౨ৎ how to cum: 101! (an unnecessary course) w/ 𝓪𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐧 𝓪𝐫𝐥𝐞𝐫𝐭 (mdni!)
【 armin arlert is an absolute loser. everyone knows that. his friends know it, you know it—hell, even he knows it. he always has his back hunched over some book on marine biology. he avoids eye contact like the plague. he’s just… there.
you, on the other hand, are a fucking goddess. everyone on campus knows of your existence, of your flawless beauty, of your consistently breathtaking appearance.
armin isn’t stupid (he’s actually quite far from reaching idiocy, by the way). he knows that you’re about forty leagues away. he knows that you’re the most sought after person in this university. he understands that, but awareness doesn’t automatically equal enlightenment.
and so, with a little bit of courage, he starts to make himself known to you.
it’s simple at first, a small smile when you enter the few classes you two share. then he moves onto tiny waves once you start acknowledging him. barely noticeable, but you notice. it stayed like that for about a week. simple, small, easy, not-very-intimidating gestures. and you played along. you would return the smiles, wave back, whatever.
until you decided to approach him. it was at the end of some unimportant (even though it’s probably incredibly relevant) class. you didn’t bother listening to a single word your professor spoke. you had your eyes set on him.
having already made a plan in your head, you walked over, hips swaying just enough to seem like you weren’t actively trying to seduce him.
“hi! you’re armin, right?” you asked, voice dripping with honey. when he looked up, you could tell exactly when his breath hitched. your smile grew, already feeling the warmth of success in your veins. “i was just wondering if i could get your number?”
the second you said wondering, he was already preparing for either a humiliation ritual or heaven. but once you said number, as in phone number, as in you wanted to talk to him? his eyes widened, mouth slightly agape as he processed your words. you, yes you, wanted to…
“i… uhm, yeah, i can type it in or something…” armin mentally cursed himself for sounding so unenthusiastic—and more than that, nervous—but when you seemed to grow even happier, he couldn’t help but feel a bit of relief. as you fished your phone out of your purse, he kept wondering when you noticed him.
“i’ve seen you in the library. you’re always wandering over to the philosophy section. you really like those greek guys, huh?” you giggled, seeing the tips of his ears turn pink. did he really just say that out loud? you didn’t let the embarrassment get to him, holding out your phone for him to take.
the rest of that encounter was a blur, all he can remember is your shining lip gloss and strawberry scent. he vaguely recalls you calling out something about texting him later. but none of that really matters. all that matters is the fact that he actually did it.
he got you, the most stunning woman he’d ever seen, to notice him. and more than that, he didn’t even have to try that hard. it was almost like you were the one plotting on him!
when you said later, armin automatically assumed you meant whenever you remembered him. he still saw himself as an afterthought, even though your kind voice still echoed in his memory. but apparently, later actually meant 4 p.m.
[name]: hiiii armin!!
you: hi [name]! it’s good to hear from you :)
[name]: omg yay i wasn’t expecting you to text back so fast :O
[name]: alsooo do you think you can help me w something sometime this week? i just can’t figure it out on my own and i figured i should ask the smartest person i know
you: oh yeah, of course! whenever you have time, i’ll probably be available!
at the time, armin was entirely oblivious to whatever the something was. he assumed it would be a math assignment, or maybe something to do with the poetry class he knew you were in from jean.
out of all things it possibly could’ve been, he expected virtually everything besides this.
“you… what?” armin swallowed the lump in his throat. he was sitting cross legged on your bed, watching you with a nervous gaze.
“yeah!” you replied, all too cheerfully. “i just figured since you’re so smart, you could help me! plus, aren’t you pretty good at anatomy?”
the words coming out of your mouth weren’t inherently sinister. but your tone, paired with your earlier statement, made the situation so sultry. “you don’t have to, though. i can probably find something online, or maybe i could ask jean—”
“i’ll do it!” he blurted out. he could feel his face flush red with your eyes locked on him, even though he was staring at your hello kitty blanket under him. “i’ll try my best to… help you cum.”
that’s how armin ended up under you as you bounced on his cock. there were little opportunities to doubt himself as you essentially pounced on him. you could tell he wouldn’t be small, but you definitely didn’t expect him to be packing.
“holy shit,” you had gasped. “you’re fucking huge.”
if he was starting to feel confident before, he felt more sure than ever now. he watched your tits bounce, directly in front of his face, yet he was still scared to touch. immediately after he started thinking about reaching out, as if you could read his mind, you grabbed one of his hands off your waist and placed it to cup your boob. he whimpered at the warmth of your chest, glasses fogging up.
“f-feels s’good,” armin whined. he was starting to gain confidence in his actions, leaning up slightly to wrap his lips around your nipple.
you moaned, borderline pornographically, at the sudden wetness of his mouth against your skin. he took that as encouragement, sucking and drooling all over you. you barely noticed it when your hips started to stutter, but armin did.
“are you close?” he asked, whimpers starting to catch in his throat. when you nodded, he whispered something you almost didn’t catch.
“am i being a good boy?”
he didn’t think you possibly could’ve heard it (especially not over how vocal the both of you were being), but your response almost made him cum by itself. “yes! fuuuck, being such a good boy for me!”
his whimpers increased tenfold. when your hips rolled too good, he moaned, particularly loud and desperate.
“‘m so close! please, i need to cum!”
“not yet—ah!—wait,” it was almost impossible to understand you but he got the message.
armin was trying. he really was. but his patience was growing thinner by the second. without thinking, he thrusted up. he needed to make you cum—needed to make you feel as good as you made him feel. it seemed to be working, as your mindless babbling became more incomprehensible.
“g-gonna cum,” you warned, but all he heard was permission to finally let go. both of your orgasms came crashing down, white hot pleasure blurring your vision as you collapsed onto armin’s chest.
you were still worked up, but hearing his heartbeat helped to cool you down. you heard a small laugh bubbling up, looking up.
“you didn’t need my help to cum, huh?”
“nope. i just really, really, wanted to fuck you.” 】
𝓭𝐚𝐰𝐧'𝐬 notes !
DEBUT POSTTT yay ^_^ (there’s so much more to come btw) (already working on art major jean shenanigans…) (nerdmin will be elaborated on!!!)
my first time posting on tumblr and i’m acting like it’s my first day of kindergartenHaha
trying my very best to not continue rereading this bc i hate it more and more every time </33
ngl I really enjoyed the new aang movie. no spoiler talk on this post but yeah. in all other circumstances i don’t care much for leaks. i do feel bad for the animators who worked on it having it just out there with no theatrical release.
summary · a typical night of lovemaking with your boyfriend takes an untypical turn when you decide to accept rather than decline an incoming call from his best friend.
content · NSFW MDNI, dom!bottom!reader, sub!top!armin (ft. the amazon position, my beloved<3), sub!eren, a pinch of eremin, phone sex (sort of), praise, degradation, humiliation, elements of exhibitionism and voyeurism, pet names (darling, sweet thing, baby), laughter, banter and bad flirting during sex, intended as an armin x reader NOT an eren x reader (reader just bullies eren the entire time lol), reader and armin fuck nasty while eren gets off to it basically
wc · 4.7k
notes · hello! i haven’t written smut in a hot minute lol. this has been sat in my drafts for months but i finished the rest in the last, like, day lmao. anyway, this is DISGUSTINGLY self-indulgent but i hope you enjoy! <3
Armin’s phone buzzes on the bedside table, screen lighting up with the name of the caller.
Usually, he is always quick to answer, only one, two rings max, but that’s a little hard to do considering you’re currently fucking any and all sense of self right out of his body.
Nonplussed, you reach for the vibrating phone, a smile forming when you read the name of the caller. You slow your movements to a stop too, which finally pulls Armin out of the foggy daze he’s in, enough for him to recognise his ringtone.
Before he can voice the question, you tell him, “It’s Eren.”
Armin swallows the drool that’s gathered in his mouth. “I’ll– I’ll have to call him back.” He gently squeezes your thighs, bracketing his own, and groans. “Later,” he adds softly as his eyes flutter shut, unable to stay open.
Alluring as your boyfriend is, so vulnerable and open, with his sweaty skin shining like honey in the dim light of your bedroom, your mind is unable to resist wandering... Replaying all the conversations you’ve had with Armin about your shared attraction to Eren, the transparency in Eren’s own reciprocated feelings, the lingering stares, the hard gulps, the ‘platonic’ flirting...
Your fingers tiptoe up his chest, a playful gesture, not uncommon for even the bedroom, but still it piques Armin’s interest enough for him to reopen his eyes. “Why later?” you muse, grinning like a fox. “Why not now?”
As if processing your words, Armin blinks, hard, then parts his lips to reply, but words fail to reach his brain, much less his mouth. And so he stares at you, like the unspoken answer couldn’t be any more obvious because it couldn’t. Armin is quite clearly busy right now, and he’s sure that whatever reason Eren has for calling him can afford to wait, at least until he’s– well, finished.
...But you don’t seem to agree.
You go ahead and offer the phone to him as if it’s commonplace to do so in these circumstances, and Armin’s eyes widen, his lips part and close again, but he makes no further effort to protest or stop you.
“It’d be rude to keep him waiting,” you say, “and if you don’t hurry, I’ll just pick up for you.”
A few seconds, a pause, drifts into place then; a chance to decline the call or say the safeword or just do anything to show that he doesn’t want to continue — but Armin just chews on his bottom lip, eyes casting down, indigo under the shadow of his lashes, and it’s all the answer you need. You’ve always loved that about him; he may look and act like a blushing virgin, but here, with you, he can’t help being your dirty little pervert.
With a satisfied smirk, you accept the call and hover it over Armin’s ear. Your boyfriend catches his breath, but as soon as he opens his mouth to speak, you’re resuming your actions from before and knocking that breath back out again.
“Fucking finally,” Eren’s playfully exasperated voice crackles through the phone speaker. “Thought you were never gonna pick up, dude. What took you so long? You always answer on the second ring.”
Armin glances at you, as though you might be able to supply him with a believable enough excuse for his behaviour. Despite those puppy eyes, you know he doesn’t need your help — not that you’d give it to him if he did, though. You enjoy seeing him struggle a bit sometimes. How could you not, when he always makes the cutest expressions? And besides, diamonds can only form under pressure, right? So all you do is give him a small, encouraging flick of your head. Go on. Answer him.
Armin takes a deep breath. “S–sorry,” he starts. His sweaty palms nervously massage the flesh around your hips. “My phone was, um, in– in the other room.”
“More like in another building,” Eren jokes and chuckles to himself. Armin probably would have laughed too, if he wasn’t so busy trying to keep his voice in. “Anyway, I just wanted to know if you’re still down for drinks on Friday? We never actually made official plans and usually you get back to me by now but– well, I know you’ve been busy so I thought I’d, y’know, call and check.”
You notice Armin regaining his bearings at the reminder of his plans with Eren, and out of jealousy or sadism, or perhaps a bit of both, you lift yourself up, until the tip of Armin’s cock is on the brink of slipping out of you, and forcefully drop back down.
Your poor boy barely manages to capture the noise he makes behind his hand in time, the other leaping up to claw at your shoulder. His face screws up, eyes and lips squeezing tightly, but you don’t stop there. You lean over to his sensitive neck to nip and kiss the already marked-up skin, all the while making fast, shallow thrusts. The lewd sound of your motions, definitely audible to Armin and potentially to Eren, makes Armin’s cheeks fill with blood. Behind his hand, he suppresses another sound.
“Hello? You still there?”
You’re lucky enough, for whoever’s sake, that Eren is as oblivious as he is.
“Yes,” Armin says, trying to stabilise his breathing. “Mm– mhm! Friday sounds g–good, yeah.”
Unfortunately, Eren is not oblivious enough.
“Is everything, uh... okay? On your end?” Eren asks, and perhaps to anyone else, it would have sounded like a genuine question, but having known Eren for a while now, almost as long as Armin, you notice the uncharacteristic quiver in his voice — one that seems less concerned and more nervous.
You hand Armin the phone then, confusing him for a moment as to why you suddenly decided to give it to him. He’s about to speak into it, to respond to Eren, but that’s when you lift up again and drag Armin down the bed by the legs, a faint noise of surprise escaping him, before raising them up so his knees are pressed to his chest.
He tries to regain his composure despite the compromising position. “Uh, yeah, I’m–” But then you’re sinking back down on him completely, and he moans out at a volume that a part of him hopes Eren doesn’t hear — but that another, more significant part of him hopes he does.
“I’m okay,” he finishes, a little high-toned and not much louder than his moan from seconds ago.
“Are you sure?” Eren’s voice cracks. He hurriedly clears his throat. “Cause you, um, you– you just sound...” He laughs awkwardly and you know in an instant that you’ve got him right where you want him; that his relaxed demeanour is being tested, chipped away at by Armin’s suspicious sounds and staggered speech.
As if on cue — you still aren’t sure if it was on purpose or not — Armin moans again, louder this time, so that it’s painfully unmissable. The curse word Eren mutters under his breath right after is a little less unmissable, but you’re much too hyper-aware from the adrenaline and endorphins to let it slip past you.
You take the phone back again. “Pretty, right?” you say, right into the mic, and you physically feel the way Armin shudders at your intervention, how his sweaty skin grows goosebumps all over.
There’s silence on the other end, but you aren’t so easily discouraged.
“Don’t back out now, Eren,” you insist. “Go on, finish your sentence. You were about to say that Armin sounds pretty, right?”
He remains quiet for a few seconds longer. Only his breathing is audible, so you can hear the way it shakes, the way he licks his lips. “Something like that,” he mutters, voice dry.
You hum. “And I’ll bet his sounds have made you really hard, huh?” The muscles in Armin’s thighs helplessly jump under your weight. “Bet you wanna touch yourself to them, don’t you, Eren?”
On the opposite end of the phone, Eren’s breath hitches. His face is unbearably hot, like lava under his skin. He and Armin are close, sure. Always have been. They’ve done some things together before, when drunk, lonely or just curious, but this? This is different. You’re here now, and something about your presence has Eren’s thoughts fizzling into static.
“I asked you a question, Eren,” you say, stern yet somehow casual, bored, as if such authoritative phrases came naturally to you — and suddenly Eren is hearing Armin’s name in place of his, imagining you and Armin in different scenarios, in ways he knows he should never imagine his best friend and his partner, yet which could never be so vivid with anybody else. Images of you fucking Armin, pulling his hair, looking down at him with a misleading merciful gaze; Armin tied up, gagged and blindfolded, with erotic toys strapped to his body, like the girls in those porn video thumbnails Eren typically avoids; tears on pale cheeks, big blue eyes with fair eyelashes, a pink tongue and two fingers sliding across it, deeper and deeper into a gagging, o-shaped mouth.
Then those eyes melt into sea green, tears form on dark lashes, slide down skin slightly more olive-toned, past a jaw that’s more defined...
Eren combs his fingers through his loose hair, trying to catch the breath he didn’t realise was getting away from him.
“Are you gonna be a good boy and answer me?” you urge further at Eren’s skeptically long silence, with a smirk that’s wide enough to be heard in your voice. “Or should I just hang up and leave you to take care of that boner all on your own?”
Eren lets out a small — very, very small — and involuntarily whine, so subtle that if it wasn’t for the vibrations in the back of his throat, he might not have realised he made it, or that it came from him at all. He wants to argue — “Boner? What are you talking about? Don’t be so full of yourself.” — but he doesn’t need to glance down to know you’re right.
“D–don’t hang up,” Eren says, curt and a little unsteady. Humiliation rises in him like hot air at the sound of his own desperation, oblivious to how he’s playing right into your hand.
You smile, absentmindedly caressing Armin’s shoulders and torso, a wordless way of reminding him you’re still paying attention to him, but also a silent demand to stop squirming. “So bossy,” you say, like you’re scolding a child. “A ‘please’ would be nice, you know.”
The true nature of your words swells under the surface — an underlying threat. Not everything is as it seems in the world, and this is not just a suggestion or a statement, nor a throwaway thought that you happened to voice out loud. This is an order.
Whether or not Eren obeys, however, is a different story. He casts his gaze down to his lap, where the outline of his hard cock is visible through his sweatpants, along with a dot of precum, soaked through two layers and much too soon for what can be considered normal. He wonders what you would say at such a sight, what kind of expression you’d make — but that simple wonder is really just yearning in disguise, and Eren decides then, that complying is the only way he can get remotely close to satisfying that yearning.
He couldn’t disobey if he wanted to — and he really didn’t want to.
So, “Please,” he finally says. Less reluctantly this time.
“Atta boy!” you chirp, though only in a partially condescending tone. You’re sure that given Eren’s personality, he’d typically be fighting back a little more, flashing a bit more attitude or snark, but — whether it’s you, Armin, the situation or some combination of those things — something must have his head too clouded with arousal to try denying himself this.
Beneath you, Armin whines.
You turn your focus back to him. “Is my boy getting impatient? Or jealous, maybe?” you tease, caressing the apple of his cheek with the backs of your knuckles.
His eyes shutter closed as he leans into your touch and whines again, further back in his throat, but loud enough that you’re certain his phone still picks up on it. “Please,” he says, delicately, as if trying to find his voice, or perhaps the courage to speak at all.
Armin is unfortunately your weak spot and with Eren at your disposal, to mess with and be cruel to, you lack the heart to tease your lover any further.
“I’m sorry for neglecting you, darling.” You lean down and kiss him gently. “I’m here, I’m listening. Tell me what you need.”
His face glows pink; he hesitates.
You catch on.
“It’s okay, don’t be shy,” you soothe him, petting his hair. With your other hand, you make the calculated decision to bring the device closer to your mouth. “Eren needs to know how to be a good, obedient boy, after all–” You trail your fingers down the contours of Armin’s cheek to his chin and tenderly hold it– “and who better to demonstrate than you, my sweet thing?”
Across the line, the breath suspended in Eren’s throat, that he’s been holding back in fear of interrupting the scene he feels so ashamed for listening to, suddenly sputters out of him like gas out of a clogged car exhaust. Because, fuck, he was not prepared to hear you say his name just then. To suddenly make it personal; to swing open the door on this private, intimate, closed-door moment between you and your boyfriend, his best friend.
He wasn’t but he should have been. He’s heard and witnessed enough about your dynamic with Armin, as well as fallen victim to your friendly bullying and teasing himself, enough to know you’re not somebody who passes up an opportunity to see a person scramble and fluster. He should’ve known better than to think he could get away with being a passive player in this game of yours; that it was only a matter of time before you dragged him back, by the collar and leash you managed to lasso around his mind in the short duration of this call, and threw him out on the playing field as an active participant instead of a mere spectator.
Sure, you can’t actually see each other, but the phones in your hands are a constant reminder that every word comes with a plural audience and every miniscule sound may or may not be audible to the other side. That alone does its wonders, but here you are the gamemaster and you wield the power to do more; to take matters into your own hands, to bend, knead and shape them to your will. And you’re no amateur; you know exactly where to sink your fingers, how much pressure to apply and when to press harder or let go, so that you have not one, but two pliant putties in your palm.
“Now...” You sigh and shift your position on Armin’s cock. It garners the exact reaction you were aiming for — a warbled moan — and one that will surely leave its mark on the third pair of ears in the room with you. “Let me and Eren hear what you need, baby. Show us how a good boy uses his words.”
Armin sucks in his bottom lip and inhales a steadying breath through his nose. “I...” He swallows. “I want you to move.” His eyes, though hooded, noticeably drop to where the two of you are connected. “I want you to– to fuck me ‘til I can’t think. Please?” His voice is high, desperate, quivering. Clammy hands paw at your thighs. “I just can’t– I can’t take it. I can’t take waiting anymore, I need– I need you to fuck me and make me come, I need– y–you, I need you, please.”
A shaky groan interrupts through Armin’s phone.
You smirk, let the noise steep in the silence you make for it, to marinate in your own satisfaction, so he might think, for just a moment, that you didn’t notice, before leaning into the speaker.
“Eren,” you say innocently, and you think you hear a sharp breath in response, “I hope you’re not touching yourself right now.”
Nothing. Only background noise.
“You’re not, are you? You know that would be bad, right?” you continue. “And worse, if you lie to me about it.”
All you hear is a quiet exhale and the distant hum of what might be the AC.
You lower the phone. “Tell him why it would be bad, Armin.”
Armin’s eyes never once leave yours as he answers, “Because you didn’t give permission.”
“That’s right.” You smile at your boy and stroke his hair in approval. “Be honest then, Eren,” you resume. “Were you? Touching yourself?”
As you wait, you watch anticipation, glimmering with an edge of hope, grow in Armin’s eyes.
A heavy breath. Then, a low, gravelly, guilty, “Yeah.”
You emphasise your disappointment with a long sigh. “Mm. See, this is exactly why Armin has to set an example for you,” you reprimand, your hand still brushing over messy blond hair. “He’s doing you a favour and you’re not even paying attention? Just getting distracted by your cock like that’s all you can think about?” You drop a lock of hair that you were twirling around your finger. “It probably is, isn’t it?” you scoff. “God, you’re so fucking pathetic.”
Excitement passes through Eren like a tidal wave. His hand is still resting over his crotch, fingertips over his balls and palm under the head of his cock. He doesn’t quite understand why he’s so smitten by your words nor why he craves to hear more of them, but he does. And he’s willing to chase after it — to do anything, really — if it means he’ll get more.
“Hands off your dick, Eren.”
Another order, this one large and unsympathetic, leaving no room for doubt or defiance.
His hand retreats, shamefully, as if you were really there, as if you had caught him red-handed with your own two eyes and are now observing him to make sure he does as he’s told.
“I don’t care how hard you get or how bad you want to come. Your full, undivided attention stays on this phone call and nothing else,” you explain, as if you’re just talking about the weather. “Have I made myself clear?”
Eren swallows and hums his affirmation before quickly correcting himself.
“Yes.”
And unbeknownst to you, he has to cut himself off at the polite honorific that almost follows, the same way a person might catch themself about to call their teacher ‘Mom’. Somewhere in the firm, instructional tone and the ease with which you hand out commands, it felt like a natural addition, but not one that Eren, nor even his already dwindling dignity and pride, are ready for.
But rather than bestowing him the praise, the infamous pet name that you’ve been taunting him with, for his agreeable behaviour, you grace Eren with no more than a simple clinical, “Good,” and an air of finality followed by a thunk as you set the phone on the nightstand.
When you sit back to face Armin, with his hair all mussed, cheeks flushed and lips tinted red from constant worrying between his teeth, you’re unable to suppress your grin.
“Hey,” you whisper.
Armin grins back, full of teeth and that pinch in the corners of his eyes that you love. “Hi,” he returns with a chuckle. You steal a quick kiss amidst the soft laughter before hooking your thumbs behind the back of Armin’s knees and rocking forward and up. You both sigh with the movement, then again, when you move backward and down.
Armin’s head lolls back into the pillows, unfurling a column of pale skin before you. “Fuck,” he gasps out. His hand slaps down over one of yours and the other digs blunt nails into your waist.
You move again. Faster.
“Oh, fuck–”
Again. Harder.
Another cry, another expletive.
Hearing, seeing, experiencing your boyfriend rapt with ecstasy and useless to conceal it fills you with a glee that borders on manic.
“I love your reactions so much, Armin,” you rasp; a confession you’ve made countless times, every time, but that never fails to make your beloved blush. “And I love that they’re all mine. You’re so perfect, I love you so much.”
His next stream of sounds melts on your tongue as you kiss him eagerly. “Always so pretty and vocal,” you say in the breaths between yours and Armin’s panting mouths. “So good for me, aren’t you? Only for me. Only me and Eren get to know you like this.”
You grind down into Armin’s erratic thrusts until you’re all but fused together each time you meet. Your hands roam; crawling up to cradle his jaw, dragging down to toy with his nipples, jumping to his legs and pushing until he’s folded under your weight and clutching your hair in a wanton fist.
You reluctantly part from him to return to a more comfortable position above him while Armin’s hands clamber to secure his knees in place for you — always aiming to heed your every whim, even the ones you don’t voice. Your own hands layer over his as you slow down, drawing circles with your pelvis. Steady, smooth, sensual. Savouring the feeling of being so close to him.
You long to be closer, still.
So you move yourself up, off his cock, push his legs down and back onto the mattress, help him sit up. The entire time, Armin is just gazing up at you with glazed-over yet still-adoring eyes, up until you’re straddling his lap and he registers what you’re doing. Then he becomes your grateful devotee, chanting a breathy chorus of ‘Yes’s and ‘Thank you’s and encasing you in his arms as you welcome him back inside you. You hush his sweet cacophony with the hungry embrace of your lips, catching whimpers and fragments of love declarations, as you ride him with fervour. Every so often, you slow down and tease, just to prolong your unified bliss, but the sporadic fluctuations drive Armin insane.
He makes a noise like he’s overjoyed and on the verge of sobbing at the same time. “You’re– fuck, you’re so good to me, I love you, I– ah, shit, I love you so much!”
In Eren’s grip, the back of his phone is damp with his sweat. He’s addicted to the sound of you and Armin, the words you share, the moans you make together. He wants you both so carnally yet he couldn’t be happier than where he is now, forced to clench slippery fingers around the fabric of his sweatpants, far from where he’s aching for relief. Entirely dependent on his imagination to pair images with what he can hear. It’s cruel and heavenly. The more it drags on, the more he’s convinced he could come right there in his briefs. Untouched.
“Can– can I come? Please? I’m so close, I– I’m losing my fucking mind,” Armin babbles against your neck.
You nuzzle his temple while your fingers rake through his undercut. “Me too, let’s– let’s come together, okay?”
Armin nods frantically against your skin until tears breach the barrier of his waterline and he’s coming inside you with a muffled moan. You’re right there with him, head thrown back as your hands form fists in Armin’s hair. His arms, enveloped all the way around you, squeeze you from the tension of his full-body orgasm before falling slack at your sides.
As Armin slumps against the headboard, you catch your breath and reach for the phone. Over the sounds of pleasure earlier, you couldn’t tell if the line was silent or if your little voyeur of a friend had hung up. You’re pleased to see his name still aglow on the screen.
“Enjoy the show?” you quip. Though the unfitting conversational lilt to your voice throws Eren for a loop, that’s not why he chooses to remain quiet. Compliant as he’s been, he refuses to indulge your ego any more than he has to — but you expected that, so you simply move on to the question you did want answered.
“Did you keep your hands off your cock like I told you to?”
Armin perks up at that, curious as you are about what the answer will be. With bated breath, you both wait, but the tense silence is disturbed by Armin’s phone vibrating. You are about to ignore it until you recognise the sender of the message — and notice that it contains an attached image. Your eyebrows arch up your forehead at the bold gesture, but you tap the intriguing notification nonetheless.
Nestled just below the last exchange of innocent messages with his best friend, is a photograph of Eren Jaeger’s hard cock, straining against grey boxer briefs and lewdly framed by a circular patch of damp fabric.
“This is what it looks like... without you touching it?” you say, wearing a shit-eating smirk that is sure to translate into your tone.
“Yes,” Eren hisses through gritted teeth; a hybrid of embarrassed frustration and the ever-present need for release.
You giggle and show Armin the photo. “He sent us a fucking dick pic, Armin, can you believe that? Our little show must’ve really done a number on him, wow.”
The subject of your appraisal sighs and shakes his head at your mocking antics, but by the size of his pupils you can tell he isn’t unaffected by the image.
You take another look at it, but the most you feel is amused. “Barely even touched himself and he’s got a precum stain that big, that’s hilarious,” you snicker.
As though he can sense Eren’s humiliation through the phone (it’s quite palpable, really), Armin mercifully defends him. “He’s been good though, right?”
Disappointed by Armin ruining your fun, you pull a face. “I guess.” But then, struck with an idea, it morphs into an impish grin and you lean forward, hand on his chest, as you exaggeratedly purr, “But not as good as youuu, babycakes~”
“Pfft!” Armin pushes you away half-heartedly. You relent and manoeuvre around him. “God, that is terrible. It’s like you’re not even trying,” he jokingly criticises, but cups your face as you lean in to kiss him anyway. You decide to nip his bottom lip and tug at it, still feeling playful, but when you part, Armin is staring at you with an intensity that warms you more than a harmless joke should. You kiss him again, a little harder, a little longer. Breathing a little heavier.
“Can...”
Right. You almost forgot you have company.
With much reluctance, you tear your focus away from your boyfriend. “Mm, what is it?”
Eren hesitates for a second before asking, “Can I, um, touch now?” His desperation is evident in the gruff quality of his voice. “Please?”
All too familiar with what you’re like, Armin gives you a pointed look and mouthes, ‘Be nice.’
Rolling your eyes, you take a moment to think, then say, “Send us a video of you edging yourself three times and I’ll think about it,” before tacking on a quick, “See you Friday!” and abruptly ending the call.
Armin stares at you in shock for a few seconds, then shouts your name scoldingly. “I told you to be nice!”
You gasp and cover your mouth in faux-alarm. “No way, is that what you said? I totally thought you were saying ‘mean ice’, that’s so crazy how that got lost in translation...” You keep your mouth covered to hide your growing smile.
Armin frowns at you, or tries to at least; he ends up smiling too. “You’re so mean sometimes.” He lightly pinches your cheek. You swat away his hand. “I ought to keep you in check more.”
You scoff and snake your arms around Armin’s neck. “You wouldn’t dare. I know you like it when I’m mean.”
Armin mutters a small, “Only in moderation,” that is meant to be assertive but gets lost somewhere under the scope of your bewitching gaze. Even though you’ve been dating for years, he still falters in moments like these. Too adorable.
Giggling, you seize his lips in a kiss — one that is only the prelude to the sequel of your passionate night ahead.
nerd!armin is the type to keep you in a deep mating press, churning your tummy and reaching deep, before pulling out and munching on yah pussy just before you cum!
armin with a breeding kink. the thought of armin losing his mind because all he wants to do is fill you up with his cum. adding to that, his submissive tendencies that makes him beg for you to let him do it.
the soft plea that leaves his lips as you keep bouncing up and down in his lap is downright sinful. your cunt pulsing with a need to keep him inside of you.
“please…l-let me— please.” he begs. tears forming in his waterline as his hands grip your waist.
the answering smirk you give him is what he deems as torture. he knows he’s being denied the pleasure but it doesn’t make him want it any less. he’s desperate to cum. desperate for you.
you slow your pace, your hips meeting his as you clench around his length. “you’re doing so good for me though.” you coo, almost pouting in front of him. your hands tangle in his hair for a brief moment before tugging softly on the blonde tresses. “can’t you hold on a little longer?”
he wants to but he can’t. the need, the desire, his insatiable need to cum was far too much to handle. his hands grip your waist tightly as he apologizes softly — his lust clouding his judgement as he puts you on your back, pinning your legs to your chest as he looks you over. “i-i can’t help it.”
you look up in surprise as armin sets his own pace; chasing after his own pleasure. your fingers dig into the sheets, knuckles turning white from how you held on. your jaw slack from the immense pleasure coursing through your body.
armin in the center of it all.
he thrusts so deeply that you could almost feel it passing your cervix. his hair sticking to his forehead as he grips your waist even tighter that you were sure would bruise by the morning. words barely left his mouth, nothing but a chorus of whimpers and sobs as he chased after his high.
“armin!” you shout. the feeling of your orgasm approaching faster than before, the build up, the way armin looked above you. the soft spoken plea that left armin, his small voice asking if he could come.
that’s all it took. one simple ‘yes’ and armin’s dick twitched as he felt himself coming inside you. warm and wet as he kept filling you up. his gaze was unfocused and glassy as he stared down at your pussy — glistening with your juices and his cum.
you could barely catch your breath before armin pulled out and latched his mouth on your cunt. your hands fly to his hair, gripping softly as broken whine leaves your lips.
his tongue lapping up every single drop, leaving you overstimulated but pleased all in the same. his tongue flicked your clit and your back bowed as you came on his tongue, coating the bottom half of his face with your slick.
you felt him place a kiss on your clit once more before fully pulling away. you let out a giggle and pulled him down for a kiss. you pulled away first to make him look at you — the dazed look was still there but he had a smug grin on his face as well.
——
a/n: i genuinely don’t know where this came from but like yeah. also, hey lmaoo🫶🏽 of course i come back with something armin themed like…
okay i feel a lack of mean/bully dom drabbles and yk im obsessed with armin & yuta (imo two sides of the same coin) soooo depending on how i feel this week for spring break, expect at least SOMETHING for either one of them (tho i really wanna do both). i need a writing warm up after MONTHS of nothing.
also it’s almost 2am and im being a gooner on ao3 yippeeee
“baby,” yuta rasped, as long, shaky fingers squeezed on your bouncing hips. tethering his soul to the sinful way in which you came down on him. thighs smacking, hips grinding. you rode his lap like you were trying to squeeze out every semblance of his sanity.
“just like that— ah, so perfect,” pale lips pressed together. dark hair spread out on the wrinkled pillows as his head fell back. tossing with the bed that jumped with every clamour of your hips.
the epitome of beauty, an angel, a devil, both— when you squeezed around his cock and slicked his balls all messy. when your pretty nails dug on his shoulders and collarbones. when your gorgeous eyes dazed down at him through your fluttering lashes.
“mm, feels good yu? am I doing good for you?” you crooned, slowing your hips into a lazy, nasty drag that pulled a pitched moan out of him.
“so good— so, so good. hah. how'd I get so lucky?” he smiled up at you. through glossy eyes and trembling lips.
his head crooked so he pressed a kiss to your inner wrist. worshipping your veins, your blood, your pulse that allowed you to be here.
wrapped so perfect and velvet around his cock— squeezing every vein and kissing his tip with whatever darling spot you desired. working him to a high that had him clinging to you. gripping onto your very soul with his tightening fingers and every thrum of his dick.
cold hands smoothed over you. up your thighs, caressing your hips, worshipping your sides and cradling your breasts. he thumbed your nipples in tender swirls. in time with your hips that began to stutter.
“no, no. come on,” he ushered, bucking up once for encouragement. “you can do it, angel. don't stop now.”
his voice thinned. sucking in a breath as he watched your pace go sloppy. clumsy and overstimulated— but you were still smiling through your needy moans.
“yu babbyyyy,” you whined, playful. as you hunched over him, nails scratching on his chest and lips ghosting his. a promise. a tease.
“can't help it. feels so good. just gonna have to deal with it, hm?”
“you're a curse, you know that?” he returned your smile, despite the flicker in his dead eyes.
his hands slipped back to your ass. squeezing. a pout settled on his lips. “my poor pretty girl. so worked up. . ."
shlap!
pale skin smacked into yours. wet, rough, and strikingly abrupt— you squealed. slumping over your boyfriend who squished on the plush of your ass and rolled his hips up. deep and dirty. smooching his tip into a crook that curved your spine and shook your thighs.
“oh fuck— hngh.”
“don't worry, angel.”
yuta crooned to your ear as he pressed a deep kiss to it. arms hugging around your bouncing body tight. hips that once laid limp now pistoning in feral thrusts up into you. mean, merciless and nothing like the way he melted beneath you just a moment before. “I'll help. 'cause I love you so—”
his pelvis crammed! up into you. rutting rough and ragged on your cervix. slacking your jaw and blurring your vision.
“mngh— yuta!”
“— sooo much.” he didn't need to grin, not with the devil in that smile.
soft hands squeezed your thighs together. squished them tight to put pressure on his blur of thrusts. faster, harder, rougher than your sinful bounces. slapping his balls on your puffy pussy and milking your slick all over the sheets. splattering it over your thighs.
the lights flickered above. his cursed energy surged his pounds into a blinding prowess that sent your eyes rolling and tongue drooling. spluttering his name in a pitiful, ah ah ah!
“aww,” he cooed, pouting. he had the audacity to flash you those puppy eyes, like he wasn't pummeling your pussy into a creamy mess. “what was that, lovely girl? I can't hear you.”
“f-fuck— fuck you—!”
“now that's not very nice.”
he hummed, pale hand slipping up to pat on your ass that he chased ripples into with his merciless hips. “here I am making you cum so sooo good and you're being so mean.”
his cold touch slipped forward, thumb ghosting your swollen clit. drawing a whimper from your trembling lips as you flicked your head back.
“yuta. . . please, wait I can't—”
“sshh,” he hushed, swirling his thumb on the twitching nub with a feather touch, already sending your lashes fluttering while his batted up at you. innocent. infuriating.
“I can be mean, too.”
and then he flicked your clit.
pinched it hard between his fingers and rubbed it into a spasm that threw your spine into an arch and squeezed your pussy into a messy splutter.
all while he surged you higher into euphoria by plunging his cock up in a sharp stroke— humping on your cervix to spread your orgasm into a nervous wreck. trembling your body into a ruinous tremor.
“f-fuck— fuck fuck, ah.”
as you tumbled through your shattering climax, his hand snaked to yours. threading your fingers together. holding you tight. close. as he thumbed on your promise ring and rode out your high with tender praises.
“thereeee you go,” he blissfully sighed, his own eyes fluttering as he eyed the sticky mess between your thighs. “such a lovely girl with a lovely pussy.”
cw: recreational drug use (yknow me), umm greening out, reader is a loser sorry self indulgent, reader is fem + black coded, kys is used lightheartedly, reader is a perv, finger sucking, fingering,
starting track…
↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺
holy fuck, this bad.
like. really bad.
you should’ve just gone straight home like you planned. maybe grabbed some discount sushi from the place next door that always tastes faintly of fridge, taken a shower that was maybe a little too hot and a little too long, put on the new season of bridgerton you’re not even that invested in, not finished your coursework, and fallen asleep facedown with your laptop open next to your pillow.
but you can’t help yourself. you know that.
and eren definitely fucking knew that.
out of everyone who’s cycled through the store, the gap-year kids, the christmas temps, the mums picking up extra shifts, the summer temps, the guy who got fired for stealing phone chargers. eren yeager is easily one of your favourite coworkers.
he’s kinda like you, in a way.
underpaid overworked college student. unserious to a fault. hitting your vape in the stockroom while you’re both “checking if we have that item in stock.” always showing up ten minutes late and clocking out exactly on time even if there’s a fattass line to the register circling the store.
but you like eren. he’s a bit of you, yknow.
you get on stupidly well, same music, same humor, same mutual understanding that if he takes the trash out you’ll cover for him when he disappears for twenty minutes.
he’s cool.
but you’re rarely ever scheduled together. in fact, you haven’t seen him in like three weeks. so when you dragged yourself into the store that morning, only five minutes late, already dreading this fucking shift, and you see eren fucking yeager clocking in, and he's already grinning from ear to ear because you both have the same clock out time.
oh.
we’re so back.
and you, you and your energy drink for breakfast. you and you’re low blood sugar, and your empty bank account, and your pathological inability to decline bad ideas, you should’ve said no.
but you didn’t.
of course you didn't.
and now you’re in eren’s garden, cross-legged in a plastic chair that sinks slightly to one side, passing a joint back into the rotation, already stoned as fuck. the grass is a little too long. the air smells like weed and damp soil and whatever his next door neighbour is cooking.
you thought your tolerance was better than this.
clearly you overestimated yourself.
fuuuuck.
and this guy, connie?, yeah, that’s his name, one of eren’s roommates, has been talking your fucking ear off for what genuinely feels like a geological era. he’s crouched in front of you, elbows on his knees, hands moving while he talks, animated as hell, like he’s telling the funniest story ever recorded in human history.
it's like, you can hear his voice, i'm sure the whole block can hear his voice, but you have no fucking clue what he's actually saying.
it’s like sound through water. syllables bending. vowels stretching. you catch fragments — bro, and then, no way — but the meaning slides off your brain before it can stick.
you’re nodding anyway. because your mind feels like its about to slip right outta your ears, and your brain is screaming act normal act normal act normal.
and, ugh, mikasa is sitting to your left on the low brick ledge edging the patio, posture perfect even while faded, dark hair tucked behind one ear. she's insanely beautiful, it makes you wonder why she's dating a freak with no brains like eren. and eren himself is sprawled in a lawn chair opposite you, ankle hooked over knee, joint dangling between his fingers, looking insufferably pleased with himself for orchestrating this entire situation.
and you, well... you are not in your body correctly.
everything feels both too far away and too close. your limbs are heavy but also floating slightly off delay, like there’s a half-second lag between thought and movement. the world has that soft, rounded blur at the edges, porch light halos smeared gold across your vision.
also everything is spinning. but also squeezing. it's weird to describe and it makes your head hurt.
and there’s an eyelash in the corner of your left eye. you can feel it. a microscopic needle of irritation. normally you’d just rub it out but your motor skills are out the window. your hand lifts, misses, drops back to your thigh. tragic. and connie is still talking.
and that’s when you see him.
armin.
warm porch light pours over him from above, catching in pale strands of hair that fall across his forehead. shorter than you expected, soft and neat around his ears, but still light enough that it glows. he looks like an angel. he leans his head out the back door like he’s just checking the weather, one hand braced on the frame, and says something to eren, you don’t know what.
all you know is he is the most beautiful creature you’ve ever seen.
and you have to have him.
the next thing you know everyone’s standing up. chairs scraping, joints stubbed, connie clapping his hands once like a fucking transition cue. you scramble to follow, dignity hanging by a thread. walking requires active concentration now and you are manually placing each foot. heel, toe. heel, toe.
the kitchen is darker than outside, which feels illegal. your pupils are still porch-dilated, so everything inside is murky shapes and motion. voices overlap, eren, connie, cabinet doors, the fridge seal suction-popping open.
your stomach reacts before your nose has registered the smell.
a deep growl that cuts through the noise of eren and his roommates. silence drops for half a second. and every turns to look, at what? something behind you. you turn as well. there’s nothing there. only door. oh. they’re looking at you. oh lol. okay. okay. social protocol. smile? laugh? you bare your teeth in what you hope is a human expression. nice. cool. normal. what was —PIZZA???
god bless eren yeager. he appears at your elbow and wordlessly hands you a slice. deep pan. obscene thickness. stuffed crust swollen with molten cheese. oh, the sweet love you would make to him.
once you've eaten you actually feel… better?
isn’t that funny. the weed wasn’t making you crazy. you just needed food.
good to know.
you swallow, wipe your thumb across the corner of your mouth.
but back to business—
“who was that?” you say, you’re voice still slurred but you can blame it on the fact that you’re talking through a mouth of cheese and tomato.
luckily, eren has even less manners than you.
“huh? who? ohhh — uhh, armin?” burp. he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand (see, no manners). “yeah. remember i was telling you, my roommate who’s also my best friend,” another burp building, unstoppable, “who’s also like super duper smart and shit—”
yes, that's it. you do remember.
yeah, yeahhhh — you’ve seen him. not just on instagram, but around campus too, pretty sure. library steps once. outside the engineering building another time, backpack slung over one shoulder, talking with his hands, hair catching sun. you clocked him then, in that idle, cataloguing way you clock attractive people you will never interact with.
but eren keeps going.
“…but you’ve met before, right? on my birthday…”
eren’s birthday.
maybe you’re still a little greened out, because the second he says it you don’t remember. you get mentally yanked backwards, your brain trips over a cable and suddenly you’re there again.
because eren’s birthday party was fucking insane.
like, chemically altered reality insane. music so loud it vibrated your ribs. bottles clinking, glass sweating onto every surface. girls fully twerking on the kitchen counter while someone held their drink so it wouldn’t spill. there was a fight at some point, you’re almost sure, shouting, a chair scraping, people chanting, but the timeline is soup.
and you were outside most of the night.
back against the fence, hoodie smelling like ten different people’s smoke, stealing cigarettes from strangers with the confidence of someone who knows they're never gonna see these people again. passing lighters. laughing at jokes you only half heard. head tilted up at the cold air, nicotine buzz threading through the alcohol.
and then you were in eren’s room.
right, yeah, that part sharpens. door closed, bass thumping through the wall. you and this same connie, cross-legged on the floor, taking catastrophic bong rips, smoke hanging blue in the desk lamp glow. someone’s jacket under your head at some point. your shoes kicked off. the room spinning gently, pleasantly.
and then you were horizontal.
fully passed out on eren’s bed. starfished. lights still on. party still raging somewhere else in the house.
but someone found you.
that part comes back in pieces first, sensation before image. the mattress dipping. a hand, warm and careful, on your shoulder.
“hey,” a voice said, soft, almost apologetic. “you okay?”
him.
blonde. tall, or maybe he just felt tall because you were flat on your back and the room was tilting. hair falling into his eyes. lashes stupidly long. a small silver bar catching light when he spoke.... tongue piercing.
and his voice. god.
gentle in that precise, controlled way that nerdy guys sometimes have when they’re trying very hard not to startle you. low, careful, like he was approaching a nervous animal.
“do you… want some water?”
he was so hot.
you remember staring at him. actually staring. zero shame. full heart eyes. you remember trying to sit up and failing halfway, limbs syrupy and uncooperative. him steadying you automatically, one hand at your upper arm, the other braced on the mattress near your hip so he wouldn’t crush you.
“sorry,” he said, like you were inconveniencing him.
insane.
and then, uhhhh, honestly, the memory fuzzes again. water happened, probably. you think he moved your shoes. you definitely fell back asleep while he was still there. but the feeling stayed. soft voice. warm hand. silver flash when he smiled.
your eyes snap back to eren now, kitchen light too bright after the flashback haze, pizza halfway to your mouth.
you are suddenly extremely alert for someone who was non-functional thirty seconds ago.
“you remember that?” you say, incredulous, grease on your fingers, heart doing a weird little stutter you refuse to examine.
because if eren remembers....
then that means armin definitely remembers.
and oh my god.
you met him while you were passed out, drooling, cross-faded beyond medical recommendation.
oh wow, you might have to die. like actually.
“yeah?” eren says, blinking at you like this is not a catastrophic revelation. “you were like, dead. bro, i thought you died in my bed.”
“oh my god,” you mutter, pressing greasy fingers to your forehead. the kitchen light is still too sharp, halos forming around everything. “shut up.”
“nah, yeah, armin found you,” eren continues cheerfully, asshole, mouth full again. “gave you water. moved you so you didn’t, like, choke or whatever.”
you make a small, strangled sound into your pizza.
connie is still talking. he has not stopped talking this entire time. something about a class, or a gym membership, or crypto, you have no idea. his voice is a radio in another room. mikasa is leaning against the counter beside him, silent, watchful, occasionally giving you that quick assessing glance like she’s checking you’re not about to tip over.
you’re fine. you’re normal.
“—and then i told him, bro, that’s not even how macros work,” connie is saying, gesturing with both hands.
you nod at him. you do not know why.
but your eyes keep drifting. kitchen doorway. hall. back door.
like if you look enough times he might just appear again, summoned by sheer horny humiliation.
and then...
there.
movement in the hallway.
you feel him before you properly see him, which is deeply embarrassing but also scientifically real. your brain just goes him in big glowing letters.
armin steps into the kitchen like he’s unsure he’s allowed to take up space in it.
tall. god, he’s tall. you weren’t imagining that. he has to duck slightly under the stupid low light fixture, one hand automatically coming up to brush his hair back. it’s shorter than it used to be, clean at the nape, longer on top, soft blond falling forward again immediately because physics loves him personally.
grey hoodie. sleeves pushed to his forearms. veins faint under the skin there. dark sweatpants. socks. domestic. dangerous. sexy. you might die.
he pauses when he notices you. and you watch recognition happen.
it’s subtle. a tiny stilling, eyes focusing, head tilting just slightly. but it’s there. he knows exactly who you are.
oh no. no, no, no, no, no.
“hey,” he says.
same voice.
you actually might pass out again, which would be thematically consistent but socially unrecoverable.
“h—” you try. your mouth is still full of pizza. incredible work. flawless execution. you swallow too fast and cough once. “hi.”
eren points at you with his crust like a presenter unveiling a corpse. “this is who i was telling you about. my coworker.”
i know, his face very clearly says.
“we’ve met,” armin says gently.
KILL YOURSELF.
you make a noise that is meant to be a laugh and comes out like a dying engine. “yeah. yeah i, uh. apparently.”
his mouth twitches. he remembers everything. every single drooling second. you can see it.
“you were asleep,” he says, immediately, like he senses the spiral. “it wasn’t— you were fine.”
you stare at him.
this man is trying to protect your dignity retroactively.
you are going to marry him.
“she was not fine,” eren says.
you kick him in the shin without looking.
“OW—”
“shut up,” you hiss.
connie finally clocks the vibe shift and looks between you two, squinting. “wait, you guys know each other?”
“she died in my bed,” eren says helpfully.
“EREN.”
mikasa sighs, long-suffering. “he means she fell asleep.”
“like dead,” eren insists.
you cover your face with both hands. there is a beat of silence. and then, warm, close. a plate appears in front of you on the counter. you peek through your fingers.
armin has slid the pizza box closer to you. opened the lid properly. even turned it so the intact slices face your side. and given you a warm plate.
you've never been more turned on in your life.
“you should probably eat more,” he says quietly. “you look… a little green.”
he noticed.
of course he fuckin' noticed. you are vibrating like a temu rose toy and blinking like a broken animatronic.
“i’m good,” you say instantly, grabbing another slice. “i’m great. amazing. never been better.”
you take an aggressive bite to prove stability.
he watches you chew like you are a delicate lab experiment. and there’s a tiny smile there now. soft. private. like he finds you… endearing.
oh, this is terminal.
“i’m armin, by the way,” he says after a second, offering his hand like you’re meeting at a networking event instead of over grease and weed stink.
you stare at it.
long fingers. clean nails. faint ink smudge on the side of his index finger. student. nerd. god. the things you could do with those hands—
you wipe your hand frantically on your jeans and take it.
his grip is careful. warm. brief.
“i know,” you blurt.
everyone goes quiet.
abort.
“i mean — eren. he says your name. a lot. not like— weird. just like. normal amount. of name saying.”
kill yourself kill yourself kill yourself.
connie barks a laugh. eren wheezes. mikasa presses her lips together.
armin just nods once, eyes crinkling slightly.
“good,” he says.
and he means: i’m glad you know me.
you are so unbelievably fucked.
he disappears after that, which is honestly a good thing because you're not sure how much more of his genuineness you could've taken before you climbed over the kitchen counter and begged him to let you bounce on his dick.
and you don't see him again, except for a few dreams, until about two weeks later.
it’s been raining all day.
not cute drizzle rain either. heavy, grey, relentless rain that makes the windows look like they’re crying and turns the backyard into a swamp. so eren’s “kinda chill kickback” is now crammed fully inside the house. damp shoes by the door. hoodies slung over chairs. the whole place smells like wet denim, cheap cologne, and weed.
music hums low from the speakers in the living room.
and you, you are not participating correctly.
which is impressive, because for once, you actually look good.
like, intentionally good.
cropped top that shows a strip of stomach when you move. baggy jeans slung low enough that the elastic waistband of your boxers peeks out, Calvin Klein logo flashing every time you shift. fresh sneakers. rings on your fingers. hat pulled low but in a deliberate way. you even lined your lips.
so naturally, instead of mingling like a normal person, you’re currently under the dining table in the corner of the living room.
knees pulled to your chest. back against one of the legs. tablecloth draped down like a little privacy curtain. your modded PSP glowing in your hands, Street Fighter running smooth as hell because you spent three days watching YouTube tutorials to jailbreak the stupid thing.
your THC vape is tucked between your thigh and the wall. you take small hits between rounds.
you can hear everything happening above you. voices overlapping. someone laughing too loud. connie trying to explain something again. eren arguing about music. the thud of someone dropping onto the couch.
you’ve almost forgotten you’re technically at a party when, a pair of sneakers stops in front of the table.
clean. white. slightly rain-specked at the toes.
you freeze mid-combo.
the tablecloth lifts. light floods in. and there he is.
armin (cue dreamy sigh), crouched slightly, one hand holding the fabric up, peering at you as if he’s discovered a rare woodland creature.
he blinks once.
“…are you under the table?”
you stare up at him.
he’s dressed simple but unfairly effective. black tee that fits too well. chain at his neck. hair slightly damp from earlier rain, pushed back messily like he’d run a hand through it one too many times.
you forget how to speak for a full two seconds.
“uhhh, yeah, it's um, strategic positioning?” you say finally, cringing at yourself, god why are you such a loser, pushing your hat back a little. “...better... airflow....?”
his eyes flick to the PSP in your hands.
“…is that a modded 3000?”
oh, yes. oh, no.
you light up immediately. of course, traitor body. you're such a nerd sometim—
“yeah!” you scoot forward without thinking, enthusiasm overriding dignity. “i swapped the firmware, it runs emulators now. i’ve got like, everything on here. ps1, gameboy advance, some old arcade ports—”
you are rambling. and you are so high.
“the stock memory is trash so i had to replace it, and the battery life sucks but i found this workaround online and— look—” you tilt the screen toward him. “i main chun-li but only because her frame data is stupidly good if you actually know how to use her.”
you glance up.
he is not making fun of you.
he looks… delighted.
“that’s actually impressive,” he says, crouching properly now. his knee brushes yours under the table. the contact is small but nuclear. “most people just download ROMs and call it a day.”
“losers,” you scoff automatically. ironic.
he laughs softly.
you take a quick hit of your vape to stabilize. mistake. the exhale fogs the tiny space between you.
he watches the smoke curl.
“can i?” he asks, gesturing toward the PSP.
you hand it over immediately like you’re offering tribute.
he sits down. under the table. with you.
the world above continues. feet moving. bass thudding. someone yelling for more cups. but down here it’s dim and warm and weirdly intimate, just the glow of the screen lighting up his face.
he’s focused instantly. thumbs precise. posture relaxed but intent.
“you’re holding the joystick wrong,” you blurt.
he glances at you and you feel your brain short circuit.
“i mean— not wrong. just, like. uhhh, if you angle it more you can buffer inputs faster.”
you lean in without thinking, reaching to adjust his hand.
your fingers wrap lightly over his.
oh.
his skin is warm. slightly calloused at the tips. you can feel the faint vibration of the game through both of you. you realize what you’re doing. you do not move away.
“like that,” you say, voice suddenly softer.
above you, someone knocks into the table slightly. it shifts. the tablecloth falls a little lower, closing you in further.
you and armin are practically knee-to-knee now, screen glow flickering across his face.
“so,” he says, eyes dropping briefly to your cleavage (SCORE), then snapping back up like he’s trying to behave. “is this what you normally do at parties?”
you grin, unable to help it. “only when the company’s good.”
you are so unbelievably doomed.
he’s locked in now. fully invested. tongue pressing lightly against the inside of his cheek when he concentrates, which you absolutely do not notice in a normal way, and absolutely does NOT make your pussy flutter. your knee is still touching his. neither of you have addressed it.
you’re explaining hitboxes. he’s actually listening. it’s intimate in the nerdiest, most sexiest way possible.
but then of course. a shadow passes the tablecloth. slow. deliberate. you ignore it.
something metallic swings down in front of the fabric. back and forth. back and forth. you squint at it. it’s a lighter. blue. scuffed. unmistakably eren’s. it dangles there like bait.
you stare at it for two full seconds.
you do not move. you are strong. the lighter swings closer.
you reach out on instinct and snatch it.
“AHAA!”
the tablecloth rips up dramatically. light floods in again and eren’s face is there, victorious.
“found you, asshole.”
you blink up at him, his lighter already in your fist. “i was not hiding.”
“you’re literally under a table.”
“strategic positioning,” you repeat.
his eyes flick between you and armin.
armin, still seated cross-legged, PSP in hand, looks… suspiciously comfortable down here.
“rain stopped,” eren says, waggling his eyebrows. “backyard’s not a swamp anymore.”
your brain processes that instantly. outside. air. smoke.
you shift, crawling out from under the table like you’ve been summoned (you kinda have). your hat almost knocks against the underside on the way up.
you stand, brushing imaginary dust off your jeans like you haven’t just been living feral for twenty minutes.
“finally,” you mutter.
eren snorts. “i knew you’d come out for fire.”
you flip him off affectionately.
as you turn, you feel it. armin’s eyes. on you. you glance down and remember. right. you’re dressed. like you actually properly put effort into the fit for once.
cropped top. exposed waist. the boxers waistband peeking over your jeans when you stretch slightly to adjust your hat. the chain at your neck catching the warm lamplight.
his gaze drops. just for a second. to the strip of skin between your top and jeans. then to your back pocket when you reach behind yourself and pull out the small metal case. it clicks open with a neat little sound. inside, two perfectly rolled joints. tidy. symmetrical. artisanal, honestly.
eren whistles. “you came prepared.”
“i don’t leave the house unarmed,” you say.
you hold the case out toward armin without thinking.
his brows lift slightly. “you rolled those?”
“yeah,” you say, suddenly self-conscious in a way that makes no sense. “i mean. it’s not hard.”
he takes one carefully, examining it like it’s something delicate.
“they’re… really clean,” he says, impressed. “mine always canoe.”
you feel your ego inflate instantly.
“that’s because you’re probably packing it unevenly,” you say, stepping closer. “you have to distribute it first. like this—”
you take it back for a second, tapping it lightly, demonstrating with your fingers.
he watches your hands. not the joint. your hands. (oh she fluttered again.)
“you’re very precise,” he says quietly.
you glance up and he’s closer than you thought.
eren makes a gagging noise. “okay, smoke nerds, go outside before you hotbox my living room by accident.”
he heads toward the back door.
you hesitate half a second, then jerk your head at armin. “you coming?”
he doesn’t answer immediately.
just stands, brushing his hands on his sweatpants, stepping closer until there’s barely space between you in the hallway bottleneck.
“yeah,” he says. simple. low.
you step out into the backyard.
the rain really has stopped. everything smells clean and electric. pavement still damp, reflecting the warm yellow light spilling from the house. a few people are already out there, huddled under the overhang, talking in low voices.
you lean against the railing, pop the lighter open. flick. it sparks once. twice.
you cup your hand around it, bringing the flame to the tip of the joint.
you inhale slowly, practiced. the ember glows bright. you exhale toward the cool night air. and then you turn, holding it out toward armin. he steps closer to take it. instead of grabbing it immediately, his fingers brush yours first.
on purpose. (?????)
he takes a drag, less confident but not clueless.
coughs once, lightly, embarrassed.
“newbie.”
“i’m out of practice,” he says, eyes watering slightly, laughing under his breath.
you lean in, lowering your voice.
“good thing i’m patient.”
the rain smell is fading now. the backyard’s warmer, humid from bodies and smoke. someone’s laughing too loud near the fence. there’s noise behind you. eren yelling at someone about tracking mud inside. connie arguing with sasha about something pointless. but it all feels distant. it’s just the damp night air. shared smoke. his shoulder brushing yours when he hands the joint back.
and the very clear, very sudden realization that he did, in fact, come looking for you first.
the joint’s almost done. he’s looking at you like he’s debating something. you clock on immediately.
“what,” you say, squinting at him.
“when you passed out,” he starts, for fuck sake, your stomach drops.
“i didn’t pass out,” you correct automatically on defence, “i was just... rebooting?” shut up, shut up, shut up.
he smiles faintly. “right. rebooting.”
you wait.
he rubs the back of his neck, almost shy. almost.
“you said something,” he says.
oh god.
“people talk in their sleep all the time,” you wave off. change the subject quickly
“you said,” he continues, ignoring you now, “that i was ‘objectively hot.’”
there it is. your brain goes white noise. because, damn, did you really say that? you do not react. externally.
“did i?” you say, voice flat. casual. bored. you take the last drag, exhale slowly. “well. i stand by it.”
his brows lift slightly.
you flick the roach away, grind it under your sneaker.
“you are,” you continue, like you’re discussing the weather. “objectively attractive. good bone structure. symmetrical. clear skin. tall. statistically, you’re doing well.” stop talking, stop talking, now.
you shrug. “i just appreciate aesthetics.”
he’s staring at you now. not laughing. not brushing it off.
“objectively,” he repeats.
“yeah,” you nod. “it’s not personal.” liar, liar, liar, liar.
he steps closer. just slightly.
“so you weren’t flirting,” he says.
you tilt your head. “i was unconscious.”
“you just… evaluated me.”
“correct.”
he studies you for a second, like he’s trying to see through the performance.
you refuse to blink first. you are cool. you are detached. you are absolutely not thinking about his hands or his mouth or the fact that he smells clean even in a backyard full of smoke.
“you also said,” he adds quietly, “that my voice was ‘dangerous.’”
you almost choke on air.
“did i.” did you????
“yeah.”
you click your tongue thoughtfully, “that tracks.”
“does it?”
“low register,” you say calmly. “soft delivery. good cadence. it’s a lethal combination.”
he huffs a laugh, but it’s shakier than before.
“you’re very clinical about this.”
“it’s important to stay grounded.”
grounded. hah. funny
he steps closer again. there’s barely a foot between you now.
“so if i said,” he begins slowly, “that i think you’re hot—”
your heart punches your ribcage. you raise a brow. “objectively?”
“no,” he says. and he doesn’t look away. “personally.”
your mouth goes dry. you refuse to crumble.
“that would be your subjective experience,” you say evenly.
he smiles, but there’s tension in it now. curiosity. challenge.
“and if i told you,” he continues, voice lowering just slightly, “that i've seen you around campus before then, and i thought you were intimidating because you always looked like you knew exactly what you wanted.”
your stomach flips violently. you lean back against the railing to compensate.
“maybe i do,” you say. no you don’t.
you absolutely do not.
except right now.
right now you do.
and it’s him.
he glances at your mouth, quick, but you catch it, your pulse goes crazy.
“so,” he says softly, “was i wrong?”
you hold his gaze and let the silence stretch just enough to feel intentional. then you shrug. “guess you should’ve tried.”
it’s light, teasing, but there’s an opening in it. a real one. and his jaw tightens slightly, like he’s processing that, like he might actually do something about it.
from behind you, eren (fucking cockblock) yells your name loudly for absolutely no reason.
“don’t let it go to your head,” you say as you brush past him, shoulder grazing his chest on purpose. “being objectively hot isn’t a personality.”
you make it three steps toward the back door before you feel it. him. still behind you.
you turn around slowly.
“you following me?” you ask.
“maybe,” he says.
the backyard’s thinned out. most people drifted back inside when the music got louder. it’s just a couple silhouettes near the fence now, the yellow porch light casting long shadows across the damp ground.
you lean back against the wooden railing again. you’re trying to look relaxed. you are not relaxed.
“you never answered me,” he says.
“about what.”
“whether i should’ve tried.”
oh. uhhhhh, you've run out of flirty lines and you genuinely don't know what to say to this guy, and he definitely knows that.
you cross your arms.
bad move. it draws attention to your cropped top. you feel his eyes flick down again before he catches himself. he’s not slick. it’s cute.
“you’re smart,” you say. “you figure it out.”
“that’s not how data works,” he replies immediately.
you grin despite yourself. “don’t start.”
“no, seriously,” he steps closer, leaning one elbow on the railing near you. not touching. just close enough that you can feel the heat off him. “if the variable is ‘intimidating girl on campus,’ and the hypothesis is ‘she will reject me,’ the only way to test that is—”
“to collect evidence,” you finish.
he smiles. “exactly.”
“so you’re saying this is research.”
“i’m saying,” he says, voice dipping just slightly, “i miscalculated.”
your stomach flips. you try to stay cool. “what part.”
“i thought you wouldn’t talk to me,” he says. “but you’re actually—” he gestures vaguely. “—like this.”
“like what,” you press.
“excited,” he says.
you scoff. “i’m not excited.”
“you ramble when you’re excited.”
you freeze.
he clocks it instantly. “see?” he adds softly.
fucking traitor body. you push off the railing and step closer instead of retreating.
“i ramble when someone’s worth explaining things to,” you counter.
his eyes sharpen a little at that. “so i’m worth explaining things to?”
“don’t fish,” you say.
“i’m not.”
“you are.”
he laughs under his breath. the air feels thicker now. not from smoke. from proximity.
“teach me something then,” he says suddenly.
you blink. what? “what.”
“anything. you like teaching. i’ll be your student.”
that should not sound like that.
you narrow your eyes suspiciously. “you’re being weird.”
“i’m being curious.”
you hesitate. then your brain lights up with the worst possible idea.
“okay,” you say slowly. “Street Fighter.”
he exhales a small amused breath. “we don’t have the PSP.”
“we don’t need it,” you step even closer, so now you’re almost chest to chest. you can see the faint freckles across the bridge of his nose. you are holding it together with tape. “frame advantage.”
his gaze drops to your mouth again (gotcha). then back to your eyes.
“explain.”
“when you make a move,” you say, lifting your hand between you, “there’s recovery time. if you recover faster than your opponent, you have advantage.”
“so you can move first.”
“exactly.”
he nods slowly.
“so right now,” he says, “who has advantage?”
oh. you swallow.
“depends,” you say lightly. “who committed first.”
“you called me hot.”
“objectively.”
“you lingered when you handed me the joint.”
you did. you absolutely did. observant bastard.
“you followed me,” you shoot back.
“because you told me to try.”
your breath catches, that was not supposed to land like that. he steps closer, this time, you don’t step back. there is barely space between you now. your chest rises. his does too. you can feel the warmth of him through the thin fabric of your top.
“so,” he murmurs, voice low enough that it barely carries past you, “who has frame advantage?”
you are so gone.
“i do,” you say.
he waits, you don’t move, neither does he. you’re both waiting. testing. and then, you reach up and lightly adjust the chain at his neck. just two fingers hooking it, straightening it. slow. intentional. his breath stutters, tiny, but you feel it.
“see,” you say quietly. “you reacted.”
his jaw tightens.
“that’s not advantage,” he says. “that’s bait.”
you grin. “maybe.”
his hand comes up then, not to grab you, not to pull you in, just to mirror you. he brushes his thumb lightly along the waistband peeking over your jeans. not under, just there, barely touching. electric. erotic.
you inhale sharply despite yourself.
“you reacted too,” he says.
your brain is melting, you are folding, catastrophically, and he knows it.
he leans in slightly, close enough that his breath ghosts near your ear.
“so maybe,” he murmurs, “it’s a tie.”
your hands find the front of his hoodie without thinking. fist loosely curling in the fabric.
“temporary stalemate,” you whisper back.
“can i ask you something,” he says.
your pulse spikes again. “you’re asking a lot tonight.”
“i’m collecting data.”
you roll your eyes but your grip tightens slightly in his hoodie. “what.”
his thumb slides away from your waistband, but his hand doesn’t drop. it rests lightly at your hip now. not squeezing. just there.
“do you want to keep pretending this is theoretical,” he says quietly, “or do you want to continue this experiment somewhere less… public.”
your brain short circuits.
“define public,” you manage.
he glances toward the house where silhouettes move past the windows.
“somewhere with fewer variables,” he clarifies.
oh. oh that’s smooth.
you try to keep your voice steady, but you are kicking your feet. “and where would that be, professor.”
his mouth twitches. “my room.”
“what’s in it for me?”
his hand at your hip shifts just barely closer.
“privacy,” he says.
your stomach flips.
“and?” you press.
his eyes drop to your mouth again. then back up.
“undivided attention.”
safe to say you went up to his room.
armin doesn’t rush you. that might be the worst part. he kisses you slowly, deliberately, like he’s mapping something out instead of losing control. his weight settles more fully over you, one knee pressing into the mattress beside your thigh, his hand sliding from your waist up along your ribs until it rests just under your chest.
you are absolutely not calm.
you kiss him harder to compensate. your fingers curl in the front of his shirt and pull him down closer, your mouth parting against his. you’re trying to look like you’ve done this a thousand times, like you’re not seconds away from combusting. but your breathing keeps giving you away. every time his tongue brushes yours, your grip tightens involuntarily.
he notices. of course he notices.
he pulls back just enough to look at you, his lips barely a breath from yours. his thumb drifts up from your ribs, tracing slowly along your collarbone, then down the centre of your chest, light enough to make you shiver.
“you’re trying so hard,” he murmurs.
“to what,” you shoot back, though your voice comes out softer than intended.
“to act like this isn’t affecting you.”
you roll your eyes, but your pulse is hammering and there's a pool slick growing in your underwear. “you’re not exactly neutral.”
“that’s not what i said.”
his hand shifts lower again, thumb hooking briefly at the waistband of your jeans before sliding back up. the movement is slow, controlled, and it makes your stomach flip in a way that feels unfair. you need something to ground yourself, something to prove you’re not the only one unravelling.
so you grab his wrist.
he stills immediately, watching you.
you bring his hand up between you. his fingers brush your mouth as you guide them there, your eyes stay locked on his as you part your lips and press a soft kiss to the pad of his index finger.
his breathing changes.
you feel it before you hear it.
you drag your tongue slowly along the side of his finger, then close your lips around it, warm and deliberate.
your gaze doesn’t drop. you want him to see exactly what you’re doing.
his shoulders tense. his jaw tightens. his free hand grips your hip harder, fingers digging into the fabric of your jeans.
you suck gently, then a little deeper, your tongue pressing against him. you can feel the way his breathing stutters, the way his body shifts instinctively closer without him even realizing it. when you pull back, you let your lips slide slowly over his knuckle, leaving his skin warm and damp.
the room is very quiet.
“that,” he says, voice lower now, rougher, “was not subtle.”
“i wasn’t aiming for subtle.”
he exhales through his nose, a quiet, almost disbelieving sound, and then he leans down and kisses you again, but it’s different this time. hungrier. dirtier. less measured. his hand that you just had in your mouth moves to your jaw, tilting your head so he can deepen the kiss. you feel the shift in him. the control slipping just a little.
you slide your hands under the hem of his shirt now, palms against warm skin, fingers splaying over his back. he reacts instantly, a quiet groan escaping him when your nails drag lightly across his lower spine. his hips press forward before he catches himself, and that tiny loss of composure makes heat rush straight through you.
“you’re impossible,” he murmurs against your mouth.
“and you invited me up here,” you reply, breathless.
those same fingers you had in your mouth slide from your jaw, down your neck, tracing the centre of your chest slowly. he doesn’t rush. he’s watching you the entire time, tracking every flicker of your expression.
his hand drifts lower. down your stomach. over the curve of your hip. his thumb hooks into your waistband again, slower this time. intentional. he doesn’t break eye contact when he slips his hand just beneath the fabric.
your stomach tightens.
he leans down and kisses you while his fingers slide further, testing, careful at first. you inhale sharply into his mouth when he finally presses his palm fully against you through the thin fabric. the heat of his touch sends a pulse straight through your spine.
“still a stalemate?” he asks quietly against your lips.
you try to answer coolly, but your voice comes out breathless. “maybe.”
"maybe?" he hums softly, like he doesn’t believe you for a second. "you're dripping."
those same fingers you had wrapped around your tongue move slowly, deliberately. he takes his time, brushing, learning, watching how your body reacts. when he finally presses with more purpose, you grip his shirt again, the composure you were clinging to slipping through your fingers.
he notices immediately.
"fuck you're so wet, is this all for me?"
god, he sounds so smug, but the way your walls clench at the sound of his voice makes him suck in a deep breath.
your head falls back against the mattress as his hand moves more confidently now, guided by every sharp inhale and involuntary shift of your hips. he keeps kissing you between murmured comments that are far too calm for what he’s doing.
you grab his wrist again, but this time it’s not to redirect. it’s because you need something to hold onto. your nails press into his skin as he continues, slow and steady. it's torture but, fuck, it's everything you've ever wanted.
he leans down to your ear. “you tasted good on my fingers,” he murmurs. “thought it was only fair they return the favour.”
that does something dangerous to you.
your confidence finally cracks completely, replaced by open, needy heat. you arch into his hand without meaning to, and he exhales sharply at the movement, control slipping further.
“temporary,” he breathes, as your composure dissolves under his touch. “right?”
he groans into your mouth, low and wrecked, hips shifting forward before he even thinks about it. the fact that you react so quickly, so sensitively, makes his control snap in real time. you feel it in the way his hand tightens, the way his fingers move with sudden urgency instead of patience.
“you’re—ngh,” he exhales, voice breaking slightly. “you’re so responsive.”
his forehead drops to yours for a second as he keeps moving his hand, breathing uneven, like he’s trying to keep up with you and failing. every twitch of your hips, every sharp inhale, every squelch of your pussy, every little involuntary movement feeds him.
“you have no idea what that does to me,” he mutters, almost frustrated.
the fact that you’re this affected, this undone, clearly flips something in him. his hips roll forward instinctively, seeking friction against your thigh, and he exhales sharply when he gets it.
“you react so easily,” he says, voice low and strained. “it’s driving me insane
he drops his mouth to your neck, biting lightly. his hand keeps working, less measured now, scissoring in and out of you, responding to every noise you make. the mattress shifts beneath you as he adjusts closer, pressing into you without thinking.
you can feel how turned on he is.
your hips jerk forward. your breath stutters. and you make a mess all over his fingers while he’s still murmuring against your mouth.
his hand tightens reflexively and he exhales sharply, hips rocking forward against your thigh again because he can’t help himself. the physical proof of what he did to you clearly hits him somewhere deep
“jesus,” he mutters, he looks worse than you.
his hair’s a mess. his lips are swollen from kissing you. his breathing is uneven and he hasn’t even tried to pretend otherwise. he studies his hand for half a second like he’s processing what just happened, then looks back at you with something dangerously intent in his eyes.
and then, those same fingers that were in your mouth, then your pussy, he pops them into his mouth with a deep groan. god he's such a freak, he licks your essence off his digits as his eyes roll back. hips still humping your thigh.
...end of playback
↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺
i used to bang out sf alpha 3 max before i mashed up my psp but yeah i wrote this cos armins been stuck in my head so hopefully now ive written him he can leave me alone no tag list because idk if yall followed me bcos of my writing style or bcos of sero so yh idk
is nerd!armin arlert just a bet or do you actually like him? ╱ word count: 6.8k angst to fluff to smut. reader really fucked it up on this one ˚.✦
The questions left you wordless. Why would he ask that? Why is he staring at you, curled in the bed of your dorm, with your hands around his waist waiting for your answer?
"Armin, what?" you blink fast, not being brave enough to look him in the eyes.
"You heard me. Do you actually like me or am I just a joke to entertain your friends?" He sounds harsh but there's a slight tremor in his voice telling you that he's afraid of your answer.
Answer that you don't want to give him.
Everything started four months ago when Armin had to tutor you in one subject that now you pass without any problems. He was shy, maybe a little bit weird and not very popular. You were the complete opposite. And your friends were dying for some gossip when they suggested you to seduce him.
So you did, because who are you if not an attention whore?
But Armin. Armin fucking Arlert was actually a sweetheart. The moment he got confident enough with you, he stopped being shy and awkward. He showed you how cool and smart he is, he made you laugh and giggle like a highschooler again.
He has this faint blush in his cheeks whenever you kiss him that makes you melt. He cares for you, he listens to you, he lets you hang out with his friends (that are actually as fun as him). He's not the loud type of lover, but never once made you feel unloved. Every time he grabs your hand, he caress the palm with his thumb and kisses your knuckles.
Four months later, you were whipped. So whipped it was embarrassing. How could you not fall in love with him? He has you smiling at his texts, having a pic of him and you as your lockscreen. Fuck, you are even thinking of asking him to meet your parents.
So why. WHY does he has to make that question now?
"You're not a joke," you say, slowly sitting up. Armin follows you, sitting across from you on the bed, legs crossed and elbows on his knees. "You're my boyfriend."
"Why do you lie?"
Oh.
So this is even worse. He discovered somehow. And now you lied to him straight in the face.
"I—what are you talking about?" You were speechless, there was a huge knot in your stomach that got tighter when Armin pulled out his phone, playing a video of a random frat party you went to... four months ago.
The video plays on his phone screen, tinny laughter spilling from the speakers like poison. There you are: red-cup in hand, eyes glassy, voice slurred and cruel, pointing at the camera while your friends howl behind you.
“Look at him,” you’d said, giggling, mocking the way Armin had fumbled his words when you first asked him to study together. “He’s so awkward, it’s adorable. Bet I can make him fall in love with me in like, two weeks.”
The old you on the screen leans into one of your friends, whispering loud enough for the mic to catch: “It’s just a game. He’s so easy.”
The video ends.
Armin doesn’t move. He just stares at the frozen frame of your drunken, laughing face, then slowly turns the phone face-down on the mattress between you. The silence is suffocating.
Your throat burns. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. No excuse, no defense, no clever deflection. Just the ugly truth sitting there like a third person in the room.
“I…” Your voice cracks. You try again. “I didn’t… That was before I—”
“Before you what?” His voice is quiet. Too quiet. “Before you got to know me? Before you decided I was worth more than a story to tell your friends?”
His eyes are glassy, but no tears fall. He’s holding them back like he’s holding everything back: anger, hurt, the pieces of himself you just shattered.
You reach for his hand, but he pulls it away like your touch burns. That small rejection hits harder than anything.
“Armin, please. That video it’s from the night we met. I was drunk, I was stupid, I was… showing off. I didn’t know you yet. I didn’t know how kind you are, how funny, how—” Your voice breaks again. “How much I’d end up loving you.”
He flinches at the word loving.
You feel it like a slap.
“You used me,” he says, barely above a whisper. “You targeted me because I was quiet and awkward and so easy. And then… what? You kept it going because you felt bad? Or because I turned out to be good company?”
“No.” You shake your head desperately. “No, that’s not—I stopped thinking of it as a game so fast. I swear. I fell for you, Armin. I fell so hard I didn’t even see it happening. Everything after that night was real. Every kiss, every text, every time I held your hand.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?” His voice finally breaks. “Why didn’t you ever say, ‘Hey, this started as something shitty, but it’s not anymore’? You let me believe you chose me. That I was special to you from the start.”
You have no answer.
Because you were ashamed.
Because you were terrified that if he knew the truth, he’d leave.
And now he knows anyway.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper. It sounds so small. So useless.
Armin looks down at his hands, fingers twisting together like he’s trying to hold himself together.
“I really thought…” He stops, swallows hard. “I thought you saw me. You made me feel like the luckiest man alive.”
“You are special to me,” you say, voice trembling. “You’re everything to me. I hate that I ever made you feel like you weren’t.”
He doesn’t respond. Just sits there, shoulders curled in, looking smaller than you’ve ever seen him.
After an unbearable silence, he finally speaks.
“I need to go.”
Your heart drops.
“No, Armin—”
“I just need space.” He stands up slowly, not looking at you. “I don’t know what to do with this yet.”
You want to beg him to stay.
But you don’t.
Because you know you don’t deserve to ask him for anything right now.
At the door, he pauses. His hand on the knob, back to you.
“I really loved you, you know,” he says quietly.
Past tense.
Then he’s gone.
And you’re left curled on your bed, arms wrapped around yourself, wishing they were his.
The next morning hits like a hangover you didn’t earn. Your head pounds from crying half the night, eyes swollen and raw. You check your phone first thing, still nothing from Armin. No read receipts, no typing bubbles, no “seen” on the dozen messages you sent after he walked out. Just delivered, delivered, delivered, mocking you.
You drag yourself to campus anyway, hoping maybe he’ll show up to the 10 a.m. lecture you both usually sit through side by side. The seat next to yours stays empty the whole hour. He’s never missed a class. Your stomach twists harder with every passing minute.
By lunch, you’re a wreck, pacing outside the engineering building where Eren usually hangs out between his own classes. You spot him leaning against the wall, arms crossed, scrolling on his phone. He looks up when you approach, and the way his expression hardens makes your chest cave.
“Eren,” you start, voice small and cracked. “Have you… seen Armin? He didn’t come to class, he’s not answering—”
He cuts you off with a sharp exhale through his nose, shoving his phone in his pocket.
“Yeah. I’ve seen him.” he says. “He crashed at my place last night. Didn’t sleep. Just sat there staring at the wall like someone gutted him.”
You flinch. “I need to talk to him. Please, just tell me if he’s okay—”
Eren laughs, but there’s zero humor in it. “You really asking me that? After what you pulled?”
Your throat closes. “He told you.”
“Everything.” Eren steps closer, towering without even trying. “How you laughed about making him fall for you like it was some fucking frat prank. How you kept stringing him along until you got bored or whatever bullshit excuse you’re using now.”
“It wasn’t like that,” you whisper, but it sounds pathetic even to you. “Not after I got to know him. I—”
“Save it.” He holds up a hand. “I don’t wanna hear how you ‘changed your mind’ or whatever. Do you have any idea what that does to a guy like Armin? He doesn’t let people in. Ever. And the one time he does…”
Eren trails off, jaw tight. For a second you see something flicker behind the anger. He’s not just mad at you; he’s mad for Armin.
“He’s not okay,” Eren says finally, quieter but no less harsh. “He’s wrecked. Keeps saying he should’ve known better. That he’s an idiot for believing someone like you could actually want him.”
The words land like punches. You wrap your arms around yourself, trying not to fall apart right there.
“I love him,” you choke out. “I swear I do. I just… I fucked up so bad.”
Eren studies you for a long moment, expression unreadable.
“Maybe you do,” he says at last. “Doesn’t change what you did. Or how much it hurt him.” He pushes off the wall, turning to leave. “He doesn’t want to see you right now. And honestly? I don’t blame him.”
“Eren, wait—”
He pauses, doesn’t turn around. “Give him space. For real this time. If you actually care, you’ll stop blowing up his phone and let him breathe.”
Then he’s walking away, shoulders tense, leaving you standing alone in the middle of the quad with your useless apologies dying in your throat.
You pull out your phone again anyway. Open the chat with Armin. Type another message: I’m so sorry. Please just tell me you’re okay, then delete it before you can hit send.
You just dissociate the rest of the day, headphones in in the back row of the classes, thinking that being a dramatic mess might fix something. You just want to see him, talk to him well and fix it. It's barely been a day and you already miss him like it's been weeks.
Then your friends come. They spot you outside the library were you and Armin used to study before you went to your dorm to make out.
The moment they try to talk to you, you tell them to just fuck off and leave you alone. You can't be friends with the same people that thought it was a good idea to play with Armin.
So now you have no friends, no boyfriend and a ton of questions about the subject Armin used to help you.
The lecture hall smells like stale coffee and old textbooks, same as always. You get there way too early because if you don’t claim the seats first, someone else might sit next to him and you’ll lose even that tiny piece of proximity. You pick your usual spot, second row from the back, left side. The one where his knee used to brush yours under the table when he leaned over to point at something in your notes.
You set your bag on the empty chair beside you like it’s a placeholder. Like maybe if you leave it there long enough, the universe will remember how things used to be.
He walks in ten minutes before class starts.
Your heart slams against your ribs so hard you’re sure the people in front can hear it.
Armin doesn’t look your way.
He doesn’t scan the room like he used to, searching for your face with that small, private smile he saved only for you. He just keeps his eyes on the floor, backpack slung over one shoulder, hair falling into his face the way it does when he hasn’t slept. He’s wearing the same hoodie he wore the night you fell asleep on his chest watching that dumb nature documentary about deep-sea creatures. The sleeves are pushed up to his elbows. His forearms look thinner somehow. Or maybe that’s just your guilt playing tricks.
He walks straight to the row, stops at the empty seat next to yours.
He reaches past you without a glance, picks up your bag by one strap, sets it carefully on the floor at your feet, and then takes the seat anyway.
Right beside you.
But it’s not the same.
There’s a full foot of space between your arms now. No casual brush of shoulders. No shared glances when the professor says something ridiculous. He opens his notebook, uncaps his pen, stares straight ahead at the projector screen even though it’s still blank. His posture is perfect like he’s trying to take up as little emotional space as possible.
You can smell his shampoo. It makes your eyes burn.
You want to say his name like you used to when you were half-asleep and reaching for him in the dark.
You don’t.
Because the last time you spoke, he said “I really loved you” in past tense and walked out of your life.
So you sit there in silence while the professor drones on about material you used to understand only because Armin explained it with patient little drawings in the margins of your notes. Now the words blur. You can’t focus. Every time he shifts, even the smallest movement, your whole body tenses like he might turn and look at you.
He doesn’t.
Not once.
Not when the girl two rows up drops her pen and it rolls under your chairs. Not when the projector flickers and everyone groans. Not even when the professor calls on him by name to answer a question.
Armin’s voice is quiet and correct. Same as always. But there’s no warmth in it. No little proud glance back at you afterward like he used to do, checking if you caught how smart he sounded.
Class ends.
People start packing up.
Armin closes his notebook with a soft snap, slides it into his bag, stands.
You stay seated, frozen, staring at the back of the empty seat in front of you because if you watch him leave it might actually kill you.
He pauses at the end of the row.
For the briefest second his fingers curl around the strap of his bag like he’s fighting something. Like maybe he wants to say something too.
Then he walks away.
No goodbye. No look back. Just the soft tread of his sneakers down the aisle and out the door.
You sit there until the lecture hall is almost empty.
Until the janitor starts stacking chairs.
Until your phone buzzes in your pocket with another unread message from your ex-friends asking why you’re ghosting them.
You don’t answer.
You just hug your knees to your chest right there in the second row, forehead pressed to your arms, and let yourself fall apart quietly where no one can see.
Because the boy who used to trace little hearts on your palm when he thought you weren’t paying attention now won’t even meet your eyes.
He keeps walking (head down, hands shoved deep in his hoodie pockets) until the hallway noise fades into white static. He doesn’t stop until he reaches the quiet stairwell at the end of the building, the one nobody uses because the elevator is faster. There, in the dim fluorescent light, he finally lets himself lean against the cold cinderblock wall and breathe.
His chest hurts. Not metaphorically. Physically. Like someone reached in and squeezed until his ribs creaked. He presses the heel of his palm against his sternum, trying to push the ache back down, but it only spreads.
He can still feel the ghost of your bag strap under his fingers from when he moved it this morning. The way he’d hesitated, just a fraction of a second, before setting it on the floor. He’d wanted to drop it. Hurl it. Anything to match the violence inside him. Instead he’d placed it gently, like he always did with your things. Muscle memory. Stupid, traitorous muscle memory.
Why did he even sit next to you?
He could have chosen any empty seat. The hall was half-full. He could have sat in the front row, or the back, or anywhere that didn’t smell like your perfume and remind him of nights when you’d curl into his side and trace lazy patterns on his wrist until he fell asleep feeling safe.
But he sat there anyway. Because some pathetic part of him still wanted to be close. Wanted to pretend, for fifty minutes, that nothing had changed. That if he just didn’t look at you, didn’t speak, didn’t acknowledge the space where your knee used to knock against his, maybe the wound wouldn’t bleed so much.
It didn’t work.
Every time you shifted in your seat he felt it like static electricity. Every time your pen tapped nervously against your notebook he had to grip his own pen harder to keep from reaching over and covering your hand the way he used to. To tell you it was okay. To tell you he was still here.
He hates that he still wants to.
He hates that the video plays on loop in his head: you in that frat house, red cup sloshing, eyes bright with alcohol and cruelty, saying his name like it was punchline.
“Bet I can make him fall in love with me in like, two weeks.”
Two weeks.
He’d given you four months.
Four months of late-night study sessions that turned into talking about nothing and everything. Four months of you stealing his hoodies and wearing them to class like a badge. Four months of him learning exactly how you liked your coffee, of memorizing the way your laugh changed when you were genuinely happy versus when you were performing for someone else. Four months of believing that someone saw him. Not the overthinking kid who got picked last in group projects. Not the tutor who was useful until the exam was over. Just him.
And it started as a game.
He closes his eyes, slides down the wall until he’s sitting on the cold concrete step. His backpack thumps beside him. He pulls his knees up, rests his forehead against them, and lets the memory of your voice from that night in your dorm wash over him again.
“I love you.”
He’d flinched at the word because it felt like a lie wrapped in velvet. But god, he’d wanted it to be true so badly that for a second, he almost believed it again.
That’s the worst part.
Not the betrayal. Not the humiliation. The part where he still loves you.
He loves the way you bite your lip when you’re concentrating. Loves how you get excited about dumb videos and send them at 2 a.m. Loves the quiet moments when you’d both just exist in the same room, no pressure, no performance. He loves the person you became with him: the one who stopped checking your phone every five minutes, who listened when he rambled about animes or historical cryptography, who kissed him like he was something precious.
But that person was built on a foundation of a lie.
So what does that make the love he feels now? A delusion? A leftover chemical reaction? Or is it real, and the lie just poisoned it?
He doesn’t know.
He doesn’t know if he can ever look at you again without seeing that video. Without wondering which parts were real and which were calculated. Without wondering if you ever really chose him, or if you just got used to the idea of him.
All he knows is that sitting next to you today felt like pressing on a bruise to see if it still hurts.
It does.
It hurts so much he can barely breathe.
And the scariest thing (the thing that makes him want to disappear into the stairwell and never come out) is that even now, even after everything, a stubborn part of him hopes you’ll fix it.
Hopes you’ll fight for him.
Hopes you’ll prove that the four months weren’t just a game that got out of hand.
Because if they weren’t… if even one second of it was real.
Then maybe he wasn’t the idiot after all.
He lets out a shaky breath, wipes at his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie, and stands.
He has another class in twenty minutes.
He’ll go.
He’ll sit in the back this time.
You get tired of waiting three weeks later. It's eating you alive at this point.
You give him the space he asked for. No more hovering outside his classes, no more asking Eren for updates (Eren would probably punch a wall before helping you anyway).
You stop showing up at the library corner where you two used to study. Instead, you force yourself to go to the quiet study rooms on the other side of campus, headphones in, drowning out the ache with white noise. It hurts but it’s the first real proof you can give him that you’re listening. That his need for distance matters more than your need to be forgiven.
While you wait, you work on yourself. Because words are cheap, and you’ve already used too many empty ones.
You block your old friends. Not dramatically, not with a big announcement—just quietly remove them from your contacts, unfollow, mute group chats. They text you confused, then angry: What the hell? We were just joking around. You don’t respond. You don’t owe them explanations. They suggested the bet. They filmed the video. They laughed when you mocked him. Keeping them around would be like keeping the knife that stabbed him. So you cut them out. It leaves you lonelier than you’ve ever been. But it’s clean. It’s a start.
You go back through every note he ever wrote you. The little marginal doodles of whales and stars, the patient explanations of concepts you now half-understand on your own. You don’t throw them out. You keep them in a drawer, but you start studying without him. You actually read the textbook. You ask the TA questions instead of texting him for help. It’s not about the grade, it’s about proving to yourself (and maybe someday to him) that you didn’t just use him for academic convenience. That you valued his mind, his patience, him.
And now you are in front of his dorm. Regretting all the decisions you made before this. Watching that show he likes, rereading messages and if that wasn't enough, a glass of vodka.
Everything screamed failure and humiliation.
The hallway light flickers once, twice. You knock before you can talk yourself out of it again.
Soft footsteps. A pause. The door opens a crack, then wider when he sees it’s you.
Armin looks… exhausted. Dark circles under his eyes, hair messier than usual. He doesn’t say anything at first.
You don’t wait for permission.
“I’m sorry,” you blurt, voice cracking on the second word. “I know I said it before and it didn’t mean anything then, but I’m saying it again because I can’t keep carrying this without at least trying one more time.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t invite you in. Just holds the door, knuckles white.
You take a shaky breath and let it all spill.
“I love you, Armin. I love the way you talk about things most people don’t even notice—like how the light hits the ocean at golden hour, or why certain algorithms feel almost poetic. I love how you get this tiny crease between your eyebrows when you’re thinking really hard, and how you always push your glasses up even when you’re not wearing them anymore. I love that you remember the little things I say once—like that I hate the sound of styrofoam, or that I used to be scared of thunderstorms when I was a kid, and you never make fun of them. You just… hold space for them. For me.”
Your voice trembles harder now. You don’t care.
“I love how gentle you are. Not weak, gentle. The way you touch things like they matter. My hand, a book page, that stupid succulent on your windowsill you keep alive even though you swear you have a black thumb. I love how you blush when I kiss your neck, like it still surprises you that someone wants to. I love how you laugh—quiet at first, then louder when you can’t hold it back anymore. I love waking up and seeing your hair sticking up in every direction and thinking, god, I get to see this. I get to see you like this.”
You’re crying now. Ugly crying.
“I regret it so much. Not just the bet, not just the video. I regret every second I treated you like you were anything less than the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I regret laughing when I should have been listening. I regret letting my friends turn you into a punchline instead of protecting you like I should have from the start. I regret not telling you the truth the moment I realized I was falling for you, because I was scared you’d see the real me and run. And I hate that I proved you right to be scared.”
You wipe at your face with your sleeve, smearing mascara.
“I’ve been trying to be better. I cut them off. All of them. I’m learning the material on my own because I want to deserve the patience you gave me. I watched that show you love, and I text myself the parts I know you’d point out, just so I can pretend we’re still sharing it. I reread our old messages at night until my eyes burn because it’s the only way I can still hear your voice being kind to me.”
You look up at him, raw and pleading.
“I don’t expect you to forgive me tonight. Or ever. I just needed you to know that none of it was fake after those first weeks. The way I looked at you, the way I held you, the way I said your name when we were alone... that was real. That was me loving you so hard it scared me. And I’m so, so sorry I broke the one person who ever made me feel like I was worth loving back.”
Silence stretches between you.
Armin’s breathing is uneven. His eyes are shining, wet at the corners. He blinks fast, like he’s trying to keep the tears from falling, but one escapes anyway, tracking down his cheek. He doesn’t wipe it away.
He looks small. Smaller than you’ve ever seen him.
“I don’t know what to say,” he whispers finally.
You nod, swallowing the sob in your throat.
“You don’t have to say anything. I just… I had to tell you. One last time. Without excuses. Without asking for anything.”
You take one step back.
“I’ll go,” you say quietly. “I won’t come back unless you want me to. I promise.”
You turn to leave.
“Wait.”
His voice is so soft you almost miss it.
You stop. Don’t turn around yet, afraid hope will shatter you if you look too soon.
Armin’s hand appears in your peripheral vision, trembling as he reaches for the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
“I still don’t know if I can trust this,” he continues. “I still see that video sometimes when I close my eyes. But… hearing you say all that… it’s the first time since everything happened that I didn’t feel like I was the only one hurting.”
He takes a shaky breath.
“I don’t know what happens next. I don’t know if I can… if we can. But I’m not telling you to leave. Not tonight.”
You turn slowly.
His eyes are red-rimmed, cheeks streaked, but he’s looking at you for the first time in weeks.
“Just… come inside,” he says. “For a minute. Sit with me. Please.”
You nod, tears falling faster now.
“Okay.”
He steps aside.
You walk in.
The door closes softly behind you.
You're scared to touch him. You linger by the door while he tries to make his room not look like a mess. Then he turns, seeing you fidgeting with the hem of your shirt and something melts inside of him. He come up to you, just looking down at you for a second before pulling you into his chest, one of his arms around your waist, the other cradling the back of your neck.
You just sob between his arms. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I promise I'll be better. I want to be. I want to be the best for you, Armin. I love you."
He cries silently too. Not really knowing what to say.
"I love you too."
You look up to him instantly. Face red and puffy, blinking fast and not believe that he just said that.
"You do?"
"Of course I do," he says, softer than ever. "I'm sorry I didn't listen to you. And I'm sorry I pushed you away. I shouldn't have."
Your hands come up instinctively, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his hoodie like you're afraid he'll vanish if you don't hold on. He doesn't pull away. Instead his arm around your waist tightens, pulling your body flush against his until there's no room left for doubt or distance.
You bury your face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in. Your tears soak into his collar but he doesn't seem to mind. His own fall quietly into your hair.
For a long minute you just stand there, swaying slightly like you're slow-dancing to music only the two of you can hear. No words. Just the sound of uneven breathing slowly syncing up, heartbeat against heartbeat, the quiet drip of tears hitting fabric.
Eventually he speaks, voice rough and low against your ear.
"I was so scared you'd only ever see me as... that awkward kid from the video. The easy target." His fingers thread gently through your hair, cradling the back of your skull. "Every time I looked at you these past weeks I kept waiting for the moment you'd laugh again. Or get bored. Or realize I wasn't worth keeping."
You shake your head against his throat, hard enough that your nose brushes his pulse point.
"Never," you choke out. "Not once. Not even when you were ignoring me. I just... missed you. Missed this. Missed the way you look at me."
He exhales shakily, lips brushing your temple.
"I missed you too," he admits, so quiet it's almost lost in the sound of your breathing. "Even when I hated that I did."
You pull back just enough to look at him. His cheeks are flushed, lashes clumped with tears, lips parted like he's still trying to catch his breath from saying the words out loud.
Tentatively, you lift one hand to his face. Your thumb traces the wet track down his cheek, then slides to the corner of his mouth. He doesn't flinch. If anything, he leans into the touch like it's the first gentle thing he's felt in weeks.
“I don’t know if it’s the best moment to say this, but your eyes get pretty when you cry,” you whisper, biting your lip. He just smiles, huffing a laugh. Your eyes flicker to his lips instantly. Rosy, slightly chapped from biting them. "Can I...?"
He doesn't answer with words. Instead he closes the last inch between you, pressing his mouth to yours so softly it's barely a kiss at first. Just a question, a trembling reconnection.
You answer by kissing him back the same way: careful, reverent, like you're both remembering how this is supposed to feel.
His hand slides from your neck to cup your jaw, tilting your head so the angle deepens just a fraction. It's still slow, still fragile, but the hesitation starts to melt. Your fingers slide into his hair, tugging gently the way you know makes him sigh against your mouth.
He does.
A small sound escapes him and then he's kissing you like he's starving for it. Like he's been holding his breath for three weeks and you're finally oxygen.
You match him, desperate and tender all at once. Hands roaming his back, clutching at his hoodie, sliding under to find warm skin. His fingers dig into your waist, then slip beneath the hem of your shirt, palms flat against the small of your back like he's anchoring himself.
He pulls both of you to the bed, tongues curling into each other, remembering the taste you missed much. He sits on the bed as you get half on his lap. When you finally break apart it's only because you both need air.
"I don't want to rush this," he whispers, voice wrecked. "I want to do it right this time. No secrets."
You nod quickly.
"No secrets," you promise.
He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then the salty skin beneath your eye.
Armin exhales through his nose, a shaky little sound, and then he’s kissing you again, hungrier now. His lips catch yours at a new angle like he’s trying to pour every unsaid thing from the last three weeks into your mouth. You open for him immediately, tongue brushing his in a needy slide that makes you both whimper at the same time.
It’s messy almost instantly.
Teeth click once, then twice. You taste salt (yours, his, shared tears) and it only makes you kiss him harder. Your fingers twist in the front of his hoodie, yanking him closer until your chests are crushed together. He groans low in his throat when you suck on his bottom lip, tugging it gently between your teeth before soothing it with your tongue. His hands roam restlessly under your shirt now, palms dragging up your spine, then down again to grip your hips like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.
You climb fully into his lap without breaking the kiss, knees bracketing his thighs. The new position presses your heat right against the growing hardness in his sweats and you both freeze for half a second—then moan into each other’s mouths at the same instant.
“Fuck,” he breathes against your lips. “I missed this so much.”
“Me too,” you gasp, rolling your hips once. He jerks beneath you, fingers digging into the soft flesh above your waistband. “Missed you. Missed touching you.”
He answers by kissing you filthier: open-mouthed, sloppy, tongues sliding together with wet sounds that should embarrass you but only make you hotter. You can feel yourself getting slick already, aching, and when you grind down again he chokes on a sound and bucks up instinctively.
You both laugh because it’s ridiculous how desperate you are after only three weeks apart, but the laughter dies fast when his mouth moves to your jaw, then your throat. He sucks a bruise there, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to mark, and you tip your head back with a broken moan.
“Armin—”
He pulls back just enough to look at you. Pupils blown, lips swollen and shiny. “May I…?” His hands slide to the hem of your shirt, waiting.
You nod frantically, lifting your arms. “Yes.”
He peels the fabric off slowly. When your bra is revealed his breath catches. His thumbs brush the lace edges, then higher, circling your nipples through the fabric until they pebble under his touch. You arch into it, whimpering.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “You’re so beautiful.”
Then his mouth is on you, kissing down your sternum, between your breasts, nosing at the cup of your bra before taking it off. The first wet heat of his tongue on your nipple makes you cry out, fingers knotting in his hair. He licks slow circles, then sucks, hollowing his cheeks, and you feel the pull straight between your legs.
“Armin, please—”
He switches to the other side, giving it the same attention while his hand slips between you, cupping you over your jeans. The heel of his palm presses right where you need it and you grind down shamelessly, chasing friction.
“Lie back,” he whispers. “Let me take care of you.”
You let him guide you down onto the mattress. He follows, settling between your thighs, kissing every inch of skin he uncovers as he works your jeans and underwear off together. When you’re bare beneath him he just… looks. Eyes tracing every curve, every dip, like he’s re-memorizing you.
Then he lowers himself, shoulders spreading your thighs wider, and presses the softest kiss to your clit.
You sob his name.
He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t make you beg. He just opens his mouth and licks a long, flat stripe from your entrance to your clit, then seals his lips around the sensitive bud and sucks gently.
Your back bows off the bed.
He groans against you like you taste better than anything he’s ever had, the vibration sending sparks up your spine. His tongue works in slow, deliberate circles, then flicks faster, then dips lower to push inside you. You’re dripping, slick coating his chin, and he drinks it like he’s starved. One of his hands finds yours, lacing your fingers together and squeezing tight while the other hooks under your thigh, holding you open.
You come embarrassingly fast—shuddering, crying out, thighs clamping around his ears. He doesn’t stop. Keeps licking you through it, soft and slow now, bringing you down gently until you’re trembling and tugging weakly at his hair.
“God, Armin. Need you inside—”
He kisses your inner thigh once, twice, then crawls back up your body. His sweats are tented obscenely, a dark spot at the front where he’s leaking. You reach for him immediately, shoving the waistband down. His cock springs free (flushed, long, with one thin vein and trimmed blond hair) and you wrap your hand around him, stroking twice.
He drops his forehead to your shoulder with a broken moan. “Shit wait, condom.”
“Drawer, right?” you breathe. “Same place.”
He leans over, fumbles the foil packet open with shaking hands, rolls it on. Then he’s back between your thighs, notching himself at your entrance. He looks down at where you’re joined, then back up at your face, like he needs permission one more time.
You cup his cheek. “I love you.”
His eyes flutter closed. “I love you too.”
Then he pushes in slow, carefully, stretching you inch by inch until he’s buried to the hilt. You both go still, breathing hard against each other’s mouths.
He feels perfect. Like coming home.
You wrap your legs around his waist. “M-move.”
He does—slow rolls at first, dragging out, then back in, letting you feel every ridge, every vein. You cling to him, nails digging into his shoulders, whispering his name like a prayer. He kisses you through it. Deep, filthy kisses that match the rhythm of his hips.
It builds fast.
His thrusts get harder, deeper, the bed creaking under you. One hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight circles that make your toes curl.
“Armin… gonna—fuuuck fuckfuckfuck”
“Come for me,” he pants against your mouth. “Please, want to feel you ah!—”
You shatter around him with a broken cry, pulsing, clenching, dragging him down with you. He fucks you through it, chasing his own release until he buries himself deep and comes with a wrecked groan, hips stuttering, face pressed to your neck.
You hold each other after.
Sweaty. Shaking. Breathing like you’ve run miles.
He doesn’t pull out right away. Just stays inside you, softening slowly, kissing your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.
“Hah. I forgot how hard you clench when you cum,” Armin muttered with his breath ragged.
He slides out of you, making you feel empty. But he keeps you close, resting on your side and pulling you into his chest. He kisses the top of your head, his lips lingering
"I've been sleeping like shit without you."
"Me too," you admit, almost shy. "The bed feels too big."
He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes and grabs your chin to kiss you again. You don't say anything when Armin gets up from the bed, taking your underwear from the ground and helping you dress up. He doesn't ask when he pulls your favorite shirt of his out of his drawer and he puts it to you.
"I'm... I still don't trust you at all," he says slowly.
"I know. I know, it's okay." You nod, letting him guide you back into his chest.
"But we can try again. I want to try again."
a/n: there are some parts that i love, other that i hate idk how to feel about this
