Hanzo tries punishments first. Prolonged seiza. Reciting doctrines. Withdrawn privileges. He suggests beatings when nothing else works, but his father forbids it (and truthfully, Hanzo doesn’t want to hurt his baby brother, he just wants him to sit quietly at a meeting for once, hell, just show up to one.)
The elder Shimada brother has to get creative.
“A good plan,” his father had said, earning Hanzo a rare smile. “One that requires no violence should always be considered first.”
His father’s blessing is all the incentive he needs.
–
The hardest part is waiting. Hanzo knows he only has one shot at this: if he presents a gift less than superb, less than what befits a young master of Shimada, Genji will not take the bait. However, he doesn’t have to wait for long.
The procession of monks appears a few weeks later, walking in a smooth line down one of Hanamura’s oldest streets. Each is well-groomed and shaven, eye catching and alluring all at once. They wear robes of fine embroidery to show their status, their mandate of heaven, Hanzo assumes. He shakes his head as they pass in the distance, one by one in a neat row. These would be servants of more traditional ilk. Hanzo would not mind their leader pour his tea, and he stares hungrily at those long, graceful fingers clasped in front of the monk as he walks.
Mid fantasy, he notices something amiss. Several steps behind his fellows is a final monk, talking to a wizened fishmonger. He looks nothing like his brothers and sisters, though he is shaved and similarly dark-skinned as their leader. His robes are plainer, tattered at the edges, his mala spin in a lazy, capricious circle around his shoulders. When he laughs, Hanzo sees a flash of white teeth, and the monger glows with the attention. He slips her coin as one of his attendants chitters at him, perhaps telling him to step back in line, and the monk bows, smiling as apology before turning to wink at the monger.
A younger brother, distant to his own monastic rule.
Hanzo knows he has found the one.
–
Capturing the one is more difficult than Hanzo could ever imagine.
First, he evades, lower agents of the clan unable to locate him, even after validating their intel.
Then he fights, those pretty baubles masquerade as deadly weapons, and Hanzo’s men learn the hard way, in blood and bruises and broken bones, he is not to be underestimated.
Finally, unfortunately, Hanzo makes the trip, grown weary of watching his men fail. He takes the monk himself, injured and exhausted by the time his entourage places the monk in the back of his limo.
He has the monk cleaned and bound as he sleeps, and Hanzo selects a kimono of the finest silks to match his brother’s lurid green dragon and his rebellious hair. The monk’s eyelashes flutter just as an attendant paints the last of the red beneath his eyes.
The golden eyes that meet Hanzo’s are of fire, molten in their intensity. He will fight, the monk says without words.
Fandom: Overwatch Pairing: Null Sector Agents/Mondatta Warnings: noncon, public use, mind alteration, an OC
Summary:
Mondatta refuses to denounce the humans. The leader of null sector is determined to change his mind.
Notes: I had to re-upload because I thought I had deleted my reblog, but I deleted the post. orz Thanks again to @cyberrat and @ravenouscannibal for help!
Gabe wonders if the dancer knows he will not be leaving tonight, consumed as he is by the task at hand.
His hazel eyes draw thin, and the gold paint beneath each catches in the low light as he weaves his body to the chiming of the orbs encircling his body. There is something otherworldly in the way he moves, like magic, but Gabe doesn’t believe in magic. Yet, if he stares at the outline of the monk’s body hard enough, he almost sees something: an afterimage, a trick of the eye like an illusion on the horizon.
He flows to the swelling accompaniment of the other monks, drums and shamisen joining the chimes, and his motions intensify like a fight, a koan incarnate, skirts and belts rippling as his spins and arches, steps so slight and practiced he floats.
Lord Shimada watches with polite interest, but the young master slouches forward, chin cupped in his palm, calloused thumb pressing his lower lip. His pupils shine, large and dark, and a telltale flush dusts his high cheekbones. Gabe has seen that look before.
He doesn’t blame the young master, but he does feel sorry for the monk. Untouched, he guesses, raised in the mountains five thousand kilometers away, though the monk looks his mid-twenties. A sweet, uninitiated bauble to amuse for an evening; the young master grew bored with his conquests quite easily.
Gabe straightens in his black suit, clenching his hands in front of him. When the finale comes, will the young master cheer uproariously, showering the warm-skinned dancer in praise? Will he woo him with promises of wealth and power and pleasure? He imagines some monks are immune to such flattery, but no one is infallible, and new, unknown attentions might sway him. Gabe hopes, for his sake, it does.
The young master does not take rejection lightly.
The monk may refuse. Gabe may be ordered forward to retrieve him for whatever the young master desired. It would not be the first time. He would use his guns for this one, the orbs’ rotations beautiful but dangerous, whistling through the air like bullets.
He would restrain the monk, careful, so careful to leave him unharmed. The young master cut off the last guard’s arm when he was sloppy. Gabe hopes he would come easily, after, allow his robes to be slipped his body. He would lay back for Gabe on the silken sheets of the bed, spread his long, supple thighs, let Gabe tease his fingers inside him until he is wet and soft and mewling.
Gabe bites his lip. The monk could be hard, cock straining, dripping pearls against his lean, trembling stomach, or flaccid, ignorant of his own body, or perhaps too frightened. It would not make any difference to the young master; what he lacked in restraint he made up in skill. He would bring the monk to heaven sooner or later.
Gabe shifts as the music ebbs, dick pulsing, trapped down the leg of his suit. He can’t help but let his thoughts linger as the monk arcs in a sinuous line; Gabe’s hands would overshadow his waist if he held his hips. He rolls his lower lip into his mouth and bites, shakes his head.
The young master would never grant such a request, not when his own interest shown so plainly on his face, in his posture, in the thickening curve between his legs. Gabe hopes as the monk sinks into a low bow, music fading, that the young master will let him watch.
it’s so good???? thank you so much??? fuck…. fuuuuck…. exotic dancer Zen… fuck yes… yes yes yes yes yes a thousand times
Zencio for a special friendo who had a bad day yesterday. Here’s to you, boo. ❤
“You ready?” Lúcio asks, fingers poised over his control console. He smiles at Zenyatta, who nods and traces the thin cable plugged into his chest. It’s a quiet night at the watchpoint, the time between missions stretching long enough that they can relax and have a breather for once.
Lúcio taps the screen, illuminating a small square button. Music pours from the speakers lining each wall in the small room, a click on the track catching Zenyatta by surprise. The sound pulses through his circuits in waves, beginning in the center of his chest, pumping in time, ambient swells caressing down to the tips of his fingers, vibrating to the soles of his feet. Warmth blooms along his chassis, soft but undeniable, like hearing Lúcio’s music in the field, only instead of around it’s inside him.
“Fascinating.” Zenyatta hums, the ghost sensations growing more vibrant by the second, building with the tempo of the music. His well-tempered calm slips away in increments, replaced by a strange giddiness.
“Yeah? Says you’re showing increased energy levels.” He hears the smile in Lúcio’s voice as the DJ pecks at his station, glancing over as he works his analog and digital instruments in time, operating the set-up like it isn’t an unlabeled mass of cables and knobs and screens. Even after spending so much time with him, memorizing each switch and button, cataloging them in his feeds, Zenyatta’s captivated by how easily Lúcio’s hands dance over the console.
A familiar warmth, as secretive and slow as the first, pools down his wires as he stares at Lúcio’s hands, joining the already heightened sensations undulating through him. His grip tightens on the cable at his chest, the finest tremble clicking the smaller, looser wires of his body together. Lúcio continues to spin as the pressure builds, gentle and on rhythm, cresting into something that feels familiar, like—
“A-ah.” Zenyatta gasps, stilling, wires pulsing like the flutter of Lúcio’s heart when he touches his chest.
Lúcio stops and looks at him, the beat continuing without fluctuation. Zenyatta plants a hand on the table, pitching forward, sensation searing through his wires, stronger with every click. The bundle of nerves between his legs surges thick and heavy, twitching with energy, nearly overloaded with it.
“You…still okay?” Lúcio grips his forearm, angles Zenyatta’s face towards him with a gentle hand at his chin, as if he could read an omnic expression. Maybe he can, knows the flickering of Zenyatta’s array, feels the fine trembling of his faceplate like morse code. Lúcio’s cheeks darken at the next soft cry, ripe with static.
“Feels good?” His voice drops and he leans closer, slotting his smaller body into Zenyatta’s side, eyes tracking his face. His hand moves behind him, still plucking at the console, controlling the tempo, the intensity, gauging Zenyatta’s reactions and playing off them, playing him, like an instrument.
“Yes.” Zenyatta hisses, sounds alien, tight and needy. The tempo quickens, 150 beats per minute, 160, each note flooding pulse after pulse through him, reverberating from the tips of his systems and flooding back, cascading and colliding and building.
“Can I touch you? The noises you’re making are really doing something for me.”
Zenyatta keens, throws an arm over the small human and pulls him to his chest, hard enough to hurt, perhaps, but the swell of music, euphoric, harmonious, revitalizes them both. Zenyatta jerks, ruts into the firm warmth of Lúcio’s stomach, clutching his lower back in a vice, synth warbling as his sytems start to offline.
“O-oh, I am going to—ah!”
“Yeah, come for me, Zenyatta.” Lúcio laughs, weaseling his hand into the loose lip of Zenyatta’s pants, hands expertly pushing the sequencing of Zenyatta’s modesty panel. The moment those sensitive, overclocked nodes receive the manual stimulation of Lúcio’s calloused fingers cupping and rolling around them, he is lost.
Zenyatta overloads with a long, whimpering note, crackling as the base drops, losing his footing as the heightened input crashes core functions, but Lúcio holds him like his isn’t inches taller and fifty pounds heavier. The omnic chirps and clutches at him, mindless, then boneless, in Lúcio’s arms. The man’s hands tease up the red cables of his spine, gently unplug the cable from his chest so he can press his face to it, nuzzling.
“That was amazing.” Lúcio murmurs, kissing at the warm paneling.
Zenyatta’s fans kick on belatedly, steam rustling Lúcio’s hair. The DJ laughs, and Zenyatta joins after freeing up the processing power, the sound like melodic bells against the soft, continuing music. Zenyatta captures Lúcio’s chin in his hands, bumps his faceplate against his cheek. Lúcio kisses at the golden lip, breath clouding the chrome.
“I would be offended if you did not let me return the favor.” The omnic replies, voice an octave lower and warm with promise.
It’s been decades since the last time he’s seen Gabriel’s naked body. Peeling back creased leather and reinforced armor, he watches that dark, ashen skin slip into view, tendrils of smoke separating from his flesh like vapor on dry ice and nearly as chilling. He runs his metal hand over the swell of Gabriel’s ass, smile tugging his lips when he realizes.
“You’re still such a looker, boss.” Jesse says, voice low, awe hanging on each syllable as he lifts both organic and metal hands to spread his cheeks. His eyes follow his curves until he sees it, Gabe still soft and pink, though oddly hairless. Jesse doesn’t mind.
His old commander grunts, jerks into the moth-eaten cot they’ve settled on in an abandoned house. There’s a bark of far off laughter, the smell of exhaust and orange halogen glow leaking in through the broken window.
“Gotten introspective in your old age, have ya?” Jesse drawls, pressing his naked hand against Gabe’s hole, brushes his thumb against the swelling curve of his balls, every part of him cool to the touch, smooth like a statue. He remembers the warm pulse of his commander beneath him in another life, quaking and needy.
Well, at least he could make one of those things a reality now.
“Shut up.”
The duality of Gabe’s voice raised the hackles on his neck the first time he heard it, but now it’s just another part of him, new, accepted. If he really tries, he feels a twinge of loss for who Gabe used to be: proud, hot-blooded, intimidating as hell and twice as much in standard uniform. It isn’t even like he’s lost most of those features; it’s almost like Gabe has been enhanced again, a terror, a true otherworldly being physically embodying that past strength. And if Jesse thought about it, late at night, staring at the ceiling while he couldn’t sleep, that he buried this man over a decade ago, and that if any Gabe, monster or human, returned to him, he would never let go.
Jesse’s finger catches against Gabe’s rim, applying pressure but not pressing inside, gauging Gabe’s reactions. The man’s half clothed still, coat tossed to the floor, head tucked into the crook of his arm. The smoke billows around his face, scarred surface a ghostly outline. He doesn’t like Jesse to see his face, but he doesn’t want Jesse to know he doesn’t want him to see. Jesse chuckles, and Gabe’s whole body tenses at once.
“No need for that. Don’t be so nervous.” Jesse leans forward, drags his tongue against Gabe’s hole. There’s nothing to taste besides the faint trace of ash and salt on the back of his tongue.
The wraith twitches, gasps like he wasn’t expecting it. His metal hand tugs one cheek back, opens up space for him to work, flicking his tongue against his finger and finally nudges inside. He wants to tease Gabe, but he knows that’s not what he needs. He curls, feeling around, and it’s like they’ve done this yesterday with how easy he has Gabe gasping, low and hot.
“Still so sensitive. I missed this. Missed you.” Jesse murmurs when he takes a breath. Gabe moans, bites it back, growls.
“Stop. Talking.”
Jesse does, works his mouth against Gabe until his body goes warm and pliant beneath his tongue while Gabe strains and swears, fucks his hips back against his mouth when he draws close, spills warm and thick against the sheets when Jesse curls his finger, like clockwork, like old times.
“Beautiful.” Jesse murmurs, finally catching the crimson-flecked gaze of the one he loves staring back at him.
Mako knows the destruction magic can cause, and his blood boils at the sight of anyone who wields it. Were he a younger man, he would have killed the monk before him. His genial, dark face and open demeanor mock him, remind him of everything that the omnics ruined. His livelihood, his homeland, the only life he ever knew.
But he is not a younger man; nuclear meltdown had a way of changing things.
Now, the monk’s graceful neck disappears inside the clench of his fist and he tugs, forcing the monk to his knees. The monk struggles, eyes bright and wide, high cheekbones gone splotchy and red, but he simply squeezes until the monk’s lids flutter and the long, delicate fingers cease scrabbling at his wrist.
Mako works quickly, danger buzzing along his skin like the aftershocks of an explosion: far enough away to feel the heat and energy, close enough to nearly fry the tips of the hairs along his arms. They are not alone, after all, the base teeming with recruits, an unlocked door separating them from discovery. He tugs his pants down in two harsh pulls, feels the cool air brush against his flaccid cock that he immediately takes in hand.
He unclenches his fist just enough to keep the monk from passing out. The monk gasps, flighty and wild, his eyes flickering from Mako stroking his slowly hardening cock and the man’s face, tawny skin flushing like a sunburn in the Australian heat. Mako doesn’t give him enough air to catch his breath, doesn’t want those venomous incantations to escape from that beguiling mouth. The little shambali may have everyone else under his thumb, but Mako is no fool. Their powers are not their own, and any who cling to the ethereal are corrupted by the old gods sooner or later, no matter their name, Anubis or Iris.
Mako stares at the tempting swell of the monk’s lips, round and pretty like a woman’s, catching flashes of his soft pink tongue behind two rows of straight white teeth. How his eyes couldn’t figure out where to look, finally slipping closed while he struggled to pull in the scant air that Mako allowed him. The perfect, nine dot array never flickered with its otherworldly blue light, remaining dormant like identical freckles upon his shaved pate.
His dick twitches and thickens as he watches the monk’s face, knows how dangerous he is, how easily he could be destroyed if there was room between them. The excitement of it, of having such a pretty, powerful thing at his mercy makes him impatient. Mako yanks the monk forward, bumping his lips against the wet head of his cock. The monk jerks, causing his dick to slide along his cheek, a wet trail of precum in its wake. Mako grunts, slaps him hard across the mouth. The omnic’s shout catches in his throat, but when the monk stares up at him, nearly eclipsed by the arc of his gut, it’s not anger or fear but hesitant, barely contained lust, the amber color of his iris drowned in black.
Mako grabs his dick, lets it smack against the reddened mark on his face while the monk flinches.
“Open your mouth.” Mako says, each word low and slow, like he’s speaking to a child, or an animal.
The hand at his throat relaxes slightly when the monk listens, presents that soft tongue, tilts his head back so he can see the red insides of his throat. Mako groans when he taps the tip of his cock against that velvet muscle, loving how the saliva grips at him, how hot and wet his mouth feels trembling against the underside of his cock.
He doesn’t think he’ll fit, but he does. Mako doesn’t go easy, takes the power like he does anything else, hard, unforgiving, no score too small. The monk’s throat convulses around him when he pushes too deep, knows he doesn’t pull back as much as he should to let him breathe. The omnic’s so responsive, groaning and choking, voice fucked out and raspy when he takes those precious pulls of air, saliva and pre catching in gossamer strands between those swollen lips and his dripping cock.
When he draws close, Mako works his forefinger and thumb in a circle behind his glans, bumping his slit against the monk’s tongue, the monk breathing like he’s run a marathon when the first jet of cum catches against his cheek, the second landing hot and thick on his presented tongue. The monk shakes, panting, tongue hanging out of his mouth and letting the cum drip when Mako finally releases his throat, only to lock his hands at his chin to study his work.
Zenyatta whispers, and the incantation filters through Genji’s mind like music through water, distant and otherworldly. His master’s forehead glows, each pinpoint of light soft and dazzling, matching the ethereal shine of his eyes. He breathes out, and the words cease. Then there is nothing.
Zenyatta opens his eyes. Genji stares back at him, wide and unseeing. Then, a shift: his student sighs, eyelids drooping, pupils dilating, ringed with gold. He grins.
“Hey, there. I haven’t seen you around here before.” Genji murmurs, eyes tracing over his master, flickering to his orange garb, hesitating for an instant on Zenyatta’s bare chest.
“Genji?” Zenyatta murmurs. The hairs on his neck prickle. This is not the first time someone has stared at him with such open interest. That the attention comes from Genji is.
“Oh, my reputation precedes me. All good things, I hope.” Genji purrs, leaning forward, hand settling high on Zenyatta’s thigh. “That’s what I’m known for. Being good.”
Over the years, Genji had divulged his past to Zenyatta, things he wasn’t proud to admit. Gambling. Drinking. Sleeping with anyone that caught his eye, especially if it displeased the clan. Zenyatta thought this exercise would help Genji come to terms with his past. To think this is who his student was, who he might’ve met, in another life. His chest tightens.
“What’s your name?” Pressure on his face refocuses him on the now. Genji slides the pad of his thumb along his lower lip, cupping his chin so gently, like Zenyatta is fragile, like he doesn’t want to startle him.
Zenyatta exhales, soft and low, face heating, eyes downcast. He tells him in a hushed whisper.
“Zenyatta.” Genji repeats, inches from his master’s face. Monk. Tekhartha. Master. Genji has never called him his given name. “So pretty. It suits you.”
–
Zenyatta cries into the sheets of his bed, the smell of incense and sex filling his nose. Genji twists his fingers inside him, teasing around something that makes Zenyatta’s body tremble and his insides quake with pleasure.
“Right there? So sensitive.” Genji moans into his ear, pressing his dripping cock harder against the soft muscles of Zenyatta’s thigh, rutting while he fucks his master with his fingers. Zenyatta’s own cock hangs heavy and fat between his legs, precum dripping into the sheets.
“This can’t be your first time. Holed up in a monastery with a bunch of men? I bet you are quite popular.”
Zenyatta moans, broken and wanting like he’s never known, hips pressing back for more, but Genji continues to graze that spot inside him that keeps him weak and helpless. Open in a way he has never been with his student, like he’s always wished to be. Wonders if his Genji wants this too, but it’s so hard to think, so hard to feel anything but those fingers teasing him until his toes curl and his thighs flex and he’s, he’s –
Crying out, when Genji withdraws his fingers, circling his swollen hole before shifting behind him, the warm press of something more substantial nudging against his body. Genji shushes him, each word lancing new sick pangs of want through his bones.
“Easy now.” Genji whispers, one hand grasping Zenyatta’s hip, steadying him. “Let’s see how many times you can come for me, Zenyatta.”
Happy valentines day McHanzo fans!! Art by @kinoskii, who also is the best ever and supports me on patreon (as does my other best ever patron, @meownnaise)! Fic under the cut and on ao3! (Also this chapter was inspired by @cyberrat thank u for fueling my depravity)
Cyberrat Writes 