Unfortunately did not see any drst stuff but there was so much daiya!!!! I was so happy I bought literally everything daiya 😭
My gf and I were dressed as mitsuaya (ofc) and so many ppl and vendors recognized what we were and we were so happy 🥹(ik it’s popular now but it’s still surreal) I’d includ a pic but she’s sleeping now but tbh the odds of any of yall following her on insta is low but never zero lmao, she has like 31k followers on there and like 100k on tiktok so I wouldn’t be surprised 💀if you’re into gyaru & vkei makeup and just makeup in general then it’s likely you’ve come across her page (shameless plug and bragging, my bad yall I just love my wife)
senku ishigami x gn!reader | 370 wc | warnings: post-breakup, Senku #reminiscing. Ooc tbh Its hard to picture bro doing this 🥀
♫ cinema / woodz | i’ll never love again / woodz
Senku can’t seem to get rid of you.
It doesn’t help him that Byakuya had been insistent on recording everything. Every time you stepped foot into the apartment, a camera would be shoved in your face, a happy, beaming Byakuya on the other end of it.
Dances, birthdays, holidays– the works. If you were there, there was video evidence stored away in the garage.
Senku wants to throw it all away.
Trash it, take it apart, crush it up– anything, if it means he could get rid of any remnants of you, any and every thought of you.
But despite that ugly, bitter, and angry part of him, Senku just can’t seem to let you go.
His fingers brush the length of a tape. It’s dated the day after his ninth birthday; he remembers it distinctly. He doesn’t need to watch the video. But he blows the dust off, grimacing at the residue on the tips of his fingers, and slips it into the slot and waits.
Abruptly, the tv lights up. Byakuya is grinning into the camera like a madman, hair tousled all about, giggling like an idiot.
The camera turns around, showcasing his bedroom door cracked open just the slightest, and when Byakuya pushes the door open, you're cuddled into his chest with his arm draped around you, chests rising and falling in sync.
When he woke up and found out, Senku had droned on about privacy and threatened to sue Byakuya— all while his cheeks burned a bright red hue.
The tape gets swapped with another, then another, until Senku’s left with tapes strewn about from him tossing them aside.
He wasn’t supposed to watch them. He wasn’t supposed to think of you, see you, or hear you.
He wanted to get rid of you. To rid himself of the tightening in his chest when he hears your name, the churning in his stomach whenever you’re in the same room as him.
Senku wanted to stop feeling anything towards you.
But he can’t.
He picks up the tapes one by one, placing them back in the box he took them out of, internally scolding himself for his lack of conviction, and sets them back on the shelf.
stanley snyder x gn!reader | 4.1k wc | warnings: nsfw. first-time sex, relationship fear/doubt, light angst. it’s my first time writing nsfw (sort of) it’s not just nsfw!! There is other things 😭
again, there is nsfw in this!! ⚠️
♫ cariad / the royston club | beach house / daydreamers | summer / keshi | night before the end / xdinary heroes
Stanley had never done it before.
He talked big, boasted to his friends as if he had, but he’d never actually participated in the act. So when he asks you to be his first, he doesn’t think much of it, because the lie is there to protect him, even if you knew him like the back of your hand.
“It’s like–” Stanley thinks for a moment, snapping his fingers as he actively recollects his memory. “A parting gift. You know, before soldiers are shipped off to war.”
“Okay,” you make a sound that’s in between a scoff and a laugh. “What makes you think I’m entitled to give you my first time?”
“Because you love me.” Something about the way he responds, like he’s so sure that’s reasoning enough, irks you to your core. “And I love you. We’re not strangers, we won’t be awkward, it’ll be fun. Something good to remember me by.” He winks at the end of his explanation, again, as if that was enough to get you to agree.
With crossed arms, you take a seat on his bed beside him, staring at the floor. “Why me?”
“I just told you, because we’re not strangers. We love each other, don’t we?”
“No, Stanley.” You shake your head, lifting your eyes to his, clutching your bicep a little tighter when you see the panic in his eyes. “Why me?”
He takes a moment to respond, not to collect his thoughts and come up with a reason, but to give himself time. Time to prepare, to let go of the secret he’s kept well hidden under his facade. “Because I can’t imagine it being anyone else but you.” He lifts his eyes to meet yours, fingers twitching on his lap as if he were restraining himself from reaching out to you. “I don’t want anyone but you.”
It’s not a lot, but it’s enough.
—
We won’t be awkward. He’d said, but Stanley is frozen in his place as he watches you inch towards his headboard. Even when you gesture him forward, to meet you in the middle, he stays rooted in place at the foot of the bed, standing like an idiot.
With a sigh, you scoot back to him, taking his hands carefully and placing them at your waist. You keep your eyes on his as his fingers clutch the hem of your shirt, slowly lifting it past your head. His eyes shoot down for a split second, then they come right back to yours with a soft sigh.
When it’s his turn, his breath stutters, your fingers pause briefly, his shirt pulled up halfway, before he nods his head and shuts his eyes while you pull it off completely.
“We can go slow, or we can go fast.” You say quietly, tracing shapes mindlessly against his skin. “Whatever you want, Stanley, I’m okay with.”
He only nods, placing a hand at your waist and the other on the back of your neck. Slowly, he lowers you down to the bed, gulping as he takes in the way you look under him– on his bed, naked.
“I’ve never–”
“I know.” Your voice is soft, the way you look at him is soft, your skin, your eyes, you. “I know you a lot better than you think, Stanley.” As your fingers tangle in his hair, he dips his head down slowly, brushing his lips against yours to test the waters, before he presses onto you without hesitation.
He pulls back the second he feels like he can’t breathe, lips shiny from your tongue, wet as he immediately makes a line of kisses down your jaw to your neck. He nips at your pulse point, relishing in the feeling of your fingers digging into his skin, repeating his actions just to hear you make that sweet sound again.
Stanley pulls back a second time to see what he’s done, reveling at the sight of the deep colored mark on your skin– captivated by it so much that something stirs inside him. He turns his head to the side, offering his neck quietly in hopes you get his message.
I did it to you, now you do it to me.
Your lips latch onto his neck, a strangled sound rising out of his throat as you bite carelessly into his skin. His arms nearly give way when your hips lift to meet his, one hand flying down to your waist hastily to keep you at bay, as if the action alone was enough to push him over to the other side.
“Impatient, are we?”
A breathy chuckle falls past your lips and onto his skin, “Shut up.”
Despite the calm tone in his voice, his fingers tremble as they travel down your stomach. He keeps his eyes on you, forehead pressed against yours, trying hard to ignore the tightness in his chest when his fingers press into you.
Your breath catches in your throat, a choked-back noise falling past, and your fingers dig into Stanley's skin hard enough to leave a mark.
“You alright?” He asks, gentle, like the kiss he presses against your forehead in hopes of soothing you.
“Yeah,” You nod, easing up on your grip. “Just feels weird.” He inches his fingers a little deeper, watching your hips lift again, then flits his eyes back to you for any word. “Keep going, I’m alright.”
Stanley tries to hold back, but the sounds you're making, the way your body is curving into his, cloud his head, his judgment, and his senses. His pace is unforgiving, fast but somehow still gentle, with his lips glued to yours, swallowing every sound you make.
He pauses his movements when your hands tap his shoulder, your hips are still rocking against his fingers– barely– face twisted with pleasure. “You’re doing so well.” He whispers, swallowing dryly when your movements quicken at his praise. “You sound so pretty, sweetheart.”
He drops his head down to your neck when his name comes out of you with a whimper, he kisses mindlessly, breath hot against your skin. You haven’t even touched him properly yet, and he’s already losing his mind.
When your hips no longer lift, he pulls his fingers out of you slowly, kissing your cheek when you hiss at the loss of contact. He holds them awkwardly at his side, propping himself up with one hand beside your head.
“You want some water?” He asks hesitantly, grabbing the bottle off his desk when you nod. He looks at anything but you while you sip, jolting when you press the cold bottle against his chest. “Rude.” He takes it from your hold, tossing back a long sip before returning it to its place.
“You have condoms?” You ask, already moving to rummage in his nightstand, cheering in triumph when you find the box.
He stutters when you draw him close, tearing the condom open carefully. “Don’t you need to like– I don’t know, rest? You’re not sensitive?”
“We’ll go slow this time. This is different than just fingers.” His eyes trace over you carefully before nodding, holding his breath when you slip the condom onto him, and hiding his face when his hips buck involuntarily. “Do you want me to…?” You trail off mid-sentence, but Stanley understood you completely.
He nods, at first hesitantly, but when you don’t make any moves and just stare at him, he nods again, firmer. “Please.” He sighs, hiding his face again.
The moment your lips wrap around him, his heart nearly seizes in his chest. His hips stutter, and he’s sure that if you weren’t holding them, he’d have bucked right into your throat without warning.
Someone once told him sex didn’t feel as good when wearing a condom, he wonders if that person was lying to his face– because this feels just like heaven.
Stanley doesn’t bite back his moan when you take him in fully, doesn’t shy away when your eyes lift to meet his; he stares back with flushed cheeks and pinched brows– something about that tells you he’s already close.
His fingers tangle in your hair, grabbing a fistful to tug experimentally, something a friend of his had mentioned once: ‘It feels good in the moment,’ or something like that. His teeth sink into his lips when that draws out a moan from you, breath catching when the vibrations go straight through him.
“If you do that again, I won’t last another minute, seriously.” He says shakily.
You pull off him briefly, licking your lips at his tuckered-out face. “Good.”
Your hand moves at the same relentless pace he’d shown you earlier, not letting up even when he nearly falls over from how good it felt.
“You’re close, aren’t you?” You whispered against his skin after his body had curled down to yours. His hands grip your shoulders subconsciously, half needing something to ground himself to, half just wanting to touch you.
He nods into your shoulder, stuttering out a broken plea, over and over again until his whole body shudders, and he’s filling the condom full.
“Such a mess, pretty boy.”
Stanley drags a hand down his face, still struggling to catch his breath. “Shut up.”
“Why don’t you make me?” His head lifts at the challenge, eyes darting to your hand as you carefully slip the spent rubber off of him and replace it with a new one. “Comfortable yet, Stan?”
He pushes you down with a little more force than he means to, but when your body lifts from the bed to grind against his, he figures you would be alright with him not holding back anymore.
———
Stanley has four days left before he leaves.
He ignores you for the first two, an immature solution to keep his overflowing emotions at bay. But he still texts you to reassure you (and himself) that he doesn’t regret the other night, that he’s just sorting things out at home, and that he’ll see you soon.
On his last night before deployment, Stanley finds himself sitting with you in his backyard, staring mindlessly as his dog chases fireflies out of the bushes.
“Will you miss me?”
He knows it was a simple question; one where you’re not looking for an honest answer, just something sarcastic, an answer that was one hundred percent him. But it still hits him in a place he never imagined would hurt as much as it did. It sinks in slowly, present, like watching a doctor inject something into you.
“Yeah,” he swallows thickly on the words aching to come out. “I guess.”
A weak laugh fills the silent air around you, forced, almost as if you felt the same way as he did. “I guess I’ll miss you too.”
“I’ll be back before you know it.” He says, whether to assure you or himself, he didn’t know. You can only muster up a nod in response, Stanley tries to ignore the sight of tears brimming in your eyes, and starts talking to you like it’s just another day.
As if he wasn’t leaving you behind.
—
Stanley’s been gone for three months. It’s short, a summer's worth, but it felt like forever.
He’s still the same, with shorter hair and a stance that feels more rigid than composed, as if he wasn’t convinced he was as hardened as others thought.
There’s less than a week before he has to leave again, he doesn’t know how long this time, a month or a year– maybe even longer– and Stanley’s feet carry him to the one place he’s been dreaming of since he set foot off the base.
The door to your house mocks him as he lifts his fist to knock, breath caught in his throat because he isn’t prepared for what, or who, he’ll see on the other side of the door.
But it opens before he can rap his knuckles against the cold steel, you’re in the middle of laughing at something someone inside says, utterly unaware that he was right in front of you.
And then you bump into his chest with everything but grace, cursing under your breath at the, quote, brick wall you’ve just collided with. Your hand is on his chest, whether you knew it or not, and your eyes haven’t quite met his yet.
“Missed me?” He asks softly, almost afraid of what you’ll answer with, nearly bashful about wanting to hear you say yes.
“Stanley.” When your eyes meet his, he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from smiling too widely. Only offering half a smirk to maintain his cool image. “You didn’t–” a laugh of disbelief slips past before your fist hits his chest playfully. “You didn’t tell me you’d be home!”
When your arms wrap around him, Stanley feels like he’s reached heaven. Melting into your embrace unashamedly, holding you tightly against his body until you pulled away.
“Look at you,” you huff, eyes slowly tracing his figure. “Only three months, and you’ve gone through a second puberty.”
He scoffs, “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just muscle gain.” You respond with a shrug, watching as his eyes travel across you without a care, narrowing your own when he hums. “You’re just as pretty as the day I left.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“So be it,” he shrugs, slipping his hand into yours. “As long as it means I’m yours.”
“Oh, wow.” You whistled, tugging lightly to bring him closer to you. “Did they teach you that in your training camp? How to woo someone with precision?”
He hums, nodding his head. “Part of the manipulation tactics of war. Pretty interesting stuff.” A laugh breaks out when you shove him away from you, only for him to bring you back in even closer from behind. “I’m kiddin', sweetheart. You know that.”
“Course I do,” a light kiss to his cheek makes his grip on you falter, just enough to let you turn in his hold. “I just like seeing you chase.”
“Well, I’ll keep running after you my whole life if it means I get to hold you like this every time.”
—
Before you can get used to him, Stanley tells you he’s leaving again in a week. It’s quick, mumbled blearily into your hair as he awakes from slumber, and it pierces through your heart fast like an arrow.
You try to pull away before he can take in too much of you.
Yet, you still indulge in his every desire. You go to the street fair with him, you accept the ugly stuffed duck he wins for you, and you take a bite out of the nastiest fried food you’ve ever had when he holds it up to your lips. You do everything you said you wouldn’t do because he asks.
Because this is Stanley’s last bit of freedom and pleasure before he’s off to board a Naval ship to god knows where for months, maybe years. A place where he couldn’t coax an employee to let him toss a few more rings on bottles to win his date a prize, a limited area where the closest thing to leisure was quiet hours when you weren’t on watch.
You still have him for three days, but you tell him you miss him anyway.
“I’m right beside you, sweetheart.” He says with a laugh, but you can feel how heavy it is.
“I know,” he pulls you closer. “It just feels different when you don’t know how long you’ll be gone.”
Stanley tries to make it up to you the next morning. Though it was executed poorly because he’s just given you a taste of waking to an empty, cold bed.
He walks in with a tray, kicking his bedroom door shut before the dog can waltz in and demand a bite. Two plates, one undoubtedly his by the odd colored pancakes compared to yours– protein-rich, he tells you, they taste horrible from what you can remember.
He talks to you in a hushed voice, for what reason you can’t decipher. Brings his fork to your lips so you can try a bite of his pancake, and holds a napkin to your lips when you make a face of disgust.
It’s too domestic, even for you.
“Do you know when you’ll be back?”
Stanley sighs, not in annoyance, but in a way that feels like he’d just been handed the weight of the world. “Depends on where I end up. Could be months, could be years.” You only nod in response, moving the berries on your plate around. “You’ll still be here when I come back, won’t you?”
“I don’t want to wait around and wonder when you’ll be home, Stanley.”
He shakes his head, “That’s not– I meant, will you still love me, even when I’m away?”
“I’ll love you for as long as I can.”
It’s not the answer he hoped for, not a promised forever, but he accepts it anyway.
—
Stanley spends the next day with his parents. He gets out of bed at seven in the morning despite your reluctance to let him go because his Ma wants him to come to church, and he’d rather let you sleep than drag you with him to listen to the pastor drone on about things he couldn't care less about.
He runs deliveries with Pa, behind the wheel instead of nestled in the passenger's seat like before. Makes small talk with the customers and drinks nine full glasses of water before the sun fully rises because he couldn’t say no to the people who are kind enough to support his parents' farm.
His phone dings as he waits for Pa to come out of the gas station bathroom, tugging it out of his pocket and flipping it open to see a text from you.
Just had to fight Polly for the last slice of pie.
He laughs as the sight of you fighting a golden retriever over pie flashes in his mind, typing out his response as fast as the, quote, ancient, flip phone allowed him to.
She’s an old girl. Let her win sometimes, would you?
He gets sent a frowny face in return, just as Pa wrestles the truck door open with that obnoxious knowing look on his face. “Are ya texting your sweetheart?” Stanley sighs in faux annoyance at his teasing, but nods his head regardless. “I remember when your Ma and I were like that.”
“How did you and Ma handle being away from each other so long?”
One look at his face, and he’s sure his Pa has him all figured out. “Oh, son,” he laughs, not in a mocking way, but in understanding because he’s been in Stanley’s place before, because he knows why he’s even asking. “It’s gonna hurt like hell, but it’ll be worth it in the end.”
He starts driving home after Pa’s seatbelt clicks, radio static filling his ears. It’s quiet, but it’s too much.
It startles him, the stray tear that cascades down his cheek. He tries to wipe it before his Pa can see it, but his hand reaches up to his face before Stanley’s can. “It’s alright, son.”
Stanley tries to accept the possibility that maybe you won’t love him for as long as he will, but he can’t.
—
He doesn’t tell you he cried at the thought of you no longer loving him. You don’t question the red under his eyes or the tight-lipped smile he gives you before he brushes past you to shower.
His parents don’t stay for long, calling out from downstairs to tell you they’re going dancing —to relive their youth, they’d said. They aren’t that old, but you don’t argue with their reasoning.
When the door clicks shut, you walk to the bathroom, knocking softly against the wooden door until Stanley replies with a loud ‘huh?’
“Can I come in?”
A beat passes. “I’m showering.”
“I’m aware.”
Another beat. “Alright then.”
You twist the door open and find Stanley’s head popped out from behind the curtain, hair slicked back. “Hi.” You greet, as if he isn’t naked behind that curtain, as if this were something normal.
“Did you want to join me or something?”
“If that’s alright with you.”
Stanley meant it as a joke.
But now you’re standing with him under the stream of water, diligently working shampoo through his hair while his hands are wrapped around you in fear of you getting cold. It should feel suffocating, he thinks. But it’s so sweet that Stanley feels a cavity form at the thought of doing this with you again.
He leaves tomorrow.
The joke is on his tongue. The same one he said to you before he left for boot camp, the same one that ended up with you being tangled in his sheets, sharing a warmth that only came from two people who loved each other.
He doesn’t say it.
Arguably, against the words of a lot of his squadmates and friends, this was a lot better than sex.
The feeling of your fingers carding through his hair, massaging shampoo into his hair, and washing it out with that same care. Your hands running along his shoulders to wash away soap, the laughter that follows when you reach that area, and your hands freeze in midair just before you could touch him.
“You take such good care of me.” He whispers, faint, almost unheard.
“Only because I love you.” You respond, sighing at the feeling of his thumb rubbing circles over your skin.
He doesn’t say it back, not just yet.
——
You try to leave Stanley before he can leave you.
It’s the break of dawn, and he’s begging you not to leave.
“You should spend the rest of your time with your parents.” You try to tell him, but his only rebuttal is that he’s spent his whole life with them already. He holds you close, grip loose enough for you to escape, just in case you truly wanted to leave him so early.
Your body relaxes— melts, practically— into his arms. You curse yourself for giving in to him so easily, but don’t make any effort to leave a second time.
Stanley holds you tighter. You feel like you can’t breathe.
“I don’t want you to leave.”
It comes out quick, a whisper, but loud enough for him to hear. Stanley doesn’t say anything at first, not that you expect him to.
“Don’t,” he sighs, nudging his head against yours. “Don’t say things like that.” You can hear it, despite his effort to muffle it; the slight tremor in his voice, the heartache that he tried to push down. “I might actually stay.”
Your hold on him gets tighter. Stanley feels like he can’t breathe.
It wasn’t supposed to turn out like this.
It was supposed to be a one-time thing between two friends who loved each other a little more than anyone else. A parting gift– something fun.
He wasn’t supposed to fall deeper in love. You weren’t supposed to let him any closer.
“You know,” you start quietly, loosening your grip slightly. “When you first left, I tried to hate you.” Stanley hums in acknowledgement and lets you continue. “For how you left– our goodbye, I mean—”
“I didn’t like how we left things.” You admit, “That we had sex and said those half-hearted goodbyes that probably meant everything back then.” Then with a scoff, “I didn’t even say I love you back, Stanley.”
“It’s not like that this time, is it?” He asks, staring at your back when you move to sit up. He watches you shake your head, as you try to hide the tears behind your hand, while your shaking shoulders betray you.
“I love you.” He says, “I’ll love you when I’m away, and love you more when I get back.” Your eyes are hidden, but you can hear Stanley moving to sit in front of you. “And even if you find someone else when I’m away,” he grabs your hands gently, moving them away from your face and to his lap. “I’ll still love you.”
“You don’t mean that.”
Stanley, with the nerve, chuckles at your doubt. “I do. Have I ever lied to you?”
You want to throw a rebuttal, but you can’t because no, he hasn’t.
“I’m sorry I said I wouldn’t wait for you.” At your apology, his posture straightens slightly– almost unnoticeable. “I didn’t mean it, I was just upset.”
“Hey, you don’t have to explain to me.” He assures, smiling softly. “I’m sure I would’ve said the same.” It’s not a total lie, despite his composure and level-headedness (his words), Stanley was just like everyone else; someone who spoke before thinking in the heat of the moment.
“Does that mean you’ll wait for me?”
The room feels smaller than before at his question, too abrupt, too expected. He doesn’t look at you, almost like he knows how you’ll answer, as if he knew you wouldn’t.
“There’s nothing else I’d rather do.”
A weight falls from Stanley’s shoulder, and yours feel just a bit heavier.
Stanley fic in the works after 200 yrs! My smut debut (don’t worry, there’s more to it so you can skip it if you want) but here’s a look at the beginning to it lol
I’ve mentioned the “send off” thing before but I swear he doesn’t mean it in that kind of way!!! He’s just trying to act cool 💔 or like 🤓 ☝️
Going to Japan this year so all my moots will be receiving merch as presents, just don’t question how I get your addresses just appreciate the gifts guys shhhh don’t worry about it
It’s a fact—one that most of his classmates know, even if none of them believe it. Knowing, of course, has never stopped anyone from speculating.
Some assume he’s into cold, calculating women. The kind that keep him on a leash—close enough to tug, close enough to watch and learn and know, but never close enough to truly touch. Women who don’t bend easily at the whims of another person. The kind who make others work to prove they’re worth a real, meaningful conversation.
And maybe that’s true.
He thinks of you in chem lab, chin propped in your hand, eyes half-lidded as some poor soul drones on about a reaction everyone in the room had already run twice. Your boredom is palpable. If looks could kill, your glare would’ve incinerated him on the spot. Senku barely listens to the explanation—too busy judging the audacity of assuming you, sitting in an honors lab, wouldn’t know the basics.
It’s laughable.
He remembers the first time you were paired together. The way you’d looked at him—not impressed, not dismissive, just… measuring. Like he was a hypothesis waiting to be tested. He’d had an ego then, sure, but he never talked over you. Never diminished your work. He learned quickly that if he wanted your respect, he’d have to earn it.
So he did.
You worked as equals. Fell into a rhythm almost immediately. Competing, yes—but not to dominate. Just to see who could get there first, who could shave seconds off a calculation, who could spot the error before the other did.
You kept pace with him. Pushed him. Made him better.
He finds that intoxicating in a way he’d never admit out loud.
But still, people talk. They always do.
Others say he’s into sweet, doting types—the ones who fuss over him, pack extra lunches, leave little notes tucked into bags and books.
Which is ridiculous. Obviously.
And yet—he never seems to mind when you slide a coffee across the desk before lecture. Black, every time. You always find a way to comment on it, too, wrinkling your nose as you call it “old, embittered man coffee,” like you don’t drink it the same way when you’re exhausted.
You’re the one who reminds him to eat. To sleep.
The one who writes don’t forget to sleep, or there’s a test tomorrow on a scrap of paper and sticks it to his laptop screen when he’s not looking.
Senku pretends not to care.
But there’s a suspicious pile of sticky notes hidden in one of the drawers of his desk, saved instead of thrown away.
Then there are a few who think he’d be into the mischievous type. Someone clever enough to disguise teasing as curiosity, who masks provocation behind plausible innocence. The kind of person who enjoys reactions more than outcomes. Who pokes and prods simply to see what happens.
Someone who knows how to get under his skin.
Someone like you.
The bratty, teasing side of you that makes him both frustrated and… inexplicably excited. The way you lean too close under the excuse of needing to see, the way your voice drops when you know he’s already focused, whispering things that do absolutely nothing to help his concentration.
They’re right, he supposes.
It happens late one evening, his apartment is quiet except for the hum of his computer. He’s halfway through debugging something when he feels it—warmth at his back, sudden and unmistakable. Your presence presses in before you say a word, body flush against his, familiar enough that his shoulders tense on instinct.
Your head dips, forehead nudging into the side of his neck as you peer at the screen. “Whatcha working on?” you murmur.
“You’re doing this on purpose,” he says.
You giggle, soft and delighted, the sound vibrating against his skin. “Doing what?”
Your hands come next.
They slide up his chest from behind, slow and exploratory, palms warm, fingers splayed like you’re mapping him out. Up. Down. Again. Not rushed. Never rushed. Like you’re taking your time just to see how much he’ll tolerate before snapping.
“Get off,” he mutters, entirely unconvincing.
“Mm,” you hum, clearly not listening. Your lips brush closer to his ear, voice dropping. “You’re so tense.”
Your hands continue their lazy path, thumbs pressing lightly, then retreating, then returning again. Close enough to distract. Close enough to drive him insane. He swallows hard, eyes still fixed stubbornly on the screen even though he hasn’t processed a single line of code since you touched him.
Your mouth is close to his ear now, voice low. Not suggestive in words—just in tone, in timing, in the way you linger. Your fingers trace idle patterns, light enough to tease, firm enough to ground him there.
“We could go have some fun,” you say casually.
The words themselves are harmless. Innocent, even.
Your tone is anything but.
Senku swallows. Hard.
“That’s vague,” he mutters.
You grin against his neck. “Is it?”
Your hands drift—up, then down again—never crossing a line, just brushing close enough to make him acutely aware of every inch of space between you. You know exactly what you’re doing.
“You’re just a pervert, aren’t you?” he snaps, more breath than bite.
You laugh again, brighter this time, and finally pull back—just enough to deprive him of the heat, the weight, the distraction. Your hands leave his chest last, trailing away like you’re reluctant to let go.
“Maybe,” you say lightly. “But you don’t complain.”
Senku exhales only after you’re gone, dragging a hand down his face. Although there is a pink tint to the tips of his ears.
God. You’re unbelievable.
And then—because people never stop talking—there’s one last theory that circulates.
Some think he’s into nerdy, antisocial women. The kind who disappear into their own head for hours at a time. Who forgets to answer texts because they’ve fallen down a rabbit hole of theories and half-written notes. Someone just as obsessive, just as relentless when something catches their interest. The type who’d rather stay in and read than go out, who gets lost in ideas and theories and forgets the rest of the world exists.
And… yeah.
Maybe he can see that too.
Because sometimes he catches you like that—curled into a chair in the corner of the library, or tucked away in his apartment while he works. Knees drawn up, a book balanced in your hands like it’s an extension of your body rather than something you’re holding. Your glasses sit low on your nose, slipping just enough that you nudge them back absently, never once looking up.
Your face is different when you read. Softer. Unguarded in a way it rarely is when you’re aware of being watched.
You get this look—focused, absorbed, utterly gone. Like the rest of the world has dimmed to background noise, and whatever’s on the page is the only thing that matters. He’s seen you like that during lectures, too.
It’s… adorable. Annoyingly so.
Because for all your teasing, for all your sharp edges and deliberate provocation, there’s this part of you that’s quiet and thoughtful and deeply, undeniably sincere.
And Senku finds himself watching longer than necessary.
He’s a lost cause, isn’t he?
The truth, when he finally admits it to himself, is painfully simple.
You’re not one thing. You never were.
You’re sharp and guarded when it matters. Warm and attentive when he needs it. Teasing when you’re bored. Brilliant when you’re passionate. Sometimes all of it in the span of a single afternoon.
And he doesn’t love you despite that.
He loves you because of it.
So no—Senku doesn’t have a type.
He just simply loves all of you.
an: something sweet before i go rogue… the filth that has been polluting my head is itching to get out. little nervous about perception though cause i tend to keep things pretty vanilla for writing 😅 and while i still think what i have planned is quite tame it’s a little more than what ive posted before but… i just need to remind myself i write this stuff as a guilty pleasure so i shouldn’t care! (i will somehow tone it down before posting 🥲)
a/n: me when I’m delusional and imagine senku in a funny situation that happened at work. No formalities this is just for fun
“Is Y/n in here?”
You turn around slowly after Senku’s question rings out in the room, a look of disbelief and amusement crossing your face as you catch his eye.
“Don’t–”
“I don’t know, Senku!” You laugh, turning to scan the near-empty room behind you. “Is Y/n here?”
He scoffs, making his way towards you, “Shut up, I haven’t seen you at all today. How was I supposed to know you got a haircut?”
“We’ve been friends long enough, I’d have figured you’d recognize me from behind by now.” At the sight of his raised brow, a scoff falls from your own mouth. “Not in a weird way, idiot. You’re just always in my shadow.”
“As if,” another scoff. “Don’t let that haircut inflate your ego.”
“Is that your way of telling me you like it?”
He doesn’t say anything, no joke, no dismissing eye roll. His hand reaches out slowly, takes a piece of your hair, and twirls it between his fingers for a moment before dropping it.
Stunned by his sudden action, your lips part as you try to form a sentence of rebuttal. But you’re still stuck on the fact that Senku just did that.
And as smug as ever, he turns and walks off, but not without saying, “Looks good on you.”
Hiii… I’m okay just so slammed at work bc of the holiday season 😭 I’m pretty sure by the end of the week I’d have work 50 sum hours 😓
I haven’t been writing unfortunately,,, I’ve been rereading some drafts and whatnot but I haven’t really had any ideas on how to finish them so it might be a while until I upload something 😔
Chat is it weird to think about my old mutuals and how they’re doing in life despite not building solid enough connections to be able to chat outside of tumblr (there’s only 2 exceptions)
OOHH MY BRUHHH i should’ve said a bit earlier when i realised but seeing doraemon in your pfp made me squeal in delight 👍
Yayyy I loved Doraemon as a kid lol, I had a pillowcase and now that I have my own money I’ve been trying to buy some more merchandise hehehe. I think when I was changing my theme I wanted to use a senku pic but couldn’t find any that fit and then I found that one!!
