The air in Z-City still tasted of ozone and pulverized concrete. A deep, lingering hum of expended energy hung over the cratered streets, a testament to the cataclysmic battle that had just concluded. For Tatsumaki, the Tornado of Terror, it was the taste of victory, but also of profound exhaustion. Her psychic reserves were scraped raw, her lithe body ached with a weariness that went bone-deep, and her signature black dress was torn and grimed with dust. She floated a few inches off the rubble-strewn ground, arms crossed, glaring at the man who stood beside her as if he’d just finished a light jog.

Saitama. The name was a flat, uninteresting sound, much like the man himself. Bald, with a vacant expression that perpetually hovered between boredom and mild confusion. He was an infuriating enigma, a walking contradiction who possessed power that dwarfed her own—a concept her prideful mind still struggled to accept. He’d finished the Dragon-level threat with a single, anticlimactic punch, as always, leaving her to feel like an elaborate opening act for a show that was over in five seconds.

“You’re swaying,” Saitama observed, his voice as monotone as ever. He scratched his cheek, his gaze distant. “You should probably not fall over.”

“I am not swaying,” she snapped, her voice sharper than it needed to be. A wave of dizziness immediately proved him right, and she wobbled in the air, her green aura flickering weakly. Annoyance warred with the undeniable fatigue poisoning her system. “I’m perfectly fine. Don’t patronize me, baldy.”

Saitama just blinked. He didn’t react to her insults, which was, in its own way, the most infuriating thing about him. He didn’t fear her, he didn’t revere her, he didn’t even seem to register the sheer force of will she projected. To him, she was just… some person. “Okay. But my apartment is closer than Hero HQ. You can crash there until you stop looking like a ghost. There’s a sale on king crab tomorrow and I don’t want to miss it because you passed out in an alley and I had to fill out paperwork.”

The sheer, unadulterated selfishness of his reasoning was almost impressive. Before she could formulate a scathing retort, he moved. In a blink, he was behind her, one arm hooking under her knees, the other supporting her back. He lifted her as effortlessly as if she were a doll. A startled yelp escaped her lips, a sound of utter shock. No one touched her. No one dared. Her psychic barrier, usually an impenetrable wall of force, was too weak to even muster a protest.

“Put me down!” she hissed, her face heating with a humiliating blush. She was the mighty Tornado of Terror, and here she was, being carried like a damsel by this caped egg. But his arms were surprisingly solid, a cradle of unyielding strength that felt… safe. It was a disgusting, traitorous thought, and she immediately tried to crush it.

“It’s faster this way,” Saitama said, completely missing the point of her outrage. He took a single, powerful leap, and the ruined city became a blur beneath them. The wind whipped her green hair across his chest, and against her will, she found herself clutching the yellow fabric of his hero suit. She could feel the ridiculous hardness of his pectoral muscles beneath the thin material, a solid wall of power that seemed to hum with latent energy. The sensation sent a strange, unfamiliar shiver through her.

His apartment was exactly as pathetic as she’d imagined. A single room, a small kitchenette, a television on the floor, and a neatly rolled-up futon in the corner. It was depressingly… normal. The sheer mundanity of it all was a stark contrast to the godlike power its owner possessed. Saitama placed her down on the tatami mat with a gentleness that seemed entirely out of character. He didn’t drop her or toss her aside; he lowered her carefully, ensuring she was steady before he let go.

“Bathroom’s over there,” he said, pointing a thumb over his shoulder. “I don’t have any fancy soaps or whatever. Or a hair dryer. Or… well, anything fancy.” He shrugged. “I’ll make some tea.”

Tatsumaki watched him go, a storm of conflicting emotions churning inside her. She should leave. She should float right out the window and go back to her luxurious penthouse. But her body felt like lead, and the thought of exerting even that much psychic energy was daunting. Besides, a strange curiosity held her rooted to the spot. She wanted to understand this man. This impossible, baffling man named Saitama.

When he returned, he carried two plain mugs. He handed one to her, and she took it, her small fingers brushing against his. His hand was large and calloused, a working man’s hand, yet the contact sent another jolt through her, a spark of warmth that spread up her arm. She pulled her hand back as if burned.

They sat in silence for a while, sipping the hot green tea. The quiet wasn’t awkward, not really. It was just… calm. Saitama wasn’t trying to impress her or get anything from her. He was just existing in his own space, and for the moment, he was letting her exist in it too. It was a new experience. Everyone else in her life either wanted something from her power or cowered before it.

“Why?” she asked finally, her voice softer now, stripped of its usual abrasive edge.

Saitama looked up from his mug, his brown eyes holding a flicker of something other than boredom. It might have been genuine curiosity. “Why what?”

“Why did you help me? You don’t have to. I’m not your responsibility.” She hated the vulnerability in her own voice, the crack in her carefully constructed armor.

He considered this for a long moment, a serious expression gracing his features. Tatsumaki held her breath, anticipating some profound, heroic answer. “Well,” he began, his face deadpan. “I mean, we’re both S-Class heroes, right? It’s kind of like being coworkers. If you see a coworker about to face-plant on the pavement, you give them a hand. It’s just… you know. A thing people do.”

It was the most mundane, most normal, most utterly un-heroic answer possible. And for some reason, it made the corner of her mouth twitch into a reluctant smile. It was the simple, human decency of it. He hadn’t helped her because she was the number two hero or because he wanted to show off. He’d helped her because she looked like she needed it. The realization settled deep within her, a warm stone in the pit of her stomach.

She noticed a long, shallow gash on his arm, sluggishly weeping blood, a wound he’d sustained shielding a group of civilians during the battle. He didn’t even seem to have noticed it. “You’re hurt,” she stated, pointing with her chin.

Saitama glanced down at his arm. “Oh. Huh. So I am.” He looked at it with the same mild interest he might afford a stain on his suit.

Before she knew what she was doing, Tatsumaki stood up, her aches momentarily forgotten. She walked over to him and knelt down. “Stay still, you idiot.” She gently took his arm, her small hands feeling tiny and delicate against his corded forearm. She focused the last dregs of her psychic energy, not as a weapon, but as a tool. A soft green glow enveloped the wound. It wasn't a healing power, but she could use her telekinesis on a microscopic level, knitting the torn flesh back together, closing the gash with painstaking precision.

Saitama watched, his eyes wide with genuine surprise. He didn’t pull away. He let her work, his arm resting trustingly in her hands. The silence in the room thickened, charged with a new kind of energy. It wasn’t the crackle of combat, but a slow, simmering heat. She could feel his pulse under her fingertips, a steady, powerful rhythm. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. It was the heartbeat of the strongest man on Earth, and it was so incredibly, reassuringly alive.

When she was finished, not even a scar remained. She let go of his arm, but her hands lingered in the air for a moment before she could stop them. Her gaze drifted up from his arm to his face. Up close, his features weren’t as plain as she’d thought. There was a simple, clean strength to the line of his jaw, a quiet depth in his eyes that she’d always mistaken for emptiness. It wasn’t emptiness; it was stillness. The stillness of an ocean that ran deeper than anyone could possibly imagine.

“Thanks,” Saitama said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her. He flexed his hand, looking at his now-perfect skin. “That’s a neat trick.”

“It’s not a trick,” she murmured, her throat suddenly dry. She was still kneeling before him, the position feeling both submissive and strangely powerful. Her eyes met his, and the world seemed to narrow to the few inches of space between them. The bored, vacant look was gone from his expression. In its place was something focused. Something intense. He was truly looking at her, perhaps for the first time.

Slowly, as if afraid of scaring away a wild animal, Saitama raised his hand. He hesitated for a fraction of a second before his fingers gently brushed a stray strand of green hair from her face. His touch was feather-light, a shocking contrast to the world-shattering power she knew he possessed. The calloused pad of his thumb ghosted over her cheekbone, and her breath hitched in her chest. A wildfire ignited in her veins, a scorching heat that had nothing to do with her powers and everything to do with the man in front of her.

“Saitama…” she whispered, his name a soft, questioning sound on her lips. It was the first time she had ever said it without a trace of scorn.

He didn’t reply with words. He leaned in, his movements deliberate and unhurried. He gave her every opportunity to pull away, to erect a psychic barrier, to shove him across the room. She did none of those things. Instead, she leaned into his touch, her eyes fluttering shut as his lips met hers.

The kiss was not what she expected. It wasn’t rough or demanding. It was gentle, searching, and devastatingly tender. It was a question, an exploration. His lips were soft, warm, and they moved against hers with a patient curiosity. All the tension, all the pride and defiance, melted out of her in an instant. She responded with a fervor that surprised them both, her hands coming up to grip the collar of his hero suit, pulling him closer. She deepened the kiss, her tongue darting out to meet his, a desperate, hungry gesture. She poured all her pent-up frustration, her loneliness, and the terrifying, burgeoning fascination she felt for him into that single, soul-searing kiss.

Saitama made a soft sound in the back of his throat, a noise of surprise and dawning realization. His hand moved from her cheek to the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her messy green curls. His other arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against his torso. He lifted her effortlessly from her kneeling position onto his lap. She straddled him, her small frame feeling perfectly fitted against his larger, more powerful one. The kiss broke, and they were both breathing heavily, their faces inches apart.

“Tatsumaki,” he breathed, and the way he said her name, a low, intimate murmur, sent shivers down her spine. His eyes were dark with an emotion she’d never seen in them before: raw, undisguised desire. It was overwhelming, and it was aimed entirely at her.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered, the command coming out as a desperate plea. She didn’t want to think. She didn’t want to analyze the sheer insanity of what was happening. She just wanted to feel. She wanted to feel more of the overwhelming sense of safety and scorching want that only Saitama seemed capable of invoking in her.

His lips found hers again, more demanding this time. His tongue swept into her mouth, tasting of green tea and something uniquely him. She met his every thrust with her own, a frantic, passionate dance. Her hands roamed over his chest, his shoulders, marveling at the sheer density of muscle beneath the thin spandex. He was a monument of contained power, and right now, all of that power was focused on her. His hands slid from her waist down to her hips, his large palms fitting perfectly over the curve of her bottom, squeezing gently. A gasp escaped her lips, muffled against his mouth.

With painstaking slowness, as if unwrapping a precious gift, Saitama’s hands moved to the zipper at the back of her torn dress. He pulled it down, the sound deafeningly loud in the quiet apartment. He peeled the ruined fabric off her shoulders, his gaze following the line of her pale skin as it was revealed. He broke the kiss to look at her, his eyes full of a reverence that stole her breath. She wore nothing underneath, a practical choice for battles where clothing was often disintegrated anyway, but now it made her feel utterly exposed, completely vulnerable under his intense gaze.

“You’re…” Saitama started, then seemed to struggle for the right word. “…beautiful.”

The simple, honest compliment struck her harder than any physical blow ever could. No one had ever called her that. They called her powerful, terrifying, a monster. But never beautiful. A hot blush stained her cheeks, and she averted her eyes, a rare moment of shyness overtaking her. Saitama tilted her chin up with his finger, forcing her to meet his gaze. He leaned in and placed a soft, chaste kiss on her forehead, then her nose, then each cheek, before finally returning to her lips.

His hands began their exploration, tracing the delicate line of her collarbones, sweeping down her sides, learning the shape of her. His touch was never rough, always achingly gentle. He treated her like she was made of fine porcelain, not the indomitable esper who could level cities. This gentle reverence was more intoxicating than any display of raw passion could ever be. It made her feel cherished. It made her feel seen.

She arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping her lips as his thumb brushed over the peak of her breast. The sensation was electric, a lightning strike that made her entire body clench with need. She writhed on his lap, the friction of her bare skin against his hero suit sending waves of pleasure through her. “Saitama, please…” she begged, not even sure what she was asking for, only knowing that she needed more.

He seemed to understand. With one smooth, powerful motion, he stood up, lifting her with him as if she weighed nothing. He carried her the few feet to his futon and laid her down on the soft bedding. He loomed over her, a silhouette against the dim light of the apartment, and began to strip off his own hero suit. The yellow spandex came off, followed by the white cape, until he stood before her in only his briefs. Her eyes widened. She had seen his strength, but she had never truly seen him. His body was a masterpiece of lean, functional muscle. Not the bulky, showy physique of other heroes, but a perfectly proportioned form where every single fiber was honed to an impossible degree of power. His chest was broad, his stomach flat and hard, and his arms and legs were corded with strength.

He joined her on the futon, his weight making the mattress dip. He stretched out beside her, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at her. He resumed his tender exploration, his hand sliding down her flat stomach, his fingers dipping into the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. She shivered, her legs parting for him instinctively. His gaze never left hers, watching her reactions, learning what made her gasp and what made her moan.

“Tell me if I hurt you,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ll stop.”

The earnest concern in his voice nearly broke her. She shook her head, her green hair fanning out on the pillow. “You won’t,” she said with absolute certainty. “Just… don’t stop.”

His fingers delved into her wet heat, and a sharp cry of pleasure escaped her lips. She was slick and ready for him, her body betraying the depth of a desire she had never known she possessed. He explored her with a slow, deliberate rhythm, his touch both tender and firm. She felt her psychic aura begin to leak from her, a faint green glow shimmering around her body, pulsing in time with her frantic heartbeat. It was a complete loss of control, something that hadn't happened since she was a child, but she found she didn't care. With Saitama, she didn't need control.

He removed his final piece of clothing, revealing his thick, hard length. He was as impressive as the rest of him, a potent symbol of the power he held. He positioned himself between her legs, his powerful thighs bracketing her hips. He leaned down and captured her lips in another deep kiss as he entered her. He moved slowly, filling her inch by agonizing inch. She was tight, and the feeling of him stretching her, filling that deep, aching void within her, was an exquisite pleasure that bordered on pain. She gasped into his mouth, her fingers digging into the hard muscles of his shoulders.

Once he was fully seated inside her, he stilled, letting her body adjust to his size. He rested his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling. “Okay?” he murmured against her lips.

She could only nod, her mind a whirlwind of sensation. He felt… perfect. He felt like he was made for her. When he began to move, it was with that same incredible, restrained power. His thrusts were long, slow, and deep, each one designed to draw the maximum amount of pleasure from her body. He moved with a steady, unhurried rhythm that slowly and surely built a fire within her. The quiet, bored man was gone, replaced by a focused, attentive lover who seemed dedicated to her pleasure.

Tatsumaki wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper still. Her usual abrasive demeanor was completely gone, replaced by a raw, needy desperation. She met his every thrust with an upward tilt of her hips, chasing the feeling, chasing him. The green glow around her intensified, objects in the room beginning to rattle and float an inch off the floor—the tea mugs, a stack of manga, the remote control. Saitama didn’t seem to notice or care, his attention solely on the woman in his arms.

“Saitama!” she cried out, her voice ragged as the pleasure built into an unbearable crescendo. Her control shattered completely. The pressure inside her was coiling tighter and tighter, a psychic storm mirroring the physical one he was creating within her. He quickened his pace, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, driving her toward the edge. His expression was one of intense concentration, his eyes dark and focused on her face.

With one final, deep thrust, her world exploded. Her climax was a violent, psychic detonation. The lights in the apartment flickered and burst, and every loose object in the room was thrown against the walls with a resounding crash. A wave of pure ecstasy washed over her, so powerful it felt like her very soul was being ripped from her body. She screamed his name, a raw, primal sound of utter release, her body convulsing around him.

Her powerful release triggered his own. With a low groan that rumbled through her entire body, Saitama emptied himself deep within her, his hot seed flooding her womb. He collapsed on top of her, his heavy, muscular body a comforting weight. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his breathing harsh and ragged in her ear.

They lay there for a long time, tangled together in the wreckage of her climax, the only sounds in the darkened apartment their ragged breaths. The faint green glow around her slowly faded as her equilibrium returned. She ran a trembling hand through his short, bristly hair on the back of his head. He felt so real, so solid beneath her.

Finally, he shifted his weight off her, rolling onto his side but pulling her with him, so her back was pressed against his chest. He draped a heavy arm over her waist, his hand resting possessively on her stomach. He was still inside her, a warm, intimate connection that made her feel cherished and safe.

“Sorry about your stuff,” she mumbled into the darkness, a hint of her old self returning, though it was softened by a deep, languid contentment.

She felt him chuckle, the vibration rumbling through her back. “It’s fine,” Saitama said, his voice sleepy and warm. “It was just stuff.” He nuzzled his face into her hair, inhaling her scent. “Are you okay?”

“I’m better than okay,” she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. She felt more than okay. She felt whole. The gnawing loneliness that had been her constant companion for as long as she could remember was gone, replaced by the comforting warmth of the man holding her. The strongest hero, the Tornado of Terror, felt small and protected in the arms of Saitama, the hero for fun.

And in the quiet darkness of his simple, one-room apartment, surrounded by the evidence of her unleashed passion, Tatsumaki knew, with a certainty that shook her to her core, that she never wanted him to let her go.