this was pretty self-indulgent. i couldn't not write for these two.
oOo
The hues of noon blossom on the hardwood of the apartment. The curtain's open, a faint breeze wafting in from the little spaces of the window. It is the first month of winter, and so Z-City's chill slithers in.
Saitama sits, his back on the wall, eyes blank as he lingers on the page of a manga he's been pretending to read. He hasn't moved, not since having rolled out of sleep, nor has he bothered to show any other expression since the start of the week.
Genos looks to the side, aware of his staring—aware that Saitama knows he is staring—and instead busies himself with unraveling the bow of his apron. He folds it and carefully sets it into the appointed spot of their closet. He cannot help but watch him again, in secret, the sharp yet benevolent angles of Saitama's mesmeric face. No words as of yet, much less a conversation between them, if not for Genos having hailed him good morning just an hour before. He'd received no answer, of course, just as he'd received no answer the previous day. It makes him feel brittle. Deep down, enfeebled, in abstruse places of his body that he cannot open up nor regulate, and so he'd gone as low as to beseech Dr. Kuseno to fix him.
He thinks now, perhaps, that Dr. Kuseno had only indulged him with some minor adjustment. He feels...no less defective, and nothing has changed.
He serves their bowls of natto and rice and tries to ignore the uncomfortable strain taking form beneath the metal plates of his chest.
oOo
"What's this?" Saitama asks. He swallows, though his reaction to the food is unclear.
"It's natto, Sensei. And rice. With soy sauce and karashi mustard and onion and—"
"Huh." Saitama pokes the natto with the tip of his chopstick, the elastic stretch of it more and more unsightly as he tugs to the right with his arm. "Slimy."
Genos stares down at his lap, the pang of failure decalibrating him from proper seiza.
"Please, allow me to create a dish more befitting of you, Sensei. I have displeased you—"
"Nah," says Saitama. "Just not all that hungry."
He stands, abandoning his chopsticks. Genos turns, watching as Saitama grabs his keys and Oppai hoodie. Genos' hands curl to fists on his thighs. He wants to ask where he is going, wants to ask why he is going, wants to tear out the wire that is keeping him pathetically unable to stand or speak up.
"Be back," says Saitama.
He goes down the hall and leaves the apartment.
oOo
The sun sets, purpling the daylight. Hours pass, each dragging longer than the other. The sky coats black, disclosing starlight. With it, Saitama finally comes home.
Genos wakes before Saitama even enters the apartment, feigning sleep. He listens to him loosening the lock, the shuffle of his footsteps as he flings the keys onto the counter. It's careless, louder than any noise Genos has ever heard Saitama make. He lies there, nearly flinching underneath the covers. For a long while Saitama does not move. It's hard not to look, and even harder not to amplify his sensory so that he may at least pick up on the temperament of Saitama's heartbeat. To pretend, at least, like he is standing there beside him, offering comfort, touching, his cheek pressed to where his heart is.
Genos stirs despite his effort. It grips him. The thought, like a sweep of invisible damage. He sinks lower into the blankets, his knees bending to rest closer to his chest.
Saitama notices. Because now he is moving, shambling over to his side of the floor, where Genos had earlier laid out his futon, sheets and pillow cases freshly laundered at the expectation of his return. He lies down. The covers swoosh. Saitama sighs, a quiet, sleepy sound that is enough to let Genos know that his master has found the accommodations pleasurable. He wants to smile. His core feels full.
Minutes pass. Saitama starts to snore. Genos opens his eyes, facing him. He sees him like a gypsum statue, his features dandled by the moonlight. His chest lifts, then sinks, insuperable power abiding like an ocean beneath that. He could crush the earth if he wanted. Could reign terror and carnage and yet...Genos would stay, would frantically cling, and follow behind him. But Sensei is kind. He is selfless and just. Generous, inimitably wise. Sensei is...beautiful.
Genos swallows, aware of the exhaust that has begun to let from his shoulders. He cannot stop himself. He slides his fingers away from the fold of his blanket and inches them forward, to where Saitama's fingers lie, too. A paper's breadth separates their touch, yet Genos can feel it as he feels little else, the solacing warmth of Saitama's presence. He trembles, the delicate chinks of his joints shooting signals of dearth, for taction. Still, he knows better. Knows his master's disinclination for most of any physical contact, and has avowed, above all, to respect it.
So he watches. Motionless and overcome with raw sentiment, till the initials of dawn yellow the walls of the room.
Saitama rouses, mumbling about a sale in his sleep. The birds start to cheep.
Genos stops recording.
oOo
"I'm gonna go to King's," Saitama announces one morning.
He slips on his hoodie, not sparing a glance in Genos' direction. Genos looks at him from the open partition, hand already weakening on the ladle he'd been devotedly stirring the pot with.
"But, Saitama-sensei," he starts, "what about—"
"Don't worry about it, dude," Saitama says calmly. "Not feelin' soup. Have at it."
Genos' fingers clench on the ladle. The wood splinters. He stares down at the bubbling miso.
"Shall I start something more delicious for Sensei?" he asks. "Anything Sensei would like, I would quickly make." He grabs the pot, already pouring the contents into the sink in a blind bout of penitence. "I apologize deeply, Saitama-sensei, I have once again unappeased you, I have continuously failed to be of any use, I—"
"Genos, stop that."
He pauses. He looks to where Saitama's standing.
"That..." Saitama's tone is unreadable. He approaches from the other side of the panel and gazes down at the sink. "Was a perfectly good miso."
Genos freezes. Something is different. This is the closest they've been, outside of sharing the space of the floor when they sleep. A subtle crease forms between Saitama's brow. Genos' core starts to whir, indefinite warnings of danger flickering at the crook of his vision.
"Sensei…?"
"Oh well," Saitama huffs. He steps to the side. "Anyway, I'll be back later."
He leaves. The lock clicks in wordless finality. Genos is left standing, eyes slowly lowering to the tepid mélange in the sink. His circuitry tenses. He is unable to move, and it is not from the untellable efforts of battle, but from shame.
oOo
When a thin film of fog pours across the wan afternoon, Saitama still does not arrive home from King's.
Genos resigns himself to sit in front of the television, having already exhausted all outlets of housework. He'd dusted the furniture, rearranged Saitama's mangas by title and volume, meticulously soaped and dried through the pile of dishes, and had watered the cactus. He glances out at the window. The street is greyer than usual. The stark silence of the apartment mimics the air of debris. Genos' gaze drifts back to the television.
He flips through the channels again, and is on the verge of shutting it off in favor of checking the forums, were it not for the tawdry tune of an infomercial that blasts from the tv. He lowers the remote in moderate interest, setting it to rest on his lap. A woman chirps cheerily on the pink and white screen, holding up what looks to be a miniature bottle of pesticide in her manicured hands.
And what's this, Linda? A disembodied voice asks. The camera hones in on the woman, her full painted lips tugging into a tigerish grin. Genos takes note of her hair, admittedly a few tints darker than his, as well as a few inches longer, but...comparable. She wears a peach dress, the sleeves of it airy and see-through. Her legs bend back and forth, displaying the short kitten heels she is wearing. The camera zooms to the bottle, its cap in the shape of a flower. The label Delina glitters in silver. Not pesticide, then, but some type of perfume.
Just our new product, James! An exclusive one-of-a-kind-offer for all of you dedicated housewives watching at home!
Genos' fingers slide away from the buttons of the tv remote.
Lonely? We've all been there. But with our new product, he won't be able to resist! You'll make his night. He won't get enough of just being near you!
James asks her what the trick to it is, to which Linda responds there is none, just bat those pretty lashes and watch your man eagerly skip out on his buddies! She winks, then delicately twists the cap off from the bottle. She sprays the perfume onto her wrists and neck. Wow, Linda! Such a spellbinding scent!
A phone number starts to reel at the top of the screen, along with the shipping and price range. Linda mentions that the last of their stock is already selling out by the second.
Genos gets to his feet, pulling his phone from his pocket. He dials the number, and after three rings, hurriedly takes up their offer of overnight shipping.
oOo
The package arrives a day after. Saitama isn't home, having left someplace with King before Genos had even finished loading up the laundry. He dashes down the steps of the building the instant he's able to sense the delivery drone approaching the precinct.
It's a small box. A vivid mauve color planted in the middle of the desolate sidewalk. He nabs it and runs back inside.
oOo
He sits, then starts to rip through the packaging, uncovering the flacon of perfume from within an even fancier box. He weighs it in his hands, twirling and examining the rosy-clear liquid inside the diaphanous glass. It's exactly like the one Linda had used on herself, the silvery label glimmering under the light. Tentative, Genos sprays a single puff of the fragrance. It's sweet, the odor shifting between floral and plummy. ...He likes it.
He sprays it once on his neck, mirroring Linda's instruction. Then once on both of his wrists. He stands, taking all traces of the packaging with him. He stuffs it into the back of his closet space. He spins on his heel, to go and see how it all might look in the mirror, but pauses. He turns, methodically dressing into his apron.
oOo
He steps into the bathroom and stares at his reflection, the whirring of the dryer he'd recently purchased for Saitama gyring quietly behind him.
He looks no less different, he decides with impatience. Though there is always a chance that he'd missed something during the product's brief demonstration. He reaches and tightens the bow of the apron. It fits to his waist, creating a similar shape to that of Linda's voluptuous figure.
...Better.
He leans over, a couple of inches away from the mirror, and experimentally begins to flutter his lashes. He smiles, sweetly as possible, face growing warm at the thought of his teacher.
"Welcome home, Master…" he tries.
He bends his legs side-to-side. Strange heat builds through his framework. He presses up to the sink. His features have softened. It's working.
"I've made dinner," he murmurs. "Would you like dessert?"
He can see the synthetic skin of his ears rising in color. His core spins a modicum faster, he swallows and imagines Saitama nodding his head.
"I…" His lip catches between a sliver of teeth, a timid sensation skidding up and down on his spine. "I like you, Sensei… I feel…"
His optics unfocus.
"Around you, I…"
His hand lifts, fingertip caressing his lip. The soft skin is pliant underneath the cool pad of metal. He kneads it. The skin rouses red. It feels...good. Another fingertip. He traces the seam, spreading and tugging. Impulse takes over. He glides the digits into his mouth. They press on his tongue, heated saliva laving the silicone indents hidden between them. His vision rolls. It's foreign, a refractory feeling like he's taking place in something he shouldn't, yet his indicators solicit for more.
He moves them, those same fingers, the tip of his tongue darting into the sensitive joints. A quivering sound forms in his throat. He imagines Saitama there with him, watching, touching, imagines it's Saitama's fingers. He stumbles back at the thought, meeting the wall, and pushes the ministrations further inside. His fingers graze the back of his throat. It soaks him in pleasure. His knees buckle. It feels so good. Heady and lush, a hectic fulfillment in all of the dark and unreachable places the brittle ache had once lied.
He thrusts the two digits, shyly at first, until he is plunging inside of his throat without reservation. He cannot vomit, though he very much drools, unable to stop the flow of saliva as he blubbers and mewls. Choked noises moisten the air. He fucks deeper, triggering his swallowing reflex. His vision crosses. The wet walls of his throat milk on his fingers. It's too much. He snivels. Something is turning, everywhere and nowhere at once, tight and bright and hot and Saitama's powerful fingers rubbing and stretching the places so empty inside him—
The dryer chimes.
He slips from his mouth, the wave of whatever it'd been almost immediately fading. He wipes his mouth, staining the metal. His cooling system kicks in. He keeps his gaze to the floor, avoiding the mirror. He drops to his knees, dragging the hamper away from the washing machine. He unloads the dryer, attempting to ignore the way his wrists noisily clatter, the way the tiny ducts in his mouth insist on producing an abnormal amount of saliva.
He pauses mid-chore. Saitama's hoodie. The one he wears least, but no less Saitama's…
Slow, Genos brings it to his face. His eyes close, focusing on the lingering scent of his teacher. His core glows beneath his shirt, the same timid tingle riding once again at his back. The dizzying scent mixes with the balm of the perfume, creating vivid scenes in his mind. Here, together, as if it were truly real, finally real, Saitama holding him close.
"Sensei…"
He fondles the fabric, reverent of every soft inch. His breath lets, warming the hoodie. He moans quietly, one of his hands traveling down below the planes of his abdomen. He touches. Anywhere, anything. The fabric of his jeans creases silently beneath his palm. He does not have the parts, has not had the urgency nor the desire to have them ever since he became a running piece of destructive machinery, but the phantom sensation alights very faintly the more that he rubs. It's dull, then mildly pleasant, then he's undoing the zipper and button and shoving his hand down his crotch, caressing the flat, supple silicone which makes up the upper part of his pelvis and thighs. His face overheats. A thin stream of smoke lifts from his shoulders.
"Sensei," he babbles. "Saitama-sensei…" His fingers slide under, the same pliant material leading up to a place where an odd sticky slickness is oozing. It dampens the tips of his fingers.
Genos' ears burn.
There, he thinks. He could have him there, inside, could really, truly be able to please him—
"Hah—sensei, I've missed you, I've missed you so much, please, I want—I want—"
"Uh. Genos?"
Genos all but shocks to attention.
"Sensei!"
He kicks on his fans in an instant, though his face continues to burn. He shoves the hoodie behind him, tottering back, hoping beyond possibility that Saitama had perhaps not entirely noticed.
"I did not hear you come in, Master, I—"
Saitama looks at him quizzically, casually sucking on the straw of a Pepsi he might have picked up on the way.
"Whatcha hidin' there?"
It isn't accusing, nor is it angry. Genos swallows. Is he be able to smell it…? Is he pretending it does not disgust him? He keeps his head low and tries to find solace in the way the apron safely conceals his indignity.
"Did ya go shopping?"
Genos shakes his head.
"Oh. Okay."
He turns on his heel.
"I mean, no, Master, I did not go shopping, in fact, I was too busy to even think about shopping, I—"
Saitama turns to face him again. Surely he knows now. Surely he's read him. A sudden crestfall of guilt overwhelms him. He's lied. His brow slants, his lip trembles pitiably.
"S-saitama-sensei," his voice shakes, his fingers clench on the hoodie. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm—"
"Uh, dude. It's fine. Really."
Genos looks up for the first time. Hope rises. Fragile, laid raw.
"Look," he says, "I ain't mad. A kid needs trendy clothes, right?"
He slurps up the last of the soda and coolly walks off.
Genos crumbles over the dryer.
oOo
leave me a line. it fuels the pyre... ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)