❝ 𝐃𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐀 𝐁𝐎𝐘𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃? ❞
🔪 yandere!armin x Reader | scream-inspired oneshot
CW: obsession, stalking, knifeplay, oral fixation, tongue piercing worship, smut (MDNI), possessiveness, blood, murder (past), unhinged behavior, dubcon dynamics, reader nearly caught in a chase, horror erotica
The gym was unrecognizable.
Orange lights blinked above fake spider webs and fog machines. Streamers tangled overhead like veins. Everyone was dressed in something ridiculous—vampires, devils, slutty pirates, and at least six different Ghostfaces.
You were in a corset. You regretted it every time you bent down, but you looked hot. And he noticed.
Floch Forster.
Annoying, smug, surprisingly good at dancing. You weren’t sure if you liked him—but he’d bought you a drink, told you that you were the “baddest thing in this whole graveyard,” and started dancing behind you before you could say no.
So there you were. Halloween dance. Grinding to some trashy remix of Somebody’s Watching Me. A fog machine hissed near your feet. Floch’s hands crept a little lower every time the bass dropped.
“You look good tonight,” he whispered, leaning down. His hands were skating dangerously close to your thighs. “Like, really fucking good.”
You laughed it off awkwardly. “Thanks. You too. Uh—maybe don’t touch there.”
His hand didn’t move.
“C’mon,” he breathed. “Don’t be like that.”
You twisted slightly, trying to shift his grip, but he just laughed under his breath.
Until—
“She said don’t.”
The voice came low. Controlled. Right behind you.
Both you and Floch turned.
Ghostface.
Black robes, knife prop in hand. Mask tilted slightly. Watching.
“Jesus, man,” Floch rolled his eyes. “It’s a fucking costume party. Chill.”
But Ghostface didn’t laugh.
He took a single step forward.
Floch scoffed, stepping between you both. “You wanna try that again?”
Ghostface tilted his head.
Then—
BANG.
The lights cut out.
Screams echoed. Music skipped. A moment of pure chaos.
By the time emergency lights flickered on, Floch was gone.
Just… gone.
And in the middle of the floor, where the fog thickened, lay the Ghostface mask—abandoned.
You blinked wildly, stumbling back, heart thudding.
Someone grabbed your arm.
“You okay?”
Armin Arlert.
He wasn’t in costume—just his usual hoodie, glasses slightly fogged, books still in hand. Out of place. Always.
“I—yeah, I think so?” you stammered.
He gave a soft smile, brushing something off your cheek. “You shouldn’t dance with people like him.”
“…What do you mean?”
“You deserve better.”
The lights flickered again.
The music started playing.
But the air felt wrong now. Like someone watching from the rafters. Like something waiting in the walls.
Armin didn’t let go of your arm.
He just smiled.
You slipped into the hallway outside the gym, heels clicking against linoleum. The bass was still thumping inside, but the cold air out here felt better on your skin. You needed a breath. Just a second to collect yourself.
And then—your friends appeared. Drunk off spiked punch and attention.
“Where’d you disappear to, babe?” Mina asked, her cat ears crooked. She was holding a tiny bottle of Fireball like a lifeline. “We thought Ghostface carried you off.”
You snorted, tucking a loose curl behind your ear. “Yeah. Into the night. Gutted like a pumpkin.”
Hitch laughed, swirling her drink. “No seriously—what happened with Floch? You were dancing, and then the lights went out and—poof. Gone.”
You shrugged coolly. “I saw him after the blackout. He looked… sweaty. And scared.” You smiled, dry. “Probably ran off after pissing himself.”
“Ew.” Mina cringed. “He’s so gross. Always acting like a bad boy with delulu energy.”
“Yeah, well,” you muttered, sipping from your own drink, “bad boys don’t usually need to beg.”
That got a laugh.
And then someone else spoke up—Hitch again, eyes scanning the crowd through the glass of the gym doors.
“Okay wait. Real question.”
She leaned in, whispering like it was sacred gossip.
“Who’s the cute nerd with the tongue piercing?”
You blinked. “What?”
“You know who I’m talking about. Blond hair. Glasses. Book in his hand like he’s about to tutor someone into a coma—but also maybe choke you if you ask nice?”
“Armin?” Mina asked, arching a brow. “The quiet guy in World History?”
“Yeah, him,” Hitch said, grinning. “He’s so fucking weird but like… hot-weird, you know? He smiled at me earlier and I got nervous.”
“Are you okay?” you teased. “Should we call a medic?”
Hitch rolled her eyes. “I’m serious. There’s something about him. He has that smart-boy-who-will-destroy-your-life look.”
“Because he probably could,” Mina added. “I heard he tested out of two science credits already. Also, did you know he has a tongue piercing?”
You blinked again. “…He what?”
Mina nodded. “Ymir told me. She saw it during chem lab when he yawned. Said it’s silver. Shiny.”
You tried to picture it.
Sweet, quiet Armin—with his oversized hoodies, his flushed cheeks, his notebooks full of meticulous margin notes… and a tongue ring?
Your thighs pressed together slightly.
Weird.
But maybe not… bad.
Your eyes flicked back toward the gym.
Unseen, across the hall, in the shadows near the stairwell—Armin was watching.
He had a drink in his hand.
And his tongue ran slowly over the silver ball tucked between his teeth, eyes locked on you.
The drive home blurred like a dream dipped in red.
Streetlights streaked past the windshield as your fingers tapped the steering wheel to the beat of some old pop song. Your costume was itchy, your corset had left angry little dents in your skin, and your buzz was fading—replaced with the distant pulse of a headache blooming behind your temples.
Still. Tonight had been… fun.
Weird, yeah. But you had danced. Laughed. Maybe even flirted a little too hard.
Your tires crunched into the gravel of your driveway, and for a second, everything felt still.
No street sounds. No wind.
You blinked at your front door.
Had you… left the porch light on?
You didn’t remember.
Shrugging it off, you grabbed your bag, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.
Click.
You didn’t bother turning on the living room light. The moonlight spilling through the kitchen window was enough. Just enough.
Your fingers tugged at the strings of your costume as you moved, peeling off fabric and fishnets with lazy hands. You kicked off your shoes and left a trail behind you—one boot. Corset. Stockings. The floor looked like a crime scene made of glitter and lace.
The bathroom mirror fogged quickly as the shower hissed to life. You stepped under the stream with a sigh, letting it wash over your skin—hot, heavy, almost too warm.
But something felt… off.
Like the room was too quiet.
You tilted your head beneath the water, listening.
Just pipes.
You turned to grab your shampoo—
Thud.
You froze.
Your heart ticked in your chest like a timer.
Did something fall?
You waited.
Nothing.
Maybe just a bottle toppling over in the other room. Or your drunk imagination. Still, your hand reached for the curtain slowly, peeking just outside the shower—steam curling like ghosts in the low light.
Nothing.
No one.
You shut the water off and stepped out carefully, toes squeaking on the tile. Towel. Toothbrush. Routine.
But when you looked in the mirror to wipe the fog away—
There was something written in the condensation.
A single word.
“Hi.”
You stared at it.
Your breath hitched.
Your legs moved before your brain could catch up. You whipped open the door to your bedroom and flung on the first oversized hoodie you could find, hands shaking now, skin damp and clammy with cold.
You grabbed your phone from the bed.
No missed calls. No texts.
But the porch light was off now.
And you didn’t remember turning it off.
RING. 📞
Your phone buzzed violently in your hand.
Unknown Number.
You hesitated.
Your thumb hovered.
RING.
You answered.
“Hello?”
A long pause.
Static.
Then—
A voice, low and grainy.
“Did you miss me?”
The voice was soft. Male. Not distorted—but oddly calm. Intimate, almost. Like he’d been watching you sleep for weeks and only now decided to speak.
Your stomach dropped.
“Who is this?” you asked, trying to keep your voice flat. Your hand gripped the edge of your dresser.
A chuckle.
“You looked so pretty in the shower.”
You froze.
“What—?”
“The way the steam slid down your thighs. I liked how you bent forward, all wet and slippery. It’s cute how you hum to yourself. Like no one’s watching.”
Your hand flew to the lamp, switching it on. The room glowed—but somehow that made it worse. Too visible now.
You backed up.
“This isn’t funny,” you snapped, eyes scanning the room. “Floch, if this is some twisted joke—”
“Floch’s busy bleeding, sweetheart.”
Your breath hitched.
“I—I saw him after the lights came on—”
“No.”
The voice dropped. Darker. Lower.
“You saw me.”
Your pulse roared in your ears.
“W-What do you want?”
Another pause.
Then, slowly:
“What are you wearing now?”
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.
“Let me guess…” the voice purred. “No panties. Just that big hoodie. The gray one you sleep in when you’re sad.”
“You only wear it when you’re alone. Or lonely.”
Your knees wobbled.
You turned slowly toward the window. Curtains shut. Still, you swore you could feel eyes on your skin.
“You’re a pervert,” you whispered.
A low laugh.
“I’m your biggest fan.”
A beat.
Then:
“I bet you’re wet again. But not from the shower this time.”
Your mouth went dry. “You’re insane.”
“Mmm.” He dragged the sound out. “And yet… you haven’t hung up.”
Your thumb twitched. But you didn’t press end.
Because part of you—deep, twisted, dark—wanted to keep listening.
“Go on,” he cooed. “Sit on the bed. Show me what good girls do when they think they’re alone.”
You flinched. “You can’t see me.”
Another pause.
“Wanna bet?”
Your heart stopped.
And that’s when you heard it.
A creak.
Not from your phone.
From inside the house.
Somewhere past your bedroom door.
The silence was thick. Breathing on the other end. Yours, quick and shaky. His—measured. Like he was savoring every second.
“Tell me something,” he murmured.
You didn’t respond.
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
His voice turned soft again. Almost bashful.
Your throat tightened. “Why?”
“Because it matters.”
A long pause.
“Because if you do… I’ll have to kill him.”
You swallowed hard, backing toward the dresser again. “That’s not funny.”
“Wasn’t a joke.”
The line crackled. You could hear it now—something else in the background. Wind? No… a creak. A shift. Like the sound of a door slowly closing.
“Is he better than me?”
The voice dropped again. Hungrier.
“Does he know how to touch you right? Or is he clumsy? Rushed? Too focused on himself?”
You shivered.
“Why the hell do you care?”
He laughed softly—giddy. “Because I think about it. All the time.”
You pressed the phone tighter to your ear.
“I think about how you’d sound moaning my name instead of his. I think about how sweet your thighs looked when you bent over to pick up your costume. And I wonder…”
His breath hitched slightly.
“Would you scream for me?”
“Who are you?”
Another long pause. Then:
“You already know.”
Your fingers trembled as you pulled the phone from your ear.
You didn’t care who it was anymore—you needed help.
You opened your contacts and hit Mina’s name.
Dialing…
One ring.
Two.
Then—
Your phone went black.
Battery full just hours ago. Now, nothing. Not even a buzz.
Dead.
Completely.
The silence wrapped around you like a noose.
And then—
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Your head snapped toward the window.
At first, nothing. Just the curtains swaying from the AC vent. Your breath fogged the cold glass as you tiptoed closer, hands shaking as you reached out to part the fabric—
And there he was.
Ghostface.
Standing in your backyard.
Backlit by moonlight. Knife in one hand. Head cocked.
But then—
He moved.
Slowly. Casually.
He reached up and pulled off the mask.
Armin.
His blond hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. His glasses fogged from his breath. And that smile—
It wasn’t shy anymore.
It was twisted. Glowing.
He crouched beside the pool and dropped the mask into the water. It floated for a second, then slowly sank—ghost drowning beneath the ripples.
And then—
He raised the knife to his lips.
Blood.
He dragged his tongue along the blade. Slow. Deliberate.
His eyes never left yours.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
He raised one hand.
Waved.
And mouthed:
“Mine.”
You stumbled back from the window, heart jackhammering, hoodie sticking to your damp skin. The curtains fluttered shut—but the image wouldn’t leave your mind.
Armin.
Licking the blood off his knife.
Like it tasted sweet.
A knock.
Tap… tap… tap.
Not the window this time.
The front door.
You moved like you were sleepwalking. Drawn. One trembling step at a time, barefoot, breath caught somewhere between a scream and a moan.
You reached the door.
Hand on the knob.
A beat.
Another.
Then—you opened it.
And he was there.
Armin Arlert.
Blond hair messy. Glasses slightly crooked. Hoodie soaked at the collar from sweat and rain. Knife in hand—dripping with something thick and red.
His lips were parted. Panting.
And his eyes?
Ravenous.
“Hi,” he said, voice hoarse with something close to bliss. “You looked so pretty tonight. I couldn’t help myself.”
You couldn’t speak.
He stepped forward. Into your space. Into your home.
You backed up instinctively—but he followed.
The door clicked shut behind him.
“You know…” he whispered, knife now grazing along your collarbone, not pressing—caressing—“I watched you dance with him. I was right there. So close.”
You swallowed hard. “Why… why did you—”
“Because he touched you,” Armin said, voice soft. “He didn’t deserve to. Not like I do.”
The knife dipped lower, ghosting the edge of your hoodie zipper.
“You let him put his hands on you,” he murmured, eyes darkening, “but you won’t even let me kiss you?”
You were shaking.
Not entirely from fear.
“You’re sick,” you whispered.
Armin smiled, boyish and gleaming—beautifully deranged.
“Sick for you.”
He pressed his forehead to yours, breathing hard, voice trembling with need.
“I’ve been patient,” he said. “Good. Quiet. But tonight… I saw the way you looked at me. Heard the way you talked about me with your friends.”
His tongue pierced lip brushed yours.
“You want me.”
He tilted the knife just enough for the cold steel to graze your thigh through the hoodie.
“And I can prove it.”
You should have screamed.
You should have run, clawed, locked yourself in the bathroom and called the cops.
But you didn’t.
Because Armin was standing in your living room now, knife in one hand—and your waist in the other.
“Say it,” he whispered, crowding you against the nearest wall. His voice was shaking with restraint. “Say you thought about me.”
You trembled under his touch, breath hitching as the tip of the blade hooked under the hem of your hoodie—lifting it slowly.
“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about—”
His tongue pierced mouth was on your neck in seconds. Wet. Desperate. Obsessed. He licked up your throat with a groan so raw, it was like he’d been starved for years.
You gasped.
That cold silver ball rolled against your pulse.
“You know what I love about this piercing?” he whispered, dragging it across your skin again. “Every time I taste you, you’ll feel it. Cold. Sharp. Mine.”
You whimpered—one leg already hitching up around his waist, not from control, but need. Shameful need.
He dropped the knife—clink.
And then his hands were on your thighs, parting them like scripture, dragging you up the wall until you were eye-level, chest rising against his.
“I thought about this every night,” he confessed, grinding slowly against your core, making you feel every inch of him. “Jerking off in my room with the lights off, moaning into my hand so no one heard me say your name.”
“Armin—” you gasped.
He grabbed your chin.
“Look at me.”
You did.
And his eyes burned straight through you.
“You let him touch you,” he growled, dragging that silver-tipped tongue across your bottom lip. “But he didn’t deserve it. I do. I’d worship you. Ruin you right.”
Your mouth parted.
He slipped the piercing between your lips—a soft, obscene kiss, tongue pressing into yours with a moan so filthy, it curled your toes.
You weren’t thinking anymore.
You were melting.
“I killed for you,” he whispered against your mouth. “Now let me fuck you like I earned it.”
The knife hit the hardwood with a final clink.
And Armin?
He dropped right after it.
To his knees.
Hands gripping your thighs like a prayer—his touch reverent, desperate, possessive. He looked up at you through his lashes, glasses slightly fogged, tongue wetting his lips.
That little silver ball caught the light.
“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this,” he breathed, voice trembling like a sinner in church. “Wanted to taste you.”
You whimpered as he hooked his fingers under your hoodie and tugged it up—slow, teasing, like he wanted to savor the reveal. Your bare skin, your thighs, the heat between your legs. All of it. All his.
He dragged his lips along the inside of your thigh first. Gentle. Worshipful. A sweet kiss before destruction.
Then—he licked.
Slow. Broad. Cold metal gliding through heat.
Your legs trembled instantly.
“Shhh,” Armin whispered, pressing a soft kiss just above your slit. “I got you. Let me.”
And then his mouth was on you.
Fucking ruinous.
His tongue pierced mouth worked with precision and passion—alternating between soft swirls and hard pressure, like he’d studied your body, mapped it, memorized it. He moaned into you like he was addicted, that metal ball dragging across your most sensitive spot again and again until your knees buckled.
“Armin—oh my god—”
“Say it again,” he gasped between licks. “Say my name. Say who makes you feel this good.”
You cried out, hips rocking against his face shamelessly.
He groaned—loud—gripping your ass harder, pulling you against his mouth like he’d die without it.
“Fuck,” he gasped. “You taste better than I dreamed.”
You looked down—and the sight of him?
Armin. On his knees. Tongue out. Drool and slick on his chin, lips swollen and red, glasses barely hanging on—
It broke you.
You came against his mouth with a sob, thighs trembling, hands tangled in his hair as he licked you through it—soft, then rougher again, addicted to the way you writhed.
He didn’t stop.
Not when you cried his name.
Not when your legs went weak.
Not even when he looked up, pupils blown wide, and whispered:
“One more. I need one more. Please.”
You were still gasping, thighs trembling, hoodie bunched up around your waist when he stood.
Armin rose slowly, eyes wild, lips shiny with you.
His hands were shaking—not from fear.
From restraint.
From holding back the beast inside him.
And when he looked at you, it was like watching someone come undone in real-time.
“I waited so fucking long,” he rasped, pulling his hoodie off and tossing it aside—revealing pale, toned arms covered in scratch marks. Self-inflicted. “You kept walking past me… like I wasn’t there. But I was. Always.”
He stepped forward.
You couldn’t move.
Couldn’t breathe.
He grabbed your face and kissed you—sloppy, desperate, tongue piercing pressing into your mouth like he was trying to brand you from the inside out.
Your knees gave, but he caught you.
He always would.
“Turn around,” he whispered against your lips. “Hands on the wall.”
You obeyed before you could think.
The air was thick with lust and blood.
Armin’s hands slid down your sides, his knife suddenly reappearing from the floor—cold and teasing against the curve of your ass.
“Ever been fucked with a weapon in the room?” he asked softly, dragging the flat side of the blade across your back like a whisper. “It makes everything feel more real, doesn’t it?”
You gasped as he pushed your hoodie up higher, exposing your ass completely.
SLAP.
You moaned, biting your lip.
“You liked that,” he murmured. “God, you’re perfect. You’re fucking perfect for me.”
His fingers slipped between your thighs again, feeling how wet you still were.
“All this?” he whispered darkly. “From me?”
You nodded.
“That’s right,” he hissed, lining himself up behind you, voice shaking with need. “Because you were always mine.”
And when he finally pushed into you?
It was possessive. Deep. Animal.
He held your hips tight, fucking into you with long, hungry strokes, his tongue piercing running over your spine between thrusts, lips biting your shoulder, marking you.
You sobbed his name, head falling forward.
His voice was broken now, panting, spiraling—
“Tell me you love me—tell me you’ll never leave me—tell me I’m the only one—”
He reached around to rub circles on your clit with two fingers, knife still clutched in the other hand, pressed gently to your side as if to remind you:
You’re not going anywhere.
“Say it,” he begged, hips snapping harder. “Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours!” you choked out. “Fuck—Armin—I’m yours, please—”
He groaned, low and guttural, pushing in deep and staying there as you shattered around him again, legs shaking uncontrollably.
“I knew it,” he whispered against your skin.
“I fucking knew it.”—
—
had this in the drafts for awhile.. Nerdminnn is so hotttttt aaaahh bark bark !
