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Armin’s become a bit of an asshole, he’s aware.
Not to the public: ‘they adore you!’ he’s been told, many times, and that’s great! It’s all he could’ve hoped for and more when deciding to carry the weight of the new world on his shoulders, but… he did become a bit of an asshole. To Annie.
It’s been far too many rescheduled promises, early mornings, and late nights that left their bed deprived of the shared weight of their bodies. Today, Armin hoped would be an exception to the rule. Alas, it wasn’t. The clock’s longer hand had quietly ticked just past the swirling eight figure engraved on its face when he first caught Annie’s gaze in the mirror, wandering with great disinterest around the far-too-fancy bathroom. A couple more minutes had gone before he’d caught her drawn-out sigh of boredom, except it never is just that.
People often say that if you cared enough about something, you’d make time for it. Well… they might’ve been right.
“I’m sorry we don’t have time, Annie,” he says, keeping his voice low because he’s truly remorseful.
“Quit apologizing already!” Annie bites back a moan with her teeth digging harshly into her lower lip. He doesn’t see it, from where she has her back turned to him, but he knows that tone of voice. He’d pulled it out of her dozens upon dozens of times by now.
“But I really am~” he purrs against her shoulder, the thin material of her white button-down shirt allowing all the heat from her skin to escape right through. Armin breathes in the smell of the long day clinging to her clothes and how it now mixes wonderfully with her own unique scent from where her thighs flex and rub against one another, stuck in the constricting material of her pencil skirt.
“You know how I’d love nothing more than to unzip your skirt,” he whispers, trailing a palm down her side; slowly from her waist to her full hips, his fingernail repeatedly catching on the ridges of the zipper for emphasis.
She gasps and quivers in his arms where he holds her to him with a forearm around her middle, and Armin wonders if there will ever come a day when he isn’t completely enamored by just how easy it is to get her to this point; a trembling mess that doesn't know her left from her right. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think she was faking this whole thing. Luckily, Armin does; the long whines adorning her voice and the quiet, clipped-short moans trapped deep in her chest carry out an image of Annie that's dangerously vulnerable and open and needy that he can’t help but always push her for just a tiny bit more.
“Just a tiny bit,” he breathes right next to her ear, the hot air brushing exactly where he knows she’s sensitive, but her cruel biting into her lower lip is successful, for once.
What a shame.
“I wouldn’t need to get it all the way off. Just low enough so I can bend you over that sink over there,” he taunts in a sing-song voice and the incoherent sputter of syllables she spits out is probably his name, “right against the mirror.”
“F-Fuck!” her voice beautifully shatters in the low echo of the restroom, her body squirming where he continues to grip her tightly to him as her fingers attempt—and fail—to grasp at the glossy tiles lining the wall.
“But I can’t, unfortunately.” Armin glances at the clock, where the pendulum dances back and forth with audacious tick-tocks that personally offend him. “So, how about you take care of it for me, sweetheart?”
The stubborn ‘fuck you!’ that Armin expects doesn’t come. Instead, one of her hands leaves the wall the little vanity they sit on is pressed against and replaces his hand on the zipper. But for Annie to comply this easily… he must’ve been pushing her for quite a while now, huh?
He really has become an asshole.
Armin watches over her shoulder as her shaky fingers drive the slim pull down the metallic teeth, allowing the skirt to sag around her hips. Not much, just enough room for her to slip her hand down the waistband and for her legs to spread a couple of inches wider. “I’m really sorry, Annie,” he groans and the only reason she doesn’t elbow him right in the liver is because she doesn’t hesitate before pressing her fingers right to her core, making herself cry and plead with him for everything he can’t offer her at this very moment.
“As much as I like having you like this,” his voice strains in his throat in accordance with the suffocating fabric around his crotch. “You know I’d much rather us be in our bed.”
Annie nods, her hair bobbing into a mess around her shoulders and falling over her flushed face. With the movement of her hand bulging at the front of her skirt, heavy pants begin to carry more of her voice, little whimpers and mewls that he knows are nothing but sprouting seedlings for much, much more.
“Maybe with your legs over my shoulders, so I can fuck you as deep as you like,” he says, getting enough satisfaction when Annie, with all her soft moans and sweet scent and silky hair, melts back against him and her knees buckle even with her seated.
There’s a short pause in her rapid breathing, but it doesn’t last long, concluding in a long groan that dissolves into a low and desperate—and absolutely shameless—whine that Armin believes he should be punished by some higher power for letting go to waste and not swallowing whole—fuck he’d reeeaally pushed her far.
When her thighs struggle against the restraint of the skirt, Armin deduces that she must’ve already slipped a couple of her fingers into her cunt, and from what he can see of her wrist, she’s straining to push them further in.
“Armin!” she begs, breathless and hot, and ah, he must’ve been quiet for too long.
Choosing to loosen the arm around her torso—now that he no longer needs to actually hold her to him—Armin drags his palm to her lower stomach, just above the junction of her hips on her belly, and presses. “It’s because you like having me right here, don’t you? You like feeling full?”
This time, her only response is a low sob as her hips begin to buck, pushing forward and against her own fingers. She’s close. So close. Armin urges her into leaning her head back on his shoulder, leaving the pretty line of her throat exposed to the plain ceiling as he kisses her cheek and the corner of her jaw before moving down her neck.
“You’re doing great, Annie,” he rasps, voice raw where it scratches deep in his throat. “Just a bit more. Come on.” He continues with a chain of all the absolute nonsense words and phrases he’d come to accumulate over the years. Everything that she loves to hear: from little encouragements that appear vulgar the more Armin tosses them around his head in his free time, to pet names and her name, which make the tips of her fingers trembling and useless, and her vision to grow blurry and unfocused. All things that had never failed him in getting Annie to slur her words and abandon all pride for the sake of a release between his arms; only his.
“Armin! ” she hisses, urgently.
“Yeah, I know,” he reassures her, meaning to stay calm himself. He frees one of his hands from pulling and tugging at the material of the shirt at her waist and shoots to press the flat against her mouth right as she pushes herself over the edge. Armin takes a moment to mourn all the cries and shattered moans that meet their demise as quiet vibrations against his hand. It’s good motivation, really. If he wants to hear them in full, then he better stop fucking around and make time!
Armin waits for her hand to stop working under her skirt before he lowers his own from her mouth, leaving her to catch up on her breathing—pure music to his ears! Her body is still a puddle where she leans back against him, relying on him to support the majority of her weight against his chest. He waits a little longer, and it’s not until he hears one particularly satisfied sigh that he kisses her cheek with a comically loud smack of the lips, “That’s my girl!”
“Oh, fuck you!”