#like having my own OC as a physical card i made tucked away in a sleeve like the real deal is insane like i cant believe i MADE that

[yoonpobs]

dilf (and love) | knj | m

pairing: kim namjoon x oc

genre: fluff, domestic fluff, smut, established relationship, marriage and kids lol

warnings: light dom/sub themes, pregnancy kink, penetrative sex, oral sex (f & m receiving), DILF JOON

words: 6, 702

summary: it's been too long since you and namjoon had time to yourselves

“God take that thing away from me!” You whine as you smother your face with your hands.

Jin pins you with a dry look as he catches a glimpse of ‘that thing’ who is looking up at you with big eyes and a toothless grin.

“That thing is your child …” Jin says blandly.

“That thing is ruining my sex life.” You narrow your eyes at Chanmi as she babbles some incoherent words with her ten-month-old vocabulary. You’d think as the daughter and apple of Kim Namjoon’s eye that she’d be able to read, write and speak sixteen languages at the age of one.

You still allow Chanmi to wrap her chubby fingers around your thinner ones and you can’t help but coo at your daughter. While she may have been the one thing that disrupted any intimate moment between you and Namjoon, you would fight anyone that would ever dare to mess with her. Your own husband included.

“Please, spare the details,” Jin mutters under his breath as he watches Chanmi fondly as she attempts to tug at your sleeve in hopes of getting your attention. You squeeze her cheeks before lifting her up in your arms and hold her close to your chest. You whine because she smells so … fresh. Just like a little bread baby that was all yours.

God, you loved her.

“My old sex life brought me this angel.” You grin up at your daughter who just smiles at you, unknowing of the context of your words.

“Can you stop using such vulgar words in front of your child?” Jin scolds you but doesn’t do anything much to take Chanmi out of your grasp.

You roll your eyes.

“She’s like 300 days old. She doesn’t even know how to shit at a decent hour let alone understand what sex is. Penis in vagina. Destroying pussy. A hole in one. Railing—”

Jin slaps his hand over your mouth to get you to stop talking as he glares at you.

“Why did my brother marry a heathen like you.” Jin seethes.

You shrug nonchalantly as you turn your head to see your dumbhead yet smart-ass husband that was attempting to glue back the shards of glass from the wine glass he broke earlier in hopes of you not realising.

“He needed to put his 148 IQ to good use and I’m the best investment his finance major ever got him.”

“The only good thing that came out of your marriage is this cutie.” Jin coos at his niece and you have half the mind to withdraw his Chanmi visiting card because whenever he was over all he did was berate you and your … unique ways of parenting.

But Jin would still say he cared for you as far as a brother-in-law would but with the added benefit of the fact that he was your best friend before he became your brother-in-law. You were an interesting character, to say the least, and the only reason you managed to befriend Jin was due to the fact that you didn’t know what boundaries meant and had invaded his personal space on the first day of lectures when you leaned over him to throw something at a know-it-all. Jin had been annoyed, but then an unlikely friendship bloomed out of the mutual distaste for ‘Howard from Accounting’.

He introduced you to Namjoon just because he thought that it was hilarious that you and his brother were polar opposites. Jin didn’t even expect the two of you to get along with each other let alone fall in love, but life had a funny way of saying ‘fuck you and your expectations’ to Jin when he least expected it.

The only thing that he regrets is the fact that now he had to listen to both you and his brother whine about your sex life, or lack thereof after the two of you became parents. Being a mother was hard because there was no manual to tell you what was right or wrong when it came to your baby but the experience itself. When you first fed Chanmi softened shrimp in her meals and caused an allergic reaction; you cried for hours straight because you felt like you should’ve just known.

Namjoon was a good partner and an even better father because he was understanding. The first few months postpartum he respected the fact that you weren’t ready to show your body to him because of the way it changed after giving birth to Chanmi, and he never told you that you were in your head for feeling that way. He validated all your feelings through all the rough edges that you gave him when you were going through your own things.

You finally felt comfortable to get naked around Namjoon at the five-month mark where your sex drive returned to that of when you were in your early twenties and just begun knowing how to truly enjoy sexual intimacies with a partner, but a five-month-old baby didn’t allow for much intimacy with your hot ass husband either.

It sucked because Namjoon had always been broad and very dad-like, and after he officially became a father to Chanmi you just felt like salivating over him every waking second you got because … God … Namjoon was a gift from the God’s themselves. Whenever you saw the way he handled Chanmi with absolute gentleness and care you felt like dropping to your knees and sucking the soul out of him. It didn’t help that he wore his glasses every night when he tucked her into bed and read her Shakespeare because it would ‘help with development’. You loved your husband but he was a little excessive.

“Oh God stop drooling over my brother!” Jin grimaces when he sees the bedroom eyes you were shooting Namjoon from where the two of you were with Chanmi.

You sigh dreamily and lean against your palm as you check out Namjoon’s ass.

“I can’t help that your brother and my husband has an ass like that.” You click your tongue.

Chanmi giggles again and it’s like a bell chiming at your favourite cafe when you cuddle her closer, feeling comfort in her scent. She smelt just like home and bubbles.

“How about I give you a sibling, huh?” You whisper to Chanmi who just opens her mouth to babble. Jin on the other hand facepalms himself and sighs.

“You’re insufferable.”

“I’m horny.” You shrug.

“Correction: you’re insufferable on a daily basis but absolutely horrifying to deal with when you’re horny.” He sneers.

“I just need to bed him and I’ll be fine.” You drawl, as your husband who spent the better half of your conversation fixing the wine glass grins to himself with his dimples when he finally placed the last piece of glass back into place. He was so meticulous and cute for the wrong reasons.

“Jesus, stop …” Jin groans.

“Jesus would definitely tell me to go get that dick because I deserve it.” You pat yourself on the back and wince slightly when you smell the telltale signs of Chanmi’s poop permeating the air.

“Say … would Yoongi mind having Chanmi over your place for the weekend?” Jin recognizes the devious expression you have on your face and knows that there’s no way out of it.

“I don’t have a choice do I?” Jin sighs.

You shake your head.

“Nope. Cause’ I texted Yoongi yesterday and said he totally wants to see his niece. The baby bag is all ready to go and it’s in the nursery.” You cock your thumb to the room down the hallway and Jin thinks to himself of all the reasons why he shouldn’t have introduced you to his brother at all seven years back.

“It’s weird without her …” Namjoon frowns as the two of you stand in the nursery as if you were mourning the loss of your child. It felt a lot like it, though.

The two of you never spent more than a few hours away from Chanmi ever since she was born and it felt weird to not smell her vomit from the kitchen or hear her giggles as you cooked dinner. You missed Namjoon and the spark you had in the first years of your relationship but you also felt a little empty without Chanmi’s presence with you.

“I miss her.” You whine into Namjoon’s chest and he clutches you tightly as if to say that he mirrored your sentiment.

“Should we call them?” You look up at him with wide eyes and he smoothes the frown lines on your forehead and chuckles, offering a gentle kiss to your temples.

“We called fifteen minutes ago, remember?” He chides you gently.

You huff, “I just … it’s so quiet. Where are my baby babbles?” You pout.

Namjoon sighs and rubs his thumb comfortingly on your arm when you look around at the purple nursery with reminders of your daughter that wasn’t currently with you.

“Let’s enjoy what we have, okay love?” Namjoon offers, “I miss Chanmi too but I miss this too.”

You smile at him the way he first fell in love with you years ago and leans down to place a peck onto your lips.

“I miss having you all to myself.” He whispers against your lips and you shiver at the way his broadness is clouding all your senses.

“You always have me Joon.” You tell him in a tone as soft as his.

His chest rumbles when he laughs and you feel so warm in the comfort of your husband's arms and you felt it too. Besides the physical aspect of having sex with him, you missed holding him like this without a care in the world. Most of your cuddle sessions were left to the nights you slept next to each other in bed because the two of you were either exhausted with work or trying to care for Chanmi. It’s been a long time since you could just feel Namjoon’s presence with you.

“Besides … we can finally, you know …” He mumbles shyly into your hair and the devil horns that you hide most of the time reappear.

“What, Joon?” You smirk up at him, hands trailing slowly down his chest.

Your husband was so big that every room he walked into he basically commanded the attention of every single person that would come across him. That’s what happens when you’re six foot and broad like him. But you loved the fact that you were the only one that got to see the much softer side to him that he didn’t just show anyone. The fact that he was the CEO of his own company made his persona ever more intimidating than he actually was but you knew he was a huge softie on the inside.

The two of you were very different in many senses. From your personalities to the way you approached conflict. Namjoon was very diplomatic but you were anything but. He was truly the most empathetic and understanding person you’ve met in your entire life and you’ve seen a total of ten therapists in your teenage years. Namjoon was the balance that levelled your temper and uninhibited tendencies to always be the loudest person in every room. With every time you snarked at someone who pushed your buttons came Namjoon that placed a gentle hand on your back with a soft whisper of comfort.

In fact, most people thought the two of you would have never lasted. You heard those mean girls in college that made petty bets on the fact that you’d probably end up leaving him because you were too much of a bitch to deal with someone as kind as Namjoon. You remembered most of your fights being about your insecurities and how you always thought that Namjoon deserved better and with him telling you that you were the one for him.

Looking back, you laugh because the two of you were theoretically horrible for each other but exactly what the other needed. Namjoon needed someone free-spirited enough to manage his meticulous tendencies and you needed someone willing to see you for more than your erratic behaviour.

“What’s that pretty head of yours thinking about?” Namjoon hums when he realises you’re not paying attention to him anymore. He clasps your hands together to bring back your attention to him as you look up at him with eyes so full of love.

“Just reminiscing on the old days.” You tell him and he snorts.

“You say that as if we’re ancient.”

“You’re not fooling anyone. I heard your joints cracking when you bent down to pick up the strands of hair on the floor.” You tease.

“And who’s fault is it that I’m constantly bending over to pick up strands of hair because she sheds like a cat?” He retorts playfully.

“We’re both old.” You pout, playing with his fingers and admiring the glimmer of his wedding ring. You can’t believe you bagged a man like Namjoon.

“I still got it, though.” He adds thoughtfully and you raise an eye at his comment.

“Got what?”

“My game.” He wiggles his eyebrows at you suggestively and you burst out laughing because it was so on-brand for Namjoon to make a comment like that but blush when you got a little more touchy-feely with him when he least expected it.

“How about you show me then?” You whisper as you turn around to press yourself against his chest, ensuring that your cleavage was on full show to his line of vision when he looks down at you.

“Did I ever tell you how much I love your tits after the pregnancy?” He tells you breathily and you snort.

“So you didn’t like my tits before I gave birth to your child?”

He rolls his eyes and reaches his hands below your thighs to lift you up so that you could wrap your legs around his waist. The way he could effortlessly carry you and lift you up always made your heart and nether regions flutter because he was so big that he basically towered over you. Especially when he became a dad it was like his hot factor exploded exponentially. He basically became the epitome of a dilf.

“You and your mouth,” He tsks as he carries you out of the nursery and into your bedroom, “I just may need to shut you up.”

You whine into his chest before he tosses you down onto your mattress as he towers over you, looking over your body like you were the finest piece of art he’s ever seen. Namjoon always had ways to make you feel like a million bucks even though you were in an old camisole and your old college varsity sweatpants.

“Why don’t you do it then?” You tease back.

You were different from the women that Namjoon has been with prior to your seven-year-long relationship as most of them were pliant and quiet, and took whatever he gave to them. Don’t get him wrong, he loved playing the dominant character in bed but he also needed a brat to push his buttons and it was exactly what you were. Even if the two of you were so fundamentally different in personalities, the two of you were definitely sexually compatible.

“Flip over.” He demands and you whine before reluctantly turning over.

“I want to see you.” You whine petulantly.

You feel him rather than have him verbally respond to you because he delivers a tight slap to your ass as you gasp at the impact. He rubs his hands soothingly over your butt cheeks and squeezes them as he leans over your body, crowding your back with his body heat.

“Don’t be a brat ___.” He sneers into your ear and the moan is stuck on your throat when you feel him drag his hands all over your body until it reaches under your body to reach for your tits.

“Fuck. I love your tits.” He groans.

Namjoon’s hands immediately trail down your body until they reach the hem of your shorts and you wiggle your ass back at him teasingly. You hear him growl and you always knew that Namjoon was an ass man and your ass made him weak.

“Need I remind you that you’re in no position to tease, sweetheart?” He whispers into your ear and you feel the goosebumps erupt on the surface of your skin.

“Fuck. Please—Joon, touch me.” You gasp as you feel him pull down your shorts to be greeted with a cheeky pair of panties that left little to imagine of what hides underneath. Your husband had the talent of getting you obscenely wet without doing much and it’s proven again when you feel the uncomfortable ache between your legs as he flips your body over once again to get a good glimpse of your heaving body, as well as the stain on your panties.

His knuckles trace the inner side of your thigh carefully as he avoids the place you need him the most while you feel more wetness pool at your entrance. You’ve been deprived of his touch for way too long and that caused your sensitive reactions to anything that he did. You missed his fingers so much and having him so close yet so far away from your pussy was destroying your restraint.

“Namjoon p-please!” You cry when he finally cups your mound with his large palm.

He digs the heel of his palm straight into your clit as you arch your back and let out a low moan.

“So wet baby and I’ve barely done anything.” He taunts you with the low baritone of his voice.

“You make me so wet Joonie.” You pant when you feel him grind his palm into your clit some more, providing the satisfying friction that you’ve been craving.

The feeling doesn’t last long because he’s hastily removing your panties from your legs and tosses them somewhere over his shoulder. His face is directly in front of your pussy and you can’t help but feel flustered at the proximity of his breath to your hole. You’ve done this a million times before but the familiarity is slightly lost due to the time between the last and the present.

“Where’s the brat that couldn’t shut her mouth before, hm?” He mumbles and you feel every breath against your pussy. You squirm and feel his large hands wrap around your thighs, locking you into position so you wouldn’t be able to move.

“It’s just been so—ah—long,” You tell him breathily.

“Too long. Missed this pussy.” He says as a parting gift before he dives straight into your clit and begins to lap rounds over the hardened bud. You let out a high pitched moan at the pleasure he was providing you with just his tongue alone, and the way that he knew just where to focus on your clit with tense figure-eights.

“Ah—ah, fuck—Joon!” You groan as your hands wrap around his hair to tug at it. You feel him moan against your pussy, which sends vibrations up to your core and causes more wetness to pool at your centre.

Namjoon is relentless when he digs his hands harder into the meat of your thighs to prevent you from moving too much as he continues to suction on your clit, focusing his attention on it as much as he could. After years of being together, he just knew what you loved and this was it.

You liked it messy. Wet and fast, and Namjoon always gave it to you good. He pulls away momentarily so he could look up at you with a hooded gaze and you let out a high pitched whine when you see the glistening of his chin all the way up to his nose with the signs of your wetness staining him. His fingers run up your thighs teasingly and you shift under his ministrations only for him to smack your right thigh harshly.

“If you move you don’t get to cum.” He threatens you and you immediately still your body with the impossible threat.

You feel his fingers run up and down on your slit as he gathers all your wetness into one place, hovering slightly over your clit. You have to keep your whine to a minimum because Namjoon got real mean when he wanted to. But he was a good lover—so good.

Your hole is throbbing with a need to be filled, and your husband picks up on that immediately as he prods your entrance with the tip of his index finger. You attempt to grind down on him as you make eye contact with the dark eyes that threaten to take away your orgasm.

“I said. Don’t. Move.” He reminds you.

You whimper in silence as he teases your hole a little more before he decides to return home into the warmth of your walls. The moment that barrier was broken, you feel him go straight for the hook as he reaches his index finger all the way up until his knuckles. You hear Namjoon hiss under his breath as he begins prodding your walls until he finds—

“Fuck—there, Joon—ah!” You gasp, head tilting backwards when your husband finds your g-spot.

Namjoon smirks to himself and slides another finger in to hook them upwards into your g-spot, unmoving as he stills himself against the area; causing pure, unaltered pleasured to run through your veins. You’re vibrating and twitching all at once because you can’t control the involuntary response that comes with your husband's demon fingers that are causing every possible pleasurable feeling to run through your system.

You can’t keep the moan to yourself either as Namjoon looks at you with awe, but you miss it because your eyes are too busy being rolled to the back of your head at the way Namjoon skilfully thrusts into your pussy.

“H-Harder, p-please Joon—wanna cum so bad.” You moan and run your fingers through his hair to bring his mouth closer to your mound.

He lowly chuckles and shakes his head at your sex drive. And the next thing he does next nearly makes you cum on the spot.

The way he gathers his spit at the back of his throat was borderline pornographic as you see the way his throat revs up. He drops the glob of spit directly onto your clit and uses the hand that wasn’t in your pussy to spread the lubricant all over your slit. He purposefully grazes your clit but doesn’t apply enough pressure to make your head spin, but just enough for you to whine in want.

“Your pussy is so pretty love.” He coos, leaning into your mound to deliver kitten-licks to your clit, and the warmth of his tongue with the added addition of his fingers feels all too much.

“J-Joon!” You gasp when you feel him thrust his fingers rapidly in and out of your pussy that your body hitched up the surface of the bed. Every thrust was accompanied by the direct assault of his tongue on your clit as he presses down on the hardened bud with the purpose to drive you closer to your orgasm.

You were painfully close, and the precision of his fingers at your g-spot allows you to revel in the way the coil in your body is ready to snap, so close to release. Namjoon leans down so that his head is where you love him the most, between your thighs as he scores the final goal and presses his tongue against your clit.

“Oh my god Joon—fuck—s-so good—I’m gonna cum!” Your back arches off the bed uselessly because of the way that Namjoon uses his other hand to pin you down, arms wrapped tightly around your stomach.

“Come for me pretty girl.” He coos against your clit and the vibrations is what sends you over the edge.

He fucks his fingers into you as you orgasm, kitten licking your clit with just enough pressure for you to whine as you buck your hips up into his mouth involuntarily.

“Fuck. Baby—hurts.” You whine, pushing his head away from your pussy when the overstimulation gets to you.

Namjoon places one last teasing peck on your clit, which causes you to twitch and pinch his neck as he chuckles, dragging his hand up your body to bring you closer to him.

“Still got it, hm?” He whispers against the column of your neck as you roll your eyes.

“Just kiss me you fool.” You pull him in for a kiss, and your tongue immediately finds its place home in Namjoon’s mouth.

It’s probably because it’s been so long since the two of you could feel each other like this, without any rush to get it over with but with the freedom to enjoy each other’s bodies as much as you’d like. Namjoon’s hands were the truth of that as he trails his arms down the sides of your waist and tugs you closer to him by your hips until he reaches for the hem of your camisole to tug it off your body.

He grabs the mounds of flesh in his hands and squeezes them hard enough to cause another gush of wetness to drip down the side of your thighs and onto his sweatpants. Besides the fact that he delivered a mind-blowing orgasm to you, the stained wetness of his sweatpants from his pre-cum and your slick is enough for you to push him down onto the bed.

“I’m gonna suck your cock.” You kiss him on the lips one last time before you’re leaning down to palm him over his sweatpants.

He hisses above you and grabs the back of your neck lovingly that it has you snorting.

“You know if you’re laughing at my dick my feelings are going to be very hurt,” Namjoon says from above you.

“It’s just …” You shake your head and giggle as you clench your fist around the outline of Namjoon’s cock as he lets out a low breath of approval at your action.

“You used to shove my head onto your cock the moment I reached your pants and now you’re so soft.” You tease.

You hear his breath hitch and the grip on your neck tighten at your taunting words. The excitement already pooling in your stomach at the roughness that would ensue from your husband.

“Me? Soft? Is that what you want baby?” His tone is warning and you know he’s serious.

You shake your head as you look up at him with innocent eyes, a stark contrast to the hand that continues to fondle his balls over his sweatpants.

“Don’t be a bitch and take my cock out.” He sneers, and you smile to yourself cheekily—knowing you hit a sore spot.

You happily oblige as you pull Namjoon’s sweats down to be greeted with your husbands cock. The visual itself has your pussy throbbing, and every time you’re faced with it, you always burn with the prospect of his thick cock pounding into your pussy.

“Now suck it like a good girl.” He guides your head towards his dick but you’re proactive enough to fully start licking at his tip, tongue teasing his slit as you hear him let out a low groan.

Your eyes are locked on his figure, as his head is thrown back. You want to grind on the sheets but you know that would delay him fucking you so you decide against it. But that didn’t mean you couldn’t appreciate the visual that your husband was giving you from where you were.

Namjoon had always been handsome. But there’s something about seeing him throw his head back in pleasure because of you that has your stomach churning with pride. You’d shamelessly admit that you were more on the possessive side, purely because you knew there were many men and women out there who desired Namjoon in more ways than one; and you didn’t like sharing one bit.

You spit onto his dick as your hands worked the rest of the length that you didn’t engulf in your mouth as you hollowed your cheeks to create a suction. Your tongue begins to tease the underside of his shaft, the way he likes the most and you know he’s enjoying your focus there because the hand that grips your neck is now tightly clutching your hair in a fist.

“Fuck. That’s it, baby.” He groans.

Motivated by the praise, you sink deeper, hands resting on his thick thighs as you push yourself until your nose reaches his pelvis. You’ve taken his cock like a champion on many occasions, and you can only thank him for that like the numerous times he had to guide you down on his cock were probably the only reason why your tiny throat could welcome his thick girth.

The sounds of you chocking on his dick was a lot for Namjoon, mainly because he couldn’t get enough of his wife but also because he’s been waiting out to bust a nut down your throat—actually your pussy—so long that he can’t handle the onslaught of pleasure your mouth brings him.

“Baby—baby,” He tugs you off his cock and the redness around your cheeks with the tears that pool at your waterline is enough to make his heart soar. Even though you were nasty in bed, he loved every single part of your forwardness.

“Your mouth is amazing but I need to cum in your pussy.” He tells you.

You whine at his declaration and allow him to manhandle you until you were face down ass up, ass pressed tightly against his pelvis as you grind your wet cunt over the hardness of his dick.

“Fuck—you’re so wet, baby. You like sucking my cock?” He growls, arms reaching around your stomach to pull your body flush against his chest.

When you reach your hand to wrap around his head to balance yourself, you see a view of your bodies together in your mirror. Courtesy of when you first moved in and due to you and Namjoon’s egocentric tendencies of wanting to see you guys fucking each other.

“S-So much Joon.” You garble.

His hand reach down to cup your mound and digs his palm into your clit as you grind down against his hand. You feel him loosely trace over your clit to gather your wetness into his hand to lather it over his dick.

“I’m gonna fuck you so good.” He whispers in your ear when he lines his cock against your entrance.

You whine, excitement erupting inside of you—until he finally slides it.

It definitely takes you by surprise because your husband was big. And the fact that you haven’t had his dick in you for months made it much more of a pleasant surprise when he bottoms out completely in one swift thrust of his hips, which causes your body to fall forward as your hands grip the sheets beneath you.

“Fuck. This tight pussy’s mine, right?” He growls.

You nod your head into the sheets as he begins with a few experimental thrusts as you adjust to the slight, yet pleasurable, sting in your lower half.

Until you squeeze his hand on your hip to give him the go, Namjoon settles for slow thrusts into your pussy, but it’s enough to prod at your pleasurable spot because not only is Namjoon smart, kind, funny, handsome and ridiculously a great father—he is phenomenal at sex. Probably why he knocked you up on the night of your honeymoon with your bundle of joy.

Namjoon begins snapping his hips into yours relentlessly like a man starved, and starved he was. He’s missed the wet heat of your pussy; and God did he love your daughter—but he missed this—your pussy.

“F-Fuuuuu—” You’re heaving.

Namjoon continues to thrust into your pussy, angling his hips upwards so that he’d reach places deeper than ever as your eyes roll to the back of your heart in pleasure.

“Fuck—this—tight—pussy—” His words follow the sharpness of his thrusts and you don’t even know where to grab because all your sensations are heightened, especially when Namjoon reaches a hand down to your clit to begin rubbing it vigorously.

“Nam—Joon!”

You’re so wet that the squelch of his thrusts is echoed in your bedroom, and the only thing you hear besides that is your loud moans and the heavy breathing coming from Namjoon.

It’s only when he plants his knees firmly into the mattress and brings your hips to meet his thrusts is when you feel your pussy clench uncontrollably around his cock as you wail out his name.

“Fuck, baby—you’re clenching—so—hard.” He groans, pushing his hips deeper into your pussy.

“Love your cock,” You moan, “Fuck—Joon, please—fuck your cum into me.”

“Yeah?” He grits his teeth and flips your over effortlessly, dragging your leg over his shoulder as he begins pounding into you even harder as he admires the way your face contorts in pleasure.

“Yeah.” You nod your head like a sex-crazed maniac because your husband was just too good with his hips.

“Gonna give you another baby.” He whispers when he leans down into your face as your eyes widen at his declaration. Your pussy reacts too, gushing out even more wetness as it becomes tighter around Namjoon’s cock.

“Fuck. You like that idea? A sibling for Chan’?” He grinds his pelvis into your clit as his words spur your second orgasm for the night on.

“No shit?” You gasp when he revs up his spit in the back of his throat, looking at your mouth invitingly.

“Yeah,” He says breathlessly, and you open your mouth to welcome his tongue when he drops the glob of spit down your throat.

You whine, feeling your orgasm coming so closely.

“Fuck Joon—I’m gonna cum.” You gasp.

You feel Namjoon’s hips stutter and you know he’s coming soon too.

“Me too baby.” He tells you while giving you the set of most adoring eyes ever. Even as he’s fucking you into the next dimension, Namjoon makes you feel so utterly loved and whole that you can’t imagine spending the rest of your life with anyone else.

He snaps his hips the hardest he’s ever done throughout the entire night, and you feel your pussy throb so much; signalling to you and Namjoon that your release was right there.

“Baby—I’m gonna—I’m gonna c-cum,” You grab onto his shoulder to pull him closer to you.

He welcomes it and leaves open mouth kisses onto your mouth as he fucks into you like a mad man.

“Cum.”

That’s all it takes for you to reach an explosive orgasm, one that quite literally causes you to blank out for a second because while Namjoon’s hot cum spurts into your pussy short after you came, he feels your body go limp in his embrace; causing his eyes to widen.

Only until you’re blinking up at him dazedly is when he holds you to his chest, as you feel his chest rumble when he chuckles.

“Baby … I thought you died.” He cards a hand through your hair and you smile at him, stupidly in love.

“If I die because of your dick I’d be happy.” You grin at him cutely. And he scoffs at the way you look so cute after you’ve been fucked to hell and back.

“My horny little monster,” He flicks your forehead as you bring him close to your chest, his dick still settled inside of you. But there was a sort of intimacy that you couldn’t quite put words to, but welcomed the gesture nevertheless.

“Were you serious?” You ask after a while of sharing a few intimate pecks to each others’ lips.

He finally pulls out to roll on his side as he reaches over to pull your close to his chest. He raises an eyebrow at your expression when you feel his cum leak out of you.

“God you really didn’t jack off recently, did you?” You ask.

He pecks you on the nose as he quickly tugs clean boxers over his legs and disappears into your on-suite. You sigh to yourself dreamily, thinking of how lucky you were to be with someone as loving and compassionate as Namjoon was.

You weren’t necessarily unlucky when it came to your relationships prior to him, but there would always be dealbreakers that caused splits to be more bitter than neutral. Namjoon was the only man in your life that you could speak to without fearing any judgement from because he wasn’t like that. He knew how to make you feel wanted and also how to want yourself, all while being your best friend and partner.

When he returns, he returns with a damp cloth and immediately begins cleaning up the mess between your thighs, even as he cheekily mentions how there was more from where that came from as you slap him on the shoulder.

Once he ensures he’s satisfied, he tosses the cloth into the laundry basket and grabs a big t-shirt of his to slip it over your body. You hum in satisfaction as his scent overwhelms you, even more so when he tugs you close to his body and he looks at you with all the love in the world.

“You asked if I was serious earlier?” He repeats your question and you nod your head looking up at him.

“Yeah.” You let out a breathy smile when he leans down to pull your face towards his own as you admire all the freckles and pores on his skin, fingers tracing loosely over the wrinkles that come with age.

“I know it’s sudden but … I’ve been thinking about our family and—I want our family to become bigger.” He tells you like it’s a secret. You know he’s been mulling over it for quite a while because he looks a little unsure of himself, but all you can do is smile widely at him.

“Really?” You ask, playing with the hair on the back of his neck when you feel his fingers trace over the skin on your back.

“Of course. I love you, and I love Chanmi. I’ve always wanted kids and you brought the best gift in my life to me and … I can’t explain how happy I am when I’m with the two of you.” He smiles at you gently.

You don’t know if it’s because he just fucked you so good, or was it because you were lovesick, but your eyes water because Namjoon was Namjoon.

“But—if you’re not ready then I understand and we can—”

“Yes.” You interrupt him.

His eyes widen as you see the excitement begin to pour into his irises.

“Wait—really?” He asks innocently.

You nod your head and kiss him on the lips softly, no rush as he returns the gesture, holding you close onto his chest where you feel the best in his arms.

“Yes really. I want what you want. And I think it’s about time Chanmi gets a sibling, no?” You tease.

He groans like you’re unreal as he buries his head into the crook of your neck as you caress him gently. Namjoon was really just like an oversized baby and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

“When?” He asks.

You tease your fingertips down to his chest and offer him a knowing look.

“Now?” You feign indifference but you can see the wide grin he sports on his face.

“Fuck. Don’t say that. I think my dick is going to fall off at how hard I fucked you just now,” He whined.

“You’re getting old,” You massage his shoulders as he sighs.

“I am …” He acknowledges, “But we’ll grow old together, right?”

The prospect of a future of unknowns with Namjoon only makes your heart bloom. You nod your head, not another word need to be uttered as he holds you in his arms, excited for what’s to come.

[elysiadjarin]

Day 5: Pegging

I’m honestly surprised I’ve been keeping up with these. Juggling college, work, and projects on top of the time it takes to write these has not been easy. It’s been fun, though! Find my Kinktober Masterlist here.

An obligatory Star Wars one, of course, because I firmly believe in pegging good clone boys. No one has to know this is the first time I’ve written pegging okay. Gotta be good to my clone OC, okay? He’s a good boy, really.

Warnings: Minors DNI, this is 18+ content ONLY. Mentions of war (Clone Wars), though nothing explicit. Anal, pegging, strap-on, soft femdom, entirely consensual, some oral and handjob elements.

Tags: Star Wars, Clone OC (Icer), x reader

Downtime, Love

You’d been lying in bed, rolled over on your side and scrolling through your holoscreen, when you felt the bed dip behind you. Your boyfriend and his unit had been given some downtime between missions, and you had the weekend off from your job as a medic. He’d come to your flat, as usual, though he’d seemed to be a bit antsy all day.

With a hum, you settled your hand on his arm that wrapped around your waist. “Icer?” you murmured, glad he was finally deciding to lay down with you a bit.

He sighed from behind you, and he pressed a soft kiss to the back of your neck. “Hi, mesh’la,” he murmured.

You set down your tablet and squirmed, turning around to wrap your arms around his neck. “Hi,” you answered sweetly, leaning forward to nuzzle his cheek. “You finally get tired of pacing?” You smiled.

He gave you an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, really. I just… I guess I’m still not over the last mission yet.”he shook his head. “I know I should be paying more attention to you-“

You pressed a finger gently to his lips, hushing him. “Hey. You don’t have to constantly feel like you have to give me attention when you’re troubled, Icer,” you reminded softly, knowing that your responsible boyfriend sometimes forgot to take things easy. “Here, with me, you can relax. Let go of all your worries, hmm?”

He tugged you closer, his forehead tucking against yours. “I know. I’m supposed to be having downtime,” he said ruefully.

You stroked his cheek, brushing past the small burn scars of blaster fire that littered the side of his face, not quite blending in with his dark skin. Gazing at him with a smile, you fell in love with him all over again.

“What can I do for you?” you asked, seeing his eyes flicker up to yours in surprise. “Tell me what I can do to help you relax.”

His fingers tightened around your waist for a moment, and he smoothed his hands over your hips and back. He hesitated, his eyes flickering away from yours as his lips twisted, as though holding back a thought.

“Tell me,” you coaxed softly. “You deserve to be spoiled for all you do, Icer. It’s your turn to be pampered.”

But a flush spread over his cheeks as he continued to avoid your eyes. “I…” he cleared his throat as his voice cracked. “I mean, I—“ He swallowed. “Can you-“ he trailed off into an indecipherable mutter.

You bit back a laugh as your boyfriend suddenly turned shy. Cupping his face, you brought his face up to yours. Pressing a kiss to his lips, you gave him an indulgent smile.

“Can’t help you if you don’t tell me, love,” you teased.

“C-can you fuck me?” Icer blurted, then buried his face in your chest in embarrassment.

You tilted your head for a moment, wondering why he would be so shy about it. It wasn’t as though Icer didn’t sometimes come home just to drop everything and push you against the wall to beg for attention. It had to be something else, right? Something that maybe you either hadn’t done before or something he considered extremely indulgent-?

Oh. Oh.

You laughed softly, carding your fingers through his hair. “Oh, does my sweet baby boy want to be fucked? You want me to get on top of you, push you into the bed, hold you down and fuck every thought out of your mind?” you purred. Icer rarely asked for the strap, but he was always such a good boy when he did.

He nodded against your chest, wrapping his arms around your waist. “Please.”

You hummed, bending to kiss his curly hair. “Of course. Let me go get ready, and you get comfortable however you want, okay?” you promised.

He nodded, reluctantly letting you go. You hopped up to go get the strap and lube, taking a detour by the bathroom.

Coming back out, you shed your shirt and shorts on the way to the bed. Laying the things on the bed, you found Icer already ready for you, lying on his back. With a smile, you crawled up towards him, straddling his waist. You cupped his face in your hands, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his lips.

His hands rested on your back, his eyes closing as he kissed you back. His face seemed to smooth out, and he let out a contented sigh into your lips. His eyes fluttered open to look at you, infatuation saturating his gaze.

“How did I get so lucky with you?” he murmured.

You shook your head with a smile. “Maker blessed me with you, Icer,” you refuted. “You deserve the world.” Then you gave him another kiss. “Now let me spoil you.” You could already feel his cock against your thigh, hard and clearly excited.

You started to kiss down his jaw, littering little marks across his neck, moving down to his chest. Your hands swept across his body, smoothing down his sides. You laughed softly as he panted and whimpered, jerking under your touches.

“Aww, is my baby boy already so sensitive?” you teased, unable to keep yourself from being a little bit mean. He just always reacted so beautifully.

You finally made it down between his legs, splaying your arms over his thighs as you comfortably settled in. Looking up at his face with an amused smile, you watched from half-lidded eyes as you gently flicked the tip of his cock. It dribbled precum, accompanied by a soft whine that spilled from him. His cock twitched, searching for more friction.

You let out a low hum, dragging your fingertip up the vein on the back. Tracing little circles on his thigh with one hand, you ringed your fingers around the head of his cock with the other, swirling your thumb in tight circles around his tip. Icer moaned as more precum dribbled from his tip, lubricating your fingers. His breath shuddered as he struggled to keep his eyes open. You reached out and grabbed the bottle of lube. Icer flinched as the cap popped open, and you set it down and smoothed you hand across his thigh.

“You okay, baby?” you checked.

He nodded. “Y-yeah, please.”

With a hum, you leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to his tip. Pouring the lube over your fingers, you partially distracted him by sliding the head of his cock into your mouth. Your fingers prodded gently as you sucked, tongue swirling around his tip.

Icer’s fingers clenched in the sheets, and he moaned as you slid one finger into him, slightly stretching him. You let his body adjust for a moment, then started to slightly thrust your finger, never going more than a knuckle deep. Still, you noticed how readily his body responded, and how his moans got a little louder.

The moment you added a second finger, scissoring and stretching him little by little, his voice cracked on a moan as he arched his back. His clenched hands twisted in the sheets. You smiled, carefully adding a third finger. He didn’t seem to be in any discomfort, to your relief, so you gently pulled your fingers away to get the strap.

He whined, peering down at you with a noise of protest.

“Calm down, you greedy baby,” you laughed, beginning to put on the strap. “I’ll be there in a second, I promise,” you soothed. “Do you wanna get comfortable for me?”

He nodded, then rolled himself over onto his stomach, pushing his ass up into the air. He turned his head to look back at you, his cheeks flushed with arousal and his eyes dewey with want.

You hummed, then poured some of the lube onto the strap. Shuffling forward, you grasped his hips, pushing the strap between his asscheeks and letting it rest there for a moment. You squeezed handfuls of his waist, sliding your hands down his sides, just getting him to relax.

His breath evened out a little, and he practically melted into the pillow in front of him as he slumped forward.

“That’s a good boy,” you cooed, letting the strap slide down and press against his entrance. You didn’t push, just letting Icer relax so his body would accept it more. The very top of the strap slid in, and Icer’s breath caught as he moaned into his pillow. You held his hips still as he jerked a little.

“Are we doing okay?” you asked, voice gentle and smooth as you swept your hands down the small of his back. “Do you want to do it yourself?”

He nodded into the pillow, then slowly started pushing back against you as you held still for him. Gasping a little, he eased himself fully onto the strap at his own pace while you watched him take every inch. It finally bottomed out into him, and he whined as he leaned back against your hips.

“Good job, love,” you praised, keeping your voice mellow to relax him. “Now how about you hand me that pillow, hmm?” You took the other pillow that he pushed behind him, then leaned down to settle it under his hips. You gently pushed him prone on his stomach, only the pillow propping up his hips.

Your name spilled from his lips, a half-breathless moan of pleasure.

Lowering yourself, you shifted up a little and laid over his back. “Just relax, love,” you soothed, reaching up to grasp his wrists with a firm but gentle hold. You pressed them down into the bed, your front fully pressed against his back as you physically pinned him in place against the bed.

Letting out a quiet hum, you pressed a kiss to the back of his neck just as you started grinding your hips into his ass. You smiled against his skin as he moaned, his breaths quick and stuttering as his cock ground against the pillow under him as well. Sucking a mark into the back of his shoulder, you slowly shifted your hips until you were angled just right.

The moment you gently thrust your hips, Icer half-strangled his cry into his pillow. His entire body jerked under you as you hit his prostate, shuddering.

With a little ‘tsk,’ you readjusted his hands so you could pin his wrists above his head with one hand. With the other, you reached down and tipped his chin up out of the pillow, sliding your thumb into the corner of his mouth.

“No no baby boy,” you purred, “don’t hide those pretty little sounds from me. I have to know that my good boy is feeling good, don’t I?” you teased, still thrusting into him, hitting his prostate every time. “Aren’t you going to give me those needy whimpers as you take what you deserve?”

Drool slipped down your thumb, and his tongue lolled out of his mouth as he practically sobbed. He was starting to babble a little, grinding his cock into the pillow as he got fucked. Slurred pleas and hiccuping whimpers spilled from his mouth, and you pressed another kiss to his neck.

“You gonna cum, baby boy? Gonna be good and cum for me, just like this, taking the strap like needy little boy you are? Don’t you deserve to get fucked like this, hmm?”

Icer hiccuped and nodded around your fingers, his whimpers and moans getting desperate. His entire body seemed to hum under you, getting so close to his peak.

Finally, as you thrust into him one more time and ground against him, his back arched as he let out a cry that vaguely sounded like your name. His whole body shuddered as he unraveled, until he finally slumped against the pillows, weak and spent.

You let go of his hands and chin, humming softly as you gently kissed his neck. Sweeping your hands down his sides soothingly, you stilled and kept the strap in him, just letting him ride out the aftershocks.

Finally, his head turned as he gazed at you through teary eyes. “Thank you,” his voice rasped and cracked.

“Shh, just relax,” you murmured, stroking his mussed hair away from his face. “You were such a good boy for me, Icer. You just stay here, okay? I’m going to get you all cleaned up, so you just lay here and be good for me, okay?”

But he whimpered and grasped your hand. “Stay. Please,” he whispered. “Little longer.”

You smiled at him lovingly, keeping your body on top of him. “Of course, sweetheart.” You kissed his cheek.

You watched him fall asleep with soft eyes, stroking his hair. Maybe you couldn’t take away all of his worries, but sometimes… you could give him a break, just like this.

It would have to be enough.

[alj4890]

Prompt Request

(Thomas Hunt x OC*Amanda) with the prompt, "Well...that was mean." as requested by @krsnlove​ in celebration of 500 followers.

(Thomas Hunt x OC*Amanda) as taken from the Choices: Red Carpet Diaries/ Regency AU storyline, None But You

A/N For my BFF who loves Regency romance just as much as I do, I'm going back to the series she encouraged me on (pretty much like she does with all my crazy ideas) for this prompt. I adored how perfect Thomas Hunt seemed in this time period. His proud, abrupt ways were made for the early 1800s. For this one, we will go even further back to Thomas and Amanda's courtship that wasn't quite a courtship 😂

@graceful-popcorn​   @krsnlove​   @alleksa16​   @hopelessromantic1352​     @emceesynonymroll​​   @buzz-bee-buzz​   @hopefulmoonobject​    @rainbowsinthestorm​   @lxaah11​   @my-heart-beats-for-ya​ @everythingmarvelsherlockspn @friedherringclodthing​   @aworldoffandoms​   @ab1901​  @sophxwithers​

Masterlist

Inclinations

Lord and Lady Clifford's Ball, London...

"Oh!" Millie gripped Amanda's arm. With a jut of her chin, she hissed, "Can you believe the gall of Ms. Timmons? Look at her! That is the fifth time within the last few minutes that she has walked past Lord Summers and Lord Hunt."

Amanda covered her mouth with her fan when Millie compared the unfortunate young lady to a peacock strutting about to show off her plumage.

"If she adjusts her curl once more over her shoulder..." Millie glared at the spectacle. "I've never seen a lady more determined to catch a rich husband."

"Have you not?" Amanda managed to say without laughing. "Isn't that the point to coming to London for The Season? Aren't we all attempting to land ourselves a husband who assures us a life of comfort and security?"

"Hmph." Millie flicked open her own fan and began to use it vigorously. "Be that as it may, we at least attempt to attract gentlemen with decorum." A smile formed. "Of course, you don't have to worry about such a thing anymore."

"I do have to worry about it." Amanda argued. "No man has made me any promises or given any declarations."

"My dear friend," Millie linked her free arm with Amanda's, "some gentlemen make declarations without saying a single word." She gestured with her fan towards Thomas. "I've seen him attend more outings and balls since you first arrived than in the past two years that I have taken part in ton’s gatherings."

Amanda shook her head while her heart began to hope that her friend wasn't simply exaggerating the viscount's surprising appearance once more.

He had at past parties and balls admitted to her that he did not enjoy such and preferred the quiet life at Kirkwood Manor, his estate in Norfolk.

She wondered if he was attending these to see her.

Perhaps, then again, perhaps not.

He had not sought her out this evening for a dance nor for conversation. He had locked eyes with her from across the room and then bowed his head in greeting, but other than that he had not so much as glanced her way.

Which as much as Lady Amanda despised herself for her weakness for him, she had still peeked over at him whenever she could.

Could he possibly feel as I do?

She wished with all her heart that he felt the same for her.

"Pardon me, my lady, but may I request a dance?"

Amanda blinked and refocused on a gentleman she had only seen in passing. "Yes of course, my lord." She handed over her dance card.

*****************

"Do stop glaring, Kirkwood." Ryan insisted. "You'll scare all the ladies off if you're not careful."

Thomas merely shrugged while surreptitiously glancing over at the reason he had journeyed once more into yet another matchmaking mothers' den.

Lady Amanda Bridgerton was smiling and laughing at whatever Lady Millicent Rawlings was saying. Thomas felt his own lips curve upwards when she used her fan to try to hide her amusement.

Her happiness brought a warmth to his heart.

"There now." Ryan patted Thomas on the back. "That wasn't so hard was it?"

"What are you blabbering about now?" Thomas bit out.

"And it's gone." Ryan shook his head and heaved a deep sigh. "Why do you persist in staying away from her?"

"From whom?" Thomas nearly bit his tongue for tempting his friend into pointing out once again that he felt something more for the dark haired lady standing on the other side of the ballroom.

"Hunt." Ryan shook his head in resignation. "Why do you insist on tormenting yourself?"

"Tormenting?" Thomas chuckled as he took a sip of his drink. "I see you are finally seeing these balls in the same light as I do."

"That wasn't what I meant. I intended for you to leave my company for the one you prefer." Ryan grinned at the frustrated anger forming on his friend's face. He couldn't resist adding, "You cannot deny that Lady Amanda's is the one you desire above all others."

Thomas turned his attention once more toward the subject that he was having difficulty ignoring.

"Let's see now." Ryan continued. "I believe you have complimented her intelligence. I have overheard you mention how lovely her appearance is. Ah! And let's not forget that a moment with her has you smiling and even chuckling upon occasion."

"Absurd." Thomas huffed. "Once again, Summers, you turn a mere friendly admiration into some frivolous love story that young girls are want to dream about." He hmphed while studying Amanda. "I do worry about your mind at times. It is becoming even sillier than the ladies twittering about during their first season."

"Well...that was mean." Ryan's rich laughter drew attention to the two of them. "I believe I will find someone to soothe my damaged feelings with a dance."

Thomas rolled his eyes as Lord Summers finally took pity on the unfortunate Ms. Timmons and her efforts to try and gain such an offer from one of them.

Then he noticed their hosts' younger son, who just so happens to have a highly suspect reputation, approach Amanda.

Cursing under his breath, he began to make his way over to her side.

****************

"Shall we?" Lord Roderick Clifford held his hand out toward Amanda.

She smiled and began to take it, only for her hand to be captured in an all too familiar grip.

Her eyes widened at Thomas's nerve.

Millie simply beamed at his actions.

"This is my dance." He said, tucking her hand within the bend of his arm. "You'll have to forgive my tardiness, I was caught in an unfortunately long conversation with Summers."

Roderick merely cocked an eyebrow. "Your name was nowhere on her dance card."

"An oversight of my own, I assure you." Thomas brushed past him, pulling a bemused Amanda in his wake.

Once clear of being overheard, she squeezed his arm.

"I don't recall you requesting a dance from me this evening, Lord Hunt."

"Like I said earlier," he took her into his arms and began to waltz, "it was an oversight on my part."

She shook her head while fighting back a delighted smile. "I do not know what to think of you at times."

"Am I that difficult to figure out?" His frown softened. "I think I am a fairly average gentleman."

"Nothing about you is average, my lord." Her smile grew when she noticed the flush upon his cheeks. "You are an intelligent and interesting gentleman to be sure and yet you rarely converse with others here." She tilted her head as if pondering this great mystery. "Why is that?"

His lips parted then closed. His brow furrowed for a moment. "I suppose it is because I do not enjoy striking up conversations with people I do not know well."

"You struck up one with me when we first met." She reminded him. A soft laugh escaped her lips. "And every moment since then with you only proves that anyone would be fortunate to engage in discussions with you."

His lips curved once more as he held her gaze. "I think of the two of us, it is you that anyone would be fortunate to talk to. You have that rare gift of putting one at ease as he tries to speak."

She beamed at him. "That is a lovely compliment. Thank you for that, Lord Thomas."

He had to bite back the many other compliments that came to mind as he looked upon her. "It was merely the truth, nothing more."

"Just the same." She insisted. "Thank you."

He nodded and happened to glance up to see Ryan's smug smile nearby.

Glaring at the reminder that he had only proven his friend correct, he guided Amanda a few steps away from his nosy friend.

"I meant to ask you, is there something about Lord Clifford I should avoid?"

He focused once more upon the lady in his arms. "Yes, he er..."

Thomas wondered how to delicately say that the man was practically living at some of the brothels that some gentlemen amongst the ton preferred to visit. If not for his elder brother and father physically removing him from such a disreputable establishment, he doubted the man would be wooing ladies in a ballroom this evening.

The thought of Lady Amanda stuck with such a man for even a dance had not sat well with him. It was becoming hard enough to see morally respectable men waltz with her, much less one not fit to even touch her hand.

"His activities of late have caused a strain amongst his family and those close to him."

Her eyes narrowed somewhat as she tried to guess what the man had done.

"Is it," she lowered her voice to a whisper, "gambling?"

"No, though he is a prolific gambler." Thomas muttered.

"Is it--"

"It is not a topic for ladies' ears." He blurted out.

Her eyes widened. There was only one topic that young ladies without a husband were forbidden to discuss.

Her cheeks burned as she lowered her eyes. "I see."

Thomas relaxed somewhat once he saw she was not going to bring Lord Roderick up anymore.

"That's why you insisted on dancing with me." Amanda mumbled.

He blinked at the disappointment he heard in her voice.

Could she have actually wanted to dance with such a libertine?

Amanda sighed over the fact that Thomas was merely acting the gentleman once more. There was no true interest in his lying about this being his dance other than his chivalrous nature needing to protect an innocent lady.

She began to wish that he didn't see her as some damsel in distress in need of a knight to charge in and save her from unsavory men at every single turn.

She wished...it was foolish to wish for something that wasn't there nor would ever be. There was no jealousy or need to be by her side.

He simply was a true gentleman.

"I had planned on asking you to dance earlier." Thomas said, wondering at her despondent expression. "And in all honesty, I was looking forward to continuing our discussion on Persuasion."

She nodded. Of course. The book he insisted she read without spoiling the ending was his true interest.

She forced a smile. "Captain Wentworth, in my opinion, is a character who is determined to make himself miserable."

Thomas nearly missed a step as they made another turn about the ballroom. "What makes you think that?"

"His attempts to keep away from Ann, yet keeps finding himself drawn closer whenever he sees her or hears her voice." She raised her eyes back to his. "Why would he do such a thing, hurting them both in the process, when it is obvious she would welcome his affection?"

Thomas swallowed. "Perhaps...perhaps Captain Wentworth doubts that he could truly hold her heart. He needs to protect himself, even to the point of heartache knowing that Ann is the only one who could truly wound him."

"But he is missing out on a chance for true happiness." Amanda slowed her steps as the music began to die down.

Thomas kept her hand in his as he led her off the floor. "He is a fool." He turned back toward her. "It seems a man's inclination to be foolish when presented with the very object he yearns for most in the world. He at first doubts it's existence then fights against the very notion that it is all he truly needs. Then once the realization strikes, he is at a loss at taking the first step to secure his happiness."

Amanda took a step closer to him, inexplicably drawn by the emotion in his dark eyes. "Do you think that you would ever behave in such a manner when shown what your heart wants most?"

His grip on her hand tightened as he raised it to his lips. "I might be the most foolish of them all." He bowed his head to her. "Thank you for the dance, my lady. I hope that you will find it in your heart to save me another one when next we meet."

Thomas reluctantly released her hand and quickly left the ball.

[deathonyourtongue]

Winter Passing | Chapter 3

Summary: Injured and left for dead in the middle of a nowhere state, he traverses peaks and valleys for days without seeing any sign of civilization. Just as death’s icy fingers begin to coil around him, he finds a cabin in a clearing. Terrified from years of being told fairy tales and ghost stories, he nevertheless knocks on the door. When he wakes, he finds not a demon, but an angel, long removed from the insanity of the modern world. Pairing: Slightly AU!Henry Cavill x OC Word Count: 2k  Warnings: None for this chapter _______________________________________________ Message me if you’d like to be added/removed from the tag list! @fumbling-fanfics @skiesfallithurts @pinkpenguin7@madmedusa178 @crushed-pink-petals @fangoria @bluestarego@caffeinated-writer @my–own–personal–paradise @tastingmellow​ @honeychicana​ @lua-latina​ @angelicapriscilla​ @swiftyhowlz​ @schreiberpablo​ @pinkwatchblueshoes​ @kirasmomsstuff​ @prettypascal​ @blacklotus-of-the-black-kingdom​ @nardahsb​ @playbucky​ @veryfastspeedz @queen-of-the-kastle​ @freyahelps​ @cajunpeach​ @godlikeentity​ @captainsamwlsn​ @nakusaych9@katerka88 @katerka88 @kirasmomsstuff @melaninmimii@alienor-romanova @downtowndk​ @redhairedmoiraandtheliferuiners​ @safiras​ @agniavateira​ @henryfanfics101​ @fatefuldestinies @iloveyouyen​

Henry got in the hot water with a wince, every joint starting to ache as the fear and anxiety wore away and he came to terms with the fact that it would be at least a few days before he could get out of Olivia’s cottage. 

“How long have you lived out here?” He asked Olivia once he’d finished tucking the washcloth around himself as best he could, Henry almost positive she’d still get an eyeful given how small the strip of fabric was. 

Turning, Olivia kept her eyes on his face even as she sat on a stool next to the tub. Usually reserved for a candle and a glass of wine, it sat her at the perfect height to care for any hidden wounds that might not have been apparent before. 

“Out here? I think I’m going on ten years. I don’t really keep track, to be honest. Time’s slow out here, and that’s how I prefer it,” she smiled, using the light from the window to do a second check of his head, Olivia relieved when she found no cuts or goose eggs of any sort. 

With her courage worked up, she took a slow glance down his body, trying her best to focus on finding injuries and not on simply gawking at the man who, when nude, had the body of an ancient deity. Olivia swallowed thickly as she took in the broad expanse of his chest, forested with thick, dark hair, a trail of it leading to an equally hirsute set of abs. Purposely skipping her gaze over the washcloth, she focused on his legs, clicking her tongue as she saw the bruise already inky black on his knee cap. 

“That’s gonna swell. I’ll get you some ice once you’re warmed up enough,” she mentioned pointing at Henry’s knee, Olivia’s gaze lingering a moment on his toes, not wanting to miss the first signs of frostbite; treating it later would be far harder than nipping it in the bud before it had a chance to truly set in.  

Satisfied that there was no blood in the water and that his two worst injuries seemed poised to resolve themselves with time, Olivia was just about to turn her attention back to Henry’s head--and the dirt she could now see caked into his hair--when a tap on the window made her look up and smile. 

“What in the…” Henry’s mouth hung open in confusion as he looked between Olivia and the raven that perched on the windowsill, looking in expectantly. 

“That’s Dyster. He’s wanting breakfast. I’ll be right back. No closing your eyes,” Olivia grinned before looking at Henry sternly, still worried that he’d slip off into sleep and make his head injury all the worse. 

Flitting to the kitchen, she pulled the ice box open again and pulled three strips of beef from a container with a fork, throwing a piece to Gunnar before moving back to the window. 

“Dunk down, I don’t want you catching the draft. I’ll be quick, I promise,” she informed Henry as she moved to the window where Dyster’s pecking at the glass was getting more incessant. 

“Good morning, Mr.,” Olivia greeted the bird warmly, setting the meat on the windowsill before stroking over his blue-black feathers and earning herself a grateful squawk. 

“Yes, I know,” she answered, nodding. Another squawk had her frowning slightly, Olivia’s eyes focused on the bird as though she were having an actual conversation.

“No, not like that. Mind your business.” Tapping Dyster lightly on the beak, she smoothed over his feathers again before slowly shutting the window.

“One more sec,” Olivia held up a finger before moving back to the kitchen to wash her hands. For his part, Henry could only sit, stupefied at what he’d just seen. Had she really spoken to the bird as though she understood it? Should he be frightened of her mental state? Would he have to endure her pretending to understand all the animals of the forest for a week or more? He didn’t have time to ponder longer, as Olivia came back in with a breathless smile, a hewn cup in her hand. 

“Tip your head back,” she encouraged, filling the cup with water from the bath. Henry did as asked, wary of how badly it would sting his cuts. Olivia’s hand protected the bandages however, her light tough almost as soothing as the warm water that poured through his curls. Something in the water soothed him, body and mind, and any pain that he’d begun to feel was distilled until it was only an afterthought, especially when Olivia’s hand carded through his hair. 

“Mmm,” the sound escaped him before he could stop it. Low in his chest, it telegraphed just how much better he was feeling, and it made Olivia smile, proud of the knowledge that had been passed on to her and had allowed her to mend him as well as she had thus far. Shampooing his hair and being careful to not aggravate any bruises hidden by his dark curls, Olivia rinsed him a second time, then sat back.

“Here, suds up, and I’ll go grab a fresh bucket for your rinse,” she smiled, handing Henry a homemade bar of soap and a second washcloth, confident that he could do it without causing himself further injury. 

After taking the last bucket of water off the fire, she quickly headed upstairs, realizing he’d have nothing to wear once he got out. Searching through her closet, Olivia let out a noise of triumph as she found a pair of gray sweatpants and a navy blue t-shirt, a swap she’d all but forgotten she’d made years ago. While she wasn’t a packrat by any means, Olivia did make it a habit of keeping things she thought useful, and while she rarely had visitors, she’d kept the clothing in the event that someone bigger and taller than her needed a fresh set after falling in the lake or something similar.

Forgetting her own instructions to Henry, Olivia came back into the room to find him utterly nude and preoccupied with washing the remnants of blood off his arm. Nearly dropping the bucket, she turned quickly, a squeak of surprise making her presence known. Eyes squeezed shut, she once more hid her laugh as she heard the splashing of water and the scramble of Henry covering himself once more. 

“Sorry, love. Didn’t think you’d be back so quickly,” he apologized, “I’m decent.” Clearing his throat, he kept one hand over the washcloth, his cheeks pink with embarrassment. 

“It’s alright, I did ask you to wash,” Olivia mumbled, waiting a moment before turning back around. Setting the clothes on the stool, she set the bucket down and squatted next to the tub, reaching underneath the porcelain to pull the drain plug she’d fitted herself when she got it. Connected to a pipe that led out to a drum by her garden, Olivia used the water in the spring and summer to water her crops after filtering it with iodine. When the tub was nearly empty, she stood back up and lifted the bucket, holding it right at Henry’s collarbones.

“Tip your head back one more time,” she instructed softly, waiting until he was positioned and still to slowly begin pouring the warm water on him. Goosebumps followed the stream as every bit of him was simultaneously warmed and cooled by the water and air, respectively. Olivia bit her lip as she let her eyes wander over his body once more, not only ensuring all the soap was removed, but giving herself one last chance to appreciate his finely sculpted frame. Physically, there was no doubt he’d make any woman swoon, and thus far, his personality wasn’t fairing poorly either. Olivia didn’t let herself linger on her thoughts, knowing full well his stay with her was temporary and that soon enough the snow would melt and he would be gone for good. She ignored the twinge the thought put through her heart, shifting her focus back on his care and well-being. 

“Okay, so they may be a bit small because you’re a tall man, but these should fit for now,” she explained, patting the clothing once the bucket was empty and he was ready to towel off. Henry cocked his head to one side, smiling skeptically. 

“Is there a husband I should know about? One who might barge in and get the wrong idea?” He asked, the chuckle in his tone making it clear he was only pulling her leg. Henry immediately felt like scum for asking when his question didn’t elicit the laugh he thought it would, but instead drew a sad smile from Olivia. 

“No. No husband around these parts. Just me and Gunnar. You’re safe,” she finally answered, meeting his eyes only for a moment before moving the bucket out of the way. 

“Think you can stand on your own?” She asked, quickly swiping a finger along the bottom of the tub to check how slippery it could be, given all her soaps were handmade and tended to have oils in them for conditioning. She stayed close as Henry tested his arms on the rims of the tub and only backed away a few steps as he carefully stood to his full height, moving as slowly as possible so the washcloth didn’t fall on his way to being upright. Satisfied that he was sturdy enough, Olivia stepped in close once again, tugging his arm over her shoulder and wrapping her own around his back to make the transition onto her bath mat as smooth as possible. 

Once Henry was safe on solid ground, she grabbed the bucket, took a deep breath and turned her back once more, allowing him time to change. Henry made quick work of the shirt before sitting on the stool and dragging the pants up each leg, giving himself a moment’s rest before standing again and pulling them up to his hips. They were indeed a little small, but given he wasn’t going anywhere, it didn’t matter. 

“All set,” he told her softly, smiling gratefully at Olivia, one arm already up for her to throw over her shoulder once she turned around. 

“Thank you again. For everything you’ve done so far. You’re...” Henry trailed off, unable to think of a comparison that didn’t involve organized religion, finding it a little foolish to rattle off such a platitude to a woman who clearly worshiped the old gods. 

Olivia nodded, but stayed quiet, focused on getting Henry to bed so he could rest. Her mind was racing a million different ways, and the quicker she got him down, the quicker she could take a moment to clear her own head. Though she didn’t want him sleeping, upon entering the room, Olivia quickly realized it would be nearly impossible to keep him awake. Entertainment without electricity was difficult in the best of circumstances, let alone with a mild head injury. She really could only offer him books or puzzles, and for a city boy, Olivia knew those would only hold his attention for so long; she’d have no choice but to put Gunnar on watch. 

Making sure Henry was settled and tucked in, Olivia lit a fire in the smaller hearth inside the room and then perused the bookcase nearby for a few things to keep her guest occupied. 

“I know the choices for entertainment are slim around here, but I’ll have Gunnar stay with you and come get me if he senses anything’s wrong with you. Rest now,” she spoke softly, checking the bandages on his head one final time before setting the books next to him and calling for Gunnar. The dog came at a leisurely pace and, without being told, hopped up on the bed, settling in the small space between Henry and the wall, another huff aimed at his owner. 

“Be good. Keep an eye on him.” Olivia told him with a narrow-eyed smile. Lifting his head, Gunnar mocked her outright, his mouth moving in a way that made it nearly impossible to think he didn’t speak whenever humans weren’t around.

“Do you want beef for dinner, or do you just want kibble?” Olivia asked, crossing her arms over her chest and looking at her pup expectantly. With a sound that was clear displeasure at the ultimatum, Gunnar looked up at Henry, looked back at Olivia and flopped his head down on Henry’s thigh in surrender. Olivia rolled her eyes and shook her head, never failing to find her dog amusing. 

“Rest. Shout if you need anything. I’ll be around.” Nodding at Henry, Olivia turned on her heel and headed out of the room, closing the door softly behind her.

[chinateacup]

Commission for @asrasdarling

Thank you so much for commissioning me @asrasdarling! As requested, 3k of Halloween themed fluff with Asra and their lovely apprentice Jenna.

Fandom: The Arcana

Characters: OC, Asra, Muriel, Portia, other

Pairings: Asra/OC

No rating required

“What in the world is that?”

Jenna looked over her shoulder, wobbling on her tiptoes and struggling to hang what looked like a tatty piece of string above the shop door. “It’s a cobweb.”

Asra tilted his head, and his eyes narrowed. “You do know we have real spiders who live her? Who make real cobwebs?”

“That’s not the point,” she huffed, standing back from the wall and looking smugly up at her handiwork. “The point is the spookiness. How does it look?”

“Ooh, completely terrifying,” Asra said with smirk, wrapping his arms around her waist.

Jenna leaned her head against his, huffing. “I can tell when you’re lying.”

“I’m not lying!” He piped defensively. “Here, let me try.” Once he’d detangled himself from her, he held up his hands, fingertips glowing white with magic. A woven string tapestry on the wall suddenly unravelled itself, twisting and turning until it had become a perfectly symmetrical spider’s web, even with a woven Faust in the middle.

Jenna scowled. “Show-off.”

Asra giggled, bumping her shoulder. “You can do better, and you know it.”

“Yeah, but I wanted to decorate properly! Magic is cheating.” She pouted slightly, straightening the red-leaved wreath behind the door. “If the decorations don’t look tacky and ridiculous, I don’t want them in my home.”

“Ugh, you sound like Lucio.”

“Then Lucio has a damn good point.” Jenna opened the lid of a jack-o-lantern, letting Faust slither out and wrap herself around her arm. “Just this once.”

Asra grinned, gently patting the tiny witch’s hat perched on his familiar’s head. “You look lovely, Faust.”

“Spooky!”

“See?” Jenna put another of Faust’s hats on Asra’s head. It was comically small. “She gets it.” He tutted, but didn’t move to take it off. “Did you remember to lock up, by the way? It’s after eight.”

He opened his mouth to answer, but there was a heavy thump on the door just as he did. Three neat knocks. Faust retreated from Jenna’s arm, hiding herself under the counter. “I’m sorry, we’re closed!” Jenna called.

A hesitation, then some shuffling could be heard on the doorstep. The knocks came again, louder this time, and suddenly the shop plunged into darkness. The pair both started, and Asra instinctively grabbed her hand. Jenna swallowed, trying to conjure a light in her palm, but the air around them was thick and smothering. “What just happened?” she whispered.

“I don’t know.” Asra cleared his throat. “Who is it?”

“Oh…” said a voice behind the door. “It is urgent, my friends, quite urgent!”

“What do you need?” Jenna asked, still clinging to Asra’s hand, before remembering the last time she’d had such a late customer. The countess, deeply distressed and troubled by her dreams. “Do you need a reading?”

“Reading? Yes, yes, a reading!” The voice sounded gleeful at the suggestion.

She swallowed thickly, and instinctively turned to Asra, but it was pitch black and she couldn’t make out his face. “Let’s let them in.”

“You think?” His voice was hushed and suspicious.

“He might be in trouble. Can’t you feel his energy?” The dark shroud around them, while oppressive and frightening, felt lonely somehow. Anxious.

Asra paused for a moment, before he let go of her hand and blindly felt his way to the door. The light and noise from the street flooded in, with people already celebrating the harvest in the streets, dancing and singing and comparing scary costumes. It happened every year; it was to be expected. The figure on their doorstep, however, was not.

Jenna squinted at the large mass of black fabric, trying to work out if there was a person under there. The cloak trailed on the ground behind them, shrouding their entire body and most of their face. All Jenna could see that looked remotely human, was a pair of dark glasses, hiding their eyes behind them.

Asra glanced between her and the customer. She shrugged, motioning for them to come in, and they gasped. “Oh, thank you, thank you! I am so grateful to you!”

“It’s really no trouble,” Asra said kindly, wedging the door open with a pumpkin to keep the light in, “but I really should refer you to our opening hours? Just hanging in the window there –”

“Yes, yes, I am terribly sorry,” they gabbled. “But I was really very desperate! Please, let’s do the reading right away.”

They began shuffling towards the backroom, though they hadn’t told them where the reading room was. Jenna frowned, following, and took the Tarot deck from her pocket. By the time she had sat at the table, however, they already had cards in their hands.

“Oh,” she blinked, confused. Asra sat cross-legged in a chair beside her. “Would you… prefer to use your own deck?”

“You. Pick.” The customer shoved the deck in Asra’s direction, and few cards tumbled onto the table.

Asra chuckled, a little nervously. “Um, listen, there may have been some confusion here. I thought you wanted Jenna to read your fortune.”

“Please, pick!” Their voice strained slightly, sounding urgent.

Asra jumped. “O-Okay.” He pulled a single card from the deck, and placed it face down on the table.

The customer turned to Jenna next, who blinked down at their gloved hands with a wary frown. “Why do you want to read our fortunes? What is it you want?”

“I will tell you in a moment,” they promised, nodding quickly. “Yes, I will tell you everything. Just please, pick a card.”

A silence followed, in which the muffled sounds of music and shouting carried in from the streets. Jenna turned to Asra, face half illuminated in the dim light. He looked about as confused as she felt… but this guest, while uninvited, didn’t seem malicious.

She took a card and placed it beside Asra’s.

The customer seemed to physically deflate with relief, and flipped Asra’s first. “The Tower, reversed… uhm…” They pulled a tiny booklet seemingly from mid-air, and began ferociously scanning the pages. Jenna recognised the book as a pamphlet on Tarot that they sold to beginner magicians… usually small children.

“The Tower when reversed means that you may be experiencing a time of change and emotional upheaval,” she clarified. The guest went still, quickly looking up from their booklet. “And it serves as a warning to not resist these changes, but to allow them to happen. Resistance can be dangerous.”

The guest stared in wonder, and Asra smiled proudly, nudging her arm. “Jenna is a very skilled magician.”

She gave him a playful look in return. “Behave.”

His cheeks flushed, but the guest didn’t seem to notice, flipping his card next. “Nine of Cups, upright.” This time, their eyes went right to Jenna, not even bothering with the booklet. Asra looked at her as well, eager.

She sighed, barely concealing a smile at his fond expression. “Nine of Cups when upright encourages the individual to enjoy their life as it is right now. Your heart must be overflowing with gratitude, happiness and contentment. Enjoy it, and cherish it while it lasts. You’ve worked hard to get here.”

Asra’s gaze was on her with every word, and when they locked eyes, Jenna could have sworn his were misty.

The moment didn’t last, however, as the guest starting making disapproving noises. “No, no, that’s not right…” they were muttering, flicking through the booklet. “That’s not right at all…”

She tore her gaze away from Asra, and shrugged. “I’m sorry, that’s what the card means. Were you expecting something else?”

“You can’t help me.” They stood abruptly, frantically emptying coins onto the table from a small purse. They rolled onto the floor and clinked against the crystal ball, before the guest fled the shop without another word, shuffling away as fast as their legs could carry them. The moment they left, the lights began to glow again, and all the candles relit themselves.

Jenna shuddered as the oppressive magic left the shop, and Asra moved the pumpkin propping open the door so it swung shut. He locked it tightly. “That was weird.”

“Very weird,” Jenna agreed, peering out of the dirty window. They had completely vanished in the crowd of partygoers.

“Mm,” he hummed thoughtfully, joining her by the window. “Still, always nice to see you at work.” Jenna chuckled, and he caught her hand in his, kissing her wrist softly. “I love watching you in your element. You make me so proud, you know?”

She smiled when he kissed her temple, then her cheek, before catching his face in her hands and pressing their lips together firmly. He made a small squeak in surprise, before melting against her, deepening the kiss and chuckling against her mouth when her glasses got in the way. They parted, and he adjusted them carefully. “Sorry.”

“No worries,” Jenna murmured, face flushed pink and lips curled into a smirk. “Glad you enjoyed the show. Despite, you know… all the creepiness that came with it.”

“Despite it?” Asra smirked, removing her glasses entirely and tucking them into the neckline of her sweater. “Only made it better. Kinda had me wishing you could have done it in costume.”

“Oh, no no no,” Jenna grinned deviously, detangling Faust’s little witch hat from his curls. “I would have hated to upstage yours.”

Hours later, Jenna woke up with a start to the sound of cheering from the streets. She felt about for her glasses on the bedside table, blinking around the room once she had them on. It was dark outside, and Asra was still sleeping beside her, his back rising and falling as he snored softly against the pillow. They must be celebrating the stroke of midnight; it was officially the end of harvest.

Jenna groaned and flopped back against the pillow, about to doze off again, when there was a noise from downstairs.

She tutted, groggily shuffling to the top of the stairs that led into their bedroom. Peering between the banisters, the shop looked normal. No creepy customers in black cloaks. The place was empty. She sighed and shuffled back to bed, crawling under the sheets.

The sound came again, louder, and Jenna practically jumped out of her skin, letting out a yelp. “Asra!” She whispered urgently, tapping his warm shoulder. He muttered something, but didn’t stir. Jenna huffed. She was sure her partner could happily sleep through the apocalypse and wake up asking what was for breakfast. She shook him harder, and Faust curled around the headboard, looking down at him curiously.

“Sleepy!”

“Don’t have to tell me that,” Jenna mumbled back. “Asra, wake up!”

“Hmm?” His eyes cracked open slowly, long, white lashes blinking up at her in the dark. “Jen? What’s going on? Is it morning?”

“I think there’s someone downstairs.”

Asra faltered mid-yawn, and looked concerned. “What? Do you think that customer’s back?”

Jenna bit her lip. She couldn’t sense any change in the atmosphere, her magic didn’t feel stifled… “No. But it could be someone else.”

He hummed. “I definitely locked the door… And I can’t think of anyone who would be here at this time of night.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, searching Jenna’s face. “You definitely heard something?”

She nodded.

Asra threw the bedsheets aside and stood, hiking up his sleeping pants when they drooped a little. Jenna crept her way across the room, beginning down the stairs. She was about to beckon Asra to follow, but when she turned around, he was right behind her, peering down at the dark shop below.

They both held their breath, squinting against the darkness. Jenna could hardly hear a thing over the blood racing in her ears, the hectic rhythm of her heart. Maybe it really had just been nothing? It didn’t look like Asra could hear anything either, judging by his face.

He held up a hand, intending to light up the shop floor, and looked to Jenna, silently asking permission. She pressed her lips together tightly, and nodded.

His fingers flexed, and with a casual flick of the wrist, the shop was lit.

…No one. It was empty.

The pair sighed in relief, all tension leaving their shoulders. Jenna chuckled, breathless, and Asra did the same, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear.

She opened her mouth to apologise, when a grey blur darted across the room.

They both let out a shriek, retreating back to the safety of their room in a mad scramble, tripping over the stairs and their clothes and each other, before slamming the bedroom door behind them and dropping to the floor, leaning against it with their full weight.

Jenna could feel her heart slamming against her ribcage, and imagined that Asra must feel the same, if that frantic look in his eyes was anything to go off. “What was that thing?” she asked breathlessly, voice panicked.

“I don’t know, I didn’t get a good look!” Asra ran a hand through his curls, a fine shiver slowly working down his back. “Do you think that customer left it here?”

“Yeah, maybe they just forgot to take their pet beast from Hell home with them!” Jenna shuddered, wiping her hands on her clothes. She felt as though there were insects crawling all over her.

Faust appeared on Asra’s bare shoulder, curling herself around his neck. “Prank?”

He pursed his lips, still panting slightly. “It is harvest. Scary pranks are kind of a tradition.”

“Who would be out to prank us?” Jenna shuffled closer to him, linking their arms so they were huddled together. “Everyone’s at the palace partying, right? That’s what normally happens at midnight.”

Asra hummed in agreement, before looking alarmed and pressing a finger to his lips. Jenna fell silent, listening.

Downstairs, she heard the familiar creak of the front door.

Her eyebrows shot up. “Someone’s in the shop!” she whispered as quietly as she could.

“They must have picked the lock!” Asra pressed his ear against the wood of the door, and Jenna followed suit, making the frame of her glasses stick out at an odd angle.“…I can’t hear anything,” he said. “Can you hear anything?”

“Yes, Asra, I can hear you!”

“I’m whispering!”

“Whisper better!”

Before he could retort, there were footsteps on the stairs.

Almost immediately, he reacted, grabbing Jenna’s hand and pulling her with him into bed, yanking the sheet up over them. Jenna cursed under her breath, pulse roaring in her ears, and held Asra’s head against her chest, clinging to him for dear life as the door creaked open.

She stared into his eyes as they listened to the squeak of the floorboards beneath someone’s feet. They paid no attention to the bed, apparently, but Jenna heard things being moved about the room, cupboards being opened. She wasn’t too worried about burglars; there wasn’t anything of any cash value in the bedroom, and anything rare in the shop got stashed away tightly at night. But the thought of a stranger in their home…

Asra’s arms tightened around her, pressing their foreheads together and smiling bravely. It was a little wobbly, but it was brave still. Jenna smiled back, squeezing his trembling shoulders.

Then she saw a shadow over their bed through the sheet, and had to press her lips together so she didn’t shout. A muffled squeak still escaped them, and Asra huddled even closer. They lay completely still, holding their breath.

Then the floorboards creaked, the door closed, and the intruder was gone.

Asra let out a muffled sigh against Jenna’s neck, and she exhaled slowly, closing her eyes.

When she opened them, there was a dog in her face.

She screamed in surprise, and Asra followed suit, throwing the sheet off the bed and scrambling back against the head board. Someone ran up the stairs again, burst through the door and grabbed the dog triumphantly in their arms. “Gotcha!”

Jenna blinked against the dim light, finally getting her bearings. “Portia?”

“Oh, hey guys,” Portia beamed from behind the dog. It was over half her size, yet she carried it without much strain at all. “What are you doing in here?”

Asra blinked at her. “It’s our house! We live here!”

“Yeah, but it’s the festival! Even Muriel’s still out, aren’t ya, Muriel?”

She motioned to the doorway, and Jenna’s eyes followed. At some point, Muriel had appeared at the top of the stairs, looking sheepish. “…Had to catch Truckle,” he mumbled, cheeks tinged pink.

Jenna looked between them. “Truckle?”

“Mr Withers’ dog!” Portia clarified. The dog in her arms wriggled slightly at his name, tail wagging against her shoulder.

“Did you catch him?” The customer from earlier appeared from behind Muriel. Without his cloak, Jenna could see he just was a short, speckled old man who wobbled slightly when he walked. Nothing so sinister as he had seemed earlier. “Oh, Truckle! My baby, there you are!” The dog barked and wiggled from Portia’s grasp, settling down at his owner’s feet. “I cannot believe he would run off again! After all that havoc he caused this morning… I suppose the cards must have been wrong.”

Asra looked intensely confused, and Jenna felt about the same. “Huh?”

“The cards! They said nothing about you two finding Truckle. Yet I suppose, in a way, you did!”

“What?” Portia looked offended. “They didn’t find Truckle! Sure, Truckle found them, but we’re the ones who chased him all over town! He could have climbed through anyone’s window. We just got lucky Muriel had a key.”

“Sorry,” he muttered in Jenna’s direction, still lingering awkwardly in the doorway. “Did we scare you?”

Asra pointed an accusatory finger at Muriel’s chest. “You, sir, have lost your key privileges. We are no longer friends.”

Muriel looked at his finger in amusement, the hint of a smile ghosting his features. Jenna’s eyes bulged. For him, that was basically uproarious laughter.

“Okay, everybody go!” Asra stood from the bed, herding the group down the stairs. “Out of our shop, you have terrorized magiciankind quite enough for one night.” Jenna followed them all down, catching Portia’s eye when she giggled and mouthed an apology.

“Aw, come on, Asra,” she said, halfway out the door. “We didn’t mean to scare you. Get in the holiday spirit!”

“You feel free to get in whatever spirit you want to,” Asra replied calmly, ushering Truckle out last, “but Jenna and I are going to sleep.”

“Thank you so much for your help, both of you!” Mr Withers trilled, still overwhelmed with gratitude.

Jenna sighed, squeezing her eyes shut tight. “You’re welcome.”

“Goodnight, guys!” Portia called out playfully. “Don’t let the bed bugs bite…!” She added in a spooky voice, wiggling her fingers in Jenna’s face.

Muriel snorted, and Asra smiled at them dryly, before shutting the door behind them and locking it for the second time that night.

Jenna deflated with a groan, resting her forehead on the shop counter. Asra buzzed his lips, laying his head right beside her. “So…” he asked slowly. “Still set on the shop being at maximum spookiness?”

“I’m done with spookiness,” she droned, turning her head to face him, pouting. “Maybe forever. The festival’s cancelled this year.”

Asra made a sympathetic noise, and kissed the tip of her nose. “Agreed.”

[elizaviento]

Touchez Moi

Special thanks to @w-248 for allowing me to borrow her OC, Rick W-248.  After a few chats with her concerning this unique Rick, I’d become very interested in the concept of ‘touch starvation’ and how one could manipulation another afflicted with such a condition. Madame, please forgive me if I didn’t do him proper justice!  I really did love playing with him, though, while I could.  :)

Touchez Moi

(Rick Sanchez W-248 x Reader)

SFW -- 2300 words.  Lots of touches and not so subtle hints of murder.

I’d first met the man when I’d discovered him doubled over and heaving an in alley with a teenage boy clinging to his side.  Both the man and the boy did not appear, in any way, to be derelict or downtrodden, so I figured it was relatively safe to approach.

“Excuse me,” I hedged, creeping toward them.  My view was partially blocked by a dumpster but I could clearly see the boy whip his head in my direction.  Worry etched his features and he clung to the man even tighter.  “Do you need help?”

Approaching slowly, I was now mere feet away, past the dumpster.  The man remained bent at the waist, breathing heavily, as if he’d just run a marathon and I noticed that he was dressed rather well; his clothing obviously well-kempt and expensive.  However, he also appeared to be painfully thin.  When the man didn’t answer my question, the boy interjected himself.

“W-w-we’re fine,” he replied, his voice taking an edge that lead me to believe it was a lie. The man he clung to seemed to be completely oblivious to my presence, so I tentatively placed a hand on his shoulder as his head continued to hang low.

Only a moment after I’d made contact, we both flinched back simultaneously.  Wrenching my hand to tuck it against my chest, I gasped at the realization that this man was a skeleton draped in designer clothes – his shoulder so bony that even the slight, comforting pressure I’d applied seemed to shift and scrape the fragile plates together like flint.

“Wha – what are you – who the fuck are you?!” the man demanded in a thick, French accent, lifting his head to finally acknowledge me.  Suppressing another gasp, I took a step back as my eyes roved his face; sunken, hollow cheeks and eyes and ashen, gray skin making him appear deranged.  Perhaps I’d completely misinterpreted this situation…

Taking another glance at the boy, I swallowed around the knot in my throat and introduced myself; attempting to keep my tone light as the man stood to his full height before me.  The words ‘Jack Skellington’ flashed in my mind like a neon sign while I forced myself to relax.

“I own the bookstore a few shops down,” I explained, pointing in its direction. “Do you need me to call you an ambulance?”  The words tumbled from my mouth as I instinctively fisted the hand that I’d placed on his bony shoulder moments prior.  This man looked minutes from death and the boy with him looked on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

“Fuck no,” the man replied.  Then, without further ado, he strode down the remainder of the alley and turned the corner with the boy close on his heels.

----------

Several weeks later, I was shuffling through the day’s receipts when I heard the bell above my book store’s front entrance jingle.  Checking my watch, I confirmed it was five minutes until closing and groaned.

“Good evening,” I called, rounding the counter to meet the customer at the door.

It was him – the man from the alley.

Appearance wise, he was just as slender as he’d been previous and was dressed just as nice.  However, his face didn’t look to be just a thin layer of skin stretched over a skull any longer.  It now held more of a flesh tone and the dark bags under his eyes were less pronounced.  Issuing only an audible scoff in greeting, he smoothly brushed past me and disappeared into the stacks.

Heaving an exasperated sigh, I checked my watch again – three minutes until closing. Good thing I have no plans tonight, I thought as I tallied up the remaining receipts.  I couldn’t close the register down until the last customer left, so I just slouched over the counter and picked up a nearby book.

Surprisingly, I became engrossed in the sci-fi thriller and was startled when the thin man slammed a book of his own on the counter.

“Shit!” I exclaimed before I could catch myself.  The man chuckled as I regained my composure.  “Did you find what you were looking for?” I asked on autopilot.

“Your selection is shit, but yes – I managed,” he replied.  Again, his thick French accent drew my attention and I broke my practiced routine to take a good look at him.  His pronounced unibrow was arched in question and he wore a smirk that immediately made me feel a bit antsy.

Taking one last glance at my watch – thirty-six minutes past closing – I quickly rang up his purchase, bagged it and recited his total.  Now avoiding his gaze, I reached for the credit card he extended toward me.  And, when our fingers brushed, his physical reaction was instant – jerking his hand back before I could even grasp the card, causing it to fall to the counter with a soft clatter.

Retrieving the card, my mind and my heart began to race.  Something about this man and his aversion to physical contact suddenly intrigued me.  So, once I’d finished with the transaction, I placed the card back on the counter and scooted it toward him, instead.  Then, as his claw-like fingers landed on the flat rectangle of plastic, I darted forward and captured his wrist.

He attempted to jerk back – half-heartedly – but I gently coaxed him forward across the counter as my other hand slipped into his in the same manner of a handshake. Again, he attempted to snatch his hand away – until I slid the hand I had wrapped around his wrist downward to brush across the back of his.

The skin was surprisingly soft, like silk, but also felt dangerously thin; as if just a slight scrape of my nails would draw blood.  Pronounced veins crisscrossed below the surface and I gently traced them with the pads of my fingers, utterly entranced.

“You’re so cold,” I blurted, finally flicking my eyes upward to catch a look of pure disgust coloring his features.  Coming back to my senses, I released him and he took several steps back from the counter before turning to leave.  “Rick, wait!”

Halting with his hand on the doorknob, he asked, “What – how do you know my name?”

“It’s on your credit card,” I confirmed.  Slowly, he turned ��� eyes narrowed in suspicion – as I held the bag containing his book toward him across the counter.  While he approached, I also retrieved his card and slipped it inside the bag, as well.  Snatching the bag from my grasp – only making contact with the plastic – he quickly made his way back toward the exit.  Right before he disappeared into the frigid night, I called, “I’m here every day!  Please come again!”

And, he did. Sporadically, at first; always right at closing.  Initially, he attempted to purchase books as a front, but I easily saw right through it and told him, in no uncertain terms, that he was more than welcome to simply visit me.  Of course, he’d scoffed; asserted that my assumption was ridiculous.  I allowed him that reprieve while softly running a hand up and down his forearm, the other threaded through his immaculately smoothed hair as his exhales puffed from his lungs with a shaky quality that was endearing.

Touched starved.  That’s what Rick was.  So much so, that he’d resigned himself to the mercy of a stranger.  And, the more I indulged him, the more palatable he became.  And, the more palatable he became, the more he divulged about his incredible life.

He was touch starved, yes.  But, he was also despicable.  In fact, some of the vile stories that spewed from his mouth while I held his emaciated body in my warm embrace had me catching my breath more than once.  I continued to indulge him, though; silently plotting the moment I’d plant my seed.

Eventually, our ‘touch sessions’ relocated to a more comfortable environment – my bedroom.  Now, instead of turning up at my book store at closing, he’d knock on my front door at the same time each evening.

“Why do you work so fucking much?” he mumbled against my neck as I trailed my fingers down each vertebrae of his spine.  For the millionth time, I suppressed a giggle at the thought that I could play them like a xylophone.  We were comfortably – well, for him, at least – entwined in my bed with the only illumination coming from the cracked door of my en suite bathroom.  Then, recognizing that this was finally my chance, I pressed a chaste kiss to the crown of his head before replying.

“Because, I can’t afford to hire help.  My husband owns half of the business.”  Just as expected, he stiffened in my arms and attempted to pull back, presumably to shift his gaze toward my face.  However, I tightened my hold and lightly brushed the pads of my fingers across the nape of his neck before pushing them upward into his coarse hair.  And, before he could question me further, I continued.  “He left me two years ago and I’ve been running the store by myself since.  There’s really nothing I can do because he moved out of state and I can’t afford to buy him out or divorce him.  So, I’m stuck working my ass off while he sits on his and collects half of the profits.”

“You can – just leave the dump,” he offered, slipping his claw-like hands up the back of my shirt; each digit as cold as ice.  A shiver ran down my spine at not only the sudden shift in temperature, but at his unwitting acceptance of my bait.

“I built that store from the ground up.  It’s mine,” I defended before dipping my head to swipe my lips, to and fro, across his forehead.  He wiggled slightly before tipping his body up and to the side, shifting us so that he was lying directly on top of me.  Even though he was more than eight inches taller than me, I outweighed him by at least twenty-five pounds and he felt no heavier than a down blanket.

“Want me to kill him for you?” he whispered directly into my ear.

Giggling, I grasped his shoulders, taking care not to squeeze too hard when his bones shifted and ground against one another.

“Yeah, would you?” I asked, leaning upward to snake my tongue across his jaw.  Issuing only a deep chuckle in response, he rolled off me, onto his side, and yanked me toward his chest.  Already anticipating his next move, I turned on my side, as well, and allowed him to spoon me until the first rays of sunlight penetrated my bedroom curtains.

----------

The seed had been planted and slowly began to sprout.  With each day – with each minute that Rick couldn’t spend in my arms – it grew and budded and blossomed.  With each day – with each minute that I watered and cared for my precious crop – the closer it came to harvest.

Months since our initial meeting, Rick had become completely dependent on me as his only source of comfort.  Every evening, he’d find some way to bring up my business and his obvious displeasure.

“That place is a shit hole.  I can – you should burn it down for the insurance money.”

“I can buy or steal anything you need.”

“You always reek of moldy books.”

“What do you mean; you can’t take a lunch break?”

Again and again, I’d cite my husband for his inconvenience; reminded Rick that I could afford to hire enough staff to run the place for me at all hours, if my husband would just… well, if he just didn’t exist.

Then, the day finally came when Rick had ceased trying to convince me to just walk away; when he finally realized that I could be just as stubborn as he.  The day finally came that I’d toiled so long and hard for, holding his grossly skeletal body close to mine – enduring his alcohol laced, foul breath and clammy skin – as he seemingly tried to absorb my very essence to mingle with his own.

The day finally came when he showed up at my front door holding a blood soaked brown paper bag, appearing just as worn out and physically distressed as when I’d first met him in the alley.

“It’s done, you conniving bitch,” he sneered, tossing the bloody package through my open door.  It slid across the hardwood floor, leaving a sticky smear of crimson that glistened in the accent lighting adorning my foyer.

“What?” I asked innocently, folding my arms across my chest.  Each breath he took sounded more ragged than the last and I wondered – or, perhaps, hoped – that he’d drop dead right then and there.

“You know damn well what,” he began while crossing the threshold.  “You’re not – you were about as subtle as a gynecologist wearing a gas mask.”

Unable to stop myself, I barked out a laugh as he closed the distance between us and wrapped me in his uncomfortable embrace.  I supposed I should have been concerned with the ensuing aftermath, especially since my cat had decided to take it upon himself to inspect a key piece of the evidence as it sat bloody and motionless on the floor.  But, I also figured that Rick had his ways to ‘take care of it’ and I’d leave that part up to him.

The End.

P.S.  I love inserting lines from my favorite films into my fics.  Bonus points if you can identify them!  :)

[yeoldontknow]

Cover Me

Author’s Note: happy birthday @yeolology <3 im just managing to sneak this one in for you <3 in your time zone, it is no longer you birthday but when you wake we will continue the celebration <3 welcome back to chanvember everyone!! enjoy more fluff that i am not used to writing! Pairing: Chanyeol x Reader (oc; female) Summary: On your birthday, you search frantically for your boyfriend’s hoodie only to find it is no longer there. Genre: fluff; romance Rating: PG Warning: minor swearing Word Count: 1,841

Technically, the hoodie is his.

His money paid for it, his hands chose it, loved it, without you in mind - years before he met you, and still suiting his taste even after you decided you liked it, too. Technically, it was never something you could rightfully call yours. Even though you wore it, even though you kept it, even though you imagined it was his body and his skin that kept you warm, breathing the scent of his cologne deep into your lungs while you wrapped yourself in the soft fabric, it still belonged to him.

Technically, these are technicalities, semantics. In the end, they mean nothing when it comes to true ownership, true devotion to a thing. His hands offered it to you first, lips pulled into a smile every time he saw it hanging low on your thighs. Mutually, it was decided that you would keep it, appropriating it to meet your needs: a sweater, a pillow, a comfort blanket, a cloth for your tears of frustration. It became him, amorphous and black and, therefore, able to be whatever you decided it could be.

And now, when you needed it, him, most, it was not here.

It’s not that your birthday is bad - far from it, it’s just that, without Chanyeol to turn every moment into something exciting, the moments in your day simply become pleasant somethings. Generic, pleasing things that fade without truly leaving a mark or imprint upon your soul.

Hugs from your family, cards from friends, the notion that tonight you will be taken to dinner and allowed to order all your favourites, these feel warm and sweet, like honey, delicate and wonderful. But, without Chanyeol’s touch or gregarious laugh, they fade almost instantly into your long term memory.

Without Chanyeol, you imagine a future version of yourself will look back on this with a furrowed brow and your tongue tucked behind your teeth, concentrating almost too hard to bring the memory back to life. In the end, all you will be left with is a summation of happiness, nice thoughts and dull colours. The notion that, I cannot remember anything terrible, so therefore everything was fine.

In the morning, you’d woken to a series of texts each more enthusiastic than the last.

Yeollie[4:12 AM]: ITS YOUR BRITHDAY Yeollie[4:13 AM] - Message sent with Confetti: HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Yeollie[4:13 AM]: HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY BIRTHDAY Yeollie[4:15 AM]: i missed midnight Yeollie[4:15 AM]: im the worst boyfriend Yeollie[4:16 AM]: forgive me? Yeollie[4:17 AM]: i want you to wake up knowing i love you Yeollie[4:18 AM]: youre annoying but youre still perfect Yeollie[4:18 AM]: reading week was only last month but i already miss you Yeollie[4:19 AM]: i miss your knees and how they bump me in bed Yeollie[4:20 AM]: and how your showers take too long Yeollie[4:21 AM]: and how soft you are Yeollie[4:22 AM]: its your birthday and i love you Yeollie[4:23 AM]: ill call later today Yeollie[4:24 AM]: ill go back to sleep now Yeollie[4:25 AM]: MAYBE WE CAN MEET IN DREAMS!!!!!!

Waking to these felt like a paradox. At one moment, you wooned into your pillow, hands still stiff from sleep and unable to type a reply. Laughter spilled from your chest and into your pillow, eyes squeezed tightly shut as your smile started to border on painful. Every text was read in his voice, loud and demanding your full attention, rich and luxurious, and settling over your skin like feathers. Each word was chosen carefully for you, delivered with its full intent and said because they came naturally, because they were the only words he could fathom alongside you.

But hearing them in his voice meant accepting the cold understanding he was not there, imagination bringing forth the noise and the warmth of him against your skin. With your eyes closed, it was his voice in your ear as he spoke and his arm draped over your waist to hold you to his chest. You heard and felt these things with cruel tangibility while you basked the blackness of your mind, and opening them meant separating yourself from his adoring touch.

And so because your morning had started with him, because your birthday made little sense without him here to share it, you craved the fantasy of the hoodie, the easy way it made you believe he was near. Tearing through your room, it soon became apparent it was missing, neither in your closet nor in your laundry. And as you continued to search, you realized you hadn’t seen it in far too long.

With a final glance around your room, undesired clothing strewn across your bed and chair and floor, you sigh at the mess and pull out your phone, defeated.

Y/N[12:31 PM]: yeol wheres my hoodie? Y/N[12:31 PM]: :( :( :( Yeollie[12:36 PM]: which one? Y/N[12:37 PM]: the black one Yeollie[12:38 PM]: you have a lot of black ones tbf Y/N[12:39 PM]: you know which one i mean!!!! Yeollie[12:40 PM]: when was the last time you saw it Y/N[12:41 PM]: last time you were on break Yeollie[12:42 PM]: a month ago? Yeollie[12:42 PM]: how would i know where it is now?? Y/N[12:44 PM]: IDK! Y/N[12:45 PM]: maybe you took it Y/N[12:46 PM]: did you take it? Y/N[12:46 PM]: istg if you took it Yeollie[12:48 PM]: is it taking it if it was originally mine Y/N[12:48 PM]: chanyeol. Yeollie sent a Photo Y/N[12:49 PM]: CHANYEOL Yeollie[12:50 PM]: WHAT Y/N[12:51 PM]: T____________T Yeollie[12:52 PM]: it smelled like you! Y/N[12:52 PM]: THAT DOESNT MEANT YOU CAN TAKE IT Yeollie[12:52 PM]: ITS THE BEST PILLOW I OWN Y/N[12:53 PM]: YEAH BUT Y/N[12:53 PM]: LITERALLY Y/N[12:54 PM]: SAME Yeollie[12:55 PM]: it smells like your shampoo Yeollie[12:56 PM]: like youre with me just after a shower Y/N[12:57 PM]: ok but Y/N[12:57 PM]: now i have nothing to wear today Yeollie[12:58 PM]: you have…. Yeollie[12:58 PM]: clothes Y/N[12:59 PM]: omfg Y/N[12:59 PM]: im so mad Yeollie[1:01 PM]: don't be mad Yeollie[1:03 PM]: i love you so much Y/N[1:04 PM]: youre holding my soul hostage Yeollie[1:05 PM]: id rather hold your heart Y/N[1:05 PM]: FUCK RIGHT OFF LMAO Y/N[1:06 PM]: stop being cute Yeollie[1:07 PM]: no Yeollie[1:07 PM]: go outside Y/N[1:08 PM]: why Yeollie[1:09 PM]: just do it Y/N[1:09 PM]: what did you do

Excitement makes your fingers start to tremble; confusion molds your brow into something hard and quizzical. It takes a mighty effort, controlling your synapses and keeping your heartbeat steady. He couldn’t and he wouldn’t run through your mind a speed that takes a second to process their motions, body hesitant and apprehensive. Part of you feels as though you’ve swallowed your tongue, mouth suddenly dry and muscles turned to stone, wary of disappointment.

While it is not entirely out of the realm of possibility he would drive the many hours to see you, it’s also wholly like him to orchestrate something extravagant even when he is not here to experience it with you. And while you will be grateful for whatever lies in your driveway, the lack of his physical presence will hurt deep and down into the wetness of your blood. 

So you brace yourself, close your eyes and wait for the shallow inhales of your lungs to become deep and languid.

As if pressing you for action, your phone buzzes in your palm.

Yeollie[1:14 PM]: stop overthinking and go outside

A great tidal wave of emotion consumes you, tears welling in your eyes as you move through your house and out to your drive.

Of course he would. Of course he would.

He runs to you the moment you throw the door open, long limbs stumbling and struggling to carry his tall gait. Chanyeol is a large blur of white teeth and pink ears, hair tucked beneath a black snapback.

It happens quickly, the arms around your waist and the scent of him consuming you. Beneath your ear, his heart thunders, excited and fraught with emotion - much like yours. Around you he is firm, grip on you tight and breath cascading into your hair, warming you and soothing you, both acting as though the height difference does not exist.

‘Happy birthday,’ he murmurs as his fingers press into your back, steadying himself as much as you. ‘You really thought I’d miss this?’

The wetness on your cheeks is hot, tears gently seeping into your pores without your permission. This is not like you. You are not one for emotional displays, but the relief you feel reaches down to your toes. Bewildered, it takes you a moment to answer, mind caught in a fog of realizing that love and loving are two different things; that you love your family, but loving Chanyeol means days are only special because he is there to make them so.

‘How the hell would I have known?’ you laugh, pressing your nose into his sternum. Your skin recognizes the fabric and, on instinct, you cling to him a little tighter.

Chanyeol scoffs in mock offense. ‘Yee of little faith.’

‘You were here last month. It’s such a long drive.’ On instinct, you take a step back to pull away to peer up at him, wanting to search his face and find all the pieces of joy he keeps tucked into his cheek bones. But he holds you too him, unyielding and unwilling to let you depart from him so soon.

‘You’re more important than the gas,’ he reasons, softly.

‘The gas is expensive.’

‘And you aren’t,’ he teases quickly, and you can hear his smile. Against your best wishes, you smile with him.

‘Ass,’ you laugh. ‘When did you take that picture?’

He laughs, deep and rich, the sound vibrating down in your bones. ‘A few weeks ago. Waited for you to wonder where it went but you never asked.’

Comfortable silence settles between you, time slipping by in unmeasured moments. Chanyeol’s touch warms your skin, raises goosebumps of affect and only when he shivers slightly to realize the air has taken on a chill.

‘We should go inside,’ you sight.

Against the crown of your head, he nods.

‘I brought the hoodie home,’ he says, sounding content.

‘That’s okay,’ you whisper, raising onto your tiptoes to kiss his cheek. ‘You can keep it for now.’

At this, he pulls back to regard you with surprise.

‘For now,’ you smile, ‘I just want you.’

[thereluctantinquisitor]

OC Kiss Week - The Moments Between

So it is OC Kiss Week, and I wanted to write a piece for Hanin Lavellan and @lavellanlove‘s wonderful Avira Lavellan, who have gone on a solid novel’s worth of adventures together over the course of the past year or so!

I only hope I did the lovely lady justice, and thank you for letting me borrow her for this event.

Hanin Lavellan x Avira Lavellan (hanavira), approx. 2300 words, most under the cut <3

Most soldiers had rituals they performed after a fight, and Hanin Lavellan was no exception. Coming down from that heady battle-rush was a difficult, at times painful process. It was a time when old wounds mingled with the new, the physical with the emotional, and they all made themselves known at once with bright and startling clarity.

Sitting by the fire, watching the rest of his squad and a few scouting parties drift like wraiths through the camp, it felt alarmingly selfish for Hanin not to be among them. Tending to whatever he could, comforting others with his presence. He would use words, as many good captains did, but too often he just didn’t have them at the ready. It was an art he had yet to master, and a part of him was convinced he never would. But his squad had yet to think him less of a leader for it. In truth, Hanin wasn’t quite sure what he had done to deserve them.

You don’t give yourself enough credit, vhenan.

He smiled to himself, Avira’s voice so clear in his head that she might as well be standing behind him, murmuring the words in his ear. But, of course, she wasn’t. Hanin’s smile wavered before fading entirely, his usual scowl moving to fill the void it left behind. Their duties often saw them separated; it was something they both knew would happen time and time again. But still, in those quiet moments between the sliding of steel and the cracking of burning logs, there was an emptiness. A new emptiness; one he had never felt before. And no matter what Hanin did, he couldn’t seem to fill it.

Not the way she could.

Letting out a tired breath, Hanin allowed his eyes to close for the briefest time, forearms on his knees, his head bowed. For a moment, he could feel her hands on his shoulders. A light touch, at first, growing more confident as he leaned into it, knowing that he selfishly sought contact despite being covered in filth and  blood and Mythal knows what else. It seemed a small, fanciful thing, but whenever he imagined her hands on him, he was never wearing plate. The limitations of hard metal were no longer worth consideration, so it felt as though it was not there even though his body recognised the familiar weight bearing down on him. Perhaps it was because he did not feel he needed it when he was around her. It was armour in more ways than one. Piece by piece, she had taught him how to shed it without even realising. Or perhaps she had known all along. A smirk tugged up the corner of his lips. Avira always seemed to know more than she let on.

Those imaginary hands shifted, brushing across his shoulders, and in his mind’s eye Hanin saw her face, that brow creased in an expression of concern he hated himself for placing there. But at the same time, he knew his own often mirrored it when she arrived late in the night, cloak tattered, eyes heavy from lack of sleep and too many cards at play. As it turned out, a part of loving someone meant worrying about them. Despite insistence. Despite assurance. It had taken him time to learn that the sensation would always be there, eating away at the inside of his chest, ignoring all rationality, all confidence, all careful consideration. 

It had taken significantly less time for him to learn that he could live with it. 

Ir abelas, he thought, imagining reaching out to brush the side of her face with his fingertips. To tuck back a stray strand of hair; trace one of the faint lines of her vallaslin as it glided up her temple. It has been too long, this time. Far too long.

Their separations came often, that was true, but for the first time since realising that this was a dance they desired to do in pairs, over a month had kept them apart. Not just apart, but at what might as well be separate sides of Thedas. Her mission was a vague mist; a fog of secrets that could not be shared, and that Hanin did not demand to know. The Nightingale made use of her agents, just as Commander Cullen relied on his soldiers to be where they were needed. For the most part, it was manageable. Fine. 

It was always the quiet moments. 

Moments alone in his tent. Moments like this, after battle, after hours spend in a frantic blur of steel and dread and orders shouted to the wind. Moments where he could count every old wound like nails driven into his skin. Moments where the new ones seemed to pile on top, driving them deeper.

He needed to distract himself. Hanin stood, ignoring the protest of legs that had carried him through a field of demons and men alike, and made his way around the camp. Checking in on his squad let him forget for a moment as their problems surpassed his own. A head wound here. A broken strap there. Scrapes and gashes and a thousand little injuries that he hoped they would never have to feel again once the scars arrived. It was good, for a time. It kept him busy.

But before long, Hanin found himself by the horses, tethered at the side of the campsite. They snorted and huffed, and Elgar was waiting for him, her ears flicking in absent greeting as she recognised his footsteps. Reaching out, Hanin trailed a hand down the side of her neck, feeling the muscle ripple and twitch beneath his palm. She was strong. He could be, too. He had to be.

“So... when was the last time you pulled a brush through that mane of hers?”

At first, Hanin just snorted, shaking his head, thinking it was just another trick of his mind. That he was making up her voice, so clear and crisp, out of some delusional need to see her again. But when he heard footsteps, he paused, hand freezing on Elgar’s snout. Then, sharply, he turned.

She was… there. Riding boots that reached her thighs, leather half-gloves designed for gripping reins, thick brown hair bundled into a practical pile at the back of her head. A half-smile was the crown of her features, regarding him with a kind of fond amusement. A part of him wondered if she knew what he had been thinking. A part of him wondered why she was there; how she had arrived without him noticing.

A part of him was just hopelessly, unashamedly happy to see her.

Hanin’s hand lingered on Elgar as he turned; slipped off as he crossed the distance between himself and Avira in a few purposeful strides. He did not even hesitate to fold her into an embrace, his arms wrapping around her, pulling her as close as he dared. “Vhenan,” he murmured, lips brushing against her hair as he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. Closed his eyes. Breathed. “I… did not expect to see you here.”

She sighed gently. Tiredly. He felt it in the slight rise and fall of her back. “Nor did I expect to come here,” she confessed, and then shifted, tilting her head up to look at him. Those green eyes seemed to search his own. That brow creased ever so slightly. “Are you well? Is everything all right?”

“Yes. I... am fine. More than fine.” Hanin couldn’t believe the first thing he had done was cause her to worry, but then again, of course it was the first thing he had done. He let himself relax into a faint smile, arms loosening slightly around her form, giving her more room to move but still not quite willing to let go. Not entirely. Not yet. “This is just a surprise.”

“A good one, I hope.”

Hanin’s expression warmed. “On’ala sa.” The best one.

This time, they both smiled, something soft and genuine passing between them before they drifted closer and their lips touched. Exhausted, filthy, bruised and aching, it probably would have made sense for it to be a short affair. Something simple; a greeting long overdue. But Hanin couldn’t seem to bring himself to break the kiss, leaning into it, deepening it, wanting it. One hand wrapped around the small of her back, drawing her closer as his other hand glided up to cup the back of her neck, feeling the warmth of her skin, the quickening of her pulse as it rose to match his own. Creators… he had missed her.

They broke apart for a moment, breathing as though they had ran the length of the kiss, foreheads touching, the tips of their noses brushing ever so slightly. Hanin swallowed, eyes closed, fingers absently lingering at the back of her neck, playing with the stray strands of hair that had escaped her bun during the ride. He had no idea what machinations of fate saw her brought to their forward camp. Creators knew the Nightingale had no intention of doing Hanin any favours, so the idea that she had organised this with any intention seemed absurd.

Then again, as he opened his eyes and caught Avira’s slightly parted lips, her cheeks a dust-flushed hue, perhaps it would not have solely been a favour for him. After all, say what you like about Leliana, she cared for her best agents.

“How long?” he breathed, voice tightening slightly with the question, fearing the answer.

“A few days,” she replied, a note of apology tinging her voice despite both of them knowing it could not be helped. “My target is further north. I am only staying here to resupply and await further orders from Nightingale.” Her lips pursed slightly. “Things are… prone to changing, in my line of work. Often far too quickly.”

Hanin nodded, his heart sinking for a moment before he chided himself for the emotion. A few days. Perhaps only a few hours on each of those days, with all the fighting, but Creators, he intended to use them well. However, Avira was quick to read his initial response, and she reached up, her hand cupping the side of Hanin’s face, drawing his gaze back to her. “Ir abelas, ma lath.” I’m sorry, my love.

No. All Hanin did was shake his head slightly, meaningfully, meeting and holding her gaze, wanting nothing more than to convince her she had nothing to be sorry for. So he leaned in again, slowly, almost tentatively, their breath mingling in the cool night air. He closed the distance between them, mouths hovering as close as they could without actually touching. An apology of his own; a request. “No apologies, vhenan,” he murmured, his lips brushing hers as he spoke. “We... take what we can, when we are lucky enough to have it.”

Then he kissed her again, and she kissed back, and the memories of the day, the fight, the blood, the fear, the rush of battle, all seemed to flood out of him now that he was certain she was there and he was hers. He could touch her, feel her, and she could touch him too, her fingers laced at the back of his head, pulling him close, insistent but gentle. There was almost a giddiness to the realisation, and he found himself smiling against her lips. She must have felt the expression and drew away, one brow arched curiously, her head tilting to the side as she inspected his sudden shift in mood.

“Something amusing, vhenan?”

“Not amusing, no.” Hanin took a deep, slow breath, simply regarding her through its duration. Even the moments spent blinking felt like wasting time they did not have. “Just… right. Good.”

It was a simple answer, but Hanin’s answers often were. Thankfully, they didn’t have to be more complex; Avira always seemed to understand what he meant. It was yet another thing he loved about her. Where she spun stanzas of poetry, he slapped down prose in single lines. And she never treated him as lesser for it.

“Well… good.” Avira smiled, and Hanin watched the expression rise to meet her eyes as she stood on her toes and stole another chaste kiss from his all too willing lips. “We have… much to catch up on,” she murmured, and then her gaze flicked down and up again. “Is it safe to say that blood is not your own?”

It was at that precise moment that Hanin realised a few things. Firstly, that he was still wearing his plate. Secondly, that it was covered in blood and filth and other grime he had picked up throughout the course of the day. And thirdly, that he had just pulled her against him and kissed her as though neither of the first two things were true. “I… no, it isn’t,” he said, then cleared his throat uncomfortably, releasing her and moving to step back. “Sorry, I—”

He snagged his wrist before he even managed to move away, tugging him back in close with a playful shake of her head. ”No apologies, remember?” Then, she slipped her fingers between his and turned back towards the camp, tugging softly for him to follow her. “But I think we could both use a bit of rest and relaxation. At least for tonight. I for one would like to wash off some of the road I have collected over the past few days.”

Falling into step beside her, all Hanin could do was watch her for a moment, her eyes determined, filled with the promise of a washcloth and shared warmth for the night to come. She would have everything she needed seconds after setting foot in that camp; of that, Hanin was certain. After all, how could anyone deny such an expression?

A low chuckle rose from Hanin’s chest, and he let it find life on his lips. “It is… good to have you back, vhenan.”

Avira glanced across at that, squeezing his hand in silent affirmation of the same. “It is good to be back. Even if it is never for quite as long as I might hope.”

“It will be long enough,” Hanin said, voice soft but certain as they neared camp. “Until next time. And that time will be long enough, too.” In truth, a single moment would be long enough, if that was all he could have. But Hanin could not find the words to express it, so he let it linger in his tone, his eyes, the press of his palm to hers.

And without another word, without another sound, Avira understood.

[rockhoochie]

No Apologies

(*Edit, previously titled “He Brings Me Sugar”)

Pairing: Dean/OFC

Warnings: Adult Content, Smut, Slow Burn, Somewhat Dubious Consent, Angst, Prescription Drug Abuse, Drinking, Knife play (very brief), Minor OC (sibling) Death, Language, Oral Sex (M/F receiving).

Summary: After losing her sister Anna to a demon, the Winchesters have taken Lexi under their wing. She studies and trains with them, tense friction quickly growing between her and Dean. When Sam and Castiel leave to take care of the demon that killed Anna without her, the levee of tension amidst Lexi and Dean breaks, flowing into something neither of them expected.

A/N: This is an edit of a fic I’ve posted previously. I meant to write a brief smutty one-shot and ended up developing the OFC a bit. Since the word count is 10K+, I decided to chapter it out. There may still be some errors, so please forgive me as I haven’t had this beta’d yet. Thank you for reading and as always, if you’d like to be tagged just send an ask!

**My work is not to be copied, altered, posted on other sites or otherwise used without my express written permission**

 Chapter 3

I had been living with Sam and Dean for about six months no, ever since my life had been turned completely and insanely upside down. Ever since my house had been burned down by a demon. Ever since that same demon had possessed my sister Anna and made her snap her own neck…

It had just been Anna and me. Our parents were gone, killed in a car accident almost two years ago. Anna had resolved to stay home with me after our parents’ funeral. They had left the house to us in their will – rather than try to deal with selling it, we moved in. Although sometimes painful, living in our childhood home again, surrounded by our parents’ possessions and essence was comforting in its own bittersweet way.

Sam had been only halfway through the exorcism when Anna was killed. Dean had been holding me from behind as I simply cried and screamed for my sister. I watched, helpless and confused and terrified as the demon glared me with eyes black as obsidian. It cackled with Anna’s voice, and unceremoniously twisted her head almost the whole way around. The demon left her then, in a thick black vine of smoke that reeked of sulfur, and making the most wretched squealing sound I had ever heard. Dean’s grip loosened on me as her body hit the floor. I had run over to Anna and held her, stroking her hair as my tears fell into her open, dead eyes, not caring that the flames licking the walls were gaining more and more strength. Sam had yelled repeatedly at Dean to get me out; Dean had to coax and scream and pry me away from my little sister. He had dragged me out of the burning house – literally kicking and screaming – as I watched Sam pour a copious amount of rock salt over Anna’s corpse.

Once Dean had gotten us a safe distance away and Sam had run out of the burning house, everything I had left in me vanished as I collapsed on the street. The brothers stayed with me the entire time, through the police and fireman interrogations, through the paramedic examination. The EMT’s kept telling me how lucky I was. I kept silently telling them to go fuck themselves.

Once the fire was out and Anna’s body had been wheeled away, all I could do was tremble, and repeatedly ask Sam and Dean what hell happened, what’s going on, what was that thing. They tried their best to calm me and explain. My head swam along with my tears as they told me that monsters were real, that they were hunters – the kind of hunters that kill the things that everyone else dismissed as fairy tales. They told me were demons real, angels were too, but God had left the building…and vampires and werewolves and even dragons absolutely existed outside of nightmares. At first, I thought they were insane, or that everything that had happened had caused me to go off the deep end.

They took me to their car, a black ’67 Impala, and showed me the contents of the trunk. Guns, knives, bullets, a goddamn machete. Dean reached for and opened a leather-bound journal, and flipping the pages slowly as I peered at them. They were full of hand drawn pictures of awful creatures, of handwritten information about each one – what is was, where it came from, and how to kill it.

Despite the obvious proof, I maintained the position that either I was losing my mind or they were certifiable lunatics.

Deep down I knew it was all true - nothing else could explain it. The weight of accepting that truth crushed anything that remained of my heart that night.

That demon had destroyed the only home and family had left. The only thing I was able to walk away with were the clothes on my back and the necklace I wore – a heart-shaped silver pendant with a single diamond embedded near the top, a single silver angel wing decorating the right side, and the words “Big Sister” engraved in simple print. Anna had one that matched – the only difference was the angel wing on the left side, and the engraved phrase “Little Sister”. We had found them in our mother’s closet, already wrapped in Christmas paper, tucked away amongst other gifts and boxes. Mom had always called us her angels on earth.

One of the EMTs had slipped Anna’s necklace into my hand. I slid the pendant off the chain, and joined it with my own. I silently promised my sister retribution. Whatever it took, wherever I had to go, I was going to destroy the thing that murdered her or die trying.

When Sam asked me if I had someone to call or someone I could stay with, I had shaken my head ‘no’. I had some friends out of state I could’ve called, but I couldn’t even bring myself to consider leaving. I needed answers about what had happened to Anna, and I was hellbent on revenge. I had told them I’d get a hotel for now, but Sam said he didn’t feel comfortable just leaving me alone. That demon was still out there somewhere, and chances were it was going to come after me.

That night they brought me to the bunker.

I sat at the library table in silence, watching Dean unpack his gear while Sam got a room ready for me.

“Hey,” Dean had said, “When’s the last time you ate anything?”

“Not hungry,” I mumbled.

“Not what I asked you.”

“I don’t know, sometime yesterday…”

Dean walked into the kitchen, leaving me to stare at the strange arsenal he had laid out in front of me - a sawed-off shotgun, several knives, bloody clothes and flasks – either full of holy water or whiskey.

He returned with a small plate and a fork, setting a piece of cherry pie in front of me.

“I’d rather have a drink,” I mumbled.

“Pie first.”

I cut a small piece, forcing myself to take one small bite after another until I finished it, trying to at least find some comfort in its sweetness. I licked the last of the thick filling off of my fork, and ran my finger along the sides of my lips to clean off any trace that may have remained.

When I looked up, I found Dean staring at me, his lips parted, his green eyes fixed on me.

“What is it?” I asked. “Is there some on my face?”

He blinked with a slight shake of his head and leaned back in his chair.

“No,” he said. “I just…I’m sorry for everything you went through tonight. I know how it is to lose family, and…”

“Thanks,” I whispered.

“Here,” he said, handing me a silver flask. “You can have that drink now”.

***

I had stayed in my room for three days after I got there, only leaving to use the bathroom. For the most part, Sam and Dean gave me my space. Sam would knock twice a day, come in and bring me food. Sometimes we would make small talk. Sometimes we would just sit there in silence, until he would put a movie on for me. He’d hold me while I cried, listen calmly when I screamed.

Dean had been present, but had kept himself fairly distant. On the morning of my third day at the bunker, I woke to find a pint of Jack Daniels and slice of cherry pie on my night stand. I knew that was from him. As great as Sam was about being attentive to my emotions, Dean knew what I didn’t know I really needed – sugar and booze. I washed down the pie with the whiskey, and spent the rest of the day getting blissfully drunk while watching old western movies.

On the fourth day, I finally came out of my room with a staggering hangover. That was the day I met Castiel, and experienced the glorious magic that was angelic healing. Cas had simply touched two fingers to my forehead, erasing the lingering physical pain I had from the night Anna died, healing the cuts and bruises covering my body. Even my hangover was gone. It was also the day I asked Sam and Dean to teach me everything they knew.

Sam read through lore and research with me, quizzing me on what the most common creatures were and how to kill them. He showed me the best places to look for the rare, odd things, and told me to who to call if I got stuck on something. I studied symbols, warding, summoning spells and credit card fraud. Sam was patient and warmhearted while he taught me, leading me to correct my own wrong answers and guiding me step-by-step as I practiced sketching Devil’s Traps. Sam quickly became like a big brother to me – that was the reason I picked him to take me to get the anti-possession tattoo on the back of my neck.

Dean led me in the more hands-on aspects of hunting. He taught me how to handle the guns, how to clean them, how to put them back together. He showed me the different bullets, the rock salt shells and the witch killers. He gave me a hunting knife, a lock-pick kit, and finally my own Glock.

We also spent time sparring, practicing hand to hand fighting. He never held back with me, saying that if I was going to have his or his little brother’s six, I’d better damn well know how to fight.

Dean was tough on me, critical, demanding perfection from everything he was trying to teach me. It only took about two weeks before started grating on each other. The more comfortable I got around him, the more he learned that not only could I take it, but I could dish it right back to him. That seemed to piss him off, and I found myself secretly enjoying it.

One particular day in the shooting range we really had it out. I was holding my Glock, trying to aim at the target and he would just not shut up. My stance was wrong, I wasn’t holding the gun the right way, what did I think this was, the goddamn movies? I finally cracked that day, screaming at him to get the fuck out of my face and back the hell off. I had stormed off, hiding myself in an archive room for the next several hours. When I finally returned to my room, there was a pint of Jack Daniels and a slice of pie sitting on my nightstand. By that time, I had learned how high pie was on Dean’s list of priorities. So, with a smile, I took the gesture as an apology and forgave him.

After a couple of months, I went out on some simple hunts with them – a spirit here, a poltergeist there. Sam was proud of me. Dean was impressed. I wanted to do more. Despite my insistence and protestations, they left me behind on the more difficult hunts - vampire nests, werewolf packs, things that hunted in twos, or anything demon-related.

Whenever they left me behind, I resigned myself to trying to track down the demon that killed Anna. I looked for patterns, strange sightings, any hint that the thing was still around. Sam and Dean tortured any demon they came across to get information before destroying or exoring them. Not one of them knew anything, or if they did, they weren’t talking. Dean had even summoned Crowley to interrogate him. After Crowley spent an eternity talking in circles and flirting with me, he insisted he knew nothing about my sister, or which one of his minions may have killed her. He did however, offer to make finding it out for me his top priority in exchange for my soul. Dean had cursed at him for that, charging at him with Ruby’s knife. Crowley vanished with a snap of his fingers before Dean could even get close to him.

I kept hunting, kept researching, kept hoping. I made it extremely clear to Sam and Dean that I was going to be the one to destroy that demon once it dared to show up again. They never protested, but never seemed too thrilled with the idea either.

It was comforting knowing I had people who had my back – hell, it was comforting to know that an actual angel had my back. Any time they left and hunted without me it filled me with dread. The Winchesters were the best at what they did, but if anything ever happened to them I’d be lost. I couldn’t imagine life without Sam, the brother I never had. I couldn’t even imagine life without Dean…the Dean I never had.

[canariayellow]

@jujuoh   Since my fic was based off your post.

I recently finished a Yugioh fic called Doomed to Repeat, and I have some ideas about what happens after.  I don’t know if I’ll ever write them in a fic; if I do, it’ll probably be in the form of a fic comprised of short one-shots.  For now, I’m putting them here.  If anyone who’s read my fic has their own ideas, whether they add to or deviate from these, feel free to post them.

These are the ideas and concepts I feel strongest about (like if I ever wrote a sequel, these would definitely be there):

In order to save his company, Kaiba resigns as CEO shortly after the events of the fic, and gives control over to Mokuba, using himself as a scapegoat to shield his company while still keeping access to most, if not all, of his company’s resources.  He uses said resources to start a quest to find the pieces of the Millennium Puzzle.  He justifies it to himself by thinking that if he finds out what happened to Yugi, he can clear his name.  He also has a feeling the Pharaoh won’t be in the best of moods right now if he tries to see him.

I don’t think Yugi’s situation will be identical to Atems in all aspects.  As Yugi kept repeating in the fic, he’s not Atem, so some things will be different, though similar.

While Atem lost all of his memories in his sealing, Yugi doesn’t.  Instead, the patches of memory he lost were the ones most important to him: his time with the Puzzle, Atem, his friends, and the entirety of the final 2-3 years of his life.  Any memory involved with the Puzzle is missing (receiving it, working on it, solving it).  This, sadly, means that whoever solves the Puzzle has to deal with the spirit of timid, shy, and frightened boy.  Other than that, Yugi wouldn’t take the identity of his vessel, since he knows his own name and knows what he should look like and still has a lot of his own memory.

 That being said, I could see the completion of the Puzzle being a traumatizing experience for both Yugi and the solver.  Yugi is thrust into a body he knows isn’t his, with memories that aren’t his, with no knowledge as to what happened or how he got there.  I imagine there would be a lot of freaking out, probably stumbling around and fighting for control, and ending in a break down of tears because I don’t know what’s going on why do I look this I don’t recognize anything helpmehelpmeplease-

I imagine the final confrontation with Diva being kinda similar to Atem’s and Bakura’s, except there’s really no Memory RPG being played.  When Yugi does whatever to trigger his final memories, Diva pulls Yugi into the Puzzle, where he’s recreated the last week/few days of their lives.  His goal is to kill Yugi’s soul, preferably before their final duel, so that he can take over and use the Puzzle as the new conduit for the Plana, finally recreating the world in his image.

I kind of really like the idea that the thing that triggers Yugi’s “Memory World” is Yugi and co. viewing old secret archival footage of Yugi and Kaiba’s duel.  When they see the full scene of Yugi completing the Puzzle and explaining to Kaiba that the Pharaoh was gone, Yugi suddenly remembers the last of his memories, allowing Diva to pull him into his recreated world.  As for why the footage is secret, I imagine that after the incident, KaibaCorp worked to erase any footage of Kaiba’s exhibition tournament from the internet (since people were filming it on smart phones).  The only footage that survives is the official KaibaCorp footage, tucked away in a vault, never to be viewed.  Because of this, the entire event is now shrouded in mystery and rumors (the only thing anyone knows for sure is that the event itself actually happened and that Yugi vanished while participating), and it takes quite some time for Yugi to find and gain access to the footage.

When Yugi ends up in his memories, he’s confused and feels like everything before that point was a dream, so much so that he starts to believe it.  However, he always feels “off”, like something about the world isn’t right.  It’s not until his new friends find him soon before Kaiba’s exhibition that he realizes that it wasn’t a dream, and that the memory world was the fake.

Like how Atem was able to summon Horahkty due to his friends, Yugi’s new friends allow him to do the one thing that will permanently banish the Plana: summon Atem.  Since the fic had Yugi lose faith (giving up the duel because he felt it was pointless as well as believing Atem wouldn’t save them) and make what he felt was the only possible decision, his friends (new and old) somehow renew his belief in Atem and the Heart of the Cards, letting him see the duel through to the end, ultimately allowing Atem to enter the Puzzle and letting things play out pretty much how they did in canon.

Yugi and Atem have a very tearful reunion, Atem insisting that all of this was his fault (because we all know Atem would blame himself for not acting sooner) with Yugi insisting the opposite (it was his decision, and if he made it too hastily, then that’s on him).  Atem then returns everyone to outside the Puzzle, along with himself and Yugi (we see in the movie that he was able to physically separate himself and Yugi, so he could probably do the same here).  Atem tells them all that, with the Plana gone, Yugi’s soul is free, and that he’ll be taking both Yugi and the Puzzle with him to the afterlife.  There’s no need for any Ceremonial Duel since Yugi’s circumstances were different (and also Atem is OP as shit and he wants Yugi to come home now, dammit).

They say their goodbyes, and Yugi and Atem sincerely thank the solver and friends for everything they’ve done for Yugi, and that they would never be forgotten.

And then Yugi and Atem get together in the afterlife.  The End.

These are the ideas and concepts I'm just brainstorming with:

I imagine Kaiba gets DragonPuzzle Radar by reverse engineering the Millennium Ring, like he did with the Quantum Cube in the movie. 

Yugi’s friends (minus Ryou, because of his intimate connection with the Ring so he’ll always place the blame with it) would probably blame Kaiba for what happened, at least for a while.  Tea and Tristan might eventually let go, but I think Joey might hold a grudge for the rest of his life.  He might even take advantage of Kaiba being distracted to slug him in the jaw after he wakes up from Diva’s attack and realizes Yugi’s gone.

Yugi’s grandpa is angry and distraught at first, but soon, he’s just tired, sad, and resigned.  In only a few years, the stress of losing his grandson finally kills him.  And when he goes to the afterlife, he’s immediately hugged tight by the Pharaoh, who can only give apologies because it’s his fault, he should’ve stopped it, he wouldn’t blame him if he hated him-- 

I don’t know who will solve the Puzzle.  I personally tend to want to avoid OCs in fics, but I don’t have much knowledge of the other Yugioh series to really know what canon character would fit.  I just use Yusei as a placeholder in my head.

I think Yugi might be a less picky as to who can be his vessel.  He has a very strong soul, but an uber powerful pharaoh he’s not.  I don’t think whoever gets the Puzzle would have to look so similar to Yugi.

The search for Yugi’s memories might start quickly if the solver or their friends are familiar with dueling history, since dueling is always a Big Deal in society no matter what universe or time.  At first, Yugi doesn’t realize he’s missing chunks of his own memory, especially whole years.  It’s not until he��s confronted with his history as King of Games that he realizes that something major is missing.  He might not even believe it at first until he sees pictures/videos/articles.

When Yugi sees material of himself dueling during his time with the Puzzle, he always gets an uneasy feeling that this isn’t him.  It looks like him, everyone says it’s him, but he can’t shake the feeling that it isn’t. 

I’m not sure what the Ishtars will do.  Depending on how long Yugi is sealed, one of them might decide to fill a role similar to Shadi, becoming a sort of guardian spirit who won’t move on until their job is done.except more competent and less of a dick, thanks Shadi for not telling us about the all-powerful McGuffin you left in the hands of a bunch of FUCKING CHILDREN --They would probably search for and keep track of the Puzzle and its pieces, and try to make sure it ended up in the hands of someone worthy.

Perhaps Kaiba finds the majority of the pieces and uses his machine to put what he has together, but is never able to finish it, meaning the final pieces will be placed by whoever will end up hosting Yugi’s soul.

Or maybe he gathers all the pieces, but by that time he’s so bitter about everything that happened that he has the pieces shoved in their box and hidden.

[premimtimes]

In the second report of a three-part undercover investigative series, FISAYO SOYOMBO exposes how the courts short-change the law, and the prisons are themselves a cesspool of the exact reasons for which they hold inmates.

Too many unforeseen obstacles had sprung up against me by the time I arrived at the gates of Ikoyi Prison, Ikoyi, Lagos, on July 12: I had had my most tortuous night in the police cell; I had been messed up by the typically ruthless Friday evening Lagos traffic; I had arrived under the cover of darkness, which wasn’t the plan. Even the few things that went well would later come back to haunt me.

Proceedings were well underway at Court III when we stepped into the Chief Magistrate Court, Yaba, Lagos, after my unlawful detention for five consecutive days at Pedro Police Station, Shomolu. It was a little afternoon — or thereabouts. A funny but very contentious matter was ongoing. The protagonist, a woman, was being tried for, allegedly, illegally selling a piece of land belonging to a former associate of hers. This woman — ostensibly in her late 50s or early 60s — claimed, vehemently so, that the complainant indeed owed her millions of naira in accumulation of unpaid earnings for executed projects. She sold the land because she had been instructed to, to defray the cost of her service, she said. But the prosecutor insisted otherwise, arguing that the sale was fraudulent. The woman, irritated and incandescent, embraced and perhaps enjoyed every window to have a go at the prosecutor. Once, the prosecutor got under her skin by scoffing at how two of her high-profile witnesses were deceased. “Excuse you!” the woman fired back in protest. “Are you suggesting I killed them? Is it my fault that you’ve been dragging me from one police station to another and from court to court for more than 10 years?”

The magistrate — a dark, soft-spoken, middle-aged man whose eyes often evaded the lens of his pair of glasses when talking — adjourned the matter, as expected. And after two or three other cases, mine was mentioned. His orders: remanded in prison custody, two sureties in like sum of N500,000 each, N150,000 to be paid into the Registrar’s account by each surety, sureties to be from father’s side of the family. Not long after, the court rose, to be followed by my preparations for a long and difficult journey to the prison.

PRISON WARDERS ASK FOR BRIBES RIGHT IN COURT

Before the authorities take my freedom away from me, the first thing they do is give me a final semblance of it by unfettering my hands from the handcuff, as is the custom. That was just before entering the dock. Minutes later, the same man who released the handcuff returns to hand me over to a policeman who, accompanied by Zainab Sodiq, the lady posing as my sister, leads me downstairs. First stop on the ground floor is the office of the prisons service. Manning it, comfortably sitting opposite the entrance, is a gun-wielding prison warder, legs waggling, whose shirt hangs loosely on the wall inside, leaving his trunk scantily covered by a singlet. Inside that office are three more warders. The next room is a holding cell — for momentarily detaining inmates until the arrival of the prisons bus that conveys them to Ikoyi. I expect to be led to the holding cell, but I am taken into the prisons office and encouraged to “take a seat”. What manner of magnanimity is this? I was wrong!

The three officers summon my sister. “You can have a look at that holding cell and see if it’s the kind of place a human being should stay,” one of them tells her with feigned sympathy. “Your brother can stay in our office but it will cost you N10,000.” My sister takes a moment to peep into the holding cell, then returns to bargain. The negotiating parties reach an agreement of N5,000, collected by the singlet-donning warder.

Money in the bag, the warders’ initial measured disposition turns happy-go-lucky; I notice the ease with which they regale one another with tales of similarly shady financial dealings. “The day Naira Marley was billed to be taken to prison, I was on this chair making cool money,” says one of them. “I made some good money, I won’t lie. Transfers were just going up and down.” Naira Marley, the hip hop artiste whose original name is Azeez Fashola, had been arraigned at a Federal High Court in Lagos on May 20 by the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission (EFCC), on 11 counts of alleged Internet and credit card fraud.

A second warder describes how he facilitated the payment of N300,000 to a senior colleague of his in Abuja, by a man who wanted to ‘smuggle’ all his three children into the employ of the Nigerian Prisons Service (recently renamed the Nigerian Correctional Service) during a recruitment “some years ago”. Though unqualified, all three were eventually employed by the service. It suddenly dawns on the warder that an ongoing promotion exercise in the prisons service offers him fresh opportunity for corrupt enrichment. “Let me quickly call the man; he may be interested in a deal to facilitate his children’s promotion,” he adds, running his hand through his breast pocket for his phone.

‘IF YOU HAVE YOUR MONEY, YOU CAN NEVER SUFFER IN PRISON’

Seeing the lack of restraint with which they discuss acts of bribery and corruption, I approach them for guidance on the allocation of accommodation in prison. Apparently, it’s a high-wire fraud involving prison officials in court and those in the yard proper.

“You can get a cell for N30,000,” one of the warders tells me. “You can also get for N100,000 or N150,000. You can even get a N1.5million cell.”

“A million and five hundred thousand?” I protest.

“Of course!” he insists. “When Ayodele Fayose was remanded in Ikoyi Prison, what kind of cell did you think he stayed in?” Fayose, the immediate past former Governor of Ekiti State, was remanded at Ikoyi Prison in October 2018 at the start of his N2.2billion fraud trial initiated by the EFCC.

Another warder cuts in. “Don’t worry, you can never suffer in the prison yard,” he says. “As long as you have your money.”

Patience, a third urges me. “The warders at the prison have warned us off striking deals with inmates while still in court,” he explains. “They’ve told us to leave them to push their own deals when the inmates get to the prison. So, when we get there, we will hand you over to the warders you will negotiate with.”

EMERGENCY BAIL FOR SALE BY ‘THE MAGISTRATE’S MAN’ AND PRISON OFFICIALS

Minutes later, one of the warders — dark, mild-mannered and diminutive — walks up to me to ask if I’m making progress with my bail conditions. The question confounds me. Who makes progress on bail application within two hours of a court hearing?

“My lawyer is working on it,” I reply, “but it’s too early to know since it’s just a few hours ago we left court.”

“No, no; it doesn’t mean,” he says. “I have a lawyer in this court who will help you perfect your bail ‘today today’. In fact, you will not get to Ikoyi Prison at all; you will go home straight from here. He works in concert with the court authorities. I can call him right now and he’d be here any minute, if you want.”

Stunned and curious in one breath, I nod in the affirmative. In a matter of minutes, the lawyer, ostensibly in his late 40s or early 50s, shows up. He speaks in carefully considered and restrained patches, sporadically wiping the lens of his glasses with a silky piece of cloth.

“What exactly is your offence?” he begins, then proceeds to hearing my bail conditions. He assures me that the problematic components of my bail requirements would be waived, but the process would cost me money.

“Did the Magistrate order you to pay any money to the Registrar’s account?”

“Yes. N150,000,” I say in error. It should have been N300,000 — at the rate of N150,000 per surety.

“Okay, that’s no problem,” ‘Mr. John’, as he introduces himself, says. “Can you make everything N200,000?”

I tell J I can’t. That’s a lot of money. Fifty thousand naira on top of the N150,000 is a lot of cash. But he disagrees. “You see, I am very close to the Magistrate,” he says. “I am very close to the man; therefore, we will waive many of these bail conditions for you.” We haggle for a while: N180,000, N170,000, N180,000. We eventually settle for N170,000.

John takes a quick look at his watch; it’s a little past 3 pm. “Hurry and get the money. It’s almost too late already — why did you wait till this long?” he laments. “Today may or may not be possible. If you had mentioned it immediately the court rose, say around 2 pm, I would have been able to totally guarantee you that you would go home today without ever reaching the prison.”

We exchange numbers and I promise to call, but I never do (The plan, really, is to end up at Ikoyi Prison.). Instead, I fold my secret device and tuck it away carefully. Yes, I’d taped all the conversations held inside the prisons office in the court premises. The original plan was to put the device away before going to prison, then retrieve it afterwards. I had been told that there was literally nothing I wanted to smuggle into the prison that I couldn’t; I only needed to grease the palms of warders and they would fetch it for me. But with accommodation negotiations set to take place on arrival at the prison, I began to nurse the ambition of smuggling in the device outright at point of entry. This was not the original plan. But if it works out, I would more evidence of prison-yard corruption. If it fails, I’m doomed. Big risk, I know. But I do it all the same.

PHYSICAL PAIN IN EXCHANGE FOR DIGGING THE STORY

Sunkanmi Ijadunola, the Assistant Chief

The prison warders do not quite know what to make of me when they find a hidden device on me, a supposed inmate, during the routine search at the entryway shortly after an Ikoyi Prison bus conveying the latest inmates pulled over at the prison gate. After a second, more thorough search during which nothing else is found on me, they hand me over to the ‘Section’ — a position occupied by the most senior convict in a cell — of the welcome cell. As I would later find out, this was under strict instructions: no phone calls, no out-of-cell movement, no frivolous interaction with inmates.

Very early the following morning, Sunkanmi Ijadunola, the third most senior warder in Ikoyi Prison, sends for me. They had seen the videos; they’d extracted the memory card from the device and watched footages of the five prison officials demanding bribes from me and the court official negotiating a premature bail with me. Sunkanmi, as he is widely known, asks me to confess: “Who are you and what is your mission here?” But he was asking the question a few hours too late. I’d spent half of the night deliberating on what to expect in the morning. I had imagined that in the best scenario, some senior official would have been thoroughly mortified by the sight of their bribe-demanding colleagues captured on tape, and would be keen to convince me about helping to further unravel the bad guys in the system. I didn’t deceive myself, though: this thinking was more or less illusory. I’d also thought that in the bad scenario, I’d be handed over to the Police; and in the worst, I’d be extrajudicially executed. After several hours of carefully considering all possibilities overnight, I resolved that even if they held a gun to my head, I would not disclose my true identity. I knew once I did, that was the end of the story. After five excruciating, emotionally and psychologically destructive days in a police cell, I wasn’t prepared to ruin everything so cheaply.

Seeing I am unwilling to offer any useful information, Sunkanmi, the Assistant Chief, accuses me of plotting a jailbreak. “You’re here to understudy the prison security so that you can send the videos to your gang members outside,” he says. “You’re planning a jailbreak. Or you’re working for Boko Haram; you’re a Boko Haram spy!”

I do not flinch. Instead, I stick to the original storyline I’d preconceived to offer in the improbable circumstance that my cover was blown. At this point, Sunkanmi sends for a cane and orders me to remove my shirt and trousers, leaving only my singlet and boxer briefs. Then he descends on me. Three rounds of beating: the first with several lashes of the cane searing straight into my skin and leaving me with blood and blisters; the second in similar pattern, with my hands cuffed behind my back; and the last with a thick stick targeting the interior and exterior joints of my ankles, knees, hips, elbows and shoulders.

Still, I refuse to disclose that I’m a journalist. By enduring the beating, I succeed in buying myself at least another 24 hours of understudying the corruption seeping through the different layers of prison operations. Bearing the pain was worth it in the end; someone needed to expose the scale of criminal corruption going on in that prison.

Corruption-Laced Registration

The first benefit of enduring the pain is that I am still accorded the treatment of a regular inmate, therefore I am sent for registration and documentation. The documentation holds inside a building opposite the Assistant Chief’s office. It’s a fairly big office with a small inner room littered with stacks of ragged files and paper, plus a narrow, hollow, open cell to the left where awaiting-documentation inmates sit without much latitude to stretch their legs. The inner room is manned by a warder easily noticeable by the ungracefulness of his chemical-bleached yellow skin. A light-skinned, heavily-built woman-warder spearheads the documentation process in the major office, assisted by three convicts. The documentation is both manual and digital, but to avoid compromising the security of the prison, I’ll skip the details. Prison warders are themselves the biggest threat to prison security, but I won’t aid them.

In the very final stage, a convicted inmate tells me to step forward for my cash. The procedure is always that an inmate turns in his possessions, including cash, at the gate. At the end of documentation, the money goes to the records department, from where he can retrieve a small sum every time it is required for a specific purpose. Just before I collect mine, one of the three convicts — they’re easily recognizable in their deep blue uniforms — whispers some instructions into my ears. “You will give that woman N1,000,” he tells me, “then you can have the rest.” It’s standard practice, I soon find out. Every inmate who comes in with cash must give up some of it at every registration point in bribes demanded through proxy, but with the full knowledge of the receiving warder. It looks a small amount but by month end it could be some stash of notes in dubious earning. In my one week in that prison, there were 16 new inmates on the day with the least number of new inmates. On one day, there were 45. If only five had enough cash to forfeit N1,000, that’s N5,000 daily, amounting to a little below or above N100,000 — depending on the number of court sittings in the month. Numerous honest, hard-working Nigerians do not even earn that!

I give up N1,000 of my N7,200 as instructed, and I receive a slip indicating my new cell will be D2 — that is, Block D Cell 2. I ask to be given the outstanding N6,200 but the convict tells me the money will be handed over to the warder overseeing the block — a happy-go-lucky albino who seemed very popular among inmates. Six thousand two hundred naira quickly becomes N5,200. This fresh N1,000 deduction, I am told, is to guarantee nobody in the cell lays hands on me. Again, if five inmates forfeit a thousand naira daily, that’s another N100,000 in corruptly-earned money by month-end. This is more than thrice the national minimum wage approved by President Muhammadu Buhari in April, but which still hasn’t taken off five months after!

COVER BLOWN BUT TOO LATE TO CONCEAL CORRUPTION

My stay at D2 is short-lived. Two members of my backup team show up as planned. They had been unable to reach me but they assumed all had gone well so far. With the extra scrutiny around me, it doesn’t take too long before they’re found out. It leaves me with no option but to admit I’m an investigative journalist and to fully disclose my mission. I just couldn’t see them endure the pain I had. This was a watershed moment in the investigation, as from then on, the prisons service bends over backwards to put its best foot forward while also eliminating my exposure to all ongoing ills. I remember overhearing a prisoner say even a death-row convict should still have the sense of self-worth to ignore the beans that was served that Saturday morning; but in my eight days at the prison, the warders ensure that I do not come in contact with the food served to inmates by the prison. The authorities relocate me from D2 to the welcome cell, with strict warnings never to leave the cell on my own under any circumstance. Unfortunately for them, it was too little too late.

Before they knew who she was, one of my visitors had actually been made to pay a bribe of N1,000 at the prison gate before she could be allowed to see me, much like the setting at the police station. This wasn’t at the discretion of the visitor; it was no act of voluntary tipping. Rather, she was expressly asked to part with her money as a condition for access to me. On the surface, this looks a pittance, but not so when viewed in the context of the human traffic to the prison. On Saturday evening, I had managed to do a headcount of visitors: 18 of them in an hour. Do the math! This Ikoyi-visit corruption has grown in leaps and bounds, evidently; back in 2016, a N200 bribe gave a visitor access to an inmate. Not anymore!

Also, one of the few lawyers who visited me was nearly asked at the gate if he was willing to enter a deal to relocate me to a more enjoyable cell. “You look too clean for your client to be in D2,” a warder at the prison gate had told the lawyer, who, several years before his admission to the bar, had earned a reputation among colleagues for his clean shaves and bespoke suits. The warder waved the lawyer in, all smiles and niceties, and suspiciously keen to converse. Once a second warder turned up abruptly to announce the name of the client in D2, everything changed. The first warder slipped into jitters; his eyes became reddened, his face contouring into a frown. “You cannot sit there,” he said as the lawyer attempted to settle into a seat. “Come this way; remove your glasses; we need to thoroughly search you.”

N10,000 IS THE COST OF DELETING YOUR DETAILS FROM THE PRISON’S RECORDS

Until I was called to come receive my visitors, I made my every second in Block D count. Even before reaching the block, I knew I was on borrowed time. I was certain that it was only a matter of hours before I would have to reveal my true identity. So, in between registration, feeding and dispatch to D2, I mixed with inmates as often as I could. On one of those occasions, I overheard three inmates discuss a birthday celebration by a ‘Yahoo boy’ — Nigerian lingo for internet fraudster — in prison the previous week. “It was ‘lit’,” one of them said. A second, obviously the shortest-serving inmate of the trio, asked how some of the birthday items were smuggled in. “It’s the warders,” the third answered. “With N5,000 and above, most warders will help you smuggle anything you need into the yard.”

Elsewhere, I’d also run into a group of four inmates fielding questions from an inmate who was worried about the implications of his conviction. I was interested in it, knowing the consequences are long-lasting. Section 107(1)(d) of 1999 Constitution of the Federal Republic of Nigeria (as amended) states explicitly that no person shall be qualified for election to a House of Assembly if “within a period of less than ten years before the date of an election to the House of Assembly, he has been convicted and sentenced for an offence involving dishonesty or he has been found guilty of a contravention of the Code of Conduct”. A similar provision in Section 137 (1)(e) makes it clear that a person shall not be qualified for election to the office of President if “within a period of less than ten years before the date of the election to the office of President he has been convicted and sentenced for an offence involving dishonesty or he has been found guilty of the contravention of the Code of Conduct”.

“What’s your business with that?” one of the inmates fires, irritated. “We will delete your name from the records. There will be no trace of you. Nobody will have any evidence that you ever came here, so forget whatever the implication is. My brother’s friend did it before and it cost him only N10,000. I’ll link you to the warder who did for him; he will help you too, but that will only be after you have regained your freedom.”

SODOMY, BOOZE, SEX AND DRUGS… AS LONG AS YOU HAVE YOUR MONEY

While in prison, I’d exchanged contacts with an awaiting-trial inmate who had promised to reach out once he regained freedom. True to his words, he called on the day he exited Ikoyi Prison. Weeks after, I drove about 340km out of Lagos to meet up with him.

“I saw how you were beaten up in prison and I didn’t want you to suffer in vain,” he says as we exchanged handshakes, each sizing the other up for elements of trust. “I’m going to help you by giving you additional information to what you already have. But this will be a very brief meeting, and this will be the only time ever you’d see me. That’s the best way for me to stay alive, because I know these bad guys will come after me if they trace any information to me.”

He explains that the special accommodation mentioned by the prison warders in court, which I was shielded from seeing, is called ‘Nicon Luxury’. It’s an apartment where inmates pay between N20,000 and N50,000 for a night’s sleep, plus access to cigarettes, drinks, Indian hemp, drugs and girls.

“The apartment has air conditioners, good couches and mattresses; meanwhile, 118 inmates are packed like sardines into one room that should normally hold 30 inmates. Those at Nicon are not only political prisoners or people of influence; just people who have the money.”

He describes the unfair world that the prison is, with only the poor truly imprisoned while the rich live fine.

“There is a lot of impunity in the prison,” he says. “An inmate, so long he is rich, can have almost everything, even sex. Inmates sleep with prostitutes. If you want to have sex, just tell the warders. They will bring a girl to the Nicon Luxury for you, set the two of you up; you f**k, you pay. It’s that easy,” he reveals.

“There is free flow of drugs in prison, which is impossible without the facilitation or compromise of warders. You’ll find Colorado [a hard drug] in huge sale; I took it myself. I paid just N5,000 each time I wanted it. Tramadol and refnol are sold, too, but Colorado is the highest in demand.

READ PART ONE HERE: INVESTIGATION (1): Bribery, Bail For Sale… Lagos Police Station Where Innocent Civilians Are Jailed And Criminals Are Recycled

“Look at Vaseline, it is a very scarce commodity in prison but it is available at expensive rates for use in sodomy. At Ikoyi Prison, the powerful inmates sodomise the others, and it happens right under the nose of prison authorities. They know that these things happen. But, you see, the warders are the problem — because inmates do not have access to the outside world, and those coming from outside are screened from head to toe. Therefore, nothing can enter the prison without the knowledge of warders.”

NOTHING LIKE REFORMATION OR CORRECTION IN PRISON

Nurudeen Yusuf

Despite the signing of the Nigerian Correctional Service Act 2019 into law by President Muhammadu Buhari, to reflect the new thrust of inmate reformation and correction, Nurudeen Yusuf, a Lagos-based legal practitioner and human rights activist, says any prison reforms that doesn’t kick off with warders is an “absolute waste of time”.

“With the sex, sodomy and abuse of drugs at Ikoyi and other prisons, there can be no reformation in the prison system. Under the law, inmates only have a right to one stick of cigarette a day, but look at the sheer availability of drugs to them,” he says.

“For instance, we got a guy out of Ikoyi Prison through our advocacy programme; we paid his bail sum of N100,000. We were shocked that he was desperate to go back. In less than three weeks, he got himself sent to prison — because of the big life he enjoyed there.

Infograph: Inmate Life

“The prison world is like an animal world. Inmates who have access to drugs, money and gadgets use that power to oppress the others. You see prisoners who have access to phones, they can extort outsiders right from inside the prison. Many prisoners convicted for fraud and murder are rich, and they live a big man’s life in there. Prisoners make cash transfers from their accounts while in prison.

“While in prison, inmates are supposed to learn new hands-on skills with which they can earn legitimate income after serving their time. But many of the workshop centres are not functioning, even in Kirikiri Maximum prisons; no materials, no resources to work with.”

Yusuf says he has had clients who were sodomised at Ikoyi Prison but the warders turned a blind eye because the victims were suspected Boko Haram members. “These people are innocent until proven guilty in court,” he noted. “Therefore, sodomising them is criminal; and this happens at almost every prison in the country.”

Possible. A 31-page piece titled ‘Sodomy of Children in Maiduguri Prison and The ICRC Conspiracy of Silence’, released by imprisoned-for-life Independence Day bomber Charles Okah in March, details child prostitution, sodomy, abortions and even outright murder at the Maiduguri Maximum Security Prison, Borno State. Then Governor of Borno State, Kashim Shettima, subsequently set up a panel to investigate Okah’s claims, but its work was frustrated by Ja’afaru Ahmed, the Controller-General of the Nigerian Prisons Service and Sanusi Mu’azu Danmusa, the Maiduguri State Controller.

‘SET THE PRISONERS FREE, JAIL THE WARDERS’

Ikoyi Prison Warders

Prisons in Nigeria, exist to “take into lawful custody all those certified to be so kept by courts of competent jurisdiction, produce suspects in courts as and when due, identify the causes of their anti-social dispositions, set in motion mechanisms for their treatment and training for eventual reintegration into society as normal law-abiding citizens on discharge, and administer Prisons Farms and Industries for this purpose and in the process generate revenue for the government”.

The NPS continues to fulfil all these basic functions, bar two — identify the causes of misbehaviour, and kick off treatment and reintegration to society. Incidentally, these two are the most important of the lot.

Yusuf worries that prison sentence is turning a catalyst for more crime rather than the deterrence it was intended to be. “The implication is that inmates have no remorse over the offence for which they have been convicted,” he says. “They are willing to commit more crimes. They have just become terrors unto the society, either in prison or out of it. If you have money, you can live the life of a governor while in prison. The only difference is that you don’t have freedom to go out of the prison.”

My ex-inmate-friend sums it up more chillingly. “I was convicted for fraud but I left the prison knowing I was a better human that many of those warders,” he tells me. “You see those warders, they’re the ones who should be in jail. They’re far more fraudulent than I was. Their freedom should be in my hands, not mine in theirs!”

—

This investigation was published with collaborative support from Cable Newspaper Journalism Foundation and the International Centre for Investigative Reporting (ICIR)

INVESTIGATION(2): Drug Abuse, Sodomy, Bribery, Pimping… The Cash-And-Carry Operations Of Ikoyi Prison In the second report of a three-part undercover investigative series, FISAYO SOYOMBO exposes how the courts short-change the law, and the prisons are themselves a cesspool of the exact reasons for which they hold inmates.