tayswriting

Kento Nanami has rules. You have a skirt, a filthy mouth, and zero intention of letting him keep them. He never stood a chance.

cw: NSFW. Age gap, older bf!nanami x university student!reader, Daddy kink, Sir kink, scolding, discipline, authority kink, bratty reader, hypersexual reader, obsessive reader, a bit manipulative reader, Soft Dom Nanami, Nanami tries to resist, dirty talk, mating press, creampie, rough sex, breeding kink, aftercare, established relationship.

cr: @ilameys

The fluorescent hum of the office ceased to exist for Kento Nanami the moment he stepped past his front door.

Arms wound tightly around his waist before he could even close it. Your face pressed into the crisp cotton of his shirt, breathing him in like you had been starving for his scent all day. He exhaled—a slow release of the rigid professionalism that had governed every movement for the past nine hours.

In the corporate world he was a model of predictable efficiency: precise, organised, impeccable. Here, in the dim quiet of the apartment, that composure was already being dismantled by the woman currently clinging to him like he was the only solid thing left in the world.

“You’re late,” you murmured against his chest, and he already knew you were pouting.

“Management required an unexpected audit, sweetheart.” His voice was low and gravelly, the baritone vibrating against your cheek. 

While he shifted his weight to close the heavy oak door, your hands slid up to the lapels of his suit jacket and pushed it back off his shoulders. The heavy fabric slid down his arms and fell somewhere behind him with a soft thud. He locked the door, then finally settled his hands firmly on your hips.

Even through the thin fabric of his shirt on your body, he could feel the nervous, electric heat radiating from you. You were vibrating with that relentless, consuming energy he had come to know too well: a constant hum of hyperfixation and physical hunger you made no effort to conceal. 

You tilted your head back, still clinging to him. Dark eyes glittering with that familiar, predatory intensity that always made something catch in his throat. There was no patience in your gaze. No gentle transition into domestic evening quiet. Only the sharp hunger of a girl who had spent the entire day waiting for this exact moment.

You rose on your tiptoes, lips brushing his jawline, tasting the skin there. 

“I’ve spent the whole morning staring at the clock,” you said softly, “thinking about the exact angle of your shoulders under this jacket. About how the fabric of your shirt stretches when you move. About you coming home and me putting my mouth on you before you even take your shoes off.”

A flicker of warning crossed his expression—the quiet, rational voice of an older man who still understood propriety, who still valued boundaries and discretion even when his body was already answering yours.

“And your classes?” he asked, moving one hand to stroke his thumb slowly along the small of your back. “I trust the lecture on macroeconomic theory kept your attention better than the clock.”

“Barely.” You laughed, a breathless sound that hitched when his fingers pressed just a fraction deeper. You rose higher onto your toes, the short plaid skirt riding up against bare thighs. “I sat in the first row imagining what you’d look like if I unbuttoned your shirt right there in the lecture hall. Everyone would stare. They’d know you belong to me.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose.

“That is precisely the kind of thought that needs correcting,” he said, voice still even, still measured. “You are not in a lecture hall to fantasise about stripping me in public. You are there to learn. And I am not a prize you get to claim in front of an audience.”

You weren’t simply attracted to him. You consumed him. Every hour spent apart seemed to act as fuel for an engine that ran exclusively on your obsession with his touch, his voice, the clean scent that followed him everywhere. He had given you the key months ago. He still remembered the look on your face when he placed it in your palm—like it was proof that this was real. That Kento Nanami, the composed man who left for the office in a perfectly pressed suit every weekday, had decided you belonged here enough to come and go as you pleased.

His cologne lingered in the bedroom. His shirts hung in the closet in neat rows. The spare toothbrush he bought for you sat in the holder beside his. Every detail of the apartment whispered his, and that was enough to keep you restless, thighs pressed together under the table while you pretended to focus on your economy project staring back at you from the laptop.

He looked down at the open notebook on the coffee table, the scattered highlighters, the document about your project still open. Then his eyes moved over you once—open collar of his shirt, short skirt, the flush still high on your cheeks.

“You’re not wearing anything underneath, are you? You were studying like this?”

Heat flooded your face, but you didn’t look away. “I got distracted.”

He said your name then—low, measured, like he was already calculating how much restraint he had left. The sound of it did something sharp and immediate to your stomach. You just wanted to press your face into his chest and breathe him in until the ache between your legs quieted.

“I tried,” you said, sliding your hands to the back of his head, stroking the soft blond strands.

His hand rose, hesitating for half a second before settling at the side of your neck. His thumb brushed the hinge of your jaw. Warm. Steady. 

“You’re young,” he said quietly. “I understand that the intensity feels… necessary right now. Hormones. Age. The way everything still runs hotter and faster for you.” His eyes searched yours, serious, almost tired. “But spending an entire day working yourself into this state isn’t healthy. You need boundaries, especially with me. Especially when I get home and you are already like this—wet, distracted, and already half-undressed in my clothes.”

Your hands slid down from his hair and found the knot of his tie. You loosened it slowly, deliberately, then pulled it free and let it drop to the floor.

“Are you listening to me?”

You leaned into his palm, bratty and soft at the same time. “I know you’re right. You’re always right.” Your fingers moved to the front of his shirt, tugging it free from his trousers first, then starting on the buttons one by one. “But I don’t want boundaries when it comes to you. I want you. All day. Every day. I sat here imagining you at your desk—all serious and focused, glasses on, that little frown you get when the numbers don’t line up—and it made me so wet I could barely sit still. Is that what you mean by needing limits?”

Something flickered behind his expression—heat, restraint, the constant private war he fought with himself whenever you pushed like this. He was older. Responsible. The kind of man who planned his week in advance and ironed his shirts on Sunday evenings. You were the variable he hadn’t accounted for, the one who showed up in his carefully ordered life and refused to be anything less than consuming.

“Yes,” he said. “You feel everything so sharply still. And I—” He stopped, jaw tightening. “I should be the one slowing this down. Not encouraging it. I will not take advantage of how completely you want me simply because it flatters the part of me that likes being wanted this completely.”

You rose onto your toes again and brushed your mouth against the corner of his. Soft, testing.

“But you like it,” you whispered. “You like that I’m like this for you. That no one else gets me this desperate. That the age difference makes it feel a little forbidden even though we’re both adults and no one can tell us no. You gave me the key, daddy. You knew exactly what you were letting into your quiet little life.”

He exhaled through his nose once again, the sound almost tired.

“Listen to me,” he said, more firmly this time, even as your palms moved slowly over his stomach. “This is not a game where you win by wearing me down. I am trying to teach you something. Desire is fine. Obsession without self-control is not. You cannot spend every free hour in a state of arousal and then expect me to simply… indulge it the second I walk through the door.”

Your hands traced the hard lines of his abs. You rose onto your toes again and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the side of his neck, right above the collar, tasting the faint salt of a long day and the clean edge of his cologne.

His hands tightened on your hips.

“I know what you’re doing,” he continued, voice lower now, though he still hadn’t pushed you away. “You listen just enough to keep me talking while you touch me. You use that mouth and those hands and that skirt to make the conversation harder. Part of you gets wet precisely because I keep trying to hold it.”

Another kiss, higher this time, just under his jaw. Your teeth grazed lightly.

He was right. It wasn’t just that he was older. It was that he knew he was older. He stood here and tried to speak all rational. And you loved it. You liked the resistance, the scolding. You were waiting for the moment he finally stopped being careful.

You made a soft, affirmative sound against his throat, fingers still moving slowly over his skin.

“I’m listening,” you repeated, softer, almost sweet. “You’re telling me I need to learn control. That I shouldn’t sit in class dripping for you. That I shouldn’t come home already soaked and climb you the second the door closes.” Your palm slid lower, flat against the warm skin of his stomach. “But every time you try to correct me, my body just… reacts harder. Is that part of the lesson too, sir?”

Kento’s breath left him in a controlled rush. His grip on your hips tightened, then loosened, then tightened again—like he was physically fighting the urge to haul you closer.

“You are testing me on purpose,” he said, the gravel in his voice deeper now. “And I am trying very hard not to reward the behaviour.”

“Then stop talking and stop me,” you whispered against his throat. Your hand stayed just above his belt “Or keep talking. I like both. I like when you try to educate me while I’m already touching you. It makes me feel like I’m winning even when you’re scolding me.”

He caught your wrist—gently, but firmly— before you could move your hand lower.

“Enough,” he said, though the word lacked real force. “You are not going to keep touching me while I am still trying to have a serious conversation with you. That is the opposite of learning restraint.”

You looked up at him through your lashes, bratty and soft all at once.

“Then teach me properly,” you said. “Tell me what a good girl would do right now. Tell me how I should be behaving. And while you do it… let me keep touching you. I’ll listen. I swear.”

For a long moment he only stared at you. The internal war was visible in the tight line of his jaw, the slight flare of his nostrils, the way his thumb kept stroking the inside of your wrist even as he held it still.

Then something in him gave.

He released your wrist and slid both hands down to the backs of your thighs, under the short skirt. In one smooth motion he lifted you, settling you astride his waist. Your legs wrapped around him on instinct. He carried you the short distance to the bedroom and laid you down carefully on the edge of the bed, remaining standing between your legs.

His hands settled on your bare hips, thumbs pressing into the soft skin just above where underwear should have been.

“A good girl does not spend the entire day touching herself to thoughts of her older partner. A good girl does not come home already wet and climb him before he has even taken his shoes off. A good girl does not use that filthy mouth to try and break his resolve while he is attempting to teach her self-control.”

He leaned in.

“You are not a good girl right now, are you?”

You shook your head, already rocking faintly against the hard line of him through his trousers. The thick shape of his cock was impossible to ignore—fully hard, straining against the fabric. Your mouth watered at the sight.

“No, sir.”

“No,” he agreed, thumb stroking the skin of your hip. “You’re a spoiled, obsessive little thing who gets wetter the more I try to correct her. And I am done pretending that doesn’t affect me.”

He stayed standing. You opened your legs wider for him without being told.

One hand came to rest on your bare knee, thumb tracing a slow, absent arc against your skin. The touch was careful. Possessive in the restrained way that always made your stomach drop.

“I am still going to talk to you,” he said. “Even now. Especially now.”

“I know.”

“I love you,” he said, quiet and clear. “I am not taking advantage of how much you want this. I am choosing it. There is a difference, and I need you to feel it.”

“Yes daddy, I feel it.”

He looked at you for a long moment. Your flushed skin. The way your thighs were already parted for him. His eyes closed briefly, and when they opened again the restraint was thinner.

“I am trying,” he said, voice low, “to be the responsible one here. To remind you that you have classes. That you shouldn’t rearrange your entire day around waiting for me to come home.” His other hand moved between your legs, two fingers sliding through the slick heat waiting for him. A quiet, almost pained sound left him. “But you make it extremely difficult.”

You whimpered loudly, hips rolling into his hand.

“Please, Ken,” you breathed. “Stop trying to be reasonable. Just take what’s yours. Fuck me. Breed your little girl if you want. I spent the whole day ready for it.”

Kento didn’t answer right away. He straightened, still standing between your open legs, and began undressing with the same quiet precision he applied to everything else. He shrugged his shirt off and folded it neatly over the back of the chair. Then he removed his belt, set it aside, and stepped out of his trousers and boxers, folding those as well. Even now—hard, breathing a little deeper than usual—he refused to leave a mess.

You watched every movement, thighs shifting restlessly against the sheets. Your hand drifted up to cup one breast over his shirt, thumb brushing the nipple. The other hand slid between your legs, two fingers finding your clit.

“Don’t,” he said, voice low but firm. He caught your wrist again before your fingers could really start moving.

A frustrated little sound left you.

“Daddy is soo bad,” you pouted, letting both hands fall to the sheets and gripping the fabric tightly instead, hips still shifting with restless need.

“No,” he corrected quietly. “Daddy is trying to teach you patience.”

Only then did he lean over you. He pulled his shirt the rest of the way off your body and tossed it aside. For a moment he just looked at you—flushed, already slick, legs open for him, the short plaid skirt still bunched around your waist.

His cock twitched hard at the sight. The thick, heavy length of him stood flushed and straining. He settled between your thighs, the blunt head pressing against you, but he didn’t push in yet. His eyes met yours, serious even now.

“I’m going to fuck you slowly,” he said, voice low and controlled. “Not because I don’t want you. Because you need to learn that this doesn’t have to be a frantic race every single time. You will take it at my pace. Do you understand?”

“Yes daddy—please” You nodded, already close to tears from the wait.

Only then did he push into you. Every inch stretched you open at his pace, not yours. The short skirt stayed bunched around your waist, the soft fabric brushing his hips as he bottomed out.

You tried to meet him, rolling your hips up to take him deeper, faster. His hands immediately clamped down on your hips, pinning you firmly to the mattress.

“No,” he said, voice still steady. “You stay still. You take what I give you.”

That was when you decided you’d waited long enough.

Pure, spoiled caprice. You were full of him, soft and stretched around the thick length buried inside you, and the careful educational pace was no longer enough. You rolled your hips up hard against the hold of his hands, clenched deliberately around him, and let the filth spill out against his ear without any filter.

“You’re still trying so hard to be the responsible one, Daddy. Still fucking me like you need to prove you’re not taking advantage of your little slut. But I can feel how hard you are. This heavy cock knows exactly what I am. I’m yours. Your young girlfriend. A little slut who spends all day wet and empty just thinking about you coming home and using me.”

Kento’s next thrust stuttered hard. You felt the crack open.

“You keep behaving like the responsible, mature one,” you continued, voice low and shameless, nails dragging down his back, “but you didn’t take off the skirt. You really like it, don’t you? Leaving it on so you can feel the fabric every time you push into me. So you can look down and see your little university girl still wearing it while you’re buried inside her.”

His forehead dropped against yours. A rough sound left his throat.

“I’d stay attached to you all day if you let me,” you went on. “I’d kneel under your desk at the office with your cock in my mouth while you work. Or I could wait on my knees by the door every evening so the second you walk in you could just shove it down my throat or bend me over the nearest surface and ruin me. No other dick could ever come close to this. Nothing else is this thick, this heavy. You’ve ruined me for anyone else and you know it.”

“Stop—” he tried, but the word came out strained, almost pleading, and his hips had already started moving harder, less precise.

“Why should I stop?” you smiled, bratty and relentless. “Because it’s working? Because the serious older man who irons his shirts and talks about boundaries is starting to fuck his little slut like he can’t help it? Look at you. You’re getting deeper. You’re losing that perfect control the second I remind you what I am. Poor daddy. Stuck with a greedy, obsessed little whore who only gets wetter when you try to educate her.”

“You don’t know when to shut that mouth,” he muttered, voice rough.

“That’s right,” you whispered, clenching around him again. “I love when you try to teach me. When you hold me down and tell me I need limits and then still fill me up anyway. It makes me so fucking wet. If you really want to educate me, maybe you should spank this ass while you fuck me. Or put your hand around my throat and remind me who I belong to. I’d take it. I’d thank you for it. Your little slut needs the lesson, doesn’t she?”

You leaned up, lips brushing his ear.

“Call me your cumdump,” you breathed. “Just once. Say it.”

The words left your mouth hot and shameless, but inside you already knew the truth: he never would. Your boyfriend did not degrade you. He never had. And somehow that knowledge only made the request hotter, the refusal more delicious.

Something in him finally broke. A low, broken curse left him.

“You pushed and pushed until I stopped being careful,” he growled. “Remember that when you’re crying because it’s too much.”

Then he hooked both of your knees high and wide, folding you nearly in half under his weight, and drove down into you in a heavy mating press—his full body pinning you, the new angle letting him sink so deep it punched the air from your lungs.

“Fuck—yes—just like that—” you gasped, completely open under him, legs forced wide. “That’s what I wanted. Stop fighting it —ahhghh—Use your little whore”

The careful composure was fracturing in real time. His hips snapped down harder, the mating press turning every thrust deep, wet, and inescapable.

“You don’t know when to shut that mouth,” he repeated, almost to himself, even as he fucked you with growing force.

“Then make me,” you challenged, voice wrecked and gleeful. “Choke me a little. Spank me. Remind your little cumdump who she belongs to while you ruin her with this perfect cock. No one else could ever stretch me like this. No one else is this big or this good. I’d stay on your cock all day if you’d let me. That’s how badly I need it.”

He made another rough, almost pained sound and gave you exactly what the dirty talk had been dragging out of him. The mating press turned relentless—his weight fully over you, knees forced high, every thrust bottoming out with a wet, heavy impact that left you crying out under him.

Your words started breaking apart. The depth, the force, the way he kept hitting that spot inside you turned your filthy stream of talk into helpless, open sounds.

“Ah—Ah—Ah—”

Tears gathered at the corners of your eyes and slipped down your temples, the overwhelm too much to hold back. You were completely open under him, shaking, no longer able to form a single coherent provocation.

Kento’s breath was hot and uneven against your mouth. He didn’t slow down.

“Why don’t you talk now?” he said, voice low and rough, almost dark with satisfaction. “You tortured me since the second I walked through that door. All that filth. All that pushing. Where did it go?”

You could only whimper, clutching at his back, legs forced wide, taking every heavy thrust. The tension in your stomach coiled tighter and tighter until it snapped.

A broken cry tore out of you as you came hard around him, pulsing and clenching, the orgasm so intense your vision blurred. Your body shook under his weight, slick and desperate, milking him with every spasm.

The feeling of you coming undone around his cock was the last thing that held him together.

A deep, animal sound tore out of his throat—raw, uncontrolled. His hips stuttered hard, then locked deep as he came, pulsing hot inside you, filling you in thick, heavy spurts while you were still clenching around him. 

He stayed buried to the hilt, breathing hard against your neck, still holding your knees open while the last of it emptied into you and the aftershocks kept trembling through both of you.

Eventually he eased out of you, slow and careful. A soft, wet sound followed, and you felt the warm trickle of his come between your thighs. He made a quiet sound of his own at the sight, then reached for the tissues on the nightstand. He cleaned you with the same precise care he applied to everything else before discarding them and pulling you into his arms.

For a while neither of you spoke.

Then the responsible tone returned, quiet but firm.

“This can’t become an everyday thing,” he said. “You need to focus on your coursework. I need to be able to leave for work without wondering whether you’re going to spend eight hours edging yourself in my apartment.”

“I know. I’m sorry I’m like this,” you murmured, looking down at your hand resting on his chest. “I love you.”

His expression softened. He covered your hand with his own.

“I’m sorry for being so strict,” he murmured. “There’s nothing wrong with you. I love you.”

He saw the satisfied smile appear on your face. He knew exactly what it meant. You had talked him past every careful line he had tried to hold, and both of you were long past pretending he had ever stood a real chance once you decided to push.

“You should be sleeping,” Kento said quietly “Your morning lecture begins at nine.”

He stared into the darkness, his mind drifting back to his own world—the boring cubicles, the polite, hollow conversations with colleagues who saw him as an efficient machine. A man who clocked in, did his work, and clocked out without complaint.

They had no idea that behind closed doors he was anchored entirely by a brilliant, hyperfixated university student who devoured his existence with a terrifying, beautiful hunger.

“Sleep” he whispered against your hair, his hand coming up to cup the back of your head and press your face gently into the crook of his neck, where his pulse beat steady and warm. “I’ll still be here in the morning.”

You let out a soft, contented sigh. Your fingers, which had been tracing slow circles over his chest, finally stilled and rested flat against his skin.

“I know,” you murmured against his pulse point. “I’m making sure of it.”

You spent the rest of the week proving, once again, that when it came to the two of you, the younger, relentless one almost always won. And despite everything he said about moderation and the dangers of your obsession, Kento knew—quietly, privately—that he wouldn’t have you any other way.

Reblogs are sooo appreciated ✨