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A Minor Inconvenience

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They come from different worlds, have different majors, are different ages. Genji, an affluent second son from an ancient family, and Zenyatta, an honors student from a shambali monastery. Still, the monk's wit charms Genji as much as his laugh and smile, and the easy way Genji speaks and the cut of his shoulders enamors Zenyatta in turn.

Just friends, they think. It will pass.

It doesn't.

They meet at their usual spot: a narrow corridor within the Philosophy department. Zenyatta's class lets out fifteen minutes before Genji's (though he rarely attends): a perfect time to grab tea.

Everything proceeds as usual.

Until it doesn't.

Someone shoves Zenyatta. He falls into Genji, who swears as they both tip, Genji's shoulder taking the blow as he lands against the wall. There's enough time to twist, back flat against the back of a musty hallway closet they’ve fallen into, before the door slams.

Genji jimmies the handle without success.

"Hey, unlock the door!"

Laughter echoes outside.

"We're jus' helpin' you out, Genji. You'll thank us later!"

It's only until the laughter quiets that he realizes their predicament.

The Philosophy building is one of the oldest on campus, and the closets are tiny. It's also the last class of the day. No one would be around to let them out. Worst of all, Genji can't move; Zenyatta's flattened against him; he has to tilt his face to the side to avoid touching Zenyatta's head.

"Are you unharmed?" Zenyatta murmurs, strangely quiet.

"Yeah. I'm sorry about this. They’re just some dickheads from the basketball team."

Genji licks his lips, trying to think about anything but the man plastered to him. So close, he can smell the woody spice of incense that always clings to Zenyatta, something he has only scented in passing. It’s a warm, comforting smell; it reminds him of all the time he’s spent with Zenyatta, studying, talking, playing video games, stealing glances, accidentally brushing each other’s hands. His nose twitches; suddenly it’s hard to breathe.

“D-do you have your phone?” Genji says, voice ghosting over the shell of Zenyatta’s ear and the distracting expanse of his throat that disappears into the collar of his sweater. “Left mine in my room.”

“Yes. In my back pocket.”

Suddenly Zenyatta’s hand is on him, well, brushing against him, catching his hip bone before sliding low, inward towards—

Genji startles, flattening Zenyatta to the door before he can regain balance, lips brushing against his throat. The smell and warmth of him flood Genji’s senses.

“Genji—” Zenyatta’s voice is airy-sounding and tight.

Genji doesn’t move. Zenyatta’s hand is mashed between them, awkwardly pinned against Genji’s interested body that is growing more interested by the second. He licks his lips, nearly catching against Zenyatta’s neck, the salt of him a ghost on his lips.

“My hand.”

“Sorry! Uh…” Genji shifts back as much as he can, swallows when Zenyatta slides his hand back between their bodies to free it.

“Can you reach it?”

Zenyatta angles his hips back. With the low light and Zenyatta’s large sweater, Genji cannot see much of his body, but he can imagine it. He bites his lip.

“Y-yeah.” Genji slips his hand low, catching the lip of Zenyatta’s sweater, forced to trace along the meat of Zenyatta’s upper thigh, the swell of his ass to find the seam of his pocket.

Zenyatta is so quiet when Genji touches him, still as a statue.

“Sorry it’s—”

“It is fine—” He whispers back. Zenyatta releases a shaky breath. “Hurry.”

The space heats; sweat prickles along his brow. He finds the top of Zenyatta’s pocket, traces the smooth lip of the phone, though he has trouble getting his fingers deep enough to withdraw it.

Genji laughs, nervous and crazed. “Man, your pants are so tight.”

Zenyatta bristles. Genji freezes, fingers half-way twisted into his pocket

“I-I mean—that wasn’t—um—”


“Yes, not the time for—uh… I’m…” Genji fumbles, finally wiggling the phone loose—

—only for it to clatter to the floor.

Genji.” Zenyatta hisses, and Genji has never heard that tone before, low and a little angry.

His dick gives a traitorous pulse.

Zenyatta’s voice evens out with a sigh.

“Maybe I can reach it?”

He’s moving before Genji has time to think.

“Wait, Zen, don’t—”

With nowhere else to go, Zenyatta sinks as low as he can, hips pressing back, hand extended towards the floor. He catches against Genji, and there’s no way he can hide how hard he is, plastered against his best friend in the suffocating space, no way he can stop the noise that claws its way out of his throat.

Zenyatta freezes.

So does Genji.

The only problem is there’s still full contact, Zenyatta’s body slotted against his own. The silence is dizzying; Genji can only hear his heartbeat thundering in his ears, and Zenyatta’s soft—



Genji blinks several times. Zenyatta’s voice is so quiet, barely above a whisper, but if Genji had to identify such a tone, he would say Zenyatta is—

Zenyatta shifts, so slowly at first Genji thinks it’s an accident, but the way he slides back, intent, more insistent than he did before, crackles along his spine.

“Oh, fuck.” Genji moans, mortified, hands locking on Zenyatta’s hips in a vice. To keep him still, to pull him closer. “A-are you—I’m sorry you don’t have to—” Genji hasn’t felt like this since he was a teenager, stupid and bumbling and needy.

Zenyatta dips his head, relaxes by increments until he gathers courage to glance over his shoulder.

“No, I... I want to.” He whispers.

Genji swallows, opens his mouth once, twice, and then laughs, shaky and uneven. “Y-yeah? Uh, wow.” He breathes. “Me too.” Then he laughs again, surer.

He tucks his chin against Zenyatta’s head, nose brushing his ear; he feels hot to the touch. With a single, gentle motion, Genji rocks his hips. Zenyatta hums, throaty, like he still wasn’t expecting Genji to follow through.

Normally, Genji would crack wise, tease Zenyatta, and Zenyatta would respond with clever words, or a laugh, or on rarer occasions, a snort with a gentle shove. Now he can’t find the words, can only gently mouth at Zenyatta’s neck, the faintest brush of lips and teeth at the edges of his ear, beneath his elongated lobe. He’s not sure he’s ever been harder, rutting like a teenager, his cock a damp, sweltering line along his stomach.

Zenyatta shifts back against Genji even as the man grinds forward, like he can’t stay still, shivery and nervous.

“Can I touch you?” Genji breathes into Zenyatta’s throat.

A harsh exhalation. “Please.”

Genji’s cock pulses when he trails his hand from Zenyatta’s hip, lower, inward, finding the monk bulging against the seam of his jeans.

“Damn.” Genji says, awed, cupping him, thrilling at the way Zenyatta gasps and his hips stutter forward eagerly into his grip. “You’re so hard.”

Zenyatta’s tittering shifts into a moan as Genji fucks harder, jostling Zenyatta forward into his hand.

“I am not made of stone.”

“It feels like it here.” Genji squeezes his cock, wanting more than anything to yank Zenyatta out of his clothes and claim every inch of him.

Zenyatta snorts. Genji laughs into his ear.

They lapse into silence, their motions making the door creak.

Zenyatta tenses suddenly.


Genji cups Zenyatta’s mouth as he listens to their approach, pulling Zenyatta flush to his body, taking his weight as he grinds harder against him.

Zenyatta moans, muffled and high, into his hand, and the sound does things to him, maddens Genji enough to work his mouth against Zenyatta’s flushed throat, teeth against sweat-slick skin.

The footsteps grow louder, but he doesn’t relent, forces his fingers past Zenyatta’s lips and into the humid space of his mouth. Zenyatta’s tongue flutters against the intrusion, and they both catch their groans, scared, wanting.

The footsteps stop. Genji ceases, cock burning, wondering if he’s stained his pants from how hot and slick he feels, but that idea is far from his mind as he strains to hear noise from outside.

Zenyatta’s tongue lashes against his fingers, and he hollows his cheeks. Genji’s grip tightens around him, awareness narrowed to Zenyatta sucking his fingers, hips twitching against Genji’s still hand.

The seconds are an eternity to Genji, who forces himself to wait until the footsteps fade away.

“Zenyatta.” He breathes, flattening him to his chest as he fucks forward.

He wants to tease so badly, but he fucks his fingers into Zenyatta’s mouth instead, imagining with startling clarity something else entirely. Zenyatta’s moans and whimpers vibrate around his fingers as his motions grow desperate, hips surging against him.

Genji seals his teeth over Zenyatta’s jugular as he begins to come, hips ramming Genji’s hand into the door, hard enough to bruise, his sounds so broken and hot, muffled around his fingers. He follows shortly after, unable to think of anything else when he hears his name tumble out of Zenyatta’s newly freed, gasping mouth.

It takes several long seconds for him to think, to do anything besides work his hand lazily against Zenyatta’s softening cock and mouth at the bite marks on his neck. He traces his fingers around the spit-slick swollenness of his best friend’s lips and Zenyatta purses them, kisses the stroking hand.


And Genji’s heart races all over again, hearing his name so heat-filled and satisfied from Zenyatta’s lips.

“I hope this time you can behave while I retrieve my phone?”

He doesn’t need to look to see how Zenyatta smiles when he says it, how wicked his eyes look, thin and pleased.

“I suppose we will find out.” Genji mumbles between the kisses he places upon Zenyatta’s throat like an offering.