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The charity game is Winston’s idea. Something to build morale, to show the world their faces and willingness to play nice. Overwatch wins against the all-star team in extra innings, and by the time everyone shake hands it’s well into the evening.
Zenyatta’s locker is tucked away in the far corner, and Genji couldn’t be more pleased. He waits until the voices of his teammates fade, leaving just the two of them. His master has his fingers hooked beneath the buttons of his uniform, humming softly as his student settles behind him.
“Nice pitching, master,” Genji murmurs, taking in the curved silhouette of his back.
It’s strange seeing Zenyatta more covered than usual, his delicate wires cradled by soft, form-fitting cotton. A belt. Knee-high socks. His master’s chassis is dewed with condensation, so much like sweat. Genji leans in and breathes, and of course he isn’t musky, only slightly sweet from the coolant, warm and familiar with the faint scent of sandalwood.
“Thank you, Genji.” Zenyatta turns just enough for him to catch his profile. “You did splendidly as well.”
“Perhaps we should go pro once we’ve saved the world,” Genji says. Zenyatta laughs, and a pleasant warmth joins the heat already settled in Genji’s body. “Then I can see you in uniform more often.”
Genji’s fingers trace the thin belt around his waist, presses flush to Zenyatta’s back so he can reach the cool metal clasp.
Zenyatta hums.
“My kasaya may also be considered a uniform,” he says with only a hint of breathlessness, strangely still as Genji fiddles with his belt. Waiting, curious.
“I do enjoy when you wear the traditional shambali attire. The layers and sashes make you glow beneath the torchlight of the monastery. Like a work of art.”
The belt loosens with a quiet clink, and Genji tugs it through the loops. He draws Zenyatta’s distracting, beautiful hands behind him and binds his wrists with the elastic, more for show than anything, and Zenyatta acquiesces control. The omnic releases a soft plume of steam while Genji arranges him to his liking before turning his master to face him.
“This is eliciting a different response than my standard outfit.”
Genji drinks in Zenyatta’s mussed shirt, his top button already undone, revealing the damp cotton beneath. He doesn’t respond, has more important things taking up his brain power as he sinks to his knees, Zenyatta’s soft sound of surprise already onlining his own body. He mouths at the cotton, staring into Zenyatta’s optics, the omnic shuttering even though his cock’s still locked inside him.
“Genji.” He glances towards the door then back to his student as Genji tugs his pants down to mid thigh. “You mustn’t dally. We could be caught.”
“Tragic,” Genji murmurs against Zenyatta’s modesty panel, sliding his fingers sloppily in sequence to release Zenyatta’s cock. “You seem to be struggling with the thought of an audience,” Genji teases as he kisses the gap between his hip, lips ghosting over hidden sensors.
“Your interest during the game was not subtle.”
Genji mouths around the base of his cock, and the lockers groans under Zenyatta’s weight.
“It made you hot, knowing I was staring.”
Zenyatta shifts, restless, perhaps, needy when Genji kisses the glowing light on each segment of his cock, the line of them brightening with the attention, a sweet pearl of slick waiting for Genji by the time his lips find the glowing tip. He laps at it, barely more than a tease, and Zenyatta shrugs his shoulders, straining against his bindings.
“Genji…” His voice slips low.
Genji hums, drags his tongue beneath his glans, cradling it, savoring its sweet near tastelessness but moreso how Zenyatta stifles a low whine. His master trembles and twitches even as he does little more than lick and kiss. He steadies Zenyatta’s hips with his hands, keeping him pressed against the locker so he can tease his master properly, tease him like he had been teased, watching Zenyatta stretch and pitch, unable to drag his eyes away for even a moment. Zenyatta, bent over the dugout fence, cheering and offering guidance. Watching his master run on those long, long legs after getting so accustomed to watching him float, the way Zenyatta laughed and gleamed beneath the stadium lights.
Genji moans despite himself, sealing his lips around the tip of his cock, nursing it, sweet slick spilling on his tongue. Zenyatta tenses, curls over him, arms flexing again, useless breaths coming faster.
“T-tease,” his master croons shakily, hips tight against Genji’s palms.
Genji’s eyes thin, and he sinks forward, inch by inch, wetting his cock in a smooth pull, feeling the warmth of each light against his tongue. The tears in his eyes are worth it for the broken sounds Zenyatta makes. Could he be so close when Genji had barely touched him?
He can’t help but smile when he pulls back with an audible pop, Zenyatta groaning as Genji works him lazily with his fist.
“You don’t know what you do to me,” Genji says, each word hot over his master’s cock, his mouth following shortly after, working the base with his hand in time.
Gentle, so gentle, each suck eliciting wet, filthy sounds, his saliva slicker than a normal human’s, better suited for nefarious purposes. Purposes like suckling his fingers so he can fuck himself, ease Zenyatta back and ride him on the dirty cement floor. His cock gives a throbbing twitch, steam releasing in a startling hiss.
Zenyatta’s rarely so far gone, clicking and shuddering, his synth trapped on lost, startled sounds. His optics lock on Genji’s face, and he feels their intensity like greedy hands against his body. Genji matches it with his own, swallows Zenyatta’s cock while he stares up at him, nose pressing into the hot metal of his chassis again and again. Smooth, even drags that have Zenyatta’s cock grinding against his palate, pushing into his throat. When he pulls back, gasping and dizzied, the slide of his palm against Zenyatta’s cock is blood-warm and slippery.
“Wanna come?” He whispers hoarsely, and Zenyatta’s synth cuts out, his cap skewing when he tosses his head back, sounding broken.
Genji laughs, tips his chin up, presents his tongue framed by shiny, swollen lips, licks the sensor just beneath his cockhead, little more that fluttering taps while he works his hand nice and easy. The room’s hazy with their steam, almost scalding what little skin’s left on Genji’s face, but there’s nothing that could stop him now. Not with Zenyatta’s uniform ruffled and his lights flickering, his chassis a livewire. His master on edge and barely contained, each and every thing Genji does eliciting a knee-jerk response, every lick and kiss and suck, perfectly in sync with his touch.
Would Zenyatta sink his fingers into his hair if he wasn’t tied? Split his mouth wide, bury into his throat again and again, fill his stomach as he used him carelessly?
Genji’s moan vibrates along his tongue, and he presses meanly between his own legs, shaky fingers coming away wet. How he must look, his own reserves leaking from the seams of his modesty panel while he swallows and teases his master’s cock. He shoves his thighs together, his hand grasping Zenyatta’s hip harshly for purchase.
“Gen–ji–”
He nearly loses his balance as Zenyatta’s hips fuck forward, chasing the channel of Genji’s fist, pumping into it in a way that Genji’s body remembers eagerly. Pulses with want for it.
The first splash of slick catches the bridge of his nose, hot and startling. The cyborg growls, squeezing the base of Zenyatta’s cock, working it quicker, angling it to spill along his tongue. The lockers rattle as Zenyatta thrashes, a string of nepali so broken Genji can’t understand it. Crazed, needy for it, Genji shoves forward, swallowing Zenyatta to the base, forcing him deep, face flushed from the heat of Zenyatta’s chassis, working his throat around every inch of it, wanting all of Zenyatta inside him.
His vision wavers, and only then does he pull back. His next breath sounds as ragged as if someone had choked him, and he grins, crazed and pleased because in a way he had. It’s all Genji can do to keep Zenyatta from falling as he slides to the floor, but they manage, both trembling messes, especially his master as he resets with tiny, mindless aftershocks.
Zenyatta’s beyond words, still clicking and chirping, but Genji’s already tossing his leg over Zenyatta’s thighs, slipping into the position he’s been aching for since the moment he saw his master on the field. It takes him three tries to release his own panel, the slick audibly splattering over Zenyatta’s chassis when it pulls up and away.
“Now...wh–ose h-hot…?” And there’s mirth in it, even though Zenyatta’s synth isn’t quite ready to work properly.
“You win this round,” Genji groans, cramming his fingers inside himself once or twice before grabbing Zenyatta’s cock, angling the heavy thing upright. “Here’s your prize.”
Only after Genji’s had Zenyatta on the floor, bent over the low wooden bench, against the shower walls, does he realize both of their uniforms are ruined.
They play janken to decide who will explain the state of their uniforms to the rest of the team.