Chapter Text
Why.
Saitama stares up at the sign over the door. Electric Sheep flashes back at him in neon pink and blue lights, and he sighs. “Why are we here?” he complains, only for someone to press against his shoulder and push him closer to the door.
“Maybe you’ll like it,” jokes Badd, the owner of the offending hand, “Since you never liked any of the other places we’ve been to.”
“They were fine,” says Saitama and rubs at his face even as he’s being marched towards the door, “I told you those girls were hot.”
“You say that, but you don’t exactly sound like you believe it,” says Fubuki, the lone woman in their group. Her sister had declined their invitation, claiming that it’s immature to go to strip clubs, despite everyone else’s insistence that it is a team-bonding experience.
Saitama shrugs. They’ve been trying to get him laid for months. Years?
A long time, anyway, long enough that he’s lost interest in the game. It had been amusing at first, seeing them trying and failing to get him interested in anyone.
He’s just…picky.
Well, he rationalizes, he can stay for an hour, get his pushy coworkers to buy him a couple of beers and then head home to spend a pleasantly buzzed evening watching movies, jerking off and going to sleep. “Fine,” he says and they shuffle him inside, pressing him towards an empty table.
“Grab chairs,” Badd shouts at Garou, who gives him the middle finger but nevertheless stalks around the club, ripping chairs away from anyone who isn’t firmly seated in them, until all six of them can sit at two neighboring tables.
“I’m sorry if you’re uncomfortable,” murmurs King to Saitama, but Fubuki, the other member of their table, is already waving over a waitress with a great deal of enthusiasm. He’s always apologetic, every time.
“I think you’re probably going to get more uncomfortable than me, big guy,” says Saitama, which he fully expects to be true; if previous experience serves as any guide, he’s unlikely to have much reaction at all, whereas King will probably be a sweaty mess within the next ten minutes.
The waitress is tall, almost six feet, but that’s probably because her feet are built into the shape of heels, her long silver legs barely hidden by her scant dress. “How can I be of service?” she asks, voice pleasant but innately false. It sounds auto-tuned…
Fubuki orders for them, doesn’t even need to turn around to know Saitama wants whatever the cheapest beer they have on tap is, and King wants something fruity that comes with an umbrella.
The drinks come quickly, quick enough that at the other table Badd and Garou are still loudly fighting (they’ll disappear together soon enough) and Sonic is still in his chair (he’ll be up on the stage within the hour).
Fubuki is scouting, head swivelling and eyes wide, like an owl. In the center of the room, a T-shaped stage, two poles on either side, a strip extending out into the room with a third on it’s end. There’s an dancer at both of the rear poles, none yet in the middle. Around the room, at least a dozen androids, some shiny, some life-like. “You want any particular kind?” Fubuki asks, and it’s a fair question, given the variety of robots wandering the establishment.
“No,” he says, of course. He knows no matter who they call over, it’ll be a disappointment.
“How about her?” Fubuki points, as subtly as she is able, across the room to a very life like model, with false skin and enormous tits. She’s realistic, but not enough; she has no flaws. The perfect woman, if you’re into that type. It’s kind of a turn-off, if he’s honest.
“Nah,” he takes a gulp of his beer, “What’s the point if she basically looks human?”
“Oh,” says Fubuki, waggling her eyebrows knowingly, “That’s what you’re into? Not human… What about him?” she points again. A young man with blonde hair and a lifelike face, but silver and black everywhere else. Saitama shrugs, but before they can discuss it further, they are interrupted by a shadow cast across their table.
“Good evening, officers,” says the droid, in a perfectly level voice. It’s bulky, a far cry from the other robots in here, with a face lacking features, merely five shiny points of light in a blank silver head, “I am Metal Knight, the owner of this establishment. I hope you are enjoying your visit thus far.”
“Sure,” says Saitama non-committally. Drains another quarter of his beer.
Fubuki’s eyebrows lift just a little, “How did you know we’re police?”
“I make it a point to know who my customers are. It’s for their own safety as well as the safety of all my patrons and employees.”
Saitama tips his beer to the side and watches as the foam crawls down the inside of the glass, “Employees, hmm? Do you have any dancers who are not androids?”
“Ah, no sir, we do not. If you wish to experience human dancers, there are several venues I can recommend,” a brief, awkward pause; two or three thumps of the bass pound in the space between them, “May I offer you a free dance? As a show of our appreciation for your service to the city.”
“Not from you, thanks,” says Saitama at the same time as Fubuki points at the blonde boy and says, “Yes, can we get him?”
Metal Knight looks at where she’s pointing and seems to…sigh? Looks disappointed, if a robot that barely has a face can look any way in particular, and shouts, “Genos!”
The blonde boy’s head whips over from where he’s been talking to some men half-bathed in shadow. He turns, without so much as a goodbye to the people he’s leaving behind, and stalks across the room. Unlike the other androids in here, he doesn’t walk lightly, he walks with purpose, sharply, like he’s designed to be imperfect. The hood pulled up over his head casts shadows over his perfect cheekbones. “This one is a new addition,” says Metal Knight, “He still has some glitches we need to work out.”
“That’s fine,” mumbles Saitama, frowning at the android approaching.
“Genos,” says Metal Knight as the young man comes to a stop beside them, “These are police officers, and I have offered them a free dance. How about you show them a good time?”
Suddenly, a deep flash of something in the android’s face, a movement in his mouth and brow like a sneer. It’s momentary, just a passing expression, but it sticks in Saitama’s mind. What kind of android makes a face like that when told to do its duty?
He stares at Genos, but his face is smooth now, the typical vacant look somewhere just shy of a smile that most of the androids here have. “For whom will I be dancing this evening?” he asks, sounding kind of annoyed, narrow eyes surveying the three of them, and both Fubuki and King immediately point to Saitama, who is sitting between them.
Genos takes the couple of steps necessary to reach their table, leaning forward onto his palms, arms straight, ass in the air. “Would you care to push back your chair, Officer?”
He’s not that close, still at least two feet of space between their faces, but Saitama is struck by his gaze. The dark eyes, so intense, so unusual even for an android, shiny like oil slicks in a pale face. The gold irises glow slightly in the dim light, reflecting yellow light onto his cheekbones. Saitama opens his mouth and slowly closes it again, words not forthcoming.
“Would you prefer the private room?” Genos asks, eyebrows going up, his mouth splitting into the smallest of smiles like he’s laughing at Saitama, his unnaturally white teeth gleaming in the light.
“Yes he would,” says Fubuki, and pats him on the shoulder.
“I don’t need a lap dance,” he says but he’s being pushed.
“If you don’t care, then just shut up and go get the free dance,” Badd is yelling from the other table, so Saitama rolls his eyes and stands. Genos straightens back up. He’s an inch taller than Saitama, all long and lean lines, his body half covered by the dark material of his one piece suit. It’s black, shorts so short they can hardly be considered much more than underwear, the front of the shirt an open swath down his torso. It’s sleeveless, and probably necessarily so, because his shoulders are bigger than a human’s would be.
Feeling rather odd, Saitama walks to the private area behind Genos, who isn’t making much effort to guide him, rather a cold fish as far as strippers go. He barely acknowledges him as he waves him into the private booth, a small area which is dimly lit in a kind of red light, probably for so-called ‘ambiance’.
Saitama settles into the chair, a little wary of what might be on the material of said seat, and watches as Genos swings his arms back and forth, turning his torso as though stretching, “One song,” he says, rolling his neck. It shouldn’t be sexy, but the motion sends other small motors in his chest and stomach whirring, a chain reaction all the way down his neck and torso.
“Can I touch?” asks Saitama and Genos makes a face.
“I suppose so,” he says as though he has to, and Saitama leans back in the chair with a big breath huffed out through his nose. What is up with this android? Maybe he’s programmed with attitude just to make a change from the vapid robots parading around outside? It’s refreshing, certainly.
The song begins and Genos begins to sway to the music, stiff and robotic stance suddenly becoming fluid, his synthetic muscles sliding beneath thin black material, light glowing from between the cracks in his outer layer, faint golden lights sliding along his arms and legs and chest, moving and dancing around him. It’s mesmerizing, like a light show.
Saitama spreads his knees as Genos steps forward into his space, rolling his head, his neck, shoulders, stomach back in turn and then forward, undulating in a way that makes Saitama sit up, reach out. The tips of his fingers brush along the front of Genos’ belly, meeting the soft coating that hides what must be a plethora of wires beneath.
Holy shit, he thinks, as the light pools brighter beneath his touch. Is Genos touch activated? Metal hands press against Saitama’s knees and slide up his thighs as Genos leans lower, beautiful face scant inches from his own. Had he thought the gaze intense before? Surely not.
He swallows, looks back down at his own hands as Genos moves, as they brush up along the outside of Genos’ thighs as if of their own accord, the brightest light following his touch. Saitama pushes the material of his shorts up just a little, his fingers brushing the curve of Genos’ ass. As if annoyed, the android turns then, his back facing Sai, his ass half an inch away from his crotch.
The hood drops from his head, revealing the rest of his blonde hair, the pale strands soaking up the red light of the private room, long enough to softly brush the nape of his neck. He wants to touch it, wants to run fingers through Genos’ hair but that’s a step too far and he knows it.
And it’s then that Saitama realizes something. On every previous occasion he’s gone out with his colleagues for these inappropriate bonding-experiences, he’s had never had to worry about this moment. He’d known that the girl or guy could grind down all the way and find nothing offensive there, but this time…well…his cock is a little more interested. He shifts awkwardly, watches as Genos’ shirt begins to droop across his back, sliding down off his shoulders and down his arms.
His back is a masterpiece, intricate pieces of metal and plastic and silicone weaving together into what looks like a spine, into shoulder-blades and ridges of his back that look just like real muscle.
Fuck, this android must have been expensive. He’s head and shoulders above the rest.
Why is he acting so weirdly when he must be such a prize? It doesn’t make sense to have such an expensive model with a niche attitude. Saitama runs his fingers up along either side of Genos’ spine, watches as it lights up. As if in revenge, Genos chooses that moment to press back against him, his ass grinding into Saitama’s crotch in a way that nearly makes him go cross-eyed. He looks up. Genos is looking down over his shoulder at him, just a hint of the golden rings visible against their dark background.
Shudders go all the way down his spine and he can feel practically his entire body breaking into gooseflesh. Too much.
“Song’s over,” gasps Saitama, lightly pushing at Genos until he takes a step away.
“It’s been three songs, actually,” says Genos, sounding smug as he pulls the top part of his clothing back up onto his shoulders, pushing the hood up over his face. The shadows it casts adds to his allure, Saitama thinks, luminous gold eyes peeking out of darkness.
“So does that mean I owe you money or something? Since we went past one song?” asks
Saitama, getting out of the chair and, as casually as he can, readjusting his pants. He’s annoyed if so.
Genos shrugs, “Perhaps you can tip me. By no means required.”
Tip…him? What would an android want with money? Nevertheless, feeling a little light headed, he pulls out his wallet, peers into it. There’s only one bill in there, and sheepishly he hands it over, aware that this is probably chump change compared to what you’re supposed to spend on a stripper. Still, Genos doesn’t seem bothered, looking carefully at the note as if trying to spot whether it’s counterfeit, before pushing it into a compartment he slides open just a little in his forearm. It looks like a secret, like it’s not meant to be there, a hunch that Genos confirms when he speaks.
“Thank you,” he says, and gestures to the exit, saying, “If you speak to my employer again, I would ask that you please do not mention that you gave me money.”
“Why?”
“He prefers that we do not accept tips,” says Genos, and the two of them exit into the main room. It seems very loud in here now, deafening compared to the space beyond the curtain.
“It was nice to meet you, Genos,” says Saitama as they approach his table, from which a curious Fubuki and King are staring directly at them, “Thank you, I guess…for the dance.”
“No problem, officer, come back any time,” says Genos, and walks on by their table, heading over to where a drunken couple has begun waving at him. Saitama realises he’d never told him his name, and his stomach suddenly feels heavy as he sinks back into his chair.
“Well?” asks Fubuki, sly smile on her face, “You were gone a while. How was it?”
Amazing? A little alarming? “Fine,” he settles on, “I don’t know why you drag me to these places.”
Genos is leaning on one hip as he speaks to the couple, his back to Saitama. Something is odd about him. He’s got his hooks into Saitama, raised a curiosity that Saitama knows he can’t quench until he finds out what makes Genos different. He’s going to be back. Preferably without the entourage next time.