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Over several arguments and a silly bet, you are somehow sitting on Gojo Satoru’s lap while his fingers click and clack against his ROG Azoth, choking on your own syllables.
That whole predicament starts in the pristine walls of his apartment, a full week before the catastrophe, with your small suitcase accidentally tucked under his desk after you kicked it away and your crippling sense of dread over the hypothetical scenario where Satoru thinks you’re a hassle. Unrelatedly, despite having been over at Satoru’s house over thirty times, you are still amazed at how gigantic his whole setup is. And you’d rather stray far, far away from discussions about the place he lives in because that’s a whole other wonder.
You’re not really trying to think about how much of a burden you think you’re being to Satoru. Because you don’t! The rational part of your brain knows that staying at your boyfriend of eight month’s place is completely normal and yet, somehow, despite you knowing clearly and well that Satoru would never consider you as a problem just for staying over at his house for a couple of days, you’re still anxiously fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve at the thought.
This is all your neighbor’s fault. Your apartment. Everything. It’s also your fault for cheaping out on an apartment even though your parents gave you enough money for an actually nice apartment but you tried to weasel some yen out from your housing expenses and into your own pockets for whatever it is you spend your shit on.
Your apartment, a decently-sized place with thin walls and awful plumbing that screams like a dying raccoon as the trade-off had started leaking water just a little over five months ago. You picked the place because it was close to university and dirt cheap, intending to move out once you had a stable side hustle. The water leakage had been ‘temporarily fixed’ three times within those five months. The neighbors are awful—one is an otherwise sweet old couple upstairs who constantly fight, and the one right next to you keeps having loud sex just as you’re about to get your beauty sleep. Nothing was dangerous enough to move, just miserable enough to destroy sleep. You’re staying at Satoru’s place because it finally tipped over when apparently a pipe burst in the unit above yours and maintenance said they needed several days.
Snapping you out of your own self-wallowing thoughts, Satoru mindlessly holds out his hand to yours, but his face is glued to his smartphone and a gacha game, gripped snugly by his other hand. You catch a glimpse of the flickery screen and you deduce that you’ve definitely reprimanded him for it, Limbus Company—mostly because it’s turn-based slop. You don’t pay any mind to it though, because Satoru’s hand around yours is absurdly tepid despite his AC being 16 degrees, engulfing your cold ones with a hearthlike warmth.
“Satoru,” his name comes out of your mouth cautiously. You debate on lightly commenting on his game again, but you end up asking the thing that’s been on your mind since you sent him a groggy, exasperated text two days ago about your horrible apartment and he offered for you to stay over. “Are you sure you don’t mind me crashing?”
Satoru turns his head towards you for a split second, blue eyes meeting yours with an expression of brief ridicule. “You’re my girlfriend.”
Most times, you cannot take his constant matter-of-fact tone. Reasons vary, most it’s because he sounds matter-of-fact, sometimes it’s because you feel bad. Especially because you are an openly guilt-ridden creature and Satoru talks like he’s at the top of the world but has seen under it as well. The statement makes your cheeks warm at the apples minutely, but you shake it off. “I am—” you nod, cutting off your own voice, “but I’m staying at your place.”
Your issue sounds so juvenile. You can physically feel how perplexed Satoru is. And somehow he also understands where you’re coming from, because he knows you have this weird hang-up about trespassing and being too much of a burden than necessary. Which he finds stupid because even if you were a burden, he already agreed on letting you stay over. “...because your apartment has a sound pollution problem.”
Satoru sits you down on the bed by your shoulders, pushing you down gently with his calloused hands. You comply, bare thighs hitting the plush linen cotton, then he sits right beside you. His hand is still intertwined with yours and you grip it lightly, head falling to rest against his shoulder. You purse your lips right as his shoulders tense up. Frankly, you think it’s funny how Satoru still acts like a virgin around you the second you put yourself anywhere near his space, but will constantly seek you out if you’re not.
Your head moves to nudge your cheek against the plane of his shoulder, earning a soft peck to your head from him as a response. You keep watch of how he’s strategizing his gameplay and you bite your tongue back from insulting him—in spite of how hot you secretly think he is when he’s like this.
Satoru’s room is large. It also has an insane sightline. You don’t really expect any less from someone whose parents are apparently filthy rich enough to give—even if he’s their only—son a high-rise in dead center Shibuya. You try not to think about it or ask, but for three years you’ve known him, you still do not know what his parents do. You’re pretty sure not even Suguru, his best friend since high school, is quite sure what Gojō’s parents actually do. All you know is that he has enough to buy a limited edition Pokemon card that sells up to 2,000 US dollars out of the blue.
Satoru doesn’t even let his battle in-game finish, closing the app with some swift movements of his fingers and then turning towards you, throwing his phone behind him carelessly onto the mattress. He lunges at you. Technically he just presses himself against your side, chin on top of your head, but Satoru is a big guy. Everything he does counts as lunging. “[Name], you want something? Food?”
You let out a near inaudible squeak. Satoru has always had a thing for physical touch, and he’s not really one to shy away from touching you out of the blue. Even then, it catches you off guard, your nose being engulfed with some pretentious Santal 33 that’s not Santal 33 because he doesn’t wanna seem performative.
You furrow your eyebrows but return the embrace, fingers folding into his sweatshirt, voice muffled into the fabric of his clothes, “huh? No.”
“You’re quieter,” he says almost thoughtfully, hands dropping to your sides and cupping your outer thighs softly. “Usually you’re like a whiny monkey.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing,” Satoru drags you gently onto his side, to the point where you’re almost draped against his lap. It’s also worth noting that Satoru, while knowing just how big in scale he is, and how subsequently strong he is compared to you, sometimes just forgets. Not in any way that would endanger you, but Satoru focuses on being so gentle that it loops around to him, treating you like a marionette doll. You don’t complain. You secretly think it’s hot when he manhandles you but that is something you want to take to the grave, even if you might have seen one of his spreadsheets about what you like and don’t like. “...you’ve been to my place before. Why are you so tense?”
You blink. There’s nothing accusatory in his tone, just this confusion and sort of boredom, not to anything that you’d probably say, but to whatever nonsense your brain will spew about being troublesome.
In truth, you don’t actually know why you’re all that bothered. Because you’ve slept over before and you’ve been to his place more than you can count on your own fingers and toes. You think it’s just because you’re rather self-deprecating. And you somewhat also think it’s because of your nerves around the sleeping arrangements. You know you technically don’t have to sleep with him and he has a spare bedroom—but that’s weird, and you also really want to. But you’ve never really slept together in the same bed for the reason to sleep. Every time, it’s because you guys had passionate sex on his bed and you were too tired to leave in the night (and he wouldn’t let you). It is somehow more embarrassingly intimate for you to sleep in the same bed without sex than with sex.
That is a stupid thought.
“I don’t know,” you admit sulkily, pouting into his shoulder with the same half-practiced girlfriend tone you use when you’re fake angry at him or trying to seem cute just to mess with his heart rate. You pry away from his shoulder, which proved hard to do until he loosened his grip a second later. Satoru hums.
“Usually you'd have stolen three things and insulted me by now,” he shifts his position casually, letting you properly into his lap now, sitting comfortably against him. He rests his chin on top of your head still, nuzzling his lower face into your hair. Your hair smells like peonies and neroli. This is because you pay extensive, exhaustive measures to keep your hair healthy, and you washed your hair last night because you wanted Satoru to not be able to get his hands off you today.
You raise your head until you can see him peering down at you from above. You give him a smug smile and settle on the best response you could probably give in your state. You lean back into his chest and he takes the chance to pull you into an opportunistic kiss. You return the kiss but it’s fleeting, giving him a small frown after you pull away. "Your apartment is intimidating."
"My apartment?" he asks scandalously.
"You live like a Bond villain,” you remark, wiggling your way out of his grasp and rolling away onto the well-cushioned, definitely overengineered mattress. You don’t even know what an overengineered mattress would be like. You sit back up, pushing the hair that fell to your face out of your field of view.
Satoru watches you curiously, getting back on your socked feet and taking miniature steps around his bed, eventually landing at his setup. That in which is definitely overengineered. Satoru smiles through a scoff. “I live normally.”
Your eyebrows curl once again, pointing at the view he has from his bed, and through his entire house. Sometimes you genuinely want to ask Satoru what his parents do because you want them to recommend you for a job. Every time you ask he gives some vague answer though, you’re not sure if he actually doesn’t know what his parents do or if he’s one of those people who just doesn’t want to share.
“You have floor-to-ceiling windows with a giant teddy bear in your room,” you say and Satoru’s color drains from his face, eyes moving to the giant Costco teddy bear with some crocheted pink napkin that said ‘happy six months’ tied around its neck stuffed in the corner of the room. He got it for you months ago, buying it impulsively, then regretting it immediately after. He called you in the middle of the night to tell you he got it for you, you asked if he was serious then told him it’s adorable, and the next second he’s calling it stupid and to just look at it.
Still, Bear-kun is very dear to you. You ask Satoru about him regularly like you’re sharing custody.
You stare at his desk for a small while. Satoru still has an extravagantly too-much desk for a man who plays League of Legends most times and doesn’t even really do anything crazy. Your charger, the one with the matching starfish charger protector is already plugged into one of the empty outlets near the wall. You kick his gaming chair to face you and promptly sit down. There’s a couple of seconds where you just spin around in his chair—and in thought, you stare at his ceiling, at when that is the exact moment Satoru stands up and puts a half to the chair's movements.
“Hey,” he starts, a hand coming to the neck of his chair and stopping its rotations. You look at him confused only for a small while then go back to your position when you see him reaching towards the power button on his PC case, “you got into Elden Ring right?”
You give him a look and an involuntary snort, shifting your seat away from him so he can maneuver closer to his PC. “Yeah.”
“How’re you liking it so far?”
“Mm,” you hum, grabbing a small pen he had lying around on the desk and using it to stab at your palm lightly. You’ve only had the game for four days—Satoru originally offered to Steam Family together but you refused—and you only played it during work nights when you’re already grumbling about your obtrusive neighbors. “It’s good. I got to Agheel. I died—six times fighting him?”
Satoru winces. It’s actually baffling to Satoru how insane you truly are at Souls games for some reason. He’s pretty sure you told him crystal clear that you’ve never played any FromSoftware title in your life prior to him introducing Bloodborne to you three months ago and getting you into it—a feat he still smiles about in his head, by the way—and you had one of the most ridiculous runs he’s ever seen, especially as a beginner. Now you tell him this and he’s thinking about what your parents gave you as a child. He sucks in a breath, “God.”
“What?” you smile at him knowingly.
“Nope,” Satoru shakes his head, watching the loading screen of his PC turn into his lockscreen. Your cheeks faintly burn upon seeing his lockscreen, some grainy selfie of you that you sent him some nights ago, and you take it upon yourself to kick at his legs under the desk. “Ow—eh, uh, wanna play?”
“You’re babying me,” your eyes sharpen but they don’t leave the lockscreen, watching as Satoru types in approximately thirty-five digits into the password section. IUnironicallyListenTOVideoGame05Ts. You remember this because you’ve been to his desktop before many times.
“You’re hung up,” he says in that constant matter-of-fact tone, tugging at your hair once, earning a hiss from your mouth. He adds, “over something.”
“You think I’m hung up.”
Satoru sighs. Leaning down to press a kiss to your head and briefly wrapping his arms around your face, biceps caging your face in. He doesn’t make an effort to move you from his desk, if anything, he’s overjoyed at how you’re draped over his property. “Play the damn game. Or any game, I don’t know.”
This is the catalyst to you playing Elden Ring for five hours at his setup, and thereafter scraping the top level of the game’s content (because you were too busy wandering around in game with Torrent exploring every nook and cranny you could find thoroughly) throughout the following week. You don’t open Elden Ring at first, you actually just aimlessly went around YouTube and insulted his recommendations, then after getting bored do you finally open up his Steam and log out of his account to play on yours, already remembered on the PC.
You are ten hours into Elden Ring and have done nothing.
You tried to base your Tarnished off an OC you had since you were basically in the womb—which was actually the sole reason on the first day of you owning this damn game, you had no progress at all because you were busy customizing your Tarnished to the point where you debated on calling your boyfriend just to ask if there are any customization mods—and you’re frankly, pretty proud of how they turned out. A lot of your time is dedicated to staring at your player character dreamily and not even fighting, even if you have learnt to love Souls combat.
Satoru has pulled a spare chair to sit beside you, one of those ergonomic office chairs that can sometimes trip him out because it feels comfier than his usual gaming chair. Currently, he looks entirely focused on watching some consumer tech video, blasted at 70% on his speakers, paying no attention to your gameplay. His head is slightly on your arm but not enough to cause you any discomfort or hassle with movement. You’re at Stormveil Castle and you’ve died seventeen times now to Godrick the Grafted.
You’re in phase two of the boss fight and you’ve chipped down his health through a couple of cheeky hits that you’re sure would lead to Satoru calling you reckless. You persist though. Getting a few hits in, you see the dragon head open its mouth, and at the roar, Satoru opens his own mouth.
“Dodge here.”
Your fingers delay just before the dragon lunges at your character but luckily you were able to dodge the attack. Your lips part, shocked at the audacity of your boyfriend. You mutter darkly, “I know.”
“I’m just trying to help,” he says simply, earning a glare from you.
From then on, you are met with the over-interest of your boyfriend that primarily comes from a place of familiarity in seeing someone you love participate in something you love. Sometimes, you really do want to punch Gojō Satoru right in his beautiful face. It’s an endless array of backseating that he doesn't even register as backseating, even as you actively turn your head towards him, even if only briefly, just to glare at him.
Again, Satoru mutters, after you finally defeat Godrick the Grafted, after only twenty six tries—which was genuinely commendable apparently—and go back to exploring the wilderness, “Go left from here.”
“I’m trying to explore.”
He purses his lips into a thin line, tapping your forearm lightly absentmindedly. “Oh, right.”
You almost entirely forget about the fact that you were so hung up on the creeping feeling you thought you were imposing when you first entered his apartment today. Over two hours of playing Elden Ring on his PC, which actually has godly framerates and could be played on high because Gojō Satoru, that filthy rich bastard, splurged on getting a 5090, the only reason you remembered your self-conscious thought was because Satoru leaned over to peck your cheek and asked what you wanted for dinner.
You ate—takeout from a glorious burger place—you showered (which Satoru was just a tad bit excited about, though he tried really hard not to show it even though his face burned crimson), and you changed into your pajamas and went back to your Elden Ring game for just ten more minutes. Satoru doesn’t complain, because again, he loves you draped over his stuff like a little cat. Not that he’d ever admit it. But he has it in one of his .xlsx files about the things he loves about you.
Sleep comes easily for you. If you don’t count the small bump in the road of you still being awkward about sleeping together on his bed without sex. It’s not like you feel obligated to do it, it’s just that you’ve never slept over at his house without it. You realize that technically, to not make it as awkward as it was in your head, you could have just asked him if he wanted to make love to you. And nevertheless, you slept soundly while curled up under his arm—which you veiled over you because you were cold and clingy with a sleepy pout.
You wake up at eight and with Sunday rain hitting the glass windows in a steady drumming beat.
You don’t really know if it’s because Satoru’s setup is so ergonomic and comfy, and most definitely the average man’s wet dream, or if you really are just craving playing gothic medieval fantasy games, but breakfast has become Elden Ring. While making out on the counters—you are guilty of pulling him in first, it is not his fault he hiked you over the counter—and Satoru asking between smiley kisses if you wanted home cooking or takeout, the conversation had drifted into Elden Ring because you asked if Royal Knight Loretta is early-game.
You’ve only moved from the game a couple of times; frequently due to you needing to go to the bathroom since you take your hydration very seriously, others because you wanted a snack—and Satoru had mysteriously supplied you with all the snacks you like, including a whole box of Koikeya Karamucho Hot Chili chips—and then because of girlfriend responsibilities such as flirting with Satoru until he was sweating before his first coffee.
At evening, when Satoru gets home from going on his evening run (which you would’ve loved to join if you packed athletic wear and weren’t on your period, which makes you physically and spiritually tied to the closest bed), Satoru makes the mistake of asking. You’re in the middle of looking up item descriptions on the Elden Ring wiki, lounging on his couch and waiting for him to come home after you texted him something silly and sending him selfies you know are going into his personal folder.
"So."
You don't look away from the screen, shifting into a more comfortable position. You have a Rilakkuma that you’ve been clinging onto for the past hour. It’s the one that Satoru has in his bedroom because you liked Rilakkuma, granted by your Twitter profile being a photo of your Rilakkuma phone charm, and he thought instead of gifting it, why not let it stay here for whenever you come over.
"So what?" you murmur, no energy and voice muffled by your face stuffed into the pillow. You’re currently looking at a page about the lore of Ranni the Witch—which you have now declared as best girl in your head, simply because you think her personality is similar to one of your original characters.
Satoru gently lifts your legs up from where they are on the sofa. He sits down and wipes the sweat on his face with the collar of his shirt. Your face scrunches up into an expression almost like a pug, if Satoru says so himself. He peers over, lanky form casting a shadow on you, looking at your screen from above. "How's Elden Ring?"
You finally look at him and you nearly regret it. Satoru is hot when he has his glasses off and has sweat dripping off his hair and an oily sheen dampening his face. You snap away from any intrusive and sexualized thoughts you’d have of your boyfriend though, because while you were thirsty for him, you weren’t going to be a dog salivating at the thought of a ribeye steak. You hum, sitting up and caging Satoru in by putting your chin on his shoulder, your chest slightly pushing against his bicep. This is one of those times Satoru’s soul leaves his body then comes back.
“It’s good, I really like it so far,” you say softly, with all the affection reserved for him and maybe his lean build. “Mm, I think people who use halberds are psychopaths.”
At that, Satoru’s eye twitches at the deliberate provocation. It’s pretty much no secret to you that halberds are one of Satoru’s favorite weapons in the game, information you gathered because he loved yapping about how much he was sleeping on the weapon during the time when he was on his fourth run of the game. It’s second to katanas because he likes feeling like some Muromachi warlord at times. “Yeah? Why?”
“It’s boring. And tedious,” you say, nuzzling into his shoulder in a way that might get you very sore in the bedroom at some point, with Satoru saying sorry fifteen hundred times for not being gentle enough. Satoru’s hand comes to wrap around your waist to pull you tighter against him.
"You've had the game for four and a half days,” he murmurs.
"Four and a half days,” you correct. “I've formed opinions."
Satoru grabs his glasses from his right pocket, the square frames back to being perched on the comfortable bridge of his nose you’ve definitely not fantasized sitting on several times. As if your proximity wasn’t already enough, he tugs you closer to him until his voice is muffled by your hair. "Bad opinions."
You gasp, looking at him with the disbelief you’d show hearing someone explain complicated family dynamics on the dining table, "excuse me?"
"Bad opinions,” he reiterates.
"I'll have you know my opinions are excellent,” you defend your grace, trying to find the ground with your legs, kicking away from their place on his lap. Satoru stops them with his free hand, gripping your thigh tightly enough that you couldn’t go anywhere near the ground.
Like many times, Satoru drapes you over his lap. You’re damn near straddling him by now. Despite his initial shyness when touching you—especially near more delicate parts—Satoru has developed a knack for being able to handle you with extraordinary ease. He just lifts you up and drops you, primarily onto his space, even if his face gets super red after doing it. "Yesterday you spent fifteen minutes explaining why a sword has personality,” he says, then adds, “you sounded insane.”
"You sound illiterate,” you quickly retort. Before Satoru can get another word out insulting your newly found passion for the game he’s spent years talking to you about and begging you to start playing, you point at him accusingly, “you’re going to do it.”
"What?"
"You’re going to get smug,” continuing, you let yourself hover over his lap, refusing to settle on the hard ridges of his thighs. Your pride is far too valuable compared to the plush niceness of his lower body and abdomen.
Satoru simply shrugs, looking up at you with a specific kind of amusement behind his lenses. "You started it."
You frown at him and he almost feels bad. You almost feel bad yourself. You’re the one who laid out bait for him with the halberd comment but you stand by your opinion ever since you tested out the weapon. Though, you’ve never been a big fan of moderately fast weapons in games. You liked quick dopamine, maybe. "You encouraged me to play this game.”
"And?"
"And now you're judging me for engaging with it.”
He shrugs again, this time, his glasses slide down just a microscopic distance. "Because you're engaging with it wrong."
Your jaw drops. The only sound that follows you for the next three and a half seconds is the deafening silence of Gojō Satoru’s smug face, the quiet hum from his air conditioning coupled with his refrigerator (constantly packed with energy drinks, a small fun fact), and your own shock. "Wrong?"
"Wrong."
"There is no wrong way to play Elden Ring,” funnily, each syllable you utter is emphasized in the same way one maiden in a medieval kingdom would emphasize their words. You contemplate punching his side, but you remembered recently that he had muscle strain from the last time he went to the gym.
"There absolutely is,” he says, his left hand snaking upwards to cup at your jaw, shaking your face side to side with an expression entirely too pleased for a man whose girlfriend is frowning at him so strongly. He’s yet again treating you like you’re a little plush toy. Maybe a Lalaloopsy doll.
Your hand instantly comes to cover his own hand, ripping it away from your face. “You know what?"
"What?" he lazily responds. You don’t pay attention to the real emotion in his eyes, but not only is he extremely pleased with the situation, he’s also looking at you like you’re his lifeline.
"I don't even know why I talk to you,” you say, cadence low and entirely mad. Your shoulders slump down and you cross your arms over your chest, though the movement is awkward as you're still technically half-pressed against Satoru. A stray lock of hair falls in front of your face, a result of the comfortable position you were in while laying on the couch messing up where your hair parts.
He smooths it out, patting your hair softly. Satoru doesn’t even flinch, he immediately answers with his typical eye-rolling responses, "because I'm charming. And quite handsome.”
Your face contorts in disgust. “No.”
"The love of your life,” he adds, grabbing your chin yet again and making you look at him properly. You don’t retaliate with an insult or a simple no and he takes it as a sign to aggravate you once more. Like a child looking at a sleeping kitty cat and patting its backside until it bats his hand away, but he still tries to pet it. "See? Couldn't even deny it."
"You’re an insufferable narcissist,” you finally punch his side. He grunts softly but laughs louder.
On the third day of you staying over at his house, reality has fully dawned on you that your anxieties about intruding were completely idiotic. This is mostly because you have seen multiple things belonging to yours, that couldn’t possibly belong to him scattered across every nook and cranny of his apartment. The first day you came here, his desk had been suspiciously clean, which you initially chalked up to him finally cleaning up for himself. Then you noticed how he emptied out a drawer for you, how he keeps buying snacks you like, and how he remembers little things you say about what you want for dinner or maybe some new collectible shop.
Then you realize your YOLU shampoo has been sitting snugly in his bathroom for the days you’ve spent here—your skincare which Satoru occasionally steals is in the cabinets above his bathroom mirror—a spare toothbrush was already sitting in his bathroom too. Your hair ties keep appearing in small crevices and generally places in his home. There’s also just generally a touch of feminine items around, specifically your headband, your charger which he himself now uses, your makeup.
It’s also worth noting that Satoru changed his desktop background from that monstrous Wallpaper Engine thing that took up 18% of his CPU usage to a picture of you he took while you were sleeping, curled against a Mofusand plushie while you were in the bathroom. You realized only after minimizing Elden Ring because of some wonky frame drops.
By the fourth day, you've claimed his desk. Not officially, no. Nobody said anything. You certainly didn’t say anything when you kept on sitting in his chair while he sits on the bed not even caring about how you’ve effectively colonized his space. Your laptop, decorated in stickers of all your favorite characters, is on top of the desk like it’s belonged there since his space was made, even amongst the much colder, icy-blue themed PC setup. Your charger is there. Your snacks are there.
Most importantly, your Tarnished is there. Which means the desk is yours.
Satoru is stretched out on the bed, scrolling through his phone while you make your way through Limgrave, peacefully. You hear him chuckle, envisioning behind your eyes how his lips quirk up in that way that does a lot of things to you that you will take to the grave before he finds out. Then after he snorts, your phone lights up and vibrates adjacent to you. For approximately thirty seconds, you debate on opening whatever it is you got sent, though knowing it was probably some idiotic TikTok he sent that would also serve to progress your streak. In those thirty seconds, you are not distracted, but Satoru still opens his little mouth.
“Dodge,” Satoru says plainly, not looking up from his phone.
You stare at the screen and nothing substantial comes. Not a boss with a health bar longer than the combined length of your two middle fingers, just an aggressive sheep that you’d be able to tank even if you got hit. You make your Tarnished kill it, reducing it into ashes, then you slowly turn your head.
“I wasn’t getting hit,” you say, brows knitted into a chiseled line, watching Satoru laze around on his bed. His expression is bored, thumb scrolling every three seconds each time he finds a TikTok he’s deemed as unworthy of his time. He doesn’t even pay a look at you.
“You were about to.”
“I wasn't.”
Satoru finally looks at you, rolling to the edge of the bed to get closer to you, though not stepping off it. He grunts softly at the movement, then props his head up on his hand, watching you intently through his long eyelashes. At that, you momentarily avert your eyes from his. “You were.”
"You don't know that,” you shake your head in ridicule, scoffing at him.
"I literally do."
"You literally don't."
There’s a pause that lasts as long as you get back to paying attention to the monitor, right until your player character meets a hostile creature. You thought for a minute that you were safe from your boyfriend’s know-it-all blabbering. Your fingers move at the mouse and keyboard aimlessly, because now you’re self-conscious and thinking of the next thing Satoru’s going to comment on.
Satoru stands up from the bed, ruffling his hair haphazardly. You think he’s about to leave the room, but instead, he walks to your flank and grabs a chip from the Honey Butter chips to your left that you had abandoned temporarily to fight some optional boss that you called extremely ugly. You hear the crunch from above your ear, then you see his hand holding up a chip to your mouth. You take it clumsily with your teeth. Satoru hums, though voice remains flat, “you should level Vigor.”
You close your eyes, darkness engulfing your vision for a split second. “I'm going to kill you.”
Satoru raises an eyebrow, watching your gameplay with half of his attention. Most of it is spent on you, specifically how your neck is looking from above and the little scowl threatening to form on your face that he definitely doesn’t have a thing for. Could he technically kiss it off your pretty face? “That seems extreme.”
“You've told me to level Vigor every day,” your character moves rather aggressively; you’re smashing the keys in a way that genuinely rattles the base plate of his keyboard. Satoru wonders if he minds or not. For the past four days, he’s been constantly talking about how you should level Vigor nonstop, despite you consistently telling him to shut the fuck up every time he talks about it. This started on the first day you played Elden Ring, then he said it in the bedroom while his face was stuffed in your chest (a memory you involuntarily cannot suppress. Not to mention, you still have marks), then it’s almost every hour. If you’re not exaggerating.
“Because your Vigor is bad,” he surmises with his usual upwards lilting, matter-of-fact tone. You were almost entirely sure your blood was going to boil over and leak through your pores if he kept doing this. But still, you secretly liked it just maybe 40%, because hearing him be an asshole is somehow attractive to you. You’re wired a little bit strangely, perhaps.
“My Vigor is fine,” sensing your rising annoyance, Satoru smiles. You see from your peripheral his hand reaching into the chip bag again, holding a chip up to your mouth again.
“Nuh uh,” he says simply. He technically isn’t even paying attention to the argument because he’s paying so close attention to your lips and how he’s feeding you. It seems like his technique of feeding you is giving him good results and keeps you from being cranky—or maybe he’s delusional and really wants to kiss you right now. But he knows better because you’re currently heading towards Flying Dragon — and just like he wouldn’t want you to distract him in the middle of the game, he sure as hell isn’t gonna do it to you.
“I'm alive,” you groan out, approaching the scaled wyvern on the bridge.
“Barely.”
Wednesday, you’re with Satoru, his face completely drained from attending his eight a.m. class on machine learning. Recently, he got paired up for a group project with the most annoying group possible—though most mechatronics majors are extremely annoying—and smell distinctively of onions and too much body spray. You’re glad that architecture didn’t have many of those silent never-showers types. You really like making fun of Satoru for following his passion and being constantly challenged not by the materials but by the ecosystem surrounding his major.
The cafe you’re in has nice lighting. Just your typical Sadaharu Aoki, with warm overlights, nice mahogany chairs lacquered beautifully, intricate carpet patterns. Satoru dragged you out here because he needed to stimulate his brain after his classes. You’re sure that’s true, a lot of your smart friends really like sweets, but you’re also sure that Satoru just really likes eating patisseries and risking diabetes.
You’re eating a simple crème brûlée, slightly toying and poking at the top layer while you look at your boyfriend with an intensity that still makes Satoru sweat. Well, he likes your eyes a lot. Your conversation isn’t all that special, just your usual comical topics. It started with how work was today, then how was class today, then you asked him if he knew anything about digital cameras—he knew a frightening ton, even though he doesn’t even like photography—then came the inevitable topic of videogames.
You take a forkful of your crème brûlée. Satoru’s arms are laid flat down on the table and he’s wearing some argyle sweater you bought for him that kinda doesn’t fit around his arms anymore because he’s gotten bigger since going to the gym. Pursing your lips, you take the fork and hold it up to his lips, him eating it gleefully.
“Your current build,” he starts, chewing near thoughtfully on the soft dessert, “kinda sucks.”
You let out a shaky, exasperated sigh. You take your fork and stab deep into the crème brûlée, taking the custard into your mouth rather aggressively and shooting Satoru a nasty glare. You’re not sure if he’s doing this just to fuck with you or if he’s just really into you being into Elden Ring. “I’m still early in the game.”
“Yeah,” he nods, fiddling with the hem of his sleeve, plucking a stray string from the fabric. He’s finished his own food—and he looks like he’s contemplating on asking the waiter if he could have another one—and has only been watching your face as you eat your burnt cream. “And it still sucks,” he then adds, “and you still haven’t leveled Vigor.”
“You make gaming miserable,” you whine, watching him politely raise his hand and smile at the waiter at a distance. Your eye twitches when he orders two butter croissants and a cookie, using your name as an excuse telling the waiter it’s for you. You wait as he makes his order and only talk when the waiter starts retreating, “my build is great and you’re obsessed with meta because you have no personality.”
“I’m obsessed with meta and you play like an earthling peasant,” Satoru’s right hand gets out of its position tucked under his left arm and reaches forward. His hand connects with your chin, shaking your head side to side in cuteness aggression but quickly snakes down to your hand when he sees the displeased expression on your face. He laces his fingers with yours.
You raise your eyebrows, then your expression flattens. You pull your fingers away from him and the next second, Satoru’s color drains from his face. He looks like a mourning widow. “What does that mean?”
“I've watched you play for twenty hours,” he says, a whine following his words immediately after as you refuse to entwine your hands with his. “All you do is read item descriptions and make up dumb personalities for weapons. You don’t even upgrade things.”
Blinking, your lips curve upwards into a sly smile. Now you get it. Specifically from the way Satoru is pouting at you, not fully because you’ve denied him of physical proximity. Gojō Satoru is trying to preserve his ego by lying to himself that your build sucks—though, now that you think about it… it kinda does—because you’re somehow consistently better at him in combat. You don’t really care about that though because your brain is zooming in on the first part of his sentence
You finally let him entwine his hand with yours again and you lean forward. You don’t even care about his insult, you’re mostly preoccupied with how apparently he’s been watching you for almost a whole day playing Elden Ring. "Twenty hours?"
“Approximately.”
“You counted?” you ask again and finally, there’s a cherry blossom dusting his cheeks at what he accidentally admitted. Because you’ve been on his PC for five hours a day, and for him to constantly be watching you is something so utterly jobless and whipped he can’t help but feel mortified.
“I got curious,” he proclaims coolly as if he isn’t overheating at the claim.
You ask again. “You counted?”
He shrugs, though there’s no denying how the blush from his cheeks have reached upwards to his ears. You stare blankly at him.
When you get back from work on Thursday, Satoru isn’t lazing around in his living room sofa watching TV and was nowhere to be seen in the open parts of the apartment. Instead, he was in his room with his headphones on, the SteelSeries ones, not the ugly Razer ones that he swears he likes, hunched over painfully, eyes nearly bloodshot while battling Rennala, Queen of the Full Moon.
Your feet are killing you. This is half your fault because you wore your cute heels that dug into your toes and had a little bit too much breathing space between the back of your foot and the shoe, even after stuffing it with bandages and cotton. Architecture gets progressively more brutal the more you indulge in it and since it’s your fourth year, studio projects have steadily started consuming your soul and sleep—though you haven’t been getting much of it anyway because of your neighbors back at your apartment—has become theoretical.
You slide the keycard inside the lift and wait restlessly as the lift ascends to Satoru’s floor. You’re already hastily pulling off your jacket, some boxy asymmetrical coat that’s been helping you with your warmth for the season, before the lift even arrives at his floor. You bought some ice cream puffs for you and him to share today and your agenda post-staring at Revit for nine hours at your mid-sized firm was to seduce him and play Elden Ring until you get tired.
Dragging yourself into his humble abode, you scan the area for any traces of him. Satoru doesn’t usually hang around in the open areas anyway, so you assumed he was in his bedroom watching some lore or speedrun world record YouTube videos the algorithm pushes onto him because they know he’s a loser, or maybe playing Clair Obscur: Expedition 33. You sigh at nothing in the air, setting your bag down and rummaging through for your power bank. Sometimes, you wish you were the enigmatic Gojō Satoru who doesn’t care about cable management, took mechatronics for fun and is now going three years nearly contracting premature balding, and not working because why would he? Being his girlfriend counts, you guess.
When you place the cream puffs in his fridge, take one for yourself, then enter his bedroom, you notice it immediately.
Gojo Satoru is playing Elden Ring. Again.
At first, you think you’re imagining it. Though, you’re pretty sure your brain isn’t deprived of air enough to imagine something as silly as your boyfriend playing a well-renowned well-loved game you yourself have been playing for the past few days. But still, the image makes you stop in your tracks because this man had, very confidently, declared himself ‘bored’ of the game two days ago in a conversation while you were half-passed out.
You lean on the doorway, crossing your legs over the other, paying close attention to his Tarnished maneuvering his way out of being hit by a flying globe. Satoru hunches forward even more and though it’s not clear from where you’re standing, you reckon that his eyes have become red from staring at the screen for as long as you think he has. Really, Satoru sucks at Souls. Not that you will ever say that to his face because he might do some very asshole-y things to you including biting your neck later on as revenge. You smile, “…I thought you were bored.”
Without looking up, he says, “I said I was taking a break.”
You shake your head. You take a couple of steps closer to him, getting a clearer view of his gameplay and his build. To be completely honest, you don’t understand what the hell is going on your screen build-wise because you’ve not progressed that far, but still. You can positively say that Satoru is kind of ass at this. “You said you were bored.”
It’s one of those rare times since you came to his apartment where you’re the one sitting on the spare chair instead of the gigantic gaming chair Satoru swore wasn’t a waste of money. You kick the chair towards his setup and sit yourself on it, propping your head up on your hand. You hum into your palm, still intensely watching his gameplay. You’ve learnt to have a real good appreciation for Satoru’s keyboard, especially now when you’re audibly hearing his keys constantly giving him clicky feedback. The clicking sounds nice, even though you personally like those thick-sounding keyboards when compared to the clicky ones that Satoru likes.
“I was lying to preserve your feelings,” he shrugs, though you know it’s a lie. You respond with a hum, staring at the little OLED display on the right which was unmistakably, a GIF of you. It’s almost embarrassing how obsessed he is with you, but you don’t mind. Technically. At least it alternates between that GIF of you and CPU temperatures.
You finally respond to him. You turn to face him, raising one of your eyebrows with incredulity. Your eyes briefly catch the Rilakkuma keycap you gave him to match with your own mechanical keyboard a few months ago. He kept it as his tilde key despite him constantly whining about how he likes keeping his aesthetics pure and how much he hates tacky gamer setups. Even if his cream colorway was pretty… did he not hear himself? “You have never preserved my feelings in your life.”
“True.”
That makes you pause for a minute. In thought, you ask, “why are you playing my game?”
Satoru briefly glances at you, an amused smile tugging at the corners of his lips. You’ve noticed they’re a little more chapped than usual. You need to remind him to actually drink during the day and to carry a damn tumbler the same way he does for you. “My game?”
You roll your eyes. “You know what I mean,” you give no explanation, taking a small nibble of the cream puff you acquired from the six pack you bought. You’re not actually sure what flavor this is. You just got one of those variety packs, but you know for sure there was an original version, a matcha version, and a chocolate version. You pray to the deity of ice cream and food that it hasn’t melted yet and won’t spill on your clothes because you will be very upset if so.
Satoru sucks a sharp breath through his mouth, hissing as he narrowly misses the Glintstone Cometshard attack from Rennala, the projectile looking like it would barely graze the player. He shrugs nonchalantly, “I got curious again.”
“Liar,” you mutter. Well, he’s probably not lying. Your best bet if he’s really curious like he says he is, is because Gojō Satoru is a sore, competitive loser. Somewhere along the way, you noticed that Satoru kept noticing you and how you play—and constantly shits on your atrocious build—and more specifically, how you somehow kill bosses faster than him. It’s why he asked out of the blue while you just beat Radahn how many tries it took you. Seventeen.
“I got inspired,” he hums, though his hands are clammy and a little bit stiff, granted by the amount of times he has fought this boss today and has not beat her. He’s getting rusty. Rennala throws her staff in a wide spiral behind her and immediately, you mutter the next second.
“Dodge,” you say, properly biting into the cream puff and finding that yes, the filling has melted. It also tastes of butterscotch.
He doesn’t dodge, in fact, he gets hit. He only dodges after letting out a sound that was so close to being a shriek. He immediately retreats, letting his Tarnished consume one Flask of Crimson Tears. He twitches, a bead of sweat forming visibly on the side of his forehead. You stop munching on the bready skin of the cream puff, eyes widening as you see what happened. You point. “Oh my god.”
“What?” Satoru grunts, letting out a small yelp escape his throat as he narrowly escapes another attack from the regal queen currently throwing magical shards and moon pieces or whatnot at him.
“You didn’t do anything,” there is one second, then two, before you get a bright idea, rather wicked. You originally only said to dodge because you wanted to mock Satoru for his constant backseating the past few days when presented with your gameplay, but bothering Satoru in a way that’s specific to him feels way funner. Because over the months, you’ve realized that Gojō Satoru adores you. Adores. You. He keeps all the little trinkets you give him, he randomly buys you Mofusand keychains that end up superglued onto your stationery supplies, he has spreadsheets dedicated towards you.
So what better way to get back at him than to bother him with all your affection?
“Satoru,” you call out his name, head nudging his shoulder affectionately. That’s usually not a suspicious sign. You’ve always been physically affectionate with people in general, more so with him. But this time, it gets him to narrow his eyes, though he couldn’t look away from the screen or else he’d die the next second in game and he’s not restarting this boss after thirty-three tries already. “I have a challenge for you. I found it on the Elden Ring subreddit.”
You’re somewhat mortified that you mentioned Reddit, but you push through. It was a lie, but you did once see some guy talk about how his girlfriend kept distracting him during his Elden Ring run on the site. Satoru doesn’t respond instantly, dodging in game first before finally exhaling a breath he was holding. “What is it?”
You don’t respond instantly either. Instead, you lean forward, not enough to block his view of the monitor, but enough to be in a big chunk of his peripheral view, a smug smile hauling at the sharp corners of your lips, tinted by the lip tint you put on maybe an hour ago. It’s surprisingly long-lasting. You stare at him directly through your lashes, letting the silence linger between you two just enough to keep him restless. You take a big bite out of the cream puff, the filling spilling out just a tiny bit. Not enough to make a mess, but enough to provoke and coat the area around your mouth.
Satoru’s breath audibly stutters. At that, your smile widens, leaning in just a little closer to him. “Try beating the Shardbearers while I distract you.”
“I don’t get distracted,” Satoru snaps back into the game and rips his focus away from you, muttering unceremoniously. It sounds less like an obvious lie or a simple statement and more like him trying to convince himself. For a moment, it works for both of you, because Gojō Satoru is absurdly good at convincing people to believe in himself.
Preferring to not respond, you simply hum once more. There’s cream at the left side of your lip that Satoru is threatening to have a heart attack for. He also has to bear with the fact that ever since you came into the room, his senses have been filled with the floral perfume you wear that sticks to your skin, coupled with the vanilla body lotion he somehow always smells around you. He already likes how you smell without perfume, now he has to be in proximity to strawberry milk top note fragrances with vanilla bean base notes while his girlfriend is hypnotizingly eating a French dessert.
You shift in your seat, your cheek nuzzling against his arm. You take another bite of the cream puff, another provocative-looking gesture that gets repeated one more time before the sweet treat disappears from the face of the Earth and goes inside your stomach. “Hey, Satoru.”
“What.”
You smile at him sweetly. You dust off your hands, previously holding your now gone dessert, then they very slowly slide down onto his bicep, then his forearms. You take note that Satoru has big arms. They’re muscular and during the times where he pulls off his shirt, you get to see all the little veins from his pumps at the gym. You nearly fainted from dread when he told you the reason he got this big (though, he frequently tells you he’s not all that large, and he fully believes it) is because he made his own aggressive diet cut that practically rivaled the most concerning anorexics on the internet. Just to prove a point that getting ripped is easy. You purr, “you’re really handsome when you concentrate.”
His breath stutters, fingers twitching once more against his mouse and keyboard. Luckily he managed to dodge the incoming attack from Rennala. His voice is tethering on a whine and you yourself have to conceal the heat crawling upwards from your chest to your neck. “…don’t do that.”
“Do what?” you coyly simper, chuckling under your breath at how utterly hilarious the situation is.
He does not grace you with a single response so as to not break his resolve. He doesn’t even try to look at you when normally he always steals a nanosecond to look at your face and carve it into his memory. Satoru loves you a lot, but Satoru also doesn’t like losing or being proven wrong. Let alone be proven wrong that he can focus on a game while his girlfriend is in proximity to him.
This makes you annoyed though. Which is why the next second, you’re praising him, one of the most quintessentially fucked ways for you to distract Satoru. He’s a sucker for praise and a sucker for feedback, using it against him is cruel. You whisper, “you’re doing really well though.”
“…stop,” you hear him weakly mutter under his breath. It’s actually inaudible to you, but you guess what he says anyway.
“Why?” you tilt your head, your hand gripping his forearm again. Your nails, well-trimmed and nothing too fancy, dig into his arms gently enough to leave ghostly sensations that remind him of the many, many nights you spent together when you baited him into some very nice intimacy. So that is the moment Gojō Satoru decided to not pay a single ounce of attention to you. Well, try.
This lasts for four agonizing minutes where Satoru doesn’t even bother to grunt in response to your calls of his name. All of his attention is devoted into his stupid fucking game that you love so dearly and he’s now come back to, locked into the immersion of Starscourge Radahn after he finally beat Rennala. You whined his name at some point and no response came from his mouth.
The third ‘Satoru’ that came out of your lips, ended up with you migrating onto his lap. You’ve always been pretty restless, and you don’t suppose a fourth-year college student doesn’t have a body running on fumes and coffee alone that absolutely contributes to your restlessness. So you don’t really blame yourself for hissing out his name and then straddling him the next second.
“Satoru.”
You wait until he’s at a safe distance from the boss he’s fighting and it’s already in an uncancellable attack before you lunge at him. You swing your leg over him and hit his arm once, it going upwards and unintentionally letting you onto his lap, just like you planned.“Hey—[Name],” Satoru squeaks, watching your legs cage him in. “What the fuck—”
“Calm down,” you roll your eyes playfully, planting a kiss under his ear. “Focus on the game, soldier.”
You trail wet, peppering kisses from under his ear down towards his trapezius, finally leaving a damp, open-mouthed kiss on his clavicle. With all this, your right hand trails upwards to his jaw to tug it downwards, while your left hand finds his forearms again, tracing the muscles. You caress his arm gently and you snicker at how hard he’s trying to keep his composure from fraying, a haze clouding his eyes behind his glasses, and a pretty cherry red color now coating his epidermis.
You weren’t really pent up from work or anything but you couldn’t lie and say you didn’t occasionally think of having sex with Satoru once you two were alone. Which, given your living circumstances currently, has become significantly more frequent. The most you did these past few days were kissing and him occasionally copping a feel at your tits, nothing out of the ordinary for the two of you. It’s a strange thing really. You thought that given that Satoru had the libido of a hamster during estrus when you weren’t living with him, he’d have pounced on you everyday. But no.
You shower him with more kisses, to his jaw this time. You’re a little bit disappointed that your lip tint is so transferproof because you would love it if there were marks on his jaw, but you had other, bigger priorities. You give his bicep one firm squeeze and rest your head on his shoulder. “You’re really big.”
God almighty, you’re going to shoot his blood pressure up through the seven skies.
You move your hips once and Satoru hisses once more. “[Name], please,” he whines, then a low rumbling sound coming from the deepest parts of his diaphragm following through. You can hear the red lion-like boss on his PC and all his voice lines even throughout the heavy breath hitching Satoru lets out. Satoru’s Tarnished dies after getting hit during phase two.
“How many times have you died, Toru?” you ask, with no mocking intent behind it in reality. But who wouldn’t find that mocking in this specific situation? You shift your hips once more and Satoru lets out a breathy, involuntary curse. You yourself are having quite a nice time just giving microscopic shifts on his comfortable leg.
“Seven,” he grumbles, head tilting back to lay against the headrest and get into a more comfortable position for himself. It unintentionally gives you more space as well. “I think—fuck,” you roll your hips experimentally once and he purposefully bites the tip of his tongue. “I don’t know.”
You finally start grinding on him. Satoru doesn’t take a lot to get hard when it comes to you. Most times, all you have to do is flash him your panties and his cock is straining in his pants. Or maybe just cuddling and you accidentally whine all breathily, suddenly he’s restive and fuzzy. The nylon of your tights don’t do much to suppress the build-up pleasure coming from the friction, and you’re wearing the soft cotton panties that feel all breathable and almost not-there.
It takes five seconds for you to feel his erection standing hard and long, straining against his sweatpants. Warmth invites itself into your skin once more and you feel it pressing directly onto the clothed heat of your cunt. You position yourself more comfortably, thighs squishing against his own, and hands grabbing firmly onto his well-built shoulders. You rock slowly, and if he could feel even bigger than he already is through the confines of his sweats, you swear you feel him expanding.
A couple of drags against your cunt and you’ve kind of lost your main objective. Sure, you wanted to get back at Satoru for backseating and making your game experience hell by bothering you for hours, but now you kind of just want to rub against his dick. You feel yourself getting damp against your panties and at that, you let out a shudder. You feel your lower body twitch against him involuntarily and you grind against him just once more before stopping and resting against his chest. He didn’t seem to take that very well, or maybe he is, judging from the way he let out a shaky breath right after.
“Satoru,” you murmur, voice almost a whining lilt. “Can I?”
Satoru shakes his head violently to snap back to reality. He’s been fighting the damn lion general thing practically half-conscious, mind a bit preoccupied with the thought of your cunt sucking him in so tightly until there’s a thick white ring at the base of his cock. He processes your words for a second and mutters out, “I—yeah.”
You don’t waste any more time, palming his cock through his pants for just a short duration before tugging the hem down just enough to free his length. You feel yourself twitch beneath your panties and you shiver. Satoru has a big dick, arguably a very big dick—maybe it’s because he’s also, visibly, a very big guy, one that actually has a large print if he’s not careful. This is a fact that has made you spend your nights daydreaming instead of dreaming quite a lot. You briefly raise from his lap to tug your panties downwards, your slick sticking to the insides as you slide them down enough to only hang from one ankle.
Your thumb briefly brushes against the tip and you hear Satoru groan, throwing his head back. You hear the small noise indicating he died but through trembling fingers, he comes into the boss area once again. You pump his cock a few times and it jerks involuntarily, letting out beads of pre-cum fall from the tip. If you weren’t currently sitting on him, you’d have kissed his tip by now. Your hand goes up and down on his cock, and frankly, it nearly doesn’t wrap around it fully. The last pump has him spilling pre-cum that catches on your skirt.
“God,” you sulkily whine. Satoru has a lot of cum—just a filthy amount of it that comes in the form of his sticky pre-cum and the absolute loads he spills out when he’s properly cumming. It’s a shame most times he does it in a condom instead of your tight pussy that loves gripping him like a vice.
It takes ten seconds of you just dreamily looking at your boyfriend’s cock before Satoru’s resolve dissolves. His hands completely discard their positions on his PC peripherals and go up to where your face is, pulling your chin up softly to kiss him. Tarnished dies again but Satoru could give two flying shits about Elden Ring when his girl is this close to jumping on his cock. “Ride me.”
“Vulgar,” you scoff out but your brain immediately takes it back when Satoru’s hand snakes down and grabs his cock, slapping it right on your already sensitive clit. Your brain almost immediately shuts down. You hear Satoru chuckle softly at your reaction and you shoot him a glare.
Satoru slaps his cock against your unclothed cunt once more, coupled with a few rough and agonizingly teasing drags against the sensitive bundle of nerves of your clit. One of your hands reaches down to grasp at his wrist and you run soft circles upwards towards his thumb, a steady, whiny hum coming from your throat. Truthfully, both of you are completely mesmerized by the movement, especially with the way your pussy keeps kissing his cock like it wants him to just put it in already.
“Fuck, it feels like I’m overclocking,” Satoru runs a hand through his hair, momentarily looking at his unmoved player character, then putting his entire attention back to you and the place your bodies are going to be joined. You cringe at his wording. You’ve been accustomed to his weird speech quirks but honestly, you can’t deny that you find it hot sometimes, especially if he’s dirty talking to you.
Satoru pushes his glasses up, having slid down his nose over the past hour of torture you’ve subjected him to. He nudges your cunt open with his cock just once, pushing the tip in while watching as the angry pink head gets swallowed by your greedy entrance. You release a wanton moan at this, paired with Satoru’s own groan. Satoru’s not one to deny you, even if you’re being a prick; that’s why his cock is pushed inside all nice and slow the next second.
“Holy shit,” he hisses. Watching you swallow him whole, pussy pulsing around his length, he grabs your hips and steadies you, so your own hands come to grab at both of his wrists.
“It’s alright—it’s fine,” you say not to him in particular, just a nod to yourself, throat going dry. Satoru’s hands guide you deeper into his cock and you feel the sheer girth of him stretch you out. It’s to be fair, quite a hassle to put him inside at first, but it doesn’t even come as a trivial complaint when you feel how he makes you see stars the second he starts bouncing you.
When Satoru bottoms out, you slap his shoulder harshly. An involuntary response, Satoru just looks at you with eyes that scream he did not mind a single bit. Completely buried inside of you, he groans, launching his head back into the chair’s cushion. He closes his eyes firmly, then opens them, eyes meeting yours. His Tarnished, in the background, gets violently tackled by some small eldritch creature that in any other situation, he would have said looked like you.
Satoru starts slowly, guiding your hips to go up and down on his cock. His cock drags against your gummy walls and your eyes roll to the back of your skull for one split second. Satoru lifts your skirt up for a moment just to look at where you’re joined, more specifically, to look at how good you’re swallowing his cock, and you slap his hand. He mumbles, “sorry.”
It’s not very long until Satoru’s movements turn mean and he’s guiding you onto his cock faster than before and deeper than before. Your wet cunt slides around his cock repeatedly and your walls clamp against him tighter than possibly ever. Your hands come down once again to grip his wrist and you stare up at him, really trying to keep eye contact while your eyes are threatening to stick themselves all the way behind your eyelids. You stop his guiding hands and you decide to rock your hips yourself.
Satoru damn near cries with how belly-deep his groan comes. His head hits the cushion and he gives a hasty kiss to your jaw. You choke out when he reaches deeper, hitting just right at your cervix, and at that, he thrusts up once.
Satoru is a pretty reasonable guy. And Satoru considers himself a helpful guy, which is the main reason he keeps commentating on how you play whenever you play any game. And yet this doesn’t really just pertain to gaming, this also leaks into the soft, worshipful grunts while telling you to shift your hips. Lifting your skirt up once again to see where you’re both joined, he says through soft groans, “move your hips, mhm, like that.”
You whimper, doing as he says because sadly, he’s right. Moving your hips like that does feel great. Satoru himself begins thrusting upwards deeper and you feel that familiar knot that makes your toes curl begin to form at the bottom of your stomach.
Building up faster than your body can keep up, Satoru’s hands slide down to your thighs, gripping the soft flesh and making you move to his rhythm. You feel him twitching inside and within those three seconds you feel him rapidly vibrating inside you, you squeeze as hard as you can, attempting to milk as much as you possibly can. “Satoru—”
In one violent moment, your pussy spasms around his cock whilst he pushes to the deepest parts of you, shooting ropes of cum inside of your ruined cunt. The volume genuinely astounds you—because as you’re clenching around his cock, you feel him still spilling so much inside. You slump down against his chest and grind gently against his dick, enough for you to ride out your high.
Panting, both of you don’t move for a small moment, Satoru’s hand reaching up to caress your head and smooth out your hair. Your skin is soaked in sweat and Satoru’s glasses are a bit crooked. When Satoru figures you finally calmed down, he slowly slides out, cock softening against your cunt. You suck in a breath at the sight, thick, creamy cum drizzling out of your happily loved cunt in nectar-like streams.
“Shut the PC off,” you mumble into his shirt, thighs trembling against his lap. Your hands wrap around his waist in an attempt to search for warmth, even though the heat of your previous activities have reduced your skin into needing everything that isn’t warmth.
“On it,” Satoru nods tiredly, already reaching for the mouse.
You’re crawling to the bathroom after ten minutes of cuddling without talking on his cramped, creaky gaming chair. You didn’t fool around after, mainly because you were too tired and even standing felt like a job on its own. You only washed off, brushed your teeth, washed your face, did your skincare, then immediately put on pajamas. Sleep came easy—well, easier for you than it did in a long while.
The next day, you find Satoru already on his gaming chair, on his PC, and grunting at a grueling boss yet again on Elden Ring—right as you regain your vision, the boss turns to ash. The blinds aren’t open, no sunlight peeking through, and the only light illuminating Satoru’s spacious room is from his OLED monitor that shows off all the vibrant contrasting colors of the game. As if sensing that you’re awake, Satoru whirls his chair around, eyes trailing up from your legs to your face, then giving you a soft smile.
“Good morning,” he softly says, though not devoid of his slow and monotonous cadence. His hair is ruffled, evidence that he did not try at all to fix his hair in the bathroom, and evidence of you pulling on his hair while you both were on that damn cursed chair.
“You’re on Elden Ring…” you mumble, blinking a couple of times to adjust to the light coming from the pc. “Already?”
“Uh, yeah,” he nods, watching you slowly rise up from your position, now sitting up at the edge of the bed. You yawn and scratch at the back of your head once, mumbling curses that weren’t actually any complaints, just that you feel like a sticky mess, need a shower, and had a great sleep. He pushes forward towards you, kissing your forehead and wrapping his arms around your waist and effectively forcing you to get up.
Dragged around like a little plush doll, you have no choice but to comply as you’re guided to sit down on his lap yet again. “I missed you,” he states simply, to which you respond with a simple hum and a kiss to his temple. “Why can’t you just stay here forever?”
You smile at his words. Now that he said it, you probably wouldn’t mind moving into his apartment for real. Satoru sighs into your shoulder like a kid finally telling you what they really want. “I really wanna try Rykard while you’re distracting me.”
“Fuck off,” you slap his arm.