.

lunch time comes around . reader assembles a Beautiful picnic out in their backyard — surrounded by her prettie flowers and vegetable plants . she forces him 2 let her feed him his cheesy , crispy BLT while she babbles out reasons she thinks her dad iz da Best dad in da world with each bite ( he’z a huge biter . finishes da sandwich in four ) . den comes round two — he fucks her right there on her cherished , fleece , star studded blanket in da backyard , bathed within sunlight . somehow she managed to slip away , mayb b4 cooking lunch , and pushed in one of her fav butt plugs ( pink , made of glass , and da base of it iz carved into a pretty gem ) . s a nice surprise when armin flips her over , rejuvenates him and makes him fuck her harder . when he cums , she ends up whimpering and pushing back for him while reaching for da plug to slowly pull it out . ( “lube is in da picnic basket, daddy.” “. . . god, i fuckin’ love you.” ) fucks her ass until she squeals ♥️🎀 ! ! ! ! !

you stare at the opened site with the acrylic of your thumb nail anchored between your teeth. “write an inmate, build a connection . .” that last word knocks against the barrier of your brain. it seems more vivid than the others, glowing with its own conviction and surety. that’s all you really want. a connection. nothing to overly complicated, just . . a reason to actually keep living in this world. your laptop’s track pad follows your finger towards the scroll bar as you drag it downwards. the site is sterile — no banner of welcoming, friendly faces meticulously placed at the top. no bright colors, gaudy animations, or even pop up ads. no, it’s just . . a white canvas splotched with black. the lower you scroll, the more information is given.

'register and create your profile here.’

it’s something that’s mandatory.

it’s something that makes you hesitate. obscurely, you think about how that may be the exact reason as to why.

has your life genuinely come down to this?

you take a slow gander of the scope of your apartment — a studio. it’s big enough to warrant a respectable space for a small, living room set, queen sized bed, vanity, and even a dining room table, nonetheless, you notice how empty and cold it all feels. there’s only one couch cushion that’s dented in, a single chair haphazardly pulled away from the dining room’s table you forgot to adjust, one toothbrush that occupies the holder, lone set of keys that hang from the hook beside the front door . . it’s all so isolating. so disconsolate. so somber.

you’re confined within your own anguish most days, and it’s beginning to become daunting. you fear your own sadness. it’s something that keeps you awake at night, staring warily at the smooth ceiling above while listening to the buzzing hustle and bustle of the world outside. it’s numbing. you don’t really cry about it. well, not anymore — not like you used to.

you’re tired of it.

before you even become aware of doing so — those same feelings of yearning, desolation, and ache are taking the forefront and compelling your fingers to click upon the ‘ register your account ‘ tab.

and it’s a process.

there’s a lot that goes into becoming pen pals with an inmate — more cautionary dealings than one would expect. there’s the registration, profile making, and interestingly enough, a screening procedure. you’re required to give a background check . . one that journeys deep within your record and even goes as far as to finding the orphanage you spent majority of your life in. it takes about a week and a half.

within that time, you battle with feelings of self pity and that repeated, familiar one of inclination. you sit at work, enclosed by that sunken desk with your prescription, pink framed glasses slipping down the cant of your nose bridge as you wade carefully through online forums about what to expect and how to speak to someone who most likely has been seized and caged from society for several years or decades.

it’s a slow, thursday evening when you receive an email alerting you that you’re all clear and set to choose which prisoner you’d like to be a pen friend with. in clicking against the attached link, your laptop screen is then sheathed with a window that has a four by ten grid of convicts’ profiles. you sit within your bed, spine straightened — almost as if you can feel their stares burning through the glass of your screen and right into you.

‘I’m Moreno — 43 years old, single, and open to corresponding with females of all personalities . . .’

“nope.”

‘Hi, I’m Samuel — 29 years old. I’m open to just chatting and if a meaningful connection can develop over time, sure. My charge doesn’t reflect who I am . . .’

“mmm.”

‘Hey, I’m Heidi. 32 years old. I’m looking for someone to talk to and keep me out of trouble . . .’

you don’t know exactly how long you spend scanning through page after page, inmate after inmate. you’re just aware that, somehow, the next time you blink your dry eyes up and take a look pass the lacy frills of your milky yellow, floor length curtains, the sun is gone and instead, replaced by the radiant, pale disc of the moon. you can’t help but feel a bit defeated. you’re not sure of what specifically you’re looking for when determining who exactly you want to become pen friends with, nevertheless, you’re privy as to knowing that it’s specific . . . a feeling.

you’re close to giving up. maybe this was a stupid idea.

‘ I’m Armin. ‘

his profile is empty. scarily so. the square shaped border in which is suppose to house a photo of him is blank and replaced by a grey, standard avatar, albeit, you’re . . weirdly intrigued. “a-armin . . arlert.” you whisper his name quietly within the soundless confines of your apartment. it’s a pretty name, you find. you’ve never met an armin before. you wag your cursor over it prior to clicking on his ominous account, needy for more information. he’s thirty - four and kept in eldridge’s prison facility — about an hour and a half out from where you live. but, that’s all. an age, name, and location. you huff a small pout through glossed lips.

it’s late. you’re tired.

you’ll take a chance.

⠀ ⠀ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀ 𝜗𝜚 ⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

⠀ ⠀

hi mr. arlert,

my name is ( ❤︎ ). i’m pretty new to this whole pen pal thing, but, i wanted to take a chance and try it out :3! i’m nineteen years old and i like to bake, crochet, and journal ( i hope this explains the sweet piano stationery </3 i’ll grab some plain printer paper on my way to cozy quills soon ). uhm, i also enjoy playing games on my nintendo switch and attending pilates classes if i’m not too tired from work.

i hope this letter doesn’t come as too much as a nuisance. i know you’re probably busy and i’ll catch a hint if i don’t receive a reply but, i just wanted to take a chance, you know? if you do happen to respond though, i’d like to learn about how you spend your free time. have a nice day :3!!

sincerely,

( ❤︎ ) ♡

⠀ ⠀ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀ 𝜗𝜚 ⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

you carry about your daily life from then on after dropping the pink, lace trimmed envelope off within your block’s corner mailbox. it’s work and it’s home — the occasional errand run and, needless to say, a pilates class. you won’t lie . . it’s disappointing when a week flies by with no returning mail, then two, and three. by the fourth, you’re forcing yourself to shake it off — chalking it all up to a simple thought of ‘well, i tried.’ maybe you’ll adopt a kitten one of these days . . or maybe, a hamster. maybe, you’re meant to be alone.

“hey, neighbor!”

connie is nice. each time the two of you happen to run into each other in the halls, elevator, by the complex’s dumpster while tossing your trash, he’s always happy to speak to you. this time, the both of you find one another in the mailroom near almost ten pm. he wears a pair of dark, low hanging sweats that exposes the elastic band of his nike pro briefs and a zip up hoodie — it isn’t closed. his exposed chest is splattered in colorful tattoos, furthermore, you try to keep strict eye contact as you give a small smile and drag your ugg disquette cladded feet to your mailbox. “hi, connie,” you softly greet with a smile. “how are you?”

connie rarely checks his mail. it’s no shock to see envelopes begin to topple to the tile beneath you both as soon as he pulls the flap back. “shit,” he curses, bending down to scoop them all up in one, heavy paw. “but, uh, i’ve been good. sold a couple of beats. made rent for the month, can’t complain.”

“mhm,” you nod in agreement while pushing your key within the grooved slit of your locker and grabbing your few pieces of mail. “that’s good to hear.”

before you leave the mail room, you routinely flick through the few pieces you receive to prevent yourself from mistakenly taking another’s the entire way back up the the tenth floor where your apartment resides. bill, bill, credit card offer, coupon to your neighborhood’s pizza parlor, and . . .

your eyebrows furrow in as you take a plain white envelope. your name is written on the front in neat, almost olden cursive. you check the corner for its sender — eldridge correctional institution. “oh!” you slap your palm to your mouth in surprise. it’s clear your small squeal is a jolt to connie because he quickly turns to face you. he takes in how you hold the letter close to your face. “ you okay?”

you think it’s burning hotter than a thousand suns, “y-yeah, ‘m okay,” you’re scampering away before he can say another word. “good night connie.”

oddly, you feel your heart racing within your ribcage. it pounds against it — strong and incessant. you force yourself to keep some composure on the entire trek back up to your apartment, nonetheless. it could be nothing. he can easily be blowing you off or possibly explaining that he forgot he even had a profile on that site — that he’d prefer it if you didn’t send another letter and simply left him to his own devices. your heart withers at possible rejection. you wait until you’re seated at your vanity and the overhead lamp is on to swipe a clean incision at the top of the envelope with a small box cutter and unfold the paper from within it.

⠀ ⠀ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀ 𝜗𝜚 ⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

nineteen?( the stationery is cute. keep it. )

⠀ ⠀ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀ 𝜗𝜚 ⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

mr. arlert,

i’m sorry if my age bothers you. i should’ve took it into account before writing to you. i’ll let this be my final letter.

sincerely,

( ❤︎ )

⠀ ⠀ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀ 𝜗𝜚 ⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

who said it bothers me?

⠀ ⠀ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀ 𝜗𝜚 ⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

mr. arlert,

oh > // <. i kind of assumed that it did. sorry. i must have read your tone wrong.

sincerely,

( ❤︎ )

⠀ ⠀ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀ 𝜗𝜚 ⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

truthfully, i hate this back and forth shit sometimes. i prefer actual human interaction. you’re unable to read my tone wrong that way, right. visitation hours are between two and four on mondays, fridays, and sundays. you should stop by. or don’t. your choice.

⠀ ⠀ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀ 𝜗𝜚 ⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

his final letter, or rather, note stays locked in your bedside drawer for days. you don’t want to say it’s too soon — each letter you send takes about five days for him to receive and five more to then get to you. it’s been almost two months since you sent the first. you can’t shake the air of mystique that surrounds him, even so. you will be honest — you’ve spent some nights wondering what he looks like. if the gorgeous, fine loops of his effortless cursive matches his face. if he’s short and bald, dark and tall.

you’ve taken the chance with sending him a letter. and although all of his notes have been eerily short, still, it’s been nice anticipating his response. it’s only right that you take another chance to meet him — this is what you tell yourself when getting ready one, late friday morning. if he’s mean, then you’ll just get up and leave. no harm, no foul. you’re just taking another chance, that’s all.

after a long shower, you don yourself in a pink, slanted button, collared shirt that cinches sweetly into your waist. with it, a plaid skirt and lacy socks. a darling, pink bow headband sits within the thick fro of bouncy curls and after doing your make up . . you feel pretty.

“and who are you here to see?”

eldridge prison facility is high security. your car is even searched before all four tires roll into the lot after a tall, iron gate is slowly pulled back to allow you entry. and upon walking into the main reception area, regarding the few guards who’d been chatting amongst one another with mugs of coffee in their hands, all of their heads turn. you get a few stares — most of them skeptical and prying. you’re aware of how you may look. you stand out . . it’s obvious. and you debate on simply turning on your heels and breaking for it. “u-uhm,” you fiddle with your own fingers while gazing into the hard, steel gray eyes of a particular female officer who sits behind the desk they seemingly all crowd around. p. bradley her name tag reads. “i-im here to see . . armin? armin arlert? an . . inmate?”

a beat of silence passes.

you’re a hair away from collapsing, you’re sure.

“arlert . . hm,” the right corner of her lips quirk up though she doesn’t make a face of delight, more of bemusement. “who would’ve thought — i’m gonna need you to sign in here. and when you’re done, drop that little purse into that tub over there and step through.”

your fingers tremble as you print your name, signature, date, and time upon a page pinned onto a clipboard right there upon the desk in front of her. she watches you the entire time — eyes permeating and cold. she never says a word, and when finished, you follow her directions . . placing your fluffy, shoulder bag within a shallow, grey tub that gets screened and soon after, you’re stepping through the security tower antennas. a male guard hands over your tiny purse with an ectopic smile when a green light signals him that you’re weapon free on the other side, “you’re all good. follow me.”

a high security prison almost smells like . . a hospital, you think. the linoleum your little heels click upon are buffed to perfection, walls are occasionally decorated by the picture of a sergeant or officer who retired some years back, and it’s quiet. it’s not as bad as you’d thought. there’s no horrid screams, cracking cries of batons smashing bone, or banging ruckus. there’s some murmur, irregardless of it all, it’s peace and serenity.

you’re led to a connecting building about half an acre away from the main. you watch the guard scan his id card twice to receive entrance into it and pass a gate. “here you are . . uh, give him a few minutes. i don’t think he knew you were coming.”

you nod, eyes round as you blink up into his. “okay, sure. uhm, thank you.” the guard can’t help tilting his head when you’re walking away from him to drift further off into the visitants room.

“jus’ where the hell did you come from?”

his perplexed coated utter goes unheard.

the room is something out of movies. there’s a few tables sprinkled about but you suppose they’re simply meant for families who come in sets of four or five due to the fact that the main fount of communication is through one seat that sits in front of thick, triple paned glass with a hooked phone pinned to the divider separating another. there’s no one here but you. every step you make echos as you find a seat somewhere within the middle and place your purse down in front of you on the provided protruded table. your breaths are trembly and for some reason, you find yourself reaching for your compact and tube of shimmering, clear gloss to quickly swipe on a layer. you’d been nibbling on your bottom lip the entire walk over here — sparing a tiny lick to it reveals that you’ve mistakenly tore off some skin and it now lightly bleeds.

hopefully he won’t notice.

BUZZ!

the sudden noise makes you jolt in your seat. you hear the rough slamming of a door, a couple sets of footsteps, and some mumbling.

“forty five minutes, arlert.”

the sound of chains clinking against one another arrives — getting louder and louder until . . . he’s in front of you.

oh.

your breath hitches.

oh.

he’s tall. he has to bend a bit at the waist to get a good look at you from where you sit and come both your sets of eyes meeting, there’s a moment of eerie stillness fixt upon his face before he gives a wry smirk. he wears a long sleeved, navy blue jumpsuit — two of the buttons on his chest are undone to reveal a plain white tee underneath. you watch as he lifts one, long leg over and plants his right foot flat down on the other side of his chair to then slowly sit . . all with a cool, cobalt coated gaze locked directly ob you. he keeps staring, even as he lifts his conjoined wrists behind him so that a guard can undo the metal cuffs that connect to the ones around his ankles.

you’re left to stare back — eyes wide and glistening, letting them travel across the angelic, enticing features of his face.

blond tufts fall over his forehead and halt near the nape of his neck. the sides are cleanly shaven though, giving him a handsome mullet. beneath dark, thick, blond brows are pretty, blue eyes. they hook you — entrap you within basins of deep, french seas. you wade in them, almost desperately following them once they flicker towards the phone, silently telling you to grab it. your hands quiver as you reach out while he does. he’s not smirking anymore, withal, his face isn’t exorbitantly blank, neither. he seems to be quietly studying you, watching as you place the receiver to your decorated ear.

“. . hey,” he eventually says.

you swallow what feels like a dozen cotton balls. his voice crackles over the receiver, quiet and smooth. it’s isn’t senselessly deep, however, not at all high neither. it’s pretty. he’s pretty.

“hi.”

you watch how he folds his forearms upon the table. biceps bulge underneath the rough material of his jumpsuit and you only glance at them once before focusing on him again. he’s smiling — an attractive display of content that reveals two rows of lovely, white teeth . . devoid of a chip or crook. “. . you’re a pretty, little thing, aren’t you.”

his compliment isn’t one you expect.

instinctively, your fingers shoot up to your lips — you find yourself biting down on the bottom one again. “oh,” you fight to keep from grinning too wide. “t-thank you . . uhm, mister arlert.”

you don’t think the guy in front of you looks thirty four. at least, not from afar, be that as it may, come a closer look . . you see that his age weighs in on his eyes — there’s some shallow lines of crow feet blossoming from the outer corners of them, barely there, only just beginning to form almost. and it’s in his facial hair that seems to have been growing in for about four days or so. he rubs at it while scanning you again . . slowly, from the bounce of your curls to your torso.

with a slow exhale, he quietly says, “i’m happy about this, y’know? i had a feeling you were, but,” he tugs his plush bottom lip underneath the top row of his teeth, unashamedly gazing at the slope of your neck that flared out into your shoulders and collarbones with a tilt of his head. “my imagination did you little fucking justice, doll.”

his stare makes you warm. the free hand that sits in your lap tightens into a ball that you shove between your knees. “oh gosh,” you lower your chin with an embarrassed smile. the curl of armin’s smirk lengthens. “i . . i know you said that, uhm, face to face is how you prefer communication, so i . .” you lift a small shoulder, slow and careful as if unsure. “decided to come down, uhm. i’m thinkin’ now that maybe i should have called first and let you know—“

“—nah, don’t worry about it,” he soothingly croons, eyelids falling halfway into his eyes. “don’t worry about it. you’re good, sweetheart. you’re a nice surprise.”

you can’t help quietly asking, “i am?”

“mhm,” he leans comfortably back in his chair. you try not to focus on the sound of his ankle chains moving — proving that he’s opening his legs wider, possibly to man spread. “i don’t get a lot of visitors. it’s the same shit in here. everyday. this is a nice break of routine.”

it’s a sweet confirmation to hear.

“the drive up here wasn’t too bad?”

you shake your head, “oh, no. i took the twelve to the one forty and, basically, sailed through. it’s a pretty drive.”

he nods his, slow and careful, still staring at you in a way that shows morbid interest, “lotta mountains, hm? beautiful landscape.”

“uh huh,” you softly affirm. “were you busy just now? you know, before they, uhm, called you?”

“i was just reading. were you busy before coming down here?”

once more, you shake your head. armin takes in how your curls bounce against violet powdered cheeks. “nuh uh. three day weekend for me. the office i work at is closed.”

“mm.” armin admires the intricate swirls of your edges, the glitter highlighted within the inner corners of your eyes — doe like and wide, the glossiness of your lips. “so, million dollar question . . .”

he leans back forward again, real close this time. the warmth of his breath even sends little puffs of condensation billowing against the glass that separates man from girl. his eyes pin you where you sit — refusing to release, daring you to look away. “what’s a sweet fuckin’ thing like you doin’ writin’ criminals?”

armin watches your mouth open, then snap back closed. you do it again, only, instead of closing it as before, your thumb nail finds itself wedged between your teeth and you shift your gaze downward, evidently stumped.

he adds a quiet, “hm?” lowering his own head, trying to meet your gaze once more. “tell me.”

“i . .”

you’re cute when you’re nervous. you shift from left to right on your thighs in your seat, give a small pout, huff a few times. “i-i don’t have anyone,” you soon gently admit. “ ‘s just me . . it’s always been just me. i thought . . maybe, that i could make a nice friend here.”

the fact of the matter is, it feels nice to finally admit that to someone — be that someone is, inherently, a stranger, still, the sentiment remains. armin doesn’t say anything for a while. in spite of so, his finger begins to idly thump at the table underneath his folded arms. you’re scared to look back up at him. you can’t help but feel as though you’re giving off a certain ‘talking to criminals has kind of become my last resort into putting myself out there in the world’ vibe. you don’t want him to feel no less than a tossed leftover.

“hm,” he soon gives a small scoff. “friends.”

you state, “yeah,” and give a slight sidewards incline to your head. “is that okay?”

it’s okay.

it’s more than okay, and armin tells you so. what he doesn’t mention is how much he doubts that you’ll get your little wish. the two of you aren’t going to be friends — one look at you and he knew it immediately. far from it, actually. because friends don’t look at him the way you do and friends damn sure don’t think of one another how he thinks of you, neither. even so, after getting a feel of your soft, almost mousy disposition, armin’s aware he can’t flat out tell you that. you’ll get nervous. you’ll squeak and bolt — leaving behind only the classic remnants of vibrant cherries and whipped almond crème, the delicious notes of your perfume that’ve manage to somehow seep their way through the cracks of glass separating the two of you. and so therefore, he’ll play it safe. he’ll wait it out, wait you out because it’s truly only a matter of time . . .

⠀ ⠀ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀ 𝜗𝜚 ⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

you make it a goal to visit armin at least once a week — mostly fridays. today makes it meeting number three. the second had to be cut short, reason being, armin had a task to finish.

“maintenance shit,” he told you with a disinterested shrug. “i’ll see you around, doll face.”

he’s unlike anyone you’ve met before. blame it on him being incarcerated for what you guess has been more than five years — living life in a cell can drastically change any’s character and psyche, you know that, however, armin maintains a certain charm. there’s an air of natural sovranty that overflows onto a person within six feet of him. it’s something that is unique to solely him. he’s impelling, intriguing, an enticement all too strong for little ol’ you to ignore.

contemporarily, you find yourself alone in an empty visitor’s room, something you’re noticing to be common. only a couple minutes into your conversation with armin and you can’t help softly asking, “are there ever any other visitors here?”

he chews on a piece of gum today. you watch the sharp line of his jaw move as he does. “i wouldn’t know,” his voice drawls out, slow and smooth. a frisson of warmth scours down the curve of your spine and shoots back up to flood your face. “i don’t think there is. a lot of us here . . .” his words trail. “did some very bad things — things that warrant reclusion.”

his statement opens that proverbial door to the question. the gears of your brain begin to churn and armin patiently observes. he knows that you want to ask, however, the more time he spends talking to you, the more he can tell — you’re a good girl. a quintessential angel whose manners were instilled within her the second she probably exited the womb, so it’s no surprise when you clear your throat, shake your head a bit as if to rid yourself from those daring questions you so badly want to ask, and instead go with, “do you get lonely?”

armin’s chin tilts an inch down and he stares at you beneath his brows for a moment. it’s unfortunate for you that destiny decided to pair you with a pen friend who’s not so polite — whose impudence and lack of social grace growing up was upholded instead of condemned. “what?” he utters. “you shy?”

you wear these . . glasses today. they’re oversized, pink, and when you turn your head a certain way, the artificial, overhead lighting above catches on the flecks of glitter imbedded within the acetate. they remind armin of the precious, jelly sandals his little sister used to wear.

they’re cute on you.

he sees how big your eyes get behind the lenses at his question.

it surprises him when you return it with your own, “. . should i be scared?”

oh, you’re something.

you’re something fucking special. his posture straightens then a heavy hand, once again, finds itself rubbing across the dark shadow that decorates his jaw and chin. he takes his time answering and while he does, you feel yourself recoiling back within your parabolic shell once more. maybe you should’ve just remained quiet.

“do you think that you should?”

you’re honest when you retort, “i dunno. maybe.”

armin chuckles — it’s deep and somehow warm. “you don’t seem afraid.” he gives a shrug before continuing, “i’ll tell you what i did if you ask.”

curiosity gnaws on the marrow of your bones, it feels like. you’re brimming with interest and questions, gazing at the tall, broad man before you. “i . .” you rub at a pleated fold of your little skirt. “i have to ask?”

“yes. ask me . . nicely.”

you give a small pout. armin wants to squeeze your cheeks in with the pads of his fingers to keep it there, hanging cutely from your lips. “was it impulsive?”

he thinks your question over before retorting, “. . it was.”

“what did you do?”

to be candid, armin hesitates for a split second. ears like yours . . he doesn’t think they’re meant to hear such decimation. nonetheless, when finding himself submerged within the mellow pools of dark sepia that ring around your dilated pupils, he can’t help casually confessing how he murdered his mother, father, and little sister fifteen years ago. you’re the one who really wanted to know. he’s left in marvel when the only reaction you give is a slight lift of your brows. “o-oh,” you eventually breathe out. armin keeps his stare hooked upon you. he’s waiting for that tell tale sign . . the one that’ll reveal to him if you’ll be here next friday or not. “ ‘m an honest man,” he continues quietly. “i’ll admit that audri didn’t deserve it. she loved those two fucks til death, though. it boiled down to me having to decide to spare her a lifetime of agony or just two minutes.”

again, you breathe. he notices how tight you now grip the phone handle. “. . uhm,” you avert your stare down to your fingers that begin to thumb with the metal cord that connects it to the wall. “d-did you cry? for her?”

“. . some months later.”

you think it’d be best to leave it there. anybody else would. but that’s all it is, just a simple thought, you find it difficult to not continue to probe while you have an open shot, “would you do it again? given you now know how it all ends?”

you watch him inhale a heavy breath, lean back in his seat, and tuck his arms. his eyes shoot skywards in thought and you admire how when he folds his lips into his mouth, two shallow dimples crease within the dark blond stubble moored upon his cheeks. “probably, yes.”

“oh,” you don’t want to end it there, albeit, a distant voice inside your brain demands you to. “thank you for tellin’ me, mister arlert.”

“pleasure’s all mine, kid.”

⠀ ⠀ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀ 𝜗𝜚 ⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

you’re a breath of fresh fucking air, a touch of velvet inside of a crucible — to put it plainly, you’re armin’s personal slice of heaven. days span into weeks, weeks into two months. what used to be only friday visits advances to two. armin sees you every monday and friday, always at two pm — not a second earlier, not a second later. he deduced after some time that you would . . in simple terms, wither away; stop visiting him altogether whether that be due to life plainly getting in the way, the drive becoming too long or tiring, alternatively, even you having a sudden epiphany regarding this entire ordeal. he’s an inmate. it should have hit you by now.

more than these thoughts, armin had presumed he’d get tired of you. he’s a prisoner, sure, nevertheless, he’s still a busy guy. he wakes himself up at six am, implements his workout routine right then and there within the cold, four walls of his cell, knocks down a chapter from the current novel he’s reading, has breakfast, enjoys a game of mahjong by himself out on the courtyard followed by a nice jog around the basketball courts, bench presses until his arms feel as though they’re burning, lunch, more reading, a maintenance job if needed, has a nice chat with reiner and pat if he feels up to it, dinner, another workout, shower, and by then, it’s shut eye. he’d imagine that after some time, the two of you’d run out of things to talk about, that he’d find some major character flaw within you that’d make it all the more easy to deny your visitation and carry about his day, though . . . neither happen.

you’re kind of . . . a joy to talk to. you’re not at all funny, if he’s honest. what little humor that finds itself intertwined within your conversations is mostly carried by him — and even so, it’s mostly dry, just a bit of sarcasm and some crudeness. you don’t seem to mind. regardless, you’re interesting. you enjoy asking him about his day and the books he reads. when comes a moment where armin lets his tongue go a bit lax — upon the matter of his family being inserted into the discussion, it’s hard for him not to notice how wide your eyes get. you are an anxious little thing . . constantly hanging onto his every word, needy for his focus and sentiments it seems like.

armin likes that.

you make it easy for him to give them too, because you always look so damn pretty — perpetually adorned in a cute, little skirt or flowy dress, make up done, hair sometimes pulled into a big puff atop your head, parted right in the middle for two low buns, double plaited french braids, and god . . the fucking pigtails, he can tell you spend extra time slicking both ponies, pulling them tight, finger curling a few needed strands and embellishing both bases with thin, darling ribbons. he appreciates it a lot.

presently, you’ve plaited a few zig zagged french braids near the front of your head and pulled it all up into a high puff. you’re bewitching, frustratingly so.

still, as pretty as you sit before him on the other side of the glass, armin can’t help but notice how much more quiet you are today. there's a small pout that pushes at the glossed pillows of your lips and he knows the reason isn’t brandished at the current cross word puzzle that you decided to bring for the two of you to work on.

your eyes are downcast, focused on the little booklet sat upon the table in front of you and armin pins a sharp gaze at the long, dark feathers of your lashes he can only see.

“look at me.”

your cheek falls atop the knuckles on your fist of the arm that’s propped up at the elbow. irregardless, you comply. you are pouting. armin bristles. “what’s up with that?” he asks, frown pulling at the corners of his lips.

your mouth remains closed. you’re hesitating — thinking his question over while averting your eyes to the gaudy, pink, sweet piano pen that your little fingers begin to twirl. the top of the pen has a little spring that bounces a fairly large, plastic picture of the pink lamb’s laughing face this way and that.

“you gonna talk?”

your replied mumble is soft, “ ’s nothin’ ‘min.”

’min. he’d told you to stop calling him mister alert a few weeks ago, made him feel too fucking old. you’d retorted that armin felt too proper . . the both of you compromised on ‘min. armin doesn’t know how he feels about it, to be frank, then again, he puts up with it because it’s you saying it, no one else.

you still aren’t looking at him, though beyond the receiver of the phone held to your ear, you can hear him take a long, deep breath through his nostrils. time seems to exist at a standstill as he holds it within his chest. you know he’s still staring at you — you feel it. the plastic of his chair creaks with the heavy weight of pure brawn as he leans back and slowly, finally blows the air out of his mouth after nearly ten seconds.

it goes without saying . . . he’s annoyed, a bit irked, somewhat aggravated. and he feels this way because of you.

that simple thought is enough for it all to boil over.

“ ‘m sorry.”

armin isn’t surprised when the tears irrevocably appear. in spite of so, his curiosity piques, and he finds himself . . admiring how dewy your eyes get and the now warbly, thin, higher pitched lilt of your voice as you try to speak over your quiet, little sobs. “i jus’ . .” you push the backside of your wrist against your nose and sniffle. “m-my week last week was . . horrible. ‘ve been on this search t-to find my biological parents but, it’s like they don't exist. i h-had to spend like . . three hundred dollars for an oil change, ‘m pretty sure i got ripped off. my faucet is leakin’ at home and ‘s affectin’ all m’other pipes so now my shower’s water pressure sucks, but m convinced m’landlord h-hates me ‘cause every work order i send in never gets completed,” your chest is rising and falling quicker and quicker. “and then . . and then,” you get especially quiet here, and it’s only because you’ve began to cry so hard that your voice can only rise so high. “w-went on . . date . . and he - and he . . c-called me a childish whore because i wouldn’t . . . h-have sex with him. he left me standin’ in an alley — in the rain.”

“heyyy,” armin drawls your name gently, watching you melt to bury your messy face within the cradle of your folded arms. you feel defeated. nothing ever works out for you, it’s beginning to come across as though you deserve it. “( ❤︎ ).”

“mm-mm,” you shake your head slowly. “ ‘m s-sorry, ‘min. i didn’t . . i didn’t mean to—“

“—wipe your face.”

your head lifts and you still sniffle as you do. it’s cute almost . . how your lashes are now wet and spiked in clumps, nose buttoned and red, lipgloss smudged across your lips. you still avoid looking at him and that’s okay, it’s fine. you seem to be embarrassed. armin takes in another deep inhale and folds his arms, “all these emotions seem to be entirely, too fuckin’ big for that lil’ body, doll. i don’t like you feeling this way.”

you whimper out a feeble, “ ‘ve always felt like this though,” while slumped within yourself. you appear to almost be struggling to conceal away from him.

armin shakes his head in soundless marvel. he doesn’t get it. a sweet, beguiling thing like you . . he decides that this is the defining moment that reveals that there is no divine counterpart, no providence, or deity. because an existing one wouldn’t inflict this much pain on someone like you, and if he were to be completely truthful, you wouldn’t be seated in front of him neither. “give me your address, kid.”

you pause while dragging a finger underneath your dripping nose, “. . huh?”

armin’s face is handsomely stoic, “i got a friend — jean. guy owes me a couple’a favors. he can fix the shit with your pipes and go and get your money back for that oil change. i need both addresses.”

softly, you recite the avenue where your apartment complex resides, “and the, uhm . . a-auto shop isn’t too far away. ‘s on the corner of opal and main, i think.”

he gives a small nod to his head, not saying anything for a while. he repeats both addresses to himself three times before they’re compartmentalized within his memory.

you release a heavy sigh, collapsing within yourself once more. “crying makes me tired,” you eventually mewl. your eyes feel swollen and your chest hurts.

“you’re just a baby, i don’t doubt that it does.”

you think one could possibly take offense to that. you kind of want to. but, it’s the way he says it — knowing and refined. the words polished smoothly by the deep, gruff tenors of his voice. you can’t deny it and the both of you know that. how warm your cheeks start to feel also divulges some things you have been trying to hide from yourself too, but that’s neither here nor there.

“you’re not meant to feel so sad all the fuckin’ time,” the pretty blues of his eyes roll a bit. “all these problems, these . . fuckin’ issues you’re havin’, you need a man there with you.”

“. . what—“

"—feminism, yeah, no. ‘ll let you have it,” he’s resumed folding his arms and now scratches mildly at the thick slope of his neck. “that word need, huh. but, you can’t do it alone. the world chews and spits lil things like you out for fuckin’ breakfast.”

your head is slowly turning from left to right though your eyes tell armin something deeper and unsaid. “men suck,” you soon grumble.

“yeah, i agree. we fuckin’ do, and i’ll tell you something true, alright?” back forward he leans, real close. he lets his eyes cast across the beauty of your face — how your lips slightly part so that you’re able to breathe through them and give him your full, sincere, unalloyed attention. “we can pick up on shit like this, doll,” he quietly states, almost whispering while giving a slight tilt to his bead. when you do the same, armin knows that you’re listening. “a girl who never had a daddy . . you all give off this certain fuckin’ . . ambience. little damsels in distress. some of us feed off that shit. some bad ones live off of it.”

you’re stricken quiet, left to only watch as armin slowly shakes his head. “and i know . . it‘s not your fault, pretty girl. you didn’t ask to be like this, i know.”

“ ‘s not fair.”

“i know.”

“it‘s not fair, armin,” you’re a stone’s throw away from sobs once more.

armin can’t help smiling. you’re endearing. “you just need some stability, baby. that’s all. i’m not going to tell you that you can figure it out and build yourself back up on your own because chances are you can’t.”

you’ve resumed to playing with your pen even as you give a few more little snivels and hums. his words cut through your chest similar to a dull knife — you’ve always known that deep inside, however . . . it still hurts. especially coming from a man . . one whose company you irrefutably do enjoy and are attracted to if you want to be candid. “i think ‘m jus’ better off as a concept,” you soon admit through a sapless sigh. “i think i was a rough draft that the universe accidentally dropped on earth.”

“no,” armin shakes his head. “i think you’re perfect.”

you mewl and plop your chin within the dip of your hand, angling yourself away from flat out facing him, “ ‘min, stop it.”

“ahh, look at me.” his expression is crossed between indifference and coltish when he calmly says, “i can be that for you.”

“what’s that?”

“what’s obvious you want.”

the folds of your palms feel a bit sleeker than normal when you ball the both of them into nervous fists and wide, wishful eyes dart along the captivating features of his face, lingering on the smooth pillions of his lips . .

⠀ ⠀ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀ 𝜗𝜚 ⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

“fifteen minutes arlert—“

“—yeah, yeah . .”

“i'm serious.”

armin lets his feet carry him past the tiled divider that arches and twists out from the main hall into the communal showers. the entire room is empty, floor is dry, and it’s quiet . . he appreciates this, though it isn’t his choice to shower every night at nine pm. he’d prefer eight — he’s able to wind down at a decent enough time to get back to his cell and meditate before acquiring some well needed rest, albeit, because of his classification as a ‘ level six prisoner ‘ and past, violent occurrences with a few others, some accommodations needed to be set in place.

similar to every single night before this one, he chooses the opened stall furthest beside the wall — positioned in the corner underneath a narrow slab of an opened aperture that acts as a pathetic excuse of a window. the water is lukewarm and the pressure of it is moderate at best, still, armin does what he has to do prior to draping his head to let the prills of tepid water spray down him and across his neck and back for a minute.

with his eyes closed, he lets his mind drift off onto you. he thinks about your last conversation — how before you stood up to leave, you gave him a sweet ‘thank you.’ you do this thing now too, right before you go, you kiss your palm and give him a quick, little wave. his brain slows the action down — lets him anchor razor sharp focus on the fullness of your lips as they pucker around the syllables of his name right before they’re hidden beneath the shield of your fingers as you land a small smooch on them.

he sighs. “jesus.” the stout tissues of his neck crack with a loud, dull pop as he gives a sharp bend to it. it droops heavily between his legs yet armin can’t stop the thick pillar of his cock from twitching the second he wakens the memory of you walking away from the phone with a final simper. you wore a pair of jean shorts today, some daisy fucking dukes really, with lace trimmed at the pockets and hemming. they molded the supple, round cheeks of your ass and he recalls, due to the act of sitting for quite a while, one leg had ridden up a bit higher than the other. right before you’d gone to sheepishly tug it back into place, the cusp of a fat, brown globe caught his eye — a dimple of cellulite, some ragged bolts of stretched skin that spanned to your thighs.

it’d been another reminder of your fucking age to armin, honestly — you’re young, fifteen years his junior. in unique circumstances, you’re young enough to be his daughter.

“shit.” he presses his forearm up against the wall in front of him while blinking open his eyes open to regard the now erected mast of his dick. pearls of water decorate the shaft of it, a few roll their way downwards to his tip because even while throbbing with rushing blood and as hard as it is, armin’s cock is simply heavy — it weighs down his groin and sways incessantly against his thighs with each step he takes while soft, too.

his hips twitch away from his own touch when he gets a hand on it.

there resides something so sweetly broken inside of you. armin’s gravitated toward your sad tenderness — a melancholy soul. his eyes close once more when he pushes the firm, calloused grip that his fist rings around his cock’s base up towards his foamy tip. he’s become convinced that if he were to touch you, you’d all but detonate into flakes of dust.

it’s rare to see innocence already so darkly tinted, someone so starved of affection, too. armin wants to knead you soft again, just as much as he wants to dismantle the sheer essence of you.

the low hanging sac of his balls lightly swing with the force of his hand as he picks up a gentle speed. he thinks about your eyes, your lips, your hair, your warm, brown skin — he thinks about what you’d feel like underneath him, bent over in front of him. he imagines that you’re just as meek and delicate enclosed by sheets as you are out.

armin’s loud.

if one were to stride past the opened threshold of the prison’s east wing communal showers, they’d hear throaty, low toned grunts and just underneath that, slick pulses of a fat and stiff cock fucking a fist. cords of strong muscle beneath the skin of his back flex as he rocks his hips into the tautened orifice his hand gives him while his opposite arm falls from the wall he’d been leaning against in front of him so that the tips of his fingers can find his balls.

dad, you’d called him earlier.

he told you he would be that for you. you mumbled the title as if you’d been scared of it yet armin still couldn’t shake the feeling of unprecedented repose it had given him. how easily malleable you are, how you just went with it —

“f-f-fuck,” he breathes and massages the thin, delicate skin of his sac between his fingers, now focusing more on rotating his clutch over his thick, leaky tip instead of stroking. “yeah — o-ungh, there we go.” he lets a long, frothy line of spit fall from between his lips and onto his shaft that he then drags back up to his crown. armin hasn’t done this in a long while. he can’t remember the last time he’s felt so overcome by pure, ravaging carnality.

both fists enter the mix when he thinks about your tits — sweet and plush, always enticing him within the neckline of your cute tops. “god damn it,” he grits. his mind is spiraling. you, you, you.

god, he needs you.

”i really wanna be with you, ‘min.”

his eyes roll back within his skull.

”i miss you. all the time.”

“yeah.”

”just need someone . . need you to take care of me.”

armin goes catatonic.

the entirety of his body freezes in preparedness for that first burst of gooey, pale cum ejected from the head of his dick. “ohhh shit,” he grunts out before releasing a hard, trembling exhale. “fuuuck.” he mauls it all out slow with long, unhurried squeezes — similar to the way a person compresses an emptying juice pouch to get every single drop, from bottom to top. his vision is blurry, he has to lodge a hand out back onto the wall in front of him to steady himself.

the water is teetering on freezing now, he hadn’t even realized. his blood feels ten degrees warmer than usual, sending an almost sickly flush up to his chest and face as he pants.

if this is how he feels at the simple thought of you, armin can’t imagine how he’d sustain the simple act of breathing when he eventually gets his hands on you.

⠀ ⠀ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀ 𝜗𝜚 ⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

knock, knock.

“oh.” you twist the knob of your stove ignition off to hurry to your front door. there’s no reason to cheek the peephole, armin called your cellphone earlier to advise you that jean will be at your place between two and three. “wear somethin’ pretty, too,” he rasped near the end . . tone thick and low. you’d been clutching onto your favorite miffy plushie the minute you picked up, hanging onto his every word akin to a child mesmerized by a storybook.

“mm?” your head tilted. “r-really? for your friend?”

“for me,” he corrected. “jean knows not to touch you. fucker can look though. i want him to.”

“. . okay.”

armin had let a few silent seconds pass, you’d thought he even hung up until he idly questioned, “okay who?”

your cheeks went warm. you couldn’t help burying your face within your stuffed animal, taking a few breaths before quietly replying, “dad.”

“hm.” there’d been a small ‘thck’ sound. you’ve been around him long enough to know that it was the sound of him giving a quick suck to an incisor — a thing he does when he’s particularly pleased. “that’s my girl. we’ll talk soon.”

jean is . . .

expected. upon you opening the door, he’d given you a slow look from your bonnet covered head, cute little pajamas, to the calf length socks on your feet, before plainly asking, “( ❤︎ )?”

“yeah, that’s . . me.”

he’s expected because he’s mean looking. his handsome face is devoid of expression as he slaps five hundred dollars in your hand, telling you the extra two were for your troubles. in his own way, armin himself is rough and snide, it shocks you none when after doing so, jean picks up the heavy tool box seated beside his feet and hauls himself right past you, towards your bathroom. you are the company you keep.

you close the front door slow, newly tensed.

there’s only so much you can keep yourself busy with — there’s nothing to clean and the food you’d been preparing is now done. you nibble on your bottom lip, gazing off towards the bathroom door where you could hear the sound of something being uncranked and pulled off. “uhm,” hesitantly, you walk over and spare a glance inside. he takes one knee next to the bathtub, undoing the knobs and faucet to then perch them upon the sink’s countertop. “would you like something to drink? or eat?”

without looking at you, he retorts, “a water will be fine. thanks.”

and that’s all he really gives you. for two hours you’re left to listen to him crank and pull and twist and screw as you sit upon your couch, trying to focus on rerun episodes of a soap opera. he doesn’t talk or hum or even take a call — he clears his throat a couple of times but, that’s about it. each time he does, you perk up and turn your head, awaiting a request, however . . nothing. a large part of you knows that the reason you’re so eager is because this is someone armin’s known for a long time. you aren’t sure if they’re exactly friends, nevertheless, they’re in clear contact with one another. you want to be someone armin’s proud of — give jean good reasons to go back and offer nothing but praise, that being said, he’s not giving you anything to work with.

“you’re all good,” he eventually finishes up and after giving a mere tightening screw to a pipe underneath your kitchen sink to fix that pesky drip, he’s heading for the front door. “goodnight.”

“gnight. thank you.”

with a final salute, he’s gone. you lock the door behind him and immediately head for the bathroom to test the new pressure out yourself.

with a twist of the knob, the water comes spraying out, warm and firm. you’re squealing as you shut it off.

armin calls you again about an hour later. you’re hesitant to take it due to the fact the contact id doesn’t read ‘ eldridge correctional facility ‘ as it did earlier within the day, but rather, ‘ unknown. ‘ “. . . hello?”

“you sound scared.”

you relax come the familiar pitch of his voice and shuffle off towards your bed to fall back upon with a small huff. “i was,” you admit through a giggle. “how are you calling so late? it’s almost seven.”

he hums, “shouldn’t bother to ask things like that.”

“ ‘min.”

“don’t worry yourself about it,” there’s some movement on his end before he’s giving a slow sigh. “. . i heard you looked pretty today.”

your face grows warm as you thumb with the hem of your shorts, “can you tell your friend thank you for me again? he really helped a lot.”

“mhm. sure. anything for my girl.”

your heart skips on a beat. you find your fingers dipping beneath the waistband of your little, cotton panties listening to him utter, “yeah, told me you were good. watched tv, nice and quiet — offered him some food. can say i raised you well, hm.”

you give a small squeak while smiling, fully emerging your hand beneath the crotch of your underwear where you simply press your fingers up against your pussy — fighting to cease the incoming throb of heat. “i was jus’ . . bein’ kind.”

“mm? wanted to make a good, first impression for a friend of dad’s, is that right?”

he’s almost cooing to you — nice and low. you swallow some saliva to moisten you dry mouth while widening the spread of your thighs a bit wider. “mhm,” you sigh and push your fingers closer up against yourself, trying to will that certain urge away. “so, h-how was your day?”

armin sighs, “same bullshit, different day. you know this.”

“ ‘m sorry.”

“no. don’t apologize. that‘s gonna change soon.”

his voice. you’re listening on half a brain when you finally give in to that swirling pit of desire that digs on home within your core and soon begin to circle the beating bulb of your clit beneath your fingers. “y-yeah?” you don’t want armin to feel unheard, even so. “how come?” you’re listening. you are.

armin is too. he remains quiet for a few seconds, forcing his ears to tune in deeper past the battered speaker of the little motorola he has pressed against one to pick up on a small hitch of your breath. a smile begins to slowly pull at his lips. “. . . the fuck are you doin’, huh?”

“nothing.”

“sure don’t sound like nothin’, doll,” he listens closer. “. . feels good? rubbin’ your pussy while i’m just chattin’ away?”

he’s so crude. his words make you feel gross as your face burns even hotter, “ ‘m not doing that, armin.”

“i don’t like liars,” his hand cups his balls as he listens to you sniffle. “. . apologize.”

“sorry.”

“sorry who?”

you breathe out a trembly exhale and close your eyes, “i’m sorry, daddy.”

a slow, quiet croon is held near the back of armin’s throat. “ ‘s a new one,” he mumbles quietly. “i like that — you still rubbin’, baby?”

you’re picking up some speed, letting your knees fall and the soles of your feet press together to assemble your legs in an almost butterfly position. “y-yeah,” your body feels warm. you can’t help bucking your hips a few times, chasing the pleasure of your own touch. “feels so good.”

“put the phone to it,” he gruffly demands. “let me hear how good you feel.”

there’s some shuffle, then arrives a distinct sound of wetness. it’s so sloppy — armin can compare it to rubbing his own fingers through the insides of an aloe leaf . . sticky and damp. he sighs and closes his eyes, keeping a tight, unmoving grip on his dick through his jumpsuit. he doesn’t want to deal with the hassle of unbuttoning it and the mess. he can’t deal with it anyway — not when he opens them and finds himself cramped within a small, utility closet.

“wanna,” you’re whimpering into the receiver once more, sounding even more broken than before. “wanna cum, daddy.”

armin’s shaking his head, “no, not yet, not yet,” with a sigh. “you just started . . you got a toy or somethin’?”

“mm — yeah.” you have to gain some willpower to pull your hand free from the insides of your panties to lift up and push closer to where your nightstand is. you open it, blindly rustling around until you find a silk, drawstring bag. the toy inside of it isn’t big — it’s a pink, transparent, shimmery dildo that spans about an average five inches with a manageable girth. it’s pretty though, especially after you slick it with some lube and the warm rays of apricot and gold from the setting sun catches on the speckles of the glitter inside.

“all the way in there,” armin listens to you gasp and wince as you push it past that first, taut ring of your cunt. “pussy’s never had anything bigger?”

“mm-mm,” you’re shaking your head and sliding it in til the hilt.

“that’s a bit of a problem, baby,” armin cops a lean against a shelf of cleaning supplies and takes in a breath. “. . you want to guess how big dad is?”

leisurely, you’re pushing the dildo in and out of you. his question causes your cunt to respond with a tight spasm — making it harder for the next thrust inside. god, you’ve thought about it. each time that buzzer sounded and those doors opened, he’d come calmly walking towards where you were and took a seat, legs consistently having to be spread wide so that he’s able to sit comfortably. you could always tell it wasn’t something he chose to do but had to. though you’ve never stood side by side, you have always took notice of just how large armin was, too. maybe, six three or six four and scarily broad, at that.

you whine at the memory of him — thick, dark blond mullet, his arms, his lips, the scars that decorate his hands and almost every finger. “i d-don’t know . .” you’re fucking yourself harder. you lift your legs, press your thighs together, grab hold of the toy from around them and pound your cunt just like that. “mmm’my god . . s-six . . ?”

there’s a quiet chuckle, “little bigger, kid.”

shlick, shlick, shlick. cascades of milky cream froth along the base of the toy where you hold it. some even catch on the pretty gems of your nails, dulling the shimmer of them with gloppy slick. “seven?”

“you’re gettin’ there.”

you can’t imagine what he hides beneath that jumpsuit. your eyes squeeze shut as you decide to jump the gun, “. . ‘s it nine?”

when armin lulls a small noise of confirmation, you hiccup on a moan and give a slight tilt to your wrist, aching to find that one, special spot that never failed to push you over that blissful, emblematic ledge.

“you sound frustrated.”

you’re nodding, feeling your heart thud against your rib cage, “it hurts. need . . i n-need . .”

armin finds it clear what you’re too shy to say, “need me?” he’s asking and awaiting the moment you give a slow, shy whine. “fuckin’ silicone’s not doin’ the job, mm? my girl needs her flesh, needs bone — somebody to keep you still. slap you around a little bit . . ” eventually, there’s the sound of air being sucked in between teeth and soon, armin smacks his lips. “damn it, no. think i forgot . . little girls don’t know how to fuck themselves properly, do they?”

your eyes roll back within your skull.

“maybe i’ve asked too much out of someone who needs their dad to do every other little thing for ‘er.”

that knot within the depths of your abdomen is tightening. you’re holding on by a thread.

there’s a small smile that embellishes armin’s face as he listens to your breaths thin into sheer, adorable wheezes. “. . you can cum, baby. go ahead.”

a heavy exhale, a squeak, then a long, soft quivering moan. the toy you hold is forced out of the taut hollow of your pussy come the first jet of slick that spurts out of you. “h-hnggg, a-ah’mmm god.” you drop it from your hand to use the pads of your fingers to roll firm circles upon your twitching clit. “armin — h-ha, dad, please.”

armin hates that he isn’t there to deliver some nice, hard smacks to your cunt to disrupt the flow of those hard gushes it gives him — all in efforts to make you all the more messy, feel more depraved. “i’m going to tell you something. are you listenin’?” regardless, he thinks this is a good time. you’re barely winding down from that high, walls of your cunt are likely still flexing to push a few lone pearls of cum out. “hey. i need you to listen, alright?”

you’re whimpering when his voice suddenly hardens, “ ‘m . . ‘m listening, i promise.”

armin licks his lips and rubs a hand down his jaw, “jean’s dropping a truck off in front of your place tonight. he’ll slide the keys underneath your door — by the time you wake up in the mornin’, they should be there,” your previous accelerated heart rate begins to slow the more you take heed. “when you’re inside, there should also be a duffel bag on the passenger side’s floor. you don’t have to open it, but just . . check, alright? nine o clock tomorrow night, i need you to be here, in that truck, on the east side of the prison beside the gate.”

“w-what?” your eyes are widened as you sit up on an arm.

“pack a couple of suitcases.”

the call ends with three, dull beeps.

⠀ ⠀ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀ 𝜗𝜚 ⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

you initially think it’s a joke of some sort. you’re up until midnight, bundled underneath the security of three blankets, staring off up at the sky through your window while forcing yourself to place confidence in the likely fact that it’s just a jest, maybe even a stunt pulled by armin just to see what you’d do, what you’d say, how you’d react. a truck won’t be parked outside of your apartment, keys won’t magically appear on the floor of your foyer — you’d have to be demented to even believe it.

and so, you fall asleep with the plush bodice of your miffy stuffie clutched within your arms, preparing yourself for a new and better day.

the next morning is slow . . .

it’s a sunday. before even sliding out of bed, you interlock your fingers with one another to then bring your arms above your head for a nice stretch. dawn light is bright and warm, bathing you with a large sunspot that encases nearly the entirety of your little flat. you souse yourself within it, moving slow, taking your time while sliding from your comforters to stuff your feet inside of two, matching minnie mouse house slippers that sit on the floor beside your nightstand.

you’re thinking about what to cook for breakfast as you lug yourself towards the bathroom — pancakes? french toast? . . mm, maybe shakshuka — when a glint catches on your peripheral. pausing where you stand, you soon lean on the side of your right foot, outstretching the line of your neck to gaze past the leg of your dining room table towards the foyer.

“. . oh my god.”

before picking up the key that tauntingly lies in the middle of so, you rush over to your bed to climb atop of it and take a look out in front by the curb through the window. the sight of an old, red bodied, white striped 1971 gmc 2500 makes your blood run ice cold. it wasn’t there last night — you know because you checked. there’s a strange ache that settles inside of your chest, coupled with a familiar feeling of nausea. “he’s serious.” you gently repeat the words throughout your morning. breakfast is off the table, you don’t have it in yourself to let alone keep down a cup of tea when realizing that if you don’t go through with what’s clear armin’s asking of you, you’ll once again, be alone. never in a million years would he want to speak to you again, much less accept a visitation from you when the open chance of his freedom lies within your hands.

his disappointment is a feeling you don’t want to acquaint yourself with.

you can’t shake the tumid cloud of gloom that overcomes your frame of mind, withal — doubly so when you take a look over your apartment . . at your precious, little trinkets, your bed that’s more or less covered with a dozen stuffed animals and different textured blankets, the sofa you’ve spent so many lonely nights binging family sitcoms and romantic comedies . . .

you’ll miss your place, sure. you worked hard for it, you worked hard for your job and your car, too.

in spite of it all, you’re done feeling lonely most of all.

you stuff three, large suitcases with as many clothes, shoes, and sentimental items you can. it’s a lot to lug out onto the elevator and you almost pop a muscle out of place while lifting them into the rusted cargo bed of the truck, then again, you manage. you decide to give your car to connie ( there’s been more than a few times he’s complained to you about a snarky uber driver, you think he’ll appreciate it ) — tape a note and the keys together prior to swiftly sliding them underneath his doorframe and quickly scampering away. and by sun down, you’re climbing within the driver’s seat of the dated truck and cranking the ignition.

prior to you pulling from the curb, you take notice of the duffel bag armin’d mentioned, seated on the floor. it exudes an almost ominous cloud — packed tightly to the brim with something that makes the zipper strain. timidly, you poke it with the toe of your shoe only to quickly snatch it back in anticipation for a bomb to explode almost, though after seconds of waiting . . nothing happens.

you’re losing your mind.

⠀ ⠀ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀ 𝜗𝜚 ⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

8:57

your exhales are shuddery.

as per his instructions, and with the help of your phone’s gps, you parked the truck on the east side of the prison. you’d never seen eldridge at night. the facility is completely dark. the grey bricks of it seem to camouflage with the night — acting as an outline against the sky that one could only notice when close enough. you keep your eyes locked upon the gate in front of you. there are two — a chain linked fence with a door and further up the entryway is a more taller, iron one.

thump, thump, thump. your finger taps persistently at the wooden steering wheel and your glasses are starting to slip down the bridge of your nose because of how much sweating you’re doing. what if this really was just a test? or maybe something worse, a hoax. what if armin has been jerking your little feelings around this entire time for this exact case? who’s to say he won’t take the truck and leave you here, right beside the prison for an officer to snatch you inside?

“this was silly—“

a rush of cold wind flies inside the truck as you sit with your forehead to the wheel. it’s harsh enough to make you jump and shiver, immediately looking over your shoulder to watch a huge, brawny bloke open the driver side’s door. it’s dark . . . but it’s him.

you can’t make out many features, but it’s his voice . . his deep rasp as he quickly mutters, “slide over.”

life seems a bit blurry as you do. it’s as though you blink and he’s replacing the seat you’d just occupied. another and the world is whipping past you both as the truck hauls down the road for the freeway, another and you’re on a ramp, heading west as your suitcases and bags slide and scurry from left to right within the cargo bed as he smoothly maneuvers from lane to lane.

you’ve been quiet the entire time. for some reason, you’re scared to look at him, scared to speak, scared to even breathe too loud. the man beside you is silent for the most part too. come the movement of fingers flexing on the wheel, you swallow your nerves and take a glance at his hands. beaming tail lights and lamp posts whiz by, accentuating smears of fresh blood and fine gashes adorned across his knuckles. “. . . are you okay?” you ask the question delicately, barely speaking over the buzz of traffic surrounding you both.

armin glances at you, following the route of your eyes with his own, “yes,” he soon answers. “i’m okay, baby.”

you inhale deep and blow it out slow.

no more questions after that and armin’s grateful. he needs focus, he needs quiet. the pedal of the gas touches the floor of the truck as he speeds across an express lane that heads towards the state line. oddly enough, his brain is silent. there are no thoughts other than ‘go, go, go.’ what he’d done to break out of the prison will take only about ten minutes for anyone to notice. marking enough distance between him and them during these ten minutes are crucial.

he isn’t breathing, isn’t satisfied until eventually, what were previously five lanes reduces into two. gaps between the car ahead and behind him span about three miles and that’s when armin . . sighs. his foot eases off the gas pedal, his grip on the steering wheel slackens, and he finally comes to terms that . . you’re here.

turning his head to look at you, he isn’t the slightest bit shocked to see that you’d eventually tucked yourself into a small ball within your seat, knees pulled tightly to your chest, leaned your head against the window and dozed off. it’s past your bedtime, he knows this. he keeps stealing glances, no longer focused entirely on the road. armin takes in how the sweetness of your perfume ensheathes the interior of the truck and how silver beams of the moon seems to almost make you radiate. shit . . you’re somehow even prettier up close.

he decides to let you sleep — you need it, however, his hand can’t help slowly sliding across the seat and on over to your body so that the tip of his finger can trace a slip of your skin. he has to know that you’re real.

⠀ ⠀ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀ 𝜗𝜚 ⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

the sound of a truck door slamming closed wakes you up.

before your eyes even open, your lips are pulling into a frowny pout come the sensation of hot glass all but burning your temple. “woah, watch it.” the door that you lean against opens and almost sends you tumbling out.

“eek!”

a muscled chest acts as your savior. you nearly entirely collapse into him, only before you do, on pure instinct, your hands find stability upon his shoulders as he grabs onto your waist, using his body to carefully straighten you back up and into the truck. “hey, my bad.” you open your eyes finally to fix them onto the blues of armin’s.

oh.

you push your glasses higher up your nose with a knuckle.

underneath the sun instead of cold, white lighting, what you thought was pretty about him hardens into plain out handsome. there’s a dark, tawny stache he’s been maintaining above his lip nowadays, it’s a bit thick. it kind of transforms his face entirely, something you now know has been purposeful. a warm undertone resides ‘neath the creamy ivory of skin, making him almost seem to glow. your eyes can’t help darting all over his face now that’s its only a foot away. he has some freckles that pepper near the top of his forehead and his nose, a dark mole near his adams’s apple that moves in tune with his words — when he smirks, it makes you nervous.

“you alright?” he lifts his arms to grip at the top ledge of the truck, waiting for you to give a little nod.

“mhm.”

he’s admiring you too.

you watch his eyes coast down from your own to your lips — they’re two, cobalt pearls that glissade down your neck to your chest, your thighs, then your legs. he lifts them back up and his tongue pushes at his canine tooth, “thck.” it’s barely there, but he nods, too. “. . i like these.” his finger loops inside the arm strap of your overalls further leaving you to bask in what’s clear is his approval.

you’re trying not to smile too wide when murmuring, “thank you.”

he crowds in closer, reaches a hand in . . . you’re a bit disappointed when a finger only grazes the skin of your shin as he grabs hold of the duffel bag, lifts it, and takes a couple steps away to plop it on the hood.

come the sound of a zipper pulling back, you take a look at the scenery around you. he’s stopped on a two lane road — there’s nothing but greenery, a few power lines strung a quarter mile apart and a couple of birch trees, but that’s about it. willow warblers sing as you watch armin kick off the plain white canvases he wears and begins to unbutton his jumpsuit.

“o . . oh.”

instinctually, you’re turning your head over your shoulder to spare a look for a possible car heading your way and back forward to look for another, however, nothing. he doesn’t seem to care anyhow. you’re to only quietly watch him strip until he’s in a pair of plain, black boxers. jutted muscles ripple underneath scarred skin as he leans a strong hand on the car’s hood for balance to snatch his leg out of the suit’s hole and kick it off into the grass with a firm sigh. “jesus fuckin’ christ.”

he changes into a pair of dark washed jeans, black a - shirt, laced work boots, and a denim, sherpa lined trucker jacket. you thought that’s what all the bag held, clothes, be that as it may, armin’s hand soon reaches in and pulls out a small though thick bundle of cash, folded and rubber banded to keep the bills in place. how he holds the bag, with two hands before reaching back in to, what you presume, count as many as he can, reveals that more, identical bundles remain inside.

after zipping it back closed, he lets the pack fall back on the hood and turns his head to look at you.

“. . come here.”

you almost want to ask ‘me?’ his attention is comforting as much as it is unnerving.

armin watches your foot carefully fall flat within the grass. you walk on over and come to a stop, directly in front of him. “let me look at you, hm.” a sharp breath is pulled in within your chest when the web of his hand abruptly slots underneath your jaw. he forces your head up to find your eyes and can’t help smiling a little at the seed of panic settled far within them. “you scared, dollface?” he tots your face from left to right in that singular hand — pushing it firmly against his thumb then fingers. “huh?”

“mm-mm.”

“no?” he squeezes your cheeks in, forcing your lips to pucker. “be honest. you wanna run? want me gone?”

“no, ‘min,” you almost whine. never. the thought makes you queasy.

he full on smiles. god, he’s beautiful.

the rubberlike feel of raw, poorly healed cuts on his hand that scrape against your cheeks causes an almost sinking feeling in your gut — one that kind of reminds you of butterflies, though more . . wicked. “yeah,” he hums quietly underneath his breath, dragging a thumb across the pillows of your lips. “did all this for me. made me fuckin’ proud.”

you take the chance of leaning closer against him. he’s taller than you — almost scarily so. you can’t help finding a grip onto his jacket as his hand slides down to your throat.

“hold still.”

it’s all the warning he gives before your airway begins to constrict. by instinct, you gasp and reach out for his arm. you can feel his opposite hand at the back of your neck, forcing you into him even as you innately try to scamper away.

his face is chillingly serene as he watches you wheeze for air. what surprises him though is instead of clawing his eyes out, reaching to punch him, or even fighting harder to get away — you seem to give in. armin only slowly begins to release his grip, second by second, when he notices your eyes beginning to droop . . . it’d been a test and you passed with flying colors. he’s chuckling as you slump against him, still heaving, still longing. “c’mere.” he’s stealing your breath away once more, before it’s even fully returned — only this time with a firm kiss.

his mustache is a bit rough, he tastes like cigarettes, but his lips are heavenly soft, and when he wraps his arms around your waist to engulf you within him entirely, you can’t help melting with a small, delighted sigh. under the warm, late morning sun, armin kisses you until his breath replenishes the air he took, back within your lungs. your fingers find the thick strands of his mullet near the same second his lips pull away, however he’s not gone for long though. his eyes are heavy as he watches you pout, and only when you whine in disappointment is when he returns, kissing you somehow even deeper. he lets his tongue push past the barrier of your lips when you part them shyly.

armin’s just a man.

your tits are pressing up against his lower torso and without even knowing, his hands soon find the fatty flesh of your ass which he manages to anchor a stiff, hard grip onto through the denim of your little overalls before he’s pulling one back and letting fall to deliver a hard smack.

your squeal of shock is pleasing.

he doesn’t hold enough refrain within himself to tell you what he needs you to do to offer him enough solace for another seven hour drive. those three seconds are wasted time. instead, he walks you backward, forcing you back, back, back until your spine is touching the seat of the truck. without a breath even hiked, he lifts you up with just his hands around your waist to make you sit upon it. “armin.”

“just let dad do what he needs to do.”

his fingers unbuckle your overalls with ease. when he snatches them down, the sheer force of the action causes you to fall back against the seat with a huff. you’ve thought about this — so many times. you just hadn’t thought it’d happen in an old, rusty truck parked on a lone road in the backwaters of a countryside. “shit,” he smirks and widens your legs with the flats of his hands pressed against the warm, smooth skin of your inner thighs. “cute.” your panties are cotton and dandelion yellow with daisies threaded around the hem. your cheeks burn hot as you try to knock your knees together and close your legs to keep him from staring too hard. “let’s get these off. show me what i want to see.”

lifting your hips, you allow armin to tuck his fingers within the fabric of your underwear to slide them off. they get tangled at your converse which he decides to leave on before he’s yanking your panties off of them to ball within his fist and soon stuff in his pocket.

“ooh, fuck,” he breathes when your pussy is finally laid out in his view. “. . look at that.” you’re not too wet yet but that’s fine. he pushes your knees up higher to admire the brown chubbiness of your lips and how a barely there sheen of slick drips from your hole down to your perineum.

he almost wants to chuckle at the sight of your precious, little asshole — puckered tight, unknowing of just how much ruin he’s devising for it within a few days to come. “fuck, you’re pretty,” he leans in and kisses your pussy first then that tiny crinkle underneath it. “just all fuckin’ over, aye. my little girl’s the prettiest thing around.”

you whimper and reach around to take hold of your lips with two of your fingers on each hand, separating them from one another to show off your gummy pink insides and darling clit that awaits his affection. your face is tucked sheepishly within your shoulder, you’re nervous to look at him, but you’re so needy, quite almost wriggling where you lay, a hair away from whining.

your hole beckons him — literally clenching and relaxing, needy for a tongue, finger, cock . .

his answer comes in the form of the first. you gasp when he tongues your clit for a slow kiss, lifting your head to catch his eyes that pin you completely inert.

you’d never felt anything like it — something warm as much as it is soft. firm, flexible, though stationary to where it he knows you need it most. “w-wait,” unexpectedly, too many emotions inundate the span of your chest. it’s akin to a big rig suddenly ramming them into you, really. your hands go for his shoulders which you begin to nudge, “ ‘m . . ‘m scared, daddy. wait—“ you’re spread open for all of him to see . . flashes of his face as choked you minutes before still flood your mind, you’re far from home, on the run with a criminal you’ve only properly met three months prior. it all weighs down and begins to overwhelm you at the worst of times. you think common sense has finally entered this current state of affairs and you’re no longer thinking with your heart instead of your brain. “—i don’ want—“

you’re all but slammed back flat when armin forces your knees further up until your hips are practically suspended in the air. it takes your breath away and without delay, fervid tears billow at the surface of your eyes.

“—‘s isn’t about what you want.” the dull edges of armin’s fingernails bore within the cushion of your thighs. “stay fuckin’ still, alright? just be good. you can do that.”

you’re just scared. you sniffle and bite at your finger to keep from sobbing as his thumbs split you apart once more to give him access to your softened clit which he tugs between his lips to cajole further out its hood with smooth flicks of his tongue. “u-ungh, pl . . please,” you hiccup. it’s hard not to want this when it feels so good. you’re ignored as his tilts his chin down, bringing the slab of his tongue with him. alongside heavy hands, he divides the cheeks of your ass apart to make that ruche stretch prior to him gouging the tip of his tongue as far as it can get inside.

remarkably, you don’t give him a little squeal of surprise or even push harder at him.

no, instead, armin basically feels you dissolve within his palms. that little furrow between your brows smoothens out as your eyes roll closed and at long last, after all the blubbering and tears, you give a soft, long moan.

“nice,” armin drags softly with a charming grin. “like your ass ate by your old man, hm? . . ‘s all it, mm, takes to shut you up?”

you fucking nod, lip bitten over with your teeth as you part your legs wider. “you . . you do it r-really good, dad.”

sticky tears still sheath your cheeks and you sniffle between the sounds of his wet, thick tongue wriggling — forcing your hole to open and fashion around it, yet you can’t stop sighing and moaning and mewling his name.

armin’s snatching open the fly of his jeans to get a hand on his cock that’s beginning to thicken by the second. with the pace of dripping molasses, his tongue soon drags its way on back up towards your pussy. you’ve been dripping the entire time. you hear him audibly swallow down the thin pour of salty sap that oozes out of your cunt and oddly, it makes you tremble. your back arches from the seat when his hands slip underneath your little top to get a grasp on your heaving tits. you hold the back of his with your own, needing him to keep them there as his head rocks up and down to scour the entire slit of your cunt.

“hhh-ah, please,” you’re gasping, eyes squinted shut. “yes, yes . . — mm, can’t t-take it, wait—“

armin’s shaking it, “—you can,” he mumbles around a mouthful of sloppy cunt. “you can, baby.” more quietly he utters, “little snatch tastes so fuckin’ good.” his cock hangs from his jeans, heavy and leaking gluey orbs of precum to the cement below.

when his tongue forces its way within the constricting pit of your pussy, his nose knocks against your clit. you want to whine when he snatches one hand out of your shirt but it’s quickly swallowed down upon the sensation of his thumb applying firm pressure to the hole of your ass.

you’re stimulated from each area. it quickly drives your brain haywire.

your body jerks at the sudden onslaught of an orgasm. you cry yourself through it with weak whimpers and pretty sobs, feeling armin’s tongue curl so that it’s able to, indisputably, scoop every drop out and into the awaiting gulf of his mouth. “i didn’t . .” you sniff and shake your head, holding onto the single hand he still has on one of your breasts with both of your own. “d-didn’t mean . . so fast . .”

armin gives a disinterested grunt and pulls his face away from your legs to trace teasing circles upon your clit. his stache and cheeks are both matted with your cum and his own saliva. a singular droplet of the mix clings to the cleft of his chin, only unlatching to fall against the seat after too many seconds pass by. “pussy tastes like a fuckin’ dream,” he drawls quietly. “can do this all day.” it does. there’s mostly the taste of light brine, nevertheless, it’s something else . . the smooth texture of which you seep that makes it all fucking addicting.

armin only circles at the rim of your cunt with his middle finger twice before he’s easing it in. you’re tensing when it’s halfway and with little to no warning, he’s pulling it free to haul a thick swat to your clit before returning it back within you. it happens quick, almost too quick. the smack is loud and your clit tingles in the aftermath, “daddy.”

“keep still. i only repeat myself once.”

armin watches, in almost respect, at how your pussy flexes around the intrusion. it seems to fight with wanting to suck his digit in further or push him out. “pull it in,” he murmurs. “. . yeah, there we go. atta fuckin girl.”

your cunt swallows him to the hair that dusts his knuckles. fucking greedy. when he begins to stroke it in and out, nice and slow, he watches how you liquefy against the seat — like candy on warm leather. he takes a moment to slide one, big hand up the softness of your tummy . . . admires your dangling navel piercing that suspends a pretty, gem encrusted bow, how it caves in and trembles when he hooks his finger near the pull out to stroke the pad of it against that nice, little spot inside. “my pretty girl,” he groans and kisses at your skin, hauling himself up so that he now hovers over you within the truck.

the faces you make . . .

“fuck.” armin simply can’t help kissing you fucking silly and beginning a nice, hard tempo that has his palm hitting your clit with thick plop, plop, plops.

you’re hiccuping, “oh god,” while reaching for his shoulders. “ ‘m gonna . . squirt, dad, ‘s . . ‘s messy.”

“yeah?” he gruffs and dips his thumb past your lips. how quick you suckle on it only makes armin’s hanging dick harder. “who gives a fuck? make a mess. let this messy fuckin’ cunt spray, hm?”

your eyes, big and brown, they entrap armin within them. he watches how they roll inside your skull come his words. he knows they’re filthy. he’s chuckling while maneuvering his ring finger inside you, right beside the middle. his tempo never halters as he pounds them in, nice and deep . . listening to your pussy squelch and pop milky bubbles of thin cream. “gonna be my girl for life, yeah?” you’re nodding before the question’s even fully left his mouth. “gonna cum on my dick every night? take it nice and deep? cook your dad a nice meal when you’re done. that’s what good daughters do. ‘s what you’re made for.”

your pussy’s clenching on him — hard and tight. armin plants small though firm pats on the chub of your cheek between each question. he needs you to instill this within the fissures of your mind . . cum brained and all. “mhm,” you’re mewling, eyebrows furrowed, thighs trembling around the broad span of his hips. “i s-s, hic, i swear.”

his fingers burrow in . . then he begins to stroke them, set and steady.

time seems slower when he feels that first trickle of liquid ooze into his palm . . it doesn’t begin to spray until he tugs them out and starts to rub at that little clit. you squeal his name, squeezing at his wrists, bucking your hips as it audibly lands on the ground outside. armin reveres how a forceful spray of liquid gushes out of your cunt, uncaring how most of it dirties the sleeve of his coat. “good job,” he’s whispering when he pushes his fingers back in, digging for another spritz. “takin’ em like a champ.”

the sounds. it’s all so wet, so obscene.

he doesn’t pull them out until your entire body’s quivering . . and another batch of messy tears drip from your eyes and roll down towards your neck and temples. mercy, a foreign concept that he’ll show you today. he can’t help chuckling at the picture you make — shirt and bra haphazardly covering your chest, legs spread open wide, brown thighs freckled with droplets of slick, even the lenses of your glasses are fogged. “such a baby,” he coo’s against your lips, kissing them when you pout for one. “two times? that‘s all you can give me?”

with a sniffle and nod, you grumble out a quiet, “yeah.”

“. . we’ll work on that.”

you don’t know if you made the right decision . . signing up for that pen pal program those few months ago, forming a bond with a criminal, helping him escape. in all honesty, you’re aware that you didn’t. impulsion, loneliness, desolation — all of those yucky feelings led you right to him.

nevertheless, it’s hard to feel an ounce of regret come the sight of a bright, handsome smile smeared across his face above you . . and it’s especially difficult when he kisses you until you can hardly breathe.

"Who is my obedient cute slut, hmm~?

He could only wait for a response since you were so fucked out, your dumb little brain could only comprehend so much...all tied up in expensive silks, and lingerie adorning your soft, plump body; Rich!Yandere simply couldn't withstand fucking you mindless on his thick cock...

Oh, poor little you, eyes rolling back in your skull, hole getting no rest, orgasm after orgasm. Who could even blame you for not being there to answer?

The sheer extent of the sensations you have been experiencing has taken its toll on you, leaving you in a state of blissful exhaustion.

Now that Rich!Yandere had all of you to himself he didn't hold back anymore one bit, allowing his instincts to take over and just fuck into your more fragile body, your long eyelashes ornamented by tears only turning him more on than he already was.

But you'll be good and take it. After all, that's what a good little whore like you does.

Isn't that right?

REBLOG!!! ₍ ᐢ.ˬ.ᐢ₎˚୨୧

"Who is my obedient cute slut, hmm~?

He could only wait for a response since you were so fucked out, your dumb little brain could only comprehend so much...all tied up in expensive silks, and lingerie adorning your soft, plump body; Rich!Yandere simply couldn't withstand fucking you mindless on his thick cock...

Oh, poor little you, eyes rolling back in your skull, hole getting no rest, orgasm after orgasm. Who could even blame you for not being there to answer?

The sheer extent of the sensations you have been experiencing has taken its toll on you, leaving you in a state of blissful exhaustion.

Now that Rich!Yandere had all of you to himself he didn't hold back anymore one bit, allowing his instincts to take over and just fuck into your more fragile body, your long eyelashes ornamented by tears only turning him more on than he already was.

But you'll be good and take it. After all, that's what a good little whore like you does.

Isn't that right?

REBLOG!!! ₍ ᐢ.ˬ.ᐢ₎˚୨୧