She wasn't sure why she had come. She had, but a few hours ago, left her home and her subordinates.
“I just want to be alone for a while,” she had assured them, pretending not to be pleased by the worried looks on the faces of her men.
She bought herself a tea to-go from the cafe, the only one still open at this time of night. She had left before dinner, having lost her appetite. Something about autumn always made her loose her appetite. Something about squeezing her calves into warm boots made her want to eat less. The hot tea warmed her hands and her empty stomach as she made her way to the subway station.
She seldom traveled this way, having always been able to afford a more private form of transit. But she found that, tonight, she wanted to be alone in a crowded place. Surrounded by people who did not know her, who did not care for it and were not supposed to protect her. She had neglected to wear her fur coat out of fear of being recognized, had opted instead for a down-jacket and a scarf worn like a cowl over her head.
She arrived at his building pretty late, unsure if he would even still be awake. She told herself she had not planned this as her destination, decided that she would tell a tale of how she had just begun to get cold in the nighttime air, how she had forgotten proper stockings and had finished her tea, just needed a place to warm up. For a few minutes. That was all.
She knocked quietly. Tap-tap-tap, like she hoped he would not hear. The silence that followed her soft tapping on the door made her want to try again. Tap-tap-tap, she rapped on the door, a little louder.
“Alright!” she heard a yell from the other side of the door, in that familiar fed-up voice. He must have been reading, perhaps getting ready for bed. “I'm coming, jeeze.”
He opened the door looking ready to argue, but his expression quickly softened when he saw Fubuki, standing rigidly on the terrace, her fist still raised, poised to knock again.
“Hi,” she said, her vision obscured then by steam coming from her mouth into the cold night breeze.
“Fubuki,” he said simply, blankly. She tried not to grimace, scolded herself for thinking for one second he might be the least bit excited to see her. Or anyone. “What are you doing here?”
“I was-” she began, forgetting her story. “I was in town.”
Saitama furrowed his brow, and she thought for a moment that the jig was up, that she was about to be teased.
“Did you happen to pass by the market?” he asked, looking past her out into the street.
“Oh,” he said, disappointed, “I forgot to pick up the flier, I was hoping maybe you saw what was on sale.”
“Are you going to invite me in, or...?” she asked, trying not to sound as anxious and angry as she felt.
“Or what?” he asked. Dumb ass, she thought. She shook her head and pushed past him, their shoulder grazing one another as she entered his tiny apartment.
“Where's Genos?” she asked, looking around for signs of the young cyborg. The apartment was spotless, which she figured meant he had not been gone long.
“He'll be at Dr. Stench's over night,” Saitama told her, placing his hand on the back of his own neck, scratching. Why do men always do that thing, Fubuki wondered, why do the backs of their necks always itch? He didn't even have any hair at his nape. She looked a little too long at his strong hands.
“Oh,” she said, tearing her eyes away. They seemed so soft and gentle now, without their red gloves, punching nothing. She often forgot that they were capable of anything else. She became very aware that they were alone as she watched him walk to the small kitchen.
“Tea?” he asked, pointing to the electric kettle on the counter top.
“It's late,” she said, looking at her watch. Nearly nine PM, and she had already had one cup of tea.
“It's herbal,” he told her, holding up the small metal box and shaking it.
“Won't it make me sleepy?”
“Don't you have your men to bring you home?”
“No,” she said. “I went out without them.”
His brow shifted, and she let herself interpret his expression. He was worried, she felt, concerned . But then she remembered who she was dealing with.
“Well I'm going to have tea,” he said, filling the kettle in the sink. “If you want some and you're too tired you can rest here.”
She blinked at the invitation.
“I don't need to...” she muttered, looking out the window into the darkness of the night. The temperature was quickly dropping. “Maybe. I'll sleep here. If I need to.”
“Okay,” he said. “There will be room because Genos is out.”
“Mhm,” she replied, her mind filling with mundane questions. Where would she sleep? On one of the mats? On the hardwood floor? In that bathtub?
A growling sound interrupted her panic. Her stomach roared with emptiness, and she remembered that she had skipped dinner.
“Counting calories again?” he asked, his eyelids lowering. “You have to eat. Heroes have to eat.”
“I don't do nearly as many push-ups as you,” she said, her face getting warm as she looked down.
“I made zucchini bread!” he exclaimed, as if just remembering it himself. He turned around and bent down to look in this fridge. “It should be cool by now.” He took it out and began to slice it with a cheap serrated knife.
“Really, I'm fine-” she began to say, but it was too late. His hand was in her face, holding a piece of zucchini bread to her lips. “Mmf-” she protested.
“Don't let it go to waste!” he encouraged, desperate as always about being frugal. She softened, opening her mouth to let the food in. He pushed it gently, still holding on to the other side, and waited for her to take a bite. His fingers met her face as she bit down on the soft slice. “How is it?” he asked, placing the rest of the crumbling slice in her open palm. She swallowed loudly.
“It's good,” she told him, placing her own fingers over her mouth where his had been, covering the sight of thick crumbs falling from her lips.
They had their tea at the table as they ate a few more slices of zucchini bread. Saitama had turned the TV on. The news, as always. The threats had been minimal lately; perhaps that was why she had stopped by to see him, she told herself. To see if he knew anything, any reason why things had been so slow. Not being she missed him. Not because she knew he would have snacks. Not because his presence calmed her nerves.
The tea was sweet though she had added no sugar. Unless Saitama had done so without telling her. She tried to guess the flavors as she held the cup close to her nose, inhaling the hot air.
“Are you warm enough?” he asked, his head tilted a little to the side, watching the way she gripped the hot mug.
“Hm?” she asked. “Oh, um, well you never turn on your heat, so...”
He got up from the table, pushing himself up with his hands on his knees, letting out a grunting sigh.
“Oh, but don't drive up your utility bill on my account!” she said as he walked down the small hallway that led to the closet and thermostat. She waited a moment, listening for the click of the baseboard heaters. They had never really been turned on, were probably still in brand-new condition, ready to burn off the chemicals they were doused with when they were made. Great, she thought, I'll die in a fire today .
She didn't hear any clicking sound, and she looked curiously down the hallway, wondering what Saitama was doing. She put down the cup and folded her arms, considering that maybe the reason he had gotten up had nothing to do with her being cold.
He emerged from the hall carrying a pile of clothing in his arms.
“What-” she asked, her eyes growing a little wider. She pushed her short hair behind her now-red ears.
“You're staying here, right?” he asked, placing the clothing down on the table. “You can't sleep in a dress. Pajamas are warmer!”
He looked quite proud of himself, she noticed. She looked down, feeling a little guilty, realizing that just because he was so strong and felt very little, it did not mean he had no kindness left in him.
“Th-thank you,” she mumbled, leafing through the pile on the table. She found the smallest things she could; a pair of striped flannel pants and an old pullover sweatshirt. “I'll, uh, I'll change I guess.”
“Okay,” he said.
“Oh, yeah,” he said pointing to where it was.
“I know,” she said flatly.
“Ha,” he said as she got up, “What, did you think I was going to ask you to change in front of me?”
She froze, clutching more tightly the old clothes to her chest.
“No,” she swiftly replied, “I just...I didn't know where I could-”
“I won't look,” he said, lifting his tea to his lips. “I'm not like that.”
“I know. You really aren't.”
She winced as she walked to the bathroom, regretting her tone when she said that. She wanted to leave the bathroom door cracked as she disrobed, wanted him to be like that , just a little.
But she shut it tight and put the clothes on the sink, taking in her reflection. Her face was turned pink, and she threw her hands over her cheeks, as if that would do anything. Her men would be worried about her, she thought, and yet none of them had called her mobile phone.
She lifted her dress above her head, enjoying the way the silky fabric slid over her smooth skin. Staring down at the clothes Saitama had given her, she found herself met with a dilemma.
She never wore underwear or a bra to bed. No woman really did, despite what they say on television. Her body needed to breath at night. But these were not her clothes...She giggled, imagining Genos putting their dirty laundry in the washer, his heightened senses pointing to the unfamiliar scent of her. Deciding that she would not be able to sleep if she were uncomfortable, she slid her blank underwear down her legs and unclasped her lace bra. Folding them neatly on top of her dress, she wondered if he would notice them.
The pajamas were big on her. The pants collected in a pool at her feet,and the sweatshirt fit her like a short dress. Sexy , she thought, lifting her hands, noting that the sleeves were very long. It made sense, as the clothes were normally worn by such a muscular man...It wasn't the sweatshirt he normally wore, with that... vulgar design. It was thin and had baseball sleeves.
She emerged from the bathroom feeling like a child, the pants dragging beneath her cold feet.
“Are you still cold?” he asked, placing his cup on the table and turning to face her.
“A little,” she admitted, folding her arms over her chest, remembering her underthings sitting neatly in the bathroom still.
“Come here then,” he said, motioning for her to sit next to him.
“Hm?” she whimpered, her skin flushing again. Eventually she nodded and padded over to him. She sat cross legged beside him, and he wrapped a blanket over both of their shoulders.
He's being practical, she said to herself, saving room and money because he only has one blanket. It wasn't until she felt his arm around her waist that she began to think otherwise.
“You are cold,” he mused, his fingers brushing against her skin where the sweatshirt had ridden up.
“Don't make a blizzard joke,” she warned. His hands were warm, and not all that calloused, which she found strange. She had not expected his palms to be soft, or the pulse in his wrist to be that fast. Surely with all the running it must be very slow when resting, unless...No. He was being practical, she reminded herself.
Still, she could not help but indulge in her curiosity. Once the news anchor switched subjects to something less interesting (“we now turn to some less distressing news, the alligator from the City J zoo has finally found a mate!”), she made her subtle move. She laid her head upon his shoulder. She closed her eyes tightly, preparing for him to move away or ask her what I the world she thought she was doing. Instead he only tightened his arm around her slim waist, lifting his opposite hand to pull down the sweatshirt where it had ridden up, covering her cold skin. He left his hand nearby, resting on her hip, after patting her gently where she had just been exposed.
“Are you warm now?” he asked. “Say...”
“Why didn't you wear your fur coat?”
“Oh,” she sighed. “I didn't want to be recognized.”
“Why not?” he asked, looking down at her, his mouth now pressed against her hair as he spoke.
“It's nice sometimes,” she told him, “to be nobody. Maybe you don't know because people don't know who you are-”
His grip on her tightened at that statement.
“No, Saitama, I mean,” she coughed and went on, “People should know who you are. Really, more than anyone,” she cursed herself for being so dramatic, “but once they did you'd get tired of it real quick.”
He smiled wide at the complement.
“I'm not so sure,” he corrected her, “You said that just now and it felt pretty good.”
“But that's because-” she stopped herself, not wanting to ruin his sudden good mood by reminding him that he so seldom heard such nice things about himself. She sighed. “Okay. Well then, you're really strong.”
“I'm gonna make you sick of it.”
“Doubt that,” he sneered. She looked up at him, her lips curling into a smile, accepting his challenge. “I'll make you sick of it first,” he went on.
“Oh, I see,” she said, clearing her throat. “I like your cape and I think it suits you well.”
“Hm. Your powers are really interesting.”
“You're surprisingly graceful when you fight.”
“I don't get why you fight wearing a dress but it looks cool so I never asked why.”
“Sometimes your bald head gets really sweaty and I want to sniff it.”
“What? Sometimes your hair gets messed up and I think you should leave it like that.”
“It's too neat,” he told her, removing his hand from her hip to rub it into her shiny black hair.
“What the f-” she struggled not to laugh, and then retaliated, lifting her head from his shoulder and pushing her face into his scalp, sniffing him like she said.
“Hey!” he shouted. “Don't make fun-”
“I'm not,” she said, breathing him in again. “And we're not done with our game.”
“Okay,” he said. “I think you look really nice wearing my pajamas,” he told her, his mouth close to her neck.
“It...” she hesitated. “It turns me on to know that you wore them, too.”
“I thought the point was to make me get sick of it?”
“Huh?” she squeaked, getting that weak-kneed feeling she had known since girlhood.
“Fubuki...” he mumbled into her collarbone. “Why did you come here tonight?”
She didn't answer for a moment, unsure of what to say.
“Are you really gonna make me say it?” she begged of him.
“The game's not over, so yes.”
“But it's your turn,” she deflected.
“Okay,” he sighed, and she looked down at his face. Blank as always. But something about it, the emptiness, made her want to fill it. She wanted to look up at that face as it struggled above her, wanted it buried in her skin. He moved his hand beneath the fabric of the loose sweatshirt he had given her. “Uh...I think you're pretty?”
She stifled a laugh. He had no idea what he was doing, but that only endeared him more to her.
“Okay,” she said plainly, “I came here tonight because I missed you.” His hand inched farther up beneath the sweatshirt.
“Are we still playing?” he asked.
“Well, nobody's won yet.”
“Then it's my turn again,” he said proudly, nervously moving his hand over her left breast, warm but rigid beneath the soft, worn fabric. “You're the first person I've wanted to kiss in a long time.”
“I forfeit,” she said weakly, taking one trembling hand to his face, lifting it from below her chin. First she placed her lips on his forehead, right where she assumed his hairline used to be. He moved his hand a little, squeezing her gently. He seemed so afraid, but eager at the same time.
He lifted his head closer to her, and kissed her full on the mouth, unable to wait any longer, it seemed. He was weak this way, she noticed, unfamiliar with the sensation, as she could feel his breath escape him in short bursts. He turned, angling his body to face her more, using his other hand which had previously been around her waist to hold her gently by her back. She used her hands to tug at the collar of his shirt as she deepened the kiss, searching inside of his mouth with her tongue as she pulled him down on top of her.
They were laying in the narrow space between the sleeping mats and the table, the area leaving just enough room for them to lay facing one another. Anxiously he placed many little kisses on her face and neck, pulling back the collar of the too-big sweatshirt to find his way to her shoulder. He took his hand away from her chest, and she felt bare and lonesome, until he began to lift the hem of the sweatshirt up. She began to try and help him remove it from her.
“No,” he said grasping her hand, pulling the shirt up above her breasts. “Leave it on a little.” He kissed her on the sternum. “You'll get cold again.”
“Oh-okay,” she muttered weakly, feeling herself melt at the meeting of her legs. She moved her hands to the back of his neck, holding him to her as he took one of her nipples into his mouth. “Ah-”
“Are you okay?” he asked desperately, his words getting muffled by her chest as his concerned eyes looked up at her.
“Saitama,” she cooed, kissing his forehead again, “That's a good noise.”
“Oh,” he laughed. His hands met her upper back as he pulled her closer to him, sucking at her desperately. His lips were strong like the rest of him, but she knew he was being coy. He could destroy her if he wished. He could break her back with his hands, but he remained cautious. She shuddered while he held her, had to stop herself from asking him to use his strength. However would she explain the bruising?
“Get up here,” she told him, and he gave her breast one last kiss before shuffling up to be eye-to-eye with her. She kissed him again, letting her hands trail from his neck to his chest. It was hard like a rock, but covered in buttery-smooth skin. She groaned into his mouth as she dug in with her painted nails.
Moving on to his abdomen, she felt the flighty twitching of his muscles. With a grunt he began to roll on top of her, letting his hardening dick brush up against her leg. Well played, she mused.
“Wait a minute-” he said suddenly, propping himself up on his elbows. “You didn't wear a bra!”
She blinked, wondering how it could have taken him so long to recognize that fact.
“No I did not-”
“Does that mean-” he stammered, looking down to wear their bodies met at the hips.
“You are so cute,” she groaned, as if angry at him for it.
“I thought you had forfeit,” he smiled.
“That round, maybe,” she challenged, running her hands over his head as he inched farther down, sniffing her stomach as he made his way. “Your turn.”
“Let me think,” he said, stopping to untie the drawstring of the pants she had borrowed. She tensed up a moment, remembering that she had not been taking such detailed care of her hair of late. It would be a little overgrown- but she supposed that hardly mattered to someone like Saitama. If anything, he'd be jealous of it, so soft and full. “Hmm. Okay, I've got one.”
“Stop stalling,” she jested.
“When you were changing I had wondered if you were gonna take off your underwear.”
She giggled, thinking of him, sitting in his living room with his fingers on his chin, plotting out the likelihood that she had removed her black lacies.
“My turn,” she mumbled as he pulled down the flannel pajama pants, kissing her slender but shapely thighs as he tugged at the waistband. “I took them off just in case,” she told him.
“Ungh-” he whimpered. “Okay, you win, I can't take anymore.” He kissed her on her pelvis, her trophy and her proof of victory soon to come. With his strong fingers he parted her, narrowly at first, and he gazed admiringly at her, and she shook as if his very glance had touched her. He licked her once, as if testing it out, and she wondered if he had every done this before. She felt a little wary; he had spent so much time trying to become strong, he can't possibly have had time to learn the proper way-
She soon found that here fears had been unfounded. Perhaps he spoke so few words so that he may save his tongue for better things. He was quick, precise. He found her easily, knew where to go when her body stiffened before him.
It did not take long. It had been a while for her. No man had shared her bed in some time and, of late, she could not find the motivation to please herself. Quickly his work was done.
She gripped his head, where normally she would thread her fingers through some messy hair. It felt new and different, his baldness, between her thighs. No distractions. No itching. No hair products. She liked the smooth feeling against her skin. His movements slowed, became harder and more languid, like he knew she was getting close.
“Oh-” she gasped. She came silently. She spilled a little onto his face, but hadn't the frame of mind to worry about his reaction. The ceiling of his apartment spun above her head. Even the fan that hung there, never to be turned on so as to save money, began to turn and turn.
“Mmm,” he remarked, clearly not bothered by what she was capable of. Her panting and squirming gave way to small twitches as he breathed on her, the feeling having not left yet, tapering off.
“Wow,” she mused, her voice no longer calm and seemly. He hoisted himself up to meet her, and he left a fragrant, wet kiss on her cheek.
“Can I get you a towel?” he asked, un-romantically.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Well I imagine you don't want to sleep like...like this,” he said, lifting his still-wet hand.
“I thought...I assumed we were going to...”
“Oh,” he said, realizing what she was expecting. “Well, maybe not tonight.”
“I wanted to do that for you,” he told her.
“Really?” she asked, the blood finding its way back to her face.
“Yeah,” he said, laying his head on her chest, “I can win next time, maybe.”
“Whenever you want me to lose,” she began, letting her left arm fall down his back, “you need only to ask.”
“We'll take it slow,” he suggested, sitting up. She followed suit and then he wrapped his arms around her, letting the sweatshirt come back down over her bare chest. “Plus, you're sleepy, Fubuki.”
“I am,” she admitted, resting her head in the crook of his neck.
“Then let's go to sleep,” he said. “We can have a practice round before bed.” He said, releasing her and standing up to go get a towel.
“I'll start,” he mentioned, grabbing one blue towel from the basket full of clean laundry. He handed it to her as he thought. “I like you.”
“I like you too,” she reminded him, using the soft towel to dry herself.
“That's cheating. You can't copy me. You lose.”
“But I-” she stammered. “Okay, fine.”
He straightened out the nearby sleeping mat, getting out his other blanket for them to use, as the other one now belonged in the to-be-washed pile.
She slept warmly in the curve of his body, the little spoon, a position she would never admit to enjoying.
“We can have the rest of the zucchini bread for breakfast!” he whispered into her ear. She smiled as she rolled her eyes, pulling his arm more tightly around her.