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“It’s such a shame,” Amai Mask says, crouching next to Genos’ mangled body. “You would’ve made a lovely Hero. Oh well.”

Amai Mask raises his hand, poised to crush Genos’ skull. All Genos can manage in his final moments is a snarl of rage. He can see Amai Mask’s muscles tense for the blow–

Then, nothing. Amai Mask’s eyes dart away from Genos and a rivulet of blood flows down from the shoulder of his raised arm. Genos detects a wound there that hadn’t existed the moment before.

“Whoops. Can I have my 100 yen coin back?” Genos hears a voice ask. “Or should I pick it out of your remains?”

Amai Mask stands, thrumming with tension the way he hadn’t been in his fight with Genos. His arm doesn’t come down, however, not until he digs into the wound with his other hand and pulls out the coin with a wet sucking noise. He flicks the coin back and rolls his shoulder once, twice, blood spurting from the wound to drip down his bespoke jacket.

“Come to collect another stray mongrel, villain?” Amai Mask asks the stranger. Genos desperately wishes he had the motor function to turn his head to look at the new addition.

“Eh.” Genos can practically hear the shrug. “Just thought maybe you should pick on someone your own size.”

Amai Mask flips his hair. “You can have this one. He’s weak enough that the Hero Association isn’t concerned about him.”

“Dude, if you wanna run away, just say it.”

Amai Mask’s jaw tics, his expression turning ugly with rage. “We’ll find your weakness eventually. And when we do, I will remove your head from your shoulders personally.”

Genos watches Amai Mask walk away even as the stranger’s footsteps thud closer.

“What a douche,” the man says, leaning into Genos’ field of vision. “You okay down there?”

Genos feels his eyes widen. There’s no mistaking that black and red outfit and the signature bald head. “You’re Saitama,” he breathes.

“In the flesh,” Saitama says, as though he’s not the most infamous villain on the planet.

“You’re the Bald Darkness.”

Saitama’s lip curls. “I fucking hate that name. Like, so the hell what if I’m bald? The Hero Association didn’t have to put it in my stupid villain name. Just call me Saitama.”

“Teach me,” Genos begs. “Teach me to be as strong as you are. Please-”

Genos strains toward Saitama, but the movement brushes a frayed wire against his core and everything goes black.

He wakes on Dr. Stench’s familiar table, blinking up at the lights and wondering how he got there.

“Heyyy, welcome back,” a familiar voice says. A gloved hand squeezes through the robotic arms clustered around Genos and waves.

“Saitama! Did you bring me here? How did you find this place?”

The arm retracts, Saitama’s head squeezing into the gap. “Did you know your Doctor guy put a plate on the back of your neck? It says, ‘If found, return to Dr. Stench, blah blah address, something something phone number’.”

The motors in Genos’ shoulders rev uselessly, trying to raise unattached arms to check the back of his neck. He’d never noticed a plate there, but then again he’d never thought to check–

Saitama is grinning, open-mouthed and amused. Genos’ eyes narrow.

“How did you really find this place?” he demands.

“You only had one contact in your phone, so I called it and Stench led me here,” Saitama says.

“Dr. Stench would never reveal the location of his secret lab to a stranger. What have you done with him?”

The robotic arms on Genos’ other side rise up toward the ceiling to reveal Dr. Stench at his workstation, looking none the worse for wear.

“It’s alright, Genos. I asked Saitama to bring you here because I was worried that I wouldn’t get to you in time. Revealing this place was a necessary evil, but one I believe I can live with. Amai Mask very nearly killed you, after all,” Dr. Stench says.

“I see. Thank you, Saitama. I owe you my life,” Genos says.

Saitama is digging in the shell of his ear with a finger. “Huh? Oh, sure. No prob.”

“Please let me be your disciple,” Genos says. “I need to get stronger to defeat the Hero Association.”

“Eh, no thanks,” Saitama says.

“There is a mad cyborg I need to find and destroy, a cyborg that the Hero Association refuses to stop. You see, four years ago I was living a peaceful life with my family, a normal fifteen year old boy. My family was not wealthy, but we were comfortable, and more importantly, happy. But one day, an insane cyborg, perhaps driven mad by his modifications, came into our town and began destroying it. Nobody was safe from his rampage, not the young nor the elderly. It took two whole days for the cyborg to destroy our town. Even those who tried to escape were slaughtered until the roads and highways were piled their bodies and the wreckage of their vehicles. My family also fell victim to the mad cyborg. I survived the attack, but only just. Help never came. Dr. Stench found me, clinging to life, and agreed to implant my brain into a cyborg body so I could hunt the murderous cyborg myself.

“This was before the Hero Association was established, but even after the organization came into being, they allowed the mad cyborg to keep rampaging through town after town. I chased him, often calling out to the Hero Association for assistance in tracking and defeating him, but they never answered, allowing thousands of innocents to go undefended. I was always a day too late, an hour too far behind to stop his rampages, but eventually the mad cyborg disappeared, his killing spree halted. I seek to destroy him and get revenge for all the lives he’s taken, but now I also want to destroy the Hero Association as well for allowing this atrocity to continue unchecked for years. I am not yet strong enough to complete either of my goals, which is why, when I saw how Amai Mask was intimidated by you, I knew that I had to learn from you so that I could acquire that same strength and achieve victory over the mad cyborg and the Hero Associa–”


“Sensei, here is the short version,” Genos says. “Teach me to become strong so I can destroy my enemies.”

“Tch. Don’t call me ‘Sensei’,” Saitama grumbles.


“Don’t call me that either!”

Behind the wall of robotic arms, Dr. Stench sighs.

Saitama leaves before Genos is back in functioning condition, but Genos tracks him down to his apartment in an abandoned quarter on the outskirts of Z-City. The area is fenced off with tall cement walls and barbed wire, large signs warning civilians of frequent monster activity.

As far as Genos’ sensors can tell, the apartment building Saitama lives in is empty aside from Saitama, but fairly well kept.

“Sensei!” Genos says, rapping on the door.

It opens slowly, Saitama peering out. “Crap. You actually came.”

“I wish to learn from you, Sensei. May I please come in?”

Saitama sighs. “For a cup of tea, then you scram. I don’t want a student.”

Genos takes a polite sip of his tea, more for form’s sake than actual thirst, and asks, “Sensei! May I please live here?”

“How the fuck do you go from 'tea and scram’ to 'let me live here’?” Saitama asks incredulously. “You may absolutely not live here.”

Genos slides his bankbook across to Saitama. “I can pay the rent.”

Saitama looks at the numbers in the book. He looks up. “Do you need a toothbrush?”


“Bald Darkness! Come out at once, for I, BreadMan, have come from frigid R-Country to vanquish you!”

Genos doesn’t pause in his dusting.

BreadMan pounds on the door. “Hey! I said get out here!”

“Sensei, I don’t think he’s going away,” Genos says.

Saitama, still curled up on his futon, grunts.

“Do you want me to get rid of him?” Genos offers.

“Nah,” Saitama says. He rubs the crust from his eyes and clambers to his feet, the comforter draped over him like an oversized cape. “I keep telling these fuckers, no fights before 10, but they keep coming at the ass-crack of dawn.”

Genos doesn’t consider 8:30 in the morning to be particularly early, (and based on observation neither does Saitama, provided it’s a sale day), but he’s come to understand the inconvenience. He goes into the kitchen to get a garbage bag, a bucket, and a broom while Saitama answers the door.

“Ah, my secret sources were correct when they said you lived here,” Genos hears BreadMan say.

Saitama yawns. “Dude, my address is all over the internet. Also, you’re way too fucking early. Get lost.”

“Um. But I’ve come to vanquish you? So, like, prepare to be vanquished, villain!”

Genos hears Saitama sigh. There’s a squelch, then the sound of a body dropping. Genos squeezes past Saitama and pulls the garbage bag over the top of the headless torso before the blood can spread too far, tosses it out onto the street, then splashes the landing with water from the bucket until it’s clean again.

“Did you ever think that the reason they come so early is because you kill them before they have a chance to tell others that you don’t want early morning visitors?” Genos asks, sweeping the bloody water off the landing.

“Oh shit, I never thought of it that way,” Saitama says. He shakes his hand, blood and shards of bone flaking off, and Genos sweeps those away too. “Maybe we should put up a sign.”

“I’ll put it on your website,” Genos says. “What’s for breakfast?”

“We’ve got some leftover chicken from last night, and there’s a sale on eggs today. Oyakodon sound good? And since when did I have a website?” Saitama asks.

They go back inside, Genos to finish dusting and Saitama to wash his hands and make breakfast. Down below, the mutated crows use a pair of scissors to cut BreadMan’s clothes off his warm corpse before digging in with knife and fork.


It’s not always placid domesticity, living with and (ostensibly) learning from Saitama. Every now and again, Saitama’s mood will turn, his fingers drumming restlessly on the spine of his manga or the side of his cup. Genos wordlessly fetches his costume and follows him to whatever mayhem his Sensei feels like making.

Today it’s a lab well out in the middle of nowhere.

“The Home of Evolution,” Saitama says. “They keep sending goons after me, thought I’d finish them off once and for all.”

“The House of Evolution,” a wall-mounted speaker squawks. “I’ve been planning for this day, Bald Darkness-”

“Fucking Hero Association,” Saitama mutters.

“Today is the day I capture you and turn you into one of my test subjects. With your body as the source material, my creations will finally achieve the pinnacle of evolution!” the speaker continues. “Step inside and meet your doom, villain!”

“Shyeah, I don’t think so,” Saitama says. “Stand back, Genos.”

Genos jumps back to the tree line and watches as Saitama raises his fist and slams it down onto the building’s front step. The ground disintegrates, the building disappearing into the crater formed by Saitama’s punch, then sinking further still as an underground cavern caves in. Genos goes to stand next to Saitama and they peer into what appears to be a massive white chamber. He detects a single living creature below—it’s strong. It leaps up toward the opening, and Genos’ eyes track it long enough to see a long horn on some sort of carapaced creature before Saitama swings again and turns it into a shower of blood and meat.

“Think that’s all of them?” Saitama asks.

Genos turns his sensors up to full power. “I detect a cluster of lifesigns approximately sixty meters north-north-west.”

“Cool. Where is that?”

“This way, Sensei.” Genos leads him to the point, watching the tiny flickering dots that signify living creatures. “We’re right above them.”

Saitama kneels on the ground and raises both hands, fingers splayed wide. Genos hastily leaps up into the air and Saitama slams both hands, palms down, onto the dirt, the shockwave shattering the rock between him and the lifesigns. There’s a quiet rumble and the small lights flicker out. Crushed by a cave-in, probably.

Genos lands next to Saitama, who’s dusting off his gloves.

“Well that was boring,” Saitama says.

“There’s a local Hero Association headquarters on the way back,” Genos suggests.

Saitama perks. “Yeah, let’s go do that.”

The Hero Association headquarters isn’t any harder to demolish than the House of Evolution, but they discover that a nearby supermarket is having a huge sale on rice, so all’s well that ends well.

There’s a horde of Tank Toppers outside their apartment building the next day, Tanktop Master leading the pack.

“What do they want?” Saitama asks, peering over the balcony.

“According to the Hero Association online newsletter, we killed one of their faction members yesterday when we attacked the J-City headquarters. B-Class Rank 84 Tanktop Hatter. I suspect they’re here for revenge.”

Saitama smiles. “That Tank Top head honcho guy, he’s pretty strong, right?”

“S-Class Rank 15,” Genos says. “I doubt he’s a match for your strength, Sensei, but all of them at once might make for an entertaining distraction.”

Saitama leans over the edge of the balcony and shouts, “Hey, I’ll be right down! Gotta put on my suit!”

It’s with childish glee that Saitama wiggles into his suit and hops into his boots, gloves held in his mouth as he buckles his belt. Genos grabs an umbrella and hops down off the balcony before Saitama.

“Put up a good fight,” he warns them, throwing Tanktop Master an unimpressed glare. “Sensei’s a busy man and doesn’t like it when people waste his time.”

And though they’re obviously no match for him, they certainly try their best to slow him down, ganging up on Saitama as though it’s possible to overwhelm him with numbers. Saitama laughs as he turns them into showers of rusty red, mowing through their numbers with blood-soaked fists. Genos doesn’t take part, sheltering himself from the rain of liquefied bodies with the umbrella. Occasionally a Tank Topper will peel free from the pack and make a run for it, but he grabs them and tosses them back into the fray.

As expected, Tanktop Master is the last to fall, the hole in his torso stretching from his pelvis to the bottom of his ribs.

“Too…strong,” Genos hears him whisper as the last vestiges of life escape his body.

Still caught up in his bloodlust, Saitama takes a swing at Genos, ripping his arm off and carving a deep rent in his chest with the shockwave alone.

“Ah. Sorry,” Saitama says. “Geez, your Doctor guy is gonna be mad at me again.”

“It’s fine,” Genos says. “I’ve been meaning to upgrade anyway. Did you have fun?”

Saitama tilts his head from side to side, cracking his neck. “Yeah, a little. You were right about them being weak.”

“Maybe tomorrow we can go raid Metal Knight’s compound again,” Genos says. “You had fun last time.”

“I really liked the lasers,” Saitama says. He takes Genos’ umbrella, gives it a shake to dislodge the chunks and closes it for him. “The gun turrets were kinda slow, though.”

“I’m sure he’ll have improved them by now,” Genos says, picking up his fallen arm. It’s not much more than a misshapen chunk of metal and wires, but Dr. Stench might be able to salvage it.

“Yeah, maybe. Crap, I gotta take this in, now,” Saitama says, holding up the edge of his cape. It’s heavy with blood and clinging to his legs, which are similarly soaked.

“I saved a coupon from the cleaners. We can drop it off on our way to the sale.”

“There’s a sale today?” Saitama asks. “Aw man, you’re the best.”

Genos preens under the praise. “Thank you, Sensei!”


Monsters and other villains come to Saitama sometimes, either asking him to join their organization or asking to join his. The former, Genos incinerates on the spot, blasting them in the face for their impertinence. The latter he gently turns away. Forcefully turns away, if they’re stubborn about it. He’s Saitama’s disciple, and he won’t tolerate someone or something else competing for Sensei’s attention.

It’s laundry day, one of Genos’ favorite days. The chore itself doesn’t appeal to him more than any other chore, but there is one perk that makes it special.

Saitama is out, off to W-City for an appliance sale after a visit from Tatsumaki destroyed their A/C unit. It means Genos is free to bury his face in Saitama’s hoodie for as long as he wants, sniffing around the neck and under the arms for the strongest traces of Saitama’s scent. He’s read articles about how humans, even with their dulled capacity to detect scents, can be attracted to a person’s individual smell, but there’s nothing like experiencing it firsthand. Not to mention, his hardware is as sensitive as that of a dog’s olfactory sense, so even the most lightly worn article of clothing is rich with Saitama’s scent. He flops onto the pile of unwashed clothes and lies there, breathing deep and happy as a clam in high water.

As he lays there, drowning in the sea of Saitama’s scent, he fantasizes about taking it in directly from the source rather than pulling it second hand from clothes lucky enough to touch what Genos has never touched. He could make it so good for Saitama, would make it so good. He’s done dozens of hours of research into male-on-male intercourse, watched videos, read how-to’s and erotic literature. He’s even, when he’s absolutely sure Saitama is nowhere nearby, read the fanfiction that crops up about them.

God, what he’d give to be able to wrap his arms around Saitama and press his nose to that bare nape, where the sweat beads up on hot days. Or better yet, share Saitama’s futon and breathe him in all night.

Eyes closed, he pulls a piece of clothing across his face and is quite pleasurably assaulted by the concentrated smell of musk and sweat. He opens his eyes. Oh, it’s a pair of Saitama’s boxers.

He rolls onto his belly, face buried in the faded cotton worn soft as a cloud, and rolls his hips against the floor. There’s no sensation beyond what Genos’ memories conjure, but his imagination has gotten quite vivid since they started living together. Perhaps he should ask Dr. Stench to install something down there, between his legs, just for occasions such as these. Something for him to touch and tease, for him to pretend Saitama is touching and teasing.

He squeezes his hand into his jeans to cup the featureless metal. It wouldn’t have to be a phallus, nor even a vulva. Maybe just a pad of silicone threaded through with delicate sensors that he could deactivate during battle. Or maybe activate during battle.

Genos’ eyes blink open. What if it was remote controlled? Would Saitama be the type to turn it on at random times, just to watch Genos squirm? Genos squeezes his hand between his thighs, desperately wishing for something to rub against to soothe the unanswered desire building in his mind. Saitama wouldn’t deliberately make Genos vulnerable in battle, not if Genos’ life were on the line, but maybe against a weak opponent he’d toy with the control, watching Genos stumble, fall from a hit he could’ve avoided if sudden pleasure hadn’t taken his knees out from under him.

Maybe he’d wait until a battle was over, Genos’ arms and legs torn from his body by yet another superior opponent, before turning it on. He would watch Genos writhe in pleasure as the stumps of his limbs tried in vain to provide friction. What if he just left it on? Carried a whining Genos home and left him squirming and moaning on the floor as he went about his normal routine?

Genos spreads his legs and arms, trying to imagine it. Experience has provided him with a wealth of knowledge of what it’s like to be so helplessly dependent on Saitama, a dozen or more unique experiences of being carried hither and yon by Saitama’s infallible strength. His toes curl—no, he has no toes, nor fingers nor knees nor elbows. He’s completely helpless, utterly at Saitama’s questionable mercies. Saitama, standing above him, holding the remote in his gloved hand, watching the effect he has on his disciple, Saitama’s disciple, Genos belongs to– Genos is Saitama’s–

The desire peaks into an improbable orgasm, his body thrashing in response to unfamiliar neural activity, tangling in the heap of laundry as Genos is swamped with pleasure. It feels like lightning and like flying at the same time, like a freedom he can’t quite comprehend.

It feels fucking amazing.

A stray image of Saitama kneeling between Genos’ legs makes him shudder with aftershocks.

Yeah, he’s definitely asking Dr. Stench about it.


The problem, (because there is a problem, a fairly sizable problem that Genos and Saitama don’t spend enough time thinking about), is that Genos is still weak. Saitama can take on all the Tank Toppers at once and reduce every last one to a fetid corpse.

Genos, however, cannot.

That’s how he ends up in an underground bunker, Metal Knight disassembling him piece by piece by piece. Genos hates him, rages until his voice is deactivated, fights until his motor system is disabled, glares and mouths obscenities until his face is covered with a cloth.

Tatsumaki hovers in the corner, wary. She’d captured him without much trouble, but he’d been alone, no Bald Darkness in sight.

She’s right to worry. Even as the S-Class Rank 1 hero, Saitama eclipses her as fully as the Earth does the Moon, proven by his complete and utter slaughter of Blast, the S-Class Rank 1 before her. So far he’s let her get away with occasionally pestering him, but she’s always known that, since becoming an S-Class hero, she’s been living on borrowed time.

“This place better be as well hidden as you say it is, you ugly old fart,” Tatsumaki says. “If he can find it, you’ve signed our death warrants.”

Bofoi, the arrogant bastard, isn’t nearly as concerned as Tatsumaki. “I’ve spent years designing this bunker with Saitama in mind. He won’t find it.”

The day ends, night comes, a second day dawns and ends. Bofoi is smug. Tatsumaki’s guard relaxes an inch at a time.

Then, unbeknownst to either of them, Dr. Stench calls Saitama, expressing concern that Genos never arrived for his scheduled maintenance, and can you tell him to at least call if he’s not going to make it?

“Eh? He’s not here,” Saitama says. “I haven’t seen him since he left for your place.”

Stench’s surprise echoes down the line.

“He never arrived, and he never returned. Shall we then assume that he’s been taken elsewhere?” Dr. Stench asks, hands already flying over his keyboard.

The plastic of Saitama’s cheap flip phone creaks under the force of his grasp. “Yeah, let’s assume that.”

Bofoi’s belief that Saitama would not be able to find the bunker is not incorrect. However, it’s not entirely correct, either. Genos’ GPS signal may be jammed, all footage of his presence erased, his core’s energy signal masked, but all it takes is a bit of inquiry (Saitama’s), and a few minutes’ electronic digging (Stench’s), to reveal that a large group of construction workers went to a remote location to build something deep underground using Bofoi’s money.

In general, Saitama dislikes heroes. But he especially dislikes the arrogant ones.

The hidden entrance to the bunker…. stays hidden. Saitama doesn’t even bother looking for it, just punches holes in the ground until a passageway caves in. Down below, Bofoi scrambles to activate defenses that Saitama tears through like they’re a handful of wet tissues.

Tatsumaki waits, hovering over what’s left of Genos. If she’s lucky, she might be able to use him to buy herself another day, maybe even a whole week.

She’s not.

She—both of them—are so busy watching the lab’s only entrance that they don’t consider that a door isn’t the only way into a closed space. Saitama bursts through the wall behind Tatsumaki, the residual momentum of his fist disintegrating most of her upper body.

“Ah. Sorry,” Saitama says to her falling corpse. “Didn’t see you there.”

“Don’t kill me,” Bofoi begs. His knees are shaking, the inseams of his pants darkening with sharply pungent urine. “Please, I’ll do anything.”

“Anything, huh?” Saitama says idly. He lifts the cloth hiding Genos’ familiar profile, but Genos’ eyes are closed, his face still. “Is Genos still alive?”

“Yes,” Bofoi says. “I can put him back together for you. I can make him stronger. Stronger than any other cyborg! Just promise you won’t kill me!”

“Nah, you just have a seat. Hey, Doctor, you alright?” Saitama calls.

Dr. Stench steps through the hole in the wall, coughing at the dust and brushing dirt off his lab coat. He trips over Tatsumaki’s body and flinches hard at the sight of her. “Y-Yes, Saitama. I’m fine. I’ll just get started, shall I?”

“Yeah. I’m gonna ask this asshole some questions,” Saitama says, jerking his thumb at the obediently seated Bofoi.

Bofoi goes pale as Saitama approaches, pulling another chair with him.

“So,” Saitama says, dropping into the chair. “Speaking of 'any other cyborg’, I’ve got some questions about one in particular.”


Genos wakes up on his futon to the sound of Saitama and Dr. Stench chatting over tea. He looks over to see a vaguely familiar woman sitting with them, her lowered face partly hidden by her black hair.

“Sensei? Dr. Stench? Did I sleep in? What time is it?”

He sits up, noticing the new chest plates and arms. Dr. Stench is instantly at his side, helping him upright. “How do you feel, Genos?”

“Groggy, as though I’ve slept too long. Who is that?”

“That’s Fubuki,” Saitama says. “She’s Tatsumaki’s sister. Was Tatsumaki’s sister, I guess.”

The memories come back in a rush. He was on his way to Dr. Stench’s lab when Tatsumaki had cornered him, bashed him against a few walls, and shoved him into a heavily modified van that took them to Bofoi’s hidden bunker. His palm canons whine as they power up and he aims them at the unresponsive Fubuki.

“Dude,” Saitama says. “Chill.”

“But Sensei–!”

Saitama looks Genos dead in the eye. “I said, chill.”

Genos’ hand canons power down and he drops them into his lap, dazed. “Okay.”

“Have some tea, Genos,” Sensei says, filling another cup.

Genos joins them at the table and he, Saitama, and Dr. Stench talk about the recent upheaval in the Hero Association. Apparently, they’re building a new Central Headquarters way out in M-City since the previous one was destroyed just the other day.

“That’s quite far,” Genos observes. A-City wasn’t exactly in the neighborhood, but M-City is about as far as it’s possible to get from Z-City without leaving the metropolitan area.

“Eh, that’s probably because of me,” Saitama says, scratching his cheek. “Considering what I did to the last one.”

The small talk continues for a while. The local baseball team is doing well, or better than last year, at any rate. There’s a sale on leeks on Monday, which Saitama is sure to take advantage of. The convenience store is moving to a new location closer to the city center, which is a shame, but there’ll be a clearance sale and a grand opening sale to look forward to.

Fubuki eventually looks up from her cold tea and says, “You killed my sister.”

“Yeah, by accident,” Saitama says.

“So you didn’t mean to kill her?” Fubuki asks, incredulously, as though she can’t quite believe what she’s asking.

“Well, no, I meant to kill her, I just meant to do it on purpose, not by accident,” Saitama clarifies. Genos will have to ask about the details of accidentally on purpose killing Tatsumaki after Fubuki leaves. It would, of course, be the height of tactlessness to ask about it in her presence.

Fubuki sighs and kneads the bridge of her nose. “I’m going home. Thanks for the tea,” she says.

“No prob. Not sorry that I’m not sorry about your sister, though. She was a total asshole.”

Fubuki chuckles darkly. “You don’t know the half of it. I’ll spread it around that the Demon Cyborg is off limits, and I hope we never meet again.”

“Yep. Bye,” Saitama says, waving as she leaves. It’s only after the door shuts that he asks, “Wait, who’s the Demon Cyborg?”

Genos smiles, helplessly fond.


That night, after Dr. Stench has taken his leave, dinner has been eaten, and teeth have been brushed, Saitama turns to Genos as they settle into their futons.

“Hey. You know I’d never let them have you, right?” Saitama asks.

“I hope not. Kidnapping is a felony offense, no matter who commits it.”

“No, I meant, I’d never let them have you because you’re my disciple.”

Genos stares. After a few false starts, he finds the voice to say, “I’ve always been honored to be your disciple.”

Saitama huffs and rubs a hand over the smooth dome of his head. “I meant–”

He leans over so they’re forehead-to-forehead, propping himself on an elbow to hover over Genos. His eyes are sharp, the light glinting off of them.

“I meant that you’re mine,” he says, voice hard with his conviction. “And if they ever lay hands on you again, I’ll tear those hands off. And then I’ll just tear them to fucking pieces, because what’s mine is mine, got it?”

If there was breath in Genos’ chest to lose, he’d be breathless. If he had a heart to pump in his chest, it would have skipped a beat. If he had living skin, the hairs on his arms would be standing on end.

Genos doesn’t have any of those, but he does have hands, and he does have lips, so he pulls Saitama down into a kiss, instead.

“Got it, Sensei.”