“sugar, we're goin' down”
a college au feat. armin arlert
“a loaded god complex, cock it and pull it.”
wc: 7.2k
mdni
cw: recreational drug use (yknow me), umm greening out, reader is a loser sorry self indulgent, reader is fem + black coded, kys is used lightheartedly, reader is a perv, finger sucking, fingering,
starting track…
↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺
holy fuck, this bad.
like. really bad.
you should’ve just gone straight home like you planned. maybe grabbed some discount sushi from the place next door that always tastes faintly of fridge, taken a shower that was maybe a little too hot and a little too long, put on the new season of bridgerton you’re not even that invested in, not finished your coursework, and fallen asleep facedown with your laptop open next to your pillow.
but you can’t help yourself. you know that.
and eren definitely fucking knew that.
out of everyone who’s cycled through the store, the gap-year kids, the christmas temps, the mums picking up extra shifts, the summer temps, the guy who got fired for stealing phone chargers. eren yeager is easily one of your favourite coworkers.
he’s kinda like you, in a way.
underpaid overworked college student. unserious to a fault. hitting your vape in the stockroom while you’re both “checking if we have that item in stock.” always showing up ten minutes late and clocking out exactly on time even if there’s a fattass line to the register circling the store.
but you like eren. he’s a bit of you, yknow.
you get on stupidly well, same music, same humor, same mutual understanding that if he takes the trash out you’ll cover for him when he disappears for twenty minutes.
he’s cool.
but you’re rarely ever scheduled together. in fact, you haven’t seen him in like three weeks. so when you dragged yourself into the store that morning, only five minutes late, already dreading this fucking shift, and you see eren fucking yeager clocking in, and he's already grinning from ear to ear because you both have the same clock out time.
oh.
we’re so back.
and you, you and your energy drink for breakfast. you and you’re low blood sugar, and your empty bank account, and your pathological inability to decline bad ideas, you should’ve said no.
but you didn’t.
of course you didn't.
and now you’re in eren’s garden, cross-legged in a plastic chair that sinks slightly to one side, passing a joint back into the rotation, already stoned as fuck. the grass is a little too long. the air smells like weed and damp soil and whatever his next door neighbour is cooking.
you thought your tolerance was better than this.
clearly you overestimated yourself.
fuuuuck.
and this guy, connie?, yeah, that’s his name, one of eren’s roommates, has been talking your fucking ear off for what genuinely feels like a geological era. he’s crouched in front of you, elbows on his knees, hands moving while he talks, animated as hell, like he’s telling the funniest story ever recorded in human history.
it's like, you can hear his voice, i'm sure the whole block can hear his voice, but you have no fucking clue what he's actually saying.
it’s like sound through water. syllables bending. vowels stretching. you catch fragments — bro, and then, no way — but the meaning slides off your brain before it can stick.
you’re nodding anyway. because your mind feels like its about to slip right outta your ears, and your brain is screaming act normal act normal act normal.
and, ugh, mikasa is sitting to your left on the low brick ledge edging the patio, posture perfect even while faded, dark hair tucked behind one ear. she's insanely beautiful, it makes you wonder why she's dating a freak with no brains like eren. and eren himself is sprawled in a lawn chair opposite you, ankle hooked over knee, joint dangling between his fingers, looking insufferably pleased with himself for orchestrating this entire situation.
and you, well... you are not in your body correctly.
everything feels both too far away and too close. your limbs are heavy but also floating slightly off delay, like there’s a half-second lag between thought and movement. the world has that soft, rounded blur at the edges, porch light halos smeared gold across your vision.
also everything is spinning. but also squeezing. it's weird to describe and it makes your head hurt.
and there’s an eyelash in the corner of your left eye. you can feel it. a microscopic needle of irritation. normally you’d just rub it out but your motor skills are out the window. your hand lifts, misses, drops back to your thigh. tragic. and connie is still talking.
and that’s when you see him.
armin.
warm porch light pours over him from above, catching in pale strands of hair that fall across his forehead. shorter than you expected, soft and neat around his ears, but still light enough that it glows. he looks like an angel. he leans his head out the back door like he’s just checking the weather, one hand braced on the frame, and says something to eren, you don’t know what.
all you know is he is the most beautiful creature you’ve ever seen.
and you have to have him.
the next thing you know everyone’s standing up. chairs scraping, joints stubbed, connie clapping his hands once like a fucking transition cue. you scramble to follow, dignity hanging by a thread. walking requires active concentration now and you are manually placing each foot. heel, toe. heel, toe.
the kitchen is darker than outside, which feels illegal. your pupils are still porch-dilated, so everything inside is murky shapes and motion. voices overlap, eren, connie, cabinet doors, the fridge seal suction-popping open.
your stomach reacts before your nose has registered the smell.
a deep growl that cuts through the noise of eren and his roommates. silence drops for half a second. and every turns to look, at what? something behind you. you turn as well. there’s nothing there. only door. oh. they’re looking at you. oh lol. okay. okay. social protocol. smile? laugh? you bare your teeth in what you hope is a human expression. nice. cool. normal. what was —PIZZA???
god bless eren yeager. he appears at your elbow and wordlessly hands you a slice. deep pan. obscene thickness. stuffed crust swollen with molten cheese. oh, the sweet love you would make to him.
once you've eaten you actually feel… better?
isn’t that funny. the weed wasn’t making you crazy. you just needed food.
good to know.
you swallow, wipe your thumb across the corner of your mouth.
but back to business—
“who was that?” you say, you’re voice still slurred but you can blame it on the fact that you’re talking through a mouth of cheese and tomato.
luckily, eren has even less manners than you.
“huh? who? ohhh — uhh, armin?” burp. he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand (see, no manners). “yeah. remember i was telling you, my roommate who’s also my best friend,” another burp building, unstoppable, “who’s also like super duper smart and shit—”
yes, that's it. you do remember.
yeah, yeahhhh — you’ve seen him. not just on instagram, but around campus too, pretty sure. library steps once. outside the engineering building another time, backpack slung over one shoulder, talking with his hands, hair catching sun. you clocked him then, in that idle, cataloguing way you clock attractive people you will never interact with.
but eren keeps going.
“…but you’ve met before, right? on my birthday…”
eren’s birthday.
maybe you’re still a little greened out, because the second he says it you don’t remember. you get mentally yanked backwards, your brain trips over a cable and suddenly you’re there again.
because eren’s birthday party was fucking insane.
like, chemically altered reality insane. music so loud it vibrated your ribs. bottles clinking, glass sweating onto every surface. girls fully twerking on the kitchen counter while someone held their drink so it wouldn’t spill. there was a fight at some point, you’re almost sure, shouting, a chair scraping, people chanting, but the timeline is soup.
and you were outside most of the night.
back against the fence, hoodie smelling like ten different people’s smoke, stealing cigarettes from strangers with the confidence of someone who knows they're never gonna see these people again. passing lighters. laughing at jokes you only half heard. head tilted up at the cold air, nicotine buzz threading through the alcohol.
and then you were in eren’s room.
right, yeah, that part sharpens. door closed, bass thumping through the wall. you and this same connie, cross-legged on the floor, taking catastrophic bong rips, smoke hanging blue in the desk lamp glow. someone’s jacket under your head at some point. your shoes kicked off. the room spinning gently, pleasantly.
and then you were horizontal.
fully passed out on eren’s bed. starfished. lights still on. party still raging somewhere else in the house.
but someone found you.
that part comes back in pieces first, sensation before image. the mattress dipping. a hand, warm and careful, on your shoulder.
“hey,” a voice said, soft, almost apologetic. “you okay?”
him.
blonde. tall, or maybe he just felt tall because you were flat on your back and the room was tilting. hair falling into his eyes. lashes stupidly long. a small silver bar catching light when he spoke.... tongue piercing.
and his voice. god.
gentle in that precise, controlled way that nerdy guys sometimes have when they’re trying very hard not to startle you. low, careful, like he was approaching a nervous animal.
“do you… want some water?”
he was so hot.
you remember staring at him. actually staring. zero shame. full heart eyes. you remember trying to sit up and failing halfway, limbs syrupy and uncooperative. him steadying you automatically, one hand at your upper arm, the other braced on the mattress near your hip so he wouldn’t crush you.
“sorry,” he said, like you were inconveniencing him.
insane.
and then, uhhhh, honestly, the memory fuzzes again. water happened, probably. you think he moved your shoes. you definitely fell back asleep while he was still there. but the feeling stayed. soft voice. warm hand. silver flash when he smiled.
your eyes snap back to eren now, kitchen light too bright after the flashback haze, pizza halfway to your mouth.
you are suddenly extremely alert for someone who was non-functional thirty seconds ago.
“you remember that?” you say, incredulous, grease on your fingers, heart doing a weird little stutter you refuse to examine.
because if eren remembers....
then that means armin definitely remembers.
and oh my god.
you met him while you were passed out, drooling, cross-faded beyond medical recommendation.
oh wow, you might have to die. like actually.
“yeah?” eren says, blinking at you like this is not a catastrophic revelation. “you were like, dead. bro, i thought you died in my bed.”
“oh my god,” you mutter, pressing greasy fingers to your forehead. the kitchen light is still too sharp, halos forming around everything. “shut up.”
“nah, yeah, armin found you,” eren continues cheerfully, asshole, mouth full again. “gave you water. moved you so you didn’t, like, choke or whatever.”
you make a small, strangled sound into your pizza.
connie is still talking. he has not stopped talking this entire time. something about a class, or a gym membership, or crypto, you have no idea. his voice is a radio in another room. mikasa is leaning against the counter beside him, silent, watchful, occasionally giving you that quick assessing glance like she’s checking you’re not about to tip over.
you’re fine. you’re normal.
“—and then i told him, bro, that’s not even how macros work,” connie is saying, gesturing with both hands.
you nod at him. you do not know why.
but your eyes keep drifting. kitchen doorway. hall. back door.
like if you look enough times he might just appear again, summoned by sheer horny humiliation.
and then...
there.
movement in the hallway.
you feel him before you properly see him, which is deeply embarrassing but also scientifically real. your brain just goes him in big glowing letters.
armin steps into the kitchen like he’s unsure he’s allowed to take up space in it.
tall. god, he’s tall. you weren’t imagining that. he has to duck slightly under the stupid low light fixture, one hand automatically coming up to brush his hair back. it’s shorter than it used to be, clean at the nape, longer on top, soft blond falling forward again immediately because physics loves him personally.
grey hoodie. sleeves pushed to his forearms. veins faint under the skin there. dark sweatpants. socks. domestic. dangerous. sexy. you might die.
he pauses when he notices you. and you watch recognition happen.
it’s subtle. a tiny stilling, eyes focusing, head tilting just slightly. but it’s there. he knows exactly who you are.
oh no. no, no, no, no, no.
“hey,” he says.
same voice.
you actually might pass out again, which would be thematically consistent but socially unrecoverable.
“h—” you try. your mouth is still full of pizza. incredible work. flawless execution. you swallow too fast and cough once. “hi.”
eren points at you with his crust like a presenter unveiling a corpse. “this is who i was telling you about. my coworker.”
i know, his face very clearly says.
“we’ve met,” armin says gently.
KILL YOURSELF.
you make a noise that is meant to be a laugh and comes out like a dying engine. “yeah. yeah i, uh. apparently.”
his mouth twitches. he remembers everything. every single drooling second. you can see it.
“you were asleep,” he says, immediately, like he senses the spiral. “it wasn’t— you were fine.”
you stare at him.
this man is trying to protect your dignity retroactively.
you are going to marry him.
“she was not fine,” eren says.
you kick him in the shin without looking.
“OW—”
“shut up,” you hiss.
connie finally clocks the vibe shift and looks between you two, squinting. “wait, you guys know each other?”
“she died in my bed,” eren says helpfully.
“EREN.”
mikasa sighs, long-suffering. “he means she fell asleep.”
“like dead,” eren insists.
you cover your face with both hands. there is a beat of silence. and then, warm, close. a plate appears in front of you on the counter. you peek through your fingers.
armin has slid the pizza box closer to you. opened the lid properly. even turned it so the intact slices face your side. and given you a warm plate.
you've never been more turned on in your life.
“you should probably eat more,” he says quietly. “you look… a little green.”
he noticed.
of course he fuckin' noticed. you are vibrating like a temu rose toy and blinking like a broken animatronic.
“i’m good,” you say instantly, grabbing another slice. “i’m great. amazing. never been better.”
you take an aggressive bite to prove stability.
he watches you chew like you are a delicate lab experiment. and there’s a tiny smile there now. soft. private. like he finds you… endearing.
oh, this is terminal.
“i’m armin, by the way,” he says after a second, offering his hand like you’re meeting at a networking event instead of over grease and weed stink.
you stare at it.
long fingers. clean nails. faint ink smudge on the side of his index finger. student. nerd. god. the things you could do with those hands—
you wipe your hand frantically on your jeans and take it.
his grip is careful. warm. brief.
“i know,” you blurt.
everyone goes quiet.
abort.
“i mean — eren. he says your name. a lot. not like— weird. just like. normal amount. of name saying.”
kill yourself kill yourself kill yourself.
connie barks a laugh. eren wheezes. mikasa presses her lips together.
armin just nods once, eyes crinkling slightly.
“good,” he says.
and he means: i’m glad you know me.
you are so unbelievably fucked.
he disappears after that, which is honestly a good thing because you're not sure how much more of his genuineness you could've taken before you climbed over the kitchen counter and begged him to let you bounce on his dick.
and you don't see him again, except for a few dreams, until about two weeks later.
it’s been raining all day.
not cute drizzle rain either. heavy, grey, relentless rain that makes the windows look like they’re crying and turns the backyard into a swamp. so eren’s “kinda chill kickback” is now crammed fully inside the house. damp shoes by the door. hoodies slung over chairs. the whole place smells like wet denim, cheap cologne, and weed.
music hums low from the speakers in the living room.
and you, you are not participating correctly.
which is impressive, because for once, you actually look good.
like, intentionally good.
cropped top that shows a strip of stomach when you move. baggy jeans slung low enough that the elastic waistband of your boxers peeks out, Calvin Klein logo flashing every time you shift. fresh sneakers. rings on your fingers. hat pulled low but in a deliberate way. you even lined your lips.
so naturally, instead of mingling like a normal person, you’re currently under the dining table in the corner of the living room.
knees pulled to your chest. back against one of the legs. tablecloth draped down like a little privacy curtain. your modded PSP glowing in your hands, Street Fighter running smooth as hell because you spent three days watching YouTube tutorials to jailbreak the stupid thing.
your THC vape is tucked between your thigh and the wall. you take small hits between rounds.
you can hear everything happening above you. voices overlapping. someone laughing too loud. connie trying to explain something again. eren arguing about music. the thud of someone dropping onto the couch.
you’ve almost forgotten you’re technically at a party when, a pair of sneakers stops in front of the table.
clean. white. slightly rain-specked at the toes.
you freeze mid-combo.
the tablecloth lifts. light floods in. and there he is.
armin (cue dreamy sigh), crouched slightly, one hand holding the fabric up, peering at you as if he’s discovered a rare woodland creature.
he blinks once.
“…are you under the table?”
you stare up at him.
he’s dressed simple but unfairly effective. black tee that fits too well. chain at his neck. hair slightly damp from earlier rain, pushed back messily like he’d run a hand through it one too many times.
you forget how to speak for a full two seconds.
“uhhh, yeah, it's um, strategic positioning?” you say finally, cringing at yourself, god why are you such a loser, pushing your hat back a little. “...better... airflow....?”
his eyes flick to the PSP in your hands.
“…is that a modded 3000?”
oh, yes. oh, no.
you light up immediately. of course, traitor body. you're such a nerd sometim—
“yeah!” you scoot forward without thinking, enthusiasm overriding dignity. “i swapped the firmware, it runs emulators now. i’ve got like, everything on here. ps1, gameboy advance, some old arcade ports—”
you are rambling. and you are so high.
“the stock memory is trash so i had to replace it, and the battery life sucks but i found this workaround online and— look—” you tilt the screen toward him. “i main chun-li but only because her frame data is stupidly good if you actually know how to use her.”
you glance up.
he looks… delighted.
“that’s actually impressive,” he says, crouching properly now. his knee brushes yours under the table. the contact is small but you feel your stomach turn. “most people just download ROMs and call it a day.”
“losers,” you scoff automatically. ironic.
he laughs softly.
you take a quick hit of your vape to stabilize. mistake. the exhale fogs the tiny space between you.
he watches the smoke curl.
“can i?” he asks, gesturing toward the PSP.
you hand it over immediately.
and armin sits down. under the table. with you.
the world above continues. feet moving. bass thudding. someone yelling for more cups. but down here it’s dim and warm and weirdly intimate, just the glow of the screen lighting up his face.
he’s focused instantly. thumbs precise. posture relaxed but intent.
“you’re holding the joystick wrong,” you blurt.
he glances at you and you feel your brain short circuit.
“i mean— not wrong. just, like. uhhh, if you angle it more you can buffer inputs faster.”
you lean in without thinking, reaching to adjust his hand.
your fingers wrap lightly over his.
oh.
his skin is warm. slightly calloused at the tips. you can feel the faint vibration of the game through both of you. you realize what you’re doing. you do not move away.
“like that,” you say, voice suddenly softer.
above you, someone knocks into the table slightly. it shifts. the tablecloth falls a little lower, closing you in further.
you and armin are practically knee-to-knee now, screen glow flickering across his face.
“so,” he says, eyes dropping briefly to your cleavage (SCORE), then snapping back up like he’s trying to behave. “is this what you normally do at parties?”
you grin, unable to help it. “only when the company’s good.”
you are so unbelievably doomed.
he’s locked in now. fully invested. tongue pressing lightly against the inside of his cheek when he concentrates, which you absolutely do not notice in a normal way, and absolutely does NOT make your pussy flutter. your knee is still touching his. neither of you have addressed it.
you’re explaining hitboxes. he’s actually listening. it’s intimate in the nerdiest, most sexiest way possible.
but then of course. a shadow passes the tablecloth. slow. deliberate. you ignore it.
something metallic swings down in front of the fabric. back and forth. back and forth. you squint at it. it’s a lighter. blue. scuffed. unmistakably eren’s. it dangles there like bait.
you stare at it for two full seconds.
you do not move. you are strong. the lighter swings closer.
you reach out on instinct and snatch it.
“AHAA!”
the tablecloth rips up dramatically. light floods in again and eren’s face is there, victorious.
“found you, asshole.”
you blink up at him, his lighter already in your fist. “i was not hiding.”
“you’re literally under a table.”
“strategic positioning,” you repeat.
his eyes flick between you and armin.
armin, still seated cross-legged, PSP in hand, looks… suspiciously comfortable down here.
“rain stopped,” eren says, waggling his eyebrows. “backyard’s not a swamp anymore.”
your brain processes that instantly. outside. air. smoke.
you shift, crawling out from under the table like you’ve been summoned (you kinda have). your hat almost knocks against the underside on the way up.
you stand, brushing imaginary dust off your jeans like you haven’t just been living feral for twenty minutes.
“finally,” you mutter.
eren snorts. “i knew you’d come out for fire.”
you flip him off affectionately.
as you turn, you feel it. armin’s eyes. on you. you glance down and remember. right. you’re dressed. like you actually properly put effort into the fit for once.
cropped top. exposed waist. the boxers waistband peeking over your jeans when you stretch slightly to adjust your hat. the chain at your neck catching the warm lamplight.
his gaze drops. just for a second. to the strip of skin between your top and jeans. then to your back pocket when you reach behind yourself and pull out the small metal case. it clicks open with a neat little sound. inside, two perfectly rolled joints. tidy. symmetrical. artisanal, honestly.
eren whistles. “you came prepared.”
“i don’t leave the house unarmed,” you say.
you hold the case out toward armin without thinking.
his brows lift slightly. “you rolled those?”
“yeah,” you say, suddenly self-conscious in a way that makes no sense. “i mean. it’s not hard.”
he takes one carefully, examining it like it’s something delicate.
“they’re… really clean,” he says, impressed. “mine always canoe.”
you feel your ego inflate instantly.
“that’s because you’re probably packing it unevenly,” you say, stepping closer. “you have to distribute it first. like this—”
you take it back for a second, tapping it lightly, demonstrating with your fingers.
he watches your hands. not the joint. your hands. (oh she fluttered again.)
“you’re very precise,” he says quietly.
you glance up and he’s closer than you thought.
eren makes a gagging noise. “okay, smoke nerds, go outside before you hotbox my living room by accident.”
he heads toward the back door.
you hesitate half a second, then jerk your head at armin. “you coming?”
he doesn’t answer immediately.
just stands, brushing his hands on his sweatpants, stepping closer until there’s barely space between you in the hallway bottleneck.
“yeah,” he says. simple. low.
you step out into the backyard.
the rain really has stopped. everything smells clean and electric. pavement still damp, reflecting the warm yellow light spilling from the house. a few people are already out there, huddled under the overhang, talking in low voices.
you lean against the railing, pop the lighter open. flick. it sparks once. twice.
you cup your hand around it, bringing the flame to the tip of the joint.
you inhale slowly, practiced. the ember glows bright. you exhale toward the cool night air. and then you turn, holding it out toward armin. he steps closer to take it. instead of grabbing it immediately, his fingers brush yours first.
on purpose. (?????)
he takes a drag, less confident but not clueless.
coughs once, lightly, embarrassed.
“newbie.”
“i’m out of practice,” he says, eyes watering slightly, laughing under his breath.
you lean in, lowering your voice.
“good thing i’m patient.”
the rain smell is fading now. the backyard’s warmer, humid from bodies and smoke. someone’s laughing too loud near the fence. there’s noise behind you. eren yelling at someone about tracking mud inside. connie arguing with sasha about something pointless. but it all feels distant. it’s just the damp night air. shared smoke. his shoulder brushing yours when he hands the joint back.
and the very clear, very sudden realization that he did, in fact, come looking for you first.
the joint’s almost done. he’s looking at you like he’s debating something. you clock on immediately.
“what,” you say, squinting at him.
“when you passed out,” he starts, for fuck sake, your stomach drops.
“i didn’t pass out,” you correct automatically on defence, “i was just... rebooting?” shut up, shut up, shut up.
he smiles faintly. “right. rebooting.”
you wait.
he rubs the back of his neck, almost shy. almost.
“you said something,” he says.
oh god.
“people talk in their sleep all the time,” you wave off. change the subject quickly—
“you said,” he continues, ignoring you now, “that i was ‘objectively hot.’”
there it is. your brain goes white noise. because, damn, did you really say that? you do not react. externally.
“did i?” you say, voice flat. casual. bored. you take the last drag, exhale slowly. “well. i stand by it.”
his brows lift slightly.
you flick the roach away, grind it under your sneaker.
“you are,” you continue, like you’re discussing the weather. “objectively attractive. good bone structure. symmetrical. clear skin. tall. statistically, you’re doing well.” stop talking, stop talking, now.
you shrug. “i just appreciate aesthetics.”
he’s staring at you now. not laughing. not brushing it off.
“objectively,” he repeats.
“yeah,” you nod. “it’s not personal.” liar, liar, liar, liar.
he steps closer. just slightly.
“so you weren’t flirting,” he says.
you tilt your head. “i was unconscious.”
“you just… evaluated me.”
“correct.”
he studies you for a second, like he’s trying to see through the performance.
you refuse to blink first. you are cool. you are detached. you are absolutely not thinking about his hands or his mouth or the fact that he smells clean even in a backyard full of smoke.
“you also said,” he adds quietly, “that my voice was ‘dangerous.’”
you almost choke on air.
“did i.” did you????
“yeah.”
you click your tongue thoughtfully, “that tracks.”
“does it?”
“low register,” you say calmly. “soft delivery. good cadence. it’s a lethal combination.”
he huffs a laugh, but it’s shakier than before.
“you’re very clinical about this.”
“it’s important to stay grounded.”
grounded. hah. funny
he steps closer again. there’s barely a foot between you now.
“so if i said,” he begins slowly, “that i think you’re hot—”
your heart punches your ribcage. you raise a brow. “objectively?”
“no,” he says. and he doesn’t look away. “personally.”
your mouth goes dry. you refuse to crumble.
“that would be your subjective experience,” you say evenly.
he smiles, but there’s tension in it now. curiosity. challenge.
“and if i told you,” he continues, voice lowering just slightly, “that i've seen you around campus before then, and i thought you were intimidating because you always looked like you knew exactly what you wanted.”
your stomach flips violently. you lean back against the railing to compensate.
“maybe i do,” you say. no you don’t.
you absolutely do not.
except right now.
right now you do.
and it’s him.
he glances at your mouth, quick, but you catch it, your pulse goes crazy.
“so,” he says softly, “was i wrong?”
you hold his gaze and let the silence stretch just enough to feel intentional. then you shrug. “guess you should’ve tried.”
it’s light, teasing, but there’s an opening in it. a real one. and his jaw tightens slightly, like he’s processing that, like he might actually do something about it.
from behind you, eren (fucking cockblock) yells your name loudly for absolutely no reason.
“don’t let it go to your head,” you say as you brush past him, shoulder grazing his chest on purpose. “being objectively hot isn’t a personality.”
you make it three steps toward the back door before you feel it. him. still behind you.
you turn around slowly.
“you following me?” you ask.
“maybe,” he says.
the backyard’s thinned out. most people drifted back inside when the music got louder. it’s just a couple silhouettes near the fence now, the yellow porch light casting long shadows across the damp ground.
you lean back against the wooden railing again. you’re trying to look relaxed. you are not relaxed.
“you never answered me,” he says.
“about what.”
“whether i should’ve tried.”
oh. uhhhhh, you've run out of flirty lines and you genuinely don't know what to say to this guy, and he definitely knows that.
you cross your arms.
bad move. it draws attention to your cropped top. you feel his eyes flick down again before he catches himself. he’s not slick. it’s cute.
“you’re smart,” you say. “you figure it out.”
“that’s not how data works,” he replies immediately.
you grin despite yourself. “don’t start.”
“no, seriously,” he steps closer, leaning one elbow on the railing near you. not touching. just close enough that you can feel the heat off him. “if the variable is ‘intimidating girl on campus,’ and the hypothesis is ‘she will reject me,’ the only way to test that is—”
“to collect evidence,” you finish.
he smiles. “exactly.”
“so you’re saying this is research.”
“i’m saying,” he says, voice dipping just slightly, “i miscalculated.”
your stomach flips. you try to stay cool. “what part.”
“i thought you wouldn’t talk to me,” he says. “but you’re actually—” he gestures vaguely. “—like this.”
“like what,” you press.
“excited,” he says.
you scoff. “i’m not excited.”
“you ramble when you’re excited.”
you freeze.
he clocks it instantly. “see?” he adds softly.
fucking traitor body. you push off the railing and step closer instead of retreating.
“i ramble when someone’s worth explaining things to,” you counter.
his eyes sharpen a little at that. “so i’m worth explaining things to?”
“don’t fish,” you say.
“i’m not.”
“you are.”
he laughs under his breath. the air feels thicker now. not from smoke. from proximity.
“teach me something then,” he says suddenly.
you blink. what? “what.”
“anything. you like teaching. i’ll be your student.”
that should not sound like that.
you narrow your eyes suspiciously. “you’re being weird.”
“i’m being curious.”
you hesitate. then your brain lights up with the worst possible idea.
“okay,” you say slowly. “Street Fighter.”
he exhales a small amused breath. “we don’t have the PSP.”
“we don’t need it,” you step even closer, so now you’re almost chest to chest. you can see the faint freckles across the bridge of his nose. you are holding it together with tape. “frame advantage.”
his gaze drops to your mouth again (gotcha). then back to your eyes.
“explain.”
“when you make a move,” you say, lifting your hand between you, “there’s recovery time. if you recover faster than your opponent, you have advantage.”
“so you can move first.”
“exactly.”
he nods slowly.
“so right now,” he says, “who has advantage?”
oh. you swallow.
“depends,” you say lightly. “who committed first.”
“you called me hot.”
“objectively.”
“you lingered when you handed me the joint.”
you did. you absolutely did. observant bastard.
“you followed me,” you shoot back.
“because you told me to try.”
your breath catches, that was not supposed to land like that. he steps closer, this time, you don’t step back. there is barely space between you now. your chest rises. his does too. you can feel the warmth of him through the thin fabric of your top.
“so,” he murmurs, voice low enough that it barely carries past you, “who has frame advantage?”
you are so gone.
“i do,” you say.
he waits, you don’t move, neither does he. you’re both waiting. testing. and then, you reach up and lightly adjust the chain at his neck. just two fingers hooking it, straightening it. slow. intentional. his breath stutters, tiny, but you feel it.
“see,” you say quietly. “you reacted.”
his jaw tightens.
“that’s not an advantage,” he says. “that’s bait.”
you grin. “maybe.”
his hand comes up then, not to grab you, not to pull you in, just to mirror you. he brushes his thumb lightly along the waistband peeking over your jeans. not under, just there, barely touching. electric. erotic.
you inhale sharply despite yourself.
“you reacted too,” he says.
your brain is melting, you are folding, catastrophically, and he knows it.
he leans in slightly, close enough that his breath ghosts near your ear.
“so maybe,” he murmurs, “it’s a tie.”
your hands find the front of his hoodie without thinking. fist loosely curling in the fabric.
“temporary stalemate,” you whisper back.
“can i ask you something,” he says.
your pulse spikes again. “you’re asking a lot tonight.”
“i’m collecting data.”
you roll your eyes but your grip tightens slightly in his hoodie. “what.”
his thumb slides away from your waistband, but his hand doesn’t drop. it rests lightly at your hip now. not squeezing. just there.
“do you want to keep pretending this is theoretical,” he says quietly, “or do you want to continue this experiment somewhere less… public.”
your brain short circuits.
“define public,” you manage.
he glances toward the house where silhouettes move past the windows.
“somewhere with fewer variables,” he clarifies.
oh. oh that’s smooth.
you try to keep your voice steady, but you are kicking your feet. “and where would that be, professor.”
his mouth twitches. “my room.”
“what’s in it for me?”
his hand at your hip shifts just barely closer.
“privacy,” he says.
your stomach flips.
“and?” you press.
his eyes drop to your mouth again. then back up.
“undivided attention.”
safe to say you went up to his room.
armin doesn’t rush you. that might be the worst part. he kisses you slowly, deliberately, like he’s mapping something out instead of losing control. his weight settles more fully over you, one knee pressing into the mattress beside your thigh, his hand sliding from your waist up along your ribs until it rests just under your chest.
you are absolutely not calm.
you kiss him harder to compensate. your fingers curl in the front of his shirt and pull him down closer, your mouth parting against his. you’re trying to look like you’ve done this a thousand times, like you’re not seconds away from combusting. but your breathing keeps giving you away. every time his tongue brushes yours, your grip tightens involuntarily.
he notices. of course he notices.
he pulls back just enough to look at you, his lips barely a breath from yours. his thumb drifts up from your ribs, tracing slowly along your collarbone, then down the centre of your chest, light enough to make you shiver.
“you’re trying so hard,” he murmurs.
“to what,” you shoot back, though your voice comes out softer than intended.
“to act like this isn’t affecting you.”
you roll your eyes, but your pulse is hammering and there's a pool slick growing in your underwear. “you’re not exactly neutral.”
“that’s not what i said.”
his hand shifts lower again, thumb hooking briefly at the waistband of your jeans before sliding back up. the movement is slow, controlled, and it makes your stomach flip in a way that feels unfair. you need something to ground yourself, something to prove you’re not the only one unravelling.
so you grab his wrist.
he stills immediately, watching you.
you bring his hand up between you. his fingers brush your mouth as you guide them there, your eyes stay locked on his as you part your lips and press a soft kiss to the pad of his index finger.
his breathing changes.
you feel it before you hear it.
you drag your tongue slowly along the side of his finger, then close your lips around it, warm and deliberate.
your gaze doesn’t drop. you want him to see exactly what you’re doing.
his shoulders tense. his jaw tightens. his free hand grips your hip harder, fingers digging into the fabric of your jeans.
you suck gently, then a little deeper, your tongue pressing against him. you can feel the way his breathing stutters, the way his body shifts instinctively closer without him even realizing it. when you pull back, you let your lips slide slowly over his knuckle, leaving his skin warm and damp.
the room is very quiet.
“that,” he says, voice lower now, rougher, “was not subtle.”
“i wasn’t aiming for subtle.”
he exhales through his nose, a quiet, almost disbelieving sound, and then he leans down and kisses you again, but it’s different this time. hungrier. dirtier. less measured. his hand that you just had in your mouth moves to your jaw, tilting your head so he can deepen the kiss. you feel the shift in him. the control slipping just a little.
you slide your hands under the hem of his shirt now, palms against warm skin, fingers splaying over his back. he reacts instantly, a quiet groan escaping him when your nails drag lightly across his lower spine. his hips press forward before he catches himself, and that tiny loss of composure makes heat rush straight through you.
“you’re impossible,” he murmurs against your mouth.
“and you invited me up here,” you reply, breathless.
those same fingers you had in your mouth slide from your jaw, down your neck, tracing the centre of your chest slowly. he doesn’t rush. he’s watching you the entire time, tracking every flicker of your expression.
his hand drifts lower. down your stomach. over the curve of your hip. his thumb hooks into your waistband again, slower this time. intentional. he doesn’t break eye contact when he slips his hand just beneath the fabric.
your stomach tightens.
he leans down and kisses you while his fingers slide further, testing, careful at first. you inhale sharply into his mouth when he finally presses his palm fully against you through the thin fabric. the heat of his touch sends a pulse straight through your spine.
“still a stalemate?” he asks quietly against your lips.
you try to answer coolly, but your voice comes out breathless. “maybe.”
"maybe?" he hums softly, like he doesn’t believe you for a second. "you're dripping."
those same fingers you had wrapped around your tongue move slowly, deliberately. he takes his time, brushing, learning, watching how your body reacts. when he finally presses with more purpose, you grip his shirt again, the composure you were clinging to slipping through your fingers.
he notices immediately.
"fuck you're so wet, is this all for me?"
god, he sounds so smug, but the way your walls clench at the sound of his voice makes him suck in a deep breath.
your head falls back against the mattress as his hand moves more confidently now, guided by every sharp inhale and involuntary shift of your hips. he keeps kissing you between murmured comments that are far too calm for what he’s doing.
you grab his wrist again, but this time it’s not to redirect. it’s because you need something to hold onto. your nails press into his skin as he continues, slow and steady. it's torture but, fuck, it's everything you've ever wanted.
he leans down to your ear. “you tasted good on my fingers,” he murmurs. “thought it was only fair they return the favour.”
that does something dangerous to you.
your confidence finally cracks completely, replaced by open, needy heat. you arch into his hand without meaning to, and he exhales sharply at the movement, control slipping further.
“temporary,” he breathes, as your composure dissolves under his touch. “right?”
he groans into your mouth, low and wrecked, hips shifting forward before he even thinks about it. the fact that you react so quickly, so sensitively, makes his control snap in real time. you feel it in the way his hand tightens, the way his fingers move with sudden urgency instead of patience.
“you’re—ngh,” he exhales, voice breaking slightly. “you’re so responsive.”
his forehead drops to yours for a second as he keeps moving his hand, breathing uneven, like he’s trying to keep up with you and failing. every twitch of your hips, every sharp inhale, every squelch of your pussy, every little involuntary movement feeds him.
“you have no idea what that does to me,” he mutters, almost frustrated.
the fact that you’re this affected, this undone, clearly flips something in him. his hips roll forward instinctively, seeking friction against your thigh, and he exhales sharply when he gets it.
“you react so easily,” he says, voice low and strained. “it’s driving me insane
he drops his mouth to your neck, biting lightly. his hand keeps working, less measured now, scissoring in and out of you, responding to every noise you make. the mattress shifts beneath you as he adjusts closer, pressing into you without thinking.
you can feel how turned on he is.
your hips jerk forward. your breath stutters. and you make a mess all over his fingers while he’s still murmuring against your mouth.
his hand tightens reflexively and he exhales sharply, hips rocking forward against your thigh again because he can’t help himself. the physical proof of what he did to you clearly hits him somewhere deep
“jesus,” he mutters, he looks worse than you.
his hair’s a mess. his lips are swollen from kissing you. his breathing is uneven and he hasn’t even tried to pretend otherwise. he studies his hand for half a second like he’s processing what just happened, then looks back at you with something dangerously intent in his eyes.
and then, those same fingers that were in your mouth, then your pussy, he pops them into his mouth with a deep groan. god he's such a freak, he licks your essence off his digits as his eyes roll back. hips still humping your thigh.
...end of playback
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