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.
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.
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.
So here you are. 1:34AM. Snuggled up in your bed, lights off, blackout curtains drawn, and laptop open at full brightness as you scrolled YouTube, bleary-eyed and annoyed. The only light in the room is the faint blue glow of YouTube’s homepage and your will to academically succeed (read: suffer).
You typed “bond angles” into the search bar. Hit enter, and scrolled. Then a thumbnail caught your eye.
“Predicting Bond Angles – (VSEPR Theory but not boring)” Channel: Mecha Senku Runtime: 5:28
And then you heard it.
That voice. you practically drooled at your screen. It was soft and deep, yet raspy, like he talked too much—which he did—or didn’t care if he wore out his throat explaining the same concept fifteen times. And when he rambled? Oh god. When he got caught up on a tangent about orbital hybridization—when his voice cracked just slightly because his brain was going faster than his mouth?
Yeah, you were soaked.
Kidding.
...Maybe.
You pulled your blanket tighter around your shoulders like that would protect you. Like you weren’t voluntarily listening to this man monologue about VSEPR models like it was foreplay.
You tried to focus on the science. Really, you did. He even had good diagrams—clean visuals, clear examples, actual accuracy. It was kind of annoying how helpful it was, actually. Like, did he have to sound hot while also being smart?
You watched the entire thing.
Then another.
Then another.
Before you knew it, you were five videos deep. At 2:11AM.
Your poor, old, worn-down laptop was probably overheating from the sheer amount of your spiraling. You didn’t even care.
And then… there was that video.
A short one. Barely three minutes.
“Iodine Clock Reaction – Visual Chemistry in Real Time”
You clicked on it like you were possessed.
It was simple—two clear liquids, a few drops of starch, and a timer. You knew the experiment already. You’d seen it done a dozen times in lab. You’d even done it yourself. But somehow, when he did it, it was a cinematic masterpiece.
The camera was angled just right—focused tight on his gloved hands, the faint clink of glass, the gentle pour of the liquid. His voice low, casual, like he was walking you through a magic trick instead of an actual chemical reaction.
And then—the clamps.
He adjusted the glassware with the same energy you imagined he’d use to unbutton his lab coat (which you have no idea why your thoughts immediately ran there)—methodical, focused, and totally unaware of the damage he was doing to your sanity. Forearms flexing, veins shifting, wrist angled just slightly—You blinked. Rewound ten seconds. Then watched it again.
Something dark and sinister bloomed in your chest. Something carnal. Unholy. You buried half your face in your pillow and made a sound that can only be described as a blowdryer on max output immediately followed by a deep, guttural moan. Like your soul was trying to evacuate your body in protest—but got stuck halfway out, sobbing.
You didn’t even know you had a thing for forearms.
Yet here you are. You were a mess. A high-functioning, academically driven, chemically confused mess, replaying a three-minute video about reaction rates like it was an award winning movie. Like it wasn’t educational.
“This is fine. I’m still learning.” You whispered to yourself
You weren’t.
At least, not about chemistry.
Extra notes about mecha senku!
Certified yapper; it gets so bad he just add timestamps to when he gets back on topic
Always says that stupid little catchphrase— “this is exhilarating, get excited” he can’t help himself, its like second nature
While editing his experiment videos, he add little text boxes that say “*item* acquired” ( like in the anime)
That comes in handy later
⋆.⌬ ˚𒉭 ⋆
At first, it was a side project. Something to kill time between lectures, experiments, and tutoring sessions with students who couldn’t tell a mole from a molecule if their GPA depended on it. He kept the uploads short. Clean. No face, no fluff. Just experiments and explanations—combustion, osmosis, acid-base reactions. The basic building blocks of chemistry and physics, broken down in that signature tone of his: concise, confident, and just slightly condescending.
Naturally, people loved it.
Especially college students. Especially the ones who’d seen too many dead-eyed professors stumble through half-baked PowerPoints that they repurposed over the past 5 decades and somehow still made them boring.
He didn’t need gimmicks. Just science.
And, apparently, his voice.
The comments were... something. He ignored them, mostly. Or at least, tried to.
But even he had limits.
@lo1itado11: FLASH US!!!
@freakwy: ong WE all cracking
Username: i will combust and it won’t be a controlled reaction.
Anotherusername: i can literally get off to his voice rn bro omg…
He sighed, deeply. Then dragged a hand through his loosely tied-up hair, fingers threading through strands that refused to stay neat. He didn’t even bother hiding the twitch in his left eye.
Degenerates. All of them.
Still, every new upload got thousands of views in under an hour. Every deep dive request was more unhinged than the last. And while he could ignore the thirst comments, he couldn’t deny the numbers.
His channel was growing. Fast. And if someone asked him to demonstrate a specific experiment?
Well.
He was a scientist.
And who was he to deny a request in the name of scientific curiosity?
⋆.⌬ ˚𒉭 ⋆
Now, Senku wasn’t exactly an avid social media user.
Sure, he had all the apps downloaded—after relentless badgering from Gen and Ryusui, who had both made it their mission to pressure him into being “normal” for once.
Senku used Instagram occasionally, mostly to lurk. To like Taiju’s blurry gym selfies. To comment “inaccurate” under Chrome’s chaotic science photo dumps—half of which somehow included a blurry photo of him.
Nothing on his own feed, though. His personal account was private, untouched, maxed out at like 26 followers—half of which were probably bots, and one was definitely just Ryusui’s alt.
However, he was used to getting notifications on his side account. His real one. The one that mattered.
@/mecha.senku.
So when he got a ping from TikTok, he didn’t think much of it. Just a red-and-white flash in the corner of his screen as he walked past a group of undergrads in the quad, huddled around a phone, laughing. Loudly.
Then it happened again. Another ping. Then another.
People tagging him in the same comment section. Spamming him.
Weird.
It wasn’t until after his lecture, holed up in the farthest corner of the campus library, headphones in, laptop open, coffee cooling rapidly at his elbow, half-forgotten.
The notification trail led to a single video.
At first glance, it was just a cake.
A badly decorated one at that—a war crime in the form of buttercream—uneven icing, no symmetry, and piped text that looked like it was written mid-seizure. He could’ve done better blindfolded. He was about to swipe away.
Until he saw the video thumbnail again.
He squinted. Froze. Looked closer.
It was you.
Holding a handful of what looked like paper-taped sticks. Your fingers curled delicately around them, like you’d spent time choosing each one. The video hadn’t even started yet and it was already climbing in views, the likes ticking like a metronome. The top comment had nearly eighty thousand likes.
@/semioli: “I KNEW YOU’D PUT HIM FIRST OMFG”
Senku blinked. Then, almost reluctantly, pressed play.
“Okay, so this is my ‘Hear Me Out’ cake,” you said with a breathless little laugh, voice rich with amusement and just the right touch of self-deprecation. “Please don’t judge…”
You laughed nervously at the camera, your voice familiar in the way ambient noise becomes addictive. He knew you—kind of. You were popular, at least on campus. Friendly with everyone. Smart. You asked questions in class that weren’t dumb, which was rare. People actually listened when you talked.
But he never—not once—imagined you listened to him.
Until the moment your fingers—painted nails and all—planted the first stick dead center into the cake. His channel logo. Bright. Unmistakable. Front and center.
Senku sat still. Very still. His breath caught somewhere in the back of his throat.
“I don’t know what it is about him,” you went on, eyes wide and glittering like you couldn’t believe what you were admitting, “but I feel a carnal type of desire whenever I hear his voice.”
Silence.
Real, gut-wrenching silence.
Senku just stared at the screen. One brow lifted. Lips parted slightly. Blinking. Nothing.
“…What.”
It wasn’t like he hadn’t heard shit like that before. He had. The comments under his videos were riddled with deranged confessionals and late-night voice-induced breakdowns. He’d seen them. Sighed at them. Maybe rolled his eyes on occasion.
But something about hearing you say that—out loud—while staring directly into the camera, shoving his logo into a cake like it was the most natural thing in the world…Now he’s reading the rest of the comments, most of which you had liked.
“his voice scratches my brain in just the right spot i can’t explain it.”
“if he ever does a face reveal it’s over for all of us.”
“whoever he is irl i hope he’s single bc i’m mentally married to him already.”
“i can’t even watch his videos in public anymore istg.”
A laugh, airy and sharp, passed out through his nose.
It was barely even a sound, just air. His head tilted back slowly against the chair, bones creaking lazily. One hand reached up, dragging through his hair—half-loose from the shitty tie job he’d done earlier. He didn’t even realize he was smirking. Eyes narrowed. Lashes lowered. Something wicked curled across his face, subtle but steeped in ego.
So.
You were into him.
And you didn’t even know that he sat two rows behind you in lecture. That the guy scribbling thermodynamic equations while you twirled your pen and tapped your knee was the same voice that apparently haunted your dreams.
Interesting.
Very, very interesting.
Senku closed the tab. Then reopened it not even ten seconds later, still somehow thinking his sleep deprivation was finally catching up to him. Big mistake.
You were still there—smiling at the camera, laughing like you hadn’t just shoved a stick into a cake bearing his logo and said you felt a “carnal desire” whenever you heard his voice.
He stared at the screen like it personally offended him. It didn’t. Not really. The offense was fake—just a weak cover for something worse, something much more humiliating.
You were attractive. That much had always been obvious.
He had eyes, didn’t he?
He wasn’t blind. He noticed things. Like the way you always had some elaborate doodle in the margins of your notebook that changed depending on your current hyperfixation. Like how you spoke with your hands, too fast sometimes, expressive. Like how your voice always had a bit of a lilt when you were excited about something, like you were trying not to talk over yourself. Like how you liked sitting near the window in lecture, even if it made it harder to see the board.
He noticed everything.
Which was the problem.
Because now he couldn’t stop noticing.
Your face. Your voice. Your laugh.
And the worst part?
You were smart.
Not smart like “gets good grades.” That wasn’t hard. No—smart like engaged. Curious. Your own brand of chaotic genius that showed up in how you argued with professors and picked at theories like they were complex puzzles meant for your hands alone.
You were confident. Passionate. Sharp.
You were…
Fuck.
He sat back in his chair and rubbed his face with both hands, groaning.
He didn’t do this. He didn’t get… distracted. He didn’t get flustered. Romance wasn’t even on the table. It was too messy. Too emotional. Too inefficient. He had research. He had goals. The last thing he needed was—
Another notification.
He glanced over. More tags. More people replying to your video.
More people joking, “@mecha.senku bro SAY SOMETHING!!! WE KNOW YOU SEE THIS.”
He hovered. His cursor blinking over the comment section.
He shouldn’t. There was no reason to. There was no benefit. No scientific purpose. No—He cracked his knuckles once. Took a slow breath. And typed.
@mecha.senku: Just a hear me out huh?
He pressed enter, then shut the laptop.
And immediately regretted everything.
Because within 30 seconds, the comment had over 2 thousand likes. The reply threads birthing entire romance novels in real time.
“OH MY GOD HE COMMENTED OH MY GOD OH MY—”
“HE KNOWS. HE FUCKING KNOWS.
“NAH??? THE MAN HIMSELF??? NO WAY”
“@y/n GIRL U NEED TO WAKE UP RN”
Every five seconds, your phone buzzes.
Buzz.
Buzz.
BuzzBuzzBuzz.
It starts slow—innocent. A like here. A tag there. Then, as if the universe pulled a lever, it turns into an avalanche. Your screen lights up like it’s trying to melt in your hand. TikTok. Twitter. Instagram. Even people from your group project in history are texting you like girl what the actual fuck did you DO?
You’re sitting cross-legged on your bed, charger barely keeping up, blanket wrapped around your shoulders like it can protect you from the moment. Your face is hot. Your jaw is slack. Your soul? Practically nonexistent.
You stare at the screen in disbelief.
Right there, in the comments, bolded like the laws of physics decided to write you a personalized romance book:
@/mecha.senku: just a hear me out huh
You blinked once. Then twice. Rubbed your eyes. Because—no. No way.
There’s absolutely no way that the literal voice of your academic downfall and emotional spiral just casually acknowledged the fact that you want to climb him like a fucking molecular structure.
Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out. You double-tap your phone by accident. Scroll. Scroll again. Scroll back. It's still there. You suck in a breath like it's going to help. It doesn't.
Your room spins a little—not in a dizzy way, more like the fabric of reality is reconfiguring around your phone screen. Like you’ve accidentally made a deal with a god and now the god is texting you back. Casually. In lowercase.
Your body chooses to react the only way it knows how—by laughing. Not normal laughing. That kind of panicked, unhinged, screeching laugh that sounds like it’s being wrung out of you like a wet rag. A noise clawing its way up your throat as you slowly tip sideways, dramatic as hell, into the mattress.
“Wow,” you say out loud to your empty room, chest rising and falling, heart jackhammering somewhere behind your ribs. “No way. This is such a crazy-ass dream…” Your voice cracks at the end. You sound borderline delirious.
But the comment is still there. Pinned by the original creator. Which is you.
You just close your eyes. Face-down into your pillow.
Your dignity? Gone.
Your supposed crush? Apparently omniscient.
Your life? Ruined. Maybe. Probably.
But your phone’s still vibrating under your thigh like it’s trying to combust.
And yeah. You’re never going to be normal about this again.
⋆.⌬ ˚𒉭 ⋆
It’s a few days later when you finally have biochem again.
Your professor had sent out an email at the end of last class—something about paying attention to the partner list for the next lab. You hadn’t even looked. Too busy hyperventilating over the Mecha Senku situation. Too busy swiping through your phone at 1 a.m., rereading that comment like it might suddenly disappear, or—worse—turn into something more incriminating.
You didn’t sleep much. Or at all. You just kinda laid there, vibrating at a frequency only dogs could decipher, while mentally reviewing every second of that video and every stupid thing you’d ever said about his voice.
So when your professor calls out your name and tells you to head to the back bench to meet your assigned partner, you’re still in a daze. You adjust your lab coat, swipe lip balm on with hands that are definitely not still shaking, and make your way to the station with the dull dread of someone walking to their own execution.
And then you see him.
Senku Ishigami.
Hair pulled into that slightly messy half-up style he always wears. Safety goggles already on, sleeves rolled up, already gloved. He doesn’t look up at first—he’s swabbing the inside of a petri dish with a level of focus you reserve only for exams and existential dissociations. Then he glances at you, just a quick flick of the eyes.
“Hey,” he says, voice low, casual. A little rough around the edges, like he just got over a cold or hadn’t talked to anyone in hours.
Your spine locks. You blink. Hard.
“Hi,” you manage, but it comes out thinner than you mean it to—stretched at the edges, fraying like an old thread. “You’re… my partner?”
He glances at the roster sheet clipped to the bench as if just now confirming something he already knew. “Looks like it.” There’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth—barely a smirk, more like a thought trying to become one. “Hope you’re decent with a microscope.”
You nod. Too fast. Too eager. Like your neck forgot how to move naturally. You try to smile like this is fine. Like this is normal. Like this isn’t currently short-circuiting every neuron in your academic-functioning brain.
You’ve never really spoken to Senku Ishigami before. Not really. Maybe a passing nod in the hallway. A blink-and-you-miss-it smile between lecture shifts. A polite “excuse me” when your bags bumped in the lab supply room once. But that was it. That was the whole sum of your direct interactions.
Everything else was observation. Safe distance admiration. Seeing him carry entire study groups with nothing but a half-dry marker and that ever-focused look in his eye. Taking note of how he argued with professors—calm, surgical, relentless—and somehow still walked out of every debate not only correct, but respected.
You admired him from afar. Kinda academically. Kinda not. (mostly not.)
But you’re a girl dedicated to her degree. A girl with goals, with caffeine basically in your bloodstream and deadlines stitched into the fabric of your week. You don’t get distracted. Not by things like this. Not by people like him. Or at least you didn’t. Until now.
Because working with him shouldn’t be this bad. Shouldn’t feel like the center of gravity shifted slightly under your feet, like the air got thinner and thicker all at once.
Except he rolls his sleeves up higher. Forearms peaking out. The lean muscle dusted in faint freckles, veins running like undercurrents
And then—God. The way he adjusts the microscope. Methodical. Controlled. His fingers moving like he’s done this a thousand times and still treats the equipment like it’s breakable—which it is, so you have no idea why him treating it as such is doing something to you—it all starts to blur together in your head.
You blink again. Swallow hard. And then you start to think back.
His voice.
That same voice. The cadence is exact. Steady and sharp with a rasp that scrapes along your spine in the worst/best way. A quiet breathless ramble as he explains the agar base—like the information is too much to simply stay in his head, like he forgets other people are listening. That subtle catch on certain consonants. That dry, low huff of amusement when your glove doesn’t go on right and you curse under your breath.
And then his hands.
Long fingers. Familiar motions. The way he handles the petri dish with practiced ease, adjusts the swabs like he’s composing something. You know those hands. You’ve seen them before. Over and over. In reaction videos. In slow motion clips, 0.25x speed. In the YouTube comments people timestamp for “scientific purposes.”
You freeze.
Fully. Completely paralyzed in real time like someone hit pause on your central nervous system. The classroom noise goes muffled. Muted. The hum of fluorescent lights above you turns sharp and migraine inducing bright. Your pulse is in your mouth now—behind your eyes, in your fingertips.
Because you’re looking at him. Really looking.
And it hits you like a truck doing 90 in a 60.
That’s him.
That’s him.
Your biochem lab partner. Senku Ishigami.
Is Mecha Senku. The, Mecha Senku.
And he knows. Oh, he knows.
He’s not even looking at you right now, but you swear—swear—there’s the faintest curve at the edge of his mouth. A smirk barely there, as he slides a sample onto the tray like he didn’t just casually detonate your grasp on reality.
“Oh my god,” you breathe. Not loud. But not quiet, either.
He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t react. Doesn’t so much as flinch. But you feel it. The moment it registers. The moment he knows that you know. Because the corner of his mouth twitches higher. Just a little. Just enough to catch onto. And then—still not looking at you, still pretending to be invested in his perfectly aligned swab placement, voice smooth and clinical like this is just another lab session—he says,
“Something wrong?”
You want to bang your head on the table.
Instead, you choke, swallow whatever dignity you had left, and squeak out,
“No. Nope. All good. Just… thinking.”
He hums, low and amused, like he already knows what you’re thinking about.
You're going to die here. Right next to your science tutor YouTuber crush who is also your real-life lab partner crush—for completely unrelated reasons—who has definitely, 1000% seen the video where you said hearing his voice makes you feel like your guts are being spiritually rearranged.
God.
You are so unbelievably, irreparably screwed.
⋆.⌬ ˚𒉭 ⋆
It doesn’t happen right away.
In fact, it almost doesn’t happen at all.
Because after the Mecha Senku revelation, after the comment, after the lab, after the video—you basically short-circuit. You try to act normal in the days that follow. You show up to class. Try to pretend like it’s no big deal that your anonymous science tutor crush is also your lab partner who is also your mutual…acquaintence? Friend? You didn't know which term you fell under in this situation. You tell yourself it’s fine. It’s not weird. You’re being mature about this.
And then he likes one of your posts. One of your older ones. A video from 3 months ago where you’re ranting about a series that you were into at the time while getting ready for the day. It was a stupid, pointless video. One which he had no reason to like. But he did.
That’s when you panic.
Not in public. But you lie in bed again at 2AM, staring at your screen like it might suddenly catch on fire. He’s watching your content. On purpose. He’s scrolling. Deep enough to find something from weeks ago, which means he’s either curious, bored, or—God forbid—interested.
You stop posting for three days.
Not out of pride. Not even out of posting strategy. Just fear. Raw, buzzing fear that anything you say or do will somehow make this whole situation worse. You delete a draft. Then another. Then six more. Your camera roll becomes a graveyard of half-filmed attempts at being funny or cute or sweet or not on the verge of a breakdown. But nothing feels right.
And meanwhile, Senku is being maddeningly normal.
He shows up to lab on time. Speaks when necessary. Makes the occasional snide remark when a burner malfunctions or a pH test fails. He doesn’t bring up the video. Doesn’t mention the TikTok. Doesn’t acknowledge the fact that you both know that this is like some weird fucked up romcom scenario that immediately got put on Tubi for its low budget. He just acts like… himself. Detached, sharp-tongued, observant, and unbothered. You, on the other hand, are barely holding it together every time he passes you a report sheet.
The dam doesn’t break until two weeks later.
You’re walking out of lecture, halfway through stuffing your notes into your bag with a granola bar half-eaten in your mouth when you hear someone fall into step beside you. Quietly synced with your rhythm, like they’d been waiting for the right second to align.
You glance over.
Senku.
Of course it’s Senku. His sweater sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Satchel strap slung lazy across his chest, and a half drunk energy drink swished in his hand. His expression is unreadable, somewhere between tired and calculating, but the fact that he’s here, walking beside you unprompted, is enough to make you question every single one of your life choices.
You’re not sure if you should say something first. Or if you should pretend not to notice the way your posture stiffens whenever he's in your general vicinity. You take another glance at him through your peripheral vision.
He still has that same unreadable expression on his face—bored, maybe. Or focused. Or just better at masking than you are. He doesn’t say anything right away, and you’re half-preparing yourself for some comment about glycolysis pathways or the upcoming quiz that you’ve been dreading over.
But then he exhales through his nose and says, “I’ve been thinking.”
Which is a terrifying sentence coming from someone who does more thinking in one day than most people do in an entire semester.
Your gaze doesn’t stray but you raise an eyebrow. “About…?”
He pauses for a beat. A way too long beat. Long enough to make your stomach drop. Then, casually: “A collab.”
You blink. “What?”
“A video,” he clarifies, like this is something completely normal that happens all the time. “A joint one. On your account. Or mine, doesn't matter to me. Mutually beneficial, wider audience reach, strategic engagement—pick whatever reason you want.”
You stop walking. He doesn’t.
“Wait,” you say, catching up. “You mean, like… a TikTok?”
He shrugs. “Sure. That’s your area. Whatever gets views. I figure if everyone is already suspecting something, I might as well do a face reveal while I’m at it.”
Silence. Pure, deafening silence. You can’t even think of what to say. Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
Because it’s not just the words—it’s the way he says them. Like it’s no big deal. Like the internet hasn’t been begging for a glimpse of his face since his third viral video. Like he hasn’t been a literal science cryptid for the past three years and now he’s just… casually deciding to unmask like it’s just something to check off on his bucket list.
“Why now?” you ask, finally. Your voice sounds weird in your own throat.
Senku lifts a shoulder, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth like he’s trying to suppress it.
“Felt like the right time,” he says, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. “Besides, you’ve already done the hard part.”
You blink. “The hard part?”
He hums, nodding once. “Making me realize it’s not that deep.”
You blink again, brain buffering like it just hit a patch of missing code. “Wait… what?”
He shrugs again, like it’s nothing. Like this isn’t the culmination of literal years of silence and mystery and curated anonymity. “People’ve been asking for a face reveal since the beginning. I always told myself it wasn’t worth it. Kept saying it didn’t matter, that it’d just mess things up. But then you…” He pauses, and there’s this barely-there curve at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile—something quieter. More dangerous. “You made it feel kind of… harmless.”
Your pulse stutters. Your stomach flips. You don’t even have time to brace for what’s next.
“I mean, it’s not every day someone from your school logs online just to say she practically gets off to—”
You don’t let him finish. You physically can’t. Your hands are already flying up, face buried before your brain fully catches up, a sound of absolute mortification ripping out of your throat.
“Oh my God,” you groan, fingers pressing into your temples like you can massage the memory out of existence. “Please don’t say it like that. This is already, embarrassing enough as it is, The whole video was like a public humiliation ritual”
He lets out a chuckle at that. Way too satisfied with your reaction. Like he predicted it. When you don’t continue further he decides to speak up again.
“Think about it,” he says before splitting off toward his next class. “You pick the trend. I’ll show up.”
And just like that, he’s gone.
⋆.⌬ ˚𒉭 ⋆
You kind of forget about the whole thing.
Not on purpose, of course. It’s just that coursework piles up, assignments stack on top of quizzes that stack on top of projects, and somewhere between stressing over due dates and wanting to evaporate from existence after another surprise pop lab, the entire conversation with Senku slips to the back burner. Not in a “never doing that” way, but more like… “I will emotionally process this after midterms or death, whichever comes first.” kind of way.
There’s just never a good moment to circle back and be like, “Hey… remember that video idea you volunteered for? Wanna hang out and pretend we’re not both chronically online and know what we’re doing?”
Yeah, no. No way.
But then the first break in your schedule opens up—a blessed, random Sunday with no looming assignments due at 11:59, no labs, no back-to-back lectures sucking the soul from your body—and before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re typing a text.
It’s short, simple, and only took you about seven drafts before you finally sent it.
hey, i got a day off and i saw this new exhibit at the museum. thought it’d be nice.
You follow it up fast, like too fast:
for the collab that is!
Smooth. Very smooth.
He replies six minutes later.
sure. what day?
That’s it. That’s the whole text. Dry. Short. And so to the point it makes you start to question if he even wants to go, but you’ll take your chances. You send him the info—location, hours, all that—and hope for the best. Hope you don’t show up alone. Hope you don’t sit around pretending not to be stood up for a date that isn’t a date but still kind of feels like one.
But of course, who would Senku Ishigami be if not maddeningly consistent? If not a man ruthlessly punctual, stubbornly dependable, and irritatingly true to his word?
He’s already there when you arrive.
Not just there— but early. Waiting outside like it’s the most natural thing in the world, casually leaned against a concrete planter with one hand in his pocket and the other scrolling aimlessly on his phone. He’s not dressed up, exactly, but there’s something about his fit that feels intentional. Dark gray-beige slacks. Cream button-up shirt, top button undone. Black cardigan layered over it. Loose tie slung around his neck—totally optional, probably just for the aesthetic. Hair half-up in that signature man-bun style, the front strands framing his face.
You stop short a few paces away, your brain stalling mid-thought as your gaze continues to flicker up and down his form.
Because you? You are wearing a plaid skirt, a ruffled cream blouse, stockings, and boots that are way too tall to pretend you didn’t also plan your outfit, and a tote bag that’s got absolutely nothing useful inside besides your phone, wallet, lip gloss, and an emotional support water bottle.
Which is exactly when you notice it.
The colors. The textures. The vibe.
Oh my god.
You blurt it out before you can stop yourself, stepping the last few feet toward him like you weren’t just frozen in place two seconds ago. “We’re kind of matching.”
Senku glances up, and there it is. That thing he does. The slow, calculated glance from the hem of your skirt to your blouse to the edge of your bag and back up again, all while maintaining that unreadable expression. Like he’s gathering data. Like your outfit’s a puzzle he’s solving in real-time. His mouth twitches, just slightly, into something that toes the line between smug and genuinely amused.
“Yeah, I guess so…” He shifts his weight, pocketing his phone. “You look nice.”
You blink. Buffering. “You—uh. You too! I mean, not that I was—uh, yeah, thanks. You look good too.” You internally wince. Recover. “I hope you weren’t waiting out here long?”
He shakes his head, “Not really. Got here early on purpose.”
You nod, awkward and a little breathless, trying desperately not to read too much into it. You glance toward the entrance, mostly just to distract yourself in something that’s not his facial structure or the way the light catches on the slope of his nose.
“Should we… go in?” you ask, gesturing toward the doors. He hums, a quiet sound, like he's still mildly amused, and nods, stepping in beside you. Not ahead. Not behind. Right beside.
You scan your tickets at the entrance, hands just barely steady, and try not to overanalyze the exact distance between your shoulders. You try not to notice the faint smell of something clean and earthy—maybe his shampoo? Maybe something herbal?—that drifts off of him every time he turns to speak. You try, in vain, to be normal.
The museum’s quiet. Dim lighting. Cool air. Echoes of hushed conversations and soft-soled shoes against the polished floors. The first exhibit is drowned in amber lighting and filled with fossils in glass cases. You both drift to the same one without speaking, reading the plaque in tandem, standing so close your elbows almost brush.
He speaks first.
“Cretaceous, huh,” he says, voice low and a little warm, like he’s half-talking to himself. “Not exactly cutting edge, but still cool.”
You blink at him. “Are you—are you seriously judging the dinosaur bones right now?”
He glances at you. “Just saying, there’s been more interesting finds. I’d rather see a well-preserved stromatolite, personally.”
You snort. Actually snort, and he grins, which is possibly the worst thing he could do because now you’re staring at his lips and—
“God, you’re such a nerd,” you mutter, grinning before you can help it.
“And you’re not?” He raises an eyebrow, tilting his head slightly as if daring you to lie.
You scoff, turning back to the plaque like you can hide behind a block of educational text. “Yeah, okay, fair. But at least I pretend to be normal in public.”
“Mm. Is that what this is?” he says, and he doesn’t even try to hide the smile this time. It’s subtle, just a twitch at the corners of his mouth, but it makes your stomach do a little flip anyway.
You don’t answer. Not right away. You’re too busy trying not to combust.
You keep walking, slowly, drifting from case to case. The exhibits start to blur together after a while—early mammals, glacial imprints, fossilized flora—because your brain is short-circuiting every time his voice dips a little lower to point something out, or his hand lifts to gesture near your shoulder, or his sleeve brushes your arm.
You can tell he knows it, too. Maybe not the full extent of your internal spiral, but enough to sadistically enjoy how flustered you get. He’s not smug about it, nor cruel. Just quietly observant. Like he’s keeping a mental note every time your breath hitches a little or you laugh a beat too fast.
Somewhere between the meteorite collection and the preserved taxidermy wing (which he naturally had opinions about), you start filming. Nothing extravagant. Just quick clips on your phone—soft pans over the displays. He doesn’t comment, doesn’t shy away when the camera catches his shoulder or the back of his hand. Just lets you do your thing.
You’re halfway through the museum when your feet start to ache (your fault for wearing boots with no sole support) and your stomach lets out the saddest, weakest little growl. Senku hears it, of course. He doesn’t say anything—just jerks his chin toward the small, in-museum café tucked into the corner past the rotating exhibit, and heads that way without needing a response.
You order something simple. He does the same, and somehow, magically beats you to pulling out your wallet and paying. And then you both end up at a tiny table tucked near the window, warm afternoon light refracting through the glass and shining just right. You’re pulling your phone out again before you can really think about it.
He raises an eyebrow when he sees you tying—and failing—to discretely smile at your phone.
“I know that face,” he says, stirring his coffee. “What are you scheming?”
You grin, wide and sweet and a little mischievous. “You said I could pick the trend.”
“Unfortunately,” he mutters, setting down his cup.
You show him the audio.
He watches the sample once. Then again. Then nods. “Got it.”
You give him a quick breakdown anyway—“Ok so basically we just shake hands. So you would film me first to ‘My name is Pink, and I’m really glad to meet you.’ Then you do ‘You’re recommended to me by some people.’ Then back to me: ‘Hey, ooh, is this illegal?’ And you finish it: ‘Hey, ooh, it feels illegal?’ You got that? ”
Senku just gives you that flat, unimpressed look, the one that makes it impossible to tell if he’s judging you or already planning your execution in terrifying detail.
“Simple enough,” he says. “Let’s get it over with.”
You record it in pieces. The lighting’s good, the cafe’s not too crowded, and somehow, despite the secondhand embarrassment threatening to combust your entire being, you pull it off. You film each other, trade off holding the phone, and try your hardest not to start laughing as you record Senku's deadpan face. By the time it’s done, your face hurts from holding back a smile, and Senku looks a little too smug for someone who just debuted on the internet via meme format.
You save the clips to your phone, already planning how to edit it later.
You both take your time finishing your drinks after that—talking more now. About the exhibit, about the parts you skipped, about other museums you like. The vibe’s different. It’s looser, comfortable in a way you didn’t fully expect to get this quickly. He’s still sarcastic, still has that flat tone and know-it-all quips, but now he says your name a little softer. Looks at you a little longer when you talk.
Eventually, you both stand, a little reluctant but you both know you should leave before it gets too dark. The sun’s setting once you step outside the museum, casting everything in that amber-gold glow again, and it makes his profile look unfairly cinematic as he stretches.
“You’re surprisingly tolerable company,” he says as you walk out together.
You scoff. “Wow. Thanks. I’ll be sure to put that in my LinkedIn endorsements.”
“I’m just saying,” he replies, glancing at you, “You’re not as obnoxious as most people.”
You bump your shoulder into his. “Aw, you like me.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You implied it.”
He doesn’t argue with that, which might be worse.
The walk back is slow. Neither of you really rushing, just sort of drifting through the early evening like you're trying to stretch out the time you have together. Somewhere between chatting about your favorite childhood shows and bickering over whose major has more long-term debt attached to it (his argument: “You can’t put a price on revolutionizing orbital propulsion”), it hits you how easy this is.
And more dangerously—how fun. You can’t remember the last time someone made you feel this keyed-in without even trying. Like your brains are constantly sparking against each other like flint and steel.
Then he says something offhanded. Something completely innocent. He’s explaining something about a propulsion system prototype—specifically, fluid resistance and force ratios.
“It’s all about tension and release,” he says, absently adjusting his sleeves as he walks. “That’s how you maintain velocity without risking collapse.”
You glance at him sideways, smile sinisterly curling at the corners. “Mm. I’ve got some tension I’m sure you could release.”
He stops. Stops walking. Like his operating system just force-quit.
“…What?”
You keep walking a few paces before turning to look back at him, mock-innocent. “What? I’m just being honest. You should be more careful with that mouth of yours, Ishigami. You’ll feed into the online delusions.”
He blinks once. Twice. Visibly buffering. You can see it—like the gears in his big science brain just misfired, unable to reconcile engineering terminology with whatever the hell that was. His ears go a little pink—barely there, but enough to clock if you’re looking for it. Which, obviously, you are.
He clears his throat, and mutters something under his breath about “not being responsible for your interpretations.”
But he keeps talking after that. He can't help it now. Neither of you can. The conversation never drops again, not even as you split off at the corner of campus, your fingers still curled around your phone like it's holding the rest of the evening in its little glowing blue-light screen.
You go home buzzing. Not from the caffeine. Not even from the TikTok you’re already editing. But from him.
Because if there’s one thing that’s true about you—it’s that once you start liking someone?
Oh, they never get to rest.
Extra notes time again! || Sorry I really didn't feel like writing out the trend and like the comments and stuff again… I physically cant think like that anymore
Anyway! Both your respective fans go crazy when the initial collab drops
Comments and dm’s begging you guys to post together more—and I mean, who are you to deny the fans?
You make appearances in all of his videos where he “needs” an extra pair of hands
And he’s always seen in your “what i do in a day” videos or weekly vlogs
The tension on camera is undeniable and everyone is always asking if there's something going on, but neither of you ever respond.
⋆.⌬ ˚𒉭 ⋆
After that, you two just… keep hanging out. Off campus, mostly. Call them dates, call them… whatever—no one’s really labeling it, but they keep happening. Even in a group, you and Senku have your own orbit. It starts with subtle things. Shared glances, half-smirks, a sarcastic “oh really?” muttered under your breath every time he says something too smug. He always responds with a coy, “Don’t look at me like that unless you want something,” and you always raise a brow and say, “Maybe I do.”
You’re both like that.
Witty. Sharp. Teasing.
During stargazing, you’re lying side-by-side on a scratchy old blanket, staring up at the sky when he starts pointing out constellations, spouting off facts like an open textbook. You interrupt mid-sentence with, “Is this your way of seducing me? Because it’s working.”
He glances at you sideways. Doesn’t even pause. “You’re the one lying next to me under the stars. I’d say the seduction’s mutual.”
And at the beach? The energy’s dialed up even more.
You’re in a bikini under his oversized button-up, hair still damp from taking a dunk in the ocean, when you say something cheeky like, “You’ve been watching me all day. Just admit it.”
He doesn’t even blink, much less looks at you. “I’m studying gravitational pull in action.”
“Oh?” you hum sweetly. “Like, my body’s gravitational pull?”
“I meant the tide,” he deadpans. “But your ego has its own orbit, so sure.”
You throw a handful of sand at him. He dodges. Barely. And then throws a precise, infuriatingly accurate clump right at your ankle.
Even when your schedules are packed, you somehow always find time to circle back to each other.
There’s never been a conversation about what it is between you, but neither of you need one. You’ve both carved a little space into each other’s lives now—distinct, irreplaceable, and entirely yours. No one else quite fits the shape.
So it’s no surprise that you spend a lot of time in each other’s dorm—or in this case, Senku’s off-campus apartment. Sometimes for studying when the library’s full, but mostly just to hang out in the comfort of each other's presence.
You’re dressed in low-rise sweats and a tank top, now buried beneath one of Senku’s old sweaters. The one he threw at your head earlier after you started loudly complaining about the cold. The sleeves cover your hands, and the collar’s stretched from years of wear. It smells like detergent and something vaguely medicinal—like tea tree or menthol or maybe him.
He’s at his desk, deep into some spreadsheet or CAD model, muttering to himself about air resistance. You’re flat on his bed, legs swinging, phone held above your face as you scroll through TikTok with the sound barely audible. Every now and then you giggle. Sometimes you send him one. Sometimes he looks away from his screen to actually watch it.
The silence isn’t awkward. It never is with him. Just the quiet clack of his keyboard, the soft hum of his laptop fan, and whatever sound bytes your phone decides to throw at you next. It’s routine by now. Domestic, in a weird way.
He leans back in his chair eventually, spinning halfway to glance at you. “Hey,” he says, like he didn’t just finish modeling an entire turbine blade. “In class the other day—when Takahashi brought up reward pathways—you didn’t say anything. You disagree with the textbook stuff?”
You glance over your phone, one brow raised. “What, the dopamine bit?”
He nods. “And the serotonin model. You looked like you were biting your tongue.”
You shift onto your side, propping yourself up on your elbow. “I mean, yeah. Kinda. The textbook oversimplifies it. Dopamine’s not just a ‘pleasure’ chemical. It’s tied to motivation, reinforcement, emotional memory—like, the anticipation of reward, not just the reward itself.”
He’s still watching you. “Go on.”
And that’s all the permission you need. You sit up straighter, words spilling out like second nature. You talk with your hands, tangents spiraling into other tangents—sliding effortlessly into a topic you’ve buried yourself in for years. Limbic circuitry, behavioral loops, cortisol inhibition. You explain how physical touch spikes oxytocin and drops heart rate variability, how endorphins are natural painkillers, how the brain is wired to crave proximity.
Senku’s not even pretending to work anymore. His laptop’s still open, screen glowing against the side of his face, but his eyes are all on you—sharp, focused, borderline amused.
He hums. “So… theoretically,” he says, tapping his pen against his lip, “if someone were, say, stressed. Touch could help regulate that.”
“Yeah,” you nod, without hesitation. “That’s why hugging works. Holding hands, even brief skin contact; it’s all connected to emotional regulation. Even something like—”
You pause. Shouldn’t say it. But do anyway.
“—making out.”
There’s a pause. One beat. Two.
You glance at him. He’s still watching you, face unreadable. “Making out?” he repeats slowly.
You shrug, casual. “I’m just saying. High dopamine, high oxytocin, a little adrenaline from the novelty? Basically a neurochemical cocktail.”
His head tilts, expression unreadable. Then, like it’s the most normal thing in the world:
“Wanna try it?”
Your brain blanks. “What?”
“You’re the one who brought it up.” He says it flatly. Almost like he’s bored. But there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth, and his eyes haven’t moved from yours once. “For science. Of course.”
You stare at him. “You’re not serious.”
He shifts to stand, lazy and unbothered. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
And then he’s walking over, bracing a knee on the mattress beside you. You stay frozen. Your heart is in your throat. Or maybe your stomach. It’s hard to tell with the way it’s pounding. He leans in just enough that you can feel his breath, hovering, giving you a chance to pull away.
You don’t.
And that’s all it takes.
The kiss is warm. Careful at first. Testing. You breathe out against his mouth, one hand finding the front of his hoodie and fisting it without thinking. He shifts, deeper into it, his weight pressing into the mattress as he moves over you. Still careful, but less hesitant now. Focused. Like he's calculating every angle, and still surprised by the result.
His hand finds your waist. Yours slide up to his neck.
You’re not sure when it stopped feeling like a joke. But it doesn’t feel like one now.
He shifts again, weight fully settling over you, a knee anchoring beside your hip as he deepens the kiss. His hands are warm—calloused in the way only someone who spends too long with tools and lab equipment can be—sliding up beneath the hem of his own sweater draped over you. Fingers brushing your bare skin tentatively, like he’s cataloging each reaction, each hitch in your breath.
Your arms move to curl up around his neck, pulling him closer, and your fingers find his hair. Tugging gently, then a little harder. He exhales into your mouth like it startled him.
You smile into the kiss—just a little. And he kisses you harder.
There’s something methodical in the way he touches you, like he’s studying even now. Testing reactions. Adjusting accordingly. But it’s not the detached, cold type of analyzing. It’s quiet intention, attentive hunger. The kind that says he doesn’t let himself want things often. But he wants this.
Wants you.
The sweater slips slightly off your shoulder. His palm follows the curve of your spine like it’s a path he’s memorizing. You’re already pulling him back down the moment he shifts to rise, needing more—needing him. He goes willingly. He always does.
His lips hover near your neck, and when he finally presses them there, it’s with purpose. A mark, claiming. You feel the heat it brings you all the way down to your core.
“You react so easily,” he murmurs, voice low and smooth, like he’s more fascinated than surprised. “Like your body’s just waiting for me to touch it.”
You hate how right he is. Or maybe you don’t. Not when his hands are gliding down, lower and lower, caressing the skin of your ribs to your hips.
⋆.⌬ ˚𒉭 ⋆
Senku almost feels bad for baiting you with that question earlier. Almost. If it weren't for the way you were staring up at him, all teary eyed, lips swollen and neck marked—courtesy of him, of course—he’d probably apologize. But he has you exactly where he's been wanting you, and you’re definitely not complaining, if the way you're squeezing around his fingers have any say in the matter.
“Fuck… you're tightening up. Are you close already?” he’s cooing down at you, eyes gleaming with a sort of sadistic look, his lips curled into a smirk.
You can't even respond, it's pathetic really, your brain is already turned to mush and he's barely even touched you. You tear your gaze away from him. Your legs are shaking, twitching uselessly at your sides, and you can feel just how wet you are, can hear it every time his fingers sink deeper into you.
Why did he have to be so good at this?
“You’re really that sensitive, huh?” he mummers, dragging his thumb just barely over your clit and he chuckles when your body jerks forward. Your thighs try to close but he’s already in between them, his other hand prying them open, keeping you exposed and needy under his touch.
He’s transfixed on the sight of you. Watching every twitch of your hips, every spasm in your thighs, every time your walls clench around his fingers, the way your eyes roll back when his fingers prod at a particularly sensitive spot. And, of course, the way you bite down on the back of your hand in an attempt to muffle the sounds spilling out of your mouth.
God, it turned him on in more ways than he possibly imagined.
Senku leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, just to watch the way you squirm. “C'mon,” he breathes, his voice barely above a whisper, “don’t hide from me. I want to hear everything.”
You whimper at that—a soft, choked sound, and he feels it all the way down. His cock throbs in his pants, neglected, untouched, but he doesn’t care about that right now. Now when this is happening. Not when you’re this responsive, this wrecked just from his fingers. And so… Senku moans. Deep and guttural like your reaction does something to him. Like watching you get off is more satisfying than touching himself could ever be.
The way your body moves against his hand is erratic now, your hips shifting up to match the pace of his thrusts, trembling on the edge. He can feel it in the way your walls flutter around him, can see it in the way your lashes are soaked with tears, the way you jerk with each slow curl of his fingers.
You’re close. So, so close.
So he gives it to you—just the right rhythm, the right amount of pressure, and that voice again, like a switch flipped inside of him:
“Go on, baby, it’s okay. Be a good girl and come for me.”
And you do. Practically sobbing into the sheets as your body shudders around him. Your muscles tighten,back arching off the bed, and breath hitching in your throat before it spills out in a loud, desperate moan. And Senku swears he almost loses it just watching you. Watching what he did to you.
“Fuck, that's it… just like that.” He’s a little breathless now, still working you through it, fingers moving gently as you shake and throb beneath him, blissed-out and absolutely ruined. Even as he pulls his digits out, and licks them clean, your body still hasn't stopped twitching.
You're sprawled out beneath him, brain soft and heavy, your thighs sticky, your chest heaving. There's a buzz under your skin you can't seem to shake—like your body hasn't figured out the comedown yet. Like you're still coiled tight, waiting to snap again.
Senku's still above you, propped on one elbow, eyes dragging slowly over your face like he's trying to memorize the exact expression you're wearing—ruined, flushed, lips parted, still trying to catch your breath.
And when he speaks again, his voice is low and rough, the edge of smugness barely masking the heat beneath it. "You should see yourself right now." He leans closer, nose brushing yours, lips just barely hovering. "You came so hard, baby."
You should roll your eyes. Should say something back. But instead, you kiss him. It's clumsy at first—your hands reaching for him, fisting into the front of his shirt, dragging him down with more desperation than you meant to show. But he goes down willingly, groaning into your mouth like he's been waiting for it, like he's starving for you.
His lips are warm and soft, and when his tongue brushes against yours, something in you snaps. You moan into it, tugging him down even closer, legs shifting to wrap around him until he’s fully on top of you, pressed chest to chest.
The kiss turns filthy fast. Sloppy. Hungry. You taste yourself on his tongue, feel his teeth graze your bottom lip, and when you break apart for air, there's a thin string of saliva still connecting the two of you.
Senku stares down at you, his lips pink and wet, eyes dark with an unmistakable desire. But you don’t say anything. You just drag him back down and kiss him again. And this time, you take control.
You find the strength to gently shove his shoulder. A silent request for him to switch positions, this time with you on top. Your hands slip between your bodies, fingers tugging at his waistband, undoing buttons and zippers with trembling precision. You don't rush it, you don’t even speak. You just stare down at him, eyes locked on his, and you let your palm glide over the front of his boxers—feel how hard he is. How long he’s been holding back.
"You didn't touch yourself," you whispered against his jaw, lips ghosting down to his neck. You kiss the column of his throat. You can feel his adam's apple bob under your mouth. "You just... watched me."
Senku shudders, eyes fluttering shut as he hisses through his teeth. "Of course I did," he says, voice low, breath hitching when your hand dips beneath the fabric and wraps around him. "You think I could look away from you like that?"
You smile into his skin, lips dragging over his pulse point, before licking a small stripe against it, warm and possessive. "Then you're gonna let me return the favor."
He tries to say something, probably a snarky comment, or some teasing remark, but it dies in his throat the second you stroke him. Thumb pressing over the tip, spreading the pre-cum, watching his face go soft and slack and honest. His cock twitches in your hand, and he groans-deep and low, like he's trying to keep quiet and failing.
"You're so responsive,” you murmur, voice dipped in faux sweetness. "Bet I could make you come just like this—barely even touching you."
His head rolls back as he nods.
"You'd let me?"
"F-fuck," he breathes, biting down on a groan as your pace picks up, "I'd let you do anything right now."
And there it is-that crack in his composure. The unraveling. You've got him now, pinned under you. Your hands, your voice, your mouth ghosting back up to kiss him again while you work him with steady, torturous strokes. And you swear he looks like he's about to lose it just from that.
"You're close," you whisper, forehead pressed to his, your hand never stopping. "Aren't you?"
He nods again, faster this time, eyes wide, and dazed. You find him beautiful like this.
“it’s okay,” you whisper, kissing the corner of his mouth, “Come for me, and don't look away."
He doesn't.
You watch each other the whole time-while his body tenses, his breath catches, and he spills into your hand with a whine—it’s with your name on his lips. And even after, when he's still trembling, breath ragged, forehead resting against yours, he kisses you again.
It’s softer now. Slower, more sensual. Like he’s trying to catch up to everything that just happened.
You climb up to adjust your position, shifting in his lap to properly straddle him, and feel him twitch beneath you. The air thickens again. You start to move—slow, subtle grind that makes both of you gasp.
“Is this okay?” you murmur, lips brushing his. “We don’t have to…”
His hands find your hips, tentative, but firm enough to tell you he doesn’t want you to stop. “Y-yeah,” he swallows hard. “Just—condom. They’re in the nightstand.” he adds, voice barely above a rasp.
You pause, looking down at him, your hair falling into his face as your lips curl in a slow, nervous smile. “I kind of just want to feel you,” you say softly. “Just you.”
His breath catches, and his grip on your hips tighten. “You’re gonna ruin me,” he mutters, tone somewhere between a joke and the truth.
“I’m on the pill,” you say, brushing your thumb along his cheek. “And I haven’t been with anyone. Not since we started hanging out…”
His gaze locks with yours—surprised, a little shy. “Me neither.”
There’s a beat. Neither of you says it—what this means, or where it’s going—but you don’t need to. Not right now.
You lean in and kiss him again, deeper this time, while he lets you settle over him fully. And when he finally lets go of whatever he’s been holding back, it’s not a fall. It’s a full body surrender.
You shift your hips, sliding your hand between your bodies. Senku watches you, wide eyed and panting, as your fingers wrap around him once more. He’s still hard, heavy and warm in your hand, and the sound he makes when you stroke him again makes your head spin.
His hands tense on your thighs. "God," he whispers, barely holding on. "You-you don't have to—"
"I know," you say softly, guiding him to where you want him. "I want to."
You angle yourself, breath catching as you line him up. He sucks in a sharp breath, eyes locked on where your bodies meet, like he can't believe this is happening.
And when you start to sink down—inch by inch, taking your time—his head falls back against the pillow, lips parted, throat working like he's trying to remember how to breathe.
You stop halfway, adjusting your hips, one hand braced against his chest. He feels so good stretching you open like this. You look down at him.
He nods, frantic, his voice almost breaking.
"Yeah. Just—don't stop. Please."
You don't.
You ease down the rest of the way, and when you're fully seated, hips flush to his, both of you just stay there for a second, gasping, trembling, overwhelmed. And when you finally start to move; the slow, steady rolls of your hips—his hands come up to grip your waist like he's afraid he might actually fall apart under you.
At first, it’s easy to stay in control. You set the pace, savor the friction, chase the tension building in your belly.
But it doesn’t last.
Your thighs start to burn, trembling with the effort, barely cooperating anymore. Every bounce turns sluggish, your movements dragged down by the growing heat in your limbs—but you're still moving. Still trying. Because he's looking at you like that.
Senku's laid out beneath you, hair a mess, lips kiss-bitten, and pupils blown so wide there’s barely a sliver of red left. And he’s watching you. His gaze is steady, and intense—like he sees everything. Like he’s not the one unraveling here. You are.
And through the fog in your head, it hits you that he’s smiling.
Not mockingly, just this small, breathless grin, like you’re an experiment he doesn’t want to stop testing. And the way he says your name, low, and rough, like he’s been holding in his mouth for months, sends heat crashing right through your core.
You try to keep moving, but your body stutters. Your breath shudders.
He doesn’t move. He doesn’t have to.
He just says, “You're falling apart, aren’t you?”
You don’t answer. You can’t. And then he speaks again, a little more sure this time.
"That's it, baby. You're doing so good for me... just like that."
His voice—God, his voice. It's low and thick and soaked in wonder, like he can’t believe this is real. Like he can’t believe it’s you. You nearly fold right there.
The noise you make is somewhere between a sob and a moan, your hands scrambling against his chest like you need something to anchor you, or maybe just him. Your whole body pulses at his words like they hit deeper than anything else, heat unraveling inside you faster than you can hold it together.
"F-Fuck, Senku..." you whimper, blinking through tears, hips faltering as you try to keep the rhythm. "I c-can't—"
"Yes, you can," he murmurs, fingers tightening just a little on your thighs, just enough to remind you he's there, guiding you, grounding. Not pushing—never pushing. Just wanting. "You're already doing it.”
His voice dips again, breathless. “Look at you..."
It’s awe. Pure, undiluted pleasure. Every word that falls from his lips sounds like it’s unraveling him as much as it is you. And somehow, that’s what undoes you more than anything
You bury your face into his neck, because if you look at him again you'll crumble-and maybe that's the point. Maybe that's what he wants. To break you down, piece by piece, until you're too far gone to think about anything but how good he makes you feel.
And God, he is breaking you.
He drags one hand up your back, fingers threading through your hair, just to keep you close. He needs you close. Needs you to feel how much he's coming apart beneath you. He's grounding you, ruining you, worshipping you with every tremble in his touch.
"Just one more," he whispers, lips brushing your ear. His voice is strained, like he's barely holding on. “Just give me one more…”
He's losing control fast. Your soft, whiny little sounds are killing him. Every breathy moan, every gasp, every whimper—you're driving him insane, and maybe, just maybe, that's what gives him away.
The way his voice breaks when he speaks again.
"God-you feel so good," he chokes out, hips stuttering beneath you. "You're so—fuck, you're perfect around me, I can't—"
He whines-actually whines—a raw, desperate sound ripped straight from his throat, like he doesn't know how to hold it back anymore.
"I c-can't stop," he breathes, hips twitching up into you without rhythm now. "You're—you're making me crazy—how are you so fucking—tight—?”
You make another sound—desperate and broken—and he feels it. The way you clench around him, the way your whole body answers before your mind can even catch up.
And then, softer-almost pleading:
"Let me hear you when you come, yeah?"
You whine—God, you whine—and he groans, like the sound physically does something to him. His hands are shaking now, trying to hold you steady while everything inside him unravels.
The way you look, the way you sound, the way you're still trying to ride it out, still trying to give him what he wants even as you fall apart on top of him. It's too much.
And he wants more.
Your name falls from his lips again-raw, reverent, broken at the edges-and it hits you deeper than anything else has all night.
You try to keep moving, but your body betrays you. Your hips falter, your thighs tremble, and your forehead presses against his collarbone, like hiding might save you—but it doesn't. He's still looking right at you, and God, he's still talking.
"Just like that... you're so—fuck, you're so perfect like this."
His voice is breathless, thick with disbelief and need. "I can feel you... every time you move, I-shit—"
And maybe you don't mean to do it. Maybe you're just grabbing onto something—anything—to stay grounded. But your fingers slide up into his hair, tugging just a little. And he moans.
Full-bodied. High-pitched, desperate, absolutely shameless. His eyes slam shut. His hips jerk up into you with no rhythm, just want. "Shit–do that again—" he gasps, voice cracking. "Please–fuck—!"
So you do.
You fist your hand in the mess of his pale strands and pull.
He falls apart.
"God—I'm–fuck, I'm coming—" The words are slurred, ruined, his face pressed into your hair as he bucks into you once, twice, and then spills inside you with a choked-off moan. His hands fly to your hips, gripping tight, like he's trying to keep you locked to him, like if he lets go for even a second he'll die.
You're already shaking, breath stolen out of your lungs, your own release crashing through you. You sob into his hair, overwhelmed, while he trembles beneath you, hands still gripping, body still twitching.
When you finally still, everything is quiet. Just your breathing, his heartbeat, frantic against your chest. Your fingers are still tangled in his hair. And he hasn't stopped shaking.
You don’t move for a long moment. You just melt into him, limp and boneless, your forehead pressed to his shoulder, your chest rising and falling against his. He’s still inside you, still warm, still twitching faintly with aftershocks. And even though your muscles are shaking and your skin is flushed and sticky, all you can do is breathe.
Senku doesn’t speak right away either. He wraps his arms around you, his hold is loose at first—like he’s not sure he’s allowed—and then tighter, like he can’t help it. Like letting go now would undo him. His voice is hoarse when he finally whispers, “You okay?”
You nod into his neck, barely moving. “Yeah. You?”
He lets out a shaky breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. “I think I’m still alive.” He says. “But barely.”
You smile, eyes closed, cheek pressed to his skin. “Was that…?”
“Yes,” he says instantly, like you needing to ask the question is absurd. “Don’t even finish that sentence.”
You laugh softly and feel him grin against your temple. There’s a pause—comfortable, heavy with the weight of what just happened—and then he shifts, brushing your hair gently away from your face.
“I didn’t… hurt you, or anything?”
“No,” you murmur. “You were perfect. Seriously.”
You finally lift your head, just enough to look at him. His hair’s a mess, his cheeks are still flushed, and his eyes are glassy—but he’s smiling. Soft. Uncertain. Happy. And for a moment, he’s not the genius, not the scientist, not the voice behind a screen.
He’s just a boy, flushed and messy, still a little out of breath, and completely, irreversibly gone for you.
You lean down and kiss him once—just a press of lips. Nothing more. Then you collapse on top of him again with a soft groan.
“We should probably clean up,” you mumble into his chest.
He hums. “Eventually.”
Neither of you moves.
⋆.⌬ ˚𒉭 ⋆
Later, you do get up—clean up, change, all that boring post-mindblowing-sex routine—but it’s quiet. Natural. And once you're both back in bed, it’s like gravity pulls you together again without even trying.
The room’s quiet, warm, filled with the soft hum of your joined breathing. Your legs are tangled beneath the sheets, and your head is tucked under his chin, chest rising and falling against his.
Senku’s still. His hand hasn’t moved from your back, fingers lazily tracing the curve of your spine like he doesn’t know how to not be touching you now.
And then, without looking at you, he says quietly:
“…So is this the part where we pretend that never happened?”
You blink. “…Do you want to pretend that never happened?”
He’s silent for a moment too long.
“No,” he admits. “Not even a little.”
You shift just enough to look up at him. His hair’s still messy, cheeks still faintly pink,and there's a light trace of sweat on his temple, but his eyes are sharp, focused on you now in a way that makes your breath hitch.
“I’m not exactly…” He hesitates, frowning slightly. “Good at this stuff.”
You smile. “Sex?”
“No. Well—” His ears go red. “That too. But I meant… this. Whatever this is. Relationships. Wanting someone this much. Letting them in.”
You don’t say anything right away. Just reach up, gently brushing some of his hair out of his face.
“Senku,” you murmur, soft and certain, “you don’t have to be good at it. We’re figuring it out together.”
He swallows, throat tight. “…You’re not gonna run when you realize I’m not exactly the most conventional partner?”
You blink, lips twitching. “After what just happened? I’m definitely not running. I can barely walk.”
He huffs—almost a laugh. Then finally, finally, he meets your eyes again. Really meets them.
“And besides,” you add softly, “I knew how you were before all of this. I’m your friend first, always. I love you just the way you are.”
“I didn’t mean to fall for you,” he says, blunt in that way only Senku can be. You were just… there. Constant. Loud. Infuriatingly smart. Always messing with my things, always in my space.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You’re digging a really deep hole right now.”
He exhales—short, almost a laugh. “Yeah, well. Then one day I realized I didn’t want any of it to stop. I didn’t want you to stop. I think that scared me more than anything.”
Your lips twitch. “You call that romantic?”
“I’m a scientist,” he deadpans. “Not a poet.”
You grin, pushing up slightly so you can lean over him, your hands braced on either side of his head.
“Well,” you murmur, eyes soft, “guess I’ll have to be the romantic one.”
His eyes flicker to your lips, then back to your gaze.
“You always were.”
You lean in and kiss him—slow, like it’s not a first or a second or a tenth, but something you’ve always had the right to do. He kisses back like he’s finally letting himself want you out loud. When you pull away, you rest your forehead against his again, noses brushing. His hands drift to your waist under the blanket, not trying anything, just holding.
“…So,” you say softly. “What do we call this now?”
He hums thoughtfully. “An unplanned but highly successful chemical reaction?”
You snort. “Try again, scientist.”
His mouth quirks. “Girlfriend acquired?”
You blink. “Did you just say that like you unlocked an achievement?”
“I say that every time I make something new in the lab,” he says, matter-of-factly. “Why would this be any different?”
You roll your eyes, but your heart is doing dangerous things in your chest. “God, you’re such a dork.”He shrugs under you. “Yeah. But I’m your dork now. Apparently.”
Ignore the lowk OOC last line… genuinely couldn't find another way to end this quickly
ANYWAY BACK TO THE EXTRA NOTES!
You guys both go kind of MIA for a while; one second you’re posting like normal, sometimes popping up on each other's page, then just… radio silence.
Fans lost their minds, and during your time away, they start making these crazy long theories trying to explain what they think happened to the both of you to fill the void.
Literally ranging from, "He's secretly a serial killer and she was the last victim so he deleted his digital footprint to evade capture.”
“They eloped in the mountains. She’s pregnant. They’re living off the grid with goats.”
“She accidentally killed him during an experiment and is covering it up.”
All of these are objectively incorrect.
In reality? You’re working through your first relationship, and when you’re ready, you’ll both be back.
an: can't blame anyone but yk I gotta be rude to my kitten whiskers bella... already tagged her though so sigh... anyways this was supposed be DAYS ago but I kept adding more stuff. this is the cycle of my life , I can not shut up for the life of me.
I also haven't written smut in a while (can you tell?) so if its bad.. yeah, I tried my best fr. lowk a closeted freak ONG do not leave me in a room with Senku he WILL end up pregnant.
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.
“Ah finally” Hyoma groans. He then grips your hair, something he usually wouldn’t do, and forces you to take him all, your gags and tears make him just more aroused. He keeps you there for a second, enjoying the tightness of your throat, then let you go.
Tears running down your face and a string of spit connecting your abused mouth to his tip; a picture that is going to be framed in his head for a long time.
“Just say you wanted this from the start you bitch” A nasty snark escape his lips.
Hyoma grabs one of your hands and guides it to his thigh, a silent promise that he is gonna stop at the first tap, then he pulls your head again and starts fucking your face.
“You take it so well – You feel so good, fuck” His words only spur you to do better, laving your tongue on the sides of the shaft as good as you can, your mouth making wet, sinful noises every thrust.
“K-keep going for a little bit more”
You nod, as best as you can since he is still keeping your head in place, the vibration making a delicious shiver run down his spine.
“Atta - attagirl” This time it’s your turn to feel the shiver; it is so good to be praised.
“Goddess, c-can I come on your face?” Hyoma moans, the aggressiveness of earlier almost vanished.
This time you don’t have time to answer, Hyoma already pulled out, jerking off at the sight of your tears, snot, and overall miserable face. A few more pumps and you found your lips and cheeks stained by strings of his cum.
“W-was it too much?”
“You were just perfect”
“Give me a minute and get on all fours, it’s time for me to reward my good girl.”
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. 🙏🏼 🇵🇸 🍉
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.
— 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.
suddenly, the playful bard’s usual carefree nature intensifies— his touch lingering a little too long, his gaze becoming a little too heated, you're wondering if his cheeks could get any more red if he kept on like this, especially now with his head hidden between your jaw and collarbone, furiously lapping and sucking on your neck, hands grabbing at your stomach.
"feeling it yet?" you coo and moan when he bites the skin, his breath hot against your ear. fuck— this feels perfect, and you're resting on his shoulder with your back flush against the bed-frame when venti barely has to do much to get you riled up.
your body reacts to the closeness and your pussy begins to throb and ache to the point of pain, your thighs squeezing and rubbing together as venti presses his hand between the skin— getting his hand real good in there before the notable ache anchoring in the pit of your stomach develops quicker, his grunts getting messier when he notices how wet and warm you were down there.
your hands glide over his skin as he fiercely rubs your folds, his fingers featherlight but igniting sparks within every stroke, each push and circle of his digits flicking your little pearl as his other arm continues to hug you closer.
the world blurs and you find yourself under him, hair a mess, sweat covered and with venti's hand tugged deep inside your panties— your wetness by now making the fabric stick to his hand as the the obscene noises of your warm pussy were becoming all the more embarrassing and loud.
much to the bards liking.
⚝ — DOTTORE
"um, you’ve tested it before, right?" you curiously tilt your head as dottore hands you a vial, watching closely as you drink it— it's right then when you can see subtle happiness in his eyes.
but you don't question it, you just don't.
the liquid was warm as it slid down your throat, the thickness of it almost making you cough it out and almost instantly, a tingling sensation spreads through your muscles and veins.
"oh, don't be scared my love, i know its effects very well," dottore says with a dark chuckle, "but experiencing it firsthand is a different kind of fun."
dottore doesn’t wait before downing his own dose, his red eyes gleaming with an exciting, yet twisted intensity— not long after the air grows thick between you as the effects takes hold, there's a moment when the only sound you could discern was your own breathing, your skin basically set on fire.
his gloved fingers slowly trace your collarbone as he hums, methodical yet filled with an unfamiliar hunger— truly, he begins to grind himself against your thigh as he moves your hand to his bulge for you to stroke it.
his breath quickens when you slip a hand into his boxers and notice his cum smeared all over the fabric.
you realize with a jolt that the carefully composed facade he always wore was gradually crumbling, his control slipping away as he let out a sob of relief when you unbottoned his pants.
hm wait— or was he faking it? he couldn't, correct? you saw him take the dosage.
"you are mine to study, to explore," he utters cruely, his chosen syllables crisp and evenly spoken, clean words holding no trembles, "say it," his voice hoarse.
the warmth of his body eases you to push your legs apart for him to wrap his arms around your waist and pull you on his lap— it's hot when he takes the lead, when dottore gets possessive with you and it fills you with a deep sense of pride considering the second harbinger was your boyfriend,
he doesn't stop as your palm stroking him was now replaced by your naked folds smearing up and down his shaft— the pressure in your gut increasing.
your eyes glow of what you believe was love, "i'm yours to study, yours to explore," you whine, lazily rolling his tip against your clit as he squeezes your behind and leads your movements.
and for once, you don’t mind being an experiment. if it was for the man you have fallen in love with.
⚝ — ALBEDO
albedo examines the aphrodisiac in his hand with a quiet curiosity, his eyes focused as if it were a rare alchemical artifact.
"are you certain this will have the desired effect?" he asks in doubt, although his voice seemed calm, though you can feel the tension in the air— it's not like you didn't know him, albedo probably already prepared something that could immediately take away the effect of the strange liquid.
however, it's rare to see him so unsure, yet it also made your heart skip a beat when you think about how much you meant to him for the alchemist to be so careful, always touching you like you're made out of glass.
"only one way to find out," you reply as you both drink it up next to each other, soon after resting on the bed.
the change is slow, subtle— like the way albedo works with his alchemy, precise and conscious, yet suddenly something weird blooms in your chest, it pounds and runs wild in your veins, spreading like wildfire.
his normally composed features shift, his icy gaze darkening as he gets on top of you.
"everything okay?" the man rests his forehead against yours, his breathing quickened.
you reply and wrap your arms around his neck, "yeah, I'll always be okay with you by my side," and by now, you're panting hard by the time you've coaxed out your reply as he began to roam over the slopes of your bare frame.
his touch, gentle at first, as always, growing a bit tense— he’s careful, yes, methodical in everything he does. your boyfriend was great, wasn't he? but when you turn around for him to admire your bare ass, all perked up with your folds glistening and waiting, he grabs at your hips with an urgency behind it, a silent request for more.
his lips hover over your shoulder, "it’s fascinating… to feel so out of control," he whispers against your skin, and in that moment, all of his precision was lost, dropped and evaporated into sheer nothingness.
he laps at your shoulder as his tongue grew desperate, his touch fervent as the aphrodisiac pushes him past his usual restraint— and the man didn't even realize he's never actually pressed his cock inside, never felt your walls constrict around him like a compression, instead the both of you were rutting against each other like you've never been hornier before.
your ass was already covered with his cum and your folds all puffed up and neglected as he continues to slap his tip against your behind, making a mess of your flesh— and ugh, it’s too good, it feels so good, and the sweet little gasps he pulled from you made him grunt as his cock throbs and thickens against your swollen cunt.
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
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?
♡ tags: pegging, fem!bodied reader, overstim, edging, ruined orgasms, bondage, toy usage, masturbation, oral (giving and receiving), threesomes, tell me if I missed anything!
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.
You get up but before you can reach Rin, Luna stands in front of you. "How did you do that?"
You tilted your head at him. You just played soccer, unapologetically so. "You underestimated me and my team does too. I used that to my advantage. When none of our usual weapons worked," you shrug. "I just stepped up."
"Heh," he nods. "Good game," he holds his fist up and you tap it with yours.
"Yeah," you agree. You lost, sure. But this was a lesson that needed to be learned. You look at the scoreboard. 3-5. 1 goal that Isagi, Bachira and Rin combined on and 2 you slipped in.
You look down at Rin, "good game."
"Shut up," he snarls.
》》》》
You wake up with Rin standing next to your bed. "That's not creepy at all," you mumble groggy and turn away. "What the hell."
"Are you gonna help me or what?" He rasps.
You are wide awake in an instant. You've just been waiting for a moment like this. You look back at him, seeing the outline of his rock hard cock against the thin fabric of his sleeping shorts.
"Losing the game frustration," he mumbles and looks away, like he needed to explain.
You scoff but move over. "I'll jerk you off."
"I wanna fuck you."
"I don't wanna fuck you. Take it or leave."
He bites his tongue and lays down, trying to kiss you but you even deny him that. He frowns at you but then your hands already go beneath his shirt, feeling down his abs and tugging at the waistband. He loses his words.
You discard his shorts and lean over his admittedly beautiful cock, spitting on it. Rin sighs.
"Cmon," he husks when you take a moment to readjust your position. "Just make me cum."
You look at him, eyes meeting in a moment of pause.
"Unnnmmgh!" Rin gasps and his head falls back. "W-wait– ah! Ffffuck!" He covers his face with his hands.
You are not gentle, nor easing him into pleasure. You are going at it. If he wouldn't be so desperate it would hurt. You are moving your fist over the whole tip while tightly holding his base, ever so often stroking his fill length and focusing on the pre cum drained slit other times. The muscles on his stomach are twitching. You move your hand to squeeze at his balls.
"Ah! Fuck! What the hell– mh– are you fucking insane?! Agh." He chokes on his own spit.
You make a ring with your fingers and massage his red hot tip. He shudders all over.
"I'm gonna–"
You stop, your hand retreating to rest on your thighs. Rin's cock is sprawled on his tummy, bobbing and twitching.
His eyes open in pure shock as he feels the feeling fade. He reaches for you, tongue wrapped with an insult but he never gets to talk.
"Touch me and I'll tell you to leave," you say darkly. You hover over his face. "Got it, loser boy?"
"What the fuck?!" Rin stares at your cold eyes.
You flick a finger at his cockhead and he jerks, gasping in a weird mixture of mind eating pleasure and pain.
"Can't even answer a fucking question," you laugh condescendingly. "Oh, Rinnie." You let your palm glide flat over his dick. He sucks in air sharply. "You make it so hard to be nice to you."
"(Y/N)?" His voice is softer, more breathy.
You stroke him again, long tight pumps of your fist. Your thumb circles his tip ever so often. His head falls against the pillow and his beautiful hair spills around his face.
"What is your damn problem?!" He sighs.
"I'm gonna play with you until you can only babble apologies."
"Apologize for what? Just ma–ahhhh.. make m-me–eh cum."
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.
"Oh? You think just because you wouldn't say you are close this time I wouldn't know," you laugh. "Rin, baby, you're so adorable and dumb."
He reaches for you but you click your tongue, staring him down with eyes that make him shiver. "No touching."
"Yes," he sighs and his hand drops. "(Y/N)--"
"Want me to try again?" You smile and run your nails on his balls then up his shaft. "Maybe you can cum this time, pretty boy?"
He nods and licks his lips. He can feel how his mind dazes out, how his vision gets all hazy. He has never felt like this before but his balls start to hurt. He really needs to cum. He is sure you know that. He is sure whatever game you are playing it ends now… you would not test him more… you would not be so rude. Right? Right?!
Rin whimpers and grunts, shaking his head and tearing at his hair.
"You better behave, Rinnie. I am stroking your pathetic cock after all," you coo. "That's how nice I am. And you call me a bitch. Tsk."
"I am sorry!" He extends his neck and looks at you with beautiful pleading eyes. "I am so sorry, please! I really am! C-can't… C-can't. I am s-sorr-y." You know he has no idea what he is apologizing for.
You laugh, taking your hand from his balls and pinching his perky nipples, playing with them as you keep edging Rin with alternations of fleeting touches and giving him all he wants.
"P-please! Pleasepleas please!" His eyes fill with tears and his whole body shakes. He arches his back into your touch.
For a moment you think about just kicking him out now, leaving him with throbbing blue balls. It would break him. It would break him completely.
But you're really not that evil. "You wanna cum, pretty boy?" Maybe a little evil.
"Fff-uck! Ye-ssss," he gasps. "Please! Please! Am sorry! Am so sorry!" Rin feels the euphoric feeling spread in his veins and panics. You can't take it from him again. He can't take it. He looks at you with urgency. "Can I c-cum?! Fuuck hmmfff! Can I? Say y-yes! Please!" Hot tears roll down his cheeks and his lips quiver. He has completely fallen into your trap… if you don't tell him it's okay to cum, he won't. You have to say it. He needs you to say it.
Your hand stops and he nearly shouts out in frustration. You abandon his pulsating cock and fumble his heavy balls again. He thrusts his hips up searching friction.
It's a sight. His heavy chest and wet eyelashes. He looks so pathetic. "You dumb, pathetic loser. Look at you. You're so beautiful when you're all desperate and whiny," you breathe against his wet cheek and he whines throwing his head back. "Do you deserve to cum, hm?"
"Let me cum, Miss," his voice is hoarse and so shaky. "Please. I- l-love y-you."
"Answer my question." You grab his face gently, kissing his tears away softly. "Do you deserve to cum after losing a game? You weren't good enough… do you really deserve to cum now?"
"I don't deserve to cum," he presses his nails into your arm, sobbing every word. Rin is completely broken. He can only feel the urge in his cock that only you can satisfy.
"No. You don't, loser," you kiss his lips and sit up. Rin is heaving and gasping at the loss of proximity. He feels like he's falling so deeply from the highest high. It is crushing. He breathes in hiccups, sobbing. He is so sweaty and exhausted and pent up and–
"Shh," you hug his head to your chest and he clings to you immediately, holding onto you for dear life. "It's okay." You stroke through his hair. "I got you, Rinnie. I was pretty mean, hm?"
He hiccups, sobering up in your arms softer. He touches the ground and does not break into a million pieces. Because you're making the effort to care. "I-is that h-how you felt?"
It all clicks into place then. What he needs to apologize for. He was so mean and then just abandoned you to yourself once he was finished and satisfied. Even if it's just a fling… that is shifty. He didn't know.
"Hm," you whisper and stroke his hair back.
He holds you tighter. "I am sorry." It's genuine now, not forced out by crippling arousal and lust. "I really am."
You look at each other for a long moment then you finally kiss him. "I don't care what you think," you say against his lips. "I'm good."
"Obviously," he whispers. "I didn't mean it.. I… I just–"
You kiss him harder, he cups your face pulling you closer. His touch is so gentle now, so appreciative.
"I don't know if I believe you. Show me?" You whisper, meeting his breathtaking eyes.
"Ha," Rin can't help the smile growing on his face. He kisses you, forces you to lay down. His lips worship your skin, nipping softly, giving appreciation.
Your shirt flies off and he sighs, looking at you. "You're so beautiful," he whispers and reaches out, giving your breast a series of tender squeeze before leaving wet, open mouth kisses over your tummy. "Makes me go crazy, you know? I forget my manners."
You sigh softly. Your head is buzzing. He takes off the rest of your clothes and you pull him in again, hoisting your lips together. "You are beautiful," you tell him softly.
"I am handsome, not beautiful."
"You are beautiful," you pout at him. "Trust me."
"I trust you," he smiles.
You sink into the cushions as you feel his fingers explore your folds, settling to rub softly at your clit.
"You're so wet," he mumbles. "You like being mean to me, hm," he chuckles. He pushes his middle finger inside and prods at your velvet walls until he feels you shiver and sigh. "There?"
"Yes."
You suck in a sharp breath and moan softly. Your hand rests on his arm while the other takes hold of the sheets. "Rin," you moan. The palm of his hand nudges your swollen clit, he adds a second finger, working on your g spot until you are singing a song of soft gasping and whimpers.
"Wanna cum on your dick, Rin," you whine. "Please."
Rin kisses you again. "If that's what you want, doll."
"Want it– oh!"
He slaps his oozing cockhead on your clit a few times, letting it glide through your slick. Rin is biting his moans back. He is way too sensitive still. "I won't last long," he sucks in a sharp breath.
"S'okay."
"Hm." He pushes past your entrance, invading your perfect tight walls, so snug around his length. "You just feel so good. So perfect. God… I love you."
You pull his lips onto yours again and soon you are a mess of rutting hips and greedy mouths. You are playing with your own clit. Rin is trying his hardest to hold it together. His brain fries with every pound into your divine cunt.
"I'm going insane," he chuckles breathlessly and hides his face on your shoulder. You rake your fingers through his hair then pull. "(Y/N)!" He whines desperately. "Gonna cum. Gonna cum. Gonna cum."
"Then cum," you whisper against his ear. "Bet you're gonna cum so much now," you smile.
"Fuck," Rin moans and grabs your throat, looking at you through his long lashes. He tries to; his eyes keep rolling back and crossing.
"Cum for me, Rinnie."
He can feel your cunt tightening and barely registers your grip on his wrist closing too. "(Y/N)," he breathes your name shakily. You feel him throb inside of you, ropes of hot cum spilling. It doesn't stop. He bites into your skin, you both tremble and shake. It's so much. Your bodies just keep riding the high, feeling every muscle contract and release in bliss.
"Shit," you breathe, holding Rin closer. "Oh… fuck."
"Heh," Rin sighs.
"No, stay inside. If you pull out now… it will make such a mess," you giggle, so out or breath.
"I hope," Rin's voice has gotten hoarse again. He pulls out and you whimper, feeling so much cum leak out of your swollen cunt. Rin watches with a smile on his lips.
He cleans you up this time, showers you in kisses and wraps you in his arms. You slump against him, gladly. This is all you wanted.
"(Y/N)?"
"Yes?"
He pulls you even tighter, "stop fucking the others. Be only mine."
"You need to do more convincing for me to consider that," you say.
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.
you blink sleepily and sit up in bed, rubbing your eyes. the space beside you is empty, but the sheets are messy, meaning that ron did sleep here, at least for a while.
you frown. did he find sharing his bed with another person uncomfortable? or did he just have to get up early because toto brought him a case to solve?
you’re snapped out of your thoughts by the sound of something shattering. it seems to be coming from the kitchen. you throw the covers back, about to go find the source of the sound, when ron appears in the doorway.
he looks messier than usual, and it’s cute. his long dark hair is damp, and obscuring his eyes, slightly more tousled than what you’re used to. a towel is slung around his shoulders, and he’s already dressed in his usual t-shirt, jacket and jeans.
“good morning, y/n.” his voice is warm and tinged with excitement as he beams proudly and holds out a tray. “i made you breakfast!”
“good morning,” you mumble back sleepily, stifling a yawn. “i heard something break, are you okay?”
he waves a hand dismissively. “it was just a plate. an occupational hazard.”
“of being a detective?”
“of being a prodigal chef,” he corrects, gesturing towards the tray.
there’s a cute mug with a cat face on it, filled with coffee, alongside a plate stacked with fluffy-looking pancakes.
you sip at the coffee, and almost spit it right out when you taste just how much brown sugar he’s put in it.
“i didn’t know how you took your coffee,” ron says apologetically.
you gingerly sip at the drink again and grimace. “so you decided to add ungodly amounts of brown sugar syrup to it?”
ron blinks. “you don’t like it?”
his head is tilted to one side and he’s watching you keenly, waiting for an answer. the embarrassing truth is that you’d do anything to see him smile, so you steel your nerves and say, “no, um, it’s great! really.”
you can’t tell if he buys the lie or not, but he seems happy enough either way. “good.”
he hugs you from behind, arms wrapping around you as he rests his chin on your shoulder. his warm breath tickles your neck. “you should sleep over more often.”
“yeah?”
“yeah. i… i liked it. you’re cute when you’re asleep.”
the unexpected comment has you flustered, but ron seems oblivious as he stabs a pancake with a fork and feeds it to you.
you take a bite and prepare yourself for the brown sugar taste to flood your senses, but instead it’s actually balanced out by the other ingredients. “wait, ron— this is really good!”
“i knew it.” his tone is smug as he eats the rest of the pancake you just took a bite out of. “and now we’ve shared an indirect kiss.”
you try not to laugh at how proud of himself he looks. “we can share a real one too if you want.”
the tips of his ears grown pink. he murmurs, “okay,” and leans in to kiss you, eyes closed.
he tugs you closer onto his lap, one hand resting against your back, keeping you steady. despite his inexperience, he’s a good kisser. it makes sense, you think to yourself— he’s an incredibly quick learner, and even more so when it’s something he enjoys— and the eagerness with which he presses his warm lips to yours proves that he definitely enjoys kissing you.
when you finally pull away, he grins. “if you stay over more often, we can do more of this.”
“you don’t have to try and convince me,” you reply. “i’d love to spend more nights with you.”
“you would?”
“of course, i love you.” the words slip out easier than you’d thought. truth be told, you hadn’t even meant to say them, but now that you had, you weren’t going to take them back.
there’s silence for a few seconds. ron’s eyes bore into you, and both of you hold your breath. then he drapes himself over you like a koala, clutching you tightly, and says, “i love you too.”
you try and fail to hide your giddy smile, burying your face into his neck. “oh.”
he pulls himself off you and observes your flustered expression, a smile pulling at the corners of his lips. “i’d assumed it was a given, but you seem to like it when i say the words out loud. hmm. cute. i love you, y/n.”
you hit him on the arm and huff, “you’re insufferable.”
“but you love me, right?”
you stick your tongue out at him. “actually, i love your cat more, so there.”
he sulkily replies, “well, i love brown sugar more, so there.”
“oh, okay.” you get up, pretending to leave. ron grabs your wrist and tugs you back into his embrace, murmuring, “i was kidding.”
you smile and take his hand. “i know.”
he links his fingers with yours tightly and says, “i’ll always love you most.”
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
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