Don't read this. Just don't. It's horrible, I wrote it when I was depressed, and I have no idea why I'm even putting it on here. I seriously doubt I should, can, or will ever add to it. So this is me, apologizing in advance, to Hajime Isayama, to whoever is depraved enough to read this, and especially to Armin, who is a wonderful ray of sunshine even when he's psychologically torturing people and seriously does not ever deserve to be treated this horribly. So, if you're still determined to read this shit, know that I told you not to, just as I told myself not to even fucking write it. Oh, and disclaimer: I own nothing.
Armin Arlert wished for death.
He knew it was a selfish thing to long for, after so many had died, and so many for him, but he couldn't help it. He thought he had known, after everything he had been through, just how horrible this world could be. He thought he could defeat the evil, outlive it long enough to see the beauty, the good. To see the oceans, the deserts, the forests- to share them with the one he was closest to on this cruel planet.
Now… Now, he just longed for an end.
For his tormentor to kill him, or else to take his own blades and slice open his own pale skin. For his blood to run one last time, but by his own will. To draw sharpened metal too deeply through his slim wrists, to drive the blade through his stomach-or, better yet, through his heart. To take the only modicum of control left to him and take the one small victory he could over his captor.
But, then, what of Eren? What of the others? Would the pain end with him, or would the monster simply move onto another unsuspecting victim? He wished he could bring slow and horrible death upon his torturer as well, but he knew he was too weak. He was trapped.
And this hell had taken all his strength.
Death would be preferable to this hell.
Hell...
The Commander, huffing hot breaths into his ear.
Hell.
The Commander, fingers twisted in Armin's golden hair, pulling his head back so he could lick the tears of anguish spilling from eyes screwed shut by pain and fear and sorrow.
Hell.
The Commander's desk, cool and hard as he was slammed into it again and again.
Hell.
The Commander's harsh grip, groping him, hitting him, forcing his legs apart and his face to the desk when the Commander was tired of hearing him sob and plead.
Hell.
The Commander's body against his own, the way the uniform's fabric rubbed against his bare skin, his own clothes ripped and cast to the floor.
Hell.
The Commander's voice, laughing harshly, promising to make him watch Eren die if he didn't keep his mouth shut, if he didn't comply.
Hell.
The burning, searing pain between his legs that worsened with the Commander's every rough movement. The smell of blood and sweat and agony.
Hell.
Commander.
Hell.
Torture.
Hell.
Screams.
Hell.
Blood.
Hell.
Darkness.