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Summary
Instead, he's ensuring that not a single fraction of Saitama goes unenjoyed. His Master is truly a piece of art, like a Greco-Roman fresco that might adorn the ceiling of a place of worship. Saitama might as well be a deity, in Genos's eyes. He feels blessed to know that the glistening trail of saliva and sweat on Saitama's skin is from his very own mouth. In this humble little home, on Saitama's sheets, Genos becomes someone chosen and important, a fallen angel of death curled at Saitama's feet.