starr

[ceruleanheaven]

religion is so fucking funny the world is just too beautiful there must be a higher entity behind all this. lets oppress women

[minayans]

Jean Kirstein is soo pathetic for you ~ ⁠♡

— Jean messes up when he tells the world he’s single, so he spends the next month and a half trying to fix his mistake while being a pathetic ex.

Tags: Angst (LOL!) with comfort, kinda fluffy idk I love it. SFW. HOCKEY!JEAN AND ARTSY JEAN oh how I love him. Welcome to the masterlist!!!

“Get off my front door, Kirstein.”

Ouch.

“Don’t be like that, Y/N.”

The 6 foot 3 man standing in front of you, leaning against your wooden doorframe—all dark and polished oak—clad in a white shirt too tight around his arms over his bulging biceps, threatening to snap the seams, does not get the memo.

That you won’t be fucking taking him back.

Not today, and not tomorrow.

You sneer back, feeling the blood circulating through your veins boiling to the point of evaporation.

“Get the fuck out of my face, I don’t feel like repeating myself any more.”

Because you’re fed up with the dusty grey-pink undertoned mulled hair asshole you once dated. Once being up until one week ago.

Why did you break up again?

Oh right.

Because he genuinely thought telling the whole school—the entire world actually—he doesn’t have a girlfriend when interviewed by a sports reporter last week after his big-shot game, was okay.

Like erasing three years of dating just to maintain an image that wasn’t even anything now, was fine.

You were fed up. He didn’t apologise, didn’t even see the bad in it and shrugged you off everytime you tried confronting him about how wrong it is.

And when the girls started sliding into his dms, you lost it.

He was a liar like they all are, and you dumped him before the sun hung in the horizon again, three days after the interview aired.

Packed your shit from his apartment and went back to your dorm, dodging Hitches questions left and right about what you were doing back at your shared apartment when for the last year, you had spent almost every single night at his place.

Because it truly did make no sense. You had a whole wardrobe there, toothbrush that sat next to his in that cheesy couple way, pijama shirts that smelled like him because they were once his, and now all of those belongings were back in your old closet.

The one that starts loudly groaning when you pull the door open, springs worn down by the years.

It’s not like the rest of your apartment is any younger too, the floorboards need a break, there’s a leak every six months.

But it felt so much better than sleeping under the same roof as a no-good liar.

During the last week, you learnt to love your old bed all again—even when at night the springs dig into your back through the mattress.

You also learned to escape about 10 people without even needing to see them with your eyes.

Sasha and Connie tried following you around campus to try and pry answers out of you about what happened because there was just no way the it couple was just over like that.

Truth is, everyone already knew you were with Jean anyway. Everyone on campus was aware that you were both high-school sweethearts since senior year.

Which is why the revelation on national television hurt so much more. Because it was like he was saying you were both done while talking about future plans that same night with him in your arms.

And you felt so stupid.

So you left.

Acted like he never existed. Stopped going anywhere near the hockey rink where he played with literally half of your friend group—Eren, Bertholdt, Marco…Meaning you lost more than just your boyfriend, but your friends too.

Cause you can’t look at them in the face. Can’t look into Mikasa’s eyes and take her seriously as she tries to convince you that he didn’t mean it like that while your head rings like tinnitus with the memories of you and the man you thought you were going to marry.

Dodged Historia’s soft voice asking you if everything was fine, avoided even more looking into Ymir’s eyes because you knew she would strip you bare of your walls if you caught a glimpse of those prying irises.

“Sunshine.” He breathes out, chest deflating once he sees he might not be able to change your mind.

Your eyes clamp shut as you internally wince at the nickname he has called you even before dating.

From when you were too young and too naive to even know what love was about. But he taught you, and losing him hurt tenfold because he showed you how love is supposed to feel.

And it stings all the more because he’s your first everything.

You can’t even think of anyone who would hold you through the rough nights when the walls would close in on you like he did.

Of anyone else who would drive seven hours to comfort you when your relative died in Paradis and you had no one to be there for you.

Of a single other soul who could ever touch you like he did—even with beat up hands and scarred knuckles.

Your heart weakly jerks in your chest because it hurts to do so when it’s not for him when all that was in your veins once was the smell of him, his essence.

The tears are quick to brim your waterline, and fuck, you miss him so fucking much it’s excruciating.

Both of your eyes are matching with red rims and glossy coats over blown pupils.

“Don’t call me that.” You croak out, trying your best to hide the cracks in your chest at the mere sight of him.

The nickname stirs up more emotion in your chest than you had braced for, reminding you of every bad and good moment you were forced to put behind you.

Jean can physically feel the level of hurt in your voice gnawing at his bones.

“Go to the hundred fucking girls in your DMs since you’re actually single now.”

Worst part is, everyone knew it was wrong when it came out of his mouth. It felt wrong—head-over-heels Jean saying that when he had always been utterly smitten with you till the day you broke up and even now as you block him out.

“That somehow hurts so much more coming from you.” He breathes out, arms uncrossing and one going to hook behind his neck as he stares at the floor.

“It should.”

“I don’t want to be single, Y/N.”

“You should’ve thought about that before publicly erasing me from your life.” And you slam the door in his face.

Jean is pathetic. So pathetic and ruined without you that he might just listen to what anyone tells him to get you back.

Buy you flowers? He’s already gotten you seven bouquets of flowers he saw you drop off at graveyards instead of throwing them away—made his heart sting, yes, but did it also make him fall in love with you even more after seeing you unable to even throw them out, instead choosing to put them to good use? Also yes.

What about apologising? He has, even blocked. Sent a heartfelt SMS to every.single.platform. you have him blocked on just in case you ever unblock him. Sent a letter to your apartment—actually multiple, but Hitch threw them out after you said to.

Came knocking at your door times he knew you were at home 100%, waited hours and eventually went home the days your roommate didn’t force him out.

Tried to get different people to give you the letters, even teachers, till everyone started to avoid him too.

Um…what can he do?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Sulk in his bed, get yelled at by his coach—actually the reason he’s even in his mess after the bald man drilled into his head that it would be a better look for him to be a career-oriented girlfriendless young star in front of the camera—for slacking off, and whine some more.

Well, he sure is girlfriendless now.

And the whole group is suffering from it.

Nothing really feels the same without you there.

Even though “sunshine” was the nickname Jean would call you, they all saw you as their sun and it felt pretty weird being gloomy under the real star on hot days.

“I’d rip Jean’s head clean off if I could right now.” Grumbles Connie, sparking a patato-chip-mouthed Sasha’s attention.

“Why?” She barely manages to say while her mouth is full.

“ ‘cause I could be laughing about Eren’s ugly ass fucking hairstyle right now with Y/N but we literally don’t have her around now, do we?”

The times where Connie is actually serious and pissed off are extremely rare, considering how he’s always fooling around.

Everyone spins their head to dart daggers at the culprit in question.

Jean sits with his back against the thick truck of the tree the group is sitting under with the absence of Reiner, Bertholdt and Annie.

Hair tousled, some pale brown strands bathed in the sun that filters through the leaves, and head dipped low—lost in the sketchbook cradled in his lap.

No one needs to peer inside of the notepad to know he’s probably sketching every soft curve of your face into the paper again.

Matter of fact, they can tell it’s you that’s subject of his pencil by the way his strokes are deliberately slow and the absentminded, solemn smile on his face.

Connie yanks the open book from his hold anyway, angry all over. And yeah.

That’s definitely you.

Between the universe and Jean though, that’s you from one week ago when you slammed the door in his face.

“Don’t you have some fucking practice to be at instead of doing this pathetic shit?”

Jean’s face is perfectly stoic at the jab, but he’s disintegrating inside.

Great, his lifetime-long friends also hate him as if he doesn’t also do that by himself every second of the day.

Mikasa sends him a pitiful look when he gets up, snatches the sketchbook back and heads to the gym with Eren, Marco and Bertholdt following behind.

Jean is so miserable that he wouldn’t even admit to Marco—his own best friend—that he’s taking the breakup so bad he spends hours at your favorite places during the week hoping you pass by. Yet, you never do.

It’s like you’re a ghost.

He starts to rethink how your nickname really suits you. How you’re so bright and yellow like joy, his favorite color.

How you light up the world because as he stargazes alone now—the stars seem dimmer and a lot more far away.

The first time he sees you after you threw him out of your face, is three weeks after that and the breakup is four weeks fresh.

Still gnawing at him like a parasite.

Still being laugh-worthy, sitting at a takeout restaurant you used to religiously hit up, he received a text from Eren at midnight hitting him in all the wrong ways.

I shouldn’t be telling you this, but Y/N is at our bar rn with some people.

Keep quiet about this or—

He’s parking outside of the place before Eren even has the time to convince him to not come, bursting through the front door without thinking it twice.

Jean finds you swiftly amongst the crowd and the sight is worse than he could have ever imagined.

He should have read Eren’s texts, the warnings.

Because there you were for the first time in weeks. Dressed in a skin-tight mid-thigh black dress with spaghetti straps, long knee-length black books to match and… his leather jacket?

You look criminal, illegal.

And Jean is suffering the consequences of his damn actions.

But it hurts more when he sees you laughing at the bar with Colt who is weirdly close and Petra, Reiner’s arm hooked over your shoulder, clearly batshit drunk, which is why you probably even allowed the friendly giant to stay with you as your ex friend group glares daggers at the lucky traitor from across the building.

Eren yanks the awkwardly staring Jean from the front of the place and over to their table where everyone is present minus the blonde haired man with you.

“You have got to be kidding me.” He breathes out, feeling the world collapse on his back.

Sasha rubs a supportive hand on his back, feeling his tense muscles beneath her soft palm.

“Someone go get her, god what the hell.” He’s damn near hyperventilating. After chasing you for weeks, you show up in plain sight, chatting freely with Colt.

“Send Armin.” He croaks out, the seams of his self-control undoing.

Armins lips purse, Annie steps in.

“She almost left when she saw him going her way.”

Fuck, you really want nothing to do with them.

A gloomy shadow settles over the circular table again, letting the bustling sound of the Friday night in the bar and your distant laughter surround them.

Jeans head swivels around to catch the melody better over the sound of “Rein Me In” by Sam Fender and Olivia Dean bleeding through the speakers.

He doesn’t expect to lock eyes with you.

But he does.

The history between the both of you crashes like waves in your head.

The headache that follows is entirely enough for you to slip from under Reiner’s arm, feeling all too aware again that he’s with them. Picking up your bag and muttering a quick “See you home, babe.” To Hitch, you leave.

Zero beers in and zero drinks in, you walk just fine despite the pain in your head on the sidewalk.

Three long steps away from the bar entrance and coated by the moonlight, you hear the doors you’ve just left through shoot open again.

And you say a silent prayer in hopes it isn’t him—

“Y/N!”

But of course it is.

“Hey! Wait! We have to talk, please” You hear him beg as he jogs up to your quick-paced try to escape.

He reaches in no time due to his height and it angers you more. His voice goes soft as he bends down, trying to match your pace and attempting to reach your earshot.

“You already know what I want to talk about so just stop for a second, I really need to speak to you.”

You snap.

“God, leave me alone! You can’t pull me by the reins you cut, Jean! Get that in your head! You did this to us!”

Your head is in shambles, barely thinking of what you’re saying as your legs tirelessly work.

“I know I did, I’m sorry about it everyday. Can’t you just listen to me for once?” He sounds so hurt you just want to turn back and hug him, but you continue.

“It’s over, Jean.”

Just like that, he’s locked out again.

It doesn’t matter, the next week when his friends tell him it’s already been well over a month since the breakup, he shrugs and says no “it hasn’t been a month, It’s only been a few weeks.” But when he counts in his head, it’s already been a month and one week.

He’s back on your doorstep again, pathetically holding a bag of snacks in his lap as he sketches over the bottles in the nylon.

Tracing you from last week, outside of the bar, your side profile—the one he caught while you fled, all while he waits for you to possibly leave your dorm.

He’s stupid, pathetic.

The whole campus knows it.

He does not care.

He saw you replay K. by cigarettes after sex—the one you silently dedicated to him—over a billion times since the breakup and that’s the only spark of hope he’s still clinging onto because you forgot to block him there.

Something stirs behind him—behind the door—and it flings open the second he manages to lock himself upright and not fall behind as Hitch leaves the apartment.

“You again?” She bores, turning to lock the door when Jean gets a great idea.

“Hitch.” He says, dusting himself off after getting up. “How is she?”

She rolls her eyes. “You’ve already tried this with me before, I’m not telling you anything.” But he catches the way her gaze is distant, hesitant.

Seeing that he’s about to question some more, she turns on her heels and heads straight for the elevator.

Bingo.

The door is left unlocked.

This is so morally wrong.

He knows.

But he walks inside of your apartment again, the one where he knows exactly where your cutlery is, where the switches are and where you hide your candy from your roommate.

What he doesn’t expect to hear though, are muffled sniffles coming from your room. The door is slightly ajar, calling his name.

His feet are dragging him past the doorframe before his mind can even catch up, eager to calm you down from whatever.

Even when he is the root of it.

You jump under the covers at the sound of footsteps breaching and knocking against the wooden floor.

Having thought Hitch had left you to your own time, your heart stops when you see Jean frozen at the side of your bed from over your shoulder.

Tear stained eyes look back at him, fragmenting his heart in thousands of pieces.

And you don’t even need to tell him why you’re crying, he knows it’s because of him because you continue sobbing twice as hard when you lock eyes.

His arms are around you in a breath, bringing the warmth and comfort you were met with the last three years but can’t allow yourself to want today.

But it feels so good.

You feel so safe.

So at peace.

“Go away.” You hiccup, hands fisting his shirt, half pulling and half pushing him away. “Please go.” You plead.

He shushes you, gently rubbing your hair, combing through your worries.

It burns.

His touch burns so bad.

You hate him so much.

“I hate you.”

He hates himself too.

But he loves you so much.

“I love you so much.” He whispers back, inhaling your homey scent.

“Tell me,” you croak out, voice raspy, nose clogged.

“Were we ever bad for eachother?”

No.

God, no.

“No.” The answer fights its way out of his lips so quicky.

“Never.”

You don’t miss a beat either.

“Then why? Why would you do that to me?”

It’s a mess.

He doesn’t know what else to say. “I love you.”

“You don’t.”

He does, so much it suffocates him.

He hates being a stranger that knows everything about you.

“Leave.”

The interaction between you and Jean leaves you shaken up, really shaken up—so much that you go home for the weekend to your parents for a breather.

It does no good when they keep asking about him and you have no answers.

Because you’re both done, but you miss and want him so much it eats you alive.

The scene replays in your mind every second, eating at the white material in your brain little by little.

You going home is a blow to Jean and the group too considering how little you go home as you preferred staying with them.

The breakup is more painful than everything you have ever experienced—not to be even dramatic but you struggle with getting up in the morning.

Struggle to get out of bed when there’s not arms wrapped around you like you used to feel everyday for the last year.

It’s the kind of mental struggle not that his hold isn’t there to physically render you unable to attend classes or go to places you had to be at in some time.

Food isn’t all that appealing anymore.

The stars don’t make sense anymore.

You’re cold in an interior way.

Monday you’re back on campus, fighting the urge to fall asleep in professor Erwins class which is usually attention-grabbing.

However, your soul is so tired from fighting your days that you just want to sleep anytime.

Petra and Hitch are both on your left, whispering about something you’re struggling to hear until the words “hockey” and “match” catch onto your ear.

“Huh? What?” You mumble out, head over your crossed arms.

They freeze, hesitantly turning to you.

“TSU has another major game Thursday. Classes are cancelled.” They try to tip toe around the subject carefully, knowing who is brought up inevitably when the spot is talked about.

“Oh.”

“We won’t go if you don’t—“ Petra is about to start rambling but you cut her off, feeling a fuzzy feeling stir in your chest at a thought.

Maybe you can watch him from afar.

He won’t know you’re there if you’re really far right?

It won’t hurt right?

You wear his very first jersey, a faded dark blue now, beneath his leather jacket—the one you couldn’t bring yourself to leave behind—paired with some washed out denims and work-out black converses.

The number 7 with Kirstein embroidered on top is snugly hid beneath the black layer.

That’s your little secret to the universe.

The trumpets roar and the players glide onto the ice seamlessly in messy rows.

Players disperse, your eyes track Jean immediately once they fall on him. Seven on his back too, Kirstein on top.

His eyes roam over the crowd as he circles the rink on the way to his position, you bow your head as he passes your section and crouch behind the person in front of you.

He skates to his spot and you resume your previous sitting.

The game starts, it’s all chaos and cold in the gym. They’re on fire. From Eren and Jean attacking, to Bertholdt and Marco defending, everyone is on their A-game.

The statistics blur into mid-game as your chest feels heavier by second—that empty void in your chest taking control again as you watch him play.

Knowing you used to cheer for him, wait by the bench with water because all he wanted to see during his breaks was you.

Maybe you’re just as pathetic as him.

Unable to move on.

You see the scouts on the side, close to the separation boards. This is another one of those matches, the big ones that decide his career.

If he gets signed by one of these labels, he’s set for life.

And you know that’s what Jean wants. It’s been his dream since he’s been a kid—you remember him telling you.

Maybe that’s why he did it.

In the spur of the moment, his inner child striking and doing anything to achieve his goal.

Yet, it still stings somewhere inside of you.

Being second.

A loud whistling indicates the end of the match, hockey sticks halting, puck freezing after some time.

The blues won.

They won.

TSU won.

You see their figures huddle, the celebration. The reds retreat sourly.

None of it reaches your brain, not like Hitch and Petra are celebrating by you. Or how three rows down, Colt and Floch are jumping in happiness.

Eren flings his helmet off, Bertholdt follows, Marco tackles Jean, his helmet falling soon off too when he tugs it off too.

Reporters, scouts, girls bundle up at the board, banging against the plastic—calling out for him.

“Jean! JEAN! Give us a moment!” He stops Marco in their play-fight, slipping his gloves off and skating to the edge where a reporter hangs over the uncovered part of the rink.

“Anyone you’d like to thank tonight?” The question is simple, yet he’s never been so ready for it.

There are so many people he has to thank for tonight’s victory—his teammates, their coach, his parents…

“I’d like to thank my girlfriend, Y/N.”

The arena goes quiet.

His eyes lock on your across the hall, knowing exactly where you are. Your brain short-circuits.

“Y/N, baby, I know we haven’t been great lately and I’m so sorry. I’m an asshole, scream out to the whole world how much I fucked up everything, I’ll be sorry for it forever. But I couldn’t have made it anywhere without you. You made me who I am today—the hardworking, dedicated man I am by holding me up when I was at the bottom, for soothing every rough edge of mine and I owe this and every single part of me to you with every inch of my soul. I love you so much, sunshine.”

The crowd erupts in cheers, some people turning to even look at you once you’re located. Your friends stay frozen by your side when your legs unlock and you run down.

You run, cling onto the railing as you get down the bleachers as quick as possible. The screaming filters out as you reach him.

He’s on the other side of the rink, on the ice.

But you jump over the fence and wrap your arms around his neck, legs dangling off the floor as your upper body hugs him on the other side.

You’re supported by his strong arms around your waist.

And the world stops right then.

When your eyes are spilling tears with no remorse.

When his cushioned arms are digging into the leather of his own jacket and your waist.

When you finally decide to forgive him.

Because you simply can’t live without Jean Kirstein.

The good thing is, after being smeared over every national newspaper under “A romantical reunion between rising star Jean Kirstein and his girlfriend” , he still got signed and is now playing in the big leagues.

Oh, and he put a rock on it to solidify that he is not single.

And that he never will be ever again.

Spamming because im really productive in clearing my drafts lately and cause im not nonchalant idgaf. Take it or leave it.

Not proofread cause yall know me lol… maybe one day… MASTERLIST, AOT MASTERLIST, TAGLIST.

[andherewego-again]

Checkered Flag ⏾ Attack on Titan

Jean Kirstein x F! Reader! Modern AU

[ !!NSFW warning. 18+ please!! ]

Formula Racing! Jean Kirstein x Team Engineer! F. Reader (oneshot)

summary: You are the lead race engineer for a mid-tier team clawing its way up the standings. Jean is the driver everyone underestimated. Too aggressive, too mouthy, written off after a bad rookie season with another team. You're the reason his races improve.

notes: all my knowledge about this stuff is from quick research and Gran Turismo (the movie). also first oneshot I’ve ever written for Tumblr. please be nice. also all of the art above belongs to the rightful creators I found on pinterest.

wc: 3.9 k

.✦ ݁˖₊‧.°.⋆✮⋆.°.‧₊ .✦ ⏾⋆.˚ ݁˖₊‧.°.⋆✮⋆.˚.°.‧₊ .✦ ݁˖₊‧.°.⋆✮⋆.°.‧₊

The first time you spoke to Jean Kirstein, you told him his exit from the fourth turn was costing him three tenths a lap, and that he needed to stop fighting the car through it.

He's looked at you like you'd insulted his mother.

"I'm not fighting anything," he replied, arms crossed, still sweating through his balaclava from the session. "The car is fighting me."

"It's not a wrestling match, Kirstein, it's a braking zone." You tapped a knuckle against the tablet screen. "You're lifting half a second early into the fourth turn, burning your exit speed before you even turn the wheel. You're fighting a problem you are creating yourself."

He stared at the display for a long moment. Then at you.

"Who hired you?"

"Same person who hired you. Ymir brought me in to catch the details Rico's group missed." You leaned back slightly against the workstation. "You've got the speed to qualify near the top. I'm just here to make sure you actually stay there on Sunday instead of dropping back by lap ten."

"You always this friendly?"

"I'm not paid to be friendly. I'm paid to make you finish races."

That had been eleven months ago, in a garage in Bahrain that smelled like brake dust and stale coffee, and it was the last time either of you had been anything close to formal with each other.

By the sixth race of the season you had a rhythm. You called strategy, he executed it... mostly. He argued on the radio more than any driver you'd ever worked with, a running commentary of are you sure and I don't like this and, once, memorably, if this undercut doesn't work I'm blaming you specifically, by name, in the post-race interview. And then he would do exactly what you told him anyway, because somewhere over the past months he had started trusting you more than he trusted his own hands on the wheel.

Having him trust your calls without hesitation was a career high. But in the quiet hours between sessions, when it was just you and a screen full of lap times, that trust started feeling heavy in a completely different way.

You pushed it aside. You had a championship on the line.

The team was fourth in the constructors' standings, closing on third, and Jean was somehow fourth in the drivers' championship despite driving for a team that had finished ninth the year before. Some of that was the car. Most of it, though nobody official would say it out loud, was the two of you-- his hands and your numbers, six years of him being told he was too aggressive to be reliable finally getting turned into an asset instead of a liability, because you were the one deciding when aggressive was allowed to happen.

"I can hear you overthinking from three tables away," Jean said, dropping into the booth across from you. He pushed a plate of pasta around with his fork, wearing that distinct, edge-of-his-seat impatience that meant Monza was coming up.

"It's called working, Kirstein. You should try it sometime." You pointed to the screen. "Monza's a low deg circuit, which means every strategist on the grid is going to lock themselves into a boring one-stop. I want to know if we can make a two-stop work anyway."

"Why would we want a two-stop at a one-stop track?"

"Because everyone else is going to be on the same strategy at the same time, which means everyone else is going to be stuck in traffic at the same time. If we're not exactly where they are, we're not fighting them for position."

He looked at you for a second, a considering look he gave you sometimes that you had learned to associate, uncomfortably, with him thinking about you instead of about racing. "You know you scare the shit out of half the garage."

"Good."

"Not me, though."

You finally looked up, "No?"

"I've seen you cry over an undercut that didn't work in Miami. You're not scary. You just make it sound like you are." He said it easily, like it wasn't a small intimacy, like he hadn't just told you he'd noticed something about you that most people missed entirely. "It's kind of the same thing I do, actually."

"You don't hide caring. You are the loudest person here."

"I hide the caring that matters." he said it and then seemed to hear it, the way it landed somewhere past the joke he'd meant it as, and looked back down at the pasta instead of at you. "Anyway. Monza. Two-stop. You'll tell me when."

"I'll tell you when."

He didn't leave, though. He sat there, pushing his pasta around in his bowl while you built a strategy model. And you let him, neither of you saying anything about why that felt like it mattered.

Monza went perfectly, which was its own kind of problem, because perfect races made it very easy to forget you were supposed to keep a professional distance from the person you'd just helped win.

The two-stop played out exactly as predicted. While the rest of the field got tangled up in traffic on worn tires, Jean cut through the grid like he was in a league of his own. On fresh rubber for the final stint, he picked off three cars in rapid succession and crossed the line in second, the team's first podium at Monza, and his best finish of the year.

The radio afterward was chaos, the whole garage on its feet, and Jean's voice cut straight through the noise, still breathless from the in-lap but his smile audible: "Say it! Say it over the radio right now. You were right. Go on, tell me 'I told you so,' I know you want to."

You pressed your comms button, a laugh escaping before you could stop it because it was such a Jean thing to demand, forcing his engineer to gloat over an open broadcast on the best finish of his career.

"P2, Jean," you said into your headset, keeping your voice as steady as you could manage. "I'll save the 'I told you so' for the debrief."

He found you right after the podium in the debrief room, still in his race suit, hair a damp mess from the champagne spray, practically radiating post-race adrenaline. The moment he saw you, a massive, uncontained grin split his face. He crossed the room in three quick strides and scooped you up into a sudden, breathless hug, lifting your feet clean off the floor as he laughed against your shoulder.

When he set you back down, he eased his grip just enough to look at you, his hands resting easily on your waist to keep you anchored right in front of him.

"You were right!" he said, the triumph still bright in his voice, like saying it over the radio hadn't been loud enough.

"I know."

He rolled his eyes with a fond, teasing smile, his thumbs brushing lightly against the sides of your waist. "You could at least pretend to be humble about it."

"I could. I'm choosing not to." You reached down, closing the lid of your laptop with one hand while keeping your gaze locked with his, then let your hand rest casually on his wrist where it sat against your hip. "You drove it well, Kirstein. The strategy only works if the execution's clean, and yours was."

His grin softened into something a little warmer, a little closer, his gaze dropping to your mouth for a fraction of a second before meeting your eyes again. "Careful. That almost sounded like a compliment."

"Don't get used to it." You raised an eyebrow at him, attempting a dry delivery, though the attempt was completely ruined by the smile still tugging at the corners of your lips.

Neither of you pulled away. With the rest of the crew trickling out into the hallway, the room settled into a quiet, charged silence, leaving just the two of you, the hum of leftover adrenaline, and a working relationship that had quietly crossed a line neither of you could undo.

His hands slowly slid down from your waist, his fingers lingering against your hips for a beat before dropping to his sides, though he stayed right where he was, refusing to fix the distance between you.

"Kirstein--"

"I know," he said, before you could finish whatever sentence you'd been about to build. The sensible one, the one about the contract, about the team, about the version of this that stayed uncomplicated. "I know what you're going to say."

"Do you."

"You're going to say there's a clause. Technical staff, drivers, fraternization, all that." He said it like he had looked it up. Like he'd looked it up more than once. "I read it too."

"And?"

"And I think about it a lot less than I think about you telling me I overcorrect on entry like it's the sexiest thing anyone's ever said to me." He said it lightly, like a joke, except his eyes weren't playing along. They were doing something steadier, something that had clearly been building for longer than tonight. "I'm not going to do anything about that. Not without you wanting me to. I just... Monza. Best finish of my career. And every good thing I do lately, first thing I want is to know if you thought I did it right. That's not... that's not just a good working relationship anymore. I don't think it has been for a while.

You should have said something about the clause. You should have said something about the stakes of the championship, about sixteen weeks left in the season, about the very specific and real risk of complicating the one part of this sport that had finally started working the way it was supposed to.

What you said was: "You didn't overcorrect on entry once tonight."

"I know," he replied, quiet now. "You would have told me on the radio."

"I would have."

"So."

"So," you agreed. You left the rest unspoken. It didn't need to be stated out loud... the agreement was already made in the quiet, charged space of that empty debrief room, clear as any contract.

Neither of you crossed that line that night. You told him, and convinced yourself, that Monza was the wrong backdrop. There were too many eyes in the paddock, too much lingering post-race chaos, and too high a risk of making a decision fueled by adrenaline rather than intent. Jean, to his credit, just nodded and let it rest.

But the dynamic had fundamentally changed, and there was no returning to how things were. The shift bled into every hour of the race weekend, caught in the small, dangerous margins of contact neither of you avoided anymore.

He started showing up at your workstation twenty minutes before his first practice run just to drink his coffee in silence, his elbow resting against yours as you both stared at the tablet. Passing each other in the narrow corridor between the garage and the hospitality unit, his hand would linger on the small of your back as he guided you past a swarm of mechanics-- a gesture polite enough for onlookers, but held a second too long to be professional.

You stopped ignoring the details you’d trained yourself not to see: the way his knuckles went white on the steering wheel until your voice came through his earpiece; the quiet, conspiratorial grins he’d shoot toward the pit wall during roll-outs; the brief, grounding press of his fingers over yours when you handed him his driver notes before a session. And, most of all, the way he’d begun slipping your actual name into his radio confirmations instead of a dry "copy" whenever a strategy call paid off-- a habit small enough for the broadcast to overlook, but impossible for you to miss.

Three races later, in Singapore, under lights, on a strategy call so tight it came down to the final lap, a gap in the cars you'd told him would open with eleven laps to go, and it opened with eleven laps to go, and he took it, and he won. Jean Kirstein won his first race of the season by three tenths of a second, the exact margin you'd told him he was losing on the fourth turn eleven months and a lifetime ago.

He found you in the garage after the podium, after the interviews, after the team had mostly cleared out to celebrate somewhere that wasn't a concrete bay full of tire warmers and spare front wings. Still in his race suit, unzipped to the waist, champagne-damp, hair a mess from the podium spray and the helmet. You were alone, packing up the last of the strategy tablets, telling yourself you'd stayed late for work reasons and not because some part of you had known he'd come find you.

"Hey," he said, and his voice had none of the usual joking edge.

"Hey yourself. Congratulations. That was--"

He took two slow, deliberate steps toward you, his eyes fixed on yours, before stopping just a couple of feet away-- close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him from the race, but far enough that he wasn't touching you. The restraint was obvious in the tight set of his shoulders and the way his jaw worked, holding himself back from reaching out and pulling you flush against him right then and there.

"Come here," he said, his voice low, refusing to close that last arm's length of space himself.

He was waiting, the exact same way he'd waited in the debrief room in Monza-- asking without asking, holding all that wanting in check, and handing you the choice every single time instead of assuming it.

You put the tablet down on the workbench and crossed the remaining distance. When you stepped into his space, his breath hitched, and the composure he was fighting so hard to keep visibly fractured. His hand came up to cup your jaw, his fingers warm against your skin, and you leaned into the touch instead of stepping back.

"I've been thinking about doing this since Monza," he said, his thumb tracing a slow, steady path along your cheekbone, his voice dropped to a rough whisper. "Longer than that, if I'm honest."

"You overthink off the track, too," you whispered.

"Only when it comes to you." His hand slid down to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling into your hair as he tilted your face up. "I kept telling myself to wait, to be responsible about the team, about the contract..."

"And?"

"And I really don't want to stop," he whispered against your lips, and then he kissed you-- and eleven months of careful professional distance went up like a fuel spill catching a spark.

He kissed like he drove-- committed, a little reckless, like holding back had never once occurred to him as an option worth taking. Your hands found the open front of his race suit, the damp cotton of the shirt underneath clinging to his chest, and he made a low sound against your mouth that you felt more than heard.

"We shouldn't," you said, not pulling away, the words pressed directly against his lips.

"Tell me to stop and I will."

You couldn't bring yourself to tell him to stop.

He backed you up until your spine hit the tall metal storage cabinets lining the garage wall, the cool steel a sharp contrast to the heat radiating off him. His hands slid down your sides, fingers digging firmly into your hips before slipping lower, cupping your rear to pull you flush against him until there wasn't an inch of air left between your bodies. He groaned into your mouth at the friction, heavy and undoing, his hips pressing into yours as if trying to ground himself.

The kiss deepened-- reckless and demanding, his tongue sliding against yours with a desperate, heavy heat that made your head spin. Every breath tasted like champagne and adrenaline. Your hands tangled in the short, damp hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, matching the rhythm of his mouth until both of you were gasping against each other's lips.

He trailed open-mouthed kisses over the curve of your jaw, down the sensitive line of your throat, his hands tightening on your hips as you arched into him. The heat between you was overwhelming, eleven months of restraint evaporating against the cold steel lockers.

Driven by a sudden, restless impatience, Jean lifted you off your feet, carrying you the few steps over to set you back down on the edge of the workbench.

He backed you against the workbench, one hand braced beside your hip, the other cradling your jaw like you were something he'd wanted to touch for eleven months and was still checking he was allowed to. "You have no idea," he murmured against your throat, "how many times I sat in that car listening to you talk me through a corner and thought about this instead."

"That's... incredibly bad for your lap times."

"Worth it," he said, and dragged the zip of your jacket down, and you decided, somewhere in the part of your brain that still ran strategy calculations even now, that the garage door was closed, that the team had gone, that this had been building for eleven months and a three-tenths margin and you were done running the numbers on whether you should.

"Jean--"

"Yeah." His mouth against your jaw, your ear, the line of your throat. "Yeah, I've got you."

Your jacket hit the floor of the garage. His race suit followed, shrugged the rest of the way off his shoulders so it hung loose at his waist, and the shirt underneath came off next, and then it was skin against skin in the cool concrete air, his hands mapping you like a corner he'd been given the fastest line through and intended to take at full commitment.

"Tell me if I'm going too fast," he said, low, against your collarbone, one hand working the clasp of your bra with more patience than you'd expected from him.

"You've never gone too fast in your life."

"First time for everything." But he grinned against your skin when he said it, and when the bra came away and his mouth found your breast, any joke either of you had left died fast.

You arched into it, hands braced behind you on the workbench, and he took his time there-- unhurried in a way that felt deliberate, like he was making up for eleven months of not being allowed to want this out loud. His hand slid up your thigh, under the hem of your skirt, and when his fingers found you already soaked through your underwear he groaned like it undid him.

"Fuck. You're-" He didn't finish the sentence. He pulled the fabric aside instead and touched you properly, slick fingers dragging slow over your center before sinking two fingers deep inside you in one smooth, unhurried push.

You gasped, your hips instinctively hitching into his hand, and you had to bite down on the sound that wanted to come out of you because the garage door, closed or not, wasn't soundproof.

"Jean-"

"I know." His voice had gone rough. "I know, I've got you, just-" and he curled his fingers just right inside you, his thumb finding your clit at the exact same time, and you forgot what you'd been about to say entirely.

He worked you like he approached every corner you'd ever given him data on-- precise, attentive, adjusting to what your body told him the same way he adjusted to what your voice told him on track, his fingers pumping slow and deep while his thumb kept up a relentless rhythm until you were shaking against his hand and his mouth was back on yours swallowing every sound you couldn't keep quiet.

"Need you," you managed, when his thumb found the right pressure and your hips rocked forward into his hand without your permission. "Jean, please-"

"Yeah." He pulled back just enough to shove the rest of his race suit down, hands not quite steady, and you reached for him too, palm closing around him and drawing a groan out of his chest that echoed off the concrete. "Fuck, okay-- condom, glovebox, there's a-" a half-laugh, disbelieving, "there's a first aid kit in here somewhere too, I know there's-"

You found it before he did, some absurd corner of your brain still functioning enough to locate the emergency kit in the garage inventory you'd catalogued yourself, and he laughed against your mouth at the fact that even now you were the one who knew where everything was.

"Efficient," he said, rolling it on, hands finally steady again once he had a task in front of him. "God, I love that about you."

The word love landed and neither of you flinched from it, which told you everything about how long this had actually been building.

He lined up and pushed in slow, watching your face the whole time like your reaction mattered more than anything the numbers had ever told him, and when he bottomed out, you both went still for a second, foreheads together, breathing the same air.

"Okay?" he asked.

"Move," you said, "before I change my mind about the whole clause thing," and he laughed, breathless, and did.

He set a pace that started controlled and didn't stay that way, the same commitment he drove with, easing off exactly when your breath caught and then giving you everything again the second you asked for it, one hand braced on the workbench beside your hip and the other gripping your thigh hard enough to bruise. The garage was empty and dim and smelled like rubber and fuel and both of you, and every sound either of you made bounced back at you off concrete and steel, and neither of you cared.

"You have no idea," he said against your ear, hips snapping harder when you clenched around him at the words, "how long I've wanted this. Every race. Every time you told me I was right and didn't smile when you said it."

"I smiled plenty."

"Not enough. Wanted-" a groan, his rhythm stuttering, "wanted you to smile at me like this instead."

You dragged him down by the back of the neck and kissed him hard enough to bruise, and he answered by hitching your leg higher over his hip and driving deeper, and the next several minutes were less conversation and more the kind of wordless, desperate give-and-take that eleven months of careful professional distance had been building toward the entire time.

You came first, his name breaking on your tongue, back arching off the workbench, and the sight of it, you unraveled because of him, finally, after everything, was what took him over the edge right behind you, hips stuttering, face buried in your neck, his whole body going tight and then loose all at once.

For a long moment neither of you moved. The garage lights hummed. Somewhere outside, faint, the last of the podium celebration was still going.

"So," Jean said eventually, into your hair, voice wrecked and warm, "about that clause."

"We'll deal with the clause."

"Worth it, though. Whatever happens."

You thought about eleven months of strategy and radio calls and a four-tenths margin that had somehow turned into this, and found, for once, that you didn't have a strategy for what came next-- and didn't especially mind.

"Worth it," you agreed.

[lenessence]

OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD

[yummyyuritime]

AOT Men Walk in On You "Playing" With Yourself (Headcanon List)

(I saw a post like this about the Stardust Crusaders and just had to recreate it)

*These are them in s4--a roommate au*

EREN JAEGER

ALRIGHT so we all know he's going to barge into your room without asking for whatever reason, maybe he needed your opinion on what shirt was better for a party

When he sees you like that, he stops and stares for far too long with a very stupid look on his face

His eyes drift to where your fingers rub at your puffy clit, getting you closer by the minute

You stop of course, rushing to wrap yourself in your blanket

As you curse yourself for not locking the door, he just stands there, mouth agape

His green eyes on you leave you speechless; you start darting your eyes away from him

When you look back at him, there's a tent in his pants

He immediately leaves and slams the door behind him, cursing himself internally

Despite his embarrassment, he turns back around and opens the door once more, unable to just leave

He speaks without thinking, his voice breaking as his desperation for you consumes him

"So, will you help me or what?!'

ARMIN ARLERT

Armin hears you moaning from outside your room

He stays by your door, his hand hovering over the doorknob

You have no idea anyone is home--he'd left his lecture early, so he just stands there, stunned and intrigued

Despite himself, he presses his ear against the door to get a better listen

He swears he hears his name--his face reddens intensely upon the way it falls from your lips

Without thinking about it, he grabs the doorknob and twists, opening the door as quietly as possible

He's delighted to find you humping your pillow, your back to him as you don't even notice him there

He leans against the doorframe, his eyes half-lidded as he observes your every movement for far too long

He notices your frustration as you dig your palms into the bedsheets

"Need a little help?"

JEAN KIRSTEIN

Okay. He knocks on your door a few times, as he always does before entering

You don't answer, you don't even register it because of how close you are

You rationalize that it's just "apartment noise"

When you don't reply, he grows worried

The worst images flash through his mind

Did you manage to hurt yourself somehow?

So he barges in, finding you spread and trying out a dildo you'd gotten in the mail a few days ago--you never let him near the package when he asked about it

A smile spreads slowly on his face despite himself

So this is what you were hiding from him?

When you stop and grab your blanket, he raises his hand in denial

"No--don't let me stop you, sweetheart."

CONNIE SPRINGER

HE RUSHES INTO YOUR ROOM because he just got paid and wants to order food

He does this like every week instead of saving money like he should

He always wants your input--never wanting to leave you out of his takeout orders

He nearly cried one day when you told him you were going on a diet; though he said it was because he didn't want to eat alone, it was really because he couldn't stand the thought of you losing any curves, especially your tummy

He's right by your bed once he realizes what you're doing

He curses aloud in amazement, standing right in place

You grab your blanket to pull it over your head

But he quickly stops you, gripping your hand tight without even thinking

He chuckles, obviously checking out your exposed form as he bites his lip

When he meets your eyes, he searches them for a devastating amount of time, holding the two of you hostage with the tension of his silence

"You hungry?"

REINER BRAUN

oooof he knocks on the door several times, not wanting to intrude on you

However, before you can say anything, he heads into your room, as he really needs his water bottle he'd left in there for the gym

He never likes to be late; every night after the gym he heads straight to bed to wake up on time for work the next day

He catches you grinding against a stuffed animal he'd won for you at an arcade a while back--absolutely shocked to say the least

You curse and nearly jump to cover yourself

You turn back to see that he's still there--once your eyes meet, he immediately notices his bottle on your nightstand and picks it up

He attempts leaves with haste, turning back only to shut the door behind him

However, when he sees the way you stare at him, barely even covered, he stops

He awkwardly chuckles

"You really like that bear, huh?"

BERTHOLDT HOOVER

ooooooooh dont even get me started im about to be so annoying

He heads into your room without knocking, wanting to borrow a pillow because he managed to lose his yet again

However, he spots a purple light beneath your blanket

You rush to shut it off, ready to act as though nothing had happened

But the buzz echoes in his mind

You mutter out a half-hearted greeting to him, asking him what he needs

He softly smiles at you

He asks to borrow a pillow; you hand it to him

Instead of leaving, he pulls up your desk chair and sits down, making mindless conversation about things that didn't really matter

After what feels like an eternity, he finally gets up and heads for the door

He looks back at you as he grabs the handle, shyly uttering something

"Invite me next time."

[yummyyuritime]

AOT Men's Fav Positions (Headcanon List) <3

Today work pissed me the fuck off so as I sat and did my job I daydreamed about these headcanons!! (Also these are their adult forms don't be weird)

EREN JAEGER

Sooo for him we've gotta go with the classic missionary

He loves to wrap his arms around you as he thrusts inside

He can't stand to have even the slightest bit of distance as he gets close

Wrapping his arms around you grounds him in the moment

He grunts and moans directly in your ear, leaving shivers down your spine

His voice is just so *breathy*, he knows he's egging you on

He kisses your neck, leaving love bites all over as his thrusts grow quicker

"Ah...(Y/n), you're getting tighter--mmgh..."

ARMIN ARLERT

GUYS listen. He loves 69

IT MIGHT SEEM CRAZY but look I feel like underneath that sweet unassuming exterior has to be a deeply freaky man

He LOVES having you sit on his face and his dick being in your mouth during sends him over the edge

He grabs your hips really tight, leaving you no room to squirm as he lovingly eats you out

He never EVER finishes before you

He needs to be covered in whatever you can give--he's convinced it's got healing powers

(He whimpers against your core, muffled)

JEAN KIRSTEIN

In all honesty I don't know what it's called BUT he has you lying on your back with your legs on his shoulders

He honestly loves seeing you spread out in any way

But there's something about feeling your legs shiver against his bare skin that he can't get enough of

Like Eren he likes to stay close--see the look on your face when you finish

He wants nothing more than for you to be comfortable beneath him, able to take him in as deep as possible

He clutches your thigh tight as he nears climax

"All spread out for me...you're so beautiful like this, (Y/n)."

CONNIE SPRINGER

This one is an absolute no-brainer: DOGGY STYLE

This man absolutely NEEDS you on your hands and knees

When you arch for him it's game over

He grabs your hips so tight you fear they might bruise

Though he's slow at first, when he really gets into it, he pounds into you like there's no tomorrow

He's not much of a whisperer; since he isn't that close to your face he'll moreso shout you through

"Who's making you feel this good, huh?! What's my name?!" *you're getting spanked if it's not daddy*

REINER BRAUN

*dreamy sighhhh* Reiner would have you on your stomach beneath him, with a pillow of course

Similar to Jean, he loves having you lie down, comfortable

He raises one of your legs on the sheets to expose you to him, hissing throughhis teeth at the sight

He can't help biting his lip at the way you clutch the sheets as he slowly stretches you out

As he fills you up, he leans forward, breathing by your ear

He kisses the back of your neck as he starts moving inside

Another reason he likes doing it like this is that he's shy and doesn't want you to see his scrunched up face

If you try burying your head in the mattress to stifle yourself, he'll gently lift your chin from behind, forcing you to let him hear it

"(Y/n), don't hide from me, relax..."

(sorry i couldn't find any good s4 pics of Bertholdt)

BERTHOLDT HOOVER

Look. He's tall. HE'S BENDING YOU OVER WHATEVER FURNITURE HE CAN FIND!!!

Desks, beds, kitchen counters, sofas, armchairs, WHATEVER!

He grabs your wrists with one of his hands, clasping them behind your back

With the other hand, he grips your waist, biting his lip as he slides inside

He's *long*, filling you up all the way

He's surprisingly composed the whole time, relishing in the way you breathe his name over and over (i know a lot of us would struggle to do that but hush)

It's only when he nears that point of desperation where his moans get louder, he calls you "baby" repeatedly

His hand wanders all over you, occasionally gripping your chest to tease at your nipples

"Just bent over, taking all of me...you like that don't you baby?"

[yummyyuritime]

"Please Don't Wake Me Up" --An Armin x Reader Smut

SUMMARY: You catch your roommate Armin and best friend having a wet dream, what will you do now?!

~5.6k words

(Y/n) woke up to use the bathroom; once she finished using it, she heard a noise coming from the bedroom across hers: her roommate and best friend Armin Arlert's room.

They'd been living in a run-down apartment ever since starting university, deciding against staying at an overpriced dorm. They really enjoyed their time together, late-night chats and movies were a regular thing. All the stress of assignments was completely forgotten once they turned on their favorite movies and got their dumbest looking pajamas on. She could talk about absolutely anything with him; they shared a lot of hobbies, one in particular she loved was their shared interest in erotic romance novels. Armin never read anything downright raunchy, but he loved discussing deeply poetic books with her that may have included a bit of smut.

It was about 2:00 am, and she grew concerned as she began to hear his voice, deciding to move closer to his room to investigate.

She didn't want to take any chances, so she opened his door, immediately taking in Armin splayed on his bed, his shirtless body only covered up to the hips by his blanket. He laid in complete darkness cut through by the moonlight coming through his window.

His lips were slightly parted; (Y/n)'s face grew hot as she heard him softly whimper and groan in his sleep, his hands grabbing the sheets as he squirmed about. His eyes were shut, and he seemed to squint them even tighter whenever he'd grunt or sigh. He paid her no mind, completely asleep.

She stayed impossibly quiet, stunned as she watched and listened intently to his smooth, soft voice.

He mumbled something hardly audible, "(Y-y)...Ahhh~"

(Y/n) raised her eyebrows in shock; he seemed to have mumbled the first syllables of her name. She slammed the door shut when she finally realized what she was doing, rushing back to her room. She jumped on her bead and buried her face in her pillow, internally screaming.

"Of course he wasn't saying MY name, he could be mumbling anyone's name! Plenty of people's names start with that letter, or maybe it was just a sound or word!" she thought rapidly.

Despite her rapid train of thought, the main thing bothering her was the fact that when catching her roommate in a wet dream, she just sat and watched. The fact that she really enjoyed it sent her mind running for a loop.

She'd always thought Armin looked good. Back when they were kids, she'd always noticed how pretty his features were, and that he had a very feminine charm to him. However, after growing up, cutting his hair and gaining a bit of muscle, it really felt like he was the best of both worlds: a handsome, muscular guy with a soft, delicate heart. She'd only admit to herself that she thought he looked good, nothing else.

She didn't want to admit the way her heart jumped with joy whenever he was home, or how she'd purposefully wear cute pajamas in hopes that he'd notice, or how she'd give up all her studying time just to chat with him some more about whatever came to mind.

Dating a roommate would be messy, and the thought over losing her dearest friend Armin over something as stupid as her crush on him made her heart sink. It wasn't going to happen.

CH.2 (Armins POV)

(Y/n) slowly lowered her hips onto Armin, his broad tip slowly stretching her out. He gasped, the warmth of her channel enveloping him like nothing else.

He grabbed the sheets by his sides, gasping and moaning.

As (Y/n) bucked her hips back and forth, he began whimpering the first syllable of her name, stuttering on the word. He cut himself off with a gasp as she suddenly began thrusting her hips up and down.

"SLAM!"

Armin jolted awake, his chest rising and falling quickly as he caught his breath.

He looked down to the massive tent beneath the blanket.

He sighed, leaning forward and burying his face in his hands.

"I can't believe it was just a dream again..." he muttered to himself. "What was that noise?" he thought.

He thought some more and realized the loud noise could be none other than that of his door.

"The only person who could have slammed it shut like that was... (Y/n)!" he suddenly realized, his face turning even redder than before.

He prayed with all of his heart that he wasn't very loud, and that his dick wasn't that hard the entire time she was there--speaking of, "How long was she there?!" he wondered desperately.

Hopefully she didn't hear anything, but if she didn't, what did she slam the door for?!

Ch. 3

Friday night. It was 7:00 pm, and (Y/n) had finally caught up on all her assignments for the week, ready to relax. However, the instance from last week bothered her nonstop. She'd think of it randomly during class, in her car, in the bathroom, while cooking, wherever.

Her mind would wander, trailing into what would happen next if he woke up, and what Armin would do after being caught--

"(Y/n)?" Armin's voice called out from behind her.

She'd been successfully avoiding him all week; between work and school, there was no time to awkwardly discuss what happened the other night.

Her face flushed a bright red. "Yeah, what's up?"

"It's been a while, wanna watch a movie with me?" Armin asked with a smile. "It's alright if you don't want to, I know you're pretty busy--"

"I'd love to! I'll just shower first. Don't start without me!" (Y/n) demanded as she rushed out of her chair towards her closet, then the bathroom.

Armin watched her scurry away, his eyes fixated on her ass.

He ripped them away woefully. "Alright, I'll order some food," he yelled.

He walked away and flopped onto the couch, upset that (Y/n) seemed so on edge around him. He was sure she'd heard him that night, but he'd be damned if he ever admitted that he was dreaming of her riding him like a merry-go-round.

"Deny, deny, deny," Eren had told him last week when Armin confided in him about the whole thing. "Don't admit to ANYTHING, no matter what," he commanded.

(Y/n) got out of the shower and walked to her closet. She grabbed a pajama set out of her closet, a lacey blue one with a long tank top and mini shorts. She always wore cute pajamas lke this around Armin; nothing was going to change because of last week's incident. 

However, (Y/n) wanted things to change.

She wanted to break through the tension, somehow.

Ch. 4

(Y/n) walked into the living room and sat next to Armin, laying her head against his shoulder and complaining about her long week.

Armin couldn't focus on a word of what she said, instead becoming fixated on how her tank top stretched over her chest, and how tiny her shorts were.

The food they ordered came, the movie they watched was a classic, and everything was going smoothly.

However, during an intense scene, (Y/n) looked over to Armin, catching him staring at her. He immediately turned back to the TV, pretending it didn't happen.

(Y/n), who struggled to focus on the movie, asked him a question as to what was going on. She hated to bother him with stupid questions she'd know the answers to if she were just paying attention, but the silence between them felt stiff and stagnant; the air was twinged with the shared yet unstated knowledge of what happened last Friday night. He patiently answered her questions each time, seemingly appreciative of her efforts.

After a bit, Armin suddenly got up; "I need a blanket," he said.

"Hang on, this is a really important scene!" (Y/n) replied.

He ignored her and grabbed a blanket from his room, putting it over his lap once he sat back down, adjusting it to a strange degree.

Throughout a lot of the movie, he shifted uncomfortably; his breathing seemed uneven and strained.

"Hey, are you alright?" (Y/n) asked thoughtfully.

"I'm fine, don't worry," Armin insisted.

She replied, "Alright, whatever you say." Then, she felt a slight chill.

It was bold, but she decided she'd curl up next to him. "Share the blanket," she commanded as she pulled it over herself.

She laid her head on his shoulder once more, paying close attention to the way he stiffened at her touch.

They stayed like that for a long while, the movie playing before them only a piece of background noise to the real movie happening between the two of them.

In the film, the main character woke up from a horrific dream, clutching their chest as they tried to catch their breath.

Armin's eyes widened as he remembered how he woke up from his vivid dream last week, covered in sweat, even leaking slightly.

"You ever remember your dreams?" (Y/n) suddenly asked, her confidence boosted by Armin's clear uncertainty.

"What? Oh-- yeah, sometimes. Not much though."

"Really? That's kinda sad..." she started. "...You ever have really good dreams?" She smiled up at him. "Like, REALLY good dreams?"

"Deny, deny, deny," Armin thought. "Not really, whenever I remember my dreams, they're just-- weird, you know?" he replied, avoiding all eye contact.

"Uh huh..." (Y/n) tore her gaze away from his. "You sure?"

He turned away from her, hiding his face. "Yes. I'm sure."

(Y/n) heard a slightly stern tone in his voice, unlike anything she's heard from him before. Admittedly, it was very attractive, but her stomach totally dropped as she lost all the confidence she previously had; embarrassment flowed through her as she remembered that Armin couldn't possibly feel the same about her that she did about him. She backed away from him, beginning to apologize profusely.

After darting her eyes back and forth in an attempt to figure out her words, she began, "Armin, I'm sorry-- look, I walked in on you moaning and whatever and I'm like 99% sure you were having a wet dream but I didn't mean to embarrass you or anything," (Y/n) admitted quickly, "I'm really sorry, I was being stupid, making fun of you for something like that..."

Armin paused the film, then looked at her, his eyebrows slightly furrowed as his face was bright red. "That's all you heard, saw?"

"Well, I guess there was something else a bit strange-- but it's dumb, I won't say it."

Armin placed his hands on the back of his neck, elbows coming forward. "You didn't hear me really SAY anything, right?"

"...No."

"You hesitated."

"LOOK, I heard you mumble something, that's it!"

Armin looked at (Y/n), a small, bashful smile appearing on his face.

He gently took one of her hands in his and kissed the back of it. He then looked into her eyes, the back of her hand still on his mouth. When she froze, he smiled against her hand. "You've been really strange all week; you know what I was dreaming about, don't you?"

(Y/n) raised her eyebrows in disbelief, and Armin simply nodded.

"What do you think of that, (Y/n)? You can be honest."

(Y/n) looked away from him, thinking of what to say. Her face was hot at this point, and the focused yet gentle manner in which Armin stared at her stirred up a pool of arousal in her lower belly.

"See, I get that kind of dream pretty often these days, always with you. It's a treat each time, I hope for it," Armin began. "I guess I was just pretty audible last time, I'm sorry about that."

"What-- no, don't be sorry! I'm the one who's sorry for staying and watching!" (Y/n) interjected.

"...Staying and watching?" Armin blushed.

(Y/n) brought a hand up to her mouth in disbelief of her insolence.

"I guess I don't need an answer of your opinion on it," he chuckled.

"You didn't hear me say that. I didn't say that," (Y/n) unconvincingly insisted.

"But I did..." Armin mused. "You liked it, huh?" Armin softly tucked a bit of (Y/n)'s hair behind her ear, sighing deeply. "So, want to hear more about my dream?"

Ch. 5

Armin leaned in just a bit closer to (Y/n), the hand that just tucked the hair behind her ear moving down her shoulder, eventually reaching her waist. "I was really worried about some exam, so when you left in the morning, I was studying. By the time you got back home, I hadn't moved from my spot."

"That sounds a lot like you," (Y/n) giggled.

"Anyway, you slammed my bedroom door behind you and practically dragged me onto my bed, pushing me to lay on my back," Armin continued as he rubbed small circles on (Y/n)'s waist with his thumb. "You told me 'Relax Armin, you study too much'--"

(Y/n) interrupted after hearing Armin make her voice out to be much higher than it really was: "I don't sound like that!"

Armin laughed, insisting that she did. "I don't think that's the point of the story..." he defended. "Finally, you crawled on top of me and... yeah."

(Y/n)'s eyebrows were practically above her head by this point. She took a long pause to process everything she had just heard. "You stopped right before the best part," she joked.

"I feel a bit shy to say what happened next..." Armin admitted. "Why not just make another dream with you instead?" Armin leaned in even closer after asking that, gazing at (Y/n) with longing eyes. "...How does that sound, (Y/n)?"

(Y/n) kissed him, and he immediately wrapped his arms around her waist, holding her as close to him as he could.

He kissed her tenderly; nothing about it was rough; however, it lasted for so long that by the time Armin finally pulled away, (Y/n) was gasping for air. Armin removed the blanket from the two of them, revealing the massive tent in his pants.

Before (Y/n) could even fully process it, he kissed her again, desperate for more. He gradually pushed her so far back that she fell against the couch, laying beneath him; nothing stopped. He continued wrestling her tongue with his, moaning into her mouth after slightly brushing his pulsing hard-on against her pelvis.

He pulled away once more; (Y/n) gasped for air again, her chest expanding widely with every breath.

"Ah, (Y/n)..." Armin breathed. "Don't wake me up, please."

He moved his face away from hers to press his lips against her neck; gentle pecks quickly devlolving into bites and sucks.

Whatever Armin did, he saw it through. After a bit of time, (Y/n)'s neck was covered in bit marks and hickeys; anytime she made even the slightest bit of noise, Armin would suck harder, continuing to grind against her until she was wet enough for it to start leaking through her shorts.

He brought his hand to the neckline of her tank top, forcefully pulling it down to kiss her collarbone.

The fabric wasn't stretchy, so (Y/n) grew concerned it'd rip. "Hey, hey, relax I'll take it off."

She grabbed the hem of her tank top and pulled it over her head, tossing it aside.

Armin smiled, taking a deep, thankful breath at the sight of her without a bra on.

He kissed her torso all over; his warm hands caressed her breasts and gently pinched her nipples. Once they were perked up, he sucked on one of them, moaning as he swirled his tongue around.

He'd kept a consistent grind against her this whole time, but he'd have moments where he'd roughly buck his hips forward, aching to relieve the tension within him.

(Y/n) felt like she'd simply been laying back the whole time, getting loved all over. "You're so tense Armin..." she mentioned. Armin behaved like a trained dog that'd been waiting to eat for hours and was finally told that he could, completely ravaging the meal he was given.

(Y/n) grabbed Armin and forcefully flipped their bodies so she was on top; she grinded her thigh against him. "Here, let me try to be a little like the me in your dream..." she joked with a grin.

"(Y/n), you don't have to--"

"Just take this off." (Y/n) pointed at Armin's shirt.

Armin immediately complied, removing his t-shirt to reveal a lean, chiseled body underneath.

While sitting on top of his member and grinding against it, (Y/n) leaned down and kissed Armin on the neck, biting hard.

"Agh-- (Y/n), so, so good, mmh!" Armin writhed and whimpered beneath her, bucking his hips against her. As she continued her ministrations, he held her hips with a grip tight enough to leave marks.

(Y/n) raised her hips slightly and got off of Armin, opting to sit between his legs instead. She was mesmerized by the sight in front of her after she hooked two fingers beneath Armin's waistband and pulled his pants down then off him completely.

He laid back, propped up slightly by his elbows; his legs were spread wide in front of her, his shockingly enormous bulge tightly straining against the fabric of his grey boxers. After tearing her eyes away from it, she looked at his face.

He had a slightly pouty expression, his eyebrows furrowed in a way that made him look sad; (Y/n) knew that wasn't the case by how red his face was. His slightly disheveled blonde hair cascaded over his soft face; (Y/n) was starstruck.

She pressed her hand against his clothed member, taking note of the slightly damp fabric. "So, how long have you been having these dreams of me?"

"What-- you really wanna know...?" Armin muttered through hitches in his breath.

"Yeah, I do," (Y/n) replied, looking into his eyes. "I have a right to know, I think."

"Ngh-- I agree," Armin stated, struggling to respond because of (Y/n)'s persistence in teasing him. "Let me, ugh.. remember..." After (Y/n) slightly pulled her hand back, he leaned forward and grabbed her wrist. "Wait, please don't stop-- it's been happening since the start of the semester."

(Y/n) dipped her hand beneath his boxers and started drawing small circles around his tip. "Oh?"

Armin's mind was blanking; the sight of (Y/n) on her knees between his legs and the sensation of her hand on him was overwhelming, but he'd sooner die than let it end. "Yeah-- yeah, I'd always had a crush on you-- mmh, but the dreams only started after we moved in together..." he sighed. He leaned his head far back with a grunt when (Y/n) pulled out his dick from his boxers and wrapped her hand around it. She was amazed at the size; it looked to be about 7 inches long with an impressive girth. "You'd always wear those cute pajamas, and... I-- I didn't know what to do with myself," he admitted.

(Y/n) chuckled, "You're really cute, you know?"

Armin moved his head back forward to face her, his eyes practically bulging out of his skull when he watched (Y/n) move her hand beneath her shorts and pull it out again with wet, silky fingers. She rubbed her wetness against Armin and spat on his dick, beginning to stroke him slowly.

Armin's grip tightened on the couch cushion beneath him, his knuckles turning white. He whimpered loudly, his hips twitching against (Y/n).

"(Y-Y/n)-- agh... please, please-- don't wake me up, don't wake me up..." he begged, his moaning nonsensical.

(Y/n) backed up a bit, then leaned down so her breath hit Armin's tip.

"(Y/n), please..." he breathed, looking down at her with glistening eyes.

She took his tip in her mouth, swirling her tongue around. He sighed, (Y/n)'s name constantly leaving his mouth as she took him deeper and deeper until his balls brushed against her chin.

"Mmgh... (Y/n), you're so good-- so warm, ahh~!" Armin praised.

(Y/n) gagged around him, but lived for the noises he made. She couldn't stop, wouldn't.

"(Y/n), sit on my face. 69 with me," he suddenly requested.

(Y/n) released his member with a pop. After wiping her mouth of her drool, she asked, "What? You sure?"

Armin simply nodded, so (Y/n) took off her shorts and underwear and crawled up his body, eventually turning around once her core was right above his face.

Armin looked up, his eyes sparkling with excitement. He brought his hands up to (Y/n)'s hips and pulled her down, mumbling "Please don't wake me up please" until her sopping wet entrance landed on his mouth.

She gasped, leaning forward on her elbows to catch her breath. Armin kept a tight grip on her hips, licking and sucking her wetness with great fervor.

She caught his tip in her mouth again and lowered her head onto it until it was down her throat again; she started bobbing her head up and down, swirling her tongue around the tip and down the vein until she hit the base again. She bucked her hips against Armin's face as she felt the vibrations of him moaning around her clit.

He'd lick from her clit to the back of her hole, then probe her hole open with his tongue, then suck on her clit: an endless cycle (Y/n) rolled her eyes back to.

As (Y/n) deep-throated Armin again, he felt tears well up in his eyes; he was getting closer by the second, and so was (Y/n). So, imagine her surprise when he suddenly pushed her off of his face and pulled her face off his dick, pushing her to lie face first against the cushion.

She was laying on her stomach in front of him, and he grabbed one of her thighs, moving it up to expose her dripping folds. "(Y/n)..." he breathed against her ear as he lined up his throbbing member with her entrance.

He slowly pushed in, stretching (Y/n) out in  a way she'd never felt before. She moaned, her breath shaky.

"You're so good, taking me in so well... I promise it'll feel good, (Y/n)," Armin assured with a gentle whisper as he continued pushing all the way inside until he bottomed out. He held one of her hands from the back and kissed her neck, urging her to relax.

She took a deep breath, her walls relaxing around him; she rolled her eyes back at how full she felt, unbearably excited for how it'd feel once he started moving.

At the feeling of (Y/n)'s relaxation, Armin started moving back and forth, almost sliding his shaft all the way out before pushing back inside until he bottomed out. (Y/n) sighed, the side of her face pressing against the cushion.

He continued this pace for a while, always seeming to push deeper inside than before.

(Y/n) arched her back and crooked her neck around as far as it'd go to look into Armin's eyes. Once she caught his eyes, she moaned, "Armin... harder~"

His dick twitched inside her at those words, and he began moving faster than before, each drag of his shaft against (Y/n)'s walls a testament to how big he was. He rose up off of (Y/n) to thrust his hips harder and faster than before, her ass beginning to clap from the force: music to his ears.

She grabbed the cushion beneath her tight, attempting to muffle herself with it.

As Armin began snapping his hips back and forth wildly, he leaned down and begged, "(Y/n), don't hide, I need to hear you...!"

She lifted her mouth from the cushion and moaned Armin's name over and over again,  each syllable of her voice a guiding beacon to him.

He used one of his hands to reach beneath (Y/n) and draw circles around her puffy clit, causing her to practically scream.

She let out tearless sobs as he railed her to no end, begging him not to stop. At a particularly tight circle around her clit that made it in time with a deep thrust of his dick, she exploded, creaming all over the couch beneath them.

After she released, Armin thrust just a bit more before finally pulling out and stroking himself to completion, cumming all over (Y/n)'s back.

He fell on top of her, his warm, sweaty body the only thing grounding her in reality at the time.

Worried about suffocating her, he quickly got back up and rushed to the bathroom for a towel, wiping (Y/n) off once he came back.

After he was done, he helped her flip onto her back and kissed her on the forehead, smoothing over her hair. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him down to snuggle with her.

"I'm glad you got the blanket," she mentioned with a giggle as they laid on top of the now wet blanket.

Armin chuckled against her skin. "No problem."

Once they'd each fully caught their breath, and their hearts were back to their regular pace, Armin mentioned, "We need to get up and shower."

(Y/n) protested, saying she didn't want to get up yet.

However, Armin adjusted himself so he was in line with her ear and whispered, "It's not ending yet, you know?"

Upon hearing that, (Y/n) stood up and dragged Armin with her to the bathroom by his hand, slamming the door behind the two of them.

CH. 6

Armin opened the glass shower door and turned on the water, putting his hand under it to feel it warm up as (Y/n) leaned against the sink's counter.

In all honesty, she felt it difficult to stand.

After a while, Armin turned to (Y/n); "The shower's ready, come in."

(Y/n) heard what he said, but didn't process it, as all she could think of what how exposed she felt in that moment. Before, while they were definitely looking at each other, they were focused on... other things.

While it wasn't (Y/n)'s first time sleeping with someone, it was her first time showering with them afterward. She was nervous about being outside the haze of lustful passion, even for the tiniest moment, because it could leave room for Armin to question himself on what he just did, maybe realize (Y/n) wasn't all that worth it outside good sex.

"(Y/n)? You alright?" Armin asked.

(Y/n) stopped staring at the wall to look at Armin's thoughtful expression. She nodded; Armin sensed something was wrong.

"Hey, I promise it's okay if you want to shower alone, I'll wait outside the bathroom," he assured. "I'm sorry if I assumed anything."

(Y/n) shook her head, holding his hand so he wouldn't leave. "No-- it's nothing like that, I want you to stay," she insisted.

"Then what are you zoned out for?" he asked with a smile, his tone genuine and emphatically sweet.

(Y/n) took her hand off her elbow, her body taking on a less closed off stance. "You won't laugh at me, right?"

"Of course not!"

"Well," (Y/n) started, her eyes darting from side to side, "...I'm nervous about you seeing me like this. The light's so bright, everything's visible, you know?"

"I see what you're saying," he replied.

"Like, I don't know--" (Y/n) shook her hand around in a confused gesture. "I'm scared you'll think too much."

"About what? Fucking you too hard?"

(Y/n) looked at Armin with a shocked expression, her face turning red.

He chuckled shyly. "Oh-- sorry,  forgive me," he pleaded as he cleared his throat. "Look, if you're worried I might think you're ugly, or regret what we just did, you're wrong. I wouldn't dream of thinking that way."

Armin wrapped an arm around her waist and gently urged (Y/n) into the shower, steam fogging up the glass as soon as he closed the door.

He gave her a gentle kiss on the nape of her neck and assured once more, "I think you're amazing, (Y/n), you can't do anything to change my mind on that. I've been yours for a very long time."

(Y/n) didn't know what to say. It felt like in all the time she'd spent thinking about Armin's wet dream, she'd forgotten that he was her best friend.

A sweet, unassuming boy-- well, man now, who'd never hurt anyone, especially not her.

She felt silly for thinking otherwise, even if only for a little while.

She took a deep breath and sighed, content. "Thank you, Armin. I really needed to hear that."

He wrapped his arms around her from behind and hummed, the pair happy to stand under the showerhead as the warm water coated them.

However, (Y/n) took note of the steam forming around them. She felt like she was in a foggy trance, the warmth of both Armin and the hot water aiding to build her a high but tender arousal.

She turned to face Armin, looking up at him with wet hair in her face as she placed her hands on her chest and rubbed her nipples slowly as he watched.

He covered his agape mouth, his eyes slightly obstructed by his wet hair. "(Y/n)..."

She looked down at his massive dick, taking in how it came back to life bit by bit.

She put her hand between her legs and softly stroked her puffy clit, moaning at how sensitive she still felt, but mostly to get a rise out of Armin. She then gathered her juices on her fingers and brought her hand back up.

Armin watched with awe, leaning in closer and grabbing her hand with both of his, taking her fingers in her mouth to lick up everything she had to offer.

He released her hand, moving to hold her tight as he gave one of his deathly kisses; (Y/n) swore she felt slightly faint after all the time Armin spent pushing her tongue around with his. She felt it unnerving how good he was at it.

He grinded against her the entire time, grunting into her mouth when he felt how sensitive he was getting.

He abruptly grabbed her hips. "Wrap your legs around me, please," he breathed.

(Y/n), with Armin's strong support beneath her, made a little hop and wrapped her legs around Armin's waist, becoming completely sandwiched between him and the wall.

She hugged him around the neck, burying her face in it to kiss it all over. 

He lined his now-hard member with her entrance and slightly lowered her, impaling her on it entirely.

She bit on his neck to release the tension inside her, the concentrated pain of him entering her at such an angle quickly turning into pleasure as she relaxed her muscles.

He thrust his hips down, holding her in place as his dick nearly came out of her then went balls-deep again, over and over.

When Armin started, he'd go so slow but so deep in a way that made (Y/n) nearly scream for more.

She pulled her head back and kissed him, trying to match his intense pace.

She moaned louder and louder, touching him all over to probe him into moving faster, and it worked.

He held her in place nearly effortlessly, thrusting his hips down only to slam them back into her and hit her g-spot each time.

Their wet bodies where silky against each other, a perfect mold. The water coming out of the shower was nothing compared to the fountain coming from between (Y/n)'s legs, and Armin was direly obsessed with it; he reveled in the "squelch" of each stroke, the sounds of their passion only driving him closer to the edge.

"(Y/n), touch your clit, I can't reach it this time," he begged, as his hands were occupied with holding (Y/n) in place. "Let me hear you finish again-- please, (Y/n), I need it..." his voice shook, his pace was ever consistent but his thrusts grew harder by the minute.

(Y/n) leaned against Armin, making sure her mouth was close to his ear. She held Armin tight with one arm and used the other to move her hand between her legs and stroke her swollen clit in time with Armin's thrusts.

With how fast he was going, matching his pace meant quickly flicking her clit with the pad of her finger, something that made her eyes roll back.

She bounced up and down against the wall, her vision growing hazy as Armin rammed into her nonstop. Her back arched against the wall as she felt herself getting close; her walls clamped down on him and her body grew limp as she relentlessly squirted around Armin's shaft.

She cried out Armin's name nonstop, praising him with all her voice box would allow.

He whimpered softly as she clamped down on him, only a few thrusts away from finishing. While still holding her, he pulled out, and (Y/n) stroked him vigorously until he came all over her.

Armin slowly put her down on the shower floor, getting onto his knees with her.

They caught their breath, holding one another tight; the sight of (Y/n) covered in his cum made Armin want to cry of joy.

He buried his face into her wet, sticky chest.

"Please, don't wake me up," he begged.