“but now, we’re settled down in my kitchen talking.”
timeskip!kozume kenma x f!reader
w/c: 1.1k ,, wait! series
the kitchen smells faintly of vanilla and burnt sugar—the latter entirely kenma’s fault, though he’d never admit it to the thousands of people currently watching his screen.
it’s supposed to be a milestone stream. a casual, domestic cooking broadcast to celebrate a subscriber peak, something his management team had nudged him to do for months. kenma had agreed only on the condition that he wouldn’t have to carry the commentary alone. which is how you ended up trapped between the kitchen counter and a massive stainless steel bowl, trying to read a chaotic, fast-moving chat while kenma aggressively whips egg whites.
“your form is terrible,” you murmur, leaning your chin on his shoulder to peer at the iPad propped against the coffee maker. “chat says you look like you’re trying to defeat a boss, not bake a soufflé.”
kenma hums, a low, rumbling sound in his chest. his bleached hair is tied up in a messy, half-hearted bun, a few dark strands framing his face. he doesn’t look at the camera; his focus is entirely split between the stubborn eggs and the way you’re pressing your weight against his back. “it’s a stamina test,” he replies, his voice quiet, carrying that distinct, sleepy cadence that his viewers love. “the recipe said stiff peaks. these are... medium peaks.”
“they’re sad peaks, kenma.”
“shut up.” there’s no bite to it, just the easy, worn-in comfort of two people who have spent years navigating each other’s spaces.
the chat is flying by in a blur of emoticons and uppercase screaming. since kenma transitioned from a quiet volleyball setter to a wildly successful CEO and streaming personality—the public curiosity about his private life had skyrocketed. today was the first time you’d actually appeared on camera with him, rather than just being a stray voice or a hand petting kenma from time to time.
you reach past him to grab the vanilla extract, your fingers brushing his waist. “let me take over before your arm falls off.”
“i’ve got it,” he says, but his grip on the whisk is slipping. he shifts his stance to get better leverage, turning his torso with a sudden, sharp jerk.
it happens in a fraction of a second. kenma’s elbow swings outward, driven by the momentum of his frantic whisking, and connects sharply with your ribs.
the impact isn’t enough to break anything, but it’s a direct hit to a sensitive spot. you let out a sharp, involuntary ‘oof’ and instantly double over, clutching your side as the wind gets knocked out of you. the vanilla bottle clatters onto the marble counter, rolling harmlessly into a puddle of spilled milk.
kenma freezes. the whisk clattered into the bowl, sending a small spray of egg white onto his apron, but he doesn’t care. his entire demeanor shifts from mild irritation to sheer, unfiltered panic in the span of a heartbeat.
“—oh my god. y/n. i’m sorry, i’m so sorry,” he blurs out, his voice dropping an octave, completely forgetting the live broadcast, the camera, and the five-digit viewer count.
he’s on his knees in front of you before you can even straighten up, his hands hovering over your waist, trembling slightly. he looks up at you with wide, wide golden-brown eyes, a rare flash of genuine vulnerability breaking through his usual stoic mask. “where did i hit you? did i hit your ribs? let me see, let me—”
“ken, i’m fine,” you wheeze, a breathless laugh bubbling up despite the dull ache in your side. “it just caught me off guard. i’m okay.”
“you’re not okay, you gasped,” he insists, his hands finally making contact. he presses his palms gently against your side, right over your hands, rubbing small, soothing circles into the fabric of your clothes. his touch is warm, frantic, and incredibly tender. he leans his forehead against your hip for a second, letting out a shaky breath. “i’m clumsy. i shouldn’t have been moving like that. look at me, are you dizzy?”
“dizzy from an elbow to the ribs?” you chuckle, reaching down to run your fingers through the loose hairs at the nape of his neck. “ken, look at the screen. you’re neglecting your audience.”
he doesn’t look. instead, he stands up, keeping one arm securely wrapped around your waist to pull you flush against him, as if shielding you from the camera’s gaze. he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin. “i don’t care about them right now.”
a collective meltdown is occurring in the live chat.
the text scrolling on the iPad is moving so fast it looks like a waterfall of white light. keyboard smashes, crying emojis, and frantic questions are multiplying by the millisecond.
@ ihatelifebutilovejoaofelix : LOVE ISN’T REAL UNLESS I’M WITH JOAO
@ forgottensniper : me and zodyl when
@ faengelofilum : kissing my shotgun 🤣🤣
@ surabob : look at his eyes he’s actually panicking
among the chaos, a few familiar sub badges pop up. a small corner of the overlay shows a highlighted notification from three prominent community members. anaiya, may, and kora—regular moderators who usually keep the peace—have completely abandoned their duties. instead, their stickers are synced up in the corner, doing the ridiculous, coordinated ‘six seven’ emote across the screen in a celebration of the rare domestic display.
you glimpse the screen over kenma’s shoulder and snort, the movement hurting your side just a little. “your mods are enabling them. may and the others are doing the six seven emote, kenma. they think this is cinema.”
kenma finally glances at the monitor, his eyes narrowing slightly as he catches the three animated figures bouncing in perfect synchronization. “i’m banning all three of them,” he mutters into your shoulder, though there’s no actual malice in his voice. his grip on your waist tightens slightly, his thumb continuing its slow, rhythmic stroke over your side. “are you sure it doesn’t hurt? do you want to sit down? we can just end the stream.”
“we are not ending the stream over a minor kitchen injury,” you say firmly, pulling back just enough to look him in the eye. his expression is still soft, a little pinched with lingering guilt. you reach up, using your thumb to wipe a stray speck of egg white from his cheek. “see? i’m perfectly fine. the soufflé, however, is dying.”
kenma sighs, a long, defeated sound, but the tension finally drains from his shoulders. he looks down at the mixing bowl, then back at you, his eyes softening in that quiet, private way that belongs only to you, far away from the cameras and the internet.
“the soufflé was a bad idea anyway,” he murmurs, leaning in to press a soft, lingering kiss to the temple of your forehead, entirely indifferent to the renewed explosion of chat messages on the screen. “let’s just order takeout.”
n: everybody be testing me today, christ, i’m hungry. godiwantthatevgojocard. also i miss u @j4zume , i dedicate this to you !!
© showhay — don’t copy, repost, or translate without my permission. do not use/feed my works to AI.
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