Work Text:
Simplicity
The gold of Genos' eyes flicker under the dim flood of the orange street lamp. They seem to almost glow through the fog like headlights, and Saitama finds himself staring — but admittedly that's all he can do right now.
"Thank you everything, Teacher," he repeats before Saitama has the chance to ask why such a simple thanks must be accompanied by such a serious tone. He's still confused with the proximity of their bodies, the way Genos had snagged his shirt and asked that he stop for a minute, building all this dramatic tension before revealing such an anticlimactic thanks.
"It's fine," Saitama manages, swallowing hard like that'll shove the welling bubble of anxiety back down his throat. "Don't mention it. Genos?"
Genos' hand comes up and then it's resting against his cheek, the metal surprisingly warm to the touch and the glare of his eyes is strikingly mesmerising. It's taken the focus off Saitama's initial knee-jerk reaction to snap back or drive his fist forward instead of questioning the other's actions first. Instead he can imagine he's staring quite befuddled, mouth agape on a soundless startle that would inevitably become an expletive and when Genos leans in to close the distance between their faces, Saitama's gurgle of protest is lost in the too-quick press of soft lips that feel more authentic than Saitama has ever put much thought into thinking so.
There's still confusion, but Saitama's mouth is open and his tongue finds it's way into the other's mouth and while he's still frantically trying to find another answer other than he's kissing you, what the hell does it look like, idiot to the million versions of what the hell is going on here, his heart is racing in tandem; thudding so loud he's certain all remaining inhabitants of Z City would be able to hear. They'd come to look out of curiosity, he's sure, and find him kissing this robot under a lamppost next to the old and abandoned toilet paper factory on 9th Street —
Genos is moving in, Saitama can feel the heat of the other's core emanating through his clothing and a quiet mechanical whir that Saitama doesn't know the source of, yet as the other grips the bottom of Saitama's shirt and drags him in closer, the sound reminds Saitama of a kitten purring contentment and something about that image warms him from the inside out and he finds himself melting into the kiss.
It's strange, he's thinking but he's not thinking — Genos' tongue works expertly like he's done this before and somewhere in the back of his mind, Saitama is partly amused and partly disgusted, that he enjoys the taste of this synthetic tongue better than the unadon they both ate for supper. It's natural, both in feeling and in taste and if Saitama finds himself pressing his fingers into the steel at Genos' hips, eyes falling shut to sensation rather than logic, well. It's only a natural reaction to a first-kiss shared between a hero and his cyborg disciple during the twilight hour on an empty street.