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“Mr. Shimada. You are early.”
Genji fought back a smile. Perhaps he was a little early, but he couldn’t help it. When Zenyatta had agreed to do this, he hadn’t been able to think of anything else.
“I hope that is okay, doctor.” Even if he didn’t smile, a teasing, excited lilt bled through his vocoder.
“On the contrary. If only every patient was so eager for care, it would make my job that much easier.”
Genji stepped through the doorway and into one of the watchpoint’s unused medstations. The room was small, and the harsh, surgical lighting had been dimmed, making the glow of Zenyatta’s array all the brighter. He surveyed his master eagerly, his mouth going dry, his body warm and buzzing.
Zenyatta had dressed the part. He wore a lab coat that looked suspiciously like Angela’s, and he had on glasses—round ones with gold frames that matched his chrome. His graceful fingers strummed against the datapad in his hand, and he tipped his head in a way that Genji knew was amusement, his master’s smile.
“Mr. Shimada,” Zenyatta asked, low and coy, “is something wrong?”
This was all for Genji—the setting, the outfit, the play. He licked his lips, tried to quell the excitement thrumming through him like a current. There was no calm facade to be had, however, when his shoulder vents snapped open with a burst of steam.
Genji winced. “No, I’m… okay. Besides the… why I’m here…”
Zenyatta covered his laugh expertly with a considering hum, then he gestured towards the center of the room.
“If you would please undress and lay on the examination table, we can begin your system maintenance.”
Another rush shivered through Genji, but thankfully his vents didn’t pop again. He lowered his gaze to the examination table as he began to remove his sweater. The table had been refitted with strategically-placed cushions where he would need support: his head, his chest, his hips… there was even a set for his arms—a set that had restraints—
“Do you require assistance undressing, Mr. Shimada?”
Genji jolted and started quickly tugging off the rest of his clothes. This time, Zenyatta didn’t hide his small, curt laugh. Genji thrilled to hear it, even if it was at his own expense. Zenyatta’s laughter was arresting, like monastery chimes.
With his clothes in a messy pile on the floor, Genji stepped up to the table. He swallowed, his heart racing as he stared down at its seemingly innocuous setup. It was only then he realized that the table was too short, that he’d have to bend over with his feet planted on the floor if he were to lie face down properly—
There was sudden pressure along his lower back, Zenyatta’s hand, firm and grounding. Genji hadn’t realized his master had moved so close to him.
“There’s no need to be frightened,” Zenyatta said softly. “The procedure should be quite painless.”
Genji looked at his master sidelong for a moment, studying him. He knew he was breaking character, but it was difficult not to. He was nervous, and he wanted to see Zenyatta, to commit the sight of him to memory. His master’s hand flexed against his back. The motion was subtle, encouraging. Genji relaxed slightly, and he let it guide him as he laid down.
The cushions were firm but not too stiff, cradling each part of him so there was no strain. Even so, he had trouble relaxing into them completely. He couldn’t see Zenyatta now, could only track him by the sound of his voice and the near—silent machinations of his body.
“How do you feel, Mr. Shimada? Comfortable?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent. I will begin with your armor.”
Genji only nodded in response, too busy keenly anticipating Zenyatta’s movements, too distracted by the sound of his voice. Slowly, meticulously, Zenyatta began to remove pieces of Genji’s armor. The clasps along his shoulders, the smaller sections nestled at the top of his spine. These were delicate places, wired to be sensitive. Without protection, they could easily short circuit his cybernetics and injure what remained of his flesh.
A feeling of release, of weightlessness followed each pneumatic hiss of a part removed. Genji didn’t have anything to fear; he trusted Zenyatta wouldn’t hurt him, that Zenyatta knew his body well enough to keep him safe while he exposed a fragile network of systems that rarely saw the light of day.
Pressure along his spine, featherlight, across the back of his neck, as satisfying as if it was skin on skin. Perhaps because he yearned for it so badly, or maybe it was that Zenyatta’s touch felt electric and his body answered in its own unique way.
His master’s hands reached the back of his head. He wished Zenyatta would grip the base of his ribbon and tug, remembering how good it had felt when he had done it before—but as soon as he thought it, Zenyatta’s touch left him.
“Turn your head toward me, Mr. Shimada. I need to remove your helmet.”
Genji obeyed without hesitation. Familiar hands filled his vision, deftly undoing the clasps that held his helmet in place. Zenyatta removed all but the lower section that covered his mouth and held his respirator—which was good. Genji thought he’d need it for what was to come. Already his body prickled and burned with anticipation, alight with barely contained desire. A plea was steadily building on his tongue, but he bit it back.
Zenyatta hesitated. Genji felt the weight of his attention on his face. His eyes must shine with his thoughts, and his master had surely noticed.
“You’re doing well so far. I will begin with your calibrations now. Tell me if you experience any discomfort.”
Zenyatta’s steps were slow, but they were heavy. Intentional. Genji tracked each one until his master came to a stop behind him, settling between his legs, close enough that he could feel the warmth of his chassis.
With great care, fingers descended upon the exposed wiring low on Genji’s back. Genji groaned softly, his internal systems humming with feedback. It never felt this way when others touched his cybernetics. Perhaps it was because Zenyatta wasn’t actually maintenancing him, or maybe there was something special about his master’s touch. He wasn’t just a machine, wasn’t a simple tool wielded by some engineer. He was touched by something greater—a spirit, or a being close enough to it, like a Shimada dragon—one whose power, whose essence he could channel. It sparked and sunk into him too, in small, pulsing strokes, like static electricity but smooth, shivery, bone-deep. It lanced through Genji, blooming like the sun’s heat grew as it rose in the sky, gradual but all encompassing.
The sensation resonated from the base of his spine and followed the path of Zenyatta’s hands, up and up, pinpricks of heat flaring wherever he lingered. His master was speaking, narrating what he was doing. He was leaning closer and closer the further he trailed up Genji’s body too, until his body was pressed flush to Genji’s ass and thighs, heat coalescing there in a swift deluge. Genji made a rough noise, a whimper lodged in his throat.
“Are you in pain, Mr. Shimada?” Zenyatta’s words were slow and melodic.
“ Yes, ” Genji choked out.
“Can you identify its source?”
Genji swallowed another thin, desperate sound. It’s you, you’re teasing me, I’m going to explode—he exhaled shakily.
“Mm… m-my… my groin.”
Zenyatta made a considering chirp. “Oh? That is unusual. I will have to inspect it. Please spread your legs wider, Mr. Shimada.”
Genji ground his teeth and pressed his face into the cushion. How did Zenyatta manage to sound so appropriate and shameless at the same time? His stance was already wide, but he widened it further. It wasn’t strain that made his legs tremble, that caused him to startle when pressure descended on his thigh and slid inward.
“This is delicate work. Please refrain from moving. I would prefer not to use restraints or call additional staff, but I will do so if necessary.”
Genji’s fingers sunk into the cushions, his eyes darting to the restraints that rested mere inches away. The heat coursing through him solidified in a hot, heavy pool.
“That won’t… be necessary,” he rasped through his respirator.
He felt the pressure over his codpiece, but he couldn’t actually feel it. He gripped the cushions harder.
“My apologies. I haven’t unlatched a model such as yours before.”
Bullshit, Genji nearly said. His master was teasing him again, groping along the seams of his armor with mock clumsiness until, finally, it released, sliding back and away into his suit. With nothing to hold it back, His cock sprung forth immediately, and Genji moaned—a long, low, shocked sound. He knew he was hard, but he hadn’t known the extent of it—he throbbed, felt pre dripping out of him. He was fully exposed too, his cock trapped between his legs by the edge of the table.
Zenyatta hummed in a mimicry of concern. He dragged his forefinger over Genji’s cock from base to tip—Genji’s whole body jerked, his feet nearly losing their positions on the floor.
“Most unusual,” the omnic purred. “I’m afraid I will have to perform a manual flush.”
Genji barely registered the words, his entire world narrowed on the lingering touch, the violent heat of his own body all encompassing.
Zenyatta stepped back, and Genji groaned.
“Zen—”
“Mr. Shimada?” Zenyatta interrupted in a firm but gentle chide.
Genji exhaled harshly, tried to re-center himself. He wasn’t a horny teenager anymore; he could handle this. He wanted this. Breaking character now would make the entire set-up meaningless.
There was a soft sound of plastic tearing open. Then the heat of Zenyatta returned.
“I am going to apply manual stimulation until your system flush is complete.”
Before Genji had time to infer his meaning, Zenyatta had taken his cock in hand. His grip was smooth and warm and wet, slick with lubricant. The first stroke tore an embarrassing rasp from deep in Genji’s chest.
“You may vocalize if you wish, Mr. Shimada. I am told it makes the process easier.”
Such a shameless creature hiding beneath the veneer of a monk! But any verbal insult was lost in a broken gasp as Zenyatta began to move his hand. These weren’t tentative, teasing strokes, but firm, mechanical motions. His master knew exactly how to torment him, how just to twist his wrist on the down stroke, thumb gliding beneath the ridge of his cock.
Genji was being milked with methodical, meticulous confidence—the way pleasure punched through his guts stole his breath, made staying still a near impossibility.
“Don’t move, Mr. Shimada. This is your final warning.”
A whine escaped Genji, long and thin, ringing in his own ears, but he was beyond caring. His cinched his fingers hard enough to hear the cushions creak, clenched his legs tight enough to burn—but that only made his impending orgasm approach that much quicker.
He opened his mouth to warn Zenyatta, but another choked noise escaped instead. He steeled himself for it—the ferocious snap of orgasm as that liquid smooth glide worked over him again and again—
—only for the pressure to intensify and for movement to stop completely—Zenyatta’s fist tightening around the base of his cock in a vice.
Genji swore, his feet giving out as he fought through the pain battering into the pleasure, collapsing into the table completely.
“I know it is difficult, but you must bear it. This is all part of the standard process.” There was no masking the quiet, satisfied delight in Zenyatta’s voice.
Genji couldn’t even summon the willpower to be angry; his mind was white noise, trained completely on Zenyatta’s grip, how it eased slightly, how it began to shift again, pain ebbing while pleasure rushed to replace it.
He was brought to the brink again with only a handful of tugs,but Zenyatta knew him too well, could read him fiendishly, and held him tight once more. Genji nearly bucked into his hand, but the grip was tight, resolute—his balls ached from the pressure—he couldn’t think; he could only feel.
“You’re doing so well, Mr. Shimada. We are nearly there.”
Zenyatta kept him in his grip while his other hand glided along the swell of his balls, soft, barely there caresses that made Genji whimper. The pain was good, somehow, perfect, a balance that was nearly impossible to find, more impossible still to hold and extend indefinitely. But Zenyatta did, keeping Genji’s thoughts trapped beneath a dull roar of sensation, white hot, even as he began to stroke him again. Sometimes his touch was was light, a mere glide of fingers down his shaft; sometimes it was a harsh, punishing pull that was too rough to be pleasurable, but it didn’t matter.
Genji was all nerves and sensations, only able to receive and react, his mind removed from the equation entirely. Saliva pooled against his respirator, making each gasp and moan wet and slurred. Pieces of cushion burst beneath his grip like claws carving through flesh.
All the while, delicate hums and the calm, droning mantra of Zenyatta’s voice filtered in and out of his awareness. Nonsense things, bits of Nepalese, praise in the rough chirp of binary, until something clicked. A change in his grip, swift and firm again, hot and slick and so perfect—a phrase broke through the static of Genji’s thoughts. It was over in an instant, shattering whatever was left of him.
“Good boy, Genji.”
Genji’s eyes burned and his jaw ached, his whole body clenching, unclenching, quaking, as he came. It was an endless relief, a thrilling agony, pulsing and pulsing in his master’s hand. Zenyatta’s touch was gentle now, and it was a mercy; it was all Genji could handle, feeling too full and wrung out all at once.
Distantly, he heard Zenyatta speaking, felt his other hand petting down his flanks, working across his back in comforting circles. That touch too, was a danger. Though his flesh was weak, his synthetic parts still jumped beneath that hand; he could be kept in Zenyatta’s thrall longer than an un-augmented human, perhaps indefinitely. His master could torture and tease him in ways no one else could.
But Zenyatta was kind, beautiful, merciful. His touch eased, wandering to less sensitive places, allowing Genji’s mind to return, to piece itself back together as the aftershocks lessened.
Genji knew he could check how long he laid there; he had an internal clock, a subtle HUD that could be referenced at a glance. But he simply basked in the lingering sensations, in Zenyatta’s gentle, reassuring voice, the soft snap-hiss of his armor being reassembled, secured, protected.
There was the shift of something damp and warm between his legs, cleaned and dried, then his codpiece was replaced, everything together, safe and in its proper place.
Zenyatta returned his hands to Genji’s back, caressing between his shoulder blades, gently cupping the nape of his neck. His hands were clean now, and dry. Genji stirred, shifting only so he could look at Zenyatta.
His master had taken off the lab coat, but he was still wearing the glasses. Slowly, Genji reached for Zenyatta’s wrist, pulling his hand forward so he could nuzzle his palm. It was warm, smooth, familiar.
“What happened to the coat?” he asked, his voice hoarse, barely louder than a whisper.
Zenyatta tipped his head, the lights of his array alternating. “It will have to be laundered before I return it to Dr. Ziegler.” His thumb slid across Genji’s respirator, over where his mouth resided. “You made quite a mess of it.”
Genji groaned loudly, more for show than anything. Then he pressed his face into Zenyatta’s palm in a mimicry of a kiss. “It was worth it.”