𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐰𝐢𝐳𝐫𝐝

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. Whittaker’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, discipline . . . 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 Teddy 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. Your 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?”

miles of space span between you and him. every night. akin to a kindled match catching dry leaves, you caught his eye within the initial second of you stepping foot into butcher’s for the first time. you stood out — a pretty, young lass. a blaring splotch of color betwixt the dull shades of muddied, brown work shoes, soot colored grime on navy auto shop overalls, and grey, plaid button ups . . . your style is ecliptic. full of soft textures, maximalist accessories, and playful motifs. john didn’t like it at first. it was too much. he’d sit at his usual booth, cornered between the juke and a few feet away from the back door entry and with his fingers stroking along the smooth glass of a generous shot of cognac, he would solely watch you. because time seems to like you — you’re her friend.

it has been inching into eleven months since you’ve first spawned within the tiny, logging town of briar. where you came from? no one knows. how you got here? fuck if anyone has a clue. who you are . . . ?

john has been trying to figure it out for about ten months now.

every night, quarter til dusk, similar to blood beneath the shag of an old carpet, you seep through. when he thinks you have finally decided to pack up and bolt, you weasel your way inside the bar like the walls had been saving your shadow all day. you’re a highly favored member of the oldest profession known to mankind. a seducer — to put it nice and plain, what john knows his mother would call you, a harlot. the method of approach you use to gather the attention of the creamcrackered patrons of butcher’s isn’t composed of smirks and an alluring, slow burning danger dressed in leather and platformed heels. quite the opposite, actually. you keep to yourself . . nuzzled underneath the flaxen glow of a hanging light fixture at the bar with a cosmopolitan held almost timidly between your fingers. posture straight, eyes forward . . . infallibly, you appear to be lost in your own head. gaze unfocused, a far away glint coffined deep within them as you soothingly twist the stool you’re perched on from left to right.

you’re always approached because you stand out.

in a good way? john wouldn’t think so. the men here are used to one type of woman — light eyed, slim, and dull. you’re none of those things. you’re sought out due to the fact that, given any other setting, you would be unattainable. there’s something about you that feels beyond reach — such as a place they have only seen in their dreams. you are distractedly peculiar, not in the way that frightens, but lingers. no one ever knows the exact reason why they look for you, only that they do.

john watches how your face prettily brightens with each approach — so many different men over the course of eleven months yet, your smile never dims. you’re happy to let them grab your hand, sweetly lead you to the restrooms, the rear exit for the alley or to their cars with a booster seat still buckled in back. it makes his gut twist. you’re disgusting. the obvious participants who keep fueling you to come back to the bar are also to blame but you? you are absolutely vile. it’s what he tells himself when a month inches into two, then three, then ten. you are a woman destined for nothing but a lifetime full of trouble, sadness, and regret.

with enough introspection, it doesn’t take much effort to realize that the spoken disgust he felt begins to edge into something much stiffer, quieter. jealousy. it curls around his spine, slow as a noose . . . grabs him by the throat and refuses to release. an honest man like him won’t fight it. he isn’t ten anymore, this isn’t the schoolyard. he doesn’t have to deny his feelings to a pal because girls are prissy and annoying and stupid and think that they know everything. you’re dreadfully attractive. skin almost the exact shade of the coffee he prepares each morning — a costa rican dark roast with two splashes of cinnamon vanilla creamer. you have locs, too. they’re long and halt at your curved waist. always freshly retwisted to reveal each small, neat, semi circle shaped part. you style them in high buns, pig tails, with bows and thick ribbon, or thick clear beads at the ends.

eyes big and brown — like a sad puppy’s. cheeks, both sets, full, lips pouty and perpetually shining with a glittering gloss. you are a vision. pretty as a festering wound stitched shut with lace.

and john’s never been a person to idly sit by as his fingers ache to grasp what is clear he wants. he’s never waited for a blessing, pleaded for acceptance. it’s not in him and he knows it never will be. his hunger is vast — he enjoys holding it there, directly within the pit of his throat. lets it curl out past his teeth sweet and slow at seemingly the worst, feasible moments. he’ll break down doors for what he wants, jam the barrel of an ak directly within a soldier’s eye socket until it pops like an overripe berry and oozes out jam and sinew if he has to.

‘learn to be patient.’

it’s what his ma would always tell him. ‘you’re too impulsive.’

he never really did learn to control his compulsions. he moved to briar, a gloomy, little city in oregon, from england all those years ago between deployments and during his first marriage to make an effort and somehow gather up the mental capacity to. too many sweet girls, smart ones, beautiful ones. it’d been difficult. nevertheless, bonnie, his second wife happened. a carnal, three month affair that led to divorce papers from athena being served to him just moments after his foot touched briar’s soil for the first time in ten weeks following conflicts in russia. the both of them, bonnie and athena, remind john of you. only . . . traits that you have, the other two lacked.

brown eyes, he’s always been attracted to them. warm and dark, similar to a simmering pot of melted chocolate that conceals a knife at the bottom — sweet ahead of you stirring too deep. bonnie’s were brown, athena’s were not.

plush lips, something athena possessed. bonnie didn’t.

stretch marks on stout thighs that ran up the sides of their hips, bonnie. eyelashes so long they could be mistaken for blackened silk, athena. beauty marks peppering her body akin to ink drops on aged parchment, bonnie. all of it, you.

a voice so sweet and soft, the kind that could be so easily misdeemed as a lullaby, yet in a bar seething with cigarette smoke and shouted curses, is able to still pull every gaze like a hook coated in honey. you. john has took it upon himself to realize that you don’t want this life anymore. it’s not for you. three to four different men every night, making just enough to continue to pay for your weekly stays at the town’s only motel. he can save you from the unwarranted touches, the stares, and he will peel you right out of the skin they’ve dirtied. tuck you somewhere nice, quiet, and remote where only his eyes, his touch, his hunger will ever find you. you’ll get used to it, you’ll grow to love it.

a place where the world forgets your name but he never will.

𓏵

you walk home alone. every night.

it’s your favorite time of day. an inky blue canopy pinpricked with glimmering light and a full, white disc. it feels as though the world is exhaling, leaving you wrapped in sweet quiet, entirely solo. your footsteps are heavy against the pavement — courtesy of the chunky, block heel of your platformed shoes. a tiny mp3 player is hooked against the strap of your accessorized handbag and connected to it are thin, pink, wired earbuds that also dangle from your ears. you’re softly tossing your head from this side to the next, swaying to the dreamy rhythm of kali uchis’ angels all around me.

you made a decent amount of money tonight. a whopping seven hundred dollars — the most you’ve made in a single one since you’ve probably been here at briar. you feel almost . . . good. half of it goes to your room at the inn and the other . . . it’s exclusively your decision to decide what you’ll do with it. you’re daydreaming about french toast as you gaze down at the square toe of your heels, trying to maintain a narrow enough stride to keep yourself from stepping on the cracks that cover the grounds.

sweet, fluffy goodness. dusted with cinnamon and powdered sugar with a bowl of fresh berries on the side, rasp and blue, needy for your teeth and tongue to pop and chew them into a mince.

you’re humming louder to the song — chancing a big, bunny hop over the next high curb as you cross a block.

“french toast,” you’re whispering to yourself. “berries. whipped cream . . aaand . . . apple ju—“

it happens faster than you can catch your next breath. one moment, you’re strolling, the next, a hand is clasping over the shape of your mouth — rough, warm, chillingly tender for something so final. he’s heaving you off of the sidewalk with his other arm squeezed tight around your tummy. instinctively, your legs are flailing come your feet no longer having the cement’s support. your screams are muffled beneath a broad palm. his grip on you is steady, firm as your heart rattles within the cage of your ribs similar to a trapped bird, dying to be set free. darkness enshrouds you, concealing the cool, pale moonlight into nothing. the world doesn’t just swallow you whole . . it moors down on you, razor toothed and angry, and you feel the night grinding you into pieces before you’re ever truly gone.

𓏵

there’s something soft beneath the warmth of your cheek.

not cottony soft . . almost, fuzzy actually.

your eyes dart from left and right beneath the shield of your closed lids before you’re creaking them open, feeble and frail. you’re only three inches above cold, concrete floor, thanks to the kindness of the mattress you lay upon. its surface is covered by a thin, fleece blanket. weakly, you blink . .

echos of what you’d felt, who you’d felt slowly leak within the crevices of your memory. they swarm into your brain like a hub of livid wasps. instinctively, your hand is reaching down to touch between your thighs — no tenderness, no pain, no wet. your clothes are still on, aside from your heels . . . they’ve been replaced by socks. thick ones with, interestingly enough, frills at the ankle. you could almost think that they’re yours even. you have about a dozen pair of the exact same ones.

when you gather enough strength to lift yourself up, you eventually find yourself in a basement. the room is dimly lit with only a single, naked lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. it casts a dull, golden glow against bare, concrete walls that appear rough to the touch and stained with age. wooden, exposed ceiling beams are crisscrossed with stray wires and pipes that snake along the awning and down the walls and an old, timber staircase sits off to the left, its steps creaking underneath phantom weight, leading up to a small landing and door that is painted red and bolted shut. it’s rough and unfinished, the steps made from rickety wood that looks like it’s been trod on by heavy boots full with secrets. there’s no banister, only a few support beams that reach the ceiling above, giving you nothing to grasp if you were to slip.

an iron clamp is fastened around your ankle like a vice. it connects to a thick, heavy chain that is hooked securely against a radiator some feet away from you. and within the shadows beneath the stairs, nothing but black pools — stubborn and stout.

until you see it.

until you see him.

he sits on a creaky, old plastic chair right beneath them, cloaked within the murk with his long legs outstretched. they’re the only parts of his body able to be seen. he wears a pair of dark washed jeans that strain against the thick muscle of his thighs and brown work boots. you swallow, thick and slow, staring off into where you think his face would be.

“these walls are ventilated.”

he speaks akin to a match being struck — a gravelly, quick rasp with the promise of fire underneath. his voice is deep and distinctly carries an accent . . . british, you would assume.

when his legs pull back towards his body in preparation for him to stand, you can’t help flinching back a bit and slowly dragging yourself closer to the wall behind you. he pulls himself up with a rumbling, low toned groan. you’re to only watch, doe eyed and helpless, as he straightens out and drags himself closer within the cast of light that sits within the middle of the room. similar to a half tamed beast stepping out of the dark, nothing but muscle and menace wrapped within the shape of a man, he emerges — rough, rugged, and handsome with his features etched in a glare.

your breath is all but slammed out of your diaphragm come the realization of this same face always distinctly watching from his dim booth at the bar wafting across your brain. you think you can recall his name. something boring, something plain — jack.

joey.

his arm is rising and with it, he brings his finger that points to a closed door some feet away, near the water heater. “toilet. got some toothpaste in there wi’a brush — mornin’ and night, brush your teeth. shower at dusk. you’ve got a few snacks there,” his finger drags towards a tall iron shelf pressed flush against the wall beside it. the two, bottom ones hold nothing but gallons of water and a few plastic cups. the upper two house what looks like a few tubs of trail mix, granola bars, potato chips, dried fruit packs, and crackers.

john.

you’re staring at him — eyebrows pushed just the slightest bit inward and a small frown pulling at the corners of your soft lips. john could almost take the expression as you being . . disappointed in him, honestly. it makes his gut twist, the hairs on his arm rise. he pauses between his words, letting his own brows furrow as his lips remain just barely parted. a heavy silence overtakes the interior of his basement, a man and girl, caught within a quiet so thick that it feels alive. the light bulb overhead hums with electricity, similar to this very moment, while his eyes search yours for fear, trepidation, tears. his broad chest slowly heaves up and down with the weight of his breaths. they’re slow and measured . . . calculated. there’s an apology waiting on the horizon — something that he’ll never give.

he takes one step closer, heavy boots scraping against the concrete and the sound echos off of the basement’s walls. there’s something almost soft in the manner of how he tilts his head, examining you the way a wolf studies a timid rabbit — patient, silent, waiting for you to make the horrid mistake of moving first.

you don’t.

you remain quiet. you sit still.

“go to sleep.”

it’s the last thing he gruffs out before he’s turning away from you and dragging himself up the stairs, each step groaning and splintering underneath his massive height and weight. the door’s hinges creak as he opens it and before you know it, he’s gone.

𓏵

morning spills in slow through the thin rectangular windows that sit almost a foot and a half taller above you and nearly directly beneath the ceiling. you blink against the sharp sting of sleep. it blurs your eyes — thick and foggy. your bones feel heavy, like they’ve been replaced with metal underneath your skin. he’s upstairs.

you can hear him. the floorboards creak below his boots, pipes shudder as water runs, you can make out the firm slam of a cabinet. he lives here, it’s clear. each step above has a certainty to it, like he’s done it tens of thousands of times. you don’t fall apart. you think that you should, however . . . you don’t. there’s nothing but the dull throb of dismay that overwhelms your chest. not because he took you . . but because he didn’t ask.

you recall the many occasions at the bar where the both of your sets of eyes would meet. the way he’d lounge comfortably in his usual booth, ice blue gaze stuck on you as if he were studying something fragile yet foul. you never minded his stares. they made you feel good, even. you enjoyed the turmoil that would sometimes cross his face. you knew that he wanted you, just as the rest of the men there did. more than that, you enjoyed reading how glaringly clear he knew what you were and ached for you anyway.

there was something cruel about it. how he never touched, never approached, never even tried to talk to you. just stared. as if you were a drink he didn’t dare sip, but just held to his lips, breathing in the burn.

as you slowly sit up, finding yourself reminded by the heavy, iron clasp that rings around the fragile width of your ankle, part of you wonders if you’ll even see him today.

‘morning and night, brush your teeth.’

you let your tongue lave over the roof of your mouth. you taste rust, you taste the copper of your bitten tongue after trying to scream when he snatched you as his, the sour tang of an inkling of fear, the faint sweetness of being glad he chose you. you force yourself to stand, nice and slow.

the chain rattles behind you. it’s heavier than you thought, you limp your entire way towards the door prior to cautiously opening it. inside, the bathroom is small — nothing but a frosted glass shower cubicle, sink, and toilet. it’s all bleach white, however the floors are a soft grey tile. as promised, a pink toothbrush, tongue scraper, and tube of spearmint toothpaste sit within a plastic toothbrush cup. slowly, you limp further inside, startling yourself come the image of your reflection within the mirror above the sink.

mascara’s smudged underneath your eyes — dark bruises of sleep. a shadow resting on warm, brown skin. your locs swing against the skin of your waist in tangled, proud cords. they remain a bit frizzy at the root where sleep and a certain man’s polyester shirt have agitated them.

you haven’t cried. not a single tear. not when the chain bit your ankle nor when the basement door shut you in like an unwanted prayer. there’s a sweet poise that wades within the brown pools of your eyes, wide and soft. you’re not broken. there remains a glimmer that reveals you’re still here, you’re still you.

again, the chain shifts as you deposit your weight more closer to the sink. you can’t help staring at the tube of toothpaste as you run the bristles of the brush over your teeth. you’d like to think of it as a kind promise, a reminder that he wanted you exactly like this. beautiful, clean, and tethered to him. you can almost forgive him for the both of your current circumstances come you looking at it that way. and when you spit the minty, green foam within the basin, you prepare yourself for the door beside you to push open and his voice to emit from within the gloom, deep and booming. nevertheless, neither happens.

nearly an hour passes before the basement door opens again.

you’ve taken your position upon the mattress like it’s been yours since the beginning of time. you sit within the middle of it, legs crisscrossed, silently watching how his calves and shoes appear first. his jeans are gray today — you’d personally guess that they were originally black but after years of wear and tear and laundry cycles, they’ve faded into this shade here. he wears a pair of western style boots too, they’re black with a snipped toe and slant heel. his shirt is a plain black button up. the sleeves are rolled up past his bristly forearms. he carries a tray with him on one hand and on it, a plate of something that emits a spiral of steam, the other holds a clear, plastic cup of what looks like orange juice.

his expression is less mean today. within the sunlight you get a better look at his face as he continues the trek all the way down the steps.

he’s big.

scarily so.

broad shoulders stretch against the seams of his shirt. he’s not cut from stone and marble — you can make out a layer of softness around the unrefined strength he carries. there’s a hint of warm flesh that settles over his abdomen and arms, cognate to a warning that he is real. he’s sturdy, heavy, impossible to move when he decides to remain planted. his biceps swell when he shifts the tray in his hand. it’s almost as though the muscles pushing up against his skin are impatient. gleams of the sun spills across his thick neck and chest, making him appear more man than statue. you can almost imagine what it’d feel like to be pinned under all that weight . . . the firm press of him molding you soft.

arctic blues are steady beneath bushy brows and he wears a subconscious almost-there frown.

he’s handsome.

he stops at the bottom of the steps and you watch his fingers curl tighter around both the cup and tray. “ ‘m gonna sit this in front of you,” he says, voice barely a croak. “you try somethin’, it’s gonna be a problem.”

your nods are small, but they’re there.

his jaw moves. “. . . alright.”

he walks closer. with him, he brings the fresh scent of cedar and a cool, mountain breeze as if he’s dragged a piece of outside in solely for you. your tongue sweeps against the seam of your lips, catching the whispers of mint as your eyes remain fixed entirely on the tray where you can make out the sweet smell of syrup curling up to meet the subtle bite of his body wash and cologne. he’s all danger and wilderness when he stands directly above you, his stature blotting out the light of both the bulb and sun as he comes to a complete halt . . looking down at you over the broad slope of his nose. his eyes are dark.

“you brush your teeth like i said?”

his voice is rough velvet, deep and serrated with something that sounds like care though it feels more like an order. once more, you quickly nod. the chain jangles at your ankle, gentle as a whisper.

he hums — it’s a low, resounding sound — buried vast within the depths of his chest, and you’d think he was almost pleased . . like you have done something to reward the plate he holds in his hand.

slowly, he lowers himself into a crouch, bringing the tray and cup with him. your chin drops as he does and stomach gurgles on command upon the view of two, golden waffles with crisped edges drizzled with syrup. next to them are hash browns and a jewel-dark fruit compote composed of blueberries, peaches, and strawberries. he sets the tray down on the floor gently, followed by the cup.

“eat. all of it. don’t pick at it, understand?”

no room for oppositions are left. your answer comes in the form of you shifting forward to grab hold of the plastic fork laying beside the plate. you stab the prongs inside the fluffiness of the waffle to lift the entire thing up to your mouth and bite into it needily. syrup drips down to your fingers, sticky and viscid.

john watches your teeth sink into the pastry and for a split moment, he relaxes.

this is how it’s meant to be. you fed, clothed, warm, safe.

all night, he’d battled with himself for not feeling bad about this. is he the said villain in all those fairytales his father used to recite to him when he was a boy? would he be banished to all damnation for this when he’s long gone? could he possibly be the monster lurking underneath the bed, demon hidden inside a closet — the very thing mothers warn their children about when they whisper comforts full of nothing and lock their windows?

he drags a heavy hand down the thatch of his facial hair as he stands within his kitchen, trying to wipe away the smile that threatens to overtake his entire face.

just perhaps he is.

𓏵

within a week, you build a routine. it’s shaped around john almost entirely. each morning you wake to a new day. subsequently, you brush your teeth, take a seat upon your mattress and patiently wait for him to bring you breakfast. it’s usually waffles, but occasionally he’ll switch it up for yogurt and granola or a sweet oatmeal sprinkled with crisp apple chunks and cinnamon. you eat, he silently watches, and when you’re done, he takes your tray and disappears back upstairs.

the front door slams shut after the pipes groan for a few minutes as he washes some dishes and soon, you hear the firm thud of a car door closing, skittering of an ignition, and heavy tires roll over gravel as he, assumedly, leaves for work. from then on, you’re on your own for a few hours. he doesn’t come back until dusk. by that point, you’d already walked around the basement until your feet grew black with grime and traced your fingers across every crevice and cranny. you know he’s home when you hear his truck pull back inside of the driveway. you can’t help the feelings of flurry and wicked anticipation as he opens the front door with a loud cough and clear to his throat.

boots are kicked off and you listen carefully to the floorboards creak as he gets himself comfortable. it teeters into ten minutes every time before the basement door opens and he enters while holding a new pair of pajamas, panties, socks, and on occasion, a box of apple juice or even fruit punch.

interestingly enough, each pair of pajamas he brings are your pajamas. they aren’t bought from a store or even a tattered old t shirt he no longer wears. no. each article of clothing is familiar which lets you know that somehow, maybe after he knocked you unconscious that first night, he managed to slip inside your room at the inn, pack up all your things, and bring them here with you. you feel . . strangely appreciated come the realization.

he lets you swallow your drink before you’re allowed to shower. once you do, he carries himself back upstairs to work on supper.

chili, roasted rabbit, pork sandwiches, sloppy joes, slow cooked ribs — he’s an abominably good chef. you‘ve learned to recognize the sounds of his cooking: the dull clatter of a spoon against a cast iron pot, the sharp hiss of meat encountering hot oil, the soft hum he sometimes fails to swallow down when he’s tasting a sauce directly from a ladle. by the time he brings your plate down, your skin is scrubbed clean, scented of fresh powder and coconut from the soap he provided in the bathroom. your legs always remain tucked close to your body, a sign to showcase your surrender, chain faithfully looped around your ankle like an old friend.

he crouches down each time to set the tray down in front of you. he never says grace, only murmurs one word, ‘eat,’ and from then on, he watches. most times, he takes a seat upon one of the bottom steps, others, he remains standing about a foot away with his arms folded tight across his chest. you gratefully swallow each precious bite, lick your lips and fingers free from gravy or sauce, all while his eyes burn a quiet promise into your bones — you’re here, you’re his, you’ll never starve again.

when you’re done, he’ll make a pleased sound, a grunt or a hum, before he takes the tray and grumbles out a quiet order, “you get some sleep now, you hear me?”

and when arrives the door closing shut with a finalized click, you get comfortable beneath a large, sherpa blanket, close your eyes and drift away with the taste of him lingering behind your teeth — savory, sweet, and something you’re quietly beginning to crave.

𓏵

john hears your voice for the first time when your indefinite stay with him teeters on day twenty.

it’s while he’s walking back upstairs after taking your empty breakfast plate and cup and for a moment, he almost misses it — the delicate scrape of your words slipping past the hush of the basement. nevertheless, it finds him on the steps . . soft, uncertain, shy . . . and completely renders his body still. you haven’t spoken a word to him this entire time . . only head shakes, nods, or unnerving stares. twenty days of your silence has been ringing louder than any scream could. the sound of it makes something inside of his body tighten, ache even. he keeps himself immobile, head the slightest bit tilted as he thinks for a moment that his sanity has finally slipped. but, you end up saying it again, a little clearer this time after having to clear your throat — still soft, although more brave.

“can i have m’braidin’ gel? i wanna retwist my locs . . . please?”

his head turns over his shoulder to look down at you first before his entire body follows. “yeah?” he asks, voice quiet. it matches the volume of your own. “. . finally found your voice, hm?” as he shifts the tray in his hand, his boots make a lone step groan. “could’ve asked me sooner, don’t make me guess what you need down here. i’m not a mind reader, lass.”

he examines you for a long moment — jaw working back and forth as though he’s trying to memorize what you look like asking for something from him all nice and sweet. “right. i’ll get it sorted later on. comb, gel, wha’ever you need.”

you nibble on your bottom lip while giving a shaky nod.

he catches the way your shoulders curl in, how your eyes hold onto his as though you’re afraid he’ll disappear into vapor. his lips twitch with an exhale and he dips his chin, squinting his eyes and narrowing his focus in the same way he does when he’s looking down into the scope of a rifle or into you. “s’good. you jus’ keep askin’, yeah?saves me havin’ to pull it outta you. we clear?”

“mhm.”

his gaze drags over you one last time, taking in your bonnet covered head, quivering press of your mouth and twisted hands in your lap. you were so nervous to ask him that. he huffs and finalizes the conversation with a nod. “alright.”

hours drift by with you buried within the basement’s weighty quiet. you drift in and out of sleep, dreams leaden with the shape of john. you’ve never met a man like him — chances are, you’ll probably never encounter one in your future neither. you can’t pretend to hate your current predicament. in a sort of fucked up way, you’re appreciative and somewhat even pleased to have garnered so much of his attention, his want, you managed to inadvertently invoke a need so primal within him that he decided to seize you for his own. you haven’t had such warm and hearty meals since you were a toddler and though you only see him three times a day, maybe for a total of half an hour gathered all together, it’s clear that you are something john . . . if not someone he likes then at least one he cradles possessively within his calloused palm. granted, his care is exuded more as pity with an odd display of sharp edged intensity . . part of you simply wants to take what you can get.

the shell your ears seem to flutter when the front door is heard being pushed open and the familiar, soft tinkling of his keys. he clears his throat with a loud huff, walking this way and that until you hear him making his way for the basement door.

you lift yourself up slowly — straighten your spine and take in a deep inhale through your nose as it opens.

his steps are heavy and he doesn’t say anything, only tosses a small, plastic bag upon your single pillow when he’s about halfway down the steps, leaving you to grab it with some hesitance. the weight of a small jar and sound of a comb crinkling within its plastic wrapping makes your next breath hitch.

words gather within the pit of your throat, small and sticky, “. . . thank you.”

“mm,” is all john gives, tired and quiet. “you want somethin’, you use that mouth and ask me. simple.”

he’s shrugging off his sherpa lined coat while walking deeper within the basement, rounding the stairs to produce that same, rickety chair he sat in after snatching you that first night. he lifts it by the backrest with intimidating ease, brings it with him within the middle of the room, and lets the legs crash down with a loud clatter that makes you flinch. groaning underneath his breath as he does, he takes a seat and allows his body to mold against the plastic — leans back, stretches out, widens his legs, and lets his head fall against his shoulder to rub slow circles against the side of his neck. underneath the pale glow of the lightbulb, you catch the coarse ash barbed along his sideburns and the cold blues of his eyes that are half closed as he gazes at you over the slant of his nose.

he maintains the position for a while — mighty yet patient as his boot taps a slow, unsettling rhythm against the floor.

your fingers tremble as you scoop gel upon them to begin to twist a loc. his stare is dark, all consuming.

“you used to do this every week?” he questions. his voice is quiet but not delicate — more like a test, like he’s pulling threads to gauge whether you’re soft or not.

your eyes are focused somewhere down and away as you reply with a small, “yeah — yes . . uhm, at least every week and a half.”

“mm,” his are pinned upon the gentle lines of your fingers

and the precise and slow method of the teeth of the comb at the root of a loc twisting it tight. “keep it up then. not lettin you turn into a mess down here. ‘s not what i brought you for.”

he begins to nod then, slow and careful, . . as if there were something he just realized. “gonna keep you tidy. pretty. proper. understand me?”

it’s not a question john expected to be answered, more a statement meant for you to swallow whole. a reminder that even when you touch your own hair, brush your teeth, scrub your body down in that shower everyday, it’s all for him. solely for him.

your response is softer than his grumble, almost lost underneath the thumping of his boot.

“. . proper,” you whisper to yourself with an unfocused gaze stuck somewhere between the space between the both of your bodies. you repeat the word as if you’re trying to taste what it feels like on your own tongue. “okay.”

a silence stretches on between you both. his boot carries on tapping, steady and controlled. not rushed nor bored, however just . . . there. you take it as some sort of a reminder — that he’s watching, that he’ll always be here even when he’s not physically with you. it’s grounding. it’s unsettling.

it’s beginning to feel like a fact of life.

with gel slick between your fingers, you have to tighten your grip around the comb to firmly twist another loc. you’re curled inward towards yourself, chin bowed. your neck feels warm underneath his stare.

“no one ever took care of ya, did they?”

it cuts sharper than any insult could. his tone isn’t laced with cruelty, he asks it in a matter of fact tone. you don’t have to answer, he already knows what you’ll say.

when you pause and your shoulders pull tight, it only solidifies john’s assumption. “figures,” he says as his fingers scratch through the mat of hair decorating his jaw, voice low and tight. it reads almost as though he’s peeved with himself for being right, like your story confirms something ugly he already believed about the world. “runnin’ around that bar, dressed like that, doin’ what you were doin’. could tell from a mile off, no mum or dad anywhere around you. no one’s ever kept a strict eye on you.“

another silence. this one thicker than the last.

you swallow a tensed wad down into your throat.

he leans forward, places his forearms on his knees and clasps his fingers loosely between them. the pure blue of his eyes are shadowed beneath his eyebrows when he murmurs, “you were what . . . eighteen? nineteen?”

you know what he’s asking. and though something buried deep within you wants to lie, wants to even ask him ‘what are you implying?’ especially after so many years of having to do just that, something even stronger wants to tell him the truth. so with your chest tight, you try to breathe through your nose, slow and careful. but your stomach twists as you quietly reply, “s-sixteen.”

john scoffs as he reclines back within his chair. it takes a while for him to speak again. he lets your answer hang within the air, heavy and blue. “. . . just a fuckin’ baby.”

that title of endearment makes your skin warm. you thought he would have tutted in disgust, called you every other form of a doxy or trollop in the book even, however . . it’s horrifyingly clear that as much as john and his feelings are rendered stupefied by you, you are still someone worth protecting instead of using. given his form of protection is outlandish, it’s still protection.

his eyes settle on your hands where they hold a loc once more, “how long were you stayin’ at that inn?”

your fingers twitch, “some months.”

he licks his lips, goes back to rubbing at his neck as if to resolve some tension from it — the stroke of his hand firm and pressing. “you were never goin’ to get outta that. you know that, don’t you?”

you did know. you don’t respond.

his voice dips again, low and grumbly, albeit this time . . no longer is the tone of it testing, it seems almost tender. purposely so. “you were just waitin’ for me to come and pull you out.”

your breath catches and before your heart can really begin to knock against your ribs, he’s standing up, slow and careful with a breath exhaled. “gonna make you stew tonight. beef, potatoes, garlic, thyme. eat a proper meal. sleep like you should.”

you’re staring up at him, eyes wide and glossed over beneath the one, shining gleam of the lightbulb.

“you’re mine now,” he adds, tired and final. it’s the first time he’s said it. the first time you truly feel it. “that means i take care of you. and you let me.”

𓏵

it’s the scent that fills the basement first — thick and smoky. it curls up within the corners of the cemented walls as though it’s been simmering all day and filters in slow, wrapping around the entire space of it. when the door creaked open for the second time within the next hour, it’s to john still dressed in his work clothes, carrying a familiar tray. you sit upright upon your mattress, body tensing out of habit. the faint scent of cigar smoke clings to him beneath the potent scent of the stew and you try to think about it . . . john with a cigar dangling from his lips, fat and brown, as he held a pepper grinder over a bubbling pot on the stove and twisted at it.

he descends down the stairs, crosses the short distance from them to you to kneel, knees faintly cracking beneath his weight, and places it down in front of you.

your soup wades inside of a pink, plastic bowl. the rim is decorated with a design of flowers on vines — alongside the plastic being a little chipped and color of the flowers fading, you can’t help but notice that it looks old, however new. you guess that maybe he picked it up at a thrift shop . . maybe it reminded him of you. the broth inside is dark and glossy, the kind that sticks to your ribs before you even touch it. you take note of the chunks of tender beef, half cloves of garlic, onions, and potatoes the size of your knuckles, softened just enough to split with the serrated edge of a butter knife. rosemary and thyme float upon it all like little green signatures.

there’s a buttered roll on the side — thick and soft. a folded napkin. wide, plastic spoon. and a cup of water with a lemon wedged carefully on the rim.

you spare a peek up at him though john’s face is unreadable. not hardened over with anger, not softened with care neither. just . . set.

he straightens up and stalks off towards the stairs without a word and by the time your spoon touches the broth, he’s gone.

the first bite makes your eyes water. not from heat nor spice, but from something more difficult to name. the beef falls apart with the simple nudge of your spoon, the garlic is sweet, the broth is deep — swimming deep within it, comfort and something that feels like guilt yet not. it clings to your tongue when you go to tilt the bowl towards your lips. the roll tears easily between your fingers, the lemon water burns clean.

it all tastes, feels like an apology. it reminds you of all the nights no one’s fed you. of all the men who paid for your body to leave you out in the cold when they were through. and you’re reminded of john, a man who decided to drag you underground yet spoons warmth and consideration into your life with root vegetables, bay leaves, scented soap and foaming body scrubs, two, firm pillows, a thick blanket, and routine.

it’s too good. too real.

the effort, the sheer thought of it all . . . you think it’s more terrifying than anything else he’s ever done to you so far.

upstairs, around a corner and a few feet away, the house breathes around john. the oven is still warm, the lights are dimmed and the bottle of wine he’d used for the stew still remains uncorked on the counter, bleeding its scent into the kitchen similar to a quiet confession. he leans against the pantry cabinet with his arms folded and eyes focused out of the sliding door at the calming landscape of the lake and acres of pine trees surrounding his cabin.

you’re eating.

good.

for what it’s worth, he does carry a sense of pride knowing that he’s able to provide this for you. he started that stew before dawn, before your eyes probably fluttered opened for the day actually. seared the meat, chopped the vegetables, let the bones boil for broth, and skimmed the fat with a spoon like he’d done in that godforsaken base camp twenty something years ago . . only then it was for a dozen men. now, it’s all for you. he’s been telling himself it’s all to keep you strong, healthy, useful. who knows, maybe he would have liked to make something of a little house cleaner out of you.

but, he knows better.

he likes knowing that you’re fed, that you’re warm, safe. bound to him by something as simple as a home cooked meal. he pictures you down there, legs folded, hands cupped around the bowl while you chew slowly as though it all may vanish before your eyes.

he sucks in a deep inhale through his nose and clenches his jaw.

you’re becoming something . . . something dangerous. he doesn’t know how to quell it.

there’s a soft ache that spans across the distance of his chest — dull and settled low within his ribs, similar to a pressure change before a nasty storm. you’re a quiet thing, he’s learning that now. meek also. nonetheless you’ve eased your way deep within the cracks of his routine and settled there, not fast nor loud, but just . . there.

john tries to shake it off with a grunt. rolls his neck, takes a swig out of that wine bottle, drags a hand down his face. “pull it together, mate,” he murmurs to himself.

he goes about his nightly practice — wipes down all the counters, scrubs the dishes clean. a soldier’s habits. the lights hum as he moves about the house, locking up the doors, flicking off switches, checking the bolt on the hatch of the door that opens up to the basement. no need to go back down and grab your bowl, john doesn’t think he can see you like that . . legs tucked, eyes glistening and heavy with the pretty features of your face dimly lit by that small bulb.

in his bedroom, he sheds the day like second skin . . . peels off his long sleeved thermal first then tosses it onto the chair beside his king sized bed. the nipping breeze wafting through an opened window rushes across the scars on his arms. he doesn’t look in the mirror, he doesn’t need to. he knows what he’ll see. he moves slowly, each action measured and even. sets the alarm on his old bell clock then reaches a hand beneath his mattress to graze his fingers along the cold metal of his twelve gauge remington 870 mcs.

his thoughts drift when he finds himself laying beneath his sheets . . not to his time overseas, his ex wives’ shrill voices, nor to the men he’s lost . . . but to you.

a drumbeat muffled by a thin fog — his pulse pounds beneath his eyes as he stares up at his rotating ceiling fan. he forces his sight to lock in on a random blade and follows it round and round, hoping it can clear his thoughts. he’s used to the same memories flooding his brain after he lays down each night . . . dust and gunfire, athena’s silence, bonnie’s venom, names etched into stone with two dates underneath. however, tonight is different. you’re all that he can think about.

you move like warmth, like something from a dream long forgotten. thick thighs folded atop of each other underneath the frayed hemming of that old t shirt and locs long enough to cover your back like a curtain. john lets his thoughts carry to you lying there beneath the very blanket he’d snatched from off of his bed. he pictures you breathing slow, cheek smooshed against a pillow and lips pouted and swollen from the aftermath of the stew.

you don’t know.

you don’t have a clue about how fucking mad you’re driving him.

this feeling is unfamiliar. this isn’t just want . . it isn’t completely soft neither. it’s something else entirely. something old, ancient — like it’s always been dormant within him and has now been stirred awake.

it’s the way you whispered ‘proper’ underneath your breath . . as though the words he chose were sacred and you weren’t too sure if you could repeat them with the same capacity. the way you handled your own hair for him . . the fact that you don’t ask for much yet still can’t help looking at him as if he could hand you the moon and all her stars if he wanted to. god help him, he might try at this point. john’s jaw clenches and a muscle twitches near his eye. he doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch, barely even breathes. he lets the feeling throb inside of him, lets it fill him and swell.

this thing. this want. this need to protect . . possess . . provide.

it’s depraved, sure. he won’t deny it. however, it’s clean too. like snow peppering a bloodstained ground or barbed wire wrapped in velvet.

“she’s mine.”

it’s the last thought he has before his eyes drift closed. not a question or even a hope, just fact and a truth as old as war.

𓏵

he wakes early.

crack of dawn — six am. he always does. years of it carved deep within his spine like notches. his eyes blink open just before the shrill of his alarm clock begins to clatter upon the nightstand and he kills it with a single slap of his palm. the day is gloomy, therefore his cabin is buried within a sort of oyster grey glow. john likes it . . . it invokes feelings of some sort of nostalgia. he listens to the wind brush through the brittle leaves of pine trees outside as he drags himself to his bathroom to start a warm shower and brush his teeth.

no work today. he thinks of maybe heading down to the bar — hasn’t been there in about two weeks. he’s aware that he can’t completely stray away from visiting . . especially when he has no reason to anymore. two regulars gone missing around the same time, it doesn’t take much for one person to piece two and two together.

he brews his coffee in silence and cracks four eggs into a buttered pan with practiced ease. pieces of bread browns in an old toaster and a few links of sausage crisp in a shallow pool of oil until the surface of them scald. he doesn’t cook like a man wanting to impress — it comes naturally. your plate is assembled neatly . . eggs, sausage, half a grapefruit with sugar dusted on top. your toast is cut into triangles with butter and a bit of grape jam spread thinly across each piece.

it’s not the first time he’s brought you food, but it’s the first time john lingers at the door before descending down to where you are.

“mornin’.”

you lay upon the mattress underneath the comforter with your hands sandwiched between your thighs for warmth. your shoulders are trembling — softly, but just enough to warrant john’s hard stare. he stops right at the mattress and watches you sniffle before you timidly raise your eyes to glance up at him. a beat passes . . .

“you’re cold.”

and your nose is running, too. “. . i brushed m’teeth.”

“why didn’t you tell me last night?”

you shift your gaze away and give a small shrug, “i-it wasn’t that important.”

john’s jaw clicks as he tenses it closed. your breakfast tray is then lowered down to the ground beside your empty stew bowl. “you’ve got no fuckin’ sense,” he utters as he snatches off his coat. he doesn’t ask, doesn’t wait neither — he forces you to sit upright so that he can toss it over your shoulders and guide your arms through the holes. it smells like detergent and woodsmoke . . leather and gunpowder, him. his warmth still resides in the threads, you can’t help closing your eyes and melting into the oversized fabric while your teeth chatter.

he heaves a great sigh after he’s done, as if the ordeal took a lot out of him. “you feelin’ alright otherwise?”

your nod is slow, “just tired.”

“mm,” he’s walking back towards the staircase to grab that familiar chair from underneath it. “well, i still want you to eat. get some fuel.”

you lean forward and as he takes a seat, your trembling fingers reach for a piece of sausage first. you only get it halfway to your mouth before its falling back down onto the plate into the bed of scrambled eggs. john watches you try again . . eyes squinted and lips pressed into a thin line. he doesn’t like this, he finds. not one bit. “jesus christ, kid,” he huffs underneath his breath before he’s standing and crossing the short distance on over to you. you flinch as he crouches down, grabs the plate and stabs some of the eggs on the spears of the fork before he’s slipping it past your lips.

he doesn’t say anything else, just begins to feed you in steady, measured motions. every lift of the fork is guided by a sort of quiet frustration. not angry — not at you, but at the situation. at the shivering, the new paleness that sits beneath your eyes.

the eggs are warm and fluffy, tasting faintly of butter and herbs. you chew on them slowly, eyes flitting up once or twice to only find his already locked on you . . sharp, blue, and assessing. as though he were counting how many bites you can manage.

the sausage is slipped between your lips next. salt and pepper hit your tongue first, then the slight kick of paprika and sweetness of maple. you chew, swallow, and lick your lips when you’re done. he catches that too. still crouched, still close. when he focuses on splitting the grapefruit half into two wedges with the side of the fork, the plate tips a bit within his huge palm. “open,” he demands while holding the edges of one between his thumb and middle finger. you do. it’s sweet . . cold . . pulpy. he tilts the wedge gently as you suckle at it. juice trickles slow and steady down his hairied knuckles.

and when the wedge is drained dry, membrane sticking up and faintly molded with the indents of your teeth, john is feeding you the other.

“told you to speak up when you need something.”

his tone isn’t scolding. it isn’t gentle neither. your hands curl around the insides of the long sleeves of his coat where they halt as he stands and starts to make his way back towards the stairs after you’re done. “if i catch you goin’ without something again and you don’t tell me . . .” you let your imagination fill in the rest as an uneasy silence drags on — his hand squeezing around your throat, no more toothpaste so that your teeth can rot, lack of meals for a week. “me and you are going to have a problem. we clear?”

your next words are a slip of the tongue but they fall off of it naturally, “. . yes, sir.”

you watch how he pauses midstep. the muscles of his back ripple as his spine tenses and he takes a slow breath in. your words hang between you both, thick and muggy. he doesn’t look back at you right away, just stands there before he gives a slow nod . . a motion of approval wrapped in warning. “i want you to get some rest. i’ll be back soon.”

𓏵

john has errands to run.

grocers, florist, gun shop, then to the pharmacy to pick up his meds and some remedies for you. he doesn’t want to . . . he truly doesn’t, but heading to butcher’s is his final one. the place is a wasteland for sorrow. he tries not to appear as aggrieved as he truly feels as he takes his usual glass of scotch and settles in within his booth. having been gone for a couple weeks, and knowing that you won’t emerge from within the night this time has his patience worn thin.

you, you, you. you’re all he can think about. it all festers behind his eyes like a killer migraine. you — curled up beneath his coat, drowsy and ill in his basement, soft in the ways he desperately tries not to name. he sees you in the tilt of the female bartender’s smile, hears you in the soft drone of the jazz playing through the jukebox. he thinks he even smells you — something warm and sweet, like a coconut cream pie.

each swill of scotch claws at his throat.

“. . prettiest thing in town and she just,” snaps. “disappears. like that.”

“got to do shit to her that my wife could never handle . . i’ve been walkin’ around with blue balls for damn near a month straight.”

they’re off to his far left . . a couple of buds gulping down bottles of beer as if they were holy water. the buzz of the bar’s usual ruckus dims down into almost nothing as their voices sharpen into john’s focus. his ear twitches as his jaw works slow and tight. they don’t say your name . . they don’t have to. he doesn’t turn his head, doesn’t give them the dignity of eye contact. simply shifts in his seat just enough for the light to catch the side of his face, shadow and flame licking at the edge of his beard.

his glass of scotch now sits empty.

they continue to chatter — it’s all vulgar, greasy. john isn’t exactly sure of when he stands and slaps a couple of bills down on the table, but his hands move without command . . controlled, smooth, and deliberate. a soldier’s movements. old muscle, old anger. it’s not until he’s standing behind them that they are finally aware of his presence. one of them glances over his shoulder mid chuckle and the sound dies out over his tongue upon gauging the clear intent frosting over john’s eyes.

he leans in close enough for them both to smell the pine and smoke on his flannel. “finish that sentence,” he murmurs, voice low and guttural. “and i’ll break your fuckin’ teeth on this bar counter.”

a silence follows . . heavy and humiliating. the one on his left shuffles in his seat, eyes suddenly pinned on the condensation dripping down the surface of his beer bottle. “sorry, man,” he utters. “we ain’t mean nothin’ by it.”

john continues to stare. he lets the silence drag on, lets it scrape its nails down their feeble spines. “she’s not yours to talk about.”

he leaves them there, limp and pale underneath flickering neon lights, and steps out into the evening cold. a crisp breeze hits him like a baptism . . he breathes it in and lets it settle.

his blood is rushing.

he needs you.

time feels like it’s moving slower as he stalks his way towards his truck to yank the door open with little grace, slide into the seat, and slam it closed. he has a white knuckled grip on the steering wheel and maintains a hard stare that pierces through the windshield while trying to control his restraint.

vile bastards.

your face burns within his memory. the way your lips curled around that wedge of grapefruit, how you gently blinked up at him during the whole ordeal, eyes holding something deep . . sweet . . and pure. john hadn’t even realized he’s been muttering to himself until the words fall from his lips, deep and quiet, “mine. she’s fucking mine.”

his fingers turn the key within the ignition and the engine growls to life.

by the time he pulls into the gravel stretch of his cabin, the sky’s darkened into a mellow indigo. he kills the headlights, sits still for a moment, then opens the door with purpose to round the back and collect the paper bags out of the bed of his truck that hold his recent procurements.

warmth swells against him the moment he opens the front door. his cabin smells like mahogany and cherries, disinfectant, and if he wants to be honest . . . you, a little bit. he pauses . . breathes it in deep . . and lets his restraint fall at his feet. he doesn’t have time to place everything in their respective areas — groceries in the fridge, pantry, and freezer, new botanicals on the windowsill, meds and bullets in his nightstand drawer. no, he needs to see you.

he unlocks and opens the basement door slowly . . not wanting you to hear the hinges creak in case you were asleep. the single lightbulb casts long shadows of his stature against the wall as he walks downstairs . . . and there you are — on the mattress, blanket wrapped entirely around you like a cocoon. your eyes are open just enough to watch him move closer toward you then take a beat to notice a splatter pattern of grainy vomit leading towards the bathroom door. you’re shivering worse now, lips chapped, and eyes sunken in.

silence settles.

“fuck,” john bites out underneath his breath.

he moves with purpose now . . crouches down, touches your sweaty forehead with the back of his fingers. “hey. you with me?”

a hiccup then a mewl. you seem to try to bury your face deeper against your pillow as john shoves a hand in his pocket to produce a ring of keys. he singles the longest one out and shoves the ridges of it inside the hole of the iron cuff around your ankle to twist open and toss away. with little hesitation, you’re unraveled from your blanket and scooped within his arms. you don’t resist. john feels the festering heat radiating off of your body as your head naturally tucks itself against his chest like you were made to fit there. a fucking fever. he thought it’d been a simple cold. he wouldn’t have left you if he knew how bad it’d get.

his home is dim, quiet as he emerges from the basement with you in his arms. everything feels so still compared to the storm that’s raging within him. he doesn’t bother turning on any lights, merely carries you down the corridor, around a corner, upstairs, and enters his bedroom to head straight for the bath. he flicks a switch, a warm glow floods in. everything in here is pristine — stone tiling, brass iron fixtures, and soft towels folded impeccably on the shelf. you’re shuddering and eyes keep fluttering as though you’re trying to stay awake. “i got you,” he utters as he kicks the door shut and gently sets you down upon the closed toilet seat. “you’re alright.”

with the water running and gradually beginning to fill his clawfoot bathtub, he’s adding some foaming bath liquid beneath the faucet and watches as soft white bubbles begin to bloom. the scent is subtle — shea butter and something like oat — something calming, something clean. he then diverts his full attention back to you. you’re slumped where he left you . . . head lolled against the wall beside the toilet, eyes unfocused and glossed over. small. vulnerable. his fingers are calloused, yes, nonetheless he’s tender . . careful as he peels your frilled socks, little sleep shorts, his coat, and your shirt off. it’s as though he’s unwrapping something delicate rather than undressing someone sick. he handles your limbs like they might shatter as he guides you to the tub.

the coolness of the water startles a quiet whimper from your lips. “i know, i know,” he’s shushing while holding you steady within just one of his arms. tenderly, he lowers you in deeper, watching your locs fan out against the surface of the water akin to a halo. “gotta get your temperature down.” he gathers them slowly and drapes them over the rim of the tub so that they don’t soak.

“good girl,” he murmurs with a delicate stroke to your cheek with his knuckle to feel the lingering heat. “you’re alright.”

you’re shivering still as you lay your head against the cool porcelain and close your eyes. you feel like shit . . utter and complete trash, down to your bones. but then his touch his there — his arm wading within the water as he wets a cloth and a moment later, strokes it against the folds of your neck. the sensation is quiet bliss — incomparable. you croon a small sound of solace.

the water sloshes gently as he shifts to wet the cloth again and this time, wrings it out to then lave at the underside of your arm. you’re too weak to lift it on your own, however you make sure to give a small, trembling exhale of gratitude. john studies you for a moment . . . at the way your lashes sit heavy against your skin, how you can’t help nibbling at your bottom lip, the goosebumps raised along the surface of nearly your entire body. “i had poor judgment,” he grumbles. his voice is edged with guilt. “wasn’t thinkin’ straight. i’m correcting it now. next time i’ll act faster, i promise.”

it all radiates off of him in waves. you don’t have the strength to assure him that it’s really not his fault, that since you were a child your immune system has simply loved to shut down on you at the worst of times and from the tiniest of things . . albeit, you guess that you can appreciate his sentiments all the while. he seems to . . care. undoubtedly and deeply.

he continues gliding the cloth alone your body. the sound of the water wading about the tub is all that fills the room, no small talk, no hums. just your ever so shallow and trembled breaths and the steady hush of his motions. “you’re not gonna get this bad again,” he’s mumbling now with his head turned away from you as he focuses on wiping along your shin down to your toes. “not under my roof. not on my fuckin’ watch.” his voice is thick and low — like it’s costing something to even push the words out.

the sleeves of his blue and grey flannel are rolled up to his elbows however soaked and he ignores them to reach deeper in and underneath your back to sit you upright. his face is close to yours now . . so close that you can make out the flecks of silver that fleck around his pupils within the icy pools of his eyes. you can feel him hesitate . . yet, he seems to ignore some type of instinct to instead pass his thumb along your temple for one, slow stroke. “you need somethin’, you tell me. doesn’t matter how big or small. doesn’t matter the time of day.”

you nod, barely. melting within his touch feels good, but above that, it just feels right too. “. . didn’t,” you swallow and your body shudders. “wanna be a burden.”

he clicks his tongue and drags in a raspy inhale, “you’re not.”

and that’s that. simple. like the word burden will never belong to you, not in his house. not with him.

when the water’s cool and your teeth start to chatter again, john’s lifting you from the tub and carries you to the counter. steam clings to both of your bodies, humid and thick. he sets you down beside a folded towel and shakes it out to begin patting down your limbs. his hands never leave you . . not for long. everything’s quiet. he’s methodical but not mechanical. he avoids looking for too long at one area — not out of disgust . . or even restraint, really. just a tight lipped kind of control, the kind you only learn when you’ve had to hold a trigger steady with the safety off. he doesn’t give himself the luxury at ogling at the softness of your thighs or curve of your waist. he doesn’t let his breath hitch.

but he thinks about it.

god, does he think about it.

the image of you — glistening, pliant, body unguarded and slick with sweat engraves itself behind his eyes like something sacred. it doesn’t particularly excite him in the usual sense . . not when you’re like this, but it pulls at something deeper within him. something tight and aching just beneath his ribs.

you trusted him enough to go slack within his arms. let him bathe you. let him see you.

the weight of that is not lost on john. he decides to treasure that. it all settles low in his chest as he swaddles you within one of his cotton t shirts. it swallows your frame whole. you’re so small in it . . . so fucking small. he has to roll the sleeves up for your hands to be revealed. everything about you makes something click into place inside of him — not quite rage nor need — just an avowal. and it reads that whatever part of the world turned you into someone who suffers quietly and who throws up alone on cold basement floors will never touch you again. not if he can help it.

after he eases a pair of soft, fleecy sweats up your legs, john takes a moment to just take it all in — he watches you breathe.

your head tilts ever so slightly into his touch as he gathers your locs into the opening of your bonnet and situates it comfortably onto your head. he’s been meaning to take it down to you . . . he just never had the chance. and well, he won’t say that. he’s had the chance, he just never wanted to. it’s the one piece of clothing that smells most like you.

he feels it again. that aching pull. not entirely tender, not entirely possessive . . it’s scrambled between the two.

“i’m here,” he murmurs as he holds your face within the cradle of his hand. your eyes are closed, lips parted . . you’re a second away from sleep as your body slumps against his. “not goin’ anywhere.”

he doesn’t think he could leave you if he tried.

𓏵

you wake to the smell of something sharp and savory drifting in from another room — potent onions, garlic, and oil. your eyes open slow, momentarily stung by the afternoon light filtering in through thin, wine red curtains from an open window not too far away from the king sized bed you lie in. the world feels heavier, slower as if you’ve been emerged under water for too long. sheets are twisted around your legs, the pillow underneath your head is dented in from the weight of it, and your skin still blazes warm.

there are voices. a handful of them — all deep and accented.

you catch the first . . bright and teasing, “cap, you cook with anchovy paste? bloody hell, old man.”

another more flat, unmistakably dry, “it’s a base for flavor, mactavish. he’s not wrong.”

finally, a third. steadier and amused, “didn’t really think of you as the domestic type, price. you nesting now?”

you begin to sit up . . slow and careful. your head throbs with a slight ache at both temples. you so badly want to just lie back down and let sleep pull you under once more, however, your curiosity has always gotten you into more trouble than you’d like to admit.

barefoot, you tiptoe slowly towards the bedroom door to peek one out through the opened slit of it. a dim hall . . walls decorated with a clock, occasional plaque, and fishing poles. you decide to take the chance and slip out and down it. wood creaks beneath your weight, not silent but subtly. when you stagger downstairs and round a corner, you see them . . about ten feet away in the kitchen through the opened door. three men, all large in stature and in various states of casual tension, standing around the large island with drinks in hand and laughter upon their lips.

one of them has a balaclava pulled just beneath his nose . . the only smile you can’t see. he leans against a wall near the stove, closest to john who stands with his back towards them all — broad shouldered and stiff as he bases something in a pan.

he must have felt you.

because the moment you take just the tiniest step closer, his head lifts, tilts slightly, then he turns. the room falls quiet when his eyes fall upon you.

no one speaks. they all look — not rudely, but curiously . . like they weren’t expecting anyone else in the house. like they’re recalibrating something quietly amongst themselves. you freeze . . out of fear, out of exhaustion and john’s jaw tightens. his voice cuts through the air . . . low, even, and threaded with that same, unequivocal tension he uses when he’s not asking, but commanding.

“back to bed.”

you hesitate with your fingers curled loosely around the wall corner and blink up at him.

but he doesn’t raise his voice. doesn’t soften it neither when he takes a few steps towards you and adds, quieter, meant only for your ears, “you don’t come out unless i’ve said you can. that still clear, peaches?”

there’s no malice in it. no threat. just iron certainty.

you see the men behind him glance at one another but say nothing. not a laugh, smirk, nor lifted brow. if anything they seem sharper now, more alert. you swallow then give a slow nod . . — obedient. “yes, sir.”

something behind his eyes flicker and his lips part as they glaze over. his tongue pokes lightly against the inside of his cheek as he nods too, its light but it’s there. “yeah,” he utters. “you go now.”

john watches you give one last glance towards the men behind him before you’re disappearing back around the corner, hand held against the wall for balance. he turns back and walks towards them when he’s sure you’re fully gone and returns back to cooking as though the entire interaction didn’t happen. and they don’t mention you.

not directly at least.

they sip their drinks. johnny quips a few jokes. simon retorts back to each one with a dry remark. kyle tries to steal a chunk of potatoe from a pot. but it’s different now. john feels it. there’s something quieter that lurks beneath the conversations. something measured.

“bit outta the way, innit?” simon asks, nodding towards the hall but the implication is clear.

john shrugs, using tongs to flip a patty over. “better than the city. quiet. private.”

johnny gives a sideways stare, “private’s one word for it.”

“don’t,” kyle warns. there’s not heat to it. just a warning tone, like he knows better than to prod at something that john hasn’t willingly explained.

still, johnny has never been able to help himself. “she’s got you nesting, cap?” he gestures vaguely to the pink utensils that john one day suddenly realized were there, nestled between a few plain, glass plates on a drying rack. “i mean . . fuck, do i smell candles?”

“they’re not candles,” john mutters. they are air freshener plug ins but he won’t explain that.

“. . there’s flowers on her bowl.”

“shut up and stir the sauce.”

grumbling, johnny replies, “sir, yes, sir.”

simon leans backward, arms folded and eyes still trained on the hallway, “she looked rough. that why you’ve been dodgin’ comms?”

john doesn’t answer at first. he grabs a glass and his glass decanter of whisky to pour a drink — straight and neat. only after a slow sip does he rasp, “she’s sick.”

“and now?” there’s no judgment in kyle’s voice — just that same, quiet insight that’s made him the backbone of their team more times than either of them can count.

“now she’s resting.”

the way he says it closes the subject. or, at least it should. but johnny — soap has always had a thing for poking bears. he leans on the island and tilts his head towards john with a crooked grin, “you always take in stray birds, mate? or just the pretty ones?”

the silence after that stretches, tightens. simon rolls his eyes, kyle bows his head and pinches his nose bridge. john’s eyes flick up slow and cold. “stir the fuckin’ sauce.”

and he does.

the air never fully settles. not with you only a few rooms away. but the men know the rules. they know when to push and when to fall back. and they know their captain well enough to recognize the difference between a thing he’s managing and a thing he’s guarding.

you are the latter.

𓏵

they stay for a couple more hours. there’s food, small talk, and old stories traded like currency between them all. you hear laughter from the room you lie in, muffled beneath your dreams as you doze in and out of sleep — it’s the kind of laughter shared between men who have bled for each other. the sounds are comforting . . john’s especially. you enjoy hearing it because it lets you know that he’s there, that he hasn’t left. you’re aware that the other three men are obviously some type of comrades to him, however . . they’re still men. it’s now been instilled in you to walk on pins and needles around them all. you know what they’re capable of.

when they finally leave, it’s just past dusk. you’ve only been up again for a few minutes and have taken to trailing your eyes across every inch of what you’re sure is his room. it’s all very . . him, you realize. the king sized bed you’re lying in is dressed in thick, dark sheets, the fabric now warmed from your skin. wine red curtains drape over a large, single window, letting in only the thinnest shreds of fading light. the bathroom door is off to the side, its frame nicked here and there like it’s been kicked shut more than once. against the opposite wall is a large dresser, solid and made of wood. it’s top holds a scattering of personal clutter — a watch with a frayed, leather wristband, a wallet having to be rubber banded shut due to how many bills are stuffed inside it, a butterfly pocketknife lies open as though he’d been using it before tossing it aside, and a ceramic dish chipped on one side holds loose change and a set of dog tags.

there’s a faint scent of mahogany in the air, threaded with something sharper and more cool — his cologne.

and in the corner, almost buried inside of it is an old recliner that sits angled towards the bed. the leather is cracked in places and worn smooth in others, clearly well used and appreciated. a heavy, wool blanket is thrown across the back of it as if he’s spent a few nights in it rather than the bed. every surface is utilitarian but not cold. it’s the space of a man who doesn’t collect things without meaning. you sink deeper within the pillows that surround you come the sound of slow, heavy footsteps making their way down the hall.

he steps inside of the room almost tiredly, yet his presence completely fills it before his voice does. his eyes sweep over you, assessing, lingering just long enough to have your breath catch within your chest. “you’re still pale,” he murmurs while closing the door with a quiet click. he crosses the fairly large room in only a few strides to stand over you. “open.”

your lips split open so that he can lie two, tiny pills upon your tongue then tip a cool, glass of water against them for you to swallow greedily. as you gulp, your hands reach out to cover his as he has to tilt the glass higher for you to drink more. you feel the both of your fingers twitch at the simple touch. it’s enough to make your heartbeat stutter as you look up at him. his eyes are now barely squinted. it’s looks as though he’s confused about something.

“you’ll stay in here again tonight,” he says after the cup is empty and sat down on the nightstand. “where i can keep an eye on you.”

it takes you a moment to realize that . . you are out of the basement. the bed beneath you is soft just as it is firm, the air is open. and if you wanted to, you could run. the thought hovers, but john’s tone makes it difficult to picture yourself trying. “okay,” you softly reply.

he stands there for a beat, spine pulled tight and eyes hard before he suddenly takes a seat at the edge of the bed right beside you. “need to check somethin’,” he tells you as a heavy hand reaches out for your neck for his fingers to lightly press into and almost massage. you want to fight it, but find you’re unable to. his touch is codeine . . you melt and let him lay a hand flat upon your chest as you inhale. “yeah,” he mutters. “got some mucus in here. and your lymph nodes are a bit swollen.”

his words are clinical but the way he says them isn’t, something warm is traced underneath his tone. you’re aware that his thumb now rests within the hollow of your throat, barely moving. you don’t want it to. you watch him inhale a big breath. his eyes erode as he seems to wrestle with a thought sitting right at the tip of his tongue.

“just what are you doin’ to me, little girl . . .”

the words hang there between you both, heavy and quiet. you open your mouth to say something but not a word comes out. what is he doing to you is what you want to ask in reply. you should want to run but the urge is nonexistent. you should have been crying for weeks now, voice driven hoarse from all the unanswered screams for help . . yet, here you lie . . in his bed — comfortable, at ease, and taken care of.

his thumb brushes along the slope of your chin and you only nuzzle the side of your face deeper within his pillow, simply blinking up at him.

“wasn’t supposed to be like this,” he admits, voice quiet as though he were talking more to himself than to you. “wasn’t supposed to wanna keep you this close.”

you sound sweet when you wearily ask, “were you . . s-supposed to hurt me?” he could have. a tiny part of you thinks that he should have.

it’s shocking to watch him shake his head. “no,” he mutters. his hand is pulled away so that he can rub it down his face. “. . no. i was just . . supposed to keep you there. fed, clean, quiet, safe.” hand feeding you wasn’t in his plan, watching you eat nearly every night wasn’t either. he wasn’t supposed to be so concerned about you. you were supposed to be something for him to save. he was doing everyone a favor by holding you down there. you would have eventually landed yourself in the wrong hands, doing what you were doing. but, you’re too soft. you’re softer than he should like.

he studies you for a longer moment. “you’re prettier than you realize,” he says at last, words gravely like they’ve been clawing their way up to his throat for a while now. “more delicate than you realize. it all . . sticks. horribly.” his mouth tightens underneath his stache as his eyes flick up towards the ceiling for a barely there eye roll. he seems annoyed at himself for admitting so. “ ‘s been a long time since i’ve had someone stuck in my head like this.”

“. . . oh,” you breathe and curl your finger around a loose thread hanging from the comforter. are you gonna send me back to the basement? do you hate me for how i make you feel? . . . i don’t wanna go back out there.

because even if you wouldn’t like to admit it, john has stuck to you too. in the worst of ways. granted, before today he’s the only person you’ve seen for nearly two months straight, he still lingers in your mind differently than a captor should. he’s in the taste of the tea he sometimes forces you to drink, in the scent of mountain rain that clings to every piece of furniture here. he’s a presence you’ve been learning how to map without ever meaning to.

“ ‘m sorry, john.”

something sharp flickers over his entire expression when his name is whispered off of your tongue. it’s the first time you said it . . and it’s paired with an apology. this is what he means. you’re an enigma. his jaw works nice and slow for a long moment as he tightens his hands around his knees. “you make me worse than i am,” he finally says — like the admission’s been chewing at him for weeks and now it’s irrevocably spilled out. “couldn’t stop watchin’ you down at butcher’s. every time you laughed, every time you touched some bastard’s arm, let ‘im drag you away, i was there . . . drinkin’ it in. like a bloody fool,” he’s hunched over now, head bowed and body worn. “was bad enough when you were just a stranger in a room full of strangers. now you’re here . . in m’bed, my home, lookin’ at me like that and—“ he snaps his jaw shut.

your heart skips over every other beat as his gaze lingers on the line of your fingers, all of them now lightly gripping the blanket around you.

you’ve got no idea what i’d do to keep you.

but john doesn’t say that.

without another word, he pushes himself up from the bed, the mattress dipping then springing back up in his sudden absence. his boots thud against the flooring as he crosses the room for the dresser to produce an amber bottle of syrup from the drawer. you follow him with your eyes, replaying his words over and over within your brain. “this stuff is pretty strong,” he says as he pours the golden liquid within a small, plastic cup. “but it’ll help with your symptoms.”

he returns beside the bed to gently slide his hand beneath your head and tilt it forward. carefully, he feeds it to you, watching how your plush lips wrap around the rim of the cup. “that’s it,” he murmurs. “go to sleep.”

you lie back and let the warmth in your chest fully embrace you. he hovers for about a moment, eyes tracing your features underneath the dim light before he’s stepping back to his recliner in the corner just close enough to keep watch.

𓏵

in the earliest hush of the morning, before the sun has even warmed the floorboards, you feel him . . looming, waiting. when your bleary eyes flitter open, you aren’t surprised to see john standing at the foot of the bed. grey and brown waves are combed off of his head and slicked towards the back with drying water — he seems to have just exited the shower. he wears a cream thermal henley shirt and over it, an old, faded carhartt coat. black, double knee cargos are his bottoms and he has on leather work gloves. a beanie dangles from one hand . . a chain and ankle clasp from the other.

“i’ll be back around two.” his voice is rough and quiet. the chain jingles with only the slightest of his movements. “. . . no funny business, yeah?”

he seems to have made a decision while you were sleeping. because he lets his arm outstretch to gently let the clasp and chain spiral into a pile upon the dresser.

your eyelids flutter.

you nod.

you’re beautiful underneath the rising sun — bonnet on, lips swollen, body curled tight within the center of his bed. he hesitates before he gives one back. “. . alright then, peach.” you watch him open the bedroom door and within a split moment, he’s gone.

you wake up again nearly three hours later.

the light is soft and filtered through the curtains — the way the world

looks makes you feel as though you’re still dreaming. for a long while, you barely move. you feel better . . almost completely, but your head is still muffled with sleep. you think of him. you let your eyes reshape him at the foot of the bed — at the towering mass of him . . big and burly. gruff and quiet. and for once, your body isn’t burning when you finally sit up to let the comforter pool around your waist. you can think. move. breathe without effort.

and so, barefoot and weak limbed, you hobble out of bed to shuffle towards john’s restroom. your toothbrush sits atop of the counter, seemingly ready for you. you’re happy to see it. your mouth tastes like sick. you spend nearly five minutes scrubbing at your teeth, tongue, and the roof of it to get it out.

a shower’s next. you stand there underneath the nozzle, letting the pressured water beat at your bones. the heat seeps deep into your muscles, loosening something tight and stubborn inside your chest. you climb out when your skin begins to prune. you don’t want to search his closet without permission — a large part of you is scared of what you’ll find. instead, you settle on a shirt of his that’d been draped over the back of his recliner. it’s lightweight and airy, stops at your knees from the sheer size of it.

after, you stand there . . . within the middle of his room.

no more rest. you’re antsy. you feel good. you have energy.

your eyes flick over towards the door.

his home is quiet when you peek an eye out past it, blanketed in a stillness that’s oddly comforting. his hallway is wide and the walls are made of weathered timber, giving the space a cozy edged charm. you take notice of the small, recessed spotlights in the ceiling. you let your fingertips drift along the posted fishing poles, stop to read a few plaques, ‘Operational Service Medal – Iraq / Afghanistan,’ ‘Task 141 – Courage Through Adversity,’ ‘In Service of Crown and Country – Captain J. Price, 22nd SAS Regiment.’

your eyes grow a bit wide. a military man. a captain at that. it all begins to click in place for you.

you keep moving, nonetheless . . pass by a small door that you can’t help opening to stick your head into. it’s something of an office with papers stacked in perfect precision atop of a wide desk, file cabinets, and bookshelves taking up an entire wall that house texts of warfare, strategy, and language. you don’t go in. something tells you not to.

you drift downstairs and down the halls, drawn towards a large, sliding door beside the kitchen.

and that’s when you see it.

his backyard.

if you’d even call it that.

it completely takes your breath away — not because of its extravagance, but because of the sheer, rugged beauty. his home is a large cabin, you realize that now. the sliding door opens out to a wide wooden deck that overlooks an expansive, glittering blue lake. pine trees flank the entire property on all sides in tall, silent rows like sentinels. there’s a dock that stretches out from the yard, ending at the lakes edge where an old rowboat wades peacefully beside it.

you hadn’t expected this. not this kind of freedom, not this kind of man.

the more you move, the more his home reveals more about him. you pass the mantle in the living room where a few dusty framed photos are propped upon. one makes you stop. it’s him and a few others — the men from the night before — all in military gear with handsome, satisfied smiles. there’s the one in the skull mask, his eyes glimmering with content. the crude one’s wide grin. the mellow one’s furrowed brow. and john in the center, anchoring them all. beside it is a small, wooden box with polished medals inside, a coin etched with a foreign seal, and dog tags, dull with age.

on the coffee table . . field knife beside a smooth, iridescent river stone. a leather bounded journal. half full bottle of beer.

every corner of his place tells a story. one that you’re beginning to desperately ache to know.

but no where feels like it was ever meant for anyone but him.

not until you see the changes: an unopened jar of braiding gel seemingly forgotten on another hallway table, your lipgloss tube — the one you had at the bottom of your bag the night he dragged you away, now laid within a porcelain dish by the door . . . a few of your clothes, hand washed and drying from a clothesline at the side of the house. it’s all so much.

you step out onto the deck and take a seat upon the top stair. there’s a bird song bristling through the trees. you close your eyes and inhale a deep breath.

you could run. but, you don’t.

something about this place, something about him is starting to feel like something else entirely. something almost like home.

you don’t know how long you sit out here.

time dilates in places like this. without the ticking of city clocks or the drone of traffic, your awareness shifts. the sound of boots thudding makes your heart lurch as you quickly stand and turn to face john who stands in the threshold of the door behind you.

he wears a heavy toolbelt around his waist now . . his hair is messy. he looks tired.

“i w-wasn’t . .” you’re shaking your head. “wasn’t gonna leave—“

he’s squinting out at the sun around you. you look sweet bathed within her light. “come here.”

“i—“

“come. here.”

you’re hesitant. he’s unreadable. his fingers twitch out beside his thighs as though he’s physically restraining himself from reaching out and pulling you in himself. you don’t want to make him angry. you don’t want to be bad — end up back in the basement. now that you’ve gotten a taste of freedom again . . or at least, something freedom adjacent, you don’t think you’ll be able to endure it again. your whimper is quiet, “alright.”

john watches you slowly walk your way toward him — you’ve showered. you look better . . . . you’re . . short. god, you’re fucking short.

when you halt directly in front of him with your bare toes only a few inches away from his muddied boots, he’s pleased. you watch him shove a hand inside the pocket of his pants to produce something.

it’s a collar.

it’s delicate — almost pretty in a way that makes your throat tighten. it’s designed to sit right at the hollow of it, not a flimsy ribbon or a heavy strap neither. it’s a perfect in between width, enough to be noticed by a passerby. enough to feel present without choking you. the base is made of blush pink satin, soft and gleaming underneath the light, edged with tiny stitched seams that give it a noble finish. over it is a line of vegan leather to keep it sturdy. running along the satin is a delicate line of opal gems, each one nearly nestled in place so they catch and scatter light with the slightest turn of your head. at the very center, where a buckle or clasp might be, sits a small, golden padlock. it’s heart shaped, surface polished enough to showcase your face when you lean in closer to look at it.

the lock isn’t a simple lock neither. beneath the dainty sparkle, inside the metal’s hidden weight, is a tracking chip.

he doesn’t tell you outright but you feel it in the gravity of the gesture. he presents it like an order. ‘no chain and lock anymore. this is your new, permanent accessory.’

he watches you closely as you reach a hand out to gently rub your fingers along the gems. “i don’t want to wonder the whole damn day.”

your face shields your true emotions as you swallow. “mhm.” you can’t help but adore it.

after a long beat, he’s adjusting the collar within his hands to lean in and reach behind you to clip it on. when it’s done, his fingers linger against your skin. “no more basement,” he utters. “no more chain. you stay up here. you be good . . you let me take care of you. that’s all i ask.”

you’re nodding. you’re stepping closer to him . . instinctively. “no more . .?” your breath hitches. his words seem to open a dam. no more basement, no more men, no more filthy fingers prodding at you, no more spatted insults after they’re done, no more cold beds, no more single cups of instant ramen.

john watches your breathing start to pick up. it’s all quick. it happens too fast. “hey,” his voice hardens as he tugs, nearly snatches you into him to lean forward and press his forehead against yours. “hey. see? breathe.”

he feels your fingers curling within his shirt. you’re holding him tight, a little too tight, but he doesn’t mind. your heart’s thudding like a jackhammer, stuttering and racing in unpredictable bursts, each beat sharper than the last. “john,” you’re mewling his name, soft and sweet. god, the hold you have on him. “john.”

he’s closing his eyes come the sensation of your soft, trembling hands sliding up his chest to wrap around his back. you have to stand on your tip toes and he has to learn further down for when his head moves so that he can place a hard kiss against your temple. “my girl,” he’s murmuring and engulfing you entirely within him. “fuckin’ angel on earth. my little girl.”

“d-don’t wanna go back out there—“

“—you won’t,” he’s reaching down and grabbing you by the back of your thighs to encourage you to give a little hop and wrap your legs around his waist. “not without me you will. never again.”

you’re shaking so bad. john can’t help but feel like this has been a long time coming. this reaction from you. for so many years you’ve been on your own. surviving like that. he rubs your back as he carries you both deeper back inside his cabin. he heads for the living room to take a seat upon another recliner . . kicks it out to begin to rock you both in slow, steady motions as you grip at him, hard and needy. “wanna be that, don’t you?” his voice is quiet and gruff as always. “wanna be my little girl? just a sweet thing for me to take care of?”

you’re nodding against his shoulder, melting against his touch. “uh huh,” you sniffle. “i do. j-jus’ yours.”

john emits a sound — something low and rumbly. a tired hum. “yeah,” he mumbles. “you’ll be my peach . . and i’ll be your pa. good and simple.” he says it like a vow, a staking claim. for he’s yours too. you think you forgot about that. it feels good to know, right.

“ ‘m pa,” you utter back softly. it sits nicely on your tongue. it fits. “my papa.”

john seems to hum deeper this time as he strokes the hand on your back closer to your waist line. “yeah. just yours. all yours.”

𓏵

life becomes . . good after that.

it becomes beautiful, even.

you live out your days within john’s three storied cabin on a lake, ten miles out from any other source of life . . with him. you sleep in his bed . . sometimes curled beside him, most times curled beneath his massive weight because you run cold and he runs hot most nights. it just works. he cooks for you, breakfast and dinner . . lunch too on his off days as you sit atop of the island and watch with big, brown eyes full of admiration and stupor. you cook for him too, small things — little cookies, cupcakes iced with pink frosting, prep a thick turkey club for him to take to work, or even a simple thermos of his favorite coffee before he’s out the door.

some mornings, john takes you out onto the lake in his rowboat to catch pikes, trouts, and catfish. you watch the entire time with a certain sparkly eyed innocence that makes his chest tighten — not a single complaint uttered. other days, he makes you watch him clean his guns. the collection he has is enough to cover the extensive dining room table. you’d have never thought it to be so hypnotic., but there’s a rhythm to it . . the careful motions, the shine of metal against his fingers, the quiet focus in his eyes. you sit perched on his lap all the while and watch him casually reassemble each weapon with a certain type of casualness that makes the base of your spine tingle.

sometimes he naps with you.

you learn that he’s forty eight . . a middle aged man. he needs them and tells you that you need them especially, too. you can become a bit cranky without one. and evenings are for slow kisses in the living room with the fireplace burning and the rest of the cabin enshroud in moonlight. each kiss makes your heart skip. every movement deliberate and layered with intensity and his authority. they all carry the weight of him . . his size, of his presence. it’s impossible for you to not feel like you’re drowning sometimes.

each brush of his beard against your cheek makes goosebumps pebble against your skin. his hands often explore — one sitting heavy at your hip, anchoring you to him while the other’s hand sometimes wraps around your throat or trace gentle lines up and down the curve of your spine. sometimes he whispers against your lips, letting his low, gravely tone punctuate the sizzling quiet of each moment. that’s my girl . . . sweeter than a fuckin’ peach . . . don’t you ever think about leavin’ . . . so soft . . drivin’ me insane.

he learns you and you learn him.

he learns that you hate cauliflower, when he leaves without saying goodbye, and that you bite at your bottom lip over and over when you’re concentrating. you learn that he hums softly when he cooks, that he drinks a cup of tea at night before bed, and cracks his knuckles a certain way when he’s thinking too hard. you get butterflies when you watch him tie his boots and he softens watching you style your locs every morning.

you learn that john notices everything — how you pout a certain way before you cry, how your shoulders tense when you’re afraid, and how your eyes widen when you see something especially beautiful — and that, somehow, it makes you feel entirely seen.

occasionally, a solemn sort of guilt overrides john's entire soul almost. you feel it when he stares at you for too long and when he holds you close at night. was this truly meant to be? though he won't say it, sometimes the feelings do come. you try to soothe them away through sweet, shy kisses and messy strokes of your fingers through his hair. throughout the entire ordeal, there was no where else you'd rather be.

albeit your initial feeling was fear, you consider it to be fate all the while.

the downside of what you both now consider yourselves to be -- a man and his peach. a bear and his little girl . . or at least, the downside for you is the lack of him. pure, unrefined him. you wake sometimes, to the sound of quiet huffs and tired mumbles. they squeeze themselves from underneath the closed bathroom door, engulfed within steam. on certain mornings, you press your sweet, pretty face against the smooth wood of the door, heart thudding and chest tight with a mix pf longing and frustration. the muffled sounds -- his low hums, the faint squelch of skin being pushed within a tight fist -- it all burns inside of you. you hate the feeling . . its akin to being a bystander to something that should be yours. but, that's the lesson, isn't it?patience. trust. desire stretched so thin so that when he ultimately does decide to take you, it'll be nothing short of consuming. you ache to be the one he's moaning for, the one he's claiming.

you don't try to hide the unhappiness that pulls at your face when he eventually opens the door fifteen minutes later with a thick towel wrapped around his waist and pearls of water dripping from the curls atop of his head and down his fur covered chest.

he always gives a slight smirk -- not teasing, not indulgent, not even apologetic -- just . . . knowing. "patience," he murmurs, brushing past the bed you'd sit within the middle upon, pillow clutched tight to your chest that you'd probably been battling with yourself not to hump flat. "yours . . . soon. learn to wait, peach. it'll be worth it. i promise."

and somehow, even as your jealousy stings, even as your body burns hot enough for him that it feels like your organs are melting within an inferno, you can't help but nod. because you trust him. and papa knows best. and when it's finally your turn, it'll be more than just satisfaction, it'll be a claim, from him to you. you to him. a joint release.

weeks build into another month.

you've had a long day, nevertheless, you're restless by the time the moon is here. thrill thrums beneath the cloak of your skin as you rub your thumb back and forth over that golden padlock that sits within the crevice of your collarbones. "not a single inch of you is allowed to be taken without me or my permission," he told you while the both of you were out on the lake one evening, weeks before. he said it through a breeze -- so flippant and indifferently that you almost didn't take him seriously. upon a giggle of shock being expelled from your mouth, he'd only glanced at you as his face remained even. "no joke. if i catch a finger, let alone something else even near that little jewel of yours, there will be hell to pay. all of you belongs to me . . . you will wait. you will learn patience."

it hadn't been fair. you remember the cold shiver that ran through you come his words. at first, you even tried to give a meager protest, but his gaze pinned you harder than any chains could.

now, sitting alone in bed, listening to him brush his teeth in the bathroom some feet away, a frustrated sigh leaves you. the temptation is unbearable. you stare at a pillow, the curved frame of the bed holster, the arm of the recliner -- so many things for your legs to straddle and hips to move as you'd grind all of the irks away until your brain melted out of your little pussy. but the collar, his mark, his claim, anchors you.

you hear the water stop running and light switch cut off.

he surfaces from the bathroom, wearing only a pair of loose, forest green sweats. you can't tear your eyes away. he's massive -- stocky, towering, every inch of him commanding attention without him even trying. nearly six foot four, broad through the shoulders, with arms carved from years of discipline and labor . . they subtly flex as he moves. his chest is wide and tapers down to a stomach that carries a layer of softness and thick mat of fuzz. you notice the salt-and-dark brown waves of his hair falling just past his ears, tousled from a shower, matching the same rugged and grizzled pattern in his beard. every glance reveals another detail you can't help but memorize, the strong curves of his biceps, thatch of hair on his forearms, hands, and knuckles, the faint scar near his temple, and veins running like corded maps down his arms.

your breath catches in your chest as you swallow. he's breathtaking and somehow, overwhelming. seeing him like this, casual and utterly exposed, sends a ripple of awe straight through you. your fingers twitch within the sheets. he's larger than life, impossibly real, and in that moment, you understand why patience, restraint, and every small tether of his control are part of the reason why you've fallen so irrevocably deep under his spell.

he moves about the room -- turning off lamps, closes the doors and curtains, checks for his guns underneath the mattress before he's finally slipping into bed and pulling you beneath him. "sleep," he grumbles against your skin. "i see that look in your eye. don't even think about it."

"but john--"

"no."

you're pouting as you settle against him. it's short lived. because being smothered underneath his weight is neuroleptic. you let your eyes drift close while listening to the coo of owls outside settled high within the bristles of pine and his deep, slow breaths.

𓏵

you wake hours later to movement.

it's something that you think you can ignore. sleep feels too good, you don't want to open your eyes. however, it persists . . for minute after minute. it isn't until you give a small whine of irritation when you hear him exhale a ragged breath. your eyes bat slowly open, squinting against the sharp beam of moonlight that pushes through the opened slit of the curtains. at first, you think you're simply dreaming still but the unmistakable sight is enough for you to force your eyes opened wider in case.

john lies beside you, the covers only sheathed across his waist. his fist moves below them with a slow, unhurried rhythm, each motion confident and purposive as the low hum of his breaths fills the quiet space between you both. part of you wants to look away in efforts to respect the boundaries he's set, but another part of you is wholly riveted. he glances at you briefly as you slowly lift yourself upon one arm, eyes fixed on the hypnotic up and down motion underneath the comforters. "try to go back to sleep, sweetheart," is all he rasps. "i'll be done soon."

you shift slightly . . . fingers flying up to your collar to rub at that padlock again.

the sound of his breathing, rise and fall of his burly chest, the deliberate strokes of his fist.

he hums softly, a sound almost tender, like he knows exactly what you're thinking.

"mm, please," you end up mewling, breaking, as you press your hands flat upon his chest, eyes transfixed on what's happening below his waist. "papa, please?"

"you have only but yourself to blame for this," he's kicking up his rhythm to a steady moderate. you hear a few shlick, shlick, shlicks as your pussy warms against the seat of your panties. ". . i don't remember pickin' this out for you."

it's a white, puffy, two layered babydoll slip you wear that he pinches between his fingers. there's ribbon tied at your shoulders and a bow threaded in the middle right upon the crease of your plump tits. you looked too sweet . . you open up something carnal within him. for a while, years nearly, john was convinced he'd finally gone impotent. notwithstanding, here you are -- here you've been, in his home, his basement, at butcher's, and his libido has risen to measures he didn't even know he could still peak. "lemme see it," you're laying your head upon his chest, face only inches away from his rising and falling fist underneath the covers as your fingers reach for them.

"you wanna see it?" john's breath is thinning. there's a slight curve in your back and your ass now sits perked up and positioned towards the window. he can't see what lies beneath your gown, but god . . he can imagine.

"yes, please?" you nod. he hears the little pout in your tone.

reaching for the back of your neck for two reasons -- to simply touch you and to keep you still for when he decides to toss the blanket from off of his lap, john then swallows, "fuck, such good manners," he utters. "yeah, i'll let you see it, peaches."

his sweats have been pushed to ring around his mid thighs. he's hairy. so much of it covers them, yet you cam't even focus too much on it because his cock now stands rooted upright only five inches away from your face. your mouth parts open as your eyes grow wide with the sight. it's nearly everything you'd dreamt about. thicker than it is long, with a fat, bulbous head that trickles ribbons of ivory down his fist that gathers into the rug of pubes at his groin. the line of his circumcision is obvious -- dark and bold . . matching his round and sagging balls that take up so much space that john has to open his legs a bit to give them room.

"oh m' . . gosh," you slur around the drool that instantly begins to pool upon your tongue.

there's a few veins scattered here and there that pulse with so much blood, it makes them strain against the skin. his cock is honest to god almost . . menacing to look at, but above all . . you're needy for it.

when you move to lean your face in even closer, the grip john has at the back of your neck tightens and keeps your face pinned against his stomach. "what did i say?" he asks quietly through his teeth. "patience."

your hips are moving. you sway them from left to right as your body betrays you in desperate, helpless rhythms. the ache of your pussy is unbearable, each pulse of his cock slowly trickling out more of his pre cum within your vision making your distress worse. "john," your voice breaks on his name yet the hold he has on you is firm, keeping you mere inches away from the very thing you crave. it isn't necessarily cruel . . just grounding -- a steady reminder of who holds the reins.

"i said patience," he repeats, quieter this time with his breath warm against the shell of your ear. it's clear he's fighting himself as much as he's fighting you.

your thighs squeeze tight together, trying to provide some sweet solace to your thumping clit as your chest begins to heave with strained breaths. you can't help it, you whine again, louder though muffled against his torso as you squeeze your nails into the mattress.

john exhales sharply, like he's seconds away from snapping. his hand slides from your nape against your bonnet to tug your head back so that you meet his eyes. the normal ice blue is dark and stormed over into what looks like a misty grey. they are filled with a hunger so raw that it makes you bite your tongue and pulse stumble. "you will learn to let me give it to you, not take," he growls, low and unshakable, though his jaw is tight enough to crack.

the command sinks low within your chest, heavy and molten, leaving you wide eyed, trembling, and obedient.

his grip stays there against your bonnet for a long, tensed moment and with his gaze locked upon yours, he seems to come to a decision about something. you can feel the war inside of him -- the rigid control he clings to, his gnawing appetite that wants to devour you whole. finally, with a low curse underneath his breath, he shifts his hand down to your jaw, thumb dragging along your lips. "fine," he mumbles, the word rocky and edged. "we'll find a middle ground. up."

before you can reply, he's hauling you up and manhandling as though you weigh but a pound. you're sat sideways upon his knees, inches below his cock now before he adjusts you until you're straddling them. "open those legs up," he commands, voice ironclad and tone leaving not a slither for hesitation. instinctively, your legs part . . revealing your panties. they're white, made of chiffon, and transparent. due to how much your cunt's already been leaking, john can see the barrenly visible contour of your chubby lips and the small bead of your clit pressing up against the fabric beneath the moonlight. "jesus christ." his tone is of almost disappointed unbelief, as though he's catching you misbehaving.

his free hand drags down his beard slow. "just look at you."

a wicked mix of shame and arousal coil deep within your chest as his thumb reaches out to press within your cheek. "panties ruined. that pretty, little thing's just starving, isn't she?" his voice deeps lower, accent seems to grow thicker as he softly asks, "bet you'd hump anythin' i put underneath you right now. pillow. that stuffie . . m'fuckin boot. doesn't matter, does it?" you're shaking your head, but he's forcibly doing it too with his fingers cupped at your chin. "you'd grind that filthy, lil hole raw if i let you."

unexpectedly, he's tugging your panties to the side, exposing your cunt to the cool air and his gaze. his cock gives a sharp twitch against his thigh. "touch 'er for me."

your breath hitches, body locking up like you've just been dumped into an ice bath. the order dangles between you both, heavier than the weight of his hand now on your thigh. you blink, lips parted, full prepared to mewl out a timid excuse because now that you're in it . . within this murky ring of john's lust and your own, you're aware that maybe, you aren't prepared for him. he's nothing like the other men you've experienced. he's firmer, darker, better. "c'mon," he hums. "give me a show."

your quivering hand slips down, slow, and unsure towards the wet heat between your thighs. the first touch makes you jolt, thighs twitch, and eyes snap up to his. he's akin to a predator -- eyes sharp, grip on your thigh made of steel as he holds it open. the faintest curl of a smirk sits beneath his mustache. "that's it," he murmurs, tone approving. "look at that . . you're already twitching. christ."

your fingers falter, still soft and doubtful, as they swipe between your lips with hesitancy. "fuckin' lousy. no. rub your clit, let papa hear how wet you are, peach."

the humiliation still sits there, but that tendril of fire uncurls hotter. you press at it harder this time with your middle finger, circling the small nub until a broken gasp is shred from within you.

john's words drag out slow and filthy -- warm pride cutting through stone. "there you fuckin' go. keep goin'. let me see it."

the faster your pace quickens, the slicker those noises get. he slides his other hand back down to get it around his cock once more and begin to tug at it you're beginning to drip before either of you know it. it's a thin line of wet that pours from your hole and against the sheets between his legs before it's breaking off as your fingers go to your entry to gather some and use it to rub your clit harder. your hips rock helplessly against your own hand and your whimpers spill into the air around you both.

"atta girl," john licks his lips, eyes focused on how your lips are hugged tight around both your fingers. "jus' filthy. makin' a damn puddle outta yourself."

your fingers stumble, pace stuttering as the knot inside threatens to snap too fast. john notices, of course. his grip around his dick tightens at the base. "ya gonna cum?. . yeah?" desperately, you're nodding. your eyes are wet with unshed tears as your breaths begin to puff out in weak, little sobs. it's been so long since you felt so good. you're starting to think you never truly did feel this good.

his jaw flexes. his restraint hangs by a thread. "pull that hand away, that's enough."

before you can splutter out a feeble 'no,' john's thick fingers are pushing yours out of the way to spread your cunt wide open. the sudden heat of his touch makes you cry out as your twitching thighs fight to snap closed. he's rougher than you were, thumb grinding your clit in slow, punishing circles. "see how it's done?" he quietly asks. "this is how you fuckin' touch my pussy, eh? rub it just right . . til you're drippin' down m'arm."

your nails are indented within the skin of his forearm as your head falls back. the noises you make -- you've never heard yourself so broken before. they're high and needy -- weak and torn. his cock is still in his other hand as he pumps at it faster now. suddenly, john is sat up and you're pulled closer into him. "you're mine," he hisses with a hard kiss to your jaw, sloppy and wet. "you understand me? no other man is gonna know how this," he pulls his hand back to let it fall right back onto your pussy with a loud, wet smack. "feels again." you twitch and hiccup, both hands now grasped at his hard shoulders.

you're nodding as his lips stamp a wet path down your neck. "you m-make me feel so good," you're admitting through a sniffle. "m-more. please -- gimmie more."

"mhm," john's rolling you both over to lay you underneath him. no more patience. the thread's been snapped for you both. "you make me feel good, too, doll." he hasn't been this hard in his life.

your cunt gushes against his fingers as he presses them up against the hole of her. he can't help darkly laughing as he keeps doing so -- just teasingly giving it some pressure with two of them. "so wet," he mumbles. "wan' em inside?"

you're nodding eagerly, eyes glossed over and mouth parted open as you do. "yes, sir," you breathe. "yes, please?"

john is groaning, rough and guttural. his arm curls around your back, pulling you closer against his chest as his legs split open your own wider. every press of his digits only has you clenching tighter around nothing -- so hard that it makes your womb throb in pain. the sound of his low chuckle and hissed groans only drive your brain into a thicker fog. "jesus christ," he breathes, beard brushing against your temple as he slowly prods in the tip of his middle finger past the first ring of muscle. he shifts slightly, hand sliding down the mattress as his cock nudges at your thigh. the stretch of his single finger is enough for your eyes to roll back within your head. inch by inch, it slips deeper inside.

a wet squelch fills the air when he pushes it to the knuckle and gives a slight curl. he grits his teeth at the tight spasm of your warmth around it and wastes not even a second before he's slowly stroking it in and out of you. "gonna fuck you good, peach," he murmurs. "no more waitin', no more playing. you'll learn to take it all tonight."

your juices dribble down his knuckle as a rivulet of spit starts a path down your cheek from your opened mouth. "uh huh." john's grabbing you by the face with one hand to lick his way inside and capture your lips for a messy kiss as his ring finger squeezes in beside the middle. your tongues slip along one another's faces as you both huff quiet breaths from the pure carnality radiating from off of the other. it's been a long time coming. when john starts to fuck you with his fingers -- each thrust firm and hard, angled right at the tender dollop of your g spot, you can barely squeak out a sound. your mouth is dropped open around a silent moan.

your legs bend around his waist and toes curl as your head falls back within the pillow beneath your head. it's so good. it's better than good. your pussy dampens more with each one until it's gurgling. john huffs, pulling just enough back to look down at you, eyes dark with hunger and something softer . . . -- pride, possessiveness, awe at how much you're already giving him.

your chest heaves as he forces you to keep still. "god, i've never seen someone so fuckin' pretty." he curls his fingers in deeper, presses just right, and drags shivers down your spine.

when you find your voice, it's but a weak mewl as you open your legs wider and chance a look down in between them to watch his fingers plunge in and out of your pussy. " 's so m-messy," you shyly reach down to feel the way she has to stretch around them. "keep goin', papa . . keep going."

his fingers never stop pounding into you as he bites a dark plum bruise into the skin of your neck. call it cuteness aggression -- you're driving him fucking crazy. "you're already close, doll," he huffs, voice just on the edge of a growl. "so fuckin' close. let me feel it."

you're louder now. you hate to be, but you are. your eyebrows furrow as you bite down upon your own wrist, hips lifting to swallow them both to the knuckle. he's right. you are. you're there. you're right there.

suddenly, your cunt clenches around his fingers as something inside of you snaps. your body's pulled taut as warmth floods out from your pussy and into his palm. you don’t scream, don’t moan, you barely even gasp . . broken little sobs tumble from your quivering lips as your body lurches with each one. “god — please . . daddy, please — hmph—“

john leans closer, forehead brushing against yours. his grip on your jaw is firm but gentle, steadying you as your body shudders uncontrollably underneath him and around his fingers. “shh, that’s it, baby,” he sighs. “fuckin’ good . . yeah, that’s it. let it out. it’s all mine.”

his thumb presses tight circles against your clit as his fingers hook inside of you, matching the sudden spasms of your body to help you ride the orgasm out for as long as you possibly can. he hums low in his throat, soothing you all the while. the vibration rattles through your entire body as he eventually pulls them out, nice and slow. you're twitching . . cunt convulsing underneath his stare as he uses that same hand, sleek with your cum to polish it over his cock with three, steady pumps. "won't you look at that?" he pats at it, just nice, firm slaps to watch the way your stomach flexes and quivers as you inhale a keener gasp than the last. "just perfect."

john then slips in behind you, broad chest sheathed in hair pressing against your back as his arms curl around your waist. you're both on your sides -- his weight is grounding. you feel the heat of him surrounding you entirely. "open these legs," he's muttering, reaching underneath your right one to toss it over the crook of his elbow and hold it back with his arm. "let me see how pretty she is."

you feel his hips shift. his cock wedges its way between the warmth of your folds, fat head dragging through the glossy seam of your cunt. every pass smears you wetter, coating him in it, and you hiccup on a sniffle at the lewd squelch of it all. he's hot, heavy, obscenely thick. you hear the rumble of his slow hums as his cockhead nudges at your puffy clit -- it's so hard that it's peeking beneath the hood at him. "christ . . ." his voice is rough as he squeezes at the fabric shucked up around your waist.

your thighs quiver. he's big -- the biggest you'll probably ever take. your stomach is overturn in knots that reveal both your hunger and fear as you give a soft whimper of half plea and warning. "easy now, you feel that?" his breath fans out above your head. he's huge . . you're entirely enclosed around him. you feel the way he makes his hips roll to make the fat ridge underneath his tip catch against your hole. he does it on purpose, he wants to feel your pussy twitch around nothing. " 's all me, sweetheart . . " he keeps at it, clit to hole, back and forth in a filthy rhythm -- spreading you wide without ever pushing in. your juices ooze down his balls. it's all so maddening. "little thing can't decide if she's scared or greedy."

the tip now sits snug against your opening, swollen and slick with the mix of your cum and his own pre. you're already stretched taut around it . . cunt trembling and clenching as if your body's already in disbelief at what it's trying to take. "just feel the head," he breathes as his hand slides over your tummy, palm wide and calloused to coax you through it as he finally begins to ease inside. "feels big, hm?"

the stretch burns.

your eyes are squeezed shut as you nod your head and hold onto the hand he has clutched at your hip underneath you. he doesn't necessarily force it . . . simply lets your body fight to try and take it all. he grinds that fat tip slowly in small circles -- pressing, retreating, then pressing again. each little push relaxes you more, blossoming your pussy around him inch by inch. "ohm'god," you mewl. you're violently shivering as the nerves in your stomach twist when his fingertips drag across your clit as to remind you that you want this. it causes a wave of slick to spill out of you and because of so, his dick sinks in a fraction deeper.

the sudden expansion makes your gasp loud, nails biting within the mattress and john is at your ear immediately, coo'ing against your skin, "yr'alright . . jus' let me in . . . atta girl. open up."

he keeps pushing -- slow. his girth pries you wide . . . completely extending your pussy until, with a wet, loud, pop, the thickest part of him slips inside. instinctively, your body clamps down hard. the noise you make isn't a moan, it's more of a wobbled sob that you muffle against your wrist. "bloody hell," john grits, head dropping against the top of yours. shit. it's incomparable . . . the feeling paramount. he stays still, cock throbbing inside as he strokes a soothing hand across your thigh. "look at that . . you took the head."

you're shaking like a fucking leaf, but god, you feel full. so full. so fucking full.

his hips begin to rock gently, shallow, letting you feel just that -- his meaty head grinding inside, inciting your walls to ease as each drag sends electricity through your core.

john's beard drags against the side of your face as he presses closer, chest to your back. "she's strugglin' a bit with the tip, gonna split you open if m'not careful." your fight to relax, but involuntarily, your pussy flutters around him, gripping him even tighter as though she isn't quite sure whether to pull him deeper in or push him out. your arousal still drips albeit, hot and runny over his length and down the fat globe of your ass. you hear him huff a short, husky laugh. "want me to make it fit?" he's humming, roughly cooing actually.

"uh huh," you're nodding and giving a small sniffle. "m-make it fit, papa. make 'er take it."

his fingers are back at your clit, rubbing steady, slow circles on it to override the sharp burn as he keeps working his cock in. wider . . wider . . wider. you're biting your bottom lip almost hard enough to draw blood as you press your head tight against his arm. he doesn't shove -- his hips are heavy and insistent . . letting you breathe when it becomes too much before he rocks further inside. "s-so big," your voice is broken and tiny. "it's too big."

"yeah?" john grunts. "it's too big, hm?" he doesn't want to hear that. you've begged for it. you'll take it.

by the time his hips are flushed against the cheeks of your ass, sweat peppers both of your hairlines. every vein, every ridge, every inch is buried within the hilt of your hole. the pressure is unbearable and unparalleled. -- it's all a heavy fullness that makes you keen against the pillow. "feel where i am?" john jostles you a little bit to press his hand against the base of your stomach. "deep in there. i'm all in, peach."

he doesn't move immediately, simply stays put to bask in the feeling of your pussy quivering around him for a few seconds longer. you're a tight, little thing. just swallowing him whole. he gives you a few moments more before he's drawing his hips back an inch . . slow and steady. it's too much, it'a perfect, and it's all so wet. he can't help pushing back forward, the motion blunt and full of weight to grind you open all over again. your cunt tries to fight him . . tries to cling at what's already inside, but john has always been diligent. his hips continue forward until he's deep inside once more.

you gurgle a straggled moan against your own bicep. it's all so much, yet your hips are pushing back . . chasing him in spite of the nervousness building within your chest.

it's all the encouragement he needs.

john starts a rhythm . . . just a few shallow strokes, allowing you to continue to adjust. each retreat is slow and sticky. his breathing is thin as he looks down at the picture -- at his balls flopped over his thigh, tapping almost caefully at your fat clit with each one. the pace is deliberate, meant to just stretch and tease. and soon, that same rhythm builds without him meaning to. longer pulls out before he's driving back forward and making the mattress dip with the force. your body begins to jerk with each push of his hips as your toes curl and every sound from your lips begins to get forced out even despite you trying to keep them in.

"yeah," he breathes. "yeah, there you go . . there you fuckin' go."

his hand slides up to your torso where your ribcage is to get a better grip on you. he needs you steady. "won't you listen to that shit . . ." a murmur beneath his breath.

his thrusts become punishing, every drag and slam harder, sharper, deeper until the mattress beneath you both starts to creak . . . and the bed post knocks against the wall. you're no longer simply lying there, your body is ricochetted off of his by the sheer force of his hips pounding up inside of you. and you're squeaking -- each breath knocked out from your lungs as your tits bounce out from over the bustier of your gown. your pussy swallows him to his sack with loud, wet gulps and tears begin to blur your sight when his arm slowly, gracefully slides around the front of your throat and his hand anchors at your shoulder.

the chokehold isn't gentle. he locks it tight underneath your chin . . drawing your throat up and back until your jaw points to the ceiling and to him above you. it makes your neck strain and every small sound you make is now squeezed into a higher pitch and unable to be quieted because you can no longer breathe without him letting you. "fuck," your toes are curled. ". . f-fuck."

drool seeps down your chin. john doesn't look away. his eyebrows are drawn so low that they nearly shadow his eyes. his jaw is locked hard . . but his gaze is fixed on you, completely unmoving as he drinks in how you look when you're feeling good . . . feeling the absolute best.

"so fuckin' pretty," he drawls out through his fastened teeth. "yeah . . . too fuckin' pretty." his hips snap harder, cock shoving through your folds with soaked plap, plap, plaps.

his size swallows you . . arms lock you down, thighs caging you in so tight you might as well be trapped inside of him. you distantly think that just may be what he wants -- you utterly engrossed by him with nowhere to go but where he takes you.

"papa," it breaks out of you in a sob. "s . . too much."

his mouth presses against your ears, he's cooing again . . rough and dark. "no, no. no. you can take it. my little girl's takin' it."

his praise burns through your veins hotter than any other word ever could. your legs kick out weakly but you try . . you keep giving yourself back to him, pussy clamping up tighter and tighter as though you'd rather die than let him pull out from it. the noises are obscene now as your slick thickens into cream. it's almost as if he's wringing her dry while simultaneously making her wetter. your body is caught within a brutal tempo that he refuses to let up on.

"fuck," you're crying now. you can barely hear yourself over the thunder of so many sounds. "p-please."

john's sounds are in tune with his pace. little 'hmphs' breathed out through his nose as his lips roll tight into his mouth with his focus. yeah, you're taking it . . . beautifully, might he add. your body is knocked forward with every thrust, but his arm around your throat hauls you right back into him each time. you're caged. he's so big that your body no longer even touches the mattress anymore, you're just inside him, swallowed by the stocky breadth of his body.

john notices a string of spit dangling from your plush, bottom lip. with a low grunt, he lowers his head, drags his tongue across your wet cheek to lick some of it off before crashing his lips into yours. it's not really a kiss, per say. his mouth moves, rough and hungry until you're nearly choking on both his cock and tongue as it slides against your own. you whimper into him, drool still trickling from the corners of your lips until it smears against the both of your chins.

john's huffing through his nose again, "breakin' that pussy in, eh?" he mutters against your lips. "pushin' her nice and wide." his accent is the thickest you've heard it.

your stomach flips as his words make your clit jump. " 's yours," you're nodding and pouting, looking like an absolute fucking doll. " 's your pussy, i . . p . . promise."

his chest heaves against your back. he won't take your eyes off of your face as he nods along with you, forehead pressed against yours. he's lost within you. to be completely honest, john didn't think he still had all this in him. but, you're impossible . . it's impossible for him to not want to pound you over and over and over again until his name is the only thing that rattles within that fogged brain of yours.

the grip he has on you suddenly falters -- not beacuse he's weak, but because he needs to move. he feels your walls convulsing again . . they tell him you're close and they beg at him to follow behind. his cock pulses in warning. he can't maintain the pace without breaking.

with a grunt, he hauls you forward then down. you huff at the abrupt change -- cheek pressed into the mattress, hands pinned beside your head with his own, and then his heavy body is covering yours, blanketing you in sweat and warmth. his dick never slips free.

prone bone.

your legs are spread just enough to allow him to rut down into you and god, it's so much deeper. his hips roll, burying every inch with long sticky stokes that makes your pussy drool onto the sheets. "fffuucckk." his voice is chasmal as his eyes roll back inside his head as if he's nearly gone feral from the simple feel of you.

you swear you can feel him in your chest. each movement punches a sound out of you -- warbled and tired.

john hears it. he loves it. "such a sweet girl," he growls against your cheek. "thaaat's it. sing for me."

he's bearing down on you. his balls slap meanly against your cunt as he keeps pounding through the mess she makes. his groans turn guttural, incessant, each one shuddering out of the depths of his chest as his pace gets cruel. john's lost in it. his mouth hangs open against your shoulder as he hears you breaking apart underneath him . . just completely seizing up. you're driving him mad.

he hasn't had a cunt take him like this before.

you're nothing but a rag doll. your ass bounces against him as you fight to catch your breath while he cages you in -- arms on either side of your head. "papa," you hiccup.

he's panting, "yeah, peach," as his nose drags against your temple. "say it again. say it again."

his hips are grinding again -- just nice, tight circles. the sensation is all consuming. you squeal, sob, and choke -- all at once -- as the first convulses of an orgasm ripple through your body. his cock is too deep that it makes you forcibly quiver. you can feel john kissing you as your cunt milks at him. it all blooms violently and he groans through it all, hips stuttering but shaft never leaving your insides as he finally pumps his cum deep inside . . coating your pulpy walls with his release. it's all so thick and warm . . white and runny. you're a mess beneath him . . hiccuping and babbling, completely turned inside out. and yet, john doesn't move . . . he stays, hips still just barely thrusting, eyes low, watching you fight to come down from the heights he forced you to climb.

minutes later, he lets his cock soften slowly inside of you, allowing you to ride the tremors out of your body.

every mewl and hiccup you still give are raw and unguarded. you're so fragile now. he feels it. "hey," he's humming and carefully dragging his hips out to let himself flop out from your stretched, ripened hole. slowly, he shifts you over to then pull you into his arms and lifts himself back towards the pillows where he props the both of you up on. he buries you within him with one arm around your back and the other resting against your hip then rubs slow, steady circles across nearly every inch of you -- your back, thighs, waist. "you're alright, baby," he murmurs as you sniffle hard enough for it to jolt your entire body. "you did good.”

your bonnet has long been tossed askew -- got loosened around the time he placed you in that chokehold. fingers trace along your eyebrows and cheeks to take in each feature. john is in awe, "look at you," his voice is quiet. "you're a dream."

you sniff again, a tiny sob falling past your lips as you tuck your face closer within his chest. your brain is hazy. you've never felt this before. you're simply aware that you just need him.

john hums low in response, eyes knowing, "it's a lot, hm? never been pushed this deep before. you're good. i got you."

for nearly an hour, he stays like that, fingers brushing over the spots that are still tender from the intensity of it all. every tremor, every mewl, every shaky sigh is met with a firm, gentle kiss against your head or jaw as he pulls you in closer. "came hard for me. just like i needed you to. you're perfect." eventually your body gradually relaxes against him and your breath evens out. your eyes'll close when the sun begins to rise over the horizon and john'll hold you through it until you feel it. . . safe. full. loved. and utterly his.

those are what always give you away. you could be completely silent, body drenched in the most pungent fertilizer . . he can spot you from a mile away.

there’s a breath emitted from you — comes out through your nose. he knows so because he hears a peek of your sweet, little voice beneath it as you drop your arms and take a few steps back and away to flick on the kitchen light.

it’s bigger, brighter than the one in the foyer.

therefore, frank can finally get a good look at you.

you wear a satin robe, the color of it a delicate lilac. it’s short and loosely tied and for this reason, the right flap of it seems to be fighting to hang free and subtly, more or less, captivatingly, droops down your shoulder. beneath the robe is a white bustier, cups trimmed with thin, frilly eyelet that squeezes against the pudgy mounds of your breasts . . . yeah, you just got off of work. frank knows so because you still have on your jewelry — your rings, both sets belonging to your toes and fingers still reside on your body, a few gold bangles on each wrist ( admittedly, frank doesn’t think he’s ever seen you without those on ), anklets, large heart shaped, pink diamond studs in both ears, and you wear about three or four necklaces, all of them around the same length and density yet each suspending a different emblem or charm. there’s a small ‘ F ‘ on one of them, frank just can’t tell which one because they’re knotted and entangled around one another . . . you were laying down, resting before his intrusion.

round and plump, glossed, your lips curl into a deep frown as your eyes squint with irritation. a cynic you are, almost constantly. “. . it’s four am frank, what the fuck are you doing here?”

his brows fold in as he takes a step closer your way. with a sniff and quick glance over his shoulder, he shrugs before seemingly casually gruffing out, “ion know, mama . . i guess i live here or somethin’.”

“no,” your reply is instantaneous. “no, you don’t. get the fuck out.”

you rotate one eighty on those soft, supple heels of yours, those same ones that require just about as much upkeep as the hair growing from your fucking scalp to start your trek across the living room towards the hall. the soles of your feet create small slaps against the buffed, cherrywood flooring, producing a rhythm of tap, tap, tap, taps and the thick clomp, clomp, clomps of frank’s muddied, black timberlands completely vanquish the sound of each one. “yeah, i don’t wanna hear that shit,” he utters after a quiet suck to his teeth.

“i’m serious.”

you enter your bedroom with him only a step behind you. “jus’ lay down, alright?” back and forth he flicks his hand — motioning for you to almost buzz off while his other slams your door shut.

“do you think i’m playing with you, frank?”

there are two, large plastic bags deposed upon the custom, tufted rug made to resemble a cat’s underpaw outstretched on the floor at the foot of your bed frame; both of them are swollen tight with bills of pale green. your money counter, bedazzled and powered off, sits right beside the two — definitely went to work tonight. “considerin’ i’m the motherfucker who put you up in this uppity shit and comes outta’ pocket for rent and bills,” again, he shrugs, gives a quick scope of your bedroom meant more for show rather than genuinely appreciating and fixes a tired though stern, umber colored gaze back on yours. “yeah, i think you’re playin’.”

you don’t say anything, you can’t say anything to that — only fold your arms, pointedly look away, and get to work on suckling the inside of your cheek between your back molars to chaw and scrape up the same way you always do when finding yourself upset.

ad rem, a thorough silence overwhelms the room.

if he were to keep it a buck, frank doesn’t want to fight with you. he never does. “c’mon,” his voice drags quietly as he closes some distance between the two of you. “. . you know i ain’t mean for that shit to happen, baby—“

akin to a bullet being shot from a gun, your hand is quick to fly out and smack his away the second a finger gently strokes the soft arch of your cheek. “don’t touch me.” ivories bared, nails sharpened . . you remind frank of a kitten, a fucking feisty one. you push past him to place your exclusive, pink, heritage mfg revolver within its opened box casing that sits on your bed then the entire thing in your nightstand. “i’m giving you three seconds to get the fuck out of my room frank. i mean it.”

he’s nodding as his tongue presses gently against the warmth of his cheek, “yeah . .” he says quietly, staring out past your opened balcony doors towards the skyline, then more louder, “yeah, i’m an asshole, i know—“

“—an asshole?”

you take the bait when he tosses it out into your bogusly calm, wading sea. it’s a move he pulls out often — a little self deprecation to get the ball rolling; works every fucking time. “frank, you’re an inconsiderate, tactless, uncaring son of a bitch.”

still nodding, frank situates himself into a wide legged stance, arms folded across his chest. your mouth is moving, rapidly even. nonetheless, it’s as though the more you talk, the more you only angry yourself. “yeah, i had to take off,” with the intermingling of frank’s voice against yours, the sound of them seems to ( what frank thinks ) kickstart a chemical in your brain that makes the volume of your voice rise. “i fucked up! you don’t think i know that i fucked up, ma? there was some important shit i had to handle—“

“—fuck you, frank!” the pads of your fingers are shoving against the side of his head in efforts to force a sidewards bend to his neck. “some important shit — e-everybody else is important but me, huh?—“ you’re shoulder checking him at the same while, or rather, plainly pushing past him as hard as you possibly can shove all of your weight against a man basically made of steel. frank’s unable to keep his eyebrows from shooting up the span of his forehead. they almost touch his hairline as one, gloved finger points at your pacing figure now a few feet away from him.

“—what i tell you about that, huh? your hands? . . keep ‘em to y’fuckin’ self, alright?”

“—unlike these other fuckin’ people out here, i’m not . . i’m not scared of you,” the pitch of your tone ascends high in your throat as your head jerks back to almost touch the wall behind you. “you gonna hit me frank? is that, huh — is that what you wanna do?” you don’t make a move to step towards his way as you bitingly chaff. you’re getting beside yourself. frank rolls his lips inside of his mouth to tangibly keep himself from saying another word.

as an ex marine corps lieutenant, he’s been verbatim trained on shit like this. given all your cursing and insults, frank can understand to not take them to heart. you’re upset — you should be. he got a call from brooks, snuck out of your bed and took off into the dead of night. he’s been gone for thirty two days now with no signs sent home to you to alert you of his life or death status. you’re angry, he gets it. but the cursing, the yelling? all that shit gets old to him after a while. he’ll usually allow you three minutes, a total of one hundred and eighty seconds, completely uninterrupted to go in on him, flat out. predominantly by then, he has an idea on what to do with you. either walk out and leave you to stew on your own for a bit or,

“i’ve never dealt with someone like you. you’re jus — fuckin’ . . ugh! it’s impossible, frank. you are impossible . . . — what the hell are you doing?”

sardonically, frank keeps nodding as he walks on over to your bed to snatch hold of one amongst the damn near thousand decorative pillows that sheaths the surface of it. it’s fairly large, shaped like a heart . . . it’ll do. “yeah, nah. keep talkin’, lil’ girl,” he mumbles, letting it fall to the floor between his feet. “just get them knees down on that pillow right there for a minute.”

you’re rendered silent, now standing only a foot away from him, feet pressed together and fingers curled into fists of frustration. irresolution reads outstandingly clear upon the pretty features of your face — mouth parts open about an inch to plausibly gripe out a smart - assed comment before you’re snapping it back closed. those same lips split again a minute later after a beat of hesitation, “i hate you,” your voice’s volume is quieting down as your knees sink within the cushion of the pillow, one by one. all the while, your eyes are refusing to pull away from his. “. . ‘m serious, frank. i’m not gonna keep dealing with—“ you’re a trip. you were angry, frank could gauge that . . but it reads blazingly evident in your body language. as you paced, you made no move to snatch your robe back closed come each time it fought to droop open with each step you took. during the entire fit you gave, you barely made eye contact with frank neither.

“—yeah, yeah,” he’s murmuring beneath the sound of his belt’s metal prong hitting the buckle with a clank as he loosens it from around his hips. snatching the zipper of his roomy cargos down, frank doesn’t waste another second after towing his fat, heavy cock over the hem of his briefs, balls excluded, to press it against your mouth. “shut that shit up.” the palm of his hand finds the back of your head, right upon the soft silk of your bonnet as he feeds his fat, plum capped tip past your balm covered lips.

“you’re more upset that you had to go a month takin’ care of that lil princess pussy on your own, huh?” he’s asking after about a minute of him shallowly thrusting his first three inches or so back and forth out of your warm mouth. silence. “admit it,” he headily rasps while lifting his shirt halfway up the carved muscles of his torso. “just a fuckin’ handful.”

you’re glaring up at him as the volumized wispies of your lash extensions flutter with each new inch of dick he attempts to shove deep inside the vent of your mouth. “take that shit.” frank’s teeth are gritted as he softly breathes out a curse through them. “eat it up — t-there y’fuckin’ go.” high maintenance . . . everything about you is. your hair installs and appointments range between two to seven hundred dollars a month, add on the manicures, pedicures, lashes, bi weekly shopping sprees, and an occasional new house appliance, in the eyes of frank, you’re nothing but a fucking money shredder. beyond them though, all the clothes, shoes, appointments, and make up, it’s the meat between your thighs that demands most of his pampering.

quite literally in fact. you like her waxed; completely barren from a single, growing hair follicle. sugar scrubs to exfoliate and bath water doused in honey and soothing salts ever so often to keep up your ph. . . your pussy’s a god damn diva. frank’s never dealt with a lady like you. he’s never met one before — a woman so calmly cocksure in everything she does and says.

a people person, he’s never been. met you two years ago at the loft — a splashy, wannabe pretentious strip joint. had it been any other day, he wouldn’t have given it a second glance. it’s a bit of a hole in the wall, posted right there in astoria . . a mile or two out from the bridge however, in all honesty, the place makes a damn good old fashioned. and yeah, he also may have been there to watch a pretty lady’s five minute set, sue him. he’d gone twice before you caught his eye — had been working the floor that night . . dolled up in a hot pink, leopard printed, caged halter that was quite patently purchased a sized smaller than what would be your usual and matching thong bottoms whose hip straps were elongated to sit on your shoulders like a sling. not a single curl out of place, skin glistening like the smoothest, dark whisky. you looked like a barbie pulled straight out of her packaging as you glided your way from man to man, letting them tuck bills within the strap of your top with a pretty smile.

other woman’s set be damned. frank finished the rest of his old fashioned and had been halfway through a beer before he decided to motion you on over. you were perched all pretty on the arm of a lounge sofa where a fifty-something year old man sat on, allowing him to trace distinct shapes into the smooth skin of your shin over your fishnets. initially, you appeared jolted — a shadow of confusion gracing your features as you tried to weigh on what his quick chin lift could possibly mean. frank was ignored at first, didn’t surprise him. nevertheless, even while trying to have a conversation with the man . . leaning down to hear him better, letting him get a more fruitful look at your tits, your head couldn’t help swiveling on your shoulder sometimes to let your eyes linger on the unmoving set of frank’s.

eventually you said something to the guy . . whatever it was, it seemed to be enough for him to let you slip away with a new bill slotted within the crease of your cleavage. “i can’t talk to guys at the bar,” was the first thing you said to him. your voice trilled on the last word, as if you were teasingly singing it.

frank wore a smirk, letting his arm lay outstretched along the edge of the tabletop. his fingertips were only about a few centimeters from grazing along the tightly coiled springs of your hair. “that ain’t no problem.”

up, he stood, then four steps forward.

“c’mere,” he leered as he took a seat at a small, lone table. caught the way your eyes fluttered down to his thighs as he spread them wide to get comfortable on the stool, too. “not at the bar no more, am i?”

“mm,” brought your glossy bottom lip underneath the row of your teeth for a slight nibble. charming, the compliment comes often when he applies himself to the role. “you’re not, but—“

before you could say it, frank’s rubbing a hand across the back of his head through the dark mop of hair he’d been growing in tandem with a thick, bolshie beard to coarsely quip, “—pretty thing like you has clients, i know. you got shit to do, money to make. i ain’t gon’ stop you from that.” a hundred dollar bill . . he drifted it from his wallet and held it between his index and middle finger. “how much this get me?”

you took a step closer his way and gave a savvy, little head tilt, “a ten minute convo or dance. your pick. not both.”

“mmm.”

lazily, frank nodded. neither would be enough. not for a man like him — one perpetually tired with police, federal agents, hitmen, and the whole riffraff alike breathing down his neck and desiring his head on a stick. two identical bills were added to the one between his fingers . . and daintily, naturally you grabbed all three, tucked them away, then took his hand.

you gave him a private dance that night . . . let him slip his hands up the cage of your ribs to envelop the meat of your tits in the cradle of his gauze veiled palms while the seam of your ass split with the aim of working his clothed and stout dick between the cheeks of them. you slowly rocked your hips back and forth to a tune composed of a lot of bass and smooth melodies, talked to him all nice and sweet the whole time, too.

’you married?’

‘got kids?’

’you like that?’

’military man, huh? could tell.’

’feels big. you sure you can handle me though?’

just a fucking minx. had him about ready to blow by the time those fifteen minutes were up.

for a while, that was the routine. he’d drink, catch you for a little conversation laden with his sly flirting and your similar witty intrigue, then a dance. with you bent over, legs straightened, hands on your shins, and fat, oil soaked cheeks clapping inches away from his face, he’d toy with you a bit more with his audacious compliments and ask a few questions . . . nothing ever personal, but just enough to get your deal, put more substance behind the face come each time he heard your name. he’s done enough introspection to label himself as a sleaze, not a creep.

‘you like doin’ this? . . mm, yeah. i can tell.’

’this’s a nice lil number on you . . . you look real good.’

’could never get tired of this shit.’

’nah. no other girls, don’t care to dip around with the rest of ‘em here. you’re a fuckin’ gem.’

family, friends, loved ones — frank doesn’t have any. not anymore. but you carved your way somehow into something that, truthfully even now, unnerves him to think about. the early morning diner dates after your shifts, middays at your apartment watching shitty television together, both of you getting ready for different nights of commotion — it all culminated into you becoming . . his. he’s not sure of when or really even how. all he is aware of now, at this moment, while his hand is pushing at the back of your scalp, making you swallow his dick into the tight warmth of your throat, is that he’d kill for you. he’s done it before, he’ll do it again.

“get that hand up here.”

a lot of what attracts frank toward you is the pleasures of your strenuous upkeeping. that mean, furrowed crinkle between your laminated brows grows deeper as you wrap your fingers around the fat root of his cock, granting him a nice view of your nails. the contrast is stark. curved and multicolor, embellished with glimmering charms against a thick, tan rod streaked with pulsing veins. you were something peeled straight from the posters of his teenage bedroom — of those gaudy, early two thousand music video vixens and x rated magazine models. beads of pre drip down onto your tongue as you pull your head back to pant and work your fist up and down his dick in smooth, counter clockwise stirs.

frank’s pulling his hands away from you to interlock them at the base of his back. broad and strong, his hips tilt an inch closer your way as he smirks, letting you crank at him. “missed this shit?” he mumbles, watching you roll your eyes. “huh? . . you missed me, sweetheart?”

silky — the sounds are loud as your hand pumps. “jus’ shut up.”

comical, it all is. your steady - going ruse to get him angry. it won’t work . . it has before, but frank didn’t know you and your tricks well enough as he does now.

your bracelets jingle, all of you does when you adjust yourself to plop more of your butt on the cushion than kneel. you’re making yourself comfortable in efforts to suction his leaking tip between your lips, swirling your tongue along his underside as you swallow another inch and another. what you can do is truly remarkable . . beautiful, even. frank doesn’t have it in him to pretend that your mouth isn’t the best he’s felt in all his thirty something years living here on shitty, fucking earth. “sssss . .” his head slowly falls back onto his shoulder and eyes roll into his skull as you pull his briefs down to allow his swollen, cum filled balls to fall within your soft fingers. they fondle as your head bobs and mouth spills webs of spit off of your protruded bottom lip.

it all begins to gather after a minute — foaming and carbonated. bubbles of saliva inflate and pop at the foundation of his cock as you glug and choke him down.

opposed to popular thought, you know when frank really feels good when he gets quiet for a while . . just complete silence.

your eyes are blurred with tears as both your hands fall to the rug beneath you to press your palms on for stability as you begin to rock yourself back and then forwards — entirely swallowing him into what damn near feels like inside your chest and pulling back almost at his tip. you’re watching him — he feels it.

his eyes are closed, facial muscles utterly lax.

until that bout of silence breaks with a long, hoarse, pussy dampening groan. he grabs the sides of your head between his hands when his hips begin to move, pushing his cock in and out of your gooey, tight throat. “ohhhh shit.”

you feel rivulets of spit trickling down your chin, brooking down towards your neck and chest. “yeah, give me all you got,” he barks, stepping closer when you attempt to pull up. “all you got, girl.”

you’re released when he deems you ready to breathe. you’re coughing when air is given back to you with your lashes spiked, cheeks damp, and nose dripping with mucus. “yeeaahh.” chuckling and nodding his head as his fist starts to stroke his own cock, frank tilts it to really take in the picture you make. “bring that mouth back on over here. who said i was done?”

you’re whining now but still pushing in when he grabs the back of your head, “my jaw hurts—“

“—i don’t care. open the fuck up.”

with your lips enclosed around the girth of his cock, frank makes your mouth follow the path down it and back up with his gloved fist — to keep it real plain, his hand jerks off as you accompany it with sucks and swallows. “want you to swallow every drop,” he murmurs with a nudge to your forehead, impelling you to tilt your head back.

“i don’t want cum in my mouth.” lie.

“either you swallow it all on your own or i push it down your throat.”

you’re left to sit completely still, head back, and mouth opened wide. frank delights in your jumpiness and forged agitation as he pounds into his own hand. you love this shit, it’s palpable. the anticipation only makes your clit harder, pussy more soppy. he makes sure to aim more for your face than mouth, sole reason being to mark you up, unsurprised to get a harsh smack on the thigh in retaliation after you swallow the small bit that does make it to your tongue. he ignores it completely — much too occupied with bending down to scoop an arm behind just one of your knees and the other around your back. you’re hanging from him like a ragdoll as he walks over to your bed to toss you onto the mattress and pull your robe open.

“give anybody my pussy while i was gone?”

your eyes roll once more before you shrug and loll your head on your shoulder to instead focus on wiping his cum from off of your cheeks and nose with graceful fingers — collecting all the wayward wisps of white on two of them to then lay on your tongue. “maybe,” you mutter around the digits, two irises of dark mahogany shimmering like jewels beneath the bright moonlight that encases your entire bedroom. “maybe not.”

frank’s lips purse as he snatches the pathetic excuse of underwear you wear to the side and hook it underneath your ass cheek to keep it in place, “is that right?”

“mhm.”

with a hand, he presses down on your abdomen while languidly stroking the chubby crown of his dick up and down your slit’s length. “hear that?” he gruffs, quieting down to let you listen to the thickness of a few stray drops of his cum and your juices squidging together within the pulp of your pussy. “sounds real sticky — real nasty. sounds like you missed me.”

your hole is clenching against the underside of him . . goading him in, crying for him. it’s truly a god damn shame that you as her owner think of yourself as too much of a hotshot to admit your real feelings and satisfy what’s clear she’s craving. he watches how you fight it, how your bottom lip gets captured between your teeth as you look down at the scene. the folds of your cunt hug his width tight, completely sandwiching it between them to form what looks something like a lewd hot dog. he’s always been more on the thicker side — the girthiest you’ve ever taken actually with a length that fits just nice and snug enough to have his tip a brush away from your cervix when he’s inside and at a standstill.

when he’s fucking you however . . .

frank watches how your eyes cycle back into your skull as you breathe out a mewl and collapse onto your back. you’re burning from the inside out yet you won’t perform the necessary deed to quell it out. you’d rather suffer. clicking his tongue, frank shoves down his pants and briefs til the hem of them halt right underneath his ass, “okay,” he muttered. “be like that.”

he pumps his cock — once, twice — then lifts and forcefully drums it against your cunt, right upon the rosy bead of your clit to let you feel how hard it is. flosses of slick play between you both, thin and viscous. you’re dripping — all of it collecting at your hole to gather into droplets that trickle down the crack of your rump and smear against your cheeks due to your incessant clenching. frank widens his legs, leans back an inch, then lets his thumb lead his tip towards your slit.

it pops in.

you’re hot around him — like a furnace. more than so, you’re tight. you’re whimpering now, eyebrows pushed in close. frank licks his lips, “hey,” he gathers your attention, voice quiet but his smirk bold. he’s challenging you. “you know i missed you.”

an inch deeper. you flinch, a delicious pleasurable pain licking at the base of your core. your eyes still hold the flames of defiance when you glare up at him nevertheless, “y-you better have, frank.”

another inch. “why you gotta be like that with me, huh?”

“ ‘cause you—“ another and you squeak and fist the comforters between your fingers as tight as you can. “y-you’re always leaving me. and i dunno who you’re with, what you’re doin’ . . if you’re alive—“

frank feeds you the rest of his cock by pulling the first few out then smoothly sheathing all the way in. your body wounds tight as your legs instinctively curl up towards your chest. you’re holding onto the back of your knees and whining when he leans in, letting his forearms cage your face between them so that he can plant a slow, sweet kiss to your lips. “i’ll always make it back home to you, you ain’t ever gotta worry about that,” his voice is low and his thumbs stroke your temples gently. “you’re my fuckin’ girl. my only girl.” you are. in every sense of the word.

“mhm, yeah.” there’s a crack in your catty, little façade. you’re looking away from him, still uncertain, still mean.

frank’s face doesn’t change much when he slooowly pulls his dick nearly completely out then snaps back in. he watches your pretty nose crinkle up and body tense again. “frank,” you mewl and squeeze around him tighter when he does it once more. “ungh — shit.”

you sound so cute. you feel like fucking nirvana. frank’s staring at you beneath low eyelids when his hips begin to smoothly lift up and down. his cock pounds at you — pummeling in and out of the grooved canal of your cunt, heavy balls slapping up against the crinkle of your asshole. “ohhh,” you’re grabbing at him now. one hand curled tight with the fabric of his compression shirt, the other’s palm at the back of his head. your nails scratch at the burst fade, it makes a cold shiver rake down frank’s spine. “y-yeah, yeah.”

“ain’t ever givin’ this shit up, you hear me?” he’s growling from the depths of his chest, feeling your tits bouncing up against it as he puts more of his weight behind each pound. “not you, hm? especially not this fuckin’ pussy.”

your eyes are squeezed closed. it hurts, it feels amazing. no — wait. yeah. maybe. you’re squeaking, voice being shaken out between each one, “f-fra-an-nk-kie, mmph.”

frank’s huffing through his nose as he props up on his hands. you look good — too fucking good. body ricocheting off of his hips, stomach caved in as you tried your best to just breathe, all of your jewelry clanking and belling with each slug of his dick inside of you. your pussy’s squelching — just gushing slick around it too, almost as if frank’s tip were hitting a button inside that simply kept opening the gates of it all, over and over. “makin’ such a mess,” he breathes. your thighs are beginning to tremble, you close them impulsively but he’s pushing them back open and pinning your knees to the bed beside your torso, forcing you still. “jus’ look at her. cryin’ for me. for her daddy, hm.”

“b-been so sad,” you’re admitting through a gentle whimper, hand reaching out for his abdomen. your head’s spinning. “h-had to take out . . the trash by m’self, had to . . fuck m’self, too.”

“aww, is that right?” frank’s clicking his tongue. “poor baby.”

“uh huh.”

your feet are flopping in time with each thrust. pretty and delicate. frank can’t help grabbing one to drag his tongue up the length of your sole. the prickling feeling always makes you cry out a precious sound of shock. he’s tasting your toes, one by one, groaning as his teeth scrape against the rings of them and maintaining his pace all the while. yeah, he’ll agree. feet like these, hands like these, this body? you shouldn’t be lifting a damn finger.

“yeah, ‘m sorry, mama.” messy and wet, his kisses stamp a line down your ankle to your shin as he ultimately slows down his rhythm to do so. “daddy’s sorry.”

your lip is pouted, eyes big too. oh, frank loves this shit. he enjoys the push and pull you give him sometimes. the pleasure of breaking you feels all the more sweeter. “don’t do that again,” you’re mumbling now after he comes to a complete halt. “you gotta start fillin’ me in on more stuff, frankie.”

eh.

he’ll think about that part. what he does when he’s gone, concealed within the dark of night, you don’t need to know. it’s not as though he hides it well, given the splotches of mauve that sometimes decorate his eyes and nose, gunshot wound or two littered across his body packed with gauze, and consistent broken and or blood stained knuckles. all things considered, he doesn’t like to be explicit with it all. the way he sees it, it’s just no point. it’s simply just shit he has to deal with sometimes.

he can get a little better with disclosing his life or death status though. he’ll meet you halfway with that. “yeah, you ain’t deserve that,” he grumbled when he has you on your front, knees folded to prop your ass up, and chest flushed flat with the mattress. you have a tattoo on your right ass cheek, spans along the side of it and inches down to your outer thigh. it’s a pretty thing — inked with blues, green, pinks, and purple. his leather cased fingers dig into the soft, plush meat of it as he pulls the globe to the side to get a nice look at your pussy fluttering open to welcome in his cock. when you whine at the stretch, hips twitching away when it keeps pushing, frank’s other hand is pressing at the base of your back, making your cunt swallow him to the base.

“ungh!”

“there you fuckin’ go.”

with the side of your face smooshed against the bed, your parted mouth breathes out weak pants of his name when he begins to fuck you. the sounds are vulgar — warm, damp skin clapping up against each other, your pussy gurgling as she works out droplets of cream that only bulk into a paste at his base and drips down his balls and your inner thighs. “c-can’t . .— daddy,” you’re hiccuping and reaching back to push at him when both his hands wrap around the soft cushion of your waist. he’s leaning forward then, and in doing so, you’re made completely immobile . . quite literally stuck beneath his weight. “can’t take it — can’t t-take it—“

“you’re alright,” he drags, voice husky. “jus’ need you to cum on it, sweetheart. need you feelin’ good.”

you sound adorable. squeaking little ‘ah’s, ‘unh’s, and ‘ooh’s. frank’s hypnotized by the ripple of your ass cheeks moving come each smack of his pelvis against it. he’s missed you. he’s missed you too fucking much. “attagirl.” you’re surprising him when you reach your hands back and spread yourself wide, allowing him to regard the messy scene of his cream streaked dick, your identically filthy pussy, and winking hole above. frank’s holding you by your wrists now, forcing you to keep your hands there as he points his chin down, enamored with it all.

“ ‘m . . ‘m c-cumming,” is all the warning you manage to babble out through your spit filled mouth as frank fucks you through it with his hand now clutched at the back of your neck to keep your body from inching up the bed from the force of his thrusts. your entire body quivers as your pussy clenches around him, fighting to milk his nut out too. “s-so deep — daddy, fuck . . fuck—“

but frank’s not stopping, not for a second. that feeling of your cunt squeezing on him was orgasmic in itself. it’s enough to add a few points to his hp. “yeah,” he grunts, watching it all drip out of you. “yeah. good job, baby. takin’ this shit like a champ.”

your eyes are crossing, all sound is obscured and muffled against your eardrums, you think you can barely breathe.

“a-awe shit,” frank’s hissing, eyebrows pushing in. the leather gloves he wears crinkle as he burrows his nails into the softness of your skin, thrusts slowing down to match the pace of his words, “s-shit . . pretty girl . . fuck.” he thought he could go for about ten minutes longer . . . guess he underestimated the power of your pussy because he’s cumming not long after that final curse. a long, low groan is breathed out through his teeth as he keeps himself and you still, feeling his balls jump in time with each pump of his nut inside of you. you’re sighing out a sweet sound of content and bliss, eyes fluttering closed to mewl when he eventually pulls out an inch at a time about a minute later.

“fuckin’ perfect.”

there’s a small kiss deposited at the back of your head before you feel him slipping away to grab a few napkins out of your nightstand drawer. teasingly, you find enough energy to bounce and shake your ass toward him which only earns you a nice, thick smack. “aye, keep still.” frank’s smirking a little as he swipes a few napkins along your inner thighs first. “don’t need this shit drippin’ everywhere.”

“mm,” when you’re cleaned up, cleaned out actually, frank’s finally kicking off his shoes, snatching off his gloves, and stripping down to his briefs and muscle tee. you’re flopped on your side, head on your pillow, eyes bleary as you blink slow and calmly watch him set two pistols down and a knife down on your dresser. “c’mere.” you’re pouting now — molded soft and sweet in only the soft and sweetest way that a nice fucking can give. when you’re clenching and unclenching a fist his way, he’s slipping underneath the duvet and bringing you with him.

there’s a smooch he gives your forehead prior to him mumbling, “you alright?”

your eyes are closed, face tucked into his neck before you’re nodding, “uh huh,” your voice is quieter, too. frank loves you . . a fucking lot honestly, but he especially loves you like this.

“nah, i mean . .” he’s dragging his fingertips up and down the length of your spine. he knows it feels good, he does it on purpose. you’re going to tucker out in less than a minute if he keeps it up but he needs to know, “nobody fuck with you?. . at work?. . here in the building? you been okay?”

he needs to know.

it’s a relief when you shake your head, “no, daddy,” you’re whispering. “been okay . . just been missin’ you.”

“i know,” another kiss, this one closer towards your cheek. “you don’t know how much i missed you too, mama.”

he relieved you from your assignment today with hardly a glance given in your direction as he spoke softly to carol, telling her that he’ll have you back within an hour, hour and a half, give or take. you had an idea of what rick wanted, what he was trying to do, albeit regardless of it all, when outside of the safeguarded walls of the prison, and especially after placing his striking, .357 magnum revolver within the soft, dirtied palms of your hands you’re urgently trying to shove it back within his own. your head shakes, violently, as if someone had grabbed your body within their fingers and twisted it from left to right.

“i don’t wanna—“

his hands rest upon the slim line of his hips. he refuses to touch the gun now that you have it. eyes of frosted blue squint beneath the woolly peels of his eyebrows as he looks out somewhere over his shoulder before nodding towards the broad trunk of a tree about ten feet away that’s marked with a large X.

“i want you to shoot the target.”

“but i don’t want—“

he’s shaking his head, lips pulled thin, “—ain’t about what you want. shoot the target.”

you’re trembling. rick has let it get to him before — the shaking, the whines, the tears. unlike a few others, usually girls, it isn’t for show just to get out of target practice and hurry back to be with a lover or a few friends, no, your fear is genuine . . . which only makes this all the more necessary.

his chin has to lower in order for both your sets of eyes to meet. his face doesn’t change. it’s bright out, a nice sunny day. pieces of light break in past frazzled branches and stout hedges, one slice gleams right there within his eyes. it allows you to read the severity that glimmers inside the pools of somnific baby blue and your small weeping only worsens.

there’s a needle pointed ache — stabs him right in the gut it feels like. sheltered thing, spoiled thing you are. you were found by glenn in a cottage, buried deep in the woods some miles out around eight months ago. had been surviving off of canned beans, some salami, and fruit from a nearby pear tree. you’d admitted to him that your older brother had gone to scavenge up some more food, a few weapons, but it had been going on almost ten days and you knew to finally come to the conclusion that he’d been bit. therefore, glenn brought you back with him.

ever weary of strangers, rick took some time warming up to you — not that you tried to even get the guy to like you anyhow. you feared him for a few weeks or so. he’d come rounding the corner of your cell block and as if you were a spooked kit, you’d either turn and quickly scurry away or retreat back within your pen, waiting until the slim, though muscled shadow of his figure swiftly rippled past the thin, floral sheet hung above the entrance of it that acted as a pitiful flap of privacy. incipiently, you thought of him as cold, rotten . . completely barbed to his core. he killed walkers without a single blink, you heard a few stories about him murdering a few people, too.

it took a lot of convincing — some from carol, maggie, until eventually rick settled your fear and worries himself. it had started to become difficult to overlook your unease when he came around, uncomfortable. he’s a good person. he’s loyal to the ones he loves, would lay his life down on the line in a split second and not expect a single thing in return, carol informed. a bit hot headed and stubborn sometimes, has his own issues, but who doesn’t? especially given the state of the world now.

“i don’t want you to be scared of me, alright?” his voice idly drawled one night about a month after you integrated yourself with the group. he stood watch with you on the prison’s west side tower — didn’t look at you when he said it neither, kept his eyes focused out at the gates with a hand on his holster. always watching, always prepared for the unfortunate inevitable. “me and you? we’re all good. i won’t hurt you.”

the confirmation felt nice. and with it, something inside of you fell open . . as if it had been banging against a closed door that was suddenly snatched ajar.

rick grimes is . . . handsome. you enjoyed watching him from afar forth that point on. his presence commanded attention and conformity from everyone he walked past. it’s in the air around him — edges torched with the incessant scents of petrichor and wet clay, full of effortless sway and control. placing your life within his hands was . . easy. giving into that pesky attraction was even easier. his mouth tasted like moonshine when you kissed him for the first time, hidden behind a cell block like a couple of young lovers. it was clumsy and rough and wet . . so messy. his fingers twitched when he allowed his hands to grip onto your waist, they shook with poorly veiled helm as you feebly arched up into him, back having to curve and arms pulling at his neck so that all of him could envelop you.

it was something that was supposed to be forgotten. rick was drunk, you were tipsy and it’d been late. simple. all of the necessary ingredients to chalk it all up to a silly, dissipated mistake.

in spite of so, rick found his eyes lingering. they’d catch your frame damn near half a mile away, watching you feed ingrid, the camp’s horse, hay from your little hand. when dinner time rolled around, the both of your eyes would lock across the cafeteria and . . . well, a few more kisses advanced into some groping in the tower on a rainy, spring evening. and soon, you would occasionally gift a stress soothing although messy blowjob. sometimes a couple of his long, agile fingers would find themselves buried within the gummy pink of your insides, stroking, pushing, prodding, as he kissed and licked away your tears of supple bliss, too.

after some time, the extent of rick’s care for you deepened — in a way he hasn’t cared for anyone else before. not since lori. it’s not platonic . . what he feels for you, nor is it . . familial, comparatively to the way he regards maggie, beth, and carol. it’s something deep and vast and, what he’ll admit, a bit twisted. it’s this feeling that has him leaning his face down an inch, he needs you to really hear him when he casually asks, “you wanna die?”

your eyebrows furrow during the same moment your lips twist. it’s as though you tried to keep your pout from deepening by biting down on it, however, given your efforts it still pushes through.

“at any point in time you can be alone in this world. tyrese is not going to be there to protect you — not glenn, not carol, not me.” his voice stiffens with each word. you hiccup on a sob when he’s forcefully turning your body back towards the tree. “arms up. eyes focused. stop crying.” his hands move quick. he forces both of your hands on the polished, wooden handle of his gun and with his own covering yours while standing directly behind you, muscled chest to your back, he makes you pull the trigger.

you jolt in his arms, fighting to pull back, to drop the gun, but rick stands firm. he isn’t necessarily the tallest when standing beside the others, nevertheless, he rears over you by almost ten inches or so. it’s easy to keep you where he wants you. you’re sniffling as his bristled chin grazes against your temple, “we can be here all day, honey.” drenched in a thick, southern twang, rick’s voice seems to always emit past his soft, pink lips through a drone. you loathe that even during a moment like this, it renders your body almost entirely still.

“rick, please.”

a long, slow suck to his teeth. “not lettin’ you go another day without knowin’ how t’protect yourself.” another shot. with his expertise, it lands about an inch above the center of the X. the recoil of the gun expelling the bullet from the barrel has no effect on him yet it forces your shoulders to jerk back into his chest. “. . . look who we have here.”

emerging from between a few trees is a walker — a male. he drags a twisted leg behind himself as though it weren’t a limb but a heavy piece of luggage. decayed guts and blackened blood drools from his unhinged jaw. he weakly groans and does his best to snap his rotted mouth in your direction, bloodshot eyes fixed directly on you enclosed within rick’s arms.

his hands release yours.

“right in the head,” he whispers, his words a ghosted breeze against the shell of your ear. “jus’ like i taught you before, huh?”

“ ‘m scared—“

the walker’s lessening the distance between the three of you. akin to mordant silk, sharp yet irresistibly smooth, rick’s voice drifts within the canals of your ears, “—you either shoot or you die.”

your heart’s pounding. sweat lathers your palms. rick has taken a step back, leaving you completely on your own. it’s not like you haven’t heard it before — the sly complaints of you never going out on runs, how you stupidly clam up each time a walker’s within eye distance of you. rick pities you, maybe you’re starting to even pity yourself. before all this you were mommy’s little girl. father walked out about a year after you were born and from that day forward, it’s always been her, you, and your brother. neither of them allowed you out on your own and since losing them to the dotage of the living dead, you began to find it feasible that both were aware of your more . . . delicate soul and it’s why they kept you screened away within your cottage’s four walls for most of your life.

“shoot it, ( ❤︎ ).”

with a tight squeeze of your eyes and head turn, your index finger constricts the trigger. you hear a final snarl then a culminating thump of a weakened body collapsing onto the marred earth below.

you’re panting, you realize. as though holding a gun and shooting it had taken a lot out of you — it did. with the bared view of a rotten corpse laid out only inches away from your feet, you’re quick to stumble back, and push the gun into rick’s hands, beginning your trek back to the prison.

“wooaah, woah, mm-mm.”

rick’s arm is around your midsection, pulling you back his way. “i wanna leave,” you mewl, feet blindly moving with his as he starts to walk you deeper within the grove of trees. even while upset, your body reacts to him — you let him push you where he wants, pull you back into place, it’s conflicting. “rick, please, c-can, hic, we go? i don’t wanna shoot another one.”

“you don’t have to,” is his gruff response. “not for the rest of the day.”

there’s a cabin you’re all aware of . . . or rather, the couples are. it’s small, more of a trailer than anything but, there’s an old couch, a barren mattress, a dining room table — you and rick have only been inside once before a few weeks ago. a sloppy make out session it was and only that. he made you hike the entire way back towards base with of the seat of your panties soaked entirely through and gluing slick against your pulsing cunt. it had been cruel, a punishment, really.

after a scope around the perimeter and thorough check for walkers, he’s pushing you past the front, screen door and slamming it shut. “c’mere.”

you wear a pair of tattered, denim shorts and a white, lace trimmed top, printed with strawberries all over. he makes you pull the both of them off and your panties, too. those dirtied sneakers are to remain on, rick figures you might as well ( never know when you’re going to need to get the hell out of dodge anyway ), and forces your chest against the sun warmed wood of the dining room table. with you bent over it, he soon kicks your legs further apart ( those old sheriff habits die hard and all ). “did i . .” you’re pouting, he doesn’t need to see it. he hears it loud and clear in your voice while those hips of yours slowly shift from left to right. it’s an absentminded thing you’re doing, clearly, nevertheless you’re still taunting him. “did i do somethin’ wrong, rick?”

jaw shifting, rick’s face is evenly blank as he stares at the smudged, white bow pinned within the tight coils of your hair. “now you know better than that,” he murmurs, letting his fingers dip within the valley of your back. “you know exactly what i told you t’call me when the two of us are in here.”

your hair rises at its peak with each slip of skin the dull edges of his nails drag against. “oh,” you breathe and let your eyes flutter shut. “mm, daddy.”

“that’s right,” he whispers, pushing the both of his hands up your sides. the front of his groin jostles up against your ass, forcing you to feels his gun holster and to shoot up on your toes when he suddenly gives a sharp thrust . . hard enough to make the table’s legs skid against the flooring with a loud clatter. “ ‘s what i am t’you, honey. know i ain’t gon’ ever put you in harm’s way if i knew you couldn’t handle it. now, you trust me, don’t you?”

his hands glide slow . . . up and down the length of your body. the palms of them are calloused from days and weeks and months of necessary duties needed for his survival and it feels good having them pressed against your thighs, squeezing your ass, rubbing your back. “y-yeah,” you’re nodding and pulling one of your thumbs closer to your lips to nibble on the nail. “yes, sir.”

“trust me wit’ your life?”

back down they go. he grabs the fat globes of your ass and with his thumbs, spreads them apart to get a good look at two of the world’s most finest, still living jewels. “t’take care a’you?”

you’re nodding — eyes closed, face stolid aside from the slight crinkle of your eyebrows, showcasing your ever-growing impatience. “ ‘course i do, daddy,” you’re whining and knocking your body closer back into his.

“yeah,” he tuts within a languid breath. you feel the shift in his weight, how he crouches down to get a nice look of your messy cunt. he regards the wispy curls, the ones more gathered around your hole are bonded together with slick and admires the way they slowly separate with the coaxing of his fingers when he pulls your lips away from one another. “trust me to make this pussy feel real good especially, don’t you?”

“unh,” you lift a leg, only to let your foot fall back down for a brattish stomp. “please. . . i do. yes. jus’ please?”

“ ‘m proud a’you.”

the praise is cemented with a slow, tongue curled kiss to your thumping clit. it’s heady and rich — your taste. with one swipe of his tongue, your syrup coats the entire breadth of it and he knows, that only after a few hours will it begin to eventually fade. rick enjoys it, even so. in a world where it’s considerably difficult to keep a picture of a lover in a locket or head to a jeweler to personalize a ring, this will have to do. your arousal coating the cavern of his mouth, buried deep within the ridges on the roof of it and between the porcelain of his teeth — this is what will remind him of you while he’s out on a supply run or when you’re fast asleep in a pen four doors down from his.

from your sweet, little pearl to your hole, rick snakes his tongue . . up and down, never drawing it back inside his mouth unless he feels your clit needing a hard suckle. his furred cheeks scrape against the smooth insides of your thighs. “did exactly what i asked . . . you listened well.”

you gurgle on some drool upon the sensation of his lips pinching your small, swollen clit. he pushes in deep. eats you slow. kisses your pussy as if it were another lover.

you’re whining, voice tiny — always so gentle and tiny when rick pulls his face back. specks of dust are visible within the gilded flares of sunlight pouring through from a nearby window. shards of them hit your skin, kindling the sweet, smooth brown of it almost gold. you’re flipped over then and there — back laid against the table, thick thighs thrown over the hills of rick’s shoulders.

“shh sh, i got you,” he breathlessly grunts within the glossy layers of your cunt. “yeah. i got you, baby.”

you’re so sensitive . . so tender, so frail — in every sense of the words. your tummy shudders each time the knob of his nose knocks against the pearl of your clit. you feel his hands squeezing at the doughy flesh of your thighs and each one is hard. they make you wince prior to your body unwittingly softening once more come him stroking his hands across the new bloomings of mauve and plum decorating your skin right where the pads of his fingers reside. “play with your tits for me,” he kisses the softest parts of your thighs, the insides of them, as his hands gently haul the neckline of your top down. “let me see you squeeze on ‘em, hm.”

your nipples are pinched between the pads of your fingers as you look down at him, watching damp, brown curls fall across his forehead into his eyes.

it’s all purely debauched. your body’s beginning to glisten with a thin coating of sweat, rick’s tongue is stroking, slipping, pushing inside — the table beneath you is sticking to your skin with all the fluids. it grasps onto it each time you move, complying to only slowly letting you go with each arched backed gasp you heave and push of your hips closer into rick’s beautiful mouth.

he isn’t a messy eater — he swallows and kisses and laves his tongue along every inch of your pussy as though he were cleaning you up. it’s you that’s the problem. you’re leaking . . arousal beginning to froth up and thicken into a cream the longer times ticks on by. your legs are flopped and hanging across his back. you can’t help crossing them at the shins, pulling him in as close as possible and locking him there when the both of his hands push yours out of the way to grab hold of the soft, full rounds of your tits himself.

it comes out as something similar to a soft snarl when he murmurs, “got a sweet, lil pussy ‘tween these legs . .” his breaths are thin and spent. “she’s jus’ fuckin’ perfect.”

you’re nodding — you barely heard a word he said, nevertheless, you’re aware that it’s praise. it’s always nothing but filthy, candy coated compliments rick rains down on you when his fingers or tongue is between your legs. “t-th, mmph, thank you, daddy,” you’re whimpering, muscles spasming when he gives a tight, firm squeeze to your breasts. “tongue . . wan’ it ins—ooh—“

he sheathes almost the entirety of his tongue past the hole of your pussy, feeling the folds of them part akin to a budding rose to welcome the treasured intrusion. it’s your cream he tastes. he slurps it up when he retreats his tongue back inside of his mouth to swallow, only to push it back inside of you again. rick’s dick is hard — he doesn’t think he’s been this fucking hard in a long, long time. when he pulls his face back, he removes his hands from your breasts to peel away the lips of your cunt. your clit twitches under his gaze — wet, hard, and thumping.

“mhm . . mhmm.” he’s nodding along to your sobbing and broken cries. they mingle well between the repeated, slick, trebled sounds of his lips pulling the bud between them to massage it with back and forth movements and let it go after a few seconds. he’s quaffing you down — every drip, every trickle, every gush. you feel as though your brain oozes out of your pussy too. you can’t form a single thought, words are completely gone.

it’s spinning — the world around you.

rick knows what’s coming. when your eyes slam shut and fingernails bore within the wood of the table to find a grip on, he’s shooting his hand up and shoving a couple fingers of his past your lips. pretty, high pitched weeps are muffled as your cum leaks across his lips and onto his tongue. “daddy,” the title is quivered past your plump, wobbling lips while your toes coil inside your shoes. lazily, rick’s tongue flows along the length of your pussy, sluicing her free from every drop of your sap until only his saliva is what remains.

“y’did good,” he’s grumbling while peppering tender smooches against the plane of your stomach that continuously caves in and pushes out with each gulp of air you greedily inhale. “you did real good, sweetheart.”

a sheet of warm tears overlay the sockets of your eyes when he reaches your lips. you’re a pretty, little thing — simply nuzzle into his touch when he gently cups the side of your face within the heavy paw of his hand. something glimmers beneath them, epic yet unsaid and gently, rick knocks his nose against yours. he lets the rounded tip of it drift along the round of your cheek, up towards your temple as his eyelids droop closed. the feeling of your body underneath his, arms draped across the back of his neck . . it’s calming. you’re calming. “an angel,” he whispers against your skin. “my angel.”

the skin between his brows force a wrinkle come him making out bits and pieces of conversation that float within the walls of the locker room. “what the fuck are they talking about?”

connie slams his locker closed, “uh, the aerobics instructor. she’s this big, up and coming star or some shit. she’s gettin’ a lot of people back into informercials — real shit.”

after grabbing hold of his water gallon, eren follows suit, and lifts his eyebrows in marvel, “for real?”

connie and him maneuver their way past a few huddles of men towards the exit. “yeah,” he nods. “i watched a few of her tapes already, she’s good — real educated on the body and strength and endurance. that’s why, as your fuckin’ trainer, i’m recommending her to you.”

the studio the two of them enter might as well be the size of a soccer field — not too huge but not at all tiny neither. upon the buffed, cherry wood flooring are groups of people peppered throughout. a few women stretch within the middle of it in their bright, neon spandex and tights, men still chatter to one another about the instructor. eren’s prepared to ask connie what the hell is so special about the girl until . .

“okay, okay! i need everyone in rows of eight. we’re starting, people!”

a set of strong claps are quieting the room and forcing people to move.

“let’s go, go, go!”

a heavy set man stands with his back towards the wall of floor to ceiling mirrors. he’s tall, burly. a tattoo embellishes the corner of his glaring eyes and the smoothness of his bald head glimmers beneath fluorescent lighting. he doesn’t fit in, not one bit. a soft, sing songy utterance of a girl’s voice clashes against the roughness of his.

“thaaank you, barry. i appreciate it.”

eren settles himself beside connie in the third to last row, some where in the middle. and after dropping his gallon of water beside his feet, he lifts up at his hips and comes eye to eye with . . you.

oxygen seems to be replaced with cotton. he releases a slow breath of interest, eyes fixed upon the sight of your pretty face.

you’re smiling at the class, hands clasped, and feet pulled tight together. “hi, everyone!” you’re . . cheery. it’s cute. “welcome to sweet moves with ( ❤︎ ). i’m ( ❤︎ ). i wanna begin with letting everyone know that this is an hour long class, okay?” your head tilts and you kind of give a little pout here. jesus christ. “and though i am expectant of you to try your best for this entire hour, know your limits, please? i don’t want anyone pushing themselves too hard towards the point of exhaustion. i want you to feel good when you leave here. and barry here,” you lean into him and pat at his chest as though the guy doesn’t tower damn near a foot and a half above you. “is just here for my safety. don’t mind him, okay? now, if there aren’t any questions . .” you pause here for a moment and come silence, give another bright smile. “great! let’s go.”

if eren’s honest, he had no expectations of aerobics’ difficulty meter being anywhere close to weight training. nonetheless, come only ten minutes . . “what the fuck?” he’s panting and turning his head to look over at connie while performing an exercise that involves keeping his feet planted shoulder wide, knees bent, and grabbing onto his elbows with giving small twists to the right with his upper body. he feels his hips stretching, the muscles of his thighs tightening.

connie’s laughing underneath the heavy, rhythmic beat of britney spear’s i’m a slave 4 u booming through the ceiling speakers. “nah, see. i told you.”

“now inhale,” you face the mirror, standing in the front of the room in your white, rioback suspended suit, pink tube top, and sheer gray leggings. your glitter dusted shoulders rise with a deep breath taken into your diaphragm and you release it while lifting your arms and then slowly swinging them out into a big circle. “exhaleee. mhmmm. now hands on hips — jumping jacks! one . . two . . three . .”

eren almost thinks you want to kill him. your endurance is scary, your strength is even more fucking impressive. come the floor exercises, you continue counting off while also telling the class, “ ‘m gonna be comin’ around to make sure your form is right, keep going — six . . seven . . eiiight, keep holding!”

a sheet of sweat sticks loose strands of hair against eren’s temples. he can’t believe a girl of your size is capable of maintaining this much power and durability. he feels himself getting a little bit nervous come the sound of your steps slowly creeping closer towards him. “mm, nice form, sir. good job — now on your backs i want knees bent, toes pointed slightly towards one another, arms criss crossed your chest, pubic bone curled in, and lift . . ! one . . two . . three . . ! and down — one . . two . .”

you wear bleach white reeboks with fluffy, pink, scrunched socks. eren only notices because you come to a stop right beside him, they halt near his face.

when he looks up at you, you bend yourself forward and fix him with a pretty, warm smile. you sport tiny, knee length, chocolate and gold colored goddess braids that are all pulled into a high ponytail atop of your head. they swing over your shoulder when you kneel down beside him. scent notes of powdery honeycomb and rose reside on your skin. “curl that pelvis in mister jaeger,” your softly mumble while placing a small, soft hand upon his lower torso. “and make sure you’re breathing.”

so, you know him . . .

eren isn’t sure of the reason why he suddenly feels . . humiliated. when arrives the thought of you possibly being seated at some sleazy bar, dressed all prim and sweet and hanging off of your date’s arm while watching him take three constant blows to the face in a boxing ring and lose two matches in a row on a seventy inch television screen, he can’t help his hands from curling into fists of steel hard shame. you don’t shy away from eye contact with him. the long, wispy lashes that border them flutter as you give him a small beam of appreciation prior to standing and moving on to the next person.

as you walk, his eyes fall to your hips as they sway . . how the globes of your ass sit up nice and full in those leggings . .

forcing his eyes up toward the ceiling, eren takes a deeper breath than before and slowly releases the tension tautening the muscles of his body.

“eek, yay!” you give a small squeal and clap your hands when the hour of hell is complete. eren can’t bother lifting himself from his position leaned against the back wall as the room erupts into applause. giggling while also giving a small jump on your toes, you yip out a small, “thank you guys for your sweet moves! i hope you enjoyed your time with me, i have to say this class has been my favorite out of this entire week. please be sure to hydrate and take it easy, okay? get home safe.”

he drags himself behind connie towards the locker room, still panting. sweat drips from his chin — it sticks against the skin of his back, trickles down the crease of his pits and makes the one behind his knees slick. “i can’t get in the car like this, fuck that. i’ll catch you later, C.” slapping hands with connie for a goodbye, eren soon pulls the travel sized bottle of body wash from the inside of his duffel bag, along with a towel.

“another class next week?”

eren scoffs a small chuckle of disbelief hearing connie’s loud, obnoxious laughter as he walks away. “man, fuck you.”

he takes his time in the showers — scrubs himself nice and well, rinses off the sweat that stuck to his skin, texture of it akin to mucky grime. by the time he gets out, the entire locker room is empty. how silent it is almost leads him to believe the studio has probably been locked with him still in it, albeit, after getting dressed in a pair of sweats, hoodie, and jordan ones, eren’s making his way towards the exit while passing by the glass door of the aerobics room.

he sees a figure.

curious instincts force him to pause and take a step back, squinting his eyes to get a closer look. it’s you again. the lights of the studio are dimmer now, yet you sit there on the floor, bathed within a darkened glow with your legs outstretched, pressed tightly together, hands holding onto the arches of your now bare feet, and bent with your chest touching your knees.

eren licks his lips and come enough motivation from himself, pushes open the door. “. . uh . . you good?”

your head snaps up.

his arm hold it wide open and for a moment, you simply stare. he thinks you’re trying to recognize him again. “mister . . jaeger . .” your lips lift into a smile. “come in.”

eren hesitates — looks out into the empty halls, back at you . . . your grin is similar to a magnet. it pulls him into the studio and the glass door softly shuts behind him. “you hang behind to work on new content?”

you keep your position, still bent, still holding onto your feet while giving a small shrug, “something like that. i like to sit here and jus’ stretch for a while, too.”

gripping at the strap of his duffel at his shoulder, he tongues the inside of his cheek and gives a slow nod, “i feel it,” he softly says. “no music . . lights dim. this is calming.”

“yeah. you get it.”

you slowly roll yourself upright and soon give a small, happy, relieved exhale, “so,” your head tilts. “what’s a big, hot shot boxer doin’ in my little aerobics class, sir?”

eren closes his eyes while a chuckle, hearing your responding melodic giggling echo off of the walls around you both as he bends his head to scratch at a brow, “uh, jus’ . . needed a new form of exercise. my trainer recommended this.”

“the guy you were with?”

“mhm.”

“ohh,” leisurely, you pull yourself up to stand. you do it in an odd way — without using your hands. “so, how’d you like it?”

“uhm,” he licks his lips and avert his eyes from yours. “it was nice — it was . . n’t what i expected? this shit is . . .”

you’re walking on over to him, slow and careful, “a lot?”

“yeah, i didn’t know it’d be so . . excruciating.”

“excruciating?” you’re laughing again and stopping yourself about two feet away from him. “i wasn’t trying to kill you, mister jaeger.”

he’s smirking and shaking his head, “eren.”

there’s a certain aura you now exude. while instructing the class, eren had found you cute . . cheery, bubbly, almost precious, even. however, while still all those things, finding himself alone with you and being the lone receiver of your steady, unwavering eye contact, eren now begins to think that you’re almost . . cheeky, too. “it’s no shock for me to know that someone like you—“

“—someone like me—“

“—a man . . didn’t have too many expectations for a class like this,” you’re stepping closer, bringing with you that airy, sweet scent of your perfume. eren’s chin has to lower with your height come you stopping directly in front of him. you flutter your lashes, sweet and docile, before lifting a manicured finger and pressing it against his abdomen. it wavers suddenly with the deeper intake of a breath he takes. “you didn’t think something like this could’ve taught you strength,” you drag your finger with you as you slowly circle around him. “persistence. baaaalance . . flexibility.”

you’re in front of him again, pretty face smoothened over into an expression of almost faux innocence. “you feel a little silly now, eren. don’t you?”

his heart thuds firmly in his chest. it echos in his ears. “i feel like you went a lil easy on me, honestly,” he mumbles, eyes falling to the polished pillows of your lips before he’s casually lifting them towards your own once more. “you don’t think i can take it.”

you’re humming, “i don’t think you can. you’re right about that.”

“teach me. i’ll show you.”

“mmm.”

“what?” he’s dropping his duffel bag to the floor with a solid thump and lifting thick eyebrows above half lidded eyes. “you scared?”

you take a step back and chirp a confident, little, “no sir.”

“alright,” eren nods and walks over to where you’d been stretching when he initially entered the studio. “so, c’mon, ( ❤︎ ). let’s go.”

he likes a challenge. he lives for them. and you’re a tease. you stand there for a moment — thinking, waiting until you huff a quiet, “fine.” eren would have thought that you’d get the music started again, fire him through a whole new, hour long routine, however, you don’t. it’s a surprise when you tell him you actually want him to simply stretch with you. you take him through all sorts of them — bridge poses, planks, squats, and deep lunges.

“that’s your main problem,” you’re grabbing onto his arm and forcing him into a reclining twist as he lays on his side. he can’t help wincing, muscles aching and tender even so from the class. “you’re not flexible. as a fighter, your body needs to be able to move through wide ranges of motion. by round six, you’re always stiffening up. this impacts your endurance, too.”

while you’re pressing your hands down on his bicep, forcing him to hold the pose for a while, eren can’t help from pinpointing a few key words, “. . you watch my matches?”

for the first time, you seem to grow a little shy — eyes shoot from his, your voice softens even more, “everybody does.”

eren can’t help a slow, wide smile from creeping across his lips. “mm,” he hums gently. “pretty thing like you . . you’re not scared of the blood? the violence?”

“you’re kind of annoying in person, huh?”

you let him go, causing him to laugh. “ ‘m jus’ askin’, mama. i have to.”

“mm.”

interested, eren watches you pull your knees together after folding them underneath you. your body stretches forward while your plump butt comes to a sit at the back of your ankles. he listens to you breathe. “this is called the child’s pose,” you delicately inform. “it decreases pain. prevents injuries.”

it’s eren’s turn to softly hum. he’s focusing, definitely — he can tell you know your shit. you’re smart, you have a lot of tips . . given so, he can’t help dividing his attention between your advice and the line of your body. you move with grace and with enough fluidity to rival water. you’re attractive, sure, however . . he’s finding that the way you move, how you talk, how you look at him, that’s what piques his interest even more.

“can i ask you somethin’?”

not moving from your position, you turn your head to give him your attention, “mhm.”

eren’s . . yummy.

you don’t think there’s another word to describe the man that lays in an eagle sprawl beside you. his skin is warm and tan, body threatens the very own of discobolus’ — is probably carved of bronze too and decorated with jagged bolts of dark ink. you like his smile. it’s bright and white, his canines are long and a bit pointier than the rest. makes him appear all the more dangerous. he licks his lips. you stare quietly.

“. . can i like,” he lifts up on an elbow and looks at your form again. “. . i don’t wanna scare you or nothin’. i’ll leave if you want me to, but uhm, can i . . touch you?”

your eyebrows lift. you’re smiling nonetheless. “can you touch me?”

he soon melts back onto the floor with a shameful groan and shakes his head, “i’m sorry, i’m sorry. forget it—“

“—if you think it’ll help your poor form,” giggling, you kind of wiggle where you still pose. “sure. i don’t mind.”

he remains where he is for a moment, not even looking at you, but at the floor underneath you both. hesitation radiates off of his body in waves, however, soon . . he’s pushing in a little closer, lifting on his arm, and a finger of his touches your back.

because you’re still in your skimpy, little backless suspenders, tube top, leggings, and socks, most of the skin of your back is shown off on display. when his finger dips within that deep line in the middle of it, when he feels the muscle that resides underneath such smooth plushness, eren also feels how dry his mouth gets. “niiice,” he whispers, trailing it up towards your shoulder. “. . you’re fuckin’ strong.”

you purr underneath his touch — shifting, moving, slowly until you’re curling your back up into a cat pose. eren’s eyes watch how you elegantly lower it back down until a curve resides within it. a deep fucking curve. you arch, arms outstretched, chest against the floor, ass perked up in the air. he inhales a deep breath through his nose. you’re smiling at him. he can’t see it because you have your mouth hidden behind your bicep, but your eyes glimmer with delight. you know you’re irresistible, you know that he likes what he sees. “you’re a tease,” eren’s shaking his head, face devoid of emotion.

you shake yours too, “am not.”

“where’s your dude at?” turning his head over his shoulder, eren looks out towards the door for the man you labeled as ‘your protection.’

“barry’s gone,” you softly say. “he’s not my dude, either. i don’t have one.”

something hides beneath your words. something thick and needy. when eren looks back at you, he can tell you’re not smiling anymore. your eyes are wide and round, eyebrows pushed in just a smidge. it’s a face that reads a lot — particularly, come on.

his hand finds your back again. he splays the entire span of it upon your arch, silently showcasing you just how big he really is. “. . you do this with all your students?” he asks, slowly pushing his hand up towards your hips. “stretch with ‘em? give ‘em blue balls?”

“only the ones i think are special.”

“special, hm?”

he takes hold of a fat, fleshy ass cheek — grips it tight and firm. and while breathing out a quiet, “damn,” as he does, you close your eyes and press back against his electrifying touch. it’s a shock when he suddenly smacks it, forcing a squeak past your lips. “pretty as fuck.”

“i wanna,” you swallow and blink up at him. “i wanna show you another pose.”

you straighten yourself back out, roll over onto your back, and pull your knees up towards your chest with the soles of your feet facing the ceiling. “ ‘s called the happy baby.” eren releases a slow breath, following you until he kneels before you, eyes drinking in the picture you grant him. “you like it?”

you wear your leggings underneath your bodysuit. and regardless of the layers, your pussy is fat . . and she puffs up between your thighs, fighting almost to swallow up the fabric that covers her. “mhm,” eren reveres in your tits, your face, the fluffy leg warmers that cover half of your pretty feet which he grabs a hold onto. “yeah, i like it.”

meticulously, he straightens your legs out . . then keenly spreads them far apart.

when they simply bend back, no resistance, not a wince, a cry, or sliver of pain emitted from you or your sweetly pleased face, a warm shiver scours the length of eren’s spine. “oh, you’re dangerous,” he chuckles, leaning in closer towards you. you give a goofy, little snicker and point your toes. “i can’t stick around too much longer without wantin’ to do somethin’ to you. i gotta be honest.”

“mm,” you pull him in closer by his hoodie, forcing his crotch against what lays between your thighs. “you can’t fuck me,” you whisper when the rounded peak of his pierced nose is skimming lightly against yours. you both play cat and mouse — lips only brushing against one another’s for a coy second before one of you is pulling away. “i don’t fuck strangers, eren.”

he hums his agreements, “yeah,” his voice rasps out. “i don’t either . . . you’re pretty as fuck though,” his hands slide from your ankles and carefully up the sides of your body. you quiver underneath his touch. “you makin’ this hard for me.”

“oh, i know, papa,” you coo softly and cup the underneath of his chin to finally give a tantalizing peck to his lips. they separate a second later with a loud clicking sound. “i can’t help it.”

eren groans.

the vexation of his lust is rising . . and his self control is slipping. he’s never met someone so tempting, so mischievous, so easily ravishing.

you feel his frustration when he kisses you again — it’s hard, deep. you split open the cushions of your lips to invite his tongue into your mouth for a heated war of push and pull with your own and as you both pant and grip and squeeze, eren’s hips begin to innately rock, pushing the hardened shaft of his dick up against your fat, little pussy. a small noise of bliss falls from your lips and into his mouth, drawing the both of your attention to the action. “no, keep going,” you whisper when he gathers himself to pause. “y’feel . . s-so big.”

“my god,” his hips begin to move with more surety — grinding up against yours, sending your body smoothly jolting up and down upon the floor. “y-you sure you don’t got a man . . ? i don’t believe you, mama.”

your eyes are rolling into your skull. you keep your legs stretched and back by holding onto the backs of your knees. “n-no, eren, oh my god,” you exhale a breathy laugh. “do you have somebody at home?”

“nah,” he’s shaking his head and lowering his head down to kiss you again. “could use somebody like you there though.”

you’re uncontrollably giggling beneath your cute, sighing moans. “you’re s-so . . dumb.”

eren’s trying to somehow work his dick between the folds of your lips through five barriers of clothing. nothing is enough. “take them off,” you’re a bit irked too. you push at his sweats and he hooks his thumb underneath the band of his briefs, pulling them down to let his dick bounce out over the elastic. “oh, god.” one look at him — thick, long, achingly hard and you throw an arm over your eyes. “. . i think you’re dangerous, too.” how can you not want it inside?

eren laughs against the curve of your neck, pushing his dick beneath the stretchy material of your suspenders. “nah, nah,” he mumbles. “we’ll jus’ . . k-keep it like this, hm?” he’s resumed pushing and pulling his hips — working his dick up right against the outline of your pussy through now, only your leggings and panties. “feels good?”

you slowly nod with a dreamy sigh exhaled. it does. much better.

his forehead is pressed against yours. he smells of bergamot and grapefruit — strong yet fresh. “mmm.” what were first slow, careful pushes and pleasing circles of his hips gain ground into firm thrusts. your back arches upwards, toes curl. his fat, mushroomy tip knocks incessantly up against your chubby, hard clit. from the hole dribbles out thin, short webs of precum, stickying the fabric of your tights up against you. “oh, f-fuck, eren,” you whine for him and fist your hands within his hoodie at his shoulders. “u-unh . . y-yes.”

eren has his hands planted flat on the floor beside your own. he keeps your legs pinned back with his arms. “shit, i k-know your pussy feels so fuckin’ good,” he whimpers, hearing soft pulsing sounds of the meat of it, rubbing around the flow of slick that sits in your panties. “you gonna let me feel it one day?”

the faces you make belong in the louvre. you bite upon your bottom lip, fighting to keep quiet, to not be so loud as eren fucks you over your clothes against the floor like a fucking animal. you try to speak, “n-ngh, i . . hmmm . . o-oh—“ you can only settle on nodding. you nod until your head feels like it’s going to fall off of the column of your neck.

“bend you up jus’ like this . .” to showcase what he means, he forces your legs up higher, keeping them stretched until your toes touch the floor above your head. “make you take this shit. you gonna run from it?”

“n-no.”

the friction feels so good. his balls slap against your ass with thick clopping sounds. he’s smiling, canines glinting underneath dim, warm lighting. “you swear? . . g-girls like you — . . f-fuckin princesses,” he spats quietly. “can never t-take my dick how i need ‘em to . . too pretty, too prissy.”

you’d never run. you’d make it a goal to take all eight inches deep inside — your pussy, your throat, your plush, little ass. “fuck, i wanna feel it,” you’re slurring and holding onto his hips for some stability. “pl . . please, eren. put it in.” you’re delirious. and eren knows. as good as it feels to hear you begging for him to pound your cunt sore, he’s aware that you’ll both regret it if he goes through with your pleads. “next time,” he tells you with a kiss. “ ‘ll give it . . to you, baby. f-for as long as you need it.”

slick oozes from your pussy into the cleave of your ass. it’s all so wet, so lewd. your brain feels heavy, tongue too thick for your mouth, you need eren to keep going, to keep rubbing the underside of his thick, stout cock against your filthy cunt because, “f-fuck ‘m gonna cum,” your eyes clamp closed and you force yourself to breathe. “. . . erenimgonnacum.”

eren maintains his momentum. he keeps it hard and steady until he feels your body tightening. you’re like a slingshot. the longer your muscles take to tauten up, the wider eren smiles. “ooh, it’s gonna be a big one . . lemme feel it,” he utters. “lemme feel that pussy push that nut out.”

you cum with a surprisingly tiny whimper. your toes crumple into your feet but your hold on him is one of steel. eren groans — he feels how much more damp the crotch of your leggings become. he hears your cum trickle out from around the fabric of them to the floor. “shit,” he’s falling back, bringing you out of that previous plow pose to get you back flat and with a rough, heavy hand, he pulls at his dick four, five, six times until sludgy ropes of cream shoot out onto your pussy. “a-aweee fuck.”

breathing in deep, you tilt your head, watching him squeeze it out slow. “gosh,” you shakily sigh and can’t help rubbing a finger through the mess. it’s warm, a frosted ivory with an almost slimy consistency. “. . your d-diet looks good.”

there’s a moment of sweet silence. eren looks at you and you look at him.

“. . . literally what the fuck, ( ❤︎ ).” a large, belly aching laugh soon bursts from the depths of his stomach and you giggle, allowing his body to collapse atop of yours.

you’re still in your pajamas, a sheer, midnight blue, thin strapped nightgown that armin remembers you lucking up on in some thrift shop of an old, rundown town he stopped at on day three or four of the road trip. your bonnet is on, too — pink and silk, knotted tight to keep even a singular curl from escaping it. you look pretty . . too fucking pretty.

he swallows the sip of coffee he acquired from his mug and lets his arm fall to hold it at his mid torso . . still quietly watching, gazing, admiring. you soon fall back on your haunches and heave a little sigh of disappointment . . .

“what’s the problem.”

armin never really asks you questions. he’s demanding an answer.

you turn your head over your shoulder, darling pout pushing out your lips. “don’t have any builder gel for my nails,” you quietly reply. “. . and ‘m out of acetone, too.”

he begins a slow trek on over to you. your lover wears only a pair of cotton, low hanging pajama pants — not a shirt, socks, or even briefs in sight. you try not to stare too much at the obvious bulge of his dick pushing up against the material. it lightly tosses from side to side with each steps he takes and only surprises you with the reminder that somehow and in some way, your cunt can swallow each and every inch. swallowing, you blink your eyes up at him when he comes to a halt directly in front of you.

“that stuff . .” he scratches at his light five o clock shadow. “that’s for your nails?”

“mhm,” you nod and slowly turn your body to face him. “daddy, can we please go into town today?”

he inhales a deeper breath than his last — you’re already prepared to hear him satiate your request with a simple ‘maybe tomorrow,’ something he’s been doing for eight days now. before he does, you’re whining and plopping your chin on his thigh, “been three days since ‘ve ran out of blush, too. this isn’t fair. i’m dying.”

“oh, you’re dying, huh?” armin takes another sip of his coffee and leans his weight back to fall into the seat of his recliner, outstretching his legs with a relieved sigh. you follow him — on hands and knees, you crawl until you’re seated on your plush butt between his legs . . still pouting, still giving him those fucking eyes. armin’s somewhat immune to them, key word . . somewhat. a ghost of a smirk dances across his lips as he tips his mug towards his lips again and with it echoed softly within the ceramic, eyes locked on yours, his smooth, rasped voice says, “. . you know how i feel about you goin’ into that town, kid.”

armin doesn’t like the looks you’re prone to receiving.

since moving into the tiny town of avalon hollows two months ago, you’ve only stepped foot within the main plaza six times — all with armin. the two of you found yourselves in a fairly big, two story home made of lumber and stone on the marshes. it’d been a house that was left to armin’s mother through the will of his grandparents . . for twenty two years it’s been abandoned and upon wading through the marshes on a dinghy, come first sight of it . . you’ll be honest, it scared you. moss and overgrown vines covered almost the entirety of its exterior. it’d became a gathering for opossums, raccoons, and insects you couldn’t even begin to recognize.

because of his experience of wood work and electrical prowess within the prison, armin’s been working on restoring the home, bit by bit. you think he’s been doing a good job — he got the wooden floors and stairs reconstructed within the first two weeks, dry wall’s been patched up, and the piping is no longer growling come the flush of a toilet. it’s got good bones, that’s what he told you. it doesn’t really take much getting it back to new. he’s now focused more on the overgrown weeds and moss outside, however, it’s only so much he can do within a day now that he has a job within town that takes up nine to twelve hours of such, six days a week.

most of your days are quiet.

armin gets up at five am, has an hour work out that he performs outside, he showers, wakes you up to let you know that he’s leaving, and goes to work.

since being with him, you can surely say that you have discovered some changes about yourself — changes you aren’t sure you like, however, are aware you can’t really fix. you say this because, there’d been a time where you’d go days at a time without speaking to anyone . . . and though you may have never liked it, you were somewhat . . used to being alone.

now, nearly every morning before he leaves, armin’s gathering you up into his arms and shushing your cries as you sob for him not to go, to stay, just a bit longer.

it’d been bad those first few weeks. the amount of times he had to talk you through a panic attack became extreme. nonetheless, now, you’re a bit better. you hold your tears in until he leaves and you’re able to fall back asleep while holding onto his pillow. you’re his good girl.

most times, on his lunch, he stops by for his missed breakfast and fucks you on the creaky, dining room table . . a little something to put you down for a long nap so that by the time you wake up, it’s time to shower then prepare supper. it’s a nice routine — something that you’ve dreamed about since turning sixteen and finding yourself attracted to your first crush those couple years ago. you’re built for this life . . . the stay at home and pampered life. you’re armin’s girl, he makes sure the fact is battered into your skull. you’re his kid, his baby. you fall into those roles easily.

“please?” you’re whimpering and tucking the side of your face upon his thigh. oh, you’re good. “please poppa. pretty please.”

armin simply stares at you for a while, still sipping his coffee. his eyes are sharp and blue. instincts make you want to shrink away, albeit, you fight them.

“i’ll think about it—“

you whine.

he leans forward and squeezes your cheeks with a firm hand, quieting them immediately. “aye,” his eyebrows lift. it’s a silent expression — one telling you to watch what you say, watch what you do. “later, alright? i’m not fuckin’ fightin’ you on this.”

upon him letting go, he stands and head back towards the kitchen. with an agitated huff, you turn back forward to your chest. armin knows that you’re upset, but you’ll live. avalon hollows is a four hundred persons populated town, everyone knows everyone. and out of those four hundred people, he’s estimated that near almost three hundred are men — men between the ages of twenty and sixty years old, men who are mostly all ex convicts . . who’s done worse than just rob or a meager arson charge.

armin fits in here, you . . do not.

he’ll be damned if something happens to you. only the divine knows what he’d do if another even looks at you for too fucking long. prison sucks, and more over, being on the road for weeks at a time is tiring. he doesn’t want to have to kill anyone, therefore, it’s in everyone’s best interest that you stick close to his side.

when he crouches down next to you after exiting the kitchen, you refuse to look at him. you remain shuffling through the trunk, grabbing a few things to do your hair for the day. “i’ll take you later, alright?” silence. armin tongues the inside of his cheek. “ ‘m goin’ to go lie down for a bit. wake me if you need somethin’.”

“. . . okay.”

he departs upstairs after kissing your temple. you grab your table top mirror to place on the floor in front of you and begin slipping off your bonnet. it’s not fair. you try to swallow the pain of your frustration down back into your throat, however, the tears soon come. you sniffle and wipe your cheeks clean in an attempt to shake the feeling off. on his day off, armin always takes a nap that lasts about two hours. town is only a ten minute journey up the swamp. making it back here just in time before he wakes up won’t be too much of a hassle.

quickly, you curl define your fro and embellish the pretty features of your face with some make up. after getting dressed inside of the bathroom and sliding the strap of your tiny shoulder bag up your arm, you hesitate where you stand in the middle of you and armin’s bedroom. he sleeps upon his stomach, strong arms hooked underneath the pillow his head lays upon. the keys to the dinghy sit on top of the buffed, wooden nightstand on his side of the bed.

you walk slowly over to it — avoiding a loose floorboard and holding your breath. he’s a quiet sleeper . . no snores, no heavy breathing, barely even a sniffle. you blame it on his time in prison that makes this situation all the more difficult. it’s a slow process . . slowest one of your life. you frequently have to pause and wait, pause and wait.

by the time you make it outside, you realize you only have about an hour to get to town, buy your items, and get back home.

“always later, later, later,” you’re grumbling to yourself while sauntering across the timbered dock for the dinghy that’s tied at the end of it. bending down to undo the knot, you soon carefully climb in and take a seat. “i’ll just be a half hour.”

the jingle of a bell announces your arrival when you step your first foot inside of mel’s drug store. you’re humming gently to yourself while grabbing a hand basket and immediately heading for the beauty and cosmetics aisle. you find that there aren’t too many people out and about today. you’re kind of thankful for that — no waiting in line, the quicker you’ll be back home.

withal, you take your time while picking through which blush tone you want — specifically fighting between one shade labeled ‘ coral bliss ‘ and another, ‘ ume suede. ‘ there’s a far ache inside of you that wants armin to be here . . he would have helped you choose. you enjoy dolling yourself up for him, especially with cosmetics he likes. eventually, with a little sigh, you drop both inside your basket, joining them with the bottle of acetone and builder gel already laying inside.

you’re prepared to take your leave for the counter, but . . . “oh gosh,” you gasp, eyes widened at the sight of a heart shaped tube. “a shimmery lip oil.” it’d came in what you felt looked like a million shades. you feel as though a literal make up induced cyclone swoops you in and refuses to let go — you’re caught in a whirlwind of new palettes, lengthening mascaras, and dark lip liners and by the time you pull yourself out from the mesmerism of it all, fifteen minutes round up swirled down the drain. “dang it!”

paying for your items is quick. you say a swift goodbye to the clerk and speed walk down the cemented avenue back towards the dock from which where you came. there’s a sigh of relief you emit come dropping your shopping bag inside by your feet and taking a seat. you’re still making somewhat good timing.

come twisting the key however . .

you all but jolt when a rattling clinging noise spurts from the engine. when you twist it again, the sound only gets louder. “no, no, no, no,” you’re whimpering and patting firmly at the motor. panic overcomes your chest . . this hasn’t happened before. “please, no—“

“—hey, pretty lady.”

you look up to meet the eyes of a fair skinned man who stands upon the dock above you. his face is recognizable, you think he works at the hardware shop — you’ve accompanied armin on a few trips to it by now.

“h-hi,” your counter is soft. “uhm . .”

he gives a slight smirk, “damian.”

you nod. “yeah. damian . . hello.”

he slowly bends into a crouch, letting the greens of his eyes travel the full length of your boat. “mm. havin’ some motor trouble?”

looking down at it, you suddenly feel like crying. time is ticking, you know armin’s going to be upset with you, but more important, you broke the boat. when damian hears a quiet sniffle, his eyebrows can’t help folding in. “hey, hey. what’s wit’ all the tears? i can get you back home.”

your eyes — big and wet, they’re shimmering with newfound hope when you look up at him once more, “r-really?”

“yes, lil’ miss. jus’ need t’tie your dinghy to mine and we’ll be smooth sailin’.”

“oh gosh,” you dab at your cheeks with gentle, little fingers and give a slight smile. “thank you, sir.”

damian can’t help his eyes from lingering on the skin of your thighs come you standing so that he can help you back onto the dock. just a pretty fucking thing you are. you should know a lot of these men around here haven’t felt the touch of a woman in years, some of them decades. his thumb strokes over the smooth hills of your knuckles when he finds your hand in his. just who told you to come outside in a jean skirt this fucking small?

“y’r name’s ( ❤︎ ) right?”

while wading through the calm waters of the marsh, you can’t help noticing how close damian sits beside you. it’s a bit stifling, given the amount of space his seat offers. “uhm, yeah.”

“hm.”

out of the corner of his eye, he peeks at the white polish swiped along the tips of your pretty toes, how your plump tits rise and fall slowly with each breath you take . . . lord almighty. he thinks he feels his self control slipping through the wedges of his fingers, bit by bit. “so,” clearing his throat, he points the tiller when you give him the direction of ‘ a left right here, please. ‘ “where’d you and him come from, anyway? . . can hear a lil bit of an accent on ‘im? baltimore, is it?”

tugging your bottom lip underneath your teeth, you decide to keep silent. armin would tell you it isn’t any of his fucking business. damian soon chuckles, “ah, serves me right. my bad. don’t mean to pry.”

come the sight of your home, you all but cry out of relief . . . and trepidation.

because there you see him, casually seated on a box cooler near the edge of the dock, cigarette held between his lips. you want to whimper . . want to cry and sob and whine about how this isn’t your fault. you didn’t mean to let time fly by as fast as it did and especially didn’t mean to hitch a ride with a man neither of you know, howbeit, come him quietly helping you onto the dock, barely sparing you a glance, you find that his focus is more locked on damian.

the guy clears his throat and stands in his boat which leaves armin looking down at him, eyes stoic as he takes a long drag from his cig.

“here you go, man.” he ties your boat on the hook given and offers a small smile. “looked like she was havin’ a little bit of trouble by the town dock. decided to give her a ride, hope that’s alright.”

armin lets a short silence lug on . .

“ ‘preciate it,” he soon utters.

you feel as though you’re suffocating. with a swallow, you turn on the heels of your wedged flip flops and begin the trek towards the house.

whee - whoo ♪.

a curt whistle stops you from taking another step.

turning back forward, you meet eyes with armin who gives a blasè motion towards damian, “you tell him thank you?” before taking another inhale of his cigarette. his eyes are squinted while he does, you can’t read him . . nonetheless, there’s a thick, almost mucky air of strong vexation that obscures his veil of calm and disinterest.

“th . . thank you, sir.”

you don’t wait for damian’s reply. how fast you make it inside the house beats your record timing, you’re sure. peeking past the curtains of the kitchen window after dropping your shopping bag on a counter, you watch armin say something. and though his face doesn’t change, damian’s does. you think the guy goes three shades paler than he already is. with a final nod, he ends up soon returning back down towards the marsh.

armin stands at the end of the pier and watches until him and his boat are nothing but a speck in the horizon.

you don’t want to watch him come in — you stand quietly within the kitchen while nibbling on your thumb nail. there’s fear you feel, that’s obvious, but underneath it, you’re a bit . . curious.

the screen door shuts.

“( ❤︎ ).”

armin stands there beside the coat rack, listening to the slow, heavy steps of your flip flops until you slowly peer from around the threshold of the kitchen. he doesn’t say anything, not until you fully reveal yourself . . standing before him, hands interlocked behind your back, eyes fighting between looking into his, a window, the antique grandfather clock in the living room, or the floor.

one look at your outfit — your tiny, fucking outfit and he’s closing his eyes with a slow sigh.

his hands move.

you don’t know how long he’s been up from his nap but it’s had to be a while because he’s no longer in his pajamas, but a white a - shirt, jeans, and boots. his fingers pluck at the metal buckle of his belt. your spine straightens.

“come here,” he walks on over to the couch and motions at the arm of it with his chin. “bend over.”

“w-what—“

“—i’m not fuckin’ repeatin’ myself.”

oh . . .

the tears.

they’re already dripping towards your wobbling lips when his belt is snatched from the loops of his jeans. there’s so many things you did wrong. so many fucking things, armin doesn’t even know where to start. your steps towards the couch are slow . . and he’s impatient. when you’re within arm distance, he’s grabbing you by the back of your neck and forcing your face down into the cushion, leaving the lower half of your body propped up atop of the arm. you squeak at the sudden manhandling and wriggle underneath his clutch.

this has been a long time coming. you’ve been getting out of hand lately — walking this narrow line between good and bad. he needs to straighten you back out. if anything, armin kind of blames himself. how are you supposed to know the difference between the two without a bit of discipline?

the first swat of firm leather against the unclothed skin of your ass burns like fucking fire. you squeal and instinctively, reach your hands back in efforts to stop another one from coming, but the hand he has on your neck soon leaves so that he can instead grab both your wrists and hold them at the middle of your spine.

he’s ruthless, uncaring for a rhythm or pattern. it’s smack after smack after smack. you wail as though an impaled knife is being twisted within your guts.

“i don’t . . fucking care,” he mutters, watching the supple flesh of your ass bounce with each impact from the leather. the brown of your skin blooms with tender flames of ruby. “yeahhh. keep whinin, keep movin. give me a reason to get rough, eh?”

you flail and you kick and you cry, but that’s okay. armin can take it. your height and weight is nothing compared to his — it’s a battle of a fucking kitten and bull.

you don’t know how long this carries on. it’s long enough that by the time he’s done and his belt falls to the matted floor with a dull thud, thick mucus now dribbles from your nose to your lips, your throat feels hoarse, and you can’t see past your hand because of how much your eyes water.

armin positions himself behind you. the rough denim of his jeans against your now scalding, welted ass makes you give another broken sob as you try to pull forward and get some space between the both of them. abruptly, as you squirm, he lifts you up by the front of your neck. you gasp in some air when it’s offered to you and let yourself look up at him when he bends you back for enough to make your forehead touch his torso. his face is emotionless.

“i told you i’d take you later, did i not?”

he’s upset with you. the feeling of his disappointment only makes you weep harder but armin doesn’t want to hear that. he squeezes at your throat, demanding your attention and your cries to settle.

“did i . . fucking . . not.”

you nod, “y-you did, daddy, ‘m s, hic, sorry.”

his vacant hand is reaching underneath your little skirt to snatch down the thong you wear. he doesn’t bother getting them all the way off, ringed around your knees will do. “why’d you do that, huh?” his eyes lock you in as one, long finger sinks within the warm walls of your pussy among no prior notice. “why’d you fucking do that?”

walking from room to room only to find you missing unlatched something dark within armin’s brain. he’d thought you left — decided this life wasn’t for you and made the call to hit the bricks. hey, it would have hurt. definitely. however, all of your clothes, shoes, trinkets, even that fucking miffy stuffie you can barely go anywhere without remained, so he crossed that out of the picture.

what you’d actually done was a bit of a relief, nevertheless, you still disregarded his words. and that’s not good. not at all.

to make matters for yourself even fucking worse — seeing you in a boat with some fucker he barely even knew. you were wading in uncharted waters . . a territory that you’ve never even seen. armin’s never had to get this mean on you, until now. he doesn’t feel bad, though. not one bit. you did this to yourself. maybe next time you’ll actually fucking think before acting.

you give these broken, little moans between your sniffles as he pounds three of his fingers inside the messy hole of your cunt. he still keeps you bent backward — drags his hand up from your throat to your chin though in efforts to rub his thumb in the sloppy fluids of snot and tears that drips across your lips. “fuckin’ filthy,” he mumbles, shoving the digit between your lips to caress your writhing tongue. “been gettin’ real sick of these attitudes, kid.”

you start to babble your apologies around his finger, however, armin doesn’t want to hear it. he clamps his hand over your mouth . . . forcing the both of you to listen.

squrlch, squrlch, squrlch.

warm, sticky juices ooze from your pussy, down his hand, your own thighs, and onto the floor.

“hear that?” armin’s voice is quiet. he watches how you fight with keeping your eyes open from the sensation of how good it feels. “that’s what obedience sounds like. that’s how it sounds to be a good, little bitch.”

his touch is suddenly gone.

it’s akin to snatching a lolly from the grip of a child. you’re crying again, albeit quieter, feeling yourself get pulled back and soon forced to the floor. your back ends up against a wall and you sit upon your butt, eye level with armin’s crotch. you’re to only watch him snatch down the zipper of his fly and pull his briefs below just underneath his sagging balls to let the heavy shaft of his cock fall out. “open up that fucking mouth,” he mumbles, grabbing both your arms, lifting them high above your head and pinning them against the wall by your wrists with the both of his hands.

with his hips, he directs the tip of his dick towards the opened cavern of your mouth.

there’s no warning. he forces it past the ring of your throat with a long groan, watching your eyes squint closed and water as you cough around it. naturally, you try to pull your head away, albeit, thanks to the wall behind it, you’re forced to take every long, thick inch.

pulling out after a couple of deep thrusts, armin watches a stretched, foamy web of saliva quickly follow his exit to dangle from the tip of your extended tongue as your pant and sniffle. “ ‘m sor — umph—“

armin bullies his cock back in. your fingers tighten into little fists of steel as you take each and every slug. it’s so much. it’s too much. armin’s grunting face above you is obscured into only a wavy, unrecognizable figure as precious gems of tears trickle from the corner of your eyes.

“the fuck are you wearing too, huh?”

come him letting his dick fall from your mouth once more, you’re coughing and gasping, slowly wiggling against the floor the same way an exhausted nymph would on the hot pavement. his voice is only but a faint noise. there’s a ringing in your ear that makes it hard to understand a word he’s saying.

armin’s jaw tightens at the sight of your attire once more. tiny top, tiny skirt, wedged flip flops. you’re a sight for sore eyes — there’s too many sore fucking eyes in this town. bending down and taking hold of your face, he forces your eyes to concentrate on him and only him. “don’t ever wear somethin’ like this outside without me next to you again. you understand?” he makes you nod, forcing your chin up and down with his hand. his voice darkens when he quietly mocks, “yeess, dad, i understand. say it.”

you sniffle and begin to nod on your own, “yes, dad, i . . u-under . . stand.”

straightening back up, armin licks his lips, “open up — open up, open the fuck up.”

glug, glug, glug. there’s no mercy shown. none at all. backwards, armin’s head falls in order for him to submerge himself in that blissful feeling the warm, tight vice of your throat gives him. thick, virile groans are loud though deep as his broad hips flex. his heavy balls lightly smack against your chin with each thrust. fizzy strands of viscid saliva drips from plump lips, dampening it and flowing towards your chest. it all moistens the material of your top and soon leaves the chocolate rounds of your areolas exposed, pebbling your nipples into studs against the humid, summer breeze.

armin soon lets out a chuckle between a hiss of pleasure and looks down at you, “ ‘m almost not pissed at you anymore.” your mouth feels like fucking heaven. that throat, jesus . . you have to understand why armin’s so upset in the first place. another human being doesn’t deserve to feel this shit. you’re his and his alone.

when he pulls his dick free, cascades of your saliva pour down his hanging tip. he lets your arms go to grab the base between his fingers and smack it against your cheeks and the flat of your tongue. you heave ragged, thin breaths and drag your wrist across the bottom of your chin.

there’s a moment of silent conversation held between your sets of eyes. you look up at him and he looks down at you. armin admires the dark rings of mascara circled around your own . . how it inks your tears into beads of black. your chest shines with . . wet. tears, snot, spit, all of it. you’re still beautiful. the prettiest fucking thing.

“crawl.”

armin angles himself to the side and after a quick snap of his fingers, points towards the middle of the living room floor, right upon the olive, wool rug. breathing out a trembling exhale, you let your shoes fall from your feet before you’re slowly positioning yourself on your hands and knees and moving towards where he wants you.

you make a pretty picture. back smoothly curved in . . pussy chubbed and glistening between the thickness of your thighs. ass still burning red. the welts are starting to purple. you’re a work of art.

armin stands over you for a moment.

there’s a shuffle, then you suddenly feel his dick sinking inside. you jolt and knot your fingers within the wool with a loud hiccup. “o-oh god.”

“mhmmm.”

biting his bottom lip, armin lets the tight, hot ridges of your pussy pull him in, groove by groove. “feel how nice i fit in here?” his balls droop lower than the average guy’s. “biiiig stretch . . there you go.” when he bottoms out, they strike against your clit with a firm slam. your eyes pivot within your skull. it’s a tight fit. the spout of your pussy embraces his cock tight. “you’re real lucky you feel this fuckin’ good.”

with a strong hand planted flat at your trapezius and the other clutched at your hip, armin fucks you just like that. “o-ohhh — mmph, oh g-goddd.” his cock hits your pussy with loud, hard slugs. he doesn’t thrust his hips back and forth — he’s positioned more in a crouch above you, feet flat against the floor on either side of your knees. it pounds up and out. drool accumulates within the inside of your cheek and soon begins to dribble from the corner of your lips. it’s so good. it’s so fucking good.

“you don’t ever leave this fucking house without, mm, me next to you,” firmer, armin presses his hand against your back, watching you bob your head up and down. “you don’t accept a ride from a fucking stranger. you don’t speak to strangers.”

you’re nodding, feeling your juices start to splatter out from around his cock each time he drops it inside your pussy. sticky strings play between your clit and his fat balls, only intensifying that unbounded feeling of raw titillation. “y-yes sir, yes sir,” you’re wheezing and reaching your hands back, separating your ass cheeks to somehow feel him even deeper. don’t stop. you don’t want him to stop.

armin clenches his jaw and grabs you by the scruff of your neck, pinning you still.

“a-awe, hh-hah, awe, hng . .”

the smack he swats against your ass around your fingers makes you move a knee forwards in efforts to escape the still stinging pain. he only snatches you back. “you gonna defy me again?”

you’re shaking your head, tears of overwhelming bliss dripping from your eyes, “n-noooo.”

“what dad says, you do,” god you feel fucking heavenly. armin’s releases a slow breath in order to control himself. “what dad says . .”

“i do.”

he groans and lets you go to instead drop to his knees and starts to force you back against powerful thrusts. “very good, kid. t-there you go.”

the sounds you two of you make are filthy. they echo out of the gaped windows of your home and float around the opened land of the marshlands that surround it. your body rocks on your knees, pushed and pulled back and forth as the heated, fat cheeks of your ass slap back against armin’s strong hips. you’re still holding them open when he shoots a bubble of spit on that crinkled hole and pushes his thumb in to the knuckle.

you begin to gurgle — spit slurred moans of his name and how you’re sorry. armin falls over you, empty hand falling above your shoulder beside your face. “gonna squirt for me?” he breathes against your ear, slamming his hips into you harder now that your knees are beginning to slip. “l-let me see it. gush on your dad’s dick, dollface.”

your little feet kick out. you tilt your face closer up to his, feeling his lips trail from the line of your jaw to the curve of your neck which he begins to suckle a bruise onto.

your cunt pulses with the first outflow of juices it gives. the liquid surges around the thick post of armin’s dick — flowing onto the rug beneath you both. he fucks you through three more, groaning at the feeling and how you sob for him all the while. “yeah,” he snarls, gripping at your ass with four fingers from the thumb that still sits nice and deep inside of it. “jesus, you’re filthy . . pretty little girl,” his balls are drawing tight. “b-but so fuckin’ filthy, eh.” you’re rendered silent. not a sound leaves your opened mouth as you let armin beat your pussy sore. he’s so big. he’s so warm. his touch electrifies the ends of your veins. you feel your mind spiraling.

armin fights the feeling for a second longer. he doesn’t want this to end, honestly.

“tell me you love me.”

it’s immediate. it’s as though it’s always been resting on the dip of your tongue, dormant, albeit come the first, “i l-love you,” you give, it never seems to stop. “i love you, daddy. l-love you, love you.”

armin slams inside, one good time and lets his cum pump you full. he’s straining — eyes squeezed tightly shut, muscles in his neck tense. “shhhh — iiiiittt,” he grunts and lets his body collapse on top of yours when you finally fall. he works it in with deep grinds of his hips . . smooshing your ass cheeks almost flat with his hips before he’s lifting them, only to do it again and again. thick, hot, runny . . his nut fills your womb almost to the brim. you moan on half a mind and let your face fall against the rug come him soon relaxing with hard pants. tired . . so tired.

it takes what feels like eons for his blood to stop rushing through his ears. he thinks he almost popped a muscle, however, with a final sigh, armin gives a small kiss to your ear. his girl. his baby. you’re a thread away from dream land, but he makes sure you’re listening when he softly mumbles, “i love you more, kid.”