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How Armin Cares for his S/O During a Mental Health Episode
Contains: Armin Arlert x Reader
Synopsis: When Armin’s Partner is dealing with mental health struggles, he knows exactly what to do.
Warnings: mental illness, obsession/dilusion, anxiety and paranoia, panic attacks, comfort during a crisis
First of all, if it’s one thing about Armin Arlert, he’s damn good at reading people. He pays attention, and he can tell the moment you start acting different.
He’ll notice how you seem spacey, distant like there’s something on your mind. He’ll notice how you’re fidgeting with your nails, how you chew on your lip the way you do when you’re feeling anxious.
He’ll ask you what’s on your mind, but remind you there’s no pressure to tell him if you don’t want to talk.
If you’re feeling nonverbal, he’ll offer to lay down with you and scratch your back. If you don’t want to be touched, he’ll understand, even if it stings a bit. He’s completely ok with sitting next to you in silence.
He’ll assume responsibility over your share of household chores, until you’re feeling ready to take them on. He knows it’s important to prioritize taking care of yourself during these times.
If you struggle to leave your bed, stay there, duh…Armin will bring you breakfast, lunch and dinner right where you are. He’ll also supply you with water throughout the day and insist that you keep hydrated. “Baby steps” he says.
This man will get in the shower with you to wash your hair when your body is too tired and weary to lift your arms above your head.
If you’re feeling paranoid or scared, he’ll listen to your fears and he won’t tell you that they’re irrational. He knows you already know that. This man has googled all your diagnoses, and browsed forums about how to handle them. He knows.
If you ask him to check on something that you’re paranoid about, he will, no question asked, as many times as he needs to.
He’ll remind you to breathe, encourage you to keep talking about it. He knows that talking about it can help you to think clearer.
If you’re on meds, he’ll make sure you’re taking them, even if he has to administer them to you. He knows it’s easy to forget when you’re focused on trying to make it through the day.
He’ll applaud you for the smallest achievements. You brushed your hair this morning? He’s jumping for joy. Big smile, clapping hands, he’s so proud of you!
He’s so selfless, don’t even try to ask him how he’s doing during this time, he’ll just change the subject.
He has a little notepad where he literally takes notes. He writes down when he notices that something worked, so he can implement it next time too.
Tries to find little ways to distract your mind. He’ll put on comfort movies or ask you questions about what you want for your birthday, he’s so cute
After some time, he’ll start to try and get you out of the house, even if it’s just to go through a drive thru.
“You don’t even have to put on your shoes, come on.”
“Sunshine is good for you, much better than lying in a dark room! You know that, don’t you love?”
“If you come to the gas station with me, i’ll get you a Reece’s Cup”
Armin isn’t perfect, and he’s definitely not a psychiatrist, but he loves you, and he’ll try anything just to see you smile again.
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tags: armin x reader, modern au, mutual pining, secret crushes, yearning, drunk armin, sober reader, armin makes the first move, groping, foul-mouthed armin, making out, handsy armin, men who BEG, doesn't go past heavy petting - no dubcon
warnings: sexual content - MDNI; inebriation, mentions of drinking
It takes so little. A look. A breeze. Then his eyes are on you, and you know, with no uncertain doubt, that something is just about to give in.
Or the one in which you and Armin are left alone in the midst of a party, and Armin makes his feelings clear to you.
word count: 2.7k
When the evening had just begun, early summer night hot and humid, the lot of you stuffed giddily around a table bearing drinks and cards alike, you knew something, eventually, would somehow give.
You aren't sure what it was, even now. If it was the air around you, tense and thin on that humid night; if it was the way he would pull himself towards you, as if magnetised by some unknown, incorporeal force, arms touching the whole night; if it was something else.
The truth, you think now, is that it must have been something else altogether; something you had no way of knowing, or naming, or stopping in any shape or form.
It's a casual evening. Early June summer break in full swing for the lot of you, being college students; cards and shot glasses set haphazardly at the table as the sun sets slowly and the group trickles, one by two by three, into Eren's home. You come with Armin, your college group mate, bearing wine you will not drink, and though you are new and foreign here still, having met his friends just the few months prior, you are met with glee and hugs and pats on the shoulder, and a place is set for you with just as much ease.
You had met Armin first, a year ago; a stupid-long project in a stupid-hard class bringing the two of you together, twining you both in a friendship unlike any either of you have had before, and inseparable is what you are called now, though you tell yourself, with no grief spared, that you find the idea quite absurd. You tell yourself, firm and disciplined, that friends is all that you are – even if he is the first thought in you when you wake, and, more often than not, the last before you sleep.
Friends is what you simply are, and friends is what you simply will be; or so you say, on some mornings as you wait for his inevitable text; or so you say, some nights, when you remind yourself that a mistake should not be made when it comes to a matter concerning him.
And it doesn't take much for the party to come into a full swing of things; music unwinding, cards shuffling, laughter bubbling, and you watch, contently, sat comfortably upon the corner on a sofa, as the life around you buzzes. Armin sits by you, like he always does, arm brushing yours once every while, reminding you of him there; shoulder leaning into yours, smile soft and knowing, and it curls around you like it always does, swelling large within your heart. You are new here still, sometimes awkward and quiet, but not always, and not for long; Armin helps you, leading with words and with gestures, inviting you, often and loud and enthusiastic, to join the conversation; and it awes you, really, with how effortless, how easy it is for this shy, quiet boy to transform into such fervour when he is surrounded by those he loves. He welcomes you with sheer abandon, and you find that his friends, in turn, do so, too; and it's easy, when he is here – everything always is when he gets roped into things.
It magnetises you, effortlessly. You find yourself watching him, smile full of teeth and lungs full of laughter; you find yourself involved and participating, and though you don't drink you watch as they do, and things don't shift until they do, and when they do, you are gone beyond comprehension that something, something had given way.
It's so slow at first; you don't truly notice a thing. When he'd lean into you when telling a joke; when his arm would brush and linger next to yours while telling a story; when you would catch him, once, then twice, then again, looking at you. Not just in jest, or in camaraderie, but these lingering, intrigued glances that would cross to your eyes, then, seldomly and just briefly, to your lips.
When he would say your name, requesting you to agree with him, or to add onto a story which you had been witness to; mouth curling around the syllables, lulling in ways that has you squirming beneath this newfound, strange heat within his gaze, and it has you wondering, mind adrift and groundless, if you had gone mad. If it is just you, losing grip on reality as those nights of dreaming had begun to catch up with you, or if it is him, truly, looking at you in this way.
Something is giving, slowly; unwinding, like a broken clock, or like a ribbon too-tight and breaking, and the more he drinks, the more you feel it, and you think it will, eventually, simply snap.
It doesn't.
At least, not the way you expect it to.
You don't expect just how quick the room clears out when Connie demands pizza; when they all conglomerate, agglutinate into a band ready to get them all food. You don't expect to be told, the only sober person here, to watch the house; you don't expect, most of all, for Armin to stay behind, too.
You don't expect the look he gives you then, when it is all quiet and lone, save for the ticking of the grandfather clock stood firm by the wall. Cold, you think at first, but you are wrong; it takes a glance, and a second, averting and shy in ways you had not expected yourself to feel around him, but then you do; you do look. He watches you with a hawkish look to him, careful and curious, lips parted and cheeks pink from the alcohol, and you would breathe were you able to, but you simply cannot. You sit there, your breath baited and gaze locked, waiting – waiting for something; waiting for it to give.
You think not to say something, but you do not need to; he reaches for you, quiet and wordless, his thumb brushing haphazardly at your cheek. Soft and gently uncoordinated and skin warm against your cheek, his hand touches a strand of your hair, brushing it, thereafter, behind your ear.
You inhale then, finally; sharp and loud enough to hear, and in the moment between this and air filling your lungs, he leans in swiftly, eyes focusing furthermore on you, steeling in a way that you can't quite read. "Can I kiss you?" He asks you then, with no abandon or reservation, words clear and understandable, and yet it still has you shocked and disoriented, your newfound air lost somewhere in your chest.
He waits, in this brief moment. He waits and he watches you, eyes half-lidded and dark and patient, and you think to say no, you think to move away quickly, your body in protest at the thought alone; not for your sake, not for lack of want or need of it, but for his own, for the mistake he is about to make under inebriation, and your lips part to say it, they do, but his thumb brushes against your bottom lip and it silences you so thoroughly that not a sound leaves your throat, and it's enough. It's enough for him.
He leans in, both gentle and quick; lips soft against your own, low notes of vanilla and rum buzzing within his breath, and it's gentle at first – so gentle it has you leaning into him, towards him, south pole to north and inescapable black holes. "Armin," you whimper weakly, once tepid coils superheating quickly, disastrously, and there's both a push and a pull in you as you push away and yet pull him to you, desperately, fists curled into his shirt.
"Let me kiss you," he pleads in response, quick and merciless, palm enveloping your jaw. He watches you and gasps for air, leaning further into the steel grasp you have on him. "Please, Y/N. I want to kiss you," he leans in, lips touching your cheek. You feel him whisper; you feel the breath of his fan against your skin, warm and intoxicating. "Please," he says, and you can't say no, not anymore; skin on fire and needy in his grasp, knees shaking and voiceless, you allow it. You lean to him, and in the act of it you tell yourself that it's just a small gesture; a mistake, the tiniest the two of you could make, a thing to forget once morning comes – and as you do, Armin follows suit, leaning into you, too.
And this, this gesture and this kiss, once soft and delicate and innocent, sizzles and sets itself afire; he kisses you deep and sloppy, your skin heating at the touch of his alone, and his tongue ventures forth with sheer abandon as both his palms grasp and hold you firmly at your jaw; he kisses you fierce and needy; he kisses you in ways you thought Armin never could, and your head spins and spins, and in seconds of you sitting flushly side by side you are pulled forward – all of you, bone and skin and muscle and sinew, as if you were weightless to him – and you find yourself straddling him, your thighs parted and digging into his hips. His arms circle your waist and pull you forward taut and firm, and you feel the sofa dip beneath your knees; you think, here, your skin hot and sweaty already, your lips tender from his teeth, that you should stop and scold him; you think, here, that you should stand and leave, but you are sealed to him, drawn in ways that you could not stop if you tried, and in the feeling of his tongue against yours you think, what of another mistake? What of another mistake, with him?
His hands sit still and prim for just a moment, gentlemanly in the way you have known Armin to be, and then they, too, begin to roam haphazardly; exploratory in ways so unlike Armin that it has your head spinning, and you keen in earnest then – muscles taut, back arching, needy in ways that you have had yet to find yourself to be, and as your skin covers in gooseflesh in the wake of his touch, you find yourself heating more, and in this you find yourself thinking, knowing, admitting that you had wanted this, mistakes be damned; you had wanted him, even if it meant disturbing this delicate equilibrium between the two of you, and here, right here, beneath the hot weight of his hands, beneath the needle of his gaze, this disturbance, this imminent disequilibrium feels worth it beyond measure.
As if feeling it, as if on the same, wordless cue that you were, Armin shifts and deepens the kiss, hands squeezing at your waist as you sigh into his mouth, and you feel yourself shifting, too; hands digging greedily into his scalp, thighs shuffling, ever so slowly, closer towards him, and it is then that you gasp in both pleasure and a startle, feeling as his palm drags itself beneath your skirt and across your thigh. You watch him break for just a moment, his hand squeezing, fingers dipping gently into the flesh mere inches from the apex of your thighs, and he does not move forward, he does not touch more, but he chuckles when you look at him, smiling wicked and self-satisfied when he murmurs: "I knew you would sound pretty when you feel good."
And then he kisses you again; his hand squeezing once more, if just for him to hear you make that sound again, and you whine at his attention when he moves his mouth towards neck, lapping and nibbling like a dog starved, and you feel, with a striking lucidity, as cohesion begins to slip your mind with a violent swiftness. You feel his palm circle to your stomach, fingers soft and gentle as they climb up and up, and a thigh of his brushes against a thigh of yours when he pleads, lips at your throat: "Can I rub you against my cock?" Armin begs, quiet and husky and so needy and foul that you find yourself in lack of thought. "Please," he whines, kissing at your clavicle, and your hands dig into his hair, tugging desperately – to stop or to continue, even you do not know.
"No," you gasp out, voice found within your throat at last, feeling his teeth graze gently against your pulse, and your thighs shake as you feel his hand slide lower at your rejection; for a moment, far too brief to fully register, you think that this alone will make him stop and reject you in return, but he just hums, pulling you closer; kissing you further.
"Alright," he murmurs into your lips, and then his hands are on your cheeks again, pulling you lovingly to not stop kissing him; and you submit, you allow him, you let his tongue glide softly against your own, hums quiet and gentle and hands warm on your skin, and it is here, amidst the delicate affection, that you finally find the strength to break away.
"Armin," you say, and to this he just smiles; as if sated by the sound of his name alone. "Armin, we've got to stop now," you tell him, watching, breath baited, as his smile slowly turns into a feather-light pout. "You're too drunk," you gasp, still short on air, and you feel, in distinct, precise detail, as his palm slides down the slope of your back.
"'M not," he replies, head leaning back into the backrest of the sofa. "I could do this all night," he says then, smile coy and mischievous and boyish, and it squeezes something fierce in your chest; he is quiet, for a moment, holding onto you so carefully. Time thins in this one moment, insular and private, quiet in a way you have had to yet experience with Armin until this exact bundle of disjointed seconds, and it is in this quietude that he says it. "I want you, Y/N," he whispers, not needy or desperate but fervent, cerulean gleaming with something you can't place or name, and the words alone make your skin heat in ways that you can't simply shake off.
Your breath shakes, in response. Your hands tremble. You shift and settle, leaning them onto his shoulders for purchase, and you try to catch your breath as his hand curls around your wrist, waiting. And he just watches you like this, that silver, bewitching glint swirling within his eyes; waiting for you to reject or accept him, to have him like this or never again. To this you lean, helplessly, to kiss him on the cheek, and it gives a finality to this dance, one the both of you acquiesce in your own ways – you, with leaning backwards, and him, with this committed, quiet grunt. "Let's see what you think when you're sober," you tell him then, waiting, quite pitifully, for your thighs to stop the trembling before climbing off.
And he just laughs. Hearty, and light, rumbling in his chest, as if he were truly amused by what you had said.
"Sweetheart," he says then, cheeks pink as if in some delight, and then he smiles at you with that gentle, bright smile of his that makes your heart squeeze swiftly and violently. He, warm, and welcoming, and hushed in his voice; knuckles brushing against your knee and hair tousled and so, so beautiful; he tells you, with no untimely restraint: "I think of you every day of my life. That won't be a problem."
And he lets you go like this; fingers brushing against the fabric of your sleeve, eyes tracing the slow, methodical movements of your body as you disentangle from him. He is quiet, he says not a word; he simply watches you, all the way through the remainder of the night, eyes warm and knowing, speaking of words whispered against the precipice of your skin when no one else could hear; even when your friends return; even when you all part.
And come morning, when you wake with a gasp and a memory of dream full and heated; when the screen of your phone lights up with a singular message beholding a singular line; when you smell him on you still, incorporeal and unbearably real upon your skin, you know, then, that nothing will be the same again.
hi sunny!!! you are so incredibly talented it's almost hard to put i to words!
i am honored every time i read something you post, you have a way with words that is just so elegant. you are really good at inciting emotions and scene setting 💓
warnings: mentions of nausea, headache; otherwise none
"Here," he murmurs, his fingers curling around yours, the coolness of the cup stark within your palm. "Drink this. It will make you feel better."
You do as he asks. Sipping the water gently, you feel the horrid, desperate clawing of nausea at your throat; still, you sit quietly and drink.
You feel his gaze on you. On your skin, featherlight.
You startle when you feel his hand reach for your hair, but you show little of it. Instead you breathe, in and out; and still he strokes your hair. The gesture is slow - delicate, almost. Intimate.
“I brought you pain medication while you slept, too. Do you need it?" He asks, voice nary above a whisper.
"Mhm," you hum, trying to find the words. You try to make your head follow in a nod, and even then the gesture stutters; you hold back in light of your tears, threatening to spill into the hand that holds your cheek. You try to hold it, then; to be brave in front of him.
"Okay," he replies, swift in his body shifting, and then he reaches for the medication; and you see now that it has been on your bedside table, waiting all along. He passes you the pill, and you take it with not a word; sniffling in misery as you finish off your water. Then, much like he gave it to you at first, he now pries the cup from your fingers: quiet, and gentle, hands warm between your fingers.
You close your eyes. You keep them this way, just for this moment. Then you startle once more, his arms wrapping around you, and the bed sinks at your side. "Come here," he whispers into your hair, pulling you into a gentle embrace. Your hands find themselves within his shirt without your notice, or much of your own express permission. “I know you want to cry. Cry, my love. I’m right here." He holds you there, like this; wiping at your cheeks. He strokes your hair unendingly, humming in a tone level and quiet. Then, once the tears break through and your breathing falls, delicately, into complete disarray, he tells you: “This will pass. It will. I promise you.”
I can't believe @heliiacus is getting me addicted to x listener boyfriend asmr on youtube. I don't know if this is a new low or a new high.... honestly somehow it's both.
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tags: armin x reader, armin has a crush on you, online friendship, fantasies, masturbation, armin's pov
warnings: sexual content - MDNI
Armin, your long-distance online friend, has a teeny, tiny, completely out of hand crush on you; and he can't, for the life of him, stop thinking about you.
word count: 538
Loathe as he may admit it, Armin cannot stop his hand from curling around his cock. He has your picture opened in front of him, your last conversation seared in his mind.
He wants you so bad. So fucking horrifyingly bad.
This sweet, ethereal creature. His kind angel. Considerate, assertive, each one your words honeyed over, just for him. Just for him.
It started out innocently. A random chatroom with a random person willing to talk about a random book.
He got drawn into your being like a moth to a flame; instantaneous, flash-like. He never even had a choice.
You were always so sweet. Not always happy, as all humans should be, not always chipper, but always kind, always generous with him. You'd acknowledge him, praise him, confide in him; seastar, you would start to call him.
He's never met anyone like you.
Every time you'd talk, his heart would patter. Eventually, he'd find his hands clammy with sweat. His face would heat. Then he got your picture.
He fucked his fist to that picture more times than he can count at this point. He'd lost the count at 43.
He feels vile, almost. Treacherous. It's an innocent picture. You're smiling, this sweet, lightweight thing.
But you're smiling for him. You said so, yourself.
He'd do anything to have you smile like that.
"God," he curses, gasping as his hand slides over his gleaming tip. "You'll be the end of me," he can't help the words that leave him, but they are true.
You're so fucking cute. He is willing to bet you are just as cute when you feel good.
What he would do if he could get his hands on you. He'd sell his soul to be able to kiss you, put his mouth on you; eat you out until you're squirming, mewling; sighing his name the way you do late at night during calls when you are tired, or when you're giggling at whatever it is he told you.
His hand grows faster, bolder, and it is him, now, who is whining, your name falling steadfast from his lips, again and again.
Perilously, inescapably, he agonizes over wondering how you would taste like on his tongue; how you would sound like, moaning his name out as he pleasures you, as he makes you feel good the way you make him feel good with your words alone, with your presence, your company; your friendship.
"Fuck," he cries out, and Armin can't help the indulgence, he can't stop it as an image fills his mind, his cock deep in you, your pretty face flushed, contorted in pleasured ways only he could bring you, your delicate hands dragging harshly over his back, and he spills his seed all over his hand, pumping harsh and unyielding, unstopping as he mutters your name again, and again, and again.
His breath is ragged, broken as he throws back his head, slowly riding out the last drops of his orgasm.
You will end him. You could, just so easily. And he would take it. He will take anything you give him, even crumbs; even nothing.
His eyes snap open as he hears a ping notification on his laptop.
You've messaged him.
dividers by cafekitsune
tag list: @arlerts-angel @levistealeaf @sukunascrustyfinger
It's a comfort, to be out with friends; your closest of friends, most of all. You are lucky, you know that much – to have such a large group of people who care, genuinely.
Sometimes, however, it can be a bit much.
You don't mean to space out; sometimes it just happens. The sounds get too loud, and the lights get too bright, and from time to time you find yourself staring off into a singular spot, if only for a moment – to recalibrate the buzzing that starts rising in your head.
And Eren is used to this; or he should be, by now. Having dated for six months, he grew used to your habits quite quickly, accepting them as they came.
Unlike any other, however, Eren didn't just grow accustomed to them – slowly, steadily, he had managed to incorporate himself into them, becoming part of them with a dizzying seamlessness to it.
That is why you're not quite surprised, when your eyes meet a green so vibrant it nearly dismantles the composure you had managed to garner in your moment of quiet. You grow used to it, little by little; the warmth in his eyes, not so much as of yet.
"You okay?" He asks quietly, leaning down. You watch, breathless, as a strand of brown hair brushes against the slope of his cheek. You feel his hand brush against yours; then his fingers curl, delicately, around your palm.
"Yeah," you say, mind numb in a different way now; and he knows.
Hii did you remove your writing from ao3?? Ive cant find them there anymore 😭
Hi sweetpea, my writing is still fully available, but it is locked for users only in light of recent events on ao3 💗 user is heliacus as always !! Thank you so much for your interest 🥰 mind you, if you don't want to wait for an invite from the ao3 staff, all of my writing has been cross-posted onto my blog here!!
dearest pookies i just wanted to say i WILL get to all of your tag games, asks, and messages 🧎♀️💗‼️ i'm in the last push of my thesis writing shenanigans and i WILL get back to u all once i submit it !!
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THANK YOU SO MUCH ONCE AGAIN DARLING this is an incredible piece of art and i am screaming FOREVER 😭💗💕🌷🌺🌸💗💕🌷🌺💕💗🌸 I CAN'T WAIT TO DELIVER YOUR ZEKE FIC TO YOUR DOORSTEP 🧎♀️‼️