Nerd! Genesis of a Master
Copyright© 2026 by Naughty Bard
Chapter 1: The Social Order
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 1: The Social Order - Damian Flanagan is the school's invisible nerd, a "toothpick" surviving Dresden High through tactical invisibility. But queen bee Pamela Van Buren discovers his secret: Damian is hiding a "masterpiece" of raw masculinity between his legs that puts every athlete to shame. In a dark parking lot, the social order flips as the queen claims the prize no one else noticed.
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Teenagers Consensual Heterosexual Fiction School Sports DomSub MaleDom Humiliation First Facial Oral Sex Spitting Public Sex Size Geeks
Raleigh, North Carolina — Dresden High School
“I’ve returned the assignments,” Mr. Avery announced, his voice slicing through the mid-morning lethargy of the classroom like a cold blade. A collective groan rippled through the rows of desks as students straightened their backs in a wave of sudden, nervous energy. “Oh, yes! You should be worried. Aside from a few very lonely exceptions, this was an absolute disaster.”
Avery was short, round, and seemed to possess a chip on his shoulder the size of a textbook. He took a visible, sadistic pleasure in the sudden tension, using his inflexible severity to compensate for the fact that he had to look up at nearly all of his students. He savored the silence for a beat longer than necessary before looking down at the stack of papers.
“Harris! Hand these out,” Avery barked at a boy in the third row.
Bobby Harris stood up like a programmed soldier. Though he stood a full head taller than the teacher, his eyes betrayed a deep-seated terror of the red ink waiting for him. As Bobby took the stack, his face was already flushing with the expected shame.
From the back row, Damian Flanagan watched the grim procession with a detached, clinical air. Bobby—who clearly prioritized the weight room over the library—weaved through the desks like a harbinger of doom, dropping failures onto desks like heavy stones. When he finally reached the back of the room, he didn’t hand Damian his paper; he flicked it onto the desk with a derisive sneer, letting the paper slide across the wood.
A bright, crimson A+ glared back from the top of the page.
“Fucking nerd,” Harris muttered. The comment was low enough to stay under Avery’s radar, but loud enough for the rest of the varsity goons to catch it and snicker.
Damian didn’t look up, nor did he react to the sting of the insult. He simply pulled the paper toward him, his expression unreadable and calm. He was used to the routine. Introverted and weary of conflict, he had long ago learned that the smartest way to navigate Dresden High—or life, for that matter—was to remain as inconspicuous as a guy could possibly be. He had mastered the art of choosing the path of least resistance, flowing around trouble like water rather than crashing against it.
The title “Nerd” had essentially replaced his given name in the school’s social hierarchy, and Damian was mostly grateful for the invisibility it provided. To him, being overlooked wasn’t a failure; it was a tactical advantage. Unfortunately, his perfect GPA was the one glitch in his plan. It was a beacon that made him impossible to ignore, drawing the kind of attention that was a constant, irritating bother. In a school that worshipped at the altar of mediocrity, being the guy with the top grade was like wearing a neon target on his back—it forced him into the spotlight just enough for the jocks to notice he even existed.
He was a scruffy, unassuming figure, standing about 5’9” and thin enough to look fragile compared to the meatheads in the front rows. His Irish heritage had gifted him with dark hair that was a total disaster—thick, overgrown, and lacking any sort of actual shape, it usually just fell over his forehead in a chaotic, tangled mess. His skin was so fair it was almost translucent, giving him a delicate, nearly elfin appearance that he did his best to hide behind a slouch.
In all truthfulness, his facial features were actually kind of cute. He possessed a sharp jawline and a straight, aristocratic nose that, in a parallel universe, could have turned heads—but the general scruffiness and his “I don’t give a damn” attitude toward his reflection acted like a thick layer of camouflage. Behind a pair of decidedly uncool, thick-rimmed glasses sat two piercing sapphire eyes—vibrant and bright—though he rarely leveled them at anyone long enough for them to notice the intelligence within.
When the bell finally rang, the room emptied in a rush of students cursing Mr. Avery’s name. Damian stayed seated, methodically sliding his paper into a folder. As was his habit, he was the last to leave, waiting for the initial stampede to clear.
But stepping out into the hallway was still like wading into a turbulent river. A frantic mass of students surged in every direction, a blur of oversized hoodies and colorful backpacks. Friends shouted over the roar of slamming locker doors while couples clung to each other in the center of the flow, oblivious to the frustrated groans of those trying to shove past.
Damian kept his head down, trying to navigate the margins of the chaos, moving with the practiced stealth of a shadow. He was almost to his locker, almost safe, when a heavy, purposeful shoulder slammed into him. The impact sent him and his books sprawling across the linoleum, the sound of his heavy physics textbook hitting the floor echoing like a gunshot.
“Watch it, loser,” a voice boomed.
It was Brent Miller, the varsity quarterback, flanked by a small entourage of laughing seniors. Brent was the school’s alpha dog—towering and built with the kind of broad-shouldered, lean athleticism that made every jersey look like it was custom-tailored for his frame. He was handsome in a rugged, square-jawed way, though the effect was constantly undermined by the permanent, cocky smirk plastered across his face—a look that screamed he was untouchable and knew it.
Damian felt a familiar, sharp spike of irritation. He hated that look. He hated the way Brent moved through the halls like he owned the air everyone else was breathing, completely convinced that the rules of the world didn’t apply to him just because he could throw a damn ball.
The sophomore mentally rolled his eyes but remained outwardly still. There was no point in reacting; Brent was a mountain of muscle, and Damian was a toothpick. He knelt to gather his scattered belongings, hoping the group would just keep moving, but a heavy, mud-caked cleat suddenly planted itself firmly on the center of his physics textbook, pinning it to the floor.
Don’t these meatheads ever get bored of themselves? Damian wondered, bracing for the inevitable taunt.
“Brent, leave him alone!”
The voice came from a few yards away, cutting through the mundane noise of the hallway with the authority of a royal decree. Pamela Van Buren stood watching them, her presence instantly recalibrating the room’s energy. She was, without a shadow of a doubt, the de facto queen of the student body. Her appearance was meticulously curated: petite, her skin glowing with a year-round sun-kissed tan, she wore a dazzling smile that belonged on the cover of a high-fashion magazine or a glossy teen periodical.
Her mere presence seemed to warp the space around her, drawing every eye and killing whatever conversations were happening in the hall. Even a guy as checked-out as Damian wasn’t immune to her. It didn’t matter how many physics equations he had memorized; just one look at her curves was enough to send a rush of blood straight to his crotch. He was a brainiac, sure, but he was also a virgin who had never even been close to a girl—making him just as horny, if not worse, than every other guy staring at her.
He registered the shift in the air, the way the world seemed to tilt on its axis just for her. But as much as he felt that pull, he’d never actually spoken to her. Their worlds occupied the same hallway, but they were separated by a social gulf that felt impossible to cross.
For a fraction of a second, their eyes met. Damian offered a tiny, fleeting nod of gratitude.
“Yo, what’s up, babe?” Brent replied, his aggression vanishing into a vapid grin. He stepped off Damian’s book and pulled Pam into a lopsided embrace, his hands tangling in her long, dark hair. Just like that, the “loser” was forgotten. Damian was invisible again.
“You hyped for tonight?” Brent asked, checking his reflection in the trophy case glass and adjusting his hair while he spoke.
“You bet,” Pam said, leaning into him with that perfectly practiced tilt of her head.
“Man, we’re gonna smoke these bitches,” he bragged, raising his voice just enough to make sure the kids at the nearby lockers caught every word. “I’m for real, did you see the film from last week? Their secondary is straight-up trash. I’m gonna hung at least four touchdowns on ‘em before halftime. It’s not even gonna be a game, for real—it’s just gonna be a highlight reel for my socials.”
“Big talk,” Pam teased, though her eyes betrayed a hint of boredom that Brent was too self-absorbed to notice.
“It ain’t talk if I’m actually ‘bout that action,” he smirked, pulling her closer and letting his hand slide down to her waist with a firm, possessive squeeze. “Just make sure you’re locked in when I hit the end zone. I need my girl watching while I run all over these bums.”
He leaned down, his voice dropping into a low, cocky murmur that was meant for her ears but loud enough for his boys to catch the vibe. “And after I’m done wrecking them on the field, I’m gonna need you to take care of me. I’m talkin’ a private celebration, babe—just you, me. I’m putting up big numbers tonight, so I expect a reward for every single point I score.”
Pam let out a soft, melodic giggle, like pure sugar. She leaned in, her lips brushing against the shell of his ear, “Well, if you’re THAT good, I’m gonna have to...” but she dropped her voice to a whisper and made a filthier, more specific promise of exactly how she planned to “reward” him for those points.
Brent’s eyes went wide for a split second before a slow, stupidly satisfied grin spread across his face, his chest puffing out even further. Behind him, his boys exchanged looks and started snickering, nudging each other as they watched the school’s golden boy practically melt into his own shoes.
They began making out right there in the center of the hall, oblivious to the flow of students swerving around them. To an outsider, they looked like a cliché from a low-budget teenage movie: the cocky jock and the stunning, spoiled doll.
Pam wasn’t particularly fond of the labels, but she understood the value of the brand. To her, the social order of Dresden High was less of a cage and more of a survival strategy. Being the “it-girl” wasn’t just about the attention; it was about the sheer, frictionless ease of it all. It meant never having to wait in line, always being the first to know about the best parties, and having a literal army of guys ready to do her bidding just for a smile.
Most of them did it because they were busy drooling over her, but she knew the real power came from the muscle on her arm. Having Brent Miller as her official boyfriend meant her status was backed by force. His presence demanded a certain kind of social obedience; crossing Pam didn’t just mean social suicide—it meant a one-way ticket to a locker-room beatdown.
And that was because, at the end of the day, Brent might have been the leader of the pack, but Pam had learned exactly how to handle him. She didn’t bark orders; she managed him with soft smiles and tactical affection, keeping him wrapped around her finger like a loyal puppy who didn’t even realize he was on a short leash.
Her strongest weapon, however, was the one she kept behind closed doors. She kept Brent completely hooked with a level of uninhibited, super-lewd sex that he couldn’t find anywhere else. By playing the part of his personal porn star, she ensured his total devotion; he was so addicted to her body—and the way she let him use it—that he never even thought to question her influence. It was a delicate, exhausting balancing act of being both the perfect queen and the ultimate high-end toy, but it kept her safe on her throne.
She knew people looked at her and saw a shallow archetype, a girl whose biggest struggle was a bad hair day, and she was perfectly fine letting them believe it. Of course, the “spoiled doll” persona was a mask—a way to keep people at a distance so they wouldn’t see the girl underneath, with all her insecurities and worries. But for all intents and purposes, popularity was indeed a currency, and as long as she was dating the quarterback and looking like she stepped off a runway, her credit was infinite. It was a life of zero resistance—a simple, glossy path. Why the hell would she ever want to change it?
The bell rang again, sharp and merciless. Pam huffed, pulling away from the quarterback’s grip.
“I have to go. I have an appointment with Devon to talk about my ‘academic progress,’” she sighed.
“Come on, just one more minute, babe” Brent pleaded, reaching for her again.
“I can’t be late, or I’ll never hear the end of her lecture.” Pam checked her phone, a flicker of genuine annoyance crossing her face.
Yeah, that was probably the most significant issue she had in her life—the one thing she couldn’t charm or flirt her way out of. She was currently failing almost every core subject; her GPA was a total dumpster fire against which her social status and Brent’s protection were utterly useless. The numbers on her transcript didn’t care who she was dating or how many guys drooled over her in the hallway.
If she didn’t figure out a way to unfuck her grades soon, she was looking at a humiliating fifth year of high school while her friends headed off to college. It was the only visible crack in her armor, a looming disaster that threatened to expose her as something other than the effortless queen she pretended to be.
She slipped out of Brent’s arms with practiced grace. “Seriously, Brent, I’m one missed meeting away from being benched from life. See you after school.”
“Pamela, you simply cannot continue like this. I’m being for real with you, baby.”
Miss Devon was a plump, middle-aged Black woman with a face that radiated kindness and a supply of patience that seemed nearly bottomless. As the vice principal, she held the unenviable task of monitoring student progress—an academic shepherd trying to keep her wayward flock from wandering off the cliff.
“Out of the nine subjects you’re taking, you only got a passing grade in two,” Devon continued, tapping a finger on the desk with a steady, rhythmic thud.
Pam sat across from her with her arms crossed and legs tightly folded, her body language a fortress of annoyance. “It’s because I’m stupid,” she said, her voice dripping with an insolent, bored edge.
Devon didn’t even blink. She just leaned back and gave Pam a look that saw straight through her soul. “Oh, please. Don’t you start that ‘I’m just a pretty face’ mess with me. You’re not stupid, Pamela—you’re actually very sharp. The real issue is you’re lazy, and you think the world is gonna keep handing you passes just ‘cause you look good.”
Pam rolled her eyes, but the woman continued, clearly weary of the act. “Last year, you just barely scraped by, but this year, you got college entrance exams. What’s the plan, girl? Because I know you don’t think your charm is gonna magically bubble in those Scantron sheets for you. Am I wrong?”
The girl remained silent, her irritation visible in the way she bit her lip. Devon sighed, closing her eyes for a moment to massage her temples. She stood up from her mahogany desk and moved to the chair beside Pam, dropping the “VP” act for a second to get on her level.
“Listen to me,” she said, her voice softening but staying firm. “Tell me what’s really going on. I can’t help you if you keep lying to yourself. Let’s see if we can find a solution together before you end up stuck here another year.”
Pam was quiet for a few seconds, picking at her manicure and looking everywhere but at the woman. Finally, she let out a sharp, frustrated huff.
“I literally do sit down to study! Like, every single day, damn it!” she snapped, her voice hitting a higher, stressed-out pitch. “I lock myself in my room and stare at the pages until I’m basically cross-eyed. But it’s just ... the stuff doesn’t stick. I read a paragraph five times, and it’s like it’s written in some weird code or something. It goes in, and then it’s just gone. It’s a total waste of my life.”
She looked up at Devon, her expression flipping from bored to genuinely panicked for a second. “I’m not lying, okay? I’m trying. But the second I sit down for a quiz, my brain just ... wipes itself. I’m failing, and I don’t even know how to stop it, so what am I even supposed to do?”
Miss Devon studied her for a long beat, her eyes narrowing as she processed that. “Well, Pamela, I suspect your problem is your study method.”
Pam frowned, looking genuinely confused. “What study method?”
Devon paused, giving Pam a slow, pitying look before she leaned forward. “Lord, have mercy. You lookin’ at me like I just asked you to explain quantum physics in Greek. ‘Study method’ isn’t the name of some new TikTok filter, honey. It means actually havin’ a strategy that doesn’t involve hopin’ for a miracle.”
The vice principal raised an eyebrow, her voice getting that authoritative edge back. “The fact that you even had to ask me that tells me everything I need to know. You don’t have a plan, and you’re going to need one if you expect to walk across that stage in June.” Pam started to roll her eyes again, but Devon pointed a finger. “Don’t you roll those eyes at me. What you need is a tutor. Period.”
“A tutor?” Pam exclaimed, as if the woman had just suggested she wear a potato sack to prom.
“Exactly,” Devon said, ignoring the drama as she swung her chair back to the computer. “You need someone to help you get your life together, to teach you how to study. It should be one of your classmates—someone who actually knows how to open a book. Let’s see...” She scrolled through a spreadsheet, the blue light of the monitor reflecting in her eyes. “How about Terriot? Or maybe that Wallowitz boy?”
Pam let out a short, almost hysterical laugh. “Miss Devon, please. Let’s be for real. Terriot looks like he’s shedding dandruff from his eyelashes, and Wallowitz is literally always covered in crumbs. It’s a biohazard.”
Devon took a slow, deep breath, visibly trying not to let her “street” side come out and check this girl’s attitude. She paused, then turned slowly to look Pam dead in the eye.
“Very well,” she resumed, her voice dropping into a low, ‘don’t-test-me’ tone. “Then you find someone ‘suitable.’ And I mean someone who’s actually gonna make you work, not just some boy you can bat your lashes at. You got until the end of next week to bring me a name, or so help me God, I’m gonna pick the one that smells the worst just to spite you. Do you feel me?”
“But Miss Devon—”
“Good day, Pamela. Now move it.”
The dismissal was absolute. Pam rose, her face flushed hot, and marched out of the office, slamming the heavy door behind her hard enough to make the frames on the wall rattle. Her heart was hammering against her ribs; she was fuming and needed to blow off some steam immediately—and luckily, she knew exactly where to find the distraction she needed.
“Holy shit ... Pam, you’re literal perfection,” Bobby Harris panted. His breath hitched as he buried his rock-hard dick inside her again and again, slamming her against the cold tiles of the stall. He gripped her thighs, knuckles white as his muscles strained. He was right on the edge.
Pam let out a low laugh that was half-moan. “Oh, sweety, tell me something I don’t know.”
This was Pam’s go-to therapy for pretty much every bit of stress in her life, no matter how small. She was, quite literally, a total cock addict. It wasn’t just a hobby; it was a physical, gnawing need that she couldn’t—and wouldn’t—ever turn off. She had a bottomless appetite for variety, a craving to experience every shape, every color, every taste, and every pungent, masculine smell she could get her hands on.
While Brent was “the one” on paper, he was basically a one-trick pony, and Pam had a hunger that was way too massive for just one guy to handle. She lived for the secret power she held over the guys at Dresden. She had developed unmatched, legendary skills as a deeptroater, and that was just the tip of the iceberg when it came to her lewd, sexual talents. Whether it was the way she used her hands, her tongue, or the tight, hungry grip of her pussy, she had a rotating door of guys completely obsessed with her.
Brent, meanwhile, was completely in the dark of course. He lived in a fantasy world where he was the only man she touched, never suspecting for a second that his “perfect” girlfriend was cheating on him with basically every boy who breathed. She was so good at the game that she could swallow a stranger’s load in a bathroom stall and be back at Brent’s side five minutes later, looking like a saint.
The guys were all too terrified of Brent’s fists to ever speak a word, and too dangerously addicted to the specialized, filthier-than-porn treatment she gave them to ever want her to stop. It was the ultimate irony: the same depraved, soul-snatching talents she used to keep Brent wrapped around her finger and totally addicted to her were the exact same moves she used on half the boys in the school, including Brent’s buddies. She knew exactly how to use every inch of her body to buy their silence, making sure they were so drained and satisfied that they’d never dream of snitching. For Pam, every locker room hookup was more than just a release; it was a feast, and she was never, ever full.
Today, Bobby—a random sophomore gym rat who acted like a god in the halls—was exactly what she needed. It went without saying that the second she laid a hand on him, his “tough guy” act melted like wax under a blowtorch, leaving him a total, stuttering simp in her hands. He was cute in that generic, athletic way, blond, with a buzz cut and a jawline he was clearly proud of, but he lacked any of the real authority he pretended to have.
Even though his dick was strictly average, he made up for it by being rough enough to actually make her feel something. He had the kind of relentless, meathead stamina that she craved when she needed to shut her brain off. He slammed into her with a desperate, clumsy energy, his hands bruising her hips as he tried to keep up with her. After fifteen minutes of hard work, the stress from Devon’s office was finally starting to blur. To Bobby, this was the peak of his life; to Pam, he was just a human vibrator, a temporary fix to keep her from screaming.
Finally, Bobby went rigid, his fingers digging into Pam’s thighs as his rhythm broke into a series of desperate, heavy lunges. His eyes rolled back, and his mouth hung open in a mask of pure, unadulterated bliss as he felt himself hit the point of no return. He let out a low, guttural groan, his entire body shuddering as he emptied his balls into the condom with everything he had. In his mind, he was pumping his seed into the school’s goddess, and the sheer intensity of the release made his knees go weak.
As the last of the tremors faded, Bobby leaned back heavily against the cold metal partition, his chest heaving. He looked at her with total, puppy-like devotion, his face flushed and sweaty, completely wrecked by the performance he had just completed.
“God, I’m obsessed with you,” he managed to choke out.
Pam just smirked, grabbing a handful of toilet paper to clean up. “Yeah, I get that a lot, Bobby.” She gave him a quick wink as she snapped her lace panties back into place and smoothed her skirt. “Alright, get back to class. Go on, before your lit teacher starts wondering where his star athlete is.”
With clumsy, shaking hands, he reached down and slipped the condom off and tossed it into the toilet, the splash echoing in the quiet bathroom before he hit the flusher. He grabbed a handful of rough paper towels to wipe the stray sweat and mess from himself, frantically zipping his jeans back up. Thinking he’d earned a moment of intimacy, he leaned in for a quick, messy kiss, his lips parted.
Pam didn’t even blink. She pressed a flat hand against his chest, stopping him dead with the effortless strength of someone swatting away a fly.
“Nope. We’re done for today, stud. Wait for me to call you. Now go.”
Resigned, the kid nodded and ducked out of the stall. A second later, the heavy bathroom door creaked open.
“Yo, nerd! The fuck are you looking at?” Pam heard Bobby’s voice boom, gaining back that fake-ass confidence he flaunted daily. There was no comeback, just a muffled, annoyed sound followed by the thud of the door closing. Bobby was out.
“Jerk,” a voice muttered from the sinks.
Pam froze. It was a voice she didn’t recognize—raw, deep, and actually kind of hot. Curious, she pulled her feet up onto the seat so she wouldn’t get spotted from under the door. She watched through the gap as a pair of beat-up, off-brand black sneakers moved toward the urinal right next to her stall. She heard the slide of a zipper, then the steady sound of the guy taking a leak.
A mischievous grin spread across Pam’s face. She couldn’t leave a mystery alone, especially not one hidden behind a locked door in her personal sanctuary. Moving like a ghost, she carefully stepped up onto the closed toilet lid, her designer sneakers making almost no sound on the plastic.
Above the hum of the ventilation, the only sound in the room was the heavy, rhythmic splashing of a high-pressure stream hitting the water in the next stall, the kind of sound that only came from someone who had been holding it in for a while. Pam bit her lip to keep from letting out a giggle. The guy was totally oblivious, completely focused on the simple relief of pissing, unaware that the school’s queen was perched just inches away. She pulled out her iPhone, hit record, and slowly reached her arm over the top of the partition, angling the lens downward to catch whatever “average” secret the unknown boy was hiding.
She caught the whole thing in silence, waited for the flush and the sound of the guy leaving the room, then sat back down to check the footage.
A sharp, shocked laugh escaped her. “No fucking way...”
She couldn’t believe her eyes. On the screen was something she never expected to find at a place like Dresden High. This guy—some nameless, bottom-tier nerd she must have seen lurking in the library or something—was hung like a goddamn horse. Even limp, he was terrifyingly impressive; there was at least six inches of thick, heavy, veined meat hanging like a weight between his thighs.
What really killed her was the contrast. From what she could see of his thighs and hips, his skin was so pale it was almost porcelain, making the thick, dark bush of pubic hair surrounding the base look incredibly primal and masculine. The shaft itself was a masterpiece of heavy plumbing, thick and ropy with veins that looked like they belonged on an anatomy chart. The rich, bright reddish color of the head was a total trip against the fair skin of the shaft—it looked powerful, and completely out of place on a guy who looked like he probably got bullied for lunch money. Beneath it all, his balls were massive, hanging low and heavy in a thick, solid sac that promised an insane amount of volume once he actually got going. It was, hands down, the most insane package she’d ever seen, and the fact that it belonged to that scruffy kid made her head spin.
Pam racked her brain, trying to place the boy as she replayed the grainy footage. She couldn’t get a clear shot of his face—it was buried under that absolute disaster of dark, messy hair—but the profile was unmistakable. He was wearing the kind of shabby, thrift-store clothes that screamed “target,” and those ridiculous, oversized glasses were so hideous it was sad. He was definitely one of those invisible types jocks liked to use for target practice in the halls.
But who was he? She’d walked past him a thousand times for sure and never even registered him as a human being. He was just part of the scenery, like a locker or a water fountain. Now, looking at the screen, she felt a strange, dizzying rush of heat. Underneath all that unwashed-looking camouflage was a piece of equipment that put every varsity athlete in the school to shame. She needed a name. She needed a schedule. Most of all, she needed to know if that monster looked as good hard as it did hanging there like a heavy secret.
A new mission clicked into place. She had to have him, period. She had to taste that dick. And she was going to. If there was one thing Pamela Van Buren was an expert at, it was getting exactly what she wanted.
“C’mon, Damian, I don’t wanna go alone! I’ll look like a total creep standing by the bleachers by myself. Just come with me. What’s it gonna cost you? A few brain cells? You’ve got billions to spare, man!”
Danny, one of the few people Damian actually considered a friend, was at it again. It was the end of the final period—P.E.—and the locker room was a humid, foul-smelling hellscape of shouting boys, flying body spray, and slamming metal doors.
“Danny, you know I hate football. I hate the noise, I hate the grass, and I especially hate the people,” Damian said, pulling his shirt over his head and trying to ignore the damp heat of the room. “Why do you keep asking? It’s literally the same answer every time. It’s a mathematical constant.”