Series: One Punch Man
Pairing: GenosSonic
Warnings: vomiting, that gross leftover cum that happens sometimes (because I can't write a normal cute fluffy GenoSonic fic I guess)
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters or profit from writing this fanfic
posted on my tumblr and then AO3. thanks for reading~
This is part 1 to a 2 part mini-series. I personally think it should be read first, but it technically takes place after part 2.
fun fact: this mini-series is based loosely on one of my con adventures
Sonic woke up around 5AM or so (or so said the very blurry clock next to him), shit-faced drunk and about to retch.
He sort of stumbled out of bed, tripping on the bedclothes tangled in his jeans and near face planting a couple times before he could extricate himself entirely. The room was impossibly dark and, in his drunken haze wherein he couldn't quite seem to make himself go the way he wanted to, he very nearly couldn't find the bathroom at all, let alone in time.
As it was, the first heave half ended up in his hands as he threw himself down in front of the toilet bowl. Which he found pretty hilarious. When was the last time that happened? A giggle bubbled up his throat and he just sat there, laughing between heaves until his stomach decided it was done for the time being.
With a final spit into the bowl, he swayed to his feet and flushed the toilet, only then remembering the mess on his hands. Sonic let out another snicker and shuffled in the dark to the sink, taking a couple seconds to find it again (Shit, I'm so lost tonight, how the hell drunk am I?).
The whole operation was exhausting and disorienting and when Sonic finally made it back to his bed (or, more accurately, ran into the edge of the bed and fell right onto his sheets, he passed out again almost immediately. Except the muffled roaring in his ears made it sound like the blankets were being rustled right next to his face, which was a little distracting. He exhaled on a low grunt to make the other noise in his head go away. Distract his drunk mind long enough to make it stop hearing weird things.
Apparently his mind felt the need to respond and right before he lost consciousness he thought he heard it mumble, "Fuck," which was a pretty accurate description of how he felt right now. Hopefully he remembered this tomorrow. Drunk enough to hear his subconscious's voice.
A half smile drifted lazily over his lips and he pushed his face deeper into the pillow with a mumbled, "I know," losing himself to sleep.
Sonic woke up about an hour and a half later, the first morning light pouring straight into the window and into his eyes.
His first conscious thought as he squinted against the glare was to curse himself for leaving the fucking curtains open.
His second thought: I don't have curtains in my apartment.
With a start, he opened his eyes completely and regretted the action immediately. Searing pain exploded in his skull and he threw his hands up to press into his brow. In the couple seconds it took for the pain to subside into a more manageable pounding thrum behind his eyes, he let the thoughts cycle through his admittedly fuzzy brain. Wait. What? Maybe he had left the blinds open? Been mistaken in seeing fabric hangings when he glared at the window. Except the window in his room wasn't located across from his bed (what idiot would do that to themselves?).
He cracked an eye open gingerly and looked around.
Where the fuck am I?
An immediate sense of panic had Sonic throwing himself out of the bed and subsequently landing in a heap on the ground, cheap white sheets apparently holding his legs hostage. A dizzying rush of nausea hit him, accompanied by a sharp stab of pain in his temple at the quick change in balance and he sat there for a moment, holding his head with both hands and pressing into a ball as best he could with his legs still half on the bed.
Ugh. He hurt all over. Fuck drinking.
When he finally felt okay to move again, he sighed and began untangling himself and took that time to properly look around.
He seemed to be alone, which was good to know, and he hadn't been robbed, which was even better to know. His wallet was right behind him on the dresser and his ninjatō was leaning neatly against the wood next to it.
And he had apparently slept in his clothes, he noted, scowling at his wrinkled shirt and stretched skinny jeans. The room itself only consisted of a single queen sized bed, bland furnishings, mini appliances, a bathroom and a closet. Next to the alarm clock was a pad of paper with a logo on it. A hotel, then (Obviously, he rolled his eyes at his idiocy). He stood shakily, trying out his legs and seeing just how much the movement would upset his stomach. The bedclothes were only disturbed on his side of the bed, confirming that he indeed was alone.
Well shit. He certainly did not remember checking into a hotel room last night. Actually, he couldn't remember much of anything last night.
First thing was first, then. Time to dip out.
He snatched up his things and made for the door, only to step on something cold and sharp on his way to his shoes. What the– He looked down. A good twenty or so metal studs littered the ground next to the ripped open remains of the belt he must have been wearing last night. That sort of sucked. That was one of his older and more well-liked belts. Cheap as hell, but still disappointing to lose. The buckle had been getting stuck lately, though...he'd probably lost his patience trying to get it off last night and tore it off.
He sighed, shoving his ninjatō into his back belt loop instead and slipped out, squinting against the pain in his head.
Sonic did try to run home at first. It seemed like a reasonable idea. Get the hell out of here quickly (because, seriously, what the hell was he doing in a hotel not that far from his own apartment?) and get back into bed after consuming all the Aspirin he could get his hands on.
Only it seemed his body didn't really want to go the "speed of sound" right at this moment. He had probably only gotten about fifty yards before he careened sideways into a wall and emptied the contents of his stomach all over the poor unassuming plant in front of him. That was not a little humiliating. And, he realized belatedly, he must have forgotten his hair clip in the room. His fucking hair was hanging in his face and it was only by some miracle nothing had gotten on it.
He had to stand there for a good minute or so with a shaking hand braced again the bricks, hunched over staring down at what used to be (he could only assume) a very lovely hydrangea bush. Which really wasn't settling his stomach very effectively, but he didn't trust himself to stand again yet, either. His gaze averted down to the grey denim of his pants and he focused as best he could on the pattern of the fabric, trying not to think about getting sick again and hoping no one was around to watch this ridiculous spectacle he was making of himself.
It was after a couple seconds of this that he noticed three small, dark patches of what looked like grease just underneath the right pocket. He scowled and scrunched up his nose, nausea forgotten in his distraction, and reached down with his free hand to touch one of the spots. He rubbed his forefinger and thumb together. Definitely some kind of grease, quite a bit thinner than the stuff usually used as a lubricant in cars, but...he brought it up to his nose and gave a very wary sniff...no scent.
Fuck though, really? Who care if it smelled like any particular brand? He had grease on his favorite jeans! Where the hell did that shit come from? Did he decide to start working in a damn garage while he was drunk of his ass last night? That shit was never going to come out!
He pushed himself off the wall somewhat more forcefully than necessary (no one around, thank any god that existed) and angrily fought down the wave of nausea that threatened to bubble up his throat again like a champ as he started making his way (very slowly) to his apartment. Could today possibly get any worse? Favorite jeans stained, old belt destroyed. Fuck knows what the hotel bill was going to come to when he got charged for it.
To top all that off, he felt so much worse than he usually did from hangovers. Every one of his joints was aching. Which, he knew, had totally to do with whatever crap he had decided to poison himself with the night before and his incurable problem with drinking enough water. Blah blah dehydration and alcohol don't mix blah blah. Reasons why he usually didn't drink.
But that shitty hotel bed had made him sore all over, too. Especially his back and legs. Like what the fuck? He'd heard about how some beds didn't provide enough support and could land you with muscle aches in the morning, but holy crap, he could hardly walk. He reached around to rub at a particularly sore patch on his lower back. It's not like he was getting old or anything.
Movement ahead caught his eye and he looked up to see Saitama's stupid, asshole, cyborg pet walking on the other side of the street carrying a plastic bag of something. He couldn't make out the logo. Sonic sniffed in derision. Who was he kidding? It was probably groceries. The little dog of that insufferable baldie was probably out doing some little errand for his precious master.
Ugh. He hated them both. More so at this particular moment when he couldn't quite get at the deep pain at the base of his spine.
He sent a glare at Genos right as the cyborg looked up and noticed him. The shocked look and quickly averted gaze satisfied Sonic and he kept walking (trying really hard not to hobble, really) on his side of the street without another glance back at that pathetic excuse of a machine. Good. The asshole cyborg should be ashamed of what he was doing. Have some dignity for once and stop acting like that caped baldie's housewife. At least he had the grace to look embarrassed this time.
Sonic didn't end up running into anyone else on his way home, which, whatever. At that point, he didn't care who showed up in front of him. (Unless it was Saitama. He might have had at least a few fucks left to give about that.) He was way too hungover now. He'd had to stop a couple more times to vomit in a bush or just sit down for a couple minutes, aching head in his hands, to let the nausea pass. It was about time he got to his front door.
It took a couple tries to get the lock undone, but he got it and the door opened at last and he stepped slowly into the dark living room, not giving a shit about locking the door. Somebody come at me today. Please. Someone do it.
He grabbed a green apple, a glass of milk and a couple Aspirin and downed it all as quickly as he could, fighting the urge to gag and doing his best to ignore the roiling of his gut at the concept of actual food.
And, just because he was feeling like today was going to be a day of doing absolutely nothing but lying in bed, he decided to actually take a damn shower before falling into bed again or he wouldn't take one at all.
It was when he was stepping over the rim of the tub that he felt a hot gush of something dribble out of his ass and down his thigh. Mortified, he froze mid-step, foot still poised above the bathtub, and looked downward very slowly. Something that looked very much like...a thin...type of machine lubricant grease...was dripping down the inside of his legs.
And it hit him. Finally fucking hit him so hard he almost collapsed from the blow. Pieces from last night started flashing like sparks behind his eyes. Those two heroes at the party. The hallway. Black and gold eyes. The clashing of teeth in the courtyard. His belt, his hair. Fuck, everything. Oh god. His pants. He shut his eyes.
How could he be so fucking stupid? That's why he was fucking sore. That's why...god, that's why he looked totally embarrassed when he saw him earlier...and he had been holding his sore back like a total moron! Oh god.
Shit shit shit shit shit.
Sonic ended up taking the longest shower he had ever taken in his life. He stayed in there until the water ran cold and then stayed in there some more, every now and then letting out a hysterical giggle. He might have thrown up a few more times and just let it go down the drain. He didn't really remember. The sheer shock wasn't mixing well with his hangover at all.
He only stepped out much later, embarrassed, numb from the cold and incredibly pruny, when he vowed to himself to never go outside again for as long as he lived. Yup. New occupation, a hermit. At least his hangover was mostly gone.
He was still in the bathroom when he heard a knock on his front door. And, being Speed of Sound Sonic and not a hermit, he promptly ran out in his towel to the living room to the door, stealthily locked it, and peered through the peephole in about a second flat. No one. Good. But also weird.
He tentatively opened the door and saw a familiar bag lying on the doorstep. He recognized that weird logo from earlier.
Curious, he snatched it up and slipped back inside to check it out.
Inside was a box. A very nice box embossed in that same logo, he noted with raised eyebrows. Opening it revealed the fanciest leather and metal studded belt he had ever seen in his entire life. He pulled it out with cautious fingers, eyes wide in shock, and a little piece of paper fluttered out.
He reached down to pick up the paper, too dumbfounded to quite comprehend the contents of the box right now.
I'm sorry about your belt.