#rings bell like a town crier

[alderaani]

“Maybe I would, if it meant I got treated less like an errant Padawan,” Kenobi said. He sighed, and smiled ruefully. “It’s one of the curses of working with the same people you grew up with, I suppose.” Cody snorted. “You don’t have to tell me that, Sir.” Kenobi laughed. “No, of course I don’t. Though I’ve never seen Captain Rex bend your ear.” “That’s not really his style.” Rex had always been their resident snitch growing up, ready to dish up someone else’s dirt to keep the flack off himself, and because he’d retained a baby face longer than the rest of them he usually got away with it. And anyway, he was all indignation and righteous anger when he’d been scared, at least with Cody. It was how he’d known Rex would match well with Skywalker all those months ago. Looking back, setting up that pairing had been the first time he’d truly felt a kind of kindred with Kenobi - watching the two of them walk off to spearhead their own battalion, he’d looked as torn between fear and pride as Cody felt. Then he’d sighed, looked at him and said “I need a drink. Are you coming?” It was a tradition that they still maintained whenever they needed to authorise the 501st’s reports.

Full Work Summary:

Disaster strikes at the heart of the Republic! With a coup on Charra and their threatened secession from the Republic, caf stocks plummet across the galaxy and civil unrest permeates to the very centre of the Senate.

But not is all as it seems. Sent on a diplomatic mission to negotiate Charra's demands, General Obi-Wan Kenobi and clone Commander Cody must stand together to resolve this threat to the unity of the Republic, and, perhaps, may get a chance to confront the turbulent emotions between themselves...

[miwtual]

Call the nurse I think I slipped a Franklin in her purse And on the way out I asked her very nicely "make it hurt"

DISGUSTING! Vana (2024)

[amarmeme]

Ringing the bell like the town crier.

Next chapter up! Illario/Rook and they finally kiss.

Come and get it!!

[thewhitewitch-bitch]

In Astris Supra (Chapter I: Viam Quaeris ad Omnia Foeda et Pulchra)

Agatha Harkness x F!OC (Aislin Stuart)

Read it on AO3

Summary: "No new horror can be more terrible than the daily torture of the commonplace." - H.P. Lovecraft Agatha Harkness is certainly not commonplace. Nor is the witch who came to Salem one cold night in the autumn of 1691. And when the two of them collide, the world will certainly never be the same. But will it be for better or for worse?

Salem, Massachusetts 1691

The stars were different in Salem. They weren't as dim as they were over Shrewsbury, though they still seemed restrained, like they couldn't shine as bright as they wanted to when the children of the Divine Mother were so restrained themselves. And the air, it hung heavy like a woolen cloak upon my shoulders as I stepped off that wretched ship and onto the fog-laden dock. There was no greeting from local folk, no word of welcome as I and a handful of others passed the harbor master and carried on to the small cluster of homes and shops. Smoke wafted from chimneys and the scent of roasting meat caught my nose as I followed the trodden path through the town. Children were nowhere in sight, contained within the confines of their homes, and with good reason, I could wager that anyone caught wandering after dark met a rather sticky end. 

No one dared meet my eye as I walked through the town, though that could have easily been attributed to the attire that I wore which had passed me off well enough as a man to sail to the New World without hinderance. I'd be a fool to say that I didn't prefer breeches to corsets, though if any onlookers got too close of a glimpse they would have tried to see me hanged by first light. 

"Return to your homes! Seek not the devil within the cover of night!" A voice called over the ringing of a crier's bell from somewhere within the rows of houses. One by one, men and women vanished as the night grew darker and the moon in its waning cast its silvery light down upon the path before me. I planted my feet, feeling the light of the moon bathe my skin as I felt raw, natural power wash over me. 

"Divine Mother, give me strength." I whispered, feeling as though pure starlight coursed through my veins. A gentle breeze kissed my cheeks as my eyes fluttered shut. The quiet that settled in Salem after the doors were all closed, and the windows were shuttered was welcome after the sloshing of the sea and roaring of the breakers for the last three months. It was grounding, solidifying, peaceful. Until it wasn't. The breeze grew into a gust then into a small gale, before it finally ceased. A knowing smirk twitched at the corner of my mouth as I opened my eyes to see that I was completely surrounded by women dressed entirely in black. 

"Bold of you to venture into a town such as Salem... sisters." I greeted, "From what I hear you're all on the verge of being burned at the stake." 

"Mind your tongue, girl." a veiled woman snapped, "You stand in the presence of the most powerful coven in the New World." 

I bit back a laugh, "Good. That means I ended up in the right place." 

"Just who do you think you are, whelp?" 

"A covenless witch of the stars," I replied with a shrug, "seeking solitude and safety." 

The veiled woman scoffed at me, "Ha! You will find neither here. Leave this land and do not return."

"Or what?" I dared to ask, sauntering up to her with a darkened expression, "You'll kill me? Because I would love to see you try."

The witch drew back her veil and revealed an older, graying woman with a pointed, stalwart face. I met her eye with a fierce gaze, my natural power flowing off me in silver wisps. To my surprise, this woman, this leader of the Salem coven, seemed to shrink beneath my glare. A flicker of fear flashed in cold, unkind eyes. I stepped away and turned to address the rest of the coven. 

"I came here to seek solitude, and I will have it. So, let's make a deal. I'll retreat into the expanse of the wood and remain there without issue. I shall not venture to Salem again, so long as you leave me in peace. And in exchange, you can go about your business as you always have, unhindered by any intervention of mine." I scanned every witch's face for any sense of doubt, any inkling of waver and found none until my hazel gaze settled upon the deep blue eyes of a girl no older than myself. She was stood beside the old crone, but her eyes were not filled with fear or indignation like the others. Instead, they gleamed with fascination and intrigue, shining bright in the darkness against her pristine pale skin, like sapphires freshly polished. I lingered on her for a moment too long, finding that my cold exterior began to crack beneath her gaze and I was willing to allow it. 

"Do we have a deal?" I asked with a far too gentle tone, my eyes still locked on her. Beside her, the crone set her veil back upon her face and nodded. 

"The terms of your agreement are acceptable. Go now and do not cross our path again." 

I allowed myself a final second to look upon the girl beside this wicked witch before tearing my eyes away to fix them on the path that would carry me into the forest beyond. My feet led themselves away from the coven, pushing through their ranks and past the array of homes and hovels. As I walked on, the chill of the night finally began to sink in past the thin white wool shirt I wore and against my will, I shivered. That shudder was accompanied by the sound of footsteps behind me, fast approaching. I paused and glanced over my shoulder to see the girl that had caught my eye chasing after me, her dark hair following behind her in long, illustrious waves. 

"Wait!" she called to me, holding up a bundle of cloth in her hands. I was almost inclined to keep walking, but my feet remained glued to the ground as she stopped mere inches from me and caught her breath. 

"You should not be here." I told her, daring to glance back at the town in the distance, "Your coven mother is not too keen on having me here. Nor am I one to be caught associating with witches who are supposed to keep their distance from me."

"My mother is a cruel and unkind woman," she answered rather harshly, "And I've never been one to follow her rules to the letter." 

I scoffed, "Well, then you and I are rather alike, it would seem." 

I turned fully to face her and found myself captivated once more, not wanting to move an inch. There was something about this girl that was... enthralling to say the least. It was as though I were coming face to face with pure, untapped power and I had no way to contain or control it, though I had the feeling that I did not want to do either. 

"What do they call you, stranger?" she asked me, tilting her head to the side ever so slightly, a delightful smile spreading across her face. 

"Aislin Stuart." I replied with a smile of my own and little bow which loosened a few strands of my brown hair from the tie at the back of my neck, "Daughter of Dorcas Topsfield, the Scourge of Shrewsbury."

Her smile grew wider and wilder. I took a slow step forward, getting within a heartbeat from her, whispering into her ear, "And what do they call you, pet?" 

Her breath hitched, sending a pleasant shiver down my spine. A chuckle rose from deep in my chest as I pulled away. Her mouth hung slightly agape as I took a step back to get a good look at her again. It took a minute for her to recollect her thoughts and reply. 

"A-Agatha. Agatha Harkness." 

"Hmm," I hummed with a softened expression, "Well, Agatha, I suppose I won't see you again. Ta." 

I started to move away, but she stretched out her hand and caught my arm with surprising deftness. 

"Wait, I, uh, wanted to give you this." she offered up the bundle of black, heavy cloth in her arms, which upon quick inspection was a warm, winter cloak, "Winter is nigh upon us, and it would seem you don't possess the proper clothing for the cold months ahead."

I took hold of the rough wool, my hand brushing against hers as I did, sending a spark up my arm and into my chest. The air became heavy again, though not due to the fear of the Salemites behind me. This was a comfortable heavy, one that shielded me from the cold for only a split second before the chill of the autumn air came rushing back. 

"Thank you." I said softly. Taking the cloak into my arms, I tossed over my shoulders and immediately felt the cut of the wind come to an end. "I suppose I should be off."

"Can I see you again?" Agatha asked me quickly. Looking back into her brilliant blue eyes, I felt a flutter in my chest. I had come here to escape other witches, only to end up being entranced by one as soon as I arrived. I took hold of a ring on my right hand, crafted from fine silver bearing a gleaming white pearl.

Holding it up to my lips, I whispered, "Invenias quod petis apud me in manu tua."

Stepping back toward her, I pressed the ring into her palm and closed her fingers around it, "When you wish to find me, simply put on the ring and it will show you your path. When you wear it, all roads shall lead to me."

I released her hand and stepped away, vanishing from sight before she lifted her eyes from the ring back to the road.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

She sought me out three days later. It had given me enough time to venture far enough into the wood that I would remain untouched by any who dared to seek me out, while also granting me the opportunity to make use of a summoning spell to establish a sturdy enough shelter until I was able to conjure something permanent. A heavy frost coated the leaf litter on the floor that morning, casting an ethereal shimmer across the wood as I sat upon a rotting oak stump and took in my surroundings.

The protection circle had continued to do its job, I had remained undisturbed during the night. The small fire that I had built was steadily growing as I continued to feed it, heating up the kettle I had hung on an iron hook. Freshly snared rabbit was roasting on a small wire spit, the scent of its roasting flesh making my mouth water as I readied a cup for morning tea. The forest was quiet, save for the rustling of leaves when a squirrel skittered past, or a deer came by to investigate. Glancing up at the sky, I could see that it was going to a clear day, a good day. It had been a long time since I had had one of those. 

The kettle began to whistle, I grasped hold of the rag-wrapped handle and filled my cup. The calming scent of black tea, calendula, and cornflower wafted up to my nose, the heat radiating from the cup warming my hands as I raised it to my lips and took a careful sip. 

"I hope you have enough to share." 

My head whipped around to see Agatha Harkness standing at the edge of my circle, a gentle, innocent smile on her face as she stood with a deep violet shawl wrapped around her shoulders. She was entrancing in the dark of night, but in the light of day, she was as radiant as the sun. Her dark brown hair shone brightly in the pale autumn light, her porcelain skin pristinely white. The shawl meant to stave off the morning chill covered most of her, though I could see the intricate black lacework of her gown's bodice peeking through it. 

"Transite in sacrarium meum, et estote suscipite." I said, gesturing to the space next to me on the stump, "I have plenty to share. Come, sit." 

With a snap of my fingers, a second cup floated up from its place amongst the personal effects I had summoned over to where the kettle was. Without lifting a finger, the kettle filled the cup and returned to its place. Agatha cautiously stepped past the ring of white stones and found no resistance upon passing fully through. Taking the cup from its place in midair she lowered herself next to me and took a sip, letting the warm liquid bring some life back into her chilled bones.

"You know I wasn't completely convinced that your little spell would work but," she glanced down at the ring nestled perfectly upon her right middle finger, "as soon as I put it on, I felt a pull in my chest, and it led me here."

"Well, I certainly wasn't going to lie to you. I only lie to those who deserve to be lied to." I replied simply, "I haven't known you very long, but I see no reason why you shouldn't be told the truth."

"Ah, then you and my mother would be quite at odds. She refuses to teach me." 

I arched a curious brow, "What witch would refuse to teach her child the craft?" 

Agatha's grip on her teacup became tense, her eyes remained downcast. She was withholding something, though what it was I couldn't be sure. I watched her sit in abject silence for a while, until she finally worked up the courage to speak again.

"My magic is dark. It aligns with evil, and because of this my mother will not teach me."

I had heard an eerily similar story many years ago. My own mother's tale of how she came to acquire her power was one of turmoil, anguish, and death. Over the centuries, she had become known to lure witches into her thrall, tell them she was establishing a coven, then like a leech to an ill man's neck drew every drop of magic from them and absorbed it for herself. The corpses piled high outside the cottage where I was born. I'm sure if I were to return to that place tucked within the forests outside Shrewsbury, they would have grown higher still. 

"My mother refused to teach me as well." I confessed, " She is a proponent of the dark arts, using power to gain more power. But my magic is rare, volatile, more in tune with the eldritch magic of sorcerers. It's as ever changing as the phases of the moon and it takes a great deal of self-discipline to master, something my mother disregards entirely. I had to spend some time studying with the Ancient One in Kamar-Taj to truly understand it myself. But... in time you could learn to master yourself as well." 

"You would teach me?" Agatha's tone suddenly became hopeful, excited even as her eyes met mine. I nearly choked on the sip of tea I had just taken, coughing up my drink onto the frost-laden ground at my feet. My gaze fixed on my shoes, drifted back up once I had regained my ability to breathe again. 

"I... apologize." I said with a hoarse tone. "But I'm not much of a teacher, Agatha Harkness." 

"Well, I'm not much of a student, Aislin Stuart," she answered smartly, a smirk dressed upon her face, "but I'd be willing to walk this unknown path if you walk it with me." 

A tightness formed in my chest. My heart pounded against my ribcage. I couldn't turn away from her, and she knew it.

"Very well then. Down the road we'll go. Our own secret coven of two." 

Part of me wished that I had leaned toward divination in that time, perhaps then I would have seen what was to come. The passion, the anger, the heartache that would certainly arise from it all... but knowing it wouldn't have made a difference. There was truly no way to predict what Agatha Harkness would do.

I only wish I had known it sooner. 

[caryelwesslittletoupe]

*rings bell like the town crier*

DADDY HATH DEBUTED A NEW HAIR SYSTEM!

I REPEAT, DADDY HATH DEBUTED A NEW HAIR SYSTEM!!!

*ding! Ding!! DING!!!*

[meltedvinyls]

ringing a bell and shouting out into the tumblr void is like being the worlds shittiest town crier

goddamn did i miss this

[skaruresonic]

you guys ever find it wild how every time a new IDW issue drops, folks have to crawl out of the woodwork ringing their town crier's bells like "hear ye, hear ye, IDW haterz still suck"

meanwhile all you're doing is sitting there watching Breaking Bad

[janeway-lover]

*ringing a bell like the town crier*

New fic! Get your new fic here, hot off the presses!

All This, I Offer To You

[jujulebee]

I wanna grab your whole torso with a giant cartoon hand and ring you like a bell. This isn't even innuendo, you're just shaped like one of those town crier's bells and I want ding dang noises.

this is one of the funniest fckin asks ive ever gotten actually??? 😂😭🥴️

[tanjir0se]

Unironically another fantastic thing for my creative process has been making stupid little press releases for my stupid bullshit like it’s urgent news and everyone should care. I’m like a town crier ringing a bell and shouting on your dash like HEAR YE HEAR YE. THE GOODE LADY OF THE MANOR HATH GRACED US WITH YET ANOTHER GOOGLETH DOC FULL OF YON BULLSHIT. LOOK UPON IT AND WEEP.

[omedievalpixel]

Some extra WIPS i forgot about!! These are all only about 40% done so I don’t have any pictures but..

9. Carryable Baskets - your sim can carry a basket and do other stuff at the same time, kind of like when they carry bar drinks. No more CAS accessories stuck to their hands!

10. Carryable Torch (and maybe lanterns later) - same as the baskets but has a flame effect and emits light

11. Bucket of Water (Sink) - a bucket of water that you fill up and then can use a certain number of times until it gets dirty and you have to empty the water out. Includes converted animations from TSM (kids can splash in it, which is quite cute!)

12. Forage Marker - a market that lets your sims wander around within an area and forage. I’m trying to make it super customisable so that you can have one spot for gathering firewood, one for nuts and berries and stuff like that. There’s a chance they can get stung by poison ivy and get a custom moodlet and rash!

13. Town Crier - a way to replace the newspaper, this is an NPC that rings a bell and you can hear news and town gossip. Animations from TSM!

i have manyyyyy other plans, these will all be incorporated into one “Medieval Life” mod to minimise stress on the game. But pls feel free to offer suggestions and ideas!

Medieval Mods/CC WIPS

I have a BUNCH of behind the scenes projects, some of which I´ve posted over on the medieval sims discord!

Medieval Ingredients and Recipe Overhaul ft. variable eggs!! So each time you collect an egg, it'll be a different texture. (Also using this technique on capsicums/bell peppers, so you can have red, green and yellow ones on the same plant!). The ale barrel is functional and can also be used as an ingredient.

2. Ghost Story Image and Prop Default - replaces the torch with a candle and changes the images to more medieval-style monsters

3. Functional Butter Churn - the animation has been slowed down since I took this video lol

4. Functional Medieval Lighting - including lanterns, torches, candelabras with multiple flames etc. AND default candle flame effect

5. Medieval CAS Room

6. UI and Loading Screen Edits - couldn't find my other screenshots :(

7. Thatch Roof Object

8. Horse and Cart - this is still in very early stages so no pictures yet, but I´m at least 75% confident I can get this to work lmao

[animatedgifcards]

Hear Ye ... Hear Ye!

One day Zara is sitting outside when she hears someone shouting real loud. It's a town crier and his name is James. He is ringing his bell and he has an announcement to make to everyone.

If you would like to read the entire story, you can find the pdf copy here: https://elsal95.wixsite.com/stories/hear-ye-heary-ye

[sugainmycoffee]

Literally every song on the tracklist could be a yoonmin subunit BUT WHICH ONE IS IT

[disillusioned-phantasma]

.

.

.

Molly says there’ll be a hunt tonight.

You’re visiting the village market together when she suddenly stops in the middle of the road, the evening crowd parting around her. Her hands tremble at her sides, her head turned towards the sky. “Do you feel that?” she whispers. “That heat? That prickle in the air? Like a storm, but I know it’s not. They’re coming. Herbs—you need herbs. Can’t be out late.” You don’t feel anything but you take her word for it. They call her Mad Molly, but only when you aren’t around to smack some sense into them. Not just anyone survives being stranded outside on the night of a hunt. You’d like to see them try.

“How do you tell the difference?” you ask her. “Between a storm and a hunt?” 

Molly taps her nose. “The smell,” she says. “Storms are wet. Earth and sky. Hunts are something else. Try and see.” 

You close your eyes and take a deep breath. Crisp autumn air fills your lungs. You smell the savory aroma of meat pies, the musk of herbs, the sharp scent of pickled vegetables, but nothing like what Molly describes. You trip on an uneven patch of road and she catches you, snickering. Somehow, she’s still twice as graceful as you, even without her eyes.

Dusk settles in the sky by the time you reach Molly’s. She gives you a basketful of herbs from her garden, flowering purple stalks of betony and clary sage. “Put the dill and rosemary over your door. The betony, you’ll want that once the night’s through. Clary sage is for the eyes, but you knew that already.” She sends you off with a stern reminder, “Stay inside. Lock your doors. And don’t get in their way.” She taps the side of her face, the whorls of scar tissue where her eyes used to be. “But don’t be scared,” she says quietly. “They can be surprisingly gentle.”

It’s a long trek home from Molly’s, back through the woods and the village square. The shadows are long and the sky dim. Children chase each other, chickens run loose, and a couple of persistent women haggle with the butcher for cured meats. But when the church bells toll, everything changes. Fear grips the market. People scatter like frightened animals. Stalls are hastily abandoned, artisan goods trampled in the streets. Doors slam and windows are shuttered. A town crier rings his hand bell and shouts to be heard over the commotion. He, too, is running. “Hear ye, hear ye! The hounds come to hunt this eve!” You catch glimpses through the stampede, fur like night sky and eyes like burning coals. The beasts come pouring from dark places, shaking the clinging shadows from their coats. You smell ash and sulfur, see the heat haze fizzling around their claws. The howling starts. You’ve never run so fast in your life.

They’re everywhere, slinking through the alleys and prowling between the trees. You see them watching, waiting, their gazes burning into you as you pass. You wonder if this is how sheep feel under the scrutiny of herd dogs. The crowd thins the further you go from town until you’re alone in the woods, sprinting for the soft glow of a lantern left outside your front door. You’re breathless when you stumble inside, hunched over, legs aching. You realize, belatedly, that you lost your basket of herbs somewhere in the chaos, but you’ll manage without. All you need right now is some tea. 

The water is just starting to boil when you hear an ungodly commotion, a wet sound, a clattering, banging and screaming. It takes you a moment to come out from beneath your table and realize someone is knocking frantically at your door, begging for help. “Please, please help me, please I don’t, I don’t want to die, please—!”

Cautiously, you peer through the foggy glass. You can just make out a young man standing there. You open the door and the sight of him churns your stomach. Vicious claw marks cut through one side of his face, leaving the flesh mangled and hanging limp. That wet sound is the splatter of blood every time he moves, dribbling from his face and his hands. The hounds will smell that, clamor for a taste of it. “I didn’t know,” he sobs. “I’m not from here, I didn’t—I had no idea what it meant! The bells started ringing and everyone ran, and I—I don’t have anywhere to go!”

You let him in. He comes stumbling through and collapses, sinking to his knees against the wall. His cloak is torn and the clothes underneath ragged, everything saturated with blood. The first thing you do is clean the wound and cover him in gauze and bandages, anything to staunch the flow and cover the metallic scent. He croaks miserably, pale as death. You aren’t sure he’ll make it through the night, but you’ll do what you can.

“The bells mean there’s a hunt on,” you tell him, sopping up a red, watery mess oozing from his chin. It makes little difference now, but if it were you, you’d want to know. “The hounds are just doing their job, hunting for monsters and infernal things. But we have to be careful. They’ll attack anything that gets between them and their prey, and blood excites them.” 

“Monsters?” the young man says weakly. “Infernal things? What does that mean?” 

You shrug. “I’ve never seen one. It’s just what I’ve heard.” 

“Then how do you even know it’s true? What if they’re just running amok out there, killing whoever they want?” 

“I just know,” you insist. It’s a common rumor whispered around the village; humans are the real prey. The stories of monsters are just to keep them obedient, never getting in the way of a hunt. But Molly told you it’s not like that. She said she saw something. The hounds, she whispered, weren’t what took her eyes.

“Doesn’t that scare you?” the young man presses. “Not knowing what a monster even looks like? Whether or not you’d recognize one if you saw it?” Thin, bony fingers wrap around your wrist. He has claws, you realize, your heart skipping a beat. “It should,” he purrs. His teeth are inhumanly sharp. Eyes flutter open and shut along the uninjured side of his face, yellow and glowing like a creature of the night. He stands, suddenly steady on his feet. Your blood runs cold as you understand that his corpse-like complexion is natural. More hands unfold from beneath his tattered cloak and slam you back against the wall. 

“Let me go,” you say quickly, a frightened tremor sneaking into your words.

The monster you let into your home leans in close, smirking. A long, forked tongue slithers along your jaw. “I don’t think so,” he hisses. “I’m staying until sunrise. If the hounds come, you will send them away. If you don’t…” His jaw cracks at the joints, unhinging, his mouth opening even wider revealing a maw lined with rows upon rows of teeth. “Then there will be nothing left of you come morning.” Just like that, he drops you, watching you squirm on the floor with cold amusement. “Get up,” he says. “We have to prepare.” He doesn’t wait for you to begin shoving furniture against your door, lifting the heavy oak table as though it weighs nothing. You slowly climb to your feet and stand there, paralyzed.

“It won’t work,” you say.

He stops, dropping a chair and letting it clatter loudly to the floor. You regret speaking when those eyes flutter open in shut again, fixing you with an unnerving glare. Silently, he slinks towards you, backing you into a corner. “It will,” he says lowly. “You’ll turn them away or you’ll die. It’s that simple.” 

You swallow a ball of cold, hard dread stopping up your throat. He doesn’t understand. There is no turning away a hound. A long howl cuts through the silence and you both look at the door. Another howl rises in answer, much closer than the first. A glow like distant fire burns in the woods. The monster grabs you with three hands and shoves you closer to the door. It stands behind you, draped against your back with a claw pressed threateningly against your throat. You hear a beast’s trotting steps, leaves crunching along the path to your home. A large silhouette looms outside. There’s sniffing, and then a low growl. Something scrapes against your front door.

“Huuuuuman,” comes a low, velvety purr.  It almost sounds like a man, distinctly masculine but with a deep, animalistic rumble coloring every sound. “I see you standing there. Good evening.” 

“G...good evening,” you manage to stammer through the shock and fear. You had no idea hounds could speak. You can’t make out a face, canid or otherwise, but you see his eyes glowing in the dark, red and blazing. 

“I smell something delicious,” the hound says. “May I come in? I think you might have an uninvited guest and not even know it.”

You take too long to reply. You hear the sound of flesh peeling, the monster’s jaw unhinging behind your head, and scramble to force out the words, “There’s no one here but me!” 

The hound lowers itself. You hear more sniffing, see unnatural shadows swirling beneath your door and seeping into the house. “Are you certain, human?” the hound says. “I’m not often wrong.”

“I’m sure,” you say, as firmly as you can with hot saliva dribbling on your shoulders. You hear one last frustrated, sniff, a huff, and then the hound’s footstep’s retreating as he slinks back the way he came. Neither you nor the monster can quite believe it at first, remaining perfectly still until the fiery glow dissipates and everything is dark outside. The next howl is far, far away. 

“Good,” the monster mutters, sounding nearly as exhausted as you feel. He shoves you away and begins throwing anything else he can find into the barricade. “Now help me with this—”

He smells it only a second before you do. Sulfur. Burning. Hellfire. The unearthly glow sparks to life right outside your door once again. Time slows to a crawl as the monster turns, looking back at you with a snarl frozen on his half-mangled face. All of his eyes open wide and you hear just the beginning of a frightened whimper before flames erupt from the barricade. The fire is red like blood and the force of it bursting through knocks the monster back, sending him sprawling to the ground where it circles him, engulfs him like a living thing and eats him alive.

You can’t tear your eyes away as the flames take the shape of the biggest dog you’ve ever seen, wolf-like and ferocious, one massive paw on the monster’s chest as its maw tears his belly open and rips into his guts. The terrible, sharp stench of death seemingly burns away, overpowered by cleansing smoke and fire. The screams will haunt you for the rest of your life.

When you come back to your senses, the inferno has disappeared. Rings of scorch marks are seared into the floor around a charred corpse so horribly mutilated you couldn’t begin to guess at what it once was. A man crouches over it, licking his bloodied lips. You know he’s the hound. His wild hair writhes with shadows and the fire is still burning in his eyes. He turns to you, stands to his full height, and you fight to keep your gaze respectfully above his collarbones as you realize he’s completely naked. He takes a step towards you. You take two stumbling back.

“I didn’t want to get in your way,” you say, helpless. If he decides to kill you, there’s nothing you can do. “He told me to lie to you. He threatened me.”

“Lucky for you, you’re a terrible liar,” the hound sneers. He stalks towards you like you’re prey, a snarl pulling at the corner of his lips exposing the teeth that just tore the monster apart. “Did no one ever teach you not to open your door to strangers on the night of a hunt?”

“I didn’t know!” Any further excuses die on your tongue when he shoves you, barely more than a gentle push on his part but it knocks you to the ground. He’s on you before you can squirm away and you realize suddenly just how big he is. He’s enormous, a good head taller, all rippling muscle and faded scars. And he’s—you don’t look, but you can feel that he’s hard. His cock twitches where it’s nestled between your bodies, smearing precum on your clothes. “Please don’t...don’t hurt me.”

“I’m not going to,” he says, but it certainly stings a bit when he rakes his claws down your body and shreds through your clothes. He ignores your protests as he shoves the fabric aside and then his hands are on you. He has claws like the monster, but even thicker and more frightening. Somehow, they barely graze you even as he caresses your skin. You flinch when he leans in suddenly, but he doesn’t bite you. He’s smelling you, you realize. His nose grazes the hollow of your throat and he licks you, a rumble building in his chest. “This is what I smelled,” he murmurs. 

You don’t understand. He doesn’t bother to explain, either, but he pulls back far enough to meet your eyes. You expect him to reek of sulfur, but without the fire, there’s only the lingering scent of the forest. His gaze wanders your body and he presses his hand against your chest, right over your pounding heart. 

“I want you,” he purrs. “I’m going to have you.” You nod shakily. What are you going to do, fight him about it? You just watched him burn his way into your house and kill somebody in a flurry of fire and entrails. “Turn over. Let me taste what’s mine.” You hesitate. He doesn’t ask twice. You’re flipped unceremoniously onto your stomach, breath catching in your throat when he tugs your hips higher. 

You feel his breath, scalding like chimney air, against your sex. The wet press of his tongue on your flesh makes you flinch and whimper. It’s hotter than you expected. The warmth is just shy of painful. You bury your face in your arms, face heating in embarrassment, as he laps at your sex like he’s starving for it, saliva dribbling down his chin. You find yourself shivering, moving back against his face, whining when his hands catch your hips and hold you in place. 

You think that growl is pleased, almost affectionate. He adjusts his position ever so slightly, his thumbs pressing into tender flesh to spread you open. And then his tongue is inside of you. You cry out in shock, the sensation foreign and overwhelming. It’s like nothing you’ve ever experienced before. His tongue is long and thick, twisting inside of you, opening you wider as he makes encouraging sounds. “That’s it,” he hisses, licking a lazy circle around your entrance. “That’s it, human. Let me in.”

It’s not long before you’re shivering in his grasp, gasping, even begging. You hear a chuckle, feel his tongue leave you empty and wanting. “You’re ready,” he murmurs. You hear a slick sound. His hand on his cock, maybe, but you don’t get the chance to look and see. His claws land heavily on your head, shoving your face into the floor. He’s going to fuck you like an animal. The thought drifts almost absently through your head as he mounts you, blankets your back with his body and begins rutting his hips against you. His length, hot and pulsing, shoves between your thighs in teasing thrusts, letting you feel how thick he is. What can only be a knot drags against your sex, the friction making you whine. “Do you want me, human?” he growls. “Do you hunger as I do?” 

You make a noise, something humiliating, needy, more animal than human. It’s exactly what he wants. With a playful bite to the nape of your neck, he presses his cockhead against you. He pushes slowly, patiently, his hands smoothing along your sides. You hear him speaking against your skin, rumbling into the side of your neck or your shoulder. The words are low and indistinct but you feel the intent behind them, the desire in every sound. “Fuck me,” you beg him. He makes a bestial sound and with a harsh, forward motion, spears you on his cock. 

It’s blinding, the pain and the pressure, but it’s so good, so filling. Your fingers scrabble over the floor with nothing to hold onto. The hound rocks his hips, driving into you harder and faster, building a rhythm that makes you see stars. “Fuck, just like that,” he pants against your ear. “You take me like you were made for me.” He sinks deeper and your eyes roll back in your head. You can feel him in your stomach, can see the bulge of him through your skin. It’s impossible to hold your voice in, every thrust dragging a yelp or a whimper from your lips. “Don’t hold back,” he growls, nipping at your ear. “Scream for me. I want my brothers to hear you. I want the whole village to know you’re mine.” 

You won’t last long, and neither will he. The exhaustion of the night catches up with you, the primal terror, the relief, the lust burning in your veins. You feel the hound losing rhythm as he loses himself to his frenzy, groaning and growling, driving into you with bruising thrusts. He tries to force his knot inside of you and it won’t fit, you’re sure it won’t. You try to tell him it won’t and he makes a truly inhuman sound, a laugh and a bark and a roar all at once. One of his claws lands on your head again, keeping you trapped and still as he rotates his hips and pushes harder, fucks you harder, drives his cock as deep inside as he can get.

The sound is small. The muted, wet pop of something locking into place. But the sensations are too much, too good, too painful. The force of your orgasm nearly leaves you unconscious. You feel him cum, hear him let out a long moan as his hips move in frantic little thrusts against your ass. He stuff you full and collapses on top of you, his legs hooked inside of yours. You gasp for breath as he keeps rutting, still riding the high of his climax. You smell blood. You feel his jaw come unclamped from the space between your neck and shoulder, his tongue lapping gently at the wound. 

He shifts slightly and your hips are dragged with him, the pull on your insides making you wince. “Sorry. We won’t be going anywhere for a while,” he murmurs, nuzzling into your hair. He soothes you with a hand along your side, peppering kisses between your shoulders. “Hunt’s not over. I’ll have to leave as soon as I’m able. Are you well? I didn’t hurt you?”

You don’t feel terrible, all things considered. There’s a deep soreness that might bring regret in the morning, but mostly you’re content. His heat, the fire at the core of his being, dampens the worst of the pain. There must be some magic at work. You can’t believe he’s still inside you. “I’m okay,” you say slowly.

“Good.” The hound nuzzles his face against you, taking in your scent again. You could almost call the behavior affectionate or gentle, a stark difference from how he fucked you earlier. 

Molly’s words come back to you, the strange little smile on her face. You have some questions for her in the morning.

1: Hellhound

you get an unexpected visitor on the night of a hunt.

->explicit. contains gore, murder, feral behavior, very ambiguous consent (consent not explicitly given but you have a good time), and knotting.

Keep reading

[nitewrighter]

Cindy Part 7

Again, to read other chapters, please refer to the masterpost.

Oh hey look Cindy’s back! And Guard Captain Brad’s there, too! Wonder what’s gonna happen?

---

Cindy’s in the market. She likes being in the market more than she’s willing to admit, because it gets her away from the house, and again… the house is all she has left of her parents, so it’s kind of guilty feeling good being away from the house, but the market’s hitting a little different today. After that night, after that taste of freedom, after that sobbing, agonizing realization that her home hasn’t been her home in so long, she likes the smell of the market air more. She’s contentedly swaying like kelp to accommodate the press of the crowd around her. She’s still humming the music she and the prince danced to, goddammit, and she’s running all the decidedly un-glamorous errands the stepfam aren’t willing to do. The stepfam doesn’t like how the soap maker’s hands are all fucked up from years of lye exposure, so Cindy gets the soap. The stepfam doesn’t like how the fishmonger smells, so Cindy gets the fish. The stepfam doesn’t like how the cheesemonger infodumps about goat social hierarchies and tyrosine crystals, so Cindy gets the cheese. The stepfam doesn’t like the tinkerer’s glass eye, so Cindy goes to the tinkerer whenever tinkering needs to be done. She’s always considered them all very pleasant people, oh but today they’re vibing even more. She is walking on air, this girl is still high on the afterglow of the ball. The cheesemonger is in the middle of a fascinating lecture on the impacts of goat diets on cheese fermentation rates when all of a sudden a loud bell rings.

“An announcement from the crown! An announcement from the crown!” The town crier is parading into the market square with a burly guard at one shoulder and a bookish valet clearly from the castle at the other.

The thrum of the market dies down with the ringing of the bell as the town crier hops on the border wall of the fountain, still ringing his bell.

“Hear ye, hear ye! In this, the year of our lord seventeen-or-eighteen-something-something, in our most proud nation of—” The town crier cough-sneezed hard into his elbow, “I bear a message from our most beloved king!”

Cinderella, along with literally everyone else in the market, perks up and moseys towards the crier.

“The prince has found his intended bride!” The crier announces and an excited titter goes through the crowd. Cinderella’s heart sinks a little. Well… whoever she is, I hope she’s nice, she thinks a bit sadly. And like… this is where we get depressing again because like… she likes the prince. Oh boy does she like the prince. By all definitions, she probably loves this guy, because he’s funny and clever and kind and an amazing listener and he talks so passionately about horses and whatever he’s reading and goddamn, he can dance, but ‘love’ is a dangerous thing for her, just like ‘hope’ is a dangerous thing for her. So she’s thinking, ‘Well there was probably a girl from a very politically advantageous family at the ball and probably the matchmaking thing was a whole formality that’s supposed to make whatever this pairing is seem more legit.’ Sure it’s pageantry, but it’s pretty solid pageantry. But the town crier goes on.

“However,” the town crier declares, “Before we were able to identify the young lady in question, she fled the premises!”

‘Oh, hey, I did that, too,’ thinks Cindy. Maybe politically advantageous girl was in a hurry? She’s probably very busy, what with being politically advantageous and all. Even if Cindy felt she really connected with Princey Boy, she’s not… super-strong in the self-esteem department. Y’know, years of being treated like shit will do that to you. So she assumes there has to be someone way cooler who totally has their shit more together and that’s definitely the Prince’s intended bride.

“But not before she left her shoe!” The town crier adds dramatically, “Thus it is declared: Whosoever fits the shoe in question, is the Prince’s intended bride!”

And this is where an abrupt sensation of of ‘Oh shit,’ flares through Cinderella’s body. Because leaving a party early, even abruptly, that’s not that unique, but leaving your shoe? She’s pretty sure that’s not something that would happen twice in one night. A questioning murmur ripples through the crowd. Shoes? Why on earth would the prince only be able to recognize his supposed bride by shoes?

“Fitting shoes… feh!” One villager scoffs next to Cindy and distracts her from her rising panic. He wipes under his nose with his thumb, “Back in my day, you stacked up 20 feather mattresses and stuck a pea somewhere in there and you let a girl sleep on it. If she woke up with bruises, you knew she was a princess. Hemophilia, don’t you know.”

“Hemophilia?” Cinderella stoops a little to hear him more clearly.

“Oh yes, hemophilia. All the royals have it. Bruise like pears, they do.”

“Huh…” Cinderella’s eyes scrunch a little, because she knows the prince mentioned wrestling a couple times when they were hanging out and talking, and that doesn’t seem like a very hemophilia-friendly sport, but then again, maybe this complete rando is an expert on the crown (go easy on her she doesn’t get out all that much). But then she draws herself back up straight as the town crier continues speaking.

“I will now present an artist’s representation of the shoe!” The crier announces, and the king’s valet next to him opens a scroll to reveal a detailed ink drawing of a crystalline shoe. A glass shoe. Her shoe.

The crowd ‘oohs’ at the shoe, because, you know Cindy was right to love the slippers as much as she did, and she was right to ask to make them the only permanent thing about the outfit, because they are fucking beautiful.

‘Oh,’ Cinderella thinks, looking at the drawing, ‘Well isn’t that something.’

And she just… fucking blacks out.

I passed out at the Dickens Fair a couple of years back and like, I was overheating and dehydrated and on my feet for too long, BUT MY POINT IS, even if everyone around you is wearing cute silly period outfits, passing out in public is still embarrassing as fuck.

“Miss? Miss! Miss, are you all right?” The voice comes in muffled in Cinderella’s ears and she flinches hard, throwing up her forearms over her face in a flinch. But a hand is feeling at the back of her head. Gentle pads of the fingers even gently pressing beneath her low bun to feel at the scalp. “Are you concussed?”

“People keep asking me that…” Cindy says distantly, eyes blinking out the sunlight and forearms still crossed. Squinting, she slowly lowers her arms and realizes there’s a hand on her back, propping her upper torso up off of the cobblestones. Her lashes flutter and she realizes the guard who had been standing near the crier is stooped over her, holding her. Several nearby ladies are tittering excitedly because holy shit this guy is a beefcake. Her shoulders bunch up. “Ah…”

“It doesn’t seem like you hit your head too hard…” Brad murmurs.

“I’m fine!” Cindy blurts out. Like she recognizes this guy from the ball (I mean he’s a big guy, he’s kind of hard to miss) and she knows the Fairy Godmother told her a memory charm was stitched into the dress but holy fuck she doesn’t know what’s going to happen if he recognizes her! Like yeah Fairy Godmother said she’d be a white fog but now also the shoe is in royal custody!! What does that mean?? Is she recognizable if she’s seen the shoe after the spell is broken? God, she should have been writing more stuff down the night of the ball.

“You sure?” Brad’s eyebrows raise.

“Mm-hm!” Cindy gives a tight-lipped nod.

“Welp,” Brad rises to his feet, pretty much picking Cinderella up by her shoulders and pulling her upright along with him. Her body goes completely rigid at the combination of physical contact and movement, there’s a brief second where Cindy’s feeling her feet dangle underneath her because holy shit this guy is huge, before he plants her on her feet like one might stick a surfboard upright in the sand at the beach. She wobbles for a second but quickly straightens up. “Er… thank you, sir…?”

“Guard Captain Brad Bradstone, miss,” he gives a shallow bow, “And it was nothing. I am sworn to protect all subjects of the kingdom.” In his bow he notices all of the soot physical contact with her has smeared all over his uniform. It’s all over his sleeves and there’s a significant gray smudge across his torso.

“Oh!” Cindy’s hands go over her mouth, “I’m so sorry!”

“It’s fine, miss,” says Brad, first instinctively moving to brush it off, but deciding not to bother upon seeing his hand now smeared with ash and soot, “And may I just say, I think what you’re doing is very brave.”

“B-brave?”

“It takes a lot of guts for a lady to break into a male-dominated work field like chimney sweeping, and you can bet you have the crown’s support in your endeavor,�� says Brad, thumping his fist to his chest in a salute.

“Ah..” Cindy slumps a little, “Yes. Chimney sweeping.” She clears her throat, “Again, I’m sorry for causing such a fuss.”

“Eh, you’re not the first swooner, and you probably won’t be the last,” Brad shrugs, “Really commendable recovery time, though.”

“…so the prince really wants to marry the girl who left the shoe?” Cinderella fidgets with her fingers a little.

“Well, to be honest, all the ‘bride’ talk is embellishment from the king, but the prince did call her the love of his life,” Brad is preoccupied with trying to brush off all the soot on his uniform in a way that doesn’t make it spread more. It’s not working out too well.

“The love of his life?” Cinderella’s breath falls hushed and trails after him as Brad paces away. She quickly shimmies up behind him.

“Mm-hmm,” Brad rinses his sooty hands off in the fountain and then moves to wipe off his sleeve and—oh fuck that made it worse.

“Does he… talk about her?” Cinderella tilts her head.

“Talk about her?” Brad scoffs, and then leans close to Cinderella in a conspiratorial whisper, “He doesn’t shut up about her! Between you and me? He’s a complete wreck.”

“A complete wreck?!” Cindy’s hands clasp over her heart.

“Oh god yeah, he’s barely eating, he’s waking me up at odd hours with new conspiracy theories about what this girl’s whole deal is, and—“ Brad catches himself, “I apologize, miss, I shouldn’t be talking about this. It’s not appropriate. I would ask for your discretion on everything I’ve just said.”

“Of course!” Cinderella salutes, and then doesn’t really know why she saluted. This guy feels like someone you should salute at.

“It was deeply unprofessional of me,” Brad murmurs.

“It’s fine. It... sounds like a very stressful situation,” Cinderella folds her arms.

“Oh if only you knew,” Brad chuckles a little. He clicks his tongue. “look, you seem very nice, and I’d love to talk more but—”

“Brad!” A call comes across the market square and both Brad and Cindy glance up to see Gabe the valet giving a pointed glance to his fancy little agenda journal before glancing sharply back at Brad.

“…as I was saying,” said Brad, “We’ve got like… 10 more villages to hit up with this announcement today, so I can’t stay.  But—hey—would you keep an eye out for me?”

“For what?” Cindy perks up.

“Just… anything suspicious. The prince may be all lovestruck, but if you ask me? There’s a lot of fishiness about this ‘mystery bride of the prince.’”

Cinderella stiffens a little. “I see…”

“I mean, no one being able to remember a single identifying feature of her? At one of the biggest parties of the year? And then rushing off as fast as she can? There’s something wrong there, don’t you think?”

“I… Um…” Cinderella is fidgeting again.

“Brad!” Gabe the Valet calls again.

“I gotta go,” Brad shrugs and then hits her with a quick finger-gun, “Best of luck with your chimney sweeping, miss.”

“…thank…you…” Cinderella says blankly as Brad rushes off.