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Recipe for Disaster

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When Jean gets home he can hear Armin in the kitchen, humming along to the radio and clattering about, and there's a vague smell of vanilla in the air. He leaves his bag at the foot of the stairs and takes off his shoes and jacket before going to investigate. In the kitchen, Armin has a large mixing bowl full of cake batter which he stirs with a wooden spoon as he hums. At the sound of Jean coming in, Armin looks up.

“Hey, did you have a good day?” he asks, an easy smile gracing his sweet face. Jean's heart still flip-flops irresistibly as he smiles back at Armin.

“It was fine,” he says, crossing to Armin and kissing him on the forehead. “What are you making?”

“A cake,” replies Armin, gesturing to the bowl in front of him.

Jean grins. “I can see – is it for me?”

“Sorry babe, it's for Eren's birthday,” Armin explains.

Jean shrugs. “I'd appreciate it more I'm sure.”

“I'll make you one for your birthday too,” promises Armin with a prod to Jean's ribs.

“That's ages away,” pouts Jean.

“It's a week after Eren's.”

“Boo,” grumbles Jean. “Want cake now.”

Armin laughs, going up on his toes to put his arms around Jean's neck and pull him into a kiss. His lips open, letting Jean's tongue meet his own, mouth warm and wet and inviting. By the time they break apart and Armin grins up at him, Jean feels almost light-headed.

“You're ridiculous,” giggles Armin.

“Speak for yourself.”

Jean kisses Armin again, lifting him by his backside into the kitchen counter. On a squeak of surprise, Armin opens his mouth again and Jean lays claim to it, tongue running along the underside of Armin's as his hands roam Armin's chest.

“Jean,” Armin gasps between kisses; Jean can feel Armin's pulse quickening under his skin as he kisses down Armin's throat. “Jean – I need to make the cake.”

“I'll stop if you want me to,” says Jean. “Do you want me to?”

Armin's answer is clear even before he speaks: Jean feels fingers tighten in the fabric of his shirt and hears the hitch of breath in his ear.

“Please don't,” Armin sighs, wrapping his legs around Jean's hips and pulling him flush against him.

Jean grins and kisses Armin once again, feeling Armin's hand at the front of his jeans, kneading his already half-hard cock through the fabric. “You're feeling forward today.”

“How can I not when you kiss me like that?” asks Armin, hands crawling up Jean's stomach under his shirt. Said shirt soon ends up on the floor, along with Armin's and Armin makes quick work of Jean's jeans, eliciting a soft groan as he pushes them down and dips his hand Jean's underwear to squeeze his dick.

“Fuck, you're so hot,” breathes Jean. He tugs open Armin's jeans too, feeling a tremble go through Armin as they start to stroke each other.

Armin whimpers, lips close to Jean's ear, his free hand tangling in Jean's hair. Short, panting breaths fan over Jean's skin as he continues pumping his hand, dragging it over Armin's erection as Armin does the same, fingers stuttering a little. Armin's body jerks under Jean's ministrations.

“Jean... Jean...”


Armin abandons the task at hand (so to speak) to throw his arms around Jean's neck and kiss him desperately. With a stifled groan, Jean takes both Armin's cock and his own in his grip, stroking them together and coaxing further moans into his mouth. Armin's knees twitch against Jean's hips, his body shaking as Jean brings them both closer to the edge. The oven pings to signal that it has pre-heated and Armin arches his back, clinging to Jean and moaning into his lips.

“God Jean I'm so close,” he gasps.

“I know babe,” groans Jean. “I am too.”

“Together,” whispers Armin, and all Jean can do is nod, squeezing his and Armin's erections gently.

It doesn't take much longer: a few more strokes and the slightest twist of his hand and Jean feels Armin's cock pulse in his grip. Armin cries out in ecstasy, trembling through his orgasm, and Jean quickly follows suit, keeping his hand moving to help them ride out the pleasure together. Soon after they both slump, trading lazier, slower kisses as Jean lets go and reaches behind Armin for a paper towel to wipe his hand clean. Eventually they part, grinning conspiratorially at each other, and Jean takes a step back to let Armin down. Armin starts to shuffle forward but pauses, frowning down at the mixing bowl beside him.

“What's up?” asks Jean.

Armin looks at him, face pink. “There's... uh... jizz in... in the batter.”

Jean suppresses a snort of laughter. “Whoops.”

“I'll have to start again.”

“Just stir it in,” suggests Jean with another laugh. “He won't notice.”

“That's disgusting,” counters Armin, sliding off the counter with a wrinkle of his nose. He crosses to the fridge and opens it, face falling as he looks inside.

“What's wrong?” asks Jean.

“I don't have any more eggs.”