"𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘥𝘰 𝘸𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘮𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘢𝘮?"
❛... A certain time we dwell upon as our bodies swirl as one, hearts bind and sever our purity of the outside world. our bodies misty, the air rough and blissfully clammy, yet neither of us...
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unprotected sex, toxic unestablished relationship, unestablished issues, mentions of emotional harm, releasing inside of the reader + potential more.
summary: armin and the reader's intimate relationship is on the mere brink of collapsing. the only mutual thing that binds them together is the reader's needy desires for uncalled for intimacy. armin does not know how to express his feelings through words, so he expresses it through intimacy, though it binds him to the reader. even though the urge to be with her is itching at arminʼs mind, and simple words could resolve it, transparency and armin aren't on the same page of the book.
So what was it that merely drove the young adult into a rough trance?
Armin's soft nails dug into your hips. His fingers slid up to grasp ahold of the flesh as he rutted into you. So roughly, yet so abnormally calculated with sharp precision. His cherry-stained lip slid beneath his pearly white row of teeth as his large dick remained buried inside of your cunt.
His breathing was far from familiar with his naturally gifted pattern. It was pliable, far from metal, yet strong and steady with an ounce of arch. It was limber, so nimble, his breath got caught within his throat as he pounded into you so roughly, his cerulean eyes sealed upon your lustrous frame.
He pounded into you so good, moans slipping from his lips, stuffed with volume as he moaned into the dormant air. Far from active as your vulgar moans slipped from your lips, tears pricking within your eyes while he fucked into you with such fragility, yet with such callousness.
His cerulean eyes remained sewn upon your exposed frame, which laid in front of his sight. He desperately filled you with his large dick, obligating for you to take in each and every inch his girthy dick had provided.
He made you accustomed to his dick ― so, hungrily sick on it. He had altered with your body, fitting himself inside of you. Fucking you so, so, good, you were out of words, body craving for more of the searing stretch that overtook your frame. The rocking of his hips as his sculpted thighs met roughly against your soft ass, melting you so pathetically.
Your tender ass raised within the partially-warm, wavering air. Your bareback arched as if a bridge in which people go to make amends, disregarding of an item in the water to gloomily drift away as the host of the item, they cared for the most, watched.
Armin always had you around at two am in the morning, his dick buried deep within you. The slick of his sweat and yours, swirling purposely with one as skin slapping was all that engulfed the vulgar atmosphere and aroma that laced the room. Not a single issue of the both of you had been resolved; the frame and image of the two of you remained rather impaired.
A scrape in the photo there was. Where a void was engraved in it without care. But intimacy was what made the two of you cling on in forlorn hope, leaving the photo to fight for its spot. Hope that scarred both of your tarnished egos, riling up tattooed guilt within your minds.
The guilt was permanent, and now you knew why he was balls deep inside of you, moans moulding into one. Rather because the love he held had expanded so sharply, yet the intimacy was what was beading the relationship together, by a partially severed string.
Both of your corrupt issues were as why you were both providing prohibited intimacy, craving one another — your issues were far from arising to ease the lack of trust. So until sacred words left from either two of your lips, the ongoing loop of heartache, neediness, sexual humiliation, the paranoia of getting caught, would no longer decay as the magic words deeply needed hadn't severed your sweetly toxic bind:
"What's the issue?"
That was where it should have started, on a worrying, sharp note. Not a dire point where his thick, smooth spurts of cum were now seeping out of your fluttering walls. His broad shoulders flexing beautifully atop of you as he swiftly pulled out of you. His damp lips perched, as not a single abbreviation had formed. No sorry, no sympathetic kiss, nothing. Only his natural substances he'd gifted to you on multiple occasions, nothing else, no worry.
Armin Arlert wasn't capable of displaying worry, nor was he very talented when it came to saying a sincere sorry.
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