#Constant Mongrel | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

shotmrmiller · 25 days

Text

Not a dog, but a rat pt.II

2,3k nsfw mdni

This is home now.

The stale odor of sweat that once assaulted your senses is now familiar. The biting tang of iron no longer constricts your throat with its pungency. The dim lights that flicker overhead, bathing both spectators and fighters in a sickly glow doesn't leave you lightheaded anymore.

It's a constant. Adaptation is the first word that comes to mind— a process that's helped you survive in this new environment— but then Simon turns his attention to you from across the room.

He sits on a bench, a solitary figure amidst the chaos of this rowdy place. His knuckles are wrapped in tape and has got white buds in his ears— the way he channels his focus, a barrier between him and everything else. His stare is heavy, thick with an emotion you can't, or won't, name. But you can feel it. It pricks at your nerve endings, like tiny claws. It stirs within your chest, sending your heart aflutter with anticipation, tinged with a hint of fear. A wave of heat washes over you, blooming in your cheeks and warming your stomach; an admission.

Acceptance.

You break away from his intense gaze with your bottom lip pinched between your teeth.

This is your reality.

The fighters, the brawls, the dirty money, the blood— it's no longer just Simon's world. It's yours too. It's crusted beneath your fingernails and stuffed inside the pull-out couch you sleep on.

(Day number: ??? of begging Simon to buy you a proper mattress since he won't get a flat of his own)

It's waking every morning to soothe battered skin, fix broken noses, and ice black eyes.

Home— something brushes the tip of your ear, getting your attention— sweet...

home.

"What's a kleine maus like you doing in a gritty place like this?" His voice cuts through the cacophony of sounds that resound in the pit. A giant among men. Pallid skin, sinewy muscle taut over bone. A network of blue rivers runs through his arm, visible under the light as he reaches out to coil a lock of your hair around his long finger that resembles bare branches in winter.

"Katze got your tongue?" His grin sends a shiver up your spine. It lacks the warmth of life as if someone carved it out of frost-bitten marble. Fissure-like scars stretch across his face, bisecting a thick brow. Jagged lines of silver on his gaunt cheeks, the corner of his mouth and chin.

And one scar runs from the base of his aquiline nose— a thin, rosy mark, strangely delicate looking— down to his thin upper lip. The result of a congenital defect. Human. Unlike his eyes: a cold, stark blue devoid of light.

Your instincts scream, to run, to flee but deep-seated fear has you paralyzed, like gnarled roots snaking around your ankles, gripping tight, holding you captive. An even smaller part of your mind tells you that it'd be futile. There's no escaping this predator.

His eyes narrow a whit, the corners of his inhumane smile dropping. Anxiety has your thoughts in a Gordian knot— unease twisting and looping in the pit of your belly. You can feel the beginning pricks of pain on your scalp, the strands of hair he's got a hold of being pulled taut, stretched like a bridge.

Tears well up in your eyes unbidden.

"If you won't talk, then you'll sing." A threat. You're a marionette in his hands, and he's about to jerk the strings.

A gloved hand shoots out like a coiled snake, encircling his wrist, the leather groaning under the strain of his iron grip. "I'd let go o' her if I were you."

The grip on your hair slackens, relief flowing through you, thick and palpable. John stands in front of you with squared, broad shoulders and a set jaw— a shield between the stranger and you. It doesn't matter, however, because the stranger's towering stature is surreal, dwarfing even John's considerable height.

"König. Where is your handler? Wretched mongrels like you ought to remain leashed." John spits out, his facial hair contorting as he sneers. Your hand tentatively seeks his and you draw a shuddering breath when the comforting warmth of his presence seeps through the fabric of his gloves and melts into your clammy skin.

"Horangi?" He cocks his head, sunken eyes flashing to yours. A faint whimper escapes your tightly sealed lips and an amused look dances across his features. "Around looking for you, I imagine. I am not my inhaber's keeper." The mocking lilt in his gravelly tone doesn't go unnoticed. John's hand tightens around yours. "Besides. I was merely," he pauses, licking the front of his crooked teeth, "meeting her acquaintance. Ja, Fräulein?"

Your heart races, pounding against your ribcage as he addresses you, but John remains the immovable object. "Don't." His voice is a barely contained growl. "I won't be tellin' you again."

The authority in John's words is unignorable. It wipes the remnants of König's mirth off his face. There's a shift in the air then, electricity prickling at your nerves, raising the hair on the back of your neck. A storm is brewing. Your shoulders tighten, as does your hand, awaiting the impending crack of thunder.

"Boss." Just like that, the singular word cuts through the thickened atmosphere, lightening the oppressive tension between them two. "Problem?"

Simon comes to stand next to John, shoulder to shoulder. Reinforcing the wall you're hidden behind.

John sucks his teeth. "I don't think so. König?" It's not a question.

"Nein. No problem." Your eyes are lowered to the mud-slick floor as he leaves. You counted 14 littered betting slips.

John's grip loosens around your hand, leaning in to murmur something into Simon's ear before turning to you. "Gotta be careful 'round these types. Best stick with one of us, eh?" Another not a question.

It doesn't take much to guess what exactly he told him, not with that wild glint in his eye that he's currently looking at you with. It burns with ferocity, untamed and fervent. Simon wraps an arm around your waist and swiftly lifts you over his shoulder and carves a path through the drunken onlookers, ignoring the stares and taunting cat whistles as he heads towards the locker room.

The door slams against the wall as he kicks it open, the sound reverberating through the room. placing you down on one of the benches roughly, making you grimace at the jolt of brief pain that shoots up your back on impact.

"Simon!" His long strides already have him rounding the corner towards the showers, out of sight. "Arsehole. Tossing me around like some—" you startle when he suddenly reappears, the rest of the sentence sinking into your stomach, his face twisted with rage.

"Where'd he touch you?" He demands, casting a dark shadow over you as he looms.

His arrogant tone snaps the wisp-thin thread of patience you dangled from. "Listen, Ghost, I—" Your words are cut short as his large hand wraps around the underside of your jaw, fingers dimpling your cheeks with an unforgiving grip.

"No lip from you. Not right now." His command is final. Powerless in his hold, you can only gaze up at him with eyes wide with incredulity and a slightly puckered mouth.

"'M no' askin' again. Did he touch you here?" His other hand grazes the side of your head, featherlight, by your ear.

A nod.

"Wha' about 'ere?" Fingertips trail lines of intimacy from your cheek straight down to the column of your neck, lingering by your fluttering pulse.

A shake.

"'S good. I'd be obligated to erase 'is touch with my own. Isn't tha' right, pet? Only I get to touch you. Eh?" He rumbles, his words laced with a proprietary edge that tangle around your spine.

Heat licks up the sides of your jaw. The implication is clear. It's a claim, a brand on your flesh, a line drawn in the sand no one will ever dare cross.

Exclusive.

You made your choice long ago; it only took you this long to come to terms with it. It's bittersweet as it goes down your throat.

A slow nod.

"Good girl." His hand falls away from your face as he leans in. "Now remind me. Where else he touch ya?" Possessive. Intense. All-consuming.

Your eyes flick to the door with no lock and he gets your wordless message. "Kyle's on standby. No one's allowed t'see you like this but me."

The bench creaks under the shift of weight as he sits on it. His hands, firm and assertive, pull you across the wooden surface with ease, draping your legs over his own.

"Talk to me or I leave you here," his gaze drags down from the smooth skin of your neck down the swell of your chest, to your clothed sex. It's like an oil spill, spreading unchecked, leaving behind a slick residue of heat. "Wantin'. I can smell it fr'm 'ere."

Ironic how he barely says a word any other time, but apparently will chat up a storm during this poor excuse of foreplay.

"He—," you choke out, "he didn't touch me anywhere else."

Simon looks at you through half-lidded eyes as his steady hand disappears beneath the fabric of your shirt. "Didn't touch ya here?" His fingers teasingly follow the curve of your bare breast. You shake your head mutedly.

"No? How about 'ere?" The pad of his thumb brushes against your stiffened peak, swirling it once, twice. You clench your jaw to keep from making a sound. Another shake.

He pinches it lightly before rolling it between his thumb and index. "'S good." He moves down to just below your navel, the whisper of contact trailing fire on your tender flesh. "I know he didn't touch 'ere."

No, he didn't. Neither has Simon, until now.

"Nor here." He unbuttons the front of your jeans and grabs the pull of your zipper, the clicking of the metal teeth like the ticking of a clock, counting down to what's about to happen. The damp air in the showers is thick with anticipation. His eyes never leave yours, pinning you in place like a butterfly on display, as he curls his fingers around the waistband of both your jeans and knickers.

You only get a moment's pause, to stop this train in its tracks but it's fleeting, like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands.

He pulls down, taking everything off of one leg completely and letting it bunch up around the other, pooling at your ankle. He exhales a sharp, ragged breath.

"I'd fuck you, but this isn't the place f'r it." Simon spits on his fingers and lightly drags them along your folds, lathering your cunt with his makeshift lube.

You gasp sharply when he catches your pearl, flicking it gently with a tip of his finger. Your back arches at the startling sensation. "Should've let me see this pretty pussy months ago, pet. Would've made your life and mine a hell of a lot easier."

He continues moving his hand along your wet heat, a torturously slow drag that kindles the fire in your belly, the occasional swirl of your pearl stoking it expertly.

"Barely doin' a thing 'nd you're already drippin' onto the bench." You don't look between your legs, refuse to actually, because you know that there's a puddle of arousal pooling beneath you. You can feel it; slick. slippery. warm.

Simon sinks a finger into you, down to the knuckle and oh, that pinprick of pain that sinks its sharp teeth around the pleasure he's built up is exquisite.

"Fuck," he groans, reflexively bucking his hips up into nothing. "Little prick ex of yours also had a tiny cock. Bloody tight." His impossibly long finger brushes over the rough patch of skin, somewhere you can never reach on your own, stealing the breath from your lungs. "I'll 'ave to stretch ya open," he adds a second finger, this time the burn flares. It doesn't stop until it's all the way in, where the ache finally fades, only leaving behind a residual warmth that throbs gently in the aftermath. "I'll make my cock fit." The usual deep timbre of his voice sounds rougher, huskier. Heady arousal barely restrained.

Another graze over your sweet spot, and this time, a high-pitched mewl spills from your lips. "Tha' it?" He hits it with pinpoint accuracy, over and over again, until your cunt begins to squelch lewdly; an obscene, sticky sound that somehow bounces off the grimy tile walls.

"Gonna cum f'me?" Your core constricts, vise-like around him, muscles tensing tight. Teasing, taunting, against the push and pull of his thick fingers, caught between surrender and defiance. But his rhythm insists and persists.

You bob your head stupidly, a jerky up and down. The room around you is spinning, arousal the wine that trickles through your system, usual sharpened edges blurring.

You're lost, but sure.

"Let me have it, then." Your thighs quiver atop his, trying to squeeze together, to keep him right there, right there, there—

All you ever have to do is ask him, pet.

There's a snap, a feeling of something giving way, and your mind floods white.

All you've ever got to do is ask.

It takes you a bit to come back to earth from the dizzying heights you were launched to. The buzzing in your mind, your ears, beneath your skin, begins to quiet. Vivid turns muted, colors and sounds dull.

Simon quickly lowers his joggers, just enough to take himself out and tugs his painfully hardened cock a couple of times, an unsteady twist of his wrist and he lets out a groan behind grit teeth as he comes. Warmth coats your puffy cunt, dribbling down your thighs and onto the bench.

When Simon leads you out of the locker room, Kyle looks at the both of you with a solemn expression on his face. His stance is rigid, the lines of his body drawn taut. It sets you on edge.

"Ghost," he nods. "Johnny's fightin' the big freak that had his paws all over your girl. Tried to talkin' him out o' it, but you know better than anyone how he is."

You know Johnny can handle his own. Always has. But this time, it feels different. Inevitable. Why?

#call of duty #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley smut #simon ghost riley x f reader #simon ghost riley x you #cod smut #simon riley x you #simon riley smut #cod mw2 #cod mwii #cod #simon riley

411 notes · View notes

thegnomelord · 11 days

Note

You ever hear the gross stories about people putting peanut butter on their junk and having a dog lick it off? This sounds bad but stay with me here, imagine it's marakov doing this with hound. Like it's a humiliation thing to break hound down or something and drive it into his head that he's no better than an actual dog. Marakov starving hound for awhile so he's famished and then pulling the peanut butter out. If hound wants to eat then the only food he can have will be the peanut butter he'll have to lick off marakovs cock.

Oh fuck that is disgusting and SOOO something Makarov would do. So here's a lil ficlet cause you got my brain going Brrrr

CW:NSFW, MDNI, Makarov x male reader, blowjob, peanutbutter food sex, toxic relationship, dom/sub dub-con, rough and quick, I дворняга - mongrel, mutt есть - eat, нет - no.

Rough fingers grip your jaw until it hurts, Makarov's thumb pressing down on your tongue to keep it flush with the bottom of your mouth. Drool and a bit of blood run down your chin, a small puddle already forming between your folded knees. The fingers on of his other hand wiggle your canine, uncaring of how your jaw trembles in an attempt not to bite him.

"Poor дворняга," Makarov chuckles, "Not liking your new teeth?"

Your 'new' teeth hurt like hell and that's saying something, gums around them still raw and irritated, knives stabbing at your entire jaw and down your throat whenever he wiggles the tooth even slightly. But you can't show that, don't bite the hand that feeds. So you swallow the sound of pain bubbling in your chest and shake your head as much as he allows you to do so.

You can see his smirk past the tears blurring your vision. "Good dog." He chuckles, pulling his fingers from your mouth to pat your head. "You must be hungry."

You are. Starving. You can't remember the last time you've been fed, probably before Makarov had your canines ripped from your mouth and replaced with metal, but the constant pain buzzing in your body makes it hard to keep track as the days blur together. You wordlessly nod your head, knowing better than to speak when he hasn't given you permission yet (you doubt you even could with how much your jaw hurts.)

Makarov leans back on your bunk, letting go of your jaw to fiddle with the jar of peanut butter. Unscrewing the lid he dips his pointer finder in and scoops up a big dollop of it. He holds it out for you, resting the back of his finger on your tongue. "Есть." He orders, tone leaving no room for arguing and you're quick to close your lips around his finger, tongue moving to lick it clean and trying to avoid nudging your teeth.

You've always hated the stuff since Price got you to try some when you were in America, the taste and texture making your skin crawl, but right now it may as well be ichor of the gods. Your stomach rumbles at finally being able to devour something, even if it's just a small scoop of peanut butter.

You open your mouth when you're done, spit clinging to Makarov's finger, and try your best to make a small whine. "Good, finally learning." He hums and sets the jaw down, unbuckling his belt.

Your heart stutters and drops to your stomach as you watch Makarov fish his half hard cock from his boxers, only needing a few strokes to get him fully erect. Makarov laughs at the face you make when he scoops up a good amount of the peanut butter and uses it like lube on his cock.

"Oh, did you think you would just get to eat?" He snorts, holding the base of his cock, "Нет, нет, нет you dumb mutt." He spreads his legs wider, patting his thigh. "You'll have to work for it, now есть."

You hesitate, some meager part of your pride absolutely unwilling, your stomach telling you to forget about that. Makarov waits, judgmental eyes locked on you, easily able to see the turmoil swirling in your eyes. He knows how to be patient, while he usually wouldn't tolerate disobedience, he knows he can't set up a hunting dog for failure and expect success so soon into your training.

His efforts bear fruit and you slowly shuffle forward on your knees. Even starved as you are, the wide span of your shoulders still forces his legs to spread wider. You hesitate some more, looking past his cock up at him, wondering if he really wants you to do this; is this a reward or just another way to tear you down?

"Do not make me repeat myself." He says, voice even and cool, but you're still perceptive enough to notice the sharp edge of danger in his tone, like a knife pressed into your throat.

Tentatively you lean in, fists clenching against your thighs as your tongue lolls out to hesitantly lick at his shaft. He doesn't rush you, doesn't degrade you, but his hand does settle on the back of your skull. You freeze, but he only hums, "Good dog." His hips twitch until his shaft bumps against your nose.

The hand on your head keeps you from pulling away, and your hunger soon wins out so you give a few experimental kitten licks. You start at the bottom, still uneasy about this, your tongue licking across his knuckles. Makarov purrs something in Russian you're not familiar with, his tone not sweet enough to make you think it's an insult, so you slowly continue up his shaft.

His precum mixes with the peanut butter, giving it a saltier tang that makes disgust curl in your stomach, humiliation making your face burn. Even your mind mocks you; Price's voice echoes somewhere in your ears "This is why we left you, you were just waiting for a chance to be a terrorist's whore." but that voice slowly gets quieter as Makarov's hand pets your head, making thinking about anything but the creamy peanut butter on your tongue difficult.

"Good dog, doing so well for me." Makarov hums, a pleased sound escaping his chest. The pleasure your mouth brings is miniscule compared to the sight of you - on your knees, eyes slowly closing as your malleable mind settles into static, drool smeared lips wrapping around his head to suck all the food your tongue missed - oh it's something else. He's seen many powerful men brought down to their knees, but nothing has ever made him harder than you right now.

You pop off his cockhead, chest frantically moving to draw breath, unfocused eyes staring at his drooling head before you look up. "Now wasn't that a good treat?" He asks, receiving your mumble in return, using your spaced out mind to smear more peanut butter on his head. "But you missed a spot. Go on, есть."

#gnome's tea break #gnome correspondence #cod mw2 #x reader #male reader #hound-reader #good dog fic #vladimir makarov #vladimir makarov x reader #vladimir makarov x male reader #x male reader #cod modern warfare #trinkets of the hoard #tw toxic relationship #Makarov is his own warning #don't do this at home #call of duty makarov #call of duty modern warfare 2 #call of duty modern warfare

245 notes · View notes

phonydiaries · 8 months

Text

In the Heat of Battle - P x Reader

Requested by @amethyst-huntress

Notes: The premise of this fic was requested by Amethyst-Huntress and I started absolutely foaming at the mouth at the idea, so huge thank-you’s are in order for that nugget of inspiration. Unfortunately, same as last time, I have still barely progressed through the game thanks to my lack of patience and skill, so please forgive that both of my fics take place extremely early in playthrough. Other than that, thank you all for reading and I hope you enjoy!

—

Where is that damn puppet? You think to yourself, teeth gritted at the deadly inconvenience standing in front of you.

In the dark and the rain and the constant buzzing noise of Krat, you admit it's easy to get turned around. Even traveling with a companion -in your case, with Gepetto’s puppet- it’s easy to lose track of which gloomy alleys you’d already traversed. Even standing back to back, nudging each other with your elbows, even checking in every so often,“You still with me?” It was easy to get lost. But now, standing face to face with a candelabra wielding automaton and a rabid mechanical dog, you’re not feeling very generous towards your puppet companion. He’s probably searching for you in a frenzy at this very moment.

Ha.

Fat load of good it does you.

The automaton winds up and its eyes flash red across your face. Target locked. The candelabra comes crashing towards your head, but it's met instantly with the clanging cold steel of your sword. The automaton stumbles backwards. Its head cocks unnaturally to the side and you hear something whir, as if in frustration, beneath its face. It winds up again to strike you, but you’re quick and clever; you land a blow in the dead center of the loathsome thing's torso. A sick crunch of metal echoes as you draw the sword out of the brand new gaping cavity in its chest. The automaton sinks to its knees. You look down your nose at it, satisfied at your own skill. The enemy looks to be shutting down, but in a quick, almost desperate motion, its hand shoots towards your foot, grasping wildly. It's cold fingers close around your ankle, but you quickly stamp it out with your free foot. The automaton lets out a weak mechanical wheeze as its hand is crushed beneath your boot. For good measure, you take the hilt of your sword in both hands and slam the base through the miserable things forehead. It crackles, then collapses finally on the ground. You smile darkly at its now lifeless shell. Perhaps a little early.

A sharp bark cuts through the air and your head snaps to attention. Shit. You forgot about the damn dog. Before you have the chance to raise your sword again, the dog lunges at you. Razor sharp teeth clang dissonantly together and the sound ripples against the glistening walls of the alley. In an instant, you’re knocked to the wet, muddy ground; the iron paws of the mutt are already upon your chest. The mongrel snarls mere centimeters from your face, black oily fluid spilling from its mouth as if salivating. You groan and struggle beneath its weight but regain your grip on your sword just in time to catch its rabid jaw. The dog bites down on your blade, thrashing its head to either side. You strain against its unnatural strength, attempting to pull your weapon free. In one fell swoop you’ll rip it free and decapitate this fucking thing. Your fingers curl tighter around your hilt, you ready a strike, suck in one sharp breath and then-

You freeze.

A second blade appears, glinting in the gaslight, right between your eyes. Thick black fluid goes splattering across your face. The mutt goes limp, its full weight crushing your lower torso. A gasp is pushed from your lungs and you roll to the side, quickly shoving the robotic corpse away from your body. You kneel, palms pushing into the slick ground. Your heart is thundering beneath your shirt as you swallow frigid air hard and fast. When you finally catch a breath, you turn your head towards the owner of the blade; Pinocchio, your companion. He wipes the rapier against his trousers, cleaning the sludge from its razor sharp surface. You huff, blowing matted wet bangs out of your face.

“I had that under control.” You say sharply. P cocks an eyebrow at you, unconvinced. You feel your face burn in annoyance. “I did!” You insist, “Had you given me just one more minute I would’ve been fine. And probably less covered in this.” You jab your weapon in his direction, flecking dark oil across his shirt. He shoots you a slightly apologetic smile.

He knows you can handle yourself, he does. He just worries. You can’t blame him; you do the same thing. You’ve gotten quite close on these arduous journeys, saving each other's skins more times than either of you can count. As you wipe the sludge from your face, P extends his hand to you and begrudgingly you take it. Swiftly, he helps you to your feet. His eyes flicker up and down your face, narrowing on your cheek. He licks the thumb of his legion hand and streaks it across your cheek, lifting the remnants of black. You scrunch your nose up at him.

“Eugh- enough-” You whine, swatting the hand away. “Where did you run off to anyways?”

Pinocchio’s legion arm gestures behind his head. You squint through the darkness at the distant yellow lights of Hotel Krat up ahead. You grimace. It’s further still than you thought. “I don’t suppose you found some kind of underground shortcut?” P shakes his head apologetically. You both sigh, knowing you’ve got plenty of dangers yet to face before you’re given any time to rest. These days spent traveling have taken their toll on your bodies, but you’re at least grateful to have a friend in the gloom of Cerasani Alley. Your sword slides neatly into your belt as you walk ahead of Pinocchio. “Back to it then.”

As the two of you push forward, you notice a concerted effort on your companions' part to stick close to your side. At any strange noise or eerie shadow, P reaches for your hand. You squeeze back in reassurance that all is well. A bit unnecessary? Sure. But you don’t fight it. It’s much preferred to losing the poor boy again.

Drawing closer to your destination with only a few minor scuffles to slow you down, you reach a dilapidated fairgrounds. Sickly yellow light bulbs buzz overhead and cast an ominous glow across the entire scene. A ghostly music box melody plinks and permeates the air. You look to P quizzically.

“You’re sure this is the right way?”

P takes in his surroundings and gives you a curt nod. You grimace in reply. This decrepit place gives you the creeps.

Together you silently weave through wooden cutouts of circus performers, checking carefully for hidden enemies. It's suspiciously quiet, save for the phantasmal carnival music that grows louder as you approach an iron gate. Another barrier. Excellent.

“P?” You step aside and gesture to the locked gate. Pinocchio smiles slyly at you, boyishly pleased that there’s still a few things you can’t do without him. You want to roll your eyes, but you watch reluctantly impressed, as deep violet energy crackles around his fist. In one swift swing, he punches through the gate and leaves a smoking crater where the lock once sat. He shoots you a sharp smile, satisfied with himself.

And then you feel something. A great mechanical thud rippling beneath your feet. Your heads snap in unison towards the source and your eyes go wide at the sight of the staggering monster in front of you. At least 3 times your size looms the Parade Master, constructed of decaying parts and craquelured paint. Its massive fist alone is as wide as your body, and sways heavily at its side.

You unsheathe your blade, and its weight sinks your shoulders. It's not ideal for speed you admit, but the vindication after landing those obliterating killing blows to your enemies is unbeatable. Keeping your eyes locked on target, you whistle to catch Pinocchio’s attention. You started doing this early on. Whistles were a good line of nonverbal communication when you couldn’t afford a glance in each other's direction.

“Flank him?” You suggest. Pinocchio whistles quick and sharp in agreement. Your fingers tighten around the great sword and your chest thrums with anticipation. You jut your chin in the direction of your common enemy. “After you.”

Without looking, you know his brows are furrowed together in deep focus. You can perfectly visualize the way he lures the puppet away, his steps meticulously timed and graceful. As you wind your way behind the thing, you hear the clang of P’s rapier against tarnished metal. Your enemy rears its arm back, and you follow suit striking its vulnerable back with a satisfying SHUK! You yank the blade out of its now damaged shell and catch the briefest glance at your companion and oh. Oh. The way he looks at you.

With fascination?

Admiration?

It’s something greater, deeper than that. Your heart skips. But you shake yourself out of distraction, startled at the sound of your own voice calling out. Your lips move before your mind has time to catch up.

“MOVE!”

Exactly as you shout it, P dodges a strike from the Parade Master. The brute’s fist lands in the brick pavement, blowing a hole through it instantaneously. You gulp at the thought of your companion lying there instead, crushed. Your skin goes cold.

No. Never.

Knowing neither of you can afford another lapse in attention, you suck in one long loud whistle between your teeth. The Parade Master whips itself around to face you. Two huge lamp-like eyes glow sickly in your direction. This was intentional. You can distract for now and give your ally a moment to catch his breath. You ready both hands on your weapon and take a step back. The monster lurches forward, its steps accompanied by a horrid clanking sound.

“Get over here you fucking rust bucket…” You mutter grimly under your breath as the space between you and the looming threat of death shrinks. You breathe deeply and steel yourself, heels digging into stone. You watch carefully as the puppet rushes towards you, arms swinging wildly. Just when the behemoth is about to crush you beneath its huge frame, you duck between its legs and emerge from behind. There’s just enough time to land a solid blow. P’s rapier crosses with your greatsword, both your weapons plunging into the deteriorated creatures back.

“This one’s mine, P.” You snap, pulling your blade from its fresh wound.

“Mine.” P parrots with a smirk, retrieving his rapier as well. Being a man of so few words, you can't help feeling amused even given the circumstances. This is good. The beast is growing weaker. If you can both keep level heads this will all be over soon, you think to yourself.

At least until your enemy decapitates itself.

Your jaw drops as the Parade Master rips its own head from its massive shoulders. It wields its shiny new weapon like an enormous mace and swings it your way. It makes contact with the ground, and the impact alone is enough to shake your balance. You dive to the side, narrowly avoiding collision with the wall. You struggle to recalibrate, to size up the situation while keeping yourself out of the range of attack. You hear P whistle pointedly across the arena, waiting on your instruction. Your mind races for a plan and comes up blank.

“Hold on!” You shout, “Just- Just hold on, I’ll think of something.” You’ll have to if you want to leave this place in one piece. There’s nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. All you can think to do is attack. And you do; your blade leaves white hot gash marks on the enemy, but it hardly seems to be enough against such a terrible and towering foe. You’ve angered it now, and it’s in a total frenzy. The Parade Master swings its massive head in your direction again and you raise your sword to block it. Half a second too late.

As your weapons collide, the impact sends you to the ground. You gasp at the sharp pain that shoots through your skull. There’s a ringing in your ears and a soft dark edge to your vision. You struggle against unconsciousness and fight to keep yourself upright. Things are moving slow; trails of light obscure the events unfolding in front of you.

You comprehend something catching the Parade Masters' attention, you watch the goliath wind up, you hear something cry out, and then hear nothing at all. A sick feeling churns in the pit of your stomach and bile rises in your throat. Something’s wrong. You search the scene frantically for your ally. Your line of sight flickers from the Parade Masters head to the ground slick with rain. Your throat tightens. With his face turned to the ground, his eyes fighting to stay open, lies Pinocchio. His rapier skitters across the stone, coming to a sudden halt beneath the foot of the Parade Master.

Something flashes through you, anger, grief, adrenaline; whatever it is, it propels you forward. Your weapon is suddenly weightless as you skid between the monstrous puppet and your companion. The head of the Parade Master collides with your sword and the sound echoes through the arena with an arresting ring. You breathe hard in disbelief of your own courage. Your teeth are bared and your furrowed brow is sticky with sweat.

“Don’t. Touch him.” You command, and you swear even your mindless enemy hears it. A deep guttural sound is forced from the very bottom of your lungs as you thrust your weapon through the center of the automaton's body. It doesn’t die, but you hear something inside it break, and the creature slows significantly as if becoming too heavy for its own armature.

You risk a glance over your shoulder. P looks like absolute hell, covered in grime, barely staggering to his feet. Your chest tightens at his condition, but he’s alive.

Alive. It’s enough.

The enemy screams in frustration, rippling orange flames and black smoke billow from the place its head once sat. You stare at the hilt of your great sword, still lodged in its heart.

“P, your sword-” You start, but your ally is already on it, your strategic minds miraculously attuned. He sends the rapier sailing -now free of the parade masters foot- towards your open hand. It whips past your head and slides perfectly into your grasp. With what's left of the enemy in your sights, you take a running start.

Time seems to slow; the taste of victory teases you. Your head is about to collide with the hulking hunk of metal just as you raise your boot and dig its heel into the hilt of your great sword. Its placement serves as a stepping stone, and you scale the furious beast. You clamber up its torso towards its shoulders and feel heat radiating from the inside. It burns your hands, which grip the edge of the cavernous socket of its missing head. The monster thrashes beneath you like a wild bull, desperate to throw you off. You tighten your grip, the white hot metal searing your palm. You force yourself to ignore the pain as you raise the rapier and plunge one final devastating blow into the blazing cavity. You feel the rapier obliterate whatever mechanism kept the Parade Master alive, and it crumbles finally beneath you.

Atop the shoulders of your freshly slaughtered enemy, you fall forward with a deafening CRASH. Your body tumbles to the ground. Your grip on the rapier goes slack. Exhaustion ripples through you, and you surrender to its sweet embrace.

You hadn’t even realized you’d lost consciousness until your eyes flutter open, met by the stunning blue gaze of your companion mere inches from your face. For a moment you forget yourself, the urge to sink into his arms is so tempting. But your pride wins out and you scramble into an upright position, barely awake. Pinocchio lets out a sigh of relief and you see his shoulders relax. Had he been just as terrified as you were at the prospect of losing him? Did that same dread sit in the pit of his stomach?

Your head swims with what-ifs, but you have no energy to find their answers. With strength that you’re shocked to still possess, you throw your arms around the puppet. Your fingers clutch the wet fabric of his shirt as if he might disappear the moment you let go. His body tenses at first, then melts under your touch. You feel his head settle between your neck and shoulder, solid and secure. Silently breathing in the smell of him feels like waves of relief crashing over your head.

You wish the journey could end here in the peace and quiet of this embrace, but you feel him begin to pull away and your heart sinks. Face to face with you, his eyes search for signs of damage, for something to mend. His hands find yours and you hiss involuntarily. His eyebrows knit together in concern. You try not to grimace.

“It’s nothing.” you promise, “Burned my hand, that's all.”

P looks down at your hand and cradles it gently in his own. With painstaking care, he lifts it to his mouth and places a feather-light kiss in your palm, then on each of your scraped and bleeding knuckles. He looks up at you through those thick raven-wing lashes and you notice a trace of your blood left on his lips. The sight makes your head swim and it takes the entirety of your willpower not to catch his mouth with yours. Your posture stiffens as you try to regain your composure.

“Well it’s not far now, is it?” You ask, deflecting back to the mission at hand. “There will be plenty of time to patch each other up at the hotel. Right?” You offer, already stupidly aching for the return of Pinocchio’s delicate touch. He blinks a few times, as if he were struggling to focus himself. But he nods enthusiastically. You feel a smile creep across your lips.

As you leave the destroyed fairgrounds behind, you let your good hand slip into that of your companion. The two of you venture forth, certain to never lose track of the other again.

—

If you read this and enjoy it please let me know! Seeing your positive comments and tags absolutely warms my heart and motivates me to keep writing. Thank you so much to those of you who took the time to leave me some kind words on my last fic <3

#this was so fucking fun to write #lies of p #pinocchio #pinocchio x reader #hurt/comfort #lop #lies of p pinocchio #lies of p fanfic #pinocchio x you #lies of p x reader #my writing

593 notes · View notes

vigilskeep · 1 year

Text

(i know this is a hashtag critical post but please don’t turn this into a post where i get constant leandra hate tags with no nuance in my notifs you are all so boring abt women) remember when leandra to her kid’s face said that her parents told her that her children would be mongrels. that was kind of insane

#leandra: they would have loved you though #hawke: cool you like just said they would call me slurs not even twenty seconds ago

149 notes · View notes

sallownights · 1 year

Text

out of the woods

word count: 2.1k

CW: angst? idk. hurt/comfort, fluff, suggestive themes i suppose (they make out)

pairing: sebastian sallow x reader

A/N: i just love the song out of the woods. SUE ME. sebastian is still so reputation though

the forbidden forest was always dark in nature. despite the constant fog that clouded the floor, the trees that seem to stretch forever, the not so distant howling from a mongrel, the forest was eerie.

y/n wasn’t scared of it though. they constantly ventured out, sometimes with a friend, most of the time alone. whenever she was overly stressed or anxious she would go out. whether to go catch some new beasts for her vivariums or for a little fighting spree, she could clear her head.

today was no different. with the idea of clearing out poacher camps, y/n made plans to go out on their own. not too soon after that plan was formed did a freckled boy decide to join them.

she was a little frustrated at first. wanting to go alone. needing to be alone. however, whenever sebastian smiled at her, she couldn’t help but say yes to what he needed.

while walking through the forest, y/n leading, getting more jaded with every snap of twigs breaking behind her. the soft howl of the wind doing nothing to ease the overstimulation she’s facing.

snap

silence. she takes a second to breathe.

snap

“sebastian, can we stop for a second?” sebastian’s footsteps stop. y/n squats down to put her head down for a moment.

‘deep breaths, one… two… three’

“are you alright?” y/n is ripped from her focus by the slytherin. she lifts her head, looking forward. not bothering to see the boy behind her.

y/n shakily stands.

“of course, let’s keep going.” y/n keeps walking, smelling smoke semi near her and tries to head in that direction.

“we can stop if you need, y/n”

“no, no, it’s alright. i think there’s a camp ahead.” y/n can feels sebastian staring at her. y/n doesn’t dare to turn around. not to see the face a worry she know he’s sporting.

y/n sees a yellow tent ahead, quickly casting the disillusionment charm, sneaking up to bushes close to the tent.

“how many?” y/n hears a low whisper in her ear. normally it would send shivers down her spine but as of right now, but she didn’t get that luxury. she feels her grip tighten around her wand.

“looks to be just two. there’s a fwooper in a cage.” y/n moves forward seeing a barrel. the ancient magic flowing through her, she throws the barrel against an unsuspecting poacher. then turning the other one into an explosive barrel, leaving them for a moment. she focuses on the one still delirious from a barrel being hurled at their head. casting accio, followed by confringo and a few basic casts, it rendered the poacher unconscious.

she turns back to the poacher she turned into a barrel. y/n hearing the blood pumping in her ears. she using some of her ancient magic, bringing it closer to her before she can launch it, just as sebastian casts bombarda causing the barrel to explode close to y/n.

y/n gets blown back, her ears ringing. her body on fire before she feels it getting extinguished almost as fast as it was alight. she pushes herself to her elbows slowly opening her eyes.

sebastian’s above her, holding her cheek with one hand. she can see his mouth moving but cannot hear him. the ringing not subsiding. y/n lifts her hand to her ear, straining due to the pain for being forced backwards to the ground.

sebastian’s other hand finds hers and y/n pushing down on her ear.

“can you hear me?” y/n can see sebastian’s mouth moving again but no sound greeted her ears.

y/n looks around, both of the poachers are down, the fwooper is still in the cage. y/n looks to sebastian, his eyes searching hers. the worry in the air is palpable. y/n takes his hand, that’s never left hers, and points to the fwooper. sebastian’s head doesn’t move. y/n takes her other hand and lightly moves his head and he finally breaks eye contact with her. he looks back to y/n.

“the fwooper?” y/n nods, taking a guess at what he said.

sebastian stands and quickly moves to let the fwooper out. the moment the cage is open he goes back to y/n.

y/n tries to bring herself to her feet, before she stumbles, sebastian’s arms are around her. when she’s fully standing she brings her hands to her ears again. the ringing finally subsiding enough to hear sebastian apologizing against her head.

“i’m sorry, i didn’t know, i- it’s my fault.” y/n backs up from sebastian despite his tight grip on her. she moves her hands to his forearms.

“it’s alright. i’m okay.”

“no, no. don’t do that. i know you’re not okay. i’m so sorry.” sebastian’s eyes are full of unshed tears.

“it’s not your fault sebastian. i promise.” y/n wraps her arms around sebastian’s waist. sebastian brings her into a tight hug, causing a bit of pain to y/n. he places a hand on her back and another in her hair.

“i thought-“ sebastian’s statement dying on his lips when he feels y/n’s shoulders shaking against him.

“love?” he pulls back a little bit to see y/n. she doesn’t look up. bringing her hands to her face.

“i’m sorry, i’m sorry. i shouldn’t be crying.” y/n says into her hands as she sobs.

sebastian brings her back into a hug, rubbing his hand up and down y/n’s back. he kisses the top of her head whispering how sorry he is for practically blowing her up.

y/n wraps her arms around sebastian, again.

“do you want to talk about it, darling?” y/n nods against him, breathing in his distinct smell of old tomes.

“not here, though. undercroft, maybe?” sebastian’s nods before kissing the top of y/n’s head again. he pulls away from the hug, taking her hand and starts walking towards the castle.

after the hour walk back to the castle and sebastian leading y/n, never letting go of her hand until she started to struggle to walk. he wraps his arm around her waist to help her. when they get to the undercroft, sebastian accio’s the couch y/n had summoned earlier this year, saying the undercroft was “too sad without furniture”.

he picks y/n up as she yelps from the sudden movement. he places y/n carefully down on the couch before running off to a corner where y/n had stocked up on different potions. he searched quickly, trying to find the bright green one y/n made often.

on the couch, y/n closes her eyes. her anxiety never really subsiding from earlier. being back in the castle made it start to bubble in her stomach again. y/n sits up with a groan, leaning against the arm of the couch. she looks down at her hands, covered with dirt and what looks to be blood. she’s shaking. she clenches and unclenches her fists, attempting to ground herself. the sound of glass hitting itself gets drowned out as she finds herself to be submerged into a quiet void.

a soft hand gets placed on her shoulder, and a figure moves in front of her, crouching down.

“take this.” sebastian’s tone is firm but in no way demanding.

y/n nods, taking the green potion from sebastian and drinking it. a warm hazy feeling coats her body and she feels herself relaxing a bit. while her mind continues to go a mile a minute, her body isn’t in nearly as much pain as earlier. sebastian sits across from y/n, giving her space. y/n looks down and frowns, missing the proximity.

“do you still want to talk?” sebastian asks.

y/n looks up and nods, clasping her hands together. a blush creeps onto her face thinking of what she’s about to ask.

“seb?”

“yes, love?”

“can you uhm-“ y/n looks away and takes a deep breath and looks back to sebastian. his face still full of concern.

“c-can you hold me?” the blush on y/n’s face deepens. sebastian smiles.

“of course, darling.” y/n moves her legs up as sebastian comes closer to her and he lifts her to place her on his lap. her back pressed against the arm of the couch, sebastian’s arm over her waist, his other hand taking hers. y/n leans onto sebastian’s chest and he places his head above hers.

sebastian’s thumb goes over y/n’s knuckles and he places a soft kiss to y/n’s head and rubs small circles into her back. y/n takes a shaky breath.

“just get stressed out sometimes… and anxious… and overstimulated. most of the time going out and fighting or rescuing animals helps me feel better. which sounds… not great i’m sure and i love going out with you or poppy or natty. however, i think i need to be alone sometimes. that’s nothing against you i just feel like i’m dangerous and i don’t ever want you to… see me differently.“ y/n breathes out, leaning harder into sebastian’s chest. it’s silent for a moment.

“love, i don’t really think i could see you differently than how i do now.”

“how do you see me now?” y/n lifts her head off sebastian’s chest, and he breathes out.

“well, i think you’re strong, fiercely independent, stubborn. you never back down from a challenge, no matter how at odds you are… talented, smart, and beautiful.” sebastian moves a hair out of y/n’s face, the gesture making her blush.

“you think i’m pretty?”

“that’s what you got from that?” sebastian raises his eyebrow.

“answer… please.” y/n licks her lips, waiting for him to respond.

“yes, but i do believe that pretty is an understatement.”

“you’re quite handsome, but i believe that to be an understatement as well.” sebastian’s eyes bore into y/n’s. a blush on both their faces.

“i’m really sorry i got you hurt.” sebastian says, lowering his gaze to y/n’s hand in his. y/n lifts her hands and places then on the sides of sebastian’s face.

“hey, listen. it’s okay. i wasn’t all there anyways. so, we’ll just call it a mistake and move on. it’s not your fault anyways.” y/n moves forward and plants a small kiss to sebastian’s nose. her thumbs moving across his cheeks. sebastian moves his hands to her wrists, moving the side of his face to kiss one of her palms.

“can i make it up to you?” sebastian’s eyes glint with an idea. y/n immediately knows that it’s something she’s either going to hate or love but knowing sebastian, she won’t say no to either.

“you don’t need to, but if it’ll make you feel better.” she smiles at him.

“can i take you on a date? a nonviolent, not scary, totally normal date. to hogsmeade?” y/n is stunned for a moment and sebastian is sure she can feel the heat radiating on to her hands. y/n stays silent for a while, making sebastian worry he misread her feelings.

“we don’t have to-“

“i’d love to, sorry. just, uh, was thinking.” y/n smiles sheepishly.

“about?” sebastian cocks his head.

“something.”

“mm. tell me.” sebastian moves his hands to y/n’s waist and y/n moves her hands to sebastian’s chest. y/n leans in and kisses sebastian quickly before backing away to see his reaction. he smiles and leans in to kiss her again.

without breaking away, y/n moves herself to straddle sebastian and sebastian moans into the kiss. y/n parts her lips giving sebastian access he so craved. y/n grinds against sebastian, her moans being stolen by him. sebastian starts peppering kisses down y/n’s jawline, moving to her neck. her shaky breaths causing sebastian’s brain to feel dizzy.

“we should- we should stop.” y/n pushes sebastian back a bit. he leans back, his lips red and swollen. his freckles peaking out against the pink on his cheeks. he’s not entirely great at covering his disappointment.

“of course, darling. d-“ he practically gasps for air as y/n shifts her position on his lap to lay against him again. “don’t wanna go too far now right?”

“y-yeah, right.” sebastian rubs circles into y/n’s hip, making her skin feel hot. she wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight embrace.

“thank you for being here today,” her voice barely over a whisper.

“there’s nowhere else i’d rather be.” sebastian kisses beneath her ear. y/n releases sebastian from her grip and kisses him softly. when they break apart, y/n pulls sebastian down to lay with her.

“i’m tired.” y/n states, her face in sebastian’s chest.

“i can imagine so.” sebastian says, running his hand through her hair.

“no, like more than normal.” sebastian pulls y/n back and then looks to the ground where the empty potion bottle is and picks it up.

“oh shit, was this the wrong one?”

#sebastian sallow #sebastian sallow x reader #hogwarts legacy sebastian #sebastian sallow x you #sebastian sallow x mc #sebastian sallow fanfiction #Spotify

164 notes · View notes

requindeterre · 1 year

Text

Comedy of errors Bingjiu where SJ swaps into SY's body when he dies of qi deviation. It's weird but SJ does what he always does: survive, adapt, overcome. Shen Yuan's family is the biggest adjustment but it's...fine. More tolerable than the peak lords at least.

Years pass, he's thriving and has mellowed out a bit now. Amazing what getting out of a constant trauma state and modern heart demon healing can do for a man. But, his own nature keeps him waiting for the other shoe to drop. And it does -

- In the form of his now very adult former disciple directly into his path on his way home from the grocery. RIP to the once perfectly ripe tomatoes now crushed into pulp beneath a man who should have no idea who SJ is. He's annoyed but it should be easy to get rid of the beast.

Meanwhile, LBH's finally managed to squirm his way into a reality where he doesn't have to fight that cry baby for a nice Shizun thanks to a tip from the last iteration of the pair he came across. Finally, it's his turn.

LBH proceeds to try every trick in his playbook to try and win over "Shen Yuan" even if he does remind LBH more of his scum Shizun in personality than the various kind Shizuns he's come across.

It doesn't matter- every watered down version of himself got a kind shizun and this one is HIS. Hasn't he suffered more than any of them, doesn't he DESERVE to have that kindness and love after everything?

Of course, SJ won't give in easily. But, he's read through PIDW while acclimating and it seems a wiser plan to keep up the Shen Yuan charade than come clean and risk meeting the same fate as the SQQ in the novel.

He takes every opportunity to try and foist this sticky demon lord off onto someone else. He never threw anyone into the Abyss, why is this HIS problem. Sure, the constant meals are nice and maybe the not-so-little beast is growing on him like a fungus but- that means nothing.

Trying to keep LBH at a distance works for a while, a few months at least. How the beast is managing a prolonged stay in a new world isn't really SJ's problem given he never asked for this but, he finds himself thinking about it as autumn shifts to winter.

LBH adapted fairly quickly and it didn't take more than a few days for him to switch from formal robes to something more suitable for this world each time he popped up like a curly haired weasel millipede.

After following, clinging to really, SJ back to his apartment that first day, the beast was always popping up around meal times or when SJ left to run errands. It was invasive at first but has become routine.

Still, extended stays in SJ's private space would -not- do so each night LBH was politely bundled, or as close to SY's mannerisms as SJ could infer, out the door. But- SJ thought about it as the weather module on his phone announced another temperature drop.

Where had the little mongrel been staying? He didn't recall seeing a coat earlier in the day when he shuffled LBH out after their lunch. If the farce of Master Airplane's novel was correct, LBH would be more than capable of handling himself. But SJ thought about it.

Perhaps he'd been wearing SY's face for too long, he was clearly going soft in his old age. It was easy enough to ignore in the light of day until SY's meimei had to show up at the wrong time and point a spotlight directly at the issue.

#bingjiu #b9 #svsss #luo bingge #shen jiu #reverse transmigration #things i meant to continue and then just didn't

196 notes · View notes

darkhorse-javert · 30 days

Text

Chitter-chatter Tittle-tattle

@flashfictionfridayofficial

I come home to Baker Street one early afternoon. I had been out since the early evening before, called by a case that proved more complex and critical than it might have been expected, thus needing my constant attention. But all had come well in the end, and thus did I climb up our stairs to the sitting room.

Holmes was in his accustomed chair, a cup of tea in his hands. Extraordinary the first. But he was not alone,

A young man, darkish haired and lanky-framed, twisted on the settle to look as I entered, and rose to his feet courteously.

"Ah Watson" Holmes says, his voice bright, "This is Hereward, my nephew. Hereward, Doctor John Watson, formerly of the RAMC."

He gestures his hand from me to the young fellow and back again, apparently considering that introductions enough. Young Hereward came around the sofa end offering his hand which I shook, though he shook more heartily.

"Very pleased to meet you Doctor, very pleased." His eyes are bright, very warm and enthusing. Not been in London long, for certain, and young, not yet twenty, or barely so. There is slightly a resemblance to Holmes, perhaps enhanced by the half-grown nature of the lad. Length of limb, a little in the set of the cheekbones. I glance at Holmes and send a look.

Hereward is the eldest son of my eldest brother," Holmes continues smoothly, as I cross and set my bag on the table. "He has come up to London to try his way in business for a time."

"Uncle Mycroft has found me a situation in a good merchant-firm, to give me a half-year trial." Hereward expounds, still on his feet and nearly springing with excitement at the prospect he pronounces.

"Very promising," I allow, nodding, hoping to continue to muffle my overwhelming bewildered state, compounded by tiredness, until I can bead Holmes for proper details.

Hereward beams at me, springs around the settle and sits down, surprisingly calmly, to pick up his tea.

He says a sentence in a language which seems to be a muddle of Latin and Greek.

Holmes - taking a sip of tea at that moment- starts, chokes, spits back his mouthful, and falls to spluttering wheezing coughs He hunches over, coughing into his sleeve, somehow managing to set the cup awkwardly but safely on the side-table in the midst of it. After a little I move over and pat him hard on the back, he clears his throat

"Thank you." The words come out part-bark, part-croak, but Holmes breathes more easily. His head comes up, and he stares sharply at Hereward, says something else I don't understand, except that it does sound more like Greek.

But what little I know Greek, besides the medical applications, was not my grandest subject in my schooling, and I am left a blank as to the conversation, except that young Hereward does not seem particularly rattled by Holmes' tone. He replies again in the same Mongrel tongue, voicing something that might (or might not be) 'Mycroft', shrugging.

Holmes humphs.

"Will you be staying here?" I ask generally, to break the deadlock, wondering as I so so, how it would be managed. Either Hereward or I in here on the settle with blankets, most likely. If me thus, pray that the lad is not perceptive enough to notice the stiffly tidy, barely used, state of the room supposed to be my lodge.

"No, Uncle Mycroft is putting me up - or putting up with me - until I have my feet and perhaps lodging with my fellows." Hereward shakes his head lightly, glances at the clock and rises neatly. "I think I should be going back. Thank you for the tea, Uncle Sherlock." He inclines his head in a nod to me. "Very Pleased to make your acquaintance, Doctor Watson."

I return the gesture, and Holmes rises to his feet, accompanying his nephew across the room to the door.

On opening it Hereward places his hat atop his head, then paused and says something in a very low tone to Holmes, close to his Uncle's ear. Holmes claps him lightly, familiarly, on the shoulder, waits as Hereward moves away and down the stairs hall-wards. Only then does he close the door.

"So, that is your nephew?" I ask.

"Hereward, son of Sherrinford, himself first born Holmes son; he keeps the gentry element of the family, whilst Mycroft and I may make our own paths as we wish." Holmes reels off casually. He looks more closely at me. "Watson did you eat last night?" My shrug is followed by a halloo downstairs of "Mrs Hudson!!!! Bread and biscuits!"

---

It is much later, in the dark of our room and bed, with Holmes curled around me, that I ask, "What on earth did he say, Hereward? It was in no language I understand."

"Holmes Patois, my Watson," He says softly. "Invented by Mycroft, taught to me when we were children, picked up by Sherrinford out of necessity. Latin, Greek and French for starters, a little of each with each other's grammar rules as well." I hear the smile in his voice, feel it in the hold of his arms around me. "And Sherrinford kept it up."

"What did he say?" I press

"That he agreed I had found myself an excellent, and handsome, Penelope."

Penelope, a loyal wife. I roll in his arms to face him. "Your family know about," -I wiggle my fingers that are above the covers, meaning the bed, the one room- "Us."

"Mmm." Sherlock says "Mycroft has not been entirely obtuse in his letters home, and neither Sherrinford or Hereward are stupid."

#granada holmes #victorian husbands #granada sherlock #granada watson #holmes x watson #flash fic friday

8 notes · View notes

nevermore-ocs · 10 months

Note

Mongrel, are there any moments you wonder if what you are doing will actually amount to anything. not whether right or wrong, but if it actually is doing anything. any worries of it all being for nothing

"What I create for the world to undergo through is not a trivial matter of alignment...loathe me, crave for a semblance of inevitable downfall to this 'criminal spree' that I have wrought through city upon city...but all will remain the same, even with my forced retraction in this cat and mouse charade...I need not to worry about my actions being nothing for they are everything...fear is a constant, an emotion every walk of life on this planet is blighted with, for me to do what I do is nothing more than providing a mere way for what is set in stone to commence.

Besides, this besmirched ball of disorganized chaos we're required in referring to our home planet has its share of deep seated stains of utter destruction, of war, of pain...of fear. Why not seek out a path for more to happen, as if it would change anything in the first place."

#oc #my oc #villanos #villanos oc #villainous #villainous oc #mongrel #oc questions

14 notes · View notes

maquina-semiotica · 2 years

Text

Constant Mongrel, "The Law"

#Constant Mongrel #Spotify

0 notes

dontcallpanic · 19 days

Text

rules: answer + tag 9 people you want to get to know better and/or catch up with

Tagged by @oldefashioned who is a constant ray of sunshine! Thanks so much for being lovely, I've given this one some attention.

Favorite color? Blue - any kind but especially that grey/dusk/purple blue. If that makes any sense.

Last song?

Y Cwilt by Mari Mathias

https://open.spotify.com/track/2Td8f7Gc3XfGo15wsxZFb9?si=q16BYt94RYOBjICGtvWGRQ

For anyone interested in Modern Welsh Folk (I know it's unlikely but I can't resist) here's a run down.

Y Cwilt (The Quilt) is about the comfort of telling stories, especially folk stories. In Wales the Welsh language was actually made illegal for a long, long time. The language and therefore the history and culture only survived through music and stories. I'm pretty sure the quilt is also a metaphor for patching together this history and the old stories to hold us together.

This is from Mari Mathias' album Annwn - Annwn is the Welsh Otherworld, where the giants, the fairies, fae, wild hunt and other strange creatures come from.

If anyone wants atmospheric Welsh witchcraft music (very niche I know) I can also recommend Pan O'wn y Gwanwyn (when I was in springtime) it's seriously haunting and spooky.

And Annwn, also by Mari Mathias where in the music video she gets turned into an owl.

Also Byta dy Bres (eat your money) by Gwilym Bowen-Rhys where just before the end it sounds like an actual curse on capitalism. It probably is...

They're all on Spotify.

Currently reading?

I got about 4 chapters in to Women who Run with the Wolves - Clarissa Pinkola Estès (which was very interesting but hard work) before I got distracted by fanfiction so here's the latest:

This is a follow up to the amazing Mongrel Minds https://archiveofourown.org/works/45540652

Summary:

Special Agent Derek Hale keeps himself locked down tight. He doesn't share his past and he doesn't share his feelings.

So what if he's been in love with his partner for years? They make a good team and he's got it under control.

However, when a case takes a turn and he finds himself back in California, he'll have to confront his past and his feelings whether he likes it or not.

Thoughts:

This has everything... FBI partners, magic!stiles, fake relationship/real feelings, strange new world, BAMF!Stiles and the whole world is so much fun (except Talia but somebody has to be the bad guy I suppose) and Stiles is hilarious.

Blood on the Blade is a continuation of the pure joy/fun vibe (with a tiny dose of angst). It's So Good I wrote an entire run down to my friend complete with my top 5 greatest Stiles moments. It's SO well written and so well described, please consider giving it a chance (provided it passes the tag check!)

Currently watching?

I'm about two seasons in to Superman and Lois but I struggle watching TV these days. It's hard finding the time.

That said, I did binge Fallout... Which I loved!

I'm also watching Clarksons farm because while I don't particularly like Clarkson, I am a country farm girl at heart and I miss the farm year.

And there's a few series that have recently come out I'm curious to watch.

Currently craving?

Coffee flavoured ice cream - and maybe a doughnut.

Coffee or tea?

Coffee in the morning, tea in the afternoon

I don't know 9 people!!! But I'd really like to know any mutuals better! So if you see this and you want to give it a go, please do and let me know!

#Personal #This turned into a Welsh folk plug #sure! why not!#Yma o hyd!!#Fun stuff #sterek fic rec #Please go read!#idk how to tag this #Nice things for nice people

5 notes · View notes

valiantvillain · 1 month

Text

I sincerely fear that one of these days all the problems trying to play Pathfinder: Wrath of the Righteous gives me will one day outweigh the fun of it. Feels like every other day I run into a new technical problem with this game. A week or so ago it was constant crashing in the Kenabres Market Square. Yesterday it was sound problems. Today it's crashing to desktop twice upon trying to load the transition from the mongrel village to The Shield Maze and now I'm verifying the integrity of the files in the hopes that that will fix it.

Well, guess something was wrong...hopefully next time I play it'll be fine? Idk was verifying all I had to do?

#gamer problems #pathfinder wotr #is there a reason this game in particular likes to tell me to go fuck myself?#none of owlcats other games give me so many panic attacks #wotr i love you but you greatly irritate me at the worst times #usually as i'm getting into a good groove

4 notes · View notes

karaokebearwithal · 3 months

Note

1! 2! 3! Please!!

Thank you! For the, Ask! 🐻☺️✨ These are some good choices so I'll have fun answering!!

1. What would your Tav’s greetings be (at different levels of approval)?

Well! This is a big one hol' on Let's start at Medium approval! Middle of the road, most likely the approval you'd have if you'd meet Domino freshly wormed wandering the Sword Coast: Since she doesn't really know you she'd default to being kind and non confrontational, definitely matching the energy of who ever is leader. And this is without hesitation! He would just as easily stop and help every single npc on the map as she is to raid the druid grove with you. As long as you're amicable to with him, he's loyal to a fault. Well I mean granted you'd have to do more convincing to raid the grove than helping but Domino is definitely not turning against you. Voice Lines include! : "Hello there", "You called?", "Anything you need?", "Need help with that?" High Approval: You've spent enough time actually getting to know dear Domino to learn of her actual personality (and other secrets ;3) rather than her default bard mask she uses to avoid trouble during travels (he is very well travelled) He's probably attached to your hip, as loving and caring as a person can be while also clearly being platonic. If you let her, its constant touching, holding hands other forms of physical contact, preforming for you, inside jokes, sharing food. Basically with high approval you're the best of bestest friends (no take backs) and you'll not be allowed to forget it! Voice Lines include! : "Can I bite you? <3", "*so many nicknames*", "If you let me have some of your meal you can have some of mine" "*Player asks if she stole extra food*" "Yes! Of course I stole some more baked goods for us! Now, which you'd like? " Low Approval: As easy as it is to achieve high approval with him, low approval is far more easier to get with Domino. Things like her don't get far without having at least some sense of self preservation and being outright antagonistic or violent towards her is all it takes. (Though he isn't dumb, he can understand intention and context) It'll probably entail a scary amount of silence from a bard. Sneakily trying to attack you in battle, talking to other party members to convince them to turn against you (and he's very persuasive), steal your things. Just anything to be as antagonistic towards you as she can be without loosing the approval of other party members. Domino would also stare at you with large dead eyes where ever your in range like a predator who knows their not at the top of the food chain so has to get smart in order to obtain their goals. Very chilling! Voice Lines Include! : "...", "*low growling*", And if you turn your back far enough "*BARK*"

Next!

2. Describe their tent setup! What’s on the outside? The inside?

Surprisingly, Domino wouldn't own a tent so it would be default, customised. Nothing would be left outside the tent though, She'd fear something happening to her belongings. But everything Domino owns would either stay in his pack or be thrown into a nest in the middle of the tent as a makeshift nest. He'd sleep on all her most valued belongings!

3. What would their character quest be titled? Why?

This is a really good one! Either The Many Masked Beast or The Unyeilding Storm depending on which the player discovers about Domino first. The Beast one would be you figure out she's a werebeast (homebrewed but the mongrel race I think is kinda close?) The Storm one would be if you figure out he's actually a souless only surviving on the sourcer blood inside him. (Storm Sorcerer) Both these things that Domino hides really well though if you figure out one, he'll tell you the other.

Thanks for the questions!! And feel free to ask any more if my answers only gave you more questions :3€

#Dearest Domino

3 notes · View notes