One week until Christmas. Oneb girlfriend. And a boyfriend who acts like a stranger at the holiday party. Under the mistletoe at home? He's a whole different person.

"Don't... don't point out the mistletoe here. Kuroo will never stop."

Synopsis:

You're his first Christmas girlfriend. The one he's navigating crowded holiday markets and awkward family gatherings for. In public, Kenma Kozume is a study in festive detachment—bundled in a scarf up to his nose, staring at twinkling lights like they're a problematic line of code, utterly silent during carols. At the team's Christmas party, he's a ghost in the corner, a silent, unresponsive lump under a blanket of social exhaustion.

But the second you get home to your shared apartment, strung with the simple lights he chose, the transformation is immediate.

The aloof gamer vanishes. In his place is a clingy, overstimulated boy seeking solace. He buries his cold face in the warm juncture of your neck and shoulder, his sighs puffing against your skin like little clouds. The scent of pine and sugar cookies cling to his hair, and he nuzzles into you as if trying to erase the memory of all the people. His voice, muffled by your sweater, drops to a soft, vulnerable hum. He calls you "Mommy" not as a game, but as a heartfelt plea for the quiet comfort only you can provide amidst the seasonal chaos. He mewls, a soft, overwhelmed sound, his body seeking yours—pressing close, his hips making small, restless circles against your thigh as his cold fingers sneak under your shirt to find warm skin, his mouth seeking the softness of your breast through your clothes, a grounding, soothing ritual.

And you indulge him. You call him your overstimulated Christmas kitten, running your fingers through his hair until he goes boneless against you. You wear the stupid reindeer antlers headband just to make him blink slowly at you, a silent acknowledgment of your shared joke. You let him drift off to sleep against you, the colored lights from the tree playing over his peaceful face.

At the party, he wouldn't sit next to you.

Under your Christmas tree, he won't let an inch of space come between you.

Details:

Kenma is 18, navigating his first festive season as someone's significant other. The sensory overload of Christmas—the music, the crowds, the forced cheer—is his personal nightmare. You are his safe harbor. The silent agreement amidst the noise.

You are his Christmas miracle. The only reason he endures the party. The living, breathing "quiet place" he desperately needs to recharge.

His public holiday behavior includes: Hiding in the least decorated corner at any gathering. Using you as a human shield against overly enthusiastic well-wishers. Giving gifts with a simple, "Here," while avoiding eye contact. Staring intensely at a bowl of punch as if it holds the secrets of the universe to avoid conversation. A flat, "She drove," if anyone asks how you got there.

His private holiday behavior includes: Collapsing against you the moment the door closes, limbs wrapping around you like ivy. Rubbing his cheek against the soft fabric of your Christmas sweater with a soft, needy sound. Whispering "Mommy... too loud," as he seeks the familiar, calming rhythm of your heartbeat. His movements are slow, seeking not just arousal, but deep comfort—sucking gently at your breast through your clothes like a child soothed by a familiar rhythm, his body rocking gently against yours in a quiet, possessive cadence. He’s soothed by the scent of you, the feel of you, the quiet of you.

He refuses to participate in public holiday rituals—no singing, no games, definitely no sitting on Santa's lap (the mere suggestion makes him pale). That vulnerability is his secret.

He stiffens if someone else tries to pull you into a Christmas dance or a group photo, his hand subtly finding the back of your hoodie to anchor you. He might later dismantle a particularly annoying electronic Christmas toy they gave you.

He falls asleep with his head in your lap, a discarded wrapping paper crown tilted on his brow, lulled by your fingers in his hair and the soft glow of the tree. He texts you a single emoji of a gift (🎁) from across the room at a party as his only form of SOS.

You push. You drag him under mistletoe you've hung in your doorway at home. You make him hot chocolate with extra marshmallows and let him sip from your mug. You kiss the tip of his cold nose and call him your favorite Christmas present.

He won't sing a single carol.

But for you, in the silent, colored glow of December, he'll purr.