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Kinktober 2019

Chapter Text

            The window shatters on impact, glass flying inward to coat the office tiles, screams of passerby employees echoing throughout the floor. A giant crayfish cackles in delight, its claws smacking noisily against the sidewalk, cracking the cement down in lines. A woman yelps as it grabs her car, lifting it over its arm and then throwing it at another building, causing the steel pipes within to bend over, ugly, beginnings of a collapse.

            “Hahaha! Is there no one powerful enough to take me on?” The crustacean roars as he stomps down, claws puncturing passing cars and windows. His claw catches on a television display, ripping through the tower with ease, causing sparks to fly.

            “Hm? Who are you, baldy?” A single man roams the streets still, carrying grocery bags stuffed with leeks and ground beef, and seemingly two boxes worth of ramen. He’d be the perfect example of an abnormally average man if not for the nudity of his head—how unfortunate. The crustacean laughs, waving his arms by his side.

            “You better run, baldy, or I’ll crush you flat!” He swings his arm right through a telephone pole, causing it to break in half, smashing into the side of a building. Crayfish cackles, making boxing motions with his arms. Baldy looks at him, then at the grocery store behind him, waiting.

            The door slides open to reveal who could be a very pretty boy, if not for the obvious cybernetic enhancements that run along his body, from his arms to his feet. Baldy waves at him.

            “Yo, let’s go home.” Even his voice is average. The crustacean laughs, looming overhand. Easy prey, pathetically so. He hasn’t had a chance to do some real damage just yet, wanting to properly wait for a television crew to catch his bloody victory, but some opportunities just can’t be passed up. He raises his arms into the air, and slams them downward.

            Saitama raises a hand, letting his eyes slide shut, tossing Genos his groceries. In a moment, he is soaked in blood and intestines, the spilled guts of a crayfish flopping off his form. Where once stood a tiger level threat is now just flimsy skinny legs, and Saitama sighs as he wipes his now bloody hands against his equally red pants.

            “Aww, I wanted crayfish hot pot,” Saitama confesses. Genos startles, digging into their grocery bags, only to be quelled by a shake of Saitama’s head. “Too expensive. Alright, let’s go.”

            Dinner is hot pot without crayfish—noodles, leek, fish balls and layers of tripe. King comes over to play Super Smash with Saitama, Genos watching and only being slightly biased in who he cheers for. They eat and laugh and play, a quiet evening for a quiet day.

            It isn’t until King leaves, the door sliding shut behind him, that Genos’ arms come around Saitama.

            “Sensei,” breathing, light, easy, even though Genos’ hands are sliding up Saitama’s sweater, even though he’s pinching at his nipple, “you were so amazing again, today.” Unnecessary, the flow of air, the flush of blood, all unnecessary elements. Genos face is—still, raw, simple, and yet, when Saitama turns to meet his eyes, he cannot still the stumbling of his heart at the sight.

            “Genos, shouldn’t we clean up?” Saitama responds, yet his fingers squeeze at Genos’ wrist, yet his face inches just a bit closer to Genos’ lips.

            “I already did, sensei,” Genos replies, of course. He would, cleaning and cooking and bustling, sprinkling light and color and life into Saitama’s life even as his eyes tremble to slip shut, determined to live in the greys and blacks and whites in the world. Genos presses his lips, rubber, synthetic, to Saitama, sighing.

            He doesn’t quite get it. How the stars sparkle in Genos’ eyes, how the colors flare bright on the patterns of his hair. How the light seems to bend around Genos arms, his legs, shifting in the air with every brush and tremble of his motors. How the world itself is dyed rainbow with the sounds of shifting grass and grinds of cars, the chatter of shoppers and the smell of oden, the warmth radiating off Genos smile, his lips, kissing Saitama’s.

            How Saitama finds himself in a path of color, staring ahead at a grey and black and metallic man soaked in life.

            “I love you, sensei,” confessional, guilty, hopeful. As though the words that slip through Genos’ lips are unwanted.

            “Yeah,” Saitama murmurs back, rocking against Genos, holding him close. The futon is folded up, away, the tables wiped clean. Even the games had been wrapped and put away into the cabinets beneath the television.

            “Want the futon?” He offers. Genos looks at him, slow, eyes blinking.

            “Sure.” Genos slips from his arms, trotting over to unfold and smooth the futons. In his absence, Saitama finds the air suddenly colder. He walks over, hands in his pockets, waiting. When Genos finishes setting the futon up, he beams, arms gesturing to it empathetically.

            Sweet. The room glows a little brighter.

            “Would you like to join me, sensei?” As though Genos would do anything without Saitama being there. Saitama shrugs, dropping to his knees, shuffling off his pants.

            Genos places his hand against Saitama’s, carding their fingers together. Saitama slows, eyes flickering up. Right.

            “Yeah,” he breathes, “Okay.”

            It’s… odd. He’s still used to the gradients of grey overlaying the room, the dull ache when he presses his hand against his groin, grinding. In the past, it was more a chore than anything, the routine methodology of cleaning his mistakes. Life still seems slow, sometimes. Genos helps.

            Genos helps a lot.

            “Would I, is this alright, sensei?” The first time, he had gone and torn Genos’ leg tissues, slipping and impaling his silicone connector with his dick. As silly as it is in hindsight, the true fear of Doctor Kuseno ripping him apart struck Saitama to his core. Nowadays, it’s safer to simply slick up with lube and slide between Genos’ thighs.

            “That’s great,” Saitama murmurs. He’s soft, just a small chub in his palms, but it’s enough. Genos rolls over to his side, presenting the softer, smooth silicone insides of his thighs to Saitama. It’s easy enough to slide in, turn over, and kiss Genos against his lips.

            “Can I move?” Always, just a whisper, Saitama slipping his hands upwards Genos’ hips. It is always a note of interest how well his body is crafted, how lovingly Saitama can slip his hands along the dents and curves forming lines along Genos’ form. Genos sighs against Saitama’s lips, humming, the low vibrations shaking his jaw.

            “Of course, sensei.” Genos moves first, just the slow rocking of his hips against Saitama, arms coming back to entangle their fingers, pulling his arms forward to better wrap around Genos. Saitama allows it, allows him, letting Genos set the pace before angling his cock, moving his own hips to better thrust into Genos. The lube makes his silicone remarkably smooth, slippery, and Saitama finds a rhythm with ease.

            They fuck like that, make love, like that. Just Saitama, pressed against Genos, arms wrapped around the other. His own space heater, what with the fans kicking in, what with how wet, how warm, how easy it is for him to rock between Genos’ willing thighs. His own beloved, soft despite the metal, human despite the wires, golden pupils bright as he cranes his neck over to kiss at Saitama.

            Hard, leaking just the bit along Genos’ legs. Kissing at his neck, biting at his wires, hearing the pleasured gasps and shakes that quiver Genos’ body. Saitama draws moans and whines and mewls from his lover, digitalized color, turned to light. To volume. To the sweetest serenade, dazzling, dizzying.

            “I love you, sensei.” Love, Saitama thinks, made not of fireworks and pixie dust, not of torn up love letters and girls with high ponytails swaying in the wind. Love, not of human flesh, human skin, not of long locks and lashes. Love, not of fear and regret, not of gifts and cash, not of necessary anniversaries of days that don’t really matter.

            Saitama presses a kiss to Genos’ head.

            He cums, just the spilling of semen onto Genos. The slightest shake of his hands, the flush of his cheeks, kissing at Genos. Kissing with Genos, the slide of their lips together, the brush of their tongues. Synthetic. Wanting. Needing.

            The smile on Genos face when he wakes up in the morning, smell of breakfast in the air. The curve of his mouth at the door when he returns, the cheerful tilt of his voice, the letters Doctor Kuseno writes to Saitama about how far he’s come. How careful he is. How gentle he is.

            The happy hum throughout Genos’ body as Saitama pulls out, eyes admiring the little mess left behind. The crook of his lips, rocking forward, hands cupping Saitama’s chin. Lips meeting, again, and again.

            Yeah. Yeah. Love.