sigh… i just wanna mark kenma up 😔
Kenma sits on your bed, legs curled up beneath him, sleeves of your hoodie pulled down so far they swallow his hands. It smells like you—warm, familiar, and safe. And if he tugs the collar down just a bit, he can see the mottled blush of hickies you left all along his neck and collarbone. They’re fresh and dark, some a little messy, others perfectly shaped. He’d tilted his head for you so obediently earlier, let you mouth at his skin until he was sighing and squirming under your weight.
Now, he’s alone in your room, bare legs on your sheets, only your hoodie and his boxers on, and he can’t stop looking.
His phone feels too big in his hands as he lifts it, angles the camera toward his neck. The first picture is a little shaky. He bites his lip and takes another, lowering the hoodie just enough to expose more of the bruises. The sight makes his stomach flutter, blood rushing right back down to where you’d left him so needy earlier.
He takes a few more photos—some close, some angled from below where his thighs peek out beneath the hem of your hoodie, just the suggestion of skin and shadows. It makes his face heat up so badly that he has to pause and press his cheek into the sleeve to cool off.
After a minute, he scrolls through them. His breathing is a little quick, a little shallow. His heart is pounding. Every photo reminds him of your mouth, your hands, your voice. And he looks owned. Ruined, even. It’s embarrassing—he likes it too much.
He hesitates. Then selects the one where he’s glancing shyly to the side, neck tilted to show the worst of the marks, mouth parted. Sends it to you without a word.
A minute passes. Then two.
And then your reply buzzes through:
“You look so pretty like that, baby.”
His breath catches.
He immediately hides his face in the crook of his arm, whining quietly into your hoodie. He can’t help the way his thighs press together, how his hips shift just a little. He wants you to say it again, wants you to come back and see how flustered he is. How desperate. All from your words. All because of you.
He shakily types a response.
“I can’t stop looking. Is that weird?”
His fingers hover for a second before hitting send.
He stares at the screen, waiting, chest tight with something sweet and aching. Needy.