Black Culture

A collection of works inspired by the COWBOY CARTER album, feat. Smoke & Stack Moore.

First chapter coming 1st January, 2026

★ AMERICAN REQUIEM

Elijah and Elias visit their Grandma June in Mississippi. June shares stories from 1926, when she learned strength and healing from her mother. She recounts how black families like theirs built America through resilience and labor. Her memories reveal how the country often forgot the people who shaped it.

★ BLACKBIRD

Elijah and Elias visit Clarene, a former Freedom Rider, who shares her struggles and Grandma June’s quiet bravery. They realize how much their generation takes for granted. Moved, they promise to carry these lessons forward.

★ SIXTEEN CARRIAGES

Elijah and Elias confront the sudden death of their childhood friend, Isaiah. They revisit childhood spots, recalling memories of laughter, mischief, and innocence lost. Attending Isaiah’s funeral, they witness a community honoring his life with song, stories, and shared grief.

★ PROTECTOR

★ MY ROSE

★ TEXAS HOLD ‘EM

★ BODYGUARD

★ JOLENE

★ DAUGHTER

★ SPAGHETTI

★ ALLIGATOR TEARS

★ JUST FOR FUN

★ TWO MOST WANTED

★ LEVI’S JEANS

★ FLAMENCO

★ YA YA

★ DESERT EAGLE

★ RIVERDANCE

★ TWO HANDS TO HEAVEN

★ TYRANT

★ SWEET ★ HONEY ★ BUCKIN’

★ AMEN

★・・・・・・★

If anything because Shiu was behind him watching the interaction with narrowed eyes. “Shiu, man, take your girlfriend out.”

Choso gets off to Toji fuckin’ you next door

cw: explicit, creampie, perv!choso listening to u get railed.

Cho is such a fucking perv. He’s pressed against the thin dorm wall like a fucking addict, one hand shoved down his sweatpants, the other braced flat against the cold plaster. The wall is so thin he can hear everything.

Because next door the wet squelch of your pussy echoing through the wall like it’s happening right in front of him. He can picture it so clearly it hurts. You on all fours, back arched, ass up while Toji grips your hips. “Fuck—Toji—right there—ahh—”

Choso’s cock twitches hard in his fist the second he hears you moan Fushiguro’s name again. His grip tightens, thumb smearing the steady leak of precum over the flushed head as he strokes faster, shame burning in his chest.

He knows he should stop. He knows this is pathetic. But he can’t. Not when he can hear your pretty little moans and whimpers from his room next door. “Shit… shit—” he whispers to himself, voice trembling.

He shouldn’t be getting off to this. He really, really shouldn’t.

But Toji’s next thrust must hit deep because your moan is exactly the way it used to when Choso first fucked you. Except this one is louder. “Oh! F-fuck—h-harder, p-please. Hnngh f-feels s-so good!” You whimpered as Choso strokes faster, his breaths turn into soft pants.

Toji bullys his cock faster into your wet cunt. “Yeah? You like that, baby? Taking my cock like a good girl—listen to how wet you are for me.”

Choso whimpers as his hips jerk forward into his own hand like he’s the one buried inside you, thick cock throbbing painfully as he pictures it: pussy wet and swollen, Toji’s hips snapping against your ass. Another moan from you, “Ji—nghh—harder—”

Choso’s eyes roll back as knees buckle a little and he has to lean more of his weight against the wall. His strokes turn sloppy, frantic and the wet schlick of his fist barely audible under the obscene sounds from next door.

He can hear the exact moment Toji changes angle—your gasp pitches up into a desperate cry, the bedframe banging harder against the shared wall. “Hnngh—fuck—yes—!” You moan so prettily it makes Choso’s balls draw up tight.

He’s leaking so much it’s dripping down his knuckles now, cock flushed dark and ready to come. Every time you moan for Toji, Choso’s hips twitch like he’s trying to fuck the wall, chasing the same rhythm.

He cums with a strangled, embarrassingly loud whine, thick ropes spilling over his fist and onto his stomach in messy pulses. His hips keep twitching, hand still working himself.

Through the wall he hears Toji groan satisfied, followed by your soft, fucked-out laugh and the wet sound of a lazy kiss. Choso stays slumped against the wall, chest heaving, cum cooling on his hand and the paint, face burning with humiliation and leftover pleasure. His spent cock gives one last weak twitch in his messy palm.

He’s such a fucking perv… and he already knows he’ll be right back here tomorrow night when Toji fucks you again.

synopsis . Overstim with your husband but he keeps accidentally setting things on fire because of it. content . afab!reader, masturbation (m!receiving), established relationship, improper use of fire bending(?), overstim, wife!reader, switching dynamics, bondage, pet names, nipple play (m!receiving), somewhat dom!reader, missionary, manhandling, etc.

“S-Shit,” Zuko huffed, hips insistent with their bucking as he uncontrollably drives the frustrated head of his weepy cock up into your hand.

You sat at his side with your eyes innocently watching as he fell apart entirely under your touch, “Does that feel good?”

He couldn't take his eyes off the way your fingers looked wrapped around his length, “Hhngh-, fuck.. So good,” He huffs, admiring how perfectly you jerked him off and struggling greatly with the bit of rope neatly tied around his wrists—which are positioned behind his back. “D-Don’t stop. Please.”

You squeeze at his base and feel how his veins pulse ‘n twitch against your palm, the tip of his cock a flushed shade of tanned red.

Then your gaze flicked up and you caught the way he threw his head back, letting the long, loose strands of his silky hair flutter all elegantly with the motion. There was certainly nothing more endearing than watching the fire lord come undone before you like this.

A slopped mess of slick cum keeps your hand steady with its slippery motions up 'n down his dick, his balls aching and heavy with need to release yet another load into your palm. You grin before silently leaning forward, letting your lips press into his chest all lightly as you hear him struggle with whines and grunts.

“Ah, your hand is always-, shit… s-s’soft..” Zuko mumbled, his abs tensing at the feel of your touch. Without warning, he nearly whimpers at the sensation of your lips cupping his nipple. “Oh God-,” Your husband's breathing tangles up in his throat, “Wait-, fuck.. Y’know I’m sensitive there, wait—“

“Mmnh..” You hum delightedly against him and let your hands pace quicken against his cock, feeling the entirety of his body heat up for a moment before he begins to twitch all over the place, his wrists fighting against the restraints keeping them in place.

This whole thing had been his idea. He'd asked you time and time again to tie him up and do whatever you want to him, but just like all the times in the past where this has been tried—he never seems to last too long before-

The smell of fumes hit your nose.

Lucky you, Zuko’s got a huge cock

cw: explicit, creampie, whining to Zuko that youre tired of riding him.

You’re already panting, thighs burning as you bounce on his cock, it feels so good but you’re getting fkn tired. “Zuko fuck, I’m doing all the work again,” you huff, hips slowing just enough to make a point. Your hands press against his broad chest, nails digging in like that’ll make him move. “Can’t you—ngh—help a little?”

His gold eyes narrow at you as his big hands stay planted on your waist, but they don’t guide you. They just hold you there, thick cock buried deep, “That so?” He thrusts upward once. “Whining already, princess? Thought you wanted to ride me.”

You roll your hips once more, trying to prove something, but it comes out pathetic. His cock twitches inside you, fat and heavy, veins pulsing against your walls. God, it’s so good. Too good. But your legs are shaking and you’re tired and—

“Zuko, please—”

Big mistake.

In one smooth motion he flips you. Your back hits the mattress hard. Zuko looms over you as one massive hand pinning both your wrists above your head. “Princess,” he growls, free hand gripping your thigh and shoving it up toward your chest. The new angle forces his cock even deeper, the thick head bullying. “You wanna complain about doing all the work? Fine. I’ll do it.”

Zuko pulls back just enough for the fat head of his cock to catch at your pussy and then thrusts back in hard. “F-fuck—Zuko—!”

“Yeah?” He pulls back only to drive in again, hips snapping. Every thrust rocks your whole body, tits bouncing, “This what you wanted? Me doing all the fuckin’ work?”

You nod frantically, “Zuko—ahh—too much—slow down—!”

“Slow down?” He scoffs, hooking your leg over his shoulder driving in harder, “You were whining about doing nothing n’ now it’s too much? Tch.”

Sweat slicks your skin, your thighs trembling where he’s got you pinned. “Zuko—Zu—fuck, I’m—!” You whimper louder about to orgasm as the coarse hair at the base of his cock rubs against your swollen clit.

“C’mon then,” he growls, voice dripping with mock sweetness. “Cum on my cock like the spoiled little slut you are. Make it loud for me, princess.”

Tears slip down your cheeks, mouth hanging open in a constant stream of loud, whimpering moans that get louder with every brutal thrust.

You’re a mess but Zuko just looks so fucking happy, that smug smirk never leaving his face. “Still wanna whine about doing all the work?” he asks, thumb brushing your bottom lip.

You shake your head weakly, utterly spent, a satisfied little whimper slipping out instead. You were a lucky girl, indeed.

cw: explicit sexual content, public ass-slapping, spanking, biting, grabbing, inappropriate touching, risk of being caught, dubiously appropriate timing, Nanami can’t keep his hands to himself. Bend that ass over, bitch! m.list

Nanami really, truly loved your ass. Too much. He loved grabbing it, smacking it, coming on it. He loved watching it jiggle when you bent over, loved sinking his teeth into it just to leave marks he’d admire later.

And it became a habit. A bad one. Because Kento Nanami had no damn self-control when it came to you.

So here are the top ten worst-timed moments he’s slapped your ass:

10. The first time it even happened—by accident, really—was in the office when you brought him lunch. Problem was, Gojo was leaning against his desk, running his mouth as usual. Nanami’s hand landed on your ass with a sharp smack before his brain caught up, and Gojo’s jaw dropped. “NANAMIN’S A PERVERT! I KNEW IT!” It took a full hour to calm him down, and he still brings it up at every opportunity.

9. In the classroom. He’d been lecturing when you walked in to deliver files. You bent slightly to hand him the folder and his hand came down on your ass before he could stop it. The students went dead silent before snickering erupted. You barely kept a straight face. Nanami? He just cleared his throat and continued the lesson like nothing happened, though the tips of his ears were bright red.

8. During training, in front of Principal Yaga. You were standing beside Nanami, clipboard in hand, when he smacked your ass hard enough that Yaga’s eyebrows nearly flew off his face. You wanted the ground to swallow you whole. “You two done?” Yaga asked dryly. Nanami didn’t blink. “Apologies. Muscle memory.”

7. At a Jujutsu Tech faculty dinner. Gojo, Utahime, Shoko, everyone there. Nanami had his hand on the small of your back, gentlemanly—until it dropped lower and gave a firm squeeze-slap hybrid. The sound of Shoko choking on her sake is burned into your brain. Gojo pointed a chopstick at you both, grinning. “Was that an ass grab or a slap? Or both?” Nanami’s glare shut him up, but not before Utahime muttered,“Unbelievable horny fucks.”

6. While you were on the phone with your mother. She was rambling about family drama, and you were trying to keep your voice steady while Nanami smacked your ass every time you said “mhmm.” You nearly choked when he pressed you against the counter and squeezed hard, mouthing, say goodbye faster. Your poor mother had no idea why you hung up so quickly.

5. Outside a mission briefing, with half the higher-ups lingering in the hall. You were in heels, files pressed to your chest, trying to look professional. Then came the sharp smack that made the folders slip right out of your arms. Everyone turned. Nanami just stooped to help pick them up, expression unreadable, before murmuring, “Control yourself.”

4. Grocery store. You bent down to grab something from the bottom shelf, and his palm cracked down on your ass so hard the woman next to you in the aisle cast you a jealous look. Nanami didn’t even look guilty—he just muttered, “That skirt’s too short,” and dropped the soy sauce in the cart.

3. In a meeting with higher-ups. You thought you’d be safe in such a stiff, professional setting—Nanami sitting with his tie perfectly straight, his posture rigid, the picture of composure. Until you leaned over to refill his tea, and he smacked your ass under the table. The sound wasn’t loud, but your sharp gasp was, and every head turned toward you. Nanami didn’t flinch. “Hot water,” he explained coolly. “Too close to her hand.” You wanted to strangle him.

2. Mid-mission, during a stealth recon in an abandoned warehouse. You were crouched behind a crate, trying to stay quiet, when Nanami’s hand landed on your ass so hard you yelped. You froze, heart pounding, while Megumi, Nobara, Yuuji, and Gojo all turned in unison, eyes widening. “Nanami!” you hissed, face burning as you tried to retaliate, swiping your hand at Nanami’s ass as he stepped past you, but your aim was off—Yuuji, eyes wide, practically shouted, “Hit him again! Hit him harder!” You froze, cheeks flaming, glancing at Nanami. Nobara rolled her eyes and muttered, “Pervert,” as you leaned closer to Nanami, whispering, “I’ll get you back later.”

1. Worst—or best—moment? After sex, when Gojo barged into his apartment unexpectedly. You were still bent over, dripping cum, thighs, Nanami slowly pulling out of you. His hand came down on your ass—smack!—just as Gojo’s voice rang out, “OH MY GOD, NANAMIN!” 

You squealed, scrambling for Nanami’s discarded shirt. Gojo had the nerve to cover his eyes with one hand and grin through the other. Nanami, utterly unfazed, just tucked himself back into his slacks and said, “Get out.” Gojo laughed, wiggling his eyebrows. “Next time invite me.” You’ve never seen Nanami look closer to murdering him.

Your best friend Toji loves suckin’ your tits

cw: explicit smut, creampie, your best friend toji can’t help but suck on your tits when they’re in his face.

You’re standing between his knees on the sagging couch, legs bracketing his spread thighs, trying to salvage something resembling “professional” out of his perpetually fucked-up hair.

He’s got an important meeting in like forty-five minutes—some back-alley deal with a couple ex-sorcerers who apparently pay stupid money for stupid jobs. “Good payout,” he’d grunted when he asked you to fix him up. That’s Toji code for “don’t ask questions and don’t make me late.”

You’re working fast. One hand cups the back of his head, steadying him; the other rakes through the damp black strands with a little water from a spray bottle and a pea-sized dollop of the cheap gel you keep in your bathroom drawer. His hair’s thick, stubborn, always falling into that lazy, dangerous flop over his forehead no matter what you do.

Your tank top is way too short and at least one size too small—rides up with every reach. You lean in closer to get the front right, elbows brushing his shoulders. The fabric stretches tight across your chest. One wrong shift and—Pop!

Your left tit slips free entirely, nipple already half-hard from the cool air and the friction of cotton all morning. It’s right there—swaying an inch from his nose. Toji goes still. You don’t notice at first. Too focused on sculpting that one rogue piece that refuses to behave. Then you feel it: warm breath ghosting over sensitive skin. Then—

His mouth closes around your nipple in one smooth, shameless motion. A wet, sucking pull. Tongue circling around your sensitive nipple. Your whole body locks up and you look down. “Toji—” he doesn’t stop, sucking harder as his cheeks hollow, as he laps at your breast. His eyes are half lidded, he’s clearly enjoying himself.

“Toji, what the fu—” Your nipple’s swollen, glistening, darker than the rest of you now, and the cool air after his mouth feels like a slap.

"they're lame," you mumble, a dissatisfied look blooming across your face as you look down. you're met with mosquito bites, ant hills, anything but actual breasts.

the soft slopes are embarrassing, but even more so now that your husband is staring at them too. they look premature. not fit for a woman, not fit for a lady married to a man as polished as your husband.

"they're perfect," he rebuts, no sign of irritation in his silky voice.

"i bet you're just saying that to make me feel better."

his brow twitches, but only for a second. "do you think i would say that if i didn't mean it? you know i'm no liar, darling."

deep down, you know he means it. but no matter how many times he says it, there's still doubt, still a weak voice inside that convinces you he's lying.

he notices that you always wear push up bras, and while he’ll never complain about it, he does notice. he’s more observant, yet taciturn than most men in that way.

"i caught you reading erotica about a lady with double d's though!" your fists come down on the bed, balled up gently.

flush immediately covers his face, makes him avert his gaze onto the floor. "i didn't know you knew about that." it's kinda cute how he mumbles, embarrassed.

"yeah, i know," you deadpan.

"but darling, i assure you, i'd rather read about your chest than hers. she's not even real!"

there goes nanami. always saying something sensible instead of feeding into your delusions.

you want to tell him that you don't always hate your boobs, that sometimes they look like they belong on your body and not a child's, but the words never come out.

your worst fear is him having to look at them. for another person to gaze upon your most insecure feature and not insult you. this crosses your mind as his words flow into your heart.

"do you really mean that?"

"i swear i do." his eyes have found yours again, hazel irises staring at you with soft admiration.

carefully, he grows closer, warm hands inching up your body. they go up and over that funny spot on your tummy. "that tickles, ken!"

"i know it does, darling," he mutters into your ear, chuckling slightly himself.

his hands end up at your chest, tweaking your soft nipples with his thumb. at first, you giggle, not used to the feeling of his digits on your most sensitive spots. it turns into gasping, a low whine if he pinches them just right.

he's so enraptured by you, so turned on he doesn't realize that he's curling down, face now level with your breasts.

"may i take one in my mouth?" his voice is barely above a whisper, containing himself.

with shaky breath, you say "yes, ken."

the whine you let out is embarrassing, high pitched and airy as your husband suckles on your taught nipples. his mouth is gentle yet calculated, tongue deadset on exploring every centimeter of your perky breasts.

"like this, darling?" he looks up at you, eyes half lidded and lazy in pleasure. your thighs clench, mind already jerking to him bending you over and taking you.

"mhm, yes, ken!"

he doesn't stop licking at you until he's out of breath and you're covered in light bruises.

his mouth lets off with a pop, wet and shiny just how he likes it. "darling," he mutters, eyes full of devotion, lips slightly parted to use that baritone you fell in love with, he asks,

"may i fuck you now, darling?"

masterlist

he knows it's stupid. dangerous. absolutely anyone can see that. he also knows it's wrong, that he shouldn't have photo evidence of the ways he turns you out every other night.

but he can't stop. the thrill is too tempting, scandalous nature of recording your screaming orgasms scratching a part of his brain that's never been scratched.

square. stickler for the rules. (unless they're dumb) rigid. all words to describe him. yet he still has you in prone bone, tits pressed flat to the mattress like how his front is to your back, fucking you for the blinking red light to see.

"yes, right there!" your little voice carries to the microphone in spite of its shitty quality. his thrusts are slow, deep, like something out of those one of a kind amateur films.

Pairings - Dilf Toji Fushiguro x fem reader

Summary -You're Megumi's best friend, and spend more time at the Fushiguro home than at your dorm room, and since you were a kid you've had it bad for Megumi's dad. He was always cool and fun until you got older, then he started being gruff and rude. Well, that just won't do, because you know you need his attention, and you decide to make his life a living hell, but Toji decides to give that hell right back on you. Who will finally give in!?

CW - age gap- Toji is 39, reader is 20, lowkey hint of somnophilia, rough blow jobs, dirty talk, Toji AND reader ain't shit, using others to make e/o jealous, fingering, cunnilingus, rough sex, dirty talk, highkey daddy kink, spitting, choking, reader and Toji freaks. Megumi and Yuuji are reader's age no NSFW w/them (reader uses Yuuji to piss Toji off but it's SFW) Basically it's nasty, filthy DILF Toji smuttt - WC- 7.5k

Based on Your Best Friend's Dad Toji - The pic on the left is from here (tears on a withered flower) I could not find a source for the Toji image! Reblogs/comments so appreciated if you enjoy!

Toji stiffens… in multiple ways as you saunter out that morning, as he’s throwing back two ibuprofen and sipping on bitter coffee, black, just out he likes it. You’re rubbing your eyes just a bit and yawning, stretching up your arms, tiny crop top stretched tight on your breasts, which bounce as your arms rest, and his goddamn cock twitches. He literally turns away, facing the counter then.

“Morning, Mr. Fushiguro.” You say brightly, sleep still in your voice, and he grumbles a hello, tensing when you walk towards him. “Oh, coffee, can I have some? I’m so beat and I have that test later.”

“Yeah, yeah… go ahead kid.” You glare at his strong back, shirtless and muscled, calling you kid when you were damn near old enough to drink, when you drove and worked and went to college.

You’re no kid.

You gently touch his shoulder, trying to get through to the coffee maker in the little kitchen, feeling him tense, as he narrows his eyes, looking over at you, lips pressing together, that scar just stretched a bit over his lip. You lean forward, breasts in his full view, as you start brewing your own cup, and he damn near rubs his hard cock at the sight of your nipples poking out.

God you annoy him, always over here, sure when you were younger it didn’t bother him, you were Megumi’s friend, a good one at that, and a good kid. And as a teen even, you had your shit together, living without your own parents, you had spent a ton of time here. But when you hit about eighteen or nineteen, and you just… started looking at him like you are now!?

Dilated eyes, lowered lashes, licking your goddamn lip?

When you started wearing less and less, and frequently crashed right on his couch, in various states of undress? When your tits jiggled just so, or you bent over in front of him, shorts riding up a bouncy ass? When you giggled and brushed your fingers against his arm?

You drive Toji fucking insane.

He’s tired of jerking it to his son’s best friend, he’s tired of picturing your thighs spread as he fucks women, you’re… infuriating him, actually. Batting your lashes and shooting little smiles, constantly trying to ruin him. Sure, people thought Toji was a creep, a pervert, a fucking whore, and to some extent, he was those things, but with women his age.

Being almost forty and having a very annoying, sexy and tempting twenty year old was not fucking okay. Sure, it’s one thing to jerk it to you, how could he not, but it’s harder and harder with every passing day not to give in, to play with that pussy he’s seen hints of, to suck on those pretty nipples that seem to always be poking out of something you wear.

Toji can’t stand you.

“Have a rough night, Mr. Fushiguro?” You ask then, and he turns his forest green eyes looking down at you, while you pour a little sugar in the cup, taking one of the spoons from his wooden drawers and then stirring it.

“Huh, no rough night. Slept fine.” Jerked it to the thought of you at midnight, and dammit he enjoys his sleep.

the man has always prided himself on being a doting partner.

that's why he likes missionary, or lotus position, where he can see the pretty face he fell in love with. he'd never refer to lovemaking as 'smashing' or 'pounding'; it's too vulgar, too immature. your pleasure, and being the cause of that pleasure, is his favorite part of intimacy.

so it's a shocker when your caring, sweet husband is giving you the roughest fucking of your life. and from behind, no less.

"ah-nana! 's too big, too big!" every syllable is accentuated by him knocking into you, hips drilling into your plush ass. "you take it every night, baby," he coos, voice still gentle despite his juxtaposing motions. if he weren't as nice, he'd be smacking your ass by now.

"don't complain because it's a different position." the thought of a feeble rebuttal is fucked out before you can make it. that long, curved cock is nearly hitting your pretty cervix, making your freshly manicured toes curl in pleasure.

back arched in doggy, he has a pillow under your pelvis, making his cock hit even deeper. it's relentless, deadset on making you cum as hard and fast as possible.

missionary allows for more connection, lets you know his next move. there's none of that in this position. only embarrassing, loud sobs from your throat and squelching from your gushing pussy filling the shared bedroom.

"ohmygod, so fucking tight," he groans, baritone turning you on even more. he can't lie, the angle is amazing. hot ropes are threatening to spill out too early, fill up your hole till you're stuffed.

"mm, nana! gonna make me cum, no more!" unfortunately for you, your moans only spur him on, begging him to fuck you harder. "you wanna cum?" he asks, mouth now right in the crook of your neck. "yes please," you whimper over and over, incoherent. "then look at me."

hands are tangling in your hair before you know it, wrapping around like a leash as your neck is craned back. two dark, half lidded hazel eyes meet with yours. contrary to his, yours are rolling back, weakly trying to look at him. "come on, look at me, pretty girl."

pretty girl. that nickname that's had you creaming on him more times than you can count. like every time, it works.

"fuck, nana! i'm cumming, i'm cumming!" on command, his hips speed up, desperately trying to stay inside of your tightening pussy. "don't stop." he knows you won't, not with the mind blowing fuck he's giving. it's to dominate, to show you that you'll do it as long as he says.

overstimulated, you crumple onto the mattress, legs splayed wide for your husband. his ring is glinting in the low light of the bedside lamp, a reminder of who you belong to. like the gentleman he is, he's holding you up by his grip on your hair, back still arched perfectly.

your eyes roll back again with the feeling of your orgasm, intense and long. your eyes are squeezed shut, the only way you can bare the pleasure. his hips, his cock, hands, muscles, him, it's all you can feel. it's familiar yet overwhelming. there's a new sensation, though, and it's not nanami's cum.

streams of slick and cream are running down your thighs, coating nanami's balls. the added wetness feels delicious on your clit, his full sack smacking into it without fail. his head tilts back, golden tresses falling onto his face with a low moan, the one he lets out when he's close.

"fuck, it's pushing me out!-" not a thrust later, his entire cock is out of your pussy, settling onto your sore ass. with the way you're shaking, ass jiggling too, he can't help that he cums then and there.

white, warm cum spurts out of his dick like water to a sprinkler. the sight of it covering your skin nearly makes his eyes cross. without thinking, he's thrusting into your cheeks, rubbing his mess all over them.

"nana! you're being gross," you whine, barely regaining your senses. amusement graces his features. not that you can tell, though. his hand left your hair the second you squirted.

"i'm sorry, darling. this ass is just too fucking sexy." he gives the doughy flesh a pinch in apology. his eyes crinkle, smiling at the yelp you give.

"you were supposed to come inside, y'know," you say, muttering. "doggy feels better for guys, at least i think." the bed dips as he lays on his side, eyes level with yours. "as long as i have my beautiful wife, i'm satisfied." you roll your eyes.

there's a beat of silence. it's broken by nanami, even though he'd prefer no talking. "darling?" "hhm, nana?"

In which Pervy roommate!Choso is your personal pussy cleaner

There exists, in nature, a mutually-beneficial dynamic between living things — a symbiotic relationship. Like the bird that eats debris and parasites from a crocodile’s mouth, or the pitcher plant and spiders that live inside it, who feed on the insects trapped by said plant.

Well, you have a sort of symbiotic relationship with your roommate, Choso: you save yourself a trip to the bathroom and he gets to have his fill of depravity. He needs it like air.

All you have to do is croak his name and he’s busting through the door with his beady eyes already fixated on the glistening of the sensitive skin of your thighs. He scrambles onto the bed, pushes your legs apart so he can slot himself between them, and he dives face first right into your cunt. No hi, hello, how are you? 

Only lewd slurrrrrrpssss! and obscene squeeeeelchessss!

“Oh fuck,” he moans right on your clit, lapping up your essences and greedily gulping every ounce down. Choso doesn’t hesitate to slice his tongue down your other hole if so much as one drop escapes him. Within seconds, he already sounds drunk on the taste of you. “I was -hah- starving… light-mmm-headed. T-thought I might pass out.”

It’s a good routine. 

But it comes with its own set of bumps. Like the fact that he will poke and prod incessantly, encouraging you to go finger yourself or ride your toys even when you’re not feeling it. Whether you’re eating, just got back from classes or work, freshly woken up, lounging, Choso’ll give you a small smile and ask, “Aren’t you feeling needy? Maybe your favourite hentai website dropped something good. Don’t you wanna check?”

“Leave me alone,” you demand through gritted teeth. 

You’re starting to think he’s not very focused on cleaning you up in a timely manner at all — you even think he intentionally drags it out, purposely makes you cum once more, or twice, maybe even a third time so there’s more to suck, more to drink, more to take. 

His eyes are glossy, face thoroughly soaked when you yank him back by the hair. He shakes you off and latches himself back onto your clit, wringing out more moans and lurid sounds from your body with the fingers he curls up against your gummy walls. “N-no,” he pleads, voice so pitchy and broken and desperate. “More. Give me -ngh fuck- more. I want more. Don’t push me away. Just lie back a-and let me make myself useful.”

Useful. Right.

So he wants you to pretend he’s not rutting his cock into the mattress of your bed, to pretend you don’t feel the headboard banging against the wall with the force of his grindings, to overlook the sporadic spasming and pornographic whimpers he lets out when he humps the bed to another orgasm. “Fine. One last one, okay?” you tell him.

Choso nods, cheek nuzzling your entire slit so he can feel your juices stick and dry on his skin even hours later. “Yes, yes. One last one.”

Then…

“Or two.”

SYPNOSIS. after that heated encounter in his office, you've been dodging his lectures and ignoring every reminder of what happened that night. higuruma hiromi is more frustrated than ever—until he finally stops waiting and takes what you've both been circling for weeks.

— PART ONE

PAIRING. law prof! higuruma hiromi x law student! reader

WC. 4.4k

CONTENT. MDNI. professor/student. age gap. oral sex (f receiving). vaginal sex. unprotected sex. dirty talk. light degradation. usual rain trope lololol.

A/N. art by hunnismoker on x. first post after getting flagged !!!

you’ve been ghosting his class for almost two weeks.

not on purpose…at least, that’s what you tell yourself. it started innocently enough when midterms starts, three back-to-back exams in four days was hell. then the cold came, a scratchy throat turning into fever. you told yourself you’d catch up once the fog cleared but even after the fever broke, you didn’t go back.

a stupid group project drama piled on next. one groupmate ghosted entirely, another argued over every citation, and the third kept rewriting your sections without asking. you spent nights in the library staring at shared google docs, highlighter bleeding through pages you weren’t reading, mind drifting somewhere else entirely.

and underneath all of it was the real reason.

the humiliating, pulsing truth you couldn’t admit out loud even to yourself.

every time you pictured walking into that lecture hall, sliding into your usual seat, you felt his eyes on you again. the one he gave you that monday evening in his office when the door was locked and your knees were on carpet and his hand was fisted in your hair.

the memory played on cruel repeat, you could still taste him—still feel the stretch of your throat when he fucked it.

you tried to study criminal intent the way you always had: highlighters, flashcards, color-coded notes. but every time the mens rea slides appeared in your mind, you saw him at the podium instead. black marker in hand, diagramming voluntary manslaughter like it was nothing, his voice never failing to sound low and tired.

you imagined him turning to the board and writing your name in the margin next to “reckless disregard.” imagined him underlining “guilty mind” twice, then looking back at you over his shoulder with that unreadable stare.

your stomach would knot. your thighs would press together under whatever table you were hiding at. heat would crawl up your neck and settle low in your belly until you had to excuse yourself to the bathroom just to breathe.

so you skipped.

there’s no way you could focus anyway.

one lecture became two. two became four. by the sixth absence you were submitting everything online. you polished every pdfs attached to curt emails with subject lines like “week 7 reading response” and “torts ii problem set.” you were still doing the work. still getting As on the assignments he graded without comment. no one could say you weren’t keeping up.

but he noticed.

higuruma hiromi doesn’t chase students. he doesn’t send gentle “concerned professor” emails with smiley faces or pull anyone aside after class with a hand on the shoulder and a murmured “is everything alright?” he isn’t built that way. he marks absences in neat red ink on the roster. 

so you knew he’d seen it. knew because the last assignment you submitted came back with feedback that was longer than usual.

“strong analysis of actus reus, but your discussion of mens rea lacks depth. consider the subjective vs objective standard more carefully. office hours are still available if clarification is needed.” 

was that an invitation? you don’t know.

you deleted the email without replying. closed your laptop. buried your face in your pillow and tried not to think about how badly you wanted to walk into his office again.

instead you stayed away.

it’s a thursday evening and the sky is already dark by 5:30, rain hammering the campus like it’s trying to wash the whole place clean. you’re huddled under the inadequate bus shelter outside the law building. you opened your phone for the third time to check the ETA, the next bus kept getting pushed back.

your fingers are numb on the screen. the cold seeps through your hoodie, makes your teeth chatter in small, embarrassing bursts.

you keep thinking about how stupid this is—standing here freezing when you could have easily just stayed in your apartment with the heater on and another excuse not to face him.

you only came here cause you needed air.

you needed it because every time you close your eyes all you see is him.

the tired lines around his eyes that made him look older and sharper. the way his jaw tightened right before he told you to open your mouth. the low rasp in his voice when he said “that’s it” while he pushed deeper, like he was grading your ability to take him.

it's making you insane.

it makes your chest ache now. it’s not just want, you actually need him. shame mixed with this stupid, gnawing need to know if he thinks about it too. if he replays the way you looked up at him with tears in your eyes, or the sound you made when he finally let you breathe. you hate how much space he takes up in your head.

headlights cut through the downpour suddenly. a black sedan slows, pulls right up to the curb in front of the shelter. the passenger window slides down with a quiet hum.

“get in.”

his voice slices through the rain noise.

you stare for a second. higuruma is behind the wheel, his face is half-shadowed, but you can see the faint crease between his brows.

you hesitate.

“i’m not waiting,” he says. “the bus is delayed. you’ll be here another half hour at least.”

you feel your pulse jump in your throat. it’s really him, sitting there in the driver’s seat with the same rolled sleeves and the same tired expression you’ve been replaying for weeks. part of you wants to stay right where you are under the shelter and keep pretending none of this exists, because getting in the car means facing whatever this is head-on. but the cold is biting through your hoodie, your jeans are soaked at the bottom, and the thought of waiting out here alone while he drives away makes your chest tighten. you already know you’re going to regret it either way, but standing here freezing feels worse than whatever happens next.

your feet move before you decide. you duck out from under the shelter, yank the door open, slide inside. the door thuds shut and suddenly the world is muffled…everything else gone quiet except your own heartbeat thumping loud in your ears.

higuruma doesn’t look at you right away. just checks the mirrors, pulls away from the curb smooth and controlled.

silence stretches awkwardly for a few minutes.

“address,” he says finally.

you rattle off your off-campus place a few miles away. he nods while he inputs it into the gps without comment. the screen glows blue on the dash … then more silence. the wipers sweep steady as you steal glances at him, his hands on the wheel look steady, veins standing out against his skin. 

“six absences,” he says out of nowhere. “consistent, aren’t you?”

“i submitted everything on time.”

“i know.” he flicks the turn signal, merges left. “your work is fine. better than fine but you’re not in the room. that’s still a problem.”

you swallow, “i’ve been busy. you know midterms…group stuff, also got sick for a bit.”

“convenient timing.” he chuckles as heat floods your face. 

“it’s not like that.”

“isn’t it?” he glances over. “you avoid the lecture hall, avoid my eyes. but you still send polished assignments like nothing happened.”

“i didn’t know what else to do.”

“you could have come to office hours.” his tone is even, you almost hear boredom in it. “asked for clarification on mens rea like i suggested in the feedback. like a normal student.”

but that’s the thing, there’s nothing normal about this.

“i didn’t think you meant it,” you mumble.

“i don’t say things i don’t mean.”

the car fills with quiet again. 

“where do you live?” you ask suddenly, desperate to change the subject, to make this feel normal.

he raises an eyebrow. “why?”

“just curious. i mean you know where i live now.”

“apartment near the courthouse district. walking distance, it’s convenient.”

“do you… drive students home often?” 

“no.”

another turn, the surroundings are familiar now. your complex is coming up soon.

“you’ve been thinking about it,” he says. 

“about what?” you play dumb.

“monday.” he doesn’t elaborate, he doesn’t need to.

you press your thighs together, try to ignore the pulse between them. “yeah.”

“and?”

“and it’s hard to sit in class pretending it didn’t happen.”

he pulls into the loading zone in front of your building. you hear the engine idles, rain drums on the roof. he finally turns to look at you—like really look. eyes dark and unreadable, but you want to believe that there’s something under the tiredness. hunger, maybe. or just patience wearing thin.

“then stop pretending,” he says quietly.

you stare at him. 

“come inside,” you whisper. “just… to get out of the rain.”

he studies you for a long second. then reaches for the keys, kills the engine.

the sudden quiet is deafening.

he gets out first, circles around, opens your door like it’s nothing. you step out into the downpour again, colder now after the heater. he doesn’t offer an umbrella…he probably doesn’t have one. just waits while you fumble for your keys, both of you getting soaked in the short walk to the entrance.

inside the stairwell it’s warmer, but your clothes are heavy with rain and dripping onto the concrete steps. you lead the way up, feeling him right behind you—close enough that you can hear the soft squeak of his shoes on each stair, feel the faint heat coming off him even through the damp air. 

your hands shake a little when you unlock the door. it swings open into the small entryway, string lights from the living room spilling faint yellow across the floor.

you step inside first, kick off your soaked sneakers by the mat. he follows closing the door, he doesn’t take off his shoes right away, he stands there observing your place. he takes a mental note of it, looking at the stack of textbooks on the coffee table, the open laptop with his class portal still pulled up, the half-empty mug of tea.

you turn the lamp on higher, then head to the kitchenette to grab towels. anything to keep moving. “i’ll get something to dry off with,” you mutter, mostly to fill the quiet.

when you come back with two towels, he’s already peeled off his wet jacket and hung it over the back of a chair. his shirt is clinging in places—white fabric turned semi-transparent over his chest and shoulders, sleeves still rolled up, forearms flexing when he takes the towel from you. 

he dries his hair roughly, then his face, eyes never leaving yours.

you try to focus on drying your own arms, but your gaze keeps dropping to the way the wet shirt outlines the lines of his body—the faint definition of muscle under the fabric, the dark trail of hair visible through the damp material where it sticks to his stomach. your mouth goes dry. you remember exactly how that skin felt under your palms last time, how his abs tensed when you swallowed around him.

he notices it. 

“you’re still shivering,” he says, voice low. he steps closer, takes the towel from your hands, and starts drying your hair himself. fingers brushing your scalp through the fabric. it’s so gentle that you froze.

“take the hoodie off,” he says after a moment.

your fingers fumble with the hem. the wet fabric peels away from your skin with a cold suck, leaving you in just your thin t-shirt and bra underneath. the shirt is clinging too, nipples hard from the chill and from him watching. you cross your arms instinctively.

he drops the towel on the floor. reaches out, hooks two fingers under the hem of your t-shirt, and tugs it up slowly. you lift your arms without thinking. the shirt comes off, lands somewhere behind you. his eyes drop to your chest, then back to your face.

“still cold?” he asks.

you shake your head. you’re burning now.

he steps in until your back hits the wall by the entryway. one hand plants beside your head, the other slides down your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through the bra making you inhale sharply.

“tell me to stop,” he says quietly.

you don’t.

you don’t want him to stop.

his mouth finds yours—harder than the first time he kissed you in your memory. there’s no buildup, just pure hunger. his tongue pushes in immediately and you moan into it, hands scrambling up his wet shirt, fingers digging into the fabric over his chest. he groans low against your lips, presses his hips forward so you feel how hard he already is through his slacks.

your fingers curl into the wet cotton of his shirt, pulling him closer even though there’s already no space left between you.

he breaks the kiss first, just enough to speak against your lips. “kitchen counter now.”

you nod, legs shaky as you lead him the few steps into the narrow kitchenette. he doesn’t give you time to think. his hands find your waist, lift you onto the counter in one smooth motion like you weigh nothing. the cold granite bites into the backs of your thighs through your damp jeans. you gasp at the temperature difference.

“these need to come off,” he mutters, fingers already working the button of your jeans. you lift your hips when he tugs, helping him peel the soaked denim down your legs along with your underwear. 

you’re bare from the waist down now, legs dangling off the edge, thighs trembling slightly from the chill and anticipation. his eyes tracing the curve of your hips, the soft skin of your inner thighs, the way you’re already glistening for him.

“spread wider,” he says.

his palms slide up the insides of your thighs, thumbs brushing close but not quite touching where you want him most. you desperately shift forward, chasing his hands; he presses one palm flat to your lower stomach, holding you still.

“patience,” he murmurs. “you’ve been avoiding me for two weeks. you can wait a little longer.”

“hey i told you i wasn’t–”

“ah yes, right… you were busy, right pretty?”

his thumb finally grazes your clit and your hips jerk. he does it again, slower, watching your face the whole time. your breath comes in short pants. he circles then collects wetness on his fingers before bringing them back up to rub slowly.

“you’re soaked,” he continues, “been like this the whole ride?”

“since you pulled up,” you admit, which makes him hum in approval. two fingers slide inside you without warning, stretching you open. you moan, head tipping back against the cabinets.

“look at me,” he says.

you force your eyes open. his expression is focused, almost clinical, but his pupils are blown wide and there’s a flush high on his cheekbones. 

he’s affected too.

he adds a third finger, stretching you further. the slight burn only makes it better. 

“good,” he mutters. “just like that.”

his free hand comes up to cup the back of your neck, pulling you into another kiss. his tongue fucking into your mouth in time with his fingers. you’re rocking against his hand now, chasing the pressure, little whimpers escaping between kisses.

“mhm…so good.”

he pulls his fingers out right when you’re teetering on the edge which you whine in protest.

“not yet,” he says against your mouth. “want you to come on my tongue first.”

he drops to his knees between your spread legs. the sight of him there, kneeling on your kitchen floor, hair damp and messy from the rain—it does so much things to you. he hooks your legs over his shoulders, hands gripping your thighs to hold you open.

he doesn’t tease this time. just leans in and licks a long, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit. you cry out, hands flying to his hair. you feel him groan against you. his tongue is relentless, pointed flicks over your clit, then sucking it between his lips. he alternates, never letting you settle into one sensation long enough to predict it.

“hiromi—” his name comes out broken.

he pulls back just enough to speak. “you can go louder, right? wanna to hear it.”

“hiromi,” you moan again, louder this time. he rewards you by sucking hard on your clit while two fingers slide back inside, curling ruthlessly against that spot.

you’re dangerously close. your thighs start to shake around his head. he doesn’t let up, he keeps the same steady rhythm, tongue and fingers working in perfect tandem.

“come,” he orders, voice muffled against you. “now.”

your whole body tensing as you come apart on his tongue. you cry out his name, fingers tightening in his hair, hips grinding against his face. he doesn’t stop until you’re whimpering from overstimulation.

he finally pulls back, his lips and chin all shiny. he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, stands slowly. his erection is straining against his slacks now.

it’s obvious and thick.

you reach for his belt with shaky hands. he lets you undo it, lets you push his slacks and boxers down just enough to free him. he’s heavy in your hand, hot and hard, precum beading at the tip. you start to stroke him making him hiss through his teeth.

“enough,” he says, catching your wrist. “want inside you.”

he lifts you off the counter, hands under your thighs again. he turns, carries you a few steps into the living room, and drops down onto the couch with you straddling his lap. the cushions sink under your combined weight. 

his cock is still hard, pressed up against your stomach now. he lifts you just enough to line himself up. you feel the blunt head nudge at your entrance…thick and insistent.

“relax,” he says, “breathe, won’t you? let me in.”

you try. you really do. but the stretch is already intense just from the tip pressing in, and your body tenses instinctively. you bite your lip, hands braced on his shoulders.

“i’m trying…” you mutter, half-laugh, half-whine. “...you’re big.”

he huffs a quiet laugh against your collarbone, the sound rough and amused. “i know but you took it fine with your mouth before, this should be easier. just relax those hips for me.”

his thumbs rub slow circles over your hipbones, coaxing. you exhale shakily, try to loosen up, but when he starts pushing in harder.

your breath hitches and your nails dig into his shoulders.

“easy,” he murmurs. “why’re you fighting me?”

“hey i-im trying,” you repeat pouting. “but y-you’re stretching me so much.”

he pauses halfway in, lets you adjust. his hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts, then back down to your ass. he squeezes gently, spreads you a little more.

“there you go,” he says. “good girl. feel that? you’re opening up for me already.”

you can feel every inch of him...too thick and hot, it burns in the best way, that full, almost-too-much pressure that makes your thighs shake. inside, he feels heavy like he’s pressing right up against every sensitive spot at once. 

“fuck,” he mutters, forehead dropping to your shoulder for a second. “you feel—shit…so tight. like you’re trying to keep me out and pull me in at the same time.”

you both groan at the same time when he pushes all the way inside.

“you okay?” he asks, one hand to come up to brush damp hair off your forehead.

“yeah,” you whisper. “just really full. you feel huge like this.”

“good,” he says. “you want me to move?”

you nod fast, breath coming in short bursts. “yes please.”

“then tell me properly. use your words. what do you want, hm?”

you swallow feeling slightly embarrassed. he’s looking right at you, eyes half-lidded but sharp, waiting. 

“i want you to fuck me,” you mumble.

he tilts his head, one eyebrow lifting. “that’s cute but i said properly baby.”

your thighs twitch around his hips. he’s still buried all the way inside, the fullness is driving you insane. you can feel every vein, every slight shift when he breathes.

“hiromi…” you whine, rocking your hips a little.

he tightens his grip, holding you still. “nuh-uh. no cheating. say it like you mean it. you’ve been hiding from me for two weeks—least you can do is ask nicely.”

you bite your lip, embarrassment and need twisting together until it hurts. “i want you to fuck me hard,” you say, louder this time, “pleasee…i-i need it.”

he smirks again, feeling satisfied. the corner of his mouth tilting up just enough to show he likes hearing you beg.

“there we go,” he says quietly, “that wasn’t hard, was it?” his hands slide to your ass, fingers digging in as he lifts you a couple inches, then drops you back down hard onto his cock. the sudden thrust makes you yelp.

“o-oh hiromi-"

he doesn’t let you catch your breath. starts fucking up into you. each thrust is deep enough to make your whole body jolt while the couch groans under you both, springs protesting every time he bottoms out.

“does this turn you on?” he asks, “fucking your professor on your shitty little couch? hm?”

you moan louder than you mean to, head tipping back,

“thought so.” he thrusts harder, one hand sliding up to grip the back of your neck, keeping your face close to his. “been skipping my class, sending me perfect little assignments like nothing’s wrong, but every time you typed my name you were probably dripping thinking about this. about me splitting you open just like this.”

you can only moan in return too gone to comprehend what he’s saying. he curses under his breath when he feels you clench, pace turning rougher. the wet slap of skin on skin is loud in the quiet apartment, mixing with your gasps and his heavy breathing.

“look at you,” he mutters, eyes locked on where you’re taking him. “taking it so well. my good little student, finally getting what she’s been aching for.”

he shifts his angle slightly, tilting his hips so every thrust drags right against that spot inside you. your eyes flutter shut, mouth falling open on a broken moan.

his face is flushed, hair falling into his eyes, jaw tight with restraint. but he’s watching you like he’s memorizing every twitch. like this won’t happen again.

“tell me,” he says, voice dropping lower. “tell me whose cock is making you feel this good right now.”

“yours,” you gasp. “ah hiromi’s! only yours—”

he rewards you with a particularly deep grind, rolling his hips so the base presses hard against your clit. “that’s right,” he murmurs. “and you’re gonna come on it again. gonna soak my lap like the needy little slut you are for me.”

his hand slips between you, fingers finding your clit, rubbing fast, firm circles that match the brutal rhythm of his hips. your stomach tightens, thighs trembling uncontrollably.

“puh...please i’m close.”

“i know,” he says, voice strained now. “can feel you fluttering around me. go on come. make a mess…it’s yours anyway.”

it hits fast and hard. your whole body locks up, back arching, cry ripping out of your throat as you come apart.

“fuck—good girl—fuck—”

he keeps fucking you through it, drawing it out until you’re shaking, until his thrusts turn sloppy. 

“where do you want it?”

“inside,” you gasp immediately. “please inside.”

that’s all it takes. he grinds deep as he comes, filling you up. he groans long and low against your neck, arms wrapping tight around your waist, holding you down on him while he rides it out.

for a long minute neither of you moves. all heavy breathing, sticky skin, the faint patter of rain still outside. you can feel him softening slowly.

he kisses your shoulder, then your jaw, then the corner of your mouth.

“you good?” he asks quietly.

you nod against his chest, still catching your breath. “yeah. really good.”

he huffs a small laugh, hand stroking slow down your back. “what do you wanna do?”

you’re still straddling him. the living room smells like rain and sex. your forehead is pressed to his shoulder.

“stay,” you mumble into his neck. “stay like this a little longer.”

his fingers keep tracing lazy lines up and down your spine, from the nape of your neck all the way to the small of your back, then back up again. it’s soothing in a way that makes your eyelids heavy.

his gaze drifts past your shoulder, landing on the open laptop still glowing faintly on the coffee table. the screen’s dimmed but not off since his class portal is still pulled up from earlier.

“this where you took one of the photos?” he asks casually.

your stomach drops and flips at the same time. heat rushes back to your face so fast it makes you dizzy.

“what?” you whisper, even though you know exactly what he means.

he nods toward the couch. “right here on this cushion. ass up, looking back over your shoulder. the third one you sent. background looked familiar, same string lights in the corner, same throw blanket bunched up like that.” his hand pats the cushion beside you. “thought it might’ve been the bedroom at first but no kitchen light’s wrong for that angle. had to be here.”

you bury your face deeper into his neck, mortified. “hiromi…”

“what?” he sounds genuinely amused now, the low rumble vibrating through his chest. “you’re the one who attached it to an entrapment analysis. i had to look closely.”

you groan, half-laugh half-embarrassed whimper. “i didn’t mean for you to—i mean, i didn’t plan—”

“sure,” he cuts in gently, fingers sliding into your hair, scratching lightly at your scalp. “but you didn’t delete it either.”

you lift your head just enough to peek at him.

“you kept them?” you ask quietly.

he doesn’t hesitate. “yeah, all three. printed them out, remember? filed them under ‘supplemental materials.’” he pauses, thumb brushing your cheek. “don't get me wrong, it's not for grading, it's more for...reference...?"

“reference for what?”

“for nights when i’m grading papers at 2 a.m. and wondering why a certain student keeps disappearing from my lecture hall.” he continues, “or for when i need to remember exactly how you looked when you were trying to tempt me into breaking every rule in the faculty handbook.”

“and… did it work?”

he looks at you for a long second, then leans in and kisses you, a simple one. when he pulls back his forehead rests against yours.

“obviously,” he mutters. “look where we are.”

“shower soon,” he says again. “then bed. and tomorrow—”

“i’ll be in class,” you finish for him.

“get a better seat,” he adds. “where i can see you properly.”

you smile into his skin. “yes, professor.”

“brat.”

* *ੈ✩‧₊˚ *✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ: *ੈ✩‧₊˚ *✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ: *ੈ✩‧₊˚ *✧

✰ ft. choso, kento, suguru, satoru & megumi

note: Happy Mother’s to all my mother followers!! You are so so loved and appreciated by me especially as a daughter of a single parent (mom) household! Enjoy txts between your kid and jjk husband as a gift from me🤍💐

warnings: fluff, cursing, f!reader

I BLOCK MINORS & AGELESS BLOGS || MDNI

𝜗𝜚: choso, kento, satoru, toji, sukuna

note: as the title implies ! you are an insecure curvy/fuller reader and you share your insecure thoughts with the men ! also don’t mind the horrible attempt at sukuna but I included him (and Toji) bc i feel like they go feral for curvy women. (same tho). also, after a baby!reader on choso🫰🏽

warnings: body dysmorphia?, weight/size discussions, suggestive, sexual, f!reader, curvy!reader, pregnant!reader

I BLOCK MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS