Welcome; peruse

You aren't sure what it was, even now. If it was the air around you, tense and thin on that humid night; if it was the way he would pull himself towards you, as if magnetised by some unknown, incorporeal force, arms touching the whole night; if it was something else.

The truth, you think now, is that it must have been something else altogether; something you had no way of knowing, or naming, or stopping in any shape or form.

It's a casual evening. Early June summer break in full swing for the lot of you, being college students; cards and shot glasses set haphazardly at the table as the sun sets slowly and the group trickles, one by two by three, into Eren's home. You come with Armin, your college group mate, bearing wine you will not drink, and though you are new and foreign here still, having met his friends just the few months prior, you are met with glee and hugs and pats on the shoulder, and a place is set for you with just as much ease.

You had met Armin first, a year ago; a stupid-long project in a stupid-hard class bringing the two of you together, twining you both in a friendship unlike any either of you have had before, and inseparable is what you are called now, though you tell yourself, with no grief spared, that you find the idea quite absurd. You tell yourself, firm and disciplined, that friends is all that you are – even if he is the first thought in you when you wake, and, more often than not, the last before you sleep.

Friends is what you simply are, and friends is what you simply will be; or so you say, on some mornings as you wait for his inevitable text; or so you say, some nights, when you remind yourself that a mistake should not be made when it comes to a matter concerning him.

And it doesn't take much for the party to come into a full swing of things; music unwinding, cards shuffling, laughter bubbling, and you watch, contently, sat comfortably upon the corner on a sofa, as the life around you buzzes. Armin sits by you, like he always does, arm brushing yours once every while, reminding you of him there; shoulder leaning into yours, smile soft and knowing, and it curls around you like it always does, swelling large within your heart. You are new here still, sometimes awkward and quiet, but not always, and not for long; Armin helps you, leading with words and with gestures, inviting you, often and loud and enthusiastic, to join the conversation; and it awes you, really, with how effortless, how easy it is for this shy, quiet boy to transform into such fervour when he is surrounded by those he loves. He welcomes you with sheer abandon, and you find that his friends, in turn, do so, too; and it's easy, when he is here – everything always is when he gets roped into things.

It magnetises you, effortlessly. You find yourself watching him, smile full of teeth and lungs full of laughter; you find yourself involved and participating, and though you don't drink you watch as they do, and things don't shift until they do, and when they do, you are gone beyond comprehension that something, something had given way.

It's so slow at first; you don't truly notice a thing. When he'd lean into you when telling a joke; when his arm would brush and linger next to yours while telling a story; when you would catch him, once, then twice, then again, looking at you. Not just in jest, or in camaraderie, but these lingering, intrigued glances that would cross to your eyes, then, seldomly and just briefly, to your lips.

When he would say your name, requesting you to agree with him, or to add onto a story which you had been witness to; mouth curling around the syllables, lulling in ways that has you squirming beneath this newfound, strange heat within his gaze, and it has you wondering, mind adrift and groundless, if you had gone mad. If it is just you, losing grip on reality as those nights of dreaming had begun to catch up with you, or if it is him, truly, looking at you in this way.

Something is giving, slowly; unwinding, like a broken clock, or like a ribbon too-tight and breaking, and the more he drinks, the more you feel it, and you think it will, eventually, simply snap.

It doesn't.

At least, not the way you expect it to.

You don't expect just how quick the room clears out when Connie demands pizza; when they all conglomerate, agglutinate into a band ready to get them all food. You don't expect to be told, the only sober person here, to watch the house; you don't expect, most of all, for Armin to stay behind, too.

You don't expect the look he gives you then, when it is all quiet and lone, save for the ticking of the grandfather clock stood firm by the wall. Cold, you think at first, but you are wrong; it takes a glance, and a second, averting and shy in ways you had not expected yourself to feel around him, but then you do; you do look. He watches you with a hawkish look to him, careful and curious, lips parted and cheeks pink from the alcohol, and you would breathe were you able to, but you simply cannot. You sit there, your breath baited and gaze locked, waiting – waiting for something; waiting for it to give.

You think not to say something, but you do not need to; he reaches for you, quiet and wordless, his thumb brushing haphazardly at your cheek. Soft and gently uncoordinated and skin warm against your cheek, his hand touches a strand of your hair, brushing it, thereafter, behind your ear.

You inhale then, finally; sharp and loud enough to hear, and in the moment between this and air filling your lungs, he leans in swiftly, eyes focusing furthermore on you, steeling in a way that you can't quite read. "Can I kiss you?" He asks you then, with no abandon or reservation, words clear and understandable, and yet it still has you shocked and disoriented, your newfound air lost somewhere in your chest.

He waits, in this brief moment. He waits and he watches you, eyes half-lidded and dark and patient, and you think to say no, you think to move away quickly, your body in protest at the thought alone; not for your sake, not for lack of want or need of it, but for his own, for the mistake he is about to make under inebriation, and your lips part to say it, they do, but his thumb brushes against your bottom lip and it silences you so thoroughly that not a sound leaves your throat, and it's enough. It's enough for him.

He leans in, both gentle and quick; lips soft against your own, low notes of vanilla and rum buzzing within his breath, and it's gentle at first – so gentle it has you leaning into him, towards him, south pole to north and inescapable black holes. "Armin," you whimper weakly, once tepid coils superheating quickly, disastrously, and there's both a push and a pull in you as you push away and yet pull him to you, desperately, fists curled into his shirt.

"Let me kiss you," he pleads in response, quick and merciless, palm enveloping your jaw. He watches you and gasps for air, leaning further into the steel grasp you have on him. "Please, Y/N. I want to kiss you," he leans in, lips touching your cheek. You feel him whisper; you feel the breath of his fan against your skin, warm and intoxicating. "Please," he says, and you can't say no, not anymore; skin on fire and needy in his grasp, knees shaking and voiceless, you allow it. You lean to him, and in the act of it you tell yourself that it's just a small gesture; a mistake, the tiniest the two of you could make, a thing to forget once morning comes – and as you do, Armin follows suit, leaning into you, too.

And this, this gesture and this kiss, once soft and delicate and innocent, sizzles and sets itself afire; he kisses you deep and sloppy, your skin heating at the touch of his alone, and his tongue ventures forth with sheer abandon as both his palms grasp and hold you firmly at your jaw; he kisses you fierce and needy; he kisses you in ways you thought Armin never could, and your head spins and spins, and in seconds of you sitting flushly side by side you are pulled forward – all of you, bone and skin and muscle and sinew, as if you were weightless to him – and you find yourself straddling him, your thighs parted and digging into his hips. His arms circle your waist and pull you forward taut and firm, and you feel the sofa dip beneath your knees; you think, here, your skin hot and sweaty already, your lips tender from his teeth, that you should stop and scold him; you think, here, that you should stand and leave, but you are sealed to him, drawn in ways that you could not stop if you tried, and in the feeling of his tongue against yours you think, what of another mistake? What of another mistake, with him?

His hands sit still and prim for just a moment, gentlemanly in the way you have known Armin to be, and then they, too, begin to roam haphazardly; exploratory in ways so unlike Armin that it has your head spinning, and you keen in earnest then – muscles taut, back arching, needy in ways that you have had yet to find yourself to be, and as your skin covers in gooseflesh in the wake of his touch, you find yourself heating more, and in this you find yourself thinking, knowing, admitting that you had wanted this, mistakes be damned; you had wanted him, even if it meant disturbing this delicate equilibrium between the two of you, and here, right here, beneath the hot weight of his hands, beneath the needle of his gaze, this disturbance, this imminent disequilibrium feels worth it beyond measure.

As if feeling it, as if on the same, wordless cue that you were, Armin shifts and deepens the kiss, hands squeezing at your waist as you sigh into his mouth, and you feel yourself shifting, too; hands digging greedily into his scalp, thighs shuffling, ever so slowly, closer towards him, and it is then that you gasp in both pleasure and a startle, feeling as his palm drags itself beneath your skirt and across your thigh. You watch him break for just a moment, his hand squeezing, fingers dipping gently into the flesh mere inches from the apex of your thighs, and he does not move forward, he does not touch more, but he chuckles when you look at him, smiling wicked and self-satisfied when he murmurs: "I knew you would sound pretty when you feel good."

And then he kisses you again; his hand squeezing once more, if just for him to hear you make that sound again, and you whine at his attention when he moves his mouth towards neck, lapping and nibbling like a dog starved, and you feel, with a striking lucidity, as cohesion begins to slip your mind with a violent swiftness. You feel his palm circle to your stomach, fingers soft and gentle as they climb up and up, and a thigh of his brushes against a thigh of yours when he pleads, lips at your throat: "Can I rub you against my cock?" Armin begs, quiet and husky and so needy and foul that you find yourself in lack of thought. "Please," he whines, kissing at your clavicle, and your hands dig into his hair, tugging desperately – to stop or to continue, even you do not know.

"No," you gasp out, voice found within your throat at last, feeling his teeth graze gently against your pulse, and your thighs shake as you feel his hand slide lower at your rejection; for a moment, far too brief to fully register, you think that this alone will make him stop and reject you in return, but he just hums, pulling you closer; kissing you further.

"Alright," he murmurs into your lips, and then his hands are on your cheeks again, pulling you lovingly to not stop kissing him; and you submit, you allow him, you let his tongue glide softly against your own, hums quiet and gentle and hands warm on your skin, and it is here, amidst the delicate affection, that you finally find the strength to break away.

"Armin," you say, and to this he just smiles; as if sated by the sound of his name alone. "Armin, we've got to stop now," you tell him, watching, breath baited, as his smile slowly turns into a feather-light pout. "You're too drunk," you gasp, still short on air, and you feel, in distinct, precise detail, as his palm slides down the slope of your back.

"'M not," he replies, head leaning back into the backrest of the sofa. "I could do this all night," he says then, smile coy and mischievous and boyish, and it squeezes something fierce in your chest; he is quiet, for a moment, holding onto you so carefully. Time thins in this one moment, insular and private, quiet in a way you have had to yet experience with Armin until this exact bundle of disjointed seconds, and it is in this quietude that he says it. "I want you, Y/N," he whispers, not needy or desperate but fervent, cerulean gleaming with something you can't place or name, and the words alone make your skin heat in ways that you can't simply shake off.

Your breath shakes, in response. Your hands tremble. You shift and settle, leaning them onto his shoulders for purchase, and you try to catch your breath as his hand curls around your wrist, waiting. And he just watches you like this, that silver, bewitching glint swirling within his eyes; waiting for you to reject or accept him, to have him like this or never again. To this you lean, helplessly, to kiss him on the cheek, and it gives a finality to this dance, one the both of you acquiesce in your own ways – you, with leaning backwards, and him, with this committed, quiet grunt. "Let's see what you think when you're sober," you tell him then, waiting, quite pitifully, for your thighs to stop the trembling before climbing off.

And he just laughs. Hearty, and light, rumbling in his chest, as if he were truly amused by what you had said.

"Sweetheart," he says then, cheeks pink as if in some delight, and then he smiles at you with that gentle, bright smile of his that makes your heart squeeze swiftly and violently. He, warm, and welcoming, and hushed in his voice; knuckles brushing against your knee and hair tousled and so, so beautiful; he tells you, with no untimely restraint: "I think of you every day of my life. That won't be a problem."

And he lets you go like this; fingers brushing against the fabric of your sleeve, eyes tracing the slow, methodical movements of your body as you disentangle from him. He is quiet, he says not a word; he simply watches you, all the way through the remainder of the night, eyes warm and knowing, speaking of words whispered against the precipice of your skin when no one else could hear; even when your friends return; even when you all part.

And come morning, when you wake with a gasp and a memory of dream full and heated; when the screen of your phone lights up with a singular message beholding a singular line; when you smell him on you still, incorporeal and unbearably real upon your skin, you know, then, that nothing will be the same again.

dividers by saradika and cafekitsune

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@minminlert

Loathe as he may admit it, Armin cannot stop his hand from curling around his cock. He has your picture opened in front of him, your last conversation seared in his mind.

He wants you so bad. So fucking horrifyingly bad.

This sweet, ethereal creature. His kind angel. Considerate, assertive, each one your words honeyed over, just for him. Just for him.

It started out innocently. A random chatroom with a random person willing to talk about a random book.

He got drawn into your being like a moth to a flame; instantaneous, flash-like. He never even had a choice.

You were always so sweet. Not always happy, as all humans should be, not always chipper, but always kind, always generous with him. You'd acknowledge him, praise him, confide in him; seastar, you would start to call him.

He's never met anyone like you.

Every time you'd talk, his heart would patter. Eventually, he'd find his hands clammy with sweat. His face would heat. Then he got your picture.

He fucked his fist to that picture more times than he can count at this point. He'd lost the count at 43.

He feels vile, almost. Treacherous. It's an innocent picture. You're smiling, this sweet, lightweight thing.

But you're smiling for him. You said so, yourself.

He'd do anything to have you smile like that.

"God," he curses, gasping as his hand slides over his gleaming tip. "You'll be the end of me," he can't help the words that leave him, but they are true.

You're so fucking cute. He is willing to bet you are just as cute when you feel good.

What he would do if he could get his hands on you. He'd sell his soul to be able to kiss you, put his mouth on you; eat you out until you're squirming, mewling; sighing his name the way you do late at night during calls when you are tired, or when you're giggling at whatever it is he told you.

His hand grows faster, bolder, and it is him, now, who is whining, your name falling steadfast from his lips, again and again.

Perilously, inescapably, he agonizes over wondering how you would taste like on his tongue; how you would sound like, moaning his name out as he pleasures you, as he makes you feel good the way you make him feel good with your words alone, with your presence, your company; your friendship.

"Fuck," he cries out, and Armin can't help the indulgence, he can't stop it as an image fills his mind, his cock deep in you, your pretty face flushed, contorted in pleasured ways only he could bring you, your delicate hands dragging harshly over his back, and he spills his seed all over his hand, pumping harsh and unyielding, unstopping as he mutters your name again, and again, and again.

His breath is ragged, broken as he throws back his head, slowly riding out the last drops of his orgasm.

You will end him. You could, just so easily. And he would take it. He will take anything you give him, even crumbs; even nothing.

His eyes snap open as he hears a ping notification on his laptop.

You've messaged him.

dividers by cafekitsune

tag list: @arlerts-angel @levistealeaf @sukunascrustyfinger

@chiinni @nilaaaas @ryoiii

@dilfkentolover @arminarlertssword @bel-https

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@minminlert

@arlerts-angel @levistealeaf @sukunascrustyfinger

@chiinni @nilaaaas @ryoiii

@dilfkentolover @arminarlertssword @bel-https

@layla240 @katestrophes @rrsltt

@sanjis-fav-w1fe @lemontrees-things @arminarlertspersonalnurse

@strscollide @girlybelle @blvewave