𝐄𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐬 𝐎𝐟 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 | 𝙴𝙹𝙰♡︎

Chapter 3: Intricate Desire

"Hah... you're so useless, aren't you, baby?" his hand caresses the soft, pale skin almost mockingly. "Who knew you could be so easy to restrain?"

Armin thrashes his limbs, eyes bold and wide as he surveys the predator to his prey. A smug smile pressed over maliciously greedy features.

"Yes, try..." the grin only widens. "Try to escape me."

He goes to move, attempting to shuffle out of his incriminating situation, to speak out in dismay, yet he's kept in place by the harrowing bondage forced over every inch of skin. Armin can't feel the sensation of the rope against him though he knows it's there, can't identify how the gag in his lips tastes, its texture or its size, but the awareness is all the same. He has senses and no senses at the same time, connected to his spatial awareness and disconnected all the same. It's lucid.

Though it doesn't feel as though there's anything gagging him, the voice he pleads with comes out barely comprehensible, "Er-nnn puh-eaas."

"Keep your mouth closed," the man answers. "Or I'll really shut you up."

***

Armin's eyes drift open, surveying the interior of his boring, mundane bedroom late at night. His heartbeat slows.

Another dream.

There's nothing quite as tortuous as having his intricate desires played out in full, as if his subconscious is mocking him. Laughing at him. It's a dehumanizing torment to force the mind into scenes they want to be real so badly, yet aren't. While he recognises this is an evil kind of edging, the blonde groans not because it existed but because it had to end. At a certain point, he had accepted that these dreams were the closest to the real thing he'd ever be able to get.

Turning onto his side, Armin tries to resume sleep, attempting to return to that addictive dream space. The place where complex rules of social norms are no longer important.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

The sound of the analog clock in his bedroom suddenly becomes all he can focus on. For tens of minutes he tries to drown it out, yet it wins the fight. It always wins the fight.

Armin's eyes roll back open as he ponders his options. These options aren't exactly various, most are just suggesting he stay in bed or start breakfast early. The clock reads 4:12am, so it's definitely not time for a meal. Though, there's no use waiting for Sandman's slumber while completely, wide awake. After five minutes or so, he glumly moves out from the blankets and heads past the bedroom door, phone in hand during.

Allowing himself a tempting check of his socials, Armin sits on his sofa and opens up his device. The immediate icon pressed is Instagram. His eyes survey the cool dark-mode icons with profile pictures popping up to show new stories on display. Nothing drags his attention more though, than the new notification on the right of his screen.

Jeans.fucker.butter started following you. 3h

It makes his heart skip an unworthy beat as those words are surveyed by the mind. Was he thinking of him late at night? Looking through his account? And all the photos of Eren? The thoughts have his chest burning in a painful sensation. That reaction doesn't make sense, none of these emotions make any sense, but he simply can't help them.

Within several minutes, Armin explores the account just as he expected Jean to have done, reaching through his posts and friends list, those who comment on every little photo and the images charting back to high school. Before the mullet. Before the stubble. He used to post a lot of selfies with another boy back then, a freckly guy with dark hair and a lovely grin. Boy, did they look young.