kenmapple

[kenmapple]

sooo self indulgent, need that

‧₊˚ 「 nekomaboys x thicc!gf 」 ⇢ headcanons ヾ(＾-＾)ノ

occasional nsfw stuff

Kuroo Tetsuro

• he’s so handsy with you. hands on your hips, ass, and thighs are a constant. in public, his hands are on the small of your back.

• he loves hugging you from behind, kissing your shoulders and arms like you’re the most precious thing in the world. also loves kissing your cheeks and poking them. he thinks they’re adorable and sometimes gets cuteness aggression he bites them. you smacked him once. he almost cried.

• secretly likes when guys ogle you. he smirks and pulls you into him by your waist, always thinking a ‘yeah that’s right, she’s alllll mine.’

• begs you to sit on his face. yes you’re scared you’ll suffocate him, but he needs it. “please, baby. i can handle it, you wont hurt me.” he reassures you. he’s in absolute heaven when you finally give in. whispering a ‘yess’ before you go down.

Kenma Kozume

• lowkey obsessed with your body. he’ll try to be nonchalant about it, but he loves when you sit on his lap and nervously adjust yourself as if you’re scared to crush him. he squeezes your ass and shakes his head. “don’t move, you’re perfectly fine right there.”

• loves to leave love bites on your thighs and tummy. he whispers sweet nothings into your skin, making sure you know just how much he loves this body.

• snarls at anyone who dares to make a joke about your weight or body. he’s not usually a confrontational guy, but he’ll stand up for you. “what did you just say.” he’ll glare daggers into their soul like they’ve just offended him

• cant cook to save his life, but he likes sitting on the counter, kicking his feet and watching you. he giggles when you come over and feed him the food you’re making occasionally. he smiles. “mm. that’s good.”

Yaku Morisuke

• acts all tough and stuff but is absolutely in love with your body, especially your ass. he isn’t subtle about it. the type to smack your it when you pass him in the kitchen just to hear you yelp.

• loves lifting you up, proving to you that he can. when you tell him to be careful he chuckles and carries you bridal style. it embarrasses you until he breaks no sweat. “told ya i could pick you up.”

• once caught someone staring for too long and he stepped up to the 6 foot guy. “got a staring problem, pal?” he bucked up to him and the guy nervously laughed and walked away.

• the king of compliments. if you ever feel insecure, he’s right there like: “you kidding me right now? you’re beautiful, shut up.” he grumbles in between kisses.

Yamamoto Taketora

• your #1 hype man. he will audibly gasp and say, “DAMN BABE” every time you wear something tight or short around him. he’s practically drooling.

• he’s a munch like it’s his whole life. will go down on you with full dedication, adoration in his eyes as he feels the weight of your thighs on his shoulders, lacing his fingers with yours while you squirm and whine in front of him

• acts like a fool and embarrasses himself just to get you to laugh when you’re feeling self-concious. sometimes he ends up hurting himself but anything to hear that laugh.

• genuinely doesn’t understand why you get shy when he compliments you. you’ll hear “sexy,” “gorgeous,” and “my pretty girl,” multiple times a day.

Lev Haiba

• LOVESS picking you up during sex—against walls, on the edge of the bed, anywhere he can show off his strength. it turns him on because it makes him feel nice and strong when you gasp in surprise breathlessly.

• lev makes sure you eat well when you’re trying to deny yourself food. he brings your favorite snacks around and will often say “you need your energy. i just want you happy.”

• if you ever want to try a new outfit or style, lev will be your biggest cheerleader — cheering loudly and telling you you look amazing every single time.

• squishes your cheeks and pouts when you cry. “you’re so beautiful. please don’t speak bad about someone i love.” he tells you when you’re being too harsh on yourself.

Yuki Shibayama

• little spoon energy. he likes when you cuddle him because it makes him feel nice and safe. secure, even. he mumbles “i love you’s” sleepily every time you lie down with him.

• yuki touches you like you’re the most precious thing in the whole world. he’ll rub circles on your sides, let you hug him from behind, and shyly kiss your cheeks when you let him.

• he gets flustered so easily. the first time he sees you naked, his whole face goes bright red and his jaw drops—but he can’t stop staring. he’ll stammer out something like: “y-you’re so… so pretty… I don’t even…”

• loves when your cheeks puff out when you’re eating. he coos and almost cries. “oh my god the cheekies—“ you slap his hands when he tries to poke them.

a/n , i love them they’re so cute

more haikyuu || masterlist ↖

[kenmapple]

holy moly ate this up

video game lover

wc: (1k)

syp: MDNI f!reader x kenma, bashful!reader, cockwarming, pet names for reader (baby, darling, good girl), kenma is a secret menace 𖹭

a/n: reposted due to content warning nerfing it (sorry), no beta ᝰ.ᐟ

you were listening—you were—well mostly, but it was hard to retain every bit of lore kenma was spilling out of his lips. this was the most you'd ever heard him speak in one sitting, in that soft, monotone voice that has your heart beating faster.

the way he couldn't contain his excitement, words tumbling out so rapidly it made your head spin.

his golden eyes were unfocused, drawing information from the depths of his mind. you couldn't help but find it adorable, to find him adorable, even despite his shrimp-like posture.

"are you even paying attention?" kenma asks, his gaze sharp and calculating—reading you the way he had his opponents on the court.

"i am... i just don't understand it all."

there's a heavy sigh, a beat of silence, before he's grabbing your wrist and pulling—your knees land on either side of his thighs. the intimacy of the position leaves you flustered, a nervous bubble of laughter escaping you as you scramble to slide off his lap.

to which his hands fly to your hips. steady, secure, forbidding you from getting away. you blink. once. twice. staring into those irises—almost swearing that they dilated when you finally sat firmly.

that's crazy, kenma was just your friend...

yeah, ignoring the long-term crush you've harbored for the gamer, pushing that detail aside.

"uh— whatareyoudoing?"

"getting your attention." kenma huffs, giving you a pointed look before continuing his spiel as if your mind isn't in tatters—you're sitting in his lap, it's fine, just breathe.

all would be good if not for the way you keep squirming, wiggling your hips, restless energy that you can't keep contained. chalk it up to the fact that he's all you can feel, his heat wrapping around you like a cloak. your heart is beating too fast to be normal, so erratic and loud that you're almost certain he can hear it—like a predator stalking their prey can sense their fear.

though your heartbeat should be the last of your worries. the hard press of his growing cock is the more, well, pressing matter at hand. kenma knows you've caught on, your eyes dropping to his lap, to the ever visible buldge straining against the front of his sweats, before flickering back up to his face.

"what's the matter, baby?" he whispers. the corners of his lips are curled up, all smug and secretive.

the pet name catches you off guard, the last thing you'd expect to come from kenma—of all people, it seems like kuroo is rubbing off on him. your eyebrows shoot up at the same time that he shifts his hips, a startled gasp leaves your lips as his blunt head of his cock rubs into you.

"nothing, nothing at all." you mutter sarcastically, rolling your eyes, he knows all too well what he's doing to you.

what you want him to do to you. all the filthy things swirling in that head of yours.

kenma can feel it; the heat emanating off you, the rapid pulse of your heartbeat from between your thighs. he's never had the highest sex drive, but with you sitting on his lap, all fidgety and nervous, it has him wanting to say fuck it and plunge his aching cock into you.

and judging by the look in your eyes, you want the same thing. 

the tension only grows as his hands squeeze your hips, lightly rocking you back and forth in his lap. a damp patch forms all too quickly on your panties, pressing your tits flush into his chest, and kenma doesn't even hide the way his eyes snap down. gawking at the sight, from his angle he can see straight down your top, such a perfect body you have.

he wants to worship it, to turn you into a quivering, sopping mess in his lap.

his hands trail slowly over your figure, mapping it out and seeing what areas have you twitching and gasping. kenma swore to take his time if he ever got the chance to be with you, but his mind and body aren't on the same page as he toys with your clit through your soaked panties. your back arches, a breathy moan falling from your lips with every precise swirl of his fingers.

all those video games and years of volleyball have taught kenma how to use his fingers. it's almost baffling that he can still be info-dumping whilst playing with you, as if it were second nature to him.

"sit up for me, darling." kenma says suddenly, tapping your hips.

you rise onto your knees, eyes going wide when he yanks your flimsy excuse for underwear down your thighs, his other hand pushing his own pants lower. then kenma is tugging you down, dragging your wet folds along his length, letting out a rough groan at the feel of you. so hot and wet. you rut your hips down in tandem with his sloppy upwards thrusts,  filling the room with the sounds of your combined heavy panting.

kenma slips inside of you so easily, bottoming out in one sharp thrust, like you were meant to take his cock. he stretches you wide without mercy, tears prick at your eyes at the sudden intrusion—a welcome one nonetheless.

it's only when you try to move that he slaps your ass, in warning, you're not the one in control here; he is.

"be a good girl and sit still for me." his voice is a low, rough whisper, that has you clenching around him. a feeble nod is all you can manage in response, which gets you another firm slap on the opposite cheek.

"can you do that for me?"

"yes, kenma." you reply, biting your bottom lip, wanting to move, to feel just how deep he can reach.

pleased with your compliance kenma thrusts up once, hard and deep, a loud moan punched from your lungs. his cock hits your cervix just right, stars filling your vision, just a taste of what's to come. he'll ruin you. later."now as i was saying..." kenma murmurs, picking up where he left off, a smirk on his face as he stares at your wrecked expression. he could get used to this.

kunaiiikittennn 𖹭 please do not repost, copy or steal my trash tysm

[kenmapple]

🍎 a/n: haven't posted in a fat minute (2 months...) and im so sorry for that 🥹 made this quick post so everyone knows im still alive and am STILL gonna cook things up for u guys! thank u all for 200+ followers, i appreciate every single one of you. i promise ill post more and get my motivation running. love, luxi 💋

[kenmapple]

he's so weird ugh I love him

what’s ur thoughts on kenma with a cosplayer partner??

a/n ;; omg thank you anon for planting this seed in my mind.. i have so much to say about this

tws + tags ;; nsfw minors dni. mentions of sexual harassment (?). vaginal fingering. anal. slight daddy kink. him just being weird.

KENMA X COSPLAYER! READER

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ he is and will always be your #1 fan

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ he loves seeing you get all dolled up in your costumes and hearing how excited you get when you are gushing to him over the next cosplay you're planning to execute

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ and ofc he'll do everything he can to support you: from helping you pay for 3D printed props, to being your model while you style wigs, or even just giving you ideas and suggestions on how to elevate a look

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ additionaly, if you are one of those people who like to post their cosplays on your social medias, he'll repost your looks to his story like clockwork. since he's a pro-gamer and ceo, he's got a sizeable audience so ofc he's going to summon them to hype you up.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ BUT truthfully, sometimes the way he behaves gives you the impression that he's not fond of your hobby. and that's not true at all, he loves seeing you do whatever makes you happy, no matter what. but he'd be lying if he said the male attention you got from doing it didn't irk him a little.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ often strangers would approach you at cons, claiming to be a fan of yours, then ask for a pic. this act alone didn't provoke kenma. however, an annoying amount of time, the 'fan' asking for a pic would be a grown man — who would disregard kenma's presence entirely and fail to even acknowledge his existence — and during the photo-op, they'd try to get ludicrously close to you.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ that's when you'd assert you'd boundaries (or kenma would interrupt) and most of the time they'd back off but kenma loathed the way these men thought they could get away with that shit in the first place. i mean, kenma was also a self-proclaimed virgin loser before he met you but god damn. even he always knew how to treat a woman with basic respect.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ besides that, sometimes when kenma was feeling especially lovey-dovey he'd scroll through your accounts, admiring the gallery of photos of his gorgeous partner. he had a lot of photos in his own phone of you (with far less clothes on), but he still liked the ones on your social media because those were usually professionally done and you resemble a model in them.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ also there's pictures on there from before he even met you

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ he enjoyed going through the images and seeing how much you've grown as a cosplayer. the way your props would become progressively more detailed and your clothed were increasingly intricate. it reminds him that you're not just a pretty face but also extremely talented and passionate too.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ oh, but you are a pretty face. there was no denying that. he'd stare at your pictures for hours on end just aghast at how fucking perfect you looked in every last costume. your cute features highlighted by your extravagant makeup, and your curves accentuated by the more form-fitting outfits.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ sometimes his finger would slip and he'd end up in the hellish pit that is your comment section, then curiosity would take over and he couldn't help but doom scroll. it make him sick to witness all the bots and pervs saying such lecherous things about you. they seriously don't have any shame and that is revolting. and it never failed to enrage kenma.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ like, yes you have a tight pussy underneath all that armour, he's seen it + used it several times, but what does that have to do with them? they have no right to be commenting shit like that.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ eventually he gets tired of all the fanboys fawning over you and walking all over him, so he starts dressing up with you to go to conventions, and of course you're elated bc he's always super cute when he cosplays!

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ you'll probably go as many famous pairs like batman / robin, link / zelda, mario / peach etc. but the thing is, although he likes the satisfying part of cosplay that is getting to look like his favourite characters, he hates taking photos. so in all your pics together, you'll be posing romantically / in-character, while he just stands there like this "✌😐"

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ oh! also he has this illness where whenever he sees you in a cosplay he finds especially titillating, he'll start acting like a deranged fanboy too. this is especially true if this is an AU where you were a famous cosplayer online before y'all met and he was already a follower of yours. like his inner stan starts to come out.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ less so in public, but certainly when you're in private, he'll have his hands all over you, feeling up and grabbing onto whatever exposed strips of skin he can. his lips will be permanently locked to your general collarbone area, littering kisses all over your supple skin, and refusing to stop even when you whine about how his hickeys are going to ruin your photos (you don't want him to stop..)

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ while in public, he likes putting his hands on your waist and shuffling after you where ever you go. like your his prettiest most prized, cherished doll that he just can't let go of.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ however, when you're in private, his touches are far more risque. he'll allow his hands to adventure between your legs, and his slender fingers will either stroke your puffy folds through your silk panties, or poke at your pert asshole. he's just a freak..

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ and what makes it worse is that he doesn't really mind fingering you or not. in fact, he slightly prefers just teasing you and not going the full way because he likes to hear you whine and beg so lovingly. it reminds him that he's the only man who can make you feel like this. he also gets off at watching you writhe and squirm with frustration in his arms.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ and the little shit will whisper such demeaning things in your ears. like when he hushes you gently and says, "shh. don't be like that, cutie. you know daddy's got you. i'm right here.." and he'll say that, while knowing full well that he is the one teasing your dripping entrance with the tips of his fingers. literally the source of your angst.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ ew why is he like this :(

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ he's probably not got a full-on daddy kink; he just utters some strange, depraved shit when he's horny for you. cos he loves you. <3

[kenmapple]

GOODBYE this made me giggle

Kenma tried his best to be sexy in the bedroom. He really did. But he was pretty quiet besides the occasional gasp and almost silent moan - and that was perfectly fine! Although, imagine your surprise when:

“Wait, faster. - I’m coming, I’m coming. - Almost there. - I’m on top. - Now I’m on bottom. - On me. On me. - Go deeper. - Yeah, just like that.”

You sat off-camera on one of his streams and tilted your head in amused confusion at hearing his comments and deciding to sit in more often in the future. Close enough.

a/n: based on this IG reel

[kenmapple]

online! 4 - kenma smau series

✧.* texting your online friend(?)

author's notes - part 5 will be the final one :( hope you enjoyyy

taglist: @anni3lop101

[kenmapple]

arsenal for kenma is too real 😖

VIDEO GAME LOVER!

you guys met at a roblox game, which game did you meet and how did it went?

featuring; nagi, hiori (bllk). kenma, suna (hq) x you.

crackfic, romantic outcome.

NAGI SEISHIRO

you both met at royale high— he was one of those jake/single/prince guy as a joke, and you wanted to be a troll for him.

you met him at the cafeteria of royale high, you saw him and his terrible name— wanting to mess with the (what you thought) kid, seeing him all alone in the corner, you joined his seat. and the conversation went like this:

you : hii!

nagi : hey

you : ur very cute :3

nagi : thx, u too

you two kinda went back and forth (trolling eachother by flirting) until someone in chat went ‘eww’ and then he private chatted you.

nagi : ur not a 12 year old aren’t u

you : nope

right after that, he sent you a friend request. and that was history, after 2 years— both of you met and strangely enough, actually started dating after catching feelings for one another.

HIORI YO

you both met at life in paradise— he was a random guy that you picked up to be the father of your kids

he was just a random guy that was chilling outside the adoption center, when you pulled the hearts item to him cause you were bored. seeing that, he wanted to mess with you, so he pulled the hearts item from his inventory too.

from there, he sorta just followed you around as you took (kidnapped) 2 kids to roleplay with. but with your odd way of roleplaying and raising the kids, he immediately catched on that you’re most likely a troll and not a kid playing this game.

hiori : why are u giving our kids that

you : it’s healthy

hiori : that’s literally metal

you : it’s natural, so technically it’s healthy

that’s when he shot you a friend request, after around a year— you both face revealed to eachother and began a long distance relationship after learning about eachother.

KOZUME KENMA

you both met at arsenal, you were the always ranked first player until he came and then he destroyed you.

you were peacefully playing, destroying all these children until a player called “kodzuken” joined the game. safe to say, you were humbled. the guy would always choose the other team, or the team where you’re not on.

not to mention, always targetting you, and he never missed. being a little annoyed, you wanted to leave the game but decided to stay until you finally get your revenge. but after countless of times, he private chatted you.

kenma : just give up lol

you : no

kenma : i will keep targeting you

you : alr then vro

and so you did— well, tried to get your revenge. when you thought you won when his profile wasn’t in the leaderboard, you suddenly realized; he had left. curious, you went to check who kodzuken is and found his twitch. turns out? bro was a monster at arsenal.

you shot a dm, and when he replied— you both (somehow) befriended eachother. when they figured out they were at the same school, they became friends. well, until their third year where they dated.

SUNA RINTAROU

you both met at my little pony 3d : friendship is magic roleplay, he was discord and you were playing as fluttershy.

you both met in the canterlot castle, you were using fluttershy and he was using discord. the catch? you both act the opposite of the way the two characters interact.

suna : p-please fluttershy.. i’m so sorry

you : don’t worry girlie, i got you

suna : my hero!

you : grrr..

it was so bad, that a few kids even raged and told you guys that’s not how they act and how both of them are stupid friends. but, both of you didn’t even knew eachother before this.

suna : b-b-but fluttershy, i-i can’t..

you : yes you can ### (bbg)

you : oh come on

suna : ####### (LMAOOOO)

after you said you needed to go, he sent a friend request— which you accepted. you both were initially just bestfriends, but after 4 years being with eachother. you both realize you can’t function without the other. in that equation? you both date.

©chevxyn

[kenmapple]

kenmapple's

socials! 🥧

tiktok - @kenmapple.pie

c.ai - @kenmapplepii

janitor.ai - @moonlit.ly

[kenmapple]

ts 🔥 asl icl no srsly tho I giggled too hard reading this

a digital knock pt 1

syp: bored out of your mind, you try texting your number neighbor- someone who’s number is just one off from yours.

cw: chronically online x chronically online, kenma x reader, smau, extremely self-indulgent, probably ooc, a lot of online references, timestamps are irrelevant.

read part two here (i got silenced by tumblr image limit)

part two here <- READ IT PLEASE

main m.list // hq m.list

dividers by @uzmacchiato

[kenmapple]

hello this is way too fricking cute

Kenma didn’t say anything when you took his hoodie.

In your defense, it was cold. And oversized. And soft in that worn-in, smells-like-him kind of way that made it impossible to resist. You slipped it over your head while sitting beside him on the couch, legs curled under a blanket, as he clicked away on his handheld console. He looked at you for maybe two seconds—eyes flicking from the hoodie, to your face, then back to his game.

Not a single word.

You thought he’d want it back eventually, but days passed. Then a week. And still—nothing.

You wore it everywhere: to your late-night snack raids, to your movie marathons, and even once during a sleepy morning walk to the konbini. It hung over your hands like a security blanket, and sometimes you caught yourself hugging the sleeves just because it smelled faintly of his shampoo.

Kenma noticed. Of course he did.

“You’ve been wearing that a lot,” he said one night, voice soft as the room glowed with the faint light of his screen.

You looked down at yourself, curled up on the far end of the couch in his hoodie and your shorts. “I’ll give it back.”

“…I didn’t say that.”

You blinked. “You want it back?”

He shook his head once, barely. “No. I just… like seeing you in it.”

Your heart did a slow somersault.

There was a pause. One of those quiet ones that didn’t need filling—but your chest felt too full to stay silent.

“It feels like a hug,” you admitted, voice quiet.

Kenma’s thumb stilled on the joystick. He looked at you over the top of his switch. “You could just ask for one.”

You laughed, breathless. “Could I?”

He set the console down, stood, and crossed the short distance between you. The blanket shifted as he sat down beside you and held out his arms, a little awkward but warm, familiar.

You scooted into his chest, and he wrapped you up—soft, steady, no words needed.

And as his chin settled on your head, he murmured, “Next time you steal something of mine… take the matching sweatpants too.”

m.list

General taglist: @pomigranit, tba!! (Open)

© 𝑺𝑿𝑵𝑵𝑬𝑬, 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 ᯓ★

[kenmapple]

eating this UP

what if…timeskip!kenma x f!reader where kenma’s pissed off of a game and he bends you over his desk and takes you right then and there to fuck his frustration out and you’re all whiny n crying bcz you haven’t done anything so why is he using you? smut to fluff ig?

ⓘ 01. HELP HIM WIN NEXT TIME !

⤷ SMUT ﹫ timeskip!kenma kozume x fem!reader ﹫ mdni ﹫ do not let Kenma loose next time ;)

⚠︎ mdni, rough sex, use of desk furniture, light consensual degradation, tears (from intensity), dom!Kenma, overstimulation, slight aftercare (transition to fluff), established relationship .ᐟ.ᐟ

The low hum of Kenma’s PC fan was the only sound left in the room—aside from the deliberate click of Kuroo’s smug goodbye over voice chat and the slam of Kenma’s headset against the desk.

You flinched from your spot on the bed. You knew that sound. Knew the difference between a competitive loss and this. This was Kuroo. And Kenma hated losing to him.

You closed your book quietly and sat up. “Ken—”

“Don’t.”

He didn’t even look at you as he pushed back in his chair, strands of blond hair shadowing his eyes. His fingers were twitching, jaw clenched. You swallowed.

It wasn’t your fault. You weren’t the one who taunted him. You didn’t make him lose a ranked set in front of twenty thousand Twitch viewers. But the way he stood and turned toward you, shoulders squared, eyes unreadable—you knew.

He was going to take it out somewhere.

And you were the closest outlet.

“Come here,” he said flatly.

You hesitated.

His voice cut sharper. “Now.”

Your body moved before your brain could argue. Bare feet padded across the carpet until you stood in front of him. His desk chair squeaked as he sat back down, legs spread. His stare dragged down your frame, eyes cold.

“You’ve just been lying there the whole time,” he muttered. “Doing nothing.”

“I didn’t—Kenma, I didn’t do anything.”

“Exactly.”

Then he yanked you by the wrist and pulled you down across his lap. The motion stole a gasp from your throat, hands braced on the edge of the desk. You barely processed the position before his palm came down hard on your ass, the sharp slap echoing in the small room.

“Kenma—!” you shouted, more in shock than pain.

“Quiet.” His voice was lower now. “You’re gonna take it. Since you’re so fucking useless just laying there.”

You whimpered, more confused than aroused—though your body was already betraying you. His hands yanked your shorts and panties down in one motion, and your bare skin met the chill of his desk.

Then his fingers dipped between your legs.

Of course. Already wet.

“You like this?” he scoffed. “Getting used like this ?”

“N-No—”

He shoved two fingers inside you without warning, and you arched with a gasp. His other hand pressed the back of your neck down into the wood.

“Don’t lie. You were soaked before I even touched you.”

His fingers curled just right, thumb pressing mercilessly against your clit, drawing out desperate, choked noises you tried not to let him hear.

“I didn’t—Kenma, please, I didn’t do anything—” you hiccupped, tears starting to bead at the corners of your eyes from how hard you were clenching around him already.

“You didn’t.” His tone sharpened. “That’s the problem.”

You sobbed a little when he pulled his fingers out. But then you heard the zipper. The belt buckle. Then felt the weight of him as he lined himself up, grabbing your hips and yanking you roughly back against him.

He slammed into you in one thrust, making the breath flee your lungs.

“Ah—! Fuck—!”

“Take it,” he growled through clenched teeth.

He fucked you like he hated you. Each thrust drove you harder against the desk edge, the wood digging into your hips and your scalp brushing the cold monitor stand. Your hands scrambled for grip on the smooth surface, nails dragging uselessly. Your moans were desperate, messy, high-pitched—punctuated by the wet slap of skin-on-skin and his harsh breathing.

Your tears slipped freely now, blurring your vision. “Kenma… Kenma, p-please… I didn’t—”

“You can cry all you want.” His voice was poisonously calm now, rage cooling into venom. “You’re still gonna cum. I know you.”

And he was right. The way he was hitting your spot—unforgiving, perfectly angled—you were dangerously close.

When your orgasm broke, it was devastating.

You came with a scream, body twitching beneath his grip. Your legs gave out, but he held you up. Kept going. Rode you through it like he wasn’t finished. Because he wasn’t.

You were sobbing now, moaning through every thrust as he chased his own finish. “So fucking tight when you cry,” he muttered, hips stuttering.

He came with a groan, deep inside you, hips pressed flush and hands bruising your waist.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. The only sounds were your sniffles, your breathing, and the tap of sweat dripping onto the desk.

Silence stretched.

Then, slowly, his hands softened. Slid up your spine.

You felt him pull out gently, the mess between your thighs leaking down your legs. And then, the most unexpected thing—he pulled you into his lap.

You blinked, disoriented, red-eyed and trembling. He brushed your damp hair back, tucking it behind your ear.

“…Too far?” he murmured, his voice suddenly softer. Quieter.

You nodded slowly against his chest.

He sighed, holding you tighter.

“I shouldn’t have used you like that.” His fingers stroked your thigh where he’d left a red mark. “I’m… not mad at you.”

You hiccupped again, but you curled into him.

“‘S okay,” you whispered. “You just… lost bad.”

He chuckled—actually chuckled—and kissed your temple.

“I owe you dinner. And a bath.”

“And an apology,” you mumbled.

“You’ll get more than one.”

And maybe—just maybe—that was worth being bent over the desk for.

[kenmapple]

HI if u liked my first kenma smau (here!) pls do check out the second part (here for #2!) THANK UUU 😸🤍

[kenmapple]

kenmapple's

masterlist! 🥧

𖥔꒰ haikyuu!!

kenma kozume

-you & me

-texts w/ your bf, kenma ; texts w/ your bf, kenma²

-baking w/ hq boys

-kodzuken mr. beast

akaashi keiji

-baking w/ hq boys

bokuto kotaro

-baking w/ hq boys

-kodzuken mr. beast

hinata shoyo

-baking w/ hq boys

-kodzuken mr. beast

osamu miya

-baking w/ hq boys

[kenmapple]

did anyone else read that one 2021 kenma x reader fic on wattpad called "pac-man rivals" like pls it's still my fav fanfic to this day no lie 😖 i need more people to talk about this fic with (++ also the discontinued kenma fic "do you like me?/dylm?" itssooo good☹️)

[kenmapple]

ohh I'm all for roommates😖😖

And they were Roommates 🫐🧃

Pairing: timeskip kenma x female reader (roommates, secret identity, tiny bit of slow burn → smut) Genre: Modern AU, roommates to lovers, secret identity, smut, mutual pining, fluffy tension, emotional comfort Summary: Living with Kenma is easy — quiet mornings, shared takeout, the occasional side-glance that lingers too long. You’re just roommates. Nothing more. Except you’ve been falling for him silently, the same way you’ve been falling for your faceless gaming partner with the calm voice and comforting presence. You don’t know they’re the same person. And Kenma? He’s just as in love, just as hopelessly silent. It takes a power outage, a few candles, and one vulnerable night playing board games in the dark for everything to unravel — secrets, feelings, and eventually, clothes. word count: 9k

The apartment was quiet in the way it always was after midnight — low city noise outside, the faint hum of the fridge, the occasional creak of old floorboards. You were curled up on the couch, blanket half-draped over your legs, the TV remote idle in your hand. A video of someone playing a vintage indie game, you weren’t really watching played quietly, mostly to fill the silence.

Kenma sat at the dining table nearby, face lit only by his phone. He had just finished a stream, you could tell — his hair still a little messy from the headset, sleeves pushed up, fingers absently tapping at his screen like he was still mentally logged in. You knew his schedule by heart now. Not because you asked. Just… because you noticed.

"You done for the night?" you asked softly, not looking away from the screen.

"Mhm," he hummed, noncommittal. His voice was low, a little rough with sleep or disuse.

There was a familiar comfort to moments like this. You weren’t really friends — not in the way people talked about friendships. But you’d been roommates long enough to fall into habits. You made dinner when he forgot to eat, he brought you canned coffee when he came back from runs to the corner store. You never really pried into each other’s lives. Not directly.

But that didn’t stop you from knowing more than you were supposed to.

Especially about him.

Your eyes flicked toward his closed door down the hall. You could picture the room behind it perfectly: gaming chair, ambient lighting, that ridiculous cat-eared headset he wore when he played certain games for fun. You’d seen it. More than once. On stream.

Not that he knew.

You kept that part to yourself — how you’d stumbled onto his channel by accident a few months after moving in, and never stopped watching. Not because he was popular, though he was. But because… it was the only place he talked. Not just short replies or sleepy nods. But talked. About games, about random thoughts, about things that made him laugh quietly under his breath.

Things he didn’t say to you.

"You hungry?" he asked suddenly.

You blinked. "What?"

He glanced up, fingers still tapping. "Did you eat?"

"Yeah. You?"

He shrugged.

That meant no.

You got up with a soft sigh and padded into the kitchenette, grabbing the last two onigiri from the fridge and tossing one his way. He caught it without looking.

"Thanks," he mumbled.

"Don’t die," you said, half-teasing.

That got a slight curl of his lip — not quite a smile, but close enough to count. You watched him a second too long, then forced yourself to sit back down, hiding under your blanket like it could erase how warm your face suddenly felt.

Your phone chimed. You knew that sound.

A match invite.

You looked at the clock. Almost 1 a.m.

Probably from him.

Not Kenma — but the other Kenma. The one who messaged you under a different name and played co-op games with you late into the night. Who said things like “you’re easy to talk to” and “same time tomorrow?”

The one you didn’t know was him.

You picked up your phone slowly, already seeing the notification pop up.

🕹️ [OfflineButHere]: you up?

You glanced at Kenma across the room. He hadn’t moved, but something in his posture had shifted. Looser. Familiar.

You didn’t think much of it.

You should have.

Instead, you just smiled at your screen, typed always for you, and hit send.

You liked to pretend it wasn’t weird — how often he messaged, how quickly you replied, how it always felt like something tethered you together through your screens.

OfflineButHere never missed a night.

The username made you laugh the first time. A little on the nose, right? A stranger who never turned on voice chat, never talked about real life, but somehow always felt so close. He wasn’t loud. Never flirted. Just… existed beside you. Quietly. Steadily.

It was comforting.

And maybe a little intoxicating.

The game loaded in. Your character spawned just beside his, and you felt your chest ease the second you saw his familiar avatar give you that same casual crouch-hello he always did.

🕹️ OfflineButHere: you’re late 🧍‍♀️You: 1 minute late doesn’t count 🕹️ OfflineButHere: was worried

Your hands paused over the keyboard.

It was probably a joke. He did that sometimes — short, subtle things that made your stomach twist. You never called him out on it.

🧍‍♀️You: didn’t know you cared 🕹️ OfflineButHere: didn’t say I didn’t

You stared at the screen a moment too long.

Somewhere down the hall, the soft creak of your apartment’s floorboards shifted. Kenma. Moving around, probably heading to brush his teeth. You could almost imagine him now — hair pulled back lazily, face dimly lit by the same glow of a screen.

Sometimes it scared you, how similar they were.

🧍‍♀️You: you play like someone I know 🕹️ OfflineButHere: oh? 🧍‍♀️You: my roommate. kenma 🧍‍♀️You: you both like the same characters. same weird routes 🕹️ OfflineButHere: he must have good taste 🧍‍♀️You: he does 🧍‍♀️You’re cooler though 🧍‍♀️(but don’t tell him I said that)

There was a pause on his end. Longer than usual. You bit your lip, heart in your throat.

🕹️ OfflineButHere: I won’t

That was the thing about him. He didn’t flirt. But sometimes he said things like that — short, warm, real — and it left your heart lurching toward something dangerous.

"Fuck," you whispered to yourself, pushing your chair back and running a hand through your hair.

You were crushing on a stranger you played games with at 1 a.m. And you were also in love with your roommate. And you had no idea which one hurt more.

You played for an hour longer. He covered for you when you missed shots. You revived him without hesitation. It was teamwork built on weeks — months — of instinct and trust.

🧍‍♀️You: same time tomorrow? 🕹️ OfflineButHere: always for you

You stared.

Your fingers hovered, then typed something you didn’t think too hard about.

🧍‍♀️You: if you ever stream, I’d watch

No reply.

Your heart sank.

But just as you moved to log off, his name blinked back to life.

🕹️ OfflineButHere: you already do

You stared at it.

And stared.

And before you could reply — before you could even think — he was offline.

You sat back in your chair, heart pounding. Somewhere down the hall, you heard a door creak softly shut.

It’s late — too late — and the apartment is humming with a quiet kind of static. The only light comes from Kenma’s monitor in the other room, the glow of his stream casting faint shadows against the hallway wall.

You’re curled up on the couch, half-scrolling, half-listening. You’ve been waiting for offlinebuthere to log on for over an hour now. He’s usually consistent. Always there when the world goes quiet.

Then — just as you shift your weight, thinking maybe you’ll go knock on Kenma’s door and ask if he wants tea or something stupidly casual like that — everything stops.

A low click. A silence that’s too thick. The whir of the ceiling fan dies. The monitor’s light vanishes.

Darkness.

You blink. Once. Twice.

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath, tugging your phone out of your pocket — only to find it at 9%, with no signal.

From the hallway: “…Power’s out?” Kenma’s voice, muffled.

“Yeah,” you call back, trying to sound more annoyed than startled. “It’s not just the breaker, is it?”

A moment later, he appears in the doorway, barefoot, hair tied loosely back. His phone screen lights his face — soft, golden, shadows clinging to the edges of his features like they belong there.

He shakes his head. “Whole block’s out.”

You try not to stare. You fail a little.

“Oh,” you say, wrapping your arms around yourself. “Cool. So no WiFi, no heat, no microwave popcorn.”

Kenma looks at you for a long second, then turns on his heel.

“I’ve got candles,” he says over his shoulder.

When he returns, he’s carrying a half-melted cluster of tea lights and one fat lavender-scented thing you vaguely remember buying during a stress-fueled grocery run. He arranges them on the coffee table like it’s completely normal, like this isn’t already the most romantic lighting you’ve been in with him, ever.

“So.” He sits across from you on the floor. “Wanna play a game?”

You blink. “What kind of game?”

He raises an eyebrow and gestures to the shelf behind you — board games, card decks, a stack of unopened strategy boxes that have gathered dust.

“You’re a menace,” you say, trying not to smile. “You planned this.”

He shrugs. “I’m just adapting.”

The room feels different like this — slower. Warmer. The candles flicker against his skin and you try not to let your eyes linger on the way his fingers move, deft and careful as he opens the worn lid of some card game you don’t remember buying.

You sit across from him on the rug, knees almost brushing. His thigh rests dangerously close to yours. You swallow.

“Do I get bonus points if I win?” you ask.

Kenma doesn’t look up. “That depends.”

“On?”

He flicks his eyes up to meet yours — gold in candlelight, unreadable.

“On what you’d want the points for.”

You go still.

It’s stupid, how fast your heart picks up. How close he is. How easy it would be to lean in, just a little—

But you don’t.

Instead, you lean forward and deal the cards. Let the silence stretch. Let the candles flicker. Let yourself pretend, for now, that this is just a normal game night. And not the moment everything starts to shift.

The game stretches on, laughter light and easy now, the awkwardness melting away like wax from the candles.

You’re both sprawled on the floor, a scattered mess of cards and game pieces between you. Your hands brush once — twice — and each time your breath catches, but neither of you says a word.

You can’t remember the last time you two talked this much — or laughed, or even touched. It’s… nice. Seeing this side of Kenma almost makes you forget about your online friend, the one probably waiting for you to hop on the game. But tonight, you have to break this streak.

To be honest, this feels better — playing board games with Kenma, hearing him mutter quietly when he loses. There was that one time when he almost bad-mouthed you for winning, only to stop mid-sentence, shocked at himself. You both ended up laughing so hard your sides hurt.

That was nice.

“You want to keep playing?” Kenma asks, voice soft.

You shrug. There’s not much else to do, really — board games or sleep. And sleep feels like the biggest waste ever, especially now, when it seems like you two are finally becoming something like friends.

“I don’t know what else we could do, but… we should do this more often. Play games together, you know?” you say.

He chuckles lightly. “Is once every day not enough for you?”

His voice is low, eyes downcast, fingers fiddling nervously. You can tell he’s a little on edge.

“What do you mean?” you ask, confused. You’ve never actually played a game with him before… unless—

He looks up with a shy smile, shoulders shrugging slightly.

It clicks.

Your online friend… it’s him.

That’s why he’s always on his phone when your friend texts you. Why he never sends you an invite while streaming. Why he said you’d watched him before.

You grab a pillow and toss it at him, laughing. “I can’t believe I’ve been so oblivious!”

You throw another, and another, and for once Kenma doesn’t dodge. One or two quiet chuckles escape his lips.

“Why didn’t you just ask me to play a game with you?” you say between laughs. “I would’ve said yes! We’ve been doing this for months.”

His confession is sudden and so silly you don’t know how to react other than laughing until your belly aches.

“I didn’t know if you would have liked to,” Kenma says honestly.

You stop laughing, the air between you softening.

“You don’t have to guess,” you say gently. “You can just ask.”

He blinks, as if the idea surprises him.

For a moment, silence settles comfortably between you.

Then he says quietly, “Maybe… I will.”

Your heart does a little flip.

You glance at him, and he meets your eyes — a little less guarded than before.

No words, just a quiet understanding.

And suddenly, the night feels full of possibilities.

You lean back against the couch, the warm candlelight flickering across Kenma’s face, making his usually unreadable expression softer—almost vulnerable. A slow grin spreads across your lips, fueled by the intimate quiet between you.

“How about we make things a little more interesting?” you say, voice low but teasing. “Truth or dare.”

Kenma’s eyes flicker up, sharp but amused. He blinks slowly, like he’s weighing the idea. Then he nods, voice calm but with that hint of challenge you recognize. “Alright. But don’t expect me to go easy.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you reply.

The first few rounds are simple—harmless questions, light dares that don’t push too far. But with each turn, the air thickens; the questions dig a little deeper, the dares inch a little closer to something unspoken.

He asks first. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth,” you say, heart rate speeding slightly.

“What’s the last thing you thought about before falling asleep?”

You catch the glint in his eyes and hesitate, just for a second, then answer, voice barely above a whisper. “You.”

For a moment, he doesn’t respond—just studies you like he’s seeing you in a new light.

“Your turn,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Dare,” Kenma replies without hesitation, eyes locked on yours.

You bite your lip, thinking carefully. “I dare you to lean in—close enough to feel my breath.”

His eyebrows lift, but he doesn’t say no.

Slowly, he shifts closer, until the space between you shrinks to nothing.

Your pulse hammers in your ears. You can feel the warmth radiating off him, the subtle tension in his shoulders, the slight tremor in his fingers as they rest just inches from yours on the couch.

He stops just shy of touching you, voice low and rough. “Enough?”

You swallow hard, the unspoken electricity crackling between you. “Not yet.”

A teasing smile tugs at the corner of his mouth—rare and fleeting.

“Truth or dare?” he murmurs.

And the game continues.

You take a breath, heart pounding beneath the quiet hum of the candles. “Truth.”

Kenma’s eyes narrow, the playful glint still there but with a sharper edge. “What’s something you want, but you’re too scared to admit?”

You pause, caught off guard by the question’s weight, the sudden intimacy of it. For a moment, you consider brushing it off, but then you meet his steady gaze and decide to be honest—just enough. “I want… to stop pretending I don’t like you.”

A flicker of something unreadable passes over his face—surprise? Relief? Something softer.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he leans back, exhaling slowly, the tension thick between you.

“Your turn,” you say, voice quieter than before.

“Dare,” he replies, eyes darkening just a little.

You smirk, feeling bold now. “I dare you to tell me one thing you’ve never said to anyone else.”

Kenma’s silence stretches, then he shifts, running a hand through his hair, avoiding your eyes. Finally, he speaks, low and hesitant. “I don’t like losing.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Is that all?”

He glances up, a ghost of a smile teasing the corner of his mouth. “Maybe I don’t want to lose you either.”

Your breath catches, and the distance between you feels even smaller.

Without thinking, you reach out, your fingertips brushing his arm—light, tentative. He doesn’t pull away.

“Truth or dare?” you whisper.

He smiles—a real, small smile—and says, “Truth.”

You lean closer, your voice barely audible. “What would you do if I kissed you right now?”

Kenma’s eyes flick to your lips, then back up to your eyes, dark and searching. “I’d kiss you back.”

The words hang between you, heavy and electric.

Neither of you moves for a heartbeat.

Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, Kenma shifts, closing the space just a little more.

But before anything else can happen, the soft chime of a notification breaks the spell.

Both of you jump, the moment broken but not forgotten.

Kenma glances at his phone, then back at you, a quiet laugh escaping him. “Looks like the game isn’t quite over.”

You grin, heart still racing. “Good. Because I’m not done with you yet.”

The glow from the candles casts flickering shadows around the room as the game’s playful tension shifts into something far heavier. Neither of you speaks for a long moment, the silence wrapping you both like a warm, electric current.

Kenma’s gaze lingers on your lips, then flicks up to meet your eyes—searching, hesitant, but undeniably drawn.

You inch closer, breath mingling, heart pounding like a drum in your chest. His hand finds yours again, this time holding on—not tentative, but sure.

The space between you collapses.

Then, slow and deliberate, his lips brush against yours.

It’s light at first—an exploration, a question.

You respond, tipping your head, deepening the kiss.

His hands move from your fingers to your waist, pulling you closer, as if he can’t get enough of the feeling.

Your hands thread through his hair, fingers tangling gently, careful not to rush what’s blossoming between you.

The kiss grows hungrier, more urgent, the careful teasing turning into something raw and real.

You feel the heat spreading, your body awakening under his touch—the way he cups your face, the gentle but firm pressure of his hands on your back.

When you finally break apart, breaths heavy and hearts racing, Kenma’s eyes stay locked on yours, searching.

He swallows, then murmurs softly, voice almost a whisper, “If you want… we don’t have to stop.”

His words aren’t flashy or bold, but they carry all the weight you need. The invitation is there—quiet, hesitant, honest.

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips.

Without another word, he reaches out again, hands gentle but sure, pulling you closer into the warmth of the moment.

The moment lingers between you like the last flicker of a candle flame—warm, fragile, charged. Kenma’s quiet invitation hangs in the air, and you can’t help but smile, feeling bold and nervous all at once.

“Alright,” you say, settling back against the couch, “how about one more game? Something… a little different.”

Kenma quirks an eyebrow but doesn’t say no. “What did you have in mind?”

You think for a moment, then grin. “Let’s play something like truth or dare, but with a catch: every time someone refuses a dare or dodges a truth, they have to… remove an article of clothing.”

Kenma’s eyes flicker, the hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “A dangerous game.”

“Only if you want it to be,” you tease, letting your fingers brush lightly over his knee.

He shifts slightly, the contact sending a small pulse through your nerves. “You start.”

You clear your throat, trying to sound casual. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

You lean in just enough to catch the scent of him—something faintly woodsy, familiar, comforting. “What’s something you’ve never told anyone about… me?”

Kenma’s gaze darkens just a bit, and he looks away for a moment, fiddling with the hem of his shirt before answering quietly. “That I watch you when you think no one is looking.”

Your breath catches.

You give him a slow, deliberate smile. “Alright, your turn.”

He considers, then says, “Dare.”

You bite your lip, heart racing. “I dare you to touch me.”

There’s a brief flicker of hesitation, then his hand moves slowly—just a ghost of a touch along your arm, tracing a delicate line that makes your skin tingle.

You shiver slightly but keep your expression neutral, making him lean in just a little more the next time, his fingers brushing lower.

The game stretches on, each round a deliciously slow peeling back of layers—both clothing and walls.

You dare him to whisper something you’d only hear in the dark.

He challenges you to tell a secret you’ve never shared.

You both dodge and comply, laughter mingling with gasps and the soft scrape of fabric sliding away.

Every glance, every touch is a conversation without words—a silent question and answer charged with meaning.

When he dares you to trace the outline of his collarbone with your fingertips, your hands tremble just enough for him to notice.

His voice drops a notch. “You’re more dangerous than I thought.”

You smile, the room suddenly smaller, the night far from over.

Kenma’s hoodie lies forgotten between the two of you. Your own shirt is tugged over one shoulder, exposing skin, but not enough to fluster you—yet. The game has slowed down now, cards scattered, your mutual competitiveness replaced by something quieter, weightier.

There’s a silence hanging over the two of you that isn't uncomfortable—just charged. You’re both watching each other a little too carefully. You shift, tug your knees up, and glance at him, catching the way his eyes flick down to your collarbone and back up again, fast—like he didn’t mean to look but couldn’t stop himself.

“So…” you start, voice lighter than you feel, “is this still just a game?”

Kenma looks at you for a long second before answering. “It was,” he murmurs, fingers curling into the fabric of the pillow in his lap. “I think it stopped being that when you laughed so hard you almost cried.”

You blink at him, caught off guard by the honesty in his tone.

“Or maybe when you figured out it was me,” he adds, quieter.

You both fall silent again. This time, the space feels different. His gaze lingers. There’s something almost reverent in the way he looks at you—like he’s seeing you completely for the first time, like he wants to touch but won’t unless you say so.

He shifts again, just slightly closer, the faint smell of his shampoo—something clean and subtle—floating in the still air.

His voice cuts through the quiet, soft but grounding: “Do you want me to kiss you again?”

Your breath catches, and god, the way he says it—like he’s asking permission to feel something, like he’s nervous he read this wrong. There’s no pressure behind it. Just curiosity. Want.

You hesitate, not because you don’t want it, but because you do. So much more than you should. You tilt your head, eyes soft but searching. “What if I say yes?”

His mouth twitches in the smallest smile. “Then I will.”

You nod once, slowly. “Then yes.”

Kenma leans in—gentle, unrushed. He kisses you like it’s the second time, like he’s still memorizing the shape of your mouth. This kiss is deeper, longer. It lingers. It drags out like time’s paused just for the two of you. His hand comes up to your jaw, hesitant at first, but you lean into the touch and that’s enough for him to hold you closer.

You shift in place until your knees touch, and the kiss deepens again, your fingers finding the hem of his shirt instead—holding onto something, anything, to ground yourself. It’s warm and slow and burning beneath the surface. You can feel the way he’s holding back—every part of him still careful.

When you finally pull away, it’s not far. Just enough to breathe. Just enough to see the look in his eyes, his lips slightly swollen, breath uneven.

He doesn't say anything right away, and neither do you. The air is still buzzing between your mouths.

Then you smirk lightly and say, “I thought you were bad at flirting.”

“I am,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb under your lip. “But I’m good at wanting you.”

Your stomach flips at that—equal parts heat and vulnerability.

“Should we…” You glance down at the forgotten cards, at your state of half-undress. “Keep playing?”

Kenma raises a brow. “You mean, keep losing?”

You scoff, smacking his arm lightly. “I let you win.”

“You absolutely didn’t.”

You grin, reaching over for the blanket to pull it over both of your laps, now tucked in close. The tension’s still there, thick and steady, but it simmers under a new layer of comfort. Warmth. Anticipation.

You know this isn’t over. You’re not done. Not with the game, not with him, not with tonight.

And neither is he.

You’re still curled up close, knees brushing and shoulders leaning, but now there’s a noticeable shift in the air. Not just the tension — that’s been simmering for hours — but the way he looks at you. Like he’s taking mental snapshots of every breath you take.

His fingers ghost along your arm again, this time slower. Lazier. You know he’s doing it on purpose, letting his nails barely graze your skin like he’s tracing an invisible line only he can see.

“You’re staring,” you whisper, lips just barely curved into a smile.

Kenma’s eyes flicker from your mouth back to your eyes, like he’s deciding whether to respond or just keep watching you. Eventually, he leans forward again, brushing his nose against your cheek in something that feels more like a touch than a kiss.

“I like looking at you,” he murmurs. “Especially when you’re trying not to squirm.”

It’s stupid how fast your pulse jumps.

You tilt your head a bit, feigning innocence. “I’m not squirming.”

He lets out a soft laugh and presses his palm against your thigh. Not roughly, not to push — just to rest there, warm and grounding. His thumb strokes in absent circles.

“That’s because I haven’t done anything yet.”

You want to reply with something clever, but your breath catches instead. He’s so slow with you it almost hurts, like he’s making a game out of waiting. Like drawing this out is his version of winning.

His lips brush against yours again — not quite a kiss, more like a promise. “Can I kiss you again?”

You nod.

This time, it’s deeper. Slower. Your mouths move together in a rhythm that makes it hard to think, his hand sliding from your thigh to your hip, fingers curling under the hem of your shirt just slightly. His touch never pushes. He only gives you space to move into him, to invite him in.

When you shift closer, legs tangled and bodies flush, he lets out a quiet sound that vibrates right through you — almost a sigh, like this is everything he wanted and more.

And then he pulls back again. Not far. Just enough to make you chase after the kiss.

“Kenma—”

His hands slide to your waist, gripping you gently, coaxing you back onto his lap like it's nothing. Like this is just how he holds people. Like the weight of you on him is something he’s wanted all night.

“I like it when you say my name like that,” he says lowly, voice almost teasing, almost reverent.

You roll your hips slightly without thinking, and that’s the first time his control seems to falter — his breath stutters, and his hands squeeze at your hips.

“I thought you liked taking your time,” you whisper.

“I do,” he answers, voice low and a little rough now. “But you make it hard.”

His hands slide under your shirt now, all the way up your spine, like he’s mapping out each vertebrae. Every inch of him still moves with unhurried patience, but the way his eyes look at you says otherwise.

You press your lips to his again, messier this time. More desperate. And he lets you take it — lets you set the pace for a few moments before his fingers tangle in your hair and he’s kissing you back like he wants to memorize every sound you make.

When you finally break away to breathe, you rest your forehead against his. “Should we go to your room?”

Kenma tilts his head slightly. “If we go now,” he murmurs, “I’m going to take forever with you.”

You shiver.

And god, you want that.

He doesn’t wait for you to answer. Kenma stands up slowly, his hands still on your waist, guiding you with him. There’s something strangely tender about it — like he’s not leading you to bed for sex but for something more sacred. Or maybe it just feels that way because it’s him.

You follow him wordlessly down the short hallway to his room. You’ve seen it before, obviously — passed by it when you did laundry, or when he left his door half-open while streaming — but it feels different now. Warmer. Darker. Lit only by the candles you’d carried here from the living room.

He sits down at the edge of the bed, legs spread slightly, then looks up at you like he’s waiting.

So you climb onto his lap.

You expect him to kiss you immediately, to devour you now that you're finally alone in his room — but no. Of course not. This is Kenma. He lets his hands wander first, fingers dragging up under your shirt again, across your ribs, over the soft skin just below your bra. He’s touching you like he’s committing it to memory. Like if he doesn’t take his time, he’ll miss something important.

“Lift your arms,” he murmurs.

You do, and he peels your shirt off slowly, eyes following every inch of newly revealed skin like it’s some secret he’s finally allowed to see.

“I knew you’d look like this,” he whispers, almost to himself.

You don’t know what to say to that — but it doesn’t matter, because he’s kissing you again, soft and slow, like he’s got all the time in the world. His hands trail down to your thighs, squeezing gently, pulling you in closer so you’re seated fully against the hardness straining under his sweats. The friction pulls a soft sound from you, and he responds by rolling his hips once, deliberately.

You both shudder.

His mouth moves lower, grazing along your jaw, your neck, right down to your collarbone. When he licks a stripe there — slow, warm — you arch into him instinctively. He hums, satisfied, and does it again.

You reach for the hem of his shirt now, impatient, and he lets you pull it over his head. His body is lean and pale, just like you imagined — soft stomach, sharp collarbones, the golden tips of his hair brushing over his bare shoulders.

You run your hands over his chest, letting your fingers linger at his waist, and he gives you a breathy little laugh.

“You’re more confident than I thought you’d be,” he mutters.

“You’re even quieter than I thought you’d be,” you counter, but your voice is already husky, your body already rocking against him without meaning to.

He smirks — just barely — and leans in again. His mouth on yours is slower now, more open, his tongue teasing until you're practically trembling with want. One of his hands slips between your legs, pressing softly where you need him most — not enough to satisfy, just enough to pull another needy sound out of you.

“Please,” you whisper against his mouth.

Kenma chuckles, and it’s low, throaty, unbearably smug. “Already?”

He dips his fingers beneath the waistband of your shorts but doesn’t go further. Just strokes you over your underwear with that same lazy rhythm that’s quickly driving you insane.

“You’re really gonna make me beg for it, huh?”

His fingers pause.

Then: “Yeah.”

You groan, and he finally slips his hand under the last layer. His touch is soft — slow circles, featherlight pressure, making you grind helplessly into his palm.

“I want to take my time,” he says, watching your face like it’s the most important part of this. “You okay with that?”

You nod. “Yes. Just… don’t stop.”

He smiles — a real one this time, soft and rare — and presses a kiss just beneath your ear.

“I wasn’t planning to.”

You barely hear the shift of the sheets as Kenma leans you back, easing you gently onto the mattress. He moves with that same dreamy deliberation — not because he’s unsure, but because he wants to feel every moment stretch.

His hand stays between your legs the entire time, slow and certain, fingers curling just enough to make you whimper when he finally slips one inside. You squeeze your eyes shut at the feeling, head tilting back against the pillow — and he’s watching you again. Always watching.

“I like the way you sound,” he murmurs, voice low and honest.

You reach up blindly, fisting your hands into his hair, and he kisses your cheek, then your jaw, then right beneath your ear again — slow, like he knows exactly what it does to you.

“You’re so—” You try to say something, anything, but all you manage is a sigh as his second finger joins the first, coaxing you open with such care it almost hurts.

“I know,” he whispers. “I know.”

You could cry. The way he touches you is reverent — not timid, not rushed. Just steady. Focused. Devastating. His thumb strokes you softly, dragging you closer with every breath, and he doesn’t stop — not even when your hips start stuttering, not even when you’re gasping his name.

“I’ve thought about this,” he confesses suddenly, voice quieter than ever. “So many times.”

You whine into his shoulder, flushed and shaking. “Then why didn’t you say anything?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just keeps moving inside you, achingly slow, until you’re clutching at his arm, your legs trembling.

“Because I didn’t want to fuck it up,” he finally says. “I liked talking to you. Playing with you. I didn’t want you to think I was—just trying to get this.”

You tilt your head toward him, eyes glassy, skin flushed. “Kenma…”

“I just wanted to know what it felt like to… kiss you again. Touch you.” His thumb moves again, firmer this time. “Make you feel good.”

You cry out softly, the pressure peaking in your stomach, winding tighter and tighter.

“And you do,” you breathe. “You really do.”

His forehead presses to yours, and you feel his breath hitch as your thighs tremble around him. The moment hits hard, deep — and he stays with you through it, fingers still moving, thumb guiding you through the waves until you’re breathless and blinking up at him like he’s something holy.

You expect him to stop.

He doesn’t.

He shifts only long enough to tug your shorts off, sliding them slowly down your legs like he’s unwrapping something he’s wanted forever. Then he reaches for the waistband of his own sweats, eyes flicking to yours like he’s asking permission — not because he’s unsure, but because he cares.

You nod, already pulling him back toward you. He kisses you again, slower now. Deeper. Like he’s trying to say everything without words.

“Do you want me to keep going?” he asks softly.

You wrap your legs around his waist in answer.

Kenma exhales through his nose, almost like he’s relieved. And when he finally pushes into you, it’s with a quiet, ragged breath that sends a full-body shiver through you both.

He’s warm, steady, intense — like everything about him has narrowed down to just this. You. The weight of his body. The way he holds you, kisses you, buries his face against your neck and whispers your name like it’s a secret he’s finally allowed to say out loud.

And still, even now, he doesn’t rush.

He rolls his hips with that same quiet patience, dragging it out, watching your face every time you whimper. His thumb brushes your cheek. His nose nudges against yours. He’s inside you like he’s still trying to memorize it all.

“Can I… kiss you again?” he whispers, almost shy now.

You pull him in wordlessly.

The kiss is longer this time. Lingering. He moans softly into your mouth as you move together — a sound so rare, so raw, that it sends another shiver down your spine.

You don’t remember how long it goes on like that — soft thrusts, shaky moans, bodies tangled in the candlelight. But eventually, you feel him tremble above you, forehead pressed to yours again, breath caught in his throat.

And then he’s whispering your name again — broken, beautiful — and you’re both falling together in the softest, warmest kind of silence.

Kenma pulls back just enough to let his lips brush against your skin, slow and tentative, like he’s afraid to shatter the fragile moment between you. His hands cup your face gently, thumbs tracing the curve of your cheekbones, anchoring himself to you. For a heartbeat, all you hear is the quiet rush of your breathing mingling.

Then, almost like a quiet confession, he lowers his head again — this time moving with a new purpose. His mouth finds your collarbone, then dips lower, lips and tongue teasing the soft skin of your ribs, tracing lazy, featherlight patterns that send shivers rippling down your spine.

You gasp softly, and your fingers thread into his hair, pulling him closer without hesitation. His hands slide down your sides, moving with a deliberate, possessive care that sets your skin on fire.

Kenma’s mouth trails lower still, finally settling between your thighs with a tenderness that makes your breath catch — and then, with a slow, careful hunger that’s almost desperate, he parts your legs wider.

His tongue flicks out, gentle at first, exploring, tasting — but beneath that softness, there’s an intensity, like he’s determined to memorize every reaction, every shiver, every little gasp.

You arch into him, breath hitching as his tongue moves with growing confidence, circling and teasing, flicking and licking in patterns designed only to please. His hands hold you steady, fingers digging into your hips, grounding you even as your body floats higher.

He takes his time, savoring every inch of you like it’s the last meal he’ll ever have — a slow, reverent worship that leaves you trembling. You can feel the tension coil tighter inside you, a knot of pleasure and need that builds and builds.

Kenma’s breath fans over your skin, ragged and warm, as he hums softly against you — a quiet, almost primal sound that sends waves of heat crashing through your body. He’s not just giving himself to you; he’s giving all of himself, every quiet, nervous fragment of desire.

His tongue strokes and flicks with such care it’s almost unbearable, and you find yourself losing track of time, lost in the pure, raw sensation of being wanted — really wanted, by someone who’s both shy and utterly devoted.

When you finally reach your peak, it crashes over you like a storm — fierce and overwhelming — and Kenma holds you through it, lips pressed to your skin, grounding you with his steady presence.

He lifts his head slowly, eyes dark and serious, breath still uneven.

“I want you to know,” he murmurs, voice low and steady, “I’ll do this — all of this — as many times as you want. As long as you want. Because you’re worth it.”

You smile, your fingers curling against his cheek, and in the quiet candlelight, it feels like the beginning of something infinite.

Your body still trembles under him, heart pounding like a wild thing as waves of pleasure slowly ebb away. But even as you start to catch your breath, you feel the ache deep inside you — that fierce, aching need for more.

You look up at Kenma, cheeks flushed and eyes shining. “Then… please,” you whisper, voice shaky but desperate, “do it again.”

He catches your gaze, and for a moment, there’s a flicker of something almost shy, almost unsure, before his lips curve into a small, knowing smile. “You’re… insatiable,” he murmurs, voice low and husky, like it’s both a question and a challenge.

You can’t help the breathy laugh that escapes you, fingers tangling in his hair as you urge him closer. “I don’t care. I want more. I don’t want to stop yet.”

Kenma’s eyes darken with quiet amusement — and something softer, something almost like admiration — but just when you think he’s going to dive back in, he pulls away, slow and deliberate.

Your breath hitches, heart stuttering in sudden panic. “Hey,” you protest, voice cracking, “don’t stop. Please.”

But he just chuckles, a low, teasing sound that sends heat flooding through you all over again. “Patience,” he says quietly, voice like velvet, “there’s a lot more to this than just rushing.”

His fingers trail lightly over your skin, barely touching, leaving a trail of fire where they pass. His eyes never leave yours, and the slow burn of his gaze makes your skin flush hotter than before.

You babble without thinking, words tumbling out in a breathless rush. “I’m sorry, I’m probably being annoying, I just—this feels so good, I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything like this before, and you’re… you’re so good at this, I don’t even know how you do it, it’s like you know exactly what I need before I even say it.”

Kenma’s lips twitch in a small, shy smile. “You’re not annoying,” he says quietly. “I like hearing it. I like knowing you’re… paying attention.”

He leans in again, brushing his lips just against your ear. “But if I keep going too fast, you’ll miss all the best parts.”

You shiver, both from his breath and from the slow, teasing way he’s dragging this out. The ache inside you grows — sweet, desperate, delicious.

Kenma’s hands settle firm and sure on your hips again. “Ready?” he asks softly, voice low and full of promise.

You nod, barely able to speak, heart racing. “Yes. Please.”

He slides down with slow, teasing movements, lips finding your skin again, slower and more deliberate this time — like a painter tracing the finest details, making sure every touch counts.

And when he finally lowers his mouth to you again, it’s with the quiet hunger of someone who wants to remember this moment forever — every shiver, every sigh, every whispered name.

You lose yourself completely, riding the slow, delicious wave he builds with patient, tender care — and even as your body trembles toward the edge, you know he’s right: the best parts are still to come.

Just when the tension coils tight and you feel yourself about to shatter, Kenma pulls back, his breath warm against your skin. His eyes meet yours, dark and shimmering with something almost vulnerable.

“Not yet,” he whispers, voice low, almost hesitant. “Can I… again? I want to feel you like that once more.”

Your heart races, a breathless ‘yes’ caught between your lips, even though your body already aches from the pleasure. You barely have the strength to speak, but the words tumble out anyway, desperate and raw.

“Please… do it again.”

Your heart pounds beneath your ribs, a wild, aching rhythm that matches his own. Your breath catches as he leans in, pressing himself against you once more. Slowly, impossibly slow, he slides inside, giving you time to adjust to the delicious stretch, savoring every inch as if memorizing you again.

A soft curse slips from his lips—a rough, almost surprised sound—and your fingers instinctively tighten around his arms. His hand trails upward, hesitant at first, then more certain, cupping your breast with a gentle but possessive grip. His thumb circles your skin, sending shivers down your spine.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, like he’s barely holding himself together. He moves with a slow, steady rhythm, each motion careful, almost reverent, like he’s trying to burn this moment into memory.

You lean into him, matching his pace, your breaths mingling in the quiet room. The way he touches you, the soft curses he mutters when you respond just right—it’s everything you didn’t know you needed.

You gasp as he fills you again, every movement measured, tender but demanding.

He leans down to kiss you again—soft, slow, lingering—and your hands clutch at his shirt, pulling him closer.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs against your lips. “Not until you’re mine.”

Your body tightens around him, breath catching as pleasure builds once more, slow and overwhelming.

When you finally come undone again, it’s with him deep inside you, holding you steady—both of you lost in the quiet, messy, beautiful moment.

“You’re killing me,” you murmur, your voice rough and breathless. “Mind if I try something?”

Your heart hammers in your chest as you reach out, hands shaking just a little with anticipation. Slowly, you take him into your mouth, careful and tender at first, your tongue tracing delicate circles, exploring with a gentle pressure that makes him shiver.

Kenma’s eyes flutter shut, a low, surprised sound escaping him. His breath hitching, fingers curling into your hair, stroking softly as he watches you with quiet disbelief.

“Fuck... you’re... so good,” he murmurs between shallow breaths, voice thick with awe. “I didn’t think anyone could… God, you’re amazing.”

You hum around him, encouraged by his praise, your movements growing more confident, more sure. You take him deeper, swirling your tongue expertly, matching the rhythm of his quiet moans. His hips shift slightly, pressing closer, seeking more.

“Keep going,” he whispers, voice trembling, fingers tightening in your hair as if holding on to you is the only thing grounding him.

With every flick, every glide, you feel the tension build—not just in him, but inside yourself. You can tell he’s close, his body tightening, breath shallow and fast.

And then, with a soft curse and a ragged groan, Kenma lets go, shuddering against you as he spills over, his pleasure washing through you like fire.

He stays still for a moment afterward, chest rising and falling, eyes warm and shining as they find yours.

“You’re unbelievable,” he says quietly, voice thick with gratitude and something deeper. “I didn’t know… I didn’t know you could do that.”

The quiet hum of the city outside filters in through the window as you both lie tangled beneath the blankets, limbs entwined and skin still tingling from everything that just happened. Kenma’s fingers trace lazy patterns along your arm, his touch feather-light, as if he’s afraid to break the fragile spell hanging between you.

You rest your head against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing, and for the first time, words begin to surface—awkward and uncertain but necessary.

“So,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper, “what the fuck was that?”

Kenma exhales, a soft chuckle rumbling in his throat. “I don’t know,” he admits, fingers tightening just slightly on your skin. “I guess… that was a long time coming.”

You lift your head to look at him, catching the faintest flush coloring his cheeks. “Yeah. I mean, I never thought this—us—would happen like this.”

He presses a gentle kiss to your temple, voice low and honest. “Me neither. But… I’m glad it did.”

There’s a pause, the weight of all the things left unsaid hanging between you. Then you speak, fumbling but real. “Do you think… this changes things? Between us?”

Kenma’s gaze holds yours, steady and sure. “It changes everything,” he says quietly, “but not in a way that scares me. In a way I want to explore. Slowly.”

You smile, heart fluttering, the nervous excitement mingling with a deep sense of relief. “Slow sounds good,” you say. “Because honestly? I’m still trying to figure out what the hell just happened too.”

He laughs softly, the sound like a warm blanket wrapping around you. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

And with that, you both settle back into the quiet comfort of each other’s presence, letting the night stretch on around you—soft, honest, and full of the unspoken promise of what’s to come.

The sun creeps in slowly, casting a soft golden hue across the room. It’s quiet, except for the distant sound of birds and the occasional honk of early traffic. You wake up disoriented, warm, sore in a way that makes your breath catch, and completely enveloped in Kenma’s arms.

His breathing is even, still asleep, lashes resting delicately against his cheeks. He looks peaceful like this. Soft. You take a moment to just look at him, heart pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with nerves anymore.

And then, like he senses you watching him, his eyes flutter open. Still hazy with sleep, he blinks a few times before offering you the smallest, laziest smile.

“…Hey,” he mumbles, voice hoarse and warm.

You feel your cheeks heat up. “Morning.”

For a beat, neither of you moves. And then—almost cautiously—Kenma brushes a strand of hair from your face, fingers lingering against your skin.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice a little more serious now.

You nod. “Yeah… just processing.”

He chuckles softly. “Same.”

The silence stretches again, but it isn’t uncomfortable. There’s so much you could say. So much that still feels raw, unspoken.

“I thought this would be weird,” you admit. “I thought I’d wake up regretting it or feeling awkward or like I ruined something.”

Kenma props himself up on one elbow, his hair messy and falling into his eyes. “Do you?” he asks, voice quiet but steady.

You shake your head. “No. Not even close.”

He exhales a breath you didn’t realize he was holding. “Good. Because… I don’t either. I actually—” he pauses, searching for the words. “I liked it. All of it. But not just the sex part. Like... being with you.”

You press your forehead against his shoulder, hiding the stupid smile you can’t stop. “I liked it too. A lot.”

Kenma’s fingers start tracing slow circles on your back. “So… what now?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… was this a one-time thing? Or is this something?” His tone doesn’t change much, but you can hear it — the quiet vulnerability tucked beneath the calm. The nervous hope.

You look up, meet his eyes. “I don’t think I want it to be a one-time thing.”

A small, slow smile spreads on his lips. “Me neither.”

And just like that, something shifts — not dramatic, not explosive. Just… real. You curl back into his side, his arm around you, your fingers gently tracing along his ribs. There’s still so much to figure out, but for now, you’re warm, and you’re held, and he’s here.

“Do you think we should talk about this more later?” you murmur sleepily.

“Definitely,” he replies. “But first… maybe we sleep a bit more.”

You laugh softly, eyes already fluttering shut. “Sounds like a plan.”

And in the still morning light, with your heart a little steadier and your body sore in all the right ways, you let yourself rest. Safe. Wanted. Beginning something real.

It’s well past morning when you wake again.

The light is soft and golden, warmer now as it slips through the blinds and pools over the tangled sheets. The room smells like sleep and skin and something sacred. You’re cocooned in a nest of blankets, half buried in warmth — and him.

Kenma is curled beside you, face buried half in the pillow, half in your shoulder, mouth slightly parted, one arm heavy across your waist like he forgot to let go in his sleep. You don’t dare move.

You just watch him for a while, soaking in the details: the way his lashes cast delicate shadows over his cheeks, the faint imprint of the pillow on his skin, the smallest hint of a frown that softens when you brush your thumb along his temple.

Your heart is so full it aches.

You think about the night before — the way he held you, touched you, looked at you like there was no one else in the world. How slowly he moved, how quiet and intense he was, how careful. How absolutely undone he made you feel.

It wasn’t just sex. You both know that now.

Eventually, he stirs, blinking slowly like waking up takes real effort. His eyes find you, and he hums a low, content sound, pressing closer.

“Still here,” he murmurs.

You smile, brushing hair out of his face. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He smiles back, sleep-soft and honest. “Good.”

The morning passes in whispers and soft touches, moving only when necessary. At some point, you drag yourselves to the kitchen to eat toast half-naked and laugh quietly about nothing. You don’t talk about what it means — not yet. But the silence is different now. It’s not hiding anymore. It’s comfort.

Later in the afternoon, Kenma moves to his desk and stretches lazily, turning on his PC. You’re still draped in one of his hoodies and a pair of sleep shorts, sipping tea on his bed.

He starts to stream without much fanfare, his voice low and a little raspy as he greets chat. For a while, it’s just game sounds and his familiar quiet commentary.

Then he turns slightly, eyes flicking toward you. “Come here a sec.”

You blink. “Me?”

He nods once. “Just for a second.”

You walk over, curious, and he tugs you gently into frame — not fully, just enough that chat can see your shoulder, a glimpse of your face, his hand resting lightly on your hip.

“Chat’s been asking why I sound so smug today,” he says lazily.

You roll your eyes and laugh. “Maybe because you’re annoying?”

He grins, barely suppressing it, eyes flicking back to the screen. The chat explodes in emojis and chaotic comments, but he doesn’t care. He just leans his head briefly against your arm like it’s nothing.

“You’re cute on stream,” you murmur to him quietly.

He shrugs, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. “Only because you’re watching.”

authors note: yaay omg!!! I really hope ya`ll liked reading this :) I haven't really written anything in months, so excuse me if this is a bit all over the place. Also, English is not my first language, so bear with me 😭 btw requests are open just in case anyone is wondering, I am up to pretty much anything <3

[kenmapple]

sweet🥹

Synopsis: In which Kenma and you got into an argument. In return, kenma didn’t really know how to handle the aftermath.

Angst to comfort, fluff. Artist!yn x timeskip!kenma

wc: 1070

Kenma and you didn’t do big fights, no. You were both mature enough to handle what was right or wrong. Until it broke.

It started stupidly, like most big fights do. Small. Harmless. A tossed comment, unmeasured.

You’d been working late again. Your stylus clicking against the tablet filled the apartment long past midnight. Kenma had finished stream hours ago and came to check on you—not because he was mad. Just… tired. You hadn’t noticed him at first.

A knock came abruptly at the door of your studio making you startled. Guessing already who that person would be. “I’m almost done,” you’d said, without looking at the door.

He leaned on the doorframe, watching the way your shoulders curled in on themselves. “You said that yesterday.”

That was the match strike. You looked up, eyes sharp. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He didn’t answer fast enough. And when he did, it was clipped. Dull. “It means you’re always ‘almost done,’ but you never stop.”

You turned in your chair, arms crossed. “So now you’re keeping track?”

“No,” he muttered. “I’m just tired of trying to talk to you when you’re not even here.” He’s eyes glanced at the floor like it was interesting. He was clearly uncomfortable in the situation. Which, you didn’t see at the time.

You blinked. And then you stood, fast—too fast—and the chair scraped the floor like a scream. “Kenma. I already told you how busy I am. Isn’t that enough reasoning?”

He didn’t answer. He just stared at you like he was somewhere far away already. Like if he said anything else, he’d regret it. So he didn’t.

And that was the worst part. Because silence, from Kenma, didn’t mean he wasn’t upset. It meant he was shutting down, it meant the wall was already up. Something high that you can’t reach even if you tried to.

And that made you scared. Really, scared. And all you can do is really to blame yourself. You were too frustrated. The way your line works didn’t cooperate with you, after getting commissions left and right. You could’ve declined some of them, sure. But you felt too, guilty. And that was the death of you.

You tried to fix it. You really did.

But he didn’t say a word. Didn’t look at you. When you followed him to the living room after the argument died down, he was already curled up in the corner of the couch with his hoodie drawn up over his hands and the TV on mute. He wasn’t watching it.

He didn’t storm out. He didn’t leave.

He just stopped responding.

You went back to the bedroom, eyes burning. Not because he said something cruel—but because he didn’t say anything at all. And when Kenma didn’t talk, it wasn’t to hurt you.

It was because talking cost something he didn’t always have to give. Especially when he didn’t know how to explain what he was feeling in the first place.

It had been nearly three hours. Neither of you had spoken.

You sat on the edge of the bed, tablet untouched on the nightstand. The commission queue could wait. Everything could wait.

You kept replaying the moment in your head—how his voice cracked just barely when he said, “I’m tired of trying to talk to you,” like he wasn’t sure if it was even okay to say that out loud.

He didn’t mean it to be an attack. Kenma rarely meant anything as an attack. But it hurt anyway. Because he was right. You hadn’t really been there.

But he hadn’t either, not really. Lately, both of you had just been coexisting. Like two streams running beside each other without crossing.

Work. Stress. Burnout. The stuff that accumulates quietly and kills things slowly.

Eventually, the silence got too heavy.

You stood up. Walked out to the living room. He was still in the same spot, staring at the black TV screen like it owed him something.

You didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there. The light from the window made everything feel even quieter.

Then, finally, you moved closer. Sat down on the other end of the couch. Not too close. Just close enough that he could feel you if he wanted to.

“I’m still here.” You said quietly.

Kenma didn’t look at you. But his shoulders tensed. You didn’t expect a response. Didn’t need one.

“I know it’s not fair. That I’ve been too busy. That you’ve been quiet and I didn’t notice until it got this bad.” Your voice cracked, but you kept going. “I just- I didn’t mean to make you feel like you don’t matter.”

Silence. Still. But different now. Not as distant. His fingers curled slightly around the fabric of his hoodie.

You sighed, leaning back against the cushion. “You don’t have to say anything. I know you don’t want to.”

You paused. Then,

“But I just wanted you to know I still want to be here. With you. Even when it’s hard.”

A beat passed. Then another.

Kenma shifted.

Slow, tentative. his body turned, just enough that his leg touched yours. Not deliberate, not accidental either.

Then, finally—he spoke. Barely above a whisper.

“I know.”

You didn’t say anything. You just nodded. And for a while, that was enough.

Eventually, Kenma leaned into you. His head dropped to your shoulder, heavy, like he’d been holding everything up for too long.

You didn’t say it, but he felt it. You were still here. And so was he.

No apologies.

Just the quiet, wordless promise of two people who didn’t know how to say the right things, but stayed anyway.

[kenmapple]

Based on that one “sir this is a psych ward” meme

I’ve been meaning to finish this for seven months shhh