— you think kenma dislikes you but he’s just over there, crashing out about how pretty you are.
kozume kenma x telepath!f!reader
i accidentally deleted this shit and the undo button wouldn’t work so i had a mental breakdown for 30mins.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
you had always been convinced kenma kozume couldn’t stand you.
the evidence was damning: no eye contact, minimal replies, a habit of immediately flicking open his switch the second you approached, like you were some kind of warning notification he could swipe away. once, you’d sat beside him on the gym floor and watched his entire body tense like you’d dumped a bucket of cold water on him. another time, you’d waved at him across the court and thought—swear to god—you saw him flinch.
to you, it was obvious: kenma didn’t like you. maybe not hatred, but at the very least, a strong, silent please don’t talk to me.
and that was fine. you could deal. it wasn’t like you had a huge crush on him or anything. just a small one. a manageable one. one you kept tucked away in the corner of your chest, easy to ignore because, really, there was no chance. crushes on boys who couldn’t stand your existence were a dead end.
then you woke up one morning with mind-reading powers.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
at first, it was disorienting—little bursts of sentences that weren’t yours sneaking into your head when people walked by. nothing dramatic, just random stuff like don’t forget to buy milk or god i hope coach doesn’t make us run sprints today. you thought maybe you were overtired. maybe hallucinating.
but then you sat next to kenma.
from the outside, he looked exactly the same: slouched shoulders, hair half hiding his face, switch balanced in his hands, fingers tapping slowly. he didn’t look at you when you sat down. he didn’t greet you. just… the same as always.
but his mind?
‘don’t sit next to me don’t sit next to me don’t sit next to— oh my god. she’s sitting next to me. she’s right here. her sleeve just brushed mine. i’m gonna combust. my heart’s gonna explode out of my chest. breathe. kenma, breathe. you look insane. do i smell bad? what if she notices? don’t look at her. no—look at her. just a peek. no, that’s worse. oh god she’s so close. her shampoo smells like candy. i want to bury my face in her hair. no no no. abort. abort. stop thinking. stop thinking.’
you blinked.
…what.
you turned your head slightly. kenma’s expression was unreadable, bored, as if he wasn’t secretly narrating a live breakdown in your head.
“hey, kenma,” you said carefully.
he nodded, not looking up. “…hey.”
but his brain?
‘she said hi. she said hi to me. she’s talking to me on purpose. play it cool. don’t scream. don’t blurt something stupid. don’t confess to her right here like a maniac. she looks really pretty when she talks. god, i sound deranged. she’s gonna think i’m deranged. oh no. oh no.’
you nearly choked on your own breath.
this boy. this boy you thought hated you. this boy was hopeless.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
it became addicting, listening in. like you’d unlocked the director’s commentary for a movie you thought you’d already seen, only to realize the entire plot was different.
when you offered him chips after practice, he barely glanced at you. “no, thanks.”
but in his head: ‘oh my god. she’s offering me food. like we’re close. like we’re already sharing snacks in a relationship. i should say yes. say yes. wait, i said no?? why did i say no?? i’m an idiot. she’s gonna think i don’t care. i care so much. i’d eat every single chip out of her hand if she asked. no, too much. too creepy. oh my god delete that thought delete delete delete.’
when you sneezed during study hall, he didn’t look up from his notes.
‘that was so cute. bless you. wait, she didn’t hear me. should i say it out loud? no, too late. i’ll just think it extra hard. bless you bless you bless you. i want to wrap her in a million blankets and make her tea. i’ll fight every germ in the universe. i’ll wage war on bacteria if i have to.’
it was ridiculous. it was deranged. it was kind of adorable.
and it made your tiny crush grow claws.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
the funniest part was when kuroo got involved.
“y/n,” kuroo called across the gym one afternoon, “you coming to the arcade with us later?”
you opened your mouth to answer, but kenma’s brain detonated first.
‘no. no no no. she can’t. not with kuroo. he’s tall. he’s funny. he makes everyone laugh. what if she likes him? what if she stands next to him at the claw machine and smiles at him? i’ll die. i’ll break every machine in the arcade. i’ll throw myself into the skee-ball pit. i’ll yank the plug out of the wall. no arcade. no kuroo. please, god, no.’
you glanced at kenma. he was calmly clicking his switch. absolutely blank-faced.
“…sure,” you said, just to see what would happen.
kenma’s mind went into nuclear meltdown. ‘she said yes. this is it. i’ve lost. goodbye, cruel world. i’ll haunt the arcade machines forever. kuroo’s gonna make her laugh and i’ll keel over. i should fake a fever. i should set the arcade on fire. no, that’s a felony. oh my god.’
“cool,” kuroo grinned, clearly oblivious to the psychic death spiral happening two feet away.
you had to excuse yourself to the bathroom to laugh.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
at the arcade, kenma stuck to your side the entire time. not that he admitted it. he walked behind you, a careful half-step, like he just happened to be moving at the same pace.
but in his head? ‘don’t let her wander off with kuroo. stay close. closer. if she reaches for his tokens, i’ll chop my own hand off and offer it instead. god, she looks so cute when she concentrates on the claw machine. she’s biting her lip. oh my god. oh my god. i’d let her crush my head with that claw. i’d thank her for it.’
you nearly dropped your stuffed animal prize.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
practice wasn’t any better.
when you clapped for him after a clean set, he barely looked up.
‘she’s clapping for me. she saw me. she noticed me. that’s it, i’m retiring. my career peaked. bury me now. she’s so supportive. i’d play until my fingers bled if she was the one cheering. oh god, she’s smiling. don’t smile back. no, smile back. wait, don’t. too late.’
he smiled—tiny, barely there. you almost melted.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
and then, one evening, there was a team sleepover at kuroo’s place. you’d been invited too, mostly because no one had the heart to leave you out.
you ended up on the couch beside kenma, legs tucked under you, blanket shared between you. his body was stiff as a statue, but his head was screaming.
‘we’re sharing a blanket. we’re literally sharing. this is basically marriage. our knees touched. i can feel her warmth. don’t move. don’t breathe too loud. oh my god, what if she hears my heartbeat? it’s so loud. i’m sweating. i’m disgusting. she’s so pretty up close. she’s gonna notice i’m staring. stop staring. stop. i want to hold her hand. no. no. i’d ruin everything. but her hand’s right there. her nails are cute. i’d paint them for her. i’d let her stab me with them. oh my god, i’m insane. i’m insane.’
you couldn’t stop the tiny laugh that bubbled out of you.
kenma flinched. “…what?”
“nothing,” you said, hiding your grin in the blanket.
but you reached out anyway, sliding your fingers over his.
he went still. then, slowly, his hand turned under yours, palm up, holding on.
his mind went quiet for half a second—then exploded. ‘don’t let go. don’t ever let go. mine. mine. mine.’
and maybe, you thought, as your heart pounded, you didn’t plan to let go either.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
you thought maybe kenma would relax once the blanket-sharing moment passed, but no. the longer the night went on, the more his mind spiraled. while everyone else played cards, ate pizza, and shouted over each other, you sat beside him, and his head was a storm.
‘she’s right here. she’s leaning against me. she doesn’t even realize. her hair brushed my shoulder. i want to bury my face in it. i want to lock every door so no one can come between us. i’d carry her into another room and keep her there, just us, just—no. no. calm down. don’t scare her. breathe. pretend to game. act normal. do NOT let kuroo sit on her other side. i’ll kill him. i won’t. but i’ll want to. oh my god, she’s laughing. she’s laughing at yaku’s joke. i wish it was me. i’d sell my soul if she laughed at me like that.’
your cheeks warmed. he sat so stiff, pretending he wasn’t burning up inside, while his brain looped mine mine mine like a broken record.
and you realized something important: kenma kozume was not just yearning. he was starving.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
by the next week, it was unbearable. for him, and, honestly, for you too.
you went to watch practice, sitting on the bleachers with a snack. kenma, on the court, barely glanced at you once.
inside?
‘she came. she came just to watch. she’s eating pocky. i want one. not the box—hers. the exact stick she bit into. is that gross? it’s gross. i don’t care. i’d do worse. oh my god she’s swinging her legs. she doesn’t know how cute she looks. everyone can see. everyone’s staring. i hate it. don’t look at her. she’s mine. she should only smile like that for me. i’d put her in my pocket if i could. i’d carry her around everywhere. god, imagine. no one else would get to look at her. just me.’
your heart slammed against your ribs. his head was a cage full of secrets, and he was rattling it so hard you almost thought he’d break.
when practice ended, you walked over with a bottle of water. “good job out there.”
he took it with a quiet “thanks.”
his thoughts? ‘SHE THINKS I DID GOOD. i’d die for her praise. i’d play until my knees gave out if she kept looking at me like that. oh god, her hand brushed mine. i’ll never wash this hand again. wait. i want her to touch it more. everywhere. her fingers in my hair. down my arm. don’t think about that now. not in front of everyone. breathe. act normal. NORMAL.’
you swallowed, fighting the urge to laugh and melt and scream all at once.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
and then came the breaking point.
it was small, stupid, and entirely kuroo’s fault. (kenma’s words, not mine.)
the team had gone to the convenience store together, and kuroo—being kuroo—slung an arm over your shoulder as you browsed the snack aisle.
harmless. casual. friendly.
but kenma saw.
he froze in the middle of the aisle, can of energy drink in hand, and his thoughts went absolutely feral.
‘no. no no no no. get your arm off her. don’t touch her. don’t touch what’s mine. i’ll break it. i’ll break your hand. i’ll smash this can into your face. she’s not yours. she’s not anyone’s. she’s mine. she doesn’t even know it yet. but she will. i’ll make sure she knows. i’ll carve it into the universe if i have to. god, i want to rip him away from her. i want to grab her wrist and drag her out of here. keep her where no one else can touch. no one else can even look. she’d be safe. she’d be mine. mine mine mine.’
his fingers clenched so hard around the can you thought it might burst. his eyes, usually dull and tired, flicked up to kuroo with a sharpness that made your stomach flip.
you gasped quietly, stunned at the rawness of it.
kenma looked away fast, pretending to study the shelves. but his mind wouldn’t shut up.
‘i can’t keep this in. i can’t keep pretending. she’ll slip away. she’ll smile at someone else. she’ll leave me behind. no. no, i won’t let it happen. i’ll tell her. i’ll tell her everything. even if it ruins me. i don’t care anymore. i can’t take it.’
your pulse quickened. was he—?
later that night, when everyone else drifted off home, you found him waiting outside, hood up, switch tucked under his arm like he needed the comfort.
he didn’t look at you when he spoke. “do you… have a minute?”
his thoughts screamed, ‘don’t run. don’t laugh. don’t say no. please. please. i’ll beg if i have to.’
you nodded. “yeah.”
the walk was quiet, filled only with the sound of cicadas and kenma’s head screaming loud enough for you to drown in it.
‘say it. say it now. she’s gonna leave. she’s gonna smile at someone else. i can’t let that happen. i’ll die if it happens. i’ll chain myself to her side if i have to. no one else deserves her. no one else even sees her the way i do. god, i sound insane. i am insane. but i love her. i love her so much it’s eating me alive.’
he stopped under the streetlight, fists buried in his hoodie pocket, shoulders trembling just slightly.
“…i don’t hate you,” he said, voice soft.
you swallowed. “i know.”
his head snapped up, startled.
‘she knows?? she knows?? how?? oh god. oh god. abort. no—don’t abort. it’s too late. she has to know. i’ll tell her. i’ll ruin myself right here.’
“kenma,” you said, heart thudding, “i like you.”
silence.
and then—like a crack in the dam—his thoughts spilled over, wild and unfiltered.
‘she likes me. she likes me. she LIKES ME. holy shit. holy shit. she’s mine. i’ll never let her go. i’ll hold her hand until my fingers fall off. i’ll kiss her until i forget my own name. i’ll keep her so close no one else can even breathe her air. mine. she’s mine. forever. god, i love her. i love her. i love her. i’ll never stop.’
and when he finally smiled, crooked and trembling, when his hand reached for yours with a desperation he couldn’t hide anymore—you didn’t pull away.
you laced your fingers through his, and felt the world go quiet.
for the first time, his mind whispered. finally.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
a/n: i alr have an idea on what twist i should put in next.
need to dose you like a micro. baby, it’s alright though.
kozume kenma x f!reader
basically kenma malfunctioning every time he feels your presence.
for kenma, this is a strictly disciplined medical trial.
kenma was a man of logic, pixels, and very specific boundaries. he knew that too much of a good thing—like an unpatched exploit or a caffeine-induced heart palpitation—was a recipe for disaster. you were his ‘good thing,’ a human solar flare that had accidentally wandered into his orbit, and he had decided, with the cold precision of a grandmaster, that he would simply microdose you.
one hour. sixty minutes of sitting near you in the library while he grinded for materials and you highlight-penned your way through chemistry. that was the safe limit. any more and he feared his heart would actually vibrate out of his ribcage and scuttle across the floor like a runaway joy-con.
the clock on his switch ticked past 4:00 PM. his sixty minutes were up. he should have stood up, muttered a vague ‘see ya,’ and vanished into the safety of the nekoma hallways.
instead, he watched your hair bob as you nodded along to your music. you looked like the personification of a warm blanket straight out of the dryer.
“kenma?” you whispered, leaning closer. the scent of your shampoo—something dangerously sweet, like peaches or a direct attack on his central nervous system—hit him like a flashbang. “is this level hard? you’ve been staring at the loading screen for a while.”
“it’s a complex strategy,” he lied. his voice was a bit more breathy than he liked. he wasn’t staring at a loading screen; he was staring at his own reflection in the black glass, wondering if you could see the way his pupils had dilated to the size of dinner plates. “very… high-level.”
“oh. cool.” you beamed at him, and kenma felt his soul leave his body to go find a place to hide.
he didn’t leave. he stayed for the second hour. then the third. by the time the librarian started jingling her keys, kenma had achieved absolutely zero progress in his game, but he had successfully memorized the exact rhythm of your breathing. he was a goner. he was pathetic. he was a victorian child dying of consumption, and you were the only slice of bread in the entire county.
𓏵
“want to walk to the station?” you asked, stuffing your pens into your bag.
“sure. i guess. it’s on the way,” kenma said. (the station was in the opposite direction of his house. he was prepared to walk three miles in the wrong direction just to stand in your peripheral vision for twelve more minutes.)
as you walked, you were talking about something—a cat you saw, a grade you got, a dream about a giant marshmallow—and kenma was performing a feat of physical endurance that would have made kuroo weep with pride.
he had stopped blinking.
it wasn’t intentional. it was just that every time his eyelids closed, he missed a millisecond of your existence, and that felt like a wasted resource. his eyes were burning. they were screaming for moisture. they were redder than the nekoma jerseys. but you were laughing, and the way your nose crinkled was a visual masterpiece that deserved his undivided, unblinking attention.
“kenma? are you… okay? your eyes are really watery,” you said, stopping under a streetlamp.
“allergies,” he croaked. “the air is… strong today.”
“oh, poor thing!” you reached out, your thumb brushing a stray tear—caused by literal ocular dehydration—away from his cheek.
kenma’s internal server crashed. he didn’t just feel a spark; he felt like he’d been plugged directly into a high-voltage transformer. his knees felt like overcooked noodles. he wanted to melt into the pavement and become a permanent puddle at your feet.
“it’s fine,” he managed to say, his voice an octave higher than usual. “i don’t mind.”
𓏵
the walk ended, but his desperation didn’t.
the next day, he found himself hovering near your desk before practice. he was holding a strawberry milk he’d bought because he remembered you mentioning it three weeks, four days, and six hours ago.
“for me?” you asked, eyes widening.
“they were on sale. two-for-one. i didn’t want the second one,” he said, handing it over with a hand that was definitely not trembling (it was).
there was no sale. he had paid full price. he had actually fought a third-year for the last cold carton.
“you’re so sweet, kenma!” you cheered, taking a sip.
he watched the way you smiled and felt a sudden, violent urge to buy every strawberry milk factory in the tri-state area just to ensure you never had to go without. he was deep in the trenches. he was drowning in the deep end and he didn’t even want a life jacket; he just wanted you to hold his hand while he sank.
𓏵
by sunset, kenma was sitting on the gym floor, leaning against the wall while you sat beside him, showing him pictures on your phone. the ‘one hour’ rule had been dead and buried for weeks. he was now on a twenty-four-hour-a-day dosage, and it still wasn’t enough.
he leaned his head cautiously onto your shoulder. it was a bold move. a pro-gamer move.
you didn’t pull away. instead, you tilted your head to rest against his, your hair tickling his forehead.
“kenma?”
“mhm?”
“you’re really warm.”
“it’s the… body heat. from practice,” he mumbled, though he hadn’t touched a volleyball in two hours.
he closed his eyes, finally allowing himself to blink, to breathe, to simply exist in your space. he had tried to microdose your affection, to keep it safe and manageable, but he’d ended up overdosing in the best way possible.
he shifted his hand, his fingers twitching until they finally hooked around yours. your palm was soft, your grip firm, and for a second, the rest of the world felt like a glitchy, low-res background. you were the only thing in high definition.
“i think i’m going to stay here for a while,” he whispered into the crook of your neck.
you squeezed his hand, pulling him closer until there wasn’t a single atom of space left between you. “stay as long as you want.”
kenma let out a shaky breath, his heart finally settling into a rhythm that said home. he was utterly, hopelessly, and spectacularly ruined for anyone else, and as he felt you press a tiny, fleeting kiss to the top of his dual-toned head, he decided that logic was overrated anyway.
the peace of the gym was shattered by the distinct, rhythmic squeak of a volleyball being squeezed by someone with zero respect for personal space.
“oh, look at that,” a voice drawled, dripping with a mock-scientific curiosity that made kenma want to crawl into his own hoodie and cease to exist. “the test subject seems to have developed a severe case of ‘glued-to-the-floor-itis.’ very rare. very terminal.”
kuroo was leaning against the equipment shed, his grin so wide it looked physically painful. he held a clipboard he definitely didn’t need, pretending to take notes.
“go away, kuroo,” kenma muttered, though he didn’t move his head from your shoulder. he actually gripped your hand tighter, his knuckles turning a faint shade of white.
“i’m just checking the data! last week, you told me—and i quote—‘y/n is a distraction that can be managed in small, controlled bursts,’” kuroo said, his voice rising in an obnoxious theatrical arc. “and yet, here you are. it’s been five hours. you haven’t touched a controller. you haven’t even looked at your phone. the withdrawal symptoms must be catastrophic.”
you giggled, the vibration of it sent a literal shockwave of warmth through kenma’s chest. “he’s being a good pillow, kuroo. leave him alone.”
“a pillow? this man?” kuroo stepped closer, peering down at kenma’s face with a predatory glint in his eyes. “this is the guy who avoids human contact like it’s a level 90 poison debuff? he looks like he’s trying to merge with your DNA, y/n. he’s not a pillow; he’s a parasitic organism.”
kenma finally looked up, his eyes narrowed into lethal golden slits. “i’m observing. for… research.”
“research?” kuroo cackled, dropping the clipboard to clutch his stomach. “kenma, your ‘research’ involves looking at her like she’s the last save point before a boss fight. you’re not microdosing anymore, buddy. you’ve gone full addict. you’re cooked. you’re deep-fried. you’re a goner.”
“i’m fine,” kenma hissed, his face turning a spectacular shade of pink that matched your strawberry milk.
“he’s blushing! oh, the humanity!” kuroo turned to the empty gym, gesturing wildly. “the stoic heart of nekoma has been compromised by a girl who likes lemon juice and highlighter pens! call the media! cancel the practice matches!”
you reached over and patted kenma’s cheek, your fingers lingering just a bit too long for ‘just friends’ territory. “i think he’s doing great, kuroo. aren’t you, kenma?”
kenma looked at you, and for a split second, the sarcasm died. the wit vanished. he looked at the way the gym lights caught the gold in your eyes and felt his lungs simply stop working. he didn’t care about kuroo’s teasing. he didn’t care about the ‘data.’ he didn’t even care that he was being perceived.
he leaned forward, his nose brushing against yours in a move so bold it probably should have come with a cinematic soundtrack.
“yeah,” he whispered, his voice steady for the first time all day. “never better.”
kuroo gagged loudly in the background, muttering something about ‘disgusting displays of affection’ and ‘needing an industrial-strength bucket,’ but kenma didn’t hear a word of it. he was too busy realizing that if this was what losing felt like, he never wanted to win another game in his life.
n: i swear one day, i might lose my motivation in writing and i’ll just rot.
tangentwithtanner
dededos
romaincrisis
kianamaiart
