since she start fuckin me, ha ass get fatter.
203 posts
Don't wanna be here? Send us removal request.
Last Seen Blogs
p-arseltongue
morsmordre.
madamadadanes-blog
no, not yet.
ionfyr-newepirion-blog
Ion Fyr
sweatyclamdeankid
Sin título
na-nayoung
｡◕ ‿ ◕｡
Text
it's only 3.3k rn btw 😭 I'm sad .
I slowly add more to this like once a month it's never getting completely I fear..
3 notes
·
View notes
Text
also... 22nd bday is comin soon yippee!
1 note
·
View note
Text
I slowly add more to this like once a month it's never getting completely I fear..
3 notes
·
View notes
Text
˖⁺ ♥︎ ⋆ 𝐼’𝐿𝐿 𝐵𝐸 𝒴𝒪𝒰𝑅 𝒢𝒪𝒪𝒟 𝒢𝐼𝑅𝐿
꒰ 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 . . . ꒱ 3.9kay word count , black fem reader coded , established relationship , daddy kink , some ddlg dynamiczzz , pet name usage [ ex. baby , princess ] , breath play ! ! , anal [ thumb in butt helloooo ! ] , spit play < 3
𝜗ϱ 𝓁𝓊𝓋 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒 𝒻𝓇𝓂 𝓂𝒾𝓁𝓀 . . . been up all night < 3 goin 2 sleep after i post dis . m delirious . ignore typos . felt da smut in ocho rios cld’ve been a gazillion times moar gross so hav dis :3 minors + ageless blogs pls stay away !
it’s fascinating how such a small object can subject you to such feelings of trepidation and unease.
you feel silly, however, you suppose these feelings are warranted as you stare at the small key held between two of your fingers. how are you supposed to be one hundred percent sure that he’s okay with this? armin had given it to you weeks ago . . . months ago, even. “use it whenever,” he told you. “i don’t even have to be home.”
he could just be saying that.
you’ve held off on it for so long — and you’re aware he’s noticed. armin’ll never say anything about it, though. that’s the kind of guy he is . . . patient, caring, understanding, likes to let you go through and process situations like these, especially regarding your relationship, on your own time without hovering. and while you appreciate it, sometimes you feel comparatively . . . inane. because while it’s a first relationship for the both of you, armin seems to have it all down pat.
it’s as though he’s mastered the course of perfect partner 101 while you’re still on the first lesson.
it’s just a key, you tell yourself.
he even went out of his way to find one of those key customizer booths and have it layered with a matte baby pink and an engraving of your initials on it . . see. he’s so sweet, it’s vexing.
it’s just a key.
timidly, you lead the ridges of the blade through the slat of the doorlock. there’s a sharp twist as you rotate it towards the left and come the door opening seconds later, you’re greeted with the welcoming scent of woodsy vanilla.
his loft is quiet . . it always is, never mind the building sitting right within the heart of the city. it’s high, though, maybe that’s why . . perched on the highest floor of an old industrial building that got renovated only five or so years back. the wall of windows are all triple paned.
you love armin’s loft.
while modernized with hanging, matte black light fixtures in the kitchen, a seventy inch flat screen that reverts into the floor of his living area whenever no longer needed, and a navy blue, six seater berlin module sectional, there still remains a sort of, timeless, charming edge to it all. you think it’s the open, dark bricked walls and lone canvases of art propped up about — an unfinished chess game still rested upon the living room table and slabs of intricate wood carvings plopped here and there. it’s all so very, armin. so very warm and soothing and poised.
you kick off your shoes in the foyer and push them beside his new balance 550s. it’s comical how small your uggs look beside them.
there’s nothing heard within his loft. it’s eerie.
“ ‘min?” you find yourself subconsciously tiptoeing across dark wood floors, around the sectional to head for the steel, black staircase against the wall. it opens into a second level where his desk, computer, and california king bed all coincide. “minnie?”
he’s home.
you view the slow rise and fall of his bare back from your position at the top of the steps, noting how his sheets are thrown over the slim line of his hips and how one of his legs hangs from over the side of the bed, bare as well. the woodsy vanilla you smelled upon first entering was his favorite incense. they burn atop of his desk a few feet away from him. oh, he’s completely knocked.
you strip out of your outside clothes before slowly climbing in beside him, hesitatingly pushing in close . . needy for his warmth.
you’ve never known a person could be such a pretty sleeper before meeting armin. though half of his face is smooshed against his pillow, he still appears to be posing for a catalogue — with the fluffs of gold atop of his head stuck this way and that, still beautifully managing to frame the bone structure of his face. he breathes out of his nose, slow and deep. and without his glasses obstructing your view, you can individually count each of his long, pale eyelashes and the faint, very, very faint, traces of freckles peppering the bridge of his nose.
such a pretty boy.
you push yourself closer, wanting his touch.
he wears nothing but a pair of shorts. with a slow finger, you trace the line of his back, across the smooth bumps of sinew to his shoulder and arm.
you admire how lithe he is. armin isn’t necessarily buff. you think most of the food he eats goes straight to his feet and cock. he’s agile . . limber. there are the muted lines of abs that carve into his torso and his back flexes with hard cords, it’s more of his arms that reveal his true strength. his biceps and shoulders are quite noticeable, especially when he wears a compression shirt every once in a while. when you softly wrap your arms around his tricep and grip, you breathe out a little sigh.
it’s your touch that suddenly has his eyes creaking open.
you see the first peeks of pretty, cobalt blue and quickly, you’re snatching your hand away to tuck it under your chin and apologize with a rising flush burning your cheeks, “oh, i’m . . i’m sorry,” you whisper. “i didn’t wanna wake you.”
he blinks softly a few times, clearly gathering his bearings before giving a little, sleepy smirk, “you used your key,” he mumbles.
he’s such a tease.
“shush.” you watch him open an arm and akin to metal and a magnet, you’re gravitating and fusing your body against his. he’s warm — solid as much as he is soft. you melt with a small mewl and close your eyes, nuzzling into him. it feels so nice.
“mmm,” planting a small kiss upon your forehead, armin then wraps his arm around your waist and grumbles out, “missed my baby. how was your day?”
you don’t want to think about it.
the main reason you even used your key for the first time was because you needed him. you refused to wait until later on tonight to bathe within his touch and affection. you’re impatient. a little thing who’s always restless and avid. through a sigh, you admit it, “not good.”
armin makes a small sound of regard, “. . wanna talk about it now or later?”
“later, please?” you’re burying your face within the pocket of his neck, the one that smells like soap and just pure, unrefined him. “wan’ nap . . with you.”
“mkay,” one more kiss then a small, cheeky grip of your butt. “close your eyes and sleep, baby.”
you sigh out a little, “okay,” doing just as he says. there’s darkness for a couple seconds. it stands before you, looming and quiet, until it draws nearer and completely swathes your entire being.
you don’t know when you wake up.
you’re just aware of how.
it’s to a sudden thrush of pleasure suddenly shooting up your spine from your cunt. it causes you to, quite literally, gasp yourself awake, and out of reflex, snap your legs closed — only, you can’t . . because there’s a head between them. how long armin’s been down there? you aren’t sure of that neither. it’s had to be a while though, because on a particular thrust of two of his fingers inside of you, there’s a loud, disgusting squelch. it’s a mess. the sheets underneath your ass are soaked with a mixture of your slick and his saliva and his cheeks are smeared with it, too.
“m-minnie,” you whimper his name and go to lift your legs, holding them by the back of your knees far out of the way, just how he likes. “oh my gosh.”
his glasses are still off. you view the darkness of raw voracity and need that wades within the blues of his eyes as his tongue strokes your clit with wide, rough sweeps. “you had no panties on,” he soon utters, lifting his head to watch his own fingers push and pull out of the soppy wetness that is your pussy. they work with a certain finesse, the screw technique, one where he drives them in and tugs them free, all while continuing to revolve and pivot his wrist. the approach always gets you creaming within a matter of seconds. “. . what did you wear today?”
you hesitate to answer. it was a simple mistake, honest. sometimes you genuinely do forget to put them on, you never sleep with them anyhow.
when you refuse to talk, his eyes are lifting up again.
it’s rare to see armin so . . . dark. there’s only been a single, previous occurrence that’s ignited your boyfriend’s few, pissed off nerves — a few months ago, after attending a music festival together with all your friends. you suppose he had enough with all the stares and sly remarks you’d received all that day because the minute you both stepped foot over your hotel room’s threshold, he practically snatched your fun, little outfit off and fucked you then and there, on the floor. it’s fairly chilling. because you never really know when the switch happens. he’s exceptional at hiding his true feelings behind a handsome smile, albeit, you suppose you take that back. his eyes are always what gives it away. they grow cloudy and cold, always an immediate disclosure.
he’s mumbling, “okay,” while pulling his fingers free. the puffed hole of your cunt winks at him, clearly grumpy with the sudden change. you’re spoiled. you and your pussy. armin had noticed the change only recently. as sweet and good as you are, you don’t do well with . . directions. you like to have it your way and your way always, disregarding armin only ever giving you rules when he knows they’re for your own greater good.
“it was an accident,” you’re whimpering, little hand falling between your legs while he stands at the foot of the bed and pulls down his shorts. prime example. you start to rub at your clit with tight, firm, little circles. left to your own devices, you’d probably force yourself to cum until you couldn’t cum anymore if he weren’t here . . which presents rule number one, ask for permission before touching. now, armin isn’t too strict with this one, he’ll be honest — bodily autonomy and all. however, he’s had a front row seat, yes, indisputably, to watching you make yourself cum until you screwed your own fucking brains out. you have no sense of a limit . . it’s . . . a challenging thing sometimes, because once you’re there, you never like to stop.
he blames it all on your schooling, honestly. you’ve told him it’s the only way you’re really able to destress — by cumming over and over and over again until you can’t take it anymore and, it makes sense. doesn’t mean he thinks it’s healthy, nonetheless.
so, he wastes no time in pushing your hand away preceding him grabbing you by the hips and forcing you on your hands and knees, chest bowed against the bed, “and you took the train here, right?” he spits on his tip prior to finding the seam of your lips. you lean into his touch like the needy thing you are and he watches how you give a meager, little nod. “hm.” he takes his time, rubbing it up and down, tapping the fleshy crown of his cock right on that clit, making you leak until you whimper and wiggle your hips.
spoiled fucking rotten you are.
“rules, rules, rules,” he sighs, spanning the length of his hand against the arch of your back to force you even lower. your ass perks higher in the air like that — it’s fat, round, perky. he can’t help but swat a thick, nice smack to it . . you’re asking for it. “you’re a little troublemaker, you know that?”
as if to prove a point, your hands reach back and you spread the cheeks of your ass . . nice and wide for him to see it all. as big of a brat as you can be, and as much as you seemingly love to press his buttons, you’ve also managed to learn to counter your own entitled ways. “ ‘m sorry, daddy,” you whimper. prime example number two. you’d do something he doesn’t appreciate and always accept that you were a bit of a terror. you never argue . . always admit. you’re still a good girl. this is why he can never stay upset with you for too long.
“mm,” he bends and kisses between the two, deep dimples that crater your lower back. “m’sweet girl,” another one at your spine. “my baby.”
his touch is tender. it makes you emit a precious whine of gaiety while spreading yourself further.
straightening out, armin strokes his cock. once, twice, then breaches his way in. “can n-never,” he tries not to melt too fast. you feel good — always feel so fucking good . . the best pussy he’ll ever have in his life. “be mad at you f-for too long, god.”
it’s a lot for you, too. you feel yourself stretching further and further, walls working adamantly to swallow it all to the base. “papa,” you mewl and sniff, suddenly overwhelmed. it’s too much sometimes, you think. your cunt is only so deep, occasionally there are times when armin has to work himself in slowly . . half an inch, even, regardless of you being wet enough to outline an entire puddle below you both with your slick. “t-too big.”
clicking his tongue, armin cautiously pulls out. “okay, baby. hold on.”
he’s walking over to his nightstand, heavy dick held within his hand to keep it from annoyingly bobbing as he does. he opens is, rummages around for a moment, then produces a moderate sized bottle of lube. when he’s back behind you, you make sure to keep yourself stretched nice and open to give him the open canvas of dribbling some across both your holes.
“eek!” you squeal come the sensation of it, trickling its way down the cleave of your ass. “minnie ‘s cold!”
“need to discipline you somehow.”
he hears you grumble while he’s fisting his cock. you paint a pretty picture for him . . still holding your ass open, perked in the air. your nails are done, of course. this time, long and almond shaped with pearls and glitter all over . . there’s a cursive ‘ A ‘ that’s written on your ring fingers — matches the one that dangles from your neck on a thin, gold chain. “oh, fuck,” he breathes, suddenly wracked with a wave of just . . clear, unalloyed, plain out want. “s-stay still for me, pretty . . let me look at you.”
the squishes of his fist working his cock are loud. you nibble upon your bottom lip, turning your head downwards to get a good view of him. “hmm,” you give a sweet, little giggle and sway your hips . . slow and enticing. there you go again. a fucking minx. “i wore a skirt today, daddy.”
“mm, i know,” armin sighs, arm pumping. “i s-saw. just wanted you to say it. to admit it to daddy.”
one of your hands is releasing a globe and then you’re reaching down between your legs to divide the flesh of your pussy lips and open them — revealing fine, glimmering, bubble gum pink bordered by the sweet brown of your skin. “ ‘m sorry,” you sniffle through a pout. “forgive me.”
armin strokes his cock a little faster, “aweee,” it’s shaky as he drags it out through a low, smooth chuckle. “you are such a little . . .”
it’s no surprise when he pushes back inside. this time the glide is much, much smoother. you choke on your next inhale, eyes crossing, you think.
“y-yeah,” he smiles at your sudden silence, grabs hold of your wrists, holds them together within one of his hands, and gathers a nice, steady, solid rhythm. “take that fuckin’ dick, baby.”
your ass bounces off of his hips . . plump and fleshy — striped with rugged lines of stretched skin. it’s so pretty. you’re so pretty. “ungh!” your hands hold onto his. you keep your arch, losing yourself in the fervor of his desire and need. it’s perfect, it’s everything you need right now. you don’t want to think or stress or worry. in the far part of your empty brain, you think this is what you were made for — to lay pretty and get fucked. just by him. just by your daddy, no one else. “yes,” you squeak. his balls tap solidly against your bulging clit with each forward thrust. your cunt thanks him with a sudden splatter of cream.
“ooh shit,” armin moans and lets your wrists go to simply grab onto your hips and force you to meet him halfway, pound for pound. “look at that . .”
you find yourself a bit embarrassed. squeaking, you bury your face into an arm while reaching down for your cunt to blindly shield it away.
“no,” your arm is now pinned to the mattress beside your head. it leaves armin looming over you, his front to your back. “s-stay still.” he adores when you make a mess. “cream on your fuckin’ dick.”
you’re whimpering, little fingers wriggling against his grasp, “y-you’re so . . mmph, g-gross.” it’s dire how different of a person he becomes as soon as the warm, gushy walls of your pussy are hugged around his cock. while needy, he’s still demanding. whining and huffy, he’s still expectant for you to be good — to take everything he provides. you feel his lips against the slope of your neck, his hand intertwined within yours as his other arm wraps around your waist in order for his opposite fingers to toy with your clit.
“ ‘ll always, fuck, forgive you,” he moans into that tender area of skin beneath your ear. “n-need you to be . . good for me, though.”
brainlessly, you’re nodding, breaths choppy, voice strained, “i’ll be good. i’ll b-be . . good. yr’good girl — promise, daddy.”
smack! armin rolls your ass cheek between the lines of his fingers and gives it a jiggle, “mmm, god, i love you,” he’s fucking you harder, no longer caring to leave an inch or so out . . he buries it all, deep inside of you, squeezing your hand back when you grip his with a hard sob pushed out of your chest. “g-gonna fuckin’ marry you,” he’s whimpering, dropping to his knees and framing them around yours. the position allows him to hump more than pound and naturally, the tip of his cock finds the sensitive dollop of your g spot. it’s as though it’s an activation button to your tears.
you’re nearly weeping when you warble out a pitchy, “oh f-fuck,” only to receive another thick swat to the ass. armin has never been too fond of you cursing, however, you simply can’t help it.
“yeah,” he’s groaning and honing in on it, it seems. he rocks and presses his hips into your ass, making sure you feel it. your knees begin to slip . . inch by inch. you can no longer hold yourself up. armin simply lets you fall, he lets you plop onto your tummy, presses his hands flat upon the bed on either side of your head and raises himself, easily, into a plank.
“daddy, please.” you’re overwhelmed. you need him to take it easy — give you a breather.
“be a big girl and take it.”
he’s resumed pounding you — god, it’s filthy . . the sounds that is. damp skin clapping and your pussy frothing around his cock. your eyes roll into your skull. you’re close. you feel it. “ungh, unh, hmph . . unh!” there’s a hand underneath your chin, forcing your head back. your eyes are leering open, finding armin above you, eyes focused on your lips. he says only one word, “open.”
it’s immediate. your lips part open and you loll your tongue out on show, awaiting the moment he lets a warm seep of his spit dribble from his lips and onto the slat of it. you swallow with a low, content hum, rolling your tongue back out once more to display it. the sight makes armin’s balls swell. “g-god, you make me feel so fuckin’ good,” he whispers before pushing his lips against yours, beckoning your tongue into his own mouth to give a suckle to.
it’s only right you do the same to his.
you’ve realized a long time ago that the two of you are . . kind of disgusting. nevertheless, it’s the grossness of it all that makes your clit thump a little harder, your orgasm approach quicker. it’s armin kissing you until you’re struggling to breathe, him pulling away only to slip a few fingers in your mouth, lift up, then slowly start to creep his opposite thumb inside the tight, puckered hole of your ass. you’re soon full from all ends, it’s . . mind staggering. you’re gone — eyes indelibly stuck within the back of your head, legs trembling, muscles tensing.
“l-lobve . . you,” you babble softly around his fingers. “love you. i laoveyou, lobve g’you.”
oddly, it’s the forehead kiss he deposits right upon your forehead after your sweet prattles which kindles your orgasm. you cum with a hard inhale. your fingers fist the sheets until your knuckles pale and you feel his fingers pull from your mouth in order to wrap around the column of your throat.
you have a bad habit of biting the sheets to muffle your sounds. armin forces you to keep your head up, forces each of those hiccupy, loud cries out of your mouth to echo within his loft which each thrust he continues to give as your pussy pulses and lathers bubbles of milk around his cock. “dad — dy — please — hng!”
he’s close. he’s so fucking close.
“look at me,” once more, he’s lifting your head. he needs your face, and you obey, holding onto his hand on your throat with one of yours. you’re so fucking beautiful. make up completely ruined, eyes overlaid in tears. he cums as he kisses your lips, burying himself as deep as he can, balls smooshed against the bead of your clit. “ohhh fuck,” he’s panting into your mouth, circling his hips in tight circles to work it in nice and deep. “my b-baby . . ungh, fuck.”
his finger is removed before his cock.
he pulls both out slowly, making sure you prepare yourself for the withdraw before doing anything. you’re flipped over onto your back and legs opened soon after. the picture of his cum gradually leaking out of your battered cunt is always so pretty. armin then lays himself beside you, propped up on an elbow, “mm,” he pulls you in close, tucking your face into his neck. and like that, he holds you, hand at the back of your head, arm around your waist. kisses — he powders them everywhere while you sniff and curl against him. “felt good? w . . was i too rough?”
there’s that drastic change again. it’s . . comical honestly. you’re giggling and laying your head upon his bicep, watching him slowly begin to smile. “what?”
“you’re jus’ silly.”
“ ‘m silly?”
languidly, you nod, “mhm.”
you’re so cute. too cute. you watch armin lean over and reach toward the nightstand. he’s unfolding his glasses prior to sliding them on and leaning in to kiss your lips, “gonna run us a bath,” he tells you. there’s a blush hanging high upon his cheeks — rosy and bright. “bath, ‘m gonna order food, and then we’re gonna talk about your day, okay? . . specifically about you wearing skirts on a train with no underwear.”
face burning, you swat at his chest as he smirks and stands, “i said i was sorry.”
“mhm,” he’s walking to the bathroom while he speaks. “you see where it got you.”
i need him . . like so bad ໒꒰ྀི˶ ◞ ˕ ◟ ˶ ꒱ྀི১ .
#screams#milk you just had t'get us again didnt u? >_<#😭😭🩷🩷m in love#attack on titan smut#armin arlert smut#﹒﹒﹒𝘭𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘢 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𓂃 !
592 notes
·
View notes
Text
꒰ྀི 𝒪𝒞𝐻𝒪 𝑅𝐼𝒪𝒮 ꒱ྀི
꒰ 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 . . . ꒱ 12.9kay words , black fem reader coded , strangers to friends to loverz , tutor armin :3 , some miscommunication , pining , slight flirting , sex on a yacht , oral sex [ r. + a. receiving ] , fingering , cum swallowing , dumbification , reader has a phat creamy pussie :3 , soft dom + service dom armin .
𝜗ϱ 𝓁𝓊𝓋 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒 𝒻𝓇𝓂 𝓂𝒾𝓁𝓀 . . . had noooo idea dis wuz gna b dis long . . ૮꒰ ྀི . . ꒱ა . uhm . song title inspired by dis song c: Minors + Ageless Blogs Do Not Touch ! ! ! ! !
life has a funny way of pissing you off, you think.
of pissing you the fuck off, actually.
if it isn’t one thing, it’s another. in spite of you ultimately managing to find a balance between your social, academic, and family roles, after having attended winsome university for almost three years mind you; the beginning of your junior year, and first statistics lecture, all it really takes is ten seconds, ten for you to realize that all the work you have spent fighting to find an equilibrium between those three mantles is now swirled down the drain.
because within those initial, mere ten seconds, your professor introduces herself, guides you all to click on the link of a syllabus decreed almost mockingly near the top of your incoming emails, and what you see on the first page of the, admittedly sublimely, organized opening page is, ‘ exams — 75% of your grade. ‘
“i’m so screwed.”
your professor’s name is ida sullivan. her ratemyprofessor’s rating sits at a decent 3.5 / 5, 62% of the general population of students would take her course again, and her level of difficulty is a solid 4.0.
from this, you declare your own score by comparing yourself to the rest of winsome university’s students — a 3.5, round that up to a 3.8 . . and the difficulty level, a hard 4.4. while you were clearly intelligent enough to be accepted into the university ( acceptance rate is a cruel 8%, categorizing it as one of the most competitive ivy leagues in the country ), you are painfully aware that when compared to majority of your peers, you sit at a very low rank. what are subjects that took you half a lesson to grasp in high school, now takes you nearly three in college. disparate to others, you have to fit in an extra day to study before a quiz or exam, all in efforts to get a grade just near theirs.
it’s discouraging.
walking the campus’ quad, through the hallways, bypassing buildings that a multitude of your friends’ mothers, fathers, and grandparents threw thousands of dollars into every year — each day you open your eyes, you’re hit with a sense of . . dread. no true sense of belonging.
“what’s wrong?”
a month later, after having been struggling with statistical concepts for twenty two long, extremely winded days, it’s a friday.
disregarding your school being named a ‘ bottomless pit of big brained knowitalls ‘ within a world-known news outlet article, your football team wasn’t half bad. mikasa enjoys going and dragging you along because ymir’s there, you let her to escape the four, ghoulish gray walls of your dorm who seem to be trying to speak to you after spending six hours at a desk going over the same fifteen note cards.
after the game, the rest of your group of friends find you — eren, pieck, reiner, ymir, and historia — and sometimes, usually after a win, you all pile up into reiner’s pick up and head to his.
a high rise condominium that over looks the bustling life of the city, completed with high windows showcasing a panoramic, three sixty view of it all. you love reiner’s apartment because, while clearly a token of affluence and grandeur, it’s also lived in. there are frames of family photos hung along the walls in the foyer, pictures of scruffy art drawn in vivid crayolas and pastels made by his baby brother pinned to the fridge, a guest room dedicated just to him when he visits. it’s precious.
“ ‘m gonna fail my stats course,” you whimper into the palm of your hands when you’re all seated upon the balcony, reposed along the propane firepit. “ ‘ve aced the syllabus and first two lesson quizzes but there’s an exam coming up in a week and i’m,” you recognize it — the choke, that mass of your throat closing as it tries to somehow work in more oxygen come the influx of tears. “m-my gpa’s gonna drop — i don’t wanna go on academic p—“
“—chill, hey.”
“no, don’t cry.”
as annoying as they can be, all of your friends are ultimately good people. there’s a soothing rubbing on your back, a comforting hand on your shoulder, hair ruffle from no doubt reiner, and a big squeeze of a hug from eren. “stats?” historia’s questioning with a darling head tilt. “hmm . . — have you tried—“
“—‘ve tried everything.”
you’re falling back against the cushioned bench where you sit, crossing your legs atop of one another and dabbing the few pearls of tears that’ve glided themselves across your cheeks with the small pads of your fingers. “different note taking, studying methods, ‘m like . . burnt out.”
reiner takes a thick quaff of the beer he holds within one rough paw, eyes glancing up towards the glittering pellets of stars for a moment — as if they held an answer prior to lifting a shoulder, letting it drop, then retorting, “get a tutor.”
voices are overlapping before your response.
“oh, shit. yeah,” eren’s smiling — that boyishly handsome smile that achieves in placing all of his aligned, white teeth on display. “yeah. i had to get one when i took quantum physics.”
a tutor.
you have never needed a tutor. you don’t think you want a tutor. in a way, you suppose that it all kind of, cements it all — that you need help. that you aren’t as smart as you’d thought.
you want to simply mold yourself inside of the linen — ingrain your body within the weaving and take your stupid brain with you. “. . a tutor?”
slipping a cig from the inside of his pocket, eren places it between his lips in advance to leaning his face dangerously close to the fluttering flames of orange and gold and lighting it. mumbling around the stick, “yeah. i know a few people who do it for letters of recommendations from professors,” he inhales, holds it, and through a strained breath, concludes, “others, just because.”
“who’s the best?” you inquire. might as well. “like, in stats.”
“. . uh,” eyebrows furrow, green eyes lift. “. . connie?”
“no,” ymir rolls hers. “connie’s good for like, english lit and shit. he’s very articulate. go with armin — he’s a fucking genius in everything. especially math.”
armin.
the name sparks something — enters your ears, squeezes past your brain, and knocks along the walls of it. “armin uhm,” you nibble on your bottom lip, mind churning to remember a surname. “a-arlert? he’s blond?”
with the confirmation, you’re suddenly reminded of a familiar blond that sits within your lectures, always in the front row, far to the left.
“please be reminded that you do not only have me to come to for any questions, but also my ta, armin here,” first day of class, professor sullivan had gave a small chin raise his way. “he will not steer you wrong — top student currently here at the university, please take advantage.”
mikasa seems to perk up come the mention of a clearly familiar name, “oh god, yeah. armin’s so nice. yeah, ask him.”
you’d thought with their encouragements that you’d be able to actualize tough enough skin to walk up to the guy, ask for some help, and get it over with — nonetheless, at the end of the day, you’re just a girl with an insane amount of pride. you don’t need tutoring. you’ll be okay.
commence your exam grade being returned back to you — 68 / 100.
it’s a tuesday when you finally generate the guts. thankfully, you aren’t the only one who has questions for armin. there are two students ahead of you — a guy you recognize by the name of hayden, campus’ running back on the football team, and a girl, grace. hayden asks him a simple question, something about what’s going to be the main topic on the next exam and if it’ll be as long as the previous. come him stepping away, you see the shift in grace ahead of you.
she comes to a stop in front of his desk, and after placing her exam down upon it, inclines toward him with a small lean to gently question, “on question eight — uhm, i guess i’m just . . a little confused. can you tell me where i went wrong at?”
you come to realize that armin’s voice is gentle. there’s the occasional sound of a deep tenor when he says ‘did’ and ‘some,’ words with short vowels, however, he’s mostly quiet. you can’t really hear, nor see him, only grace. she gives an occasional nod, a quiet, long, drawn out ‘ ohhh ‘ and eventually, a small giggle when the conversation is apparently over. “okay, great. thanks. i’ll see you on thursday then.”
“same here.”
upon her exiting, and you replacing her spot at his desk, seemingly, about a feet on either side of him — there’s the scent of citron and ambertonic. you wouldn’t say there’s a cloud of it surrounding him, because in a case like that, you doubt you’d be able to breathe, nonetheless, it’s definitely there. it teeters a line of an aromatic wood; reminds you of those gossamery salt tinged breezes you feel at the beach, and you suppose, come being in his line of sight for the first time, that armin’s cologne . . suits him.
he’s . . handsome. he’s attractive. he’s . . . pretty — in a kind of . . all american, golden boy way.
tawny blond hair sits atop of his head in tufts, falling near midway of his ears with a, presumably, natural part in the middle. it’s a bit darker at the roots, a kind of light brown, however it’s natural, you can tell. he doesn’t dye. his skin tone is a bit on the lighter side — there’s a blush tinged along his knuckles and the tips of his ears. it’s autumn, nearing winter, that’s to be expected, albeit still, there resides a sort of . . flaxen glow within the undertone. he tans well in the summer, you can tell.
his eyebrows match his roots, they’re admittedly well groomed. thin framed, gold matte, polygon framed glasses shield long eyelashes — and those border pools of beautiful, ocean blue. they catch you immediately, your eyes feel pinned to them due to the fact . . they aren’t necessarily an unsettling shade of blue — they teeter the shade of . . ultramarine? there are peppers of baby blue near his pupils, but, they’re . . pretty. the type of blue found only in jewels buried within the ocean floors of fiji and moorea.
“hey.” he gives a small smile, it’s polite, warm.
“hi,” you rub your lips together, quickly averting your eyes downwards — they find the chain he wears . . a simple curb chain, made of silver? white gold, maybe? it stands out against the starking white hoodie he wears, looks to be bleached by the gods. “uhm, i’m ( ❤︎ ). i heard that . . you tutor?”
he’s closing a binder, his laptop, and standing while you talk.
oh.
okay, he’s taller than you thought. for so many days, you’ve only seen him from afar, never thought he looked any taller than six feet at most, albeit, up close, he graces the line of at least six three. “oh, uh, yeah. did you fail the exam?” his eyes are . . concerned. he packs his backpack slowly, a plain, black moncler, wow, all while keeping his attention on you.
you want to wince at that word. fail. you’re close to doing so. you know it. “uh,” you hesitate, finding interest in your nail when it finds a divot in the desk beside your thigh. “i got a D.”
he doesn’t flinch away or give a sympathetic coo, only a quiet, “huh,” underneath his breath. “okay, sure, yeah,” he swings his bag over a single shoulder and pockets his phone within the one of his hoodie. “i’ll tutor you. we can start . . tomorrow? at the library? around,” he looks up, rolls those pretty, blue eyes skywards towards the high ceilings of the classroom and clicks his tongue against the fine porcelain of his teeth. “four?”
you feel relieved. your shoulders fall forwards as you both begin the trek towards the door. “yes. thank you,” oddly, you feel as though you want to cry. “i appreciate it.”
“no worries,” another warm smile, then a large hand is held up as a goodbye. “i’ll see you tomorrow then.”
wednesdays are always kind of a busy day for you. you have your microbiology lecture at ten am, and come it ending at twelve thirty, anthropology begins at one. there’s little to no time to go back to your dorm and change in preparedness for your first tutoring session because by three fifty eight, after leaving your lecture and stopping near the dining hall for a quick meal, you realize that you’re going to be late.
winsome university’s library sits on its own acre of land across the campus. it’s labeled something akin to the state’s pride and joy — was built by the founder of it and all. half of the money donated towards the school is to upkeep the library and add improvements when necessary.
admittedly, the building is gorgeous. rustic and sylvan-like — the inside of the five story high structure houses eighty thousand books, an entire level of study rooms, and two computer labs. you have only ever been a few times — twice with mikasa, once by yourself. within a distant part of your mind, you wonder why. it’s a pretty place, a quiet place. you adore it — think it’ll act as a nice change of scenery when studying. upon first entry, there’s a hushed stillness settled over the interior, save for the occasional low murmur and cough. the wicker platform of your sandals click against the buffed chateau flooring as you slowly walk, head on swivel, searching for a familiar mop of blond hair.
amidst finding him, huddled in his own, little corner on the second floor, at a desk between a shelf of autobiographies, you tap your fingers upon the wood to alert him of your arrival.
he looks up at you while pulling an airpod from his ear, giving a sort of quick scan of your face in efforts to recognize you prior to smiling, “hey,” he quietly murmurs. collecting a few books and folders that are scattered along the surface of the desk, armin soon closes and gathers them in a stack beside his expanded macbook to make room for your backpack and ipad. “sorry. i realized when i got here that . . i didn’t tell you where to meet me.”
you shake your head, “it’s okay. i found you.”
when you take a seat adjacent from him, you find yourself reimmersed within the intimate, salt tinged breeze of his cologne again. it drains your brain a little empty. “uhm,” when your ipad is opened onto a blank doc, pencil in hand, you look at him. “i . . dunno . . even where to begin.”
taking hold of the top and bottom of his frames with one hand, armin pushes his glasses a bit higher up on his nosebridge, “shit, yeah, well,” he licks his lips. “she’s started on chapter three right? frequency distributions? you . . do you get that part?”
you pause on your rejoinder. your automatic response is ‘yes,’ be that as it may, you’d only lie. big and blue, his eyes are expectant, though they don’t judge. when you quietly shake your head, he doesn’t sigh or suck his teeth, only nods and opens a notebook to a fresh page to begin to sketch a few things. “well,” he utters. “statistics’ just . . all about data, right? uhm, collecting it, reading it, drawing conclusions from it. a lot of it is taught so that we’ll have the proper methods on how to conduct research and employ the correct analyses. what do you major in?”
“pharmacology,” you reply, thumbing with the silicone nub of your pencil. “minor in ethics.”
beneath his glasses, still writing, he looks up at you, “hm,” he mumbles. “mkay,” armin looks back down. “interesting.”
his reaction . . is unreadable. it stumps you. “what do you major in?”
“petroleum engineering with a minor in communications and a foreign language.”
wow.
blinking, you quietly hum, “you must make your parents really proud.”
he scoffs a bit . . then he smiles. it’s a big grin — the biggest you’ve ever seen. it pushes charming dimples into his cheeks an inch away from deep smile lines. “ah,” he chuckles. “you’ve no idea. but,” insert a shrug, a blasé one. it says ‘eh, what can you do?’ “thankfully, i actually do love the subject, so . . can’t feel too bad for myself.”
with the intention of only warming your brain up, armin introduces a practice question to you.
‘ Data from a sample of 10 pharmacies are used to examine the relation between prescription sales volume and percentage of prescription ingredients purchased directly from the supplier. The sample data are shown below. ‘
“starting off simple, i want you to find the mean of the sales volume.”
easy enough, you think. you can do that.
as you work, the table falls quiet. armin watches you, moreso, your fingers — he needs to make sure you’re following the correct procedure. or at least, he’s supposed to. you’re distracting him. your handwriting is quite lovely as you scribble along the doc of your ipad and his eyes linger on how you hold the pencil — nails are layered with acrylic . . long and square. they’re nude based with pastel designs and pretty, gold charms. he trails them up your wrist wear a few bangles sway from, to your shoulder, your neck . . .
hm.
. . you’re actually quite pretty.
you’re very fucking pretty.
“like that?”
your eyes are wide, when they look up into his — oases of mahogany. you’re standing on pins and needles, aching for his approval.
“can i see?” armin turns the pad his way and double checks your work. “. . yeah,” gently, he begins to nod. “yeah. good work. now, do the same for the ingredients purchased directly.”
complying, from then on, step by step, he instructs you on how to properly plot the residuals. he gives you another question after that, and another, and then two more. by six o’clock, you find yourself heavy eyed. the library closes at seven. warm, dim lights are now illuminated throughout the aisles and the green visored lamp that sits upon the desk you both work scrawled atop of had been lighted by armin almost an hour ago. “thank you,” you’re softly saying as you pack your bag. you feel a little more confident in your skills — not completely A+ worthy, nonetheless, some progress was made. “i understand like, half of chapter two now.”
he’s simpering while packing his own bag, “nice. cool. you’re really not that bad at it. i think you make it harder when you double back on things just because they don’t seem right — most of the time they are.”
he’s correct. you’re just not sure of how to resolve that fickle way of thinking. “thank you, armin.”
when you’re both outside, you find yourselves cloaked within the darkness, a moon, and her millions of children. under silver rays armin’s hair lightens to platinum. you take a look at him again while he has his phone pulled in close to his face, shooting a text to someone.
he’s disgustingly handsome.
how haven’t you noticed him before?
“do you need a ride home?” he points in the vague direction of two cars — a simple, grey honda civic beside a metallic blue bmw i5. no need to wonder which is his.
you gather enough willpower to take a step back, towards the direction you came. “oh . . no,” you shake your head and your island twists move along with it. “i live on campus. it’s not a far walk.”
he looks past you, in the direction of the university’s main grounds. you’d have to walk along the twisted, lengthy pathway between here and there to get to it, past the main, lecture halls, and the dining hall, to enter the dorm buildings. his eyes squint a bit, eyebrows gather in close, and lip curls as he sucks his teeth — it’s a cute face. “that’s a long walk . . at least twenty minutes.”
“i need to get my steps in.”
“it’s cold.”
“i have a sweater.”
arminfinds himself at a loss, you have him absolutely stuck. he wants to be demanding — say something like, ‘( ❤︎ ), just get in the car,’ however, when regarding the state of the world today, he’s aware of what he’d look like. he would never. he wants you to feel and know that you have a choice, in everything. albeit, in spite of this, his mother raised a gentleman. he isn’t going to feel right, driving home, knowing you’re out here walking alone. “mm.”
you read the obvious frustration slathered across the soft slopes of his face. it’s an interesting thing — to see features like his harden and inure.
“hm,” you turn your head over your shoulder to gauge the distance once more. it is a long walk. “i think . .” a step back towards his way. “i’ll jus’ go ahead and take the ride, actually.”
he leads you towards his car, using a keyless remote to open the doors with a small ‘ beep! ‘ he’s smiling, you realize, a small thing paired with a head shake as he opens the passenger door, allowing you to slip in against cool, leather seating.
you have tutoring sessions at the library with armin twice a week — early evenings on wednesdays and late mornings on fridays. he’s helpful, he’s kind. with his methods, you pass your next exam with a lustrous B+, and for the first time in a long time, your pending future doesn’t loom over your head bordered by an infernal grey cloud full of disappointment and failures.
there isn’t a word to really describe how the two of you interact during the sessions — it’s all very . . formal. he demonstrates a math problem — muttering quiet and slow, and attentively, you listen. on more lazy days, days where your mind is churning just a bit more idle than normal, still traced with the sluggish residues of sleep, you like to admire him. today’s one of those days — because armin’s charming, he smells good, and upon a few accidental grazes, you’ve come to find that his skin is as soft as it looks, too.
“so,” he’s different today. behind his glasses, rings of mauve underline the skin beneath his eye sockets. his chin is rested within the divot of his palm and, almost idly, a finger traces the shape of his lips as he mumbles, “you gotta remember this formula — memorize it for me. the probability of success equals,” his voice breaks off in a yawn. he turns his head away, using a fist to cover it as he does.
you can’t help but yawn too.
“shit, sorry,” he smiles, sniffs, and shakes his head quickly as if to shake the drowsiness off. “uh . . the probability—“
“—n equals the number of trials. r is the number of successes during the trial. and p is the probability . . of success on a given trial.”
his eyes twinkle something akin to delight when he looks at you, “good,” he whispers. “very good.”
unable to help it, you let your upper body fall and with it, your head follows until it plops onto your folded arms, “ ‘m sleepy, armin,” you tenderly say. you’re hoping that this session could be cut short. you’ll see him again on wednesday. the two of you can cram some of this lesson into it to fall back on track. “i need a nap.”
“you need to learn this, though,” he’s tracing his lips again, absentmindedly. you wish he’d stop. “it’s gonna take us a while to get back on course.”
“but ‘m tired.”
“so?”
“you look tired, too.”
“don’t be a hellion.”
you’re giggling before you can help it, covering your bright smile with a couple fingers, “. . a what?”
he’s smirking and shaking his head, eyes focused out towards the large, arch shaped, stained glass window ahead of you both, “a . . minx. pirralho,” his smirk widens into a grin. “a brat.”
you bristle with taken ignominy. “ ‘m not,” your voice doesn’t display your true emotions. it’s quiet, a mere grumble. “i’m not a brat.”
he closes a text book with a firm thump, “wanna go grab a coffee?” he’s already shoving binders into his pack. “there’s a uh . . cafe a few blocks down. they’re really good.”
oddly, your heart skips a beat . . and in that same moment, you feel its speed pick up. you’re lifting yourself up slowly, “a coffee?”
“yeah,” he’s waiting for you. “c’mon.”
the cozy kettle is a little hole in the wall a mile out from the university. it’s sweetly nuzzled between a thrift shop and record store and upon first glance, nothing stands out to you. there’s a sign outside of it and written in pastel colored chalk on it are the specials, however, that’s about it. it’s sort of a shame though, because the interior is unlike anything you’ve ever seen before.
similar to how it looks from outside, it’s small, nonetheless welcoming, pleasant. there’s the smell of roasted cocoa beans and marshmallows, the sound of mellow piano keys and boiling water. the decor is homely. there are cushioned seats, a sofa, framed photos of customers, and precious, porcelain figurines. strangely, you want to cry again. you adore places like these. you can see why armin gravitated towards it.
he fits right in with his cream, cable knit sweater, tattered blue jeans, and warm, blond hair. “hey dré,” he greets the cashier by name and looks towards you first. “need a second?”
the menu is . . extensive. your eyes tremble, darting from left to right while you try to figure out what you wanted. “uhmm . . n-no, uh, just a dalgona coffee.” you’ve always wanted to try one.
he’s humming, leaning towards you on the tips of his toes, “that’s it?” he asks softly, eyes low yet inquiring. “are you sure?”
you give a nod, he squints them prior to turning back towards the register, “large dalgona coffee, please, with a large strawberry matcha latte, honey cruller, and strawberry cruller.”
after your order is taken, armin pays, and leads you up a short, spiral staircase whose landing opens into a small dining area. it overlooks the lower half of the cafe. “this is so . .” you try to find the words as you both take a seat within a little nook. it’s a plush bench, inserted within a window. you can see the busy avenue ahead and his car parked in front. “cute.”
his irises glimmer with mirth, “yeah,” he nods and takes a quick look around himself — as if he were trying to view it from your perspective. “it is very cute. i found this place a couple months back, it’s quaint.”
“mhmm.”
with a new bout of silence, you find yourself nervously picking at a loose thread of your thermal tights. other than the occasional ride back to your dorm, and of course, the ride here, armin and you are hardly ever . . truly alone. there are always other students around you both, other professors, other distractions. you have nothing to do but gaze out of the window. you don’t want to touch your phone, ‘cause that’d be rude, right? yeah.
“uhm,” armin speaks up and you’re hooked on his words, instantly, giving him your undivided attention. “so, is stats the only class you need help in?”
you pause for a moment to think about the question, “. . kind of, yeah. i mean, ‘m taking microbiology, anthropology, and an elective, too — ceramics. they’re challenging however, i get the gist of them,” abstractly, you find yourself twisting a curl that’d been threaded into one of your island twists around one of your fingers. “stats is . . . yeah,” you breathe out with a small smile. “the only class so far where i really struggle.”
armin listens to you. his eyes are pinned on yours and refuse to move anywhere else, despite you breaking the contact multiple times to look down or away.
“well,” he has his hands resting against his knees, and he sits . . comfortably — back against the window, legs agape. “as i said before, you’re getting pretty good at it.”
“ ‘m not a natural at it,” the thought makes you pout a little bit. “not like you.”
he smiles again. you feel your palms getting a little sweaty. “nah, nah,” he shakes his head. “not a natural.”
you roll your eyes, “don’t be coy, armin.”
he’s quiet, “. . . alright. maybe.”
when you release a small groan, he laughs — it’s a boyish thing. he inhales hard between each cute cackle.
“you’re so smart,” you hum with a small smile, looking back out towards the street. “i wish it was natural for me. i have to study, like . . all day, everyday. it’s so tiring.”
“hm, you’re intelligent, ( ❤︎ ).”
when you make a face — lift your eyebrows and purse your lips, it says ‘ yeah, right. ‘ armin nudges at your knee so you’d look at him when he says, “you are.”
you don’t agree, nonetheless, you won’t disagree with him. crossing a leg over the other, another silence ensues. if you decide to be honest with yourself, they’re painful. you kind of ache . . . to know more about him, to listen to him speak again, and laugh, and smile at you. “you don’t live on campus?”
he shakes his head, the soft tufts of his hair follow with him, “no. i have a loft, about . . ten minutes away.”
“oh.”
“yeah,” armin turns himself more toward you. “so, uh, tell me . . about your parents. are they cool?”
armin listens to you while you talk, he does, really. however, he can’t be too sure that he actually retains a lot of what you say because his mind is fucking . . fogged. it’s clouded with you. he quietly admires the softness of your brown skin, the way the long wispies of your eyelashes flutter as you blink a few times, trying to remember things, how your lips pout out sometimes around certain words — you’re a fucking enigma.
a paradox difficult for him to figure out.
or maybe, you just tangle his feelings and thoughts together and — that doesn’t happen much. it’s a skill he’s mastered a long time ago with the help of his father, to never let his emotions get in the way of doing things that had to be done, disregarding the person or situation.
armin’s been sure that it’s simple attraction. it’s dwelled and has started eating at him since your second session together. and he’s thought of people as pretty before. he’s wine and dined before, has fucked only three girls in his lifetime so far, albeit, none of them have ever sparked the sentiments he’s been inwardly battling for nearly a month now, except for you.
he thinks now that this is . . a crush. he isn’t sure if he likes it. it’s too much. he feels too much, thinks too much.
“what about you?” he’s tuning back in when you give him a polite smile. “are your parents cool?”
“oh . .” he shrugs. “yeah. they’re nice. they’re . . old.”
“they’re old?” you’re giggling again.
he smiles. he likes the sound of it. “yeah, m’dad is like . . fifty eight. mom’s fifty five. they’ve been together for thirty five years now. was an arranged marriage type deal but, they actually liked one another.”
“do you have siblings?”
armin shakes his head, “no, ‘s jus me. i have dogs though,” he’s states. “had them since middle school.”
a barista is setting your drinks and crullers down on the small table in front of you soon after. they all appear so tempting. you and armin give your thanks and as you take a teaspoon of the coffee froth toppled atop of your own drink, you take a look at armin’s.
there’s pink near the bottom of his glass cup and it fades into a sweet gradient of green from nearly half of it on up. “here,” after he takes a sip, he pushes his glasses up higher upon his nose and brings the plate of crullers closer between you both. “have you ever tried one?”
you nod slowly, “years a long time ago though.”
the crullers are both golden brown. the honey cruller is glazed with syrup and dusted with powdered sugar, however the strawberry one is more of a pastry. there are two of them stacked on top of one another with whipped cream layered in the middle. “ ‘ll just . .” armin takes a butter knife, and carefully, he cuts the first one in half, followed by the strawberry. “there you go.”
you watch, amazed, how he pops his half of the honey cruller inside of his mouth and begins to slowly chew.
by no means was it a little piece, both desserts are about the size of his own fist. “y’just gotta . .” he’s smirking while he chomps. “go for it. tastes even better that way.”
you try to do what he does — only fit half of it inside and sticky sugar smears along the corner of your lips. unleashing a small sound of disappointment, you take a napkin to dab it away.
“ ‘s good, no?”
“it’s yummy.” it is. the texture’s heavenly.
you notice that he eats the strawberry cruller more slowly — bites half of it, lazily chews, swallows, then finishes it. marveling the tincture of his drink again, you soon sweetly denote, “you like strawberries.”
there’s the pink of his tongue, swift, it peeks past his lips so that he’s able to rid them of specks of sugar. “hm? you can tell?” he's chewing on the inside of his cheek — the motion of it causes the dimple in his cheek facing you to play peek a boo. “yeah, they’re m’favorite fruit. an uh,” he huffs a small laugh here and thumbs with his glass. “a family friend, she owns a strawberry farm. i go there every spring . . she lets me pick like, a freaking boatload of ‘em. i ship ‘em here to m’loft.”
“yeah?” you’re simpering. you try to picture it — a more tanned armin, crouched and picking through bushes for the most plump, most ripe berry with sweat beads dotted along the margin of his forehead. “that sounds so nice.”
“it is. you should come this spring.”
unheedingly, your spine straightens. ‘ this spring. ‘ the sun, the greenery, a strawberry farm, armin in tees and short sleeved garments. your cheeks swelter, your heart blooms. “uhm,” you revert your attention back outside of the window. you hope your smile isn’t too wide. “yeah. that’d be swell.”
you don’t really know how it happens.
armin remains your tutor for the rest of the semester. four days and nearly eight hours a week spent around one another — it is no secret to yourself that what little attraction you’d felt towards the boy at the start evolves into something more . . a feeling more ample and vast than you could have ever imagined. on friday afternoons, after your tutoring lesson is over, you both frequent the cozy kettle. you order your dalgona coffee, he grabs his strawberry matcha latte — contrarily, never the same pastries. there are the yummy macarons, iced with little faces of bear cubs in buttercream, moist banana breads, and sweet strawberry tarts. and over these delicacies, what are seconds spiral into minutes, and what are minutes, hours. you immerse yourself within a boy — a sweet boy. you learn about his favorite color ( cornflower blue ), his favorite foods ( creamy tomato prawn pasta and smoked salmon sandwiches, toasted bread preferably ), what his hobbies are ( chess, painting, and . . wood carving ?! ) , what he enjoys doing when not focused on his schooling ( sleep, taking walks within the city ).
armin arlert is beautiful, you discover. he’s beautiful inside and out, starting from the few, dark moles that pepper the back and sides of his neck to the childhood scar that runs vertically across the top of his right foot ( showed you one day while you both sat on the sun warmed grass of the quad . . learned a lesson to not run with scissors after that anymore ). he interweaves himself within your life until he’s nearly all you think about, every single day.
your friends notice. they’d all explained that they knew armin from way back — the group of them attended the same high school, therefore, it was no question as to how they were aware just how far his intelligence ran and why they recommended him to you as a tutor, all’d shared a class with him at one point. nonetheless, come college, armim’d gravitated and became more close with connie and jean. and while he wasn’t as tight with the others as you were, it didn’t stop the rest from light teasing. never in front of him, only towards you.
you’d never felt your face so warm. “it’s cute,” mikasa had smirked at you one night while giving a slight nudge toward your shoulder with her own. “it . . works. can’t say ‘m too surprised.”
then january came — a new semester, new classes.
you aced your statistics course and what few classes you needed left to receive your degree were all quite simple. near the beginning, four meet ups with armin a week dwindled into three, and then two. you were busy with classes. he was busy with his thesis — it made sense. however, what became a week of not seeing one another, soon progressed into two without even texting one another. you don’t know how it happened, really, however, by april, you and him were basically . . . strangers once more.
it hurt. if you decide to be honest with yourself, it still hurts. you barely see him around campus, he’s hardly ever in the library anymore, and during, admittedly, desperate attempts to run into him at the cozy kettle you’re never successful because, according to dre, ‘ you just missed him ‘ or ‘ he hasn’t stopped by in a while. ‘
blond hair now sends a frigid chill down your spine. you smell a familiar cologne and the disconcerting sting of viscid tears boil the surface of your eyes. you wished you were able to just . . forget. redact his name from the fissures of your mind and bowdlerize the feeling his name evokes when you hear it from inside of your heart.
and mikasa knows you best. she knows you better than anybody, at times, even yourself.
you need to escape the prison of your dorm, go out, socialize, hopefully find a new person, even if just temporarily, to occupy your time and mind. and you agree. why not? jean has some yacht party he’s throwing. a farewell before spring break and, you like jean. he’s polite, he’s funny, he’s kind. you’re aware of what this can entail, however — jean being one of armin’s closest friends and all, there’s a high chance he could be attending and you think it’s this simple regard that has you tunneling yourself within the furthest pits of your closest to produce your most shortest and skimpiest two piece set.
berry blue, the top is to only be held up by a thin string tied at the back of your neck and another around the mid section of your back. the neckline follows more of a cowl style, however, cinches tight in the middle, accentuating your tits. the flowy excess fabric of the skirt skims the tops of your thighs, inches above your knees. it’s . . a lot. it’s . . just what you need.
everyone on the yacht appears to follow your lead, because you end up not being the only one to go for something so flimsy.
the ship pushes off from the dock when the sun is hung high within the sky — it’s thronged with people, lots you recognize from your classes, from bow to stern. on the upper deck are four, bass boosted, five foot surround sound speaker towers. they stand beside the dj who shouts at the crowd below on a mic. “this is fucking insane,” mikasa’s giggling behind a meticulously manicured hand. the two of you stand beside the main deck aft’s bar. she nurses a pink tinted drink within the other, however you can’t find the energy to remember the name. your eyes are shifting, from here to there, in search for one, tall, blue eyed, dimple cheeked, horribly handsome boy. “i think jean fuckin’ outdid himself with this one.”
“well,” you reach for her hand to bring her drink closer between you two. lowering your head, you wrap your lips around a thin, black straw and take a long sip. sweet, tart, bitter. “he’s graduating next month. might as well.”
“mmm, where have you been?” there are arms being draped along your shoulders before you can as much as so blink — heavy ones, buff ones. you have to feel a small smooch on your temple and the scruff of a beard to know who it is.
“reiner,” you whine and push back against him to let his arms fall. “my hair.”
with reiner comes eren, ymir, and historia.
the blond in front of you is shirtless. he wears nothing but black swim trunks, printed with a designer’s name all over in abstract. “i apologize,” he’s smirking and reaching a hand out to help you fix a curl out of place, albeit, is not surprised to get a quick swat on the knuckles within the same second of doing so. “got excited. haven’t seen you in like, three weeks, no?”
maybe you were more depressed than you’d thought. “i know,” involuntarily, you’re pouting. you’ve missed him too, you’ve missed them all. “been busy . . studying for finals and stuff.”
“mhm. been okay, right?” he’s concerned, tilting his head, waiting until you give him a sweet nod. “okay, good. need to make sure. you know my parents have been asking about you.”
you’re brightening up come the mention of them — how sweet the brauns are, you can’t help but smile. “really? what they say?”
“want you and everyone over for dinner again, especially you,” the golds of his eyes are slyly rolling. “some . . - something about your major. they like learning about it, hearing you talk about it. i don’t fuckin’ know.”
once the opportunity reveals itself, you’re pushing at one, tough, broad shoulder, “ugh, jealous much?” the brauns are sweet. his mother bakes the sweetest pumpkin pies and his dad is entertaining — has a thousand stories about his younger days working in the mines. you wouldn’t mind another dinner with them, not at all.
reiner entertains you for the time being, “mm, you can’t imagine how much.”
it’s nearly ten minutes of you chatting with reiner before you feel it — it’s a subconscious thing at first. there’s the sensation of a bug crawling across your shoulder. it startles you, nonetheless, without breaking eye contact with reiner, you quickly reach and rub it away. but, there it is again, this time, on your neck. you swat at it irritably, glossed lips pulling downwards into a frown. by the third time, you’re flinching and huffing, swiftly turning on your heels and holding your hair to one side to grant him a more extensive view, “can you check if there’s a bug on me, please?”
while reiner’s humming, eyes scanning your back, you look up, catching the familiar blues of someone’s across the ship.
unwittingly, your body pulls taut.
you’d wanted to see him first before he saw you, gather some conviction, some tenacity, be that as it may, it’s clear he’s been watching you for a while.
his eyes don’t hold the same kindliness as they once did. while they used to remind you of sweltering summers spent in palau, of fine sapphires and calm seas — from nearly forty feet away, you can view the hidden lividity that dances within them. calm seas are now raging waters. sapphires roast within an inferno. they’re set on you, unmoving, even while the bodies between you both shift and sway this way and that, he remains where he is. nevertheless of connie saying something to him, leaned in close to his ear so that he can hear, armin’s clearly not listening.
you snap your eyes away quickly.
turning back to reiner, you await for him to give you an all good before you’re slipping away, from everyone, and everything. you head to the bow of the boat. you’re pleading with the stars, begging for them to not have him follow you — you need to breathe for a moment, replay that meager interaction back a dozen times in your brain to dissect and figure out what’d just transpired. but, it’s clear the universe is out for blood today. you hear footsteps, they’re steady, firm — they make you walk faster.
there’s a teeth suck, an annoyed sigh.
he doesn’t say anything though, not until you’re both alone, at the front of the boat . . away from brain rattling music, loud laughter, loud splashes, and squeals. you take a seat within the sunken area meant for accommodation — arms folded, back straightened, you refuse to look at him.
armin plops himself down nearly three seats away from you and through your peripheral, you watch his head tilt back as he downs the rest of his drink. it falls back forward as he swallows and places the glass down on the floor between his feet. your knee is bouncing — you hadn’t even realized.
“i don’t . .” his voice is low, quiet. you try not to react to it — try so hard not to melt within his lap and sob. “i don’t think i . . really know what to say . . . where to begin.”
your response is simple, “mm.”
armin turns his head, fixing you with a stare of incredulity. he tries not to focus too much on your dolled up face . . how you’ve taken your braids out which now leaves tightly coiled curls resting a few inches past your shoulders — half of it is pulled into a ponytail with a small, pretty, glitter dusted scrunchie. he doesn’t want to focus too much on your attire — jesus fucking christ, just what were you doing?”. . . reiner?”
eventually, you look at him. your expression crosses a line between bewilderment and irritation, “what?” you mimic his same tone. whether it was done intentionally or not, armin doesn’t know but his own aggravation rises.
turning his face back forward, he then folds his arms and leans back within his seat, “would’ve thought eren was more your type,” he utters. “or . . fuckin’ jean, i don’t know.”
“what are you even talking about?” your tone is exasperated, you plop your face within your hand and shake your head, visibly annoyed. armin refuses to elaborate. the longer silence stretches, the angrier you become. “why . . do you even care?” your body’s straightening once more and again, you look at him. “like, what the hell is your problem, armin? seriously?”
his hair has gotten longer. it isn’t a drastic change, but . . still. and the earrings he wears are no longer white gold and round cut however, black, square cut diamonds. you weren’t supposed to look at him for so long. you find it hard to look away now. “don’t do that,” his face is screwing — morphing annoyance into a meld of discomfiture and vexation. “don’t sit here and . . .”
you remain mute, waiting for him to finish though he never does. he only tilts himself back forward and places his elbows on his thighs to reach up and comb a hand through his hair. his sigh is quiet. “. . i’m sorry,” he murmurs.
you hadn’t expected an apology, truthfully. it stupefies you.
you aren’t sure of what to say. to forgive or apologize, too. there’s no reason you need to do either, you suppose. he’s apologizing because he sees you, that’s all. he’s had your number for months now. he could have easily called, or even texted, albeit . . nothing. for nearly eight weeks, it’s been nothing from armin. complete radio silence. and now he’s here . . . it’s insane how bad you’ve wanted to see him for so long, although, now being within his presence, you want nothing more than to leave. “whatever.” you’re standing and beginning up the short flight of stares to head back towards the stern, however, armin’s right behind you again. he intercepts your path, holding an arm out between you both to keep you from taking another step.
“i’m . .” he’s confused. “i’m sorry. i apologized.”
your folded arms acts more as a fence separating you and him, rather than an action to exhibit your huffiness, “good for you, armin. i don’t forgive you.”
he doesn’t seem surprised. “you don’t forgive me.” his voice is low — not a sad low, however, he’s contemplating . . studying you.
“i don’t. i want to go back to my friends.”
he’s motionless . . and he’s quiet. behind his specs, armin simply stares at you for a moment, tracing the shape of his lips slowly — the same way he always does when he’s evaluating or ruminating on something. you feel like a literal open book. it’s a feeling of excruciating bareness. “come with me.” grabbing hold of your hand, armin interlaces his fingers within the spaces of yours while leading you behind him. he walks swiftly — a step of his takes two of yours, and in no time, you’re stumbling after him, holding onto his forearm with your other hand. “armin — c-can you not?”
he’s leading you down to the dining space of the yacht. there are a few people dotted here and there — most of them using the space for shelter against a beaming sun. he ignores them, so you do, too. a short flight of stairs below the dining area opens into a short hallway concealed by a door. he opens it, turns right, opens another, then softly nudges you inside first. it’s a bedroom. it’s minimalistic — only a queen sized bed, a few pieces of art hung along the walls and a comfy sectional, however, still . . it’s quite nice. there are two, rectangular windows that over looks the right side of the yacht. the room sits about a foot or two below the sun deck it seems because you can see people below you.
“i find that people usually enjoy saying what and how they really feel when in an enclosed space. when alone outside, you’re never truly alone.”
armin stands beside the sectional, hands on his hips. it appears as though he’s waiting.
you remain rooted beside the window. “. . i have nothing to say.”
“no?”
you look back out towards the sea, “yeah, no.”
he’s walking over . . steps deliberate, quiet. you’re stiffening the closer he gets because you know what he wears. black swimming trunks, and a thin, black button down top — only a few of them were fastened near his sternum. when he’s directly behind you, you sense the warmth of the sun, still embedded within his skin, radiating off of it onto yours. he’s close, he’s very close, albeit, he isn’t touching you . . simply, crowds your space. “. . i’ve missed you.”
your head drops and your eyes close as you rub a temple. “you’re so mean. you’re being mean.”
“ ‘m sorry.”
“stop it, armin.”
“. . i’ll leave.”
when you feel the warmth of his body retreat, you’re turning, “why would you — . . stop it, armin,” before you can really realize it, your fists are balling, you’re stomping a foot, and you’re exploding, “why did you do that? you jus’ . . stopped talking to me, stopped . . dealing with me. who does that to a person? to a friend?” you’d started off strong — voice firm and adamant, however, it weakens near the end; leaves you quiet and feeble. “that’s not . . nice, armin. that’s mean. you’re mean. you can’t keep saying sorry if you don’t even know what you’re sorry for.”
armin loathes this. he loathes what you make him feel. he sees the beginning of tears glisten your eyes and he’s walking over to take a seat on the bed and carefully pull you between his legs consequently leaving you to stand above him. albeit it’s only an inch or so separating your faces, it’s still good enough. he wants you to look at him. “i fucked up,” he admits quietly. “at first, i was busy . . i was just busy, ( ❤︎ ), honest.”
“and then what?”
you’re frowning again. armin crumbles underneath your stare. you don’t know what you do to him — what you continue to do. groaning out, he drops his head, “i just . . i can’t . . i couldn’t be around you.”
he feels you withdrawing. thoughtlessly, his hands are on your waist and he’s tugging you back, “i needed to focus,” he mumbles. “when i’m around you, i don’t focus. it’s very fucking hard for me to even concentrate on breathing when i’m with you. i didn’t . . want it to go like that. i just needed some time, but then, a week turned into two and by three i thought,” he rubs the back of his neck. “you’d be angry with me. i just, i never grew the balls to approach you head on until today. i’m sorry.”
he feels pathetic. utterly fucking pathetic. when it’s said out loud, he realizes just how much of a dick he truly is. he found himself thinking of you, every second of every day. it’d gotten to a point where he’d even dream of you — your smile, your lips, your touch. “i’m sorry,” he’s sighing and pulling you closer. “i shouldn’t have done it. forgive me.”
you’re not as tense as you once were. granted, you’re still refusing to touch him — you aren’t pulling away either. and with a ticking silence, armin admires his current position. you smell of brown sugar and patchouli, and you’re soft. he opens his legs wider, pulls you even closer. you sharply inhale comes his grip on you tightening. “armin,” your tone is hushed. he can’t help it. softly, he deposits a kiss upon your tummy, right above the gold bar of your dangling navel piercing. “i’m sorry,” he whispers against your skin. he engraves the apology within you alongside another kiss — this one upon the mole he’d always catch a peek of when you’d wear cute baby tees and cropped tops. it sits right upon your hip. “ ‘m sorry.”
he goes higher. kisses each of your bone of your ribs, your sternum. he feels you squirming, however, it isn’t away. you push into him — lean when he pulls away and tugs when he’s close. “let me show you.”
a hand skims down your thigh — it raises small bumps in its wake. you feel yourself trembling as he takes the back of your knee and makes you bend it to plant your foot upon the bed, slow and careful. “won’t happen again, i promise,” his eyes are fixated upon yours as he falls to the floor upon his knees. they don’t move, even as he kisses along your calf, pushing himself higher with each passing second.
your heart’s pounding. you let the small shoulder bag you wear fall off of your arm when he reaches for it and places upon a nightstand. tension cascades off of the walls of the room — slow and thick. you no longer hear the constant thump of bass outside, but each shallow, quivering breath he takes. it’s maddening how unhurried he is — you can tell he feels your frustration, because he smiles, dimples exposed. “you smell so fucking good,” he utters within the inside of your thigh, stunning you when he suddenly kisses a patch of skin there, nibbles, then draws it tight inside his mouth. it’s . . impressive — how quick he marks you. “all the time. everyday.”
higher he goes and the more you tremble.
his whisper is quiet, “stay still.”
majority of his face is now hidden beneath the chiffon of your skirt. you think you’re going to faint. there’s the sensation of a finger, one single finger, booking within the crotch of your panties . . carefully pulling them aside. you whimper, suddenly apprehensive, “a-armin.”
“there we go.”
a couple more kisses against your thigh, then he’s pulling you closer. you’re a second away from bolting — leg twitching, eyes locked upon the door. your nails are pinching within your own knee as you go to move, right as you feel the warmth . . of something firm, wet, and long, touching your clit.
you dissolve — eyes closing, face melting, as he does it again with a wet pucker — he’s . . kissing it. slow and deliberate. “oh my,” you gulp when he does. “. . god.”
armin’s slow . . careful. he pays attention to your clit, beckoning the little, wet pearl inside of his mouth to sweetly suckle before snaking his tongue down to your hole to get a taste from the direct source. you’re sweet, salty . . akin to rose water. he breathes out through his nose — a sigh of gentle relief because you taste just as good as you look, just as he’d imagined for so many lonely nights, lying in bed, fist wrapped around his cock that’d drip with an obscene amount of pre cum and lube. “dreamt of this,” he mutters into your pussy, suddenly grabbing a handful of one soft, plush orb of your ass to bring you even closer. “sweet fuckin’ pussy — god, give it. give me it, baby.”
you weakly sob his name, reaching a trembling hand for his head. soothingly, your fingers scratch through, soft and cloying, as if you were afraid you’d hurt him, prior to you establishing a grip. “mhm.” he presses himself higher, opens wider, strokes his tongue along the canvas past your lips, no longer paying attention to one, sole place. your hips shyly buck when he pushes.
“oh, god,” you sigh and let your head fall backward, body liquefying within his hold. he feels so good. his tongue, his touch, it churns your mind into goo. “armin,” you mewl his name, sweet and quiet. “ ‘min it feels so g-good.”
you don’t know how long he’s waited. how long he’s envisioned himself between your legs . . you using his mouth for however long you needed, however long you wanted. he feels your hips beginning to move with more assuredness, rolling and rocking down onto his awaited tongue, and his cock plumpens. it solidifies, twitching against the muscle of his thigh. “unh,” your moans are riveting — cute and whiny. he never would’ve guessed that your voice would become so broken, so tender when you feel so good. “please,” you’re whimpering. suddenly you’re reaching for your skirt, pulling it up to reveal his face. his glasses are fogged near the bottom, pupils are blown. “ ‘min . .”
“i know,” he breathes. “i know you wanna cum, baby. i know.”
you feel a finger. it traces the puffy rim of your hole as the tip of his tongue plays with your clit. he only sinks it in when you whine of restlessness — he enjoys the teasing, the building pressure. watching your face, armin evaluates it and intently observes each expression. slack jaw, crease between the eyebrows, chest heaving — you feel good. that’s all he wants.
your body literally jerks when he presses his finger as far as it’ll go then hooks it. “oh god,” your balance nearly teeters. you start to move again, pushing back against his finger then back forward into his mouth. you’re delirious, inhibitions gone, worries left somewhere astray within the seas surrounding you both.
armin groans, glasses knocked a bit askew — he doesn’t care, “fuck m’mouth,” he whispers, warm breath panted into your cunt. “y-yeahhh, jus li’that — . . so good. good fuckin’ girl.”
it’s at this moment when you admit to yourself that he’s all you want. he’s all you ever need. these couple months without him have been hell. you don’t want to go another day, let alone another minute without belonging solely to him and him, you. you cum with a hiccupy cry. your hand wrenches within his hair, pulling and seizing as he forces you to ride it out with shaky pivots of your hips. armin’s tongue refuses to quit for a moment. he pushes it alongside his finger to gather your sticky release within the opening vent of his mouth and swallow. “mmm.” only moves when you pull yourself away, palpably overstimulated.
your foot falls to the floor and you stumble before quickly finding stabilization against the bed. you brace yourself against it . . and for a while, there aren’t anything but pants heard within the room. armin’s face is drenched. he wears your cum like a necklace — driblets cling to the curve of his chin hanging there for several moments, as if stubborn to let go, before they fall to the floor between his knees. you watch him lick his lips prior to using one, large hand to swipe against his mouth and groom him back clean. you think you hate him . . you do because it’s clear he isn’t satiated. you watch him take off his glasses . . watch him quietly clean them with the fabric of his shirt. “. . stop it.”
“stop what?”
his tone is serene. he doesn’t even look at you.
“this.”
when they’re no longer smeared with a damp fog, he places them back on and rises onto his feet, slow and careful. “. . . i’m gonna go now,” he gives you a smile. it’s . . shocking . . what you now know, how filthy you know that same mouth can get, however now only imparts you a warm, civil simper.
you watch him turn . . watch him head towards the door.
“please don’t.”
his sigh is heard. it’s long . . hard. you remain where you stand, hoping he feels what’s clear that you want. “i’m not . .” he scratches his head for a moment before turning back around. what now lies beneath his eyes is a thin layer of frenzy. “you know what you’re doing, right?” one step closer. “i’m not . . doing this with you, ( ❤︎ ). i’m not. i refuse to even encourage the mere thought of having something strictly platonic again, especially fucking casual with you. i did that,” he points to the area where you both just were. “to exhibit my regret. to express my forgiveness. there was some selfishness in there, yeah. i’ll admit that,” another step closer. he stands only a few inches apart from you now. “but, you want me to stay,” his voice softens, his eyes do too. “if i stay we both know what will happen. we’ll fuck and it’ll be good. and i can’t place myself in a position to intertwine myself within you, even further just for sex. i’m not—“
you’re quickly rising to your toes, placing your hand upon the back of his neck to lower his face down and connect your lips against his. it quiets him and he catches on quick. armin’s pulling you into his body, molding his lips within the soft seam of yours, pushing and pushing himself until your back is flushed against a wall and he surrounds you completely. in the distant part of his mind, he’s cursing at himself. this isn’t supposed to be happening, nonetheless, what is a human being without some indulgence here and there? he needs this. if he can’t have you, one hundred percent, pure, and refined you, then the least he can have is this — a memory of your lips. they’re plush and soft; imbued with the taste of cake batter.
“don’t leave,” you mewl, reaching for the buttons of his shirt. you’re undoing them, one by one, revealing the plane of his abdominal muscles, faintly carved.
your lips are moving, slipping down his jaw, to his neck. armin’s eyes close as he melts and ingrains his nails within the wall behind you. you feel so good. “i can’t,” he’s shivering when you nibble upon the soft lobe of his ear. his cock is dripping precum down his thigh. it’s a mess. “can’t b-be just friends . . with you.”
“then don’t,” your nails scraps against his chest. they’re sliding, lower and lower until they find the hem of his trunks. “i’ll be yours. jus’ yours,” when it slithers its way in, your fingers wrap around the thickness of his base. involuntarily, he bucks within your grasp. “i promise.”
he’s kissing you again — this instance with more vigor. you let him spin and guide you blindly to the bed while his tongue weaves its way around yours. hints of salt reside upon his tastebuds, hints of you. you hear his shoes being kicked away when you’re lied down and he’s on top of you. you want to do the same with your strappy heels . . alas, they’re buckles. “lemme see,” he’s breathing while lifting up on his knees, inducing you to give him your foot. “look so pretty. don’t think i told y’that today.” he’s unfastening your heels and letting them fall, eyes fixated on your little skirt and low plunging top. “i like you in blue.”
you’re smiling, suddenly timid, “really?”
“yeah,” he’s opening your legs wider to accommodate his build. “you look like a princess.”
says him. armin’s princely in all that he does — suave and smooth. the way he walks, talks, the way he peels off your skirt and tiny panties, followed by your top. you’re bare below him within a minute, leaving him atop of you, still in his trunks and opened shirt. “wow . .” you squirm underneath his gaze, blushing and meek. “be still,” he whispers, eyes tracing your bod . . focusing on a mole here, freckle there, a cute birthmark. “let me . . let me look at you.” you watch him raise a hand . . it pauses midair above your tit, as if hesitant, before he carefully cups it. “hm.”
you keen underneath his touch, watching his thumb carefully roll the brown, hardened nub of your nipple beneath it. he’s studying you again — eyebrows furrowed in a bit, completely focused. he brings his thumb to his mouth, quickly wets it, then places it back against your nipple, this time gently twisting and squeezing at it. “ah,” you hiccup and writhe, dreadfully sensitive.
his eyes meet yours as his brows raise, “want my . . want m’tongue instead?”
he doesn’t give you much room to answer. his head lowers and his hands are dimpling the fat of your breasts as he presses his fingers into the skin to establish a good grip. you watch his tongue lathe across the surface of your areola preceding him completely enveloping it within his mouth. he’s generous. licks and suckles, trades between both, giving them equal amounts of affection and care. your pussy leaks between your legs while he does so. from his bent head, you’re able to smell his shampoo — a woodsy milk. and it’s a hard reality to grasp for a while . . armin here, above you, solid hard cock pressed up against your thigh as he nurses on your tits as though he’d been starving without them. “touch me,” you’re gasping and pulling him closer, leading his other arm underneath you so that he’s able to take a second nice grasp of your ass. “mmm.” you conceive that he’s a dream. a simple beaut made just for you. that maybe you’ve gone crazy and this is how your brain is coping after having been driven to the point of delirium.
but then, armin’s moving. he’s kneeling to shrug off his shirt, then his trunks are removed and . . . “oh my god . .?” you lift onto your elbows, thoroughly stunned. you’d felt him when you slid your hands down his shorts — knew he had the thickness about the size of a coke bottle, but . . you hadn’t expected the length.
“what?” he’s clueless. eyes wide in . . some form of unease and apprehensiveness. “is it bad?”
“what, no . . it’s,” your head tilts and you . . blush. “pretty.”
he’s cut with a fat coral toned tip. stands at nearly eight inches, seven point five maybe . . equal in girth and length. there’s a trail of light brown hair below his belly button that stretches into a thin patch of it against his groin, nevertheless, his balls are bare. they’re chubby . . soft yet a little droopy. you would’ve never expected him to be so . . perfect below the waist, albeit, when regarding everything else about him, you suppose it checks out.
“d-do you have . .”
he catches on, “oh, yeah . . uhm,” he picks his shorts again, reaching into the pocket for a lilac packet. “alright.”
you watch him spit into his palm. he strokes it along his length a few times, face momentarily melting into one of ease before he’s ripping open the wrapper, and though it was quick, you try to imprint the picture of him jerking himself within your brain — his arm bumping, bicep flexing, facial muscles relaxing.
your clit thumps. you try to hold off on touching it while watching him carefully roll the condom upon his dick. “hurry,” you’re whiny . . impatient.
he’s whispering, “mm, don’t be a brat,” while crowding back in again though this time he remains standing. he pulls you closer towards the edge of the bed, closer towards him, then forces your legs up and holds one of them out of his way when he grabs the foundation of his cock. you watch him lift it then let it fall upon your chubby, little pussy with a hard smack. you feel the weight of it when he does — it’s leaden and dense . . heavy . . your heart is hammering.
armin smooths the underside between them for a moment, back and forth, lets you both admire the way your lips hug his length tight . . how your pussy begins to speak to him with shy little quips of wetness. “mm, fuck,” he puckers his lips, lets a foamy dribble of spit fall from between him, and with the tip of his cock, he pushes the blob inside of your cunt.
“o-oh!” you tense and pierce your nails in the skin of your thighs, forced to watch as his cock presses in . . inch by inch. it’s weighty, just as you’d thought. it sits within your womb akin to a dumbbell inside of foam, slowly but never halting . . sinking deeper and deeper. “g-god . . oh . . god.” your head falls back.
armin’s watching you . . mostly silent. if it weren’t for his expression, you wouldn’t have thought he felt anything, however, you read how his eyelids have fallen low into his eyes . . his loosened jaw, how his fingers press in deeper and deeper into your calf. when its fully sheathed, you both sit there for a moment, settling in the moment. “mm,” you feel yourself loosening. your eyes flutter open and you take a peek down to commend the picture of your cunt stretched open and full, gratefully taking all that he gives. “y’can . . move.”
“yeah?” armin’s breathless. he’s holding himself scarily still, awaiting the instant you give him a sweet nod.
you don’t think there’s a lot of . . talking after that. he pulls his hips back, leaves about half of him inside, pushes back, then pulls further out, loosening you up further. and you’re trying to keep your eyes open , because armin’s body is pretty. the slight abdominals of his torso flex with push of his cock inside . . and, god, his face is even prettier. and you’re trying not to be too loud, make too much noise because neither of you know who could be outside the door listening. but, disregarding your obvious efforts, both happen.
your eyes shut as you lose yourself in the sensation of being rocked forward and back . . of a hard, thick cock working your pussy nice and well. “oh my god,” you’re whimpering, curling your toes, helplessly wriggling. “oh, fuck . . armin . . a-armin.”
he groans come the sound of his name leaving your lips so beautifully, so melodically. “yeah,” he sighs, pressing your legs back further, leaning himself closer. “feel good? do i feel good, baby?”
it’s adorable how quick you nod. you reach for him, little paws scrambling for his shoulders to bring him nearer. the smacking of skin soon comes — loud and rhythmic. it makes your eyes roll back into your skull, coupled with the slick sound of his dick fucking your slick out of you, firm and steady. “u-ungh . . feels so . .” you feel a harsh sting behind your eyelids. “oh my . . god,” you collapse into tears, holding him tighter when he attempts to pull away. “n-no, keep going . . please. n-need . . your cock . . your cum—“
“—unh, shit,” armin’s gone. you’ve successfully pulled him in. “wan’my cum? how bad?” he’s picking up speed, pushing you further up the bed, no longer opting to stand but lay directly atop of you and pound your sweet, little pussy sore from up above. “how bad? tell me.”
you feel yourself creaming. it’s dripping down the puckered button of your ass, effectively spreading across the front of his balls. “s-so . .” you’re hiccuping. “bad. so fucking bad.”
he’s kissing you, swallowing your cries and keens into the pit of his stomach, “good girl,” he huffs into your mouth. “so f-fuckin good, you have no idea j-just how good you are.”
he fucks you with everything he has — until the bed begins to squeak underneath your conjoined weight and the door rattles on its hinges. how bad he’s wanted this . . for so long. he thinks about what you said, ‘ i’ll be yours. just yours. i promise, ‘ and a warm tremor wracks across the length of his body. that’s all he wants. you as his, him as yours, forever until the end of time itself. he looks down at you — at your bouncing tits, gloss smeared lips, pretty eyes, and decides you’re the only one he cares for to have in this position again. mind completely gone, drool and tears trickling across the berry toned blush and glitter that powders the high peaks of your cheeks. “take it,” he’s moaning, voice broken. he realizes he sounds warbly . . close to erupting into laments of raw emotion. “oh g-god, take your f-fuckin’ dick.”
he’s fucking you so hard . . no longer settling on speed but depth. plop . . plop . . plop. your legs find themselves thrown over his shoulders, your knees touching your ears. “ ‘m gonna cum,” you’re gasping, wriggling harder. “f-fuck . . y’gonna make m’cum.”
“yes,” one of his hands reaches down and he finds the tiny, slick nub of your clit to sweetly caress with precious halos. “ ‘ll take it . . you know i will. give it to me.”
you feel out of body. your mouth falls agape however no sound emerges. it’s nothing but the notes of his breathing, skin clapping, and the bed creaking until you’re suddenly releasing a slow, hard sob as you paint his cock white with a slow deluge of thick cream. armin groans laggard and low along with you, stroking you through it, never increasing or slowing his pace. you’re dizzy. you don’t even comprehend him moving until you feel him moving again, this time . . from below you. you now sit upon him, chest pressed against his. he’s underneath you, gazing up at you with fondness glowing within the chasmal darkness of his distended pupils.
“y’so pretty,” he whispers, rocking his hips up slow and steady, successfully pushing his cock up into the squelching warmth of your cunt each time. “pussy feels so good. don’t want anyone else. i jus’ n-need you.” he’s spewing every thought that enters his mind. you can’t help but kiss him. your affection is his vitality. suddenly his arms are wrapped around you, tight, mimicking a hug. it’s a hold to keep you still and firm as he pace increases, sending you separating from his lips with a small squeak of surprise emitted. “oh god,” you’re gasping, holding onto the headboard for stability. “oh — yesyesyesyes.”
“all mine, right?” he’s asking, face painted in titillation. “ ‘s my pussy?”
“ ‘m yours,” you’re weeping and nodding when he does, brainlessly complying. “m’pussy’s yours. all y-yours.”
there’s a smack — a loud one. he swats it against the cheek of your ass and repeats the motion against the other. and then, armin loses himself. he focuses on that fat, wad of pure, undiluted pleasure, rolling through the lines of his veins, towards the base of his core. his eyes close, head tilts back, “awe, shit,” his pitch is rising the closer he gets. “ungh, unh, shit, pussy’s s-so f-fuckin good — shit . .” he feels your lips on his neck again, skimming, suckling, kissing. it’s a pressure point for him. he’s sensitive. “. . i’m gonna f-fuckin—“
suddenly you’re moving. you’re hurrying, climbing off of him, sliding down between his legs and pulling the condom off. armin watches you eyes wide, breathing labored . . and then, against all odds, you’re swallowing his cock into the channel of your throat. it’s so sudden, so unforeseen that when it happens, his cum is erupting from the crown of his cock before you both can even really expect it. “o-o-oh fuck,” he shudders, eyes rolling back, fingers pinching the messy sheets. you whimper, guzzling it all down happily. your hips even shift . . from side to side, as if you were an overeager pup with a wagging tail. you don’t move until you swallow. armin gives a small whimper, watching his dick pop free from the confinements of your lips. you’re softly smiling, planting a kiss against the tip, stroking your tongue tenderly against his balls.
he’s done for.
nonetheless, you’re happy . . so he’s happy. your smile is wide, eyes glisten, and he can’t help but mimic it as you come to a sweet curl and nuzzle upon his chest. there’s a kiss given to the crown of your head and one given upon the back of his hand. you’ve never felt more sated.
“mm,” he shuffles, brings you closer and kisses your lips. “. . what’re you doin’ for spring break?”
the question has to take a moment to enter and process within your still foggy mind. you’re quiet for a while, simply thinking. “. . i-i dunno,” you whisper. “nothing. you?”
he gives you one of his pretty, princely smiles, “wanna camp out on a strawberry farm?”
#my gosh#finally got around 2 readin dis...#milkie its soo good !#i love (secret rich boy) armin lol .#and i like that hes softer on the more quiet side but#u didnt make it weirdike alot of ppl do lik.. he still cusses n shit lmao ! this suits him so well#rlly enjoyed it !#﹒﹒﹒𝘭𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘢 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𓂃 !#attack on titan smut#attack on titan armin#armin aot
796 notes
·
View notes
Text
While I Was Gone .5
Started this Ony!xReader fic while I was out the country, but I never posted it
If anyone wants it, I’ll finish it
|◁◁ |◁ || ▷| ▷▷| ↺
The knob squeaks just as its turned, and the fountain of water that sprayed from the shower had ceased.
Finally, you think.
Throughout that twenty-minute lapse in company, you wondered if Ony was going to use up all of your hot water.
It was no matter though, you took your shower. You were just ready for your boyfriend to return to you.
Lying in bed was starting to get lonely, and you miss the heat of his body against yours.
You want to call out to him, and just as the words are on the tip of your tongue, the bathroom door pulls open.
Soft yellow lighting spills into your bedroom. It disrupts the atmosphere created by the low, deep blue glow that your lightbulb emits.
Lying on your stomach, Roku remote in hand, you turn away from the selection of movies on your TV screen to the doorway.
“Took you long enough.” You smile at him.
He sucks his teeth, a playful grin on his lips. “Shut up, I ain’t even take long.”
You laugh through your nose. As you stare, you catch the little droplets of water crawling down his body from the light of the bathroom.
“Whatever you say,” you sing, forcing yourself to look back at the TV.
There’s a click and the yellow light from the bathroom is no more. He shuts the door and makes his way over to the bed.
“What’chu putting on?” He mumbles, readjusting the towel around his waist.
“Don’t know yet,” you answer, still scrolling.
In the absence of any further response, you sneak a glance at him.
He pulls out a pair of briefs from the small pile of clothes resting off to the side. You look to the open duffle bag in the corner of your room near your closer.
The thought of him spending the weekend has you forcing back a smile, just so he won’t ask.
“Put on sumn’ scary.”
Your face scrunches up, eyes scanning the television. “Why?”
“So I gotta excuse to play hero and hold you.”
He laughs as you roll your eyes.
Grabbing the bottle of lotion that sat on your bedside table, the muscles in his arm barely flexes. It catches your attention nonetheless.
“Shut the fuck up. I don’t even be on you like that when we watch scary movies.”
“Now you lying.”
You sneak a glance at him as he rubs your mango scented lotion into his arms and stomach.
“When have I ever done that?”
“Remember The Conjuring?”
You scoff, trying to hide your enjoyment from watching him rub his upper body down. “I jumped on you one time.”
He rubs the last of it into the skin just above his towel. You swallow. “That’s all it took, right?”
You’re caught between the desire to wipe that smirk off of his face or open your legs for him.
Before you can decide, he loosens the towel from around his waist and rests it on the bed.
By no means, is Ony’s skin bare. When you guys met, he had tattoos. They littered his arms, neck, and even torso.
Your first link taught you they didn’t stop there.
He’s got a(n) [f/i] for you on his finger, but that’s not your favorite one.
It’s actually the one wrapped around his dick, near the base. It’s a thin band of black ink, made up of smaller geometric patterns.
You always try to analyze it, but that never lasts long.
Not without him interfering.
You shake the thought from your head, trying to remember the last thing that was said.
“That’s not all it took.” You try to hold eye contact. “I just wanted some dick that day.”
His smirk deepens. “Uhuh, sure.”
You want to roll your eyes again, but his dick catches your attention. Lying against his thigh. Fuck, that tattoo.
Before you can tear your eyes away, you hear the soft chuckle fall from his lips. That pushes you to finally look back at the TV.
“Pick a movie.”
You squeeze the small remote, resuming your scrolling of titles. “There’s nothing good,” you reply softly.
Next to your arm, the mattress sinks with added weight. The soft scent of mango floods your nose.
“We not watching the shit anyway.”
His voice is low in your ear and goosebumps spread down your shoulders. You bite down on your bottom lip to conceal your growing smile, picking the next title that pops up.
He pulls away. As the movie begins, you look to him for the next set of instructions, since he’s obviously leading tonight’s activities.
“C’mere.”
You lift to your knees, meeting him at the edge of the bed. You reach out a hand to rest on his chest, caressing the soft, tatted skin.
“You wanna get messy after you just took a shower?” you ask, voice low as you peer up at him through fluffy lash extensions.
“I don’t mind.” An arm curls around your waist.
You waste no time, pushing your lips against his.
God, you loved kissing him. Those lips, soft and full. You always sucked on the bottom one just before delving deeper.
It isn’t long before you taste his tongue. He drinks in your soft groans. You don’t mind giving him more as you twist your head to deepen the kiss.
Your hand slides up his chest and over his shoulder. You throw the other one around his neck.
His hands sink to cup a good amount of your ass, which is falling out of the sad excuse of shorts you decided to put on tonight.
Those tiny ass things. You might as well not have worn them.
The kiss ends, but his hands are still on you. They juggle the fat there, pulling a giggle out of you.
“Missed you,” he says quietly, looking into your eyes.
You hadn’t seen each other all week. And now he’ll be here all weekend.
“I missed you, too, baby.”
“Gimme another kiss.”
You obey, tasting the sweetness of his mouth. The hand on your left ass cheek lifts. It’s a small space of time before it drops back down with a heavy smack.
You jump, your breath hitching in your throat.
He inhales, pulling back.
───────────⚪──────
I don’t normally write in second person, I hate doing it tbh. Hence why I didn’t finish this fic. Also this was my first time writing for this fandom so … yay?
If anyone is interested in this I’ll clean it up more and finish it, make it more aestethic & shit, just lmk
257 notes
·
View notes
Text
guys... in da cowboy/country au wit reader x eren + ony... how would they start havin sex ?
9 notes
·
View notes
Text
guys... in da cowboy/country au wit reader x eren + ony... how would they start havin sex ?
#﹒﹒﹒𝘭𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘢 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𓂃 !#keep in mind theyve already met a few of times as far as ive written rn...#reader is still pretty hesitant around them#theyre about to come over to help teader build some box gardens... lmao#but how would they start havin sex like... they havent made any romantic advances yet 😭#onyankopon x reader#eren yaeger x reader
9 notes
·
View notes
Text
some of you guys are going to drive every writer off of this app & be stuck with the wattpad authors who come over to post a broad statement sentence and then attach 30 different men to it
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
eren loves thunderstorms.
he loves the way the electricity crackling in the sky turns into background noise as he places himself so deeply inside you. you feel full, as always. eren’s head lays next to yours on the cold fluffy pillow, his body fitting perfectly on top of yours. his weight only made your head go even dizzier. your plush thighs welcome eren’s shamelessly slim waist, your mixed arousal making a mess on your thighs. the sound of eren’s deep thrusts is so lewd, his tip kissing your cervix so perfectly. eren’s warm body shields you from the loud thunder outside, the sound of rain brutal against the windows. “you’re so messy…” eren lifts himself from the crook of your neck, his hands rubbing up and down your thighs before pushing them further back to your chest. your breath hitches at the new angle. eren’s change in pace having you drooling over the pillows, he’s stroking you so slowly and so deep your thighs begin to shake. “r-ren” you cry out, your hands gripping the sheets. with every thrust goes the last of your brain cells. eren watches where the two of you connect, his dick snug inside of you. everytime he thrusts back in your slick oozes out.
“ you’re so nasty…creaming all over me” eren lets out a breathy whine, coming down to connect his lips to yours. you don’t have a chance to process his movements before his thrusts speed up, one of his hands coming up to your throat.
whimpers and moans fell from your mouth as eren sucked your tongue, his fingers squeezing the sides of your throat. you could feel your stomach tightening, your pussy clenching around eren over n over. “shit you gonna kill me” eren whispers to himself, your warm sticky insides clamping around him so tightly. his forehead rests on yours, his eyes looking into yours. you can’t help but look away, he knows how uneasy eye contact makes you feel.
“ren m’gonna-” you sob out, tears flooding down your cheeks as the pleasure stimulates you so well. “hm? what you wanna say?” eren teases, fingers gliding over your sensitive clit in smooth circles.
“ i-i can’t” you shudder, hands pushing at eren’s abdomen. “yes you can, sweet girl” eren places a kiss on your forehead, pushing your hands out the way. “it’s okay, just cum m’here” he pushes down on your lower stomach. as if it was destiny, the final crash of thunder for the night hit you as hard as your orgasm, toes curling and eyes rolling back. eren hisses, your pussy clenching so tight around him. “gonna make me cum, pretty” he whines lowly, his grinding into you to prolong your orgasm for as long as possible. you sniffle, coming down slowly in a dreamy haze. you could sleep so good right now.
eren lifts your thigh up, pushing it back even further to bury himself as deep as he could inside you. you gasp aloud in shock, overstimulation hitting you hard as he rocks into you so good. “ren n-no” you squeal, hands desperate to hold onto something. “m’almost there” eren sighs out, his thighs shaking from pleasure. broken moans and whimpers leave your teary eyed form, only getting more sensitive with each thrust.
“ ahh - s..shit… look at me” your eyes lock with eren’s, he looks so good this way. before you can warn eren, your arousal squirts out of you, wetting eren’s lower body. eren stiffens, pumping rope after rope so deeply into you. you both lay bare and limp, chests heaving as you both come down from it all. you can only focus on the rain hitting the ground outside.
….but yeah eren loves thunderstorms!
5K notes
·
View notes
Text
COWBOY!ONYANKOPON .. (𝜗𝜚)
#﹒﹒﹒𝘭𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘢 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𓂃 !#girl... if dis aint literally ony in the country fic then idk what is 😭😭 i cant wait to finish it
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
mk.. i only have ab 2.6k buttt its a couple diff scenes && reader has only bumped in2 ony + eren twice 😭 i actually dont know where m goin wit dis but ill be patient and keep workin on it for a while
i feel lik if i post more ab what im writin i might be forced 2 finish it ... anyways so rn im workin on a bit of story buildin wit a countryside/country bumpkin type universe wit eren and ony! 🤭 any thoughts anybody?
pwncez is constantlyy raising da bar && inspirin me to make longer fics && luv writin
8 notes
·
View notes
Text
𝗹𝗲𝗴 𝘂𝗽 𝗼𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗲𝗮𝘁. 𝗼𝗻𝘆𝗮𝗻𝗸𝗼𝗽𝗼𝗻
warnings: mentions of weed, reader is a dealer, black coded reader, strangers hooking up 🤭, squirtinggg, i like the word cock, sum dick in there too. pussy is refered to as a 'she', use of 'ma' and 'mama', p in v, thumb in ass shit, oral (f & m receiving), use of the n word
word count: 2.4k
notes: its ony's birthday! 🎂 ive come out my cocoon to deliver this delish lil smut for yall🤭 please enjoy, i havent written smut full out in a bit so! comments, rbgs wit comments all appreciated mwah
"𝗪𝗮𝘁𝗰𝗵𝘂' 𝘀𝗮𝗶𝗱? 𝗣𝘂𝘁 𝗱𝗮𝘁 𝘀𝗵𝗶𝘁 𝗶𝗻 𝗱𝗿𝘆?" 𝗵𝗲 𝗿𝗮𝘀𝗽𝗲𝗱. "𝗧𝘂𝗿𝗻 𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗽𝘂𝘁 𝘆𝗼 𝗹𝗲𝗴 𝘂𝗽 𝗼𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗲𝗮𝘁."
"In five minutes? Oh yea', Con' I'mma do 'em up for you, real good. Mhm, you lucky Sash' my girl." Glossy lips smacked as you ended the call with Connie. Tossing your phone on your bed and heading to the small office space in your apartment. Various tools were laid out across the table. Humming a little, your lavender bunny slippers shuffling as you enter, you hook the handles of two pink glittery packets on your acyrlics. You weighed the packets again and checked the information Connie messaged you. According to Connie, his best friend 'Ony' wanted some good strains you were selling, so of course he hits you up to get the packs for his friend.
Your doorbell went off once, hurrying you to hop down the stairs, holding down your braless, pierced tits behind the thin strapped tank you had on. You peeped at who was outside your apartment, staring for a long two seconds at the buff, darkskinned man with a nose piercing and a fade. The white wife-beater paired with a grey hoodie that matched his sweats, ain't do his muscles justice either! Bejewled teeth bite back against your lips, and you swing the door open, slightly pulling your care bear themed shorts down. His lips grabbed your attention immediately.
Actually, you had to take in his presence quick. His bottom lip was a pretty pink and his top lip dark. His hands were big and so was the broadness of his shoulders. He looked a little nervous too. "You Con's boyfren'?" His lips curled a bit, "Fuck did that nigga tell you ma?" Shit. He spoke so softly you could barely hear what he had to say, only the low base of his voice helped you hear him. You bounce onto your other leg, swallowing hard, "'M just teasin', you 'Ony'?" He licked his lips and hummed with a nod, "Yea, 's Onyankopon." Not one for small talk? "Yea, come in n' lemme get it for you." You eye him and try your hardest to make small talk as he puts his hands up on your door frame, you already had to look up to see his face.
The packets were in the pockets of your shorts, really, with free stickers in 'em too! But you were not about to fumble some potentially lethal dick. You gulp feeling the softness of his body brush against yours as he accepts your invite in, the music from your speakers gracing his ears as you follow him to the living room. You pat the couch for him to sit and walk to the half bath, wasting a few seconds to 'get the packets'. With each interaction you became increasingly aware of what you were wearing. You peeped in the mirror and the heart shaped print of your nipple piercings becoming more prominent.
"Ya'know, youn' really talk dat much... or loudly, do you?" You shuffle back into the living room. He rubs above his lips and manspreads, hands moving to rest beneath the band of his sweats. "If I'm bein' deadass, I'ain got much to say, Con' ain't tell me you was cute ma. Ion really ever like raising my voice eitha'." Somehow, your body temperature just kept going up and your eyes kept drifting back to his lips. You plop down onto the couch, "You got a bitch ri-now?" He leans his head back against your couch and your peer at the way his lips purse out, and his adam's apple bobs. He seemingly manspreads wider, his large build making your couch cushions seem tiny. "Nah, why?" "Jus' wonderin'." Your lips began to feel shaky with every word. The entire encounter was like a meaningless dance around the elephant in the room. And fuck, you were gonna' fuck Constance punk ass up when this night was over. "So listen, I can give you the packets now, 'n you can pay me," You toss the packets onto the coffee table, his eyes remain trained on you. "Or, you c'n getcho dick wet." You mumbled, eyes drifting to connect with his.
A sharp inhale and you see the way his eyes open slightly to peak at you. Fat thighs squeezed together as you sat back with your socked feet up on the couch. "Don't that sound good, Onyankopon?" The way his chest rose with his breaths paused for a minute, reveling in hearing your sweet voice utter his name. His hands push further into his sweats, giving his dick a few long strokes before slipping it out his sweats. It was heavy, so heavy that he held it up for you and let it rest on his wife beater, on his belly button. Being the 'pretty dick' fiend you were meant you needed him in your mouth, immediately.
Quickly lurching forward, you press glossy lips to his pretty cock. His dusted pink tip was fat, and as his dick got darker down the shaft so did it get fatter. The nigga was HUNG, and you could mearly slide your tongue around the circumference of his cock head.
"C'mon mama, do watchu wanna do." It was enough incentive for you to swallow his dick down, relishing in the way it squished down your throat as your held your breath. With each stroke that relieved your airway you took a breath, folding your lips in to glide across his cock as globs of spit dribble across the shaft. You slurp and gag a little with each slip of his dick in your mouth, his hips gyrate and buck up. Ony keeps his eyes on you. Frowning as he interlocks his hands behind your neck, stuffing and forcing your face down on his cock. His head drops back against the couch, fucking his dick up into your mouth with heavy groans filling the room, even above the slow beats of your music. You needed him to tear your shit up within the next two seconds before you start to go crazy.
"Fuck, take all dat shit off, ma." Ony grips your jaw as he pulls you off his dick, spit dripping down your chin and lips plumped up. You wobble on your knees to stand up and undress yourself while he shrugs off his hoodie and wife beater. Tattoos decorated his pecs and arms, the dark ink prettily accentuating his melanin. He nods his head to the side, "Lay back right there, pretty." Plump pink lips pout a little but you follow his directions regardless, laying back into the cushions and spreading your legs. "Ain't nun' wrong with puttin' it in dry," you mutter below your breath when his lips connect with your clit. He mumbles something like 'don't piss me off' and his tongue is all over you.
His hands are big enough to grip the entire spread of your thigh, forcing your leg back as he worked his tongue in circles around your clit, sloppily spitting through your folds and caressing your hole with his tongue. He ate it like a starving man, his frowning and groaning into you growing more frequent as he pushes his face deeper. Your nails ghost the back of his neck, feeling the vibrations of his groans while the other played with your nipple. He tilts his head at an angle, flattening his tongue against your clit and you flinch, the electric pleasure shooting through your tummy and he smiles.
"Right there?" He peers up at you just as your eyes started springing tears. He bites down on his lips, and gives your clit a few kisses. You gasp and start pushing on his shoulders, understanding where he was going . Ony, undisturbed, curls his tongue into your clit, sucking and spitting on your cunt and maintaining the angle. Your tummy begins to tighten, clit pulsing with every lick, holding your breath and arching up into him. A sharp smack on your clit forces a cry out of you, "Stop holdin' yo' breath or imma' leave you right here," Fuck. You let out exasperated breaths as you desperately gyrate your hips into his mouth. Your clit, swollen and fat started to feel almost numb, you can't help but slap his shoulders and whine. "Shit, shit, shit— Ony, that's enough." It only edges him on, sucking up your creamy releases and forcing himself impossibly closer to you. You head was already pressed up against the armrest leaving you no escape, eyes rolling in different directions and mouth agape. Ony's mouth is latched onto you, bouncing your entire body into the couch cushions. You could only moan 'yes, yes, yes' with each rocking of your clit in his mouth.
Your toes curl and you're pushing his head into your pussy, chasing a bigger release than the one you just had. "Fuck, yeah, eat it just like that, baby," Your grip on everything begins to loosen and your lower body feels like static; milky slick squirts out of you as your body begins to relax and you hold Onyankopon's head in place as he drinks it all up. "You're fucking insane," You huff out at him when he lifts his head up to look at you, your release dripping off his nose and chin. "Watchu' said? Put dat shit in dry?" he rasped. "Turn over and put yo leg up on the seat." You give a start and look at him, feeling a mess.
"You not gon' let me recover, bitch?" He licks his lips and sits up on his knees, grabbing your ass like he was preparing to put you in position if you didn't do it. Consistently maintaining eye contact. "Don't call me no bitch," You hear him say low, "And turn the fuck over," He gives your ass a hard shove. You flop over onto your stomach, arching your ass up for some backshots, before sitting up to pull your right leg from out under you and kicking it up onto the top of the couch. You feel your inner thigh burn from the near split position, gripping onto the arm of the couch. Ony's fingers toy with your cunt and spreads you about the length of his dick, pumping it a few times before moulding circles around your clit with his tip: movements calculated. "Shit," You mumble softly, noticing the ever-increasing slip of your pussy. He slows the teasing of your clit, a large hand gripping your ass and pushing you down simultaneously. He lets his tip catch your sopping entrance, pushing in slightly and ignoring your whines as he basks in the wetness pressinh on his tip. "Ony stop playin' 'n put that shit in, God." He pulses his tip back and forth, slowly sinking deeper but not deep enough for you to even get two inches of his cock.
He whispers something lowly and you're unable to hear him. Just as you opened your mouth to ask 'Watchu sayin' nigga?', so did it hang open when he stuffed his full length into you swiftly. "Holy fuck," Was all you could force out of your mouth, his girth pushing against your walls as he sit in it. His hand spreads your ass and you feel him sink his thumb into your ass, his grip on you tightening. Your eyes already start rolling back into your head with the slight movements of his dick in you while he shifts to adjust his knees on the couch. You grip the couch hard and press your head against it when he starts using your ass to gain leverage, momentum.
"Think you c'n take sum fat dick?" Onyankopon mutters above you, the hand with his thumb in your ass slowly dragging you off his cock and back. "Yeah, yeah, gimme— gimme whatever you want, baby." You swallow, attempting to comprehend his question amidst the aching of your pussy that hungrily slobbered all over his dick. Maintaining the slow drag, he reaches down with his other hand to grip your neck, giving you a few tugs to manhandle you into a comfortable groove; before finally hammering his hips into your ass.
Ony groans and curses low while you struggle to hold onto the couch, his strong arms on your neck, forcing your ass back onto him. "Fuck! fuck— fuuuck, Ony," You let out a sob with each stroke he put on you, feeling incredibly full with just his thumb and girth combined. Your pussy was spread and aching around him, slippery and loud and nasty. "Fuck— she talkin' to me?" Onyankopon grins above you and only snaps his hips down into your ass harder, letting it sting. Your pussy was dripping, strings of slick falling from your cunt onto the couch and dripping down to tickle your sensitive clit with each stroke.
You were a mess, with every curse and 'ah!' came drool spilling from your mouth, slobbering about the couch and spreading it down to your fattened nipples. Your hand toyed with the piercing and you only felt more full, your tummy swelling more with each invasion of his dick against your walls. "C'mon take it, take it," Ony removes his hand from your neck to slap your ass hard, forcing his other thumb deeper in you, moving the other to play with your clit. White, foamy, release plops down like whipped cream onto his fingers as he rapidly and roughly guided them around your swollen clit. The same realese making his cock hot and melting in your pretty pussy, coating his every inch and forcing low moans out of him. "Ain't this watchu wanted? My dick wet as fuuuck, mama," You moan back some unintelligible response, you could barely hear the words coming out his mouth. Your entire being was totally focused on the way you began to tremble and squirt small spurts of cum gliding down your legs.
Onyankopon holds you still, hiking one of his legs up and fucking into you unimaginably deeper, sloppier, nastier. You squeal and grab his hand that's at your clit, slapping his arm and biting the softness of the couch's limb while your cry and whine. Ony ignores your attempts to tap out amidst the convulsing of your legs and hard quivering of your body. Your head was pounding now and you go completely blank for a split second, your full releases forcing itself out of you for the second time without your consent, in thick streams.
Your gasps and desperate as you attempt to get yourself together, all while Onyankopon can't help but nut deep in you before pulling out and slapping your clit a few final times with his dick. Your body refuses to move from the complicated position, Ony silently pulls your leg off the seat and carefully moves you onto your back. He wipes some tears off your fucked out face, hesitating before getting up and digging in your fridge for water before returning with two bottles. He opens one for you, feeding you the cold comfort that soothes your thoat while you hold onto his wrist.
"You straight?" He asks before leaning to dig in the pockets of his sweats and pull out a bit if cash. "Mhm," was all you could muster, watching him throw the money on the table before grabbing his phone. "Shit," He half grumbles with a soft chuckle before showing you the bright screen. Six missed calls from Connie.
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
wet pussy crybaby .ᐟ simon 'ghost' riley
a/n: 2.1k words.. gun play/gun kink, masterbation descriptions, nudes, use of food for sexual innuendos, simon is a bit mean & strict, use of "doll" "sir" "daddy." an excerpt of da roleplay fic which may remain unfinished sorry yall 🫶🏽
"Please, Simon, c'mon," You beg sweetly as the man mentioned cooks you dinner. You're bouncing on the balls of your feet, anklet jingling and glossy lips pouted. It was actually out of character for you to beg despite the kind and lovely person you were, but you really wanted this. Your strong, buff husband continued to make the creamy alfredo sauce, "Sweetheart, we spoke about this. Not gonna' happen." His rumbly accented voice tells you.
When Simon's not on deployment, you both like to spend your days wasting away in the comfort of your cozy home.
The shared space was like a pleasantly sized cottage, garden overun with an array of several differently coloured rose bushes, a gorgeous pond and vegetables planted out; many were gifted by Simon's co-workers who knew you loved gardening. The inside of the home reflects the softness and brightness of the outside too! Often you'd be baking sweet treats: cakes, double chocolate chip muffins, churros and rice crispy edibles (sometimes, even brownies!). Watching cartoons, old movies, decorating with soft pinks, greys and browns, to your delight. The entire home looked like an explosion of marshmallows and chocolate; evidently an outward reflection of you that Simon enjoyed.
But, when the big, strooong man comes home, he's often marching through your garden: rushed. He's clad in all black and dark army greens, balaclava snug above his nose, brows furrowed and eye-paint still darkening his complexion. You're quite sure he remains suited up because he knows you like it, considering that he could always change before! It's a sight to see surely, and you can't help but remember that this is the same man who watches the little videos you make and the photos you send.
You imagine him clad in his bulky gear, sitting behind his desk. Just back from a mission and receiving word that you'd supplied him with a letter. Among the words you take the time to write out each letter of a couple links, not too sure how else your man will access them. Simon's heart beats like the bass of an R&B song, with every click clack of his keyboard. Typically, on his screen will pop up a video of you: pretty puffy pussy spread wide and leaking. Your fingers achingly stuffing your cunt desperately, sloppily stroking in and out while seeping cries of his name. Your voice was thick and creamy, satisfying to his ears much like the endless stream pouring out your pussy like silk.
Ghost. It's what you've been calling him in the videos you send while he's away. And each time you say it, he can't help but stare at your clit, your cunt like a juicy chocolate covered strawberry dipped in whipped cream; each chant of 'Ghost, Ghost, Gh- ah Ghost!' was the quicker you played with the soft sensitive mound at the tippy top of your pussy.
Considering this, it was no surprise to Simon when you'd asked him to get all his gear on and fuck you with his fat dumb dick. But, he enjoys depriving you of what you'd like, waiting for you to become impatient like you are now. You'd deflated. "C'mon Si', pleaaase?" You drift from around the edge of the kitchen island to wrap your arms around his waist. He drags you like light weight behind him as he pours the pasta into the pan, finishing up dinner and continues to ignore your request. "Please, please, please," you beg once more, pushing your pout out as much as you could and batting your eyelashes up at the man as he turns to face you beneath your grip, leaving your chin propped against his pecs.
He draws a hand behind your head, slipping his hands into the roots of your braids and tugging lightly to keep your eyes on him. "You're such a doll, you know that?" He lets out a chuckle. You nodded but huffed. He was always so... mean n' proper n' teasing! "Simon Riley, answer me right the fuck now." You blinked up at him, and he only purses his lips with a soft smile before releasing your hair and removing your arms off him. "Why don't you be a patient little thing, hm?" He rubs his hands on your hips, moving to grab your plates to serve dinner. "Wait 'till you've stuffed your stomach full. Okay love?" You squint a little, "Know I'mma hold you to that, right?" And he nods.
Dinner goes by silently. And you're beginning to think you're going insane. The reason being, your clit is fattened and pulsing in your panties. Your relatively good mood is being slightly dampered and the pout returned to your lips due to the ache. Your panties uncomfortably stuck between the lips of your pussy! And with each bite of the ooey gooey pasta, you're attracted to the way it slithers and slides between your lips. You can only imagine it as Simon shooting sticky strings of his cum onto your pussy. It's soft n' mushy on your tongue and oh, you think you should suck Simon's cock good just for making this yummy meal. Does your pussy feel this warm n' sloppy n' slippery on Simon's cock? You ache. "You alright, gorgeous?" He queries, gathering up his dish along with yours and taking them to the sink for washing, you get up quick and follow him. "Lemme wash it up, baby. You done did all the cookin'."
Simon observes you curiously, noticing the way that, despite your busy body cleaning up his marvelous work: your thighs were pressed together tight. Folding his arms, he leans back on the counter behind you before his deep voice sparks you out of your dream world when you finished up the dishes. "Alright mama, how about you head upstairs and wait for me while I get changed, hm?" You stop and stare— Do you focus on his orders, or the way that familiar petname sounded in his accent? Then, shuffling towards him, hopeful. "Wait–? Don't play w'me right now. You're gonna do it?" Eyes blown wide like Bambi as you peered up at your husband who remained stoic. "Ass up. Face in the pillows, understood?" You swallowed the cherry-like lump in your throat, tummy tingling while you struggled to find the words to respond. Simon pushes himself off the counter, straightening his height above you, his hazy eyes hold a thousand words. "I said, is that understood?" What feels like sparkles prick about your body and you whisper out, "Yea- Yes, Sir." Then, quickly finding yourself where Simon wanted you.
With long, honey blonde braids splayed across the pillows, your eyes were closed on inhaling Simon's refreshing scent. You're not sure how to describe it really, it was a pleasant musk he just had on him, whenever he got out of the shower, perspired, or just didn't wear deodorant: the yummy scent of him stuck to his skin. Surrounding you and Simon's pillow however, were the several Sanrio plush cushions he'd purchased for you. You enjoyed the comfort they brought to the bed and they all smelt like you, so who was Simon to complain. The more you layed there, ass arched up into the air you began to realize you should've stripped down. "No fuckin' way, man," you mumble beneath your breath and make moves to get up and strip out of your white cropped tank top and black fuzzy shorts that rode up your thighs and into your ass. Much like your pretty patterned panties.
As quickly as you got up, you stuffed yourself back into the pillows, the sound of heavy weighted, steel tipped boots bouncing off the walls and gracing your ears. Eyes screw shut and you feel your clit throb, hard. Your mind follows his footsteps as the beat against the tile floor. You lick your lips, by now every glob of peachy lip gloss was gone. You feel some objects drop onto the bed and you flinch, gripping the pillows a little and peaking an eye open. Hard hands grip the fat of your thighs, squeezing 'em tight, moving up to your shorts, then gripping onto the soft material at your hips. Simon's fingers tickle you and you're holding your breath. He pinches at the material, slowly peeling the shorts off you and you notice his hands are gloved when they brush against you.
Cold air meets the roundness of your ass. You weren't wearing a thong, but your panties exposed the majority of you. They'd stuffed themselves between your ass and suctioned itself to your sticky cunt. There wasn't a doubt in your mind that Simon couldn't see the wet patch. A gloved hand massages the fat of your ass, slightly pulling on the hem of your panties. He'd rip them off you in a swift motion. Except, the only thing that was swift was the loud crack of his palm, stinging your ass. You whisper a squeal-ish 'oh my god' when you hear the smack split the silence in the room. Eyes wide, already springing tears but you choose to withhold your sounds as much as possible. Simon was finally giving you what you wanted, you weren't about to ruin this shit.
Soon comes another smack, smack, smack on your ass. And with each one you let out a strangled moan with a sniffle; tears kissed your pretty cheeks and your ass has the darkest shade of red imprinting itself on you. Simon moves slowly, giving your pained ass a pinch. He then hooks his fingers under the hem of your panties again, sliding them off you slow. You hear a low groan come out if him as you feel him peel it away from your pussy. The sound gracing your ears almost makes you yelp. Like a starved little thing, jumping at the slightest crumb he gives you.
With your pussy exposed, you feel him shuffle off the bed, walking around a few times. Like he was observing you, then pressing back onto the bed. Then a rough hand collects your braids off the pillows. His closeness almost got a whimper out of you but you didn't dare try to look at him. Holding your braids in hand, he ties them up to a loose bun, your head jerking roughly with the manhandling. As if at once he's pulling your body up by your hair, unclothed nipples below your tank top hardened and printing out perky. Your back is uncomfortably pressed up against his uniform or... whatever equipment he was wearing. "S– Simon," You breathe out raggedly, not sure what to do with your hands given your exposed position. "Is that my name?" You hear his voice rumble deeply right above your ear, it's slightly muffled too and you don't know what to think anymore, looking up at the ceiling that seemed interesting. "Ghost, please." You mutter out, and that's when you feel it.
"What is it? Do you want dick? Is that it?" There's a long, cold metal barrel dragging up the bottom of your thigh and pushing at the fat of your ass. "Y– Yea... yes daddy, that's what I want." You can only think it's his gun thats touching you.
You hear the gun click and shut your eyes, assuming that meant it was ready to be shot when the trigger was pulled. Your cunt was cold and lonely exposed to the air. Whatever slick had built up before was almost gone, but it only left you aching for more. Then you felt the tip of the gun press to your temple. And you could see more of Simon than you did before, because now his entire, huge arm was basically in your view as he held the gun up to your head. "G- Ghost?" You can only stutter out, feeling a sob begin to grow at the bottom of your throat, and it took everything in you to resist putting your hands up to hold his arm. His tattoos, peaked through the black uniform, but your eyes were trained on the hand holding the gun above your eyes. "Don't you think you have to work for it?" He grumbles. And he moves his hand from your braids, your body drops to the bed but he's already roughing you back into the position, holding you by your neck this time. Now you can fully see the gun and your tears continue running freely.
He brings the heavy metal weapon up to your face again, tapping it against your lips like it was the tip of his dick. "I asked you a question, didn't I? Aren't'cha gonna' work for this cock?" Suddenly you're all wet again. "Yes, Ghost." You speak out slowly. "Open your mouth then." And you do, plump lips drop open, eyes remaining trained on the gun.
annddd thats all i got 🤭 DONT BEAT MY ASS YALL LMFAOO
493 notes
·
View notes
Text
i feel lik if i post more ab what im writin i might be forced 2 finish it ... anyways so rn im workin on a bit of story buildin wit a countryside/country bumpkin type universe wit eren and ony! 🤭 any thoughts anybody?
pwncez is constantlyy raising da bar && inspirin me to make longer fics && luv writin
#﹒﹒﹒𝘭𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘢 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𓂃 !#eren && ony mmmm yum 🤤🤤🤤#gimme things 2 include? ill work on it for a while and try not 2 lose motivation
8 notes
·
View notes
