In which you jump out of a moving car to spite Boyfriend!Sukuna
“—because he was just making conversation!”
Sukuna scoffs, knuckles turning white as his grip tightens on the steering wheel. “Bullshit. That guy wanted to fuck you.”
“Oh my god. So what!” you yell. “It’s not like I was gonna fucking let him!”
“Coulda fooled me.”
Just like that, your angry face, which matches his, warps into one of calm decision. With speed he doesn’t see coming, you unbuckle your seatbelt, push open the passenger door and jump out of the moving car into the dead of night.
The car screeches to a halt not even a second later.
You’re pushing yourself up and testing the soreness in your ankle when a car door slams shut and Sukuna comes marching over to you. “You crazy, fucking bitch!” he snaps. Sukuna grabs your face, growling when you try to pull away. He inspects every inch of you, brows furrowed, and piercings glinting under the streetlights. “What the fuck is wrong with you!”
“I got a bitch ass boyfriend, that’s what’s wrong with me,” you grumble.
He ignores that. “You break anything? Wrist? Ankle? Dislocated your shoulder?” You shake your head. “Well, that’s a fucking shame.” Though as he says that, he can’t quite hide the tremors in his hands. Quieter now, he mutters with a tight frown, “Scratched your pretty face up. Fuck. Lost your one redeeming quality.”
“Okay, so I’m gonna walk home,” you say, deadpan. “I’ll see you around, asshole.”
Sukuna runs a hand through his hair with a frustrated noise. Then he smacks his lips against yours before you can actually start walking away (not that he’d let you get very far). “Alright, alright. You fucking win. Congrats. Christ. Get back in the car — we’re going to the hospital to get you checked out. Fucking dumbass.”
A hospital visit later, you’re in bed with him, cuddled up like nothing happened. It’s how arguments with him tend to go; neither of you really hold grudges against each other. Not when you’ve fucked any grievances out after. The last mention of today’s incident, however, comes in his sleepy mumble against the top of your head: “push me out instead.”
“Hmm?”
Sukuna’s hold around your body tightens, threatening to suffocate you with his hard chest. “Don’t jump out of the car. It’s stupid. Your body’s weak. Skin bruises easily. Cuts easily too. Just kick me out instead. I deserve it, I know... bonus points if it's into oncoming traffic.”
Synopsis: in which popular girl!reader is done with shitty players and wants to try the newest delicacy: virgin nerds. It’s game on to seduce the physics student, who seems more than ready to abandon his life of celibacy.
But their arrangement only works if they’re both on the same page. What happens when one expects a little more than sex?
Is it game over?
Chapter TWO: now that you've, somehow, reeled him in, the game begins as any relationship does: with a date. and sex. and another date. and more sex. but also something a little more?
Content: smut (bj, first times/p in v, masochism, femdom, hair pulling, public sex, hidden sex, the works), mean girl!reader, sexually promiscuous!reader, not proofread - pls let me know if you spot typos!
Word Count : 13.2k
Chapter ONE - Masterlist
“When you said we should go on an official date,” you start, deadpan and a second away from sighing, “I didn’t think you’d take me to one of your nerd gatherings.”
Satoru slings an arm around your shoulder, not to display possession over you but to keep you from turning and leaving. Smart, you think.
He says, “I want you to meet my friends. Consider it a trial run before we meet yours.”
This is your first outing with him. Indeed the first time you’re seeing him since he agreed to play along a couple nights before. You’d exchanged numbers (he doesn’t have any social media, naturally), and you waited for him to text; you would rather die than text a man first. Fortunately, he didn’t keep you waiting too long because he reached out this morning asking to see you.
Unfortunately, he kept the nature of the ‘date’ from you until it was too late.
Now, you’re stuck in a games cafe with a circular table of his so-called friends — campus’ outcasts and society’s future pioneers, you’re sure — staring at you.
Actually, the whole cafe’s staring at you, which isn’t a surprise at all; you’re dressed in a tight dress that barely covers your ass under a tiny fur coat that does nothing against the chill of the night, and stilettos. There’s probably more glitter on your nails alone than they expected to ever see in their lives, much less on a Thursday night in this part of town.
“Is there a problem, freaks?”
At your sharp tone and scowl, people quickly turn back to their board games and pick up conversation.
Your ‘boyfriend’ laughs at that. He rubs your shoulder. “People really do stare too much, don’t they?”
Excitedly, Satoru steers you to his friends’ table, introducing your name before saying, “And these are my best buddies: Haibara, Ijichi, Yuji, and Inumaki!”
They all wave at you, all but Inumaki smiling, his face half-covered by his loose turtleneck sweater.
This is probably the first time they’ve ever spoken to a woman, much less a woman as hot as you. You should put on the Nice Girl act again, even if it kills a part of you, you decide. So, with a smile — the kind that makes your nose scrunch in a cute way that no guy could defend against — you purr, “Pleasure to meet you boys. Please take care of me.”
“Nice to meet you!” The guy you just learnt is called Yuji chirps. “We were wondering who Satoru was bringing, we didn’t know it’d be the girl from the library.”
Hands collide when you reach for your chair at the same time Satoru pulls it out for you. You give him a look before sliding into your seat. You turn your attention back to Yuji. “You remember me?”
He nods enthusiastically. “Of course! You’re hard to miss.”
“That’s right,” Haibara pipes up, as enthusiastic as his pink-haired friend. “I can’t believe Gojo actually took an interest in girls.”
Satoru chuckles. “You’re feeding the ‘I’m gay’ rumours again, Hai.”
Bashfully, he shuffles in his seat. “Sorry. That wasn’t what I meant.”
The guy with glasses and a loose fitting sweater nervously laughs, spine ramrod and eyes flitting all over the table. What a nervous little guy. “What my good friends here means is, Gojo has never dated anyone before, even though lots of the girls in his department have asked him out. The prettiest, smartest girls, and each one he turned down. It’s something of a miracle that he’s finally let someone in.”
“Are you saying I’m punching? That he’s too good for me? That I’m not nearly as pretty or as smart as all the other girls?”
They jolt at your cutting voice. Frantically, they all shake their heads, stuttering a response to deny your accusations.
What was the point of telling you so many girls want your man? Who the hell are they?
The relationship might not be the realest one out there, but it’s still a relationship, and damn it all if you’ll let someone suggest that you’re not good enough for your boyfriend; you’ve had enough of that kind of judgement from your previous relationships.
A placating hand rubs your back.
Your hard eyes dart to gorgeous blue ones. He gives you a look — not a scolding nor angry look, but rather comforting and soothing. Satoru says, “That’s not what they meant. They’re just talking about how I never really thought about dating, until now that is.” He turns to his friends. “I know it’s quite sudden and out of nowhere, but I don’t know. I just kept running into her, and I couldn’t get her out of my mind. So we’re taking it slow and seeing how it goes. Your support would mean a lot to me.”
Their shoulders relax, as does yours.
It’s impressive how quickly he rattled the lie off; you almost believed him. Does lying come naturally to men, or is Satoru just comfortable stretching the truth? You never thought an upstanding nerd like him would betray codes of honour so easily for someone he just met. It’s kinda hot.
Smiles slowly return to their faces.
“Sorry we weren’t very considerate with our words,” one says.
“Yeah, that wasn’t cool of us.”
“I do apologise. Please don’t think badly of us.”
“Salmon.”
Your head snaps to Satoru, a confused look on your face. He blinks, then laughs. “Oh, sorry. I forgot — Inumaki here is a singer; he protects his vocal chords by limiting his speech. We’ve known each other a while so we’ve gotten used to it. I’ll translate for you: ‘my bad, big bro.’”
That’s new, you think. Not that weird though, you suppose. You once knew a guy who didn’t speak at all, just for the fun of it. He could order a pizza with ease, but when it came to being vocal in bed, he was quieter than a monk.
Forcing the defensive stance you’ve taken to soften, you smack your lips together, feigning nonchalance. “Well, you’re forgiven, I guess. I’ll make sure not to jump to conclusions next time…or whatever.”
“Great!” Satoru claps his hands together. He looks delighted that everything's worked out. “Now that introductions are out of the way, let’s play!”
Yuji is already smirking, sleeves pushed up like he’s been waiting for weeks for this. Ijichi is carefully aligning pieces with so much care you wonder if these things are expensive. Haibara is cheerfully explaining the rules, though it seems unnecessary for them so perhaps it’s for your own benefit. And Inumaki, meanwhile, is eyeing everyone down with sudden determination.
Wow, they take this seriously.
The only time you’ve ever been half as serious as them is when there’s a sale at your favourite stores.
Around you, towering shelves are stacked floor to ceiling with board games with names that sound fake and whose boxes are covered in dragons, spaceships, or aggressively serious-looking cartoon men. It feels less like a café and more like some kind of shrine. Who knew these kinds of places get so much business?
You lean forward, chin in your hand, not really listening as Satoru launches into an explanation that makes absolutely no sense to you. Something about resource management. Turns. Victory points. You nod along, occasionally making encouraging noises, whilst wondering how they could tell the difference between any one of these little cardboard tokens; they all look the same.
The only thing you truly register is Satoru himself, animated and bright, eyes lit up in a way you’ve only seen once before: back in the library when he was deep in his element and completely unreachable.
It’s annoying.
And kind of entertaining.
He looks completely in his element like this, fingers deft as he sets the board. He laughs when Yuji interrupts him, rolling his eyes fondly, and you feel a flicker of something sharp and possessive twist in your chest.
Fake or not, you don’t love how easy this is for him, how natural. Your presence right beside him doesn’t make him nervous and anxious, like you’d expected it to. Instead, it’s like you’ve always been here beside him.
How is it possible that he’s never had a girlfriend, even with his condition, when being a boyfriend comes so easily to him?
Despite that, it doesn’t take very long at all for you to grow bored out of your mind. You’re acutely aware that the bathroom is right there, down the hall, private and quiet and infinitely more interesting than pretending to care about whose turn it is.
You try.
You really do — you pick up a piece, move it when you’re told, ask one clarifying question you immediately regret because it leads to a five-minute explanation and a small debate between Haibara and Ijichi. And you, more or less, even keep your hands to yourself.
Satoru ends up playing for you most rounds, which is fine with you. It’s not like you want to win, though it does seem like he’s setting you up for victory over his own piece. Or maybe you’re not understanding the game a little more than you originally thought.
The nerds, you decide, are…nice. Earnest. Harmless.
They smile at you like you’re more than welcome here, like you’re already their best friend, and that almost throws you off more than if they’d been rude.
Still, your attention keeps drifting back to Satoru’s mouth when he talks, the way his hands move, the way he leans closer to point something out on the board and doesn’t move away right away, and how he adjusts those stupid glasses here and there.
A knee nudges his under the table.
He glances at you, eyebrows lifting in quiet question, and you flash him a smile that very clearly does not have anything to do with dice or cards or whatever the hell this game is. You tilt your head toward the hallway, subtle but not subtle enough, and watch understanding dawn slowly, followed by a soft huff of laughter.
“Give me a minute,” he murmurs, low enough that only you hear it, eyes flicking back to the board even as his knee bumps yours in warning.
You roll your eyes but settle back, pretending to pay attention again whilst mentally counting the seconds. When Satoru finally takes his turn, he’s fully in it now, excitement sharpening his focus, voice animated as he strategizes, and something in your chest tightens at the sight.
Fine. You can wait. Watching him like this is almost worth the boredom.
Almost.
About an hour later, or maybe only five minutes have passed — time doesn’t seem to exist inside the cafe — you lean close, lips near his ear this time. “I can’t wait any longer. I’m going to the bathroom, and you’re following. Don’t take too long,” you whisper. “If you keep me waiting, I think I’ll have to punish you.”
His hand falters just a little, a flush appearing at the tips of his ears, before he straightens, clears his throat, and finishes his move like a man desperately pretending he isn’t already thinking about following you wherever you want to go.
“Time for a break,” he announces, getting up and flagging a waitress down for the table. “Order something for the table, I just need a breather. I’ll be back in a bit, and the board better be exactly how I left it. I’ve taken a mental picture so don’t even try. I’m looking at you, Yuji.”
The man in question raises his hand in surrender. “No promises.”
People have quickly gotten comfortable with your presence because no one even glances at the two of you when you both slip away into the toilets. Or maybe it never occurs in their loser, virgin minds that a couple could do anything remotely illegal or immoral in a place so sacred.
There’s the men’s and the women’s.
You drag him into the cleaner one, the one that smells less like piss and disease. Thankfully, there’s no one inside — you expected as much; there’s only two other women out there and one of them is a server.
“Are you sure now is a good time?” he whispers conspiratorially though no one’s around.
Shoving him into a stall, you lock the door behind you and say, “Any time is a good time to have a good time.”
Satoru whistles low, impressed. “Very well put.”
That’s not a phrase you came up — one of your exes, a real sleazy horndog who only wanted sex on his own terms, did — but you don’t tell him that. He doesn’t need to know that you used to hate that phrase.
Instead, you inquire, “Are you hard?”
He glances down at his own pants. His brows furrow, and replies, “Not sure. Kinda?” You grab his crotch to test it for yourself. Satoru grunts. “Hey, careful with the goods.”
“You have a semi,” you conclude. He looks somewhat confused by the term, so you explain, “It’s when you’re a little turned on, but need more simulation to get fully hard.”
“Stimulation. And that’s a good sign, right? It means that time in the janitor’s closet wasn’t a one-off.” He looks so pleased with himself, with you, and with his dick that you almost smile at his excitement. Then, he glances around the cramped space and notes, “The girls’ toilets are so nice. I’m so jealous. ”
Far too conversational for your liking, you decide to turn up the vibe a notch. You press close to him, spinning the two of you around so he’s leaning against the door. Your adept hands begin unbuckling his belt.
Satoru grabs your shoulder. “Are you sure you want to do this here? It’s cleaner than the men’s but it’s still a toilet stall.”
You shrug him off and focus on unzipping his jeans to reveal his boxers. “I’ve done it in worse places, don’t worry.”
He frowns and halts your hands from pulling the band of his Calvin Klein underwear down. “That’s not cool at all.” Brushing an errant strand of hair from your forehead, he whispers, “I can wait, really. I wasn’t planning on testing anything out tonight; I was always going to meet them here, but I wanted to see you too, just to hang out. Maybe we can do this another day, or we can go to my place after?”
A weird sensation throbs in your heart. You reel a little. “N-no, we’re doing this now. I want to. I want to see what I’m working with at least.”
And when you drop to your knees and free his dick, he doesn’t oppose. Your jaw drops.
“No way,” you breathe out. “Are you kidding me?”
Sensing your panic, he stares at his dick. “What? What’s wrong?”
“You’re fucking huge, Satoru!”
He groans, head smacking back against the door. “Don’t do that. Jeez, I thought my dick was broken for good, or, like, super ugly.”
Not a single part of you was lying, not this time — he really is big. It’s also not ugly. Alright, no dick is gorgeous, but as far as dicks go, his is quite nice. And he’s not even fully hard yet. Are nerds supposed to be packing?
It’s actually kind of a crime that he’d gone so long without ever dicking another woman down. This kind of dick deserves to be felt, to be worshipped, to be wrung dry on a daily.
Well, don’t mind if you do.
Too self-conscious now, he asks, “Is it too big? I know some girls have a prob—WOAH!”
Unable to resist any longer, your hands have wrapped around the length, warming it up. He keeps it nice and clean down here, which is more than you can say for most guys. Slowly, he grows harder and bigger, until it’s at full mast. The entire length stretches the length of your face and a little beyond. It’s a beast of a cock, truly.
Your pussy drools.
You waste no more time; you take him into your mouth, swirling your tongue around his cockhead and making sure he sees everything — from the way you have to open really wide to how your lipgloss is rubbing on his skin, and to the hand fondling his heavy balls.
Satoru groans above you. “I didn’t know blowjobs feel this -hah- good. Is it supposed to feel this good?”
Gripping the base and suckling on the tip, you send him a wink. “Blowjobs from me do.”
You know what men like. You know that when you flick your tongue over the slit, they hiss, just as Satoru does. You know that when you start taking him deeper and deeper down your throat, his hand will fly to the back of your head.
And right on cue, it does.
Partly undecided between pushing you away and yanking you down on his length, he holds you with shaking hands. The strain must be hard on him. Poor thing.
Inch by inch, you take him. Soon your lips graze his base, his cockhead bumping into the back of your throat. It’s not easy at all. It’s actually in the top three hardest dicks you’ve ever deepthroated. You thank the dating gods that you won’t have to swallow the shame of being with a small-dicked loser at least.
“O-oh, fuck, that feels so good. Your mouth’s so warm -ngh- a-and your throat’s so tight. I don’t know what to do.”
Acrylic nails digging into his clothed thigh, you draw a hiss from his lips. Pulling off to suck his balls, you’re free to retort, “Cum, duh.”
“Where?”
“Down my throat, obviously, idiot.”
“You -hngh! slow down, I can’t think!- y-you sure?”
To show him how sure you are, you take him back in your mouth, expertly swallowing as much of him as you can. You bite back your gag reflex and bob your head rapidly. He proves weak to that attack. With a cry of your name, he spurts down your throat.
“Fuck,” he gasps out. His hips stutter, bruising your walls without meaning to.
Mmm, salty. A little sweet too — he keeps a healthy diet at least. No Mountain Dew, battery-acid spunk. Great!
Lips making a pop! sound when you slide him out, you smirk proudly at his dazed look. Yeah, you’ve still got it.
His knees quiver, threatening to bring him to a slump on the floor. You hold him up with a roll of your eyes. Gently patting his cheek, you say, “Venus to Satoru. Hello? We’ve still got a game to finish, don’t pass out on me now.”
Index finger weakly lifted up, his head falls onto your shoulder. Your own legs threaten to buckle from his sudden weight. He mutters into your fur coat, “Earth to Satoru, and be noted, Houston, Satoru is completely shattered.”
“I don’t know who Houston is, but you need to get your shit together.”
Satoru chuckles.
“Yes, Command.”
.
.
.
Your second date has been arranged by you.
Well, it’s not exactly a date. Not in the traditional sense. It’s more of an excuse to be fucked.
You’ve never waited so long to be ‘bedded’ before — it’s been over a week since you’ve started ‘dating’ Satoru.
Being college students mean that schedules don’t often align. Satoru, for example, has an internship at the Limitless Foundation that he attends twice a week on top of his usual workload. He’s, no doubt, doing sciencey stuff at his internship that means working long hours, not that you cared to ask more about it.
And even though you’re studying an already rather easy subject, Business — a degree everyone knows is a waste of time — you don’t actually attend most of your classes. They aren’t very mandatory. As long as your assignments are completed in time, you’ll pass just fine. So, you’ve been busy with other things. Namely shopping, getting waxed, massaged and whatnot.
It’s a full time job to maintain your appearance.
It’s as hard as whatever he’s doing, honest!
Anyway, when he texted you, talking about how he finally has time to see you during the weekend, you jumped to take the lead. No more nerd cafes, no more board games, and toilet blowjobs.
You’re going to be fucked on a bed or on a sofa, like a real lady, even if it killed you both.
You’ve invited yourself over to his place. He didn’t seem opposed at all, whereas most guys tend to be quite skittish about that sort of thing. In fact, he replied, Okiedokie I’ll send you my address. See you soon, ‘babe’ ;)
Who the hell says ‘okiedokie’?
The area’s not too far from campus, so the walk from your dorm was rather short. It’s a nice neighbourhood. Very nice, actually. You’re rather thankful you don’t have to hold your keys between your knuckles as you wait for him to buzz you into the apartment building.
“That my fake-real girlfriend?” His voice is static-y when it reaches you through the box.
You inspect your nails and drawl, “Not for long if you keep me waiting.”
Satoru laughs. “I wouldn’t dare.”
He buzzes you in but not before giving you a set of instructions: enter the elevator to your left, not the one to your right, press the button that says P, and the doors will be open when you reach the top.
The doors are, in fact, open when the elevator stops. You have no idea what P means, or why the door would lead straight to his place, and thinking about it anymore hurts your head.
You step inside, the wheels of your suitcase rattling on the porcelain floor. His place is massive. It’s two flipping floors. The first is an open-spaced studio with the living room marked by large sofas, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the neighbourhood, a grand piano in the corner, and a spacious kitchen to your left.
Passing by the balcony of the second floor, where you assume the bathroom and bedrooms are, he spies your shocked figure and rushes down the stairs.
“Hey! Come in, come in. Make yourself at home.”
Somewhat bewildered by the idea that any college student could be living somewhere so fancy, you numbly mutter, “Mi casa es Sue’s casa, huh.”
He takes your coat, pats your head, and corrects you all in one go, “Su casa, Diapers. And yes, it is. I mean it. Honestly throw your things wherever you want. Don’t ask me for permission for anything. Just relax.”
That’s all you need.
Breaking into a run, your heels click and clack on the floor. You stop at the windows, leaving marks on the pristine glass as your fingers press on the transparent surface. “Everyone looks tiny! You can see everything.”
Satoru laughs. “I hear that often. My friends like to say that it’s like I’ve got eyes everywhere. Six Eyes, they call me ‘cause, y’know—”
“You’re four eyes with glasses, add two more for this view, I got it,” you finish for him, unable to resist beaming ear to ear.
Suitcase inspected, he wonders, “What’ve you got in here? You’re only staying the weekend, not a whole month.”
You turn to look at him, lashes fluttering as you look at him blankly. “I know. I just brought my weekend necessities. Believe it or not, I actually cut down a little since the dorms are just a hop and a skip away.”
He whistles. “Must be hard being a girl; my friends only need their toothbrush and underwear, and sometimes not even that.”
“Ew.”
Satoru’s lips twitch. “Yeah, it is kinda ew.”
Through the reflection, you watch him carry the suitcase up the stairs with ease, despite his earlier remark. Through his plain white shirt, you see his back muscles flex and his biceps bulge. What a pity that he hides his impressive stature in frumpy sweaters. He’d get all the hoes, and not just the nerdy ones on the anti-bullying brochures, if he showed off a little.
Moments later, he finds you in the living room, reclining on his stupidly comfortable sofa and scrolling on your phone.
Teasing, he leans over and asks, “Not gonna snoop around my place?”
“Nope,” you reply. “I’ve learnt my lesson after being told off many a-times — guys are kinda sensitive to the idea that someone might find their porn stash or crusty sock, I guess.”
He shakes his head, laughing. “You won’t find any of that here. Broken dick, remember?” Not so broken now, you want to tell him but you keep it to yourself. Jerking his chin, he continues, “I’ll show you around; food’s thirty minutes away. Sorry I didn’t make something from scratch. I’m not very good at cooking unfortunately.”
On your feet, you follow him up the stairs. “That’s fine with me.” At least he’s feeding you something, and not just his dick. You can’t recall a time you’ve stayed over for dinner at a guy’s place. Most of the time, you get kicked out right after they cum if they’re dickheads, or you leave ASAP if they’re clingy.
“There’s five rooms up here,” he says, putting on a professional tone like he’s a tour guide. “On your left, there’s my study room. Very boring, very often visited, unfortunately.”
You take a peek. There’s a wooden desk with a blue iMac, and an array of papers sprawled over it. Pushed against a wall, stands a whiteboard with numbers and letters making up things that make you nauseous just to look at. Apart from those, it’s more or less bare in there.
“On the right is the bathroom. Pretty straightforward. And down here,” he begins, leading you down the hall where three doors await, “are the two bedrooms. Mine, and the guest room, which is yours for tonight.”
A frown graces your glossy lips. “I’m not staying with you?”
Satoru adjusts his glasses, a nervous habit it would seem. “I thought you’d like your own space.”
Shoving him aside, you grouch, “Fuck that,” and barge into his room. What you see brings out a, “Seriously?” from your mouth.
His room is as nerdy as it gets — glow-in-the-dark stick-on stars on his ceiling, posters of famous scientists littering his walls, shelves full of little figurines from shows and movies you’ve never watched, and a bed with Star Wars themed bedsheets. He has a telescope stationed by his window, and a solar system chandelier hanging above his bed like a dreamcatcher.
On a desk are a couple of display cases with painted miniatures posed mid-battle, clearly the result of hours of patience you don’t have. You lean closer to one, squinting. “You paint these?”
“Sometimes,” he says lightly from behind you, like it’s no big deal. “Helps me unwind. I don’t have much time these days though.”
You scoff as you straighten. Of course this man relaxes by painting tiny warriors with microscopic precision. You suppose it’s his version of painting your nails when you’re stressed or didn’t get to cum after a disappointing hook-up.
It’s ridiculous. You don’t care about any of this. He’s just revealed the extent of his childish and dorky interest.
And yet, standing in the middle of his space, surrounded by proof of his obsessions and his focus and his stupid, attractive competence, you feel that familiar spark flare hotter in your freaking womb.
God, are you actually finding his nerd museum hot?
He seems a little embarrassed for the first time ever, shuffling on the floor and avoiding your eye. Forcing nonchalance, he says, “You won’t want to stay in here. The guest room is a lot less…me, I guess.”
“Satoru.” His head perks up, looking at you like he’s waiting for an order. “Come here.”
The man doesn’t hesitate. He comes to stand before you, head tilting a little. You don’t break eye contact as you sit on his bed, then lie on your back completely.
Your dress rides up. He notices.
What an idiot, you think. As if you’d spend a night at his place by yourself. He’s really clueless. All girls want to snuggle somewhere warm. Preferably in the arms of their boyfriend. You’ll teach him well tonight.
He scrunches his face up, thinking hard. “Sorry, what do I do?”
Ravish me.
Fuck me into next week.
Lose your virginity to me on your geeky sheets.
Slam your huge fucking cock into my tight pussy until I’m squirting all over your bed.
You don’t say any of that though. No, instead, you say a line that drives all men wild:
“Anything you want.”
He runs a hand through his hair, releasing a tense breath. Of course he’s not immune to it either. All men are the same at the very core.
Satoru takes a brave step forward, admiring your body all sprawled out where he sleeps. Something’s been switched on inside him — his pupils are growing bigger, a pink hue creeping in on his cheeks, and his hands flex by his sides.
“Anything?” he asks, voice dropping an octave.
“Mhm.” Your smiles curl up into sharp points, beyond satisfied that he’s walking willingly into your trap. Heeled foot resting on his thigh, you part your legs so he can see your pretty, pink thong. His eyes immediately zero in on them. Classic. “Just wear a condom, alright? I’m on the pill but your first time shouldn’t be so extreme.”
Raw’s reserved for long term boyfriends, for men you’re sure don’t have STDs and won’t run off if they find out that they’re a father. Maybe you can give him the privilege on your last tryst, a goodbye present of sorts.
He shakes his head, muttering, “Don’t need one.”
Your smile drops. Leaning on your arms, you glare at him. “Listen here, mister. I say if we need one or not. You’re not going to talk me into forwarding protection; I’m not an idiot.”
His lips twitch at the corners. “Foregoing protection.”
“Whatever — bottom line is, wear one or I step on your dick.”
He falls to his knees, slotting perfectly between yours. Smooth hands tentatively grasp your thighs, squeezing experimentally once, then twice and a third time when he realises how good it is to feel a female body. “We won’t need one because what I want is a step or two before that. If that’s okay with you, I mean.”
Satoru hooks his hands under your knees, thumbs rubbing your smooth skin. He wet his lips.
You begin to panic. “What are you talking about? Go get a condom and fuck me already, dumbass.”
“You’d need to be properly lubricated for that, no? I may be a virgin but I’m not clueless,” he says, yanking you down slightly so he can get even closer.
The tip of his nose grazes the material. You jolt. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go — you’re supposed to be bent over and ploughed, supposed to be consoling him for cumming too early. You were going to tell him it happens and that it doesn’t make him any less of a man all whilst thinking the exact opposite!
But he doesn’t seem to care about your plans.
With a glance that asks for permission, he pulls your thong aside. Then he whistles.
“Don’t do that,” you snap. “It’s rude.”
A thumb brushes your thigh in apology, though he does utter one too.
“I don’t know what I was expecting,” he mutters. “I mean, I’ve seen vaginas before. In class, anyway. And in porn, not that I watch any. It’s just hard to avoid any kind of pornographic content when you’re a guy, I suppose and—”
“Satoru, you’re rambling,” you groan, eyes rolling in annoyance and not pleasure. You throw a leg over his shoulder, heel digging into his back. Though, there is a part of you that’s relieved by his chattering; it burst the sudden fright you felt at him going off-script. He’s still Satoru, still a nerd, and a virgin. You’ve got the upperhand. “If you’re gonna eat it, eat it with haste. And don’t call it a vagina; it’s unsexy. Call it a pussy.”
He nods, adjusting his glasses and licking his lips. “Right, sorry. I’ll be eating this p…,” he clears his throat, “this p-pussy. Thank you for the food.”
“Ugh, you’re so cheesy, god, just—NGH!”
Ignoring your insults, he dove straight in.
Your eyes spring wide open, hands clutching his hair for purchase out of reflex. There’s no more teasing, no hesitant exploration, or reluctance the way most men feel giving head to a woman is routine or obligatory.
His tongue’s clumsy. It pokes and prods nowhere in particular. The man seems to know where your clit and hole are, which is a great start already, but he doesn’t seem to know what to do with them. You stifle a laugh, finding his eagerness adorable.
Eyes with the vastness of the sky flicker up to meet yours. You feel his lips twitch. “Are you laughing at me?”
“No,” you say.
Satoru shakes his head with a disbelieving chuckle. “No, you totally are. Don’t think you have to be polite to me; I already know how brutally honest you can be. Guide me. Tell me how you like it. Train me to know how to make you feel good. I’m a quick learner, promise.”
“Fine. Circle my clit. Rub it with your tongue. Not too fast, not too hard. Not yet. You have to build up, ‘kay?”
Invigorated by the instructions, your little nerd does as you say. The change in his actions makes all the difference — you’re growing breathless at the attentive ministrations. Every rub, every flick, is intentional and careful.
“Like this?” he asks, voice muffled.
“Hmm, keep going.”
You can feel his eyes on you, watching your movements and the way your chest caves in and out. The skin where his heated gaze skims tingles. You fight the urge to hide for the first time ever; he sees too much.
Slowly, his glasses become fogged up, and he pushes them up over his head once he realises they’re not making a difference. With no barrier between his hot mouth and your hotter pussy, he draws even closer.
Satoru begins using his own common sense and wraps his lips around your clit, sucking hard and harder when you gasp, thighs tightening around his head.
“I didn’t realise p-pussies can get this wet,” he remarks absentmindedly, practically talking to himself. “I meant to say your pussy’s really –mmm- pretty earlier, by the way. I just panicked.” The pads of his fingers follow the outline of your lips, feeling the swollen folds, dipping in your wetness to make squelching noises. “Guys always talk about how ugly pussies are, but I think yours is too pretty, if anything. Doesn’t taste bad either. People always say it tastes like pennies; yours doesn—”
Groaning, you grab a handful of his hair and pull his mouth back to your clit. “Yeah, yeah, my kitty’s gorgeous, I know. Instead of waltzing poetic about it, why don’t you make me cum?”
He hisses and then moans at the sting at his scalp. Not a word of complaint is voiced though. On the contrary, he seems rather dazed at the pain. Halfheartedly, he corrects you, “Waxing. It’s waxing poetic.”
“Potato, tomato.”
“Potato, po-ta-to.”
“Shut up.”
“Aye, aye.”
“Oh my fucking go—YES! Right there!”
Loud, wet noises reverberate around the room.
Satoru is a messy eater. He really puts his all into it, rubbing his nose and cheeks carelessly, and lapping the entirety of your cunt with no reservations. Whilst he has a long way to come, it’s somehow working well enough for you that minutes later your back arches and you cum with a long moan.
“Hngh! Fuuuuuckk, that’s good,” you groan out when the final waves of your orgasm are washed away.
Satoru marvels at the translucent webs he makes between his fingers. He licks his lips. Glasses sliding back over his nose bridge, he beams at you. “How did I do?”
You sit up, ripping a pillowcase off his pillow and cleaning yourself up, and then throw the dirty thing at him to do whatever with. Fixing your hair, you say with a shrug, “Not bad for a virgin. Don’t worry; by the time I’m done with you, you’ll be known as the university’s pride and joy munch.”
Wiping his face and fingers clean with the case, he chuckles. “That’ll be a dream come true.”
“You didn’t show me the last room,” you note after a minute, wanting a distraction from the pulsing of your clit and the desire to bounce on his dick right here and right now.
Satoru gathers his thoughts for a second, still in that haze of pleasure but he quickly shakes it off and pushes himself up. He has a raging boner. You raise your brow at it. He angles his hips away from you, as though he thinks you’re going to bite it.
Extending a hand to you, he brings you to your feet, rearranging your clothes for you even though your hands keep smacking his away.
“It’s my favourite room,” he remarks contemplatively. “I can’t believe I forgot.”
“Good pussy does that to you,” you say, flicking your hair with a grin.
He grins too, brushing the hairs sticking to the sweat on your forehead away. “You’re right. I better be careful.”
The last room is right across from the guestroom, where you were supposed to be stationed. He pushes the door open, revealing a room all men would kill for, you’re sure.
It’s a game room.
There are retro arcade games lining the walls. A desk with three screens standing next to each other to create one long one. There’s a seat on the floor with pedals at the foot and a massive TV towering over it, which flashes the words Formula 1. DVDs fill up a whole bookshelf. You can’t tell if they’re movie ones or video games. On your left, there’s even a popcorn machine and a slushie maker.
And at the very centre is a large table. It’s a familiar sight. You saw tables like this in the nerd cafe.
Seeing where your gaze has landed, Satoru leans against the doorframe, proud. “That’s our D&D setup. Ongoing campaign,” he says. “We’ve been running it for a few months now. Paused it mid-arc, though. Party’s getting back together next week to pick it up again.”
“Games can last that long?” you ask, actually a little amazed. You walk around the table, having enough tact and sense not to touch anything. It’s been drilled inside your pussy and your head that men will throw a fit if you touch their precious things.
Satoru nods, strolling leisurely to your side, chest brushing your shoulder. “Heck yeah. Longest one I did was half a year. This one seems like it’ll enter into the next academic year.”
A little childishly, you wonder, “Are you winning?”
“No,” he answers with a reflective smile, seemingly not upset at all, “but it’s not really about winning. As we like to say, it’s not the destination, it’s the journey. Good storytelling trumps all!”
You frown. “But winning’s good. It’s fun. It’s the whole point of anything.”
He brushes your hair from your shoulder, and lays a kiss there. You shiver. “We can play one day, and I’ll show you that there’s more to life, to games, than winning. That even if you lose, you’ll never regret playing.”
The doorbell rings.
“Ah, that’ll be the food.” Satoru makes a move for the door. “Look around as much as you’d like, just be careful in case you trip over something. I’ll set up the table. Hope you’re hungry!”
Why the hell did he kiss your shoulder?
No one’s ever done that before. The closest you’ve gotten is being bit there by some freak masquerading as a respectable lawyer.
Weirdo.
But why did you kinda like it?
Suddenly feeling colder, you run a finger down the length of the table. You can’t make out a single thing that’s happening on the board. There’s cards and figurines of monsters and people, and all sorts of different shapes.
You head down, joining him for dinner, feeling somewhat troubled by his words, and wholly unconvinced by his belief.
Journey. Storytelling. Never regret playing?
Bullshit — winning’s the only thing worth fighting for in life.
.
.
.
In a lacy negligee, you wander into his bedroom, fresh out of the bathroom. Satoru reclines on the bed, reading a comic book about Batman or another superhero, you don’t know. He smiles when you slide into bed.
“I knew it was going to be weird having a girl sleeping in my bed, but I didn’t realise just how weird it’d be,” he notes, putting his comic book down on his bedside drawer. He’s wearing some old anime-themed matching set pyjamas, a sleeping mask to pair it with prepared beside him, and you have to resist the grimace setting on your face; he looks like an idiot incel.
“Uhuh,” you reply, applying lip balm because you’d rather die than have chapped lips.
Satoru continues. “It feels like I’m having a sleepover, but we’re allowed to snuggle and grope. I’m worried I’ll be drooling and talking in my sleep. Maybe I’ll accidentally push you off the bed too. Are you sure you’re okay here?”
“Yes, for the last time. And if you push me off the bed in the middle of the night, I’ll rip your dick off, then you’ll really have a broken dick.”
He laughs.
Dinner had gone by as normally as any other dinner — he talked your ear off about the development of Chinatown in the city, starting from the very first restaurant and the boom of boba tea, which apparently isn’t even a Chinese invention. You weren’t really listening, too peeved off with how he didn’t seem the least bit affected by your attempt to play footsie with him under the table.
Now, it’s time to sleep, but you have no interest in sleeping.
It’s been over two weeks since you’d last been fucked good and hard, and you’re beginning to twitch and scratch at your skin like someone going through withdrawal.
You need dick inside of you or you might die.
Satoru’s surprised when you climb onto his lap. His hands instinctively hold your hips. “Woah, uh, I thought we were gonna sleep,” he says.
He can’t seem to decide where to set his eyes: off your body to be respectful or on your body because you clearly want him to look. You grab his face and make sure he can’t look anywhere but the tits in front of him.
Lips curling into something sinful, you inform him, “No, Satoru baby. You’re gonna suck my tits, I’m gonna rub my pussy on your dick until you’re hard again, and then you’re going to lose your virginity. That okay with you?”
There’s no way he’s going to reject your offer; his pupils are blown out. He’s also obviously fixated on the faint promise of your nipples he spies through the thin material of your lingerie. All men are weak to lace and satin, like cats and catnip. Gulping, he nods. “Y-yeah, if you’re sure.”
Beneath you, something grows bigger.
“Perfect,” you purr. “Now suck.”
You shove your tits forward so he’s buried between them. He inhales deeply, groaning. And, almost as if puppetted by lust, his hands come up to grope you. Satoru doesn’t squeeze hard. He doesn’t squeeze at all. In fact, he’s merely feeling the weight and shape.
“So soft,” he whispers.
Nails scraping his scalp, you mutter encouragingly, “I said ‘suck’, Satoru. Are we going to have problems?”
“No, ma’am.” Carefully, wise enough to know not to ruin your expensive lingerie, he pulls down the cups. At the sight of your breasts bared to him, he makes a noise of amazement. “Wow. They’re so spherical.”
Fed up with his gentlemanly act, you flick your nipple and show him how they harden. “Suck, squeeze, be a little rougher, and get me nice and wet again. I don’t want to have to tell you another time.”
Satoru nods, putting more force in how he holds your tits. After a harder grope which elicits a pleased hum from you, he’s emboldened. Over and over again, he squeezes and jiggles the fats. He mouths at one, kissing skin before venturing to your nipple.
His warmth covers you. You sigh. “That’s it. More. Be rougher with me, Satoru.”
Like he had done with your clit, he flicks the hardened bud, then rolls it on his tongue. One hand keeps you steady by holding your waist whilst the other plays with your other tit. The little nerd looks parched as he sucks on your tit. One would think he’d been doing this forever. Guess it’s something that’s just innate to men.
Your hips begin rolling too. His cock has hardened under your ass. With a little shuffling, the length of it lines up with your pussy through his pants. The cockhead kisses your clit, though separated by layers. You bite your lips.
Being fucked is incredible, but dryhumping can be just as.
The friction, the warmth, the constant bumping of sensitive points — there’s nothing like it. You won’t deny to anyone that you’re soaking through your thong right now.
He gasps, leaving a string of spit from your nipple to his lips. “I can feel you. It’s like a hotdog bun. Go faster.”
Smacking the back of his head, you scold him, “Don’t describe it like that. It’s so unattractive. Do you not know how to dirty talk? Do I have to teach you that too? Or are you purposely trying to make me dry?”
A pulse makes your hips jolt.
Satoru shakes his head. He dives for your other tit, giving it equal attention, in apology. “S-sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Just…please go faster.”
You roll your eyes. “I was going to. God, you’re so impatient.” The pleasure was building before he’d spoken. Now, you have to build it back up again.
Faster and faster, you rub your pussy all over his cock, rotating your hips right where his tip is so your clit can get what she needs.
Groans and moans and hisses fill the humid space between you. His glasses are being knocked into a wonky angle. He doesn’t seem to mind; his eyes are closed anyway, too consumed by the sensations he’s feeling to care about anything else.
Soon, your hips stutter, juices soaking through. “Mmm, that’s good.”
Dryhumping never fails to make you cum.
You suddenly push off him so he can’t rut up into you and ruin everything. You lick your lips at the wet spot you leave on his pants.
Satoru reaches for you. “Hey…” he complains, pouting. “I wasn’t done, and I haven’t cum yet.”
“Shush. Do you have condoms?”
“Top drawer,” Satoru replies, sulking a little. You open it and frown at the massive mess of condoms you see. He scratches the back of his neck. “Ah, sorry, I didn’t know which one to get, so I got all of them.”
Warming. Ribbed. Extra Small. Extra Extra Large. Glow-in-the-dark. Flavoured.
You should have known he couldn’t do something as simple as buying condoms. Snatching the plain XL, you swat the hands attempting to reconnect with your tits away and situate yourself on his lap again. Pants and boxers pulled down, his cock springs out. You poke it to watch it bounce.
“Y’know, I’ve been trying to get myself hard since that time in the bathroom, but nothing works,” Satoru confesses, thoroughly bothered by his dick’s refusal to listen to him. “It’s not fair that I can only get hard with you; I really want to play with it too.”
“I bet,” you reply, rolling it down on his length. Damn, he’s even bigger than you remembered.
He watches you lift yourself up on your knees, aiming his tip just right. You slide down his length impatiently. At the tightness that meets him, he hisses, hands flying to grip your hips once more. This time, they’re not gentle — they dig into the meat, fighting the urge to tug you down.
Shaking his head, he whimpers. “No, no, I can’t do this. You’re too tight!”
“Shh, Satoru,” you whisper, stroking his cheek to comfort him. “You can take it, promise. It’s going to feel so good once you’re fully inside, trust me, ‘kay?”
Satoru takes multiple deep breaths, throwing his head back and gritting his teeth. “Okay, okay. Fuck.”
It isn’t easy on you either; he’s far too big to take with as little prep as you’d done, but your pussy’s a pro. She’s magical. Capable of anything. So, you push through, sucking him inches at a time until you’re more or less at the base. Breathless yourself, you say, “See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Somehow, he musters a half-nod, but the flush on his face suggests otherwise.
“I’m going to start moving, alright? Hold on to me and let me know if it’s too much. I won’t get mad.” That’s more than most men have said to you, but the words leave your lips so easily you wonder why so few have ever given you that mercy.
He nods, panting. “Yes, yes, move. Please.”
Up and down your hips move, slowly and gently. Each rise and fall sends his eyelashes fluttering and his head rolling. It’s as if every sense is heightened and he’s already overwhelmed to the max. Despite that, he doesn’t quit. He wants this just as bad.
Anything to prove he’s not weak, that he’s not a failure.
“Such a good boy, Satoru,” you drawl.
His cock throbs. “T-thank you.”
The stretch is insane — it stung at first. But now, you’re so eager to feel his cockhead pressing against your g-spot, kissing your cervix, and wringing out a deep orgasm, that you fight the complaints of your inner walls. Honestly, you can’t remember the last time you’ve ever been so full.
What a waste that his wonderful cock had gone so long without being ridden.
All the bouncing makes the bed creak pitifully. It’s a subtle sound under his loud moaning. The rasp of his whines and groans sends vibrations rattling your bones, tickling you from the inside.
Oh, how you love a vocal man.
“So tight,” he gasps out. “You’re so fucking tight. I can’t think straight. I never knew -hah- sex felt this h-heavenly.”
“This is just the tip of the iceberg, Satoru. Imma show you a whole new world.”
Through the overstimulation and the dizzying pleasure, he finds it in himself to smile. “Shining, shimmering, splendid, huh?” At your eye roll, he moans, distracted once again. “Use me to make yourself cum; I’m not sure I h-have it in me to do anything but not -hah fuuuck- cum early.”
You snort. “That was always the plan, dummy.”
Unrestrained, you bounce on his cock like it’s a trampoline. Just as he said, you use him for your own pleasure. Your nails dig into his shoulders through his shirt. He throbs inside of you. When you grind your hips, your eyes roll back, and when his cockhead prods that gummy spot inside you, wetness floods out.
It’s so fucking good. You can’t tell if it’s because it’s been so long, because he’s so big, or if your body chemistry is really that fucking good — whatever the case may be though, it’s certain that you’re in for a great time with this nerd.
“Oh fuck, I’m gonna cum,” you whine out, back arching, tits shoved right into his face.
Spasms wrack your body at the massive orgasm that consumes you. You screech with the strength of it, hips stuttering once again.
Three orgasms in one day is fan-fucking-tastic.
Satisfied, you droop over his chest. “Thank god you have a big dick.”
Satoru makes a tortured noise. Hands clutching you with an iron-clad intensity, you find yourself shoved backward. Your back hits the mattress. Above you, he stares at your body. He’s flushed. Manic. Practically deranged-looking.
You frown. “Hey, are you okay? Did I go too fast?”
Hastily, he shakes his head, throwing his glasses carelessly behind him when it begins creeping down his nose bridge. “No. Fuck no. You were perfect. You felt so perfect. I want more. I want to feel good too. Can I? Please?”
“Yeah, of cour—”
That’s all he needs.
He finds your pussy with a little fumbling and help from you, pushing his still-hard cock in. Satoru gasps, outstretched arms he uses to hold himself up shaking. The slide back in is easier this time, and he doesn’t wait till he bottoms out before pulling out just to shove himself back in a second later.
There’s no rhythm to his thrusting; he’s simply doing what feels good. He swings his hips like his biological instincts have taken over. It’s fast, jostling you around. You’re being inched backwards.
Your head hangs over the bed. Satoru buries his face in your tits, slobbering all over them. “So good,” he repeats like a mantra. “So good, so -hngh- fucking good. I don’t ever want to stop. Fuckfuckfuck, I think I’m gonna pee.”
“No, Satoru,” you say, being jostled further and further down the bed with the force of his thrusting. “You’re gonna -hah- cum. Just like in the toilet stall, remember? Let it happen.”
“Yes,” he says, licking a stripe between the valley of your breast, tasting the salt on your skin. “I’m gonna cum. Mm, your nails — dig them into my back. I like it. I think. Fuck, I don’t -hic!- know anymore!”
Through his shirt, you scratch his back up, digging enough to make his hips speed up, ramming his cock inside you now. You moan with him. His energy and enthusiasm is making up for his lack of experience. The rubbing of his pelvis against your clit quickly brings you to the edge again.
You cum with a scream.
He cums with your name on his lips.
Then he completely slumps onto you, dead to the world and threatening to suffocate you with his weight.
Delirious with your surprise fourth orgasm, you weakly mutter, “Virgins.”
After that night, something awakens in him.
As you brush your teeth, he comes up behind you, eyes bleary with sleep and mumbling a good morning. Satoru rubs his morning wood against your ass, holding you tight and nuzzling the crook of your neck.
“Sorry,” he mumbles. “I woke up like this, and I don’t know what to do.”
“Condom?”
Satoru holds one between his fingers, ready and smiling into your skin, proud he’d anticipated that.
Rolling your eyes, you bend over the sink a little, pushing your panties to the side — good thing you woke up wet yourself. He sinks his cock inside, stealing your breath once more.
“Oh fuuuuuck.”
You each get another orgasm that way.
And when you wash up after in his spacious shower, he joins, nimble fingers parting your folds and rubbing that spot inside you he finds quite easily. The nerd’s good with his fingers, which is great because it’s such a waste to have long digits like his otherwise. Under the stream of water, you’re pressed up to the tiles, panting in his mouth. Dizziness makes you feel lightheaded; the steam isn’t helping at all.
When you cum, he fucks his already-hard and protected cock inside you. You cling to him as he holds you up, and you warn, “If you slip and drop me, you’re dead meat, do you hear me?”
He nods, groaning and rutting with wet slaps against your hips. “I won’t. Won’t -hah- drop you.”
True to his words, he doesn’t drop you, but he does get a nosebleed from the intensity of his second orgasm of the day and the humidity. You scold him thoroughly for getting blood on you. He apologises with his face between your legs.
Whilst you get ready for the day, he cooks breakfast.
Sitting on the island opposite him, you two eat the food together. Satoru talks on and on about how he got some Pokemon cards graded recently, and that they’ll go up in resale value by some percentage every year. You’re hardly listening, just nodding here and there. He doesn’t seem to mind.
Satoru finishes his breakfast first, and when you look up, he’s gone from his seat. Hands push your thighs apart. You peek under the table, and there he is, smiling up at you all innocently. Sighing, you hook your legs over his shoulder and give him free rein once more.
“Don’t jostle me too much,” you order. “If I drop sauce on my new top, you’re going to pay for it.”
He mouths against your panties, “I’ll be good.”
You cum ten minutes later.
And again when he fucks you as you’re bent over the counter. It seems like the man’s catching up on all the orgasms he’s missed out on throughout the years.
Satoru whines behind you, hips stuttering when your pussy clamps down on his throbbing cock. “So good…so fucking good. I’m gonna cum again, oh fuck.”
Fingers digging into the fat of your ass, he yanks you back to him, making fwop fwop sounds with the force of his desperate thrusting. Then he spurts inside you, body shuddering in waves.
Drooling on the marble surface, you groan at the slumping of his body over yours. “Ugh, Satoru, you’re heavy and sweaty, get the fuck off me.”
He presses a kiss to your shoulder, mumbling, “Don’t be mean to me — it’s getting me hard again.”
You don’t let being on campus stop you from fucking like rabbits either.
At least twice a day, you’ll text him which room you’re in — janitor’s closet in the Psychology building, Studio 3 in the atrium, Masamichi lecture hall between the 9am and 11am slot — and he comes as soon as he can.
Satoru eats you out from under your skirt whenever he has to be quick, to get back to his responsibilities, whatever they are. He fucks you from the back, rolls of toilet paper rattling off the shelves, and from the front on desks, when you have longer time to mess around.
He fucks you with his fingers whilst you jerk him off if you run out of condoms.
The two of you do it whenever and wherever you please.
Like now, as you’re in the Music storage room. Dusty violins, keyboards and instruments you don’t even know the name of surround you. A quick text had him sprinting from one end of campus to the other. As soon as you heard his footsteps outside, you dragged him in.
Shrugging off his backpack, he groped your tits through your top, flicking and pinching your nipples. “I was just thinking about this,” he confessed, breathless.
You were unzipping his jeans, pulling it down enough to stroke his half-hard cock. “Yeah? Were you thinking about fucking me as I pull your hair?”
He moaned, fingers finding your cunt soaked. “Y-yeah, want you to pull it hard.”
So you do — every time you yank on his scalp, he throbs inside you, whimpering so loudly you worry that someone will hear him outside.
“Harder,” he begs. “I can take it.”
His pelvis rubs your clit so perfectly that you feel your own juices oozing out of you, leaving a mess all over your inner thighs you’ll have to clean up. The friction, inside and out, the slamming of bodies, the tightness in which you’re holding each other, it’s all fucking good.
To his credit, he’s quickly learnt all your weak spots, the way you like to build your orgasm up, how you don’t want to be treated too roughly nor too softly. Maybe it’s because he’s a smart guy, maybe it’s because he wants to impress — whatever the case may be, it’s working pretty damn well for you.
Your orgasm explodes, and you lose control over your own hand; you pull so forcefully and suddenly with the force of your orgasm that his head yanks back sharply. Satoru’s eyes roll back, and he cums so hard his knees buckle.
He takes you down with him, falling to the floor in a loud clatter.
“Satoru! Someone could have heard us,” you hiss against his chest.
But he doesn’t hear you, not over the sound of his own moaning at the residuals of his orgasm. Glasses foggy, you can’t tell if he’s passed out beneath you or not. You smack him awake regardless.
Stammering, he says, “Huh? Oh, right. Yes, yes, we should fix ourselves up and get out of here as soon as possible…after another round.”
This happens often.
This, as in a general disregard for the law and campus policy.
You fuck behind the bike shed, on teachers’ desks, in the gym shed, cafeteria kitchen after hours, on all fours, from behind, against the wall, on your back, on his back. Anywhere there aren’t any cameras, you’ve fucked. If someone were to take a blacklight to the whole university, they’d think a series of murders had been committed.
All in the span of a week.
And you guys aren’t showing a sign of stopping.
.
.
.
When Satoru texts you, asking to meet him at a store, you’re confused but go anyway. He’s waiting outside, hands in his pockets and rocking back and forth on his heels.
“You want to fuck here?”
He beams when he sees you. “Heyyyy, thanks for coming. And no, Diapers,” Satoru says, eyes sparkling with humour, “we’re not defiling a toy store. We’re here ‘cause I have some things I want to get.”
“And I have to be here?” You don’t even bother hiding the unimpressed tone of your voice. God, if you had known he’s just running errands, you wouldn’t have come all this way wearing a cute, blue thong and matching lacey bra. What a waste.
Satoru fixes you a look. “Now, now, fake-real girlfriend, if you want to violate my poor, fragile body later, you’re going to keep me company as I pick out new Lego sets, m’kay?”
Holding onto your shoulders and ushering you in before you can sashay away, he leaves you no choice but to walk in with him. The automatic doors slide open with a cheerful chime, and you’re immediately assaulted by colour.
Bright plastic aisles stretch on forever. Shelves packed with dolls, puzzles, plushies staring vacantly into the void. The air smells faintly of cardboard and sugar, like childhood and disappointment. Somewhere nearby, a kid shrieks with joy, and you physically cringe.
He pushes a cart — how much is he planning to buy?
You slow your steps, heels clicking against the floor. “I cannot believe,” you say flatly, “that I waxed my entire body for this.”
Satoru laughs, unbothered, already scanning the store like a man on a mission. “You say that now,” he replies, “but give it ten minutes and you’ll be like a child in a candy store.”
“I will not,” you say, crossing your arms. “I don’t even like children’s toys.”
“That’s because you’re thinking of them wrong.”
You shoot him a look.
He grins and drifts toward the Lego aisle, long strides unhurried, like he’s completely at home here. You trail after him, already bored, eyes glazing over at the endless boxes stacked floor to ceiling.
“Okay,” he says, stopping in front of a massive display. “See this?” He gestures broadly. “This is basically world-building — like I showed you in my apartment, remember?”
“It’s plastic.”
Of course you remembered. That moment was tolerable. Spending an hour strolling through aisle after aisle under fluorescent lights that do nothing for your complexion?
Totally not.
“It’s control,” Satoru corrects lightly. “You get to decide how things look. Who goes where. What story they’re telling.” He picks up a box, studying the front. “You ever notice how much thought goes into presentation? Colour palettes, silhouettes, themes?”
“…Obviously,” you say. “If the outfit’s ugly, no one cares if it’s designer.”
“Exactly,” he says, delighted, like you’ve just passed a pop quiz. “Same principle. You don’t just slap pieces together. You curate. Pick things that reflect you, that tell your story.”
You glance at the box again. It’s a pastel-heavy set — café-themed. Tiny tables. Little cups. Fairy lights printed on the cardboard. “That one’s cute,” you mutter before you can stop yourself.
His head snaps toward you. “See?”
“I said cute, not interesting,” you argue weakly.
He plucks the box from the shelf and turns it around, pointing at the figures on the back. “Look at her outfit. Layered textures. Colour coordination. She’s a diva — you can tell from just one glance. It tells a whole story about her character.”
Leaning in despite yourself, your eyes tracing the tiny details. “She needs better shoes.”
“I knew you’d say that.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s less bite now. As you move down the aisle, he keeps talking — not at you, but with you, connecting everything back to things you actually care about. This set has drama, he says. That one’s about legacy. This one’s all optics — looks impressive, but structurally weak if you don’t reinforce it properly.
You find yourself stopping in front of a display without realising it, fingers brushing over a box with sleek black-and-gold accents. “This looks expensive.”
Satoru hums approvingly. “Ahh, you’ve got great tastes, babe.”
“Obviously.”
A beat passes. You realise you’re standing closer now, shoulder nearly touching his arm. You’re not thinking about how stupid this is anymore, or how you’d normally never be caught dead here. Instead, you’re imagining it — building something with him. Sitting on the floor. Choosing pieces. Arguing over aesthetics.
The thought unsettles you.
“Don’t get smug,” you warn, narrowing your eyes. “This is still kind of lame.”
He smiles like he’s already won. “Yeah. But you’re having fun.”
You open your mouth to deny it, and fail. “…Shut up,” you mutter, reaching for another box.
A bunch piles up in the shopping cart; he doesn’t blink at the rising costs. You don’t think he even looks at the price tag. Wow, he’s irresponsible. More so than you probably. That makes you feel a little better about how often you max out your credit cards.
In a far corner, he browses through the nerf guns. “Inumaki out-nerfed me with his recent purchase; I need to one-up him,” Satoru explains.
No one’s around.
Slinking up behind him, you rub his crotch as he shops. He stiffens. “No. Bad girl. I do not want to get banned from this place.”
“And we won’t,” you reply, humming. He’s steadily growing under your touch despite his words, and you don’t hesitate to grope him to full-hardness. “Just keep it lowkey. Can you do that?”
His gaze flits left and right, trying to make sure no one can see what you’re doing. The camera’s behind you, and you know from experience that it’ll only look like you’re hugging him. He groans, box in his hands shaking.
“Shush, Satoru — or maybe,” you mewl, “you want to be caught. Are you a dirty little exhibitionist, Toru? Do you want to show everyone how well your dick works, is that it?”
Satoru’s hips rut forward, chasing your grip even though he definitely wants to fight against your bad influence. His hand comes down, clutching your wrist. “No,” he insists, “I’m not that depraved. Not like you, Diapers.”
Gracefully, he spins the two of you around. You face the shelves and he embraces you from behind. Long fingers slide under your skirt, pressing upwards on your clothed slit. You gasp.
“You’re wet already,” he notes, amused. “I think you’re the one who wants to be caught. You want everyone to know you’ve got me all wrapped around your pretty finger? Or maybe you just want to show everyone your cute, little panties.”
When he creeps inside, rubbing your clit, you confess, “I just thought your nerd lecture about plastic toys was adorable, is that so bad?”
He kisses your cheek, and coos, “You’re so stinkin’ sweet. Makes me want to taste this greedy pussy right here.”
“What’s stopping you?”
“The law,” he retorts quickly. “That and the thought of having to pay years of therapy for some kid.”
Voices sound out at the end of the aisle. The two of you quickly part.
A family walks by, not really paying much attention to either of you. Though the husband does look you up and down, snatching his leer away when Satoru steps in. As they admire a toy a metre or two away from you, you watch him suck his fingers and wink.
At the till, you end up with two Lego sets for yourself, and him with five, and the biggest Nerf gun they had in stock. His Lego sets are movie-based, and yours are a cutesy cafe and an orchid. Oddly, you find yourself itching to get started.
“Good afternoon, Gojo, how are you, dear?” the old lady cashier asks, looking fondly at him.
Satoru grins. “Good. How are you?”
“Very well, thank you. Back for your monthly shop I see. Great choices.” She spots you behind him. “And who might this be?”
“Oh, just a friend from school,” he says, pulling out his wallet. “I’m paying for hers too.”
You hand him the two you picked out. She smiles at you like you’re a little girl holding hands with her son, and you hate it. It’s so clearly fake. Who the fuck is she to look down at you? Does she think you’re dressed like a whore?
He waves goodbye to her as he walks out with you, bags bumping lightly against his legs. The bell above the door chimes, too cheerful for the mood settling in your chest. A frown hardens your face before you can stop it.
You don’t say anything at first. Pride won’t let you. You walk beside him in silence, the late afternoon air cool against your bare legs, the parking lot humming with distant traffic. He unlocks his car and pops the trunk, carefully arranging the bags like they’re fragile.
Sliding into the passenger seat, you cross your arms as soon as the door shuts. The interior smells faintly like clean laundry and coffee. There’s no trashy fluffy pink dice, trash littering the seats, or other girls’ earrings and scrunchies. It’s nice, and electric, because he cares about the environment probably. Nerd car.
Predictable.
He starts the engine, pulling out smoothly, humming under his breath like nothing’s wrong.
You last three minutes.
“So,” you say, voice light in that dangerous way, staring out the window. “I’m a friend now?”
Satoru glances over, immediately picking up on the edge. “Hey,” he says gently, easing off the accelerator at a red light. “That wasn’t—”
“Because I could’ve sworn,” you cut in, nails tapping against your knee, “that we were doing this whole fake-dating thing. You said, it’s as real as anything else, remember? Or did I hallucinate that part?”
The light turns green. He drives on, unhurried, jaw working like he’s choosing his next words carefully. A heavy air settles inside.
“I didn’t tell her you’re my girlfriend because I didn’t want to lie to her,” he says finally. Satoru keeps his eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel. “Calling you that to her, to someone who’s known me since I was a fresher felt wrong. Sorry.”
You scoff. “So you have no problem lying to your friends, but you won’t cross the line with a cashier?”
“Yeah, I know it sounds stupid. It’s just, she’s nice, y’know? She reminds me of my granny. It feels weird to lie to someone who’s so sweet,” he explains. “I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, promise. I tell everyone else, people who matter on campus, that you’re my girlfriend. No one’s gonna find us out, don’t worry.”
That shuts you up.
You look back out the window, watching buildings blur past, irritation knotting with something more confusing. You know this isn’t real. You know it’s convenient, mutually beneficial, temporary. You’re not stupid. So why does it sting?
Why does the idea of him introducing you as just a friend make your stomach twist like you’ve swallowed something sour?
“You could’ve warned me,” you mutter eventually.
He nods. “Yeah. I should’ve. I’m sorry.”
Silence settles again, thicker this time. You pick at the hem of your skirt, annoyed at yourself more than him. This shouldn’t matter. You’ve never cared before. You’ve always been someone’s arm candy, someone’s secret, someone’s placeholder — and you never blinked. But Satoru doesn’t treat you like any of those things. Maybe it upsets you so much because in that moment he felt like everyone else you had dated.
Satoru parks outside his building and turns the engine off. The quiet rings in your ears. For a moment, neither of you moves.
“I really didn’t mean to upset you,” he says softly. “If it bothered you, I’m sorry.”
You swallow, hating how sincere he sounds. How easy it would be to forgive him. How stupidly warm that feels. “…It’s fine,” you say, even though it isn’t. You don’t know what it is, just that it’s there. “But don’t make a habit of it. It’ll be bad if you slip up to people that matter. As real as all other relationships, remember? At least until the end of the year.”
He smiles, relieved. “You’re right.” He squeezes your thigh.
You grab your bags and step out of the car, telling yourself it’s nothing.
In his apartment, you lounge on his sofa, rewatching Princess Diaries on his massive TV whilst he builds one of his Lego sets on the coffee table. You’re in no mood to build anything anymore. He, on the other hand, is as he always is — happy and excited.
Neither of you try to remove the other’s clothes. The mood seems to have passed. You don’t mind. The movie’s pretty good.
He turns around and shows you his progress once in a while, and won’t turn back around until you pat him on the head.
Now, you’re not an expert on Lego at all, but there doesn’t seem to be a reason why anything needed such a thick booklet of instructions and over a thousand pieces. He seems to enjoy it though. There’s so many Lego things on display around his apartment that you’re scared to walk around and touch anything in case you destroyed something that took him hours to complete.
“Look, look,” he says, showing you a Lego girl and boy inside a brick building. “When I put the roof over it, we’ll never see them again. Say bye to mini us.”
“Those things represent us?” Leaning closer, you inspected the yellow things. “She doesn’t look anything like me. I’d never wear something so plain and without glitter. What happened to the cute one with ugly shoes?”
Satoru chuckles. “She’s waiting for a rainy day — gosh, I really have to ask them to make a new line based on you for next time, don’t I?”
Carefully, he angles the roof he built on the side just right, making sure everything lines up. You come down beside him, inspecting all the different pieces he had organised in separate plastic containers by colour.
“What’s their story?”
“Hmm?”
“Their story,” you repeat, trying to figure out what exactly you’re looking at. “You said you’re all about storytelling; I’m assuming this has a plot line too.”
He looks at you for a second, hands halting, then he breaks out into a wide smile. “They run a movie theatre! Toru over here mortgaged his house to fulfill his longtime dream of owning the theater his dad used to take him to all the time as a child, before he died from an airplane crash. His pretty wifey here was against it at first, because she didn’t think it was a good financial investment, since his last business endeavour landed them in a lot of debt.”
A giggle escapes you. “Sounds like she’s the only one who has any brain in the relationship. She must drive him mad, being the constant partypooper.”
“You’d think that, but she’s actually very supportive — she just doesn’t like seeing him disappointed,” Satoru says, making space for you when you make yourself comfortable on the rug beside him.
You nod. “So they’re in a very happy relationship?”
Satoru hums. “They’re madly in love. At night, when the theatre’s closed and everyone’s gone home, they play their wedding video on their best screen and dance together just like they did for their first dance.”
Burying your face between your knees, you ask, “How did they meet?”
“He kept bumping into her,” he says, scouring through one of the boxes for the pieces he needs. “And one day, she cornered him and asked why he hasn’t asked her out on a date yet. She basically threatened him into a relationship, and he was too scared of her to say no. Still is to this day.”
A full laugh fills up the room when you elbow him, totally catching on.
“He doesn’t regret it, does he? Never saying no, I mean?” you wonder, a little quietly.
With a small smile, he makes the two Lego people kiss, and he says, “No, I don’t think so. He only regrets the times when he disappoints her; he doesn’t like seeing her frown.”
“Then he should just keep making her happy.” Your head falls on his shoulder, too tired to keep it up yourself.
His own bumps yours. He says, “He’ll make a note of that.”
You’re so caught up in the moment that you forget why this whole thing started in the first place. That is until you get a text message from the girls’ group chat asking why you’ve been MIA.
Smile vanishing, your nails begin tapping on the screen. You say, you’ve been busy with things, and they immediately take that as you having a new man. You don’t deny it, only sending a middle finger emoji.
The chat explodes.
And you’re bombarded with messages asking who he is and how big his dick is. They irritate you so much you pause the movie to focus on letting the annoyance build. It’s not any of those fake bitches’ business who you date.
Oh, but it is though.
This is what you wanted, right? The opportunity to prove you can get a good man and you’re not obsessed with drama?
Brittany texts you separately: so you actually bagged him? why didn’t you tell me sooner?
It’s early days, you reply.
She says, you know Bitch and Bitchier aren’t going to make this easy for you or him, right? If this is about what I said before, you don’t need to go this far and subject him to their judgment. I’m happy to admit that you won.
You haven’t though — if you don’t make your relationship public, does it even exist?
Your final message to her is, I can handle them.
You let them know to meet you at a cafe on Tuesday morning, when Satoru has an open slot. Then you turn to him.
He sees the determined look in your eyes and slowly puts his bricks down.
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