#heyyyy....

“armin, fuck...” you moan, teeth sinking into your glossy bottom lip. a futile attempt to muffle yourself, but he’s never been one to not give credit where credit is due.

armin’s knees ache against the awkward tile of the floor, but the pain is nothing in comparison to the taste of you, sweet and syrupy like the finest drizzle. he doesn’t waste a single drop of slick, the little metal ball in his mouth occasionally nudging your clit and coaxing even more wetness.

“f-feels good, right?” he asks and you can only nod, the typical softness of his voice practically dissolved underneath the needy hoarseness. those anatomy classes really did come in handy.

he pays deliberate attention to every single part of your pussy, almost like he’s got a reference image pulled up in his mind. not a single area goes unexplored — plush lips on your swollen clit, sucking until you mewl, pierced tongue shoved deep in your weak hole, slurping and thrusting all for the reward of your sweet voice.

everything about you is addicting to armin’s senses, a constant flow of pure dopamine, making him drunker than even the strongest of alcohols and higher than the hardest of drugs.

he’s insatiable when it comes to you.

“did you know,” slurp, “that the vagina has proteins in it?” another slurp, one that’s silenced beneath your moan, “i-i mean, it’s — ngh — not a lot, b-but... could help people meet their quotas.”

it’s pathetic and downright shameful how his inopportune fact-dropping makes your cunt throb, the pressure in your gut becoming unbearable. your thighs quiver in his grip, breaths catch in your hoarse throat — all typical, textbook signs that you’re going to cum. “don’t stop, ‘m sooo close. f-fuck, armin, god—”

he whimpers when you buck back against his face, slick smearing even more and knocking his thick glasses askew. nevertheless, he doesn’t stop, the tightness of his cargo pants be damned.

he doesn’t even stop when you cum with a cry, squirt spraying all over his face and the floor. he keeps his aching jaw slack to swallow every bit, too focused on the gorgeous mess between your legs to notice the growing darkened patch on the front of his trousers.

“armin!” you squirm, hips uselessly wriggling against the cool, smooth marble. you’re still trembling and twitching, the tsunami of bliss from your previous orgasm nowhere near done. “w-wait, slow down—”

armin shakes his head, tips of blonde hair tickling your skin as he leans back far enough to fix his glasses before delving back in. “i’m sorry, just let me test something, okay?”

not a single drop of apologeticness.