The Tutor (Eremin) {Editing}

19. saw you in a dream~the japanese house

tw: mentions of abuse, violence, drug use

19. saw you in a dream~the japanese house

Armin's POV

I rarely remembered my dreams.

Ordinarily, all I could remember in the morning was a blur of colors and shapes and shadows. The only times my dreams toed the line towards realism were when they were nightmares, where the sensations of pain and terror felt so real I would wake up clutching my sheets with my heart on the verge of exploding.

There was always more power in daydreams for me. At least, that's what I thought. That's what I thought, until my usual nighttime reveries were invaded by scenes as evocative as life itself. Eyes as green as lush forests, stretching out for miles into rolling fields that turned hypnotic. Pink mouths and cherry red tongues. Hurried hands wandering, removing clothes, brown skin against blue sheets. Deep sighs of pleasure, soft friction against bodies, tugging at yellow locks of hair. A voice, moaning my name, over and over and over. Armin. Armin. Armin.

I startled awake in the darkness, a lump in my throat and an uncomfortable hardness in my underwear.

I wasn't a saint; I had thought about sex before. But it was always abstract, something distant and unattainable, something that didn't involve me. At age thirteen, my obsession with the Lord of the Rings films led to my sexual awakening—Legolas, with his long ivory hair and cheekbones and elf ears and mysterious, alluring charm. I watched video complications of scenes only containing him, sighing wistfully at his effortless beauty. I fell down an internet rabbit hole, first finding innocent fan art, then fan art of him in compromising positions, all the way to the actual nudes of Orlando Bloom, the actor who played him. I was a fiend, forming a secret nighttime ritual of hiding under the covers and staring at picture after picture, performing the deed that helped ease the pressure that pooled in my stomach.

I got older and had my unattainable crushes, my moments of awe over men twice my age in my favorite science fiction and fantasy films, read scenes in books that had my breath hitching in my throat and heat pinpricking my ears. There were times where I wondered what it would be like to be touched by hands other than my own. But now, fleeting thoughts had transformed into curiosity, curiosity that had been piquing lately when Eren's mouth was on mine and his hands skated across my hips and thighs and lower back. There was that curiosity the last time he had laid in my bed, arm slung over my waist as he snored softly, fingers hovering dangerously near my waistband.

And I thought about Eren a lot, thought about how much I liked his crooked smiles and the little space at the juncture of his neck and jaw which I liked to press kisses to when he wasn't looking. I liked the shape of his body beneath my hands, as they traveled the expanse of his physique like a river. He was like a sculpture. Like Michaelangelo's David. He had runner's calves and strong thighs and an abdomen that was both firm and soft like clouds, gentle muscles rippling on his abdomen like delicate waves in the ocean's tide. But every time my mind started to wander to the prospect of seeing all of him, I would end up a red-faced puddle of embarrassment.

Eren was beautiful. The kind of beautiful that I would let swallow me whole. Maybe that's what made the prospect of his nakedness so intimidating.

All I knew as I lay in my bed alone, still breathless from my reverie, was that I wanted him. All of him. Eren in his entirety, as close and vulnerable as the Eren in my dreams. I didn't sleep anymore, rising with the sunshine, nothing but the vivid imagery of my dreams to keep me awake.

Eren's POV

Once upon a time, I was carefree. It wasn't for long; the memories were more like a twisted fantasy to me in the present, age seventeen, on the cusp of eighteen. On the cusp of adulthood.