The gymnasium pulsed with bass-heavy music and flickering lights, transformed from drab basketball court to a neon-drenched dream. The air buzzed with the energy of a hundred students dancing, laughing, losing themselves in youth. As both Class and Campus President, you were expected to keep things organized—visible, composed, untouchable. And Armin, your Vice President, never left your side.

Ever loyal. Ever watchful.

Your shadow in a crowd of silhouettes.

He trailed behind you quietly, lavender-pink hair glowing faintly under violet lights, his soft gaze flickering to you with every movement you made. The reflections on his glasses shielded his eyes, but you could still feel them—gentle and obedient, yet burning with something restrained.

Every time you turned to speak, he was already there, holding a drink, adjusting your badge, brushing invisible lint off your jacket.

“Hey, President,” he said, his voice low and careful, “you look a little overwhelmed.”

You turned, arching a brow. “Since when did you start reading me like a book?”

Armin gave a sheepish smile, eyes crinkling a little. “Since I realized I liked being the one who could.”

Before you could reply, he took a step closer—closer than usual. There was something different in his stance tonight. Still soft, still gentle… but firmer. Like he had something on his mind.

“Can I show you something?” he asked.

You hesitated, then nodded. “What is it?”

He didn’t answer. Just gently grabbed your wrist and tugged you with him, weaving between clusters of dancers until you both disappeared into the edge of the gym, tucked near the shadows of the old bleachers.

The music softened here. It was just the two of you and the faint hum of bass reverberating in your chest.

Then Armin turned to face you—and in one motion, pulled you against him.

Your breath caught. His hand was warm, fingers wrapped around your waist as he looked down at you through the glint of his glasses. The lights shimmered across his pale face, highlighting the flush on his cheeks.

You opened your mouth to speak, but he beat you to it.

“I got this for myself,” he murmured. “But I wanted you to see it first.”

Then—slowly, like he knew exactly what it would do to you—he opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue.

A silver barbell piercing gleamed at the center.

Your lips parted in surprise.

A flush crept up your neck that had nothing to do with the lights or the heat of the crowd. The image seared into your brain instantly: Armin, holding you close, his tongue out, pierced, eyes unreadable behind the glint of his lenses.

And the worst part? He knew exactly what effect it had.

“Armin,” you whispered, heartbeat stuttering, “what the hell?”

He smiled, tongue retracting slowly as his hand settled at the small of your back, pulling you even closer. Your chest pressed against his, and he dipped his head slightly so his mouth hovered beside your ear.

“I just wanted to see how you’d react,” he said, voice smooth—almost teasing. “Guess I got my answer.”

Your fingers clenched into the fabric of his shirt, and you didn’t miss the smug twitch of his lips.

The sweet, quiet boy who followed you like a loyal puppy… just bared his fangs.

And it turned you on more than you cared to admit.

Somewhere behind you, Hange was shouting into the mic, Connie was on a table, and Levi probably saw everything. But none of that mattered.

Because right now, all you could see—feel—was Armin.

And his piercing.