#Armin Arlert | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

nana-au · 2 days

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Best Friend Activities

Eren + Armin + You - MDNI

₊˚ପ⊹ Summary: Armin is a virgin and Eren enlists you to help out his best friend. Why is he watching? To make sure he’s doing a good job, of course.

(Dom!Eren, Virgin!Armin, Sub!Reader)

₊˚ପ⊹ an: Eren brings out something feral within me. I'm so sorry. Not proofread!!!

₊˚ପ⊹ wc: 3.2k

₊˚ପ⊹ Warnings: mmf pairing, threesome, slight manipulation, breeding/pregnancy kink, mentions of public sex, f receiving! oral, p in v (no protection <3)

𓂃⊹ ִֶָ

Eren Jaeger was so skilled when it came to getting you all wrapped up in his dangerous plans. There was one time he convinced you to skip class to see a movie. Or another time when you two snuck into a bar before your 21st birthday. It made you blush, but you often thought about the time he fingered you in your college’s library a week before finals. His mouth open and hot against yours as you tried to breathe through the pleasure. His fingers sliding in and out, creating the lewdest noise as he shamed your wet pussy for being so loud - Every day with him was eventful to say the least. It shouldn’t have shocked you when Eren tracked you down on your way to class one day with the news of his next venture. He was a good boyfriend, allowing you time to think about it during your geology lecture.

Armin Arlert - Eren’s childhood best friend. Your face felt hot as the professor droned about naturally occurring crystal formations, you weren’t entirely convinced it was English he was speaking - you were that out of it. Armin. Armin. Armin. Your brain chanted. You were used to Eren’s ideas of a good time but this? This was new.

“I can’t let my best friend graduate college as a virgin! You understand right?” He had that smooth yet exasperated tone while explaining the dilemma. “You’re like nothing I’ve ever had,” he gave you his puppy dog eyes, “You’re the only one I trust to help my best friend with this,” He made it sound so nonchalant, like everyone fucks their boyfriend’s best friend. He noticed your hesitance as you breached the doors of your school’s science department, stopping you before your classroom door. “I’ve never led you down the wrong path, have I?”

You bit your lip, his final words echoing in your mind. He was always so selfless, putting himself before others. He was offering up his girlfriend to make sure his friend’s first time was a positive experience. How could you be the one to cut his streak of charitability short?

𓂃⊹ ִֶָ

Throughout the day you felt more and more positive about what was going to happen - that was until you were in Eren’s bedroom with Armin at the edge of his bed. The blonde was fidgeting with his hands, you could tell he was just as unsure as you were.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this, Eren?” He asked him, giving him the option to back out. He would be lying if he wasn’t interested in you - hell, the whole school was. It seemed to be a weekly occurrence where Eren had to protect you from another man’s attention - it was nerve-wracking how Eren was so nonchalant about sharing you with him now.

“I’m Positive, ‘Min,” his smile was soft and sincere. Armin couldn’t hide the shiver that wracked across his spine. “You don’t mind, right Armin?” he shook his head fervently to Eren, biting down on his bottom lip as he searched for the right words. “I just recalled our talk way back when,” Eren was leaning back against his dresser, arms crossed and demeanor overtaken by cockiness as he continued, “When we first met her?” he spoke like you weren’t there. You were still by the door, rubbing your arms to soothe yourself from your nerves. Your eyebrows quirked at his mention of you, looking at Armin whose face grew even redder. “Do you remember, ‘Min?”

“Y-Yeah,” his voice quivers and his eyes won't move from a spot on the ground.

“What talk?” you speak up. Eren finally turns to you, his teeth peaking out of his smirk.

“Armin, do you want to tell her?” The blonde is speechless, you can see a light sheen of sweat on his features as he looks up to Eren. He shakes his head again, you can almost feel the anxiety that radiates off of him. “It’s okay, she’s here isn’t she? She won’t laugh. Right? You won’t laugh?” he addresses you and you’re forced to agree to soothe Armin. “Go on ‘Min,” he assures him. You move towards him, feeling on edge seeing someone you knew so well be so nervous. He won’t meet your eyes so you chose to sit next to him, putting your hand on his back.

“It’s okay,” you promise him. Silence follows your words and after a couple of minutes Eren decides to put an end to his misery.

“’s really no big deal, he just wanted to fuck you,” you can feel Armin’s body jump from the vulgar choice of words. He wouldn’t have put it so harshly. Before you and Eren were official, Armin had said he wouldn’t mind getting to know you better. He may have also mentioned you were the first girl he ever really felt sexual feelings for. But, again, that was before you and Eren. In this moment, with Eren teasing him and you trying to comfort him, jumping out of the window didn’t sound like a terrible idea.

“I-I mentioned that you were really pretty,” he was trying so desperately to recover but the taller boy would never allow it.

“It’s okay Armin- she doesn’t mind. Seriously,” You nodded along to Eren’s words, starting to feel a little flushed yourself. “You want to fuck him now, right?” you now were on the hot seat, enduring his questioning.

“I agreed to help with his p-problem,” you were even beginning to stutter too. God what was Eren going to do with the two of you? He hovered over your figures on the edge of his bed, watching his best friend and girlfriend squirm at his words.

“Then don’t let me stop you,” You couldn’t move at first, unsure as to what you should even do. He chuckled and reached his hand up your skirt. “Do you need some help getting ready?” his finger looped into your panties and pulled them down to your thighs. You could feel his slender digit nudge your entrance. You hissed at what he found. “Armin, she’s already wet for you,” he laughs incredulously. The blonde finally finds it in himself to move, shifting his body to get a better look. Eren grabs the top of your skirt, pulling it up to your stomach so you were on full display to his friend. He looked shocked. Maybe excited? You were too busy trying not to close your legs at the intrusion to get a good read. “Go ahead, feel,” Eren invites him. He’s hesitant at first, meeting your eyes to make sure it was ok with you. You meekly nod before feeling his cold finger against you. He looks surprised, feeling your slickness on his finger. He nudges the tip of his index against your entrance, probing the velvety skin. “Put it inside,” Eren encourages and you don’t even wait for Armin to check if it’s ok before you are nodding enthusiastically. His soft digit glides into your pussy and he watches, mesmerized by the image in front of him. He can feel the ridges of your walls against his finger and he definitely feels you squeeze around him.

“Fuck,” he murmurs. He pulls it all the way out, watching the way your arousal trails to his finger. Your eyes are wide as you watch him fall in love with your pussy, and Eren pets your head muttering to himself. You’re such a good girl, letting him explore you. He knew you would be perfect for the job.

“Do you see her clit?” he asks his friend. “Girls really like it when you play with that,” he advises him. Armin moves his finger up to your clit and your body jolts at sudden harsh feeling. “Rub it gently. In circles.” and Armin obeys. You feel your pussy clench around nothing, incredibly aroused by Armin’s intense interest in your intimate areas. His face was not unsimilar to how it looks when he studies; His brows furrowed in concentration and his jaw was slightly clenched. He wasn’t meeting your gaze, too transfixed on what was happening below. You let out a small mewl, his finger barely ghosting on your clit making it hard to think.

“What should I do next?” Armin asks Eren.

“What do you want to do next?”

“I want to eat her pussy,”

𓂃⊹ ִֶָ

You were now at the top of the bed with your head underneath a pillow and your pussy enduring Eren’s lesson. He taught him how to swirl his tongue on your clit, how to delve the muscle into your entrance, and that you loved being teased with kitten licks. It felt almost professional the way they talked about your pussy - like you weren’t there. Like it wasn’t attached to you and you weren’t actively moaning at each flick of Armin’s tongue. Eren held down your thighs to keep you from squishing Armin’s head between them, still guiding him on what to do. “Use your finger on her clit again,” he instructed and your legs shivered. His tongue was keeping a steady rhythm in and out of you while his thumb reached up to rub delicious circles on your bundle of nerves. Eren looked proud watching him make you fall apart. “Keep going Armin, she’s gonna cum.” He picked the pace up, and consequently your hips started to rise off the bed. Armin’s face had your pleasure smeared across it as you bucked and pushed your pussy further against his mouth. You were losing control, begging Armin to go faster. “You want Armin to make you cum?” Eren asks you and you cry out a yes. “Armin is making you feel good baby?” and again you are saying yes.

“Yes, yesss. Mmm. I’m gon’ cum,'' you announce and Eren watches as you fall apart with his friend’s face attached to your pussy. When you come down and after a few more gentle licks, Armin’s head pops out from between your legs and he looks dazed. His lower face glistens with your fluid and his mouth heaves trying to take in much needed breaths. He barely gives himself time to process before he’s already wanting to be inside of you.

“Is that ok, Eren?” he asks, even though he’s not sure what he would do if the answer was no. Eren nods, but adjusts your position to be on top of him. He has you propped against his chest as he sits up against the headboard. The dizziness of making you cum fades once he realizes what he’s about to do, growing unsure of himself.

“What’s wrong?” Eren inquires and Armin can’t hold back a blush. Scratching the back of his head, he stares down at the two of you. “Look at her Armin, she wants you too,” and he’s right. You are squirming on top of Eren, your body anticipating what was about to come. Eren makes a show of grabbing your tits still under your shirt. He tweaks at the nipple, keeping his gaze on his friend.

“You won’t be mad?” It was a silly question to ask after he ate you out like a starving man, but he couldn’t help it. Eren didn’t want to admit his reasons were entirely selfish. He loved spilling his seed inside of you, promising one day to give you his kids. He loved watching you squirm as he edged you for hours, reducing you to tears and snot as you begged for release. He especially loved seeing you reach your peak in public, the idea of being caught incredibly arousing to him. He loved how you would do anything he asked of you; He was absolutely going to love you taking his best friend so good for him. All he could do was shake his head ‘No’ for now.

Armin undoes his belt, hands shaking as he pulls his pants down - his briefs joining after a moment of silent contemplation. His cock slaps against his stomach, the tip angry with fat drops of precum spilling out of it. It’s fairly long, but not as thick as Eren’s. He crawls on the bed to join you two. His breath is shaky, looking down at you, and he can't help but squeeze the base of his length before gliding his hand up and down. Eren’s own hand reaches down to your pussy, playing with your entrance again.

“I’ll warm her up for it,” he tells Armin, sliding his middle and ring finger inside of you. You whine at the intrusion and he curls them inside you. He wastes no time hitting the spot that makes you throw your head back. “Kiss her, ‘Min,” he orders him. Your pink lips are wet with your spit and your eyes are half-open, lost in the feeling of Eren’s fingers. You ask Armin to kiss you when he doesn’t move at first. When his lips hit yours, Eren picks up the speed. You’re moaning - struggling to keep your lips pursed. The kiss is wet and sloppy and Armin is stroking himself a little faster listening to the squelch of your pussy. “I think she’s ready,” and Armin doesn’t allow himself another moment to reconsider.

He pulls away from the kiss, lining himself up to you, and pushing himself in. He doesn’t acknowledge that you might need a moment to adjust, he just buries himself all the way in, his voice straining, “Oh shit”. You let out a sharp moan, feeling him bully his way into your tight cunt. Once he’s in he can’t help himself from moving. You can also feel Eren rocking against your backside, matching the rhythm of his best friend’s cock going in and out of your sopping pussy. His pupils are blown out, enamored by the scene in front of him. He pulls your legs back to try and get a better look, causing Armin to go deeper than before. The both of you moan simultaneously at the new angle, your gummy walls massaging his dick perfectly, the head reaching the spot that makes you see stars. You’re completely out of it, drool seeping onto Eren’s shirt as your head rested against his chest. Eren doesn’t even notice - too entranced. Armin’s perfect cock pulls out of you, glistening with your slick, before pounding itself right back in. “It feels t-too good. I can’t last much l-longer..” his moans are high pitched - he completely lost himself in the feeling of your pussy taking him so perfectly. “F-fuck. You’re too perfect,” he hisses, choking out sobs. He’s so overstimulated by how tight you’re squeezing him, how everytime he pulls out your pussy desperately clings to his cock. And the noise - he will never forget the noise. You are so wet - your arousal now leaking down your thighs and smearing itself all over his balls.

“Cum in her, I don’t mind,” Eren promises. Armin picks up speed and he’s completely lost now. His moans are more like pathetic whines. He’s praising your pussy, thanking his best friend for allowing him to cum inside of you. Allowing you to milk his cock so perfectly. He rocks into you a few more times before he reaches impossibly deep, spilling his load. Eren wonders if it's dangerous for his cock to be this hard. You’re clawing at Eren’s thighs and Armin is crying out. He continues to cum, his dick twitching as his semen sprays your walls. He was babbling out a prayer as he came, thanking every deity he could think of that could have possibly made your pussy so perfect. Once Armin finally pulls off of you, his chest heaves, watching some of his fluid spill out of your perfect center. Eren’s fingers reach down to plug you up and Armin could have passed out at the filthiness of it all. “I gotta make sure it all stays in,” he tells Armin. He’s pulling down his sweatpants with his other hand, careful not to move the one keeping Armin’s cum buried in your hole. He shifts underneath you, making it so you’re laying now. “I think my dick would work better keeping it in,” he comments, mainly to himself. You’re squirming on top of him, excited for his thick cock to replace his fingers. He barges in as roughly as Armin - desperate to feel you squeeze his whole length. He makes quick work - fucking Armin’s children back up inside of you. “You think she can hold both of our loads, ‘Min?” Armin’s mouth is almost on the floor listening to his best friend’s dirty talk. “Fuck-” Eren can’t help but curse out. From his friend’s perspective he could see a mixture of fluids build at the base of Eren’s cock, creating a ring around it. The squelching sounds were overwhelming - along with your constant breathy moans. You were completely drunk off of their cocks. They were in awe with how well you took them - how good the attention of your pussy felt. Armin felt himself growing semi-hard, almost jealous Eren was feeling the heaven he just felt. You were truly an angel. “C’mere and rub her clit,” Eren spat out another order that Armin would be too stupid not to follow. He sat at the side of you two, his fingers reaching your nub.

You choked out a sob, “‘Min, you’re s-so good at that,” and he truly was. His fingers were soft and fast and he knew just the right speed to get your pussy clenching on Eren’s cock.

“G-god beautiful. You like him playing with your pretty pussy? Fuck! Squeezing me so tight. ‘M gonna cum inside you. Give you a baby, would ‘ya like that? Gonna breed you so good. All with Armin’s help, huh?” You're lost in his words, his cock - Armin’s delicate fingers. You come loud - you begin crying and reaching for Armin’s hand. He smacks it away, continuing his assault on your clit as Eren pounds into you. One arm is holding you down against him, the other spreading your left thigh open to make you take him well. He’s praising you, “Fuck- this tight pussy baby… ‘feels so good. Want me to come? Want me to mix our loads? Won’t know whose baby it is” His hair is flat against his forehead, almost completely covering his eyes. He can still see though, he’s watching his best friend relentlessly rub your clit and holding your hands so you can’t stop him. He’s overstimulated by the sight and his dick is twitching while rope after rope of cum shoots out of him and into your perfect pussy.

𓂃⊹ ִֶָ

The two boys take their time cleaning you up - not before they spend even longer watching their mixture spill out of you. They both take their turns shoving it back inside of you before watching it dribble out of you again. Armin can’t help himself from teasing your clit a few more times while Eren’s finger plays with the juices falling out of you. He teaches Armin a thing or two about the importance of aftercare, and the two of them clean you up in the bath.

Whilst watching Armin soap up your body Eren heavily considers making this a weekly occurrence.

244 notes · View notes

heliiacus · 2 days

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to traverse this with you

tags: armin x reader, forced proximity, bathing together (technically), sexual tension, flower crowns & sentimentalities, love confessions, virgin!reader, loss of virginity, oral sex (f!receiving), penetrative sex, reader uses she/her pronouns

warnings: sexual content - MDNI!

words: 6.8k | masterlist

They used to love one another, long ago. Not loudly, nor ferociously, or even in a way that the other knew about, but they did. She knows that now. It could have stayed simple. They could have stayed apart. It has been years since she's been deployed to Marley, to live and work under a secret identity; and grieve as she may have for him, she could have lived with it. She really could have. They could have stayed star-crossed, torn away by war, but things just had to get difficult. Now, with tensions rising, she is forced to relocate – to trek through the lone mountains in the desolate Marleyan wilderness, in an attempt to clandestinely reach a port outside Liberio. And in another world it would have, perhaps, been a task of a casual undertaking. It could have been simple. Were it not for him, by her side: the man she has grieved for this entire time. Were it not for this one simple, stupid mistake.

It is the day before the night they would spend last in these mountains, and she does not think about it.

She does not.

When she wakes, she finds she is not the first. She finds him smiling faintly, his hand brushing at her temple as he wakes her. She laughs, or she tries to, chuckling weakly in the midst of the sleep that is pulling her back.

She does not think about it. Instead, she rises, chattering lightly about the upcoming hike. Instead, she keeps hold of the dream she had that night, wishing their endless, sheltering road into this waking world.

When they walk, she stays a step ahead, soles aching each time he would catch up. And still her mind feels burdened, swollen with the afterthoughts of the harbour in these mountains; of her time here, tied by the hip to the man who just keeps, incessantly, not letting her step be ahead.

It isn't until he takes another step forward that her mind clears. He steps in front of her, hand outstretched towards her, and she pauses – all of her does. She looks to him, and then she follows his gaze, and then she sees it: alive, murmurating – a bend of a river, its stream gentler than she remembers it. She hears it now, speaking softly.

"Is that the same one?" He asks her, eyes wide. He is laughing before she confirms it, the sound light and tittering.

"It is," she laughs with him, head shaking at the absurdity, and as soon as she feels his hand on hers, she takes off, running towards it. Armin's laughter echoes loudly, oscillating between the hills, and he follows her, step in step.

Her backpack thuds when she slings it off her shoulders. The jacket she wore follows swiftly, though much more gingerly this time around. It isn't until her shoes are off that Armin protests: "Wait," he tells her, loudly at first. "Wait," he repeats, weaker, and then he is at the foot of the river, hands in the water. "Won't you get cold? And we're so close to the city, what if someone passes by?"

"Armin," she says, her sternness so feeble in the wake of her snicker. "It has been days since we've been by a body of water. I don't care how close we are to the city, I am bathing, and I am bathing now."

"But what if–" and he turns around then, so swiftly she sees him stumble in his step, and his ears burst into a scarlet red; all because he'd peered at her hands, reaching to the top button of her shirt.

"Join me or take watch," she tells him, laughing as she sees him bristle at her words, his back tight and shoulders rising; she swears she can hear him mumble, right beneath his nose: not funny, she thinks he says, and she has the decency to let her shoulders shake quietly.

"Fine," he finally tells her, back turned to her. He points in the far-right direction of the river. "You go there. I'll bathe here."

Amused or not, now she finds herself undressing swiftly, feeling, with a tension in her stomach, that it is her turn to bristle. Though she turns away, she does not hear him undress – not until she wades into the water, bar of soap in hand. He'd waited for her, she realises, and she feels the skin of her throat heat at the thought.

Here, in the flowing water, she feels the cold within it bite her, but this, still, feels good – or she tells herself that, ears sharp at attention as she hears Armin join her in the water, several feet down the stream. Her breath hitches at the sound, chest contracting against her will; she hears him clearly, the water stirring at the disturbance of his body, and her hand nearly trembles as she drags the soap across her skin.

They wash in silence, her skin on pins and needles. She thinks he will say something; she thinks she should say something. Instead they stand, backs facing, bathing in the stream. It is cold, so cold, and yet the skin of her back heats inexplicably, muscles taut and tense. Her fingers dig into her scalp, begging her mind to clear with the soap, and it is when it flashes in her mind – urgent, tantalizing, the urge to turn around – that she sinks herself whole into the water, her hair feathering before her eyes.

She gasps when she rises, and she hears him – meek and startled, no doubt seeking to ask if she's okay. "I’m done," she says before he can, before her mind catches up to her again. "I’m getting out now."

He is quiet, for a moment. She knows he stands there, unmoving – turning, most likely, even further away from her. Eventually, he tells her: "Okay," and it sounds so horribly stiff.

She dries and dresses swiftly; too swiftly, hands shaking, buttons defiant. She nearly mixes up her shoes. Her hair drips down her back, rivulets running across the skin that is bare, and she thinks it should cool her, she thinks she should be cold – but each part of her heats, near blazing.

When she is done, she just stands there, hands in fists; curling, uncurling, over and over, breath difficult and strained in her chest. She hears, with an agonizing awareness, as Armin walks out the water, as he dries himself quietly, as he dresses. She keeps her eyes shut, as if in some sort of penance, and her breath does not still until she knows he is done.

Then he is by her side, and he touches her hair – and she gasps, startled by his proximity, his eyes wide as he steps back. He raises his hands, apology on the precipice. "I’m sorry," she says ahead of him. "You startled me."

"I was just.. Your hair," he says, gesturing in its direction. "Won't you get cold? Does it take long to dry?"

She gapes at him, momentarily. Then she bristles, taken aback by her own reaction. She takes a strand into her hands, the one he has touched. "Not too long," she says, and she is stricken as she feels this staggering urge for him to touch it again. "It's warm today. It'll take a few hours."

She looks back at him. He looks back at her. He seems to ease, a sort of relief coming over him, and yet still he seems tense, shoulders hunched as if in worry.

"Okay," he breathes, hands at his sides. "Okay, well, um – let's keep walking."

"Let's," she says, just as absently.

And they do. And the longer they do, the easier breathing becomes. The further the river is, the quieter it grows, so does her mind, and it seems like Armin's does, too – though slow, their chatter picks back up, and all the while, she watches him pick lone flowers on their path, weaving them into a wreath.

"Mikasa taught me," he tells her along the road, smiling fondly at his creation. She, in turn, watches with awe as his fingers weave at it with so little effort. "Back in Shiganshina."

"We didn't make these where I grew up," she tells him, keeping up her step with the man. "Is it difficult? You make it look effortless."

"It's easy," he tells her, turning to grin at her – that soft, private smile he seems to have reserved only for when she can look him in the eye. "I'll teach you. Here," the man stops, reaching the wreath out to her. His eyes glint in the mid-afternoon light, and the wind is still. "Put it on."

She blinks at him. "Put it on?"

He just chuckles at her. Then he steps closer, and she, so suddenly, becomes aware of the hair sticking to the nape of her neck. "It's a crown," he tells her softly, hands above her head. His hands don't touch her as he becrowns her, and yet it feels heavy on her head, heated from the ghost of his fingers on the stems. Then he looks down, and he grins wide, as if charmed. "There you go."

Her cheeks heat. "I feel ridiculous," she admits to him, and yet she can't help but begin to unravel beneath his look, so warm and attentive and, most oddly, proud; as if he'd really made it for her.

He laughs at her words, loud and unabashed, and he does not take a step back. "To be fair, it's for kids mostly," he admits, but they were kids no longer, she knows that now – standing pinned in front of him, she finds that the lightweight, feathering innocence of their childhood friendship has long since transformed, taking shape of something larger, something intricate and complex – something, she knows, now way out of her control. And even still, the chrysanthemums lay heavy and tight around her, and she can't help but feel her heart bloom with them, flowering under the sun within his gaze. "It looks good on you," he tells her then, and what is she to do? She smiles widely at him, hand touching at the petals.

"Let's go already," she says with no heft to the words, and he does so gladly, step in step.

They walk until evening, one that comes quicker than the rest, the sun now giving way to the coming colder, darker months. They make no stops until then, none except one – a time when she bounds for a growing sapling at the edge of their road, seeking, at Armin's advice, to hang the crown there. It would be no good to pull attention in Liberio, he mused with her sadly, and she'd told him then, she did – she will find a good place for it. With Armin ahead, waiting for her, she reaches upwards to lay the crown upon the budding tree, and there is only a moment, fleeting and precious, where she thinks to stuff the crown into her pack, to keep it safe and sound forever, crumpled or not, but then she decides to not. She leaves the crown where it shall be, somewhere growing, somewhere safe, and then she runs back to Armin, ready to soon set camp.

That same night, by the fire, he teaches her how to weave it – five blossoms in each of their hands, he teaches her, over and over, until hers looks just like his do, and she is laughing lightly, easily, triumphant for walls know what. It doesn't still until she feels his hand on her hair again, touching a strand – tentatively, this time; fearlessly. "It's dry now," he tells her, hand still on her hair; even though it has been dry for hours now.

And they sit closely, side by side, until the embers smolder weakly, giving in to the cold weather. They sit until they should tire, even if they don't – fuelled, she knows, by the second breath of the knowledge that this night will be the last.

They don't part, not really, when they go to sleep. They lay as close as they would, voices hushed with a faulty exhaustion, and though she feels her blood heat and her heart pump, though her mind burns with this feeling of his hands at her back, she can't help but think it: it is the last night. It is the last night. And she feels a sort of desperation surge through her, keening and clawing at her heart, and though she knows she won't be separated from him, she also knows something has changed between them, here, in-between these desolate hills – and she does not want it to end.

She finds herself, despite her own better judgement, clinging to him: she finds herself pulling herself closer, her hands twisting tightly into the back of his shirt, seeking, almost futilely, to close this horrid gap between them; and he makes this sound, thick and deep in his throat, and before she can even think anything of it, his hands pull at her, sinking into the flesh of her back. He pulls her closer, closer, as if tugged by the same kind of desperation, or as if, perhaps, he'd been waiting to do so, all these nights.

She's so close she can smell the soap on his skin, and she can smell the faint vanilla that follows him each day. She lays her head at his throat, nearly feeling the pulse that trembles within it, and her hands do so of their own accord as they sink into his hair, soft; far softer than she'd imagined, softer even than it used to be. And she sighs then, feeling him flush against herself; she feels as if some urge has been sated, as if some fear – soothed, and she barely notices her nails grazing at his scalp. She would not have, if it weren't for him – if it weren't for him, for this soft gasp at the crown of her head. If it weren't for the foreign hardness growing near her thigh.

All at once, his entire body stiffens, and his hold changes. She hears him inhale, sharp and stern, and she feels him try to rise, to move away – she hears him begin to apologise.

"Stop," she tells him, breathless, and he does; and all at once she makes the space – to look at him. To look right at him. She feels his heart thud dangerously hard beneath her palm. His eyes are wide, wild with a panic that seethes within his chest, and she looks at him, feeling his hold on her waver. Quietly, she finds the words; quietly, she asks him: "Is this how you feel?"

His eyes grow downcast, a blush so harsh crossing over his face. He takes a moment, or perhaps he doesn't – time stretches all the same, and then he replies with a simple: "Yes."

And it is the way he says it. Shy, and embarrassed, but so tight and so fierce that they just lay there, not speaking for a moment. She lay feeling the heart at her palm, thud, thud, thud. She finds herself, in an almost grotesque manner, wanting to reach for it – to soothe it, in any way she'd know how.

Instead, her hand slides upwards, soon reaching the skin of his throat, at which he holds his breath. Then her hand settles at his jaw, and he sighs, the sound rattled and forced. He says her name, softly, so softly, his voice so strained it almost sounds painful to her ears. Her hand splays across his jaw, and all the while, she can feel him so clearly against her thigh. He leans into the contact, as if pulled, as if magnetized, eyes closing and shut tight, his face near screwed. Her hand nearly shakes with the fervor that enters her, as if from him to her, as if it were made of the same material as the warmth they have shared all these nights.

Once more, he exhales harshly, and she feels it fan against the thin skin of her wrist.

"Look at me," she finds herself saying, as if dazed. And he does. His eyes rise as if on command, as if he were in a position where he would not deny her anything, and it twists at her heart. He looks at her as if he were stricken, a deer caught in a hunt, awed by the glint of the arrow. "Armin," she breathes, the name leaving her lips on instinct. "It's okay."

"I don't want you to feel.." he trails off, and then he gasps, as if the word were too heavy for him to even say it. His hands grow soft around her, more hesitant – but his hold does not, and neither do his eyes, steeled and focused and so, so conflicted,

"Obligated?" She finishes, her thumb so close to his lip. Her heart is rabid. He screws his eyes shut again, for a moment so short it seems meaningless, and then he opens them, and then he looks at her again, and her mind unravels at its seams when she sees the look in his eyes. In it, a craving grows, an unfiltered affection which burns high and deep within him – deep down, she knew it was there, she knew it, but now that she sees it, so clearly and so brazenly, she finds herself drowning, and sinking, and unmoored all at once.

"Tell me clearly," she nearly pleads with him, control melting at the edges. "Tell me clearly, Armin: do you want this?"

"I do," he chokes out, "I do. I..” And her palm, snuggled so flushly against his jaw, heats. Her thumb moves, almost of its own accord, and it brushes against his lower lip – and instead of finishing his sentence, Armin gasps. His hand, once so tentative, lists reflexively to her wrist, wrapping around it, holding it there, at his jaw. He looks at her with eyes wide and transfixed, nearly pleading – no, not nearly enough. He is pleading with her. He may not say it, but he is.

Her hand twitches in his hold. Her breath flutters. And then, once he sees something in her, he does plead with her. "Kiss me," he tells her, voice so low and thin it drives a punch straight through her core. "Please," he whispers when she begins to pull herself closer, and then again, as their lips are an inch apart: "Please." And there is no shock when she does. No all-encompassing jolt, unlike she expected. But he shifts. His entire being does. As if unwound by some oath, there is no breath shared between this and the moment she feels his lips on hers, and by then all else becomes moot point.

Her heart sings, unwound, at the feeling of his hand at her jaw. Her hands find his hair again, winding into it greedily, and she pulls him closer, closer, and he abides her – rolling over to press on top of her, breath hot as he kisses her back, as he kisses her first – as he sucks on her bottom lip, as he hums when she does the same. It is chaste, and gentle, and simple, and she feels drunk on the feeling of him kissing her, then parting, breathless, then kissing her again; of him holding her there, bereft of any hesitation, their kisses longing and heavy with yearning.

And it is she, then, who deepens the kiss, it is she who tugs at his shirt, she who brushes her tongue against his lip, and it is as if a second wind passes into him at it. His hands nestle into her hair with a fervor, and she lets him, angling her head back, letting him take hold of her. He deepens the kiss, jaw tight as their tongues brush against one another, and there's this sound that leaves her throat, low and quick and so desperate, and he pulls away at it, gasping for air. His forehead touches hers as the both of them heave, watching one another, and the gaze with which he looks upon her bursts with a longing, enveloping her whole. He pulls away, just a fraction, as if overwhelmed with the suddenness of their circumstance, and he takes her hand off his cheek, he pulls it tightly, flushly against his chest. He holds it there with an urgency that speaks to her before he does, and he looks pained for a moment, desperate; as if trying to tell her something through the gesture alone – as if he were looking for words that have lived in him for months, years.

"It's yours," he says, tone burnt with a passion that steals her breath. "Do you feel it?" He asks, her palm against his heart, loud – so loud. "I’m yours."

She blinks hard and ruthless, keeping back the tears that burn through her, and a fierce relief floods her. She tries to tell him, to say 'me too', but her tongue ties itself together, so instead she pulls at him, she leans into him, and she kisses him, and kisses him. "Armin," she whispers into him, "Armin." Hands in her hair, lips at her jaw, she feels weak in his hold, so carefully attentive. "I want you," leaves her mouth, feeble and desperate, and she repeats it, just as weakly, and he gasps against her lips.

"Do you know," he says in-between the pants, "do you know how long I've dreamt of you?" She tries to answer, she does, but his gaze, dark and blooming, has her pinned; his thumb brushes at her cheek, and it has her bewitched. "Every night," he continues, leaning to kiss her once the words pass, and he stops right before it. "Every night." He kisses her, brief and chaste. "Here," he angles her neck, and she lets him, feeling his lips at her throat; then his teeth, grazing gently. "When you left." His tongue follows, a wet line drawn across her clavicle. "Before you left."

Her breath shudders at his attention. It suffocates her. Her hands tremble in his hair, but so unlike they have ever before. "Please," she pleads, for what even she does not know, and he looks at her, he rises and he looks right at her, a sort of grief, an intensity settling in his eyes.

"I want you," he repeats. "I want you. Let me have you, Y/N. Please."

"Have me," she breathes, her palm cupping gently the skin of his cheek, and his eyes flutter shut, the entirety of him leaning desperately into the contact. "Make me yours."

It is as if it takes a moment to settle for him. As if he needs to decide if he truly believes what he's just heard. And then she sees it: a spark, a fire, and then a forest burning, all enchanted into his eyes, locked with hers.

Then his eyes are on her shirt, on the button he'd been so awfully shy about this morning, and he looks back at her, a question in his gaze. Her hands leave him, settling on the button, then reaching back to where they belong, curling around him lovingly – letting him decide what he wants.

And he does. Hands precise and gentle, her shirt is undone by them, and then he helps her out of it, the span of her upper body opening to him. He inhales, the sound trembling, and as he watches her so, so intently, his frame shudders when he touches the bare skin of her shoulder. He gasps, hand nearly twitching against her skin. Then he looks back up at her, meeting her gaze, and she sees a wildfire in them.

And with just a tinge of hesitation, he lowers himself to kiss her sternum, urged forward by the soft gasp that leaves her lips. He kisses lower, and lower, and then he kisses at her breast, tongue soon curling around her nipple; softly at first, then harder, spurred on by the whine that escapes her throat. And his kisses trail soon after, slow and steady and so meticulous in their exploration of her, and she sucks in a breath when she feels a hand of his settle on the buckle of her belt.

"Is this okay?" He asks her, pausing to look up at her, and her chest blooms with a warmth at the tentative care in his eyes.

"It is," she says, her hands joining his upon the buckle. "Armin," she calls, and he stays still, he stays looking at her. "I've never done this before," she admits, the gentle grasp he has on her hip now searing her from the inside out. She shifts beneath his gaze, which flutters, then steels in an odd, indecipherable way.

"That's okay," he breathes, and she feels his fingers ghost over the skin of her waist. "I have. I will.. I'll take care of you." And she feels it, his hand twitch lightly upon her skin – and she sees him bite the inside of his cheek. And then he asks her: "Are you sure you want to?"

"Yes," she tells him, quick and so desperate that it seems to spur a different kind of need in him, and she dare not feel embarrassed at being so open, so flayed before him. "Yes," she repeats, unbuckling her belt, and this time he does not hesitate. He drags her pants off her frame, gentle and decisive in a manner she has already learnt from him, and as she lay there with her knees pushed together, his hands nestle at the back of them, looking at her, once more, with a gentle question in his eyes.

And he won't do this himself, she knows this. Her thighs tremble visibly as she spreads them for him, and a heavy sigh leaves his chest, and then his eyes burn into her, at her – watching her naked before him, legs spread for him. He lays a cheek against the top of her thigh, gaze transfixed on her, his eyes heavy-lidded.

"You're so pretty," he tells her breathlessly, as if lost deeply in thought, as if he'd ached to tell her that for so, so long.

Her insides flip, watching him tower over her spread legs, and she has a distinct, mind-numbing realisation that it is him who watches her with those ravenous eyes. It is Armin who holds her thigh, who's pulled her closer to him. Him who seeks to please her; to have her to himself.

She fights to breathe in. Her chest caves beneath the feeling, leaving her breathless and utterly pliable in his fingers. All the while, he watches her, needy intent shimmering with something larger, stronger. Yearning roils in him, she sees it now. And then he leans down, forward, to kiss at her thigh, and her mind grows blank and empty. He kisses her again, and again, trailing a path closer to her core, pausing only to graze his teeth at her, only to nuzzle into her flesh.

Then, so, so close to her, he looks back up at her, and he asks, voice low: "Can I kiss you here?"

"Please," leaves her, and it is all she can muster, but he does not need more from her. He leans in, his tongue curling into her tentatively and so, so slowly, his palms gliding down her thighs as he settles comfortably between them. He licks a trail through her folds, centering around her clit, and she keens, whining pitifully. Her hips strain on reflex, pulled closer to him, and he pulls away for a moment, smiling up at her.

"So pretty," he repeats, and then his hands sink into the flesh of her thighs, holding her back in place with a strength she did not know he has. Then he closes his mouth around her, and the pleasure is so sudden and violent, she feels as if she caught on fire. She loses composure, far faster than she'd imagined she ever would with him, and soon, hips locked in his vice grip, she has nothing else but pleading, but tugging, desperately, at his shirt, or at his hair. He licks and sucks at her with a firm pace, humming into her core, smiling as he hears her slowly, slowly come undone at his attention. And he watches her as he pulls pleasure from her; eyes dark and heavy, sated in a way she knows a wolf only could be, and she can't do anything, she can't do anything but pray for his name as she comes with his tongue at her core, lapping at her as if he were a man parched.

He continues to lap at her, greedily at that, even when she tugs at him once more, eager to feel him against her, but he does not give in. Instead, he pleads with her to go easy, to let him be greedy. "Let me take my time with you," he tells her, kissing at her thigh, "please."

And so she does. It is only when she's trembling in his hands, wound tight with a different, insatiable pleasure building fiercely in her, that he finally rises to meet her lips, nestling flushly between her legs. Her hands are back on his shirt then, shaking, undoing his buttons, and he lets her, towering over her as he watches her. He says her name softly, and he repeats it when he lets her take it off him. Then he takes her hands, he collects them so gingerly into his hold, and he touches her cheek.

"Do you want to continue?" He asks her, his gaze so sweetly concerned. "Are you sure?"

Her hands shake in his. Her exhale trembles. Her voice fails her. She needs to tell him – how desperately she's dreamed of him. Of this. Instead, she frees her hands, and she settles them at his jaw. "I need you," she tells him with such an earnestness that she's sure, she's sure he knows. And he sighs then, body wracked as if in relief.

Her hands reach for the clasp of his belt tentatively, and he lets her, but then undresses himself. She watches him, an odd sort of impatience beginning to burn at her from the feet up, and her eyes rave over the span of his chest, her own burning at the sight of him: lean and muscled, a soft, light trail of hair growing down his stomach, one that she feels an urgency to touch. He catches her gaze as he takes off his pants, pausing for just the briefest moment, and she holds it there as he undresses himself whole.

Then he pauses on his knees, his hand on her thigh, and there, as he stand there, he seems overcome. She thinks she knows what he feels: bare before one another, open beyond she'd dared dream of, it is as if the years spent together and the years spent apart all come together, to a close, undulating and culminating into this one, singular moment. Then he leans towards her, hand at her waist, and he kisses her: so deeply, so fervently, it steals all breath from her.

"Are you sure?" The words ghost over her lips, and for a moment she is taken with his eyelashes, long and crowning along his eyes, so filled with an emotion that has her chest in knots.

"I am," she tells him, hands at his cheeks, and she nearly cries. "I am."

His breath wavers and shakes as he enters her, which he does slowly, carefully, with one hand at her thigh for purchase, the other finding hers, clasping them together tightly. He watches her attentively, almost hawkishly; looking, she realises, for a sign of pain, or of discomfort.

And she lets him. She lets him take his time with her. She drowns in his meticulousness, in the careful nature with which he holds her; with which he comes to a hilt inside her, a rattling sigh leaving his lips, so restrained and so overwhelmed that she knows. She knows: he doesn't even feel it, the pleasure. Not until he knows that she does, too.

And by the time he is fully inside her, there is a gentle, sudden piercing – and then, just like that, it is gone in a flash. She feels a stretching that is both foreign and right, and then he whispers her name, so delicately that it has her gasping. Suddenly, his hand leaves her thigh, and it is at her cheek, and he is looking her in the eye, he is asking her, with so much unrestrained care: "Does it hurt?"

"It does not," she tells him, and then she is pulling him closer, then she is kissing him, and her knees rise to meet his waist, her hips urging him to move. "Make love to me," she pleads with him, heart flipping three times over as she feels him smile into her lips, and he does.

He does so slowly, sinking in and out of her with a heedfullness that has her head spinning. He glides in and out, pressed so close to her body, holding her so carefully. She feels him so clearly, stretching her with a tenderness, pushing against delicate spot after delicate spot inside her, and each one has her reeling, and each one never, somehow, ever skips his attention. This pleasure is different, she knows this now; slower, encompassing, dizzying with the feeling of her love inside her. And just like he, she watches him, too; lips apart, eyes glistening, beautiful before her, breathtakingly so. She swallows greedily the small whines that leave his throat each time he thrusts back into her, so breathy and ardent, and soon, very soon, she begins to lose her composure.

She feels it rise in her, tempting and needy, almost harrowing in its intensity; desire, fervor, whatever the hell it is that the poets call it – it feels so much greedier, so much more powerful than she ever could have put to words or imagined, and soon she pleads with him to go faster, to give her more. And he does so, abiding, eager; raising her hips with the one hand at her thigh, and then he looks back at her, almost startled, at the wanton noise that leaves her throat. Instead of stopping, it seems to burst him into flames, too, and he finds that spot again, and again, claiming this newfound land for his own. He fucks into her with a precision, watching her steadfastly, with this greedy, satisfied glint in his eye – and with it, he slowly unravels her. He turns his head, just so, biting gently at the fingers she holds at his jaw, and with a fierce look in his eye, he speaks into the skin of her palm, words uttered in a reverence; sweet words, filthy ones, each one sending aftershocks into her core, and as he rocks into her with a mind-numbing languidness, he asks her: "Does that feel good, sweetheart?"

And it's the way he says it, lustful and needy as he sinks into her flesh – it has her thighs shaking at his waist; it has her whining his name, it nearly has her pleading, pleading for gods know what.

"It does," instead she tells him; "Don't stop," she tells him, and then: "Come closer. I need you. Please, Armin."

And he groans at it, at the way she says his name, pulling her with his hands by her hips, sinking deeper into her at this angle, and he kisses her as she moans, feeling out of control. There he pulls her thighs flushly over his hips, and her head spins from pleasure, and she finds her nails digging into his back, feeling the heat and steam rise from the broken skin. She cries his name out, again, and again, and again, and through it she hears her own name echo back to her, pulled from his lips between the groans and the soft whimpers that leave him. Then he kisses her fiercely, almost sloppily, whining into her throat.

"I want," he gasps, the sounds he makes soft and high–pitched and coiling deeply within her gut, "I want you to come. I want you to come on my cock, Y/N," he pleads into her lips. "Please," he says again, whimpering once more, composure cracking.

He kisses at her skin, her temple, her jaw, her throat, greedily, almost possessively, and she, in turns, pulls him closer to her, seeking to fill this space between them desperately. He lets her, he molds himself to her hold, pliant and eager. And there, there, fuelled by his mewls beside her ear, by the closeness, by that gods-damned vanilla permeating from him to her, she breaks. There, she tells him, finally, with her voice quivering to the last word: "I've wanted you for so long." And his hips stutter at this, and his hold on her thigh grows vice–like, and then his forehead is touching hers, his rhythm slowing, just so.

Then he is looking at her, gaze crested with a warmth so deep. "Say it again," he asks of her, he begs of her, his pace picking up with the words, as if inflamed by them. "Say it again, please, Y/N."

And she does. Again, and again. "I want you," she tells him, hands in his hair. "I've always wanted you," hands on his cheek. "Always."

It isn't until he's kissing her that she pauses, it isn't until she feels herself strain closer and closer as he whispers into her lips, soft things, unspoken things; it isn't until she hears his words that she finally, truly comes undone.

"My Y/N," he tells her, "mine. Mine."

And she cries out, hands seeking purchase at his shoulders, thighs so tight around his waist that it nearly hurts. She falls, and falls, careening rapidly into his hips meeting hers. For a moment, everything grows white, ceaseless and endless, and in that moment she thinks that this is how it should have been; in that moment, she thinks she was never meant to leave. Then Armin follows her, and he, too, cries out, desperately so, and she feels him slam into her harsh and uncoordinated. She kisses him fiercely, swallowing his climax with a greed that was unheard of to her before now, before Armin. They both shake in one another's arms, gasping, noses touching. They watch one another, eyes unwavering.

For a moment, she does not know what to say. She gasps and gasps, her tongue willing to curl only for the syllables of his name. Then he smiles at her. So gently, so brightly; the sight is so familiar that the words come tumbling out of her with an ease she had once almost forgotten. "I love you," she tells him, earnest from her heart.

"I know," he says, and he kisses her. I know, he repeats between kisses, I know; as if to himself, as if in relief, as if having waited, for so long, to hear it – if only just this once. "I love you," he tells her then, and she holds onto him, tightly and fiercely and unyieldingly.

They lay like this for what feels like ages, the mountains surrounding growing quieter, and quieter. She holds onto him, and he – onto her. They do not let go. She feels his heart beat against her own, and they kiss one another: small, fleeting kisses, borne not with shyness but with a gentle, permeating ardour. They lay like this until they are spread thin by exhaustion, hands weak, and here, in the dead of the night, she speaks to him so quietly; "Don't let me go," she pleads with him, hand at his chest. I won't, he tells her, his hand on hers. "Don't let me go," she repeats, "Don't ever. Not again."

"I won't. I promise. I promise."

And they sleep like this, nestled fondly within one another's crooks and edges, touching with their hearts. They do not move, or let go – even when they wake, they can't seem to let go of their hands, even when they ready. Even when they walk to the port, they do so hand in hand, talking little, but glancing often, with fleeting, earnest smiles unhidden from one another.

They feel tense and severe as they walk through the streets of Liberio, however; a goal reached, the end of their journey. It strains them, the hands with which they hold onto each other, but even that soon seems to patter out once they peer at the barren ink of the Azumabito, glinting brightly on the bow of the ship. This ship, they know, is beholden with their friends and allies. This ship, they know, is the end of this road.

And he turns to her, birds crying along the loud crashes of the sea, wind tousling at his hair. He looks so beautiful now, she thinks, and she's enamoured as he asks her: "Ready?"

His hand feels heavy and warm in her own. More than that, she thinks – it feels right.

She looks back at him. Here, right now, there is a moment which seems to stretch between them – one filled with a sadness so inexplicable, so faint, that she barely manages to discern it at all. It feels foreboding, this feeling, as if the road behind them was the easy one, as if the one ahead were predetermined; as if it bears, unbeknownst to them, challenges beyond their imagination.

But she does not think of that. Instead she looks him right in the cerulean eye, gaze as deep and as determined as the sea before them. She smiles at him. And she squeezes his hand.

dividers by arlerts-angel

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thank you for giving this story your attention 💗 i harbour a lot of pride in it, and it's an honour that so many of you have enjoyed it

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