulder blade as Felix ran a hand up your back.

Oliver licked his lips at the sight.

Felix lifted his head from its position against the tub. His eyes fluttered open as you pulled away in the slightest.

And Felix smiled.

You returned the grin with one of your own as his still sat erect inside of you. The bubbles of the tub had long ceased to exist and the water that was left was filled with the combined spent of you both.

“I don’t think I won that one,” you chuckled quietly, pushing hair out of Felix’s face before cupping his cheek in your hand.

“I’ll take pity on you, I guess.”

“The water’s gone cold.”

Felix kissed the inside of the palm of your hand. He cherished the high that lingered.

“The water’s gone cold,” he repeated. “But we could stay here forever.”

“Pruned and sweaty? Not a chance in fucking hell, Felix.” You laughed a bit too loudly. Oliver disappeared at the groan Felix let out as you pulled off of him.

You stood before him as the water dripped from every piece of you. Marbled and finite of the most precious carvings he only wished to hold forever.

As you exited the tub and the throb of him began to settle, you grabbed his linen shirt from the floor, draping it over you as it stuck to the wetness of your skin.

“The bed is just the slightest bit more comfortable.”

And you disappeared behind his doorway with call for more as the walls of Saltburn added another sordid story to add to it woven trims.

But it was never just the walls of Saltburn watching.

A/N: as always, the best gift of reading is likes AND reblogs and why not, we love comments too. Thank you for reading and feel free to check out my other works on my masterlist here. xo

#saltburn x reader #saltburn #felix catton x reader #saltburn felix #felix catton #x reader #fanfic #fanfiction #x female reader #saltburn spoilers #this is self indulgent

2K notes · View notes