#nanamikento

nanami x fem!reader

content: 18+, MDNI, explicit language, explicit smut

a/n: when I tell you I was SICK when I realized I haven't posted my gorgeous, wonderful, amazing, sexy, husband. Please accept this as my formal apology, I've been so wrapped up in my jjk college au fic (it starts with reader x nanami hehe) that it slipped my mind to post something for him :'(((

art by ada

. ✦ ݁ ˖ SUMMARY - Nanami doesn’t mind spending money on you—in fact, he likes it. Every impulsive purchase, every designer bag, every “just because” swipe of his card reminds him exactly who you belong to. You call it spoiling; he calls it investment. As long as you’re wearing his taste, living in his world, and coming back to him at the end of the day, he’ll keep the card unlimited—and you even more so.

CW: explicit sexual content, sugar daddy dynamic, age gap (reader is 20s, Nanami is late 30s), size kink, financial domination, brat taming, rough sex, degradation, praise kink, breeding kink undertones, creampie, possessive behavior, daddy kink, unprotected sex, overstimulation

The notification makes your phone buzz against the marble countertop of the Chanel boutique.

N.K: Did you find something you like?

You glance down at the three shopping bags already at your feet—Hermès, Cartier, Louis Vuitton—then back at the sales associate who's carefully wrapping the black quilted handbag you'd been eyeing.

Maybe 👀

N.K: Maybe isn't an answer, sweetheart.

Fine. Yes. I found several things.

N.K: Good girl. Don't hold back. That's what the card is for.

You bite your lip, heat pooling low in your stomach at those two words. Good girl. He knows exactly what that does to you.

The sales associate hands you the bag with a practiced smile. "Will there be anything else, Miss?"

You glance at the display of jewelry near the register—delicate chains, diamond pendants, things that cost more than most people's monthly rent.

There might be one more thing...

N.K: Stop teasing and buy it.

You don't even know what it is.

N.K: I don't need to. If you want it, it's yours. Everything is yours.

Your stomach flips. Three months. You've been doing this thing with Nanami Kento for three months, and you still haven't gotten used to it—the casual way he spends money on you, the platinum card he'd given you with your name embossed on it, the way he seems to get off on seeing you dripping in things he's bought you.

You'd met him at a gallery opening. You'd been there for your art history class, trying to get extra credit. He'd been there because he apparently collected pieces from emerging artists. When he'd approached you, asked your opinion on a particular sculpture, you'd been honest—told him you thought it was pretentious trash trying too hard to be profound.

He'd laughed. Actually laughed. Then asked if you wanted to get coffee and critique the rest of the gallery with him.

One coffee turned into dinner. Dinner turned into drinks. Drinks turned into him asking, very directly, if you'd be interested in an arrangement.

"I'm not looking for a relationship," he'd said, his voice smooth and direct in that way you'd come to learn was just how he operated. "I'm too busy for the complications. But I am looking for companionship. Someone intelligent, beautiful, who isn't afraid to speak their mind. Someone I can spoil."

You should've said no. Should've been insulted, maybe. But there was something about him—the sharp cut of his jaw, the way his expensive suit fit perfectly, the tired edge to his eyes that spoke of long hours and too much stress. The way he looked at you like he was already imagining all the ways he could take care of you.

"Spoil how?" you'd asked.

"However you want. Clothes, jewelry, shoes, bags. Tuition, if you need it. Rent. A nicer apartment. A car." He'd leaned forward. "Anything you want, it's yours. All I ask is that you make time for me. Dinner a few times a week. Events when I need a date. And—" His eyes had darkened. "—other things, if you're interested."

You'd been interested.

Very interested.

Now, standing in Chanel with four shopping bags and counting, you select a delicate gold necklace with a small diamond pendant.

"This one too," you tell the associate.

Okay I'm done. For now.

N.K: For now?

I haven't hit Prada yet 😇

N.K: Brat.

N.K: My driver will pick you up at 7. Wear something I bought you.

Which thing? You've bought me like 50 things.

N.K: Surprise me. But make it easy to take off.

Bossy.

N.K: You like it when I'm bossy.

You do. God, you really do.

7:00 PM - Nanami's Penthouse

The driver drops you off at the building—all glass and steel and obscene wealth in the heart of the city. The doorman knows you by name now, just waves you through to the private elevator that goes straight to the penthouse.

You're wearing the black silk dress he'd bought you last week—Valentino, ridiculously expensive, and it fits like it was made for you. It probably was; he'd had them take your measurements. The new Cartier necklace sits delicate against your collarbone, and you're carrying the Hermès bag from today.

The evidence of his money is all over you, and you know exactly what that's going to do to him.

The elevator opens directly into his apartment—minimalist, modern, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. And there he is, standing by the windows with a glass of whiskey, still in his work clothes. Suit jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tie loosened.

He's 38 but could pass for younger if not for the silver threading through his blonde hair, the tired set to his shoulders that speaks of too many late nights at the office. He's handsome in that refined, elegant way—sharp features, strong jaw, eyes that miss nothing.

Those eyes drag over you now, slow and assessing, and you watch his grip tighten on his glass.

"Well?" You do a slow turn, letting him see the whole outfit. "Do I pass inspection?"

"Come here," he says, voice already rough.

You cross to him, heels clicking on the hardwood, and stop just out of reach. "Is that any way to greet me? I spent all day shopping for you."

"For me?" His eyebrow raises. "I thought you were shopping for yourself."

"Same thing, isn't it? You get off on it either way."

His eyes flash. "Careful."

"Or what?" You step closer, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. Even in heels, he's taller—6'0" to your 5'4", and the size difference does something to both of you. "You'll stop giving me your credit card? We both know you won't."

"No," he agrees, setting down his glass. His hand comes up to the necklace, fingers trailing over the delicate chain. "I won't. Do you know why?"

"Because you like seeing me in expensive things?"

"Because I like seeing you in things I've bought you." His fingers trace lower, skimming your collarbone. "I like everyone knowing that someone takes care of you. That you're mine to spoil. That every time someone compliments this necklace or that bag, you'll think of me."

Your breath hitches. "Possessive."

"Extremely." His hand slides to your waist, pulling you flush against him. You can already feel him hard against your stomach. "How much did you spend today?"

"I don't know. A lot?"

"Sweetheart." His tone is warning. "How much?"

You pull out your phone, checking the notifications from his card. "Um. Around... forty thousand?"

The noise he makes is almost pained. His hand tightens on your waist. "Forty thousand dollars."

"You said not to hold back!" You're trying to sound defensive but it comes out breathy because his other hand is sliding up your thigh, bunching the silk of your dress.

"I did say that." His fingers find the edge of your underwear—La Perla, also his money. "And you listened so well. Such a good girl, spending my money. Did it feel good?"

"Yes," you admit.

"Did you think about me?" His fingers slip beneath the lace. "Every time you handed over that card with my name on it, did you think about what I'd do to you later?"

"Yes—" It comes out as a gasp because his fingers are sliding through your wetness.

"You're soaked." He sounds pleased and dark. "Does spending my money turn you on? Does being my perfect little spoiled brat make this pretty pussy wet?"

"Fuck—yes—"

"Yes what?" His fingers circle your clit, not enough pressure to satisfy.

"Yes, Daddy," you breathe, and feel him twitch against you.

That word. You'd discovered by accident that he likes it—loves it, actually. Likes the way it sounds in your mouth, likes the dynamic it implies. Likes being the older man who takes care of you in every way.

"That's better." He pulls his fingers away and you whimper at the loss. "Bedroom. Now. And take off the dress slowly. I want to see everything I paid for."

You walk to the bedroom—all black sheets and modern furniture and windows that overlook the glittering city. You can see your reflection in them, see him following behind you, predatory and patient.

You reach for the zipper of your dress.

"Slower," he commands, sitting on the edge of the bed. "I've been thinking about this all day. Don't rush it."

You slow down, drawing out the zip, letting the dress slip off your shoulders inch by inch. You're wearing the full set he'd bought you—black lace bra and panties, La Perla, ridiculously expensive and completely impractical.

"The bra too," he says, eyes dark.

You unclasp it, let it fall. His gaze drops to your breasts, heavy and appreciative.

"Perfect." He crooks a finger. "Come here."

You cross to him and he pulls you between his spread legs, hands spanning your waist. His thumbs brush the undersides of your breasts.

"Do you have any idea what you do to me?" he asks quietly. "Walking around in things I've bought you, spending my money without hesitation, trusting me to take care of you?"

"Tell me," you challenge.

Instead of answering, he pulls you down onto his lap, and the height difference is even more pronounced like this—you feel small, delicate, completely overwhelmed by him. His hands slide to your ass, gripping hard enough to make you gasp.

"It makes me want to fuck you until you can't remember your own name," he says against your neck. "Makes me want to mark you up so everyone knows you're taken. Makes me want to fill you up and send you out into the world dripping with my cum and covered in my diamonds."

"Then do it," you breathe.

His control snaps.

He flips you onto the bed, covers your body with his, and his mouth is on yours—demanding, consuming. His hands are everywhere, relearning your body, and you're already pulling at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin.

He pulls back just long enough to strip—shirt, belt, pants, boxer briefs—and then he's back, naked and hard and perfect. He's built lean and strong under those expensive suits, with subtle muscle that speaks of disciplined gym sessions and good genetics.

And his cock—fuck, his cock. Long and thick, the kind of size that takes preparation, that makes you feel full and stretched and perfectly used.

"Look at you," he murmurs, hands sliding up your thighs, spreading them wide. "Look at this pretty pussy. Already so wet for me. Did you touch yourself thinking about me today?"

"Maybe," you hedge.

His hand comes down on your inner thigh—not hard, but sharp enough to make you gasp. "Don't lie to me, sweetheart. Did you touch yourself?"

"Yes!" you admit. "In the dressing room at Hermès, I—I couldn't help it—"

"Fuck." He groans, fingers sliding through your wetness. "You're going to kill me. My perfect little slut, getting herself off in a dressing room while spending my money."

He pushes two fingers inside you and you arch off the bed. He's always been good with his hands—patient, methodical, the same precision he applies to everything else in his life.

"Still so tight," he observes, working his fingers deeper. "How are you going to take my cock, sweetheart? How are you going to fit all of me in this tight little cunt?"

"I always do," you gasp out.

"Yes, you do." He adds a third finger and the stretch makes you whimper. "You take me so well. Take everything I give you. My money, my cock, my cum. Such a good girl for Daddy."

"Please—" You're already close, can feel it building. "Please, I need—"

"What do you need?" He curls his fingers, hitting that spot that makes you see stars. "Use your words."

"Your cock—please—need you inside me—"

"Not yet." He pulls his fingers out and you nearly sob. "First, you're going to come on my tongue."

He shifts down your body and his mouth is on you before you can process. His tongue works your clit while his fingers push back inside, and the combination is devastating.

"Oh god—Daddy—fuck—"

He's relentless, methodical, working you up with the same focused intensity he applies to everything. When you come, it's hard and sudden, your thighs clamping around his head as you cry out.

He works you through it, only pulling back when you're pushing at his head, oversensitive.

"Good girl," he praises, crawling back up your body. "So pretty when you come. Now—" He lines himself up, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. "—are you ready for me?"

"Yes—please—"

He pushes in slowly, and even prepared, the stretch is intense. He's so big, so thick, and you feel every inch as he works himself deeper.

"Breathe," he instructs, one hand on your hip, the other braced beside your head. "That's it. Take it. Take Daddy's cock like the good girl you are."

"So big—" You're babbling now. "So full—"

"I know." He bottoms out and pauses, giving you time to adjust. "But you can take it. You always take it so well. My perfect girl with her perfect tight pussy."

He starts moving—slow, deep strokes that have you feeling every inch of him. One of his hands finds yours, pinning it beside your head, fingers threading through yours. The intimacy of it contrasts with the filthy slide of his cock inside you.

"Fuck, you feel good," he groans. "So tight. So wet. All for me. My spoiled little brat with my cock inside her."

"Yours—" You clench around him deliberately and he curses. "All yours—"

"That's right." His pace picks up, harder now, the headboard starting to hit the wall. "Mine. Mine to spoil. Mine to fuck. Mine to fill up."

His hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit, and the added stimulation makes you cry out.

"You're going to come again," he says, not a question. "Going to come on my cock while I fill you up. Going to be such a good girl for Daddy."

"Yes—please—so close—"

"What do you need?" His thumb circles your clit faster. "Tell Daddy what you need."

"Harder—" You're shameless now, desperate. "Fuck me harder—want to feel it tomorrow—"

Something dark flashes in his eyes. He pulls out completely, flips you over onto your hands and knees, and slams back in. The new angle has him impossibly deeper, and you nearly scream.

"Like this?" He grips your hips hard enough to bruise, setting a brutal pace. "This what you need? Need Daddy to fuck you hard? Remind you who you belong to?"

"Yes—fuck—yes—"

One hand leaves your hip, sliding up your spine to grip your hair, pulling your head back. The arch it creates has him hitting that perfect spot with every thrust.

"Look." He turns your head toward the windows, where you can see your reflection—him behind you, so much bigger, covering you completely. "Look at how well you take me. Look at how perfect you look getting fucked."

You can see it—the way his cock disappears inside you, the way your body rocks with each thrust, the way his hand looks spanning your waist. The size difference is even more obvious like this.

"So small," he mutters, almost to himself. "So fucking small compared to me. How do you even fit all of me? How does this tight little pussy take my cock so perfectly?"

"Made for you—" You're incoherent now. "Made for Daddy's cock—"

"Fuck—" His rhythm stutters. "You can't say things like that—"

"Why not?" You push back against him, meeting his thrusts. "It's true—love your cock—love how big you are—love that I'm the only one who gets to have you like this—"

His hand slides from your hair to your throat—not squeezing, just holding, possessive. "You are. The only one. Haven't touched anyone else since I met you. Don't want anyone else. Just you. Just my perfect spoiled girl."

"Gonna come—" You can feel it building again. "Daddy, please—"

His other hand slides around to your clit. "Come for me. Come on my cock. Show me who this pussy belongs to."

You shatter, clenching around him so hard he groans. He fucks you through it, chasing his own release, and when you hear him start to pull out—

"Inside," you gasp. "Want it inside—want you to fill me up—"

"Fuck—you sure—"

"Yes—please—need to feel it—"

He buries himself deep and comes with a groan of your name, and you can feel him pulsing, filling you, marking you from the inside. He grinds deeper, making sure every drop stays inside, before finally stilling.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. Just breathing hard, sweat-slicked, trembling.

Then he carefully pulls out, and you feel his cum start to leak out immediately. His fingers push it back in, possessive and deliberate.

"Mine," he mutters. "All of this is mine."

He helps you lie down properly, then disappears into the bathroom. Returns with a warm washcloth and cleans you up with gentle efficiency that makes your heart ache.

"You okay?" he asks softly, lying beside you and pulling you into his arms.

"More than okay." You settle against his chest. "That was..."

"I know." His fingers trace patterns on your shoulder. "You drive me insane, you know that? Walking around in things I've bought you, spending my money like it's nothing, looking at me with those eyes like you know exactly what it does to me."

"I do know," you admit. "That's why I do it."

He laughs, the sound rumbling in his chest. "Brat."

"Your brat."

"Yes." He presses a kiss to your forehead. "My brat. My spoiled, perfect, expensive brat."

You tilt your head up to look at him. "So... about that Prada store..."

His eyes darken again, and you feel him twitch against your thigh. "You're going to be the death of me."

"But what a way to go."

He kisses you, slow and deep and possessive. "Go tomorrow. Buy whatever you want. Then come back here and model it for me."

"All of it?"

"All of it." His hand slides down your side. "And then I'll fuck you in every piece until you can't remember which designer is which."

"Is that a promise?"

"It's a guarantee." He rolls on top of you, already hard again. "But first, I'm not done with you yet."

"Again?" You're already breathless. "You're 38, how do you—"

"What can I say?" He grins, and it's the most relaxed you've ever seen him. "You're very inspiring. Now be a good girl and spread your legs. Daddy's not finished spoiling you yet."

And as he pushes inside you again, as you wrap your legs around his waist and let him take you apart piece by piece, you think that maybe this arrangement is the best investment either of you has ever made.

The Next Morning

You wake up to a notification on your phone.

BANK ALERT: $100,000 deposited into your account.

Below it, a text from Nanami:

N.K: For Prada. And whatever else catches your eye.

N.K: Don't hold back.

N.K: I want to see every purchase when you come over tonight.

You bite your lip, already planning your shopping route.

You're insatiable.

N.K: Only for you, sweetheart.

N.K: Now go spend my money like a good girl. I'll be thinking about you all day.

You definitely could get used to this.