klipkillakai

[klipkillakai]

𝒮𝒯𝑅𝒜𝒲𝐵 𝑀𝐼𝐿𝒦 𝒫𝐼𝒞𝒯𝒰𝑅𝐸𝒮 presents a frank castle ﾉ fem reader production . . . ᝰ .ᐟ

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ──── 6 . 4kay wrdz , black fem reader , reader has a tattoo + wears lash extensions , daddy kink , toxic . . ? relationship ꒰ more just . . miscommunication ꒱ , brat taming , oral sex ꒰ f ꒱ , pet name usage ꒰ little girl , mama , sweetheart ꒱ , creampie , throatpie ﾉ facial , dirty talk , frank has a litl bit of a foot fetish ꒰ toe sucking ꒱ .

𝜗ϱ 𝓁𝓊𝓋 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒 𝒻𝓇𝓂 𝓂𝒾𝓁𝓀 . . . :333 i luv him whole lot uhmmmm . . dis vid iz jus 4 m followers dat hv never watched the punisher / don’t rllie know much abt frank . . i dunno ! here’z jus a glimpse of his personality + his voice -> 🥛 . fic title inspo by m angel faye as alwyz . Minors & Ageless Blogs Do Not Touch ! ! ! !

you were quiet . . . he’ll give you that.

heel - toe, heel - toe, fingers positioned on the barrel of the gun instead of the trigger, arms properly extended, eyes focused . . . “god damn, sweetheart.” frank’s standing there front and center within your foyer come the sound of a revolver’s hammer being pulled back, his fist all but slams into the rocker switch of a light panel bolted next to the front door to illuminate a bulb sluggishly lolling from right to left above his head from the ceiling.

it’s a small light, casts a warm and bright enough wreath of a glow whose edges skirt the nubs of your pedicured toes. almost all of them are decorated in rings of gold — he’s always found that sexy. the rest of you though, still stands enshrouded within the twilight painted gloom of your home, but he smells you — fresh and floral. you took a shower not too long ago probably, baby magic . . you love that fucking body cream, keep almost three bottles of it on you at all times of the day. above all, your apartment’s dark but not dark enough. there’s a window a few feet behind you, courtesy of the moon and her cool glare, it shines right in past your white, lace curtains ( the same ones that remind frank of what a beer bellied farmer’s wife would obsess over ) and outline the soft curves of your body.

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.”

[klipkillakai]

𝒮𝒯𝑅𝒜𝒲𝐵 𝑀𝐼𝐿𝒦 𝒫𝐼𝒞𝒯𝒰𝑅𝐸𝒮 presents

a rick grimes ﾉ fem reader production . . . ᝰ .ᐟ

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ──── 3 . 8k wrdz , set durin da prison season , szn 3 spoiler in da first paragraph , black fem reader , reader is alluded to bein a lot shorter than rick , daddy kink , unmentioned age gap ꒰ reader’z like 21 - 22 , rick iz in his mid - late 30s ꒱ , oral sex ꒰ rick -> reader ꒱ , pet name usage ꒰ honey , baby , sweetheart ꒱ !

𝜗ϱ 𝓁𝓊𝓋 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒 𝒻𝓇𝓂 𝓂𝒾𝓁𝓀 . . . s literali jus rick eatin reader out , mhm . hope u like ! Minors & Ageless Blogs Do Not Touch !

you’re too soft for this world.

in a way, rick shares some appreciation for that. he’s had a front row seat in watching current circumstances turn his son, morph him honestly, into something that an ordinary, fourteen year old boy should not be. it took rick some time to discern, a little longer even for him to absolve carl from the harshness and frigidity that only living during an apocalypse and having to murder your own mother can cloak a person’s psyche within. giving him more farming duties contributed a lot to his more recent, positive change — caring about a life, an animal’s defenseless, vulnerable life helped. nevertheless, rick is aware that he doesn’t need carl getting too comfortable, too soft. it isn’t something that needs to be discussed because carl is mindful of it all, too.

to be frank, rick doesn’t need him becoming you.

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.”

[klipkillakai]

"I open the lecture door and with my head down I walk to my seat and sit down quietly as my professors back is turned as he writes something borderline illiterate on the board, 'God I hate how he writes, how could he possibly teach literature?' "I think to myself as I pull out my laptop and notebook"

"Today we will discuss the fall of man"

"Are any of you familiar with the book paradise lost?"

"My eyes drift around the room as I softly tap my pen on my thigh looking to see if anyone raises there hand, a few do while I notice others are checking to see if it's on the syllabus, I smile softly and the teacher continues"

"This book or epic of you may is essentially a romanticism of the fall of man, it gives Adam and Eve more character and the author focus a lot on the love that Adam and Eve share, Adam loved Eve so much that he ate the apple and fell with her, the Bible makes mention of that too but we'll get into that, the book also focuses on The Fallen.. the angels that fell with satan, and what that kind of looked like too, now we aren't going to go into anything too deep today but I would like you to read the first few pages and tomorrow we'll come back and discuss."

"A few moments later my borrowed copy is finally passed to me and I softly open the book and skim the pages for a second before returning to listening to the lecture"

"I sigh as I walk across campus to my dorm as I finally got out of that long lecture, Mr peters can be long winded and I only got 3 hours of sleep after I stayed up all night watching twilight for the billionth time, i don't understand why I torture myself like that knowing I cannot function with anything less than 7 hours of sleep"

"I reach my door and I'm about to put my keys in but I hear a loud thump in the room next to mine, I peep it but ignore because it's not my business, I turn my key and when I do I hear the door burst open and I jump back a bit when I see a tall man stumbling out the door, he grunts and sort of sags against the wall before snapping his eyes open clearly trying to focus his vision while he looks at me"

'Um..you alright?"

"I ask and he just stares at me, and I stare back.. and he responds"

'No'

"Low key not expecting that response, I nod"

'Just checking' "I reply"

"And I turn around and open my door and walk in deciding not to push, I'm not a damn detective"

"After showering I lie in bed scrolling on tumblr, occasionally liking a book quote and saving smut for later, and I decide to start reading the book for lit, a bit curious about what it says, I grab my bible for reference as im well versed in genesis and I want to cross reference, i start the book and im immediately captured by the writing and I read for hours"

.....

"Storm"

"Lighting"

"War"

.....

"A powerful fight and a sword so mighty it cannot be destroyed not even by its creator, a battle cry so strong so loud it shakes the heavens, then.. silence.."

"I'm falling.. falling..falling"

"I gasp awake and I jump up on my bed, I breathe heavily and my chest heaves and I'm drenched in sweat, i quickly open my nightstand drawer and frantically search for my inhaler I'm when I do I take two deep puffs before i calm down, my hand shakes and I sigh out and rub my face before pushing the covers off me and getting up to rinse my face off, I lazily grab my water bottle off my dresser too and I open my door as I go to the communal sink, I fill my bottle up as I'm deep in thought"

"I haven't had that dream in ages, that's so weird, maybe it's the book, I shouldn't have read right before bed.. and did I even eat? god I've got to stop-"

"A throat clears and I snap my head up to see the boy who looked half dead earlier"

'You know your speaking out loud right?'

"I slowly close my mouth and, I watch a small smirk form before it dissipates"

'I know now' "I reply with indifference"

'What was the dream about?' "He sits down at the table in-front of me and I lean against the counter with my arms crossed"

'None of your business'

'It is when you practically yell it out for the whole dorm to hear" "he says with a low amused tone, even tho the conversation is relaxed his gaze is intense, it almost weighs me down"

'Just a nightmare' "I say softly, I've had it before but not for awhile"

'Tell me about it" "he says it like a command almost, but I'm getting this feeling like it's just his nature"

"Well... I'm in the sky.. and there's this war I think, it's very jittery and fragmented.. It's like I'm seeing bits and pieces, "I clear my throat a bit and I look down" anyways um.. and I think I'm fighting in it and there's this sword and every time I have this dream when I see the sword it's like my world is ending, like that's the last thing I wanted to see and I see this bright flash that practically blinds me and that's when I finally wake up"

"It's not particularly scary but it just feels so real, the feeling is so deep it's just startling when I wake up, "I say as I stare at the floor my brows slight furrowed as I think deeply"

'I understand the feeling'

"I hear him say, but he sounds distant like he's experiencing something too and I look up at him, and he's just staring at me, watching me, studying me"

'Yeah' "I whisper it knowing how to respond and I just look at him"

'So what happened earlier? You looked like shit"

"He snaps out of his daze , yeah um I was hungover"

"Oh, well I'm glad your better I guess"

"I softly grab my water bottle and I close it tight"

"Oh I never got your name"

"When I look up he's gone and I look around startled, where did he go? I just looked down for a second.. shit I didn't even hear him get up, I start walking to my room and I look at the door next to it for a second before going Into mine getting in my bed and getting the rest of my sleep"

-a work i had started and now i must finish, i present to you.. “the watchers”

ps: the male mc has a name but you can visualize any of your favorites

[klipkillakai]

i am making a comeback hehehe

[klipkillakai]

𝒮𝒯𝑅𝒜𝒲𝐵 𝑀𝐼𝐿𝒦 𝒫𝐼𝒞𝒯𝒰𝑅𝐸𝒮 presents an eren ﾉ fem reader production . . . ᝰ .ᐟ

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ──── 4 . 7k wrdz , black fem reader , boxer eren ꒰ loosely mentioned ꒱ , aerobics teacher reader , strangers to . . ?? , some flirting , lotsa giggles , dirty talking for a min , sexualized yoga poses lol , cocky reader . . not gna lieee , dis is literali jus dry humping and slight groping .

𝜗ϱ 𝓁𝓊𝓋 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒 𝒻𝓇𝓂 𝓂𝒾𝓁𝓀 . . . this is Not getting a part two, okay ? she’z okay on her own . i realized i hvn’t written 4 eren , like . . Jus eren in soooo long . ‘ve missed him ): Minors && Ageless Blogs Do Not Touch ⚠️ ! ! !

“. . . i don’t think i wanna do this shit anymore, man.”

connie’s voice warbles with exasperation when he turns himself from facing his opened gym locker to look at the guy next to him, “eren, what the fuck . . . . c’mon dude—“

“—i feel fuckin’ stupid—“

“—you gotta work on your cardio. this shit is non negotiable. you know you only gotta lose one more fight until jacobson’s on your stupid ass.”

the gummy inside of eren’s cheek is bitten between his row of molars come that heart sinking reminder. connie’s right . . painfully so. sounds of thrilled chatter forces eyes of darkened pine to avert their focus from the duffel bag seated within his locker to the room around him. men aged between twenty and thirty five — majority dressed in sweatbands, racer shorts, and loose fitting, sleeveless tees . . a few of them recognize him, eren’s been in this game long enough to know when a person is fighting to gather up the courage to approach him and speak, ask for a picture, an autograph . . it’s all in their eyes. given the demographic that resides in this room, he’d thought somewhat more scrutiny would have been rendered towards him, however, eren can’t help but notice that many of them seem to be almost . . eager for someone else.

“the fucking teacher—“

“—took this class last month just to shut my wife up . . instructor keeps bringin’ me back—“

“—not gon’ lie, she know what the fuck she be talkin about—“

“—you gotta see her ass—“

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.

[klipkillakai]

she ate once again!!

𝒮𝒯𝑅𝒜𝒲𝐵 𝑀𝐼𝐿𝒦 𝒫𝐼𝒞𝒯𝒰𝑅𝐸𝒮 presents an armin ﾉ fem reader production . . . ᝰ .ᐟ

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ──── 5 . 8k wrdz , dark content ahead ! , fauxcest , ddlg , right down the line universe , black fem reader , unmentioned age gap , established relationship , daddy kink , side male character being creepy towards reader , panic attack mention , possessive armin , fingering , rough oral sex ꒰ r -> a ꒱ , anal play ꒰ thumb in butt :p ꒱ , spanking w a belt ! , reader’z a crybaby and once again . . she’z makin a bad decision , pet name usage ꒰ dollface , kid ꒱ !

𝜗ϱ 𝓁𝓊𝓋 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒 𝒻𝓇𝓂 𝓂𝒾𝓁𝓀 . . . dis iz kinda filthy ? i dunno . u decide . Minors && Ageless Blogs Do Not Touch ⚠️ ! ! ! ! !

armin’s watching you . . .

from over his ceramic, dark blue mug that is gaudily decorated with sparkling care bear stickers ( courtesy of an ennui stricken you one day ), his eyes are locked on your frame. you’re kneeled on the antique mat inside the living room with a large, wooden chest open in front of you. he recognizes the crate — it’s where you keep your ribbons, bows, hair balls, barrettes, edge control, combs, all those things . . you sometimes drop a toy in there, too, your nail art supplies, pieces of make up, he even thinks a mirror’s in there, too.

from his position, back leaned against the door of the fridge, he receives a full, unconcealed view of the back of you as you lean forward — the upper half of your body damn near falling inside the trunk as you trash your arms inside of it, clearly searching for something.

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.”

[klipkillakai]

my favorite writerrrr >.<

𝒮𝒯𝑅𝒜𝒲𝐵 𝑀𝐼𝐿𝒦 𝒫𝐼𝒞𝒯𝒰𝑅𝐸𝒮 presents an armin ﾉ fem reader production . . . ᝰ .ᐟ

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ──── 15 . 4k wrdz , dark content ahead ! , fauxcest , somewhat ddlg , dubcon for like two secs , black fem reader , age gap ꒰ r -> 19 a -> 34 ꒱ , daddy kink , strangers to friends ? to loverzzz , ooc armin , manipulative prisoner armin , he’s a misogynist too lowk lolll , reader wears glasses sometimes , masturbation ꒰ r + a ꒱ , oral sex ꒰ a -> r ꒱ , fingering , ass eating , squirting , overstimulation , reader’z jus rllie lonely + makes a couple bad decisions , breath play but . . not in a consensual way , pet name usage ꒰ little girl , doll , dollface , kid , baby ꒱ !

𝜗ϱ 𝓁𝓊𝓋 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒 𝒻𝓇𝓂 𝓂𝒾𝓁𝓀 . . . =3 i had fun writing this . it’s not gonna be 4 everybody tho ! ! that being said , if reading [ key word ] about a man you are romantic with pretending he’z ur literal father + the thought of calling him dad icks you out , you prbly shouldn’t be here . i wna say i experimented some w dis fic but , truthfully , ‘m not sure i rllie did . i dropped two letters frm a title i love havin m readers call a character and dabbled a little in heavy dubcon . . i rllie consider this tame lol . this is deffie gettin anotha part too . && pls remember , this is all jus fantasy , okie ?? armin knows reader isn’t his daughter , he kind of doesn’t want her to be , but . . he likes thinkin of her that way / goin abt livin like she is c: vice versa w reader . but n e way . Minors && Ageless Blogs ( for the love of all things sacred ) Do Not Touch ⚠️ ! ! ! ! !

tap . . . tap . . . tap . . . . . tap.

the particularly long pause between the two, last tapping sounds pressures you to turn your head over your shoulder to gaze over at your faucet in the kitchen. it seems to mock you — quiets down, waits until you rotate your head back forward to begin again.

tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

you give a quiet, little groan, heedlessly reaching for your airpod case that slipped down in between the suede cushions of your loveseat hours before. you need peace, you need quiet. especially now when your natural, preordained common sense and zealing heart are in a scuffle. it’s only when the small buds are shoved in both respective ears and lauryn hill’s comforting melodies are emitting through them when you transfer your attention back towards the large screen of your macbook that sits on the knobs of your knees.

penpal4inmates.org

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

'register and create your profile here.’

it’s something that’s mandatory.

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

has your life genuinely come down to this?

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

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

you’re tired of it.

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

and it’s a process.

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

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

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

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

“nope.”

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

“mmm.”

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

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

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

‘ I’m Armin. ‘

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

it’s late. you’re tired.

you’ll take a chance.

⠀ ⠀ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀ 𝜗𝜚 ⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

⠀ ⠀

hi mr. arlert,

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

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

sincerely,

( ❤︎ ) ♡

⠀ ⠀ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀ 𝜗𝜚 ⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

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

“hey, neighbor!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⠀ ⠀ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀ 𝜗𝜚 ⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

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

⠀ ⠀ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀ 𝜗𝜚 ⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

mr. arlert,

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

sincerely,

( ❤︎ )

⠀ ⠀ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀ 𝜗𝜚 ⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

who said it bothers me?

⠀ ⠀ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀ 𝜗𝜚 ⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

mr. arlert,

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

sincerely,

( ❤︎ )

⠀ ⠀ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀ 𝜗𝜚 ⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

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

⠀ ⠀ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀ 𝜗𝜚 ⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

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

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

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

“and who are you here to see?”

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

a beat of silence passes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

his perplexed coated utter goes unheard.

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

hopefully he won’t notice.

BUZZ!

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

“forty five minutes, arlert.”

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

oh.

your breath hitches.

oh.

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

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

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

“. . hey,” he eventually says.

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

“hi.”

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

his compliment isn’t one you expect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

it’s a sweet confirmation to hear.

“the drive up here wasn’t too bad?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“i . .”

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

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

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

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

it’s okay.

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

⠀ ⠀ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀ 𝜗𝜚 ⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

they’re cute on you.

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

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

oh, you’re something.

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

“do you think that you should?”

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

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

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

“yes. ask me . . nicely.”

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

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

“what did you do?”

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

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

“. . some months later.”

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

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

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

“pleasure’s all mine, kid.”

⠀ ⠀ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀ 𝜗𝜚 ⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

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

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

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

armin likes that.

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

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

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

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

“look at me.”

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

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

“you gonna talk?”

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

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

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

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

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

“ ‘m sorry.”

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

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

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

“—wipe your face.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“. . what—“

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

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

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

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

“ ‘s not fair.”

“i know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“what’s that?”

“what’s obvious you want.”

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

⠀ ⠀ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀ 𝜗𝜚 ⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

“fifteen minutes arlert—“

“—yeah, yeah . .”

“i'm serious.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

armin’s loud.

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

dad, you’d called him earlier.

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

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

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

god, he needs you.

”i really wanna be with you, ‘min.”

his eyes roll back within his skull.

”i miss you. all the time.”

“yeah.”

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

armin goes catatonic.

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

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

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

⠀ ⠀ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀ 𝜗𝜚 ⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

knock, knock.

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

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

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

“. . okay.”

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

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

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

jean is . . .

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

“yeah, that’s . . me.”

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

you close the front door slow, newly tensed.

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

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

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

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

“gnight. thank you.”

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

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

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

“you sound scared.”

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

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

“ ‘min.”

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

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

“mhm. sure. anything for my girl.”

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

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

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

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

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

“ ‘m sorry.”

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

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

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

“nothing.”

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

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

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

“sorry.”

“sorry who?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“you’re gettin’ there.”

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

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

“you sound frustrated.”

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

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

your eyes roll back within your skull.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“pack a couple of suitcases.”

the call ends with three, dull beeps.

⠀ ⠀ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀ 𝜗���� ⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

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

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

the next morning is slow . . .

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

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

“. . oh my god.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you’re losing your mind.

⠀ ⠀ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀ 𝜗𝜚 ⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

8:57

your exhales are shuddery.

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

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

“this was silly—“

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

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

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

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

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

you inhale deep and blow it out slow.

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

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

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

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

⠀ ⠀ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀ 𝜗𝜚 ⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

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

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

“eek!”

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

oh.

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

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

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

“mhm.”

he’s admiring you too.

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

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

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

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

“o . . oh.”

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

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

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

“. . come here.”

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

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

“mm-mm.”

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

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

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

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

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

“hold still.”

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

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

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

armin’s just a man.

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

your squeal of shock is pleasing.

he doesn’t hold enough refrain within himself to tell you what he needs you to do to offer him enough solace for another seven hour drive. those three seconds are wasted time. instead, he walks you backward, forcing you back, back, back until your back is touching the seat of the truck. he lifts you up without a single noise to make you to sit. “armin.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“keep still. i only repeat myself once.”

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

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

the faces you make . . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“. . we’ll work on it.”

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

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

[klipkillakai]

there’s no such thing as too much glitter

[klipkillakai]

up late, I have an exam in the morning. I miss my bf, he’s sweet and he’s changing me

[klipkillakai]

˖⁺ ♥︎ ⋆ 𝐵𝐸𝒯𝒯𝐸𝑅 𝒟𝐼𝒮𝒯𝑅𝒜𝒞𝒯𝐼𝒪𝒩𝒮

꒰ 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 . . . ꒱ drabble [ 1.6kay word count ] , fem reader , cutesie feelingz , timid ? yuuta , virgin yuu’ , he’z 20 , reader’z like . . 19 , fingering , handjob .

𝜗ϱ 𝓁𝓊𝓋 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒 𝒻𝓇𝓂 𝓂𝒾𝓁𝓀 . . . surprise ? . . uhm if any1 remembers , i posted dis originally 4 gyutarou on m old bloggie like Eons ago . so technically dis iz a repost .

“does this really feel that good?”

yuuta slants his head to the right as if doing that could give him a better look of your little pussy gurgling around the nimble breadth of his middle finger.

he hovers over where you lay across the fleece and cotton padding forged from dozens of blankets and cushions he had packed and laid across the cargo bed of his old, mint blue 1972 chevrolet luv. the paint is chipped around the bumper, quarter panel, and sunroof and the entire car chirrs as if groaning in pain underneath the both of your conjoined weight if either of you happen to move a certain way and take your entire body mass with you, but against you opening your heavy eyes and catching yuuta’s pretty face — framed around an ink blue canvas speckled with glittering dots of sapphire, gold, and silver — you find that the two hour drive here to this hilltop view was worth it.

“u-uh huh.” your nod is slow, your glossy lips are popped open around a permanent gasp it seems like, and bubbling tears line the white drawn along your waterline.

yuuta inhales a quivering breath inside of his nose, leisurely drawing his entire arm back an inch until his dull fingernail is simply pressing against the tight puckered entrance of your pussy before wedging it back inside.

hollow sandwich containers and the empty wicker basket you had carefully packed full of heart shaped snacks and fruits topple and knock against the metal sides of the bed when he adjusts himself more on his haunches so that he’s no longer above you, but inclining himself back to simply . . admire you.

you paint a pretty picture for him with the top, ruffled hemming of your long, flowy sundress pushed haphazardly down neath the fluffy meat of your tits to allow your little hands free reign to grip and squeeze on them when yuuta casually crooks his finger upwards. by all accounts, it appears that he touches something you like because your eyes cross and your little fingers pinch the stout nubs of your nipples between your knuckles while you release this cute, tiny “hah!” sound.

sharp - eyed, alert, attentive — yuuta okkotsu isn’t anything if he isn’t observant. within the short eight months of you both knowing one another, he’s already memorized your favorite coffee order, perfume, specific love language, and pet peeves. he knows that when you look at him and give a little pout before speaking, whether that at all be subconscious or purposefully, you’re either frustrated with something or sleepy. he knows that when you grow shy, your entire body seems to coward and fold into itself until he’s carefully coaxing you back open like a blossoming rose — knows that when you grow silent and your eyes take on this misty glaze while he’s talking, you’re not really listening . . . ‘ ‘m sorry, yuu,’ you always mewl. ‘ can’t help it. you’re so pretty. ‘

“you can add—“ your voice is vented over hiccupy gasps of sweet bliss. “— can add another finger . . please? p-please yuu’?”

he shifts again — spreads his long legs wider to somehow lower himself to be even closer to you. reluctance is read on his face before you hear it in his voice — gentle and subdued, “. . . are you sure?”

you find that there’s a certain way he likes to talk to you as opposed to rika. while he gives her delicate, drawn out coo’s, mumbles, and hums, as if speaking to a frightened kitten, he seems to always be a little more quiet with you. you’ve recognized that he speaks more slowly, too . . as if trying to choose each word carefully before he says it.

“mhm,” one of your hand reaches out to grip onto the faded denim of the jeans he wears. you look up at him through a laminate of tears shining across your eyes and there’s an unspoken, all-consuming emotion swimming within the bottomless black of your pupils that he catches inside of them, too. he’s pretty sure that the same one lies within his.

with that, albeit unhurriedly, he glides his index finger inside of you right along his middle. his cock plumpens up even fatter in his jeans at the sensation of tight, wet heat that immediately welcomes him with a firm squeeze.

in all honesty, yuuta wants to cry.

to have someone as pretty as you — as caring, good hearted, unflawed, and warm as you in his life makes him almost thinks that this can’t possibly be true. ‘ wanna make you feel good, ‘ you had murmured thirty minutes ago while the apples of your cheeks kindled with a warm flame. ‘ ‘s all i wanna do. you deserve it, yuuta. ‘

when his slow momentum advances to a more steady beat, the squelch and bubbling sound of your wet cunt thanking its intrusion gets louder. yuuta’s amazed when a thick band of cream starts to pack at his knuckles. “is it good?” he’s licking his lips, staring at the little swollen bulb of your hardened clit peeking from its hood. “feels good, no?”

your eyes are vaulting up into the back of your head as you grab the backs of your thighs to hold yourself open. “s-so good — little faster, yuuta,” the second half of his name tips off into a whimpery whine when he instantly gains a quicker pace. “j-jus’ like that, oh my god.”

his cock hurts. it’s pressing up against the thin cotton of his briefs into the sharp metal of his zipper and he’s been trying to ignore it this whole time, but when you unconsciously start to roll your hips to somehow bounce yourself on his fingers, he quickly unbuttons his jeans with one hand to slip it out and squeeze himself by the base to keep from cumming all over himself like the virgin he is.

“makin’ me feel so good, baby,” you’re mewling and pouting, making yuuta feel so good with just those simple words. “thank you. t-thank you, yuu’.”

god, he’s going to cum.

this is going to be embarrassing.

he squeezes his fingers tighter until the angry red tip of his dick starts to flush to a more needy purple. his eyes catch on your clit again — so little yet so pretty. he wants to see you touch it — doesn’t know if he can because he hasn’t asked you yet and he can’t help but flinch at that sharp tinge of greed that sparks his chest when he murmurs, “can you,” he quickly swallows what feels like a boatload of saliva that seems to have gathered in his mouth before it drops down his chin. “can you rub it f’me?”

he can’t help but feel like he’s disturbing you when you have to sluggishly open your heavy eyes to understand what he means. “oh,” if anything, his words quickly go inside of one ear and out the other when you catch an eyeful of his cock, nestled beneath his tight fist. “. . i-if i rub yours, can you rub mine?”

a wispy, raven black lock of hair falls into widened eyes as his mouth forms a small ‘o.’ his fingers have stopped moving and the grip on his cock has slackened, leaving the heavy thing slowly bobbing in the air. he’s thick and a good six and a half inches, and you can tell he’s hard — maybe the hardest he’s ever been in his life, but because of how fat it is, it still bows and hangs like a thick hook. “are you sure?”

you smile and lift yourself up then lean back on one of your palms. “ ‘m sure.”

it’s cute how dumb you both get at the feel of the other’s touch. yuuta gives a strangled, little moan when he feels your thumb rub at that tender patch of nerves right underneath his leaky cockhead and is surprised to hear you give a similar sound when his thumb starts to twirl at your clit and his fingers start to thrust in and out of you again. “you’re so,” yuuta’s pale cheeks go a little red but he wants you to know. “s-so pretty . . a-and you feel so fucking,” his eyes roll back and his voice goes shaky and a little bit more deep when you start to rotate your wrist as you stroke his cock a little faster. “so fucking good.”

he thinks he feels you grow wetter. your breathing’s mingled between one another’s. you have him and he has you. the squelching of your sopping wet pussy interweaves beautifully with the squishing sound of his cum dripping across your knuckles and between the tight spaces of your fingers. “ ‘m gonna cum,” you whimper and pull him closer to you by his hoodie. “make me cum, pretty please, yuu’.”

you’re filthy and he’s fucking disgusting. he grinds his hips into the tight ring your fist gives his cock as his fingers hook upwards again to touch that tender, little palette of nerves nestled deep inside of you. tears blur his vision as his orgasm hits simultaneously with yours, sending you both into a fit of moans and gasps for breath. “oh fuck,” he’s mewling and trying to get his locked joints to relax. “f-fuck . . fuck.”

your forehead falls onto one of his collarbones as you pant and lift your hand to watch strings of creamy cum roll down your fingers to the dip in your palm. the fog in yuuta’s head disperses, allowing him to recognize that he needed to pull his own fingers from the inside of you.

“ ‘m sorry,” you hear him whispering soon after. “i’m sorry. i-i’m sorry.”

yuuta watches you lift your head so that your chin is pressed right over his heart. his head is bowed and the position leaves your lips only a few inches apart. “why’re you apologizing?” you question him softly.

he doesn’t know. he just feels like he should.

“felt good for you, yeah?”

he nods as his eyes close.

“good,” you smile. “made me feel good, too.”

and when you kiss him, yuuta melts.

[klipkillakai]

my bravest knighttt... come hither ..... mmmwah !! ok you are dismissed

[klipkillakai]

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

thinking about dom!reader 🙃 18+ mdni

you softly hum the lyrics to the music playing in your headphones as you walk up the steps to your apartment, as you see your door get closer and closer you feel relaxation settle in your shoulders replacing the heavinesses from the day, you set the groceries you had been holding down and unlock the door.. you take a breath.. home.. your finally home, you throw your keys in the chipped bowl by your door and kick off your boots letting your toes spread out from the restriction of the stiff leather..

still letting the music play in your ears you don’t notice the soft whimpers and low moans coming from your room..

he heard you come in and that sent shivers down his spine, he knows what’ll happen when he finally gets caught and that makes him throb, he’s so pathetic :( visions of you whispering praises in his ear flash through his mind and he flushes.. he’s just counting down the seconds until-

“baby ?” you look at the sight infront of you, your sweet boyfriend, desperately rutting against his hand, mouth slightly agape and a whimpering mess :( aw you almost feel bad for him.. that quickly goes away when you remember you’ve explicitly told him not to do anything while your away.. you softly shake your head knowing you’ll have to punish him..

you crack a small smile “what are you doing sweet boy?” you mumble in your soft endearing voice, intertwined with false sympathy, he whimpers “i couldn’t wait” he whines, his hand still pumping up and down his cock.. “i can see that” you hum and you softly sit on the bed next to him, you raise your hand to softly push away the sweaty hair stuck to his forehead and you press and small kiss in the center..

“ does it feel good?” you ask, your eyes slowly slipping towards his.. “n-not as good as when you do it”… “aw” you say with a smile and you slide your hand down his chest and slowly traveling lower and lower.. until you replace his hand with yours.. “let me do it okay?” you whispers and press a small kiss on his lips..

he nods quickly, his breath picking up, you admire his body.. he’s so cute you think, as much as your mad at him, you live for this..

you slowly start to pump your hand, up and down, up and down, and he melts in your arms, you shift your position, letting his head fall against your chest and your reach over him, you gently squeeze his cock at the base and you look down and watch his expressions.. how pretty you think.. you start to go faster, precum starts to form at the tip and you use that as lube, allowing your hand to glide easier… sensual and languid noises fill the room, his soft moans and heavy breaths and your low coos

“ your doing so good for me baby” you hum and he moans starting to rut his hips upwards into your hand, you loosen your grip to mess with him and he whimpers out a “please” you smile and you just look down at him “you should’ve listened to me.. your always so good for me baby, all you had to do was wait..”

“ i know.. i- i know, i just started to think about you and-”

you start to move your hand again and whisper a “shhh.. i don’t care” you say with a small condescending frown and speed up your pace.. “you better not cum” you say.. feeling his cock throb in your hand.. you start to focus on his tip.. doing fast circular movements around it with your hand and you watch him like a hawk, looking for any indication that’s about to cum so you can stop immediately..

after a few minutes of slowly torturing him he’s a mess, you can barely touch him now without him being nearly sent over the edge, just how you want him.. “i just want to cum.. please let me cum.. please” he pleads and whines.. “have you learned your lesson” you ask “yes! yes i have please, i promise i won’t do it again” you both know that’s a lie.. but you accept it.. “okay sweet boy” and he sighs with relief..

you get up from the bed and you undress infront of him, slowly sliding down your jeans to reveal your pink lacy panties with a small bow in the center, you watch him the whole time you undress, you love watching his expressions, they’re more interesting than any painting in a museum.. you take off your white top revealing the matching bra and you climb back on the bed and on top of him..

you straddle him and his hands immediately land on your waist, you slip your panties to the side and a string of your slick goes with it, you slowly grind against his cock, not yet putting it in, just teasing him for these last few seconds knowing he won’t last very long :( his grip on your waist tightens and his head falls back against your pillows.. you lean forward and kiss a trail down from his jaw to his neck.. “missed you all day” you say sweetly.. and as you place one last kiss on his chest you let him slip inside you and you both moan.. you sit up and begin to ride him, your nails scratching down his chest as you pick up your pace..

“oh my god” you moan, feeling yourself stretch around him, you feel his thumbs caress your tummy and you shiver, aw you both needed each other so bad :(

your thighs burn as you pick yourself up and down, up and down on his cock, but it’s worth it, seeing his face and hearing his moans :( and it feels so so good, it feels like warm honey slowly flowing down over you.. you can barely contain yourself, you as much of a mess as he is..

“you feel so good” you whimper and you go as fast you can, the sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mixing with the heavy breaths you both let out..

he whimpers, he loves praise.. he loves your praise, he lives for it

“t-thank you my love” he says.. “i’m gonna cum” he whines and you nod, “that’s okay baby, me too” and few more seconds later you both let go, mouths agape and shocked breaths are released, your thighs shake and your ears rings, his cock twitches and his toes curl and you feel the warmth of his cum flow inside you..

you whimper and slowly pull yourself off his cock and collapse on the bed next to him, he leans towards you and you embrace him, softly massaging his scalp and kissing his head, “you did so good for me” you coo.. “so so good, sweet boy” and you continue to flutter small kisses all over his face..

“thank you” he whispers “your so good to me”….

|a/n|

this was a special request, enjoy :)

[klipkillakai]

is this a safe space?

the crow 2024

[klipkillakai]

this is my pride and prejudice

[klipkillakai]

gab eats once again

Do i make you nervous?

shy, nerdy Armin x bold black fem reader

wc- 1.4k!

☆ warnings ☆: js a lil smth for my armin girlies! very light smut nth too crazy 18+, oral (f receive, you sit on his face 😛), armin is obsessed with you, so when you asked him to be your tutor he thanked his lucky stars.

"Excuse me, Miss L/n, could you stay after class, there's a pressing matter." your chemistry professor Mrs. Clark announced whilst sending you a look after she graded your assignment. "Yea i'll stay." you mumbled opening up your macbook, checking the damage, '13% no. fucking. way.' sure you weren't the best student but it was never this bad.

Class was finally over and honestly you wanted nothing more than to go back to your apartment and take a long ass nap. "Miss L/n, don't keep me waiting! Come here please." honestly you didn't want to hear what she had to say, but if you wanted to pass this class you would have to work your ass off. "Yes ma'am, what's the matter?" you were trying to be polite and sweet so maybe she'd have mercy on you but, that plan didn't work.

After 25 minutes of her lecturing you about your grades, she finally offered some help. "I would suggest you get a tutor, it could give you that extra push you need. Hearing the same stuff from me everyday clearly isn't helping you." She looks at you and shrugs, "You can see yourself out now, enjoy your afternoon." As much as she annoyed you, your professor was right, and you had the perfect tutor in mind.

Armin Arlert. Not only was he smart as fuck but he also had a gorgeous face. It made perfect sense, if that pretty boy had been teaching you chemistry you probably would've had perfect attendance and 100's on all your assignments. You saw him walking off campus and rushed after him, you weren't sure if he would help, but what's the harm in asking?

"Hey Armin!" he turned around looking for who was calling him then he spotted you waving him down. 'is y/n looking for me?' he felt his stomach do an olympic level gymnastic routine (😜) and swallowed the lump in his throat. He was captivated by you, there was just something so perfect about you. The way you laughed, your voice, your beautiful eyes, your entire being had him enthralled.

He walked over to you, "h-hey y/n" he tried not to get too nervous but the small voice crack gave him away. "hi! i was wondering if you could do me a favor?" you batted your eyelashes and smiled brightly. "o-oh! y-yea of course, what's the matter?" he said it almost too quickly, Armin was just glad he could talk to you. You studied his face, it was perfect, the way his glasses sat on his face, the pink tint on his lightly freckled cheeks, even his pink plump lips. 'wait, why is he blushing?' you smiled at the thought, this would be so easy.

"s-so you need m-me to tutor y-you?" he stumbled over his words, an hour and thirty minutes alone with you, luck really was on his side today. "Yup, that's it! Think we could start today?" you checked the time, it was 3:47. "You could come to my house now if you're free! There aren't any distractions and it would be just me nd you!" There was no way Armin was turning this down, "yes that works for me." 'fuck yea i finally made it through a sentence without stuttering' he smiled softly showing his teeth, and your knees nearly buckled.

You opened your door, the scent of vanilla and strawberries clouded Armin. Your place was comfy nd clean, "You can sit at the table over there, I need to shower quickly if you don't mind!" He nodded his head 'i can't believe im in y/n's house right now' he pulled out his textbook nd laptop, not that he would really need it.

"Thank you so much for waiting!" you walked out of your room in your pj's and matching house slippers. "You want anything to drink? I've got dr pepper, pineapple fanta, nd water." Armin watched you walk to the kitchen, your small shorts shrinking with every step, "u-uhm dr pepper is fine. thanks." You sat back down with the two drinks, your boobs bounced slightly in your exposed cheetah print push up bra. you noticed Armin's face heat up and slightly turn pink, you decided to tease him.

you leaned over the table and showing more cleavage and placed your hand on his arm, "Do you mind explaining this to me? I don't get it" Armin tried not to make eye contact with you and took a sip of his drink, but when he finally gave in your seductive eyes almost killed him. He choked on the dr pepper, "um y-yea it's dea-" "Wait.. do i make you nervous?" you cut him off, not caring about chemistry anymore, that assignment could wait.

You scooted closer to Armin and leaned in close to his face, "you're a very pretty boy Armin, did you know that?" You looked at his lips and back at his eyes, "n-no I've ne-never-" You went to kiss him and he immediately took the chance. His soft hands instantly squeezed your tits, and you ran your fingers through his soft blonde hair. The kiss was sweet but it was also passionate, it felt desperate like you both needed more. Armin slid down the straps to your top and bra, freeing your boobs. His soft hands pinched and rolled your nipples, you softly moaned into his mouth and he slipped his tongue in. But he still wanted more.

Armin pulled away from the kiss, face flushed and cheeks red, with a light sheen on his lips from your lip gloss. He lowered his mouth to your right nipple, slipping it in while still playing with the left. Your hands were still tangled in his hair, tugging at his locks. Armin left hickeys all over your chest, wanting to mark you, he needed to know that this wasn't a deluded dream and that you were right there letting him touch you. He looked up at you while sliding your tit out of his mouth with a pop, "c-can we go to your room?" his face was filled with lust, he looked so divine. "of course" you stood up and grabbed his hand, leading him to your room. Armin was anxious obviously, but the was something he needed.

You laid in your bed with your legs propped up on Armin's shoulders as he sloppily ate you out. "Fuck Armin! right there please!" He sucked on your clit, he needed you to cum, he wanted to taste how sweet you were. "o-oh fuck armin, mmhm, right there" He came up, his lips covered in your arousal, " I want you to cum in my mouth y/n." He went back to sucking your clit, you felt a familiar pressure build up in the lower half of your stomach,"a-ah mm armin. That feels soo good!" You could feel yourself about to unravel as he pushed his tongue in and out of your hole. "Cmon y/n, c-cum for me, please." he felt you pulse on his tongue and pull his hair, he started getting sloppier.

Your thighs squeezed his head as you felt your high coming. "ah Armin 'm gonna cum, fuck!" you moaned out as he sucked on your clit, making you throw your head back and squeeze your eyes closed, mouth dangling open. You felt yourself squirt and looked down at Armin watching him lick up everything.

"Can, can you s-sit on my f-face?" He wanted you to say yes, he needed you to say yes. You looked at him puzzled, "You want me, to sit on your face?" "Yes. please y/n." You nodded your head at the blonde, Armin quickly sat down, laying down fully when he saw you stand over him. You straddled his face, not fully sitting down all the way. "Y/n sit down all the way please, I promise I'll be alright." You listened and sat down.

"o-oh fuck armin, oh my god please!" his nose rubbed your sensitive clit as he continued tongue fucking you, his groans vibrated against your core. He loved the way you moaned, it sounded so heavenly, it was his new favorite sound. You needed more, you started to slowly grind on his face, "c-can you go faster y/n please." You picked up the pace, his tongue worked wonders, it was like Armin knew exactly what you liked. "a-ah Armin! 'm too sensitive, gonna cum again" You were on cloud nine, his tongue continued the ravaging pace. "c-cum for me sweetheart." The overstimulation and sloppy licks to your clit drove you over the edge "Fuck! ah Armin!" your vision went clouded as you came down from your high. Armin was satisfied, this was all he needed, to taste every bit of you.

a/n ☆: hiiii my lovebugs!! firstly i js wanna say i'm so grateful for all the interaction with "Never get yo bitch back!" also next part will be coming soon! lmk if y'all wanna get tagged in my future projects!! (y'all like the color switch for different characters or js keep pink?)

-with lots of love, gabrielle <3

[klipkillakai]

you definitely ateeeee

fw my good sis gab 🤍

Never get yo bitch back!

plug!connie x black fem reader 😛😛

wc- 1.7k!

☆ warnings ☆: mdni! mentions of weed nd alcohol, smut 18+, cheating (established relationship w eren), public-ish sex (bathroom unlocked door), pnv, oral (f receive), first time writing ever don't drag me y'all pls!! 😓 I kinda want to make this have multiple parts but idk yet. I'm very open to criticism nd I hope y'all enjoy!

"Y/nnnnn, cmon you can come outside for one night!" Your best friend Sasha whined through the screen. As much as you protested, deep down you really did want to go out. Especially because Eren wasn't at home, you really wanted to talk to him since y'all haven't been doing so well recently. Petty arguments, sleepless nights, ig posts, and to top it all off he hasn't been to your house in weeks, not giving y'all anytime to have a conversation.

You check the time and see it's 6:00pm that means you got at least 2-3 hours before you would have to leave. "Girl you right, send me the lo. What you wearin?" Sasha set her phone up to show you the outfit she picked out, "Girl that's cute asf!! Ima match you." Sasha helped you pick out an outfit (1 or 2) that resembled hers. "Okay Sash ima finish my hair nd makeup, lmk when yall otw there." "Bye N/n, i gotchu." Sasha hung up and you continued finishing your hair and makeup.

Once you were in your car you looked at the location, realizing that it was at Jean's house, meaning Connie would be there. There was something so attractive about Connie that you didn't know how to explain, he was just, mesmerizing. You knew you would never be able to approach him tho, him nd Eren had been friends forever, and that was a boundary you wouldn't cross. Nothing being crossfaded couldn't fix..

You pull in front of Jean's house and it's packed, you can hear the music from the street. You text Sasha that you pulled up and fix yourself in the car mirror. "We're waiting for you at the front N/n." You read Sasha's text and get out of your car. When you open the door Mikasa, Annie, Sasha, and some other girls greet you. You scan the crowd feeling a familiar stare, you turn to your right and see a crossfaded Connie Springer and his homeboys sitting on some sofas in the corner. Connie feels you stare back and smirks. 'This finna be interesting.' You think to yourself.

You make your way to the kitchen to take a couple shots, Sasha gets a blunt from Ony, and y'all head upstairs to light up. When the sesh is over you feel amazing, the music is blasting, you're having a great night, and you're a 10, what could be better? You and the girls head downstairs to go dance and enjoy your night. You and Sasha throw ass like there's no tomorrow and Mikasa is right there to catch it. You laugh and stand up straight when you feel the stare of those familiar hazel eyes. "Ima go grab another drink" you tell Sasha and she drukenly nods.

You walk up to the counter where all of the drinks are, "hey connie" you look at him, and smile. He leans in closer to you "wassup mami, you look good. shit, you smell good too." he smiles at you with all of his pearly white teeth and you notice his silver grillz.(#1, #2, #3) God he's so fine. The way his red eyes are hanging low, the smell of his cologne, and his pretty ass accent, triple homicide.

"Where yo man at tho? Thought he was gon come tonight." Connie's confused as to why Eren isn't at this party trailing you like a lost puppy, unless, y'all wasn't on speaking terms right now. He grinned at the thought "Oh um Ion really-" You stuttered out wondering why he would ruin a good conversation. "Nah you ain gotta answer mami, follow me." He held his hand out with a 'hm' and you quickly took it, needing to feel his touch. He lead you upstairs to the first bathroom he saw, he opened the door, "Tu vas primero hermosa" you go first beautiful. You smiled at the sentence and walked in front of him. His eyes naturally trailed down to the best view there was 'Damn.' was all he thought as he watched you walk and felt himself get harder in his sweats.

"So wassup?" You questioned him, almost like a challenge. You leaned your back against the counter and looked into his eyes. "To be honest ion wanna play no games ma, you know what I want." He leaned towards you, muscular and veiny arms on both sides of you, caging you in.

You could feel the tension grow as both of you realized just how badly you needed the other. "Can I?" Connie asks to kiss you 'and he's respectful omg add that to the list' you think, "Yes, you can." As soon as those three words came out of your mouth, Connie grabbed the back of your neck and pulled you to him, his other hand quickly found your ass and squeezed, while your hands slid their way into his scruffy buzzcut. The kiss was passionate but it also had a hint of hunger, longing almost, like both of you waited your whole lives for this. Both of your tongues fighting for dominance, and both of you wanted no, craved more from each other. Connie's large hand found it's way to your throat and he squeezed softly earning a light moan from you, Connie pulled away, a string of saliva connecting you two.

"Ay dios mio mami" oh my god Connie whispered. Connie littered bites and hickeys down your neck exposed cleavage, not caring who would see. He tapped on your thigh, a signal for you to stand so he could remove your pants. He then picked you up and set you back down on the counter, he kissed the insides of your thighs and left a trail of bites. He looked up at you for confirmation, and you nodded your head he pulled your panties to the side. Connie was in a trance, the way your folds were so puffy, the way they were covered in wetness, connie almost came in his pants at the sight. "Fuck." was all he said before he began kissing and sucking on your lips. He spread them open with his middle and index finger, and could've sworn he saw heaven.

He plunged his fingers inside your wet hole, sucking on your clit while he pumped his fingers in you nice and slow. "Fuck con" you let out a soft moan, it was like music to his ears. He worked his fingers a little faster and curled them up grazing over your spot. "o-oh fuck connie mmhm, right there" He came up, bottom half of his face covered in your sweet juices "You taste so sweet, princesa" and with that he went back down and devoured you like you were his last meal. "a-ah mm con. That feels soo good" you whispered, feather light moans. You could feel the knot in your stomach tightening as he pushed his tongue in and out of your hole. "Cmon mami let me hear you." he felt you squeeze his fingers and pull his hair, that was enough to let him know. He pushed his fingers back in and started pumping at an insane speed.

"Go ahead ma, let me taste all of you" Your thighs tightened around his head as you felt you high coming. "ah connie 'm gonna cum, fuck!" you moaned out louder than before, he curled his fingers again, making you throw your head back and squeeze your eyes closed. "Joder, eres tan deliciosa." damn, you're so delicious.

Connie stood up and your hands immediately found the band of his sweats and boxers, in one tug you pulled them both down. "Eager much huh mami? Well I expect you to take it all then." Your eyes widened at the statement but your thoughts were cut short when you heard him speak again. "Turn around for me mami, and don't take your eyes off this mirror." The dominance in his voice made you even wetter. You turned around towards the mirror and he slid off your panties.

He smeared his tip on your folds, collecting your wetness. Without warning he pushed his full length in, starting off with slow strokes. "Fuck mami, you're squeezing me so tight" You arched your back a little more and relaxed. He starts moving quicker and palms the fat of your ass.

Connie props one of your legs on the counter and smacks your ass. "f-fuck connie oh!" hearing you get louder, not caring if anyone could hear you, only riled him up more. He snakes his hand around your throat pulling your head up more so you could see what a mess he made of you. Your lip liner gone, mascara smeared on your damp bottom eyelashes, and a fucked out expression. Connie thought you looked perfect.

"Y-yes mami, take all t-this dick" you hear him stutter his calm demeanor fading away as he fucks into you at an unruly pace. "Ah! Con so good. i-it's so big" He smacks your ass again and continues fucking you.

He pulls out and you pout feeling empty "Calmate princesa." calm down princess He chuckles and flips you on your back then he pulls your hips closer to him. He pushes back into you, not wasting any time. Connie pushes your legs back a little more "Keep 'em right there ma." You hold the back of your knees with your hands, feeling connie's tip hit all the right places, Connie places a heavy hand on your lower stomach and he presses down. "a-ah con please! it feels soo good." You and Connie both feel yourselves about to cum.

"Con 'm about to cum! ah please Connie!" You can feel your thighs starting to shake, "g-go ahead mami, fuck you're so perfect. m-make a mess all over me." Connie rubs on your sensitive bud and keeps fucking you deep. You can feel a wave of pleasure wash over you and everything turns white. "Ah! Connie fuck 'm cumming!" You yell, "f-fuck me too ma." You notice his voice falter and crack at the end, he sounds so angelic. He pulls out and hot, white, ropes coat your tummy.

Connie begins wiping off your stomach and he leans in to kiss you, but he sees something in the corner of his eye, almost like a, figure. "Shit" Connie says blankly, putting his pants back on. You scramble to put your clothes back on and turn to see Eren standing there looking pissed.

"what.. what the fuck is wrong with y'all?"

Whew chileeeee. y'all did I at least nibble or what 👀 but lmk if I should make this multiple parts, also give me title ideas!! love u all nd I hope y'all had as much fun reading as I had writing this! (watch nb read ts #embarrasing 😰)

- with lots of love, gabrielle <3

[klipkillakai]

Hiii!! I hope you're doing well <3

I just wanted to say that I'm a big fan of your writing and your vibe overall, and you inspired me to write a story of my own. Now this is my first time ever writing a fanfic so I doubt it's any good lmfao 😭😭but I would love if you could read it!

hiii my love 🩷

thank you so much!! i appreciate you enjoying my work ily!!!

and of course i’ll read it!! i bet it’s sooo good!! i’m gonna read it right noww 🤍