Chapter Text
Well.
This is awkward.
Saitama rubs at the back of his neck, unable to meet the gaze of the other man. While he figured Genos had some sort of crush on him, some sort of fixation or hero worship, he never thought it was this bad . Having the kid follow him around was one thing, seeing sensual, borderline erotic drawings in that notebook of his was another.
After all, he’s just some high school dropout, a prematurely bald loser. He doesn't understand what anyone could see in him, much less Genos . The kid is impossibly bright and has an incredible future, and yet he chooses to spend his time with Saitama, trailing him like a dog on his heels, filling those notebooks with pictures of him when he clearly could be doing something better, more productive.
Genos is a weird one. A really weird one, if Saitama is telling the truth.
"Listen, kid," he starts, but Genos is suddenly at his feet, kneeling prostrate, nose to the ground.
"Mister Saitama, please forgive me! Those drawings were never meant to see the light of day, and I am ashamed that you had to see them." Somehow, Genos lowers himself further to the ground, his forehead resting against the dirt. "I am truly sorry, and I hope that somehow you may find it in yourself to f-"
"Kid, kid, it's okay!" Saitama runs a hand down his face, sighing deeply. God, he really doesn't want to deal with this right now. "Like...chill. It's okay."
Genos' head whips up so fast Saitama's afraid he's given himself whiplash. "Really? But...I-"
"Really, Genos." His voice is firm. "Let's just...forget this ever happened, yeah? I didn't see anything."
Genos nods once, bowing low again, but this time in gratitude. "Thank you, sir!"
Saitama, for some reason, feels like this is going to bite him in the ass.
--
“Mister Saitama!” Punctual as always, Genos jogs up to Saitama just as his break begins. “I’ve brought you lunch.” The blond holds out a bento, notebook clutched underneath his arm, his own lunch in his other hand.
“Ah. Thanks.” Saitama sets down his tools and grabs the proffered food, leading Genos to their usual spot.
He has to admit: ever since the whole “Notebook Incident” (as he’d dubbed it in his mind), things had been slightly...awkward, between them. Sure, they’d both agreed to forget about it, but it was hard to shake the many images of him, half naked and sweating, drawn far more attractive than he really is.
Ever since then, Saitama’s seen less and less of The Notebook, as if Genos is hiding it from him.
Which, in hindsight, he probably is.
Even now, Genos’ notebook is out of sight while they eat. No more flipping through it, no more folding down the corners. He’s also been strangely quiet. Usually, Saitama can’t get the kid to shut up, but now it seems like he is the one having to start all the conversations. The atmosphere they had just isn’t the same anymore, and Saitama finds himself missing iit.
“Saitama, sir?” Genos’ voice brings him out of his musings. “You haven’t touched your lunch. Should I have brought something different?”
“Huh? Oh, no, it’s just. Uhm.” Saitama prods at the contents of his bento with his chopsticks, pushing the rice to one side, then back to the center, trying to think of something to say. He doesn’t want to bring up the fact that he’d been thinking about The Notebook and make things even more awkward, but he also literally has nothing else to say.
So, of course, he says the first thing that pops into his head.
“When are you leaving?”
Genos’ features shift imperceptibly at Saitama’s question. He dabs at his mouth with a napkin and swallows before he answers. “I assume you’re talking about my class, in which case today is my final day.”
“What? Really?” He’d known that the program was only going to last a week, and although at first he’d been looking forward to the end, he feels like the week had just rushed by. “Unfortunately, yes. After today my classes are to resume as normal, back at my university.”
“It was nice having you here,” Saitama says, and means it. He shoves a mouthful of chicken in his mouth before speaking again. “I hope you learned something.”
Genos perks up immediately. “Oh, I have, sir! I’ve learned a lot here, though of course it’s largely because of you…”
And just like that, he’d gotten Genos to talk again. Saitama can’t help the smile that graces his mouth as Genos rambles on through their lunch, praising him for this and that, talking about what an “experience” this week had been.
Saitama thinks he’ll miss this.
--
The rest of the day passes on in a haze. It seems even hotter than usual, and Saitama can’t help but to slack in his own work. He feels so lethargic, so out of it.
Even Genos’ constant supplying of ice cold drinks do nothing to help, and his mind doesn’t snap into focus until the sun begins to set, and he remembers. Remembers that today is Genos’ last day, that he’d likely never see the kid again.
He was kind of a nuisance, anyway, so why does it feel like...
“Mister Saitama,” Genos begins, drawing his attention. Genos folds into a deep bow and begins talking about how thankful he is, about how Saitama’s been a great inspiration to him, blah blah blah, and really he’s only paying attention to half of it.
“Genos,” he says, flat-out interrupting him. Genos snaps back to attention, mouth opened in a silent question.
Saitama knows nothing he wants to say will match the grandeur of Genos’ speech, but he feels like he has to say or do something. Anything.
“It’s been fun with you around,” he says sincerely. “I know you’re gonna do some great things, so, uh.” He raises his hand, starting to go for noogie, but at the last second switches to a weird shoulder-clap. “Good luck, kid.”
Genos’ mouth splits into a wide grin, and he bows again. “Yes, sir! Thank you! Your words have truly-”
“Genos! We’re leaving!” The woman that Saitama thinks is Genos’ instructor makes a ‘follow-me’ motion before stalking off, presumably in the direction of their class. The blond turns back to Saitama, lips quirking up apologetically.
“I must be on my way now, Mister Saitama. This is goodbye.” Genos inclines his head in gratitude, before turning and following his instructor. Saitama lifts his hand in a half-wave to his retreating back, watching until Genos slips from view.
Saitama can’t help but to feel like he just missed out on something. Something important.
Like a sale
A really big sale.
---
When Saitama returns to work the next day, he forgets to bring a lunch. He sits down at his and Genos’ usual spot, and waits a whole minute for the student to arrive before he remembers.
Ah, that’s right , he thinks, cracking open a cold soda. Genos left yesterday. No wonder it’s been so quiet.
It took him barely a week to get used to Genos, and it seems...weird not to have a shadow anymore. Truthfully, every time he turned around, some comment was halfway out his lips before he realized he had no one behind him.
Oh, well. He’d just have to get used to being lonely again.
--
“Is everything alright?”
Saitama pulls himself from his thoughts as he turns to King, effortlessly lifting a stack of boards onto his shoulder.
“I’m fine,” he says. “Why?”
“You seem a little out of it.” King places another board on Saitama’s stack. “I watched you topple that old scaffolding earlier.”
Ah, I thought no one saw… “No, I’m good. Promise. Just...hot.”
King eyes Saitama suspiciously as he turns away. “Well, keep hydrated. You don’t have Genos around to do it for you.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Saitama knows he doesn’t have Genos anymore. That’s...well. That’s part of the problem, isn’t it?
He’d be fine, as long as he didn’t think about Genos.
--
The next couple of days pass like a heatwave, fuzzy and slurred with warmth. By day three, Saitama thinks he might die from the heat, though it’s partially because he forgets to hydrate without Genos reminding him every fifteen minutes. Both the top of his uniform and his undershirt are soaked with sweat, so he’s lounging in the shade with his top down, trying (uselessly) to move the hot air around him.
When he spots the top of a blond head in the distance, he’s convinced he’s hallucinating, or experiencing one of those mirages that you see in desert movies.
Saitama blinks sweat out of his eyes, and squints. Nope, that’s definitely Genos, and he’s making a bee-line for Saitama’s resting spot.
“Kid!” Saitama says, standing just in time to watch Genos fall into a proper bow before him. “I didn’t think - “
“Mister Saitama! I got permission to extend my observations for another full week, and I hope that….”
Saitama feels his lips curve into a soft smile. He feels lighter. Warmer. Happier .
Huh. Maybe he needed a friend more than he thought. He realizes Genos is rambling, still talking, and he abruptly shifts his focus back to the conversation
“ - so I won’t get to follow you around like usual, unfortunately, but this will still be a good experience.”
Saitama reaches up and unthinkingly ruffles his hair. “Yeah. Glad to have you back, kiddo.”
He wonders if Genos brought him bento.
--
He did.
They sit in their old location, side by side, identical bentos in their laps. To Saitama, it feels simultaneously like an eternity since they’ve last spoken and that they’re simply old friends catching up. He asks Genos about his studies, and listens as he rambles on and on. He...missed this. Missed Genos and his inability to speak concisely, and his stupidly cute adoring gazes, and...well. He missed the companionship, mostly.
They’re not seated with a respectable distance between them, like teacher and student, but rather hovering an inch shy of touching. Saitama spreads his legs a little wider so that their thighs press together, revelling in the simple contact between them.
It’s hot, much too hot to be touching (Saitama would work in just his briefs if it wasn’t against the rules) but inexplicably he wants to feel Genos. So what if their elbows brush as they eat? So what if he knocks their shoulders together playfully, laughing at some statement Genos stoically says? So what?
So what?
--
True, Saitama doesn’t have his shadow anymore, but Genos still makes time to check up on him, and they eat lunch together as usual. Sometimes, Saitama can catch Genos speaking with one of their on-site architects, head buried in blueprints and plans, and he waves if they meet gazes.
He doesn’t want to say that he’s happier , per se, but with Genos around the heat seems bearable.
After his work is finished for the day, he finds Genos packing up a bunch of blueprints, his notebook opened before him. Saitama glances down at its pages, somewhat disappointed to find a plan for a building instead of his own face looking back at him.
“Hey, Genos,” he says, watching the other’s face snap up. “I want to show you something. Follow me?”
Just like he expected, Genos replies eagerly. “Yes, Saitama, sir!”
“Oh, before we do, though…” Saitama takes off his hardhat and awkwardly places it atop Genos’ head, a little miffed that he has to reach up . “You’re gonna need one of these.”
“But -” The hat sits lopsided on his head, hanging too low over his eyebrows. Cute , Saitama thinks, unable to help the tiny quirk of his lips. Genos adjusts it so that it fits snugly. “Shouldn’t you be wearing it?”
“Nah. I’ve got a hard head.” He raps his knuckles against his forehead for emphasis. “Besides, technically you’re not allowed where we’re going. I’d rather not get fired ‘cause I let you get hurt.”
--
He leads him around back of the construction site, where most of the building is still support beams and wooden scaffolding, and up a pair of cobble steps that lead into the unfinished frat house they’ve been working on. “Careful here, Genos,” Saitama says. “The stairs are mostly safe to walk up, but we don’t have any guardrails up yet.” He guides Genos in front of him, hand on his lower back, urging him up the staircase.
“Saitama, sir, should we really be up here?”
“Well, no, but I won’t tell if you don’t. Now c’mon.”
They climb to the uppermost floor of the building, where they hadn’t had a chance to put the floor-to-ceiling windows in yet. The walls, therefore, were mostly open space, overlooking a beautiful cliffside. Saitama turns to Genos as his eyes widen in astonishment.
“Pretty cool, huh? It’s the perfect place to watch the sunset.”
Genos’ mouth remains parted in a little ‘o’, gaze transfixed on the horizon as the setting sun bathes them in soft pinks and purples. “I...Mister Saitama….”
“I thought you might appreciate it,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Since you’re an artist, and all that…”
Genos turns to look at him , then, and the amount of adoration focused on him is so strong that Saitama feels more than a little bashful. “Yes! Thank you very much for this opportunity!” Genos looks back out at the sky, then to Saitama again. “Do...Would you mind if I…?”
Saitama can see his hands itching for his notebook, so he laughs a little bit and affectionately knocks Genos on his shoulder. “Of course,” he says. “That’s what I brought you up here for, after all.”
They end up sitting side-by-side (like always and forever, inches apart) with their feet dangling off the edge of the building. The only sounds between them are the soft skrt-skrt of Genos’ colored pencils on paper and the mingled sound of their own breathing. Below them, cars pass intermittently as the fireflies begin to blink about. The wind, cooler in the night sky, ruffles Genos’ hair and soothes Saitama’s sun-kissed skin.
No words pass between them until Genos sets his colored pencils down on the hardwood floor. By now, the sun is long gone, the night sky illuminated only by the bright full moon and the lights of buildings, dotted below them like stars.
Saitama leans over, hovering close to Genos’ shoulder, to peer at his notebook. “Wow, Genos,” he says, voice seeming impossibly loud in the quiet atmosphere. “That’s gorgeous.”
The blond’s thumb brushes over the spine of his notebook, and Saitama is so close that he can hear him swallow before he speaks. “...Thank you, sir.”
“I mean it, Genos. Your art is like, crazy good.”
Saitama stares up at him, inches away from his shoulder, and when Genos finally looks down to meet his gaze, its as if time stopped around them. Genos is too close, far too close - he can smell his cologne, can see the light dotting of freckles across the bridge of his nose. Part of him is whispering pull back, move away, don’t do something you might regret but then Genos whisper’s his name, so soft and hopeful that something in him snaps. Saitama leans in until there are mere centimeters separating them, until he can feel each quickened breath of the younger sweep across his lips, smelling of the rice and tempura they’d eaten for lunch.
Saitama cups his cheek, strokes one calloused thumb against his cheekbone, and kisses him.
He feels Genos stiffen almost imperceptibly, then relax against him. He’s so cruel; he shouldn’t indulge Genos’ infatuation like this. Genos, bright and driven kid that he was, could do so much better. He deserved so much better than what Saitama could provide.
But he tastes so good, so sweet. When Saitama finally pulls away, Genos’ face is flushed, eyes half lidded. The blond’s eyes dart from his mouth, back up to his eyes. “S..Saitama,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. “I…”
For once, it seems the kid is out of words. Genos licks his lips, swallows, and opens his mouth as if to speak. All that escapes him, however, is a choked up sigh, vaguely sounding like a plea.
Saitama chuckles, not unkindly, and brings Genos in for another kiss. He slides a hand up Genos’ head and knocks that silly hardhat off. It clatters to the floor the same time that Genos clambors up into Saitama’s lap, bracing himself on his shoulders. Saitama accepts the weight gracefully, settles his hands down against Genos’ hips. He untucks the blond’s perfectly-pressed shirt from his pants so that he can rest his fingertips against smooth, bare skin.
Genos rolls his hips against the other, once, and moans as Saitama begins to kiss along his neck. With his mouth free, he shamelessly mumbles praises, words so sweet and pure that they sound dirty . Even so, Saitama can’t help the fondness that blossoms in his chest, even if he feels himself flush from all the flattery.
They both recoil from each other when Genos' phone starts to ring obnoxiously, breaking the silence. Genos, however, makes no move to answer it, staring dazedly at Saitama. His hands are on his shoulders again, his thumbs tracing idle patterns in his skin. The bald man can't help but to stare at his kiss-swollen lips, his skewed tie, the reddening patch of skin on his neck.
"Kid," Saitama prompts when it continues to ring. "Aren't you gonna answer that?"
"What?" Genos blinks, seeming to return to reality. "Oh, yes. Right." He awkwardly clambers off of Saitama's lap, reaching for the phone in his back pocket.
Polite to boot, he walks off to a corner of the room to talk, leaving Saitama to stand and awkwardly fix himself. He'd gotten a semi during that, how embarrassing.
From his position, Saitama can't hear what he's saying too well, but Genos doesn't sound happy. While he’s none to happy about being interrupted, the space and pause between them gives his mind time to wander. Maybe...maybe he had been too hasty, too reckless. He doesn’t want to give Genos the wrong idea, or lead him into a relationship with expectations he can’t fulfill. He’s just a high-school dropout, after all, with no aspirations. Compared to Genos , he thinks, staring at the younger’s back. I’m just...I’m just really -
"Sorry about that, Mister Saitama," Genos apologizes, knocking Saitama from his thoughts. "It appears there's some business I must attend to." He's wearing that scowl on his face again, the one that knits his eyebrows together and turns those pretty features sour.
"S'alright," Saitama assures him. Impulsively, he reaches up and smoothes the space between Genos' eyebrows, watching as his face melts into one of soft surprise. "You shouldn't frown so much," he chides. "Otherwise, your face will freeze like that."
"...Of course. I will keep that in mind." Genos touches the place where Saitama's fingers had been moments before. "Thank you.
Saitama doesn't know what to say. Silence stretches between them, thick and oppressive. He doesn't want Genos to leave, not now, not when he's finally found someone who makes getting up in the morning worth it . He wishes he could tell Genos what he means to him, but he's never been good with words. If I asked him to stay, would he?
"I...suppose I should be going-"
"I'll let you draw me!" Saitama blurts out, loud and desperate . His hand grasps at Genos' wrist, keeping him from leaving.
"Uh, I mean.” The surprised look on Genos’ face is enough to make him drop his hand. i"You - uh- you like drawing me, right? S-so...I'll model for you? Yeah! Yeah, why not?"
God, he's so pathetic. It's painfully obvious that it's just a ploy to get Genos to come back to him. Saitama's afraid he'll be rejected when Genos' eyes widen in surprise.
"Really? You'd do that for me?"
Saitama represses a soft sigh of relief.
"Sure. You want to, right?"
"Yes, sir!" Genos bows low, fists clenched against his thighs. "Thank you so much!"
"It's nothing, really." Saitama rubs the back of his neck. "How about, uhm...tomorrow, during lunch?"
"That would be perfect," Genos says, and he's smiling so wide that Saitama's chest physically aches .
Ah. Heartburn, maybe?
...The kid was going to be the death of him.
--
They meet during their lunch break the next day. Genos clutches a leatherbound sketchbook in his hands, a wide pencil bag stacked on top. He looks as prim and proper as ever, while Saitama is just in his construction outfit.
"Man, it's so hot," Saitama sighs, tugging at the collar of his shirt. "I thought you said it would be cooler this week." He already has his uniform folded down over his waist, and his thin tanktop is soaked through with sweat.
"It appears the weatherman was wrong," Genos says. "I apologize, sir."
Really, it was too hot out. And the sun was too bright, causing both men to squint in the midday light. If Genos was going to draw him, they needed to be inside somewhere, Saitama figures. Somewhere private, too, because he was already embarrassed just mentioning it to the guy.
"It's not your fault. Dunno why you're apologizing...Oh!" Without thinking, he grabs Genos' free hand. "I know where we can go."
"Sir?" Genos squeaks, confused.
"You still wanna draw me, right? We can't do it outside. S'too hot."
Saitama leads the confused blond to a forgotten storage room. The heat doesn't lessen when they step inside, and its obtusely stuffy , but at least they're secluded and out of the sun.
"In here?" Genos asks, looking around. It's rather small, with any available free space taken up by shelves upon shelves. Boxes litter the floor and Saitama has to nudge a few to the corner to free up footspace.
"Yeah?" Saitama responds. “What, is this a bad place?" He flops casually down onto the floor, leaning back on his hands.
"...No. It’s fine." Genos follows suit, sitting respectfully on his knees, sketchbook in his lap. Terse silence follows, neither knowing how to proceed, before Saitama clears his throat.
"So, uh, how do you want me?" He internally winces. That totally didn't sound suggestive at all, nope.
"Mister Saitama, please remove your shirt," Genos says, and - is that a blush on his cheeks? His gaze doesn't waver, however, and Saitama feels his own face heat up.
"Geez, kid. Don't you ever get tired of drawing me shirtless?"
"No," Genos answers honestly.
Well, he should’ve expected that.
Nonetheless, Saitama tugs his tanktop off his torso and tosses it haphazardly to a corner of the room. For some reason, he feels exposed, even though he's been shirtless in front of Genos - and others - countless times. Saitama leans back on his hands again, one leg tucked in, the other stretched out in front of him. As Genos flips to a clean page in his notebook, he catches glimpses of other drawings, spots of color here and there.
"That one's different," he points out, watching as Genos' pencils in a vague outline of his body. "Looks professional."
"It's an actual sketchbook," Genos explains, eyes flitting from the page to Saitama and back down. "This is what I usually draw in. My notebooks are for notes and diagrams only." He shifts. "Admittedly, I should...not have drawn you in there. I had a very awkward conversation with one of my classmates when they asked to borrow my notes."
Saitama can't help but to snort. "Yeah? Which ones did they see?"
"All of them," Genos confesses. "There were more that you had not seen. I apologize."
Jesus Christ. Just what did the kid see in him to draw him so often? "I hope none of them were like, sexual."
"Never!" Genos sounds affronted. "At least, not without your permission."
Saitama doesn't miss his slightly hopeful tone. "Don’t even think about it, kiddo."
"...Right."
They lapse into a silence far more comfortable than before, Genos' pencil scratch-scratch-scratching away at the paper. The light above their head buzzes in exertion, combining with Saitama's soft breathing.
"You really are good," Saitama observes, breaking the silence. Genos jolts a little as if drawn from a reverie, glancing from his art to Saitama.
"Ah...Yes, I suppose so."
"No, seriously." Saitama crawls toward Genos, kneeling directly in front of him. "Lemme see."
Genos has drawn Saitama almost to perfect likeness, down to the mole on his shoulder. Honestly, his only complaint is that Genos has drawn him too handsome. Like, his jawline seems sharper, his muscles more defined. It's obvious that Genos has spent a lot of time on his face, as it holds more detail, from the slope of his nose to the bored gaze of his eyes, staring off into the distance. His lips also look fuller, his lower one more plump, more kissable.
"Amazing," Saitama praises, unable to keep a smile from tugging at his lips. "Really."
He starts to thumb through the sketchbook unthinkingly, and is honestly surprised at the sheer volume of drawings that are just him . The first are generic landscapes, still-lifes, but about a forth of a way through they all turn into Saitama.
Most of them are totally innocuous, too. Shots of Saitama working, hammer clutched in his hand. There are sketches of his face interspersed within the pages, usually showcasing some emotion. Fear, sadness, elation, exhaustion...
And hands .
There are drawings that seem to focus entirely on Saitama's hands alone. In one he's holding a cell to his ear, face in profile view. In another he's just chopping up vegetables. How Genos can find that interesting, Saitama will never understand.
"You sure draw my hands a lot," Saitama says, looking back at a very red, very embarrassed Genos. "Are you in love with them or something?" he jokes.
"I can't help it," Genos confesses. "They're...I'm just...very attracted to them."
"My hands? Really?" Saitama glances down at a hand, spreads his fingers and gazes at the calloused skin. "Why?"
"I don't know. They remind me of your strength, I suppose." Genos shifts, nervously worrying his lower lip. "I'm sorry; it's weird, I know, but-"
"Don't apologize for it, kiddo. It's not weird." Okay, so it's a little weird, but he won't admit it. Just because he can't see his hands as something beautiful doesn't mean Genos can't.
Impulsively, he reaches up and cups Genos' jaw with a hand, watching as the younger man freezes beneath his touch. This is a bad idea, such a terrible idea, but Saitama can't help himself. He traces Genos' lower lip with his thumb, pulling it from his teeth. "Biting your lips isn’t good for yout."
Genos parts his lips, maybe to agree, maybe to say something else entirely, but Saitama takes the chance and presses his thumb into that wet heat of his mouth.
His lips immediately close over it, drawing it farther into his mouth. Saitama can only concentrate on the warmth, on the soft tongue laving over the pad of his thumb. He stares with wide eyes into Genos’ half-lidded ones
"Sorry," he apologizes again. "I should - break is probably over. I should go." Before I fuck anything else up , is left unsaid.
Saitama moves to stand, but a hand on his wrist stills him.
"Wait, please. Let me draw you again. One last time." Genos purses his lips. "Please?"
Saitama can't really say no to him after what he just did.
After some maneuvering and directions, Genos has Saitama where he wants him, splayed out on his back, arms behind his head. He's the picture of relaxation despite the guilt that's settled in his stomach. Genos sits beside him this time, close enough that if Saitama moved his arm, his elbow would graze Genos' knees.
He wants to breach the distance. He wants to touch Genos, feel that contact between them.
The room fills with the sound of Genos' pencil scratching against paper. Saitama stares blankly at the ceiling, wishing he had something to say to fill the silence. Sweat drips down his forehead, down his neck, collecting in the dips in his collarbones. Saitama can't help but to wipe his brow, fan himself with a hand.
"It's like an oven in here," he finally complains, glancing over to Genos.
His face is still red, and honestly, Saitama can't blame him. He'd still be embarrassed if he was in his shoes. Genos meets his gaze for all of a second before his eyes flit back down to the paper.
"It is," he says simply. "While this room shields us from the sun, there is no wind nor any sort of return ventilation, so it's going to remain rather hot."
"Oh." He didn't think of that. Genos tugs at the collar of his shirt, and for the first time Saitama realizes that he might be red for an entirely different reason. His dress shirt is soaked through from the sweltering heat, hair sticking to his forehead from sweat.
"Hey." He tugs on the hem of Genos' dress shirt, sitting up. "Take this off."
Genos, to his credit, only pauses in his sketching. "Sir?" he asks.
"Aren't you hot? Actually, no, you are hot. Take it off."
He only realizes the implications in his words after he says them, but thankfully, Genos doesn't mention it. "I'm fine, but I appreciate the concern, sir."
"You're burning up. I don't want you to overheat." Saitama tugs on the end of his shirt again. "Off."
Genos' lips tug into a frown, but he sets his sketchbook off to the side. "...if you insist," he finally says, tugging off his tie. He sets it neatly to the side before his metal fingers begin to pop the buttons open.
Saitama doesn't realize he's holding his breath, watching intently as each button reveals a new patch of skin. He almost wishes that it was his fingers on his throat, his chest, smoothing the shirt away. When he shrugs the fabric off his arms, Saitama's eyes are instantly drawn to the other’s shoulder where his prosthetic ends and skin begins.
Unthinkingly, Saitama rests his hand on that horizon line, thumb rubbing small circles into the skin. "Does it hurt?" he breathes, voice soft. "Can you feel this?"
"No and yes," Genos answers. There's something unreadable in his gaze as he looks at Saitama. "It doesn't hurt, not anymore, but most of the nerve endings are destroyed. I can't...feel much there. Just pressure."
"Oh?" Saitama drags his hand down lower, running his fingertips along his metal arm. "Can you feel this?"
"Barely." Genos brings his hands up, fingertips splayed over Saitama's cheeks. "But I can...my fingers are made with more neural sensors for dexterity, so I feel - " Genos stops, swallows thickly. His fingers trace the outline of Saitama's jaw, running over his nose, down to his neck. "Saitama, may I kiss you?"
Time hangs heavy between them. Saitama smiles, a soft tug of his lips.
"Sure."
And god, kissing him feels just as amazing as before.
He tastes sweet, so sweet. Saitama has never been addicted to anything before but he thinks he can get drunk on Genos alone.
He pulls the other into his lap, just as before, just to be closer . His fingertips glide over his back and spine, pausing when they meet raised skin.
"What're these from?" Saitama asks. He pulls away to look at Genos, whose face is flushed a deep red, lips glistening.
"A-ah, um..." Genos leans down and buries his face in the juncture of Saitama's neck and collarbone, lips brushing softly against his skin. "From...surgery. When I had to have metal discs placed in my spine."
Saitama assumes that he’s hiding his face from embarrassment, but it quickly dawns on him just what Genos is doing.
"Are you smelling me?" Saitama asks, incredulous. Genos jerks away, face reddening. "Dude, I'm all sweaty! I've been working all day and I haven't showered, and you're seriously smelling me?"
"Saitama sir, I'm sorry, you just...you...!" Genos groans and presses his face to Saitama's neck again. "You smell so good, I swear, just..." He feels the kid shudder against him before a wet tongue traces a path down his neck and back up again, his lips resting lightly over his racing pulse. "You taste even better."
"J-Jesus fuck..." Saitama's hands clench into fists when Genos sucks a red mark onto his skin. "Genos, you can't just-" He moans, tilts his head back so Genos can lick a wet path down to his collarbones, tongue lapping up the sweat that has beaded on his skin.
"You're intoxicating," Genos whispers. He rolls his hips, once, against Saitama's, shudders against him. "It's like I'm getting drunk off your scent, your taste."
"I can't smell that good." Saitama chuckles nervously, trying to hide the fact that he is, in fact, very aroused. The whole thing was super weird but hot at the same time, and Genos isn't helping any, undulating his hips slowly. "I mean, c'mon. I reek."
"You don't," Genos immediately counters. He sucks at Saitama's neck again, hard enough that Saitama groans. "I mean, you do, but in a very good way. You smell...musky. Manly. Like Saitama .”
He's not sure what ‘Saitama’ is supposed to smell like, but considering the kid seems completely in love with it...well, whatever.
Genos trails his hand down Saitama's stomach, stopping just below his navel. His metal fingertips trace the line of hair that disappears into his uniform, so light that goosebumps rise on his skin.
"Saitama," he whispers. "Please, may I...?"
In lieu of answering, the bald man gently removes Genos from his lap and stands. He toes off his boots and strips off his uniform the rest of the way, tossing it somewhere to join his shirt. It leaves him in nothing but his briefs with his erection straining against the fabric.
Genos rises to his knees, kneels in front of Saitama and even as his hands rest on his hips he arches a brow. "You don't wear pants?"
"O-only when it's hot out," Saitama mumbles. He feels himself flush, though not only from embarrassment. The picture of Genos with rosy cheeks and bruised lips, kneeling below him, is a sight to behold. Just thinking about it makes his cock twitch.
"Then I guess the heat brings good things after all," Genos says, before leaning up to kiss a path down Saitama's stomach, following the line of coarse hair. He thumbs at the waistband of Saitama's underwear.
It dawns on him, then, what Genos plans to do, his face so close to his crotch. Saitama reflexively rests his own hand atop the one playing at the edge of his briefs. "Kid, you don't have to -"
"I want to." Genos' breath ghosts over his bulge, sending a pleasant shiver down his spine. "Please."
Saitama swallows thickly, feeling his arousal build. "Okay," he says. "Okay."
Yet, even with his permission, the blond continues to map the lines of Saitama’s stomach with his lips, his hands never straying from their position. He presses chaste kisses along his happy trail, finally stopping to mouth at the tent in Saitama’s briefs. He licks unabashedly at the wet spot that formed, staring up with flushed cheeks.
“You’re gonna kill me,” Saitama groans. “Please, Genos…”
He swears the kid is smirking. Nonetheless, Genos tugs down Saitama’s underwear and wraps his lips around the head of his cock. His mouth feels so heavenly that he can’t help but to moan, sliding a hand into Genos’ hair. He hides the blush on his face with his arm, partially to prevent himself from glancing down. Genos looks so sinful on his knees, even more so with a mouthful of dick.
"Fuck," Saitama hisses as Genos swallows around him, tightening his grip on the blond's hair. Genos looks up at him through hooded eyes and pulls back with a wet pop . Moisture glistens on his lips, his chin, and Saitama resists the urge to pull him into a kiss.
"You taste so good," Genos sighs, mouthing along Saitama's dick, hand wrapped around the base. He presses tiny kisses along the length of it before he returns to the tip, laving the flat of his tongue against it.
“Don’t...don’t say such embarrassing things,” Saitama mumbles, rocking his hips slightly to encourage Genos to swallow his dick. He groans in pleasure when he feels that warm, wet heat encompass him again. “Ah, Genos…”
He tips his head back against the wall and closes his eyes, focusing on just how good Genos could suck dick. He feels more than hears Genos mumble around him, and his ears catch the unmistakable jingle of a belt buckle, followed by another muted moan from the other. He glances down to the sight of Genos with a hand down his pants, desperately grinding his hips against it.
“Genos,” Saitama says, gently tugging the blond off his cock. “Sorry, I forgot about you, didn’t I? Let me take care of you.”
He kneels down to Genos’ level and gingerly pushes him down onto his back. With a little fandangling, he coaxes Genos out of his pants and boxers and tosses them to join the rest of the clothing. His cock is red and leaking, and Saitama doesn’t miss the way Genos jolts in pleasure when he wraps his hand around it.
“S-Saitama,” Genos murmurs, looking up at him with eyes so full of adoration that Saitama has to look away. He settles his hips over the other’s so that he can wrap a hand around both their cocks.
“Does this feel good?” Saitama asks as a sigh of pleasure catches in his throat.
“ Yes ,” Genos hisses, rolling his hips to meet every stroke of Saitama’s hand. “Ye-es, Saitama….”
God, he looks so debauched , with his flushed face and glistening lips. Saitama leans down and captures those lips in a passionate kiss, moaning into him. He feels Genos’ hands come and wrap around his neck, holding him in place as they rock together, his hand trapped between their bodies.
“Saitama,” Genos gasps out between kisses. “Saitama, please, I...want…”
“Tell me, Genos,” he says, trailing kisses across the other’s neck. “Anything.”
He pauses just long enough to feel Genos pant against his lips, feel him roll his hips against his hand. “Please,” Genos says, almost like a whine. “Fuck me, Saitama. I want you inside me.”
Saitama can’t help the blush that spreads across his cheeks. “M-man, always so blunt, huh?” Nonetheless, he reluctantly pulls himself from Genos’ grasp and paws along the shelves for something that could maybe, hopefully, act as lube. “Sorry,” he says showing Genos a container of vaseline. “This is all we have.”
“It’s fine,” Genos assures him. Saitama kneels down before Genos again and hoists his legs over his shoulders. He dips his fingers in the substance, and watches as Genos’ face twitches in response to him running a finger over his hole.
“Are you sure this is okay?” Saitama questions, his other hand rubbing small circles into a patch of skin near Genos’ hips. “I mean, this is kinda undignified…”
“Yes, Saitama. Please, I want you to fuck me.” Genos’ tone leaves no room for argument, even though he’s a flushed, panting mess. Saitama inserts his first finger into Genos at his behest, feels him clench around the intrusion.
“...You deserve better than this,” Saitama can’t help but to murmur, even as he pushes his finger in an out of Genos. “You shouldn’t be in a dingy storage room with someone like me.”
“But I don’t want anything else,” Genos whispers. He gazes at Saitama with eyes so soft, so full of adoration that Saitama has to look away. “Just you. You’re enough.”
His breath hitches in his throat at the blond’s words. Just what had he done to warrant such kind words? What arbitrary god had he pleased to be gifted with Genos?
“G-geez, don’t you ever get embarrassed by the things you say?” Still, Saitama can’t help the slow curl of a smile across his features. He captures Genos’ lops in another kiss as he adds a second finger, scissoring both his digits. Genos moans against his mouth, hands coming to grasp at Saitama’s broad shoulders. Saitama can’t stop himself from sucking harshly on Genos’ neck, biting the juncture where shoulder meets throat. He leaves an uneven line of hickies down to his collarbone, reminders of their desperate tryst in a cramped closet.
“S-Saitama, please !” Genos cries out, rolling his hips back against Saitama’s fingers when he hits that bundle of nerves inside him. “Please, I want your cock, Saitama!”
For some reason, hearing that combination of words from Genos makes his heart stutter in his chest. “Y-yeah, okay. Hold on.” Saitama reaches beside himself and dips his fingers in the vaseline again, liberally coating his dick. He presses the head of his member against Genos’ entrance, eyeing him carefully. “Are you sure, Genos? It’s not too late to...we can stop, if you’re - “
“Saitama.” Genos ruts his hips back against the head of the other’s dick, almost glaring at him, “I am completely sure. Please, fuck me .”
Saitama swallows, but nonetheless he pushes into the other, slowly, groaning as he’s surrounded by Genos’ tight, wet heat. “Oh, fffuck,” he gasps. He leans down and cages Genos’ head between his arms, pressing his lips to the top of head. “Fuck, Genos. You feel so good.” He feels the other stiffen below him as he bottoms out, and stills to let him adjust. He peppers feather-light kisses along Genos’ jaw, filled with a fondness so strong his chest aches. He’s never been much of a romantic, but Genos…
Genos does things to him.
“Saitama,” Genos sighs, leaning into his touches. “S-Saitama, please, you can move. Fuck me, please, Saitama -!”Genos is short of babbling incoherently, even though Saitama is rocking shallowly into him. He starts to thrust into him with earnest, and the low whine that he gets out of Genos is reward enough.
One hand continues to support himself up as the other reaches between them to tug at Genos’ leaking cock in time with his thrusts. He feels the other’s fingers dig into his back, raking deep red lines into his skin.
“Saitama, Saitama, Saitama - “ The way Genos says his name is like a prayer, so full of reverence that he has to kiss him to get him to stop. He swallows all of Genos’ keening whines and choked moans, praising him between each stolen breath.
“C-close, I’m close,” Genos warns, “SSSSai-Saitama, I’m close, please! ”
“M-me too, Genos.” Saitama quickens his thrusts as Genos clenches tighter around him. “Together. Come w-with me, yeah?”
Mere moments after that, Genos cries out in pleasure, and Saitama can feel his release pool in his hand. At the last second, Saitama pulls out and watches his own fluids join Genos’ on his chest and stomach.
He rolls to the side and collects the sticky blond into his arms, where they both lay, panting, basking in the afterglow. The only sounds between them are their combined breathing, and the constant hum of the single light above them. Outside, the construction goes on as normal, muted behind the walls of the storage room.
“Are you smelling me again?” Saitama finally asks, noting how Genos has pressed his face in the crook of Saitama’s shoulder.
“Perhaps,” the blond answers, a smile in his voice.
“You know, I smell a lot better after I’ve had a shower.”
Genos perks his head up at that, his lips curling into a sly smirk.
“Is that an invitation, Saitama?”
...well, shit.