#bendoverwatchweek

B.O.B. only hunches forward, watching Bars grope and feel along every inch he can grasp, pant seams bulging. Bars’d love to tease him, get him steaming and clicking, earn some soft, needy whines so broken he shivers at the thought, fans racing to cool himself. Not this time, not while B.O.B. keeps glancing at the main road, and that’s fine. A nice, quick fuck would have to do.

He unbuckles B.O.B.’s belt with methodic ease, his cock hitting the swell of his stomach with an audible slap, slick dripping down the length of it. Bars smears it over the crown and the first few inches before turning and tugging his own pants to his thighs, bending over, backing up against the larger until they’re flush and B.O.B.’s cock slides over the small of his back. Bars almost wants to complain how gentlemanly B.O.B.’s being, hands bracing the old brick behind him instead of drawing Bars onto his cock, but there’s fun in this too, easing his hands between his thighs, grasping B.O.B.’s cock and pressing it to his opening, onlined but not nearly as much as the other.

It might hurt, and Bars groans, insides onlining just that much more. He bears down, and there’s resistance, deliciously so, feels B.O.B.’s shudder against his legs, and Bars bends over further, tries to cram that fat tip inside, the moments of too-full-too-much-too-soon burning through his circuits.

“Doesn’t this make you crazy?” His synth crackles, roughened when there’s finally some give; the first, sinking slide has him rolling on the balls of his feet. “If you want to fuck me up, I’ll let you.”

He braces his hands on his thighs, glances over his shoulder, sheathed completely with a hard chirp of his own. B.O.B.’s optics shine in the darkness, narrowed pinpoints of light, hands balled into fists at his sides.

Not what he expected.

“I—”

Bars begins to pull away, body protesting, catching, bugging as his sensors ping greedily for more.

Hard, heavy weight grips him from front to back, B.O.B.’s hands encircling his hips, he’d never, this is—

“Oh, fuck, yeah—”

Sharp snaps of his hips, deep and unyielding, not like how Bars would’ve done it with long, even thrusts, nearly draw off his cock before sinking back, letting his body feel empty and claimed again and again. It shorts him out, slick releasing in a hot gush that B.O.B. uses to his every advantage, more, faster. He’s been fucked harder, meaner, let his partners do anything he wanted before, but somehow he can’t keep quiet, grasps his throat to muffle his synth, buckles and snaps jostling and making enough ruckus to let anyone in throwing distance know what’s going on.

Bars tries to angle back, meet each thrust and then some, but he has no purchase, lifted, the fucker’s holding him off the ground, as useless as a toy in his hands, the angle changing, as deep as it can go and there’s a bite to it, hard and shocking and his fingers dig into the seams of B.O.B.’s wrists.

“Let me.”

Low, so low, he’s barely spoken more than ten times in Bars’s life. He tries to look behind him incredulously, but the thrusts turn brutal, and things get fuzzy and he’s making sounds, sugar-coated praise that would fry Bars’s circuits if he gave them an ounce of thought. He’d get B.O.B. back, slide onto his cock so slow and thoroughly he’d have him howling with it, remind him who’s in charge, but now he holds on and nearly busts his circuits growling and twisting and taking it, the pace too much for either of them, keyed up and hearing the scuffling of their comrades only a few yards away.

“Fill me, fuck me up, c’mon—”

And like sweet, stupid clockwork the larger, near silent omnic groans and yanks Bars down and holds, throbbing and convulsing, a hot heaviness settling, an immediate, incredible burst of sensation, no room for the slick to go besides dribbling out in gel-like rivulets while B.O.B. thrusts in short, aborted jerks, shaking and trembling, so much closer to the B.O.B. that Bars knows. Almost like B.O.B. comes back to himself, after that, slipping out and holding Bars while the smaller hisses and snakes a hand between his thighs, feels how hot and stretched and leaking he is while he fists his own neglected cock.

“Like that?” Bars grunts, touching himself shallowly, swollen and near breaking, “using me like a thing?” And it’s too much, far too much, when B.O.B.’s fingers brush over his own and push inside, slick splattering to the pavement as Bars jerks into his fist, only kept upright by the steady hand at his waist.

“God, what are you doing back there?”

Zenyatta had known cyborgs before Genji, though none like him. Learning, as always, was a process. Touching, calibrating, stopping and starting within the span of a breath, soothing Genji’s hurt so he could rise from it. The eight hands made it easier, stroking over his remaining flesh and new synthetics, calibrating the sensors in Genji’s arms and legs, then his mouth and tongue, first with his fingers, then with more when Genji begged for it. Working pain and tension and loathing away until his body awoke, shy and tentative. It is incredible to think of how tenuous it had been, how sensitive Genji’s become. Barely touched, his cock hangs heavy and eager, nearly touching the mattress where he kneels, bracketed by Zenyatta’s legs.

“Why do I have the feeling this is more than just a lesson,” Genji murmurs, smiling as a pair of Zenyatta’s hands grasp his thighs.

“I could make it so, if you wish.” Zenyatta grabs the base of his own cock, gives it a languid stroke just to catch the flash in his student’s eyes. “Would you prefer instruction from across the room,” he watches Genji’s cock jump and leak as the omnic brushes fingers over the opening beneath his cock, sighing as the gentle ache sets in, onlined and wanting. “While you learn by your own hand?”

“Zen…”

Genji’s hips twitch, his mouth a thinned line, cheeks flushed beneath the shadow of his beard.

“Hm, another day, perhaps.”

Only discipline keeps Zenyatta’s motions smooth and easy, though Genji had his ways of breaking his master down. Learning hadn’t been one way, especially for them.

“Show me with your mouth,” Zenyatta says.

Genji obeys without hesitance or self-consciousness, and Zenyatta suppresses a shiver.

The omnic’s cock matches his body, long and thick, a gentle point of embarrassment for him, but it’s one of the first insecurities Genji eased for him. Hands bound behind his back, his student is a sight, lapping just beneath his glans, cock bobbing gently with each brush of Genji’s mouth. Trying to tease him, but Zenyatta will not let him play games, weaves fingers into his green hair, careful but firm.

He registers Genji’s faint amusement and gives him something else to ponder; the human’s dark eyes flutter shut as Zenyatta pushes Genji’s mouth onto his cock, reeling at the wicked tongue that immediately lashes along its underside. Cheeky, even bound at his mercy. He keeps the pace quick, enough to blotch his student’s face, to swell his lips and darken his eyes. As he uses Genji so too is he weakened, each push into his mouth a boon and a curse that chips away his control.

Zenyatta does not push Genji too harshly, but all at once the man doubles down, swallowing hard and taking more and more, nearly sealed around the base of him, tongue dipping into the shallow divots that segment his cock, delicate and over sensitive. A hand grasps at Genji’s nape, another at his shoulder, Zenyatta’s legs flexing around him, squeezing at Genji’s sides.

When he lets Genji off to breathe, the man gasps raggedly, drags his tongue down his cock to the tumid space beneath.

“Genji—”

He should not allow it, as cocky as Genji’s been, but when his tongue dips inside, swirls against shallow nodes and makes him steam, Zenyatta only shoves his head down harder. His student moans, all tongue and trembling lips, writhing and lapping, gaze flickering up Zenyatta’s body, watching with unhidden heat. Sating himself on his student’s tongue is more than alluring, and Zenyatta nearly lets himself surrender, use Genji’s mouth and leave him needy and bound for his trouble.

“You hardly need a lesson in this.”

And Zenyatta’s hands ease him up as Genji catches his breath, mouth messed and reddened and left filthy as he positions him. A hand on his own cock, a pair on Genji’s hips, one on his thigh. His fans whir just beneath Genji’s breathing, overheated, condensation shining on his old, knicked plating.

“I don’t need one in this, either.” Genji murmurs, eyes rolling back as Zenyatta teases his cock against his opening, blood hot and slippery.

“How sure we become in our abilities.” He fists Genji’s cock, spreading the copious pre, dragging a few fingers along its length until Genji trembles with each lazy pull.

“Do not come until I give the word.”

Zenyatta slips a hand behind the back of each knee, angling so Genji can sink into him without untying his arms. There is a moment or two to find rhythm, but Zenyatta holds still until the full weight of his student settles inside him, flush and hotter than he expected. Genji’s steady bravado falters as he begins to move, ungainly if not for the hands steadying his hips.

Zenyatta never guessed he would love interfacing like this, innately human and messy. Upgrades exhilarating but nerve-wracking, so unbelievably worthwhile, not just for their pleasure but for the opportunity to watch Genji lose himself in his body. He palms his cock, another hand sliding beneath his chestplate, tracing along sensitive nodes just within his reach, sparks jumping between fingers and panels, array focused at all times on Genji, the unsteady, increasingly erratic roll of his hips, slower and slower, his tightened jaw and his drawn brows, the sweat bright on his skin.

“So close already.” His array flickers. “You enjoy being bound.”

Zenyatta’s fingers splay at his throat, teasing between his pistons, a hand paws at his own thigh, another working his cock between thumb and forefinger.

“I can do it more often. Blindfold you.”

Genji’s hips stammer.

“Hold you down.”

He grasps the base of Genji’s cock tight, and his student’s eyes widening almost comically, a growl snapped behind his teeth.

“Fuck—” Genji whimpers, half-buried, gripped tight until his pleasure evens out, leaves him jittery and trapped between rocking forward and pulling away, trying desperately to catch his breath. “It’s not...nn... “

Zenyatta’s hands tighten on his own body as Genji struggles for control, muscles twitching, cock throbbing dangerously inside him, setting off a chain of addicting pops of pleasure that are nearly enough to distract him.

Genji finally begins to move again, and Zenyatta half-sighs, half-moans, fingers tracing over his silk bindings, his taut muscles and scars, shocking along sensors, newfound pleasure for Genji as Zenyatta’s human equivalencies had been for him. Not too much, just enough to keep Genji’s motions off-kilter and unsure, each press a brush too close to orgasm that Zenyatta works away just as quickly, all the while staving off his own for the chance to match Genji’s, to overload right as his student can take the teasing no longer, when Zenyatta gives into his pleas and lets his student collapse on him while his hips jerk and twitch and he pumps Zenyatta full.

Genji does not want to try.

Tentacles slipping inside his helmet, cradling his jaw, pressing with rhythm into his mouth, slipping between his thighs, stroking his cock—

Warmth pools with feral thrill, knowing, knowing. Yearning for the quiet, low laugh of his master-enemy-lover right on cue.

“How you have fallen, Green Sentai,” his master coos, doing everything for his rapidly heating body, a steady ache forming between his thighs. “Again and again I catch you.”

His helmet is gone, a second of tepid air before they coil around his throat, tendrils suckling at this flesh, quick, tender pecks that grow harder and more demanding.

“Perhaps this time I will not let you go,” the words tremble along his skin, through the appendages possessively coiling around him. Liquid heat that penetrates alloy and bone.

Why are his dreams like this? It was a single night, a single time, but he returns to it again and again, costumed and tentacled and bound and—he whimpers behind grit teeth as Zenyatta slides his thigh between his legs, nudging against him. He shouldn't be able to feel it through armor, but he can and he throbs and he curls into the touch while his master laughs.

"You only had to ask, hero."

The tentacles seize around his throat, and Genji has to remember how to breathe, how to steady himself and not gasp like he’s being undone. Impossible as the Cultist draws his thigh in gentle rocking motions, and the shameful rush of it eclipses, shocking like the stares of his teammates at the party weeks ago.

"Surely the others would like to see you on display." Zenyatta leans into him, breath along his throat, lost in the mass of tentacles, the scrape of something sharp and dangerous in the soft, slick suckling. "My brothers and sisters using you, an enemy as their slave." The chains rattle. "But the thought does make me...possessive. I trained you myself, after all."

A hand replaces thigh, pressing and squeezing, Genji’s panel disappeared, cock hot and throbbing in the smooth chill of the omnic's palm. The barest brush of his claws makes Genji quake, his legs giving out as the chains snap taut.

"Oh, how pretty," Zenyatta's whispers echo in his mind.

In slow motion, how dreams are, the omnic's hand slides down his own body, the hiss of it, the horrifyingly needy ache when the tentacles between Zenyatta’s legs reach for him, knowing him, Genji spreading his thighs like an offering. They writhe and twist, slippery warm and leaking, but linger just out of reach, barely brushing Genji’s dripping cock.

"P-please, master—"

"You learn so quickly, my student." A single tentacle cups him, the drag flighty and with leisure, no better than Zenyatta’s thigh. Tears shine in Genji’s eyes, desire bubbling over, maddening and unstoppable.

"Please, m-master, more. Touch me more."

Teeth at his neck, true lips somewhere beneath, the swipe of tongue; Genji moans hard and low, quieted by the flexing tendrils around his throat, darkening his vision, one slipping over his wettened cheek, tasting his tears.

"How could I refuse such a plea?"

More tentacles join the first, gliding over and beneath, cupping and grabbing and writhing, wiggling between his thighs, curling around his balls, behind, teasing him. The mass grips tight and twitches, a united slick heat that swallows his cock like a living sleeve.

His head lulls against Zenyatta's shoulder, breath heating his face, weak, too weak, used up, Zenyatta urging Genji’s thighs together with his hands, tentacles rutting between the tight, slippery space, touching everything, too much and not enough at once, greedy.

"Good boy. Isn't it nice to give in?"

Zenyatta's mouth doesn't move when he speaks, and Genji shivers and shifts against him. They glide together easily, Zenyatta's rutting punctuated by quiet smacks, Genji feeling liquid and useless, lost in an ever growing need to take all his master will give.

Yes, Genji wants to say, but only manages to gasp, fists clenched and jerking in the chains, wanting to touch, to hold onto Zenyatta, his body a thing of heat and flesh, desire peaking and peaking without release, a dream’s curse and blessing. The tentacles slide past his balls, gently teasing his ass, slipping and licking while they cradle his cock, and he nearly yells then when one breaches him, a hot, livid spark burrowing deep and forcing him open, writhing and jostling.

Genji does say yes then, begs with whatever he can muster, thinks it as hard as he can, his complete surrender, while Zenyatta finds his pleasure between his legs and pulls Genji apart piece by piece, another peak, tentacles spreading the spend and muting their already slickened ends with it.

"Always so much...Genji."

He wants to hold Zenyatta more than he can stand, so he does, clutching at his master’s shoulders as the chains melt away, the dream cracking. Claws prickling Genji's hips, Zenyatta’s near silent moans as he lowers Genji onto his cock, the tentacles squeezing and seizing around him, wild with their eagerness. The rhythm picks up, bleeds away, speared so deeply it steals breath and thought as the tentacles press marks into his throat.

It unravels, Genji on his back, knees at his ears, the Cultist's eyes boring into his, driving into him  and stealing everything he is. Chest and cheek to the cool stone, Zenyatta using Genji's bound arms to pull him onto his cock until he paints the wall with his pleasure. His master on his knees in the too familiar closet, head tilted back, hidden mouth open, presented tongue, seconds before Genji loses himself, waiting for his prize. The beginning. The ending.

Genji stares up at a wooden ceiling, sweating and overheated. He moans, sleep-heavy and confused, jerks his hips into the clutching sweetness of a smooth palm.

"Oops." His master singsongs quietly, and Genji's voice catches in his throat.

He tosses his forearm over his face and spills over Zenyatta's hand, the omnic humming appreciatively as his lover whines and swears and jerks. When his brain stops being more than dreams and numb desire, he watches Zenyatta clean him up, settling back into his side in their bed.

"What were you dreaming about?" Zenyatta murmurs, pressing his faceplate against Genji's cheek before tucking his head into his shoulder.

His mind speeds stupidly.

“Oh, it can do anything a human’s can,” Genji murmurs from where he’s tucked against Zenyatta’s side, breath fogging his neck pistons.

“That so…”

His fans pick up one point five seconds too late.

“Wanna see?”

The soft warmth of Genji’s lips find the seam across Zenyatta’s cheek.

“Genji.”

A breath, a gentle, discordant hesitance that makes Zenyatta’s words low and shaken. Pressure at his chin, ignored if Zenyatta chose. Instead, he shifts the last inch to greet Genji’s mouth with his own.

Shameful perhaps, but he swallows Genji’s sigh and angles deeper, synthetic tongue slipping inside his mouth, hunger like a spark when McCree makes a sound between a huff and a gasp.

They fall into each other, a messy slide of bodies and whispered permissions and fumbling fingers, liquid dripping between mouths and kisses and moans. The shock of the magistrate’s hand in his hair while the eyes of his lover are hot upon him urges Zenyatta down. Unsteadily he undoes the McCree’s wrappings, traces his cock with his fingers and then the smooth edges of his mouth, the smell and size different than Genji, dizzying.

Fingers tighten against his scalp as he dips forward to taste, Zenyatta’s hands planting on each thigh. Genji’s punched out groan, more shifting. Quiet encouragement and he hefts McCree’s cock upright and draws it inside his mouth, nearly too big to take. Sensors online, stimulated as much as the man he’s pleasuring, white hot flares to his core, gentle urging that sets the pace, muffled moans as Zenyatta’s used, no need to breathe or think, shaking each time his mouth’s forced flush to the magistrate’s body, deepest sensors pressed for the first time.

The wet drag of something else, Genji’s cock against his faceplate, his lover stroking leisurely as he watches, mouth half-parted and eyes alight with something Zenyatta’s never seen before, something that makes him press Genji’s hand away and replace it with his own. It’s sloppy, hazy as his processes bug and his focus splits in several places. Worst of all when the magistrate’s other hand joins the first, grasping his hair, holding him still as he begins to thrust, heavy, urgent snaps of his hips while he groans hard and deep. Zenyatta’s own sounds echo, thoughts ripped away, afraid, almost, as pleasure escalates higher than believed possible.

Could he—he couldn’t, the pace speeding, sensors along his tongue and throat bursting with stimuli that shocks through the rest of him, lower, throbbing behind his panel. Genji had never this roughly, this thoroughly, never locked his face against his body and used him without pause or hesitance. A single, useless tug as Zenyatta tries to fight the overwhelming flood, but McCree holds, sets into him and Zenyatta cannot resist, thrashes as he overloads, throat convulsing, forcing a hot grunt from the man inside him. Through aftershocks McCree thrusts, weakened, ruined moans popping from Zenyatta’s synth, the man’s fingers gripping him so tightly that pain shifts to pleasure, lost again in the rough convulsions as the magistrate cums down his throat.

All bits and pieces. McCree easing him back with utmost care, hair falling into Zenyatta’s eyes as McCree lets him go, bun ruined from rough handling. A new set of fingers replacing the last, smaller, synthetic, gentle but insistent. Chirped whimpers as Genji slides inside his mouth, obscene with his groan, the space already hot and overworked from the magistrate’s use.

“Did he…” McCree mumbles.

“Oh, yes,” says Genji, with a wicked, wild grin. “Master, you never told me you liked it so.”

And Genji starts moving all too quickly, grinding against razed sensors. It is the end for him, the pressure at his panel pained, overful, dripping between the seams. He cannot release it or risk soaking through his robes, a sharp, violent pleasure at the thought of it, messed and helpless between the magistrate and his lover. Should he spread his thighs and robes, release his panel to whimper as it gushes and stains his legs and the floor beneath, shake as hungry eyes steal over him, debased and thrilling in it?

Thoughts Zenyatta can hardly entertain when the familiar taste and smell of his lover overwhelm, the rough insistence newly learned blighting his machinations, reducing him to a bugging, trembling heap that would not faintly resemble the elegant, lordly strategist he was only a few hours prior.

Instead, he submits, trapped on every groan and whimper, his own hands snaking between his thighs caught and pinned to his back by the hawk-eyed magistrate, who only grins and clicks his tongue with lazy, heated satisfaction.

“Hanzo—”

Not oyabun, not Shimada-san. His given name, low, with gentle surprise.

Cool metal warms in his grasp, and he’s blinded momentarily by the omnic’s array brightening in his periphery. Only a whisper shorter, but so much slighter, disturbingly delicate as Hanzo’s arms seal around his back, hands groping down the red wires of his spine, the barely hidden heat rising to the forefront like the pressure before a storm, like the call of his dragons, unyielding and aching for release.

Hanzo draws them flush, bites the soft, inner black of the omnic’s throat, fists the wires at the base of his spine, earns a small chirp, a strange, alien sound that only tightens Hanzo’s grip, his other hand palming just beneath, finding only saffron fabric and the warm, hard curves it conceals.

Seconds rush past, unbelievable in their existence, Hanzo flushed and sweating, explosive like a lightning strike. He never imagined that large, graceful hands would settle on his shoulders, not pushing away but holding on, that the omnic would jolt when he nudged meanly between his thighs, that his stifled, synthetic gasps would ring in his ears.

Hanzo shoves him, and the omnic stumbles, knocking into the nearest surface, a desk, a table, he does not care, grabs the frayed top of the omnic’s pants and tugs them down. Too dark to see more than the dull shine of his thighs, plating smooth and alluring, unexpected. Hanzo doesn’t give him the chance to turn around, pushes the omnic flat to the surface, nudging his legs apart, a hand in his spinal wires tugging them, a pained hiss, familiar.

“Why won’t you fight me?” Hanzo growls, voice cracking, undoing his robes one-handed, cursing under his breath. His cock slips out, bright red and hot, into his shaking grip.

“I will not.”

He grabs the omnic’s thigh, lifts and pins it to the table, spreading him, finding more than smooth chrome, a black stripe between metal, satin-soft and wet against calloused fingers, not quite analogous to a human but close enough to slot his cock against. The omnic’s spine arches, sinuous and pretty, his head dipping between his shoulder blades. Hanzo ruts brutally, enraptured, cock slicking up as it slides along the omnic’s opening, urged by the sounds he never knew an omnic could make, struck by how he angles back, each thrust addictive, just short of what Hanzo needs.

“Tell me to stop.” His eyes feel tight, wild now that each push throbs with the rush of his blood, the frenzied feeling of doing the unthinkable, of being allowed it. “Zenyatta—”

Zenyatta tries to look at him, but Hanzo grabs his neck, pushes his head down.

“Why do you deny yourself?” Zenyatta asks quietly.

“You call this denial?”

Hanzo grasps his cock, angles it properly, kissing it to the wet, warm divot that twitches at the touch. Bitter and tight and loathing it, he sinks into him; Zenyatta jerks but doesn’t fight, moans as his insides squeeze and flex as Hanzo sheaths himself on the first shove.

“I’m doing exactly what I want,” Hanzo bites.

A means to an end, that’s all it is, that’s all it ever could be and Hanzo reminds himself over and over. Zenyatta groans at each push, quiet but undeniable and clutching around him, warm and too real and more than he ever wished for, could’ve even dream of, this automaton who helped his brother overcome the worst of his life and tried to do the same for him.

Greedy, needing more and more of the one that he could never have nor should want. It ends tonight, it has to, except Zenyatta meets every harsh push, cries out in a perfect dream-like facsimile of his darkest thoughts.

His thrusts slow, drawn deep and long, as soon as the punishing grip on Zenyatta’s wrists eases he grasps Hanzo’s own, pulling him closer.

The dragons broil beneath his skin, sight blurring, sensations warring with drink and want and hatred. Hanzo pulls back almost completely, stumbling, breathing harsh and ugly, a fraction from clarity.

“Is it so difficult to believe I want you?” Zenyatta says, shifting, taking more of Hanzo’s cock, rocking with what little purchase he has, and Hanzo’s throat seizes, grateful for the near darkness as tears burn in his eyes. “Please, Hanzo.”

Hanzo’s breath hitches, and he bends double, presses his head to the cool metal of Zenyatta’s shoulders, rocks his hips, hesitant, aching. He burns and wants and wants of him, and Zenyatta gives and gives, calling his name, settling into the place Hanzo carved for him in secret resignation, knowing it would never be filled.