#edibles

When you get to Armin's dorm, you can tell he's high.

"Eren again?" you ask, humming in fascination as you watch his pretty red eyes follow you around the room.

He pushes up his glasses and nods. "He likes when I smoke with him."

"I'm sure he does." You pause, turning to look at Armin. You're busily folding his already—folded clothes, nervous under his pale stare. "Do you like it?"

He grins, leaning back into his pillow. His shirt rides up a little bit, revealing his toned stomach, and he stretches. "It makes me feel good. Like, I don't care that I haven't done my Calculus yet. I'd much rather"—at this he pauses and blushes—"have you here on my lap."

You turn to meet his gaze, running your tongue over your teeth. "Yeah? Well who am I to deny a man of his Earthly desires?" You move across the room to him, sliding onto his lap in one fluid motion.

He grins eerily-Eren-like and presses a long kiss to your neck. "Missed you. Was thinking about you all during class. Couldn't concentrate."

You thread your fingers through his hair, playing with it as he mumbles. "Yeah?"

"Mhm." He pulls back to look at you. You pause, head tilting to the side. He looks so pretty right now, eyes all red and lidded, lips parted. The side of his chin catches in the light, and you pause. "Armin? You're drooling, baby."

He closes his mouth. "Am I?"

"Mhmmm." You swipe your thumb slowly up the string of saliva, collecting it on the pad of your finger before laying it on your tongue. "Tastes like you."

Armin blinks up at you. He scrambles to push you off, tugging you down into the sheets with him. "Want s'more?" He doesn't wait before he presses down onto you, grinding gently against your thigh. His lips meet yours, his tongue entering your mouth quickly. The kiss is messy and had it been anyone else, you might have pulled away and gagged. But this is Armin.

When he finally lifts his head, a small string of saliva is connecting your lips. You break into a little giggle, and he buries his head in the crook of your neck. "Don't laugh at me."

"'M not laughing. You're just cute."

He huffs quietly against your skin, his arms tightening around you like he doesn’t want to let go. You can feel the warmth of him, the slight unsteadiness in the way he holds you, like he’s floating somewhere just above reality.

You smooth a hand through his hair again, slower this time. “You’re clingy when you’re like this.”

“Only with you,” he murmurs, voice muffled. “Everyone else is . . . too loud. You’re not.”

Your chest softens at that. “Yeah? I’m your calm?”

He nods against you, then tilts his head up just enough to look at your face again. His eyes are still hazy, but there’s something more grounded in them now—something real beneath the fog.

“Stay a little?” he asks.

You pretend to think about it, even though you’re already settling more comfortably against him. “I guess I could. Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t forget about that Calculus.”

He groans, dropping his head back dramatically. “Don’t ruin it.”

You laugh softly, poking his side. “C’mon. I’ll sit with you while you try at least.”

He peeks at you through half-lidded eyes, then sighs like it’s the biggest burden in the world. “Fine. But you’re not allowed to leave.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” you admit.

For a moment, neither of you moves. The room is dim, curtains half-drawn, late afternoon light stretching in thin golden lines across the floor and up the side of his bed. You can hear faint noise from the hallway—someone laughing, a door slamming—but it all feels far away, like it belongs to another world.

Armin shifts under you, adjusting until you’re both more comfortable, one of his hands absentmindedly tracing slow patterns along your arm. It’s not rushed, not needy—just… there. Like he’s grounding himself.

“You smell nice,” he murmurs.

You raise a brow. “That’s random.”

“M’serious,” he insists softly, nuzzling closer for emphasis. “Like . . . clean. And warm.”

You let out a quiet laugh, resting your chin lightly against the top of his head. “You’re fried, Armin.”

“Not that fried,” he says, though the way he drags the words out proves otherwise. After a second, he adds, more quietly, “Just . . . everything feels slower. Easier.”

Your fingers keep moving through his hair, combing gently, untangling strands that don’t need untangling. “Easier sounds nice.”

“It is.” He tilts his head just enough to look up at you again. “You should try it sometime.”

“Maybe,” you say, though your tone makes it clear you’re not convinced. “I think I like you like this more.”

His lips twitch into a small, lazy smile. “Yeah?”

“Mhm. You’re . . . softer.” You tap his cheek lightly. “Less in your head. Not that I mind when you're in your head. You just seem a little more peaceful. It's nice to see you so relaxed.”

He goes quiet at that, his gaze drifting for a moment like he’s actually thinking about it. Then he exhales, long and slow, and pulls you just a little closer again.

“I think too much,” he admits. “All the time. Even when I don’t want to.”

“I know,” you say gently.

There’s no teasing in your voice now, just something steady. Familiar.

He studies your face, like he’s trying to memorize it. “You make it quieter.”

Your breath catches a little, but you play it off, nudging him lightly. “Don’t get all sentimental on me.”

“I’m serious,” he mumbles, though he lets out a soft huff of amusement. “Like . . . when you’re here, it’s just you. Not everything else.”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you shift slightly, easing off his lap just enough to reach over to the small desk nearby. A notebook sits there, half-open, along with a pen he clearly hasn’t touched in hours.

You grab it and bring it back with you, settling against his side this time instead of on top of him.

“C’mon,” you say, nudging the notebook into his chest. “You promised.”

He groans immediately, dragging a hand over his face. “You’re evil.”

“Mm, maybe. But I’m right.” You tap the page. “Just one problem. That’s it.”

He squints at the notebook like it personally offended him, then looks at you again, clearly debating whether he can get away with ignoring it. When you just stare back, unimpressed, he sighs.

“Fine,” he mutters.

It takes him a second to sit up properly. He leans back against the headboard, pulling you with him so you’re tucked into his side, your shoulder pressed against his chest. His arm drapes loosely around you, still absentminded, still warm.

He clicks the pen open.

For a while, it’s quiet again—but a different kind of quiet now. The kind filled with small sounds: the scratch of pen on paper, his occasional muttering under his breath, the soft shift of fabric when either of you moves.

Every now and then, he pauses, staring at the problem like it might rearrange itself if he waits long enough.

“Okay,” he says slowly at one point, “if I just—no, that’s not right.”

You glance over. “Let me see.”

He tilts the notebook toward you, and you lean in, your shoulder brushing his more fully. You point at a line he wrote. “You skipped a step.”

“I didn’t skip—” He stops, squints, then groans. “I skipped a step.”

“Told you.”

“Don’t get smug about it,” he mumbles, though there’s no bite to it.

You smile anyway.

Another stretch of time passes like that—quiet, easy, shared. He actually finishes the problem, eventually, and when he does, he drops the pen dramatically onto the page.

“Done,” he declares, like he just climbed a mountain.

You give him a small clap. “Proud of you.”

“Barely survived,” he replies, though he’s smiling.

He lets the notebook slide off to the side, forgotten again, and turns his attention fully back to you. There’s that same soft look in his eyes, a little clearer now, but still warm, still heavy-lidded.

“Stay longer?” he asks again, quieter this time.

You don’t pretend to think about it now.

“Yeah,” you say.

He relaxes almost immediately at the answer, like something in him unclenches. His head tilts until it rests lightly against yours, his fingers finding your hand and threading through it without much thought.

Outside, the light shifts slowly toward evening, the gold fading into something softer, dimmer.

Inside, everything stays still.