He's a tease, which you didn't expect from a man so put-together. He likes watching you burn up as he unravels you. So you meet his gaze and take in the pink dusting across his nose and cheeks, the mess of blond that brushes over his forehead — he's just as needy as you are.

"It doesn't have to be true," you flit your gaze to the tray on the bedside. On it is a champagne bucket, a 'congratulations on your marriage!' placard, and his wedding ring. "I just want to pretend. We're in a honeymoon suite after all, I want to..."

He catches your drift. There's this unspoken language between you that you think might only be born from doing such a heinous thing together. You're partners; whether that's in crime or romance is a moot point. You feel like an old married couple anyway. He knows you; knows why you're suddenly so shy, knows when and how you need to come, knows what you'll order from room service once he's done with you.

"You want to be my wife?" He searches your face. You feel his cock throb inside of you, twitching at the thought of having you in name as well as body. "Hm, Mrs. Nanami?"

Yes. God, yes. You feel naive and heart-eyed looking to be thoroughly owned by an unfaithful man like him, but your cunt is tight and pulsing around him — you couldn't lie to him about your needs even if you wanted to.

"You know," he starts, his voice rough as he pulls out of your just long enough to reach over and take his wedding ring from the bedside table. "I come home some nights and half expect to see you waiting for me in bed."

Kento grabs your left hand and slips his ring onto your finger. It's too big, and he has to close his hand around yours to keep it in place, which pushes the metal into your skin. You feel lightheaded with want.

"I wish it was me," you whisper, skin burning as he lines his cock up once again and pushes home. "That you come home to."

He moans, burying himself inside of you and his face in your neck. "It is. Come on, love, live in it. I love you."

"Fuck," you exhale, lungs on fire. He quickens his pace, fucking into you with a snapping of his hips. You can hear yourself squelching around him. "Love you too. You feel so good."

"Is that why you married me?" He snorts, teasing. He pulls back enough to press a kiss to your lips. "For the time spent between my sheets? I thought we had more going for us, honey."

You reach up with your free hand and stroke the side of his face, revelling in the feel of slight stubble beneath your palm. "I have to keep you interested somehow, hm?"

His eyes blaze with something untelling. Dipping down again, he licks at your lips. You part them, let his tongue venture in and explore your mouth, running over your teeth and drooling spit from his mouth to yours. It's messy and gross and he pulls away to leave a streak of saliva across your chin, but your stomach curls with a pending orgasm regardless.

"You," he smears his spit over your lips, "have nothing to worry about."

"No?" You buck your hips up from the plush mattress and wrap your thighs around his waist, locking them at his ass and using that embrace to pull him deeper. "You'd be okay with just me, for the rest of your long life?"

"Our long life," he corrects, flexing forward until he's so deep inside of you that there's no space left to give. "And yes. 'Til death do us part, my love. I want to sink into this beautiful body of yours until the very end."

You snort. He's poetic, for a businessman.

He fucks you long and slow and deep with thrusts that are more intimate than pleasure-seeking. It doesn't feel like a torrid affair, and you don't feel sick for sleeping with a married man. Because, even if it's just for your time spent beneath him, he's yours.

And maybe he's parroting the same words he told his real wife back to you. He could be a rakehell, depositing his cum inside of you with no care for the heart he holds in his hands.

But at the end of his long days, it's you he sneaks away to see. It's your body in which he finds his comfort. Your tits that he sucks on. Your mouth that he feeds his cock into. Your cunt that he fills again and again with an unspoken hope that maybe something will stick, and he'll have an excuse to come clean and start anew with you.

So when you barge into his room after another failed date, his patience for you has already worn away.

"Suguuu," you whine.

"Don't care," he doesn't even look up from where he's sitting at his desk with a controller in his hands.

"I haven't even said anything!" 

He shoots you a deadpan look that says it doesn't matter. You roll your eyes, walking right in front of his TV before hopping on top of his desk.

Suguru groans, shutting off his game and turning to you. "What do you want?" 

"I want to hang out. I just had the worst date you know." You adjust the way you're sitting, spreading your legs a tad wider, giving Suguru a clear view up your skirt. 

His eyes flit down to where you're perched, lingering a moment as he stares at the glimpse of your panties that you've given him. Then his eyes are back on you, his expression unchanged. "You say that every time," he points out. 

You chew on your lip, irritated that you're not getting much of a reaction out of your brother. "He was really cute though, like hot." 

He glares at you for a moment before standing and stepping closer to you until you're forced to crane your neck to look up at him. 

"And what does any of this have to do with me?" 

Swallowing thickly, you try to find a quick reply. "I'm just sharing, that's all."

"No, you're not," he snaps. "You know, I'm pretty tired of this."

"This…?" you ask, and he scoffs.

Suguru flips your skirt up, fully revealing to him the pair of panties you chose to wear tonight. 

"Hey! Don't do that—" you move to hit his hand but he just grabs your wrist, stopping you. 

"I'm sick of you pretending you don't want me," he tugs you closer to him until you can feel his breath fanning against your neck. He inhales, scowling as he smells your perfume—the one you selected for your 'date.' 

"We can't, Sugu," you protest weakly. You don't try to pull away. 

"Mm, is that why you say my name when you touch yourself? And go on all those dates with losers who look like me?" His free hand trails down your side, giving your thigh a squeeze before pulling your legs apart. "It's just the next best thing, right?" 

Your heart races, finally being confronted with what you've been dancing around for months, what you've been trying to avoid. Though, if you weren't ready to face the reality of what's going on between you two then you shouldn't have been egging it on. 

You shouldn't have been dangling Suguru's doppelgängers in his face, showing off your panties and practically begging for his attention. 

"It's not like that," you say, but even your tone conveys that you know that's bullshit.

Suguru laughs, slipping his hands between your thighs. You close them on instinct but he just forces them open again. 

"I don't think every sister gets this wet for their brother," Suguru rubs your cunt, feeling you over the thin fabric of your underwear. It wasn't that damp when you got dropped off. "C'mon, tell your big brother how he makes you feel." 

You can’t bring yourself to do it.

You can’t even when Suguru yanks your panties to the side, plunging two long fingers into your tight hole. You tell him to stop, keep pleading that it's not right even though you're holding onto his shoulder as he curls the digits perfectly inside you. Your back arching into his chest, you seek to be impossibly closer to him when his thumb finds your clit. 

"Say it," he rasps, "say it's me who you want." 

You still don't. 

And yet you whine pathetically when Suguru pulls his hand away, leaving you soaked and desperate for the orgasm that he denied you. 

But then he sinks to his knees, sliding your legs onto his shoulders as he stuffs his face into your pussy. You taste fucking incredible. The flavor of you is so addictive, only complemented by the immorality of it being on his tongue that’s buried inside his baby sister's cunt. 

Suguru's frustration grows when he hears you above him, scolding him as you usually do, saying that he's being gross. Saying that you don't want to do this with him, all the while you're grinding down onto his face, smearing your slick around his mouth and nose while you greedily accept every ounce of pleasure he's offering. 

Your brother pours all of his anger into ravaging you. He eats you out like a man starved, shoving his fingers back inside you while he sucks on your clit until you're trembling in his hold and cumming with a reluctant moan.

He wipes his mouth as he rises to his feet again, staring down at you with his pupils blown wide. "You think any of those guys could have made you feel that good?"

Your chest is heaving as you meet his gaze, speechless.

"They couldn't," he answers for you. "They'd never be able to satisfy a slut like you that cums in her brother's mouth."

"D-don't say that, Sugu. That's fucked." 

"Oh, give me a break." He palms at the bulge in his pants, trying to relieve some of the ache. He's so hard that he's probably dripping pre in his briefs already. 

And of course, you're so damn stubborn that you still try to pretend that you don't want Suguru when he sinks his cock into you, even as you're wrapping your ankles around his hips. Not to mention the fact that your pussy is sopping wet, making it so easy for him to slide in and out of you. 

The desk is rocking beneath you as Suguru slams his hips into yours with a force so strong you're worried you'll break. Your brother has two fingers hooked in your mouth, using them as leverage to pound into you harder and relishing in the way you gargle and gag around him. 

He'd gotten sick of hearing you still bitching and moaning about how wrong this is, deciding that he needed to shut you up. If his fingers didn't work, then his words would have when he asked you how your cum tasted on your brother's fingers. 

It's only when you orgasm for the second time tonight that your brother gets what he's been asking for the whole time. He frees your mouth of his fingers when he can feel your pussy throbbing around his length, leaving you gasping for air. And the first word out of your mouth is the most perfect cry of Suguru's name as you fall apart for him. 

As stubborn as you are, Suguru always knows what you need, sometimes it just takes a little effort to coax it out of you. 

—◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦——◦○◦━◦

Rent is due on the 1st. Like always. And through every month, like clockwork, it hangs over your head like a shiny guillotine, held by a fucking thread.

Living paycheck to paycheck does that to you. It viciously cuts parts your world into deadlines and numbers, stacking what you owe and what you barely have on that fragile shelf beneath the blade. It would be too easy to let it suffocate you month after month. But it's still a choice, to be happy or not to be, circumstances be damned.

You refuse to let it take everything from you.

So you learned to hold onto the small things. Moments that remind you life is full of color, not just inked bills and crumpled receipts. The alternative is grim, you've seen it. A version of yourself, older, wrinkling, staring up at a ceiling on your deathbed with no memories but the constant, blood thinning fear of the next payment on the 1st.

You don't know what you want out of life. But, it isn't that. This thread of thought is usually saved for drunk nights out.

Fixing the cycle is a problem far bigger than you know how to solve. Still, being aware of it has to count for something.

You hope.

Maybe that's why Satoru Gojo's words stuck with you.

Something about money being... energy. About how people like you are taught to work yourself to the ground for it, because that's the only way it can exist in your pockets.

Whether it's true or not doesn't even matter, doesn't even matter that you barely understand it. You'd rather lean towards that kind of thinking than sink into the opposite end that ends with a miserable last breath on a cheap mattress.

His words, careless and playful, are exactly what earned you a 99% and a sloppy, handwritten "nice" from your notoriously stingy professor.

A small win. One worth celebrating. And you didn't even have to work too hard for it. Pun intended.

There's a kind of lightness in your step ever since you'd gotten your paper back a few days ago, it's hard to ignore. It's about more than the grade, though.

A few days ago, you'd overheard Maki mention that 'idiot' would probably be back soon, something about him needing his usual sugar fix (restated in nicer terms.) Ino had been complaining about the lack of tips while you wiped a table, and the conversation stuck with you more than it usually would have.

The 99% and hum of approval on your professors face is one thing.

But the excitement that flutters every time the entrance bell rings is a bit much. Are you really that excited to see him again?

Maybe it's the thought of finally having someone to share the celebration of the win with— someone who understands, even just a little, the weight you have to carry on your shoulders. Someone who would get what that 99% means to you.

That's not to say you have no one to celebrate you.

Nobara, Yuji, and Megumi are great. When your schedules line up, you have that college kid, borderline depraved fun. The kind that involves cheap, watery drinks and running around places you're probably too old to be tussling around in, just to let go for a bit.

They're your friends. Your equals. It's different.

They're struggling too in their own ways. Juggling unpaid internships, tuition, rent— living the college 'dream' just like you. You don't worry them with your burdens because there's no point.

But him?

Your overly charismatic, suspiciously generous customer isn't a friend.

He already knows exactly where you stand, how far below him you are, no drunk confessions of struggling and on the verge of a heart attack each time rent comes around necessary. And instead of anything else, he showed you something that feels a little like understanding.

There's something about the idea of him hearing about your accomplishment that makes your stomach tighten. Like you can let yourself be proud, and that pride can finally settle when reflected back through him.

It feels eerily similar to when you were a child, tripping over your feet at five in the morning on Christmas day just to see what Santa left under your tree, it's just in your nature to lift your head a fraction too fast every time the bell above the entrance chimes at the Mochi shop.

And apparently, you're not subtle about it.

Because Maki and Ino are standing shoulder to shoulder a few feet behind you gossiping like a couple of school girls who think they're being much quieter than they are. The debate of why you're waiting like a Russian mother for her war bound son fresh on their tongues.

"Maybe she got one of those warnings yesterday," Ino whispers, "You know, like a creepy stranger approaching in an alley like, 'don't come to work tomorrow' and now she's waiting for something bad to happen because she didn't heed his warning."

You raspberry blow a strand of hair from your face as you eye the view beyond the glass doors, chin in hand and elbow resting on the counter beside the register.

Maki rolls her eyes, leaning against the back counter beside him. "Shit like that doesn't actually happen. She's obviously waiting for someone."

"Really?" Ino perks up instantly, nudging her arm, intrigued after hours of another boring shift. "Who?"

Maki shrugs. "Tax investigator?"

A soft snort escapes you, but you keep your lidded attention fixed on the front. Had you even been staring that much? A few odd glances at the front and now you're being considered for fraud.

A few customers linger at the small tables, chatting quietly over sweets as sunlight pours through the windows. It's peaceful. Normal.

Ino goes quiet, visibly trying to process the idea of you committing tax fraud.

"Or," Maki adds, barely bothering to think before words fall from her lips, "little miss works-seven-days-a-week got herself a boyfriend."

You twirl to face them at last, arms folding across your chest as you school your expression into something unimpressed, though amusement is ever present. Both of them freeze immediately, like toddlers caught with their hands in the cookie jar.

"Didn't Nanami say something about cutting the pay of whoever has the lowest step count?" you ask, tone mild but pointed, as if you haven't just been standing here doing nothing for the past 10 minutes yourself.

Ino rubs the back of his neck, already turning away. "Yeah, yeah..." he mutters, shuffling off to restock the spoons with exaggerated diligence.

Maki clicks her tongue, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose before grabbing a cloth. She grumbles incoherently, though she's already wiping down the counter with a bit more effort than necessary.

You turn back towards the counter with amusement. "Tax evasion," you snicker to yourself.

"Well," a voice says, far too close to your right, "you really know how to welcome a customer."

You flinch, literally flinch, your head snapping to the side.

Aaand there he is. Leaning casually against the counter like he's been there the whole time, a grin already pulling his lips. Somehow, Satoru Gojo has managed to sneak past you to scare the shit out of you twice.

"And here I was," he adds, tilting his head just slightly, "waiting for my cue and everything." He mimics you with a high pitched voice, "'Oh how I love my job serving all these people, like my good-looking customer Satoru Gojo.'"

Black shirt, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms like he got dressed without a second thought, black pants to match. No glasses today, just open intensely blue eye contact the second you turn. It's hard to miss how aware he is of your reaction. You know how some animals just seem more alive than others, more alert, more present, like they're more aware of your presence and then some? You're noticing his eyes feel akin to something like that, especially without the shades acting as a buffer.

And then you realize, a second too late, that you havent said a word outside of "oh my god," uttered under your breath. Which may be worse than complete silence in the face of the—accurately put— good looking Satoru Gojo.

"Is a little birdie evading taxes?" He smiles deeply.

Your body lets out a sound between a scoff and a surprised breath.

"No," you shake your head. "No, no," you add quickly with a little huff, straightening a little too fast, picking at the peeling part of the edge counter with your fingernail. "Sorry, you scared me. I was just— no. I'm not evading taxes."

He grins down at you quietly, his default expression of stillness and all smiles, tilting his head the opposite way this time. He’s literally looking through you. The subtle twitch in the corner of his lips tells you he’s holding back a laugh. Probably at you. Not with you.

A customer coughs idly a few feet away. Right. Customers. Working. That's what you're supposed to be doing right now.

Clearing your throat, you tilt toward the register, tapping the screen to wake it up for an order.

"Would you like to order something? Same as last time?" you ask, glancing up at him.

"Ehh," he drags out all breathy and whiny, "not really."

He purses his lips. A beat passes. "But, well.. I could be talked into it by a very enthusiastic and helpful employee. You know I love mochi.”

You hover your finger over the screen showing many options of sweets on the menu, glancing up at his little smile. He's very obviously goading you into convincing him that what you're selling is what he should be buying like a prim and proper employee.

You can practically feel the expectant stare of your coworkers drilling into your back, silently begging you to humor the rich man's silent offer for some playful banter so they might get their hands on the tips he so generously fills the tip jar with whenever he comes in.

But you don't need any convincing.

"Hmm," you hum like he's just handed you a genuinely difficult problem, wearing the appropriate expression for the role you're playing. "Sounds like a hard sell."

"Ahh not at all!" he beams. His hands drop to his hips and his face lights up into a literal ':D', so animated it's comical. "I'm real easy when you get to know me." His act is clearly not strong enough to beat his natural bright personality dying to shine through.

"I see," you hum, holding in a smile. "In that case, I think you'd like many of our selection—"

"Welll, don't get me wrong," he interrupts, as if he's just realized his words didn't align with the stubborn customer act. He leans forward suddenly, hands still planted on his hips, with a mock expression of seriousness. "I might end up being very difficult to please."

He whisper adds, "Y'know, so, pull out your best stops."

He reminds you of a child cutting in with new rules for a make believe game every two minutes and expects you to follow.

You do. You follow.

"Oh." You glance over your shoulder idly. "Then I may have some convincing material in the back. Would you be interested in that, sir?"

It almost sounds like you're inviting him to the back to do some nefarious thing with you.

His smile grows in approval as his lanky abdomen hunches even closer. "Oh am I! Mm, I think I am. Show me what you got.”

You know hard-to-please customers respond well to honorifics. And you're right because before you can even nod, he boops you right on the nose. Like you're a little doll.

"What a polite girl you are."

You're overly fucking embarrassed when you respond with an instinctive, "Yes I am," that only a service worker with a specific script in their subconscious mind would understand.

You quickly add, "I'll grab it," before ducking into the back, ignoring your shaky palms to retrieve the box you need with a warm face. You take a beat in the back to squeeze your face together and let out your embarrassment. It barely helps but you’re used to shoving it down.

When you return, he's in a lazy stance, hips thrusted forward but still hunched, his hands in his pockets, eyes roaming.

"We just got strawberries in," you explain as you approach, pulling the lid off to present the juicy, ripe fruit. "They're really fresh."

His eyes gleam like he's spotted treasure, but he quickly shifts his expression back into character. He raises a brow sternly and pinches his chin with two bony fingers.

"Well, well. I must say, that is enticing. But, important inquiry for you. Your answer will be my deciding factor."

You wait.

"Are they sweet?"

He pauses, for dramatic effect..

Your brows twitch as the silence drones on.

"Or are they bitter and tart? Because I'm not a fan of the snappy ones," he finishes, sticking out his tongue out for emphasis, making a 'bleh' face.

You glance at the strawberries briefly, confident that they're sweeter than they are bitter, especially since Nanami had you sample one of the strawberry mochi just this morning after you'd made a fresh batch. You're sure the quality of the batch is top notch. Nanami is the efficient type.

"I can give you a sample if that would help a valued customer like you decide?"

His reaction is immediate. Cartoon flowers and an exclamation point pops up around his aura. You grin at how exaggeratedly pleased he looks, but he quickly regains composure, bringing his face back to that stern like expression with a cough.

"Hmm. Yes. That sounds good," he hums, all business. "I'll taste."

"Yeah? Okay great." You smile as you pick up one of the delicate white ruffled sheets with a strawberry nestled inside. "Let me just plate this—“

"I changed my mind," he interrupts suddenly, voice laced with mock authority. He leans forward, palms resting on the counter. "I want you to try it for me, you know, in case it's a bitter one."

One look at him and you can tell he's serious. Your eyes flick down to the strawberry, your mind processing the request.

“If you want me to," you say, hoping Nanami will be happy that you served his personal friend well. "Sure, I can check for you."

He smiles approvingly, head tilting slightly as he his eyes stay focused on yours, aware. That conscious look in his eye that's so unique to him glimmers.

You casually grasp the strawberry by its green leaves and bring it to your lips since there's no need to waste a plate and a spoon on yourself.

You take a small bite out of the tip and sweetness floods your mouth immediately, confirming Nanami's dedication to the quality of his stock. As you pull away from the strawberry, a little stream of pink juice escapes the corner of your lips and trails down your chin.

You hesitate as you feel it, your free hand instinctively raising absently in the air, thinking where the closest napkin might be that isn't the sleeve of your work shirt. You don't even want to look at him; you probably seem like a messy toddler right now.

You mutter a instinctive hum to fill the silence, instead of speaking with a mouthful, scrambling and cringing and slightly uncomfortable with the sticky feeling of the cold juice and trying to discreetly wipe the juice off with a (thankfully) nearby napkin.

"Sorry. Good news, it's—"

Your words catch in your throat as you feel light pressure against the strawberry in your hand, and you glance up to see him take a bigger bite out of your bite in the red fruit inches from your face. He's close— dramatically leaned in. Eating right from your hand.

"—Sweet," you finish as his white lashes flutter just slightly with effort. His teeth sink into the sweet flesh with a satisfyingly wet crunch. His jaw tenses with the force. Juice flows down your fingers and palm.

"Okay then," you huff with an almost disbelieving amused expression.

He hums in exaggerated delight, straightening up with a satisfied look on his face. He wipes his bottom lip with the flat of his thumb.

"Very sweet," he confirms matter-of-factly.

The sharp tear of your skin surrounding your nail of your free hand by your side makes you slightly cringe you realize you were picking at your skin again. It's a bad habit, really, as you've been told so many times in the past. You shove your mildly stinging thumb into your palm and wrap your fingers around it, hiding it from the air.

"I'm— uh— very glad I could help you with that," you mutter a little disorganized as you bend and quickly toss the used napkin as well as the strawberry nub in the trash before placing the lid back on the strawberry box.

"Ready to order?" You clear your throat of your awkward tone.

As you wipe your hands down your apron, he starts speaking in his usual playful manner.

"Yeahh, lemme get," he draws out the word, squinting up at the menu as if in deep concentration, making you prepare to take his order. "Two Kikifuku for here, and five to go!"

Your finger hesitates hovering over the screen, pausing. No strawberry mochi? No strawberry anything?

"Okay, great. Is that all?" You're not even a little hung up on the fact that he didn't actually buy the strawberry mochi after all that. He's easily one of your most enjoyable customers to serve.

"Yep!" he says cheerfully, dropping fifty bucks into the tip jar before pulling out his card to pay.

You swipe his card with appreciation for his generosity in your complexion, and as he takes it back from you, you flinch with remembrance.

"Oh! I almost forgot," you quickly crouch to reach into the cabinet below the counter.

You pop back up with his heavy black debit card in hand. "You left it here the other night. Don't worry, I kept it safe."

He blinks at the card in your outstretched hand, then back up at you with a blank, default look.

For a split second, you swear you see a flicker of his cheek before his face morphs into causality.

"Whew!" He exclaims, snatching the card from you and stuffing it into his sleek wallet. "What a relief! You're the best."

You smile and nod dutifully. "Your order should be out soon. I'll bring it to you."

He stuffs his wallet into his back pocket with a little jump to aid gravity, nodding casually.

"By the way," he adds as you start to turn away. He takes a step closer to the counter separating you, as if speaking on something mildly private. "Did you leave my card here overnight, or did you take it home? Y'know, keep it all safe and warm in your pocket."

You blink, not quite understanding his intention in asking. Is there a correct answer here? It almost sounds like he wants you to say the latter, when common sense would lead anyone to believe that's the wrong answer.

"I— Yeah, I left it here," you answer, picking at your injured nail from behind your back. "I knew it'd be safe behind locked doors and everything."

As someone in customer service, you can pick up on the fact that, for some reason, that wasn't the right answer. Apologies are a better safe than sorry kind of thing in this business, so you add, "I hope that's okay."

He quickly brushes your worries off with a wave. "Nah, Don't worry about it."

You nod once, lips pressed together, rocking slightly on your heels with your hands behind your back.

"Nice," he says, flicking his tongue against his front teeth as he eyes the table he plans to sit at. "I'll be here. Waiting for ya'."

You hmph with a nod and a polite smile, like you usually do for customers. But a spark comes alive in your chest as he hums to himself, gliding over to the single table.

You're ready to get to work. As you turn your back to the counter with your mind already ready to do your job,

Your two co-workers are waiting for you.

"Cha-Ching!" Ino, not as subtle as he thinks, pumps his fist at the sight of the fifty in the tip jar, sliding beside you to exaggeratedly peek into the glass jar.

"Handled that better than I would have. I'd already be fired and gone." Maki praises like it's a chore as she rests her hip on the counter, arms folded. "No matter how much money that bozo drops."

You huff, peeking over your shoulder at the man of the hour lounging at a table close by before shushing them with amusement. "He's gonna hear you and take it back."

"No way! That's illegal isn't it?" Ino asks dumbfounded as he scratches his head stupidly, moving away from the jar.

"I wouldn't put it past a guy like him," Maki drones monotoned. "I could totally see him kanoodling his sticky fingers in the jar to fish it back out with no problem."

"He wouldn't," you chuckle and shake your head. Your eyes squint briefly through your amusement, considering the idea that maybe he would. You don't know him well enough, he's rather unpredictable.

"It is weird though," Ino hums, "the guy never usually sits down, always 'to-go' and seems all busy."

You hum curiously as you reach out to begin plating his order.

Maki taps your hand in a little smack, making you halt. "No way, don't worry about it. I can't make you endure that idiot and serve him too with a good conscience," she says, already plating his order without having to even look, a seasoned vet having worked here longer than you.

Maki doesn't know you want to serve him. That you've been waiting for this exact circumstance since Professor Toji submitted your grade. That he's who you've been eyeing the front doors for. Wanting to see some kind of approval in his eyes when you tell him.

You glance over again— and of course he's already looking at you. You're about to give in to Maki's out of character generosity and just wait for another opportunity but—

The man locks eyes with you and lifts his hand slightly, like he's summoning you instead of asking, that million dollar smile resting easy on his charming face.

Relief settles in your chest. No scrambling for an excuse needed, he's already made the decision for you without even knowing it. Can't say no to a customer, right?

"Too late. I've been summoned." You nod towards the needy customer, showing Maki. You shrug like you're now under lock and key, 'oh well, whattdda gonna do?' look on your face.

"Thoughts and prayers," Maki snorts, not even put up a fight, she doesn't even look up as she says it, just plates his order for you and the next second, she's already turning to her station.

You grab his plate. "Don't seem too eager now," you chide playfully.

"If he asks something complicated," she adds, organizing cups that don't need it, "I'm on break."

You grin, nudging her with your elbow on your way past her.

Ino is still celebrating behind you, riding the high of that tip you'll have to split three ways, but you're already half gone. Your attention snagging like a loose thread tied to the silly man at the table.

It's a short walk. You've done it hundreds of times. But right now, it feels like you're walking on air. You've always embarrassingly been the type to raise their hand at every question in class, arm stretching painfully as your fingers wiggle in the air— like that'll entice the chances of being called on. A chance to show your dedication. You need to be first, and you need to show the teacher that you're the best student here, that you care about what they have to say. That you're good.

Before you know it, you're there, adjusting the plate in your hands as he fixes his attention up to you from where he's sprawled over the chair.

"Here you are," you clear your throat, gently placing his plate in front of him, "let me know if you need anything else."

"Sounds like a deal." He spins the plate as if to see every angle before snatching the spoon with a giddy aura.

You take a small step back, ready to— but you don't leave. You stand there, stupidly. Watching him shove half of the entire mochi into his mouth as you wring your hands out behind you.

His chewing pauses for half a beat. His gaze flicks in your direction on the table but not quite up at you, like he's picked up on something in his surrounding environment with instinct.

He glances up at you fully, locating the abnormality. "Hm?" he hums idly, almost to himself.

You take in air, quickly uttering, "Oh I was just—"

"Yeah?" he asks you softly, tilting his head with a teasing grin betraying his kindness.

You force yourself to stop fidgeting with your hands to hold them still. Just get it out before he assumes you're a creep. You've never been good at the whole small talk 'good to see you, how are you' thing.

"I wanted to tell you about my grade," you admit with a huff, as if it'll help with all your awkwardness. "I got it back."

"Ohh right!" he exclaims and drops his head to rest on his palm. He looks up at you sideways, soft white hair flowing down towards gravity, elbow propped on the table. "What'd the geezer think about our little conversation? I'm on the edge of my seat. Talk to me."

Your shoulders immediately relax, relief rolling down your skin in goosebumps, and an anticipatory smile forms on your face. "I got a ninety-nine."

A still beat passes.

"...Really?" he breaks the silence with a question but it's more of a monotoned statement, like he's genuinely surprised at what you've just said.

You blink. He was so passionate about his philosophy before, you didn't know what to expect but it's not shock and disbelief.

"You seem.. surprised?" you huff a bit, curious amusement slight on your expression.

"Hm." He leans back in his seat, tilting his body so his knees are outstretched on either side of you, comfortably manspread with his full attention facing and bracketing you within. "What do you think?"

You recognize that tone, similar to the cadence of some of your professors and the same on his voice the other night. Goading you into a lesson once again. Like a mouse to smelly cheese, your brain gears start spinning.

He gives you ample time to ponder a 'why' to his reaction, sticking the other half of the mochi ball into his cheeks. Not taking his eyes off you.

"..because rich people want everyone, including my professor, to be ignorant?"

"Mm!" He huffs dramatically from his throat, smiling close lipped around his mouthful, proud you learned. He straightens his back, head level with your clavicle, and ruffles your hair.

Warm pride fills your chest and perhaps a few butterflies as his hand takes up the space at the top of your head. Maybe you tuck your chin just a bit so he can have better access for a proper pat too, eyes on your shoes. It's a little silly to be patted like a child, but you accept it with much less than no fight.

"Did you have fun?" His lilted voice queries. He leans back into his seat again, taking his big hand away with him.

You hesitate at his question, glancing up, not expecting it. "Did I.. have fun?"

He doesn't aid in any clarification, just watches you with that charming smile idle on his face.

"Writing the paper..?" you try.

"Mmhmm," he hums as he licks his sugary spoon.

"Oh." You huff. "Well, you know," shrug, "I didn't throw my laptop across the room, so that's promising."

"Wow, not even one attempted laptop homicide? Impressive," he says in that alluring, playful cadence of his natural voice. And there's that glimmer of what you think is approval in his eye.

He offers you a fist bump and you don't hesitate to make your knuckles touch briefly. It's so friendly, you can't help but laugh.

"Have I redeemed your faith in the youth?" you joke as you take your hand back, referencing what he said that night.

"Well, well," he smiles and it's almost arrogant on a man so beautiful. "You wanting another lesson?"

Your chest lights up. You glance around very briefly so make sure the shop is slow, already nodding before properly checking.

"I mean if it's okay— if you have time," you clear your throat, "and stuff."

He waits patiently to make sure that's the end of your gargled sentence before tapping the chair opposite him with his foot. "Sit," he says like it's obvious.

You take a seat and you can practically hear Maki in the back of your head cringe with (slight) sympathy.

"You're an eager student, huh? You get high on that 99% or what?" He wiggles his brows. So that's what he thinks, that you're so enticed by the grade his philosophy won you, you just want more in hopes of a smoother college experience.

You huff, sitting on your hands. "I like a good grade as much as any thriving college student," you enunciate the adjective with sarcasm, making him chuckle.

"But, no, I—" you pause to chew the inside of your cheek, blinking upwards to reign your thoughts in order. You land on, "That grade did surprised me, what you said surprised me for sure. But, I just.. I enjoyed talking to you. I want to know more." About you.

"Hm?" he hums curiously, tilting his head dramatically like a dog, chin in his fingers like a painter as he ponders. He finally says, "Damn, you really are interested. That's hilarious."

Your brows furrow a little but you can't help a little embarrassed amusement. "What's hilarious?" you ask, unable to hold it back as he chuckles.

For some reason it feels like he's talking more to himself than he is you. Like he's not used to someone caring about his exaggeratedly quirky views of the world.

"Ahh nothing," he brushes it off and leans over to grasp the edge of your chair. "Herrrreee we go," he drawls as he yanks and pulls the seat, catching you off guard as he skids it across the floor— until you're sat beside him on his side of the table.

"Oh. Okay." You glance at your position beside eachother, the outside of his manspread thigh touching yours.

He taps the table a few times with the bottom of his plastic bear-themed spoon, looking down at you.

"Close enough?"

You blink up at him. "Oh— yeah. Thank you." What else is there to say to that question? There's not really much need to be this close in the first place but he asks like it's so natural, only the most logical thing to inquire in this situation.

You can't tell if he's joking, since everything he says sounds that way and he's so close already you can see the soft fuzz of his skin, but the man is a little unpredictable and hard to interpret already, so you drop any attempt at making his question make sense with the risk of sounding stupid seriously thanking him for a joke.

"You are so welcome," he hums, eyes still wide focused on you, playing with the spoon one handed by circulating it over and under from one finger to another like it's a pen with his wrist resting on the table.

Silence.

There's a pause because you have no idea what to say to that— but he doesn't seem at all phased by what could possibly be an awkward moment. It's almost like he doesn't notice the social cue. If he does, he sincerely doesn't care, to the extent that he doesn't even think about it. The silent—and a little weird—eye contact doesn't last long though as he picks up the conversation again with the enthusiasm of a professor who loves their job.

"Here's how we'll go about this lesson," he begins, "you pick my brain as much as your little heart desires and I get to ask you some questions in return. Sound fair, right? We can call it..." he hums dramatically like he's swishing something around in his mind. "Tooth time! A little segment."

You huff a chuckle at the made up segment. "Questions like what?" you ask curiously.

He chuckles, wagging a finger at you. "Aht aht aht— No spoilers, eager little kitty. You know the rules of this game, right?"

You press your lips together, because the nickname is wholeheartedly cringeworthy, but it doesn't seem to matter coming out of an exceedingly playful man like him.

"Oh right. Oops," you whisper, imitating zipping your mouth shut.

He smiles widely and drops his spoon onto his plate, pulling his now free hand up to offer a handshake. "Put your hand out."

"Come on, cooome on," he calls to you as if his hand is bait waving around in the water and you're a little fish wandering nearby.

Your brow quirks. A deal, huh?

"Didn't know this was so official," you tease and take his hand with an amused smile.

He pulls your hand into his space and leans in closer to whisper, "Oh, it's very official," into your face as you shake hands. You get a whiff of his sugary sweet breath. And wow, is his hand just swallowing yours up into a warm cocoon.

You let out the breath of air you subconsciously inhaled the second his scent came over you and nod dutifully. "Well, in that case, I accept your terms."

"Oh my," he giggles like he has his very own an inside joke about what you've just said that you aren't in on, "So fast? Just like that? Are you suuuure?"

He waits with palpable amusement as you consider any conditions someone might have for contracts like you've seen in movies.

You bite back a smile. "No questions about my salary, you know, that could get messy."

"Oh, of course not!" He waves you off with— not even attempted concealment in that hugely amused smile, "I'd never even think of it! Wouldn't want to make either of us uncomfortable."

"Yeah, it's been an issue before," you sigh dramatically, "It doesn't go over well. You know how it is, they peek at my bank statements, get all insecure because I make more than they do, and it ends with them slamming the door in my face. Would rather avoid it if possible."

He cackles and hums with approval. "Smart girl."

You let the act go with an amused head shake. Obviously, he can ask whatever he'd like, your little joke expressed that enough.

"Alrighty, what's that pressing question aching to get out of that mind of yours?" He twists his upper body so he's facing you better, resting his forearm on the table and the other one on the back of your chair.

You ignore the fact that he's almost teasing your eagerness, because it's not like it was discreet the way you awkwardly watched him eat in silence before he realized you standing there like a weirdo trying to think of anything to say. Surely with the stupid expression of a dog waiting for a treat.

"Okay," you begin, straightening up your posture as you focus. "So money is energy, working is a scam, I get that.. kinda.. but what now?"

"Nooow you get greedy!" he says like it's obvious, only your birthright and like it's ohh so exciting.

"About what? How?" You blink, head shaking a bit as you search his face for answers. The money you don't have?

He hums and glances at nothing, thinking for a beat.

"Well, I guess the right question is, what do you want?"

"Like.." you huff, "out of life?"

"Sure."

Sure. All flippant and shrugging, like it doesn't matter all too much, like this isn't a question people die without even skating the surface of realizing. He should really just ask what your soul purpose is as a human being on the planet, it'd save time.

The man doesn't need to prove his credentials to you. So you open your mind and think. You take a deep breath. What do you want? There's too much to fucking choose from, so you land on,

"To survive. To stop worrying. To have a second to breathe without—" getting drunk and crying, lying to your friends about how you're doing, and working till you drop.

"You know, etcetera." You puff to expel the seriousness that threatened to make its presence known, fidgeting with your thumb again on the side of the chair by your thigh he can't see too easily.

"I see." He idly taps the table with one long finger. "Not my question, but you answered it nonetheless. What now? Well, I'd say this is the exciting part. Come here."

You blink as he gestures with two long fingers for you to huddle in closer.

Once you're a breath away, eyes attentive and ears ready, his lips part and he's on the precipice of telling you what you've been unconsciously yearning for for years, maybe since you were born— to be told what to do.

"Say 'cheese!'" he shouts and before you know it, the light of his phone camera is flashing over your face repeatedly as shutters indicate he's taking pictures of you.

On instinct, your eyes squeeze shut and your face tilts away from the light. He must have only taken a few before you flinched away and when you glance back at him, he's shoving his phone back into his back pocket with a satisfied look.

"You shoulda seen your face, kid. Totally capture worthy."

Your eyes squint incredulously as you glance to the side a bit, almost like you're waiting for the fourth wall to break. It's comical how unpredictable this guy is, and even more, how much he strays away from social rules. It feels like you're playing a game interacting with him, with rules you aren't aware of.

He lets out a 'ouh' sound, tilting his head like a dog when he catches your stalled stare, though his face is exceedingly blank with his default smile. "What's this? Don't tell me you're camera shy," he teases.

You shake your head, exhaling in slight disbelief. "Does this mean I can take pictures of you too?"

He tilts his head the opposite direction with a wide smile. "Of course. Is that what you want?"

"I kinda wanted to know what you were gonna say. You know, right before your artistic instinct caught a capture worthy shot."

"Ahh, right, right." He clears his throat when a snicker comes through. "But before that, I think it's about time for my question, don't you think?"

You squint for a beat stubbornly like you're considering, but it's just for show, you have no intention of denying him. "Okay, sure."

He weasels his muscular thigh around to the outside of your chair, so he's facing you completely like before with both legs bracketing you while your body mostly faces the table.

"How old are you?"

You glance up to his face with interest from where your eyes were examining his manspread thighs.

"Twenty-three," you say. Suddenly you're a kid again, being asked A B and C to fill out a mandatory form so you can apply to something you're probably not eligible for.

"Is that right?"

"How old are you?" you ask in return, curiosity bumping up.

He gasps. "Don't you know never to ask a lady his age? So rude, the youth these days. How old do you think I am? No, don't tell me."

You chuckle. "Okay but just so you know, I'm considering the idea the white in your hair is actually just grey."

He throws his head back and cackles, making his hand on the back of your chair brush against your back.

"I'll act like you didn't just call me old," he says all sultry to you, like it's a little secret just between you two. "Anyways, the answer you're looking for is to have fun. And how do you do that? Well, you'd have to try new things, see what really gets you goin'. And then maybe we'll have somethin' to work with. You gotta start wanting out of life to start making some real impact in the wallet department. Easy, right?"

So figure out what you truly want and then you can figure out how to make money off it. Have fun. But sadly, you don't have time to have fun and explore hobbies. Maybe you can pick up a book or something.

"Easy. Right," you press your lips together in a smile, showing your appreciation and of course, he smiles back. It feels like he can read your mind, those eyes.

"Do you enjoy talking to me?" he queries simply.

Your smile grows and you nod. You swallow briefly before adding, "You're my favorite customer."

"Aww, yeah?? What do you like about talking to me?" He asks intimately despite barely knowing you, one hand resting on his knee, close enough to your own knee that he's able to tap it a few times, which he does of course, making you swallow.

"Is that one of your questions?"

"Sure."

You chew on the inside of your cheek and joke, "What don't I like about talking to you?"

He giggles all giddy, his finger steadily tapping at your knee. "I like that answer. C'mon, gimme specifics."

Fishing for complements? Strangely, his questions don't feel that surface area.

You take a deep breath, considering with a smile.

"You're easy." You glance up at him before quickly returning your gaze to his finger on your knee, trying to ignore his stare so you can utter a real response. "It's easy to talk to you. I can never really predict what you're gonna say. You're kinda.. odd."

You blink back to his face with slight panic and add, "In a good way. In a good, fun way. I really enjoy it— you— I mean talking to you."

He laughs heartily for long enough that you can feel your heart rate go up as the heat in your face rises too.

After his fit of laughter, he throws out a thumbs up, huge smile sparkling and one eye shut in a long wink. "Jeez, that could make a grown man tear up! Ten out of ten. Perfect answer, you win." Massive approval.

You sigh a breath of content, letting the small smile return to your face.

The hand on the back of your chair suddenly flattens between your shoulder blades and you almost squeak like a toy. He's touchy.

"Look here," he whispers like a fisherman teaching his son about the types of fish to have a keen eye for, leaning into you. He points a finger to draw your gaze to a balding man sitting in the corner. Not subtle at all. But the man doesn't seem to notice. "You see that guy?"

You nod, a question on your face, blinking in attempt to keep your attention off of the huge palm on your back.

He takes his eyes off the man to give you a present stare. "Lesson time. It's beneficial to know that money is not everything. What people really want without even knowing it is opportunity."

You swallow, nodding again as you glance at him for the confirmation he's seeking in your gaze that you're paying attention.

"But, I mean, can't money give you opportunities?" you add like a good little student.

"Hm, fair point." He smiles, like you've contributed a valid point. "Here, let's go back to— let's call him Bob— here. He has a steady cooperate 9-5 at a well proclaimed office."

You stifle a laugh. "Actually his name is Paul. He likes mango."

Paul is a regular. He doesn't talk to you much, but he comes in often enough.

Gojo rubs a hand over his lower face, laughing with you. "Oh yeah? Is that right? Okay, well, Paul."

He glances around at nothing, pushing his pursed lips to the side like he's thinking, tilting his head like a scale. "Let's see, most of those positions.. Paul is making around 38k. Monthly, 3k, 4k at most when his boss gives him extra work. What do you think? Good amount?"

Compared to you, yeah. You make less than half that on a particularly exhausting month. You shrug, "Doesn't sound like he's struggling or anything."

"You'd think so, huh? Well, we haven't considered his expenses. Bob here never took 'money management' in school. You know why?"

"Uh- because he didn't go to college?"

Gojo laughs. "No, because money management isn't taught in school. Instead, things like the quadratic equation is prioritized instead of how to pay taxes. Hell, most parents don't teach their kids how to use an ATM before they kick em out on their 18th birthday."

You scoff at his accuracy, a disappointed jump in your brow. The world really is so ridiculous when he puts it like that. It sets kids up for failure right out the gate.

He smiles, chuckling happily at your reaction. "Yes, it's rather annoying, really. Anyways, back to my point."

He nudges his head towards Paul. "So let's say he has a check for 4k this month. Lucky him, right?"

You're about to nod along, not thinking much of it, until he drops his hand down onto the table, reveling in your little jump.

"Wrong."

"How?" You blink at him, brows furrowed and voice hushed, "What could be possibly be spending it on?"

"Well, Bob spends 1k on his mortgage. And life insurance, retirement, taxes are 800. 200 on groceries, 300 on take out, 300 on tennis lessons for his wife, 700 so his darling daughter can go to a good college, we can't forget 200 on booze, phone, utilities, personal spending like clothes etc, 800 if he's lucky. And of course, the 1,200 on debt payments because of that time he got into a bar fight and ended up with a nice one-day hospital stay."

Did he just do all of that math in his head? You can't even be sure if it actually adds up or not without a calculator.

"Jesus fuck," you blurt.

"Oop!" His expression bursts with amused surprise at your sudden reaction.

He laughs as your eyes widen in brief surprise because his reaction made you realize what you'd said in the shop.

"Be careful," he teases as you cringe and resist covering your own mouth, "Mister Nanami isn't a fan of the devils tongue little miss employee of the month."

"Sorry," you say instinctively, exhaling through a sheepish smile.

He laughs, and rubs his hand on your back a few times, making your shoulder briefly twitch as your mind blanks for half a second. It's so comfortable. Addictive and makes you feel warm.

"I won't tell if you don't." He smiles lopsided with his pointer finger in front of his lips. "Which actually brings me to my question."

You lick your lips and look over at Paul who is wearing a napkin like a bib. "But, what about Paul?"

He briefly squeezes his eyes shut in great amusement. "Don't worry, Paul can wait, can't he?"

You glance at the man. Paul is a little more impatient than your other customers, but not burdeningly so. You on the other hand..

"Yeah, okay."

"Thank you, Paul," he says briefly before tilting his head at you like a robot locking onto its target. "How good are you at keeping secrets?”

Through the many odd jobs you've had in your young life, strangers from all over decided that you are the perfect candidate to dump the most intimate of secrets on. For some reason, there's something about being a low-valued employee that makes people feel open. It's kind of like you have a special token from each stranger you'll likely never see again.

"Why? Something you wanna get off your chest?" Your eyes squint just a tad, curiosity bleeding.

"Hm," he smiles, "not quite."

You can imagine the secrets this man could have hidden behind that soft button up would be interesting to hear. But, he's not the type to budge, in-fact he seems oddly scheming for such a playful guy.

"Then why ask?" you can't help but wonder.

"Well, same reason I'd ask you how good you are at hide and seek."

...You wait for more clarification but of course, none comes. There are about a million ways to perceive that.

"That somehow answered less than before."

He shrugs and makes an exaggerated dumb face, like he's silently saying it's out of his hands, and 'that's just life,' as if he doesn't have the power to just tell you right here right now.

"I don't know," you drop any attempt at getting a real answer and play into his sillies instead. Honestly, you don't think his intentions go further than being entertained. "Do my friends count?"

"Ehh I don't really care but, well, I don't really like being nagged so yep! Friends count."

This guy must have been the best make-believe kid at recess.

"Okay," you laugh, "sure. I'm good at keeping secrets. Do I get a prize?"

"You just might. How good on a scale of one to ten?"

"Ten."

"Wow! That's ballsy. Poor Paul on the other hand has too many balls to spare. Know why?"

Your brows furrow as you gaze back to Paul who has a ring of sugar around his lips. He only has two mochi. "Why?"

"He and his wife? They fuck once a month. At most." He enunciates 'most' with drama. You realize now he meant balls as in.. balls. Not mochi.

Your eyes jerk towards him. You're suddenly aware that you're in public and your new friend?.. mentor?.. customer? doesn't seem to have an inside voice, or a care for social expectations.

"I... wow. That's a thing you just said out loud."

Your awkward, flustered response earns you a laugh that almost bubbles out of him, like it's a truly genuine laugh from his belly.

"That's rough buddy," he sighs as his laugh dies down, gazing at Paul. He doesn't actually seem all that sympathetic.

"I mean," you mumble under your breath, pausing with hesitance, "Isn't that pretty common, though?"

Older men having sex more than once a month is a crazy thought, though admittedly, you've never given it much thought. You imagine guys like Paul are lucky for that often.

Gojo pauses, head tilting, brows furrowing at Paul with thought. "You know what, I'm not actually sure."

You let out a small laugh and he smiles down at you in tandem.

"Come on, kid. That's what I like to see! You gotta smile more." The hand on your back pushes to your shoulder to give it a squeeze, fingers grazing your collarbone.

Your shoulder muscles tense under the force, then relaxes into the touch, its natural reaction.

"I smile," you huff, glancing briefly at his touch, adding a silly, "and not only at inappropriate comments about a customers sex life, thank you very much."

"Oh, that's a relief. Would probably have to report you to HR. Can't have a perv serving mochi to the civilians."

You shake your head in disapproval, but you can't help but laugh.

"Am I the perv if you gave me unsolicited sexual assumptions about other customers?"

"Fair point," he considers, "Yes."

Your laugh persists, and you fidget with the side of your chair as you chew on your lip. You can feel Gojo smiling beside you.

You finally glance up at him. "If I may, what does Paul's sex life have to do with his money? Or was that just an important side detail?"

"Oh it's important, alright. Paul has money, but he's not having fun! See what I mean?"

Basically: What the hell is the point of money if you can't have fun?

"Paul isn't poor. Not starving, obviously. Paul isn't failing. Yet Paul still spends everyday waiting for the weekend when he can drink till he's brain dead while his wife fucks the tennis coach. Wheeew!" He drags a hand over his forehead and wiggles oddly like he's trying to get a disgusting, scary thought out of his head. Probably the idea of being Paul.

"Well, I don't think I'd have that problem." You chuckle.

"No, you'll be much smarter with your money, won't you?"

You nod at his silly hypothetical, four thousand dollars a month. You? It's a nice dream.

"But not too smart, right?" He wags a finger in your face, staring you down his long finger.

"Oh I wouldn't dream of it. I'd make one ridiculous purchase a day, of course. Make sure it's something utterly useless I'll use once and never look at again."

"Haha! That's the attitude!" You're obviously being silly but he still praises the idea. "And while you're at it, make sure you accept gifts from generous guys like me," he says as he slides his plate over in front of you holding his last mochi ball on it.

Just like last time, he ordered one for himself and one for you. What he does with the other dozen to-go sweets, you aren't sure.

You swallow instinctively and give him a sheepish look. "For me? Are you sure?"

"I feel like I'm having Deja-vu," he chuckles, pinching the side of your thigh, making you jolt.

"Ow," you mumble with an amused look, gently pushing his hand away from your pinched skin.

"Eat it. Sugar is good for the brain. It's a little treat from me to you. Life is sweet, at least when I'm here." He winks at you and you can't help but feel steam billowing off of the top of your head like a cartoon character as your heart beat picks up. So corny.

"Thank you." You sit up and realize you'll have to use his spoon like last time. You side glance at him and he's whistling, not even looking at you.

You pick up his spoon and stab the ball, sliding a bite into your mouth.

A little piece of folded paper comes into view as Gojo slides it towards you on the table.

You look at him with a question on your face as you chew.

You go to pick it up but he stops you, using his fingers to pull it back a bit to keep in his grasp.

"One last thing. You’ll be fine”

You stall. He's being unusually serious, using a slower more genuine tone than usual.

You finally exhale, nodding. Knowing the successful, intelligent man truly thinks you'll be okay, even in such general terms, makes you feel lighter, like he took some of the weight off your shoulders for a moment. He's the only one who knows, even without specifics, that you're suffering this way.

He picks the paper up between his two fingers and offers it to you as his usual wide tight lipped smile returns to his face.

"If you want an opportunity.." he trails off as you take the folded paper. "Don't call to work, though. Only fun."

Your face contorts in confusion and curiosity as you hold the note.

You open it and look at him with even more utter confusion. It's a stupid little drawing of what looks like a penis and balls?

"Oop! Wrong one." He giggles as he pulls out another piece of paper and swaps it with yours.

You open it as he stands and stretches his long arms obnoxiously, making silly noises.

It's a phone number.

"Man, I'm so glad I came todayy." He smiles like a giddy teenage girl, mouth open in the shape of a triangle. "See ya." He winks down at you and squeezes your shoulder on the way to the front counter where Maki hands him his to-go order and thanks him for his service in a monotoned, rehearsed voice.

He leaves practically skipping. As you go to stand, a crumple of paper draws your attention to your little pocket on your apron right at your right breast. You blink and pull out a hundred dollar bill, holding it in the same hand as the phone number note.

Your eyes snap to the door even though you know Gojo is already gone before quickly stuffing it back into your pocket with an exasperated look.

That night, you learn the difference between calling a man 'daddy' in bed, and calling him 'dad'. Sukuna learns he might be jealous of that bitch of a brother he has, and how he's taken you and your sweet lips for granted for so long.

When he's done, and you're bruised and fucked-full, Sukuna doesn't let you up from the bed. By now you'd be dressed, watching your uncle with needy eyes as he lights a cigarette and tells you to come back when you want a good fuck again. But he keeps you, wraps his strong arms around your waist and scoffs at how fast you fall asleep. You weren't feeling too hot anyway.

This is becoming more than just sex.

Too bad he has to go and ruin it. You wake up hours later, laid out on your back with your legs spread wide and your uncle slotted between them. He's slapping your cheek lightly, waking you up to greet him in the early hours.

You notice a few things. First, he has your phone in hand, and he's calling someone. Your eyes are still blurred with sleep, and you blink them desperately to see who he's calling, but a second sensation stalls your mind.

His cock, rock hard and as imposing as ever, is pressed against your ass. The tip notches against your hole in threat, and as you panic and try to shift up the bed, he presses down nice and hard on your stomach. You've never... he's never tried it before. And he's Sukuna — of course you expected him to push for anal one of these days, but you thought you'd have a moment to prepare.

It doesn't help your plight that you're soaking wet, your cunt drools down onto his cock in want. There's a heated soreness inside that makes you wonder if he's already fucked you full — but you'd wake up if he did that, right?

Must be left over from last night.

You take a moment to breathe, and he grants you that, but then jerks his chin to the still-ringing phone. "It's your dad."

What? You jerk up to grab the phone, but with his hand pressing down on your stomach, you have no chance. "Give it to me."

"Shut the fuck up," he exhales, pushing his hips forward a little to press the head of his cock a fraction further against your ass. "I was texting him earlier from your phone. Don't think I sound much like you. Kept asking if you were drunk. He's strict."

"Yeah, he is," you sigh. "Please hang up."

"Didn't get told 'no' enough growing up, did you?" He rolls his eyes, moving his hand from your stomach to your wrists to hold them together as he rests your phone on your chest. "He'll be sleeping. You're going to leave a voicemail and tell him why you haven't been home — if you don't, I fuck your ass."

You wish you weren't so conflicted. You don't want it, obviously — which is what makes it a good threat — but there's a small part of you that's curious how he'd feel. You've heard it hurts, and your uncle doesn't know what gentle means.

The phone stops calling, and on clicks your father's voice. It's a plain voicemail, leave a message and I'll get back to you, but listening to his voice whilst his brother notches his cock at your asshole is... sickening.

You feel like throwing up, and almost do when you hear the message tone and Sukuna pushes forward a little. He's not inside, but you can feel him there — it wouldn't be hard for him to push past your muscle's resistance.

"Hey dad," you panic, staring your uncle in the eyes as you speak. It's almost like you're addressing him — you know he likes the name on your tongue. "I know it's late, but I..."

You trail off. Why would you be calling him at god-knows how late just to tell him you're spoken for? Maybe you're still asleep, and your dreams are just getting weird because your life is as well.

But when you hesitate, Sukuna's hips push forward. It's agonisingly slow, his entrance, which you think might be worse than if he were to just... fuck himself into you. You gasp as he pushes just the tip in, your ass burning at even that stretch and clenching around him in rejection.

Or need. You aren't sure.

'Keep going', he mouths, motioning with his hips in threat of more. You must look stupid, folded beneath him and on the verge of tears as you leave your real dad a voice message.

"I wanted to say sorry for not being in touch," you babble, a little mindless now. "I've just been so busy and — and um..."

A little deeper. Your lungs empty of their own volition, forcing you to splutter for breath. "AndImetsomeone," you blurt, panicked. "I met someone. He's... nice."

Sukuna snorts loud enough to be heard, his eyes sharp. He looks offended by your lie, so much so that he decides to show you just how wrong you are. With a sadistic tilt of his head, your uncle pushes himself forward and forces his weighty cock completely inside of you.

Well, he never said he wouldn't fuck your ass if you did as he asked.

Your vision floods white. The pain is there, of course — you feel like you're made completely of sewn partitions all threatening to rip at the seams — but it isn't as world-ending as you thought it'd be. The tears in your eyes say otherwise, but there's a sick part of you that likes just how much of your body has now been explored by the pink-haired, tattooed man on top of you.

So you start singing his praises, make him seethe with your kindness.

"He's sweet," you manage your words, though they're shaky and unsure. "Takes me on dates, buys me flowers, holds the door open. He's..." you choke a little, "... a gentleman."

Sukuna's shoulders are shaking, but with rage or laughter you aren't sure. He's smiling, but his eyes are murderous. He pulls almost completely out of you, which feels weirder than it feels painful, and then snaps inside again.

Holy fuck. You have to bite down on your tongue to stifle the sounds you want to make. Tears stream down your face as you sniffle, trying to mask all tones of pain and pleasure from your voice as you go on.

"I really like him."

Sukuna slows the roll of his hips a little, leans down, and licks at your lips. He doesn't kiss you often, he's got more of a penchant for licking you like a dog would — marking his territory, or whatever. He's so animalistic in his ways that you aren't sure you'd be surprised if he pissed inside of you one of these days to seal the deal.

And you find yourself grinding your hips up to meet his at the thought. You're going to hell one day, you're sure of it, but at least you'll have some sickening regrets to justify such an end-destination.

And he'll be right there with you.

"I just wanted you to know," you speak to your phone. "I, um, wanna stay here a bit longer. Spend... spend time with him. I'll come visit before the Summer is up, though. I miss you, and I love you a lot... okay, bye."

With a snarling grin, your uncle finally releases his bruising grip on your wrists, watching hungrily as you scramble to grab the phone on your chest and press the red 'end call' button.

"I love you a lot," Sukuna taunts you, quickening his pace inside of you. You thank the gods that you were wet enough to soak his cock first, otherwise his movements might not be so easy. "You love him more than me?"

"I..." god, your head is spinning. You feel like you've been fucked stupid. "I don't love you. I hardly know you."

Another mean thrust inside, and Sukuna is folding over on top of you to press his chest against yours. His face is so close that you can feel each exhalation through his nose as he growls, "that's no way to talk to your uncle, brat. 'Course you know me — we've got the same blood."

You don't need to be reminded. You see it every time you look at him now, and you hate yourself for not hating it. He's more you than anyone else ever will be. You aren't sure you could fuck another person knowing they aren't a part of you like Sukuna is.

Still, you don't know him. Not really — you don't even know why he was in prison your entire life.

"Have you killed people?" You blurt, for some deranged reason beyond your own comprehension.

"Don't ask stupid questions," is his answer. He doesn't seem affected — if anything, he was more offended that you called him nice. "You take my cock well here. Maybe I should just use this hole."

You grimace. He feels good like this, you're quickly forgetting about the pulling pressure of his cock in your ass, but you're also becoming increasingly aware of just how empty your cunt feels now. You've gotten spoilt, used to the way he fills you up.

"Thought you'd make it hurt more," you admit. "I... god, I could come like this."

"You don't deserve to come like this," he replies, snapping his hips forward as he chases his own release, racing you to the end. He wins, of course, and with a shuddering exhale, pumps rope after rope of his hot cum inside of your ass. "You came twice already while I stretched you out on my fingers. I'll make it hurt when you really piss me off."

Your eyes widen. How long had he been playing with you before he woke you up? Was he texting your dad and prepping you at the same time?

His hips still inside of you, denying you any more friction to accompany your building orgasm. You frown as it fades away, but your uncle delivers a few sharp smacks to your aching pussy in warning not to beg or argue.

When he pulls out, globs of his cum follow. The sheets beneath you will need to be changed, but knowing your uncle; he'll make you sleep in the mess you've made first. It's the little acts of degradation that add up, make you remember just what you are when you're beneath him.

You're sore. So sore, in fact, that you're not loving the prospect of doing this again. You aren't sure the pleasure is worth the searing pain in your ass.

You sniffle, wipe at your burning nose. "Did I really come twice?"

Like clockwork, your uncle grabs his pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the floor beside the mattress and lights up. He takes a long, deep drag of his cig, and then shakes his head on the exhale, blowing his smoke right at you. Your hair is going to stink come morning.

got rained on omw to class. i'm soaked :(

another photo of you pouting in the mirror, skin damp and shiny from the weather that day. you're disheveled and obviously upset, but your dad pays no mind to your expression in that picture—because he can see your nipples clear as day through the white fabric of your top. rock solid too, winter rains are no joke.

he smears his pre over the head of his cock, slowly stroking himself as he zooms in on that photo, too. accidentally screenshots just your tits, but doesn't bother to delete it—it's the best part of the picture.

the "innocent" photos almost get him harder than anything pornographic, like the dirty secret of him jacking off to you turns him on more than if he were to just see you naked. sometimes he wishes things stayed that way—but he scrolls up further in your texts and forgets all about it.

i'm so wet, daddy, i miss you.

a text that captions yet another photo, only one this time. you're in the dark, only illuminated by the front-flash of your phone, soft curves of your body barely made out on his screen. he knows you had to take that in the same room as your roommate—hidden under the blankets along with a secret you can't tell anyone else.

nanami fists his cock quicker now, reading through the nasty messages sent to and from you after that. he said 'show me, sweetheart.' and you quickly replied with but my roommate is right here and sent a mouth-watering picture of your wet cunt anyway.

you always listen to him so well—except for when you have a few drinks. your dad scrolls up to the last time you got drunk at a party, stroking himself faster at the evidence.

got really fucked at that party last night. sorry daddy, love you

nanami presses the play button to the first of three videos, the thumbnail blurry and unfocused as it loads. when it finally loads, your father has to physically stop himself from cumming on the spot. you're on your knees, flash from the phone illuminating your entire face, all the way down to your mouth with some guy's dick shoved down to the hilt.

you look like a fucking whore. nothing like the smart, diligent, pure daughter nanami raised—but a shell of her, stripped down to your filthiest, sluttiest form.

nanami can tell from the way your eyes are glossed over and lidded you're plastered. the guy behind the camera is fucking your throat, forcing your head to knock back with each thrust, muttering something like fuck yeah, baby, take that shit. strings of saliva practically pour from your mouth, falling down to your tits, and the cameraman makes a good show of reaching down and groping you—and the video ends there.

the second video shows you in someone's bed that isn't yours—hopefully that same guy—with your back arched and ass spread. you're fucking holding yourself open for him, allowing his cock to smack into you at a brutal pace. the alcohol is making you loud, artificial moans and whimpers playing through nanami's phone speaker. he can tell it's all fake, though. your daddy makes real noises come out of you, and those are nothing like what he hears in the video.

the last video is his favorite from that night. nanami tightens his grip around his cock before he even presses play, speeding his fist up in anticipation. you're in a position akin to missionary, but worse—on your back, party dress tucked under your tits and shoved up your waist. thighs obscenely spread, cunt on full display to the camera, ruining every thought your father had about you being a respectable young woman.

you take this guy like a fucking champ, letting him use your whorish body for his own pleasure—and your father's, for that matter. strings of daddy, daddy, daddy fall from your lips, but nanami knows you weren't calling out to the guy who was fucking you. you were calling out for your daddy, the one who sits behind his phone screen, hunched over his desk, jerking his cock to his daughter's filthy videos.

nanami catches up to the speed of which you're being fucked, tugging at his length so quickly and harsh his toes curl inside his shoes. he can't stop watching you getting pounded, getting demolished by some guy you admitted you met a few hours earlier. and you recorded most of your encounter, all for your daddy.

he throws his head back at that, body convulsing as he shoots his load at the same time as the guy in the video. the cameraman's spend shoots everywhere, staining the skin of your thighs and the fabric of your dress—your father's cum lands on the wooden edge of his desk. he grips his phone tight, watching as you let yourself be physically degraded, thinking of remaking these clips when you come home for break.