it's a little on the long side. but here it goes.
oOo
"Anyway, uh. Thanks for having me, dude."
Saitama bides at the doorway, feeling only a little bit guilty at how late it already is. He'd have shoved anyone out of his place hours ago, were he King, or conveniently sat back and let Genos take care of it.
Genos… That's right. Maybe not go there right now.
"Anytime," says King. "Could be that you spare the controller next time."
Saitama nods, because fuck, of course he would notice. He would offer to try and find a semi-new one on bargain, but the damage was chiefly an aesthetical one. And King seems…laid-back about it. Man. King is the best.
They stand there a moment, beneath the dull amber light of the hallway, suspended in silence. Saitama shifts foot to foot. The carpet creaks. It feels like he's standing in a creepy hospital corridor, being recorded.
"So, yeah. I'll just. Head home. You know. To sleep."
King nods. And is that a smug look on his face? Saitama turns, not really wanting to stick around for another round of cross-examination. He yawns, dragging his feet to the elevator. He steps through the fancy steel doors and pokes at the button that will ferry him down to the exit.
oOo
It's dank, cold. The sidewalk crunches under his stride. Everything unrelated to after-dark retail is closed, and only the white lambent glow of vending machines illumines the street that will take him back to Z-City.
It's not a nice street. The walls drip with moisture and the walkway is narrow. There's junk everywhere, chock-full of bikes and overfilled dumpsters. Neon signs, too. Flickering pinks, coquettish purples. The art is appealing. He idles a bit. Cabaret plays in low heavy strums. The temptation is there. Kind of.
He takes the next turn. The music grows faint. It feels like a loss. But he knows what the mirror reflects—what it doesn't reflect—and is, at the end of the day, uninterested in handing out cash. Funny. When he'd fared a couple years younger, freshly ridiculed after an interview and lugging a suitcase along, he would not have thought twice. He'd be in there now, off in some corner getting a lapdance, trying to get himself smashed. But all of that was before becoming a hero, before going bald, before the mosquitoes.
He wonders if Genos is already sleeping.
If he's all rolled up in a ball like he usually is—hah, like a spring roll—just a few strands of glossy blond hair peeking out of the top of his blanket—
Oh look. He's thinking again.
He shoves his hands in his pockets, focusing on things like cabbage and hot pot and how much farther he'll have to wade in the dark till he finally encounters something to punch a new hole in.
oOo
He's there pretty quick. Only a weird lemur-thing lurked a couple blocks back, likely not much of a threat. It talked a lot, so he flicked it, a show of bloody confetti smearing itself on an unfortunate wall.
He climbs up the stairs, missing the red-hot immersion of King's fight games already. He'll have to go back again. Probably tomorrow, right before breakfast.
He stops at the door. Dim light blooms from the space at the bottom. Someone's awake. Or forgetful. Either way, it's a little unusual. Genos never leaves the light on this late.
Saitama steps in, kicking out of his shoes. Something smells nice. Floral and plummy, like the type of stuff Fubuki would not want to spray on her neck. Did Genos sneak a girl in...? He scuffs past the kitchen, stretching his arms, too sleepy to speculate. He freezes at the end of the hall.
Genos. Standing there, tall and silver and naked if it weren't for the peach lingerie he is dressed in. His fingers lift to fiddle in front of him, the lace hitching up to caress the smooth chrome of his thighs. His gold irises glow, reflecting soft yellow light onto his cheekbones.
"Sensei..." he whispers, and his lips are so full.
He takes a single step forward, revealing delicate toes. The sleep heaves out of Saitama, something else wants to heave in his shorts.
"Oh fuck, sorry, man, sorry, I didn't mean to walk in on you—"
He turns, arrowed straight for the door. That perv doctor, surely he knows what he's done, on a nineteen-year-old boy who doesn't even know what he's done, the nerve—
Saitama's walking, no, he's bounding, but Genos is already hot on his trail.
"S-sensei, please wait, I want—I want you to see me!"
Saitama keeps moving. This is bad. So bad. Genos reaches for him, clasping his wrist with both of his hands with a force that would have a lesser man tugged around like a leaf.
"Sensei, please—"
It's raw, those two words repeated so many times that Saitama stops listening.
"Saitama-sensei—"
It's shaky this time, choked, as if he were in pain. It's...unlike any other sound Genos has made, oceans away from his stoic (if impassioned) demeanor. Saitama stops, just past the kitchen, and Genos stops with him. He turns, and quickly regrets it. The gold eyes are bigger, dark lashes longer, the cheeks flushed pink like a doll's. He looks at Saitama, brow pinched in a poignant mix of fear and anxiety. And Genos… Genos is never afraid, never uneasy. Genos is—he's—
Saitama swallows, vaguely aware that he is being lead back to the room. Little by little, as if he'd lost his way in a tunnel, till mere inches separate him from silk-covered steel.
Genos takes a tentative hold of his hand. He places it onto his cheek. It's soft, but this part Saitama already knew from their spar, the synthetic skin smushing against the support of his palm. Genos presses on it, petting himself, strands of wheat hair grazing Saitama's fingers. He flutters his lashes, slowly and sweetly, as if he had studied a porno, then carefully tilts his head and opens his mouth.
The world closes in. Slick heat, too hot to be human. Genos sucks on his finger—revering his finger—then two. A pinkish tongue darts between the open space, licking and curling, creating lewd images in Saitama's fog-addled brain. Saliva stretches across the two digits. Guilt swells in his heart. He's at least half-hard off of his student blowing his fingers like this. He follows Genos' small mouth, the way that it worships, and is unable to stop the stifled gasp that escapes from his throat.
Thin fumes braid through the room.
"Sensei…?" It's out of breath, tongue greedily lapping for more between every syllable. "Do you...feel good? Do I make you feel good?"
Shorn to many stages of shame by the question—the way that it's asked—Saitama jerks back his hand, letting it fall to his side. It only causes Genos to try and chase after it.
He's sinking. Losing sound judgment. This is obviously wrong. Stupid Genos. If only he knew, and fuck, this is his own fault, he's older, his teacher, he should know better, he should say something smart—
Saitama's mind is so fried that he does not entirely notice Genos dropping down to his knees, his fingers frantically working his fly as if the fate of the earth depended on it.
"Gen—ah, stop—"
It's hardly coherent. Genos doesn't let up.
Fuck. Fuck. He's hard, so turned-on that the room is already losing its shape, would it—is it really so wrong—
"I said stop!"
Saitama shoves back. Genos falls on his ass with a considerable thud, skidding some distance away on the floor. He stares, eyes so wide that it seems as though he is either profoundly confused or on the verge of dissolving. All is quiet. Saitama...doesn't know what to say, how to fix it. So he twists on his heel, readjusting his clothes in a second attempt at leaving. At hiding.
"Sensei!" shouts Genos, already following. "Please, let me try again! I will—I will do it better!"
It's so wrought with fragility that Saitama feels it right in his gut. He swings around, opening his mouth to make it clearer, but Genos is already diving to his knees. Warm metal works on him again, though this time Genos leans in intimately, arching his back to create friction with the experimental up and down of his chest. Much as if...as if he had—which technically he does—but—
This kid.
Saitama does it without thinking. He draws Genos up by both shoulders, cautious of the strength in his grip. Genos blinks at him, doe-eyed and no less maddening. His mouth is wet, his breath is heavy. It takes Saitama entirely too long to realize their proximity, to understand that he is just as lost for air as Genos.
Saitama lets him go, granting a respectable distance between them.
"Listen," he says.
And Genos does. His gaze is intense, so fierce its hue is sanguine. Like...an unchaste creature staring back from the blackness of a cave, waiting. Saitama swallows, trying to urge away a really weird hard-on. It's obvious that Genos is exercising some grand control within himself to keep from moving, to do as he is told, to keep from leaping forward. A tingle licks along Saitama's spine. This is brittle ground.
"I don't…" He takes a breath. "Own you, Genos. Or deserve whatever—" he gestures at the space between them, "this is. This whole crush thing. You're, like. Young. Maybe a little lonely 'cause you coop yourself in here most the time, but I mean. Go out, ya know. Go to a bar. You're a nice guy. Like, a really nice guy. And I'm…" He sighs. "I'm just some old guy with nothing to teach you."
Genos looks devastated. Good… Good.
"So," he continues, scratching his ear. "Yeah. Find someone with a little more hair—"
"I like you." And the words are so tender and many notes softer than Genos' baritone voice. "I don't think I could make it any truer, Sensei, but I only like you. You are the most remarkable man to set foot on this earth, the strongest and most capable Hero. I have never met anybody like you, nor will I ever. I will follow you blindly, I will uphold you and become strong at your side. I like you." He takes a careful step closer. "I like you so mu—" He shakes his head. "I love you, Saitama-sensei. I love you so much that—" he grabs at his chest, bunching the lace, where his heart would lie, if he had one. "I feel affection. It feels broken—it hurts—"
Saitama could not handle a second more of this if he tried.
He shuts off. Just. Turns it all off. And stares off, into the shallow dark of the half-curtained window.
When did the streetlight get fixed? Did some snazzy drone from H.A. buzz by and use its tiny tool hands to switch out the bulb? Maybe Mumen's behind it. Mumen always does neat stuff like that when no-one's around…
"Sensei, please say something, please!"
Saitama's gaze drifts back to his shouting disciple, feeling very much like he is floating through air. He must be wearing the (exceedingly) wrong expression, because Genos hurls forward, panic limned into every pale inch of his face.
"I—I am sorry—I misread the situation and allowed myself to be swayed like a fool. It is my fault. I will not say anything like that again, I have brought shame unto you, I will keep my hands and my mouth and my words to myself, Master Saitama, I am sorry—"
Genos is one with the floor at this point, folded into a swaddle of peach plume and perfume at Saitama's ankles. He trembles (or at least it seems that way from this angle), practically sobbing the oil reserve out of his eyes.
It's...stressful. If stress were ever an advisable reason for rocketing out of the stratosphere, Saitama thinks that he would. Like that one time with Boros. Being on the moon was pretty cool.
"Genos," mutters Saitama. "Stop groveling."
...Perhaps he'd muttered too faintly.
"Sensei, please do not banish me!" his dramatic disciple resumes. "Sensei may punish me henceforth as he so desires. In fact, I will gladly endure any manner of discipline Sensei may choose. Sensei may confiscate my journal, to be expunged if the sacrifice be, but please—Saitama-sensei—please find it in your heart—"
Saitama sighs, lowering himself to the floor. Genos stares up at him, hiccuping, sniffling, as if he were perfectly ready for the end of the world.
This is it. This is what it all roils down to.
Saitama dips forward and finds Genos' lips with his own. And yeah, they're greasy with cyborg-y tears, too sticky and black to be entirely pleasant, but Genos' hair smells faintly of coconut soap, and oh look, the candy perfume that he's doused in is already making him crazy.
Saitama pulls away, one finger chiding.
"Shut up, okay? You're forgetting the twenty-word rule."
Genos slams their mouths together again.
oOo
Time is molasses, and Genos' mouth is no help. The artificial saliva is reminiscent to some kind of lube, imparted with flavor, slightly of mint. Perhaps to allow better moisture for speech for a throat that isn't organic, Saitama thinks, surely Kuseno isn't that much of a perv.
Genos slides his tongue over, then under, requesting attention. He follows Saitama's lead, sat attentive in seiza, hands alternating between grasping at nothing and wanting to hold Saitama's face. He squirms, too caught up in overassessing than simply going for it.
"Sensei," he sighs, separating just enough to allow Saitama a gasp of fresh air. "This is so wonderful. I learn so much from you, thank you—"
Saitama rolls his eyes and takes the moment to wipe Genos' cheeks with his sleeve. The oil wipes easily, leaving no stain. Not on Genos, anyway. Genos watches him closely, eyes rounder, irises smaller and sharper and dimmer, all but writhing in his need to continue their session. Saitama leans, nipping a pink lower lip with his teeth, to which Genos whines quietly. He opens his mouth (comically wide), and Saitama indulges, tonguing him down till they're both on the floor, Genos beneath him.
He's wary of the position they fall in. Saitama drapes his left arm across Genos' chest to keep himself balanced, legs to the side, not allowing their lower bodies to touch. This is just...kissing, after all. Just making out. Totally normal.
He grabs Genos by the back of the hair with his free hand, keeping him steady, and soon brushes against the limber material which makes up his neck. It's not a lot different from flesh, though it is firmer, smoother, soft with faux muscle and clearly designed to sustain a great deal of damage. It also smells really, really good. Like girl. And Genos. God.
Saitama slips from their kiss, mouthing his way to the side of the neck, breathing and tasting. He sucks, testing the waters, careful not to harm anything. Genos bucks his hips in an instant, a feverish mewl stuttering out through his teeth. Wow. Is he sensitive here? The lingerie rides higher along his silvery thighs. Saitama looks away just in time, not so avid at the sight of a dick.
"S-sensei," huffs Genos, "please, I want to have sex."
Saitama just about chokes on his spit.
"Wha—"
Genos peers down at him, still kept in place by the hand in his hair. "Please fuck me," he says. He gnaws on his lip, rolling his hips in impatience.
Saitama blinks, gulping the sudden fuzz of arousal away from his throat. "Um. I…" He sits up, ready to muster all that he has to steer clear of where the situation is going.
Genos apparently takes that as cue. He gets to his feet and strides over to where the futons are rolled, dutifully offering the use of his own. He spreads his blanket upon it, then sits, scooting a bit, as though to leave the more spacious half to Saitama. He even pats it for him, dusting the spot to make sure that it's clean. Saitama feels helpless, stripped by his obsequious student to his most basal instinct. Heat stirs through his skin. He goes to sit beside Genos, hoping he's gone about it unsexily enough that it might somehow make Genos realize that he does not actually want this—with him, anyway—but Genos only looks about ten times more eager. He lies down, parting his legs, giving Saitama more than enough room to settle between him.
Shit. Okay.
He settles between him. Genos is a lot more comfortable than he could have imagined, the ferric parts of his figure warm and grooving as a human body would groove. Genos wriggles beneath him, purposefully adjusting Saitama's crotch to line under his own. Saitama swallows, looking into the glowing expectancy of Genos' stare. His chest is glowing, too, a thin orange fulgor underneath the indents.
"Have you...ever done this?" he asks.
Genos shakes his head.
"No, Sensei. You are my first."
"Okay." Saitama exhales, angling a bit to the side so that he could maybe reach down. "I'm… I need to get hard." He pauses. "Not that I'm not, but—"
Genos looks at him, nodding importantly. This couldn't get any more embarrassing.
"Do you need help?" asks Genos. He rings his thumb and index finger, thrusting his tongue against the side of his cheek.
It's obscene. Saitama tenses, blood flow stirring. He keeps his eyes on Genos, watching his expression as he skids a hand down onto his abdomen, fondling over the expanse of lace. It must be expensive. The fiber adheres to his fingers like cobweb, the plume at the fringe daintily shifting when he slips his hand between Genos' legs. His inner thighs are soft when he palms them, lifelike and quivering lightly. He wanders upward, perfectly braced for the weight of a cock to meet with his hand, but is instead greeted with nothing.
Flat. Flat and smooth and pliant. Thrill swells below Saitama's stomach. Genos is pink all over, the tip of his tongue stroking on his upper lip. Where did he learn all of this? ...What else can he learn? Saitama swallows, dandling lazy circles onto the pliable silicone. Genos twists beneath him, arms reaching out to cling around his neck. Saitama grazes lower, firmer, met with soft cheeks and a good amount of moisture. And a hole. His cock throbs to attention. There is no going back.
He unclasps himself from Genos' arms, slipping out of his t-shirt and hoodie. Shorts, socks and underwear, too. He's aware of the attention he's getting, Genos having propped up on his elbows to watch the whole spectacle. His eyes are wide, a runnel of steam lifting from the vents at his back. His gaze lingers downward, bottom lip tucked between teeth.
"Sensei," he breathes. "Do you think it will fit?"
Saitama looks up. "Um. I hope so." He pauses. "If not...you know." He mimics Genos' gesture from earlier.
Genos nods fervently, lying back down. Saitama follows, hooking one of Genos' long legs onto his shoulder. He pulls him down by the hips, aligning himself with his hole.
He stops, hazily realizing that he hasn't even tried to prepare him, or attempted to look around for stuff like a bottle of lube or a condom—
"Please," whines Genos, "I want it, I want Sensei messing me up—"
It's enough to have Saitama get the idea. He leans, folding Genos in half. His foot dangles next to his head, steel hands immediately grasping him tight by the shoulders. He presses forward, the tip of his cock nudging against the taut crease of Genos' entrance. It's like a furnace and he's not even in yet. He swallows and starts to slowly push through, the head of his cock sliding inside with a sticky wet noise.
Genos arches beneath him, pinned in position. Saitama lets out a gasp, sinking his nose into the scent of Genos' neck. His nerves are on fire. It's just the first inch but already the flow of time has begun to compress. There is only spasming heat and Genos' slick, the hole he's been offered desperately adjusting to the breadth he is breaching it with.
"God," he hushers, "it's good…"
He drives forward, gloving his cock at least half of the way. Genos keens, biting his lip to try and repress what seems like the start of a scream. The sides of his eyes are a little bit wet, the gold in them glazy.
Saitama, if possible, only grows harder.
"Hah, Sensei, d-do you—does it feel nice?"
Saitama swallows, nodding just before thrusting forward. The glide is smooth and practically effortless with the amount of lubricant Genos produces. His insides suck Saitama right in. It's hard not to hiss through the stricture of it. He seats himself against Genos' backside, rolling his hips.
Warm. So warm. Tight like a fist, except it milks on him passively. He feels he could just stay there till morning, could probably come just from being shoved this deep into Genos, but that would make his student's first time a little bit boring. He glides out, snaps in, forcing Genos to jolt on the futon. He does it again. And again, till his breathing's actually compromised.
"S-sensei, ah—wh-what does it feel like...?"
"It feels," Saitama builds up a rhythm, heavy and tight. "Like…"
The tips of his ears start to burn up. Were he as flagrant as Genos, he would be able to say it: his disciple's ass feels a lot like a cunt, and it's pretty amazing. He slams in again and Genos manages to bring a hand to his cheek, unhooking his knee before pulling Saitama in with both legs. A thick burst of steam fogs through the air. It only takes about a dozen more pummeling blows to Genos' hole that Saitama starts to feel the coil of orgasm take a fluttering turn. It doesn't help that Genos is gazing at him as if he were some sort of god, docile and panting a weepy amalgam of "sensei" and "Saitama". He caresses Saitama's face, earnestly taking the fucking that is being given to him, clenching onto his cock as if knowing full well that the friction is driving him crazy.
It's difficult not wanting to know exactly how much Genos could take, would be willing to take. He wants to fuck harder. Just. So much harder, wants to feel the floor crack beneath them with how fast he is really able to go. It's a task of its own, having to hold himself back, in fear that he'll break some part of Genos' body, or worse, hurt him—
"Ahh—" Genos gulps at the air, tightening the grip of his legs, "S-sensei, it feels so good, thank you, Sensei, thank you, more—hahh—please fill me more—"
Genos' eyes are rolling back (dimming?) a rindle of drool tracing down to his jaw. His mouth is slack, his thighs and arms suddenly quaking. It isn't long after that Genos starts to go lax underneath him. The irises vanish, matching the sclera. For a short, horrifying moment in time Saitama thinks that he's killed him. He pauses, ready to panic, but Genos whirrs back to life almost instantly. The gold dazzles brighter, a sequence of nonsense being told to the ceiling.
Did Genos just come…?
"—feels so good, so good, hah, I love it so much—"
...It's as if he hadn't just cyborg-fainted from taking it hard in the ass.
"You're insatiable," muses Saitama.
His body tints to a blush. There...could be a lot to be done with that. Like. Having him be able to keep up with his inhuman stamina. That would be nice.
Saitama's muscles spring with constraint; it's taking a lot not to slip out and simply stuff Genos' mouth full of cock, to quiet him down, to not watch him willingly choke on it. He pulls out, choosing to be safe rather than sorry, and rolls Genos onto his stomach, spreading his thighs and bunching the lace high up on his back.
Genos seems to get the message. He adjusts his weight on his knees, lifting his (very round) backside just slightly. The black silicone seems especially malleable here, an enlivening contrast against the glistering metal. Saitama kneels to position, tugging him in by the waist. He slaps his cock on the cleft (it jiggles) then fucks him, deeply and steady, his hips barely grazing Genos' ass for an easier glide. Genos' walls accommodate him without any difficulty, the hole having loosened to embrace the considerable breadth of his cock. The thought makes Saitama's skin come alive with an itch. God. He could probably do this at least five times a day. If not more, if Genos is down for it.
Genos grasps at the futon, the left part of his face mashed into the wool of his blanket. He's liquid beneath him, limp and submissive, expelling puff after puff of sweltery exhaust.
"Sensei," he moans, "p-please...ngh...please come inside me."
It's so sweet and so yearning that Saitama is helpless not to feel his whole body tauten. Genos is oozing slick at this point, and it slithers down from their fucking to smear on the futon. It's hot. He's hot. He sweeps in and out with his hips, focusing on the way Genos' hole swallows his cock with every wet glide, then Saitama's coming. His vision blears, a single bead of sweat tracing his jawline. He keeps going, watching the aftershocks of a particularly powerful thrust ripple all through the black synthetic skin of Genos' asscheeks. It's glorious. It's the hottest thing that he's seen. His pulse is louder than it's been in years. He lets out a staggering breath, gradually slowing, but Genos takes up rein and begins to fuck himself with restless abandon, determined to drain Saitama for all that he's worth.
"I can f-feel," snivels Genos, half-there, half-not, "I can feel your h-heartbeat, Saitama-sensei…"
It's only a whisper, yet it has Saitama flushing down to his chest. He swallows and feels sweat start to surface at the back of his neck, and it is not from their fucking.
He flips Genos onto his side, throwing a long silver leg over his shoulder, renewing the process.
oOo
He has him on all fours. Then standing, rocking up and down on the wall. Then he has him lying flat on his stomach with his wrists tied with silk at his back. Then Saitama has him how they initially started, except this time they are chest-to-chest and they are kissing, sharing the same huff of air as they drink in each other's gasping expressions.
oOo
Somewhere along the fracture of dawn, Saitama notices something shift itself out of the seam of Genos' futon. He cranes his neck, avoiding suspicion from the blond head bobbing up and down between his thighs.
A condom. So that's what that bump was. It glints in the light and Saitama supposes that the label is somewhat familiar. Striking green eyes and a ritzy fur coat flash through his mind.
...At least now he knows where Genos' gutsy incentive materialized from.
"Genos."
Genos looks over his shoulder. It is late in the morning and he and Saitama are lying together, spooning under the blankets. Saitama's gaze seems dozy with the afterglow of their coupling, though it is also intense. His brow is knit, as if he were insecure about something.
"What is it, Sensei?"
Saitama's throat leaps at the question.
"Back there," he answers after a moment. "Before you started freaking out. I…" He looks off to the side, half-hiding behind Genos' shoulder. "I wanted to say it, too, dude. What you said. I just..."
He trails off. Genos blinks. He thinks back.
And smiles.
"Sensei…"
He flops over to face Saitama and urgently snuggles against him. His cheek presses to Saitama's chest, his leg swinging over to tangle with Saitama's leg. He can hear the racing of his heart, clearer now than ever, the reassurance of his breath fanning in his hair, the way Saitama no longer pulls away from him.
"I am...so happy, Sensei."
He closes his eyes and hopes his teacher might hold him.
Saitama does. He wraps his arm around Genos, drawing him closer.
Drizzle patters on the glass of the window. Saitama does not let him go.
Like this, thinks Genos. Like this forever.
oOo
I'll probably end up with an epilogue somewhere along the line because I'm an excitable person. (´༎ຶ ͜ʖ ༎ຶ `)
thank you to everyone who's read!