Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/ works/5813683. Rating: Explicit Archive Warning: Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage Category: M/M Fandom: ワンパンマン_|_One-Punch_Man Relationship: Others/Genos_(One-Punch_Man), Pre_Genos/Saitama_(One-Punch_Man), Genos/ Saitama_(One-Punch_Man) Character: Genos_(One-Punch_Man), Pow_the_Son_(??), Saitama_(One-Punch_Man), Bofoy_ (One-Punch_Man), Other(s), Mini_Genos_Bots_(One-Punch_Man) Additional Tags: Body_Modification, Rape/Non-con_Elements, Non-Graphic_Rape/Non-Con, Non- Consensual_Body_Modification, Underage_Rape/Non-con, Blood_and_Gore, Child_Death, Color_Blindness, Isolation, Violence, Psychological_Torture, Miscarriage, Gang_Rape, Mpreg, Post_Mpreg, Human_Experimentation, Forced Pregnancy, Human_Genos, Human_Pow, Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence Stats: Published: 2016-01-25 Words: 5315 ****** Rapunzel ****** by OldeShoestrings Summary It's not Kuseno who finds Genos after the berserk cyborg's massacred his hometown. It's Bofoy. Instead of being turned into a cyborg, Genos' body is tempered with and he's used as a broodmare. Notes Not a native English speaker and this isn't beta (ㆆ_ㆆ) -- It’s his fifteenth birthday that day but Genos does not feel well enough to celebrate it. It’s not that he feels sick but there’s taut in his chest, something heavy and ominous and he can’t tell what it is. His parents insist with a simple celebration and Genos only succumbs to their wish when his parents mention, or a minor slip in between their murmur, about a puppy for his gift. Genos agrees only because he’s wanted a puppy for a while now. They do not invite anyone. Just Genos and his parents and the tiny golden retriever in his laps. It whines, tucking itself in his hold and licking at Genos’ hand and Genos knows he cares for the puppy more than he cares about himself. Genos sleeps that night with the puppy next to him, his hand on the golden retriever’s small paw and he dreams of the time where he’ll get to return his parents' kindness. Genos falls asleep with an easy smile on his lips. This will be the last time he ever gets to sleep like this. -- The next time Genos is awake, the world in on fire and the scent of death is everywhere. His puppy whimpers pathetically as it burns alive. -- He’s not dead, he thinks. He can’t really tell anymore but he feels the rhythm of his chest, the slow movement of his fingers and the weak gasp from his throat. Genos looks to his right and he sees his mother, her face is burned and she’s missing half of her body and Genos knows it’s her due to the golden necklace, a heirloom, around her neck. Somehow the silly object is undamaged. Her blood colors the wall, the floor, and even Genos’ hand when he silently reaches out to hold her cold fingers. Behind her, Genos spots his father with his insides strewn apart. There’s a hole in his chest and whatever remains of his heart is melting inside out from the wound. There’s blood. Blood, flesh, blood and more flesh everywhere and all Genos can think of is ‘Did he die quickly? Please let his death be painless at least’. Genos does not think his parents die a quick death. He pretends anyway. -- Genos pulls himself from the depths, and now he’s crying and whimpering and he hurts more than before. He clenches his mother’s hand and he begs her to help him. All he receives is silence. Somehow, hours later the mad cyborg is still there, keeping most unfortunate souls alive long enough for it to torture them while burning the town down in a placating pace. He wonders who is being skinned alive right now and hates how he’s too damaged, too broken, to do anything. Genos falls into the dark again. -- Genos’ awareness returns to him but he does not open his eyes. He thinks he might be dead this time. It’s too quiet and too cold and if this is death then perhaps he should have died sooner. It’s calming than he’s anticipated. There are voices and his eyelids are heavy but he wants to say something, to scream, and to pull away but these touches are cruel and painful. They are all over his skin, studying him, grazing him, and marking him. Stop stop stop stop stop-- Genos coughs; something moist dripping from his mouth and it tastes metallic. Whatever remains of his strength is used to lift his hand and stretching his fingers in the dark, hoping maybe, at least praying someone is out there to stop the pain and please, don’t hurt me anymore. Abrupt shouts come, deafening and roaring in the air, swallowing the sound of fire crackling and Genos’ feeble wheeze. This isn’t right! The boy is still alive we can’t just- stop! He’s still alive! This isn't right this isn't right this isn’t right! He’s made contact with the berserk cyborg and he lives. Whatever the cyborg carries with it, this boy might contract it too. This is the only way. If your conscience is firmer than your goal, then you should leave. Please, Bofoy. Look at him, he’s just a boy. He is perfect and currently, he’s ours. Genos is crying now. The touches come back and they’re more brutal than before, he’s sobbing, begging pathetically. Everything is pointless and there’s hand on his nose and his mouth when he feels a small sting in his neck. Genos shrieks, a final battle, tears spilling from the corner of his eyes and then he’s drowning. It’s dark again. -- How many survivors are listed from the massacre? According to the public; none. Keep it that way. -- Genos wakes up with a scream. It’s white and cold and he cannot move. Genos can’t blink his eyes open of his own accord, instead, it feels as if they’re being forced open like a switch and now he’s seeing people in white everywhere. He tries to break away, putting efforts into his movement but the straps are around his hands, his wrists, his chest, his stomach, and his thighs---all over the place. He’s utterly bare without a string on his skin and even without the wounds now, everything still hurts. “S-s-s-st--oopp…” Genos whispers. Eyes are on him now. The men in white cease scribbling on their notes when one of them walks leisurely towards him, fingers on his wrist, checking, making sure and then he’s looking at Genos and the man is not seeing a human child. Genos is terrified. Prepare him. Yes, sir. No please, I’m- Genos feels the sudden shock wave in his skin; it’s cold and burning at the same time, broiling his innards, nerves, and blood. Genos is screaming, fingers puncturing into his palms as his skin turns to blood red. Above him, he sees sets of needles hovering near his face, on his head. Genos doesn’t get a chance to plead when the needles rupture into his eyeballs and the frontal lobe of his brain. -- Genos wakes up with a scream. There’s no pain and for once, he is thankful but Genos is so very tired. He cannot feel anything but he hears it so vibrantly; the sound of his heart beating weakly and it’s like a soundless scream to his ears. He’s alive. He hopes they kill him. What are you doing this to me? When the men in white return, they aren’t so kind to him when they cut him open and if Genos bends his head a little, he can see the aperture in his midsection as they remove his vital entrails, and like a canvas, he’s being painted with red and recreated like a puppet. You see? He carries the toxin! The results may differ. It depends on the individual and we do not know what it’s entailed for this young one. As long as he functions and provides, it doesn’t matter what he can do. Very well. Let’s see if we can-- An old man brushes Genos’ hair, almost too lovingly, cooing at him as if he’s the most precious thing, an unpolished gem in the sea of stones. The man pulls down a small apparatus from one of the machinery. Each of its corners is implemented with barbed pincers and when the man hooks them on Genos’ mouth, gauging his lips open; Genos assumes he’s endured the worst - until an amber glow materializes from its center and burns his throat. Genos retches blood and he chokes on the red nectar when he screams. -- What does that mean? I have my speculations but for now, we need to further our examination. Hasn’t the boy had enough? It’s only been eight months. Surely he can endure more. -- Genos wakes up with a scream and he thinks he’s going to do this for a long, long while. He’s blind and voiceless and his world is a mess, dirty and disorderly but he feels the electrical sparks in his vertebral column, short-circuiting, echoing, and running down into the curve of his stomach. Genos hears a low hiss, smells his skin blistering and he’s a bit impressed how he manages to bite down the shriek. This time. You’re giving him an artificial womb. No, look here. The toxin has already changed him. I’m not giving him an artificial womb; I’m only altering what’s already there. Will he be functional? Oh, he will. Otherwise, the whole ordeal might not bode well for him. You hear that, Genos? One day, you’re going to be a mother. What-- there’s an instantaneous pain. Genos contorts on where he’s lying and he’s biting at his lower lips until he draws blood and then he’s screaming and he can taste the copper on his tongue. Genos thrashes, teeth chattering while hands are on him, sealing him in place as he twitches, outbursts, until finally something within him, somewhere deep in his stomach snaps and Genos throws up to his side. His senses are misfiring. What’s the outcome? He’s bleeding from his genitalia. It’s to be expected. Shall we continue? If we must. They release him. The pain continues. -- It’s the first time he wakes up without screaming. His wounds are healed. The scars stay, jagged and ugly all over his skin, and there’s nothing soft or pale, nothing human and fair about him anymore. But no pain? This scares Genos more than the actual tortures. He looks around him, a small room, no doors or barred windows. Just four white walls standing tall, sturdy like watchful eyes and Genos feels exposed. This isn’t because he’s still naked. Genos removes himself from the single bed, huddling himself protectively in the corner like an abused kitten, wary and scared as he resumes to study his surroundings. Is this a new form of maltreatment? To isolate him from everything until his mind breaks down from the solitary and confinement? How long has he been here? When can he go home? Where are his parents? Why aren’t they coming for him? Genos squints, cold and shivering, as he tries to look closer at whenever his eyes can fall upon, drinking at the sight even though all he can see is a bed, a small drawer with books align perfectly on the shelves, a sink, and a porcelain toilet. All of them are white, even the books and it worries the youth. He stands up on trembling legs, a second or two when he finally falls from the pressure of his weight. Genos breathes, he refuses to give in. So he crawls towards the books, nails scraping on the floor till they break from the force and yet Genos doesn’t stop. When he reaches the drawer, he pulls one of the books and opens it; the images and words are white. Visible to him but the pale hue is printed into his eyes. Genos throws the book and grabs for another one, opens it, reads it and traces the images. White. Everything's white. Genos pulls at his hair. It’s long enough, extending to his hips, spreading all over his back like a midnight waterfall. Genos stares at the strands and swallows. White. His hair is white too. It takes him minutes to calm down, another hour to realize that it’s not because his surroundings are marred in a colorless shade. It’s his vision. He’s suffering from severe color blindness now. -- The men in white put a collar around his neck. A device to assure he won’t harm himself and commit something foolish because he’s undeniably the utmost precious subject in the facility. Right now, Genos can’t walk, let alone stay awake for more than four hours and as much as he refuses to admit it; he’s incapable of doing anything. Not in his condition. He’s just a human. Genos outlines the scars on his frame. He traces the wounds with curious fingers and the phantom pain is on his skin, scorching and cutting him whole. Genos remembers and this is something he can’t forget. -- After the fear comes the anger and Genos has never been a patient soul. Too long he's been in the room - how long, is matters not to him - without anyone or anything. Repetitive routine every day (wake up read huddle sleep) and mayhap the only consolation is that he's not consumed by hunger. There's no sting in his stomach anymore. Still, he realizes he's too thin, bones and skin and hair with alarmingly swift growth rate. The white (golden) locks spread on the floor, on the bed, everywhere and Genos braids his hair whenever he can, combing it with his fingers almost attentively. Sometimes Genos has to step on his hair when he crawls. It hurts and he just wants to go home. Why is no one coming for him? Genos adds a new deed into his daily routine. He pulls harshly at his hair until he feels the pain from his scalp and the white (golden) strands twist in his fingers. There's no blood at least and the collar does not beep to electrify him, searing his neurons and paralyzing his limbs. Genos smiles and it’s not fake. -- “Genos, we’d like to wish you a happy sixteenth birthday. You’ve been quite a phenomenal test subject for us and as a token of appreciation from all parties; we have prepared something for you. We hope you enjoy the gift.” -- The hands go around his back, his windpipe and his legs. The hands smother and touch, pulling his hair and Genos doesn't make a sound. There are whispers, wondering, lulling and chuckling and his vision is foggy. A tainted smoke, a charade, and Genos knows he's not dreaming. He stops dreaming for a while now so he knows the pain is authentic. He's a pretty one. Spread his legs wider-- Please be gentle with him, gentlemen. He's far more valuable than all the jewels in this world. The hands push Genos' face to the floor, his wrists strain behind his back and he takes a breath, or two before Genos feels the quick bites, demanding and hard. Genos feels and he forever remembers when they spread him wide and fill him whole, outside him, inside him, moving mercilessly in his bleeding hole and they're sighing into his ear. Maybe he whimpers, maybe he moans and maybe he begs. Genos can't tell. So many voices and fingers. "S-stop. Please... it hurts..." They adore him as he limps in their arms, taking turns, and one by one, almost considerate. They're not giving Genos a moment of respite. How is he supposed to fight back? He's sixteen. Supposedly, today is his birthday and he's too young to be dealing with this. He just wants to go home. He just wants to go home, please. -- Your child didn't make it, they inform, impassive. Genos is still in his trance when they show him the remnants of his daughter. She's in encased in clean cloth, so tiny and pale and she's beautiful. Even in her death. Genos tries to reach out to her, to touch and to feel but they pull her away and he doesn't see her body ever again. He imagines how he'd have loved and nurtured her. How he'd have protected and let her call him papa, or mama, whatever is fine as long as she's happy. And as he closes his eyes, Genos imagines just as that. -- The men in white send more people after that; they mark him, fill him and breed him. His pregnancy only takes a week to flourish instead of the usual nine months. What an oddity, a freak of nature he has become. Genos stays silent and he stares at the wall, ignoring the men grunting, laughing above him. His hair is getting too long. -- His second child is a girl too. She's dead before they manage to pull her out from his womb. And as before, Genos reaches out but they don't even permit him to look at her. He wonders what her face looks like. She must have been beautiful like her grandmother. -- They rut inside him, spilling their seeds and kissing him and treating him like a foul object. They flip him over and over; forcing their girths into his mouth, making him suck and swallow. After a while, Genos has adapted to this and now all he wants is to hold his children, even the carcass of the dead ones. He has nothing else. Why not grant him this? -- His third child is a boy. He's dead in his womb, without a chance to inhale the air even for a second. Genos attempts to be quick, launching himself at the body and mindless of his deteriorating state, but the collar beeps and he screams. Genos remembers stretching his hand towards his son as they take him away. -- Genos cries and it's not because he's being fucked without his consent. He cries because he knows after breeding comes pregnancy and after pregnancy comes death. He won't get to touch this one too. -- The pain persists, gut-wrenching like canines tearing at his insides. Genos shakily uses the sink to stable his equilibrium, fingers tightening on the ceramic surface as one hand goes on his abdomen. It trickles like a hushed whisper, quiet and sudden but Genos feels it anyway; the drop of red from his groin, a dribble and then more and more. His thighs are tainted in crimson. Genos whimpers. He looks at the walls and he pleads for someone, anything, but it's silence that accompanies him until the ground beneath him is wet with blood. This is the first time it happens. It won't be the last. "Please. Please, stop this..." -- His forty-second and forty-third children are twins. They cry. Cough for seconds and then they die. It's the happiest Genos has ever felt. His children live even for a moment. Genos sobs, later on, pulling at his long white (golden) hair. It's like fire carpeting the floor. -- This is pointless. What must be done? That man--- what about his seed? His blood? Is he not the strongest hero alive? He is not a fool. Yes, but he's kind. Take advantage of that but tells him nothing. I'll find a way to obtain his seed and use it to inseminate the boy. What’s the hero’s name? It’s Sait- -- Genos wakes up with a scream and he considers; how long has it been since the last time he did that? His stomach isn't swelling with life and the men in white are there, strapping him on a familiar bed, with all-too-familiar equipment and Genos is scared again. What's going on what are you doing now don't touch me-- One of them cut through his abdomen, careful with the waves of his arms to prevent damage to his middle and the rumble of shrieks permeates in the room. Genos gurgles on his own blood. Limbs spasm as he violently convulses and he thinks he's cursing too, anger pulsing like a current in his veins because he's more tired if not anything else. Put it in him. Of course, sir. Then a mask is put on his face and he knows nothing. -- They cut his hair short. It doesn't grow back. Yet he knows something else is growing inside him. Another life. Genos places a hand on his stomach and there's a beat, then it moves and Genos hums. Or cries. Either way is fine. He just prays this one is different. This one will live. It does. -- Look at you, Genos smiles. He nuzzles his chin against the newborn's forehead and Genos understands what love is once more. The baby yawns, blinking his eyes at him, and tiny fingers play at Genos' hair. This one survives and they let Genos keep him. He wants to know what the color of his son’s eyes is. Are they brown? Blue? Green? Maybe golden, like his and that's a blessing if it is true. For now, all he can see is white. -- The men in white try to take his son from him. Genos retaliates. He lashes out and he fights back. They think he's being a child and well, he's seventeen so he reasons that he may as well act like a child still. "We can give you another child. Do you want it? To breed again? We can do it; there are many volunteers out there." "I don't want another child! I want my son!" Genos yells and it's the first time his scream isn't caused by pain. Genos tackles at the man cradling his crying infant, clawing at his face because Genos can and he wants to before he removes his child from his captor. "Oh, aren't you a feisty one today?" Genos looks at the other man. He's not old, not young either. Just a middle- aged male and somehow he gives the vibe as if he's the one who pulls all the strings. Bofoy, they mutter his name sometimes. Metal Knight, at the rarest moments. The man grins, whispering to his companions in a hushed tone. Genos doesn't care, all he wants is to feed his child and coddle him. Maybe he should name him. -- They remove the control collar. Perhaps they believe Genos won't harm himself now that he has a child to raise. The men in white are not wrong, they know this and they take advantage of Genos' devotion for his son. It doesn't matter anymore. For now, Genos just wants to hold this new life. -- He is given calendars. Genos keeps track of his time and his son's growth. The bundle of life is healthy but he's still nameless. Genos can't think of a name and his parents--... Would they love their grandson as they've loved him? His parents seem to have forgotten about him, though. Perhaps they're glad to be rid of him. -- In the span of a year, no one enters and leaves the white room. It's only Genos and his son and the four white walls. There are new items being sent to their room once every four months, ranging from toys, books, fresh clothes and nourishment for both him and the child (since he gets hungry now). There's a kitchenette in their room. Utensils for him to prepare food. Genos doesn't care where the objects come from but he cares about nothing else that is not his son these days. His physical tortures cease just like that even though the isolation from the outside world proceeds. The phantom pain is still there from time to time, a hollowed shadow that never leaves. Genos sleeps. He stares at his son's sleeping form as they huddle together on the bed. His son is the spitting image of him. A mirror. -- "Papa! Papa, lookit 'tis!" Genos stares down at his child when the boy tugs at the corner of his apron. "What is it?" Genos bends on one knee, brushing the child's cheek soothingly. "Look!" His son flicks his thumb on his forefinger and then there's a small lit, floating at the tip of his son's finger before it grows into a tiny fire. "Look, papa! Pow!" he mimics a firing motion. Genos stares and inhales. What does this mean? "That's--that's pretty, isn't it?" A trembling hand goes on the back of his son's head. Genos brings their foreheads together; touching one another until all Genos can feel is the calming heat from his son. "Yep," The child chirps happily. His energy is rather contagious. "Call me Pow, papa! Call me that!" Genos blinks. "Pow?" "Uh-huh. Papa never calls me by my name." Genos is sorry for that. He's nineteen. Two years later and he has yet to pick a name for his son. It does not mean he loves him any less. "Alright," Genos grins, "Pow it is then." "O'kai," Pow nuzzles his nose on Genos' cheek and he loves and protects all over again. -- His child is an Esper. A strong one indeed. His wavelength is phenomenal and with a continuous study, we might build our own Esper. What about the youth? We only need the child. -- Genos opens his eyes and he knows something is out of place. It's colder, darker, and harder to breathe and Genos tucks Pow into the blanket. His son mumbles in his sleep. Genos stands, the bed creaks behind him as he takes a step forward, pacing in the room like a troubled soul. Something's not right. Genos turns back to his son, "Pow-" The room shakes, the ground beneath his bare feet vibrates, and the walls around them roar and soon Genos sees small cracks protruding from the walls, little by little as the white peels away. A blast, an eruption and it's all around them and the room groans like it's being pulled apart from outside in. The lights explode. The tremor doesn't stop. Genos quickly rushes towards his son, gathering the frantic boy in his arms. Pow quivers in his embrace. "Papa, what's wrong? Papa..." Pow hides his face in the slope of Genos' shoulder, arms go around the thin neck and his son can’t stop shaking. "Papa, I'm scared," He sobs then. Genos tightens his hold. "It's fine, I'm here. I'll die before I let anything happen to you." Genos sets his son down, putting both of his hands on the boy's wet, chubby cheeks. "Pow, listen to me-" "Papa, no." "Listen to me, whatever happens, you run, do you understand? I'll follow behind and no matter what, you do not look back." "Papa-" "Do not stop. Do not look back. Do you understand? Pow, look at me," Genos searches his son's eyes. They're puffy and red but tears can easily be wiped but pain and death are permanent. "Do not wait for me." "No!" Pow shakes his head. "I can make fire! I keep papa safe! I promise!" "That's not-" The walls burst, shattering into a rain of cobblestones from the rapid combustion and Genos shelters his son with his thin body. Anything to keep Pow safe. Anything. "Saitama, wait-" "I found them, Mumen." Genos staggers, dubiously gazing up at the intruder standing on the fallen debris, stagnant and constant, like the world might cower and wail at his presence. Genos watches and he feels as if he can see a spectral silhouette around the man, veiling the newcomer with boundless of endurance and fortitude. It doesn't matter. Genos knows they cannot possibly outrun him. "Papa?" Pow mumbles from behind him. Small fingers grab at his pants as his son pokes his head out. "Papa, who's 'tat?" "Saitama, calm down-" A voice sterns. (Saitama. Genos rolls the name on his tongue. Is the place under attack? Are they going to be killed?) “I am calm. I didn’t kill anyone, didn’t I?” he replies steadily. A sigh from the man behind Saitama. “Sonic and I will search for survivors,” He claims. Saitama doesn’t acknowledge the other when he leaves them alone. Saitama stares at them, at Genos and it's as if he's seeing something so spectacular, precious, and beloved. As if he's afraid to touch or even gawk at him. As if he's feeling unworthy. Genos grits his teeth. Who is he who is he? Saitama walks towards them, almost too slowly and gingerly. His steps are light but they're also heavy and then he's standing in front of them, just a hand- breadth away. Genos wants to question the man, to demand him to stay away from them, to spare his son if he's really here to kill them but the years have not been kind to him and Genos has gradually forgotten how to speak to others who aren't his son. So Genos holds his ground and acts as a human shield for Pow. Yet this man is enigmatic. He looks relieved. Is that how he normally looks like? Saitama speaks and his voice sounds so distant. "I've been looking for years- - I swear I never stopped--" Saitama exhales. "Come with me. I can keep-" "Papa," Pow shakes Genos' hand, eyes wide as he gazes up at Saitama in wonder. "Papa, he's bald. Lookit him." "Pow-" "Shit." There’s a soft thud. Genos shifts back to Saitama. He's on the floor now, kneeling, hunching his broad features when his sight falls on Genos' son and his arms falter at his sides. "Oh, shit. It's him. It's really him." Genos doesn't understand the expression on the man's face. It's like the ocean, pure and vast, clean and so very crystalline. The shaky adoration in his eyes when he observes Pow is indescribable, infinite, and ceaseless and Genos thinks Saitama has never seen something so beautiful as Pow. It's as if Saitama already loves long before he learns how to do so. Then he looks at Genos again, more determined now when he resumes his previous offer. "Come with me and I'll protect both of you from everything." Saitama extends his hands, to Genos and to Pow, waiting bleakly. There are barely any emotions in his eyes, on his face but Genos knows they're there, hidden away in the constellations of sentimentality. But why? Who are they to Saitama? "Papa?" Pow mumbles, glancing up at Genos. He's scrunching his nose. No longer he's worn down by fear. "No more pain," Saitama whispers, smiling a gentle smile at Pow. "I promise." Pow is gazing at him in return, head tilts downward and then he pokes Saitama's cheek, eliciting a chuckle from the man. Saitama takes Pow's hand in his - Genos moves to pull his son away only to stop halfway - and kisses each finger softly. Genos can't understand how a man who can easily break down solid bulwarks is so tender and careful with a child. "Come with me," Saitama says, whispers, again. This time, to Genos. "They will never touch you. Not as long as I live." "Papa," Pow tugs at his hand, wide eyes and pouty lips. "Papa, let's go. Hurry." Genos looks over his shoulder, to the bed and the books, the sink, and the now- ruined kitchenette. To the years he's spent crying and bleeding and this is all he knows because he can't remember much the fragments of his past. He thinks, and he evaluates his options; what's best for his son? And what’s best for his son now is not this place. Not these four white walls and not the men in white. Not the man called Bofoy. "No more pain," Saitama says one last time. It's ridiculous. There's always pain for Genos. He recalls every torture vividly. Pow clenches Saitama's hand and reaches out to take Genos' wrist. Pow holds on and he doesn't let them go. "Papa, baldy is kind." Genos chuckles when Saitama’s eyebrows twitch. "Okay," Genos breathes finally. He lifts Pow into his arms and warily takes Saitama's offering hand. Saitama stands on his feet again and slowly pulls Genos closer, kissing the back of Genos’ thin hand with a fond gesticulation and then he murmurs a slow thank you. Maybe Genos’ the one who should be thanking Saitama instead. The man wraps them with his cape, arms strong, protective, as he guides them outside. Genos can't see his surrounding for as long as Saitama keeps his mantle up. He ponders what Saitama is trying to hide from them. The destruction? If so, then it’s pointless. Genos has seen worse. -- They're outside. The grass feels weird. The wind is too cold, biting his skin and Genos gazes at the moon and the stars coloring the night sky. It's been too long. He looks at Pow and his son's face is full of childish mirth and curiosity. "Papa, look! There's a giant globe in the sky!" Genos laughs. Saitama continues to shroud them from the world. The man doesn't stop and Genos is a bit startled when Saitama kisses his temple lightly. They leave and Genos never looks back. -- Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed their work!