You adjusted your headset, heart already doing that weird fluttering thing it always did when Kenma invited you to stream together. His familiar voice came through your speakers, low and calm.
“Ready?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” you said, trying to sound confident, even though you knew what was about to happen Kenma was about to absolutely carry you again.
The game loaded in, and chat immediately flooded with excitement.
Kozukitty: Kenma’s duo!!
y/nslayer: Hi Y/N!! You got this!
softservepls: Kenma hard carrying incoming lol
Kenma’s webcam showed his usual relaxed posture messy hair, oversized hoodie, eyes focused on the screen. You could see him glancing at chat occasionally, fingers moving effortlessly over the keyboard.
“Don’t look at chat,” he murmured, voice soft but teasing. “They’ll distract you.”
You laughed. “They’re just excited. They love watching me miss my shots.”
He smirked, just barely. “That’s okay. I’ll cover you.”
And he did. Every single round. If you peeked too far, he was there to trade. If you whiffed, he cleaned up with inhuman precision. The kill feed was practically a love letter Kenma eliminated, Kenma ace, Kenma defused the spike.
Between rounds, he leaned back and sipped from his energy drink, glancing over at you on his second monitor.
“You’re getting better,” he said, casually.
You blinked. “Really?”
He nodded, still watching the loading screen. “Yeah. You used your utility better that time.”
It wasn’t a big compliment, but from Kenma? It made your chest warm.
Then came match point. You got caught in a bad angle, downed immediately. You sighed into your mic. “Sorry, I—”
“It’s fine,” he cut in, calm as ever. “I’ll clutch.”
And he did. 1v4. Effortless. The chat exploded.
Kenmascaffeine: KENMAAAA
catboyapologist: the GOATTTT
sweatyduelist: Protecting his s/o so hard 😭
When the victory screen popped up, you couldn’t stop smiling.
“You literally carried me,” you admitted.
He turned slightly toward his mic, tone softer now that the pressure was gone. “That’s what I’m here for.” Then, after a pause “In game, and… I guess otherwise.”
Your face went hot. “Kenma!”
Chat lost it.
He chuckled under his breath, muting himself just long enough to add quietly, “You’re cute when you get flustered.”
You didn’t need to see his camera to know he was smiling.
Fandom: Haikyuu!! | Pairing: Kenma Kozume x Reader (gender-neutral)
Rating: General / All Ages | Word Count: ~3,200
Warnings: Tooth-rotting fluff
Summary: Kenma has never been able to fall asleep properly unless he's touching you — a habit neither of you noticed until you started living together. One night, past midnight, you're still chained to your desk finishing an assignment when a very sleepy Kenma wanders in, blanket in tow, and settles himself directly into your lap without a word. A quiet, domestic story about small gestures, sleepy honesty, and the particular kind of love that doesn't need to be spoken out loud.
✧ ✧ ✧
Kenma's dialogue in blue — Reader's dialogue in pink
The apartment was quiet in the particular way that only existed after midnight — not silence, exactly, but a hush, like the walls themselves had settled in for the night and were waiting for everyone else to do the same. The only light came from the desk lamp in the corner of the second bedroom, casting a warm yellow circle over a laptop, a mess of papers, and a mug of tea that had gone cold an hour ago.
You didn't notice the cold tea. You didn't notice much of anything except the cursor blinking at the end of an unfinished sentence, and the small, insistent voice in your head that said just one more section and then you can sleep.
You had said that same thing to yourself three sections ago.
The apartment had been yours and Kenma's for eight months now, long enough that the hum of his console from the living room and the particular creak of the floorboard outside the bedroom door had become as familiar as your own name. Long enough that you thought you knew every one of his habits — the way he answered questions three seconds too late because he was still finishing a thought, the way he peeled the label off any bottle he drank from without realizing he was doing it, the way he said "mm" instead of "yes" about seventy percent of the time.
What you hadn't expected, what neither of you had expected, was this: that Kenma Kozume — quiet, self-contained, perfectly capable of spending six hours alone in a room without needing another human being to so much as glance his way — could not fall asleep properly unless some part of him was touching some part of you.
He hadn't known it about himself either. Not at first. In the beginning it had looked like coincidence — he'd fall asleep with his foot against your ankle, or his hand resting near yours on the mattress, and you'd think nothing of it. But the pattern kept repeating. If you turned away from him in your sleep, he'd shift until some point of contact was reestablished, unconscious and unhurried, like a plant turning toward a window. If you got up in the night for water, he stirred until you came back. If you weren't in the bed at all —
Well. That's how you ended up here, past one in the morning, hearing the soft scuff of socked feet in the hallway.
You didn't look up right away. You were mid-sentence, chasing a thought about methodology that would evaporate the second you lost focus, so you let the sound register at the edge of your attention and kept typing. But then there was a small sound — not quite a word, more the ghost of one, a sleepy exhale that might have been your name — and you glanced toward the doorway.
Kenma stood there in the frame of it, blinking against the low light of the lamp like it personally offended him.
He was wearing one of your old hoodies, the one that had been too big on you and was now comically oversized on him, sleeves swallowing his hands entirely, hem falling nearly to his thighs. His hair — bleached blond fading into black roots, always a little untamed — was in complete disarray, flattened on one side from the pillow and sticking up in odd tufts on the other, like he'd been wrestling with the sheets instead of sleeping in them. Which, you suspected, he probably had.
He had his blanket. Not the shared duvet from your bed — his blanket, the ridiculous soft gray one covered in small embroidered cats that his sister had given him years ago and that he pretended, unconvincingly, not to be attached to. He was dragging it behind him by one corner, the rest of it pooling and trailing along the floor like the train of the world's sleepiest king.
"Kenma," you said softly, equal parts fond and exasperated. "It's one in the morning."
He didn't answer. He rubbed at his eye with the back of one sleeve-covered hand, a slow, unhurried gesture, the kind of thing a child does when they haven't yet learned to perform tiredness for anyone — he simply was tired, without artifice, without adjustment for an audience. His eyes were half-lidded, gold catching faint and dull in the lamplight, and when he finally focused on you properly, he blinked twice like he was recalibrating.
"You weren't there," he said. His voice was rough with sleep, quieter than usual, the words slightly slurred at the edges. Not an accusation. Just a fact, stated the way he might mention the weather.
"I know. I'm almost done, I promise. Go back to bed, I'll be there soon."
"Mm." He didn't move. He also didn't argue, not really — arguing would have required more energy than he currently possessed. He just stood there, blanket trailing, hoodie sleeves hanging past his fingertips, looking at you with the patient, unblinking persistence of a cat that has decided where it's sitting and is waiting for the human to catch up to that reality.
You went back to your typing, thinking that was the end of it. It was not the end of it.
You heard him pad closer, sock feet silent on the wood floor, and then felt the drag of fabric as he draped the blanket — cats and all — over your shoulders and his in one motion, wrapping it around the two of you like he was tucking a shared secret into place. And then, without any further ceremony, without asking, without so much as a "can I," he climbed directly into your lap.
"Kenma—"
"Mm," he said again, which by now you understood to be a complete sentence in his language, one that translated roughly to I have made my decision and it is final.
He curled himself against you with the unthinking economy of someone who has done this a thousand times and expects to do it a thousand more — knees drawn up, one arm looping loosely around your middle, and then his face tucked directly into the curve of your neck and shoulder, nose pressed against your collarbone, exhaling slow and warm against your skin. His hair — soft, mussed, smelling like your shared shampoo and the particular warmth of sleep — brushed against your jaw. He was heavier than he looked, all long limbs gone loose and unresisting, a solid, sleepy weight settling into you like water finding the shape of its container.
"I have three more paragraphs," you told him, trying and failing to sound stern.
"Okay," he mumbled, already sounding half-gone, voice muffled against your shoulder.
"That means you have to get up."
"Mm-mm." A small shake of his head, more felt than seen, his hair tickling your chin. "'M comfortable."
"Kenma, I can't type like this."
"You can." A pause, then, with the particular sleepy stubbornness of someone building a case they haven't fully thought through: "One hand."
"One—" You almost laughed. "That's not how typing works."
"It's how it works now," he said, and you could feel, more than see, the shape of something smug pulling at his mouth against your shoulder, even half-asleep, even barely coherent. He always got like this in the last stretch before sleep took him properly — looser, softer, occasionally, bizarrely, more talkative than he was during the day, like exhaustion dissolved whatever quiet reserve he carried around during waking hours and left behind something unguarded.
You sighed, but it wasn't really a complaint, and you both knew it. You shifted slightly, resettling him against you so his weight wasn't pressing directly on your typing arm, and reached for the keyboard with your free hand.
It was, predictably, a disaster. Your right hand was pinned beneath the warm, boneless weight of Kenma's arm where it had settled over your stomach, and every time you tried to extract it gently, his grip tightened by some small unconscious increment, like his body was negotiating with you even while his mind had already surrendered to sleep. So you were left typing one-handed, hunting for letters with your left, the sentence you'd been chasing all evening dissolving into a slower, clumsier version of itself.
The preliminary findings suggest a— you typed, then stopped, deleted suggest, retyped it, deleted it again.
"You're overthinking it," Kenma mumbled against your shoulder, eyes clearly still closed, voice thick.
"You can't even see the screen."
"Don't need to. You always overthink the easy sentences." A yawn cut through the middle of the sentence, small and involuntary, his whole body giving a little shiver with it, the kind of full-body yawn that makes a person's toes curl. "'S the hard ones you're good at."
You paused, fingers hovering over the keys, something warm unfolding in your chest that had nothing to do with the document in front of you. "That's oddly perceptive for someone who's asleep."
"'M not asleep." This was said with the deep, wounded conviction of someone who was very much most of the way asleep.
"Your eyes have been closed for two minutes."
"Resting them."
"Mm-hm."
"I can hear you typing," he added, as though this settled the matter of his consciousness beyond all doubt. "I know what you wrote. It was bad."
"It was not bad."
"It was fine," he allowed, magnanimous even in his half-conscious state. "Not bad. Fine."
You laughed under your breath, quiet, and felt more than heard the small, satisfied huff of air against your collarbone that was Kenma's version of a laugh in return — no sound really, just a soft exhale and the faintest curve of his mouth where it rested against you.
You tried to keep working. You really did. But it is difficult to maintain academic focus when there is a sleepy, boneless Kenma tucked into your lap, blanket-wrapped, growing heavier and warmer by the minute, one hand slowly — so slowly you almost didn't notice it happening — sliding down your side to find your free hand where it rested on your thigh. His fingers curled loosely around yours, not gripping so much as including, the way you'd link hands crossing a street, except neither of you was going anywhere and he wasn't awake enough to be making the decision consciously at all.
You looked down at your intertwined hands, then at the crown of his head, the messy fade of blond into black, the small furrow of scalp where his hair parted crookedly from sleep. He was so still now. Not asleep yet — you could tell by the faint, irregular pattern of his breathing, the way it hadn't yet settled into the slow, even rhythm of real sleep — but close. Hovering right at the edge of it.
"Kenma," you tried again, softer this time, more because you felt obligated to make the attempt than because you expected it to work. "You should go back to the bedroom. You'll sleep better there."
"No I won't." His voice had gone thin and slow, words spacing themselves out like he was laying them down one at a time, carefully, so as not to drop any. "Bed's cold without you."
"It's not cold. It's July."
"Cold," he insisted, with the flat, unimpeachable authority of the very sleepy, for whom facts and feelings have temporarily become the same category of thing. "Empty's cold. Doesn't matter what season."
You didn't have a response to that. Or rather, you had several responses, all of them soft and slightly too vulnerable to say out loud at one in the morning to someone who was ninety percent asleep and would absolutely tease you about it in the morning if you weren't careful. So you settled for pressing your lips briefly to the crown of his head instead, breathing in the smell of his shampoo, and let your hand tighten fractionally around his.
"Five more minutes," you told him. "Then I really do have to finish this."
"Mm," he said. Which, again, could have meant anything. Agreement, disagreement, the simple acknowledgment that you had spoken words in his vicinity. You'd long since stopped trying to draw a hard line around what his mms meant and started just trusting the shape of the moment to tell you.
You went back to the one-handed typing. It was slow going — you had to backspace more than you typed, your left hand unused to carrying the weight of an entire keyboard's worth of work, and twice you elbowed Kenma slightly in your attempts to reach the far side of the keys, which earned you a small, wordless noise of protest and a slight, immovable shifting of weight that made clear he had no intention of relocating regardless of the collateral damage.
But somewhere in there, between one clumsy sentence and the next, his breathing changed. Deepened. Slowed into that long, even rhythm you knew so well from years — well, months, but it felt like years — of falling asleep beside him. His hand went fully slack around yours, not letting go, just relaxing into it, the way a hand does only when its owner has stopped consciously holding on and started simply resting there instead, muscle memory doing what wakefulness no longer needed to.
You looked down at him.
His face was turned into your shoulder, half-hidden, but you could see enough — the slight part of his lips, the soft, unguarded slackness that never showed up on his face during the day, when there was always some small tension held in reserve, some part of him keeping watch even at rest. Not now. Now he looked like exactly what he was: a person who had walked, half-conscious, out of a warm bed and across a cold apartment for the singular purpose of being near you, and who had found what he was looking for, and had stopped needing to look for anything else.
You thought about the assignment. About the three remaining paragraphs, the deadline that was — technically — still two days away, the small nagging voice that liked to remind you of every reason those paragraphs mattered.
Then you looked at Kenma's sleeping face pressed into your shoulder, his hair falling messily across his forehead, his hand loose and warm around yours, and you found, somewhat to your own surprise, that you didn't mind being trapped here at all. That there was something in this — the ridiculous cat-print blanket wrapped around both your shoulders, the too-big hoodie sleeves, the one-handed typing, the whole absurd domestic tableau of it — that felt more important, in that particular moment, than anything glowing on the screen in front of you.
You saved the document. You'd finish it tomorrow. You always did.
"Okay," you murmured, mostly to yourself, closing the laptop with your free hand and easing it shut with a soft click. "Okay. Bed."
Kenma made a small, questioning noise at the change in your posture, not quite waking, more surfacing briefly and sinking back down, the way a sleeper does when a boat rocks gently beneath them.
"Come on," you said quietly, shifting to stand, one arm bracing under him. "Let's go, sleepyhead."
"...Carry," he mumbled, not quite a request, more an assumption already halfway into being fact, his arms tightening loosely around your neck as you rose from the chair. He really was too tall for this, all long limbs folding awkwardly as you got your balance, but he'd done this enough times — or rather, you'd done this enough times, hauling him the short distance from wherever he'd fallen asleep to wherever he was supposed to be sleeping — that both your bodies had worked out an unspoken choreography for it. His head settled against your shoulder again, blanket trailing from one hand where he refused, even unconscious, to let go of it, and you carried him out of the office, down the short hallway, into the dark, quiet bedroom.
The bed, when you reached it, was in the state of chaos he'd apparently left it in — one side of the duvet flung back, pillow dented deep from where his head had been, sheets rucked up like there'd been a small, private battle fought there and lost. You laid him down as gently as you could manage, and he made a soft, displeased sound at the loss of contact, hand reaching blindly for you even before his eyes opened.
"Give me a second," you said, laughing quietly, peeling off your hoodie and setting your glasses on the nightstand before sliding in beside him. The moment you did, he curled toward you immediately, unerringly, like he'd been tracking your exact location the entire time even with his eyes shut, and tucked himself back against your chest with a long, low exhale that sounded, more than anything, like relief.
"There," you murmured, arranging the blanket — his cat blanket, now draped haphazardly over the both of you along with the duvet — over his shoulders. "Happy?"
"Mm." A pause. Then, muffled, barely audible, in the particular unguarded voice that only ever came out at the very edge of sleep: "Sleep better. Like this."
"I know," you said softly, brushing his messy hair back from his forehead.
"Hate waking up." Another pause, longer this time, his words slowing further, sinking. "Hate it when you're not there. Bed's too big."
"I'm here now."
"Mm." His hand found yours again in the dark, unhurried, certain, fingers slotting between yours like they'd done it a thousand times, because they had. "Stay."
"I'm not going anywhere," you promised, quiet, into the dark of the room, into his hair.
He didn't answer that. He didn't need to — his breathing had already gone slow and even again, his hand slack but not loosened around yours, his face tucked against your chest the way it always ended up, sooner or later, every single night, whether either of you acknowledged it in the daylight or not. You lay there for a while just listening to him breathe, feeling the small, steady weight of him against you, the warmth of the blanket, the quiet hum of the refrigerator somewhere down the hall, the ordinary, unremarkable sounds of a life you'd built together without ever quite noticing you were building it.
You thought, distantly, that you'd have to finish the assignment tomorrow. You thought that you should probably feel more anxious about that than you did.
Mostly, though, you thought about how his hand fit in yours, how it always seemed to find its way there even in his sleep, some quiet, unconscious part of him reaching for you before the rest of him had even woken up enough to know it was looking. You thought that there were a hundred small things Kenma never said out loud — not because he didn't feel them, but because this, this, was how he said them instead. A blanket dragged across a cold apartment. A lap claimed at one in the morning. A hand found in the dark, and held, without a single word needing to explain why.
You closed your eyes.
Somewhere in the dark, half-asleep, Kenma's fingers tightened faintly around yours — one last small anchor, set before sleep took him fully under — and then, together, in the quiet of the room and the low hum of the night, you both drifted off.
Two different worlds - timeskip!Kenma x teacher!reader
Part 1 | part 2
✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨
That your car breaks down is annoying, especially when it forces you to run 15km in record time. But it also means Kenma Kozume is parked outside your school on a Friday afternoon.
“You could have woken me up and I would have driven you,” he replies in a short text message mid-morning.
The car is on the other side of the street, set apart under the shade of a tree and far from the line of parents’ cars coming to pick up their children. Inside, in the driver’s seat, is Kenma with a gray hoodie with the hood up. Sunglasses. And of course, the engine off.
He tells himself it’s simple. The operation consists of 3 simple steps: Wait → pick you up → leave.
There will be no interaction with anyone and he won’t draw attention. Or at least that’s what he thought, because he hadn’t taken into account one small detail: a car like his draws attention. Even if it’s a silver sports car with a simple style, it’s still a very high-end car.
The bell rings and Kenma sighs, resting his forearms on the steering wheel and letting his head fall between them. He lifts his head and sees himself in the rearview mirror, starting to regret a little having wanted to come pick you up. His attempt to stay unnoticed only makes him look more and more like a suspicious guy.
“Senseeeei!!” you hear as soon as you walk out the main door. Half a dozen arms wrap around you instantly. Suddenly there are arms everywhere.
Around your waist, your back, your arms:
“Careful— careful— I can’t breathe—!” you laugh, but you don’t pull away, instead you pat a few little heads.
“Have a good weekend!!”
“Don’t forget to read the story I wrote, Sensei!!”
“I’m going to finish the model this weekend!!”
“I’ll read the book you told me that doesn’t have pictures!!!”
You answer every single one.
Every. Single. One.
“Have a good weekend, sweetheart”
“Show me on Monday, okay?”
“I’m proud of you, you know that? You’re working really hard”
“Don’t forget to rest too!”
Kenma watches from the car, not quite sure what to think about the situation. Very few times had he seen what your job actually consists of. And, without a doubt, it was very different from his. But, it had been a long time since he had seen you this happy.
You crouch down to a child’s level, fixing the zipper of their jacket. “Be careful, we don’t want you to catch a cold, right?”
One presses their face into your side as if that were their place while you battle with their classmate’s jacket.
It’s not just the kids, the parents also start approaching and surround you.
“Hey, sorry— a quick question about reading…”
You turn instantly, attending while you manage to close your student’s zipper and give their little hand a squeeze, guiding it to their mother’s hand.
Nodding, thinking, smiling softly.
“Maybe try shorter texts… something he enjoys, not just what he should read. If we force them we’ll only create rejection towards reading, maybe one manga panel a day could spark a bit more curiosity”.
The father exhales, relieved.
“That makes sense. Thank you. I was getting quite worried”.
Another parent joins. Then another. And in the end you’ve already spent 15 minutes at the school gate.
From the car, Kenma’s gaze doesn’t move.
“…Wow.” - a kid points toward the other side of the street - “…That car is so cool.”
Another turns.
“Sensei, look!!”
You look where their little fingers are pointing and immediately recognize Kenma’s car. You smile.
“Yeah, it is, isn’t it?”
“It must be really fast!” you laugh.
“I’m sure it is, but it’s important to drive carefully” - you say raising your index finger. They nod remembering the road safety lessons you had last month with the local police so they could ride their bikes knowing the traffic rules.
You realize how long Kenma must have been waiting for you. You got distracted and hadn’t taken into account that he was there. You say goodbye quickly and walk briskly toward the car, looking both ways before crossing the street and starting to run in your small heels as you cross.
“SENSEI!!! IT’S YOURS!!”
You open the door casually, like it’s nothing and turn toward them raising a hand to wave goodbye again
“I wish! Alright, guys— go home, rest!
“Byeeee senseiiii!!”
“Have a good weekend!!”
“Don’t forget us!!”
“Of course not!! I’ll see you on Monday” you smile.
And then you slip into the passenger seat.
“…Sorry,” you say, closing the door. “They get a little intense.”
Kenma looks at you. You kiss him briefly on the lips and then he fixes his gaze behind you at the group of kids still watching, waving.
“Wow, that really is a cool car” can still be heard in the background.
“…A little?”
You laugh.
“Okay, yes, they’re very intense. They’re good kids.”
Outside, one of the kids waves again as he passes by the driver’s side with his father. You wave back instantly, automatically.
Kenma notices that too and starts the car in silence.
“…looks like they like you.”, he says, maneuvering out of the parking spot while you lean back in the seat.
“Told you. It’s like having a small army of tiny creatures. It’s very fun.”
“Mm.”
“…You didn’t look tired.” You turn your head slightly.
“…What?”
“Out there.” - he nods toward the school, making half of his loose hair in his half-up style sway slightly.
“…You had energy.”
You smile a little.
“I told you I was fine. I just had to run a bit to get there on time.” He shakes his head once.
“You should have woken me up.”
You stare at him and for a moment you think you see a smaller version of him. The version you met training in the volleyball gym, by the way he still makes himself small, even in a car that stands out.
“Thanks for picking me up, Kenma.”
“Mm.” he rests his free hand on your thigh, right below where your skirt ends and squeezes gently. Kenma isn’t a person of many words, so many times, those small gestures of affection say everything.
“You didn’t have to.”
“I know.”
You look out the window.
“…They hugged you a lot.” - you snort with a little laugh.
“Jealous?”
Silence.
“…No.” you turn your head to look at him and your gaze meets his from the corner of his eye
“…Maybe a little.”
You blink. You turn fully toward him now.
“…Kenma Kozume, are you admitting jealousy of 10-year-olds?”
“…Don’t make it weird.” you laugh and at the corner of his lips there seems to want to appear a hint that looks like a smile.
You reach out your hand and interlace your fingers with his, since his hand was still resting on your thigh. He glances down at your joined hands and then back to the road.
“…You’re popular.”
“…Only with small humans.”
“Mm.”
Another quiet moment.
“…I get it,” he adds.
“…Get what?”
“…Why they like you.” you smile and taking advantage of the deceleration at a traffic light you’re stopping at, you kiss his cheek.
“So, are you going to have the meeting this afternoon or is it going to be—” - you’re mid-sentence, trying to figure out your boyfriend’s complicated and ever-changing schedule when you hear shouting.
You turn your head toward the sound, coming directly from the other side of the window and start listening more closely.
“Sensei!! Senseeeei!!”
What? Wait. How?
“SENSEEEEEI!!” You flinch, raising your shoulders and just before moving your head you see Kenma’s left hand tighten slightly on the steering wheel.
Waiting next to you at the light is a red car stopped with the window down and two kids practically hanging out of it.
Oh no.
“Sensei!! Hi!!”
You blink again.
“…Oh my god.” You say softly. They’re Torū and Yuri. The twins. Yuri… Yuri loves watching Kenma’s videos, he never stops talking about him… oh no.
Both of their faces light up instantly when they see you lowering the window.
“Hey!! What are you doing out of your seat—sit properly!” - you’re smiling too much for it to sound like a real scolding but they know you mean it and they settle back, putting on their seatbelts.
“I’m with my dad!! Look!!” the driver gives you an amused nod and waves briefly.
“Sorry, they recognized the car and knowing you were inside there was no stopping them. They didn’t stop until we caught up with you.”
You laugh at your students’ eagerness to see you again after you had just said goodbye to them four streets ago.
“It’s fine, don’t worry.”
Inside the car Kenma Kozume has gone completely still and pale, thinking that the smallest movement could trigger an explosion of screams and recognition. However, it’s the few strands of hair peeking out of his hood that make Yuri lean forward again in his seat, his eyes shifting from you to the driver’s seat.
Kenma’s hood is up. The sunglasses are still on and because of the position of the sun half of his face is still…
“…Sensei,” the kid says slowly.
“…Yeah?”
“…Your driver kinda looks like—”
You freeze and blink, waiting for Yuri to finish the sentence. The wait at the light is starting to feel endless.
Kenma hasn’t moved since you lowered the window and you start to think maybe he has stopped breathing.
“—that streamer I told you about!”
His dad turns toward him.
“Kodzuken?”
You try to recover instantly and trying to act natural as best as you can.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah! The one I watch all the time!”
You nod, like it’s completely new information.
“Wow. What a coincidence.” you say while his father shakes his head in disbelief.
“He’s obsessed… sorry about that, the other day we caught him watching videos at night… we don’t know what else to do to make him sleep.”
The kid squints harder and leans even closer. Kenma tilts his head just enough in the opposite direction in a subtle and precise way.
“SENSEI, ON MONDAY I’LL TELL YOU WHAT I GOT FOR OUR BIRTHDAY, okay?” - says Torū from his seat. You smile widely seeing that, finally, the topic has changed.
“OF COURSE! I hope you have a great time Torū, on Monday I’ll bring something too, okay?”
“YES, SENSEI, you’ll see my grandpa said—” the kid is cut off mid-sentence when he’s interrupted.
“…No, but like— his vibe is the same,” Yuri insists, still staring at Kenma.
“Maybe he copied him,” you shrug trying to end it.
Kenma almost chokes hearing that. You must have sounded really impatient, because his father apologizes again.
“I’m really sorry, he doesn’t mean to make your… partner? brother? friend?… OH, no sorry, I don’t want to assume anything, it’s just Yuri and Torū…”
You’re starting to feel so much secondhand embarrassment that you feel the need to stop him. OH MY GOD WHEN DOES TRAFFIC START MOVING ON THIS STREET!!!
“YOUR BOYFRIEND SENSEI?? YOUR BROTHER SENSEI??” - they both shout at the same time
You start shaking your hands impatiently while the poor man starts apologizing again. Luckily, Yuri speaks again.
“Sensei, your car is SO COOL!!”
You laugh.
“It’s not mine.”
“It should be!! You’re the coolest, you deserve cool things”.
“Have a good weekend!!” - you say impatiently while slowly rolling the window back up. “Behave, okay?”
“WE ALWAYS BEHAVE!!
You look at them.
“…Most of the time,” Torū corrects
The light is still red. Time stretches as you keep raising the window. Your personal hell must be a very specific place and this is definitely one of its stations of penance.
“…Sensei?” Yuri calls again when the window was almost up.
“Mm?”
“…DON’T FORGET WHAT YOU SAID!! BRING SOMETHING ON MONDAY!” - you soften instantly and your shoulders start to relax again.
“I won’t forget.”
The light changes: green
Their father starts to drive. But they twist in their seats just to keep waving.
“BYEEEE SENSEEEEEI!!”
You wave back just as enthusiastically.
“Byeee!!”
Kenma waits a few seconds before moving so he doesn’t cross paths with them again. Meanwhile, you both stay in complete silence.
“Kenma…” You look at him from the corner of your eye and see he’s a bit pale.
“I panicked. I’m sorry if I wasn’t able to— .”
Kenma exhales long and deeply.
“…You handled it well.” Hefinally says.
“Thank you, Ken.” - you say. It wasn’t the first time he had been recognized, or at least almost, but it was the first time you felt like it was because of you. You knew how much he hated attention, even more since he started streaming, but coming to pick you up had been risky.
“Mm.” - he doesn’t say more. You don’t want to push him, that never goes well. So you have to choose your words carefully
“…He almost recognized you, Kenma”
“Yeah.”
“…How do you feel about that?” he thinks for a few seconds.
“It… annoys me.
Oh no. You knew it had been a very bad idea. He looks at you and sees your worried expression.
“But not because of him.” You smile slightly, lifting the corner of your lips
“Because of the attention?”
“Mm.”
“He really likes you, you know?.”
You look at him.
“…I know” Kenma’s grip on the wheel loosens slightly. - “but I think it was because of you. They were waving at you like they were going to fall out of the car.”
You laugh.
Silence again.
“…You waved back the same way.”
You blink.
“…Of course I did?”
“…You match them.” he says quietly.
You tilt your head like you don’t quite understand what he means. You don’t answer right away. You just look at him.
“Is that a bad thing?” You finally say
“No.”
And after a few seconds, your hand finds his sleeve. Holding onto it as if you wanted to let him know you understood what he meant.
He shifts his arm slightly closer to you.
“Maybe I’m starting to understand why you like your job so much,” he says as he turns off the engine of the car he just parked in his parking spot.
the idea of "oblivious to his own feelings" kuroo finding a video on youtube that's titled "one hour of kuroo staring lovingly at kodzuken" and is dumbstruck because he's only been in three of kenma's videos
it was late at night and Kenna had come to your house after practice to watch a movie and stay over. you hadn’t been dating very long but he was comfortable around you now and so you wanted to have him over since your parents were out of town.
“Kenma aren’t you tired yet” you yawned out, moving your laptop off of your lap onto the side of the bed. “Not really, you can sleep now it’s fine ill play on my switch” he leaned over to the side table and picked up his switch, opening up animal crossing. “M’kay” you snuggled into his side and gripped his hoodie, he hoped you couldn’t feel how hard his heart was hammering against his rib cage at your affectionate gesture. He kissed the top of your head before focusing on his switch.
You were tossing and turning, you were tired but the light from the switch was making it hard to stay asleep. Kenma noticed you shifting and sat up a bit higher to make you more comfortable but that only woke you up fully. “sorry kitten, did i wake you?” he opened his arms to hug you but you crawled into his lap and buried your face into his chest sleepily “m no i’m sleeping” you mumbled against the fabric of his hoodie and he chuckled, rubbing a hand up and down your back. He put his switch down on the bed side table before he began running a finger up and down your spine. He smiled at your squished face against him, tracing a small heart on your lower back, your breathing began to steady and you smiled into his hoodie before mimicking the heart on his chest with your own fingers. He then traced his own name and what felt like a flower to you. You could feel yourself growing more and more drowsy, the urge to fall asleep becoming stronger and kenma continued to trace small patterns and words on you mindlessly. He could tell you were falling asleep and traced a small i love you onto your back, accompanied with a kiss to your head. “Goodnight y/n..” he smiled down at you “night..i love you too..” you murmured before drifting to sleep in his arms, leaving him awake and flustered.
Placing the last dish in the strainer, you let out a huge sigh. The house was finally clean. You’d been at it since 7 this morning, methodically working your way from room to room until every surface was clean and sparkling. Multiple loads of laundry washed, dried, and put away. And finally the dishes. You wiped the sweat beading at your brow. You felt like you could collapse at any given moment.
When Kenma rolled out of bed at 1pm, he helped you some, until he was banned from assisting further after he tried to mix bleach and vinegar together, nearly making chlorine gas in the process. Safe to say he was sent away after that. It’s like he learned nothing from Kuroo.
Since you were done now, you sought him out. Finding him was easy, of course, he’s where he normally is: planted in front of his computer playing games. You couldn’t tell if he was streaming so you approached from the side, careful to avoid the camera in case he was.
Waving to get his attention, his eyes dart from the screen to your presence off to the side. He mumbles into the mic that he has to go, taking his headset off and placing it on the desk. He quickly closes out of his game to give you his full attention.
“What’s up, princess?” He asks, patting his lap for you to seat yourself on. When you do, he wraps his arms around your waist, nuzzling your neck with his nose and inhaling your light perfume.
Wrapping your arms around his neck, you lean into him, enjoying the feather-light kisses he places on your neck and cheek. “‘m just tired, honey,” you reply, further relaxing into his hold. “Do you think you could give me a massage? I’m sore,” you pout, giving him your best puppy-dog eyes.
“I guess,” he rolls his eyes playfully, groaning and putting on a show. He already knows damn well he’s not going to deny you. You’ve worked your ass off today taking care of things while he played games. He motions for you to get up, taking your hand and leading you to your shared bedroom.
Instructing you to lie on the bed, he climbs over top of you, straddling your hips. His slender fingers slip beneath your shirt, kneading the numerous knots on your lower back.
You sigh contentedly, enjoying the feel of his hands on your sore back.
“Does that feel good?” He questions, mumbling a quick apology at your hiss when he hits a really sensitive spot.
“Mhm, feels good, honey, thank you.” Kenma bows down to place a gentle kiss on your cheek, his hands continuing to work the knots from your back and shoulders.
When he finally pulls away, he realizes you’ve fallen asleep from his ministrations. He decides he’ll order dinner for you both, so he doesn’t dirty up the kitchen after all your hard work - and so you don’t have to cook after cleaning all day.
Leaning down to kiss your forehead, he lets you rest. You deserve it after today.
[23:08] it was late but you could feel the light of kenma’s computer on your face as he continues streaming. thankfully, his fans can’t see you because the light doesn’t reach the dark corner of the room, unfortunately you can’t call him over either.
‘babe!!! please come to bed it’s late now and it’s not good for your eyes’ is what your text read to him making his phone buzz causing him to sigh before he read your message. “ah- I have to go now it’s getting pretty late and I’ve been on this for a good amount of time..”
this got you grinning as you see him ending his stream and doing everything needed before coming to you. “rather impatient sugar aren’t you?” ah-well you couldn’t deny that. “kenmaa i felt so lonely and need your cuddles and kisses~”
you hear him snort at your exaggerated whiny voice before he envelopes you into his embrace. ah yes, you loved this.
“next time just tell me and I’ll be there in an instant.”
