weirdo

⁠♡ synopsis: They say history repeats itself. You just never thought it would happen between you and your hot history professor in the middle of tutoring.

♡ warning: NSFW (18+), professor!nanami x student dynamic, power imbalance, age gap (Nanami 30/Reader 23), explicit scene, strong language, suggestive dialogue, oral sex, fingering and sex.

“You’re not dumb, sweetheart. You just need to put in a bit more effort. The story’s not hard, you see? The emperor didn’t die because of treason—he died because God decided it. That means something different.”

You blink up at Nanami, chewing on your pen cap without even realizing how distracting you look. He’s been trying to get this point across for half an hour, and you’re still not getting it. You glance down at the open book. Nanami’s scribbling something out for you, because he knows you can’t really wrap your head around a story unless it’s written down.

But the way your brows bunch up and your lips twist into a little pout gives you away. You’re still lost.

Nanami sighs, but there’s a small grin tugging at his mouth as he flips to the next page. This girl, he thinks.

“Well, since this one’s a bit of a headache, let’s just move on to the Thibaw Emperor in Burma, okay?” He pauses, watching you sit there, frozen.

“We good?”

Reality smacks you in the face. You nod fast and set your chewed pen down on the table. You straighten up, the ache in your back disappearing at once, and lean in closer, catching a whiff of his cologne. It’s distracting. You press your thighs together, hum, and try to focus. “What emperor? Thi...Bow?”

He laughs. “Thee-Baw. Thibaw Emperor. He was the last king of the Konbaung dynasty—the last monarch before the British took over Burma.” Nanami’s eyes flick down to your lips as he explains. You’re pouting again, pretending to listen. He knows you’re just staring at his hands. He can’t help but find it cute.

“Ever heard of his wife? Supayalat Empress?” he asks, testing you a little. Your mom swore you’d been paying attention in history class, even after that F.

You shake your head, trying to laugh it off and scratching your arm—your classic awkward move. “No, Mr. Kento. Never heard of him.”

“Her, Miss. Thibaw’s wife. So, her.” He grins at your slip-up.

You giggle and cover your mouth, embarrassed. “Right. Her.”

He huffs and moves on, telling you how Thibaw became the last king of Burma after wiping out his own royal family—thanks to his wife’s manipulation.

Nanami keeps talking, but your jaw drops. You look shocked, even though he’s explained this a dozen times in class. Honestly, you’re too distracted by him to pay attention to any lecture. He’s noticed. He always notices how your thighs squeeze together when he stretches to grab a marker.

He clears his throat, snapping you out of your little daydream of him doing things you definitely shouldn’t be thinking about right now. “Yes?”

“Uh, do you know why the royal system collapsed when Thibaw tried to rebuild after Britain attacked Burma?”

“Because of... mm... because of...” You trail off, distracted by his jawline, his glasses, his broad shoulders. You swallow, bite your lip, and whisper, almost without realizing—

“Fuck me.”

He freezes, eyes wide. After a second, he says, “I beg your pardon?”

You slap a hand over your mouth, mortified. “No! That’s not—I didn’t mean—I swear, please don’t tell my mom.” You grab his arm, hands barely fitting around his bicep. “Please, Mr. Kento. You’re my third tutor. I can’t go through another one...”

He sighs, shaking his head, but there’s no real anger there. “Alright. I don’t want to lose this gig either. But next time, please, try not to blurt out stuff like that when we’re studying.”

You nod, still holding onto his arm, lip trembling like you might cry. “Yes, Mr. Kento. I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

He looks at you, deadpan. “I’m sorry...?”

You gasp, horrified. “No! That’s not—I’m not—oh god, Mr. Kento, I didn’t mean it.” Suddenly, you throw yourself at him, arms wrapping around his solid chest.

He stiffens, stuck in his chair while you bury your face in his shirt, clinging to him like he’s the only thing keeping you afloat. He doesn’t know what to do. Should he run away, block everyone’s number, move halfway across the world to Malaysia or should he try to calm you down, and honestly, the bulge that makes an embarrassing tent beneath his pants.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Kentooo,” you mumble into his chest, voice muffled and desperate, hands gripping his shirt like you might never let go.

Nanami takes a shaky breath, trying to steady himself. He pats your head, gentle, then grabs your shoulder and eases you away. Then he notices, your cheeks are wet with tears, lip gloss smudged all over his shirt. His heart sinks. He cups your face, thumbing your trembling lips, and everything about this feels heavy.

He shouldn’t even be thinking about sex right now. Not with you crying. He should stand up and leave. But his hand moves on its own, brushing over your pouting lips, thumb lingering, rubbing softly then slipping past your lips, resting on your tongue.

You freeze at first. But then your mind flashes back: those nights alone, breathless, your own hands busy between your thighs, his stolen neckties pressed to your nose. You remember how you’d get yourself off, leaking on the sheets, imagining him there, rough, greedy, spanking and pinching, making you scream his name, soaking the bed.

You know what you want. And now, you’re ready.

Your tongue snakes out, licking his thumb, slow and filthy, like you want to ruin him. You lock eyes, lips curling around him, and the noise he makes isn’t even a breath more like a low growl, all hunger and restraint.

“Sweetheart…” he growls. He pulls his soaked thumb from your mouth, lifts his hand to your hair, fist tightening gently as he tips your head back. “On your knees. Now.”

You don’t even hesitate. You get off the chair, kneel between his legs, hands settling right on his cock. no shame, no hesitation. You stroke him through his pants, watching him through hazy, lust-soaked eyes. He hisses, and you feel how hard he is under your touch, straining for you. He’s going to ruin you, you can feel it.

“Open your mouth, pretty girl.” His voice is gravel and smoke. You open wide, and he pulls his cock out—thick, already dripping. You stick your tongue out, eager, ready to swallow him whole.

He strokes himself a couple times, then guides his cock to you, taps it on your tongue. The taste is sharp, salty. You look up with wide eyes and he just loses it, pushing into your mouth, groaning at the feel of your lips wrapped tight around him.

“Just like that, sweetheart. Good girl. So perfect for me.” He can’t stop praising you.

You moan around him, tongue swirling like you’re savoring a lollipop. You try to wrap your hands around him but he’s just too big, your fingers only cover half his length. But you keep going, bobbing your head, tears streaming down your cheeks. Your jaw aches, your tongue is going numb from his size and the taste, but you don’t care. You just want all of him. You move faster, filthy sounds filling the room, your mouth stuffed full. “...gawk!”

He lets go of your hair, hand moving to your cheek, wiping away your tears. “No crying,” he murmurs, thumb gentle. “You’re doing so well for me.”

He wants to slow you down, pull you off, but he can’t. He just watches the way your lips work him, the way you look up, face streaked but beautiful.

“Did I do good, Mr. Kento?” you sob, grinning around his cock, tits spilling out, hands barely enough to cover him.

He’s close. Too close.

His cock throbs in your mouth and you suck harder, tongue circling the tip, hands stroking his shaft. He jolts, groaning, and you can’t help but smile.

It’s too much.

He grabs you, hauls you up, his cock slipping from your lips with a wet pop. Then he pushes you back onto the desk, breath ragged, cock still hard and aching for release.

“Mr. Kento?” you whimper, legs parted, his body pressed between them.

“If I put my tongue in you, sweetheart, I can’t just be your tutor anymore. I don’t think I could ever go back, not after this.” His voice is rough, hands tracing over your top, following every curve.

“Please, Mr. Kento. I want you. I’ve wanted this forever.” Your voice is shaky, needy, grabbing at his wandering hands. “Fuck me. Hard.”

He curses, grip tightening on your waist. “You asked for this, sweetheart. There’s no going back.”

“Yes, Mr. Kent—”

“Kento. Just Kento, sweetheart,” he sighs, sounding almost wrecked. “Call me by my name when I’m making a mess of you.”

You grin, propping up on your elbow, staring at his body, his tousled blond hair. “So, Kento, you don’t want to eat me out?”

God, please.

He drops to his knees before you can blink, hands slipping under your knees and spreading you wide. He catches the scent of your arousal, licking his lips, and nudges your panties aside with his tongue, hungry for every bit of you.

He drops to his knees in a heartbeat. His hands slide under your knees, spreading them apart, no hesitation. The scent of your arousal hits him, and he licks his lips, hungry, nudging your panties aside with his tongue.

His palms grip your ass, fingers splayed, pulling you open. He drags his tongue up your slit, slow and deliberate, and the sound you make—god, it’s perfect. He groans into you, voice rough. “Tastes like candy,” he says, grinning against your skin.

Your head falls back on the table, hands diving into his soft blond hair. You tug, guiding him, rolling your hips up against his mouth, desperate for more. He’s not gentle. He’s wild, eating you out like he’s starving, and you can’t get enough.

“Ah, fuck, Kento. Fuck, that’s good. More, baby, I want more,” you gasp. Your legs hook over his shoulders, keeping you anchored while he devours you like you’re the only thing that matters.

You’re close—so close—when suddenly three fingers push inside, stretching you wide. No warning. He fucks you with them, deep and steady, tongue never leaving your clit, sucking hard. He shakes his head, mouth locked on you, relentless.

You cry out, “Ken—Angh!”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He’s grinding against the desk, desperate, but he stays focused on you. Spit drips from his mouth, mixing with your slick as he smears it over your swollen pussy.

Your back arches, thighs trembling, walls fluttering around his fingers. Your toes curl, and you know he’s not stopping until you break. Until you squirt.

You’re sobbing, words spilling out, “A-are you trying to make me squirt?”

Nanami smirks, chest rumbling as he mutters into your soaked cunt, “Caught on, did you, sweetheart?”

Shit.

Your juices drip down his sharp jaw, over his fingers, but he doesn’t care. He keeps going, tongue and fingers working you until you can’t hold back.

“I’m coming, baby,” you whimper. Your nails dig into his hair. Your thighs squeeze his head, and you wail—hot liquid sprays out of you, harder than ever, drenching his chest, soaking the table, his face. He grins, pulls his fingers out, and licks them clean, savoring every drop.

You’re shaking, spent, hair tangled in your fingers, body limp. Nothing’s ever made you come this hard not even your toys.

But Nanami’s not done.

He stands, stroking his cock, sloppy and eager. He rubs the head against your soaked entrance, teasing, “May I?”

You bite your lip, catch his hand, gentle. “Come inside,” you tell him, voice shaky.

His eyebrows shoot up, but he doesn’t ask twice. He lines up, rubs the tip over your clit, and then pushes in, slow, deep. Fuck, he nearly loses it right there, sliding into your wet heat, your tight walls clenching around him.

He leans down to whisper, a rough little laugh in his voice, “Gonna make another history tutor generation.”

He grins, breathless. “Don’t you think so, sweetheart?”

It’s not candy. It’s not even Nanami Kento, your delicious overworked husband who looks unfairly good even when he’s tired. It’s shopping and cash on delivery, which you prefer to spend your leisure time with instead of Kento.

He’s sulking, of course. Sitting besides you on the couch, brows creasing, a slight pout forming on his lips as he watches you giggle like a teenage girl talking to boys except it's not boys. It's Shopee, and you're debating what to buy next because the end of year sale is approaching.

Your thumb scrolls endlessly, eyes lighting up as you compare prices, debating whether you really need another set of storage containers because they’re forty percent off and you swear this is the lowest price you’ve ever seen.

What a night, he thinks.

But then, he can’t really get mad, upset, or jealous of your daily activity. He feels like this is the only time he sees you being delightful, other than when you’re busy managing the household.

Because most days, he sees you moving nonstop. Cleaning, cooking and chasing after Kemi, your daughter. Folding laundry with tired hands, rubbing at your lower back when you think he’s not looking. This is the only time he sees you relaxed, shoulders loose, smile easy.

It’s stressful, you complain sometimes.

Kemi is a little too active for you to handle, making your back aches while picking up toys scattered around the house. You yelp when you accidentally step on a painful Lego, hopping on one foot while Kemi laughs like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever seen. You pant profusely as you follow the dance steps playing on the TV because she insists Mommy can show it again later in case she can’t sleep and wants some entertainment.

Yes, it’s weird, but he promised she’s lovely.

So, Kento lets you do whatever you need to release some stress. Lets you shop while giggling. Scrolling pass through midnight if it means the tension leaves your body. Including shopping through cash on delivery.

“Kenny, before you go to work tomorrow, can you leave some cash on the table?” you murmur after a while, not looking up from your phone as the notification dings, indicating the parcel is waiting to be shipped.

He hums, nodding, “Sure, honey. I’ll leave lots of money before I go,” he already reaching for you, long arm draping over your waist as if by instinct. Pulling you just a little closer, grounding himself in the familiar warmth of your body.

You smile at that. Soft. “Thank you, baby.“ Satisfied. Already back to scrolling.

Nanami exhales through his nose, lips ghosting against your temple, a small smile tug on his lips.

Happy life, happy wife.

i will take offense actually.

why would you take my work, copy it, and send it to an ai detector without my consent ? you don't know where those tools store text or what they do with it and you didn't even think to ask before pasting something i spent hours working on into god knows where to probably train the very models you're accusing me of using.

that's a massive violation of my privacy as a writer and deeply disrespectful.

the em dash is a stylistic choice for pacing and emphasis that has been used in literature for centuries. if you go read classics like wuthering heights or jane eyre, you'll see they are full of them. would you copy and paste charlotte brontë into an ai detector and accuse her of using ai too ?

this really bothers me a lot, not just because of this message, but because how disrespectful people on tumblr have become toward authors in general.

you don't know how much time i put into my writing. you don't know how many hours of my free time go into planning, drafting, editing, and rewriting. this is something i do for free, purely because i want to share something i made with others.

so yes it's genuinely violating to find out that my work was copied and pasted into an ai detector without my consent and then waved back at me like proof of something. interactions like this are exactly why i consider taking everything down.

edit: i also need to say how deeply unsettling it is to know that my text is now "out there" somewhere i have zero control over. i only post my work on tumblr and ao3. that's intentional. once something is copied and fed into an ai tool, i have no way of knowing where it ends up or how it's used, and that loss of control is genuinely disturbing.

i am very clear about my boundaries. my rules explicitly state no ai feeding. ignoring that and doing it anyway shows a complete lack of respect for my work and my time.

so i genuinely have to ask: if you love my work, why is there so little respect for the effort behind it, or for me as an author? it would have taken seconds to read my rules or ask beforehand. you chose not to.

instead, you took something i've spent countless hours on, enjoyed it, consumed it, taken for granted, and then treated as something you could do whatever you wanted with, even in ways i explicitly said no to. that's not appreciation. it's entitlement. and it's violating.

He never smiles this wide while talking about his job, cradling Megumi at his side, rocking him to sleep back and forth as he rambles how the work will get him more than before and you will have a better lifestyle, no need to worry whether you have to scrap the leftover anymore.

And you trust him.

Even though he never keeps his promise. He’s the man of action anyway.

The first month of his job, he always fails to come home early, having a dinner with you and Megumi. No message, no answer when you call him to ask if he’s gonna make it to dinner like he “promised” or not.

That, you can tolerate.

And the second month of the job, the bruises, blood never leave his mouth. He coughs once as he leans against the wall, weakly. Hand presses on his waist to keep the wound out from the air. He hisses, head thrown back to the wall, his eyes crinkle in pain.

“I’m fine. Don’t worry. Just take care of Megumi.”

You don’t know how much you have spend the money on meds, bandages, iodine to treat his open wound. You can’t remember. You only remember: he always comes home, bleeding profusely and new scar forms on top of the old one.

It starts with something small.

You try to have him sit down on his off day, grabbing his hand to have him look at you. Eyes almost pleading as you croak a word between sobs. “You need to stop this job. It’s hurting you, Toji.”

But of course, he sees this as a threat.

All of a sudden, he snatches his hand from your grip, rising to his feet before the once loving expression turns into a cold, dead one. “You don’t get to talk about anything. I’m the one who works this hard to have this house moving. To have the fucking bill running so you can live peacefully while I shed tears and blood, not knowing if I would be alive to come home to both of you.”

He scoffs, running his hand through his hair, walking back and forth as if the situation is too much for him to handle but—

“You don’t realize this,” you say, voice shaking as you rise from your seat. “You’re hurting our family too! I don’t give a fuck about your job.”

You grab his arms, turning him to face you. Cupping his face, pressing your forehead to his. Sobbing. Hurting. “You’re hurting Megumi too, Toji. He needs his father. He needs you in his life. Please, baby. I—” your voice breaks. “There’s no warmth in this family after you got the job. It’s killing us.”

Your brow furrows, fingers grasping his cheeks tightly, forcing him to realise this is not working.

“Then leave.”

You lift your forehead from his.

Confusion is written all over your face, tears streaking your cheeks. The sight makes Toji’s heart clench but he doesn’t say that. He doesn’t want you to win.

“W-what do you mean? L-leave?”

“Yes. Leave.”

His voice is too calm. Too peaceful. As if he doesn’t shatter your heart into pieces when he utters those words.

Your hands drop to your side. The movement is weak. Lifeless — like you’re already giving up in this relationship. “I give my everything to keep this house alive too… Megumi… He—”

“He’s my son. Not yours. You’re not his real mother, Y/N.” He grabs your shoulder, shaking you with every word, as if his sentence is final, waking you up from the reality that no one ever wants you.

“B-but… it was real to me.”

“Everything is real in your fairytale, darling.” He chuckles, mocking, lips parting to speak again but you stop him. Raising your hand between you, lips stammering.

“Y-you’re right. I’m too delusional. I keep grasping something that’s not real to make a fairytale dream achieve. I— you’re absolutely right.”

With that, you withdraw from his grip.

Dragging your feet weakly to the bedroom, leaving Toji alone in the living room, letting him feel the satisfaction of making the family crumble. Again.

You don’t know whether to stay or leave anymore.

But seeing how Toji doesn’t even glance at your direction anymore, back turned when you sleep together. Less time spent with Megumi. No dinner together. No yelling but the silence always kills you.

This is your cue to leave.

Your presence isn’t appreciated anymore by anyone in this house. Not even the man you love the most.

You feel like an outcast in the house you once call home.

part I | part III

“Why are you growing?”

A sudden, curious question slips from Toji’s mouth, cutting into the peaceful afternoon. Your hands pause mid-fold, still gripping the shirt.

Brow furrowed, you glance at him. “What do you mean I’m growing? I’m pregnant, Toji. Three months. You really think I’m gonna get any thinner by eight or nine?”

You snort, shake your head, and go back to folding. You ignore the way his brows are still scrunched. Clearly not done.

“Yeah, yeah, I know that,” he says, scratching his neck. “Stomach’s growing and all that. But like... why your boobs too? And don’t even get me started on your ass. It’s full now. Like, heavy in my hands full.”

He held his big hands up, cupping the air in front of your chest like he was mimicking your boobs now—except way bigger than they used to be.

That shirt did nothing to hide the way your tits sat. No bra, no shame. Just soft curves bouncing slightly with every move, practically begging for his hands.

“You see that?” he smirked. “They’ve grown. So has it,” he added, eyes dropping meaningfully below his belt.

You look at him, unimpressed. “So what, you're saying I had a flat ass and no tits before I got pregnant?”

He sighs, already knowing where this is going. “No, woman. That’s not what I meant. It was—decent. I wasn’t complaining.”

You raise your brow.

“I mean, now? It’s fucking divine,” he adds quickly, voice dropping. “I look at you and I gotta change every position possible to hide my damn bulge.”

You roll your eyes. “Typical. All this attention now, huh, that I’m built like your wet dreams fantasy. At least you’re getting the VIP treatment before the great flattening.”

“You kidding? I’m thriving,” he says, smirking. “You sneeze and my dick twitches.”

You bark a laugh. “You’re disgusting.”

“You married this.” he shrugs, grinning like the smug bastard he is.

“Yeah, whatever.” you mutter, rolling your eyes playfully.

He leans back, cocky as ever. “Mmh, yeah.”

masterlist

It’s not candy. It’s not even Nanami Kento, your delicious overworked husband who looks unfairly good even when he’s tired. It’s shopping and cash on delivery, which you prefer to spend your leisure time with instead of Kento.

He’s sulking, of course. Sitting besides you on the couch, brows creasing, a slight pout forming on his lips as he watches you giggle like a teenage girl talking to boys except it's not boys. It's Shopee, and you're debating what to buy next because the end of year sale is approaching.

Your thumb scrolls endlessly, eyes lighting up as you compare prices, debating whether you really need another set of storage containers because they’re forty percent off and you swear this is the lowest price you’ve ever seen.

What a night, he thinks.

But then, he can’t really get mad, upset, or jealous of your daily activity. He feels like this is the only time he sees you being delightful, other than when you’re busy managing the household.

Because most days, he sees you moving nonstop. Cleaning, cooking and chasing after Kemi, your daughter. Folding laundry with tired hands, rubbing at your lower back when you think he’s not looking. This is the only time he sees you relaxed, shoulders loose, smile easy.

It’s stressful, you complain sometimes.

Kemi is a little too active for you to handle, making your back aches while picking up toys scattered around the house. You yelp when you accidentally step on a painful Lego, hopping on one foot while Kemi laughs like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever seen. You pant profusely as you follow the dance steps playing on the TV because she insists Mommy can show it again later in case she can’t sleep and wants some entertainment.

Yes, it’s weird, but he promised she’s lovely.

So, Kento lets you do whatever you need to release some stress. Lets you shop while giggling. Scrolling pass through midnight if it means the tension leaves your body. Including shopping through cash on delivery.

“Kenny, before you go to work tomorrow, can you leave some cash on the table?” you murmur after a while, not looking up from your phone as the notification dings, indicating the parcel is waiting to be shipped.

He hums, nodding, “Sure, honey. I’ll leave lots of money before I go,” he already reaching for you, long arm draping over your waist as if by instinct. Pulling you just a little closer, grounding himself in the familiar warmth of your body.

You smile at that. Soft. “Thank you, baby.“ Satisfied. Already back to scrolling.

Nanami exhales through his nose, lips ghosting against your temple, a small smile tug on his lips.