S H A D E Y 👀

You stopped dead in your tracks. 

Oh no. Oh YES.

Your heart went thump thump thump! like crazy as you stood there, frozen between the door and the counter. Living with a man who looked like that was a direct threat to your peace. And his too, probably. You couldn't believe you had practically won a jackpot over freaking Reddit. And apparently Reddit was only full of weird people, as if. So you took a breath, adjusted your posture, and walked over.

But then the panic hit. Because someone who looked like that was probably bringing home a different girl every night. And you’d have to listen to the stupid Thump. Thump. Thump. of his bed through the thin drywall. Every single time.

Suck it and see, you never know, girl.

From his side of the table, Satoru had already run the numbers. His eyes tracked your movement the second you started walking over, assessing. You were cute, yes. Approachable hot, not intimidating hot. You didn’t look like the type who’d expect him to pay for everything or make fun of his personality. And most importantly — you had messaged him first on the housing thread.

That meant the dynamic was already set. You were practically already his. Why else would a girl willingly want to live with a man? The power balance was secured. Handled. Handed to him on a silver platter, just like all the podcasts had promised.

You slid into the booth across from him. "Satoru?"

"You're exactly two minutes and forty seconds late," Satoru announced, and you feared that wasn't a joke. He checked his phone screen. "Statistically speaking, women in their twenties are usually ten to fifteen minutes late to initial meetups to assert social dominance. Two minutes is almost negligible. I like the effort."

You stared at him. What the fuck. You hadn't even taken your jacket off yet.

"I got caught at a red light," you said slowly, furrowing your eyebrows and eyeing his hands. Why were they so big?

“Right. Variables.” Satoru nodded, looking way too serious about the whole thing. He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “So — I brought the lease agreement. As I mentioned, I have a 780 credit score and I want dishes done within twenty-four hours. To prevent breeding grounds for fruit flies.” He slid the keys across the table along with the papers, completely unprompted. “I assume you don’t have a problem with basic hygiene? You shouldn’t have—” his eyes dragged over you, slow and sleazy, “—judging by your appearance.”

You looked at the keys. Then at his stupidly pretty, already supremely annoying face.

Your brain was trying to throw up big red warning signs, but you really needed the space. It was cheap. Close to work. And you’d have to survive maybe a year or two before you could afford a one-bedroom on your own.

You go, girl.

“I’m clean,” you said, picking up the keys. You narrowed your eyes at him, trying to figure out exactly what brand of lunatic you were about to chain yourself to. “Listen. You’re not going to be weird, are you?”

Satoru tilted his head, genuinely confused. “Define weird.”

You bit your lip.

There went those “quick” two years of your life.

You already knew the answer. You already fucking knew. Time for some hard coping. Maybe this was just a phase. Maybe he’d snap out of it soon. Maybe he’d gone through a breakup and was just being salty. That was probably it.

And to be fair, the first few weeks weren’t actually that weird. You were getting to know each other, learning how to exist in the same space. It was quiet, even. You would’ve paid good money to keep it like that forever.

He mostly worked from his room, only came out for meals, did the dishes, and left you alone. He barely even talked to you, which should’ve been suspicious, but you chose to ignore it. You started to think maybe you’d read him wrong at the café. Maybe the breakup theory was right. Maybe he was just having a weird day.

But spoiler alert — you couldn’t have been more wrong.

Satoru had not gone through a bad breakup. You suspected he had never gone through any breakup at all ever. Once he got comfortable enough to drop the act, or perhaps as some calculated 4D chess move to trap you past the point of getting your deposit back, his true colors started showing.

Satoru didn’t bring girls home. He didn’t do any of the hot-man things you’d expected either. Instead, he spent most of his free time on Reddit, arguing with strangers about the state of modern dating, and why “nice guys” were being chronically overlooked by society.

After about a month, it clicked.

This man was chronically, terminally online. And an incel on top of it all.

The rule of never judging a book by its cover confirmed itself in the most jarring way possible. Would say, you played yourself there girl, but who am I to judge.

It started with the staring. You’d be sitting at the kitchen island in your sleep shirt, eating a bowl of Cheerios, and you’d look up to find him just… watching you. He never looked away when you caught him either. He’d just blink those big, stupidly pretty blue eyes at you, gaze heavy and analytical, like he was trying to calculate your exact molecular structure. Which, in a way, he was. Carefully assessing the harmony of your facial features, exactly like the looksmaxxing subreddit had probably told him to.

You were always the one who had to look away first, your face feeling weirdly hot.

Then came the rants. You’d come home from a brutal shift and collapse onto the couch, and Satoru would emerge from his room like clockwork. He’d drop down next to you, eyes glued to his phone, and start talking like someone had asked.

“It’s basic hypergamy,” he announced one night, to absolutely no one. “Men are biologically disadvantaged in the modern dating sphere because of the top-twenty-percent rule.”

You didn’t even look at him. You just kept staring at the TV and wondered how long you could keep nodding along before it would become suspicious.

And he would just keep going.

Spewing the most vile, stupid shit while you sat there, eyes flicking from the TV to him and back, nodding along because you genuinely did NOT care. Top twenty what percent? Wasn’t he objectively in the top ten at least? What the hell was he even talking about? Every time you didn’t answer, he probably took it as agreement. You just deadass had nothing to say to him.

Not because you lacked the energy to argue — though you kind of did, because talking to this manchild was like talking to a wall, and even that would’ve been more productive — but mostly because you weren’t even listening anymore. You’d learned how to tune him out pretty quickly.

You were tolerating him. That’s what you told yourself. You were tolerating him, and it had nothing to do with the fact that ever since you first laid eyes on him, your brain had decided to revert to its most embarrassing caveman settings.

Like that one evening when you were walking down the hallway toward the kitchen and the bathroom door opened.

Satoru stepped out, dripping wet. White hair plastered to his forehead, water still running down his chest, wearing nothing but a towel slung dangerously low on his hips. You shamelessly followed his happy trail. The way the towel barely clung on his hips.

Your brain stalled at the sight of his pretty body and your mouth went dry. You reminded yourself why you were tolerating him. Then berated yourself for doing exactly what he did — objectifying.

But hey. What's better than an incel asshole? A hot incel asshole. That's what's better. Congratulations to you specifically, really found a rock between a sea of gems.

You thought you had it handled. White-knuckle your way through the lease. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

And then you walked past his partially open bedroom door and heard him on Discord.

"Yeah, I mean, the living situation is okay," Satoru was saying, sounding so perfectly reasonable. You thought he was going to say something nice. What a good roommate she is, how glad he was to have you there.

"She's clean. And yeah, she's hot, but she's not like super hot hot where it's scary, you know? She's cute hot. Next door hot, pretty hot. Just my type, you know my type, dude. I can definitely work with that."

You froze in the hallway.

Your face did something that could only be described as a visual representation of what the fuck.

Cute hot. I can definitely work with that.

What does that even mean? You knew exactly what it meant, unfortunately. He wasn't just a weird roommate. He was a weird roommate actively running some kind of deranged, incel-fueled long game on you. Casually. Over Discord. 

You quietly backed away, went to your room, locked the door, and screamed into your pillow.

It was not like your roommate was describing you like a property investment to someone over Discord while you were standing mere feet away. 

You hated this. You hated him. And you hated yourself for having been even remotely apologetic about it, for feeling your heart skip a beat when he said just my type. Curse you and your completely stupid and irrational attraction to someone you should probably be filing a restraining order against! But god, he was so so cute. If he could just shut the fuck up, or get lobotomized, or something. You could take him to Claire's over the weekend?

But to his credit, and you could not fucking believe you were giving him even some credit at all right now, he was sometimes tolerable, heavy on the sometimes. The man never missed a rent payment. He scrubbed the bathtub weekly. He always bought the expensive brand of paper towels, the ones with the little flower pattern you liked.

Good roommate, structurally speaking. Nightmare, every other way.

And the attraction was just a proximity issue. Obviously. Everyone would have this problem. It would go away. His personality was ass. Soon enough you'd look at him and convince yourself his looks were ass too. Start acknowledging his hotness the way you acknowledged anything asexual.

It was totally fine. You were fine. He was just a guy. A guy who happened to look like a Final Fantasy character rendered in 4K, but still just a guy. A nice guy.

And work with that, he definitely did. Because he was fine too! Just not in any way he would ever admit to his Discord buddies.

Because doing it the normal way guys in their sexual prime do was completely fine. He was in his twenties, so naturally, his mind wandered a bit when his head hit the pillow with passing thoughts about the way your sleep shirt rode up your bare thigh. There was absolutely nothing wrong with getting off while thinking about someone! It was just the normal biological need the podcasts yapped about! It was healthy to be sexually active, even if his only active partner was his fist.

And if that happened to escalate into jerking off to a completely innocent Instagram picture and coming all over his phone screen while staring at your pixelated smile? Also completely normal! Everyone dealt with new living arrangements differently; someone screamed into their pillow, someone else was jerking off every time you got said person inexplicably hard! He couldn't be expected to live like a celibate monk when he was just a poor, horny guy trapped in an apartment with a gorgeous roommate who also happened to be exactly his type. He wasn't being a creep! He was just adapting to his environment.

Goddamn.

It wasn't fine. He wasn't fine, you weren't fine either.

But as the weeks dragged on, he started getting worse.

The passive-aggressive creepiness turned into passive-aggressive entitlement. He had decided, completely on his own, that the two of you were basically already together. You could feel it in the way he hovered. In the way he looked at you like he was waiting for something. Like a bill was coming due and he was just giving you time to find your wallet.

It started with the food.

Without any discussion, he started either making food for both of you or straight-up eating what you’d made for yourself. Like that was just the new normal now.

“Satoru, did you eat my food?” you’d ask, staring at the empty space in the fridge where your meal had been. The one you’d been looking forward to all day. And he’d just nod from the couch like it was the most normal, domestic thing in the world — not a direct violation of the rules you’d set when you moved in.

Or there was the night you came home completely drained, fully prepared to eat a sleeve of saltines and a bucket of ice cream for dinner, only to walk into the apartment smelling like garlic and roasted vegetables.

Satoru was actually at the stove, cooking. A rare sight — the man usually survived on takeout and DoorDash. And he’d used your expensive dried tomatoes. The ones you’d been saving for a special occasion. The ones you’d deliberately shoved to the back of the fridge so he wouldn’t find them.

“Men in the kitchen are a rare sight, I know,” he said, not looking at you as he stirred, trying to look like the eighth world wonder. “But I thought — what if I made pasta? It’s the one my mom used to make. Figured I’d make it for myself. Made a lot though, so… you can have some too, I guess.”

He was already plating a portion for you as he spoke, trying and failing to look casual while clearly nervous you wouldn’t like it.

You watched him for a moment and felt something shift in your chest. You immediately labeled it as hunger and moved on.

He didn’t ask if you liked it. He just assumed you would. And he was right, yeah you ate it, but that wasn’t the point. The pasta wasn’t even that good. Way too salty. But it sat warm in your belly, and you didn’t have it in you to tell him the truth.

You thanked him for the meal but didn’t acknowledge the grand gesture you hadn’t agreed to in the first place. You didn’t make conversation and went straight to do the dishes.

When you glanced back, he was watching you with that look again.

You looked away first.

And of course an incel like that would have opinions about your love life too.

You’d been seeing someone — nothing serious, just a guy from Hinge. Two dates in, and you were still on the fence. He didn’t make your heart do that stupid thump thump thump, and his hairline wasn’t all that great either.

You made the mistake of mentioning a possible third date while making coffee, trying to have a normal, boring conversation about your respective lives.

“I think I’m going to see him again on Saturday,” you said, mostly to your mug.

Satoru looked up from his phone. He was always on his phone doing gods know what.

"The architect guy?"

"Nah, I ghosted that one. Different guy."

A pause. He furrowed his eyebrows the way he did when he was assessing something. “How many are there?”

You gave him a warning look.

"I'm just asking."

"And I'm not answering," you said, rolling your eyes.

He put his phone down, which was never a good sign. You turned back to the coffee machine.

“I just think,” he started.

“Don’t,” you muttered, already regretting bringing it up.

"—that you're not being strategic about this."

You turned back around, mentally preparing for what was about to come.

“About dating. Statistically speaking, cycling through too many low-value options in a short period of time actually decreases your own value. If you want to attract a high-value man—”

He didn’t just mean men. He meant himself. Which, bless him, but also fuck him for putting it like that.

You stared at him for a moment, seriously considering yelling and throwing your mug at his stupidly symmetrical face.

“Satoru,” you said. “Did you just tell me I’m getting ran-through?”

He opened his mouth, then immediately closed it. His ears went pink — he had probably clocked his own stupidity, apparently, which was a first.

"No! It's not — that's not what I—" he started, hands coming up like he was surrendering.

"Where did you even hear that phrase?"

"It's a concept from—"

"No." You held up a hand. "No, I don't want to know, actually. You just made me really upset."

You picked up your coffee and looked at him — standing there in his stupid nerdy sleep shirt, with his stupidly cute messy hair, genuinely confused about why this had gone wrong. Like he really thought you’d realize he was right and apologize on your knees for even mentioning other men.

You felt furious. Tired. And something else you weren’t going to name.

You couldn’t believe you’d ever imagined getting railed into oblivion by this man. Instead, you had to talk to him like he was a toddler. You had a feeling you were going to become a cautionary tale. A PSA about what happens when you move in with an incel.

You went on the date that Saturday anyway. It was fine. The guy was fine-ish — less fine after the weird-ass conversation you’d had with Satoru prior. You came home to find him on the couch, waiting. Expecting something. But neither of you said a word. You just went to your room, got into bed, and stared at the ceiling.

You were so fucking tired.

Tired of dates that were just fine. Tired of coming home to this. Tired of the whole thing.

So you cancelled the next one. And the one after that.

Men were mediocre anyway, you told yourself. You needed peace. You needed to stop cycling through low-value options — god, you couldn’t believe that phrase was living rent-free in your head now. You were going to find whatever podcast invented it and send the hosts very ugly, very threatening email.

And maybe the apartment really was full of questionable worldviews, because somewhere between the sexual marketplace value speeches and his creepy behavior, you developed one of your own.

You became morbidly into the idea of breaking his incel resolve. Like you’d accidentally discovered a new kink.

Not even in a romantic way. More like you’d started writing a very questionable mental screenplay about dismantling him piece by piece. Watching the podcast rot leak out of him in real time. Making the incel guy want you so badly he forgot every subreddit he was joined in, until he was pathetic enough to cry at your feet — and you weren’t even the dominant type!

Wasn’t there a term for that? There had to be. You’d read the fanfictions. You’d read the think pieces. And every time you’d wondered why women did this to themselves.

Now you knew exactly why.

It was like disaster tourism. Some people went to Chernobyl for the thrill. Some people chased storms. You were simply built different.

Because when a man looked you in the eye and said shit like, “It’s actually been studied. Women who wear revealing clothing in domestic settings are subconsciously signaling availability to increase their mate value. It’s an evolutionary response to competition,” and meant it — like he hadn’t just dropped full Andrew Tate shit on a random Wednesday night — you weren’t going to let it slide.

You were already stretched thin. And he was on very thin ice.

So you made a plan.

You were going to show him exactly what skimpy clothing did to a man like him. And you weren’t going to think too hard about why this was probably the stupidest idea you’d had in a while.

Because who would voluntarily wear less clothes when they could just put on three more layers to prove a point?

You, apparently.

You dug out the shorts you hadn’t worn since sophomore year. The ones that left half your ass out and the tank top that made your boobs look obscene. All to "prove a point."

Satoru was at the kitchen island when you walked in, like every morning.

You leaned against the counter, grabbed your yogurt from the fridge, and started eating your probiotic-balanced breakfast, like every morning.

He was still on his phone.

You were starting to think the plan had lowkey a flaw — mainly the part where he wasn’t even looking at you — when he stood up and walked over to the sink to put his mug away.

He reached past you.

The mug hit the bottom of the sink with a loud clang as he stood frozen and way too close. Staring at you with his mouth slightly open, ears going pink in real time as the color crept up from his jaw. He was looking at you exactly how you’d hoped he would… and now that it was actually happening, your stomach did a stupid little flip.

You went to put the spoon back in your mouth.

But your hand missed and the spoonful of Activia went down your chin, down your neck, and disappeared between your tits.

Satoru’s eyes followed it the whole way. You felt your nipples tighten under the thin fabric as he stared. Then his gaze dragged back up, slow,  before dropping to what you were wearing.

When he finally looked at your face again, his ears weren’t just pink anymore. They were red.

“Uh. Y-you have yogurt. On your—” He gestured vaguely at your chest. “—on your b-boobs.”

You stared at him. He stared back — at your face, at your chest, at your legs, everywhere.

“Yeah,” you said. “I noticed, ‘Toru.”

You grabbed a paper towel and dragged it slowly down your neck, then slipped your other arm under your boobs to lift them higher, making the cleanup easier for you and significantly harder for him. You could tell by the way he was squirming.

He swallowed. A loud, audible gulp in the quiet kitchen. His Adam’s apple bobbed like it was trying to escape.

“Right. G-good — you cleaned it up. I-it was very messy,” he managed to get out, voice a full octave lower and cracking at the end. His eyes were half-lidded, ears still burning red.

Then he fled. He turned so fast he clipped his hip on the doorframe and didn’t even react to the pain before disappearing down the hallway.

You felt victorious. You’d fried his alpha-male-rotted brain. You’d proven your point. You were the apex predator of this apartment!

But then you took a breath and noticed your hands were shaking.

Your nipples were still painfully hard against the thin fabric of your tank top. And there was a warm, insistent ache low in your belly, sending little shockwaves down to your toes.

Wait.

What the fuck.

You looked down at your chest, then at the empty doorway like he might still be there.

Why the hell were you horny?

You were supposed to be the disaster tourist here. You were supposed to be watching the meltdown from a safe distance. Disaster tourists didn’t usually get turned on by the radiation. They didn’t usually want the hazard to come back out of his room, pin them against the counter, and put his stupid big hands on their hips.

You threw the paper towel into the trash harder than necessary. It hit the side and did a pathetic little plop! pathetically to the floor.

You slammed your bedroom door and threw yourself onto the bed, burying your burning face in the pillows.

The plan had worked perfectly.

Even if you had to dig out your vibrator later just to make the weird tingling go away.

It was just a power trip. Just the adrenaline of winning. That’s all it was. Power trips made people horny. It was biology. It was science.

Take that, Satoru!

And oh, he took it.

Across the hallway, Satoru was melting into his mattress. A bruise was already forming where he’d slammed into the doorframe. The image of that yogurt dragging down between your tits was burned into his brain. He was throbbing, and it was fucking pathetic.

He tried jerking off like usual — fist tight, imagining you on your knees — but it wasn’t enough anymore. Hadn’t been for weeks, actually. His hand wasn’t cutting it.

So he reached into the back of his bottom drawer and pulled out the silicone toy he’d bought recently. He was embarrassed, but too worked up to care. At least now he could pretend it was your tight pussy he was fucking into.

It was a new low. He knew it was a new low. But he did it anyway, eyes squeezed shut as he used the fleshlight, imagining you on top of him, under him, beside him — it didn’t matter. Anything was better than coming on his own just from the memory of yogurt dripping down your skin.

But of course, once the post-nut clarity hit, he took the whole thing the completely wrong way.

Because really, what did you think was going to happen?

You thought parading around half-naked in front of a terminally online incel would make him fall to his knees and magically develop self-awareness?

No. Of course not.

He thought you did it on purpose. For him specifically.

And yeah, you did do it on purpose — just not for the reason he thought. You were trying to break his brain. Make a joke out of his worldview! Instead, all you did was make him hard for three days straight and give him a terrifying amount of hope.

It validated every single pseudo-scientific dating theory he’d ever read. In his mind, you weren’t mocking him. You were submitting to his superior frame. You were “signaling availability.”

You hadn’t broken his incel resolve. You’d accidentally reinforced it. Applause.

And now Satoru believed, with full Reddit-backed certainty, that he had won. He’d played the long game. He’d kept his alpha composure. And now the cute roommate in the tiny gym shorts was finally ready to yield.

And worst of all? He started being creepy on purpose.

Before, the hovering and staring had been unconscious. Now he was doing it with intention. It was time to “establish physical dominance” and “break the touch barrier,” according to whatever the fuck forum thread he’d absorbed that week. 

He started finding excuses to be near you — reaching past you for things he didn’t need just to brush his chest against your shoulder, leaving you wrapped in his scent. He’d sit too close on the couch, close enough that you could feel the heat coming off him.

And it was working. You hated that it was working.

Every time his hand brushed yours or his fingers grazed your waist, your skin broke out in goosebumps. You could feel yourself reacting to his nervous little attempts to mark his territory, and it was driving you insane.

You were sitting on the couch eating your well deserved Pad Thai straight out of the takeout box while a true-crime documentary played in the background.

Satoru emerged from his room, did his usual hover-routine like some awkward mating dance, and then sat down. Right next to you.

Without taking his eyes off the TV, he reached over and placed his hand on your bare thigh.

It was this weird twitchy movement between caress and a customs agent stamping a passport.

His fingers kept flexing like he was fighting the urge to either pull away or drag them higher. You sat frozen, staring down at his hand, silently daring it to move. Then mentally cursing yourself for even letting it happen in the first place.

A rush of heat flooded your chest and cheeks. It burned under his palm and shot straight down between your legs.

Ovulation. It’s just ovulation.

"Satoru," you said slowly. 

He was staring straight ahead at the TV, posture stiff as a board and he was even redder than you.

“What the hell are you doing?”

He flinched, yanking his hand back into his lap and hunching over. “N-nothing.”

He cleared his throat but didn’t move away. His knee stayed pressed against yours. He took a breath, puffing his chest out as he tried to reclaim his “alpha” frame, then glanced at you as you took a shaky bite of noodles.

“So,” he started again, voice slipping into that pseudo-intellectual podcast cadence that always made your eye twitch. “I was reading a thread today. About proximity and domestic investment.”

You didn't look at him, listened to the Ted Bundy facts coming from the documentary narrator. Chewed and brushed him off. "Fascinating."

“It actually is,” he continued, completely unbothered. He leaned back, stretching his arm along the back of the couch and caging you in. “Because it highlights the flaw in modern female psychology. Women always say they want a nice guy. Someone who provides stability. Someone who pays his bills on time, remembers to buy toilet paper, and keeps a clean, optimal living environment.”

He paused, letting the weight of his own perceived perfection hang in the air.

“But,” Satoru said, turning his head to look at you, eyes locking onto yours with that same entitled certainty, “when that exact man is sitting right in front of them, offering unwavering loyalty and a high-value domestic partnership, they stay willfully blind. They friendzone him. Tease him. Cycle through low-tier guys from dating apps instead. It’s biologically counterproductive.”

The only sound in the room was the dramatic music coming from the TV now. You dropped your chopsticks into the takeout box, which suddenly felt too heavy in your lap.

He was so confident in his entitlement it actually made you sick. It was ruining your fucking appetite.

He thought doing the bare minimum — acting like a decent human being with basic hygiene — earned him loyalty points he could cash in for sex. Like some kind of fucked-up grocery store rewards program.

You turned your body toward him fully, voice eerily quiet.

“Let me get this straight,” you said. “You’re sitting here, in our living room, getting mad at me because your nice-guy vending machine is broken?”

Satoru blinked, his brow furrowing like he genuinely didn’t understand what the problem was.

“I’m stating a statistical—”

“Shut up.”

The words came out sharp enough to cut. You weren’t playing anymore. One more podcast quote and you were going to rip the hair out of his stupidly pretty head.

His mouth snapped shut. He looked genuinely startled. You’d never told him to shut up before — not like that. You’d always just nodded, or rolled your eyes, or tuned him out.

“You think this is a transaction,” you said, eyes narrowing. “You think because you scrub the bathtub and pay your half of the rent on time, you’re earning points? You’re keeping score. You did the bare minimum and now you’re waiting for me to drop to my knees in gratitude like you were providing for me?”

“I am a provider,” he argued, chest puffing out even as his voice lost some of its usual arrogance. “I bring high value—”

“You bring decency at best!” you snapped, throwing your hands up. “Doing your own dishes doesn’t make you a high-value alpha male, Satoru. It makes you an adult. But you don’t actually care about being a good roommate. You’re just dressing your entitlement up as niceness and acting like I owe you something because you haven’t been actively terrible to me.”

“That’s not—” He reached up to adjust his glasses, a nervous habit you’d never seen from him before. “I’m just saying that logically, the optimal choice for you—”

“There is no logic!” you snapped, standing up before you did something stupid like strangle him. “You don’t even like me! You just think you’re owed me because I’m convenient and I live here!”

Satoru flinched. All the color drained from his face.

You stood over him, breathing hard, looking down at this gorgeous, six-foot-three idiot who was staring up at you like you’d just rewritten the laws of physics. He looked lost. Stupid. Like he didn’t know what to do with his hands.

“But you acted like—” he started, then caught himself, shoulders squaring like he was trying to hold onto his frame. “You know what, forget it. You’re just proving my point. A guy does everything right, stays consistent, stays present, and the girl just—” he gestured at you with a disbelieving laugh, “—moves the goalposts. We’ve been living together for months. Friends for just as long. I thought if I followed the steps exactly, I’d finally get to— we would— I don’t understand how this is supposed to work, okay?! How is a guy ever supposed to figure it out if the steps are a lie and I haven’t even—”

“Satoru.”

He stopped. Mouth snapped shut. The tips of his ears suddenly burned bright red.

The realization hit you like a bucket of cold water.

Oh my fucking god.

You’d suspected it once or twice, but the thought had always flickered and died. Now it all clicked into place.

He’d never gotten his dick wet.

Your roommate was a six-foot-three virgin who thought turning to men who felt entitled to sex was a reasonable solution to his problems. What an absolute fucking mess. You almost felt sorry for him.

Almost.

“You’re an incredibly good-looking guy, Satoru,” you said quietly. Sincerely. “Objectively hot. Get your shit together, touch some grass, and you’ll be fine. You’ll be more than fine. But until you stop treating women like a math test you’re trying to cheat on, nobody is going to want you.”

You shattered his ego completely.

Or maybe, for the first time since puberty, Satoru actually formed a conscious, self-aware thought. Because he kept turning your words over in his head.

Objectively hot.

No one is going to want you.

What?

He tried to find the logical flaws. Tried to insert a counterargument, disprove your “emotional outburst” with cold data. He couldn’t find one. Not for days.

You were avoiding him completely now. Icing him out. Not talking to him. Not even looking at him. It was driving him insane. You used to search for his eyes, even if it was just to roll them. He’d only just realized how genuine your flustered blinking had been, and now he missed it. Embarrassingly so.

One night he walked into the bathroom to splash cold water on his face, carrying a petty mix of rejection, confusion, and constant, unbearable horniness.

Your pink hair tie was sitting on the edge of the sink.

He told himself he was just going to pick it up and put it in your organizer tray.

So he picked it up. It smelled like your stupid, intoxicating strawberry shampoo. He hated it. Hated how the whole bathroom smelled like you after you showered. Hated how your scent followed you everywhere in the apartment, forcing him to breathe you in. The guys on Reddit had warned him about this. Pheromones. Dangerous.

He brought it closer to his face. Just to check. Just in case it wasn’t actually yours.

And what happened next stayed strictly between Satoru, the bathroom mirror, and god.

He clutched the sink, bracing himself against it, breathing ragged and humiliatingly loud. He stared down at the pretty pink elastic wrapped tight around the base of his cock as he fucked his fist like he was trying to punish himself, desperately trying to imagine your hands instead of his own.

It worked too well. It scared him.

He came hard, so so hard the hair tie ended up coated in thick, frothy cum.

He carefully nudged the sticky pink tie back onto the edge of the sink, exactly where he’d found it. Then he washed his hands under scalding water like he was trying to burn the shame off his skin and walked out of the bathroom like a man fleeing a crime scene.

Rejuvenated? No.

Good? Not even close.

He just felt like absolute shit.

Get your shit together.

But how?

He picked up his phone. Put it down. Picked it up again. The fight was still eating him alive. The podcasts told him to take his frustration out on other girls or channel it into dominance and detachment. That’s what the current episode would’ve said.

But he didn’t want that. He didn’t want to sleep with anyone else. He didn’t want to be aggressive. He just… wanted.

And that was the problem.

For the first time in a long time, the alpha-male bullshit was starting to feel a bit too beta now. He was left with his own feelings like a normal person, and it was awful.

If he was truly a high-value male, he shouldn’t care. He should pivot. Download an app. Find some new, compliant girl to validate his stats. But the thought of calculating the facial harmony of a stranger made his stomach turn. He didn’t want a hypothetical female.

He wanted you.

He wanted you rolling your eyes at him. Laughing at him. Getting annoyed at him. Eating his pasta. Walking around in those mind-melting shorts. He wanted you to drop yogurt on yourself again just so he could lick it off your skin, linger on your neck, and kiss you stupid — the way he’d been fantasizing about since it actually happened.

He needed validation. He needed to be right.

His thumbs moved across the screen before he could stop himself. He ignored his usual echo-chamber subreddits and opened r/AmItheAsshole instead.

r/AmItheAsshole 

AITA for expecting my roommate (F) to reciprocate my (M) romantic advances after I provided optimal domestic value?

Throwaway. This is gonna sound bad but I need actual advice.

I (M) have been living with my roommate (F) for almost a year now. I’m not gonna lie, I’m objectively good-looking and I’ve been carrying a lot in this apartment. I pay my half on time, I keep shit clean, I do the dishes, I even cook sometimes. I thought I was doing everything right.

A few weeks ago she started walking around in these tiny shorts and tank tops. Like, really small. I took it as her signaling that she was open to something. That’s what all the advice says — if a girl starts dressing like that around you, it’s usually because she’s comfortable and maybe interested. So I decided to initiate kino escalation. Nothing crazy at first, just trying to break the touch barrier a bit.

While we were watching something on the couch I put my hand on her thigh. She freaked out. Got really upset and started yelling at me about how I was treating her like a transaction and that I only did nice things because I felt entitled to her. She even said I was basically calling her ran-through for going on dates.

I tried to explain it calmly. Like, statistically, if a high-value guy is right there doing everything right, why would she keep going on dates with random dudes from apps? It just doesn’t make sense. She told me to touch grass and hasn’t really spoken to me since.

I don’t get it. I’ve been consistent, I’ve been present, I’ve been providing a good living situation. I thought that was supposed to count for something. Instead she acted like I was the asshole for expecting anything in return.

AITA?

He hit post.

He sat in the dark on his bed, heart pounding like it was trying to escape his chest. He just had to wait. The logical thinkers would show up. They’d validate him with proper, objective analysis. They had to.

Ten minutes later, the notifications started rolling in.

He opened them expecting vindication.

Instead, he walked straight into a digital firing squad.

u/GrassToucherGeto · 308 upvotes

YTA. Holy shit. You did a handful of nice things and you think that means she owes you sex? You sound like an actual sociopath. I’m surprised she didn’t run out screaming. She literally told you to get your shit together. What part of that are you not getting?

u/KentoTheNormalGuy · 291 upvotes

You're not alpha, man. Kino escalation? Are you trying to con her, or actually want her to want you? YTA.

u/NobaraJustice24 · 282 upvotes

YTA.  She can wear whatever the fuck she wants in her own home, you creepy ass weirdo. I hope she breaks the lease and gets a restraining order. 

u/RealityCheckChoso · 156 upvotes

This is the most pathetic thing I’ve read on this site in eleven years. This is straight-up incel fanfiction. Poor girl having to live with someone like you. YTA. Go outside.

u/yuji_8847362 · 124  upvotes

Genuine question, not trying to be an asshole: do you actually like her, or do you just think she owes you because you did some nice things? Those are two very different things, and your post doesn’t seem to understand the difference. YTA, but I hope you figure it out.

u/KingNaoya69 · 231  downvotes

NTA. She’s clearly testing you. The clothes were an invitation. Hold your ground, don’t apologize, and she’ll come around. Women don’t respect men who grovel. If she actually didn’t want you she would’ve moved out already. She’s still there, isn’t she?

Satoru stared at the screen in disbelief.

He’d expected validation. Maybe a few reasonable voices cutting through the noise, acknowledging the statistical validity of his position, maybe even offering some tactical advice.

Instead, he got hit with minus three thousand downvotes, a mod-locked thread, and three DMs telling him to go to therapy.

He thought it would give him clarity. Clear steps. A way to fix this mess.

It didn’t.

It just made him feel… nothing. Except for the creeping realization that he’d said something eerily similar to what u/KingNaoya69 had posted. Recently. Maybe even last week.

He threw his glasses off and stared into the middle distance.

What the fuck was he supposed to do?

He had no idea.

The days that followed were miserable. You were giving him the coldest shoulder imaginable — and honestly, he deserved it. You were weaponizing the silence. Slamming doors. Giving short, pointed answers. Moving through the apartment like he was just another piece of furniture. Looking through him instead of at him.

He kept going back to the comments on his post, rereading them like he could find a loophole somewhere.

Yes, of course he liked you. But how was he supposed to want nothing from you if he liked you? He wanted your affection. He wanted you to want him back. But wasn’t that also expecting something in return? What the hell was he supposed to do?

Still… the Naoya guy had been weirdly right about one thing. You stayed. You hadn’t moved out. You didn’t even seem like you wanted to. If you hated him that much, why were you still here?

On the nth day, he was sitting on the couch when you came out of your room for water. You glanced at him — just for a second. You couldn’t help it. The silent treatment was getting to you too, even if you’d never admit it.

Your eyes were hard to read, but there was something in them. Something expectant. Like you were waiting for him to do something. To fix it. To stop being an idiot so the two of you could move on.

Oh, he thought.

Truly the lightbulb moment of the century.

Oh.

That night he unjoined six subreddits. Unfollowed every podcast except Joe Rogan — because hey, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. Or was it unteach a new dog old tricks? Didn’t matter. What mattered was that for the first time since he’d discovered the internet, he was pretty sure he’d been an idiot.

And he was going to stop.

He made a plan. Simple. Walk out of his room, find you, and say sorry. Three steps. He’d been a person for over twenty years. He could do three steps. He had this!

You were in the kitchen. You were standing on the flimsy little step stool you needed to reach the top cabinet shelves, stretching up on your tiptoes for the glass Tupperware that Satoru kept putting up there, even though you had told him multiple times not to put it up there because you literally could not reach it.

"Hey," he said from the doorway, trying not to startle you. "Can we—"

You startled anyway, because what other outcome was ever going to happen here.

The stool wobbled under your socks. You gasped, swore something, grabbed for a shelf edge that wasn't there, and fully expected to eat the kitchen floor tiles before officially murdering your roommate from the afterlife.

But Satoru had surprisingly fast reflexes and caught you.

Well… almost.

He lost his balance as your weight shifted, and the two of you went down in a tangle of limbs and terrible timing.  The impact knocked the wind right out of your lungs. You landed sprawled over him, pressed against his chest, his arms secured instinctively around you—

Around your boobs.

You froze. He froze. The entire world seemed to fucking froze.

And as you laid there, from the adrenaline shock of it all probably, his fingers did a little squish!

Huh.

You didn't say anything. You couldn't breathe, let alone speak. You slowly turned your head. His face was right there and so, so close to yours. You panicked and looked into his equally panicked eyes, his poor glasses askew.

He was searching for something in your eyes, his pupils blown so wide they almost swallowed the blue. And then, as his chest was still heaving so heavily, his gaze dropped down to your lips.

You were suddenly very aware— Aware of his warm palms right through the thin fabric of your shirt. Aware of the way your tits swelled into his touch. Aware of how his thighs bracketed your hips, and how perfectly you fit against him.

His breath hitched. And then his fingers flexed. He made a soft, barely-there sound in the back of his throat and squeezed again — slower this time. Kneading right over your hardened nipples.

You parted your lips for a soundless gasp, and he huffed into your collarbone as the trance finally broke.

His arms slowly retreated, lazily dragged down your ribs, fingers grazing the soft of your tummy before finally falling away to rest on the floor, which somehow made it all worse.

"I—" His voice came out rough, barely above a whisper.

You scrambled off him like you had been electrocuted.

You sprinted down the hallway and threw yourself into your room, slamming the door behind you. You backed up until you hit something, you didn’t even care what, and slid down to the floor, knees pulled to your chest.

Your heart was pounding so hard it hurt. Your skin was buzzing. The ghost of his touch was still burning across your chest.

I fucking hate him, you told yourself. He’s a podcast-rotted incel. I hate him.

…Do you?

Because why the fuck had you wanted his hands to stay there? Why had that second squeeze made you want to straddle him right there on the kitchen tiles and fuck him stupid?

You were just touch-starved. That’s all this was. You were projecting onto your terrible roommate because he was being a sleazy little shit.

You grabbed your phone off the nightstand with shaking hands and unlocked it.

Hinge.

Your ol’ friend.

You needed a date. You needed a normal, boring, completely average guy with a decent hairline and zero opinions on hypergamy to save you from whatever the hell had just happened in that kitchen.

You were in your room getting ready for your date, dressed to kill. Short dress, favorite lace panties — because after everything that happened in the kitchen, you were still weirdly, persistently horny. Might as well try to do something about it with someone normal.

Satoru was lingering in the hallway like always, doing his very obvious not-hovering hover.

"Going out?" he asked, clearing his throat, trying to act so aloof and unbothered.

You didn't even look at him properly. "Yeah. I have a date," you said smugly as you pulled your hair up into a ponytail. Hair down meant cute, but hair up meant business. And by business, I mean finally attempting to jump on some normal, average dick.

The second the words left your mouth, a wave of jealousy hit him so hard it nearly knocked the air out of his lungs. But he wasn’t looking at your face. He was staring at the pink hair tie holding your hair up.

He visibly gulped. His dick went from zero to painfully hard so fast he had to cross his legs just to hide it.

You furrowed your eyebrow at the uncharacteristic lack of response, but wasn’t entirely mad about it either.

"See ya," you chirped, completely oblivious to his internal meltdown, and walked out the front door.

The second the door shut, Satoru basically teleported to his room. He threw himself onto his bed, already fumbling with his pants, desperate to take care of the problem so he could think straight again.

But he spent exactly thirty minutes achieving absolutely nothing. What the fuck.

This had never happened before. Satoru was just staring at his ceiling, sweating, furiously gripping his aching dick, and completely unable to finish. Every time he closed his eyes, he imagined you laughing at some beta joke a 100% mediocre guy had made, while his past-tense cum was proudly sitting in your hair. He was literally too jealous to finish.

But jealous or not, he was still agonizingly hard, his dick standing painfully stiff against his stomach, stubbornly refusing to just calm the fuck down. He let out a frustrated groan. Okay. Fine. No hand? No problem! He reached for the silicone fleshlight, but he hadn't washed it in quite a while, and when he picked it up, a funky smell drifted off it.

Okay, NEVER MIND.

Which left him with only one option.

Today’s the day.

He reached into the back of his bottom drawer again and pulled out a silicone cock ring.

He had bought it right after he absolutely demolished your cute little hair tie. Because what does a normal guy do in that situation? Grovel first? Solve the underlying interpersonal issue? Nah. He goes on r/sex to research why a piece of elastic felt so hella good around his dick!

He hadn’t touched it since. Post-nut clarity had done its job last time. But right now, staring down at his aching, neglected cock and feeling rejected, humiliated, and completely alone… it was time.

Fuck it.

He ripped open the packaging and wrestled the thick silicone down his shaft until it sat snug at the base.

Almost immediately, something felt off.

It was tight. Too tight. Not in a good way — just uncomfortable. Constricting. He tried to power through anyway, closing his eyes and stroking like he could force an orgasm out of sheer spite.

Ten minutes passed.

Nothing.

His brain was too far gone, and the pressure was quickly shifting from weird to genuinely concerning.

Fuck this.

He stopped. Tried to take it off. But it didn’t budge.

Satoru blinked. He adjusted his grip and pulled harder. The skin stretched painfully, but the ring stayed exactly where it was.

Oh fuck.

A cold sweat broke out across his forehead. 

Oh fuck, oh fuck.

He scrambled off the bed, grabbed his lube, and squeezed way too much directly onto the ring. He tugged and twisted like his life depended on it.

Nothing. Fucking nothing. It just made his hands uselessly slippery.

Okay, oh fuck. Wasn't lube supposed to work?! Okay, new plan. Something else, something more slippery, something more oily—

Panic seizing him, he stumbled to the bathroom, dug under the sink, found your baby oil, and slathered it on.

Still stuck.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

Different oil! Not enough slipperiness! Trust the process!

So he waddled out of the bathroom, practically sprinting into the kitchen buck naked. He tore open the pantry, grabbing the vegetable oil. 

This has to work.

It did not work.

Ten minutes later, Satoru was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, coated in a slick, highly flammable mixture of lube, Johnson & Johnson baby oil, and Wesson canola oil, panting heavily. 

Dick throbbing, but not the fun kind of throbbing anymore. It was turning a terrifying shade of angry red-purple, the silicone death trap literally suffocating his junior.

It was no longer just uncomfortable, nor just alarmingly stuck. At this point, it was a fucking medical emergency. 

He was so fucked he might be patient zero of mpreg.

But what the hell was he supposed to do?

Call an ambulance?

Absolutely not. 

The thought of a paramedic cutting a sex toy off him with trauma shears while asking for his emergency contact would genuinely kill him on the spot. He would rather die of necrosis.

Call his friends? 

Fuck no.

If any of them found out about this, the screenshots would never die. They’d revoke his alpha card permanently and hold it over his head for the rest of his life.

He stared at his contacts.

There was only one person who could help without turning it into blackmail material or posting it online. The one person who lived in this apartment. The one person who was currently out on a date with some random guy. The person he had a massive, pathetic crush on and who would probably rather rip his dick off than help him.

He hit Call.

You stirred your gin and tonic while your date went on about his fantasy football draft like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. It was a perfectly fine date! The kind of fine that made you wonder why you even bothered.

You were nodding along, even though you had stopped listening roughly four minutes ago. Then, your phone vibrated on the table.

Satoru.

You ignored it. No, actually—you declined it. You smiled sweetly at your date, asked a vague question about tight ends so you would seem like you were actually paying attention, and took a sip of your drink.

Your phone buzzed again. And again. And again.

Annoyed, you held up a finger to the poor guy who was currently rating wide receivers, excused yourself, and off to the bathroom, fully prepared to yell.

“What?” you hissed the second you picked up. “I’m on a date, Satoru. If you locked yourself out—”

"Please come home," he gasped. He didn't even say hello. He didn't sound aloof, and he certainly didn't sound alpha. He actually sounded like he was drawing his final breaths on this earth. "You have to come home. Right now."

"What happened? Did something catch fire? Did someone break in? Are you—"

“I can’t tell you,” he whined, voice high and shaky in a way you’d never heard from him before. “I physically can’t say it out loud. Just— please. Please come home.”

You were ninety percent sure this was some pathetic attempt to ruin your night. Some last-ditch manipulation tactic he’d picked up from a podcast or Reddit thread.

But the remaining ten percent made you ditch your date without a second thought and jump into an Uber.

You practically kicked the front door open, your heart hammering. The apartment was completely quiet, and it smelled all wrong.

Like babies and an industrial air fryer?

"Satoru?" you called out, dropping your bag. "Where are you? The apartment better be fucking flooding, or else I swear to God—"

A pained, muffled whimper came from down the hall. His bedroom door was cracked open so you pushed it wide, fully prepared to absolutely tear him a new one for ruining your night.

Satoru was sitting on the edge of his bed, completely naked, perched on a bath towel soaked through with some kind of glistening sludge. He was trembling, sweating, aggressively gripping the mattress. And his dick — very visibly, very aggressively hard — was pointing straight at you.

"Are you fucking kidding me?!"

You exploded the second you saw him, because an impromptu dick is still an impromptu dick! “Some pathetic plan to finally fuck me? You couldn’t even be decent about it — you just called me home so you could sit here with your cock out?!”

You expected some sleazy line. Some smug little smirk. Instead, Satoru looked up at you with wide, tear-filled eyes behind his smudged glasses and let out a broken, wet sob.

"I'm not—" his voice cracked terribly. "I'm stuck."

Huh?

Furrowing your eyebrows, you stopped yelling and your eyes actually dropped down.

And then your stomach dropped with them.

Wait. Oh. He was so, so large.

But that wasn’t the problem. His dick was an angry, swollen red-purple, veins bulging like it had its own heartbeat. And at the base was a thick silicone ring, cutting into him so tightly it looked like it might actually burst.

And all the anger drained out of you in an instant. Suddenly, you felt the harsh reality of the literal medical horror you were now a part of. 

"Oh my god. Satoru... what is going on?!"

“Fuck, it hurts— please help me,” he whined, voice cracking as he bounced his leg against the floor like that would somehow fix anything.

You stepped closer, the sheer absurdity of the situation making you drop to your knees between his spread thighs just to get a proper look. It was incredibly stupid and deeply awkward, being this close to his swollen, shiny dick.

“Is that… a cock ring?” you asked, horrified.

Satoru nodded frantically, a tear slipping down his cheek and dripping off his jaw.

"Satoru, you know there is a fucking size chart to these things?! You can’t just buy anything with the size of your dick! Are you fucking stupid?!"

"HOW SHOULD I KNOW?!" he wailed, hands flying up to cover his face in absolute humiliation. "Wait—" He suddenly froze, lowering his hands just enough to look at you. "Did you just say I have a big dick? Wait. Fuck. OUCH. It just fucking hurts! Please, please help me, I've tried everything but it just won't budge! It hurts so much!"

You squinted at the shiny, slick mess coating his thighs and soaking into the bath towel. "Did you try lube?"

 "Yes!" 

"Baby oil?" 

"Yes!" 

"Did you... did you use the cooking oil from the kitchen?!"

 "YES! FUCK!" he sobbed into his hands again.

"Why did you even put it on?!" you yelled back, genuinely baffled by his astronomical stupidity.

“I was horny, what else?!” he cried and shook his hands. “You left with the cum tie in your hair—”

“THE WHAT?!”

Your hands froze in the air. Your brain forcefully restarted about three times trying to process the sequence of syllables he had just screamed at you.

The cum tie.

You suddenly felt the gentle pull of the pink elastic holding up your ponytail. The one that was your favorite. The one you had idly wondered before why it was suddenly so... crusty.

"You..." you whispered, a cold wave of fresh nausea washing over you. "You did what to my hair tie?"

“I didn’t mean to!” he sobbed, face red and streaked with tears. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and I used it, and then you put it in your hair to go out with the guy and it made me crazy so I put the ring on!”

Your hand twitched toward your ponytail. You were going to rip it out. Burn it. Shave your head. And then murder him. A jury would probably let you off in seconds.

But then you looked down. His dick might actually pop! like a grease-filled water balloon. There was no time.

You took a deep, slightly deranged breath and shoved every horrifying thought into a box for later. You could have a full meltdown about having his reproductive fluids in your hair as an accessory after you made sure his dick didn’t fall off.

You aggressively ignored his stare, locking your eyes entirely on the crisis. "Okay. Okay, I've got this. This is a medical emergency."

Your brain started racing. You couldn't cut it off without risking severing something vital, you certainly weren’t a doctor, and the swelling was so so severe to just pull the ring back over the ridge. You knelt there, suddenly arriving at a horrifying conclusion that you were going to need a serious moment to accept.

Because there was only one way to get it off. And the only way to get it off was to get rid of the erection.

You had to make him cum.

“Okay,” you muttered. Then again. And again. Like repeating it would make it feel less insane. “W-we just need to… get it down.”

You bit your lip, giving yourself the quickest, most productive, and most threatening internal TED Talk in human history. Your hands twitched, but you finally reached out and wrapped them around his oil-slicked shaft.

“AGH— FUCK— NO!” Satoru immediately jerked back like you’d electrocuted him, slamming against the mattress.

"What the hell?! I barely touched it!"

“The skin’s too tight!” he cried out, practically hyperventilating. “It feels like a razor blade— you can’t use your hands, it hurts too much!”

You tried again anyway, slower this time, gripping him carefully. The skin was burning hot, painfully stretched over the trapped blood. You gave one experimental stroke.

“No— no no no, please stop—” His voice broke into a real whimper as fresh tears spilled down his face. He pushed at your shoulders, legs shaking. “Please, I can’t— it hurts so fucking bad—”

You yanked your hands back, heart pounding as your own panic officially set in. "THEN WHAT ELSE?!"

“I DON’T KNOW! I thought you might know!”

"HOW SHOULD I KNOW?!"

A beat of deafening silence fell over the grease-scented bedroom. You looked at him. Then down at the problem between his legs.

Wait—

Your brain scrambled for literally any other fucking solution. Ice? Cutting it completely off? Calling 911 and collectively dying of embarrassment on the spot?

Nothing. 

There was nothing else.

God fucking help you. You might as well die from the cringe right here on the floor.

You stared down at his lengthy cock again. It was a pathetic mix of pre-cum against his oil-slicked stomach. Satoru was breathing in short, panicked gasps, tears still tracking down his flushed cheeks, glasses fogged and crooked, looking totally helpless.

“No,” you whispered to the empty space between his thighs, stomach twisting with reluctant acceptance. Coming to terms with your own fate. Girl, it’s your fault. Your fate had been sealed the second you decided to find a roommate on Reddit. “No, no, no.”

“What?” Satoru whimpered through his teeth, barely audible. “What ‘no’?”

If your hands were completely off the table…

A wave of heat flooded your face and dropped straight into your belly. Surely from disgust. Trust.

You shifted forward on your knees, your dress dragging through the oily mess on the floor. The fabric was already ruined and sticking to your skin. You braced one hand on his trembling thigh, leaned in, and took the swollen head of his cock into your mouth.

The taste was vile as hell.

Canola oil, baby oil, lube, and the bitter salt of his pre-cum all hit your tongue at once. You made a muffled, disgusted sound around him as your lips stretched and you sank down. The mixture mixed with your saliva and slid down your throat as he pushed deeper than you expected.

Satoru’s entire body jolted as the mushroomy head hit the back of your mouth.

“Whoa— oh my fucking god—” His voice cracked into a broken, high moan. His stomach flexed like he was trying not to fold in half. Both of his hands flew to your hair, oily fingers catching in your ponytail, clutching without quite pushing or pulling. I mean, you already had cum in your hair anyway. What was a little more oil and lube?

His hips twitched. His thighs trembled under your hand. He clearly had no idea what to do with himself.

You started moving, and it was messy from the first second.

Everything was slippery. Your lips kept sliding, saliva mixing with the grease until it dripped down his shaft in shiny, frothy strings. You had to suck harder just to keep any kind of rhythm, cheeks hollowing, tongue working in messy circles under the head every time you pulled up. The wet sounds filled the room — slick sucking, soft gagging when you took him too deep, his broken little whimpers.

You hated the taste.

You hated how your knees already ached against the hard floor.

You hated that your dress was ruined, soaked through and sticking to your skin.

And you hated the way he was looking down at you — in pain, in complete disbelief that you were actually sucking him off.

ANd what you really hated the most was that you were looking up at him while you mouth was licking him up and your body was already starting to betray you.

Tingly heat was spreading low in your belly. Every throb along his length, every broken moan that slipped out of him, made you wetter. You weren’t supposed to be horny! You should’ve been so so disgusted. But the scent of him, the taste of his pre-cum coating your tongue, made your pussy clench around nothing. Your nipples were hard, rubbing against the inside of your dress. Your cunt felt hot and slick — whether from your own arousal or the oily sludge on the floor, you genuinely couldn’t tell anymore.

You bobbed deeper, taking him until your nose brushed the base and the ring dug into your skin, then pulled back with a wet gasp. A thick and slimy string of saliva and oil connected your lips to his cock before it broke.

Satoru was staring down at you like you’d personally broken his brain.

His chest was heaving. Tears were still leaking from the corners of his eyes — pain, pleasure, or the sheer absurdity of the situation, it didn’t matter. His mouth hung open, glasses sliding down his nose.

Then his eyes dropped to your chest.

His gaze followed the way your dress had slipped lower during all the movement. Your tits were threatening to spill out completely. He made a strangled sound in the back of his throat.

His hands left your hair and reached down. Big, warm palms cupped your breasts through the thin fabric first — almost careful. But then he yanked the neckline down hard, dragging the fabric under your arms, practically rrrrripping it open, until your tits spilled free.

A fresh tear tracked down his cheek as he stared at them like they were something holy.

“Holy fuck— your tits—” he breathed, cupping them fully. His thumbs brushed over your hard nipples before he started kneading with desperate, greedy hands. Squeezing, lifting, rolling the soft flesh between his fingers exactly like he had in the kitchen — except this time there was nothing holding him back, because you certainly wouldn’t make him stop. 

The moan you let out around his cock was involuntary and absolutely nobody’s business, alright? Your teeth grazed his sensitive skin and the vibration, combined with the impromptu bite, made his hips jerk violently. He let out a breathless gasp, hands tightening on your boobs almost painfully before he loosened his grip again, thumbs flicking over your nipples in a way that sent sparks straight between your legs.

The lace of your panties was useless now, clinging to your soaked pussy lips.

But the dress had become a real problem, at least that’s what you were telling yourself. It was restricting your movement, getting in the way every time you tried to take him deeper. It was uncomfortable as hell, which was actually true.

You pulled off his cock with a wet pop!, lips shiny and swollen.

Fuck this dress. And probably him too.

You sat back on your heels and yanked it over your head, kicking it away. Now you were kneeling in nothing but your ruined lace panties — the ones you’d specifically worn because you were hoping to get laid tonight.

Well. You weren’t entirely wrong, now were you?

Satoru made a sound like he’d been punched in the gut. His wildest dream had just come true in the most deranged way possible.

You leaned back in and took him into your mouth again, sucking with more purpose now. One hand stayed wrapped around the base near the ring while your other hand stroked his thigh and lower stomach — anywhere to try and soothe him.

His clammy hands were right back on your bare tits, rolling them between his fingers like he was trying to memorize their exact shape. You moaned around him because it felt so fucking good. Unfairly good.

The taste was still awful. The room still reeked of canola oil. Satoru was still quietly crying above you — overwhelmed, terrified, and so turned on he could barely think straight. But the way he was touching you, the way he was falling apart in your mouth…

You were dripping straight through the lace right onto his fucking floor.

One of your hands snaked down your body. You pushed your panties aside and started rubbing desperate circles over your poor clit while you kept sucking him.

What a development. 

Righteous ideologies and all. Now you were naked on the floor of your incel roommate’s bedroom, sucking his cock while fingering yourself. Truly the most progressive way to handle this type of man.

Your pussy felt hot and aching. Your fingers slid through your own slick, making your hips twitch and another moan vibrate around his dick.

Satoru’s breathing sounded like a kettle about to boil over. His hands kept slipping on your oily skin, smearing the mess across your chest and shoulders. He was trapped in the most surreal, humiliating, perfect moment of his life — your mouth on him, you naked and touching yourself while the whole room smelled like a deep fryer.

He was half-sobbing, half-moaning.

“You’re— nghh— you’re actually getting off while—” His voice cracked as he looked down at you. You glanced up through your lashes, a little scowl on your flushed face, fingers still working between your legs.

You couldn’t even be embarrassed anymore. The absurdity had burned straight through your shame. You were horny. Stupidly, painfully horny. It was all too much and not enough at the same time.

Filthy sounds filled the room. He was crying. You were crying. Sweat was mixing with the oily mess coating your skin. You could taste your own tears mixed with the mess on his cock as they slid down your face. One of his hands was tangled in your ponytail, greasing it up nice and disgusting.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he choked out, voice hoarse. “I can’t— ngh— I can’t believe this is real—”

You pulled off just enough to breathe. “Shut up and let me finish this,” you muttered, then sank back down, taking him as deep as the ring would allow.

His other hand relocated to your shoulder.

Then his dick throbbed hard against your tongue. Swelling, twitching and you knew he was about to blow.

You started to pull back, but his hands moved faster. One fisted tighter in your hair, the other gripped your shoulder hard. He held you in place. Rough. Desperate. But he didn’t mean to!

You made a surprised, muffled sound around him as his hips jerked.

“W-wait—fuck—I’m—!” he gasped, betrayed by his own body.

You felt the first big pulse against your tongue.

You manage to wrench your head back at the last second because there was no way in hell you were swallowing a mixture of cum and baby oil — popping off just in time. But it was too late to get completely clear.

Satoru came hard.

The first thick rope hit you across the cheek and lips. The next few painted messy white stripes across your chin, your chest, and down your neck. It kept cooooming in hot, twitchy pulses until he’d almost emptied his aching balls.

And suddenly you were back in the kitchen. Only this time it wasn’t a freaking Activia dripping down your tits.

It was him.

You stumbled backward onto your ass, cum cooling on your skin as he finally let go of you. You wiped the back of your hand across your cheek, smearing it further. He just stared down at you like he’d died and gone to heaven — you, sprawled on his floor, covered in his cum, panties twisted half-off your hips, your blushing cunt smiling up right at him and your panicked eyes unblinking.

Holy fucking nirvana, right there.

You felt disgusting. You felt filthy.

And somehow, you were still throbbing between your legs.

“Fuck— shit, fuck, fuck!” Satoru cursed, trying to stand up too fast. He slipped on the oily towel and nearly ate shit before catching himself on the edge of the bed. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to hold you there, I just— it was too much, I panicked—”

He stumbled toward you on shaky legs, one hand reaching out like he was going to help you up, the other still hovering near his softening cock.

“Satoru,” you said, voice low. “Pull it off.”

He froze for half a second, then looked down.

And it was finally, finally softening. The angry red-purple was fading. The skin wasn’t stretched as tight anymore and there was a very small, very dangerous window before he’d be hard again and back in square one.

His eyes lit up with desperate hope. He grabbed the cock ring with both hands and yanked.

The sound that tore out of him was somewhere between a sob and a scream. It was violent, painful, and made you cringe so so badly. The ring caught on the ridge for one horrible second before it finally slipped off with a wet smack and skidded across the floor.

For a moment, Satoru just knelt there, breathing hard through the fading pain. Fresh tears tracked down his flushed face as the relief finally hit him.

Then he looked at you. Really looked. At the mess he’d made across your pretty face and chest. At the absolute state of the room. At everything.

“I’m the worst,” he whispered. “I know I’m the worst. You should kick me out. You should call the cops. I didn’t mean to make it worse. You probably hate me—”

He looked like he was about to start ugly crying for real. His shoulders were shaking as he braced himself for you to slap him.

And look — you wanted to. You wanted to go back in time so you would’ve never answered that fucking Reddit post, never answered his call, never come home tonight. Or maybe… go back just a little bit. To when your tongue was sliding over his frenulum and you’d never been so turned on in your life.

Either way, you weren’t sure anymore. Your brain was more scrambled than the eggs you’d had for breakfast.

So instead of slapping him, you surged forward, grabbed his face with both of your hands, smearing his cum and your own arousal all over his jawline and kissed him hard enough to shut him up.

For half a second he stayed completely frozen — stunned that you were kissing him instead of murdering him on the spot. You nudged your tongue against his lips, urging him to kiss you back, because the last thing you needed right now was sucking your incel roommate off and then having him refuse to kiss you afterward. That would’ve been a new low. Truly historic.

But then he let out a shaky breath and kissed you back.

He kissed you desperately, messily, like he was trying to crawl inside your mouth. Saliva, cum, tears, and oil all mixed together as your tongues slid against each other. Teeth clicked. His hands came up to grab your waist, pulling you closer until your chest pressed against his own. He whimpered needily into your mouth and tangled his tongue with yours like he was starving for it.

His glasses got knocked even more crooked.

When you finally pulled back to breathe, you reached down and started yanking your ruined lace panties off. They were twisted around your thighs and sticking to your skin from all the mess.

Satoru, still breathing hard and clearly trying to regain some sense of control, decided this was THE moment, HIS moment to be useful.

“Here— let me help,” he muttered, reaching down with both hands.

The two of you fumbled together in some weird horny trance, his fingers sliding against your thigh as he tried to tug the lace down your leg.

But his hand slid right off your slick skin and he lost his balance completely. With a startled gasp! he pitched forward and crashed down right on top of you, pinning you to the floor.

His full weight pressed you into the cold hardwood. Chest to chest, hips slotted between your thighs. The kisses making him hard again, dick now twitching insistently against your tummy.

Then Satoru lifted his head from the crook of your neck and looked down at you. His hair was a mess, but there was something almost determined in his expression now.

“I’ve got it,” he said. Yeah. He definitely  got this. He’d seen the porn. He’d read the r/sex threads. He was a man, the man! He knew exactly what he was supposed to do. Fluent in the dickology! Show you what a high-value male can do. You'll respect it. You’ll want it!

You stared up at him and raised one eyebrow.“…Are you sure?”

He looked faintly offended, but reached between your bodies anyway, grabbed his cock, and lined himself up against your slick folds. The blunt head nudged against your entrance before he pushed in with one unsteady thrust and you were honestly surprised he found your hole on a first try.

The stretch was intense. His cock bullied its way into your tight cunt, the sudden fullness making your back arch slightly off the floor. And it made you think that maybe… just maybe he’s a virgin incel but he somehow actually knows how to fuck?

Satoru made a choked sound above you. He braced his hands on either side of your head and started moving, a little too fast, a little too rough, like he was following some mental checklist of “how alpha males fuck” or something. 

His hips snapped forward, rolling against yours. On a few of his clumsy thrusts, the sharp angle of his hipbone dragged right across your swollen clit.

A spark of pleasure shot right through you, made your breath hitch and his dick catch inside of you. Your fingers scratched on his shoulders and for a second you were hopeful, hopeful that perhaps incels were just involuntarily celibate men with a dick game like this.

It died almost instantly. His rhythm fell apart just as the plushy walls of your pussy enveloped him fully in the slick warmth. His movement turned erratic as his hips started stuttering.

“I—fuck—I can’t—ngh—!”

So… He lasted exactly forty-five seconds.

With a humiliated groan he slammed into your cervix one last time and came haard, painting your walls in thick, sticky white. His wobbly arms gave out again and he collapsed on top of you not very gracefully, face buried right back into your neck as he rode out the pathetic orgasm. He was breathing hard, the sound mixing with the wet squelching of oil, cum, and sweat between your bodies every time either of you shifted.

You stared sideways at the messy white strands of his hair currently tickling your pulse point, feeling his cum slowly leaking out around his softening cock. The frustration burning hot alongside with the ghost ache right in between legs.

If he had just let you ride him instead. Ugh.

“…Really?” you said flatly.

Satoru, mortified, made a small devastated noise into your neck and laced his fingers with yours like that would somehow make it better.

You hadn’t come from the fingering earlier. You definitely hadn’t come from his forty-five-second marathon. 

You shoved at his shoulder.

“Satoru.”

He made a small, satisfied noise.

“Satoru. Did you just cum inside me?”

His eyes flew open. The bliss drained from his face instantly. He slowly nodded, guilty, not knowing if he should be terrified or glad.

You pushed him off you. He rolled onto his back with a wet squelch.

You sat up, cum and oil smeared across your skin, and stared down at him.

“You ruined my date,” you said, voice low. “You were stupid enough to trap your own dick in a death trap and made me come home to deal with it. You came all over me without letting me cum, and then you creampied me in under a minute.”

He opened his mouth, “I was just claiming what’s mine—”ready to say something even more stupid.

You cut him off, because you were not listening to that right now and ever fucking again. “Don’t. I swear to god, if you say one more word of that pseudo-alpha, podcast-bro bullshit right now, I can promise you this will be the first and last time you ever have your dick in any pussy. Ever.”

He froze.

You leaned in, eyes narrowed, pussy suddenly drying up at high speed.

“I’m serious, Satoru. All that ‘high-value male,’ ‘she’ll respect dominance,’ ‘women secretly want to be put in their place’ garbage? It’s not cute. It’s not hot. It’s not working. It makes you sound like a loser. You’re only lucky that I’m stupid enough to actually fucking like you.”

And Satoru deadass had nothing to say, because it didn’t make sense, yet it made all the sense. And in the middle of the gears grinding he blinked up at you because… did you just tell him you like him?

Before he could grab your chin and kiss you stupid again, you pointed between your legs.

“Since you made this mess, you’re going to clean it up. Now.”

The color drained from his face as he stared at you. “Y-you want me to eat out my cum?”

“Did I stutter?”

He was too stunned and properly terrified to argue. He knew that if he didn’t get his shit together right now, this really might be the first and last time he ever saw pussy in real life. So he scrambled down between your thighs without another word.

He’s going to do it for the love of the game. Can’t be that bad, right?

He gulped as he nestled between your soft thighs, eyeing your tight little hole as a little trail of his cum mixed with your frothy slick leaked onto the floor below you. And it was the prettiest sight he had ever seen.

The reluctant pout on his face made it clear he was weighing eating his own cum against the very real possibility of never getting to fuck you again, so you made it easier for him. You grabbed a fistful of his white hair and yanked his face straight against your pussy. His nose immediately buried right between your wet folds, tickling the sensitive flesh.

And maybe he was currently terrified of you, or it was the fact that he finally smelled your sex up close — either way, he was now desperate to please you.

The first drag of his tongue through your folds was experimental, almost cautious.

He did it again, licking with too much pressure and in all the wrong places, clearly thinking he was doing something impressive, missing your clit. Again. And again. And again.

And or fuck’s sake, you lasted maybe fifteen seconds. You reached down, grabbed his silky hair again, and yanked his head up to adjust him.

He furrowed his brows at you, confused and a little offended, like he was about to argue — until his tongue accidentally flicked right over your clit.

His eyes widened slightly.

He did it again, slower this time. A testing little flick. Eyes wide, as if asking what the hell just happened, feeling the little knob jumping.

You let out a shaky moan, fingers tightening in his hair.

“That’s my clit, Satoru.”

His eyes darkened and he dove back in with completely different energy. Okay, he knew where your cute little clit was. Now onto figuring out how to make you come on his tongue. 

He started with the licking, up and down, until he pushed into your leaking hole. He almost immediately tasted his own cum, still warm, thick, and disgustingly bitter against your sweet pussy juices, and he made a guttural sound right against you.

He should have been disgusted, appalled, mortified through his militant incel brain. But why did it taste so wrong, it tasted so so right?

Eating himself right out of you — it was so pathetic, so raw, so hot. And you couldn’t fucking believe you actually made him do it.

Your pussy fluttered and he dove in like a man possessed.

A desperate whine vibrated against your clit as he started licking in earnest. Messy, unrestrained, starving. He was slurping loudly, tongue pushing deep to get more of the mixture, swallowing it down like he couldn’t get enough. Every time he tasted more of himself leaking out of you, another broken moan escaped him.

His hands gripped your thighs hard, holding you open as he buried his face deeper. He was whining and whimpering into your cunt like tasting his own cum inside you had flipped some primal, pathetic switch in his brain neither of you even knew existed.

“Fuck— you taste so good— I taste so good on you—” Every few seconds he would pull back just enough to breathe, drooling, and mutter broken little things against your skin. And you were once again left wondering where all the skill came from.

Then he’d dive right back in, tongue flicking over your clit before dragging down to lap at your hole again, like he was trying to clean you out and make you messy all over again at the same time.

It was deranged.

It was filthy.

And it was fucking working.

Your hand fisted in his hair, gripping tight. He moaned loudly at the rough treatment, the sound muffled against your pussy as his tongue circled your clit, biting then sucking on it, then flattening to drag it through your folds like he was trying to devour you whole.

You were gushing at this point, and not a drop ever spilled on the floor as he slurped you like his favourite boba flavour. His touch spread across your entire body as the orgasm built after getting edged the entire evening to fucking oblivion.

“‘Toru—” you cried, thighs starting to tremble around his head. And he bit down gently on your inner thigh when you tried to close your legs on instinct.

Look, it’s not like you did it on purpose — who the fuck would want to close up shop when business was this good?

He kitten-licked your poor clit, sending sparks right to your lower belly. Your back arched off the floor as his hand snaked up at the right damn time to flick your nipple.

Oh.

“Holy— ngh— fuck, ‘Toru—!” you screamed and came all over his poor face, thighs clamping around his head as you tried to suffocate him with your spasming pussy. You shook like you’d been electrocuted and he kept licking and licking, to the point you weren’t sure if you came again or if it was just one big orgasm. He wanted to taste every damn second of you falling apart because of him, for him.

His face was a mess. Half of it was shiny and wet with your slick, lips prettily swollen. He’d thrown his glasses somewhere on the floor in the middle of it. His pupils were practically heart-shaped, and he looked so wrecked it was beautiful.

He was so cum-drunk he only stared up at you with his mouth open, resting his cheek against your inner thigh, waiting.

And your eyes might’ve been heart-shaped too, because the sight of him made you throb all over again.

“Fuck,” you almost moaned, reaching down to grab his shoulders. “Come here.”

Satoru didn’t need to be told twice. He crawled up your body like he was starving for it, for you. He crashed his lips against yours and the kiss was fucking messy. You could taste yourself on him as he smeared your slick across your chin, tongues sliding sloppily against each other like you were trying to devour one another.

His hands found your waist. He shifted his weight and rolled the two of you until his back was against the bed and you were straddling him in his lap.

You broke the kiss just long enough to look at him. His chest was heaving. And he was looking up at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

Everything was still disgustingly sticky, but the way he looked at you made your heart go thump thump thump in a way it never had before. So you reached down, wrapped your hand around his cock, and sank down onto him in one slow, slick motion.

Satoru’s head tipped back against the bed with a broken groan that made the muscles in his neck jump. His hands immediately gripped your hips hard, fingers digging into your ass like he needed to anchor himself.

“Fuuck—” he slurred, voice so dazed. “Oh my god— you’re so warm— so fucking tight—tighter—”

You started moving, rolling your hips in frantic circles. Every time you sank down, you could feel the tip kissing your cervix, nudging right up against the entrance of your womb as he completely bottomed out.

It didn’t take long before his hands tightened on your ass and he started helping you. He pulled you down onto him faster, guiding your hips with desperate hands while lifting his own to meet you halfway.

“Shit— just like that,” he whimpered, kissing all over your jaw as his tip kissed your poor cervix again and again and again. “Ngh— you’re milking me so good—”

He was completely gone. Eyes glassy, mouth open, babbling whatever came to his mind as you rode him. And every time you clenched around him, another broken sound slipped out of him.

His mouth searched for yours again, licking into the corners of your lips before kissing you deep. You slipped two fingers into his mouth and he immediately sucked on them, tongue rolling around your fingers with a needy moan that made your pussy flutter and squeeze around him even harder. Your swollen clit dragged over his lap and lower stomach with every roll, his happy trail tickling your sensitive folds and sending sparks up your spine.

Satoru whined around your fingers, hips twitching up helplessly.

One of his hands stayed on your hip while the other slid up and wrapped around your neck. His thumb brushed along the side of your throat as he started moving you faster, pulling you down onto his cock with more urgency. The sound of your skin loud.

“I’m so close,” he warned desperately against your lips. “Fuck— I’m gonna cum— you feel too good—”

His hand squeezed, holding you in place as he helped you bounce on him. Every time you sank down, he lifted his hips to meet you, fucking up into you until your jaw rattled. He was panting hard, forehead pressed against yours, completely pussy-drunk.

Satoru came with a broken, drawn-out moan, hips jerking up into you as he spilled deep inside. He held you down against him, grinding up as he pumped his cum into you like he was unconsciously trying to fuck it into your womb. His hand on your neck tightened just enough to pin you down against him while he trembled through it.

Both of you were breathing hard. He held you close and kissed the side of your head as he hugged you.

“D-did you cum?” he mumbled against your skin, still dazed and half out of it.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, deadpan.

“WHAT?”

He blinked up at you, still glassy-eyed and fucked-out. “You squeezed me so hard I thought you did! Okay then— cum then!”

You stared at him for a second, somewhere between offended, frustrated, and fond, before letting out a short laugh.

“You’re actually so fucking stupid.”

You were still softly rolling your hips, using his softening cock like a dildo while you were still determined to cum again. Satoru just watched you, half-intently, half blissed-out, still breathing hard, feeling his cum escaping your pussy and pooling in his lap. After a moment, one of his hands slid down between your bodies. His fingers found your clit easily this time and started rubbing you.

“Fuck— you’re still so wet,” he mumbled, eyes locked on where you were grinding against him. “Keep going… I’ve got you.”

So you kept moving on his semi-hard cock while he fingered you, the combination making your thighs shake. Your breath started hitching and Satoru was watching your face closely now, still drunk but trying to focus.

When your mouth fell open so prettily and your eyes fluttered as he just hit that spot inside you with the angle of his cock, his other hand moved to your hip almost automatically. He gripped you and started moving you himself, guiding you in short, deliberate rolls so his cock and his fingers kept pressing right against that same sensitive spot from both sides.

“There?” he asked, voice low and rough. “Right there?”

You could only nod, a broken whimper slipping out of you as you started tipping forward, head on his sweaty shoulder until your thighs were trembling hard and you felt like a jelly.

You came with a sharp, shaky moan, clenching around his soft cock as the overstimulating orgasm tingled through you. Satoru held you through it, still moving you gently and praising you until you completely slumped forward against his chest.

He hugged you tight, face buried in your neck.

And you stayed slumped against Satoru’s chest for a long minute, both of you just breathing each other in. The adrenaline was finally wearing off, and reality slowly started to creep back in.

The room was in fucking ruin. You were both coated in a sticky mess, the mattress behind you was most likely ruined, and the floor was dangerously slippery. It smelled like greasy sex.

“Well,” you said.

“Yeah,” he answered quietly.

You slowly peeled yourself off his chest, shivering as the cool air hit your slick, overheated skin. 

You looked down at him and he still looked completely fucked-out, and you decided you could get used to that look. As you stretched, you felt his cum trailing down your inner thighs. Satoru’s eyes followed it from the front row, his spent dick giving a weak twitch at the sight.

“I’m going to take a shower,” you said softly, breaking the quiet. You paused, a small smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. “…Wanna join?”

Satoru’s heart practically stopped. His eyes widened and for a second he looked like he was going to follow you like a lost, oily puppy. But then he glanced around at the absolute state of his bedroom and reality hit him again.

“I’ll, uh…” He cleared his throat. “I’ll clean this up a bit first. You go ahead.”

You pouted but gave him a soft, understanding nod. “Don’t take too long, ‘Toru.”

You grabbed one of his random t-shirts from the floor and padded down the hallway toward the bathroom.

Left alone on the floor, Satoru stared at the opposite wall for a long time. He was deadass completely re-evaluating his entire existence.

He had just experienced the most surreal, life-changing two hours of his life, and the only thing he knew for certain was that he was completely whipped for you. For once, he didn’t care what his old incel education had to say about it.

He reached over to his nightstand, picked up his phone, and wiped a smear of baby oil off the screen before opening Reddit.

r/relationship_advice

I (M) think I’m in love with my roommate (F) and I might have just completely fucked everything up in the most humiliating way possible

Throwaway because if she ever sees this she will murder me.

I’ve been living with this girl for almost a year. She’s my roommate. For the longest time I thought I had everything figured out. I believed that if I just kept doing enough, she’d eventually see me as a potential mate. She didn’t, obviously.

Tonight I did something so fucking stupid I still can’t believe I’m typing this. I got a cock ring stuck on my dick. I panicked and called her while she was on a date and basically begged her to come home. She helped me. She got it off. And then… something else happened. Something I didn’t expect at all. And now she’s in the shower and I feel like I fucked up our friendship beyond repair. My entire worldview feels kinda off.

I think I’m in love with her. I’ve been a terrible roommate. I’ve been a terrible person tbh. I don’t know what we are now. I don’t even know if I have the right to ask. But I think I love her. And I have no idea what the fuck I’m supposed to do.

Please help. And be nice this time.

u/GrassToucherGeto · 183 upvotes

Is this the same guy who posted that viral “AITA for expecting my roommate to fuck me because I did the dishes” thread a few weeks ago?

u/KingNaoya69 · 56 upvotes

You fucked her? Good shit bro. Don’t fuck it up this time.

Satoru looked up when you walked out of the hallway wearing his t-shirt, your hair still damp and smelling like strawberries. Something in his chest went soft at the sight.

He was still sitting on the floor, holding a bottle of kitchen cleaner in one hand and a roll of paper towels in the other. He looked like he had no idea what he was doing.

You sighed and gave him a soft, tired look.

“‘Toru,” you said gently. “You’re not going to be able to clean this mess up right now. Just go wash up.” You paused, biting your lip. “Let’s just sleep in my room tonight, alright?”

He blinked up at you, panicked and hopeful all at once. You tilted your head, giving him the softest smile you’d given him yet. That was all it took. He dropped the cleaner without a second thought and basically sprinted down the hall.

He took the fastest, most aggressive shower of his entire life, scrubbing the residual oil and shame off his skin like he was trying to erase the last few hours.

When he finally crept into your bedroom, the lights were already off and you were in bed. He climbed in beside you and the sheets smelled like you. It was warm. It was safe. It made something in his chest loosen.

You shifted over without opening your eyes, throwing an arm across his chest and tucking your face into the crook of his neck with a soft, contented sigh. You fell asleep almost instantly.

Satoru lay there staring up at the dark ceiling, gently nuzzling the top of your head with his cheek. A quiet, overwhelming sense of peace settled over him.

Carefully, so as not to wake you, he reached for his phone on the nightstand one last time.

He opened Reddit and went back to his post. The comments had already blown up again — some people calling the story fake, others demanding more details about the cock ring, a few calling him a simp.

Satoru smiled to himself.

He typed out one final edit.

Update: nvm, she’s tucked into my side. Take this as a PSA to all the other incels out there. Admins, please flag this as SOLVED.