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.
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.
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.
He glanced up, fingers still tapping. "Did you eat?"
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.
"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.
You looked at the clock. Almost 1 a.m.
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.
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.
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
Your fingers hovered, then typed something you didn’t think too hard about.
🧍♀️You: if you ever stream, I’d watch
But just as you moved to log off, his name blinked back to life.
🕹️ OfflineButHere: you already do
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.
“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.”
He flicks his eyes up to meet yours — gold in candlelight, unreadable.
“On what you’d want the points for.”
It’s stupid, how fast your heart picks up. How close he is. How easy it would be to lean in, just a little—
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.
“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.
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.
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?”
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.”
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 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.
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?”
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.
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.”
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.
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?”
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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
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