girl, could you do a touch starved senku oneshot? GN reader please
(Word Count: 736 // Spoilers: none)
The nights out here were colder than you remembered.
Not colder in temperature—though, granted, sleeping in an open-roofed hut was a far cry from central heating—but colder in tone. Quiet in that eerie, ancient way. No distant hum of city lights, no soft rumble of traffic. Just crickets. And the occasional howl that sounded way too close.
Still, none of that explained why Senku was pressed to your back like a goddamn second skin.
You blinked up at the thatched ceiling, eyes adjusting to the moonlight spilling in from above, your limbs still half-asleep. Senku was out cold behind you, chest rising in slow, steady rhythm, one arm draped heavy over your middle, the other wedged under your neck like a makeshift pillow. His long legs were tangled with yours in a mess of barely-washed sheets, and he smelled faintly of charcoal and mint leaves.
Not because you didn’t want to. But because you were still trying to process what the hell this was.
When you were revived, the first thing you remembered—after the scream-inducing sensation of skin cracking back to life—was Senku’s face hovering above yours, tense but relieved. He’d cracked some stupid science joke, you’d flipped him off, and everything had felt strangely normal.
Because Senku, for all his scientific detachment and emotionally stunted habits pre-petrification, had not stopped touching you since.
A guiding hand at your lower back. A shoulder bump when no one else was watching. Fingers brushing yours when he passed tools or water. A low, murmured “You good?” as his knuckles barely grazed your jaw to check your fever that didn’t exist. And now—this. Night after night of you waking up basically cocooned in the human version of a space heater with freakishly pointy hair.
You tilted your head slightly. His breath was warm against your neck. A little uneven now that you were shifting.
“Senku,” you whispered, just to see if he was awake.
No response. He only curled tighter.
His hand slid from your waist to your stomach, fingers splaying out like he was subconsciously making sure you were still there. You wondered if he even realized he was doing it.
You bit your lip and held still a little longer. Not out of awkwardness anymore, but out of… curiosity.
Because, yeah. Before the whole stone-world and de-petrification and war stuff, Senku wouldn’t have touched you with a ten-foot pole unless it involved CPR or slapping a lab coat on you. He wasn’t cold, not exactly—but his mind was always elsewhere. Always calculating. Intimacy wasn’t a formula he prioritized.
Now, he curled around you like the night would take you away.
Eventually, his voice—low and cracked with sleep—broke the silence.
“You’re overthinking again.”
You flinched. “You're awake?”
“Barely,” he mumbled, nuzzling into your shoulder. His nose was freezing. “But I can feel your heartbeat trying to vibrate through the dirt floor. It's annoying.”
You were silent for a beat. “You’re literally clinging to me.”
“…You really think that holds up as logic?”
Senku gave a sleepy scoff, which somehow translated into a snort and a hum. “Shut up. Let me have this.”
You blinked at the ceiling again, mouth twitching.
“So what—post-petrification side effect is... extreme clinginess?”
“Maybe,” he muttered. “Brain’s the same. Body’s not. People change.”
You let out a breath, soft. “You used to be so weird about touch.”
“Yeah, well,” he said, barely audible now, his fingers twitching once against your stomach before relaxing, “you’re here now.”
Because it wasn’t said dramatically. It wasn’t even said sweetly. It was just true. And in that moment, it hit you: in this war-torn, half-dead, primitive second life, Senku had lost a lot. Most things, maybe. But you? You were one of the few things he got back.
And apparently, he wasn’t planning on letting you go again.
“…Do you do this with everyone?” you teased lightly, trying to shake off the tight feeling in your chest.
“Hell no,” he said without missing a beat.
And you felt his arm tighten around you again—like an instinct. Like a reflex.
“Just you,” he added, softer this time. “Don’t make it weird.”
Too late, you thought, cheeks warming.
But you didn’t move. You didn’t want to.
Not when his touch—awkward, unconscious, needy—was the warmest thing left in this world.
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