Chapter Text
King returns from his weekly grocery shopping to find there’s a really pretty lady in his living room. Skin tight outfit complementing her figure, shining dark hair tied back with a ribbon, katana strapped to her back.
He gulps.
“King,” the lady says, her voice surprisingly quite unlady-like (but undoubtedly appealing and smooth). “S-Class, rank 7.”
(King regrets this every day. This day more than others, he thinks.)
The lady is in his face before he can even blink, a frown marring her lovely face.
“You’re a fake, aren’t you. Your place is as secured as a street in the slums. A child can pick this lousy lock. An armless child. I thought it's because you were so confident in your strength, but your reflexes are shit. I could turn both of your eyeballs into lollipops before you'd even open your mouth.”
“Um,” King barely manages not to crap his pants, the beat of his heart louder than usual in a space that seems more cramped by the minute.
“How did you manage to lure my Eternal Rival here?” she demands.
“Who?” King squeaks, his brain barely functioning with his pulse skyrocketing through the ceiling, blood thrumming in his ears.
“Saitama. Bald.” She raises her hand a short distance from her own head. “About this tall. Wears garish yellow suit. Accompanied by a snotty tin-man.” She glares. “Well?”
“Video games.”
“Huh.” She rubs her chin thoughtfully. “What kind?” then she’s rummaging through his – oh god, King would rather die than – and how did she manage –
“Dating Sims?” she snorts as she holds one of the titles, successfully delivering a crushing blow to King’s measly ego. Her eyes slide over him, clinical, categorizing him like she wants to pickle his kidneys and wonders what she’ll write on the jar she’ll be using.
“You’re hot. You have fans. Why do you need this crap?”
(King’s measly ego bursts into flames in an unfortunate case of spontaneous combustion.)
“Are you blushing.” She states, rather than asks. In King’s brain, major efforts are invested in keeping him standing and not letting his knees give out. In the center responsible for actual language processing, however, the screen displays a bright red ERROR message, blinking repeatedly, uncaring for the chaos around.
"Going for the 'strong and silent' vibe, then?" Then lady smirks, looking pointedly at the shopping bags still clutched within King’s large hands. “What are we having for dinner?”
“Ramen.” King squeezes out of his throat courageously.
“Cool. Call me when you’re done.”
A soft gust of wind brushes against King, and the lady is already sprawled all over the couch, flipping through the channels, looking bored out of her mind.
In the kitchen King almost manages to scroll through his contact list – before the phone’s plucked from his hand, then crushed.
“So fast.” King says without thinking, his constant mortification maxed-up, leaving him in a state he can’t help but appreciate her skill.
(Health professionals would suggest the term ‘shock’ to describe King’s predicament. But King was not a certified doctor, so he wouldn’t know.)
“Of course,” she says, sounding smug as she dusts her hands against one another. “I’m Speed of Sound Sonic. Try anything like that again and I’ll disembowel you.” She smiles, and it’s beautiful, in the way a blade cleanly splits flesh from bone. “Got that?”
King nods, and turns to put on his apron.
*
The first thing King does, the following day, is to go warn Saitama the man might have to leave the country. Saitama opens the door to his apartment bleary-eyed, still wearing his pajamas at 10 am, and invites him in. It goes quite differently than what King expected.
“Sonic?” Saitama says blankly, “I don’t know a Sonic.”
“Sensei,” Genos intervenes, hesitatingly. “It’s been a busy week, so maybe it slipped your mind. Remember the guy who crashed our place, couple of months back?”
(Did the kid just say ‘our pla-‘)
“Oh!” Saitama grins, thumping a fist against his palm in satisfaction, then looks back at King. “Talks a lot, very persistent?” He attempts to find one slightly-less vague character-trait. “Has a really sincere smile? That Sonic?”
King nods so fast he risks his head snapping off his neck.
“Ahh, if he’s bugging you, I’ll come tell him off.” Saitama uncaringly picks at his ear. “It’s not like you can fight him or anything. He has no business with you.” Then he startles, eyes widening. “He still owes me money for repairs!”
Saitama leaps to his feet, Genos following him like a copycat.
“I’ll go suit up, then we’ll go to your place.”
“Like a stalk-out?” Genos asks, awed.
“Yeah.”
(King is pretty sure he meant stake-out, but he understands why Genos would have such a Freudian Slip, and chooses not to call attention to it.)
“As expected of Sensei!”
(King thinks he sees stars shining around Genos. Or maybe it’s just sparks. The kid gets punched into bits every other week, after all. Can’t be easy on his circuits.)
“Wait,” King blinks as his mind catches on. Genos turns to look at him, frowning like every second King makes him lose visual of Saitama is a crime worthy of life in exile.
“What?”
“Him?” King blurts.
“Huh?”
Life, King learns, is full of surprises.
In the following months, Sonic makes damn sure of it.
(Saitama never manages to get him to pay for the repairs. Sonic takes his small victories with a bucket of ice-cream and King massaging his feet.)