Chapter Text
"We've covered a lot of ground today. Thank you everyone, we'll circle back on Monday to follow up on these action items."
"Thanks, Erwin."
"Thank you."
"Thanks!"
"Thanks all, dropping off."
"Have a good weekend, bye."
You let your camera go dark and keep your mic muted, but damn it all, you stick around the virtual meeting a little longer, because Erwin Smith is still on camera.
He looks like a damned model, blonde and beautiful, his eyes shining blue and his pristine white shirt hugging his broad shoulders in a manner you can only describe as mouthwatering. You settle back into your office chair— which half the time blocks your TV, since your work-from-home set-up is just in the corner of your living room— and let yourself ogle the beautiful blonde as inappropriately as you'll allow yourself to in these last few seconds of screen time.
You're dressed up, much more dressed up than normal. At least from the waist up, where your camera could see you. Your lashes are dark and your lids sparkle in the light you'd set up just right in your apartment to make you look warm and alive and attractive. Your usual routine, whenever Erwin Smith joins a meeting.
It's a foolish work crush, especially given the remote nature of your team. Even with the knowledge that he'd recently moved to your city, it didn't quite feel right to try to meet with him in person. Especially given how unbearably handsome and charming he was, and how thick tongued and embarrassed you felt trying to talk to him.
Despite that, you find yourself sliding into his direct messages on a weekly basis, offering him pleasantries and project updates that were outside of what were necessary. But he always humours you well enough, replying jovially, politely, professionally. You never venture into any uncertain territories with the man, even though you always maximize his camera feed in any meeting you're both a part of.
Even the ones where other participants are presenting PowerPoint slides.
The virtual meeting room has cleared out by now, and it's just you and Erwin, and you know it looks shady as hell to be loitering around until he leaves first, but you can't stop yourself. You love to look at him.
He's leaning back in his chair, exhaling. It takes you a moment of admiring him before you realize that he might have just minimized the meeting window, because he doesn't seem to notice you're still there.
"Oh, Erwin," he chastises himself, and you see him shaking his head. He rises, and — oof, he's wearing slacks, and — oh! He's turned around. Oh, his ass—
You resist the urge to screenshot this moment on your work laptop.
He disappears off-screen, perhaps wandering into another room. You can't hear much, just ambient noise and feedback from his microphone. You can't bring yourself to look away.
You should leave this meeting. You know that you should. Instead you unplug your external webcam and deactivate your microphone from the system menu. Just to be safe.
You can feel guilty about this later, you think. You just want a few more moments of watching him.
It's late into the work day, nearly 5:30pm, and when Erwin returns to being on-screen he settles into his chair with a drink in hand. His dark brows are knit, like he's thinking about something troubling.
Then he sighs.
"That cream sweater," he mutters to himself, and he shakes his head again, taking a big sip of his drink. You can hear the ice shifting in it. It looks like hard liquor.
You look down at yourself, at the cream colour of your top.
He settles the drink on the armrest of his office chair. This is his home office, clean but dark with the sun having set during your meeting. He's lit by a lamp in the corner of the room you can't see. Warm. Just like you.
He digs his fingers into the collar of his shirt until the top button releases. Then he does another. You hold your breath.
"Half your age," he mumbles to himself, and you can see the hair of his chest peeking over his loosened collar. The thick muscle under it.
He really doesn't realize you're still on the call. You cover your mouth, even though you already disabled your microphone.
He takes another swig of his drink, then settles it back on the arm rest. He smirks to himself.
"Well. Perhaps not half." He stares down into his drink, swishing it around. The ice clinks. "Graduated 5 years ago, was it?" He closes his eyes. "A decade difference," he decides. "Not the worst." He opens his eyes again, shaking his head, a little embarrassed. He tips his glass to the side, like he's conceding. "Not the best, either. But god..." He takes a deep breath and stares up at his ceiling. Then he does something that shocks you.
He says your name.
You jolt, thinking you'd been caught, ready to come up with an excuse, but he's not looking at the camera, he's looking back down at his drink.
"Beautiful thing," he mumbles. "Chaotic, beautiful thing." He laughs to himself. "If only you knew," he tells no one in particular. "Those little messages of yours." He's shaking his head again, half smirking. "So friendly. And for what?" He slumps down a little in his chair, his legs spread wide. "For me to get all worked up, staring at you in that cream fucking sweater." He goes quiet, like he knows he shouldn't say these things out loud.
You've never been hornier in your life.
He sits in silence and you do too. Your mind is racing, but fuck, your heartbeat pounds between your legs. How can it not? Erwin fucking Smith just admitted to wanting you.
You're disgusting for not dropping off of this call, but he's certainly not being any better, talking about a coworker like this. Looking like that.
"Pervert," Erwin mumbles, and again you feel your blood run cold only to realize he's talking to himself, and your blood is aflame just as fast again. "Ask the poor thing out if you're going to think like that."
Oh god, what was he thinking? You wish you could prompt him, wish you could unmute and tell him you have all sorts of untoward thoughts about him too, but you stay quiet, silently observing, resisting the urge to reach underneath the pyjama pants you hid just out of view and stroke at the wet heat pooling there.
He chuckles to himself, a sound that rings more self-deprecating than humorous. "She'd laugh me out of the company," he decides.
"As fucking if," you murmur. He doesn't react. He can't hear you.
He sips more of his drink.
"Wonder who's inspiring the sparkling paint on her eyes," he says to his nearly empty drink. "Those shining lips. One of the new hires, perhaps? Jean from accounting?" He raises his brows, thinking something over. "The girl? Mikasa?" He laughs to himself again. "That'd be something. To feel this way and have all the wrong parts."
You gulp. To feel what exactly?
He closes his eyes again, groans a sound out that riles excitement in you all the way down to your bones. He swaps the hand holding his drink and— oh. Oh.
Oh.
Oh god. He's rubbing at himself between his legs. His cheeks tinge pink, and he looks ashamed, and god, you're ashamed, because you should not be looking at this. This is— this is wrong, in every possible way.
Yet your hand trails down under the elastic of your pyjama pants and you feel for the heat that has been simmering there since the meeting had ended. No, shit, who are you trying to convince? Why lie? You were wet the whole time he spoke.
"Every meeting," Erwin mumbles to himself, rubbing at the growing ache between his legs. You wished he had a better quality camera, because when you full screen the video feed it's not crisp enough for you to see as much as you'd like. "Every damned meeting." He sighs and rubs a little more roughly at himself. "Those fucking…" You can tell, you can feel it, he's talking about your body, your breasts that you purposefully accentuate in the most work-appropriate way possible. You love that he noticed. You love that he's stroking himself to the idea now.
He laughs, and it's a little bitter, and you can't believe he talks to himself like this when he looks like a fucking statue, like someone that would inspire art.
"If she knew," he mutters. "If she knew how often I think of having her in my mouth…" He squeezes his eyes shut and rubs, rubs, rubs at himself over his clothes. The bitter laugh falls from his pretty lips again. "Dirty old man," he scolds himself. "Thinking of her like that." He looks over at the other side of the room, his drink still held tight in his free hand, his cock now fully filling out his other just under a few layers of clothes. "But it does feel good, doesn't it."
The profile of his face is so handsome, you can't believe this is how he acts when no one is watching. You wish you could climb through your screen and end up in his lap. Wish you could grind that self-deprecating attitude right out of him.
You hear clinking again, thinking it's the ice, but you notice him shuffling. He's undoing his belt. Then he's undoing his fly.
You can't breathe.
You should hang up now. You should disappear. You should do anything but drag your own clothes off. And yet your pants are around your knees now, and you're spread all the way open, and shit, you can't stop yourself from trying to match his strokes.
He's beautiful, thick in his own hand. He brings his palm up to his lips and he spits, and if you were there, you'd want to drink it. How does he taste? How does he smell? What does it feel like to be in the same room as Erwin fucking Smith?
A sound leaves his mouth and you recognize it as your name. Holy shit, he's groaning out your name, cock in hand, slicked wet from his saliva. You rub yourself a little more, and you feel the pleasure start to build.
There's no conscience here anymore, no panic of what if you get caught and no room to question the morals of staring at someone while they masturbate to the thought of you. It's all messed up, it's all kinds of wrong, and in a way it makes stroking the heat between your legs feel a little more pleasurable.
"I want you," he says, and it's pathetic and desperate. "God, I want you." Your name, again, followed by a scoff. "I really, really, truly want you. Fuck."
Erwin swears like he doesn't do it too often. There's impact in it. He means it.
His hair has fallen over his forehead and he's stroking, still, chasing something, chasing a fantasy. His eyes are squeezed shut, his brows knit. He's thinking of you.
"I'd do anything," he whimpers, and he's seems like he's close, his hand working himself rough and brutal. It's so pink in his hands, so hard, so thick. A length that looks like it would take some getting used to. Hair dragging up his stomach and disappearing underneath the shirt he hasn't opened all the way. You wonder if his whole body is painted in blonde hairs. You'd explore it all if you had the option.
"I'd lick every inch of you," you whisper to your laptop, and you know he can't hear you, but it feels good to say it.
"God, to feel her just once—"
"You could feel me a hundred times—"
"To fill her just once—"
"A thousand times!"
You're so close, you feel like he is too. You suckle the fingers of your free hand and spread open a little wider, double checking once more that your camera isn't watching, and you plunge your fingers into yourself.
"I want you so badly," Erwin is panting, so lost to his fantasies. Your name falls from his lips.
You say his name back at him, "Erwin…"
Your name again, loud over your speakers. You'd turn the volume higher if your hands weren't occupied.
"Erwin!"
His breath gets caught somewhere in the thick muscle of his throat, his hips rise from his seat. The hand still holding his drink shifts and you hear the clank of his ice cubes, and oh— he comes. Erwin Smith comes on camera, and you watch him, your name chanted from deep in his chest. Fluids spill across his thick knuckles, painting his fingers shiny in the dim light, and the coiling in between your hips reaches a breaking point, your fingers curling inside of you until you reach your limit.
You come, too.
You chant his name like he'd chanted yours, even though you know he can't hear it. Your jaw hangs open as your orgasm rocks your body, your legs trembling at the feeling. When rolling pleasure between your legs starts to subside and your vision comes back to you, you swallow and catch your breath and stare into Erwin's camera feed to see him expressing the same twisted sort of shame that is snaking its way up your neck.
Well. At least you're both feeling a little skeevy about this. At least it isn't just you.
He hangs in his hand, softening, and he looks like he's catching his breath still, too.
"Again," he mumbles, like he's shaming himself for repeated bad behaviour. He leans his head all the way back. His neck is so beautiful. You'd suck on it for hours, given the chance. "Again, Erwin?" He sighs, a long, heavy, shameful sigh, then he rises and settles his drink on his desk, looking right at his computer for the first time since the meeting had ended.
Panic.
He drops down, the sight of his waist and his open fly replaced by his face, a twisted horror in his eyes.
You feel like fleeing, the bizarre sensation like he's looking right at you making all of the hairs on your neck stand up on end.
He calls out your name.
"Are—" He looks so frightened, so panicked, you wish you could pat down his hair and relieve him, but you stay quiet, even with your mic disabled. You don't move, either, even though your pyjama pants are still at your knees and your camera is unplugged. "Are you there? Hello?" His eyes are darting back and forth, searching for you. You stay quiet. You'll lie later, say you left your laptop unlocked and went out for a walk before dinner. It's easy enough to sell.
He says your name one more time, and when you don't respond, the panic settles into something closer to shame, and he buries his face in his hands.
"Good god," he says, just before he leaves the call.
You swallow the guilt that has overflown in your chest. That was wrong, and you know it was wrong, but at the same time… You're so pleased about it all. How can you not be? Erwin Smith comes thinking about you. Is there any better news to receive than that?
You scramble to grab your phone, setting a timer for eight minutes— a number unusual enough that it wouldn't seem purposeful or related to Erwin's drop-off, and you work on cleaning yourself up.
When the timer goes off, you drop out of the meeting.
You take a steadying breath, settle yourself, then you click on the direct messages to Erwin Smith.
The last thing you'd said to him was yesterday, a quick back and forth. From you, "A meeting on Friday night, always the worst!"
His reply, "Truly the worst. But at least we're free to start the weekend afterwards!"
You asked, "Big plans?"
And he'd replied, "None, yet. Still too new to the city to have plans, though I'd love to explore the area more! And yourself?"
"None at all!"
You hadn't read it in any particular way before, but the more you scrolled up in your conversation, the more it seemed like Erwin was screaming at you that he was single. There's a twisted fondness in your heart, thinking of all those mean things he'd said to himself about his interest in you. How pleased would he be to find out you'd been aching for him this whole time, too?
Still, even with the knowledge you had, your fingers tremble a little when you type the lie, "Oh my god, I forgot to drop out of the meeting! ☠" and hit send.
You think you'll have to wait for Monday for a response, but almost as soon as you hit send, there is the indicator Erwin Smith is typing…
You gulp and stare at your screen in anticipation, your heart thump, thump, thumping so brutally hard in your chest and in your ears that you think your whole skeleton might knock loose and land in a pile of bones on the floor.
"Too eager to start the weekend! I'm sure no one noticed."
You could die, seeing him talk like that when you'd seen him doing all of that just a few minutes ago. You start to type back again.
"You're working late, huh?"
You hope to god this is normal banter. You hope he can't read your mind through the chat.
"Just tying up a few loose ends," he replies. He's a liar, just like you.
Well.
Now is your chance.
You try to remember the mean things he'd mumbled to himself, or the way he'd called out your name. He wants you. You have to keep reminding yourself of it, though it all still feels a bit like a dream.
"While you're here, I was just wondering, do you think—" you pause to scratch at your neck, your message half finished in the chat. Come on, now, you'd seen the man come minutes ago. You can ask him on a date. You already know that he's interested. Doesn't he deserve to feel good?
You keep typing.
"—do you think you'd be interested in meeting for lunch or something this weekend? Was thinking you're due for a little welcoming to the city."
You hit send and fight the urge to slam the laptop shut. How many times had you typed out messages like this, just to erase them? It feels unreal to finally be sending it, and even after sharing such an intimate moment with him— granted, he didn't know you were sharing it— you have this twisted panic ringing in your bones that he'll reject you.
He types, then he stops.
Then he starts typing again.
Then he stops.
Your heart is in your throat. You think for a moment that you might have made a huge mistake. You look away, minimize the screen, contemplate tossing your laptop in a full bathtub and changing your name and address, but then the notification dings and you have to look.
"I'd love that!" his message reads. "Truthfully, I was working myself up to inviting you out myself." He was certainly working himself, you think to yourself, and it's a little mean. But you'll make it up to him. "Saturday?"
You type out your phone number so he has it, and you agree, "Saturday."
You try to picture him, rosy cheeked and relieved, and you feel a little good about yourself.
You resolve to make him feel even better tomorrow. You owe him for the orgasm, anyway.