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juliansstarman · 1 day ago

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synopsis ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ nanami accidentally finds your small, anxious-but-sincere vlogs and quietly falls for you through the screen. and when you meet, he becomes a gentle, faceless presence behind the camera—helping you grow, and loving you all the while.

tori’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ this was so fun to write

nanami doesn’t really use youtube. it’s too loud, too cluttered, too full of people trying too hard. he’s more of a quiet reader or podcast listener—he likes his content slow and thoughtful. but sometimes, during quiet lunch breaks or sleepless nights, he finds himself scrolling, searching for something simple to fill the silence.

the first time he sees your face, he skips the video. it’s nothing personal. the thumbnail just seems… ordinary. a soft smile, a blurry background of what looks like a street food stall, and a simple title: “trying something new today (๑•́‿•̀๑)”. he doesn’t think much of it.

but youtube, in all its persistence, keeps putting you in his recommendations.

every few days, your face reappears. new title. new blurry background. another small smile. there’s something oddly comforting about it, even if he hasn’t clicked yet. eventually, curiosity wins. one night, half-asleep and curled up on his couch, he taps on a thumbnail without thinking.

the video is quiet. not silent, but there’s no obnoxious background music or jump cuts. just you. talking a little nervously to the camera, explaining how you’ve never tried this kind of food before, how it makes you anxious to eat alone in public but you’re doing it anyway, for yourself. you pause a lot. laugh at yourself. your editing is minimal—sometimes you just leave long clips in where you sit there silently, debating the next bite.

and nanami… stays.

he doesn’t mean to. he thinks he’ll just let the video play in the background while he dozes off. but he finds himself watching. then clicking on another one. and another. you talk to the camera like it’s a friend. you say things like “i know no one’s really watching this, but…” and “this was scary for me, but i’m proud of myself anyway.”

there’s no performance. no show. just you, trying. trying to live a little braver. trying to make the world a little softer for yourself. and even though your videos have only a few thousand views at most, and a comment section with maybe ten or twenty kind words, nanami can tell you read every single one. you reply with gratitude and sincerity. you sign your replies with hearts and “thank you for watching!!” even when someone just says “nice vid :)”.

he doesn’t comment for a long time. he watches quietly, always late at night, a silent companion to your small adventures. his favorite video becomes one where you try to bike through a park trail you’ve never been on before. the camera shakes the entire time, the sky is gray, and you end up getting rained on halfway through. soaked and breathless, you laugh and say, “this was a disaster. but i don’t regret it.” and something about that sticks in his chest.

he comments on a video one day. it’s short, awkwardly formal:

“i admire your courage to keep stepping outside your comfort zone. thank you for sharing.”

a few hours later, you reply.

“thank you so much!!! i get really nervous about posting sometimes so this means a lot ;; i’m trying my best!! ♡”

nanami reads that reply more times than he’d like to admit.

—

he doesn’t think he’ll ever meet you. you feel like a little glowing orb in his private world. something precious that lives on his phone, just a click away, not real, not tangible.

but then, he’s at a weekend market. the kind of place you’d probably vlog, actually. he’s just there to buy fresh bread, enjoy the quiet, maybe grab a coffee. he’s walking past a stand selling handmade keychains when he hears a familiar voice.

soft. a little unsure. asking for the price of something.

he turns.

and you’re there.

you look just like your videos—maybe a little shorter, bundled in a cardigan despite the warmth, your bag too big for your frame, holding a small camera that’s not even recording. your hair’s a little messy. your eyes bright, darting around nervously. you’re alone.

and suddenly, nanami is nervous in a way he hasn’t been in years.

he debates not saying anything. he could let this pass. keep you as a digital secret. but then you glance in his direction, and smile—just polite, a brief flicker of recognition for another passerby—and nanami finds himself stepping forward before his brain catches up.

“…excuse me,” he says, and your eyes widen a little.

“yes?” you ask, voice soft.

“i’ve… watched your videos,” he says, and you freeze for a second. “they mean a lot to me.”

you blink. your mouth opens a little in surprise, then closes. and then you smile.

“really?” you say, a little breathless. “you… you actually watch them?”

“yes,” he says simply. “i think you’re brave.”

your hand flies up to your mouth, eyes darting away. “oh my god,” you mumble. “that’s—thank you. that’s so nice. i didn’t think anyone recognized me. my channel’s tiny.”

“doesn’t change the impact,” he says, and it’s honest. the way he always is.

you talk for a while after that. awkwardly at first—your nerves, his reserved nature—but slowly, something soft and lovely builds in the air between you. you laugh a lot, mostly just nervous. he listens a lot, mostly because that’s just the way he is. he tells you his name is kento. you tell him you were scared to even leave the house today, but you’re glad you did. he smiles.

before you part ways, you ask, very shyly, if he’d be okay with you filming just a little. not his face, of course—just his voice, his presence. he agrees.

that night, a new video goes up.

“a tiny adventure at the weekend market ✿ i made a new friend today…”

nanami watches it from his bed, and when his offscreen voice appears—gentle, amused, offering to carry your bag for you—his heart does something strange in his chest.

—

the first time nanami appears in a vlog, it’s his hand passing you a coffee.

you call him “a friend i made recently,” and giggle when he corrects your pronunciation of a pastry. he’s never shown — not fully. a shoulder here. the back of his head. your viewers are very curious. you just smile, almost bashful, and say, “he’s camera-shy, but he’s very sweet.”

you start mentioning him more in your vlogs. he’s still off-screen, but you’ll glance his way and smile. say something like “he helped me set this up,” or “he picked this place,” or just “he’s here with me.”

you don’t have to say his name. he stays a faceless figure in your videos. your viewers start to notice something more.

you never confirm anything. you just smile, cheeks pink, and say, “he’s really sweet. i’m lucky.”

nanami doesn’t need the spotlight. he’s happy to carry your bag, offer a steady hand when you’re nervous, and hold the camera when you want to capture something new. he’s happy to be the one encouraging you behind the scenes, whispering that you’re doing great when you doubt yourself.

you film together more and more. he goes with you to bookstores, little food stalls, quiet museums. he carries your tripod. holds your coat. gives you gentle encouragement when you freeze up in public and smile too hard when it’s over.

he falls in love with you quietly. over time. he doesn’t say it at first. he lets it bloom through little gestures — buying the tea you liked, learning how to edit videos just to help you with cuts, leaving voice notes when you’re too anxious to leave the house. he listens. he supports. he stays.

and he’s happiest when, in a quiet clip near the end of a video, you look off-camera and say, “i think i’m a little less scared of the world lately.”

he squeezes your hand off-screen. you smile at the touch.

and your viewers never hear the softest part—how, when the camera stops recording, you lean into his side and whisper, “thank you for finding me.”

nanami, who never believed in fate or chance or algorithms, just kisses your cheek and replies, “thank you for being found.”

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juliansstarman · 1 day ago

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What Remains After Fire

✦ oneshot

Reader x Kento Nanami | 18+ MDNI

cw: post-shibuya trauma, burn scars, survivor’s guilt, body image issues, one-sided blindness, emotional distance, soft dom/sub undertones, explicit smut (fem receiving), oral sex, crying during sex, possessiveness, praise, gentle manhandling, scar kissing, i needed a hot burned nanami that fits my imagination so i drew one

⸻

You had to knock twice before the door opened.

Not because he didn’t hear you the first time—he always heard you.

But because he had to prepare.

Because letting you in still felt like bleeding in front of someone too soft to watch.

And he hated that.

He hated that you were always gentle with him now. That your fingers hovered before they touched. That your eyes flickered toward the left side of his face, and then away, like you were guilty for even looking.

He hated how you loved him.

And how he still let you in anyway.

“You should stop visiting,” he said flatly when you stepped inside.

“I’m not the man you used to come home to.”

“No,” you answered simply, meeting his one good eye.

“You’re not. But you’re still mine.”

That shut him up.

Like it always did.

You’d known Nanami before Shibuya. Before the fire.

Before the rooftop that nearly killed him.

You’d known the man who brought you tea in the morning. Who folded your clothes, and kissed your temple, and touched you like you were sacred.

But now—

Now he stood in his apartment with his shirt off, half of his body laced in burned skin, rough and marbled and angry. His hair was shorter. His expression harder. And his left eye—whited out, blind—never blinked anymore.

He didn’t wear his watch. Didn’t wear his suits.

Didn’t smile.

“You look tired,” you said softly, setting down your bag.

“I always look tired.”

You smiled faintly. “You always say that.”

He didn’t reply—just turned his back to you, the full canvas of his scarred left side exposed under the late afternoon light. The burns ran from his jaw to his ribs, roping over his arm, his hip… disappearing into the waistband of his dark pants.

You stepped closer. Slowly. Carefully.

“Kento—”

“Don’t.”

His voice was low. Final.

“I don’t need your pity.”

Your chest tightened. You hated this. The silence. The shame. The weight he carried like it was a punishment he deserved.

“You think this is pity?” you whispered.

“You think I pity the man who survived hell and still comes back to me?”

He stiffened. Shoulders tight. Breathing shallow.

“You think I don’t want you anymore? Is that what this is?”

You stepped behind him, your hands brushing the curve of his back—scarred and strong.

“I see you,” you whispered.

“All of you. I love all of you.”

His hand curled into a fist.

“You shouldn’t,” he rasped.

“I’m not gentle anymore. I’m not kind. I’m not—”

“You’re alive.”

Your voice cracked.

“You’re fucking alive, Kento. And I’d take this version of you a thousand times over if it means I get to keep touching you.

Even when you’re angry. Even when you’re cold. Even when you don’t believe you deserve it.”

Silence.

Then—

He turned.

And for the first time in weeks, you saw the hurt in his eye—not the pain he pushed down, but the ache that bled through the cracks.

“Say it again,” he whispered.

You stepped into his space. Cupped the side of his jaw—the burned side. His breath hitched when your thumb brushed the ruined skin like it meant nothing to you. Because it didn’t.

Because it was still him.

“I love you,” you whispered.

“All of you.”

And that’s when he broke.

He kissed you hard—starving, trembling, breathing like you were the only thing anchoring him to the earth. His hands gripped your waist too tight. His mouth crushed yours like it hurt to hold back any longer.

When he carried you to the bed, it wasn’t graceful.

It was desperate.

His lips ghosted over your throat, your collarbone, down your chest.

“Don’t look at me like I’m fragile,” he whispered.

“I need to feel you. All of you.”

“You have me,” you breathed.

Your clothes were gone before you could think.

And when he laid you down, he hovered—touched you like he was fighting against himself.

But his hands shook.

So you grabbed his wrist. Guided him between your legs. Wrapped your thighs around his waist and pulled.

“Stop holding back,” you said. “Take me. However you want.”

Something cracked in him.

He kissed you again—rougher now. His fingers tangled in your hair as he slid inside you in one slow, aching thrust.

And when he bottomed out—when your body clenched around him, warm and perfect and real—he let out the softest sound you’d ever heard from him.

“Fuck,” he choked. “You still feel like home.”

You cupped his face—both sides. Burned and not.

“Then come home.”

The rhythm was slow. Deep. But it wasn’t gentle.

He needed this.

He needed to feel—to own something, to remind himself he was still a man, still wanted, still yours. His grip left bruises. His thrusts made you cry out. And all the while, he watched you—one eye clear, the other a blind haze.

But it didn’t matter.

Because he never looked away.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered.

“Even now. Especially now. Fuck.”

You pulled him closer—foreheads pressed, breath shared.

“You’re mine,” you whispered.

“Still. Always.”

You came with a sob—body trembling, nails raking down his back, crying into his shoulder as he fucked you through it.

And when he came, it was with a broken groan—buried deep inside you, arms wrapped tight around your waist like he’d never let go again.

Afterward

You lay tangled in the sheets, your fingers brushing over the scars on his chest.

He didn’t flinch.

“Still think I pity you?” you murmured.

He huffed—just barely a smile.

“You’re too stubborn sweetheart.”

“You’re too gorgeous to hate yourself.”

He looked at you then. Really looked.

And with a voice cracked from sex and silence, he whispered—

“Don’t leave. Ever. Please.”

“Not even if you push me away,” you said.

“I’ll come back. Every time.”

He kissed you softly this time. No rush. No shame. Just love.

And for the first time in months…

He believed you.

The sun had just started to rise.

Pale gold light spilled through the bedroom curtains, turning everything warm and quiet and still.

You sat up slowly—sleep-heavy and sore in the best way. The sheets tangled around your hips, your skin still humming from the night before.

He was still asleep beside you.

Kento Nanami.

The man who once lived in starch-pressed suits and schedules.

Now? His hair was tousled from your hands. His jaw shadowed with stubble. His broad chest, half-marbled with burn scars, rose and fell beneath the soft light.

His face was relaxed for once—his lashes fluttering faintly over one eye, the other milky white and motionless. He wasn’t wearing his blindfold. Or a shirt.

And he looked… beautiful.

So damn beautiful it hurt.

Your heart twisted as you looked at him—at the way his scars ran over the edge of his temple, curling down the side of his throat. At the divot in his left eyebrow from where the fire had burned it clean through. At the way his lips still curved faintly in sleep, like he’d found a rare second of peace.

He wasn’t perfect anymore. But he was still him.

And he looked strong. Raw. Real.

And if you were being honest—hot as hell.

Your eyes moved over him slowly. Admiring every inch. Every healed wound. Every part of him that said I made it.

He stirred.

His brows knit first, then his hand shifted under the covers. Slowly, his good eye opened. He blinked up at you, pupil adjusting to the morning light—expression still foggy with sleep.

Then he realized.

No shirt. No eye patch. No armor.

Just you, looking at him like he hung the goddamn moon.

His jaw tensed. His arm twitched toward the edge of the bed like he meant to reach for a shirt or something to cover the burns across his side.

But he didn’t make it that far.

Because you were still looking at him—soft and glowing, head tilted like you were drinking him in.

That look.

That fucking look.

“What is it, sweetheart?” he murmured, voice gravelly, hesitant.

“Did I wake you?”

You shook your head, smiling gently.

“No. I just… I couldn’t stop looking at you.”

He blinked. Once. Slowly.

“You should,” he said, low and dry. “It’s not pretty.”

“That’s funny,” you whispered, brushing a hand over his chest.

“Because I was just thinking you’ve never looked hotter.”

He exhaled—like the air had left him all at once. His throat bobbed.

You leaned in, slowly, and pressed a kiss to the burn-scarred part of his cheek. Then to his jaw. His collarbone. You kissed each ruined inch like it was precious.

He was quiet. Still.

“You really see me like this?” he asked quietly.

“I always have,” you said. “Even when you couldn’t.”

His hand came up, warm and wide, cradling the side of your face.

You smiled into his palm.

“And by the way?” you murmured.

“The tousled hair? The scars? That eye? Yeah. Kinda doing it for me. It is kinda cool.''

He actually chuckled.

A real one.

It was low, hoarse, and soft—but it was his. And his thumb stroked your cheek with a tenderness he hadn’t let himself offer in months.

“You’re impossible,” he whispered.

“So are you.”

He pulled you into his arms. Held you against his bare chest, your legs tangling lazily beneath the sheets. You laid your head where his heartbeat was loudest.

“Don’t hide from me anymore,” you said softly.

He nodded against your hair. “I’ll try.”

And for that morning—just that morning—he didn’t.

You woke slowly, sheets still warm where he’d been beside you.

The space was empty now. But faintly, beneath the scent of sleep and sweat and him, there was coffee. Eggs. Toast.

You smiled. Groggy. Content.

You took your time getting up. Washed your face. Ran your fingers through your hair. Smoothed the lines of last night’s affection from your thighs.

When you stepped into the kitchen— You stopped.

Because there he was.

Standing in the soft morning light, barefoot, shirtless, his lean frame wrapped in low-hanging sweatpants. His back was to you—strong and scarred and sculpted, golden skin interrupted by ripples of rough healed tissue. He was frying eggs with one hand, holding a coffee mug with the other.

You moved toward him quietly.

Wrapped your arms around him from behind.

He stiffened—just for a moment.

But then he let out a breath… and relaxed into your touch.

Your fingers traced down the line of his arm. Over the burns. Down to the soft hair at his wrist. His heartbeat, you could feel it in your cheek as you rested it against the middle of his spine.

You whispered, barely audible—like confessing something secret.

“I love you so much, you don’t even know.”

He stilled again. And this time, it was longer.

He set the spatula down. Turned off the burner.

But he didn’t turn around. “Don’t say that.”

The words were flat. Quiet. But sharp.

You blinked against the sting in your throat.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not true.”

He stepped out of your arms and moved to the far counter—back to you again, that ruined shoulder flexing as he gripped the sink.

“You think you love me,” he said.

“But you’re in love with the version of me that died in Shibuya.”

“That’s bullshit,” you said sharply.

“I loved him. But I love you, too. Even more, actually.”

“We don’t even go out together,” he said, voice low.

“You don’t introduce me to people. You flinch when others look at my face. I see it.”

“You hate yourself so much you don’t even realize you’re projecting it onto me.”

That finally made him turn. You met his eye—his eye, the clear one. The one still full of fire and pride and fear.

He didn’t speak. But the guilt was everywhere.

And you walked to him.

You placed your palms on either side of his face—one smooth cheek, one scarred.

“I don’t care if we never go out,” you whispered.

“I don’t care if we stay in this apartment for the rest of our lives.

I just want you.

I want the man who wakes up next to me and brings me coffee.

The man who kissed me with blood on his hands and swore he’d make it back.

The man who almost died and still found his way home.”

His jaw clenched. You stepped closer and pressed your lips to his chest.

“You think I don’t know what I’m saying?”

“You think this body—your body—doesn’t still make me melt?”

You trailed your lips down the side of his ribs.

He exhaled. Unsteady.

“Stop trying to be the man you were,” you said.

“Let me love the one standing in front of me.”

His arms went around you then—tight. A little desperate.

He buried his face in your hair and whispered your name like it was the only thing tethering him to reality.

“I don’t know how to be him anymore.”

“Then let me teach you.”

You leaned back. Pressed your lips softly to the corner of his burned mouth. He didn’t flinch this time. Not even a little.

“You’re still beautiful to me,” you said.

“Even like this. Especially like this.”

His chest shook.

Not quite a sob. Not quite a sigh.

Just the first step toward believing you.

That night, you sat on the couch with your legs over his lap.

Nanami was quiet, tracing light circles along your thigh—his fingers following the seam of your sleep shorts like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever touched.

You watched him.

He didn’t look away this time.

“I want you,” you said softly.

He froze.

“I know,” he murmured. “You always say that.”

You leaned in, brushing your nose against his cheek, letting your lips ghost over the burned skin behind his ear.

“No. I mean I want you tonight.”

He turned his head slowly. Met your gaze.

His good eye locked with yours. Unblinking. Unsure.

You smiled.

“Unless you’re too scared,” you teased.

He exhaled. A sharp breath. His hand curled around your waist. And his voice—low, hoarse, worn—broke the tension like fire through fog.

“I’m terrified.”

You kissed him.

This time, it wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t heavy or broken.

It was sweet. Warm. Familiar. The kind of kiss lovers give when they know each other’s breath. Each other’s body. Each other’s fears.

“Let me show you how I see you,” you whispered.

You led him to the bedroom.

Pushed him gently onto the edge of the mattress.

He sat there—bare-chested, vulnerable, gaze flicking from your face to the floor.

So you climbed onto his lap.

You straddled him slowly, wrapping your arms around his neck and brushing your lips over the curve of his jaw.

“You’re so fucking hot like this,” you whispered.

“I want to climb you like a tree.”

That made him chuckle.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You like it.”

“I love it.”

His voice dropped, rough and low.

“I love you.”

You reached down, tugging his sweatpants loose until he shifted, hips rising. You slid them off, exposing him to the cool air, his cock already half-hard and heavy against his thigh.

“God,” you whispered, biting your lip.

“You’ve always been big, but I swear—you get prettier every time I see you.”

He flushed. Literally. Blushed. You grinned.

Then you sank to your knees between his legs.

“Baby—”

His voice cracked.

You cut him off with a slow lick up his length, watching him the whole time.

“Shh,” you smiled.

“Let me worship you.”

You took your time.

Used your mouth. Your hands. Your eyes.

Tasted him like he was made of gold, and you’d been starving for it.

He was gasping above you—one hand gripping the sheets, the other shaking against your shoulder. And when you looked up at him, hollowing your cheeks, your tongue teasing the base, you saw it.

That look.

Not shame. Not guilt.

But need. Pure, burning need.

You pulled off with a pop, crawling back into his lap, kissing him until he growled into your mouth.

“Get up here,” he said, voice thick with want.

You grinned.

He flipped you onto your back—gentle but firm. Settled between your legs and kissed every inch of you. Scarred hands tracing your thighs, your hips, your ribs.

And when he finally slid inside you?

You both gasped.

“Fuck, I missed this,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours.

“Missed you like this. Warm. Full.”

You whimpered. Held him tighter.

“Take your time,” you whispered.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He fucked you slow. Deep. His mouth brushing your throat, his hand tangled in your hair. You cried out softly, clinging to him, rolling your hips to meet every thrust.

And when he came, he buried himself inside you—moaning your name like it meant something.

Because it did. Because you were his.

And he was yours.

Still. Always.

Later, wrapped in his arms, his head on your chest, he whispered something so soft it almost didn’t register.

“You saved me.”

You kissed the top of his head.

“You saved yourself. I just reminded you how to love what’s left.”

He smiled.

And this time—really, truly—he believed you.

Later that week

He tugged the hoodie’s sleeves down again.

Not enough to hide the scars on his hand—but enough to feel like he could try. His hair was grown out, messy and soft, tucked behind one ear but falling just enough over the left side of his face.

His eye was still white. Still sightless.

Still his greatest shame.

And this morning, he wore it uncovered.

“I feel ridiculous,” he muttered as you walked beside him.

You squeezed his hand.

“You look hot, actually.”

He shot you a look. You just smirked and leaned up to kiss his cheek. He let you, cheeks flushed, despite the sidewalk café and the world around you.

It was the first time in months he agreed to go out in public with you.

And it was… going okay.

Until the scream.

Both of you turned—instinctual panic rising in his chest, in yours—until you saw them.

Three boys. No older than ten.

All sprinting toward you like tiny meteors.

One with cotton-candy pinkish hair.

One in a white turtleneck pulled over half his face.

And one with a scowl that screamed get out of my sandbox or else.

They skidded to a stop in front of Nanami, grinning up at him, eyes wide and gleaming.

“Wooooow,” the pink-haired one kid gasped.

“You look SO COOL!!”

Kento blinked. You froze.

He looked at you in panic.

But you didn’t say anything. Just smiled.

It’s okay, your eyes said.

“Did you fight a dinosaur?” the kid asked, tugging his sleeve.

Kento… chuckled. Actually laughed, breath puffing out in surprise.

“Yeah kid. Something like that.”

He knelt down slowly, resting one arm over his knee. The sun caught the curve of his scarred cheekbone, the pale film of his white iris.

The silent boy stepped forward. His big dark eyes locked on Kento’s face.

“Whoa… your eye…” He stepped closer.

“It’s like magic. That’s so awesome, sir.”

Nanami exhaled. A soft, shaking breath.

“May I…?” the boy asked, nodding toward his arm.

Kento offered it to him.

And with a featherlight touch, the boy’s small fingers traced the burned skin. Not fearful. Not grossed out. Just curious.

“Does it hurt?”

“Not anymore,” Nanami answered.

The pink-haired kid beamed.

“You’re like, a real-life hero.”

The grumpy one finally stepped forward and crossed his arms.

“You’re cooler than my big brother.”

Nanami let out a soft laugh again. His head bowed slightly.

“Thank you. That… means more than you think.”

The kids gave him a high five—all three at once—and then sprinted off again, shouting things like “WE MET A DINOSAUR FIGHTER!!” and “HIS EYE WAS SO WHITE, I WANT ONE!!”

When he stood up slowly, brushing his palms on his jeans, he was quiet.

You wrapped your arms around his waist from behind.

“That made your day, didn’t it?”

He nodded. Still staring off in the direction the kids had gone.

“I thought they’d be afraid,” he said softly.

“Or disgusted. Or ask their parents to look away.”

“But they saw you.”

You stepped in front of him. Took his face in your hands.

“They saw you. And you were amazing.”

His gaze lowered, mouth twitching.

“A dinosaur?”

You grinned.