nell

aki has always found immense shame in the notion of touching himself.

of course, that does not mean he goes completely dry. it’s just something he prefers not to do, especially with the constant hassle of chaos surrounding him—with that comes both slim time to do it and the heightened chance of being caught. he only found himself desperate and alone in the dead of night, face warm with embarrassment despite the lack of eyes on him and breathy pants falling from his lips as he shut his eyes and pretended he wasn’t so pathetic.

still, it was always in complete solace. as it should be. contained, restrained; all that aki was as a person.

but tonight was different. and it was all because of you. he was barely at fault—any man with eyes and a groin was sure to be affected in the same way. he may be stoic and reserved and lacking the outward show of most mortal desire, but at the end of the day he is only a man. only a man that has to restrain himself from taking you in the break room on any normal day when you are covered head to toe in uniform, let alone how you looked now.

he found himself shut in his car, awareness of the window tint being far too little for a real safety present but not prominent. the blanket of night and the slight buzz in his mind was enough for now. a quick smoke break, he’d claimed. just a moment to breathe—alone. truthfully, he had taken the first opportunity to scramble out of there the moment he found his eyes lingering on you too long and his pants growing tight.

images flashed through his mind. the collective group of Public Safety workers out for drinks. your dress, short and sleek, just bordering on the line of promiscuous. he closed his eyes and imagined what it would look like pooled on his bedroom floor. that, combined with the action of him pressing the heel of his palm into the aching hardness between his legs, had his lips parting and a groan tumbling from them before he could restrain himself.

this is dirty. he knew it. he knew that he was vulnerable to be seen by the many eyes circling the building, his car tucked away in the corner of the parking lot but not entirely concealed. but he just couldn’t help himself. what else was he supposed to do, go back in there knowing he was fucking throbbing in his pants for the rest of the night? no, definitely not. this was the better thing to do—get it over with. in the haze of his arousal, he almost convinced himself.

(a part of him almost liked the idea of you finding out. seeing—feeling—his need for you. a part of him wanted to be called dirty, to have his carefully crafted composure shattered in the eyes of the one he let it crumble for. he pushed the thought away before it got far; even now, finishing too fast would hurt his pride.)

his belt came undone with an echoing clink, hips canting up into his hand the moment he tugged his clothes down just enough to find relief. he spit into his palm, bringing it down to his cock and smearing the precum that had spilled from the tip around the head before giving himself a few, almost experimental pumps. a sound aki was not even entirely aware he was capable of making rose from his throat as he pretended it was your hand instead of his.

aki was observant. this was always a positive trait, but at the moment, he was more grateful for it than ever. he thought back to the many things he had noticed about you that others may not have. the curl of your fingers around the handle of the pitcher as you poured yourself a drink. the way your lips wrapped around the rim of the glass, shining with the liquid when you pulled away. the way the straps of your dress shrugged down your shoulders ever so slightly the more inebriated you became. your makeup, carefully applied. he wanted to see it run. he wanted to *ruin* you.

armin had dreams quite often. now, this was not a surprising thing; dreams are caused by the information stored in the depths of one’s mind, and it is well known that armin had a lot of that. it’s rare that he has a night completely dreamless, whether he be plagued by riddles concealed in a story or being chased down a corridor or something humiliating that leaves his face red for the rest of the morning.

recebtly, his subject had been you.

they would change. positions, places, you name it. sometimes he would be between your legs, putting the cool metal ball atop his tongue to work and feeling proud of his reckless decision for once. other times, you would be on your knees, taking care of him and cooing softly with every broken plea that left his lips. he’d take you from behind, in front—make you realize he was more than he seemed. he was useful. he could make you feel good. it was every sick fantasy he had pushed down and suppressed from the moment he first saw you coming back to haunt him in his sleep. occasionally, he would just be lying with you in the aftermath and the bliss of what you had just done. but that one was much more heavy than the rest, so he avoided confronting the meaning.

tonight was no different. he saw you, messy and disheveled and as beautiful as he always thought you were. bare, panting, whispering his name so softly he was sure it was a figment of his imagination (but this all was, so what did it matter?). he ran his hand over every plane and curve he was too shy to touch when he was conscious. his face was in your neck, nose pressing against your pulse as he desperately tried to convince himself this was real, I if only for a moment. you smelled sweet. he had to resist the urge to sink his teeth into you and mark that he was there.

you were with him, wanting him. his head was spinning and his throat raw from the pathetic whimpers bubbling from his throat. he remembers feeling so close, dick twitching desperately with every noise and move you made, but he tried to prolong it. he knew that he would wake the moment he let go and be reminded that this was fake, that he was sweating and panting and hard alone in his own dark room. he was desperate. he had long since accepted that he was nothing if not a loser, at least a bit, but even this had him shrinking on himself in shame.

your voice. it was beautiful, and even more so when broken and saying his name. “armin, ah, i’m-“

he awoke with a gasp. he blinked for a moment, chest heaving, head pounding as was the pulse between his legs. it only took a moment for him to process—he had grown more and more used to these occurrences. even with his less-than-great vision, he could make out the shape of his stiffness as well as the wet patch forming on his pyjama pants.

he was definitely not going to be able to look you in the eyes tomorrow, if not the rest of the week. he was pathetic, and he wanted you so badly. but he would not act on those desires, instead dealing with graphic dreams and radiosilence on the days after. it was not preferable, but he would survive.

armin had dreams quite often. now, this was not a surprising thing; dreams are caused by the information stored in the depths of one’s mind, and it is well known that armin had a lot of that. it’s rare that he has a night completely dreamless, whether he be plagued by riddles concealed in a story or being chased down a corridor or something humiliating that leaves his face red for the rest of the morning.

recebtly, his subject had been you.

they would change. positions, places, you name it. sometimes he would be between your legs, putting the cool metal ball atop his tongue to work and feeling proud of his reckless decision for once. other times, you would be on your knees, taking care of him and cooing softly with every broken plea that left his lips. he’d take you from behind, in front—make you realize he was more than he seemed. he was useful. he could make you feel good. it was every sick fantasy he had pushed down and suppressed from the moment he first saw you coming back to haunt him in his sleep. occasionally, he would just be lying with you in the aftermath and the bliss of what you had just done. but that one was much more heavy than the rest, so he avoided confronting the meaning.

tonight was no different. he saw you, messy and disheveled and as beautiful as he always thought you were. bare, panting, whispering his name so softly he was sure it was a figment of his imagination (but this all was, so what did it matter?). he ran his hand over every plane and curve he was too shy to touch when he was conscious. his face was in your neck, nose pressing against your pulse as he desperately tried to convince himself this was real, I if only for a moment. you smelled sweet. he had to resist the urge to sink his teeth into you and mark that he was there.

you were with him, wanting him. his head was spinning and his throat raw from the pathetic whimpers bubbling from his throat. he remembers feeling so close, dick twitching desperately with every noise and move you made, but he tried to prolong it. he knew that he would wake the moment he let go and be reminded that this was fake, that he was sweating and panting and hard alone in his own dark room. he was desperate. he had long since accepted that he was nothing if not a loser, at least a bit, but even this had him shrinking on himself in shame.

your voice. it was beautiful, and even more so when broken and saying his name. “armin, ah, i’m-“

he awoke with a gasp. he blinked for a moment, chest heaving, head pounding as was the pulse between his legs. it only took a moment for him to process—he had grown more and more used to these occurrences. even with his less-than-great vision, he could make out the shape of his stiffness as well as the wet patch forming on his pyjama pants.

he was definitely not going to be able to look you in the eyes tomorrow, if not the rest of the week. he was pathetic, and he wanted you so badly. but he would not act on those desires, instead dealing with graphic dreams and radiosilence on the days after. it was not preferable, but he would survive.

“it’s almost like you want the whole building to hear you.”

his voice was low and smooth as he spoke, eyes barely flicking up to meet yours and place a subtle emphasis on his words. they were darkened, pupils widening and enveloping his irises in inky black as they raked over your form.

he had parted your thighs, knees pressing into the bed as he settled between them. the both of you were still entirely clothed save for your shirt, pushed up just enough to reveal the smooth expanse of skin on your abdomen. despite the layers of fabric separating you, every shudder and shift was so prominent to the both of you that you couldn’t even tell who it had come from. his palm smoothed out over your skin, the other pressing around the dip of your knee and keeping you welcoming him with open arms legs.

he had not even touched you—not properly—and yet you felt fucking wrecked. your chest was rising and falling in presto, mouth falling open as you whined on about how pathetically you needed him. “I just- please, y’keep teasing me- I-“ a pant.

now, what he did next was not entirely in his control. it was not his fault. he would usually not be so bold in his actions, even in moments such as this. but his mind was hazy with the barely concealed need he felt, entirely detached from his motor system. perhaps it was instinct, the way his eyes zeroed in on your lips that were parted so invitingly, and the way two of his digits reached up to dip between them. his fingers prodded past the plush opening to your mouth before pressing down on your tongue, muffling any keens or protests you were even considering saying next.

a muffled whine erupted from your throat, eyes widening to saucer shapes. your lashes fluttered as you blinked at him, almost as if you were perplexed by the thought that he could silence you so simply; nothing but a push of the finger. the pads of his index and middle were soft against the muscle they resided on—gentle and yet entirely effective. a shuddering breath left him at the way you fell silent. the submission made something in his mind cry out in glory (and something in his pants strain further than it already was).

“yeah,” he rasped. “you don’t listen, suppose you forget i’ve been choosing to give you a choice.”

you let out something that was supposed to be a whimper. he had to hide the curl of his lips by leaning in and letting his breath fan out over your face, too close for you to assess what he did not want you to see, for you to notice the power you really had over him despite the way he held reign over you.

“so you’re gonna do what I tell you, got it? be good and you can get a word or two in.”