Fandom: Overwatch Pairing: Akande/Zenyatta Warnings: sugar daddy, age gap, phone sex, human!Zenyatta Notes: For #Akanday2017!
Summary: Zenyatta attends a college in Numbani and meets one of its most famous alumnus.
Zenyatta drinks coffee.
The taste is a newly acquired comfort, and it fills his stomach better than water. He reviews his presentation while he sips, mouthing the words, visualizing the next hour in his mind. He glances at the clock; if he leaves now, he will have fifteen minutes to prepare.
Zenyatta hesitates, index finger tapping on the mouse as he watches the cursor blink. He checks his account balance and finishes his nearly cold coffee in one long pull.
Zenyatta will deal with each obstacle as it comes, as he has always done.
The monk across the table smiles at him, high cheeks rounded and fine, eyes nearly closed in a demure expression.
“Commander. It is good to see you.”
He seems at ease, even in the dim room, with arms and legs bound to a chair. Gabriel knows it is a farce, even if he isn’t sure why. He’s been at this for decades, and that’s given him good instincts, but the monk has been at this for centuries.
“Why were you snooping around here, Zenyatta.” Gabriel replies, settling in the chair across from him.
Zenyatta doesn’t move, not exactly. If Gabriel had to describe it, he would call it a mirage, a shimmer along the horizon. The monk ripples, the faintest glimmer of gold and red beneath his smiling human mask. Goosebumps raise on the back of Gabriel’s neck.
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.
Genji plays truant less, stops entertaining visitors of a more provocative nature; he even obeys Hanzo’s orders, when the mood strikes him. He keeps Zenyatta at his side, lets the monk pour his tea, asks his opinion on difficult matters and trivialities alike. The monk’s platitudes and quick wit please Genji just as much as his body, and even garner respect from the elder Shimada heir. Rather than a prisoner, Zenyatta acts as a guest.
Gabe wonders why Zenyatta doesn’t flee. Maybe the life of a monk had been thrust upon him, or perhaps he is enamored by the young lord as many were before him.
Gabe’s curiosity deepens the longer Zenyatta resides within the castle. Genji, prone to short attention and opulent fancies, settles into a somewhat mature routine. Sometimes Gabe even finds the young lord meditating, and he chuckles at the sight, awed by the sway the monk has over his master.
The last of his spots fade from his hide, and still Zenyatta does not feel the earth as the others do.
His brother worries, but though he cannot join his peers in melting the last frost and breathing life into the earth, Zenyatta is ever the cheerful prince.
Some whisper of the unwoken son, an ill omen, a quiet, but it is only ever whispers. Zenyatta visits each of his kin in turn, helps forage, keeps them safe. He sings and spars and solves disputes in clever ways; his curious reasoning, mindful and long-sighted, never fails to bring peace and happiness to the deer tribe.
His processes initialize in disorganized bursts, systems stalling for seconds longer than usual. When Zenyatta analyzes the disturbance, he packs as quickly as he can.
He stops only once, outside of Genji’s room, hand poised to knock. Precious seconds slip between his servos, and the something pulses like a heartbeat within him. He whispers an apology into the door and leaves in the dead of night.
Zenyatta sends Genji a message before going offline, keeping only that something connected: a signal, long lost, active once more. His student would understand.
Hanzo is sick of meetings, sick of following around in his father’s shadow while the older man ‘shows him the ropes’. His eyes burn from lack of sleep and the left side of his body is sore from a poorly timed landing on the dojo floor during morning practice.
He tugs at his traditional robes, hates the intricate blue and gold laced fabric. Wants his kyudo-gi back on. Would rather be up the rafters, taking down small targets with his bow.
“We are meeting with an esteemed member of the Ogundimu clan and his heir.” Sojiro states matter-of-factly as he leads Hanzo through the halls of the Shimada estate. Hanzo frowns at the back of his father’s head.
“Yes, father.” Hanzo says dutifully.
They take their seats inside the main greeting room. Hanzo remains still, watches his father out of the corner of his eye. The older man is typing away on a cell phone, most likely checking in on the men he’d sent out earlier in the day. Sojiro tucks it away when the door to the room opens and he rises slowly.
Hanzo mirror’s him and lifts his eyes to greet the newcomers.
His breathing stutters, just slightly.
The Ogundimu family are colossal, regal, intimidating men. Hanzo watches his father greet the one who is obviously the oldest, dark hair grey at the temples and smile wide as they clasp hands. His eyes move to the son, who is much taller than Hanzo, eyes sharp and dressed in an impeccable maroon suit. He can not be much older than Hanzo himself.
A thrill dips down Hanzo’s spine when those sharp, dark eyes lock with his.
Fandom: Overwatch Pairing: Doomfist/Zenyatta Warnings: dubcon, valveplay (robovag), oral Notes: For my strawpoll peeps. thanks for voting guys! ❤
“Why did you do it?”
His array flickers as he shifts. It’s difficult to move without his right arm, but he feels no pain. On the contrary, it seems much has done to ensure his comfort. His clothes, tattered beyond repair, have been replaced by a red and gold dashiki. The room does not feel like a cell, with its cushioned chairs and large bed. There is even a painting on the wall, and a lone, high window where neon light filters in from the skyline.
His array returns to the man questioning him. He is unarmed, dressed casually, comfortable in the small space. Their fight had drawn long, and Zenyatta is in need of maintenance. Fully charged and both limbs intact, he could stand a chance.
But the fight is over, the victor decided.
Akande is patient. He does not so much as twitch while he waits for an answer, exuding the quiet stillness of an omnic. The more Zenyatta spends time with him, the more he realizes how dangerous he is.
Akande shushes Hanzo as he strains against his bindings. The cords are synthetic and smooth, designed for minimal chafing: it allows one to struggle to exhaustion without a single mark to show for it.
At least, not from the ropes.
Hanzo is beautiful, moreso when his defenses are stripped away, piece by piece, reduced as he is to a sweating, flushed mess. His hair, always drawn tight and orderly, curtains his face, disheveled from his struggles, making him appear years younger. The severe line of Hanzo’s mouth slackens, gapes as he pants, high cheekbones blotchy and rouged.
Akande hums and appreciates the view. He cups Hanzo’s chest softly, with gentleness belying his appearance. He catches one of Hanzo’s nipples between a blunt finger and thumb, rolling, tugging, and Hanzo gasps, the flesh grown taut and swollen with his teasing.
“You are so sensitive.” He murmurs, and Hanzo dips his face into his shoulder, eyelashes fluttering, mouth quivering. “Ah, ah.”
The sounds of the toy nestled between Hanzo’s thighs intensifies as Akande swivels the dial on his holopad. Hanzo tenses, cries out, chest heaving, thighs shaking, corded muscles clenching and relaxing, the dragon upon his arm twisting and coiling like a living thing.
“You are to look at me. Do not hide yourself.” And Hanzo struggles, as Akande knew he would. He is a proud warrior, honorable, from a noble family. All things he has in common with Akande himself.
He twists and plucks at Hanzo’s nipples absently, waiting for Hanzo to tilt his chin up, for his eyes to catch his own, drowned in black.
“Very good. You are learning.”
Akande sweeps his large hand down the trembling, sweat-slick curves of Hanzo’s body, mapping his scars, his badges of honor from his struggles, struggles that have made him strong. He twists his fingers in the coarse trail beneath Hanzo’s belly while Hanzo growls, shifting his hips as much as his restraints will allow, hesitant still, even after the hours Akande spent carefully eroding Hanzo’s mental restraints while trapped in physical ones.
The man’s cock bobs, thick and angry, bright red even beneath its glans. He’s bound here too, rope snug behind his heavy balls, tight against the base of his cock. Akande sighs, circles the tip of his finger along his cockhead, smearing the excessive pre-cum gathered there, wayward drops joining the mess already pooled beneath him. Hanzo draws so tight Akande thinks he will pass out, howl caught in his throat, petering out with a harsh, clipped grunt as Akande takes him in hand, just holding him, cradling his short, wet cock. Hanzo quakes, unable to stay still, unable to move properly, the toy buzzing inside him audible only between Hanzo’s labored breaths.
“Are you ready to beg? I know it is hard.” He grabs Hanzo’s chin with his free hand, staring into his face, fixating on the tightness between his brows, the way Hanzo’s eyes shine with unspent, frustrated tears. “Lessons in humility are often the most difficult to overcome.”
Hanzo’s jaw flexes, and Akande feels the power in the motion. Then Hanzo bites his lip, another high-pitched grunt gained when Akande strokes him once, twice, twisting his wrist on the upstroke, catching more spend against his fingers.
He let’s go as Hanzo draws as tight as the bow he wields, cock jumping, hips stuttering, shivery and weak.
“Do not come.” Akande orders, and Hanzo does sob then, once, shaking like a leaf in the onset of a monsoon, the first tears gliding over those noble cheekbones. He grabs for Hanzo’s cock again, grips it harder, strokes it as he would himself, tight and fast, and Hanzo chokes, releasing a sound so anguished Akande nearly feels sorry for him, though it does not stop him from pulling back once more. “Hold it.”
And he knows by the way Hanzo gnashes his teeth, feet scrabbling at the floor, that he has failed. Hanzo sobs as his orgasm hits like a wall; thick spurts of cum catch against his stomach, his chest, his beard, huge biceps flexing, whole body heaving and pained. He cries, low and deep, the sound of a man who has known and lost himself.
It takes many moments for Hanzo’s awareness to return, eyes glassy and face tear-stained. Hanzo licks his lips, staring up at Akande, so open that it momentarily shocks him.
Akande smiles, strokes Hanzo’s slackened lower lip with his thumb like a lover would.
“There are things to be learned from failure.” He murmurs. “Let us continue.”
I felt miserable again today so another short smutty piece happened. Have some Hanyatta feat. pining voyeur Genji, with a side of subyatta and domzo. Because I don’t write much sub!Zen at all somehow???
Cyberrat Writes 