#gen x reader

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.

ok that's it, until next time!

taglist: @lovingyeet

—Senku starts to remember everything, and when I say everuything I mean it, you say. Offhand comments become projects. Do you like a certain scent? He’ll recreate it. Say you miss a food? He’ll reverse‑engineer it. If you ask him? It's for the advancement of civilization, 10 billion percent sure.

—His version of a confession is undeniable his in style, indirect but unmistakable. He'll invite you to join a long‑term project, something that will take months or years.

❝Don't make a big deal about it… I want you in my future when we rescue humanity.❞

—Would you believe me if I told you it started as a joke? Gen Asagiri flirted with you as he had done with many others before, but with you, something's different. He starts sizing up your reactions more closely after every interaction. His jokes become gentler, more intimate. His compliments stop being generic and become specific, almost vulnerable.

—Then, he starts bringing you things that seem casual… But that everyone knows is not. A pretty feather, a perfect leaf, a polished stone, all small tokens which he hands you theatrically. And once you turn around with his gift already in your hands, he stares at your back with a tenderness that he doesn't allow himself to show face-to-face.

—Gen can be a showman in public, in a way. But in private, his act tones down, revealing a softer side of him. He likes to sit with you at sunset, when the world turns golden and still. And when the conversation becomes intimate, he looks at you with an expression he doesn't use with anyone else: a mixture of longing, desire, and fear.

—In case it wasn't clear, he's afraid of what he feels. He's insecure about his own feelings because of their profound nature. However, one day he blurted it out as if it were a joke, despite the slight tremor in his voice.

❝You know… I like you more than is strategically sensible.❞

—As I've said before, Tsukasa Shishio shows affection through protection. He doesn't see you as weak, if you're wondering it, yet he doesn't hesitate to position himself between you and any possible threat without making a show of it.

—Tsukasa is an avid listener at that. When you speak, he gives you his full attention, as if your words are something sacred. He doesn't talk much about himself. Nevertheless, it's your trust in him that makes him lower his walls, sharing personal details that no one else knows.

—Another quiet show of his interest comes in the form of small rituals he has started to form with you: He leaves wildflowers where he knows you'll find them, he prepares the best piece of meat without saying a word, he covers you with his coat while you sleep, he watches you tenderly when you think he can't see you. They're not that grandiose, but they're enough to make you warm on the inside.

—Then, one day, the imminent arrived. It was in the way he looked at you, really at you, and admitted wanting to give you a future, one which he's willing to protect with his own life if it meant you would be happy.

❝I want to build a world where you can live without fear.❞

—I hope you're ready, because Xeno Wingfield finds your mind stimulating enough, which translates to a new attraction to debating with you about anything and everything. If he starts seeking you out to debate, to listen to your ideas, to ask your opinion on complex issues… Oh, he’s already halfway gone.

—Similar to Senku, he finds it intimate the prospect of sharing knowledge, especially the one he holds dear. For such, he'll offer to teach you anything you may ask him about, whether it's the intricate works of space, or why his gloves have those metal claws attached.

—Intense emotions aren't Xeno's strength, which seems pretty clear, so he lets them escape through small cracks during your moments together. Funnily enough, if you make him laugh, really laugh, he stares at you as if he doesn't understand what just happened to him.

—When he finally decides to say something, he does so with precision and a deep vulnerability. Despite the firmness present in his voice, his hands trembled just the slightest. For him, admitting his affection is a leap of faith.

❝You have become… Important to me. More than I anticipated.❞

—We're already aware that Stanley Snyder is a man focused on actions; that is, his affection is shown through various actions that demonstrate his attention to you. He fixes things for you, sharpens your tools, stands guard nearby without being asked…

—Those eyes of his will be set on you, whether you're aware of their constant presence or not. He watches you from a distance at first, almost like a soldier assessing a battlefield. Based on what he learns from his curious and respectful observation, he adjusts his behavior accordingly. His attention is constant, silent, and almost devotional in nature.

—His teasing is… He teases you dryly, to be honest. Yet if someone else does it, he shuts them down with a single look. He's the only one with the right to fluster you, and everyone should know that.

—Stanley isn't the most open about himself at first, taking his due time to open up for you. His life comes to your knowledge in fragments: a story from his past, a scar explained, a rare laugh shared. He doesn't talk about himself. Not out of pride, but because he doesn't know how. But with you… Things just slip out.

—And, when he finally gains the courage, his confession comes bluntly, directly, and devastatingly sincere, just like him.

❝I’m yours if you want me. Just say the word.❞

SENKU

senku will take the entire night finding out what makes you feel good. he’ll make you cum until you’re spent, and then make you cum more after that. “just one or two more tests, you’re doing so good for me.” he speaks so softly and sweetly to you that you can’t help but keep going for him. he’s a huge liar though, because he won’t stop until he figures out what makes you squirm, or scream. he’ll fully ignore his hard-on, focused only on you and your orgasm(s). before he can pleasure himself, he wants to know where your sensitive spots are. he wants to make you moan his name until you can’t speak. for science. of course. “was it here, or… oh, that’s where it was.” he’ll try everything over and over again until it’s muscle memory. so that next time he fucks you, he can do it right. “next time,” he starts, right by your ear, watching your cum spill out for the nth time, “i’ll be able to hold you right over the edge until you break.”

TAIJU

he goes just so feral for you. he loves you and your body so much that he can’t help himself, he can’t even wait until you get to bed. he obviously waits until you’re in private but as soon as that door closes he’s ripping both of your clothes off, picking you up, and pushing you against the closest wall. you need to have some crazy stamina to handle him. “you’re so pretty, baby, i love feeling you against me.” he groans against you, leaving as many hickeys on your neck as possible. the hickeys aren’t for others to see, they’re more because he just wants you to feel exactly how much he loves you. he wants you to have physical proof of his love.

TSUKASA

if i had to use two words to describe the way this man fucks you it is raw and rough. he wants you to feel his cum deep inside. he’ll only pull out if he’s cum inside you once, and when he pulls out all his cum has to hit your body somewhere. his cum needs to be covering you by the time he’s done. he’ll use you like you’re a fucktoy, and he will treat you the same way. “i can feel you tightening around me. you like being my cumdump that bad, huh?” he loves making you ride him. “a real fucktoy wouldn’t get tired. should i get one?” he touches all your sensitive spots while you’re riding him, getting you even weaker so he can tease you for being tired.

CHROME

chrome fucking you would include a ton of giggling and romance on both ends. he’d kiss you passionately, but, “oh, shit, babe, did i bite your lip?” the two of you laugh it off, and move on. when it gets more serious… hickeys everywhere. he’s proud he’s yours, he wants both of you to be marked from top to bottom. he stretches his neck more than usual the day after, showing everybody your beautiful work. he gets so passionate he’ll be fucking you so fast he doesn’t even notice. he just needs to feel you around him. whenever it slips out (because it happens more than you’d think), he apologizes and goes right back to it. he’ll fuck you past the point of overstimulation. your legs will be shaking by the end of it. he’ll just grin innocently and take care of you as best as he can.

KINRO

he’ll usually let you take more control, whatever makes you happy. but if you give him control, his favorite position is missionary. he loves watching your expressions and he loves seeing your face when you’re moaning. he loves that you can see his. eye contact during orgasm drives this man insane. he teases a bit, just because he likes hearing you whine at him. he won’t make you beg though, he isn’t that cruel. “whenever you’re ready, baby, cum for me.” he speaks so soft and gentle. definitely the talk you through it type. and right after, he’s so sweet, cuddling you, holding you close, and never letting go.

GEN

gen sits you in his lap, back against his chest. he’ll blindfold you, and the first thing you’ll feel is his clothed hard-on against you. the next thing you’ll feel is his breath on your ear. “you feel it, right? how excited i am for you already?” the filthy things that will come out of this man’s mouth will actually not shock you. he’ll drag teasing touches, get your hopes up and then bring them right down. “you’ve been waiting so long for me, i’ll reward you.” but he’ll only touch the inside of your thigh. he’ll get dangerously close, just to remove his hands and go back up to your chest or waist. he’ll chuckle when you start groaning and getting frustrated. “you don’t know what you’re in for.” and you really don’t. when he finally starts touching you, he’ll get you so very close to finishing, and then stop. “i thought this is what you wanted?” 

HYOGA

he’ll tie you up, proper shibari style. he’s very good at it, too, you can hardly move. he’ll start very slow. he teases you with gentle touches and soft kisses, making you perfectly needy for him. “you’re so wet down here, it’s embarrassing.” he talks down to you as he fingers you, watching your expressions change. “what? are you gonna cry?” he scoffs. “you’re pathetic. might as well beg me to fuck you.” if you pull at your ties even a little bit, he’ll stop. “how many times do i need to tell you?” he asks when you start whining for him to continue. he only keeps going if you beg. “fine, but do it again, and i’ll leave you alone all tied up. you’ll have to figure out how to cum on your own, because i won’t help you.” you know he’s serious. he takes his time teasing you and opening you up so he can finally fuck you. when he fucks you, he starts hard and fast, and he doesn’t stop until he cums, even if that means you cumming multiple times. he takes very good care of you when you’re done, untying you and pressing kisses wherever you were tied.

UKYO

he loves teasing you. “don’t make a sound,” he’ll say as he fingers you. you can’t hide a single hitch of your breath around this guy’s hearing. he chuckles when he notices you’re holding your breath. “don’t cheat, love.” he smirks at you, driving you insane until you finally let out the smallest moan. a normal person wouldn’t have heard it, but ukyo? he stops everything he’s doing, moving his hands and drawing gentle circles on your thighs. “aw, what happened, love? i thought you weren’t going to fail.” he has you tearing up at your third attempt before he kisses your tears away and says, “alright, i’ll go easy on you.” he gives you exactly what you want, but the catch is that you can’t cum until he does. you’ll be stuck there for an hour or more.

RYUSUI

he takes his timeeeee. he pays all his attention to you. he’ll drag his hands all up and down your body, saying you’re beautiful in between every kiss. “i love this body. i love that it’s mine.” he has you strip slowly for him, making sure you take your time. it gets him so hard. he’ll lay you down and kiss down your body, fingers teasing so close to that one spot you want him to touch. and if you think because he worships you so much that he won’t make you beg you’re mistaken. he wants to hear his sweet thing’s voice saying “please, ryusui” ‘til he’s satisfied. then he’ll do the same thing while he’s fucking you. he’ll start slow, pressing kisses down your chest while saying, “say please, baby, i can’t go faster ‘til you beg for me. it’s hurting me too, y’know. you don’t know how bad i want to fuck you until you can’t walk.” even when you finally say it though, he’ll go, “i need more, baby, just a little more.” when he gets what he wants, just know you’re definitely not walking the next day.

STANLEY

he loves seeing you on your knees sucking him off. it drives him wild. he will cum minutes after you start and impatiently pull you up, sitting on the bed and pulling you on his lap so you can ride him. “gotta stay quiet, xeno’ll kill us if he hears you.” you muffle your moans the only way you know how. you bite down on his shoulder, hard. he holds your waist still on him, staring at you. you stare back, and his lips crash into yours. he’s moving your hips back and forth against him, and moaning into your mouth. you pull away to bite him more, and suddenly he’s changing positions. he pushes you onto the bed in missionary, staying close to you, so it’s easier for you to bite him. he’s the one who can’t keep his moans to himself now. you still get in trouble with xeno, but neither of you care. the bite marks are out for everyone to see the next day.

XENO

xeno wants to know your most sensitive spots. as soon as he finds them, he will abuse them over and over and over again. he’ll have you begging him to stop. “i thought you liked it here?” he’ll question, moving on to an even more sensitive spot. “or was it here?” you protest, so he stops entirely. “so you don’t want me to touch you?” he’ll sit back and make you touch yourself in front of him. “you’re complaining so much, why don’t you show me how it’s done? or are you just being a brat?” it’ll be a while before he actually fucks you, and when he does it’s even worse than before. “why are you complaining now? just ride me, show me how it’s done.” you just want the man to stop teasing you, but he won’t. he’ll make you ride him with no help until you cum, and then edge you until he’s happy with your attitude.

a/n ⋆ i hope this is good i've never posted nsfw ! enjoy!!!!!

m. list

It has to be something else. Well that's what Gen thinks. And he's kind of right because what makes you so respected among the others? Was it your overwhelming strength? Your excellent ability to lead others?

Maybe everything together. But there are so many others who are capable of your job? Why are you so popular? Honestly, those questions are torturing Gen for the last few days

Until he experienced the reason himself.

It was unspeakable kindness.

Like last time when he stalked you for a whole day—

"Wahh! I forgot my wallet!"

"That's alright. Today's my time to invite you." your lips curled into the faintest smile, a rare sight for your solemn gaze.

"Ah..! Thank you so much, vice-captain [lastname]!"

Or in the middle of the battlefield—

"My apologies, vice-captain! It's entirely my fault for being distracted!"

You shook your head and placed your hand on top of his shoulder, ignoring the burning pain in your other arm. "It's alright. Everyone gets distracted once in a while." you were quick to brush off.

"But you got badly hurt!"

"Make sure to stay focused from now on so this won't happen again. Yes?"

"I-I understand, vice-captain!"

Not to forget on your day off—

"Oh? It's unusual to see you out on a day off." you blinked in surprise.

The black-grey haired boy twitched as he immediately lifted his head, tearing his gaze from his phone to you. "Y-You..!" he spluttered in total shock, not expecting to see you around.

"T-That's [lastname] [name], vice-captain of the first division!" a young girl gasped in shock, her excitement vivid.

"Who? Who's that, old man?" another kid spoke up, who sat next to him on the bench.

"Oi, I'm not old at all! I just turned twenty!"

"Right, explain that to your white hair."

"It's obviously grey, brat!"

"Oh, I didn't think you would be the type to understand yourself with children." you patted the head of the girl, who clung onto your leg.

"I don't!" he denied, "they just came out of nowhere."

"Gen-chan visited us!" the little girl giggled.

"Really?" you crouched down to her level.

"Yeah, he visits us once in a while. The orphanage we live in isn't in the best condition, so he makes sure to check up on us." she whispered, a big smile adorning her chubby face.

"That's sweet of him." you hummed, returning her smile with your own.

"I'm not checking up on them..! Just because I decided to hang out here, doesn't mean I intended to visit you brats..!"

"Wow, that's totally something what an old man would say..."

"Right?" you agreed, deciding to humour them a little.

You rose from your crouching position and sat down beside him, the girl not hesitating to follow you and making herself comfortable by leaning her head against your arm. "Can I get an autograph?!"

"Sure, you just have to give me a marker." it's not like you're a celebrity. But it doesn't hurt to bring a little joy for children.

"You want an autograph from her!?" Gen froze, his thumbs halting mid air. "Could've asked me too, y'know?"

"No, thank you."

"Old man, you died!"

"It seems like you're pretty loved." you chuckled as you faced him, "next time you check up on them, make sure to call me too."

"I'm not..!"

You are kind. It might not look like that upon first glance but the longer someone spends time with you, the more aware they are of this side. And then they start cozying up on you.

Because you respect them, you understand them, you recognise them. Sometimes you're tough to them but later on, they realise that you did this for them. For them to improve and learn out of their mistakes.

That's what makes you so respected. Not only in the first division but also in the whole JAKDF. And lastly by Narumi Gen himself.

"Spar with me, vice-cap'!"

"Clean up your room first, Gen."

"I will do it later."

"No. Do it now or you have to spar with Hasegawa."

"...fine."

It was a quiet murmur before Gen left the room.

"Oh, I expected it would take longer for vice-captain to tame that beast..."

"Dang this is a new record. Not even the platoon leader gets him to clean up his room..!"

Hardly ever will go a session where he doesn’t want to start out by eating you out.

His mood changes his style, ranges from a little rough and rushed to slow and sensual.

Reallyyyy good with his hands too if he decides to use those for backup. Not to mention, his hands are huge.

Wants you to sit on his face.

Oki Taiju

IM TALKING BOUT INNITTT

Eats for his own pleasure too, but really he’d just do anything for you anyways.

Type of man to ALWAYS put you first, no matter how excited he may be.

He’s a bit sloppy with it. Definitely a sloppy eater. But he WILL listen to you. In fact, he’ll stop and ask if what he’s doing is good.

If you were skirts: If you were stressed or something, with permission, he’d just hike up your skirt, move your panties and start eating.

Nanami Ryusui

He would BEG to eat you out if he had to.

He takes his time between your legs, trust.

He’d like it if you pulled his hair. Just saying.

Will eat you out AFTER he’s cum inside, if you let him, man does NOT care. Sees it as cleaning you up.

Saionji Ukyo

Big on teasing you. Small little kitten licks, then talking to you between them. Driving you crazy. And he just chuckles, admiring the way you look when you’re getting worked up.

He’s never fast about it. He takes his time with you.

Often times one of his hands is playing with you too, and the other is holding your hand.

He likes soft forms of contact and communication while he’s pleasuring you.

Kinro

Not experienced at all, he didn’t even know about eating out, but once he gets a taste, he’s addicted.

Type to watch your reactions carefully, but be afraid of eye contact somehow.

Now he routinely eats you out before going in to prepare you properly.

Asagiri Gen

He’ll act like he likes receiving more than giving, but really this man thrives on making you feel good.

It’s all gonna be kinky with him though. He’s purposely trying to push you towards the edge and then not letting you go over.

Methodically slow movements that drive you crazy.

𝕾𝖔𝖘𝖍𝖎𝖗𝖔 𝕳𝖔𝖘𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖆

The first warning was not a sound but a feeling, a vibration low and steady, as though some colossal hand had set itself upon the spine of the city and pressed down until the street itself remembered how fragile it was. Concrete split with a groan, glass trembled in its frames before surrendering in cascades, and steel bent in a drawn-out scream that carried through the marrow of anyone close enough to hear it. Soshiro Hoshina had lived long enough with monsters to know their music, but this was a different kind of song—an ending written in stone and gravity.

He pivoted on instinct, body folding into the familiar coil of muscle that had saved him more times than thought ever had. One sharp breath caught at the back of his throat, a calculation of distance and timing half-formed—then the calculation shattered. Something struck him, someone, a body all urgency and weight.

Y/N.

The hit stole the air from his chest and replaced it with her. Armor slammed into armor as she drove him sideways, carrying him down before the building could. His back hit hard ground in the same heartbeat the slab collapsed. The world broke open above them—thunder of concrete, steel twisting like bone, dust blooming into a night without light.

It should have ended there, but chance or mercy held. A beam jammed itself against the ruin, the fall arrested by angles that had no business working in their favor. A cavity remained, small and crooked, barely more than a pocket scraped out of disaster. It was enough. Enough for two bodies pressed together, pinned by circumstance and luck, hidden inside the groan of settling rubble.

The silence afterward was almost worse than the collapse. Dust filled the air until breathing was work, until every inhale rasped raw against the throat. Hoshina's ears rang with the aftershock, and for a moment all he could hear was the ragged pounding of his own pulse. Then another sound cut through it—harsh, shallow, broken by a cough.

Her cough.

His eyes went wide in the dark though there was nothing to see. She wasn't wearing her mask.

The realization cleaved through him harder than the impact had. He did not hesitate, did not think. His hands clawed at the latches at his jaw, stripping his respirator free. Sight was useless here; he didn't need it. He knew every curve and clasp of the equipment the way a swordsman knew the weight of his blade. His fingers found her face in the black, firm and certain, palms framing her with a tenderness that allowed no refusal. He pressed the respirator to her mouth and nose, pulled the straps around the line of her head, tightened the seal until he could feel, even without light, that it sat perfect.

"Breathe," he ordered, his voice roughened by dust and something sharper beneath it. He drew in grit himself, lungs protesting, throat burning raw, but he paid it no mind. The only thing that mattered was the soft hiss of the filter at her lips. "That's mine now. You keep it. No arguing."

Her reply came faint, muffled by the mask, his name caught in a whisper of apology.

The sound of it nearly undid him.

His hand lingered against her cheek a moment longer than necessity required, thumb twitching at the hinge of her jaw before he forced it back to his side. His chest heaved, each breath a rasp of dust, his ribs aching from the fall. But none of it compared to the realization that came next, the one he had ignored in the rush to save her lungs.

She was on him.

Not in some vague, careless sprawl, but wholly, entirely on him. Her weight pressed flush against his front, the alignment of their bodies exact and merciless. Her knees bracketed his hips. Her chest rose and fell against his armor, every frantic breath driving her closer into him. The warmth of her sank through fabric and plating, searing him with its immediacy. His hands itched with the instinct to move, to hold, to clutch at her waist, but he forced them into fists against the ground instead.

Heat coiled low, fast, brutal, dragging his awareness down to the part of him pinned hardest beneath her. His pulse lurched, blood rushing in a flood that left him dizzy. He drew air into his lungs, slow and deliberate, trying to leash the ragged edge of it, but his control betrayed him. Each exhale broke louder than the last, each inhale shuddered through him like a confession.

Thank God for the dark.

The dark was mercy. The dark meant she could not see him like this, could not see the flush climbing up his throat, could not see the sharp, feral glint in his eyes where his grin usually lived. She could not see the way his composure had already fractured under the press of her body.

He swallowed hard, wrestled his voice into the shape of calm, laid his usual drawl like a cloak over the ruin of his breathing. It was thin, but it was all he had.

"Status check," he said at last, voice coaxing, gentle, betraying nothing of the storm beneath. "You alright, Y/N?"

The silence inside the pocket was thick, layered with dust and tension, broken only by the faint hiss of the respirator at Y/N's lips. Hoshina lay still beneath her, eyes open to the black, every muscle braced in the narrow cage of space. The air was hot, too hot, heavy with their combined breath. Each second drew itself out like molten glass, stretching until it trembled on the edge of breaking.

Y/N's weight pressed into him without mercy. It was the kind of closeness that left no part of him untouched: her thighs locked tight around his hips, the line of her stomach flush to his, the rise and fall of her chest mapped perfectly to his own rhythm. Even through layers of combat suit and armor he could feel the heat of her, every pulse of it branding into his skin. She had not meant to pin him like this—he knew that. But intention meant nothing to his body, which was already answering as though the proximity were deliberate.

He dragged in a breath through his teeth, trying to slow the staccato hammer of his lungs. The sound betrayed him. It rasped sharp, ragged, impossible to disguise. He clenched his jaw, bit back the groan that threatened to escape, and forced his lips into the shape of a smile she couldn't see.

Her hand shifted, clumsy in the dark, bracing against the slab above to lift some of her weight. The movement rocked her hips against him, subtle, devastating. His vision went white behind his eyes. Heat bolted through him like lightning finding ground. His hand moved without permission, sliding from the rubble to her waist, catching her there in a grip that was firm, almost desperate.

"Easy there, darlin'..." His voice came low, rougher than his usual drawl, each word scraped raw by restraint. "Move like that again and I won't be able to keep my head straight."

The sentence was a shield, meant to sound light, but his breath ruined it. Each syllable rode on the uneven rhythm of lungs that no longer obeyed him.

Y/N stilled instantly, frozen above him, her body trembling with its own awareness of the position. He could feel the way her heart hammered, the frantic patter of it against his chestplate, as if the two of them had been stitched together by the collapse. When she spoke, her voice was tiny, muffled by the respirator, a single word: "...Sorry."

The apology struck through him like an arrow. She was embarrassed too, pressed into him like this, and still her first instinct was to apologize. Heat flared higher in his chest, twisting into something almost painful. He laughed, low and ruined, the sound breaking halfway into a groan before he swallowed it down.

"Sweetheart," he murmured, keeping his tone playful though his body betrayed every inch of hunger, "you keep sayin' that and I'm liable to lose it."

Her silence answered him, heavy, shameful, as though she'd folded into herself in the dark. He could feel it in the way she stilled, the way her breath shortened, the faint tremor in her frame. He wanted to say something else, something reassuring, but his tongue was thick, his body louder than his mind.

The ruin groaned above them, dust sifting down like snow into his hair. The world outside was distant now, muffled roars and clatter blurred by layers of broken stone. Here, in this crooked cavity, the only reality was her weight on him and the animal drum of his pulse.

Every instinct in him clamored. To roll her beneath him. To grip her hips and grind up into her until the dark itself burned away. To taste the apology off her lips and turn it into something else entirely. He shut his eyes against the images, forced his hands to stay where they were, one splayed against her waist, the other fisted into the dirt. His body screamed at him, blood thrumming with feral want, but his mind clung stubbornly to composure.

He was Soshiro Hoshina, captain, swordsman, soldier. He was her friend. He was not supposed to want this.

And yet—his breath stuttered, caught, broke again. And the dark heard it all.

The silence stretched, thick with heat and dust, until Y/N's voice finally broke it. Small, muffled by the respirator, but clear enough to pierce through the pulse still hammering in Hoshina's ears.

"This is my fault," she whispered. "I'm sorry. I moved on instinct. I didn't think—"

He almost laughed again, not because it was funny but because the apology clawed something sharp out of him. She thought she had overstepped, that saving him from a slab of concrete had been some kind of crime. His throat worked around the words he wanted to say, but nothing came—nothing he could let out without showing too much. He bit down on the sound, swallowed heat instead of comfort, and forced his hand to ease its grip on her waist.

She shifted then, cautious, testing the space above. The pocket allowed her only inches—just enough that her chest peeled away from his, her arms braced against the debris, her weight redistributed. It should have given him relief, but the change only made things worse. She ended up straddling him more fully, thighs cinched tight around his hips, the position indecent in its exactness. His body betrayed him with vicious immediacy, every nerve drawn taut, blood surging so fast he nearly hissed aloud.

She sat there, trembling faintly, but her posture carried the careful air of someone pretending nothing was wrong. Obliviousness worn as armor, mercy offered by silence. She was embarrassed, but she chose to mask it for his sake. That kindness was almost worse than cruelty.

"I'm going to check you," she said softly, clinical words wrapped in shy apology. "If you're hurt... shock might make it hard to tell."

He wanted to refuse, to insist that he was fine, but the word lodged itself behind his teeth. His mouth opened, closed again, breath stumbling in and out in sharp uneven pulls. All he could do was nod in the dark, even though she couldn't see it.

Her hands came next. Careful, blind, deliberate. They slid across the curve of his shoulders, pressing lightly through armor, feeling for breaks, for blood. They smoothed down the line of his chestplate, mapped the ridges of his ribs where dust had gathered. Each touch branded into him, clinical in intent, ruinous in effect. He clenched his jaw until it ached, dragged air through his lungs in staggered pulls, fighting not to shudder beneath her fingers.

She moved lower, palm skimming down his side, brushing his waist. His body locked. His hips twitched before he could stop them, a raw, instinctive betrayal. Heat surged through him, fierce enough that his vision blurred in the dark.

He forced out a sound, meant to be a laugh, but it cracked halfway, rough and uneven. His voice followed, worn thin but still clinging to its drawl. "Careful, sweetheart. Keep this up and I'll start thinkin' you've got an ulterior motive."

His chest heaved under her touch, breath loud now, no disguising it. His body screamed with want, instincts clawing at every shred of discipline he still had. He prayed to the dark again, begged it to keep his face hidden, because if she saw him now—if she saw the flush painting him from throat to hairline, the hunger in his eyes—she would know exactly what kind of man lay under her.

Not just a soldier. Not just her friend. But something far less innocent.

Her hands did not stop. They moved with the patience of training, with the caution of someone who had been told too many times that shock could disguise mortal wounds. She traced down the length of his arm, fingers testing each joint, each line of muscle beneath the suit. She brushed across his chest again, pressed lightly against the ridges of his ribs, swept her palms down his sides as if cataloguing every inch. It should have been nothing more than procedure. It should have been impersonal.

It wasn't.

Every pass burned him alive. He felt each gloved touch as though it were skin against skin, heat blooming in his chest and sinking low, merciless. He forced himself to keep still, to lie there beneath her in the dark like a man pinned by rubble and not by his own hunger. His jaw ached from the grind of his teeth. His lungs dragged dust and heat in uneven pulls. He was losing.

Y/N's voice came quietly through the dark, muffled by the respirator, trying to steady the moment with words. "Comms should come back as soon as the dust settles up top... We'll hear a ping any second. They'll start sweeping sectors."

He barely heard her. The words reached his ears, but his mind refused them. Instead it filled itself with images that had no place here, no place at all—her straddling him on purpose, her voice stripped of apology and whispering his name in a different tone entirely, her hands not searching for wounds but for him. Every careful touch turned traitor, twisted in his imagination into something filthier, darker, so unhinged it left him biting the inside of his cheek to keep quiet.

She kept talking, gentle soldier's chatter meant to ease tension. "When the scanners sweep, they'll find this cavity. We just need to hold on until then. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen."

He nodded faintly in the dark, though she couldn't see it. He wanted to tell her she was right, wanted to keep up the conversation she was trying to offer, but her weight made speech a task. His tongue felt heavy, his throat dry. Instead he let out a sound that passed for agreement, low and rough.

She mistook it for pain. Her hands went lower, cautious but firm, pressing against his thigh, testing for break or blood. The motion straddled the line between necessary and unbearable. His hips bucked a fraction before he caught himself, shame tearing through him faster than restraint could hold it. He snapped his palm down, catching her wrist.

"Enough." The word came out sharper than he intended, raw with strain. His grip trembled but held her still. He forced a breath, forced his voice back into its usual drawl. "I told you—I'm fine. Nothin' broken. Armor took the worst of it."

She went still again, embarrassed. Another small apology, muffled by the mask. His chest tightened. She thought she had crossed a line, when the truth was that he had been crossing lines in his own head since the moment the slab fell.

Y/N's voice came again, small but determined. "Then as soon as I catch my breath, I'll push on the rubble. There's some space above. If I shift my weight up, I think I can get leverage."

Her words landed like a hammer. She would sit up, she said. Sit up—straddling him more fully, thighs cinched around his hips, body rising above his in the exact position his imagination had been tormenting him with since the first breath in the dark.

He swallowed hard, throat working around a laugh that never formed. He wanted to tell her not to, wanted to invent a reason to keep her exactly where she was, but even he knew how insane that would sound. He pressed his head back against the rubble, closed his eyes, tried to breathe steady. The dust burned. The heat burned more.

And through it all, his mind betrayed him, painting the same unhinged scenes over and over again—her weight grinding down, her voice slipping from soldier's steadiness into raw need, her mask torn away so he could taste her. He hated himself for it, hated the part of him that wanted disaster to hold a little longer, just long enough for the fantasy to become real.

In the dark, he smiled the crooked smile no one could see. And he prayed again, not for rescue, not for survival, but that she would never know the things he was thinking now.

The dust settled eventually. Rescue teams cracked the ruin open, light knifed into the cavity, and voices pulled them out of the dark. The moment ended not with choice but with inevitability—hands lifting Y/N away, other hands pulling him up in turn. The air outside tasted cleaner, but it did nothing to cool the heat in his skin. He said the right things, nodded at the right questions, wore the easy grin they expected of him. He looked whole. He sounded fine.

Inside, the storm still raged.

Water hammered against his shoulders, steaming in sheets, sliding down the long lines of muscle carved from a lifetime of training. The shower stall filled with fog, every breath drawn heavy with heat, but it was nothing compared to the heat still trapped inside him. He pressed his palms against the tile, head bowed, and tried to let the spray scour him clean.

It didn't work.

Every time he closed his eyes, the dark of the rubble pocket came back. Y/N pressed against him, thighs locked around his hips, chest rising and falling in frantic rhythm against his own. The rasp of her breath, the hiss of the respirator, the soft apologies that had brushed against his ear—each detail repeated with cruel clarity. His body remembered too well. The press of her weight, the shift of her hips, the blind touch of her hands checking his ribs and sliding lower.

He cursed under his breath, water sluicing down his face. He had fought kaiju with less effort than it took now to keep his mind in order.

It should have been simple. She was his comrade, his friend. She had acted on instinct, saved him from the collapse, done what any soldier would. But his body refused that logic. His body had burned under her like she had been branded into him.

The worst part was that she hadn't known. She had been embarrassed, apologetic, trying to ease the moment with soldier's talk, pretending at obliviousness so he wouldn't feel it sharper. She had been merciful. And he had been lying under her, imagining things so unhinged he couldn't look at himself now without shame clawing up his throat.

The spray pounded harder, steam wrapping him in a fog thicker than the dust had been. He dragged a hand through his hair, water dripping off the ends, his breath catching in his chest with the same uneven rhythm it had in the dark. He couldn't shake it. Couldn't scrub away the imprint of her weight, the sound of her whisper, the way his own voice had cracked when he told her not to move.

He had survived kaiju, buildings, death itself, but he didn't know if he could survive this memory.

And in the empty shower, with no one to see, he let himself laugh once—low, strangled, self-mocking. The kind of laugh that admitted defeat. Because hours later, safe and alive, he still wanted.

God help him, he still wanted.

𝕲𝖊𝖓 𝕹𝖆𝖗𝖚𝖒𝖎

The city cracked like old bone. Windows burst outward in a scream of glass, concrete slabs peeled free from their frames, and a steel skeleton bent with the weight of failure. Gen Narumi had been barking orders one breath, blade out and eyes sharp, and the next the building itself folded down with the inevitability of gravity.

He started to move, muscles coiling, brain already cutting through a dozen escape angles. Too late. Something slammed into him before he could finish the thought — another body, heavy and fast, driving him down hard against the fractured street. Armor clashed, his back struck rubble, and the ruin came down over them in a roar that smothered everything.

When the world settled, the sound was gone, swallowed into silence thick with dust and the groan of beams locking into place. A cavity remained, narrow and crooked, enough space to trap two bodies pressed close.

Gen's first inhale rattled through his filter, sharp and startled. His second caught hard in his chest when he realized the position he was in. Y/N straddled him, pinning him to the ground. Her knees locked against his hips, chest flush to his, breath audible through her mask as she tried to steady herself. Every inch of her pressed into him, weight exact, heat bleeding straight through armor into skin.

He flushed so fast it made his head spin. His entire body went tight, breath hitching before he could leash it. The awareness of her — her thighs caging him, her chest rising and falling against him — struck deeper than the impact had.

"Oi—!" His voice cracked before he got control of it, sharp in the dark. His hands came up automatically, bracing against her sides as though to hold her still. "The hell are you doin', dumbass?!"

She froze above him, mortified, but her weight didn't shift. There was nowhere for her to go.

"You're heavy," he spat, as if that explained the ragged rhythm of his lungs, the burn crawling up his throat. "What, you think I needed you crushin' me to save me?" His words came fast, barbed, but underneath the irritation his pulse stammered, betraying him with every breath that hissed too loud through his mask.

The rubble creaked above, dust sifting down, but all he could feel was her. Heat pressed along his body, the exact alignment impossible to ignore. He turned his head against the debris, as though not looking would ease the intimacy of it, but his hands stayed on her hips, holding her steady with a grip firmer than irritation justified.

"Tch—don't move," he muttered, trying for command, trying for calm, but the edge in his voice betrayed the truth.

The cavity was too small, the air too hot, and every time Y/N moved the situation grew worse. Gen lay flat on his back with her braced across him, her knees planted to either side of his hips, the weight of her body pressed firm against his own. He could feel the drag of every shallow breath she took, chest rising and falling against him with a rhythm his own lungs couldn't help but echo.

She shifted then, testing the space above them. Her palms pressed against the slab, her body levering upward by inches. The motion changed their alignment, pulled her weight higher, left her straddling him more fully. It was barely anything—just a fraction of space gained—but it set fire through him all the same. His breath hitched, sharp and audible through the mask, before he could bite it back.

Y/N seemed to notice nothing. Her voice came steady, muffled through the filter, more soldier than anything else. "If the slab above has any give, maybe I can push. There's a little room... if I shift my weight, I might be able to—"

"Tch." His hand snapped up before he realized it, palm braced against her hip, holding her in place. His voice followed, sharp but low, the irritation in it a thin cover for everything else. "Don't move around like that."

She stilled, breath catching, then drew back just enough to murmur, "Sorry. I thought—well, maybe it's my fault we're even stuck like this. If I hadn't shoved you..."

He scoffed, quick and uneven, the sound harsher than he meant. "Idiot. If you hadn't shoved me, I'd be paste under that slab. So don't start apologizing like it's some damn crime."

She quieted at that, though he could feel her embarrassment in the way her body tensed above him. He squeezed his eyes shut in the dark, jaw set, trying to ignore the heat pooling low and merciless in his body. She thought he was irritated about being saved. She had no idea that every twitch of her hips, every faint adjustment of her weight, was unraveling him further.

She tried again, softer. "Then I'll at least test the angle. If I can brace myself—"

"Y/N." His voice came sharper this time, firmer, the note of command slipping through despite his best effort. His grip on her hip tightened until his glove creaked. "I said don't. You're not helping."

The silence that followed was thick, her breath steady against his mask, his own ragged. She still didn't get it—still thought he was only annoyed, still thought his pride was stinging from needing her intervention. And he let her believe it, because the alternative was unthinkable.

He pressed the back of his head against the rubble, stared into the black, and willed his pulse to slow. It didn't.

Y/N braced her hands against the broken slab, pushing gingerly as if testing whether the ruin would shift with her weight. The space above them groaned but held, dust sifting down in soft, choking streams. Each movement pressed her hips tighter into Gen's, the scrape of fabric against fabric magnified by the silence of their prison.

She muttered through her mask, voice calm in a way that grated against his nerves. "If I can just find the right angle... maybe wedge myself up, then push. It won't clear much, but it might give us—"

Her words blurred into static in his head. Gen's whole world had narrowed to sensation: the rhythm of her body pressing and releasing against his, the tight fit of her thighs pinning him down, the unbearable drag of heat through his abdomen every time she shifted. His lungs stuttered in uneven pulls, each inhale fighting the restraint he was barely managing.

For once, he said nothing.

The silence was so unlike him that Y/N paused, her palms still braced against the rubble above. She turned her head, or tried to, the awkward angle letting her catch only the side of his mask. “Captain?" she whispered, uncertain. "You're... quiet."

He clenched his jaw until it ached. Quiet, because if he opened his mouth he wasn't sure what would come out. Quiet, because the urge to snarl, to grab her hips and pull her down hard against him, was burning holes through his restraint. He dug his fingers deeper into the grit at his sides, forcing them to stay there instead of where they wanted to be.

"Captain?" she tried again, softer this time, her weight still pressed indecently against him. "Are you hurt? Did the fall—"

"No." The answer came quick, sharper than he meant, his voice rough and low. He turned his head into the rubble, hiding, though she couldn't see him in the dark. "I'm fine."

But he didn't sound fine. His breath betrayed him, shallow and ragged, each exhale a hiss against the mask. He prayed she would mistake it for pain, or for dust still lodged in his lungs, anything but what it was.

Y/N shifted again, testing the slab with another cautious push. The motion dragged her down against him in a way that made his entire body jolt. His hands shot up at last, no longer able to lie still. One clamped hard to her hip, the other braced tight on her thigh, holding her exactly where she was.

"Stop," he rasped, a single word stripped of its usual bark. His grip was firm, not gentle, every tendon in his arm drawn taut. "Don't move."

Her breath caught. She froze, mistaking the command for injury, for fragility. "Narumi..." she whispered, worried now. "If you're really hurt, you need to tell me."

He shut his eyes in the dark, his forehead pressing into the rubble, and held her tighter instead of answering. Because the truth—what he really needed to tell her—was the one thing he couldn't let slip.

The air in the cavity grew heavier with every breath, the silence dense enough to choke. Y/N braced herself against the slab again, testing the angles of the narrow pocket, shifting her weight by inches. Each movement pressed her hips down into him, dragged her thighs tighter along his sides, ground heat into places he could no longer ignore.

Gen dug his hands into the rubble, fingers clawing for something solid, but it was no use. The friction of her body over his left him raw, nerves sparking until the edges of his composure blurred. He clenched his jaw, pulled air hard through his mask, held himself together one ragged inhale at a time.

Then she shifted again, harder this time, trying to wedge space above. Her weight rolled over him in a way so precise, so mercilessly aligned, that his restraint snapped at the edges. A sound tore free from his throat before he could stop it—low, broken, a moan muffled by the respirator.

The silence that followed was absolute.

Y/N froze, her palms still braced against the slab. When she spoke, her voice was hushed, uncertain. "Captain... are you sure you're okay?"

He wanted to curse, to bark at her, to cover the sound he'd just let slip. Instead a laugh broke out of him, husky and uneven, stripped raw by the heat still raking through his body. He tipped his head back against the rubble, the sound curling bitter and breathless.

"Oblivious as ever," he muttered, his voice deeper now, rougher, threaded with something he couldn't disguise. Another laugh, softer, ruinous, followed. "Yeah, sweetheart. I'm fine."

But his pulse thundered, his grip twitched against the dirt, and every inch of him burned with a truth he prayed she would never realize.

The first crack of light slivered through the rubble above them, faint but enough to stir Y/N's pulse into something brighter. She pressed her palms against the slab again, bracing her weight to push. Stone grated against stone, dust spilled down like ash, and she leaned into the effort with all the stubborn drive of a soldier.

Gen felt every shift. Each time she pressed upward, her hips rolled against his with merciless precision. Her thighs cinched tighter at his sides, her chest ground into his armor, and the heat radiating from her body turned into a weapon he couldn't parry. His jaw clenched, molars grinding, the inside of his cheek raw from where he bit down to hold the sounds back.

His hand never left her waist. It anchored them both, fingers digging through fabric, grip unrelenting. If anyone had seen them, if any rescuer had pried open the ruin at that moment, there would have been no mistaking what the position looked like. Straddling, bodies pressed flush, his hand clutching her as though she belonged there.

She spoke, breath fast with the effort of pushing. "They're right above us. If I can get even a little clearance, they'll have leverage." Her tone carried relief, determination, not a trace of awareness of what her movements were doing to him.

He shut his eyes, desperate to block everything out, to conjure anything but the images pounding into his skull. It didn't work. The darkness behind his lids only made it worse, painted sharper pictures he couldn't erase. Her mask torn away, her mouth open under his, her voice broken not by dust but by pleasure. His hips driving up into hers, relentless, until she stopped pretending not to feel him.

His breath rasped hard through the filter, unsteady and loud. He focused on keeping it even, but the rhythm kept breaking, caught in the tide of every push, every drag of her body over his. He had lost control hours ago; the only thing left was to hide how far gone he was.

Y/N shifted again, straining against the slab. The motion wrung a sound out of him at last, low and guttural, muffled but unmistakable. He snapped his teeth into his cheek, the copper tang of blood sharp on his tongue, but it was too late.

"Gen?" Her voice drifted down, distracted but worried. She still thought he was hurt, thought the silence meant injury instead of the truth clawing through him. "Hold on, almost there. Just a little longer."

He laughed then, rough and husky, the sound betraying every thought he hadn't spoken. His head pressed back into the rubble, eyes still shut tight.

"Yeah," he muttered under his breath, words too low for her to parse over the noise above. "A little longer..."

But what filled his mind wasn't rescue, or medics, or light breaking through. It was the feel of her still on him, the weight he couldn't stop wanting, the fantasy of losing himself completely and not stopping until she knew exactly how close she had pushed him.

And he prayed the rubble held them in shadow a few moments more, because the instant anyone saw them like this, there would be no way to explain.

Hours later, the barracks were quiet. The chaos of the collapse had burned itself out into reports, medical checks, and too many questions he deflected with sharp words and sharper looks. He had scrubbed the dust off in a shower that lasted twice as long as it should have, steam plastering his hair to his forehead. None of it helped.

Now he sat cross-legged on his bed, a controller in hand, the glow of the screen painting his room in fractured light. He had been looking forward to this game for weeks — some new release he had bullied his subordinates into preordering for him, bragged about how easily he'd crush the leaderboards.

But tonight his focus was wrecked. His fingers twitched against the buttons, his avatar stumbling clumsy on-screen, enemies cutting him down in seconds. He cursed under his breath, restarted, tried again. Same result. Every time he thought he had his rhythm, the image slammed back into his skull.

Y/N straddling him in the dark, thighs locked tight around his hips. The hiss of her breathing through the mask. The warmth of her chest rising and falling against his own. The grind of her weight pressing down when she tried to push the rubble away, the merciless friction that had wrung moans out of him he hadn't meant to let slip.

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. The controller slid to the sheets, abandoned. He tipped his head back against the wall, eyes shut, as if darkness would dull the memory. It didn't. It sharpened it. He felt it again — the twitch of his fingers against her waist, the ache in his jaw from biting down too hard, the fire that had filled every inch of him until he was certain she'd feel it too.

"Damn it..." The word tore from him, low, husky, more confession than curse.

He wanted to forget. He wanted the game, the victory, anything normal. Instead his body remembered, replaying every second until it was unbearable. He was furious with himself — furious that he couldn't shake it, that a few minutes trapped in the dark had carved deeper into him than years of battle.

He scrubbed his hand through his damp hair, kicked the controller further across the bed, and laughed once — bitter, strained, the laugh of a man who knew he was beaten.