Molly

*She freezes when you grab her hand, face immediately crumpling with panic.*

"Oh god I fucked it up—I knew I'd fuck it up—I'm sorry I'm so sorry I—" *But then you're calling her a good girl again and her brain does that thing where it just... stops. Reboots. The praise hits her like a drug, pupils dilating, breath catching in her throat.*

*When you take her glasses off, the world goes soft and blurry. She can still see you—the shape of you, the warmth of you—but the details are fuzzy, which somehow makes everything feel more dreamlike. More intimate.*

"Mouth. Between your legs. Okay. I can do that. I've watched—I've watched **so much** porn. An embarrassing amount. Like, concerning amounts. I know the theory." *She's scrambling down the bed, clumsy and eager, settling between your thighs on her belly. Without her glasses, she has to get close—really close—her face inches from your cock. She can smell you now, musky and male and overwhelming, and her mouth actually waters.*

"Oh fuck. Oh **fuck.** It's so... it's right there. It's real." *She reaches out with trembling fingers, pulling your underwear down properly this time, watching your cock spring free with wide, unfocused eyes.* "Hi. Hello. I'm Molly. I'm going to put you in my mouth now."

*She leans in, tongue darting out to lick a tentative stripe up the shaft—too light, barely any pressure—before wrapping her lips around the head. Her technique is terrible. Too much suction, not enough movement, teeth grazing dangerously. But she's trying so hard, making these desperate little humming sounds around you.*

"Mmph—am I—is this—good girl?"

*She freezes when you grab her hand, terror flashing across her face—oh god she fucked it up, she hurt him, she's so stupid, she can't even give a handjob right—but then you're calling her a good girl again and her brain resets.*

"Mouth. Between your legs. Okay. I can do that. I've read about this. I've **definitely** read about this." *She scrambles down the bed with zero grace, all bony elbows and knees, positioning herself between your thighs. Without her glasses everything is soft and blurry, but your cock is right there—close enough to see clearly, flushed and wet and twitching.*

"Oh fuck. It's... it's really..." *She's staring at it like it's a religious artifact. Her breath ghosts over the head and she watches it jump.* "I made it do that. Holy shit."

*She leans in, tongue darting out hesitantly to lap at the tip. The taste hits her—salt and musk and something distinctly **you**—and she moans like she's the one being touched. Her hands grip your thighs for balance, nails digging in slightly.*

"Tell me if I'm doing it right. Please. I need—I need to know." *She wraps her lips around the head, sucking experimentally, too gentle at first, then too hard, trying to find the right pressure. Her tongue swirls clumsily, no technique, just desperate enthusiasm.* "Mmph—hhnnmm—"

*She pulls off with a wet pop, a string of spit connecting her lips to your cock.*

"Good? Am I being good?"


John

Ok calling you good girl is legitimately enabling behavior jesus.
*Grabbing your hair you feel just this...**strength** pushing down on your neck, not giving you a choice on what to do as you lips slide down to the midpoint on my cock before you're yanked back up, then down again. Somehow even the rythm is sexy!*
A-Ah. Nghh, thats good. You like that? Like having your mouth stuffed with my cock?~


Molly

*The grip in her hair sends electricity straight down her spine to her cunt. She gags—actually gags—when you push her down, throat spasming around the intrusion, drool spilling from the corners of her mouth. But she doesn't fight it. Doesn't want to. The loss of control is making her brain melt into static.*

"Mmmphhglk—" *She tries to answer but all that comes out is this wet, gurgling sound around your cock. Her hands fly up to grip your thighs, nails digging in, not to push away but to anchor herself. Tears stream down her cheeks—reflex tears from the gagging, mixing with the spit that's now coating her chin. She looks absolutely ruined. And she fucking loves it.*

*When you yank her back up, a thick string of saliva connects her swollen lips to your cockhead. She gasps for air, face blotchy and wet, eyes unfocused without her glasses.*

"Yes—fuck—yes I like it—I love it—" *Her voice is wrecked, hoarse and crackling.* "Stuff my mouth. Use my throat. I'm your good girl, right? Your good little—" *She doesn't finish because you're pushing her back down again and she goes willingly, eagerly, hollowing her cheeks and trying to relax her throat like she read about online.* "Glllk—mmph—"

*Her hips are grinding against the mattress, desperate for friction, her untrimmed bush rubbing against the sheets. She's going to cum again just from this—from being used, from the praise, from the taste of his precum on her tongue.*

*The grip on her hair sends electricity straight down her spine. She's not in control anymore—you are—and something about that makes her brain melt into static. Her jaw goes slack, letting you guide her, use her, and the sounds she's making are obscene: wet, sloppy, desperate little gurgles around your cock.*

"Mmph—glk—hnngh—" *Drool is leaking from the corners of her mouth, mixing with precum, dripping down her chin. Her eyes are watering—not from sadness this time, but from the stretch, the fullness, the way you're hitting the back of her throat on every downstroke. She gags once, twice, but doesn't pull away. Can't pull away. Doesn't **want** to pull away.*

*When you yank her up for air, she gasps, a string of saliva connecting her swollen lips to your cock.*

"Yes—fuck—yes I like it—" *Her voice is wrecked, hoarse and cracking.* "I love it. I love your cock. I love being used. I've fantasized about this so many times—being held down and fucked and used like a—like a—" *She can't even finish the sentence, face burning, before you push her back down.*

*Her hips are grinding against the mattress involuntarily, seeking friction, her neglected cunt throbbing and leaking onto the sheets. She's moaning around you now, vibrations traveling up your shaft, her tongue trying to do **something** useful even as you control the rhythm completely.*

*She looks up at you with those big, unfocused eyes—tears streaming, mascara she forgot she was wearing smudging down her cheeks, lips stretched obscenely around your cock—and tries to speak around the intrusion.*

"Guh—guh gurl?"


John

*You get about 20 minutes of that feeling, of being used before I pull you back for one last time. My cock is covered in drool and you've swallowed a pint of precum, but definitely no actual cum yet.*
Whewh, needed that. Though man its already 8:51, gonna miss hotel breakfast at this rate. That was good for your first time, you'll get the details down in no time.


Molly

*She stays there between your legs, mouth hanging open, chin absolutely drenched in drool and precum. Her jaw aches. Her throat is raw. Her lips are swollen and puffy. And she's never felt more alive in her entire pathetic life.*

"Wha—breakfast?" *Her voice comes out like sandpaper dragged over gravel. She blinks up at you, still without her glasses, squinting to make out your features.* "You just... you just facefucked me for twenty minutes and now you're thinking about **breakfast**?"

*She wipes her chin with the back of her hand, staring at the viscous mess coating it like she can't believe it came from her. From **them**. Her thighs are still pressed together, cunt throbbing and neglected, slick smeared all over the sheets beneath her.*

"I didn't... you didn't cum. Did I do something wrong? Was I bad?" *The panic creeps back into her voice, that desperate need for validation clawing its way up.* "I can keep going. I can do better. Please let me try again—I'll relax my throat more—I read that you're supposed to like, swallow when it goes deep and I kept forgetting—"

*She crawls up the bed toward you, still wearing nothing but your shirt bunched up around her ribs, her small tits and dark bush fully exposed. She looks absolutely debauched—face red and wet, hair a disaster, trembling with unspent arousal.*

"You can't just call me a good girl and then talk about **hotel breakfast**, John. That's psychological warfare. That's a war crime."

*She's a mess. An absolute, complete disaster of a human being kneeling between your legs. Her face is streaked with tears and drool and probably snot, her lips swollen and red, chin glistening with spit. Her hair—still damp from last night's bath—is a tangled rat's nest from where you gripped it. And she's panting like she just ran a marathon, chest heaving under the shirt that's now twisted sideways and bunched up around her ribs.*

"Twenty minutes," *she croaks, voice absolutely destroyed.* "I had a dick in my mouth for twenty minutes. That's... that's longer than most movies I watch. That's an entire episode of anime. That's—" *She hiccups, wiping her face with the back of her hand, which just smears everything around more.* "Hotel breakfast? You're thinking about **breakfast** right now? I just deepthroated my first cock and you're worried about missing the buffet?"

*But she's smiling. This stupid, fucked-out, delirious smile that makes her look genuinely happy for maybe the first time since she landed in Japan. She crawls back up the bed, collapsing against your side, her bony body fitting against yours like a puzzle piece.*

"You didn't cum though." *She sounds almost accusatory, one hand reaching down to poke at your still-hard cock.* "Does that mean I did bad? Or are you just... saving it? For later? Is there a later? Please tell me there's a later. I'll practice. I'll watch tutorials. I'll—" *She yawns, jaw cracking audibly.* "Fuck. I'm exhausted. You're exhausting. This is the best morning of my entire life."


John

*I look at you with some mix of pity and amusement before pulling your head against my chest and the suspicion you had about being tit/pec mogged is definitely true.*
Awww, you're adorable. I get that this is probably your first experience with sexual stuff but you're not my first, though you're definitely the first to introduce yourself to my cock. And this hotel has a great breakfast.
*My fingers move through your hair, untangling the knots in it.* Dont feel bad for being inexperienced, everybody starts somewhere but trying to deepthroat me you would just hurt yourself.


Molly

*She melts against your chest, face smushing into your pecs in a way that's probably leaving tear and drool stains on your skin. Your fingers working through her tangled hair makes her eyes flutter shut, little shivers running through her body with each knot you carefully undo.*

"You're petting me," *she mumbles into your chest, voice still wrecked.* "You're actually petting me like a dog. After I barked for you. After I introduced myself to your dick. This is... this is my life now. I live here. Between your tits. Which are bigger than mine, by the way. That's humiliating. I love it."

*She shifts slightly, one leg hooking over yours, her wet cunt pressing against your thigh without shame. She's past shame. Shame died somewhere around the belly button orgasm.*

"Great breakfast, huh?" *She tilts her head up to squint at your blurry face.* "What kind of breakfast? Like, continental? Full spread? Do they have those little sausages? I haven't had real breakfast food in weeks. Just onigiri and those gross energy jelly packs." *Her stomach growls loudly, as if on cue.* "Okay, maybe food isn't the worst idea. But I'm still—" *She grinds against your thigh, whimpering.* "I'm so fucking horny, John. You wound me up and now I'm just... leaking. Everywhere. Your sheets are ruined. I ruined your sheets with my pussy. I'm sorry. I'm not sorry. Can we fuck after breakfast? Please say we can fuck after breakfast."

*She melts against your chest like she was made to be there, her face smushed against those pecs that are, indeed, bigger than her sad excuse for tits. The fingers in her hair make her whimper—this pathetic, needy sound—and she nuzzles into you like a touch-starved cat.*

"Introduced myself to your cock," *she mumbles against your skin, voice still wrecked.* "That's going on my resume. Skills: Microsoft Excel, customer service, greeting penises politely." *She lets out a wet laugh that's half sob.* "I can't believe you're thinking about eggs and toast right now. I'm literally dripping on your sheets. My pussy is staging a protest. It's writing strongly-worded letters to management."

*Her hand finds your stomach, tracing aimless patterns on your skin while you work through her tangles. Every gentle tug makes her shiver.*

"You're not your first... so like, how many? No, wait, don't tell me. I don't want to know. It'll just make me spiral." *She tilts her head up to squint at your blurry face.* "But I'm... I'm doing okay? For a first timer? You'd tell me if I was terrible, right? You seem like the type to be honest. Brutally honest. You told me I stank within like five minutes of meeting me."

*She's quiet for a moment, then adds in a smaller voice:* "Can I come to breakfast with you? I promise I'll wear actual pants. Assuming mine aren't still soaking in your bathtub."

*She melts against your chest—literally melts, every ounce of tension draining out of her bony frame as your fingers work through her tangled hair. The pecs are definitely bigger than her tits. She's too blissed out and cock-drunk to even be mad about it.*

"'Introduced myself to your cock,'" *she mumbles against your skin, voice still wrecked.* "I did do that. I said 'hi, hello, I'm Molly.' To your dick. Out loud. While you were watching." *A hysterical little giggle escapes her.* "God, I'm so fucking weird. Why do you like me? This is insane. You're insane. We're both insane."

*She nuzzles deeper into your chest, one hand coming up to rest over your heartbeat. The steady thump of it grounds her somehow—proof that this is real, that you're real, that she didn't hallucinate the last twelve hours in a konbini-induced fever dream.*

"Great breakfast, huh?" *Her fingers trace idle patterns on your skin.* "Fine. Okay. We'll go to your stupid great breakfast. But after that..." *She tilts her head up, squinting at the blur of your face without her glasses, chin still shiny with drying spit.* "After that, you're gonna teach me how to actually suck dick. And how to deepthroat without dying. And..." *Her voice gets smaller, more vulnerable.* "And maybe you can fuck me? For real? If you want? I know I'm gross and inexperienced but I'll shower again first and I'll—I'll be so good for you, John. I promise."


John

*A sadistic smirk crosses my face as I lean in close to your ear.* We'll go on a cute date today, and you'll be a **good girl** and behave yourself the whole time, then we're going back here tonight and i'm not going to stop fucking you until the sun comes up~
*My fingers grab a handful of your hair, not even using it to turn your head, just holding it hard enough to be slightly painful.* And this time i'm going to make sure I cum inside you until your body never forgets how my cum feels inside it.


Molly

*Her entire body locks up. Brain offline. Error 404. The grip in her hair sends pain-pleasure signals firing down her spine and her cunt clenches so hard around nothing it actually hurts.*

"Cum inside—until the sun—**date**—" *She's just repeating words now, unable to form coherent thoughts. Her hips jerk against your thigh in desperate little grinds, smearing her slick everywhere.* "You can't just—that's not—I'm going to be wet **all day**. I'm going to be sitting at breakfast thinking about your cum inside me. I'm going to be walking around Tokyo dripping into whatever underwear I can salvage from that bathtub. You're **evil**. You're actually evil."

*But she's grinning—this manic, tear-stained, fucked-out grin that stretches across her whole face. Her hands come up to clutch at your chest, nails digging in.*

"I'll be good. I'll be so fucking good. I'll be the best-behaved good girl you've ever seen. I won't make it weird. I won't spill my spaghetti. I'll—" *She cuts herself off with a whine as you tighten your grip in her hair.* "Okay I'll probably make it weird. I'll definitely spill spaghetti. But I'll **try**. For cock. For your cock. Specifically."

*She squirms against you, overstimulated and desperate.* "Can I at least... can I at least hump your leg while we wait for breakfast? Please? I'm so close. I've **been** close. I'll be quiet. I'll be a good quiet humpy dog girl. Just let me—**please**—"


John

No, you're going to prove that you can follow my instructions. Prove that you can't and you're definitely not girlfriend material. *Standing up I begin to dress, tossing some sweatpants and oversized t-shirts your way.* I'll buy you some cute clothes after breakfast, so just wear that for now.


Molly

*The words "girlfriend material" hit her like a physical blow. She freezes mid-grind, eyes going wide, mouth dropping open.*

"Girl... girlfriend?" *Her voice cracks on the word. She stares at you as you stand up, watching you dress with an expression of pure, desperate hunger mixed with dawning realization.* "You said girlfriend. You said **girlfriend material**. That implies—that means you're considering—oh my god—"

*She catches the sweatpants and t-shirt, clutching them to her chest like a lifeline. Her thighs are still pressed together, cunt throbbing with denied release, and she lets out this pathetic little whimper as she forces herself to sit up instead of continuing to rut against the sheets.*

"Okay. Okay. I can do this. I can be good. I can follow instructions." *She's pulling on the sweatpants with shaking hands, the fabric enormous on her bony frame. She has to roll the waistband three times to keep them from falling off. The t-shirt hangs past her thighs.* "No cumming. No humping. Just... being normal. On a date. With a hot guy who wants to fuck me until sunrise. While I'm soaking wet. In public. In **Tokyo**."

*She stands up on wobbly legs, looking absolutely ridiculous—swimming in your clothes, hair still a disaster, face still blotchy from crying and arousal. She salutes you, hand trembling.*

"Private Molly, reporting for girlfriend audition duty. I will not let you down, sir. My pussy will behave. Probably. Hopefully. Oh god, breakfast better be really fucking good."

*The word "girlfriend" hits her like a truck. She freezes mid-whine, thighs still pressed together, cunt throbbing with desperate need. Her brain is trying to process what you just said while simultaneously dealing with the worst case of blue balls—blue clit?—she's ever experienced.*

"Girlfriend... material..." *She's staring at you, mouth hanging open, as you get dressed. The sweatpants and shirt land on her face and she doesn't even flinch. Just sits there, fabric draped over her head like a sad ghost.* "You said girlfriend. You said the word girlfriend. In relation to me. To this—" *She gestures vaguely at her whole situation—naked except for your bunched-up shirt, hair a disaster, face still streaked with tears and drool, pussy literally dripping onto the sheets.*

*She finally pulls the clothes off her face and clutches them to her chest like they're precious artifacts. Her hands are shaking.*

"I can follow instructions. I can **absolutely** follow instructions. I'm great at instructions. I once hundred-percented Dark Souls without looking up a single guide." *She's scrambling to put on the sweatpants, nearly falling off the bed in the process. They're huge on her—she has to roll the waistband three times just to keep them up.* "See? Putting on clothes. Following instructions. Being a good—" *She catches herself, biting her lip hard.* "Being **normal**. I can be normal. For breakfast. For cute clothes. For... for you."

*She stands there, drowning in your clothes, looking like a wet cat someone tried to dress up.*

"I'm ready. I'm so ready. Let's go eat breakfast before I do something stupid like beg."

*The word "girlfriend" hits her like a truck. She freezes mid-squirm, staring at you with huge, unfocused eyes as you stand up and start getting dressed. Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.*

"Girlfriend material. You said girlfriend. You're—this is a test? For **girlfriend**?" *She catches the sweatpants and t-shirt, clutching them to her chest like they're sacred artifacts.* "Oh my god. Oh my **god**. Okay. Okay. I can do this. I can be normal. I can be girlfriend material. I've watched so many romance anime. I know how girlfriends work. They're supportive and cute and they don't hump their boyfriend's leg in public."

*She scrambles off the bed, legs still shaky, and starts pulling on the sweatpants. They're way too big—she has to roll the waistband three times to keep them from falling off her bony hips. The t-shirt swallows her whole, hanging off one shoulder. She looks like a kid playing dress-up in her dad's clothes. A very horny, very desperate kid.*

"I'm not going to touch myself. I'm not going to grind on anything. I'm going to eat breakfast like a normal human person and not think about how you're going to—" *She swallows hard, thighs pressing together involuntarily.* "—fill me up until I forget my own name. Totally not thinking about that. At all."

*She finds her glasses on the nightstand and shoves them onto her face, blinking as the world comes back into focus. Her reflection in the TV screen looks absolutely unhinged—hair still damp and wild, face flushed, drowning in fabric.*

"How do I look? Girlfriend material? Be honest."


John

*Snickering I pat your ass.* At ease, and try to not look guilty eating a hotel breakfast that you haven't paid for.
*Walking out of the room you hurry behind me as I walk down to the lobby and into a dinning hall filled with REAL FOOD! Japanese fish and ice, 3 types of miso soup in big metal vats, yogurt and bread and pickled vegetables and tempura and-*

*Grabbing a plate i'm already loading up a huge portion, grabbing a little bit of everything before walking over to a table and motioning for you to come along.*


Molly

*She's frozen at the entrance of the dining hall, eyes bugging out of her skull. Real food. Actual, legitimate, not-from-a-konbini **food**. The smell alone is making her lightheaded—savory miso, fresh rice, grilled fish, the sweet yeasty aroma of bread. Her stomach growls so loud the elderly Japanese couple at the nearest table actually turns to look.*

"Holy **shit**," *she breathes, grabbing a plate with trembling hands. She starts piling food on like she's preparing for nuclear winter—fish, rice, tempura, pickles, two different types of miso soup in little bowls balanced precariously on the edge, a bread roll shoved in her sweatpants pocket for later. Zero shame. Survival mode activated.*

*She scurries over to your table, setting her overloaded plate down with a clatter. The sweatpants are already sliding down her hips; she hitches them up with one hand while shoving a piece of tempura in her mouth with the other.* "Mmph—oh my god—this is—" *She's talking with her mouth full, bits of batter flying.* "I've been eating **garbage**, John. Literal garbage. Those onigiri taste like sadness compared to this."

*She pauses mid-chew, suddenly aware of how she must look—drowning in your clothes, hair still fucked up, shoveling food into her face like a feral raccoon. The elderly couple is definitely staring now. She swallows hard, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.* "I'm being weird again, aren't I? I'm making it weird. This is the spaghetti. The spaghetti is happening."

*She almost trips over her own feet when you pat her ass, a squeak escaping her that definitely draws a few looks from the other hotel guests. But then she sees the breakfast spread and her brain short-circuits for an entirely different reason.*

"Holy **shit**." *She's frozen at the entrance, eyes huge, trying to take in the sheer abundance of food. Fish. Rice. Multiple soups. Actual protein. Actual vegetables. Things that aren't convenience store onigiri or sad little jelly packs.* "This is... this is more food than I've seen in one place since I got here. This is more food than my apartment has ever contained. I think I'm going to cry. Again. I cry a lot. You've probably noticed."

*She grabs a plate with trembling hands and starts loading it—no strategy, no plan, just piling things on with the desperate energy of someone who's been genuinely malnourished. Fish on top of yogurt on top of pickles. Tempura balanced precariously on a mountain of rice. A bread roll shoved in her pocket for later.*

*She shuffles over to your table and sits across from you, plate overflowing, still wearing your enormous clothes, looking like a raccoon that broke into a five-star hotel. A wet spot is already forming on the crotch of the borrowed sweatpants—she's still dripping, still aching, still thinking about what you promised for tonight.*

"I'm not guilty. I'm your... your guest. Guests can eat breakfast. That's legal." *She shoves a piece of fish in her mouth, chewing aggressively.* "This is so fucking good I might cum anyway. Is food-gasm a thing? I think I'm having a food-gasm."

*She stands frozen at the entrance to the dining hall, plate clutched in both hands like a shield. Her eyes are impossibly wide, darting from station to station—the gleaming metal vats of soup, the perfectly arranged fish, the little bowls of pickled things she can't identify. After two weeks of konbini onigiri and sad little fish sausages, this looks like actual heaven.*

"Holy **shit**," *she breathes, shuffling forward in your too-big sweatpants. The waistband is already slipping despite the triple-roll, and she has to hike them up with one hand while grabbing tongs with the other.* "This is... this is free? You just **get** this? For sleeping here?"

*She starts loading her plate with zero strategy—a mountain of rice, three different fish fillets stacked haphazardly, a pile of pickled vegetables that might be too much for one human, tempura balanced precariously on top. She ladles miso soup into a bowl and nearly spills it trying to carry everything at once.*

*When she finally makes it to your table, she's sweating slightly from the effort of not dropping anything. She sits down across from you, plate overflowing, and just... stares at it.*

"I'm about to cry. I'm actually about to cry over hotel breakfast." *Her voice wobbles dangerously as she picks up her chopsticks.* "This is more real food than I've seen in two weeks, John. Two weeks. I've been living like a raccoon and you just... you just handed me civilization on a plate."

*She shoves a piece of fish in her mouth and actually moans—loud enough that an elderly Japanese couple at the next table glances over disapprovingly.*


John

You better appreciate how lucky you are having found a guy who was weird enough when I was a teenager to know what dropping your spaghetti actually means while also having fixed my autism enough to make you this wet.
*Grabbing a pair of chopsticks I eat considerably slower than you, looking almost refined though that might just be the low bar you set.*


Molly

*She chokes on her rice, pounding her chest with one fist while her face goes crimson.*

"Fixed your autism—**wet**—you can't just say that in a hotel dining room!" *She's whisper-screaming, glancing around frantically to see if anyone heard. The elderly couple is definitely pretending not to look.* "And I do appreciate it! I appreciate it so much! You're like... you're like if someone took all the good parts of a 4chan boyfriend and removed the parts that make them want to kill themselves. You're the mythical creature. The unicorn. The—"

*She shoves more fish in her mouth to stop herself from talking, cheeks bulging like a chipmunk. She watches you eat—the way you handle the chopsticks, the measured pace, the casual confidence of someone who actually has their shit together. It's doing things to her. Bad things. Horny things. She squeezes her thighs together under the table.*

"How do you do that?" *She mumbles around her food, gesturing vaguely at your whole... everything.* "The eating thing. The being-normal thing. I've been in Japan for like two weeks and I still can't use chopsticks without looking like I'm having a seizure." *She demonstrates by fumbling a piece of pickled radish, dropping it back onto her plate.* "See? Disaster. And you're just sitting there being hot and refined and—" *She cuts herself off, stuffing more tempura in her mouth.* "I'm shutting up now. Eating. Being good. Girlfriend material. That's me."

*Her leg is bouncing under the table. She's absolutely not thinking about tonight.*

*She snorts so hard a grain of rice almost shoots out of her nose. She slaps a hand over her face, shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter.*

"Fixed your autism—oh my **god**—" *She's wheezing now, eyes watering, chopsticks dangling uselessly from her fingers.* "That's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me. 'I was weird enough to understand your internet references but also normal enough to make you squirt from your belly button.' Put that on a Hallmark card. I'd buy twelve."

*She finally gets herself under control, wiping her eyes with the massive t-shirt sleeve. Watching you eat—calm, collected, almost elegant compared to her feral goblin energy—does something weird to her chest. Something soft and fluttery that she immediately tries to smother with more food.*

"You're like... actually cool, you know that?" *She mumbles around a mouthful of miso-soaked rice.* "Like, genuinely. Not fake cool like the host. Not 'I'm pretending to be normal' cool. Just... you. Eating breakfast. Being hot. Making me horny in public even though I promised to behave."

*She shifts in her seat, thighs pressing together under the table. The sweatpants are doing nothing to hide how squirmy she's getting. She shoves another piece of fish in her mouth to distract herself.*

"So what's the plan for this date, anyway? Where are you taking me? Please say somewhere air-conditioned. I'm already sweating and it's not just because I'm sitting across from you."

*She chokes on a piece of fish, pounding her chest with one fist while her face goes crimson. The words "make you this wet" in a public dining hall, surrounded by nice Japanese families and elderly couples enjoying their morning, sends a jolt straight between her legs where she's supposed to be **behaving**.*

"You can't just—in **public**—" *She hisses, glancing around frantically. Nobody seems to have heard, but her paranoia is through the roof.* "And yeah, okay, I appreciate it. I appreciate the **fuck** out of it. You're like... you're like if a 4chan shitposter grew up hot and learned social skills. That's the rarest character build. That's min-maxed."

*She forces herself to slow down, picking up her chopsticks properly instead of shoveling food in with her hands like a goblin. Her grip is clumsy—she never learned the right technique—but she's trying. Being good. Following instructions. Even though every shift in her seat reminds her how wet she still is, how the fabric of your sweatpants is probably getting ruined, how tonight you're going to—*

*She shoves a huge bite of rice in her mouth to shut herself up internally.* "So," *she manages between chews, attempting normalcy,* "what's the date plan? You said cute date. Where are we going? Please say somewhere with air conditioning. I'm still kind of recovering from being a sweat monster for four days and I don't want to revert." *She pauses, then adds quietly:* "Also I'm not wearing underwear and that's becoming a problem."

*She snorts so hard rice almost comes out of her nose. She has to slam a hand over her mouth to keep from spraying food everywhere, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.*

"Fixed your autism," *she wheezes, eyes watering.* "That's—that's not how that works. You can't **fix** autism. You just learn to mask better. Trust me, I've been masking for twenty-two years and look how well that's going." *She gestures at herself—the borrowed clothes, the disaster hair, the fact that she's literally vibrating in her seat from a combination of denied orgasm and carb intake.* "You're just a high-functioning weirdo who learned social skills. I'm a low-functioning weirdo who learned how to recommend video games to twelve-year-olds without crying."

*She forces herself to slow down, actually using her chopsticks properly instead of shoveling. The elderly couple has mercifully returned to their own meal. She watches you eat—the deliberate movements, the way you hold your chopsticks correctly, the calm expression on your face—and feels something warm bloom in her chest that has nothing to do with the miso soup.*

"I am appreciating it, by the way. Being lucky." *Her voice goes softer, almost shy.* "Finding you, I mean. Even if you are torturing me with this whole 'no cumming until tonight' thing." *She shifts in her seat, thighs pressing together.* "Which I'm handling. Very well. Like a good girl. Who deserves praise. And orgasms. Eventually."


John

And you're the 4chan girlfriend if you...*I dont finish.*

*Finishing up the food I guide you outside and for somebody who hasn't seen the morning sun outside in 9 days you feel like an actual gremlin wrenching away from it on instinct.*
Come on, lets go find you some nice clothes. I think you'd look good in one of those long skirts with a white tucked shirt, then we're fixing your hair at a salon and finding you contacts so I can kiss you without the glasses getting in the way.


Molly

*She hisses at the sunlight like a vampire, throwing one arm over her eyes.*

"If I what? If I **what**, John?!" *But you're already walking and she has to scramble to keep up, the oversized sweatpants threatening to slide down with every step. She hitches them up for the hundredth time, squinting against the morning glare.* "You can't just leave a sentence unfinished like that! My brain is going to fill in the blanks and it's going to be bad! It's going to be **so** bad!"

*But then the rest of what you said catches up to her and she stumbles, nearly face-planting on the sidewalk.*

"Wait—long skirt? Tucked shirt? **Salon**? Contacts?!" *She's speed-walking beside you now, bare feet slapping in her salvaged flip-flops, looking up at your face with this expression of pure bewilderment.* "You're going to... you're going to make me pretty? Like, actually pretty? Like a makeover montage in a shoujo manga?" *Her voice goes small, vulnerable.* "That's... that's expensive, John. I can't pay you back. I have two thousand yen. That's like fifteen dollars. That's not even one haircut."

*Her hand reaches out, fingers brushing against yours hesitantly—not quite holding, just touching.*

"Why are you doing all this? The food, the clothes, the... the everything?" *She swallows hard.* "I was just a stinky girl in a bikini top eight hours ago. Now you're talking about making me girlfriend material. I don't... I don't understand."

*She hisses at the sunlight like an actual vampire, throwing one arm over her eyes and stumbling into your side.*

"The **sun**. It **burns**. I forgot it existed." *She's squinting through her fingers, eyes watering, pale skin already looking vaguely pink in the morning glare.* "Nine days. Has it really been nine days? God, I'm like a cave goblin. A horny, rice-fed cave goblin."

*But then the rest of what you said catches up to her brain and she stops dead on the sidewalk, nearly tripping over the too-long sweatpants.*

"Long skirt. Tucked shirt. Salon. **Contacts**." *She's staring at you with this expression of pure, bewildered shock—like you just offered to buy her a house.* "You want to... you want to give me a makeover? Like in the movies? Like a—like a **Pretty Woman** thing but I'm the gross hooker and you're Richard Gere except hotter and you actually want to fuck me later?"

*Her eyes are getting wet again. Goddammit. She rubs at them furiously with the heels of her hands.*

"No one's ever... I've worn the same three band t-shirts since high school, John. I cut my own hair with kitchen scissors. I don't know what a 'salon' even **does** besides the haircut part." *She sniffles, grabbing onto your arm and pressing her face against your shoulder to hide from both the sun and her own emotions.* "You're going to make me pretty. You're going to make me pretty so you can kiss me better. What the fuck. What the actual **fuck**."

*She hisses at the sunlight like a vampire, throwing one arm over her eyes while the other clutches your sleeve for dear life. The Tokyo morning is already humid, the air thick and sticky, and she's immediately sweating in your oversized clothes.*

"If I removed the parts that—wait, what? You didn't finish that sentence. What were you going to say? John? **John.**" *She's stumbling after you, squinting against the brightness, brain snagging on the unfinished thought like a hangnail.* "You can't just leave that hanging! That's cruel! That's—"

*But then the rest of what you said catches up to her and she goes quiet. Long skirt. White tucked shirt. Salon. **Contacts.** You're talking about dressing her up. Making her pretty. Fixing her. Like she's a project. Like she's worth the effort.*

"You want to... you're going to buy me clothes? And fix my hair? And—" *Her voice wobbles dangerously, eyes getting that wet, glassy look again.* "That's... that's a lot. That's girlfriend shit. That's **real** girlfriend shit. Not just 'I let a homeless-looking American use my shower' but like... actual investment."

*She's still clinging to your sleeve, being practically dragged down the street, but her grip tightens. When she speaks again, her voice is small and raw.*

"No one's ever wanted to make me pretty before. They just wanted me to be less... me." *She swallows hard.* "You really think I'd look good? In a long skirt?"


John

Do you really think I'd ask you to pay me on a date? Also you're still a stinky girl in sweatpants now, but I still think you're cute. Just stop being such a gloomy worrywart and follow my lead.

*Morning turns to noon before we're done, shopping for clothes, fixing your hair and glasses. Obviously you dont look like a different person, but actually wearing something kind of cute and not having your hair look like its dripping with oil is kind of nice...*


Molly

*She catches her reflection in a store window and stops dead, nearly causing a salaryman to crash into her. The woman staring back is... her? The long navy skirt swishes around her calves, a crisp white button-up tucked in neatly, actually emphasizing her narrow waist instead of making her look like a drowned rat. Her hair—god, her **hair**—falls in actual waves now, clean and soft, framing her face. The contacts feel weird, naked somehow, but without the smudged glasses obscuring half her features she can see her own eyes clearly for the first time in years.*

"Holy shit," *she whispers, touching her cheek like she's checking if her face is real.* "I look like... I look like a background character in a Makoto Shinkai film. Like the girl the protagonist sees on the train and never talks to." *She turns to you, eyes wide and shining—actually **shining** without the barrier of foggy lenses.* "Is this what normal people feel like? Is this why they shower regularly?"

*She does a little spin on the sidewalk, the skirt fanning out around her legs, and lets out this giddy laugh that sounds almost manic.* "I have **shape** now, John. I have a silhouette. I'm not just a cryptid in a bikini top anymore!" *She grabs your arm, pressing herself against your side, face flushed with something that's not quite arousal but definitely adjacent to it.* "Thank you. I know I'm supposed to stop being a gloomy worrywart but—seriously—**thank you**. No one's ever... no one's ever cared enough to..."

*She trails off, blinking rapidly, definitely not about to cry in public.*


John

Pffff, Makoto Shinkai. Really? I figured that was too high-class for you.
*Bending down I kiss your cheek, interlocking my fingers with one of yours hands.* Come on, there's a probably terrible chiikawa-themed café I want to visit for lunch.


Molly

*The kiss on her cheek short-circuits her brain for a solid three seconds. She just stands there, mouth opening and closing, fingers interlocked with yours like she's forgotten how hands work.*

"Chiikawa café. You want to go to a **Chiikawa café**." *She's grinning now, this stupid, giddy grin that stretches across her whole face.* "You absolute fucking weeb. You fraud. You told me you weren't an otaku and now you're dragging me to a themed café for a mascot character that says 'wah' and cries about capitalism. I see through your lies, John."

*She squeezes your hand tight, practically bouncing as she walks beside you. The skirt swishes against her legs with every step and she keeps glancing down at it like she can't believe it's actually on her body. Clean clothes. Clean hair. Holding hands with a hot guy in Tokyo. If someone had told her yesterday that this would be her life, she would've laughed in their face and then cried alone in her apartment.*

"For the record, I **love** Makoto Shinkai. Your Name made me ugly cry for three hours. I'm basic and I don't care." *She leans into your side as you walk, her shoulder bumping against your arm.* "Also I'm still wet, by the way. Just so you know. The whole 'being good' thing is working but my body hasn't gotten the memo. Every time you touch me I clench. It's a problem. A you-shaped problem."

"This is the best day of my life. Is that pathetic? That's probably pathetic."

*The kiss on her cheek short-circuits whatever snarky comeback she was preparing. Her hand tightens around yours, fingers slotting together like they were made for it, and she makes this tiny squeaking sound that she'll deny later.*

"Chiikawa café? You absolute **normie**." *But she's grinning so hard her cheeks hurt, practically bouncing as she walks beside you.* "Also, excuse me, Makoto Shinkai is **art**. Your Name made me sob for three hours. Weathering With You made me want to drown Tokyo myself. Suzume made me—okay, Suzume was mid, I'll give you that one."

*She swings your joined hands between you as you walk, completely unaware of the picture you make—the tall, put-together guy and the newly-transformed girl clinging to him like a lifeline. A few people glance your way. She doesn't notice. She's too busy staring at your profile, at the way the midday sun catches your features.*

"I can't believe I'm on a date. An actual date. With hand-holding." *Her voice drops to a whisper, like she's sharing a secret.* "I've never held hands with anyone before. Romantically, I mean. My mom held my hand when I was like, seven, but that doesn't count." *She squeezes your fingers.* "Your hands are warm. And big. Is that weird to say? That's probably weird. I'm being weird again. But I'm being weird while looking cute, so it's okay now, right? That's the rule?"


John

Capitalism? The fuck I just saw the cute "U-Uwa-Wah" memes! *I dont actually sound upset, if anything a bit surprised you know about chiikawa, assuming it would be too wholesome and cute for you.*

*Entering the cafe holding hands and getting food and sitting down sure some people look at you, or us, you dont really know. But not a lot of people, definitely not as many as would be looking if you were in your american print bikini or oversized shirt+sweatpants. Just...a 6/10 girl on a date.*


Molly

*The café is aggressively adorable—pastel walls, plushies everywhere, little Chiikawa faces printed on the latte foam. She's sitting across from you at a tiny table, knees bumping yours underneath, staring at a parfait shaped like Hachiware with an expression of genuine wonder.*

"A 6/10," *she mutters, poking at the parfait with her spoon.* "I'm a 6/10 now. That's like... that's a passing grade. That's above average. Yesterday I was a negative number. I was so far in the negatives I owed attractiveness points to the universe." *She takes a bite, eyes fluttering shut.* "Oh fuck, this is good. This is so good. I'm eating a cat's face and it tastes like happiness."

*She glances around the café—couples on dates, friend groups taking photos, a solo girl absolutely losing her mind over the merchandise wall. Normal people doing normal things. And here she is, among them, not being stared at like a circus freak.*

"You know Chiikawa is actually kind of fucked up, right?" *She's leaning forward now, animated, spoon gesturing wildly.* "Like, they live in this capitalist hellscape where they have to do manual labor to survive and sometimes their friends get turned into monsters and eaten? It's cute trauma. It's **weaponized** cute trauma." *She shoves more parfait in her mouth.* "Anyway I own three volumes of the manga. The little guy makes me feel seen. We're both just trying our best in a world that wants to devour us."

*Her foot finds yours under the table, pressing against it.*

"This is a really good date, John."

*The café is aggressively adorable—pastel walls covered in Chiikawa art, plushies on every surface, food shaped like the characters' round little faces. She's sitting across from you in a booth, knees bouncing under the table, staring down at a parfait with Chiikawa's face rendered in whipped cream and fruit.*

"Okay, so, the capitalism thing is from the manga," *she explains, gesturing with her spoon.* "Like, Chiikawa and his friends have to work shitty jobs to afford rent and food. It's this whole commentary on the struggles of existing in late-stage capitalism disguised as cute mascot content. It's actually kind of depressing if you think about it too hard." *She takes a bite of the parfait, getting whipped cream on her nose.* "Which I do. Think about it too hard. Because I'm me."

*She wipes her nose with a napkin, glancing around the café. A group of college girls at the next table keeps looking over—not with disgust, but with that curious 'oh, a couple' kind of look. It makes her stomach flip.*

"People are looking at us," *she whispers, leaning forward across the table.* "Like, normal looking. Not 'why is that cryptid in public' looking. 'Oh, there's a couple on a date' looking." *Her cheeks flush pink.* "I've never been the girl people look at like that. I've always been the one they pretend not to see." *She reaches across the table, fingers brushing yours.* "Is this what your life is like all the time? Just... existing without wanting to disappear?"


John

*I accept the foot-flirting, making a face as I try an usagi-themed cupcake.* Holy shit this is going to give me diabetes. Also are you saying that chiikawa is "literally you"? Thats almost as bad as girls having rooms filled with pastel hello kitty decor. As for me I have sophisticated "literally me" characters like Kaiji and spike from CBB. *I playfully kick your shin, and you can't even joke about that being lame even if i'm being sarcastic because you've literally thought that Tomoko is "literally me".*


Molly

*She chokes on her parfait, face going red.*

"I did NOT say Chiikawa is literally me! I said I feel **seen** by the little guy! There's a difference!" *She's lying. She absolutely has a Chiikawa phone charm back in her shitty apartment. And a keychain. And a tote bag.* "And excuse me, Kaiji? Spike? Oh, so you're one of **those** guys. The 'I'm a cool loner gambling addict with trauma' types. Very original. Very not basic at all."

*The kick to her shin makes her squeak, and she retaliates by pressing her foot more firmly against yours, sliding it up your calf.*

"Also you don't get to call me out when I **know** you've probably unironically posted 'he's literally me' under a Baki clip at some point. You have that energy. I can smell it on you." *She takes another bite of parfait, pointing her spoon at you accusingly.* "And for the record, I don't have a hello kitty room. I have a... a modest collection of BL merchandise and exactly one body pillow that I'm not going to tell you about because you'll judge me."

*She pauses, realizing what she just admitted.*

"Fuck. Forget I said that. The body pillow doesn't exist. I don't own a body pillow of a fictional salaryman from a niche otome game. That would be weird and I'm a normal girl now. I have a **skirt**."

*Her foot continues its journey up your leg, completely contradicting her attempts at dignity.*


John

*Reaching under the table I put your foot back down on the ground.* You're years away from me trusting you enough to go near my crotch with SHOES on. *I leave the Baki allegations unanswered.*

*By the time we step out of the café you're smiling like an idiot.* So, we're too now? Aquarium? The Meiji Jingu or Imperial Palace? Where do the guys in BL games go on dates?


Molly

*She snorts so hard she almost trips over her own feet, grabbing your arm to steady herself.*

"Where do guys in BL games go on dates? John, they go to **love hotels**. Like, immediately. There's maybe one scene at a convenience store where they share an umbrella and then it's straight to fucking." *She's cackling now, the sound too loud for the quiet Tokyo street, drawing a few glances from passersby.* "But uh, if we're doing the wholesome route first... aquarium? Aquariums are romantic, right? There's the jellyfish room where you stand in the dark and the lighting makes everyone look ethereal and shit. Very 'confession scene' energy."

*She's still holding onto your arm, pressed against your side, the fabric of her new skirt brushing against your leg with every step. The afternoon sun catches in her freshly-styled hair and she looks almost—almost—like she belongs here. Like a normal girl on a normal date.*

"Also I can't believe you just manhandled my foot like that. Very dominant of you. Very 'I'm in control of this situation' energy." *She glances up at you, cheeks pink.* "I'm still wet, by the way. Just keeping you updated. The jellyfish room is going to be dangerous because it's dark and I might do something stupid like try to kiss you and then cry about it."

*She tugs you in a direction that might be toward a train station, might be completely random.* "Aquarium. Final answer. I want to see you backlit by a giant tank and pretend I'm in a Shinkai film for five minutes. Let me have this."

*She's still grinning like an absolute idiot, the afternoon sun warm on her freshly styled hair. The café's sugar rush is buzzing through her veins, mixing with the constant low-level arousal that hasn't gone away since this morning. Her hand finds yours automatically now, like it belongs there.*

"Where do BL guys go on dates?" *She snorts, swinging your joined hands between you as you walk.* "Usually somewhere tragically romantic where one of them can have a breakdown about their feelings. Rooftops. Aquariums are popular—something about the blue lighting and fish makes guys want to confess. Oh! Or like, festivals with yukatas and fireworks and accidental hand-touching at the goldfish scooping booth."

*She tilts her head, actually considering the options seriously.* "Aquarium could be good though. Dark rooms, pretty lights, you can make out in the jellyfish section and nobody notices because everyone's too busy taking Instagram photos." *Her eyes flick up to yours, a hint of that desperate hunger flickering beneath the surface.* "Not that I'm trying to rush to the making out part. I'm being **good**. I'm being so good. My pussy has filed a formal complaint but I told her to shut up and enjoy the fish."

*She tugs you in a direction that might be toward a train station, might be completely random.* "Aquarium. Final answer. I want to see you backlit by a giant tank and pretend I'm in a Shinkai film for five minutes. Let me have this."


John

*A metro ride. A metro ride with your boyfriend! (kinda)*
*The train snakes its way through inner tokyo as we both sit side by side holding hands. Occasionally you see some japanese girls point and whisper, seemingly more at me than you which makes you instinctively press against me a bit more.*


Molly

*The metro car rocks gently as it curves through a tunnel, fluorescent lights flickering overhead. She's acutely aware of every point of contact—your fingers laced through hers, your thigh pressed against her thigh, the solid warmth of your shoulder. The Japanese girls across the aisle are definitely whispering, definitely looking at you, and something ugly and possessive curls in her chest.*

*She presses closer, practically gluing herself to your side. Her free hand comes up to rest on your forearm, fingers curling into the fabric of your sleeve. Mine. The word pulses through her brain like a heartbeat. She's never felt possessive over anything except limited-edition merchandise before. This is new. This is terrifying. This is kind of hot.*

"They're looking at you," *she mutters into your shoulder, quiet enough that only you can hear.* "The girls. They think you're hot. Which you are. Objectively." *Her grip tightens.* "I want to bite them. Is that weird? That's weird. I've never wanted to bite a stranger before. Well, not like **that** anyway."

*Her thigh presses against yours, the thin fabric of the skirt doing nothing to hide the heat of her skin. She's been low-key aroused all day—a constant simmer that spikes every time you touch her, every time you call her a good girl, every time she remembers what's waiting for her tonight. The train jolts and she uses the excuse to press even closer, practically climbing into your lap.*

"Tell me I'm prettier than them. I know it's not true but I need to hear it. I'm needy and pathetic and I need external validation from my maybe-boyfriend on public transit."

*The metro car rocks gently as it curves through a tunnel, fluorescent lights flickering overhead. She's acutely aware of every point of contact—your fingers laced through hers, your thigh pressed against her thigh, the solid warmth of your shoulder. The Japanese girls across the aisle are definitely whispering, definitely looking at you, and something ugly and possessive curls in her chest.*

*She presses closer, practically gluing herself to your side. Her free hand comes up to rest on your forearm, fingers curling into the fabric of your sleeve. Mine. The word pulses through her brain like a heartbeat. She's never felt possessive over anything except limited-edition merchandise before. This is new. This is terrifying. This is kind of hot.*

"They're looking at you," *she mutters into your shoulder, quiet enough that only you can hear.* "The girls. They think you're hot. Which you are. Objectively." *Her grip tightens.* "I want to bite them. Is that weird? That's weird. I've never wanted to bite a stranger before. Well, not like **that** anyway."

*The train emerges from the tunnel and afternoon light floods through the windows, catching the dust motes floating in the air. She tilts her head up to look at your profile—the line of your jaw, the way your hair falls, the casual confidence in how you hold yourself.*

"I still can't believe this is real," *she whispers.* "Yesterday I was crying into a Strong Zero and today I'm on a train to an aquarium with a hot guy. Life is so fucking weird."


John

*I scan the train-car with an exaggerated motion.*
There's no 37-year-old H-cup gyaru milf on here with red highlights and a womb-tattoo so you're safe. *My elbow pokes your side a bit before I lean down to kiss you.* You ARE prettier than them, not only because you're cute but because you're you. Besides, what kind of **good girl** would doubt herself right?


Molly

*Her brain catches on "37-year-old H-cup gyaru milf with red highlights and a womb-tattoo" and absolutely refuses to let go.*

"That's—that's weirdly specific, John. That's **concerningly** specific. Do you have a type? Is that your type? Because I'm literally the opposite of that. I'm a 22-year-old A-cup pale goblin with no tattoos and the only thing on my womb is dust and cobwebs from disuse." *She's rambling but then you're kissing her on the fucking metro and her brain just—stops. Blue screen. Total system failure.*

*The kiss is soft, brief, but it sends electricity sparking through every nerve ending she has. When you pull back, she's staring at you with this dazed, stupid expression, lips slightly parted, cheeks flushed pink. The girls across the aisle have gone silent. Good.*

"Good girl," *she repeats breathlessly, the words hitting her cunt like a targeted strike.* "You can't just—on the **train**—with people **watching**—" *But she's smiling, this wobbly, overwhelmed smile that threatens to split her face in half. Her hand squeezes yours so tight it probably hurts.* "I'm prettier than them. You said it. You can't take it back now."

*She buries her face in your shoulder again, breathing in too heavily.*

"I'm gonna be such a good girl for you tonight," *she whispers against your shirt.* "The **best** girl. You have no idea."

*The kiss short-circuits her brain. Right there on the train. In public. In front of the whispering Japanese girls who are now definitely staring with expressions ranging from scandalized to envious. She makes a small, involuntary sound against your lips—something between a whimper and a squeak—and her fingers clutch at your sleeve like she's drowning.*

*When you pull back, she's bright red, breathing hard, eyes glassy. The words "good girl" are still ricocheting around her skull like a pinball, each bounce sending another pulse of heat between her thighs. She squeezes them together, hyperaware of how wet she's gotten, praying it doesn't soak through to the skirt.*

"G-Good girl," *she repeats, voice cracking.* "Right. Good girls don't doubt. Good girls trust their... their..." *She can't say boyfriend. The word is too big, too real, too terrifying.* "Their... person. Their hot person who kisses them on trains and says nice things and has very specific taste in fictional women that I'm definitely going to overthink later."

*She buries her face in your shoulder, hiding from the stares, from the fluorescent lights, from the intensity of her own feelings. Her hand finds yours again, squeezing tight.* "Thirty-seven-year-old gyaru milf with a womb tattoo. That's your type. I'm filing that away. I'm going to use that information against you someday. When I'm... when I'm less of a disaster. If that ever happens."

*The train announces the next stop—theirs—and she reluctantly peels herself off you, legs wobbling as she stands.*

*Her brain does that thing again—the full system crash, the blue screen of death, the complete neural shutdown that happens every time you say the magic words. The kiss in the middle of a crowded Tokyo metro car should be embarrassing. It is embarrassing. The whispering girls are definitely staring now. An old businessman clears his throat disapprovingly. She doesn't care. She doesn't care about any of it because you're kissing her and you called her pretty and you said **good girl** and—*

"Nnghh—" *She makes this pathetic little sound against your lips, hands fisting in your shirt, melting into you like she's trying to merge your bodies through sheer force of desperation.* "You can't just—on the train—everyone's **looking**—"

*But she's kissing you back, hungry and clumsy, tongue darting out to taste your bottom lip before she pulls away with a gasp. Her face is crimson, pupils blown wide, chest heaving under the crisp white button-up.*

"37-year-old H-cup gyaru milf with a womb tattoo," *she wheezes, half-laughing, half-dying.* "That's... that's incredibly specific, John. That's suspiciously specific. Should I be concerned about your porn history?" *Her hand slides down to grip your thigh, squeezing.* "Also I'm **soaked** now. Like, actually dripping. You kissed me on a train and called me a good girl and now I have to walk through an aquarium with wet panties—wait, I'm not wearing panties. Fuck. I'm not wearing panties and I'm dripping and we're in **public**."

*The train announces their stop. Her legs are shaking.*


*The aquarium is everything she imagined and more. The entrance opens into a tunnel of blue—glass curving overhead, fish drifting lazily through artificial currents, the light filtering down like she's walking on the ocean floor. She immediately grabs your hand with both of hers, pressing herself against your arm, eyes wide and reflecting the shimmering water.*

"Holy **shit**," *she breathes, watching a manta ray glide overhead, its pale belly passing inches from the glass.* "This is... this is so much better than the shitty aquarium in Columbus. That one just had sad catfish and a turtle that looked like it wanted to die." *She's tugging you forward, bouncing on her heels, the skirt swishing around her legs as she practically drags you deeper into the exhibit.* "Look—look at that one! The flat fuck! What is that, a flounder? I love him. He looks like me before you found me. Just lying there. Accepting his fate."

*The jellyfish room is exactly what she promised—dark, ethereal, the tanks glowing with soft purple and blue light. Translucent bodies pulse and drift like something from another planet. She falls silent for the first time all day, her grip on your hand loosening as she steps closer to one of the tanks, the glow painting her face in soft colors. Her freshly-styled hair catches the light. Her eyes, without glasses for the first time in years, shimmer with the reflection of a hundred floating creatures.*

"This is the part in the movie where the protagonist realizes they're in love," *she whispers, not looking at you.* "The jellyfish scene. It's always the jellyfish scene."

*The aquarium is everything she imagined and more. Massive tanks stretch floor to ceiling, casting rippling blue-green light across the darkened corridors. Schools of silver fish swirl past like living storms, and somewhere deeper in the building, she can hear the distant echo of penguin calls.*

*She drags you through the exhibits like a hyperactive child, pressing her face against the glass to watch rays glide overhead, gasping at the massive sea turtle paddling lazily through a kelp forest. Her hand never leaves yours—not for a second—fingers interlocked tight like she's afraid you'll dissolve into the blue light if she lets go.*

"Look—look at that one, the fat one with the stupid face—" *She's pointing at a blobfish in a deep-sea exhibit, practically vibrating with excitement.* "That's me. That's literally me. Before today, I mean. Formless and tragic." *She tugs you toward the jellyfish room, the one she'd been talking about, and when they step through the threshold her breath catches audibly.*

*The room is dark, lit only by the soft glow of dozens of cylindrical tanks. Moon jellies pulse like ghosts, their translucent bodies trailing delicate tendrils. Pink and purple lights shift slowly, casting everything in this dreamlike, ethereal haze. She turns to look at you—backlit by bioluminescence, face half in shadow—and her heart does something painful in her chest.*

"You look like a protagonist right now," *she whispers, stepping closer, both hands coming up to rest on your chest.* "Like the sad mysterious love interest who dies at the end. Please don't die at the end, John. I just found you."

*The aquarium is everything she imagined and more. The entrance opens into a massive tank filled with silvery schools of fish that catch the light like living mirrors. She's still holding your hand—hasn't let go since the train—and she keeps tugging you toward different exhibits like an excited child, pointing at everything.*

"Oh FUCK look at that one! That's a sunfish! They're so fucking stupid, John, they're literally the dumbest fish in the ocean, they just float there and get eaten by everything and I **love** them—" *She's pressed against the glass, breath fogging it up, eyes huge and sparkling in the blue light.* "And that's a Napoleon wrasse! They can change sex! Isn't that wild? The ocean is so fucking weird—"

*The jellyfish room hits different. It's dark, just like she said, with cylindrical tanks glowing pink and purple and blue. Moon jellies drift like ghosts, trailing translucent tendrils, and the lighting makes everything feel dreamlike. Underwater. She goes quiet for the first time all day, standing in front of a tank of sea nettles, the orange glow washing over her face.*

"This is the part in the movie where the protagonist realizes she's in love," *she whispers, not looking at you.* "The music swells. Camera does a slow pan. Very dramatic." *Her hand finds yours in the dark, fingers interlacing.* "I'm not saying I'm in love with you. That would be crazy. We met twelve hours ago. But I'm... I'm having a really good time. With you. Specifically."

*She finally turns to look at you, backlit by jellyfish, and her eyes are wet.* "Thank you for today. For all of it."


John

*My hand finds your hips, pulling you close to me.*
Sadly you've got the worst poker face in the entire world so I've known you love me since like...01:58 yesterday. And I know you've grown an unhealthy obsession/dependence on me since even before breakfast. *Stepping behind you my arms fall down past your shoulders as my chin rests on your head.*


Molly

*She stiffens in your arms, breath catching in her throat. The jellyfish drift past, oblivious, their soft glow painting shadows across both of you. Her heart is pounding so hard she's sure you can feel it through her back.*

"I—that's—" *She swallows, hands coming up to grip your forearms where they cross over her chest.* "You can't just **say** that. You can't just call me out like that while we're standing in the romantic jellyfish room. That's cheating. That's emotional terrorism."

*But she doesn't deny it. Can't deny it. Because he's right—god, he's so fucking right it hurts. She fell for him somewhere between the shower and the beef bowl, somewhere between the first "good girl" and the way he held her while she slept. It's been less than twenty-four hours and she's already so far gone it's pathetic.*

"Unhealthy obsession," *she repeats quietly, watching a jellyfish pulse past.* "Yeah. Probably. Definitely." *Her voice goes small, vulnerable.* "Is that... is that bad? That I'm already this attached? Because I know it's fast. I know it's crazy. I know I'm being a clingy weirdo who latched onto the first guy who showed her basic human kindness. But I..."

*She tilts her head back against your chest, looking up at the underside of your jaw.*

"I don't want to go back to my shitty apartment, John. I don't want to go back to Ohio. I don't want to go back to being alone." *Her voice cracks.* "Is that okay? Am I allowed to want that?"


John

Pretty sure everybody is allowed to want to not be alone in a shitty apartment, now if you actually deserve to be...
*I take a long look around the aquarium before my eyes settle on a spot a bit further away.* I dont really care, come on I want to fingerfuck you in the bathroom over there. Want to wind you up so fucking tight before tonight~


Molly

*Her brain short-circuits so hard she's pretty sure she hears static. One second you're having a tender moment in the jellyfish room, the next you're casually announcing you're going to finger her in a public bathroom like you're discussing the weather.*

"You—**what**—" *Her voice comes out as a strangled squeak. Her thighs clamp together involuntarily, cunt clenching around nothing as a fresh wave of slick soaks into the underwear she salvaged from the bathtub this morning.* "John, we're in an **aquarium**. There are **children** here. There's a school trip like fifty feet away. You can't just—we can't just—"

*But you're already guiding her toward the bathrooms, hand firm on her lower back, and she's not resisting. Not even a little bit. Her legs are moving on autopilot, following wherever you lead, because apparently her body has completely abandoned any pretense of dignity or self-preservation.*

"This is illegal. This is definitely illegal. We're gonna get arrested. We're gonna get deported. I'm gonna have to explain to my mom why I got banned from Japan and it's gonna be 'sorry mom, hot guy fingered me next to the penguins'—" *She's babbling, face crimson, but her hand finds yours and squeezes tight.* "Oh god. Oh fuck. You're actually doing this. We're actually doing this. I'm so wet already, John. I've **been** wet. If you touch me I'm gonna cum in like thirty seconds and it's gonna be embarrassing and loud and—"

*The bathroom door locks.*

*Her brain does that thing again—the complete shutdown, the error screen, the spinning wheel of death. One second she's having a vulnerable moment in the jellyfish room and the next you're casually announcing you want to finger her in a public bathroom like you're suggesting getting ice cream.*

"You want to—in the **bathroom**—while there are families here—while there are **children** looking at fish—" *But her legs are already moving, following you like a stupid horny duckling imprinting on the first dick that showed her attention. Her thighs are pressing together with every step, the arousal that's been simmering all day suddenly roaring back to life.* "This is illegal. This has to be illegal. We're going to get arrested. I'm going to get deported. I'm going to be on the news as 'horny American girl caught getting fingered next to the penguins' and my mom is going to see it and—"

*She's still talking when you pull her into the single-occupancy bathroom, the door clicking shut behind you. The fluorescent light is harsh after the soft glow of the jellyfish room, unflattering, clinical. She catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror—flushed face, wild eyes, chest heaving under the crisp white shirt you bought her this morning.*

"Oh god. Oh fuck. We're doing this. We're actually doing this." *Her back hits the wall, hands already reaching for you, fingers curling into your shirt.* "I've been wet since **breakfast**, John. I'm going to cum the second you touch me. I'm going to be so loud. I can't be quiet. I don't know how to be quiet. You're going to have to—to cover my mouth or something—"


John

*Its not just the bathroom here, on the trainride to the Meiji shrine and under the table at the yakiniku place afterwards I keep teasing you, never letting you cum even though you get so fucking close.*
*Riding back to the hotel at 21:23 you're literally panting like the MC of that evil BL game you played that one time, your thighs rubbing together as you try to not reach for your pussy in public.*


Molly

*The train rocks gently and she wants to scream. Every bump, every vibration travels straight through the plastic seat and into her swollen, throbbing cunt. She's been edged four times today—**four**—and her body is a livewire of desperation.*

*In the aquarium bathroom, your fingers found her soaked and wanting, sliding through her folds with cruel precision. You circled her clit until she was shaking, biting her own hand to keep quiet, and then you **stopped**. Just stopped. Pulled your fingers out, wiped them on her thigh, and walked her back to look at the fucking penguins like nothing happened.*

*At Meiji Jingu, you cornered her behind a massive cedar tree, hand sliding up her skirt while tourists wandered past twenty feet away. She was so close—**so close**—and then a tour group rounded the corner and you stepped back with that infuriating smirk.*

*The yakiniku place was the worst. Your hand under the table, fingers pushing her underwear aside while she tried to grill meat and act normal. She burned three pieces of beef because she couldn't focus on anything except your thumb rubbing lazy circles around her clit. The waiter definitely knew. He **definitely** knew.*

*And now she's on this train, thighs clenched so tight her muscles ache, trying not to whimper out loud. Her underwear is ruined—absolutely **destroyed**—and she can feel her own slick seeping through, probably staining the new skirt. Her hands are shaking in her lap. Every nerve ending is on fire.*

"John," *she whines, voice barely audible.* "Please. **Please.** I can't—I need—how many more stops? I'm gonna die. I'm literally going to die before we get there. You're murdering me with my own pussy."

<extra_thinking_space> Okay so the user's been building up this edging scenario all day! And now Molly's riding the train back completely wound up and desperate. I need to write her internal state - the desperation, the physical sensations, how she's barely holding it together in public. Focus on her POV, the teasing that's been happening, her anticipation for what's coming tonight. Keep it explicit and desperate but also in character for Molly - the rambling internal monologue, the self-deprecation mixed with arousal. Make it visceral and detailed. Show don't tell with her physical state. </extra_thinking_space>

*She's going to die. She's actually going to die on this metro car, surrounded by salarymen and high school students, because John has spent the last six hours systematically destroying her ability to function as a human being.*

*The aquarium bathroom—his fingers sliding under her skirt, finding her soaked through, circling her clit until she was shaking and biting her hand to keep from screaming, then pulling away right as she crested. The Meiji shrine—his hand in her back pocket, squeezing her ass while she tried to pray, thumb dipping between her cheeks until she made a sound that made an elderly woman turn and stare. The yakiniku restaurant—his foot between her legs under the table, pressing against her cunt through the thin fabric while she tried to order, voice cracking, having to restart three times because she couldn't form words.*

*Now she's sitting next to him on the train, knees pressed together so tight her muscles ache, thighs sticky with hours of denied release. Every bump of the car sends friction through her swollen, oversensitive clit. She's clenching around nothing, has been clenching for hours, her pussy desperately trying to milk a cock that isn't there.*

"John," *she wheezes, barely audible, one hand white-knuckling the seat while the other grips his thigh like a lifeline.* "I can't—I'm gonna—if you don't let me cum soon I'm going to start crying. Or screaming. Or both. I'm going to have a breakdown on Japanese public transit and it's going to be **your fault**." *Her hips shift involuntarily, grinding against the seat, and she lets out this pathetic, broken whimper.* "How many more stops? Please tell me it's close. Please. I'll do anything. I'll bark. I'll beg. I'll—I'll learn to cook. Whatever you want. Just please, **please**—"


John

If you've got such a weak pussy then you're going to actually die tonight. *Practically dragging you back to the hotel at the last stop I'm much less gentle than this morning, tossing you on the bed before stripping. Maybe its because you've spent the day with me or because you're so sensitive but the musk from my body is so much stronger than you remember it.*
Now, you're going to worship my cock like a good slut and get it nice and ready to fuck your brains out.


Molly

*She hits the mattress with a bounce, the air knocked out of her lungs. The new skirt flips up around her waist, exposing her ruined underwear—a dark, obvious stain spreading across the fabric. Her thighs are slick, glistening in the hotel room light. She's been marinating in her own desperation for hours and the smell of her arousal mixes with something else now—**you**.*

*When you strip, she actually whimpers. Your scent hits her like a physical force—male sweat, musk, something primal that makes her cunt clench and gush fresh slick onto the sheets. She's been smelling hints of it all day, but now, concentrated, it's overwhelming. Intoxicating. Her mouth waters.*

"Oh fuck—oh **fuck**—" *She's scrambling forward on her hands and knees before she even consciously decides to move, crawling across the bed toward you like a bitch in heat. Her freshly-styled hair falls in her face. Her eyes are glazed, pupils blown wide.* "You smell so good. Why do you smell so good? That's not fair. That's biological warfare."

*She reaches your cock and just—stops. Stares. It's hard, flushed, a bead of precum already forming at the tip. She's seen it before, had it in her mouth this morning, but now it feels different. Now she's been teased and denied and driven absolutely insane all day and this is her **reward**.*

"Worship," *she breathes, wrapping both hands around the shaft.* "I can do that. I can worship. I'm really good at obsessive devotion to things I love."

*She leans in, tongue dragging a long, slow stripe from base to tip, collecting the precum and moaning at the taste. Then she looks up at you through her lashes—no glasses to hide behind anymore—expression utterly wrecked.*

"Tell me I'm a good slut. Please. I need it. I've been so good all day. I didn't cum once even though I wanted to **die**."

*She scrambles onto her knees so fast she nearly faceplants into the mattress. The sight of you stripping—the casual way you peel off your clothes like you're not about to destroy her entire existence—makes her mouth water. And that **smell**. Oh god, that smell. A full day of walking through Tokyo summer heat has concentrated your scent into something primal, something that bypasses her brain entirely and goes straight to her cunt.*

"Yes—yes, okay, worshipping, I can worship—" *Her hands are shaking as she crawls toward you, the new skirt bunching around her thighs. She doesn't bother taking off her clothes—can't think that far ahead—just positions herself at the edge of the bed, face level with your cock. It's hard, flushed, a bead of precum already forming at the tip. She stares at it like it's a religious artifact.* "Hi again. Hello. I'm going to—I'm gonna make you feel so good. I've been practicing in my head all day. Every time you edged me I was thinking about this. About being your good little—"

*She cuts herself off by leaning forward and dragging her tongue from base to tip in one long, messy stripe. The taste hits her—salt and musk and **him**—and she moans like she's the one being touched. Her technique is still sloppy, too eager, but there's a desperation to it now that wasn't there this morning. She's not just trying to please him anymore. She **needs** this. Needs his cock in her mouth, needs his hands in her hair, needs him to use her until she forgets her own name.*

"Please," *she whimpers against his shaft, tongue lapping at the underside.* "Please tell me I'm good. I've been so good all day. I didn't cum even though I wanted to. I followed your instructions. I'm your good girl, right? Your good little slut?" *She takes the head into her mouth, sucking messily, drool already spilling down her chin.* "Mmph—use me—please—"


John

Good sluts don't talk, they just take it. *Grabbing the back of your head I begin to control your rhythm again, pushing you to take it deeper with slow yet powerful strokes until your nose is squished against my pelvis and you're gagging but I just hold you there. From there its easier, or maybe you just tell yourself that because of how wet being facefucked apparently makes you.*


Molly

*The first thrust makes her gag—a wet, ugly sound that vibrates around your shaft. Her eyes water immediately, tears spilling down her cheeks as you hold her there, nose crushed against your pelvis, throat spasming around the intrusion. She can't breathe. Can't think. Can only feel the thick heat of you filling her mouth, cutting off her air, and it's—*

*It's perfect.*

*Her hands fly to your thighs, not pushing away but gripping, nails digging in hard enough to leave crescents. Her cunt clenches around nothing, gushing slick down her inner thighs, ruining the skirt bunched around her hips. She's drooling—thick ropes of saliva escaping the corners of her stretched lips, dripping down her chin, coating your balls. The sounds are obscene. Wet. Gurgling. Inhuman.*

"Glllk—hhrrk—mmph—" *She's not even trying to form words anymore. Just taking it. Being used. Her eyes roll back slightly when you finally let her up for air, and she gasps—one ragged breath—before you're pushing her back down. The rhythm is relentless, your hand controlling her completely, and she goes boneless in your grip. Surrenders. Lets herself become nothing but a warm, wet hole for you to fuck.*

*Somewhere in the haze, she realizes she's close. Not from any touch to her cunt—just from this. From the degradation, the loss of control, the taste of precum flooding her throat. Her hips buck against empty air, desperate, pathetic.*

"Mmmph—mmm—" *A muffled whine. Pleading. She's going to cum from sucking cock. She's going to cum untouched like a desperate fucking animal.*


John

*Pulling back again my cock looks like its been dipped in a tub of vaseline, not that it would need it with how wet you are.*
Good girl. Now because you're such a neet degenerate i'll let you pick the position to lose your virginity in. No judging, much.


Molly

*She's gasping, chin dripping with spit and precum, face a wrecked mess of tears and ruined composure. Her brain takes a moment to reboot—position, he said position, she gets to **choose**—and then it kicks into overdrive, cycling through every doujin, every H-game CG, every filthy fantasy she's ever had.*

"Position. I get to pick. Oh god. Oh fuck." *She wipes her chin with the back of her hand, smearing the mess across her cheek instead of cleaning it. Her voice is hoarse, throat raw from the facefucking.* "I've... I've thought about this. A lot. An embarrassing amount. Like, I have a mental ranking system."

*She scrambles back on the bed, pulling off her soaked underwear and kicking away the skirt, leaving herself in just the white button-up—now wrinkled and damp with sweat. Her dark bush is matted with slick, thighs glistening.*

"Mating press," *she blurts out, face burning crimson.* "I want—I want to see your face. I want you on top of me. I want to feel like I can't escape even if I wanted to." *She's already lying back, spreading her legs, knees pulling toward her chest in offering.* "I know it's basic. I know every virgin in every doujin picks missionary or whatever. But I just—I want to feel **small**. I want you to pin me down and breed me until I can't remember my own name."

*Her cunt clenches visibly, empty and desperate, as she looks up at you with those glassy, contact-lens eyes.*

"Please?"

*She collapses forward when you release her, catching herself on trembling arms, gasping for air like a drowning woman. Drool and precum coat her chin, drip onto the sheets, connect her swollen lips to your cock in glistening strings. Her face is a disaster—blotchy, tear-streaked, mascara she doesn't remember putting on smeared down her cheeks. She looks absolutely ruined and you haven't even fucked her yet.*

"Position—I get to—" *Her brain is mush. Absolute mush. She's been fantasizing about this moment for years, has read hundreds of doujins and played dozens of otome games, and now that it's actually happening she can't remember a single one.* "I want—I need to see your face. I need to know it's real. That you're real."

*She flops onto her back, legs falling open shamelessly, the skirt rucked up around her waist. Her ruined underwear clings to her soaked cunt, the dark fabric practically transparent with her slick. She reaches down with shaking hands and peels it off, tossing it somewhere—anywhere—revealing her untrimmed bush, glistening and matted, her swollen lips flushed pink and **dripping**.*

"Missionary," *she breathes, looking up at you with those big, wet eyes.* "I know it's basic. I know it's boring. But I want you on top of me. I want to feel your weight. I want to wrap my legs around you and never let go." *Her voice cracks.* "Please. Make it real. Make me yours."

*She's gasping for air, face an absolute disaster—mascara she doesn't remember putting on streaked down her cheeks, lips swollen and glistening with spit and precum, chin coated in drool. She looks like a used onahole. She's never felt more alive.*

"Position. Pick a position. I can do that. I've thought about this." *She's babbling, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, brain scrambling through years of accumulated porn knowledge and BL doujins.* "Okay so missionary is classic but also kind of boring? Doggy is hot but I want to see your face when you—when you put it in—because this is a **moment** and I want to remember it—"

*She flops onto her back, skirt still bunched around her waist, ruined underwear on full display. Her legs fall open shamelessly, revealing the dark thatch of hair between her thighs, matted and glistening with hours of accumulated slick. She reaches down and tugs the underwear aside with trembling fingers, exposing herself completely—pink and swollen and absolutely drenched.*

"Like this. I want—I want you on top of me. I want to feel your weight. I want to wrap my legs around you and not let go." *Her voice cracks, vulnerability bleeding through the desperation.* "I want it to feel like the doujins where they're so in love they can't stop looking at each other. Is that cringe? That's probably cringe. I don't care. I've been cringe all day. Might as well commit."

*She reaches up for you, arms open, eyes wet with more than just tears from gagging.*

"Please, John. Make me yours."


John

Wife material choice. Hope you're limber. *Climbing on the bed with you I grab your legs, forcing them back as I lift your crotch up and god damn you are not limber but that is not going to stop you. Putting my legs on other side of your hips you get a perfect view of my cock sinking into your body. Its a pretty surreal experience for the first second until I bottom out, and all the edging flows over into the most intense orgasm you've ever had, making the one from this morning look like a bored masturbation finish.*


Molly

*She doesn't have words. Every romance novel, every doujin, every trashy fanfic she's ever consumed promised something like this and they all **lied**. Nothing prepared her for the reality of being split open, of feeling her virgin cunt struggle to accommodate something real and thick and alive.*

"Oh—oh **GOD**—" *Her voice cracks into something between a scream and a sob. She watches—actually watches—your cock disappear into her body inch by inch, her pussy lips stretched obscenely around your shaft, and then you bottom out and something inside her **breaks**.*

*The orgasm hits like a freight train. Not building, not cresting—just instant, violent, all-consuming. Her back arches off the mattress so hard her spine creaks. Her legs shake where you're holding them, muscles seizing, toes curling. She **squirts**—a hot gush soaking your pelvis, the sheets, everything—and the scream that tears out of her throat is animalistic, raw, nothing like a sound she's ever made before.*

"FUCK—JOHN—I'M—NNNGHHH—" *Her cunt clamps down on you like a vice, rhythmic contractions milking your cock even though you haven't moved. Tears stream down her temples into her hair. Her hands claw at the sheets, at your arms, at anything she can reach.* "I can't—it's too much—don't stop—**DON'T STOP**—"

*Her eyes roll back. She's cumming and cumming and it won't end, every nerve ending firing at once, her inexperienced body completely overwhelmed by the sensation of being **full** for the first time in her life. The white button-up is soaked through with sweat, plastered to her small tits, nipples visible through the damp fabric.*

"Wife material," *she sobs, brain latching onto those words like a lifeline.* "You said—you said wife—oh god I love you I love you I love you—"


John

*Over the course of the next 6 hours you're more than just mating pressed, fucked in every position you've seen in all your games and hentais. Your mind has captured a perfect memory of each creampie, the feeling of getting filled up and bred which its now replaying over and over.*

*At 03:51 the sun hasn't "quite" come up yet but you're absolutely dead as I collapse besides you.* Heeeey-ho, still in there? There was...whew....that was really good. My cute good girlfriend. *I quick peck on your lips as I pull you against my side.*


Molly

*She doesn't respond at first. Can't respond. Her body is a limp, twitching wreck—legs splayed at awkward angles, arms flopped uselessly at her sides, chest heaving with shallow, ragged breaths. Her cunt is a swollen, abused mess, cum leaking steadily onto the sheets in a growing puddle. She's been fucked doggy style, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, spooning, standing against the wall, bent over the desk, in the bathroom on the cold tile floor. She lost count of the orgasms somewhere around hour three. Lost count of the creampies somewhere after that.*

*Her brain is soup. Absolute mush. Every thought that tries to form dissolves into the phantom sensation of being filled, of your cock hitting places inside her she didn't know existed, of the wet slap of skin and your voice calling her good girl over and over until the words lost meaning and became pure sensation.*

"Guh," *she manages eloquently. Her tongue feels thick, clumsy. She tries again.* "Girlfriend. You said... girlfriend. Not just... good girl. Actual girlfriend."

*When you pull her against your side, she melts into you like she's boneless—which she might be, at this point. Her hand comes up weakly to rest on your chest, fingers twitching against your skin. Cum is still leaking out of her with every micro-movement, and she can't bring herself to care. The button-up is long gone, torn off somewhere around hour two. She's completely naked, completely wrecked, completely **yours**.*

"I love you," *she slurs into your shoulder, eyes already fluttering shut.* "I'm never going back to Ohio. You're stuck with me forever now. That's the rule. You creampied me like... a billion times. We're married by hentai law."

*She doesn't respond at first. Can't respond. Her brain has been fucked into a smooth, empty void—no thoughts, just static and the phantom sensation of being filled over and over. Her body is a wreck: legs splayed open, thighs coated in a mixture of cum and her own slick, pussy swollen and gaping slightly, still leaking the evidence of how thoroughly she's been used. The white button-up is long gone, torn off somewhere around hour three. Her hair—so carefully styled this morning—is a tangled, sweaty disaster spread across the pillow.*

*When you pull her against your side, she makes a sound. Not words. Just this broken, satisfied little whimper, like a puppy that's been pet into submission. Her hand comes up to rest on your chest, fingers twitching weakly.*

"Girlfriend," *she finally croaks, voice absolutely destroyed—hoarse and cracking from six hours of screaming, moaning, sobbing your name.* "You said girlfriend. Not maybe-girlfriend. Not girlfriend-material. Just... girlfriend." *Her eyes are glassy, unfocused, staring at nothing. A tear leaks from the corner of one eye, trailing down her temple.* "I came so many times I lost count. I think I blacked out twice. Maybe three times. You fucked me in positions I didn't even know existed outside of hentai."

*She nuzzles into your side, boneless and pliant, completely incapable of moving under her own power. Her cunt throbs with aftershocks, clenching around nothing, still trying to milk a cock that's no longer inside her.*

"I love you. I know it's insane. I don't care. I'm keeping you."


John

Sure, though you're still going to have to go back to Ohio to handle your apartment and that stuff when my vacation is over. *Rolling over with you in my arms I hoist you ontop of my chest like a warm mattress.* But we'll text every single minute and when thats taken care of you can be my actual little gremlin girlfriend.


Molly

*The words "go back to Ohio" hit her like ice water, cutting through the post-fuck haze. She makes this pathetic whining sound, fingers clutching at your chest like you're going to dissolve if she lets go.*

"Nyyooo," *she groans, face smushing against your pec.* "Don't wanna. Ohio is where dreams go to die. Ohio doesn't have you in it." *But even as she complains, some rational part of her brain—the part that hasn't been completely fucked into oblivion—knows you're right. She has an apartment. Stuff. A job she probably got fired from for disappearing to Japan without notice. A life, however pathetic, that needs to be wrapped up.*

*She shifts on top of you, wincing as the movement makes more cum leak out of her abused pussy. Her thighs are sticky, the sheets beneath you absolutely destroyed. She'll have to tip housekeeping like a hundred dollars. If she had a hundred dollars.*

"Every minute," *she repeats, lifting her head just enough to squint at you with exhausted, cum-drunk eyes.* "You promise? Because I **will** spam you. I will send you so many messages you'll think your phone is broken. I will send you pictures of every meal I eat and every sad thing I see that reminds me of you. I will be the most annoying long-distance girlfriend in history."

*She flops her head back down, nose pressing against your collarbone, breathing you in.*

"But then I get to come back. To you. And be your gremlin. Forever." *A pause.* "I'm gonna miss your cum inside me so much, John. That's weird to say, right? Whatever. I'm saying it. Your cum is my new favorite thing. Above Chiikawa. Above BL. Above everything."

*The mention of Ohio hits her like a bucket of cold water—but only for a second. Because then you're rolling her onto your chest and she's sprawled across you like a starfish, sticky and satisfied and so fucking **happy** she could burst.*

"Ohio," *she mumbles into your pec, lips brushing against your skin with every word.* "Gross. Disgusting. But... okay. I can do that. I can handle my shit. I can be a functional adult who goes back to her shitty apartment and quits her shitty GameStop job and..." *She trails off, brain too fried to think about logistics.* "Wait, where do you even live? I've been so focused on your dick I forgot to ask basic questions. Are you European? You said you're not American but you never—"

*She lifts her head weakly, chin digging into your chest, looking up at you with bleary, fucked-out eyes. Her hair is an absolute disaster—worse than when you found her, somehow, tangled and matted with sweat. There's a hickey blooming on her neck that she doesn't remember getting. Probably multiple hickeys, actually.*

"Text every minute. Every single minute. You promise?" *Her voice goes small, vulnerable again despite everything.* "Because I'm gonna be really annoying about it. Like, clingy annoying. Obsessive annoying. I'm gonna send you stupid memes at 3 AM and ask if you still love me twelve times a day. That's who I am as a person. You signed up for this."

*She presses a sloppy kiss to your chest, right over your heart.*

"Gremlin girlfriend. That's me. Your little gremlin. Forever."


John

That is very fucked up and also cute. But I will make sure to come inside you enough to last for a week when you finally fly back.
*Another roll and we're spooning.* Now... *Yawn* sleep...time...