Chapter Text
Floch's heart thuds in his chest. It's working. It's all going according to plan. It's all—
"Floch!" an all-too-familiar voice screeches from outside. He glares at Kiyomi, gives a stern look at the other Jaegerists, and finally approaches the window overlooking the docks. It's Armin, on a horse, flanked by Connie.
Armin. That fucking—
He frowns, then forces the window open. "Armin?" he calls, eyes narrowed. "What the hell are you doing?"
In a shocking act of grace, Armin leaps from his horse and anchors his ODM grappler into the brick near the window frame. Before Floch knows it, he's staring into calculated blue eyes.
"Good," the blond murmurs, before he inhales a deep breath and begins to scream that they need the flying boat and that the Cart Titan killed Jean.
What drivel.
"You're a fucking liar!" Floch yells, grabbing Armin by the waist and yanking him inside, throwing him to the ground in an easy swoop. Armin collapses to the floor, gasping for air as he looks up at Floch, eyes panicked.
Windows burst all around Floch—screams echo throughout the conference room as Mikasa, Connie, and the supposedly dead Jean fly in. He rolls his eyes before he points his gun at Armin, who's scrambled to his knees, giving Floch a defiant glare.
"None of you move or I'll shoot!" Floch yells, eyes flickering across the room. They're in trouble. The Female and Armored Titans can't be far behind.
Mikasa grips her sword stronger, her teeth grit. But Floch's gaze flickers back to Armin.
"Jean's dead, is he," Floch says, tone dull, still pointing his gun at Armin's face, who appears to be completely accepting his fate. "You all wanted the flying boat to stop Eren. I simply can't allow that."
"Floch—"
"Shut the fuck up," Floch snarls. "Traitor."
Armin presses his lips into a thin line. "Please. A request."
Floch rolls his eyes. "Out with it."
"Don't kill my friends," he begs. "Please. They don't deserve to be punished. Just usher them away."
"Armin!" Mikasa cries, outraged.
But his words do not make her spring forward. Floch jerks his head, wordlessly commanding his Jaegerist lackeys to subdue the three resisting soldiers. The two who grab Mikasa struggle to restrain her. But Armin turns his head toward her and must nonverbally tell her to stop, because she allows Floch's men to discard her swords and pull her arms behind her back. It's all rather sweet, all rather pathetic. By the time Armin looks back at him, Floch’s curled his lips up in a cruel smirk.
"You insult me, Armin," he whispers. "To think that I all of people would fall for such a foolish trick. You really think so lowly of me, don't you?"
Armin shrugs listlessly. "I had to try," he mumbles, and Floch decides he's had enough of that.
His finger pulls on the trigger once, twice, thrice. He doesn't flinch at the ear shattering bangs, nor at the screams of Mikasa. Armin slumps forward, face slamming against the wooden floor.
Whatever Armin communicated with Mikasa must have worked, because even though she could easily break free from the grasps of the Jaegerist men, she remains in place, face contorted in pure horror. Connie's mouth is wide open, and Jean stares at the ground, expression blank. Blood's started to pool under Armin, who releases a disgustingly wet groan.
Armin sighs, then shudders before he moves, propping himself up by a shaking arm, lifting his head against all odds.
Vomit rises up in Floch at the utterly grotesque sight in front of him. His bullets had shattered Armin's jaw, leaving his mouth open. Blood bubbles in his mouth before it drips down his chin; Armin's eyes appear glassy and unfocused. He’s absolutely vile.
"What the fuck, what the fuck!" one of the Jaegerists screams.
"God help us," he hears one of the Azumabito engineers behind him mumble. "God help us all."
"I–I—" Armin breathes, unable to vocalize much as he shakily forces himself to his feet.
"Shit," Floch whispers, eyes wide. "Shit."
---
They're tucked away in some abandoned hunter's cabin, far away from prying eyes and ears. Eren stares at the table between them as Floch drawls on about everything that he's accomplished in the past two weeks. And it's a lot, thank you very much. Is Eren even paying close enough attention?
Floch crosses his legs and leans forward, stretching halfway across the table. He gives Eren a pointed look.
"Why'd you stop?" Eren asks.
"I figured you weren't quite listening."
Eren huffs. "I was. You were just explaining how you've recruited a few loyal Scouts who you can trust to do whatever you order them to do."
Floch straightens his posture. "You're correct," he spits. "You have an interesting way of appearing engaged."
"Keep talking."
Annoyance begins to bubble up inside of Floch, but he pushes it down as he continues to talk. Before he concludes, he asks a question: "You're certain you don't have a single person you can tell besides Historia? Not Mikasa? Not Armin?"
"No. Neither of them will support the Rumbling," Eren insists. "They'll go to any lengths to stop my plan."
Such wonderful friends. Eren must cherish them so much, Floch thinks sarcastically. Ugh. "I don't know," he says. "Armin certainly has an underhanded—"
"No. Armin would—Armin wouldn’t. Armin—Armin would never support what we have to do."
He catches himself before he rolls his eyes. Eren doesn't particularly like it when he makes too many swipes directed at Armin. For whatever reason, Eren has always had a bit of a soft spot for Armin. Wholly undeserved, in Floch's opinion. Armin's had years to prove his worth and he's done absolutely nothing.
"Fine," Floch sighs. "I suppose I should feel flattered that you chose me."
Because unlike Armin, Floch will act. He'll build a better world for the Eldians on this island, no matter the cost.
...he's making a mistake. Oh, he shouldn't say what he’s thinking right now. But he’s never had much of a filter, regardless.
“You look rather dour, Armin,” falls out of his mouth despite his trepidations. It’s the truth, though. After coming back from his rendezvous with Eren, he’s found Armin curled up on a rarely-traveled staircase in headquarters, knees pulled up to his chin, eyes glazed over. By his ankles rests a half-finished bottle of absolutely foul whiskey. Disgusting.
Armin doesn’t move. So Floch rolls his eyes.
“C’mon, don’t be so shy, now. I’m just trying to have a conversation with you.”
“You know, I used to think that it was rude that the kids back in Shiganshina tried to start conversations with me just to harass me,” Armin says, tone dull and even. “Little did I know that some people seem to think that it’s normal.”
Floch smacks his lips before replying. “I was just trying to ask why you look so miserable all the time. Shit. Guess I know where that gets me.”
Armin’s dead eyes flicker to look up at Floch. “I’m not interested in speaking with you.”
Floch wants to laugh. But he doesn’t. Instead, he dramatically strides over to the steps, turns on his heel, then sits next to Armin, who instinctively recoils.
“You know,” Floch says, picking up the whiskey bottle and swirling it, “I didn’t think that boys like you drank this shit.” He throws back a sip, cringing at the harsh flavor.
Armin leans over and tugs the bottle from Floch’s hands. His pull is weak, but Floch allows him to win. “And what are boys like me supposed to drink?” Armin asks.
“Fuck, your breath stinks,” Floch huffs. “I’d picture you liking sweet wine, maybe drinking a light beer when needed. Something a bit more fitting for a boy who’s cute,” he teases, knowing Armin’s aversion to the word.
“I’m not cute,” Armin mumbles before he takes a swig of the whiskey. “Don’t call me that.”
“Whatever you say, pretty boy,” Floch offers up in reply, relishing the way that Armin’s face sours further. He doesn’t reply immediately, putting the bottle down by his feet again instead.
“What were you doing with Eren?”
How interesting. He hadn’t expected that. Floch and Eren are careful not to advertise their meetings. They slip out late at night to avoid prying eyes like Armin’s. But they must have faltered somewhere.
“Jealous that your friend’s decided to expand his social circle just a bit more?” Floch deflects. “That’s rather possessive and creepy, don’t you think?”
“You’re not the first person to call me creepy.”
And I probably won’t be the last, Floch thinks.
It becomes…a part of his routine, even though Floch knows that he should absolutely not lean into any sort of relationship with Armin. But he finds himself sitting next to Armin on the out-of-the-way staircase more frequently than he’d ever like to admit, sometimes drowning his own sorrows in alcohol like Armin does. Most of the time he spits nonsense at Armin, coming to enjoy the creative responses that Armin conjures up. Sometimes Armin rambles on about military strategies or books. And other times, it’s…
Armin chews on his bottom lip, appearing absolutely forlorn as he looks Floch up and down. He grips the stem of a mostly-empty wine bottle he’d stolen from the stockrooms just a day prior. “I just don’t know how you do it, Floch.”
“…and that is?”
Armin sighs. “You’re so harsh, but yet you manage to be so charming. I’ve tried to figure you out, but I’m just at a loss.”
Floch lets out a strangled laugh. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“I guess I admire you for being able to speak your mind.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Floch snorts. “Stop kissing my ass.”
He looks over at Armin, all-too-aware of the strange…tension that’s in the air. He swallows, watching as Armin studies his face. “Are you gonna say something?” Floch asks.
“You told me to stop talking,” Armin breathes.
“Oh my—” Floch cuts himself off, then reaches out and flicks Armin across the nose. “Annoying. You’re so damn annoying.”
And Armin continues to be annoying as he lays waxy words of praise upon Floch, continues to irritate Floch with how fucking close he sits, continues to get under Floch’s skin when he acts so obnoxiously unaware, before he continues to bother Floch when he’s placing his hands on Floch’s shoulder, then thigh, and then—
Then the rest is Floch’s fault entirely, and he doesn’t even realize he’s being made a fool until he’s letting Armin into his quarters, dangerously close to his correspondences with the local newspapers, working on stirring up malcontent towards the Scouts before they leave for—
But he wins this round, because Armin’s an easy lay and he falls asleep before Floch and wakes up after Floch. And he thinks he likes the little game that Armin’s playing with him, because the next time Armin comes over and drags his fingers across his desk, the thought of being discovered by Armin makes adrenaline shoot through his veins in such a pleasant manner. And he’s never felt this way before.
It's interesting, because Floch can't exactly pinpoint when he'd decided to actively lean into...this. Perhaps it's not that important. Perhaps the glaring daggers he's receiving across the mess hall from the Mikasa Ackerman make it all worthwhile. There's laughter inside of him that’s making his shoulders shake just a little bit; he settles for giving her a wicked smirk before he tightens his grip on the hand that's been resting on his thigh for the past half-hour. He averts his eyes away from her, pleased that he's managed to cause such turmoil with such a simple action.
The owner of the hand sits next to him on the bench, talking to Jean and Connie about something abysmally dull. Armin squeezes Floch's fingers back, blissfully unaware that they've been spotted by Mikasa. Floch would bet good money that Armin will be horrified when Mikasa confronts him later on. And honestly, he doesn't blame Armin. Because if he didn't get such amusement from it all, he himself would be absolutely mortified.
Armin is pathetic, after all. A grim reminder of the incompetence of their superiors. Even if Armin had the right to be alive, Floch can’t imagine that he’d ever find Armin faultless. Armin's too soft. Too naïve. So smart but so dreadfully unaware that he can't even see the unrest Floch’s been brewing in the Corps. Able to formulate complex strategies on the spot but cannot see the brazen planning that Floch and Eren have done to ensure the future of the New Eldian Empire. All right under that nose of his—the nose that Armin’s so deeply insecure about, the nose that Floch always flicks when they bicker.
Well, fine—perhaps his nose is a little cute.
If Armin’s alive, he’d might as well make himself useful, anyway. And this...whatever it is...with Armin has proven to be more than Floch had ever thought it would. Armin’s decent enough company, surprisingly enough. In all honesty, Armin doesn’t bother him as much as Floch had assumed he would.
And maybe he’s lonelier than he’d like to admit, and maybe Armin helps fill that void. Armin's outfitted with everything that Floch’s ever desired—he's all boy. Boy hips, boy thighs, pretty-boy eyes, and a boy voice that sends shivers down Floch’s spine during their most carnal moments. And anyways, how many nights has Floch spend yearning for the embrace of another man?
Far too many. Far, far too many.
So he'll settle for Armin as long as their relationship continues to be mutually beneficial.
He shifts Armin's hand to rest on his inner thigh and enjoys the thought of Mikasa seething at the more intimate gesture. Armin glances over at him, then taps Floch's thigh knowingly as he briefly brushes his thumb over Floch's pelvis. Floch doesn't like to be bored. And Armin knows him so well, clearly, as he's continued to be incredibly entertaining.
Mikasa ends up confronting Armin the following morning. Floch isn't sure what she said—can't even prove if the conversation even happened or not, honestly—but Armin's quieter than usual when he comes to Floch's quarters that evening. Rather than try to bring it up, Floch narrows his eyes and strikes. "You look good tonight. You trying to impress me?" He stretches his arm out and tucks a stand of Armin's hair behind his ear, then runs his fingers over the buzzed part of his undercut. Armin shivers and averts his eyes, giving Floch the reaction he'd wanted. He still can't accepts any sort of compliments very well. But Floch takes delight in making Armin squirm.
“I hope you brought a book in that sack. I like hearing you read to me,” he continues.
“I did,” Armin replies, reaching up and placing his hand over Floch's fingers. “I think you'll like this one.”
“Good,” Floch breathes. “Let's hear it, then.”
“—Floch, Floch, Floch,” Armin whines to the rhythm of Floch's thrusts, gritting his teeth against the cloth strip that Floch had shoved into his mouth and tied behind his head in a desperate attempt to keep him quiet. They're tucked away in a storage closet. But there's nothing subtle about the position that they're in.
Armin's perched upon a set of rickety cabinets, body folded in half, knees over Floch's shoulders. He's at just the perfect height for Floch to slam into again and again and again. Heat surges between his thighs as Armin grips one of his biceps for some stability.
“Fuck,” Floch groans through grit teeth, digging his nails into Armin’s shoulder as he holds him as steady as he possibly can. He just can’t get enough—he wants all of Armin, right here, right now. Armin’s such a pathetic little thing, and he’s able to turn Armin into a whimpering mess so easily.
“Please, Floch,” Armin gasps, words still muffled, “don’t stop. Please.”
He likes hearing Armin beg for it, loves knowing that Armin of all people is desperate for him. And Armin’s so warm, so tight.
Armin inhales sharply as Floch changes his pace, snapping his hips against him in a slower rhythm that makes him feel how deep Floch’s able to fuck him. “Do I make you feel good?” Floch asks, slamming so hard into him that the cabinets squeak and Armin gasps yet again.
In response, Armin nods, but Floch doesn’t find that satisfactory enough. He moves the hand he’s been using to support himself, settling it around Armin’s neck. He presses down in just the right spot, thoroughly enjoying the way Armin reacts to it. Because Armin wants to be treated this way. Wants Floch to handle him roughly. No self-respect. And it drives Floch wild.
“Use your words. Do I make you feel good?” Floch asks again.
“Yes—” A whimper. “—you do, Floch.”
Floch begins a steadier pace, tightening his grip on Armin’s neck, putting more of his weight on Armin. “Of course I do. Because I’m always right, and I know exactly what I’m doing.”
A bead of sweat runs down Armin’s temple. “It’s true, you’re always right,” he forces out. The way the fabric makes his words slur goes right to Floch’s dick. And the implications behind what Armin’s just told him are absolutely delectable.
“Touch yourself. You’ve been so patient.”
Armin listens, snaking a shaking hand between his legs. His eyes flutter closed when his hand begins to match the pace that Floch’s set for him. He’s absolutely obedient like this—no signs of any of his witty remarks when Floch’s inside of him.
“You, Floch, please,” Armin breathes, face reddening from the pressure Floch’s putting on him. Armin’s so close, and Floch won’t be far behind. Every thrust, every drag, builds up more and more within him.
”You’re doing so well, Armin,” Floch groans.
He readjusts his grip of Armin’s neck and that’s what does it for Armin. Armin’s whole body tenses as he finishes, making it all the more pleasurable for Floch, who doesn’t last much longer. His hips stammer and he moans far louder than he should. Shit. Armin’s able to make him feel…absolutely incredible.
When he pulls out, he releases Armin’s neck. He gingerly reaches out and unties the makeshift gag, discarding it on the floor. Afterwards, he wipes the drool from the corners of Armin’s mouth. Armin watches him silently, until Floch gently grabs his thighs and eases Armin’s legs down from his shoulders.
“Fuck,” Armin breathes, flinching as his legs dangle from off of the cabinet.
“Sore?”
“Very.”
Floch doesn’t concern himself with Armin for much longer. He focuses on putting himself back together, finding his shirt and pulling his pants back up. Trying to figure out how they’re going to make the closet not smell of sweat and sex. But he feels Armin’s eyes on him as he does so.
He glares at Armin, still splayed out, still watching his every move. “Yes?”
“You like me,” Armin announces. “You like me more than you’d ever let on.”
And Floch sees red. “Shut the fuck up,” he hisses, nevertheless feeling heat rush to his cheeks.
Armin mercifully obeys, but the knowing look on his face continues, even when he cleans himself off, until Floch, growing more and more incensed, threatens to smack Armin’s cocky expression right off his face.
There’s a soft laugh, but Armin drops the subject altogether.
“No,” Eren insists. “You think you know him. But you don't. Not like I know him.”
His chest shakes a little as he holds back laughter. Because he's got to wonder if Eren knows what Armin's asked of Floch recently. “Are you so certain about that?”
Eren’s eyes narrow. “What are you implying?”
Oh, he could tell Eren half-a-dozen truths and still be utterly amused by his reaction. Don’t you know I’m sleeping with your best friend? lays heavy on Floch’s tongue. There’s also the Do you know he wants to be choked out? And he toys with asking Have you ever fucked him before?
(Even though he’s never gotten a verbal confirmation from either of them about the complexities of their relationship, Floch’s almost certain that Eren and Armin shared something more intimate in the past.)
Ultimately, because Eren is Eren, Floch just shrugs and gives him a polite smile.
And after he gets his fill of glaring at Floch, Eren begins to speak about a totally unrelated subject. For the moment, at least.
Because days later, the enraged man in front of him is something that Floch hasn’t seen in years. He’d almost be frightened, if he wasn’t so critical to the success of Eren’s plan.
“You can’t do that,” Eren snarls. “You, Armin—no. Absolutely not.”
Floch tries his very best to stay on good behavior. He wants to act so mean, but he can’t. He needs to balance this out. “We’re both adults,” he states calmly. “He chose this of his own volition.”
“I don’t care. I don’t want him dragged into all of this. Certainly not by you.”
Malice lines each and every word. It confirms to Floch that Eren and Armin’s relationship certainly had more dimensions to it in private. “I haven’t told him anything.”
“You better not have!”
He hadn’t seen this much passion from Eren in years, and he can’t decide if he likes it or hates it. “I didn’t realize that I needed permission to date Armin,” he says, unbothered. Date is a stronger word than he’d prefer, but he likes the way that it makes anger snap up inside of Eren. “He misses you a lot.”
He hits a weak spot in Eren—his expression falls for a moment. When he speaks, he still sounds angry. “I don’t have the luxury of stringing along my friends in this,” he spits. “I had to push him away.”
Floch…feels angry at Eren’s insinuation. “You didn’t need to do anything. You can’t see anything but your idealized version of him. He trusts you. I believe that you of all people could convince him that destroying our enemies is the only path forward. Don’t you think?”
“No,” Eren spits out. “I can’t ask that of him.”
Floch grits his teeth.
As admirable as he is…
Eren certainly manages to piss Floch off.
He promises Eren—twice—that he won’t tell Armin about their plan to enact a full-scale Rumbling. And even then, Eren still looks furious about the situation.
Secretly, Floch can’t make any guarantees. Because Eren can’t see the side of Armin that Floch sees. Armin is…manipulative. Underhanded. He’s brave. He understands sacrifice. And Floch knows that Armin could be the perfect person to ensure that everything goes according to plan.
But Eren’s too focused on the past. Too focused on only seeing the best parts of Armin.
Floch knows Armin better than anyone else at all, it seems.
It's a simple dichotomy. Armin wants to be torn to shreds. He's addicted to it, honestly. But there's a part deep down inside of Armin that longs for companionship, wants to feel needed. Armin desires to be brought to his knees and destroyed, but he also desperately wants praise. Even though he'd vehemently deny it if Floch ever pointed it out. Because Armin's too focused on making sure that he keeps a humble image. It's so easy to see through.
It's so damn easy to keep Armin coming back to him.
Floch stretches his arms upward before he reaches for his vertical maneuvering gear. They're set for a long day of training. He yawns. How annoying.
Footsteps approach from behind, then stop abruptly. Floch turns, then finds himself face-to-face with a sullen Mikasa, already fitted with her equipment. He raises an eyebrow. "Not a fan of these drills either?" he asks, fully aware that she's glaring at him for another reason.
"If you ever hurt Armin, I swear," she huffs, voice low and strained.
He stops himself from chuckling. "You think so poorly of me. I have nothing but the best intentions."
"That's a lie."
He rolls his eyes. "Ask Armin if you're so uncertain." He pauses. "I only hurt him when he asks nicely."
She's so horrified that she can only ball her hands into fists before she scoffs and ducks out of the room.
His shoulders start to shake because it's just so fucking hilarious.
Floch's breath hitches as he surveys the sight in front of him. Armin's on his knees, nestled between Floch's spread legs, hands splayed over Floch's thighs. He allows himself to relax ever-so-slightly into the plush armchair he occupies before he unholsters his pistol and points it right at Armin's forehead.
He doesn't even have to use his words. Armin obeys him, unbuckling Floch's belt and unbuttoning his trousers. For a brief moment, Armin looks up at him, and their eyes meet. Arousal surges in Floch, and by the time Armin pulls his underwear down, he's already half-hard.
"Fuck," he curses when Armin's fingers wrap around him. He lets his wrist drop, holding the pistol to Armin’s temple instead.
Armin strokes Floch’s dick leisurely, teasing him by keeping his lips so dangerously close. If there is something that Armin’s good at, it’s this.
His mouth drops open in a loud gasp when Armin’s tongue meets the head of his dick. He teases him briefly, lapping at his cock before Armin parts his lips and sinks down. “Armin,” Floch sighs, his free hand twisting in Armin’s hair. “Armin.”
He allows his fingernail to scape against the trigger. He’s not quite sure what would happen if the gun accidentally misfired. Armin’s assured him that it would be fine. Messy and horrifically unsexy, but fine.
Nevertheless. He groans as Armin finds a rhythm, stroking Floch where his mouth doesn’t reach. “I could kill you,” Floch whispers. “I could kill you and nothing would change because you’re absolutely useless.”
Armin whines and it feels so damn good.
“You’re not special. It’s a fluke that you’re alive and you haven’t even done anything to prove that you were more deserving than the late Commander,” Floch spits, voice wavering when he feels Armin sink down just a little bit further.
It’s no wonder Armin came crawling to Floch. He wants to be treated like dirt during sex. If only Floch had realized it sooner. He could have had this for years already instead of mere months.
When Armin takes his hand away from Floch’s dick, he uses it as an opportunity to be a bit mean; he holds Armin’s head steady by his hair and bucks his hips forward, causing Armin to whimper.
“You’re lucky you’re good for something,” Floch whispers, tapping Armin’s cheek with his pistol. “Wouldn’t pay you any mind if you were a bad fuck.”
Armin likes it, and Floch likes the way his eyes water when he takes all of Floch’s cock down his throat. Likes when Armin pulls back abruptly and gasps. Likes when Armin recovers quickly and continues as if he’d never faltered in the first place.
“Fuck, Armin. Just like that,” he whispers when he grows close. “You’re fucking—shit, you’re so good like this.”
This is what he’s chasing. Why he joined Eren. The dawn of New Eldia means having the world and a pretty boy at Floch’s knees.
And when his legs lock up because he’s coming down Armin’s throat, he sees his dream begin to turn to reality, ever-so-slightly.
“I want to tell him,” Floch says, and the absolute fury that flashes behind Eren’s eyes mirrors the anger he’d received from Eren after confirming their relationship.
“Don’t,” Eren snarls. “Don’t you dare.”
From the look on Eren’s face, he wants to argue. But Floch refuses to drag them into a fight. So he raises his hands in mock defeat.
“Fine,” he huffs. “Have it your way.”
"You're nothing but a mistake," Floch spits, staring down into Armin's expressionless eyes. "You should be dead. I'm right, you know."
Armin nods below Floch, rustling his hair against the pillow his head rests on, his mouth slightly open.
"Use your words. Tell me I'm right."
"You're right, Floch. You're so right," Armin breathes, and the way he doesn't blink disarms Floch, taking him completely out of the moment.
"Fuck, you're creepy," spills out from Floch's lips. In response, Armin curls his own upwards.
"And you're the one getting off on degrading me," Armin pushes back, still smiling as he speaks.
"Perhaps I am," Floch spits, "but at least I'm not the one who takes pleasure from being told I'm better off dead."
A shrug. "I guess that makes us compatible, then."
Floch grits his teeth. "I guess it does."
Compatible. Him. Armin. That's...
…right, he guesses. Because—in his drunken stupor, he decidedly doesn’t want to do anything about the fact that Armin’s throwing an arm around his shoulders and lacing their hands together. And Armin’s giggling into his ear, then pressing a sloppy kiss to Floch’s cheek, so deeply uncoordinated at this point.
“You’re fucking gross,” Floch teases, then receives another kiss to his cheek.
“You like it,” Armin whispers, leaning into Floch. “You like me.”
Floch releases a noncommittal grumble.
Tonight, tucked away in Floch’s room, is an exception to new habits. Armin doesn’t drink as much as he used to. Doesn’t seem as mopey, either. It’s all gone straight to Floch’s ego. Who knew that the Eren Jaeger was so easy to replace? Armin seems to like him well enough, after all.
Armin places a hand on the side of Floch’s head, snuggling up so closely that he can feel Armin’s warm breath on his ear.
”I’d even argue that it seems like you love me,” Armin breathes, and Floch snaps his head around to glare at Armin, who wears an all-knowing smile.
”Shut the fuck up,” Floch huffs, heat creeping up the back of his neck. “Don’t think so highly about yourself.”
And before Floch knows it, he’s making out with Armin, pressing him into the bed, pinning his wrists to the mattress. Heat like lightening flashes between his thighs. Armin, so willing and pliant in bed. Willing to accept being pushed around by Floch of all people. Floch’s addicted to how powerful it makes him feel.
Floch presses kisses to that nose of his, those cheeks of his. He likes the noises he pulls from Armin. Likes knowing that he’s playing with fire when he bites down on Armin’s neck so hard he draws blood. If Eren is the devil, then Armin must be some twisted god that’s hellbent on destroying Floch’s willpower. There’s simply no other reason for him to have gotten so attached to someone so despicable. Armin has some sort of draw to him that Floch’s never found in another person before. Not ever Eren stirs up such chaotic emotions in Floch.
And Floch might be foolish for falling for it, but Armin’s soft pleas for more, more are absolutely intoxicating. Damn. There’s a reason why Eren chose treason, and it’s the same reason why Floch’s choosing to betray his better judgment.
“You’re staring,” Armin whispers. Floch blinks, realizing that he’s been studying Armin’s face. Humiliating.
So Floch just rolls his eyes and captures Armin’s lips in a sloppy kiss, pleased that Armin can’t talk while he’s occupied like this.
But he just can’t get Armin’s earlier words out of his head. It bothers him. He pulls back from Armin and immediately slaps his free hand over Armin’s mouth so he cannot speak.
”I think it’s natural for me to love you,” Floch admits, liking the surprise that flashes behind Armin’s eyes. “You cling to me like you need me to live. It’s natural that the strong like it when a weak, pathetic thing needs them. I’d argue that it’s more embarrassing for you than me.”
Armin shrugs, and Floch slides his hand down to cup Armin’s jaw instead.
”Maybe I do love you,” Armin whispers.
And those are the last words Floch allows him to speak before he captures Armin’s lips again, thrilled that he’s been able to twist Armin into feeling adoration towards him.
Floch wakes up to a headache and an empty bed the next day. He groans as he sits up, then rubs his eyes.
When his vision comes back into focus, his stomach nearly leaps out of his throat.
Armin had torn through his desk. The drawer that once contained his most important papers now rests on top of the desk. Floch can’t believe he slept through the sound of Armin ripping it completely out.
Shit. Shit. He should’ve made a false bottom, hidden some of the evidence better. Shouldn’t have found any sort of pleasure or excitement from playing such a dangerous game. Floch’s mouth runs dry. If Armin’s run off to the Commander, he and Eren will be charged with treason. Although there’s not enough to figure out the more nefarious parts of their plan, it would be clear to anyone reading that Floch and Eren plan to overthrow the military command.
Fury rises in his chest as he comes to recognize the full extent of the betrayal. Armin…Armin had led him on for months. Floch had underestimated him—he’d thought he’d had control over him. But it was Armin who pulled the strings in their relationship. He’d waited for the perfect time to humiliate Floch—making Floch think that he’d had Armin under his control…making Floch admit that he loved Armin.
Floch grits his teeth at the last thought. Fuck! Armin must look so smug right now. He’d played Floch for a fool and stripped him raw. Milked an intimate confession from Floch, all while planning on betraying him that same night.
Armin Arlert has destroyed him.