Meditation was the first skill Zenyatta had mastered among the shambali. It cleansed, opened his mind, smoothed him as a river shaped a stone. Mondatta had taught him well and praised him for his dedication. Pride was a dangerous thing, but he held the words dear.
Well done, Zenyatta.
His mastery does little to help him now.
“You sure he don’t want to join in? He’s cute.” The man murmurs in a thick, nearly unintelligible accent.
The golden brand upon his neck prickles, and Zenyatta curses the nanobots in the ink that keep him close to Genji at all times.
“So greedy. You really are an american.” Genji chuckles, barely audible over the thick slap of skin on skin.
The spot between his eyebrows tightens. Maintaining composure is not easy; Genji doesn’t let it be.
Cyberrat Writes 