Uncle nanami tutoring you for your exams
CW: Spanking, uncle!Nanami, dub-con vibes, humiliation, age gap, punishment play, teasing, wet play, mature readers only, 18+, mdni.
“Y/n, get the door!” your mom’s voice cuts through the silence, right when you’re buried in notes.
You groan, shoving your pen down. “Ugh, mom, I’m busy. Can’t you just do it yourself?”
“You’re not gonna pass anyways,” she shoots back, the dig hitting right where it hurts.
“Excuse me??” you mutter under your breath, already stomping out of your chair. No point arguing. She’ll keep at it.
You swing the door open, irritation still painted across your face until you see who’s standing there.
Tall. Broad. Blonde hair slicked neatly back, with a gentle smile that doesn’t match the sharpness of his jawline. His sleeves rolled up enough to show strong wrists. He doesn’t look like his fucking age, if anything, he looks better, sharper, like life only polished him up instead of wearing him down.
“Oh— Mr. Nanami…” you breathe, caught off guard. You turn and call into the house, “Mom! Mr. Nanami is here!”
His smile twitches, just slightly. “Kid. How many times have I told you not to call me that?”
You shrug, leaning against the doorframe. “Then what should I call you, hmm?”
He looks at you, steady, with that calm weight that makes you squirm. “…Just call me Uncle.”
Yeah, right. Uncle? Like hell you’re calling this man uncle when he’s standing there looking like that. Too young, too put-together, too… much. You bite down on the thought before it shows on your face.
Your mom hurries over, lighting up. “Oh, Kento, that’s a surprise!”
Nanami gives a polite bow of his head. “I was passing through. Thought I’d stop by… and I wanted to see him, too.”
“Oh, he should be home soon.” She’s already slipping her shoes on, purse in hand. Then she pauses. “You know what? Wait here, he’ll be here any minute. Y/n, get him something to drink.”
Nanami shakes his head, raising a palm. “That’s alright. Let the kid study.” His eyes flick toward the table piled with your open books, notes scattered everywhere.
Your mom laughs, relieved. “Okay then. I’ll be back in a bit. And Y/n—” she narrows her eyes at you— “don’t mouth off to Nanami.”
“Yeah, yeah,” you mutter.
And then she’s gone.
The house is too quiet now, except for the faint squeak of leather as Nanami lowers himself onto the couch. He sets his jacket neatly on the armrest, the picture of composure.
“So,” his voice breaks the silence, steady and deep, “how are your classes?”
You twirl your pen, pretending you don’t care, though his gaze presses heavy on you. “Fine, I guess.”
“Just fine?”
You shrug again. “Yeah.”
He hums, low, like he doesn’t believe you but won’t push. Instead, he reaches for a book from the shelf, flipping it open like he’s content to wait.
The minutes stretch out. You’re bent over your notes again, scowling at the page. The numbers blur, the words don’t click. You chew on your lip, tap the pen, sigh loud enough to give yourself away.
Nanami’s voice cuts in without looking up from his book. “What is it?”
You freeze. “What?”
His eyes finally lift, pinning you in place. “You’re stuck on something. What is it?”
The question is calm. But there’s weight behind it, like he already knows you’ve been floundering, and he’s not going to let you bullshit your way out.
You glare down at the page, numbers and symbols blurring into nonsense. Your pen taps uselessly against the margin. “I don’t get this equation,” you mutter under your breath.
Nanami doesn’t even look up from his book. “Which one?”
“Doesn’t matter.” You wave it off quickly. “I’ll figure it out later.”
His book snaps closed with a quiet thud. His voice cuts sharp, no room for argument. “Kid, I have a master’s in this subject. Give me the page.”
You freeze, biting your lip. “…Really?”
His gaze hardens. “Do you think I’m lying?”
“…No,” you mumble.
“Then sit here.” He pats the space beside him on the couch. Calm. Expectant.
Your stomach flips. Still, you stand, legs heavy as you shuffle over and sink down beside him. He’s too close. Warm, solid, smelling faintly of cologne and something darker, something that clings to him like heat. The scent is dizzying.
“Show me your doubt.”
You slide the notebook toward him, pointing with the pen. “This one.”
He leans in, voice low, steady as he starts to explain. And you should be focusing, you really should, but all you can think about is how close his lips are, the way they shape every word, the way his breath ghosts across your cheek when he exhales. Your eyes drop, shameless, tracing the line of his throat, the flex of his jaw.
“Mmmmm… Uncle, I still don’t get it,” you whisper, your voice smaller than you mean it to be.
He doesn’t miss the title, his eyes flick to yours, sharp. But all he says is, “Sit closer. I’ll explain it one more time.”
Your pulse jumps. Still, you obey, shifting nearer until your thigh brushes his. He doesn’t move away. Instead, his hand comes to rest against your back, warm and broad. It settles just below your waist on the curve of your ass, heavy enough to make your breath hitch.
He keeps talking, his voice low and calm, like nothing about this is unusual. Like his hand isn’t burning through the fabric.
By the time he finishes, you’re not sure you even heard half of what he said.
“Alright,” he murmurs, pulling his hand back at last. “Test time. Just the things I explained, nothing more.”
“Eh? Right now?”
“Yes. Right now.” His tone leaves no room to argue.
You sigh, rolling your eyes. “Mmm… I guess so.”
He slides the notebook in front of you, asking the first question, then another, watching closely as you scribble down your answers. Some come easy, others you’re lost in but halfway through, you start doing it on purpose. Putting wrong answers down just to see that calm expression slip. Just to spite him, just to poke at the one man who never raises his voice but somehow still terrifies you.
When you finally hand the notebook over, you can’t help the tiny smirk tugging at your lips.
Nanami studies the page. His brow twitches once. His lips flatten, the faint curve of his smile disappearing, wiped clean as his eyes narrow.
Shit.
Because Kento Nanami might be the most polite, soft-spoken gentleman who’s ever walked this earth but — A strict teacher is scarier than any brute. And right now, sitting so close you can feel the heat off him, you know exactly how much trouble you’ve just asked for.
Nanami sets your notebook down with deliberate calm, but the tick in his jaw betrays him. His voice is low, even, but sharp enough to make your spine stiffen.
“You think this is funny?”
Your lips part, throat dry. “I… what?”
“Don’t play dumb.” He sets the pen down with deliberate care, but you can see the tightness in his jaw, the disappointment flickering behind his calm expression.
“You haven’t been listening at all, have you?” His voice is quiet, but it cuts straight through you.
You stiffen in your seat, fingers gripping the edge of your notebook. “I did! I just… forgot some of it.”
“Forgot?” His brow lifts. “When your exam is tomorrow?”
Your mouth opens, then closes. You’ve got nothing.
Nanami exhales, the sound heavy, controlled. “Stand up.”
You blink at him, confused. “What?”
“Up.” He doesn’t raise his voice, but the authority in his tone leaves no space for argument. You push yourself to your feet hesitantly, heart pounding.
Then, in one fluid motion, he takes your wrist, sits back on the couch, and pulls you across his lap.
“W-wait, what are you doing—”
“Discipline,” he says simply, adjusting you until your stomach is flat against his thighs, your ass raised, skirt riding up dangerously high. “You don't wanna study? You’ll learn to.”
Blood rushes to your face, humiliation crashing over you in waves. “You’re crazy—!”
“Quiet.” His palm settles heavy on the curve of your hip. “We’ll start with a question.”
You freeze, every nerve lit up.
Nanami flips open the book with one hand, steady and methodical. His voice is calm, like he’s in a classroom. “Sum of first n natural numbers?”
Your throat locks. You recognize the question, but your brain blanks. “Uh… S plus—”
The crack of his palm against your ass steals the rest of your answer. Your body jerks, heat flooding your face.
“Wrong,” he says flatly. “It's S=n*(n+1)/2.” His hand lingers on your ass, heavy, unforgiving. “Next.”
He flips another page, voice even, relentless. “What's the quadratic formula?”
You stammer, panicked. “Um. . . b minus—”
Another sharp slap lands, harder this time. You gasp, writhing against his lap, shame and something darker twisting in your gut.
“No. Wrong. Focus.” His voice is deep, reprimanding, every word vibrating against your skin.
He doesn’t give you time to catch your breath before the next one. “Derive e^x.”
“I—I don’t know!” Your voice cracks, half a whine.
The smack that follows makes your eyes sting.
“You should know.” His hand smooths over your skin almost absently, like testing how much heat he’s left there. “Basics, and you’re blanking.”
You shiver, trembling under his control, the line between punishment and something filthier blurring fast.
You can feel it the moment it happens, his cock swelling against your stomach, hard and heavy, pressing through his slacks every time you shift in his lap. So much for the perfect, composed uncle. The realization makes your stomach flip, makes your thighs tremble against him.
Each slap lands sharper, and each time his palm stays, spreading over your ass, kneading, squeezing like he can’t help himself. His composure is cracking right under you.
“Fuck…” he mutters under his breath, low and guttural, when your skirt rides up just enough for him to catch a glimpse of the soaked patch clinging to your panties. His hand tightens on your hip. “You little brat…”
Before you can breathe, he flips the skirt up completely, baring you to him. His jaw ticks when he sees the wet fabric stuck to your folds.
“Spread.” His tone leaves no room for argument.
Your pulse skyrockets. You bite down on your lip, embarrassed, but your legs part anyway, shameless, needy. The fabric stretches over your pussy, sticky and damp, practically inviting his hand.
His fingers slip under the band and cup you bare. The heat of his palm makes you gasp. He strokes slow at first, just dragging his rough fingertip over your slit, smearing the mess around like he’s testing how wet you really are.
“...fuck,” he breathes, and you whimper.
Neither of you speak for a moment, just the sound of your ragged breaths and the slick noise of him rubbing lazy circles right over your clit. You can’t stop the soft moans slipping from your throat, can’t stop rocking your hips into his hand.
Then he stills, cruelly pulling his fingers back.
“I’ll ask one more,” he says, voice deceptively calm. “Answer me correctly.”
You nod frantically, your body begging for more.
“What’s the square of 13?”
You know this one. Clear as day. But your lips twist, heat making you reckless. “Mm… 90?”
The sting hits different this time, his hand slapping straight down on your soaked pussy. The wet slap echoes obscenely, loud enough to make your stomach twist. You cry out, arching, humiliated and aching all at once.
Nanami lets out a humorless laugh, his fingers dragging back over your throbbing folds, teasing. “I’m starting to think this isn’t a punishment anymore.”
Your voice is shaky, needy. “Why's that, uncle…?”
“Because you’re fucking liking it too much.” His breath brushes your ear as his fingers rub cruelly slow circles against your clit.
You bite your lip hard, whining, “C-can’t help it… when you p-play with where it feels good…”
His mouth curls into a smirk you can feel even without looking at him. Then his palm comes down again, wet and filthy against your pussy, the squelch so loud it makes your toes curl.
He shakes his head, almost amused. “Brat.” Another slap, right over your clit, sharper this time. “Keep it up, and I’ll stop using my hand altogether.”
Your body seizes at the threat. You turn your face into the couch cushion, moaning, your voice muffled. “Other ways of punishment…?”
Nanami chuckles darkly, slipping one thick finger just past your entrance, teasing without giving you what you want. “Oh, I’ve got plenty. And none of them involve you feeling good.”
You'd have loved to find out but the sharp screech of tires outside makes both your heads snap toward the window. Your chest lurches.
“Shit—dad,” you gasp, scrambling upright. Your legs feel weak, skirt bunched around your hips as you clumsily tug it back down. Your thighs are sticky, trembling, and your face is on fire.
Nanami doesn’t rush. He just leans back against the couch, smoothing his shirt cuffs with maddening calm. That fucking smirk plays at his mouth, the one that makes you want to crawl back into his lap no matter how wrong it is.
You shoot him a glare, breathless. “Stop smiling like that…”
“I’m not smiling,” he says, though his lips twitch as he watches you fuss with your clothes. His gaze lingers far too long on your thighs, and you know he saw everything.
You grab your books in a panic, trying to look put together before your dad walks in, but then Nanami’s voice drops low, smooth, cutting through the chaos.
“You’ve got my number, don’t you?”
You freeze, clutching your notes to your chest. “…Yeah.”
His smirk sharpens. “Call me when you’re in need.”
Your breath hitches. Your throat feels dry. “W-what kind of needs, uncle?”
He tilts his head, eyes glinting, deliberately slow as he stands and towers over you. He leans just close enough for his cologne and the heat of his body to overwhelm you again.
“That…” his lips ghost the shell of your ear, voice dropping into something sinful,
“I’ll let you choose.”
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