Stop SLEEPING on mean!Nanami: he works a very stressful job, man has to take out that aggression on someone, right?
Sure, he can be a sweetheart. Recently bloomed flowers on dates and whispering sweet nothings into your ear when he notices your smile slipping. He's the embodiment of warmth, and he loves good- but when he's mean, he's mean- and fucks hard.
"Filthy," he would bite. "Filthy fucking whore, am I right? You like this?"
Your body pressed sharply over the surface of whatever desk was closest to bend you over; your hands would ache for purchase. Though his rough hand would press you down, keep you still and compliant for him. And as you try choke out a strangled moan of affirmation; Kento just hisses and drives his hips harshly into yours.
His cock stretches you out and with it comes a searing ache that beckons hot tears to your eyes and a dull warmth in your core that likes the pain. Kento's rough grip molds you into the perfect little doll for him to use and reuse- his touch your opioid, his pleasure your reward. His thrusts quick and heavy and forceful; a man driven by an obsession with pleasure and an unrelenting need to satisfy it through pain.
He will fuck until you come undone beneath him, your nails digging into the wooden edge of the desk and eyes rolling back in a blinding pleasure. And when you're fucked out and overstimulated he will fuck you again, driving you wild with his touch and thrusting into you so deeply and powerfully that it sends tremors racing up your spine. It takes everything in you to stay conscious at times, and even then he will take full advantage of the weakness in your mind and breath and soul.
"Dumb puppy," he taunts your state of mindlessness as he edges closer to orgasm. "Fucked stupid, hm? My sweet thing, all you're good for."
And when he cums, it feels more like he's trying to mark you as his own than actually reach fulfillment. With the marks left littered across your skin, cum spilling out of you in ropes as your legs shake and his breath falters. He takes in your ruined state, commits the sight of your submission to memory; and then manhandles you around to look at him.
A tender kiss to your forehead, and a cheeky smile that overrules the bloodlust still in his eyes. "Perfect, my angel, you're so perfect. Let's clean you up, yes?"
And despite the pain and the exhaustion and the shame of his touch prior, there's a warmth in his presence that affirms everything good. He spills words of love from his lips, checks in on your every last need as he cleans you up and graces your sore skin with the most gentle of kisses. Because, even when he fucks you like he hates you, there's nothing but love left to hold you close afterwards.
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