inbry - Tumblr blog

inbry · 11 days

Text

a creasing unfurled

tags: armin x reader, college setting, secret crushes, pining, origami, love confessions, armin has trouble connecting with his emotions

warnings: none!

words: 2.7k

★ There is not much he can do for you, despite that which settles earnestly in his heart, thrumming loudly at the sight of you. But this? This he can do.

★ Or the one in which Armin has a hard time connecting with his feelings for you, and the one in which he does so in the only way he knows how: by creating.

It started simple. Even he is not sure when. He would fold paper, over and over, as if on instinct; to soothe himself, to distract himself, sometimes – to enamor himself. And it stuck. Ever since childhood, it has, and none other aside his childhood friends know about it.

Or nobody has. Until now, he supposes. But that is his own fault.

You were so upset that day. Wilted and quiet, the skin around your eyes stained with a red tint. It hurt him so to see you like this, and you refused to budge or to tell him, and what else was he to do? Would he sit there, quiet, helpless? He could not do it. He simply could not.

So he, quietly, carefully, did the one thing that came to him so easily. He folded and furled the star into existence, easing its corners with the help of his pen, and it was so simple and so small, it felt feeble when compared to his worry, but still he could at least do that.

You looked so gentle as you took it from his hand. You'd called it pretty when you saw it, this he remembers so vividly even now. Then you softened when he'd told you that it was meant for you. He still remembers how you looked at it then, held tenderly in the heart of your palm.

He did not think of it after that. He did not. He tried not to – and he succeeded, of course he had. Until now. Until now, now that he sees the star lay safely in a tiny pouch within your bag.

He could barely believe it, at first. He blinked hard, then once more. And now as he sits, distracted and staring, you notice, embarrassingly so.

"Is something wrong?" You ask him, and he bristles. He makes a noise, and he feels himself flush. Armin tries to find the words, and he tries and tries again, but in the end he just points at it, at the lone star lying by your side. "Oh. Of course," you tell him then, grinning widely. "I carry it with me. It's my good luck talisman."

He thinks of it. Incessantly. He does not attempt to curb it – he knows it is futile. Instead he sits there, cheeks heated the whole day they are there. Instead he looks at it, stolen glances in its direction, each one swirling something up in his chest. Instead he goes home that day, exhausted and riled up in a way he can't quite comprehend, and instead he makes you a dozen stars more.

When he is done with them, they feel almost sacred. They feel weighted, in his palms, like they don't belong there. He thinks and thinks of what he is now to do with them, and it takes him a week – entire seven days – of staring, moving, and arguing with the stars, to finally gather them, and come up to you, and pour them half-heartedly into your hands.

And it's the way you look at them. Delighted, bright – a star of its own right. He can't help but grin helplessly as he watches you coo at each one. He knows your favourite colours, and your favourite patterns, and your favourite combinations, and he is sated beyond belief when you gleefully inspect each one, each paper chosen just for you.

You take them home, and he never asks what you've done with them. He dares not. He considers it, but instead of it he just finds himself hoping, quietly, that you keep them somewhere, that you do not throw them away.

But he does not ask. It is not his place – even if he is desperate to know.

And he is winded, the next time he sees them. Tucked neatly into a jar, placed lovingly at your desk in your home; he feels his chest expand, and cave in, and then burst into pieces altogether as he sees each one of them.

He can't help himself. Overtaken with the sight, with the thought of you looking at his stars each time you sit down to work, that same night he sits down to make you something more. He aims to make it bigger, to make it something intricate, and he's not entirely sure why he's so possessed with the thought. This has never been a sort of love expression for him, or anything beyond. This, even if private, even it close to him, has always been just what it is – a hobby.

But he can't get rid of it, of the image: you, gazing so besottedly at that lone star he has made for you so many months ago. At the way you looked at it a weeks ago, calling it your talisman. He knows you were joking. He knows that. But his hands begin folding on their own as he thinks of you, and before he knows it himself, he is making your favourite animal.

He knows you are obsessed with it. You talk about it, eagerly, exuberantly; fact after fact spilling out of you each time it is brought up in conversation. He is not sure, exactly, why he settles on that. But he dares not think about the feeling in his chest whenever he sees you like that, loud and animated and impassioned by something so simple and so seemingly small.

He ruminates on it, when he is done; oh, he does. He wonders, for the longest while, with hands on his face, if he should sign it; leave a message on it. He feels urgently, for a moment, a need to unfold it, to leave a message inside, for you to one day, someday to find. But as he takes it, he just stills, knowing: he does not know what to write.

So instead, he tightens and straightens the lines of it, working out the imperfect bends, and then he looks, and looks, and looks at it, undecided and conflicted.

In the end, he decides, he will leave a simple dot. It takes a bit of Googling, to find where exactly the animal's heart is, but he's fairly certain he's got it down. His pen nearly trembles as he places the dot, but when he does, he feels much better. He feels as if he's said something, something earnest and true, even if he himself is not sure what it is.

Two weeks it takes him to give it to you. Two weeks he agonizes over it, watching the animal perch at his desk defiantly. Two weeks his heart somersaults in its place each time he comes home, greeted with his own creation.

And then he does, one day. Impassioned with a bravery that comes to him from thin air, he comes to your home with the animal ready, secured safely in his bag. His hands shake when he takes it out, but just a little – enough that he can hide it. Enough that it grows forgotten as he near collapses at your reaction, delight and warmth bursting at your seams.

He does not know how you do it – how you grasp it so gently, and yet with such a vigour in your eyes. They sparkle now, ablaze with something he thinks he could call awe, and then your hand grasps at his, and he is breathless, just for right now.

"How did you do it?" You ask, again and again, loud and excited, and he shows you. He feels embarrassed, overwhelmed as you watch him, but he can't stop. Pinned beneath your watchful eye, hands precise in their own right, he presses on, folding and bending the paper the one way he knows how. He wants you to see – that is the truth. He wants you to look at him like that again, with that awe and surprise, so warm on his soul.

"It's really nothing," he ends up telling you, because it is, at the end of the day. It's just paper and folding. And you are vehement. You refuse to agree, loudly at that. And though he is abashed, you almost convince him.

Yet he leaves it at that. He folds a second animal at your behest, beneath your gaze, mind focused on this one gesture he can give you. This one, it is different; a different colour, a different paper than the first. It's less delicate, less intricate – this paper is not meant for origami, he laments to himself, so when he is finished, once he has shown you how it is done, he begins to dismantle it.

And you refuse. Of course you do. You grab the creation out of his hands, as if saving a kitten from some sort of harm, and then you cradle it to your chest, expression in shock and dismay.

"You can't just destroy it!" You tell him then, exasperated beyond belief.

"It's just paper," he tells you then, chuckling; because it is.

"It's not just paper," you tell him then, and then you repeat it, words so fierce that he nearly believes you; he lets himself to, he allows it, settling with a breath released from his lungs. He watches, then, as you place the both of his creations side by side, next to the stars enchambered in the jar.

His eyes linger on them, these two creatures watching the two of them work, and he finds he is unable to focus any longer. It almost bothers him, the way they stand there, lonesome and together, and it isn't until you've left the room that he can take his pen and fix the situation. He marks the dot out of memory, no longer needing to look up where it should be, and then, afterwards, he feels himself somewhat settled.

And he tries not to think of it, as the days pass. He finds that if he does, if he ever allows it, he is swiftly overwhelmed. He can't parse it, this image; the two animals perching, resting together on your desk, protected so fiercely by your own hands. He can't quite parse this feeling, either – this suffocating swelling in his chest.

So, he does not think of it. He clears his mind. He tries to. He really, truly tries.

But then, one day, you come. You cross the room over to him, approaching him meek as a mouse, and soon he sees you cradle it: your own creation, sleeping tenderly in your palm. It's a little crooked, a little bent. "You've seen my handwriting," you tell him shyly, "my hands aren't as deft as yours."

But it's perfect. It's absolutely perfect.

"Can I keep it?" He finds himself asking, without much of a permission of his own. He is mortified. He is speechless. He blinks owlishly at his own words, blushing fiercely for asking such a thing – and you just smile at him.

"I made it for you, silly. Obviously you can keep it."

And he does. He does keep it. Nestled safely in the inner pocket of his jacket, he keeps it there, safe from everything else in the world. He feels it there, at most times – it is his favourite jacket, after all. And he looks at it, turning it over in his hands; he does it often, whenever possible – even it sets his chest ablaze.

It does not stop there. How could it ever? How could he ever not repay you? It is the least he could do, after all.

And so it unfolds. And folds. And refolds. He makes you something, something new each time; something intricate, beautiful – something he thinks you will like, or something which makes him think of you. He stops, for once, holding himself back, and now it only takes a day, or two, or three, at most, to gather the mortal strength to gift each one to you; to gather the strength, in fact, to look at you, so happy, so radiant it almost stings his eyes.

And you, too, come back to him, little creatures and hearts and stars beholden safely within your hands. Each time, you smile at him sheepishly, each time you tell him you'll do better. Each time you tell him: "I did my best for you, please don't judge it too harshly." And how could he? How could be ever? He looks at them still, placed delicately on his desk, and even now he could cry.

It becomes their secret, in a way. It becomes their own. Stars captured during class, pushed towards one another beneath the table; little get-togethers in the furthermost corners of the library, where they glee over the paper. It's so simple. It's so simple, and yet he feels so fiercely protective of it. He can't help but feel greedy. He can't help it. He tried, he did – but it did not work at all.

He does not tell you as such. How could he? You would hate him, surely. Or you would disagree. And he is afraid of it – of disturbing this sacred balance between the two of you; he has been for so long now.

But he should have known better.

He should have known you were a step ahead of him – of course you were. It is that day he learns of it. That day, when his favourite animal sits before him. It plops almost unceremoniously in front of him, disturbing the work the two of you were finishing. Armin watches, with an odd, quiet awe as your hand gently uncurls from it after. And it's so precious. As it sits there, ahead of him, he can't help but feel overcome: with a warmth, and with a longing. He can't swallow how intricate it is, how meticulously it has been folded. This, he knows, took you a while. A long while. An incredibly long while.

"I practised," you tell him then, smile nervous, and it takes his breath, it steals it right beneath his nose. "Again and again. It took me a while. I really can't do the things you can." And he looks at you, lips parted, ready to defend your own skill to you. But he can't say it. He looks at you, at this timid, starlit look in your eyes, and something in it makes him grow mute, if only for just this moment. And it is then that you continue: "I must admit, I must have unfolded and refolded it a thousand times. That first one you brought me. I was sure, if I learnt to do it, I would find a message there. Something. Anything."

And then you laugh. So light and precious that his hands feel electrified. "It's so like you," you continue, "to have left such a small one. A whole dot." You titter, and therein he feels himself heat. His ears, then his cheeks, then downwards to his entire throat.

And you take none of it. Of course you don't. Wiser were he in the matters of the heart, he would have started with one – not with a star. So you take his hand, gently, so tenderly it almost makes him tremble, and you curl it around the animal you've made for him.

And he gets the message. He does. He just needs a moment. He breathes, in and out, eyes gliding over the folds within the paper, and he can't help the smile. It forms effortlessly, without his permission. Your hand still on his, you tell him, quietly: "Pick it up, Armin."

And he does. He knows what he will see at the heart of the animal, and still he is, inexplicably, surprised, and shocked, and so, so warmly pleased.

"You've done so well," he finds himself say it, and you just laugh. "You really have."

"It's a yes or no question, Armin," you tell him, laughing bright as bells, "don't be coy."

"Of course," he says then, smiling, no – grinning, and he pulls her creation closer, cradling it to his chest. "Of course it's a yes."

dividers by cafekitsune

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inbry · 11 days

Text

reflections

tags: armin x reader, reader is an artist, reader uses she/her pronouns, takes place during the tent party in marley, mutual crushing, drunk confession

warnings: inebriation

words: 2.4k

★ Tucked into the corner of a drunken party, drawing a secret of your own, Armin finds you; more importantly, he finds a reflection of him on paper, crafted carefully by your hands, and you do not even try to resist his plea to let him see.

★ Or the one in which Armin has terrible alcohol metabolism, your heart comes this much closer to a stroke, and an intervention is required to resolve the mess that comes to.

He'd been so silent. Akin to a mouse. By the time she noticed him, quiet and solemn, towering over her shoulder, the drawing had been almost finished.

And he was staring at it. At her.

She didn't even have time to yelp in surprise. Her body froze when she saw him, his shadow spreading like ink over her journal, and an odd sort of shock coiled through her muscles as she looked back. Heat sinking into her cheeks, breath stuttering, she felt herself grasp at the leatherbind in her hands, so tightly it almost hurt.

Watching him now, staring back at him, she doesn't say anything. He stands there, one shoulder leaning his weight on the wooden frame of the tent, and she knows he can see her skin grow flushed.

In truth, she shouldn't have startled this much. She knows that. He always does this. He always finds her, no matter where she may hide.

Finally, voice deliberately slow and eyes cast down at her, he tells her: "I feel like I should apologise."

She opens her mouth. She thinks to say – what? To admonish him? She thinks to snap her journal shut, or to leave with an indignation. But there he stands still, watching her with that darling, repentant glint in his eye, and who is she to stay mad at him, or to grow upset with him in the first place? She simply sighs, waving her hand at him, waiting for him to sit beside.

"I'm sorry," he says, smile all sheep and no teeth, and she scoots over for him. "I noticed you were gone, and–"

"–And you went ahead to try and find me–"

"–And then I saw you here, drawing your heart away. I thought to call out, and, well.." His eyes cast down, lingering on the drawing laying helplessly in her lap. "I'm sorry." He looks back in her eyes, face earnest and shoulders tight. "I know how private you are about your drawings, I know I should have asked."

She can't help the sigh that leaves her. Looking at him, feeling him press against her shoulder so tentatively, she really can't be upset with him – even if she tried. "It's fine."

And he knows this. Of course he does. Armin grins at her, bordering on something someone else could call impish. "Am I forgiven?"

"Don't push your luck," she warns, and he laughs, loud and indelicate, and it sounds so delightful that she can't help but laugh with him, filled with an odd murmuration within her heart at how close he is sitting to her.

Then his eyes linger on the drawing again, and she can tell he tries to be subtle about it, or to resist it. She pushes the journal into his lap, his eyelashes fluttering with a soft panic. "You don't have to," he murmurs, his fingers curling delicately around the edge of the leather.

"It's okay," she tells him, just as gently. "You can look. You've already seen the most of it anyway."

And he does. This time, with a careful hold and a soft, with an amused smile curling at the edge of his lips, he looks at it unabashedly, eyes roving through the lines. "If I ask, will you tell me?" He asks, tone playful, outshined by the happy flush on his cheeks, and he chuckles when she sighs.

She thinks about lying. She wonders, for a moment, if it would be the best course of action. But he does not look back at her as she thinks to herself; instead, he looks ahead, at the journal in his hands, over and over, as if it were magical, or something he wanted – needed, desperately – to commit to memory. So instead, timidly, she admits: "You looked so happy. I couldn't let it pass by. I wanted to save it." And even as she says it, so awfully earnest and open, she thinks perhaps she should have kept her mouth shut. She feels breathless, almost vulnerable as she sees him close the journal shut at her words, as she watches him raise his eyes and look at her, eyes wide and simmering with something that she can't quite read. Then she watches, panicked, as his lips part, as he inhales, words ready on the precipice of his tongue, so instead she tells him: "You can look through the rest."

He blinks at her. Her words swim and sink into him, and then he is closer to her, so much closer, loud and exuberant. Clutching tightly at the journal, he asks her: "Really? I can see?"

Her heart skips a beat. Loathe as she may, it does; for a moment, he is so close she can smell the sweet wine on his breath. Watching the spark burst and sizzle in his gaze, she feels her panic die, dragging her hesitation with it. "Of course you can," she finds herself breathing out, watching, with a private, quiet satisfaction, as he pulls her journal open with that sheer, pulsating delight.

And he does. He does look. Fingers ghosting reverently over each page, she watches as his joy changes, morphing into a strange sort of awe that has his eyes transfixed on each stroke of her pencil. His hands follow the lines, some more delicate than others, but he never touches them, not once. She can see it in the way he holds the corners of each page; he is wary of them, of tarnishing them, as if his touch could somehow ruin them, despite the charcoal and graphite having been smudged by the years of wear already.

"You drew all of them," he breathes then, taking her back to the reality before her. "All of them. Ymir, Reiner, Berthold. Annie. Even Erwin." He flips another page, his chest rising heavily as he inhales, a quiet reverie passing between them as he flips and flips the pages, the reflections of their peers and their seniors, the dead and the living, staring back at him – at the both of them. "None of them knew, did they?"

"Annie caught me once," she admits, pulling her knees to her chest. "Made me show her. I think she liked it."

He chuckles. He doesn't look back at her, flipping through the pages slowly and attentively. She continues to watch him, too: feeling brazen, bold, as if she were taking something in return, a sort of penance for allowing him to have this. It stretches and stretches, this quiet exchange, until he pauses, swiftly and suddenly. It is an odd pause, a stretching one, and she knows what he sees. He doesn't say it, he hasn't once this whole time – but she knows.

"I remember this," he says eventually, lingering on the page. "Six years ago. In Trost."

She hums in response. As the man sits by her side, enveloped in the years of graphite she has put down into these pages, his reflection as a boy from six years back looks back at him, smiling wide and bright. This one, it used to be a favourite of hers. In a way, it still is.

She tries not to blush, or to begin explaining herself. She wonders if he will say it –– if he will ask her, finally, if he will wonder out loud why her journal is filled not just with their friends, but with him; him, and him, over and over again, hiding in every nook and cranny of the paper she had once felt too treasured to tarnish with her drawings. He had not said it yet, but there he is now, paused mid–journal and staring without a word.

She waits for it; she thinks she is ready for it. But he doesn't say a word. He turns to her, smiling kindly, softly, and instead of curiosity she sees a sadness in his eyes, deep–rooted and strange and almost sorrowful, and it is all that takes for her heart to flip upside down.

"What's wrong?" She asks, hand steady on his elbow, and he only blinks at her in return.

His gaze falls. He looks down, face growing even more somber, and looking at him like this, she almost grows desperate. She waits, hand unwavering on his arm, and eventually he tells her: "I look so much happier. In your drawings. I guess it's just.. Odd. An odd feeling, that is. A lot has changed."

She wishes she could erase it. Take the pain from his voice, spread white paint over it until it is gone, until it is sparkling clean and bright.

She knows she can't. She can't do that – neither would he allow it. So instead, she scoots closer, leaning her side into his. They sit in silence, and she feels a warmth undulate from him; one she tries to not think of, to ignore, until she feels his head lean on hers, heavy and weighted.

Her hand travels to the page he's on. It ghosts over her drawing, watching the boy memorialised in it with the man beside her.

"I think that can be said about the lot of us," she says quietly, and he sighs, his breath stuttering in his lungs. "All of us have gone through changes. I see it. Perhaps they don't, but they're all here. All versions of them." She traces her finger over his hair, a deep gray within the page. "Including you." For a moment, they are silent. Her hand on the page, his own at the edge of it, untouching. "Why'd you cut your hair?" She asks quietly, wondering out loud, suffocating from the feeling of him so close, so warm – his hand just out of her reach, tracing the edge of her journal.

For a time, he doesn't reply. He leans on her, and he is so heavy, so quiet, that she thinks he may have fallen asleep, driven to exhaustion by the excitement and the drinks.

Then he tells her, so softly, so weakly: "Don't laugh."

"Of course not."

He does not pull away when he tells her why. He stays leaning on her, hiding his face from her, his breath hitching quietly once in a while, as if he were short of breath. "I thought I could be more like him. Erwin. If I'd cut my hair, if I wore my uniform like he did, if I talked more like him. I think, I.. I think a part of me feels indebted in a way I can't really repay. So I've got to, you know.. Fill his shoes. Make up for it. Something."

"Armin," she begins softly, leaning away, looking to turn towards him, reach to him, and then she freezes, muscles tight as she sees the tears streaming down his cheek, the skin red and blotchy.

"I.. I don't know. It's stupid. Fuck." Did she hear that right? "I know. I know, that's not how it works." He brings his hands to his eyes, pressing deep, urging his eyes to stop.

She flusters. Pulling herself straight, she crawls to him, her hand closing around his wrist. "Armin–"

"It's so stupid," he interrupts her, and she sees it now – the dragging of his breath, the red sheen on his skin; he looks at her, eyes wide and glistening, tears never–ending.

"Armin, that's not.. How much have you had to drink? Armin," she calls, wiping at his tears, and he sniffles, and then he hiccups, honest to Rose. "Oh, Armin," she says, cooing desperately, pained at the sight of the boy in front of her.

Armin is drunk. Armin is drunk, and now he is clutching at her hand, and he is weeping into it, words incoherent and slurred through the tears and the alcohol that must be hitting him belatedly, over and over and over again.

And she thinks it will be that, she thinks it will fizzle out; his cries will soon ebb, and he'll tire himself out, and until then she will stay here, wiping his tears, letting him hold onto her hand as tightly as he needs – even if it's bruising.

But he has other plans. Of course, this is Armin; when are his plans orthodox?

He pulls at her, both hands in his grasp, and he is looking up at her now, eyes wide and pleading. "I didn't even thank you. I'm sorry. Your drawings are so pretty." She can't think. He is so close to her once more, and her heart is going rabid, wild at the sight of him like this. She can't even wipe his tears, not with both hands in his hold. "And you're so pretty," he cries more, small, pitiful wails shaking his entire frame.

"What?" She squeaks out, embarrassed and out of her wits, and it takes all of her self–restraint to not scream bloody murder when a crack echoes through the tent, the cloth dividing them from the rest pulled open.

"What the bloody walls is going on here?" Eren asks, laughter bubbling out of him.

In mere seconds Mikasa is towering over the both of them, eyes cast in a glare that makes her whole skin crawl with a panic, and before she can even open her mouth to say a single word, she feels Armin tug at her tighter, crying out the woman's name.

"Mikasa," he sobs, cheeks glistening and tongue stumbling over itself. "Mikasa, she's so nice to me. Did you know? She's.." she watches as Mikasa sighs, kneeling to try and peel Armin’s desperate hands from her. The man sniffles in return, refusing to let go. "She's so pretty!" He cries out.

Mikasa curses, putting effort into prying his hands off, and Eren laughs and laughs, scarlet in the cheeks. "You had to get piss drunk to finally tell her that?" He bursts out, bending down in hysterics.

"Armin, I swear.. I didn't raise you to be like this," Mikasa says, hauling the crying boy over her shoulder with an impressive force. Then the woman turns to her, cheeks red not in amusement but in embarrassment. "I'm so sorry," she says, looking over her with care.

"No! It's fine," she replies, standing quickly. "I mean– Mikasa, I think you really need to put him down. Like, right now. Immediately. Mika–"

"Ohhh," comes a thin wail. "I'm going to be.. I'm gonna be sick."

"Mikasa–"

"Oh, walls."

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inbry · 11 days

Text

a comforting discomfort

tags: armin x reader, NYE celebration, one bed, reader has nightmares, sassy armin, comfort, subtle pining

warnings: mentions of drinking

words: 3.5k

★ Exhausted and abuzz after a long New Year's Eve celebration, having tucked in the remaining members of your friend group, you and Armin find yourselves at a predicament: with no rooms left to sleep in, the two of you turn to the remaining, unnamed key to the last hotel room available to you. ★ It's fine, though, is it not? This is your celebration. This room is more than fitting, you both know this; have you not all spent such diligent time planning the rooms? ★ You see, there is just this one, minute issue. A hiccup, one might call it. A misunderstanding. ★ There is only one bed.

It had been a rowdy night. Loud, exuberant; so spirited that even now your head hurts, skin abuzz with this feeling that is still passing through you. Your ears ring, ever so gently, as you tuck the blanket around Sasha's shoulder, and you smile to yourself, watching the girl grin restlessly in her dream.

It's a difficult job, being the designated driver on a night such as this. It's an even more difficult one to nanny this bunch, with Armin as the only other person living sober through this mess.

"And we spent so much time settling on the rooms," you hear him now, grumbling quietly as he takes off Connie's shoes. You turn to him, watching him kneel by the boy's sleeping frame, and you can't help but chuckle in response.

"I told you," you murmur, taking a step closer, "I told you it'll all go to hell once the drinking starts."

He just sighs. Walking to him, even in this timid light, you see the exhaustion line his frame; shoulders hunched and hair tousled, Armin seems to use the last of his spirit to push Connie further into the bed. Then he sits there, watching the boy blankly. Soon thereafter he simply shakes his head, telling you: "..They can plan their own trip next time."

And you laugh. It's soft at first, weak from your own exhaustion, but then it titters indelicately, growing as you see the man give you a stern look. "Let's see you keep your word next time around, Arlert."

All he does is shake his head once more. He would glare at you, were it not for his fatigue, and yet you see it: this warm glint shines in his eye, and he bites, gently, the inside of his cheek; you watch him hold back a smile defiantly, and yours just grows bolder in response.

You watch him, then, as he drapes the remaining blanket over his friend, and soon you both turn to gaze over the mount of a mess your friends have created: pulled together against one another, the five lay listlessly atop the small beds, knocked out cold by the alcohol and excitement. They lounge without a care in the world now, and though you may be tired, you smile at the sight; it isn't often that the lot of you can allow yourselves such a celebration. And to Armin's chagrin, it did take a lot of planning: it isn't easy to take such a group over to the next city, or to plan a hotel stay on a limited student budget.

Still, watching them now, you feel, with your chest swelling, that you all have thoroughly succeeded.

"We still have one more key, right?" Armin asks you then, turning to you, and you dangle it in front of him.

"No clue whose it is, though," you tell him openly.

"At this point," Armin replies, another sigh leaving his chest, "Anybody's will do. There's no more space here, and I'm beat."

You hum in response, smiling weakly at the poor man. You reach over to him, rubbing at his back, and you note as his muscles ease beneath your hand. "Come on," you say then, turning to leave the room, and he follows.

The two of you slink through the corridors in the yellow-tinted light, looking for your number; feet heavy and dragging, you talk in hushed voices, and you giggle to each other, once in every while, at the long night's events. It feels peaceful like this, walking by his side, your own mind scattered as he looks and looks at the passing numbers by the doors; you two talk, and talk, and you can't help but feel taken, still, with the raw emotions of their celebration.

"There it is," he says eventually, his hand gliding over yours to take the key off your fingers. "I almost thought we wouldn't find it."

You yawn in response, a wordless acquiescence in its own right, and you are so tired, so bleary, you nearly miss the way Armin halts in his step, frozen in his place.

You think him dramatic – what else could it be? It must be the view by the window, or a gently furled towel in the shape of a swan, sitting boldly on one of the beds, and before you can poke at him for it, you, too, halt in your step. Then you, too, freeze openly in space.

There is, alas, just one bed. Not two, nor three. Just one.

You blink your eyes at it. Your lids are heavy, and your head swims, and you think, somewhere deep beneath your cranium, that if you were to just blink hard enough, long enough, another bed will materialise. And so you blink. And it does not.

Then you shake yourself of it. You are spent, and you are happy, and what is a stupid bed? It's just a bed. It's just sleep. You feel embarrassed, sure; there's this crackling, overwhelming prickling in your hands, and you feel a heat pooling in your cheeks, but it all passes quickly and with an almost effortless indignation. Soon, your legs are working – soon you are inside the room, hauling both of your packs to the chair within the corner.

Armin, in the meanwhile, seems to find a trajectory of his own. He slinks inside the room behind you, and then off to rummage through the wardrobe – far and away within the other side of the room.

You kneel, digging through your backpack, and you look for your toothbrush. It takes a while, because of course it does – when are you ever to pack diligently for a trip? And Armin is busy, that much you can tell; rustling and murmuring, restless in his task. You turn to him, wordlessly watching him: his frame is slouched over the wardrobe, tense and focused, and you observe still as he seems to find something within it.

"Aha," you hear him murmur, and you see it then: he drags the comforter out of the wardrobe, the corners of it dragging across the floor. He stands, swaying just ever so slightly, and still you watch, entirely perplexed, as he plops the comforter onto the ground with not an ounce of ceremony. He sidesteps it – just barely, the poor thing – at which you then observe him take a pillow – a singular pillow – off the bed. This, too, he throws down to the floor, next to the sad, lone comforter.

"What are you doing?" You ask finally, nearly speechless at your incredulity. Armin looks at you, eyes wide, so big; he looks as if caught in the headlights, as if caught in an act of some sort, his gaze swirling with an indescribable indignation.

Then, all at once, he seems to perk up; to bristle, in a way, eyes bright with a sudden realisation. "Oh," he begins then, tone so uncertain, "I'll sleep on the floor. Don't worry."

You blink at him. He blinks at you. The both of you stay like this, still as rocks, for this odd, prolonged moment.

And then you frown, his words slowly, slowly settling in your mind. Your eyes flit between them: the comforter, laid so carelessly onto the floor, and the man, stood so uncertainly by its foot. "You're not sleeping on the floor, Armin," you tell him.

And he seems lost, for a moment. Conflicted, at that. He frowns with you, shoulders straightening with a delicate certainty. You watch, quietly, as the man crosses his arms over his chest. "Well," he begins, "You will certainly not sleep on the floor."

Once more you stare at one another. Quiet and defiant, you clash heads wordlessly; then you just shake your head at him. You turn your back to him, looking for your pajamas, his indignation be damned. "Neither of us is sleeping on the floor, ‘Min. It's a two-person bed, for God's sake."

And then there's this little sound he makes. Like a gasp, stuck painfully in his throat. Like he’d choked on something; like he’d choked on your words. "Yes, but.." He says, words so swiftly trailing back into an uncertainty. You turn back to face him again, concerned at the tone of his voice. You find him just standing there, eyes cast downwards with a hesitancy; a ghostly pink sheen dances across his cheeks.

"Okay," you backtrack, standing up – eager to meet him at equal height. "I'm sorry. If you're uncomfortable, we can figure something else." You watch, then, palms nearly sweating as he rubs the back of his neck. As he thinks through your words.

His eyes jump to yours for seconds, and then just as quick he avoids your gaze. "No, it's fine. Really," he says.

"Armin, it's okay."

"And I mean it – it's fine."

You watch him; you watch him as he kneels to the floor, collecting so tentatively the comforter and the pillow into his arms. "Armin," you call to him, recognising, by the line of his shoulders, that he hears you. "Look at me."

And he does. Eyes wide and cheeks crested red, he looks at you with his lips pursed. "I need you to tell me if you're uncomfortable,” you ask him earnestly, and as you do, your mind fills with a worry over this new strange tentativeness you're seeing in the man before you, “Or if you're just being shy.”

A beat passes. It stretches, just a little, as the red reaches to his throat. Then he turns his gaze away once again, grasping as the comforter and the pillow. "I'm just shy," he tells you sincerely, standing so still, and he does not meet your eyes.

It eases something. Something tangible. You feel your shoulders letting go, and then you just stand there, watching as the man lays the items in his hands onto the bed. You think to say something, anything; you think, in an almost desperation, that if Jean were here, he would tease someone in this room – he would ease you both off of this embarrassment, washing it away as if it were never here. And you think to do so, too, for a moment; palms twitching and skin hot. And then he looks up at you again. His eyes big. Vulnerable. It marks your mind blank; it, too, somehow, drops the awkwardness out of them, and so instead you tell him, as softly as you can: “It’s just a bed, Armin.” And he just looks at you. Stare blank, or perhaps discomforted – you can’t rightly tell at this point. “I mean, you’ve shared a bed with someone before, right?”

He pauses, just briefly. Then he looks so incredibly sheepish when he asks: “Do sleepovers count?”

"This is a sleepover," you tell him, laughing so suddenly it startles even you, and you don't miss this oddly bashful look he gives you; it’s short, so short, but you see it, just before he turns his gaze away.

He busies his hands then, your conversation quickly growing to a lull at that. He folds out the comforter across one side of the bed, and you try to stay busy, too; watching, carefully, as he takes the time to fold the other comforter and making, it seems, a space for him, and a space for you. You feel a certain bashfulness of your own at the sight; with how careful his hands are at the task, with how concentrated his face seems – it feels domestic in a particularly peculiar way, and though it is sweet, though, in a way, it is comforting, something about it makes you, too, quite shy.

So, really, in the end, neither of the two of you look at each other as you ready yourselves for sleep – not until you stand side by side once more, eyes meeting in the mirror reflections of each other, toothbrushes in hand.

He does not look away this time, and yet still, here in this low bathroom light, you can see the gentle blush creeping on his skin. "You know," you say, passing the toothpaste to him, "We could call the desk. See if they could change the room, or something."

He just frowns at you. You resist the urge to roll your eyes. "It's four in the morning, Y/N. On New Year's Eve." Then he turns towards you, as if pointing with a look alone.

"Well, excuse me," you say, "I'll be damned if I attempt at a solution for your predicament again, Mr. 'I'm shy about sharing a bed.'"

"No, it was a good attempt," he says, his grin flipped and crooked to the side within the reflection. "I'd dare say one of your best ideas this year."

"Screw you," you say, mouth full of toothpaste, and he laughs.

They stand there, muscles easing by the trickling seconds. His shoulder bumps into yours carefully, once, twice, and you catch his gaze each time he does it, humming at his reflection in the mirror.

That slow, pink tint still lay steadfast on his skin, and though you decide it proper to not tease him for it any longer, you can't seem to look away from it, either. It is odd to see him like this now, bashful despite the exhaustion clear in his bones, frame smaller than you are used to by now. You’d thought, before this, that you were used how shy he’d come to be, but this, you know now, is new. Entirely new.

Despite it, however, Armin seems to not mind it much. He smiles languidly at your reflection, cheeks dimpling with a delicate curve, and your heart seems to flip at it, thrumming uncomfortably loud; you look away this instant, turning the faucet to a stream far too strong. He, however, seems to not notice; instead he bends to wash his face, telling you: "I'll be sleeping on the left side."

"That's fine," you tell him, washing your mouth; you wash your face then, cold, sobering water clinging to your skin. "Left side's closer to the door,” you tell him, grasping at the towel he hands you, “I'd wager you need a quick escape if anything."

He flicks water at you, his eyes fiery with an unspoken retort. You giggle, and in the midst of it you see that look transform; defiance grows in there, and with it – a warmth spreads right after, blooming like a nyctigamous flower. "You guys are so planning your own trip next time," he says, pouting just ever so lightly, and you think of it again – that smile; the thought is brief and sudden, and you push it down so quickly it nearly has you lightheaded.

Instead you laugh, and you are laughing still when the two of you leave the bathroom, steps heavy as you both reach for different sides of the bed. "Come on," you say, watching him, almost warily, from your corner, "Don't pout."

"I'll think about it," he tells you, his hand reaching for the light switches, and you step closer, standing at the foot of the bed. You watch almost listlessly as Armin shuts the lights off, one, by one, by one.

You tense, then, sudden and all at once: mulling over the sudden outburst within your thoughts, pulled tight to one and the other. It’s so quick, this time your head does grow dizzy, and you watch in a slowed breath as his hand reaches for the small lamp on the nightstand; the last light within the room. The worry rises furthermore, and then it surges into you, and then it all comes out of you: "Oh," you gasp, the remaining words agglutinated treacherously on the tip of your tongue. Armin freezes in barely an instant, his large eyes right on you.

The two of you stare at one another, unspeaking. Your palm twitches reflexively by your side. Distantly, you begin to feel a nervous thudding in your chest, and you try to find the words as Armin tries to see them on you, his eyes flitting back and forth between your eyes and your hands.

"Should I," he begins gently, plaintively, and the words finally break through.

"No," you say, "I just. Well. Don't laugh, okay?" You watch as his shoulders straighten, and something softens in his gaze, and whatever it may have been, it takes you by your heart, easing your own discomfort in an immediate instant. "I have a hard time sleeping in the dark," you admit quietly, "I have nightmares and stuff. Is it okay if we.." You wave your hand in the direction of the lamp, its light gentle and unobtrusive within the room, and he looks at you so gently that you feel almost stupid for having felt anxious about it at all.

"Of course it's okay," he says, stepping away from the lamp. "We'll keep it on, okay? Don't worry." Then he simply watches you, eyes still searching, reaching for something that lay unspoken within you. You think he may have found something – you're not sure what it is, but you see it, the way his gaze lights up in an indescribable way. "Come on," he says, urged by that whichever he sought in your eyes, "Lie down. It's okay, let's rest."

And you do – rendered sheepish and silent, you climb and crawl beneath the covers without a word. And as he does the same, he watches you with a cautiousness; and as you lay side by side, you know he will ask it before he utters the words – you can see them, swirling hesitantly within his gaze.

"Would you like to talk about them?" He asks then, of course he does; his tone is soft and quiet, and for a moment you just watch as he turns to lie on his side, his entire body turning to attention for you. For a brief moment, you are overcome with that feeling again; of a domestic quietude, of something so inherently comforting as the two of you lay in this bed, beneath two separate covers. "The nightmares. I had no clue you had them."

You do not notice it, your body following his – you find yourself on your side, facing him like he faces you, and your hand lays itself flushly upon the soft pillow. "Yeah," you say, "I've had them for a few years. Stubborn things."

"I'm sorry," he says earnestly, and you know he means it; you can see it, this gentle, eager thing blooming in his expression, the way it does when he sees a friend in trouble. "Can I help in any way?"

And you shrug at him, the gesture helpless as you lay beneath the worry, slowly growing in his gaze. "They've been here so long, I'm not really sure what to do about them myself," you admit, "You should wake me if I talk in my sleep or anything. I don't want to bother your rest."

"You would never," he tells you then; it’s a little quick, a little forced, and you can't help but laugh weakly.

"Okay," you say, giving him, if anything else, an earnest smile. He smiles back at you. "Tell me something," you tell him then, the muscles of your shoulders easing into the bed. "Anything."

He does. The both of you do. You two ease into a gentle conversation, talking in soft, tired voices with your hair tousled on your pillows. He tells you many things; small things, inconsequential things, and you find yourself easing, and easing, smiling happily at the restless way with which he does his best to distract you. And you can’t help but think of how tender it is.

Eventually, with your eyelids drooping and chests rising with yawns, he pauses a little, just briefly; just to look at you. He smiles warily, and then he asks you: "A little better?"

"A little," you tell him honestly. "I think I'm ready to sleep now."

He smiles again. He takes a moment, between your words and this, and you can almost see the deliberation pass through him; then he shifts, reaching towards you, stopping right there, just a fraction shy of your hand. "Let me hold your hand," he whispers, quiet and so gentle it nearly melts into the room. "It might help."

You hesitate. You do. It is brief, but it is there: you lay looking at his hand, palm up and warm and inviting, and it feels almost daunting for you, the thought of taking his hand. Then he says your name, urging you to take this kindness, and you do. You reach for his hand, closing this meagre distance between them, and you feel a strange shyness come for you as they clasp together. His hand in yours feels warmer than you anticipated, but softer, too; therein you look at him, finding him with this gentle, encouraging expression on his face, and for the briefest second you find yourself wishing, almost desperately, to experience this again, and again – perhaps for the rest of your life.

"Okay?" He whispers, sleep heavy in his voice. He squeezes your hand.

You squeeze back. "Good," you say, closing your eyes. A heavy breath leaves your chest. "It's good."

"Goodnight, Y/N."

"Goodnight," you say, his hand in yours, "Armin."

dividers by cafekitsune

tag list: @arlerts-angel @sukunascrustyfinger @supersupper @levistealeaf

reblogs are welcome and would be very helpful 💗

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inbry · 11 days

Text

an urge so devout

tags: armin x reader, body worship, oral sex, biting, established relationship, armin being a heathen

warnings: a touch of blasphemy; MDNI

words: 1.5k

It started oh so innocently. Sat flushly side by side, shoulders touching and hair brushing at the other's cheeks as they would turn to one another, they entertained themselves with the simple things: jokes, and cat videos, and God knows what else popped up on the feed of your phone.

He tried to pay attention. Really, he did. But all he did was get distracted; by the look in your eyes, glimmering and bright, or by the pink sheen on your lips as you would smile at him, or by your scent – sweet and permeating, clinging to him almost desperately. And oh how cute you look, each time you turn to him, shoulder leaning heftily into his.

He can't help the way his eyes wander. He can't help the tightness in his chest, turning and thudding loudly at the feel of you by his side. He can't help it. He leans forward, eager to feel more of you, and then he leans further more, seeking to feel the skin of your cheek.

He kisses you there, heart swelling at the gentle sound of your giggle. He kisses you again, then; palm firm at the other side of your jaw, pulling you closer with an eagerness. You squirm when he kisses lower, but only a little; then your shoulder gives, letting him in closer, and you sigh when his lips meet the juncture of your jaw and your throat.

Then you whisper his name, and he smiles into your skin. "And here I thought we were busy," you say, and he can hear so clearly, the vixen smirk on your lips.

"You are busy," he says, kissing lower, teeth grazing at your pulse. "Keep being busy." Lower. "I'm going to be busy with something else."

"Armin," you sigh, the sound coated and swirling in his ears, and he feels your hands in his hair, brushing gently, tenderly.

"Okay?" He whispers, a hand of his settling at your waist. He hears you lock the phone, the soft click echoing invasively within the room, and then your lips are at his temple, so quick and warm it has him smiling.

"Okay," you tell him then, and just from this alone he can tell; he can tell how quickly you've melted into him, into his attention towards you.

"Okay," he echoes back, kissing at your throat. He can't help it; his tongue swirls against your skin, open to taste at his behest. Then his teeth graze at the lapel of your shirt, grasping onto it with an impatience. He thinks to take it off you, to have his palms drag against your pliant skin; to knead your flesh and steal the sighs you would no doubt give him. But even this, he finds, he is impatient to do; he feels your hand, as gentle as it may be, flex in his hair, then tug at it. He feels your muscles tense, and he knows – he needs them to tense more, and he needs it now.

He kisses you then, lips harsh against one another, and his trousers strain against him when you whimper into his mouth. He holds onto you, both hands at your jaw and pulling, pulling, pulling; in that same moment, he kneels, hands ripping off you to find the buckle of your belt. You squirm again, a different kind now – he watches with a blaze as you lift your hips on cue, urging his hands, and he is not one to deny you this. He smiles as he watches, even now, your thighs begin to shake, buoying eagerly into the feel of his hands on your bare skin.

You whisper his name; whine, really, eyes so wide and pretty that he takes a breath to just look at you. So eager, he finds himself thinking, hands squeezing, just so, into your flesh, and he smiles to himself when he kisses you there, just at the very top of your thigh.

"Please," you whine again, hips jerking reflexively at his hot breath on your skin. "Please, Armin," you say again, knowing, you vixen, knowing full well what it does to him when you plead with him so prettily.

And he takes a moment for it; of course he does. He kisses you lower, just so, ever so slowly. He thinks to tell you, I thought you were busy?, but then he looks up at you, your gaze so eager and besotted, and he thinks better of it; really, he thinks: who is he to tease a pretty girl like you?

So he, pliant, ardent, gives you what you ask from him; his hands steel around your thighs, pulling you closer to the edge of the bed, and though he allows himself, selfishly, just a few more kisses, soon he finds his tongue flat and wet against your core. It pulses beneath him, hot and so needy, and were he a happy man if he could just lock that whine of yours for an eternity within his mind. There they are again, your hands so tight and questing in his hair, and he lets you pull him closer to you, he lets your thighs strain helplessly against his hold; and he takes his time here, right now, curling so delicately against the sweet flesh of your clit, these soft, featherlight circles drawing out more, and more, and more, out of you. You are impatient with him, he knows that well enough; he knows just how much more you need, more pressure, more steadfastness, but if there is one thing he knows you won't deny him, it's to take his pleasure from you.

And you let him. Trembling in his hold, gasping, his name such a pretty prayer on your lips, you let him press and keen the pleasure out of you; you let him kiss you, and lick at you, you allow your slick to mix devoutly with his spit as it trails down your thighs, and even now he feels insatiable. He looks at you as whimper beneath his tongue; he looks at you unendingly, devotedly, gaze unflinching, and you look so sweet, so fervent as you gaze down upon him, nestled so flushly beneath your legs. He is overcome, and swiftly at that: an odd and urgent feeling rests upon him; an urge to rise, to kiss you senseless, to pull you closer and then to sink his teeth into you, you, so sweet and pliant to his love. He pauses then, with a harsh and sudden breath, and you don't have time to whine before he nuzzles softly into your thigh, before he sinks his teeth into the flesh, so harshly, so ardently, that he feels the force of it on his teeth. You whine, oh, then you whine, twitching in his iron hold, his name on your lips feeling like a curse. And then you do curse.

"Fuck, Armin," you breathe, voice shaking, and you seek to say more; he says it, clear as day, and he sees it melt away as his mouth encloses itself into your core once more. He pulls at you almost desperately; closer, closer still, and now, now he laps at you, a fervor so deep within him it borders on a sort of belligerence. Another need surges through him now, to tie his tongue to your cunt, to fasten his pleasure to yours; he wants to pull, and pull, and pull you closer, to feel your thighs tremble desperately against his jaw, and he wants to live here, between your thighs, looking up at this precious view for the rest of his life.

You keen at that, oh how fiercely; hands twisting in his hair, his name so close to a curse, frame shaking – not twitching, not trembling, but shaking – and he loves you, he loves when you grow to be like this, so boldly taken with what he gives you. You shift for him, your entire being does, begging so prettily, so pliantly, to just please, please–

"I'm close," you whine to him, and in those words Armin knows he could be a religious man, devout primly and kneeling steadily, and he does. He does. Steadfast with his tongue on you, smile growing brazenly at the divine sight above him, and oh how prettily you cry when you fall over the edge. Loud, fervid; you cling to him with a needy desperation, and he lets you, he relishes it. Jaw agape, he breathes in the last drops of you, just for himself, and then he lets you down gently, feeling your hands smooth out his hair with a gentleness exact to his.

You sigh as you let him clean you; with his tongue, mostly, then with his shirt. When he is done, he wipes his mouth at your thigh, giddy and drunk with the scent of you that permeates him now. Then he lays his cheek on it, looking up at you with a fondness; he watches you gasp, and gasp, seeking out the air he's stolen from you, and he grins at the fact that even this, you do so adorably. He feels your thighs shake still, grounded by the grip he still holds on them, and he watches you smile. He feels sated, knowing you shook so ferociously for him; he feels sated as he recognises that look in your eyes. Then, and only then, as you finish catching your breath, he begins to rise towards you. "Now I can focus," he tells you, breathes into your lips, and you just laugh.

dividers by cafekitsune

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