☰ SYNOPSIS ⋮ kento’s adjusting to life with a scarred face and body, one day at a time, hand in yours.
— pairing ⋮ nanami kento x reader
— length ⋮ 5.2k words (it could be worse methinks)
— contents ⋮ nsfw and 18+ content, fem! reader, post-shibuya incident (i've not rly gotten that far into the manga, so there isn't too much from it), nanami lives, he's having a hard time adjusting to his scars :(, insecure nanami, hints at ptsd, mentions of marriage and having children, body worship, blowjobs, cum swallowing, unprotected sex, creampie — he might be ooc i tried my best 🥹
— notes ⋮ this was supposed to be posted for his birthday…which was a month ago :,) anyway happy (very late) bday to my first ever jjk love—you are still the most special in my heart i miss you dearly. ty bby mich for reading over this mwah ily lover 🫶🏽
“here,” you murmur, smiling at nanami before setting the mug of coffee down on the nightstand beside him, “just how you like it.”
it’s a routine by now.
every day, at nine am sharp, you rise from your side of the bed, adjust the curtains so the small peek of light from the cracks doesn’t disturb him as he sleeps, hum the same little tune as you shuffle out of the room, and you make his coffee. it’s the same every morning—black with two spoons of sugar—and sometimes, it’s the only thing that feels the same for nanami since he’s come home from that day.
nanami doesn’t talk about the scars on his body. he doesn’t even really tell you details of how he got them after the incident. the only thing you really know is that it was bad, that he was half dead and half gone. he’d even left a voicemail—you still have it saved on your phone. he remembers walking through the pain, faintly thinking about how he couldn’t see through his left eye, and he thinks for a moment that he’ll die. he realizes that his goodbye kiss that morning would be the last kiss he’d ever give you, so he makes sure to part with at least one final piece of him before he does.
but somehow, he wakes up. he opens his eye—one of them is permanently gone—and he sees you tearily gasp and shoko breathe in relief. and then he realizes he’s alive.
“you should drink it while it’s hot, kento,” you say gently, carefully, like the wrong words are hot water to sunburnt skin. and you suppose they are—just that these burns are far worse.
he only hums, sitting up with his back against the bed frame and his eye still trained on his phone in his hands. nanami’s never really been one to use his phone longer than he absolutely needs to, but these days it serves as a good reason not to look up and meet your eyes—a perfect excuse to hide that very visible side of him he just can’t ignore.
“thank you, love,” he mumbles.
“what do you want for breakfast? i can make—”
“i’ll eat later,” he says quietly. hallow. “you can go ahead and eat without me.”
nanami kento has never really dwelled on whether or not he’s attractive. not before missing half of his face, and certainly not after—that much hasn’t changed. what has changed, however, is that he now dwells on how unattractive he is. he stares a little extra longer in the mirror, walks a little extra faster when he strides past you, is a little extra cautious to make sure you’re never on his left side. you pretend you don’t feel him stiffen under your touch, and he pretends he doesn’t notice your eyes dim every time.
on most nights, he has the same recurring dream. one of a wedding—with pictures of you both gathered around by laughing friends and family, pictures on the wall in a house of your wide smile and his soft eyes staring at you. pictures that he’ll someday show your children, pictures your children will someday show their children, pictures that are worth reminiscing over.
but then, just as his hand reaches for the frame of one, the same agonizing burn from that day spreads through his cheek, down his neck and arm, and stops just at his hip until he’s left numb on one whole side of his torso. then he’ll glance back at the photos, and suddenly, the same sunken hollows of his bones and the same marred skin of his face greet him. he wakes up every time to you beside him, watches the rising and falling of your unconscious figure that’s noticeably closer to him as you find him in your sleep each night despite him maintaining distance.
he often thinks about the vacation photos you’ll never get to take, the family albums you’ll never get to make together, and sometimes, nanami wonders if he really is alive and well when he grieves for himself. he grieves for everything he ever was. everything he ever could’ve been.
“kento,” you sigh, making yourself comfortable on the mattress, right next to his figure as your arm presses against his. it’s quiet—but it’s not the same comfortable silence you’re used to with nanami. he’s not the same tall and steady mountain—now, you think, he’s just an ant pile on the ground, too easy to kick away as you pass by like it was never there. “come have breakfast with me,” you insist.
“i’m not too hungry right now,” he says instantly. he doesn’t let you hear any emotion to his words, doesn’t give you a lot of opportunities to pick up on how he’s feeling or what’s on his mind. it’s an added burden, he supposes—asides from caring for his wounds, asides from pretending like you’re fine and things are okay, you have to deal with all the feelings he can’t seem to handle himself.
nanami has only shown you a vulnerable side once since he’s come home. it’s after the first time he tries to take a shower, when the water pelting against his raw skin hurts too much for him to handle, when the heat of the water burns at the sore spots. he has to take a bath instead, so you help him wash his body gently, carefully rubbing over the skin with a washcloth like you would a newborn. he lays on your chest that night, clutches at your shirt and slots his body between your legs while you kiss his forehead and rub his back until he sleeps.
after that, he sleeps on his side of the bed every night, and he doesn’t dare let himself cross over to yours. you try to stay on your half of the mattress until he’s ready, but you can’t control the way your body seeks his out in your sleep. by morning, you’re curled around his good arm, and he’s painfully stiff on his back as he sleeps, not moved an inch from the night before.
“kento, you never skip breakfast. you’ve always lectured me when i try to,” you furrow your brows, “just eat a little.”
“i’ll eat later,” he repeats, a tad bit firmer this time. you sigh before pulling the covers over your legs and settling deeper into the mattress.
“fine,” you huff, “i’ll just wait for you.”
“don’t be stubborn,” he frowns.
“i’m not.”
you pinch your nose, rubbing over the bridge to collect yourself. you try to be patient with nanami. he’s always been patient with you, always gentle and kind even when he’s tired. he needs you now, so you try to do the same for him—try to be as perfect for him as he would be for you if the roles were reversed.
but it’s hard for you too.
it’s hard to see the shell of the man you used to know. you love nanami even with taut skin and rough scars. you love nanami even with an eye patch and a trembling hand. you love nanami even with distant words and scarce touches. you love nanami even if he doesn’t want to deserve your love, and you’ll keep loving nanami until he loves himself too.
but it doesn’t stop you from growing impatient some days.
“kento, the only one being stubborn is you,” you say frustratedly, the slightly irritated exhale you try to hide does not go unnoticed by him.
he sets his phone down and looks at you fully for the first time in a long while.
“i’m not,” he says dryly, “you can eat without me, i said i’ll eat later.”
“and you can join me for once instead of sitting here and feeling bad for yourself.” he doesn’t say anything after that.
you wonder for a moment if you’ve gone a little too far, if you’re making things about yourself when they should be about him. you wonder if you’re selfish, if you hope he’ll heal for the sake of healing, or for the sake of being your kento again. you suppose maybe both.
but then you wonder if maybe he’ll ever even be the same kento again. but you think you’ll love this kento just as much as the old one—you think you’ll love every version of kento in every life.
“i’m fine,” is all he says.
nanami does not want to have breakfast with you. it’s not because he doesn’t like being around you—on most nights, he counts his blessings that you’re still climbing into bed beside him instead of packing your bags and walking away. it would be the easy thing to do, and he wouldn't blame you. maybe then, you might have a semblance of a normal life, a normal husband who doesn’t—didn’t, he couldn’t go back now—fight cursed blobs for a living. a wedding with happy pictures. a house with photos on the wall. children with a father they can go to the park with. family vacation albums you can put together.
it’s all things he’s robbed you of, all things he let burn away along with the healthy flesh he used to have. he knows that if he tells you this, you’ll insist nothing’s changed. but paper does not smooth down no matter how flat you press it after being crumpled, nanami kento knows this better than anyone else.
he doesn’t want to have breakfast—he can’t stomach the idea of sitting across from you at the table, of feeling the aftershocks of failing you first thing in the morning. lunch and dinner are hard enough as is, and he doesn’t want to skip those and offer you lonely meals along with the pain and suffering he’s already brought onto you through his injuries. he also doesn’t want you to have to stare at his pink flesh and pathetic eye patch and trembling hand. he doesn’t want you to realize you’re stuck, bound to a cage to care for a flightless bird when you deserve the sun’s rays and the wind blowing between your own feathers.
perhaps if he’d died, you’d have mourned him for a year or two. maybe three. perhaps if he’d died, you’d keep one of the ties he’s always worn—the ones you can’t help but tease—and keep them in a box with a photo. maybe you’d meet someone new, someone who’d teach you how to laugh again, to smile and feel the wind on your face and the grass between your toes. maybe you’d get married and throw the bouquet with a sweet laugh and hopeful eyes. maybe you’d move on and be happy—and if he got lucky, maybe you’d take out the picture and tie from time to time, looking back and remembering him too.
but now you’re stuck somewhere in between a stranger and the man you love, he thinks. and he’s stuck somewhere in between the living and the dead.
“you’re not fine, kento,” you sigh, shuffling closer until you can hug his arm. he lets you, looks down at his lap and lets himself ignore his mind screaming no in favor of feeling you press your warmth against him. truth be told, he misses your touch—he just can’t find it in him to let himself have it. “and you don’t have to be. not right now, at least. but someday—”
“someday, i’ll have even more regrets than today,” he says skeptically.
the sun pours through the small cracks of the curtain, hitting the skin he desperately wants to hide. he almost feels the ghost of a lone tear in the eye he doesn’t have.
“no,” you say firmly, reaching to cup his cheek and turning him to face you. you trail your thumb over the scarred skin, rubbing over what would’ve been the apple of his cheek like you always do, like nothing’s changed. “kento, you’re alive. you have things to live for,” you say softly, leaning and pressing a kiss under his eye patch.
and when a single tear rolls down the eye he does have, you catch it with your thumb and rub it away.
“not a wedding,” he mumbles.
“why not?” you tilt your head in confusion, “you…you don’t want to get married?”
“of course, i do,” nanami says quickly. he pauses, ponders his words for a moment before he decides to turn his body and face you fully. “i’m sorry,” he offers with a strained voice.
“what are you apologizing for, kento?”
“you won’t have the pictures you wanted. we won’t have photos on the walls, or vacation albums, or—”
“of course, we will,” you argue, furrowing your brows like the words he’s uttered are completely absurd. he shakes his head, running a hand through his hair—thankfully, that’s grown back in full, otherwise he doesn’t think he’d go out in public at all. the stares from people are expected, but he thinks the looks he’d get from being half bald might just have been a bit too much to handle. “kento, we can still do all the things we wanted. nothing’s changed.”
“everything’s changed,” he clenches his jaw, “i’d ruin them. the pictures, the moments. everything. if we had kids, i couldn’t even take them to the park, or drop them off at school, or pick them up. they’d get bullied by the other kids, the parents would whisper about you. i’d ruin it all. i am ruining—”
he doesn’t get to finish that last statement.
you climb onto his lap, cupping his cheeks with both hands and silencing him with a kiss. he doesn’t hesitate to kiss you back even if he doesn’t understand how you can be kissing him in the first place. it’s like muscle memory. it’s involuntary, the way his lips mold against yours. like the way his heart pumps blood and his lungs breathe in air, like a compass points north and the sun sets west, nanami kento’s lips press back against yours as firmly as he can without fail.
“not to me,” you whisper against him as you stop to breathe, “you wouldn’t ruin a thing to me. our pictures would be perfect, and our vacation albums too. our kids would be lucky. i’m lucky, kento,” your voice wavers. your eyes are glossy and your lips are trembling. you clutch his shirt this time, inching yourself closer until all that’s left is to climb into his skin. you’d do it if you could—scars and all. “i’m lucky you’re here, i’m lucky you’re alive. that you’ll scold me to go to bed on time at night. that you’ll make sure i don’t leave the house on an empty stomach in the morning. that you’re here to let me untie that awful tie of yours or hang your coat when you come home. that i don’t have to sleep alone. that i get to take bubble baths while you wash my back. that we can hold hands while we watch a movie. that you’re here kento—with me. i’m not…i don’t have to be alone. i’m alone when you’re gone,” you croak, tears slipping past your cheeks and splashing onto his shirt under you. “i don’t…i don’t wanna be alone. without you.”
it’s nanami who kisses you this time—and it’s the first time he kisses you himself, the first time he closes the gap and presses his lips to your own since he’s come home. he pulls your body flush against him, trying to make up for the time he’s kept you away. you kiss him back hard, silent streams of tears running down your face as you desperately taste him on your tongue. it’s a messy kiss, not like most of the kisses you’ve shared with nanami. this kiss tastes like narrowly missing death, like the reaper’s scythe misses by a hair, like heaven has closed its gates to grant you one more day on earth.
you pull away first, and he almost protests until you kiss under his eyepatch again. you trail your lips down his cheek and jaw, littering soft pecks along the raised skin of his neck while he breathes heavier. he lets out a shaky breath when you gently lift the hem of his shirt up slightly, waiting for his approval—and he almost wants the pull the covers over his body and shut his eyes and sleep again, but he decides to take a chance and let you peel his shirt from his body.
he doesn’t meet your eyes. he can’t. not when you’re staring down at his skin, tracing along the line that separates healthy flesh from scarred—along the line that separates his past from the present. and then you cross over to the side that’s not so perfect, that’s not smooth and promising under your touch, the side that’s rough and tight and a reminder of things he failed to do—and you kiss it.
“you’re beautiful. perfect,” you murmur as you kiss along his collarbone, all the way to his shoulder and back again, down his chest and along his abs, right to his waist where you press one last kiss to his hipbone sweetly. he’s panting by now, and nanami is more than a little embarrassed that he’s as hard as he is from something as little as affection.
but your lips are so near where he needs them so badly—and it’s been ages since he’s let himself indulge in anything sexual. even on his own.
“can i?” you hum, making him groan when you roll your palm over his crotch, feeling his erection poking through his pants. he lets his head fall back, lets his hands clutch the sheets under them as you untuck him from his pants when he nods. “missed you, kento,” you murmur, kissing the head of his cock.
the gesture makes him shudder, a weak grunt falling from his lips as he breathes heavier, letting out a soft groan when you smear the dribbling pre cum from his tip along his length. he’s sensitive, you note, more than he usually is—maybe it’s from not doing this for so long, maybe it’s from finally letting himself indulge in your touch after avoiding it, maybe it’s from the excitement that you still want him enough to do this. whatever it is, nanami moans softly when you stroke him slowly, chest rising and falling as you squeeze the base of his cock with every drag of your fist, cursing when you lean and press a small kiss to his inner thigh from your spot between his legs.
he spreads them a bit wider to make more room for you. he’s on what used to be your side of the bed—he lays there the first night so his burns aren’t next to you, and you don’t have it in you to protest. looking up to meet his gaze, you smile gently at him.
“do you want to stop?” you ask as you rub his thigh soothingly, “we don’t have to if you—”
“no,” he pants, “just…i…i’d like to keep going,” he says quietly. with that, you shoot him a bright grin, one that makes his heart flutter in his chest and his cock twitch between his legs. you pump him a few more times in your hand before leaning in to press a kiss to his tip once more, this time swirling your tongue around the fat head of his cock, gliding through his slit. he groans, low and deep from his chest, lets a hand fall to your head while the other fists the sheets.
“love you, kento. i love you,” you murmur, and then you’re taking him in your mouth, wrapping your lips around his length and swallowing around him. he bucks his hips on instinct, gasping when your hand comes to fondle with his balls, massaging them gently while you bob your head up and down his cock.
“f-fuck,” he rasps, “feels…feels good,” he breathes, closing his good eye and letting his head fall against the frame of the bed. you hum around him, the vibrations making him twitch slightly above you before you pick up the pace.
it’s messy, the way you loosen your jaw and fuck him with your mouth, the way his tip hits the back of your throat as a mix of your drool and his pre cum drips down your chin. he lets out a breathy whine when your tongue drags along the vein under his cock—he’s always been sensitive there. you still know him like the back of your hand, like he’s the same, like he’s not a stranger but the man you love, like nothing’s changed.
nanami has felt the warmth of your mouth pull him into blinding pleasure more times than he can count, but he never thought something so vulgar could make him feel so warm in his chest. you bob your head down, taking him deeper into your mouth, and he chokes on a cry of your name as he cradles the back of your head.
“‘m close, love—f-fuck, you sh-should—” he tries to warn you with a gentle tap to your head, but you’re determined to push him off the edge, so your hand squeezes around his balls a bit tighter, rolling the sensitive sacs in your hand and making his hips buck upwards as he grunts in surprise. he cums with a twitch of his cock, his orgasm crashing over him sooner than he expected. you hear him gasp, moaning brokenly as his eyes close and his lips tug between his teeth, hips rolling into your mouth against his better judgment. you swallow what you can of the hot, sticky ropes of cum that paint your mouth, hand pumping the base of his cock where you can’t fit. every crack in his voice and every low call of your name as he spills into you makes the walls of your pussy clench around nothing, an ache steadily building between your legs.
“so good,” he pants, spilling the last few ropes of his cum as he cants his hips up, “f-feels so good.” you pull away, swallowing whatever’s in your mouth as you stare up at him, making his eyes close as he lets out a low groan at the sight. you giggle when his cock twitches again between his thighs, still hard and heavy between his legs.
“not enough, baby?” you tease, kissing just below his belly button before you climb onto his lap, cupping his face as he smiles softly.
“i suppose not,” he chuckles lightly, “i don’t think i’ll ever get enough of you.”
“i love you, kento,” you murmur again, kissing along his jaw and nipping at his skin. his hands grip at your hips, squeezing firmly as he guides your clothed cunt to rub against his cock, making you sigh against his neck as your clit rubs over him through the fabric. “so much, you know. i don’t think i could ever stop.”
“yeah?” he asks quietly, “you think so?”
“yes,” you pout, wrapping your arms around his neck, burying your face into the crevice of his shoulder. he wraps an arm tightly around you, rubbing the small of your back as he feels you as close as space permits you to get—and even then, it’s not close enough. “i’m pouring my heart out, right now. you could say ‘i love you too,’ you know. now would be a perfect time.”
you feel his chuckle rumble from his chest against yours, and it’s the first time you’ve heard him laugh since he’s opened his eyes that day.
“no need to get so impatient, love,” he teases. nanami feels the sun soak his skin through the cracks of the curtains, and he sees the way it catches in your eyes and brings out the small flecks in your irises as you pull from the crook of his neck to press your forehead to his. the day has only begun, but he thinks for the first time in a long time, there’s more waiting for him. “i,” he presses a gentle kiss to the tip of your nose, “love you too.”
“a lot?” you bat your lashes with a cheeky grin. he shakes his head in amusement.
“i’ll have to think about that one,” he pretends to ponder for a moment.
“kento,” you whine, pouting deeper. nanami chuckles once, then twice, and then soft, sweet laughter pours from his mouth like honey trickles from the comb. it makes you giggle with him, contagiously pulling you to join his moment of glee. his chest is light but his arms are heavy with the weight of you in them—and he can’t ask for more.
maybe nothing’s changed after all.
“a lot,” he agrees with a nod. “i love you a lot. more than anything.”
“i want you more than anything,” you whisper, gently grinding your hips down on him, biting your lip as he drags along your throbbing clit. you whimper softly when his hand travels under your shirt, kneading your breasts in his palms as you roll your hips against him.
“i think i can give you that,” he murmurs.
it happens quicker than you can imagine. your shirt is pulled over your arms and your bra is unclasped. nanami flips you both over so your back hits the mattress and he’s hovering over your chest, lips wrapping around a pebbled nipple as he sucks and rolls his tongue over it. your hand clutches at his blonde locks, head thrown against the pillow as you whine, back arching a little when his hand reaches for your other tit and his fingers rub and pinch at your nipple so as not to leave it neglected.
“k-kento, please,” you breathe, “more.”
he hums, switching his mouth and his hand to give the same attention to the other side, slotting a knee between your legs and spreading them wide. you’re dripping, pussy aching as it craves the stretch of his cock. it’s almost nauseating, how much you need him—thankfully, he seems to have an idea.
you breathe his name the same way you always do when he slips himself into you, breathless and in love, brimming with lust and awe, glossed with ache and need. he sets his jaw and presses his forehead to yours, feeling your tight walls squeeze him in as he lets you adjust. and when you buck your hips with a greedy whine, just like you always do, he all but pulls out completely before slamming into you, just like he always does.
“god, kento,” you moan, “so full. feels good—always make me f-feel good. only you.” he groans at your words, hips rutting into you desperately as he chases the friction of your wet cunt, lost on the way your walls flutter around him.
you were made for him, he thinks, the way your pussy hugs around him, the way he fits so perfectly, the way your bodies slot against each other just right when you pull him close. nanami kento is sure you were sculpted by steady hands, deliberate and slow—and he can only hope he’s enough to be yours, enough to reach for your hand and feel the way your fingers entwine and your heart seeps through your palm into his.
he’ll cradle it carefully, until he’s enough for you, until you’ll willingly take his heart when he hands it to you too.
but something tells him from the way your cling to him, arms around his neck, chests pressed so closely that your nipples graze, that you want his heart in your palm too.
“fuck,” he grunts, “missed fucking you like this,” he mumbles against the shell of your ear, nibbling on your earlobe as you mewl, raising your hips and meeting his sloppy thrusts halfway. “missed the way you take me so well, love. so tight,” he breathes.
he lets a hand travel between your bodies, rubbing at your clit in slow circles that make you squeal, legs wrapping around his waist as your thighs tremble. his fat tip kisses your sweet spot, the one he knows by heart as he angles his hips and slams into you with precision, the slow, sloppy roll of his hips building up your orgasm in a steady ache. your hands find his hair, tugging at the roots as you let wanton moans spill from your mouth. and he’s everywhere, his skin against yours, his mouth pressing hot, searing kisses along your jaw, his vein dragging along your walls as his cock curves into you just right.
you can feel the coil in your belly tighten until it’s just ready to snap, can feel yourself get closer to your high, can feel the way nanami is close too as he twitches in your dripping heat. he’s groaning into your neck, head falling into the juncture of your shoulder as he lets out deep grunts, balls heavy and aching to release.
“kento, kento,” you chant his name. it leaves a tender feeling swimming in his chest, fond and proud and a little grateful all at once. the way you say his name like that makes him think you still need him, that he’s still enough, that he’s still everything you want. and when you tug at his roots, letting out a soft sob as his thumb rubs harshly over your sensitive clit, he smiles a little against your skin. “‘m so close kento, n-need it. need it so bad, please.”
“let go,” he kisses your neck, “cum for me, love.”
and you do. hard.
it’s been as long for you as it has for him—sometimes you let yourself forget that. but he slams himself into your walls, your slick smeared messily along your thighs, and you cum on his cock with a silent sob. your back arches as you cling to nanami, tugging at his hair while he fucks you through your high, groaning deeply at the way your walls spasm around his cock.
your high sends him hurdling into his own release, his second orgasm rippling through his spine as pleasure burns through every nerve. nanami’s head falls to your shoulder, and he faintly registers your hand cradling the back of his head as he desperately ruts into you, rhythm sloppy. he paints your walls white, thick ropes of cum filling you up as he fucks his load deep into your sloppy cunt.
“god—you’re all i need,” he moans, “everything i need—c-can’t lose you, never you. i love you. i love you,” he chokes, panting as he trembles in your arms with the last new waves of his high. you’re repeating the words back—and through soft sniffles, he faintly registers—while your fingers are gently threading through his hair.
and when he slips out of you, slumping onto the bed beside you as he collects you in his arms, he realizes that this is the first time he’s laid on his side of the bed since he’s come home to you.
“i love you, kento,” you say for what feels like the millionth time that night. and you think you’ll keep repeating it for as long as he needs it. “thank you for coming home to me.”
you kiss over his scarred skin, he brings the sheets over your bodies, and nanami kento is home. nothing’s changed.
“thank you for bringing me home,” he smiles, kissing your forehead.
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