Fubuki wasn't used to missing people. But it had been a week since she had seen him, spoken to him. He was away. Busy. And she was not. Idle and bored, trying desperately to fill her lonesome hours.
She was waiting for her sister in their reserved booth at a fancy restaurant. She hadn't been to one in some time; of late her meals had been home-cooked or bought cheaply to-go. Tatsumaki had insisted she treat herself to something better.
She was staring blankly at her full glass of red wine. She always got stains on her lips and a headache when she drank it, but she loved the taste.
Saitama had bought her a cheap bottle of it the week before he left. It was on sale, he had explained. The label was simple, charming. Like him. She sighed as she took a generous sip of her drink.
“You should have just gotten a bottle, Fubuki,” her sister mumbled as she approached the booth. “I'm paying.”
“I don't really want to get drunk, 'Maki,” she sighed, running her finger around the rim of her glass.
“Too bad,” Tatsumaki replied, closing her eyes and opening the wine menu. “I haven't seen you in weeks. We're getting drunk.”
Fubuki shrugged, submitted, lifted her glass in a lazy toast to nothing. They ordered a bottle of wine, the pricey kind. Fubuki smiled to herself as she read the menu, noting how expensive it was. She pictured his reaction. So cute, and she missed him all the more.
“I've had meetings all day,” Tatsumaki lamented, twirling her hair in her fingers. “Boys club. So annoying.”
“Tell me about it,” Fubuki said, popping gyoza into her mouth. “We ought to recruit young women. To become heroes.”
“Not a bad idea,” her sister agreed. It was surprising and new, Tatsumaki being so agreeable and nice. Something in her had changed, made her kind, less abrasive. She could care for Fubuki now in an outright fashion.
Their second round was poured as their entrees came out. She was splurging, eating more than her fill. For once. His encouragement had finally begun to get through to her.
He fed her chocolates once, kissing her all over between pieces, and she let it melt down her throat, slow and easy as he worshiped her body.
She shook her head, tried to force herself back into the present, though her thighs ached with thoughts of his lips upon them, and his hands, how they gripped her so gently.
“Fubuki...” Tatsumaki began, whispering in her inebriation. Such a lightweight with her small body.
“What's up, sis?”
“What's going on with baldy?”
Fubuki sighed a laugh, reprimanding herself. She should have seen this coming.
“He's away this week,” she told her, looking down into her drink. “But things are good.”
“What are his...intentions with you?”
“Intentions?” she asked, grinning. “You sound like dad.”
“I'm serious,” Tatsumaki insisted, reaching across the table, hardly able to reach her sister's hand. “Is he some...letch? Pervert? What does he want with you?”
“He loves me. Is that so hard to believe?”
“No,” Tatsumaki said, shaking her head. “Who wouldn't love my little sister?”
Fubuki squeezed her little hand in her fingers. She liked drunk Tatsumaki.
“I just...” she trailed off, her green hair falling around her face sloppily. “Do you love him? Also why?”
“Would you like my answer in the form of a five-paragraph essay?”
Tatusmaki laughed, too loud in the quiet restaurant.
“No, I just...” she didn't finish, rested her head in her other hand. “I always thought you'd end up with someone different.”
“Me too,” she admitted, looking away. The restaurant was filled with couples, candles lit between them. She saw a man rise from is seat, kneel before his date with a small box in his hand. The woman nodded feverishly, tears already streaming down her face.
“I've missed you, sis,” Tatsumaki said, looking sad. Fubuki sighed, knowing she had been a fool.
Of course she had missed someone before.
They ate their dinner slowly, savoring the expensive meats. They talked about their meetings, their fights, but not about their powers. Still a sore subject, what with Fubuki lagging behind, struggling to live up to her sister's reputation. She tried her best not to bring up Saitama, worrying she would sound love-sick as she was, annoying like an obsessed schoolgirl.
“You never answered my question,” Tatsumaki said as she eyed the dessert menu.
“Hmm?” Fubuki tried to sound oblivious. Like him. She sighed at the pain in her chest.
“Why do you love him?”
She stared off into the distance, trying to come up with an answer. The newly engaged couple was being served their cheesecake, sharing it with two forks and blushing grins.
“He makes me happy,” she said simply, licking her lips at the sight of the flaky crust. “He makes me like myself.”
“You shouldn't need a man to make you like yourself.”
“It's not like that, exactly,” she said, putting down the dessert menu and waving her hands in the air, refusing to eat any of the sweets. “He made me realize how much there is about me to like. And not just...” she indicated her body and then she shrugged.
“Hm,” Tatsumaki huffed, clearly pretending to be upset. Fubuki could tell though. She had that look she had since they were little. She was pleased. “So he's not a letch, then.”
Fubuki walked home that night. The air was getting warmer, and the night was clear. As she strolled, drunk and cheerful, she thought of all the things Saitama had said they'd do when he got back. They'd cook together. They would stay up late.
He once said he had a whole list of things he wanted to do with Fubuki. She never heard the end of it, and couldn't help but wonder what it led to.
She imagined him, in a suit like the man in the restaurant, kneeling before her all sweaty and nervous, opening some velvet box. Yeah right, she shook her head, continuing to pound the sidewalk with her high-heeled shoes. He wasn't that kind of person, not that kind of man, that considered himself husband material.
But still, under the moon in the city as she made her way home, she could not help but imagine what it would be like. Mrs. Caped Baldy, she giggled, her voice echoing down the empty street. They'd have to move. Both of them. Someplace modest where Genos could also have a room. She couldn't bear to tear them apart.
Saitama would have a garden. Or a window box full of tomato plants. They would wake up every morning in the same bed, wide and soft and covered in silky sheets, and greet the morning in peace. They'd do the grocery shopping together, and people would stare and she would kiss his bald head. On holidays they'd have people over. They would host, and by the end of the night be so drunkenly proud of one another that they would fall asleep on the couch.
Maybe she would stop taking her injections. Maybe she would have some babies.
She stopped short, realizing that she had reached the end of her driveway.
“Oh,” she said simply, a habit she had picked up from him. Huffing, she began the long climb up to her doorway. “Stupid,” she mumbled to herself, lamenting how she had daydreamed. Saitama thought about what to have for dinner. He thought about sales and monsters.
He didn't think about being wed beneath an archway of flowers, of kissing his bride in front of everyone they knew.
Besides, she thought, she may not even be interested in marriage. It was a silly tradition. She would be tied down. A prisoner to a sexist institution.
She decided that it was just the springtime making her strange, making her a romantic.
She took the bottle of wine he had bought her and opened it as she sat on the couch.
“Just the springtime,” she said quietly as she took a drink. She fell asleep, the bottle still mostly-full on her coffee table, and she dreamed fitfully that night of his arms and his hands, fingers carefully untying the strings that bound her in a white-gold gown.
She got the call a few days later. The Association had finally given him a mobile phone, and she was the first person he dialed on it.
“'Buki,” he said, sounding excited. She smiled, having worried he would tire of her in his absence. “Genos and I just got home.” She heard the muffled sounds of the two of them putting down their bags.
“How was it?”
“Dumb,” he said, yawning. Fubuki knew he was stretching, too. Thick arms in the air, flexing every detail. She shivered. “They wanted me to be his sidekick.”
She heard Genos mumble something profane in the background. They had been called away to a conference, a recruitment of sorts, looking for heroes that wanted to team up officially.
“I take it that idea did not go over well?” she asked.
“I didn't really care,” Saitama admitted, his voice lowered to a whisper, “but Genos really gave it to 'em. It was just a bunch of speeches and lectures other than that.”
“Your favorite,” she joked, eager to hear more of his voice.
“So are you gonna come over?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, looking at herself in the mirror, imagining what it would look like if he was behind her, arms wrapped around her waist.
He had picked flowers for her. Dandelions. Fleeting and bright, only available for a limited time.
“Like a sale,” he said as he kissed her cheek. “There are so many of them but you have to hurry in order to get any.”
“Thank you,” she said, blushing as if it was the first time he had touched her.
Genos went to the balcony to dust it off.
As soon as the sliding door was closed, Saitama grabbed Fubuki's face and pulled her into a desperate kiss.
“I missed you,” he said, their bodies pressing together against the wall. His hands traveled down to her shoulders and chest. “Did you get prettier?”
“Uh-” He kissed her again.
“Sorry,” he said, wiping his mouth. It hurt already, her entire body, like she was missing some parts.
“I missed you too, eggy,” she said, mumbling his pet name into his ear.
“It wasn't all bad,” he admitted sniffing at her neck. “Genos and I got to do some sightseeing.”
“What did you see?” she panted, her body still pushed against the wall.
“Eh,” he said, burrowing his face into her collarbone. “Suddenly I can't remember.”
“S-Sensei!” Genos said, piping and flustered. Neither of them had heard the door open once again.
“I-” she stammered, pushing Saitama away, “I'm sorry, Genos.”
“Sensei,” he said, tilting his head to the side, “don't hurt Miss Fubuki. You have to be careful.”
She sighed. Now there were two important people who cared about her relationship. Genos and her sister, though they each showed it very differently.
Saitama was blushing, bending forward a little to hide his erection, and he scampered away into the bathroom mumbling something about having drank too much sparkling water.
“I'm really sorry, Genos,” she said. “I don't mean to...take him away from you.”
“You aren't,” he assured her. “Saitama-sensei promised that no matter what happens with you two, I can still be his loyal disciple.”
“That's sweet,” she cooed, thrilled to hear yet another example of her boyfriend's kindness.
“He said that even if, one day down the line, you were to marry him-”
“Oh,” Genos said, his eyes growing dark. “I've said too much, forgive me. Please don't tell Sensei that I mentioned it. It was selfish of me. I-”
“Genos,” she said, softening. She approached him holding her arms open. She embraced him, gently, as his metal felt a little strange against her body. “Thank you, Genos. I won't say anything.”
“Okay,” he said, letting his hands rest on the middle of her back.
“And I won't leave you out, either,” she assured him, backing away from their hug.
“Hey,” Saitama said halfheartedly as he exited the bathroom, “hands off my woman.”
Fubuki laughed, covering her mouth and shuffling away from Genos.
“Are you sure you don't mean 'hands off my student?'” she asked.
That night they stayed at the apartment. Fubuki had bought her own small futon to set up beside Saitama's so that Genos didn't have to lose any sleep. It was thinner, green, her favorite color. Saitama had picked it out because it was cheap. She was rolling it out on the floor, already dressed in pajamas, when she got tackled.
“Ah!” she gasped, tumbling onto the beds in his arms. “Saitama-”
“I love you,” he said, the sound muffled by her arm. He was pressing his face into her, like he was afraid she would disappear.
“I love you,”she said, running her hands over his scalp. “It's too bad we won't have any time alone tonight.”
“I know,” he agreed, rolling over onto his own futon. “Gonna be hard to sleep.”
She blushed, knowing that she wouldn't get much rest either. Never could they resist touching each other in secret when they slept around other people. Always his hand ended up beneath her shirt, always her body made its way into the curve of his.
Maybe on day they would have all the time alone they wanted. She inhaled, as if to speak.
“What is it, darling?” he asked. She lost all her nerve; always those sort of names sounded wrong in his mouth, but he kept on trying to make it work. She melted into him, trailing kisses down his neck as he laughed. “H-hey...Genos will be done cleaning soon.”
“I just...” she sighed, resting her head on his chest. His heart was beating fast, like the first time. He was not bored of her yet, but she worried one day he would be. That one day he would wake up in their shared bed, roll over to see her, and feel nothing. “I just missed you a lot.”
“Next time I go away, I'm taking you with me,” he said. “That's the next step, right? That's on the list. Couples go away together.”
The next step, she thought. She blushed at the thought of the list. It existed only in his head, an itinerary of all the things he wanted to do with her. To her. He had written only some of it on the forms they submitted to the Hero Association. She wanted so badly for him to write it all down for her so that she could know without asking what he wanted from her, where he saw it going.
She didn't want to have that conversation. Men flee at the first sign of it, she knew.
But he was so different, she thought, as she watched him make their beds. In every way. He was so clueless, but he had done everything right. He was so kind, but he expected nothing in return for his kindness.
She pretended to sleep for a few hours. His arms were wrapped around her waist, as always, his fingers seeming not so strong as they pressed against her fair skin, her soft and ticklish belly.
She knew Genos had drifted off. The sounds he made changed when he fell asleep. Then began their ritual, the whispering, the touching. They could not help themselves.
“Hey,” Saitama said quietly, into her ear, his lips having somehow gotten softer in his time away. “Let's go outside.”
“Now?” she said, a little too loud. They both waited in silence to see if Genos would wake up.
He helped her up by holding her hand, and the sauntered hand-in-hand out to the balcony.
“I've got to ask you something,” he mumbled, wrapping his arms around her again as they walked. She felt her spine go rigid, knew that her eyes were wide in anticipation.
“Uh...” she gulped as he closed to door behind them. The night was warm and clear. He pushed her against the railing and kissed her in the light breeze.
She groaned into his mouth, having so badly missed the taste. He was so warm, so strong and firm. Tender, still, despite his harshness. She nearly squealed as he reached his palms up under her loose pajama shirt.
“What was it you wanted to ask me, Sai?” she begged, panting already at his touch. She knew she could not let herself get lost in his love, not yet, not until she knew what was on his mind. Once they got going, once he was on her body completely, owning it with his own, she knew she had no resolve. She would do anything he wanted.
“Oh, uh,” he said, pulling away, looking up as if he could not remember. “It's gonna sound dumb, I know.”
“What is it?” she asked, holding tightly onto his arms. She was shaking, like a leaf, and he was the only thing holding her up.
“Where is this going?”
She nearly laughed in his face. He had certainly saved her a lot of trouble.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I knew it would sound dumb.”
“N-no! It's not dumb, I just...” she stammered, choking on all of it. She kissed him twice on the cheek. “I didn't expect you to ask.”
“I was thinking about it while I was away,” he admitted, and Fubuki remembered what Genos had said. If you were to marry him...It was too late; already she was daydreaming again of their life together, of their vows and their wedding night, of that new, forever-bonded love they would make. He would look charming in a black tuxedo.
“Yeah?” she croaked. He kissed her again.
“I didn't think you'd want me around for this long,” he admitted.
“Saitama,” she said desperately, cupping his face, so fucking cute, in her hands, “of course I do.”
“For a while?”
“For as long as you'll have me.”
When he kissed her she cried. He was so different. It was dark out on the balcony, and she knew they would not be seen. She opened herself up, kicked off her pajama shorts.
“Whoa,” he said, breathless, as if in disbelief, before shrugging and continuing to devour her neck. His hand traveled down between her legs. “Seems like you really love me,” he said, rubbing her wetness all over his fingers.
“Hha-” she gasped, gripping his wrist to keep him there. “Shut up.”
“Nope,” he denied her, smiling into her skin. “I love you.”
She giggled as he pressed her harder into the balcony.
“I'm not gonna let you fall, 'Buki,” he assured her, like he could read her mind. He spread her farther, reaching into her with his middle finger, exploring her, reminding himself of what he had been without for so many days. She was weeping still, like his hands were tearing her open.
“S-Saitama,” she cried, wrapping her arms around his back, digging in with her fingers. She pushed her hands down, molding his skin with her nails, until she reached his waistband. Harshly she pulled it down, and she felt him fall out of his pants, hit her with a wet smack. “Ungh.”
“I missed the sounds you make,” he confessed, rubbing his cock against her, coating it in her juices, preparing himself.
“I missed your dick,” she said, too cheerfully for how sultry she wanted to sound. Clearly it did not matter to him. As soon as the words left her mouth he entered her, hard as ever, seeming bigger than before, though she knew it was just from his absence.
Would they still make love with this, after years went by? She saw it like a vision, her body getting older, yet he still found it beautiful. They would skip the mid-life crisis; he had already lost his hair. One day he would make love to her with some new intention, with determination to give her a baby. He would plant his seed. God, how warm it felt in her, how she had missed it.
He was curling his body against her, grunting, uncivilized, and she loved it. She followed suit, crying and panting, rutting against him like she had not made love in years. He kept rubbing his fingers against her clit, letting her go first, making it his priority.
She nearly screamed as she came, torn open completely, echoing down the abandoned streets. He exploded into her, panting her name.
“F-Fubuki,” he groaned, “God-I...”
“I love you so fucking much, Fubuki, god, I'll love you forever.”
“You promise?” she asked, still holding him inside of her, not concerned that she sounded sad and desperate.
“I promise,” he said, lowering her back down.
They stood on the balcony for a while, embracing, swaying. The air was hot around them.
“Let's go to sleep, Sai,” she said, feeling all worn out. She had so much more to say, so much more to ask. But she was so drunk on his body, on his sweetness, she knew she would not be able to stop herself from asking if he really thought about getting married.
She supposed it didn't matter. He made her happy. He was back, in her arms, and he would love her forever.