ⓘ 03. MY STRANGE ADDICTION !
⤷ FIC ﹫ timeskip!kenma x fem!reader ﹫ angst/fluff ﹫ toxic au!
⚠︎ I really want to warn this one cuz it is really a heavy subject!!! I do not want hate so only read if you’re okay with the disclaimers: really toxic, obsession, corruption of reader, suggestive, fluff, insults, smoke, drugs, identity loss .ᐟ.ᐟ
Kenma wakes up to the sound of soft rain tapping against the massive windows of your penthouse. The sky outside is gray, overcast, the city below blurred by the misty drizzle. It feels like a dream—like he’s caught in that space between sleep and waking, where reality and illusion blend together.
And then he sees you.
You’re standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, wrapped in nothing but the silk robe he bought you last week. It hangs off your shoulders carelessly, draping over your body like it was made for you. Your hair is slightly messy, the kind of perfect disarray that makes you look like you just stepped out of a painting. A cigarette dangles between your fingers, the faint glow illuminating your nails, perfectly manicured, expensive.
You don’t even try, and still, you’re the most effortlessly beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
Kenma doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He just watches.
You do this sometimes—wake up before him, stand by the window, lost in your own thoughts. Maybe you like watching the city move beneath you, knowing none of it touches you. Maybe you just like knowing you have all of this, that money is nothing but numbers to you, that luxury is just a natural state of being.
Or maybe—maybe you just like making him feel like he’s in a fucking fever dream.
Your lips part slightly as you exhale, slow, smoke curling past your lips, disappearing into the air. Then, as if sensing his gaze, you glance over your shoulder, half-lidded eyes locking onto his.
“You’re staring,” you murmur, voice still thick with sleep.
Kenma exhales through his nose, dragging a hand through his already-messy blonde hair. “You look fake,” he mutters, voice hoarse.
Your lips curl at the edges, amused. “Good morning to you too, baby.”
You turn fully now, walking towards the bed with that slow, unbothered grace that makes his stomach twist. Like you know exactly the effect you have on him. Like you enjoy it. You flick the cigarette into a glass ashtray before crawling onto the bed, hands splaying over the silk sheets as you hover above him.
Kenma just looks at you.
God, he’s fucking obsessed with you.
It’s not normal. It never has been. From the moment you met, it was like something chemical snapped inside both of you—like magnets being forced together, something too strong, too immediate, too much.
Five years, and it hasn’t faded. If anything, it’s worse.
“You didn’t sleep,” you whisper, fingers brushing against his jaw.
Kenma doesn’t deny it. He never sleeps well without you, not unless he’s exhausted to the point of collapse. Even then, his body searches for yours in the sheets, muscle memory guiding him to where you should be.
You hum, leaning down until your lips barely ghost over his. “Bad habit,” you murmur against his skin.
“You’re my bad habit,” Kenma mutters back, and he hates how much he means it.
You are. You’re the worst kind of addiction, the kind that doesn’t destroy you outright but sinks into your bones, corrupting you slowly, beautifully, until you can’t tell where you end and where it begins.
Neither of you are cruel, not to each other. You don’t fight. Don’t scream. There’s no chaos, no violence—just an obsession that runs too deep, a love so consuming it wraps around your ribs like vines, tightening, squeezing.
Kenma knows it’s not healthy.
You never go anywhere without him. He never goes anywhere without you. Even when you’re apart, you’re not—you text, call, send photos, constant proof that the other still exists. The longest you’ve ever been away from each other was three days, and by the end of it, Kenma felt like his skin was too tight, like the world was too loud, like nothing made sense anymore.
You came back, and he remembers the way you just collapsed into his lap, burying yourself in his hoodie, inhaling him like you needed him to breathe again.
He remembers whispering never again into your hair, and he remembers the way you nodded, nails digging into his back like a silent promise.
Never again.
You’re pressing lazy kisses to his jaw now, soft and slow, like you have all the time in the world. You do. Time is irrelevant when you have everything.
“You love me,” you murmur, not a question, just a fact.
Kenma exhales, fingers tightening around your waist. “Too much.”
“Good.” Your lips ghost over his. “Me too.”
That’s the problem. You love each other, but it’s too much, too intense, an all-consuming fire that doesn’t burn out, just keeps raging. You don’t fight because you can’t—hurting each other isn’t an option. The thought of it makes Kenma feel physically sick.
But it’s not normal.
It’s not normal to panic when he wakes up and you aren’t there. It’s not normal to have to touch you constantly, just to make sure you’re real. It’s not normal to hate the idea of other people looking at you, talking to you, existing in the same space as you.
It’s not normal to be so deep in someone that you forget who you were before them.
Kenma doesn’t care.
Because even if it’s wrong, even if it’s unhealthy, even if it’s an addiction—
He’s never fucking quitting you.
It started slow.
Kenma likes to think he didn’t do it on purpose, that he didn’t set out to ruin you. But deep down, in the part of himself he doesn’t like to examine too closely, he knows that’s a lie.
Because the truth is—he wanted to ruin you from the second he met you. Don’t get him wrong, he never wanted to arm you or make you feel bad.
You were too fucking perfect.
When he first saw you, you were everything he wasn’t. Innocent in a way that wasn’t naïve, but untouched. Untainted. You weren’t fragile, weren’t weak, but you carried yourself with an effortless grace, a beauty so natural it made his stomach twist. You were kind without trying, soft in a way that wasn’t fake. You weren’t like the world he knew—cold, cynical, hollow.
You were warm.
And Kenma—Kenma, who had spent years keeping himself at a distance, who had built walls so high no one had ever been able to reach him—wanted to ruin you.
He wanted to pull you into his world. Wanted to see that warmth twist into something darker, something for him. He wanted you to be his.
And he got exactly what he wanted.
At first, it was little things.
The first time he handed you a cigarette, you wrinkled your nose at it, hesitant. “I don’t smoke,” you had said, voice soft but firm.
Kenma didn’t argue. Just shrugged, took a slow drag, let the smoke curl lazily from his lips.
But then you were kissing him, and his fingers were slipping into your hair, tilting your head back as his tongue slid against yours, smoky and slow.
You tasted it.
Didn’t pull away.
And he knew then—it’s only a matter of time.
The first time you actually smoked, you coughed, eyes watering, nose scrunching in a way that made something deep inside him ache. But then you tried again. And again. Until it became natural, until the scent of tobacco clung to your skin like perfume, until he could press his lips to yours and taste it on you like a promise.
Then came the drugs.
Not an addiction—never an addiction. You weren’t stupid.
But you liked the feeling. The way it blurred the edges of the world, made everything a little softer, a little less real. You liked the way it made your skin hum, the way it made you feel invincible.
You liked the way Kenma would watch you when you were high—like you were something unreal, something ethereal. Like he couldn’t believe you were his.
You liked being his.
You had always been confident. You had always known you were beautiful. But Kenma—Kenma made you something else.
Something dangerous.
Because there was a difference between being beautiful and being desired. And no one had ever desired you the way he did.
The first time he touched you, really touched you, it was slow. Worshipful. Like he wasn’t sure you were real. Like he was afraid you’d slip through his fingers. But as the years passed, it became something else—something desperate, something obsessive, something hungry.
You were addictive.
Kenma was never the type to lose control. He was calculated, always two steps ahead. But with you—with you, he could never get enough.
You learned how to play with him, how to push his buttons. How to wear something too short, just to see his jaw tighten, his grip on his phone turn white-knuckled. How to let your touch linger just a little longer, just to watch the way his pupils would dilate.
You liked it.
Liked watching him fight to keep his composure. Liked knowing that you were the only one who could make him unravel.
It was a game.
A dangerous one.
Because if Kenma was possessive before, now he was something else entirely. You never questioned it. Never pushed against it. Because the truth was—you liked belonging to him.
Even when it was too much.
Even when the world started to feel smaller, reduced to just him.
Even when you realized you didn’t have any friends anymore. Didn’t go anywhere without him. Didn’t want to.
Because why would you?
When Kenma was your world.
When you were his.
Five years.
Five years, and now, when you look in the mirror, you barely recognize the girl you used to be.
The girl who didn’t smoke.
The girl who didn’t do drugs.
The girl who didn’t need him to breathe.
But that girl is gone. And what’s left is something else—something sharper, something darker, something that only exists in relation to him.
You should be afraid.
But you’re not.
Because if this is a mistake, if this is wrong, then you don’t want to be right.
Because this—this obsession, this madness, this love—
Is all you’ve ever wanted.
The morning is slow, stretching like golden syrup over the silk sheets. Kenma watches you move through the bedroom, and he can’t help but think about how different you are now.
How different you’ve become.
The girl he met five years ago would’ve wrapped herself in a blanket after crawling out of bed, would’ve worn an oversized hoodie, would’ve sat beside him with bare feet tucked beneath her, warmth radiating from her skin like the last light of a setting sun.
This version of you—his version of you—doesn’t do that.
You don’t bother with modesty anymore. The silk robe you wear barely clings to your body, loose enough to slip off your shoulder, short enough to reveal the curve of your thighs. It’s barely even tied. You don’t care.
And he fucking loves it.
Because you weren’t always like this.
You used to wear pretty dresses, elegant but never loud. Never anything too short, too tight, too much. You used to cross your legs carefully, sit with your hands in your lap, tuck your hair behind your ear when you were nervous.
Now? Now you stretch your arms above your head, making the robe slip further down your body, rolling your shoulders like you know he’s watching. You don’t even bother tying it properly. You don’t need to. You live in a place where money shields you from judgment, where you only leave when you want to, where Kenma is the only person whose opinion has ever mattered.
It’s not just the way you dress.
It’s the way you carry yourself now—completely unbothered, effortlessly sexy, indulgent in the way only people with everything can be.
You pad across the room, barefoot on the marble floor, fingers trailing over the cool surface of the vanity as you pass by. Your reflection stares back at you, and for a brief second, you don’t recognize yourself.
Not because you look bad. No—you look beautiful. Too beautiful.
Your lips are a little fuller, a little darker, the faint stain of yesterday’s lipstick still there. Your eyes are sharper, half-lidded, lazy, with a sleepy kind of sensuality. There’s no innocence left.
It should scare you.
But it doesn’t.
You glance at Kenma through the mirror, and he’s already watching you, amber eyes tracing the curve of your spine, the bare skin peeking through the loose silk of your robe.
You smirk. “You like staring at me, huh?”
Kenma doesn’t even blink. “You make it easy.”
Your smirk widens. You grab your cigarette from the ashtray and light it again, the scent of burning tobacco filling the air. You never used to smoke, but now it’s second nature. You love the way it makes you feel—like time slows down, like the world bends around you.
Like him.
Because that’s what Kenma does. He warps reality around himself, makes it impossible for you to think of anything else.
You take a slow drag, exhaling through parted lips. “You used to hate smokers.”
“I used to hate a lot of things.” Kenma’s voice is lazy, low, like he doesn’t even have the energy to pretend otherwise. “You make everything look good.”
You laugh, slow and syrupy. “Even addiction?”
“Especially addiction.” His gaze drags over you again. “It suits you.”
You should roll your eyes. You should say something sarcastic, should push against the way he owns you with just a look.
But you don’t.
Because he’s right.
It does suit you.
Everything he’s made you into—all the little corruptions, all the ways he’s reshaped you into something that belongs only to him—it fits.
You weren’t always like this.
You used to have boundaries.
Used to go out with friends, used to laugh without a cigarette between your fingers, used to kiss Kenma with soft lips instead of ones stained with nicotine and remnants of last night’s lipstick.
You used to be someone.
But that girl is gone for the best.
And the version of you that’s left—this spoiled, indulgent, obsessive thing—is so much more beautiful.
Kenma shifts on the bed, stretching, the sheets pooling around his waist. You take another drag, watching the way his muscles flex beneath smooth skin, the way his hair falls into his face, strands of blonde and brown mixing together in messy waves.
You were never meant for something normal.
Kenma knew that before you did.
So you take another slow inhale, lean against the vanity, and exhale with a smile. “So what now?”
Kenma watches the smoke curl between you, head tilting slightly. Then he smirks, slow and lazy, before reaching a hand out toward you.
“Come back to bed.”
