#sub armin

HEY GIRLIESSS!!💋💋 It seems like a lot of you NEED want a continuation of toleration or obsession😭😭.

So here it is!!😚😚

Toleration or Obsession.. pt2

mdni ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ pathetic nerdmin, begging, mommy kink, toys? subby armin, MEAN reader, nipple play uhhh lmk if I missed anything.

You spent the first two periods of the day treating him like a piece of classroom furniture. When you walked past him in the hallway to get to the lockers, you didn't even glance his way, focusing instead on a loose thread on your sleeve. You could feel his eyes on the side of your face—wide, blinking, and brimming with a quiet, frantic sort of desperation. He stepped closer, his shoulder almost brushing yours, his mouth opening as if to speak, but you simply accelerated your pace, leaving him staring at the back of your head.

During the mid-morning break, Armin hovered at the edge of your circle of friends, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He tried to catch your eye, offering a small, tentative smile that didn't quite reach his anxious eyes. You responded by engaging in a loud, animated debate about the upcoming history project, gesturing wildly with your hands and laughing at a joke that wasn't even that funny, all while acting as if the space Armin occupied was merely a vacant gap in the air. He looked like he was vibrating, his fingers twisting the hem of his sweater, his presence shrinking as he realized that your silence was a deliberate wall.

He felt the heat rush to his cheeks, a deep, blooming crimson that he tried to hide by burying his face in his notebook. The memory of the "naughty" transgression, the shared secret and the boundary pushed pulsed in his mind like a heartbeat.

You packed up your bag taking your sweet time, ready to depart for lunch when the door slammed shut. Standing infront of it was Armin who was shaking profusely.

He looked like he had been through all five stages of grief . His blond hair, usually parted with mathematical precision, was swept across his forehead in erratic clumps, and his tie had shifted several inches to the left, hanging limp and crooked. There was something profoundly fragile about the way he looked at you—his pupils blown wide, his breathing shallow and uneven. He looked utterly undone, stripped of the composure he tried so hard to maintain in front of the other students.

"Move," you said, your voice flat and devoid of the warmth you’d shared with him only twenty-four hours prior. You didn't even look at him, instead focusing on a smudge of graphite on your thumb, your tone treating him less like a person and more like a misplaced chair.

The reaction was instant. Armin didn’t step aside, he collapsed. He dropped to his knees hitting the floor with a sharp, dull thud that seemed to echo against the silence of the geography lab. He folded entirely, his spine curving as he looked up at you from the floor, his hands instinctively clasping together in front of his chest. The sudden shift in height left him looking smaller than ever, his wide eyes reflecting a mixture of terror and an almost frantic sort of relief.

"Please," he whispered, the word trembling as it left his lips. "Please..why are you ignoring me? I'll do whatever you want, just please look at me." He shifted on his knees, leaning closer to your shoes, his voice dropping to a desperate. "Just tell me what to do. Please."

You let the silence stretch, enjoying the way he seemed to shrink further into himself. This was all part of your plan. You just knew he would be running back to you. His breathing became a series of short, ragged hitches. You finally shifted your gaze down to him, your eyes tracing the crooked line of his tie and the flushed heat of his neck. He wasn't the top student or the organized perfectionist anymore; he was just Armin, utterly undone and waiting for your permission to exist.

A single, jagged sob broke from his throat, sounding less like a cry and more like something snapping inside of him. He didn't cover his face or try to stifle the sound; he simply stayed there infront of you, his forehead nearly touching your shoes, letting the grief of the morning's silence pour out of him.

"I'm sorry," he choked out, the words muffled against the floor. "I'm so sorry for... whatever I did. I don't even know if I did anything, I just—I can't stand it when you look through me."The sight of him so utterly demolished over a few hours of coldness was intoxicating, a testament to how deeply you had crawled under his skin.

Armin shifted forward, his movements frantic and clumsy, until his lips finally made contact with the fabric of your tights. The first kiss was tentative, a ghost of a touch against your ankle, but as he realized you weren't pulling away, he became ravenous. He pressed his face against your skin, his breathing hot and erratic, peppering your ankles with desperate, bruising pecks.

"I'm so sorry, Mommy," he whimpered against your skin, the words muffled and thick with emotion. He shifted his focus to the other ankle, his movements rhythmic and obsessive, as if he were trying to anchor himself to the earth through you. "Yes, Mommy... I'm yours, Mommy." Each phrase was a frantic prayer, a confession of his own helplessness. He sounded breathless, his voice cracking under the weight of a devotion that had long since ceased to be about mere schoolwork or shared secrets.

"Mommy, please... please don't ignore me again," he sobbed, his forehead resting against the top of your foot. He looked up at you then, his eyes swimming in tears, his expression one of absolute, terrifying transparency. You looked down at him—the top student, the perfectionist, the boy who organized his pencils by length.

“Look at you," you drawled, your fingers tightening in his hair to keep his head tilted at that vulnerable angle. "The pride of the honor roll, reduced to a heap of shaking nerves on a dirty floor. You’re practically leaking from your eyes, Armin. It’s honestly embarrassing." Armin’s breath hitched, and a sudden, violent shiver raced down his spine. His pupils dilated further, swallowing the blue of his irises until his eyes were two dark, bottomless wells of longing. He let out a soft, broken sound—half-sob, half-sigh—and leaned his cheek into your palm, his expression shifting from sheer terror to a glazed, heady kind of intoxication. The more you dismantled his dignity, the more he seemed to bloom, his chest heaving as he sank deeper into the deliciousness of his own insignificance.

"I am," he whimpered, his voice thick and dizzy. "I'm so embarrassing, Mommy. Please... tell me more."

He looked like he was being dismantled and rebuilt in real-time, and he was loving every second of the demolition.

You let a slow, predatory smile spread across your lips. The desperation in his voice was a melody you could play for hours, a symphony of surrender that made the geography lab feel like a throne room.

"You're so eager to be a 'good boy,' aren't you?" you murmured, your voice dripping with a mock sweetness that made him shudder. You reached down, your fingers sliding beneath the fabric of his crisp white button-down, finding the thin, sensitive skin of his chest.

The moment your fingertips brushed against his nipples, Armin let out a sharp, strangled gasp that sounded like he’d been struck. You didn't offer a gentle touch; instead, you pinched firmly, twisting the small nub of flesh through the fabric of his shirt. He arched his back, his hips lifting up in a sudden, instinctive jolt of pleasure and shock.

"Is this what you wanted, Armin? To be handled like a toy?" you asked, your voice dropping an octave. You applied a sudden, sharp tug, pulling the fabric tight against his skin. He let out a whimpering sound, his hands clawing at the floor as he tried to push himself closer to your touch. "You haven't even earned the right to feel this yet. You’re still just a shivering wreck on the floor."

"I know," he sobbed, the sound half-smothered by the intensity of the sensation. "I know I am, Mommy... please, more... please don't stop."

"Beg for it, Armin. Use your words," you commanded, your voice as cool and polished as a river stone. You didn't let up the pressure; instead, you began to alternate the rhythm, pinching one peak sharply before rolling the other in a slow, agonizingly deliberate circle. He tried to lean into your hand, his entire body undulating like a wave trying to reach the shore, but you stepped back just a fraction—just enough to make him feel the sudden, terrifying void of your touch. He let out a strangled sound, his fingers scratching uselessly at the linoleum as he fought the urge to lunge forward.

"Please!" he gasped, his voice sounding like it had been dragged through gravel. "Please, Mommy, I—I need it! Please let me have it! I'll be so good, I'll be the best, just please keep touching me!" He was shaking so violently now that his teeth were practically chattering, his eyes fixed on yours with a level of devotion that bordered on religious fervor.

You leaned down, your breath ghosting over his ear, though your fingers returned to their work with a renewed, punishing intensity. You gripped both of his nipples through the cotton, pulling him upward just enough to force him to arch his spine. "You're so desperate, it's almost pathetic. You’re actually whimpering, Armin. Does the honor roll actually whimper on the floor for a bit of attention?"

"I do," he gasped, the admission ripped from him as you gave a sharp, simultaneous pinch to both peaks. His eyes rolled back, his head thumping against the linoleum with a wet, rhythmic sound. “I only want you to see me like this..”

“Wait—stop!” Armin suddenly gasped, his voice jumping an octave as he arched his back in a violent, reflexive spasm. His eyes were wide, blown out and shimmering with a frantic sort of panic. “Mommy, please, stop! They’re—they’re too sensitive, I’m... I’m going to—” You pulled your hand away instantly, the sudden absence of contact leaving a vacuum that felt almost as violent as the touch itself. You stepped back, folding your arms across your chest and looking down at him with an expression of mild, detached curiosity.

“Well,” you drawled, the silence of the room amplifying the rhythmic, wet sound of his labored breathing, “since you’re so desperate to be a good boy for me, I suppose we should see exactly how much of a ‘mess’ you really are.”

The words acted like a physical trigger. Armin froze, his chest still heaving, his eyes locked onto yours with a mixture of terror and hope. He didn't move until you gave a sharp, impatient tilt of your chin toward his waist. The command was unspoken, but the expectation hung in the air, heavy and absolute. With trembling fingers that looked like they might snap, Armin reached for the metal tab of his zipper. The sound of it descending a slow, jagged “zzzzip” that tore through the quiet of the geography lab.

The grey material of his trousers fell away, revealing the tight, white cotton of his boxers, and the sight that met your gaze was staggering. Despite his fragile demeanor and the way he had spent the morning shrinking into himself, the bulge beneath the fabric was immense, straining against the cotton with a raw, pulsing urgency. It was a jarring contrast to his wide-eyed, pleading face. Armin let out a broken, high-pitched whimper, his face flushing a deep, bruised crimson as he realized you were staring. He didn't try to hide it; instead, he arched his hips slightly, offering the protrusion to your gaze as if it were a sacrificial offering.

"Look at that," you murmured, your voice a low, dangerous purr. "Such a big, needy thing for such a little, pathetic boy.”

He let out a strangled sob, his fingers clutching the hem of his shirt as he looked up at you with pupils so blown they had erased the blue of his eyes. "Yes," he gasped, the word barely a vibration. "Yes, mommy .. I want you to know how much I want to please you."

“Since you’re so fond of following orders, let's give you something to focus on for the rest of the afternoon,” you murmured, your voice sliding over him like silk. You reached into the hidden compartment of your bag, retrieving a small, sleek silicone device—a discreet, high-intensity vibrating ring designed for exactly this kind of prolonged torment. It glinted under the harsh fluorescent lights of the lab, a cold, mechanical promise of the chaos it was about to sow.

Armin’s breath hitched, his eyes fixating on the device with a mixture of awe and absolute terror. He didn't move, barely daring to blink as you knelt beside him. With a slow, methodical precision, you reached into the straining cotton of his boxers. The moment your skin brushed his, he let out a sharp, jagged gasp, his hips jerking upward in a reflexive, desperate search for more. You ignored the plea, your fingers cool and clinical as you guided the device into place, sliding the vibrating ring over the pulsing heat of his length and securing it firmly against the base.

The second you clicked the power switch, a low, humming vibration tore through him. Armin didn't jump, he practically convulsed, his back arching as a loud, broken moan escaped his lips. The device hummed with a relentless, buzzing energy that bypassed his skin and vibrated straight into his bones. He looked like he had been hit by a bolt of electricity, his face twisting into a mask of blissful agony as the constant, humming stimulation began to override his ability to think.

“There,” you whispered, leaning in so close that your lips almost brushed his flushed cheek. You reached down and adjusted the settings, clicking it up to a higher, more erratic pulse that made him let out a strangled, high-pitched keen.

“This stays on, Armin. Under your trousers, hidden from everyone, humming against your skin for every single second of the remaining school day. Every time you stand up to answer a question, every time you walk to the lockers, every time the teacher looks at you... you'll feel this.”

The realization of the challenge hit him like a physical blow. He looked up at you, his eyes shimmering with tears, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath amidst the relentless vibration.

He let out a small, shivering sob, his fingers clutching at the floor as he looked at you with a raw, desperate kind of hunger.

“Yes, Mommy,” he whimpered, the words barely audible over the low hum of the device. “I’ll be good. I’ll keep it on... I’ll keep it on for you.”

You stood up slowly, smoothing out your clothes and looking down at him with a detached, predatory smile. You didn't offer him a hand up, of course not. Instead, you stepped back, giving him a moment to experience the sudden void of your touch while the device continued its merciless work.

“Good. Now, zip yourself back up and get to your feet,” you commanded, your voice returning to that cool, distant tone. “You have a reputation for punctuality to maintain, and it would be such a shame if the star pupil was late to his next period because he was too busy shaking on the floor.”

Armin scrambled to obey, his movements clumsy and frantic. As he pulled his trousers back over the humming secret, he let out a sharp, strangled gasp. The friction of the fabric against the vibrating silicone sending a fresh jolt of electricity through his nervous system. He stood up on shaky legs, his face a vivid, bruised crimson, his eyes glassy and unfocused. He looked like he was vibrating at the same frequency as the device, his entire body humming with a tension that threatened to shatter him.

You watched him for a moment, savoring the way he swayed on his feet, his hands clutching the strap of his bag as if it were the only thing keeping him upright.

You were gonna have fun.

The hallway was a gauntlet of fluorescent lights and echoing chatter, but for Armin, it had become a sensory vacuum. As you walked a few paces ahead of him, you could hear the tell-tale hitch in his stride—a rhythmic, staggered cadence as he fought to keep his legs moving while the device hummed on its lowest setting. It was a subtle vibration, a ghostly thrum that didn't quite push him over the edge but acted like a constant, irritating itch he wasn't allowed to scratch. He looked like a man walking through a dream, his face pale and focused, his knuckles white where he gripped his book bag. Every time he glanced at you, his eyes were wide, pleading for a release that you had no intention of granting.

You spent the next three periods playing with him from a distance. A simple glance across the cafeteria, a slow blink during the transition between bells, each gesture was a reminder of the secret buzzing against his skin. You could see him struggling to maintain his "top student" facade, his posture unnaturally rigid as he sat in class, his pen scratching erratically across his notebook. He was a taut wire, stretched to the breaking point, and the best part was the knowledge that he was enduring this purely for the hope that you might eventually look at him with something other than indifference.

The real test arrived in fifth period.

Armin sat two rows ahead of you, his back straight, though you noticed a fine tremor in his shoulders. You reached into your pocket, your fingertips finding the remote for the device.

The teacher, Mr. Erwin, was mid-sentence, droncing on about integration by parts, when he paused to scan the room. His eyes landed on the most reliable student in the class. "Armin," Erwin called out, his voice cutting through the silence. "Would you please come to the board and walk us through the second derivative of the third problem? I think some of your classmates are struggling with the chain rule."

Armin stood up, his movement stiff. He began to walk toward the front of the room, his expression a mask of focused concentration. He was halfway there when you felt the sudden urge to see him break. Your thumb pressed the button, sliding the intensity from the ghostly, lowest thrum to the absolute, screaming maximum. His hand flew to the edge of the chalkboard to steady himself, his fingers gripping the ledge so hard that the wood groaned. His eyes blew wide, the blue vanishing into bottomless black as the high-intensity vibration tore through his nervous system, overloading every single sensor in his body.

"Armin? Is everything alright?" Mr. Erwin asked, frowning.

Armin was shaking, his chest heaving as he fought a battle that was completely invisible to everyone but you. He looked like he was being electrocuted from the inside out, his legs trembling so violently that he could barely remain upright. He turned his head slightly, casting a desperate, glazed look back toward you. He was drowning in the sensation, his face flushed a deep, bruised crimson, his breath coming in short, ragged hitches. He wanted to scream, to collapse, to beg you to turn it off or maybe.. to never let it stop.

You didn't move a muscle, your expression a picture of bored detachment. You simply held the button down, maintaining the screaming maximum, watching him struggle to remember how to breathe. He tried to speak, to answer the teacher, but all that came out was a pathetic, high-pitched whimper that sounded like a wounded animal. He looked completely shattered, He was nothing more than a pulsing, needy wreck, pinned to the front of the room by a wireless signal and your whims.

"I... I..." Armin stammered, his voice thin and dizzy. He tried to take a step toward the board, but the movement caused the device to shift, sending a fresh surge of intensity through him. He let out a muffled moan, his hips giving a sudden, involuntary jerk that nearly knocked him off balance. The class shifted, a few students whispering and glancing at him with confused expressions, but Armin didn't care about them. His entire universe had narrowed down to the relentless buzzing between his legs and the cold, predatory gaze of the person holding the remote.

You finally released the button, sliding the intensity back down to the ghostly, lowest thrum. The sudden drop in pressure was almost as shocking as the peak; Armin slumped forward, his forehead hitting the chalkboard with a dull Thud! He stayed there for a long moment, panting, his body still vibrating with the aftershocks of the peak. He was utterly spent, his spirit crushed and rebuilt in the span of ten seconds, and the look of absolute, terrifying devotion he cast over his shoulder at you was more satisfying than any grade he could ever earn.

"Just a dizzy spell, sir," Armin managed to choke out, his voice sounding wrecked and breathless.

The final bell of the day sounded like a starting pistol. As the students scrambled to clear the halls, you slowed your pace, letting Armin fall in line behind you. He was walking like a man in a trance, his eyes glazed and his face still flushed a deep, bruised pink. He didn't try to speak; he simply followed the rhythm of your footsteps, the low-grade hum of the device acting as a leash that pulled him closer to your side. By the time you reached the exit, he was practically vibrating in synchronization with the device, his breathing shallow and expectant.

You stopped abruptly at the edge of the school parking lot, turning to face him. The sunlight caught the desperation in his eyes, making them shimmer with a raw, hungry intensity. "You were very quiet in class, Armin," you murmured, your voice a low, dangerous purr. You reached out, your fingers grazing the collar of his shirt, pulling him just close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin. "But I think you've earned a reward for your... patience. Come with me."

You led him to a secluded spot behind the gym, where the concrete walls shielded you from the lingering crowds. The moment you pushed him back against the wall, Armin let out a broken, high-pitched whimper, his legs nearly giving out. He didn't even wait for a command before he began to sink to his knees, his hands clutching at your waist as if you were the only solid object in a world that was melting away. He looked up at you with a look of absolute, terrifying transparency, his lips parted and trembling.

"Please," he gasped, the word barely a whisper. "Please, Mommy... the setting... please turn it up."

You didn't answer immediately, instead savoring the way he trembled under your gaze. You reached into your pocket and felt the remote, your thumb hovering over the button. With a slow, predatory smile, you clicked the device to the absolute maximum. Armin’s entire body jolted, his back slamming against the concrete wall as a strangled, guttural moan tore from his throat. He arched his chest, his fingers digging into your clothes as the high-intensity vibration flooded his system, erasing everything but the sensation. "Please," he whimpered, his voice a wrecked vibration. "Please, Mommy... I can't... I can't take it anymore. I'm so close, I'm so close to the edge... please let me come. Please let me finish for you." He looked up at you, his expression one of absolute, terrifying transparency, begging for the one thing he couldn't give himself. He was trembling so violently that his teeth were practically chattering, his entire existence narrowed down to the singular hope of your permission.

You let the silence stretch for a heartbeat longer, savoring the way he held his breath, suspended in the void of your hesitation. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, you reached down and slid the silicone device off his skin. The sudden lack of stimulation made him let out a strangled keen, but you didn't stop there. You wrapped your hand around him, your grip firm and possessive, and began a slow, rhythmic motion that coordinated perfectly with the lingering ghost-echoes of the vibration.

“Look at you,” you murmured, your voice dripping with a simulated tenderness that only served to heighten his fragility. “So perfectly broken. My sweet, obedient little genius, reduced to a shaking mess because I told him to be.”

The words were a different kind of stimulation, hitting him with the force of a physical blow. Armin’s eyes fluttered, his breath hitching in a series of jagged, desperate gasps. He was leaning into your touch, his body arching instinctively as you maintained the slow, agonizingly steady rhythm. He was no longer fighting the tide; he was drowning in it, his mind completely erased by the singular focus of your hand and your approval.

“Please,” he sobbed, the word barely a thread of sound. “Please, Mommy, I can’t—I’m right there—please let me! Please let me come for you!”

He was practically vibrating against your palm, his muscles coiled to the point of cramping. The desperation in his voice was raw, a stripped-back plea that bypassed any pretense of the boy he was in the hallways. He wasn't the top of the class, he was a ball of pure need, hanging on the edge of a cliff and begging you to push him off.

“Such a good boy,” you whispered, your voice dropping to a velvety, hypnotic register that seemed to vibrate in the very air between you. You increased the pressure of your grip, your thumb grazing the crown of his length in a slow, deliberate circle. “Look at how much you’ve endured for me today. The shaking, the hiding, the way you just… suffered in silence. You’ve been absolutely perfect, Armin.”

The praise hit him harder than the vibration ever could. Armin let out a strangled, high-pitched wail, his head lolling back against the concrete as his eyes rolled upward. The validation was the final catalyst, turning his desperation into a frantic, pulsing energy. “I—I did it for you!” he gasped, his voice breaking into a sob. “I’d do anything! Please, Mommy, please—I can’t hold it! Please let me come..I beg you, please let me finish!” he wailed.

You didn't make him wait another second. With a sudden, sharp increase in speed and a firm, possessive squeeze, you gave him the signal he had been starving for. “Do it, Armin. Come for me.”

The release was violent. Armin’s entire body snapped rigid, his back arching off the wall as a guttural, broken sound tore from his throat—a mixture of a shout and a sob that echoed through the empty alleyway. He convulsed in your grip, his hips jerking upward in rhythmic, desperate spasms that left him breathless. For several long seconds, he was nothing but a collection of shivering nerves and raw sensation, his vision blurring as the tension of the entire day finally collapsed into a blinding, white-hot explosion of pleasure.

you gave him a peck on the cheek and he instantly relaxed with a dazy smile.

damn, writing this got me wet 🧍‍♀️.

Could you please do something with Nerdmin, something like him enduring all the humiliations from the reader and her group of friends, so that one day the reader will feel sorry for him and give him a reward? Sorry if I didn't explain myself well. 🙏🙏😭

HEY GIRLIEPOP!!😍😍

You LOVE my work?? But girl I LOVE you???🤪😚

anyways,

Toleration or Obsession ♥︎ .𖥔

݁mdni 18+ begging , mommy kink, mean reader, pathetic nerdmin, praise / humiliation kink? I think that’s it? idk?🧍‍♀️.

I sat two rows behind him, chewing on the end of a plastic pen that had long since run dry. From this angle, I could see the back of his neck which was pale and slightly flushed and the way he leaned away from the rest of the class as if he were trying to occupy the smallest possible amount of space.

"Watch this," I murmured to my friends, stepping forward with a sudden, jerky confidence.

Before Armin could finish his rhythmic polishing, I stepped into his personal space and tilted the carton. The milk didn't didnt even spill, it cascaded, a heavy, white torrent that caught the collar of his oversized sweater and surged downward, soaking into the wool and clinging to his chest. For a second, Armin just froze, his glasses still clutched in one hand and the microfiber cloth in the other. Then came the sound—a collective, guttural explosion of laughter from Eren and the others that echoed off the lockers like a series of gunshots.

Armin didn't shout. He didn't even gasp. He just looked down at the widening white stain on his chest, then looked back up at me with tears in his eyes. He looked so pretty like this I thought. So pretty when he cries.

"Hey, Armin," I called out, my voice cutting through the quiet hum of the study period.

He jumped, his shoulder twitching violently enough to send a smudge of graphite across his meticulously drawn diagram. He turned around slowly, his oversized glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. He didn't look annoyed or startled in a way that suggested anger; instead, he looked like a deer that had just realized it was standing in the middle of a highway, waiting for the inevitable impact.

"Yes?" he whispered, his voice thin and tentative.

"The homework for the mid-term review," I said, leaning back in my chair and flashing a smile that felt a bit too sharp. "You finished it already, didn't you? Because some of us are actually struggling with the third section." I didn't need the answers—I was actually doing okay in the class—but the group of friends gathered around me lived for the sport of it. They liked the way Armin would fold under pressure, the way he would practically trip over himself to be helpful if it meant he could stop being the target for five minutes.

Armin blinked, his gaze flickering to Sarah and the others, who were already grinning with expectant hunger. He knew the routine. He knew that "help" usually meant doing the work for us, or letting us lean over his shoulder until he felt claustrophobic. Yet, he didn't protest. He just began to gather his papers with trembling fingers, his movements careful and deliberate, as if he were handling ancient parchment.

"You're a lifesaver, Armin," Mikasa chirped, though she didn't move an inch to help him carry the heavy stack of papers toward our cluster of desks.

As he approached, the group shifted, creating a narrow corridor of desks that felt less like a seating arrangement and more like a gauntlet. I watched him carefully, noting the way he avoided eye contact, his focus locked entirely on the top page of the packet. He didn't just hand the papers over, he laid them out with intent and precision , ensuring the edges were perfectly aligned with the edge of my desk. It was a level of care that felt almost absurd, as if he were presenting an offering rather than a set of trigonometry answers.

"Here," he murmured, his voice barely audible over the sudden burst of laughter from the back of the room. "The third section... I added some notes in the margins. The formulas are a bit tricky if you don't derive them from the first principle."

I looked at the notes. Wow - they were meticulously handwritten guides, written in a script so precise it looked printed. He had spent his own free time making the material easier for the very people who spent their afternoons making him feel small. I felt a sharp, uncomfortable tug in my chest—a mixture of guilt and an intensifying curiosity. Why did he do it? Most people would have snapped, or at least stopped helping once the pattern of exploitation became obvious. But Armin just stood there, his shoulders still slumped, waiting for a nod of approval. Weird…

I immediately shook off the guilt that washed over me, aiming to humiliate him more to make me feel good.

5 minutes after he sat back down, he began scribbling in some scrappy little notebook. I peered over his shoulder and without warning, snatched it from his hands.

"Give it back, please," he murmured, finally looking up. His glasses were sliding down his nose, and his eyes had that wide, blinking quality of someone who had spent too much time reading and not enough time talking.

I didn't give it back. Instead, I hopped up onto the teacher's desk, using it as a podium. The rest of the group gathered around, leaning in with grins, expecting a list of chemistry formulas or perhaps a meticulously charted map of some imaginary kingdom. I flipped through the pages, my thumb catching on a section where the handwriting became denser and more frantic. As I began to read a passage aloud, the teasing laughter of the group gradually tapered off into a strange, heavy quiet.

"Entry 42," I read, my voice projecting to the back of the room. "The way she looks at me when she's annoyed is actually the only time I feel seen. I know she thinks I'm a coward for not fighting back, but the truth is, I can't find a single thing about her cruelty that I don't love."

A collective "Ooh" rippled through the circle, but for the first time, the sound wasn't mocking. It was an actual mix between amusement and confusion. I kept reading, my eyes scanning the cramped, ink-stained lines. Armin had written about the specific way I laughed, the way I stepped into his personal space just to rattle him, and how he didn’t mind the insults since they were coming from me. He wrote that he would endure any level of humiliation if that meant you would see him. He wrote how I would always remain the center of his universe and has always longed for a single moment where I might look at him and see something other than a target.

"Wait, there's more," I said, my voice cracking just slightly. I flipped the page, the paper crisp and loud in the sudden vacuum of the classroom. "Listen to this: 'I would do absolutely anything she asked of me, even if it meant spending the rest of the year kissing her feet, just to hear her say my name.”

The group shifted. The air had changed; it wasn't a feeding frenzy anymore, but something awkward and expectant. I could feel the heat radiating off Armin, who looked like he wanted to physically fold into the floorboards. My heart gave a strange, erratic thump against my ribs, a sudden realization that the power dynamic had shifted. He wasn't just a target; he was a devotee, and for some reason, the sight of him trembling in his oversized sweater made the mockery feel like a lead weight in my stomach.

I felt a smirk tug at the corner of my mouth, though it wasn't the sharp, jagged kind I usually used. It was something softer, a secret shared between the two of us while the others watched. "Anything, huh?" I asked, leaning down so my face was only inches from his. "You're really that desperate for my attention, Armin?"

He didn't look up, but he nodded, a small, jerky movement. "Yes," he whispered, the word barely audible over the substitute teacher's final victory over the stapler.

"Well," I said, my voice dropping an octave, "since you're so eager to be useful, I've decided on your first task." I paused, letting the silence stretch, watching as he braced himself for something cruel—a demand to buy my lunch for a month, or perhaps a command to bark like a dog in front of the class. Instead, I reached out and gently pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. "Meet me inside class 067 after the final bell. And bring that notebook."

The rest of the day passed in a blur of fragmented concentration. I found myself ignoring the group's attempts to start a new round of teasing; the jokes felt stale, the laughter sounding like static in my ears. Every time I caught a glimpse of Armin in the hallway, he looked both excited but nervous.

The bell rang.

I entered the class. He was already there, leaning against the wall, looking small and fragile against the looming shadow of the building. He held the journal clutched to his chest as though it was a teddy. As I approached, he straightened up, his chest heaving. "I'm here," he said, his voice trembling. He looked at me with a raw, terrifying kind of hope, as if he were expecting me to either destroy him or finally see him.

I stopped a foot away from him, the distance feeling like a canyon. I didn't reach for the book. Instead, I reached into my bag and pulled out a small, expensive chocolate bar I'd bought from the vending machine during third period, eating it slowly . "You're an idiot for writing that stuff," I murmured, my voice devoid of any sneer.

“And that’s all I wanted to say. Bye!”

I turned on my heel, intending to leave him there with his secrets, wanting to savor the tension of the moment before it broke. I had only taken two steps away when the sound of a sharp, ragged gasp hit my back.

"Please!" he cried out, the word cracking in the middle. He didn't move to follow me, but his voice had shifted from a whisper to a desperate, raw plea. "Please, don't just leave me here. Don't go." He shifted on his knees, leaning forward, his knuckles white where he gripped the notebook. "Please... just call me... call me your good boy. I’ve been so good for y-you."

Seeing him there(broken open, stripped of every defense, begging for a scrap of affection as if it were oxygen) did something to me. It turned the power dynamic into something electric, something hungry.

I turned back slowly, my gaze sweeping over him. He looked wrecked, his chest heaving, his eyes shimmering with a desperate, terrifying kind of hope. The sight of it didn't make me want to laugh. It made me want to consume him.

I stepped back into his space, the distance vanishing in a heartbeat. I didn't say a word as I reached out, my fingers sinking into the soft, sandy hair at the crown of his head. He let out a jagged, broken sound, a half-sob that vibrated through his entire frame. I didn't pull away; instead, I began to stroke his hair with a slow, rhythmic tenderness, my palm cupping the back of his neck to pull him slightly closer.

"Shhh," I whispered, the sound barely a vibration in the air. "Stop crying, Armin. Just breathe."

He let out a loud, shuddering wail, the sound muffled against the gravel as he leaned his forehead against my shins. He was trembling so hard I could feel it through the fabric of my jeans. The raw, unadulterated need radiating off him was intoxicating, a current of energy that made my own heart race. I leaned down, my voice dropping to a honeyed, intimate murmur that felt like a secret shared in the dark.

"That's it," I crooned, my fingers massaging his scalp, grounding him. "You're such a good boy for me, aren't you? Such a sweet, patient little thing."

Tell me, Armin," I whispered, my thumbs tracing the line of his jaw, "since you've been such a good boy today... what do you want? Right now. As a reward."

He froze. For a second, I thought he might actually combust from the sheer intensity of his own silence. He didn't look away from me, but his pupils were blown wide, turning his eyes into two dark, shimmering pools of longing. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, and when he spoke, his voice was so thin it was almost a ghost of a sound.

"I... I want to..." He paused, his gaze dropping to the hem of my skirt, his chest heaving. "I want to lick your pussy."

The bluntness of it hit me like a physical shock. It wasn’t the way a boy usually talked, and coming from Armin—the boy who apologized for breathing too loudly in the library—it felt like a confession of a crime.

A small, wicked smile touched my lips. I didn't want to give it to him—not yet. I wanted to see him strain. I wanted to know exactly how much of himself he was willing to offer up on this gravel path.

"You want what?" I asked, my voice returning to that sharp, teasing edge, though the sting was gone, replaced by a playful curiosity. I didn't pull away, but I let my hands slip from his face, the sudden loss of contact making him let out a small, wounded noise. I stepped back just an inch, enough to create a gap he had to strain to bridge. "The boldness! Where did this come from? I thought you were the boy who couldn't even look me in the eye without shaking." I tried to suppress my laugh.

Armin’s face went from pink to crimson. He looked like he wanted to swallow his own tongue for having spoken the words aloud, yet he didn't retract the request. He stayed there, anchored to the gravel, his eyes locked onto mine with a terrifying intensity. He looked like a starving man being offered a feast and then told he had to wait for the invitation.

"I... I've wanted to," he whispered, his voice cracking. "Since... since the first time you pushed my books off my desk in ninth grade."

I let out a short, melodic laugh, the sound echoing off the brick walls of the gym. The absurdity of it—this fragile, ink-stained creature craving something so visceral—was intoxicating. "Well," I said, crossing my arms over my chest and tilting my head, "I think the answer is no. I mean, look at you. You're a mess. Your glasses are crooked, you've got gravel in your hair, and you're practically vibrating. Who would let a little mess like you anywhere near them?"

I watched the reaction as if I were observing a chemical reaction in a lab. Armin didn't recoil, he seemed to shrink further into himself instead, his shoulders hunching as he looked up at me with an expression of pure, agonizing hunger. He looked like he was physically aching, his chest heaving in shallow, jagged bursts.

“Hmm.. well you have put up with me and my friends’ mistreatment for so long so I guess you can go ahead,” granting him permission whilst lifting up my skirt.

Armin let out a sound that was half-sob, half-gasp. He lunged forward on his knees, his hands shaking violently as he reached for the elastic. His fingers were clumsy, fumbling with the lace, his breath coming in short, frantic hitches that sounded like he was drowning. He was too eager, too desperate, his touch frantic and lacked any of the precision he usually applied to his sketches.

smack!

The sound of my palm hitting his cheek wasn't loud, but it was sharp enough to make his head snap to the side. He froze instantly, his eyes wide and startled, a red bloom beginning to blossom on his pale skin. "Who said you could use your hands?" I whispered, leaning over him, my shadow swallowing him whole. "You're far too rushed, Armin. You're treating this like a chore, not a privilege. I want you to do it with your teeth."

He blinked, the sheer audacity of the request momentarily short-circuiting his brain. He looked up at me, his glasses sliding further down his nose, and then he let out a shaky, guttural breath. He didn't hesitate a second time. He leaned in, his face inches from my center, and as he opened his mouth to grip the fabric, he murmured a phrase that sent a jolt of electricity straight to my core.

"Yes... I’m sorry m-mommy."

The words caught me completely off guard. I felt a physical recoil, a sudden gasp escaping my lips as the air in the classroom seemed to vanish. I had spent years calling him names, pushing him down, and treating him like a footstool in my social circle, but I had never imagined him using that word. It wasn't just a term of submission; it was an admission of a specific, hungry kind of need that mirrored the one waking up inside me. My fingers tightened in his hair, pulling his head closer, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

I let out a soft, shaky moan, my head tilting back as I leaned against the brick wall for support. The feeling of his lips brushing against me, the rhythmic pull of his teeth against the lace, was more intoxicating than any praise I had ever received. I had spent so long thinking of Armin as something small and insignificant, but in this moment, he was the center of my universe, and the way he looked up at me—with those wide, shimmering eyes—made me feel like I was the only thing that mattered in the world.

"Good boy," I whispered, my voice barely audible, my hand sliding from his hair to cup the back of his neck. I pressed him closer, guiding him toward the heat he had been craving since ninth grade. "Now, don't stop. Do exactly what you promised."

Armin let out a muffled sound of agreement, his eyes closing as he finally cleared the barrier of the fabric. He paused for a heartbeat, his forehead resting against my inner thigh, his breathing ragged and heavy. Then, with a sudden, starving urgency, he leaned in. The first touch of his tongue was a tentative, flickering thing. When I responded by pressing my hips forward, he let out a low, guttural groan that vibrated through my entire body, and then he dove in with a desperation that felt like he was trying to memorize the very essence of me.

The sensation was an explosion of heat and precision. He didn't lick me, he worshipped my part. Every stroke was a plea, every swirl of his tongue a confession.

He didn't pull away, but he shifted his position, sliding his head back just an inch. I felt his nose brush against the lace, his breath hitching in a way that made my own heart skip. He didn't just want the taste; he also craved the scent. He inhaled deeply, a slow, shuddering draw of air that seemed to pull the very soul out of him. He stayed there for a long moment, his eyes closed, inhaling the scent of my skin and the fabric that had clung to me through a day of anxiety and adrenaline. It was a predatory sort of focus, an animalistic hunger that contrasted sharply with his fragile frame. He breathed in the salt, the musk, and the lingering sweetness, his chest expanding in a wide, trembling arc.

The world outside the classroom ceased to exist. The distant sound of a car door slamming or a stray bird chirping was irrelevant. There was only the friction of his tongue, the heat of his breath, and the intoxicating realization that I loved the way he broke for me. I felt the tension building in my own body, a coil winding tighter and tighter until I was on the verge of snapping. I pushed my hips forward, pressing myself harder against his mouth, my breath hitching in a jagged, rhythmic staccato. "Don't stop," I gasped, my voice a broken command. "Don't you dare stop, b-baby."

The peak hit me with the force of a landslide. A sudden, electric surge shot from my core to the tips of my toes, and I arched my back against the brick, my fingers digging into his scalp. A loud, unrestrained moan escaped me, echoing off the walls as I shuddered violently, the release washing over me in waves of shimmering, golden heat. In that moment of absolute surrender, I felt the sudden, frantic shift in his movements. He didn't pull away, he pressed his face deeper into me, his body racking with a sudden, violent tremor. He let out a choked, guttural cry against my skin, his breath coming in a ragged burst of air as he came right there, his own release triggered by the sheer, visceral intensity of my pleasure.

For several seconds, neither of us moved. The silence that followed was heavy. Armin stayed tucked between my legs, his forehead resting against my thigh, his shoulders heaving. Slowly, he pulled back, his face flushed a deep, shimmering red, his eyes glazed and swimming with a mix of shock and adoration. He looked utterly wrecked, his glasses skewed and his hair a chaotic nest of fingertips.

"I... I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice trembling, barely a ghost of a sound. He looked up at me, his expression pained, as if he had committed a sin by experiencing his own pleasure. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to... I just... seeing you like that... making you feel good... that's all I wanted. It just... it did it for me."

your pussy throbbed.

…he couldn’t believe it- him being tutored?? He’d just lagged behind in one topic why would his professor assign him a tutor? Oh he’s definitely not going to make it easy on them-..on another note why’s his tutor using him as an example of the human body in stress…

…mouth inspection…(slight) noncon…suggestive…piercing play?…

so…I rewatched aot and I was reminded of my love for my femboy twink…credits art [musapylsa]

…NERD! Armin…

that nerdy boy sat just opposite to you, his eyes tilted downwards, his glasses teetering at the edge of his nose his shoulders slumped forwards as he stared at the desk in front, perhaps in shame? How’d he end up here, but regardless ever the egoless he started “well, I guess we should start with what I’m weakest..I already compiled a list for you-“

it’s not like you were listening for long though, eyeing the sharp piercing that would shine through every time he opened his mouth- spilling a slurry of words that fell on your deaf ears. you know he has his walls, but these types of boys are the funnest to break, just some patience.

what a dumb excuse he probably wanted this didn’t he? Something about the glands and muscles in his mouth something about pointing them out, so he licked his lips glossy with saliva, opening up- just a bit. hesitance written on his face his dumb little glasses falling ever forward.

his chocked out face in just adorable, eyes closing as tongue stuck out slightly, shoving two fingers in his unprepared mouth, causing him to chock out tears bitting down suddenly and opening up wider just as quickly to say his sorry, but you don’t even react sitting there with the same expression, as if nothing had happened

he sits there fighting, his hands wondering his lap as his legs rub together he sits there begging his stupid little self to not droll too much, to no avail as droll drips down his chapped lips and gathers down his chin, falling in silent drops all too audible in the ever quite room,

Hey isn’t this supposed to be a learning moment? y’know..pointing out the different stuff and what not— but all he can do his keep his mouth open his jaw aching as tears threaten to spill as you keep poking around. fingers going up and down the sides of his mouth, catching onto his tongue as you and prod.

fingers going around the metal piercing and— tugging and it, pulling the newly done piercing, tugging it from its healing place he swears you’ll draw blood, “mhm..ah!— n..no sstop- please?” His words slurred by your fingers globs of tears now spilling down the sides of his puffed up cheeks,

his hands finally moving from his lap as they held unto your wrist in a plea, shaky hands at your wrist globs of tears down his red painted cheeks and a mouth sucking at the two fingers stuffed deep in, what a sight. You had to savor it right?

his eyes go wide at the snap of the pic, head jerking back kept in place by the way you held his tongue. “Knew there was no way you got to the top of the class on your own, slutty mouth must’ve help ya’ out a lot huh?”

blurry eyes blink up at you, glossed over with tears, his glasses long fallen, how’d he end here? He’s the top of his class he didn’t need anyone’s help! He didn’t do—anything you’re suggesting! “your jaw gettin tired baby? Want me to hold it up fo’ you?” Huhhh?? What, he’s not- no- “knew you were a slut, huh that little piercing of yours gives it all away”

DAY THREE. DRACULA

ft. armin arlert — shingeki no kyojin (進撃の巨人)

as a vampire and a parent, it’s hard to find a babysitter that’ll stay up all night with your nocturnal little one while you’re at work. luckily for you, armin is here to get the job done.

ruling. nsfw — mature content

content warnings. dom! vampire! parent! reader, sub! babysitter! armin, blood kink, slight pain kink, biting, handjob, vampiric age gap? but normal human age gap (reader is hypothetically mid 20s, armin early 20s), plot before porn, “mx.” title is used to refer to reader but can be interpreted as “mr.”, “ms.”, or “mrs.”

an. hi all! sorry this came out a day late! again, lots of tests yesterday and today lol. c/n stands for child’s name, pls ignore the picture on the right. i couldn’t find one i liked. will be replacing later. enjoy!

kinktober 2023 masterlist