Lovelygrll

a/n: this is like superrrr self indulgent bc honeysuckle flowers used to grow through my neighbors fence into my yard & i would lick them up every year & then they randomly stopped </3

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Three lines. That's all the local paper allows for the personals section, which is a relic from another era that you didn't even know still existed until you were flipping through the classifieds looking for a vintage bookshelf and your eyes snagged on the column header.

SEEKING CONNECTION

You'd laughed at first. Then you'd read a few. Then you'd read them all, sitting cross-legged on the sofa with your tea going cold in your hands, and something small and sharp turning over in your chest.

The ad you eventually submit reads:

Married woman, mid 30s, seeks interesting conversation and perhaps more with a like-minded gentleman. Discretion essential. If you enjoy good food, dry wit, and don't mind a woman who can out-drink you — I'd love to hear from you. Reply to Box 64.

You pay for four weeks in advance and feel sick the entire drive home.

Because here's the thing about being married to Captain John Price.

You love him desperately and completely, in a way that has settled into your bones over the better part of a decade and become indistinguishable from the architecture of who you are.

Adore the way he smells—stale cigar smoke and sandalwood and old gun oil, a combination that should be repulsive and instead makes you want to bury your face in his neck and stay there. Love his hands, broad and scarred and capable of violence you'll never fully understand, and how gentle they are when they cup your jaw or fix the clasp of your necklace.

And you melt for the rumble of his voice on the phone at two in the morning when he calls from whatever godforsaken corner of the world he's operating in, tired and tight-lipped but always, always asking about you first.

You love him, and he loves you, and it hasn't been enough for a long time.

Not because the love ran out, because he did.

John Price gives everything to his work. Every deployment bleeds into the next. The gaps between homecomings stretch longer—three weeks become five, five become eight, eight becomes ‘I don't know yet, love, I'll let you know when I know’.

And when he does come home, he's there but not there; hollow-eyed and distracted, reaching for his phone at dinner, falling asleep on the sofa before nine, making love to you the first night with a desperate urgency that fades by the third morning into perfunctory kisses on the forehead and an apologetic mumble about an early briefing.

Someday, you stopped asking when he'd be home six months ago; stopped leaving the porch light on four months ago, and you stopped wearing the nice knickers three months ago because what was the point again.

Two months ago, you realised you'd gone an entire week without hearing his voice and hadn't noticed until Thursday.

That's when the panic set in. Not the sharp, clean kind, but the slow, creeping kind. The one that makes you lie awake at three a.m. staring at the ceiling and wondering if this is it, if this is what the rest of your life looks like. A nice house in Hereford with a well-maintained garden and a husband who exists primarily as a name on a bank account and a voice on the other end of an increasingly rare phone call.

You don't want to leave him. The thought alone makes you nauseous.

You just want someone to see you again.

John finds the newspaper three days after he gets home from a six-week deployment in eastern Syria.

He's not snooping; he's looking for the TV remote, which has migrated into the crack between the sofa cushions again, and his hand closes around the folded section of newsprint wedged beside it. He pulls it out, intending to toss it on the coffee table, and his eyes catch the circle of biro ink around one of the small ads in the personals column.

John reads it, and then again.

Then he sits down very slowly, the remote forgotten, and stares at the far wall for a long time, connecting puzzle pieces like his life depends on it, which it very well does apparently.

Married woman, mid 30s. His wife is in her thirties.

Dry wit. His wife is the driest, sharpest-tongued woman he's ever met. It's one of the first things he fell in love with—the way she could dismantle a man's ego with a single raised eyebrow and a well-timed "Bless your heart, love".

Can out-drink you. He's watched his wife put away Whisky Sours at the SAS Christmas do with a composure that made seasoned operators look like lightweights.

Discretion essential.

John sets the newspaper down on his knee. His jaw works and his eyes don't leave the wall.

And he doesn't confront you.

Not over dinner nor in bed that night when you roll towards him and press a kiss to his shoulder—a habit you've kept even through the worst of the distance, even when you're angry with him, even when he doesn't deserve it.

Instead, he waits, and he replies to Box 64.

The letter that arrives for you a week later is postmarked locally. Plain envelope, no return address. Inside, a single sheet of paper, handwritten in a bold, slanted script you don't recognise.

I enjoy good food, better whisky, and I've never met a woman who can out-drink me, but I'd enjoy watching you try. Friday, 8pm, O’Malley’s on St. George's Lane. I'll be the one who looks like he doesn't belong in a place that posh. — J

Your hands are shaking when you finish reading it, and you have to sit down at the kitchen table and press your palms flat against the wood to steady yourself.

You could throw it away. No. You should throw it away. This was a mistake—a stupid, reckless, selfish mistake born out of loneliness and too much wine and that ugly, gnawing ache in your chest that flares up every time John leaves.

But John has left again. Three days at home, then a call from Kate Laswell, then a bag packed and a kiss on your forehead and a quick ‘Be back soon, love’ and the sound of the front door closing and the silence that rushes in to fill the space he used to occupy.

You read the letter once more.

I'll be the one who looks like he doesn't belong in a place that posh.

Something warm and reckless curls in your stomach, and you hate yourself for it, and you fold the letter into the pocket of your cardigan and carry it around for three days before you decide you’re going.

Friday night. O’Malley’s.

You arrive twenty minutes early because you're a control freak in crisis, and you take the farthest booth in the corner because your back needs to be against a wall and your eyes need to be on the door—a habit you picked up from your husband without realising it.

You order a gin and tonic to give your hands something to do, and you check your reflection in the blank screen of your phone for the third time. You look good, like you tried again—not the kind of effort you make for John when he comes home, all desperate and over-polished, but a quieter kind; wearing your favourite dress with subtle makeup and your hair done the way you like it, not the way you think someone else wants to see it.

You look like your old self, and that's terrifying, because the whole point of tonight was supposed to be about being someone else.

When your wedding ring catches the light as you reach for your drink, and you stare at it for a long moment, the slim gold band John slid onto your finger nine years ago with steady hands and unsteady eyes, and you don't take it off.

You should, but you can’t, and you did say you’re married.

Eight o'clock comes and goes. Five past, then ten. You're about to convince yourself you've been stood up, which would be both a relief and a humiliation, when the pub door opens and a man walks in, and every nerve ending in your body fires at once.

Because the man standing in the doorway, scanning the room with those sharp, assessing eyes, is your husband.

John is wearing civvies. Dark jeans, a black henley pushed up to his elbows, boots that have seen better days.

He looks like he came straight from the base, which he probably did. His hair is freshly cut but his beard is full, and there is a tiredness around his eyes that you can read from across the room, the same bone-deep fatigue he carries home from every deployment and tries to hide and fails.

He spots you and your stomach plummets.

Meanwhile, his expression doesn't change; not a flicker. He holds your gaze across the crowded pub, and then he walks towards you with the kind of unhurried, deliberate stride that you've seen him use in exactly two contexts.

When he's approaching a superior officer, and when he's about to do something that no one in the room is going to enjoy.

Your heart is hammering so hard you can feel it in your teeth. Your hand tightens around your glass until your knuckles ache, and every instinct in your body is screaming at you to run to the bathroom, to the car park, to another country, but your legs won't cooperate, because Captain John Price is walking towards you and you have never in your life been able to move when he's looking at you like that.

He reaches the booth, stops, and looks down at you. And a beat of terrible, electric silence follows.

Then he smiles, though not the tight, exhausted smile he gives you at the front door when he's been gone for weeks, but something warmer, something almost boyish, and then he slides into the seat across from you, settling in with an ease that makes your blood run cold.

"You must be Box 64," he says casually, calm, like he's meeting a stranger for the first time, which is insane, because he is your husband and he is sitting across from you at a pub where you came to meet another man and he knows. He fucking knows.

"John—"

"John," he repeats, tasting the name like he's hearing it for the first time. Then he extends his hand across the table. "That's right. Pleasure to meet you."

You stare at his outstretched hand, then at his face, and back at his hand.

"John, I can explain—"

"Nothing to explain." He keeps his hand where it is, steady and patient. His eyes don't leave yours. "I'm J. You're Box 64. We're here to have a drink and see if we get on. That was the arrangement, wasn't it? What your ad said?"

Your mouth opens and something inside you dies a little, along with the words in your throat; anything but one.

"John."

"You gonna leave me hanging, love? Already?" He nods at his hand, one eyebrow raised, and there is something in his expression—beneath the calm and the performance—that you can't quite read.

It's not anger, not even hurt. Something closer to resolve, like he's made a decision about tonight and he intends to see it through, and nothing you say is going to alter the trajectory.

You take his hand, shake it weakly.

His fingers close around yours, warm and rough, and he gives one firm shake before releasing you. Then he flags down the barmaid, orders a whisky neat, and turns back to you with that same easy, unreadable smile.

"So. Tell me about yourself."

You stare at him owlishly.

"I—I don't—" You can feel heat crawling up your neck, your throat tightening with the precursor to tears. "John, please, can we just—"

"Tell me," he says again, and his voice is gentle, but his eyes are steel. "What do you do? Where are you from? What made you put that ad in the paper?"

The last question lands like another slap, even though his tone doesn't change. You swallow hard, your fingers wrap around your glass for something to anchor to.

He waits for you to answer; patient as a sniper in a ghillie suit.

"I'm—" You exhale shakily. "I'm from here. I live in Hereford. I'm—" Your voice threatens to crack, and you bite the inside of your cheek until it steadies. "I'm a teacher."

"A teacher." John nods, like this is new information and not something he's known for the better part of a decade. "What age?"

"Year four."

"Year four. That's—what, eight? Nine?" He takes a sip of his whisky. The barmaid left it quietly and shot you a look like she sensed the tension. "Brave woman. I've faced insurgents with less fight in them than a nine-year-old with a grudge."

The laugh that escapes you is wet and startled and completely involuntary, and John's eyes soften for a fraction of a second before the mask slides back into place.

"What about you?" you ask carefully, because two can play this game, and if he's going to make you sit through this surreal performance, you might as well commit. Your voice is still unsteady, but there's a spark of something underneath the fear—defiance, maybe, or the stubbornness that made you put the ad in the paper in the first place. "What do you do?"

"Military," he answers briskly, which is what he always says at parties and barbecues when civilians ask, offering nothing further.

"What branch?"

"The kind that doesn't let me talk about it." He leans back in his seat, one arm resting along the back of the booth leisurely and looks at you with an expression that's half amusement, half something hungrier. "I travel a lot. Gone more than I'm home unfortunately."

"That must be hard," you reply, and you mean it in a raw way that has nothing to do with the roleplay and everything to do with the long years of lonely nights and unanswered phone calls sitting between you.

John hears it and you watch it land. A brief tightening around his eyes, a muscle jumping in his jaw before he takes another slow drink.

"It is," he says quietly. "Harder on the people who wait, I'd imagine."

Your breath catches. You look down at the table, at your ring, at the condensation pooling around the base of your glass.

"Yeah," you whisper. "It is."

The silence that follows is different from the others. Not tense or loaded. Just heavy, in the way that true things are heavy, settling between you like something solid.

Then John clears his throat. "Another round?"

You nod, not trusting your voice, and he waves the barmaid over again.

The second drink loosens something.

Maybe it's the gin, perhaps the sheer absurdity of the situation, but somewhere between your second and third drink, the fear recedes enough for you to actually talk.

And John—your husband, who has spent the better part of a year giving you monosyllabic answers over dinner and falling asleep during films—is talking back.

He's always been charming. It's how he got you in the first place, at a mate's wedding eleven years ago, when he cornered you at the bar and spent forty-five minutes making you laugh so hard you snorted champagne up your nose. Though you'd forgotten what it looks like when he aims it at you with intent.

John asks about your students and listens to the answers. He asks about the book you're currently reading and offers an opinion on it that tells you he's been paying more attention to your nightstand than you thought. He tells you stories from deployment that are carefully scrubbed of classified details but still make you laugh; the kind of stories he used to tell you when you were dating. Absurd, self-deprecating, designed to make you think he's funnier than he is.

He is funny. You'd forgotten that, too.

"You've got a nice laugh," he says at one point, swirling his whisky, and the way he says it, like an observation, like he's hearing it for the first time, makes your stomach flip.

"Don't flatter me, J." The letter feels strange in your mouth, this thin fiction stretched over the truth of him. "I'll think you're after something."

"Maybe I am." He holds your gaze and doesn't smile. "That a problem, love?"

Your mouth goes dry.

Three drinks in, you're leaning across the table towards each other, and his hand is resting on the tabletop close enough to yours that your little fingers are almost touching, and you're telling him about the time one of your Year Fours brought a live frog to class in his lunchbox and it escaped during maths, and John is laughing—really laughing, with his head tipped back and his eyes creased—and for a vertiginous moment, you manage to forget.

You forget that this is a performance; that your husband is sitting across from you pretending to be a stranger because you put an ad in the newspaper looking for someone else. Everything except the sound of his laugh and the warmth in his eyes and the way he's looking at you like you're the most interesting person in the room, which is how he used to look at you all the time, before the deployments ate him alive and left you with the husk.

Then his eyes drop to your left hand, and the warmth doesn't leave his expression, but something sharper slides in alongside it, like the glint of a blade edge, and then he reaches across the table and takes your hand, turning it over in his.

His thumb presses against the band of your wedding ring, holding it there.

"You know," he says, and his voice is still easy, still conversational, but there's a new undercurrent to it that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up, "if you were really going to go through with this little adventure of yours—"

He taps the ring once with his thumb, clicks his tongue.

"—you probably should've taken this off first."

The blood drains from your face. The pleasant haze of gin and good conversation evaporates in an instant, replaced by a cold, lurching clarity.

"John—"

"Bit of a deterrent, love. Even when you mentioned it in the ad." He's still holding your hand, still running his thumb over the ring, and his expression is unreadable—not angry, not hurt, just steady, the way he looks when he's holding a position and waiting for something to break. "Any bloke worth his salt would've clocked that you're not really in it five minutes in."

Your eyes are stinging. "I wasn't going to—I would never have—"

"I know." He replies simply and releases your hand. "I know you wouldn't."

The lump in your throat is enormous and razor-edged, and you have to look away at anything that isn't his face, because if you keep looking at him, you're going to cry in the middle of this pub and he will never, ever let you live it down.

"I'm sorry," you manage, barely a whisper. "John, I'm so sorry, I didn't—I was just—"

"Don't."

You look back at him. He's leaning forward now, strong forearms on the table, and the mask is gone. All of it, the J performance, the first-date charm, the controlled amusement. And underneath is just your husband. Looking at you with an expression that is not anger, that has never been anger, that is something far worse.

Guilt.

"I should've been home more," he murmurs; too honest for a pub on a Friday night. "I should've—" He stops, his jaw clenches before he tries again. "I should've given you a proper life. A family. A husband who's actually fucking present. And I didn't, and you—"

He gestures vaguely at the booth, the pub, the entire premise of the evening.

"—you shouldn't have had to do this to get my attention."

The first tear slips down your face before you can catch it. You swipe at it furiously with the back of your hand before the barmaid, who has become somewhat intrigued by whatever is happening at your table, can clock it.

"I wasn't trying to get your attention," you lie, and you both know it's a lie, and his mouth twitches; not quite a smile, something more tender and much more broken.

"Yeah, you were." He reaches across the table again and takes your hand, properly this time, threading his fingers through yours and squeezing. "And it worked."

You let out a breath that's half laugh, half sob, and squeeze back.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The pub buzzes around you. Glasses clinking, conversations flowing, some '80s song you can't name playing from the speakers. And you sit in the middle of it, holding hands across a sticky table, and the nine years of silence and distance and loving each other badly feel, for the first time, like something that could be survived.

"I need the loo," you announce eventually, because your mascara is probably wrecked and you need thirty seconds of privacy to pull yourself together before you dissolve entirely.

John releases your hand with a nod. "Take your time, love."

You slide out of the booth on legs that feel slightly unsteady with gin and adrenaline, and make your way to the back of the pub, past the bar and down the short corridor to the ladies'.

It's a single-stall bathroom. Small, clean enough, a lock on the door that you click shut behind you before bracing your hands on the edge of the sink and staring at your reflection in the mirror above it.

Your eyes are bright and glassy. Your mascara is, as predicted, smudged. You look wrecked and flushed and alive in a way you haven't in months, and you hate that it took this—a dating ad and a Friday night charade—to put that look on your face.

You run the tap and press your cool, damp fingers against your closed eyelids. Breathe. You can do this. You can go back out there, finish your drinks, go home with your husband, and figure out the rest in the morning like adults who have been married for nearly a decade and know how to have a difficult conversation.

You're drying your hands when the lock clicks.

You freeze. Your eyes snap to the door in the mirror's reflection as it opens, and John slips inside and closes it behind him with a soft, definitive click of the lock.

The bathroom shrinks to nothing.

He fills the space. Not just physically, though he does that too, broad shoulders and solid frame taking up far too much of the small room, but atmospherically. The air changes when he's this close, gets heavier and becomes charged, like the pressure drop before a storm front.

"John, what are you—"

He moves. One step, then two, and then his big hand is flat against your lower back and he's pressing you forward, gently but firmly, until your hips meet the edge of the sink and your palms catch the porcelain on either side.

His body moulds against your back. Chest to spine, hips to arse. One hand sliding from your lower back to your waist, gripping and anchoring, while his other forearm braces against the wall beside the mirror.

You can see him in the reflection; towering behind you, head dipped, mouth hovering at the shell of your ear, and your breath stutters at the look on his face.

"Gonna make you remember why you married me, darling," he mutters into your ear, and his breath is hot and damp on the side of your neck, sending a shiver cascading down your spine. His hand tightens on your waist, pulling your arse back against the hard line of his cock already straining behind his zipper.

"John—"

"Shh." His lips graze the spot beneath your ear. No kiss but a warning. "You wanted to be seen, love. I see you."

His hand slides from your waist to the hem of your dress and drags it up slowly, bunching the fabric around your hips until you're exposed from the waist down. The cool air of the bathroom hits your bare thighs and makes you gasp.

"John, we can't—We're in a pub—!"

"Should've thought about that before you went looking for a date, shouldn't you?" His voice is rough and threaded with something dark and tender at the same time, and his fingers hook into the waistband of your knickers, tugging them down your thighs in one smooth motion. They pool around your ankles, and he doesn't bother removing them fully—just leaves them there, tangled between your heels.

"Anyone could—"

"Door's locked." His hand trails up the inside of your thigh, calloused fingers dragging against the soft skin, and you bite your lip to keep the sound that wants to escape inside. "And you're going to be quiet for me, aren't you, hm?"

You hear his belt buckle. The clink of metal, the drag of leather through belt loops, then the rasp of his zip, and your hands grip the sink so hard your arms tremble, because the sound alone is enough to make your pussy clench around nothing in anticipation.

"Nearly a decade of marriage," he murmurs against the back of your neck, and his free hand slides between your thighs from behind, two thick fingers dragging through your supple folds, finding you already embarrassingly wet. He lets out a low, dark sound of approval that vibrates against your skin. "And I let you forget."

His fingers circle your clit once and your hips buck back against him involuntarily.

"That's on me," he continues, his voice dropping to that gravelly register that makes your toes curl in your pumps. "My fault. My fucking failure. Not yours."

He presses one thick finger inside you, then two, stretching you open with a slow, curling thrust that makes your breath hitch and your walls clench around him. He groans quietly and his forehead drops against the back of your head.

"'M finally gonna put our baby in you," he declares, and the words are rough and raw and utterly certain, a promise sealed against your skin. "Should've done it years ago. Should've given you that. Should've given you everything."

He withdraws his fingers and you whimper at the loss with a needy, desperate sound that you'd be mortified by in any other context, and then you feel the blunt, plump head of his cock pressing against your entrance and every other thought in your head goes static.

"John—" you mewl. John pushes in slowly.

He stretches you open around him with a fullness that borders on too much, and the sound that tears from your throat is muffled only because you clamp your hand over your own mouth.

More than a decade and his fat cock is still enough to make you go stupid.

"Fuck," John breathes, his hips flush against your arse, buried to the root, and his grip on your waist is bruising. He doesn't move yet just holds there, letting you feel every inch of him, letting your body adjust around the thick, throbbing weight of his cock.

Then he starts to move, and it's not the perfunctory, tired sex you've been having for the past year. The kind where he finishes quickly and rolls over and you stare at the ceiling and pretend you came.

This is John Price. The real one, the one you fell in love with. The one who backed you against the wall of your old flat on your third date and made you see God by eating you out through your knickers before he'd even taken anything else off.

He fucks you deep and deliberate, one hand gripping your hip while the other wraps around the front of your throat lightly; his fingers curled against your pulse point, feeling the frantic beat of your heart against his palm.

"Look at yourself," he orders, and your eyes—which had screwed shut at some point—fly open to meet his in the mirror. Pupils blown.

The sight of it is obscene. Your dress bunched around your waist, his thick forearm braced beside the mirror, tendons flexing, his body curved over yours, and the slow, powerful roll of his hips driving into you from behind with a rhythm that's making the mirror rattle against the wall.

"That's my wife," he grunts, and his reflection's eyes are fierce and fixed on yours. "Mine. Not some fucking stranger's from a newspaper ad."

You can't speak, only feel his cock dragging against your walls, his hand on your throat, his chest solid and warm and present against your back for the first time in what feels like forever.

He picks up the pace; harder and deeper thrusts, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing in the small bathroom while his ragged breath puffs against your ear. And then his rough hand leaves your throat to reach between your legs, flicking your clit and rubbing tight, fast circles that make you bite down on your own fist to keep from screaming.

"Quiet," he reminds you, and the bastard sounds smug. "You want the whole pub to know what I'm doing to you in here? Huh? Want them to know ‘m fucking my wife?"

You shake your head frantically; cunt fluttering and squeezing his shaft, because dirty talk from John Price is its own kind of sweet torture.

"Then cum for me quietly, love. Right now."

A few more hard, precise thrusts with his cock dragging inside your quivering cunt, massaging that spot that keeps swelling inside you, and you shatter.

The orgasm rips through you so violently that your knees give out, and the only things keeping you upright are the sink under your hands and John's arm locked around your waist. You clamp your teeth into the heel of your palm and muffle the cry that wants to tear out of you, your walls clenching and fluttering around his cock in rhythmic, milking pulses.

"Christ—fuck—" John's hips stutter, his rhythm breaks, and he buries himself deep—so deep—and holds, his cock kicking and pulsing inside you as he cums with a low, guttural groan pressed into the curve of your neck.

He spills himself empty inside you, balls throbbing with each little jerk of his hips. Hot and thick, deliberate this time. No condom, no pulling out this time, and the significance of that isn't lost on either of you. His hips roll lazily through the aftershocks, working every precious drop into your messy cunt, and his hand slides from your waist to your lower belly, pressing flat.

"There," he murmurs, and his voice is wrecked and satisfied, unbearably tender. "That's where it belongs."

You're shaking. Your entire body is trembling, your legs are useless, and there are tears streaming silently down your face that have nothing to do with pain.

He stays inside you for a long moment; breathing, his lips pressed against the nape of your neck, beard scraping your skin, his hand warm on your lower stomach. Then he pulls out slowly, carefully, and you feel his cum start to leak from you immediately, warm and slick against your inner thighs.

He reaches down, picks your knickers up from around your ankles, and slides them back up your legs with an almost clinical efficiency. When they're settled back into place, he pats your arse once, light and proprietary, and tugs your dress back down.

"There we go," he says, like he's just helped you with your coat. "Good as new."

You let out a sound that's somewhere between a laugh and a sob, your forehead dropping against the mirror.

"How about a 'thank you,' love," he adds while he tugs his softening cock back into his jeans, and when you lift your head and catch his eyes in the reflection, the smug satisfaction on his face is so thoroughly, infuriatingly Price that you want to slap him and kiss him simultaneously, "for stuffing your pretty cunt full of my cum, hm?"

"John."

"Mm." He presses a kiss to your temple, achingly gentle after everything he just did to you, and reaches past you to turn on the tap. He wets his hand and wipes beneath your eyes with his thumb, cleaning up the mascara.

"Ready to leave, love?" he asks, straightening up and buckling his belt with the same unhurried ease he does everything. "Or would you like another drink before your husband takes you home?"

Your legs are still shaking, his cum is slowly but surely soaking into your knickers, and your heart is so full it might crack your ribs.

"N-No," you manage, small and hoarse. "I'd like to go home now, John."

He looks at you, really looks. And there is nothing left of the J performance, not the Captain Price mask, just John, your husband. The man who drove to a pub on a Friday night not to punish you but to remind you both of what you'd almost let slip away.

"That's my girl," he replies softly.

He unlocks the bathroom door, checks the corridor, and guides you out with his hand on the small of your back. You walk through the pub on shaking legs, past the booth where your half-finished drinks are still sitting, past the barmaid who gives you both a knowing look that you pretend not to see.

The night air hits you like cold water when you step outside, and you suck in a breath that fills your lungs properly for the first time in hours.

John pulls his car keys from his pocket, presses the fob, and opens the passenger door for you without a word. You climb in. He closes the door, rounds the bonnet, and slides into the driver's seat.

Neither of you speaks on the drive home. His hand rests on your thigh, squeezing gently every other minute, and your hand rests on top of his, your fingers tracing the ridges of his calloused knuckles and the band of his own wedding ring, which he has never, not once in nine years, taken off.

When he pulls into the driveway, the porch light is off. You haven't left it on in months.

John kills the engine. Sits for a moment, looking at the dark house.

Then he turns to you, and his voice is quieter now, stripped of the previous smugness, the heat, the performance. Just the raw thing underneath.

"I will do better."

No grand speech or a promise wrapped in flowers and apologies and all the things you've heard before and stopped believing. It's four words, plain and blunt and offered without decoration, and they land heavier than anything else he's said tonight.

You reach across the centre console and take his face in both hands, and you kiss him slowly, like you have time, because you're going to make time.

"I know," you whisper against his mouth.

your soft knees burn against the material of your lover’s murakami rug underneath you due to the continuous back and forth motion of his weight pushing against and off of you. you’re aware that a puddle of drool is devising beneath your cheek. you feel the cool dampness of it — god, it’s gross. it’s disgusting.

“o-on’ — god, i c-c,” you don’t think you’re able to breathe. your lips shape around the opening syllables of his name, though they’re unable to fully form due to the never ending compress and expand of your lungs trying to suck in as much oxygen as they can. “onya’!” you squeal out his name when he releases a rough huff while adjusting himself more fully over you, one foot flat on the floor, the other leg still bent as he kneels.

his cock is . . .

you’re sure that words won’t be able to fully and accurately describe it. each time you find yourself a little bit tipsy with your friends — a little bit tipsy and needy, you go on a spiel about how perfect he is.

“you said, and this is like, the most fucking exact quote ever,” ymir’s face had been smoothened over in her usual deadpan as she fluidly sliced up a banana for her habitual post workout smoothie. “ ‘god, he’s jus’ so pretty and he smells so good and his dick — should i? mm . .’ and you laughed like a fuckin’ maniac right here. ‘okay, okay i will, its . . it’s huge,’” she tossed the fruit in the blender while you buried your face in your palms while squealing and shaking your head. “don’t wanna hear it anymore? cool. i didn’t wanna fucking repeat it.”

it is huge.

and it’s heavy. you practically feel the weight of it cumbering down inside of your squelching, chubby pussy — working and pushing right up against the spongy nub of your g spot.

you hate that he’s so . . angry. you feel how hard his large, soft hands grip your waist. usually, they touch you so delicately. they wipe your tears, fix a braid out of place, carefully adjust a shirt’s strap. they don’t spank you this hard and snatch you back into place when your body begins to slip.

onyankopon’s known for having a bit of a dark side, everyone on campus is aware.

what everyone sees at parties and lectures and quads is what they get. he’s quiet — doesn’t speak unless spoken to and keeps his opinions to himself. he’ll lounge on a bench with his friends, fists shoved in his billionaire boy’s labeled hoodie, legs spread wide agape to accommodate you upon his lap and he’d just . . . listen. rarely would he offer a laugh or comment — the most is a wide, handsome grin displaying all of his pretty, white teeth ( a glistening gold cap covering the bottom row at social events ) or a slight scoff at the mention of something irritable.

the country’s beloved, college quarterback star only fetes his hidden rage and anger on the field. opposing teams are the target of such . . and sometimes his own mates.

you’ve only had a first hand witness to such after meeting him following a losing game outside of the locker room, still dressed in your cheer uniform. you heard him yell for the first time, loud and livid . . his smooth voice echoing off porcelain walls and cold steel.

it had made you jump and recoil . . flinch back when he came walking out the doors, last of course, and automatically reach for you for comfort.

you hadn’t mean to, not at all, but would he shout at you like that, too?

ony didn’t appreciate that.

from then on, you were to meet him at his car . . a sleek, black on black hellcat, passenger seat decorated with your own pink trimmed cover and sewn in name.

this leaves you both here . . today.

you had ace’d an exam, received a more than beautiful check for your hours in working at the campus’ library along with a few tutoring sessions on the side, you were happy.

albeit, walking through his frat house’s doors and greeting ony who’d only given you a swift look up and down from the cute, gyaru - like beach wedges on your feet, the tiny, denim flared skirt on your hips, and gingham patterned crop top adorned upon your chest, you knew he was upset.

“what — hnnggg, please — w-what’d i do?” you drag out the last word through a slurred whine when he swats a specific slap against the back of your soft thighs. not even your ass . . he wants you to feel this shit tomorrow.

his breaths are hard. you can’t see him but you know his eyes, dark and drilling, are staring directly into the back of your head. “don’t play fuckin’ stupid, ( ❤︎ ),” he grits out quietly. “please don’t.”

he takes hold of the globes of your ass, spreading them far apart, making sure you feel the cool air glide over your holes. it feels colder than usual because you’re so wet. “ ‘s my fuckin’ pussy, yeah?” he pants out. “shit, ‘s supposed to be . . . givin’ my shit out — y’got me lookin’ like a fuckin’ bitch out here, man, look—“ his own words seem to ignite the roaring flames of his anger.

you squeak when he reaches down to grab you by the front of your throat, squeezing it just hard enough for you to gasp on your next inhale.

an inkling of fear plants itself within the pit of your stomach. what does he mean? what is he talking about? “ ‘m not.” tears paint your face, sticky and warm. your make up is ruined. no fair. you were so excited for the beach date you planned for the both of you . . you’d even picked out fat, ripened strawberries and dipped them in chocolate to harden the night before yourself. you even got a heart shaped pizza customized with his favorite toppings to shape out the both of your initials on it! “ ‘m not, i swe—“ you hiccup. “—ar . . ‘s yours, daddy. m’pussy’s all yours, i p-promise.”

ony thinks you talk a big game. you sound so genuine. how do you do that?

he’ll buy into it, “yeah,” he licks his lips, bending you further back, deepening that arch until it looks somewhat painful and he tilts himself forward.

he makes you look at him like that, from upside down and he admires the tears that shine across your cheeks, dusted with a mauvey blush. he huffs a scoff at the sight of your drool laminated chin and your shuddering body. “yeah, i bet,” he murmurs. “good girl ( ❤︎ ) . . fuckin’ cheerleader . . top ten on the dean’s list . . . gettin’ over and fuckin’ playing paradis university’s star quarterback ony asare,” his thrusts have slowed. he tilts his head, face a calculated blank, “think i don’t know what typa’ shit you tryna’ play with me, lil’ girl?”

you wish you could take a peek inside of his brain — finally get an understanding as to what he was talking about. “ ‘m not playing you, ony,” you realize now that the tears on your face were not only a cause of overbearing pleasure, but pain as well. you can hear it in ony’s voice how much he’s hurting and you hate that he won’t allow you to fix it. “w-what did i do?”

ony has stopped moving. he keeps your face in his hands and you see a muscle in his jaw tick as he tries to keep from speaking.

“nah,” he murmurs.

you sniffle, soft lips pouted, “talk to me, pa’.”

“no.” he lets you go and you fall forward, quietly catching your breath.

“yes.”

“you know what the fuck you did.”

“how do i know if i keep asking you?” you give a soft, little whine, making a move to pull yourself off of his dick to face him but he keeps you where you are with a firm smack to your ass.

“i saw you with my own two eyes smilin’ in your ex’s face . . i saw you invite that nigga into your apartment.”

god.

you knew that decision would come back to bite you in the ass. you bow your head, eyes closed. “ony . .—“

“—if i catch you in a lie, i’m done with you. you hear me?” abruptly, his voice doesn’t carry that edge anymore. he’s quiet and soft . . he nearly sounds like your ony again, which queues you in on the realization that he’s telling the truth. “gon’ be y’last time with me . . near me . . touching me. and i put that on everything i love.”

“ony, we didn’t do anything,” you turn your head over your shoulder to gaze into his eyes, making sure he read how genuine you were.

ony’s been the only person to recognize your tale ticks. you both know this.

“i found a box of his things buried in my closet that he never picked up, i swear,” your voice is a meek little thing . . broken and weary. “i dunno, to give you peace of mind, ymir was even home that day. i know you both share your own bond and we both know that she wouldn’t lie, not even for me. we didn’t do anything. he picked up the box and left . . wasn’t even in my apartment for three minutes.”

ony licks his lips, looking away from you for a few seconds. when he begins to slowly shake his head, you crumble.

your heart feels like it’s disintegrating within your chest as you go to speak, breath gone, “p-please, i would n-never do that to you,” you weep and go to pull off again but he keeps you still, once again. “onya, please.”

“lemme think, man. relax,” he places a palm at your lower back, right between the piercings that puncture the deep dimples at the base of it. he needs you quiet for a moment.

he saw that three days ago. while on the way to surprise you with your favorite food and that new marc jacobs tote you’ve had in your wishlist just because, he saw a familiar head of black curls and knew who the person had been.

your fuckin’ ex.

you and ony have been together for about twelve months. you dated jonah your freshman year of uni and the both of you hadn’t even lasted more than six, however the shit he did to you during the time was foul.

ony doesn’t like him. not one fucking bit. the only thing keeping him from sending a punch hard enough into the fucker’s face to knock him into a coma is his scholarship and, above all, you.

so, to see you open your door for him . . clearly willingly, dressed in that tiny ass, cute nightgown, give him a smile . . and step aside to allow him entry into your home had made ony feel a rage unorthodox to earth’s atmosphere. he felt sick to his fucking stomach.

wanted to block your number and socials then and there though could never get himself to do it. you were so excited for your date today, blew up his messages with your precious emoticons and exclamation marks that same night like nothing ever happened.

still, above all, you were telling the truth. ony can tell . . he feels it radiating off of you. your sweetness and how good you are, it’s palpable. regardless, you were right, too. if he still even felt a seed of doubt, he can ask ymir. the most blunt person the both of you knew — doesn’t hold shit back for anybody, best friend or not.

“. . . cross your fuckin’ heart,” he murmurs, side eyeing your pretty face face, foliated with woe and sorrow.

“i swear it to the stars.”

god, he feels so stupid now.

he rubs a hand across his tapered waves, bitter embarrassment slowly spreading across his chest similar to a crack in an icicle.

fuck it.

he suddenly presses you back where you were, hearing your little squeal of shock. “was gon’ have me transfer to another school and shit,” he huffs, jaw clenching once more at the thought. “would’ve had me cryin’ like a fuckin’ wimp . . you scared me, mama . . fuck.”

he can’t imagine losing you. ever.

“ ‘m s-sorry,” your toes coil tight within your wedges as he resumes that same brutal pace. you think his thrusts are hitting even harder now that he’s finally gotten a quiet mind in days. “s-should’ve never . .” you can’t get your words out but ony knows what you’re going to say.

he licks his thick, soft lips, pinning the bottom one beneath his top row of teeth, “should’ve never let that fed into your apartment . . should’ve took that box and burnt up all his shit, mhm . . i know.”

yeah.

he gets it.

you melt underneath him, successfully opening up your pussy even more, letting him batter it senseless. you feel yourself weakly gushing out your juices, feel a few droplets racing down your inner thighs to your knees, feel it packing into a paste at the foundation of his thick cock.

“unh, shit,” ony lets his head fall back at how perfect it all feels. “f-u—uuck . . gimmie this shit. take it, mhm, take it.”

your hips start to move. not back and forth but in smooth circular motions. ony watches how your fat, soft ass cheeks bounce off of his sculpted abdomen, how the skin ripples and pleats akin to hard ocean waves the stronger he fucks you.

to simply imagine another person in his place . . .

ony feels a murderous fervor burn inside of his chest. no longer opting to hold his tee out of the way, he pulls it up to bite down on the bottom and hold you more by the sides of your torso. his rhythm slows but he digs in deeper.

the steady smack . . smack . . smack sound of your skin meeting drives your brain into an empty void. “ohhh . . shit,” you moan out, honing in on the sensation of his balls, heavy yet firm, slapping against the throbbing bulb of your hard clit. “don’t s-st . . god, ony’ you’re,” you shiver, burying your face inside of your arms. you feel out of body. you can’t finish your sentence, he hears you begin to cry — all broken and full of mindless babbles and he smiles around his shirt.

“there we go,” he murmurs. “i’m diggin’ this shit out, mm? . . tell me how it feels, beautiful.”

your soft voice is but a quite whimper when you give a ‘ so good. ‘

ony reaches behind him for the neck of his shirt, tugging it over his head and tossing it to the side, prior to pulling out and swiftly turning you over onto your back.

the position change is so sudden. you blink, watching the world oscillate until you focus on him. you watch him lean down before he kisses you . . soft and slow as his hands part your legs open at the thighs. “put it in for me,” his low voice murmurs against your glossed lips. immediately, you comply, reaching between you both for his dick.

it throbs in your little hand, hard and wet with your slick. you tap his fat mushroom tip on your entry before letting it slip inside, mouth dropping at the instantaneous feeling of pleasure of his shaft splitting you wide open. the both of you groan out your little sighs, not bothering to separate your lips an inch. you can’t explain how happy you feel — with him, underneath him, touching him. “i l-love you,” you mewl when he’s dropping his dick in and out of your soppy center. “o-only you, pa’ . . i mean it.”

he nestles his face in your neck, breathing in a deep inhale. you smell like vanilla and jasmine. “love you . . m-maybe too fuckin’ much,” he admits quietly into the skin there. ony can’t help it. you’re everything he’s ever wanted and more.

he feels your cunt clenching down tighter and tighter, it only spurs on his own release, allowing his body to tense more and more. “hold it,” he breathes, pressing the pads of his fingers into your skin tighter. “hold that shit, baby . . wait.”

“i can’t,” you’re gasping while your nails prick against the rippling muscles of his back, splitting smooth, dark brown skin and revealing oozing plasma. you feel the muscles in your legs spasming. you know it’s going to hit you hard. “oh my god.”

ony starts to maneuver his hips, pivoting them with each inwards thrust, letting himself get lost in the feel of your ribbed walls, soft, gushy, and tight, massaging his dick, almost deliberately trying their best to work his nut free. “you f-fuckin’ dangerous, man,” he whimpers out your name, heavy hands grasping for the soft cheeks of your ass to begin to lift your hips and make you meet him halfway. “f-fuck, ‘m gonna . .”

“metoometoometoo.”

the both of you work desperately — recognizing that you’re both on the edge of something phenomenal. “cum in me,” he hears your pretty voice gasp in his ear. “please, daddy . . c’mon. gimmie it.”

dangerous isn’t the word, it doesn’t even cover half of what you are.

ony feels his toes curl and his muscles tense. his eyes snap tightly shut. “gotdamn,” he feels it. “. . . fuck!”

you cum when he does, legs escaping his hands to wrap tightly around his waist. you hold his hips in with your thighs, keeping him still. stars dance behind your eyelids as you hear your release audibly pour out of you and down the seam of your ass. you feel ony’s cock pulsing as he pushes out shot after shot of thick, warm cum, letting it all gather in that tiny crevice behind your cervix.

“s-shit, baby, wait,” ony’s hands are gripping at you. it’s as though he’s trying to pull you closer and peel you away.

your voice is dazed as you reach for his handsome face, rubbing your thumb softly across his bearded jaw, “shh, jus’ feel it, pa’ . . don’t i feel good?”

he fights it for about a second more.

he’s never came inside of you before . . inside of anybody.

but fuck, he feels you working it out of him, clenching and releasing. he feels how good it is.

he lets himself relax.

“. . h-have to buy y’lil ass a plan b now,” he groans, feeling the beginning factors of sleep begin to pull his eyes low. how immediate it is scares him. you fucking scare him. ony lets his body relax on top of yours, on the floor.

the way you rub his back is comforting. he can feel your heart thudding hard within the cage of your ribs. he’s sure the beat of it matches his own. “mhm,” you quip quietly. “. . our date?”

he groans, pecking a soft kiss underneath your jaw, “let’s take a nap, mm? a lil one . . gimmie thirty minutes.”

it takes over ten minutes for you to lift the both of you up off of the floor, complaining about how ‘gross’ it’d be for you guys to doze off there but you make it for his bed, collapsing down with your body on top of his now. your eyes are closed and your breathing is calm when you feel him kiss the crown of your head, “sorry for . . accusing you and shit,” at the sound of how bashful he sounds, it makes you want to smile. “wasn't cool. i gotta work on that.”

“you do,” you pout and lift your head to look up at him. “wasn’t nice.”

he licks his lips, eyes closed, smirking a bit, “y’got me outta’ character . .” at only the simple thought of his demeanor an hour ago, it all makes him want to shun himself away to spare the humiliation. “i don’t do all’lat.”

your responding giggle is precious, “you don’t do all’lat?”

“nah.”

“coulda fooled me.”

ony lifts his arm up high, eyes still closed, before letting it fall with little to no finesse, so that his hand can fall down onto your ass with a thundering smack!

you yelp out a high, whiny, “ony!”

“ ‘m sleeping. shh.”

he’s not in his room, in the backyard, nor the kitchen. 

‘mateo’s a teenager now,’ you’ve heard your mother tell her friends last week over raspberry iced teas and fruit tarts after their book club meeting. you’d been a few feet away from where the six of them sat on the veranda, crouched within the shimmering, sun warmed palette of grass as you held out a slightly trembling finger right atop the tip of a blade of green where a particular, stubborn ladybug had landed to coax him to climb upon. ‘he goes to school, eats us out of house and home, does his chores, then holes up in the basement. i don’t like it, but — it isn’t the toddler days so, i guess i can’t be too mad.’

the basement.

once more, the tapping staccato of your mary jane’s echo throughout the otherwise quiet home as you race downstairs, make a sharp right at the end of the railing, then come face to face with a shut door.

‘open it and freddy kreuger’s goin’ to snatch you in, slit your stomach, and replace your guts with maggots and worms,’ casually, mateo had informed you of your awaited fate six months ago while standing upon the bottom stair, tuna melt in hand, and toasted breadcrumbs decorating his chapped lips. ‘stay out of the basement. you have your playroom and i have mine.’

the entire family had been well aware of your more than grave fear of the rubberfaced boogeyman after a sleepover with your friends to celebrate your tenth birthday two years ago. you’d snuck the dvd out of mateo’s media console cabinet after you were sure he and your parents had fell asleep, furthermore, all five of you girls woke them up with screams and sobs only about a half hour into the film. let this also be commended as the day where your first panic attack struck — it was that bad.

and while your parents use freddy as means of a reprimand to keep you from rising up on your tip toes to reach the highest shelf in the pantry and, quite literally, jam your sticky, little hands into the cookie jar, or maintain good grades . . . mateo uses it to keep you out of his space.

discounting the trembling of your fingers and throat knotting with a lump big enough to induce you to feel as though you’d choke and faint at that same moment, you reach for the gold handle of the doorknob. 

you’re a brave girl — the bravest of them all. 

“. . . ‘teo?” your voice is a meek whimper as the door is pushed til only a slither of space separates it from the threshold. 

the case of stairs leading down to the flat level of the basement are made of thick, solid wood. because of the boards being so inured, the sound of the soles of your shoes landing on them seem to be amplified as you cautiously begin to step down, one by one.

“mateo?” it’s only right that your fear starts to transcend and tiptoe a line of irritation. you feel as though you’re quite literally risking your life, dancing with the devil, all in efforts just to let your big brother know that your mother told him to separate his laundry by wash cycle specification. how stupid.

the closer you get to the bottom, the louder comes the sound of applause, cheers, and, oddly, the deep tenors of multiple voices. 

the corners of your lips are tugged downwards when you take in the scene in front of you. 

it isn’t dust covered boxes toppled to the brim with old photo albums, deceased loved ones clothes, old radio sets, and aged, money collecting antiques that decorate your basement — no, your father had the space renovated and constructed into something more akin to a lounge a week after you all moved into the home. 

the ac is cranked up to its max. a sharp waft of cool air flies over your plaid skirt and through the locs of your braids. on the sixty inch flat screen television is a video game’s loading screen — madden, and seated on the loveseat, back angled to face you, is a boy.

aslant from him, is your brother lounged across a large bean bag chair, playstation controller in hand, a can of cherry coke at his socked feet, and bag of chester hot fries upon his lap. he’s chewing on what looks like a handful of them, murmuring, “ ‘m gonna whoop your ass, jaeger. watch this.” while crumbs fly out of his mouth with enough force to compare to bullets. 

you cringe at the sight, prior to finally making yourself known.

“mateo.”

two heads snap towards you, and you happen to meet a green eyed stare first. 

if asked, you wouldn’t have been able to describe it back then — the immediate shock your heart seems to undergo as it bunny hops over its usual, steady beat then begins to pound against the corral of your ribs. a simple glance from him has your painted nails sinking into the meat of your palms until a bloom of red bordered them. similar to a spooked fawn, you stand there for a moment, knees trembling as the toes of your feet begin to idly turn inwards towards one another. 

the thing is, you’ve always been a bit of a shy girl, opting to stand behind your parents’ legs when being introduced to one of their friends or a long distanced family member. never have you been able to place your own order at a drive thru’s window or raise your hand in class, granted you almost always knowing the answers . . nonetheless, you don’t think this current feeling compares to those. it’s something deeper — more fierce. at a minimum, you were always able to mumble your name or shake a hand when being introduced, albeit, after mateo does such — ‘sorry, man. this my lil’ sis ( ❤︎ ). ( ❤︎ ), this eren, say hi,’ you’re only able to fester enough courage to lift a hand and flutter your shaking fingers. 

eren is your brother’s age, you can tell. he wears from what you could see, a plain black tee with a band’s name, nirvana, you read, printed on the front. his hair is tapered cleanly at the back, however, a bit long in the front, a few strands fall into his eyes that blink plainly at you before he gives a polite, closed mouth smile and holds up his hand. “hey, ‘s cool to meet you.” a thin strip of titanium runs horizontally across the top row of his flawless, white lines of teeth and you let your eyes drag across the four rubber bracelets he wears on his left wrist, two, tiny blemishes near his jawline, ‘til finally, you let them land on the fine dark hairs that line the top of his plump, upper lip. nadeshiko — you’d been taught the word a few weeks ago by one of your friends who was japanese. ‘it’s a really, really pretty shade of pink. kinda like bubblegum.’ 

nadeshiko pink was the color of them. they shined subtly, whether it be by chapstick or rather him quickly licking them prior to speaking, you don’t know. but they were pretty . . he was pretty.

“mm,” you fist the fabric of your skirt in a fist. an uncomfortable warmth begins at the peak of your nose before you feel it blossoming to both your cheeks. “m-mommy wants you, ‘teo.”

your brother lets his head fall back before giving a short groan and setting his controller down to then stand, “alright. hol’ on, bro. i’ll be back.”

you follow close behind him when he starts to trudge up the stairs, skipping two at a time. unable to help it, you spare a single last glance of eren before the sight of him is hidden behind the wall once more, albeit, alone in your room, you can’t help but pout upon the realization that he’d been reimmersed into the video game, not another regard of you given.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀  ❤︎

you hadn’t known what the feeling was.

you just knew that you really, really, really liked being around eren. following the months after meeting him for the first time, eren pops up at your house at a more increasing extent. every friday, sometimes saturdays, a few thursdays, a rare tuesday. a glance of him lounging upon the living room couch, one, long leg sprawled along the cushioned arm, stare heavy and long as he gazed at the television was always just enough for you to feel that exact sensation of queasy warmth just as you did in the basement.

you’d watch him smile with your brother, watch the magnificent sea green of his eyes glimmer before they’d tightly shut in order for him to throw his head back and emit the most prettiest bellow of laughter from the pit of his stomach, and sometimes, shards of jagged, tined ice would skirt the edges of that queasy warmth come the realization that mateo got to see that same, striking grin everyday.

“alright, ma’. we headin’ to jj’s party — i’ll be home by eleven like you said.”

parties, parks, football games, basketball courts, you’d never seen your brother hang out with someone as much as he does eren. 

kindled summers peppered with warm nights and the comforting buzz of fireflies and cicadas phase into the chambré days of autumn, and soon, that becomes a frosty winter, heaving with dim, caliginous skies and porcelain mugs the shape of gingerbread houses with creamy, hot cocoa. indubitably, enters spring — with the fresh budding of flowers, warm rain, and new swelling of leaves upon branches. and the cycle begins anew.

you watch eren grow. you watch him grow out the thick, chocolate waves of his hair until it reaches his mid back, then, you also watch him cut it all off again. his style of clothing transforms, what was once band tees, faded jeans, and vans becomes air force ones, new balances, and jordans. more loose jeans and sweats, hoodies, and beanies. his retainer is retired to only night wears, he’d told your mother, and his acne smoothens over into flawless, warm tan skin after a trip to the dermatologist and a prescription. you watch eren become a man, and naturally, your feelings for him triple. 

it’s only fair that you feel a little bit blue, seated within the balcony box of an auditorium as your new principle calls out his and mateo’s names to walk the stage and grab their diplomas. the smiles the two of them wear are nothing short of bright and wide as they do. fighting to hide your pout, you stand behind the jittering, bustling bodies of your parents, aunt, and grandmother, after the ceremony’s over, watching them take what seemed like a million pictures and videos of the two boys on their day, until you’re ultimately nudged by your mother between them. “picture with your sister, mateo, c’mon! big smiles — you three are so cute. oh my god, michael, look at them!”

more than hyperaware of eren’s arm draped casually over the hill of your shoulder as he leans in with a smile, you struggle to keep from tensing up or trembling too much or as your arms go behind his and mateo’s backs. he’d smelt of fresh soap and cedarwood, that day — potent and electrifying. you scramble between feeling relived and bummed when the pictures are over and he’s giving mateo a goodbye hug. “i’ll see you later, man. probably tomorrow or somethin’,” he’s smiling after pulling away. “you know me.”

“oh, for sure,” mateo nods. “go find your moms. tell her i said hi.”

he gives you one last wave and you return it with a warm smile.

for years to come, that’d be the last memory you’d have of eren jaeger.

with mateo off to college and you a freshmen in high school, it’s difficult to find intel on where he’d gone. he had fled the city, that was for sure, nonetheless, no one knew where, not even mateo. “he always told me he wanted to be a tattoo artist . . you can’t do that in the suburbs,” clarified your brother on his rare visit home for thanksgiving. “eren’s never had social media either so,” he shrugged, face smoothed over with indifference. “hopefully he’s okay wherever he is.”

you suppose it’s true when they say high school is one of the fastest four years of your life. it’s all a blur. 

with you participating on the student council, school newspaper, and being vice captain of the cheer squad, your extracurricular activities bring not only a lot of attention, but more friends. heedless to say, by the end of your senior year, almost everyone knows your name. you’re crowned as ‘the sweetest’ and ‘most likely to be successful’ within the yearbook and accepted into the most prestigious university two states over from where your parents lived, bringing you here today.

it’s now your sophomore year of college. the first year had been something . . enervating, you’d say. you had hardly even left your dorm — opting to stay in and enroot yourself into the monstrous sludge that is college level assignments. freshmen fifteen had caught you by the throat, reason being pizza, instant ramen, and iced coffee had become your meal staples, nevertheless, while some of the calories had made your tummy softer, most of such had gone to your thighs, hip, and butt, spreading them wider and filling you up from where you’d lack come the years before. 

today, you’re nineteen. it’s only the second month of the semester and you’re already studying for two midterms. 

“okay, so, what about tomorrow?”

you shake your head from where you sit, butterfly style, in the cushioned seat of your desk chair, laptop open onto the window of an electronic textbook and upon your legs as you click a pink star by a sentence to remind future you to paraphrase and write down in your notebook. “mm-mm, gigi. tomorrow i plan to catch up on sleep.”

your roommate, giselle, is nothing short of a character. on first greetings, she’d been quiet and kind — allowing you to choose which side of the room you wanted first, inviting you out to the dining hall with her, bringing you back snacks from her trip to the market. over time, shimmers of her personality began to show. she’s kind of loud, energetic, stubborn, fun . . always down for a night out. it shocks you how she still maintains anything above a three point o’. 

she sits upon her bed, compact mirror in hand that she holds dangerously close to her eye where she adjusts a strip lash upon, “mm, what about sunday?”

“uh uh.”

“okay, next thursday?”

“cramming for a quiz.”

giselle lets her arms flap onto her lap as she fixes you with an exhausted stare, “friday, then.”

“can’t. visiting my parents next weekend.”

“oh my god.”

she throws her head back, “seriously, ( ❤︎ ). can we fucking hang out for once? i never see you outside of this room.”

you play with a ring on your finger, twisting it left and right while you hesitate, “i dunno, gi.” 

giselle stands, lengthening herself to of her beautiful, five foot nine glory, then begins to scoop her knee length, knotless braids up into a high ponytail while walking over to you, “tonight then. just me, you, and like two of my other friends. we’re gonna go to a bar, my big cousin works there, she can sneak us a shot or two — it’ll be fun. we’ll only be there ‘til like, ten thirty.”

quietly, you mull her words over. last time you went out’d been a few months back . . a house party. it was fun, lots of fun if you decide to be completely honest with yourself. your brain incurred a break from persistent studying and when back in lectures the few days after, your focus and diligence inflated. you suppose it’s time for a break, to indulge in life’s simple pleasures again. why not? 

“okay,” you melt where you sit, trying your best to give giselle an upset frown though your wide grin breaks it each time. 

“okay, okay!” she squeals and bounces on her toes while running back to her bed to grab her phone. “hurry! get ready, i’m gonna text them and let you know you’re finally comin’ outside again.”

you make sure to save your progress and power your mac off while rolling your eyes, “this better be fun.”

“it isssss! i swear, i promise, for real.”

it takes you almost two and a half hours to get ready. you haven’t shaved in almost a month, therefore, your shower routine gets bumped up to an even forty five minutes due to you needing to exfoliate your skin with a yummy, vanilla and cocoa butter scented sugar scrub and lather shaving cream across your body. you get dressed then do your make up and hair, and by the time you’re grabbing your purse, giselle advises you of the awaiting uber outside.

“won’t your cousin, like . . . get in trouble for what she’s doing?” warily, you ask the question while gazing at the shadows of passing streetlights and open signs coasting along the features of her face.

glossed lips purse as giselle shakes her head, “owner’s never there. she basically owns it herself, honestly.”

you decide to take her word for it. the bar is named ‘ the grove. ‘ it’s located on the more opulent and lavish side of the city, a fifteen minute drive out from your school. the gray bricked building sits on the corner of a main street, right beside a rooftop dining restaurant. tinted, glass double doors shield the interior of the establishment from passing onlookers and upon first entry, the first thing you notice is the lighting. warm and dim, it encrusts the bar with an ambience of intimacy. to the right of you is the bar wall, it reaches what could be the ceiling, if not for the balcony that hovers over it, full to the edges with bottles of alcohol. the bar counter stretches for about twenty feet. it curves in then out, forming a design of what looks like the infinity sign with bustling bartenders filling the two holes of space between. 

you’re nervous.

never having been to a place like this before, you struggle with the decision of opting to sit at the actual bar, the few round tables in front of the small platform of the stage, the curtained off sofas along the edges of the wall, or up on the balcony. providentially, after likely viewing how tight your spine tenses directly after you both stepped pass the threshold, giselle intertwines the fingers of her hand within your own to tug you over to the bar, near the middle where her other two friends sit. 

greetings and hugs are shared. you recognize the two of them — jasmine and lana. you often see them at social events around campus and a few parties. similar to giselle, the two of them are what you’d also call social butterflies, floating here then there, next to you one minute, then carrying a conversation with someone new the next. you take a seat upon a stool beside your friends, tugging down the bottom hem of your tiny, pink, velvet skirt before you do. “what’s gonna be your drink of choice today, hm?” lana rubs her shoulder against yours, giving you a smirk while tapping her nail against her own glass. “i’ve got a manhattan.”

timidly, you shrug, eyes scanning the laminated menu a few inches away from you. “uh . . pina colada?”

immediately, an accord of giggles are heard. your responding pout is precious, “can y’all not?”

“no, no — nana,” giselle waves a woman over to where you all sit. you take it that she’s her cousin, the two of them share a few features, although slight. giselle introduces you to her prior to stating, “four shots of casa, an amf, and pina colada, pretty please?”

“mm, all for you?” teasingly, nana lifts an eyebrow while reaching for four shot glasses under the counter. giselle’s previous bambi eyed expression levels out in order for a more smug to soon replace it, “well, duh, of course!” she’s snickering when you nudge her calf with a foot. “ugh, for all of us, nana. don’t be like that.”

“mhm. sure, sure.”

it takes about an hour for you to get it — for you to understand why so many enjoyed frequenting bars and dwelling within the establishments when their lives were either at their highest of highs or lowest of lows. with the components of two shots and a pina colada intertwining and embedding themselves within the vessels of your body, you loosen up and begin to enjoy yourself. it’s a nice place to be and get away without worrying about real life’s problems. the four of you girls busy yourselves with the latest campus gossip, about which professors were pissing you off the most and which you’d sleep with if boiled down to you needing some extra credit near the end of the semester— very juvenile, albeit . . . fun.

after one more shot is when your eyes begin to wander.

they stray from paying attention to lana as she rants about what caused the latest breakup between her and her girlfriend to the end of the bar on your right. an older woman, you suppose around mid thirties, busies herself on her phone while a glass of cognac sits next to a tan birkin bag on her left. you trail them across a group of buddies there, a couple here, lonely man there, until you land on a man.

he’s seated on the left, at the ‘ curve ‘ of the infinity where the bar rounds out.

your eyes squint with suspicion come the rising feeling of uncertainty, excitement, and . . unfortunately nausea as you stare quietly.

he sits with a friend, nodding along to whatever he’s saying while picking through a small basket of french fries. he’s . . beautiful, you find. a certain mystic charm that surrounds the air of where he sits — that freezes you in place, though sucks you in all the while. his hair is a bit long. he turns his head to gaze into his acquaintance’s eyes and say something, quickly, you steal a glimpse of the messily wrapped bun sitting at the nape of his neck. though the lighting of the bar is dim, you force yourself to keep watching . . to keep staring ‘cause . . . fuck . . why does he look so familiar?

“. . . ( ❤︎ )?”

vaguely, within the far pocket of your mind, you hear giselle calling your name.

the guy smiles — its a big one, reveals almost all thirty two of his teeth as it pushes smile lines and dimples into his cheeks. 

“. . eren?”

your feet is moving before you’re able to process it. you stumble on the first few steps, feet needing to slow down with your mind, before you’re flipping back the curls of your sew in and righting your posture. 

giselle groans, “oh my god, this girl is drunk. watch my purse — ( ❤︎ )!”

“eren?”

two heads turn when they hear his name. you’re only able to catch a blur bordered glance of his friend before your focused is directed towards him. god, you feel as though you’re twelve all over again. you’d thought that he couldn’t get any more attractive, nonetheless, he did. he wears a black, leather varsity jacket, badges of suede patched all over it with a clean, white tee underneath and thin, diamond chain dangling from the smooth column of his neck. eyes of cold teal study you for a moment — your eyes, your lips, your nose. he seems to scan each and every feature prior to the glacial irises of his own melt and a slow smile starts to spread across his lips. 

“nah, no fuckin’ way,” he mutters.

a nipping chill rakes the cord of your spine.

your eyes have to rise an entire foot higher come the action of him standing to his full height and soon pulling you in by the sides of your ribs to then wrap you in a tight hug. “( ❤︎ ), what the fuck, man?”

you giggle, unable to contain your excitement, “eren, oh my gosh.”

“what the f—“ he pulls away to hold you at arm’s length and take you in. a longer sweep of his eyes from the pristine lines of white that glosses the tips of your toes to the cushioned headband holding your bangs back on your head has something alien twinkling within the depths of sea green, and you, too engrossed in the sight, the scent, the feel of finally your eren, hardly notice the lingering stare upon your midsection before they trail up to your collarbones, lips, then eyes. licking his own, smile lessening to a smirk, eren lets you go to soon lean his back on the bar counter while folding his arms, “what you doin’ here, lil girl?”

you’re aware of giselle behind you when she touches your waist, “oh, ‘m here with m’friends from school. this is giselle.”

giving a polite smile, giselle leans in to shake eren’s hand, “hi, sorry. i thought she was walking up to some random ‘cause,” dearly, as if you both were two pups in a pin, she tips her head against yours and you lean into her embrace with a big grin, “someone here drunk a little bit too much,” after, she hums, “i didn’t know you guys knew each other.”

“oh, yeah,” eren’s eyes are fixed directly upon your own. “we go way back.”

you flush. you simply can’t help it — how can one human being appear so captivating? “mhm,” you nod, head tipping a bit further back and chin falling much quicker than usual to be classified as anything but a motion of insobriety, “i knew eren when he was in high school, gi’ . . . and i was a, hic —, a tiny, baby ( ❤︎ ).”

giselle smirks, finding you all too cute, “is that right?”

“mhm.”

she turns to eren, “so, i take it you guys wanna,” a finger is waved between you both. “catch up? talk a bit?”

eren drawls a low, “of course, of course,” while smiling. “ ‘m gonna get some water in her. ‘ve never seen her like this before.”

“ima be watching,” cutting her eyes, giselle gives eren a quick examine. “i’ll be back to get her soon.”

with her gone, you realize her grip on your waist had been what was stabilizing you from falling straight onto your face. gradually, you began to tip forward onto the rounds of your toes, however, eren is quick to catch and guide you to sit down onto the stool he’d been occupying, “okay, okay,” he murmurs, reaching for the glass of water beside the basket of fries. “you good? you feel okay?”

you sip from his straw, grateful for the cool liquid, “mhm,” you hum quietly. “gi says ‘m a lightweight.”

a low chuckle is heard on your left. you turn your head to discern the cause and notices it had split from the lips of eren’s friend. the tone of his skin is a gorgeous, warm toned dark brown. a red sox cap is positioned backwards on his head full of waves and low irises of toasted, somber auburn shines brightly within rings of pink. you discover that he’s pretty, too. your nerves ignite at the ends, as if sparked by a match. suddenly, you’re hyperaware of everything you do — how you sit, how you talk, how you breathe.

you press your soft palms against the fluff of cheeks, willing some composure while watching a plump droplet of water race down the surface of the chilled glass veiled in condensation, “sorry,” you can’t help but murmur. 

“nah, you good, ma.”

quickly cognizant of never having introduced the two of you, eren softly says, “shit, sorry. ( ❤︎ ), this is . . this is ony. ony, this ( ❤︎ ).”

timidly, you give a small, nonetheless warm smile and hold a hand out, “nice to meet you.”

ony takes it softly within his own, the sheer expanse of it completely dwarfing your little paw as he gives it two, slow rises of up and down. his eyes never part from yours as he mumbles a soft, “likewise. it’s a pleasure.”

when you pull away, you reach for the glass of water again — wrap your lips around the straw and gather enough of it inside your mouth to make your cheeks bulge, prior to swallowing.

“so, why you out here, hm?” eren leans the side of his body against the counter once more. “your parents know you out in a bar? there’s no way you’re twenty one yet, i know that for a fact.”

you give a weak shove to his bicep. call it a cheap shot, whatever. you aren’t surprised to find that just as the rest of him had grew, his muscles have bulked up, too. “don’t be a snitch, eren,” you sniffle and shake your head. “ ‘m . . ‘m nineteen. ‘m grown.”

his eyebrows lift, “oh, you grown?”

“i’m grown.”

pushing his tongue against the lush warmth of his cheek, eren smirks before slowly nodding, “okay. alright.” he grabs the basket of fries with two fingers hooked and slides them in a beeline til they were in front of you, “bet y’lil ass didn’t even eat today before you came here,” he mumbles underneath his breath. “eat. you can’t tell me no.”

you weren’t planning to. you take a few between your fingers and bite into them, “. . i’ve missed you,” the confession is grumped through a mean pout as you slowly chew. “you disappeared on me a-after graduation.”

stunned silent by your bluntness, eren only has enough brain power to stare at your pretty face for a spell that soon stretches into a quiet reply of, “ ‘ve missed you too . . i’m sorry about all that.”

“you hurt ‘teo’s feelings, too,” you swallow your fries, eyes focused on your finger that clasps into the open hole of the basket so that you can begin to twist it back and forth. “he acts like he doesn’t care, but i know he does. you were like, one of his only friends.”

you hear eren adjust himself. he turns to face the area behind you, lips parting for words to emit, until he ultimately clamped them closed, faces you again, and sighs, “i’m sorry . . really. i didn’t mean to . . ghost all of you like that. it was fucked up.”

“it was,” you nod in agreement. “wasn’t nice, eren.”

“mhm,” quietly, he admires you. “i know. was gonna pop over one day and surprise you guys, but,” he sucks some air in between his teeth and rubs at the diamond stud that pierces through the skin of his earlobe. “got scared, you know?”

“mm, yeah?” you tilt your head when you look up at him. 

and won’t you look at that . . .

eren decides this is the moment where he realizes you aren’t a shy, timid, spoiled little girl anymore. you wear lengthy, cat eyed wispies along your lash line and they seem to flutter as you blink softly at him. he tries not to glance at your tits that sit up nice and full within your long sleeved, square necked top, at your soft, bare thighs because your skirt just had to be so fucking short that you’d might as well have came out the house in a belt — because this is his former best friend’s baby sister.

he’s watched you grow up just as you did him. 

in the years knowing you before, he’s never looked at you as nothing more than mateo’s sister. he’d greet you sometimes when he would catch sight of you seated at the dining room table completing your homework assignments. on a rare day would he tease you and pluck the tail end of a braid, finish the rest of your favorite apple juice, all in efforts to be an inconvenience and make you whine. in a way, he supposes he began to look at you as a sister, too.

though, tonight, he forces himself to realize that you both are older now . . grown.

you’ve gotten those pretty tits played with before, maybe. by some insolent boy in grade eleven, in the back of his dad’s old pick up at a drive in movie theater. you’ve kissed and tasted and felt and yearned.

nonetheless of eren knowing this, he still can’t shake the feeling of wrongness that versos each of these thoughts. 

making himself look away, he licks his lips and grabs hold of the glass of water to take his own sip, “you don’t think i should?”

you smile — pretty ass smile. 

god, how puberty fucking blessed you. 

“no, no, i think you should,” you hum. “it’ll make us all happy — hey, why’d you come here, anyway?”

it appears as though your drunken, little mind races quicker than your mouth. you jump around on topics and slur your words, and as much as it is precious, eren figures he’d rather you be sober for any more heavy topics within your conversation. “work on tattoos. perfect my craft. build clientele. angelcrest was,” as if he could feel the weight of the town on his shoulders, eren flexes his shoulders and clears his throat. “stifling.”

again, you nod, “mhm, i get it. that’s why i had to leave — tattoos!” suddenly, you notice them. on his hands, fingers, knuckles, there’s a peek of ink coiling up the back of his neck. 

your eyes are round with fascination as you reach for his hand before flinching back. “can i . . — wait, permission,” you are suddenly reminded by your mother, ‘ don’t touch anyone without their consent first. ‘ you blush. of all days, of all times. “can i touch?”

eren grins. oh, you’re fucking adorable. “yeah, go ahead.”

silently, ony watches the two of you interact.

if he decides to be completely honest with himself . . it’s cute.

akin to a tiny, diffident lamb and an attentive, keen wolf — the two of you seem to dance around one another. hesitating with some of your words, pausing to let the other finish speaking first if one of you happened to accidentally talk over the other, trying to keep yourselves from making any sort of unnecessary physical contact. though eren has never mentioned you before prior to tonight, going off the conversation you two share and the obvious hug, ony realizes that the two of you share history. 

he hones in on how eren smiles at you, how he nudges the glass of water on over to get you to swallow a few more sips, makes you eat a bigger handful of fries.

truly, ony would believe the two of you were just strictly, old buds if not for how you unconsciously lean into the man. 

it’s somewhat comical due to the fact that eren isn’t being the slightest bit subtle neither. his eyes seem to tremble when they look into yours — it’s as though he’s fighting with himself to not give in and glance down at your plush, glossed up lips for the thousandth time or admire the graceful line of your neck, down to the smooth canvas of your bosom where a layer of dainty, gold chains lay upon. 

you both are train wrecks, nevertheless, ony can’t tear his sight elsewhere.

“shit, i know that university . . i live about twenty minutes away.”

you’re tilting your head again — in that same endearing manner you did before and ony watches the limbs of eren’s fingers grit, hitherto him shoving the fist into his coat’s pocket. “really?” your voice pitches an octave higher, coated with sweet wonder. “been thinkin’ about you all this time and you’ve only been twenty minutes away?”

eren shakes his head with a smirk, diverting his eyes to a crumpled, coffee shop’s receipt he tugs out from his jeans’ pocket and soon, a lone pen he finds laying beside the menu. “here.” swiftly, he jots down his number on the backside of the slip. “save it, hm? call me whenever you need me.”

always impeccable with her timing, giselle makes herself known after the receipt is folded and tucked safely into the waistband of your skirt. “okay,” you smile and turn towards ony. “it was so n-, hic—, nice to meet you . . ony. bye-bye guys.”

both men watch you stand to your feet and lean into giselle for balance. your friend wraps her arm around the dip of your waist, murmuring ‘i know, i know’s to your muddled giggles and faint babbling as you walk away. 

“. . . mm,” is all ony says with a slim leer, vigilant in how eren replaces your seat with a heavy sigh. a soft smile still graces the petals of his lips, in spite of the fact of you being long gone outside of the door and ony can’t help but ask, “y’all go way back, huh?”

facetiously, eren gives a long groan and ducks his head, “bro, don’t gimme that shit.”

ony chuckles, “nah, nah. she’s cute, jaeger. y’all used to be friends?”

with a slow shrug, eren dwells on that word, “. . not really — i don’t fuckin’ know. i used to be tight with her brother back when we was in high school, like when i was sixteen . . she was twelve. we didn’t really talk much, me and her, but we was cool.”

ony shoots back the rest of his whiskey, turning his focus to the bitter zing the alcohol leaves within the pillow of his mouth instead of letting the both of your interactions play out in his mind once more. the giggles, smiles, shy touches, and hums. sniffling, he casually utters, “i think lil ma has a crush.”

eren shakes his head. “shut the fuck up, o’.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀  ❤︎

the worst day of your short lived, admittedly average life is on a thursday, two weeks after.

eren’s face might as well have been pressed and developed into film and looped on a projector within your brain — you can’t stop thinking about him. the sleepy eyed stare he subjected you to as you spoke, never tearing them away from your own not once, the graceful slope of his strong nose, hollow dimples, calloused hands, wide shoulders, it all makes your head go a bit fuzzy. the morning after had been a bit of a blur. subjected to needing giselle to give you the run down and clearer recaps of all that exactly happened, you end up cocooning yourself within the white polka dotted fleece of your favorite blanket while whining and begging her, “no, no. did i say that, really? please, gi, don’t tell me i said that.” as she went on to describe your behavior.

you suppose it’s rather clear that intoxicated you carries more, or rather less, of a filter on her in contrary to the sober.

nevertheless, you also think that you should thank her. sober you wouldn’t have approached eren at that bar, never in a million years. you’d have convinced yourself it wasn’t him, veritably, if soon realizing it was, you would have glued yourself to that stool you sat in, too anxiety ridden and meek to do anything but share an occasional, uncontrived peek in hopes that he’d notice you first.

sighing out, you adjust yourself within your bed, sinking deeper into the you-shaped indentation your body has molded the few hours before. your phone screen lays only inches away from your face, dimmed to its lowest possible setting. it’s currently three o’ eight am, you have to be up for class in approximately four hours. giselle’s soft snores normally are a comforting white noise, though tonight, you simply can’t get your mind to quiet down and focus on them.

an episode of bridgerton playing on your screen is soon swiped away so that you are able to open instagram.

liking a few stories here, commenting there, respond to a rare dm here . . . you find your thumb pressing down on that tiny magnifying glass and the blinking cursor seems to mock you as you hesitate.

fuck it.

eren’s phone number is soon typed into the search bar and without glancing twice at the username, you click upon the top result.

‘ jaeinkz ‘

a whopping total of nine hundred and twenty six thousand followers decorate the top of his page, adjacent to a label of two hundred and fifty five posts. 

“oh, wow,” can’t help but slip faintly from your lips as you push the satin fabric of your bonnet higher up your forehead, it’s as if you thought it had been obstructing your vision . . . making you perhaps see things that weren’t there, however, no, it’s true. eren’s profile picture is an image of his turned with a glistening, diamond bezel shining in the lobe of his ear and feathery strands of fawn escaping a beanie framing it. in his bio sits three tagged accounts ‘ @.mininkz @.mikakolors @.sashart ‘ with a booking email underneath. as you scroll, you find that his work is nothing short of exquisite. he seems to dabble in almost all styles — traditional, blackwork, geometric, and hand poke . . what sticks out to you the most, and what he seemed to love doing if going by how many have been posted along his page, had been watercolor.

you appreciate the diversity of his posts.

skin tones range from a nearly translucent pale to the deepest brown, and still, regardless of them all, marvelously, vibrant shades of ruby, orange, amber, cerulean, and lime leap out.

‘ incredible ‘ ‘ best artist out rs bro ‘ ‘ u killed dis shit E ‘ ‘ every time i think u can’t get any better u prove me wrong ‘

you find yourself smiling at the comments — why? you’re not too sure of the answer. maybe it’s because you’re simply proud. you were always sure that eren would have gone on to accomplish his dreams, frankly, you just weren’t positive that you’d ever be able to visually see it, albeit . . . here you are. it’s remarkable to witness.

it’s when you go to click on the post of a specific side rib piece when abruptly, the university’s inbuilt fire alarm bellows out. it makes your entire body lurch as giselle gasps herself awake.

“what the fuck?”

the continuous shriek of the siren bores uncomfortably into the drums of your ears and it’s when you’re slowly standing to gauge what was going on, comes the sound of doors opening and sleepy, discombobulated mumbling. it’s only right that the incessant, scarlet flashing of a firetruck’s emergency signal fulgurating in past your curtains follows suit.

“please exit the dorm! we need all students to exit the dorms as quick and calmly as possible!”

your fight or flight pummels into high gear as your RA begins to pound down the closed doors of your hall. you feel your heart commence to a familiar race with each second that passes. minutes are akin to hours while you and giselle hurry to pile and mound your suitcases and duffel bags with as much stuff as you’re able. with each bag you zip and each button you close, your lungs continuously compress and contract. they seem to fill with little to no air, no matter how deep of a breath you take. 

“just breathe, babe, yeah? i bet it’s something stupid. s-someone pressing their hair or something.”

you loathe it — it being the usual facade of your self control and composure slipping away with each gasping, shuddering breath you force yourself to take. air never seems to load your lungs, and you recognize that you’re gulping, an action you partake in with the intention of keeping away the agonizing feeling of your throat closing up each time this feeling happens.

“gotta call,” you’re mumbling as your hand knots within the fabric of giselle’s nightshirt as she leads you down the flight of stairs within the fire escape. “parents. my parents. my parents.” strangely enough, focusing more on your own words than the chaos of which surrounds you is enough to keep you from giving into your instincts of wanting to simply give up and lie down.

“see — look it,” giselle’s rubbing your shoulders when you both are standing on the curving curb outside. it’s cold tonight — a frigid forty degrees. all you’d wore to sleep was a tiny pair of white, cotton shorts and barely managed to slip into a hoodie before you left the room. you tremble. “jus’ breathe. in through your nose — hold it. mhm, good. now out, slow. see?’

it takes you a while to gather your previous poise and ease. with roaring blazes of crimson and blood orange dancing across the rooftop of your dormitory building, hysterical screams, and broken sobs lining the flumes of your ears, it’s not a question as to why. 

you suppose that it all gets a little bit blurry after that. time seems both bounded and limitless. students are quickly given the decision of choosing between leaving to stay with family who lived close by or be gathered inside of the library for the rest of the day to sleep . . . you’re tired. 

you’re so tired.

and somewhere near that inky, somber place enclosed by the bounds of your mind, you know that you shouldn’t do what you’re about to do . . . be that as it may, you cease yourself from traveling too far within that dangerous abyss of dubiousness as you click on a contact, place your phone to your ear, and wait. it rings . . and it rings . . and it rings until the line clicks as the person answers with a languid murmur of, “hello?”

swiftly clobbered with the feeling of ignominy, you swallow over the knot still encased within the channel of your throat prior to sniffling and uttering a quiet, “eren . . h-hi, ’s . . it’s ( ❤︎ ).”

susurration is heard. you assume he’s laying down within his bed, much like half of the world’s population is at this time, however, when he speaks once more, his voice is a bit more clear, as if he’d sat up to better hear you, “mm, yeah? hi, mama. wha’s goin’ on?”

your head swivels upon your shoulders in order for you to observe your surroundings — a few students sit on the curb with their bags, phones to their ears while they explained to their families or friends what was happening, some record the flames that now melt and char the windows of the dorm, the firemen working to put it out with long hoses, the reverberating sound of a helicopter’s blades spinning overhead and steady line of police cars pulling in through the iron gates.

unwittingly, the corners of your lips keel over as you slap a hoodie covered paw to your eyes to try and keep your tears at bay. it all overwhelms you in the worst of ways. you’re sure you’re being a crybaby, too sensitive, a wuss, nonetheless, you’re unable to help it, “i don’t k-know what to do, m-my dorms on fire, my parents live two hours out a-and i don’t have a car. ‘teo’s on the . . the other side of the country, i h-had no one else to call.” the speed of which your words fly out are akin to a mile a minute. eren’s only able to discern the words of dorm and fire and he finds himself moving before he knows it.

“ima be there.”

you hadn’t expected eren to actually come to your university and pick you up — not for a moment. 

you catch eye of a pristine, space grey bmw m4 cruising around the curved entryway as you sit upon the trunk of giselle’s kia, parked in the lot about ten feet away from the dorms and promptly . . . you know. pieces of gravel and tiny pebbles pop and crackle under the weight of four, blacked out rim tires as they slow to a halt beside her car and gently, you swipe your finger under your nose, watching the driver’s door swing open.

when he steps out, reminiscent of that night at the bar, your heart begins to pound. 

“awe, mama.”

he wears a pair of black sweats, thick black socks, and nike slides. the jacket he dons is a zip up. it’s clear he must have hurried on over due to the fact that he does not wear a shirt underneath it. it’s zipped to cover about three fourths of his torso and briskly, you let your eyes dance across the tight groove of his pecs and the dip of his collarbones as he rounds the front of the car. upon you standing onto your feet, his arms are opening wide to coax and envelop you into his embrace.

“mm, ‘m so sorry,” he mumbles, comfortingly beginning a leaden rock on your feet from side to side. “ ‘m sorry.”

his hugs are nice . . . they’re so nice.

he wraps his arms around the back of your neck and grabs hold of his own elbows with the opposite hands so that he can completely engulf you within his hold. it’s as though he’s trying to obscure you from the rest of the world and its horrors, savagery, and acerbity. the muscles of your body render as you melt into him. you stand about eight inches shorter than eren. your face is buried into his heart as you squeeze your arms tightly around his stature, noting that this is exactly what you need . . what you’ve been needing. 

“you’re okay, yeah?” he makes you look up at him — lets you go, tilts your head up by the chin. “y’all both okay?” his eyes quickly glance towards giselle and waits until the both of you nod.

“said it was the cause of a candle,” she explains, leaning an elbow on the trunk. “got knocked over, caught on a curtain — rest is history. nobody died, don’t worry.”

eren huffs a breath, rubbing a hand over his head that’s sheathed by his jacket’s hood. “my god. scared the fuck outta me man.”

“you didn’t,” you swallow and inhale a thin, shuddering breath. “you didn’t h-have to come pick me up, eren.”

he’s moving — stepping around you, grabbing your pink, hard cased, hello kitty printed suitcases and rolling them to his trunk. “was gonna ask to stay with me, yeah?” his voice still holds the tenors of sleep . . it makes his baritone much richer and gruff as opposed to usual.

“only for the night, eren. i-if that’d be okay—“

blithely, he’s lifting a shoulder them dropping it while hoisting the door of his trunk open and sliding one suitcase in at a time. “fuck that. when is the dorm being rebuilt?”

giselle hastily answers, “fire only reached the top three floors. heard the dean say it’s gonna take them at least a month or two.”

the trunk is closed with a slam, after which he’s giving you a small smirk while taking your duffel, “you’re stayin’ with me until it’s done then. easy commute, comfy bed . . i cook sometimes.”

room for discussion is withdrawn. his eyes teeter the stroke of sapphire underneath the golden rays of the rising sun and he fixes them on the deep chocolates of your own, letting you read the firm resolve that swims inside. he’s already made up his mind. “giselle, you . .” he juts a thumb out towards his car, letting her fill in the rest of his sentence, and giselle gives a small smile while shaking her head.

“thanks for the offer. my mom lives like forty minutes away, ‘m jus gonna stay with her ’til all this blows over.”

he lets the two of you say your goodbyes while settling your backpack and duffles in the backseat. “mm, be good, yeah?” your friend squeezes you tight with a kiss to the crown of your head. “go get some rest and call me when you wake up.”

when you’re settled within the passenger seat of eren’s car, you aren’t surprised to find that the interior is just as immaculately clean as the ex. blended scents of mint and black ice seem to be ingrained between the leather seating — it swathes and comforts you in the best way possible. “you okay?” he’s asking quietly, strong hand pushing the gear shift into drive as his other wraps around the bottom of the wheel. he’d already asked the question before, albeit . . he wants to be sure. 

sluggishly, your head goes to lean against the window. you appear so small to eren in that moment — swallowed by your hoodie, arms wrapped around yourself, and body curled. your mumble is meek as you retort, “ ‘m okay.”

aside from the low volume of brent faiyaz’s voice floating in through high definition speakers to enshroud the ambience, the drive is quiet. your eyes close, letting the push and pull of the car moving lull you into that narcotic state of consciousness and not. you find that eren comforts you. you don’t have to worry about much. your mind falls to a mute when he’s around — rushing thoughts of where you were going to go, you possibly needing to take a leave of absence, the never ending factors of stress are all temporarily forgotten.

it’s as though he takes over the reigns. he doesn’t allow you to carry your own bags, no, ‘he’s got it.’ asks you twice if you’d like something to eat from the bakery provided within his apartment’s lobby as he walks you through past security and a doorkeeper. he’s making sure you stay close beside him after you’re both exiting the elevator shaft on the tenth floor and striding across cranberry, gold trimmed carpet to a door whose gilded, etched plate above the doorbell reads the number 1018.

come the door opening and first impressions of eren’s home, you find that it’s clean . . similar to his car, it’s almost unnaturally so. 

you follow his motions once he kicks off his slides inside the foyer, neatly placing your little, pink, fur trimmed crocs beside a pair of ‘mocha’ jordan ones. the juxtaposition of the two of them next to one another feels strangely satisfying, as if that’s where they’re made to be. 

round with wonder, your eyes scan every inch of his place when you’re able to walk further inside soon after.

his living room is first you see when exiting the corridor. it’s massive — sits in front of his open spaced kitchen, completed with a long, wide ‘L’ shaped sofa the tone of cool, olive green. delicate beams of amber pour in through three, large, arch shaped windows. they draw attention to a fish tank, grand and roomy,  sitting atop of a full bookcase — swimming with curious guppies, neon tetras, and cherry garbs. you gravitate towards it, gasping and tenderly placing your finger upon the glass where a wading angelfish sways at a standstill. quietly, you coo, “. . you have little fishies.”

eren scoffs a small chuckle behind you as he places your bags beside the settee, “i do.”

though being of different breeds, all of them seem to exist in calm harmony. a tetra shoots itself in a firm, straight line to dive for a thatchet of moss to pick at and a guppy smoothly glides out of its way to make room.

“mm, yeah, these are my babies,” eren lowers his face a few inches away from yours to gaze fondly at them, too. “ ‘m too busy for a cat or dog right now. these were my next choice,” he points to a particularly bored looking cherry garb. “that’s jerry,” then that excited tertra. “rick. the angelfish you’re touchin’ is morty. summer and beth are over there . . . then you got, teddy . . bob . . and there goes gene.”

it takes a moment for you to familiarize yourself with the names. “wait,” a slow smile starts to spread across your lips come the realization. “seriously, eren?”

his eyes glint with boyish glee as he straightens back upright, “lemme show you to the room.”

his apartment has one, wide, lengthy corridor that breaks off into two more come the end of it. on the left are three doors, one slimmer than the other two leaving you to assume that it may be a closet. on the right are only two. he turns down that way and heads straight for the door ahead which he opens, stretching his arm and adjusting his body to allow you first entry. “you let me know if you need anything, yeah?”

it’s far bigger than you’d expected — completed with a king sized bed and sixty inch flat screen. the curtains above the arched window are left partially agape and pushing through it is a glistening beam, pouring warmth right onto the center of the mattress. it’s as though it beckons you to curl within it; oh, how you yearn to. you wrap your arms around your body once more, a comforting habit used to soothe and give you the confidence needed in order to turn back towards eren and meekly murmur, “. . i appreciate this. i’m sorry, again.”

“nah, nah. no,” as if instinctively, eren finds his fingers reaching for the curve of your waist, however before he can touch you, his thoughts catch up with his actions, and quickly, he shoves his hand inside of his jacket’s pocket. “no need to apologize. i don’t mind you bein’ here . . . okay?” he bends at the waist and lowers his head to catch your downward gaze and waits until you give a timid nod prior to him smiling. “i seriously don’t. so, don’t think you’re intrudin’ on me or anythin’. no more sorries.”

“. . no more sorries.”

what a sweet thing you are. eren constricts the doorknob within a sweating fist. “you gotta get some sleep.”

right.

he’s right. your exhaustion weighs down your eyelids — makes you stare at him with hazy debility waxed over normally wide, attentive irises. “mkay.” you turn on your heels and make your way for the bed, having to give a bit of a hop with one knee on top to fully pull yourself onto it. “gnight, eren.”

you’re precious. 

“gnight, mama.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀  ❤︎

minutes drag into hours — idle and lax.

with the golden disc of the sun hanging high within the blue skies, eren works. he sits inside of his room, at his desk, sketching designs, answering emails, things to keep his mind busy instead of worrying about you.

how frightened you had been. you shook in his arms when he’d hugged you — frail and weak. a girl like you shouldn’t be put into situations like that . . situations between life or death, it had clearly been too much for your dainty, pearl coated heart to take on. you’ve only just entered his life again, eren doesn’t think he’s ready to let you slip away any time soon.

when the sun starts its slow descend is when he pushes himself away from his desk to shower and begin the process of deciding what to eat for dinner. he’s lazy today, he will be honest. he wonders what you like . . .

when you were a little girl, you seemed to have an insane obsession with mexican food, more notably, burritos. warmed tortillas nearly swollen and bursting with barbacoa, pollo asado, rice, spicy salsa, sour cream, cheese, and avocado. he takes the chance of ordering one for you with a grilled chicken salad for himself. 

it’s while he’s snatching a bottle of water from his fridge when the doorbell buzzes. 

“. . fuckin’ ony.”

there’s no one else he knows that is able to bypass security, the doorman, and input the code needed for his apartment floor. no one else has the audacity, and upon him opening the door, not a soul stands on the other side, apart from onyankopon. “you missed me?” a bright, handsome smile is expanded across two, thick, double hued lips as he walks inside and kicks off his new balances.

“i didn’t,” eren closes and locks the door behind him, heading straight for the couch. quiet footsteps follow after ony tears off his coat and hangs it within the linen closet. “i really fuckin’ didn’t.”

“yeah, yeah. shut that shit up,” he plops down beside eren on a cushion, naturally letting his legs fall far apart to work himself into a comfortable position. “giants game is on. you cook?”

shaking his head, eren nibbles on the soft skin of his bottom lip, “ordered food.”

ony spares a look beside the door of which he entered from, catching eye of the crocs, radiant and pink — jibbitz of hearts, stars, bows, and hello kitty characters popped into almost every hole — sitting beside his shoes. they’re a blaring mar, starkly standing out against eren’s black, brown, and olive decor. “. . . who you got over here?”

“hm?—“

delicate footsteps are heard padding ony’s way. his head swivels on his shoulders . . and there you stand. 

you rub an eye with a fist, lips parted around a wide yawn, bonnet askew, hoodie practically sliding off of your shoulder. “oh,” sparkling eyes of fawn catch ony’s then you’re quickly pulling it back into place. “sorry.” they snap to eren’s and both men watch you take a hesitant step back, as if you were unsure you were allowed to come any closer. 

“no, no—“

“—you good, you good.”

without thinking, the two of them separate to leave the middle cushion open. “c’mere,” eren finds himself a bit glad to see you up. you’ve slept for nearly twelve hours, he’s missed your face. “you remember ony, yeah?”

you do.

your steps are light as you round the couch. 

ony . . .

he appears to be even more pretty than that night at the bar. similar to eren, he wears a pair of sweats, though his are grey. his legs are long, and still, underneath thick fleece, the firm muscle of his thighs bulge. “hi, ony,” you give a soft smile and take a slow seat between the two, folding your hands between the warm, plush skin of your own. 

“hey, ma’,” he licks his lips. “i heard about the fire at your school. that was your dorm?”

no longer inebriated, today, you can hear the faint traces of a southern accent peppering the deep modes of his voice. it drags out his tone, makes a few words string loosely together. goosebumps pebble the surface of your skin at the sound, “uh huh . . yeah, it was mine.” 

“damn, ‘m sorry,” similar to eren, ony seems big on eye contact. pools of warm brown gaze sympathetically into your own and it makes your tummy feel as though goo has replaced all of your organs. “you managed to grab all your stuff though, right?”

“mm, m-most of it,” you scratch at your knee, suddenly nervous. “left some stuff . . little things, i think i’ll be okay.”

eren’s speaking up beside you, “you call your family?”

“mhm,” you give a nod. “took them a second to remember you. they’re happy that you’re lettin’ me stay — told me to tell you that they’re hoping to see you again.”

he’s smiling, dimples deepening, “yeah?”

at the sight, you can’t help but smile, too. “mhm.”

you suppose that the conversation dies after that. you pull your legs up to your chest, wrap your arms around your knees, and tune into the television. truthfully, you know nothing about football — what you see happening are squads of men running back and forth along ice frosted grass, tackling one another over a little, spheroid ball. ony calls out an ‘interception,’ eren shoots out a firm ‘fumble’ and all you really hear is the sound of tv static. 

unconsciously, when one of them yells out a game play, you take the moment of deep voices overlapping one another to inhale a deep breath. 

they both smell nice . . utterly divine. eren teeters a line of cool bergamot and pine while ony smells warm . . similar to coconut and mahogany. the both of them are huge, too — statures looming over your own, even while you all sit. you’re aware that the tiny, juvenile crush you had on eren when you were a child is once again unfurling itself. similar to a wilted tulip, it blooms with the warmth of his smile, strengthens with the simple graze of his finger across yours, dazzles at the mere sight of him . . nonetheless, always a girl who’s wanted more, who’s learned to grab a handful when offered an open chance, you’re aware that a new seed has been planted when you spare timid glances at ony.

modestly, you assume that this all may be physical with them both — strictly surface level. you’re enamored with their features, you’re sure plenty would agree, because as much as you think you know eren, you don’t. he’s older now, he’s changed, he’s morphed, and he’s matured. 

you reckon that you have to take your time to learn about him again, about them both, come you gauging a more than friendly graze of ony’s arm slipping around eren’s waist once he stood and steps past you both to open the door at the sound of a knock. 

“hungry, mama?”

overhead, motion detected lighting fades in within the kitchen after eren grabs two, large plain paper bags from the hands of a cheery blonde, closes the door, and walks over to it. your nose twitches at the familiar scent of marinated meat, “. . . burritos?” 

your excitement is palpable. you quickly pad over, ony following, to watch him open the bag upon the island, prior to pulling out a foil wrapped cylinder, more or less the size of his bicep. “thank you so much.” 

you haven’t ate in over a day, your stomach gives an aggravated growl at the trivial realization. it’s endearing, watching how wide you have to open your little mouth to take a bite of it. “c’mere, you’re gonna dislocate your jaw,” ony hums, carefully taking the burrito from your hands to then turn and grab a knife from the block beside the sink. cute eagerness is hidden beneath a poorly made veil of self control as you watch him cut a diagonal line within the center of it, splitting the burrito into two. “hm.” he gives you one.

“thank you.” 

you’re biting into it quite easier now, sinking your teeth into tender meats and a warm, flour tortilla. “tastes good?” eren stands on the other side of the counter and spares a glance up at you through wispy strands of umber that falls into his eyes while drizzling a zest filled dressing over his salad. “want some of ours?”

you’re hesitant, glancing between it and ony’s quesadillas. 

“why you shy for?” the latter asks quietly, head tilting to follow your eyes when you look away. “hm.”

he holds it out and — candidly, you just can’t help it — you lean it to take a small bite . . humming a soft, “hmmm.” at the savory taste of carne asada. a fork of eren’s salad is next, you have to tilt yourself forward, palms flat on the island to take it and in doing so, a piece of fresh, crisp lettuce clings to your chin. casually, eren swipes it away, eyes fondly twinkling, “messy thing.” 

“both are yummy,” you comment before holding your burrito up to eren’s lips. “hm . . bite.”

“dietin’, mama. ‘s why i got a salad.”

you can’t help but pout at the rejection for your burrito. how bad it must feel. naturally, you turn it to ony. “bite.”

he does so with no hesitation and a huge smile of awe covers your face as you gasp, watching him take a more than generous chomp. “oh wow,” you’re giggling, taking in how slow he chews. 

eren scoffs, rolling his eyes, “fuckin’ greedy ass. you regret that now, hm?”

“shut the fuck up, jaeger,” he turns his attention to you. “shit’s torch. thank you, ma’.”

“mhm,” you take a seat upon a stool, languidly swinging your legs one at a time, letting a bout of silence hang over you all until ony utters a small revelation, “you’ve never told us your major.”

“ ‘s communications.”

both men drag out loud, exaggerated ‘ oh! ‘s, clearly impressed. silly. a sheet of warmth flourishes across your cheeks, beginning first at the rounded tip of your nose. “stop it,” you whine, simpering at their puerility. 

“what are you doin’ after?” eren murmurs around a mouthful of greens. “do you know?”

you give a feeble shrug, toying with the foil that surrounds your burrito, “somethin’ in marketing and advertising, most likely. or social media managing. i really like both.”

“for real?”

you give one, firm nod, “mhm.”

“does this mean you’re like,” eren tilts his head. “ig famous or some shit?”

his question makes you laugh. “no, no, ‘m not . . i mean, i have a decent amount — not as much as you.” you regret the words almost as soon as they tumble from the plump hills of your lips. eren had never given you his instagram — that, you all know. 

ony smiles, chewing slowly while sharing a knowing glance with him. eren discerns what shines within his irises, can practically hear him — ‘what i say.’ “so, now you know we got ourselves a superstar on our hands.”

rolling his eyes, eren swivels on his heels to walk towards the pantry, evidently trying to dodge the topic, “here we go with this shit. i’m not, ( ❤︎ ), don’t listen to the bullshit—“

“—nah, nah. she’s seen it. she knows. eren’s a fuckin’ diva.”

“you get on my fuckin’ nerves.”

you twist your stool from left to right, interest piqued. “oh yeah?”

ony gives you a casual wink, jutting his thumb eren’s way while shaking his head and muttering, “i jus like fuckin’ wit’ him.”

two wine glasses and a mug are sat upon the middle of the island, “we don’t need you drunk tonight,” eren utters, swiftly grabbing a bottle of lemonade from the fridge. he opens it then tips it against the mug, pouring til the liquid reaches the rim. “plus . .” he gives a bland shrug, eyebrows quirking. “you’re underaged.”

“you’re no fun.”

“mm, yeah, i know.”

while he works on unscrewing a tough cork off of a bottle of wine, you take another bite of your burrito, curiously eyeing the lines of ink tatted along ony’s hand. it’s a face . . . you aren’t sure of whose. it isn’t realistic, no, it resembles a michelangelo sculpture — completed with an expression seized over with melancholy, eyes void of irises and pupils, meticulously coiled hair, and a firm, lineal nose. “. . can i touch?” you reach for it, hesitatingly, noting ony’s slight surprise. 

“for sure.”

tenderly, you stroke your thumb along the face’s cheek, enamored by the realism of it all. it’d appeared that he had a true sculpture embedded within the skin of his hand. “whose face is this?” you softly inquire. “ ‘s a greek god, yeah?”

“mhm,” he curls his fingers into a fist and you watch the tendons and bones underneath his skin flex as it moves, seemingly changing expressions. “eros.”

“did eren do it?”

once more, ony nods, “shit’s clean, mm?”

you’re amazed, smiling while trying to make his fingers curl and relax to get the face to move once more, “i love it — so pretty.”

quietly, while working the cork off, eren admires the two of you. how quickly you are to open up to ony, more importantly, get ony to open up to you is . . oddly interesting. he’s known ony for nearly five years, having met him almost immediately after moving into the city. it had taken months for eren to get the guy to speak a full, two sentences to him, and yet, here you are . . . sweet, kind, soft spoken you. 

he’s sure you aren’t aware of the sheer amount of power you hold within your hands come later into the night. 

you fill the two of them in on your life, beginning the stories after eren and your big brother had graduated. you tell them about your high school days, how you participated in clubs, made the cheer squad, attended homecomings, and prom. you show them pictures of you with your friends, in your uniform, face a bit more cherubic and soft as opposed to now.

the more both him and ony learn, the more questions they have. yeah, they’re aware that you graduated valedictorian of your class, but who’s that guy that took you to prom? just a friend? oh. are you both still in contact? okay, nice. when did you meet giselle? you’re a bit of a shy girl, she approached you first, yeah? they knew it. you really like burritos, why? . . hm, okay. that’s a first. a big fan of sweets, too? caramels, chocolates, gummies, all that? wow.

following, there are the questions that they . . . merely keep to themselves — ones they’re sure you’d be too timid and bemused to answer. such as, why in the fucking world are you so pretty? how did you get to become so pretty — what made you so pretty? they have to know. why do you make eren’s heart feel as though it was three beats away from shooting out of his chest? why are you so easy to talk to? why does ony see you being in his life for years to come when he’s really only known you for a measly four hours?

when his phone begins to buzz, it catches the attention of all three of you.

“. . shit, i gotta go,” ony mumbles, holding it within his hand as he reads a text from the screen. he only has to say one word, or rather, the name ‘connie’ for eren to nod. 

you slump into the corner of where you sit curled upon the couch, disappointment oozing from your pores akin to water through the sides of a moorish jar. connie . . . a unisex name. could it be his girlfriend? the thought is fleeting. you watch him and eren stand, he moves in a bit of a haste — it has to be a significant other, surely. tenderly, you pout, watching him slip his feet into his shoes and shrug into his coat. “alright, ima hit you later,” you hear him tepidly relate to eren. before he leaves, he leans upon his left foot to take a more full look at you over the brunet’s shoulder. “you be good, alright?” he gives you a knowing nod, waiting until you return it. “mhm. you promise?”

within your arms is a throw pillow — you squeeze it tightly, firmly, willing those flapping, interminable butterflies swarming inside of your tummy away before giving a soft nod and biting down on a smile, “i promise, ony.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀  ❤︎

living with eren comes to be more cozy and pleasant than you’d initially thought.

you hadn’t expected him to be so welcoming, nevertheless, he is. each morning, around seven to eight am, you’re surprised to find him up, dressed, and ready to get the day started. he makes you breakfast everyday, too — meals range from cute pancakes in misshapen forms of stars, mickey mouse's head contour, and your favorite sanrio character, to a simple açaí bowl, toppled with granola, fresh fruits, and sweet honey. on days when you have no classes, you make sure to wake up an hour earlier and sit at the island to simply watch. 

there are also mornings where you’d exit the bedroom, disoriented and still blurry eyed to find ony standing right beside him — mixing batter in a large, sunken bowl, helping grill lean strips of steak within a sizzling skillet, and those are the days you find yourself much quiet than usual. and you’re sure eren notices. when the sun shines in through his large windows, finding only the two of you, you’re asking shy, curious questions about his occupation, his mom, his other friends ( you’ve managed to learn all of their names — mikasa, armin, sasha, and connie ). 

you suppose that the reason as to such is because you would rather much observe the two men when all three of you are together. 

eren’s . . . different with ony as opposed to how he is, or should you say was, with mateo. and incipiently, you’d thought of yourself as being too nosy, drawing up conclusions and speculations that weren’t even there, especially doing so without enough concrete substantiation. of course he’d be different with a friend as opposed to when he was sixteen in high school and now, a grown man. 

he and ony do not play video games as much as he and mateo did. they don’t go to parties, arcades, and hide your homework from you the way he and your brother used to, all in efforts to make you whine.

no, the two of them work out with one another. they watch games on the couch with one another, cook, eat, and on occasion, smoke with one another. and you’re positive that many other people with close friends do the same, nonetheless, it’s more in how the two of them do it. they don’t sit on opposite sides of the settee when smoking or watching a game, no, they are always close — close enough to have their thighs touch, their knees brush against each other’s as they leisurely sway in and out and the two of them swoop lower and lower within their bounden highs. while they cook together, ony’s hand is on eren’s slim waist, moving him out of the way to grab a small bottle of garlic seasoning instead of him simply asking eren to slide over or get it himself. when they smile at one another, something deeper wades within the four pools of jade and stone brown, you’re certain of it.

come week eight of you staying with eren, you aren’t sure how to feel.

you’re confused, emotions tied and bundled up into one, great, big ball of horrible mush. you like eren — that, is something that you are assured of and, admittedly, you hate that you do. you loathe that seven years of pining has only seemed to collectively intensify your feelings with each passing day. you’re a blushing mess after one glance from him is given, too shy to say more than a few sentences at a time. withal . . . onyankopon makes you feel something incapable of words.

granted, you’re more trusting due to him being eren’s closest friend of over five years, regardless, if the two of you were to meet on your own separate terms, you’re sure he’d plague your dreams the same way he does now.

tonight, you lay awake, staring at the smooth blades of a rotating ceiling fan above you, willing away the thoughts of them both. you have a quiz tomorrow, you’ve studied for it all week, and you’re supposed to be going out with giselle and lana again the day after. your itinerary for the next few days is booked with small tasks in between, such as a nail appointment, tutoring sessions, and more studying. you are a busy girl, albeit, you can’t sleep. whether due to your rushing thoughts or the faint, eerie sounds slipping in through underneath the crack of your closed door, you don’t know. 

tilting your head downwards, you stare at the doorknob for a moment — awaiting the moment it begins to leisurely twist to give you all the more reason to scream and barricade yourself in the bathroom, though, it never comes. the sounds draw out longer and the more frequent they grow, the more your curiosity blossoms, unfortunately. 

your hand slips underneath a pillow so that you’re able to grab hold of your phone and inspect the time — twelve o’ two. 

you suppose you might as well go and pursue the source of such — what if it’s eren? hurt or in pain? an intruder? naturally, you hope for the former. you’ve never even killed an ant on your own, you doubt you’d be able to take on a human being. 

you leave only a sliver of space ajar when you first open the door, peeking a single eye out into the gloomy hall. evidently, the sounds are more reverberant. you tremble like a lone leaf in the fall, trying your best to gauge the distance between yours and eren’s room with your eyes . . his door is only about four steps away. since you’ve been staying with him, he leaves it half opened, and from the inside of it, light pours into the corridor against a single wall. 

the tv is on.

the source of lighting is a good enough beacon of encouragement to have you give a quick squeal and scurry on over to the threshold, fist already raised in preparedness to knock upon his door . . yet, you stop.

or, in better words, you freeze.

you come to discover that the sounds are being emitted through the mouths of two people — of his and onyankopon’s.

you can’t see much — eren’s king sized bed’s headboard is positioned against the wall that faces the door some feet away from it. nonetheless, you can make out onyankopon. he lays atop of eren, barren from his usual crewnecks, jeans, and air forces. blue light glistens upon the dark brown of his skin — sinewy muscle rippling within the stoutness of it as one tatted arm flexes, rising up then down between their bodies. 

the both of them are mostly quiet — whispers and mumbles incomprehensible. it’s the volume of their baritones what you’d heard . . both of them terribly deep. they echo off of the four walls, rumble throughout eren’s apartment, drip down masonry and plaster, slow and thick. 

eren’s tone veers along the edge of a whine, when he utters, “fuck, ‘yan . . s-shit.”

your heart pounds within your chest come the realization of your suspicions being proven true. 

“c’mon, pa’, gimmie that nut,” ony mumbles, working his fist more swiftly, direly. “fuckin’ pretty ass.”

a horrible feeling overcomes the expanse of your chest. it’s one you’ve never experienced — comes across as though your heart was literally twisting and coiling to become one, small knot which climbs up into the wire of your throat to then sit there and inflate. briskly, you turn on the heels of your feet, tip toeing as quick as you can back to your room to then close and lock the door. 

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀  ❤︎

you wake up late.

of course you do.

after spending most of the night letting the lewd image of onyankopon and eren engross your mind, you manage to finally get some sleep around five am after a painful sobbing session. how stupid you are. the signs were all there. you can’t help but feel angry at yourself, reasons as to why still unclear. you wish you’d have just stayed in bed, ignored the sounds, forced yourself to go to sleep. in doing that, your eyes wouldn’t be almost swollen shut and head wouldn’t be pounding as though someone had been beating it with a hammer an hour straight. you’re aware that you would still be in the blind, you know, but . . at least your heart wouldn’t hurt as much.

hurrying out of the room, you’re making a straightaway to the front door. your uber is only two minutes away and you recognize that you are already missing the first five of your lecture. huffing quietly. you’re already mentally preparing yourself for the energy you’re going to need to plead your case to your professor in efforts to get a small extension—

  “—( ❤︎ )?”

don’t stop. don’t look.

“. . mm, yeah?”

your eyes are locked upon the door. you’re only about eight steps away, it isn’t much.

“hey, hey, hold on.”

onyankopon’s legs are longer than yours. he’s able to intercept your path without much of a hassle, standing right in front of the entry to the foyer. thoughtlessly, you take a step back when he makes himself known, sparing a glance up into his eyes. he’s smiling, though it goes a bit fraught at the edges when he views your appearance.

“. . what’s wrong?” he gently asks.

it isn’t the lack of blush, faux lashes, and glitter adorning your face that has him concerned, it’s the heavy bags underneath your eyes, the coating of puffiness that surrounds them. usually, you’re dressed in darling two piece sets, a cute skirt and top, hair pulled up into sweet pigtails or even pinned back with bows . . . today, you’re donning all black — leggings, hoodie, and ugg boots . . . box braids pulled back into a simple, low pony. something’s wrong. both he and eren can see.

“nothing.”

to make matters worse for you, eren wants to take a look for himself and it leaves the two of them in front of you, obstructing you from leaving. “what happened?” he asks. “not hungry today, mama?”

your nails dig into the fleshy part of your palm. you hear the pitch of his voice — more quiet, whimpering . . you hear ony’s — tender, sodden in raw infatuation. “no,” you shake your head. your next inhale is shaky and your eyes begin to prick with a familiar sting. “i g-gotta go. ‘m late. sorry.” quickly, you scuttle around them to hustle through the foyer, unlock the door, and part. 

for a moment, eren’s confused. the corners of his lips tug downwards as the door slams and he quickly replays the discussion over within his head, fighting to figure out where the obvious issue lied.

it doesn’t take much for ony to decipher why you’re acting so different today. understanding irons out the bewilderment that graces his face and while inhaling a slow breath, he starts his path back over to the kitchen, saying only one thing, “i think she saw us last night.”

eren’s quiet for a moment. 

nah . . . impossible.

. . . did you? 

rubbing a hand across his jaw, he pauses, letting the words marinate, “. . nah,” he murmurs. “nah. that’s crazy—“

“—she did.”

“no.”

“i’m telling you, bro,” onyankopon’s eyes are firm. “she did.”

before you went to bed last night, you and eren were fine. you ate dinner together, introduced him to one of your favorite shows — hello kitty and friends, he thinks it was called, you ate ice cream, then you both parted ways around ten to call it a night. 

he doesn’t think he was loud when leaving his room an hour later to let ony inside, doesn’t think neither of them made too much noise when that happened again — something that’s occurred only once before . . months before you found your way back inside of eren’s life for a second time.

then again, they did leave the door open.

“. . shit,” eren breathes out the word through a low groan, falling into a stool at the island beside him. “she didn’t seem mad, though. no?”

onyankopon shakes his head, “not mad . . more . . sad, i think.”

sad. that is true. your face did appear swollen and veneered over with gloom before you left. the two explanations as to why you’d be upset are evident — the first is simply you being bigoted. both he and onyankopon know that you aren’t that at all, not in any shape or form, so that’s ruled out immediately. eren’s only seen you cry once before today — when you were younger and found out your friends had gone to the movies and mall without you. you’re a sensitive girl; you cry when your feelings have been hurt and disregarded.

ony decides to let eren figure out the obvious second reasoning on his own. “i gotta head out,” he says, tipping his head back with a glass canted at his lips to swill down the rest of his orange juice. “. . ima catch you later.”

“for sure.”

both men hesitate. when ony stands, he’s hit with the sudden urge to lean in and press a delicate kiss against the warm pads of eren’s lips . . similar to the way he did less than seven hours ago, when they were both alone, sated and sweaty. however, at the last second, he withdraws — sucking in a deep inhale before nodding. “. . ‘m out.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀  ❤︎

funnily enough, you vex onyankopon’s thoughts for the rest of the day.

as an automotive designer, his head is almost always bustling with new ideas, deadlines, requisitions, and contracts. while he works — inspecting the lot where near almost fifteen cars are parked and being worked on throughout, clipboard in hand to document progress, connie’s headway in wrapping a mclaren 765lt within a pearlescent pink cast vinyl sparks the first of many thoughts of you.

your sweet face laden with dejection and woe was enough to hurt his heart — it sits within the core of his brain, flashing over and over again. in a way, onyankopon supposes that he feels . . guilty. he sees the way you gaze at eren when you think no one else is paying attention, how you giggle and blush and nearly purr when he mumbles an impulsive ‘good job, mama’ or ‘ ‘m proud of you.’ you’re absolutely smitten.

he guesses he should feel a bit jealous, too . . or maybe, possessive. 

his and eren’s relationship has no other word to describe it aside from ‘complicated.’ to the world, more specifically their other friends, they’re simply thick as thieves. no one really knows how bad ony longs to hear his voice after an especially long, taxing day. how content he feels when eren is simply in eyeline. how much his love for eren truly grows.

withal, he doesn’t feel the slightest bit upset that you may adore eren as much as he does. he’s easy to cherish. 

he feels a tender pity for you, at most. doubtlessly, he knows that you’re confused, sullen, heartbroken, and he finds it impossible to carry on his day, knowing you’re probably wishing you hadn’t got out of bed this morning. 

— hey. u out of class yet?

ony sends out the text while sitting in his car, reclined back comfortably in his seat, still parked in front of his lot. he’s honestly astounded when you reply back.

— got ten more minutes. why? — bout to come scoop u. drop lo.

it takes you nearly five minutes to go ahead and do so. you’re probably overthinking yourself into another batch of tears. ony sighs at the simple thought, “this lil girl, man.”

you’re a bit of a brat. he sees that now.

upon you first catching eye of his obsidian black lexus es 350 before he hops out of it, you remain seated atop of the bench you lounge on, arms folded, face unreadable. onyankopon has to step onto the curb and meet your eye while motioning to the passenger seat’s open door. you stay firm, “. . did eren send you? i could’ve jus’ took an uber again, i don’t mind—“

“—nah,” ony takes hold of one of the shoulder straps to your backpack to carry it. “he didn’t. c’mon.”

your stubbornness proves to be futile. after you climb in, he makes sure you buckle into your seatbelt prior to placing your backpack in the seat behind you. and as was foreseeable, you’re quiet while ony drives. you’re almost always quiet around him and he’ll be honest, it makes him feel a certain way when eren ends up telling him about a funny thing you said, how you’re possibly one of the most interesting people he’s ever known, and realizing you obviously don’t feel comfortable being that same way around him. 

onyankopon gets it though. he’s not much of a talker neither, and he’s aware of how frustrating it is to have someone continuously try to poke and prod to get you to. he’ll simply just have to wait for you, no matter how long it takes.

“. . ice cream?”

pulling into a parking space right in front of ‘ candy’s ice cream parlor ‘ surprises you and, more or less, onyankopon allowing you to get triple scoops does too. you embellish your favorite flavors with drizzles of chocolate syrup, whipped cream, and brownie bites, and with a smile, take a big spoonful. “ ’s yummy.”

only having bought a vanilla milkshake for himself, ony relaxes against the cushion of the side of the booth he sits in, modestly watching you take another spoonful and slip it between the glossed pillows of your lips. “you sure you don’t want nothin’ else?” 

shaking your head, you bore a nice hole within the mound of sweet cream, making sure to get a chunk of brownie right along side it, “thank you for this,” you hum. “i appreciate it, ony.” you really do. cliche, you know, heartbroken girl burying herself in ice cream and cheesy rom-coms, nonetheless, both has always been enough to soothe you after a particularly rancid day.

giving a slight shrug, onyankopon angles the straw at his lips to take a sip, “felt like you needed it,” the tone of his voice mellows when he continues, “y’seemed a lil’ . . upset earlier.”

he takes heed in how quickly you look away from him — your body shifts and your jaw tenses. “mm, yeah. it was over something . . something s-stupid.”

ony had wanted you to tell him on your own, but, when the open chance comes . . introduces itself so glaringly, well, he just can’t help it. artificial curiosity douses the bass of his voice as he asks, “ ‘cause of school?”

“. . . no, not really.”

“what? family?”

“nuh uh.”

silence overcomes the table. you refuse to elaborate. your eyes remain fixed on your ice cream as your ears tune into the glitzy pop song chiming through the parlor’s inbuilt ceiling speakers. you can’t tell him. you don’t want to engage in the topic for not a second longer. seconds quickly tick into a minute and when you pardon a glance up to look at ony, you find him already gazing back at you, relaxed smirk decorating the soft fullness of his lips. 

you watch him inhale a breath, irises casted downwards as he shifts and adjusts the carhartt beanie upon his head, “. . ima be honest, ma’, alright?” he licks his lips and you watch his eyes pull back up to meet yours before they grow heavy. the expression on his face is nothing short of enticing . . almost coy. coupled with his now more lazy posture — legs, as always, spread wide, one knee rocking leisurely from left to right . . you kind of hate how if affects you, how he affects you. “i think you’re beautiful.”

the curveball is thrown. subtly, your lips part in fair of your awe. 

and he shrugs, as if what he’d told you had been a simple fun fact. “i think you’re smart as shit. you’re kind. you’re sweet. i’d fuckin’ kill to get to know you more, on some real shit. i see you in my life for a long time and i know you confused,” his finger taps idly upon the table as he pauses for a moment. “. . i know you have questions . . about some shit . . — shit that i genuinely can’t explain.” perspicacity — it glimmers within the ponds of his eyes and within a fraction of a second, you know that he knows. “eren cares about you, a lot. more than i think either of you know.” and with that, he stands, signaling you to do the same. “lemme get you’on home.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀  ❤︎

eren discovers that you are ignoring him.

after onyankopon dropped you back off at his place, much to his surprise, you said your thanks, went into your room, and haven’t came back out. it drives him insane, you drive him insane. he finds himself pacing come the next morning, having realized you haven’t ate in over fourteen hours. “fuck,” he sighs, standing within the open door of his refrigerator. he sees the carton of strawberry yogurt cups seated on the bottom shelf, pink stanley tumbler,  squeezy pouches of fruit juice, assorted within those are onyankopon’s favorite pineapple sodas, alkaline water, and organic snack bars.

with each passing day, the more the two of you intertwine yourselves within his life. akin to thread, you both weave and weave your way around him and his heart, pulling tight, refusing to let go. 

“she’s fuckin’ mad at me,” he mutters. ony sits upon the couch — having slept over again, he’s dressed in only a pair of sweat shorts and socks. and it’s a hard thing for eren . . realizing that two of the most beautiful people he knows are horribly aware of the fact that they are beautiful. ony wastes no time constantly tearing off a shirt and you practically adore prancing around in your little dresses and skirts. the both of you stress him out.

“she not.”

“she fuckin’ is, man.”

smacking his lips, onyankopon stands, “she cool, eren. really . . jus’ give her some time, pa—“

neither men hear your footsteps until you’re nearing the kitchen. briskly, mouths are shut and attention is given.

you feel their eyes peering, scanning, watching you drop the duffel bag you carry near the entrance of the foyer so that you can place your hand upon a wall for balance and slip one foot inside of a calf length, fur covered boot. 

“. . . ( ❤︎ )—“

“—where are you going?”

they watch your foot fall and you stand there for a moment, back facing them. irritation pricks at the base of your neck with a million needles it seems. you fight to gather in your composure, fight to keep from not being too much of a bitch because, still, you’re aware that you’re in eren’s home. manners have been instilled within you since you could hold your own head upon your shoulders.

both eren and ony hear the peep of your gentle voice as you give a huff before turning around and forging a small smile, “out.”

ony inspects your outfit — it’s a knitted, pink, two piece set. the skirt is scarily short and the top is sleeveless and high necked with a cream colored bow threaded right atop the mounds of your full breasts. you tempt him, you really do. he’s tempted to bolt lock the door, tempted to go out and gauge out every person’s eyes who gives you a sheer glance. 

before he can ask, ‘where?’ eren’s beating him to it. no longer does desolation grace the handsome features of his face — his arms are folded, eyes intense and focused directly upon yours. it’s clear the two of them allocate similar thoughts.

you lift an arm then let it fall with a slap against the smooth, bare skin of your thighs. it’s a clear motion conveying ‘why do you care?’ “jus’ . . out. ‘m going to giselle’s to finish gettin’ ready. i’ll be back tomorrow—“

“—tomorrow?”

the tinkling chimes of your ringtone break through the conversation and, in all honesty, save you from being grilled. quickly, your other shoe is on and you’re turning back towards the door, “she’s already here, i’m leaving. bye.”

when it slams closed, onyankopon’s attention is focused directly back onto eren, awaiting the next move. he’s fully prepared to follow you out, to pull you back, right into his arms and never let go, only if eren shares those same thoughts, craves to do those same things. instead, he simply close his eyes and give a slight head shake, “. . . i need my fuckin’ bong.” you’re going to drive him up a fucking wall. 

he walks into his bedroom, practically snatches it from the cabinet of his nightstand, and packs the bowl until it almost overfills. “so, we jus’ gon let her—“

seated upon the settee with a true crime documentary paused on the television screen, the only sound heard echoing throughout the condo is the quick bubbling of smoke flowing through the bong’s water chamber as eren pulls a cloud of the drug into his lungs through his mouth. “—‘m not about to think abt that shit, ‘yan,” he intercepts, voice wavering on strained as he holds the smoke within his chest for a second longer. “i don’t care.”

he cares. he cares a whole fucking lot. what the fuck could you possibly have planned that you’re not going to make it home until tomorrow? why the fuck does he even care? he doesn’t know, can’t figure it out. “i don’t care.”

scoffing a “yeah, okay,” onyankopon rips the bong from his grasp to place his lips within the mouthpiece and inhale a long drag. “you repeated yourself.”

“. . .” furrowing his brows, eren lets his head fall against the back of the sofa. “what?”

“you said ‘i don’t care’ twice,” ony does the same. thick, silvered smoke pours from his mouth and coils into the air above their faces, dispersing into a haze of fumes. “lets me know that you care.”

“fuck you.”

“mmm.”

eren tries to get you out of his mind. he does — desperately. he smokes, he naps, wakes up, refreshes your instagram in hopes that you’d go on to habitually post your daily outfit checks, or perhaps a picture of one of your favorite snacks or meals, something to let him know that you were okay, albeit, nothing. he feels like he’s eighteen all over again with a first crush, longing, itching, wanting. what throws him off, and admittedly ony, too, is that around ten o clock, one more refresh of your page and suddenly the two of them are met with the symbol of a lock, and your followers and following list are greyed out and unable to be clicked upon.

ony stands up from the stool inside of the kitchen he was seated upon within his disbelief, “she put herself on private,” he utters, eyebrows fusing in close until a tiny divot rests between the space of them. “she fuckin’ removed us and privated her account, man.”

“this fuckin’ . .” eren’s next inhale is deep. he rubs at his jaw, beginning to pace. you’re clearly wanting to play, wanting to hide. you were aware that they were going to be watching and it’s clear now that they should have been one step ahead and knew that you would. akin to a joust of chess, eren finds the both of them now stuck, unable to move. his mind begins to conjure the things you could possibly be doing — flashes of your pretty smile, your sweet giggles, soft hands caressing the plane of someone’s skin, it flies in and damn near bludgeons his lungs out of his chest. “where the fuck could she be?” he’s muttering. you’re not much of a social girl. that’s more of giselle’s proficiency . . .

“fuckin’ giselle.”

it isn’t hard to find her instagram. she posts a shit ton more than you and the last clip of her story had been of her hand, clearly yours ( you’re the only girl they know who has cute bows and heart charms glued to your acrylics ), and two other girls’ holding pink tinted shot glasses with a caption of ‘ don’t think club bliss ready 4 us tbh. ‘ “club bliss,” onyankopon licks his lips, letting the name plummet within the depths of his mind to familiarize himself with it. “. . shit’s downtown, like thirty five minutes away. my nigga JC owns it.”

shrugging, eren’s already making his way down the hall to his bedroom, “c’mon. bout to shower and get dressed. not about to play with this girl no more.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀  ❤︎

you make sure you don’t drink too much tonight. you refuse to experience the daunting repercussions of another hangover. two shots and half a glass of a lemon drop are just enough for your usual introversion and self scrutiny to thaw. “just bend,” jasmine had managed to acquire the four of you a section of your own within the nightclub. you hadn’t known that she and giselle invited more people outside of you guys’ immediate group, nonetheless, about twelve of you in total adorn the divans of your section. “and do it. shake your ass.”

you surmise that this is what you need. the music is loud enough to fill the expanse of your brain from corner to corner, the club is dark enough for you to not worry about who’s looking, you don’t want to think about them. not for a second longer.

though it does still pain you to realize — they are not yours. in all probability, they never will be, and you force yourself to admit that it’s okay. you’ll be okay. 

throwing your plush butt in cadenced circles into the welcoming canvas of giselle’s crotch while she squealed and recorded it all on her phone was a step into the right direction, you think. 

and in all honesty, you don’t know when you realize the rhythmic, encouraging pats on your butt have transitioned into a firm grip around your waist — don’t know when those same hands slid up to your soft tummy to push you up and have your back connect to a rigid, firm chest. “mm,” you’re mewling and tilting your head rearward when the person bends to tuck their face within the graceful slope of your neck. “wha . .” 

“you showin’ out, ma.”

you smell his cologne, and the top you wear is completely backless — it allows you to feel the algid gold of his chain grazing the bare skin of your spine. “. . ony?” you have to turn and face him . . figure out whether it was really true.

he stands before you, dressed in a light blue crewneck over a plain white tee and grey, distressed, patchwork jeans. the colored beams of the club glint along the handsome features of his face — painting him green, red, yellow, then blue. underneath them all, you note how heavy his eyes are, the faint smell of weed that undertones the warm notes of his body wash and cologne. immediately, you’re pushing him away, uttering one word, “no.”

he doesn’t seem surprised by your response, not in the slightest. he’s reaching for you, tugging you back into him firmly, then veering you both on your feet in order to have your back hit the mirrored wall that separates your section from another. the broadness of his stature easily hinders the view of you from any keen, prying eyes. you don’t know if you appreciate it or not. “ony, move, what are you—” you’re already whining and pushing at his chest with feeble, little paws. “m-move, i don’t . . don’t wanna do this. lemme have fun.”

he gazes at you through the leaden lids of his eyes, dragging them across the plumpness of your glazed lips then back up into your own, catching notice of the surface of them. they’re misty — iced over. you’re tipsy . . definitely fucking tipsy. “how many times we gotta tell you to stop drinkin’,” he murmurs, stolidly grabbing your face within one of his hands — thumb on your cheek, four fingers on the other. “you’re nineteen. don’t get fucked up.”

you shove his hand away, pushing at it with the both of yours. “ ‘m grown, how m-many times do i have to tell the both of you that . . . stalker. f-fuckin’ stalker.”

how did they find you? you debated on blocking the both of their accounts from yours after removing them, however, doubled back in fear of you going too far. at this very moment, you regret it. you should have gone with your first mind. 

onyankopon has the gall to chuckle — to smile and gaze at you as if you were just a silly, little thing . . one who was just speaking to speak, has no real idea of what was going on or what she was saying. unable to help it, your lips lour into a firm pout and you hold eye contact when reaching a curled fist back then letting it slam against his pectoral. “move,” you hiss, brows linked. “if you don’t move, i swear—“

“—whatchu’ gon’ do?” swiftly, his hand curls around the column of your neck. 

your mouth clenches shut as you stand there, nevertheless, refusing to back down. the milieu surrounding you both appears to fall silent while your eyes remain rooted upon one another’s. the impassivity of his own is blatant. his eyebrows lift and he leans his face closer down to yours, “say it,” he softly demands. his fingers flex around your throat and on instinct, your head tilts further up so that you’re able to pull in an easier breath. “whatchu you gon’ do, mama?”

eren is never too far away from ony . . . you should have known that he’d reveal himself come enough time passing. your vision of the rest of the club is obstructed by yet another tall, stout figure. you no longer can see a thing, only them. 

“ugh!” you huff and push onyankopon’s hand from your neck, fighting to elbow your way through them, withal, unsurprised when one of the two holds you right where you are.

“you drunk?” eren’s tipping your chin up and while at the same instant you ask, “so what?” onyankopon’s muttering a calm, “she’s tipsy.”

so, you’re tipsy and shaking ass — eren inhales a deep breath and, surprisingly, steps aside after a few seconds, opening a gape wide enough to allow you to pass through. your skepticism is evident, nonetheless, you push your way out and immediately grab hold of an oblivious, dancing giselle’s hand to tug her in the direction of the dance floor. he watches you until your body vanishes within a sea of others. “let her go,” he’s mumbling to onyankopon, falling down onto the sofa and making himself comfortable. “let’er do whatever the fuck she wants. she’s comin’ back home tonight, though,” tipping a shot back, he then shrugs while gulping it down. “cryin’ or not.”

onyankopon can’t help it though.

with each glimpse of you on the dance floor he catches, he’s lured in — enticed by the glossy pout of your lips before they stretch into a captivating smile, the sway of your curled, butt length, knotless braids, pinned back with twinkling clips studded with gems, your ass . . . fat, perky, and round — seemingly fighting to spill out of another signature, tiny skirt as you rolled it within a crotch . . . a crotch not covered by another skirt or dress your friends wear, but instead jeans . .

suddenly concentrating, his head slowly leans in forward and he only has to see the fine dusting of hair along a face of the person holding onto your waist before he’s walking over. 

“fuck no,” he’s scoffing and with enough ease to rival snatching candy from a gluttonous child, he’s pulling you into his chest, calmly staring, waiting for the man to make a move, albeit, when all he gets is two hands being pulled up to shoulders as a form of yield, his focus is placed directly on you.

you’re still humming and swaying to the lyrics of veeze’s song, gomd, regards only focused on yourself. you fit comfortably within his arms, plush and warm. when he squeezes his arms around you, your body softens up, as if it was on purely instinct. “ony,” you’re groaning when he leans down to kiss the pane of your shoulder — once more, his scent and stature being the dead giveaway. “no, no,” he’s uttering into your ear, tightening his hold on you once more when you attempt to squirm away. “can let you get away with a lot of shit, ( ❤︎ ), but dancin’ on another nigga’s a no go.”

you’re turning to face him when arrives the confession, “yeah?” you can’t help it. he feels good, looks even better with a plate of gold molded around the bottom row of his teeth. your hands reach for his arms, then you tug them upwards so that they remain on the sweet curve of your hips, silently telling him to keep them there. “ ‘m single though, no?”

onyankopon appreciates the difference between you sober and not. he supposes he gets a closer insight on what’s going on in your little brain through her. you don’t hesitate on your words and shy away in that precious manner he’s gotten used to. “. . . you can call it that.” your hips start to rock, a rhythmic sway from left to right and he follows, pushing your chest closer into his own.

“we’re all single, right?” 

when he gazes into your eyes, he sees it . . . you know the truth, you’re awaiting the moment to catch if he lies. licking his lips, onyankopon hesitates, “. . somewhat.”

your head tilts, “wha’does that mean?”

“means shit is complicated.”

“between who?”

his head tilts back as he bellows out an attractive laugh, unable to reign it back in when it falls out. you acting as though you are oblivious is amusing. “( ❤︎ ),” he dips his head into your neck again, keeping it there. you feel the tepid gusts of his breath blowing over that specific area of it, the one that tickles and makes your core heat all the while, when he murmurs, “mama, why you makin’ this so difficult, mm?”

you shove him away.

ony thinks you’re going to pout, huff, scream, however, when he sees the brewing of dew that begins to brim your eyes, his own soften. you’re turning before he can say another word, slipping through the crowd with little ‘pardon me’s and ‘sorry’s so that you can enter the section once more, grab your bag from lana’s hand after saying a quick goodbye and telling her that you’ll text, before you’re making your way towards the exit.

both eren and ony are hot on your heels. “hold on, hold on, hold on.”

the air outside is crisp. when a gust of it flies over your heated body as you push through the doors, it dries your eyes, and sobers you quickly. outside of the building, the world is much quieter. it soothes your racing brain, and you’re ignoring the two of them, steps firm and quick as you open your phone, click on uber and start the process of requesting a ride. “can you chill?” eren’s voice rocks upon the thin line of frustration and despair as he stops himself in front of you, stepping from side to side as do you to keep you from taking another. “jus’ . . stop for a minute, alright?”

“eren, just let me leave,” you blub out through a defeated whine. “can i go?”

a muscle within his jaw ticks, “not until we have a conversation, no.”

“what is there to talk about?”

a pulsing silence follows your words. tension is thick — it extends and swells until the pressure of it broadens into eren’s chest and has him quietly saying, “one conversation then we’ll let you leave,” he mumbles. “conversation out of the fucking public, yeah?”

your arms fold and you look away from the both of them as you mull it over. you’re cold, goosebumps send the hairs of your skin standing upright, has one of your ankles crossing over the other in a poor attempt to warm your legs, and your uber is said to be over twenty minutes away. “okay,” you grumble. “. . ‘m cold.”

“i wonder why,” onyankopon hums, leading you all to the direction of his car that’s parked on the corner. he opens the door to the backseat, allowing you to climb in first before he slips into the driver’s and eren in the passenger. truthfully, you’re nervous. you feel as though you have so much to say, and still, so little. so much to profess, yet it all lies at the back of your throat, viscous and curdled. 

when seated upon the couch within eren’s home, you watch him and ony go about kicking off their shoes and turning on a few lights. eren adjusts the thermometer to heat the apartment up for a moment during which, onyankopon grabs one of your favorite, soft baked, strawberry granola bars from inside of the pantry — a mere snack for you to nibble and sober up on. “hm,” he hands it to you over the back of the couch you currently lay cuddled up on underneath a chunky knitted throw blanket. “want water, too?”

shaking your head, you begin to unwrap it with nimble fingers, “. . thank you.”

the words sit at the pit of your stomach and sweet strawberry and fresh grain sticks uncomfortably to the roof of your mouth, making you stroke your tongue against the roof of it . . back and forth, back and forth. “i s-saw . . both . . you two . . c-couple nights ago,” they are blatted out before you can even attempt to trawl them back in. oddly, you feel ashamed when you find your admission no longer enclosed within the vault of your brain, however, floating within the space the three of you find yourselves in. “wasn’t spyin’ or anything, thought it was an intruder, uhm . .” those yucky feelings are returning. the ones that make you feel as though you were pathetic, revolting, stupid. “i didn’t want . . i don’t — . . i h-hope you both aren’t upset, i jus’ . . i know i should’ve jus’ stayed in bed and i shouldn’t have felt, mm, be so bothered—“

“ma, chill,” eren’s muttering, prior to you finding yourself being maneuvered, pulled in close so that your body is practically molded into the side of his. a soft kiss is sown against the crown of your head as you sniffle and wall your face away with your small hands, refusing to look at them. “we’re not upset with you. fuck no.”

mewling, you shake your head, thumbing with a ring on his finger. your own tremble with the intensity of too many emotions boiling inside of you, “you are, jus’ say it—“

their voices are unified when they say, “we’re not.”

your eyes flit up after a while, slow and warily. you seem to calculate their emotions, not making a move to say another word until one of them does. “there’s no need for apologies,” ony plainly says. “not from you, at least. you good, ight? we’re sorry . . you had to fuckin’ find out like that.”

shaking your head, it’s clear you feel as though their apology is unwarranted, “no. don’t have’ta say sorry to me. i s-should’ve known you guys were in a relationship—“

eren’s slowly widening smile and onyankopon’s scoff of a chuckle is enough reaction for you to pause and await clarification. were they laughing because they didn’t take you as someone so dumb and shallow that it took you so long to realize? . . . god, with each passing second you seem to feel worse and worse. 

you’re curling away — slowly working yourself back onto the opposite cushion, however, eren’s arm is pulling you back against him, “me and o’ are . .” he hesitates, clenching his jaw, fighting to place what the two of them do into comprehensible terms. 

“we fuck sometimes.”

again you sniffle, waiting for one of them to provide more context, “. . platonically?”

they stumble once more, until eren answers, “. . not really.”

“. . . so feelings are involved?—“

“—this is why i said this shit is complicated, ma,” onyankopon cuts in. “he’s mine, i’m his.” the two of them are sure that feelings got involved within their friendship close to a year and a half ago now. what used to be amicable, nonsexual hang outs progressed into something more. it’d built over the course of fifteen months until nearly three ago, when it all reached a zenith, onyankopon’s cock ended up buried inside of the grooved, pulsating channel of eren’s throat after a drunken night at a kickback thrown by mikasa.

you don’t pretend to understand. “mmm.” you realize there’s no point. they’re together, and though your feelings may feel as though they’ve been pummeled and bashed into piteous  threads of nothing, you know that this will only be a fleeting emotion. you’re fully prepared to cry until your heart’s content and work on bouncing back to your old self within a few weeks’ time, already rolling over which rom com and ice cream flavor you think will make you feel somewhat better tonight in your head when abruptly, you feel the comforting stroke of eren’s thumb stroking over the bare skin of your hip. “uhm,” suddenly, he seems apprehensive — glistening emeralds of jade snap back and forth between yours, quiet words stuck within his throat. “can i — . . i have to do somethin’ . .” he mumbles. “alright?”

“okay, yeah,” you softly reply. “what is it?” you’re prepared to stand and move out of his way, thinking he wants you to grab the remote or something.

despite that, he shakes his head and keeps you still, “jus’ close your eyes.”

after a few moments, you timidly comply. there’s the sound of shifts, prior to the sensation of something being dangerously close to your own face that only has your body tensing with fear as time ticks on and realizing it has no plans to move . . seconds feel more akin to minutes as you await whatever he has planned, “. . . eren wha—“

you’ve been kissed before.

once . . . the night of your prom by your date. it’d been a sloppy thing — he’d blurted out that he’d been crushing on you since the beginning of junior year . . . saw you in your cheer uniform at the football team’s first homecoming game and wanted to make you his since. it had been an experience you continue to describe with one word, dreadful. tongue got involved far too quickly than you’d expected, his nails dug too tight into the cushion of your waist and it made you wince and pull away before the kiss progressed passed a mere six seconds. all in all . . . traumatizing.

initially, eren kisses you softly. if you could manage to put it into detail and explain it to someone without your brain short circuiting halfway through, it’s almost as though he tests the waters . . . gives you sometime to pull away, to push him away if it hadn’t been what you expected or wanted. 

what he doesn’t know is that you’ve wanted this since the night you saw him for the first time again, since you caught eye of him seated at the bar, since he pulled you into his arms, wrapped his arms around you tight, invited you into his home, revealed himself to be just as sweet, gentlemanly, thoughtful, and kind as before. since you’ve begun to relearn one another — seen him for the first time with a familiar retainer on come the both of you bumping into one another at two am, yearning for a glass of cold water. since accompanying him to a session at his tattoo shop, watching him hone in and lose himself within his exquisite craft . . . yeah, he doesn’t know any of this.

his surprise is palpable when you give in, melting like sweet vapor within the sun, and taking hold of the shoulders of his shirt to pull him closer. 

eren feels the trembling breaths you exhale. what were once shy caresses soon inch into desperate grips as you fist the fabric of his tee within your hands and tug him even closer. its as though you can’t get enough. his lips are soft . . smooth. he smells faintly of weed, however, tastes as sweet as toffee. you all but whine when he pulls away, just barely deciphering his hand weakly ringed around the pillar of your neck. 

god, you’re the picture of pure debauchery.

eren hadn’t kissed you for longer than twelve seconds, he’s sure, and yet, your lipgloss is completely smudged, lips no longer glistening with the cosmetic, but of his saliva. quickly, your eyes flash with emotions . . nevertheless of you trying to hold them in, your irises have always been expressive — constantly conveying how you feel before your mouth does. he sees how long it takes for your actions to catch up with your brain, then you’re somewhat frowning, as if you were confused on the reason of why he’d stopped, then you are shying away again upon taking heed of your current predicament.

“uhm.” quietly, you release a breath.

unable to help it, eren smirks, “that was okay, right?” he mutters, eyes flicking between your own and your lips. 

was more than okay. “uh huh.”

you rub them together, finding your eyes drifting. they slide from eren’s to the thick, double hued plushness of onyankopon’s — both men notice. “. . don’t do that,” ony chuckles, eyes closed as he rubs at the bridge of his nose with two of his knuckles. “chill, aight?”

it’s only fair that you deserve a taste of him, too. maybe you’re being greedy . . .

“you both aren’t gonna let me leave, are you?” delicately, you ask the question, falling back against the comfortable cushions of the sofa. in reality, the idea of leaving and heading back to lana’s is now buried within the furthest margin of your mind. you watch the two of them share a look before onyankopon shrugs, “. . we’re not gonna keep you here if you don’t wanna be . . we’d prefer it,” he begins to smile. “if you stayed though.”

you hum a soft, “mhmmm,” with a giggle, pushing your cold, little toes underneath eren’s thigh. “. . so, what are we gonna do now?”

the three of you are quiet for a moment, letting the question steep within the matter of your brains. there’s plenty of things you all are able to do. sleep, is one. watch a movie, bake some cookies, dive more into detail about the ever-growing feelings the three of you share for one another that seem to weave tighter and tighter into a jumbled mess with each passing day — lots of things. “watch a movie in my room,” eren offers while leaning his head against ony’s arm that lays outstretched along the back of the couch. “if you want, mama, ’s up to you.”

immediately, you nod. you simply just want to be around them, everything else is trivial. “can we watch somethin’ scary?”

“somethin’ scary?” you’re all beginning to stand. onyankopon reaches his arms back to give a nice stretch and you allow yourself to take only one peek at the slip of skin and dusting of hair that traces down his belly button and disappears within his jeans. “y’sure you can handle somethin’ scary, pretty girl?”

“mhm!” you’re nodding and smiling over your bottom lip that your top row of teeth nibbles into. “ ‘m a big girl, ony.”

“mm, yeah?” he’s tossing his arm over your shoulder, leading you down the hall. “lets see about that then.”

the movie eren chooses is thirteen ghosts. he explained to you that it’s a bit old, figures it’s something that you should be able to handle. before you all climb into his bed, you hesitate, unsure of where to lay — whether beside eren or ony. “hm,” they discern the dilemma all over your face and rub at the opened space between them. 

the movie begins and you examine how the three of you all sit up — legs outstretched, postures aligned with the help of eren’s firm pillows. you’re not sure of exactly who lays down first, nonetheless, the other two follow and about halfway into the film, you’re curled up with your back towards eren, front facing onyankopon. you’ve been trying to focus for the past forty five minutes, fighting to understand the plot, names of characters, and what’s going on, however, your brain is engrossed in all things ony and eren, eren and ony. 

you feel as though you’re breathing too loud, moving too much, obviously not paying attention — you can already hear giselle demanding you to get out of your head, to relax, and stop thinking. 

it’s hard not to, though. 

ony lays upon his back . . an arm folded behind his head, the other draped across his stomach. he took off his crewneck — leaves him dressed in a plain white tee, jeans, and his socks. your eyes fix upon the large mitten of his hand . . his trimmed fingernails, the web of veins that decorate the back of it neath another beautiful tattoo of a moth. 

you can’t help it . . the tips of your acrylics start at his elbow before they’re trailing, crawling higher and higher — languid and idle. he doesn’t move or push you away when you coyly pause with your hand above his own. he lets you touch him, trace his tattoo with your fingers, press the pad of one against the tendon in his wrist. “sorry,” you soon murmur.

he looks down at you, “hm? . . what for?”

your eyes remained fixed upon your own fingers, letting them hook beneath his. “. . didn’t ask for permission . . to touch.”

you’re really something fucking else.

“you good,” he softly replies. “don’t trip.”

ony watches your head move — you pull it up to look at him and your eyes shift, down to his lips again. he doesn’t know if you’re doing it on purpose, or if you are. what he does know is that he needs you to stop . . needs you to turn yourself back forward and watch the movie, quietly trace his tattoos, close your eyes and sleep . . . anything to give him a peace of mind. nevertheless, you don’t do either. you huff a bratty, little sigh out through your nose and squeeze at one of his fingers with all of yours.

“ony.”

it’s sudden when he moves, when he lifts up on an elbow and presses you flat on your back so that there’s some inches of space separating you both again, “don’t start nothin’ you not gon’ be able to finish . . alright?” softly, he demands an answer from you, awaiting a head nod, a shake, something. the only thing he gets is just another glance of your eyes carting down to his lips, watching them shape around his words, the slat of gold still encasing the base of his teeth. it’s as if you were dazed — brain full of fluff, his words enter one ear and quickly exit out of the other.

chuckling quietly out of disbelief, onyankopon looks over at eren, “she think i’m playing, huh?”

the other man follows suit, lifting up on an elbow to look down at you with a soft smile, “. . . you want ‘yan to kiss you, mama?”

you squirm, mumbling a small, “yeah.”

“okay,” he calmly croons. “jus’ one kiss?”

“only one.”

you’re so sweet . . so pretty. onyankopon decides to indulge you — just this once. you feel his heavy hand on your thigh, wrapped around it, before he suddenly yanks you to tug you down a little bit lower. there we go. he captures your face between that comfortable cusp of his index finger and thumb, the thenar web, admiring you for a moment through weighty eyelids. you really want this . . . he’s bemused. you want him. truth be told, onyankopon had some doubts about the two of you. he thought you had your eyes sought out for eren, solely eren. 

however, when he kisses you . . he feels how much you’ve been wanting this, too. your arms envelop around the back of his neck to draw him nearer. you let him lead, lips smoothly trailing after his own, and then you try to mimic what your prom date had done to you to coax your mouth to open, only . . more delicately. instead of using teeth, you shyly skim the tip of your tongue against the parted seam of onyankopon’s lips, blossoming when he lets you in . . and the first glide of his tongue amongst yours has a sound escaping from the pit of your chest — something stifled and small. a weak whimper.

it only seems to light a fuel within ony — when your mouth opens wider, his does, too. it’s consuming, the way that he kisses, in a strangely good way. he pulls away after some time and allows you to inhale a shallow breath before your lips are being tapped with soft, repeated pecks, then he’s returning back for more . . for a fiercer taste, a longer one.

then, unexpectedly, he’s gone. his touch, his lips, the taste of him . . it all vanishes within a single moment.

you’re left slightly panting, blinking your eyes up at the high ceiling above you, letting yourself relish in the still tingling sensation that lingers upon the gentle pads of your lips. “we all good now?” ony forces himself to keep his hands where they should be, to himself. 

no, you want to say. no, you’re not all good.

the light cotton of your underwear feels warmer than usual . . sticky. when you spread your knees apart an inch, the tepid air of the room flies in between your thighs and feels nippy. 

quietly, eren scans you . . . sliding his eyes down from your heaving breasts, your plush tummy, to your thighs that now are spread the tiniest bit open. his fingers twitch in your direction, though he stops himself, “you feel okay?”

surprisingly, your answer is honest. you whine out a small, “no,” and they both watch your hands grasp the bottom hem of your skirt. you tug it down, and yet your thighs rub against one another, laggard and incessant. you smell them, you feel them, you’re between them and still, nothing is enough. what was once just wet and uncomfortable starts to plain out ache . . it’s painful, honestly. “hurts,” you mumble. your fingers slide up your thighs — with it, they bring your skirt. 

“no, no, nah,” eren’s chuckling, stopping you midway. “you don’t want this, baby.”

you don’t . . . you’re not ready for the both of them, yet. he doesn’t think you’ll ever be.

surprisingly, you’re whining, “yes, i do,” then grabbing his wrist, tugging it between your thighs. “ ‘m a big girl, eren . . really.”

you have your knees enveloped around his hand. your eyes are wide, glistening, and full of so much trust. you are a big girl, now . . eren has to remember that. you aren’t just mateo’s baby sister anymore — all this time, he thinks that’s what’s been hindering himself from proceeding with you any further. you are everything he wants, everything he’ll ever need. and still, he coasts his attention over to onyankopon, awaiting his decision. you both are. if he decides to wait . . then that’s what you’ll all do — wait.

“you sure?” ony’s voice is deep, quiet.

“mhm.”

and so, you’ll continue.

for the sake of fulfilling his own selfish desires, eren leans down and captures your lips for another breathtaking kiss. predictably, your taste careens the line of sweet and tart . . similar to a lush fruit torte. you hook him in the damndest of ways — the way you taste, the way you breathe, the way you simply exist . . . 

you tremble underneath the first sweep of someone’s hand across your breast. the top you wear is ribbed and cropped — thin straps are pieces of pink ribbon that you had to manually tie yourself to fit your frame more comfortably. because of it being so tight and showing a large expanse of your back, you had to go without a bra and pasties. your nipples harden into tiny peaks of steel, bold and plain, pushing against the material. fondly, onyankopon’s thumb glides across one. he pushes down, pinches, rolls it between his fingers. and you hiccup the sweetest, little sounds, perking your back up with a curve in your spine, “we can take this off?” gently, he asks the question, watching you rapidly nod your head, already lifting your arms.

your voice is soft, whiny, “mhm. yes, please.”

he’s smiling. “alright, ma’.”

your braids are long, you have to sit up in efforts to keep your shirt from snagging on them when he hoists it above your head. afterwards, it’s tossed somewhere, already long forgotten. 

suddenly, you’re nervous again . . laying back down, arms instinctively molding into a fold to shield yourself away from two pairs of eyes — brooding and ardent. “why’re you shy now?” eren’s asking, handsome grin splitting his lips to reveal his teeth. 

you nibble on your lip, feeling a stretch of warmth blossom across your nose, “. . c-cause you both make m’nervous.”

“we make you nervous?” onyankopon finds the admission cute. 

“yeah,” you sigh, deciding to let your arms carefully fall. there’s no point in hiding, you think, and what they’re met with is a pair of plumb, round tits . . dotted here and there with precious beauty marks along an expanse of pretty, brown skin. 

“don’t be,” eren murmurs, reaching out to cup one within the crater of his hand. “want us to make you feel good, right?”

his tongue suddenly scouring across the soft puffiness of your areola to beckon the sensitive bud of your nipple into his mouth wrings a unique gasp out of you — a sound you’ve never heard yourself make before. it’s something weak . . wringed and broken. he pulls off with a wet pucker and a blasé ‘hmm,’ taking a moment to gaze at your chest for a moment as if he were trying to gauge if he liked what he did or not. “felt good?”

you hiccup a quiet, honest, “y-yeah.”

onyankopon steals another kiss when eren tips his head down for one more taste. he swallows every gasp, whimper — clutches at the doughy skin of your hip to keep you from squirming too much. “pretty ass,” he murmurs. “how long you been wantin’ this? be honest.”

you cover your face with an arm, “s-since — ah, eren . .” you mewl and slide your hand through the soft locks of his hair, tugging at his nape when he pulls off of your tit again with a loud pop. “s-since t-that day . . in the kitchen . . . when you came over and h-helped cook breakfast for the first time.”

the two of them had been shirtless that morning — dressed only in sweats after a lengthy gym session and taking a shower. the scene was somewhat domestic, you think, something out of a film. both of them moving about the kitchen, opening and closing the fridge and cabinets as you sat at the island and tried to keep your admiration of their beautiful, sculpted torsos to a minimum by burying yourself within your phone. 

“that long, mm?”

“c-couldn’t help it,” you hook your fingers within the neckline of ony’s shirt, tracing a finger across the gold, cuban link he wears. “you both are so pretty . . . ’s not fair.”

how anyone could be around the two of them and not catch feelings is a mystery in and of itself. it was easy to fall for eren, and succumbing to the ones you felt for onyankopon was, too — just as effortlessly as breathing. your lips are pouted when you grab at his hand, dragging it down your tummy, “wan’ you both . . right here.” both watch how beautifully you melt when onyankopon’s fingers find the precious bud of your clit embellished by the sodden cotton of your underwear. 

“shit,” eren drags out the word slow, viewing how easily your thighs part open to give them an open image of what lies in between them — your shit’s fat. it’s clothed behind a pink thong, traced with white lace and a darling, threaded rose sits within the middle of the top hemming. the chubby lips of your pussy swallows the material, tiny hole spasms around it, dampening the color of bubblegum into a lewd rouge. 

inquisitively, one of eren’s fingers nudges at the hollow delve. he feels your walls clench before a ripple of wetness is breaking through the fibers and leaking down to the cleave of your ass. ony breathes out a gentle curse, beginning a slow tempo while tracing neat, little circles on your clit, “right here, mama?” his arm rests above your head, and with that same hand, he strokes his thumb comfortingly along your temple. your hips shift, rocking up into their touches, pulling away from them, you can’t seem to make up your mind. 

your voice is rising in pitch, “y-yes . . please.”

“whatchu want then?” he’s asking. “we’ll give it to you, you know that right?”

will they? they’re disappointed when you turn your face away and toss your wrist across your mouth, clearly refusing to say. it’s cute though, eren supposes. it’s cute that you’re timid enough to not voice what it’s clear you want, nonetheless, comfortable with their fingers rubbing on your pussy. “can we take these off?” he stows a kiss upon another sweet mole, peeks out from right above the top of your underwear trimming, and waits until you nod before the four of his fingers on both hands are hooking into the sides of them and your pathetic excuse for a skirt, and he’s pulling them down. 

it’s a mess . . . you’re a mess.

webs of slick cling onto the seat of your panties, breaking off into feeble strings when he tugs the material of them down far enough. when snapped away, they gather with the rest of the silken sap that glosses your lips. it’s only right that you reach a hand down to take a feel of and assess the damage, and you don’t seem all that surprised to hear the faint squishing sound of your fingers slipping and sliding between them. you whimper, “ ‘m sorry . .” you’re frowning, genuinely upset. “ ‘m makin’ a mess.”

you’re something else — genuinely. 

“don’t apologize . . do not fuckin’ apologize, alright?” eren’s whispering, eyes transfixed on the oeuvre that is your pussy. “you ever touch yourself, baby?”

you mewl, “only a few times.”

“yeah?” he breathes, pushing one of your legs up higher in order for the light of the television to illuminate your core. “show us . . show us how you make yourself feel good.”

you’re starting to whine again, “eren.” you’re embarrassed — always one intimidated of toys, you’ve relied simply on your fingers for the last year or so since becoming acquainted with your body. it’s rare when you actually even push one inside. your nails click against each other when you slide two of them, ring and middle, up to your clit and begin to stroke slow, sloppy circles atop it. “l-like that,” delicately, you sigh, letting your muscles melt, thighs fall further apart. 

onyankopon parts them even wider, needing to see the exact moment when your little hole clenches up again and releases another wave of slick, adding onto the small puddle that’s seeping through the soft, black fleece of eren’s comforter underneath the cheeks of your ass. his dick strains against the cool metal of his zipper, he can hear nothing but your dear sniffles and moans through the rushing blood of his ears . . . aside from eren, he’s never desired a person as much as he does you. always a man known as cool, calm, and collected, he’s stunned himself when realizing that, regarding the both of you, he’s willing to just about walk to the ends of the world and then some if it’d make you happy. 

he’s never known someone to be so easily cherished before you entered his life. to be truthful, his feelings for you scare him . . you scare him.

“sometimes, i jus’ . .” you never finish your sentence, opting to instead let them see for themselves. your fingers move — slip down so that the pads of them are flushed right up against the opening of your cunt, then you start to faintly push them back and forth. and granted, the action is mere, the sounds your pussy produces are fucking filthy. it’s obvious that you like it — the pressure, that is. you never let them slip inside, only squidge them against that hungry, little pit.

eren crowds in closer, “shit, she’s clenching again.”

another tide of slick from your cunt, another rush of blood to the tips of their cocks. “needy ass pussy.” onyankopon’s suddenly pushing your legs up further . . until your knees knock against your shoulders. you squeak in the same moment he tells eren, “slide a finger in, pa’.”

eyes wide, you’re watching, dazed, as eren’s soft lips pleat before a cool dollop of his spit is dripping from them and onto your pussy. the sight is nothing short of obscene, all the more so when the first knuckle of his middle finger is gliding inside you with enough ease to rival butter and you’re already trembling, mewling for more. he flits it inside until he hits the base, murmuring out to ony, “ ’s fuckin’ tight.”

“yeah?” suddenly, he’s roused to know, “. . anybody else ever been in there? y’a virgin, baby?”

your eyes are closed, acrylics digging into the flexed skin of his wrists as you nod your head and whimper a tender, “mhm.” hips buck when, empirically, eren curls his digit, avid to find one, specific spot. “wan’ you to take it . . you and ‘ren.”

another flow of blood and their balls tense. ony’s sure his tip is probably purple now. “wait, you sure?” reality breaks through his lust dazed brain and hits him with a swarm of questions. are you sure?, is the brunt of them. are you absolutely positive? but when your eyes open and he takes in the sheer amount of faith and certainty that swims within them, suddenly he’s aware that you’ve probably thought about this before, likely, over and over again. 

“m s-s-sure . . oh my god,” your back’s curving upwards when eren starts to stroke his finger inside of you, firm and steady. 

“you trust us that much?” he hums softly, stamping a sweet line of kisses up the plush chub of your tummy, within the valley of your tits, to your neck. “trust us enough to break your lil pussy in? shape it only for our cocks — that much, baby?”

the muscle of your thighs tauten as your pussy squelches around the single digit. you feel dirty . . . nevertheless, in the best of ways. “f-fuck me,” you’re admitting quietly, tipping your head back when the even edges of his teeth are sinking into the flesh of your neck, scented of apple and creamy iris. “fuck me, please?”

you’re so needy . . . “not yet,” onyankopon lowers down to peck a slow kiss upon your lips. “nah, i need a taste first.”

eren’s finger is gone and you watch them maneuver — smoothly . . effortlessly. once again, showcasing that the bond the two of them share travels far deeper than surface level. onyankopon stands, and before eren turns to replace his spot, he does the same and sharply tugs you towards him by the backs of your thighs until your ass nears the edge of the bed. 

your heart thuds at the sight of him . . . of his hair, luminous and long, swaying over his strong shoulders, the dark glint that wallows within the deep emeralds of his eyes, reading him knowing something that you don’t, his pretty smile, the slightly longer, sharper canines. and then, precipitately, deep, warm tanned skin is soon replaced by a smooth, velvety dark brown. emeralds are now smoky quartz. locks of faint ringlets are three sixty waves. 

you watch, lips parted in awe as onyankopon reaches behind his neck with both hands for the hem of his shirt to then swiftly tug over his head. he’s soon kneeling with a soft breath being exhaled from his nose, adjusting his chain while smirking and fixing his eyes upon yours, “don’t move too much, aight?” he mumbles, curtly pulling you even further until your ass hangs off of the bed, suspended in the air by only his hands. “ion like runners.”

“w-waitwait, wait . . ony.”

you wanted to mentally prepare yourself . . gather some shame. albeit, he simply ignores you. the warm pad of his tongue is wide; it parts the thick skin of your lips without his fingers needing to. your eyes flip back into your skull, legs preparing to close around his head until you hear a small ‘aht . . nuh uh, princess. open ‘em’ and shortly after, eren’s hands are finding the backs of your knees to keep them bent and spread wide. 

onyankopon suckles at your clit, lets his saliva loll out from his tongue, dips the tip of it inside of your hole until nearly half of it is buried inside of you — in short, he’s a fucking messy eater.

he makes you tremble no less than three minutes in. you’ve never experienced a sensation like it . . . mind staggering lust that is. no one’s ever made you feel as though you were two seconds away from being lit on fire if their touch were to ever leave you. 

you’re sobbing out a whiny, “o-ony,” when the thick pillows of his lips pinch the aching puff of your clit, rolling it between them before he lets it snap back into place with a loud smooch. down his tongue glissades, prior to it returning up, curling and scouring every inch of you without him needing to move his head an inch. 

“of course you taste this fuckin’ good,” he mumbles, eyes gliding to meet yours. he wants you to watch him, wants you to notice how good he makes you feel — kill any other thoughts of you being with another human being on this earth aside from him and his boy’s for as long as time exists. you’re theirs now. forever and always. 

his attention on you is diverted when one of his hands is gone from underneath your hips so that he can slowly watch himself ease a finger, deep and snug, inside of your little pussy. you hiccup, head tilting, back arching, hips fighting to buck. he hums, “pull it in — that’s right, yeah . . ‘m givin’ you one more — stop fuckin’ movin’.” he slips his ring finger in beside his middle, watching how wet they reappear when exiting your body.

“ion think we gon’ need lube, baby,” he utters for eren. fuck no, you’re dripping wet. 

sniffling, your toes, glossy with a cute, fresh, baby pink french tip, curl when his finger does the same. and you’re thinking that this is tolerable — his pace is slow enough for you to breathe in deep enough breaths to calm your racing heart . . . that’s until it increases speed, and with that, he also does something with his wrist — he rotates it, twisting his fingers with every pull out of your cunt, which in turn, leads them to begin to caress a raw, throbbing knurl of nerves inside of you that has tears scathing the surface of your eyes. 

“f-fuck, fuck, wait—“ quickly, your hands are shooting down to grab onto his, then both men are moving. eren snatches your wrists, gathering them within one of his own hands, and onyankopon swats a thick, reprimanding smack against one of the orbs of your ass. the sweet sob out you give is exceptional to hear.

“stay still.”

you take it that he’s found your g spot, because with every thrust inside, your pussy oozes . . no longer a thin, translucent slick, but sticky, gooey cream. you tremble, slumping your head back against eren’s thigh, feeling drool pool upon the surface of your tongue. he’s smirking when he looks down at you, dipping his thumb inside of your mouth, admiring how cutely you wrap your lips around it. have you already gone dumb? 

his eyes gaze deep into yours.

no, not yet . . . close, very fucking close, but not yet. be that as it may, they glimmer with awareness, he’s sure you still know your own name. 

“want you to cum, okay?” he utters, slipping his thumb free from your mouth to find the hardened nub of your nipple and tug. “whenever you feel it, want you to tell us.”

onyankopon’s tongue has found your clit again. your eyebrows furrow, nose cutely wrinkles with the onslaught of too much pleasure, “okay,” you snivel. “oh my . . god, why does this feel so good?” you sound broken — frustrated, almost. wrists wriggle within his hand, eren doesn’t think you do it on purpose, nonetheless, he knows that if he lets them go, they’ll revert right back into pushing ony away. 

letting his spit fall onto your pussy once more, the man between your legs licks his lips, halting the thrusts of his fingers to instead suddenly press them in deep and snap them, up and down.

it’s abrupt, the sweet squeaks you give — they’re immediate, “ ‘mcumming’mcumming . .” your shuddering legs latch closed around his hand. “daddy, ‘m cumming.”

forcefully, onyankopon shoves your legs back up and out of his way, “push it out,” he hums, “all of it . . every last fuckin’ drop.”

your pussy spasms, gurgling around his digits and drooling out honeyed cream. eren lets your wrists go and naturally, you’re grabbing onto him, pulling him down closer so that you’re able to bury your face within the slope of his neck in efforts to quiet your sounds. “c-can’t take — a-ah, daddy no,” you’re sobbing when his fingers enter the mix, finding your clit to trace messy halos onto. 

“jus’ take it,” he’s mumbling, kissing along the mounds of your tits. “there you go, fuck.”

when ony’s fingers are removed, so are eren’s. you whimper and pant, thinking you’re in the clear before a palm is falling down onto your cunt with a thick smack. 

from then on, you’re handled sweetly . . given a tender clit kiss, pushed back further up atop of the bed. you watch eren undress — socks first, then he unfastens his belt, the button of his jeans, and kicks them off. shirt torn away, your eyes flit between admiring the swirls of ink traced along the sleeves of his arms, the chasmic gorges mapping out the abs of his torso, or the bulge of his cock, pushing up against the grey fabric of his briefs. 

he’s big . . . intimidatingly so. 

he combs a hand through his hair, sparing a look at the mess of wet between your thighs and then, with his face is unchanging, he walks over to the nightstand, opens a drawer, grabs something, then flawlessly tosses it into the hands of onyankopon. “jus’ in case.”

your heart is pumping when his briefs are removed, you try not to gasp too loud when finally in eyesight of one of the main centers of your sometimes lewd daydreams and envisages. “. . oh  . . goodness,” you whisper. you gather it’s about eight and a half inches and, shockingly, a shade darker than him — akin to a toasted brown with a fuchsia colored tip, fat and leaky. his balls are firm . . chubby, dusted only with a few fine hairs to match his happy trail. it’s a beautiful thing, honestly. cut, long as much as it is thick, and veiny. what had made your eyes almost bulge out of their sockets had been the sight of barbells — small and silver, three of them, running vertically down his frenulum.

when he’s hovering over you, your face caged in by the thick muscle of his forearms, you’re still staring at it, fingers itching to feel. eren can tell. he’s chuckling, using a tendon underneath his stomach to make his dick jump and beckon you, “the piercings, huh?” he mumbles. “you can touch ‘em, mama, i don’t mind.”

“okay . . u-uhm, yeah,” you reach down and gingerly wrap your fist around him. he doesn’t react much aside from his tummy tensing, albeit, when your thumb strokes the three, little piercings, he sucks in some air between his teeth. “they don’t hurt?” you inquire quietly, eyes focused on a frothy bead of precum forming from the small hole atop his tip.

“no, jus’,” he bucks into your hand and gives another pretty smile. “fuckin’ sensitive.”

“oh,” you return it with a giggle. “. . . ’s pretty. i want one now.”

eren hums, “yeah? wanna match wi’me?”

“mhmm.”

you’re cute. you are really fucking cute.

he seizes your lips for another kiss, and with his legs, he slowly separates your own more further apart. the action reminds you of what’s about to happen. you reach for his shoulders, wrapping your hands around them tight. between the both of your lips, you whimper, “ ‘m scared.”

eren pulls away, face softened with gentle adoration, “you’re comfortable, yeah? y’still wanna do this?”

your responding nod is immediate. you do, you really do. 

“okay,” he kisses you again. “gonna go slow,” and with that, you feel the firm pillar of his cock beginning to rock between your lips, nice and easy. the tensed underside nudges at your clit with each move of his hips toward yours — you loosen with a soft moan. “think i can make you cum from jus’ this.”

you’re sure that you can. your clit is sensitive — still swollen and tingling with the assault of fingers and clever tongues. eren waits until he feels you gushing again, lubricating his cock with your desire and care. he waits until he hears the squelching, your sighs, your whimpers . . then he reaches down to take hold of the tip of his cock and carefully start to slide in. your body tenses.

“relax, mama,” ony’s crooning, keenly watching it all from near the opened window a few feet away where he sparks a thick blunt. 

“ ’s gonna hurt more if you flinch.”

you try. your eyes are tightly shut as you exhale a breath, “okay, o . . kay.”

eren finds the rigid nub of your clit, beginning to rub it in tight, stable circles. “like when i rub your clit, hm?” he whispers against your lips. “nice and quick.”

you mewl underneath his touch, nodding. you do. how quick the two of them have managed to learn your body is terrifying. you feel him push in another inch and with it, you focus more on his fingers, his voice, his lips. he smells yummy, you realize, and underneath the initial discomfort, you’re aware that there does seem to be a hidden pocket of pleasure, buried deep within it. when his balls are flushed against the knitted button of your ass, a quiet groan falls from your lips. you feel full — packed to the brim. in truth, it’s indescribable. 

eren dips his fingers into your mouth with one word mumbled, ‘open.’

you do so, allowing his middle and ring finger to slip against the pad of your tongue, collect some of your saliva upon them, then he’s gliding his hand back down, smearing it at his base. “gonna move now, okay?”

“uh huh.”

his first thrusts are slow . . shallow. he rocks in only about six inches, easing the taut, flexing muscles of your walls. “there you go,” he’s sighing, closing his eyes. when he decides to focus on how good it feels, he realizes that . . jesus fucking christ, your pussy is deadly divine. 

you sigh again, relax some more, open yourself further. “. . oh, fuck.”

you feel how much eren restrains himself, muscles within his arms and back tightening with the effort. it feels just as you thought — world staggeringly good. your fingers slide within his hair, arm tightens around his back. “deeper,” you whimper. “please.” you want him to give you all of him — every single inch. 

his voice is quiet, stifled, “you sure?”

you lift your hips, “yes, eren . . gimmie it.”

alright.

he gathers the slipping comforter within his fingers, lifting his head to look down into your eyes. his pupils are blown out, matching your own, and yet still, he makes sure you keep them focused on his when he suddenly presses in, then eases back out. you choke on your next mewl, eyes half lidded though remaining fixed upon his. it’s now a challenge, he supposes. who breaks it first. a slight, little smile starts to lift the corners of his lips when he does it again . . . and again, until he’s fucking you — nice and steady, firm and deep. you surrender without much of a fight given, throwing your head back, eyes shut, “f-fuck, eren.”

“ ‘m givin you what you wanted,” he softly huffs, grabbing one of your knees and bending it towards. “wanted me deeper, right?”

oh my god, it’s lewd, you find. the sound of smacking skin, his dick fucking your cream in and out of you, the moans and groans and sobs and cries. so, this is how it feels. eren’s cock is fat . . it manages to find crevices and crannies inside of you that you hadn’t even been sure existed. small hands find his hips and you sink your nails into them, mouth fallen agape.

“f-fuck,” eren grits out through his teeth. “my god, you’re takin’ it, baby — every . . fuckin’ inch. mm, feels good?”

you’re nodding your head, tits bouncing, legs agape, “feels s-so . . u-ungh!” 

words and reason knock against the barriers of your brain which drives more and more empty with each pummel of his cock within your fat, little pussy. you don’t want to think, don’t want to move — you want this until you physically can’t have it anymore. “daddy,” you whimper the name delicately, skating the opened gaps of your fingers through his hair once more to tug. “daddy, oh god.”

“yeah,” eren breathes, attentive to your words, your body, the soaked babbling of your pussy. “mm, i know — ‘m right here, mama. daddy’s right here.”

unanticipatedly, he pulls out. you both pant, watching as he grips his cock firmly at the base. he squeezes it . . once, twice, dips himself back in, then pulls right back out. “shit,” he moans. “pussy’s too good . . gonna make me cum.” it’s somewhere passed too good. he forces himself to get a grip. he doesn’t want to end this too early, fuck no.

and to somehow make matters worse, or rather, almost send eren into cardiac arrest, you lick your lips with a little smile before saying, “ ‘m on the shot . . you can cum in me, i’ll take it.”

it’s funny, he thinks. how you have the gall to appear shocked when he snaps himself right back in less than half a second after the statement spills from your mouth. yeah. you’ll take it. you’re going to fucking take it — one, two, three, maybe six loads, who knows how much he has inside of him tonight, but your little cunt’s going to take each one, he’ll make sure of it.

your pretty sounds are stolen from your mouth with each pounding thrust. no longer does eren lay atop of you, he’s grabbed you by the knees, bending them until they find your earlobes and with the weight of his body, he forces them to maintain the position while he braces for stability with his hands on the mattress above your head. 

his cock reaches deep, you find. plump, mushroom tip knocks incessantly at the grooved barrier of your cervix and here’s where the tears come . . warm, slow, and dribbling, falling down to your temples as you hold onto your own thighs, weeping for him to, “d-don’t stop, please, daddy, don’t stop.”

“mm, ’s all yours now, baby,” he groans. “ ’s all your dick . . for as long . . as y-you fuckin’ want it.”

you feel gooeyness dribbling down between the fat cheeks of your ass — sticky and warm. sparing a look over the folded rolls of your tummy, you find that eren’s dick is streaked with white. there’s a wreath of it thronged at his base, viscid and thick, leaking down his balls . . and it’s all produced from you. “u-unh, unh, g-god, fuck, ngh . .” your breaths are strained, your muscles burn, nevertheless, you don’t think you’ve never felt so good in your entire life. 

when eren sees you begin to drool, a sphere of pride swells within his chest. there it is. what he’s been wanting. you’re now fucked dumb . . plain out stupid. no longer do comprehensible spill from your swollen, plush lips . . only frail babbles and spit ridden slurs. “good girl,” he grumbles, smearing his thumb within the mess of your cheek. “good fuckin’ girl . . mhm, cream on it . . cream on your fuckin’ dick, go ahead.”

when that same slicked thumb starts to stroke your clit, your entire body tenses with the onslaught of your second orgasm of the night. meekly, almost fearfully, you sniff, “. . o-oh god, ‘m gonna cum, ‘rennie.”

eren’s eyes are brutish, firm when he demands, “do it,” through a low huff. “fuck did i jus’ say huh? . . . ’s yours, ruin it.”

you make him proud when you tearfully obey.

and god, it’s a mess.

you don’t squirt, no, it’s more of . . a stream — a warm cascade of liquid, texture akin to buttermilk as it flows over his dick and down your butt. eren feels how tight your pussy grips him as she works on letting it all run out, ripple by ripple, he feels how hard you grasp onto him, and goodness, he’s smitten by you. he’s absolutely besotted that he simply can’t help kissing you, mewling into your mouth when his own heated coil within the base of his stomach snaps as his balls flex and, with that, he gifts you a fat load of his seed — hot and runny. “oh, fuck,” he moans into the heated cavern of your opened mouth. his thighs shudder as he buries himself as deep as he can, “ooh shit . . g-good girl.”

the both of you are heaving by the time the aftershocks come and he’s careful in settling your legs back down, unfurling you from the surely uncomfortable position. you feel unworldly, mind far from your body, as you let your fingers intertwine within the spaces of eren’s as he pulls it up to his mouth to kiss each of your knuckles, one by one, prior to carefully pulling out.

his cum rushes to follow, leaking out of your now flexing pussy.

“shit.”

you hear onyankopon chuckling as he replaces where eren had been, right between your legs — completely barren from clothes as well, aside from his chain. his thumb finds the slit of skin above your clit and he pulls it upwards to make your cunt stretch and push out another glob of eren’s cum. “fuck . . that pussy’s gapin’ — was pent up, baby. i can tell.”

eyes closed, still laying beside you and fighting to catch his breath, eren laughs softly, “yo’, fuck you ‘yan.” it’s been a long time coming, he thinks. months of pining, runarounds, and hidden feelings. the high he’s riding is unable to be described by words. 

“poor mama,” onyankopon lowly drags, leaning down to peck your lips. you’re so gone, so far gone, you can only whine and reach for him. “i know, i know.”

he kisses your cheeks, your temple, your chin, forehead, soft and slow, awaiting the moment for when you sweetly hum and whisper his name, “onya.”

his voice is just as low when he asks, “you wanna rest up, baby? we can try us later—“

“no.” your voice is small though unyielding. you want him, too. “gimmie.”

alright. he will, then.

your pussy is sloppy when he smacks the tip of his cock against it — glossed over with white that smears along the surface of your thighs, too. strangely enough, onyankopon is in dire need for another taste. he can’t help swiping two of his fingers through your lips, collecting the mixture of you and eren’s love upon the pads of them before laying them on his tongue. he tastes your sweetness underneath the fresh tanginess of eren. oddly . . it balances out. 

“mmm,” he hums. 

his cock is two toned — a beautiful dark brown that fades into rosewood near halfway. similar to eren, he’s around eight and a half inches . . give or take, nine. just as his, too, it’s even all around — equal girth and length, heavy even while on brick. only difference was . . you notice the ony’s cock curves a bit . . . a bit to the left. you’re intrigued, watching him spit upon his tip, smear it in with his thumb, then breach his way inside.

it’s similar to the first time all over again. you tense . . . hard. 

both of them have to coo and pepper you with sweet kisses to get you to ease up again. “shit,” ony mutters, eyebrows furrowed as he works in the last three inches. “still tight . . how you still fuckin’ tight?”

your answer is lost somewhere within your moans. you were scared of his curve, you’ll admit, however, you find that . . it works. when ony manages to push all of himself in, he discovers that he needs to keep himself still for a moment . . all in fear of not wanting to bust a premature nut come the sensation of your flexing walls. “shit.”

you watch him lick his lips and give you a dazed sort of smile, eyes half lidded, and grill glinting underneath the silvered rays of moonlight pouring in through the opened curtains, “you feel good as a motherfucka’, mama, ‘m not gon’ lie.”

once more, your cunt constricts, “fuck me then.”

he does. 

to your surprise, he starts off slow . . rolling his hips in then out, rhythmically, almost as if there were a song only he can hear playing. you shudder with each thrust forward, eyes cycling back, hands reaching for his forearms. you watch his smirk broaden when his tempo speeds up, morphing your faint, little whimpers into hard gasps and long moans. “mmmmhm,” he mutters, taking the soles of your feet and using them to open your legs as wide as they were able. “yeah . . give me that shit.”

with a faster pace comes harder plunges. a splatter of wetness squelches out from your pussy with each drive in. “you gon’ take it?” he huffs, sliding his hands across down your calves, to your thighs. “you not gon’ run?”

“noo, ‘m not, i p-prom . . pinkie p-promise,” you keen. you’d never. you want to be good for him, too, just as you were with eren. you want to be their good girl. 

and that’s all onyankopon wants to hear.

he pulls out, and with that, falls on his back, and tugs you on top of him. “sit on it.”

reading your apprehensiveness all over your pretty face, he gives you a blinding white and gold smile, “don’t be scared, i gotchu.” your legs are trembling when you slowly swing one over his hip. dark browns focus on the bounce of your tits as you lean forward, reach behind yourself for his dick, rub it up and down your slit a few times, then carefully ease your way on down. “mmph.” you sniffle, placing your hands on the solid, tatted skin of his pectorals. he feels even bigger this way, you suppose, fat and lengthy. you force yourself to keep going, withal, to keep pushing down until his full, stout balls are pressed against the softness of your ass. 

ony moans a soft, “jus’ like that.” his hands don’t go for your hips, no, they slide up until he takes hold of the sides of your torso, more upon your ribs. “i gotchu, don’t even worry, baby girl.”

you weren’t aware that onyankopon would, quite literally, have you. he doesn’t allow you to move an inch, plainly starts to bounce you up and down atop of his cock, lifting your body as though you were the weight of a five pound dumbbell. you squeak, and you squeal, and you cry, holding on by pressing down upon his abs, letting him flat-out break in your dainty, little cunt. 

you’re aware of the picture you must paint. sweet chub of your cheeks polished with garlands of tears, fat of your ass jiggling each time it meets the hard muscle of his thighs, your tits rebounding with each pound . . . you’re something out of a porn catalogue, surely. 

and ony’s very encouraging. he hums and he groans and he hisses, calling you ‘their good girl,’ tells you that your pussy is the best he’ll ever get, demands through low murmurs that you ‘get that dick.’ you find that you crave to do it yourself — bounce, that is. your legs move, feet flattening upon the bed . . and he notices. “w-wanna,” you sniffle, voice broken as you swipe the back of your wrist across your soaked cheek. “wanna m-make you cum, daddy.”

onyankopon has to close his eyes at the simple sentence — what you don’t know is that you almost caught him then and there. he’s two seconds away from shooting triplets inside of you, he’s sure. birth control be damned. 

and you do it. you stabilize yourself with one hand on his shoulder, the other on the cheek of your ass, spreading it all in efforts because you’re curious . . you want to feel how much your pussy has to stretch to accommodate all that he gives. “s-s-sooo big,” you moan, eyes flipped white as a trickle of drool sways from the pudginess of your bottom lip, dripping down to his chest. “s-so big, papa.”

“fuck,” ony’s groaning, lip bitten over with his teeth as he looks between your bodies to find that tiny, fat cunt creaming again, leaking down his balls. “why you . . givin’ it to m-me like this, princess?”

you suddenly slam down and swirl your hips in delicious, petite circles, acquiring some much needed friction from his trimmed pubes against your clit. “ ‘c-cause . . — wan’ y-your cum,” you admit with a pout. you’re needy for it. you’ve gotten a taste and you doubt you’ll ever be the same again. 

never the one to be outdone, ony starts to raise his hips, meeting you halfway. “yeah?” he licks his lips. “you want this nut? . . you gon’ catch it?”

when he speeds up, you’re aware that he’s taken over the reigns again. your head tips back and, once again, you hold on while nodding. “uh huh,” you squeak. “hng . . unh, unggg.” god, you are absolutely filthy. ony knows that you two are plain out disgusting, but, he can’t find it within himself to actually give a fuck.

he has you — the girl of his dreams — brain dead, cockdrunk, drooling, and needy for his cum. “yeahhh,” he drags lowly, eyebrows furrowing, watching your pretty nails disappear between your thighs where you go to rub your clit, “yeah, you w-want this fuckin’ nut . . ima give it to you.” you’re working for it . . clenching and creaming, and rolling your hips. he thinks he’d be a fool to not grant your wishes.

grabbing onto your hips, he bounces you once, twice, thrice, four times before the two of you are reaching your highs in unison. your gasp is hard. you lose your balance, legs trembling too hard that somehow, you end up falling and flat upon his chest, clawing your nails into his shoulders while his fingers grasp onto your ass, forcing you to rock your hips back and forth. “r-ride it out, mama,” he hisses, “ride that shit out, fuck.” the longer, the better.

you unflex your toes when it starts to, sadly, ebb away near a minute later. how disappointing. onyankopon’s arms are wrapped around you. he holds you tight, as though he never wants to let go. your head feels fuzzy — the world is a blur when you feel yourself being picked up and moved. “mm, shit, baby,” he groans. you have his legs weak and, what was once dark, illuminates into brilliance as he carries you inside of eren’s bathroom. you hear water running and you feel ony carefully slipping himself from inside of you before you’re being transferred into someone else’s arms and lowered into a vast jacuzzi bathtub, full of warm water whose surface is clouded with foaming, glimmering bubbles. 

“mm,” you sniffle and focus your sight on ony who stands in front of the mirror, slowly removing the gold cap from his mouth. 

“careful, mama.”

eren’s behind you. carefully, he ties your braids into a big, topple of a bun, making sure they don’t get too wet, just before sinking inside the tub, too. tugging you into his chest, he isn’t at all surprised to feel your muscles liquify as you melt and tip your head back into his shoulder. you’re tired now, of course you are. “wan’ it again,” you admit through a mewl with a dazed smile after ony’s in the tub, too. “an’ again . . an’ again.”

they both chuckle. “nah, baby, you gotta rest for a little bit.”

you agree. one hundred percent. your cunt aches, thighs burn with the exertion of being folded up and all the bouncing, to add, your throat is sore, nevertheless, you suppose all is a small price to pay in order to feel as good as you did when they’re buried deep inside of you, “. . an’ then i can get it again?”

they’ll give it to you as much as you want. they’ll give you the world if it’s just enough to put another beautiful smile on your face.

Your relationship with Jubie changes a bit, too. The two of you grow closer in a different kind of way, a more innocent, ‘wet behind the ears’ kind of way. You suppose that all this time all you’d needed was just permission for you to finally slip that small way Armin’s been wanting you to, because after receiving it, you can let yourself crawl onto the floor beside Jubie most days to help her with coloring a page — shoulders brushing as you traded crayons and sometimes filled in the same page. You let yourself hiccup and cry upon scuffing your forearm on a lone piece of wood while climbing down from the hayloft and you let Armin gruffly fuss over you as he cleaned and bandaged it up, not before Jubie had given it a soft kiss.

The first time she calls you sissy happens when Armin gave you your first lesson on riding Samson. She’d been seated on the beam of the fence, pretty in a pair of light washed overalls, yellow crop top and her favorite pair of brown boots. Armin’s body had been warm and solid against the back of yours — your hands were trembling on the reins next to his as he whispered to you on how to direct Samson and get him to gallop. “Sissy, you’re doin’ so good!”

The first time you happen to call Armin Dad happens accidentally . . that same day. Nothing dramatic, nothing bold. Just a quiet slip up as he helped you climb off of Samson, big, rough hands squeezing at your waist as your boots flailed while searching for ground. “D-Dad, no—“ “—I gotcha,” he grumbled in reply as his arms wrapped around your body to pull your chest flushed against his. “You’re okay, baby.” Your cheeks had burned hot enough to have you feel like your skin could just about melt off of your face.

And you’re sure Armin realized, but he hadn’t questioned it or even given a facial expression to show that he did. Those icy blue eyes stared into yours beneath the brim of his suede, white hat as he slowly placed you back down on the ground. Only after did he reach out, pull your face up towards his and leaned in to smack a slow, but firm kiss upon your lips — a deep thing that made your knees buckle as Jubie squeaked in the background as if she could feel it, too.

The house begins to change too.

You and Jubie press your ears up against his office door one afternoon, listening to his deep, guttural voice drawl out to someone over the phone about renovations. The wall between his and Jubie’s room and the one you used to occupy . . it needs to come down, the current one can’t hold a California King mattress and the empty room downstairs begins to get cleared out. Light pink paint, foam play mats, rugs, bookshelves, a monitor cam . . Armin decided it’ll be a playroom for the both of you. For rainy days and those days when the two of you feel too small and restless and need your own tiny, abode from the rest of the world.

Down in the barn workshop, you and Jubie like to keep him company sometimes. He’s building a new bed frame. The two of you like to sit on beds of hay, dragged flushed together and covered by thin sheets by Armin to keep the strands from poking your soft, delicate legs as you watch the frame take shape beneath his big, rough hands. Sometimes one of you pass him tools when asked, other times someone ( usually Jubie ) will nap, head resting on a pillow of thighs while you simply watch him work.

Often, he’ll have his flannel and hat off, leaving him in a fitted undershirt, jeans, and a pair of his western boots. You like to stare at the way his muscles ripple beneath his skin as he saws off some wood. His soft, dark blond waves fall loose near the beginning of his shoulders without his hat holding them back, sometimes sticking to his neck where sweat gathers from all the labor. There’s a sort of rugged charm to him when he works like this. You don’t think he knows just how handsome he really is.

Watching the slow pull of his steel hard, natural built muscle roll and flex makes it hard for you to look anyplace else. There’s something hypnotic about it — your lids fell halfway into your eyes and glossy lips parted — watching his palm rub across the surfaces of the wood to make sure they’re smooth enough.

One afternoon, he pauses to rake a hand through his hair while stepping back to inspect his work. The headboard comes together first. Thick, wooden beams sanded down and sturdy enough to hold, what you think, a dozen of huskies without creaking. Its center is upholstered with a cushiony panel made of a crushed velvet material in dark mahogany. It’s pretty.

Then his eyes drifted over to the two of you — Jubie with her face buried in your stomach, arm around your waist and long curls spilling over your lap as she snoozed, then you . . who had been staring directly at the very noticeable bulge pressing up against the front of his jeans. Pretending to look away was futile, you knew that, but you do so anyway with embarrassment flooding your body. He hadn’t said anything . . . not immediately, but you noticed how he smirked a little with a small, slow shake of his head. “You feelin’ alright, doll?” he asked, voice low and rough with that lazy, Mississippi drawl.

“Mhm.”

Jubie shifted, mumbling softly but not waking. Armin hums after a second of you both waiting for her to settle again. “Mm.” And though he says not another word, you knew exactly what he was thinking.

・・・・・

Wind howls against the windows tonight like it’s fighting for a way to seep into the cracks with mean persistence and somewhere deeper in the house, you hear wood creak as everything settles.

Inside the bed, beneath the covers, everything’s warmer — sweet and shared warmth. You wake without even meaning to. Not from the sounds or a nightmare, but from the soft, cool breaths wafting up against your shoulder blade. Jubie’s still curled behind you, arms around your body, and Armin’s curled behind her, but you’re aware that no one is asleep . . . their breathing isn’t deep enough.

For a while, you just listen. Waiting. But nothing. Jubie shifts closer to you, just slightly, and that’s when you slowly squirm, soft feet brushing up against hers before you roll over to see her wide, brown eyes opened and already staring at you. She doesn’t say anything . . so you don’t. Sleep still sluggishly moves throughout your veins, leaving you to gaze, heavy lidded at her, waiting for her to say something, but she doesn’t. Something about her appears a little . . frenzied tonight. Like, her brain has decided on something that her body hasn’t yet made a move to do yet.

You feel her hesitate before she eventually does.

Her hand lifts, fingertips brush over your forehead, down the bridge of your nose, to your lips - slow and gently. She touches you as though she’s barely realizing that you’re real, that you’re here, with them, and not going anywhere. Softly, you exhale through your nose, basking in her touch as her fingers pause at your lips before suddenly . . her hand falls back between your bodies beneath the blanket.

It’d been a small moment of sweet, sleepy solace until you feel it . . . her fingers again, this time, at the crease of your breasts. You’re too tired to react the way you want if you happened to not be half asleep. You feel your heart pick up a slight speed but you remain lying there, blinking slow, and body not moving as she slowly pushes a hand up the tight, lace trimmed camisole you wear to get a small, soft hand around your tit. You feel her squeeze, only lightly, prior to a thumb being swiped over the soft, inverted bud of your nipple. You inhale a shaky breath.

She continues staring at you, face mostly unchanging as she does it again, not surprised to feel the pearl of it eventually pebble beneath her insistent touching. Tentatively, shyly, eventually she pinches it between the pads of her thumb and index and pulls. Your breath hitches as you hiccup on a mewl, body twitching in reply.

Your twitch makes her twitch too.

Eyes dark, Armin watches the scene play out . . more specifically, your face. He knows the exact moment Jubie gets her sticky, little fingers in between your legs because you do it again — your body jolts as your shaking fingers slap onto her tricep, face turns into your pillow, and your breathing grows shallow.

Your reaction says a lot.

You’re not used to feeling good, especially not so suddenly. And when you make another sound, another mewl, this one trembly and resembling of a small sob, Armin’s there, pulling Jubie in closer which, in turn, brings you closer too. Because of his stature, he’s easily able to curl over you both if wanted, but, for now, he simply leans a bit forward to shush your sounds with a gentle drone of his voice and kiss your temple. “You’re alright, sweet thing” he mumbles, fingers tracing down the tender skin of Jubie’s arm to her wrist then fingers. He can feel that your thighs have completely closed around her hand.“Open . . Open ‘em on up for ‘er — there you go.”

The breadth of his large, warm hand guides Jubie’s . . shadowing her little fingers to sweep across the length of your slit over your thin, little shorts, and introduce her, as well as himself, to the surprisingly fat bead of your clit. “Gentle, baby,” he murmurs against the pierced shell of her ear, listening to Jubie’s own breaths grow a little quivery. He knows that both his girls are overwhelmed now, in ways that neither of you have ever really felt before.

When you twitch and hiccup again upon the moment Armin starts to assist Jubie in rubbing a few slow, firm circles on your clit, he feels how she hesitates when you breathe out a deep breath. But Armin knows what that means, even if she doesn’t . . “She’s feelin’ good.”

Her voice is small and quiet when she whispers, “Y-Yeah?”

Eyes locked on your face that you still have buried in your pillow, Armin nods, “Mhm — let us see that pretty face darl’, c’mon.”

“Mm-mm,” you shake your head.

Jubie whimpers, “C’mon, sissy, please?”

Armin leads her fingers to your hole where they can feel it — the slick that’s starting to seep from the little thing down into the seat of your panties and shorts. He makes Jubie slip her hand down the front of your underwear for finally some real skin to skin contact. That’s when you pull your face away from the pillow to sharply gasp, eyes closed, fingers now gripping onto Armin’s forearm. “Oh m’ . . G-God.”

“Speed up a bit, baby — that’s right . . nice an’ firm.”

Your pussy is growing so wet. Armin feels the warmth of your juices trickling past the creases of Jubie’s fingers onto his own. You’ve never been touched like this before — you almost notice that you can hear your blood rushing through your ears. The few experiences you’ve had with your ex had always been brisk and unfulfilling, he’d always left what felt like a gaping hole in you, figuratively that is, but this . . it makes you feel like your heart’s going to pound straight out of your chest. You all can hear the sounds, even from beneath the covers. Each soft shlup, shlup, shlup as your lovers’ fingers soothe sweet circles on your throbbing clit. It’s all intense . . in the strangest of ways that you can’t explain.

Your thighs close around their wrists as you hiccup, eyes tearing, “Dad, I f . . I f-feel weird.”

Jubie presses a kiss against your lips. Armin hums, “ ‘s okay.” You feel the weight of his deep, blue eyes, entirely locked on every expression, movement, and sound you give like he’s drinking them in, learning you. “You’re jus’ gonna cum, doll.”

You shake your head, noting a lick of fear carving space within the base of your stomach as pressure builds beneath your womb, “I don’ wanna.”

Jubie shakes her head, whispering, “No, no, ‘s okay, sissy. It feels good, I swear.”

Eyes full of dew and soft, pretty lips quivering, you utter, “. . Mm . . you p-promise?”

“Yeah, I pinkie promise,” Jubie breathes while she nods.

You feel Armin’s hand move. The sweet, little fingers on your clit still rub then a thicker, longer one is kissing at the hole of your cunt. It only presses up against it for a second, letting your inner folds blossom around the first knuckle until you suddenly feel it sheathe its entire way inside you within one, smooth glide. “Ngh,” your toes curl.

“Such a sweet girl,” Armin deeply groans before leaning to kiss your temple once more. “Let Dad in. ‘s all you need to do.”

Somehow, one of his fingers is enough to make you feel so full. A muscle in your thigh spasms when he pulls it half an inch free then presses back in until his knuckle is flushed against your perineum. God, Armin wants a taste. Your walls flex around his digit, desperately working at it as if it were trying to pull his skin off of the bone. A distant thought of Jubie’s little tongue laving at your chubby clit, your tongue pushing past the tight ring of her little ass, Armin supervising all of it, telling his girls what to do, how to make each other feel good — he breathes out a deep sigh through his nose as his hips nudge forward to fit the thick, hardening rod of his cock between the split of Jubie’s plush ass cheeks.

She keens at the feel, fighting to wriggle her own back to try to get some friction against her neglected pussy, all the while the muscles of your body wound tighter and tighter. Neither Jubie or Armin are able to peel their eyes away from the bridge of your nose cutely wrinkling and eyebrows furrowing when the first wave of your orgasm washes over you. “H-Hng, mmph—“

“Feels good, mm?” Armin mutters, watching you nod all softheaded and gormless. “God, look at you . .”

Your brain feels like it’s melting within your skull and dripping down your spine.

“Oh m . .” you buck your hips up into both of their touches, shivering and gasping for air. “P . . lease.”The word comes out broken and breathless. What you’re pleading for? You don’t really know but you’ve never felt this before. You don’t know if you’re begging for this profound, all consuming feeling to stop or for it to never end. Your body goes soft before it tenses then goes soft again like it doesn’t know how to react to the pleasure that keeps cresting and falling over it.

Jubie’s eyes widen as she pulls you in closer. She hadn’t known it’d hit you like this. “ ‘s okay,” she whispers, own voice shaking in both concern and awe. “ ‘s okay, sissy. You’re okay.”

When their hands are pulled away is when you finally can start catching your breath. You feel Armin’s scruff against your cheek, your neck, your lips, “Was a big one, I can tell,” he mumbles as your heart rate begins to slow. “Good fuckin’ job, baby.” When he lifts his hand, streaks of moonlight pouring in through the curtains catch on the slick laminated across the length of his middle finger. There’s a halo of cream packed at his knuckle.

Without thinking much about it, he forces Jubie’s chin up with a hand beneath her jaw to push that same finger plus his ring past her lips. She whimpers as she suckles on them — needy and sleepy, tongue curling between the spaces of them to get a better taste. “There you go,” Armin utters, ice blue eyes nearly navy as he pushes them further in to feel her throat convulse as she gags. “Get ‘em clean an’ Pa ‘ll make that lil’ flower a’yours cum too.”

You find out that your sleepiness becomes more pronounced after a good orgasm, nevertheless, you fight to stay up — blinking slow and heavily as you watch Armin tug Jubie’s legs opened beneath the blanket and that same hand that’d he pulled away from her mouth presumably push up her tiny nightgown between them. She whimpers for him, body lax, warm, and pressed against yours as his lips peck soft kisses across the slope of her shoulder to her neck before he looks at you.

“Sleep, sweetheart,” he mutters, noticing the still faint twitch of your limbs and those big, dark eyes of yours tiredly blinking. “Dad’ll see you when the sun comes up, I promise.”

Truthfully, you really don’t want to . . not when you start to hear those wet and pretty sounds of his fingers toying with Jubie’s pussy and especially not when you watch her eyes slowly roll back within her skull as he gets the top of gown down so that her plump tits spill out from over the neckline into the cup of his big, calloused hand. But, your brain doesn’t care. It forces you to blink a few more times, each one a bit longer than the last and in between those blinks, you watch Armin eventually get a hand over Jubie’s mouth, muffling high pitched squeaks and rendering her body nearly mostly immobile against his as . . .

Well, you never really get to see.

・・・・・

You’re last to wake in the morning.

As expected.

Overcast skies paints the bedroom within a grey, gloomy glow as you take your time stretching out your limbs and gathering your bearings. The sheets are warm and faintly wrinkled from where the three of you’d been tangled together hours before. You lie there for a beat longer than necessary, mentally fighting to gather your bearings, before finally swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. Your hands feel empty this morning. Instinctively, you pat around your pillow for it, needy for the feel of Lily’s soft, sherpa coat as you grab onto where she’d been pressed against the headboard all night. You keep her tucked within your elbow the entire walk into the bathroom and while you brush your teeth.

You feel . . smaller today.

You notice it in the way how everything else feels a little too big. The creaking silence, the bed, even your own body. You don’t want to change out of your pajamas. You barely even wanted to climb out of bed. Walking downstairs and finding Armin standing by the door, keys looped around a finger, toolbox in the other, you aren’t surprised to watch him immediately notice. Your wrinkled, little pajamas, soft, bare legs and feet, Lily tucked close to your body. Something in his normally hardened expression softens . .“C’mere, baby doll.”

Your footsteps are slow and soft as you pad across the smooth floors on over. He’s already setting his toolbox down beside his boots by the time you reach him so that he can cup your face between his large hands, lift it, and peck a long, sweet kiss against your forehead. It’s after he pulls away when he studies you, really studies you — sharp blue eyes taking in the heaviness of yours and those perpetual dark circles beneath them . . the ones that have never quite manage to fade no matter how much rest you get. Armin finds the feature of yours to be quite beautiful.

They soften you in ways difficult to explain — make your eyes appear bigger and expressive, leaving you to look like you’ve been pulled straight out of one of the world’s most prized, billion dollar paintings.

“Ain’t you jus’ a fuckin’ sight, hm?” he mumbles, voice low and rough as he brushes his thumb just beneath one of those shadows, noticing the way you’re leaning entirely into his touch without even realizing it.

A faint crease folds within the middle of his eyebrows. It isn’t an expression of concern . . more tender admiration.

“Feelin’ a little soft today, mm?”

Your answer is small, “Mhm.”

You hear movement within the kitchen — Jubie closing a cabinet as her footsteps walk towards the fridge.

“Miss Birch called me into town. Heater needs fixin’and honey bee’s comin’ along for the ride,” his voice is quiet as his thumb strokes against your cheekbone now. “Feel like joinin’ us or you stayin’ put today?”

You hesitate as you think about it.

Your fingers tighten around Lily, gaze dropping somewhere upon his chest as your lips part. You’ve never been on the farm alone, you all know that. And regardless of you feeling a little apprehensive at the thought, you answer him softly, “I think . . . I t-think I wanna stay.” You’re not in the particular headspace to be around others today. You don’t have enough fight in you to even try to be social.

Armin hums , . like he expected the answer, just as Jubie appears from the hall behind you while wiping her hands on the sides of the stockings she wears beneath a denim skirt. Her curls are spilling from a big bun she’s thrown them all into this morning. She looks pretty as her eyes widen the second she sees you and takes in your sweet gentleness this morning, “Gmorninnn’, lovie love. Still feelin’ sleepy?”

Faintly, you nod with a small, shy smile. Pouting a little, she steps closer and her fingers find the edge of your tiny shorts that she slightly pulls on while gently asking, “You not comin’ with us? . . Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “ ‘m sure.”

She’s still pouting, even while mumbling, “Okay. We won’t be long, promise.”

“You stay inside,” Armin adds, tone a bit firmer now as he picks up his tool box again. “Doors stay locked. You need somethin’, you call me.”

Once more, you nod, “Yes, sir.”

That earns you a kiss. A soft peck on the lips. “Atta girl.”

Jubie leans in after — pressing a longer one to them before she’s wrapping her arms around you for a hug. You melt into it, holding onto her and basking in the fresh, sweet scent of her perfume and favorite body butter before she pulls back. “Be good,” you whisper. She giggles, uttering back a small, “I’ll try.”

Then the both of them are walking out the door. You watch Armin lock each one as you already begin to feel the difference without them here. Everything feels bigger, quieter. Holding Lily to your chest, you stand there for a moment, listening to their footsteps fade, doors slam closed, truck engine start, then gravel crunch as it pulls away. It’s only after you don’t hear another single sound when you finally move.

Slow and aimless.

Although they had only just left, the difference in the vibe of the house is already so stark. Nothing about it feels particularly unsafe, just . . . hollow. Like the house lost a layer of warmth you didn’t know you relied so heavily on. Exhaling slowly, you stop at the base of the stairs and look up at them. “Okay . .” you whisper, voice floating within the stillness. You can’t just stand around all day.

You force your feet to carry you back up the stairs and down the hall, to the bedroom once more. The bed is still unmade — sheets rumpled and mattress indented where the three of you’d been laying. For a second, you just stare at it while recalling a few visions from only about five hours before. Jubie’s warmth, Armin’s stare, their fingers. Your face grows hot. You hadn’t known that that could feel so good. Previous experiences have all been so lackluster. The appeal in sex for you’d been greyed out for a long time. However, a new, beaming seed of hope has been planted within you.

You think about doing it again — about your fingers touching Jubie, grazing down the softness of her skin, squeezing, nails biting into it, the way she’d melt into you, let you melt into her, allow you to learn her without pulling away. Something in your tummy flips. But then you think about Armin . . . and you grow a bit shier at the thought of the large, burly blond. Last night had been enough to show you that he isn’t only authoritative, staid, and grounded in the daylight . . no, it all carries over beneath the moonlight, too. If anything, it all seems to deepen when everything slows down, when there’s nothing to busy or distract him.

He doesn’t rush or fumble or second guess.

Something about the way he watches you and Jubie, the way he moves, the way he is makes it clear that he’s in complete control of himself . . . and everything around him. Especially Jubie. Especially you.

You don’t think he’d be like Jubie in the sense of letting you do or even say whatever it is that you want. Everything about him tells you that he’d probably guide you . . slow you down a few times . . make you look at him. Make you understand what it is you’re asking for before letting you have it. He’d know what you’re feeling before you even have to say it and when you’re getting ahead of yourself. When to reel you back in or let you drift out a little further.

You don’t think you want to do whatever you want anyhow.

Not when it comes to him. The thought of being handled by him, entirely, settles a feeling that’s been frenzied and untamed inside of your chest for too long now. You want it, you realize. You need it.

Shaking your head to try to clear it empty, you set Lily down beside Babs on one of the dressers, prior to walking over to the bed to begin to make it. No more thoughts. You tell yourself to save it for your journal.

Getting dressed feels like a lot of effort. But, you do it anyway. A pale yellow dress, halter necked, and speckled with black polka dots all over . . and frilly ankle socks — something sweet and soft for a morning like this. You change in the bathroom, movements slow and a bit tired like your mind is still stuck somewhere between sleep and awake. And when you’re moisturized, perfumed, and dressed, the bathroom mirror greets you next. You take your time doing your hair, too. Detangle, part, brush, smooth, and clip back.

Finished.

You look pretty. You feel pretty when you step back outside of the bedroom, Lily back in your arm as you try to figure out something to do. Your growling stomach points you in the direction of the kitchen first, so you go. A bowl of cereal seems fitting enough. Nothing too heavy nor light. You sit at the table while you slowly eat, legs tucked up to your chest on the chair, one hand holding Lily close while the other lazily stirs your spoon within the sugar sweetened milk between bites. You don’t rush.

Time ticks on when you’re finished, bowl washed, and walking back to the living room to try to watch some TV while curled on the couch. For a while, you flip through a couple of channels, fighting to choose between watching a woman bake a sock it to me cake or catching up on the news. Eventually you settle on a cartoon, something light and easy, be that as it may, it doesn’t keep your attention for long. You stare out at the window behind Armin’s recliner, at the still gloomy skies and wind pushing through the trees. The wind chimes sing a pretty song together as your mind wanders.

Nothing to do.

It makes you sigh before you’re back up on your feet again, this time without Lily, as you go to walk down the opposite hall of the foyer. The one that leads to Armin’s office and the room that’ll be your shared playroom with Jubie. You slowly push open that door first, letting your eyes catch on the three pails of pink paint that sit in a corner, the tarp on the floor, built bookshelves, and rolled rugs. It’s coming together slowly but perfectly. A space just for you and her. The thought absolutely warms you. Soon. You give the room one last look before you turn towards Armin’s office door.

You’ve never set a single foot inside, you don’t know why. It isn’t an off limits space, just . . not talked about, really. Hand on the intricately carved brass knob, gently you turn it while slowly peeking your head in through the space the more it widens. It’s as expected. Large, dark wooden desk neat and tidy, creaky, rolling chair pushed in, file cabinets line one wall, wide shelves stretch upwards along the other, a few small windows. Taking the chance, you walk on over to his desk on your tip toes, biting on your nail while reading over a few papers he still has lying across it. Something about irrigation, crop yield estimates, and supplier negotiations.

There’s two contracts spread out where more negotiations seem to be taking place. You skim them a bit, mind easily becoming dizzy with numbers, routes, and names, before you stop yourself. What you’ve seen is enough but it all reads good. Everything’s stable.

You turn to leave, close the door behind yourself, and that’s when you notice it, hanging from the ceiling, about a foot away from the two doors you stand between — an attic string, faintly swaying with the waft of warm air that pushes in through the house through the vents. You pause and stare at it as your head tilts.

You didn't know the house had an attic.

Without much thought, you give a small jump, landing back on your feet with a soft grunt as soon as you get your hand wrapped around the string and then tug. The old, wooden ladder unfolds out three times with a tired groan until it settles into place with a heavy, dusty thud against the rug beneath your feet. You blink up at it, trying your best to peek up into the dark square that’s now visible in the ceiling but, nothing.

Hesitant at first, you eventually press your foot on that first step, listening for any loud creak before you begin to climb, higher and higher until the length of where you are between the floor frightens you a bit when you look down. The attic before you is larger than what you thought it’d be. The air is stale but warmer. With half your body through the opening, you look around at the old furniture covered in sheets, metal fans that you recognize were recently retired up here after summer ended, old boxes lining the slanted walls.

It appears to be mostly storage when you fully climb up and get your feet on the floorboards. Everything’s been meticulously organized to give one space to walk without bumping against anything. A regular ol’ attic. Right when you’d gone to retire back down the ladder is when you see it. A certain box, a white one, written on the front of it is ‘Jubilee’ in Armin’s pretty, cursive handwriting. Your interest is piqued. You move closer to it, expecting to see maybe some of her old clothes or even a collection of shoes, nonetheless, the sight of an old camcorder sitting on two dozen stacks of tapes confuses you.

Upon a closer look, you see that they’re all labeled and dated. ‘Baby’s First Rodeo - 8/20’ ‘Roughhousing During Dusk - 3/7’ ‘My Sweet Girl - 1/1.’ You walk your fingers along most of them, letting flashes of Jubie being recorded at a wild rodeo, smiling and giggling while watching people get thrown off a bull or play fighting with Armin in a field of grass cross your mind. You decide to watch one . . just out of curiosity.

‘Havin Some Ice Cream - 7/5’ is the tape you choose. It’s the newest one you think — the tape is a bit more cleaner than the rest, label not as faded. You hold it carefully in your hand as you climb back down the ladder, walk down the hall to the living room, and kneel down in front of the TV to change to input until the cartoon you were watching is replaced with a screen of static. Cautiously, you push the tape inside the VCR, listening to it click in place with a soft, mechanical thunk and something begins to whirl.

For a second, nothing happens.

You remain kneeling in front of the screen, hands folded loosely in your lap . . . then, static is washed out for an opening scene of the foyer. The lighting is bright, afternoon sun spilling in through the screen door and windows as the camera remains angled down at Armin’s moving boots. You hear his spurs jingle on them while he moves down the hall, clearing his throat all loud and gruff the way he always does before pushing open the door.

Then the camera lifts . . to Jubie, sitting on the porch swing, barefoot and in a pretty, yellow dress with one leg lifted to her chest, the other’s big toe softly pushing her back and forth as she eats vanilla soft serve off of a waffle cone. When she sees the camera, she suddenly grows a big smile.

“There’s my fuckin’ girl.”

Armin’s voice, crackling through the speakers of the television makes you shiver. “Look at you . . .” He mumbles through a small croon, walking closer to her.

Jubie looks beautiful. You stare, wide eyed and lips parted, watching Armin come to a halt, directly in front of her which leaves the camera’s lens pointed down and her having to look up at it, past it to see him. Her deep, brown eyes glimmer something bright as she mumbles, “What’s that for?”

“What’s what for?”

“Papa.”

You hear Armin chuckle and watch the camera jostle a bit, “C’mon, you know what it’s for, sweetheart . .” The lens lifts a bit higher, almost as if he wanted to catch the contrast between her pretty, little face and his dirty, dark washed jeans — his crotch directly within her eye view. Your heart begins to beat a little faster as you think . . . No, no. This can’t be that type of video. You doubt it and push the thought out of your mind. “Let Dad get a nice look at ya’ . . sittin’ out here all pretty.”

Without looking away from him, Jubie’s tongue laves over the swirl of her ice cream, painting pink with a stripe of creamy white. It should be an innocent action. Truthfully, you think it is but then, you listen to Armin’s voice grow a bit deeper, “Hmm . .” he hoarsely hums. “Tastes good?” And suddenly, you don’t think so anymore.

She slowly nods, dimples cratering as she tries to keep from smiling too big.

“Yeah?” The camera jounces again then you hear it, you watch his belt buckle come loose as he uses only a single hand to do it. Jubie tilts her head, eyes slowly lowering down his strong chest to his hips, watching him until his cock is lugged from over his briefs and zipper.

You slap your hands to your mouth as your eyes bulge out of your skull . . . for two reasons. This tape isn’t what you expected, not at all. And Armin’s cock . . isn’t what you expected neither. It’s bigger than you thought, fatter than you thought. Seven inches, maybe seven and a half, about as thick as the breadth of your wrist that tapers off to be a little bit smaller at the chubby head of it. Even through the lens of the camcorder, you see them, the handful of veins that throb beneath the thin skin. Surprisingly, it’s darker than the rest of him, nearly a dark, warm beige, sharply distinct from the neutral tan of his hand when he grabs the base with a few fingers and makes the head bounce upon Jubie’s lips.

“So gorgeous,” he murmurs. “I hear good daughters give their Dad kisses when he buys ‘em ice cream. You a good daughter, baby?”

Jubie pouts, “Mhm.”

“You sure?” Armin’s voice is soft. He speaks like he barely can over the amount of want that’s brewing inside of him. “Then where’s my kisses?”

She leans in closer and in doing so, it leaves his cock lying against her face, big and pretty. Your clit thumps at the sight before you hear a small smooch. She pulls back after and cheekily smiles, “There.”

Armin chuckles again, “Mm-mm, I don’t think that lil one’s enough.”

Jubie’s manicured fingers softly grab him at the halfway mark. It looks heavy and even more menacing within her hand. Curls dancing within the wind and framing her face, her eyes stare, right into the lens, into yours while she puckers up her glossy lips and gives a big, wet kiss to his tip. Your hands slowly fall from your mouth as a quivering breath pushes past your own. Enamored, you watch her kiss all over Armin’s fat, mesmerizing dick on a glitchy, forty inch screen, heart pounding, fingers trembling, and cunt beginning to drip. You see his fingers move out of frame before they’re back . . lathering Jubie’s ice cream over his length, more on the tip.

It must’ve been really hot that day because it’s already starting to drip milky droplets onto her cheeks and bridge of her nose.

“Lick it.”

No hesitation, Jubie’s wrapping her lips around his head and suckling at it first, eyes big as she stares up into his own, swallowing cold cream and pre cum into her throat. “Yeaahh,” Armin softly grunts, stepping closer and smearing some more across his cock. “This’s how you thank me . . This is how you’re gonna eat the rest of this damn ice cream, darl’.”

She doesn’t seem to have a problem with it as she happily swallows him down til about mid way. The sounds are . . vulgar. Her mouth, lips, and throat all working, the drool that starts to drip, Armin’s deep breathing and grunts. You watch how Jubie’s eyes grow a little bit more . . empty, a bit more dazed the longer it goes on. The porch’s floorboards chirrs beneath Armin’s weight. Those same wind chimes carol in the background. “Mm, fuck,” Armin mutters as he grabs her by the back of the head to suddenly firmly pull her in until her nose is nestled in the thatch of light brown pubes at his base. “There y’go, kid. There you fuckin’ go.”

Jubie chokes. The ice cream falls from her hand to the porch with a faint splat.

You’d been so into watching Armin pull her off, so into admiring the thick, foamy strings of cream and spit playing between her lolled out tongue and his dripping cock that you don’t hear truck doors slamming and footsteps walking up to the door. It’s only when you do hear Jubie sing out, “Lovieee, we’re baaaack!” when you squeak, slap your palms to your mouth, then hustle forward to try and punch your fingers as quick as you can against the stop button.

But they hear you.

Jubie’s eyes grow wide when she sees what’s playing on the television screen . . . a small smirk lifts Armin’s lips. He folds his arms, standing behind Jubie, and leans his shoulder against the threshold, watching the screen abruptly go black as the tape eventually comes sliding back out from the VCR slit. Nobody moves. No one says anything.

You remain kneeling there, spine pulled absurdly straight, listening for them . . but nothing. Nervously licking your lips, you slowly grab the tape, hold it in your lap, and without looking at them, murmur, “I’m sorry.” Your voice is thin and quiet. “I wasn’t . . I didn’t . . .” You can’t find the words. Your brain is moving too quick. “It won’t happen again. ‘m sorry.”

Still nothing at first. Then you hear movement. Armin. His footsteps, heavy and slow, grow closer to you until you see them settle in your peripheral but you don’t move an inch. Not yet.

“You were snoopin’.”

It isn’t a question. He says it bluntly. You slowly nod anyway.

“Hm.” He scratches at the scruff on his jaw, looking down at you . . at the tape in your hands. You listen to his bones pop as he lowers down into a crouch with a small groan before grabbing the tape from your fingers. You immediately let go of it. He’d only gotten a peek of what had been playing on the TV but he knows his own dick from a mile away. You listen to him turn the plastic over within his hands, read the label, “. . Yeah, ‘s a good one,” he mutters, almost to himself as his thumb brushes along the edge. “Not my favorite of me and ‘er, though. Think that seat belongs to February third. Jubilee in the Sun.”

Behind you both, Jubie shifts her weight, eyes unable to pull away from you now that the shock is starting to slowly ebb away. Curiosity and something inexplicably soft dances across her expression when Armin shifts his gaze on over to her . . then back at you. You’re like a statue — refusing to move, to say anything, when he properly takes you in, he can see that it’s something you must’ve trained yourself to do when high pressured situations like these arise. Go small, go quiet.

“Y’gonna look at me, young lady,” he says, voice calm but firm.

You flinch. Not very noticeable, but he catches it anyway.

Then your chin lifts slowly. Your eyes, big and teary, find his and he clicks his tongue, low and quietly, letting you watch his hand come up slow to grab you by the chin and keep you there. “Ain’t no need for all this, y’jus got curious is all.”

Softly, you nod as your chin trembles. His heart squeezes.

He nods with you, “ ‘s alright,” he utters. “We ain’t mad at chu, are we, honey bee?”

“No,” Jubie shakes her head, honest as a scout. “ ‘s okay.”

“Yeah,” his thumb brushes a tear away when it comes trickling down your cheeks. The pad of his thumb lingers on the apple of it, stroking back and forth just barely as you breathe in a shaky breath then slowly blow it out. He watches you closely, blue eyes penetrating and captivating—

“Baby girl,” he says, tone shifting towards Jubie without tearing them away from you. “Go grab that camcorder f’me.”

Your heartbeat skips.

She pauses, only for a second. Then chirps a soft, “Okay,”before moving.

You hear her footsteps fade down the hall where you know the ladder’s already waiting for her to climb. Armin’s hand slips from your cheek, but he doesn’t move away. He remains crouching there, just enough in your space to have your gaze locked on nothing but him. “Y’like it?”he eventually asks.

Breath caught in your throat, you only lift your brows before he clarifies with his face handsome and even, voice steady, “This tape. You liked watchin’ it?”

You hesitate . . . before you nod. “. . Y-Yes, sir.”

Something unreadable flickers across his expression — not surprised or even satisfaction. Something . . else. Every hair on your body rises. “Mm.” His tongue briefly presses against his cheek as he softly nods and studies you. When he speaks again, it’s while he straightens back up to his full height, voice deeper this time, “ ‘m gonna make one of you, too.”

Jubie’s already returning from the hall, camcorder held carefully between her hands like she’d already been taught to hold it like such before. Her eyes flicker between the two of you, the way you’re still kneeling, Armin not too far away from you. A bud of excitement sprouts from within her as she settles the camera into Armin’s outstretched hand, watching him turn it once within his grip, then reach up to pull his white, felt, Stetson hat from off of his head and place it upon the living room table.

He takes in the dress you wear, your hair, how quick your chest rises and falls and the way your hands fight to settle. He smirks. “You ain’t gotta be nervous.”

As much as his tone keeps your emotions stable, you find that there’s a hint of a tease to it too.

The camcorder lifts to his eye. He gives no warning when he presses the button to begin recording. You listen to the lens focus on you and swallow, knowing that you’re now being seen in a way that feels different from ever before. “You’re not in trouble. Ain’t nothin to be scared of,” he mumbles, eye fixed on you through the glass. “. . Stand up for me, beautiful.”

Gradually, you do. You rise onto your feet beneath his, the camcorder, and Jubie’s attention, watching him pull the eyecup away and hold the camera at his chest. “My goodness,” he mumbles, looking at you beneath his lashes as he steps in closer, wanting the lens to catch on the swell of your tits, sitting up full within the plunged neckline of your dress and the seemingly miles of soft, precious brown skin. “Jus’ a sight for sore eyes, aren’t you.”

Cheeks hot, you watch him look towards Jubie, “Her dress, baby girl.”

Sh bites down on a smile, walking on over to stand behind you. “ ‘s okay, right?” She whispers, fingers already thumbing with the bow you tied behind your neck as though she simply can’t help herself. With barely a pause, you nod. You feel her fingertips brushing against your skin as she slowly unties it, leaving the fabric of your dress to loosen bit by bit until it ultimately pools at your socked feet. You remained clothed in nothing but them and a pair of white, ruffly underwear, printed with little, pink hearts all over. “Beautiful,” Armin murmurs, forcing the lens to capture the curves of your body — flare of your hips, meat of your thighs. Your soft tummy, arms, legs, shoulders. “Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, good Lord.”

Jubie can’t help herself. You feel her fingers slide between the hem of your panties at your hips and she slowly crouches as she pulls them down. Reflexes make you want to cover yourself.

Armin clicks his tongue — once and firm. “Mm-mm,” he shakes his head. You slowly rest your arms back at your sides. Jubie pushes your dress and undies away from your feet. Then her hands are at your calves, pushing up, up, up, until they’re on the plush cheeks of your ass, squeezing.

Rounding behind you, Armin soon mutters, “Bend over for me, doll. Let Dad see that pretty, lil flower a’yours.”

You mewl, timid and shy, as you slowly bend at your waist, letting your hands fall flat against the table and legs spread just the tiniest bit wider.

“Spread ‘er.”

Jubie’s fingers are pulling your cheeks opened and you hear them both breathe out a deep breath. Your body’s shaking, you realize. All over. Nervousness isn’t a word that can even begin to explain what you are. You look behind you, “D-Don’t stare.”

The lens draws in closer.

“Fuck,” Armin grunts out. Your pussy is covered in soft, dark curls of silk. He guesses that video of him and Jubie must have really gotten you riled up because thick webs of slick are gathered at your entrance, glueing your lips together and turning some of those curls into more waves. But, it isn’t even just that.

The both of them had felt it last night — your clit. Fat and hard.

Seeing it, is a different story. It’s chubbier than the average, definitely. Round and a rosy brown. Jubie wants to suck on it. Her eyes grow foggy as she hones in on the plump bead, slowly lifting her hand to pull open your lips and get a better look. “Cunnie’s so pretty, sissy,” she pouts at the sight of glimmering pink and your tiny, flexing hole.

Armin knows what his girls want. What they both need.

He takes a step away. “On the couch,” he tells you. “Lay down. Let your sister have a taste at you, doll.”

Jubie gives a happy, little squeak. Mind drawing fuzzy, you can only obey — laying down against the couch, opening up your legs, and watching her crawl between them. “J . . Jubie.” You feel shy. Especially when she’s looking up at you, sparkly eyed and needy . . like your pussy in her mouth has been all she’s been wanting for so long. “ ‘m probably not as good at this as Papa,” she blushes, hands squeezing at your thighs. “B-But ‘ll do m’best. Pinkie promise.”

You let out a deep breath, blood pumping with adrenaline. No, something at the back of your brain says. Jubie won’t.

Her mouth inches closer.

She won’t.

But then you feel it . . her lips around your clit, her tongue.

Your eyes slam closed and a sound you’ve never heard yourself make before comes crawling out from your throat. You keen, high and soft, toes curling within your socks as she sucks . . hard. Armin gives an approving hum, capturing it all on camera — Jubie’s tongue wagging on your clit, your stomach shuddering, voice breaking.

You feel the muscle swirl around and ‘round on the fat and tender bead and impulsively reach out for her hand, interlacing your fingers through hers, squeezing it when her tongue dips lower to press up against your hole where slick begins to trickle from, sweet and salty. “Yeah,” Armin breathes, zooming in on your hairy, little pussy and Jubie’s nose pressed up against your curls. “My goodness, aren’t you two jus’ fuckin’ precious.”

She suckles up every droplet of juice your pussy produces, ringlets falling from her bun across her forehead, some blocking her eyesight, yet she doesn’t push them away. She’s much too enraptured with your cunt in her mouth — sucking at it. Your warmth on her tongue, smearing across her upper lip and the round tip of her nose until all she sees, smells, feels, and hears is you.

Incessantly, you squirm. Your moans are shaky and your mouth pops opened around a pool of drool, “Oh, p-please . .” you whimper, back arching. “Ngh, G-Gosh, Jubie. S’so good.”

You hear her breathe out a happy purr, tongue slowly pushing into the entrance of your dewy cunt to only pull it out, then ease it back in, fucking you with it, sweet and deep. Eyes rolling back into your skull, your fingernails bite into her knuckles as you toss your head back. It feels so good. “Mhm,” you whimper, hips lifting to deliriously roll your pussy along the plane of her tongue. “Mhmmmm.”

Jubie can’t take it. Mindlessly, she slides her fingers down the front of her skirt, into her stockings and panties. The mess her fingers are met with between her legs makes the color on her cheeks grow darker. Armin draws the lens up to your mouth where he dips his fingers into, muffling your sounds into weak garbles. “Tell ‘er thank you,” he coo’s, deep and low as he pushes them in til the ring at your throat. “Let your sister know how good she’s makin’ that sweet, lil pussy feel.”

“T. . T’tanmk you,” you mewl around his digits, teary eyes looking down into hers. “Mmph . . ngh, t-tha’k you, sissy.”

Armin hums, pulling his fingers away to give two, short, firm pats to your face. “Such good manners,” he whispers. “And what do you say to a thank you, honey bee?”

Around her wet mouth full, Jubie trills, “Y’welc’me.”

“Yeah,” he drifts his touch down your chest to a tit to squeeze at it. “Raisin’ two, polite, lil girls, ain’t I? Doin’ so good, both a’you.”

You squeak with he pinches at the small nub of your nipple. He rolls it between his fingers, adds a little bit of pressure, lightly tugs at it. Tiny bubbles of spit trickle down your perineum to your asshole. It shocks you to feel Jubie’s tongue following them — licking it with broad, slow strokes. You feel so dizzy. Overcome with so much ardor and want that it’s twisting your tongue. “You tell me when you cum,” Armin orders as you hear the familiar, metallic clank of his belt buckle undoing. “That’s how this goes. You tell Dad when that flower a’yours is drippin’ into ‘er mouth.”

Breathlessly nodding, you watch him move.

The camera is retired to the table, angled just perfect enough to have you and Jubie caught within frame. Armin falls to his knees behind Jubie, hands hooked within her bottoms, tugging them all off and carelessly tossing them somewhere he could care less about as he pulls his cock out from between the flaps of his zipper. You can’t see much . . not really from this angle, but you watch his hair brush against his jaw as he lowers his chin, his big, muscled arm pump a few times, then his lip get bitten over with his teeth when he presses a hand flat between Jubie’s back dimples before pushing inside of her.

Your clit is released from her lips with a loud, slick pop. The side of her face falls onto your inner thigh, eyebrows furrow, and plush, satiny lips pout around a whiny moan as he bottoms out within one, smooth thrust. “D-Dad, ohm’God—”

“—Keeeep those legs open, keep ‘em open. That’s right.”

Dreamily blinking, eyes unfocused, the buttons of Armin’s shirt are unfastened by him, one by one as he sits there within Jubie, cock entirely enveloped within her warmth, unmoving. What seems like miles of carved, tanned, hairy skin is revealed to you. There’s nothing soft about him, not a single thing. A thin, gold chain dangling a small cross against the dark hair that’s dusted across the muscles of his pecs catches most of your attention. Only because you’ve never noticed it before. It shifts slightly with each breath he takes, clearly made to be worn simply rather than shown off.

“Thought I taught you better than that, sweetheart,” he soon drawls at the scene in front of him, eyes locked on your silken, throbbing pussy. Even at rest, there’s weight to him. “Some’n sweet sittin’ in front of you an’ you sittin’ there like you don’t know what to do with it.”

Eyes wide and apologetic, Jubie mewls a soft, “ ‘m s-sorry,”as she kisses your clit. “I’m sorry.”

Armin doesn’t start moving until he sees her lips wrapped back around it. Each initial thrust is slow . . deep. Delicately, you brush Jubie’s hair back from her face, watching her eyes shyly close as she does her best to keep licking at the bulging bud of your clit and pushing her tongue inside your hole. Then, Armin racks up a nice, steady rhythm, rock hard dick driving forward into the soft, inviting cushions of her walls, leaving her mouth falling open to pant warm, hard breaths against your cunt.

You feel her fingers dig into the skin of your thighs as she fights to hold onto a meager thread of awareness. She sounds how you always dreamed she would — not a lot of words from her but so many sounds. Hiccups, whines, heavy breathing, and sweet yelps. “Hng. Ngh. Hng. Pa . . Papa, please, please, please—“

“—Get that pretty, lil mouth back on y’sister’s pussy, Jubilee,” he grits while swatting a thick smack to one of her bouncing ass cheeks. “You cum when she does.”

The incentive is enough for Jubie to pull your hips closer, burying her mouth back in your cunt and every thought rushing through your head melts away. You feel Armin’s eyes trailing between you both, admiring the jiggling orbs of Jubie’s ass before they’re lifting up to your face to watch your mouth choke out cute moans of bliss. His girls. So good. You both are so good, he doesn’t even know where to begin on it.

It all settles somewhere deep within his chest — a glowing though quiet type of pride that he doesn’t voice very often yet carries all the same. Jubie, soft and bright, always reaching, always feeling everything so openly. And you . . a little more careful and hesitant but just as sweet in your own way. You’re still learning. Opening yourself up. Trying your best.

You both are something he would have never expected to have. Not in this lifetime. But now that you’re both here, bridged together through pleasure he’s instilling, he doesn’t revel in it lightly.

“Papa,” you mewl and shift your hips this way and that. Armin looks down, using his thumbs to spread Jubie’s cheeks apart to get a better look at sticky strings of slick that’s beginning to thicken at his base. Always gets so wet, so fast this one.

“Hm?” He huffs, eyes dark as he pins you there with his stare, pace never halting. “What is it, baby doll? Tell me.”

Jubie’s middle finger is at the hole of your pussy. She pushes it in nice and slow, blinking up at you beneath thick, long lashes. Not long after arrives her ring and together she shifts them about, searching for that little button that always manages to turn her brain off when Armin gets his own fingers on it and . . lo and behold, when she feels that clump of nerves angled near the roof of your pussy, your nose does that familiar wrinkle and your hands curl into little fists within the couch cushions.

Armin breathes out a small chuckle, “Mmmm, good fuckin’ job,” he whispers to Jubie, palming the back of her head and pushing her mouth deeper inside your folds. “Wanna see you swallow it. Lick up every single drop, understand me?”

Breathless, Jubie nods. She was going to do that anyhow, but Armin’s instruction always makes it a bit more better. Your entire body goes catatonic . . and you barely make a single sound when you cum this time around. Armin hears it — the squelching of Jubie’s fingers working inside your cunt, mingling just barely beneath the louder, more deafening symphonies of his hips slapping up against her ass, heavy balls knocking on her clit. Contentedly, she swallows the gift of your release as it washes out upon her tongue, thick and musky. She even goes the extra mile to spread the fingers that are still inside you nice and far apart to dig it in between them for a more deeper, richer mouthful.

You begin to twitch. Your trembling thighs attempt to close as you squirm beneath her touch. “J-Jubie,” you gasp her name, tears of mind shattering pleasure dripping towards your temples. “Jubie, no more. No more, no more—“

She ignores you. Lips pull at your clit, fingers rub at your g spot, warm breaths tumble down to your winking asshole as your pussy continues to convulse and push out more and more rivulets of frosted cum.

“Oh my God,” you sob and arch your back upwards, muffling any more of your sounds into the pillow behind you as you go to squeeze at her free hand for mercy.

“Breathe.”

Armin’s voice is hard.

“Both a’you. Breathe.”

Jubie’s head is snagged away from between your legs. You pant, watching her lick her lips with a spacey grin on her face — looking similar to a puppy who’s recently gotten a taste of one of her favorite treats, brain now foggy as she whines for another. But then, Armin’s suddenly, firmly pushing her down . . side of her face against the rug as he picks up a mean, hard rhythm. Their skin meets for thick fwop fwop fwops as Jubie squeaks, arm still raised, holding your hand, letting Armin beat her pussy into a sloppy, little pulp. “Don’t get to actin’ up, girl,” Armin grumbles. “You listen when I tell y’lil ass somethin’.”

Soundlessly, she nods. Similar to you, she says not a word, barely even makes a sound when you hear her cunt squirt out jets of her cum around Armin’s dick. The crotch of his jeans dampen as stray droplets jump from between where their bodies meet come each thrust as each spurt seems to only grow more forceful the longer time ticks on. Mellowly, Armin drones out a deep hum, rolling his hips to better help her ride it out as her body shakes between his hands. “There it is,” he sighs when she finally breathes out a shaky sob. “Looked like that one felt real good, baby.”

Weakly, Jubie nods, “ S-So good, Dad,” she whimpers, body still quivering. “Y . . You make m’feel so g-good.”

Charmingly smiling, Armin leans down to press soft, tender kisses up the length of her spine. “You gon’ watch me make y’sister feel good, too?”

“Mhmm.”

The sweetest, little thing she is. “Alright, now. C’mon.”

He pulls out of her, languid and careful, admiring the moment when her walls release his head with a cute, bratty pop. Unsurprising. Needy, little hole just doesn’t want to let him go sometimes. Before moving onto you, he takes the camera from off of the table, letting the lens admire Jubie’s still arched, twitchy frame. He pulls it down to get between her legs — the pearls of liquid slowly dripping down her inner thighs, pulsing clit, hole still somewhat gaped around the absent length of him. “Pretty as a peach.”

Back onto the table it goes, he pulls Jubie up into his arms with a kiss to her forehead and lies her down on the chaise lounge of the couch.

You watch him with bated breath, eyes tracking his every movement — him pushing his jeans, briefs, and boots off, leaving him damn near barren as the day he was born. His expression is unreadable, but you know that his brain is churning, working and settling on a decision, as he finally makes his way towards you. You don’t know what you really expected, but it isn’t him suddenly lifting you, easily lifting you, with only one arm holding you steady within the air to grab a cushion from behind you, lay it flat, then you on top of it.

Your breath is pushed out of you in a cute puff of shock as you blink up at him, wide eyed, as he settles between your legs. The movement had been so quick, so effortless. Staring at his biceps, you swallow just as he grabs his base to give a few, hard taps to your clit with his cockhead. The both of your lips are parted, eyes locked between your legs, watching the fat, round bead tremble between each one. “Never seen a clit like this on such a small, lil thing like you.”

Blushing, you cover your face with a shy whine. “ ‘s it . . bad?”

Armin slowly shakes his head, blue eyes absolutely gleaming behind his easy expression, “Naw, not at all,” he utters. “ ‘s precious.”

You feel his tip at your hole . . gently pressing at it. Over and over and over again. His face doesn’t change. He remains staring at you as he does, watching your eyebrows furrow in and bottom lip jut out at the simple feeling. Oh, you’re so pretty. So, so pretty.

“Want it?”

Biting your bottom lip, you slowly nod while gazing up into his eyes, unblinking. Armin’s lips quirk. “Mm? . . You gon’ beg this old man for it?”

You’re so shy. Cheeks warm, you don’t say a word or even give a gesture, but your hand slides down . . you wrap your fingers around his base, giving his still, wet shaft, courtesy of Jubie’s orgasm, a nice, firm stroke before you begin leading it inside. Armin pulls back, shaking his head. “Mm-mm,” he softly says. “You be a big girl and use y’words. Ask if you can have it.”

You whine, huffing and puffing, “D-Dad, please?”

He faintly smiles, head nodding, “You got it,” he drawls. “Lemme hear ya.”

It’s either this . . or going the entire rest of the day, empty and aching. You know that he’ll do it — tell you to put your dress back on, maybe even send you outside to do some chores, bring you back in the house, have you watch some tv then start on dinner. The simple thought is enough to have your usual inhibitions shatter. You can’t survive that. Not when his cock is right here, needy for you just as much as you are for it. “Can I have it?” you whimper, hips shifting. “Please, Papa? Please, lemme have it?”

“Mmmmm,” Armin groans, eyes growing heavy. “Ask if I can put it inside . . Beg Dad to break this lil pussy in.”

Your hole clenches at his words, pushing out a glob of slick. “Pretty please,” you shakily breathe, voice thick with too much want. It’s radiating off of your body, you think. “Put it inside me, Papa? . . Break m’pussy in.”

“My God.”

Armin slowly presses in, bit by bit. Doesn’t halt for a second, even as you tense and go to press your hands at his torso, he still keeps on sliding in til he’s home. You begged for it so you’ll take it all. The folds of your pussy divide, leaving your plump, round clit exposed to his eyes. He listens to you squeak out the second his balls are pressed flat up against your asshole and he leans forward, caging you in within his body, lips pressed against your forehead to breathe you in when he ever so slowly begins to rotate his hips . . grinding his cock within the hot, fleshy walls of your cunt.

Your eyes feel like they’re crossing.

“Ungh!”

It’s the only sound you’re able to make. He’s so deep . . so impossibly deep. You never thought it’d be possible for anyone to reach where he is inside of you. “ ‘s okay,” you hear Jubie whisper against your ear. She intertwines her fingers back within the spaces yours and you look to your right to see her face lying right beside your own, tiny smile on her lips. “It’ll start feelin’ real good in a minute.”

His hips pull back.

No amount of anticipation is enough to prepare you for when he glides back in, smooth and easy. It feels like your breath is knocked out of you. “Oh my. . G-God.”

Gruffly, he mumbles, “ ‘s okay, sweet girl. You’re okay.”

Your juices dribble out from around his dick with each following thrust. Your muscles start to loosen, your body relaxes.

“Oh my God,” is heard again — this time softer, more saturated in pure rapture.

Jubie kisses the back of your hand, watching your facial muscles grow idle and mouth fall open when Armin’s rhythm becomes a bit more steady. She remembers how he felt sliding inside of her that very first time too. Made her think she was getting split in half. Howbeit, she thinks it’s just something painful to get through before the irrefutable pleasure hits and renders your body damn near immobile. She knows you’re feeling it now . . because you can barely talk. You’re barely even breathing.

“Ooh,” Armin exhales as his eyes close. “F-Fuck. Give Dad his pussy, sweetheart.”

Your mind is blank. Drawn completely empty. You feel Armin stamping a line of scruffy, sweet kisses down your temple, side of your face, to your neck, but all you can do is hold onto him with an arm hooked beneath his, fingernails clawing into his shoulder when he builds up a momentum. The coolness of his chain brushes within the valley of your bouncing tits once he gets a grip on the cushion below your head for better stability and pushes your legs open wider, fitting himself better between them to dig his dick in as deep as it could go.

You’re squeaking, you realize. Each plap of his hips pushes out a short, high pitched cry from your throat.

“Armin,” you sob his name, feeling him shake his head in reply.

“Mm-mm, baby,” he hums. “Now you know you girls don’t call me that. Address me proper.”

Your responding whimper is weak once he pulls himself back a bit to get a thumb on your clit, “Papa.” He carefully nods in reply while rubbing stiff circles on it. You feel like you’re simultaneously being broken into and mended back together.

From his position, now kneeled above you — Armin takes the picture in. Both yours and Jubie’s gorgeous, naked bodies, frizzed hair, and cloudy eyes. Your tits jumping upon your chest with each shove of his meaty, freckled cock inside the delve of your cunt, how the two of you hold hands. Jubie whispers something to you, eyes bright and a smile pulling up her lips. Whatever she says makes your eyes roll back into your skull and pussy react — your walls clamp down on him, nice and tight, and it leaks out a sudden wave of slick, trickles down Armin’s base and drips to his balls.

“How lucky am I . .” he says within a grunt. Two, pretty girls. Two, pretty, perfect fucking girls, all his, til the end of time. “How fuckin’ lucky am I.”

You feel so good. Borderline too good. You take the chance at looking down between where your bodies meet . . watching murky cream paint his cock with streaks. You feel and hear his sagging though fleshy ballsack clapping up against the split of your ass cheeks, loud and obnoxious. “Want Dad to cum in you?” Jubie hums as she rolls on her stomach to swing her legs in the air. “You gotta ask him real nice.”

Weakly though frantically nodding, you feel tears blurring your eyes when Armin gives a tilt upwards to your hips which allows the head of his cock to knock nearly right up against the nugget of your g spot. Not directly, no, it’s like he knows that that’d be entirely too much for you. But it’s . . right there. You feel like you’re going to pass out.

“C’mon, sissy, tell him,” Jubie whimpers as she pushes her face into your neck to kiss it. More timidly she soon admits against the shell of your ear, “W-Wanna lick it outta you.”

Drool drips past your lips. “Dad, cum in me,” you plead, voice warbly and needy. “Please, please . . please, cum in me.”

Armin huffs a short chuckle, leaning back over the both of your faces, “Mm?” He grunts. “Yeah, you want that . . . ? Or is your sister bein’ a bad influence on you, baby doll?”

You want it. “W-Wan’ it.”

You feel him grab you by the backs of your knees. It shocks you to feel him pushing them . . up, up, up, until your knees are nearly pressed into your shoulders. He adjusts himself too — pulls his legs up underneath him, gets situated more on his toes, then begins to drop his dick inside of your squelching cunt, over and over. Jubie feels your hand crawl up the back of her head. You squeeze at her curls, leaving her with no choice but to lean in and smack a sloppy kiss to your lips. She swallows your spit, letting you pant into her mouth as she wraps her lips around your tongue for an icky suckle. Both of your drool smears along your chins.

“Do I taste good?” She softly asks when she pulls away. You look absolutely gone, nevertheless you nod with a whimper,“T-Taste so sweet, sissy.”

“Wanna taste m’pussy?”

“Yeah.”

Your vision is bleary, but you watch her hand slide down her lithe though shapely body. It’s gone for a few seconds but when it’s back, her fingers are coated in a thin layer of her juices. You turn your head to suckle the middle two within your mouth and it’s as you’re swallowing her taste within the back of your throat when you suddenly cum with a quivering whimper.

Armin feels you clenching. Your walls lock down on him tight before they’re slowly relaxing then locking down on him again as your pussy continues to cast out thick, creamy billows of cum. Rhythmically, he groans out through his nose with each one, dropping himself in deep to apply well needed friction to your clit with the sheet of pubes above his cock. He feels the tightening in his balls. He’s been holding on for too long. “Ain’t cummin’ in ya’,” he breathes out. “Not today.” He needs to see it on you. The both of you.

Therefore, he suddenly pulls out, snatches the camera from off of the table and stands. Pointing the lens down at the both of your pretty, little faces, he fists his dripping wet cock with a tight hand and starts to jerk himself off, swift and firm. “Look at Dad, sweethearts,” he croons. “Gimmie a smile.”

It’s when you both do, all sweet and gorgeous, when the first shot of his cum ejects from his head and shoots out onto the both of your faces. He groans, guttural and quiet, as he beats the rest of them out, ass clenching, toes curling within the rug as he paints the both of your faces — cheeks, lips, and nose — absolutely white. “Good girls, so f-fuckin good. My God . . got t-this old man absolutely smitten.”

Jubie reaches up first. She grabs him by the base, staring up at him beneath her lashes as she suckles his tip between her lips to swallow those last, few beads of his sperm down her throat. He isn’t held within her mouth for long because she soon releases him with a thick pop and angles it more your way. Cum drips across your faces, drying quickly as you lean it to do the same. The camera catches it all — the cum, the kisses, the hearts that dance within the both your sets of eyes when you look up at him then at each other while tongue kissing his tip together.

His girls.

ᯇ delivered by milk

His black leathered cowboy hat is tipped low and his sunglasses shield his eyes but the strong line of his scruffy jaw, slope of his nose, and creases of crows feet reveal to most that this is a man used to long, tiring days working underneath the sun. His hands are beefy and calloused, dusted with wispy blond hairs that runs along the backs of them all the way up to the knuckle. They’re strong and steady as one of them continues gripping at the wheel while the other brings his cig up towards two, pink, faintly chapped lips for another drag, this one shorter than the previous.

Languidly, he hums along to Minnie’s melodies as he pulls it away, drapes his arm back out of the window and spots a faint dot way out where nearly the sky and land touch.

It immediately catches his attention because it’s odd.

He’s driven this same road nearly twice every other day for the past eight years. Most people know that this stretch of dirt, as quiet and predictable it may be, sometimes features nothing but the occasional wandering, hungry mutt or tumbleweed. A person is a rarity out here.

Armin’s gaze lingers on that speck as he eases his toe from off the gas pedal just a bit. The closer he gets, the larger that dot grows until it morphs around the silhouette of a person, a girl.

You’re small against the backdrop of the melting sky — nearly get swallowed up by the grass that line the fencing you walk beside. On your back bounces a pink, daisy printed backpack whose straps you hold between your fists as you keep your head lowered while you walk to occasionally kick at a small pebble with a sneaker. Armin’s eyebrows push in.

“What in the god damned hell . . .”

The sight doesn’t sit right. Evening’s nearing, he still has about a fifteen minute drive so he could truly only imagine just how long that’d be in your steps, not to mention, before the road splits off to his acreage of land, first is Mr. Beauregard’s and God knows what the man and his group of slick tongued, dirt fingered farmhands would do to you if they got their hands on you. Armin’s jaw clicks at the simple thought. Folks around here drive, they don’t walk. Especially not this far from town.

Flicking his cigarette out of the window, he lets the wheels of his truck roll him just a little bit closer. He’s sure you hear him but you don’t look up. Head down, you keep on walking — right foot then left, slow and steady. Up close, even with you not looking directly at him, Armin can tell that you’re young. Your hair sits in a big puff atop of your head and sunlight catches on the sweated out, intricate swirls of your edges that are now lifting at your hairline. Yeah, he can’t leave you out here on your own. Not you. With a small sigh through his nose, he eases up just alongside of you to gruffly call out through his opened passenger window, “. . You lost, lil’ miss?”

Head still lowered, you keep walking and don’t respond.

Armin can’t be too mad at that. Who knows what kind of man you think he is — some stranger slowing his truck down next to a young lady walking down a quiet road. Ain’t a nice picture.

Still.

You just keep moving, toe of a sneaker lightly kicking a fair sized pebble some feet ahead of you as if it were the only thing keeping your attention.

The engine of Armin’s truck rumbles on before he blows out a breath, rolls the vehicle forward some, then angles the front end of it right into your path. You hardly even notice. Nearly almost run into the passenger door before you look up to find yourself standing right in front of it.

You’re frowning when you lift your chin. Your eyes are big and brown, bordered with long, thick, pretty lashes that any other lassie you meet around here would probably kill for. Nevertheless, seconds pass and not a word is said. You stare at him as if he were something strange that just rolled into your view, like something you knew not to trust yet.

“Y’got somewhere ya headed?”

Your grip tightens around the straps of your backpack as you take a tiny step back. “. . . Town, sir.”

Pretty, little voice. It fits you. However, Armin knows you’re lying to him. A thick, blond brow lifts beneath the brim of his hat to show his skepticism, “Town’s in the other direction.”

You press your lips together in a firm line, shifting your gaze behind him to take in the vast, empty fields on each side of you. Silence stretches again, only broken by the buzzing of mosquitos and flies. Armin takes in the sweat that glistens at your collarbones that are exposed beneath the tight, blue and white gingham patterned tank top you wear that also sticks to your stomach from the heat. One look up at your face again and he sees the exhaustion that sheathes your features, not from walking in this blazing warmth, but just in general . . . you’re tired.

His thumb taps against his steering wheel a few times as if he were deciding something before he drawls out, “Look, I ain’t gon’ grill you ‘bout it. Ain’t my business, but if you keep walkin’ this way, you bound to run into Beauregard’s land ‘fore long. An’ them boys he keep around ain’t particularly a nice bunch.”

You start to chew on the inside of your cheek as a flicker of worry sparks within the depths of your eyes. Yeah, you’re not from here. It’s obvious due to the fact that everyone who’s actually from this town or even only one or two over knows just how those boys are.

“Hop in.”

“ ‘m okay.”

Armin shrugs, “I ain’t say you weren’t.” His tone reveals that it isn’t something he’ll ask again. “. . . My lil girl will have my hind if I left you out here all night. Do me the favor, please.”

You debate it over in your brain as your eyes scan the interior of his truck. There’s nothing out of the ordinary. A glass bottle of flat coke held in the single cup holder underneath the old radio and some fresh cigarette butts decorate the dash, but other than that, the seat is clean and nothing on the floor.

The handle creaks when you finally pull the door open. Armin watches you slowly take your backpack off, brush some dust off of your bottom, then use the roof handle to climb in, take a seat and slam the door behind yourself.

With a rough sigh, he uses the stick to put his Ford back in reverse and return back to the road. One glance over, “. . Seatbelt, please an’ thank you.”

“O-Oh.”

With fumbling fingers, you reach behind yourself to grab it, stretch it over your abdomen then click the buckle into place. Armin gives a single nod, thumb resuming a slow tap on the wheel, “Your name, miss?”

The question sags within the interior of his truck and settles between the hum of the engine and rattling of a loose item in the glove department. Outside, across the skies, pink and gold are deepening into a navy blue. You nibble on your bottom lip, staring at your folded hands that sit atop of your backpack which rests on your lap and for a moment, one may think you’re ignoring him.

Then, you tell him. Soft and timidly as if you were afraid.

“Hm.” He hums and tests it quietly on his tongue to commit it to his memory. “Armin.”

Minnie Riperton’s voice continues to float through the small speakers of the truck, sweet and dreamy as you begin to glance out of the window at the rear view mirror to watch the road disappear behind you both. Your unease is palpable — sits in between you and him as if it were another passenger. It makes Armin shift a bit in his seat as he continues staring straight forward out of the windshield. He’s not a grimy man. Never has been, never will be. He was brought up with respect for God, women, less fortunate, then animals, in that order. Making ladies uncomfortable, especially pretty, little ones like you, unnerves him a bit, he’ll be honest, disregarding him being a man not usually moved by shit else.

“. . You from ‘round here?”

Head shake. His attempt at easing the ever growing tension is smashed into pieces.

He thought so.

A tensed minute passes however you soon build up the courage to ask, small and quiet, “Do you got a farm o-or somethin’, sir?”

“Mhm.”

“. . . What kind?”

Armin breathes out a slow breath through his nose while lazily flipping his blinker before turning down a curve, “Bit a’everythin. Uh, some sugarcane. Corn. Couple barns. Got some chickens, goats, cows, and three horses . . . that ‘bout covers it.”

You blink a few times, “Oh,” you whisper. Just picturing yourself taking care of all that is enough to send your head in a tizzy. “ ‘s a lot.”

“Damn straight.”

“You jus’ . . take care of all that by yourself?”

He shrugs one shoulder, “Mostly. I got some help at home.”

My lil girl will have my hind if I left you out here all night. Your lips round in understanding as his previous words clicks into place within your brain, “Your daughter?”

It’s faint, extremely faint, but a small smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “She likes helpin’ out sometimes. I let ‘er . . . helps get all that damn energy out, I find.”

He notices that at the mention of her, you seem to disarm a bit. Your shoulders loosen up and hands relax from squeezing the other in your lap as his truck splits down the more tougher road once it forks. The dirt has been roughly paved and rolled over with tractor tires and bigger pebbles. You guys are nearly there, that, you realize. You can feel it. The fencing changes first — they’re more clean and paralleled as opposed to the old, shabby ones on the road leaving white vinyl to glisten beneath the setting sun. Miles of greenery span out into the beautiful landscape of sloping mountains as the truck keeps on carrying you out. Then suddenly, the greenery is cut by rows and rows of corn stalks that seem to stand tall like soldiers in formation with their green and gold leaves waving you hello.

A breeze drifts along your nose, scented of fertilizer and warm soil.

Afterwards, abruptly, following a firmer press of the gas to force the truck higher up a small hill is a farmhouse. It’s a large, two storied structure with a wide, wrap around porch hugged around it, decorated with a swaying porch swing, few rocking chairs scattered along the edges, hanging plants, and clusters of potted flowers near the small staircase that leads up to the front door. Atop of the house stands a stone chimney which light smoke curls from, indicating someone’s cooking inside.

“Geez . . .”

You’re amazed.

About fifty feet away from the house, on its right is a wide, sloping barn with a rusted, yellow tractor parked near its doors. Its large tires are still caked in fresh mud from the fields. Beside the barn is a chicken coop where soft clucks of a few hens conversations echo, sometimes punctuated by a low, drawn out ‘moo’ from a cow inside the barn. Further out, three horses walk along a fenced off paddock and then the acreage never seems to end. It seems to span out further and further until you can see the field of sugarcane and goats peppered on low hills as they chew on weeds and brush. Fences crisscross like veins, meticulous and orderly, some electric, some piped, few wooden. Even from your seat in the truck, you can tell that there’s structure here, regulation . . . plenty of peace, too.

Everything has its place, its purpose.

Grass isn’t grown wild or bleached dry. Animals aren’t wandering loose. Gates are locked and shut. Fields straight lined and planted with little to no gaps. There’s some discipline to it all, too.

It’s obvious that whoever runs this land has had his fair share in hard work and making sure that things are exactly how they’re meant to be.

When the engine cuts, Armin leans back in his seat with a sigh. It sounds tired but . . also threaded with notes of comfort. Like, he’s finally made it home.

Without the rumbling, the sounds of the farm are a little bit louder now — stomps of horse hooves as they graze, rustle of corn, and chicken clucks.

Then . . . the quick padding of footsteps inside the house.

“Brace yer’self, lil miss,” Armin mumbles as he opens his door. “She can be excitable.”

You hear his boots his the gravel, heavy and sure, therefore quickly, you open your door to hop out as well. The evening air feels humid and thick, scented of hay and sunbaked soil. You’re just rounding the front of the truck when Armin unhooks the tailgate to gather paper bags of groceries into his broad chest.

Then, the screen door is pushed open with a creak and a girl steps out onto the steps, seemingly your age, barefoot and small, wearing a pretty, dandelion yellow sundress whose hemming skims up against her upper thighs when a soft breeze catches on it. Tight, coiled curls spill down her back, full, dark, and shining with health as she pauses upon seeing you with a small hand on the porch staircase’s banister. She’d been smiling, though it goes a little frayed when she meets your eye.

At first, it’s casual. Just some curiosity as she tilts her head.

Then she takes a step lower and something on her face crosses between disbelief and confusion. You blink, once, twice, letting your irises catch on the deep dimple that craters into her cheek . . . the monolids framed around her big, brown eyes . . and curls that frame her face like a lion’s mane.

You’ve seen this face before.

Years ago. Younger.

Your heart lurches in your throat as your next inhale shudders. The name slips out before you can reel it back in, “. . . J-Jubie?”

She goes completely still, as if her world has been completely shifted on its axis and for a long moment, neither of you say anything, only stare.

“꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱ . . .?”

As if saying your name confirms it all, she slaps her hands over her plump lips and widens her hands with an, “Oh my God.”

Her voice is softer than you remember. Quieter, too. But it’s her. Uncaring of the gravel biting within the soles of her bare feet, she inches closer to you as her eyes wildly flick over the features of your face and body, searching, taking in every detail as though she’s trying to piece back a memory that was torn into shreds. “It’s you, oh my God.”

And as if magnet particles were swimming in your blood, distance closes and your bodies collide together for a sudden, bone crushing hug. Air leaves your lungs as her arms wrap around the back of your neck, yours around her waist, as you both squeeze like you’re afraid the other will seize to exist within the next moment. “J-Jubie?” You’re in utter disbelief as you bury your face into her shoulder, finding that somehow, she still even smells the same . . . like warm oats and roses. “Y-You left, I thought . . thought I’d n-never see you again.”

You feel her shoulders shudder as her fingernails bite into your skin.

For just a split second, those memories between ages six to thirteen arrive — the bike rides to school, scraped knees covered in hello kitty bandages, whispered secrets at sleepovers, pinky promises underneath the apparatus — and flood your brain. The years between then and now suddenly feel short, like they were just yesterday.

Behind you both, you hear the rustling of paper bags.

Armin doesn’t say much when you both finally pull away with tear glistening eyes and trembling fingers. But he sees it . . . the history radiating off of you both. It's evident in the way you both whisper one another's names, how you squeezed each other tight enough to cut off the other's airflow. He studies it for a moment, carefully before gently clearing his throat.“Alright, now. These bags gon’ burst if we all keep standin’ here.”

Warmth spreads beneath Jubie’s soft, light brown skin, a bright coral shade that spreads across her nose. “Oh — yeah. C’mon.”

Without a second thought, she’s reaching for your hand to interlace her fingers between the spaces of yours, just like she’s done a thousand times before and then begins tugging you towards the porch stairs. Armin trails a few steps behind, eyes taking in the picture behind his sunglasses, “. . . Hm.”

She never lets it go as the two of you move together, steps a little shaky and uneven, due to the fact that neither of you can stop glancing at the other with shy smiles still painted in disbelief playing on your lips. This close, you can see her better. Her skin glows beneath the warm, bright bulb of the porch light and a fair dusting of beauty marks pepper the middle of her forehead, down to her nose, and cheeks. The mole that dots the edge of her upper, heart shaped lip, on the left side is still prominent. You’d always thought it made her look so pretty . . majestic even. And, she is. She’s grown to be . . . stunning, you find. With her sundress shifting softly across her thick thighs and skin moisturized with body butter that makes her soft to the touch.

And she keeps looking at you, too.

No longer quick glances, but full on staring like she’s trying to catalogue every inch of you into her brain.

Your face. Your puff. The lace that trims along the edges of the little, jean shorts you wear. Your heart thuds beneath her attention.

“You’re so pretty,” she suddenly blurts out with a cute laugh of marvel following her words. The sudden compliment makes you cover your mouth to hide your shy, wide smile at the sight of her dimples.

“You are, too.”

She ducks her head, curls slipping over her shoulder as her blush deepens until her face is nearly the shade of a ripe cherry.

“The door, baby.”

Jubie startles again, once more forgetting about the towering, six foot four man behind you both that holds five bags of groceries in his arms and goes to open the screen door then main. The hinges creak as warm air from inside the house smacks you all in the face, scented of caramelized onions, herbs, and something savory warming in the oven. When you step inside, you aren’t surprised to find the interior to be just as big as the outside. The foyer is pretty long with a coat rack hanging right beside the door, and boots, sandals, and flats stacked neatly on a rack near it too.

And as Armin steps around you two to presumably head for the kitchen, some hanging, framed pictures that hang on the walls on either side of it catch your eye. Most of scenery or animals, though one stands out from the rest . . . Jubie and Armin standing beside his truck, her with a big, dimpled grin, engulfed back to chest within his beefy arms and him, handsomely stoic faced.

Something clicks.

Jubie notices which one that catches your attention then smiles and nervously tucks a curl behind her ear that seems to be covered in more piercings than you recall. “ ‘s been me and him for a good while now.”

“Oh,” your lips round in understanding. “. . That’s sweet, Jubie.”

The nickname makes her intertwine her hands and pull them to her chest. Her voice is breathy and her tone is full of sweet awe when she says, “You still call me that.”

You let out a soft, shy laugh and look down at your shoes, “U-Uhm, yeah. You’ve always been Jubie to me.”

“Hmm,” she’s still smiling though it goes a little wary upon her mumbling, “I thought . . I thought if we ever s-saw each other again, you’d like . . run the other way.”

Her words make something in your chest grow dark. They make you feel like the air has been punched out of you in disbelief. “No. Gosh, no. Why?”

She hesitates, bites down on her bottom lip and looks down at her hand as she starts to rub at her knuckles. “For jus’ . . leavin’ you. Without sayin’ goodbye. I thought you’d be angry with me.”

For a moment, the air prickles with all the words unsaid you’ve both been meaning to express to one another after all these years if you ever saw each other. You’re pouting a little when you utter, “I mean . . I was . . . and for a long time, but . . I think I missed you, more than I was angry.”

Something crumples along the pretty features of her face, something crossed between tearful, soft, and soothed, “Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“You gonna keep ‘er standin' in the foyer all night, doll?”

The bass sitting within Armin’s voice makes the both of you jump. Jubie huffs a small snicker, “Dang it. Sorry, c’mon.”

Somehow, the farmhouse opens up wider the deeper inside you walk. To the right is the living room as soon as you emerge from the foyer. A thick woven rug, occasionally stamped with a muddy boot print stretches along the dark wooden flooring beneath a large glass coffee table where a small platter of hard candies and a half burnt candle, scented of cashmere and vanilla, sit within the middle of. A record player has its own little corner near a shelf of vinyls about as tall as the both of you, spines worn from use and titles fading. Facing the stone fireplace is a large, soft L shaped sofa and a worn out armchair that’s been overstuffed and seemingly claimed by one person.

Likely Armin.

A faded pair of black work gloves and glass of lemonade with the ice cubes melting in it rest on the little table near the arm of it as though they’d been recently forgotten about proves so.

Jubie takes you to the open spaced kitchen. It’s bigger than the living room with its own door and screen that leads to the back of the house. Armin stands with his back facing you both, stacking some cans in the pantry. His hat has been tossed onto the table, revealing a mop of thick, sun-dark blond waves slightly dampened with sweat that stop near the nape of his neck.

He glances over his shoulder when he hears you two. Piercing blue eyes catch you, calm and measuring. They linger on yours long enough to make something in your throat knot before shifting to Jubie. “Gonna tell me how you girls know each other?”

His voice is low and sprinkled in a thick southern drawl, not full of suspicion, but just . . observance, like he simply just wants to know. Jubie shifts her weight to lightly bump her hip against yours. You bite down on a small smile. “We grew up together.”

Armin turns to face you, “In what way.”

“We were neighbors since we were six.”

A slow whistle slips out past his lips, “. . ‘s that right?”

“Mhm.”

“Y’never mentioned her, why?”

Jubie’s lips curl to the side as she pauses for a moment, “. . ‘Cause I didn’t think I’d ever see her again.”

The honesty lands in your chest similar to a knife being stabbed into a cutting board. You’d thought the same. Spent so many nights fighting to remember the features of her face if you were to see her again, so many diary entries featuring her name with the ink smudged and paper dotted in your salty tears.

The thought makes you shaky.

Armin studies you both, deep, blue eyes shifting between your faces as though he’s piecing together something unsaid before he shuts the pantry door to walk over to the sink. “Best friends, I assume.”

“Bestest friends.”

“Mmm.”

The quiet rush of running water fills the kitchen as he washes his hands. When he’s done, he shakes them out, once, before folding his arms and leaning back against the large, farmhouse sink. “You got a place you headed?”

The question is innocent but his stare is back on you again. You find it immobilizing, not to mention, how handsome he is underneath the warm, overhead lighting, standing only some feet away is enough to make your knees feel like jelly. Up close, free from his hat and sunglasses, he looks older than you first thought, too. In a way that only sharpens his rugged features in the best way possible. The small wrinkles of crows feet and rough shadow decorating his jaw makes him look seasoned. Cultivated. You pause, “U-Uhm, not . . really, sir. No.”

His eyes squint, just barely. “. . Not really.”

You look down at the kitchen flooring, “I was jus’ walking.” Your voice somehow becomes even softer upon revealing it, like saying it out loud makes it sound more senseless than it had in your brain.

You feel Jubie’s arm interlock with yours, “What?" Her voice is breathless come the new information you reveal. "You was walking out there?”

You nod while watching her eyebrows pull together, showcasing her concern. “That’s miles, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱.”

“I-I know.”

Armin exhales through his nose while straightening himself back out, “Alright, take a seat. You hungry?”

The last meal you ate was nearly twenty six hours ago, you feel like you can eat an entire bison. “Yes, sir.”

He gestures to one of the seats that surround a large, wooden, oval shaped dining room table. Four seats facing each other, one at the head. No need to question who occupies that one. “Sit.” He says it this time with a bit more firmness, leaving no room for refusal or question.

Swiftly complying, you take one of the seats next to the head and let your backpack fall off of your arm to the floor against the leg of the chair. Armin grabs a lone dish rag hanging off of the oven’s door to open it and use one strong hand to grab the heavy pan from inside and let it fall against the counter with a solid thunk as steam rises from the contents inside. The scent of something savory wafts against your nose not long after and your stomach responds with a deep grumble. You watch Jubie stand on her tiptoes to grab three plates from a cabinet, hand them over to him, then walk to the fridge whose doors were embellished in colorful letter magnets, a few blurry landscape photos, and a chart . . . dotted with sparkling, star shaped stickers. You're unable to get a good look at what the chart specifically tracks because after producing a glass pitcher of lemonade from inside of it, Jubie’s closing the door back shut leaving it out of your immediate eye sight

Within a mere minute, the table is full and a plate toppled with a thick slice of cheesy, meat filled casserole, scoop of mixed vegetables, and a golden, buttered roll is sat down in front of you. For some strange reason, you find yourself wanting to cry. The scents of everything is rich, homey. You suppose Jubie’s presence only intensifies the feeling. Everything about her feels familiar, like a memory that’s been tucked away for years, nearly a decade, has been flattened back open and pressed straight.

The soft way she says your name, like she’s a bit shy to even mumble it, the cute cadence of her voice, the dimples that cave into the soft skin of her cheeks whenever she smiles at you as though she’s unable to grasp the fact that you’re really here, seated at the table, sharing a meal with her and Armin.

You both haven’t been reunited for more than fifteen minutes . . . however, the feeling of something old and dear slipping quietly back into place is hard to shake.

Neither of you really notice Armin’s observance of you both come him taking his seat at the head of the table. The minute that first bite of casserole hits your tongue has your shoulders loosening. You pull the fork from between your lips slow, letting the flavor sit there on it for a second before beginning to chew, eyes downcast on your plate.

You’ve been hungry for so long.

“You still eat so slow,” Jubie suddenly mumbles.

When you look up at her across the table, she’s smiling into her glass of lemonade prior to taking a sip.

You swallow your mouthful, “I do?”

“Mhm . . . little bites.”

“Makes it—“

“—last longer.”

A sheepish smile tugs at the corners of your soft lips before you mutter, “Shush.”

Quietly, Armin observes with his eyes drawn to the both of you, watching how you slightly lean closer to the table when speaking to Jubie, how both your voices stay soft as if you were sharing secrets instead of talking about vegetables and what your favorite kinds are now. The two of your hands reach for a napkin at the same time, and come your fingers colliding, you’re quickly pulling yours away, mumbling for her to go first.

History is threaded between you two. Deep and thorough.

Years of it.

It shows in how Jubie silently piles two more buttered rolls on your plate and how you don’t fight her about it.

Two girls. Barely grown.

The tension that was sitting in your shoulders — Armin could see it from nearly a mile away from where you were walking alongside that road, it remained there as you stood in front of his passenger door, debating on taking the ride, and even as you sat there in his seat, however now . . .

Now it's entirely gone.

He studies how you reach for your glass of lemonade with a little more purpose, how your shoulders rest, no longer curled inwards as though you were preparing for someone, anyone, to run you off, your hands are no longer balled into little, tensed fists within your lap neither. There resides something new within Jubie, too. Having been with her nearly three years now, Armin's familiarized himself with her tells. He can read the girl like a well worn book — spine cracked, ink fading, and pages softened at the edges — everything about her has been memorized by heart. Those exact tells of a small head tilt when she's watching you look away before saying something and the intense gaze of her eyes as you smile reveals that she's excited . . captivated . . curious.

He'd be blowing out smoke if he said he wasn't either.

"You said you don't have anywhere you're headin' tonight . ." Jubie nibbles on her bottom lip, eyes wide and brows softened as she looks into your own. "Y-You can sleep here . . . I mean, i-if you want. Right?" Looking over to Armin for his grace, you follow her stare to watch the man slowly cross his arms over his strong chest while leaning back within his chair.

"Ain't no sense in sendin' 'er back out there this late."

When a big, bright smile overcomes Jubie’s soft lips, you're quick to rectify, "I promise I w-won't impose. I'll do m'best to be gone by sunrise—"

"—Nonsense," slowly, he rolls his tongue across the inside of his cheek, taking heed of the exhaustion that takes physical form beneath your eyes. When you reach up to rub one with the heel of your small palm, he glances down at your plate then at Jubie’s. The both of you have already ate a good amount so he goes on to roughly utter, "You look just 'bout ready to fall over."

You do your best to straighten up, " 'm okay."

"No you ain't."

Armin jerks his chin towards the hall before speaking to Jubie, "Want you to give 'er the grand tour, show 'er the guest room. Come back down then me an' you can work on this kitchen together."

Doused in excitement and slight nerves, Jubie’s mono-lidded eyes widen before she nods, stands, and grabs your wrist. "C'mon, lemme show you."

Rising from your chair, you grab the back strap of your backpack as powder blue eyes watches the both of you move. Armin's jaw is tight, nonetheless, relaxed as he commits the picture to his memory — the bounce in Jubie’s steps, the heaviness in yours, how the two of your fingers brush against one another's as you walk beside each other. The distant feeling of this making sense crosses his mind. Jubie’s shy. Always has been since he was first introduced to her by Mrs. Loretta Bellflower, co owner of one of the best diner's these here parts have heard about, Loretta's Kitchen. She'd been a waitress there, only for a mere, few weeks before Loretta pulled Armin to the side as he was exiting the diner with his styrofoam plate in hand, heavy with three pieces of chicken fried steak, grits, and eggs.

"The girl is lost, mista Arlert," Loretta had told him with sympathy swimming within the dark pools of her eyes. She'd explained to him that Jubie’d used to be a shoe shiner for the town's parlor before Loretta's husband got her out of that, finding the job all too demeaning for a young thing like her. "I suppose now that's prob'ly why she was a shoeshiner. She's good with her hands, that's for damn sure, but she won't talk to anybody. Barely even talks to me. I can't have a waitress workin' here that can't speak."

Armin'd sucked his teeth, "Whaddya askin' me, Missus Loretta."

". . . Maybe she'd be better on the farm with you—"

"—Awe, nah—"

Loretta's gaze had turned sharp, "—You can't keep managin' all them damn acres by y'self, Armin. Gon' run y'self dry. I'm tellin' ya, she's good with her hands. I watched the girl fix a dishwasher under ten minutes. Jus' give 'er a chance."

One look at her through the diner's window and Armin had immediately sensed that there was more to the tiny, quiet thing standing behind the bar counter. He watched her stack about a dozen plates in her hands like it was nothing, noticed how she mouthed the words of a customer's order back to herself when she thought no one was watching. Yeah, she was shy, definitely — barely made eye contact with Armin for the first time after the two of them'd been working together after nearly five weeks — but there was also something else to it. She was careful . . observant . . cautious.

Watching her guide you through the hall, a hand on your bicep, careful not to jostle you too much however with just enough pressure to sweetly nudge you forward, it's obvious to many that, although small, Jubie is fiercely protective of who and what she cares about. This, the two of you, makes sense because after only having been around you for about an hour and a half now, Armin can tell that you're just as shy. And like Jubie, it's clear that you happened to stumble across this little town in Missouri unintentionally.

Whether destiny brought you here or not, Armin knows one thing is for certain: you're not walking back out of their lives tonight. Not when the weariness settled so deep within your bones makes your vulnerability as obvious as the nose on your face and surely not while Jubie’s here. Armin doesn't even think she'd let you.

"Down there is Armin's office. Boring stuff. Farm paperwork."

He watches from his position still seated at the table as you both slowly round the staircase. You listen closely, sometimes tilting your head as Jubie explains all of the quirks of their home — the cute, little reading nook beside the mud room's door, how this closet is stacked with spare pillows and blankets, and that bathroom has a window that can never fully close shut so it gets really cold in there during the winter. Obediently, you follow her around, nodding most times, before occasionally asking a small question with both hesitation and wonder coating the cadence of your voice. In turn, Jubie patiently answers them all — there's a certain rhythm to you both. Quiet and intimate.

"Send 'er to bed, sweetheart," Armin calls out when you're both finally upstairs.

"Okay!" Jubie’s voice quiets back down when speaking to you, "Guess I'll show you the rest tomorrow. This is the guest room."

When she opens the door, the faint scent of lavender and warm wood greets you both. The room is small, cozy with a pillow topped queen sized bed centered against the far wall beside a window. Its frame is made entirely out of hardwood and catches your attention first. A thick quilt, hand stitched in muted patterns printed with fern leaves and suns, covers the entire mattress and adds a rustic charm. In front of the bed, against its own wall is a simple dresser made of the same wood of the headboard. A small ceramic lamp with its shade decorated with hopping hares sits on top of it.

There's an old chair sitting in front of the long, narrow window near the foot of the bed as well and holds a thin blanket that's been draped over the back of it. The air feels calm . . safe, almost as if its been waiting for you.

"I think I have . . ." Jubie never finishes her sentence because after sliding open one of the dresser's drawers and shuffling through it for a moment, she produces a thin, pink pair of shorts and loose t shirt, about two sizes bigger than your regular. "Here. You can keep them too, if you want."

"Oh," tenderly, you take them with a small, grateful smile. "Thank you, Jubie."

She watches you slowly walk over to the bed to take a seat and instantly, your body sinks into the mattress, making her suddenly giggle, "Okay, yeah. You're super tired. I'll leave you be." Stepping within the doorway, for a second, she hesitates and lingers within it to watch you rub your hand over the material of the quilt, finding it to be much softer than it appeared.

"Uhm . ."

When your eyes snap back up to hers, fingers still delicately tracing the scalloped stitching, she closes her mouth then gives a small shake of her head, leaving her curls crushing up against her mole dotted cheeks as she does. "We'll see you in the mornin', 'kay? . . Gnight."

Still smiling, you nod while clutching the fabric of the t shirt and shorts in your hand, "Okay. Sleep well."

She lingers for a bit longer, just enough to give you a final warm glance before she fully exits while softly shutting the door behind herself. The faint click of the latch fastening makes you sigh and fall back against the pillows. You allow the weight of the day to melt within your bones as the strange comfort being here, near Jubie . . near Armin, underneath their roof, become a gentle reminder that you're fed and safe. Somewhere, in the back of your mind, after you've gotten undressed and into the pajamas Jubie had given you then bury yourself beneath the quilt in bed, you think that you can hear the distant mutter of their voices downstairs, nonetheless, exhaustion overtakes you, leaving the world to darken.

・・・・・

Sunlight streams in through lacy, white curtains the next morning which paints the guest room in shades of amber.

And sweet scents of yeast and wood waft about the farmhouse as you stir beneath the comforter that's somehow gotten itself tangled around your limbs. Your eyelids are heavy with sticky remnants of tears that cling on tight to the wisps of your lashes as you fight to open them. Nightmares. They've been reoccurring since the day you turned eight. And while some nights are better than others, waking up only once from them has become a victory . . some are worse. Last night'd been moderate. Only three times did you gasp yourself conscious, only to find yourself here in this room, on Armin's farm, with him and Jubie only two rooms away . . . and the thought of them had been calming enough to lull you back into a slumber each time.

One look at the alarm clock on the nightstand beside the bed and upon reading 10:37 am, the time makes you sit up slowly while rubbing your hands over your face, trying your best to fight off the drowsiness that still stubbornly lingers through your veins while fishing through your backpack for your toothbrush.

You didn't mean to sleep so late. You're not even supposed to still be here.

After brushing your teeth in the tiny guest bathroom across the hall from the bedroom, peeling your pajamas off and sliding into the only other outfit your bag holds, which is another pair of shorts, this pair a bubblegum pink, with a flowy white top, you're quick to redo your hair, and make your way downstairs where Al Green's Let's Stay Together drifts from an old, radio speaker and meets you halfway towards the kitchen.

The warm smell of biscuits and sausage makes your tummy rumble. And standing in front of the stove, in a pair of dark denim overalls, tiny strapless crop top, and boots is Jubie. She hums softly to the song while standing on her tip toes to grab a specific biscuit from off the pan with a pair of steel tongs. Her head of curls are pulled up today in a large ponytail with a claw clip. The sight of her makes something in your chest constrict. Bathed within the morning sun, she somehow looks even prettier.

At the sound of your footsteps, she turns her head, eyes widening just for a moment before a big, bright smile overtakes her glossy lips, "Mornin'."

"Good morning," your cheeks feel warm as you walk over to the table. "I . . I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake up so late."

You take a seat as she slides a plate of scrambled eggs, biscuits, and sausage on over to you, " 's okay, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱ ," her voice is soft while she walks over to the fridge. "We don't mind. We hope you slept well."

We.

Your eyes scan the kitchen and hallway as your ears tune in more intensely for a sound of a gruff, deep Mississippi drawl or grumble, but nothing. You gather that he must be out working. "Oh." Jubie’s setting a cold jar of grape jelly beside your plate alongside a pitcher of what appears to be fresh squeezed apple juice. "Y-Yeah, I slept fine."

You can feel her staring at you as she takes the seat beside you today with a biscuit held between her fingers. You only manage to take a bite of your sausage link and chew three times before she's suddenly giving a small gasp, ". . You still have those nightmares?"

Instincts scream at you to deny her claim so you do, "No. I don't, I swear—"

"—Don't lie," she's coo'ing in soft consolation while scooting closer to the edge of her seat to somehow get a better look at your face now that you won't make eye contact. "See? You're still tired."

The pout she wears only makes you want to do the same. "Jubie, 'm fine—"

"—You are not." Her voice is soft but there remains a certain layer of firmness that makes your chest grow tight. One of her hands reach out, and her fingers hesitate before she ultimately decides to touch your forearm. ". . You're clammy. You were sweatin' in your sleep . . . You're worn out, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱ ."

"That's okay—"

The huff of a man clearing his throat from debris breaks the conversation in two. Both of your heads lift to watch Armin walk down the hall with the screen door slamming shut behind him. The closer he gets, the more you tense. When he's standing within the arched threshold of the kitchen, large, stocky frame nearly spanning from edge to edge, you can hardly swallow your last bite of biscuit. He has on another cowboy hat today, this one a deep, chocolate brown, some spots of it well worn where his fingers have gripped it too much over the years. He looks at you two girls while pulling off of his work gloves slowly. "Mornin', lil miss," He soon mumbles while walking closer to the table. "Sleep alright?"

The biscuit is forced down your esophagus by your tongue, "Y-Yes sir."

Jubie doesn't say much but you can feel some disappointment radiating off of her in small waves.

Licking your lips, you suddenly stand which takes the both of them by slight surprise. Armin's hand finds a grip on one of the chairs' back while Jubie straightens her spine, "Thank you both for allowin' me to spend the night, I really appreciate it."

When you grab your bag, Jubie’s bolting up on her feet. "W . . Wait. Where are you goin'?"

". . 'm not sure yet, but—"

"—You don't have to leave so soon," she gently interrupts with the springs of her hair bouncing slightly as she takes a step closer your way. "C'mon, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱ . Please? You jus' woke up, ain't even had a chance to breathe yet. Eat . . . S-Stay a little longer."

You won't lie. A large part of you is startled by the insistence layered beneath her tone. Her words aren't demanding, but there's a small edge — one she's only ever used with you. Tenderness intertwined tightly with tenacious care. And it's always been hard to deny her when she looks at you like that. Feline shaped eyes somehow wide and full of hope with her dimples forming in the soft dough of her cheeks.

You nibble on your bottom lip, "I—"

Armin's voice cuts through, deep and quiet, "Jubie’s jus' worried about ya', 's all. And she's got a point, too. Ain't no shame in stayin' till y'ready to move. You must've been walkin' a long time yesterday."

His words land heavy within you all. Part of you still wants to protest. You never want to be that person who overstays their welcome. But, your body feels like lead. The muscles of your calves still strain, shoulders ache, and spine feels taut — you're tired.

Jubie doesn't give you a chance to make a decision. Quickly, she interlocks her arm within yours to lead you towards the hall, "C'mon. I'll show you the rest of the house and then I'll give you a tour of the farm. You'll love it, I promise. The animals love meetin' new people. I think you'll like Junebug the most . . ."

・・・・・

Somehow, in some way, Armin’s farm is more beautiful than it appears.

After the rest of the house tour is completed, Jubie’s leading you out of the back door first, down a smooth, dirt path. The late morning air is warm and carries the scent of damp earth and hay as you silently follow behind her while twisting at the small, gold bracelet encircled around your wrist. Your eyes dart about, taking in the world around you that appears both wild yet meticulously cared for. The barns are first — both sets of doors wide open as if they were welcoming you two in. Pointing up at the hayloft of the bigger one, Jubie spins on her heels with a sweet giggle, “I like to nap up there sometimes. ‘s peaceful.”

You can picture her, curled up on a cushion, eyes closed, lips parted as sparkles of dust dance within the golden beams of sunlight squeezing in through the barn’s narrow slats. She takes you to the chicken coop after where the hens cluck hello and pick at the feed she holds out in her palm. You smile with your hands interlocked in front of your lips, amazed at how calm she is surrounded by nearly a dozen of them. “They’re sweet, but not as sweet as m’Junebug.” Junebug turns out to be a young goat. Happily he bleats while nudging into her touch as the three of you stand within a field of bright, green grass. You can’t help but to kneel and give him a soft pet which he responds sweetly too — a louder bleat, turns away from Jubie and pushes more into your hand.

Showing you the horses is next. They graze about a wide fenced paddock beside the barn and she points towards the more leaner one with a shiny, chestnut colored coat and dark mane. “Sonnet’s mine.” The other is more broad through the chest, strong, with a deeper, chocolate tone. “That’s Claude. Armin’s. He’s . . . mean and stubborn, only ever listens to Armin, but he’s loyal.”

As if to prove a point, Claude gives a small wuffle while continuing to chew on a handful of hay like the interaction with you both is barely worth his time. You can’t help but softly snicker. “He’s handsome.”

Jubie giggles, “Yeah, he is . . . such a meanie though.”

Further down the paddock is a third horse. You can tell he’s younger than the other two almost immediately. Body not quite proportioned yet, with long legs and a little less muscular than Claude. He seems strong, even so. Anyone looking at him can see that he’ll grow into a lot of power.

“That’s Samson,” Jubie murmurs with a soft smile as you both walk a little closer to him. “Armin brought him home, like . . eight months ago. Someone was sellin’ him for dirt cheap ‘cause he’s too erratic for work.”

He takes a few, curious steps closer to the fence. His golden coat shines like honey beneath the sunlight as he breathes a warm puff of air towards you while lowering his head over the rail. Hesitatingly, you reach out . . and he doesn’t flinch when your fingertips brush over the long bridge of his nose. “Hi Samson,” you whisper. “He’s so sweet.” Erratic. You don’t see it one bit as he nudges his face into your hand for another loving stroke.

Jubie’s wearing a wide grin while flicking her eyes between you both, “Maybe he’s found his rider, finally.”

The corn field, sugarcanes, then beyond them, nestled between rolling hills of green is a small forest. Jubie tells you that a creek runs through it, shallow but beautiful, and while staring off at it, you feel the gravitating pull — knowing that it promises hidden nooks and sweet solitude when needed. When you both make it back towards the house, she casually calls your attention to the two, long rows of clothesline strung between strong posts. Your eyes denote the fabrics gently swaying on a breeze. Soft cottons and linens, in between them, some daintier, frilly, and threaded with bows and lace. Warmth floods your cheeks as you quickly look away towards Armin’s plaid flannels and sun faded jeans. What’s more interesting are the stuffed animals, clipped by their ears as they also swing softly in the wind — a plush, white bunny, chubby, pink pig, and classic soft brown teddy bear. “Armin’s up usually super early in the mornin’,” Jubie softly says when you’re both entering the house’s back door again. “Usually five, four if he got enough sleep. He feeds everybody, makes sure that they have fresh water, makes a round through the fields to also make sure nobody or nothin’ got in durin’ the night.

“Then, he usually heads down the hill to check the mailbox, talk t’a few of our neighbors if he’s in the mood. Makes a cup of coffee, reads the paper, sits out on the porch and smokes after he’s done. He don’t talk much in them moments but . . if y’ever happen to wake up with him then jus’ . . watch. You’ll find that it’s nice.”

You both have stopped in the hall, next to the stairwell. She stands on the second step, arms on the banister, chin resting on them. The tour’d been long, you have no doubt that she’s a little bit winded because you are too. Her words make you hesitate. She speaks like there’s a chance that ever could happen.

“After that, he’s usually patchin up the barns, fixin’ fences, checkin’ irrigation an’ stuff. He’s always busy, always movin’. But he always has an eye out and his ears open too. He’s amazin’.”

The way her voice drifts off on a sweet tilt makes your heart thud a little harder in your chest. Hearing her talk about him is sweet. It reminds you that this is their life. This home, this farm — it’s all something that’s been built, long before you winded up on their porch. Before you can say anything else, Jubie perks up with her eyes wide, “Ooh, hold on a second — I gotta, uhm, I gotta pee.”

You listen to her boots scamper upstairs which leaves you still standing there beside the banister. For a moment, you don’t move. You gather in a long, deep breath through your nose then blow it out of your mouth. Nine years.

Nine years and Jubie has managed to build a safe, secure life.

A life you’re only peeking your head in to admire before you exit again. Your eyes slowly scale along the dark walls, framed photos, and soft hum of the whirling ceiling fan in the living room. Jubie’s touch is everywhere — in some of the vinyls by artists you know she’s always loved that play peekaboo between the others, the cute, worn sandals lined beside the door, and hand stitched, decor pillows that have been attentively placed in a specific order on the couch. As much as you see her in the home, you see Armin as well. The wallet and truck keys tossed carelessly on a side table, messy notebooks full of quickly scrawled measurements and sketches of some barn renovations prove so.

The delicate scent of tobacco smoke carries the weight of him too. All of the tiny imperfections and purposeful placements tell stories of a man and girl in love and maintaining a sweet, peaceful life together.

Maybe you should leave now. Maybe it’s better to before your yearning gets worse. Whether said yearning is in regards to the stability and calmness that’s maintained here, their life, or something even deeper — you shake your head before your brain starts to spiral.

You walk to the door, bend to grab your bag from beside it, push a hand out on the screen and step outside.

Soft, healthy grass brush against your ankles as you track your way across the yard towards the driveway after hopping off of the porch. Distantly, you think about the route you saw Armin drive to get here. Maybe there will be a rest stop somewhere out there if you start walking now.

Nevertheless, you don’t make it far.

Near the parked truck, leaned against the fence with a boot on the lower post behind him, Armin slowly wraps a long, tattered rope around his palm. The material of his gloves creak between each completed loop as ice blue eyes watch you from beneath the shadow of his hat that’s been pulled a little bit lower on his forehead. You’re whispering something to yourself, something he can’t really hear.

“Headin ‘ out already?”

His voice makes you startle and freeze about ten feet away from the truck within that field of grass. He watches your hands tighten around the should straps of your backpack. “U-Uhm,” your voice is soft. He can barely hear it over the breeze. “Yeah.”

You watch him finish that last loop of the rope around his hand before he rings the completed pile of it on one of the fence’s wooden posts. He straightens out then, starts to take his gloves off, “. . Does Jubie know that?”

A twist in your gut tells you not to lie to him, so you don’t. “No, sir.”

He hums, walking over to you slow while snatching the other glove off, “Yeah,” he inhales a breath, reaches behind him to shove them in his back pocket. “Funny thing about boltin’ . . folks usually do it before settlin’ in.”Armin looks down at the picture you make when he’s standing about two feet away from you. Posture slumped over, big, brown eyes locked somewhere on his chest to avoid his own. “House this big, only two people livin’ in it . . . plenty a’room f’a third pair of boots by the door,” a sharp, blue eyed gaze flicks across the pretty features of your face. “You ain’t exactly crowdin’ nobody.”

Your eyes fall down to your shoes before you slowly begin to rock from left to right on them, “. . ‘s not that simple,” is your mumbled reply.

“Most things ain’t, lil lady.”

For a moment, you two stand there, bathed in silence. You listen to the wind whistle against your ears, feeling Armin’s unmoving gaze locked on every little movement you make. Your brain fights to compartmentalize his words. Stay . . . It’s while you’re asking yourself ‘why should you?’ when the house’s front, screen door suddenly is pushed open. You hear the swift pats of bare feet slapping against the porch steps before they’re moving across the grass.

“What’re you doin . . .”

Jubie’s voice is soft, but hearing it still makes something in your heart pang.

Halfway, you turn to look at her taking in how she stands about six feet away with her arm hugged across her stomach, eyes wide as she stares into your own before they flick towards Armin then back at you. She looks scared . . confused, taken aback. All three. Especially upon noticing the backpack you carry. Quieter, she asks, “You leavin’?”

You swallow. Standing between them both makes you feel like you’ve been caught in the middle of something that wasn’t even supposed to be disturbed. “. . I feel like ‘ve stayed for too long already, Jules.”

Owlishly, she blinks at that, “Stayed too long?”

Armin knows not to interrupt. He folds his arms while taking in the picture of two girls standing a few yards apart on his field. One frozen, nearly halfway gone, the other who’s appearance and voice makes it seem as though the ground is halfway close to crumbling beneath her feet without warning. He watches Jubie take two steps forward, “B-But you jus’ got here yesterday. That ain’t too long.”

“I jus’,” you’re looking down at your feet again while moving some grass around with one. “I don’t wanna get used to this, that’s all.”

Your words hang between the three of you — dense and honest.

“This is your life. Your home. And I jus’ . . showed up outta nowhere—“

Jubie’s lips are beginning to pull with a frown, “—You didn’t jus’ show up. You found me.”

“Jubie—“

“—Did I s-say or do somethin’ wrong?”

“No,” is quickly said as you shake your head. “You didn’t. Cross m’heart.” She didn’t.

“Then why are you runnin’?”

That word makes you tense, “ ‘m not runnin’.”

Armin drags out a quiet, dry hum that reveals to you he doesn’t quite believe that either.

Jubie steps all the way forward until only about two are left between you both. Her eyes are searching yours for something when she says, “I used to sleep over at your house every weekend . . .” Memories of you both laying side by side on your tiny, twin sized mattress snap through your brain — nuzzled up against each other for warmth as you whispered into the dark, long after your bedtimes. The hum of your old box fan and venom filled spats drifting from underneath the crack of your door from your parents’ room acting as a backdrop. “We used to make plans at lunch about runnin’ away . . to somewhere safe. This is safe. Here with Armin is safe. Jus’ stay.” She’s reaching for your backpack strap to slowly begin to peel it off of your shoulder. “I can show you the creek—“

You’re pulling yourself away with a soft, nervous smile pulling at your lips, “I jus’ don’t wanna overstay, Jubie.”

Armin finds himself staring at it. That warbled smile . . . before his eyes shift down to the new, exposed skin of your back through your top where an old splotch of blue and purple decorate the soft, brown skin near the bone of your shoulder. It’s pure coincidence that when the pieces align, you end up mumbling, “I h-have people lookin’ for me.” Your voice is thin. “I think he’s still tryin’ to find me.”

Jubie blinks, “. . . What do you mean?”

Armin hums, eyes fixed on that bruise for a second longer before he utters, “That so.”

“I left about . . eight days ago now,” you reply, voice quiet.

“Boyfriend?” Jubie asks.

“Barely.”

Armin’s tone remains calm yet you can still hear that something beneath it has shifted when he questions, “That fella the one that put that color on your shoulder?”

Instinctively, you reach to touch it while those big, brown eyes flutter up to his in shock. The question isn’t harsh . . just unexpected. A deep frown overtakes Jubie’s lips as the familiar sheen of tears begin to gloss the surface of her eyes, “. . He hurt you?” Her voice cracks. “W-Why didn’t you tell me?”

You don’t know what to say, so you don’t utter a word. Denying their claims would be foolish when it’s obvious what’s going on. Jubie could always read your flimsy, little tells anyhow.

Armin exhales slowly through his nose, hands settling on his hips as he looks out towards the sloping, dirt road behind you. His eyes cling onto the landscape as though he’s measuring the distance . . like he’s imagining someone stupid enough to come slugging up here. “Been alone this whole time?”

After a few seconds, you give a timid nod.

He scratches slowly at the scruff of his jaw before saying one, simple word, “Alright.”

It’s in the manner of how he says it which makes you and Jubie look up at him. Like something’s been decided.

You opt to take a chance by taking one step back as your nervous systems still screams at you to bolt however, before your foot can even settle completely in the grass, pinning, blue eyes settle on yours beneath the shadow of his hat brim. Silently, he shakes his head. Don’t. “Somebody comes sniffin’ around here lookin’ for a girl who don’t wanna be found, they gonna have a real hard time doin’ so.”

Something cracks opens within your chest, something akin to hope — a feeling you haven’t felt in a long, long time. It spills over into places that have been dark within you for years.

“Ain’t many folks daft enough to come pokin’ ‘round on my land uninvited anyhow.”

His statement isn’t loud. Doesn’t need to be. He doesn’t ask neither. His boots crush over loose pebbles as he starts his trek towards his truck, “Sandwiches for you girls’ll be ready in an hour.” He opens the driver door. “. . Take ya’ over to the creek afterwards.”

The realization settles in slowly. For both you and Jubie. He isn’t asking, he isn’t offering. You’ve been decided for and he’s making room.

You hear Jubie breathe out a shaky breath. When you look at her, she’s covering a big smile with trembling fingers. You can practically feel the happiness beaming off of her and waves. “. .You hear that?”

Your heart thuds against your chest.

“You’re stayin’.”

Disbelief cradles your voice as you weakly ask, “. . I am?”

“Uh huh,” she mumbles while inching closer to you. A sweet pout overtakes your lips. This feeling . . .

It’s strange and unfamiliar. But it’s warm and overpowering, too. For so long, you’ve been feeling displaced. Never stopping long enough to keep a fulfilling connection with anyone — always moving. Always running. And now here you are. Standing here on the massive acres of a quiet farm in rural Missouri while your childhood best friend gazes at you as if she’d just received something precious back that she lost years ago. Your eyes drift towards Armin’s truck when you hear the engine purr to life. He doesn’t look back again. He doesn’t need to. He knows what and who will be waiting for him when he gets back.

“C’mere.” Jubie’s gently squeezing your hand before tugging you back towards the house. “Let’s go get you settled in.”

・・・・・

When the sun has finally settled beneath the horizon, the moon hangs high within the sky, and dinner has been made, served, and ate, Jubie finds herself seated on the kitchen counter. The farm is quiet. The house is too.

You retired off to bed early — finished eating, took a long shower, then let the guest bedroom door close behind you with a soft click. Jubie had done the same. Only instead of slipping off to bed, she’d tip toe downstairs, around the banister, down the hall, to head to the kitchen where she’d found her lover pouring a glass half full of whisky with two ice cubes in it. He’s still the only one dressed, only now, without his hat. Jubie can’t help but admire him as he takes a gulp to the head — tilting his own back with the strong etch of his jaw flexing as he clamps his mouth closed, swallows, then breathes out a slow, deep breath after.

She picks at the frayed hem of one of his old wife beaters she’s stolen for the night as neither of them speak for a while. Serenity. That’s what Armin brings. Being with him has taught her what quiet is supposed to feel like when it isn’t dangerous — not the kind that makes her listen for footsteps creeping towards her door or the kind that culminates into something horrible happening next.

Just sweet silence. Heavy in the best way.

Jubie lets her eyes drag up the strong line of his body slowly. It’s what she always does when she thinks he isn’t looking.

But Armin feels it. He knows. He always does.

His steps toward her are unhurried and slow. He’s taking another sip from his glass when he stops directly in front of her. While swallowing, the ice clinks softly as he lowers his hand then utters, “You shouldn’t be up.”

Jubie hums, “I know.”

“Mm.”

The wind whistles outside, in between the wooden chimes hanging from a hook near the kitchen’s back door. “. . Thank you, Papa” she soon says while her fingers tug at the shirt hem again. “For lettin’ her stay.”

Armin’s hand falls flat upon the counter near her hip. “Ain’t nothin’ I had to think too much about.” He reads the softness that sits on her pretty, feline like features, not surprised to watch her soon say, “She feels . . more fragile.”

It’s a conversation that’s been waiting to happen. Armin knows that Jubie’s been watching you like a hawk for he has too. That’s why he doesn’t deny it.

He nods, once. Slowly. “She does.”

Jubie’s lips scrunch to the side as her eyes flick quickly from side to side behind Armin as if her thoughts were caught up in a whirlwind. “She kept sayin’ that she doesn’t wanna overstay . . . ‘s like she’s waitin’ to get told to leave or something.”

Armin exhales slowly through his nose, looks down at his glass, before pulling it towards his lips, “She remind me a’you.”

Jubie blinks and refocuses her sight back to him. “. . Me?”

“Mhm. Shy . . . Cautious. Too soft for a world that don’t care if ya’ soft or not.”

He says it like it’s not an observation but recognition. A pause settles between them again as Jubie takes it in.

“World eats up girls like that,” He continues on a gruff drawl. “Quiet ones. Sweet ones. The ones that don’t raise hell when they should . . . and I don’t like watchin’ it happen.”

His words land heavily. It makes her breathe out a small, shaky breath which makes his arm loop around her waist to tug her closer to him. “We have a lotta history, Pa,” she mewls with her eyes fixed on a button of his flannel that she fiddles with. “Me and her . . we grew up together. And her parents . . . weren’t good to her. Like, ever. Was always fightin’, always loud, only paid her attention when they had to. I’d go to her house sometimes just so that she wouldn’t be alone. Sometimes she came to mine, but it was always durin’ the day ‘cause I didn’t want her around . . when m’stepdad . . .” She suddenly stops, swallows, and shakes her head. Armin sets his glass down.

“Hey,” he drags out lowly. “ ‘s okay, lil one.”

“ ‘m sorry—“

Armin’s fitting the bottom of her jaw between the web of his index and thumb to pull her face up for deep, slow pecks to her lips. That apology dies on her tongue because it isn’t needed. The sound of the sets of them meeting then pulling away are sticky and loud within the calmness of the kitchen. He doesn’t want her to think about it. And truth be told, he doesn’t want to think about it. The rage he’s susceptible to feeling each time he’s reminded of what his girl has gone through is enough to have Armin seeing red behind his eyes.

The anger crawling up his spine is something old yet violent however he inhales slowly while pulling away, brushing his forehead against hers to force the feeling back down where it belongs. Because Jubie deserves calm more than she deserves vengeance.

“None a’that was your fault,” he mumbles, eyes closed while breathing her in. “. . Understand me? Don’t apologize for nothin’ like that.”

He feels her faint nod, “I know.”

But the frailty that underlines her tone tells him that knowing and believing are two different things. He tilts his head down once more, brushing a smaller kiss against that pretty mole that sits upon the line of her upper lip, near her cupids bow.

“I never wanted her t’see that part of my life back then,” she says. “She used to ask me to sleep over sometimes . . and I used t’make a bunch of excuses . . she probably knew I was lying.”

Armin gently huffs, “Kids know more’n folks give ‘em credit for.”

Jubie nods with a sad frown pulling at her lips before her gaze drifts out towards the hall. “I liked bein’ there for her . . more than she knew. She always had these nightmares. Real bad ones. Would wake up breathin’ like she ran a mile . . sometimes I’d wake up to her sobbin’ in ‘er sleep and I’d make her listen to m’heartbeat jus’ to calm ‘er down.”

Armin pictures that — a younger Jubie and you. Two small girls crammed side by side on a tiny mattress somewhere in a house that never felt safe enough. Jubie’s little arms wrapped around you with your face pressed against her chest as the two of you breathed together. He imagines you clutching her shirt in your sleep. Jubie coo’ing against your bonnet until your crying stopped. His jaw tightens.

“. . That right?”

Jubie’s fingers pick at his flannel again, “She used to say that m’house felt calmer. And I mean . . it wasn’t. Not really. But our days were quieter. My momma would be sleepin’ off whatever she drank the night before, brother out ditchin’ with his no good friends, and uhm, he’d be at work so . .” she huffs a quiet, timid breath. “For a few hours, me and her could pretend that our lives were normal.”

Deep, blue eyes study her face. “Sometimes that’s enough.”

Jubie processes that while looking down at her small, nimble fingers, “. . Yeah. It was.”Quieter, she whispers, “. . . I want her to stay, Dad.” The words come out as though she’s been dying to finally say them. She sounds exhausted. “F-Feels like if she leaves . . I won’t ever see her again. Again.”

“I know, honeybee,” Armin leans in to press a long kiss against her forehead. “I know.”

And upstairs, the quiet guest room echos with your deep, sleeping breaths — completely unaware to the two people downstairs are already quietly deciding on molding their lives to fit you in it.

・・・・・

Learning to live with Armin and Jubie on the farm is quieter than you expected.

Not an empty, aching quiet. Just . . . steady.

Out here, the silence breathes — sweet and peaceful so at first, you simply wait for it. A slammed door or harsh curse so that you can bolt first thing. But neither happens. Mornings start early . . mostly for Armin, that is. Usually, he’s waking up before the sun . . his footsteps heavy and slow as he lugs himself around the bedroom. Sometimes you hear the pipes groan as he gets a shower going. He’s always in there for about fifteen minutes tops before their bedroom door is opening. What’s odd . . is sometimes you can hear his footsteps stop for a split second before he walks downstairs.

Near your door. Like he’s listening for your breathing through the walls — checking to see if you’re still here.

You suppose that whenever he’s satisfied with whatever it is he’s doing, he then carries on down the staircase.

Jubie’s different in the mornings.

Quieter, softer. She’s up about an hour later. Hour and a half is she stayed up longer the night before. On a rare morning when the both of you happen to open your doors at the same time, you found her standing at the top of the staircase, preparing to walk down. Her curvy, little frame sheathed by a thin nightgown as she held a stuffed bunny within the crook of her elbow. Its fur curly, worn soft, and eggshell white with beady black eyes and a pink, triangular shaped nose. Sticking out of her silk, baby blue bonnet were her curls as she rubbed her eye with a fist.

Something about the sight had made your heart stutter on its next beat. During the days, Jubie’s shy. She’s shy yet giggly and spirited and vibrant. During the nights she becomes quieter, a little more reflective as though she’s sorting through pieces of the day and things she doesn’t yet know how to say out loud. But the mornings, you think the mornings house your favorite version of Jubie.

“Mornin’,” she had smiled softly. Mole dotted lips, bleary brown eyes, and dimples. You swallowed, “Gmorning.”

She always asks . . . “You sleep okay?”

“Mhm. I t-think so.”

And then she always studies you for a few seconds — you suppose to make sure that you aren’t lying to her. It’s when your stay with them inches into nearly eight later when you gently ask Jubie, “Do you think that I can help out with the farm, too . . ?”

She’d been curled up on the couch, knitting a blanket with that same, familiar bunny tucked in close beside her folded knees. You learned that its, her, name was Babs. “I dunno,” her lips quirked up with a small, cute smile as she kept her eyes focused on her swift moving fingers. “You’d have to ask Armin.”

Armin.

“Oh.” Suddenly your body feels like an olive being held up on only two toothpicks. That. You picked up on it, instantly — how she says his name like it’s both a boundary and permission slip. Jubie’s aware that Armin intimidates you. She knows without you having to say it. Your sentences so far have been curt when speaking to him and eye contact is barely made. When the two of you happen to be in a room alone, you’re quick to suddenly dismiss yourself up to your own or outside to sit upon the porch. It bothers Jubie a bit, she’ll be honest.

That’s why she glances up at you to softly say, “He’s not mean, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱. Jus’ particular. Especially ‘bout the farm. ‘Bout things bein’ done right.”

You shake your head quickly with the lie already sitting on your tongue, “I don’t think he’s mean.”

Jubie’s head tilts. She doesn’t say much, only gives a look that rather reveals her true, obvious thought before softly sighing and leaning bank further against the couch cushions while pulling Babs closer to her chest. “He’ll say yes.”

“Really?”

“Mhm,” she hums. “He watches you a lot.”

That single sentence makes your heart drop in a way you can’t fully explain as she continues with, “Not in a bad way . . jus’ . .” softly, “his way.”

Your fingers pull at the hem of the loose nightshirt you still wear as you shift your foot to curl your toes over the top of your opposite one. You’re not sure the statement comforts you. Intuitively, you turn your head to look out towards the living room’s entry, down the hall, thinking that Armin might just appear from inside the walls at the sheer mention of his name. Jubie giggles softly, “He’s not inside.”

Shyly, you stammer, “I wasn’t—“

“—He checks on you too. In the early mornings sometimes.”

Your heart skips as you go to softly press your lips together at the confirmation of your thoughts being true. Jubie’s only glancing at you now as she works her needles a bit slower. “He doesn’t . . think I notice, I guess,” she continues quietly. Beneath her tone reads fondness — like she’s been wanting to say this for quite a little bit now. “But I do.”

You think about those heavy footsteps and how still the house goes in between those long pauses. “W-Why?”

“He wants to be careful, I think,” she says. The answer feels incomplete, as though there’s more to it but Jubie decides to leave it there for now. You’re made to stand there with your mind silently racing as the distant crunch of boots against dirt and pebbles grows closer and closer towards the front door. They make it towards the end of the trail and up the porch steps before the screen door is being pulled open with a creak and the front is pushed.

Armin steps inside the house carrying the scent of sun warmed leather, grass, and something like gasoline with him when he slowly exits the foyer to stand there within the living room’s large, curved threshold. A cream, suede cowboy hat’s brim shadows his eyes for a split second before he knocks it up to really get a look at you two girls. Jubie curled up on the couch, you standing beside the arm of it like you’d been caught doing something wrong. Arctic blue eyes settle on you as he slowly pulls off one of his gloves, finger by finger, to then hold in his hand while reaching his new, bare one towards his back pocket.

“Was thinkin’ me and you girls head off into town,” he mumbles while opening a box of marlboros to pull a stick out with practiced ease without looking at his hands. “Two a’you can’t share a wardrobe forever.”

Gently, Jubie gasps as her face instantly brightens, “Shoppin’?”

“Mhm,” he pulls it to his lips along with a hand cupped around the flame emitting from the valve of a gold zippo held between his fingers. “Truck. Outside. Fi’teen minutes.”

He begins the trek down the hall towards his office near the back of the house and you can’t help but let your stare linger on the wide span of his shoulders stretching the black fabric of a nicely fitted button down whose sleeves have been pulled halfway up the strong line of his arms dusted in dark blond hair. Built like an ox. You’ve heard the saying before but have never seen someone who fit it until him. The attractive taper off his waist is more pronounced due to a brown, leather belt being pulled through the loops of his tailored levis that hug the firm shape of his glutes.

You like the way he walks.

Not particularly lazy when it comes to his speed, just . . unhurried. A quiet kind of saunter. There’s heavy weight transferred into each long stride of his legs as his hips naturally sway — not in an exaggerated way. It’s a movement that’s simply hard not to notice when the person’s wearing well fitted denim. When he suddenly turns his head over his shoulder to look at you, your gaze clashes with his, causing you to lightly startle.

On a low drawl he says,“Got you some boots too, sweetheart. By the front door.” Before he’s opening his office door to step inside then close it behind himself.

When he’s gone, you suddenly feel like you can breathe again.

And twenty minutes later, per his instructions, you and Jubie are seated upon the cracked vinyl of his Ford’s bench seat, you in the middle, Jubie passenger, as four wheels roll you all closer and closer to town. Your toes slowly wiggle within your new boots as tall rows of wheat lazily sway as Armin drives with one of his hands resting high on the wheel and his other arm hanging out of the window. Ever so often you feel his gaze, covered by his black tinted, aviator sunglasses, drift towards your face within the rear view mirror. Not long enough to completely be a stare, not short enough to be only a glance either.

You listen to Jubie softly hum along to the music he plays as she walks her pretty, manicured fingers up and down the length of your palm that she holds in her lap out of boredom. Whenever the truck hits a small bump in the road, it subtly knocks the three of your bodies against each other though no one makes an effort to adjust or even acknowledge. You recognize when town is getting closer because about fifteen minutes later, Armin’s pulling his Ford over the gravel of an old gas station before he parks by a pump.

“Ol’ girl needs gas.”

Jubie perks up beside you, “May I go pay, please? They have those caramel apple suckers I like here.”

Armin cuts his eyes towards the little convenience store, spotting not another soul but the cashier inside before he’s slipping a fifty dollar bill from his thick, rubber banded wallet and into the small palm of Jubie’s hand.

“Twenty five on one. Don’t wander.”

When Jubie reaches for the door handle without responding to his words, interestingly enough, Armin’s voice has to grow softer for her to suddenly tense and pause to look at him. “Hey,” he hums, eyes piercing through hers through the lenses of his shades. “You say what? Yes . .”

Jubie nibbles on her bottom lip then quietly, “Yes, sir. I won’t wander. Pinkie promise.”

“That’s right,” he mumbles then juts his chin towards the store. “Go on now.”

Jubie’s opening the door and giving a small hop to land on her feet from the high risen truck. You swallow, watching her cutely skip towards the doors, cocoa butter scented curls bouncing behind her. Then you realize . . .

It’s just you and him.

The world feels smaller now. And he doesn’t move right away. The thumb on the wheel begins to lightly tap at it as the both of you stare out of the windshield listening to the door jingles when she disappears inside. When everything else goes quiet, you listen to him inhale a small breath and squeeze your hands into fists come his incoming question, “You always watch her like that?”

Your mouth dries, “. . L-Like what?”

The side of his mouth dips to respond with an expression saying ‘Who knows?’ “Like she might float away if you don’t.”

Your chin dips close to your chest. “I jus’ . .” you pause, trying to look for words to say but find them all inadequate to describe your feelings. “I don’t know . . .”

Silence settles for a little bit. You feel him turn his head an inch to look at you. “. . Y’nervous ‘round me?”

The question makes you instinctively shake your head, “No, sir.”

He waits. And you feel it — the ever growing pressure of someone who knows that you’re not telling the full truth.

You remain staring at your hands. “. . Jus’ a little.”

A small breath is puffed through his nose — not a sound of amusement, something more like recognition. “Tell me why.”

“You’re . .” once more, your brain scrambles while trying to search for the correct word — the perfect one that describes the sheer density that caves into your chest each time you happen to meet his eye. “Y-You’re really big.”

The minute the sentence leaves your mouth, you want to disappear into the seats.

Armin’s hums, expression remaining even, “Big.”

Delicately, almost weakly, you nod.

“Can’t help that,” he says with a small twitch of his lips.

“I didn’t mean—“

“—Y’aint got to apologize.” He watches your lips close as you go to give a small sigh and slump against the seat. “Up. Spine straight.” Without having to be told again, you straighten the length of your upper body. “You scare easily, lil miss.”

Your lips pull down into a frown, “I do not.”

“You do. An’ it ain’t necessarily a bad thing.” He turns his head back towards the windshield with a small suck to his teeth. “Means you pay attention.”

Studying his magnificent side profile for a moment, you recall Jubie’s words. ‘He watches you a lot. Not in a bad way . . jus . . his way.’ Unable to keep the words bottled down when they start to climb up your throat, you find yourself softly blurting out, “Do I make you nervous?” Maybe that’s why he’s always watching you, why every morning he stands by your door to listen for you. Maybe you unnerve him. Maybe this gives you an opening, an excuse, to leave.

However, your question seems to surprise him. Only for a millisecond. His thumb taps against the steering wheel, slow and contemplative. “No.”

Something in your gut flips from the quickness of his answer.

“. . No?”

A tinted gaze is turned and angled back down towards you. Calmly, he replies, “. . Naw. Ain’t nervous,” he drawls, steady and unrushed. His voice is gruff — raspy. It makes your skin break out in goosebumps. “I know what t’do with nervous things.”

The door bell jingles again as Jubie comes skipping past it while holding a handful of green wrapped lollipops. You feel his eyes slowly scan the features of your face before he’s shifting in his seat to push open the driver’s door and climb out. The truck rocks slightly when his boots his the gravel and proudly, as Armin’s unscrewing the cap from the gas chamber, she’s sliding into the seat beside you while announcing, “I got six! Hm.” She gives you one.

Inhaling a small, trembling breath, you pull the wrapper off to lay the oval shaped candy against your tongue. Sharp yet sweet. It makes the glands of your saliva water as you go to suck on it — green apple lollipops have always been yours and Jubie’s favorite candy. She’d already been suckling on hers while walking to the car, now that she’s seated with the door closed, she goes to pull hers free from her lips while looking at you before murmuring, “What’s wrong? . . You look nervous.”

You blink a few times before pulling yours away too, “‘m okay.”

Her head tilts, “Did you and Armin talk?”

“N-Not really.”

“Mmm.”

You look out of the rear view mirror.

He stands with one hand holding the pump, the other’s arm resting on the ledge of the truck bed. The beaming afternoon sun catches on the brim of his hat which obscures the upper half of his face — you can really only see the scruff of his jaw and lips. He looks calm . . . entirely unbothered. ‘I know what t’do with nervous things.’ It feels like out of a dozen cocoons, butterflies have erupted and made a home within your stomach. Jubie’s eyes are big and full of sweet innocence when she asks, “Did he say somethin’ you ain’t like?” upon following your gaze.

Quite the opposite. “. . N-Not that.”

“What he say?”

“That I scare easily.”

You watch a big smile creep up her soft, glossy lips. “Well . .” she giggles. “You do. You always have.”

“You do, too.” The pout you now wear is precious.

She’s giggling while leaning in to bump her shoulder against yours, “He didn’t mean that in a bad way, lovey . . I think all it means,” you find that she makes a cute pondering expression — eyes shift downward as her cheeks puff up as she scrunches her lips to the side. “I think it means that he likes that you pay attention.”

The both of you look at him.

The pump is pulled from the chamber after the tank tops it all off to the brim before a heavy clunk is heard. He returns the nozzle back to its cradle then takes his time twisting the cap back on. For a moment, he just stands there after that, looking out across the road while reaching into his back pocket — this time, for a small pack of gum. He’s thinking about something. Silently, you watch him unwrap a stick without looking at it to then fold it once between his fingers to then press upon his tongue. Then his head turns. He’s looking at you both.

Quickly, you turn your own back forward and pop your lollipop back in your mouth. Jubie grins, watching him start to walk back over. “You girls got everything you needed?” He asks after opening the driver’s door. Jubie chirps a soft, “Mhm!”

You simply nod.

The truck dips with his weight once he slides in beside you. “Alright then.”

・・・・・

The town of Cotter’s Mill only has a population of five hundred and eighty two. It’s a small dot on the map, located some miles away from Marlow River with mountains bordering it that seem to roll on forever. Most people pass through it without meaning to and there’s only about four conjoined roads that cut through the middle of town. You hear how Armin’s truck rumbles as it rolls down the main stretch. You and Jubie gaze at the old, tall brick buildings passing by — Cotter’s Feed & Supply, Dahlia’s Cafe, followed by a barber shop then hardware store. You watch Jubie press her finger against the window, “There’s Missus Loretta’s diner. I used to work there when I first got here. She serves peach cobbler on Saturdays.”

Your lips wrap around a coo as you picture it — Jubie in a cute, waitress uniform with a notepad and pen in hand as she jots down orders. “You used to work there?”

Armin hums as Jubie nods. “Yeah . .” she says as her eyes glaze over in melancholy. Softer, she finishes with, “I didn’t like it that much though.”

Watching a few people walking on the sidewalk lift their heads to glance at the vehicle you’re all in, you’re a bit surprised to see Armin lazily lift two of his fingers from off of the steering wheel to greet a few. Jubie’s voice is now a whisper when she tells you, “Everybody knows him.”

Cotter’s Mill General.

The engine rumbles to a still when the truck is parked out front. “Oh!” Jubie’s eyes are wide. “They got new skirts and dresses last week—”

“—Hold it,” Armin calmly cuts through. Her hand freezes on the door handle and both of you give him your attention. “Need you both to stay where I can keep an eye on you when we get in there, alright?”

You nod, “Mhm.”

“We will.”

When he’s satisfied with your answers, he climbs out first. You watch him round the front to the passenger door, jaw flexing as he slowly chews on his gum to then open the passenger’s. Jubie hops out first, waits for you to do the same, then takes your hand to gleefully pull you in the direction of the store’s doors. A bell jingles when you both walk inside. The AC has been cranked up high. You can smell cotton fabric, wood polish, and lemon scented floor cleaner as your eyes scan the place. It’s bigger than how the outside makes it appear. Full of racks and racks of clothing near the front of the store while shelves of household goods and items are assembled towards the back. Lining the walls are shelves full of boots and shoes as well.

Not a lot of people roam the inside. A mother and daughter here, elderly woman there, and a lone farmhand scratching his head while staring at the two dozen pair of work boots while trying to decide which he prefers.

It’s quiet, comfortably quiet, with only an old radio on the cashier’s counter breaking through the silence to play 54 Ultra’s I’m Hooked. The man standing behind the counter looks up over his newspaper through thin, wiry glasses before he’s dropping his hands to give a smile, “Well I’ll be,” he folds the paper. “Haven’t seen you two in a while.”

Armin stands behind you and Jubie, his stature easily towering over the both of yours as he gives a chin tilt, “Joseph.”

Joseph does the same, “Mister Arlert,” then his eyes slide down to Jubie. “How y’doin’, Miss Jubilee?”

She coyly smiles, “Hi, Joseph, ‘m doin’ swell, thank you.”

Then his gaze lands on you — curious and friendly. You squeeze Jubie’s hand a little bit tighter. “Don’t believe I’ve seen you before.”

Instinctively, you glance up, but Armin doesn’t step forward. He looks down at you through his sunglasses with his jaw still slowly working on that piece of gum. His voice is low yet soft when he says, “Go on. Introduce y’self, sweetheart.”

Something in the way he says so, cool and certain, makes your shoulders ease. Joseph’s obviously good in his book, so he’ll be good in yours too. “. . Hi,” you gently say. “ ‘m ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱.”

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you Miss ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱. Name’s Joseph.”

Armin gives a squeeze to Jubie’s waist. “I’ll be up front right here.”

She immediately lights up with a soft squeak, as if she’s been waiting to hear those exact words all day and starts to pull you in the direction of the racks. “I always find the cutest stuff in this area right here — ooh, see?”

She holds a thick, brown knitted cardigan up to your chest and you glance at the tag. “J-Jules, that’s expensive.”

She pouts, “So?”

“I can’t really let Armin buy me a whole, new wardrobe—“

“—He’d tell you that you aren’t lettin’ him do nothin’,” she pulls out a hanger holding a pink, polka dotted, lace trimmed top and pushes it into your hands without question. “He already decided.”

Gently frowning, you look down at the clothes already starting to pile up in your arms. Jubie’s eyes soften. She knows what you’re thinking about. “꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱, you deserve nice things.” The words hit you hard. “You always have.”

The next half hour passes by in a blur of babydoll dresses, gingham tops, tiny, jean shorts, overalls, and airy, short sleeved blouses. You end up with an armful before Jubie’s leading you to the dressing room, not too far away from the cashier’s counter, so that you both can get a look at how it all fits on you. From his position, leaning on a support beam with his arms folded while softly talking to Joseph, Armin has taken off of his glasses and holds them in one of his hands. Every now and again, you saw him watching you and Jubie maneuver through the racks — his stare piercing yet soft. The dressing room’s door is directly in his line of sight now. Therefore, when you emerge from it while dressed in a cute, red and white, sleeveless, gingham patterned romper, you’re able to catch the way he suddenly halts mid sentence while talking to Joseph.

The fabric is a snug fit. The hem sits a bit higher than clothes you’re used to wearing, however, you’re not uncomfortable with it . . just slightly more exposed than you’re used to. The bodice of it clings at your waist before slightly, barely, flaring out at your hips.

And for a second, you simply stand there . . unsure of how to stand or what to even do with your hands.

“I dunno, Jubie. Is it too short?”

She’s quiet now, too. You watch her eyes trace down your bosom, hips, thighs, and legs before she slowly drags them back up while inching a little closer to you, “No,” she murmurs quietly.

Her sharp stare makes you swallow as she steps closer to softly take you by the hips. You understand to give a small turn, feeling her eyes track every slight movement.

“Wow,” She mumbles when your back is facing her. Pauses.“. . Geez, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱.”

“W-What?” You turn your head over your shoulder, feeling jittery with nerves. “ ‘s it that bad?”

She exhales a small breath through her nose then you both are facing each other again. Quietly, shyly, she shakes her head, “No. You jus’ . . You look so pretty.”

Oh.

Your cheeks warm.

But before you can even respond, you feel something shift. When Armin pushed himself off of leaning against that beam? You don’t know. Nevertheless, the linoleum beneath his boots creak as he stops a couple feet away from you and Jubie with his gaze flicking over you — once, twice. It’s a stare of focus, only slightly hazed over with something darker. His voice sounds lower when he utters, “. . . Turn around again.”

Your breath catches.

Jubie glances between the two of you while biting down on a small smile like she’s trying not to make this into something bigger than what is.

Slowly, you obey.

Then for a moment, no one speaks. Armin’s eyes follow you closely, waiting until you’re facing him again before he breathes out a breath through his nose.

“Mm.”

That’s all he gives afterwards and you don’t know how to take that. His fingers flex around his glasses as Teddy tilts her head with her own held behind her back, “Looks pretty huh, Papa.”

Papa.

He doesn’t look away from you for a beat. “Yeah,” he simply responds. “Get it.”

Then he’s taking a step back and already turning back towards Joseph as though this slight exchange has been filed away into something fairly normal. With your brain still reeling, you watch Jubie lift her chin with a proud smile and half lidded eyes, “See?” she hums. “Told you.”

Another half hour later, after trying on basically everything plus finding three pair of new shoes, another pair of boots, satin mary janes, and bow adorned flats, the three of you watch Joseph ring everything up at the counter. Guilt chips away at your conscience, watching the total rise well into the three digits. He hasn’t even made a dent into the pile sitting in front of him yet. You glance up at Armin, finding him patiently standing a step behind you and Jubie with his hands on his hips. He’d been staring at the shelf of stuffed animals and novelties behind the front counter before his eyes suddenly shift downward for a second to meet your stare.

You quickly look away.

“Alright.” Joseph tells him the total and you turn towards Jubie.

“I can put some stuff back—“

“—Mm mm. Look.” The both of you watch Armin pull out his worn down, brown, leather wallet again. Casually, he peels off a small stack of hundreds and places them into Joseph’s hand without much of a thought given.

“I’ll meet you two in the truck, hm?” he hums while sliding it back into his pocket. “Say goodbye to Joseph.”

“See you later, Joseph,” Jubie smiles with a wave. “Thank you.”

He smiles, “Pleasure’s all mine, Jubilee. And it was mighty fine to meet you too, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱.”

Respectfully, you wave goodbye, “Thank you.” and follow Jubie out of the front door, leaving Armin inside. You think about the reasons why he’d be staying in, if it’s anything bad regarding you, but, shockingly enough, only seconds after you and Jubie are situated in your seats, he’s pushing open the door with one arm full of paper bags and the other’s hand holding a stuffed lamb.

Its fur is curly, soft, and the color of muted cream. Your chest tightens the second you see it, already knowing that it was purchased for Jubie.

And after placing the bags within the trunk bed, he’s climbing it to surprisingly hold it out towards you. “For you.”

Your eyes widen, “Me?”

“Jubie has Babs. Figured you needed your own. Saw you glancin’ at it, too.”

You hadn’t even realized you were. Slowly, you reach out to take the lamb from his hand finding that the fur has warmed within his hold. You run your fingers across it as a soft smile pulls up the corners of your lips. Shes pretty. Black, beady eyes, floppy ears, and a small, stitched smile. Armin’s hand had dwarfed her completely, on your lap, her size is nearly the length of your wrist up a little ways past your elbow.

“Thank you . .” you bite down on your bottom lip, eyes wide and glistening when you look into his. “so much.”

Armin hums, “Wun’t nothin’, doll.” He hands over a paper wrapped bundle to Jubie, making her gasp. “And for you.”

Unwrapping the twine carefully, she soon emits a small squeal upon seeing what lies inside, “Eek!” A pair of small, gold hoops that dangle precious, vintage hearts. “Oh my gosh — thank you, thank you, thank you, Pa.”

It’s when you’re all back on the road, headed towards the farm when you let yourself relax. Really relax. Jubie hums along to the music again while admiring the new earrings now dangling from her ears in the side view mirror. You sit beside her quietly, fingers rubbing at the ear of the new friend in your lap, finding a sense of comfort in the repetition as calmness swathes over your usual overactive nervous system. For once in your life, you feel good. Nothing’s screaming at you to bolt or hide or cry. Then you feel Jubie’s fingers on your forearm. They slide down your skin until she’s able to press her palm flat against your own to then slowly, naturally, fit her small fingers between the spaces of yours.

You blush.

“What are you gonna name her?”

“Uhm,” you hesitate then shrug. “. . I dunno.”

You look at Armin. His gaze remains steady on the road as you timidly ask, “Do you have a name for her?”

There’s a brief pause. Jubie’s thumbs stroke across your knuckles while the both of you wait for his answer. He clicks his tongue after a while, “Lily.”

“Lily?” you look down at the stuffed animal as he nods.

“She seems like a Lily.”

Jubie smiles, “Lily and Babs. I like it.”

Lily. You smooth your fingers over the fur between her ears as the road curves towards the familiar stretch leading to the farm. “Hi, Lily.”

・・・・・

A month passes by.

Slowly.

You’re granted permission to work on the farm alongside Armin and Jubie the next day after being gifted your new boots. It’s honest work . . gives you purpose. Neither you or Jubie do as much work as Armin, but it’s enough to have you winded by noon. The two of you alternate days doing certain duties. Tuesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays, and sometimes Sundays, you feed the chickens and collect their eggs. Jubie does so on the others, though the two of you often end up helping one another anyway, giggling quietly when one of the hens peck at one of your boots or hands to make the other hiss in irritation.

Armin also has you and her brushing out the horses’ manes in the afternoons. It’s a chore that requires a lot of patience. Very meticulous. Jubie talks to them softly all the while she does so, tells you that it’s nice to tell them her secrets and you should try. You gravitate towards Samson, naturally . . finding him all too sweet and take her advice. Gently, you like to mumble to him about your day — little thoughts and small fragments of things you aren’t too sure of where to put sometimes. Some days, when he’s really busy, Armin sends you both out to refill the water troughs. It takes the two of you together to drag the hose out far enough, due to the rubber being so heavy and both your sets of hands being too small, to get the water in the basins.

Sweeping up the barn aisles, pulling weeds, milking the cows, and herding up the goats — doing it all with Jubie is the best. You’re reminded of your times as kids again — shared laughter and quiet teamwork. Only this time, something new is threaded within it all . . structure and stability. Something neither of you truly had back then. That chart stuck to the refrigerator with sparkling stickers dotted all over it? Armin placed another one, decorated with your name on top of the paper, written in his beautiful, olden cursive-like handwriting next to it. The feeling had been so robust — seeing that pink, glittery, star shaped sticker next to each chore you’d done . . the first time had rendered you still. Completely immobile while reaching for the handle to grab the pitcher of milk one morning.

Armin, standing with his coffee mug in hand and a burning cig between his fingers caught your stare, “Helps keep things in order,” he mumbled while lifting the mug up to his lips, eyes penetrating. “Lil girls need . . .” He paused for a moment. “Structure.”

You hadn’t known how to really reply, so you only nodded.

You don’t know when he adds the stickers to the chart and you don’t try to catch him, but nearly every night you find your eyes drifting to it as you all eat dinner. Sometimes, when it’s just Jubie and you alone, sitting on the porch, she’ll nudge you with her shoulder, “We’re doin’ good, huh?”

You are. You both really are.

You catch the things he says to Jubie in passing sometimes. Each word gruff, drawled in his thick Mississippi accent, “C’mere, pumpkin’. Lemme get a look at’cha.” “Slow down, baby. It ain’t a race.” “Who wanted those goats . . . Naw, tell me — Right. Right. It was you. Go fetch ‘em.”

They all make your stomach flip.

Armin exudes an air you’ve never been around before. All the men you’ve happened to know in your life have all been somewhat the same. If they weren’t liars, they were lazy, and if they weren’t physically hurting you, they were disappearing on you instead. Eventually, they’ve all slipped out of your life the minute something became inconvenient. Whether your feelings became too much or if they figured they’d be better off somewhere else. None of them have ever felt steady.

There’s something gentle laced beneath the firmness of Armin. He never raises his voice. Not with Jubie. Not with you. When he speaks, the world seems to know to listen.

Sometimes he even says things like that to you, too.

“Finish your food ‘fore it gets cold.”

“Get your jacket, sweetheart. Mornin’s chilly today.”

“Mm-mm. Sit up straight, shoulders back. There you go.”

Each sentence invokes a warm fuzz beneath your chest. Even more so when he’s speaking to both you and Jubie at once, “You two stick together out there.”

“You girls eat yet?”

“ C’mon now. Y’all bet not make me repeat myself.”

Little moments like that stack up over the weeks. You’ve realized somewhere down the line that it’s simply natural for him. Being authoritative, that pillar of stability and quiet control that catalyzes everything to lean against him. The farm, the animals . . Jubie. You think about one, certain evening.

You hadn’t mean to eavesdrop . . it’d just been something that happened. You’d been walking up the back trail from the creek — lately, you’ve been finding yourself spending time near it to pick up an old hobby, journaling. Back when you were younger, you’d do it often. It helped you sort through things. Your feelings and thoughts that were much too tangled to be spoken out loud.

You saw the kitchen’s back door was propped open . . something they do when they know you’re out, however that night, you heard it — Jubie’s voice drifting out into the warm, mid August air. It’d been different than usual, still sweet and gentle as always, though . . warbly. Pitched only slightly higher, too. Armin never interrupted her as she spoke. You watched him lean against the sink with his buff arms folded as she stood in front of him already showered with her bonnet on and in a pretty, pj set. Their size difference was stark — that’s what you remembered most. She only barely reached the middle of his chest.

So that’s how you look standing next to him too?

When she was done speaking, there’d been a calm pause. Then, finally Armin said something. “Alright.”

A beat.

“An’ what do you want Dad to do about that, hm?”

The word had made you completely halt in your steps towards the porch. Dad. There wasn’t a smile on neither of their faces. It wasn’t said jokingly or even casually. It was said as if it was always meant to be there. You recall the way Jubie sniffled and shuffled on her feet.

“You don’t get to stand here in front of me and act like you ain’t do nothin’, Jubilee,” Armin’s voice was calm and contained yet she still gave a small, barely visible flinch at the sound of her full name leaving his lips. “I know you better than that, you know yer’self better than that. Now get on up them stairs—“

“—B-But—“

“—Hey.” Not loud. Just firm. He straightened himself up prior to leaning forward. The air settles around them both.“You had your say. I listened.” His fingers grabbed her chin to pull her face up to his. “It’s your turn to listen to me.”

Her shoulders had dropped before she sniffled again. No more back talk. You heard her mumble a small, “Yes, sir,” before slowly turning to walk out into the hall.

Maybe you should have moved then — continued up the porch steps or rather even walked around the house to enter through the front door in efforts to be less inconspicuous. But, you remained standing there, doe eyed and stuck, watching Armin remain in front of the counter like nothing had changed at all. That’s what glued itself to your psyche. The naturalness of the conversation.

Then, shockingly, after settling himself back leaning against it with a low sigh, he turned his head towards the back screen door. “You can gon’ head and come on in now, missy.”

Your heart drops.

He doesn’t seem the slightest bit surprised to see you when you pull open the screen door and slowly step inside. He just looks at you — icy blue eyes evaluating the pink and cream striped tube top with matching fold-over shorts you wear down to the dirty Reeboks on your feet then the lace trimmed journal clutched between your little fingers. “. . Enjoyed y’self out there?”

A small pause before you end up nodding.

“Nothin’ bite on ya’, right? Put on that repellant like I asked?”

“Mhm,” one more nod. “No bites.”

He hums. You watch his eyes trail again, somehow even slower this time. His stare drags across your bare collarbones, to the slope of your shoulders, down to the gold bracelet on your wrist. “ ‘m thinkin’ about breakfast for dinner, what d’ya say, dollface . .” Then they slowly drag back up into your own.

The surface of your cheeks warm as you clutch your journal a little bit tighter. “French toast.”

A thick, blond brow raises as he folds him arms, prior to reaching up to scratch at the scruff of his jaw. “Probably . . . but I thought we were workin’ on manners, me and you. Sounds more like a demand.”

You hiccup on a breath, “Oh.” Armin could tell that you’ve gotten so used to being quiet and staying out of the way that whenever you do get the chance to use your words, most of your sentences are curt, short, and to the point. Not a lot of ‘please’s or ‘can I’s. He doesn’t like that too much. He watches you nibble on your bottom lip, words seemingly dancing on your tongue before you softly ask, “May we have french toast?”

“Better.”

He notices how your shoulders relax. Pushing himself off of leaning upon the counter, Armin brushes past you to close the wooden door, lock it, then open the pantry. “You been down by that creek a good while today. Go wash up.”

Your sneakers scuff against the floor as you go to head towards the hall, “Yes, sir.”

However, the conversation you just happened to overhear replays in your mind — Jubie’s soft, whimpery voice echos the loudest, therefore you halt. “Uhm . .”

“Hm?” Armin murmurs with his back towards you while untwisting the plastic around a loaf of bread.

“. . Did Jubie do somethin’ wrong?”

You watch him pause. For a moment, you anticipate him simply brushing you off, maybe even blatantly ignoring your question entirely to continue sending you off upstairs. You’re unready to hear him huff a sound, though — something akin to a small chuckle. “Naw,” he quietly replies. “Not nothin’ wrong. Jus’ somethin’ I told her not to.”

You linger in the doorway with your fingers clutched around the frame of it. “Was it bad?”

“She’ll live,” he responds while opening the fridge to grab a basket full of brown and white eggs, followed by a carton of milk. “Girl jus’ needs remindin’ sometimes. Ain’t gotta like or understand my rules but they will be respected.”

The crack of an egg shell against the rim of a porcelain bowl forces you on your way, but you can hear it as you walk upstairs . . . the words he didn’t say.

And that goes for the both a’ya.

・・・・・

While scrubbing your skin clean free from the smell of creek water and grass with strawberries and cream scented body wash beneath the firm pressured beads of water pouring from the head of the shower, the word Dad slowly finds its way looping throughout your usual thoughts. It’s not something you misheard, you know that. There’s a weird feeling stirring in your gut. Something crossed between inquisition and something else you can’t quite name. When you picture the scene again — Armin standing there, big arms folded, voice low and steady as Jubie sniffled in front of him . . your chest tightens a little. You don’t know why.

You’ve never seen Jubie like that before. You’ve never seen her stand so small in front of someone . . never seen it . . fit so naturally either. You think about what if it were you . . moreso, what if it were you standing beside her, meek and soft too, listening to Armin’s low, gruff voice drawl out his words, coated in a certain type of patience that makes his disappointment feel all the more worse. His gaze moving between the two of you.

Your heart skips.

You blow out a heavy breath and turn the shower knob with a little more force than needed to cut it off. No, is what you tell yourself. You can’t. You won’t.

Cool air wafts against your skin when you open the bathroom door after wrapping a fluffy, white towel around your body. You’re prepared to simply cross the short distance to your room to continue your nightly routine when you see it . . . Armin and Jubie’s bedroom door left slightly ajar. Wide eyed, you blink softly at it. You shouldn’t. You know it. But you walk on over and carefully push it open anyway.

It creaks when you do.

The room smells like fresh laundry detergent and, interestingly enough, pipe tobacco. It’s bigger than the one you occupy, completed with three, long rectangular windows behind their large, king sized farmhouse bed that’s layered with quilts and half a dozen pillows where Jubie lies on her stomach, legs crossed at the ankles and swaying in the air. She’s rubbing one of Babs’ floppy ears between her small, nimble fingers, deep pout on her lips before looking up to see you. Instantly, her eyes widen.

“Oh,” quickly, she pushes herself up to take a seat upon her butt. “I t-thought you were Armin.”

“Sorry,” you mutter as you slowly step inside. “I wanted to check on you. Uhm . . he’s makin’ french toast.”

Steam still emits off of your skin in pale clouds as Jubie’s eyes flicker over your face before down at the towel wrapped around your body. “Come sit,” she whispers with two soft pats to the cushiony comforter she sits upon. Hesitating, you eventually walk over to do so. She’s been making you more nervous lately, you don’t understand it. “So,” your eyes are big and unguarded when you gently ask, “Why’d you get in trouble?”

You watch her hesitate. Then surprisingly, a deep coral shade starts to blossom beneath the light brown skin of her dimpled cheeks. “It’s kinda dumb,” she mumbles back.

You give a little smile and head shake. “No, tell me.”

Jubie shakes hers too, “No, no . . he jus’ . . caught me doin’ somethin’, takin’ somethin’ I wasn’t supposed to.”

“Ohhh,” slowly, you nod. “. . So, you got sent upstairs.”

“Mhm,” she’s reverted back to looking back down at Babs before her voice gets a little quieter. “Sometimes I’d jus’ rather deal with the spankins.”

The words dwindle . . soft yet impactful. It makes your breath hitch at the sheer picture of it . . Jubie bent over a short gate, outside probably, with one of her cute, polka dotted sundresses flipped up to expose the soft cheeks of her plump, heart shaped butt. Armin’s palm, his belt, or a switch, cracking down on them, left then right . . turning them that same coral shade of the blush painted across her face, then red, maybe even a soft mauve if pushed to that point.

“Oh my gosh — No, I mean . .—“ Jubie must have realized what she said. But quickly, softly, you interrupt, “ ‘s okay.” Your voice is quieter than expected. It swiftly makes Jubie’s words die out upon her tongue, leaving her to simply stare at you.

It’s a different stare.

One you’ve never seen from her. She’s staring at you the way one would daydream — sleek, cat like monolids relaxed yet . . dazed over . . . like she’s thinking about something. It’s heavy for you, thus, you look away with your cheeks burning warm to take a better look around their room. Wallpaper the color of neutral brown with vintage flowers printed all over it invokes a sort of cozy feeling within you. More landscape paintings and a few framed pictures cover it. You spot Jubie’s vanity flushed against the wall between the closet and bathroom door, surface dotted with glass bottles of perfumes, hair care items, and cosmetics. A large wooden dresser’s top holds a small, ceramic tray filled with rings, next to it is an opened music box that showcases her necklaces and earrings.

A box of cigarettes and a lamp sits on Armin’s nightstand, a packet of candy on Jubie’s. There’s a softness to everything. More specifically, a small corner, not too far from the bed, beside the large bookcase. It catches your eye because the circular, fuzzy, pink rug there stands out a bit more compared to the neutrals of the rest of the room. Closer, you look to see a large basket of plush toys, the small stack of children’s books on the lower shelf, the few toys.

“I get small sometimes . . . most times . .” Jubie utters when she follows your stare. Quickly, you look back at her, unable to feel like you’ve walked in on something far too intimate now. “That’s all.”

“Oh,” is all you can breathe out.

The sentence had been six words long but . . somehow it completes the puzzle that’s been quietly forming in your brain since you stepped foot over their front door’s threshold. Jubie’s softness, the way Armin handles her, it all settles into place. “. . You call him Dad?”

Slowly, she nods as her fingers fidget with her nightshirt now, “Sometimes . . He takes care of me in that way, too.”

The gentle honesty makes your stomach flip. You’re nodding softly when you whisper, “That’s good, Jubie.”

She glances up at you then. She seems part relieved and part . . enamored. “You’ve always understood me.”

You can’t help giggling, “You’ve always understood me too, silly.”

For a moment neither of you say much else. You’ve come to realize that you two are seated pretty close. Her soft, painted toes brush up against your thigh when she slowly wiggles them while letting eyes drift down from your own to the curve of your neck. Heart thudding, you watch her lean in closer to you, eyes halfway closed to then breathe in through her nose, “. . . You smell like strawberries.”

You take the chance of leaning in too. It leaves only a sliver of space between your bodies at this point when you shyly angle your nose for the pocket of her neck. “You smell like . . roses.”

Softly, she giggles, her breath soft and warm against your cheek, “Really?”

“Mhm.”

The air between you both prickles with emotion when you pull back to look into her eyes once more. She’s staring at you . . in that way again — that faraway kind of stare. Timidly, you smile, “. . . Hi.”

Her lips quirk, “. . Hi, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱.”

Then, without saying much else, she leans forward.

She doesn’t press her lips against yours . . not yet. Softly, she brushes them across the plump petals of your own, slow and uncertain as if she were feeling the moment out, feeling you out before taking the chance. Instantaneously, your hands fly to her knees to squeeze at them in quivering shock, needing to steady yourself. The both of your breathing grows shaky. “You’re so pretty,” Jubie mumbles, her voice barely even a pitch louder than the droning hum of the ceiling fan whirling away up above. The compliment gives you enough confidence to tentatively take the chance at pecking hers. She gasps softly at the small contact, “C-Can I . . ?”

In the same instance, you both deepen the kiss.

Jubie’s hands lift to delicately cup your face as your grip remains tightened at her knees before it slowly softens once your lips begin to move with a sweet kind of eagerness that makes your heart flutter in your chest.

The pace isn’t rushed. Not at all. It’s just a slow pressure as you both try to figure out the rhythm together. You feel her mouth part open wider when you tilt your head, the angle shifting just enough to make your noses brush against one another’s. The scent of her fills your senses, mixing well with the sweet, clean scent of your showered skin . . it feels intimate as your soft, plush lips move against each other in slow, graceful harmony.

Distantly, you find this to be releasing. You think Jubie does, too — you feel it when she sighs into your mouth before pushing in closer to you. Because, in a way, Jubie’s always been pretty . . she’s always made your heart thud . . she’s always made you feel things you never quite knew how to properly explain. And when the both of you finally pull apart and you see the emotion swimming deep within the dark browns of her eyes, you realize that maybe you’ve always done the same to her.

For a while, neither of you speak.

But something anew has blossomed.

Downstairs, the faint clatter of a pot causes your heads to turn towards the door. “He’s probably almost done,” Jubie says with color flourishing up to her cheeks again.

You nod, but you don’t move. She doesn’t either. Instead, her hand slowly pushes across the quilt to gently lace her index finger around yours. Her touch makes you close your eyes and sigh. “. . You should go put on your pjs.”

Right.

“Yeah.” Slowly, you stand to adjust the towel around your body. “ ‘ll come get you when dinner’s ready, okay?”

Jubie nods, “Yeah.”

・・・・・

One would think you and Jubie’s friendship would grow awkward after that. She’s in a relationship, you know that. She’s in love with Armin, Armin’s in love with her, you know that . . however, interestingly enough, you both become somehow even more in tuned to one another — like a new undercurrent beneath your already strong baseline has been established. Farm duties are still completed, for the most part, together. But it’s not just that anymore.

Everything starts to feel synced . . coordinated . . effortless.

When the both of you sit on the couch during the evening for a period of relaxation with a cute cartoon or an old, 60s romantic film playing on the television screen, Jubie’s legs are naturally draping over your lap. You rub your fingers against her soft calves as you two quietly speak and giggle. She does your hair one day — washes it in the kitchen sink, detangles, finger curls each coil and zigzags a part down the middle to give you two, big, cute puffs. The whole ordeal took about three hours, however you never once felt restless.

Instead, you sat patiently on a chair she sat out on the porch, feeling her fingers weaving softly through your hair while watching Armin push bales of hay across the field. You start to recognize the subtle signs Jubie shows when she’s slipping a little bit smaller now, too. How her voice softens, how she grows a little more quieter, and needy. It takes a lot of self restraint in you to not want to follow her there. Each time it happens, there’s a small part of you that wants to let go — sink into that same sweet softness and stop thinking so hard about everything, about everyone, about those bad memories.

But, you don’t.

You watch her sit on the porch, legs criss crossed as she carefully colors in a butterfly within a page of a coloring book with an array of about fifty crayons beside her thigh, watch her doodle cute drawings on the slab of concrete out near the back field with fat pieces of pastel chalk whose dye gets all over her legs, arms and face, nap on the hayloft with Babs after a particular long day, and fall into Armin when that same sweet softness gets to be all consuming.

Armin.

You try not to freak out too much when you find his icy blue stare lingering on the way you and Jubie hold hands while walking to the barn to brush the horses or when the two of you are doing anything else together for that matter. He knows. You know that he knows, you just aren’t too sure if he knows the sheer extent of what he knows. It drives you crazy.

He hasn’t said anything.

He won’t say anything . . . not yet.

But you catch him looking, really looking at the two of you now, and each time it happens, you’re quick to drop Jubie’s hand or straighten your posture or add some type of distance between the two of you . . out of respect. There’d been a particular, blazing hot afternoon where you and Jubie had been playing with the hose — both of you dressed in tiny, denim daisy dukes, tied tops, barefoot, and sparkly eyed. You both were screaming and giggling, fighting to pull the hose out of the other’s hand, chasing each other across the bright green field and spraying each other until you were completely soaked.

And he just stood there off by his truck with one arm hooked over the bed of it, cigarette burning slow between his fingers.

Watching.

You saw it in the way his eyes trailed after you both beneath his hat, how the corner of his mouth slightly twitched as if he were storing the sight for something private to remember later on. It’s not just that neither. You and Jubie would be lazing together on the couch before you suddenly feel that familiar feeling of prickles crawling across the back of your neck. You’d look behind you to see him leaning against the archway, arms folded, studying the two of you like he’s trying to work out the last few letters of a crossword that’s already ninety percent completed.

It makes you nervous . . definitely.

However . . . you’ve come to realize that something else within your heart, mind, and soul has started to happen. Your feelings for Jubie deepen more and more by the day. You find yourself noticing the shape of her smile a bit too much, needy for the warmth of her lithe body against yours when you’re in bed, and feel the way butterflies flutter about your stomach when she stares at you for a beat longer than usual. Surely, what you feel for her no longer walks the line of platonic.

And then there’s Armin.

If it’s guilt you feel when you find yourself thinking about Jubie while around him, it’s pure shame when you catch yourself thinking about him, admiring him when she’s standing right beside you.

It’s difficult to try to ignore the way he moves about the farm, about life. The weight behind each of his steps, broad swell of his biceps when he bends his arms to snatch off his work gloves, the calm, deep croon of his voice when he’s speaking to you or Jubie or giving instructions. And it’s unfortunate to realize, but ignoring doesn’t stop the feelings from growing.

When you catch him reclined back in his chair, Jubie fast asleep on his lap, as he nurses a glass of whisky and watches a court show, you’re aware of his stare dragging on over to you sitting curled up on the sofa with Lily clutched between your fingers like a lifeline. Not cold or even inquiring, but . . thoughtful. Like, he’s thinking about something. Taking note of something.

Heat crawls up your spine and blossoms across your face each time you catch that look because the actual truth of the matter is, your feelings for Armin and Jubie are separate, nonetheless, they grow side by side, inching up your heart to tighten around it like a noose.

It becomes difficult to sleep most nights because of them.

But tonight’s just one of those nights where you’ve found yourself drained. Mentally, physically, emotionally, so after eating and showering, you shut your door, climb into bed and pass out. Then the nightmare comes — this one the most terrifying one you’ve experienced in a long time. It all seems to happen in quick bursts. You discovering Armin and Jubie standing out by the barn one early morning, the two of them hesitating for a second before telling you that they didn’t mean for things to get so confusing, that it’s best if you leave and found your own slice of happiness. Suddenly the farmhouse wasn’t the farmhouse, but your tiny, two bedroom duplex you grew up in. Doors slamming, screams echoing, your chest cracks open.

That awful feeling of not belonging anywhere, like you’re always too much — it spans over your entire body, leaving your eyes to suddenly burst open as your chest quickly rises and falls.

Your fingers are trembling when you lift them to your face only to pull them back and see the salt traced wetness glistening faintly against the pads of them through the bright moonlight spilling in through the curtains. For a moment, you don’t move. You remain lying there, fighting to even out your fast, quivering breaths as a deep hollow caves itself within your heart . . . remnants that some of these dreams can’t help but leave behind. Squeezing your eyes shut before pressing the heels of your palms against them, you try to forget about it.

In, out. In, out. In, out.

But you still see it — Jubie stepping behind Armin, Armin’s gruff voice telling you that you’ll be alright. Unthinking, you push your quilt from off of your body to swing your legs over and press your feet against the cool, hardwood. The house is completely silent, you’re aware that the two of them may be sleeping, therefore, you try your best to be as silent as possible upon opening your door and slipping past their own for the staircase. Some water and fresh air, that’s all you need. You’ll calm down in no time.

However, you’re halfway down the hall to the kitchen when you notice that the amber glow of the stove light is on. You pause halfway and look behind you at the front door, only to see it still closed and locked — same way it’s been since six o clock when Armin called you and Jubie in for the evening. Carefully, you round the kitchen doorway’s corner to see him . . . standing in front of the stove, broad back facing you, as he stirs something in a small sauce pan with a wooden spoon.

Your barefoot touching the tile of the kitchen is loud enough to have him look over his shoulder to see you standing there, dressed in a butter yellow, thin strapped babydoll slip. You’re wide eyed as you go to subconsciously cross your arms over your tummy, even as your chest still rises and falls with shaky, shallow breaths and your cheeks are sticky with dried tears.

Armin’s gaze lingers on the picture you make before he asks, “Feelin’ alright?”

He wears a pair of plaid, navy and red pajama pants and white undershirt. His hair’s loose tonight in a way you’ve never seen — dirty blond waves fluffy and sticking up this way and that. You inch towards the table, “J-Jus’ a bad dream.”

“Mmm,” he hums while turning back forward and clicking off the burner. “I heard you cryin’.”

Your eyes grow a bit bigger, “Really? — Oh, I’m . . I’m sorry.”

“Ain’t nothin’ to apologize for.”

You watch him open a cabinet. His fingers had paused while reaching for a plain, pink ceramic mug before he extends his arm further in to pull free a thicker, plastic one from behind it — clear with cute strawberries printed all over it. One of those that you have to manually open with the push of a button on the lid that pops a straw out. Outside, you hear the faint chirping of crickets and the hum of cicadas as he unscrews the top, lifts the pan off of the oven, and slowly pours in the milk that’s been warmed until it nearly touches the brim.

Each step is slow and unhurried as he walks over to you while twisting the lid back on. When he stops in front of you, you’re left simply standing there, head lifted to watch him look back down at you, eyes heavy lidded, “. . Drink it ‘fore it cools.”

Delicately, you take the cup from his hands, your fingers brushing against one another’s for a split second. The warmth of the milk immediately seeps against your palms. You take a small, tentative sip, surprised to taste vanilla and a splash of cinnamon against your tongue.

“M’grandmother used to make me this ‘fore bed sometimes,” he mutters with his eyes fastened on your lips wrapped around that jumbo straw. “. . Tell me about the dream.”

You swallow and pull it away as the sharp feeling of embarrassment crawls its fingers up your spine, “ ‘s stupid.”

“Tell me.”

You pause as your eyes fall to his chest while looking for the right words. Silence feels long and heavy until you break it with, “I dreamt . . that you and Jubie sent me away.”

You don’t look up at him again, but you hear him inhale a breath through his nose. “ ‘s that right.”

Slowly, you nod. Your voice is quieter when you say, “Told you it was stupid.”

“Ain’t stupid. You jus’ scared you don’t belong here wit’ us, that’s all.”

You didn’t say that part out loud, however, somehow he gets it. Glancing up at him, you notice that he hasn’t pulled his ardent, blue gaze away from your face. He doesn’t make a move to add some distance between your bodies neither, no, he remains standing only about a step and a half away from you with his arms folded. “Shouldn’t bother stressin’ yer’self with matters like that, sweetheart. You ain’t goin’ anywhere. Jubie and I both know that.”

The certainty traced beneath his words are absolute. They make you shiver. One nudge beneath the bottom of your cup from him and you’re understanding that he wants you to drink some more.

“Atta girl,” he mumbles. The praise slips in casually, almost an absentminded thing it sounds like, yet something in you blooms all the more.

Eyes drifting downward, Armin takes in your still quivering fingers, strap of your babydoll hanging off of your shoulder . . . such a pretty thing you are, it’s downright criminal. “You an’ Jubie . . . the two a’ya remind me a lot of each other,” he hums, low and thoughtful. “Both sweet as sugar. Real soft hearts. Carryin’ the same kinda hurt.”

Your stomach flips, listening to him speak like he’s been plagued with this conception for a while now. “You girls get that same kinda look, too.”

“What look?”

“Dazed,” he answers back, voice quiet but matter-of-fact. “Doe eyed . . . Like y’close to slippin’ back into somethin’ small but you keep fightin’ it.”

As you stand there, heart racing and shocked, Armin scratches at his scruff. “Don’t know why you girls do that . . man like me has always been more than capable of takin’ care’a things like that.”

You hadn’t realized that you were that obvious. You hadn’t realized that he noticed. “I don’t . . . I didn’t . .” you can’t find the words.

“You ain’t gotta hide that part a’ya is all I’m sayin’,” Armin finishes as his voice dips slightly deeper. “It don’t bother me none. I take care of what’s mine.”

Blinking, you watch him take a couple steps away to reach up and flick off the stovetop light. For a moment, it leaves the both of you enshrouded in nothing but the moonlight pouring in through the windows. You feel him staring at you, even as he starts on his way towards the hall, “C’mon.”

“Hm?”

“Back upstairs. You shouldn’t be by y’self after a dream like that.”

Oh.

“I-I’ll be o—“

He’s shaking his head after a quick suckle to his canine tooth, “Nah, nah. I don’t wanna hear that. Honey bee’s already sleep, we got plenty a’room for you. C’mon.”

You’re aware that he isn’t really giving you a choice. Still, you waver. He’s already halfway down the hall when he stops then glances back at you over his shoulder. Leaving your half full cup on the table, your feet move on their own. As he leads you throughout the house, towards the staircase, you can’t help but take in how different he looks at night opposed to day. Still solid, still steady, just . . slightly softer around the edges. He smells like soap and smoke.

Their bedroom door is already cracked open when his palm pushes it wider. You’re thumbing with your fingers, looking up at him for permission when your foot crosses the threshold. He’s right. Jubie’s asleep. You spot her immediately, curled beneath the comforters, curls spilling from her silk scarf upon her pillow as she sleeps with her lips parted and fists curled beneath her cheek.

She looks small. At ease.

The sight makes you smile a bit. “I don’t wanna wake her,” you whisper softly to Armin as he nudges you on closer with his fingers on your hips.

“She’ll be okay. Jus’ climb in.”

You move slowly as you climb onto the mattress like you’re afraid you might break something. Heart fluttering, you lift the cover to slide in beside Jubie, not surprised to watch her eyebrows furrow in her sleep before she slowly stirs awake.

She blinks, bleary eyes focusing on you laying your head on the same pillow beneath her head. It takes her a longer couple of seconds, but once fully conscious, a small, sleepy smile overtakes her lips, “. . Hi.”

Your responding smile is shy, “Hi.”

Her voice is lighter yet still thick with sleep, “Bad dream?”

“. . Yeah.”

She doesn’t ask anymore questions. Instantly, she scoots closer, draping one arm lazily over your waist while nuzzling her face into your shoulder. The position is nostalgic. Instincts let you tuck your face into her own, close your eyes and breathe. “ ‘s okay,” Jubie sleepily murmurs. “ ‘ll make you waffles in the mornin’.”

Seated at the edge of the bed, Armin watches the whole thing. A quiet exhale leaves him as his stare moves between how naturally the two of you curl into each other, like pieces of a puzzle. He noticed down there in the kitchen how your body had been tensed tight, full of leftover fear and panic from that nightmare, however now, the warmth of Jubie seems to be easing it all away.

Slow and careful, he shifts forward, feeling the mattress dip as he settles in behind Jubie, not surprised to feel her relax against him, even in her sleep, like she’s done a thousand times before. Armin’s arm lifts, settling it across her waist which only nudges you closer to her. And without waking, your fingers search, slow and twitchy, until they catch on Armin’s fingers. You wrap your hand around his middle and ring, squeezing on them softly.

Armin doesn’t react. If anything, his thumb moves to stroke careful brushes across your inner wrist.

There’s no separation between the three of you. Just warmth, comfort, and quiet.

Eyes blinking for just a couple seconds longer, he takes in the scene with a quiet shake of his head. The two of you are going to be the death of him.

・・・・・

“You wanna have a picnic out in the backyard? . . Jus’ you and me?”

Jubie had asked you the question about an hour ago. It’s been a couple days since your whole nightmare ordeal and nothing has changed — neither for better or worse. Life with them goes on about the same but you think about Armin’s words more than anything.

”You ain’t going anywhere. Jubie and I both know that.”

”Like y’close to slippin’ back into somethin’ small but you keep fightin’ it.”

”It don’t bother me none. I take care of what’s mine.”

Part of you doesn’t really know what to do with the feelings they invoke inside of you. They don’t feel like a threat . . . but they don’t feel light either. Had he meant to insinuate that you’re . . his? Does that mean, in some sort of twisted way that he’s yours? Is Jubie yours, too? It’s all sort of confusing. It doesn’t help that he seemingly doesn’t care to explain neither.

It feels good to sunbathe on a quilt within the mid October sun nonetheless. The leaves are starting to brown, same with the grass. Humidity is switched out for a cool, refreshing breeze. Some of the bugs are retiring back from which they came after their short lived summer. Both you and Jubie are barefoot in flowy, pretty sundresses. You watch her unpack the little, wicker basket she’d brought from the kitchen, seeing that its contents included a few, plastic wrapped sandwiches, platter of fruit, and a couple juice boxes.

You listen to her softly hum a tune to herself as she arranges everything neatly. “Hungry?”

“Mmm,” you shrug and fold your legs butterfly style. “Not super. Think ‘m jus’ snack hungry.”

“Eat some,” she coaxes with gestures to the fruit. She takes a fat piece of a pineapple spear and bites into it first. You take your chance with a couple of cold, green grapes.

And for a while, you both sit there within the calm, farm silence, listening to the wind, cows, and horses sing.

“You ever gonna give me a peek . .?”

Looking over at Jubie, you find that her eyes are stuck on your journal that lays between the space of your legs. Your words have always flowed best when you’re out in fresh air — it’s why you brought it outside with you today. Cheeks warm, you sway from left to right on your butt, “I dunnooo . .” you softly say. “Mostly jus’ poems in here . . and some sad thoughts.”

“Yeah?” her lips pout. “Do you feel sad often?”

The question stumps you for a second. Reason being, when asked this six months ago, you would’ve told her that you’ve only ever felt sad for the majority of your life so far. However, as of late . . “Not really. I’ve been okay.”

“Good, that makes me happy.”

Another comfortable silence. You finish your handful of grapes, look around you, then ask, “. . I never got to ask you how you got here . . . or why you left Georgia.” You’ve always wondered. For weeks and months and years. Why she suddenly up and left, why she never told you . . or took you with her.

Jubie squints up at the sun, nose cutely wrinkled, “Jus’ got tired of it . .” she retorts after a moment. “Of him, you know? ‘Member I told you about m’auntie in Tennessee?” When you nod, Jubie does too. “Well, she always told me her door was open for me. She hated m’mom . . for good reason, obviously. I managed to hitchhike my way to her old trailer park, lived with her ‘til I was eighteen, then I left there too. She was good to me but, stayin’ there jus’ wasn’t the life for me, I could feel it. So somehow, after some more hitchhikin’ . . I ended up here, got a lil gig as a shoe shiner in town, lived in a motel for a bit, eventually took up that waitress job, then . .” Her lips curl up. “Armin came.”

“Oh,” you thumb with the pages of your journal. Jubie leans in closer to you, “How’d you get here?”

“I left home when I was sixteen,” you gently reply, unsurprised to watch her lips pop open in awe. “Yeah . . . Got put in foster care not too long after you left, hopped around from home to home until I ended up a few cities away from here. I lived in a few motels too, before I met this . . guy when I turned twenty.” Jubie notices how you start to fidget and scratch at your shoulder. Whatever memories that are currently flying through your brain aren’t any good ones. “Stayed with him for two years until I finally decided to buy a random bus ticket and get away from ‘im.”

Softly, Jubie hums. Her eyes slowly scan your face before she reaches to interlace her fingers within the spaces of yours. “And that random bus ticket landed you here . . .”

“Isn’t that insane?”

The two of you giggle. It’s a shared laugh full of disbelief on how all the pieces managed to fall into place the way that they did. “Tell me . .” you look away to the blanket, nibble on your bottom lip then look back up at Jubie. She can’t help but notice how bashful you seem now. “Tell me how you and Armin . . how you guys came to be.”

Jubie grins, peers down at your conjoined hands then squeezes yours. “Well . . .” she cutely drags. “I guess you can say I had a teensie crush on him for weeks before the two of us even talked. He used to come to the diner all the time and order the same thing — country fried steak, eggs, and a coffee. Comes up to me one day and tells me that he’s takin’ me to his farm, that he needs some help so . . I go. I worked with him for about . . a month before he jus, drove me to m’motel one night, grabbed all m’stuff, then basically moved me in.”

Your eyebrows lift, “Jus’ like that?”

Jubie nods, once and firm, “Crazy, isn’t he? . . Well, I thought so. I dunno. I lived in the room you’re stayin’ in for a couple a’months. And for a while, we were jus’ . . farmer and his lil farmhand, I guess.”

She suddenly trails off yet doesn’t continue. You watch her cheeks burn bright as she continues to smile while playing with your fingers. Bending your neck, you try to meet her eye again, “And then?”

She covers her face, “Then I let him slide his fingers down m’knickers on the porch one night.”

You gasp. Jubie squeaks.

“I jus’ . . let him. I wanted him to,” she pouts as you begin to giggle. “That next mornin’, I got real shy and curt with him. But he asked if I felt safe here, with him, I told him yes, then he said good, because he didn’t have plans on lettin’ me leave.”

You’re still softly laughing as you cover your smile with a few fingers, “That’s . . . really romantic, I think.”

Jubie huffs through her nose, “I think so too.”

“How does he make you feel?”

She doesn’t immediately answer. Instead, she looks out into the distance at the barn while the wind dances through her long, dark curls that are a bit more frizzy today. You like it like this. “So good,” she finally sighs back. “He sees me . . for me. Understands me. He takes care of me like no one has before.”

Your chest warms, watching her turn back to face you. Her expression shifts into one much softer yet . . elfish. You don’t know how to read it until she whispers, “How does he make you feel?”

Your smile fades as the thudding of your heart picks up. “Me? . . .” You wonder if you should just book it for the house, if she would catch you. “Uhm, good . .? Yeah, good. He’s . . . nicer than I thought.”

“Mm, yeah?” Jubie’s eyebrows lift as you nod. “. . . Such a liar.”

“What?”

She’s smirking now. “You’ve always been a bad liar.”

Swallowing, you shake your head, “ ‘m . . ‘m not lyin’ about anythin’ Jubie—“

“—Yes, you are.”

“I’m not—“

“—Yes, you areee-eeee,” she falls back onto the blanket, leaving you to sit there while feeling like your heart is going to come coughing up your throat. She rests her interlocked fingers upon the surface of her tummy, still smiling while gazing up at you with those sharp, almond eyes that always felt like they could read into your soul. “. . He likes you, too . . . A lot. More than I think you know.”

Your eyes drop to your hands as you begin to shake your head. “No. That doesn’t make any sense, Jules.”

She scoffs a soft laugh of shock, “And why not? You don’t think that you’re likeable?”

“I t-think that he’s in a relationship . . with you.”

She’s quickly sitting up again, this time, closer to you. “Back when I first left . . I thought about you a lot. I’d lie awake sometimes wonderin’ what you were doin’, if you were okay.” Your throat tightens as you continue to trace the lace around the cover of your journal with your finger. “I always hoped you got out, too. Was like, a dream come true to see you again that day, I almost didn’t believe it.”

You glance up just in time to see that her eyes have fallen to your lips. When they snap back up into yours, they’re warm and bright . . full of so much emotion when she simply says, “I adore you.”

The words come out delicately — like she’s placing something small and precious between the two of you.

Your lips part but not a word slips from between them. You feel stuck.

A soft smile she wears as Jubie goes on to say, “I always did. Since we were six.” The wind picks up, blowing both your curls across your cheeks. “And lately . . . uhm. I t-think things have been feelin’ different for me.”

You hear your blood rushing through your ears. “D-Different how?”

“I jus’ notice things now. Little things.”

“. . Yeah?”

“Mhm,” she traces her finger in shy circles upon your knee. “Like, how you look when you’re concentratin’ on somethin’. Or when you whisper stuff you wanna ask me or Armin to yourself first before you do. How cute you look when you’re full and sleepy.”

Heat slowly crawls up your face.

You watch her scoot a bit closer to mumble, “You feel it too, don’t you?”

“I . . d-don’t know what I feel.”

“ ‘s okay.” Her voice is gentle and reassuring and something in you absolutely caves upon the realization of Jubie not being scared of this . . of you. Therefore, before your nerves start to over activate themselves again, you suddenly lean forward to press your lips against hers.

The moment is soft again. Warm. You feel how Jubie freezes in shock for a second until it all settles in. She returns the kiss slowly with a soft sigh as you push deeper, a little less careful, feeling her hands slide up your thighs to the dip of your waist. You pull her closer by the neckline of her dress, tongue swiping against the seam of her lips to taste pineapple as she tilts her head, opens her mouth, and welcomes it in.

The tiny, breathy sound you make shoots right through Jubie and down to the bud of her clit. Closer, she pulls you until she lands on her back, you above her with your hands cradling her face as the kiss grows more eager, warmer, sloppier. Neither of you barely notice the world around you at this point until,

Clap!

The sharp sound of the screen door slamming forces you both away from one another to see Armin standing there, arm resting on one of the porch beams as he watches . . quietly. It seems he must’ve been there for a couple seconds longer than what either of you may think because his posture is settled — shoulders relaxed beneath his fitted flannel and hat brim raised to get a better look at two girls kissing on a blanket in his backyard.

Your stomach drops. You feel how still Jubie grows beneath you.

Even from feet away, you feel his his gaze slowly drift from you . . back to Jubie . . then back to you again.

Nobody says anything for a long while. Then he pushes off the frame and says, “Get y’selves situated then meet me in the living room. Five minutes.”

And with that, he turns and carries himself back on in the house.

“. . . Jubie . .”

“Oh my God,” she breathes.

You scramble upright first while smoothing your hands down the fabric of your dress. A million thoughts race throughout your brain — most of them including you being sent away. “I-Is he mad? Do you think he’s mad?”

Jubie realizes exactly what you’re thinking. Slowly sitting up, she presses her hand against your chest, “No, no. Jus’ breathe, lovie. Okay? It’ll be okay.”

Exhaling a shaky breath, together, the two of you work on gathering the blanket and scattered food, working in nervous silence. You follow behind her across the grass, up the porch, and inside the house. Its okay. Jubie said it’ll be okay so it’s okay. You repeat the mantra to yourself the entire walk down the hall towards the living room, trying to keep your hands from trembling to much upon finally seeing him, standing beside the mantle with a glass of ice water tilted at his lips. His hat is off . . seemed to be tossed upon the couch, leaving his waves loose and free.

You and Jubie stand there quietly, within the archway, watching him slowly take the glass of water to the head . . slow and easy, bit by bit until it’s completely gone. And with a languid, deep breath released from his chest after swallowing, he firmly sits the cup upon the mantle with a thick clunk. Silence stretches . . . He doesn’t look angry. It eases your worries a bit.

“Two a’you girls feel like explainin’?”

Your throat feels like it’s being squeezed between someone’s fingers. Looking down at your feet, you shuffle back and forth on them while hearing Jubie speak, “W-We didn’t mean—“

His voice cuts in, calm but blunt, “—How long’s this been goin’ on?”

She shakes her head quickly, “Not long, Papa, I promise. We jus’ . . kissed once before . . like, t-three weeks ago now.”

One of his eyebrows lift, “Three weeks.”

Timidly, Jubie nods. Studying her, Armin tries to catch tale of a lie however, upon finding himself unable to, he looks at you. You remain quietly standing beside her, head bowed, and fidgeting with your fingers like you’ve just been caught with your fingers inside his cookie jar.

“Mm,” he rubs his tongue against his cheek with his hands on his hips. “. . You ain’t tell me about no kiss.”

“I t-told you about the other stuff.”

“About your feelins for ‘er, yes, but you left that other part out.”

“I thought . . you’d be mad at me . . .”

“Mad,” is spoken candidly like he’s thinking about that specific word.

Slowly, you pick your head up the longer their conversation continues. Other stuff? Feelings? Upon you glancing at Jubie, you’re able to discern that now is not a good time to ask her about it. For a moment, Armin’s quiet again. He just stands there with his icy blue gaze slowly moving between the two of you as he works his jaw back and forth. “C’mere. Both a’you.”

Jubie immediately obeys. You slowly follow — bare feet soft against the rug as the both of you find yourselves standing directly in front of his large stature, letting Armin continue to survey you as though he’s finally clicked the last lock into place. “. . I’ve been watchin’ the two a’you.”

When your gaze falls again, you suddenly feel a rough hand beneath your chin, forcing your chin back into place. Armin’s voice is gruff when he demands, “Eyes up.”

You gulp. He drops his hand.

“You mean a lot to Jubilee here,” he begins softly with a simple tilt of his head in her direction. “And you’ve grown to mean a lot to me, too.” Your breath hitches. “Now, I’m gonna explain how this here situation’s gone work and I ain ’t interested in hearin’ any slick talk from either a’you, understand me?”

You and Jubie nod with little ‘yes sir’s mumbled.

Armin nods once. “Alright, now. From this day forward, I take care a’both you girls.” His voice is low and steady. “That means you live here,” he turns towards you. “With us. Ain’t no runnin’, ain’t no leavin’. I also expect you to listen when I tell ya’ somethin’.”

Quickly, you nod.

He folds his arms, sated. “You two look after each other. An’ I know you’ve already been doin’ that, I ain’t gotta worry about it too much, but from here on out . . you both might as well be sisters. One a’you gets upset, the other bet not ignore it. An’ if the two a’you start fussin’ or carryin’ on about somethin’, I’ll handle it. I don’t tolerate poison under my roof.”

Second by second, you feel something inside of you loosening. Rules, stability, structure. Somehow it feels like solid ground has been finally placed beneath your feet.

“The three of us look after each other. That’s the only way this gon’ work . . hm?”

Shyly, you nod. Jubie does the same with a small, “Mhm.”

Content with your answers, Armin’s big hand reaches out, cups the back of Jubie’s head then brings her closer to press a rough, scratchy kiss against her forehead. “Need you t’go check on Sam, Sonnet, and Claude f’me.”

“. . . Pa—“

“—Gone. I need to talk to ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱ f’a moment then we’ll come and get you in a bit, baby girl.”

Theres no harshness to his tone, he speaks like it’s a quiet promise. Wordlessly, upon realizing she’s not going to walk herself, he spins then nudges her towards the front door with a few fingers to her hip. Jubie hesitates as big, brown eyes flicker between the two of you, flashing some reluctance but mostly full of trust. Therefore, she gives you a small nod and reassuring smile, You’ll be okay, before she’s continuing on her way outside. You and Armin listen to the door creak before it slams closed and her footsteps get fainter and fainter the further she gets.

Suddenly, the house is silent.

He doesn’t move for a moment. He simply stands there, watching you. The weight of his attention makes you want to burrow deep down in a hole somewhere.

“Lemme see those eyes.”

He lifts your chin again, hand loosely clutched beneath your jaw. You’re forced to peer up into his as your chin wobbles, thinking that what you’re going to read in them would be disgust or anger. Nonetheless, you don’t see that . . there’s something deeper swimming in them, something steady and tender. His thumb strokes over your cheek, you breathe out a shaky breath of content. “Couple things I ain’t say while Jubie was standin’ here.”

Your body somehow grows more tensed, Armin notices.

“Relax, sweetheart. Ain’t nothin’ bad, I promise,” he mumbles. “You gotta know this, though. Need this to stick to that hyperactive brain a’yours. You’re safe here. The two a’ya belong here. Yeah?”

Softly, you nod. Your voice is small when you mewl, “ Y-Yeah.”

His gaze lingers on your face as his thumb continues to slowly stroke your cheek. His touch renders you calm. “Alright, now. Secondly . . you don’t go lettin’ anybody else get ideas about you. Some of these fellas out here . . don’t entertain ‘im. No wanderin’ off wit’ ‘im. Don’t go thinkin’ you owe anybody outside’a this house a damn thing.”

“Okay,” once more, you nod.

Armin’s expression softens a bit — eyebrows relax, eyes grow slightly more gentle. “. . You know why?”

This time, you slowly shake your head.

“ ‘Cause you’re mine.”

There’s some possession underlying his tone, definitely, but mostly . . devotion. Like that word mine means something kept safe and close more than just owned . . . only slightly.

“Both you girls are . . And the two a’you are each other’s.”

Armin watches the way your breath catches, how your shoulders ease. You’re doing so good — listening to him. He appreciates that. “Last thing . .” His hand slides away, down to your chest. Your face grows warm at the feel of his wide, calloused palm pressing flat up against it, directly over your pounding heart. “This right here belongs to this one here,” He removes it to tap two fingers against his own. “And that one out there.”

A big, shy smile can’t help spreading across your lips. The slightest smirk pulls at Armin’s.

“Don’t act surprised. Been seein’ it for a while now.” He saw it the minute Jubie stepped her foot off the porch to meet you halfway for that first hug. Now, when you started looking that same way at him? Armin isn’t too sure but he thinks it happened some time after that drive into town . . when he purchased Lily for you. All these feelings inside of you, they’ve been brewing for too long on a body wound tight . . akin to a shaken can of pop. He’s hoping that you finally let go . . finally allow him to take care of you the way a little thing like you should be. “C’mere.”

Like he did Jubie, you hiccup a little when he slowly pulls you in to press a kiss against the center of your forehead. Oh. Something inside of you absolutely brightens. You’re trembling a little when he pulls away.

“Alright, c’mon. Let’s go get our girl, mm?”

armin’d been lounged with his arms crossed, an expression on his face crossed between slight vexation and dolour. he was holding a stare with his father who maintained a similar poise — arms folded and thick, blond brows lowered. you’ve always thought that armin looked more like his mother. he’d inherited the pretty blues of her eyes, the gentle contours of her face, and even somehow adapted her mellow disposition. nonetheless, now, axel and him have never been more similar — neither are refusing to back down, that, any person can tell is undeniably evident.

“. . .” you don’t say anything, but all three heads whip towards you within a split second of you taking a small, timid step towards them.

forthwith, a pretty smile is plastered upon the petals of arian’s lips and she’s making her way on over to you while opening her arms wide, “( ❤︎ ), oh goodness — hello. so good to see you.”

you’re nearly engulfed within the silken fur of her calf length coat, albeit, you hug her back as tightly as you can, “hi, missus arlert.” come you pulling away, you find axel right beside her. he gives you a small though warm simper and inclines himself a bit at the waist for a tiny bow, “miss ( ❤︎ ).”

you mimic his bow with a shy one of your own, “mister arlert.” dissimilar to his son, axel stands at a massive six foot five. it is his wife’s petite, five foot four’s that leveled armin out into two inches below him.

“look at you,” arian’s dusting peppers of snow from off the fur neck of your tight, black sweater with her smile now dipped in low as a frown. “god, it’s freezing out there, isn’t it? c’mere, c’mere . . lets get you some tea — armin, honey, you have some tea, don’t you?” she’s ushering you towards the kitchen and in doing so, you take a glance towards armin’s way. his head is now bowed and he rubs slowly at the area above his brows while murmuring, “mm, yeah, mom. they’re in the pantry . . by the coffee syrups.”

“okay, sweetheart, sit right here. what’s your favorite? earl gray . . ooh, uhm, oolong? chai?”

“uhm,” you are soon planted upon a stool at the island, back straightened, around the arlerts, it seems as though you become a robot — a skittish, mousy robot. “chai sounds yummy.”

it’s while arian is bustling about armin’s kitchen — boiling a kettle of water, opening and closing each cabinet until she finds the one where he keeps the tableware, and asking you about your day that you try to keep an ear open to axel and armin’s conversation. it’s not a lot made out . . there’s the deep rumbles of axel’s baritone and occasionally armin’s tame, returning ‘ yes sir ’s and ‘ understood ’s.

“ ‘m gonna add some . . cinnamon,” arian’s humming gleefully to herself, plopping two sticks of cinnamon within your pink mug ( the one with sweet piano’s darling, little face printed smack dab upon the front of it ) and the same within a plain, black one for herself. “and some honey.” a spoon, held between nimble, manicured fingers, is then stirred ‘round and ‘round within the cups prior to her sliding yours on over. “tell me what you think. i used to make this for armin’s grandmother all the time.”

it’s good, actually.

it’s better than good.

your expression must have matched your thoughts because she’s soon giving you one of her big, gorgeous smiles — indisputably the same smile that got her face plastered all over harper bazaar and vogue’s early and late 00’s magazine issues, ahead of her leaning her elbows onto the counter to push herself closer towards you. “so, where are you coming from? must have been important if you were out there in the freezing cold.”

you swallow what sip you had acquired before setting your mug down, still enclosed within your numb hands, “i had a final to take. was my last one of the year.”

she nods slowly, eyes seemingly scanning each feature of your face while she does. see. this is what makes you nervous. arian and axel seem to have this thing about them — you’re positive of the fact that it’s some kind of superpower. they are able to look entirely through each and every person they talk to, easily, as if they are utterly and wholly transparent. fears, aspirations, goals, the tick of a lie . . they know of each one you have, without neither needing to even ask. you constantly feel exposed. “how do you think you did?”

you hesitate on answering, “. . . i did good, ma’am.”

she appears to trust that you did too, because another warm smile is given and then she’s taking a sip out of her mug with glimmering, blue eyes peeking out from over the rim. “. . . i apologize for staring,” it’s blurted through a giggle. “you’re just . . you’re a very pretty girl. i have a close friend . . uhm, her name is cassidy devaux. she’s one of the best agents i know, i could give you her information—“

“—oh, uhm,” your face feels as though it’s two seconds away from igniting into roaring flames and peeling off of your skull to splatter within your tea. “t-thank you, missus arlert, but ‘m okay.”

she’s giving you a delicate pout then a head tilt, “are you sure?”

“yes, i appreciate it—“

“—you are bull headed. too god damn stubborn. your mother didn’t raise you, i didn’t raise you to settle for such . . s-such mediocrity.”

both your and arian’s attention are seized come the sound of axel’s voice rising in volume. your head swivels upon your shoulders, watching armin roll his head upon his own, “i don’t understand why me attending kilmore for my masters differs from me going to winsome for my bachelors. i don’t want to transfer to asax, dad. i’m not.”

“so, you want to fail.”

“jesus christ.”

“hey!” arian’s letting her cup fall with a firm thud and rounds the island quickly to make her way towards the center of the room. “enough. axel, leave. wait for me in the car.”

he hardly puts up a fight. his lip twists into a scowl underneath the thick blond and grey hairs of his mustache and before he departs, there’s an utter emitted from the purse of his frown, “think long and hard about your decision, boy. you hear me?”

you don’t have to see his face to know that from the clipped, firm, “yes sir,” armin bites out, he no longer graces his father with his attention. he’s staring, vacantly, at the wall ahead of him, leg now bouncing to expose his growing agitation.

axel leaves with a pointed huff, letting the door behind him close with a rigid slam. with him gone, arian sighs and walks over to armin — cupping his chin within gentle hands. “no frowning,” she grumbles out, smoothing her thumbs along the lines that now crease the area around his mouth and between his brows. “your father loves you. would die for you; you know this.” when armin doesn’t say anything, arian gives a sort of sad smile, reaching up to fix a few pieces of his hair. “okay. i’ll let you and ( ❤︎ ) enjoy the rest of your weekends. stay warm, hm? mom loves you.”

“love you too, ma.”

once the front door is closed and locked by armin, you’re stuck to sit quietly . . unsure of what to say or even do. you suppose it isn’t your place to decide who’s right or wrong in a situation like this, albeit, it’s hard to not want to give axel a mean, stony eyed glare next time you see him come the sight of armin trudging himself upstairs to the second level of his loft and the sound of a bathroom door closing.

he’s in there for a long time.

during so, you start on dinner — something simple, a spicy tortellini dish and it’s while you’re seated upon his bed, macbook open on an episode of gossip girl, and steaming, hot plate in hand when armin exits the bathroom with a cloud of warm steam following. he’s scrubbing a towel through his hair while padding over to his closet and you watch him all the while, lips folded inside of your mouth, admiring the way he drops the towel around his waist without a care in the world to slip his legs inside a pair of briefs then loose, black sweats.

“. . . hi.”

he grabs his glasses from out of the bathroom and flicks off the light, prior to making his way over to you. there’s a small smile pulling at his lips once he takes in the sight of you, so comfy, so at ease. “hi, baby,” he murmurs back, leaning to give a small kiss upon your lips then climb in behind you.

slowly, he pulls your body back against his front to wrap his arms around your waist and plop a few more kisses within the curve of your neck. “missed you,” he whispers. “how are you?”

you hum and lean back into him, grateful for his warmth. “ ‘m okay, bubbie.” you’re staring at the screen for a while, tongue feeling as though it’s been glued to the roof of your mouth as you hesitate, “. . . a-are you okay?”

he inhales a deep breath through his nose and for a long time, he’s quiet. it’s alright though. you’ve gotten used to it. simply means that he’s thinking about the question — he wants to give you an honest and respectable answer. “i’m sorry,” he soon whispers into your shoulder, letting his arms squeeze you in that much tighter. “ ‘m sorry you had to see that. my dad and i . . rarely argue. i still don’t really know what the fuck that was about.”

you’re pushing the laptop away and turning in his arms, slow and mindful still about the plate in your hands, to face him. “it’s alright.”

he has his glasses on and his head is somewhat bowed. you can’t read him — not at all. “i made tortellini . . and stopped by cozy kettle for some banana bread before i came home.”

there’s a smirk he now wears, small though there, and he pushes his head on over to you to rub some of his still wet hair upon your shoulder, simply wanting to hear you whine. “you’re just a fuckin’ angel, aren’t you?” he’s mumbling, grasping the knobs of your knees to squeeze prior to sliding them up your thighs to your hips. “even . . even after yesterday and all.”

you pout.

yesterday . . .

the two of you’d gotten into an argument. you’re still not sure how it even happened or what had even been the core matter of it all — you just know that the night ended with you falling asleep on the opposite side of the bed, purposely hogging as much of the comforter as you could. “i’m sorry about that, too,” armin sighs. “was yesterday when my parents told me they were coming to visit. i think . . i let the stress of it get to me.”

“mhm,” you’re nodding and handing him your plate so that he can take a forkful of pasta. “you got a little mean.”

he hums, “and you’re too sweet for that,” he kisses your lips once more. “my sweet girl. i’m sorry.”

with the fork, he feeds you some tortellini then takes a bite of his own. you’re happily chewing and raking your fingers through his hair as armin takes in your little outfit for today. “you look pretty,” is soon quietly drawled from the cushion of his lips.

the compliment is innocent enough. you’re smiling, glimpsing down at your sweater, little skirt, and thigh length socks yourself, however, soon after looking back up at armin, you’re aware that there resides something . . a little bit darker wading behind the flattery. he’s smirking again with an almost unmindful finger of his thumbing with the hem of your skirt . . . almost.

“stop it.”

you grow timid and bury your face away within your palms, willing the pounding of your heart to keep stable.

there’s a smooth chuckle, “i’m serious.”

“i know that, minnie.”

he gives a deep, all but blasé ‘ hm ‘ and returns to his food. you watch how he eats . . — behind the obvious etiquette skills that have been ingrained in him since he was a child, he still eats . . like a boy, you think. big spoonfuls behind the slow, careful chewing, hardly letting himself swallow before he’s packing his mouth full again. it’s endearing, nonetheless. because you see how much he enjoys it, too. “you want some more?” you’re quietly asking while rubbing a speckle of sauce from the pads of his lips when the plate is scraped impressively clean. “i put the leftovers in the fridge.”

tenderly, with a head shake, he grabs your wrist and turns his face toward your palm to kiss, “thank you, baby. was beautifully done.”

“rate it out of . . . fifty.”

with an elongated hum, he soon answers, “sixty . . fuck, no. eighty.”

you giggle and with a small swat to his chest, murmur, “thank you, baby.”

he’s climbing out of the bed and as he walks downstairs to wash the dishes, you busy yourself with powering off your laptop, smoothing the comforter out from wrinkles once more, and heading to the bathroom to take off your make up for the day.

it’s silly, almost. how his bathroom counter is decorated neatly with your skincare and cosmetics, how his toothbrush holder no longer holds his tongue scraper and electric brush but now two of your own. he’s opted out of giving you a ‘ drawer ‘ to instead grant you an entire side of his closet. you hardly sleep at your dorm, even in cases when armin is gone to new york to visit the rest of his family. you suppose that this is . . your home now. you just aren’t too sure of whether armin thinks the same.

you hate yourself for taking so long to notice.

it’s after your make up removed, after your shower routine is complete, after you don yourself within one of armin’s favorite hockey teams’ jerseys when you make out a quiet sound. it’s tender and congested — the sound of a sniffle and for a moment, you stand there for a while . . akin to a deer caught in headlights, right there in the threshold of the closet. nevertheless, eight, nine, ten seconds pass, then there’s another one.

you’re holding onto the cool, steel banister of the stairs with both hands, eyebrows furrowed though lips parted in awe at the sight of your boy seated at the kitchen island, face burrowed within the safety of his folded arms as he tries to best to inhale some well needed breaths through the congested openings of his nose.

“. . armin? . . baby?”

over cold, dark oak flooring, you’re tip toeing as quickly as you can to compress yourself against his side and rub your fingers through his hair, stroke his back, squeeze him within a tight hug — you don’t know, you just . . hate this. this is something that you’ve never seen before . . have ever dealt with before. a crying armin. it’s new, it’s shocking, it hurts.

and it’s a few minutes before he reveals his face to you . . before he flops it onto his temple and looks at you through pools of cerulean, rimmed by a sea of flames and a boyish smile wrapped with shame. “. . would you believe me if i said i got pepper in my eyes or somethin’?”

you’re pouting and rubbing gentle, little thumbs along his cheeks, clearing them from rivers of sticky salt. “. . ‘s it your dad?”

he’s rising himself up and rubbing incessantly at the corners of his eyes with his thumb and index. “yeah, it’s him,” he admits quietly. he says it in a tone that reveals hidden ignominy — in a way that says he really, really wishes it were’t. “and it’s my mom. and it’s . . you. and fuckin’ me.”

you feel the incessant clobbering of your heart rate’s momentum picking up in speed when arrives his reasonings. you think you’re even beginning to breathe a bit harder because here he is, your boyfriend, crying because of . . you. “o- . . oh, i—“ before you really realize it, you’re taking a step back and beginning to wring your hands together. “i-im sorry—“ you can hear him already. maybe he’s going to go with the classic, ‘ it’s not you, it’s me. ‘ or perhaps he’ll get mean, perhaps he’ll shock you — reveal that he’s sick and tired of your neediness, of your stubbornness, of how reserved you can sometimes be when approached with the topic of your own proclivities and wants.

and that’s when armin sees it. the beginnings of an attack, the seed of fear he’s now planted in your eyes. “fuck no, baby,” he’s practically dragging you back towards him by your arm to cup your face within the warm palms of his hands and make sure you hear him when he says, “god, no. i’d never,” he’s kissing you through his words. you taste his tears and you taste the fifty year old brandy his grandfather’d given him for his birthday late last year, and you whimper. “will never.”

he keeps your face cradled in his hands — waits until he sees you begin to soften up again for him to let go and drop them to the comforting dip of your waist, and for a moment, he’s never hated himself more. he never wants to experience that again . . your walls flying up before his eyes, how quickly you pulled away from him at only the simple hint of the two of you splitting.

“what is it?” you’re asking, eyes wide and inquiring, head even tilting a bit. he’s sure he even sees one, floppy ear bending down at its halfway mark and god, you’re so . . .

“i’m just tired.”

there’s a small smile on his face when he says it and continues with, “. . just had to release some fuckin’ . . stress, i think.”

your voice is gentle when you ask, “yeah?”

there’s a nod he gives you. slow and careful, as if he’s making sure of it before traditionally affirming. “yeah,” he feels you in his hands, smells your potent, vanilla and cashmere scented body wash, discerns how you cutely stroke your thumbs along the nape of his neck. armin pulls you in close, as close as he possibly can, and kisses you once again. he nearly swallows you with it, veritably seizing your breath away within the first few seconds, leaving you sweetly gasping come each time your lips separate. he’s not stopping, neither. he doesn’t care. just kisses you and kisses you and you’re left to whine, wriggling within his grasp, unsure of whether you wanted to just stay and give every ounce of oxygen stored between your lungs to him or press deeper on the issue of his stress.

is this unhealthy? it’s a perpetual inquiry that you can’t stop rolling within your brain. you want him to feel comfortable approaching you with topics like these. you want to be a confidant as much as you are everything else in his life.

your mouth is opening, only the first syllable of his name parts from your lips ahead of him moving — he stands, turns you so that your back now presses against the protruded ledge of the counter and with agile, suave fingers lifts the hem of his jersey that’s two sizes too big on you to press them within the meat of your thighs.

“a-armin,” you’re whining again, whining and wriggling like a princess who isn’t getting her way. you only make him kiss you harder.

“i wanna feel better,” he mumbles. “help me feel better.”

you’re nodding. that’s all you want to do. “how . . h-how do i help?”

he’s finally pulling away and it’s only to lower himself down on one knee followed by the other. “jus’ let me . .” his words are never completed. he tugs your hips an inch forward, thrusted that jersey on up against your tummy to expose your plump, uncladded mound, and with spry reflexes, you’re squealing, hopping cutely on your toes, swiftly snatching the shirt back down, all before he can even blink. it happens so quick — armin thinks he gets whiplash for a moment, “no. n-nooo, i haven’t . . shaved in like, a month and a half. ’s not . . not stubble anymore.”

you both haven’t been intimate in a matter of weeks, armin wants to say it’s been two, maybe even three. finals were stressing you out and he’ll admit, the topic of sex hasn’t even touched his brain, neither.

nevertheless, armin can’t help his lips from but twisting into a frown with taken offense. “. . okay . . ?”

you grump for a moment — stand there with a double, pale knuckled grip on his shirt, thighs pressed firmly together, and the pedicured toes of your right foot fiddling shyly atop of the ones on your left. armin doesn’t say much; merely gazes back at you for a second longer before snatching the shirt back up. and like the tenacious, stubborn little thing you are, you’re fighting to jerk it back down, albeit, he’s quicker than you . . and stronger, too. your wrists are crossed, one upon the other, within the huge paw of just one of his hands. he holds them there, pressed against your womb, tightly, and with his other hand, tucks the long hem of the shirt within the crevice of where you’re forearm is flushed with your tummy.

“armin,” you’re whining his name and tossing your head back.

“don’t throw a fit.”

he doesn’t understand it — why you’d feel shy, embarrassed, uncomfortable about this. its a small bush, sure. a cloud of dark, curly hair, soft and sweet. it’s precious . . . it . . makes his dick hard.

and how quick he is to bury his mouth in it kind of fucking scares him.

your breath lurches within your chest at how sudden it all is, too, and it’s as though his eagerness makes you squirm harder which only rocks your clit back and forth on his greedy tongue. it scours your entire slit — swallowing what little slick that resides inside and begins its initial, slow process of gradually volumizing and trickling out of you.

yeah . . .

this is what he needs. this is all armin wants. a fifty eight year old brandy doesn’t compare to you. it can’t. fermented apricots and peaches, they’re imitation; dying to become the real thing. it’s impossible for even the best alcohol in the world to bide in your league. he’s unable to bury his mouth so far inside a bottle that he’s confused where his face begins and it ends. there’s no sweet, angel milk scented musk so thick that he still tastes it underneath his tongue nearly an hour later, no dark, darling foam of curls so dense and soft that he truly debates with himself on staying here the rest of his life here, on his knees, for years on end just to feel it grow against his nose.

and come him tilting that tall, round shouldered bottle’s rim against his lips, there’s no sound . . only his gulp. it doesn’t gift him with harmonies of fetching whines and gurgles of his name. you’re incomparable; unbeaten and second to none. and what you don’t know is that with each sip of your nectar that armin swallows inside the back of his throat, he gets a bit messy, a tad more dumb, and that much more besotted with you.

“o-oh god,” you’re leaning yourself further back against the counter, tilting your hips more his way. “a-arm . . m-minnie, please lemme go shave.”

proceeding each glance down you take, you become gradually more bashful to find the soft coils of your hairs pressed right up against his face. you can’t even focus on his eyes, something you usually enjoy staring into when arrives you ending up in predicaments like these. a ‘ no ‘ is murmured against your clit and it only makes you sob out a weak curse of defeat. he suckles it between his lips, pulls firmly at it with his tongue and soon allows the plump bead to fall out with an oily, loud ‘ pop. ‘ “you’re so gross,” you soon mewl.

he knows. “i know.” doesn’t mean he appreciates you trying to make him feel bad for wanting to embed his mouth inside of your cute and hairy, little cunt.

there’s a smack he plants against a fleshy cheek of your ass, nice and hard. it makes you jolt. you’re being a bit bratty tonight, he doesn’t appreciate that. “make me feel good, huh.” hushedly, he pants out the words after having to forcibly pull his face away from between your twitching thighs. “i thought . . i thought that’s what you wanted.”

you’re pouting when you sniff out, “i do.”

he nods with you, “uh huh. yeah, so help me out, yeah?” he lets your wrists go to press his hands against the backs of your thighs, right underneath the crease of your butt, and makes you give a couple, feeble steps closer toward him. you no longer lean for support, solely stand within the middle of a culinary artists’ dream which would be your boyfriend’s, gilt edged kitchen. “use my face.”

you’re shying away again. he sees it. “ar—“

“—stop thinkin’ so much.” he’s grabbing your hips and smacking a few wet kisses against the cleft of your pussy. “y’think too fuckin’ much, baby. s’posed to be f’me, right?” armin knows he’s getting a little selfish. nonetheless, how can he not when you’re depriving him of the one thing he wants that’s only two inches away?

he’s right.

you hesitate, withal, let him submerge his face right within your cunt once more. it’s a hard gasp you give, and for support, both your hands find the soft, golden tufts of his hair when derives the trembling of your knees. his tongue wavers quickly, the tip of it right against your clit, prior to the swift pucker of his lips as he kisses and swallows what tart and honeyed sap that dribbles on out of you in forms of glazed pearls and icing. he strokes the even, flat plane of the muscle against your entire pussy with slow, long strokes when he wants to hear you whimper — finds your hole and works it inside nice and deep when he wants you to sob ( fucks it in and out to hear you squeal ).

“oh m-my god,” your leg is thrown over his shoulder. he keeps it there with his hand on its ass cheek, squeezing, rubbing, smacking when you sometimes struggle with him to pull away. “s-so good.”

armin catches the exact moment when you give up.

your eyebrows slacken from their furrowed position above your eyes, the wrinkle upon the bridge of your cute nose uncreases, muscles relax. you seem to liquify against him and focus more on the slow purl of your hips that wind around and round, working your pussy right against his dripping tongue. “unh, yeah,” there’s a gentle squeak emitted from within your throat as you find a firmer grip on his hair. “j-jus’ l’that . . l-like that, daddy.”

your hips pitch back and forth.

armin has to squeeze the base of his dick as tight as he can to keep himself from soiling the inside of his sweats. “jesus christ,” he huffs within your skin while grabbing you by the waist and hauling your pussy as far as it can get upon his mouth. “yeah, there y’go.” cracks a sharp swat against your ass. “atta fuckin’ girl.”

you’re making a mess — your pussy is making a mess. hole fucked full of his spit, runny and squelching, some of it dripping down his chin and to his chest. your orgasm is slow yet unanticipated. hits you out of no where and takes you forever to recoup. you recognize that you’re sniffling and weakly crying out for armin, all the same. it’s silly; the same guy who’s tormenting your brain and body with a shockingly remarkable amount of pleasure that you think is a line away from being anguishing is the same guy whose touch you also crave to soothe you back at ease.

“mmm.”

he pulls away from your cunt after giving her a delicate kiss, making sure to keep you standing upright with one, heavy hand clutched around your hip while the other’s thumb finds the hood of your clit. tenderly, he pulls the skin back from it to reveal the pulsing, raw bud staring back at him. its so cute, he finds. pink as much as it is brown, perfect size for his mouth to suckle and kiss upon, sweet and pretty. “i think you got one more in you.”

his voice is quiet . . low. you shake your head, nonetheless, he nods his.

“n-no.”

“yes,” his thumb begins to rub at it, nice and slow. “yeah, look at that. pretty pussy’s still leakin’, mm? you’re not done . . far from it, honestly.”

“minnie, please.”

as mean as he know it is, armin quiets your voice out from his brain. you’re not saying anything that he deems important or cares to listen to right now. he stands and forces you backward, lifting you atop of the island without even blinking. “don’t act like this is the worst thing that can happen to you.” he splits the cushion of your lips apart with his index and thumb and pelts a smack against your clit. “bein’ so difficult tonight.”

“mm,” you pout and shift your hips, this way and that, proving his point. you don’t settle down until he’s feeding your pussy two of his fingers, first the middle . . slow and snug, then the ring. “daddy,” you blub out his name quietly and with a blithed hum, he’s leaning his head back down, siphoning that bitsy, puffy nub between his lips once more. you sound all out thwarted, giving a broken, trembling, “mmm’m god — daddy, no.”

there’s a small, “mhmm,” vented from the hollows of armin’s nose. you’re precious — too much so. “jus’ wanna make you feel good,” he mumbles, pulling back to smack a few, wet kisses against the insides of your thighs. “i know you do. look at how messy she’s gettin’.”

your cunt gurgles around his fingers each time he twists them back inside. you’re dripping from your hole, down the seam of your ass, to the counter. “god — this is all i need . . right here.” you hear armin slurring hazily underneath his breath; pretty blues of his eyes focusing on how his index finger smoothly pushes in alongside the other two, making your cunt that much more of a sloughy fucking mess. “sloppy, lil’ pussy’s jus’ talkin’ to me, eh? making me feel all good. bein’ so sweet to me.”

it’s so lewd. you don’t think it should feel so good — three of your boyfriend’s long, lithe fingers, stretching your hole out ’til you’re nice and gaped, how the more your cunt starts to cream, the filthier his mumbles get, how he doesn’t even seem to be talking to you, but himself; completely lost in the pretty picture that is your opened legs, thick thighs, and fat pussy lips. you’re cumming again. it’s a hard one that utter and wholly seizes your entire body, makes your eyes squeeze shut and your hand reach out to squeeze at his wrist, wordlessly asking him to pause. “hngg, god — oh . . g-god . .”

armin’s softly chuckling while caressing the pads of his fingers, slow and careful, right up against that cushion of sensitive nerves angled deep inside of you, listening to the melodic slurps and purls, “mm,” he’s only pulling his fingers out a couple seconds later to give your clit a few, firm, wet pats. “shit, already, baby?” you’re sweetly sniffing and rubbing at your wet eyes with a knuckle, willing away some tears that still resided inside them. you’re a doll. he can’t help pulling you back close to him, inclining you to sit up and wrap your arms and legs around his torso and neck so that he can give a few soft kisses to your shoulders, cheeks, and lips. “you cryin’?” he whispers with a smile against your pout.

“stop it, armin.” you’re just a little overwhelmed. maybe too much so.

he croons a sympathetic trill within the back of his throat while his thumbs perform soothing caresses upon your hips. it's nice. calms you down plenty. your chin plops down upon his shoulder, eyes close — you let yourself remain swaddled and rocked slowly from side to side enclosed in his arms that slowly begin to maneuver you, pushing you a little higher up armin’s body. you’re sighing, a second away from whining when he murmurs a quiet, “shh,” and carefully lowers your weeping pussy down on his cock.

it’s striking. your body is tensing, toes curling, arms tightening around the back of his neck, and you’re sure you’re making sounds, you just aren’t positive if they’re actual words. “i know, i know,” armin’s breathing out, letting your hips slip out his hands for a split of a second to allow your pussy to fall onto his last few inches. “s-shit, there y’go. how does my baby feel?”

you’re dizzy, you think. only able to give a small, incoherent heave of confirmation with your forehead pressed against his shoulder, needing him to just move.

gratefully, he understands. and therefore again, he lifts you a few inches or so higher and drops you a second time, allowing the fat, leaky head of his cock to kiss the tender ridge of your cervix. he does it again . . and again . . and again — stands there within the middle of his kitchen, you in his flexing arms, bouncing you up and down his cock as if you were just a toy and nothing but.

you feel your ass ricocheting off of the firm muscles of his thighs and the ones within his shoulders are now all compact — solid. the upper half of armin’s body is a rock. you feel it underneath the tips of your fingers when you claw the pointed ends of your acrylics within his back. “h-huh, ungh, arm — , mmph!” its so deep. he’s deep. deeper than you think he’s ever been before.

“doin’ so good,” he utters, adjusting himself to have more of a grip upon your soft, bouncing ass cheeks instead of around your hips. “j-jesus, fuck, you’re doin’ . . so . fucking . good.”

the backs of your knees find themselves within the folded crease of his inner elbows. it leaves your little feet flopping uselessly in the air and at the sight of them, so pathetic looking makes a sweltering heat almost burn your face off of your skull. you’re left to look up at your boyfriend through hazy eyes, watching the few fluffs of blond that have fell into his eyes rebound in tandem with his hard pounds. you admire the still there shine of tears in his eyes, how disregarding how beautiful he looks, there’s an air of meanness that surrounds his normally composed manner.

his lips are rolled inside of his mouth, drawing attention to the dents of dimples in his cheeks, fingernails depress curves of crescents within the rounds of your ass from how hard he’s gripping them, you’re left to remain suspended in the air, mantled in his arms and take all that he gives, simple as that.

“ ’s so deep,” you’re mewling and pushing an arch into your back, muscles in your calves flexing with how hard your heart seems to be pumping within your chest. “d-daddy, ’s t-too deep.”

“god, you feel . .” his eyes close, jaw tenses . . he lifts his head and you watch how his face melts into one displaying pure, unrefined rapture. through a more soft moan, he breathes, “y-you feel so fuckin’ good. c-cant stop. ‘m n-not stopping, so jus’ take it, yeah? . . take it for me.”

fwop, fwop, fwop, fwop.

armin’s sweats have fallen to pool around his ankles, your bonnet is askew, and his jersey you still wear keeps sliding down your tummy and obscuring his view of your pretty pussy swallowing the thick inches of his cock yet none of these reasons are enough for armin to stop. he smacks your ass when you squirm too much, grits out that you ‘ keep still ‘, and works himself in nice and deep, pausing his steady rhythm of in and out to instead force your hips to rock up and down. the neatly trimmed plane of his pubes stroke right up against the tiny nub of your clit and his dick comforts your g spot — not directly touching it, but allowing just enough pressure to make your eyes roll back and pussy start to drip cream down his balls.

“c-close,” you’re hiccuping. it’s immediate. “m-minnie ‘m so close.”

“wanna feel it,” he sighs, looping back to that momentum he just lost — rocking inside of your pussy with nice, hard slogs of his hips. “give it t’me, mm? i got you . . daddys always got you.”

there’s a sinking pressure in your tummy. it clamps its rough claw around your bladder almost, making your nose cutely scrunch and eyes tear. it’s a weird feeling — pleasure and discomfort. two sensations on polar opposite sides of the sexual pecking order. you’re torn between squeaking at armin to just stop or begging him to keep going, to fuck you harder. your decision is never selected. another drift of his thick cock plowing right into that familiar sheaf of axons and delicate glands and you’re cumming . . . bursting, to be more precise. pussy pulsing to jet out weak springs of milken goo, effectively spitting onto the lower half of armin’s stomach and dripping down his stout balls and thighs.

your toes flex with it, body quivers in his hands. you don’t make much of a sound — voice appears to be rooted within the channel of your throat because all you give are quiet, compulsive chokes of his name and armin can’t hold himself back much longer . . . he’s slamming you down onto his dick and keeping you there when his testes begin to jump, flexing with each spout of hot cum he fountains out from his dome.

“fuck.”

the both of you still seem to be panting five minutes later, two after armin stood there for a while, unmoving with you still held in his arms, and three after he stumbled to the sofa to plop down and scrawl upon with you on his chest, pussy still plugged full with viscid globs of his seed.

your eyes are closed. you lay with your ear pressed against his chest and your hands curled into loose fists underneath your face. armin feels how fast your heart races. he’s sure his own mimics it. “mm.” he kicks his sweats off from around his ankles, thumbs with the shirt you wear before ultimately deciding to lift it higher and help you peel it off of your body.

“a-are you . .” your hips shift. you’re confused on why his cum isn’t leaking out, why his dick isn’t softening in order to have the fluid spill from inside of you. “you’re hard still?”

you’re looking up at armin — his face is serene . . eyes closed, forearm thrown over his forehead, and the smooth, dark rouge of his lips parted to allow him to breathe from between them. he keeps his eyes shut as his brows give a simple quirk to your question, for a moment, his lips pull downward, too, it’s as though he’s barely now gauging that the muscle between his legs exists. “. . . yeah,” he soon whispers. “i doubt it’s goin’ down any time soon.”

you’re confused on what this means. with weak arms, you’re pressing your palms down onto the slabs of his pectorals and lifting yourself up higher, “any time soon?”

armin hasn’t put his glasses on since he exited the shower almost two hours ago. when he casually lifts an eyelid and pins one, fixing blue eye at you to clip you with an expression of . . airy indifference, you’re to only swallow your next words down. he’s too pretty sometimes.

“this is nice, no?” he’s slowly rising up himself to sit with his back against the arm of the couch. “. . are you hurting?”

you shake your head with a small mumble of, “nuh uh.”

“no?” he’s still moving. slowly turning to that he sits more upright, you propped upon his lap. “no more classes for you either, right?”

“. . yeah.”

he’s smiling. a small thing, handsome and sly. “and i’m done with classes, too. no plans this weekend for me. our aspen trip’s been postponed until next month.”

you only realize that armin has placed you in a new position when you suddenly find yourself on the floor. “minnie.” your chest is pressed against the soft shag of the rug underneath your hands and knees and your ass gets perked up into the air. armin sits at the ledge of the couch still. it’s an interesting angle to say the least.

“ ‘s okay,” he lets a glob of his spit fall onto where you both remain interlocked and with his hands, pushes your hips forward and soon forces them to come right back. you’re so warm . . soft and tight. he sighs out, closes his eyes, and grabs a handful of your ass to do it once more. “c-can never get enough of you, baby. y . . you know this.”

your eyes seem to be invariably wedged within the back of your head. you spread your knees wider to rock back when he pushes forward, grasping the rug within your fingers for stability. “a-all night?” the question is shoved from your diaphragm. armin knows exactly what you’re asking because with a harsh swat to your ass, he soon begins to pummel you off and on his cock, with an answer of “all fuckin’ night.”

armin’s always had a bit of a high stamina, you’ve comprehended this since the two of you became intimate. while the longest streak you can sometimes maintain is three a night, hes always ready to go at least five. it’s . . interesting. you don’t know what it is that powers him to perform the way that he does because his diet is ordinary, he takes his vitamins, works out every other day, you don’t think that even a twenty year old guy on viagra can do what he does.

he ruts into you akin to a swinish brute, no longer allowing you to push back on your own tempo, however, pulls you to him and pushes you forward with nothing but the strength of his hands. your forehead is damp with sweat and you pant out each time the heavy globes of his balls pelt against your jelled clitty. “gonna . .” he huffs an attractive, little chuckle. “gonna squirt f’me again? . . was new for you, princess. think we can . . c-can make it happen one more time.”

it feels so good. you don’t understand how he can make you feel so good. “o . . kay, daddy,” you hiccup and reach a hand down to capture that pulsing bud between your fingers and rub. you’re not surprised when he pushes it away to perform the action himself, in doing so, instead of being seated at the ledge of the couch cushion he leans further up which generates him more into a crouching position above you. you hear how armin loosens up a bit more . . starts to moan a little louder, fuck you even deeper. “a-awe, shit,” he huffs faintly, fingers slipping over your clit with the amount of slick your cunny produces. “pussy’s so good . . ‘s so fuckin’ good, beautiful, mmph.”

the sounds of your ass clapping off of his hips is resounding. it echos off of the exposed brick that composes the body of his loft and vibrates against the wall of opened windows that displays the tall, shadowed buildings of the city’s skyline, dotted with glossy bulbs of white, greens, reds, and blues. faintly, you make out the dark silhouettes of you both fluttering across the glass — and you think it’s that. the sounds coupled with the sights and the sense of armin’s huge though soft hands pinning you where he wants . . you think it’s all these things that makes you cum. that makes you squirt one more time.

it’s forceful this time.

pushes his cock out soon as the first pelt erupts out of you. and you squeal — oh, it’s a pretty sound armin finds. girly and high, and in spite of the fact of your body tremoring and jerking, you still push back into armin for his touch. in such a way, you’re showing that you need him to ground you; haul you back to reality.

he does. he wraps a hand around the scruff of your neck and keeps you arched while tapping the thick, meaty tip of his dick against the mess, “how fuckin’ lucky am i,” he’s smiling down at the puddle you’ve left between your legs. his cock drips with you, balls are sodden, too. “c’mere.”

your head feels fuzzy. you’re gone, you think. incapable of vocalizing sentences longer than three words. you let him pick you up — tows you back into his lap on the couch, cradles you for a moment. you’’re so good for him, armin realizes. too good, maybe. while he’s peppering kisses against your damp cheeks, one sly hand is skimming down your stomach to find the cute nub of your clit hidden beneath wispy curls. he rubs it, slow and careful, while he kisses you, not surprised to hear you hiccup and tighten your thighs around his wrist — cunt far too tender to endure another rout of harrowing pleasure. “ ‘s okay,” he’s quietly humming, still working it with sluggish, dawdling circles of his fingertips. “you’re okay.”

you sigh when your temple collapses against his shoulder. it’s too much . . . but, it feels nice. irregardless of you wanting them to, your hips buck up into his hand. he responds by picking up the pace a beat. you whine something incoherent and turn your face to press it within his chest.

“can just play with you all night,” armin softly confesses. his other hand’s fingers, the one whose arm is wrapped around your waist to keep you curled up against him, drag gentle lines up and down your spine. they wrack your entire body in chilled bumps. “. . god, you’re so pretty.” his words are contradicted when he suddenly gives a firm tap to your clit. it makes you jump. “so fuckin’ pretty, huh? gonna give me some pretty, little babies one day.”

“armin,” you reach for his wrist when he dips his fingers low . . scarily low.

“what?”

one look up and you find him already staring down at you through pieces of blond that’ve fell into his eyes. his face remains calm . . suavely stoic until a slow, handsome grin splits his lips in two, “wanna touch you right here,” he utters, letting his middle finger trace the puckered hole of your rim. “. . feels nice?”

you’re shy. you shield your face with your hands and refuse to answer. it’s . . conflicting. you’ve recognized armin’s interest with playing with you there when he’d sometimes have you on all fours. ever so often, he enjoys spreading your cheeks as wide as they can possibly go to watch it furrow and wink when he’d let some of his spit drop on it.

“wanna try something.”

he’s maneuvering you again; lies himself flat on the couch, leaves you on top of him, though tugs until you’re hovered over his face. he doesn’t say much else after his tongue performs a slow stroke from your clit to the plait of your ass. you twitch — fingers tremble, eyes tear. you guess he decides to focus more on that scrunched hole above all else because soon, your pussy begins to drip as he smooths the damp, firm muscle of his tongue up and down across it. it drips slick right there into the hollows of his collarbones and you find yourself becoming a mess. too big of one. you aren’t used to . . this, you suppose. the seemingly never ending onslaught of ecstasy being plowed against your body with the force of a wrecking orb with no intentions of stopping.

you drag in thin, ragged breaths through your lips and upon each exhale you’re whimpering for him. the words armin, daddy, and please become so common that soon, you’re slurring them loosely together to construct one word of pure gibberish. it’s a weak fathom, nonetheless, you still deduce that your same boyfriend who has swooped you up into his arms to keep you from stepping one pretty, little foot against the earth’s mugged, snow sludged pavement, finds joy in breaking you this way. you believe it so due to the fact that each time you jump and go to pull yourself free from his hold on your waist, his cock twitches against his thigh. there’s a small pond of silver right underneath his tip, formed right there within the crevice of his v.

“anythin’ you want . .”

“ ‘ll g-give it to you, pretty . . i promise.”

“already — heh, already h-had your ring made.”

once an hour spins into two then three, armin gets romantic. the stressors of everyday life melt across the span of his spine and out from his cock it seems. and it’s while he has you in bed ( how you both made it up the stairs is still a bit fuzzy for you ), legs bent, and your knees pressed into the knobs of your own shoulders when he finally breaks. his face is buried within your neck and his thrusts are slow yet deep — pulls almost all the way out then lazily grinds back in until his balls smoosh up against your ass. your hand fist some of his hair at his nape as you take each one, crooning and sweetly urging him to keep going, to never stop, to make you cum.

you know the moment when armin’s admittedly well lasting resolve finally snaps when he slides his arms underneath your back to wrap you within them, pull you in as close as possible, and begins to quietly mumble underneath his breath. he keeps you like that — immobile against him as his cock presses incessantly against your cervix as though it’s begging it for more and more of its touch and attention. “god,” his sounds are garbled rambles. “love you . . pussy’s so . . . jesus.”

he sounds so sweet; huffy, low, and broken. you’re completely spellbound and incapable of not not whimpering a gentle, “i love you more,” and it’s the killshot.

his spine hunches over as he pulls himself out then suddenly pummels his cock back inside your messy, little cunt with a loud, long, shuddering, “oh f-f-fuck,” expelled from his chest. his last thrust is so sudden, it jars you into an early orgasm of your own. you flay underneath him for a moment with a squeak of ardor, letting your nails burrow further into his skin. while his load joins the previous five or six that he’s already pumped inside of you over the night, his hips continue to pivot and rock, successfully pushing you both toward that ledge of overstimulation and not.

in due course, when his dick stops pulsing shots of cum and your walls refrain from trying to pull each one deep inside your womb, you muster some willpower to swallow and gently say, “. . a-armin, we’re all gross.”

he’s unmoving for a while.

“. . i have t’pee, daddy.”

he hums softly, a low sound of understanding and with some force, makes himself slowly unbend you from your folded position, rise up, and carefully pulls out. it . . . it’s quite a picture. how creamy globs of his cum and yours pour out of your pussy in literal waves — never ending, even in attempt to try to plug it back in with a couple of his fingers. you’re a sweetheart, though. you let armin pick you up and walk you both inside the bathroom, let him start a warm bath full of milk and oatmeal healing soak bubbles and some cotton scented bath salts.

it’s minutes later, nearly twenty, while you’re both immersed inside of the large tub — you on his lap, pressed chest to chest — when that knock at your bladder makes itself known once more. it’s uncomfortable. you try to ignore it for a moment longer because you’re comfortable here with the side of your face pressed against armin’s shoulder. he has his head tilted back against the ledge of the tub, eyes closed, lowly humming the tune of some song you feebly recognize as elvis presley’s blue christmas, while his fingers drag up and down your spine.

“. . do you feel better?”

his humming halts come your faintly uttered question. you think you can hear his smirk when he replies, “yeah. i really do.”

you give a weary huff when he’s suddenly lifting himself up and leaning you back some inches away to get a good look at you. due to the water and his habit of constantly raking a hand through it, his hair is now a tawny, bronzy blonde and is pushed back off his face to lay slicked back against his head. you get a good look at the features of his face — the graceful bones that make it and the pretty slant of his lips while he strokes his thumb over wine colored hickies that powder the warm brown of your skin. “hm,” he mumbles and chews at the bottom of his lip before looking back into your eyes. “i really did a number on you.”

you giggle, “yeah. you really did.”

“nothin’ my baby can’t handle though, no?”

your expression turns sheepish as you curl into yourself and shake your head from left to right, “nuh uh.”

he smiles when he kisses you. you’re only to return it for a few seconds before that pressure builds again. “i really gotta pee.”

“go ahead.”

you’re standing on weak legs, preparing to climb out of the tub when armin’s hand palms your own. “no,” he’s slowly speaking, as if you were a spooked deer and he’s only some guy trying to help you scurry out of the way. “right here.”

he pulls you back within the water, onto his lap, and you’re left staring at him for a second, trying to gauge if he’s actually serious. “in the water?”

he’s shrugging, “i’ll drain it when you’re done.”

“. . o-on you?”

“ ‘s okay.”

he’s serious. dour and grave.

you look down between your bodies at the bubble surfaced water. you feel his softened cock between your legs and squirm a bit. you feel . . embarrassed. “okay,” you sigh and keep your head down. you need to focus. “don’t look at me.”

armin starts to laugh, “what?”

“just . . jus’ close your eyes, armin!”

“mmm. mkay.”

you make sure that they’re tightly shut before finally relaxing your muscles. it’s akin to a chain reaction. you stop thinking too much which allows your shoulders to droop, and when your shoulders droop you release a tensed breath, and after releasing that breath, your organs slacken and your bladder softens.

the first trickle is warm . . and relieving. you release a small moan of solace and keep yourself still. it isn’t surprising to find armin’s eyes opened halfway in. “y-you’re such a liar.”

he’s smiling while rubbing his thumbs over your hips, “ooh,” he coos, “. . feels good . . and you’re still goin’.”

“been drinkin’ a lot of water.”

“yeah? good girl.”

it’s a long minute. the longest sixty seconds of your life. armin lets his hands grip at your thighs, waist, and butt, gently telling you to ‘ no, no. keep goin ‘ and when put up against your uneasy whines that ‘ you’re making him dirty, ‘ gives a reply saying ‘ you’re doing no such thing, baby. i like it. ‘ your boyfriend’s gross. and as promised, when you’re all done, he drains the water and starts the shower.

it’s after you both are scrubbed clean, after the sullied sheets are torn off of the bed and temporarily replaced by a thin comforter, and once you’re laid on armin’s chest, listening to the solid, steady beat of his heart when he quietly says, “i really do love you.”

the early rising sun bathes your boy with rays of gold. your cheeks are warm when you bury your face against his stomach and ask, “. . . did you really have a ring made already?”

“in the process of looking at family homes, too. i want our kids to grow up somewhere cultured.”

“armin, oh my god.”

you can’t shake that all too consuming feel of pure joy when you lift yourself up to look into his eyes, finding him serious as ever. he see a future with you, he’s actively planning a future with you. there’s a gentle pout playing on the softness of your lips when you state, “i want our wedding colors to be rose and cream.”

“done.”

“and i want our cake to be an ice cream cake. not a regular cake. and i’d really like it if you wore contacts . . just for the ceremony. at the reception and stuff, you can put back on your glasses if you want but i wanna look into your eyes when i say my vows.”

there’s a coral tinged blush spreading from the edges of his eyes down to his collarbones. his answer to that is given in the form of a million kisses it seems. done and done.

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 cheeks 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 it.”

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.