#dr stone fandom

"After school is okay, right?" His brow briefly arched in concern, misreading your fluster for something else entirely. Were you busy with something afterschool? What were you busy with? Another guy? The unpleasant thought immediately pulled a frown out of him, filling him with more distaste than he’d like to admit. That, was a variable he didn’t account for… No, it could be something else. Maybe it was the weather? The forecast did say it would rain today, but he had his umbrella, and he was more than willing to let you use it. Sharing an umbrella with your beloved under the rain was commonly known to be romantic, was it not?

Senku cupped his chin in deep ponder as he considered every case scenario. Or was it because the sun set rather early this season? No issue there, he was planning to walk you home from the very beginning anyway, well, if you would let him…. Or was it something else? Dammit, what the hell am I missing? Should he have waited to say something on White Day instead like common customs? But then that was an extra month he had to wait. It was inefficient. Ah, but couldn’t he just confess today, on Valentine's, and then do it again on White day? Matter of fact, he could just say he's fond of you everyday after today's confession onward, no?

"Um- sure?" You answered unsurely, still dazed from what you heard come out of his mouth.

He snapped out of his train of thoughts the moment your meek response reached his ears. "Be prepared then."

"Okay…" Cheeks flushing with embarrassment, you complied pathetically under his relentlessness. How could you possibly put up a fight against the persistence that was him?

"Why is your face so flushed?" He pointed out shamelessly, abruptly pressing his rough hand on your forehead to check your temperature as if his oblivious nature wasn't the very cause of your malfunction. "Do you have a fever or something? Why come to school if you're unwell? Dumbass."

"No! It's just… this is— well, you basically already confessed…" Shoulders sagging with defeat at his denseness, you finally addressed the elephant in the room.

"…."

A deafening silence ensued between the two of you, so deafening you debated whether you could really hear the beat of the man's heart before you or if it was imagination's cruel delusion playing tricks on you.

The realisation of his stupidity finally dawned upon him. His ears flushed a comical red, you watched with enamour as he rubbed the back of his neck with once-in-a-blue-moon kind of fluster. Senku’s attempt to hide behind his face framing strands was undeniably pathetic, so much so you couldn’t help the titter that left you.

"Damn it... A brain clouded by love really is the most irrational kind..."

a/n: first dcst fic! it’s lowkey a slightly altered version of a rin/sae fic that i wrote but i thought it fit Senku sm so i just had to 😭 comment below if u have any dcst fic requests! most of all, i hope you enjoyed!

dcst! masterlist

The faint glow of oil lamps and makeshift electric lights flickered across the cluttered lab, casting long shadows over the chaotic array of stone tools, scavenged wires, and half-assembled circuits. The air smelled of sulfur, heated metal, and that sharp, earthy tang of the Stone World that never quite left your nose. Outside, the distant sounds of the Kingdom of Science's preparations hummed—people training, forging, whispering strategies for the looming clash with Tsukasa's empire. But in here, it was just the quiet scratch of Senku's tools and his occasional muttered calculations.

You pushed aside the heavy cloth flap serving as the lab's door, your bare feet silent on the packed earth floor. The weight of the day clung to you: patrols, resource runs, the constant undercurrent of tension as Senku and the others raced to finish the phone that could turn the tide. Everyone was stretched thin. But Senku... he carried it all.

He was hunched over the central workbench, white lab coat rumpled and stained, his green hair disheveled from running his hands through it too many times. His back was to you, shoulders tight with that familiar rigid focus. A small device—part of the communication prototype—sat in front of him, wires delicately twisted, but his movements had slowed. The usual spark in his eyes when you caught a glimpse of his profile looked dimmed by exhaustion.

"Senku," you said softly, stepping closer. Your voice cut through the quiet hum of his work without startling him. You'd learned long ago how to approach him like this—never too loud, never demanding, but present. Steady.

He didn't look up right away, his fingers still adjusting a tiny stone-carved component. "Ten billion percent sure you're here to nag me about rest again," he replied, that trademark smirk tugging at his lips even though it didn't reach his voice fully. "Save it. The phone's the priority. One wrong variable and Tsukasa's goons crush us before we can even call for backup. Can't afford downtime."

You moved beside him, close enough to see the faint shadows under his eyes and the way his hands trembled just slightly from hours of precise, unrelenting work. The stress was etched into every line of his body—the set of his jaw, the rigid line of his spine. He was pushing himself harder than anyone, reinventing science from nothing while the world threatened to collapse around you all.

You placed a hand lightly on his shoulder, feeling the heat of his skin through the thin fabric. "You've been in here since before dawn. The others are handling the perimeter. Let me help you unwind for a bit. Just a break. You know you think better when you're not running on fumes."

Senku finally glanced at you, crimson eyes sharp but weary. He leaned into your touch for half a second—almost unconsciously—before straightening again. "Appreciate the sentiment, but no can do. Focus is key right now." He turned back to the device, picking up a thin wire with renewed determination, though his grip was tighter than necessary. "If I stop now, momentum's lost. You understand that better than most."

The lab fell quiet again except for the faint clink of his tools. You watched him, the way his shoulders refused to drop, the stubborn set of his posture. He was insisting on pushing through, as always. But you could see it—the cracks in that unbreakable genius facade. The way his breathing had grown just a fraction heavier.

You didn't argue. Instead, you stayed close, your presence a quiet counterpoint to his frenzy. Your fingers lingered on his shoulder, tracing a slow, soothing circle there. He didn't pull away, but he kept working, eyes locked on the half-finished phone like it was the only thing anchoring him.

You let the silence stretch, content for now to simply watch him.

The warm, flickering light from the oil lamps painted his skin in soft golds and deep ambers, highlighting every sharp line and subtle shadow of his face. His green hair, usually so neat and spiked with calculated precision, was messy now—strands sticking up at odd angles where he’d dragged his fingers through it in frustration. A few pieces clung damply to his forehead from the humid night air and the heat radiating off the small forge in the corner. His crimson eyes, sharp and brilliant even when exhausted, reflected the tiny sparks of electricity he was coaxing from the primitive circuit. You could see the faint crease between his brows, the way his lashes cast delicate shadows on his cheeks every time he blinked slowly, fighting off the weariness that threatened to pull him under.

Your gaze drifted lower. The collar of his lab coat was slightly askew, revealing the sharp jut of his collarbone and the faint sheen of sweat along the side of his neck. A single droplet traced a slow path down the elegant column of his throat before disappearing beneath the fabric. His hands—those clever, long-fingered hands that had rebuilt civilization from stone and willpower—moved with practiced grace, twisting copper wire with delicate precision. But you noticed the micro-tremors in his fingertips, the way his knuckles had gone white from gripping the tools too tightly for too long. The veins along the backs of his hands stood out more prominently tonight, a map of strain and determination.

Even his breathing told a story: shallow, controlled inhales through his nose, followed by soft, almost inaudible exhales, like he was rationing every ounce of energy. The faint scent of him filled your senses—ozone from the electrical work, the metallic tang of tools, and underneath it all, that warm, uniquely Senku smell that always made your chest tighten with affection. His jaw was clenched, the muscles there feathering occasionally when a calculation didn’t go exactly as planned. A tiny scar you’d memorized long ago, just below his left ear from some earlier experiment gone slightly wrong, caught the light whenever he tilted his head.

He was beautiful like this. Not in the soft, polished way people usually imagined beauty, but in the raw, brilliant intensity of someone who carried the weight of the entire world on his shoulders and refused to buckle. Your heart ached with it—the love, the worry, the overwhelming need to ease even a fraction of what he bore.

Your hand slowly slid from his shoulder, palm pressing gently against the tight muscles there. That was when you truly felt it—the deep, stubborn tension knotted into his shoulders.

Without a word, you stepped fully behind him, both hands settling on his shoulders now. Your thumbs found the rigid cords of muscle running along his upper back and began to press in slow, firm circles. The fabric of his lab coat was warm under your palms, slightly damp from the long hours he’d spent hunched over the workbench.

At first, Senku’s body tensed even more—like a reflex, his mind rejecting the interruption. “Hey… I told you, I’m fine,” he muttered, voice low and distracted as his fingers continued twisting a delicate wire into place. But you didn’t stop. You kept the pressure steady, working your thumbs deeper into the knots, kneading the exhaustion out of him with careful, loving persistence.

Gradually, you felt the shift.

His shoulders lowered by a fraction. A long, barely audible breath escaped him as your fingers worked along the tight line of his trapezius. The muscles under your hands began to loosen, softening just enough that you could feel the difference. His head tilted forward slightly, almost involuntarily, as you dragged your thumbs up the back of his neck in a slow, soothing stroke.

You watched every tiny reaction. The way his crimson eyes fluttered for half a second before refocusing on the half-finished phone. How his jaw unclenched, just a little. The faint shiver that ran down his spine when your fingertips brushed the sensitive spot just below his hairline. Even his hands—still stubbornly working—moved a fraction slower, the precision still there but the frantic edge dulling.

He was relaxing. You could feel it in the way his breathing deepened, in the subtle way his back leaned back toward your touch even as he tried to fight it.

But he didn’t stop.

“Ten billion percent sure this is cheating,” he said, the words rougher than usual, laced with that familiar smirk even as his voice dipped lower. His fingers kept adjusting the tiny components on the device, eyes locked on his work like it was a lifeline. “Doesn’t mean I’m taking a break. The circuit still needs—”

You pressed harder into a particularly stubborn knot near his right shoulder blade, and his words cut off with a quiet exhale. His free hand gripped the edge of the workbench for a second, knuckles whitening again—but this time not from stress alone.

You smiled softly to yourself, continuing the massage. Your hands moved with purpose now, sliding down his back, thumbs pressing along his spine, then back up to his shoulders in long, rhythmic strokes. Each pass seemed to pull a little more tension out of him. His posture relaxed further, his head dipping slightly as he fought to stay focused on the glowing wires and stone components in front of him.

Yet even as his body surrendered to your touch, his mind refused to quit. He kept working, muttering calculations under his breath, stubborn as ever.

The contrast made your chest warm—watching the brilliant, exhausted genius slowly melt under your hands while still refusing to step away from his mission.

So you give him a reward.

Your hands lingered on his shoulders for one final, firm squeeze before you began to let them drift downward. Slowly. Deliberately. Your palms smoothed over the curve of his shoulder blades through the thin lab coat, feeling the subtle shift of muscle and bone beneath. You took your time, fingertips tracing the line of his spine in a feather-light caress that made his breath hitch just enough for you to notice. Lower still, gliding over the narrow dip of his lower back where the fabric had pulled slightly loose from hours of leaning forward.

Senku’s hands never stopped their meticulous work on the phone’s circuitry, but his movements had grown noticeably more deliberate, almost mechanical, as if his body was splitting focus between the delicate wires and the heat of your touch. You felt the faint tremor that rolled through him when your hands reached the hem of his lab coat.

Without hesitation, you slipped them underneath the fabric, palms meeting warm, bare skin. The contact was electric. His back was smooth and fever-hot from the long day’s strain, a light sheen of sweat making your fingers glide effortlessly. You caressed him with aching slowness, mapping every ridge of his spine, every subtle shift of muscle as he fought to stay concentrated. Your fingertips traced teasing circles over his sides, feeling the way his waist narrowed, the lean strength hidden beneath that deceptively slender frame.

Down… further down.

You pressed your body closer to his back, chest brushing lightly against him as your hands continued their unhurried descent. The pads of your fingers skimmed over the sharp edges of his hip bones, savoring the way his breathing had grown deeper, heavier. His crimson eyes were still fixed on the workbench, but his head had tilted ever so slightly toward you, betraying him.

Finally, your hands reached the waistband of his pants. Your fingers hovered there, resting just above the simple tie that held them in place, brushing lightly against the warm skin of his lower abdomen.

Leaning in until your lips ghosted against the shell of his ear, you whispered softly, breath warm against his skin,

“May I?”

Senku’s breath hitched audibly this time, the sound low and rough in the back of his throat. His fingers stilled completely on the delicate copper wire for a heartbeat before he forced them to move again, stubborn as ever.

“…I’m not stopping,” he rasped, voice strained but determined, crimson eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to refocus on the half-assembled phone. “No matter what you do… the circuit still needs calibration. Tsukasa’s forces aren’t going to wait for—ah.”

His words faltered as you began to move.

You pulled your hands away from his waistband with agonizing slowness, fingertips grazing over the warm skin of his lower abdomen one last time, feeling the way his muscles twitched under your touch. The oil lamps flickered softly around you both, casting dancing golden highlights across the lab’s cluttered surfaces—glass beakers, stone-carved tools, tangled wires, and the faint metallic gleam of the prototype device that held Senku’s fractured attention.

Rising gracefully, you circled the workbench with measured steps, your bare feet whispering against the cool, packed earth floor. The air between you felt thicker now, heavy with anticipation and the faint scent of ozone, sweat, and heated metal. Senku’s gaze followed you reluctantly, his head turning just enough to keep you in his peripheral vision while his hands remained glued to his work, twisting and adjusting components with forced precision.

You stopped directly in front of him.

The workbench’s edge pressed lightly against your hips as you stood between his slightly parted legs. From this angle, he looked even more devastatingly handsome—his white lab coat hanging open and disheveled, revealing the lean, toned lines of his chest beneath a simple sleeveless shirt that clung to his skin from the humid night air. A thin sheen of sweat traced along his collarbones, catching the light with every shallow breath he took. His green hair was even more chaotic up close, messy spikes falling across his forehead, a few strands sticking to his damp skin. Those sharp crimson eyes, usually so calculating and bright, were darker now, pupils blown wide despite how hard he fought to keep them locked on the device in front of him.

You held his gaze for a long, heated moment, letting the tension coil tighter. Then, without breaking eye contact, you slowly sank down to your knees before him.

The movement was unhurried, intimate. Your hands trailed lightly down his thighs as you lowered yourself, feeling the firm muscle tense beneath the thin fabric of his pants. The cool earth met your knees, grounding you as you settled comfortably between his legs. From this position, you had the perfect view of him towering above you—his narrow waist, the subtle rise and fall of his chest, the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed hard. His hands were still working, fingers meticulously twisting wires and adjusting tiny stone components, but his knuckles had gone white again, and his breathing had grown noticeably deeper, more ragged.

You rested your palms on his thighs, feeling the heat radiating through the material, the faint tremble in his muscles that betrayed how much your presence was affecting him. The flickering lamplight painted everything in warm, intimate tones, highlighting the sharp cut of his jaw, the faint flush creeping up his neck, and the way his crimson eyes kept darting down to you despite his stubborn insistence on staying focused.

Senku’s voice came out lower than before, almost a growl. “I meant what I said… I’m not stopping.”

Yet even as he spoke, his body told a different story.

His thighs were tense beneath your palms, muscles taut and quivering with the effort of staying focused. You could see the subtle twitch in his jaw, the way his crimson eyes kept flicking downward despite how hard he tried to glue them to the half-finished phone on the workbench. The flickering lamplight danced across his flushed skin, highlighting the faint sheen of sweat along his neck and the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

Slowly, intimately, your hands slid upward from his thighs to the simple tie holding his pants in place. Your fingers worked with deliberate care, loosening the knot one loop at a time, savoring the way his breath stuttered when the fabric slackened. You tugged the waistband down just enough, peeling it away from his hips with gentle reverence, exposing the warm, smooth skin of his lower abdomen and the sharp V of his hips.

Senku’s voice came out strained, almost hoarse. “This is… completely inefficient,” he muttered, fingers still clumsily adjusting a wire even as his hips shifted forward just a fraction. “We’re in the middle of a war. I should be—ngh—focusing on the circuit, not… whatever this is.”

You didn’t answer with words right away. Instead, you hooked your fingers into the loosened fabric and eased his pants and undergarments lower, freeing him. His cock sprang out, already half-hard from your earlier teasing and the weight of your gaze. He was exactly as you remembered—thin but impressively long, with a graceful upward curve and a flushed, sensitive tip that glistened faintly under the warm light. You wrapped one hand around the base, feeling the velvety heat and the way he pulsed against your palm.

Senku let out a sharp exhale, his knuckles whitening on the edge of the workbench. “Listen… I’m serious,” he continued, voice rougher now, though he still refused to fully look away from his work. “There’s no time for distractions. The phone has to be operational before—”

“Then keep working,” you whispered softly, leaning in so your breath ghosted over his exposed length. Your fingers stroked him once, slow and feather-light from base to tip, feeling him harden fully in your grasp. “Ignore me, Senku. Focus on your precious circuit. That’s what you wanted, right?”

You looked up at him through your lashes, lips brushing teasingly against the underside of his cock as you spoke. “If you can.”

His crimson eyes finally snapped down to meet yours, dark and burning with a mix of frustration, arousal, and that brilliant, stubborn fire that made you love him so fiercely. His lips parted, another protest clearly forming on his tongue, but it dissolved into a quiet, shaky breath as your hand continued its slow, intimate strokes.

His crimson eyes finally snapped down to meet yours, dark and burning with a mix of frustration, arousal, and that brilliant, stubborn fire that made you love him so fiercely. His lips parted, another protest clearly forming on his tongue, but it dissolved into a quiet, shaky breath as your hand continued its slow, intimate strokes.

The lamplight painted everything in rich, intimate hues—warm amber glows flickering across the cluttered workbench, catching on the delicate copper wires and the faint sheen of sweat now glistening along Senku’s sharp collarbones. His white lab coat hung loosely off his shoulders, the fabric rumpled and stained from endless hours of work. Beneath it, his simple shirt clung to his lean chest, rising and falling faster with every labored breath. His green hair was a wild mess, damp strands plastered to his forehead, a few rebellious spikes falling into his crimson eyes that he kept desperately trying to fix back on the half-finished phone.

You stroked him with reverent slowness, your fingers wrapped snugly around his long, slender cock. Every glide was smooth and teasing—thumb circling the flushed, leaking tip before sliding back down to the base, feeling the way he throbbed hot and heavy against your palm. He was fully hard now, the elegant upward curve of his length twitching each time you squeezed gently at the head.

Senku let out a strained exhale through gritted teeth, forcing his gaze back to his project. His hands shook as he picked up a thin tool again, attempting to twist a tiny connection into place. “This is… ten billion percent… unproductive,” he rasped, voice hoarse and cracking at the edges. “We’re on the brink of war. Tsukasa could attack any day and I’m— fuck— I’m supposed to be finishing the transceiver, not… indulging in this kind of distraction…”

But his words were losing power. His hips twitched forward into your hand despite himself, seeking more friction. A visible bead of sweat trailed slowly down the side of his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. The muscles in his forearms flexed and trembled as he gripped the workbench harder, his knuckles pale. You could see the internal war playing across his face—that brilliant mind fighting tooth and nail to stay focused on calculations while his body betrayed him completely.

You leaned in, letting your warm breath wash over his aching cock. You pressed a lingering, open-mouthed kiss right beneath the head, then dragged your tongue in one long, wet, torturous stripe from base to tip, savoring the salty, musky taste of him. Senku’s entire body jolted, a broken groan slipping past his lips before he could swallow it.

Still, he tried. He tried so hard.

His fingers fumbled with the wire, nearly dropping it. “Just… ignore it. I can… I can multitask. I’ve done worse under pressure—” His voice was growing thinner, breathier, the usual confident drawl completely shattered.

You looked up at him one last time, eyes locked with his as you parted your lips and slowly took him into your mouth.

The wet heat enveloped his sensitive tip first, then slid further down his long shaft, your tongue pressing flat against the underside. Senku absolutely broke.

A raw, guttural moan tore from deep in his chest—nothing like the controlled genius you knew. His head snapped back, green hair flying as his eyes squeezed shut for a moment before forcing themselves open again, staring down at you with wild, hazy intensity. His whole body shuddered violently, thighs tensing hard around you. One hand slammed down onto the workbench with a loud clatter, knocking over a small tool that rolled across the wood. The other gripped the edge so tightly you heard the wood creak under the pressure.

“Shit—!” he gasped, voice wrecked and breathless.

The sound sent a thrill through you, low and molten in your belly. Senku Ishigami—the man who had rebuilt science from nothing, who spoke in percentages and ten billion calculations—was falling apart under your mouth.

You took him deeper, slowly, savoring every inch of his long, slender cock as it slid across your tongue. He was so warm, so hard, the velvety skin pulsing against the roof of your mouth. You hollowed your cheeks gently, creating delicious suction as you drew back until only the flushed, leaking tip rested on your tongue. Then you sank down again, taking him further this time, until he bumped against the back of your throat.

Senku’s entire body reacted like you’d completed a circuit.

A deep, guttural groan ripped from his throat, raw and unrestrained. His hips jerked forward instinctively before he caught himself, muscles trembling with the effort of staying still. The workbench creaked under his white-knuckled grip. One of his tools clattered loudly to the floor, forgotten.

“Fuck… you’re really doing this now…” he hissed, trying to sound annoyed but only managing wrecked desperation. His crimson eyes were glued to you, half-lidded and glassy, the usual sharp intellect drowning in pleasure. Strands of messy green hair stuck to his forehead, damp with sweat. The flickering oil lamps cast shifting golden light across his face, highlighting the deep flush crawling down his neck and disappearing beneath his open lab coat.

You hummed around him in response, the vibration making his thighs twitch on either side of your shoulders. The earthy, musky taste of him filled your senses—salt and skin and that faint metallic trace from hours spent handling wires and tools. Your hands slid up his thighs, pushing his pants further down so you could grip the sharp cut of his hips, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin there.

Senku tried again. He always tried.

“Th-the frequency… needs to be… ah—shit—calibrated to 450 megahertz for proper transmission,” he muttered hoarsely, forcing his gaze back to the half-finished phone. His fingers fumbled blindly for the wires, shaking so badly he could barely hold them. “If I don’t get this right… Tsukasa’s empire will… will crush us before we even—”

You swallowed around him, taking him all the way to the back of your throat in one smooth, deliberate motion. Your nose brushed against the soft trail of hair at his base. Senku’s words dissolved into a choked moan, his head tipping back as his spine arched beautifully. The long column of his throat worked as he swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing under glistening skin.

The lab felt smaller, hotter. The distant sounds of the Kingdom of Science outside—hammers striking stone, low voices planning for war—felt worlds away. Here, it was just the wet, obscene sounds of your mouth working him, the crackle of the oil lamps, and Senku’s broken breathing.

You began to move with more purpose, bobbing your head in a slow, steady rhythm. Each time you sank down, you swirled your tongue along the underside of his cock, paying special attention to the sensitive vein running its length. Each time you pulled back, you sucked gently on the head, licking away the steady beads of precum that kept spilling from his tip.

Senku was losing the battle.

His free hand finally abandoned the tools completely, threading into your hair instead. He didn’t push or pull—just held on, fingers trembling against your scalp like you were the only thing keeping him grounded to this world.

“Damn it… you’re too good at this,” he groaned, voice husky and low. “I should be working… ten billion percent sure this is going to delay the entire project by at least three hours… maybe four if you keep— fuck— doing that thing with your tongue—”

You did it again—pressing your tongue flat and dragging it firmly along the underside while sucking harder. Senku’s hips bucked, driving him a little deeper into your throat. A string of curses mixed with half-formed scientific terms spilled from his lips, his usual genius completely short-circuited.

You looked up at him through your lashes, eyes watering slightly but never breaking contact. The sight above you was breathtaking.

Senku’s lab coat had slipped further off one shoulder, exposing more of his flushed, lean chest. His sleeveless shirt was damp with sweat, clinging to every ridge of his abdomen as it flexed with each ragged breath. His crimson eyes were locked on your face now, unable to look away anymore. His lips were parted, swollen from biting them, and every few seconds another broken moan or gasp would escape.

The tension in his body was coiled so tightly you could feel it—thighs trembling, stomach muscles fluttering, cock throbbing heavily on your tongue. Yet even now, in the middle of falling apart, his other hand was still weakly trying to adjust something on the phone, refusing to admit total defeat.

You pulled off him for a moment with a wet pop, strings of saliva connecting your lips to his glistening cock. You stroked him firmly with your hand, twisting gently at the head the way you knew drove him crazy.

“Still trying to work?” you whispered, voice husky. “Then keep going, Senku. Don’t mind me.”

Before he could answer, you took him back into your mouth, even deeper this time, relaxing your throat and swallowing around him.

Senku’s moan was loud enough that you wondered if anyone outside might hear it. His head fell forward, forehead nearly resting on the workbench as pleasure finally began to overwhelm that brilliant, stubborn mind of his.

Senku’s moan was loud enough that you wondered if anyone outside might hear it. His head fell forward, forehead nearly resting on the workbench as pleasure finally began to overwhelm that brilliant, stubborn mind of his.

The sight of him like this—bent over his own creation, green hair spilling messily across the scattered tools and wires—sent heat pooling deep in your core. The oil lamps continued their soft, hypnotic dance, bathing his flushed skin in liquid gold and warm shadows. Sweat glistened along the elegant line of his neck, tracing slow paths down his throat before soaking into the collar of his rumpled lab coat. His shoulders heaved with every ragged breath, the fabric of his sleeveless shirt clinging transparently to the lean muscles of his back.

You didn’t let up. You took him deeper, relaxing your throat around his long, slender cock until your nose pressed against the soft skin at his base. The musky, salty taste of him coated your tongue completely. You swallowed around him, the tight, wet heat of your throat squeezing rhythmically as you hummed again, sending vibrations straight through his length.

“F-fuck…!” Senku choked out, his voice cracking beautifully. One of his hands was still weakly hovering over the phone prototype, fingers twitching as if trying to make one last adjustment, but the tool slipped from his grasp and rolled uselessly across the wooden surface. His other hand tightened in your hair, not guiding, just holding on desperately like you were his last anchor to sanity.

You began to move with more rhythm—slow, deep bobs of your head that let you savor every inch of him. Each time you pulled back, your tongue swirled around the sensitive head, lapping at the steady flow of precum that leaked from his slit. Each time you sank down, you took him to the hilt, letting the tight ring of your throat massage him. Your hands weren’t idle either; one stroked the base of his cock in time with your mouth while the other slid under his shirt, fingertips tracing the slick, heated skin of his abdomen, feeling every flutter and twitch of his muscles.

Senku’s hips started to rock shallowly, tiny, involuntary thrusts that betrayed how badly he wanted more. His usual composure was shattered. Broken whimpers and half-mumbled curses spilled from his lips between heavy pants.

“Should be… calculating resonance frequency… not… ah— not getting my cock sucked in the middle of a goddamn war…” he groaned, the words slurring together. His crimson eyes were barely open now, glazed over with raw lust as he stared down at you through messy strands of green hair. His cheeks were flushed a deep red, lips parted and swollen from how hard he’d been biting them earlier. Every time you swallowed around him, his thighs trembled violently on either side of you.

The lab felt impossibly intimate. The distant crackle of the fire in the corner forge mixed with the wet, filthy sounds of your mouth working him — soft gags, slick slurps, and Senku’s increasingly desperate moans. Outside, the night continued, but in here, time had narrowed to nothing but the taste of him, the weight of him on your tongue, and the way his body was slowly surrendering.

You could feel him getting closer.

His cock throbbed heavier against your tongue, the vein along the underside pulsing frantically. His breathing turned sharp and erratic, chest heaving as his abdomen clenched tight under your palm. His grip in your hair tightened almost painfully, and a low, continuous whine started building in the back of his throat.

You felt the telltale signs—the way his thighs started to shake uncontrollably, the way his cock swelled even harder in your mouth, the way his entire body coiled like a spring ready to snap.

And then you stopped.

You pulled off him slowly, deliberately, with one final, agonizingly soft lick along the underside of his throbbing length before pulling away completely. Cool night air replaced the wet heat of your mouth as you sat back on your heels, gazing up at him with calm, half-lidded eyes.

Senku’s whole body jolted at the sudden loss. A desperate, broken sound escaped him—half moan, half whimper.

“W-why’d you stop…?” he stuttered, voice hoarse and cracking. His crimson eyes were wide and hazy, pupils blown with overwhelming need. His cock, glistening with your saliva, twitched hard in the open air, flushed dark and leaking steadily. “I was… fuck, I was so close—”

He looked utterly wrecked. Forehead still pressed against the edge of the workbench, green hair a chaotic mess, sweat dripping down his temples. His chest heaved like he’d run a marathon, lab coat hanging off one shoulder, shirt plastered to his lean torso. The brilliant genius who commanded respect with a single smirk was gone—replaced by a needy, trembling man fighting to keep his hips from chasing your mouth.

You stayed kneeling between his legs, lips shiny and swollen. Your fingers traced feather-light patterns along his inner thighs, barely touching, just enough to make his skin twitch and jump. You dragged your nails gently over his hip bones, then up the sharp lines of his abdomen, feeling the muscles flutter desperately under your touch. You leaned in close enough that he could feel the warmth of your breath against his aching cock, but never made contact.

“You wanted me to stop, right?” you whispered softly, voice sweet and teasing. “So you could focus on your work? The phone? The war? All those important calculations?”

Senku let out a shaky, frustrated exhale, forehead rubbing against the wood. “Well… yes— I mean, obviously that’s what I said, but—” His words dissolved into a quiet whine as your fingertips ghosted along the base of his cock, tracing the vein there without any pressure. “Please… don’t do this right now. You can’t just— ah— leave me like this…”

His hips twitched forward instinctively, trying to seek more friction, but you pulled your hand back just enough to keep the touch maddeningly light. You brushed your lips against the side of his length in the softest kiss, then moved away again, repeating the cycle — always close, always warm, but never enough.

You looked up at him with a gentle but firm expression. “Then swear it, Senku. Swear you’ll rest after this. No more all-night sessions. No more pushing until you collapse. You’ll take a proper break tonight—eat, sleep, let your brilliant mind recover. Or I stop here.”

He groaned, long and low, the sound vibrating through his chest. His hand was still tangled loosely in your hair, trembling.

“Ten billion percent… unfair,” he muttered, voice whiny in a way you rarely heard from him. “You’re weaponizing my own biology against me… But fine— fuck, yes, I swear. I’ll rest. I’ll take a break. Just— please, don’t stop now. I need you. I’m losing my mind here…”

His crimson eyes were pleading now, half-lidded and desperate as they stared down at you. His cock continued to throb visibly, flushed and painfully hard, a fresh bead of precum sliding down the side.

You smiled softly, pressing one last feather-light kiss right beneath the head of his cock, feeling him shudder violently at even that small contact.

“Good,” you murmured against his heated skin.

Senku shivered hard at the praise, a full-body tremor that made his lean thighs flex around you. You felt the way his muscles jumped under your palms, the barely-contained desperation radiating off him in waves. The flickering oil lamps painted him in such exquisite detail—golden light sliding over the sharp ridges of his collarbones, the faint sheen of sweat making his pale skin glow like polished marble. His lab coat had completely slipped off one shoulder now, hanging crookedly like a forgotten accessory, while his sleeveless shirt clung damply to every subtle contour of his chest and abdomen.

You didn’t make him wait any longer.

Leaning forward, you took him back into your mouth in one smooth, deep motion. The wet heat enveloped his long, slender length once more, your lips stretching around him as you sank down until your nose brushed against the soft skin at his base. Senku’s reaction was immediate and devastating.

A broken, keening moan tore from his throat, louder than before. His head fell back, exposing the elegant column of his throat as it worked frantically. “Yes— fuck, yes—” he gasped, voice completely wrecked, all traces of his usual scientific detachment gone.

You began moving with purpose now, no longer teasing. Your head bobbed in a steady, sensual rhythm, taking him deep every time, letting the tight squeeze of your throat massage his sensitive head. The obscene, wet sounds filled the small lab—soft gags when you took him particularly deep, the slick glide of your tongue, the quiet creak of the workbench as Senku’s grip tightened on its edge.

His hand in your hair trembled, fingers flexing restlessly against your scalp but never forcing you. He was still trying, in his own stubborn way, to maintain some semblance of control. His other hand weakly hovered near the phone prototype, fingers brushing uselessly against a wire before dropping again as another wave of pleasure crashed through him.

“You’re… so warm,” he slurred, crimson eyes half-lidded and glassy as they stared down at you. “So fucking good— I can’t— ngh— can’t think straight…”

The sight of him was intoxicating. Messy green hair plastered to his forehead. Cheeks flushed a deep crimson. Lips parted, swollen and shiny, letting out a constant stream of broken moans, gasps, and half-mumbled curses mixed with fragments of scientific nonsense that made no sense anymore. His narrow hips twitched and rolled shallowly, chasing the perfect heat of your mouth as sweat continued to roll down his neck and chest.

You poured everything into it—sucking harder on the upstroke, swirling your tongue around his leaking tip, then relaxing your throat to take him to the hilt again. One of your hands stroked what your mouth couldn’t reach, twisting gently at the base, while the other slipped further under his shirt, nails lightly scratching along his abdomen and up to his chest, teasing a sensitive nipple.

Senku arched into your touch with a whimper, his spine curving beautifully. The lab felt alive with heat and tension. The distant crackle of the forge fire, the soft night breeze rustling the cloth door, the occasional murmur of voices outside—all of it faded into background noise. There was only Senku: his taste, his scent, the way his cock pulsed heavier and heavier on your tongue, the way his thighs shook violently around your shoulders.

His breathing grew faster, more desperate. Short, sharp gasps mixed with deep, guttural groans. You could feel him getting close again—the way his cock swelled even more in your mouth, the frantic twitching, the way his abdomen clenched tight under your palm.

“Close— I’m so close—” he warned, voice hoarse and trembling. His fingers tightened in your hair, not pushing, just holding on as if you were the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely. “Please— don’t stop this time— I’ll rest, I swear, just let me— ah—!”

His crimson eyes locked onto yours, hazy, desperate, and completely vulnerable in a way only you ever got to see. The brilliant mind of Senku Ishigami had finally surrendered to you.

His crimson eyes locked onto yours, hazy, desperate, and completely vulnerable in a way only you ever got to see. The brilliant mind of Senku Ishigami had finally surrendered to you.

That look alone sent a rush of heat through your entire body. You held his gaze as you took him even deeper, sucking with renewed intensity while your tongue pressed firmly along the throbbing vein underneath. Senku’s moan fractured into something raw and beautiful — a long, shuddering sound that echoed softly in the quiet lab.

His hips stuttered forward, chasing the wet heat of your mouth as his control finally snapped. “I’m— I’m coming— fuck—!”

His entire body seized up.

You felt it all at once: the violent twitch of his long cock against your tongue, the way it swelled impossibly harder in your mouth, the sudden, rhythmic pulsing as he spilled deep down your throat. Thick, hot pulses of his release coated your tongue in heavy spurts. Senku’s head fell back with a broken cry, green hair flying wildly as his spine arched sharply. The tendons in his neck stood out in stark relief, glistening with sweat under the warm glow of the oil lamps.

You swallowed around him greedily, milking every last drop as his thighs shook uncontrollably around your shoulders. His fingers tightened almost painfully in your hair, holding you close as wave after wave crashed through him. Low, wrecked groans spilled from his lips with every pulse—nothing like his usual calm, calculated tone. Just pure, overwhelmed pleasure.

The sight of him was breathtaking.

His lab coat had fallen completely off one arm now, hanging limply from his elbow. His sleeveless shirt was soaked through, clinging to every lean line of his chest and the faint ridges of his abdomen that kept clenching with each aftershock. Sweat trailed down his temples, his jaw, his neck—making his flushed skin shimmer in the flickering light. His crimson eyes were barely open, rolled back slightly in ecstasy before fluttering shut again, long lashes casting shaky shadows on his cheeks.

For several long seconds, the only sounds in the lab were Senku’s ragged breathing and the wet, intimate noises of you swallowing and gently sucking him through the aftershocks. His cock continued to twitch weakly on your tongue, oversensitive and still leaking the last few drops of his release.

Finally, his grip in your hair loosened. His body slumped heavily against the workbench, forehead pressing against the cool wood as he gasped for air. The half-finished phone sat forgotten beside his trembling hand, wires and tools scattered from where he’d knocked them aside in his pleasure.

You pulled off him slowly, placing one last gentle kiss to the flushed tip before tucking him carefully back into his pants. Then you rose to your feet, sliding your hands up his body as you went—feeling the rapid flutter of his heartbeat, the heat of his skin, the way his muscles still twitched under your touch.

Senku didn’t move for a long moment. His eyes were still closed, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. When he finally lifted his head to look at you, his usual sharp smirk was nowhere to be found. Instead, there was a soft, exhausted, almost dazed expression on his face—crimson eyes heavy-lidded and warm.

“…You’re dangerous,” he muttered hoarsely, voice completely shot. A weak, breathless chuckle escaped him. “Ten billion percent sure you just short-circuited my brain for at least the next hour…”

He reached out with a shaky hand, brushing his thumb across your swollen bottom lip, wiping away a stray trace of his release. His touch was surprisingly gentle, almost reverent. The distant sounds of the Kingdom of Science outside slowly filtered back in—soft voices, crackling fires, the night wind—but inside the lab, the air still felt thick and intimate, wrapped around just the two of you.

You smiled softly at his words, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his sweaty forehead. “Good. You needed that.”

Senku let out a tired, breathless huff of a laugh, but he didn’t argue. His body was still trembling faintly with aftershocks, so you took charge. You reached for a nearby clean cloth you’d spotted earlier on one of the shelves and carefully wiped the sweat from his face, neck, and chest with slow, tender strokes. He sighed deeply, eyes slipping shut again as he leaned into your touch.

You helped him sit down properly on the sturdy wooden stool beside the workbench, guiding him with gentle hands on his shoulders. His legs were still shaky. Once he was seated, you tucked him back into his pants more securely and straightened his rumpled lab coat, pulling it back over his shoulders. Then you grabbed the small waterskin hanging nearby and brought it to his lips.

“Here. Drink,” you murmured.

Senku obeyed without complaint—a rare sight—taking slow sips while you ran your fingers through his messy green hair, pushing the damp strands away from his forehead. The oil lamps continued casting their warm, golden glow over both of you, softening every sharp edge of his exhausted face. Up close, you could see every detail: the faint freckles across his nose that only appeared after long days in the sun, the tiny scar near his left eyebrow from an early Stone World experiment, and the way his long lashes fluttered against his cheeks every time he blinked slowly.

You stayed close, standing between his legs as he drank, your hands gently massaging his scalp and the back of his neck. The lab felt peaceful now, almost sacred—just the two of you wrapped in the quiet afterglow while the rest of the Kingdom of Science moved outside.

After a few minutes, Senku finally spoke, voice still rough and low. “…How long have we been doing this whole thing again?”

You let out a soft laugh, continuing to card your fingers through his hair. “Almost a year now. Hard to believe, isn’t it?”

He hummed, tilting his head to rest against your stomach, eyes half-closed. “A year of sneaking around like this… I’m not even ten billion percent sure no one’s caught on yet.”

You glanced toward the cloth door of the lab, listening to the distant sounds of people still working and talking outside. “….Do you think they heard us tonight?” you asked quietly, a hint of amusement in your voice.

Senku’s lips curved into a tired but genuine smirk. “I hope not. I want those sounds all to myself.”

You raised an eyebrow, still gently stroking his hair. “You’ve kept that sound all to yourself for about a year now.”

“Well, yeah,” he replied, voice lazy and content as he nuzzled closer. “Call me selfish, but I don’t need the entire Kingdom of Science knowing what you do to me. Especially not while we’re in the middle of trying to win a war with science and a phone that still isn’t finished.”

There was a comfortable silence for a moment. You kept running your fingers through his hair, occasionally tracing the shell of his ear or the line of his jaw. Senku’s breathing had finally evened out, the deep exhaustion in his body starting to show now that the adrenaline of his release had faded.

“You really do push yourself too hard,” you whispered, pressing another kiss to the top of his head. “I worry about you, Senku.”

He was quiet for a beat, then sighed. “I know. But someone has to. Tsukasa isn’t going to wait around while I take naps.” He tilted his head up to look at you, crimson eyes softer than usual. “Still… I did promise I’d rest tonight. And I don’t break promises to you.”

You smiled warmly, cupping his cheek. “Good. Because I’m not letting you back on that workbench until you’ve eaten something and slept at least five hours.”

Senku groaned dramatically, but there was no real fight left in him. “Tyrant,” he muttered fondly, turning his face to press a lazy kiss against your palm. “Guess I can live with that… for tonight.”

The two of you stayed like that for a while longer—tangled in quiet intimacy, the weight of the hidden relationship and the looming war feeling just a little lighter in the warm glow of the lab.

“Get up you bum. It's time to put that mind to good use, I have an experiment that needs to be done with you necessarily. Get excited.” He chuckled as his words pulled you out of your mundane task. You tilted your head upwards in a slow motion with a slight frown.

“Just because I'm bored doesn't mean I want to do back-breaking labor dear.” You mumbled.

“Tsk, you're making it sound like I'm forcing you to pump air into a furnace, geez. Just stand up already, would you? I can ten billion percent assure you it'll give your brain some stimulants.” He held up his pinky on his left ear, rubbing it on that specific spot.

“Better than cellphones?”

“Better than that.”

You pondered over his offering for a few seconds before you begrudgingly gave in with a heavy sigh.

“If this turns out to be me testing out your chemicals, I'm calling out Magma to punch you in the gut.”

“Kekeke, you don't have to worry about that stuff idiot. Come on.” He waved off a gesture to follow him, and so you did. You stood up with your shoulders slumped and legs that felt like it could give out any second.

He took a quick glance at your sorry body. “Tch, you look like a disaster. You're acting as if making illogical doodles took half of your soul.”

“Let's just get on with this already.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

He guided you towards the makeshift lab with a stride, while you lumbered along with the grace of a slug. He can tell you're just trudging behind him in weak steps, so he slowed down to match your pace and ended up by your side.

“What are you doing?”

“Making sure my lab rat isn't going to collapse.”

“I'm walking.”

“Like the walking dead.”

You groaned at his comeback and straightened up slugglishly. And he let out a huff of amusement knowing his words took effect on you.

“Why are we heading to the lab?”

“Experiment dumbass, did you forget?”

“I'm just asking…”

“Asking the obvious is illogical.”

“It's not-”

“It is, what else would we go to the lab for?”

You went silent and just accepted the fact you look like a fool asking such a question.

You both finally arrived at the entrance, he entered first with zero hesitation and you trailed him from behind. You looked around the lab, only to find multiple containers made of glass and dangerous chemicals sitting in shelves casually. The usual.

Your eyes landed back to Senku, who's adjusting something you can't quite tell since his massive back is in the way.

“Alright, this should be good to go.” He turned and held out what seemed to be a clicker. It looked awfully primitive, the size was as big as his own hand, the ropes held tightly to the poorly designed box, and a bland button in the middle.

“Is that supposed to activate something?” You questioned with an eyebrow propped up.

“Nah. This ten billion percent can't function.”

“Then why the hell did you make it?” You crossed your arms in confusion.

“Decided to test out the spring mechanisms.”

“You sure that's one of the reasons?”

“Yes.” He blurted out almost immediately.

You narrowed your eyes at him with a suspicious look, but it seems you don't have the energy to argue with it so you stayed silent.

“Let's just go on with your experiment. What do I do?”

“Just follow what I have to say.”

“That's it? No playing with sulferina?”

“Nope.”

Now you're even more suspicious of Senku, his experiments usually involve equations or chemicals that could dissolve bones, but this is new. Way too new, which is concerning for a guy that barely changes anything unless it's necessary for the sake of humanity.

He moved towards the entrance with one hand on his waist and the other holding onto the makeshift clicker. His face held no expression when he suddenly blurted

“Walk with me.”

You hesitated for a fraction of a second and heeded his instruction. The moment you're beside him, he pressed onto the button that gave a delicious crispy click. Your ears perked up at the sound it made, but you didn't give much thought as he started to walk away and you caught up with quick steps.

You both wandered around the KoS, you glanced at previous inventions that sat in the open and the villagers that passed you by with friendly greetings. It felt refreshing to stroll around with your partner, a nice break to see him doing anything else than scientific progress. But you remembered this is an experiment, this probably doesn't count as anything else, right? You felt unsure at the purpose of this. Well either way, you just enjoyed his company.

Silence loomed over you two like a weighted blanket, it's comforting and warm, it welcomed you both with open arms. You didn't complain, it was rather peaceful, however, the silence was broken when he finally started to speak up.

“Grab those flowers for me.” He pointed in the right direction, where small daisies sat on the ground.

“You need it for your science stuff?”

“Nah. Those things have not a millimeter of usefulness other than doing basic photosynthesis.”

“Why do you need it then?”

“You're supposed to do what I say, you fool. Main part of our scientific analysis.”

You wanted to protest yet you remember how stubborn this man is. You quickly marched and plucked a couple of daisies before running back to your original position. You shoved the flowers to his chest with a huff.

“There, you happy?”

“Kekeke, beyond happy.”

Then, you heard the click again. The sound is emitting in your ears like a wonderful pop. He swiftly turned away from you and began to take paces away from you, which left you confused from his sudden motion. And of course, you pursued him from behind like a lost puppy.

He abruptly came to a stop, resulting in you crashing onto his back with a silent thud. You're about to ask why he stopped, until he turned to you with eyes that held an unknowing gaze. Crimson locking into you, face inches away, which makes you slightly stumble as you take a step back for some space.

“Close your eyes.” He blurted out with a raspy voice. He's looking at you expectantly.

Almost immediately, you obeyed him and shuttered your eyes. Your vision went black as soon as he said it. You can hear the clicker going off again, you feel more happy than you should.

Small footsteps crushed against the ground as he padded away from you, you can't tell where he went since your mind couldn't stop thinking about the click.

“Open your eyes now.” He whispered like the wind.

You opened them, blinking as your eyes adjusted from the sudden brightness. You see nothing but trees of greenery and the soft soil, he's no longer in sight. You hurriedly looked and turned around, only to see him as you turned to your back. Then, it clicked again, your eyes shined brightly when you received the sweet sound.

His smirk held genuine amusement from your reaction, which made you turn into bright shades of red from embarrassment.

“Fascinating, so that's the effect it gives you.” He muttered more to himself.

“What are you-”

“Kiss me.”

Like the flash, you grabbed his face and kissed him quickly enough for his balance to falter slightly. Your lips locked onto his for a few seconds before you pulled away in shock.

“Fuck, I didn't mean to-!” You tried to defend yourself, but the clicker interrupted you just as fast as you kissed him. For anyone else, the gasp that escaped your mouth could've been perceived as surprise from the sudden noise, but to Senku, it's entirely something else.

“Kekeke, hypothesis confirmed. You're ten billion percent submissive. Incredibly into praise.” He announced it off like it's nothing.

Your mouth fell open from his statement, absolutely appalled that he played you like that.

“You tricked me, you jerk! I hate you!”

“Your reactions said otherwise.”

You whined and placed your face in your hands as an attempt to hide your mortification.

“This is the worst…”

“You'll thank me for this in bed. Praise kink can definitely help you feel turned on faster.” His tone is too casual for words like that.

You shrieked from his implied words which crumbled your last string of sanity. At least you aren't suffering from boredom!

The truth was that Stanley never had an ambition of his own. No true desires bound him to any one inanimate object or person, except for Xeno. But Xeno was reaching for the stars while Stanley had yet to open his eyes to them, or to anything around him. Even as he blindly followed Xeno, Stanley had known for a long time that it was only a matter of time before he could no longer keep up. A matter of time before he'd be left alone in their small hometown, searching for what to do with his life, while Xeno set off to chase the stars.

Do you know who's always there for young adults like Stanley, who wander aimlessly through life, searching for their contribution—their purpose—in the world? In a matter of a week, Stanley had his life packed into a duffel bag, squished between two strangers in a shuttle marked "U.S. Marine Corps."

In the U.S. Marine Corps, Stanley Snyder was damn good at what he did. Everything came to him instinctively—second nature, not something to be learned. Not when he had already been shooting railguns with Xeno before he could understand fractions.

While everyone around him struggled to assemble their weapon, Stanley had already armed and disarmed it for the tenth time. By the time they armed themselves, Stanley would have shot them all right in the head. And that's exactly what he did, well, at least with the cutouts standing off in the distance. Each shot was precise, aimed at the head, heart, and, if he was feeling like putting on a show, right in the family jewels. For a brief moment in his life, Stanley had found his place outside his hometown—away from Xeno.

Xeno was smart in his own world of chemistry and mathematical equations, but in this newfound environment, Stanley was smart in his own right. He didn't need to calculate the position of his sniper rifle's muzzle to kill the bastard in front of him in cold blood. It was instinct. He could feel it in the rush of blood through his veins. He could feel it in the malicious throb of his cock beneath the camo of his pants as his finger hovered over the trigger.

It wasn't a desire. At least he wouldn't call it that. The feeling was difficult to describe to Xeno over the phone, to fathom it in words, or at least to sugarcoat this feeling in a way that didn't make him sound insane. The sensation it would bring him was not one he actively sought, but it came with the job, and when it was brought to him in a silver platter, who was he to refuse it?

The feeling was like a drug. It sends his heart reeling, pounding, and surging with a sick twist of emotion. His eyes were often clouded by a daze of bloodlust that left them bloodshot and shaking. Breathing in this euphoric state was difficult. He was always panting and foaming at the mouth, even though he never felt more alive. This feeling… it was like being on the brink of cumming, and it didn't help that his cock always strained against his uniform. Like a hunter and a buck in their sights, Stanley found pleasure in killing.

This newfound insatiable appetite proved useful in his line of work. The souls of those he killed didn't torment him, but they tormented everyone around him. Night terrors and gruesome thoughts plagued them, while Stanley didn't even remember the name or face of the life he had taken the day before. This psychopathic ability to feel no remorse is what skyrockets him through the rankings. From a rookie, to private, to sergeant, to lieutenant, and what would've eventually been captain.

The Navy Corps had become him, so much so that he hadn't given any thought to life after his service. In a bitter truth, Stanley didn't plan on ever leaving the Navy. Not because he loved it so, not because it was the only place on Earth where he could shoot a man between the eyes without repercussions. It was because he always thought it would be where he would die. Dead in a ditch far from home, with his bloodied dog tags the only means of identification. But reality was rather cruel to him. Or maybe this was justice—karma for all the lives he's taken.

When Stanley left his small hometown, he was eighteen, with nothing to live or die for. Thirty years later, he's back, and nothing has changed, except that the navy sent him home broken, leaving everyone else to fix what they've damaged. Badly healed bullet wounds, stitches that never healed properly because Stanley refused to stay put, scars along his back, and a bad leg that draws more attention than he ever wants. He couldn't hide it even if he wanted to. Not when it causes a limp in his steps or random jolts of searing pain that have him wishing he had died instead.

Thirty years, and the world has changed too much for him to comprehend. He feels like the geezers he used to make fun of when he was younger. The type of men who would spend their days loitering in diners, flirting with the waitress who doesn't get paid enough to deal with their shit. Men who would drink to their hearts' content, poisoning their livers, and drunkenly lecture him and Xeno about the cruelty of society.

In those years he was gone, his little hometown wasn't so little anymore. Houses, stores, and restaurants he had never seen before left him lost in the very streets he had walked with Xeno. Everything was too modern for him. Too much of a hassle to bother learning. It had all changed, except for the diner in front of him. Its dirty red-and-white stripes stand out against the tacky, modernized chain restaurants it's crowded between. The dingy neon blue "OPEN" sign flickers every millisecond, and just acknowledging it makes Stanley feel a migraine creeping up.

Standing in the pothole-infested parking lot, leaning against his motorcycle, he can vividly remember the smell of the burnt ashes and the nicotine that lingers in the diner from years of smoking. Through the grimy windows, he can see the patrons' sleaziness. Greasy and sweaty, not to mention already smelling their foul breath and musky body odor from outside. He's already imagining the debauched conversations he'll find himself in the moment he walks through the entrance.

Taking one last hit from his cigarette, inhaling the carcinogens that have yet to catch up to him, he pushes himself off his bike. Smothering the cigarette under his right boot, hands in the pockets of his jacket, he walks slowly to the diner, hiding the limp in his left foot. Pushing through the diner's doors, he hears a bell ring above him.

Stanley was blunt, a skill you needed if you were friends with Xeno, who, if given the chance, would talk your ear off. But over the years, as his rank rose, he not only remained blunt but grew to be utterly, disgustingly honest. He spoke his mind, and it was hardly ever pretty.

Being as foully honest as he was, he hurt others. The truth had always been known to hurt, but the way Stanley presented it made it seem as if his hand was pulling at one's heart. Cupping the beating organ in his hand and squeezing it just to hear the cries that came with it. Truth after truth, he could see the pain gloss over his victim's eyes. Teary-eyed, lips trembling, the glint of life killed for the fun of it. The feeling that surges through his body when he hurts others is only second best to killing. It didn't stir him the way killing did, but it was more of an appetizer, a sort of tease for his soul. Like foie gras, killing wasn't an acceptable meal, so he had to settle for the appetizer.

There are many appetizers to choose from—different ways to hurt someone. Words or the action of it, his hands ache to curl around someone's neck, the tips of his calloused fingers digging into the skin and muscle until the skin turns blue. His cock twitches at the thought of hearing choked gasps and winded cries, throbs at the idea of tears running down one's pained and terrified face. What once was a reality is now but a sick fantasy. He's back in his hometown, not a warzone. The only thing within arm's reach is the hostess in front of him.

"Pigs in a blanket and makeup on a pig, what's next?"

Stanley doesn't let the poor hostess finish her greeting before he sets her bursting into tears. Not that he cared. What he truly cared about was watching the shock flash across her face. How her smile slowly crumbled from her whorish lips, into a trembling pout.

And her eyes! Oh, those wretched attention-seeking eyes look so much prettier filled with tears.

Big fat tears run down her face, and with a snotty nose, she keeps sniffling, reminding him of a snorting pig. Stanley had a knack for pointing out insecurities. A knack for hurting others. A hunger for tears, and the hostess wasn't enough. He doesn't care that he'll eventually be kicked out of the diner if he continues to feed his sick appetite. He'll go to a bar next, then another, until he's banned from every place in his home.

It's like a game to him. Speedrunning through the waitresses, each eliciting a different reaction, but it doesn't satisfy him. It doesn't leave the taste in his mouth that he craves. Tears are shed. Profanities shouted throughout the rather silent diner. It might not be exactly what he ordered, but it'll do for now.

You'd think that after the second waitress he sent crying, they'd kick him out, but it's amazing what money can do for a sleazy owner. From his seat, he can still hear the sniffles of the waitresses he left in tears behind the swinging door—the only barrier that hides his prying eyes from his feats.

How many waitresses does it take to get his order in?!

For a moment, he thought he was poisoned. Drugged. His heart palpitated. His lungs squeezed, and his sight blurred around him, all except for you. You walk into the diner, unaware of the hungry eyes watching you from afar. You're muttering angrily to yourself, your dirty Converse stomping on the ground, an oversized bag over your shoulder. Your clothes were nothing special. Baggy jeans with an even baggier shirt that swallowed you whole, leaving nothing to anyone's sick imagination.

Your pretty lips pout, for whatever reason Stanley doesn't know. What he does know is you're not like the rest of them, that much is clear. You're young. Older than when he left all those years ago, but nearly half his age now. Your plump, soft, youthful skin… he wonders what it's like under his coarse skin.

Would you tremble like a fawn, look him in the eyes as he wraps his hand around your throat?

Oh, and those angry eyes of yours! Oh, how pretty they would look shimmering in your tears of pain.

He knows nothing about you, but instinctively, he knows everything there is to you. The way you carry yourself is awkward, just like a fawn. Unsure about the world around you, ready to drop to your knees, and onto your stomach when anything startles you.

Is that why you're hiding your body from me, sweetheart? You think that makes it easier to hide from me?

The other waitresses whisk you away before you have a chance to see him. They grab you by the arm, pulling you with an eagerness that makes you trip over your own feet, which he can't help but laugh sadistically at. He sees your ears perk at his laughter. You lift your head ever so slightly, turning around, and just as you're about to meet his eyes, you're pushed behind that damned swinging door.

He hears it. Hushed whispers he knows are all about him—the man of the hour. The eyes of the pig with makeup he insulted flicker toward him through the little window on the swinging door, still weeping, and Stanley laughs mockingly. His lips curl cruelly, an unlit cigarette between his teeth. The commotion in the kitchen dies, piquing his interest. He leans back in his seat, arms stretched along the red leather, and his legs part open like a whore. You walk out, and it looks like you're walking straight towards his booth. You're not doing anything out of the ordinary, but you do have a cute scowl on your face, and the sight of it has his cock throbbing.

"Hey, girlie," he whistles at you. Your steps falter for just a moment, almost as if you're contemplating stopping, and you ultimately don't. He whistles again, and this time you roll your eyes at him.

In that split second, you gave him more than he could dream of. In that moment, the millisecond your eyes rolled back, you painted him a picture of how your eyes would look once he got his hands around that cherubic neck of yours—deprive someone long enough of oxygen, and their eyes will roll back.

"I'm ready to place an order."

You walk closer and closer to him, and just as he thinks you're stopping at his booth, you walk right past him, muttering an unapologetic "off the clock."

Doubt begins to swim in his mind. A perfect fawn would've dropped to its knees before him, eager to please him to secure its safety, but you didn't. You barely acknowledged him, giving him nothing but a bit of unabashed attitude to accompany the growing boner in his camo cargos.

Is this really how it's going to go?

Sitting at a diner, waiting for his order to be taken, when all the waitresses are all but afraid of him. Stewing in his own doing, he had nearly missed you walking by him, but this time, you're different.

The wretched clothing you came in with is gone, replaced by the ugly uniform of your job. In Stanley's eye, it wasn't all so bad. With those baggy, ripped jeans gone, he can see the skin of your legs—soft and velvety, and so easy to bruise.

The skirt isn't as form-fitting as he wished it were. It hides your curves, leaving Stanley's mind free to imagine what your body really is like. Not to mention, the skirt is a little too long for his taste. The thin striped fabric ends just above your knees. It's longer compared to your whorish coworkers, who are one bend away from flashing the place.

The blouse hangs around your form, not as much as your own shirt does, and all the buttons are fastened.

A pity…

His eyes are traveling along your back as you walk away from him once more. The diner fills with a squeak from the hinges of the swinging door as you head back into the kitchen, where the hushed whispers pick up and die again as you walk out.

Finally!

You walk toward him with a skeptical look in your eyes, and his chest swells with pride.

Such a careful gal, aren't you? You really are my fawn!

You walk closer and closer, and how could he not just swallow you up? Like an eagle's eyes, he notices everything about you, every inch of your appearance, whether each choice was intentional or not. Like the cute pout on your lips, which just stirs the little big fellow in his cargos.

Your pretty lips aren't drenched in that ugly, bright red color that seems to be infecting the lips of all the other waitresses—no! Your docile lips shine just lightly under the fluorescent lights of the diner. No sticky gloss on your lips. Just the wet shine of your tongue licking your lips, which shows just a faint red—but the red is all natural! Red like the blood on his hands. He can see faint bite marks on your lips where you tugged the skin with your teeth, pooling the pretty flush of red.

"Hello there, I'll be your waitress this evening." Your voice isn't chipper or lewd like the others he sent crying. It's monotonous. Bored. Cute in a way that he can't wait to break. "What can I get started for you?"

"Why the long face, sweetheart?" he teases, his voice rasping with each word. He leans back, letting his muscles press against his black compression shirt. It's cute watching as your tired eyes try to be discreet while you take him all in.

Fuck, never seen a real man before, sweetheart?

"You'd be cuter if you tried smiling."

"Give me something to smile about, old geezer." You spit at him. Not physically, but in a hypothetical sense that he wasn't expecting it. Words you'd never hear from a fawn! You lured him into a false sense of security. You're no longer pouting at him, but sneering at him, and he doesn't know which is cuter.

"Is that how you talk to a customer?" he growls at you. He sits up straighter in his seat, his left leg dragging.

"Only to perverts like you." His eyes follow you as you glance at his crotch. Most men would be embarrassed to pop a boner, but not Stanley. He has no sense of morals. He's shameless. In the way only someone with a big cock can be. "Shocked you can even get it up still. Did you pop a Viagra before you got here, or what?"

Firecracker

You're a firecracker. With a bit of fire, you're explosive. Sparking everything around you in all of your glory, like the Fourth of July.

My lil' Firecracker

Bright, loud, and colorful. So full of life and spite, you're radiating it. Every sound from your pretty lips is lighting up his heart and mind with red, white, and blue.

He's stunned. Speechless. He fucking hates it. Hates that he loves it.

Oh, my lil firecracker. Your flame will eventually go out, and the pretty color of your sparks will cease.

"Tell me what you want. I've got other tables to get to." You're tapping your feet impatiently at him.

The nerve!

His eyes flicker just briefly at your feet, the ones that sound like fireworks to his soul. The dirty converse shoes you were wearing when you came in were still there. Dirt and grime cover its soles.

"Y'all got liquor here?"

"The bar is down the road."

"Burger and a Coke."

"That all?" your words slur together, as if you don't have the time for this poor veteran who has served for his country.

"Not unless I can order something off the menu," he smirks at you, flaunting his dirty mouth as he holds his cigarette between his teeth. His foot touches yours, and he pretends it's accidental, but you both know it's not. Not when the tip of his combat boots rubs along the exposed skin of your ankle. He caresses it with his bad leg, which makes his touch even more pathetic. He has limited control of his leg, which is obvious in how stiffly it glides along your ankle.

Stanley's touch doesn't last for long, not when his leg spasms and the pain shoots up his lower back. He's been stabbed and shot at, but the pain that he feels in his leg doesn't compare. A deep hiss leaves his lips as the cigarette slips between them. It falls right into his lap, and the lit end is put out by none other than his crotch. His hands clutch the edge of the table desperately as the pain throbs.

His eyes are squeezed shut as pain courses through his body. He can hear your feet walking away, and like the firecracker you are, you don't leave without making a show. "Fucking old man."

Stanley doesn't make your shift any easier. You're his firecracker, but he keeps it fair, as fair as he can make it. Having his own waitress running around reminds him of back in the day, when he was training his own recruits. Barking orders in their faces. Spitting on them whenever he felt like it. Kicking them when they were already down. All of it was acceptable, but he can't do that to you. So he does the next best thing.

"You forgot the ketchup." Stanley tugs at your wrist, stopping you from leaving as quickly as you got there.

There's no escaping me, firecracker.

"You didn't ask for ketchup," you retort to him, pulling your hand free from his mean touch.

"Who the fuck doesn't eat their fries with ketchup?" he pushes his plate back towards you.

You can only trick him once before he's quick to learn. He knows you're not the fawn he thought you were. You're not going to lie down and take his words, nor are you going to give him those pretty tears of yours so easily.

He's feeding fire to your small fuse, ready for the sparks. He can see it on your face. You're ready to pop. His cock twitches in anticipation, but it doesn't come. A look of obedience flashes across your face, not because of him, but because of what's behind him. Your pretty mouth, ready to whistle, purses. You bite your tongue, silently grabbing his plate of food, then muttering an insincere apology and running back to the kitchen. Through the reflection in the napkin holder, he can see the owner of the place standing not too far behind him, and it all makes sense.

You come back running out not a second later, and of course, you're a brat.

"You think you're smart, don't you, sweetheart?" he's amused by your little act of defiance. You handed him his plate again, this time with a ridiculous amount of ketchup on the side—more than the soggy fries on his plate.

"Anything else, sir?" You ignore his comment, pretending to be the perfect waitress.

You're ready on your feet, swaying on the tips of your shoes, heel to toe, waiting for Stanley to dismiss you, but he doesn't. He taps the glass cup on his side with his finger, silently and arrogantly. You snatch the cup from his side and ask once more, "Anything else?"

"There's a lot more I want, but unfortunately, it's not on the menu." His eyes flick from your peeved face down to the exposed skin at your collar. His tongue wets his lower lip as he rests his gaze between your thighs. With your manager right behind him, you force a tight-lipped smile before storming off. Seeing your cute expressions stirs Stanley up, and it only urges him to fire you up even more.

With his picky requests and finicky palate, you're the only waitress in the diner who's running back and forth like a chicken with its head cut off.

"I said light ice."

…

"No onions."

…

"Meat ain't cooked right."

…

"It's got your hair on it, doll."

His cock grows harder and harder, straining against his pants, as your frustration becomes visible on your face and body. Your cheeks flush with an irritable red, your mouth pouts and trembles, and your tired, sore legs drag with every step across the dirty tile floor. You're on the brink of tears—perfect!

"Too bland." Plate in hand, you walk back to the kitchen defeated.

Oh my cute firecracker, about to pop, aren't we?"

The hinges on the swinging door squeak loudly, and Stanley sits up on his seat, ready for his meal.

What excuse should I go with this time?

You place the plate directly in front of him, but you're not alone. A man older than Stanley stands beside you. If Santa were a cook, this man would be him. He's wearing an apron, dirty with grease and other stains he doesn't want to know about. He's got wrinkles all over his kind face that's temporarily replaced by a stern look.

"Heard you got a problem with my food?"

Fawn or firecracker? What exactly are you, my sweet girl?

Stanley's lips twitch in silent anger, body seething as you hide behind the cook. Tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek, lips tugging to the side, Stanley gives in.

You won this round.

"Looks perfect," he says through gritted teeth.

"Glad to hear," the cook says with mock kindness. Stanley watches in silent rage as the cook pats that charming head of yours, and it's as if you betrayed him. Blushing at the affectionate touch, you bless the cook with your precious, genuine smile. "Enjoy."

Did you not like the game we were playing?

It doesn't matter how long Stanley stays at the diner; the cook never leaves. It's ten minutes till close, and all the other waitresses and cooks have left. With a keen sense only years in the army can give, Stanley knows that every time you step out of the kitchen and back to his booth, the old cook watches carefully through the little window. He can feel the old man's gaze on you, shielding you from Stanley. There's so much he wishes he could do, but limited by the witness that refuses to go away.

It's a minute till close, and Stanley happily listens to the impatient tapping of your foot as he bites into the soggy fry. You're leaning against the barstool facing his booth, arms crossed over your chest, and you're staring daggers right at him.

"You do know we close in a minute, right?"

"You're trying to rush me?"

"I have places to be."

"Oh? Like where?" Stanley muses. A smirk tugs at his lips as he pushes the nearly empty plate in front of him. You instantly pounce on the chance. You lean over his table, reaching for the plate he deliberately places out of reach.

"That's none of your business," you grit.

It's adorable seeing you struggle. You're on the tip of your toes, reaching for it. Your chest presses against the table, and your cute ass sways. The material rides up just enough that Stanley could easily take a peek, maybe even a cop a feel. His greedy, perverse hand inches slowly away from his lap towards your thigh. His hand is steady, fingers in the midst of your skin, and then he hears it.

"Hey!" It's not your voice, but the cook in the back. It's deep and filled with a fake warmth. "If you see the poor girl struggling, give her a hand."

How could you do this to me, firecracker?

Begrudgingly, Stanley pushes the plate closer to you, and you're quick to snatch it from him. Carelessly, you throw the check at him as you rush to take his plate to the back.

Defeated, Stanley places the cash on the table. He waits a moment, hoping you'll come out the back, but after five minutes, you never do. It breaks his heart. He thought he'd see that pouty face of yours once more. Send him off into the night with something to ease the ache in his balls.

The gravel of the parking lot crunches loudly under his boots. He doesn't walk far from the diner, not when his foot is starting to act up again. He can feel the random spasms of pain spreading through his leg, and in an instant, he's on his knees in agony, clutching the gravel between his fingers, nails raking up the dirt beneath.

"Hey!" your voice calls out behind him. Amid his pain and the joy of hearing your voice, he doesn't note your tone. He turns his head eagerly towards you, only to be met with loose change.

"No tip?!" You're shaking in anger, and Stanley's in a dilemma. Pain surges through his body, and he can't get up to put out the sparks flying out of you.

Red.

Your anger is clear in the way you're yelling at him. Your voice is deafening in the silent night. Your arms fly into the sky as you continue to spark. He's heaving on the ground, forced to stay silent by his own body. Blood pooling at his lips where the coins had hit him.

White

The throbbing in his dick is gone. The tension he had been saving pulses out of the angry tip. He can feel his cum trapped between his briefs and pants.

Blue

The neon sign that had irritated him earlier turns off behind you.

"Keep the change, old man. You clearly need it more than I do."

Firecracker.

Firecracker.

Firecracker.

Oh, my lil' firecracker, wait till I get my hands on you…

A/n: Soooooo, how are we feeling? A bit of a slow burn, am I right?!

Sadly, no smut this chapter! This chapter was more of a buildup for the main course...I guess you could say it's a bit of an entrée! We'll get to see more of the tension between the two in the next chapter! Also some smut scenes!

As always, let me know your thoughts! I love it when yall engage with poor ol' me!

Tags: @lavend3r-anon, @riarian (I believe you wanted to be tagged? If I misunderstood, lmk!)

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