#armin fluff

You nearly spill your coffee all over your Political Theory textbook when you unlock your phone. Another two hundred comments on that TikTok. You know you shouldn't check—you probably watched it about a million times yesterday alone—but your fingers move before your brain can scream at you to stop.

@/bookslvt01: ok but the way he talks about virginia woolf??? NEED HIM CARNALLY @/colossalthighs: i’d let him annotate my entire body fr @/arlertmeout: he looks like he apologises before choking you

You bite your lip, half-entertained and half-horrified, scrolling through the endless comments under what was supposed to be an innocent campus interview. The video has 2.3 million views now, completely insane for something filmed outside the modest main library—the same one you find yourself in at the moment—on a random Tuesday.

"Ugh, don’t tell me. You're watching it again, aren't you?"

Your head snaps up comically quick, caught red-handed, to find Sasha sliding into the seat across from you at your usual table, eyeing your phone screen with knowing amusement. 

"What? No."

"You are! You have that weird, glazed look in your eyes. The same one you get when Professor Ackerman extends the deadline for our research papers." Sasha unwraps what appears to be her third sandwich of the day. You don't mention how it’s only twelve in the afternoon. "You know you could just talk to him about it, right? He's literally one of your best friends."

"And say what exactly?" you finally close the godforsaken app, trying to ignore how your screen time report is definitely going to be embarrassing this week. "Hey Armin, I've watched your viral video more times than I can remember and I'm having very inappropriate thoughts about your tongue piercing that I absolutely shouldn't be having about my friend?"

Sasha snickers, a piece of lettuce tumbling to the table from her mouth. "Well, when you put it like that... actually, yes. One hundred percent that."

"Sasha, I can't just—" you frown in frustration, inhaling deeply. "It's complicated."

"How is it complicated? You've had a crush on him since freshman year."

"That was different. That was before we became friends. Before I knew him." You lean back in your chair, staring at the ceiling as fond memories overwhelm you. "Back then he was just this cute, nerdy guy in my intro psych class who got excited about statistical analysis and always smelled like that vanilla body wash I love. I used to sit behind him just to watch him get all animated during discussions about cognitive behavioural theory, you know?"

Sasha merely rolls her eyes. "Jesus, and you call me demented. Well, what about now?"

"Now? Now, he's Armin. He's my friend who stays up until 3 A.M. to help me with my assignments, who brings me soup when I'm sick, who texts me the dumbest memes about historical figures," you slump forward, close to pouting. "He's the guy who spent six hours teaching me how to play that MMO he's obsessed with just because I mentioned being bored over winter break. He's..."

"He's the guy you're infatuated with," Sasha supplies helpfully.

"I'm not," you start to protest, then wisely opt to give up instead. "Okay, maybe. But that's exactly the problem. I can't risk blowing up our friendship just because some stupid interview made me realise I want to climb him like a tree."

"A tree with a tongue piercing," Sasha adds with a cheeky grin.

"Fuck’s sake, don't remind me," you let your head rest against the table. "Do you know how many times I've replayed that two-second clip where he licks his lips? It's pathetic."

"It's not pathetic, it's kind of sweet. There's a difference." Sasha takes another bite of her sandwich, her eyes evidently lighting up. "Besides, you don't know that he doesn't feel the same way. Have you seen how he looks at you during our study sessions? Boy's got it bad."

"He looks at me like a friend, Sasha. Because that's what we are."

"Believe me, friends don't look at friends the way he looked at you last Friday when you were explaining your thesis argument. I thought he was going to combust from sexual tension."

Before you can blatantly disagree, you hear an all too familiar voice behind you.

"Sexual tension about what now?"

Your stomach drops directly through the floor. You turn around carefully, and there he is—Armin Arlert, campus's newest digital sensation, standing there with that signature bemused expression he gets when he catches you and Sasha gossiping. His blonde hair is mussed like he's been running his hands through it, and he's wearing that adorable blue sweater that brings out his eyes deliciously.

"Oh, um..." You scramble for an explanation, panicking on the inside. "We were just talking about... about..."

"About how Professor Ackerman's lectures are basically academic foreplay," Sasha jumps in smoothly. "All that tension and buildup with no satisfying conclusion. I mean, hello?"

Armin laughs, the sound warm and comforting. "That's fascinatingly accurate, I’ll admit." He shifts his weight, and you only then notice he's carrying his laptop bag and what seems to be a bag of takeout. "Mind if I join you? I brought Thai food and figured you might be hungry since you've been here since—," he checks his phone, "—9 A.M., according to the text you sent complaining about how it’s criminal that the library opens so early on weekends."

Your heart does a little flip at his consideration. "You didn't have to do that."

"I wanted to." He slides into the chair next to you, close enough that you can smell his cologne—a rich blend of velvety caramel and toasted cinnamon that positively makes you want to lick him all over. 

Stop. None of that, you horny bastard.

"Besides, I figured you might want to hear about the latest developments in my accidental internet fame."

Sasha perks up at once. "Hell, yeah. Have you been recognised on campus yet?"

"Five times yesterday," Armin appears to lament, pulling containers out of the bag. "Including once in the bathroom, which was... awkward, to say the least." He hands you your usual order without asking what you want. "But the weirdest part is definitely the DMs."

"DMs?" you pipe up, failing to ignore how domestic this feels what with him knowing exactly what you like. Typical, precious Armin.

"You have no idea," he opens his laptop and turns it toward you two with a nervous twitch. "I've gotten marriage proposals, offers to 'show me a good time,' and at least a hundred messages asking about my tongue piercing specifically."

Your face burns as you push away the thought that you've been mentally composing similar messages. "That's... wow."

"The worst part is, most of them are asking if I'd be interested in demonstrating its uses." He fidgets with his glasses, coming across as embarrassed but also endearing. "I had no idea that thing would cause such a reaction."

"Well, it is pretty noticeable," Sasha remarks with a meaningful peek at you. "Very... attention-grabbing."

"I guess." Armin glances at you pointedly. "What do you think? You've seen the video, right?"

The question is innocent enough, but something in his tone makes you look at him more carefully. There's an out-of-the-ordinary implication that you can't quite put your finger on. "Uh... yeah, I've seen it," you manage to croak out. Terrific. Could you get any stiffer?

"And?"

"And what?"

"What did you think?"

You stare at him blankly, trying to figure out if this is a normal friend question or if you’re incorrectly perceiving the foreign edge of curiosity behind it. "I thought... I mean, your book recommendations were really good. Very passionate."

"Passionate," he repeats, the fleeting flash of understanding across his face confirming your earlier weariness. "That's interesting."

Sasha's phone cuts through the uneasiness with its incessant buzzing, and she scans it with obviously fake surprise. "Oh no, would you look at that. I have to go... meet... someone... about... a... very real thing... I have." She begins gathering her stuff with awfully suspicious speed. "You two have fun talking about books. And passion. And tongue piercings."

"Huh? Wait. Sasha—" you squeak out, but she's already dashing out of the private study room you had booked for the both of you until late afternoon (traitor). Which leaves you alone with Armin, who's scrutinising you with an expression you can't quite read.

"Alright," he speaks after a moment, closing his laptop and leaning back in his chair. "Want to tell me what you actually thought about the video?"

"I already told you."

"No, you gave me the safe answer." He tilts his head slightly, studying you with purpose. "Come on, we've been friends for two years. I know when you're holding back."

You hastily shove some noodles in your mouth, avoiding his gaze. "I'm not holding back."

"Really? Because Sasha seemed to think you had some important opinions about it."

You make a mental note to start drafting your plan for the girl’s well-deserved comeuppance. "Sasha talks too much."

"She does," Armin agrees. "But she's usually right about things. Especially when it comes to you."

The rarely there confidence in his tone makes you look up and, when you meet his gaze, the intensity catches you off guard. "What do you want me to say?"

"Did you know," he continues conversationally, "that TikTok shows you analytics about who's viewed your videos?"

Almost instantly, your heart stops. "What?"

"Mhm. Very detailed analytics. Including multiple views from the same account." His lips quirk up in a small smile. "Want to guess how many times your account shows up in my viewer list?"

You feel heat creeping up your neck. "I don't know what you're talking about." You briefly consider denying reality, blaming a technical issue, or claiming a glitch in the matrix—but none of it sticks.

"Seventy-seven times," he announces, the metaphorical checkmate hitting you straight in the chest. "As of this morning."

Oh god. Oh god, oh god, oh god. He knows. "I can explain—"

"Can you?" He angles himself forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Because I've been trying to figure out why my very good friend has watched a boring thirty-second video of me talking about books seventy-seven times."

You want to run away, mouth opening and closing like a fish. "I... the algorithm is weird sometimes?"

Armin chuckles, low and warm, absent of any malice. "Try again."

"I was checking to see if the view count was going up?"

"Nope."

You're quiet for a long moment, trying to figure out how to get out of this without completely humiliating yourself. You don't suppose it's too late to jump out of a window? Ultimately, you sigh in defeat. "Okay, fine. Maybe I watched it a few times."

"A few?"

You narrow your eyes, crossing your arms in defiance at the unsolicited endless interrogation. "More than a few."

"How many more?"

You want to strangle him, and not in the sexy way. "You’re being annoying."

"Come on." His voice has dropped slightly lower, and there's something almost akin to teasing in it. "I told you about the marriage proposals. Fair's fair."

You mutter a profanity under your breath, groaning. "Fine. I watched it a lot. Happy?"

"No. We’re getting there, though. Why?"

"Why what?"

Armin’s glee sharpens into something ravenous, a flicker of desperation lurking beneath his carefree demeanour—like he’s itching for you to say exactly what he needs. "Why did you watch it seventy-seven times?"

Your lungs feel too tight, too exposed. "Because..."

"Because?"

"Because you looked really good, okay?" The words come out in a rush. "Because watching you talk about literally anything is incredibly attractive, and because that frustrating part where your tongue piercing shows has been tormenting me ever since the video came out."

The silence that follows is eerily deafening. Armin simply stares at you, and you wish the ground would swallow you whole.

"Shit," you grumble, burying your face in your hands. "I'm sorry. That was completely out of line. I know we're friends and I shouldn't have—"

"Hey. Look at me."

The way he asks convinces you to peep through your fingers, reluctant but unable to look away. His expression is attentive and focused—definitely not one of disgust.

"You think I'm attractive?" he questions softly.

"I... yes?"

He blinks, his usual calm shattered by the raw vulnerability in your voice. His fingers tremble, revealing the fierce hope inside that there’s a potential chance that someone sees him as more than the sum of his quirks.  "Even though I'm just a loser who gets excited about obscure paranormal documentaries and spends too much time playing video games?"

"Especially because of that," you admit, having never been more sure of yourself.

His answering smile is slow and devastating. "Good to know."

"Good to know?"

He hums, reaching across the table, and gently pulls your hands away from your face. "I've been wondering if you'd ever see me as more than just your friend who helps you with your homework."

Your brain, without a doubt, malfunctions. "What?"

"Did you really think I started bringing you food and staying up late just because I'm a good friend?"

The words disarm you. You’re trapped between incredulity and the dawning comprehension of what he might be suggesting. "I…"

"And did you think I learned how to play your favourite songs on guitar just because I had time to spare?"

"Y-you said you wanted to practice—"

"And I presume you thought I got this piercing because I was feeling rebellious?"

That stops you short, confusion apparent in the furrow of your brows. "You didn't?"

Armin's grin turns almost predatory. "I got it because I overheard you and Sasha talking about how cool you find them. This was back in October, after you'd been dating that guy with the lip ring."

You feel like a kettle left on the stove too long. "You... what?"

"You said, and I quote, 'There's something about tongue piercings that's beyond exciting.’ Something along the lines of how the person has to be bold enough to get it, but there's the simultaneous insinuation of what they can do with it."

"I’m going to kill myself," you gape at him in horror. "You heard all of that?"

"I was sitting right behind you in the campus coffee shop. You weren’t exactly shy about it." He shifts closer, and you can spot the hint of silver when he speaks, "I made an appointment that very afternoon."

"You got a tongue piercing because of something I said about another guy?"

"I got a tongue piercing because I wanted to be the guy you were talking about."

The confession hangs in the air between you, charged and electric. You stare at him, trying to process this complete change in everything you thought you knew about your friendship. 

"I've been trying to get your attention for months. I was starting to think I'd have to do something drastic."

In spite of being made to face terrifying revelation after revelation, you manage to stutter out a breathless laugh. "More drastic than getting a tongue piercing for me?" 

"I was considering learning to play your favourite video game."

You snort despite yourself. "You hate that game."

He shrugs casually, as if the lengths to which he would go for you knew no bounds. "I know. That's how desperate I was getting."

The atmosphere between you feels tense now, full of possibility and two years of unspoken tension. Armin traces your knuckles and the simple touch sends heat shooting up your arm.

"So," you say, trying to stay as composed as you possibly can. "What happens now?"

"Now," he starts, standing up, "you tell me what exactly you were thinking about during those seventy-seven views."

He's close enough that you have to tilt your head back to look at him, and the unwavering want in the blue of his eyes makes your breath catch. "I was thinking..." you trail off, feeling timid with his attention on you.

"You can do it. Use your words for me?" his voice has gotten rougher, huskier, and it sends delightful shivers down your spine.

"I was thinking about what it would feel like."

"What would feel like?"

"Your piercing. When you..." You gesture vaguely, cheeks burning. Armin's hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing across your bottom lip. "When I what?"

"When you kiss me," you whisper.

"Just kissing?" The question is loaded with underlying intentions, and you shake your head slowly.

"Tell me what else you were thinking about."

"Armin..."

"Please." The plea is hushed but insistent. "I want to know what's been going through your head."

You swallow, your throat suddenly dry as you let go of the entirety of your self-restraint. "I was thinking about what it would feel like on my body. What it would feel like when you use your mouth on me."

His pupils immediately dilate at your words. "Fuck."

"Is that... is that okay?"

Instead of verbally affirming, he leans down and kisses you. It's gentle at first, tentative, but when you react by fisting your hands in his sweater and pulling him closer, he deepens it. The first brush of his tongue against yours has you gasping, and when you feel the metal of his piercing, it sends intoxicating pleasure shooting through you.

You break apart, breathing heavily, and Armin rests his forehead against yours.

"How was that?" he asks earnestly, voice raspy.

"Good," you breathe. "Really good."

His smile is full of care but there's primal desire behind it. "And the piercing?"

"Want more of it."

He brushes his thumb across your lip again. Truth be told, it’s plain torture. "You know, we're in public right now."

Every wall you built is crumbling under the weight of him, and all you can do is let it. "I know."

"Anyone could walk by and see us."

"I know."

"And you don't care?"

You drag your hand up his thigh, stopping just shy of where he clearly wants it, "Not even a little bit."

He kisses you again, harder this time, and you can't help the soft moan that escapes when his tongue meets yours in another dance of display. The sound seems to flip a switch in him, because his hands are tangling in your hair and he's pressing you back against your chair.

"God, you have no idea how long I've wanted to do this," he murmurs against your lips.

"Tell me ‘Min."

"Since freshman year. Since that first day in psych class when you argued with Professor Smith about the ethics of behavioural modification."

You draw away just barely, shaking under the intimacy of his declaration. "That long?"

"That long." He doesn’t think twice before trailing his teeth along your jaw, and when the metal of his piercing digs into your flushed skin, you whimper needily. 

"You were so assertive, so brilliant. I was completely and utterly gone."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because you were dating that business major asshole, and then when you broke up, we became friends,” he hesitantly halts his ministrations to flutter his eyelashes at you, “I-I didn't want to ruin it." 

Good heavens, you didn’t stand a chance from the beginning.

"But then you kept looking at me like... like you wanted me too, and I started hoping..."

"I did want you. I do want you." The admission comes out whinier than intended, but you can’t bring yourself to be bothered at this point. "So much."

His hands tighten in your hair. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

You’re unaware of how many minutes pass as you lose yourself in the sensation of his mouth on yours, and the way he tastes like mint and something uniquely him. You dig your nails lightly into his sides, claiming him in an act of fervent possession. His breaths mingle with yours and the world outside your tangled bodies fades until there’s nothing but lust burning between you. By the end of it, your chests rise and fall in tandem.

"We should probably get out of here," he mumbles, peeking around the library.

Craving Armin has left you dazed, vision glassy as you attempt to make sense of your surroundings. "Right. Um, your place or mine?"

He pecks your nose, full of affection, tenderly guiding you. "Mine. My roommate's gone for the weekend."

You start gathering your things with shaky hands, hyperaware of the way Armin is observing you. When you bend over to pick up your bag, you hear his sharp intake of breath.

"Something wrong?" you ask innocently.

"N-nothing," he mutters, skittishly pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

The walk to his dorm feels like it takes forever, full of stolen glances and the kind of anticipation that makes your skin feel too tight. When you reach his room, he fumbles with his keys for a moment—so fucking cute—before getting the door open.

You haven’t had a lot of time this semester to crash at his dorm—neat and organised, with anime posters on the walls and stacks of books and manga everywhere. But you barely have time to take it in before he's pressing you against the closed door, urgency lacing his actions.

This time, there's nothing apprehensive about it. His hands are everywhere—your waist, your back, squeezing your ass—and when you arch against him, he makes a low sound of approval.

"You taste so good," he shudders against you. "Everything I’ve imagined and so much more."

"You imagined this?"

"Every night for two years." His mouth moves to your neck, nibbling along your throat. "What you'd look like, what you'd sound like when I made you come."

The words send heat pooling low in your belly, prompting you to press your thighs together instinctively. "Fuck, don’t say shit like that.”

"Why not? I’ve been longing for you. All of you," he whispers, pulling back to look at you with dark, lidded eyes. "You’re not getting away until I’ve had my fill."

It would be an understatement to say that you hadn’t foreseen this when you woke up today. That you'd be spending hours with your legs over Armin's shoulders, forgetting your own name; the compassionate, stammering genius the internet drooled over. Too bad he’s not on the market. It would be a treat if his fans could see him like this—flushed and breathless, fingers gripping your hips like he’d die without you. Armin Arlert, golden boy of TikTok, practically begging to let him ruin you.

You grow dizzy at the promise in his voice. "Please."

He lets his hand trail lower, indecently tranquil, and just as you think he’ll do something reckless—he pauses, smirking wickedly.

"Want to find out what this piercing really feels like when I eat you out?"

He has this faint blush in his cheeks whenever you kiss him that makes you melt. He cares for you, he listens to you, he lets you hang out with his friends (that are actually as fun as him). He's not the loud type of lover, but never once made you feel unloved. Every time he grabs your hand, he caress the palm with his thumb and kisses your knuckles.

Four months later, you were whipped. So whipped it was embarrassing. How could you not fall in love with him? He has you smiling at his texts, having a pic of him and you as your lockscreen. Fuck, you are even thinking of asking him to meet your parents.

So why. WHY does he has to make that question now?

"You're not a joke," you say, slowly sitting up. Armin follows you, sitting across from you on the bed, legs crossed and elbows on his knees. "You're my boyfriend."

"Why do you lie?"

Oh.

So this is even worse. He discovered somehow. And now you lied to him straight in the face.

"I—what are you talking about?" You were speechless, there was a huge knot in your stomach that got tighter when Armin pulled out his phone, playing a video of a random frat party you went to... four months ago.

The video plays on his phone screen, tinny laughter spilling from the speakers like poison. There you are: red-cup in hand, eyes glassy, voice slurred and cruel, pointing at the camera while your friends howl behind you.

“Look at him,” you’d said, giggling, mocking the way Armin had fumbled his words when you first asked him to study together. “He’s so awkward, it’s adorable. Bet I can make him fall in love with me in like, two weeks.”

The old you on the screen leans into one of your friends, whispering loud enough for the mic to catch: “It’s just a game. He’s so easy.”

The video ends.

Armin doesn’t move. He just stares at the frozen frame of your drunken, laughing face, then slowly turns the phone face-down on the mattress between you. The silence is suffocating.

Your throat burns. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. No excuse, no defense, no clever deflection. Just the ugly truth sitting there like a third person in the room.

“I…” Your voice cracks. You try again. “I didn’t… That was before I—”

“Before you what?” His voice is quiet. Too quiet. “Before you got to know me? Before you decided I was worth more than a story to tell your friends?”

His eyes are glassy, but no tears fall. He’s holding them back like he’s holding everything back: anger, hurt, the pieces of himself you just shattered.

You reach for his hand, but he pulls it away like your touch burns. That small rejection hits harder than anything.

“Armin, please. That video it’s from the night we met. I was drunk, I was stupid, I was… showing off. I didn’t know you yet. I didn’t know how kind you are, how funny, how—” Your voice breaks again. “How much I’d end up loving you.”

He flinches at the word loving.

You feel it like a slap.

“You used me,” he says, barely above a whisper. “You targeted me because I was quiet and awkward and so easy. And then… what? You kept it going because you felt bad? Or because I turned out to be good company?”

“No.” You shake your head desperately. “No, that’s not—I stopped thinking of it as a game so fast. I swear. I fell for you, Armin. I fell so hard I didn’t even see it happening. Everything after that night was real. Every kiss, every text, every time I held your hand.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” His voice finally breaks. “Why didn’t you ever say, ‘Hey, this started as something shitty, but it’s not anymore’? You let me believe you chose me. That I was special to you from the start.”

You have no answer.

Because you were ashamed.

Because you were terrified that if he knew the truth, he’d leave.

And now he knows anyway.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. It sounds so small. So useless.

Armin looks down at his hands, fingers twisting together like he’s trying to hold himself together.

“I really thought…” He stops, swallows hard. “I thought you saw me. You made me feel like the luckiest man alive.”

“You are special to me,” you say, voice trembling. “You’re everything to me. I hate that I ever made you feel like you weren’t.”

He doesn’t respond. Just sits there, shoulders curled in, looking smaller than you’ve ever seen him.

After an unbearable silence, he finally speaks.

“I need to go.”

Your heart drops.

“No, Armin—”

“I just need space.” He stands up slowly, not looking at you. “I don’t know what to do with this yet.”

You want to beg him to stay.

But you don’t.

Because you know you don’t deserve to ask him for anything right now.

At the door, he pauses. His hand on the knob, back to you.

“I really loved you, you know,” he says quietly.

Past tense.

Then he’s gone.

And you’re left curled on your bed, arms wrapped around yourself, wishing they were his.

The next morning hits like a hangover you didn’t earn. Your head pounds from crying half the night, eyes swollen and raw. You check your phone first thing, still nothing from Armin. No read receipts, no typing bubbles, no “seen” on the dozen messages you sent after he walked out. Just delivered, delivered, delivered, mocking you.

You drag yourself to campus anyway, hoping maybe he’ll show up to the 10 a.m. lecture you both usually sit through side by side. The seat next to yours stays empty the whole hour. He’s never missed a class. Your stomach twists harder with every passing minute.

By lunch, you’re a wreck, pacing outside the engineering building where Eren usually hangs out between his own classes. You spot him leaning against the wall, arms crossed, scrolling on his phone. He looks up when you approach, and the way his expression hardens makes your chest cave.

“Eren,” you start, voice small and cracked. “Have you… seen Armin? He didn’t come to class, he’s not answering—”

He cuts you off with a sharp exhale through his nose, shoving his phone in his pocket.

“Yeah. I’ve seen him.” he says. “He crashed at my place last night. Didn’t sleep. Just sat there staring at the wall like someone gutted him.”

You flinch. “I need to talk to him. Please, just tell me if he’s okay—”

Eren laughs, but there’s zero humor in it. “You really asking me that? After what you pulled?”

Your throat closes. “He told you.”

“Everything.” Eren steps closer, towering without even trying. “How you laughed about making him fall for you like it was some fucking frat prank. How you kept stringing him along until you got bored or whatever bullshit excuse you’re using now.”

“It wasn’t like that,” you whisper, but it sounds pathetic even to you. “Not after I got to know him. I—”

“Save it.” He holds up a hand. “I don’t wanna hear how you ‘changed your mind’ or whatever. Do you have any idea what that does to a guy like Armin? He doesn’t let people in. Ever. And the one time he does…”

Eren trails off, jaw tight. For a second you see something flicker behind the anger. He’s not just mad at you; he’s mad for Armin.

“He’s not okay,” Eren says finally, quieter but no less harsh. “He’s wrecked. Keeps saying he should’ve known better. That he’s an idiot for believing someone like you could actually want him.”

The words land like punches. You wrap your arms around yourself, trying not to fall apart right there.

“I love him,” you choke out. “I swear I do. I just… I fucked up so bad.”

Eren studies you for a long moment, expression unreadable.

“Maybe you do,” he says at last. “Doesn’t change what you did. Or how much it hurt him.” He pushes off the wall, turning to leave. “He doesn’t want to see you right now. And honestly? I don’t blame him.”

“Eren, wait—”

He pauses, doesn’t turn around. “Give him space. For real this time. If you actually care, you’ll stop blowing up his phone and let him breathe.”

Then he’s walking away, shoulders tense, leaving you standing alone in the middle of the quad with your useless apologies dying in your throat.

You pull out your phone again anyway. Open the chat with Armin. Type another message: I’m so sorry. Please just tell me you’re okay, then delete it before you can hit send.

You just dissociate the rest of the day, headphones in in the back row of the classes, thinking that being a dramatic mess might fix something. You just want to see him, talk to him well and fix it. It's barely been a day and you already miss him like it's been weeks.

Then your friends come. They spot you outside the library were you and Armin used to study before you went to your dorm to make out.

The moment they try to talk to you, you tell them to just fuck off and leave you alone. You can't be friends with the same people that thought it was a good idea to play with Armin.

So now you have no friends, no boyfriend and a ton of questions about the subject Armin used to help you.

The lecture hall smells like stale coffee and old textbooks, same as always. You get there way too early because if you don’t claim the seats first, someone else might sit next to him and you’ll lose even that tiny piece of proximity. You pick your usual spot, second row from the back, left side. The one where his knee used to brush yours under the table when he leaned over to point at something in your notes.

You set your bag on the empty chair beside you like it’s a placeholder. Like maybe if you leave it there long enough, the universe will remember how things used to be.

He walks in ten minutes before class starts.

Your heart slams against your ribs so hard you’re sure the people in front can hear it.

Armin doesn’t look your way.

He doesn’t scan the room like he used to, searching for your face with that small, private smile he saved only for you. He just keeps his eyes on the floor, backpack slung over one shoulder, hair falling into his face the way it does when he hasn’t slept. He’s wearing the same hoodie he wore the night you fell asleep on his chest watching that dumb nature documentary about deep-sea creatures. The sleeves are pushed up to his elbows. His forearms look thinner somehow. Or maybe that’s just your guilt playing tricks.

He walks straight to the row, stops at the empty seat next to yours.

He reaches past you without a glance, picks up your bag by one strap, sets it carefully on the floor at your feet, and then takes the seat anyway.

Right beside you.

But it’s not the same.

There’s a full foot of space between your arms now. No casual brush of shoulders. No shared glances when the professor says something ridiculous. He opens his notebook, uncaps his pen, stares straight ahead at the projector screen even though it’s still blank. His posture is perfect like he’s trying to take up as little emotional space as possible.

You can smell his shampoo. It makes your eyes burn.

You want to say his name like you used to when you were half-asleep and reaching for him in the dark.

You don’t.

Because the last time you spoke, he said “I really loved you” in past tense and walked out of your life.

So you sit there in silence while the professor drones on about material you used to understand only because Armin explained it with patient little drawings in the margins of your notes. Now the words blur. You can’t focus. Every time he shifts, even the smallest movement, your whole body tenses like he might turn and look at you.

He doesn’t.

Not once.

Not when the girl two rows up drops her pen and it rolls under your chairs. Not when the projector flickers and everyone groans. Not even when the professor calls on him by name to answer a question.

Armin’s voice is quiet and correct. Same as always. But there’s no warmth in it. No little proud glance back at you afterward like he used to do, checking if you caught how smart he sounded.

Class ends.

People start packing up.

Armin closes his notebook with a soft snap, slides it into his bag, stands.

You stay seated, frozen, staring at the back of the empty seat in front of you because if you watch him leave it might actually kill you.

He pauses at the end of the row.

For the briefest second his fingers curl around the strap of his bag like he’s fighting something. Like maybe he wants to say something too.

Then he walks away.

No goodbye. No look back. Just the soft tread of his sneakers down the aisle and out the door.

You sit there until the lecture hall is almost empty.

Until the janitor starts stacking chairs.

Until your phone buzzes in your pocket with another unread message from your ex-friends asking why you’re ghosting them.

You don’t answer.

You just hug your knees to your chest right there in the second row, forehead pressed to your arms, and let yourself fall apart quietly where no one can see.

Because the boy who used to trace little hearts on your palm when he thought you weren’t paying attention now won’t even meet your eyes.

He keeps walking (head down, hands shoved deep in his hoodie pockets) until the hallway noise fades into white static. He doesn’t stop until he reaches the quiet stairwell at the end of the building, the one nobody uses because the elevator is faster. There, in the dim fluorescent light, he finally lets himself lean against the cold cinderblock wall and breathe.

His chest hurts. Not metaphorically. Physically. Like someone reached in and squeezed until his ribs creaked. He presses the heel of his palm against his sternum, trying to push the ache back down, but it only spreads.

He can still feel the ghost of your bag strap under his fingers from when he moved it this morning. The way he’d hesitated, just a fraction of a second, before setting it on the floor. He’d wanted to drop it. Hurl it. Anything to match the violence inside him. Instead he’d placed it gently, like he always did with your things. Muscle memory. Stupid, traitorous muscle memory.

Why did he even sit next to you?

He could have chosen any empty seat. The hall was half-full. He could have sat in the front row, or the back, or anywhere that didn’t smell like your perfume and remind him of nights when you’d curl into his side and trace lazy patterns on his wrist until he fell asleep feeling safe.

But he sat there anyway. Because some pathetic part of him still wanted to be close. Wanted to pretend, for fifty minutes, that nothing had changed. That if he just didn’t look at you, didn’t speak, didn’t acknowledge the space where your knee used to knock against his, maybe the wound wouldn’t bleed so much.

It didn’t work.

Every time you shifted in your seat he felt it like static electricity. Every time your pen tapped nervously against your notebook he had to grip his own pen harder to keep from reaching over and covering your hand the way he used to. To tell you it was okay. To tell you he was still here.

He hates that he still wants to.

He hates that the video plays on loop in his head: you in that frat house, red cup sloshing, eyes bright with alcohol and cruelty, saying his name like it was punchline.

“Bet I can make him fall in love with me in like, two weeks.”

Two weeks.

He’d given you four months.

Four months of late-night study sessions that turned into talking about nothing and everything. Four months of you stealing his hoodies and wearing them to class like a badge. Four months of him learning exactly how you liked your coffee, of memorizing the way your laugh changed when you were genuinely happy versus when you were performing for someone else. Four months of believing that someone saw him. Not the overthinking kid who got picked last in group projects. Not the tutor who was useful until the exam was over. Just him.

And it started as a game.

He closes his eyes, slides down the wall until he’s sitting on the cold concrete step. His backpack thumps beside him. He pulls his knees up, rests his forehead against them, and lets the memory of your voice from that night in your dorm wash over him again.

“I love you.”

He’d flinched at the word because it felt like a lie wrapped in velvet. But god, he’d wanted it to be true so badly that for a second, he almost believed it again.

That’s the worst part.

Not the betrayal. Not the humiliation. The part where he still loves you.

He loves the way you bite your lip when you’re concentrating. Loves how you get excited about dumb videos and send them at 2 a.m. Loves the quiet moments when you’d both just exist in the same room, no pressure, no performance. He loves the person you became with him: the one who stopped checking your phone every five minutes, who listened when he rambled about animes or historical cryptography, who kissed him like he was something precious.

But that person was built on a foundation of a lie.

So what does that make the love he feels now? A delusion? A leftover chemical reaction? Or is it real, and the lie just poisoned it?

He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know if he can ever look at you again without seeing that video. Without wondering which parts were real and which were calculated. Without wondering if you ever really chose him, or if you just got used to the idea of him.

All he knows is that sitting next to you today felt like pressing on a bruise to see if it still hurts.

It does.

It hurts so much he can barely breathe.

And the scariest thing (the thing that makes him want to disappear into the stairwell and never come out) is that even now, even after everything, a stubborn part of him hopes you’ll fix it.

Hopes you’ll fight for him.

Hopes you’ll prove that the four months weren’t just a game that got out of hand.

Because if they weren’t… if even one second of it was real.

Then maybe he wasn’t the idiot after all.

He lets out a shaky breath, wipes at his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie, and stands.

He has another class in twenty minutes.

He’ll go.

He’ll sit in the back this time.

You get tired of waiting three weeks later. It's eating you alive at this point.

You give him the space he asked for. No more hovering outside his classes, no more asking Eren for updates (Eren would probably punch a wall before helping you anyway).

You stop showing up at the library corner where you two used to study. Instead, you force yourself to go to the quiet study rooms on the other side of campus, headphones in, drowning out the ache with white noise. It hurts but it’s the first real proof you can give him that you’re listening. That his need for distance matters more than your need to be forgiven.

While you wait, you work on yourself. Because words are cheap, and you’ve already used too many empty ones.

You block your old friends. Not dramatically, not with a big announcement—just quietly remove them from your contacts, unfollow, mute group chats. They text you confused, then angry: What the hell? We were just joking around. You don’t respond. You don’t owe them explanations. They suggested the bet. They filmed the video. They laughed when you mocked him. Keeping them around would be like keeping the knife that stabbed him. So you cut them out. It leaves you lonelier than you’ve ever been. But it’s clean. It’s a start.

You go back through every note he ever wrote you. The little marginal doodles of whales and stars, the patient explanations of concepts you now half-understand on your own. You don’t throw them out. You keep them in a drawer, but you start studying without him. You actually read the textbook. You ask the TA questions instead of texting him for help. It’s not about the grade, it’s about proving to yourself (and maybe someday to him) that you didn’t just use him for academic convenience. That you valued his mind, his patience, him.

And now you are in front of his dorm. Regretting all the decisions you made before this. Watching that show he likes, rereading messages and if that wasn't enough, a glass of vodka.

Everything screamed failure and humiliation.

The hallway light flickers once, twice. You knock before you can talk yourself out of it again.

Soft footsteps. A pause. The door opens a crack, then wider when he sees it’s you.

Armin looks… exhausted. Dark circles under his eyes, hair messier than usual. He doesn’t say anything at first.

You don’t wait for permission.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt, voice cracking on the second word. “I know I said it before and it didn’t mean anything then, but I’m saying it again because I can’t keep carrying this without at least trying one more time.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t invite you in. Just holds the door, knuckles white.

You take a shaky breath and let it all spill.

“I love you, Armin. I love the way you talk about things most people don’t even notice—like how the light hits the ocean at golden hour, or why certain algorithms feel almost poetic. I love how you get this tiny crease between your eyebrows when you’re thinking really hard, and how you always push your glasses up even when you’re not wearing them anymore. I love that you remember the little things I say once—like that I hate the sound of styrofoam, or that I used to be scared of thunderstorms when I was a kid, and you never make fun of them. You just… hold space for them. For me.”

Your voice trembles harder now. You don’t care.

“I love how gentle you are. Not weak, gentle. The way you touch things like they matter. My hand, a book page, that stupid succulent on your windowsill you keep alive even though you swear you have a black thumb. I love how you blush when I kiss your neck, like it still surprises you that someone wants to. I love how you laugh—quiet at first, then louder when you can’t hold it back anymore. I love waking up and seeing your hair sticking up in every direction and thinking, god, I get to see this. I get to see you like this.”

You’re crying now. Ugly crying.

“I regret it so much. Not just the bet, not just the video. I regret every second I treated you like you were anything less than the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I regret laughing when I should have been listening. I regret letting my friends turn you into a punchline instead of protecting you like I should have from the start. I regret not telling you the truth the moment I realized I was falling for you, because I was scared you’d see the real me and run. And I hate that I proved you right to be scared.”

You wipe at your face with your sleeve, smearing mascara.

“I’ve been trying to be better. I cut them off. All of them. I’m learning the material on my own because I want to deserve the patience you gave me. I watched that show you love, and I text myself the parts I know you’d point out, just so I can pretend we’re still sharing it. I reread our old messages at night until my eyes burn because it’s the only way I can still hear your voice being kind to me.”

You look up at him, raw and pleading.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me tonight. Or ever. I just needed you to know that none of it was fake after those first weeks. The way I looked at you, the way I held you, the way I said your name when we were alone... that was real. That was me loving you so hard it scared me. And I’m so, so sorry I broke the one person who ever made me feel like I was worth loving back.”

Silence stretches between you.

Armin’s breathing is uneven. His eyes are shining, wet at the corners. He blinks fast, like he’s trying to keep the tears from falling, but one escapes anyway, tracking down his cheek. He doesn’t wipe it away.

He looks small. Smaller than you’ve ever seen him.

“I don’t know what to say,” he whispers finally.

You nod, swallowing the sob in your throat.

“You don’t have to say anything. I just… I had to tell you. One last time. Without excuses. Without asking for anything.”

You take one step back.

“I’ll go,” you say quietly. “I won’t come back unless you want me to. I promise.”

You turn to leave.

“Wait.”

His voice is so soft you almost miss it.

You stop. Don’t turn around yet, afraid hope will shatter you if you look too soon.

Armin’s hand appears in your peripheral vision, trembling as he reaches for the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

“I still don’t know if I can trust this,” he continues. “I still see that video sometimes when I close my eyes. But… hearing you say all that… it’s the first time since everything happened that I didn’t feel like I was the only one hurting.”

He takes a shaky breath.

“I don’t know what happens next. I don’t know if I can… if we can. But I’m not telling you to leave. Not tonight.”

You turn slowly.

His eyes are red-rimmed, cheeks streaked, but he’s looking at you for the first time in weeks.

“Just… come inside,” he says. “For a minute. Sit with me. Please.”

You nod, tears falling faster now.

“Okay.”

He steps aside.

You walk in.

The door closes softly behind you.

You're scared to touch him. You linger by the door while he tries to make his room not look like a mess. Then he turns, seeing you fidgeting with the hem of your shirt and something melts inside of him. He come up to you, just looking down at you for a second before pulling you into his chest, one of his arms around your waist, the other cradling the back of your neck.

You just sob between his arms. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I promise I'll be better. I want to be. I want to be the best for you, Armin. I love you."

He cries silently too. Not really knowing what to say.

"I love you too."

You look up to him instantly. Face red and puffy, blinking fast and not believe that he just said that.

"You do?"

"Of course I do," he says, softer than ever. "I'm sorry I didn't listen to you. And I'm sorry I pushed you away. I shouldn't have."

Your hands come up instinctively, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his hoodie like you're afraid he'll vanish if you don't hold on. He doesn't pull away. Instead his arm around your waist tightens, pulling your body flush against his until there's no room left for doubt or distance.

You bury your face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in. Your tears soak into his collar but he doesn't seem to mind. His own fall quietly into your hair.

For a long minute you just stand there, swaying slightly like you're slow-dancing to music only the two of you can hear. No words. Just the sound of uneven breathing slowly syncing up, heartbeat against heartbeat, the quiet drip of tears hitting fabric.

Eventually he speaks, voice rough and low against your ear.

"I was so scared you'd only ever see me as... that awkward kid from the video. The easy target." His fingers thread gently through your hair, cradling the back of your skull. "Every time I looked at you these past weeks I kept waiting for the moment you'd laugh again. Or get bored. Or realize I wasn't worth keeping."

You shake your head against his throat, hard enough that your nose brushes his pulse point.

"Never," you choke out. "Not once. Not even when you were ignoring me. I just... missed you. Missed this. Missed the way you look at me."

He exhales shakily, lips brushing your temple.

"I missed you too," he admits, so quiet it's almost lost in the sound of your breathing. "Even when I hated that I did."

You pull back just enough to look at him. His cheeks are flushed, lashes clumped with tears, lips parted like he's still trying to catch his breath from saying the words out loud.

Tentatively, you lift one hand to his face. Your thumb traces the wet track down his cheek, then slides to the corner of his mouth. He doesn't flinch. If anything, he leans into the touch like it's the first gentle thing he's felt in weeks.

“I don’t know if it’s the best moment to say this, but your eyes get pretty when you cry,” you whisper, biting your lip. He just smiles, huffing a laugh. Your eyes flicker to his lips instantly. Rosy, slightly chapped from biting them. "Can I...?"

He doesn't answer with words. Instead he closes the last inch between you, pressing his mouth to yours so softly it's barely a kiss at first. Just a question, a trembling reconnection.

You answer by kissing him back the same way: careful, reverent, like you're both remembering how this is supposed to feel.

His hand slides from your neck to cup your jaw, tilting your head so the angle deepens just a fraction. It's still slow, still fragile, but the hesitation starts to melt. Your fingers slide into his hair, tugging gently the way you know makes him sigh against your mouth.

He does.

A small sound escapes him and then he's kissing you like he's starving for it. Like he's been holding his breath for three weeks and you're finally oxygen.

You match him, desperate and tender all at once. Hands roaming his back, clutching at his hoodie, sliding under to find warm skin. His fingers dig into your waist, then slip beneath the hem of your shirt, palms flat against the small of your back like he's anchoring himself.

He pulls both of you to the bed, tongues curling into each other, remembering the taste you missed much. He sits on the bed as you get half on his lap. When you finally break apart it's only because you both need air. 

"I don't want to rush this," he whispers, voice wrecked. "I want to do it right this time. No secrets."

You nod quickly.

"No secrets," you promise.

He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then the salty skin beneath your eye.

Armin exhales through his nose, a shaky little sound, and then he’s kissing you again,  hungrier now. His lips catch yours at a new angle like he’s trying to pour every unsaid thing from the last three weeks into your mouth. You open for him immediately, tongue brushing his in a needy slide that makes you both whimper at the same time.

It’s messy almost instantly.

Teeth click once, then twice. You taste salt (yours, his, shared tears) and it only makes you kiss him harder. Your fingers twist in the front of his hoodie, yanking him closer until your chests are crushed together. He groans low in his throat when you suck on his bottom lip, tugging it gently between your teeth before soothing it with your tongue. His hands roam restlessly under your shirt now, palms dragging up your spine, then down again to grip your hips like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

You climb fully into his lap without breaking the kiss, knees bracketing his thighs. The new position presses your heat right against the growing hardness in his sweats and you both freeze for half a second—then moan into each other’s mouths at the same instant.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your lips. “I missed this so much.”

“Me too,” you gasp, rolling your hips once. He jerks beneath you, fingers digging into the soft flesh above your waistband. “Missed you. Missed touching you.”

He answers by kissing you filthier: open-mouthed, sloppy, tongues sliding together with wet sounds that should embarrass you but only make you hotter. You can feel yourself getting slick already, aching, and when you grind down again he chokes on a sound and bucks up instinctively.

You both laugh because it’s ridiculous how desperate you are after only three weeks apart, but the laughter dies fast when his mouth moves to your jaw, then your throat. He sucks a bruise there, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to mark, and you tip your head back with a broken moan.

“Armin—”

He pulls back just enough to look at you. Pupils blown, lips swollen and shiny. “May I…?” His hands slide to the hem of your shirt, waiting.

You nod frantically, lifting your arms. “Yes.”

He peels the fabric off slowly. When your bra is revealed his breath catches. His thumbs brush the lace edges, then higher, circling your nipples through the fabric until they pebble under his touch. You arch into it, whimpering.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “You’re so beautiful.”

Then his mouth is on you, kissing down your sternum, between your breasts, nosing at the cup of your bra before taking it off. The first wet heat of his tongue on your nipple makes you cry out, fingers knotting in his hair. He licks slow circles, then sucks, hollowing his cheeks, and you feel the pull straight between your legs.

“Armin, please—”

He switches to the other side, giving it the same attention while his hand slips between you, cupping you over your jeans. The heel of his palm presses right where you need it and you grind down shamelessly, chasing friction.

“Lie back,” he whispers. “Let me take care of you.”

You let him guide you down onto the mattress. He follows, settling between your thighs, kissing every inch of skin he uncovers as he works your jeans and underwear off together. When you’re bare beneath him he just… looks. Eyes tracing every curve, every dip, like he’s re-memorizing you.

Then he lowers himself, shoulders spreading your thighs wider, and presses the softest kiss to your clit.

You sob his name.

He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t make you beg. He just opens his mouth and licks a long, flat stripe from your entrance to your clit, then seals his lips around the sensitive bud and sucks gently.

Your back bows off the bed.

He groans against you like you taste better than anything he’s ever had, the vibration sending sparks up your spine. His tongue works in slow, deliberate circles, then flicks faster, then dips lower to push inside you. You’re dripping, slick coating his chin, and he drinks it like he’s starved. One of his hands finds yours, lacing your fingers together and squeezing tight while the other hooks under your thigh, holding you open.

You come embarrassingly fast—shuddering, crying out, thighs clamping around his ears. He doesn’t stop. Keeps licking you through it, soft and slow now, bringing you down gently until you’re trembling and tugging weakly at his hair.

“God, Armin. Need you inside—”

He kisses your inner thigh once, twice, then crawls back up your body. His sweats are tented obscenely, a dark spot at the front where he’s leaking. You reach for him immediately, shoving the waistband down. His cock springs free (flushed, long, with one thin vein and trimmed blond hair) and you wrap your hand around him, stroking twice.

He drops his forehead to your shoulder with a broken moan. “Shit wait, condom.”

“Drawer, right?” you breathe. “Same place.”

He leans over, fumbles the foil packet open with shaking hands, rolls it on. Then he’s back between your thighs, notching himself at your entrance. He looks down at where you’re joined, then back up at your face, like he needs permission one more time.

You cup his cheek. “I love you.”

His eyes flutter closed. “I love you too.”

Then he pushes in slow, carefully, stretching you inch by inch until he’s buried to the hilt. You both go still, breathing hard against each other’s mouths.

He feels perfect. Like coming home.

You wrap your legs around his waist. “M-move.”

He does—slow rolls at first, dragging out, then back in, letting you feel every ridge, every vein. You cling to him, nails digging into his shoulders, whispering his name like a prayer. He kisses you through it. Deep, filthy kisses that match the rhythm of his hips.

It builds fast.

His thrusts get harder, deeper, the bed creaking under you. One hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight circles that make your toes curl.

“Armin… gonna—fuuuck fuckfuckfuck”

“Come for me,” he pants against your mouth. “Please, want to feel you ah!—”

You shatter around him with a broken cry, pulsing, clenching, dragging him down with you. He fucks you through it, chasing his own release until he buries himself deep and comes with a wrecked groan, hips stuttering, face pressed to your neck.

You hold each other after.

Sweaty. Shaking. Breathing like you’ve run miles.

He doesn’t pull out right away. Just stays inside you, softening slowly, kissing your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

“Hah. I forgot how hard you clench when you cum,” Armin muttered with his breath ragged. 

He slides out of you, making you feel empty. But he keeps you close, resting on your side and pulling you into his chest. He kisses the top of your head, his lips lingering

"I've been sleeping like shit without you."

"Me too," you admit, almost shy. "The bed feels too big."

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes and grabs your chin to kiss you again. You don't say anything when Armin gets up from the bed, taking your underwear from the ground and helping you dress up. He doesn't ask when he pulls your favorite shirt of his out of his drawer and he puts it to you.

"I'm... I still don't trust you at all," he says slowly.

"I know. I know, it's okay." You nod, letting him guide you back into his chest.

"But we can try again. I want to try again."

Reiner

Eren

Levi

Armin

Connie

Jean