#fratboychronicles

Which made standing here—outside Professor Hargrove's office, heart hammering against your ribs, waiting to beg for a grade mercy was anything but perfect.

The hallway was quieter than usual, a few students passing by, but none paying you any real attention. The last thing you needed was someone asking you what you were doing.

Your posture straightened once the door opened. The professor, who was in his mid 50's, who always had a look of boredom on his face, glanced at you over his reading glasses before gesturing for you to come in.

"Thank you for seeing me, Professor."

He didn't return the smile.

It would have been easier if he were a bit younger and attractive at that. Yes, it would have been unethical, but it wouldn't be the first time you slept with a teacher or TA to help with your grades.

You sat, crossing your legs carefully so the skirt didn't ride up too far. "I wanted to talk about my last exam. The grade—"

"Was failing," he finished flatly, sliding a printed sheet across the desk. Red ink everywhere. A big, circled 58 at the top.

Your stomach dropped, but your face stayed composed. "I know. And I'm willing to do extra credit, rewrite sections, anything. My presidency—"

"I'm aware of your extracurriculars. They're impressive. But this course isn't a popularity contest. You need to pass, or the dean will hear about academic probation. Which means—"

"Suspension of leadership positions," you finished quietly. The words tasted like ash.

Your chest tightened at the thought—your title, your influence, everything you’d built slipping out of your hands over something as stupid as one class.

No.

Absolutely not.

“Professor,” you tried again, leaning forward slightly, voice softer now, more urgent. “I’m willing to retake the test. I just… I can’t let this be it.”

For a moment, he just looked at you.

Long enough to make the silence uncomfortable.

Then he pinched the bridge of his nose with a quiet sigh, like you were exhausting him, and leaned over to his drawer. Your brows drew together as he flipped through his papers before pulling one out and handing it to you.

"This is Armin Arlert, 4.0, current TA and tutors other students for extra credit. He won't mind one more, but don't take this as leniency, he won't tolerate slacking."

A small photo was clipped to the left-hand corner, a professional headshot, probably from his TA application. Blond hair slightly tousled, like he'd run his fingers through it one too many times during a late-night study session. Wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, slipping just a fraction, giving him that unintentionally endearing, slightly dishevelled look. He wore a soft grey sweater that looked cashmere-soft, the collar of a button-up peeking underneath. The kind of face that blended into the background until you really looked.

You couldn't remember seeing him much around campus. Maybe once or twice in the library, tucked in the far back corner with headphones on, highlighter cap between his teeth, completely oblivious to the world. Your circles had never overlapped—loud parties and Greek Row glamour on one side, quiet study carrels and all-nighters on the other.

"So he's going to tutor me?"

Hargrove cleared his throat. "I've already emailed him about you. This is your last chance, y/n."

You folded the paper carefully, tucking it into your bag. "Thank you, Professor."

He waved you off, already turning back to his computer screen.

You stood, smoothing your denim mini skirt one last time—though the autumn chill had made the short hem feel riskier than usual—and walked out with your head high, heels clicking down the empty hallway.

Outside, the late-afternoon sun slanted golden across the quad, warming your deep brown skin despite the bite in the air. Gold hoops caught the light as you tilted your head, replaying the photo in your mind.

A slow smile curved your glossy lips.

He might not tolerate slacking. Fine.

But that didn't mean he couldn't be... persuaded.

Nerds were nerds after all.

You squinted your eyes at the girl in front of you as she tried to give you a half-ass reason as to why she wasn't wearing her sorority colours. Her pastel pink crop top and ripped jeans were cute, but they were not the required hot-pink-and-white uniform you'd drilled into everyone's head for weeks. The annual fundraiser was in full swing behind you: carnival lights strung across the quad, the sharp crack of the dunk tank bell ringing every few seconds, laughter and squeals mixing with the bass thump of your curated playlist.

You’d outdone yourself again this year—every detail perfect, every game profitable, every dollar headed straight to the women’s shelter downtown.

“Chloe,” you said, voice low and sweet in that dangerous way that made pledges freeze, “you had one job. Pink top, white shorts."

“I—well, I thought since it wasn’t that hot out, maybe—”

“Maybe what?” you cut in, voice smooth but edged just enough to make her shrink. “Maybe the rules don’t apply to you?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again.

You exhaled slowly through your nose, tilting your head as you looked her over.

"Go fix it. Now.” You cut in smoothly, stepping closer so she had to tilt her head up to meet your eyes. Your own outfit was flawless: fitted hot-pink tank that hugged every curve, high-waisted white shorts that made your legs look criminal. Your locs in a firm bun ontop of your head with pink butterfly clips, heels swapped for white sneakers only because you’d be running around all day.

Chloe swallowed. “Of course, I'm sorry, prez.”

“Good girl.” You flashed a smile—bright, approving, but edged with warning—then turned on your heel, already scanning the crowd for the next fire to put out.

The fundraiser was hitting its peak: lines at every booth, frat boys yelling bets on who’d get dunked next, girls shrieking as water balloons exploded overhead.

You walked over to the familiar faces you loved seeing every day, two of your sorority sisters were posted up near the cotton-candy stand, giggling over something on a phone screen. Historia—tiny, golden-blonde, and always looking like a doll, wore a pink bandeau top that showed off her toned midriff, paired with micro white shorts. Sasha, tall and curvy with her messy ponytail, rocked a fitted pink tee that hugged her chest perfectly, the hem tucked into high-waisted white shorts.

“And pray tell, what are you two over here doing?” you asked, voice laced with playful suspicion as you stopped in front of them.

Historia squealed the second she saw you, her phone slipping right out of her manicured fingers and tumbling into the grass. You couldn’t help the soft giggle that escaped you.

“Oh my god, you scared me!” she laughed, bending to snatch her phone back up, cheeks already pink. "We were just checking on the TikTok highlights. People love the dunk tank and the wet T-shirt contest."

"Of course they do, boys are easy to please."

"Prez, I think if we wanna beat last year's mark, you should participate in getting wet." Sasha had stuffed half a corn dog in her mouth, her words mumbled.

You arched a perfectly groomed brow, arms crossing under your chest. “Excuse me?”

Sasha shrugged, completely unbothered as she licked mustard off her thumb. “I’m just saying. You, getting absolutely soaked while the guys line up to throw balls at the target? You can't tell me that's not every guy's wet dream."

You blinked at the girl; you hadn't gotten 'dirty' since you started running for president. It's what got your numbers up, but now the other girls did most of the work.

You were gonna shoot Sasha down, but something—someone caught your eye.

You almost didn’t notice him.

Armin Arlert stood as he watched Eren and Connie try to dunk another sorority sister into the tank. The blonde looked exactly how he did in that file, his hair framed his face, but his glasses seemed to hide most of his freckles. He looked weird standing next to the two frat boys. It was weird that they were friends—that they even ran in the same circle.

Your head tilted slightly as you watched him, he looked bloody helpless. This was the guy your professor said takes no nonsense? A smirk reached your lips as you thought back to what Sasha said.

"Fine."

Historia squealed as she rushed over to the dunk tank as you followed behind her. You had gotten a lot of things in life and all you needed to do was to pass this test to keep your pesidency, boys were easy, and nerds are far more easier.

"Hey Ren, Connie."

"Ah, the president has graced us with her presence." You rolled your eyes at the brunette, trying to ignore the way his eyes raked down your body.

You looked over at Armin, who had already been looking at you, shooting him a smile.

"Hey, I haven't seen you around before."

Armin blinked as he looked at you, the blonde didn't expect you to talk to him. He didn't even think you would look his way, especially knowing that you were almost failing one of your classes and he was supposed to tutor you.

"I-uh yeah, I--"

"This is Armin,” Connie cut in, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Friend of ours. Way too buried in his books, so we dragged him out for some actual fun.”

"Well, Armin, I'm about to get up there, how about you try and dunk me. Does that sound like fun?"

Armin’s mouth opened, then closed. His blue eyes widened behind the glasses as they flicked down to your body for half a second, before snapping back up to your face.

You walked towards the dunk talk, a little sway in your movements as you climbed up to the seat. The white shorts rode higher on your thighs as you sat down on the seat, legs crossed slowly, letting him get a good, long look at the smooth curve of your calves and the way the denim hugged your ass.

Armin had taken the ball from Eren as he looked over at you. A crowd began to gather, but he was focused on you. Your smirk deepened, thinking of how you'd have him wrapped around your finger very soon.

But you could have swore you saw a little glint in the blondes eyes as he drew back his arm and threw the ball, dead centre.

The seat dropped out from under you, cold water crashed over your body in a sudden, shocking wave.

You gasped sharply as the icy rush soaked you head to toe—your hot-pink tank turning dark and clinging obscenely, nipples tightening instantly against the wet fabric. The white shorts darkened and moulded to every curve of your hips and ass like a second skin.

The crowd erupted in cheers and whistles.

Your locs had come down from its bun, long strands rolling down your back as they became heavy with water. Your hands pushing the wet strands out of your face as you stepped out of the tank, your nipples perking against the fabric of your top as water droplets ran down the rest of your body.

The cold clung to your body as you ran a towel through your hair, your eyes glancing over to Armin who hadn't taken his eyes off you.

You, of course, always got what you wanted. You knew damn well that you would from him soon enough.

Your brows furrowed as you looked at the closed door in front of you. You were currently in the library, a quiet room had been booked for you and Armin for your tutoring session.

It had been two days since the carnival, and Armin had reached out to you about your tutoring. You remembered you were confused at the number the other day, thinking someone was stalking you.

Hey, uh, hey.

I booked a quiet room for tomorrow at 6PM

Oh, sorry, it's Armin, btw.

Now here you were, standing in the library, even though you would much rather be somewhere else.

Your matching Juicy Couture tracksuit hugged your body perfectly, soft fabric sitting just right against your skin.

You sighed as you opened the door, half expecting to see it empty as it was still quite early. But to your surprise, Armin was sat at the desk, his notes spread across the table, his hair was pushed back out of his face, he was wearing a sweater vest and probably some jeans, you couldn't really tell.

Armin’s eyes widened for a split second before he quickly looked back down at his notes, adjusting his glasses with slightly trembling fingers.

“You’re early,” he said quietly, his voice just a little rougher than usual. “I booked the room for six, but… I wanted to get everything set up.”

You stepped fully into the room, the door clicking shut behind you as you made your way to the other side of the table.

“Well,” you said, crossing your legs as you leaned back slightly, “I’m quite punctual. And the quicker we do this, the quicker I pass, right?”

Armin blinked, looking up at you properly this time.

“Erm…” he hesitated, glancing briefly at the stack of notes in front of him. “It’s a lot of material, so it might take a while.”

Your lips pressed together for a second before you exhaled softly, tilting your head.

“A while as in…?”

“A while as in you’ve missed more than you think,” he said, more certain now, though his tone stayed calm. “We’ll have to go back further than just the last exam.”

You stared at him.

“…You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

Of course, he wasn’t.

"So it looks like you had a problem with the society section, brought down your score by a lot--"

"Wait, what?"

Armin looked back up from the papers, his eyes boring into yours with a look that you were not familiar with. The blonde sighed, actually sighed like you were a hindrance to him.

“I read what you wrote,” he said, voice still even but firmer now. “And you missed key components.”

Your brows pulled together instantly. “No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.”

The quickness of his response made your spine straighten.

“I wouldn’t have written it if I didn’t know it,” you shot back.

“And yet you still got it wrong.”

Silence.

Your jaw tightened.

Because no one talked to you like that.

"Your answers felt surface-level rather than addressing the structural impact. The professor was generous, giving you a 58. It could’ve been worse.”

You felt heat rise in your chest — part embarrassment, part irritation.

Your fingers curled slightly against the table. Who the fuck was this guy?

“See here?” He tapped a circled paragraph. “You mentioned the economic factors, but completely ignored the social hierarchy and power dynamics that actually drive the changes. That’s why your arguments fell flat.”

"You think I don't know the difference-- I'm not stupid, Arlert—"

"If you knew the difference, you wouldn't have failed."

Your mouth dropped open in complete shock. No one has ever spoken to you like that, no one. And the fact that some fucking nerd had the audacity to was like a slap in the face.

"I'm not here to spare your feelings, I’m here to help you—"

“By talking to me like I’m incompetent?” you shot back.

“By being honest.”

You let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh, leaning back again as you crossed your arms tightly over your chest.

“This is crazy,” you muttered. “I didn’t come here to be insulted.”

“Then leave.”

You blinked at the blonde. Armin had stopped highlighting passages as he looked up at you. You could have sworn you saw that glint in his eye again—the same one from the fair. It was a twinkle, like he had you exactly where he wanted you.

"It's not my presidency that's on the line, you wanna leave. Leave, it's no harm to me."

You couldn't believe what was happening. Who the fuck was this guy? Wasn't he supposed to be a shy fucking mess? Since when were nerds this fucking bold!?

If it were anyone else, you would have called them every name under the sun and walked out of the room without looking back. But being president was your life, your stepping stone into the real world. You couldn't lose it just because you failed one fucking test and because of one fucking nerd.

Armin watched you for a long moment, those clear blue eyes steady behind his glasses. Then he sighed softly, almost like he was disappointed in you, and slid the practice sheet closer.

“Alright,” he said, voice low, controlled. “You’re probably not stupid, so let’s not act like this is beyond you.”

Your jaw tightened slightly at that, but before you could snap back, he slid the practice sheet closer to you—positioning it directly in front of your hands, like he was guiding you without asking.

“Start with the first question.”

You hesitated for half a second, then glanced down at the paper.

It didn't take you long before your pen moved across the page, writing out what you thought was right. You finished, dropped the pen against the table, and leaned back slightly.

“There.”

Armin didn’t immediately respond.

He leaned forward instead, eyes scanning over what you wrote, quiet for just a second too long.

“No.”

Your head snapped up. “No?”

“You skipped the same step again,” he said, tapping a specific line.

Your irritation flared instantly. “I literally just--"

"Do it again." Your mouth gaped at the blonde who leaned against his chair.

"I'm not doing that shit again."

Armin shrugged his shoulders, his expression blanked as he pulled out a notepad as he started writing down notes.

You swear you could have swallowed blood with how hard you were biting your tongue.

Just get through this, just get through this.

Armin watched as you started to rewrite your answer, his eyes on your frame as you carefully thought it through.

“…Okay,” you muttered, your voice a little soft. “Now what?”

The blonde picked up the paper between his fingers, scanning your answer with a thoughtful expression. His brows lifted slightly as he read. You didn’t know why, but your heart was suddenly hammering against your ribs as you waited, breath held, watching his face for any sign of approval.

“Better,” he said finally, calm and measured.

The single word hit you harder than it should have. You let out a shaky breath you didn’t realise you’d been holding, a small, relieved smile tugging at your glossy lips as your shoulders relaxed.

Armin noticed. Of course he did.

“Want a chocolate?” he asked gently.

“Huh?”

He gestured toward the open box of dark truffle chocolates you somehow hadn’t fully registered before. He popped one into his own mouth first, then tilted the box toward you.

“Have a little treat,” he said softly, almost like he was coaxing a stubborn kitten. “You earned it.”

Your brows knitted in confusion as you took one, popping it into your mouth without thinking—completely missing the way Armin’s eyes lingered on your lips for just a second too long before he looked back down at the page.

You didn’t notice.

You didn’t notice a lot of things.

Like how he only slid the box closer when you got something right.

Or how his tone shifted—just slightly—when you were on the right track.

Or how you’d started leaning forward before he even told you to.

A couple of hours had passed. The clock on your phone now read 9:07 p.m., and you were starting to get seriously irritated. You wanted to be anywhere but here — preferably getting drunk with your sisters or buried in bed with a tub of ice cream. Instead, you were still stuck in this tiny study room, letting some nobody nerd boss you around like he owned you.

“You did it wrong again,” Armin said calmly, circling another mistake on your paper.

You kissed your teeth loudly and pushed the notepad away from you. “You keep fucking talking to me like that, Armin—”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he cut in, his voice soft but dripping with obvious sarcasm. He leaned back in his chair, tilting his head slightly as he looked at you.

Your brows pinched together. That tone was going to send you into a spiral.

Before you could snap back at him, Armin sighed and slowly closed the notebook. The sudden silence made the room feel smaller. He adjusted his glasses, then looked at you with that same steady, unreadable expression that was starting to unnerve you.

"You look kinda pretty when you're mad."

You blinked, caught completely off guard.

“W-what?”

“Hurry up and do this last bit—”

“You think I’m pretty?” The words tumbled out before you could stop them. You hated how surprised you sounded.

Armin tilted his head, watching you with quiet intensity. He had to bite back the small smirk threatening to form as you shifted in your seat, suddenly self-conscious. He knew exactly why you’d shown up dressed like this. The baby-pink Juicy Couture tracksuit was supposed to be casual, but it clung to every curve of your body. The zipper was already pulled dangerously low, and the thin tank top underneath was doing a poor job of containing your full breasts.

Yes, you were hot. Armin wasn’t blind. But he wasn’t stupid either.

"How about this? Do this part for me, and I'll tell you all about how pretty you are."

A loud tsk left your lips, "I don't need you to tell me that I'm pretty--"

"Okay then, do your work and stop bothering me."

You don't know how much more of Armin you can take. How could he be so rude and passive-aggressive?

With a heavy sigh, you bowed your head and forced yourself to focus on the paper. Armin watched you the entire time, eyes sharp behind his glasses. Every time your pen moved across the page, the corner of his mouth twitched upward in quiet satisfaction.

You had the look of a kicked puppy as he handed the blonde the paper, your knee bouncing as you waited for something.

"Good girl."

Heat immediately flooded your lower belly and core at the sound of his voice. The words hit you harder than they had any right to.

“W—what?” you stammered, eyes widening.

Armin looked up from the paper, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. "I said, ' Good girl, you finally listened and used that brain of yours."

The praise twisted inside you, sweet and stinging all at once, flooding your cheeks with heat while your core clenched in response. How did he do that—turn a simple acknowledgement into something that made your body ache? You shifted in your seat, the chair creaking under you, trying to hide the way your nipples tightened against the fabric of your tank top. His gaze didn't waver, drinking in your reaction like he knew exactly what it did to you.

"What's the matter with you!?" The words burst from your lips before you could stop them, your voice cracking with a mix of fury and frustration. You shoved back from the table and stood up abruptly, your chair scraping against the floor in the quiet room. Your brows pinched tight, cheeks burning hotter than before, and your chest heaved with each ragged breath, pushing your breasts up against the clinging material of your top.

Armin watched you as you stood up from your seat, your brows pinched together, your cheeks flushed, and your chest heaving. He didn't know what amused him most, the fact that you were angry at him or that it took you so long before you snapped.

"Where the fuck do you get off hitting on me!?

Armin leaned back in his seat, completely unfazed.

“Hitting on you?” he repeated, voice low and even, almost innocent. “I’m not hitting on you. I’m rewarding you. There’s a difference.”

He stood up slowly, rounding the table until he was standing right in front of you. Even though he wasn’t particularly tall, the way he carried himself made him feel like he towered over you in that moment. His eyes dropped openly to your exposed cleavage, then slowly dragged back up to your flushed face.

“You’re the one who came in here dressed like this,” he continued softly, almost gently. “Just looking for my attention. And now that you have it… You’re mad?”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he stepped closer, backing you up until your ass hit the edge of the table.

Armin placed one hand on the table beside your hip, caging you in without even touching you.

“Be honest with yourself,” he murmured, voice dropping into that dangerous, velvet tone. “You’re not angry because I’m ‘hitting on you.’ You’re angry because you're so used to pulling the strings with people, but I pulled yours ever so successfully.”

His free hand came up, and he lightly traced a finger down the centre of your chest, following the line of your gold chain until it rested between your breasts.

"Fuck you," you managed, but your voice came out breathy, lacking conviction as his hand came up to brace on the table beside your hip, caging you further. The scent of him filled your senses, making your head spin. You could feel the dampness spreading between your legs, your clit throbbing with every heartbeat, betraying how his rudeness twisted into something intoxicating.

A dark chuckle left the blonde's lips, his fingers tracing on the exposed skin of your hip. "Is that a suggestion?"

He didn't wait for your response; his mouth crashed down on yours, devouring you in a kiss that was all teeth and tongue, dominating without mercy. You moaned into it, hands flying up to rest on his chest, you weren't even sure if you were trying to push him away or not but you knew you didn't have the strength to.

His tongue pushed through your mouth, claiming every inch as his other hand slid down your side, gripping your hip hard enough to bruise the soft flesh.

A gasp left your lips as he broke the kiss, his lips trailing along your jaw, nipping at the sensitive skin of your neck. "Good girl," he breathed against your pulse point, the words sending another gush of slickness to your folds. "See? You respond so well to praises."

Your head was clouded with thoughts; you couldn't really understand what was happening. You had always gotten what you wanted, and for the first time in your life, you didn't, and it left you stunned.

His hand slid from your hip to the front of your open jacket, pushing the pink velour further apart. He palmed one of your heavy breasts through your thin tank top, thumb brushing over your painfully hard nipple.

A broken whimper escaped your lips.

Armin chuckled softly against your neck, the sound sending shivers down your spine. You shook your head, your frustration boiling over as he continued to touch you, but not where you needed him.

A whine broke through your lips as the blonde pulled away from you. Armin didn't give you any time to adjust as he placed you on top of the study desk. Your eyes widened as he stood between your legs, his hand pushing on your chest lightly, your body leaning back slightly on your elbows.

The blonde's eyes stayed on you as his fingers hooked in the waistband of your tracksuit bottoms and panties. With a slow, deliberate tug, he dragged them down your legs, exposing your bare pussy to the air-conditioned chill of the library room. Your folds glistened with arousal, clit swollen and peeking out.

 He spread your thighs wider with his knees, settling his hips against the desk's edge for leverage. One hand trailed up your inner thigh, fingers brushing teasingly close to your entrance before pulling away, making you squirm.

Your lips parted as a soft sigh left you as he slipped a finger inside you, your walls clenching around the intrusion as he curled it against your inner spot. Armin watched as your eyes fluttered, the small gasps and whines leaving your lips as you started to hump his hand.

The blonde raised his brows before they pinched together as he watched you chase your orgasm.

Armin chuckled at the curse that tore through your as he pulled his finger out of you.

"I'm still not convinced that you'd pass, answer a few questions for me, and I'll let you cum."

You blanched, chest still heaving, pussy clenching around nothing from the ruined orgasm.

“Y-you’re not serious?”

Armin shrugged, casual as ever, before dipping two fingers back into your soaked cunt without warning.

You squealed, back arching sharply as he buried them deep and immediately started curling them against your g-spot again.

“Oh I’m very serious,” he murmured, thumb brushing lightly over your swollen clit — just enough to keep you on edge, never enough to let you tip over. “You want to cum on my fingers like a desperate little slut? Then earn it.”

"F--fuck you." A gasp tore through you as he pumped his fingers slowly, deliberately, keeping you right on that agonising edge while he reached for the notebook with his free hand.

Your slick coated his fingers, his lips between his teeth as he looked down at you. “Explain the relationship between social hierarchy and economic disparity in the period we covered. Be detailed this time.”

You could barely think, let alone form coherent sentences. Your hips kept twitching, trying to fuck yourself on his fingers, but every time you got close he slowed down or pulled back just enough to ruin it.

“Answer me, baby,” Armin cooed, leaning down to kiss the side of your neck. “Use that pretty little head of yours."

You whimpered, trying to focus through the haze of need.

“I— fuck— social hierarchy created… barriers that… limited access to resources…” you gasped out, barely getting the words right as his fingers curled again.

Armin hummed in approval, speeding up his thumb on your clit for a few blissful seconds before slowing right back down.

“Good girl."

He added a third finger, stretching you open as he continued the cruel game.

"How did power dynamics within the elite class influence political stability?"

Your head fell back, locs spilling across the desk, moans spilling freely now as he edged you mercilessly. Every time your walls started fluttering around his fingers, he eased off, keeping you right on the brink.

Tears of frustration pricked at the corners of your eyes.

“Armin— please—” you whined, hips grinding desperately against his hand.

He leaned over you, lips brushing your ear, voice soft and cruel.

“Answer the question properly, and I’ll let you cum."

"I--I don't know-- Armin!"

The blonde frowned at you before pulling his fingers out of you.

You cried out in raw frustration, a broken sound that echoed in the quiet study room. Fresh tears rolled down your flushed cheeks as your empty pussy clenched around nothing, aching so badly it hurt.

“No—no, please—” you whimpered, trying to reach for his hand, but he caught your wrist gently and pinned it to the desk above your head.

He reached down and tapped two fingers lightly against your swollen clit, making your hips jerk violently.

"Answer the question."

You moaned as your walls clamped around his fingers again, your walls clamped down greedily around the intrusion, sucking him in as he curled them against your G-spot again.

“M-market failures... in social economics,” you stuttered, mind fracturing under the haze of arousal, tears welling in your eyes from the ache. “Private markets fail to allocate resources efficiently... monopolies, externalities, public goods not provided...”

"Go on,"  he mumbled, his eyes bore on how three of his fingers fucked into your soaked pussy without preamble, stretching you savagely.

“They… they used marriages and alliances—” you gasped, words stumbling out between moans, “—to consolidate wealth and… fuck— and limit access to resources for lower classes—”

You gasped, hips jerking to chase the brutal rhythm.

You teetered on the brink, vision blurring, body tensing for release—but Armin yanked his fingers free mid-thrust, the sudden void making you scream in frustration. “No! Fuck—please!” Your pussy fluttered wildly, clenching on nothing, a pathetic dribble of arousal leaking out.

You felt embarrassed as the tears streamed down your face. Your mind was gone, clouded with the orgasm you were denied over and over.

You wanted to get up and leave, but you knew that you wouldn't. Not only would your legs not allow you, but you wanted to cum, you wanted to cum so badly you would do whatever he asked you.

Armin sent you a wicked smile as he brought his fingers up to your lips. A silent command for you to open your mouth, and you did, you moaned around his fingers as your tongue wrapped around the digits as you swallowed the taste of your cunt.

His eyes darkened behind his glasses as he watched you clean his fingers.

He pulled his fingers free with a wet pop, then finally shoved his jeans and boxers down just enough to free his cock. It slapped heavy against your inner thigh — thick, flushed, and already leaking at the tip.

You whimpered at the sight.

Armin gripped your hips, yanking you to the very edge of the desk so your ass hung off it. He lined himself up and pushed in with one smooth, relentless thrust, burying himself to the hilt in your soaked, fluttering cunt.

A loud, broken cry tore from your throat.

“Fuck— so tight,” he groaned, eyes fluttering shut for a second before locking back on your face.

He didn’t give you time to adjust. He started fucking you hard and deep, the desk creaking beneath you with every powerful snap of his hips. The wet, obscene sound of your pussy taking his cock filled the small study room.

It was almost embarrassing how fast you felt your orgasm come crashing down on you. But all the edging and denials had your pussy clenching around Armin's cock.

Your back arched violently off the desk, locs spilling everywhere as a sharp, overwhelming pressure built deep in your core.

"Armin—” you sobbed, tears pouring down your face.

He gripped your thighs harder, spreading you wider, pounding into you without mercy.

"Do it,” he growled, voice strained but still in control.

Your whole body seized, a loud, guttural scream ripping from your throat as you squirted hard around his cock. Clear fluid gushed out of you, soaking his stomach, his thighs, and the desk beneath you in messy, pulsing waves. Your pussy clamped down on him like a vice, milking him as you shook and cried through the longest, most intense orgasm of your life.

Armin groaned loudly, but he didn’t stop.

He fucked you straight through it, hips slamming into you even harder, chasing his own release while you kept squirting and sobbing beneath him.

Your palm came up to his chest in a weak, shaky attempt to push him away, but there was no strength behind it. Your fingers just curled into his soft grey sweater, holding on instead as another broken cry left your lips.

“Too much— Armin, please— it’s too much—” you whimpered, voice hoarse and wrecked.

He pushed your hand away, pulling your legs up as he pushed them against your chest. A squeal tearing through you at the new position.

“Shh, good girl,” he breathed against your ear, voice rough but still so fucking calm. “You can take it. You’re going to take every inch while you keep making such a pretty mess for me.”

He didn’t slow down. If anything, he fucked you harder, grinding deep on every thrust so the head of his cock kissed that oversensitive spot inside you over and over. Your squirting had slowed to weak, twitching spurts, but your pussy was still pulsing around him, fluttering wildly.

Armin’s thrusts started to lose their steady rhythm, becoming shorter and harder as he chased his own release. His breathing grew ragged, blond hair sticking to his forehead.

“Fuck— gonna cum,” he growled low in your ear. With a final, deep thrust, he pulled out suddenly. His hand flew to his cock, stroking himself fast and rough until thick, hot ropes of cum shot across your stomach.

The blonde let go of your legs, your body limp against the table as he stood between your spread legs for a moment, catching his breath as he admired the sight.

"You did so well, Ms President. "

You normally get everything you ever wanted. Maybe that made you spoiled and had high expectations about everything, but Armin Arlert just ruined everything for you.

And fuck did you enjoy it.