mai

The only thing you wanted to hear now was the sound of the water swishing beneath the boat, maybe even a seagull. But it was like you couldn't drown out his voice. It hadn't changed. It was exactly as you'd remembered it being about four years ago. Though, back then you swore you'd found it charming.

Odiha. That's where you were going, what you were focusing on, in order to service the flying boat that would help you and your fellow scouts reach the Rumbling, you needed to reach Odiha. To stop Eren. So why was Reiner's presence bothering you so much?

Reiner was your best friend at one point. When you first joined the cadet corps, it was obvious you were nervous to anyone who took a second to look. And for that, most people didn't see you as a potential reliable comrade.

Most people.

Reiner liked you. He had once playfully claimed you made funny faces during sparring exercises and took you under his wing, seeing your potential. Back then, Reiner had a talent for making anyone feel seen. Even stubborn cadets like Annie seemed to at least tolerate him, maybe even respect him.

So how could you not fall in love with him?

It was ridiculous how quick it happened. You were sure there were other girls vying for his attention just like you were, but you swore Reiner gave you special treatment. It was stupid.

Reiner would see you entering the mess hall and instantly make sure there was a spot open at his table for you. Bertholdt had typically sat across from him, but most of the time there was a spot directly next to Reiner conveniently available just for you. He'd call you by your last name over to their table, always a smile on his face, always so damn sure of himself.

"Bread?" He had offered, causing you to shake your head with a nervous smile on your face. Nervous. Not nervous enough, apparently. But that didn't matter—not when Reiner was offering you bread, or to train after hours with you, or take you into Stohess one weekend when you mentioned wanting a change of scenery.

"I know you wanted that muffin," Reiner said regretfully as you walked away from the bakery stall at the food market. "Sorry I couldn't get it for you."

You shook your head, mouth full from the cookie he'd already got for you just ten minutes prior. "It's fine, really," you assured him, words slightly muffled from the pastry.

Reiner simply smiled at you, taking a bite of his own cookie.

When you returned to Trost that evening as the sun was just beginning to set, the teasing from your comrades was relentless.

"Woah!" Connie had exclaimed, realization dawning on his face as he looked at you and Reiner entering the mess hall together. "Where've you been all day?" He asked, nosy as ever even if the answer was plain as day.

"A date. Is that really such a foreign concept to you?" Reiner had teased, making Connie grin mischievously.

A date. You had your suspicions that that's what it was, but Reiner hadn't explicitly said it. Not until Connie asked. The straightforward explanation made your heart race, gaze dropping instantly to your shoes as Connie's laughter filled the space.

"So that's why you've been polishing your boots and actually combing your hair. I was wondering what the special occasion was," Jean had said to you, his brow raised and arms crossed in a way that was so distinctly Jean. Despite the words, you were sure it was his own way of approving.

"Oh, my God, is that a hickey?" Sasha suddenly butt in, moving into your personal space. Her hands held your head in place as she stared at the scrape from training on your forehead.

"Hickey—what—Sasha, that's on my forehead!" You had defended, but it was too late. Multiple other cadets heard the word hickey and ran with it, causing a flurry of gossip surrounding you and Reiner. And Reiner didn't deny it. He just smiled at you, and somehow that made you feel better.

There were plenty of times he'd made you feel better. An embarrassing amount of times. A pathetic amount of times, considering what he might've been comforting you about.

You sniffled, attempting to straighten yourself out before dinner was served in the mess hall as you sat on a log on the outskirts of the training grounds, taking in the yellow and orange blend of sunset before you. Even with the view, your mind was elsewhere.

It hit you every now and then at random. Despite it happening almost five years ago, you had pushed the grief down as far as you could bury it when your family was killed during the breach of Wall Maria. You were so young when it happened, but suddenly you were alone. When the Armored had broken through the inner gate of the wall, your childhood home had been crushed by a stray boulder.

You were lucky. You came to terms with that at a young age. Far too lucky. It chipped away at you everyday since, even without you realizing. What made you so fortunate to have escaped? Avoided certain death like your family couldn't? What made that soldier step in and save you but not them?

The wondering was pointless, though. They died and you didn't. For some reason fate had kept you alive until now. And for that, you had to live with a purpose. Even if now that purpose was wiping your snotty nose and trying to compose yourself enough to go eat with your friends.

"Bread?"

You had looked up to see none other than Reiner holding out a small loaf, a second one for himself in his right hand. Hesitantly, you had taken it, using the moment Reiner sat down beside you to attempt to discreetly wipe at the tears on your cheeks.

He didn't ask. You supposed it wasn't his style, or maybe he just assumed you didn't want to talk about it.

Reiner simply took a bite of his bread next to you, leaning forward as he chewed. After moments of silence, Reiner looked at you for a second and then towards the sunset. The corner of his mouth tugged upwards into a soft, almost wistful smile, but he said nothing.

"What?" You finally asked.

He almost replied with "nothing," you could tell, but he sighed and leaned back, either hands at his sides resting on the log. "You know what I miss most about home?" Reiner asked, his gaze locked with the sky. "The way the sun would rise over the hills," he stated.

You realized you'd never talked about it—why you were crying that day. To be honest, you didn't want to. Something about his presence had just put you at ease back then, to the point you forgot all of your troubles.

When graduation drew near, you weren't even sure what Reiner's plan was. Everyone knew his perfect scores got him into the top ten, eligible to enlist as a military police officer in the interior. That would've been great for him, but you weren't sure where that left you.

You weren't with Reiner when the Collosal titan had appeared and breached the wall into Trost. But you were there when Eren was discovered to be a titan himself.

From there, something in Reiner had shifted.

Back then, you figured it was realization of some sort. Realization that things were complicated, things were scary, things were real...

Things got even more real when Marco died. Marco wasn't someone you were close with, but he was always there, always kind. If someone as capable as Marco, as determined, as strong, as kind as Marco could die, what would that mean for you and your friends?

Many cadets dropped out that day, despite graduation being so close. You almost did as well. Especially upon seeing Jean's reaction to Marco's death, you didn't know if you had the guts to continue.

But Reiner always had to step in.

"You're stronger than you give yourself credit for," he said, his strong hand on your shoulder. "Look at me," he commanded softly. You hesitated but met his eyes. They were serious, and almost cold now. Different from how they used to look at you. "I know you've got what it takes."

And that was that. Along with Jean, who was sure he'd join the military police, you joined the Survey Corps, falling under the wing of the Commander Erwin Smith.

You were terrified, but you had Reiner.

Things in your lives seemed to come to a halt when Annie was revealed to be a titan. And then Ymir, along with Krista being some kind of royalty and living with a completely different name—Historia.

It was all confusing and overwhelming, and you really wished Reiner was there for you. And he was, physically, always there. But then he was distant. Even when sitting directly beside you during meals like he did before, his focus was obviously elsewhere.

And then it happened.

You revisited that day often. When Reiner and Bertholdt transformed, and everything you thought you knew came crashing down.

You couldn't even cry, or scream, or do much of anything. You'd learned a long time ago to accept these things, but God did it hurt.

Then he was gone. He and Bertholdt, back to wherever they came from—their "hometown" as they so often called it. You didn't know back then, and you'd honestly stopped caring.

When Eren was rescued from them, he tried telling you on the way back what Reiner had said in response to him screaming at them. Eren had brought you up, telling Reiner about all the pain and trauma you endured years ago when the inner gate of Wall Maria was broken and your family was killed.

Sorry. Sorry was what he said, according to Eren.

What a coward.

The next time you saw Reiner was a few months later. But it wasn't really him. It was the Armored titan, the same one you remember from childhood who had breached the wall. And now here you were, back in Shiganshina with your fellow scouts.

The bloodshed was monumental in Shiganshina. Bertholdt had died, but Reiner lived—barely. You weren't there when Hange and Jean had captured him. And you were grateful you weren't. Just three months after discovering his true self, you knew you'd do something stupid like let him go if you had been there. But that part wasn't really up to you, and he got away regardless.

That's when you discovered the truth of everything. The titans, the walls, Paradis, Eldians.

You wished you could hate him. But everyday you'd hoped for the day you could speak to him again, just once.

Those feelings seemed to have formed into anger as the years passed. And by the time you and your fellow soldiers raided Liberio, you basically lived in a shell. You promised your comrades you weren't going to allow feelings to get in the way, and you delivered.

So much happened in such a short amount of time it was difficult to even remember it properly.

You remembered seeing him—really him—for the first time again on Paradis. He was almost pathetic looking now, but a part of your heart still yearned for him.

Were the feelings even the same, though?

You and the rest of the scouts had to compromise and join forces with the Warriors in order to put a stop to Eren's plan to go through with the Rumbling. It was the first night that Jean brutally punched Reiner at the campfire. Years ago, you might've blindly taken the side of Reiner. Hell, if he said a word to you since being back on the island maybe you would've defended him. But he didn't. So you let it happen.

When the kids, Gabi and Falco, rushed to Reiner's side after the altercation, you felt as though you needed to physically drag yourself away to avoid saying anything to him.

Instead, you found Jean, cooling off in the outskirts of the woods. His head was in his hands, leaning against a tree as he shook.

You placed a gentle hand on his arm, causing him to jump. You made eye contact, but he was quick to look away. Though, your small touch grounded him.

"Sorry about that," Jean apologized. "I got carried away." His voice was breaking, you'd noticed, but you shook your head.

"Don't apologize," you replied.

You made a choice that evening. The choice to stay loyal to your comrades instead of blindly following Reiner like you did when you were a dumb kid. But it didn't make it any less difficult when he stood there on the boat looking almost like he had years ago.

The expression on his face was that of determination. And the people at his side were none other than Jean and Connie.

You scoffed, pulling your gaze away from the men and staring off into the vast ocean—the ocean you didn't even knew existed years ago; the ocean Reiner didn't bother mentioning to you those nights you sat together for hours.

You'd gone over every emotion the past four years. You saw his side as best you could. Even so, it was hard to forgive. Especially when Reiner himself hadn't made an effort to speak to you.

"Hey." You didn't look up, you knew it was Jean.

"You gonna talk to loverboy or what?" He asked after a beat of silence. You finally lifted your head to shoot him a glare. Jean simply smiled, looking back at where Reiner and Connie were still talking and then back to you, sitting beside you on the bench.

You remained quiet for a moment after Jean sat beside you, your fingers absently picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. The gentle rock of the boat beneath you seemed to match the churning in your stomach.

"I'm not talking to him," you finally said, keeping your voice low despite the distance between you and the others.

Jean snorted. "Right. Because ignoring him is working so well for you."

You shot him another glare. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You've been staring at him every chance you get since yesterday." Jean's knowing smile widened as your cheeks flushed with heat. "Don't worry, he's been doing the same thing."

Something fluttered in your chest at his words, but you quickly tamped it down. "Has he... said anything?" The question slipped out before you could stop it, your voice smaller than you intended.

Jean chuckled, that same knowing look in his eyes that made you want to shove him off the bench and into the sea. But then his expression softened.

"No," he admitted. "But it's getting annoying watching you two dance around each other like this. You look at him when he's not looking, he looks at you when you turn away. It's really embarassing for both of you."

You sighed, turning your gaze back to the endless blue horizon. The vastness of the ocean still amazed you, even now. "Well, if he wanted to talk, he would've said something by now."

"Maybe he's thinking the same thing about you," Jean pointed out.

"That's different," you protested weakly.

"How?"

You opened your mouth to respond but found you didn't have an answer that wouldn't sound childish. Jean was right, and you both knew it.

"Look," Jean said, his voice gentler now, "I'm not exactly Reiner's biggest fan. You were there when I..." He flexed his hand, the same one he'd used to punch Reiner the night before, his knuckles reddened now. "But we're all stuck here together now. And whatever was between you two—"

"There was nothing between us," you interrupted, the lie bitter on your tongue.

Jean gave you a flat look. "You're a terrible liar. Always have been."

You looked down at your hands, suddenly finding your fingernails fascinating. "It doesn't matter now anyway."

"Maybe not," Jean agreed. "But you're never going to stop wondering if you don't at least talk to him once. Really talk to him."

The silence between you stretched for several long moments as you considered his words. The rational part of you knew he was right. This tension, this unspoken thing hanging in the air between you and Reiner, it would only continue to distract you. And with what lay ahead—with Eren and the Rumbling—you couldn't afford distractions. And more importantly, you didn't want to die with regrets.

"Fine," you muttered, standing up with a resigned sigh.

Without waiting for some type of reaction from Jean, you turned and made your way across the deck toward where Reiner and Connie stood. Your heart hammered against your ribs with each step, and you briefly considered turning back. But Jean's words echoed in your mind—you would never stop wondering if you didn't at least try.

Connie noticed you first, his animated conversation with Reiner faltering as you approached. Reiner turned, and for a moment, you were transported back to those days in the mess hall—him turning to call your name, saving you a seat beside him.

But his eyes weren't the same. They carried a weight now, dark shadows beneath them speaking of sleepless nights and unshakable guilt.

"Um, I'll just..." Connie mumbled, already backing away, but you barely registered his departure.

You stopped a few feet from Reiner, suddenly unsure what to say. All the anger, all the hurt, all the things you'd rehearsed in your head over the years—none of it seemed right now that he was standing in front of you.

"Can we talk?" The words came out steadier than you felt.

Reiner looked surprised, as if that was the last thing he expected to hear from you. He nodded once, hesitantly. "Yeah. Of course."

You nodded, and without another word, turned to lead the way to the stairs. You could feel his presence behind you as you descended into the dimly lit interior of the ship, the wooden steps creaking beneath your weight. The air was cooler here, tinged with the scent of salt and damp wood.

The sleeping cabins were arranged in a narrow corridor, small compartments with barely enough room for the bunks they contained. Most were empty now, with everyone gathered on the upper deck to watch the endless expanse of ocean passing by. You chose one at random, pushing open the door and stepping inside.

The room was tight, with just enough space for two narrow bunks built into the walls and a small porthole that cast a circle of fading evening light across the wooden floor. You sat on one of the bunks, the thin mattress sinking beneath your weight. Reiner hesitated at the doorway for a moment before entering and sitting on the opposite bunk, the space between you barely more than an arm's length but feeling like an unbridgeable chasm.

Reiner's shoulders hunched slightly, his large frame somehow seeming smaller in the confined space. His eyes darted around the cabin before finally settling on his hands, which were clasped tightly in his lap.

You found yourself remembering another small space you'd shared once, years ago during a thunderstorm. The supply shed had been the closest shelter when the rain had caught you both during evening training. You'd sat side by side on crates of gear, listening to the rain hammer against the roof, shoulders touching as Reiner told stories about his hometown to distract you from the thunder. And you remembered how you felt when he held your hand, the way his touch was so gentle, his fingers lacing with yours. Back then, his voice had been warm, his smile easy, his eyes bright with something that made your heart race.

Now, he sat across from you, silent and tense, his gaze fixed on the floor between your feet. The only sound was the creaking of the ship around you and the distant, muffled voices from above.

The silence between you stretched until it became unbearable. Your fingers dug into the thin mattress beneath you, knuckles turning white with the pressure.

"My family is dead because of you," you finally said, your voice quiet but sharp enough to cut through the heavy air. The words hung there, raw and unavoidable. "Every time I look at you, I see that day. The Armored Titan breaking through the gate. The boulder that crushed our home."

Reiner didn't flinch, didn't look away. He just nodded slowly, his eyes hollow. "I know."

"You know?" A bitter laugh escaped your lips. "That's all you have to say? You know?"

"What do you want me to say?" His voice was flat, resigned. The voice of a man who had already condemned himself a thousand times over.

"I want you to say something—anything—other than 'I know,'" you snapped, the anger you'd been holding back finally beginning to surface. "I want you to explain how you could sit with me that day by the training grounds, offering me bread while I cried about my family, knowing it was you who killed them."

Reiner's gaze dropped to the floor again. "I don't have an explanation that would make any sense to you."

"Try me," you challenged, leaning forward. "I've had four years to think about this, Reiner. Four years to try to understand."

He looked up then, and the defeated emptiness in his eyes almost made you recoil. This wasn't the Reiner you remembered—the strong, confident soldier who always seemed to know what to say, what to do. This was a shell of that man, worn down by guilt and grief.

"I compartmentalized," he said after a long moment. "The Warrior and the Soldier. Sometimes, I... I forgot which one was real."

"And which one was it?" you asked. "Which version of you was real, Reiner?"

He shook his head slowly. "I don't know anymore. Maybe neither."

You stood up abruptly, unable to sit still with the storm of emotions churning inside you. The cabin was too small to pace properly, but you moved to the porthole, looking out at the darkening sky without really seeing it.

"Do you have any idea what your betrayal did to me?" Your voice was quieter now, but no less intense. "It wasn't just that you were the Armored Titan. It was that you were you. Someone I..." You swallowed hard, forcing the words out. "Someone I cared about. A lot."

You heard the bunk creak as Reiner shifted his weight but didn't turn to look at him.

"I nearly quit the Scouts after you left," you continued, watching your breath fog the glass of the porthole. "I couldn't understand how I could have been so wrong about someone. How I could have trusted you so completely."

Your fingertips pressed against the cool glass as memories flooded back—training together in the rain, his hands adjusting your grip on the ODM gear controls, his laughter at your terrible jokes, the way his eyes would find yours across the mess hall.

"And it wasn't just you," you said, your voice growing thick with unshed tears. "I haven't been able to truly trust anyone since. Not completely. There's always this voice in the back of my mind asking if they're hiding something too. If they'll betray me just like you did."

"I'm sorry," Reiner said, his voice barely audible.

You whirled around to face him, anger flaring hot and bright. "Sorry doesn't bring my family back! Sorry doesn't erase the fact that you lied to me for years! Sorry doesn't change the fact that every memory I have of us is tainted now because I don't even know if any of it was real!"

"It was real," Reiner said, standing up now, something finally sparking in his eyes. "That's what you don't understand. It was all real for me too."

"How could it be real when it was all built on a lie?" Your voice rose, echoing in the small space.

"Because I didn't know how to separate the lie from the truth anymore!" He took a step toward you, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. "Do you think this has been easy for me? Do you think I just walked away and forgot about all of you—forgot about you?"

You stared at him, momentarily stunned by the sudden emotion in his voice.

"I've thought about you every single day since then," he continued, his voice breaking. "I see your face in my dreams. I hear your voice when it's quiet. You've been haunting me for four years, and I deserve it."

The raw pain in his voice knocked the breath from your lungs. Tears spilled down your cheeks as you stared at him, really seeing him for perhaps the first time since you'd learned the truth—not as the Armored Titan, not as the Warrior, not even as the Soldier, but as Reiner. Just Reiner, broken and haunted and so very human.

"I know you hate me," he said, quieter now, his own eyes shining with unshed tears. "You should hate me. If I could go back and change what I did..."

"But you can't," you whispered.

"No," he agreed. "I can't."

The admission hung between you, simple and devastating in its truth. You couldn't change the past. Your family was still gone. The walls were still broken. And Reiner—your Reiner—had still been the one to do it.

But the man standing before you now, shoulders slumped under the weight of his actions, eyes filled with a pain that mirrored your own—he wasn't the Armored Titan anymore. He was just as broken as you were.

Then suddenly you moved, your arms wrapping around his waist, your face pressed against his chest as sobs wracked your body. You could feel his heartbeat, strong and steady against your cheek, so at odds with the broken man it belonged to.

For a terrible second, he remained frozen, and you thought you'd made a mistake. Then his arms came around you, tight and desperate, one hand cradling the back of your head as he buried his face in your hair. His body trembled against yours, and you realized he was crying too—silent, shuddering sobs that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside him.

The stubborn shame that had kept you both at arm's length dissolved in the salt of your mingled tears. There, in the dim light of the cabin, with the gentle rocking of the ship beneath you and the uncertain future ahead, you held each other like the last two survivors of a shipwreck—broken, exhausted, but somehow still alive.

You weren't sure how long you stayed like that, holding each other in the dim light of the cabin, your tears gradually subsiding into uneven breaths. His arms around you felt both familiar and foreign—the shape of him changed, but the way he held you still the same.

When you finally pulled back, just enough to look up at him, your faces were inches apart. Your hands had somehow moved to his shoulders, feeling the unfamiliar angles where muscle had once been. His eyes, red-rimmed from crying, searched yours with a question he didn't dare voice.

"I still hate what you did," you whispered, your voice hoarse. "I don't know if I can ever forgive that."

Reiner nodded slightly, accepting your words without defense. One of his hands had found its way to your face, his thumb gently brushing away a tear from your cheek.

"But I don't know how to hate you," you admitted, the confession tearing itself from somewhere deep inside you. "I've tried for four years, and I just... can't."

Something flickered in his eyes—a spark of something you hadn't seen since before everything fell apart. Hope, maybe. Or longing.

You weren't sure who closed the distance. Maybe both of you, drawn together like the inevitable pull of gravity. His lips found yours in a kiss that was hesitant at first, as if he expected you to push him away. When you didn't—when instead you pressed closer, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt—the hesitation gave way to a desperate need that matched your own.

Reiner's arms tightened around you, backing you against the wall beside the porthole. The cool glass pressed against your shoulder, a stark contrast to the heat of his body against yours. His kiss deepened, years of unspoken feelings pouring into it as his tongue met yours.

You gasped against his mouth, your hands sliding up to tangle in his hair, longer now than you remembered. The scrape of his beard against your skin was new, and your heart skipped a beat at the way his breath hitched when you tugged gently at his hair.

When you pulled away again, breathless, his eyes were dark with a mixture of desire and pain. "I shouldn't be doing this," he whispered, even as his thumb traced circles on your hip. "After everything I've done..."

"Shut up," you murmured, pulling him back to you. "Just shut up, Reiner."

He made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob against your lips. "Still stubborn," he breathed.

Your hands tangled in his hair, eyes squeezed shut as you took in the feel of him. You were desperate, you knew. You felt pathetic, but you wanted him. Needed to be close to him.

"It's embarrassing how long I've wanted to do this," you murmured against his lips, your voice barely audible over the sound of your racing hearts.

His forehead pressed against yours, his eyes closed as he took an unsteady breath. "When we were back in training, that day in Stohess..." His voice was rough, trailing off as your lips found the curve of his jaw.

"Why didn't you kiss me then?" you asked, the question muffled against his skin.

Reiner's laugh was soft and broken. "I wanted to. Every second we were together." His hands slid down to your waist, anchoring you against him as if afraid you might disappear. "I told myself it was because of the mission. That I couldn't get distracted."

You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, your hand coming up to touch his face, feeling the unfamiliar texture of his beard beneath your fingertips. "And the real reason?"

He swallowed hard, his gaze dropping for a moment before meeting yours again. "I was afraid that if I started, I wouldn't be able to stop. That I'd tell you everything." The admission seemed to cost him, his voice barely above a whisper. "And then you'd hate me."

"I did hate you," you said quietly. "When I found out."

His eyes clouded with pain, but he nodded. "I know."

You leaned in, brushing your lips against his again, more gently this time. "But I hated myself more for still wanting this. For still wanting you."

Reiner's response was to kiss you again, deeper this time, his body pressing yours more firmly against the wall. One hand tangled in your hair while the other gripped your hip, his touch both gentle and desperate. You could taste the salt of tears—whose, you weren't sure anymore—and something else, something uniquely him that you had tried so hard to forget.

The ship rocked with a stronger wave, causing you both to sway. Reiner's arm tightened around your waist, steadying you, and for a brief moment, you were back in the training grounds, his arms around you as he corrected your stance, his breath warm against your ear.

"I missed you," he breathed against your mouth, the words so quiet they might have been imagined. "Every day."

You didn't answer with words. You couldn't. The anger was still there, simmering beneath the surface, alongside grief and betrayal and a hundred other emotions you couldn't name. But for now, in the dim light of the cabin with the sea stretching endlessly around you, you let yourself remember what it felt like to be in his arms.

Your lips found his again, harder this time, your teeth catching his lower lip in a way that made him groan. His hands tightened on you in response, lifting you slightly as he pressed you more firmly against the wall. The kiss deepened, grew more urgent, years of longing and hurt and need pouring into it.

The world outside—Eren, the Rumbling, the fate that awaited all of you—seemed distant and unreal compared to the solid warmth of Reiner against you, the familiar-yet-different taste of his mouth, the sound of his ragged breathing mingling with your own.

This wasn't forgiveness. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But as his lips moved from your mouth to your jaw, tracing a path that made your breath catch, you realized it might be something like a beginning. A chance to finally confront all the things left unsaid between you, all the hurt and the betrayal, but also all the moments that had been real.

Reiner’s hands slid down your sides, fingers digging into your hips as he kissed you with a desperation that made your knees weak. The rough scrape of his beard against your skin sent shivers down your spine, and when his teeth grazed your bottom lip, you gasped—only for him to swallow the sound with another searing kiss.

This isn't at all how you expected your "talk" to go. Years of rehearsing different scripts in your head about how you'd tell him you hate him when you saw him, how you'd show him how it felt to feel betrayed and alone... All of those came crumbling down when he touched you like this, so gently but also so needy.

Not that the idea in general hadn't crossed your mind an embarrassing and pathetic amount of times. That, you couldn't deny. Since your cadet days you'd wondered what it would feel like with him, hoping he'd make a move. But he never did. Your heart skipped a beat when you felt the sadness well up inside you again, but that feeling quickly went away when he tilted his head to better kiss you.

His body pressed you harder against the wall, the heat of him searing through your clothes. You could feel the evidence of his arousal against your thigh, and the knowledge of how badly he wanted you—after all this time—sent a thrill through you.

Then, without warning, he broke the kiss, his breath ragged. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, lips swollen from yours.

"Tell me to stop," he murmured, voice rough.

You didn’t.

A low sound escaped him, something between a groan and a growl, before his hands tightened on your waist—and then he was lifting you, turning, and depositing you onto the narrow bunk behind you in one swift motion. The thin mattress barely cushioned the impact, but you barely had time to register it before Reiner was on his knees between your legs, his hands sliding up your thighs with a reverence that made your breath hitch.

His gaze flicked up to yours, searching, hesitant—like he still couldn’t believe you were letting him touch you.

"Please," he breathed, fingers curling into the fabric of your pants. "Let me taste you."

The raw need in his voice sent a jolt straight to your core. He was begging. Reiner—the man who had once been so confident, so sure of himself—was now on his knees for you, looking up at you like you were the only thing that could save him.

You swallowed hard, your pulse hammering in your throat. You also didn't expect it to go like this. The Reiner that you knew back then presented himself to be some kind of big leader, something you admired because of how he never seemed to let it go to his head. He was one of the strongest, but he was humble.

So seeing him like this, desperate between your legs, felt almost like culture shock.

But even so, being with him, feeling him, talking to him all felt so good. So good you could cry. "Okay," you breathed, nodding.

His fingers trembled slightly as he undid the fastenings of your pants, tugging them down your legs along with your underwear. Your cunt was already pathetically wet just from making out, and suddenly you just wanted to close your legs so he wouldn't see how much he affected you. Stubborn pride still warred inside you even now. The cool air of the cabin ghosted over your exposed skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of Reiner’s breath as he leaned in, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered, making your heart swell.

Reiner’s hands spread your thighs wider, his thumbs brushing over the damp curls between them. His breath stuttered when he saw how wet you were, his fingers tracing your folds with agonizing slowness.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice wrecked.

He kissed at your inner thighs some more, almost like he just couldn't get enough of the simple action. He'd lick at them, suck them, anything. Reiner was willing to drag this out, it seemed.

"Has anyone ever done this for you before?" Reiner asked, his tone carrying a mix of emotions, staring up at you with his pretty hazel eyes as he kissed at the soft skin of your thighs. Deep down, he selfishly hoped no one else had gotten to see you like this—feel you like this.

Your breath hitched at the sight, unable to pull your gaze away and similarly unable to stop your arousal and need as you felt yourself wet the sheets beneath you even further. "I don't see how that's any of your business," you replied stubbornly, wanting to keep the small amount of control you still held.

That gave Reiner all the answer he needed. "Hm," he responded, careful not to anger you, careful not to upset you. but also understanding and seeing just how much you wanted this—wanted him. And equally he was exceptionally aware of the way his cock twitched in his pants, desperate to make you feel good, desperate to feel your thighs around his head and your fingers against his scalp, desperate to hear you in these moments he's imagined you in so many times.

Reiner didn’t wait for another teasing remark from you—his mouth was on you in an instant, his tongue dragging a slow, filthy stripe up your soaked cunt, groaning against you like he’d been starving for this. The sound alone made your back arch off the bunk, a sharp gasp tearing from your lips as his hands clamped down on your thighs, holding you open for him.

He was messy—no finesse, no practiced rhythm, just pure, desperate hunger. His tongue lapped at you like he was trying to memorize your taste, his nose pressing against your clit as he buried his face between your legs. Every flick of his tongue was sloppy, wet, loud, the obscene sounds of his mouth working you filling the tiny cabin. You could feel his stubble scraping against your sensitive skin, the rough drag only making the pleasure sharper, more overwhelming.

“Fuck—Reiner—” Your fingers tangled in his blonde hair, gripping hard as his tongue circled your clit before sucking it between his lips. His groan vibrated through you, his hands sliding under your ass to tilt your hips up, giving him better access as he devoured you.

He was relentless, like he’d been waiting years for this—because he had. Every muffled sound he made against your cunt, every time his tongue plunged inside you only to drag back up, every time his lips sealed around your clit to suck—it was all too much, and yet you never wanted it to stop.

His enthusiasm was almost embarrassing, the way he moaned into you like he was the one being pleasured, his hips moving against his hand as he rubbed his cock through his pants. You could feel the wetness of your own arousal smeared across his chin, and the sight alone had your thighs trembling around his head.

Drool mixed with your arousal, dripping down his chin as he ate you out like a man possessed. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading you wider, keeping you open for him as his tongue plunged inside you, fucking into you with rough, eager strokes before retreating to suck your clit again.

"Taste so good," he panted against you, his voice wrecked. "Fuck, fuck, I knew you would—"

His words cut off into a groan as he redoubled his efforts, his tongue flicking rapidly over your clit before he sealed his lips around it again, sucking hard. The wet, filthy sounds of his mouth on you filled the cabin, obscene and perfect, and you could feel the way his hips rocked slightly against the bunk, rutting into nothing as he got off on just tasting you.

"Been thinking about this—" he rasped, pulling back just enough to speak before diving back in, his tongue circling your clit in tight, relentless circles. "—every night—"

His fingers dug into your thighs, leaving marks as he held you down, refusing to let you squirm away from the overwhelming pleasure.

"Close," you choked out, your hips jerking against his mouth. "I’m so close—"

Reiner growled, the sound vibrating through you as he sucked your clit into his mouth one last time, his tongue flicking over it rapidly—

And then you were coming, your back bowing off the bunk as pleasure crashed through you in waves. He didn’t let up, licking you through it, swallowing every drop of you as you shuddered and gasped above him.

When you finally went limp, panting, he pulled back just enough to look up at you.

His chest heaved, his eyes dark with need. But above that, it was like he needed some confirmation he did good.

"Fuck," he breathed. "Are you okay?"

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him up your body until his weight settled over you, pressing you deeper into the thin mattress. His skin was fever-hot, his muscles taut with restraint, but his eyes—those damn hazel eyes—were soft, almost reverent, as he looked down at you.

You didn't answer, not verbally at least.

Your hand slid into his hair, gripping tight as you dragged his mouth to yours, kissing him deeply, tasting yourself on his tongue. A rough groan tore from his throat, his hips jerking forward instinctively, the hard length of his cock grinding against your still-sensitive clit through his pants.

His groan was muffled against your mouth as you licked into him, your fingers tightening in his hair. You could feel the way his body shuddered when you nipped at his bottom lip, the way his hips jerked forward instinctively, grinding his cock—so fucking hard against your thigh.

“God, you’re—” His voice broke as you kissed him again, rougher this time, your teeth dragging over his lip. His hands gripped your waist, fingers digging in like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go. “Fuck, I need—please—”

"Reiner," you breathed, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "Please fuck me."

You could feel it—the way his entire body trembled with the effort of holding back, the way his breath came in ragged bursts against your mouth. His hands fumbled with his belt, his fingers shaking as he undid the buckle, his cock springing free, thick and flushed and aching for you.

Reiner didn’t waste another second.

He hooked his hands under your knees, spreading you wider, his gaze locked on where your slick glistened between your thighs. His breath hitched, his cock twitching against your stomach as he lined himself up, the blunt head pressing against your entrance.

“Look at me,” he demanded, his voice rough.

You did.

His eyes burned into yours as he pushed inside, slow, so agonizingly slow, his jaw clenched tight as he fought to keep control. The stretch was delicious, the way your walls fluttered around him making his hips stutter.

“Fuck,” he gritted out, his fingers digging into your thighs. “You feel—Christ—you feel even better than I imagined.”

And then he was seated fully inside you, his hips flush against yours, his cock buried to the hilt. For a moment, neither of you moved—just breathed, just felt, the weight of years of longing crashing over you both.

Then—because he needed to see it, needed to know this was real—he leaned back on his heels, pulling out almost all the way just to watch the way your cunt clung to him, glistening and desperate, before slamming back in. His cock disappeared inside you, your wetness coating his dick as your body stretched to take him.

The sound you made was sinful.

Reiner’s hips snapped forward again, harder this time, his cock dragging against your walls in a way that made your toes curl. His grip shifted from your wrist to your hip, holding you in place as he fucked into you with slow, deep strokes—like he was savoring every second, like he wanted to memorize the way your body took him.

His dick glistened with your arousal, disappearing inside you with each thrust, your cunt gripping him like it was made for him. He couldn’t look away—couldn’t stop the way his breath hitched as he watched himself fuck into you, over and over, your body taking him so perfectly.

Reiner’s rhythm was relentless, each deep stroke dragging a gasp from your lips. His broad palm slid down your stomach, fingers gliding through your slick until his thumb found your clit, rubbing tight, rough circles that made your toes curl.

"There you go," he murmured, voice thick with praise as he watched your face twist in pleasure. "So fucking pretty when you take me like this. Can’t believe you’re real—can’t believe I get to have you."

You whimpered, your hips lifting to meet his thrusts, desperate for more, for everything. Reiner moaned at the way your body clenched around him, his thumb pressing harder against your clit.

"Love the way you take me," he panted, his thumb pressing harder against your clit. "Like you were made for me, huh? Made to take my cock just like this—shit—"

Then, without warning, he leaned forward, his chest pressing flush against yours, his weight pinning you completely beneath him. The new angle made him sink deeper, his cock hitting a spot inside you that had your vision whiting out for a second.

"There," he rasped, his breath hot against your ear. "That’s it, sweetheart. Let me have you just like this—fuck—"

His thrusts turned slower but impossibly harder, each one dragging a broken moan from your lips. His fingers tangled in your hair, tilting your head back so he could kiss you again, swallowing your gasps like he needed them to survive.

He braced himself above you, muscles taut, sweat glistening on his skin as he watched your face—every flutter of your lashes, every bitten-off moan—like he was memorizing you all over again.

His hips rolled into yours with a deep, almost reverent grind, pressing so deep you could feel him in your ribs. Your breath hitched as he lingered there, his tip nudging that perfect, aching spot inside you before pulling back with a slow, torturous drag that made your toes curl.

"Feel how deep I am?" he breathed, his fingers tightening on your hip as he rocked into you again, slow and unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world. "Fuck, you’re perfect."

His voice was wrecked, his body trembling with the effort of holding back. But he didn’t rush—just kept moving inside you with that same maddening pace, every thrust a sweet torment.

"Could stay like this forever," he admitted, his lips brushing your jaw. "Just like this—buried inside you, feeling you clench around me like you never wanna let me go."

"Reiner," you whined.

"I've got you," he responded, hips never stopping.

And when your back arched, your body tightening around him, he didn’t speed up—just kept fucking you through it, his lips pressed to your neck, whispering praise as pleasure washed over you in waves.

Reiner’s thrusts grew more erratic, his control slipping as your walls fluttered around him, pulling him deeper with each desperate clench. His breath came in ragged gasps, his forehead pressed against yours as he fought to hold on just a little longer.

“I—fuck—I’m close,” he groaned, his voice rough with need. His fingers dug into your hips, his rhythm faltering as pleasure coiled tight in his gut.

You arched beneath him, nails scraping down his back as you panted, “Inside… please, Reiner—I want you to cum inside me.”

His entire body tensed at your words, a shudder running through him. He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his own dark with lust and something dangerously close to worship.

“Are you—fuck—are you sure?” he rasped, hips stuttering as he struggled to keep his pace steady.

You nodded, biting your lip as you clenched around him deliberately, drawing a broken groan from his lips.

“Yes,” you breathed. “Want to feel you—all of you.”

That was all it took.

Reiner’s restraint shattered.

"Fuck—gonna fill you up so good," he panted, his forehead dropping against yours. "Gonna make sure you feel it—"

You clenched around him, your own climax building again, and he cursed, his rhythm faltering.

"Come with me," he demanded, his voice wrecked. "Wanna feel you cum on my cock while I’m deep inside you—fuck—please—"

His words tipped you over the edge. Pleasure crashed through you, your body tightening around him in waves, and Reiner lost it.

With a growl that was almost feral, he slammed into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt as his cock pulsed inside you, hot and thick. His body shuddered violently, his fingers gripping you like a lifeline as he spilled deep, his release filling you in waves.

You could feel him pulsing inside you, his cock twitching as he rode out his orgasm, his forehead pressed to yours. When he finally stilled, he didn’t pull away—just stayed there, his body heavy and warm against yours, his breath slowly steadying.

After a long moment, he lifted his head, his gaze soft as he brushed a sweaty strand of hair from your face.

"Okay?" he murmured, his thumb tracing your cheekbone.

You nodded, your fingers lazily tracing the muscles of his back.

Reiner exhaled, something like relief—or maybe wonder—flickering in his eyes before he leaned down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your lips.

"Good," he murmured against your mouth.

You lay in comfortable silence for what felt like hours but was likely only minutes, Reiner's weight pressing you into the thin mattress, his breath warm against your neck. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your skin, as though memorizing the feel of you. Neither of you wanted to break the spell, to acknowledge the world waiting outside this small cabin.

"I love you," you whispered finally, the words escaping before you could think better of them. They hung in the air between you, raw and honest.

Reiner stilled, his breath catching. Slowly, he raised himself up on his elbows to look at you, his hazel eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your heart skip. For a terrible moment, you thought you'd said too much, revealed too much of yourself to someone who had once betrayed you.

But then his expression softened, a genuine smile—one you hadn't seen in years—spreading across his face. "I love you too," he said, his voice steady and sure. "I always have."

He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours. "I know it doesn't change anything," he murmured. "I know it doesn't make up for what I did. But it's true."

His eyes grew serious again. "Whatever happens with Eren, with the Rumbling… I'm going to protect you. I promise."

Before you could respond, a sharp knock at the door made you both jump.

"Hey, you two done?" Connie's voice called through the thin wood. "There's food up on the deck if you're interested. Kinda limited, but better than nothing."

You and Reiner exchanged wide-eyed looks before scrambling to get dressed, movements frantic and clumsy in the small space. Your fingers fumbled with buttons and clasps as you tried to make yourselves presentable.

"Uh, yeah," Reiner called back, his voice remarkably steady considering his panicked expression. "We'll be right there."

You could hear the smirk in Connie's voice as he replied, "Take your time. Not like we can hear everything through these paper-thin walls or anything."

Your face burned as you hurriedly tucked in your shirt. Reiner looked equally mortified, though a small, almost boyish grin played at the corners of his mouth when your eyes met.

"Ready?" he asked softly, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

You nodded, taking a deep breath before opening the door. Connie was waiting in the narrow corridor, a knowing grin splitting his face. Without a word, he turned and headed up the stairs, gesturing for you both to follow.

Reiner went first, and you couldn't help but notice the way Connie immediately engaged him in animated conversation as they climbed, acting as though nothing unusual had happened at all. Their voices faded slightly as they reached the deck above.

Jean appeared at your side as you finished climbing the stairs.

"So," he said, raising an eyebrow. "I take it the talk went well?"

You felt heat rise to your cheeks. "Yeah, really well," you replied, hoping that Connie was just teasing and no one else heard a thing.

"I just mean," he continued, a stupid and annoying grin on your face, "when I suggested you two clear the air, I didn't necessarily mean you should bring down the whole ship with your—"

Your face burned with embarrassment and fury. "I will literally throw you overboard, Jean," you hissed, shoving his shoulder hard enough to make him stumble back. "I swear to God—"

A beat of silence. Then the smallest upward twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“Took your ribs long enough to heal,” he mutters. One calloused hand finds your hip, thumb pressing just hard enough to guide you backward until your spine meets the door you just closed. He doesn’t crowd you yet, just holds you there with that single point of contact. “Was starting to think you’d forgotten.”

“I didn’t forget,” you say, and it comes out breathier than intended. “I’ve been thinking about it. A lot.”

His thumb strokes once. “Mhm.”

And then he drops to one knee.

His hands are sliding up the outside of your thighs, getting rid of your straps and pants. Cool air hits the damp cotton between your legs and you suck in a sharp breath.

Levi pauses, nose brushing the front of your underwear. He inhales like he’s savoring wine.

“Already soaked through,” he observes, almost clinically. But the rasp in his voice betrays him. “Been wet since you walked in here?”

You swallow. “Since… probably since I decided to come here.”

“Hm.”

That’s all the warning you get.

He hooks two fingers in the waistband and drags the fabric down your thighs in one smooth pull, letting it pool at your ankles. Then his hands are on the backs of your knees, bending them gently, spreading you open while he settles between your legs like he’s done it a thousand times. Your back scrapes the wood of the door when he hooks one of your thighs over his shoulder.

The first pass of his tongue is so soft it’s almost polite.

The second is not.

He licks a broad, firm stripe from your entrance to your clit and then seals his mouth over the swollen bud, sucking lightly. Your hips jerk forward on instinct. He makes a low sound of approval against you, the vibration ripping a helpless little noise out of your throat.

And then he gets to work.

Levi eats you out like it’s a mission objective: precise, relentless, devastating. Flat tongue lapping broad strokes, then pointed flicks directly on your clit, then slow, sucking pulses that make your knees threaten to give out. When your fingers tangle in his hair he just grunts and presses closer, nose pressed to your mound, tongue spearing inside you only to drag back out and circle your clit again.

Minutes blur.

Your thighs start trembling. You’re pretty sure you’re babbling: half-formed praise, nonsense syllables, his name over and over like a broken record. He doesn’t let up. If anything he gets meaner about it: two fingers sliding in, curling, stroking that spot while his tongue works ruthless little circles on your clit. You come the first time so hard your vision whites out, he doesn’t stop. Just growls against your cunt and keeps going, licking you through the aftershocks until you’re squirming, oversensitive and giggling deliriously.

“Levi, fuck wait! Too much haahh—”

He pulls back just enough to speak, lips shiny, voice wrecked. “You begged for this.”

“I knooow!” Another helpless giggle spills out as he drags the flat of his tongue over your clit again, slow and cruel. “But hah brain’s melting. ”

“Means I’m doing it right.” He sucks hard. Your back arches off the door.

He makes you come a second time like that: still standing, thigh shaking on his shoulder, fingers yanking at his undercut while you giggle and gasp and beg incoherently. Then a third, this time with three fingers stretching you open and his tongue lashing your clit so fast you can barely breathe.

By the fourth you’re sliding down the door, legs jelly. He catches you easily, hauls you against his chest and carries you the few steps to his cot like you weigh nothing. Drops you on the thin mattress, spreads your thighs wide again, and dives back in.

"Wait wait wait," you say, grabbing his hair and pulling him back. "Again?"

Levi licks his lips, giving you the most lustful expression he has ever put on his face. His eyes are shining, he's rock hard trying to not hump the bed and his lips and chin are glistening because of you.

"Yes," he says, giving you a wet kiss on your thigh, then another right on your bush. "Taste so fucking good."

That sends a full shiver along your body. You run your hands through his hair again, pushing him into your pussy. He goes slower this time, teasing your clit and just licking your hole without actually pushing his tongue inside.

He looks up at you, enjoying the desperate faces you made, as well as the dumb whines you let out.

"L-Levi, c'mon," you manage to say in a breath.

"Mhm?" He lifts his head fully from your cunt, leaving you clenching around nothing. "Yes, darling?"

The fucking petname makes you roll your eyes and sigh, you've known him for a long time to know when he's fucking with you.

"Make me cum," you tell him, brushing a strand of his hair. "Please."

He blinks slowly, almost forming a smirk.

"Again?" And now he's mocking you, his cheek pressed to your inner thigh, his hand going up and down your puffy lips, touching everywhere except where you need him.

You narrow your eyes at him, chest still heaving, thighs trembling on either side of his smug face.

“Leviiii.”

He hums like he’s got all night. The pad of his middle finger traces the slick outer edge of your folds then dips just barely inside your entrance before retreating again.

You let out a frustrated little huff that turns into a whine when he deliberately blows a cool stream of air across your swollen clit. Your hips twitch upward, chasing contact he refuses to give.

“Use your words,” he murmurs against your thigh. His lips brush your skin as he speaks, you can feel the shape of every syllable. “Thought you wanted me to make you come. Or was that someone else moaning my name five minutes ago?”

You grit your teeth. He’s enjoying this way too much; the power trip, the way you’re falling apart under the lightest touch, the way you can’t quite hide how badly you need him to stop playing and just do it.

“Stop being a tease,” you snap, voice cracking on the last word because he chooses that exact second to drag the very tip of his tongue in the slowest, feather-light circle around your clit without ever making real contact.

He pulls back again, just far enough that you feel the loss of his breath like a physical thing.

“Tease?” He tilts his head. “I’m just making sure you’re ready. Wouldn’t want to overwhelm you.” His fingers part your lips again, spreading you open so he can watch the way your entrance flutters uselessly. “Look at that. So needy it’s practically begging.”

“Levi.” Your voice is dangerously close to a growl.

“Yes, sweetheart?” The pet name drips like honey and venom at the same time. He presses the flat of his tongue right against your clit letting you feel the heat and the texture and nothing else. Then he pulls away again. “You were saying?”

That’s it.

You’re done.

Both hands fist in his hair as hard as you can and you yank him forward with zero gentleness, shoving his face straight into your cunt.

“Shut. Up,” you hiss, grinding against his mouth before he can even react. “And eat me like you fucking mean it.”

For half a second he freezes, surprised, maybe even impressed.

Then he laughs against you, the sound muffled and dark and vibrating straight through your core.

He grabs the undersides of your thighs, hooks both legs over his shoulders in one brutal motion and devours you.

Just hungry, filthy, open-mouthed sucking, tongue plunging inside you, curling, fucking in and out before dragging up to lash your clit in tight, relentless circles. His nose grinds against your mound with every pass and his fingers dig into the meat of your thighs hard enough to bruise. He groans like he’s starving and you’re the first real meal he’s had in years.

You arch so violently your spine leaves the mattress.

“Fuck fuck fuck yesss. There, right haah there”

He doesn’t answer. Can’t. Too busy drinking you down, lips sealed around your clit, sucking hard while two fingers slam back inside and crook against that spot that makes your vision spark white.

You come so fast it almost hurts. Shattering, screaming his name, thighs clamping around his head like you’re trying to suffocate him. He doesn’t stop. Just keeps licking, slower now, drawing it out until you’re shaking and whimpering and trying to push him away because it’s too much, too sensitive, too good.

He finally pulls back when you’re practically sobbing with overstimulation, lips and chin absolutely drenched, eyes blown black with lust. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand then crawls up your body until his weight pins you to the cot.

You’re still panting, dazed, when he leans down and kisses you deep, letting you taste yourself all over his tongue.

When he breaks away, his voice is wrecked.

“Next time you want my mouth,” he mutters against your lips, “just say so. Don’t make me work for it.”

You manage a breathless laugh, fingers still tangled in his hair.

“Next time,” you rasp, “I’m sitting on your face until you beg me to stop.”

His eyes flash. “Promises, promises.”

It was more of a slip of a tongue than anything. 

It’s late in the night. The corridors have gone quiet. Everyone has finally surrendered to their sleep. Lanterns have either been snuffed or are running down to the end of the candle wicks. Branches of the trees drag across the glass, and somewhere beyond the courtyard, a horse whinnies, restless in the same way everyone seems restless these days, even where there’s nothing immediate to fear.

But you know as well as anyone, that there is always something to fear.

That’s the thing about the Scouts. You don’t carry fear with you. It follows you. It lives in your bones, beneath your fingernails, in your tight shoulders after a mission briefing, in silence that follows when someone says a name and no one answers because that person is already gone.

Maybe that’s why you’re so attracted to Levi. Because he never seems afraid. Not openly, anyway.

He sits at his desk with his sleeves rolled to his forearms, a stack of reports arranged neatly in front of him. His teacup is placed at the exact corner of the desk, where even one small shake of the desk could knock it over. His cravat is loosened slightly, but it’s not enough to make him look relaxed, because you believe Levi would rather be dragged through the streets tied by the hands than look relaxed where anyone can see him. But it’s enough that the sight catches you off guard every time you glance up from your own work.

You’re supposed to be copying casualty numbers into a ledger. You’re, instead, watching the flex of his fingers as he writes. It’s almost humiliating how attracted you are to them. It’s even worse because you realize that it’s humiliating, and yet you keep on doing it. You really should stop staring.

“You’re staring,” Levi says without looking up.

Your quill nearly slips from your fingers. Caught. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m thinking.”

“That must be new for you.”

Maybe you should be offended. Maybe you already are. Perhaps a part of you lifts its head, bares its teeth, and considers he’s awful and it’s about time you stop treating him like he’s royalty when all he’s done is insult your intelligence and correct your handwriting twice. But you simply smile over your ledger, because there’s obviously something wrong with you.

“I was thinking,” you say, dipping your quill again, “that you look nice like this.”

Levi’s hand stops. It’s tiny. So small. A momentary pause in gesture, a flicker of silence between one word and the next, and yet you notice it, as you always do. You always see the things you wish you didn’t, because your affection for him has made you perceptive to the point of self-injury. 

Then he resumes writing. “Get your eyes checked.”

You laugh tiredly. “I mean it,” you say, because apparently your mouth has decided to ignore every remaining sensible instinct you possess. “You always look nice, but especially when you’re not threatening to make someone scrub the latrines with a toothbrush.”

“I can still threaten you, if that helps.”

“It might,” you say, and when he finally lifts his gaze to you, one brow faintly lifted, you press your lips together to keep yourself from smiling too much. “I think I might be falling in love with you, Captain.”

You definitely did not plan on saying that out loud. 

The words are like a lit match dropped onto paper. You expect something to happen, though you’re not sure exactly what; maybe for Levi to look startled, maybe for your own heartbeat to become so loud that he hears it and tells you to quiet down, but there’s only the sound of his quill stopping and his eyes fixing on you with a disbelief that’s usually reserved for soldiers who have done something phenomenally stupid with live blades. You’ve seen Connie almost cut open his own hand at least a dozen times now.

“No, you’re not,” he says. It’s so blunt that, for a second, you almost laugh again.

“I think I know what I’m feeling.”

“You clearly don’t.”

“That’s a little presumptuous.”

“You’re exhausted. You’ve been copying death tolls for two hours, and your standards are slipping.”

You should probably retreat now, but the bruise of it is too new to hurt yet, and maybe you’re still brave because you haven’t learned your lesson on how this man can cut you without drawing steel.

“My standards are excellent,” you say. “That’s why I picked you.”

Levi stares at you. You stare back, fully aware of the heat gathering beneath your skin. You notice how he hasn’t looked back down yet.His face shifts—not much, because Levi’s expressions never move far enough to be generous, but enough that something flickers behind his eyes. You can’t tell what it is. 

Then he presses his lips together and scoffs. “Finish the ledger. And don’t say stupid things just because it’s late.”

The match goes out. You look down. “Right,” you say, your smile feeling much more fragile than it was one minute ago. “Yes, sir.”

After that, you decide that confession didn’t count. It was late. You were tired. He was rude, but Levi is always rude, and somehow that makes the rejection easier to deal with.

Except it does count.

Because the next time you say it, you’re not tired enough to pretend you don’t mean it.

The next time you flirt with him is after training, when the sun is high and cruel and every inch of your uniform is clinging to your skin. The sound of the training grounds is always loud. Someone groans dramatically near the water barrels. Sasha is arguing that dinner time should be two hours earlier than it is, to which Jean tells her that she’s going to get kicked out of the Scouts with her behavior. Eren is insisting to Mikasa that he could take down one of the veterans in hand-to-hand combat, which is not true and everyone knows is not true.

You’re bent forward with your hands braced on your knees, sweat dripping from your chin into the dust, lungs burning, thighs trembling with the intensity of being thrown onto your back three times by a man who has the emotional warmth of a snail. Levi stands several feet away, not even breathing hard. You hate him a little for it. You love him more. 

“You’re leaving your right side open,” he says, acting like that’s the main problem and not the fact that he’s driven your spine to the ground so many times that the two of them might as well get married. 

You straighten your back, wincing when your shoulders throb in pain. “I noticed.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“I’m choosing to believe you’re only being this mean because you’re impressed.”

“I’m not.”

“Wounded,” you say, touching a hand to your chest. “And after I gave you such a good show.”

Levi’s eyes narrow as they fix on you. There’s dirt on your cheek, gritty beneath the sweat. Your hair is tousled, strands sticking to your face and neck. You know you probably look half-dead, which makes it even more ridiculous when you grin at him as though you’re the one with the upper hand.

“If I land a hit, you have to have tea with me,” you say, shifting your stance again, though your legs are already screaming in pain.

You feel the shift around you immediately, the tiny ripple of attention passing across the training grounds. People know by now. They know you admire him. They know you’re reckless enough to smile at him when most soldiers avert their eyes. They know Levi has never once softened for you in front of them. But they don’t know that you’ve already told him once. They don’t know that some small part of you is hoping the second time will land differently.

Levi looks at you for a long moment. “Good thing you won’t,” he finally says.

Then he attacks. It’s over quickly. You last longer than you did the first round, which you’ll cling to as a personal victory when your pride has stopped bleeding. But it’s not enough to make him sweat, and certainly not long enough to win yourself tea. He hooks your ankle and drops you onto the dirt with one hand gripping your sleeve and the other arm pressed against your throat.

He’s too close. Close enough that you can see the dark crescents beneath his eyes, the tiny nick near his jaw from shaving too quickly, the dust clinging to his hair. Close enough that his arm, still pressed against you, feels like the only solid point in the universe.

“You know,” you say breathlessly, “there are easier ways to get me on my back.”

Someone chokes in the distance. Jean, probably. Armin winces and covers his face. Levi’s expression doesn’t change, but his fingers clench your sleeve before he releases you and stands up.

“Get up,” he says.

You push yourself onto your elbows. “No tea, then?”

“No.”

“Dinner?”

“No.”

“A walk?”

“No.”

“An emotionally honest conversation?”

“Are you always this annoying?” 

You laugh then. If you don’t laugh, you think you might cry a little. To anyone else, it would sound like he despises you, but you know deep down, he appreciates your presence. At least, you think he does. You hope.

Levi steps back, eyes already moving toward the others. “Again,” he says.

Your smile falters. “Again?”

“You wanted to land a hit.”

“I also want to retain the use of my spine.”

“Then move correctly.”

You groan, but you get up anyway. When he turns away to retrieve the training blade he had discarded near the fence, you miss how his gaze drops briefly to the place where his fingers had been on your sleeve. He didn’t mean to do that.

Levi hates this. Not you. This. This thing you keep doing. This reckless habit of saying what you feel for him as though feelings are not the most complex thing known to man, wanting someone has never been a mistake, and affection is something you can simply place in another person’s hands and expect them not to drop it. He has no use for it. He has no patience for it.

And yet, when you stand again with dirt on your uniform and that stubborn light in your eyes, Levi’s first though is not that you’re irritating like he says you are.

It’s that you’re still alive and with him.

His second thought is that he wants you to stay that way.

His third thought is so dangerous that he buries it before it finishes forming.

.

People start to make jokes about you and Levi. The Scouts have a talent for taking anything sensitive and turning it into humor. It begins—as it always does—in the mess hall. It’s loud. The long tables are crowded with soldiers leaning shoulder to shoulder, passing bread, stealing scraps, arguing over insignificant things (mostly Eren and Jean), laughing too loudly at stories that are shared between moments in the training yard. 

You sit with your squad, eating your soup as you try not to stare at the officers’ table. You naturally fail. Levi sits apart even among the other officers, a cup of tea held lightly in one hand. Erwin is talking beside him, and Hange is gesturing enthusiastically enough—probably about their latest experiments—to nearly knock over their own bowl. Levi appears to be listening, though his eyes flick briefly toward the table with Connie and Sasha when both of them laugh too loud.

Then he looks at you.

“You’re doing it again,” Petra says beside you. 

You look down at your soup immediately. “I’m eating.”

“You’re daydreaming.”

“I’m not!”

“You absolutely are,” Oluo says, leaning back with misplaced confidence. “It’s pathetic, really.”

“You bite your tongue every other sentence trying to imitate him. Don’t start throwing stones,” Eld says. Oluo sputters. You smile, grateful for the distraction and defense, but your eyes betray you by drifting toward Levi again; and this time Gunther catches it too.

“You could always confess again,” he says. You had told the squad about your confession a week or so ago, and naturally, they found it the funniest thing in the world. And then they called you the stupidest person in the world. “Maybe persistence will wear him down.”

“It works on doors,” Eld says.

“Levi isn’t a door,” Petra says.

“He’s got the personality of one,” you say. That earns a few laughs. 

Across the room, Levi’s eyes lift again. You know immediately that he heard that last part. The man could probably hear dust drifting in the air. For a moment, you consider looking away. Instead, because your pride is a stubborn creature, you lift your cup and toast it in his direction. His eyes narrow, but you smile anyway. He looks back to Erwin.

That should have been the end of it, but it wasn’t. After dinner, when the mess hall begins to empty and soldiers drift toward their beds or their duties, you find yourself in the kitchen near the dedicated tea station—which you’re convinced was set up only for Levi—reaching for the kettle at the exact same time Levi does. Your fingers nearly brush, and it’s enough for your breath to hitch. Levi glances at your hand, then at you.

“Move,” he says.

“You could say please,” you mutter.

“I could also assign you stable duty.”

“You make romance very difficult, Captain.”

He frowns at the title, but you don’t really notice it too much since you’re trying to not pour hot water on yourself. You’re being ridiculous, you think. It’s only tea. He barely touched you. Levi is just standing this close—close enough that you can smell his soap—because he’s impatient and waiting for the kettle.

Behind you, someone snickers. You don’t turn, but Levi does. The snickering stops with impressive speed. “Problem?” he asks.

“No, sir,” several voices answer.

You press your lips together to stop yourself from laughing. Levi turns back to you. “You enjoy making yourself a spectacle?”

You don’t know why, but those words hit a tender spot in your nerves. Your smile falters. “I’m not trying to.”

“Aren’t you?”

That stings. Not badly, but enough for you to look down at the tea in your cup, watching the surface tremble with the tiny motion of your hand. “I just like you,” you say, quiet enough for only him to hear.

The silence that follows is almost deadly. Levi doesn’t move. You suddenly wish you’d said it louder, made it into a joke or dressed it up with such an unserious tone that he could brush it off as nothing. But it’s not nothing.

Levi’s face tenses. “Don’t,” he says.

One word. Not no. Not stop. Don’t. You’ve clearly reached for a wound without knowing it was there. Your throat tightens slightly. It’s stupid how much that single word hurts. The others have gone quiet behind you, though whether because they heard or because Levi’s silence has made things tense, you don’t know. You nod once.

“Sorry,” you say.

Levi’s jaw flexes. For the briefest moment, his eyes change, and a hint of regret moves through them, but then he reaches for his cup, turns away, and leaves you standing at the tea station with a teacup in your hand that suddenly feels too hot to hold.

You should probably stop. You tell yourself that while watching him disappear down the corridor. You tell yourself this while you stand there with the unbearable knowledge that you won’t.

.

Levi doesn’t sleep well that night, which isn’t unusual. Sleep has always been an issue for him. It’s something his body demands but his mind resents, a brief surrender that leaves too much room for memory to crawl in with its dirty hands. He’s accustomed to lying awake for hours. He’s accustomed to the silence of the night and his own thoughts circling until they get stripped down to their bones.

He’s not used to thinking about the way your voice sounded when you said, I just like you. Then he realizes that’s a lie. He is used to thinking about your voice. That’s the issue. 

Levi lies on his back in the dark, one arm folded behind his head. His eyes are fixed on the ceiling. He knows this has gone on long enough. You’re careless with your affection. You throw it around like it costs nothing. Like you have so much of it that losing some wouldn’t hurt you.

Then he remembers your hand trembling around your cup. He realizes, no, you’re not careless. That would be easier. Careless people don’t look away so quickly when they’re hurt. Careless people don’t apologize for taking up too much space in someone else’s guarded life. Careless people don’t learn how someone takes their tea and remembers it without being asked. You’re not careless. You’re one of the few sincere people he knows. That’s worse to him.

Levi closes his eyes. Behind them, he sees you smiling at him across the training yard, flushed and breathless, daring him to be human for one second. He sees you in the mess hall, laughing because everyone else is laughing, even though your eyes keep searching for him. He sees you tonight, freezing around a single word.

Don’t.

He should have said something else. He should have said nothing. He should have made you stop sooner. If you stop, this ends. If this ends, no one gets hurt. Except he already hurt you. 

Levi opens his eyes. The ceiling offers no answers, no matter how hard he stares.

“Damn brat,” he mutters.

.

The confessions become a routine, almost. They’re never spoken in the same way, but they become woven into the strange fabric of your days. It’s as familiar as the bitter taste of weak coffee when tea runs low and the scent of soap after Levi has ordered an entire hallway scrubbed because someone left a single muddy footprint in it.

You tell him in fractions. Sometimes lightly. Sometimes accidentally. Sometimes because the feeling rises up in you with nowhere else to go, and the alternative is swallowing it until you choke. 

Levi rejects you every time. Sometimes you think he has a list of things to say prepared. Sometimes you think he makes them up on the spot. You’re not sure which scenario is worse.

The fourth time you confess comes in the stables, of all places. Rain has slicked the yard into a mess. The horses are restless tonight. You’re adjusting tack and cleaning hooves, your sleeves rolled up despite the cold because one of the mares keeps nudging your elbow and trying to chew the cuff.

Then Levi enters. “You’re doing that wrong,” he says.

You glance down at the stirrup strap in your hand. “I haven’t even done anything yet.”

“Exactly.”

You sigh and step aside, letting him take over, because while there are many hills you’re willing to die on, arguing with Levi about equipment care isn’t one of them. He checks and adjusts the straps that you already did. Then he lifts the tack onto the assigned mare to make sure everything looks good. The horse calms beneath his touch, which is unfair, because Levi is as soft as a sword, yet animals seem to understand him. You watch him stroke one hand down the mare’s neck, murmuring something too low for you to catch. You feel a strange flutter in your stomach.

“You’re gentle with them,” you say before you can stop yourself.

Levi looks at you. “With horses.”

“Horses. Animals. Things that scare easily.”

His expression goes blank, and it tells you instantly that you’ve stepped too close to something he’s not willing to reveal yet. You should retreat, and yet, you don’t.

“I like that about you.”

His hand stops on the strap. Rain thunders on the roof. The mare huffs, her warm breath ghosting into the air. Levi stares at you for a long moment, then says, “You’re reading too much into basic competence.”

“Maybe,” you say. “Or maybe you’re more careful than you want people to know.”

Levi looks away before you can follow up, tightening the girth. “Stop romanticizing me.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“Maybe I’m just seeing you for who you are.”

He laughs humorlessly. “You should look somewhere else.”

You breathe in through your nose, the scent of hay and wet earth filling your nostrils. It should be comforting, but you feel foolish standing here with your heart spilling out of your chest like this.

“Maybe I don’t want to,” you say.

Levi hardens. “That’s your problem.”

You flinch. It’s tiny, but it’s there. You know it’s visible because Levi’s eyes move immediately to your face. You can tell he caught it. He seems to recoil, his brows drawing faintly together, but then he looks away.

“Finish checking the tack,” he says.

You nod. “Yes, sir.”

.

You don’t count the next time you confess because you’re half-delirious with exhaustion after an expedition that has left everyone hollow-eyed and covered with dirt and moving like ghosts through the building. You sit on a bench outside the infirmary with a bandage around your forearm and a bruise forming on your ribs, watching medics hurry past you. Levi is standing next to you with blood on his sleeve—blood that doesn’t belong to him—with a look in his eyes that tells you he’s not fully here.

You’re alive. He’s alive. Too many others are not. That kind of thing makes people act and speak recklessly. Which is why you think you say what you say.

Levi hasn’t spoken to you since returning through the gate except to ask if you were injured, and when you showed him your arm, he clicked his tongue and said, “Idiot,” with enough fury that you understood he had already been watching when that Titan came too close.

Now he stands in front of you, arms crossed, staring at the bandage. “You hesitated,” he says.

You look up at him. “What?”

“Out there. You hesitated.”

You’re far too tired to defend yourself quickly. You say, exhausted, “I was trying to pull Kessler back.”

“Kessler was already dead.”

You look away. You know that. You felt the moment that Kessler’s body relaxed and it started dragging you down. You felt the horrible slackness of his arm in your grip. You knew, even then, but knowing and letting go are not the same thing, and you’re too tired for Levi’s version of mercy.

“I know,” you say.

“Do you?”

Your head snaps back up, anger flaring. “Yes, Levi. I know.”

His eyes narrow at the use of his name. Good. Let him hate it. Let him feel something.

“I know he was dead,” you continue. “I know I almost got myself killed trying to save someone who was already gone. I know that was stupid. I know you’re going to tell me it was stupid. I know.”

Levi stares at you as you breathe too hard. Your ribs ache. Your eyes burn, though you refuse to let any tears fall, because crying in front of Levi after a mission feels like bleeding in front of a shark. His jaw works once.

“Then don’t do it again,” he says.

It’s still an order, but there’s a certain rawness underneath it that makes your anger falter. You look at him, at the dirt on his clothes, the blood on his sleeve, the exhausting plastered on his face. You look at the man everyone calls humanity’s strongest, standing there as though strength has ever saved him from grief.

The words come out before you can stop them. “I worry about you too, you know.” He tilts his head, expression hardening. You should probably stop, but you don’t. “I know you don’t want me to. I know you think it’s stupid, or useless, or whatever else you tell yourself when people care about you, but I do.” Your hands curl into fists against your thigh, nails biting into your palms. “I worry every time we leave the walls. I worry every time you go quiet after we come back. I worry because I—”

“Enough.”

You shut your mouth. Levi is no longer looking at you, but through you. You feel a shiver run down your spine. He can’t even look at you when turning you down? 

“Don’t make this into something it isn’t.”

You swallow. “And what is it?”

“A bad habit.”

You feel the color drain from your face. The whole world closes around you. You can only focus on the mud on the soles of your boots, the muffled sounds of suffering through the infirmary doors, Levi standing there with his hands clenched so tightly beneath his crossed arms that his knuckles have blanched.

A bad habit. That’s what your affection has become. An inconvenience. Something to correct. 

You nod once, though the movement feels fuzzy. “Right,” you say.

Levi eyes flick back to yours. You stand before you can fully lock your gazes. Pain flashes through your ribs, and you nearly sway, but you keep yourself upright because you can’t bear the thought of him seeing you so weak. 

“I should get this checked again,” you say.

Levi’s gaze drops to your arm. “You already did.”

“I know.”

He understands then. You see it happen, the moment he realizes you’re leaving because of him, not because of the wound. He doesn’t stop you. You walk away. 

Behind you, Levi remains still for a long time. Long after your footsteps disappear. Long after the rain begins again. Long after he realizes that the words he meant to use to keep you alive have found the most tender spot of your heart.

And still, you come back. You always come back. Even if it pains you to see him right now.

The next morning, you pass him in the corridor and give him a smile that’s smaller than usual. “Captain,” you say.

Levi nods once. He expects you to say something else. Some joke. Some reckless little comment. Some ridiculous remark about how he looks like he slept badly and should let you fix that by being charming towards him for ten minutes.

You say nothing, and you keep walking. Levi turns his head without thinking, watching you disappear around the corner. He has a strange feeling in his chest. Annoyance, he decides. That’s all it is.

That’s all it ever will be.

.

Days later, while you’re cleaning, you stand on a stool to reach for a stack of fresh rags on the highest shelf of the supply room. Shelves line the walls from floor to ceiling, packed with folded clothes, brushes, buckets, spare mopheads, bottles of polish, and enough cleaning solution to disinfect the entire world if Levi ever gets his way. The door opens behind you. 

“Careful,” Levi says.

You glance down. He stands in the doorway, arms crossed, looking entirely unimpressed. With what, you’re not sure. He seems to be in a perpetual state of disappointment with the world. You can’t say you blame him.

“I am being careful,” you reply.

“Standing on that thing will make you crack your skull open.”

“It’s a stool. It’s meant to be stood on.”

“...It’s wobbling.”

“That’s because it fears you.”

“It should.”

You laugh. It surprises you. Maybe it surprises him too, because Levi’s eyes flick up to your face and stay there for half a second too long. There’s a dangerous pause, and both of you feel it. You ignore it and reach for the rags too quickly to escape it, your fingers brushing the edge of the stack. You can’t quite grab it. The stool shifts.

Your balance suddenly tips just enough for your stomach to drop. Before you can correct yourself or grab onto anything, one of Levi’s hands meets your waist, the other gripping your forearm. You feel your heart slam against your ribs. 

“Idiot,” he snaps.

You can’t focus on anything except for his fingers on your waist, warm through the fabric of your shirt. He’s standing so close behind you that when you inhale, you catch his scent. It’s always smelled of clean soap with an undercurrent of something almost like cedar.

You look down at his hand. He does too. Then he releases you as if you’ve burned him. “Get down,” he says.

You quickly grab the rags and climb off the stool, holding the items to your chest. “Thank you,” you say.

“Don’t thank me. Stop doing stupid things.”

“I was just trying to reach the—”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“I—I had it under control, Captain.”

“No, you didn’t.”

You pause, then you hesitantly say, “You worry about me.”

Levi’s eyes flash briefly before he restrains it. “No.”

You tilt your head. “No?”

“No.”

“Then what was that?”

“Reflex.”

“Your reflex was to grab my waist?”

His mouth tightens, which is how you know you’ve gotten under his skin. “My reflex was to stop a soldier from injuring themselves because they can’t manage basic balance.”

“That almost sounded affectionate.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

You smile then, because despite everything, despite the way he keeps pushing you away with both hands while somehow still catching you when you stumble, your heart keeps finding reasons to love him. 

“I think you care about me more than you want to admit,” you say.

Levi steps closer. Your smile fades as his shadow falls over you. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You hold his gaze, and for once, you don’t try to soften the moment with a joke or quip. There are moments you need to be serious, and this is one of them. “Maybe not, but I know what it feels like when you look at me.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

His answer comes far too fast. Levi seems to realize it at the same time you do, because he sighs and looks away toward the shelves. 

“I wish you’d let me care about you,” you say quietly. Levi’s head turns back, and suddenly, the room feels smaller than it did a moment ago.

“I don’t need that from you.”

It’s not the cruelest thing he’s said, but it still breaks a piece of you inside. You inhale slowly, gripping the rags a bit tighter. “Sorry.”

Frustration flickers across his face, but you can tell it’s directed inward this time, at himself, at you, at the entire existence of this thing neither of you seems to be willing to label.

“Just do your job,” he says, harsher now.

“Yes, Captain.”

You don’t see the small flinch he gives when you turn back to the shelves.

.

By now, Levi has recognized that there are stages to this. First, you say something reckless and stupid. Second, he rejects it. Third, you smile. Fourth, he says something. Fifth, your smile falters. Sixth, he feels like the worst kind of bastard for doing that. Seventh, he tells himself you brought it on yourself. Eighth, he thinks about it all night.

It’s a miserable system. He wishes to dismantle it. He’d like, more than that, to understand why he keeps waiting for it to happen again, because that’s the part he can’t excuse. He can excuse rejection. Rejection is clean and sets boundaries where your affection keeps trying to cross them. He can excuse harshness. Harshness is useful. Soldiers listen better to shouts than soft pleas. He can even excuse the anger that rises in him whenever you come too close, because anger is familiar, and familiarity makes things easier to handle.

But he can’t excuse the waiting. He can’t excuse his attention shifting when you enter a room. He can’t excuse the fact that he knows your footsteps by sound now. He can’t excuse how he notices when you don’t look at him. He definitely can’t excuse how guarded he feels when your voice comes gently, as if he’s bracing for impact from a hand that’s never struck him.

He hates it. He hates the anticipation. He hates the feeling that lingers. He hates that some part of him, buried deep beneath the discipline and the loss and blood, wants to hear you say it again. He wants to know if you still mean it. He wants to know how many times he can refuse you before you finally decide he’s not worth the trouble.

Part of him hopes the answer is infinite.

.

You find Levi in the corridor outside of Erwin’s office, standing with a stack of documents in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. His expression is blank as always, lit by the dim afternoon light. The day has been mostly gray from morning onward. The entirety of headquarters feels submerged. You’re carrying reports from the supply division when you stop beside him.

He looks tired. Levi often looks tired, but there are different tiers to it, and you’ve learned them despite not trying to. This isn’t ordinary irritation or sleep deprivation. This is the kind that only comes after countless meetings and casualty estimates, after decisions that will ask other people to die in the name of maybe—someday—being free from the Titans.

“You should eat something,” you say.

His eyes slide to you. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I meant what I said. Leave me alone.”

“Not until you eat.”

He exhales through his nose. “Are you always this insistent?”

“With you? Usually.”

“Fantastic for me.”

You smile. “You make it very easy.” He looks away. Instead of walking away like you know you should, you shift the reports against your chest and say, “I brought extra bread.”

Levi’s gaze returns to you. “What?”

“For you.” You try to shrug it off, pretending like you haven’t been carrying it wrapped in cloth beneath the reports because you noticed he skipped lunch. “It’s in my pocket. Which sounds unsanitary, but I wrapped it. Mostly.”

He stares at you, then says, “You’re ridiculous.”

“Probably.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“I know.”

“Then why?”

You wish he wouldn’t ask. You wish, sometimes, that Levi would allow kindness to come to him without dragging it into the spotlight and demanding to know whether it has teeth or not. But he’s looking at you now with a challenge in his eyes, but something else lingers. Something that tells you he doesn’t understand why anyone would go out of their way for him unless obligated or expecting something in return. Your heart hurts for him.

“Because I care,” you say.

Levi grips his documents a little more. “Stop it.”

“I’m not asking you for anything.”

“You are.”

You frown. “No, I’m not.”

“You say things like that because you want me to say them back.”

There’s a bitter taste in your mouth, maybe because it’s partly true, and maybe because it’s not the whole truth, and he’s chosen the ugliest piece of it to hold up between you.

“I want you to eat something,” you say quietly. “That’s all this was.”

Levi says nothing. You reach into your pocket, pull out the wrapped bread, and place it carefully on top of the documents in his hand. His eyes drop to it, then lift to meet you. 

“You don’t have to make everything a battle,” you say.

“I didn’t ask for this.”

“No, you didn’t,” you say, the words coming out a little sadder than you intend. You see him hear it, and you see the shift in his eyes. But you don’t wait for him to respond. You walk away, reports held tightly against your torso, and you tell yourself that caring about someone shouldn’t feel this much like holding your hand over an open flame and pretending the burn is proof of devotion.

Behind you, Levi looks down at the bread. He stands there and stares at it for a long time. Then, with a quiet curse, he takes it with him into the office. He eats it later. Every bite tastes like guilt.

.

“You know,” Hange says one afternoon, leaning casually against the doorway of Levi’s office while he tries to read a report and pretend they’re not there, “most people enjoy being adored.”

“Most people are idiots,” Levi says.

“True, true. But still. It’s good for morale.”

Levi doesn’t look up from his papers. “If you’re here to waste my time, find a better hobby.”

“I have several. You hate all of them.”

“Because they’re obnoxious.”

“Everything is obnoxious to you.”

Levi’s quill pauses, and that makes Hange grin a little more. He resumes writing, shaking his head. This isn’t exactly new business—Hange always comes to annoy him for the most miniscule problems and to talk about the most insignificant topics. He’s learned how to block it out over the years.

“I’m serious,” Hange says. The shift in their tone catches Levi’s attention. “She cares about you.”

“No shit.”

“And you care about her.”

The quill stops again, and this time, it doesn’t resume. Levi lifts his eyes slowly, sharpened to a point. “Careful.”

Hange, to their credit or possibly their doom, doesn’t turn around and leave like any sensible human would after the tone Levi just used against them. “That sounded like a threat.”

“It was.”

“Mm.” Hange tilts their head, studying him in such an invasive way that it makes Levi want to shove them into the nearest supply closet and lock the door. “You get nastier after she talks to you.”

“I get nastier after you talk to me too.”

“Yes, but that’s because I’m charming in a way that overwhelms you.”

“You’re exhausting in a way that makes murder understandable.”

Hange waves his remark away. “With her, it’s different.”

Levi’s face goes blank. Is it different with you? He realizes now that while he blocks out Hange’s antics, he doesn’t block out yours. He realizes that all the times he’s kicked Hange out for uttering a single stupid sentence, he’s let you stay after uttering a dozen. Hange sees the realization and smiles softly.

“I’m not saying you have to return anything,” they say. “No one can make you feel something you don’t. But if you don’t, you should stop letting her bleed herself dry trying to reach you.”

“I’m not letting her do anything.”

“No,” Hange says, “you’re just standing there while it happens.” The room goes dangerously quiet. Levi looks down at the report, but the words have rearranged into nonsense. Hange sighs deeply. “For what it’s worth, I think she knows you’re not as indifferent as you act.”

Levi’s grip tightens around the quill. “She’s wrong.”

“Maybe.” He looks up at that. Hange gives him a sad little smile, which is worse than their normal grin, worse than their teasing, worse than anything else they could have done. “But if she’s wrong, then you should make that clear before it hurts her even more.”

Levi says nothing. Hange leaves.

That evening, you bring Levi tea. You didn’t plan on doing so. It just sort of happened. You told yourself several times that day that you’d stop doing things like this, acting like your kindness is water and he’s a dying flower that you can bring back to life. You pass the kitchen, see the kettle, and think of the tension in his face that morning.

So you make the tea. Because you’re weak and hopeful, and you’re beginning to suspect those are sometimes the same thing.

When you arrive at his office, the door is slightly ajar. You knock anyway. He calls for you to come in, and you step inside. Levi sits behind his desk, eyes on a report, the candlelight casting shadows across his face. The room is painfully neat, which you should have expected. Your presence feels immediately disruptive. You carry the cup carefully, both hands around the saucer.

“I made too much,” you say.

Levi looks at the tea, then at you. “You made too much tea?”

“Yes.”

“For yourself?”

“Yes.”

“In one cup?”

You blink at him. He stares back at you. Your face warms slightly. Not your best attempt, but it was worth it. “Fine. That was a terrible lie.”

“Embarassing.”

“Deeply.”

He leans back slightly, crossing his arms. “You here for a reason?”

The question should be harmless, but it’s not. You think of all the times Levi has made you feel childish for just wanting a connection. You think of the fact that your hand is already starting to ache from holding the saucer too tightly.

“No,” you say. “Not really.” You step closer and set the cup on his desk, exactly where he usually keeps it, because you’ve grown to know the exact spot by now. “I just thought you’d want some.”

“I can make my own tea.”

“I’m aware.”

“Then stop.”

You look at him. His face is unreadable, but his eyes are clear as day. There’s a tension and conflict there, anger held down so hard that you see it shaking. But you’re tired too. Tired of reading hope into every almost-soft thing he does. Tired of standing at the edge of him, calling out, and hearing only your own voice come back.

“Stop bringing you tea?” you ask.

“Stop acting like this means something.”

Your heart drops. “This?”

Levi looks at you. For once, you wish he wouldn’t. At the same time, you want him to.

“All of it,” he says. “I’ve told you no multiple times. What part of that are you too stupid to understand?”

All of it. The tea. The bread. The jokes. The concern. The confessions. The look you give him after missions. You remembering his preferences. The way you keep offering pieces of yourself and pretending it doesn’t matter when he refuses to take them. All of it.

You nod, though it feels like something has finally broken inside you. 

You’re too tired to keep doing this.

“I see,” you whisper.

Levi’s eyes gleam in the moonlight as he looks at you. He looks like he might say something else. Something better. Something worse. You don’t even give him the chance.

“I’m sorry,” you say, your voice calm enough to make yourself believe that you’re not hurt. “I didn’t realize I was making you uncomfortable.”

Levi makes a face, the most emotion you’ve seen from him in months. “That’s not—”

“I’ll stop.”

He goes silent. You give him a small smile because you can’t seem to help yourself. Even now, you’re trying to make things easier for him, because some habits are harder to kill than hope. Then you turn toward the door.

Behind you, Levi says your name. It stops you for a second, but only a second. You look back. His hand is resting near the cup, not touching it. He looks almost panicked, if Levi Ackerman were capable of such an honest expression.

“Yes?” you say. He says nothing, and there it is. The whole tragedy of him. You wait one second. Then two. Then you nod. “Goodnight, Captain.”

You leave. The door closes behind you. Levi sits very still. The tea cools untouched on his desk. And for the first time, the silence you leave behind feels less like peace and more like punishment.

.

You stop. 

You don’t stop in a manner that would give him the satisfaction of calling it dramatic, because the stubborn, wounded part of you refuses to let Levi Ackerman look at the ruin he’s made of your heart. 

You don’t avoid your duties. You don’t let your work slip. You don’t flinch when his name is mentioned, and you don’t turn your head too quickly when he speaks, and you don’t stand in the kitchen holding the kettle, telling yourself that tea is only tea and kindness is only kindness and that none of it has to mean anything unless he lets it.

You simply stop offering. That’s all.

Reports appear on his desk when they’re supposed to. Your handwriting is clean across the pages. Supplies are accounted for. Gear is cleaned, straps are checked, blades are sharpened, and when you pass him in the corridor, you step aside with the same respect you would give any superior officer. 

“Captain.”

Nothing more. No little smile curling around the title. No teasing lift to your brow. No, you look terrible, did you sleep at all? No, I saved you bread before Sasha could inhale the entire basket. No, if you keep glaring like that, your face will get stuck and then what will we do?

Just Captain.

The first time it happens, Levi tells himself he’s relieved.

He has paperwork in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. You walk down the hall with a crate of medical linens balanced against your hip, your sleeves rolled to your elbows. You see him, shift the crate higher, and move out of the way.

“Captain,” you say. Levi nods once. You keep walking. That’s all there is to your interaction.

He should be relieved. Instead, he grips his teacup a little tighter. Idiot, he thinks, though he’s not entirely sure whether he means you or himself.

By the second day, the relief has turned into irritation.

You’re everywhere, because the universe apparently has something against him and is trying to force you into his everyday life when he’s trying his hardest not to notice you. In the training yard, helping one of the newer recruits correct their stance with a voice soft enough that the soldier actually listens instead of stiffening under correction. In the mess hall, laughing at something Petra says, your face finally turned away from him. In the corridor outside Erwin’s office, handing over a stack of documents to Miche with a polite nod before disappearing around the corner before Levi can decide whether he wants to speak to you.

Not that he does. He doesn’t. There’s nothing to say, after all. He told you to stop, and you stopped. That’s how orders are supposed to work.

Levi’s spent his life surrounded by people who either don’t listen or listen too late, by soldiers who break formation, by fools who mistake hope for strategy, by men who die because they can’t follow one simple command when terror has sunk its teeth into them. He should appreciate obedience. He should appreciate silence. He should appreciate how you gave him exactly what he asked for.

Instead, every “Captain” feels like a door slamming shut in his face. And the worst part, the most aggravating, unforgivable part, is that you’re not even punishing him. Punishment would be easier. Punishment would give him something to push against. If you snapped at him, he could snap back. If you glared, he could meet it with his own colder stare. If you cried, if you accused him, if you said, how dare you, Levi, after all the chances I gave you, then at least he would know what to do.

But you do none of them. You’re kind. Professionally kind. You answer when spoken to. You follow orders without hesitation. You still look after the youngest soldiers, still trade your last piece of bread to Sasha, still smile when Armin asks a question and still help Connie adjust his gear that he should know how to adjust by now. You haven’t become colder in all aspects—you’ve merely taken your warmth away from him.

And Levi, who has survived hunger, blood, filth, loss, and the Underground’s endless ruthlessness, finds himself undone by the absence of things he once pretended not to want.

By the third day, Hange notices. They appear beside him in the training yard while he’s watching you across the dirt, though he’d rather be disemboweled with his own blades than admit that he’s watching you. You’re speaking to Eld near the fence, head tilted as you listen, one hand braced on your hip, the other gesturing toward the Titan dummies. Eld says something that makes you laugh.

Hange hums. “Interesting.”

“Walk away,” Levi says.

“I didn’t even say anything—”

“You were about to.”

“I was going to say the weather’s nice.”

“It’s overcast.”

“Emotionally, then.”

Levi turns his head just enough to glare. Hange grins, but their expression softens too quickly, and that’s how he knows he’s in trouble. He can handle Hange’s manic curiosity, their teasing, their horrifying experiments, their complete lack of respect for personal space or peace. He can’t handle pity.

“She stopped,” Hange says.

Levi looks back toward the yard. “Good.”

Hange’s brows rise. “Very convincing.”

“Shut up.”

“You told her to?” Levi says nothing, and that’s answer enough. Hange exhales, not quite a sigh. “Well, congratulations. You won.”

Hange looks ahead at you. Across the yard, you take the training blade Eld offers you and shift into position. Levi looks back at you, and he sees how dirt has already lined your face. There’s no bright glance tossed in his direction, no grin, no silent invitation for him to notice you. It makes him furious. Not at you, though—that would be simpler. No, the fury coils inward, because there’s a place inside him that recognizes that this silence is something he made with his own hands.

“I did what needed to be done,” he says.

Hange tilts their head. “For who?”

Levi doesn’t answer, and instead, he watches you lunge, watches Eld parry, watches your foot slide back to correct your balance—something you learned from him. There are pieces of him in your movements now. Small ones. Things he taught you without meaning to leave any part of himself behind.

For who?

His mouth dries. For you, he wants to say, but even in his own head, the lie limps, because if this were for you, then why does your smile seem weaker when you think no one is looking?

.

That evening, you deliver papers to his office. You knock once. 

“Come in,” he says, and he hates that he knows it’s you just by the sound of your footsteps approaching. You step inside with the papers held to your torso. For some stupid reason, Levi expects tea. There’s none, only papers. You cross the room, set the stack on the corner of his desk, and take a half step back.

“Commander Erwin asked that these be reviewed before morning,” you say.

Your voice is perfectly calm. It’s built for distance, polished until nothing tender can catch onto it. Levi’s eyes shift from the reports, then to you.

“You can leave them,” he says.

You nod. “Yes, Captain.”

Levi swears his eye twitches from the title. “You don’t have to call me that every time,” he says.

You look at him then, and he almost wishes you hadn’t. Your eyes are not angry or pleading, but they’ve been extinguished of that hope you’ve been carrying with you for months now.

“I thought you preferred professionalism,” you say.

Levi grips the arm of his chair slightly. “I prefer people not putting words in my mouth.”

A flicker of hurt passes over your face, but it’s gone as soon as it arrives. “Understood.”

He should stop. He knows he should stop, but the silence after your answer feels unbearable, and Levi is not built for handling unbearable things he can’t kill. “That all?”

“Yes.”

You turn toward the door. He feels a spike of panic, the kind he’s only ever felt when he was galloping in the rain to return to Isabel and Furlan. His stomach sinks. “Wait.”

You stop. Your hand rests on the doorknob. Levi stares at your back, at the tension in your shoulders. You’re holding yourself with a carefulness that implies you’re waiting for something to split you open at any moment.

What does he want to say? Don’t go? No, ridiculous. I didn’t mean it? He did mean it. At least, he meant part of it. The part that wanted safety. The part that believes every relationship eventually ends in the ultimate heartbreak of the other person’s name carved into stone. I miss you? Absolutely not. The words rise to his tongue anyway, but Levi crushes them beneath the heel of his pride.

You wait. He says nothing, so you glance back at him. “Yes?” you say.

His throat works. The candlelight looks so soft against your face, and only then does he see how tired you are. Not physically, though perhaps that too, but tired emotionally. Tired of holding your hands to someone who keeps treating them like weapons.

Levi looks away first. “Nothing,” he says. The word tastes bitter in his mouth.

Your expression doesn’t change, and somehow that makes him feel worse. “Goodnight, Captain.”

You leave. Levi sits there for a long moment, staring at the place where you stood. The reports remain untouched. His tea, made by his own hand and brewed exactly the way he likes it, has gone cold beside him. He lifts the cup anyway, takes one sip, and slams it back down so hard that the porcelain almost cracks.

It tastes wrong.

Everything is wrong.

.

Levi sees you laughing with Eld in the training yard, and the feeling that moves him makes him so nauseous that he can only stand there with his hand still on his harness and hate everything about himself.

It’s not like he feels betrayal. He doesn’t overhear any confession and there’s no obvious intimacy that any reasonable man could point to and say “that’s the reason my blood is boiling.” You’re simply standing near the fence, one shoulder leaned against the post, your arms crossed as Eld speaks to you. His hair is messy from training, and his expression is unmistakably fond. Fond.

Levi’s eye twitches.

Eld says something too low for Levi to hear from across the yard, and you laugh. Not that small, polite laugh you’ve been giving Levi lately (at least before you started ignoring him weeks ago), the one that feels like a closed door and leaves him standing outside of it like an idiot. You laugh properly. Your head tips back and your face eases in a way that Levi hasn’t seen directed at him in days. Eld smiles, knowing he’s the reason you look a little less tired now.

Levi’s grip on his harness worsens until it creaks. He should look away, but he doesn’t. Eld steps closer, enough to reach past you and grab his coat hanging from the side of the training dummy, but from where Levi stands, the movement brings him into your space. Your shoulder brushes his. You don’t even flinch or step back. You only look down at what he’s doing, say something that makes his smile widen, and then you lift your hand to shove lightly at his shoulder.

It’s the same kind of touch you used to give Levi without thinking. A hand on his sleeve when you wanted his attention. Fingers brushing his hand when you set tea beside him. Your shoulder bumping his when you walked too close in a corridor and pretended it was accidental. The touch he had rejected so many times that you finally learned to control it.

Levi doesn’t know what he feels, but he convinces himself it’s not jealousy. Jealousy is for men who think they have a claim. Levi is without a claim. He made sure of that. In fact, he was the one who caused the distance with each cold reply, each command, and the times when you were vulnerable with him and he pushed it back as if tenderness was a weapon aimed at his throat.

So no, he has no right to feel anything when Eld leans closer to you. He has no right to hate the way you seem calmer beside him. He has no right to remember your face when you once told him that you wish he’d let you care about him, and how he had answered how he didn’t need that from you.

Eld says something else. You smile. Levi moves before he decides to.

By the time he crosses the yard, his expression has gone sharp enough to send three nearby soldiers into immediately pretending to be very busy with their gear. Eld notices him approaching first, straightening his posture the way a subordinate does when they realize their superior is walking toward them.

“Captain,” Eld says.

You turn. The smile fades from your face. Not entirely—you’re too composed for that now, too determined not to let Levi see where the pain still lives, but he sees the change anyway, the armor coming up to shield you.

“Captain,” you say.

Levi looks from you to Eld, then back to you. “You done wasting time?”  The words are even colder than he wants them to be. Or they might be just as cold as he means them to be, because quite often being cruel is more acceptable, in his mind, than standing there and confessing that he actually walked across the yard because another another man made you laugh and Levi wanted, with a sudden violence that disgusts him, to insert himself between you and that warmth.

Eld’s brows draw together. You freeze. “I’m not wasting time,” you say. “Eld was helping me with the new recruits’ drills.”

“Looked like a lot of laughing for drills.”

The silence that follows is thin and almost dangerous. Eld’s eyes move briefly between the two of you, and because he’s neither stupid nor cruel, he steps back. “I’ll go help Auvray’s squad. Captain.” He gives you one last look, almost protective, then leaves. 

Levi hates that too. He hates that Eld looks at you as if your feelings are something he knows how to handle gently. He hates more the fact that Eld might be better at it than he is. When the space between you clears, you face Levi fully.

“That was unnecessary,” you say.

“Excuse me?” Levi scoffs.

“You heard me.”

A month ago, the challenge in your voice would have come wrapped in humor. You probably would have tilted your head at that moment and smiled, softened the tone for him so you could pretend you were just teasing. This time, there’s no smile, nor softness offered for his comfort. He should be glad. He isn’t.

“You’re still on duty,” he says.

“So is Eld.”

“Eld isn’t the one I’m talking to.”

Your lips part slightly, half in surprise, half in disbelief. “No. I suppose not.”

Levi’s hands ball into fists at his sides. He wants to ask what that means. He wants to ask if there’s something between you two. He wants to ask if Eld has touched your hand, if you’ve brought Eld tea, if you smiled at Eld the way you used to smile at him. He wants to ask if you’re happy now that you’ve stopped talking to him. But he knows he has no right to ask any of it.

“You should be more careful,” Levi says instead, because his mouth has always known how to be the worst possible weapon. “People get the wrong idea when you throw yourself at every man who gives you attention.”

He did not mean to say that.

Your face goes blank. Completely, utterly blank. You don’t even look hurt or angry. It’s just blank. His stomach drops. Your fingers twitch once at your side, but your voice, when it comes, is surprisingly—painfully—eased.

“I see.”

You step back. Levi says your name. It leaves him before he can stop it, stripped of rank and anger and all the useless armor he keeps trying to force between himself and whatever the hell you’re doing to him.

“Don’t, Captain.” You turn away and leave without looking back.

The title hits harder than if you had slapped him. He honestly would have preferred if you slapped him. Levi just stands there, frozen, watching you leave while the recruits pretend not to stare, pretending that they didn’t just overhear the most emotionally charged conversation they’ve heard in their entire time in the military.

He thinks of following you at first. Then he thinks of what he would say. Nothing comes. Nothing that would undo it. Nothing that would explain why he keeps turning fear into a knife and then acting surprised when you bleed. So he stays where he is until your figure disappears amongst the crowd. Only then does he realize Eld has stopped near the fence and is looking at him with disappointment. Levi looks away first.

By the time he reaches his office, the anger has returned, boiling hotter than shame. He shuts the door harder than necessary, and the sound breaks through the silence of the room before it rushes back in, deeper than before. He looks at the teacup waiting on the corner of the desk, empty, because he’s not yet made tea and you no longer do.

It’s better this way, he tells himself. No more pointless kindness. No more interruptions. No more break snuck to him because you noticed he skipped a meal. No more stupid confessions. No more of you looking at him like he could be anything other than what he is. A soldier. A killer. A survivor by habit, not by virtue. A man who has spent his life learning the names of the people he couldn’t save.

Levi grips the edge of the desk, his knuckles turning white. He remembers the exact words he said to you not two hours ago. The memory of your face after he said it hits him with such force that his breath hitches.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

He pushes away from the desk, pacing once toward the window, then back again, restless energy crawling beneath his skin. He wants to clean something. He wants to tear something apart. He wants to go back in time into the yard and rip the words out of the air before they can reach you. If he could, he would slap himself before he could even get the words out.

Instead, he does nothing. His thoughts circle you first. Your hand in his field of vision as it places tea on his desk. Your melodic voice. Your laugh across the mess hall. Your eyes, now careful, guarded because he taught you to guard them.

Then Eld. Eld standing too close. Eld making you laugh. Eld smiling at you. Eld looking at you like he wouldn’t punish you for wanting to be wanted.

Levi’s jaw clenches so hard it aches. This isn’t about Eld. That’s the truth, and he hates it. Eld is a good soldier. Loyal. Kind without making a spectacle of it. He’s the kind of man who probably knows how to accept affection. The kind of man who might say yes if you chose him instead.

The thought makes Levi’s stomach turn. He braces both hands on the desk and lowers his head. He realizes now what he’s been avoiding. It isn’t jealousy; it isn’t irritation or discipline or concern with professionalism. It’s fear. Raw fear.

It’s been there from the start, waiting beneath every rejection, every insult, every cold turn of his shoulder. He sees it now. You were never the danger. Wanting you was. Wanting you means imagining you outside the walls and worrying you won’t return. Wanting you means knowing the exact sound of your laugh and then imagining a world where he never hears it again. Wanting you means letting your existence become a part of his own, and losing you would nearly kill him. No, it would kill him.

And Levi knows loss.

His mother. Kuchel, pale and motionless in a bed that he’d seen too much of. Her hand no longer able to reach for him. Her voice gone before he was old enough to understand all the ways the world could take from him.

Then Isabel. Loud, passionate Isabel, with her recklessness and her impossible faith that the world above could be something other than a nightmare. Isabel, who had called him big brother with such devotion that he’d pretended to hate it because pretending was safer than letting himself feel vulnerable. 

Furlan too. Furlan, who had trusted Levi’s judgement more than anyone had a right to, who followed him out of the Underground, who believed, who died because the world is merciless and Levi is never fast enough when it matters most.

His comrades. Countless comrades buried beneath banners and speeches and the rotten consolation that they died for humanity’s cause. Faces that once turned toward him in trust before the Titans took them. 

Connection, to Levi, has never been safe. To him, it’s a door opening into a room that will one day be empty. A hand reaching for his that will one day go cold. A voice saying his name that will one day stop answering. 

So he rejected you. Again and again and again. And some sick, righteous part of him had called it mercy. If he kept you away, you would be safer. If he made you stop loving him, you would stop standing too close to the blast radius of everything he loses. If he refused to want you, then losing you—if the world ever took you, when the world took you—would not destroy him.

Except you’re not gone. You’re alive. And he’s still managed to lose you.

Levi sits slowly in his chair, his legs suddenly feeling unsteady. He did this. Not titans. Not the Underground. Not fate, not duty, not the walls, not the endless bloody machinery of survival. Him. His fear. His hands pushing away the one person stubborn enough to keep reaching for him. To keep trusting him.

He doesn’t move for a while. The office grows darker around him, the last of the daylight fading behind the curtains. Somewhere outside, he hears footsteps. They’re not yours. He wishes he wasn’t so disappointed. He hears voices fall and rise. Life continues with an indifference that feels almost insulting.

Then comes a knock at the door. For a moment, he thinks foolishly that it’s you. Then the hope is snuffed by reality, and he doesn’t bother answering. The door opens anyway. Hange steps inside, takes one look at him sitting motionless behind his desk, and pauses. They already have a knowing look on their face.

“You know,” Hange says, closing the door behind them,” for someone so smart, you’re impressively stupid about feelings.”

Levi sighs deeply. “Fuck off, Four Eyes. Not in the mood.”

“No, I imagine you’re not.” Hange approaches without waiting for permission and leans against the edge of the desk. “I saw what happened. Eld looked like he wanted to hit you.”

“Eld knows better.”

“Mm. He does. That’s probably the only reason he didn’t.”

Levi looks away. The words should irritate him—and they do—but beneath the irritation is shame, and shame has sharper teeth. Hange studies him for a moment.

“What did you say to her?” they ask.

Levi’s eyelids flutter down briefly. It would be easy for him to lie. He could tell Hange to get out and leave him alone with the wreckage he caused. Instead, because some exhausted part of him is too tired to keep bleeding in secret, he says, “Something I shouldn’t have.”

“That bad?” Levi gives them a look, and it makes Hange wince. “Ouch. That bad.”

Silence settles between them. For once, Hange doesn’t rush to fill it. Levi stares at the teacup near his hand. He wonders if you still make tea for yourself. He hasn’t seen you near the tea station in a while—but then again, you could just be avoiding him that efficiently. Or perhaps you just avoid the places where he lingers.

“She stopped,” he says finally.

“You asked her to,” Hange says.

“I know.”

“Did you mean it?”

Levi’s throat tightens. That should be an easy question. He's built his entire life on making hard answers sound simple, but nothing about you has ever been simple, not from the first time you looked at him like he wasn’t nearly as scary as everyone was making him out to be.

“I thought I did,” he says.

“And now?” Hange asks.

Levi’s hand wraps around the teacup, though there’s nothing in it. He thinks of you laughing with Eld. He thinks of your face going blank. He thinks of how much easier it was when you loved him loudly enough that he could pretend your heart was the problem and not his own cowardice.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he says.

Hange doesn’t ask what this means—they know. “Start by not hurting her every time she gets close.”

Levi bitterly laughs once under his breath. “Brilliant advice.”

“You’re ever so welcome.” His eyes lift to meet them, and Hange’s expression is painfully serious now. He hates when they look like this—it means they’re impossible to escape. “You’re allowed to be scared, Levi.”

He looks away instantly. “No.”

“Yes,” they say, firmer. “You are. After everything you’ve lost, you’d be insane not to be. But being scared doesn’t give you the right to make her feel disposable.”

Levi’s stomach churns. “I know,” he says. It sounds like defeat. Maybe it is.

Hange’s voice gentles. “Do you love her?”

Levi freezes. His first instinct is to refuse. His second is anger. His third is to remember your face. Your smile. Your voice that softens only for him. Your absence now, filling his office more than your presence ever dared. Levi lowers his gaze. There’s nothing to hide behind anymore.

He nods.

Hange doesn’t smile like they normally would. They only nod once, confirming what they already knew and had been kind enough to let him reach on his own. “Then you’d better figure out how to say that to her before someone else does.” Levi glares at them, and they lift both hands in defense. “Just being real. She’s a catch.”

Real. Levi has always hated that word, but this reality sits in front of him now, unavoidable. He loves you. He hurt you. You might not wait for him to become brave. The idea ought to make him stand, should send him out of his office, down the corridor, to your door with an apology and every wall inside him burning down behind it. Instead, he stays seated, because despite his love being genuine, the fear that was born first is still the one to rule.

Hange pushes away from the desk. “For what it’s worth,” they say at the door, “I think she loved you enough to listen.”

Loved. Past tense. Levi flinches at that. Hange notices, but they leave anyway, the door clicking shut behind them. Levi sits alone in the dark with the word still lodged in his chest.

Loved.

.

Levi didn’t plan on drinking. He doesn’t drink. Not normally. He definitely doesn’t drink because he enjoys it. Enjoyment has always been something he doesn’t trust easily. He drinks because the bottle has been sitting untouched in the bottom drawer of his desk ever since Erwin left it there three months ago after some late night visit that had run past midnight and into the hours of the morning. He drinks because the office is silent now. He drinks because Hange’s question won’t stop replaying in his mind.

Do you love her?

He grabs the glass and pours the amber liquid into the cup with a hint of anger and almost spite. He doesn’t lift the glass for a toast to the empty room. There’s nothing worth celebrating or honoring in this moment. No winning, no relief, no opening up of himself that could be considered noble or brave. There’s only the fact that he loves you. And because Levi is a man who’s lived by the rule of cutting off weakness before the world can get its hands on it, that very fact feels like a wound in his gut, and he has no idea how to bandage it. 

He drinks. The liquor burns down his throat and warms his chest. The heat gives him something physical to hate for a blessed second. He pours again. Outside his office, the headquarters eases into a slumber. Someone’s laughter echoes down the corridor before it’s hushed by another person. A door closes somewhere else. The fact that life continues is taunting him, acting like it doesn’t matter that his entire world has shifted because you finally stopped loving him.

Well, you didn’t stop. He doesn’t know if you stopped. He only knows you learned how to be silent about it. He taught it to you. The thought makes his heart skip a beat.

Levi leans back in his chair and closes his eyes, but the darkness behind them provides no mercy. It gives him the image of you instead, because his mind can’t go anywhere else. He imagines you in the supply room. You in the corridor, placing bread in his hand. You in the stables, admiring his connection to animals. You outside of the infirmary with both physical and emotional wounds. You in the courtyard today, your face going blank after he used your own affection against you.

“Damn it,” he mutters, pressing the heel of his hand against his brow ridge. He’d just meant to protect himself. He’d looked at the recklessness of your devotion and saw every grave he’s stood over. His mother’s body. Isabel’s smile turned slack. Furlan’s trust, wasted on the impossible idea that Levi could let them all out alive.

Levi drinks again and again. The room begins to spin slightly. His reflection waits in the dark window as he turns to face it. Pale, blurred, a man with too much blood on his hands. A man who has no idea what to do with love except ruin it. He’s a coward.

If rejecting you had been mercy, then why had it only hurt you? If pushing you away had been kindness, then why had your voice gone so careful around him? If he had been protecting you, then why does the memory of your face make him feel like the danger was never the world outside the walls, but him?

He pours again, his hand shaking this time, and a small amount spills onto the desk. Normally, he would reach immediately for a cloth. Tonight, he only stares at the dark stain spreading over the polished wood. His mouth twists in both disgust and irritation.

“Great,” he says to no one.

Every time he raises the cup, it feels heavier. So does the truth. He loves you. He loves the way you say his name. He loves the stubborn tilt of your chin when you refuse to let his cruelty be the only thing between you. He loves you for noticing when he doesn’t eat, doesn’t sleep, when he’s so angry that you know grief alone couldn’t cause it. He loves you, and it scares him so much that he’s tempted to seek refuge behind every locked door inside himself.

Instead, drunk and stripped bare by the quiet, Levi thinks of you. Your room is down the corridor, past the turn by the east stairwell, three doors from the end. He knows it by heart, despite not being there often.

For several long minutes, he sits motionless with the glass in his hand, raises to press against his forehead. He breathes deeply through the horrible desire of wanting to see you and the equally horrible knowledge that, deep down, he has no right to ask anything of you now.

Then he stands. His vision swims. Levi grips the desk, scowling at the fact that he can’t even balance himself. It’s pathetic, he thinks groggily, but he doesn’t sit back down. He leaves the bottle open on the desk. The spilled liquor dries beside his hand. He stumbles into the corridor. 

You need to hear the truth from him. Even if you no longer want it.

.

You sit on the edge of your bed with a half-mended shirt in your lap, needle in your fingers. The motions are familiar after years of practice, though it has been a while since you’ve needed to mend something. You’re surprised, considering the less than gentle treatment your clothing constantly endures. You’re glad, however, that your mother taught you how to sew. You think briefly that you should send her a letter soon. 

Then a knock comes. It’s so late in the night that you think you might have imagined it. You shake your head, dislodging the illusion, and return to your sewing. But then the knock comes again, more urgent. Your hands stop moving. Your stomach turns at the first thought that comes to your mind. But you know it’s not him. Why would it be? You sigh and set the shirt aside, then stand.

When you open the door, you’re immediately proven wrong. Levi is standing before you, one hand braced against the doorframe, his hair slightly messy, his cravat loose at the throat, his eyes too dazed. Levi is many things—controlled, scary enough to whip grown men into shape just by entering a room, but he’s never this. Never unsteady or vulnerable. Never looking at you like this as if he’s spent the entire night debating and fighting over the urge to go to your room, still not knowing whether he deserves to enter.

“Captain?” you say.

His face twists. He leans in slightly—not intentionally, but from a loss of balance. “Don’t call me that.”

Then you smell the liquor. You blink, taken aback. “Levi, are you drunk?”

His mouth pulls into a line that’s too bitter to be a smile. “Unfortunately.”

You don’t know what to do. You don’t know what to do with him at your door in the middle of the night, drunk enough that he’s tipping over but sober enough that his eyes are still full of pain. You don’t know if you should let him in or tell him to screw off, whether to be worried or angry, whether to protect yourself or reach for him before he walls. And the worst part is that deep down, you still want to care for him.

“Why are you here?” you ask.

Levi looks at you, and his face breaks in a way you’ve never seen before. “I fucked up.”

The words come rough and raw. They’re not even surprising to you, because you’ve known that for weeks now, but hearing him say it is different. You peer down the hall and step aside before you can convince yourself not to.

“Come in before someone sees you like this.” He enters slowly. You close the door behind him, and when you turn around, he’s just standing there, his shoulders and hands tensed, looking at everything except your face. “You should sit down.”

“No.”

“Levi—”

“I wanted you.” You freeze. His eyes finally lift to yours. “I wanted you. Every damn time. Every time you said it, every time you smiled at me, every time you made those stupid jokes. I wanted to say yes. And I didn’t, because I’m a coward.”

You swear all of the air in the room escapes at that moment. You stare at him, your heart pounding in your chest, shock and hurt and old longing colliding so violently that you almost feel sick. This is what you wanted once, isn’t it? This confession, this man standing in front of you and finally saying the thing you’ve been dying to hear. But it only came after he drank. After he’s made you feel stupid for offering what he now claims he wanted. You swallow hard.

“You’re drunk,” you say. “We shouldn’t talk about this now.”

“No,” Levi says, stepping closer, then stopping himself. “You’re going to hear it. You listened to every shitty thing I said. You can listen to this too.”

He’s not wrong. You did listen. Every time. You stood there and took every dismissal, every wound, and you kept making excuses for him because loving him was easier than admitting he had been hurting you on purpose.

Your eyes burn. “Fine,” you whisper. “Say it, then.”

“I’m sorry,” Levi says. He swallows, looks down, then forces himself to look at you again. “I’m sorry for all of it. For making you feel like you were stupid for caring. For treating you like dirt under my shoes. For taking every good thing you gave me and throwing it away because I didn’t know how to deal with it.”

Your throat closes. You want to hate him. You think hatred would be far easier than this—the fact that you still love him while still remembering why you learned to retreat. “You made me feel pathetic.” Levi flinches at that. For a second, you’re happy, and then you hate yourself for thinking that.

“I know,” he says, his voice smaller than you’ve ever heard it.

“You made me wish I hadn’t said any of it,” you continue. “I meant it every time, Levi. Even when I made it sound like a joke. Even when I smiled. Even when everyone laughed. I meant it, and you—” You pause. “You made me feel humiliated.”

Levi’s eyes close briefly. When he opens them again, they’re wet. “I know.”

“That doesn’t fix it.”

“I’m not trying to fix it.”

“Then what are you trying to do here?”

He looks at you so helplessly that it hurts you. “I don’t know how to do this.”

“Do what?”

His gaze drops to your hands, then returns to your face, and when he speaks, the words sound like they’ve been dragged out of the deepest, most guarded place in him. A place you have rarely, if ever, seen.

“Love someone.”

The room goes silent. The candle flickers across his face. Your heart twists. Levi takes a shaky breath. You match him.

“But I love you. I do. And I’m sorry it took me hurting you to stop lying about it.”

Part of you wants to reach for him. The other part of you wants to step back. You want to tell him you love him too, and you always have. You want to ask why love had to be dressed in apology. Instead, you look at the floor between you.

“Levi,” you say quietly. “I still love you. But I’m hurt.”

“I know,” he says.

“And I don’t forgive you yet.”

“Good.” That surprises you. You raise both eyebrows, and he gives a humorless little exhale. “You shouldn’t. Not just because I finally stopped lying to myself.”

“You need to sit down,” you say.

This time, he doesn’t argue. He lowers himself into the chair by your desk, elbows resting on his knees, head lowered. He looks so exhausted. You pour him some water from your pitcher and bring it to him. Both of you freeze momentarily when his fingers brush yours when he takes the cup. He withdraws first.

“I’ll say it again when I’m sober,” he says hoarsely. You look down at him. “If you’ll let me.”

Your fingers curl around the empty space where the cup had been. The answer should be simple, but it isn’t. You don’t know if you want to hear those words without the barrier of alcohol. They might just break your resolve.

After a moment, you nod. “Say it sober,” you whisper. “And then we’ll see.”

Levi nods and closes his eyes.

.

Morning breaks through the thin curtains, laying a strip of light across the floor and the half-mended shirt still folded at the end of your bed. Levi wakes in a chair—the same chair he was in last night. He’s no stranger to falling asleep in chairs. Where others would be aching, he feels fine, save for the headache pulsing behind his eyes.

He doesn’t remember where he is for a second. Then he looks around, and he remembers everything about last night. The drinking. Coming to your door. Your face when he said he wanted you. Him confessing his love.

Levi sighs. Across the room, you’re laying in bed, turned toward the wall, blanket pulled to your shoulder. You look peaceful, or close enough to peaceful that guilt moves through him with a force that nearly brings him to his feet to leave before you can wake up. Maybe that would be better. He could go back to his quarters and pretend this never happened.

He shifts carefully, trying not to make the chair creak, but the movement sends pain up his spine and a low sound leaves him before he can swallow it. You stir in your sleep and wake. Levi freezes. You open your eyes slowly and turn around to face him. Now that he looks at you, you don’t look like you’ve just woken up from sleep. You don’t have that grogginess most do, and your hair is neatly brushed.

He gets confirmation of this when you get out of bed and grab a teacup, filled with tea that you must have brewed before he woke up. You carry it over to him. He stares at it, then at you, and you hold it out.

“Well?” you say.

Levi takes the teacup, though his fingers shake around the porcelain. He doesn’t even bother to hide it this time. He looks at the caution in your eyes, the hurt still sitting behind it, the hope that lingers. His mouth dries and his throat closes up, but he forces the words out anyway.

“I love you,” he says.

Your lips part slightly. “You’re sure?”

Levi lets out a breath that almost becomes a laugh, though it’s not really a laugh, more like an exhale of exhaustion laced with a hint of relief. “I was sure before,” he says. “I was just an idiot.”

Your face crumples for a second. You never thought this day would come, that he could utter those words. You didn’t realize how badly you wanted this. How much it cost to hear it now.

He sets the tea aside and stands, keeping enough distance that you can choose whether to close it. You’re not sure if you want to yet, but the urge trembles between you. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

You look down, blinking hard to force the tears back. “Please don’t hurt me every time you’re scared.”

Levi nods. “I won’t. I promise.”

The silence comes to rest between you. Then, carefully, you step forward and reach for his hand. Levi looks down as your fingers touch his, stunned by the gentleness of it, by the fact that after everything, you’re still willing to reach out. He grabs your hand and wraps his fingers around yours.

“I’ll do better,” he says.

You squeeze his fingers once and smile.

“You’d better.”

MASTERLIST ♡ JOIN THE TAGLIST ♡ AO3 ♡ WATTPAD ♡ KO-FI

tags: @saccharinefool @bunbun6casp @hoebuns @levkuna @strangeeaglepost @how-interesting-wow @d1leviglazer @y44washere4somereason @ddilfs4life @slaytherinthoughts @levishart @gloomyveil @levislolita

divider by: diviniyae

The convenience store on 31st Street is always too bright for the hour.

Fluorescent lights hum overhead, washing everything in the same pale glow. It’s just past midnight—the hour when nothing good is open. You come here when you can’t sleep. When your apartment feels too quiet or too full of thoughts that won’t settle. It happens more often than you’d like to admit.

You don’t ever expect to see anyone familiar. After all, your friends all live a twenty minute drive away, your neighbors are elderly and go to sleep when the sun begins to set, and any locals clearly aren’t crazy enough to be awake at this hour on a weekday.

You grab a basket and head straight for the refrigerated aisle. You’ll get a soda. Maybe a can of beer. Then you’ll grab something sweet and absolutely unnecessary that’ll force you to brush your teeth for a third time today. 

You pause when you feel it. It’s an awareness that isn’t quite instinct, nor paranoia. But someone is definitely standing a few feet away.

You glance over. He’s dressed in dark clothes with a rigid—but not tense—posture. He’s holding a cup of coffee, the lid already on. He looks like he already knows exactly what he wants and sees no reason to browse. Yet, he’s still doing it. His hair is styled in a neat undercut. His eyes are sharp, expression unreadable.

And he’s handsome. You won’t deny that.

He glances at you once. Just once. It’s not rude or curious. It just looks like he’s clocking a detail and filing it away somewhere in the back of his mind. 

You look back at the drinks.

Okay, sure. You’ve run into one or two people during your late night visits. But they were never this… enigmatic. You feel strangely drawn to him. Like he’s a gift waiting to be unwrapped. But you don’t dwell on it. There’s no reason to.

At the register, you end up behind him in line. He pays with exact change, murmurs a thanks to the cashier, and steps aside to hold the door open as you pass.

“Thank you,” you say automatically.

He nods, but doesn’t answer. His eyes flick back to you for a half second before he turns and disappears into the night.

You don’t think about him again.

.

It happens again on a Tuesday. Same store. Same hour. Same quiet that feels intentional rather than lonely.

He’s there, standing near the end of the aisle with instant noodles, coffee in hand. Same posture as before. Dark jacket, dark pants. 

You don’t know why your first instinct is to slow down. Maybe it’s because you weren’t expecting him. Maybe it’s because there’s a strange familiarity in seeing him here again, like spotting a recurring detail in a dream. You wouldn’t complain if you saw him in your dreams.

He looks up. Just once. His eyes flick to you, and for a split second, it feels like the rest of the store drops out from around you. He doesn’t stare or linger, but just registers you, like he did last time, and then turns his attention back to the fridges.

Still, your pulse picks up. You lightly swing your basket and wander the aisles, suddenly hyper-aware of your own movements. You take in the sound of the cooler doors opening and closing. The soft hum and flicker of the lights. The distant clatter of something behind the counter. You pretend to deliberate over drinks longer than necessary.

When you finally head toward the register, he’s already there, setting his coffee down with care. You take your place behind him, close enough to notice the way his shoulders are squared even at rest. He’s got nice shoulders. Wait, why are you even thinking about that? Don’t be weird.

The cashier smiles when she sees him. “Evening.”

He nods. “Mm.”

It’s a sound more than a word. You feel it settle in your gut. You hate to think it, but it sounds sexy.

He pays with exact change again. You notice that too. The precision of it. Like he dislikes leaving anything unsettled. It’s admirable, really. You hope that the price of the coffee won’t be changing anytime soon. You don’t want him to be caught off guard one day.

Wait, why are you thinking about him like that? You barely know the man. You just saw him twice in one week. You nearly slap yourself on the face. Snap out of it.

When he steps aside, he holds the door open without looking back.

“Thanks,” you say as you pass him.

This time, he answers.

“Yeah.”

.

By the fourth time, it stops feeling like coincidence.

You notice it the moment the automatic doors slide open and the familiar bright lights enter your vision—the subtle shift in your chest, the almost-expectation. You don’t look for him right away. You tell yourself you’re imagining things, that this place is open all night and people have routines. That means nothing.

But he’s there.

Standing near the back aisle this time, just past the shelves of chips. Same dark jacket. Same stillness. He’s holding his coffee in one hand, unlidded this time, steam curling up and disappearing into the fluorescent glare. His gaze is fixed on the shelves, but you get the sense he isn’t really looking at them.

You slow without meaning to. It’s strange how easily you pick him out now, like your eyes have learned the shape of him. There’s something about the way he stands with his feet planted and his shoulders squared. Like the world doesn’t get to push him around unless he allows it.

You grab a basket, even though you only came in for a drink. You wander the aisles, pretending to browse, pretending not to be aware of his presence when it’s all you can pathetically think about. The refrigerators sound louder tonight. At least, they do in your mind.

You can feel it when he looks at you. It’s not obvious, nor is it invasive, but just a quiet acknowledgement, like he too has noticed the pattern forming and doesn’t quite know what to do with it yet.

At the register, he’s already ahead of you again.

You line up behind him, close enough to take in his scent. You think you pick up pine and cedar. You wonder if it’s the soap or shampoo he uses, or if he wears cologne. He sets down his coffee cup when the cashier announces the total, and he pulls the exact change from his pocket without hesitation.

“Evening,” the cashier smiles.

He nods once. “Evening.”

His voice sounds so controlled. You wonder if he’s always been like this, or if it’s something he learned. He steps aside to let you pay, holding the door open again as you pass.

“Thanks,” you say.

This time, he meets your eyes.

“Mm,” he hums. A sound that could mean anything. Or nothing at all.

Outside, the night presses in close. The air is cool, riding on autumn, carrying the faint smell of rain even though the sky is clear.

You expect the man to turn and head off immediately. He doesn’t. He lingers near the window, back against the glass, coffee still untouched in his hand. You hesitate on the sidewalk, keys already in your fingers, caught in that strange space between leaving and staying.

“You’re here a lot,” he says. It doesn’t sound like an accusation. It’s not quite a question either.

You glance at him, surprised. “So are you.”

That gets a reaction—a subtle lift at the corner of his mouth. Almost a smile. Almost.

“Guess so,” he replied.

There’s a pause. A comfortable one. So comfortable, you don’t even know if you want to fill it. “I come late,” you say, unsure why you feel the need to explain. “It’s quieter.”

He nods, eyes flicking briefly to the empty street. “That’s why I like it.”

So he’s honest. And he’s like you. That’s nice to know.

You stand there together, side by side, neither of you in a hurry to go. The city feels distant, like it’s living somewhere else entirely. A car passes, headlights flashing over you both for a brief moment before fading. He finally takes a sip of his coffee, grimacing slightly.

“Still too hot,” he mutters.

“You always buy it and never drink it,” you smile.

He glances at you, surprised again. Maybe he didn’t expect you to notice that. You realize you’ve been paying closer attention than you meant to.

“Habit,” he says after a beat. “Keeps my hands busy.”

You nod, understanding more than he probably realizes.

When you finally part ways, it’s unspoken. No goodbyes, no promises. Just a mutual recognition that you’ll both be back. That this place, at this hour, has become something shared.

.

He starts waiting near the door.

You don’t notice it all at once. It happens gradually, like most things that matter do. One night, you push through the automatic doors and spot him already paid up, standing near the glass with his back half-turned to the aisles. Coffee in hand. Like he’s lingering instead of browsing.

The next time, it’s the same.

By the third, you realize he’s not pretending anymore.

He’s leaning against the window when you arrive, eyes angled toward the street as if he’s been watching the dark for a while. The coffee cup in his hand is full—untouched. You feel a little flicker of something—you don’t know what yet—in your stomach as the thought settles in. He waited.

“You’re late,” he says, not looking at you.

You pause just inside the doorway, the bell chiming softly above your head. “I am?”

He finally turns. His eyes catch on you, sharp and assessing, but there’s something less guarded there now. You can’t lie and say that you’re not excited to find out what it is. “Usually you’re here earlier,” he replies.

You blink, then laugh softly. “Didn’t realize I was on a schedule.”

“Hm. You’re not.” But the way he says it suggests he knows exactly what time you usually show up. You’re not even creeped out. Your trips have become such a routine that it would be weird if he didn’t notice the time you usually came in.

You grab a drink, mostly out of habit, and wander the aisles while he stays where he is. You can feel his presence like a fixed point. When you reach the register, he joins you without comment, setting his coffee down like he always does.

The cashier grins. “You two again.”

“Guess we’re predictable now,” the man huffs in amusement.

Outside, the air is colder than usual. Neither of you moves to leave right away.

“You don’t have to wait,” you say, gesturing vaguely toward the street.

“I know,” he replies. “Didn’t mind.”

You start walking together without discussing it. You realize, after a moment, that he’s matched your pace. He isn’t rushing, and he isn’t slowing you down either. He just stays with you.

“Long day?” you ask.

He exhales slowly. “Long days,” he corrects.

You hum in agreement. “Yeah, same.”

He glances at you from the corner of his eye. “You work nights?”

“Late evenings. I come here when I can’t shut my brain off,” you say.

That earns you a look. “Does it help?”

“Sometimes,” you admit. “It’s… quiet. No expectations.”

He nods. You walk in silence for a block. The city sleeps around you. The streetlights cast long shadows that shift as you pass beneath them. One of his hands is tucked into his pocket, the other still gripping his coffee cup. His shoulders are still tense, but less so than before.

“What kind?” you ask. He makes a face, like he doesn’t quite understand what you’re referring to. You point at the coffee cup. “Coffee. You like putting creamer and stuff in it?”

“Black only,” he says, shaking his head.

“Me too,” you say. You barely drink coffee, but you say it anyway.

At the corner where your paths split, you slow. He does too.

“This is me,” you say.

“Yeah,” he replies.

Neither of you moves.

The silence stretches. You can hear your own breathing now, the soft rush of blood in your ears. But it’s not awkward. The silence is comforting. You could stand in it for days and not tire of it.

“Levi,” he says suddenly.

You look up at him. “What?”

“My name,” he adds. “It’s Levi.”

You exhale a breathy laugh. Your stomach flutters. It suits him. “I was wondering if we’d get there,” you say gently. You tell him your name. He repeats it quietly. Then he blinks, shakes his head slightly, as if discarding a thought.

“So,” he says, clearing his throat. You hear the trace of intention behind his voice. “When are you planning on showing up here again?”

It’s a question that isn’t exactly forward, but it isn’t casual either. Not really. There’s an underlying hope tucked between the words, and you can feel it if you pay attention. You tilt your head, arching a brow with a half-smile that’s just flirty enough to be intentional.

“I was thinking every Tuesday at precisely this painfully awkward hour. Want to pencil me in?” you tease.

Levi stares at you for a second too long, eyes narrowing in a way that reads less like scrutiny and more like amusement, the kind that slides under his usual stoic exterior and lingers there. It’s rare to see, and it’s just as intoxicating as you expected.

“...That specific?” he asks.

You shrug, casually lifting your drink like it’s no big deal. “Your schedule seems rigid enough. Figure I’ll try and keep up.”

He doesn’t scoff. Instead, he smirks just a fraction—a tiny, nearly imperceptible curl at the corner of his mouth that says he’s entertained, and maybe a little pleased that you aren’t backing down from his… directness.

“...Fine,” Levi answers bluntly. “Tuesday it is.”

You give him one more small smile, just enough to let him know you meant what you said. “See you Tuesday then,” you say.

Levi doesn’t smile back. Not really. But he nods. Enough that it counts. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Tuesday.”

Then he turns and walks away, leaving you with a strange warmth that wasn’t there a second ago.

.

Next Tuesday comes more quickly than you expect.

You notice him before the doors even open. He’s outside the store this time, standing beneath the awning with his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. The glow from inside spills over him, catching on his undercut and sharp features. There’s a coffee cup in his hand. The lid is on this time.

When you step inside, Levi follows you without comment. This time, he doesn’t linger by the window. He falls into step beside you, close enough that you can feel the heat of him. You grab a basket. He doesn’t. He follows you through the aisles instead, eyes tracking your movements as you grab chips and snacks. It feels different from all the times before. Less accidental.

“You want anything?” you ask, glancing at him as you stop near the refrigerated drinks. You don’t even know why you’re asking. He’d already gone in tonight. You might as well be courteous, though.

He lifts the coffee cup in his hand slightly. “I’m good.”

You snort. “Of course you are.”

At the register, you set your basket down and reach for your wallet. Before you can even graze your fingers over the leather, Levi’s card taps the reader first. 

The cashier barely blinks, already used to the strange late-night dynamics. “All set.”

You stare at the counter, then at Levi. “Hey—”

He’s already taking the plastic bag from the cashier, looping it over his fingers. “Come on,” he says, cocking his head toward the door. You don’t move right away. He pauses, glancing back at you. One brow lifts, faintly amused. “You coming?”

You scramble after him, still processing. Outside, he starts walking without waiting to see if you follow—confident you will. And you do. You walk beside him, the street waiting ahead in front of you. A cat skitters across, crouched low.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you say finally, nodding toward the bag in his hand.

He shrugs casually, almost dismissively. “I didn’t mind.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He glances at you from the corner of his eye. “Sure it is.”

You huff. “Why’d you pay, Levi?”

He slows just enough to look at you properly. “Maybe I like taking care of things,” he says. “Or maybe I wanted an excuse to walk you home.”

Your step stutters just slightly. “Oh?” you reply, regaining your pace. “That so?”

“Mm,” he hums. “You don’t seem opposed.”

You smile. “Guess not.”

The street is quieter tonight. The city feels like it’s stepped back to give the two of you space. You glance at him, pretending it’s casual.

“Your routine’s getting a little suspicious,” you say teasingly.

He gives you a knowing look. “Yours too.”

“Are you just coming to the store to see me now?”

He doesn’t stop walking. “And what if I am?” he says, without hesitation.

Your breath catches. You laugh softly to cover it. “Alright then.”

When you reach the corner where your paths split, you both stop. It’s familiar now. The pause. The moment where neither of you rushes to leave.

Levi hands you the bag. His fingers brush yours. “See you next time,” he says simply.

Then he turns and walks away, disappearing down the street like he always does. You stand there for a moment longer than necessary, the plastic bag light in your hand, heart heavier in the best possible way.

Tuesdays can’t come fast enough.

.

The first drops of rain catch you by surprise—slow, cold splashes against your jacket as you step out of the store.

“Rain,” you mutter, glancing up at the sky. “Figures.”

Levi is already unfolding an umbrella before you can even pull your hood up. He holds his coffee in one hand, the handle of the umbrella in the other, tilted just enough so the two of you can share its shelter.

“Thanks,” you mumble, adjusting your bag so both of you can fit comfortably beneath the umbrella. 

The streetlights cast blurry halos on the wet pavement, the world smeared and quiet under the rain’s rhythm. Levi walks with you, side by side, the umbrella tilting slightly toward you as more time goes on. A silence drapes over you both.

“So, you walking me home?” you say, just to fill it.

Levi’s gaze flicks toward you as just a brief glance. “Yes.” He doesn’t need to elaborate.

The rain hisses against the umbrella. You walk in the direction you always go—the same long street dotted with storefronts and empty sidewalks. It’s quiet. Comfortable quiet. The occasional car passes by. Storefront signs flicker. After a few blocks, you find your voice again.

“You know, I never asked if you like the rain,” you say.

Levi keeps walking, expression unreadable in the dim light. “It’s water falling from the sky.”

“That’s not an opinion, Levi,” you snicker.

He pauses, just for a moment, before replying with uncharacteristic subtlety, “It’s tolerable if you don’t drown.”

His dry tone makes you grin. “That’s a yes.”

By the time you reach the corner where your apartment building rises against the night sky, the rain has softened to a steady mist. It’s almost cozy. You stop. Levi stops. The umbrella tilts with its own quiet reluctance to move on.

“Here,” Levi says, handing you your plastic bag—the store purchase from earlier. 

Silence kneels between you again.

“Thanks,” you say. 

Levi lifts one corner of his mouth. “See you next time,” he says.

You hesitate. Do you dare say this? 

“...Want to come in for a minute? It’s warm,” you blurt out before you can stop yourself.

Levi stares at you. He looks completely taken aback. Shit, you should’ve just kept your mouth shut. Now he’s going to avoid the convenience store completely. You really fucked up this time—

“Yeah,” he says simply. “Warm sounds good.”

Oh. Well, nevermind then.

The door closes with a final click. The sounds of the rain fade immediately, replaced by the sounds of your apartment—the refrigerator making more ice, the faint tick of a clock somewhere you keep forgetting to change the batteries for. The warmth hits you both at once. Levi pauses just inside the door. He’s taking inventory of the space. The small entryway, the shoes by the wall, the photo of your parents on the wall. He closes the umbrella carefully and sets it aside.

“You can—uh,” you gesture vaguely, suddenly aware of how close he is. “You can take your jacket off. If you want.”

He nods. He shrugs it off, folds it once without thinking, and drapes it over the back of the chair by the door like he’s done this a thousand times. You slip out of your shoes, then realize he hasn’t moved from his spot yet.

“Sorry,” you laugh softly. “Didn’t mean to just… abandon you.”

“You didn’t,” he says calmly. “I’m fine.”

You head toward the kitchen, setting the store bag down on the counter. “I was going to make tea. Or—well. I have coffee too, but you probably don’t need more of that.”

Levi exhales quietly. Almost amused. “Tea’s fine.”

You busy yourself with the kettle, grateful for something to do with your hands. The silence stretches. You can feel him behind you, leaning lightly against the counter, close enough that if you shifted even a little, you’d brush against him. Steam begins to rise.

“You live close,” he says after a moment.

“Yeah. I like being able to walk home,” you say.

“Makes sense.” A pause. “It’s… nice.”

You glance over your shoulder. “My apartment?”

“Yeah,” he says. Then, softer, “Feels like you.”

You don’t know what those three words do to you, but it’s a feeling you can’t describe. You pour the water and set two mugs out without thinking, then stop. “Sugar?”

“No,” he replies immediately. Then, after a beat, “But… thanks.” 

You smile. When you hand him the mug, your fingers brush. Neither of you pulls away right away. Levi’s gaze drops to where you’re touching, then lifts slowly back to your face. There it is again—that look. Intent, like he’s made a decision and is simply waiting for the right moment to act on it.

“You don’t have to stay long,” you say, suddenly. “I mean—not that I want you to leave. Just—”

“I know,” he says gently. “I want to be here.”

You move to sit on the edge of the couch, setting your mug down. Levi follows, sitting beside you—not too close, but close enough that your knees almost touch. Almost. Rain taps against the window persistently.

“You always this quiet?” you ask, nudging him lightly with your shoulder.

He glances at you. “Only when it matters.”

Your breath catches. “Levi,” you say, not sure what you’re about to add.

He turns fully toward you this time. The space between you disappears. Not because he moves closer, but because everything else fades.

“You okay?” he asks, quietly. 

You nod. “Yeah. I just…”

He waits.

“I think we’ve been circling this for a while.”

Something shifts in his expression. Recognition.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “We have.”

His hand lifts, stopping just short of touching your cheek. He pauses there—giving you time. Space. An out, if you want it. You don’t take it. Instead, you lean in. 

The kiss is unhurried. Levi’s lips are warm, firm, like he’s been holding himself back longer than you realized. When his hand finally settles at your waist, it feels like a puzzle piece sliding into place. You pull back only far enough to breathe. He rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed.

“...Been wanting to do that for months now,” he murmurs.

You smile. “Took you long enough.”

A soft huff of laughter leaves him, and when he kisses you again, it’s deeper—but still restrained. Like he’s savoring the moment instead of rushing past it. Levi’s hand stays at your waist, thumb pressing in slowly, like he’s grounding himself as much as he’s grounding you. When you pull back to breathe, he doesn’t chase your mouth immediately. Instead, his gaze drops, taking the sight of you in.

“You always do that,” you say, half-teasing.

“Do what?” he asks, voice low.

“Look at me like you’re deciding something.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “That’s because I am.” Your breath stutters before you can stop it. Levi leans in again, brushing his lips against yours—not a kiss this time, just enough contact to make you feel it everywhere. “Relax,” he murmurs. “I’m not in a hurry.”

His confidence isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to be. It’s in the way he takes his time, the way he lets the tension stretch until it burns. You reach for his shirt without thinking, fingers curling into the fabric at his waist. He stills, watching you closely.

“Go ahead,” he says quietly. 

You do. The shirt comes up slowly, dragged over his shoulders, and when you push it free, you can’t help the way your hands linger, warm skin beneath your palms. You never would have expected him to be so well-built. Levi exhales as you touch him, eyes half-lidded now.

“Careful,” he says. “You keep doing that, I might forget how patient I’m trying to be.”

You smile, emboldened. “Trying?”

“Trying,” he confirms, then reaches for you.

His hands slide up your sides, unhurried, thumbs tracing the seams of your clothes. He pauses at your collarbone, fingers brushing your skin before he tugs gently, silently asking.

“Yes,” you whisper.

He doesn’t rush the undressing either. He takes his time with you—sliding fabric away inch by inch, pressing kisses to newly bared skin like punctuation marks. When your shirt falls to the floor, he moves back just enough to look at you again.

“You look good,” he says simply.

The way he says it has you squeezing your legs together involuntarily.

“Levi,” you breathe.

“Yeah?”

“You’re doing that thing again.”

He lets out a soft huff of amusement. “Can’t help it.”

He closes the distance once more, kissing you deeper now, hands firm at your waist. You melt into him, fingers sliding up his shoulders, into his hair. He groans quietly when you tug, the sound sending a spark straight through you.

“Easy,” he whispers against your mouth. “You’re winning.”

You laugh softly, breathless. “Wasn’t trying to compete.”

“Good,” he replies, teasing now. “Because I don’t lose.”

His hands explore carefully. Every touch feels chosen. When he presses his forehead to yours, breathing heavy now, it feels like the world has narrowed to this small space between you. You reach for him again, fingers slipping toward the waistband of his pants, and this time he laughs softly.

He straightens, tugging you gently up with him, hands sliding around your back as he draws you closer. Clothes are shed between kisses, movements clumsy now in the best way—fingers tangling, laughter mixing with breathless murmurs. At some point, you lose track of where your things land. You’re both left in your underwear. Levi’s hands find your hips again, grip firm but careful as he guides you back against the couch, following you down. He hovers for a moment, looking at you like he’s checking in one last time.

“Still okay?” he asks.

You nod, heart racing. “Very.”

He smirks faintly. “Good.”

He kisses you again—deeper now—and the moment stretches, tension coiling tighter and tighter until it feels almost unbearable. His mouth leaves yours only to trace a slow path along your jaw, down the line of your throat. When his hands slide up your sides, thumbs pressing in just enough to make you lean into him, he pauses, waiting. When his hand slips lower, you gasp softly, and he stills instantly.

“Hey,” he says. “Talk to me.”

You nod, breath uneven. “I’m good. Just—surprised.”

His thumb presses lightly, reassuring. “I won’t rush you.”

“I know,” you whisper. “I trust you.”

Something shifts in his expression. “Then hold on,” he says quietly.

Then his hand slides beneath your underwear, fingers deftly resting against your clit. A soft exhale from your lips follows. The contact burns in a good way. Your eyes flutter shut as he starts to stroke in small circles, applying just the right amount of pressure. You’re not overwhelmed, but it’s not subtle either. He’s moving by touch alone, sight stolen from him due to the fabric barrier.

Levi leans down, smashing your lips together as he teases your entrance with a single digit. Before you can fully register the sensation, he slides one finger in. Your arousal welcomes him cleanly, sliding in without any resistance. A low curse is swallowed by Levi’s mouth. 

The world around your blurs when he slips a second finger inside you. You arch your back against the couch, trying to keep yourself from closing your legs. From closing off access to the pleasure between your legs. His fingers move in an exploratory manner, like he’s learning your reactions in real time. You gasp into his shoulder when he curls them, your nails catching lightly against his back.

“There,” he whispers against your lips. “That’s the sound.”

You don’t even know what he means until he does it again, and the sound leaves you before you can swallow it. Levi exhales through his nose, pleased.

He’s watching you. That’s what makes it worse. The way his eyes track every change in your expression. The way he adjusts the pressure, the rhythm. He treats it like he’s solving something carefully, and he intends to get it right. You shift against him, hips twitching. His free hand comes to your hip, holding you steady.

“Easy. Let me,” he says quietly. You bite your lip, trying to hold it together. He leans closer, mouth brushing your ear. “You don’t have to be quiet.”

The rain outside gets louder—or maybe it’s just the rush in your ears. His fingers twist and curl more confidently now, more certain. He’s found what makes you react, and he doesn’t waste it. The tension builds slowly, pooling in your lower gut. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t want to.

“You’re shaking,” he notes.

“Whose fault is that?” you manage to say.

A faint chuckle vibrates against your skin. “Mine.” 

He doesn’t break rhythm. He curls his fingers deeper, pressing the tips against a spot that has you gasping. Your nails dig into his back, your forehead pressing against his shoulder as the feeling coils tighter and tighter. He keeps whispering small things—your name, quiet encouragement, reminders to breathe. His palm begins to grind against your aching clit. You can feel the pleasure building, a slow burn that's spreading from your core. You're lost in the sensation, your body moving of its own accord, following his rhythm.

Your entire body sinks when it hits you. It’s sudden and overwhelming, leaving you clutching at him and the couch. Levi holds you through it, pressing harder, and he doesn’t stop immediately. He only slows when your breathing starts to even out, when the tremble in your hands softens. Then he withdraws gently, pressing a slow kiss to your temple. You’re still catching your breath when he leans back just enough to look at you.

“Condom?” you ask. 

Levi arches an eyebrow and reaches for his pants, pulling out his wallet. He reaches in and takes out a foil packet, ripping it open with his teeth. He slides off his boxers. His cock is standing to attention. How you wish you could taste him. Levi seems to be too impatient to wait any longer—and so are you.

You undress the rest of yourself as he sheathes himself, your heart hammering in your chest. He settles between your legs, his hips resting against yours. He looks at you, eyes driven with desire. “Are you sure about this?” he asks, his voice steady despite the need you see in his eyes.

You nod, your hands going to his hips, pulling him closer. You don’t verbalize your need for him. You don’t have to.

He smiles, leans down, and captures your lips in a searing kiss as he enters you. You gasp into his mouth, your walls stretching to accommodate him. He’s big. Bigger than anyone you’ve been with before. But you’re ready for him. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.

The way he settles against you is careful at first. He checks in on you without words. You respond by lacing your fingers on the back of his neck. He starts to move, slowly at first, giving you time to adjust. You can feel every inch of him as he moves in and out of you, setting a rhythm that’s both steady and maddening. You meet his thrusts, your hips moving in sync with his. He groans softly, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

“Damn,” he mutters. “You feel that?”

“Yes,” you breathe. “Levi—”

“Yeah,” he answers, immediately. “I’ve got you.”

Your hands find their way into his hair. He stills for half a second at the sensation, then relaxes into it, a low sound leaving him as his forehead drops briefly to your shoulder. The closeness is overwhelming in the best way—consuming. 

His cock drives deep into you, pushing further until you feel full with him. His hands never leave your body, tracing lines of fire wherever they touch. He groans into your mouth, his hips jerking forward. 

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs before capturing one of your nipples in his mouth. You stifle a moan, hands gripping his hair tighter, holding him to you. He switches to the other nipple, giving it equal attention, before trailing kisses down your neck.

His pace picks up, but he still pays careful attention to every reaction, every shift of your body beneath his. The rhythm that follows is unhurried. He listens without words, responding to the way your breath changes, the way your fingers tighten in his hair, the way your body moves to meet his without conscious thought. Every movement feels deliberate, like he’s paying attention not just to your body, but to you.

Both of you are nearly at your breaking point. He can tell.

Levi reaches between you, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing in time with his thrusts. You moan, your head thrown back, your body tensing. You’re on the cusp of ecstasy. You just need one final push.

“Cum for me,” he says, whispering your name. “Cum on my cock.”

And you do. Your orgasm rips through you, your body convulsing, your nails digging into his back. He follows you, his body tensing, his thrusts becoming erratic as he finds his own release. He collapses on top of you, his body shuddering, his breath coming in ragged gasps. 

After a moment, he rolls off you, disposing of the condom before pulling you into his arms. You rest your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat as it slows down. He kisses the top of your head, his arms tightening around you. You cling to him as the heat fades, heart racing, body warm and loose beside him.

Levi doesn’t pull away. He stays close, one hand splayed at your side. When he finally shifts, it’s only to draw you closer, tucking you against him. You rest your forehead against his collarbone, still catching your breath.

“…You good?” he asks quietly.

You hum in agreement. “Very.”

He exhales slowly, tension bleeding out of him now. “Yeah. Me too.”

For a while, neither of you says anything. The rain taps faintly against the window, softer now, like it’s winding down with you.

“You know,” you say eventually, fingers tracing idle patterns against his chest, “for someone who pretends he’s all control—”

He huffs. “Pretends?”

“You did a lot of waiting.”

A pause. Then, quietly, “Worth it.”

You tilt your head up to look at him. His gaze is calmer now, open in a way you haven’t seen before.

“Stay?” you ask.

He doesn’t hesitate.

“Yeah,” Levi says, pulling you a little closer. “I’m not going anywhere.”

.

The bell above the door chimes when you step inside.

The lights are too bright—as always—the aisles are cleaner than usual, and the hour is too late for anything meaningful to happen here. And yet, it does. Again.

Levi is already by your side when you enter. He doesn’t say anything. Neither do you. There’s no pretense of browsing this time, no small talk to ease into the night. He moves with you through the store, turning when you turn, stopping when you stop. Close enough that you’re always aware of him. Close enough that the memory of his hands lingers in the way your skin warms. 

He doesn’t pick up coffee tonight. You notice it immediately.

At the register, you set your items down and reach for your wallet. Levi’s card taps the reader before you can blink. The cashier doesn’t comment. Just slides the bag across the counter like this is the most normal thing in the world.

Levi takes the bag from your hand when you exit without asking and starts walking. You walk beside him. You don’t talk. There’s no need to. 

Halfway down the block, Levi slows just enough to pull his phone from his pocket. He unlocks it, thumbs moving quickly, then holds it out to you.

“I never gave you my number,” he says, like it’s an oversight he’s correcting. Nothing more. You take the phone, fingers brushing his. You add your number, then hand it back. He glances down at the screen once, then puts it away, satisfied.

The rest of the walk is quiet again.

When you reach the corner—the one where you always split—Levi stops. He turns to face you. For a moment, he just looks at you.

Then, casually, he asks, “Yours or mine?”

You blink. Then laugh.

“Yours,” you say.

The corner of his mouth lifts just barely. He hands you the bag, fingers lingering for half a second longer than necessary, then turns and starts walking—already certain you’ll follow.

And you do.

Because some routines are meant to be broken.

Thank you for reading <3

MASTERLIST ♡ JOIN THE TAGLIST ♡ AO3 ♡ WATTPAD ♡ KO-FI

divider by: echanthings

Last year, when you first met Armin, he had finished his summer internship in California, and the beach environment was evident in his look. He had a glowing tan for months, which paired wonderfully with his short, blond hair and his open button-ups that flowed in the breeze (you especially liked his blue one; it made his eyes sparkle and look like the ocean he had grown so fond of). One time, his white undershirt was a bit on the thin side, and you caught a faint outline of his abs every time he stretched. You distinctly remember how warm you felt at the sight, and the impulsive urge to risk it all and kiss him silly afterward.

You also remember stomping out the compulsion like an ember. At the time, you had just become friends. This was the second hangout you had that wasn't at some school building or coffee shop. The last thing you wanted Armin to think was that you've been lusting over him this whole time, especially if he saw your relationship as purely platonic.

From then on, any time you caught yourself thinking about him for too long, you immediately stopped your fantasies then and there. These lapses were few and far in between, so you didn't worry very much over your lack of judgment. A quick reset, and it was like the thought never occurred.

But then summer came and went again, and you soon realized how utterly fucked you were.

During the long break, rather than spend another hot summer in California, Armin got an opportunity to study marine biology in the South Pole. He was fascinated with the extremophiles found in the area, and was over the moon when he got accepted to intern at one of the research centers there.

There were some downsides, however. Namely, the difficulties in communication. While he wasn't going completely silent, between the lack of reception and busy schedule, his replies were likely to be on the sparse side. Armin profusely apologized for this, but you laughed it off and reassured him that it was fine.

"Seriously, Min, don't feel sorry. This is literally your dream. You'll probably be enjoying yourself too much to even worry about that. We'll see each other soon enough, alright?"

"Yeah, I know that," he sighs, a shy smile forming. "The opportunity is great and all, I just think— I just think I'll miss you a lot."

You smile back , ignoring the way your heart skipped a beat.

As expected, contact over those twelve weeks were limited. You shared the major events, like when you visited your family or when Armin stumbled upon a waddle of penguins while working, but even those messages felt bittersweet, distorted due to the separation.

The whole break, a part of you was itching to go back to school. Stressful as it is, at least your friend wouldn't be in another continent. One by one, as the summer came to a close, your friends started arriving and coming back to campus, the college town growing louder by the day. Hangouts and bar outings were back on the docket, but they felt lackluster when the person you wanted most wasn't at any of them.

Why did there have to be limited transportation out of Antarctica? Do you have to promote this place as the next big tourist spot just so you could make them have a regular flight schedule?

Eventually, when everyone was mostly accounted for, your friends decided to throw a party the weekend before classes. Connie, Jean, and Marco were the only group that had a townhouse rather than an apartment, and were more than willing to use their space to welcome everyone back.

You were also very much looking forward to the party too: not only could you catch up with everyone, but this would be your first time seeing Armin since the spring. His flight arrived only a few hours ago, so tonight was the perfect opportunity to talk about your summers, no longer constricted to texts and awkward emails.

However, what you didn't think to consider is how much a person can change in twelve weeks. Specifically, how much a person can physically change in that time.

If your messages with Armin were scarce, photos and videos were practically nonexistent, so when he first walks into the house party, you don't fully comprehend that it's him. Rather than hair that cuts cleanly in the back, you're met with long hair that covers his ears and brushes his neck, and small, rectangular-framed glasses that draw you into a pair of familiar, blue eyes. It's a moment of confusion, followed by a moment of recognition, and finally a moment of realization.

You liked this look. A lot. Maybe even too much.

You don't notice that you're staring, not until Eren swoops Armin into a bro hug and drags him to the kitchen. You keep watching him until he rounds the corner, unsure if he notices you and your hot stare.

How would his long hair feel in your fingers? To play with it while you kiss—

Nope. Reset.

You don't give yourself the chance to finish the thought, ejecting yourself from whatever fantasy you were about to have. You take several gulps of your cup, letting out a slow exhale after you swallow. The drink burns the whole way down. While you originally scolded Sasha and her habit of overpouring, you were grateful for the buzz you were surely going to feel soon.

Something you failed to consider, however, was the amount of drinking games you would get roped into, and apparently how bad you were at all of them. If you thought your drink was bad, the last two losing cups were borderline stomach-churning. You're ninety percent sure someone added pickle juice in that last cup.

Luckily, you're still sensible enough to tap out of the next round, only stumbling a few times while walking out towards the patio. For the most part, the backyard looks empty. There must have been a group out here earlier though, judging by the dying flames in the fire pit.

You close your eyes and focus on the smoke wafting in the air. Compared to the drinks you were having, it smelled like heaven. With a sigh of relief, you open your eyes and slump onto the nearest lawn chair. It's comfortable enough, for the most part. If you were drunker, you could easily fall asleep here for an hour or two, though the last time someone (Reiner) did that, someone else (Ymir) drew a penis on their face, so maybe it was for the best.

It doesn't take long for your solitude to be broken. You barely register the footsteps creeping up behind you, too lost watching the fire in front of you.

"Hey," a voice you knew all too well says. You look up to see Armin smiling as he slides into the seat next to you. "Mikasa told me I'd find you here. Heard you lost the last two rounds of boom cup." You can hear the smirk in his words as he takes a sip from his cup.

"Their table sucks. Ping pong balls wouldn't bounce for shit," you grumble.

"Well, you probably just kept bouncing them into puddles of beer like last time."

"… maybe." Definitely.

"At least you quit while you were ahead," he offers. "I saw Connie pour soy sauce into last round's cup."

The image makes you swallow back a gag. The alcohol in your stomach sloshes around, a wave of nausea overtaking you. Armin must catch the grimace on your face, because he quickly apologizes and extends his cup to you. You shake your head, declining the idea of having more to drink.

A hand grabs your wrist and you stop your motions. You're suddenly aware of how close Armin has gotten, his body leaning into yours. He pushes the cup into your open palm, and your fingers instinctively lace around the plastic.

"Don't worry, it's just water. I stopped drinking a while ago," Armin says. Once you have a firm hold, he takes his hands away and relaxes back into his chair. You try to ignore the feeling left behind on your wrist. "You seem like you need it more than me."

"Yeah, probably. Thanks," you croak.

You look down at Armin's (now yours, technically) drink, noticing a mark on the rim closest to your mouth. There's a faint shine to it when it catches the light from the fire, similar to a lip gloss stain. It was no doubt from Armin and the chapstick he always wore: he had a terrible habit of picking at his lips and licking them afterward. The waxy smudge probably had his spit mixed into it.

Without a second thought, you bring your lips to the cup, matching them to exactly where Armin's once were.

An indirect kiss.

Your sips are slow, to not upset your stomach or to keep your mouth on the cup for longer, you're not sure. The chapstick isn't flavored, but you wonder if it would taste different if you caught it from Armin's mouth directly. If his lips would feel rough underneath the greasy layer, and if his tongue would work into your mouth, licking with the same fervor he uses against his own. If your tongue met his, would you be able to taste the liquor that didn't get washed away?

Stop. Reset. What the hell is wrong with you?

You grip the drink, the plastic denting and making a loud pop noise. Tilting your head back, you proceed to chug the rest of the water, possible stomachache be damned. You finish the cup with a soft groan. Were you always this easily aroused when drunk?

Armin clears his throat. You snap your head back toward him, almost forgetting he was watching you the entire time. He's looking at you with slight worry and confusion.

Shit, how long did you space off for?

"Uh, guess I was thirstier than I realized. Sorry," you say.

"It's okay," he reassures. His stare feels more calculating than observing. You can't tell if he actually believes you. "I've been meaning to find you for a while. I was going to right when I came over, but Eren kept dragging me around."

You snort, the awkwardness quickly fading. "Sounds like he missed you." You knew the feeling. "How did you end up getting away?"

"He's currently arguing with Jean about whether you can make tea in a microwave. Got pretty heated, no pun intended, and I slipped away in the middle of it."

You weren't surprised at the news. The two of them always get into some weird debate at these things. Assuming that they're both drunk, and they probably are, you give it another ten minutes before they're crying into each other's arms and profusely apologizing. Their relationship was weird like that.

"And before that?" you ask. "Did you have a good time?"

Armin hums in consideration before answering, "I'd say so. Nice to see everyone before the school year starts. Reiner's pretty wasted, though. He thought I was Historia when I first said hi to him. That was … something." There's a wince at that particular memory. "I guess I do look a bit different, so I don't really blame him."

You let yourself look at him, your blinks slow and heavy in your inebriated state. His hair shines in the faint light and looks soft to the touch. Some strands look a bit wild, messy from the antics of the night. It was candid. Boyish.

Thoughts from earlier resurface, and your fingers twitch in want. You catch the action, and promptly dig your fists into your lap.

"I suppose being MIA all summer doesn't help either. Not that you could really do anything about that," you eventually respond. "Do you at least like it? The haircut?"

"No strong opinions, to be honest." He pauses, tilting his head and mulling it over. "It just kinda happened, really. There's not exactly any barbershops over there, and it was nice to have something to cover my ears so they wouldn't freeze." Armin tucks a piece of hair behind his ear at the memory, like he just figured out he doesn't need to worry about that anymore.

"Clothes were a similar story. Sweaters got a bit bulky under all the layers, so it was easier to wear a thermal and some vest over it." He motions down to his current outfit: a t-shirt for some punk band Mikasa probably got him into over a white, wrinkled long-sleeve. "This was my attempt at a summer-friendly version of it. I think it's growing on me though, what do you think?"

You look good, you think to yourself. You look so good. You were always attractive and handsome but right now you're making me go crazy and—

"It suits you." Images of you kissing Armin's neck and sucking bruises into his collarbones so they're barely peeking over his shirt now plague your mind. "You should keep the haircut too." Hopefully he doesn't catch your selfish intentions.

Armin smiles at your praise and looks away from you in slight embarrassment. It's short-lived as he catches the time on his watch and says, "It's getting late, do you want a ride home? I just had the one drink from earlier, so I'm good to head out."

A part of you wants to say no. Take a breather and properly reset your hormonal brain. On the other hand, a free ride is a free ride.

You quietly agree with a nod. Soon enough, you're sitting in the passenger seat, a mix of sleepy and tipsy settling in your bones. You watch Armin as he reverses out of the driveway and pulls onto the main road. A car from the opposite lane passes by, and the bright headlights shine through your window and send a glare across his glasses.

"I never realized you wore glasses," you murmur, almost like it's some secret between you two. "How long have you had them?"

Armin shrugs. "A while. Sometime in middle school, I think."

"So what? You just never wear them? Are you walking around blind all day?"

That makes him laugh. "Usually just wear contacts, but I can read most things if they're close. I see most things perfectly fine, if that's what you're worried about."

You huff at his teasing. "I guess I just don't see why you never wore them in the first place. Seems like it be easier to."

"It kind of depends, really. During the summer, my glasses would fog up outside, so I wore contacts. But the cold made my contacts dry out my eyes, so I wore glasses whenever I was working inside. I haven't gotten around to grabbing more contacts yet—"

"I like them. Your glasses." You turn away from him, too timid to look at him while you make your confession. "They … they look really good on you."

A blush creeps up Armin's neck. "Oh. Uh, thanks. That's nice … that's nice to know."

The rest of the ride is silent. Mortification sets in; curse your drunkenness and loose lips. You shouldn't have said anything, but your body must have panicked. An ugly, possessive part of you wanted him to know, to know how attractive he was with his glasses. That you would pray to some higher being for him to ditch the contacts altogether.

Would his glasses fog up if you kissed him? If your hot breaths met his needy pants? He would be blindsided as you dragged him closer into your face, moaning into his mouth as you gently pushed his bangs away from his eyes. You could peck the tips of his cheek before moving further back, nipping his earlobe and kissing the space behind, making him let out a whine. When you pull back, his glasses would be slightly askew, his face all the more flustered.

Stop. Eject. Abort. Literally anything. Just stop it.

You will your mind to turn off whatever sick television is playing up there. Your body doesn't get the same message, however. As you tense, physically trying to reset yourself, your legs press together and squeeze. The complete opposite effect happens and you ache from the pressure. You press your thighs together a tad harder and shift your weight forward, almost rocking into the pleasure. A particular bump in the road makes you clench down.

Fuck, what is wrong with you? Why can't you stop thinking about him?

The car thuds into a stop, and you hear the click of the door unlocking when Armin puts it into park. It makes you focus back into reality, a quiet gasp leaving your lips. Your legs relax and pull away from each other.

"You okay?" Armin asks.

You quickly nod. "Mhmm." A light cough escapes your throat. "Still a bit out of it, I guess."

"Right, yeah, of course. Here, I'll help walk you to your place," he offers, ever the gentleman. You should've known better.

"You know what? I suddenly feel a lot better. Fully sober, even." You sound like a frat guy being pulled over by a cop. Your hand is on the door handle and you're making a break for it before he can unbuckle his seatbelt. "I'll be okay. Thanks though."

You're only a few feet away before he calls your name, the window now rolled down. "Let me know when you're free. We should hang out and catch up … I've missed you," he says. Even when he's shouting out his car, there's something about his voice that's still so gentle. Almost fond. When you turn around to face him, you're met with wide eyes and an expectant smile.

Guilt hits you. At the end of the day, Armin was your friend. The long distance was just as evident for him as it was for you. He's trying to make up for lost time, the same as you before you started spiraling out. The least you can do is meet him halfway.

"I missed you too," you reply, voice just as affectionate. Armin looks relieved, his smile more relaxed. "Thanks again for the ride. I'll text you when I'm home."

He nods. You say your goodbyes and Armin watches you go inside before driving. A short walk up the stairs later, you enter your apartment, do a half-ass job of washing your face and brushing your teeth, and climb into the comfort of your bed.

It was an off night. A true reset with eight hours of uninterrupted sleep will do the trick, you think. Partying with all your friends that you haven't seen for months, combined with the buzz still circulating in your body, was bound to lead to heightened emotions. Now that you're home, you'll feel relaxed and refreshed in no time. You repeat these affirmations in your head as you let your eyes shut.

By what seems to be the hundredth repeat, you start to lose it. Checking the time on your phone, more than half an hour has passed, and you groan in frustration. Your body feels nowhere near relaxed.

At that exact moment, your phone buzzes in your hand. A text.

[Armin 🌊]

I'm guessing you're probably asleep or something, but I just wanted to say it was nice to see you tonight! Even if it was only for a little bit lol

Are you free Tuesday? I need to write a reflection paper on my internship this summer, so I was thinking of hanging at the library if you wanted to join. I know it's only the first week, but I figured the company would be nice. Let me know if you're free!

Have a good night :)))

God, was his texting always this cute? Of course you would say yes. Armin could ask you to help clean his bathroom, and you'd be ready with a bucket and scrubber in hand.

You text back a quick yes and goodnight before tossing your phone onto your nightstand and landing back into your pillow with a grunt. Why were you being so weird with him right now? Just because Armin looks different (hot), doesn't mean your relationship with him has changed. You were friends and nothing more.

The same heightened emotions from the party probably just made your feelings for him go into some weird overdrive. Prior to tonight, none of your daydreams have ever been so physical. So, well, freaky.

It wasn't fair of you to act like this. To push him away because you can't keep it in your pants. But your reset methods clearly aren't working, so you needed a new approach. At least right now.

…

Oh.

The answer is obvious, isn't it?

"Goddammit," you grumble to no one. Were you seriously considering masturbating to your best friend? That was completely invasive. Your friendship was built on mutual respect and appreciation of one another. It would be wrong to use their trust like that.

… Then again, wouldn't it be respectful to get your horniness out of the way before it affected your friendship?

Your counterargument, combined with the fact that it's two in the morning and your roommate is staying the night at her girlfriend's, is enough to get you to shimmy out of your shorts.

If you're going to actually go through with this, might as well let yourself indulge in some of your fantasies.

You think back to what would have happened if you stayed in the car, if you didn't panic and leave. Maybe in another world, if you were a bit more confident and you were sure that Armin felt the same way, you wouldn't have ran. Maybe you would have went toward him instead, climbing out of your seat and leaning over the car console.

Inches away from wide eyes and parted lips, you'd close the distance and offer a gentle kiss. Something to test the waters, to see if he wanted more. He lets you tip your weight onto him, steadying you with one hand on your shoulder blade and the other balancing the both of you on the seat of his chair. When he doesn't back away, you let yourself deepen the kiss, cupping his cheek as you work his mouth open.

Your other hand would trail down his body, starting from his slim shoulders down to his firm chest, finally stopping at his soft thighs. You rub the inner part of his leg and swallow the whimper that escapes his throat. It's all the assurance you need to bring your fingers higher up, grazing his crotch.

You let one of your hands travel under your shirt and cup your breast, the same hand that fantasy you is using to palm Armin's length. Your thumb brushes against your nipple, the bud quickly hardening under your attention. You switch to your other breast as you let your mind wander.

With your fingers skimming across his stirring cock, giving it the bare minimum pressure to work himself into a fuss, Armin's kisses start to grow slow and sloppy, barely keeping up with your hungry lips.

He pulls his face away from you with a soft moan and dips it into the crook of you neck. His breath warms your skin as he utters a whiny, "please," and lets his hand drag down your back and settle right above your ass. You give his now hard dick a sure squeeze, and you smoothly climb over the gearshift in the time it takes to let out a desperate groan.

Your fingers find the band of your underwear, stretching and playing with the elastic. You travel lower and cup the heat radiating through the fabric. The tip of your middle finger presses into your folds, making you hum at the sensation. You stroke the entrance of your slit and feel the dampness soaking your panties.

Guess you don't really need foreplay when you've been blue-balling yourself for more than a year.

You pull your underwear to the side, the air chilling on your exposed pussy. Taking your same finger from earlier, you pump your knuckles into the warm muscle. You clench hard on your digit as you whimper in desperation. You add another finger to relieve the ache, groaning at the fullness. A particular curl of your fingertips nearly knocks your knees together and you have to remind yourself to keep breathing.

With your legs settled on either side of Armin's, your cunt sits perfectly on top of his boner as you start a desperate, dirty grind against his length. The motion jostles his arm and makes his hand lower, hovering over the swell of your ass. His broken moans come out uncertain, unsure of what's happening and what he should be doing.

A forceful yank of his wrists pulls his hands right where you want them, and he grabs your ass with a needy squeeze.

It doesn't take long until Armin's practically shaking under you, gripping you like a lifeline as you continue to rock your hips to meet his. His attempts at kissing your collarbones are messy and consist mostly of licking the skin and the occasional light nip when the tip of his dick feels your movements.

You tilt his chin to sit below your sternum. A brush of his bangs exposes his forehead, and you leave a kiss on the skin before you push your shoulders and trap Armin's head between your chest. He shamelessly wails at the contact, letting himself be smothered by your tits.

A heat bubbles low in your stomach. You're so close already, your limit fast approaching. The emptiness when you pull out your slick fingers makes you whine, but when you start massaging your clit, the noise quickly dissipates into a choked-out gasp.

You cover your mouth with your palm, trapping the air escaping your lips. It's a futile attempt at silence: the sounds of you smearing your arousal are lewd, echoing in the quiet of your apartment. Even with no one else home, you're left feeling shameful and dirty. Yet that makes you all the more horny.

A particular flick against your clit makes you clench down hard. Everything felt like too much and not enough. You bring your fingers back down and give your needy cunt something to throb on. A tightness grows above your cervix after a few pumps, and you pull out to frantically rub your clit.

"Oh fuck—oh god. Please let me come, please, please, please," a voice rumbles against your heart.

The thought of Armin coming in his pants makes your eyes shut tight as you ride your high. You bite the skin of your palm that still covers your mouth and stutter out short pants, your body twitching under the waves of pleasure.

You don't think you've ever came so hard so fast before. Several seconds are lost from your memory as your vision turns white, and your lower body jerks at the aftershocks. When you move your fingers away from your abused clit, you wince, the area now sensitive.

Clarity comes after your pulse slows down, the realization of what you just did sinking deep in your gut. You grimace when you can feel the stain your wetness left on the bedsheets when you shift your body, and it takes you longer than it should to clean yourself and change your underwear. Your motions are hesitant, embarrassed even if there's no one to see the events that transpired.

But again, this was a one-time thing.

Probably.

Hopefully.

When you're back in your bed, you hate how sated your body feels, and how quickly sleep finds you soon after.

The floor of the library vibrates under your foot. Your leg has been incessantly bouncing for the past ten minutes; you'd be surprised if you didn't leave a dent in the carpet.

A few days have passed since your … incident. That following morning, you woke up with a surge of energy and determination. You were drunk, had some pent up emotions, and masturbated them out. Things could be normal again.

Then again, you have yet to test this theory. Since the party, Armin's been busy unpacking or submitting papers to get class credit for his summer research. The texts you've sent one another in the meantime seemed normal enough. It may have taken twice the time for you to send them, double-checking each message before hitting send because you were paranoid you would say something along the lines of "I jerked off to the idea of us dry humping in your car", but still.

Today was the true test. The two of you agreed to meet at the library after your classes, with your last class ending a few minutes earlier than expected. You were hoping the extra time would give you a chance to steady yourself, but no matter how hard your leg bounces, the nerves can't seem to be shaken out. The end of your pen starts getting abused as your thumb continuously clicks against the spring, however it's short-lived when you notice the nasty side-eye from the grad student working the front desk.

"I don't think I've ever seen the library this empty before," a voice beside you says. Armin proceeds to slide into the seat across from you, ruffling his hair away from his face. You exercise restraint and look away, suddenly finding your notebook interesting. So far, so good.

"No one's exactly studying on the second day of classes. Unless you're, you know, a nerd," you smirk.

"Well you're the one who agreed to hang out with a nerd. So what does that make you?"

Fucking whipped. Some creep that's potentially edging themselves by being near you. "A good friend, obviously."

Armin hums. "Can't argue with that." He stares at the notebook in front of you, the page still freshly blank. "Do you have anything you're working on? I'd hate to bore you while I work."

"Not really, but it's okay, I could always look ahead. Or play minesweeper if I feel lazy," you shrug, both of you knowing the latter was more likely. "How's your work coming along?"

"It's just busy work, really. I just need to explain what I did over the summer and what I learned, so it shouldn't be too hard. They just need proof that I actually did something worth earning credit for."

He opens his laptop and starts settling into the space. His long, slender fingers rapidly type across his keyboard faster than your eyes can comprehend. The dexterity leaves you mildly impressed, wondering how they move against your clit.

Stop it. Get a grip.

"—uh, you know," you start, drawing a stop to Armin's motions. "You never really got to tell me what you did over there. At least not the specifics."

"Oh." His eyes widen, staring at you like a lost puppy. It's entirely too endearing. "I didn't think anyone would care that much."

That leaves a sour taste in your mouth. While you did have ulterior motives to your question, wanting to use it as a distraction from your impure thoughts, you also wanted to hear about his passions. In what world would Armin ever be boring?

"Of course I would care. You seemed really excited to go there, I could only imagine it was like a dream come true. I want to know everything."

"Okay. Well, if you're sure,"—Armin sits up, face relaxing into a soft smile—"So there's still a lot that's unknown regarding the world and its microbial diversity, but that's what makes it super cool. We can be one of the first to research it, which is also kind of frustrating, since there's so much information to look at and few references to compare it to, but it's crazy to see how these organisms thrive in climates that we find uninhabitable. If we can learn how they're able to survive, we can apply it to so many different things to improve people's lives. We could slow down the spoilage of food to aid starving communities; preserve stem cells and embryos; prevent hypothermia during medical procedures."

His hands are waving all over the place, words coming out a mile a minute. "And even if we can't apply these functions to our world, it's still really interesting. We also went along the peninsula to find these micro-animals called tardigrades in the moss cushions, they're honestly pretty cute. I mean, you have to see them through a microscope and then some special imaging to get a good illustration of them, but still cute nonetheless."

You always liked the way Armin explained things: passionate, never condescending, always detail-oriented. It was one of the main reasons why you wanted to keep studying with him: even as the semesters pass, and the two of you no longer have any shared classes, you still find yourself captivated in what he has to say.

But never had his words made your mouth water. That shouldn't have been as hot as it was, and have you been staring at his mouth this whole time? You nearly choke on your spit when you swallow.

"Oh! I could show them to you, if you want," Armin continues. "There was a section about them in this one biochemistry book I looked at before my internship. It had a cool visual of the types of environments they were found in too."

"Mhmm, sure." You had no idea what he just said. When he starts getting up from his chair and motions you to follow you, you move without a second thought.

Fucking whipped.

The science section is further back in the library than you expected. It seems like you pass every subject before Armin stops at a particular shelf. You can't tell if the old smell is coming from the wood of the shelf or the yellowing papers. Probably both.

It was so quiet in this section. Even when classes pick up, you doubt many students travel this deep into the building.

God, the things you could do to him here without anyone noticing.

No, fuck. Stop. Are you seriously going to get horny in the middle of the library?

You force yourself to read the titles on the shelves. You get to a textbook titled Supramolecular Chemistry: Fundamentals and Applications when Armin mutters to himself, "It's either on this shelf or the one above it ..." He's tracing his finger across the book spines, rapidly scanning each title on the shelf that's eye-level to him. "Not here …"

Armin proceeds to go one shelf up and start searching. Unbeknownst to him, his shirt rides up and exposes the lower half of his stomach.

Great. As if the repeat of the long sleeve and t-shirt combo wasn't torture enough.

Your eyes lock on to the bare skin like a Victorian man seeing ankles. His stomach looks muscular yet soft, you can almost see the faint divot of his belly button at the top. Looking further down, his jeans are slung low on his hips, the band of his green, plaid boxers peeking out of the denim. But what really gets you is the vertical line that connects the two.

Dark blond, nearly brown hair travels from his navel and disappears underneath his boxers. It's probably only a centimeter or two wide, the hairs straggly and zigzagging ever so slightly down. It's the sexiest thing you've ever seen in your life.

You want to push him against the shelf hard enough to make the near-rotting wood splinter. You want to give him a searing kiss to his parted lips and slacked jaw before getting on your knees for him. You want to yank the zipper of his pants down with such force that it nearly rips off the teeth. You want to follow the hair down and see if it darkens around the base of his cock.

Jesus Christ, what is happening to you? Look away. Now.

You don't listen. You're too far gone.

The show continues as you picture yourself nuzzling the happy trail while kissing the skin above his underwear. Armin's looking at you with wide eyes as he lets out a choked gasp. He looks like he wants to tell you to stop, but there's something about the way his eyes glaze over and how nostrils flare that makes you think he wants you to keep going.

A harsh pull on his clothes frees his growing cock. You savor the moment and give gentle kisses up his length, feeling him harden after each peck. A wet lick across his tip makes Armin groan and brace himself on the nearest books behind him. You swallow the bitterness of his precome and moan at the taste. Without warning, you suck his length into your mouth, letting your tongue drag against the underside.

Armin sinks into the shelf with a gasp as saliva pools and leaks past your lips. The messy sounds of your sucking grows, and a choking noise echoes loudly in the room. You're desperate to take every inch of Armin down your throat, and his poorly muffled moans only spur you on. His knuckles whiten as his grip on the shelf tightens, but it's a feeble attempt at restraint when he's subconsciously thrusting himself deeper into your mouth.

When you come up for a breather, you press a sweet kiss right below his belly button, letting the drool dripping down your chin soak the hair beneath it. It matches perfectly with the wet patch smeared around his base. Your hand jerks his slick cock and you can feel him twitch in your palm. You can't decide if you want to swallow his warm load or spit it into the mess you already created.

"Here it is, someone didn't shelve it right. How hard is it to follow the LCC system?" Armin pulls the book down with an exasperated sigh. "Give me a second to find the sect—are you okay?"

You look like a nervous chihuahua. Your shoulders are pulled tight toward your body and your eyes are bulging out of their sockets. You don't think you've been breathing for past twenty seconds.

You feel guilty. Wrong. You need to get out of here before you melt onto the floor.

"Sorry," you barely muscle out. "I just realized that I promised Sasha that I would help her with her uh … laundry."

Armin lowers the book down, closing it between his thumb. "Her laundry?"

"Yep. Poor Sash, sometimes she just doesn't know when to wash and when to … dry."

"… Huh?"

What the hell are you talking about?

"Anyway! I should really get going, don't want her to ruin her clothes and all that. Check out that book and I'll look at it next time, alright?"

"Uh, yeah sure—"

"—perfect! Amazing! I'll see you later!" You don't give Armin a chance to say goodbye before you're sprinting down the hallway. You pass the spot where you were sitting earlier and swipe your backpack off from the floor, ignoring your pens and paper that are scattered across the table.

The run to back to your apartment happens in a blur: all you can feel is the burning in your lungs and the blood pounding in your head. Your leg muscles feel like they're one wrong step away from tearing off the bone, but you still somehow make it to your place in half the time.

You immediately strip your clothes off and jump into a freezing shower. For the most part, the cold water soothes the burn in your body, no doubt helping whatever soreness you're bound to have. You stick your face directly into the spray, hoping the water can wash away your shame.

God, you feel like you're under some spell. Some crazy, twisted spell cast by some outcast pervert that wanted to watch the world endlessly fuck one another. You can't seem to flush out the mixture of adrenaline and arousal that scorches your gut. Drops of water hit your pebbled nipples in a way that makes you crave the chill rather than pull away. Everything feels like torture, but you can't do anything but want and want.

You support yourself with one hand on the wall in front of you while your other hand snakes down to your heat. A wetness that's definitely not from the shower coats the pad of your fingers, and you can't help but dip a knuckle inside you.

The relief, although small, makes you let out a shaky breath. It doesn't take long until you're grinding against the base of your palm and pumping your fingers into your tight hole. Your hand is cramping and you're leaning your forehead against the wall, moans airy and faint against the running water.

A curl of your fingers makes you come with a silent scream. The inside of your thighs are left a slippery mess and your bicep is still aching after you loosen your wrist from your cunt. You come back to your senses and remorse kicks in. Something deep inside you still simmers, and you have a feeling this was only the beginning.

"Fucking hell …" you whisper with a huff.

Grabbing the shower knob, you move the water to a reasonable temperature and clean yourself up.

… You can't stop masturbating.

If you weren't in class, you were in your room with your hand shoved down your pants, too pent up to even take them off. Even with your frequent showering (your water bill is going be insane this month) and wipe downs, you constantly felt damp and icky.

Your underwear was either wet with arousal or sticky with your come that somehow continues to leak out of you hours after touching yourself. The window in your room is permanently propped open and your candle is barely holding on, but you can't seem to waft out the smell of sex. You might as well wear a sign that says "World's Biggest Pervert" when you walk around campus.

One thought of Armin, and you feel a pulse between your legs. Your dreams were plagued with him and all the different ways you could make each other get off, making you wake up to a sopping mess in your shorts the following morning and filthy visions that you can't help but touch yourself to for real.

It was especially agonizing on the days you met up with Armin. Fortunately, logic hasn't completely escaped you yet, and you made sure all your hangouts have been in public spaces the past couple of weeks, using the library or coffee shops as buffers for your dirty mind. It worked, for the most part.

You ignore the time last week when Armin took his glasses off to clean them against his t-shirt, and how his tongue darted out between his lips when he buffed a particularly stubborn smudge, making you thankful for the thick seam in your jeans. It was enough to relieve the ache in your clit until you got home, where you immediately shoved a pillow underneath you and humped the thing within an inch of its life.

You also ignore the time two days ago, when he saved you from being taken out by some idiot student and their motorized scooter by grabbing your arm and pulling you away from the middle of the sidewalk and into his chest. Your face was surrounded by the earthy musk of his cologne, leaving you feeling warm and dizzy afterward. Later that night, you notice how the smell lingers on your shirt, and you ride your fingers while sniffing the fabric.

…

Okay, so maybe you weren't doing so great. At least you weren't doing this in public, which is … the bare minimum, technically, but it's still something.

Eventually, the weekend comes around, and it's both a blessing and a curse: you could stay at home and get yourself away from the source of your dirty fantasies, but now that you had no actual plans or obligations, you were left to your own devices, and you severely underestimated yourself.

When you wake up to a vivid dream of Armin's mouth between your legs, you try to match the sensation with your fingers until you're squirming under the covers. When you take a shower to clean yourself up, you use the pressure of your shower head on your clit and picture Armin with you, naked and kissing down your neck. When you try to distract yourself by reading a book on the couch, you imagine your head in Armin's lap and his fingers in your hair, and somehow that makes you horny enough to throw the book on the coffee table and grind against the armrest like a dog in heat.

Your afternoon passes in the haze left by your orgasms. You lost track after the fifth one, and your head feels like it's full of fog as you try to stay cognizant. Your pussy is spent and swollen from your constant abuse, but you know if you worm your hand back down it'll be aching for more.

You're in the bathroom cleaning up after yourself after your latest session (an ad for a cruise trip to the Bahamas played on your TV, and you couldn't stop picturing Armin shirtless afterward) when your phone vibrates on the sink counter.

[Armin 🌊]

Are you busy this weekend? I saw they released the new season of that one anime you told me about, did you want to watch it together? My place is free! :)))

The text makes you check your calendar in shock. You've been so frazzled from your new… interest? Habit? Addiction? You honestly forgot all about the show in the light of recent events, but you're more shocked that Armin somehow remembered this.

You told him about the news months ago, a few weeks before he left for the South Pole. It was a comment in passing, when you were searching the manga section of the bookstore to find your next read. You pointed out the series and mentioned you were excited to see them animate the next arc, since it was one of your favorites. From what you knew, he didn't watch the show, let alone read the manga, and you definitely didn't expect him to think twice about what you said.

Armin was attentive, you knew that for a fact. Quiet, but always paying attention. Yet experiencing it first-hand, at a time where you're nothing but self-destructive and avoidant, makes it especially touching. For the first time all day, your mind feels a bit clearer, and you text back that you'll be over in an hour before you change your mind.

A familiar rush of blood ripples through you. Unfortunately, the idea of seeing Armin excites you more than it should.

You put your phone back down by the sink, and with a frustrated groan, your hand finds its way to the eager spot between your thighs.

You're still waiting at Armin's door a couple minutes after you text him that you're here. Confused, you slowly knock on the wood, the rhythm choppy and awkward. Was he not home for some reason?

You're about to send another knock when the door swings open, an out-of-breath Armin on the other side.

Specifically, an Armin wearing gray sweats and his gaming headset around his neck. You're embarrassed at how attractive you find him right now, and how your breaths are just as heavy as his.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry," he sputters out. "I ran as soon as I got the chance, I thought me and Eren would be done with this game before you got here. There's a couple seconds left until the last round starts, you cool just hanging out in my room while I finish up?"

You're not sure how he said all that in one breath, or if you caught most of that. "Hm? Uh, sure. Don't worry about me, I can wait."

Your agreement is enough for him to start jogging back to his room. "Great. Thanks." He brings his headset back to his ears and adjusts his mic. "Jesus, Eren, I'm heading back. You can literally hear me outside your door right now. Don't do anything stupid before I get to point ..." His voice grows quieter as you take your time to catch up to him. You let the initial shock subside and take a deep breath to slow your racing heart.

Armin doesn't pay you any mind when you enter his bedroom, already focused on catching up to the rest of his team in the game. His room looks the same as it always does, though you haven't been in here since the spring. You always thought the space was quite cozy, with his preference of using lamps over the fluorescent overhead light and his bookshelf that contained just as many mementos as it did books.

On the middle shelf, you spot his vintage camera that his grandpa gifted him, along with what looks like to be a vial of water. It's a new addition, probably from the Southern Ocean that he's been surrounded by for several weeks. You make a note to ask if he brought anything else back from his trip.

Your eyes eventually land on Armin's bed and you freeze. It's the same bed as it's always been, with slight chips in the headboard and those navy blue bedsheets that are so stereotypical and dude-ish that it's almost comical. You've sat on his bed plenty of times; it was your go-to spot whenever you came over to hang out. You even made the space your designated nap area when the two of you were studying for finals, the mattress the perfect balance of firm and soft that you couldn't help but shut your eyes for a few minutes.

Sitting on his bed right now, with everything you've been feeling lately, seems wrong. It somehow felt too intimate, an invasion of privacy despite your familiarity. But you're trying to be normal, and it's not like there's ample seating options in his room, so you bite the bullet and sit on the edge of the bed.

You're dragging your nails across the seam of his comforter, letting the mouse clicks and mumbles of Armin's voice drown in the space, when you hear a loud bang from Eren's room and an annoyed groan from across from you.

"Dammit, I told you, Eren, you have to back up. Their tank probably has ult, and we need to save our cooldowns if we don't want to topple over," Armin commands into his mic. "And I can't heal you if you're around a corner, so stop complaining."

Armin's shoulders are hunched over his desk, and his back curving into a position that he'll surely feel later tonight. His right hand whips his mouse in controlled, sporadic directions while his glasses slip down toward the bridge of his nose. He's deep in concentration, you're not sure if he would notice you if you did anything.

What could you get away with while he wasn't looking?

Ew, no. That's terrible, stop it.

You were curious about it, though. Horny, yes, but also curious. Like you mentioned earlier, he was often observant around other people. Is that the case when he's at home, relaxed and in his own world?

Were you part of that world?

Would he notice if you laid yourself down on the bed, your head nestled on his pillow that smelled of his shampoo? Would he be able to pick up on the sound of your pants slipping off your legs and onto the floor? The wet pop of your mouth after you suck on your fingers?

How long could you play with yourself before he turned around? Would he finish the rest of the game and chat with Eren before he even looked your way?

Did you want to distract him? To make him look at you and ruin his game?

You bite your lip at the idea, suddenly feeling hot all over. Out of all the fantasies you've had of Armin, and you were racking up a heavy amount, this seemed the most wrong. Like you were taking advantage of him at his most vulnerable.

But then Armin nearly growls at his monitor, and all rationale flies out the door.

"Fuck! Fall back, Eren! It's a 2v5 right now, we can't win this!"

God, could make that noise at you? Your daydream resumes, and now you're purposefully making noise in the background of Armin's game, letting the squelch of your cunt echo in his room as you let out a moan. You wouldn't stop when he turned around, indulging in the pleasure building in your stomach. You picture him and his eyes narrowing in on you, the look he often makes when he's starting to get irritated at something. Or in your imagination's case, someone.

He'll mumble something to Eren and mute his mic before he even gets the chance to respond. Just when you think he might actually be upset at you, he'll stand up and hover over the edge of his bed, and you'll notice the way his cock stirs in his sweatpants, already half-hard.

It would be all the reassurance you would need to whimper and say, "I'm sorry, I couldn't help it. Need you so bad." You would let your leg reach toward Armin, moving your foot up his thigh and grazing his dick, before stopping and playing with the top of his pants, signaling him to take them off.

You're acting coy, a smug smile playing on your lips. You think you have Armin right where you want him, but then you feel a tight grip around your ankle, the same one that hovers in front of his pants. In one quick motion, your whole body is dragged several feet closer to him, your feet now dangling off the bed.

The abrupt change makes you gasp and your cunt clench on nothing, your hands now at your sides as you prop yourself up. Your shock makes Armin smirk.

"Don't worry. I'll give you everything you need…"

Fuck, you're so horny. If you don't stand up soon, you're going to leave a wet spot on his bed.

You high-tail it for the bathroom across the hall, mumbling an excuse that Armin definitely didn't hear over the chaos happening on his screen. For the best, you think. It'll give you more time to put yourself together.

When you're in the bathroom, you hold yourself over his sink and stare at your reflection. Is this what your friendship with Armin is going to be like from now on? Getting turned-on by your best friend, then feeling guilty and avoiding him, only to jerk off to him anyway? Is he wasting his time on someone who's nothing but a complete pervert?

Your brain feels like it's being strung out in a million different directions, but it's still nothing compared to the throbbing deep in your cunt.

You double-check that you locked the bathroom door before you pull your pants to your feet, goosebumps raising on your exposed lower half. The wetness from your pussy sends a chill through your body, but you soon warm up when your fingers slink down and past your folds.

With perfect precision, you continuously hit the spot deep inside you that makes your toes curl. The knot in your belly tightens and a wave of pleasure starts creeping in. You're so close, putting more of your weight against the sink as you ride your hand to your orgasm—

There's a knock on the bathroom door.

"Sorry to bother you," Armin begins to say. "Eren and I finished our game, so I'm going to get the show set up in the living room. Do you want any snacks or anything?"

The noise startles you, making you nearly trip on your pants that are still on the floor. Your heart is pounding against your ribcage and your eyes are bulging, staring at the door like it's about to swing open and reveal your dark secret.

Armin calls your name when you don't answer right away. "Everything good?"

Shit. "I'm fine! Sorry, I was just thinking … maybe some popcorn? Or whatever you're having is fine … I'll be out in a minute!" You swear your heart is going to burst out of your chest.

"Alright, sounds good."

The sounds of footsteps fade away from the door and down the hallway. The beeping of the microwave confirms he's in the kitchen, and you quickly pull your pants up and wash your hands, ignoring the dampness in your underwear sticking to your skin.

What the hell is wrong with you? You're at Armin's apartment for crying out loud, you shouldn't be trying to get yourself off in his bathroom. Eren's in the damn room next to you right now. You should at least have the decency to pull it together until you got home.

You opt out of drying your hands and place your palms on your hot face, letting the cold water calm you down. When you feel like you're at a reasonable temperature, you open the door and head to the living room.

Armin's already sitting on the couch with the TV on and popcorn on the table in front of him, sending you a quick smile when you pop into view. Eren's sitting next to him, hunched forward and staring at his phone.

"Oh, hey Eren. Are you joining us?" you ask, relief starting to set in; he would be the perfect buffer between you and Armin.

"Nah, I'm just hanging around. I'm waiting for Mikasa to pick me up so we can get dinner together." He glances back down at your phone, not noticing how your body deflates at the news. Armin does, though. "Actually, it looks like she just parked, so I'll see you guys later." He stands up from his spot on the couch. "Have fun with whatever you're watching, I'm sure it'll be good. I'll be back later tonight, so could you leave the door unlocked for me?"

"You know you could make a copy of a key for like, three dollars, right?" Armin points out.

Eren shrugs, taking the comment as a yes. "Then I guess I'm three dollars richer. See ya guys."

You laugh at Eren's irresponsibility and wave him off. When he slams the door on his way out, you feel a weight land back on your shoulders as you're left standing awkwardly in the middle of the living room.

Armin scans you with concerned eyes before breaking the silence. "I saved a blanket for you, if you need it."

He points to the blanket lying on the back of the couch. It's the same blanket that you always use when you're over. No matter the weather and what you're wearing, your legs always got chilly whenever the two of you watched something. The sweet action stirs terribly in your insides, making you feel disgust for yourself. You don't deserve him.

You mumble a quick thanks, grabbing the blanket and sitting down. You make sure to put extra space between the two of you before bringing your knees to your chest and tucking the blanket under your feet. While you're trying to get comfortable (a task more difficult than it should be), Armin's doing the same, sitting cross-legged on the cushion while grabbing the popcorn and placing it in his lap.

He grabs a handful of popcorn, pointing to the bowl with his other hand and asking, "Want some? I added extra butter for you."

You stare at the sight at bit longer than acceptable. Luckily, Armin is already looking away from you, searching for the remote and hitting play. "Yeah. Thanks," you gulp, trying not to think of the implications of his actions just now as you grab a few pieces.

He was offering you popcorn, not asking you to grab his dick. Get your mind out of the gutter.

The first episode drags; not because it's bad, honestly you had no clue what was happening, despite having read the manga. No, you were more focused on looking like you were paying attention. Your eyes haven't left the screen once, and you haven't even made a grab for the popcorn bowl even though by this point, you usually would be debating if you should pop a second bag or not.

It's not until the outro song plays that you snap back into reality, the music playing several volumes louder than the rest of the show. Armin cringes at the loud noise, quickly turning the tv down to a reasonable level.

"Hate when that happens…" he mumbles, putting the popcorn back on the table and getting comfortable again.

First, Armin stretches his neck, extending his head back and forth with a low groan. Then, he stretches his legs and spreads them further out, his left knee almost knocking into your right foot. Finally, he settles back into the couch, and if you stare hard enough, you can see the print of his dick just barely outlined in his sweatpants.

The things you could do with him right here on this couch…

The sight makes drool pool in your mouth, and it reminds you just how soaked your panties are from earlier. Your cunt aches all over again, starving to be satiated after you stopped just before your release.

"So, what do you think so far? I know you mentioned something about a bus hijacking arc? Does that happen in the next episode?" Armin asks, reaching for a few more pieces of popcorn.

"Good. It was good." It feels like the blood has rushed away from your brain and toward your pussy. What are you saying 'good' to again?

Your lack of answer leaves Armin confused, mouth pursed and debating if he should repeat himself. For whatever reason, he leaves it at that. "Uh, alright. You cool to start the next episode then?"

You offer a gentle hum in agreement and he presses play, both of you now awkwardly staring straight ahead.

Great. Now you're horny frustrated and non-horny frustrated. Why can't you at least act normal around him? You need to do something to calm yourself down.

You need to come so bad.

…

No. Absolutely not. You are not going to masturbate in his bathroom again.

It would be obvious, even more so, that you're being weird. Even if it wasn't weird, he would probably think you had a stomach bug or something, which is just as embarrassing. If you went to the bathroom, he would pause the tv so you don't miss anything. You couldn't have Armin wait on you while you came to the thought of riding his thigh.

…

Although, you could just do it here on the couch.

Technically speaking, if you were subtle enough, he wouldn't notice anything under the blanket, especially if you left your legs pulled up toward your chest. It would also eliminate the issue of him waiting on you, since the show would just keep playing.

It was a crazy idea though, and way too risky. Just pay attention to the episode, make a couple comments about it, and everything will sort itself out.

Your pussy throbs, almost like it's fighting against your logic. Apparently, it wasn't taking no as answer, and in retaliation, you're flooded with dirty visions of Armin and his hand creeping under the covers and finding the spot you're trying so hard to ignore.

His middle fingers drags across the seam of your pants, making it dig between your folds and right on your clit. It's teasing, the pressure not enough for how wet you are, but it still makes your legs snap shut as you whine. With a firm hand, he moves away from your center and pushes on your inner thigh, forcing your leg back to where it was. Your other leg moves back too, taking the instruction.

"Don't move," Armin whispers, voice gravelly. "Just keep watching your show. I'll take care of you."

Your whole body feels hot. You want to kick away the blanket and let yourself cool down a bit, but something is stopping you. A part of you that wants to touch yourself and come till you see stars.

With slow, measured movements, you move your hand off the couch, moving it to the middle of your body. Your fingers inch further down, relaxing against your pants as you cup your heat. It's a small comfort as you continue to clench on nothing. Your legs form a tent shape with the blanket, making the action unnoticeable. You could easily move your hand away at any time, and no one would have to know.

Yet the risk to push further entices you.

Armin thumbs the edge of your pants, making your stomach tense at the gentle graze. He pushes the band away from your skin, letting his hand go past the barrier. The tips of his fingers trail down your body with deft precision before they're pushing past the side of your underwear and drawing circles over your entrance.

Your cunt pulses, desperately pleading for his fingers to fill you up. Your breathing comes out unevenly as you try to focus on the scene in front of you. You must be doing a decent job of paying attention, because he sinks a finger inside you, sopping up your arousal before pulling out and spreading it around the outside of your pussy. He was making a complete mess out of you, and you wanted to beg for more.

"I'm going to get some water real quick, do you want some?" Armin asks.

You blink, hand still cupping your mound. "Sure, that would be nice. Do you want me to pause the show?"

He shakes his head, already walking to the kitchen. "It's cool, I shouldn't be long. I'll still be able to hear it from over there."

The moment his body disappears, you spring into action. You bump the volume of the tv up a few notches, letting the noise muffle your own as the hand that's been cupping your clothed core slips fully under your pants. Your hips jerk at the coolness of your slick pussy no longer sticking to your underwear, and again when you finally touch your clit. With how pent up you are, you honestly might be able to come before he comes back.

You imagine your fingers are Armin's, rubbing the hard nub of your clit and making your eyes flutter shut and your head feel fuzzy. Everything is so sensitive under his controlled motions and your skin feels like it's on fire. You're ready to strip off your clothes and plead for Armin to fuck you so good, so deep right here on the couch.

The door opens, making Armin's fingers freeze.

"Hey guys, you still watching your one show?" Eren greets, taking off his shoes by the door. Your eyes are wide, panic thrumming through your body at being caught in the act.

Well, almost caught. Eren hasn't picked up on anything yet.

"Yeah, it's pretty good so far," Armin replies. He starts moving again, dragging a line from your slit up back up to your clit. It's as if he was testing you. Not to see if you would say no—he knew how badly you wanted his fingers. How badly you wanted him to keep going.

No, he was testing to see if you could be quiet enough.

The familiar ache right before you come is hitting you with full force as you continue to stroke yourself with fervor. You're about to let go and fall off the edge when footsteps grow louder.

"Looks like I didn't miss much," Armin mumbles, setting two glasses down. You haven't stopped your motions, going just slow enough to keep your orgasm at bay. He seems to be oblivious at the crude activities happening under your blanket, sitting back down like everything was normal.

Your breaths are heavy and your chest is nearly heaving under the covers. You just need to come at this point. Get everything out of your system, and you'll be back to normal.

Your fingers speed up, your brain on high alert for any suspicious movements that you make.

"You want to watch with us?" Armin asks Eren, barely dipping a knuckle into you. Your cunt tries to grip him, to suck him in deeper. He takes the hint, pushing another digit in and fully fingering you. You bite your lip so hard you nearly break skin, trapping your moans in your throat.

"Eh, sure, why not?" He shrugs, staring at the screen and slumping into the recliner next to you. If he turned a little to his right, he would be face-to-face with your dazed expression and Armin's arm snaking underneath your blanket. Yet Armin was unrelenting, continuing to work you open while his friend sits less than ten feet away.

You can feel the coil in your stomach ready to snap.

Armin angles his hand and lets the base of his palm grind against your clit, and you're creaming on his fingers with a shivering breath. Eren isn't fazed, not even noticing when Armin's hand leaves your body and the blanket, bringing his fingers to his lips and nonchalantly cleaning off your come with his tongue.

A flick of your clit sends you spiraling, your pleasure releasing in waves as you helplessly throb. You let out a deep sigh as you come, hoping that it passes off as a normal breath. There's a thrum of ecstasy that circulates through your veins, but it's nothing compared to the heavy shame that it comes with. Your muscles in your abdomen tighten until they cramp, and the comedown leaves you feeling utterly pathetic.

Your hands feel slimy when you wipe them off on your underwear, and you start to feel even worse. You can't believe you just did that. What the hell possessed you to make you think that this was okay? That you could pretend to be a normal friend after this?

You're an absolute monster. A total creep. You have completely ruined your friendship with Armin and you need to leave. You don't deserve his kindness, not after what you just did.

A layer of sweat clings onto you, and you're sticky with humiliation. "Actually, I'm getting a bit tired. I should get going," you say, moving off the couch and pulling the blanket off you. You're grateful you didn't leave some stain on the upholstery.

"Oh, really? I mean, you just got here, are you sure you don't want to stay a bit longer?" Armin pauses the tv, the second episode barely halfway through. He's looking at you with worry, but you can tell by the small pout of his lips that he's trying to hide his disappointment.

Your heart aches at the sight. It feels like every choice you make is the wrong one.

"Yeah, sorry. Just a long day and all that." Not technically wrong, you did masturbate about a dozen times today. "Plus, might as well walk home before the sun sets. No need to worry about me." You're making a dash to the exit, your shoes half-on before you swing the front door open.

"Wh—okay. Uh, have a good night then. I'll see you later?"

The door closes before he finishes the that last part. Your hand is still on the doorknob, and you're tempted to open the door again just to agree that yes, you'll hang out again. That everything was okay. But that would be a lie, and that would probably just make things worse.

You couldn't keep dragging him through this cycle of trying to be his friend and then pushing him away when you failed. Until you could get yourself in check, you were a burden.

You walk away from the door, unsure when you would let yourself see your best friend again.

"Alright, you're pissing me off," Eren says.

You look up from your spot in the coffee shop, confronted with irritation personified. "Uh … sorry?" You're not sure what's happening right now, and it doesn't help that Eren is just an intense person to begin with. He could be mad at anything. "… did I forget we made plans? Or like, forget to say 'bless you' or something?"

"What?—no. At least, I'm choosing to excuse your bad manners on that right now, but next time it wouldn't hurt you to say it at least once! Allergies are no joke! Ragweed could kill me. Do you want your lack of common courtesy to forever be stuck on your conscience?"

"Considering that ragweed is probably not deadly? I think I'll be fine," you reply with a blank stare.

"Ugh, whatever. I'm not having this argument again." Who else was he having this conversation with? "I meant what's going on between you and Armin?"

The mention of his name gets your attention, a pang of guilt hitting you like a freight train. Eren must notice how you tense, his eyes narrowing in on you.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you bluff, hoping he'll drop the conversation, even though you know he won't. Not only is he intense, but also freakishly determined — a dangerous combination. "Plus, why would I tell you of all people? You're his best friend. You'd either tell him about this or get mad at me and take his side. Or both."

"Well, maybe."

Eren stops.

"Probably."

Another pause.

"Okay, I would, but there's clearly something wrong between you two. Whenever you study here, Armin's usually with you. Instead, he's sulking in his room because you've been ignoring him all week, and I know you've been ignoring him all week because he looks at his phone all lost and disappointed, and you're the only other person he texts on a regular basis. So you better talk to him and fix whatever is wrong with you or I'll—"

"—you'll what? You don't have anything on me, Eren, and you definitely don't scare me."

"Told you," a voice behind you says.

"—fuck! Were you there this whole time?!" you shout, turning in your chair and locking eyes with Mikasa's.

She ignores your question and simply takes the seat next to you. "Look, we just want to help you. Both of you. Something clearly happened between you two. Or at least, something happened between you two that only you know about. I don't think it's fair to keep Armin in the dark. So if you don't want to tell him right now, I think you should at least tell someone what's bothering you."

You sigh. "Look, I appreciate it, but I promise you there's nothing—"

"—I'll tell Historia that you were the one that shrunk her favorite sweater in the dryer."

"Oh fuck you. I thought you were doing a good cop, bad cop thing," you scoff.

Ever since that night at his apartment, you went no contact with Armin. It might not have been the best strategy, if you can even call it that.

You ignored his text checking to see if you made it home okay, then his ones asking if you wanted to study at the library, followed by his ones where he linked a particularly interesting YouTube video defending fanfiction and asked for your thoughts. That one took a lot of strength to ignore, and you now have a saved paragraph in your notes regarding the topic.

But the worst messages were probably his last ones.

[Armin 🌊]

Is everything okay? Haven't heard from you in a while

Did I do something? Because I'm not sure what

I'm sorry for whatever I did, and for not knowing what I did :/

Can we at least talk about it?

I want to figure this out

I miss you

You had to shut your phone off after that last one, and when you turned it back hours later, you couldn't help but feel disappointed that he hasn't said anything since.

It was especially excruciating when you were on campus. Earlier in the week, you were leaving the lecture hall with Annie when you spotted Armin waiting for you by a nearby bench. Before he could spot you in the crowd, you grabbed Annie by the arm and dashed back into the building, mumbling something about forgetting your laptop charger inside.

A couple days after that, Connie caught you walking past the courtyard while he and Jean were tossing a frisbee across the lawn. While he was trying to convince you to check out his next DJ set at the local nightclub, Armin was walking your way, steps getting more urgent when he realized it was you.

In a panic, you told Connie to 'go long' and toss the frisbee to you in the opposite direction. Halfway through chasing the disc, you made a break for it and sprinted away, much to everyone's confusion.

("… I'm not sure they get this game," you heard Jean yell to the two.)

Since then, it was safe for Armin to say that you wanted nothing to do with him. You got exactly what you wanted, and you've never felt more horrible.

You honestly didn't expect anyone to notice the change, but you should've accounted for Eren and Mikasa's unwavering loyalty. They knew Armin better than you, being childhood friends and all. Like you, they would do anything for him, including interrogating and threatening you until you spilled your secret.

"Look, you're right," you sigh. "Armin doesn't know anything, and he definitely didn't do anything wrong." Other than get super attractive and make all your feelings toward him impossible to ignore. "Things between us just got … complicated, and it's just easier if we keep some distance. I swear, I'm doing this because I care about him."

Eren huffs, though he can tell that you're being honest. "I just don't get it." He crosses his arms and tilts his head, glare still as harsh as before. "If he didn't do anything wrong, and you supposedly didn't do anything wrong, what changed?"

Mikasa hums in thought, turning in her chair to stare you down as well. "For once, he actually makes a good point …"

"For once? What's that supposed to mean?"

"—do you not have feelings for him anymore? Is that why you're avoiding him?"

What?

"What?" you blurt out. "You knew?"

Mikasa leans away from you, brows furrowed. She shifts her gaze to Eren, who looks equally confused, then back to you. "Was that … not public knowledge?"

"No!" You're not sure your voice is an appropriate volume for the coffee shop anymore. "It is very much not public knowledge! It's not supposed to be anyone's knowledge! Especially you guys!" You're pinching the bridge of your nose and praying that this conversation can't get any worse. "Please tell me that at least Armin doesn't know I like him."

"Like him? As in, present tense?" Eren catches.

Dammit. The conversation was getting worse.

"Yes, as in present tense," you mutter under your breath, admitting defeat.

"Oh, well that's easy enough," Eren shrugs. "You like him. He likes you. Problem solved."

What?

Mikasa hums again, this time in disagreement before butting in and saying, "Not exactly. They've always liked each other. It still doesn't explain the change."

What?

"Ugh, you're right." Eren slumps back into his seat.

You wish you could melt onto the floor and get mopped up by an underpaid barista. You're frozen in place, helpless under their hot, blinding looks. A pounding thumps in your skull and your brain is trying to stay still and process the information Eren just told you.

"I'm sorry, can we go back to what you guys just said?" you somehow manage to squeak out.

Eren lets out a dramatic groan and an exaggerated eye roll. "You both like each other, keep up. All of us see how you two look at each other. Armin always has googly eyes and this stupid grin whenever he's around you." He then lazily motions to you. "And you … well you used to look at him like that too. Actually you still do sometimes, but now sometimes you look at him all spaced out. And you breath weird … like you're trying to stop yourself from having a panic attack or something … whatever the hell that's supposed to mean."

"—wait, oh my god! You have the hots for Armin!" Sasha yells behind you.

"Oh come on! You too?" you angrily shout. "Were you listening to us this whole time?"

"Well, I work here, so I was originally going to top off your coffee," she explains, gesturing to the coffee pot in her hand. "Then I got nosy. So I eavesdropped instead."

You look down at your cup. "… Sasha, I got a matcha."

"Oh. Guess I was just nosy then." She sets down the pot on the table. You're not sure if she realizes the damage the hot pot is going to do on the wood. "But just hear me out: Armin comes back from his summer of isolation looking like a total nerd, no offense, and now you're acting all weird around him. Eren just described the telltale signs of sexual attraction. Clearly, his new look is doing it for you, and now all these horny thoughts you're having is making your body go into overdrive because of your already strong feelings for him."

Sasha moves her hand in the air like she's solving equations in her head. "You liking him for a year or so, multiplied by the average horniness it takes to want to have sex with someone, divided by the three weeks he's been back …" Her eyes widen, cracking the code. "Oh wow, that's rough. Yeah you probably would have jumped his bones the next time you saw him, no wonder you're avoiding him now."

Your tongue feels like lead in your mouth. Any excuse you could possibly make dies before you can find the words. The three of you are looking at her with varying degrees of shock, disgust, and in your case, complete embarrassment. Someone should tell her never to do math again. But someone should also tell her she may be the next Sherlock Holmes.

"Yeah, I think we're done here. Let's go, Eren." Mikasa stands up.

"Wait what? What happened to you guys helping me out?"

"Listen, I love you and all, but that was before I knew you wanted to do … that with Armin," she shudders. "He's like my brother. And now I can't stop picturing him naked."

Sasha snorts in your direction. "Well neither can they."

"Please stop talking," you mumble back.

Mikasa grimaces and takes a deep breath before talking again. "Just talk to him, okay? And we can pretend this conversation never happened."

You quickly nod. "Gladly."

Mikasa can barely look at you as she heads for the door. Eren slowly starts to follow her, but before he leaves, he turns to you with pursed lips. "So ... that was probably my fault."

He then walks away, not elaborating.

"Wh—a sorry would have been nice," you stammer. Was that payback for his 'bless you' argument earlier? Maybe he had a point about the common courtesy thing after all, though you would never say that to his face.

You let your head drop onto the table and bury your face in your homework with a pained groan. Sasha still lingers behind you, unsure if she helped or not.

"Uh, want some coffee to go?"

You nod into your notebook. "… Yes please."

You let the idea of reaching out to Armin linger. For about a day, that is. Because the following morning, there's a pounding at your door.

Armin is already letting himself in before you register he was at the door.

"Is Historia home?" he asks.

"You know she never is." She practically lives at Ymir's ever since they started dating last spring. Thank god too. You couldn't imagine how much worse your situation would be if she was around.

"Cool. That means I can yell at you here."

The door closes with a quiet click, Armin already standing in the middle of your living room. You're taken aback by his fervor, only responding with a quiet "huh?"

"—look, I was going to let you have your space. I took the hint and left you alone. But yesterday, I said hi to Sasha on the way to class and she basically laughed in my face. And then Mikasa comes over later that night and barely says a word to me. Hell, she couldn't even be in the same room as me without getting war flashbacks or something. And when I finally decided to come over so we can talk things out, Eren tells me to 'have fun' and 'be safe'? Like what is that supposed to mean? Why are all of you being so weird around me?"

And yeah, okay. You kind of deserved this.

Armin's face is red, lungs heaving as he finally lets himself take a breath. He finally meets your gaze, and he deflates. Now that the initial anger has worn off, he looks incredibly hurt.

"I feel like a little kid all over again. Like there's some joke that I'm not in on," he whispers. "Did something happen over the summer?" He pauses, scared to ask the big question looming over his head. "Do you not like me? Are we not friends anymore?"

"What? No—no that's not it at all. Of course we're still friends." You finally snap out of it, walking towards Armin. You want to grab him by the shoulders, to reassure him that he has the completely wrong idea, but you resist the urge. If you got too close, you were worried you wouldn't be able to control yourself.

"Then why does it feel like I'm doing something wrong?"

"It's not like that. You're not—"

"—then explain why you're doing this! You have been weird with me ever since I came back. And now you're ignoring me? Clearly, you have some issue with me, and I seem to be the only one that doesn't know why. I don't want to bother you if that's what you want, but I just don't see what's changed between us." He looks down at himself, hand on his chest. "Do you not want to be seen with me?"

"What?" That's the idea he got from this?

"Were you just being nice to me after I came back? Do you think I look … bad?"

Definitely not. "Armin, please I—"

"—are you embarrassed to be my friend? Is it the hair?"

The complete opposite: you want to pull his hair and see if he moans at the pain. "Armin …"

"—the glasses? The shirt? I know it's goofy, but I thought the Minecraft reference would come off more ironic than serious …"

The shirt is more sexy than funny, actually. That's what the problem is. How is he not getting this?

His ramblings are utter nonsense. Your left eye twitches in irritation. There's an ache in between your legs. You want him to shut up, and you're debating between smacking him upside the head and kissing him to do so.

"—I want to fuck you."

Well. That works too.

"Wha— huh?!" Armin chokes out, jumping out of his skin. The sudden jerk of his body makes him lose his footing for a split second, and his glasses slip and balance themselves lower on his nose. If you weren't making a total fool of yourself, you would find the sight endearing.

"I want to fuck you. Or you fuck me. God, I'd let you do anything to me." The laugh you let out sounds pained and borderline psychotic. "Honestly, I've gone through a million different scenarios at this point, I've probably thought of it all." Your heart rate is going so fast it would probably break a monitor. "Yes, it's the hair. And the glasses. And your freaking clothes. But not liking them? That couldn't be further from the truth."

"I-I don't understand."

You bury your face in your hands and shake your head. Armin is looking at you like you're a stray dog, unable to decide if it's safe for him to help you with whatever is wrong with you. "I can't stop thinking about you, Armin. I've always liked you. I tried to ignore those feelings. I thought I was doing a good job of not letting it ruin our friendship. But then you show up after months away looking like that," you motion toward him, "and my mind starts playing a porno every time you're near me. Even when you're not around me, I'll dream up some perverted fantasy of us and jerk off to it."

Armin sputters. "Y-you what? To me?"

Shit. Did you not mention that?

"So that's why you've been acting off lately?"

You slowly nod. "Pretty much." No use hiding anything now.

Armin's jaw hasn't closed for a whole minute. His eyes keep flittering from one half of your face to the other, completely mystified. It's taking him longer than you expected to wrap his head around this. You're not sure if that's bad or beyond awful.

"So—so that night? At the party? You weren't sick, or—or drunk?"

"I mean, I technically was drunk. At least when you first found me," you begin to say, "really, I couldn't stop thinking of shoving my tongue down your throat."

He gulps. "And when I dropped you off? After you went home?"

"Tried to go bed right away and figure my shit out. Ended up masturbating to the thought of dry humping you in your car."

"Cool. That's uh … nice," he mumbles. His gaze feels darker, his breaths evening out and deepening. The room suddenly felt smaller. "Then what about the library? You didn't have to meet Sasha then?"

You shook your head. "Took a cold shower after I kept dreaming of sucking your dick. Didn't work, though. Actually, it just got worse after that."

He raises his eyebrow at the word 'worse'. The lamp next to you now burns bright like a spotlight. Why did it feel like the tables were turning on you? "So last time, when you came over …"

"Yeah … I tried to figure that out in the bathroom." You feel your throat dry up, and you let out short cough. "I had the urge to touch myself and distract you from your game, so I left to go try and take care of it … but you kinda knocked at a bad time." Your mouth presses into a flat line. "I was about to finish then you scared me off."

"Oh. Um, sorry? I guess?" Armin says. "Is that why you left so early? To go home and uh … finish?"

"Eh, not exactly …" Your body is so warm right now you could burst into flames. You let out an awkward laugh and tilt your head, considering your next words. "I left early because I already … did. Finish."

His face was still, but the blush gave him away. "When would you—but you were on the couch. You didn't get up, so when …" He's struggling to put the final piece of the puzzle together. All it takes is a look from you, and his eyes widen.

"The blanket," he whispers, like he discovered the secret to the universe. "I was right next to you? When you were …"

You give a small nod, keeping your chin down. "Kept thinking that it was your hand instead of mine. That Eren came back early, and you let him watch the tv while you secretly touched me." You scratch the back of your neck. "I guess that fantasy was a bit on the nose, now that I think about it …"

It's quiet after that. This conversation now feels like a trial, and Armin was the judge that decided your fate. All you could do was wait for his response, and pretend you weren't completely dreading it. You stare at the ceiling, sending a prayer to whoever is listening that you make it out of this with some dignity intact.

While you were wishing for a miracle, Armin clenches his jaw. He takes a moment to himself to consider his word, and puffs out his chest before speaking.

"What are you picturing right now?" Armin asks. He senses your confusion and explains himself further. More insistent this time. "Right now, when you're looking at me, what are you thinking about?"

The question makes your stomach tighten. "I'm thinking about how I'm scared out of my mind. That I ruined everything. How I should've looked into those culty celibacy classes more."

He shakes his head and takes a step forward. "You're thinking that way because you're assuming the worst."

"Can you blame me?" you scoff. This feels like a trick question, like you're the one not in on the joke now. Is he toying with you before he inevitably ends your friendship? "What should I be assuming, then?"

"Assume that I feel the same."

It's your turn to be in disbelief. It's like someone shook you like a soda can, you can feel the bubbles fizzing in your system. You're not sure if you like it or not.

"I don't—what do you mean?"

"You're assuming the worst right now, that everything you just said is going to scare me off. So assume the best instead," he says. "Assume that I feel the same. That I've had a crush on you ever since you hugged me after we got an A on that class project."

He takes another step forward. "Assume that I told Connie at the party that he could shave my head. Assume that I had to beg him the next day not to actually do it, after you told me you liked my hair. Assume that I binged the two seasons of that anime the week I came back so I could talk about it with you. Assume that I fall for you more every time you want to listen to my boring info dumps about the ocean."

"They're not boring," you say under your breath, looking away from Armin.

"Exactly," he mutters back, a smirk on his face as he takes another step. "Assume that you're hottest person I've ever met. That I wake up every day wondering why you let me hang around you, let alone be your friend."

His words make you stutter. You lower your head, fiddling with the hem of your top. He takes another step.

"Assume that I always make you take the stairs before me so I can stare at your ass. And that every time we go out to a bar, I'm purposefully sipping my drink all night and pretending I'm not looking down your shirt." A gentle finger nudges your chin up, Armin now inches away from you, cheeks rosy and radiating heat. When did he get so close? "Assume that I want to those all those things you thought about, and then some." He bites his lip, eyes darting across your face. "What are you thinking about?"

Armin's hand still sits under your chin, and it's the only thing stopping you from sinking into the carpet and letting the floor swallow you. You blink owlishly at him. Everything else in the world is frozen except for him.

While you could picture an infinite number of sexual situations with Armin, you only pictured this conversation going a few ways, all in varying degrees of bad. From asking for time away from you to giving you a number for a local therapist, the idea that he would confess his feelings (in such a rom-com way, at that) was nowhere near your perception of reality.

This was better than anything you could have come up with.

Eyes still wide, there's a pause before you finally say, "I guess what I'm thinking about is,"—you tuck some of his hair back, leaning toward his ear—"is if your shirt should stay on or off when I ride you."

"Christ," he chokes out, leaning into you. His face is an inch away from nuzzling against yours. "You're gonna kill me. Can we go back to a minute ago when you were about to have a panic attack?"

You giggle into his hair. "We could … but then we'd be further away from seeing each other naked. Hey though, if that's what you want—"

You don't get a chance to finish whatever shitty joke you were about to make, Armin quickly tilting your head to give you a bruising kiss on your lips. It takes you by surprise, but you soon fall into the rhythm of his mouth when his hand cradles your cheek. His other arm wraps around your waist, making you lean into him. You ground yourself by gripping the collar of his shirt and fuck, it looks so stupid, why does he make it so attractive?

The frame of his glasses presses against the tip of your nose, but neither of you budge at the obstacle. Armin kisses you like he's been waiting for you to tell him about your filthy desires; he kisses you like he's trying to convince you that he feels the same, and that if he stops, he'll never get this chance again. It's intoxicating and entirely mind-numbing, all you can do is go pliant in his arms and enjoy the feeling.

The thin layer of his chapstick smears onto your lips, and the flavorless wax does somehow taste better on him. A carnal craving awakens in you as you lick Armin's bottom lip, slipping your tongue in when his mouth opens in response, deepening the kiss even more. He meets you halfway and groans at the wetness of your tongue. It makes your core ache. You want everything he has to offer.

"My room," you mumble between kisses. A squeeze on your hip tells you he heard your request, and you tug him down the hallway, wet kisses trailing along his jaw and down his neck as you shuffle. Armin's breath hitches when you suck above the bump of his collarbone, and you smirk and make a mental note for future purposes.

In the rare chance you do forget, a red hickey is left as a friendly reminder.

By sheer luck, you make it to your bedroom without any issue. You lock the door behind you — on the rare chance Historia comes by, you would rather not scar her. And you were definitely not holding back on Armin now that you finally had him.

You're back to kissing him as you drag him toward your bed, laying yourself down across the mattress and pulling him on top of you. Armin tries to settle his weight on you as gracefully as he can, his arms on either side of you as he holds himself up. It only lasts for about a minute. You buck your hips to meet his and grind against the growing bulge in his pants, and he collapses his chest into yours with a choked whine.

"Oh fuck," he says, breath fanning the curve of your neck. He attempts to leave open-mouthed kisses on your skin, though they're nothing more than pitiful moans he matches the motion of your hips, hesitant at first, but overpowering now, his eagerness getting the better of him. "Can—can I touch you?"

If you weren't so turned on, you would find the ask a bit silly, considering you're dry humping one another already. But something about the neediness in his voice, and how hard he feels under his pants, makes you moan a yes. "Please, Min. Want you so bad."

"Fuck, okay." Leaning to one side of you and lifting himself up, Armin lets his opposite hand hover over your breast for a moment, waiting for you to stop him. When you don't, he pulls his lip between his teeth and lets his hand cup your chest, kneading you through the fabric of your shirt. You both take a deep breath, yours giving way to a moan as his thumb brushes over the peak of your nipple.

Armin gulps. "Are you not wearing a bra?"

You shake your head. "Never do when I'm home."

"Oh. Cool," he mumbles, "that's uh, good to know," he squeezes you again, "so if I took your shirt off, I would, um …"

"—you would see my tits?"

You're trying to hide your smile as Armin's ears turn red. "Don't laugh at me. I'm nervous, okay?" he jokingly pouts. "It's a lot to take in. This has been my wet dream since forever."

"I'm nervous too," you reassure. "My heart is going crazy right now. Want to feel it?"

"… is this your way of making me grab your other boob?"

You wrap your hand around his and guide him to the other side of your chest. "Can't it be both?"

Your hand curls, forcing Armin's to do the same. He must feel the way your heart thumps under his palm, judging by the way his shoulders lower and his eyes crinkle. Another soft squeeze later, this time on his own accord, he takes a deep breath and says, "Okay, think I'm a bit better now, thanks." He pecks the underside of your jaw, the spot tingling afterward. "Can you sit up a little for me?"

Nodding, you push yourself up as Armin sits up and leans back on his heels. His fingers lace around the hem of your shirt and slowly tugs the material up. When your shirt moves past your stomach, you raise your arms out and let the fabric slip off the rest of your torso. You lower yourself back down onto your bed, giving him a full view of your tits.

"Oh wow. Okay," he croaks out, "those are … really nice. Fuck, you're so hot."

You hide your face into your pillow. Armin was the perfect mix of hot, pathetic, and endearing. One second you're horny out of your mind, the next you're teasing and bantering, and now you're flustered at his honesty. It was a whiplash that you couldn't get enough of.

Familiar hands trace up your sides, holding you just below your breasts. You turn and stare down at Armin, who peppers kisses up your sternum. At the top of your chest, he meets your gaze and places a sweet kiss on your lips before moving to take his glasses off.

"Wait no, I like your glasses," you pout. "Why are you taking them off?"

Armin just smiles. "I appreciate your enthusiasm for them, but they'll just be in the way when I do this."

"Do what? Kissing earlier was fine with them, I don't see what—oh fuck."

The view below you was obscene: Armin firmly cups both of your tits and brings them closer to his face as he goes back to kissing the center of your chest. His thumbs skim over your nipples until they pebble under his touch, and a moan vibrates your ribs as he nuzzles your chest, suffocating himself between your tits.

You keen under his touch, holding his head down as your shoulders push forward and brings your chest closer to him. He moans again at the added pressure of you, kissing the center of your breastbone one more time before he lets himself breathe.

"Fuck, I love your tits. I'm never going to get these out of my head now."

The space between your legs starts to throb endlessly. He could take a picture of them for all you care, but one dream at a time. "Don't stop, please."

Armin eyes your hard nipples and kisses up one of your breasts. When he gets up to the center, his lips parts and he sucks on the hardened nub, making you cry out.

"Holy shit, Armin. That feels so good," you whine. He rubs your other nipple and continues to mouth at the other, his tongue occasionally flicking the bud. The warmth of his mouth sends shocks of pleasure through you, and you can do nothing but whimper under his touches as he switches from one breast to the next, wetting your other nipple with his tongue.

A light pinch at the base of the nub makes you gasp so loud you shock yourself. The barely-there pain makes your brain short-circuit, and you grab the sides of Armin's face and bring him up in a feverish kiss.

"Need more," you beg. "Want your fingers inside me."

Armin hums in agreement, moving his weight off you while you continue to kiss. Your hands fumble on the waistband of your pants and you awkwardly kick your legs to shimmy them off, leaving you in just your underwear.

He sits himself between your now spread legs, the wet spot in the middle of your underwear front and center of his vision. "You're so wet," he says in astonishment.

"Because of you," you mewl. "You always get me this wet, Armin."

He groans. "God, that's so hot."

His fingers graze up your thighs and draw closer to the center of your body. He pushes the pad of his middle finger onto the wetness of your underwear, nudging himself between your folds. The wet spot grows as more of your arousal floods the fabric. Armin swears you actually soak his fingers as you whine under his touch.

Every inch of you was buzzing. You were a horny mess whenever Armin was in the same room as you, the fact that he was touching you, however small, was driving you crazy. He starts drawing a line between your slit to the nub of your clit, and a sudden, but well-acquainted tightness pulls at your abdomen. It's too good, too fast. He draws another line, and you realize too late what's happening.

"Armin, wait. I think I'm—"

Your words die off as his finger skims over your clit. On instinct, your legs clamp together and wrap around Armin's hips and you shudder out a surprise orgasm, his hands snapping to your knees to hold you during the tremors. Shutting your eyes tight, you gasp out quiet, strained moans as a wave of euphoria washes through your body.

You let yourself ride through the quivers of your aftershock, your legs relaxing back onto the bed as you start to open your eyes. Once you adjust to the brightness of your room, you're met with a slack-jawed Armin.

"Did you—did you just come?"

"Ugh, yes. Sorry." You cover your eyes with your hands, cringing at yourself. "I don't know how that even happened, honestly. I guess it's been a while."

"Definitely don't be sorry. That was the best thing I've ever seen." He shakes his head, eyebrows drawing together. "I just didn't expect that to happen so fast. Or at all, really. I figured it would take another try or something …" He winces at that last part, then quickly clears his throat. "I guessing that you haven't … you know, all week then? Since we haven't seen each other for a while?"

"… Uh, yeah. More or less."

"More or less?" he asks.

"There may have been a … moment." You let out an awkward laugh and push on your palms until you feel the sockets of your eyes, "Do you remember that video Jean sent to the group chat? Of you and the guys at the gym?"

Armin does a double-take. "The one where I almost bounced a basketball into my face? Seriously? That did it for you?"

"I mean, it was the gym shorts too …" They were weirdly baggy and long on his lanky legs, like he borrowed them from Connie or Eren last minute. In the video, he was attempting a free-throw and messed up before he even tried for the shot, dribbling the basketball right underneath himself and nearly knocking his teeth in when it bounces straight up. It was equal parts pathetic and adorable, even in your time of sorrow.

Later that day, you found yourself lying in bed, crossing your thighs together and rocking into the pressure on your clit as you thought of licking the sweat off his neck and palming him through the mesh fabric of his shorts. Out of all your Armin-related orgasms, this one was probably the most subtle one, but also the most desperate.

Your strategy wasn't perfect, okay?

The mattress shifts, and there's a hold on your wrists. Not too tight, but firm enough to snap you back into the present as you let Armin move your hands away from your face. His fingers trace up and interlace with yours as he brings them close to him, twisting your wrists so he can kiss the tops of your knuckles.

"I think I need a redo," he mumbles on your skin. Even with your hands in the way, you can make out the shy grin on his face. "Need to see if that was a fluke or if I'm just that good."

You scoff, as if you're not dying for him to do more, for him to make you come so many times that your brain turns to mush. Joking or not, he can have this ego boost if it means he keeps touching you.

"Yeah, whatever," you eventually say, smiling back. "I'm all yours, Armin."

That makes his grin deepen. He kisses your knuckles one more time and lowers them down to your sides, his fingers starting to hook around your panties.

With a gentle nod of encouragement, you lift your hips and let Armin slowly drag your underwear down your hips. His fingers graze the middle of your thighs before the center of your underwear finally unsticks from your dripping cunt. A think, honeyed line of your come and arousal still connects the fabric to your core, and Armin groans.

"So messy …" he says to himself. He cuts off the connecting web with a pinch and scoops as much of your slick as he can, smearing it between the pads of his fingers. You see the pink of his tongue between his lips when he brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks. The action makes you whimper, but Armin isn't fazed, pulling back his now clean fingers and saying, "You taste good, too."

As flattering as that was, your cunt was aching for more. He must notice the way you're clenching on air, because he mumbles a quiet "sorry" and finishes pulling off your underwear, hooking it off one ankle then the other.

You can't tell if he's trying to be sneaky when he tucks your panties into the back pocket of his pants, but you don't comment on it. He could do whatever he wanted with them, it was only fair after all. Plus, it was incredibly sexy to see him stake a claim on you. You save the fantasy of him jerking off into them for future use.

Armin adjusts and moves further back on your bed. His eyes struggle to focus between your slick core and the rest of your naked body, but the fire behind them is evident, scorching you from head to toe. "You're so beautiful," he whispers.

You lightly kick his foot with yours. "Arminnn" you whine. "C'mon."

"I know I know, I'll hurry up now. Just needed you to know that."

His ears are red again, and you almost feel bad for being so needy and impatient when he was being so sweet with you. Almost. He slinks another couple feet down on the mattress, working himself into a lazy plank with his mouth fanning the spot you need him most.

"Tell me if I'm doing something wrong, okay?" You can practically hear his voice rattling your insides.

"Of course Min, just, please."

Without any other warning, Armin licks the same pattern as earlier, dragging his tongue from the bottom of your entrance to the tip of your sensitive clit. You let out a sigh of relief at the contact, but it soon turns into a desperate wail when he keeps his tongue around on the bud. From there, it's a steady pattern of languid strokes and soft sucks as he makes out with your clit. The wet kissing sounds echo in your room, and you can feel your arousal leak out of you at the sight of Armin between your legs.

"God, that's good," you keen. "Your tongue's so good, fuck. Please don't stop."

A moan vibrates against you at a particularly rough suck. He keeps the same force on your clit and grabs at your thighs, pulling them up toward his head and squeezing at the plush muscle. It was like the longer his mouth stayed on you, the hungrier he got.

You were rapidly starting to lose yourself in the pleasure, and you hold his hair to ground yourself. Your fingers thread through the strands until your nails gently dig into his scalp, and Armin hums at the new sensation.

His lips part from your clit and down to your slit as he licks the drooling mess on your cunt. A thick, slurp noise erupts from him when his tongue pushes past your folds and soaks his mouth with your juices. The noise you let out would put porn to shame, and you can't help but grip Armin's hair tighter as you ride his tongue until your thighs tremble under his hold.

"Close …" you trail off with a moan.

Armin continues to work you open with his tongue and kiss your folds, his eyes dark and hazy with lust as he stares up at you. Maybe it's the way his nose nudges your clit, or the fact that he's clutching the base of his length to calm himself down, but you topple over with a shaky exhale as your cunt spasms around his mouth. Your toes curl into your comforter as your thighs trap Armin, who's still tenderly sucking and swallowing the come spilling out of you.

Eventually, your hips start to writhe away in overstimulation, and he slowly pulls away from your core, looking as disheveled as you. His hair is messy from your death-grip and his eyes are glazed over, but what's the most damning is his bright pink, swollen mouth and the shine that glistens his chin. His chest is heaving, deep breaths syncing up with yours.

"I'm guessing I did alright then?" he asks.

"Something like that," you heave out, still reeling from your orgasm. Your eyes dart down to the lower part of his face. "Um, sorry for the mess."

"Hm?" He follows your gaze and blinks. "Oh, that's fine. I mean, it would probably look bad on my part if it wasn't." Armin wraps the bottom of his shirt into his fist and uses it to wipe off his chin, steeping the fabric with you. You don't think he realizes how attractive that is. "That reminds me, did you want the shirt on or off?"

Definitely doesn't realize.

"On for sure," you murmur, staring at the drying, white stain on the dark green of his shirt, "though I would definitely like to see it off next time."

"Hmm, I like that."

"What—being shirtless?"

"That there's going to be a 'next time'," he blushes. "I know we said we liked each other and all that, but I don't know, I guess it's nice to hear a confirmation of it."

You push on your hands and sit up, your face right under Armin's as you try (and fail) to smooth down his hair. "I like it too." You peck his cheek, watching his flush deepen. "Now, I'm going to need you to take off your pants. I'm dying to see your dick."

He chuckles, leaning into you for a chaste kiss. You can feel his grin against yours. "Hopefully you weren't picturing anything crazy in your fantasies. I'm pretty average."

"With how hot you are, I'm sure it'll be the prettiest, most average dick ever."

"Thanks? I think," he questions, fiddling with the button of his pants as he stands up. A sense of pride flows through you when you see the dark spot of precome on his plaid boxers, the light blue stripes looking shades darker under the stain. You already have a faint idea of what his dick would look like, based on how it was pressing against his clothes, but when he finally exposes himself to you, your brain freezes and has to reboot.

Armin wasn't being modest, he really was an average size, not that any of that mattered to you. But you too were honest earlier, because it really was the prettiest dick ever. You admired the way his hair around his base was neatly trimmed; it was also a tad darker than the happy trail above it, meaning your daydreams were both erotic and accurate.

As you made your way up his length, you could see how his tip was shiny from his precome, and how he looked so hard that it made you throb back in sympathy. With his size, you probably had a decent shot of deep throating all of him, and you were more than eager to try and find out.

You're an animal on the prowl as you start crawling toward the edge of your bed, staring at Armin with big, hungry eyes. "Need you in my mouth," you purr, and his cock twitches in response. Your wanting mouth is right in front of his tip, and just when you're about to revel in the salty taste of him, he winces and yanks you by your hair until you're at least a foot away from him.

"Shit—sorry." His hand clasps around his cock with such vigor, you're worried that's he going to pop a vein. He tightens his grip one more time before letting go with a relieved sigh. When he looks back at you, his whole body deflates and he hangs in head in embarrassment.

"Sorry, that was totally out of line," he says, shaking his head. "That sounds really hot, but I'm like, this close to coming." He winces again, as if the mere thought of coming was about to send him over the edge. "I think I got more worked up from eating you out than I realized, so I probably won't last much longer, and I really want to come while I'm inside you. Is—is that okay?"

You weren't sure if you should mention that you quite liked how hard he pulled at your hair, or how hearing how worked up he got from you was such a turn-on. It was white noise compared to him basically begging to fuck you.

"More than okay," is what you end up saying, a sly smirk forming. "Do you still want me to ride you?"

"God yes. Please do that, fuck," he rambles, frantically agreeing.

"Alright," you reply, your smile turning mischievous when you notice that how his cock is bobbing so close to your face. With Armin still in his daze, you couldn't help but send a quick kiss to the head of his dick. A sharp gasp escapes him as he nearly keels at the contact, gripping himself again.

"Jesus—fuck!" His face is as red as his tip, and his knees buckle so hard you're worried you completely broke him. "You're such a—oh god—I don't even know what to call you I'm so fucking horny. Please keep going before I blow my load on your floor," he begs, ignoring the amusement on your face.

Armin looks delirious when you guide him back to your bed, if he had his glasses on (and you'll be sure he does next time) they would probably be a fogged-up mess with how heavy he's breathing. Excitement courses through you thinking of how much worse he'll be when he actually feels you.

Without a second thought, you swing your hips over him and support yourself on the top of his chest. You lean forward and kiss his lips, the tangy taste of your come still lingering on him as he weakly kisses back. Your nose bumps against his as you mutter, "Is now a bad time to mention that I'm on birth control?"

His groan is borderline agonizing. "It is if you're trying to go for longer than a minute."

"Hey, give yourself some credit. I bet you can make it for at least two."

He wants to banter back, but the conversation soon ceases when he feels the wetness of your folds soaking his shaft, the two of you whimpering at the feeling. Armin feels velvety under your grasp, and when his head prods at your entrance, his stomach clenches and his hands fly to your hips. You feel his fingers dig into your flesh as he restrains himself from pushing into you, letting you take him at your own pace.

Even with how soaked you were, and how well his tongue worked you open, the stretch was still overwhelming. You have to pause halfway down his length and take a deep breath, your cunt giving Armin a small squeeze as you take a deep breath. He's staring in complete wonder at the sight of where you two meet, awestruck at the way your hole swallows his cock.

In all of your fantasies, this part was always the fuzziest: your fingers were never enough to replicate your visions, too short and too small to imagine as Armin. But now, as you're buried to the hilt and your heart is in your throat, you're realizing that even your dreams couldn't live up to the real deal.

Armin was the perfect length for you, and the thought makes you swell with fondness. The fullness stretches you so good. The longer you sit on him, the likeliness that you won't last much longer than him increases.

"—fuck, you're so tight," he sighs, "this is better than anything I could've imagined."

You laugh, though it comes off a bit strained. It was like he read your mind, which would have terrified you less than a day ago. Now you want nothing more than for him to know just how obsessed you are.

"I'm gonna start moving now," you say. Armin bites his lip and adjusts his hold on your waist, anticipating your next movements.

The wind is immediately knocked from him when you rock your hips, the drag of your cunt on his cock is all but torturous with how good it feels. Your rhythm is awkward for the first bit, angles varying a couple of degrees here and there while you try to find what feels best. Though to be honest, it all feels amazing. If Armin was able to focus on anything other than his breathing, he would probably agree.

The next roll draws a surprised moan from you, the new angle hitting a spongy spot that makes your eyes roll back. Chasing the feeling, you pick up your pace and start bouncing on Armin's cock, wet, smacking noises echoing where your ass meets his skin. It blends in wonderfully with the creaking of your bed frame and Armin's guttural groans.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, you take me so well. Your pussy is so perfect," he says in awe.

You whimper at his praise and your cunt throbs in response. It makes Armin curse under his breath. "It's so deep in me, Min," your voice comes out hoarse. "Your cock feels so good."

"Yeah?" he asks. His hands lower, his fingers pressing into the swell of your ass and helping your lift yourself up and down his length. "Fuck, don't stop then. Take what you want."

His words make you gasp, spurring you on. Your nails dig into his shirt like you're clawing for the pale skin underneath, and your movements become fervid as you relentlessly slam yourself down on his cock. When you feel a burn zip through your thighs as you start to lose stamina, you quickly switch your motions and grind hard against the base of Armin's length, circling and poking that delicious spot deep that sends sparks through your nerves.

Your drooling cunt soaks the hair around his cock up to the edge of his shirt. Armin looks down and moans, "You're making such a mess on me. Want you to come on my cock so bad. Can you do that?"

You nod so fast your head spins. The pit in your stomach tightens as your legs start to shake, your movements growing tired as you try to push through and find your peak. Armin catches your frustrated whines and shifts under you. Confused, you purposefully slow yourself down, ready to ask if he's okay, but any concern is erased from your consciousness when you feel a wet press of his thumb rub against your swollen clit.

"Oh fuck—right there. I'm gonna come, Min," you say with a hard clench. Your previous exhaustion is forgotten as adrenaline gives way, the added pleasure sending you into overdrive. His thumb flicks your clit the same time you slam down, and your mouth drops open in a silent scream, your cunt unrelenting as you come, holding Armin inside you like a vice.

"Shit—you're gripping me so tight. Come here," he pleads, but it's more of a demand when his hands slide to your back and push you into his chest. It's more teeth than mouth when he tries to kiss you, lips far too needy to properly meet, but it's satisfying all the same.

Armin's slowly rocking into you, your walls still trembling out the last of your orgasm, and his nails scrape into your sweaty skin as he hisses. "Fuck, I'm gonna come. I want to come so bad," he grunts against your lips.

"Want your come," you whimper back. "Fuck me until you come, please."

The next few moments are a bit cloudy, but somehow you end up rolled onto your back, legs wrapped around Armin as he thrusts into you with abandon. Your cunt feels like it's on the brick of overstimulation, but you welcome the sensitivity when Armin pants into your neck with such desperate determination.

His hips start to stutter and his whole body tenses as he comes with a shudder. You can feel Armin's cock pulse inside you, spurts of thick come covering your walls as he keeps coming and coming, just about crying from the satiation he's finally given in to.

After an especially hard jerk of his hips, he sighs and goes limp into your arms with a small oomph. "I—sorry, just give me a second. Fuck, that was so good. I think you killed me," he half-laughs, trying to catch his breath.

"I don't mind," you smile, sending a peck to the top of his head while you run your fingers through the ends of his hair that stick to his neck. "This is kind of comforting."

"Yeah, it's pretty nice. I just worry that if I stay inside you, I'll just have a permanent boner, and I'm not sure what the health risks are regarding that."

"Thank you?" you joke while Armin sits up with a grunt, his (still hard) cock slipping out of you. You whine at the loss.

He stares at the space where you separate, tongue darting to lick his lips as he looks at your cunt. "Fuck, I came so much inside you, it's starting to leak out," he mumbles. In a trance, his two fingers make its way to the dripping line of come down your slit, collecting the spill and delicately pushing it back inside you.

You're caught by surprise at first, and despite the puffiness of your folds and the near-pain sensation aching inside you, you found yourself craving the possessiveness and the fullness from his release. You don't think Armin fully registers what he's doing until you softly moan at a curl of his fingers inside you, making him quickly retreat out of you.

"Shit, sorry. Too much. That was weird of me," he cringes.

"No no, it's okay. Feels good," you mewl. "Keep going. I want to be stuffed with your come. Please."

Armin checks your face, and when he sees that you're being serious, his eyes darken and his fingers find you again, repeating the pattern of scooping and pumping his come deeper into you. You force your breathing to deepen as you push yourself through the slight sting, a pit of pleasure forming deep in your gut.

Your cunt starts to indulge in the tender feeling, subtly sucking Armin in deeper just when he's about to pull out. "Such a needy pussy …" he says, his words toeing the line between observing and taunting as he keeps moving. "You can't seem to get enough. Guess I have my work cut out for me. Need to make sure you're always full of me."

A chill goes down your spine at the unexpected dirty talk, making you shiver out a small orgasm. It goes as quickly as it comes, but the bliss it leaves still soothes your system. Your come mixes with Armin's and oozes out of you and past his knuckles. It's too much to push back in, much to your dismay, but Armin seems to have other plans.

He scoops your combined releases, but instead of bringing his digits to your entrance, they meet his tongue as he sucks himself clean. A puny noise from your throat escapes you as more of your come starts to leak out of you. Armin seems to understand, because his fingers massage your folds again and he asks, "Wanna taste?"

You don't trust yourself to speak, so you weakly nod and let your mouth loll. Creamy, white fingers dip past your teeth and sit on your tongue before your lips wrap around him. Your sucks are slow and unhurried, savoring the heady saltiness of Armin and the tanginess of you. You let out a sated hum as you swipe your tongue across the tips of his fingers, and out of the corner of your eye you see a twitch from his semi-hard cock. You also notice the ring of cream sitting on the base of his shaft, and you're both embarrassed and aroused at the mess.

"You're amazing," he admires. Armin moves his fingers out of you with a faint pop of your mouth and places them underneath your chin while he leans in. His kisses are different than before, not fiery like the first time, or quick like the ones in between your lewd actions, or even clumsy while he was on the brink of coming.

They're … precious. Loving, even. You hope you kiss him back the same way, despite your deep stupor.

He rolls off you without crushing you as best he can, the two of you lying side by side, looking up and focusing on the weird water stain on your ceiling. If you squint, it kind of resembles a man riding some titan-like creature. Weird.

"Are you okay?" Armin double-checks. "I didn't like, hurt you or anything, right? I know I got carried away at certain parts, and I hope you didn't say yes on my account or anything—"

You kiss the top of his shoulder, smushing the side of your face into your pillow. "I'm fine. Will definitely feel this later today, but fine. I wanted to do it. All of it," you reassure, and Armin relaxes, drawing his attention back to you.

"Okay, another serious question then," he starts, "what exactly about me makes you so …"

"—horny? Ready to fuck you at a moment's notice?"

"Uh, yeah. That," Armin blushes, as if he wasn't literally feeding you his come earlier.

"I don't know, you just look more … you? If that makes sense? I don't think your look necessarily changed how I felt about you romantically. You were always attractive, and you looked great before, don't get me wrong … there's just something about your 'nerdy' look that makes you look like a virgin that would come in his pants, and I guess I'm really into that?" You scowl. "Sorry, that sounds bad. I'm explaining this terribly."

Armin brushes it off with a wave. "It's alright, I think I kinda get it, plus I did almost come in my pants earlier, so you're not wrong there." He purses his lips, trying to think of an explanation. "It's like how certain styles or colors look better on some people compared to others, but more sexual? Everyone has their preferences at the end of the day—I always like those white pajama pants you wear around your place. The ones with the pink flowers on them? I could always see your underwear when you bent over, it drives me crazy."

You scoff in mock offense. "Creep. Why is this the first time I'm hearing this?" You wore those pants all the time, they were the softest pair you owned and a personal favorite of yours. Maybe all those wash cycles thinned out the material, though.

"Like I said, you're not the only one with a dirty mind. And who are you calling a creep?" He bumps your shoulder with his. "You came how many times? Once from me barely fingering them, might I add."

You cross your arms with a huff, wishing you were under your blanket so something could cover your naked body. "In my defense, I didn't expect to be so pent up, or for you to be so good at … everything." You grow warm recounting his skilled tongue and thick cock.

"Would it turn you on if I said I learned most of it from webtoons?" he smirks.

You cover your face in shame and let out a dramatic groan. "Ugh, yes. Why is that so hot?" The bed shakes as he laughs. At least he's entertained.

There's a stretch of comfortable silence afterward. You eventually pull your hands away from your eyes and bask in the afterglow. A part of you wants to scream in your pillow and kick your feet up like a schoolgirl. Another part of you wants to crawl into Armin's chest and slump your body into his. They're both silenced by the puddle forming underneath you. You're now extremely aware of how sticky you are, and you can't help but recoil a little.

"I should probably clean myself up." An idea forms in your head. "… would you want to take a shower with me? Might be easier that way, and I wouldn't mind seeing you shirtless a bit sooner."

He narrows his eyes at you. "Are you trying to wash yourself or check me out?"

"I can multitask. What, you don't want to shower with me?"

"Oh I definitely do," he clarifies, coming closer into your space. "I never got the chance to check out your butt. Without pants on, that is."

The back of your hand lazily smacks his chest. You start picturing the warm water of the shower and Armin's hands denting your skin as he takes you from behind, your chest and hands pushed against the steamy glass of the door as you leave imprints for future you to find. A memory of Armin's cock pounding into you until you saw stars. You wonder if he could leave another memory on your ass too, spanking you until your skin is sore and tingling.

"Oh wow, are you doing it? Are you having a fantasy right now?" Armin asks, sitting up on his arm to get a better look at you.

You tune back in, blinking away your dream. "Huh? What?"

"You just spaced off and started breathing weird," he points out. "Were you thinking about me just now?"

"Maybe …" A beat. "Yes."

You can't believe Eren actually made a correct observation about you. Were you really that obvious? Mortification takes over as you try to scrub out the dream from your head. You literally just had sex. Great sex, in fact. You should at least wait a few hours before you start conjuring up erotica in your mind.

In your spiral, Armin grabs your hand and traces circles on your wrists. "Well, if you want, we could turn it into a reality," he offers, sending a kiss to your knuckles.

"What—right now?"

"Sure, why not? I don't have much going on today," he shrugs.

"I mean, I don't either but … don't you think you might need a minute? You know. Down there."

Armin lets out an awkward laugh. "Yeah … I don't think you need to worry about that." He looks down at his cock. "I don't think it's gone down this entire time. I might need some more help."

Oh. You would very much like to help him with that.

You draw your hand back in and pull yourself up, trying your best to ignore the gush of come that spills out of you. "Alright, don't threaten me with a good time. I am going to need a food break or something afterward, though, so don't get your hopes up for round three." You pause, reconsidering. "At least not right away."

"Fair enough." He rubs the back of his neck as his skin flushes. "If that's the case, maybe I can take you to that bakery that opened up nearby? For a date?"

That shouldn't turn you on so much, but it does. It also makes your heart sing and your stomach flutter, and your cheeks are about to cramp with how hard you're beaming.

"I would love it if my boyfriend took me out on a date."

Armin's dick twitches and he gulps. "Okay, yeah, I'm definitely ready for whatever you're planning. Please call me your boyfriend again."

You nearly spill your coffee all over your Political Theory textbook when you unlock your phone. Another two hundred comments on that TikTok. You know you shouldn't check—you probably watched it about a million times yesterday alone—but your fingers move before your brain can scream at you to stop.

@/bookslvt01: ok but the way he talks about virginia woolf??? NEED HIM CARNALLY @/colossalthighs: i’d let him annotate my entire body fr @/arlertmeout: he looks like he apologises before choking you

You bite your lip, half-entertained and half-horrified, scrolling through the endless comments under what was supposed to be an innocent campus interview. The video has 2.3 million views now, completely insane for something filmed outside the modest main library—the same one you find yourself in at the moment—on a random Tuesday.

"Ugh, don’t tell me. You're watching it again, aren't you?"

Your head snaps up comically quick, caught red-handed, to find Sasha sliding into the seat across from you at your usual table, eyeing your phone screen with knowing amusement. 

"What? No."

"You are! You have that weird, glazed look in your eyes. The same one you get when Professor Ackerman extends the deadline for our research papers." Sasha unwraps what appears to be her third sandwich of the day. You don't mention how it’s only twelve in the afternoon. "You know you could just talk to him about it, right? He's literally one of your best friends."

"And say what exactly?" you finally close the godforsaken app, trying to ignore how your screen time report is definitely going to be embarrassing this week. "Hey Armin, I've watched your viral video more times than I can remember and I'm having very inappropriate thoughts about your tongue piercing that I absolutely shouldn't be having about my friend?"

Sasha snickers, a piece of lettuce tumbling to the table from her mouth. "Well, when you put it like that... actually, yes. One hundred percent that."

"Sasha, I can't just—" you frown in frustration, inhaling deeply. "It's complicated."

"How is it complicated? You've had a crush on him since freshman year."

"That was different. That was before we became friends. Before I knew him." You lean back in your chair, staring at the ceiling as fond memories overwhelm you. "Back then he was just this cute, nerdy guy in my intro psych class who got excited about statistical analysis and always smelled like that vanilla body wash I love. I used to sit behind him just to watch him get all animated during discussions about cognitive behavioural theory, you know?"

Sasha merely rolls her eyes. "Jesus, and you call me demented. Well, what about now?"

"Now? Now, he's Armin. He's my friend who stays up until 3 A.M. to help me with my assignments, who brings me soup when I'm sick, who texts me the dumbest memes about historical figures," you slump forward, close to pouting. "He's the guy who spent six hours teaching me how to play that MMO he's obsessed with just because I mentioned being bored over winter break. He's..."

"He's the guy you're infatuated with," Sasha supplies helpfully.

"I'm not," you start to protest, then wisely opt to give up instead. "Okay, maybe. But that's exactly the problem. I can't risk blowing up our friendship just because some stupid interview made me realise I want to climb him like a tree."

"A tree with a tongue piercing," Sasha adds with a cheeky grin.

"Fuck’s sake, don't remind me," you let your head rest against the table. "Do you know how many times I've replayed that two-second clip where he licks his lips? It's pathetic."

"It's not pathetic, it's kind of sweet. There's a difference." Sasha takes another bite of her sandwich, her eyes evidently lighting up. "Besides, you don't know that he doesn't feel the same way. Have you seen how he looks at you during our study sessions? Boy's got it bad."

"He looks at me like a friend, Sasha. Because that's what we are."

"Believe me, friends don't look at friends the way he looked at you last Friday when you were explaining your thesis argument. I thought he was going to combust from sexual tension."

Before you can blatantly disagree, you hear an all too familiar voice behind you.

"Sexual tension about what now?"

Your stomach drops directly through the floor. You turn around carefully, and there he is—Armin Arlert, campus's newest digital sensation, standing there with that signature bemused expression he gets when he catches you and Sasha gossiping. His blonde hair is mussed like he's been running his hands through it, and he's wearing that adorable blue sweater that brings out his eyes deliciously.

"Oh, um..." You scramble for an explanation, panicking on the inside. "We were just talking about... about..."

"About how Professor Ackerman's lectures are basically academic foreplay," Sasha jumps in smoothly. "All that tension and buildup with no satisfying conclusion. I mean, hello?"

Armin laughs, the sound warm and comforting. "That's fascinatingly accurate, I’ll admit." He shifts his weight, and you only then notice he's carrying his laptop bag and what seems to be a bag of takeout. "Mind if I join you? I brought Thai food and figured you might be hungry since you've been here since—," he checks his phone, "—9 A.M., according to the text you sent complaining about how it’s criminal that the library opens so early on weekends."

Your heart does a little flip at his consideration. "You didn't have to do that."

"I wanted to." He slides into the chair next to you, close enough that you can smell his cologne—a rich blend of velvety caramel and toasted cinnamon that positively makes you want to lick him all over. 

Stop. None of that, you horny bastard.

"Besides, I figured you might want to hear about the latest developments in my accidental internet fame."

Sasha perks up at once. "Hell, yeah. Have you been recognised on campus yet?"

"Five times yesterday," Armin appears to lament, pulling containers out of the bag. "Including once in the bathroom, which was... awkward, to say the least." He hands you your usual order without asking what you want. "But the weirdest part is definitely the DMs."

"DMs?" you pipe up, failing to ignore how domestic this feels what with him knowing exactly what you like. Typical, precious Armin.

"You have no idea," he opens his laptop and turns it toward you two with a nervous twitch. "I've gotten marriage proposals, offers to 'show me a good time,' and at least a hundred messages asking about my tongue piercing specifically."

Your face burns as you push away the thought that you've been mentally composing similar messages. "That's... wow."

"The worst part is, most of them are asking if I'd be interested in demonstrating its uses." He fidgets with his glasses, coming across as embarrassed but also endearing. "I had no idea that thing would cause such a reaction."

"Well, it is pretty noticeable," Sasha remarks with a meaningful peek at you. "Very... attention-grabbing."

"I guess." Armin glances at you pointedly. "What do you think? You've seen the video, right?"

The question is innocent enough, but something in his tone makes you look at him more carefully. There's an out-of-the-ordinary implication that you can't quite put your finger on. "Uh... yeah, I've seen it," you manage to croak out. Terrific. Could you get any stiffer?

"And?"

"And what?"

"What did you think?"

You stare at him blankly, trying to figure out if this is a normal friend question or if you’re incorrectly perceiving the foreign edge of curiosity behind it. "I thought... I mean, your book recommendations were really good. Very passionate."

"Passionate," he repeats, the fleeting flash of understanding across his face confirming your earlier weariness. "That's interesting."

Sasha's phone cuts through the uneasiness with its incessant buzzing, and she scans it with obviously fake surprise. "Oh no, would you look at that. I have to go... meet... someone... about... a... very real thing... I have." She begins gathering her stuff with awfully suspicious speed. "You two have fun talking about books. And passion. And tongue piercings."

"Huh? Wait. Sasha—" you squeak out, but she's already dashing out of the private study room you had booked for the both of you until late afternoon (traitor). Which leaves you alone with Armin, who's scrutinising you with an expression you can't quite read.

"Alright," he speaks after a moment, closing his laptop and leaning back in his chair. "Want to tell me what you actually thought about the video?"

"I already told you."

"No, you gave me the safe answer." He tilts his head slightly, studying you with purpose. "Come on, we've been friends for two years. I know when you're holding back."

You hastily shove some noodles in your mouth, avoiding his gaze. "I'm not holding back."

"Really? Because Sasha seemed to think you had some important opinions about it."

You make a mental note to start drafting your plan for the girl’s well-deserved comeuppance. "Sasha talks too much."

"She does," Armin agrees. "But she's usually right about things. Especially when it comes to you."

The rarely there confidence in his tone makes you look up and, when you meet his gaze, the intensity catches you off guard. "What do you want me to say?"

"Did you know," he continues conversationally, "that TikTok shows you analytics about who's viewed your videos?"

Almost instantly, your heart stops. "What?"

"Mhm. Very detailed analytics. Including multiple views from the same account." His lips quirk up in a small smile. "Want to guess how many times your account shows up in my viewer list?"

You feel heat creeping up your neck. "I don't know what you're talking about." You briefly consider denying reality, blaming a technical issue, or claiming a glitch in the matrix—but none of it sticks.

"Seventy-seven times," he announces, the metaphorical checkmate hitting you straight in the chest. "As of this morning."

Oh god. Oh god, oh god, oh god. He knows. "I can explain—"

"Can you?" He angles himself forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Because I've been trying to figure out why my very good friend has watched a boring thirty-second video of me talking about books seventy-seven times."

You want to run away, mouth opening and closing like a fish. "I... the algorithm is weird sometimes?"

Armin chuckles, low and warm, absent of any malice. "Try again."

"I was checking to see if the view count was going up?"

"Nope."

You're quiet for a long moment, trying to figure out how to get out of this without completely humiliating yourself. You don't suppose it's too late to jump out of a window? Ultimately, you sigh in defeat. "Okay, fine. Maybe I watched it a few times."

"A few?"

You narrow your eyes, crossing your arms in defiance at the unsolicited endless interrogation. "More than a few."

"How many more?"

You want to strangle him, and not in the sexy way. "You’re being annoying."

"Come on." His voice has dropped slightly lower, and there's something almost akin to teasing in it. "I told you about the marriage proposals. Fair's fair."

You mutter a profanity under your breath, groaning. "Fine. I watched it a lot. Happy?"

"No. We’re getting there, though. Why?"

"Why what?"

Armin’s glee sharpens into something ravenous, a flicker of desperation lurking beneath his carefree demeanour—like he’s itching for you to say exactly what he needs. "Why did you watch it seventy-seven times?"

Your lungs feel too tight, too exposed. "Because..."

"Because?"

"Because you looked really good, okay?" The words come out in a rush. "Because watching you talk about literally anything is incredibly attractive, and because that frustrating part where your tongue piercing shows has been tormenting me ever since the video came out."

The silence that follows is eerily deafening. Armin simply stares at you, and you wish the ground would swallow you whole.

"Shit," you grumble, burying your face in your hands. "I'm sorry. That was completely out of line. I know we're friends and I shouldn't have—"

"Hey. Look at me."

The way he asks convinces you to peep through your fingers, reluctant but unable to look away. His expression is attentive and focused—definitely not one of disgust.

"You think I'm attractive?" he questions softly.

"I... yes?"

He blinks, his usual calm shattered by the raw vulnerability in your voice. His fingers tremble, revealing the fierce hope inside that there’s a potential chance that someone sees him as more than the sum of his quirks.  "Even though I'm just a loser who gets excited about obscure paranormal documentaries and spends too much time playing video games?"

"Especially because of that," you admit, having never been more sure of yourself.

His answering smile is slow and devastating. "Good to know."

"Good to know?"

He hums, reaching across the table, and gently pulls your hands away from your face. "I've been wondering if you'd ever see me as more than just your friend who helps you with your homework."

Your brain, without a doubt, malfunctions. "What?"

"Did you really think I started bringing you food and staying up late just because I'm a good friend?"

The words disarm you. You’re trapped between incredulity and the dawning comprehension of what he might be suggesting. "I…"

"And did you think I learned how to play your favourite songs on guitar just because I had time to spare?"

"Y-you said you wanted to practice—"

"And I presume you thought I got this piercing because I was feeling rebellious?"

That stops you short, confusion apparent in the furrow of your brows. "You didn't?"

Armin's grin turns almost predatory. "I got it because I overheard you and Sasha talking about how cool you find them. This was back in October, after you'd been dating that guy with the lip ring."

You feel like a kettle left on the stove too long. "You... what?"

"You said, and I quote, 'There's something about tongue piercings that's beyond exciting.’ Something along the lines of how the person has to be bold enough to get it, but there's the simultaneous insinuation of what they can do with it."

"I’m going to kill myself," you gape at him in horror. "You heard all of that?"

"I was sitting right behind you in the campus coffee shop. You weren’t exactly shy about it." He shifts closer, and you can spot the hint of silver when he speaks, "I made an appointment that very afternoon."

"You got a tongue piercing because of something I said about another guy?"

"I got a tongue piercing because I wanted to be the guy you were talking about."

The confession hangs in the air between you, charged and electric. You stare at him, trying to process this complete change in everything you thought you knew about your friendship. 

"I've been trying to get your attention for months. I was starting to think I'd have to do something drastic."

In spite of being made to face terrifying revelation after revelation, you manage to stutter out a breathless laugh. "More drastic than getting a tongue piercing for me?" 

"I was considering learning to play your favourite video game."

You snort despite yourself. "You hate that game."

He shrugs casually, as if the lengths to which he would go for you knew no bounds. "I know. That's how desperate I was getting."

The atmosphere between you feels tense now, full of possibility and two years of unspoken tension. Armin traces your knuckles and the simple touch sends heat shooting up your arm.

"So," you say, trying to stay as composed as you possibly can. "What happens now?"

"Now," he starts, standing up, "you tell me what exactly you were thinking about during those seventy-seven views."

He's close enough that you have to tilt your head back to look at him, and the unwavering want in the blue of his eyes makes your breath catch. "I was thinking..." you trail off, feeling timid with his attention on you.

"You can do it. Use your words for me?" his voice has gotten rougher, huskier, and it sends delightful shivers down your spine.

"I was thinking about what it would feel like."

"What would feel like?"

"Your piercing. When you..." You gesture vaguely, cheeks burning. Armin's hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing across your bottom lip. "When I what?"

"When you kiss me," you whisper.

"Just kissing?" The question is loaded with underlying intentions, and you shake your head slowly.

"Tell me what else you were thinking about."

"Armin..."

"Please." The plea is hushed but insistent. "I want to know what's been going through your head."

You swallow, your throat suddenly dry as you let go of the entirety of your self-restraint. "I was thinking about what it would feel like on my body. What it would feel like when you use your mouth on me."

His pupils immediately dilate at your words. "Fuck."

"Is that... is that okay?"

Instead of verbally affirming, he leans down and kisses you. It's gentle at first, tentative, but when you react by fisting your hands in his sweater and pulling him closer, he deepens it. The first brush of his tongue against yours has you gasping, and when you feel the metal of his piercing, it sends intoxicating pleasure shooting through you.

You break apart, breathing heavily, and Armin rests his forehead against yours.

"How was that?" he asks earnestly, voice raspy.

"Good," you breathe. "Really good."

His smile is full of care but there's primal desire behind it. "And the piercing?"

"Want more of it."

He brushes his thumb across your lip again. Truth be told, it’s plain torture. "You know, we're in public right now."

Every wall you built is crumbling under the weight of him, and all you can do is let it. "I know."

"Anyone could walk by and see us."

"I know."

"And you don't care?"

You drag your hand up his thigh, stopping just shy of where he clearly wants it, "Not even a little bit."

He kisses you again, harder this time, and you can't help the soft moan that escapes when his tongue meets yours in another dance of display. The sound seems to flip a switch in him, because his hands are tangling in your hair and he's pressing you back against your chair.

"God, you have no idea how long I've wanted to do this," he murmurs against your lips.

"Tell me ‘Min."

"Since freshman year. Since that first day in psych class when you argued with Professor Smith about the ethics of behavioural modification."

You draw away just barely, shaking under the intimacy of his declaration. "That long?"

"That long." He doesn’t think twice before trailing his teeth along your jaw, and when the metal of his piercing digs into your flushed skin, you whimper needily. 

"You were so assertive, so brilliant. I was completely and utterly gone."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because you were dating that business major asshole, and then when you broke up, we became friends,” he hesitantly halts his ministrations to flutter his eyelashes at you, “I-I didn't want to ruin it." 

Good heavens, you didn’t stand a chance from the beginning.

"But then you kept looking at me like... like you wanted me too, and I started hoping..."

"I did want you. I do want you." The admission comes out whinier than intended, but you can’t bring yourself to be bothered at this point. "So much."

His hands tighten in your hair. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

You’re unaware of how many minutes pass as you lose yourself in the sensation of his mouth on yours, and the way he tastes like mint and something uniquely him. You dig your nails lightly into his sides, claiming him in an act of fervent possession. His breaths mingle with yours and the world outside your tangled bodies fades until there’s nothing but lust burning between you. By the end of it, your chests rise and fall in tandem.

"We should probably get out of here," he mumbles, peeking around the library.

Craving Armin has left you dazed, vision glassy as you attempt to make sense of your surroundings. "Right. Um, your place or mine?"

He pecks your nose, full of affection, tenderly guiding you. "Mine. My roommate's gone for the weekend."

You start gathering your things with shaky hands, hyperaware of the way Armin is observing you. When you bend over to pick up your bag, you hear his sharp intake of breath.

"Something wrong?" you ask innocently.

"N-nothing," he mutters, skittishly pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

The walk to his dorm feels like it takes forever, full of stolen glances and the kind of anticipation that makes your skin feel too tight. When you reach his room, he fumbles with his keys for a moment—so fucking cute—before getting the door open.

You haven’t had a lot of time this semester to crash at his dorm—neat and organised, with anime posters on the walls and stacks of books and manga everywhere. But you barely have time to take it in before he's pressing you against the closed door, urgency lacing his actions.

This time, there's nothing apprehensive about it. His hands are everywhere—your waist, your back, squeezing your ass—and when you arch against him, he makes a low sound of approval.

"You taste so good," he shudders against you. "Everything I’ve imagined and so much more."

"You imagined this?"

"Every night for two years." His mouth moves to your neck, nibbling along your throat. "What you'd look like, what you'd sound like when I made you come."

The words send heat pooling low in your belly, prompting you to press your thighs together instinctively. "Fuck, don’t say shit like that.”

"Why not? I’ve been longing for you. All of you," he whispers, pulling back to look at you with dark, lidded eyes. "You’re not getting away until I’ve had my fill."

It would be an understatement to say that you hadn’t foreseen this when you woke up today. That you'd be spending hours with your legs over Armin's shoulders, forgetting your own name; the compassionate, stammering genius the internet drooled over. Too bad he’s not on the market. It would be a treat if his fans could see him like this—flushed and breathless, fingers gripping your hips like he’d die without you. Armin Arlert, golden boy of TikTok, practically begging to let him ruin you.

You grow dizzy at the promise in his voice. "Please."

He lets his hand trail lower, indecently tranquil, and just as you think he’ll do something reckless—he pauses, smirking wickedly.

"Want to find out what this piercing really feels like when I eat you out?"

a/n : hiii guys as u can see i've def fallen back into my old anime era hehe, i rlly hope u enjoy, if u do pls lmk in the comments! i also posted this on a new ao3 acc i made, my user is p0lkadotted if u want to support me and my future works on there :) anyway, happy belated bday to my angel armin, mwah !

A pair of intrigued blue eyes had been tracking your every movement since you entered the party, immediately curious to know more about you. His intrigue was instant; the second you breached the entrance with your sorority, your face was the only one that stuck out from the crowd.

He was able to see the reflective glint of your pledge button pinned to your costume as you entered, his sense of intrigue only heightening.

New meat.

There were a couple other girls with the same button clipped to their costumes, but Armin didn’t care. No, he was only interested in you and knew his target was locked. 

He watched with an endearing but patronizing gaze as this new pretty little pledge attempted to veil her nervousness from being in a seemingly new setting, behind the facade of confidence.

He watched you strut across the congested living room filled from wall to wall with drunk 20 something year olds, attempting to hold your head up high when he could sense that all you wanted was to disappear.

“You ever actually gonna go up to her or are you just gonna stare at her all night?” Eren asked, breaking Armin out of focus by ducking down slightly to reach his ear, one finger plugging his own while his available arm slung loosely around Mikasa’s waist.

Armin glanced over at Eren with a knowing look, a self assured smile faintly crossing his lips, responding over the blasting music.

“I have a plan.” He replied with a shrug, sipping from his vodka and sprite. 

“You shouldn’t have to formulate a plan for something so simple, Armin. Just go up to her.” Mikasa added, slightly curling her hand around the side of her mouth, raising her voice above the loud collective drone of people surrounding the area.

Armin sighed, finishing the last of his drink, pushing the empty cup into Eren’s chest, sparing his two friends a smug, sideways glance before he spoke.

“I have a plan.” He repeated, cockier this time. His eyes found your figure once more, and knew the plan in question was already going into effect. He left his friends without another word, weaving his way through the sweaty mass of people, and heading directly over to you.

He had bided his time and waited until you were inevitably left on your own, abandoned by your sorority sisters, leaving you available for him to approach.

“Hi,” He called out, pulling your attention over to him. You turned around, a small smile spreading over your face when your eyes adjusted amidst the dark space and onto the person before you.

The only beacon of light within the stuffed frat house were the streaming violet and blue flood lights, its deep saturation illuminating the nameless stranger’s face, aiding you in making out his features. 

He’s cute. 

He gathered you didn’t mind the sight of him, an intrigue of your own sparking in your pretty eyes. Either that or you were relieved to no longer be by yourself at what he assumed was probably your first party here. He didn’t mind if that was the case, he’d let you use him for company all you wanted.

“Hi,” you repeated, shifting your weight onto one foot, your fingers nervously twitching around your cup. He noticed this little detail of course. He noticed everything.

“I’m Armin, I just wanted to say that I like your costume,” he complimented kindly, his gaze dragging over you and admiring the way your costume was nearly painted onto your body.

You were a deer, how fitting. You grinned, taking his compliment purely, glancing down at it before flickering back over to him, your eyes flitting over his costume. You introduced yourself, pausing for a beat, mustering some bravery to compliment him back before responding.

“Thank you! I-I like yours too! Cloud right? From Final Fantasy?” He raised a brow, nodding in confirmation, a mix of awe and adoration striking his chest. “Thank you! Do you play?” he asked, hoping you would say yes. When you confirmed that you indeed played, he nearly felt his knees buckle in on him.

“That’s cool,” He smiled, pretending that this little piece of information about you didn’t make his cock twitch.

“I just got the Final Fantasy remastered pixel series, maybe one day you can come over to my dorm and we can game together?” He offered with a slight welcoming nudge of his shoulder and a tempting smile, testing the waters with a bit more eagerness than he originally planned.

Initially, he was supposed to slowly turn up the heat little by little before you even realized you were burning at all. 

But he couldn’t help himself, at the end of the day he was just a dork who got hard at the drop of a hat whenever a pretty girl shared his interests. 

Despite the fact that his forwardness went a little over your head, it still left you a little flustered, left your heart thudding that much harder and for words to suddenly be a little harder to piece together. But overall it didn’t put you off. Not in the slightest.

So far so good.

“I’d like that,” you beamed with an air of gentleness, and Armin felt confidence balloon in his chest at how well things were going with you.

“Y’know I almost wasn’t even going to be Cloud, I was originally going to be Link but, my friend Eren said it’d be too dorky so, this was my next best option.” He laughed, rolling his eyes at the memory. You gasped in mild shock, furrowing your brows with a tilt of your head. 

“Legend of Zelda is sick, your friend must not have taste,” you chided, feigning disdain towards the newly mentioned Eren. And Armin would have been lying through his teeth if he said your little display and shared love for Legend of Zelda didn’t make him want to bend you over right there and stuff you full of him. 

Before he could respond, you continued on. “I mean, your Cloud is still amazing, but you would’ve made for a perfect Link,” You sighed with faux disappointment, your eyes dragging over him once more. “Do you always do what your friends tell you to?” you hummed wryly, a small mischievous curl in the corner of your lips.

Oh?

Armin enjoyed receiving a little ribbing from you, relishing in how cute you are when you tease. He wondered how far that trait of yours went.

He chuckled, pursing his lips with a slow nod, taking that little playful hit of yours while his tongue poked his inner cheek. He made it a point to let his eyes linger over your pledge button before shifting back to yours, knowing full well what both fraternities and sororities alike, put their pledges through. 

“You really wanna talk about letting people tell you what to do?” He pushed back, folding his arms over his chest loosely, challenging you right back. He didn’t miss the way you watched his arms flex slightly from the casual movement, having suddenly felt immense gratitude that he had been letting Eren drag him along to the gym with him every weekend. 

You nearly conceded in that moment, a faint smile of defeat spreading across your lips as you looked away, taking a swig from your cup. “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” you waved him off, huffing with pretend annoyance. He exhaled humorously, enjoying this back and forth with you. 

“So are you telling me that you don’t belong to this frat?” You questioned with faux suspiciousness, narrowing your eyes at him in a way he found devastatingly cute. He snorted, shaking his head an affirmative ‘no.’

“Oh God no, my major and extracurriculars are too demanding and time consuming to get involved with something like a frat.” You tilted your head, a soft hum of wonder leaving past your lips at his answer.

“Oh? And what’s takin’ up all your time then?” You asked, having felt more and more drawn into him the longer you were with him, much to Armin’s glee. 

“I’m a comp-sci major and I’m on the swim team.” He answered and immediately your mind flashed with very self indulgent images of him shirtless and in tight swim trunks, diving into the pool on campus.

Dear God you definitely had to go to one of his meets.

“You sound like a busy guy,” you responded, peering at him from behind the rim of your cup, taking another sip to hide the fact you were a little too excited upon finding out this morsel of information.

“How’d you manage to find the time to come to a party?” He exhaled humorously at your question, pursing his lips through a small smile, a slight shrug dropping in his shoulders.

“The same friend who convinced me to not be Link dragged me here.” He sighed with a light chuckle, shaking his head until the tail-end of his laugh cut short, pretending as if he just suddenly realized something. 

He glanced around you, feigning a slightly concerned confusion at your lack of company. “Speaking of friends, where’re your sorority sisters? Or did you come by yourself?” he asked, knowing full well that you had arrived with them. You huffed like a kicked puppy, shaking your head with a dejected little ‘no’ like he knew you would.

“No, we came together but, one by one they all kinda ditched me here. Well, save for my friend Sasha, I think she actually just got lost in the crowd,” you explained, and Armin nodded, listening intently, pretending to be saddened for you when in reality, your string of bad luck was disguised as his good fortune. 

He clicked his tongue, a glint of metal in the center of his tongue catching your eye. You went still for a moment, the sight caused a low stir in the pit of your belly and a little thrum in your clit, your mind immediately jumping to the obscene.

You slowly snapped out of it when he shook his head with an insincere commiseration, reminding you that then was not the time to be fantasizing about his face between your thighs while he was literally standing in front of you. 

“That’s a shame, would’ve figured that they’d know better than to leave a new pledge here by herself.” He tch’d with an artificial breath of disappointment towards your sorority sisters. Your back went somewhat straight at that, eyes flickering across his face as if an explanation would be written in his features.

“Wh..Why do you say that?” you asked, sounding more meek than you intended. “They didn’t tell you?” He questioned, leaning a little closer now, fake sympathy that you took as genuine etched across his downcast gaze. You shook your head, hanging off of his words with nervous anticipation.

“No, why? Is there something that’s gonna happen?” You questioned anxiously, your eyes darting around as if a threat will make itself known suddenly. He had to hold back a humorous exhale at your cautiousness, forcing himself to stick with his story. 

“Well, yes and no. Some of the frat guys like to pick off the new pledge girls, they pretend it isn’t the case but they present them with two options, hook up or get hazed.” He explained, watching you grimace with disgust and shock, a visible look of betrayal flashing through your eyes at the notion that your so-called sisters would not only leave you in an environment like this, but let alone bring you to one.

“Oh my God, are you serious?” you breathed out, shaking your head, full of disdain at the information.

“Unfortunately,” he nodded, his voice carrying an air of feigned disappointment towards the made up story he fed you. “I hope the other girls are okay…” You trailed off, peeking behind him to try and find some of the other girls you pledged with. 

He stiffened, gently moving in front of your wandering eyes, his hands coming up to soothingly squeeze your arms. “I’m sure they’ll be okay, my friend that I mentioned earlier and a couple of our other friends usually keep a good eye out during these things. I’m confident if anyone tries anything, they’ll make sure that it doesn’t come to fruition.” He reassured you, his hands were warm on your skin, lulling you back down to earth with him. Your diligent, searching eyes fell back to him, exhaling a low sigh under your breath. 

“Okay…” you trailed off quietly, your brows drawing together in a way that read as both sweet and pathetic, your eyes flickering between his with a silent plea before you even spoke. You didn’t need to at that point, Armin already knew that he had you hook line and sinker.

“I don’t want you to feel obligated but…if you don’t mind… would you stay with me tonight? U-Until I can find at least one of my sisters here, then I can maybe look for more of us with her and be out of your hair.” 

Oh you made this so easy. Poor thing, he almost felt bad. Almost. He shook his head gently, shushing you with lightheartedness and dismissing your guilt of being a burden with ease.

“Be in my hair, it’s okay. I don’t mind at all.” He chuckled softly, running his hands up and down your arms comfortingly. You smiled, exhaling a breath of relief at his reassurance, putting more trust into him than you should. 

“Do you wanna go upstairs for a bit? Just to get away from all the mess down here?” He murmured, his tone as delicate and dulcet in your ear as he could make it amidst the ear-ringingly loud music. His lips brushed against your hair as he leaned down, his cologne wafting around you from how close he was.

Sea breeze and a hint of eucalyptus, paired with the faint scent of alcohol and mint on his breath; you assumed the mint was to cover the slight smell of cigarettes you caught too. 

Almost hazily, you agreed, too lost in his honeyed words and his intoxicating air to consider why that might not be a good idea. He didn’t wait for you to think twice about it, taking your hand in his and guiding you through the ocean of people in your path.

He trailed behind you up the staircase, a hand politely and protectively at the small of your back, glancing back down at the party and laughing to himself when he sees Eren gawking at him leading you upstairs. 

Eren’s finger motioned between the two of you, surprised that his best friend actually managed to go through with what he figured to be a ridiculous and overly-thought out plan. Armin shrugged smugly, his eyes flitting up at you, ensuring your gaze was still pointed up the steps before he looked back down at Eren.

He made a jerking motion towards his mouth, poking his tongue into his cheek with every flick of his wrist, a smirk curled in the corner of his lips. Providing a visual as to what he assumed would occur later in the night with you.

Eren rolled his eyes, grimacing half heartedly at his friend’s lewdness. Armin flipped him off, brimming with cockiness, then turned back to you, tilting his head and letting you climb the steps a little further than him. He managed to catch a peek at your white panties under your short skirt, admiring the view before picking up the pace and following close behind you. 

Once you made it upstairs he took your hand once more, pushing past the people in your way with ease, the upper level carrying far less people than it held downstairs. You had followed his lead, letting him guide you past the hallway, while you stood idly behind him, watching as he pushed open a couple doors until he landed on a room that was the least filthiest. He ushered you inside and shut the door with his heel once you were both in.

You wandered into a stranger’s bedroom, unaware of the watchful stare behind you. He drank in every little move you made, the way you carried yourself, the way you wavered about nervously, like the reality of his intentions all along might’ve been finally surfacing your mind. 

But when you turned around, and smiled a real smile at him, he concluded you hadn’t yet, and he was still in the clear. Your willingness and overall trust for him prompted a somewhat arrogant thought in his mind.

Someone’s got a crush.

He concluded internally, stepping towards you while returning your grin with one of his own. It wasn’t like he minded, far from it. He liked you too, in his own…unique way.

If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have gone through all this trouble to get you alone. He wouldn’t have sent distractions to pluck off your sorority sisters one by one, he wouldn’t have enlisted Connie to (unknowingly) separate Sasha from your side, and he wouldn’t have come up with that story about the ‘hook up or haze’ thing with the frat guys.

Well, to be fair, he did truly find most of the frat guys downstairs to be complete sleeze-bags, save for Eren and Reiner. And he supposes Connie… but Connie isn’t even in the frat. The point is, most of the guys downstairs are assholes.

But he’s not!

His lie very well could’ve been the truth. In all honesty, he wouldn’t put it past those guys to do something like that. So really, he was protecting you from a very real, very possible danger. At the end of the day, there couldn’t be a safer guy to be around than him. 

You plopped onto the edge of the bed, kicking off your heels that you’d been dying to take off all night, watching as Armin joined you, the bed dipping beneath him as he sat. Your thighs were flush together, prompting you to pretend that the feeling of his thigh pressed to yours and the warmth that came with it didn’t make your chest get tight and stomach flutter.

His proximity to you alone expelled the type of heat across your cheeks that only ever comes with the rush of jitters from being around someone new and exciting.

“Thank you for staying with me, I know the last thing most people would want is to babysit a freshman,” you said, turning slightly to look at Armin, your voice as soft as the air between you both. He shook his head, reaching down to squeeze your knee, taking note as to how your leg twitched to be closer to his, fighting back the urge to let his smug smile grow. 

“Stop apologizing,” he hushed you, his hand slipping away from your knee and letting your skin grow cold without his touch, wanting you to subconsciously start seeking it out on your own. “I’m not babysitting you, I like talking with you.” He promised, and his words were actually truthful, he did enjoy talking to you, and he didn’t feel like he was babysitting you. No he plotted on you, but that was the part that didn’t need to be said aloud. 

You glanced down, too flustered to maintain eye contact. Instead opting for looking at your dangling sock covered feet, the lace frills around your ankles shimmering from the moonlight that was peeking in.

“I like talking to you too,” you admitted like a schoolgirl confessing to her crush, and Armin grinned, his head tilting to the side while he looked down at your lack of a reciprocated stare.

“Yeah?” he murmured amusedly, his palms splayed behind him, leaning back slightly on the bed. You finally hulled your eyes back up to his, your breath halting in your throat at the way he’s laid out beside you.

He didn’t look like the other guys who’ve attempted the ‘casually sexy’ seduction route with you – no, Armin was actually just hot, all without trying. It made you nervous, and he loved it, loved how you were responsive to just about everything he did.

“Yeah,” you nodded, smiling and dragging your stare away from his fit and toned midriff and back up to his eyes. He caught the look in your eyes, caught the way you checked him out and how you quickly tried snapping out of it, and it made his cock stir in his pants, impatience beginning to impede into his veins.

Despite that, he knew he had to continue following the rules of operation. 

“By the way, I never asked you, what’s your major?” He asked, nudging your knee with his. You sighed, a small guilty smile spreading across your face. “I’m still undecided,” you winced slightly, as if you’re worried he’ll judge you for not having decided yet. He shrugged simply, pulling himself forward and towards you again, his knee still pressed to yours, and you found yourself hoping he didn’t move away.

“That’s okay, you still have time. It’s better to take your time figuring out what you want to devote all your time to rather than having to switch. My friend Connie switched four times, and still isn’t satisfied.” He laughed softly, trying to take the importance off of your decision so that it seemed less intimidating.

Reassuring you came so easy to him, and he meant all of the kind words he said and all it did was make you melt further into the palms of his hands. You just weren’t aware of the lies, but you didn’t need to be, they were simply a necessary evil you’d come to appreciate in time. That is, if you ever found out. And he doesn’t plan for you to.

“Yeah, you’re right, I think I’m just so scared of picking wrong that I can’t commit to one,” you explained, shoulders slumped with stress. He brought his hand behind your back, gently circling over your skin with his large palm, breathing life into your flesh, nearly tinging you from the contact. 

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out soon, you’re a smart girl.” He added assuringly, and you tried your hardest to not suck in a sharp breath at his gentle praise, your lower tummy stirring with something akin to want. You turned to look back at him, your eyes falling to his parted lips, feeling way more distracted than you should have been.

“Did um…” you pointed shyly at your own mouth, motioning towards your tongue. “Did that hurt?” He felt nearly triumphant at your question, gauging an idea as to where your thoughts were due to the sheepish way you asked. He stuck out his tongue, leaning a little closer to you and letting you get a better look at it before withdrawing it back into his mouth to speak, much to your dismay.

“It wasn’t so bad, about the equivalent to a papercut,” He explained, watching your eyes widen with awe. “Wow, you must have a pretty good pain tolerance then,” you murmured, your eyes still trying to catch a peek at the way the metal glints ever so slightly. “Nah, the piercing itself just wasn’t too bad. The healing though?” He exhaled, shaking his head at the memory.

“That was gruesome. Could hardly eat anything besides bland soup, anything remotely spicy would’ve killed me for sure.” He chuckled, taking in your sudden fixation on his piercing, wondering just how long it's been on your mind for. 

“That sucks, I bet it.. it hurt to do a lot while it was healing.” You added, attempting to swallow down the inappropriate feelings that were arising from the seemingly innocent topic. Armin didn’t need that from you though, there were better things he could’ve had you swallow.

For the time being, he just nodded in agreement, pretending like he couldn’t tell that you were dying to hear less about what his piercing prevented him from doing and more about what it could do. What it could do for you. He leaned in a little closer to you, brushing his arm with yours, sensing how these small fleeting touches made you crave more. And whether it was a subconscious or surface level craving, he knew it was there. 

He took note of how you never moved away from his experimental contact and if anything, leaned closer into each one. Your micro expressions and actions aren’t something most people would be able to pick up on, they could easily be imperceptible to just about anyone else. However, Armin wasn't like most people. No, he could read you from a mile away. 

“Yeah, I couldn’t really speak properly without it hurting, even resting it against the roof of my mouth kind of hurt for the first few days.” You frowned, a gentle sympathy pointed towards him, though beneath it held a baseline of curiosity. “Sounds like you were out of commission for a while then,”

Are you still?

The unasked question hung in the air, and Armin could hear it in the way you trailed off, like you were hoping he’d fan the flames of your hope and assure you that his tongue could be well within use. So he gave you just that.

“I was. But it's been healed for a handful of months now. So, safe to say it’s fully back in commission.” He murmured low and hushed, an offer threaded in his words. He watched you from under his lashes, flickering down your body, taking note of the way you tense at that statement, like you weren’t expecting him to give you the exact answer you wanted but couldn’t muster the courage to ask for. 

Your chest got a little tight, the strings of anticipation and desire tugging on your insides and rendering you to pause for a beat, unsure of how to respond. Your heart was beating too hard, the quick pace started to travel through your eardrums, feeling far too flustered to pick up your mask of nonchalance. But you knew deep down the second Armin approached you that it was long gone.

“Is it really?” You hushedly asked, your stare lingering on his lips, slowly dragging it back up to his eyes, focusing on the glint in his glasses cast from the moonlight rather than directly into his pupils. “Mhm,” He hummed softly, leaning in much closer now. “Want proof?” He murmured, already inching closer. 

The Party & The After Party by The Weeknd was blaring downstairs, meeting your pair of ears muffledly, traveling beyond the walls and flooring and gently filling the thick air surrounding you two. With the music in the back and the way he was looking at you, at your lips, it was enough to make you nod weakly, leaning in to evaporate what little space that kept you apart.

You leaned upwards to meet his lips, shifting around so your knee was between his, not quite straddling him just yet, you’d let him be the one to pull you into his lap if he wanted you there that bad.

He groaned in your mouth, filled with immediate relief upon finally having you on him like this. His hands cupped either side of your face, holding you still as if you’d dissipate into thin air the second he were to let go. 

His hands traveled down your neck, running his thumb over your pulse, slowly descending down the curve of your shoulder, purposefully making the strap of your blouse slip off, down your soft arm until he landed on your hip, squeezing you with pure need.

He slipped his tongue between your lips, letting you feel his piercing, chuckling against your lips when he felt your low moan vibrate into his mouth. He gripped your hip, his free hand coming around to the other side of you, pushing you onto your back and into the bed with a surprising amount of ease.

He hovered above you, beautiful like an arc angel with a moonlight halo, glancing over your face before crashing back down into you. He slipped his knee between your full thighs, pushing with just enough pressure against where you need him, letting each of your little mewls and gasps melt on his tongue. 

You broke apart from the kiss, wobbly lips faltering with low whimpers, too engrossed in how the friction barely satiated the ache that you had built throughout the night to be able to kiss him properly.

Your thighs tightened around his knee, rolling your hips over it and using what he gave you, moaning shakily while his lips chased after yours, his hand cupping your jaw and guiding you back to him greedily.

He made you kiss him back, too impatient and too hungry to let you pull away so soon. Your hands ran down his chest and over his abdomen, admiring the broad expanse of him over his costume, still able to feel how toned he is beneath the fabric, taking your time to map him out and admire him through your fingertips. 

He could feel your hands running down his body, taking your time to truly feel him, and it did nothing but make his cock throb for you. A low groan rumbled into your mouth, and he pulled back a breadth’s width, shifting slightly to suck on your bottom lip, his teeth sinking in just enough to make you wince, but not enough to draw blood.

He let it snap back into place, pecking you once more before traveling over your neck, placing deliberate hot kisses across your flushed skin.

He nipped and sucked bruising kisses, his restraint slipping with every moan you poured into his ears so graciously. He dragged his tongue across where he nipped you as if to soothe it, swirling his piercing over your pulse, feeling it eagerly thump against his wet muscle. 

He kissed down your collarbones, his warm hands grappling around your sides, squeezing you and taking the time to map you out, loving the way you squirm and moan beneath him.

His hands traveled further up, large palms splaying across your ribs while your poor cunt rutted against his knee. He pushed your blouse up, exposing your skin to the cold air, glancing down and watching your skin break into goosebumps. He chuckled faintly, kissing the skin just above your breast. 

When his fingers slid behind your back and began tugging at the clasp of your bra, you sucked in a breath, worried things may be going too far too soon, suddenly feeling very shy and very bare underneath him. “W-Wait Armin,” you breathed out shakily, holding onto his forearms.

His warm lips slowly abandoned the soft skin of your tummy, instead gently finding space on your heated cheek, pecking languidly. “S’okay, I just wanna see you, lemme see you, love.” he uttered from the base of his throat, rumbly and earnest, his fingers tracing your shoulder blades. 

As an extra means of convincing you, he nudged his knee right up against your cunt, prompting a low gasp from your swollen lips. You nodded weakly, feeling eager to give him what he wanted, the pleasure from rubbing your clothed clit over his knee prompting you to descend into a state of hazy submission, all but replacing your logic and rationale. 

He unhooked your bra and watched your straps falter down your shoulders with a pointed stare of starving impatience. He tugged it off of you, pushing your blouse far enough to expose your breasts, sucking in a sharp breath when he sees your full flesh and pert nipples.

With haste he lowered himself to you, cupping your breasts with greed, squeezing and groping while his mouth latched on, swirling his pierced tongue around your sensitive buds.

You gasped at the suddenness of it all, your back arching into his mouth and thighs tightening around his knee. He moaned into your skin, your body absorbing every touch and every sound he poured into you. 

His hand slid from one of your breasts, his lips mouthing their way up your skin and back to yours, while his now free hand traveled between your legs, cupping your aching pussy. You soaked through the gusset of your panties, his cock twitching with a primal throb to bury itself inside of you upon feeling it.

“Armin,” you mewled shakily against his lips, your hand wrapping around his wrist, your thighs squeezing around him apprehensively. 

He shushed you, gently shifting his wrist to grab yours, pinning it firmly but carefully beside your head, his lips ghosting over yours. “S’okay, love.” He whispered, his cheek brushing against your lips, his hair cascading down and cloaking the side of your face while he glanced down, watching himself circle his fingers over your clit.

“You’re soaked,” he breathed out with both a cocky sense of humor and pure arousal. A low shaky gasp melted into a moan and curled off the plump of your lips, your head falling back into the mattress, your eyes falling in suit with a soft downcast flutter.

He rubbed your clit, watching the way your body gave itself to him so easily, your hips bucking towards his touch when he pressed down just right, playing your body like a finely tuned and beautifully intricate instrument. 

When he sunk his fingers into you, your body twitched, legs threatening to tighten around his hand from the sudden breach. You swallowed a thick moan, your head lulling to the side and begging for another kiss.

He obliged you, kissing you hard while he pumped his fingers into you, satisfied when he heard a whiny moan roll from the back of your throat, presuming he hit your g-spot. 

He studied you just as hard as he did with tasks in his academic life, but this was far more interesting and rewarding; he loved finding what made you tick, loved to learn what made you wet and pathetic like this.

He continued fucking you on his long fingers, his thumb swiping over your clit and reveling in the way your back arched, your hips acting on their own in an attempt to feel more of him.

Your breasts heaved in the air, and he felt an odd sense of possessiveness as he saw his saliva glisten from the moonlight over your pretty nipples. Your hand slid away from the nape of his neck and down to his wrist, gripping it with a desperate need while you fucked yourself on his fingers, moaning wholly into his mouth, addicted to the pleasure he was giving you. 

He pulled back, his face turning downward to watch the lewd act, your free hand coming back around to his nape, pulling him in close to kiss down his jaw and neck while he fucked into your little hole with his fingers.

He exhaled a low breath, swallowing hard when he closed his eyes and focused on your string of soft moans and the wet clicking sound that came from pumping his fingers into you.

He felt you tremble, felt the way your body was tensing and how your moans were becoming more urgent, sharper yet more shallow, so he withdrew all together. He ignored your disappointed gasp and soft whispers of “Why?” opting to trail down your soft tummy with hot kisses instead. 

Once he got lower, down to the waistband of your panties, in your pleasure clouded haze, you managed to realize why he stopped. Your heart pounded against your ribcage, heat filled with a shy anticipation fanned across your cheeks at the sight, and you attempted to close your legs out of instinct, but he wasn’t having it. Not when he needed to taste you. 

He parted your legs with ease, surprising you with his strength for the second time tonight. Or was it the third? You had no idea, no coherent thoughts or sentences could be properly formulated for you, not when Armin had his tongue buried in you and was lapping you up like you were an endless reservoir of water.

He initially wanted to ease you into it with a little kitten lick, gentle and slow, but when he saw your pretty cunt glistening the way it was, and saw how your poor clit so obviously needed some tending to, he couldn’t prolong the moment and dove in immediately.

Your hands flew to his hair, threading your fingers in his golden strands and fighting the urge to tug. He moaned into your pussy as if it were him receiving the pleasure, but in a way he was. 

He loved having a mouthful of your cunt, he’d been thinking about it the entire night. It was hard for him to focus when speaking with you, all he could picture was those full thighs wrapped around his head and your hips bucking into his mouth. And he finally had you where he wanted you this whole time, with you on your back and your clit situated between his lips.

He abused your little clit with no mercy, swirling over it with his pierced tongue, too lost in the paradise between your legs to even think about pulling away. With a low annoyed groan and without bothering to move away, he pushed his glasses up into his hair, using it like a headband to grant himself better access to you.

He hummed contently, slowly pushing his face back between your legs, swishing side to side, delving into you fully now. You keened at his actions, your body nearly seizing beneath him at the pointed and intense sensation. 

His nose rubbed over your mound, while his fingers slid right back into your fluttering hole, chuckling over your wet flesh when a rough gasp wracked through you, the sound morphing into a choked moan.

He fucked your cunt with his fingers, his lips never letting your clit rest once, his available hand pinning your hip to the mattress, keeping you still for him to devour. He wouldn’t let anything get in the way between him and eating your pussy, not even you.

“You taste better than I imagined,” he breathed out, seemingly in a daze, glancing up at you from amidst your thighs, mouth and chin soaked from your cunt.

He turned slightly, nipping at your inner thigh before he resumed without any hesitation, rocking his hips against the bed mindlessly, his neglected cock nearly ripping the crotch in his costume pants. 

“Ar-Armin, I–” you sobbed shakily, your body acting before your mind could, hips squirming away from his mouth, too overstimulated to handle much more. He squeezed your hip, pushing you back into the bed, not letting you escape his warm mouth.

You cried out, already too sensitive to endure anymore, unsure of when you had even came, it felt like you were stuck in a blurry cloud of hedonism, unaware of when you entered and if you could ever leave.

You twitched about, feeling as if a loose wire was set off in you, sparking throughout your veins and nervous system, all from his unrelentingly tongue, lapping at your clit over and over. 

He begrudgingly pulled away, taking pity when you let out a strangled moan, exhaling heavily to himself and planting a lasting kiss to your clit before moving away all together. He swiped his mouth with the back of his hand, panting as if he ran a marathon, climbing back up to your blissed out face, smiling smugly at the sight.

He peppered kisses across your cheeks and temples, capturing your lips with his, taking away the breath you were struggling so hard to catch. He decided that you could just have his, anything belonging to him felt like it was starting to belong to you too.

“Armin,” you breathed out, his still slick nose brushing against yours, your hooded eyes heavy from the weight of pleasure flickering between his with complete awe, utterly shocked that a person could make someone else feel so good.

He smiled, leaning down to kiss you once more. He tilted his head down at you, sliding his glasses back down onto his nose bridge, humming your name back as if he didn’t just eat your cunt until you literally cried. 

You huffed humorously, rolling your eyes, your gaze drifting to the bulge straining in his pants. The humor died down and your heart raced at the sight. He caught your stare, pressing himself to your hip, a low whimper rumbling from his throat and into your ear.

“It’s starting to hurt,” he groaned softly, his forehead nudging your cheek, shifting his hips with an achingly gentle roll, silently pleading with you to take care of him. You swallowed hard, sucking on your bottom lip, glancing from his crotch up to his eyes.

“I–I’ve never..” He shook his head, panting with shallow breaths. “I-It’s okay, I’ll guide you if you need me to, just.. please, ‘wanna feel your mouth so bad, please?” he pleaded, his voice slightly high-pitched and utterly desperate.

You felt bad, not wanting him to be in pain, especially since he had made you feel so good only moments earlier, you figured it was only fair. 

You nodded with a wordless concession, and he thanked you, his voice wobbly with an airy gratefulness. He unlatched himself from hovering above you, laying on his back with his elbows supporting him, his watchful eyes taking in the way you repositioned yourself on top of him.

His cock twitched when you shyly pulled your panties back into place, still so endearing and sheepish even after he had his tongue buried in you only minutes before.

You unbuttoned his pants and unzipped him slowly, hooking your fingers beneath the waistband of both his pants and boxers down until his cock sprung out. You gaped at it, your heart nearly failing, watching it struggle to remain upright from its own weight. It wasn’t like you were expecting him to be small or anything, but you didn’t think that a guy so nerdy and geeky would be packing something like that.

“Jesus…” you murmured through a shaky and nervous laugh, your reaction pleasantly surprising Armin. He had a habit of forgetting just how big he was, he was annoyingly humble about what had, but he enjoyed being reminded of his above average-ness via situations like this.

You wrapped your hand around him, slowly dragging your fist up and down, a small relieved smile growing over your face when you heard a low moan rumble from his throat. You decided to just be brave and go for it, leaning down to wrap your lips around the fat head of his cock.

He gasped, groaning low and heavy, his elbows faltering and gliding down until he was laying flat on his back. 

You brought your second hand up to wrap around him, pumping his shaft with both hands, leaving enough room to suction over his tip and whatever else you could take without getting overwhelmed.

Thankfully you had remembered Hitch’s advice — something about how both the tip and somewhere around it, there was something called a frenulum and how it was extremely sensitive for men. You decided to be safe and to just try focusing on that first.

You swirled your tongue steadily and intently around him, lowering yourself further and further down his cock bit by bit, feeling a sense of pride thrum through you at the way he moaned under you, figuring your experiment was proven accurate. 

His hand fell behind your head, not pushing or forcing you down, just holding firmly, needing to make some kind of contact with you. His forearm pushed his glasses onto his forehead, his arm resting over his eyes, whimpering shakily above you.

His hips bucked slightly into your mouth, the way you wrapped around him and took him in was so perfect that he couldn’t control the way his body chased after more of it. 

“F-Fuck, oh God,” he choked out, his moans were starting to curl off the crescendo of a gentle higher pitch, sounding so pretty as he did so, and it only egged you on to try and take him further. You glided your hands lower onto his shaft, giving you more room to slide your lips over, your eyes welling with tears at the way his girth made your jaw ache.

The price to pay for his pleasure felt more than worth it, his whimpers of your name and feeling him twitch on your tongue were payment enough. You bobbed your head, gagging slightly when he hit the back of your throat. You pulled off for a moment, catching your breath, and blinking away your tears. 

He wished you didn’t, he thought you looked the prettiest with swollen lips and watery eyes. You planted a warm kiss to his hip, your cunt aching all over again when you saw the ring of lipstick around his cock and then on his hip, fueling you to go back down and take him in your mouth eagerly. 

You went back with only one hand, taking him further down your throat than you were able to the first time, and he gasped deeply, groaning and lulling his head side to side, pleasantly tormented by how fucking good your mouth felt suctioned over him.

His hand rested along the warm nape of your neck, his hips starting to thrust into your mouth, your name falling from his lips in a tearful and trembling mantra as his shaft glided up and down your tongue. You steadied yourself with your hands on his hips, your sounds vibrating around his thick cock. 

“F-Feels so good, I – fuck,” he cried out, fucking your mouth desperately, your nose hitting his soft trimmed patch of blonde pubic hair, squeezing your eyes shut and trying your best to accommodate his size down your throat. 

He whimpered your name like it was the only word he knew, like it was the only one that mattered, and in that moment it truly felt like it. You took him so well he couldn’t hold back from bucking his cock as far it could go down your throat.

He felt himself getting dangerously close to cumming, and as much as he wanted to give in and cum down your throat and across your beautiful face, he knew the pay off of getting to ram his cock into your cunt would be so much better.

“C-C’mere, please,” he panted shakily, eager with an aching sense of fervidness to be inside of you, unable to waste a single second without doing so. 

You slid off of his cock, sputtering slightly as you wiped your mouth, shakily climbing back up to meet him. He gripped your hips, pushing you onto your back once more. “You are so beautiful, so perfect,” he panted breathlessly, kissing down your jaw and neck holding himself by his shaft, dragging his tip over your clit and up and down your folds, circling your hole.

You swallowed a shaky moan at the feeling, finding yourself inching your hips to grant more access, but not fully, the lingering notion that he wasn’t wearing a condom preventing you from letting him push in all the way.

“Wait, ‘Min, you’re not wearing a condom,” you squeaked out softly, your chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. He shook his head, shifting back up to look at you, his brows drawn together with complete desperation. 

“S’okay, I promise I’m clean, a-and I’ll pull out, I just,” He whimpered, rubbing your clit with his fat cockhead, his breathing growing labored with want. “I need to be inside of you,” his soft and wavering voice pathetically floating down into your ear, his cock circling over your clit temptingly.

“You trust me, don’t you?” he pleaded, his bitten lips wobbling with an unabashed need. You couldn’t think straight, not when he was distracting you with how it good it felt to have his cock rub against your clit, and not with how devastatingly pretty he was when he begged like that.

“O-Okay,” you agreed shakily, spreading your legs a little further, giving in to his wants and your own, no matter how reckless it might’ve been. “Thank you,” he breathed out earnestly, kissing you deeply.

His forehead rested against yours, your breaths intermingling into one. He aligned himself with your hole, pushing in and shuddering a wavering breath at the way you sucked him in. 

A sharp gasp ripped from your chest, your hands flying to his biceps, squeezing hard when he managed to barely fit his thick tip in.  Your breathing became more strained the further he pushed into you. Your head fell back, a low whimper rumbling from the base of your throat, struggling to steady your breathing while he stretched you out around his cock.

The corners of your eyes watered once more, and while he felt sympathy for you, halting his hips to a stop as to allow you time to adjust, he couldn’t deny the way his cock throbbed inside of you at the sight of you so laying so beautifully beneath him, so sweet and misty eyed.

“Take your time,” he murmured soothingly, kissing your neck. He snuck his hand between your fused bodies, rubbing your clit to try and ease you into it. 

You moaned into the balmy air at the feeling, starting to slowly but surely roll your hips into his touch. When he felt you grow less tense, he bottomed out, successfully knocking the wind out of you. He hiked your leg up and over his hip, and began to move, burying his face into your neck while he buried his cock deep inside your welcoming cunt.

“You’re so perfect,” he panted through the shaky breath of a whimper, nipping at your neck while his hips fluidly pushed in and out of you, his thick cock dragging along the warm and wet confines of your tight cunt.

He kissed and sucked at the sensitive skin of your neck, moaning thickly into the crook of it, his hips crashing into yours over and over. 

Your pussy pulsed around him, never having felt so completely full before, so utterly enveloped by another person, and it was overwhelming in the best possible way. No matter where you turned or where you shifted around to, you felt him, he was all encompassing.

And as he bucked his hips into you, grinding the fat head of his cock right up against your g-spot, you wondered how you ever went without experiencing pleasure like this. 

His lips migrated towards the dip of your collarbones, watching your tits bounce from how fast he was pivoting into you, swallowing down a wobbly moan at the sight. He licked and nipped at them, swirling his pierced tongue over your nipples once more, wanting to make use of every inch of your body. He didn’t want there to be a single part of you that went untouched by him.

He pulled back just slightly, his hands massaging over your breasts with a tilted gaze, his eyes angled down and watching your poor cunt take his cock, your abused hole fluttering around his length. He watched, utterly hypnotized at the way his cock disappeared into you with every drag of his hips. 

Armin didn’t possess what one would call an intimidating stature, he stood at a decent height of 5'10 and maintained a nice, toned swimmer’s physique – all in all, he never found himself to be the looming, towering type.

But after observing with a depraved set of eyes at how your tiny pussy sucked in his fat cock? It gave him such a high to feel so colossal and dominating above you, leaving you to feel perfectly pliable and moldable in his hands.

You stroked this feeling with how good you were for him, how easy you were to grip and squeeze, how your hole took everything he gave it despite the hefty stretch. You made him feel like a giant. You acted like it too, your legs trembled around him, whiny strings of moans containing his name and other incoherencies all caused by his cock splitting you open. 

You made him downright ravenous, feeling as if he were one of the monsters in his video games capturing the princess who was supposed to be saved but instead was getting bent and bred by the very thing she was supposed to be rescued from.

Except his princess enjoyed it – you enjoyed the way he pounded into you, loved how he took you as if it was his right to have you like this. 

He pressed down on your lower stomach, letting you feel just how deep he was in you, wordlessly letting you know that no one else would be able to reach where he could, but he was sure you wouldn’t seek out any replacements after that — he knew that he just about owned you after that night.

A strained moan pulled from the depths of your chest at the way he added pressure to your tummy, your eyes welling with a bout of iridescent tears, and fuck, it only made him thrust into you that much harder.

He watched you cry on his cock, babbling pathetically about how good he felt inside you, and it stoked the flames of arousal and greed in him, wanting more and more of your earnest devotion and tears. 

He rubbed your clit, matching his thrusts with his fingers circling over your little soaked bud. “So pretty when you cry,” he murmured into your jaw, kissing you tenderly before his eyes flitted to you again, gazing with narrowed eyes at your pouty lips forming over a sob of moans, and how mascara streaked down your cheeks from his unrelenting pace and touch. 

Your body was tensing all over again, nearing your limit once more, tears falling more freely as your hands grappled behind him, trailing beneath his costume to dig your nails into his toned back, sinking your teeth into his shoulder.

He knew you were close, knew you needed to cum, and he was going to be the one to bring you where you needed to be.

He pushed your knee up further, slamming down into you with an endless roll of his hips, his fingers never letting up on your clit. He fucked you through your orgasm, grunting about how perfect your pussy felt wrapped around him, how beautiful you were, and how he wanted you to cum for him, how he needed you to. 

Your sobs were absorbed into his skin, your mouth crying out for him as he impaled you on his cock, his fingers milking you of every ounce of your climax, rubbing your poor clit raw. He pushed you over the edge into a white hot buzzing stream of stimulation, fucking you into the mattress while you came around him, stroking himself inside you slowly but never to a full stop. 

You laid limp beneath him, completely and utterly fucked out and weak. He didn’t falter, and instead picked up his pace again, chasing his own orgasm. You were incredibly worn out and sensitive, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t want him to cum for you. You let him use you like a little sleeve, dragging his cock in and out of you with sporadic and harsh thrusts, until he pulled out suddenly. 

He hunched over you, his eyes scanning down your body with his cock in his hand. He took in the way your blouse laid crumpled under your chin, exposing your breasts, slick with his saliva, how your beautiful face was stained with mascara because of him, and down at your fucked out pussy, absolutely abused because of his cock.

He wanted nothing more than to cum in you, but he promised he’d pull out, and he figured he’d at least tell one truth tonight, and decided there’d simply have to be another time when he can pump you full of his cum.

With a final tug, he came, spurting thick ropes across your tummy and cunt, whimpering your name while he weakly fucked his fist, draining every drop of cum out of himself. 

You watched him cum on you, a low weak moan falling from your lips at the lewd scene, half wishing it was inside of you, but you still had half a mind to know better than to have let that happen. He collapsed beside you, pulling you into his arms, kissing over your neck and cheek, panting heavily alongside you.

All you could do was melt in his arms, your eyes and entire body too dense with exhaustion to move an inch.

“You okay?” he murmured gently, his chin on your shoulder, cradling you with such a delicate sense of care. You managed to muster an affirmative nod, humming quietly. He chuckled breathily, his head falling back into the pillow beside you, simply letting himself be. 

Your heartbeats pounded in sync, still coming down from the intense high you both had shared, and as the air around you winded down, the pace of the muscles pounding in your chests did too. A blanket of a fizzled-out fatigue cascaded over your sweat slicked bodies, nearly luring you both into a deep sleep.

He fought against the exhaustion, hulling himself up to lean over the nightstand beside the bed, plucking a couple of tissues from its box. He shifted down lazily to clean you up before you got dressed again. He gingerly wiped his cum off of your body, balling up the tissues and tossing them into the trashcan, falling back into bed with you tiredly. 

You lulled your head towards him, smiling faintly, your eyes dragging across his flushed face. “Will you still invite me over to play the remastered pixel series?” you asked quietly, voice still thick with a lazy rasp of weariness. His brows drew together endearingly, laughing softly with a curt confirmative nod. “Of course I will.” And he truly meant it. 

— 

He walked you back to your dorm, making sure you had his number in your phone before he left you, bidding you goodbye with a soft kiss to your lips and a promise that he’ll see you soon. You padded inside your dorm, body shuffling tiredly towards your bed, huffing with annoyance as Hitch attempted to crowd you with worried questions.

“I looked for you everywhere at the party, where’d you go?” She asked, following your slow pace towards your bed, sitting beside you when you collapsed into it. You shot her a glare, attempting to weakly chuck a pillow at her, growing more annoyed when she dodged it.

“Why do you care? You all ditched me knowing what happens at those kinds of parties.” you grumbled, rolling on your side and facing the wall and away from her. She huffed confusedly, pulling you back to face her. “What do you mean? I didn’t ditch you; I was looking for you! And what’s that supposed to mean? What happened?” 

You sat up exasperatedly, hugging the pillow close to your chest. “The Hook up or Haze thing! Y’know, how the guys in the fraternity find new pledges and make 'em hook up with them or get hazed. I can’t believe you guys would just–” She suddenly said your name, her voice eerily serious and stern. “That’s… that’s not a thing.”

“Please tell me you’re joking.” You grimace and turn away, unable to meet her gaze. She’s too good at reading you. “I’ll be just fine on my own, thank you very much.”

“... He’s playing, isn’t he?”

“I mean, yeah.” You rub more aggressively at the widening smears around your eyes. “But that’s not the only reason.”

“Sure.”

“It’s not, really.” You meet her gaze with a glance in the mirror. It’s hard to keep, her stare intense and full of judgment— (And worry.) “There’s a bunch of good bands tonight. There’s a touring group— all the way from Pier Point.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You have no faith in me, do you?” You pout, keeping your voice light, and hoping it comes off as a bit of a jest.

When you finally turn to face Fu Xuan fully, she dips to sit beside you, on her own folded knees. She plucks your soon-to-be-worn lipstick off the ground and uncaps it, just long enough to see the color, before sighing and closing it once more with a pop. 

“Not really, no.” Fu Xuan leans against your side, cheeks puffing out. “Not when it comes to him—”

“You can say his name, you know.” You smear chalky highlighter on your cheeks with your fingertips. “It’s not a slur. He’s just some guy.”

“‘Some guy’,” She groans. “If he’s really just some guy, why don’t we skip the gig tonight and stay home? We can order in some nice food, and I could invite Qingque.”

“... I—”

“You know that going is a bad idea, right?” Fu Xuan sighs. “We’ve gone over this before.”

“I’m aware of that.” You can’t suppress your scowl any longer, turning to face her. “Blade is fine—”

“He treats you like shit.”

“He treats everyone like that.”

“That doesn’t make it better. If anything, that makes it worse. You deserve better.” Fu Xuan sounds genuinely upset. “And you can do better. Easily. With literally anyone else, even if you find them at one of your nasty house shows. Try entertaining the thought?”

“You don’t have to be so—” You turn to her, fist balling up on your knees— “So mean about it.”

“It’s messy.”

“And it’s not your business.”

“It’s not!” Fu Xuan says, exasperated as she rolls her eyes. “I really shouldn’t even be bothering, but you are my friend. And it is painful to watch you chase the tail of a man who will hardly give you the time of day or bare minimum respect. Excuse me for showing concern.”

“Your concern is noted.” As it has been before. “But I’m fine. I wasn’t lying earlier— there’s other groups I want to see tonight. You... don’t have to come along just to babysit. I’ll be alright. I know you hate them.”

“I do.”

Fu Xuan crosses her arms and exhales, something angry and burning. “At least let me drive you. I can pick you up later too. Rather I do than some stranger or him—”

“Blade. His name, Fu Xuan.”

“Blade.”

“God, you do say it like a slur.” You roll your eyes, the pit in your stomach having become larger and darker. You swipe below your eyes and thank an Aeon or two that your eyeliner is waterproof. 

...

The house venue is a bit out of town, in the rural suburbs on a lot that’s big enough to host a crowd and not bother the nearest neighbors. Fields streak by during your journey, humming with junebugs and chirping with late- summer crickets. Low hills roll by as a harvest moon rises, waxing and half-full.

Fu Xuan drops you at the curb and idles as you collect yourself. A crossbody bag carries your essentials (your phone, your sticky lip products, a lighter to go with the pack of cigarettes that you actually don’t smoke, and two condoms shoved against the bottom). You fiddle with the strap against your shoulder.

“Call me when you need me to pick you up, okay?” Fu Xuan taps the steering wheel. “I’ll be awake.”

“Okay, mom.”

“I mean it—”

“I know.”

“Don’t go home with Blade. Or let him drive you home. He handles a car like he’s trying to kill himself.”

It’s a fair assessment but you still shake your head, trying to seem good-natured despite the rot you feel curling in the back of your throat. Bile, rising, before you have a drop of liquor in you. It’s a little pathetic; you’ll really think so in retrospect. For now, you walk toward the venue itching for a drink in your hand or familiar company. Thundering bass and ripping guitar vibrate from the basement windows, shaking the ground beneath your feet.

A crowd clusters at the back of the house. Folks swap cigarettes and clutch cans of cheap beer and flasks decorated with stickers. You quickly survey, looking for, searching for him—

(He’s usually out here before his set, hiding away somewhere with Kafka sharing cigarettes and glaring at anyone dumb enough to make a pass at her.)

A hand grabs you by the shoulder, and you nearly jump out of your skin. “Oh my gosh, you’re here! I didn’t know you’d be coming to the gig!”

It’s March, you know. She is easy to identify with the sweet, candy-like perfume she wears and the slight press of her almond-shaped gel manicure into your shoulder.  March turns you abruptly, throwing her arms around your shoulders and squeezing. Too tightly, knocking the air out of you in an instant. You give her a tentative hug back and pull away quickly. The contact scalds you.

“Have you seen—?”

“Blade?” March pouts and tilts her head. “You know, I feel like you only come to these things to see that guy. He’s nothing special. And I have seen him. He was off sulking a while ago, by the sheds in the back of the lot.”

“... I’ll have to check. Thanks, March.”

She sighs as you walk away from her, before calling out to Stelle (who is always a step or two behind her anyways.) 

You feel— bad about how you treat them. They’re both good people. So is the third in their trio, Dan Heng, a man with a beautiful face and an eerily calm demeanor, especially when compared to his companions. The group of them was introduced to you back when you first started attending these shows, hanging around the scene, and sweating in the basement of mildew-filled houses. They were some of your first friends, and easy to mesh with when you gave yourself the time and space to. Stelle always had a flask with lukewarm vodka or tequila, and March kept a case of seltzers in her trunk. Dan Heng was the ever-reliable sober cab. 

(It was nice back then. Before you had become so entangled with Blade and the subsequent social politics that came with chasing and occasionally fucking the hot, albeit emotionally-unavailable bassist of HUNTERS. It was far easier to hold those friendships than to orbit around a man who you can never tell if he hates you or wants to fuck you in his back seat.)

You find Blade tucked away around the side of the house, cloaked in shadow while taking long drags of a cigarette. The cherry glows in the dim light. From the basement window peeking out from the ground, a red glow pours out, illuminating the well-worn combat boots he wears. They’re crusted in filth, falling apart at the toe. 

(You’d still lick them if he asked you to. Hump them if he asked you twice.)

Another figure stands across from him. Serene, arms crossed, with storm eyes visible even in the poor lighting. Dan Heng keeps a perfectly neutral expression as he speaks, hushed, to Blade who wears a scowl so perfectly that it looks like he’s carved of immovable stone rather than not flesh. 

You’re not quite within earshot. You can’t make out their words, only their tone. It’s an angry exchange, one that’s charged with heat lighting and ire. Blade spits something at Dan Heng, venomous in his tone like he so easily is. Dan Heng replies back something so cooly that it’s like a low-tide wave lapping at your feet.

If you were better, you would turn around and leave. Neither of them know that you’re here, so close. It’s invasive to listen, but you know that there’s... history between Blade and Dan Heng. You’ve always wondered what it is, and considering that Blade has the emotional availability of a rotting vegetable, you won’t be getting those details out of him.

Maybe witnessing their dynamic (yet again) could provide you some clarity—?

(And maybe, if you know why Blade was so, so hurt by Dan Heng, you can do better. You can be the exact thing that Blade wants, and then he will want you, just as much as you want him.)

You listen more keenly:

“I’ve asked you to stop booking shows where the Express is already playing.”

“And I’ve asked you to get off my dick and stop being such a priss, but it doesn’t look like you’ll ever do that.”

“I’m asking you to be reasonable.”

“Sure, because clearly asking me to not play prime gigs is ‘reasonable’. Not to mention you should be taking this up with Kafka or Elio, not me. Did you just want an excuse to talk, Imbibitor Lunae—”

“Don’t call me that.”

“What, have something else you’d prefer to be called? I remember plenty of things you liked hearing. Want me to name a few?”

“Hold your tongue—”

A stick cracks behind you and you nearly jump out of your skin.

“Bladie~” Kafka purrs behind you, hands sliding up over your shoulders, hot breath over the back of your neck. “We’re on soon. Soundcheck in five, Firefly has a vodka shot for you if you want.”

You’re frozen.

Blade grunts from around the house, and as he does, Dan Heng emerges from the shadows quickly, on hastened feet, and nearly stumbles when you see him. Your expression must be— fucking stupid. Wide-eyed and slack-jawed as Kafka runs her nails up and down your neck. 

As Dan Heng practically sprints off, Kafka croons quietly into your ear, “And what are you doing all the way back here? Looking for Bladie again?”

You don’t need to speak for her to know your answer. Blade’s steps thud against the ground over the short, dry grass. 

Part of you knows you should scramble away and pretend you weren’t just lurking like a stray dog begging for kitchen scraps. It’s humiliating to be caught by Kafka (yet again), doing the same shit on a different day. Another part of you, one which is much louder, more persuasive, and saccharine sweet, urges you to face Blade. If you get caught in his maw, good. 

Your hands shake as Blade emerges from the dark.

He looks like death. Ghostly pale skin with deep purple eyebags, like bruises. His eyes are cut carnelian, ethereal and volcanic against his parlor. A cigarette hangs between his plump lips, threatening to burn and melt the pieces of his fringe that hang around his cheeks. Long, wild black hair, tipped in faded crimson, falls down his back in frizzy waves. His arms bulge obscenely in the tight, black shirt he wears. A carved jade pendant hangs off of his belt.

Blade stares you down and his scowl deepens, turning even more sour. He mutters something under his breath, something unintelligible but cruel. It’s not the first time he’s spoken to you that way. He’s done so more loudly and more brutally. 

You—

(Hate it. You love it. Well, maybe not love, but you crave the way that Blade is awful to you. You’re horrible.)

“Better get inside now,” Kafka hands drift to your waist, tugging on the belt loop of your pants. You let out a little yip. “I’m sure the front row is filling up fast. No need to spy on Bladie if you get a prime spot during the actual set, hm?”

She’s right; she usually is.

Kafka leaves you with an elegant twirl, humming one of HUNTERS songs from their new EP under her breath. You know the tune. You’ve been playing it on repeat for the last two months. 

It’s easy to follow the jarring trills of soundcheck as you float inside the home, following the trail of people headed toward the basement. Descending down the rickety, railingless stairs into thick, humid air that reeks of sweat, beer, and fledging mold. Down, down, down you go— maybe to hell, where you perhaps belong.

...

Moon Drinker by HUNTERS

You taught me that the high moon 

Was our lovers’ sigil

How quickly did you throw away our runes

How empty is your cup

Moon Drinker

That you would break mine too

...

The gig is decent. That’s how these shows tend to be and you enjoy them just enough to tolerate the stench and humidity of grungy basements like this one. 

Three bands play, IP3, the Express, and HUNTERS. The interest you expressed to Fu Xuan about Pier Point’s IP3 was a lie, but they’re not bad. The frontman, a blond with eyes like inverted crystals, has a sultry edge to his voice that verges on sexual. It’s a cleaner sound that rips into something dirtier, filthier, as their set goes on. 

The Express follows IP3. You’ve seen them more times than you can count, but the trio is still nice to listen to, even now. March always plays with the crowd in between her harmonies in a way that riles folks up just enough without causing abject chaos. The band plays a new song you don’t know, one that is angry and loud and so unlike their normal sound. Dan Heng is on vocals, rather than solely on guitar, and you’re reminded of how mournful and melodic his voice can be. The exact words of the piece get eaten by the cement foundation of the basement, but you imagine that it’s an elegy.

HUNTERS is last on.

They usually are, as their music is the loudest and gnarliest, and they’re typically the most well-known (even if they have a shit reputation and their crowds leave trashed venues in their wake). You feel— insane when they start playing. You know all of their songs, even if you don’t really like their music. Kafka’s voice is hypnotic in a way that’s disarming, even on a recording. Silver Wolf is too good of a drummer for the caliber of band that they are, and Firefly shreds easily on guitar, trained on strings since childhood, but using her talents in a grunge band rather than on a world stage.

Blade’s bass playing is messy. Though his tempo is sure and unwavering, the actual rhythm drags and punches in intervals that verge on unnerving. You have never been able to place if this is due to whatever rage and poison he carries into music making, or if his fingers are as arthritic as Kafka jokes that they are. 

It doesn’t really matter, in the end. The sound blends together in a cacophony that sounds like the way bursted flesh looks. If you could taste the way their newest EP sounded, it would be the iron tang of blood and the acrid burn of bile. 

You’re fucked for it— for Blade. You’ve been since you first became tangled in this web.

A pit opens in the middle of the crowd, small at first, but rapidly widening, with more and more people throwing themselves into it. They bounce around and bash against the individuals at the sides of the pit, only to be shoved back in a moment later. 

You try to stay away from it. Instead, you watch Blade like a fucking pervert.

The basement has gotten hot. Steamy, if you look hard enough at the air that barely circulates against the low, pipe-ridden ceiling. Blade has thrown his hair up in a high ponytail, wisps of hair still cling to his neck and temples, sweat visibly rolling down his neck. His shirt sticks to his toned chest as the overclocked speakers try to keep up with the HUNTERS most recently released song— ‘MOON DRINKER’.

Blade doesn’t look at you. Not once.

His eyes are fixed elsewhere, deeper in the crowd, beyond the bodies in the pit and those who hang at the outskirts by the house’s ancient boiler. Blade’s attention is fixed on— something (someone. You can assume who.) Not once does his gaze drift down his instrument, and never does he acknowledge the way you stand in the front row, so close, with your attention squarely on him.

(This is normal. So normal, it’s painful.)

The pit expands even further, widening as more gig-goers jump into mosh as one song bleeds into the next. You almost get swirled in yourself as a stranger slams into your side with enough force to nearly knock you to the ground. 

A broad, warm hand catches you by your bicep, hoisting you up before you even have a chance to fall. 

“Be careful now,” It’s Jing Yuan (who is much too powerful and rich to be at a basement show, but yearning pushes you both to do stupid, nonsensical things) who speaks directly into your ear, so you can hear him even as your ears ring muffled. “Are you alright?”

You turn to nod at him, flashing him a thumbs up and nervous smile. The cologne he wears permeates the space around you, overpowering the sweat and mildew with ease. He gives you an easy smile and a squeeze, before letting you. He sidesteps your frame to be closer to the pit, crossing his arms over his chest and shielding you from the worst of the throng. 

You’re grateful for the cover; it would be embarrassing to topple over right in front of Blade.

It takes you a moment to recenter yourself, lost in Jing Yuan’s scent and the roar of Firefly’s final, aching guitar riffs. You look back to HUNTERS once more as they finish out their set in a loud, carnal flourish. The expensive speakers they’ve dragged with them are going to fucking blow out—

Blade is staring at you.

Not into the crowd, toward the placid face and cold heart that so clearly plague him, not to his bandmates or instrument, but looking at you.

In the red-lit basement, his eyes nearly glow, unnatural in their anger as they always are. It seemed more concentrated, feral and crystallized in its intensity. Rage. You want to cower under it while your insides feel hot and frigid all at once. He pierces so easily, so thoughtlessly. As the crowd erupts into cheers and shouts as the set ends, you cannot move. Staked in place. 

Not once does Blade look away from you, and his mouth does not deviate from the twisted frown he wears.

... 

Swordmaker by HUNTERS

If I were forged alongside you, 

Do you think I would forgive you then?

If iron was your skin,

Steel your lungs

and lead your heart,

You would be easier to hold.

Empty are memories

Full is the garden

And bloody is the blade.

…

You should be better than this.

Blade slams you up against the back of the shed, the motion jarring and far too fast to be pleasant. Your head knocks painfully against the wood and peeling paint, and despite how you whimper with the impact, Blade doesn’t react. He doesn’t seem to care. 

(You know he doesn’t.)

He hikes your leg up over his hip and grinds against your core through your pants. The motion is rough, clumsy and far too harsh to be pleasurable. The dry friction through your panties makes you squirm and dig your nails into his shoulders. Blade grunts in your ear. You think he likes the pain.

The gig was only let out half an hour ago, and plenty of people are still milling around. Whispers are circulating about if and where there will be an afterparty. You weren’t paying much attention to them— they’re easy to ignore— especially when Blade had been dragging you by the wrist just far enough away from the main house to fuck without being overtly noticeable. 

(Barely, though. Blade can be loud and you can be loud when you’re with him. You’re tempting fate to be caught, seen with him in this way. It’s an open secret that you’re the scraps that Blade entertains himself with, but you would rather not be caught with your literal pants down.)

Blade smells like cigarettes and sweat. The scent of unclean smoke tangles in his unruly hair as you get a grip on it and tug. The juncture of his neck has the faintest hint of some cologne you’re sure he doesn’t know the name of and stale sweat. You press your lips there and dare to drag your tongue across his skin and taste him. It’s not a good taste, not necessarily, but you love it. Salty and filthy. (It’s disgusting, but familiar and morosely comforting.) You are drunk on it and it makes you feel pathetic at the same time.

A growl sounds in your ear as Blade pins you with his weight to the shed. Dragging you back from his neck, he grabs your jaw, forcing you to look at him fully. 

“Don’t leave marks.” He paralyzes you with his stare and sneer. 

“I’d never.” You try to sound earnest, even if it’s a lie. Because you would— you’d bite and tear at his neck (like he does at yours) until the skin there is black and blue. Happily, you would leave hickies above his collar. Split his lip and bite his jaw hard enough to bleed. You could wear his blood on your teeth and smile for once at these fucking gigs.

Instead, you do not bite him. You just let Blade maul you as he desires.

He grinds against your core. The pressure is unpleasant at this point, too much and too little all at the same time. When you whimper now, he just ignores you and slips his hands under your shirt. He grabs your waist in both hands and squeezes.

“Turn around,” says Blade, already twisting you himself, so your front is pressed against the shed.

“H-Here?” You laugh nervously. Despite your... reputation, something cold, unwelcome and uncomfortable settles in you. “C-Can’t we go to your car? Or inside?”

“Maybe later.”

(It’s awful. It’s sick, the way your heart flutters at the implications of ‘later’. ‘Later’ means more of him. More of Blade’s time, his touch, his hardly-there care. More scraps for you to gorge yourself on, more time to beg for more. It’s sick. It’s sick how fucked you are for him.)

Blade reaches around your front to undo the button at the top of your trousers. In a swift motion, he has them around your thighs. Just enough that he can bend you over and access your cunt with some amount of ease. He keeps your panties on at first (he usually does this. You’re never sure why. You can delude yourself into thinking it’s him taking his time with you, but you know that that is a lie). 

Blade places one of his hands on the back of your neck to flatten you against the shed, while the other must be unbuttoning his own pants to get his cock out, based on the jingling of metal and shred of a zipper. You swallow, your mouth dry. You’re dry, but you know that if you try to touch yourself to prep at this point, Blade will only be meaner.

The most he does is run two fingers over your slit, over your panties. It’s barely enough contact on your clit to be felt, but you gasp and shudder anyway. Canting your hips back, you try to encourage more contact. Anything he’ll give you.

He sighs behind you. Disappointed. Aggravated. It makes you want to cry.

Blade peels down your panties. The cold air shocks you, your core tightening up, but you hardly have time to adjust to the temperature before Blade’s equally cold hands fully part your folds. He sighs again, pulling away only to spit on his fingers, and smear his saliva around your hole. It feels dirty. You feel dirty.

When Blade pulls away, you whine at the loss of contact (at how cold it is, at how the crowd milling around smoking cigarettes and cheap weed is just on the other side of this dilapidated shed crows and laughs into the night). You swear you can recognize March’s giggle above the din of conversation.

You’re brought back to your entanglement with a harsh slap to your ass. Harsh and audible. The sound that escapes your lips is choked and high. 

“Don’t get distracted,” Blade huffs. He spits again, presumably on his dick. 

You nod, latching onto the pain radiating from slap to your ass. As if sensing it, Blade lays down another strike. This one is hotter, harder. He isn’t holding back. It is sure to bruise the tender flesh there. A mark. Something that will tangibly ache, something leftover from your tryst.

You could cry.

The velvety head of Blade’s cock nudges your folds. He brackets you into the wall, arms on either side of you. Heat radiates off his chest and sinks into your spine.

“‘Feels good?” He asks, voice hoarse as he coats himself in your meager slick.

“Y-yeah,” you lie. It’s not enough to feel good. You don’t care.

Blade seems content enough with your answer as he bears down on you. Flattening you to the dirt-covered shed, he hitches his hip down, then up, trying to fit the tip of his cock into your hole. He maneuvers your hips as he pleases, grunting when the tip of him catches on your cunt. When you dare to whine, even the smallest sound, he cracks his hand down on your ass again. Your vision speckles into darkness with the shot of pain and—

(The roar of anxiety and subsequent shame when you realize how much quieter the milling crowd nearby has become.)

“Hold still.” Blade's voice has sunk low, gravely with the cigarettes he’s been smoking all evening. 

The next time his cock touches your opening, he presses in without hesitation.

It’s—

It’s too fucking much.

It is, it always is, every single fucking time he fucks you. Any prep he gives you is perfunctory. Blade will never lavish you with attention, not in the way that you probably need. That you—

(Might even deserve.)

No, the most that Blade will do is fuck you filthy behind a shed, near some of his more well-adjusted peers and probably come inside of you. On past occasions, he has let you suck him off in the backseat of his car. He’s only accidentally (‘accidentally’) came on your face a few times. Less than ten, more than five. Once, he ate you out for a few minutes, but you swear to god he was groaning someone else’s name as he did.

(You’re fucking pathetic.)

This is always too much. Blade is too big. Too big, even if you were stretched and primed with a few fingers like would be right and proper. As tight and dry as you are, it’s painful. He has to grind into your cunt with rolling little thrust so he can fit himself in at all. Each one shocks a breath out of you, a shattering, fragile sound. 

When Blade bottoms out, he lays flat over your back. The weight of him is suffocating. His corded muscle is all dead weight above you as his cock twitches inside you. You can’t tell if he’s idling to allow you some time to adjust, or purely for his own leisure. You can’t be sure. You don’t want to ask him either.

“You’re tight.” Blade’s voice threatens to break.

(Of course you are. He’s the only person you will let fuck you, and these trysts only occur every few weeks, when there’s a show that you can be cornered at.)

He bucks into you, deeper still. The head of his cock is touching parts of you that shouldn’t be touched.

You whimper, “Blade—”

He growls in response. It’s a raspy and low tone that makes arousal burn in your gut and leak down your thighs. (You hope so anyway— it’s more wet and you don’t think it hurts enough that you’re bleeding.) Blade fucks you in earnest, then. There’s no delay, no waiting, no potential for momentary, perceived niceties. He pulls out of you almost completely, then thrusts back into you in one single motion. The friction burns and your vision wavers. 

(You still moan like a whore.)

You feel— dirty. Disgusting. Pathetic as he fucks you like. You don’t feel like a person as he fucks you; you never do. How could you? The grip he uses on your hips is too bruising and the force and strength he’s using to brutalize your cunt is just too much. He fucks you like he’s taking anger out on a piece of drywall. Blade shares physically with you in the way a dog shreds a chew toy to bits, then leaves it on the ground to fester.

Blade grunts next to your ear, nipping there.

He doesn’t kiss you— well, not often. He can’t with your current position. You wouldn’t expect him to anyway. Sometimes he leaves a ring of dark hickies across your neck, like a collar. You like those, but he always waits an extra long time to see you after he marks you like that.

(You presume to make sure that the bruises have fully yellowed, then faded. A clean canvas.)

Blade’s pace increases, just before he pulls out. His cock rests on the cleft of your ass and he tips his forehead to rest on the shed, just beside yours.

“You’re still dry.”

“Sorry—”

He cuts you off. “It’s fine.”

...

It apparently isn’t fine. 

Blade drags you toward the house. He barks at someone, then Kafka, to find a room. You feel dazed as he does. Out of your body, as you receive a number of knowing and unknowing stares from the lingering show-goers who cluster around a firepit. 

(How many of them heard you just now? How many know the exact sounds you make when in barely-there pleasure? In certainly-there pain? How many of them know the sound of Blade’s too-big cock slapping into your too-dry cunt?)

It makes you feel sick to think about.

A room must be found for the two of you, as Blade drags you up the stairs of the back porch. 

As he does, he hesitates.

(He has so rarely done this.)

His gaze is not on you; it pierces elsewhere in the dark. A floodlight off the back of the house illuminates a section of the yard, and just beyond its reach, nestled somewhere between the dark and light, he fixates. His jaw sets and locks. 

There are figures, you realize.

They’re easy to identify once you actually focus. One is lithe and short-haired, the other broad-shouldered and long-haired.  Dan Heng and Jing Yuan. Speaking on the outskirts. It feels private. Their attention turns from their hushed conversation to the two of you as Blade stares daggers and swords into them. As if he could pierce them with nothing more than his silent rage and angry eyes. 

You freeze.

Their expressions are obscured in the lowlight, but you can almost feel the looks they give you. Like a sickly mucus that gets stuck to you and rolls down your flesh in slow, cold globs. 

Dan Heng (once so dear to you, still probably dear to you—) looks guarded, thought darkened. Contempt twists his expression, anger following just after. You’d ever wager that he’s disgusted, maybe. Probably with you, because he knows you’re better than this. Beside him, Jing Yuan wears an expression of careful passivity, of geniality, as he always does, but it’s tinged with something sad and old. For all parties involved in this silent, momentary exchange.

Jing Yuan regards you directly, slowly blinking at you, as though he was a large house cat intent on making you feel safe, and not a presence that only drives the bubbling anxiety in you higher. 

It’s a seconds-long encounter that stretches for an eternity. You cannot make yourself move. You cannot feel anything other than rotten and small.

Blade lets out a harsh exhale and yanks you away. The scene breaks and you’re dragged inside. He whispers under his breath, vitriol-tinging his tone. Your panties feel sticky and wet as you walk.

Kafka had found a room for you, on the second floor of the house. God knows whose it actually is. You don’t get a good look at the room as Blade pushes you inside.. It’s dim, the only light is licking in from the dirty window, an afterburn from the raging bonfire outside. You hear muffled voices still, leaking in like a draft. 

Blade locks the door and pushes you onto the unmade bed.

It’s a cheap mattress with flannel sheets. It smells like old weed smoke and cheap incense. Fu Xuan would tell you that you deserve better than this. You think you might.

Blade climbs on top of you, jaw still locked, and eyes far away.

(You do wonder what happened between him and Dan Heng. Something did. Something gutting and heartbreaking— you hear it when Blade sings. A betrayal, an intangible knife cut but still so painful. Dan Heng has always spoken about Blade with a type of protective neutrality. He warned you to never get involved with Blade. To stay away, to not get on Blade’s bad side, and if something did entangle you with him, Dan Heng could sort it out. He has always cared so fiercely for those he loves; it’s a shame that you have squandered it.)

(Blade is a sentimentalist. Blade is so held in the past that it chokes him. It always has, during every moment you’ve shared with him. He lingers in the bloody past, he holds it in his hands with a grip that’s meant to snap bird wings and flay flesh. He hates Dan Heng. He still loves him, though. You see it on his face sometimes. You hear it in Blade’s music. The ache, the death, the unending grief and mourning and rage that the man simply won’t let go of.)

(It is obsession.)

It shouldn’t make you bitter to think about. Yet, it does. It’s not your place to hold those types of feelings, let alone express them. For so many reasons, Blade will never see you as anything more than a cheap fuck. You think Dan Heng is the primary one. Over time, you’ve grown bitter. Resentful. 

Blade pulls off your shirt in one swift move. He’s slower than he usually is. More deliberate. His hands are shaking, like how they do just after he finishes a set. It’s… off—

You hate it. You hate that the lingering pain of someone else will effect Blade more than you ever, ever could in the present.

You grab a fistful of his hair and tug. His breath catches as you do.

”What the fuck is your deal?” You sneer at him. There’s a cruel edge in your voice that does not sound like you. Blade brings out the worst in you, and you fall prey to it, so easily. 

Blade glances up at you, eyes sharp like cut gems. He says nothing.

”You and Dan Heng,” you laugh. You don’t mean to— you don’t, you don’t— and you yank Blade’s hair so he has to look at you better. “It’s pathetic, you know. How you look at him like a kicked fucking dog. What happened between the two of you, anyways?”

Blade freezes. So do you.

You’ve misstepped so brutally. So stupidly and tragically and idiotically. You’ve pushed too hard for what—?

Blade is on his haunches in an instance and he slaps you across the face.

Your head follows the force of the impact, forcing your face to the side. Your cheek smarts. It wasn’t— that hard. Blade is strong. He could do worse. Still, it shocks you. The pain is enough to make you gasp and reel.

”What the fuck—“

”Don’t,” Blade grabs your jaw, “open your mouth about things you know nothing about. You should know better.”

You should. You do.

”I could know more, if you ever told me, I don’t know— anything?” You laugh in his face, manic behind your eyes. You’re crushing the delicate nature of your cheap arrangement like how a child would crush a flighty butterfly’s papery wings. 

Blade shakes his head, smothering a laugh. He wrangles you forward, half-off risen from the bed, and parts your lips with his thumb. Before you can react, bite, claw— he is raising himself higher than you, dwarfing you in height, and spitting down into your mouth, onto your tongue.

”You don’t know when to shut up, do you?” He pats the side of your face, over the cheek that he struck. It burns. In another world, this touch would be tender. Here, you can only wince. 

Before you can reply, continue to run your mouth and rile him up further, Blade kisses you.

It shocks you, stuns you. 

He— he hasn’t ever kissed you before. It’s never been an explicit boundary, but never once during these trysts has Blade ever initiated this type of contact. It has felt dangerous to do so yourself. Something that’s too intimate, too personal to share. The core of your entanglement is the way he uses you. It’s impersonal. 

A kiss, you think, implies something more tender.

You gasp into his lips, and he takes the opportunity to all but violate the inside of your mouth. His tongue plunders inside, licking at his own spit that you have yet to swallow. A noise chokes off in the back of your throat. Something desperate and shocked that you hardly recognize. It’s filthy. He nips at your lips and pushes you back down.

Blade devours you. 

It’s too much, really. It’s a gesture of tenderness that has been so thoroughly mutilated, calling it a kiss feels paltry. The way his lips are on your own is much more like an argument and a subsequent conquest. One in which you lose ground. He nips at your lower lip, snags it between his teeth, and tugs it as he pulls away.

You pant, the sound of your own breath roars in your own ears. Your hands are still buried in his hair, grip unyielding, anchoring you.

Blade smiles, something poisonous and satisfied. You are too drunk on the singular kiss he gives you to care that much.

“That’s all it takes, is it?” He laughs, the sound dark and rolling, like the sound of an earthquake cracking the earth. 

He already knows you’ll beg for scraps. God forbid he gives you even a morsel more. 

The bed squeaks as he flips you by your hips so you’re laid flat, belly-down on the dirty sheets. Blade spanks your still-clothed ass for good measure before rustling around behind you. Assumedly to disrobe, just enough to fuck you. Assumedly, to ignore the condoms you brought (knowing he would disregard them—). Assumedly, to fuck you with every inch of your life. 

You want it. You want him so badly it physically hurts.

(Or, maybe you tore while he had you behind the shed. Who is to say?)

Blade clamors behind you, shaking, arthritic hands tugging your pants by the waistband. He doesn’t even bother to unzip them this time. Your panties get pulled down along with them, and they get tossed elsewhere in the barely-lit room. Blade spits behind you, and a sound of too-dry stroking follows. 

“D-do you want me to suck you off?” you ask with a hum. You’d let him fuck your face, if he asked. Or, if he wanted. Blade wouldn’t ask.

“No.”

“Just let me know.”

Blade sighs behind you, but you think little of it.

You brace yourself up on your elbows, lowering your upper half to be flat against the bed, and arching your hips as high as they’ll go. It’s as if to make yourself look appetizing. You hope it entices Blade, even a little.

(Please, you need him to want you. You need him to want you so badly. Please, please, please—)

The head of Blade’s cock rubs as your hole, down to your clit, then back up again a few times. He’s so hot, it’s like he is burning you. Contact that scalds. The contact against your clit is... nice. It’s the most warm up he has graced you with in a while. You could crave more, but settle for this. 

“C’mon Blade,” you whine. Your voice sounds airy. “Fuck me.”

He doesn’t reply, not with his voice. The rocking of his hips becomes more pronounced, and the slide of him against you becomes slicker. Still too big, too hot, but wet at least. Which is a bonus. Pre and blood are probably leaking onto the shaft at least a little bit too.

It makes it easier once he slides home in a single blow. 

It’s too fucking deep— especially with this angle. The head of his cock presses against your deepest parts, bruises them in a place where no one can see or feel but you. Blade is huge, the girth of him stretches you as his hips rest against your ass.

A wretched noise bubbles up past your lips. Something between a cry and a plea, for more, for less— to go home, to be in a warm, clean bed with someone who actually cares— you aren’t sure. Your desires have been twisted up and wrong for so long, you can’t tell what you really want. 

It makes you feel rotten, and then there’s only one thing you want.

(To hurt.)

Blade fucks you, then. Fully in, fully out of. Long and deep thrusts that carve out your insides in a brutal way. It’s violent. He leans over your back, and braces himself over you. You feel small, stupid, and hurt. A horrible swirl of things that make tears spring up at the corners of your eyes. You bury your face in the crusty pillow you’d manage to snag nearby—

And Blade tugs it away immediately. His big, calloused hand curls to hold your jaw up, so every pitiful whine and whimper you let out can’t be muffled. The bed squeaks as his thrusts slow.

“Don’t hide.”

“I-I won’t.”

“You were.”

“I won’t a-again—”

“You want this, don’t you?” Blade growls in your ears, then moves to the most fragile skin of your neck and bites. 

(You do, you do— god you do. You need this.)

You nod, and Blade keeps biting. His jaw nearly locks. You’re sure that you’ll be bruised for a week.

Blade scoffs and rears back, grabs your hips in both hands for leverage. And he fucks you.

That’s all it can be, really. You can’t get a solid hold on anything. The pillow has been thrown off the bed, and you struggle to find purchase on the sheets. All you do is take it. Pleasure, or something like it, builds in your core and goes nowhere. It simmers but never crests anywhere near orgasm. 

You don’t mind. This is enough.

Blade’s pace increases, never frantic. Never with him. Manic maybe, insane, tortured and damaged, but never frantic. Not with you. His rhythm falters as his cock slides in and out of you, slick beginning to stick to the inside of your thighs. 

His hand comes down on his ass. The other cheek, this time. It’s enough force to bruise again. You’ll have trouble sitting for a week.

As Blade nears his peak, his rhythm stutters. His breath grows harsher and more strained. His grip goes from bruising to breaking. You gasp with the pain, but don’t tell him to stop. His cock brushes against your cervix, and never your sweet spot. 

Blade flattens you to bed, prone, and puts his entire weight on top of you as his orgasm hits him. A strangled cry shatters from his lips into your ear as he fucks you too fast and too hard. A gush of warmth fills your insides, spilling to your outsides when there isn’t enough of you to hold all of him.

The bed frame slams into the wall with his final few thrusts. 

You lay there, in the filth, in the pain and the dissatisfaction of the tryst, and rot.

...

Blade leaves you there, at some point.

Not right away, but eventually. He rolls off you at some point, catches his breath for a while, checks his phone, then rises to right himself.

You cannot make yourself move. The only thing you can make yourself do is take slow, measured breaths. Each ache in your body is punctuated, loud and unignorable now that the fizzling pleasure of sex has dissipated. What’s left of it is this: carnage. 

“You have a ride home?” Blade asks. He must be near the door, based on the sound of his voice.

Fu Xuan’s warning words come to mind, and shame fills your belly. 

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

And he leaves.

You rot for a while longer.

This is not the first encounter that has gone this way. Blade fucks you like this and leaves. There’s no reverie or sweetness. There is using and being used, and the conclusion that always follows is this. Cooling, soon-to-be dry cum leaking out of you in thick droplets and a bite mark on your neck you’ll need to conceal for the next two weeks. Blade will ignore you like he doesn’t know you, next time he sees. But still fucks you like a toy.

It’s awful. It’s all you want.

You force yourself up at some point.

You’re surprised to find that your pants and panties are in a heap on the end of the bed. You are sure that they were tossed farther, but perhaps you misremember. Painstakingly, you rerobe yourself. Moving your legs in such ways hurts so bad, you could cry. You probably did cry while Blade fucked you. 

The quick stop in the squalid bathroom confirms this. Mascara smudges around your eyes and down your cheeks. The sticky gloss you were wearing has been smeared away. Not even a stain of the crimson remains. 

You feel hollow as you walk down the stairs, outside, toward the bonfire and its rapidly dwindling flames. A few folks still millaround, people you recognize, just barely, though no one you could call a friend remains around the pit. Stelle, March, and Dan Heng are long gone, probably. You’d feel too ashamed to look them in the eye anyway.

Someone offers you a warm beer and you take it. Your hands shake.

Hollow and wordless, you move around the backyard like a specter. Part of you wishes you were one, just something mostly formless and shapeless. Transparent. No one could see you make a fool of yourself that way. There would be no witnesses to your desperation and perversion.

You swallow back bile when it rises in your throat, and wash it down with a chug from the can.

You’re surprised to find Jing Yuan idling around the corner of the house. He looks up when you near him, and he greets you with the same genial smile he always wears. He nods to the space next him, already plucking a pack of cigarettes from the breast pocket on his shirt. You take one, and he lights it for you in the next instant.

“It looks like you needed that,” he hums. He doesn't take one for himself, only tucking the carton away and out of sight.

“Maybe.” You want to vomit. Or slide down the wall of the house and rot there. 

He laughs then. It’s too... warm of a sound for how you feel. For how dirty these venues are, and for the company that you have come to hold, it feels dissonant. Jing Yuan is too kind, too patient. 

(He cannot be your friend because your ruin would spread to him, maybe.)

“Take as many as you like,” he urges with a hum, and settles next to you.

Silently, you ruminate. Descend into yourself. You suppose, given the events you’ve seen tonight, that you’re both stewing in something akin to yearning. 

(Jing Yuan is better than you for it. He, at least, doesn’t sleep with his unrequited adored in someone else’s bed after a messy house show.)

“Do you have a way home?” asks Jing Yuan, breaking you from your slow-rolling spiral.

You shake your head. It would be rude to call Fu Xuan so late. You— you hadn’t really thought about a ride. Not yet. 

Jing Yuan looks you up and down and his smile looks sadder, “How about a ride home?”

“Sure.” You nod. 

The ride back home in Jing Yuan’s (too nice, too expensive, too decadent) car is quiet. An album from a band you don’t recognize plays at a low volume. Soothing, soft voices, so juxtaposed from the venue you leave behind. Maybe you just can’t recognize the words because you’re decaying. Your phone lays in your lap, over your aching thighs. 

[no new messages]

(Because Blade never messages you after a fuck. You’re not worth that much to him.)

...

Gingerly, you unlock your front door and enter your little apartment. Fu Xuan lays on the couch, on her back, with her phone against her collarbone. Her mouth is parted in peaceful sleep, though her hair is still done up, all of her pins are still in.

(She waited for you, again. And you failed her, again.)

You don’t know how she puts up with you. Or why either.

Some part of you wants to vomit. Wretch, like it’ll purge the awful, disgusting thoughts warming you. They do not serve you. You should just—

(Know better. You gain nothing from entangling yourself from Blade. The sex is... enough. Because Blade doesn’t know his own strength sometimes and makes it hurt, unintentionally toeing the line between too little and too much. It’s still not worth it. It shouldn’t be worth it. You’d be better off never going to any gigs, ever again. You wouldn’t have to disappoint and embarrass yourself to your old friends then. You wouldn’t have to linger in the yearning of others while never having that affection given to you.)

You collapse atop your bed. Your makeup has been roughly scrubbed off with an old towel, and you can feel the crunchy remnants of mascara clinging around your eyes. You can’t make yourself care. Burying your face in your pillow, you burrow into your blankets. You’ll probably be sore and hungover tomorrow... today? The songbirds are just beginning to chirp their morning arias. It makes you sick to your stomach.

As you begin to doze, your phone vibrates. 

[one new message]

blade: did you get home 

Your mouth feels dry and your chest feels so tight you could die. 

you: yeah. jing yuan drove me. 

[seen: 5:11 AM]

You hold your breath as Blade begins to type. Then stops typing. Then begins again. It goes on for several volleys and you really do think you might puke.

blade: get some sleep

You drop your phone somewhere in your sheets. Giddiness fills your chest, despite the exhaustion and ache and bone-rotting fatigue. Elation causes you to smile, something wide and girlish that you have to hide in your pillow, lest it be beared to the world.

(It’s a scrap. It’s nothing. It’s worse than the bare minimum and the bar is already in hell.)

But, it’s something.

A morsel. Something to clutch onto and hold and cherish.

his grin grows sharp. “good.”

he pulls your panties down slow, like he’s savoring it. you try to squeeze your thighs together, but he pushes them apart with both hands and settles between them like he belongs there.

and god—when he looks down at you, he looks hungry.

“you’re so fuckin’ wet,” he mutters, running a thumb through your folds. “bet you’re gonna taste even sweeter than you smell.”

he says it like it’s a fact. like your pussy was made for him to devour. and then, without even waiting, he lowers his head and does exactly that.

your whole body jolts.

his tongue is hot and flat and everywhere. he licks into you like he means it, moaning low in his throat when your hips jerk up toward his face. his fingers spread your lips and he sucks your clit into his mouth like he’s trying to memorize how you sound when you cry out his name.

“sukuna—please—i—”

“shh,” he mumbles against your cunt. “just let me eat.”

and he does. he doesn’t stop. not when you cum the first time. not when your thighs clamp around his ears. not even when you’re whining from overstimulation and begging him to slow down. he pulls another orgasm from you like it’s easy. like it’s what he’s best at.

when he finally sits back, his lips and chin are soaked. he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and looks at you like he’s ready to ruin you entirely.

“you ever seen a dick before, sweetheart?”

you blink, dazed. “um… no.”

he laughs. “fuck. you’re killin’ me.”

you watch as he strips off his shirt, then undoes his belt with one hand and pushes his pants down just enough to free himself. your eyes widen—he’s thick. long and veiny and already hard as a rock.

“yeah,” he says, grinning when he catches your expression. “you’re not gonna be able to walk tomorrow.”

“that’s not very reassuring,” you breathe.

he leans down to kiss you again. slower this time. almost… sweet.

his mouth is soft against yours, but there’s heat behind it—like he’s trying to press something into you without saying it out loud. it’s not hungry like earlier. not cocky. just warm. his palm cradles your cheek, thumb brushing over your jaw as his lips part yours, slow and lingering. like he wants you to feel it. like he wants you to remember.

you kiss him back because you can’t not. because your body is still buzzing, and your thighs are still trembling, and the ache between your legs is starting to settle into something that feels like a craving. your hand slides into his hair without thinking, fingers twisting in the soft pink strands as he pulls away just enough to look at you.

he’s staring again. that intense, unreadable kind of stare that makes you squirm even when he’s not touching you. his eyes flicker down to your mouth, then back up to your eyes, like he’s trying to decide what to do with you next. like he’s still hungry but doesn’t want to scare you.

and then he smiles.

not the smug one. not the frat-boy grin he wears like armor in front of his friends. this one’s different. smaller. tilted. like he’s looking at a secret and he’s the only one who knows it.

“still okay?” he murmurs.

you nod, but the way your chest rises and falls gives you away. he notices. of course he does. his hand slides down your body again—fingertips grazing your collarbone, the dip of your waist, the curve of your hip. he stops when he reaches your thigh, palm resting there like it belongs.

his hand slips down, past your hip, between your legs, fingers brushing through the slick heat of your cunt like he already knows what he’ll find. he groans, almost to himself.

you want to hide, but there’s nowhere to go. he’s all around you. all you can do is bite your lip as his fingers glide through your folds again, spreading the wetness up toward your clit and circling it slowly. the motion makes your thighs twitch, your back arch, breath catch in your throat.

you nod again, smaller this time, and your eyes flutter open to see him staring down at you. completely focused. no trace of a smirk. just him. just sukuna.

he shifts his weight to one forearm and reaches between you with the other hand to guide the thick head of his cock to your entrance. you tense without meaning to.

“breathe,” he says, low and even. “don’t rush it.”

you try.

the blunt pressure of him pressing against your cunt is overwhelming. he’s warm, and so much bigger than you thought—your body resists at first, muscles clenching up from instinct, nerves fraying at the edges. but he doesn’t push. not all at once. he lets you open up around him, inch by slow inch, shallow thrusts that ease him inside while his hand rubs soothing circles against your hip.

it burns. not sharp, but enough to make your eyes water. your fingers dig into his biceps, and he pauses. stills. watches your face.

“talk to me,” he says, voice quiet. “you want to stop?”

you shake your head immediately. “no. just—don’t move yet.”

he doesn’t.

he leans in and kisses your temple. then your cheek. then the corner of your mouth. his hand strokes your thigh gently, grounding you. and the longer he stays still, the more the sting starts to fade, melting into something thicker, heavier. the ache of being full. stretched. claimed.

your body adjusts. slowly. trembling at first, but growing used to the weight of him.

“you’re doing so good,” he breathes, forehead resting against yours. “fuck, you feel good. tight little pussy grippin’ me like she doesn’t wanna let go.”

you whimper at the sound of it—the filth in his voice made worse by how soft he says it. not taunting. not cruel. just honest. reverent, even. like he can’t believe you’re letting him have this. letting him in.

you shift your hips, just slightly, and the movement pulls a hiss from his teeth.

“you okay?”

“yeah,” you breathe. “keep going.”

he does. slowly. rolling his hips in shallow, careful thrusts that make your breath catch all over again. he watches your face like a man obsessed. like every twitch of your brows or gasp of your mouth tells him something he needs to know.

you didn’t think sex could feel like this.

you didn’t think sukuna could feel like this.

his rhythm is steady, hips drawing back and sliding in deeper each time. your cunt flutters around him, wet, hot, and messy, and the sound it makes, so sticky and obscene, has him groaning low in your ear.

“fuck,” he grits. “gonna ruin you.”

he already has. your legs wrap around his waist without thinking, ankles crossing at the small of his back to pull him closer. deeper. he groans again and dips his head to your throat, mouthing at the sensitive skin there, biting just enough to make your back arch.

his cock hits something deeper now, and your breath stutters.

“that’s it,” he mutters. “there she is. right there, huh?”

your fingernails dig into his back as he keeps fucking into that spot, slow and mean. your nerves are raw again, pleasure crawling up your spine in hot little sparks as his pace picks up.

“you gonna cum for me, baby?” he pants, rubbing your clit in tight circles while he fucks you through the growing pressure in your belly. “wanna feel this pretty pussy squeeze me. give it to me.”

you nod, desperate, dizzy, tears threatening to slip past your lashes as the pleasure tips you over the edge—and you break.

your orgasm floods through you fast and hard, thighs shaking, breath hitched, pussy fluttering around him like you were made for it. sukuna doesn’t slow down. doesn’t stop. he fucks you through it, watches you fall apart like it’s his religion, his reason.

you hear yourself sob his name. a weak, shattered little sound.

and sukuna—he kisses you. he kisses you like he’s never tasted anything sweeter.

you’re still shaking when he groans into your mouth.

your cunt is pulsing around him, like your body doesn’t know how to let go of him. like it doesn’t want to. every time your walls flutter, his breath catches. every moan you spill into his mouth has him swearing low under his breath, hips stuttering against yours like he’s fighting the urge to lose it.

he’s still holding back. still trying to fuck you slow. you’re not sure how long he can keep it up.

“fuck,” he rasps, forehead pressed to yours. “you feel so fuckin’ good, baby. so warm… so tight around me—shit.”

his voice cracks on the last word, guttural and half-choked. he’s sweating now. his back slick under your fingertips, arms braced beside your head, and his thighs trembling just barely with every thrust. he’s close. so close. but he’s still watching you—eyes flicking between your face and the way your body grips his cock with every roll of his hips.

you don’t even think before whispering, “wanna feel you cum.”

and that breaks him.

his next thrust is deeper. harder. he buries himself all the way inside, cock hitting your cervix as he groans deep in his chest, raw and unfiltered. you feel him throb, cock twitching as he cums hard inside of you—hips jerking once, twice, like his body’s still catching up to the wave crashing over him.

he doesn’t pull out right away. he just stays there, shaking a little, mouth slack and forehead resting on yours while he rides out every last pulse of it. his weight feels good. the room is quiet except for your breathing—yours fast and shallow, his deep and heavy like he’s been sprinting.

and then—he laughs. a breathless kind of laugh, hoarse around the edges, like he can’t believe what just happened. “holy fuck,” he mutters.

you can’t help it—you giggle. dazed, still out of it, but lightheaded enough that the sound bubbles out of you naturally. your body feels like melted wax. warm, soft, spread open beneath him like you belong there.

sukuna lifts his head, looks down at you. he’s still catching his breath, but there’s a glow to him now—flushed cheeks, damp hair sticking to his temples, that smirk of his curling back into place, but slower. softer. like the fight’s gone out of it.

“you good?” he asks.

you nod. “you?”

he chuckles again, pulling out with a soft groan. you wince at the sudden emptiness—already missing the way he filled you. reaching for a towel off the floor. it’s… surprisingly clean. you blink at that.

he gently wipes between your legs, not looking at you too closely while he does. like if he makes it a thing, you’ll start feeling awkward about it. but the way his touch lingers a little too long at your thigh says otherwise.

when he’s done, he tosses the towel aside and flops back onto the mattress next to you, arm tucked behind his head, bare chest rising and falling with slow, even breaths.

you stay quiet. he doesn’t push.

the silence settles. not uncomfortable, but not familiar either. like standing on a bridge you’re not sure you’re supposed to cross. and then, just when you start to turn your head toward him, he breaks it.

“you were really fuckin’ cute,” he says.

you blink. “what?”

“before,” he continues, smirking without looking at you. “all shy and squirmy. you were tryna act like you weren’t already soaked for me.”

you roll your eyes and nudge his shoulder. “you’re so annoying.”

“uh-huh,” he says, stretching an arm toward you lazily. “get over here, though.”

you hesitate. not because you don’t want to. but because what does this mean?

still, your body makes the decision for you, rolling into his side and letting him wrap an arm around your waist like it’s the easiest thing in the world. his skin is hot. the room smells like sweat and sex and faint traces of his cologne. and when you settle your cheek against his chest, his fingers move without thinking—tracing lazy shapes down your spine.

“you’re gonna be sore tomorrow,” he mumbles. almost apologetic. almost smug.

“i know.”

he pauses. then: “…you ever think about doin’ this again?”

you look up at him, but he’s not looking at you. his gaze is on the ceiling now. casual. but his jaw’s a little tense, and his throat bobs when he swallows, like he’s not as relaxed as he wants to seem.

you wait.

he finally glances down at you.

“not with anyone else,” he says. “just me.”

you blink.

“i mean—” he stretches again, like he’s shaking it off. “not sayin’ it’s a thing or whatever. just… if you ever wanna do it again. or stay over. or sleep in. or like… let me cook you pancakes or some shit. y’know. no pressure.”

you try not to smile too hard. you fail.

“…what if i want pancakes and sex?”