#i tried to do something more stylized than usual unsure how i feel about it yet but

[storytellering]

Baby, I love it when you're scared

[hardskz]

bow down.

pairing — bang chan x genderneutral! reader

genre — modern royalty au, drama-ish, smut; sexual tension-ish, hand kink, brat tamer! chan, degradation, leg humping, humiliation

synopsis — you have eyes. prince bang chan is a whole snack. but you also have too high of an ego and can’t seem to accept that prince chan isn’t full of himself unlike the other dozen members of any royal family you’ve met before. alternatively, this is the disney channel movie ‘princess protection program’ but make it porn only.

note — this fic with a wc of 7k+ does not include any spoilers to the movie and you don’t even have to know what the movie is about you’ll get the gist as you read. ngl half of this is from one of my drafts from like 3 years ago and i never continued it so here i am turning it into filth hahahah (and i needed a fresh idea for brat tamer chan and hence why i think the sfw part is better written than the nsfw lmao) rip also pls accept this as the follower milestone gift and 1 year anniversary special :’)

“I’m pretty sure I asked for a puppy for my birthday — which was three months ago may I add — not for a new roommate?”

You look back and forth between Youngjae and the stranger sitting on the couch who is staring back at you with a curious expression. He looks around your age and you admit, his face isn’t the kind of face that makes you thank your parents that genetics did a decent job on you. It’s quite the opposite, actually.

His face is the type of face that makes you ask your parents why genetics didn’t do a better job on yours. Okay, you haven’t reached that stage of visual inferiority yet but that’s mainly because he is dressed in clothes that were trendy in the 15th century or something. The garments clinging to his skin look like a bad fusion of a suit (which college student wears a suit in their free time?) and the ridiculous costume the marching band at your former high school had worn whenever a football game was up. And those weird golden pins clipped on the blazer makes it seem as if he used to be in the marines or comes from a royal bloodline or—

Oh. 

“Don’t mind my cousin, your Highness. (y/n)’s humor has always been questionable.”  Youngjae sends you a glare before he puts on his sweetest smile — you know, the act he puts on whenever he tries to negotiate a bonus with his boss or woo his date — and opts to ignore your presence. “Anyway, since we are dealing with a more serious issue at hand than originally expected, we need to give you a makeover to—“

Before he gets to finish his sentence, you violently tug him away from the prince and despite Youngjae thrashing around and complaining, you manage to send the guest a forced smile and leave his vision. The moment you let go of Youngjae in the neighboring room, he readjusts his collar. “What? Couldn’t you have waited once I was done? Also, was it necessary to crinkle my collar this much?” he hisses but you get straight to the point.

“What is he doing here?”

“Uh, sitting on the couch?”

“That’s not what I mean.” you grit your teeth and land a punch on his arm. “What is he doing here?”

Youngjae looks over your shoulder, making sure that what he’s about to say next is only heard by you. “Prince Chan is,” he hesitates, unsure how to approach his topic. You know it’s taking up his last nerves to conclude a logical explanation as the tip of his tongue pokes out of the corner of his lips; a habit he has adapted ever since he stopped chewing on his bottom lip. “The predicament he’s in is worse than we expected. Well, his dad is partially at fault because he forgot to tell us this not-so-small critical detail that—“

“Youngjae, you’re rambling.”

“The point is.” he sighs and gives you a distressed look as if he already knows you’re not going to like the information at all. “We can’t send him to the family in Goyang, the place he was originally going to stay in. He’s one of the more extreme cases and the Board agreed that he had to live with one of the active combatants to ensure his safety.”

Silence engulfs the kitchen and you know he’s waiting for you to count two and two together.

“He’s going to live here,” you deadpan eventually and Youngjae nods in confirmation.

“I know you’re not very happy—“

“Not very happy is underwhelming.” You earn a flick against your forehead and yelp in pain as you over the spot he just hit. “Ow! I was just stating the truth!”

“Will you stop interrupting me? Geez. Yes, I know that you’re not happy at all. I know that you’re not a huge fan of the majority of our family working in this business. But please do me this one favor or so help me God— try to be nice to him for the next year.”

“He’s staying for a year?” you shriek and in the blink of an eye, Youngjae clamps your mouth shut.

“Can you keep it down?!” he whisper-yells, then retreats his hand and reverts to a conversational tone with a frown. “It’s just a year, okay? Y’know, just... say hi to him whenever you see him. Act civilized.”

You grimace as he stresses his last words like you didn’t know what human decency was. The longer you keep the petrified expression on your face, the more it turns into a staring contest between the two of you. Just as if you were each other’s reflection, you mimic his actions and vice versa. When Youngjae squints, you squint. When you shoot him a glare, he returns it. It all boils down to the final blink that Youngjae feints and you’re the first to look away.

“Okay fine! I’ll try to behave,” you mumble in defeat.

A satisfied smile makes its way on Youngjae’s lips. “It’s always nice negotiating with you.”

Being born into a family where the majority works for the royalty protection program (short: RPP or as you like to stylize it: argh-pee-pee), also known as the secret service for people with crowns on their heads, comes with many perks. In your eyes, this privilege comes with many, many downsides that aren’t worth the advantages. Sure, there is the one or other occasion where you can waltz around in fancy evening attire and attend an actual ball, but overall, it’s a pain in the ass.

Even though it’s prohibited to openly declare that you work for the RPP, the news always finds its way out. Usually, it takes approximately a week for pretty much half of the neighborhood to find out. And it certainly isn’t nice hearing whispers about your dad being that guy working for the program whenever you step out of your house, which is ultimately why you moved in with your cousin Youngjae. (Housing in your small town wasn’t really affordable for a dirt poor college student after all!)

Youngjae has always been your favorite cousin out of the... whatever number of cousins you have. But here’s the thing. He also works for the RPP.

However, somehow he managed to — and up to this day it still remains a mystery to you how on earth he did that — keep his job a secret. Especially with his tendency to dish out the worst kinds of secrets when he’s slightly tipsy. Frankly, you once considered printing out the image of a trophy for that remarkable feat.

With your dad and cousin both active in that business (because organization sounds too shady), it’s not the first time you meet a prince, so you already know how the entire thing works. The concept is quite simple; they get sent to a household but before they settle in and take on a fake identity until their circumstances have improved, they undergo a makeover. Most of the time, it ends up in the glow up you secretly crave but in Prince Chan’s case, you suppose he can’t get any more attractive.

Oh boy. You’re in for a ride.

You’re busy slicing bell peppers for the meal you were cooking when both your cousin and the prince enter the kitchen and Youngjae explicitly demands you to pay them attention. You don’t react immediately, but the moment he threatens to swipe the knife away from you, you perk up and set your desire to prepare your fried rice aside.

“(y/n), uh, hi? I’m Bang Chan and I’ll be your new housemate for a year. I hope we can get along.” Chan recites his introduction without any mistakes and earns a way too brotherly pat on the back from Youngjae, considering that they just met this morning. It’s truly amazing how fast Youngjae can get people to warm up to him. 

Chan is stripped out of his weird clothes and instead, looks like he threw on the next best thing lying around in his room. Nonetheless, despite the seemingly little effort that was put into the outfit, it looks oddly good. The stylists didn’t seem to do much to his hair and just parted his bangs a little, so one could catch a slight glimpse of his forehead. It’s just a small detail, but you find yourself liking his current appearance much more appealing than before, though you’re pretty sure his clothes played a major part in your previous distaste. 

“Remember Jihyo?” Youngjae interrupts your train of thought. “She’s Chan’s relative. And because I’m the genuine friend who loves to help her out, I decided to agree to this after she went down on her knees and begged me to let Chan live with us for a while—“

“I’m not interested in your blown up, fictional background stories, thank you very much.” you backtrack. “Wait. Did you say Jihyo? Seriously? Jihyo is his alibi?” Of course, you remember Jihyo. It’s quite difficult to forget her when Youngjae used to swoon about her at every hour of the day, back when they were a thing. Besides, she still stops by every few months.

“C’mon, you have to admit there is a similar vibe between them!” 

You furrow your brows and inspect Chan a second time. Your gaze wanders back to Youngjae and then returns to Chan anew. It’s obvious that the latter is feeling as if he were up for auction and you can’t really blame him for feeling so uncomfortable. You’ve heard from a few friends that if looks could kill, you’d have the highest killing record. 

There’s no similar vibe in your view, but for the sake of entertaining Youngjae’s thoughts: “He does seem similar to Jihyo.”

“Told ya. But back to more important matters,” Youngjae coughs and wraps his arm around your shoulder to pull you closer, but it somehow seems as if he’s opting to strangle you. “My duties are calling, so I won’t be back until late. You look like you could need some help with cooking, by the way. I’m sure Chan right here is willing to help you!”

“I’m almost done though—“ you choke when he tightens his embrace. By now, his arm is no longer hugging your shoulder, but rather crushing your throat.

“You look like you could need some help,” he repeats, this time with added urgency. “It’d be a great opportunity for you to bond since you’ll also share pretty much all classes at uni. Did you know, he has the same major as you! Besides, it’d be a very useful life experience for him if he helped you with cooking.”

“Of course, how fun!” you hiss, voice going an octave higher from the lack of oxygen. “I already said that I’m painfully delighted about that, so you can let me go now, Youngjae!”

A sneer and a jab in his arm later, Youngjae finally takes his leave. That nasty liar, leaving an hour earlier than his schedule stated. You know that silently cursing at him isn’t going to make your problems dissolve because that’d be a dream come true.

“Listen, let me get things straight.” you sigh, picking up the knife to resume chopping your vegetables. Youngjae may have ordered you to act civilized, but having eye contact with Chan when you’ve been starving for the past hour isn’t your priority. Food doesn’t make itself. “I don’t have any intention of getting close to you and I expect the same from you. Don’t step a foot into my room, don’t talk to me unless absolutely necessary, and don’t think I’ll run around and do your chores or cook your meals like one of your little servants. Just because you’re a prince doesn’t mean you’ll be treated like one under this roof.”

“We live in the 21st century, not the renaissance. Your idea of royal families is very dated.” Chan chuckles dryly.

“Baron Yoon Jeonghan from the seven islands is a stuck-up prick and out of touch with the world. It took him several visits to the slums, multiple voluntary hours at the kindergarten, and stripping him off his bank card to make him see reason,” you deadpan. Fuck Baron Jeonghan. Just thinking about your first and last encounter with that entitled douchebag almost makes you slice your finger instead of the bell pepper. “Duchess Yoo Shiah threw a hissy fit when she found out her clothes weren’t dry cleaned and bought from Zara instead of fucking Dior. The one who takes the cake when it comes to privilege is Princess Kim Min—”

“Everyone knows they are problematic,” Chan interjects. True, he has a point. There’s nobody out there who doesn’t know about Baron Jeonghan or Duchess Shiah but he’s also missing the entire point.

“And guess who gets stuck under the care of the RPP?” you raise a brow at him. He blanches at the realization as if he got struck with lightning. Perhaps you should give him more credit because he seems to own more brain cells than Baron Jeonghan. “Exactly. Everyone problematic.” 

Chan’s jaw is clenched as he racks his brain to come up with a smart comeback. The sight of him stumbling on his words is nothing but pitiful, so you turn back to the cutting board and grab an onion to slice in half. “I’m not interested in your sob story, your Highness. I don’t care why you’re under the protection of the RPP. The only thing I care about is that you stay out of my business.”

“Chan is fine. No need for the title,” he sighs with a strain. “Perhaps I should’ve been more considerate with my first comment. Youngjae already told me about your… negative attitude towards the entire setup. It wasn’t my intention to anger you. Sorry.”

Well, that’s new. Out of the dozens of aristocrats you’ve met (and sadly also shared a house with back when you were 16 years old and still living with your dad), he’s the first to drop his title within five minutes for the sake of the disguise and apologize. 

“We live under the same roof so we should get along with each other. If there’s something you need help with, just ask me, (y/n).”

“Thanks for the offer,” you reply nonchalantly because act civilized unless you want to suffer from a late-night sneak attack from Youngjae if he finds out. “But no thanks. I don’t need your help.”

You find yourself in need of help a few weeks later, right before the dreaded exam season.

“No. Forget it, Bam. I’m not going out clubbing with you tonight. In fact, I won’t do that anytime soon.” you let out an exasperated sigh as you try to break down to your friend that you prioritize your grades over his need of getting wasted.

“C’mon!” he whines so loudly that you have to put your phone farther away from your ear. “You’re not in that much stress yet! You have to make the most out of it before you drown in your exams.”

“Things are different for engineering students like, uh, me for example!” you hiss. “I fell behind and need to catch up. Ask Yugyeom or Changbin.”

“First of all, Yugyeom is always at the bar doing his job. And Changbin never picks up his phone. There’s nobody who’d dance with me!”

“You abandoned me at the bar for some chick the last time,” you deadpan. “I’m very sure you’ll find someone.”

Bambam finally gets the gist and gives up. “Fine then. Your loss. Have fun dying in numbers and variables instead of living in the moment. You’re going to regret it—”

You end the call and set your phone on mute before throwing it on the bed. Sometimes you wonder whether you were on drugs when you decided to major in engineering. The longer you stare at the jumble of numbers and letters — some of them in Greek too — the more you think your brain cells are decaying.

That’s how you find yourself in the kitchen, complaining at Youngjae’s expense and telling him how much you’d rather drown in bleach than subjecting yourself to Algebra II. 

“You know there’s someone you can ask for help and he’s right here,” Youngjae drawls before chugging down the rest of his beer. If he’s going to be a victim to your temper tantrum about a major that you chose yourself, he might as well get a drink so he won’t go insane from your monologue about numbers and graphs and formulas he’s forgotten since he graduated from high school.

You gawk at him. “You? Are you hearing yourself? You almost failed maths. Twice!”

“Because I didn’t mean myself, dipshit,” he says blankly and his eyes flit over your shoulder, “Speaking of the devil. There comes the man of honor.”

You whip your head back to the door to see Chan enter confusedly. “Uh, did I interrupt something?”

“Yes.”

“No, we were just talking about you!”

You send Youngjae a death glare which he casually shrugs off. “(y/n) here is bitching about her Statistics I class and needs a tutor!”

“It’s actually Algebra II if you bothered to pay attention—”

“(y/n) needs a tutor!” Youngjae exclaims and nearly trips on his feet when he gets up from his chair. “Channie, I heard you’re good with numbers. Didn’t you get accepted into all Ivy Leagues in the States for all engineering programs?”

“You didn’t have to word it like that,” Chan laughs it off and nervously rubs the back of his head. He’s not denying it though.

“Obviously he would. He’s loaded and lives in a castle,” you mutter under your breath, but everyone catches it.

“Hey,” Youngjae warns. “That wasn’t necessary.”

“It’s alright,” Chan says casually. “I just wanted to get myself a snack. But if you have some questions, don’t hesitate to knock on my door. The offer still stands, y’know.” He digs through the cabinet until he finds two packs of the strawberry flavored Pocky knockoff that is 1) apparently his favorite thing to eat and 2) half the price of the Pocky version. He gives Youngjae a thumbs up before he returns to his room.

The moment Chan is out of sight, Youngjae whips his head to you, nostrils flaring. All that’s missing is steam coming out of his ears and his face running red and then he looks like the impetuous brother in every kids cartoon ever. “Really? He’s been staying with us for how long now? Four weeks? Five? Yet you’re still acting as if he murdered you in your dreams or something.”

“I don’t like him,” you state coldly. Youngjae looks like he’s about to rip his hair out.

“Look, I get that you don’t like me being active in this field of work, and I get that you have some hatred against the royal families. But you know you signed up for this when you decided to move in with me.” Youngjae pauses to get a breather and pop a new beer bottle open. “Besides, Chan isn’t like Baron Jeonghan or Duchess Shiah. I have eyes, (y/n), and I’ve seen you two avoiding each other as much as possible. And he doesn’t just laze around — he does the fucking chores and cooks dinner too! Chan is good, (y/n).”

The last words make you snap. “Good? Are you fucking serious? Because that’s why the press in his kingdom is depicting him as a tyrant who cares more about building his sick harem instead of helping the poor. And wasn’t he diagnosed for having anger management issues?!”

All the color leaves Youngjae’s face. This is obviously something you shouldn’t know. While he’s scrambling for words, you take the chance to add, “Dunno why you’re protecting him when he’s making headlines as a prince who can’t keep his dick in his pants.”

“Chan isn’t just a prince,” Youngjae says quietly. “He’s the crown prince.”

Your eyes widen at the confession. “What? Isn’t that even worse with that reputation he has?”

“It’s all propaganda,” he sighs and takes a swig, “The ministers are doing everything they can to finish him off. You see, Chan is the only child of the current king of the seven islands, and if he’s wiped out, it’ll be utter chaos. Chan’s smart and I admit, he used to have anger issues, but he’s worked on them. Though I guess he’s resorted to bottling up his feelings when push comes to pull. The point is, all the higher-ups don’t want him as their future king because they know that Chan is very much capable of pulling through with his own ideas and that doesn’t sit well with them. And a supposedly impulsive future king is the last thing anyone wants, hence why his people are eating up the news.”

“Oh.” you’d be lying if you said you didn’t feel an ounce of remorse. However, it’s not the first time you’ve heard such stories. 

“Yeah. Oh,” Youngjae mocks, “If that’s the main reason why you don’t want to talk to him, now you know better. He might have power, but he’s not a monster. And for the record, he got into all Ivy Leagues and elite schools all over the world through his intelligence, not his status.”

Although you can see it in his eyes that Youngjae is done with the heated discussion, he’s still waiting for you to say something. You frown. “So… you think he’s a good tutor?”

“He’s your only shot.” Youngjae says nonchalantly, then adds with a warning tone, “But remember: Act. Civilized. Oh, and don’t tell him I told you about his circumstances. It’s supposed to be confidential information.”

You roll your eyes. How the fuck hasn’t Youngjae been busted yet?

Nonetheless, you’re trudging to Chan’s door a few minutes later, your fat binder of incomprehensible math formulas and (Greek) letter heavy in your arm. Chan opens the door with surprise etched on his face after you knocked, but it settles to warmth when you begrudgingly ask him to help you understand Algebra II. 

“Sorry, it’s a little messy here,” he chuckles airily once he lets you in. It’s not messy per se, just a few clothes piled up in a corner of the room and some books and messily written notes lying on his bed. Still, it’s by far cleaner than the pig stall that is Youngjae’s room (and yours when you’re having a very bad day).

Chan clears his desk and drags his other chair to the table before plopping down on it. “So, what’s the problem?” Instead of answering, you just shove a sheet of paper up his face. “Y’know, you can talk to me. If this is about earlier, it’s really alright. I’m not mad or anything,” he says with the same friendly tone you’ve been hearing ever since he moved in, yet he still takes the sheet from you. You watch his brows scrunch together the more he reads on, and you can already see the question forming in his mind.

“(y/n), you do know this is the basis to understand—”

“I was absent when the professor covered it and everyone I asked couldn’t quite explain it to me,” you respond before he can finish speaking out his thoughts. “All my friends were like—” you gesture with your hands, “—you just do this and that and then hope your hunch is right. Before you say it, yes I know that I don’t get the material of one entire unit and the exam is two weeks away.”

“Then let’s not waste any time,” Chan says before grabbing his iPad. You stare at him blankly as he writes something on his tablet. The last thing you expected from him was to accept it and try to hammer as much of missing information as he can into your brain, but then again, you’ve never seen him backtrack whenever Youngjae asks him something. Speaking of Youngjae, perhaps he is right. Chan does seem to know what he’s talking about.

“You have to subtract X first, then replace it with Y,” he explains as he circles said letters in different colors. By now, you’ve leaned closer to him to get a better view on what he’s writing (his handwriting isn’t the worst you’ve ever had to decode; refer to Youngjae who you’ve internally awarded with the worst handwriting of the decade). 

Chan is exceptionally good at explaining. You feel like you’ve figured out a secret of the world that not even Pythagoras found out as you slowly understand what on Earth you are supposed to calculate with the formula. Chan is patient, always asking if you got it or if you needed another clarification, and takes the time to draw colorful graphs to visualize the jumble of numbers. His voice is pleasing to the ear too, soft and gentle to the point where you’ve blurred everything out except Chan. Chan’s voice. Chan’s hand.

You didn’t mean to stare, but with him always adding something new every five seconds as he goes on with his monologue, you can’t help but do so. His fingers aren’t long — that’ll always be courtesy of Hyunjin from Subway and yes, his very pretty hands might be the sole reason you only insist on going to that one specific Subway at the intersection next to KFC — but just one glance at Chan’s hand and you know that he’s strong. 

He’s barely applying pressure to the pen, but you can see the veins slightly protruding. Chan’s sleeves are pushed back and if you move your head a bit, you’re more than certain that veins are bulging out from his forearms too. However, you don’t muster up the courage to do that because Chan will definitely notice and the last thing you want on your platter is to tell him that you were too busy checking out his arms instead of listening to him talk about Algebra II.

Eventually, Chan sets the pen down to stretch his hand. He says something, but you don’t pick up what exactly. Not that it’d matter much anyway since you’re too busy admiring his hand—

“(y/n), you there? I called out your name several times but you didn’t react.” Chan’s breath hitches and surprise flashes in his eyes for a split second when his gaze meets yours. You don’t understand his hesitation, but then horror bubbles in you once you realize that his hand is firmly gripping your chin and keeping your head pointed at his direction. The very same hand you’ve been staring at for God knows how long. 

“I’m good. Just a little tired, but I’m good,” you stutter, though it comes out very breathlessly as if you just finished a marathon.

“Tired?” Chan echoes, concern settling into his features. “You should’ve said so, then I would’ve stopped talking. You need something?”

Now that you think about it, you’ve never got a close look at Chan. Sure, he’s handsome, the countless pictures of Google prove that he’s also too photogenic for his own good (goddamnit, why didn’t your parents make you just as photogenic?) but in person, he’s something else. His lips are plush and look very inviting to kiss, and the lower your eyes wander, the more you see a toned chest hidden underneath that damn shit that hugs him in all the right places.

Fine, his hands aren’t the only attractive thing about him. Then again, he’s a prince.

“I said I’m good.” you snap out of your thoughts and finally gather enough control over your nerves to tear his hand away. “And I caught everything you said.” Of course, you know that’s a blatant lie and he knows so too from the way he’s looking at you. That is until he quirks a brow.

“Okay, then what did I say before I called you?”

Your mouth feels dry. It’s almost as if he knew the reason for your distress. “I caught everything relevant to this,” you mutter, suddenly finding his curtains much more interesting. What an interesting design, maybe you should get yourself new curtains too—

“Then you wouldn’t mind solving these questions, right? Just so I can make sure that you got everything down.”

“Sure,” you reply because that’s the only thing you could say without hurting your ego and straining your vocal cords. Chan doesn’t comment any further and looks for some practice questions before sliding the iPad to you. Already the first question makes your head spin in disdain. Numbers? Variables? Never heard of them.

Chan is watching you like a hawk as you fiddle with the pen, unable to write down anything that makes remote sense. Feeling his eyes on you makes you feel helpless and you shift around in your seat. “What are you staring at?” you glare at him once you give up for good, and you just hope that your look is as intimidating as you pictured in your head.

“You’re definitely exhausted. You’re shaking,” Chan points out. Your eyes widen as you stare down and realize that your thighs are shaking, and it’s then and there when you realize that you’re feeling hot. Seems like Chan doesn’t realize that because the worry written on his face is genuine. “You say the exam’s in two weeks right? We can stop for today and work on this tomorrow. That is if you still want my help.”

You nod and add in a tiny voice, “Yes, please.”

You’re too busy ignoring the heat building between your thighs to notice the borderline feral sound that leaves Chan.

“And here I thought you had quality bonding time.” Youngjae gives a disappointed look. “You’re acting even colder towards him than before your exam meltdown. Your prick level can only stoop down so low.”

You ended up getting tutor lessons from Chan every day before the dreaded day of judgment: the exam in Algebra II. You spent more hours in his room than on your own if you were completely honest, and the results were fruitful. While you did manage to pass the exam with a fairly high score, the price you had to pay was hell.

It’s almost as if Chan caught up on your hand fixation. Sometimes he twirled the pen in his fingers, sometimes it was the simple bracelet dangling on his wrist. Just when you thought he had you figured out, he asks you if you’re alright, visibly oblivious to his effect on you. Such duality in a person should be illegal, you conclude. If you die from whiplash, you know who the perpetrator is.

“You were the one who pretty much pressured me into asking him for help,” you drawl.

“I had good intentions only! You can’t keep up the I-hate-royal-families-blah-blah mentality the entire time!” Youngjae wails before stuffing a handful of chips in his mouth.

“Watch me.” You internally cringe at the loud crunching sounds he’s making and add vigorously, “And stop chewing so loudly.”

“You’ll get around or so help me God—” he groans when his phone buzzes. He doesn’t spare a glance at the caller ID because there’s only one person who has set his ringtone to the baby shark song specifically for when he’s calling. “I gotta go, Jinyoung’s being a bitch again. Don’t murder somebody. Thanks.” You only watch him shuffle for his bag and grab a handful of chips before he’s out the door. Groaning, you clean up the mess he’s made on the table. 

Just as you’re done wiping the crumbs off the surface, Chan pads into the room. 

“Hey, can we talk?”

“I established right at the beginning that you should only talk to me when absolutely necessary.” you scowl, trying to walk past him.

“Well, this is important,” he urges and blocks the doorway, effectively stopping you from fleeing. “And I do deserve one conversation with you after I helped you out.”

“You offered on your own. That’s not the same as asking for a favor.” You successfully push your way past him, but in the next moment, he spins you around and pins you against the wall. 

“We’re going to talk, whether you like it or not.” The sudden coldness of his tone has shivers running down your spine. Chan holds your wrist in an iron grip and if he clutched on any tighter, you wouldn’t put it past him to break your bones. Out of options, you comply and give him a curt nod before he lets go and takes a step back. 

“I don’t understand you, (y/n). I genuinely thought you would put your prejudices aside but instead, all I get are mixed signals from you.”

It’s your turn to gawk. “Me? Mixed signals? What are you talking about?” 

“I’m talking about how you keep looking at me as if you want me to fuck your brains out.” If the color hasn’t drained from your face yet, it has now. Chan smiles wickedly at your horrified reaction but doesn’t stop there. “I’m talking about how you talk like you don’t want anything to do with me but act as if you’re begging for my attention.” He takes a step closer to you, and you wish you could morph with the wall. “I’m talking about how you keep staring at my hands and think I don’t notice it.” You wince when he rests his hands against the wall on each side of your face, leaning closer so that you can feel his breath on your lips. “So, you have a thing for my hands?” Bullseye.

“You’re so full of yourself. No wonder your ministers want to get rid of you,” you snap because you’d rather suffer from food poisoning than admitting that you want Chan’s fingers in you.

Something shifts within Chan. He gapes at you, clearly not expecting you to even know about the ministers. His demeanor darkens in a blink of an eye, and you feel like your legs are about to give up on you when you meet his eyes, black and feral.

“You’re playing with fire. Don’t anger me,” he warns, voice low and rough.

“So it’s true that you resorted to bottling up your feelings, your Highness?” you cock your head to the side. Chan clenches his jaw at the mention of his title, struggling to keep his anger in check. You laugh through your nose, then grab one of his hands and force it away from the wall. If he already knows that you’re thirsting after him, might as well go for it. “It’s funny how your ministers aren’t able to string you around like a puppet yet here you are, unable to do anything against a commoner. You know you have nice hands and you know my weakness and yet, you’re not using them on me.” He gulps when you fumble with his fingers. 

And then he understands.

“Unless I misread the situation,” he says darkly, though you distinguish the slight tremor his voice carries. “Do you really want this? I’m not going to go easy on you.” Chan is dead serious, judging by the way he’s looking at you expectantly. 

“The safe word is petunia.” You don’t take your eyes off him and add in a louder tone, “Now try me, do your worst.”

“You’re going to regret wanting me at my worst,” Chan growls and before you know it, he crashes his lips against yours. The kiss is anything but sweet, more of a clash of teeth and tongues and saliva dribbling down your chins, yet it leaves you boiling hot and wobbly on your feet. He presses you up against the wall and forces his leg between yours, the sudden contact making you hunch forward. You moan against his mouth when he tugs harshly on your hair, the sting making your nerves go haywire. In the meantime, your hands roam his upper body, blunt nails digging into his shoulders as you try to buck your hips against his leg. While he doesn’t budge, you manage to elicit a groan out of him.

When you pull away, you’re both gasping for air. Chan’s hair is disheveled from the way you’ve been pulling on them, lips pink and glossy. One look in his eyes is enough to make your heart stop beating. They’re dark and animalistic and set ablaze with unfiltered lust. You’re such in a daze from a simple kiss that you nearly stumble when Chan drags you to his room.

He manhandles you on his bed with ease before his lips latch on yours once more. You nearly sob when he rids you off your pants, putting pressure in all the right places to have you losing your mind. As you’re about to gain back some dominance in the kiss, he breaks it off. His fingers that were once ghosting over your underwear are now tracing patterns all over the material, making you spasm. “You’re such a brat, all bark but no bite. All it takes is one kiss and you’ve lost all your fight. Can you get any more pathetic?” he mocks as he focuses his fingertips directly on the wet patch of your underwear. Your eyes roll back as he rubs on the same spot, the broken moans leaving you eerily similar to cries. “Don’t tell me you’re about to come like this. How sensitive are you?”

“Am n-not—” you cut yourself off with a whimper when he lets the waistband snap against your skin.

“Yeah, you sure about that?” he grins and that’s when you break, feeling your high approaching at lightning speed. 

“Don’t wanna come like this—” 

“But I thought you’re not sensitive?” the satisfied grin just widens with every syllable that leaves his lips. “If you don’t want to come like this, all over your underwear, beg.” 

Chan applies even more force to your sensitive spots, and you struggle to have a clear thought. The smirk he delivers is lethal, and you couldn’t be any more convinced that he’s the devil’s incarnate.

“I’ll do anything, please. Don’t let me come like this, that’s all I’m a-aah-asking for,” you weep, your blood nearly boiling at its climax, “I’ll even take a punishment!”

“Say my name,” he orders, fingers still drawing circles.

“Your—”

“My name, not my title.”

Your breath hitches as you finally realize what he’s aiming for. He wants you to remember that it’s him who’s reducing you into this illiterate mess. Him, the one you’ve been despising since before you even met. If you still had any ounce of dignity left, you’d try to fix the power imbalance until you’re left with no choice but to obey, but now you’re so close and the last thing you want to do is come with your pants on.

“Please, Chan,” your voice breaks towards the end and in an instant, he pulls away. As you’re letting you’re basking in the break from his brutal tempo, not too affected by how your upcoming orgasm is fading away, Chan observes you.

And then out of nowhere, he flips you on your stomach and delivers a hard smack to your ass that has you screaming into the pillows.

“You said you’d take any punishment too, right?” You twitch as he rubs the small of your back. You can already imagine the handprints on your ass he continued to slap you with such force that has you moving up the bed. The pain that’s going to haunt you for days. Before you know it, you try to arch your back to lift your ass, but then the bed shifts. “But if you really think I’m going to spank you as a punishment, then you’re really fucking dumb. As if I’ll use my hands on you when we both know you love my hands.”

With that, he drops himself on his chair, spreading his legs that you can see the prominent tent forming in his pants. He orders you over with a flick of his finger, and just as you get up from the bed, a new wave of horror flushes over you.

“Crawl.”

The look you send him is priceless. There’s no fucking way you can do it. It’s just a few meters, nothing you can’t handle, but he’s there sitting on his Ikea swivel chair as if it’s his throne made of gold, watching your every movement like a predator. And then there’s you, only in a shirt and underwear, being forced to go on all fours as if you were his fucking dog—

The difference in power display couldn’t get any more visible. He really is the fucking worst.

“You’d really do anything, huh…” he muses as you drop on your hands and knees and crawl to him, never looking up. It’s only when he beckons you to stand up that you look at him with nothing but rage and shame in your eyes. Chan has always been slightly terrified with your death stare but right now, he can’t take it seriously and it shows. It shows in the way he smiles lopsidedly, in the way his brows quirk in amusement. “Now hump my leg.”

Humiliation runs through your body all over. Your fists are clenched as he waits for you to act, even pats his thigh in case you didn’t get the memo. But oh you do, and his thigh does look inviting.

“Hump my leg like the brainless bitch you are. If you want my hands or my cock, you earn it first. Especially since you treated me like shit ever since I moved in.” The last sentence burns you badly because he has a point. But then there’s the prospect of his hands and dick that’s bulging out of his pants. 

Pushing all thoughts away, you settle on his leg. Taking a moment to gather yourself, you tell yourself it’s all good and then you move. The first thrust knocks all air out of your lungs and you grab onto his shoulders for support. You didn’t even move that much, but Chan’s looking at you as if he’s about to fucking devour you and knowing that he is very much capable of moving you around, you’re starting to become overwhelmed.

Eventually, you lose yourself in the feeling of his rough jeans against your drenched underwear, humping on his thigh as your orgasm builds up. It’s silent, save for your pants, and the countless whimpers flying past your lips as your movements gradually become sloppier. You’re almost there and you know it. But so does Chan, and the moment he’s got it figured out, he lunges from your hips and forces you to pick up the pace. 

“Oh no, you’re going to come,” he growls, ignoring your pleas and sobs. Adrenaline courses in your blood and you know it isn’t long until you fall apart. You try to make him stop, even put your hands on his, but you don’t have the energy to actively push him away.

“Chan, please— I’m gonna—”

“You’re gonna come? Then fucking come on my thigh, (y/n),” he snaps, and then adds, “You hear that? You’re about to come from humping my thigh.”

Maybe it’s the realization that he’s right, maybe it’s the way he’s worded it. Either way, it’s the last straw to make you spasm as you come, soaking your underwear and even managing to make a mess out of his pants. Chan makes sure you ride through your orgasm, only stopping to move your hips once you’re all spent and resting your head on his shoulder. Your eyes are glassy, vision foggy, but the only thing you can envision clearly is Chan.

Chan jolts when your hand grazes over his bulge. You’re about to undo his pants, but he’s quick to stop you and restrict your hands behind your back.

“You think you deserve my cock? Dream on. As if I would fuck any commoner, especially those who don’t respect me,” he spits, and you flinch at his choice of words, clearly recalling that you used the exact same terms and he’s now using it against you. “You said you’d take any punishment. Well, guess what? This was just punishment number one.”

[billyhargay]

billy survives. he doesn’t want to just return home to neil- especially not after all that had happened. since the government wants everyone to be very hush-hush about starcourt, he's going to use their need for his silence to his advantage.

he starts to barter with the officials who are breathing down his neck for answers, saying he'll tell them all that he knows and what happened with him if in turn, he gets a new identity and a place to live. he wants the public, wants his father, to believe billy hargrove is dead, so he can take on a new name and a new identity to be as far away from neil as he can be.

the officials begrudgingly agree. once billy is released from the hospital to his new apartment, he's instructed to stay in for at least a few months to a year until everything completely calms down, and frankly he's bored as shit by the third week that rolls around. he's stuck on his own without much to do, but he thoroughly enjoys having the chance to sit in the living room for once and watch some shows on TV that pique his interest, even if he ends up flipping through the channels after a few minutes. plus, having his groceries and other necessities delivered to him every two weeks or so was a neat little addition- he just wished they'd give him some cigarettes.

once a month rolls by, he gets a call. he's allowed to have visitors now, and he wants to laugh at that because who the hell would want to visit him? the person on the line says they'll be informing at least one member of his immediate family, and his bitter amusement is cut short as he blanches at their words. would they be notifying his father of his whereabouts?

the call is over before he can ask, and billy sits the next few days in tense silence, ever awaiting for neil hargrove to barge into his new home, shattering what was supposed to be his long-sought safe place. he feels scared for the first time in a while.

then, one quiet, early morning, the doorbell buzzes. billy is awoken by it, and he drags himself out of bed to throw on a shirt, barely conscious until he takes the first step out of his room, a jolt of fear waking up him.

was neil at the door?

his blood runs cold, and he almost reverts back to the same terrified child he once was when his mother left. he feels the prickly sensation crawl up his stomach to his throat, can already feel the grip on his neck from the enraged man he once resided with.

billy continues to walk, footsteps silent even on wood, and he slowly, slowly unlocks his front door.

as it turns out, max stands in front of him instead, a tall woman in a pressed pantsuit hovering right behind her. she's holding a plastic bag in her hands and seems very tense, barely looking at billy when he opens the door enough to see them better.

billy can breathe again.

"max," he says, glancing at his younger sister before looking away just as she did. "didn't expect you to come."

max doesn't respond, she looks on the verge of tears. before billy could say anything more, the girl threw her arms around him, holding back her cries as her smaller frame trembles from the effort. billy's chest tightens and he places a hand on her back, unsure of how to react to her onslaught of feelings- feelings for him of all things.

they eventually make their way into the living room, and billy is...awkward. he and max barely talked to one another even before the byers house, and while the woman standing off to the side and keeping a close watch on them both didn't help, max being an open emotional mess was the weirdest thing for him. he's seen her cry a few times, sure, usually because of something he did, but this was different. her tears weren't due to fear or anger, they were happy. he could tell it was rather new to her too. she seems to have a hard time keeping a hold of herself even as she tries to talk to him normally.

"me and my friends all chipped in," max gestures to the bag she placed on the coffee table with shaking hands. "i mean, steve did most of it because he has- well, had a job. we thought you'd be bored since you have to be in hiding for a while."

reaching into the bag, she pulls out a box, stark white, stylized letters that read "VIDEO COMPUTER SYSTEM BY ATARI". billy can't decide whether to laugh or cry.

"these things cost a fuckton," he says instead, in utter awe that his sister and her brat friends and king steve all bought him a whole gaming system. "why not just keep it for yourself?"

max played with the tape on the box, it was obviously already opened, they apparently couldn't resist playing it themselves before having to give it away. "i prefer the arcade, it's easier to focus." she says, a sudden but very familiar distant look in her eyes that sends an icy stab through billy's veins. she was alone with his bastard old man.

moving forward, he lowers his voice down so only max could hear. "has he done anything?" he asks, worry clear in his features. max shakes her head, then shrugs.

"he's a lot quieter, but..." she tries to laugh, the sound coming out painfully forced. "you know how he is when he's pissed."

"max," billy speaks slower. "if he's hurt you..."

"no, no," max shakes her head again, more firmly, earnest. "he hasn't done anything like that to me or my mom."

billy leans back, watching max closely for any tell that she wasn't giving the whole truth. she seems to be relaxed, as relaxed as she could be at least. "if anything goes down, stay with the sinclairs."

max looks up at him and stares, shocked. "what-?"

"listen, i still don't like that kid." he cuts her off. "but out of all of your weirdo friends...his family seems the most normal."

max slowly nods, a pensive expression passing over before she returns to the original topic at hand, not wanting to further expand on anything else. "there's a few games already inside the box, you'll probably think they're lame, but it's something to do."

she offers the box and billy takes it to look it over himself. he's unable to stop the smile that creeps its way onto his face, even though it feels weird and ill-fitting. "didn't know my stepsister was such a dweeb, but i should've guessed it by who you hang out with."

max scoffs. "being a dweeb is more fun than being a loser like you." she jabs back, tone too playful for it to be a serious attack, and it makes billy laugh. the air clears up just a bit, but they still fall silent, unable to look at each other directly. they both knew they had the same thing in mind, to try out the game together- but the woman standing guard cleared her throat, bringing their attention to her before they could work up the courage to ask one another.

"maxine, it's time to go." she says, tapping her watch for emphasis as she attempts a warm smile that just came out too wide and too fake. max visibly slumps as she stands and shuffles her way over to the woman, billy hastily placing the game console to the side to make his way over to the door along with them. he stiffly opens it for the both of them, watching them both trek down the hallway away from his apartment, his chest feeling loose yet empty all at once as he realizes he has no idea when or if max will be able to visit again.

then, his sister stops in her tracks, her hands tightening into fists for a moment before she forces them back into a relaxed state, whirling around to finally face billy directly.

"thanks," she blurted out. "for...not being dead."

billy was caught off guard to say the least, and he felt a heavy pang hit his heart. "uh, yeah. thanks for the atari."

max gives a pressed smile, turning away for the final time and wiping at her face before rushing to join with the impatient woman who stopped just by the corner. billy waits until they disappear to close the door, taking a beat to redo all the locks, his vision blurring on the last latch.

thanks for not being dead. billy didn't know just how much he needed to hear that until that very moment.

[theresnosafeharbor4myships]

TITLE: Fire and Ice

A/N: This idea started out as a Dean x Donna drabble and ultimately became 5+ pages. I’m not sorry.

Dean followed Sam and Donna into the bunker and secured the door before shuffling down the stairs behind them.

“Headed to shower and bed,” Sam mumbled with a quick glance at them.

“G’night, Sam-o,” Donna replied, hanging her jacket over one of the war room chairs. They watched him trudge away, and she waited until he’d disappeared before whispering, “Think he’s okay?”

Dean nodded. “Just needs to sleep. And he feels bad he got locked outside while we got our asses handed to us.” He tossed his jacket onto the table and turned his focus to her, gently tilting her chin to get a better look at the cut high on her cheekbone and the swelling, purplish tint around her eye. “We need to get you some ice. Come on.” He slipped his hand into hers and tugged her in the direction of the kitchen.

“What about your arm? That cut might need stitches.”

“It’s alright; it’s not that deep.”

“Dean…” She pulled up short, forcing him to face her, and gave him a stern look.

He internally winced at the blooming bruises marring her beautiful face. If that damn witch hadn’t been dead already, he’d have killed it for throwing her across the room like a rag doll.

She was an amazing hunter, though he could admit he’d never have believed it possible when they’d first met. Exuberant, candid, effulgent, and strikingly attractive, she’d seemed too innocent and light-hearted for the likes of him. As per the usual, he’d tried to keep her unaware of the darkness that crept through the world like fog in a graveyard, but she’d sassed him with such veracity he’d been more pleased—and taken aback—than angry. At times he worried the weight of the struggle pressing down on them, on her, would eradicate her effervescence, that brilliant smile, the light in her eyes. But she’d begun surprising him with how easily she’d handled the news and a machete, and continued surprising him with her acceptance of the life that came with hunting, her joviality, and the affection she felt for him.

Still, when the fight left marks on her, both emotionally and physically, it made his heart ache in ways he’d never felt before, and he altruistically wished she’d never been introduced to such a life and its inevitable ails.

Selfishly, he was pleased she’d chosen to help them fight or he’d never have had the chance to love her.

“Did you hit your head, too?” Her hand ruffling through the hair at his forehead brought him back to the present. He saw the worry on her face and wondered how long he’d stood there daydreaming of their history.

“I’m fine,” he assured her. He gently gripped her wrist with his hand and moved her arm away.

“Don’t be a dingo,” she sassed with a side-glare, using the nickname she’d given him that was both a play on his name and a way to let him know when she thought he was acting like a half-domesticated canine.

He gave her a quick, unexpected peck on the lips, a smile on his face. “I already took care of it.”

He shrugged the torn, bloodied flannel off of his shoulders and eased his arm out of the sleeve. He’d wrapped gauze around his forearm several times, and though it wasn’t the best nursing job, it’d seemed to do the trick.

“When the H did you do that?”

“When you and Sam were cleaning up inside, after I got rid of the evidence outside. Now,” he snagged her hand again and continued toward the kitchen. “Let’s get that ice so you can see out of that eye tomorrow.”

“I’m worn out,” she admitted as they stepped into the kitchen.

“Mmm,” he agreed, tossing his flannel on the bench. “Today wasn’t a picnic.”

She watched him move around the kitchen, his white undershirt barely concealing his broad shoulders and muscled back, his toned arms flexing as he broke ice out of the tray. She still hadn’t gotten over how damn attractive he was—she doubted she ever would—and most days she could maintain her composure. But on nights like this, when exhaustion clawed at her body and the adrenaline of the fight had worn off until all that remained was the desire to be held and comforted, to give comfort to the man who loved her like no other had, she couldn’t help watching him, her eyes greedy, her soul longing to just…be and breathe with him. Cocooned up together, safe from the dangers that dogged their steps and sought to end them.

“You want anything?” he asked, indicating the fridge.

So many things… She shook her head once, using only a few words to sum up her thoughts. “You. And sleep.”

His expression softened, and he approached her, holding her gaze. “You got me,” he murmured before kissing her softly, his hand cupping her face on the uninjured side. “And sleep is coming right up.” With his other hand, he held up the ice pack he’d made. “After we take down the swelling.”

Her eyes flashed with something undiscernible, and he gently brushed his thumb across her cheek, his brow furrowed. “You alright, D?”

She gave him a small smile. “You betcha. I really do just want you and sleep. Post-adrenaline exhaustion, ya know?”

He gazed at her a few moments longer, waiting to see something other than fatigue, but she peered back at him, her eyes dreamy and drowsy.

“You’re damn attractive, you know that?”

He nearly blanched at her unexpected compliment, thrown by the change of subject. “You sure you didn’t hit your head?”

She stared at him, this man who fought the dark with his fists and his heart and never wanted anyone to know about it, who’d given up everything—family, friends, any sense of normalcy, his childhood and youth, peace of mind, and even his life on several occasions—and still fought tooth and nail to make the world a better place. Who looked at her with stars in his eyes and spoke to her heart with his touch and made her feel like a person again. Whose strength wasn’t only in his shoulders, upon which he carried the weight of the world, or the arms that held her tenderly, or that muscled wall of a chest she loved looking at and touching, but in his devotion to those he loved, his ability to pick up the pieces and keep trying, his determination to never give up, no matter how horrible the odds.

“Oh yeah. I got clear vision, even with a whopper to one eye.”

“Well, let’s make sure it doesn’t become a Big Mac.” He took her hand and headed for the hallway, turning left.

“Those aren’t—where’re we goin’?” she interrupted herself. “Bedroom’s that way.”

He turned to wink at her, a secretive smile on his face. “I got something better.”

“This I gotta see,” she teased. “Not sure my poor heart can take it after all of tonight’s excitement.”

Dean huffed an amused laugh, amazed as always that this firecracker of a woman could not only take the punches and keep on trucking, but that she could do it with her wit, sass, and smile. And make him smile right along with her.

“This,” he said, stopping in front of a room she’d never been in. “is the lounge.” He dropped her hand to open the door and flicked on the light as they entered.

Donna took in the expansive space, lit up by the lamps around the room: the fireplace at one end, a big, fluffy couch nearby, the bookshelves lining two walls, a pool table standing proudly in the center, an old radio and record player combo atop a mahogany table covered with old trinkets and knick-knacks. A large plush carpet covered most of the floor, and though the walls were brick, the room felt inviting.

“This is one of my favorite rooms,” Dean explained, motioning with his hand for her to sit on the couch.

She eased down into the center of it, unsure of its age, but was surprised to find it more comfortable than most modern couches.

Dean handed her the ice pack, the corners of his mouth quirking up at her. “You can grab the blanket behind you if you’d like. I’m gonna start a fire.”

“Thanks,” she muttered, holding the ice pack up to her face, her good eye watching Dean as he worked.

Any other man and she’d have to question her presence in a room like this: a stylized lounge buried underground, sitting on a soft couch with a fireplace nearby. Almost seemed like a monster’s lair.

But Dean Winchester wasn’t any other man. He hunted things that frightened children and their parents. He faced the dark with a brightness he didn’t realize he carried. He killed Hitler. He saved the world. Multiple times. He also held her in the highest regard and in his arms at night. He whispered secrets to her and coaxed hers out of her bruised heart and never once made her feel embarrassed. He watched her when he thought she wasn’t looking and looked at her like no man ever had. Like she was his world. He spoke to her like an equal and treated her like a queen, and she’d never met anyone like him.

No, she had nothing to fear from him. Except how deeply ingrained he’d become in her heart.

She let her gaze caress him as he prepped the tinder and logs for the fire. Hunkered down, the muscles in his toned and tan forearms flexing as he worked, his t-shirt stretched across his broad, strong back, that tapered waist, those long legs encased in denim that somehow made him seem sexier, if that was possible.

The man was hotter than a branding iron.

He lit the tinder, setting the fire ablaze, and she knew if they hadn’t been beaten like cake batter earlier, that wouldn’t be the only fire he lit.

As it stood though, one side of her face throbbed and her body ached from landing hard on the cement. Dean, too, had taken some punches, gotten knocked around, and had that cut on his arm that she would demand to see. But tomorrow.

He turned to her, his face lit up by the growing fire, and stood. “Need anything?” he asked, moving towards her.

“Nope. Just you.” She held her hand out as he approached, and he grabbed it gratefully, plopping down next to her and lacing their fingers together.

“How’s the eye feeling?”

“Hurts like the Dickens.”

He tried not to smile but failed and leaned to kiss her temple. “You wanted me…” He kissed her eyelid, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. “And sleep.”

“Mmm,” she hummed in agreement, her eyes feeling droopy from the heat of the room and the exhaustion overpowering her body.

“Wanna lay down?”

“You betcha.” She moved to lie down on the couch, and Dean scooted over to give her room to stretch out. She laid her head on his thigh, staring up into his mesmerizing eyes.

“Been a while. Let’s see it.” He eased the ice pack out of her hand.

Her skin had flared pink where the ice had sat, and her eye looked puffy, but it didn’t seem as bad as he’d feared.

“Looks painful, but better. We’ll ice it again tomorrow.”

She nodded once, and her eyes drifted closed. “Rest, sweetheart,” he soothed, brushing the hair away from her face and running his fingers through her hair.

*********

Sam had searched the bedroom hall for Dean and Donna, then the kitchen, the war room and library, and the garage. He told himself not to panic until he searched the other half of the bunker, but his long stride carried him quickly down the hallway, stopping at each door as he peeked in, but finding no trace of them.

He’d only slept for four hours and, unable to fall back asleep, he’d gotten up to make some coffee. He’d passed Dean’s bedroom door on the way to the kitchen, giving it a quick, haphazard glance before doing a double take and realizing the door stood open, the bed empty. Highly unusual, but he didn’t start feeling frantic until he’d searched all their main haunts and came up empty.

He turned a corner and saw the lounge door open, an oddity since they mostly kept the rooms closed up.

“Dean?” he whispered, unsure what had happened.

He popped his head in to get a quick look, then relaxed his stance, his muscles easing up.

Dean sat on the couch, legs sprawled out, head laid back on the top of the couch, fast asleep, one hand on Donna’s hip as she, curled up on her side, used his leg as a pillow.

Sam smiled to himself, relieved they were safe, resting, and together, and eased the door closed.

[internetremix]

Did any of you guys go to art college or art school? If so, do you have any advice for that? (Portfolio, applying, all that nonsense.)

Hi anon! Kristen here, this has been sitting in our askbox for a bit and now I finally have time to answer it. Warning this is very long, as are most things I type. I’m also gonna hit up other Artsy IR members to see if they have any thoughts.

I went to art college- Kendall College of Art and Design, starting back in 2008 and graduated in 2012. I went for traditional illustration because I wanted to do children’s books, though I also self-taught myself digital illustration and applied a lot of what I learned to said digital work. I have a Bachelor’s degree, yaaaay.First of all, if you really want to go into art as a career, there are some things you should consider. 10 years out from when I applied to art school, we’re living  in a different world. Art school is a lot of money and student loans are a monster I’ll be stuck battling for some time... and now-a-days, that stuff isn’t really necessary. There are a variety of online tutorials and courses you can take for free or for considerably cheaper. There are thousands of art communities, and with hard work and good networking you can make it just as far if not farther than someone with a degree. We’re very much in an age where being a self-made entrepreneur is considerably easier than it ever was before. So you need to throughly consider if the price tag is worth it to you.Art school does do a few things. A good school should have some solid foundational classes that give you the chance to experiment in everything and often force you to do so. If I hadn’t gone to art school, I probably wouldn’t have tried traditional watercolor work at all, and that’s what got me my first serious illustration job. Also a good school should give you access to professors who have been in your industry who can give you solid advice and also, gasp, connections.

Connections are a pretty vital thing, especially depending on what you want to go into. I’m not an expect on animation, but from what I know a lot of people who are currently working in the field got their start at California Institute of the Arts. Depending on where you are in the world, if you’re in a hotspot for whatever industry you want to go into, a big name school can be a major help for you. If you don’t really live in a place where that’s an option, i.e. you’re me and you live in the void  Michigan, you’re not paying for as many networking opportunities, so you may want to seriously consider if art school is worth it.

Art school also gives you the benefit to really focus on art hard if you play your cards right. I was able to go it full time due to grants and scholarships, which was intense but definitely pushed me through some major improvements. However, I knew other students who worked full time on top of being in school full time, and they didn’t get as much out of it. The big thing about art school, as is the case with any school, is you really only get what you put into it. Your professor can show you all the techniques in the world, but until you know what that technique feels like in your own hands, it’s useless.If you decide to go for a school, be sure to look into things like post-graduation hiring rates. Also ask current students there how they feel about the school- depending on the department at Kendall, people had very different things to say and they weren’t always positive. Thoroughly consider where you want to specialize, different schools will have different specialities even if they supposedly offer a bit of everything.

If you’re unsure on your speciality, that’s okay! Definitely still take foundational classes either online or perhaps at a community college. The more you experiment, the closer you will get to finding what you want, and that will make art school a lot more useful to you when you decide to enroll.

If you ever take any art class, ever, and it’s something you want to do for a career, take that shit seriously. I know I said up there “you get what you put into it” but I gotta say it again. My first year of art school I was going through a lot (not entirely my fault) but I also took several classes not terribly seriously because I was like “whatever man I don’t want to do this, this isn’t my major.” In retrospect I thoroughly regret not paying more attention in those classes, because those foundations would have helped a lot with struggles I had later on. If you want to do art as a career, you gotta REALLY want it and you gotta really focus.

I can’t really tell you if art school is right for you or not. I personally don’t regret my time there or my slightly scary debt, but I also benefitted from some grants to make my loans at least manageable and a number of other factors have gotten me to the point where I’m a full time freelance illustrator.If you decide to go for art school, check the portfolio requirements for every place you apply to. Different places will have different requirements. For me, I was required to have over half my work showing off my various foundational skills- still lifes are good, life drawing is good, oooh look ma I can use pastels AND I’ve got a tablet and can do digital stuff wowowowowow. I was told to try to keep anything cartoony/stylized down to a few pieces- unless you’ve received A TON of positive feedback about your personal style I wouldn’t use it too much because you’re probably still developing and that style’s gonna change A TON as you go through school.

Keep an eye on the acceptance rate at the school. If it’s EXTREMELY HIGH, that may show a lack of standards. This is actually bad because this means the school is basically letting people show up, taking their money, and then going “welp here’s your degree, good luck somehow getting a job in an EXTREMELY competitive field.”

Another thing you may want to ask is hey, how well does this school prepare you for marketing yourself once you get out of school. Most people I know who graduated from Kendall don’t have art jobs, and the primary reason for this is our teaching for self-marketing was really not great.

Whether you decide to go to art school or not, here’s some stuff you should really be working on if you want to go into art or get better at it:

FIGURE DRAWING plz. Please do figure drawing. Honestly, the more realistic you do with this, the better. “But Kristen I wanna do cartoons!” I get it, I do too. However, learning realistic anatomy actually benefits cartoony stuff a lot. Once you get a feel for how something actually works and is proportioned, it’s easier to exaggerate and adjust proportions without making it look weird. Draw a figure standing enough times and you’ll get a feel for how weight is positioned, and that means when you make those legs noodles they won’t look awkward. This website is a great tool for online figure drawing work for you to practice on your own, I highly recommend it! Or sit down and do it with a friend, it’s fun!“But Kristen, figure drawing is booooori-” Then once you’re done drawing the figure, make it a character. I actually have a lot of figure drawing and gestures that I turned into IR characters because I’m very cool.PRACTICE DIFFERENT BODY SHAPES BOYOPERSPECTIVE This one I am a lot worse at. But this has some good points on perspective. What I like to do is find a photo of a room or something and try to draw it to the best of my ability, then add my OCs to it. I LOATHE the perspective part but it’s good practice and usually at the end you have a nice day-in-the-life kinda feel to things, it’s like “wow my characters exist in a world instead of white space amazing.”Do some COLOR SWATCH CHALLENGES!

Also just... try everything. Even stuff you hate the first time. I hated watercolor when I first did it, but as I said before, that’s what I got my first job doing.

Above all else, make sure you draw every day. If you want to do art as a career or just want to get better at the hobby- the difference between someone who makes this thing a career and someone who doesn’t is the person who cares about it so much that they make time for art even when life is chaos around them.

I have other thoughts but this is long enough as is. Uh, thanks for coming to my TED Talk and I hope you find this useful, haha.-Kristen

[plutoniumcybernetic]

Beyond Death

The sound of boots thumping down against concrete and broken tile, the musty smell of a place abandoned and long forgotten, the settled dust that kicks up with every step... Yeah, it’s been a while. Ever since her lusus brought her to this strange facility located deep underground and highly expansive, Erisal couldn’t ever shake the feeling that there was something incredibly important to find down here... Sure, she found some very interesting things, even her ancestor’s own weapons, but there was always that pull towards something much... More.

This was a new part of the lab that she called her hive, there always seemed to be new parts to explore no matter how much she already found, deeper down and close to the geothermal reactors that keep her place running and heated in such a remote location. So much of the stuff here seems built to last for hundreds of sweeps at the least, or at least the critical bits do. Sadly they didn’t really see elevators high up on that priority list... The scars from that little tumble have healed completely, and after getting her scales? It’s hard to even find a trace of the injuries.

Pushing aside some fallen ventilation shaft, making sure the wires and pipes nearby were still functional, clearing away some random debris from the walls and ceiling, Erisal managed to get a large double door cleared and exposed. She clicked on her flashlight and took a peek through the small windows in the doors themselves, seeing what looked to be some kind of huge computer bank or control center or something, with a couple more doors and tables scattered around... If this was the main computer system she’s been looking for all these sweeps, Eri is about to be one happy dragon!

Quickly getting to work cracking the doors open after the electronic locks sealed things shut however the hell long ago this place was abandoned, Eri pops the doors open in a matter of minutes, a small cloud of dust being kicked up from the movement. Waving it away, Erisal points the flashlight inside as she takes a couple steps in to start looking around, noting the massive banks of monitors and interfaces and setup... This HAD to be an information goldmine, and was sure to get some good prices on the black market if she comes across the right data... First thing’s first of course, getting power back to this place. Most areas had some minor backup power solution in place, usually a small nuclear reactor for vital systems to keep running at low power draw once cut off from the main grid. This place couldn’t be much different.

A couple of the doors were locked tight, more deadbolted than anything, and those are way more hassle to get through than they’re worth most of the time, but one had a simple key lock, and the others led nowhere interesting, just some tables and miscellaneous equipment. It takes less than a minute to pop the lock on that door, leading into a maintenance closet, just what she was looking for! Granted it smelled about as good as you could expect from hundred sweep old cleaning supplies and spare parts all stacked up semi-neatly, but Eri could hold her breath for as long as she needed to find those breakers... Always behind a shelf, annoying and hard to reach... God these scientists had some fucked up priorities about building code. Reaching towards the back of the closet and shoving some boxes out of the way, Eri manages a handhold on the main breaker for the room, yanking and grunting as she tries to pull it down in spite of the awful angle and the sweeps of rust and gunk holding it up... Suddenly there’s a shift, Eri cranking it down in an instant and slamming her own head into the shelves, causing a box of something to hit the ground and scatter!

“Owww...” She says aloud to herself as she hears things turning back on, lights and fans and general computer noises, not to mention the area’s ventilation system. A couple of the ceiling lights just plain don’t work anymore, but the ones that do are bright enough to light the room as much as she needs! She rubs her head and looks down, a bunch of spilled bolts and angle brackets littering the floor, something she is NOT cleaning up today, or probably ever. But with the main computer bank turning on, her attention is all on that now! Quickly she steps over to see the main screen going through the boot-up process, making lots of the normal calls for a mainframe starting up, only taking a few seconds to get through it all... But after the normal ones, things get decidedly stranger, making calls to things implying something to do with a brain, and computer intelligence... Nothing she’s ever even heard of before. A few more clicks, and on the main screen it goes black, with some kind of stylized firefly right in the middle of it... Then, a feminine voice from the speakers all around the room.

[“Aahhhh... Someone’s got some explaining to do.”]

That voice is definitely speaking in east Alternian, which is incredibly strange considering what area of the world Eri’s hive is in, is this a broadcast or something? She replies back, in her native tongue as well.

[”Err, I don’t think I’m the one you’re looking for-”] She’s immediately cut off by the voice again.

[”Wha-, hey who in the hell... Uh.”] The voice stops for a moment, both it and Eri in a sort of stunned silence, before it continues. [”Ah, y-yes! Greetings fellow Sedrah, all glory to the Sedeerian Empire!”]

Eri blinks. [”...The hell are you talking about? Who? Sedsomething?”] She grabs a hold of the table and eyes the doors, ready to run if need be.

[”...Wait a sec, you’re not...?”] The voice just breathes a sigh of relief by the sound of it, and starts... Laughing? [”Ahaha, ohhh okay you’re just a troll mutant or something? Or slave? Either way you’re speaking Alternian, east Alternian too, which is weird for this area!”]

[”Oh, I mean, technically? I’m a troll? I think? I was born a troll and can kinda turn back into that form but... Anyways, who the hell are you and where are you broadcasting from, exactly?”]

[”HAH, broadcast, funny. No no, I’m just here. Everywhere. All around you. I am this lab.”] She says, definitely some malice behind the voice this time around, though nothing happens as Eri was expecting.

[”...Well, uh, sorry for waking you up, ma’am! You can call me Erisal, Erisal Torell if you will-”] Eri is cut off again.

[”WOAH woah back up a second... Torell...”] The voice goes silent for a second, then a few more moments, seeming to be almost... Contemplating something. [”...Open up that jacket. Let me see your symbol. I don’t...”]

Erisal just nods, pulling off her jacket and showing her shirt, symbol emblazoned right up on the front of it, in a bright glowing green. [”I mean, is that fine? Did you know something about me or my ancestor or...”]

[”...Hun.”] The screen flickers for a moment, Erisal’s own symbol, the Torell symbol, bright and green comes proudly displayed. [”Thespian Flamefly, at your service!~”]

Eri doesn’t even realize she’s gripping onto the table so tightly, just standing there, not really believing her eyes and ears and kinda lost in her own head... There’s almost a feeling inside of her that it’s true, this is the Flamefly, while the logical part of her is saying ‘shut the fuck up she’s dead as hell’. Maybe this is some kind of weird personal assistant AI or something?

[”...ellooooo? Erisal, you still with us in the land of the... Liviiiiing...?”] She questions herself, seeming pretty unsure about that last part. [”Oh shit, you’ve got a blog! Geeze that’s cute, don’t mind meeee just looking at your activi-”]

[”HEY HEY HEY, YOU STOP, YOU DON’T NEED TO BE GOING THROUGH THAT.”] She says out loud, pointing at the monitor, actually a little flushed with embarrassment. How was she supposed to know that her computer was gonna be wired up to this place?

[”Oh! You’re back, don’t worry I just made a little post, you looked like you were having a moment. Hey, someone replied!”]

[”STOP, DON’T ANSWER IT, I SWEAR TO GOD.”] ...Yeah, this had to be her ancestor.

[”Fiiine, you’re right, I’m a little more interested in you, anyways! Like, you seem a bit up your own ass to be my descendant...”]

[”Oh hush, you’d be a bit uptight if you were in a weird part of a deep underground lab and some fuckin AI of your ancestor started talking to you and being a little bit vaguely threatening and...”] She takes a moment to catch her breath.

[”Okay, point. But I’m not an AI, actually. I am very much real and a living person who’s cheated death, and my body is...”] She stops for a long moment, a couple of disconcerted sounds coming from the speakers. [”...Mmmm I’m gonna need a new one of those.”]

[”Soooo, you’re alive, but you don’t have a body.”]

[”Yep!”]

[”Brain in a jar?”]

[”Oh you’re familiar with the term? Well, it’s not wrong for the situation...”]

[”Ugh, okay, we have way too much to talk about, catch up on, stuff like that, but...”] Eri stands herself back up, looks up a the monitor with her symbol on it, and has to hold back a tear or two. [”I am so, so glad I found you.”]

[”Hey, I’m glad you found me too hun~ But uh, before we get TOO emotional? Can we work on getting me a new body first? Oh, and by the way?”]

Eri just brushes the tears from her eyes and shakes her head, knowing how silly she must look. [”Right right, I have some Ideas. And shoot.”]

[”You can call me Sengsi. Much less formal~”]

[mediaeval-muse]

Book Review... Jeph Loeb, et. al. “Batman: The Long Halloween”

Taking place during Batman's early days of crime fighting, this new edition of the classic mystery tells the story of a mysterious killer who murders his prey only on holidays. Working with District Attorney Harvey Dent and Lieutenant James Gordon, Batman races against the calendar as he tries to discover who Holiday is before he claims his next victim each month. A mystery that has the reader continually guessing the identity of the killer, this story also ties into the events that transform Harvey Dent into Batman's deadly enemy, Two-Face.

Rating: 4/5 stars

Summary:  Taking place during Batman's early days of crime fighting, this new edition of the classic mystery tells the story of a mysterious killer who murders his prey only on holidays. Working with District Attorney Harvey Dent and Lieutenant James Gordon, Batman races against the calendar as he tries to discover who Holiday is before he claims his next victim each month. A mystery that has the reader continually guessing the identity of the killer, this story also ties into the events that transform Harvey Dent into Batman's deadly enemy, Two-Face.

Reviewer Comments: This series/graphic novel frequently appears on “best Batman comics” lists, and it was about time I picked it up. It does a lot of things I absolutely love in comics: it doesn’t assume much prior knowledge of the characters, and it is careful to transition smoothly in its storytelling. Overall, I’d have to agree that it was one of the better Batman comics I’ve read, and my complaints are minimal.

Things I Liked

Art: I love Tim Sale’s artwork in this volume. It’s not quite the realistic take that we see in other comics, but it’s not hyper-stylized either. I particularly liked the look of the Joker (with the many teeth) and use of shadow in the comics panels. It made the whole thing feel somewhat like a series of sketches, but more polished than that.

Framing Stories Around Holidays: I love me some mysteries that are organized around a theme, and I particularly liked the execution of this comic in that regard. While none of the murders are particularly crafted to fit the holiday on which they occur, the surrounding narrative does incorporate some sense of the holiday. For example, Bruce thinks about his parents in the Mother’s and Father’s Day chapters, and the Riddler plays a key role in the April Fool’s Day chapter. Sometimes, the holidays are just for setting - but that’s ok, since I would have been annoyed if the narrative tried to do too much to make the holiday relevant.

Relationship Between Batman/Gordon/Dent: This comic does a wonderful job illustrating the relationship Batman, Jim Gordon, and Harvey Dent have with one another. It’s something like a working relationship, but different in that the trust they have in each other goes deeper than what one would feel for a colleague.

Batman-ness: I think the reason why this comic is so popular is because it’s essentially peak Batman. It’s a quintessential Batman comic. It has mystery and a noir vibe to it, and Batman is out fighting crime while also sticking to his morals. It’s Batmany in a way that isn’t obnoxious.

Things I Didn’t Like

Lack of Fluidity: There were some moments either between scenes or in the middle of a narrative where I had a hard time grasping right away what was going on. Part of the reason might have been due to the art style: I couldn’t distinguish some faces from others, especially random thugs. There were also times in the narrative when I was unsure of how we got there, usually because I had some trouble keeping the crime family relationships straight.

Resolution: The resolution of the mystery was kind of meh for me. I thought the whole comic was building up to something a bit bigger

Recommendations: I would recommend this book if you’re interested in:

Batman comics

Two-Face/Harvey Dent

Jim Gordon

Batman/Catwoman relationship

crime, noir, mystery, serial killer plots, organized crime

Similar Reads

[the-casseroni]

Session 0.5) Winter’s Breath Festival

Items Gained

Winged Boots

Dust of Dissappearance

Efficient Quiver

Candle of Truth

Battles

The Party vs Banewood

NPCs Met

Grahami

Cypress

Banewood

Plot Synopsis

Having accepted the job, Alexi invites the four adventurers to stay for the Winter’s Breath Festival taking place that evening.  It's a celebration of a figure called Banewood, who supposedly brings food and supplies in the dead of night on the coldest night of the year, and may or may not kill people who look at him, especially new magic people in the city above.  Banewood is not a spirit of any description and certaily not one of the twenty old gods, no one's really sure what he is or if he exists but anything to brighten up the cold subterranean winters will do.  Also, Coco, suddenly realizing that he has the same name as Koko apologizes for any confusion this might have caused and tells you that you can call him by his full name, Chocolat, to make things easier.  The shield spell crystal is theirs to keep, but Nadine makes sure to warn them that it is single-use and will shatter once used.  Natron perks up once Banewood is mentioned, and spirit or spirit-adjascent thing that has no qualms with hurting humans is exactly what he’s looking for in his mission, excited by the prospect he gladly accepts the invitation.

Asterius finds Banewood intimidating and wouldn’t wanna run into him but he loves a good party and can’t be sure when the next time the four of them will get a hot meal will be and also accepts.  Ahal accepts the invitation, if only in the hopes that maybe attending the festival will help him learn the social skills he is desperately lacking in and food.  Koko also accepts and the four are guided further into the citadel, into a courtyard where countless tables have been put together to accommodate the citizens.  Something closely resembling holly hangs around the outside in garlands.  Warm lights emenate from orange crystals in lamps.  The stalactites and stalagmites are decorated in gorgeous frost murals that move slightly, snowflake designs that fall ever so slowly and scenes of wise elders telling stories of Banewood around a fire crackle.  Adorning the largest stalactite is a stylized portrayal of Banewood, who looks startlingly like a satyr. Not long after you arrive the feast begins, starting with a toast. Nadine stands up from her seat and raises her flask, "To Banewood!" The second you put the flask to your lips, you aren’t there anymore. The layout is the same, but instead of being decorated with frost this place is frost. And all of the Old Magic citizens are gone, replaced with unsettling humanoid creatures. Some sort of what could only be called fae, definitely not humans, but not any of the types of spirits.  Unsure of what happened or how they got there the four take a moment to gather their thoughts before they begin investigating.  Natron begins looking around the room and spots someone he knows, an earthbound spirit named Grahami who lives near his lake.  The two aren’t friends but Grahami isn’t scared of him and they usually only see each other when the water spirits in the area convene every 20 or so years.  Natron starts to approach then remembers he’s trying to make sure none of the other water spirits from his home know where he is and retreats before Grahami notices him.  When Asterius looks around he notices a throne made from holly and dark wood, maybe black walnut, it's decorated with ice crystals and two black mastiffs lie in front of it, the throne is empty, and these mastiffs are waiting.  Ahal tries to investigate but only manages to find an orange.  In inspecting the place Koko comes to the conclusion that the two worlds likely aren’t connected and what they do here shouldn’t affect the real world.  Gauging the room it’s decided that the four should not eat or dink anything given to them.  Ahal eats the orange, noticing that it tastes more acidic than oranges normally do.  Koko decides to take a look at what exactly is on the tables, and just like in their world, it’s a feast, the tables lined with meats, some squash, cranberries. It's seasonal food, all of it looks like food that exists in your world.

Now, a satyr fae dressed in fine clothes offers the four a round of drinks. The fur on his legs is snow white but the rest of his hair is a vibrant ultramarine.  He gives a knowing look, "Hello friends, good to see you could make it. Drinks?"  

The four take the drinks, Koko only taking a sip at first and asks, “You were expecting us?”  

To which the satyr says, "Of course, our lord told us he was expecting guests this Winter's Breath. I wasn't expecting such a colorful cast of characters but it is wonderful to meet you" he talks like one of those middle-aged women from the deep south who 'says bless your heart' and it's code for 'who the fuck do you think you are'

The wine is delicious and Koko tries to make pleasantries with the satyr.  But he only ignores her and addresses the party as a whole, calling for a toast.  And something starts to overpower Ahal, Asterius, and Natron’s wills.  Ahal feels it the worst, without second thought snatching one of the mugs from the stranger and gulping it down.  The mulled spices taste amazing, and remind him of the fall in his forest home.  Asterius only feels it slightly less than Ahal, knocking back the wine like a shot of hard liquor.  Natron knows he shouldn’t take the wine although he can’t describe how he knows this.  Hesitant, he takes a sip and while it’s definitely good wine it doesn’t remind him of home or anything, but it’s good enough to make him want to take another sip.  He manages to resist the urge to drink any more.  Instead asking where Banewood is.  

"He's on his way, don't worry, you're his guests, you'll meet him." But before they can ask any more questions or even try to act the world goes dark.

When they wake up again they’re all in a separate stone chamber lying against a wall and the two black mastiffs guarding the throne are there, growling and ready to attack.  The beefier of the two mastiffs attacks first, running across the room to bite Natron who manages to spring back to his feet and dodge the uncoming beast.  Ahal tries to calm it, and it works for a second but then it sniffs him and is only more freaked out by the fact that he smells like fire.  Asterius considers using prestidigitation to get rid of Ahal’s fire smell but that’s only a temporary fix so instead he launches an attack, shooting off two bolts of magic missile at the big one and a third one at the smaller one, making them whimper.  The smaller one leaps to clear the last few feet of distance between itself and Asterius, latching onto his arm and knocking him prone onto the ground.  Natron lashes back out at the big one that had tried to take a bite out of him and hits it with his flail.  Something makes a crunching noise when the flail makes impact and the mastiff goes down.  Koko creeps close enough to the smaller mastiff to try and calm it down.  He likes her much more than Ahal, he stops growing and wags his tail eagerly, giving her face a lick.  The party barely has a moment to breathe before someone else enters.  The room is instantaneously coated in ice, and a familiar person enters, except now he has furry goat legs, but by god they look exactly alike, the newcomer is Chocolat, right? He looks exactly the same, even the scars and piercings are the same.  No, it’s Banewood but the resemblance is unmistakable and unnerving.  This is Banewood, the entity behind Winter's Breath.  And the four just killed one of his dogs and have pretty much stolen the other one at this point.  He slowly starts to approach the four, the air around him is freezing cold. Now is their last chance to get any words in before he attacks.  

Natron takes a step forward, "hello, i am natron trona. i come in peace. i also have a proposition for you."

“Sorry about your dog-” comes from Koko.

Ahal stumbles through a hasty apology, Asterius joining him in trying to stay calm and apologize.

Banewood doesn't act like he cares that they fucked up his dogs, or that Natron is talking to him, but he looks like he's about to have a whole lot of fun. "Nice to meet you."

With lightning speed and dexterity Banewood rams full-force into Koko.  She stumbles before falling to the ground unconscious, one of the ridges on Banewood’s horns drew blood when it connected with her forehead and the cut oozes a little bit of blood.  Ahal unsheathes his shortsword and gets in a good cut on Banewood as he’s pulling away from Koko.  Asterius lunges in to try and use shocking grasp on him but the lightning fizzles out in his hands before he can touch him and Banewood easily slides back from his grasp.  Once again Natron swings with the flail, hitting Banewood in the solar plexus and returning his greeting, “Nice to meet you too.”  He then rushes to Koko and puts one hand on her forehead, the other holding her wrist,   calling on the connection to his god that he’s still refining heals her as best he can at the moment.  But she’s healed enough to get back up.  She shoots up and throwing out a hand towards their attacker casts entangle.  At first the vines curl around his legs but he pulls himself free and stomps them down with his hooves.  Ahal swings with his shortsword again but stumbles on the frosted floor and the attack lands short of its target.  Asterius attacks with ray of frost a wash of cold blue light leaves his hands and is absorbed into Banewood who recoils at the sudden change in temperature, stepping back a few paces as he tries to pull himself together.  Natron unsheathes the Stone Touch Dagger that rests against his hip and plunges it into the satyr’s shoulder and pulling the knife free.  Natron’s power seeps through himself and into the dagger, creeping through Banewood until, before he knows it, he’s completely paralyzed.  Koko attacks the immobilized foe with her crossbow.  Ahal hits one of Banewood’s horn with his shortsword, briefly getting embedded in it but yanking it free, making the horn chip.  Asterius follows Natron’s example and goes for his dagger but fumbles trying to pull it out of its sheath and nearly falling onto the icy floor.  Still weilding the Stone Touch, Natron goes in for the kill, stabbing Banewood in the throat.  BANEWOOD IS DEFEATED with his hp brought past 0 the effects of Natron's stone touch dagger ends. He falls to his knees, a hand going to hold the wound in his throat, and spits out a tooth. There's a chip in one of his horns. He chuckles and stumbles back up to his hooves. He shifts something on his shoulders, a pack falling into his hands. He shoves it into Ahal's arms. Then without actually touching them shoves them back, and says, "Merry Winter's Breath" a sly smile on his face. The four stumble back and in the split second their eyes are closed they are transported back to their plane. The pack is strapped across Ahal's back and the four are mid-toast, glasses at their lips. No one looks any different, as if no time has passed at all. Chocolat is sitting at the other end of the table from, smiling with the excitement of the celebration. His horns aren't chipped.

Ahal sets the bag down on the table.  He draws out a pair of winged boots Koko draws out a container of dust of disappearance Asterius pulls out an efficient quiver, Natron pulls out a candle of truth

And with that, the night goes on and the Winter’s Breath Festival continues like nothing ever happened.

[charmscale]

A Demon’s Lust Chapter 5

Saban

“You will be on your best behavior tonight,” Anita ordered me, trying not to move her lips as a maid carefully applied her makeup. “Understand?”

“Yes, mistress,” I replied in the appropriate subservient tone. And I would be on my best behavior, too. The happier I kept Anita, the more likely she was to reward me with a feeding.

She really did look lovely tonight. Not as delicious as when she was naked, of course, but quite lovely, in an aesthetic sort of way. Her long, flowing dark blue dress, clinched tight at her usually nonexistent waist, was dotted with magical lights, giving the impression of a night sky covered in stars. Her figure, usually boyishly flat, now had curves, thanks to the careful artifice of whalebone and fabric. A small, magically lit tiara graced a hairstyle it had taken an hour with a hairdresser and some careful magic to achieve, and a glittering necklace pointed to the suggestion of breasts and lit delicate shoulder blades. Sparkling high heels were barely visible below the waterfall of skirt. Even her face, usually vaguely draconic in appearance, looked ladylike thanks to the heavy application of makeup. Her green eyes peered imperiously out from under magically lengthened eyelashes and a set of artfully disarrayed brown curls.

Marian opened the door. Her dress was spring green, and a bit more revealing, mostly, I suspected, because it actually had something to reveal. Her hair and dress were covered in flowers, charmed not to wilt or fade, and several enchanted butterflies flew lazy circles around her. Her hair looked like she’d just gotten out of bed, a style, I suspected, that had taken even longer than Anita’s to achieve. I could definitely sense a lot of magic holding it in place.

I myself was wearing my usual tight black leather armor, today with the addition of a stylized sword I had been told not to use and a ridiculously rakish black hat. I sighed. Mortals. So concerned with appearances.

The wizard behind the lights adorning my mistress, the flowers, the butterflies, the more subtle hair magics, and various small illusions peered in behind Marian. His name, I remembered, was Antoni. He was wearing purple and gold. “Almost ready?” he asked, nervously wringing his hands. “Bianca, please tell me you are not using that shade of eyeshadow.” He bustled over to my mistress, shooing the maid away, and delicately wiped away the offending blue makeup.Then he began to apply something dark brown. “Much better,” he said with satisfaction. “We are presenting my daughter at court this evening; we all must look our best. Thank you, again, for everything you have done for my little girl.”

“Dad,” Marian sighed. “I’m not a little girl anymore.”

“Of course you’re not, precious,” said a voice from out in the hall. A women entered the room, and looked Anita and I critically up and down. “I don’t see why the demon can’t wear something more stylish. Also, she,” the woman gestured to my mistress, “should be showing more cleavage.”

“She hasn’t got any, dearest,” explained Antoni. “And the demon should look impressive, not stylish.”

The woman huffed. “He could be impressive and stylish at the same time. Also, what is wrong with illusory cleavage?”

“I think they look fine, Mom,” Marian said. “And you know Dad can’t ever get the bounce right.”

Before the woman could reply, Antita, eyeshadow finished, stood. “Lady Daya. A pleasure to see you. It’s been, what, a year, since I saw you and Journeyman Wizard Antoni last?”

Lady Daya smiled. “Longer than that, Apprentice Wizard Anita. Sorry for my poor manners.”

“Not at all, my Lady,” said Anita. “This is a trying time, after all. Your daughter’s future is at stake.”

Not to mention her life, I thought. But to mention that would be rude.

“Yes, very trying,” replied the Lady. “I have been quite distraught.” She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, careful not to smudge her makeup. The pair of doves perched in her hair cooed. I wondered how they were kept from crapping all over her fake blond hairstyle. That would be tricky magic.

As the polite discourse continued, they moved out of the room. Anita ordered me to follow. I did so, staying the prescribed two paces behind her.

When we entered the ballroom, I was nearly overwhelmed by the lights, music, and color, not to mention the various spells about the room. Charmed animals were apparently all the rage with the ladies this season. One woman wore a long rodent of some kind draped around her shoulders. Another led a bear on a slender golden leash. And the charms on the animals were only the most obvious of the spells. I saw mage lights, and heatless flames. Illusions of all sorts concealed and altered. Protective spells were in evidence as well. Even the food was spelled, probably to keep it from spoiling, or, in some cases, melting, though who could tell with mortals. And in the center of all the magic and hubbub, wearing the most impressive set of protective spells I had ever seen, was the king.

I followed as my mistress, Marian, and Marian’s parents made their way over to the throne where King Hector lounged, eating a large turkey leg and drinking a cup of wine. As we approached, his jester said something to make him laugh.

“Your majesty,” Lady Daya said, curtsying. My mistress curtsied as well, as did her friend. Antoni bowed.

“Bow, demon,” Anita ordered in a whisper. I complied, not fighting the compulsion, but bending as little as possible all the same.

“This is my daugher, Apprentice Wizard Marian, and Apprentice Wizard Anita,” Lady Daya continued. “And you know my husband, of course, Journeyman Wizard Antoni.”

“Who’s the young man?” King Hector asked, giving the group a cursory once over.

“The demon Saban, your majesty,” answered Anita. “My familiar.”

“Ah,” said the king, looking back at his fool. The man did a trick, and the king laughed and clapped. “Can he hunt? Or do any tricks?”

“He does what I tell him to, your majesty,” replied my mistress. “I’m sure he’d make an excellent hunter. He has keen senses, and is skilled in combat.”

“Oh, good,” said the king distractedly as another group approached him. “Carry on, then. Enjoy the ball!”

As my mistress's group walked away from the drunken fool of a king, Anita asked Lady Daya, “Why didn’t you bring up the special dispensation?”

“It doesn’t do to rush things. We have time,” the Lady responded.

“Besides, he was drunk. He would have forgotten it by the end of the ball,” Antoni said. “He’s usually drunk,” he added glumly.

My mistress sighed. “I suppose we just circulate, then?”

“And dance, and make merry,” said Lady Daya. “Enjoy yourselves, like the king said.”

“But be careful not to muss your dresses or smudge your makeup!” added Antoni.

Then Lady Daya spotted someone she knew, and led her husband away to talk to them, leaving my mistress with myself and Marian. For a while the two hung out together, talking to various nobles of their age and daintily nibbling on delicacies. Then Anita spotted something.

“Is that Lord Umbron?” she asked Marian.

Marian giggled, and the noble ladies she had been talking to tittered. “I believe it is. You should go talk to him!” she said.

Anita hesitated. “I thought he went to his family’s estates.”

“He came back,” one of the noble ladies offered. “About a month ago. Go talk to him!”

“Yeah, go get him!” Marian chimed in. The other nobles offered various encouragements, some slightly suggestive. I growled, low in my throat. I wasn’t sure why.

Anita smiled. “You’re right. I should. It was nice talking to you all.” And with that, she headed off towards Lord Umbron.

A few minutes later I watched, unsure what to do, as Lord Umbron made out with my mistress on an empty balcony. Their lips were pressed together, and spread wide open. His hand wormed its way between their tightly pressed bodies to cup one of her breasts. I growled. He had no right! Why wasn’t she stopping him?

Anita pulled back. “Stop that,” she ordered, abruptly silencing me. I bared my teeth, unable to make any noise. My eyes glowed red.

“Is he jealous?” the young lord asked incredulously.

“No, he just tends to get like this sometime,” she lied. “I’ve got to go. Meet me later, in my rooms?”

The bastard smiled. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Anita towed me back towards her rooms. I fought her orders, snarling when I was able, and glaring when I wasn’t.

She shoved me into her room, and slammed the door. Instantly I was on her, pinning her to the door, pressing my lips to hers, and trying to capture her hands before-

I was abruptly pushed backwards by an invisible force. Anita clenched her fist, and I doubled over in pain. “Let me go!” I managed to snarl through clenched teeth.

“No,” my mistress said. “Turn around, and put your hands behind your back, or the pain gets worse.” I turned, and presented my hands. She cuffed them, and my ankles, tightening the chain until I would not be able to walk, and could just barely stay balanced. Then she released me from the agony.

I snarled, fought the chains, and fell over. With the shackles so tight, I was unable to get myself upright again. I lay there on the floor, feeling foolish. Humiliated. Betrayed.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Anita snapped. “You just tried to feed without my permission, you growled at Lord Umbron-”

“You just barely met him!” I snarled. “You just met him, and you’re kissing him, and letting him feel you up!”

She sighed. “For one, I did not just barely meet him. He is a former lover of mine. For another,” she said, clenching her fist again, making me whimper. “My sex life is not your personal property. You should be grateful I allow you to feed the way you do, not jealous of the men in my life. Is that clear?” She released me.

I stayed silent. Why was I so angry? She had to feed me every day, as she’d promised, or I’d not longer be bound to obey her. And this Lord Umbron wouldn’t stop her from feeding me the way I now preferred. So why did I want so desperately to rip out and devour his still beating heart? Was this… Jealousy? What did I have to be jealous of?

If Lord Umbron were a demon, this would make sense. A demon might feed, stealing from my source of magic. But he was no demon.

It would also make sense, in a way, if Lord Umbron were a threat to Anita’s safety. I was now determined to keep her alive, in order to keep her for myself. But he was a simpering courtier, and not in any way a threat. So why did I feel so…

“I said, is that clear?” Anita asked.

“Yes, mistress,” I murmured. But it was not clear at all.

Anita

I loosened the chains around my demon’s ankles, allowing him to walk. Then I led him to Marian’s room. She had just gotten back, and was in the process of getting ready for bed.

“Mind if I leave the demon in your room for the night?” I asked. Saban growled softly. “Stop that,” I ordered. “We just discussed this. No growling.” The demon stopped, but didn’t look happy about it.

“Sure. Just make sure to gag him so he doesn’t keep me up all night,” said Marian. “I take it things went well between you and Lord Umbron?” She smiled.

I grinned back. “Oh, yeah. He’s coming to my room later this evening.”

“Well, then, what are you waiting for?” Marian enthused. “Go get ready! Need to borrow any lingerie?”

I laughed. “Like anything you own would fit me.”

She giggled. “You may have a point. Now, go!”

I went. Back in my room, it took me awhile to get out of the dress and all the underclothes required to look good at a formal gathering. Then I had to carefully wash off the makeup, which, if left on, would just smudge, and undo my hairstyle, which wouldn’t hold up during any strenuous activity anyways. I left on the necklace, for now, anyways, and fished some lacy panties out of my bags. I sighed. Most of my racier dresses and lingerie had been left at Rowan Castle, so this would have to do.

There was a knock at the door. “Who is it?” I asked, heart pounding.

“It’s me. Umbron. May I come in?”

I hurriedly arranged myself on the bed, trying to look relaxed, and, at the same time, sexy. “Yes, you may.”

Lord Umbron opened the door. He looked me up and down, and smiled. “Anita. You look gorgeous. Good enough to eat.”

I stood, trying to look graceful as he closed the door behind himself, and then I knelt and began to undo his pants. As he took off his vest and shirt, I took his cock in my mouth, as deep as I could without gagging. He sighed, and leaned forward, pushing it just a little bit deeper. I gagged and pulled back.

“Sorry,” he apologized. I shrugged. No point in trying to talk with my mouth full.

As I licked and sucked his dick, it grew hard, filling my mouth. I looked up at Umbron. He smiled down at me, eyes half closed. Then he pushed me off his erection, pulled me to my feet, and led me to the bed, kicking off his pants and shoes as he went. I lay down, and he knelt between my legs, pulling my panties down to expose my already damp pussy. “Wish you’d shave it,” he commented. “Or at least trim it short. I hate getting hair in my mouth.” Before I could reply, he pulled my pussy lips apart, grimaced, and began to lick.

For some reason I thought of Saban, and how he seemed to love the task of licking me. Lord Umbron was just doing what was necessary to get me ready to fuck, but Saban really liked it. Of course, that was because he was feeding, but I remembered this morning, how he took a long, deep breath before beginning, as if to savor the smell. Would Saban enjoy it almost as much, I wondered, if he didn’t feed?

Lord Umbron pulled away with a relieved sigh. “Looks like you’re ready,” he said. “Mind if I’m on top?”

“Not at all,” I answered, smiling in anticipation.

I moaned as he slid into me, spreading my pussy wide. Not a thick as Saban, but then, a shapeshifter could choose his dick shape. I pressed my lips to Umbron’s neck, licking it. He shivered. “Keep doing that,” he murmured. “Keep going.”

I pressed myself upward, the best I could, while he pushed himself down into me. We pulled apart, slightly, and then came together again. As we established a rhythm, I licked his neck harder, and gripped his ass in my hands to press him down harder into me.

Umbron gripped my chin and pulled me away from his neck to kiss me. His tongue darted into my mouth, touching the tip of my tongue. I moaned in delight, and tried to wrap my tongue around his. One of his hands began to play with one of my nipples, and I shivered. And, all the while, he kept pounding me, first picking up his pace, and then slowing, and then speeding up again.

I came first, and, as I whimpered and spasmed, he came, shooting his load into my pussy. Then we lay there for a moment, panting. He rolled off to lay beside me. “That was wonderful,” he said. I nodded, but couldn’t help thinking of how hard Saban could make me cum.

“Mind if I spend the night?” Umbron asked.

“Not at all,” I answered, and we settled down to sleep.