Armin feels low one night. He looks at himself in the mirror and wants to throw up, wants to move to another country where nobody knows him and start fresh, even if he knows the opportunity would be wasted because nobody knows him here in Trost, either. But his body buzzes, too. Tingles of arousal from nowhere light up his spine, and it's the most powerful fucking drug he's ever known when it combines with his despair because it makes him do things that could get him raped or murdered or worse and he can't find it in him to care.

Which brings him here. In the backseat of a stranger's car. Tucked away in some abandoned industrial yard at midnight. Kissing a man with a horse's face and alluring golden eyes like a couple of coins. A slender, unprotected cock glancing off of his prostate about once every two seconds. He calculated it, when he could think. His new friend pulls out of his ass, finishes on Armin's face. Armin wonders what his name is.

And here. An apartment he doesn't recognize, with hiding spots he can't predict, weapons that could be anywhere, grasping in the dark for a long face with pale eyes that hold a gentleness he doesn't trust. The guy's tall and dark-haired, two and a half heads taller than Armin, picking him up effortlessly and kissing him like they're married. He hates it. Grinds against his crotch. Moves him to cruelty. Makes the tall man choke him even as tears fall down his cheeks. He's left gaping, squeezing nothing but air, and wonders what the other man's name is.

And here. Drunk. Half-blind. Drowning in sweat that burns its salt into his tongue. She's blonde, a Grecian nose poking from a veil of sharp, pale bangs where her face is pressed into her pillow. Muscles in her back seize like the ones in her pussy, her back angled in a mean streak that Armin clings himself to wantonly. She's sopping, drooling around his cock, weeping as he finds that rhythm that runs along their most sensitive bits. Empty. She wants to be filled. So does he, with everything. Something. Why else would he chase the ghost of belonging in the dark night after night? She flips him over after he comes inside her, makes him eat it out of her, her moans searing. When she's done, she cries, and Armin falls asleep with a numb, comfortable heart.

Her name was Annie and she was the only one who hurt like he did and they were together for six months before she left him.


DAY FIVE (Armin)

/

They chat for a few more days. She doesn't show her face, but Attackerman does talk, in short bursts of glory. A couple of times a day, whether they're in the middle of active conversation or not, ATTACKERMAN sent you a voice memo appears over his wallpaper on his phone, and he hangs on every syllable she decides to impose upon him. Her voice is sharp. It cuts, wounds, just as music makes people cry. A good hurt. A relief.

In the morning– "You probably look cute when you wake up. Send me a picture. I want to see what you wear to bed." Armin sleeps naked. Shirts always get tangled up in his blankets and half-strangle him when he goes to bed, and he lets her know as much. "Good. Nothing should choke you but me."

After he's made his breakfast and gulped it down– "You mentioned you work for Starbucks. I want to see you in your uniform." Armin's being coy when he decides to conveniently forget to put anything on but his apron, there in the work bathroom, half the hump of his ass sticking out from the rough black cloth. "You seem to be painting a target for me."

When Armin gets that restless, reckless feeling late at night, the urge to get drunk and suck on a stranger's tongue and let living blood roar in his ears until he passes out– "I want you to try some different ways of coping when you feel that way. It's not healthy to sit in it. Worse to give in to it and put yourself in danger, love." He adores that word. As much as this is likely just an outlet for the two of them to blow off some steam, it feels romantic, important, binding.

Something to tie him to this mystery woman he cavorts with in his dreams and is thrall to when he wakes. An anchor. A chain. Anchors are on chains, aren't they?

Friday night, that feeling strikes him again. It's always strongest on Fridays, where the weekend stretches before him empty of responsibility and free of promise. A mute kind of lust prickles under his skin, dormant and giant. He's given up on Stranger Things, and hunts for something else to watch aimlessly as Bully tears apart her cardboard scratcher and the pressure in his stomach builds. Desire. Loneliness. Bitter spite. The urge to matter. These're things Armin knows well in this state. Snakes, coiling around his heart.

Click, click. The remote taunts him. Rip, rip. Bully tears at his patience. Some car backfires out in the street and– "Jesus CHRIST!" – that's it. He stomps round the couch and cross the room to where Bully's clawing, shoos her away from the block of cardboard, and put it on top of the fridge where not even she can jump up to it. It's too close to the ceiling, and she'd sooner hit her head than fit through the narrow slot. Thus, all of her favorite toys go up there when she decides to be true to her namesake. Indignantly, the rugged black cat arches her back and hisses at him, teeth starkly contrasted with her fur. "Yeah, fuck you too, cat!" Bully plods on down the hall and Armin's hand is on his phone before she makes it to his room.

He's spinning, a vain anger eating at him. Hates himself when he's like this. A creature.

Krimson_King : I broke your rule. Dots in the response box wiggle, dancing a message into place.

ATTACKERMAN : Call me.

Her number flashes on the screen of his phone. The area code's one of the three or four adjacent to his own. She lives in town, then; that's good. Her profile tells the same story, and the alignment bodes well for the accuracy of everything else she claims on there. The cloud of self-loathing hanging over his head might keep him from acting safely sometimes (a lot of the time), but Armin's always been especially wary of golden opportunities, illusions that give themselves away by their own sheer convenience. The receiver on his phone crackles, rough static that her voice smooths over like pavement the second she starts talking.

"Tell me."

"You told me to look for healthier ways to process my emotions. I haven't."

"And instead?"

"Every fiber of my being is telling me to go out and drink Bacardi until I puke or end up in a stranger's bed." The phone's silent for a few moments, only the sound of her breath breaking it up. "Or both."

"What does it sound like?"

"What?"

"That voice that you're trying to ignore."

"It sounds like mine."

"And are you master of your own destiny?"

"No. I've . . . never been."

"Remind me who is." His body tenses. Thoughts turn to dust, blow away. With rapidly-vanishing clarity, it occurs to him that something has to be wrong with him. People don't biologically work like this, responding just to someone's voice with all of these physical symptoms. Least of all for someone they don't know, have never met, haven't even seen their face.

He's used to parts of him being defective, though. If anyone's causing symptoms, if anyone's a disease, it's him. Just looking to inflict himself on someone else. Armin wants to weep. Feels the sob layering in his throat. "Y-you are."

"So why are you coming to me and bragging about being disobedient?" It's not rage exactly, the tone in Attackerman's voice. Coldness, that's better, a dispassionate firmness that denotes her displeasure better than anger or swears or screaming at him ever could. Armin dislikes it, even more for the fact that it's his fault it's come out at all.

"I . . . " he says, unsure. "I feel incredibly depressed, and isolated, and unloved, and it makes me mean sometimes. I just want someone to want me. To . . . love me. I seek that in toxic ways and I wanted someone else to feel hurt. I'm sorry." Inwardly, he's kind of impressed with himself that he came to a conclusion that self-aware, but if there's one thing he's spent an unhealthy amount of time doing, it's sitting in his own head, his own thoughts and facets crowding around him.

"You don't think I love you? Or want you?"

"No. We've been talking for five days, you don't know me."

"You're a gentle man who appreciates the small things in life. You are acutely focused on what people think of you and doubt your abilities constantly even though you have good reason to love them. You're brilliant. And foolish. And somewhere along the line, you were convinced that people wanted your body more than they wanted you." A gentle laugh over the static. She's softened. It's the sound of beauty itself, and it makes Armin forget any judgements or issues he may have had with her descriptions of him. She speaks with such self-assurance . . . could she really be wrong about anything?

"But I want you. All of you. There is no opinion of you that matters except mine. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"You're forgetting something."

"Yes, mistress."

And all at once, for the briefest, flickering shadow of a moment, he's calm.

"Good. This is my address. I want you here within an hour. I have something for you."


Armin feels low tonight. He looks in the mirror and doesn't know what he sees, hasn't the faintest clue what he wants. Set between two different poles, his normal self and the prowling thing he turns into, the visage that stares back at him is not one he recognizes. Not uniform. But his body relaxes all the same, gives in to the ease with which his shoulders can untighten and his belly can stop sizzling with anxiety. He can do this so easily when it's dangerous and disgusting and makes him feel like garbage, why is it so hard now, risk-free and at least a little bit purer-of-heart and soothing?

Showered. Buttoned-up and jeaned. Ponytailed. The shirt's green, a dark-forest color garbing his body. It's one of his favorites. He buys her a chocolate bar on the drive there.

Attackerman welcomes him in without fanfare. Her face is . . . tender. Almond-shaped eyes droop slightly at their outermost edges. Her nose is slim, cheekbones high, mouth glossy and crackling with light. She has the vibe of someone older, wiser; a sad kind of knowing in her eyes and her movements that makes that same set of green lace she wears under her bathrobe seem almost inappropriate.

Not that Armin doesn't enjoy it. It makes her look furious, but at the same time, his heart goes out to her. "I . . . got you this," he says, passing the chocolate bar to her. Her smile is subtle, soft, appreciative.

"Thank you," and her voice was brought down by the phone's speakers, drug through the dirt because in person it sounds so much better and silky and husky and pleasant and he's biting his lip. "Are you okay?"

"Y-yes." Armin looks away. "It's just interesting to meet you in person. That's all." She raises an eyebrow at him and his heart decides to try and smash through his diaphragm.

"Is that 'good' interesting?" Words leave him, and all he can do is nod, her gaze as hard to meet as that of the sun. Fingers prod at his chin and level it with her face slowly. The touch is all Armin can focus on, all the willpower he can muster flooding his body to keep him from melting into it. Why? What dignity is there to preserve? "Look at me, please."

And he does. Bears her staring at him at his lowest. Her eyes look like black pearls. Colorless. Shimmering. Valuable. "Tell me that you're solid." And he does, because there's no way that he can fathom keeping the truth from her. Armin's lashed to her, even after this tiny smattering of days he's even known she exists, because anchors aren't any use without chains to hold them to you.

"I'm not," he admits. "You're the only reason I'm not out risking my life right now."

"Well then . . ." her voice is tentative. "I'm glad to be of service."

"That's not– can you just hold me down and fuck me, please? I'll beg if I have to, Attackerman, I know that's how this works . . ." she runs her tongue over her lips, wetting that shining sword's edge. Consent comes out breathlessly and heavily, and her voice is dripping with a dark, bloated liquid no one can ever name.

"It doesn't have to be that way unless you're ready. And my name's . . . my name's Mikasa," she breathes, eyes sliding shut. Brace for impact.

"Armin," he says, moving to kiss her. "I'm ready."

She tastes waxy, like lipstick and chalk, and those same lips part when his tongue flicks over them. Allowing entry. Permitting connection. Lightning dances up his spine and short-circuits his brain just the way he likes. The only signals it lets out are yes, yes, yes and I'm wanted, I'm needed, I'm

"Did you think it would be that easy? That just because you're having a bad night, your obligations go away? You're smarter than that, love." Her words are a breath of oxygen, clarity in a storm, and they bring him back to his thoughts, as much as he might regret that. The demure, quiet woman in front of him has vanished, replaced by someone dangerous. Someone lethal-looking, icy-eyed. Her fingers dash under his shirt and over his waist, the skin peebling as his back arches. Their footing was equal seconds ago, but now it's out of order, falling towards its natural conclusion. "What did I tell you to do? Do not stutter." Several soft pads trail forward along his navel. Lower. Teasing his stomach.

"To stop trying to . . ." a groan fights its way up his throat, only to fail so close to freedom. At least the pause keeps Armin from tripping over his words. "To deal with my emotions i-inste–" A backhand. Thunder cracks into his face from chin to ear and the impact makes his head spin, his hearing blank. When the shock of it wears off, anger replaces it, and he throws himself at her with all the strength he can.

She stops both his wrists in one hand and slams him back against the door with enough force that she may as well have just reverse his own back onto him. There's a hungry, lopsided grin plastered across her face, smug, and it makes him blush even while gnashing his teeth and struggling. Not like it matters. She's probably twice as strong as him. Her desire overpowers him, taking on this weird physical form in the dark and pressing in. It's something he can see. Something he can smell. Vulnerable to her as he is, the fight goes out of Armin before long. He hangs there by his wrists, cheek stinging and a little scared and painfully hard. "I told you not to fucking stutter. Am I speaking English, love?"

"Yes, mistress," he says.

"And even when I touched you, all sweet and gentle, like good boys get, what did you do?"

"I flopped."

"You flopped what?" A hand around his throat, the power of life and death in her hands. Mikasa's thumb rips at the skin of his jaw.

"I flopped, mistress."

"And that was just trying to tell me what else you did wrong, wasn't it, baby?" He has to bite his lip to keep from keening, his ass clenching around nothing from pure reflex. She's good. Clearly an old talent at this.

"Yes, mistress."

"So," she kisses his chin– "When I tell you to say thing like you mean them-" sucks on his bottom lip and bites down not-at-all gently when his mouth grasps for hers– "When I tell you to handle your shit–" spirits kisses down his shoulder– "What is it that you'll do for me?"

"I'll handle my shit," Armin weeps, red tears bubbling from his split lip.

"You'll remember how I made you bleed and hurt you, and how good I'm about to be, and you'll act accordingly?" Her voice is sweeter now, languid and luxurious, as lax as a reptile in the sun. Mikasa's teeth find that spots at his collarbone and–

"F-fuck!" It's blank. Everything. "Y-yes, I will, I will, mistress. I'll be what you want. I will." And then she's gone. His eyes had snapped shut at some point, and the only indications that Mikasa is still in front of him– the vice at his throat, her lips travelling where they wish, the heat of her and her voice– all seem to stop transmitting. His vision clears, burning, watery, half thinking she's left him and then he sees her. She's sitting on her L-shaped, wide-cushioned couch, bathrobe pooled at her ankles and her body shining under the lace, smiling at him. Corded arms and strangely-dainty hands extend towards him. She beckons. "What're you waiting for?" Mikasa asks with a playful exasperation, as if this is the most obvious course of events on Earth. "Come be what I want, love."

Their hair tangles together in gold and black. She kisses him so hard he has to stop and suck in a few mewling breaths before she forces him back down to her. They're cruel with each other's nipples, cruel with each other's necks and chests; she leaves him with wine-colored stains from his breast to his ear, splotchy and angry and tender to the touch, and then digs her fingers into them and grins like a monster when he has to bite back his pain. She makes sweeter sounds when he marks her, deep rasping grunts and these tittering laugh-moans that make Armin's cock pulse. A ring of wet heat drops over it before long. Like everything else, Mikasa's good at this, her tongue knowing where to move, which parts of his shaft to lavish, sussing out his vulnerable pieces like she'd fashioned him from stardust herself. Tonight, with this other part of the world alive, he could believe it. This feels like a kind of destiny, he thinks, as he plants a fist in her hair. Later that same fist is inside her, up to the wrist and deafening in awe. Mikasa crumbles. Armin watches the lace darken where it's been pulled tight against her equally-stretched pussy lips. Feels her life pulse around his hand, her muscles attack. She puts her crotch in his face and tells him to eat.

These are all things he tries to value, that his mind tells him he should slow down and appreciate while he has them. But he can't. The train he's on is moving too quickly. If he tries to leave, to loose the thread binding he and her together somehow, he might just die. Not to mention it wold be a lot more fun for her and Armin both if they found out how fast this train could go.

Its wheels are shrill with speed when Mikasa spiders down his body and sits on his dick, a measured roll of her hips taking him down to the hilt and letting him really enjoy the way he can feel her open around him. It's easy to imagine the walls in her parting. That's how readable the sensation is. Hands on his chest, she muscles the air from his lungs and accidentally adds to the heady half-awake aspect of it as she starts to move.

She rides him until he's come, and rides him until he comes again and that final spray of warmth in her pussy sends her reeling, shuddering, begging, whimpering as Mikasa seizes around his cock like she's been struck with a tazer. Armin swears he can hear his hips crack with the force her thighs exert on either narrow end of his waist, though with the shivering kisses and little dotings she heaps upon him as the orgasm burns itself out, it's definitely in the back of his mind. Everything is second to this woman.

Except it's not, says his rational mind as it returns from a brief staycation. Responsibilities and insecurities tire of their disguises and rear back on sure-footed horses. He has to go. He stands. Starts to put on his pants. "What are you doing?"

"I'm going home," he says. "I have–"

"No you're not, love," she says. "Come here. Sleep with me." Mikasa says it softly, but her face is anything but. It's a tough mask that doesn't broach any argument. Only the dullest glimmers of honest, airy want emblazon her eyes. They're there, though, and that's worth something. "Please." She hollows out a space on the couch for him, and he slips into it as she puts a few couch cushions under their heads and its cover draped over both of them. "Thank you for this, Armin. I like you."

"I like you, too," he mutters, holding up the thin couch cover to her face. "But, can we sleep in your bed? It's . . ."

"Cold? Lumpy?" He nods.

"I guess my accommodations could use some work."

She chuckles, picks him up, and carries him into a blessed kind of darkness.