I do not write smut—as I am in no way in my capabilities of writing it myself. However, I am comfortable in writing descriptions and jokes of mature content and profanity.
I am freely accepted to decline your request especially of non interest and if it is dead dove.
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.
Context : you had a bad dream and you were looking for some comfort. Luckily, the love of your life is here.
yoohoo. I’m trying to release more smaus because I know when time goes by, my schedule is gonna get more packed as each day passes. :,) (pray for me.) Hope u like this anon
Warning : a teensy bit suggestive. But it’s very mild to assume it to be tbh.
Kenma thought you were insufferable back in high school, but it was never hate.
Because no matter how hard he tried, he simply couldn’t bring himself to hate you. He just didn’t understand why.
You were loud when he was quiet. Bright-eyed when he wanted to disappear. Always reaching out, even when he never reached back.
Your first interaction came on an otherwise uneventful afternoon:
The exam results had just been handed out. Kenma barely reacted—his eyes scanned the paper once, then drifted away, uninterested. A perfect score. In science, no less. But he didn’t care.
You noticed.
And he didn’t like that.
“Kozume, wow! Look at your score!” you said, voice soft but brimming with something warm. You leaned slightly over the desk between you, eyes catching his. “Congrats!”
You smiled. Expecting one back.
He blinked at you, like your words hadn’t registered. Then, in that quiet, almost disinterested way of his, he mumbled, “Thanks.”
It was barely audible.
But what really unsettled him was the way you looked at him—not in awe, not because of the score, but because you saw him. Really saw him. Like you could tell the perfect score didn’t mean anything to him. Like you noticed he wasn’t proud, just… tired.
You didn’t understand why he looked sad when you’d just complimented him. You were genuine, too. A perfect score—who wouldn’t be happy about that?
Apparently, Kenma.
The teacher started droning on about the next unit, you weren’t listening. You were too busy staring at him.
And he knew.
He felt it like a spotlight—your gaze, your presence, your kindness. He disliked it. It was too much. He didn’t know how to deal with people who noticed things. Who made him feel like he’s in a spotlight.
So he avoided you after that. Or tried to.
But you kept showing up, offering gum during breaks, asking him what games he liked, sketching quietly in your notebook beside him when he had nothing to say in lunch breaks. You didn’t force anything.
And that, somehow, was worse.
Because part of him started to wait for it. For you.
Years later, he’d tell you that.
You’d be sitting at the kitchen table, your tablet laid down the desk, drawing, beside a half-finished cup of tea, and he’d walk up behind you, resting his chin lightly on your shoulder.
“You were annoying,” he’d say softly.
You’d laugh. “You’ve told me that before.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he’d murmur. “Back then… I didn’t get why I couldn’t ignore you.”
And you’d smile to yourself, tracing the lines of the face you were drawing—his face—because somewhere along the way, the quiet boy who couldn’t look you in the eye became the man you woke up next to every morning.
hi!! i rlly love ur work so im just wondering if u can do genshin smau/texts where reader does the "catherine method" on bf genshin chara, any charas are fine w me (but if u also dont wanna do this, its also fine ^_^)
have a nice day & dont forget to drink water!!
𝕮𝖆𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖊 𝕸𝖊𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖉
synopsis: in which the genshin men gets a taste of the catherine method.
Thank you for your request anon!! Tbh I was really confused with this trend ngl that i had to search up the meaning HELP
synopsis: In which timeskip!kenma thinks your relationship has gone stale. Without words exchanging—kenma had to do something.
fluff, crack, comfort maybe?
wc: 852
You and Kenma hadn’t really spoken in a week.
Well—to be fair, you had. You were married, after all. You still exchanged words about dinner, schedules, little questions here and there. There were no arguments, no cold shoulders. Nothing was technically wrong.
But it felt quiet.
He hadn’t heard your voice in three hours. That might not sound like much, but after days of short conversations and drifting silences, it was enough to make everything feel… off.
Kenma wasn’t the clingy type. Of course he wasn’t. He was Kenma—calm, introverted, distant by default. But you were his wife. The one person he chose to be tethered to forever. And lately, the silence between you had started to make something ache inside his chest.
So he decided to do something. Try a little harder. Be more talkative.
It would probably drain him. But if it meant hearing your voice more, it would be worth it.
He’d start tomorrow.
————————————-
The morning came soft and golden.
You woke first. Your eyes landed on the mess of tousled blankets Kenma had kicked off in the night. He was curled beside you, one arm still wrapped around your stomach. His hair was a mess, his face peaceful in sleep—and even now, he looked like someone you could fall in love with all over again.
Carefully, you shifted his arm away and climbed out of bed, heading into the bathroom for your morning routine.
You were halfway through rinsing your face when the bathroom door creaked open.
“Morning…” Kenma mumbled, voice still raspy with sleep.
“Mornin’, Kenma,” you replied, wiping your face with a towel, not really thinking much of it. This was normal.
He stepped beside you, picked up his toothbrush and toothpaste, and began putting some on his toothbrush.
“…Did you have any dreams?” he asked suddenly.
You blinked, glancing at him. That was new.
“Dreams?” you echoed, confused but not put off. “Nah, not last night. You?”
He shrugged a little, squeezing toothpaste onto his brush. “Maybe. Don’t remember.”
“Hm. Alright. What do you want for breakfast?”
Two hours later, you were at your desk, working on a commission. A half-filled mug of now-cold coffee sat beside your tablet. You were focused—until a soft knock came from the door, followed by it cracking open just enough to reveal Kenma’s face.
“Hey…” he said. “Can I hang out in here for a bit?”
You turned your chair toward him. His expression looked nervous—unsure.
“You don’t have to ask, Ken,” you smiled. “You’re always welcome.”
He stepped in, sitting on the floor near your desk. Five minutes passed. Silence. Comfortable, warm. You liked how the two of you could be quiet together, still perfectly in sync-
“What do you think I should play next stream?” Kenma asked, eyes still on his Switch.
You blinked, surprised. “Uh… maybe Dollmare? That horror indie game?”
He paused, considering. “That sounds… fun.” He closed his Switch and looked at you for the first time.
“Do you think I should cut my hair?”
—
Hours passed, and it became obvious—very obvious—Kenma had been talking to you all day.
Even when he went to stream, he kept taking short breaks to come find you.
“How many chromosomes does a person have again?” he asked at one point. (He knew.)
“What’s for dinner? Should I order?” (You’d told him twice you were cooking pasta.)
“…I got the achievement from the game.” (That one, at least, made you smile.)
You weren’t annoyed by it. Far from it—you loved it. But still… why the sudden change?
When Kenma finished his final stream and joined you in bed, you were ready with your question.
“Y/n, do you know how to make your texts gradient—”
“Kenma, why are you doing this?”
He froze mid-step. You saw it—the flicker of panic in his eyes. Like he thought he did something wrong. Overstepped. Pushed too far.
You quickly reached for him, laughing gently. “I don’t mean it in a bad way,” you assured him, placing your book on the nightstand. “I just… noticed. And I’m curious.”
“You’re saying it like I don’t talk,” he grumbled, flopping onto the bed with a pout.
“I’m not! I’m just wondering what changed.” You wrapped your arms around his waist and nuzzled into his side. “You can keep going with this question spree, by the way. I like it—even the ones I know you already know the answer to.”
Kenma was quiet for a moment. Then, softly:
“…I just think we haven’t really been talking.”
You looked up at him, and his eyes were already on you.
“I missed your voice,” he added, barely above a whisper. “I missed you. Even if you’re right here.”
Your heart squeezed at that.
You reached up and tucked a stray piece of hair behind his ear. “I missed you too, Kenma,” you whispered back.
There was silence again—but this time, it was full of something tender. Repaired.
You leaned in and pressed your forehead against his. “We’re okay,” you said softly.
“…Yeah,” he breathed, closing his eyes. “We’re okay.”
And for the first time in days, it didn’t feel quiet anymore.
It was your birthday. The day that the duke had been waiting for, as the days of the month slowly ticked by.
He’d marked the date in his calendar–not that he needed reminding–and planned everything meticulously.
Handcrafted gifts sat wrapped with precision on his desk: a journal with your initials carved into the leather, a pendant forged from a rare ore only found near the Fortress, and your favorite tea blend imported from the surface.
He even reserved a quiet terrace in the upper levels of the Fortress, just far enough from the noise and steel to feel like a slice of peace. Flowers were brought in. The lighting was perfect. He practiced how he would say “Happy Birthday” more than once, though he'd never admit it.
Everything was bound to be perfect.
It's now been an hour since you assured him you would meet him at exactly 12 o'clock. The sun hangs high in the sky, casting shadows across the pavement, and the clock on the wall ticks mercilessly, reminding me of the passing time.
Now, he can't help but wonder–where could you be? Did he perhaps misread the time or miscalculate the hour? Or maybe the battery in his clock has failed, leaving him unaware of our appointment? More troubling, did you simply forget our arrangement?
As time dragged on, Wriothesley grew tired of waiting. Patience had long been his armor–honed through years of expecting little and losing much–but tonight, it felt heavier than ever. He had ytold himself you would come, that your promise meant something unshakable, but as the hours passed and the silence grew unbearable, that quiet hope withered.
He wasn’t angry–anger would have been easier. Instead, a familiar weight settled in his chest, one he knew all too well: the sting of being forgotten, the ache of trusting too much. And as the last candle flickered out, so did the part of him that believed this time would be different.
A sharp knock reverberated through the stillness of the room, prompting him to raise his voice, beckoning the visitor to enter. The door creaked open to reveal Sigewinne, her brow furrowed with concern. A worried expression painted her features, as if the weight of her friend's absence clung to her like a shadow.
“Sir Wriothesley… Are you all right?” she inquired gently, her voice barely above a whisper, as she stood frozen on the threshold, an uneasy tension in her posture. “You haven’t come out for some time, and I can’t help but worry…” Her eyes glimmered with both apprehension and care.
“Are you perhaps… thinking about her?”
Wriothesley looked up at her, and for a moment, there was nothing in his eyes but a quiet storm–gray and endless, like the sea just before it breaks. Then the realization surfaced, slow and brutal.
Right.
You’re not here anymore.
You weren’t simply late. You weren’t going to walk through the door with wind in your hair and an apology on your lips. There was no laughter waiting to echo through the Fortress, no familiar warmth to pull him from the cold. The silence wasn’t temporary–it was permanent. You were gone. Taken from this world like a candle snuffed too soon, and in your place was a haunting absence he couldn’t learn how to live with.
The gifts he had made still sat unopened. The seat beside him was untouched. And the promise you’d whispered–“I’ll never leave you.”--rattled through his skull like a cruel echo.
“I forgot,” he murmured, almost to himself, voice hollow. “She’s not coming back.”
And for once, even Sigewinne had no words to fill the silence.
“I think… she would’ve really loved all the gifts you made, Sir Wriothesley,” Sigewinne said softly, stepping just a little closer. Her usual cheer was subdued, but still present in the way she tilted her head, hands clasped in front of her. “You put so much care into everything… I’m sure she felt all that love. Maybe she’s even smiling about it–somewhere.” She offered a small, hopeful smile, though it wavered slightly at the edges.
“I'm sure she would.”
Days passed by, Sigewinne finally had time to take a stroll, so she decided to visit your grave with flowers you loved. As she arrived, she saw the gifts that once sat on Wriothesley’s desk, now on your tomb. A melancholy smile lit up her face, and tears dropped from her cheeks.
More drabbles of timeskip!kenma and artist!yn because i love this troupe so much like hello??
Not proofread
Husband!kenma who is probably your biggest clientele who always tips you generously (goes up to $200~) and would commission you just because he loves your art dearly.
Husband!Kenma who lovingly sets the fanart you drew of the two of you as his phone wallpaper.
Streamer!kenma who unintentionally advertise your artwork because of how much he blabbers through how good your artworks are.
Ceo!Kenma who insists on having you design all the advertisements for his company because he trusts no one else with his brand.
Husband!Kenma who quietly plays his Switch beside you in your studio, not because he’s bored—just because being near you is enough.
Husband!kenma who sees you eyeing a rare set of markers or handmade brushes but saying, “I can’t afford it right now.”
Next week, it shows up in a box on your desk with a sticky note: “You’re allowed to want things.”
You, who leaves Kenma’s stream in the background to hear his commentary because his voice soothe you. 😔💔
Husband!Kenma who keeps an old folder of your high school doodles of him, and every now and then, he flips through it—letting the nostalgia make him fall in love with you all over again.
hi! I’m hoping someone can help me! so l'm NEW to the jjk fandom and I'm seeing people on TikTok saying Gojo is an albino black man but google says that's incorrect so l'mLOST- is Gojo black in the canon-have I missed something 😭
Hi dear anon—no.😭 he’s japanese. Pretty sure what you saw on tiktok was just a headcannon made by a fan and just joked about it being canon.
thank you for another anon, didn’t know he wasnt albino
Thinking about timeskip!kenma and artist!yn who got commissioned by the game kenma frequently plays, making your husband specifically only play that character😔🩶
wc: 504 not proofread
VERY fluff, streamer!kenma who’s in love, kinda crack? I wrote this out of spite for my friend
Kenma doesn’t say anything when the patch goes live.
He just clicks the update, reads the notes in his usual lazy scroll, sitting on his gaming chair. And stops when he sees your name in the corner of the developer blog that announced news about games:
“New Limited Skin concept that won by the popular artist @ynart!”
His eyes linger on the text, and something small and fond curls in his chest. You already told him you got commissioned by them anyway. But now, he suddenly feels the need—no, a necessity to get it.
He doesn’t need to check your socials to know you probably stayed up late working on it. He remembers the quiet nights—the scratch of your tablet pen, the soft curse when your linework didn’t cooperate. The way you curled up next to him after finishing the render, exhaustion and pride mixing in your voice.
Now it’s in the game. Official. And for real.
When it was released, he was quick to get it. The money didn’t matter anyway; it was your concept skin, your own art.
The hero loads in with your skin equipped, and Kenma doesn’t say a word. But he plays them immediately. No warm-up match, no practice round.
He just locks them in and streams like normal, conversing with his fans and dealing with toxicity on the game (he beats their ass with how good he is)
@——- :“LOLOL so quick to get it”
@——- : “Bro switched mains??”
@——-: “Wait is that the new skin?? Looks clean af.”
@——- : “THIS BITCH IS SO DOWNBAD FOR HIS WIFE???????”
Kenma doesn’t answer. He just tugs his hoodie sleeves over his palms, pushes his glasses up, and keeps playing—a little quieter than usual, a little more focused.
Every time the skin’s idle animation plays, he stops to admire it. Who wouldn’t when your art comes to life; the glowing detail in the gauntlets, the expression you painted onto the hero’s face. Oh how he adores it.
It’s yours, and he loves it.
He likes that when he’s stuck on a long stream, when your studio is quiet down the hall, when he can’t see you or touch you, he still has this. Something you made. Something that came from your hands.
That night, he pads into your shared bedroom long after midnight. You’re already half-asleep, curled up with your phone, replying and updating clients— the blue light casting soft shadows on your face.
“You saw it?” you ask, voice groggy but sweet.
He nods, climbing into bed beside you. “Yeah.” Immediately turning off his switch to be beside you and hold you in his arms.
A pause. Then softly, he mumbles into your hair. “I’m only using that hero now.”
You blink. “What? Are you really switching mains? I mean, they’re really not meta-”
“don’t care.” His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer. “It’s yours. That’s enough.”
You laugh against his chest, warm and a little shy. “You’re so biased.”
“Obviously,” he murmurs, eyes already closing. “Married you, didn’t I?”
