[ genos dreams in the night, as he often does. everything that's transpired throughout his day is a heavy load to process, and it brings about weird images and events which flit through his mind's eye. most are mundane, some are vivid, and a scant few leave him sweltering and cumbersome, flooded with the aromas of white flowers and freshly spilled blood.
much like falling asleep, transitioning to his waking cycle is an equally gradual routine. there are no alarms blaring in his ears, no oncoming signs of danger disguised as a buzzing housefly or sensei accidentally stepping too close to his head on the floor. for a fleeting instant, he is at peace, body warming back up to temperature under the engine rumble of his core. the bedcovers are soft, and there's no outside light to assault his closed eyelids. everything is optimal.
someone is on top of him. this doesn't factor into the morning ritual, as he and his sensei barely do more than press back-to-side in the dark, when personal space is a luxury they don't have in cramped quarters. it takes a painfully long time to come to the conclusion of why that is, sorting through his memories of the last twelve to eighteen hours. ah. sonic. sonic is here; this is not saitama's futon he's laying in (it's not a futon at all), and this is not saitama's apartment.
this should be weird. this should be alarming. ultimately the chance in scenery is regarded as no more of a concern than his state of undress is, or the company he's keeping, so it's immediately discarded. there's nothing wrong in his eyes with sonic's soft weight plastered to the front of him, nothing wrong with letting a familiar hand crawl up his neck and cradle his head. if anything, it's comforting, prompting him to sound out quietly and turn on a pillowcase far plumper than the cheap, thin material sensei utilizes. he'll add those to the shopping list for next time.
his eyes don't want to open. for all he knows, this is another dream, keeping at bay a colder and grimmer reality just beyond reach. laying like this without a care in the world is more highly appealing. ]
no subject
much like falling asleep, transitioning to his waking cycle is an equally gradual routine. there are no alarms blaring in his ears, no oncoming signs of danger disguised as a buzzing housefly or sensei accidentally stepping too close to his head on the floor. for a fleeting instant, he is at peace, body warming back up to temperature under the engine rumble of his core. the bedcovers are soft, and there's no outside light to assault his closed eyelids. everything is optimal.
someone is on top of him. this doesn't factor into the morning ritual, as he and his sensei barely do more than press back-to-side in the dark, when personal space is a luxury they don't have in cramped quarters. it takes a painfully long time to come to the conclusion of why that is, sorting through his memories of the last twelve to eighteen hours. ah. sonic. sonic is here; this is not saitama's futon he's laying in (it's not a futon at all), and this is not saitama's apartment.
this should be weird. this should be alarming. ultimately the chance in scenery is regarded as no more of a concern than his state of undress is, or the company he's keeping, so it's immediately discarded. there's nothing wrong in his eyes with sonic's soft weight plastered to the front of him, nothing wrong with letting a familiar hand crawl up his neck and cradle his head. if anything, it's comforting, prompting him to sound out quietly and turn on a pillowcase far plumper than the cheap, thin material sensei utilizes. he'll add those to the shopping list for next time.
his eyes don't want to open. for all he knows, this is another dream, keeping at bay a colder and grimmer reality just beyond reach. laying like this without a care in the world is more highly appealing. ]