CLAP! CLAP! CLAP! CLAP! CLAP!
"OOOOHHH SHIITT!! SLOW DOWN A LITTLE SAITA, PLEASE!!" Yelled Mizuki desperately, but Saitama didn't seem to be aware or didn't care right now about that. His hips were a relentless machine, driving into her with a force that was both exhilarating and overwhelming.
Each thrust sent a shockwave of pleasure through her body, her muscles clenching around him as if trying to hold him inside her forever.
She could feel the sweat beading on her skin, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her body slick with exertion.
CLAP! CLAP! CLAP! CLAP! CLAP!
"Saitama..." she panted, her voice barely audible over the sound of their bodies colliding. "You're... you're going to..." Her words were cut off as he hit a particularly deep spot, her body convulsing with pleasure. She could feel her orgasm building again, the heat and tension in her core growing with each thrust.
Saitama, however, seemed determined to push her to the edge. He leaned down, his lips capturing hers in a fierce, passionate kiss. His tongue danced with hers, their bodies moving in perfect sync. She could taste her own desire on his lips, the sweet, salty flavor of their combined pleasure.
Suddenly, he broke away, his lips trailing down her neck, his teeth nipping at her collarbone. She moaned, her body arching into his touch, her nails digging into his back.
Saitama really was with his mind put in the game on that moment.
After all, things didn't go quite well for him at the funeral.
But, let's rewind a little…
(A few hours earlier…)
The funeral had already been dragging on for what felt like an eternity, and Saitama was dissociating hard. His blank stare was directed toward the stage, but his mind was drifting in every possible direction except the one at hand. He wore the mask of focus—brows slightly furrowed, eyes fixed forward, posture still—yet inside, he wasn't absorbing a single word.
The sudden sound of applause snapped him back. It was jarring, like being splashed with cold water. Apparently, the last of the Tank-Topper Army had just finished their speech. The rhythmic clapping of the crowd pressured Saitama into following along, forcing his hands together in empty, mechanical claps.
Then, a man in a suit walked onto the stage. He looked like the most generic corporate worker one could imagine, the type who blends into office crowds and disappears in afterthought. Clipboard in hand, glasses perched stiffly on his nose, he radiated all the energy of a junior PR intern.
"I wanna communicate on behalf of the Hero Association," the man began, his voice rehearsed, "that to honor Tanktop Master's sacrifice, the Association has erected a statue in his memory. He will forever be remembered as the hero who saved A-City."
At his signal, a couple of workers pulled away a dark veil in the square's center, revealing the new monument. A polished bronze likeness of Tanktop Master stood tall, heroic and imposing, his trademark tank top sculpted in flowing detail as though divinely blessed.
Saitama's eyes widened, and inside his head, alarms blared.
You must be fucking kidding me!! I literally saved the entire fucking world! I fought Boros, stopped meteors, rebuilt A-City with my own damn hands—and he, the guy who got beheaded in half in thirty seconds flat, is the one who gets a statue?!
His blood pressure spiked. He could almost feel a vein throbbing in his temple, threatening to rupture. Around him, the crowd broke into thunderous applause, the Tank-Topper Army screaming cries of joy. Tanktop Black Hole wept into his oversized brother's arms. Tanktop Racer banged his fists together, shouting Tanktop slogans through sobs. Tanktop Girl clasped her hands and whispered about how their master would live forever in the city's memory.
The more they celebrated, the more Saitama's eye twitched. He clenched his fists so hard his nails nearly cut his palms. His blank mask was seconds from cracking into an outburst that would ruin everything.
He had two choices: blow up right here and scream at the Association until someone tried to muzzle him—or run.
Saitama exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing himself to calm down. He pulled out his phone and typed a quick message to Genos.
"I'm heading out. Thanks for coming with me, but… I can't stay longer. Sorry, man. Keep things steady for me."
Without waiting for a reply, he shoved the phone back into his pocket. His solution was simple. Get out before he said something he'd regret.
His eyes darted to his right, where Mizuki sat stiffly in her chair. She'd been uncharacteristically quiet the whole ceremony, her posture betraying both respect and unease. After all, this was the first time she'd been seated among high-ranking executives and S-Class heroes. Her fingers fidgeted nervously on her lap, trying to mask her discomfort.
Saitama didn't say a word. He just stood up, leaned slightly toward her, and grabbed her hand.
Mizuki blinked, startled, her eyes widening at the sudden touch. "Eh? Wha—?" she whispered, caught off guard.
But Saitama wasn't offering explanations. He tugged her up gently yet firmly, guiding her toward the exit. The room was still roaring with applause and sniffles, the crowd too absorbed in their collective grief to notice the bald man slipping out with the athletic heroine in tow.
Mizuki's confusion grew with every step. Her heart raced—not just from the unexpected handholding, but from the fact that Saitama's expression looked… tense. Different. He wasn't his usual aloof self; there was a storm brewing behind his deadpan eyes.
As the sound of the funeral was left behind them, Mizuki finally whispered, her voice trembling with confusion, "Saitama… where are we going?"
But he didn't answer. His jaw was tight, his shoulders rigid, every step quick and sharp. All he knew was that if he stayed in that hall one second longer, if he saw another tear shed for a statue that didn't belong there, he might've crushed the podium in two and exposed himself in a way he couldn't take back.
The silence stretched painfully between them until, without warning, he bent down and scooped Mizuki up in his arms bridal-style.
Her eyes went wide, her entire face blooming scarlet. "Saita!! Wh-what are you doing?!" Her voice cracked, a mix of indignation and embarrassment. She struggled for a moment, but his grip was steady, unshakable.
"You got your apartment keys with you?" he asked flatly, as if the question was the most natural thing in the world.
Mizuki blinked rapidly, thrown off by the bizarre calmness in his tone. "Y-yes, but w-why do you ask?!" Her voice squeaked on the last word, her hands nervously gripping at his cape for balance.
But Saitama didn't answer. He didn't even glance down at her. His eyes were locked forward, sharp and unreadable, something burning behind them that Mizuki couldn't quite name. He simply bent his knees and in the next instant—
FWOOOSH!
The world blurred around them. Wind whipped at Mizuki's hair as the cityscape streaked past in flashes of color and light. He wasn't just running—he was flying across the streets with the speed of a bullet train, his steps barely making a sound despite the sheer power behind each one.
Mizuki clung tighter, her heart hammering in her chest. The embarrassment from being carried melted into shock and then into quiet awe. She had seen him fight before, but this… this was different.
Saitama wasn't fighting, he was fleeing—fleeing from the suffocating farce of the funeral, from the weight of being ignored, from the statue that mocked him without even knowing it.
And yet, despite his silence and the storm boiling inside him, his arms never once wavered around her. His grip was firm, steady, protective. For the first time, Mizuki realized how much did Saitama contain himself.
Finally, through the roaring wind, Mizuki whispered, almost more to herself than to him, "You're angry, aren't you?"
Saitama didn't reply. His jaw flexed once, his eyes narrowing as he pushed faster, heading straight for her apartment.
In summary, that's how they ended up like that.
Now, returning to present.
---
"Saitama..." she gasped, her voice filled with desperation. "I can't... I can't take it..." But he didn't stop. He kept increasing his pace, his thrusts becoming more urgent, more insistent.
"Come for me, Mizuki," he growled, his voice a low, primal sound. "Let go, baby. I want to feel you come around me." His words were like a match to kindling, her body igniting with desire.
"Nggghh!! Shit! Ngghhh-okay!!"
She cried out, her body convulsing as her orgasm ripped through her. She could feel her muscles clenching around him, her body writhing beneath him as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her.
Still, Saitama didn't stop, wanting to spend all his frustration.
CLAP! CLAP! CLAP! CLAP! CLAP! CLAP! CLAP!
He kept moving, his body driving into hers, his hips thrusting with a force that was almost brutal.
SLAP! SLAP!
Saitama began to slap each of her juicy and fat ass cheeks while he kept fucking her.
"Ooh! Yes! Yes! Yes!"
Mizuki moaned, her body arched into each slap, her breath came in ragged gasps.
The combination of his thrusts and the stinging sensation on her ass sent shivers of pleasure down her spine. She could feel her body on the brink again, her muscles tensing, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
"Saitama-hnngghh!!... please... slow down!!" she panted, her voice barely audible over the sound of their bodies colliding.
But Saitama still didn't slow down.
If anything, he increased his pace, his thrusts becoming more urgent, more insistent.
Saitama's hands moved to her thighs, his fingers digging into her flesh as he pulled her closer, his thrusts becoming deeper, more intense.
"Ahh! Ngghhh-!!"
She could feel his cock stretching her, filling her completely. The sensation was almost too much, her body trembling with the effort of holding back another orgasm.
But Saitama was relentless, his hips moving with a force that was both exhilarating and overwhelming. She could feel her body on the edge again, her muscles tensing, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
"Come for me, Mizuki, just one more time baby," he growled, his voice a low, primal sound. "I am cumming."
His words were like a trigger, her body convulsing as her orgasm ripped through her again. She cried out, her body shuddering with pleasure, her muscles clenching around him as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her.
Finally, with a low growl, Saitama's body tensed, his thrusts becoming more urgent, more insistent.
He buried his face in her neck, his body shuddering as he came, his cock pulsing inside her.
Spurt! Spurt! Spurt! Spurt!
She could feel him filling her, his hot seed spilling into her, the sensation sending a final wave of pleasure crashing over her.
They stayed like that for a moment, their bodies entwined, their breaths coming in ragged gasps. Slowly, Saitama rolled off her, his body spent, his muscles trembling with exertion. He pulled her close, his arms wrapping around her, his lips finding hers in a soft, tender kiss.
Mizuki sighed, her body still trembling with the aftershocks of their lovemaking. She looked up at Saitama, her eyes filled with love and trust. "That was…fuck, that was incredible," she whispered, her voice barely above a whisper.
Meanwhile Saitama only looked at the roof of the bedroom, his head wasn't on the funeral anymore, but he still felt a little upset.
However it was nothing he couldn't handle tomorrow.
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