I love how Mikasa's first thought that came to mind to convince Historia that being the queen would be good was "You can punch fuckass Levi in the face with no repercussions"
Everyone loved your boyfriend. There wasn’t a single person who had something bad to say about Armin Arlert.
He was helpful, kind, handsome, smart—bordering on genius level honestly. He made goofy little jokes and could be a little shy and introverted at times.
Majority of his time he wasn’t with you, he had his nose in a book or was wandering around a library or old book store in search of a new book to consume.
Everyone always giggled at the way the blonde haired man would instantly blush as you slipped your hand into his or pressed a kiss to his cheek.
Sweet. That's the word people always used to describe Armin.
And that’s exactly why no one suspected the filthy things that would leave his mouth once you were alone and he had you under him. Why no one suspected that he became borderline feral when he fucked you.
“Haah—look at you—fuuuck.” Armin groans. “My sweet girl, stretched out on m-my—oh god—fucking cock.”
Armin struggles to pull his eyes away from the sight before him. Your tight little cunt stretched to capacity and drooling all over his length and the sheets below. He slows his thrusts, keeping them unhurried and deep, all just to watch the way his cock only comes out wetter each time he sinks back in.
The sight causes him to pound into you harder, hand slipping up to your throat and his eyes trailing over your tits, watching them bounce in time with his thrusts.
“Min—oh fuck—M-Min, please.” You plead, hand gripping his wrist at your throat desperately.
Although your hazy mind wasn’t sure what you were begging for. More? Harder? Deeper? All of the above?
Armin's gaze is locked on your pebbled nipples, still shining with his saliva. Pretty tits decorated in little red marks that he was sure will have bloomed into purple by morning.
“Prettiest tits, sweet girl.” Armin whispers, moving his arm and leaning down to suck a perked nipple into his mouth.
“So fucking pretty. So tasty.” He breathes as he begins lavishing it with attention. Tongue swirling and licking at the nub. Drooling all over your soft skin.
The added stimulation only makes you moan louder, hand slipping into Armin’s soft strands as your pussy grows louder too.
The messy squelching of your cunt causes Armin's eyes to trail down, letting out a mixture of whimpers and curses as he watches your juices shine against the hair at his base.
He folds your legs to your chest. Keeping you in the meanest mating press.
“O-oh she’s so—hah—so fucking messy.” He pants. “Making a mess all over my cock and listen to her—“ he pauses, eyes rolling back as she only gets louder. “G-god—f-fuck.” Armin slams into you with force like he can no longer control himself. Like he can’t get enough of how good you feel wrapped around him.
His actions make you scream out, he’s only sinking himself deeper, making it feel like his in your fucking stomach.
“Oh, Min. S’too—hah—too m-much.” You whimper, hand pressing to his stomach. “S’not, baby, s’not enough.” He moans, taking your hand and pinning it above your head. “P-pretty pussy. Such a pretty fucking cunt.” He’s rambling to himself.
He watches your eyes fill with tears as your back arches, his thrusts bordering on mind numbing. Your vision blurring before you're pulled back in by the sound of Armins gasps.
“L-look, baby—holy fuck—l-look at that.” His eyes are locked on the spot just under your belly button, pupils dilating as he takes in the sight before him.
You peer down to watch the slight bulge appear everytime he sinks himself back in and you can’t help the sound that leaves your throat. That long cock with a mean curve showing itself every time he bottoms out in your folded body.
“Oh s-shit. Look—hah—look how fucking d-deep I am.” He growls. “Sinking all—ugh—all the way deep i-inside you, sweet girl.” He’s panting like a dog in heat, sweaty blonde strands sticking to his forehead.
“C-can you feel me, my love? Can you f-fucking feel how deep I am.” He grunts, driving in with purpose. “Y-yes, Min. S-so d-deep. It’s so fucking deep.” You cry, throwing your head back as your body tries to handle the pleasure coursing through you.
Armin leans down, lips meeting yours in a messy, filthy kiss. Drool leaking out the side of your mouth as your tongues desperately swipe against each other.
Your body begins to tremble as your high begins to build. Your pussy clenching at Armin’s length desperately. Sweaty bodies sliding against each other.
“Y-you’re gonna c-cum aren’t you, sweet girl?” Armin smiles against your mouth. You nod wordlessly, small gasps leaving your throat as Armin slides his hand between your bodies, stroking your swollen clit.
“C-cum for me.” He demands. “C-cum all over this cock, please.” He breathes against your mouth, fingers still stroking desperately at your quivering clit. “Give it to me, sweet girl. Give it to me.”
Your body obeys Armin seconds later. You let out a scream, body seizing and hands gripping desperately to his muscular back as if to ground yourself as you gush all over him. Your pussy gripping his length relentlessly as if she’s trying to milk him.
“Cum for me, Min.” You whisper, body still trembling and shaking.
Armin lets out a sob, burying his face into your neck, hands gripping at the fat of your ass to push himself deeper as you feel his length begin to pulse and kick inside of you. Hips twitching as he paints your pretty pink insides completely white. Cumming so much it’s overflowing.
“T-thank you, I love you. Thank you, I love you—“ Armin chants, chest heaving against your own.
⋆ INCLUDES smoking, drinking, mentions of being drunk, oral sex (f receiving), philosophical conversations?, nudity, drunk making out and oral sex, frat party, armin with a tongue piercing
⌗ A NOTE FROM MADDIE ⸝⸝ i love nerd armin with all of my being i would give anything to have this play out irl
You never would have thought cute, nerdy Armin's scene would be a frat party.
Nevermind this exact frat party—that of Sigma Rho.
You spot him as soon as you walked in, flanked by Mikasa, your best friend.
You turn to her, pulling her closer as you mumble, "I need a drink." She glances up at you and nods.
"I'm gonna find Eren!" It takes her all of three seconds to bound away, her usually independent personality marred by the pregame joint you had shared on the walk over.
You spot Armin again when you rejoin her, this time at the pong table. Violet lights dance around you, and strobes flicker in and out of your face. Mikasa is blasted now, and you wonder how much she had to drink between leaving your side and rejoining you now. Eren, the ever-gorgeous President of Sig Rho and her boyfriend, is behind her, hair put up in a loose ponytail, muscular arms tight around her waist. She's playing pong against Armin while Eren watches, enamored by his pretty girlfriend.
You sneak in beside Mikasa, elbowing her. "Hey! I didn't know you guys hung out with Armin."
She turns to you, blinking, then recognizes you. "Oh, yeah! You didn't? He's Eren's best friend."
"Really?" You glance across the table at him. Rectangular glasses reflect the strobe lights. He looks cute, a little like a cat, tongue swiping his lips.
"Go be on his team!" Eren turns to yell in your ear. "Girls don't talk to him, he needs some company!"
Mikasa just nods along, eyes blank as she stares at you. You give in, making your way to the other side of the table.
"Hey," Armin says, flashing you a small grin. "Gonna help me win?"
"I'm a fucking pong champ, just you wait."
Safe to say, with Eren's pro frat pong skills, you lost. And in the process, you took a lot of shots. One way or another, you've ended up on the couch with Sasha Braus on one side and Armin on the other.
You don't realize you're lying on Armin until he offers you water, and you hurriedly sit up. "Oh my god, I'm sorry." You blush, holding up your hands.
He doesn't say anything, a little blush creeping up his cheeks as one hand slides around your face, cupping your jaw and tugging you back down to lie on him again. He leans further back against the couch, letting you shut your eyes on his chest.
At some point while you drift in and out of consciousness in the middle of the party, Eren approaches Armin. He sits down beside you, leaning over you to speak to his friend. "Is she okay?"
You feel Armin nod. "Guess she smoked a lot before she got here. I'm pretty fucked too. Gonna head off soon."
"Gonna see if she wants to go too?"
Another movement. Maybe a shrug? You feel his hand cup your face to get your attention. You take a moment before opening your eyes. "Want some water, pretty girl?"
"I just want a cigarette," you whine. "Or a zyn. Or both."
He blinks. "I can make that happen. C'mon, up you go." Surprisingly strong, he tugs you up off the couch. You turn back to look at Eren, the frame rate of your vision slowing by the second.
"Bye, Eren!"
He grins. "Bye, have fun." He shoots Armin a not-so-discreet wink. Plastered, you don't even notice.
You don't remember getting outside, or Armin finding you a cigarette (though he must have), or lighting it, or making your way to his dorm across campus.
When you enter his room, it feels like it’s breathing with you. Or maybe that’s just the alcohol finally catching up, softening the edges of everything, turning sharp thoughts into rounded ones. The lamp is too bright and not bright enough at the same time. The floor feels farther away than it should.
Armin is sitting way too close. Or maybe he’s always been that close and you’re only noticing now.
You squint at him, head tipped slightly. “You know,” you say slowly, “people talk about you like you’re… very serious.”
He hums. “That tracks.”
“But I think,” you continue, waving a hand vaguely between you, “they underestimate how weird you are.”
That earns a quiet laugh. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It is. I think.” You pause, then lean closer, lowering your voice like you’re sharing a secret even though there’s no one else around. “Okay. I have a question.”
“You should be.” You peer at his mouth with exaggerated concentration. “Do you actually have a tongue piercing? Or did someone make that up because they couldn’t reconcile you with the idea of doing something impulsive?”
He blinks. Once. Twice. Then he laughs—really laughs, shoulders shaking slightly. “Wow. That’s… impressively specific.”
“So that’s a yes.”
“It is,” he admits. “Yes. I do.”
Your eyes widen. “You’re kidding.”
“I am not.”
“No way.”
“Yes way.”
“Why?” you ask, genuinely baffled now. “You plan for everything. You probably planned for planning.”
He leans back, a little unsteady, then shrugs. “That’s exactly why.” He squints at the ceiling like it’s personally responsible for his thoughts. “I wanted one decision that didn’t lead anywhere. No ripple effects. No strategy.”
“That’s impossible,” you say solemnly. “Everything has ripple effects.”
He smiles at you, slow and thoughtful. “Exactly.”
You sit with that for a moment, then snort. “That’s such an Armin answer.”
“I know.” He sighs. “I’m exhausting.”
“Yeah,” you say fondly. “But in, like, a comforting way.”
There’s a pause. A warm, unbalanced one.
“…Can I see it?” you ask, suddenly shy again.
He tilts his head. “You’re very curious.”
“I’m drunk,” you reply. “This is my truth.”
He laughs, then leans in closer, lowering his voice. “Okay. But you can’t make a big deal out of it.”
“I absolutely will,” you promise.
He shakes his head, smiling, then slowly parts his lips. He tilts his head just right, tongue slipping out just enough for the light to catch the small glint of metal before he pulls it back again.
Your brain short-circuits. “Oh.”
“That was exactly the reaction you promised not to have,” he says.
“I didn’t scream,” you argue. “That’s restraint.”
He’s still close. Too close. You can smell the alcohol on his breath, faint but unmistakable, mixed with something warm and familiar. You’re suddenly very aware of your own heartbeat.
“You’re staring again,” he murmurs.
“You showed me a forbidden artifact,” you say. “What did you expect?”
His smile softens, then fades into something quieter. “You know,” he says, voice low and slightly slurred, “I forget sometimes that I’m allowed to just… exist. Not be useful. Not be right.”
“That’s tragic,” you say. Then, more gently, “You’re very bad at being normal.”
“I’m excellent at it,” he counters. “I’m doing it right now.”
You laugh—and that’s when it happens. The laughter dissolves into closeness, into the space between you collapsing without either of you really deciding. His hand comes up, tentative, resting at your waist like he’s checking whether this is real.
The kiss is messy at first. Slightly off-angle. Too much feeling, not enough coordination. Then it deepens, turns hungry and warm and unfiltered, like neither of you is sober enough to hide anymore. Armin kisses like he’s been holding back thoughts for years—intense, searching, almost desperate.
When the piercing brushes against you, cool against heat, you gasp without meaning to. He pulls back just enough to breathe, forehead pressing against yours.
“Oh,” he whispers. “That did something.”
“Don’t get smug,” you say breathlessly, then kiss him again.
This one is slower. Deeper. His hands are steadier now, like he’s anchoring himself through touch. The world tilts, pleasantly unmoored, conversation dissolving into murmurs and half-formed thoughts about choice and meaning and how strange it is to be alive at the same time as someone else.
Eventually, you pull back, laughing softly, foreheads touching.
“We’re going to regret this in the morning,” you say.
“Probably,” he agrees.
Neither of you moves away.
The light feels dimmer. The room warmer. Words give up their hold, replaced by shared breath and the quiet understanding that not everything needs to be decided tonight.
The room has officially stopped obeying gravity. Or maybe that’s just the alcohol, loosening time until minutes stretch and fold in on themselves. The lamp is dimmer now—someone must have touched it at some point, though neither of you remembers doing it. Everything feels softer. Warmer. Less defined.
You’re still close. Too close to pretend it was an accident.
Armin’s forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing a little too hard, like you’ve just run somewhere without quite deciding to. He laughs quietly, the sound low and unguarded.
“This is… not how I usually make decisions,” he admits.
You smile, eyes half-lidded. “Yeah. You’re very bad at this version of chaos.”
“I know.” His thumb brushes your side, absentminded, grounding. “And yet.”
“And yet,” you echo.
Another kiss finds you—not rushed, not careful either. It’s slower now, deeper, like neither of you is in a hurry anymore. The world has narrowed to warmth and closeness and the strange comfort of being a little unsteady together. When his mouth curves into a faint smile against yours, you laugh softly, kissing him again just because you can.
Somewhere between one kiss and the next, conversation dissolves into murmurs—unfinished thoughts about choice, about freedom, about how strange it is that bodies remember things minds try to organize away. Armin says something about intention. You respond with something about how intention is overrated. Neither of you is sure how much sense it makes, but it feels true anyway.
His hand slides to your shoulder, tentative, checking in without asking. When you don’t pull away, he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for hours.
“I’m still here,” he says quietly. Not a question.
“So am I,” you reply.
The space between kisses grows shorter, the pauses filled with soft laughter and whispered comments you’ll only half remember later. At some point, you notice his jacket is gone—when did that happen? He notices your shoes kicked off across the room, like they gave up on formality entirely.
Fingers fumble a little. Buttons prove more complicated than expected. There’s a shared laugh when someone gets caught on a sleeve, the moment disarming rather than awkward. Nothing feels rushed—just unplanned, unfolding naturally, like the night has decided for you.
The room grows darker, quieter. The world outside might as well not exist. There’s warmth, closeness, the steady reassurance of another presence right there with you. Whatever comes next feels less like a decision and more like a gentle drift.
Eventually, words stop altogether.
The night doesn’t close in. It stretches.
The room is still there—lamp glowing low, shadows soft but visible, the quiet hum of something outside the walls reminding you that the world hasn’t ended just because you stopped paying attention to it. You’re aware of the couch beneath you now, the way its fabric scratches faintly against skin where there used to be layers.
Armin shifts, unsteady but careful, like he’s constantly recalibrating where you are in relation to him. His shirt is gone, folded in a way that suggests muscle memory more than intention. Yours is half-forgotten, slipping from one shoulder, catching at your elbow.
He notices. Of course he does.
“You’re . . . losing a battle with gravity,” he murmurs, voice low and warm.
You snort softly. “It’s very persuasive tonight.”
He helps, fingers brushing your arm as he eases the fabric away properly, slow enough that it feels deliberate even if it isn’t planned. His touch lingers—not possessive, not rushed. Curious. Present.
That seems to be the theme.
You’re close enough now that you can see the tiny changes in his expression when he thinks he’s said too much, or when he realizes he doesn’t actually want to stop talking. His eyes are heavy-lidded, unfocused in that honest, alcohol-softened way.
“I don’t usually let things get this far without . . . rules,” he admits quietly.
You tilt your head. “And right now?”
He exhales, a crooked smile pulling at his mouth. “I can’t remember the rules.”
“That sounds terrifying for you.”
“It is,” he says. Then, softer, “But it’s also kind of a relief.”
You sit with that. Literally and figuratively.
Your legs tangle—accidentally at first, then not. The contact is grounding, warm, unmistakably real. When you lean in again, the kiss is different this time: slower, deeper, less about momentum and more about staying. He tastes faintly of whatever you were drinking, and when his tongue brushes yours, the cool flicker of the piercing is impossible to ignore.
You pull back just enough to breathe. “You definitely did that on purpose.”
He looks genuinely startled. “I—maybe. A little.”
“Philosophical about it?”
“Unfortunately,” he says, laughing quietly. “I was thinking about how sensation is one of the only things that forces honesty.”
You blink at him. “You’re saying that now?”
“I told you I’m bad at chaos.”
Your laughter dissolves into another kiss, and this one is heavier, unbalanced in the best way. His hands rest at your waist, thumbs tracing slow, absent arcs like he’s memorizing where you are. Yours settle at his shoulders, then his back, warmth under your palms grounding you both.
Clothes don’t vanish all at once. They shift. Slide. Get tugged and adjusted and forgotten. Skin meets skin in places that feel intimate simply because they’re unguarded.
His hands wander your body, fingertips tracing delicate curves. "Hey."
"Hey."
"I want to kiss you."
You start to lean in to kiss him, and pause when he shrinks back.
"The other you, pretty."
"O-oh. You want to?"
He nods. "So fucking bad." He's already dragging his piercing down your torso, hazel eyes glued to yours, waiting for you to tell him to stop.
You don't.
One hand presses you back against his sheets, while the other runs over your panties. You don't remember how you ended up in such a state of undress, but now that he's leaning down, mouthing at you through pink lace, you don't much mind.
He pulls your panties down teasingly slow, kissing your inner thighs. He doesn't say anything, only smirking up at you before slowly kissing your pussy. You hardly know what's happening, his piercing stimulating you in the best way, your drunk mind blank and on fire at the same time.
All you can think is: do I love Armin? You may.
At some point, you end up leaned back, Armin hovering just enough to keep from putting his weight on you, studying your face like he’s afraid it might change if he blinks.
“You’re very real,” he says suddenly.
“So are you,” you reply.
He swallows. “That’s… good.”
There’s a pause—not tense, not uncertain. Just full.
He settles beside you instead of over you, an intentional choice, one arm draped loosely around your shoulders. You fit there easily, like this configuration has always existed and you’re only just discovering it. His thumb traces idle patterns against your arm, grounding, repetitive.
The conversation drifts back in—not structured, not heavy. Bits of memory. Half-formed theories. Laughter that comes too easily. His mouth on your neck while you ramble. Silence that doesn’t demand filling.
You’re awake. The lights are still on. Nothing disappears.
And the night doesn’t rush you toward an ending—
it just keeps going, steady and warm, letting you stay exactly where you are.
