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@xynwrites
Xyn | 18+ blog | writes for: twst / genshin / manhwa / anime /shows i like | they/them | medyo nsfw ang posts sometimes...i think | tagalog-english, depende sa mood
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(In Other Words) DARLING KISS ME. || s. ishigami
we’re back! i’ve been converted to the dilf senku agenda by @mono-no-aware-stuff and now he’s been stuck in my head. i feel like i should say i have NO experience with kids… besides like freshman—if they even count— im not good with toddlers. Im just a very awkawrd person so they’d just run all over me. So if this is inaccurate… sorry!
cws: original daughter name, ooc senku, mentions of unethical relationships (employer x employee situation) nsfw, cunnilingus, hair pulling, besides that not too sure— let me know if i missed anything!
11.1k words
You’re pretty sure the address you were given was a fake. That, or you somehow managed to mess up in your Maps app. Trust your phone to botch something as simple as following directions.
Because surely this couldn’t be it.
The house you’re standing in front of is nothing short of awestriking. Massive glass panels gleam under the morning sun, every line of the architecture screamed sharp, modern, and expensive. It doesn’t look like the kind of place someone would actually live in—more like a spread you’d see featured in a glossy magazine or one of those videos titled “Touring a Millionaire’s Home”.
You’re not sure how someone could live in a house this huge with just themself and a six-year-old. The sheer size of it feels… lonely. Empty echoing rooms, lights left on in spaces no one enters, whole wings probably left alone, gathering dust.
Still, it tracks. From what you’ve been told, Ishigami Senku wasn’t just some guy in a lab coat—he was the kind of scientist who made politicians loosen their pockets. Which meant the practical, quiet life you imagined he’d prefer had probably been bulldozed by bureaucracy and “good optics.” Nothing said national treasure like dropping your genius into a multimillion-dollar glass box for the neighbors to gawk at.
You shift your weight from one foot to the other, staring up at the sprawling glass walls that reflect back a distorted version of yourself. Purse slung over your shoulder, contract still tucked somewhere between your laptop and a handful of crumpled receipts, you suddenly feel like you’ve wandered too far into the wrong neighborhood.
The only sound is the occasional rustle of wind brushing against the manicured trees lining the drive. No barking dog, no faint hum of a TV inside, not even the shuffle of footsteps. The silence makes you acutely aware of your own presence— like the house itself is waiting to see if you belong.
After five solid minutes of knocking, you’re beginning to think you don’t.
“Maybe I should call…” you mutter under your breath, already flicking open your phone screen with one hand.
With the other, you knock again, firmer this time, though the sleek, spotless surface of the door makes you hesitant to touch it more than necessary. A long minute drags by. Then another.
You’re just about to give in— about to double-check the address and brace yourself for the embarrassment of having harassed the wrong mansion—when the sound of a soft, mechanical series of clicks startle you.
The door shifts open just enough for a small face to peek through.
Not the adult you were expecting, but a child.
She’s tiny, barely past your waist, with pale strands of hair tumbling messily over her face. But it’s her eyes that catch you most: a deep reddish-brown that, at first glance, looks warm and ordinary until the sunlight glances across them and the crimson hidden within flickers to life. A softer echo of her father’s startling gaze.
She stares at you with wide eyes. They flicker over your frame—your shirt, your shoes, even the contract folder peeking from the edge of your bag— as if she’s not sure whether or not you passed some test you were unaware you were taking part in.
You blink, a little startled, then lower yourself into a crouch so you’re not towering over her. “Are you… Lyra?”
Her eyes widen at the sound of her name, and from the corner of your eye, you notice she’s gently clutching a threadbare plush bunny.
She gives the tiniest nod, eyes still trained on you with a careful, assessing silence. Then, as if remembering something, she blurts softly, “My daddy says I shouldn’t talk to strangers… or open the door.”
You raise your brows, caught between surprise and amusement. “Well he’s right. That’s very smart of you.” Then, lowering your voice conspiratorially, you ask, “Is your daddy here?”
Lyra hesitates, gnawing lightly at the inside of her cheek. She doesn’t answer right away, her gaze is still flickering between your eyes, your hands, your phone, like she’s trying to solve an equation she doesn’t have all the variables for.
Just as you begin to wonder if she’ll shut the door in your face altogether, the sound of steady footsteps echoes down the hall behind her. Heavy, measured.
A low, smooth voice calls from inside: “Lyra. Is someone at the door?”
The child stiffens slightly but doesn’t look away from you. Tilting her head, eyes narrowing in consideration, she lifts her chin and calls back, a touch louder than before:
“There’s a pretty lady here asking for you!”
The footsteps quicken slightly, echoing off what you can only assume to be gleaming floors, and the door behind Lyra swings open a fraction wider.
Then he appears.
Senku Ishigami is exactly as intimidating as you expected. And somehow more so. Tall, sharp-featured, hair fading from a pale silver to green at the tips that catches the morning light like delicately spun glass, lab coat casually draped over dark slacks, sleeves rolled up to his elbows which emphasize his forearms—that you try your hardest not to focus on. His crimson eyes— bright, precise, and completely unnerving— scan you like he's examining a new specimen.
For a moment, none of you speak.
Lyra, standing in front of him like a tiny shield, glances up at him, then back at you. “It’s a pretty lady,” she announces, pride twinkling in her reddish-brown eyes.
Senku’s gaze shifts to her, then back to you. There’s a pause—a microsecond of something unreadable flickering across his features. Then a faint twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth.
“…A pretty lady, huh?” he says slowly, voice calm but edged with curiosity. “Well, you’re certainly punctual, I’ll give you that.”
Your stomach does a small flip. “I—yes, sir.” You state your name. “The agency said you'd be expecting me today.”
“Ah, that was today? Must’ve slipped my mind,” he replies, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
Before you can respond, Senku steps closer—and Lyra darts forward, wrapping her small arms tightly around his leg.
He crouches slightly to meet her at her level, ruffling her hair with a soft, affectionate smile. “Now, what did I tell you about opening the door to strangers?”
She groans, burying her face against his leg, hiding from his gaze. “Not to open it…” she mumbles, voice muffled but clear enough.
He chuckles softly, fingers stroking her hair again. “Exactly. But you did the right thing by letting me see who it was. That’s clever, Lyra.”
She peeks out from her hiding spot for a brief second, then sighs and buries her face back into him. “I… I wasn’t sure,” she admits, the tiniest quiver of nerves in her tone.
You watch the interaction, heart warming at the quiet intimacy between father and daughter. The house feels a little less intimidating, the air a little softer, as their bond fills the space.
Senku straightens, still smiling down at her. “Alright, tiny genius. Let’s see if this pretty lady can keep up with you today.”
He steps aside, gesturing you in with an expectant flick of his wrist. You hesitate only a moment before crossing the threshold, purse strap digging into your shoulder.
The air inside is cool, tinged faintly with citrus, undercut by something warmer—sandalwood, maybe. The house is as striking as it appears from the outside: high ceilings, gleaming glass, polished steel fixtures. Yet, it doesn’t feel cold. A precarious tower of blocks sits by the sofa, a pair of pink light-up sneakers lie abandoned near the stairs, and one of those oversized mugs—printed with equations you’d expect to see on a gag gift for a professor— sits empty on the counter.
“Kitchen’s down this way,” Senku says, his stride long enough you almost have to quicken your pace to keep up. He gestures loosely to the gleaming open floor plan, as though he’s pointing out lab equipment rather than a multimillion-dollar home.
“Help yourself to anything in the fridge. Snacks, drinks. If Lyra gets hungry, she’s got a taste for strawberries and pancakes. If she starts campaigning for cookies before noon, the answer’s no.” His voice is dry, but his eyes flick down to where Lyra presses into your side, like she was naturally drawn to you.
“Daddy!” she protests softly, the tips of her ears coloring.
You smile. “Noted. No cookies for breakfast.”
Something subtle shifts in his expression at your quick answer—not surprise exactly, but interest. As though he’s marking the way you side with him without alienating her.
“The pantry’s stocked. Emergency contacts are pinned to the fridge. Wi-Fi password’s taped to the router.” He rattles off details with quick, precise efficiency, the cadence of someone who expects every syllable to be absorbed.
“Got it,” you reply, nodding once.
A low hum escapes him, thoughtful, curling faintly at the edges. His gaze sweeps over you—your posture, the steady hand resting near Lyra without crowding her, the way you listen without interrupting. It doesn’t feel like small talk so much as an evaluation, as though he’s already running quiet calculations in the back of his mind.
You shift your weight slightly under the weight of that gaze, though it isn’t unkind, just piercing. Analytical.
“Living room’s obvious. The guest bath is down the hall.” He hooks a thumb toward a sleek doorway before continuing on toward the staircase. Lyra follows at a small skip, bunny dangling from her arm, but she keeps glancing back to make sure you’re still behind her.
“Upstairs is mostly off-limits. My office. Storage. Labs.” His tone is clipped, decisive, though he slows for the briefest moment, casting you another look as if to measure your reaction to the word lab. “Lyra’s room is first on the right if she wants to show you later. She probably will.”
“I like my room,” Lyra says suddenly, almost too soft, but her little voice carries in the quiet. Her eyes darted up to him, then back down to her bunny, as though unsure she should’ve spoken up.
Senku’s hand drops automatically to ruffle her hair, an absent but affectionate motion. “Yeah, you do. Built a pillow fort that could house half the population of Japan there.”
She giggles faintly, hiding her face in the bunny’s ears.
The sound makes something in your chest churn. It’s clear, even in these clipped minutes, how much he adores her. And how much she trusts him.
By the time you circle back toward the front entryway, Senku’s already pulling his keys from the counter. “I’ll be at the lab most of the day. Usually I’m back around eight. If I’m not, you’ll hear from me. If you don’t…” his mouth twists into a wry smirk, “assume I’ve been buried alive under paperwork.”
You almost laugh, but the weight in his gaze holds you steady. He’s still watching you, still gauging if you’ll fit in this equation he’s built around his daughter.
He crouches briefly, tugging Lyra closer and pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Don’t give her too much trouble, tiny genius.”
Lyra wrinkles her nose, cheeks flushing faintly. “I won’t…”
Straightening, Senku tosses a final look your way. It's steady, almost unreadable, though his tone is casual. “Good luck surviving your first day.” Then, with a flick of his coat, he’s already halfway to the door.
The lock clicks behind him.
And just like that, it’s official. Your first day as Lyra’s nanny.
Lyra looks up at you, bunny still tucked under her arm, her expression both shy and expectant. “…Do you know how to make pancakes?” she asks hopefully.
Your lips curve into a smile. “You know, they used to say I made the best pancakes in town when I was younger.”
Her face lights up instantly, reddish-brown eyes gleaming. “Really? The best?”
You lower yourself so you’re at her level, leaning in like you’re telling her a secret. “The best. I even had people lining up outside my kitchen just for a taste.”
She gasps softly, eyes widening before narrowing just a little in suspicion—an expression so much like her father’s it makes you stifle a laugh. “You’re lying,” she accuses, though the corners of her mouth twitch with a smile.
You let out a faux gasp, clutching your chest dramatically. “I would never!”
Lyra giggles, the sound bright and bubbling. “Then you gotta prove it!”
“Guess there’s only one way to find out.” You gesture toward the kitchen. “Shall we put it to the test?”
Lyra hesitates for only a moment before hiding her grin behind the ear of her bunny. Then, with surprising boldness, she slips her small hand into yours. “Okay… but I get to stir.”
“Of course! I bet you’re the best mixer in town.”
Her eyes sparkle at that, and she nods fiercely, as if ready to defend her title. You let her tug you toward the kitchen, her bare feet pattering against the polished floor. The house, so vast and intimidating when you first arrived, suddenly feels smaller, warmer.
And as she chatters softly about how she likes her pancakes “fluffy, but not too fluffy,” you find yourself smiling before you even realize it. Maybe this won’t be too bad after all.
ᥫ᭡.
It doesn’t take long for things to spiral into chaos. One moment, Lyra’s perched on a stool, carefully stirring the batter with all the solemnity of a scientist mixing chemicals. The next, there’s flour dusting the counter, powdered sugar clinging to her cheeks, and a streak of it smeared across your own sweater where she’d “accidentally” bumped you with the spoon.
“It’s snowing!” she squeals, tossing a pinch of flour into the air, giggling so hard she nearly tips off the stool.
You can’t help it— you laugh, really laugh, the sound bubbling out before you can stop it. “You’re going to get us both in trouble if your dad comes home to this crime scene.”
Lyra only grins wider, her bunny now sitting on the counter looking equally powdered. “He won’t! We’ll clean it up super fast. Promise!”
Sticky, messy, and absolutely nowhere near what you had planned, the kitchen feels alive with her laughter. And somehow, you don’t mind the sugar clinging to your hands or the flour dusting your hair.
Eventually, you manage to wrestle back control of the cooking, shooing her hands away from the hot stove. “Okay, chef, I think I’ve got it from here. You’ve done more than enough stirring.”
She pouts, but only halfheartedly, kicking her heels against the stool as she watches you flip the last pancake onto the stack. A few fresh strawberries later, there’s a plate of perfectly golden pancakes resting proudly in the center of the counter.
Lyra gasps, eyes wide and shining. “They look so good!”
You slide the plate toward her with a little flourish. “Strawberry pancakes, just the way you ordered them. Ready for the ultimate taste test?”
Her eager nod is all the answer you need. She digs in without hesitation, cutting a wobbly piece with her fork and shoving it into her mouth. Her little cheeks puff up like a chipmunk as she chews, eyes rolling dramatically skyward in delight.
“Mmmmf! Sohhh gooo—”
You can’t help laughing. “Lyra, sweetie, don’t talk with your mouth full.”
She freezes mid-bite, cheeks round, eyes darting up to meet yours. Then, after a guilty pause, she makes a show of chewing as fast as possible and swallows triumphantly.
“They’re so good!” she blurts properly this time, bouncing a little in her chair.
You smile, warmth tugging at your chest. “Glad to hear it! So… now that breakfast is officially approved, what’s next on the agenda?”
Lyra tilts her head, thinking hard. Then her whole face lights up. “I can show you my room!”
Before you can answer, she hops off her chair, grabs your hand, and tugs you toward the stairs. Her room is exactly what you’d expect for a six-year-old. A whirlwind of books, scattered building blocks, stuffed animals, and drawings taped proudly to the wall. She dives immediately into showing you everything: her favorite doll, her growing rock collection, even her bunny plushie’s “special corner” of the bed.
It doesn’t take long before you’re both sprawled out on the soft rug, toys forgotten as Lyra chatters on about her hobbies— how she wants to build a rocket ship one day, how she tried to invent a machine that makes chocolate milk appear from thin air (with her father’s help, of course). You lie on your back, listening, nodding along, laughing when her stories stumble over one other in her excitement.
Eventually, her voice softens, losing some of that endless energy, and she curls up a little closer against your side, bunny clutched to her chest. It’s surprisingly comfortable, the quiet in her room punctuated only by her voice and the faint hum of the ceiling fan.
You glance at the clock on the wall and smile. “Alright, sweetie, I think it’s about time we start thinking about lunch. What do you say?”
She lets out a tiny groan of protest, burying her face into her bunny. But when she peeks up at you again, her eyes sparkle with curiosity. “Can we make sandwiches shaped like stars?”
You chuckle. “You’ve got yourself a deal!”
ᥫ᭡.
By the time dinner rolls around, the house is quiet, the chaos of the days earlier activites and toys long tidied away. You’ve prepared something simple but hearty, and store the leftovers in the fridge for whenever Senku gets back. She eats quickly, barely pausing to talk, her energy finally settling after a full day of adventures.
Afterward, you make sure she washes up. She insists you watch her brush her teeth, grinning at you through a mouthful of foam like it’s the funniest thing in the world. Then, finally, you guide her toward her bedroom.
Her little voice pipes up as you help her into bed, bunny clutched like a shield. “Three more stories! Please?” she begs, eyes wide and pleading.
You laugh softly, tucking the blanket snugly around her. “Alright, three it is. But then that’s it. No exceptions, starlight”
Her face softens instantly at the nickname, a tiny smile tugging at her lips. “Starlight…” She repeats quietly, as though testing it out, then hides half her face behind her bunny.
“Mm-hm.” You give her forehead a gentle tap. “Now, settle in.”
And so you read—three whole stories, your voice gradually softening as her eyelids grow heavier with each page. By the end of the third, her breathing is slow and steady, her bunny hugged close to her chest.
You stay a moment longer, just listening to the quiet, before slipping out of the room.
Downstairs, the house is quiet again. You sit in the living room with a cup of tea, waiting for Senku to return from the lab. When the familiar sound of keys echoes through the entryway, you rise.
The lock clicks, and you hear the quiet shuffle of shoes being slipped off. A moment later, Senku steps into the living room, coat folded over one arm, hair a little mussed from the long day. His gaze flicks to you almost immediately.
“You’re still here,” he remarks, voice mild but threaded with curiosity.
You nod, setting your cup down. “I wanted to make sure you got home before I left.”
“Hm.” He studies you for a beat, unreadable as always. “Considerate. Most people wouldn’t bother.”
You smile faintly. “Well, Lyra begged for three bedtime stories. By the time she actually fell asleep, it was late anyway.”
That earns the tiniest huff of amusement from him. “Three stories? She usually manages to bargain me into two at most. Seems you’ve been out-negotiated by a six-year-old.”
You laugh softly. “I didn’t stand a chance. She’s sharp. Gets that from you, I assume.”
His lips twitch, not quite a smile, but close. “Sharp, yes. Stubborn too. That part’s… probably me as well.” He leans against the back of a chair, arms folding loosely. “And you? Did she run you ragged?”
“Completely,” you admit with mock weariness, but then soften. “But she’s wonderful. Really. You’ve raised a good kid.”
For the first time tonight, something flickers in his expression—something warmer, though he masks it quickly. “Tch. Don’t give me too much credit. She does most of the work herself.”
You tilt your head. “Still. She clearly adores you.”
He doesn’t answer right away, just hums low in his throat and shifts his gaze toward the staircase where her room sits in silence. When his eyes come back to you, there’s a sharper edge of assessment.
“And you?” he asks suddenly. “Day one, and you’re still standing. Not everyone meshes with her this quickly.”
You blink, caught off guard, but find yourself smiling. “I like her. She’s got… a way of making the house feel less intimidating. Honestly, she made my first day easier than I expected.”
Senku watches you for a long second, like he’s testing the weight of your words, before finally giving a small nod. “Good. That’s what I needed to know.”
The silence that follows isn’t awkward— just quiet, filled with the faint hum of the house. Eventually, you rise, sliding your purse strap over your shoulder.
“I should go. Tomorrow’s another full day.”
Senku straightens, slipping his coat onto the rack instead of his shoulder this time. “Mn. You’ll be back at nine?”
“Bright and early.”
His gaze lingers on you a moment longer, steady but not unkind. Then, with a faint curve of his mouth, he says, “Good luck surviving day two.”
You grin. “I’ll take my chances.”
And with that, you step out into the night, heart lighter than when you arrived.
ᥫ᭡.
You survive day two. And three. And four. And then the weeks start blending together, stretching into months after your first encounter with the Ishigami family.
Along the way, you grow closer with Lyra in ways that feel almost natural—effortless. Dropping her off at daycare, picking her up with a snack tucked in your bag because you know she’ll ask for one before you’ve even left the parking lot. Taking her to the park where she insists you push her higher and higher on the swings until her giggles carry clear across the playground. Going on slow evening walks that somehow always end with sticky fingers and napkins from the ice cream shop down the street.
It’s sweetly domestic, a rhythm you never thought you’d find yourself in. A life that feels dangerously like home.
But there’s a small problem.
You have a crush on Senku.
Not that it’s shocking to anyone else. He’s attractive, brilliant, and endearingly attentive in the quiet moments you catch him with Lyra. Honestly, a perfect bachelor on paper. But you’re not just anyone. You were hired to watch his daughter, whom you adore like your own. Your place is here, in the in-between: caretaker, companion, a steady presence in Lyra’s world. Not… whatever this dangerous flutter in your chest is.
Still, it’s hard not to fall when you see him the way no one else does—bent low to tie Lyra’s laces because she can’t quite get the knot right yet, or listening intently as she babbles about her latest dream or a funny story from class in the same breath, like her thoughts refuse to be sorted into categories. It’s in the way his hand lingers on her head, ruffling her hair with absent-minded affection, or how his voice softens—just barely—when he tells her goodnight.
It’s hard not to think: if this is how he loves his daughter… what would it be like, to be on the receiving end of even a fraction of that care?
But it’s not just you.
Senku isn’t immune either, though it takes him longer to admit it—even to himself. At first, he brushes it off as convenience. That’s all. It’s convenient, the way you’ve adapted so seamlessly into Lyra’s life. Convenient, how she chatters about you long after bedtime, how her laughter rings louder and freer when you’re around. Convenient that she clings to you at drop-off, only to skip into daycare with a grin once you’re the one waving goodbye.
Except… convenience doesn’t explain why his mornings stretch a little longer now. Why he finds himself sipping his coffee at the counter instead of rushing out the door, just to listen to your easy hum while you pack Lyra’s lunch. Why his eyes drift to you when you tease Lyra out of a sulk with gentle patience. Why coming home early has quietly become the highlight of his day.
It sneaks up on him, the realization. One night, he rounds the corner to find you curled on the couch, Lyra finally asleep upstairs, the glow of the lamp painting you in warm light. You look up at him with that easy smile you always give, and something twists sharp and undeniable in his chest.
It’s a problem. A problem because he hasn’t let anyone close in years, and yet here you are—close enough to shift his routines, close enough to notice when he lingers, close enough to matter.
It’s a problem.
One that he isn’t entirely sure he wants to fix.
ᥫ᭡.
It’s late. Later than the normal 8 p.m. you’re supposed to be off at. Senku messaged you around six saying there was an issue. He didn’t clarify—he rarely does— but it was enough of a warning that you knew you’d be sticking around until he got home. Lyra went down without a fuss, curled up with her pillow and the nightlight glowing soft against the wall. Now the house is still, save for the occasional creak of the floorboards and the hum of the fridge.
When the front door finally opens, you half expect him to slip past with barely a word the way he sometimes does when work’s eaten him alive. But tonight, his steps drag heavier than usual. He doesn’t even shrug out of his coat, just drops his bag at the door and makes a straight line for his desk like gravity’s pulling him there.
You linger by the doorway, watching him sink into the chair, fingers already flying across the keyboard. The bluish glow of his laptop washes over the sharp angles of his face, hollowing out the exhaustion you can see plain in the set of his shoulders. The permanent shadows beneath his eyes look deeper tonight, his jaw tight as he scrolls back and forth over the same formula like the outcome might magically change on the hundredth pass.
“Still at it?” you ask softly, leaning against the doorframe.
He doesn’t look up. “It won’t balance. No matter how I structure the inputs, the output destabilizes halfway through.” His voice is low, frayed at the edges. “There’s a piece I’m missing.”
You step closer, careful with your tone. “When’s the last time you slept?”
He exhales, sharp and humorless. “Sleep doesn’t solve bad math.”
“Sometimes it does.” You hesitate, fingers twitching at your side before you gather the nerve to say it: “Can I…?” You gesture loosely, not wanting to assume. “Give you a massage?”
That finally earns you his eyes, sharp and assessing as if he’s running a calculation right there. A beat, and then—“If you want.” His tone is even, but the slight dip of his head is a silent, unmistakable yes.
You ease him forward in the chair and set your hands gently on his shoulders first, testing. When he doesn’t pull away, you begin to knead the tense muscles with slow, careful pressure.
The tension is immediate. He stiffens under your touch—reflex, habit, pride, you’re not sure. Then, after a heartbeat, his body yields, a long, shaky breath spilling out of him.
Your thumbs work along the rigid muscles of his shoulders, coaxing the knots to loosen. Slowly, carefully.
The sounds that escape him are not something you’re prepared for. A low, rough groan, dragged out of his throat before he could swallow it down. It’s raw, involuntary. Almost indecent.
Heat rushes across your face. You shouldn’t notice. You shouldn’t. But once you’ve heard it, you can’t not.
Your fingers press deeper, and you find another stubborn knot just under his shoulder blade. His head drops forward, pale strands falling into his face, and his hand curls tight around the edge of the desk like he needs the anchor. Another groan vibrates low in his chest, and this one is worse (better) because it sounds like relief and something far more dangerous bleeding together. Deep, rough, involuntary. Almost indecent.
Your brain betrays you, chasing the thought further than it should. If he sounds like that just from your hands on his shoulders… What other noises could you pull from him? You’re thankful you can’t see his face. Not sure what the sight, paired with those sounds, might do to you.
“Gods,” he mutters, voice gravelly, like the admission is dragged out of him. “If you keep that up, I might actually—” He cuts himself off, the tips of his ears faintly pink.
“Relax?” you supply, trying for lightness, though your voice feels a little too thin.
His mouth quirks, though his eyes stay closed. “Something like that.”
You laugh softly, nerves fluttering under your skin. The sound feels too loud in the quiet room, but you don’t pull away. “Glad to be useful.”
Your fingers keep working, kneading gently along the slope of his shoulders, and every so often he exhales in those low, frayed sounds that make your chest tighten. He’s quiet otherwise, letting you guide him, letting you strip back layers of tension he’s probably been carrying all week.
“You need to rest more,” you murmur, voice softer now, thumb smoothing down the ridge of his spine. “You’ve got a daughter at home who needs you. Burning yourself out won’t solve whatever problem you’re chewing on.”
He hums in response—deep, distracted, almost pleased. Not the sharp rebuttal you expected, not his usual litany of logic and counterpoints. Just a hum, low in his throat, like the miracle work of your hands is making his mind go blissfully blank.
And that’s dangerous. Because with every knot you ease out of him, you can almost imagine he’s leaning into you for more than relief. That this intimacy could mean something. That maybe he trusts you in ways that extend beyond Lyra.
He’s acutely aware of it too. The way your hands move over him, so gentle, so careful, yet purposeful—it’s disarming. His thoughts, normally tangled in equations and contingency plans, scatter like leaves in the wind. He should be thinking of the unsolved problem on his desk, the hours lost in lab, the logistics for Lyra’s schedule—but all he can focus on is the warmth of your touch, the way your thumbs press into the knots in his shoulders, the soft exhalations you coax from him without even meaning to.
Your heart pounds, fingers pausing just long enough to steady yourself before continuing. He doesn’t notice—too far gone in the simple, impossible luxury of rest.
For once, Senku Ishigami isn’t a scientist chasing formulas, or a father juggling the weight of the world. He’s just a man under your hands, sighing like he hasn’t in years. And gods help you, you want more.
He doesn’t say anything else, but you can feel him slipping further under, letting go in increments he probably didn’t know he was capable of. Each groan or sigh feels pulled from somewhere deep, like his body is betraying him with the relief your hands wring out of him.
And he knows it’s reckless. Knows it’s improper, unprofessional, maybe even dangerous—but the precision of your touch, the patience, untangles him in ways formulas never could. He can’t stop leaning into it, can’t stop imagining that maybe this closeness—this rare, quiet attention—is something he’s been missing all along.
When you tell him to rest more, to think of Lyra, his lips twitch faintly. He wants to tell you he is trying. That every late night, every hour of stress, is for her. But the simpler, harder truth is that he doesn’t want you to stop. He doesn’t want this moment to end.
His eyes flutter open, half-lidded, and they catch the blurred shape of you behind him. For the first time in a long time, his thoughts aren’t racing toward the next solution. They’re caught on you—your presence, your hands, your voice.
By the time you ease your hands away, he feels both heavier and lighter—weighted with something he can’t name, and terrifyingly untethered without your touch. He clears his throat, slow and deliberate, as if sound alone could break whatever tension still hums in the room. “That was… effective,” he says at last, tone measured, like he’s grading an experiment instead of admitting you’ve just undone him.
You smile softly, telling him to get some rest before heading off to take your leave. He watches you go, jaw tight, hands flexing uselessly against his knees.
Sleep doesn’t come easy. Not with the ghost of your hands on his shoulders, not with the echo of your voice reminding him that Lyra needs him to take care of himself. Not with the dangerous, irrational thought that maybe—just maybe—you need him too.
ᥫ᭡.
The next evening, Gen is over for drinks. Lyra’s asleep upstairs, and you’ve long “checked out” for the night. Senku wishes either one of you were available to drag him out of the hole he’s dug himself into.
He doesn’t mean to bring it up. Really, he doesn’t. But Gen has always had an annoying knack for wringing things out of him. Even the things Senku would rather bury under formulas and late nights in the lab.
Gen sips his tea with a sly smile, watching Senku stare at the same line of data for far too long.
“You’ve been distracted lately,” Gen sing-songs, voice lilting with false innocence. “Don’t tell me one of your experiments is keeping you up at night. Or… is it someone?”
Senku shoots him a flat look. “You’re insufferable.”
“Ah, so it is someone.” Gen’s grin widens, sharklike. “Do tell. Is this about this nanny I've been hearing so much about?”
The pause is damning.
Senku exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “…This is ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously obvious?”
Gen leans back, savoring the moment. “Come on, Senku. You’ve been walking around like a lovesick teenager for weeks now. Don’t insult me by pretending this is about anything else.”
“Gen.” His tone sharpens, but there’s no bite behind it. He leans back in his chair, arms crossing tight against his chest. “She’s here for Lyra. That’s the whole point. To give Lyra stability. The second I start—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening.
Gen tilts his head, studying him like a puzzle. “The second you start… what? Caring about the person who spends more time with your daughter than you do?” Gen’s grin only widens. “You’re in love with someone you employ. How very… convenient for you.” He sips his tea, eyes twinkling. “Do you plan on running calculations to solve this, or are you going to deal with it like a human being?”
Senku glares, but the twitch of a smirk at the corner of his mouth betrays him. “…I haven’t even figured out if it’s a ‘problem’ yet. And I’m certainly not about to act irrationally.”
Gen leans forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Oh, you’re acting irrationally already. You’re just doing it under the radar, hiding behind logic and routines. But I see you.
Senku scowls. “It’s unethical. She works for me. She’s paid to be here.”
“And yet you’re not thinking about firing her, are you?” Gen’s smile softens, just barely. “You’re thinking about the way Lyra lights up around her. The way you find excuses to linger in the mornings. Don’t insult me by pretending this is just about professionalism.”
Senku doesn’t answer, and that silence says enough.
Gen sets his cup down with a little clink. “You, my dear scientist, are utterly, hopelessly whipped. Which is delightful, by the way. I never thought I’d see the day.”
Senku runs a hand through his hair, exhaling in frustration. “…This is why I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
Gen’s grin returns in full force. “Correction—you shouldn’t have fallen for her. But since you already have…” He leans in, eyes gleaming. “What are you going to do about it?”
Senku groans, rubbing at his temples. He knows Gen is right—of course he is. And yet, despite his protests, a part of him can’t help but imagine seeing you again, just the two of you in the quiet house while Lyra sleeps, that impossible pull between you simmering in the spaces where words don’t reach.
And somehow… he doesn’t entirely hate that thought.
ᥫ᭡.
You had Friday off. Senku had called early that morning, letting you know you wouldn’t be needed for the day. And yet, instead of relief, you found yourself… upset. Missing both of their presence already.
Your best friends, however, don’t do sympathy well. Amaryllis and Luna are not the type to indulge moping—their stubborn, vindictive natures were a large part of why you loved them. You just preferred it when those qualities weren’t directed at you.
“Remind me again why we couldn’t just drink at my apartment?” you grumble.
You’re dragged to a little hole-in-the-wall Amaryllis discovered during your university years. Slightly industrial, with wide-open spaces and tall steel beams, the bar feels alive yet intimate. Soft, muted orange bulbs hang overhead, casting pools of light over the tables, while acoustic music drifts gently from speakers.
At the center, a large bar curves around, stools lining the edges. You take one easily, sinking in as if you belong.The three of you sit together on the curved edge so you can face one another, Amaryllis contented to be in the middle. Being here felt similar to huddling around a campfire, or candlelight. Alcohol insulating your bones and loosening your tongue, easy laughter shared with friends.
You were brought here on a quest for distraction, and yet—
“I don’t think you understand how dire this is,” you bemoan, pouting as Amaryllis rolls her eyes with exaggerated self-indulgence. “He tells me to be good before he leaves now, too. Looks right at me and says ‘be good, both of you’”.
Your initial goal may have been overly optimistic.
“Like a bit of praise, don’t ya?” Luna laughs.
Amaryllis smirks, wiping away a stray bead of soju from his mouth as his eyes sweep across the bar. “Who doesn’t?”
“It isn’t funny,” limp wristed as you swirl the sweet tasting concoction in your glass, Luna slips her arm along the back of your stool. “I want to kiss him. All the time!”
A hand rubs firm circles between your shoulder blades. Neither of them seems embarrassed—or irritated—by the topic.
Embarrassing to admit, Senku Ishigami has dominated your group chat for the past month. Most responses ranged from good-natured teasing to venting about their own love lives. You had been thankful then—grateful for a place to vent, a safe ear to listen.
Now, you weren’t so sure. Your heartbeat thrummed in your chest, the phantom brush of his hand around yours, the echo of his low, rumbling laugh, the way your name sounded when he smiled. Inch by inch, the spool unraveled. You had taken more than you needed, left wanting still.
You couldn’t pretend any longer. A line had been crossed. You tell them as much, your voice quiet but certain, and the two of them lean in, grinning knowingly.
Amaryllis leans back, crossing their arms with a satisfied smirk. “Finally. Took you long enough to admit it.”
Luna nudges you gently with an elbow. “I mean, we’ve all seen it coming. You can’t exactly hide the way your eyes light up when you talk about him—or when you’re just… around him.”
You groan, burying your face in your hands. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. It’s… he’s Senku. He’s— just so— ugh! And I—”
“You’re smitten,” Amaryllis finishes for you, as if stating the obvious.
“Yes!” You can’t help but snap, though it comes out more like a gasp than a yell. “I can’t stop thinking about him! And it’s unethical, and he’s my employer, and Lyra—ugh, it’s a mess!”
Luna laughs softly, rubbing your back in a comforting way. “Oh, it’s a mess alright. But the fun kind. Admit it—you’d rather be in this mess than not.”
You peek through your fingers at them, cheeks flushed. “…Maybe,” you mutter reluctantly.
Amaryllis leans forward, eyes gleaming. “Then you’re going to have to be brave. Because the way you talk about him… you’re already halfway there.”
“And the other half?” you ask, voice small.
“That,” Luna says with a wink, “is up to Senku.”
You let out a long sigh, swirling the last of your drink in the glass. “Great. Just what I needed. Friends reminding me how hopeless I am.”
Amaryllis and Luna laugh, voices warm, teasing, familiar.
“Oh, you’re hopeless alright,” Amaryllis says without restraint.
“Ryllis!” Luna shrieks, covering her mouth to hide her grin.
“But we love you regardless,” Amaryllis finishes, eyes sparkling.
For the first time that night, you let yourself relax. Maybe it was still messy. Maybe it was complicated—but it was also exciting. And somehow, knowing your friends had your back made the impossible feel just a little more… possible.
ᥫ᭡.
“Welcome home!”
Senku freezes mid-step at the doorway, hand stuck while trying to untighten his tie. He would assume, given the precise way you moved around the kitchen, that you had a PhD in domesticity—or at least a masterclass in keeping a home spotless while somehow making it feel warm.
Did you always look this… soft?
He hadn’t planned on coming home early. He meant to let you enjoy the quiet, maybe give himself a buffer to finish up in the lab. But now, with the afternoon sun casting a golden glow over your skin, catching in the strands of your hair, he can’t seem to look away.
“You’re home early,” you murmur, trying to keep your voice casual, but your pulse betrays you.
He steps further into the kitchen, eyes never leaving yours. “Finished sooner than expected. Thought I’d check in… and maybe see how our tiny genius is doing.”
“Lyra’s upstairs, napping,” you say, leaning against the counter, trying to focus on something other than the way he’s looking at you. “You… surprised me, that’s all.”
Senku tilts his head slightly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Did I?” He takes another step closer. The space between you shrinks. “Or did you just not expect me to notice when you… do this?” His hand rests lightly on the counter near yours, so close you can feel the warmth radiating from him.
Your breath catches. “Do what?”
The smirk deepens, a mischievous glint in his red eyes. “Be… you.”
One step. Then another. Suddenly, you’re practically chest to chest, the air thick, every heartbeat loud in the quiet kitchen. Your hand grazes the counter as his does the same, both of you acutely aware of the small space separating you.
You inhale sharply, leaning just a fraction closer. His eyes soften, and his breath catches. For a heartbeat, it feels inevitable—just a tiny step, and maybe—
A faint creak from the stairs halts both of you.
Lyra’s tiny voice echoes down the hall, calling out your name.
In an instant, you both pull back, faces tinged pink, hearts racing. The moment vanishes like mist in the morning sun.
Lyra bounds into the kitchen, fist rubbing at her still sleepy eyes.
“I heard daddy’s voice… is he home?”
Senku kneels slightly so his eyes meet hers, the corners of his mouth lifting just a fraction. “Yes… I’m home, tiny genius.”
“You’re back early,” she says, her voice small but eager, still rubbing at her sleepy eyes.
“I finished my work sooner than expected,” he replies smoothly, though a faint warmth colors his cheeks.
Her gaze lifts, wide and pleading. “Does that mean you’ll stay with us then?”
Senku hesitates, caught off guard by the unguarded hope in her eyes. He glances briefly at you, noticing how your own expression softens as you kneel to meet Lyra at eye level. The golden afternoon light casts a gentle glow over you, making it impossible to look away.
He exhales softly, ruffling her hair with a fondness that makes your chest ache just to watch. “For a little while, yes. But only until we get lunch started, tiny genius. We’ve got a helper here making sure it’s all ready,” he says, his tone teasing but gentle, glancing toward you in a way that makes his admiration unmistakable.
Lyra beams, bouncing on her toes. “Yay! Can we eat together?”
You smile warmly, reaching for her hand. “Of course. Let’s see what we’ve got, shall we?”
Senku straightens slightly, eyes lingering on you just a moment longer than necessary before following you both to the counter, that quiet pull between you simmering just beneath the surface.
After lunch, the three of you drift to the living room. Lyra clambers onto the couch first, insisting on the middle spot with her stuffed bunny tucked under one arm. You and Senku sit on either side of her, close enough that your shoulders brush lightly.
“What should we watch, Lyra?” you ask, smiling down at her.
Her eyes light up, excitement practically sparkling. “Disney! Can we watch WALL-E?”
Senku lets out a soft, amused hum, leaning back slightly. “WALL-E it is, tiny genius. Good choice.”
You grab the DVD from the stack and slide it into the player. Lyra settles against your side, the warmth of her little body easing against you. Senku adjusts his position, his hand brushing yours for just a moment as he leans back, eyes glancing at the screen but always flicking to you.
For forty-five minutes, the three of you watch the movie in companionable silence. Lyra’s eyelids droop, her tiny head nodding against the cushion before finally resting fully against your shoulder. You pause the movie quietly, exchanging a glance with Senku.
“She’s out,” you murmur, a soft smile tugging at your lips.
He nods, carefully scooping her up. “Time for bed,” he says, moving toward her room. You follow, grabbing her blanket and stuffed bunny, both of you moving silently through the house.
Once inside her room, you help tuck her in. Senku presses a gentle kiss to her forehead, brushing stray hair back. You smooth the blanket and step back, letting the quiet of the moment settle in.
Now it’s just the two of you. Alone. The tension hangs like a tangible thread, warm and electric.
Senku moves to the kitchen, his movements precise but slower than usual, as if he’s gathering courage. He returns a few moments later with two steaming cups of tea, the aroma mingling with the faint sunlight spilling across the room. You find yourselves sitting on the couch, an intentional distance apart—but close enough that the air between you feels charged.
He looks… nervous. Not the confident, unshakable Senku you know, but uncertain, hesitant. Your mind races through worst-case scenarios: he’s going to fire you, or he knows you’ve been harboring feelings for him and he never wants to see you again.
And then he speaks, and the words only add to your paranoia.
“I think I should tell you something.”
You look at him, confused, not quite sure what he means.
“I just hope this won’t ruin your relationship with Lyra.”
Now you’re even more concerned, reaching to lightly touch his arm. “I’m sure nothing could ruin that,” you reassure him, voice steady.
He takes a deep breath, shoulders tensing just slightly, as if bracing himself.
“Over time, I developed strong romantic feelings for you,” he admits, each word careful, measured, yet carrying the weight of months of restraint. The fight visibly bleeds from his body. He sounds apologetic, and it hurts. “I might have dealt with it myself had Gen not told me I was being too obvious. If that’s the case, and I’ve crossed any boundaries with you I want to apolo—”
Your mind races a mile per minute, thoughts scrambling for any logical response, but your heart has already beaten out the answer.
“Don’t apologize,” you interrupt hastily, cutting him off. “Sorry for cutting you off. I—I didn’t know… but I like you too.”
The grip on your mug is shatteringly tight. He stares at you unblinking, eyes widened in imperceptible surprise. “You do?”
“I thought I was being embarrassingly obvious,” You laugh weakly, seconding him another glance. He’s still watching, a light shade of pink creeping up his neck. “I’ve been feeling so guilty. Not only about crossing professional lines, but because I don’t want any of this to affect Lyra.”
“Then we’re on the same page,” he concedes.
“Then we’re on the same page,” he concedes, his hand brushing yours lightly, grounding the both of you.
You take a breath, heart pounding, and ask, “Realistically… where would you want this to go? Between us.”
His grip tightens, thumb brushing along the points of your knuckles, and his voice drops softer, deliberate. “Well… I initiated this discussion knowing things likely would not be the same again. Best case scenario, I hoped either we would come up with a schedule to maintain clear boundaries so my feelings wouldn’t disrupt your relationship with Lyra… or… I’d get lucky and you’d want to build something more with me.”
More. The word resonates through you, a jolt to a part of your heart that’s been quietly aching. Everything you’d been longing for, suddenly offered. The thought that he had always planned to keep you in Lyra’s life strikes a deep chord.
Squeezing his hand back, you blink away the sting in your sinuses. “This is… slightly overwhelming”.
Senku leans just slightly closer, a whisper in the charged quiet of the room. “Then we’ll figure it out… together.”
Your chest tightens at the words. Together. The simplicity of it, the quiet certainty, makes your mind spin. You can feel the heat rising in your cheeks, the little spark of hope that maybe this isn’t as impossible as you’d feared. Every fiber of you wants to close the gap, to test if this newfound closeness could be more. And then, before your thoughts even have a chance to catch up, he speaks again, soft, tentative.
“Would you mind if I kissed you?”
Your heart lurches, and for a second you’re fumbling in your own head, caught between disbelief and the sudden, delicious surge of anticipation.You barely realize you’re holding your mug tighter than before, your grip warming against the cool ceramic. “I… I wouldn’t,” you manage, voice almost a whisper, but steady enough.
Senku’s eyes flick up, searching yours, lingering just long enough that your breath catches. He doesn’t hesitate. Gently, deliberately, he sets your coffee aside, leaving a small hollow where the warmth had been. His hands return to yours, left hand intertwining with yours while the right tilts your chin slightly upward.
A sense of weightlessness floods through you, fingers tangling into the fabric of his shirt to keep yourself grounded. He reveres you for a moment, eyes lingering on your expression as he brings your foreheads together.
“You’re gorgeous,” he murmurs.
Heat pricks at your skin. You can feel his breath against your lips. “Hurry up,” you whisper, the lilt of desperation in your tone impossible to hide.
He grins lazily, a slow curve that sends a thrill through you. “You could say please.”
You part with your dignity without hesitation. “Please.”
And then he kisses you.
The world tilts, your body going slack against him, yet every inch of you is alive. One hand smooths along the column of your throat, grounding you, while the other rests firmly at your hip. He pulls away for just a breath, only to dip down again, capturing your lips in another slow, tender kiss. It’s patient, lacking expectation, not about need— it’s just… loving.
When your lips part again, he murmurs your name softly into your mouth, tongue tracing the contours of your lips, wet and languid. Excitement frissons along your spine, compelling you to press closer, to match his hunger.
He tastes faintly of peppermint.
The touches deepen, becoming more urgent. You curl into him as he sinks back against the couch, half pulling you onto his lap. His hands roam with a mix of appreciation and possessiveness, thumbs circling your waist, grounding you in every sensation. Every soft groan, every whispered name, drops like a stone into the pit of your stomach—sweet, insistent, and never enough.
You want more. He wants more. And between gasping breaths, you know this is only the beginning.
“We should probably move,” he murmurs, pulling back slightly, lips brushing yours in a soft, reluctant goodbye.
“Yeah…” you whisper, heart hammering.
“Can I take you to bed?” The question is rough in his throat, low and vulnerable.
The muscles in your legs clench at the thought, pressing tightly together. It isn’t that you don’t want it— you do—but you hadn’t expected this, not so suddenly.
“I… I didn’t come prepared for that,” you admit honestly, voice barely audible. His gaze intensifies, brow arching in silent demand for explanation. “I didn’t… shower for very long,” you add, cheeks heating, “and my—um, underwear isn’t exactly… alluring.”
He exhales slowly, and you shrink slightly into the couch cushions. “You think I care about that?” he murmurs, fingers brushing your jawline with the gentlest pressure. His hand tilts your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes. The pad of his thumb traces your bottom lip, and when you reflexively kiss it, he smiles.
“We don’t have to,” he says carefully, each word deliberate, measured. “I know this might be fast. We can stop right here.” His eyes soften, sincere and earnest. “But know this—I want you. I want all of you. And I want you now, exactly as you are.”
Maybe your transparency should be, at the very least, a little embarrassing. No doubt you’re wearing a lovesick expression. But you can’t find it in you to care. “Okay,” you tell him. “Take me upstairs”.
He hesitates just a fraction, eyes scanning yours for confirmation, before guiding you with a firm, steady hand to the stairs. Every step is electric, every brush of his fingers against yours sending shivers up your spine. By the time you reach his room, the weight of anticipation is almost unbearable.
You aren’t sure what you expected. The walls are a cool off-white, save for an accent wall painted a dark emerald green so deep it nearly swallows the light, echoing the shadowed elegance of his kitchen. Two alcoves are lined with shelves, books of unknown titles stacked meticulously, a small desk cluttered with papers sits beside a chest of drawers.
The bed dominates the room, mattress high and soft, pillows piled in a welcoming, disarray.
Before you could even process it, his hands found your hips, pulling you closer. Teeth graze the curve of your throat in tender, teasing nips. His voice, low and husky, whispers against your ear.
“Still okay?”
You nod, breath catching in your throat, heart hammering. “Yes,” you whisper, voice trembling between anticipation and need.
His lips captured yours in a fierce, passionate kiss, urgent yet careful, erasing every hint of apprehension. Your body went slack, melting against him, while every inch of you burned with awareness. Hands threaded through your hair, fingers pressing into the small of your back, grounding you even as the kiss deepened, demanding, insistent.
Without a conscious thought, you tumbled together onto the bed, still locked in the kiss, hearts hammering. Every touch, every shiver, every soft moan only drew you closer, until the outside world ceased to exist.
The heat between you became undeniable. You felt him pressing hard beneath his pants, the friction electric, making your breath hitch. Everything is hot. “Senku—!” face turned into the sheets to muffle your whine, you note that they smell like him.
“I know love,” he rasps, leaning forward, expression pinched in pleasure. With your throat bared, he continues the path of open mouthed kisses to your collar, a hand rising to cup your breast. You arch into the touch as he squeezes. “Bet you could make me cum like this—”
“—But not before you do,” Another kiss to your lips, chaste in comparison. He pulls away to meet your gaze, seeking permission. “I want to taste you”.
“Okay…” you tilt your chin, pecking the corner of his mouth, and you feel it curve up as your hands find purchase at the hem of his shirt. “Just take this off, first”.
When he sits back on his knees, arms crossed to lift the fabric over his head, you are left adrift to enjoy the view. He is well built but appears to have lost definition over time, with his biceps and pecs still thick but his stomach soft. There’s sparse hair on his chest, thicker beneath his belly button.
Indulging the urge to touch, he shudders as you trace your finger through it and tease his waistband. “Yours too,” he says, the instruction rough in his throat.
His body moves with yours like the tide as you sit up to remove your shirt, already there to lick the valley between your breasts. You wrap your arms around his head, gathering the dark hair draped over you and brushing it away from his face to watch the way he reveries you.
Your abdomen flinches under his soft kisses. Senku travels the length of your torso as if he were savouring you. He’s pressing sweet nothings in your skin, inaudible mumblings that still leave you warm because they’re spoken so breathlessly.
He hooks into your waistband and looks at you. Before he can ask, you slip your hands alongside his — “here, let me…” — and begin to push both your pants and your underwear over the curve of your ass. As the material peels away, you can feel it cling to your sex. Wet.
“Fuck, look at you,” a hand gently parts your knees. He forges another line of light, barely there kisses along your inner thighs, and once he reaches the apex he inhales with a quiet groan that has your fingers tugging at his hair. He’s immovable as your embarrassment pushes him back barely an inch, satisfaction twitching at the edge of his mouth. Jaw slack, pupils dilated and almost gleaming in rebellion, he rolls his tongue forward obscenely to flick the bud of your clit.
Your breathing stutters. It loosens your grip enough that he can tip his head forward to consume you completely, eyes fluttering shut in pleasure like it was his arousal own being satiated. Covetous, he signals contentment with a rumbling in his chest and it vibrates against your sex.
The beat of your heart ricochets through your centre; pulsing in your throat, your ears and your pussy. Senku’s tongue slides over you, wet and soft. Where it seems like he’s indulging himself, you realise he’s still adapting each movement to the sounds you make. Wherever a moan falls past your lips he maintains rhythm and pace, reins himself in to watch the rise and fall of your breasts.
The knot in your belly tightens and your body coils in on itself, thighs clamped against his ears with hips bucking into his mouth. The mattress shakes, and when you notice it’s him rutting into the sheets, you moan helplessly louder. “Senku, I’m—!”
He groans, fingers sinking into the fat of your hips and pulling you impossibly close. Your heels dig into his back as his nose slides against your clit, and he tilts to unrelentingly flicker his tongue over the swell.
“Just like that,” you gasp, grip searing at his scalp. Lewd, wet sounds reverberate around the room. “Fuck!”
A momentary breath is caught in your throat. Your body bends, spine arched forward like a bow as you crest. All at once, the sharp twist in your belly lessens, diffuses, warms your body from the inside out in gentle pulses.
In returning to yourself, you realise he’s steadily carrying you through the motions; soft licks and forgiving kisses until sensitivity overwhelms you. He hums again, like a man that has just finished a meal. You relinquish your grip on his hair and begin massaging the roots in apology.
“Sorry,” you mumble, resting your cheek against your shoulder as you peer down at him between your legs. Resting against your thigh, face sodden and pink, he looks rather pleased with himself.
He sighs, tongue lazily swiping along his lower lip. Half lidded, he meets your gaze. “Can I preface this by telling you it’s been a while since I’ve had sex?”
You laugh at the unexpected response. “Hmm, why? Did you cum in your pants?”
The question itself is a joke, but when he levels you with a carefully blank look, your mouth parts. “You did?”
“Possibly,” he grunts, tucking his chin to nose along your navel.
Sensing his simmering embarrassment, you reach to encourage him back up the bed until you’re face to face. Unperturbed by what’s left of your own arousal, you cradle his jaw and kiss him soundly.
“That’s so—” again and again, punctuating each word, “—so fucking hot”.
Senku grins against your lips, slipping his arms around your waist and gathering you to his chest. Your palm rests over his heart, fingers idly twirling around the short hair there. “So were you,” he murmurs, pointedly shifting his hips. You can feel that his are slightly damp. “That was the problem”.
“Sorry,” you offer playfully, enjoying the pleasant buzz prickling under your skin. “It doesn’t matter. We’ve got plenty of time, haven’t we?”
He chuckles softly, the sound low and warm against your ear. “Yeah… plenty of time,” he murmurs, letting you feel the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your hands. Your fingers trace the lines of his shoulders, memorizing the weight of him pressed close, the heat of his skin against yours.
You both sink into the mattress, tangled together, letting the quiet of the room fill the spaces where words would normally go. The golden light from the window catches his hair, and you can’t help but let your thumb brush along the nape of his neck, feeling the tension leave him in little sighs and relaxed exhales.
“Why didn’t you say anything sooner?” you whisper, pressing your forehead against his.
“I didn’t want to,” he admits, voice low, vulnerable. “I wasn’t sure you’d feel the same.”
You smile, the warmth spreading through you. “I do,” you murmur, letting your lips ghost along his temple in a tender kiss. “I’ve felt this for a while, you know.”
A lazy, satisfied hum vibrates from him as he nuzzles closer, holding you tight. The world outside ceases to exist; it’s just the two of you, the quiet hum of the house, and the afterglow of confession and closeness.
Then, the sudden trill of his phone breaks the spell. He groans softly, reluctantly disentangling just enough to reach for it. “Work never sleeps,” he mutters, flipping the screen toward him.
You lie back against the pillows, letting a contented sigh escape. His presence is still there, the warmth lingering in the crook of your body, and for a moment, you simply revel in it—blissful, relaxed, and completely at peace.
He answers the call, voice polite but you can tell he’s still distracted, and you watch the corner of his mouth twitch as he talks, the tension from before replaced with quiet comfort. You close your eyes, letting your hand rest lightly against where his had been, soaking in the lingering magic of the moment.
For now, it’s enough.
ᥫ᭡.
“Ms. Hoshino talked about families in class today,” Lyra says, perching on her knees with her hands folded neatly in her lap. Despite her attempt at formality, she can’t help picking nervously at her fingers. “Sensei said everyone’s family looks different. Some kids have one mom or one dad, or both. Or none. Or two dads, or—even two moms.”
You nod gently. “That’s right, sweetheart.”
She chews her lip, glancing between you and Senku. “Some kids’ parents live together, some don’t… like my dad and mom.”
“That’s true,” you reply softly, voice warm. “Not all families look the same, but that doesn’t make them any less real, or any less full of love.”
Lyra hums thoughtfully, cheeks puffed in concentration. You can’t help smiling at the little exaggerated exhale she lets out. “Then!” she declares, scooting closer on her knees. “If we’re family, but you and dad aren’t married, then… what should I call you?”
Your chest tightens, your heart nearly in your throat. She tilts her head, eyes bright and earnest. “Do I have two dads? Or one dad and a…?”
“Lyra,” you murmur, reaching to still her restless hands. “You think we’re family?”
Her face lights up with certainty. “Aren’t we?”
Senku exhales, a quiet, amused sound, and you catch the soft affection in his eyes as he watches you interact with her. You kneel beside her, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead, your heart swelling. “Yes,” you whisper. “We are. And nothing— marriage or titles or anything—changes that. You have a family that loves you.”
Lyra beams, snuggling against your side. “Then… I get to call you mama too?”
Your eyes sting just a little as you pull her closer, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head. “If you’d like to, then yes, Lyra. You can.”
Senku’s hand finds yours, a quiet acknowledgment of the bond forming between the three of you. In that small living room, the late afternoon light spilling across the floor, the house feels impossibly warm, full, and safe.
For a moment, everything is simple. Everything is right. And in Lyra’s bright, trusting eyes, you see not just the child you care for, but the family you’ve quietly, and completely, become a part of.
an: as always, i hope you enjoyed! DTY update should be in about two weeks or so, but we’ll see. also i REALLY need some naga senku content. like im getting dangerously needy for it. someone… anyone! save me from this drought.
(In Other Words) DARLING KISS ME. || s. ishigami
we’re back! i’ve been converted to the dilf senku agenda by @mono-no-aware-stuff and now he’s been stuck in my head. i feel like i should say i have NO experience with kids… besides like freshman—if they even count— im not good with toddlers. Im just a very awkawrd person so they’d just run all over me. So if this is inaccurate… sorry!
cws: original daughter name, ooc senku, mentions of unethical relationships (employer x employee situation) nsfw, cunnilingus, hair pulling, besides that not too sure— let me know if i missed anything!
11.1k words
You’re pretty sure the address you were given was a fake. That, or you somehow managed to mess up in your Maps app. Trust your phone to botch something as simple as following directions.
Because surely this couldn’t be it.
The house you’re standing in front of is nothing short of awestriking. Massive glass panels gleam under the morning sun, every line of the architecture screamed sharp, modern, and expensive. It doesn’t look like the kind of place someone would actually live in—more like a spread you’d see featured in a glossy magazine or one of those videos titled “Touring a Millionaire’s Home”.
You’re not sure how someone could live in a house this huge with just themself and a six-year-old. The sheer size of it feels… lonely. Empty echoing rooms, lights left on in spaces no one enters, whole wings probably left alone, gathering dust.
Still, it tracks. From what you’ve been told, Ishigami Senku wasn’t just some guy in a lab coat—he was the kind of scientist who made politicians loosen their pockets. Which meant the practical, quiet life you imagined he’d prefer had probably been bulldozed by bureaucracy and “good optics.” Nothing said national treasure like dropping your genius into a multimillion-dollar glass box for the neighbors to gawk at.
You shift your weight from one foot to the other, staring up at the sprawling glass walls that reflect back a distorted version of yourself. Purse slung over your shoulder, contract still tucked somewhere between your laptop and a handful of crumpled receipts, you suddenly feel like you’ve wandered too far into the wrong neighborhood.
The only sound is the occasional rustle of wind brushing against the manicured trees lining the drive. No barking dog, no faint hum of a TV inside, not even the shuffle of footsteps. The silence makes you acutely aware of your own presence— like the house itself is waiting to see if you belong.
After five solid minutes of knocking, you’re beginning to think you don’t.
“Maybe I should call…” you mutter under your breath, already flicking open your phone screen with one hand.
With the other, you knock again, firmer this time, though the sleek, spotless surface of the door makes you hesitant to touch it more than necessary. A long minute drags by. Then another.
You’re just about to give in— about to double-check the address and brace yourself for the embarrassment of having harassed the wrong mansion—when the sound of a soft, mechanical series of clicks startle you.
The door shifts open just enough for a small face to peek through.
Not the adult you were expecting, but a child.
She’s tiny, barely past your waist, with pale strands of hair tumbling messily over her face. But it’s her eyes that catch you most: a deep reddish-brown that, at first glance, looks warm and ordinary until the sunlight glances across them and the crimson hidden within flickers to life. A softer echo of her father’s startling gaze.
She stares at you with wide eyes. They flicker over your frame—your shirt, your shoes, even the contract folder peeking from the edge of your bag— as if she’s not sure whether or not you passed some test you were unaware you were taking part in.
You blink, a little startled, then lower yourself into a crouch so you’re not towering over her. “Are you… Lyra?”
Her eyes widen at the sound of her name, and from the corner of your eye, you notice she’s gently clutching a threadbare plush bunny.
She gives the tiniest nod, eyes still trained on you with a careful, assessing silence. Then, as if remembering something, she blurts softly, “My daddy says I shouldn’t talk to strangers… or open the door.”
You raise your brows, caught between surprise and amusement. “Well he’s right. That’s very smart of you.” Then, lowering your voice conspiratorially, you ask, “Is your daddy here?”
Lyra hesitates, gnawing lightly at the inside of her cheek. She doesn’t answer right away, her gaze is still flickering between your eyes, your hands, your phone, like she’s trying to solve an equation she doesn’t have all the variables for.
Just as you begin to wonder if she’ll shut the door in your face altogether, the sound of steady footsteps echoes down the hall behind her. Heavy, measured.
A low, smooth voice calls from inside: “Lyra. Is someone at the door?”
The child stiffens slightly but doesn’t look away from you. Tilting her head, eyes narrowing in consideration, she lifts her chin and calls back, a touch louder than before:
“There’s a pretty lady here asking for you!”
The footsteps quicken slightly, echoing off what you can only assume to be gleaming floors, and the door behind Lyra swings open a fraction wider.
Then he appears.
Senku Ishigami is exactly as intimidating as you expected. And somehow more so. Tall, sharp-featured, hair fading from a pale silver to green at the tips that catches the morning light like delicately spun glass, lab coat casually draped over dark slacks, sleeves rolled up to his elbows which emphasize his forearms—that you try your hardest not to focus on. His crimson eyes— bright, precise, and completely unnerving— scan you like he's examining a new specimen.
For a moment, none of you speak.
Lyra, standing in front of him like a tiny shield, glances up at him, then back at you. “It’s a pretty lady,” she announces, pride twinkling in her reddish-brown eyes.
Senku’s gaze shifts to her, then back to you. There’s a pause—a microsecond of something unreadable flickering across his features. Then a faint twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth.
“…A pretty lady, huh?” he says slowly, voice calm but edged with curiosity. “Well, you’re certainly punctual, I’ll give you that.”
Your stomach does a small flip. “I—yes, sir.” You state your name. “The agency said you'd be expecting me today.”
“Ah, that was today? Must’ve slipped my mind,” he replies, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
Before you can respond, Senku steps closer—and Lyra darts forward, wrapping her small arms tightly around his leg.
He crouches slightly to meet her at her level, ruffling her hair with a soft, affectionate smile. “Now, what did I tell you about opening the door to strangers?”
She groans, burying her face against his leg, hiding from his gaze. “Not to open it…” she mumbles, voice muffled but clear enough.
He chuckles softly, fingers stroking her hair again. “Exactly. But you did the right thing by letting me see who it was. That’s clever, Lyra.”
She peeks out from her hiding spot for a brief second, then sighs and buries her face back into him. “I… I wasn’t sure,” she admits, the tiniest quiver of nerves in her tone.
You watch the interaction, heart warming at the quiet intimacy between father and daughter. The house feels a little less intimidating, the air a little softer, as their bond fills the space.
Senku straightens, still smiling down at her. “Alright, tiny genius. Let’s see if this pretty lady can keep up with you today.”
He steps aside, gesturing you in with an expectant flick of his wrist. You hesitate only a moment before crossing the threshold, purse strap digging into your shoulder.
The air inside is cool, tinged faintly with citrus, undercut by something warmer—sandalwood, maybe. The house is as striking as it appears from the outside: high ceilings, gleaming glass, polished steel fixtures. Yet, it doesn’t feel cold. A precarious tower of blocks sits by the sofa, a pair of pink light-up sneakers lie abandoned near the stairs, and one of those oversized mugs—printed with equations you’d expect to see on a gag gift for a professor— sits empty on the counter.
“Kitchen’s down this way,” Senku says, his stride long enough you almost have to quicken your pace to keep up. He gestures loosely to the gleaming open floor plan, as though he’s pointing out lab equipment rather than a multimillion-dollar home.
“Help yourself to anything in the fridge. Snacks, drinks. If Lyra gets hungry, she’s got a taste for strawberries and pancakes. If she starts campaigning for cookies before noon, the answer’s no.” His voice is dry, but his eyes flick down to where Lyra presses into your side, like she was naturally drawn to you.
“Daddy!” she protests softly, the tips of her ears coloring.
You smile. “Noted. No cookies for breakfast.”
Something subtle shifts in his expression at your quick answer—not surprise exactly, but interest. As though he’s marking the way you side with him without alienating her.
“The pantry’s stocked. Emergency contacts are pinned to the fridge. Wi-Fi password’s taped to the router.” He rattles off details with quick, precise efficiency, the cadence of someone who expects every syllable to be absorbed.
“Got it,” you reply, nodding once.
A low hum escapes him, thoughtful, curling faintly at the edges. His gaze sweeps over you—your posture, the steady hand resting near Lyra without crowding her, the way you listen without interrupting. It doesn’t feel like small talk so much as an evaluation, as though he’s already running quiet calculations in the back of his mind.
You shift your weight slightly under the weight of that gaze, though it isn’t unkind, just piercing. Analytical.
“Living room’s obvious. The guest bath is down the hall.” He hooks a thumb toward a sleek doorway before continuing on toward the staircase. Lyra follows at a small skip, bunny dangling from her arm, but she keeps glancing back to make sure you’re still behind her.
“Upstairs is mostly off-limits. My office. Storage. Labs.” His tone is clipped, decisive, though he slows for the briefest moment, casting you another look as if to measure your reaction to the word lab. “Lyra’s room is first on the right if she wants to show you later. She probably will.”
“I like my room,” Lyra says suddenly, almost too soft, but her little voice carries in the quiet. Her eyes darted up to him, then back down to her bunny, as though unsure she should’ve spoken up.
Senku’s hand drops automatically to ruffle her hair, an absent but affectionate motion. “Yeah, you do. Built a pillow fort that could house half the population of Japan there.”
She giggles faintly, hiding her face in the bunny’s ears.
The sound makes something in your chest churn. It’s clear, even in these clipped minutes, how much he adores her. And how much she trusts him.
By the time you circle back toward the front entryway, Senku’s already pulling his keys from the counter. “I’ll be at the lab most of the day. Usually I’m back around eight. If I’m not, you’ll hear from me. If you don’t…” his mouth twists into a wry smirk, “assume I’ve been buried alive under paperwork.”
You almost laugh, but the weight in his gaze holds you steady. He’s still watching you, still gauging if you’ll fit in this equation he’s built around his daughter.
He crouches briefly, tugging Lyra closer and pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Don’t give her too much trouble, tiny genius.”
Lyra wrinkles her nose, cheeks flushing faintly. “I won’t…”
Straightening, Senku tosses a final look your way. It's steady, almost unreadable, though his tone is casual. “Good luck surviving your first day.” Then, with a flick of his coat, he’s already halfway to the door.
The lock clicks behind him.
And just like that, it’s official. Your first day as Lyra’s nanny.
Lyra looks up at you, bunny still tucked under her arm, her expression both shy and expectant. “…Do you know how to make pancakes?” she asks hopefully.
Your lips curve into a smile. “You know, they used to say I made the best pancakes in town when I was younger.”
Her face lights up instantly, reddish-brown eyes gleaming. “Really? The best?”
You lower yourself so you’re at her level, leaning in like you’re telling her a secret. “The best. I even had people lining up outside my kitchen just for a taste.”
She gasps softly, eyes widening before narrowing just a little in suspicion—an expression so much like her father’s it makes you stifle a laugh. “You’re lying,” she accuses, though the corners of her mouth twitch with a smile.
You let out a faux gasp, clutching your chest dramatically. “I would never!”
Lyra giggles, the sound bright and bubbling. “Then you gotta prove it!”
“Guess there’s only one way to find out.” You gesture toward the kitchen. “Shall we put it to the test?”
Lyra hesitates for only a moment before hiding her grin behind the ear of her bunny. Then, with surprising boldness, she slips her small hand into yours. “Okay… but I get to stir.”
“Of course! I bet you’re the best mixer in town.”
Her eyes sparkle at that, and she nods fiercely, as if ready to defend her title. You let her tug you toward the kitchen, her bare feet pattering against the polished floor. The house, so vast and intimidating when you first arrived, suddenly feels smaller, warmer.
And as she chatters softly about how she likes her pancakes “fluffy, but not too fluffy,” you find yourself smiling before you even realize it. Maybe this won’t be too bad after all.
ᥫ᭡.
It doesn’t take long for things to spiral into chaos. One moment, Lyra’s perched on a stool, carefully stirring the batter with all the solemnity of a scientist mixing chemicals. The next, there’s flour dusting the counter, powdered sugar clinging to her cheeks, and a streak of it smeared across your own sweater where she’d “accidentally” bumped you with the spoon.
“It’s snowing!” she squeals, tossing a pinch of flour into the air, giggling so hard she nearly tips off the stool.
You can’t help it— you laugh, really laugh, the sound bubbling out before you can stop it. “You’re going to get us both in trouble if your dad comes home to this crime scene.”
Lyra only grins wider, her bunny now sitting on the counter looking equally powdered. “He won’t! We’ll clean it up super fast. Promise!”
Sticky, messy, and absolutely nowhere near what you had planned, the kitchen feels alive with her laughter. And somehow, you don’t mind the sugar clinging to your hands or the flour dusting your hair.
Eventually, you manage to wrestle back control of the cooking, shooing her hands away from the hot stove. “Okay, chef, I think I’ve got it from here. You’ve done more than enough stirring.”
She pouts, but only halfheartedly, kicking her heels against the stool as she watches you flip the last pancake onto the stack. A few fresh strawberries later, there’s a plate of perfectly golden pancakes resting proudly in the center of the counter.
Lyra gasps, eyes wide and shining. “They look so good!”
You slide the plate toward her with a little flourish. “Strawberry pancakes, just the way you ordered them. Ready for the ultimate taste test?”
Her eager nod is all the answer you need. She digs in without hesitation, cutting a wobbly piece with her fork and shoving it into her mouth. Her little cheeks puff up like a chipmunk as she chews, eyes rolling dramatically skyward in delight.
“Mmmmf! Sohhh gooo—”
You can’t help laughing. “Lyra, sweetie, don’t talk with your mouth full.”
She freezes mid-bite, cheeks round, eyes darting up to meet yours. Then, after a guilty pause, she makes a show of chewing as fast as possible and swallows triumphantly.
“They’re so good!” she blurts properly this time, bouncing a little in her chair.
You smile, warmth tugging at your chest. “Glad to hear it! So… now that breakfast is officially approved, what’s next on the agenda?”
Lyra tilts her head, thinking hard. Then her whole face lights up. “I can show you my room!”
Before you can answer, she hops off her chair, grabs your hand, and tugs you toward the stairs. Her room is exactly what you’d expect for a six-year-old. A whirlwind of books, scattered building blocks, stuffed animals, and drawings taped proudly to the wall. She dives immediately into showing you everything: her favorite doll, her growing rock collection, even her bunny plushie’s “special corner” of the bed.
It doesn’t take long before you’re both sprawled out on the soft rug, toys forgotten as Lyra chatters on about her hobbies— how she wants to build a rocket ship one day, how she tried to invent a machine that makes chocolate milk appear from thin air (with her father’s help, of course). You lie on your back, listening, nodding along, laughing when her stories stumble over one other in her excitement.
Eventually, her voice softens, losing some of that endless energy, and she curls up a little closer against your side, bunny clutched to her chest. It’s surprisingly comfortable, the quiet in her room punctuated only by her voice and the faint hum of the ceiling fan.
You glance at the clock on the wall and smile. “Alright, sweetie, I think it’s about time we start thinking about lunch. What do you say?”
She lets out a tiny groan of protest, burying her face into her bunny. But when she peeks up at you again, her eyes sparkle with curiosity. “Can we make sandwiches shaped like stars?”
You chuckle. “You’ve got yourself a deal!”
ᥫ᭡.
By the time dinner rolls around, the house is quiet, the chaos of the days earlier activites and toys long tidied away. You’ve prepared something simple but hearty, and store the leftovers in the fridge for whenever Senku gets back. She eats quickly, barely pausing to talk, her energy finally settling after a full day of adventures.
Afterward, you make sure she washes up. She insists you watch her brush her teeth, grinning at you through a mouthful of foam like it’s the funniest thing in the world. Then, finally, you guide her toward her bedroom.
Her little voice pipes up as you help her into bed, bunny clutched like a shield. “Three more stories! Please?” she begs, eyes wide and pleading.
You laugh softly, tucking the blanket snugly around her. “Alright, three it is. But then that’s it. No exceptions, starlight”
Her face softens instantly at the nickname, a tiny smile tugging at her lips. “Starlight…” She repeats quietly, as though testing it out, then hides half her face behind her bunny.
“Mm-hm.” You give her forehead a gentle tap. “Now, settle in.”
And so you read—three whole stories, your voice gradually softening as her eyelids grow heavier with each page. By the end of the third, her breathing is slow and steady, her bunny hugged close to her chest.
You stay a moment longer, just listening to the quiet, before slipping out of the room.
Downstairs, the house is quiet again. You sit in the living room with a cup of tea, waiting for Senku to return from the lab. When the familiar sound of keys echoes through the entryway, you rise.
The lock clicks, and you hear the quiet shuffle of shoes being slipped off. A moment later, Senku steps into the living room, coat folded over one arm, hair a little mussed from the long day. His gaze flicks to you almost immediately.
“You’re still here,” he remarks, voice mild but threaded with curiosity.
You nod, setting your cup down. “I wanted to make sure you got home before I left.”
“Hm.” He studies you for a beat, unreadable as always. “Considerate. Most people wouldn’t bother.”
You smile faintly. “Well, Lyra begged for three bedtime stories. By the time she actually fell asleep, it was late anyway.”
That earns the tiniest huff of amusement from him. “Three stories? She usually manages to bargain me into two at most. Seems you’ve been out-negotiated by a six-year-old.”
You laugh softly. “I didn’t stand a chance. She’s sharp. Gets that from you, I assume.”
His lips twitch, not quite a smile, but close. “Sharp, yes. Stubborn too. That part’s… probably me as well.” He leans against the back of a chair, arms folding loosely. “And you? Did she run you ragged?”
“Completely,” you admit with mock weariness, but then soften. “But she’s wonderful. Really. You’ve raised a good kid.”
For the first time tonight, something flickers in his expression—something warmer, though he masks it quickly. “Tch. Don’t give me too much credit. She does most of the work herself.”
You tilt your head. “Still. She clearly adores you.”
He doesn’t answer right away, just hums low in his throat and shifts his gaze toward the staircase where her room sits in silence. When his eyes come back to you, there’s a sharper edge of assessment.
“And you?” he asks suddenly. “Day one, and you’re still standing. Not everyone meshes with her this quickly.”
You blink, caught off guard, but find yourself smiling. “I like her. She’s got… a way of making the house feel less intimidating. Honestly, she made my first day easier than I expected.”
Senku watches you for a long second, like he’s testing the weight of your words, before finally giving a small nod. “Good. That’s what I needed to know.”
The silence that follows isn’t awkward— just quiet, filled with the faint hum of the house. Eventually, you rise, sliding your purse strap over your shoulder.
“I should go. Tomorrow’s another full day.”
Senku straightens, slipping his coat onto the rack instead of his shoulder this time. “Mn. You’ll be back at nine?”
“Bright and early.”
His gaze lingers on you a moment longer, steady but not unkind. Then, with a faint curve of his mouth, he says, “Good luck surviving day two.”
You grin. “I’ll take my chances.”
And with that, you step out into the night, heart lighter than when you arrived.
ᥫ᭡.
You survive day two. And three. And four. And then the weeks start blending together, stretching into months after your first encounter with the Ishigami family.
Along the way, you grow closer with Lyra in ways that feel almost natural—effortless. Dropping her off at daycare, picking her up with a snack tucked in your bag because you know she’ll ask for one before you’ve even left the parking lot. Taking her to the park where she insists you push her higher and higher on the swings until her giggles carry clear across the playground. Going on slow evening walks that somehow always end with sticky fingers and napkins from the ice cream shop down the street.
It’s sweetly domestic, a rhythm you never thought you’d find yourself in. A life that feels dangerously like home.
But there’s a small problem.
You have a crush on Senku.
Not that it’s shocking to anyone else. He’s attractive, brilliant, and endearingly attentive in the quiet moments you catch him with Lyra. Honestly, a perfect bachelor on paper. But you’re not just anyone. You were hired to watch his daughter, whom you adore like your own. Your place is here, in the in-between: caretaker, companion, a steady presence in Lyra’s world. Not… whatever this dangerous flutter in your chest is.
Still, it’s hard not to fall when you see him the way no one else does—bent low to tie Lyra’s laces because she can’t quite get the knot right yet, or listening intently as she babbles about her latest dream or a funny story from class in the same breath, like her thoughts refuse to be sorted into categories. It’s in the way his hand lingers on her head, ruffling her hair with absent-minded affection, or how his voice softens—just barely—when he tells her goodnight.
It’s hard not to think: if this is how he loves his daughter… what would it be like, to be on the receiving end of even a fraction of that care?
But it’s not just you.
Senku isn’t immune either, though it takes him longer to admit it—even to himself. At first, he brushes it off as convenience. That’s all. It’s convenient, the way you’ve adapted so seamlessly into Lyra’s life. Convenient, how she chatters about you long after bedtime, how her laughter rings louder and freer when you’re around. Convenient that she clings to you at drop-off, only to skip into daycare with a grin once you’re the one waving goodbye.
Except… convenience doesn’t explain why his mornings stretch a little longer now. Why he finds himself sipping his coffee at the counter instead of rushing out the door, just to listen to your easy hum while you pack Lyra’s lunch. Why his eyes drift to you when you tease Lyra out of a sulk with gentle patience. Why coming home early has quietly become the highlight of his day.
It sneaks up on him, the realization. One night, he rounds the corner to find you curled on the couch, Lyra finally asleep upstairs, the glow of the lamp painting you in warm light. You look up at him with that easy smile you always give, and something twists sharp and undeniable in his chest.
It’s a problem. A problem because he hasn’t let anyone close in years, and yet here you are—close enough to shift his routines, close enough to notice when he lingers, close enough to matter.
It’s a problem.
One that he isn’t entirely sure he wants to fix.
ᥫ᭡.
It’s late. Later than the normal 8 p.m. you’re supposed to be off at. Senku messaged you around six saying there was an issue. He didn’t clarify—he rarely does— but it was enough of a warning that you knew you’d be sticking around until he got home. Lyra went down without a fuss, curled up with her pillow and the nightlight glowing soft against the wall. Now the house is still, save for the occasional creak of the floorboards and the hum of the fridge.
When the front door finally opens, you half expect him to slip past with barely a word the way he sometimes does when work’s eaten him alive. But tonight, his steps drag heavier than usual. He doesn’t even shrug out of his coat, just drops his bag at the door and makes a straight line for his desk like gravity’s pulling him there.
You linger by the doorway, watching him sink into the chair, fingers already flying across the keyboard. The bluish glow of his laptop washes over the sharp angles of his face, hollowing out the exhaustion you can see plain in the set of his shoulders. The permanent shadows beneath his eyes look deeper tonight, his jaw tight as he scrolls back and forth over the same formula like the outcome might magically change on the hundredth pass.
“Still at it?” you ask softly, leaning against the doorframe.
He doesn’t look up. “It won’t balance. No matter how I structure the inputs, the output destabilizes halfway through.” His voice is low, frayed at the edges. “There’s a piece I’m missing.”
You step closer, careful with your tone. “When’s the last time you slept?”
He exhales, sharp and humorless. “Sleep doesn’t solve bad math.”
“Sometimes it does.” You hesitate, fingers twitching at your side before you gather the nerve to say it: “Can I…?” You gesture loosely, not wanting to assume. “Give you a massage?”
That finally earns you his eyes, sharp and assessing as if he’s running a calculation right there. A beat, and then—“If you want.” His tone is even, but the slight dip of his head is a silent, unmistakable yes.
You ease him forward in the chair and set your hands gently on his shoulders first, testing. When he doesn’t pull away, you begin to knead the tense muscles with slow, careful pressure.
The tension is immediate. He stiffens under your touch—reflex, habit, pride, you’re not sure. Then, after a heartbeat, his body yields, a long, shaky breath spilling out of him.
Your thumbs work along the rigid muscles of his shoulders, coaxing the knots to loosen. Slowly, carefully.
The sounds that escape him are not something you’re prepared for. A low, rough groan, dragged out of his throat before he could swallow it down. It’s raw, involuntary. Almost indecent.
Heat rushes across your face. You shouldn’t notice. You shouldn’t. But once you’ve heard it, you can’t not.
Your fingers press deeper, and you find another stubborn knot just under his shoulder blade. His head drops forward, pale strands falling into his face, and his hand curls tight around the edge of the desk like he needs the anchor. Another groan vibrates low in his chest, and this one is worse (better) because it sounds like relief and something far more dangerous bleeding together. Deep, rough, involuntary. Almost indecent.
Your brain betrays you, chasing the thought further than it should. If he sounds like that just from your hands on his shoulders… What other noises could you pull from him? You’re thankful you can’t see his face. Not sure what the sight, paired with those sounds, might do to you.
“Gods,” he mutters, voice gravelly, like the admission is dragged out of him. “If you keep that up, I might actually—” He cuts himself off, the tips of his ears faintly pink.
“Relax?” you supply, trying for lightness, though your voice feels a little too thin.
His mouth quirks, though his eyes stay closed. “Something like that.”
You laugh softly, nerves fluttering under your skin. The sound feels too loud in the quiet room, but you don’t pull away. “Glad to be useful.”
Your fingers keep working, kneading gently along the slope of his shoulders, and every so often he exhales in those low, frayed sounds that make your chest tighten. He’s quiet otherwise, letting you guide him, letting you strip back layers of tension he’s probably been carrying all week.
“You need to rest more,” you murmur, voice softer now, thumb smoothing down the ridge of his spine. “You’ve got a daughter at home who needs you. Burning yourself out won’t solve whatever problem you’re chewing on.”
He hums in response—deep, distracted, almost pleased. Not the sharp rebuttal you expected, not his usual litany of logic and counterpoints. Just a hum, low in his throat, like the miracle work of your hands is making his mind go blissfully blank.
And that’s dangerous. Because with every knot you ease out of him, you can almost imagine he’s leaning into you for more than relief. That this intimacy could mean something. That maybe he trusts you in ways that extend beyond Lyra.
He’s acutely aware of it too. The way your hands move over him, so gentle, so careful, yet purposeful—it’s disarming. His thoughts, normally tangled in equations and contingency plans, scatter like leaves in the wind. He should be thinking of the unsolved problem on his desk, the hours lost in lab, the logistics for Lyra’s schedule—but all he can focus on is the warmth of your touch, the way your thumbs press into the knots in his shoulders, the soft exhalations you coax from him without even meaning to.
Your heart pounds, fingers pausing just long enough to steady yourself before continuing. He doesn’t notice—too far gone in the simple, impossible luxury of rest.
For once, Senku Ishigami isn’t a scientist chasing formulas, or a father juggling the weight of the world. He’s just a man under your hands, sighing like he hasn’t in years. And gods help you, you want more.
He doesn’t say anything else, but you can feel him slipping further under, letting go in increments he probably didn’t know he was capable of. Each groan or sigh feels pulled from somewhere deep, like his body is betraying him with the relief your hands wring out of him.
And he knows it’s reckless. Knows it’s improper, unprofessional, maybe even dangerous—but the precision of your touch, the patience, untangles him in ways formulas never could. He can’t stop leaning into it, can’t stop imagining that maybe this closeness—this rare, quiet attention—is something he’s been missing all along.
When you tell him to rest more, to think of Lyra, his lips twitch faintly. He wants to tell you he is trying. That every late night, every hour of stress, is for her. But the simpler, harder truth is that he doesn’t want you to stop. He doesn’t want this moment to end.
His eyes flutter open, half-lidded, and they catch the blurred shape of you behind him. For the first time in a long time, his thoughts aren’t racing toward the next solution. They’re caught on you—your presence, your hands, your voice.
By the time you ease your hands away, he feels both heavier and lighter—weighted with something he can’t name, and terrifyingly untethered without your touch. He clears his throat, slow and deliberate, as if sound alone could break whatever tension still hums in the room. “That was… effective,” he says at last, tone measured, like he’s grading an experiment instead of admitting you’ve just undone him.
You smile softly, telling him to get some rest before heading off to take your leave. He watches you go, jaw tight, hands flexing uselessly against his knees.
Sleep doesn’t come easy. Not with the ghost of your hands on his shoulders, not with the echo of your voice reminding him that Lyra needs him to take care of himself. Not with the dangerous, irrational thought that maybe—just maybe—you need him too.
ᥫ᭡.
The next evening, Gen is over for drinks. Lyra’s asleep upstairs, and you’ve long “checked out” for the night. Senku wishes either one of you were available to drag him out of the hole he’s dug himself into.
He doesn’t mean to bring it up. Really, he doesn’t. But Gen has always had an annoying knack for wringing things out of him. Even the things Senku would rather bury under formulas and late nights in the lab.
Gen sips his tea with a sly smile, watching Senku stare at the same line of data for far too long.
“You’ve been distracted lately,” Gen sing-songs, voice lilting with false innocence. “Don’t tell me one of your experiments is keeping you up at night. Or… is it someone?”
Senku shoots him a flat look. “You’re insufferable.”
“Ah, so it is someone.” Gen’s grin widens, sharklike. “Do tell. Is this about this nanny I've been hearing so much about?”
The pause is damning.
Senku exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “…This is ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously obvious?”
Gen leans back, savoring the moment. “Come on, Senku. You’ve been walking around like a lovesick teenager for weeks now. Don’t insult me by pretending this is about anything else.”
“Gen.” His tone sharpens, but there’s no bite behind it. He leans back in his chair, arms crossing tight against his chest. “She’s here for Lyra. That’s the whole point. To give Lyra stability. The second I start—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening.
Gen tilts his head, studying him like a puzzle. “The second you start… what? Caring about the person who spends more time with your daughter than you do?” Gen’s grin only widens. “You’re in love with someone you employ. How very… convenient for you.” He sips his tea, eyes twinkling. “Do you plan on running calculations to solve this, or are you going to deal with it like a human being?”
Senku glares, but the twitch of a smirk at the corner of his mouth betrays him. “…I haven’t even figured out if it’s a ‘problem’ yet. And I’m certainly not about to act irrationally.”
Gen leans forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Oh, you’re acting irrationally already. You’re just doing it under the radar, hiding behind logic and routines. But I see you.
Senku scowls. “It’s unethical. She works for me. She’s paid to be here.”
“And yet you’re not thinking about firing her, are you?” Gen’s smile softens, just barely. “You’re thinking about the way Lyra lights up around her. The way you find excuses to linger in the mornings. Don’t insult me by pretending this is just about professionalism.”
Senku doesn’t answer, and that silence says enough.
Gen sets his cup down with a little clink. “You, my dear scientist, are utterly, hopelessly whipped. Which is delightful, by the way. I never thought I’d see the day.”
Senku runs a hand through his hair, exhaling in frustration. “…This is why I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
Gen’s grin returns in full force. “Correction—you shouldn’t have fallen for her. But since you already have…” He leans in, eyes gleaming. “What are you going to do about it?”
Senku groans, rubbing at his temples. He knows Gen is right—of course he is. And yet, despite his protests, a part of him can’t help but imagine seeing you again, just the two of you in the quiet house while Lyra sleeps, that impossible pull between you simmering in the spaces where words don’t reach.
And somehow… he doesn’t entirely hate that thought.
ᥫ᭡.
You had Friday off. Senku had called early that morning, letting you know you wouldn’t be needed for the day. And yet, instead of relief, you found yourself… upset. Missing both of their presence already.
Your best friends, however, don’t do sympathy well. Amaryllis and Luna are not the type to indulge moping—their stubborn, vindictive natures were a large part of why you loved them. You just preferred it when those qualities weren’t directed at you.
“Remind me again why we couldn’t just drink at my apartment?” you grumble.
You’re dragged to a little hole-in-the-wall Amaryllis discovered during your university years. Slightly industrial, with wide-open spaces and tall steel beams, the bar feels alive yet intimate. Soft, muted orange bulbs hang overhead, casting pools of light over the tables, while acoustic music drifts gently from speakers.
At the center, a large bar curves around, stools lining the edges. You take one easily, sinking in as if you belong.The three of you sit together on the curved edge so you can face one another, Amaryllis contented to be in the middle. Being here felt similar to huddling around a campfire, or candlelight. Alcohol insulating your bones and loosening your tongue, easy laughter shared with friends.
You were brought here on a quest for distraction, and yet—
“I don’t think you understand how dire this is,” you bemoan, pouting as Amaryllis rolls her eyes with exaggerated self-indulgence. “He tells me to be good before he leaves now, too. Looks right at me and says ‘be good, both of you’”.
Your initial goal may have been overly optimistic.
“Like a bit of praise, don’t ya?” Luna laughs.
Amaryllis smirks, wiping away a stray bead of soju from his mouth as his eyes sweep across the bar. “Who doesn’t?”
“It isn’t funny,” limp wristed as you swirl the sweet tasting concoction in your glass, Luna slips her arm along the back of your stool. “I want to kiss him. All the time!”
A hand rubs firm circles between your shoulder blades. Neither of them seems embarrassed—or irritated—by the topic.
Embarrassing to admit, Senku Ishigami has dominated your group chat for the past month. Most responses ranged from good-natured teasing to venting about their own love lives. You had been thankful then—grateful for a place to vent, a safe ear to listen.
Now, you weren’t so sure. Your heartbeat thrummed in your chest, the phantom brush of his hand around yours, the echo of his low, rumbling laugh, the way your name sounded when he smiled. Inch by inch, the spool unraveled. You had taken more than you needed, left wanting still.
You couldn’t pretend any longer. A line had been crossed. You tell them as much, your voice quiet but certain, and the two of them lean in, grinning knowingly.
Amaryllis leans back, crossing their arms with a satisfied smirk. “Finally. Took you long enough to admit it.”
Luna nudges you gently with an elbow. “I mean, we’ve all seen it coming. You can’t exactly hide the way your eyes light up when you talk about him—or when you’re just… around him.”
You groan, burying your face in your hands. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. It’s… he’s Senku. He’s— just so— ugh! And I—”
“You’re smitten,” Amaryllis finishes for you, as if stating the obvious.
“Yes!” You can’t help but snap, though it comes out more like a gasp than a yell. “I can’t stop thinking about him! And it’s unethical, and he’s my employer, and Lyra—ugh, it’s a mess!”
Luna laughs softly, rubbing your back in a comforting way. “Oh, it’s a mess alright. But the fun kind. Admit it—you’d rather be in this mess than not.”
You peek through your fingers at them, cheeks flushed. “…Maybe,” you mutter reluctantly.
Amaryllis leans forward, eyes gleaming. “Then you’re going to have to be brave. Because the way you talk about him… you’re already halfway there.”
“And the other half?” you ask, voice small.
“That,” Luna says with a wink, “is up to Senku.”
You let out a long sigh, swirling the last of your drink in the glass. “Great. Just what I needed. Friends reminding me how hopeless I am.”
Amaryllis and Luna laugh, voices warm, teasing, familiar.
“Oh, you’re hopeless alright,” Amaryllis says without restraint.
“Ryllis!” Luna shrieks, covering her mouth to hide her grin.
“But we love you regardless,” Amaryllis finishes, eyes sparkling.
For the first time that night, you let yourself relax. Maybe it was still messy. Maybe it was complicated—but it was also exciting. And somehow, knowing your friends had your back made the impossible feel just a little more… possible.
ᥫ᭡.
“Welcome home!”
Senku freezes mid-step at the doorway, hand stuck while trying to untighten his tie. He would assume, given the precise way you moved around the kitchen, that you had a PhD in domesticity—or at least a masterclass in keeping a home spotless while somehow making it feel warm.
Did you always look this… soft?
He hadn’t planned on coming home early. He meant to let you enjoy the quiet, maybe give himself a buffer to finish up in the lab. But now, with the afternoon sun casting a golden glow over your skin, catching in the strands of your hair, he can’t seem to look away.
“You’re home early,” you murmur, trying to keep your voice casual, but your pulse betrays you.
He steps further into the kitchen, eyes never leaving yours. “Finished sooner than expected. Thought I’d check in… and maybe see how our tiny genius is doing.”
“Lyra’s upstairs, napping,” you say, leaning against the counter, trying to focus on something other than the way he’s looking at you. “You… surprised me, that’s all.”
Senku tilts his head slightly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Did I?” He takes another step closer. The space between you shrinks. “Or did you just not expect me to notice when you… do this?” His hand rests lightly on the counter near yours, so close you can feel the warmth radiating from him.
Your breath catches. “Do what?”
The smirk deepens, a mischievous glint in his red eyes. “Be… you.”
One step. Then another. Suddenly, you’re practically chest to chest, the air thick, every heartbeat loud in the quiet kitchen. Your hand grazes the counter as his does the same, both of you acutely aware of the small space separating you.
You inhale sharply, leaning just a fraction closer. His eyes soften, and his breath catches. For a heartbeat, it feels inevitable—just a tiny step, and maybe—
A faint creak from the stairs halts both of you.
Lyra’s tiny voice echoes down the hall, calling out your name.
In an instant, you both pull back, faces tinged pink, hearts racing. The moment vanishes like mist in the morning sun.
Lyra bounds into the kitchen, fist rubbing at her still sleepy eyes.
“I heard daddy’s voice… is he home?”
Senku kneels slightly so his eyes meet hers, the corners of his mouth lifting just a fraction. “Yes… I’m home, tiny genius.”
“You’re back early,” she says, her voice small but eager, still rubbing at her sleepy eyes.
“I finished my work sooner than expected,” he replies smoothly, though a faint warmth colors his cheeks.
Her gaze lifts, wide and pleading. “Does that mean you’ll stay with us then?”
Senku hesitates, caught off guard by the unguarded hope in her eyes. He glances briefly at you, noticing how your own expression softens as you kneel to meet Lyra at eye level. The golden afternoon light casts a gentle glow over you, making it impossible to look away.
He exhales softly, ruffling her hair with a fondness that makes your chest ache just to watch. “For a little while, yes. But only until we get lunch started, tiny genius. We’ve got a helper here making sure it’s all ready,” he says, his tone teasing but gentle, glancing toward you in a way that makes his admiration unmistakable.
Lyra beams, bouncing on her toes. “Yay! Can we eat together?”
You smile warmly, reaching for her hand. “Of course. Let’s see what we’ve got, shall we?”
Senku straightens slightly, eyes lingering on you just a moment longer than necessary before following you both to the counter, that quiet pull between you simmering just beneath the surface.
After lunch, the three of you drift to the living room. Lyra clambers onto the couch first, insisting on the middle spot with her stuffed bunny tucked under one arm. You and Senku sit on either side of her, close enough that your shoulders brush lightly.
“What should we watch, Lyra?” you ask, smiling down at her.
Her eyes light up, excitement practically sparkling. “Disney! Can we watch WALL-E?”
Senku lets out a soft, amused hum, leaning back slightly. “WALL-E it is, tiny genius. Good choice.”
You grab the DVD from the stack and slide it into the player. Lyra settles against your side, the warmth of her little body easing against you. Senku adjusts his position, his hand brushing yours for just a moment as he leans back, eyes glancing at the screen but always flicking to you.
For forty-five minutes, the three of you watch the movie in companionable silence. Lyra’s eyelids droop, her tiny head nodding against the cushion before finally resting fully against your shoulder. You pause the movie quietly, exchanging a glance with Senku.
“She’s out,” you murmur, a soft smile tugging at your lips.
He nods, carefully scooping her up. “Time for bed,” he says, moving toward her room. You follow, grabbing her blanket and stuffed bunny, both of you moving silently through the house.
Once inside her room, you help tuck her in. Senku presses a gentle kiss to her forehead, brushing stray hair back. You smooth the blanket and step back, letting the quiet of the moment settle in.
Now it’s just the two of you. Alone. The tension hangs like a tangible thread, warm and electric.
Senku moves to the kitchen, his movements precise but slower than usual, as if he’s gathering courage. He returns a few moments later with two steaming cups of tea, the aroma mingling with the faint sunlight spilling across the room. You find yourselves sitting on the couch, an intentional distance apart—but close enough that the air between you feels charged.
He looks… nervous. Not the confident, unshakable Senku you know, but uncertain, hesitant. Your mind races through worst-case scenarios: he’s going to fire you, or he knows you’ve been harboring feelings for him and he never wants to see you again.
And then he speaks, and the words only add to your paranoia.
“I think I should tell you something.”
You look at him, confused, not quite sure what he means.
“I just hope this won’t ruin your relationship with Lyra.”
Now you’re even more concerned, reaching to lightly touch his arm. “I’m sure nothing could ruin that,” you reassure him, voice steady.
He takes a deep breath, shoulders tensing just slightly, as if bracing himself.
“Over time, I developed strong romantic feelings for you,” he admits, each word careful, measured, yet carrying the weight of months of restraint. The fight visibly bleeds from his body. He sounds apologetic, and it hurts. “I might have dealt with it myself had Gen not told me I was being too obvious. If that’s the case, and I’ve crossed any boundaries with you I want to apolo—”
Your mind races a mile per minute, thoughts scrambling for any logical response, but your heart has already beaten out the answer.
“Don’t apologize,” you interrupt hastily, cutting him off. “Sorry for cutting you off. I—I didn’t know… but I like you too.”
The grip on your mug is shatteringly tight. He stares at you unblinking, eyes widened in imperceptible surprise. “You do?”
“I thought I was being embarrassingly obvious,” You laugh weakly, seconding him another glance. He’s still watching, a light shade of pink creeping up his neck. “I’ve been feeling so guilty. Not only about crossing professional lines, but because I don’t want any of this to affect Lyra.”
“Then we’re on the same page,” he concedes.
“Then we’re on the same page,” he concedes, his hand brushing yours lightly, grounding the both of you.
You take a breath, heart pounding, and ask, “Realistically… where would you want this to go? Between us.”
His grip tightens, thumb brushing along the points of your knuckles, and his voice drops softer, deliberate. “Well… I initiated this discussion knowing things likely would not be the same again. Best case scenario, I hoped either we would come up with a schedule to maintain clear boundaries so my feelings wouldn’t disrupt your relationship with Lyra… or… I’d get lucky and you’d want to build something more with me.”
More. The word resonates through you, a jolt to a part of your heart that’s been quietly aching. Everything you’d been longing for, suddenly offered. The thought that he had always planned to keep you in Lyra’s life strikes a deep chord.
Squeezing his hand back, you blink away the sting in your sinuses. “This is… slightly overwhelming”.
Senku leans just slightly closer, a whisper in the charged quiet of the room. “Then we’ll figure it out… together.”
Your chest tightens at the words. Together. The simplicity of it, the quiet certainty, makes your mind spin. You can feel the heat rising in your cheeks, the little spark of hope that maybe this isn’t as impossible as you’d feared. Every fiber of you wants to close the gap, to test if this newfound closeness could be more. And then, before your thoughts even have a chance to catch up, he speaks again, soft, tentative.
“Would you mind if I kissed you?”
Your heart lurches, and for a second you’re fumbling in your own head, caught between disbelief and the sudden, delicious surge of anticipation.You barely realize you’re holding your mug tighter than before, your grip warming against the cool ceramic. “I… I wouldn’t,” you manage, voice almost a whisper, but steady enough.
Senku’s eyes flick up, searching yours, lingering just long enough that your breath catches. He doesn’t hesitate. Gently, deliberately, he sets your coffee aside, leaving a small hollow where the warmth had been. His hands return to yours, left hand intertwining with yours while the right tilts your chin slightly upward.
A sense of weightlessness floods through you, fingers tangling into the fabric of his shirt to keep yourself grounded. He reveres you for a moment, eyes lingering on your expression as he brings your foreheads together.
“You’re gorgeous,” he murmurs.
Heat pricks at your skin. You can feel his breath against your lips. “Hurry up,” you whisper, the lilt of desperation in your tone impossible to hide.
He grins lazily, a slow curve that sends a thrill through you. “You could say please.”
You part with your dignity without hesitation. “Please.”
And then he kisses you.
The world tilts, your body going slack against him, yet every inch of you is alive. One hand smooths along the column of your throat, grounding you, while the other rests firmly at your hip. He pulls away for just a breath, only to dip down again, capturing your lips in another slow, tender kiss. It’s patient, lacking expectation, not about need— it’s just… loving.
When your lips part again, he murmurs your name softly into your mouth, tongue tracing the contours of your lips, wet and languid. Excitement frissons along your spine, compelling you to press closer, to match his hunger.
He tastes faintly of peppermint.
The touches deepen, becoming more urgent. You curl into him as he sinks back against the couch, half pulling you onto his lap. His hands roam with a mix of appreciation and possessiveness, thumbs circling your waist, grounding you in every sensation. Every soft groan, every whispered name, drops like a stone into the pit of your stomach—sweet, insistent, and never enough.
You want more. He wants more. And between gasping breaths, you know this is only the beginning.
“We should probably move,” he murmurs, pulling back slightly, lips brushing yours in a soft, reluctant goodbye.
“Yeah…” you whisper, heart hammering.
“Can I take you to bed?” The question is rough in his throat, low and vulnerable.
The muscles in your legs clench at the thought, pressing tightly together. It isn’t that you don’t want it— you do—but you hadn’t expected this, not so suddenly.
“I… I didn’t come prepared for that,” you admit honestly, voice barely audible. His gaze intensifies, brow arching in silent demand for explanation. “I didn’t… shower for very long,” you add, cheeks heating, “and my—um, underwear isn’t exactly… alluring.”
He exhales slowly, and you shrink slightly into the couch cushions. “You think I care about that?” he murmurs, fingers brushing your jawline with the gentlest pressure. His hand tilts your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes. The pad of his thumb traces your bottom lip, and when you reflexively kiss it, he smiles.
“We don’t have to,” he says carefully, each word deliberate, measured. “I know this might be fast. We can stop right here.” His eyes soften, sincere and earnest. “But know this—I want you. I want all of you. And I want you now, exactly as you are.”
Maybe your transparency should be, at the very least, a little embarrassing. No doubt you’re wearing a lovesick expression. But you can’t find it in you to care. “Okay,” you tell him. “Take me upstairs”.
He hesitates just a fraction, eyes scanning yours for confirmation, before guiding you with a firm, steady hand to the stairs. Every step is electric, every brush of his fingers against yours sending shivers up your spine. By the time you reach his room, the weight of anticipation is almost unbearable.
You aren’t sure what you expected. The walls are a cool off-white, save for an accent wall painted a dark emerald green so deep it nearly swallows the light, echoing the shadowed elegance of his kitchen. Two alcoves are lined with shelves, books of unknown titles stacked meticulously, a small desk cluttered with papers sits beside a chest of drawers.
The bed dominates the room, mattress high and soft, pillows piled in a welcoming, disarray.
Before you could even process it, his hands found your hips, pulling you closer. Teeth graze the curve of your throat in tender, teasing nips. His voice, low and husky, whispers against your ear.
“Still okay?”
You nod, breath catching in your throat, heart hammering. “Yes,” you whisper, voice trembling between anticipation and need.
His lips captured yours in a fierce, passionate kiss, urgent yet careful, erasing every hint of apprehension. Your body went slack, melting against him, while every inch of you burned with awareness. Hands threaded through your hair, fingers pressing into the small of your back, grounding you even as the kiss deepened, demanding, insistent.
Without a conscious thought, you tumbled together onto the bed, still locked in the kiss, hearts hammering. Every touch, every shiver, every soft moan only drew you closer, until the outside world ceased to exist.
The heat between you became undeniable. You felt him pressing hard beneath his pants, the friction electric, making your breath hitch. Everything is hot. “Senku—!” face turned into the sheets to muffle your whine, you note that they smell like him.
“I know love,” he rasps, leaning forward, expression pinched in pleasure. With your throat bared, he continues the path of open mouthed kisses to your collar, a hand rising to cup your breast. You arch into the touch as he squeezes. “Bet you could make me cum like this—”
“—But not before you do,” Another kiss to your lips, chaste in comparison. He pulls away to meet your gaze, seeking permission. “I want to taste you”.
“Okay…” you tilt your chin, pecking the corner of his mouth, and you feel it curve up as your hands find purchase at the hem of his shirt. “Just take this off, first”.
When he sits back on his knees, arms crossed to lift the fabric over his head, you are left adrift to enjoy the view. He is well built but appears to have lost definition over time, with his biceps and pecs still thick but his stomach soft. There’s sparse hair on his chest, thicker beneath his belly button.
Indulging the urge to touch, he shudders as you trace your finger through it and tease his waistband. “Yours too,” he says, the instruction rough in his throat.
His body moves with yours like the tide as you sit up to remove your shirt, already there to lick the valley between your breasts. You wrap your arms around his head, gathering the dark hair draped over you and brushing it away from his face to watch the way he reveries you.
Your abdomen flinches under his soft kisses. Senku travels the length of your torso as if he were savouring you. He’s pressing sweet nothings in your skin, inaudible mumblings that still leave you warm because they’re spoken so breathlessly.
He hooks into your waistband and looks at you. Before he can ask, you slip your hands alongside his — “here, let me…” — and begin to push both your pants and your underwear over the curve of your ass. As the material peels away, you can feel it cling to your sex. Wet.
“Fuck, look at you,” a hand gently parts your knees. He forges another line of light, barely there kisses along your inner thighs, and once he reaches the apex he inhales with a quiet groan that has your fingers tugging at his hair. He’s immovable as your embarrassment pushes him back barely an inch, satisfaction twitching at the edge of his mouth. Jaw slack, pupils dilated and almost gleaming in rebellion, he rolls his tongue forward obscenely to flick the bud of your clit.
Your breathing stutters. It loosens your grip enough that he can tip his head forward to consume you completely, eyes fluttering shut in pleasure like it was his arousal own being satiated. Covetous, he signals contentment with a rumbling in his chest and it vibrates against your sex.
The beat of your heart ricochets through your centre; pulsing in your throat, your ears and your pussy. Senku’s tongue slides over you, wet and soft. Where it seems like he’s indulging himself, you realise he’s still adapting each movement to the sounds you make. Wherever a moan falls past your lips he maintains rhythm and pace, reins himself in to watch the rise and fall of your breasts.
The knot in your belly tightens and your body coils in on itself, thighs clamped against his ears with hips bucking into his mouth. The mattress shakes, and when you notice it’s him rutting into the sheets, you moan helplessly louder. “Senku, I’m—!”
He groans, fingers sinking into the fat of your hips and pulling you impossibly close. Your heels dig into his back as his nose slides against your clit, and he tilts to unrelentingly flicker his tongue over the swell.
“Just like that,” you gasp, grip searing at his scalp. Lewd, wet sounds reverberate around the room. “Fuck!”
A momentary breath is caught in your throat. Your body bends, spine arched forward like a bow as you crest. All at once, the sharp twist in your belly lessens, diffuses, warms your body from the inside out in gentle pulses.
In returning to yourself, you realise he’s steadily carrying you through the motions; soft licks and forgiving kisses until sensitivity overwhelms you. He hums again, like a man that has just finished a meal. You relinquish your grip on his hair and begin massaging the roots in apology.
“Sorry,” you mumble, resting your cheek against your shoulder as you peer down at him between your legs. Resting against your thigh, face sodden and pink, he looks rather pleased with himself.
He sighs, tongue lazily swiping along his lower lip. Half lidded, he meets your gaze. “Can I preface this by telling you it’s been a while since I’ve had sex?”
You laugh at the unexpected response. “Hmm, why? Did you cum in your pants?”
The question itself is a joke, but when he levels you with a carefully blank look, your mouth parts. “You did?”
“Possibly,” he grunts, tucking his chin to nose along your navel.
Sensing his simmering embarrassment, you reach to encourage him back up the bed until you’re face to face. Unperturbed by what’s left of your own arousal, you cradle his jaw and kiss him soundly.
“That’s so—” again and again, punctuating each word, “—so fucking hot”.
Senku grins against your lips, slipping his arms around your waist and gathering you to his chest. Your palm rests over his heart, fingers idly twirling around the short hair there. “So were you,” he murmurs, pointedly shifting his hips. You can feel that his are slightly damp. “That was the problem”.
“Sorry,” you offer playfully, enjoying the pleasant buzz prickling under your skin. “It doesn’t matter. We’ve got plenty of time, haven’t we?”
He chuckles softly, the sound low and warm against your ear. “Yeah… plenty of time,” he murmurs, letting you feel the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your hands. Your fingers trace the lines of his shoulders, memorizing the weight of him pressed close, the heat of his skin against yours.
You both sink into the mattress, tangled together, letting the quiet of the room fill the spaces where words would normally go. The golden light from the window catches his hair, and you can’t help but let your thumb brush along the nape of his neck, feeling the tension leave him in little sighs and relaxed exhales.
“Why didn’t you say anything sooner?” you whisper, pressing your forehead against his.
“I didn’t want to,” he admits, voice low, vulnerable. “I wasn’t sure you’d feel the same.”
You smile, the warmth spreading through you. “I do,” you murmur, letting your lips ghost along his temple in a tender kiss. “I’ve felt this for a while, you know.”
A lazy, satisfied hum vibrates from him as he nuzzles closer, holding you tight. The world outside ceases to exist; it’s just the two of you, the quiet hum of the house, and the afterglow of confession and closeness.
Then, the sudden trill of his phone breaks the spell. He groans softly, reluctantly disentangling just enough to reach for it. “Work never sleeps,” he mutters, flipping the screen toward him.
You lie back against the pillows, letting a contented sigh escape. His presence is still there, the warmth lingering in the crook of your body, and for a moment, you simply revel in it—blissful, relaxed, and completely at peace.
He answers the call, voice polite but you can tell he’s still distracted, and you watch the corner of his mouth twitch as he talks, the tension from before replaced with quiet comfort. You close your eyes, letting your hand rest lightly against where his had been, soaking in the lingering magic of the moment.
For now, it’s enough.
ᥫ᭡.
“Ms. Hoshino talked about families in class today,” Lyra says, perching on her knees with her hands folded neatly in her lap. Despite her attempt at formality, she can’t help picking nervously at her fingers. “Sensei said everyone’s family looks different. Some kids have one mom or one dad, or both. Or none. Or two dads, or—even two moms.”
You nod gently. “That’s right, sweetheart.”
She chews her lip, glancing between you and Senku. “Some kids’ parents live together, some don’t… like my dad and mom.”
“That’s true,” you reply softly, voice warm. “Not all families look the same, but that doesn’t make them any less real, or any less full of love.”
Lyra hums thoughtfully, cheeks puffed in concentration. You can’t help smiling at the little exaggerated exhale she lets out. “Then!” she declares, scooting closer on her knees. “If we’re family, but you and dad aren’t married, then… what should I call you?”
Your chest tightens, your heart nearly in your throat. She tilts her head, eyes bright and earnest. “Do I have two dads? Or one dad and a…?”
“Lyra,” you murmur, reaching to still her restless hands. “You think we’re family?”
Her face lights up with certainty. “Aren’t we?”
Senku exhales, a quiet, amused sound, and you catch the soft affection in his eyes as he watches you interact with her. You kneel beside her, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead, your heart swelling. “Yes,” you whisper. “We are. And nothing— marriage or titles or anything—changes that. You have a family that loves you.”
Lyra beams, snuggling against your side. “Then… I get to call you mama too?”
Your eyes sting just a little as you pull her closer, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head. “If you’d like to, then yes, Lyra. You can.”
Senku’s hand finds yours, a quiet acknowledgment of the bond forming between the three of you. In that small living room, the late afternoon light spilling across the floor, the house feels impossibly warm, full, and safe.
For a moment, everything is simple. Everything is right. And in Lyra’s bright, trusting eyes, you see not just the child you care for, but the family you’ve quietly, and completely, become a part of.
an: as always, i hope you enjoyed! DTY update should be in about two weeks or so, but we’ll see. also i REALLY need some naga senku content. like im getting dangerously needy for it. someone… anyone! save me from this drought.
Hear Me Out! || s. ishigami
I got carried away again... this was supposed to be a stupid dumb drabble based on @yummyrevivalfluid 's YouTuber Senku post. but then I couldn't stop, and then I wanted to get some of my other senku ideas out of the way, and then it just spiraled into this long, semi-serious fic.... so yeah, enjoy!
cws: slow burn, strangers to partners to lovers, friends to lovers, mutual pining, nerds in love, social media stuff, reader is a flirt, eventual relationship, senku is lowk OOC, he's also down bad (#needthat), kinda cringe ngl...
nsfw cws: first times, emotional sex, switch dynamics, fingering, handjob, wrap it before you tap it (they do not...), hair pulling (giving), very implied voice kink,pillow talk, lmk if I missed anything major!
12.5k words
When you first stumbled across Mecha Senku, it was because your college chemistry professor couldn’t explain ionic bonding properly even if their life depended on it. And honestly? That would’ve been fine. You weren’t failing or falling behind on anything. You were the kind of person who took the time to color-code your notes. With pretty pastel highlighters and calligraphy titles like your professor wasn't speaking at 60mph.
You visibly got annoyed when someone asked a question that had already been answered. Five minutes ago. Word for word. And you weren’t subtle about it either. The eye twitches. The sigh. In fact, you studied chapters ahead for fun! Call it being a try-hard, but it was just how you functioned. So when something didn’t click? When you didn’t understand something?
You spiraled. Productively, of course.
Hiii! Love your work! So ever since that episode Chigiri calls Isagi attaboy, my brain has been just in there. So could I maybe get some good old, fast, maybe a little rough Chigiri calling reader Attagirl? Maybe a little bit of degradation too. Like being mean maybe
This man lives in my head tent free jdkdkd
“You dumb whore, instead of complaining can’t you put your mouth to better use?”
You knew from day one that Hyoma is a moody guy and you also learned how to deal with him, but today he really reached to apex, mood swinging back and forth and you were way too angry (and horny) to deal with it; thankfully Hyoma followed your lead.
Your mouth now kissing his boner through the fabric of his boxer, you can feel it twitch already, his hips grinding into your mouth begging to feel your mouth without any barrier.
It’s funny teasing Hyoma when he is in such a bad mood, but you are human too. You pull his dick out, usually, you would kiss the tip and lick slowly the shaft with the utmost care, but today isn’t the right one for such a nice treatment. You take as much as you can, moaning around the shaft.
Hello my friends, I am Hamdi from Gaza, Tal al-Hawa. I sought refuge with you because of the devastating war that caused me to lose my home, cause us to move from one place to another, and be forced to leave Gaza to Egypt. I lost the future of my children. I hope you will stand by our side, whether by donating if possible or participating on a large scale. Please help me. 🙏🏼 🇵🇸 🍉
https://gofund.me/504921a8
Hello
I hope you are well…
After 15 months of war and destruction, the aggression on Gaza has temporarily stopped, but the suffering continues. The infrastructure is destroyed, and humanitarian needs are at their highest levels.
💔 Our story:
Our house in northern Gaza was completely destroyed, and we now want to return to its land and set up a tent next to it, but we cannot afford the transportation costs for my family of 11.
🎯 Our goal:
We only need 2,500 euros to secure transportation and return my family to the place that was once our home.
A simple donation of 20 euros can make a big difference and bring us closer to achieving the goal.
✅Verified by: @gazavetters, #53✅
https://www.gofundme.com/f/help-baby-omar-and-his-family-survive?utm_campaign=p_lico+share-sheet-first-launch&utm_medium=copy_link&utm_source=customer
⚝ DAY 5 — APHRODISIACS
kinktober 2024. — masterlist | ao3
— including. — venti, dottore, albedo
— warnings. — fem! reader, aphrodisiacs, dub con, established relationship -> the both of you decide to take them, it's unsure in dottore's part if he took it or not, dry humping, fingering, messy and sweaty
⚝ — VENTI
within the bounds of your room, laughter fills the air as venti leisurely leans back, his mischievous smile gleaming in the dim light, "are you sure about this, baby?" he asks with slight concern in his eyes, twirling the tiny vial between his fingers.
yes, in fact, you've spoken about this before— giving the both of you a little kick and wow, his voice was turning you on so fucking much right now— you're this close to begging to be touched already, to be fucked or bend over the chair bareback, slow and dirty.
"well, i am, i thought you would be more adventurous venti," you tease back, your heart pounding in dire need to find out what that little liquid would do to you, your mind already coloring out a thousand of possible outcomes in your head.
he tilts his head and feigns a thought, considering your words before grinning wide.
"for you, i would try anything, heh, you know that," when after he said such strong declaration, he quickly pops up the glass and raises the vial to his lips, the sweet liquid disappearing in an instant as you quickly follow suit.
Save Mohammed ….
Hello, Please Help Me – My Son May Die at Any Moment. Donate or at Least Share This Appeal. I am in desperate need of your help. My son’s life is hanging by a thread, and he may not survive without urgent medical treatment. Time is running out, and we are facing a critical situation. I am asking for your generosity to help us save him – either through a donation or by sharing this urgent plea with others.
I beg you, kiss your feet, to help my son. My son may die at any moment
Donate now:👇👇 gofundme.com
gaza #free_palestine #Save_Mohammed #genocide
https://gofund.me/ac7b5174
tw; Pseudo-incest
Senku is only your brother by adoption.
But that doesn't change the fact that you grew up together, shared a childhood in the same house, and built countless memories as a family. The wall between your bedrooms was thin, so you heard each other's late-night movements, whispered conversations trickling through. You both called the same man "Dad," sat down for dinners at the same table, and navigated the ups and downs of adolescence side by side. You were even there on the day he was officially adopted, standing beside him in a cute little sundress, still taller than him, with your arm resting playfully on his head for the family photo.
So, you shouldn't feel this way. You shouldn't feel the heat rising under your skin, the tension and desire simmering when you see him walking around the kitchen in just his boxers, unaware of how much he affects you. It's wrong, you know it. But you also know he feels it too -whether he's ready to admit it or not. It's in the way his red eyes sometimes linger a little too long, burning with an intensity that feels like he's trying to deconstruct you with a single glance.
Senku has never talked to you about girls -just thinking the word makes your chest tighten- or anything close to romance. You used to think he might be on the ace spectrum, uninterested in those kinds of relationships. That is, until you heard the low, muffled moans of your name slipping through the thin wall that separated your bedrooms one night. If you strained your ears, you could sometimes hear the unmistakable sound of skin against skin. And the way he looked at you the next morning, his gaze almost predatory... You knew he felt it too.
You shouldn't feel this way. But then the world ends. Humanity turns to stone, and thousands of years pass in the blink of an eye. He's only your brother by adoption, but does that even matter anymore?
♡ genshin men as... twt porn!
♡ tags: pegging, fem!bodied reader, overstim, edging, ruined orgasms, bondage, toy usage, masturbation, oral (giving and receiving), threesomes, tell me if I missed anything!
Apologize (Rin Itoshi x F!Reader)
Words: 2.2k // minors & ageless blogs DNI
Continuation of this (at least read the Rin part)
Tw: smut, revenge fuck kinda, switch!reader, edging, handjob, orgasm denial, forcing rin into sub space?, degradation with some praise, he's less of a jerk but his misogyny still rings thru, overpowered reader in terms of soccer lmaooo, sub drop (rin) with aftercare, he says miss once, he says I love you, unprotected sex with creampie, overstim, mean!reader, characters 19+
Teaser: And he thinks this time you will. He is almost there, right at the edge, feeling that euphoric feeling surge through him that could make him forget he lost against the world selection but you stop again. He whines in utter frustration. His mind melted.
You are sitting on the field, out of breath… barely able to stay conscious. Rin isn't sitting far from you, covering his face. His ego is completely crushed at the loss. He's just staring ahead, not able to fathom what just happened. You wanna put salt in the wound.
I LOVE YOU — ron kamonohashi
pairings: ron kamonohashi x gn!reader. warnings: fluff. established relationship. 0.9k wc. notes: this is my first fic for rkdd but i had to write for ron bc hello ?! he's such a menace (affectionate) <3
when you wake up, the first thought on your mind is that you haven’t slept this well in ages. usually you’re a light sleeper, roused from sleep by even the smallest disturbances.
this morning however, your eyes don’t open until past 10 am— extremely late by your standards. maybe it’s because this is your first time sleeping over at your boyfriend ron’s place. it’s also the first time in a long while that you’ve felt so loved, so safe.
his bed is as comfy as you’d expect it to be, covered with soft blankets, tons of pillows and platypus plushies. it’s huge too, easily big enough to fit both ron and you— but he’s not here.
Me seeing Jade Leech: Ohmigosh he's just so cool! And his smile-! Girl help my heart has been stolen. Honestly he's just great, but I wonder why I've got a soft spot for him specifically-
Me sees Jade Leech do his lil smile and hand on his chest gesture and immediately sees Sebastian Michaelis in his mannerisms
Me:.......ah I understand everything now.
“she killed a man! she framed someone and ruined his life” god forbid a woman has hobbies jesus fucking christ
everybody moved on... 🎶
HELP IM STILL AT THE RESTAURANT- 😭😭