___ The rain in Z-City knocks the power out and sends a soaking wet Fubuki crashing into Saitama’s tiny apartment – dress clinging, shivering, claiming there’s a speed-type monster she can’t handle alone.
He offers her his oversized pajamas, the lights go out, and the city goes dark.
What starts as two heroes stuck on a too-small futon in the dark turns into something else when she admits she didn’t just come for backup – she came because she didn’t want to be alone tonight.
___ The rain hammered against Z City like a punishment.
Saitama didn’t care.
His apartment was dry, his remote was working, and the TV was showing a nature documentary about deep-sea creatures that he was maybe twenty percent paying attention to.
The knock came at his door.
He ignored it.
Another knock.
Harder.
Desperate.
Grumbling, he hauled himself off the floor and shuffled to the entrance.
The moment he unlocked the door, a shape stumbled through, bringing a gust of wet wind and the smell of rain-soaked fabric.
Fubuki stood in his genkan, dripping onto his floor.
Her black dress clung to her like a second skin.
Every curve was defined by the soaked fabric—shoulders, waist, the swell of her hips.
Her hair was plastered to her face, mascara slightly smudged at the edges.
She was shivering.
“Fubuki,” he said, flat.
“You’re getting my floor wet.” “I know.” She pushed wet strands from her forehead.
“I need to talk.
About the monster.” “There’s always a monster.” “This one is different.” She stepped forward, water pooling at her feet.
“It’s been spotted in the industrial district.
Speed-type.
I can’t track it alone, and my sisters are out of commission.” He stared at her.
“You came here in this weather.
Wearing that.” “I was at a meeting.” She gestured vaguely at herself.
“I didn’t have time to change.” The documentary droned on behind him.
Some kind of anglerfish.
Bioluminescence.
Mating rituals.
Saitama sighed.
“You need dry clothes.” “I need backup.” “You need both.” He turned and walked toward his bedroom.
“I’ve got a spare pair of pajamas.
They’ll be big on you, but they’re dry.” The apartment had one room that served as both living and sleeping space.
A futon lay folded in the corner.
A small kitchen.
A single chair.
The rain drummed against the window like impatient fingers.
He pulled out the folded pajamas from his drawer—simple gray cotton, worn soft from years of use.
When he turned, Fubuki was standing in the middle of the room, arms wrapped around herself, still dripping.
“Here.” He tossed them to her.
She caught them one-handed.
“Thank you.” The lights flickered.
Then they went out.
Darkness swallowed the room whole.
The only sound was the rain and the distant hum of the city losing power block by block.
“Great,” Saitama muttered.
“Where are you?” Her voice came from somewhere to his left.
“Same place.
Don’t move, you’ll trip over something.” “I’m not going to trip.” A rustle of fabric.
“I’m changing.
You can’t see anything anyway.” He heard the wet sound of her dress peeling away from her skin.
The soft whisper of fabric sliding down her legs.
The stretch of cotton as she pulled on his pajama shirt.
“You know,” he said, facing the window where the city lights were blinking out one by one, “you could have just called.” “And you would have answered?” “No.” A pause.
More rustling.
The sound of her pulling on the pants.
“I figured as much.” Her voice was closer now.
“That’s why I came in person.” The rain intensified.
Water sluiced down the window in sheets, distorting the view of the darkened city.
“I’m done,” she said.
“You can turn around.” He didn’t need to.
He could hear her moving toward him.
The soft padding of bare feet on his floor.
“You’re still wet,” he said.
“I’ll dry.” “You’ll get the futon wet.” “I’ll deal with it.” Another flash of lightning.
For a split second, he saw her—the oversized gray shirt hanging off one shoulder, her hair still damp and dark against her neck.
Her legs bare below the knee.
The shirt reached her thighs.
Then darkness again.
“You should sleep,” he said.
“We’ll talk about the monster tomorrow.” “I’m not tired.” “Then watch me sleep.” She laughed.
It was a small sound, barely audible over the rain.
“You’re impossible.” “So I’ve been told.” He felt the futon shift as she sat down on it.
The old springs groaned.
Then she spoke again, her voice quieter.
“Saitama.” “What.” “I don’t want to be alone tonight.” The words hung in the dark.
The rain filled the silence.
He didn’t answer.
He just moved to the futon, felt the edge of it with his foot, and sat down beside her.
They were close.
He could smell the rain on her skin, the faint floral scent of whatever shampoo she used underneath it.
Her breathing was slow.
Controlled.
“I’m not going to sleep in wet clothes on your futon,” she said.
“You just said you’d deal with it.” “I changed my mind.” He heard her shift, then the sound of fabric being folded.
Then her voice again, closer.
“Take off your shirt.” “What?” “I’m serious.” Her hand found his arm in the dark.
Her fingers were cool.
“You’re still wearing the clothes you were sitting in.
They’re dry, but you’ll sweat.
And then we’ll both be uncomfortable.” “You’re making assumptions about how much I sweat.” “Just take it off, Saitama.” He did.
Because arguing with her was more exhausting than complying.
The shirt came off.
He tossed it somewhere into the dark.
The futon creaked as she lay down.
He heard her pull the blanket up.
Then a pause.
“Are you going to lie down?” “Yeah.” He stretched out beside her.
The futon was narrow.
Their bodies were close, separated by inches and the thin cotton of the pajamas she wore.
The rain continued its assault on the window.
“I’m cold,” she said.
“Blanket’s right there.” “It’s not enough.” He felt her shift.
Her body pressed against his side.
Her head found the hollow of his shoulder.
Her breath was warm against his chest.
“You’re still wet,” he said.
“I’ll dry.” Her hand rested on his stomach.
Light.
Tentative.
“Fubuki.” “Don’t talk.” Her fingers traced a slow line across his abdomen.
“Just…
don’t talk.” The room was black.
The rain was loud.
Her hand was moving.
It traveled upward, fingers brushing over his chest, pausing at his collarbone.
He could feel her breathing change—a slight quickening, a tremor in the exhale.
“Saitama.” His name on her lips, barely a whisper.
“I didn’t come here just for the monster.” “I figured.” Her hand found his jaw.
Guided his face toward hers in the dark.
He couldn’t see her, but he could feel her presence, the heat radiating from her body, the slight tremble in her fingers.
“You’re too calm,” she said.
“Everything about you is too calm.
And I need—” She stopped.
Swallowed.
“I need something that isn’t calm.” Her lips found his.
The kiss was hungry.
Desperate.
She pressed into him with a force that surprised him, her mouth opening against his, her tongue seeking entry.
Her hand slid from his jaw to the back of his neck, fingers curling into his hair.
He responded.
Not because he planned to, but because her urgency was contagious, because the dark and the rain and the warmth of her body created a space where thought didn’t matter.
His hand found her waist.
The borrowed pajama shirt had ridden up, and his palm met bare skin.
She shivered at his touch.
“More,” she breathed against his mouth.
“I need more.” Her leg hooked over his hip, pulling him closer.
He could feel the heat of her through the thin cotton of the pajama pants.
Her hips pressed against his, a question and an answer all at once.
“Fubuki—” “Don’t overthink it.” She kissed him again, harder.
“Don’t think at all.” Her hands moved downward, finding the waistband of his pants.
Her fingers were trembling, but her movements were deliberate.
She pushed the fabric down, exposing his skin to the cool air.
Then her hand wrapped around him.
The world narrowed to that single point of contact.
Her grip was firm.
Uncertain.
She stroked once, twice, learning the shape of him in the dark.
“Like this,” she whispered, and guided him toward her.
The pajama pants she wore were already pushed aside.
Her skin was slick with more than rainwater.
She was ready.
Desperate.
He entered her.
The sound she made—a broken gasp, half relief, half hunger—was swallowed by the rain.
Her body arched against his, her nails digging into his shoulders.
She was tight around him, hot and wet and clutching.
“Don’t stop,” she said.
“Don’t you dare stop.” He moved.
Slow at first, then faster as her hips rose to meet his, as her breath came in ragged gasps against his neck.
The futon creaked beneath them.
The rain hammered the window.
Her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper.
Her mouth found his shoulder, teeth grazing skin, then biting down as a moan escaped her.
The rhythm became frantic.
Desperate.
Two bodies in the dark, chasing something neither of them had words for.
Her breath hitched.
Her body tensed beneath him, a shudder running through her like a current.
She cried out—his name, or something like it—and he felt her tighten around him, felt the wave of her climax pull him under.
He followed.
His body tensed, his hips pressed deep, and he spilled into her with a groan that was almost lost in the storm.
They lay there, breathing hard, tangled in each other and the damp sheets.
The rain continued.
Her hand found his chest, palm flat over his heart.
“You’re still too calm,” she said, her voice hoarse.
He felt her smile against his shoulder.
“Maybe,” he said.
“But you’re not.” CREATORS’ THOUGHTS Zero_Token Fun fact: They woke up still tangled on that tiny futon, his shirt bunched around her waist, her stolen pajama pants nowhere to be found, and a very obvious damp spot in the middle proving the monster wasn’t the only thing she rode out that night.