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the smut vault

Chapter Text

Pairing: genyatta (genji/zenyatta)
Kinks/ Warnings: former sex worker zenyatta, mild angst, implied past violence (non-explicit); amibiguous genitalia for both
Summary: genji and zenyatta muse on their troubled pasts during an intimate moment.




Genji and his master had both lived many lives already.

There was little Zenyatta had not told him at some point or another; whatever remained unspoken between them did so as a matter of insignificance rather than reluctance. He knew of the omnium and the factory-line work he’d been bought out of, and of his time in the brothels. The modifications, made and unmade, protocols written and unwritten as easily as chalk on a blackboard, one swipe and they were gone.

Other artifacts could not be so easily erased. Not when they lay like this, side by side in the dark safety of Zenyatta’s room, sheets tangled carelessly about their legs. As Genji nuzzled his lips grazed scratches and scars, those that could never quite be buffed to smoothness. For the most part they were almost invisible, but if the light caught against them or he put what little skin he had left to the metal they revealed themselves like a bodily braille. When he’d asked why he hadn’t had the parts replaced, Zenyatta had simply told him that he was not ashamed of what they represented.

At first it had made intimacy difficult; it had seemed to Genji that there was no end to their scars, that sung out with fresh pain with their discovery, and that raised the spectres of old, dark memories in their most sacred moments of intimacy. In the beginning he’d been frightened to so much as touch his master, first out of some misplaced sense of decorum and then, once he was entrusted with the story behind each scar, for fear that he might ask too much, knowing that Zenyatta could never refuse him anything.

Now Genji pressed his lips to one particular scratch more insistently, feeling it out with his tongue. “They did this to you.”

“Yes. A long time ago.”

“I’ll kill them,” Genji murmured breathlessly, the words broken between every scattershot kiss planted on his master’s jaw and throat. It was not the first time he had made such impossible, inadvisable threats, but the raw emotion of them touched Zenyatta every time, even when they both knew that they should not.

“Oh, Genji.” Then, as his student’s mouth trailed lower, along his chestplate- “Oh, Genji-”

The omnic’s hand spasmed with the sudden attention- but he still had sense enough to bring it between Genji’s thighs in return, palming the sleek, thick shaft of his cock and reaching towards the base with shamelessly acquisitive touches.

In another life, Genji had liked his women soft and sensitive with waists he could cup, his men with broad, rough hands and attitudes. Zenyatta’s were disconcertingly large, and tipped with long, tapering fingers which granted them an uneasy femininity that had initially troubled him. Now he whined like a spoiled child and let his hips roll into them, gripping his master’s wrist in unsubtle encouragement.

Zen-” Those long, cool fingers slid lower still until they found his entrance, curling delicately around the shape of his pelvis so that he could tease the rim with the very tips of his fingers. “I…”

“Hush, Genji.” The omnic’s voice trembled with the sheer effort of tempering his own desires. He’d heard him like this countless times before. But the novelty of knowing he could bring his beautiful, serene, unshakeable master to his proverbial knees with just a few clever words and touches had yet to wear off.

Not when, even like this, he still found ways to make Genji’s toes curl in the span of only a few words. “I know,” Zenyatta murmured. “I already know.”

Chapter Text

Pairing: reapzenji (reaper/genji/zenyatta)
Kinks/ Warnings: tentacles, oral sex, throatfucking; zenyatta with both male and female genitalia
Summary: genji and reaper have a little trouble sharing zenyatta.




Their particular arrangement demanded several things: darkness, privacy… and patience. The first two were easily acquired. The third Zenyatta supplied in spades, even if Genji was still cultivating that particular virtue, and even if Reaper seemed to run short of it in their every tryst, feeling the passage of time more acutely than either of them. But, occasionally, their paths would cross, and the Iris would bless them with the gift of perfect coincidence, just as it had now. 

It would not, Zenyatta supposed, have been a comfortable position for any human to maintain, or even any human to hold; the willowy length of his body straddled Gabriel’s lap, back against the man’s chest, to think that he had turned his back on Reaper of all people… but even if the wellspring of his trust had not been enough to keep him steady, Genji’s presence alone would have provided all the support he needed.


Such demanding hands. Such demanding mouths. Genji had already latched onto his neck, plying kisses to the place beneath the golden line of his jaw whenever he could, which was evidently not nearly so often as the cyborg seemed to wish if his groans of protests were proof enough. The truth was, of course, that Zenyatta’s body depended entirely upon Gabriel’s not-so-tender mercies. Though the omnic could see little beneath the swell of his own torso-plate- even less, his optic sensors were already malfunctioning, feedback swimming with the pressure of so much input from so many sensors- he knew that his thighs had been split wide across Genji’s lap, and that between them a mess of shadowy tentacles worked his cunt with relentless ambition.

As one glided inside of him, already slick and messy with arousal, another would flick and tease at his clit, or his thighs, or his cock, until Zenyatta could scarcely differentiate between one place or another, as if his entire lower body were melted into one unbearably sensitive node. Too hard a thrust would arch his spine and jerk his hips upwards until he could only chirp in shrill, mindless rapture, head thrown back, well out of Genji’s reach. Yet all the while he could feel Gabriel shifting behind him, the muscles in his thighs twitching and jerking with each new invasion, the raspy sound of breathing heaved against the back of his neck.

One inhumanly long tongue worked its way between the cables that composed his spinal column, lapping at sensors unreachable by even the most intent of hands- and Zenyatta rewarded his devotion with loving strokes up and down his flank, his jaw, working his fingers into a rough curl of half-apparated beard. No turning around. No peeking. Those were the rules.

But rules did not exist in Genji’s world. Perhaps their previous relationship granted him certain privileges, because his eyes returned again and again to the hooded shadows that did not quite hide his old commander’s face. But anyone could see the sheer adoration that gleamed behind his gaze whenever it landed on his newer master instead. Stroking himself, lazily, butting the head of his cock into Zenyatta’s hands whenever they were not otherwise occupied, rutting against his hip as though the omnic’s body were as fascinating and new as it was the first time he uncovered it.

Now, though, he seemed to grow bored of stealing kisses from such an (albeit unintentionally) uncooperative target. Slowly, slowly, the cyborg worked his way down Zenyatta tongue-first, until all he could sense was the gleaming path it left shining down the centre of his body. Before Zenyatta could even think to speak half of his cock was engulfed in the wet heat of Genji’s mouth instead, tongue flattened to the underside as he moved slowly up and down, forcing Gabriel’s tentacles to meet his rhythm instead. There came another gasp against Zenyatta’s neck, and he felt the man stiffen like a hunted thing- but within seconds something else was rumbling through him. Quiet, disbelieving laughter.

“You goddamn rat-bastard.” In Gabriel’s voice it sounded like a compliment, and one he’d bestowed before, at that. “I thought we were supposed to share?”

Somewhere in the haze of pleasure that now composed Zenyatta’s processors, he recalled that, yes, he had made that request. Genji, for his part, simply huffed dismissively. But before Zenyatta could begin to appreciate the delicious little vibration the sound sent rippling through him the huff became a choke- and within seconds he felt every tendril at the base of his cock split and multiple, forcing their way past Genji’s parted lips and into his throat, squeezing and writhing and kissing both the inside of his mouth and the smooth, composite cock contained within it.

Zenyatta’s receptors sang.

At some point, he knew, Genji would find a way to get back at Gabriel. The wheel would turn and the balance between the two of them would shift once more, and he would reconfigure himself around each new arrangement again and again, the heart of their embrace, hot and obliging, a sanctuary for their hard and weary and hungry hands. And Zenyatta welcomed every second.

Chapter Text

Pairing: hanyatta (hanzo/zenyatta)
Kinks/ Warnings: dom/sub elements (dom zenyatta, sub hanzo), oral sex; zenyatta with both male and female genitalia (valve focus)
Summary: sometimes the only way hanzo can feel peaceful is through a little idolatrous worship.




Hanzo Shimada would have crawled for no other man alive.

In the warm, silent security of Zenyatta’s room it felt terribly, profanely right to prostrate himself like this before the omnic. Almost. He moved along the ground on his hands and knees like a lame animal- knowing he was visibly trembling, sweating, even, hair a loose tangle, eyes glossy. He felt weak and predatory and drunk with his own arousal, and every misplaced limb represented another second in his walk of shame. Zenyatta, for his part, simply sat back against the wall watched with all the benevolent intensity of a goddess: a beautiful Kanon in silver and gold that glowed encouragement at him, and, once he was close enough, reached out to pet him with those long, sensitive hands.

That he was fully dressed and Zenyatta was not somehow made the process all the more obscene.

As the omnic’s fingers threaded through his hair Hanzo granted himself the luxury of a whimper and nuzzled back into his open palms. Until now he hadn’t realised just how hungry he was for these moments of affection. Once Zenyatta began to touch him it seemed to open up a chasm within him that ached to be filled.


Carefully, Hanzo disentangled himself from the gentle clutch of Zenyatta’s fingers and settled into seiza before him, as always. The omnic remained still, back to the wall, thighs slightly parted to grant him access to the tender softness of his cunt and, above it, his phallus, standing sleekly to attention like an unsheathed blade. He did not complain when Hanzo knelt before him and grasped his thighs, just beneath his knees, or when he pressed them back into Zenyatta’s body until they framed an lewd vista between his legs, his faceplate glowing askance in belated modesty. The lips of his cunt gleamed with liquid need, which already formed a slick and spidery thread between his pelvis and the floor.

On another night he would bury his face into that soft, welcoming place and fuck him with his tongue, or take out his own erection and bounce his squirming body in his lap. His cock was already throbbing eagerly against his thigh, leaving a damp spot against the fabric of his clothes. Not tonight. Tonight he leaned forward, almost in dogeza, moved his head between Zenyatta’s thighs and brought his lips to the head of his cock.

It wasn’t until he heard that first sultry sigh come hissing from the omnic vocaliser that his mouth started to water.

Inch by inch, Hanzo worked his way down the length of the omnic’s cock, lavishing it with his attentions in long, attentive licks that left both the metal and his own mouth glistening with saliva- and Zenyatta sang for him in those soft, cello-like notes that make every noise sound like a secret. What began at a hum quickly rose to a gasp and a murmur.

Dimly it occurred to Hanzo that he was panting, partly for the compression his position enforced upon his lungs, but also for how little he had dared to breath in the last few moments. Certainly it did not help that his own cock stayed trapped against his thighs, hot and sweating, squeezed by every muscle as he dipped low-

And lower still. With Zenyatta’s cock bathed from crown to base, he returned his lips to the tip in a brief, chaste kiss. Then he parted them.

Zenyatta’s hips jerked in his grip; Hanzo felt his feet, now dangling over his shoulders, spasm with the sudden intensity as his mouth slid straight back down the shaft. Before long he bottomed out and suddenly his mouth was full of hot, slippery metal. It was all he could do to prevent the groan that escaped his throat from turning into a curse. This was it- this was what he needed, this fullness, to feel the omnic twitch and whine around him, to lose himself in the pleasure of this strange, lovely, impossible creature. With encouragement like that, his only fear was that he would never be able to tear himself away.

Shameless, now, the sounds of Hanzo’s worship came in wet, noisy slurps and the subtler kiss of lips across metal. There was no grace in it, he knew: only the animal need to mouth the omnic’s dick until it stretched the back of his throat and his eyes watered with the effort of resisting his gag reflex. Suckling, in a way that left his mouth raw but his mind quiet. God only knew, it was worth every second.

Whatever words Zenyatta had begun by whispering to him were already rupturing, syllables splintered, Han-zo, as if it were two unique words. Static and chirps. His grip tightened around the omnic’s thighs and he imagined leaving dents, how he would have to beg forgiveness for such terrible sacrilege.

Somehow, some tiny, half-conscious part of his brain realised that he had lifted the omnic’s hips clean off of the floor and crushed him back into the wall, lifting his cock into his throat as though he were raising handfuls of water to his lips instead. His muscled burned with the effort, his cock pulsed with every frantic beat of his heart, his thoughts fell silent- but it was not until he heard Zenyatta let out a sweet, keening gasp that it became enough. Not until Hanzo felt the omnic’s dick twitch and stiffen between his hollowed cheeks, not until the heat of him spurted into his drooling mouth in a thick, salty-sweet surge until he had to swallow, just to keep it from spilling past his lips. Only then could he come, with glazed eyes and an empty head, in a sticky wave of sensation.

At long last he sank between the Zenyatta’s thighs, aware of nothing more than the thrum of a voice close to his heart, and the touch of cool hands against his neck and shoulders.


Chapter Text

Pairing: Hanyatta feat. Genji
Kinks/ Warnings: voyeurism, sex toys, light dom/sub (dom hanzo, sub zenyatta), implied unrequited attraction (genji for zenyatta); zenyatta with both male and female genitalia (valve focus)
Summary: genji catches hanzo and zenyatta sneaking off together; when he follows them, he finds more than he bargained for.




Genji knew he should not have been watching. He shouldn’t have followed his master and brother, newly recruited and skittish around what now composed his team like a hunted thing, as they slipped away from the genial thrum of the crew in the back of the dropship with scarcely a glance passed between them. He should have turned back the moment he saw their hands meet in the narrow corridor leading to the medical bay, the way Hanzo’s fingers curled through the omnic’s delicate joints and urged him onwards until they emerged into the light again.

He waited in the doorway, breath held- scarcely able to breathe at all, even- as Zenyatta allowed himself to be sat back on a bench and his clothes peeled from his body, Hanzo knelt before him and discarding the bundle fabric with a look of intense focus knitting his brows.

“Hanzo?” Zenyatta’s voice: low, soft, encouraging. He watched the omnic cup Hanzo’s face, stroking along the hard line of his cheekbone as though he were petting a cat, reducing his eyes to narrow, blissed-out slits as he leaned into the touch.

But only for a moment.

“Enough.” His hand closed around Zenyatta’s wrist like a mousetrap snapping upon a rat’s tail, holding it hard for a moment before twisting it away, his expression hawkish. “Keep your hands to yourself, omnic.”

The brute flint in his voice had Genji tensed in an instant, ready to intercede should his master need the support-

- but Zenyatta did not resist. With a soft noise that could have been a whimper, he curled in upon himself and waited, doll-like, for Hanzo to rearrange him to his liking, fists clamped around those slender ankles as he hooked them up onto the bench, legs spread. Exposed.

A feverish chill rippled through Genji’s core. They’d touched before, he and Zenyatta, in the dark sanctity of their room in the monastery; explored each other, Genji opening to those sensitive fingers as they pulled secret after secret from his strange new body. After they’d parted ways he’d never thought much about what they hadn’t done, or what he hadn’t said on those nights. He’d insisted they’d part, that the process had been purely therapeutic- that there were others to whom he needed to return, and to whom he owed his affection, that he his feelings for the omnic were built on respect and trust instead.

Now they came flooding back to him in ugly, jealous waves, word upon word, image after image, as Hanzo’s mouth crooked itself into a tired little sneer that did not quite counter the uncertainty in his eyes.

That same mouth met the soft place between Zenyatta’s legs, and the bay was filled with the wet, silky smack of lips on synthetic skin. Zenyatta gasped- and in an instant, pulse pounding and cock aching to fill out past his modesty plating, Genji knew what a terrible mistake he’d made, not only in leaving but in following the two of them here into their own world.

From his place in the shadows of the doorway his view of the omnic was mainly obstructed, in part by the angle of one long metal thigh and Hanzo’s head, which bobbed rhythmically into the gleaming cunt he could only catch in glimpses, flashes of pink tongue working it without mercy, all while Zenyatta writhed and chirruped on the bench in squirming obedience. What he could  see, however, all too easily, was his master’s reactions. Saliva mixed with lubricants as Hanzo’s attentions intensified; before long a thin trickle of clear fluid dripped down from the edge of the bench to pool messily on the ground between their legs.

Please… H-Hanzo, I-”

“Shut up.” Hanzo’s voice came to him muffled and breathless, scarcely audible between each slurp and gasp but hard nonetheless, and Genji wanted to hit him for it.

But he did not.

He waited, frozen, cock slid into the palm of his hand, gripping himself while Zenyatta whined in frustration.

He scarcely even noticed when Hanzo moved, one hand slipping into what he had to assume was a hidden pocket within the breast of his robe. “I have something for you,” he said. Whatever it was it seemed smooth and round and small, and vanished into the man’s mouth with a silvery flash. Only as he rolled the object (objects?) around his mouth and onto the flat of his tongue did he realise what they were- or, more to the point, what they were for.

All it took was the lightest flick of the tongue to insert the first ball into Zenyatta’s cunt. The omnic jerked instantly, scrabbling at the bench at what had to have been the sudden heat of the intrusion, the odd texture forced deep into his body, murmuring a, “Hanzo–” before the second vanished between those soft folds along with it.

Flushed and panting, beard wet with the omnic’s arousal, Hanzo sat back on his heels to study the work, to which Genji was no longer privy.

“Ben-wa balls,” he explained, and now he seemed perfectly calm. “To remind you of me while I am scouting ahead and you are wasting time at base camp.”

Zenyatta shuddered. One hand slid below Genji’s view, and he imagined it pressing the space above his cunt, where his cock might ordinarily emerge from, lower- it could almost have been his hand, Genji thought, and his cock twitched painfully into his own starved caresses.

“Do not even think about removing them yourself,” Hanzo warned. “Only I have that privilege. Whenever they move, think of me. Whenever you touch yourself, think of my hands and no one else’s, not even your own. You belong to me. Do you understand?”

Zenyatta’s voice set Genji’s skin prickling with a want so deep and aching that he had to look away. “I… understand, Shimada-dono.”


Silence. There came a soft scuffling sound, and Genji found himself beset by unwanted images of Hanzo straightening up, leaning towards the omnic’s faceplate. A kiss?

“Consider them my promise to you,” his brother’s voice continued, softer now, they had to have been close.

The sigh that followed was all static, the sound of leaves stirred around the temple gates. “Come back to me, Hanzo.”

Chapter Text

Pairing: mcgenyatta (mccree/genji/zenyatta; mcyatta focus)
Kinks/ Warnings: sexting/ video sex, piv sex, exhibitionism; zenyatta with male and female genitalia (valve focus)
Summary: though genji is separated from his lovers by a mission, they still find a way to keep in touch. so to speak.




The shot rolls and spins, and suddenly the mess of silver and teal and darkness resolves itself into a shabby room, and two very familiar faces.

“Hey there, Genji.”

McCree holds the phone just over his head, just too close to the camera to capture more than his eyes and the crooked mischief of his mouth, notably empty for once- but it’s a necessary sacrifice if he’s to get the omnic in the shot, too. Stretched out beneath him, legs clearly splayed, he’s never looked more comically fragile, a martini glass on stilts.

“Camera’s rolling, Zen,” McCree reminds him, glancing to one side; as he moves a stretch of his neck comes into view beneath his beard, and it is suddenly, staggeringly obvious that they are both completely nude.

Not that that particular revelation is given much time to sink in because, as the camera zooms blurrily in on his faceplate, Zenyatta sits up a little more. He’s shaking and jerky. Post-coital, pre-coital, mid-coital, everything all at once.

“Gr-greetings, my student.”

The camera lingers just long enough for the pearly streaks of come along his jaw to make themselves apparent.

McCree is audibly panting now as he fumbles with the phone. The lens dips lower, and if that rhythmic back-and-forth of the camera and those wet slaps weren’t enough of a tell he promptly dispenses with all subtlety and reveals their joined bodies: a hirsute swell of stomach and muscle, and, abruptly, a thick, dark cock as it sinks again and again into gleaming omnic cunt, stretched obscenely about its girth. He withdraws himself completely for a moment, leaving them connected only by a few desperate strands of arousal- butts the fat, red head against Zenyatta’s clit. Then in one slick drive McCree’s buried to the hilt all over again, and, above, out of shot, Zenyatta gasps.

For a few agonising moments McCree seems to revel in his position, the muscles in his stomach twitching and jumping beneath the skin, before finally he manages to speak. “Don’t you worry, Genji,” he breathes, and each breath he punctuates with yet another roll of his hips, “we’re taking good- care- of each other. Ain’t that right, Zen?”

Lubricant bubbles messily about his cock, faintly teal, but the camera is already climbing Zenyatta’s body again. It drinks in his arched spine, each and every curve cast from sheer pleasure, the smears of fingerprints and spend from earlier couplings. The back of his hand is pressed to his mouthplate.

“Hey, do that thing. The cute thing-” And McCree laughs that deep, smoky laugh of his while Zenyatta protests and squirms dangerously beneath the man, but his hand’s too big and broad for an easy escape. The camera shakes as he redoubles the strength of his grip lower, moving from the omnic’s chest to that dainty little waist of his.  “C’mon, you know he loves it!”

Zenyatta’s laughing, too, glitchily, and though he bats at McCree’s roving metal fingers as they coax him into position he makes no real attempt to fight him off.

The man’s leaning in close.

“You know I love it,” McCree growls, deep in his chest, so near and so intimate it may as well be in Genji’s ear.

That’s what does it. The jieba on Zenyatta’s brow flush white-hot and then brilliantly turquoise, and, slowly, showily, raises both hands in deliberate v-signs as he’s pounded messily into the cot.

Chapter Text

Pairing: genyatta (young!genji/human!zenyatta)
Kinks/ Warnings: just the tip, rimming, anal sex, coersion/mild dubcon
Summary: when a certain young shimada arrives at the monastery, zenyatta's chastity is increasingly worn down by genji's charm and determination.




Perhaps Sojiro Shimada should have thought twice about bringing his sons to Nepal along with him. Or son, rather. The elder of the two young men was not the issue, though Zenyatta had felt those dark, serious eyes skittering across his body now and then like a nervous butterfly, never quite settling before propriety stole them back- fists balled, brow lowered, the elegant cords of his neck tense where they vanish into his dogi. If he allowed himself any interest in the handsome, untouchable coterie of the Shambali then he certainly did not act upon it.

Genji was another matter entirely.

Genji- bright, clever, quick to smile- had wasted no time at all in making himself comfortable. Zenyatta been there to see the look of surprise and then sly delight that had bloomed across his face upon their entry into the temple. Geeze, they must be putting something in the water up here, he’d said, before Hanzo’s elbow jammed itself under his ribs. More importantly, he had been there to meet Genji’s eyes as Mondatta and the Shimada head exchanged greetings, and he’d been foolhardy enough to return that smile of his with the faintest tilt of the head. Coquettish, and he knew it. Mondatta had given him a Look, but by then it was too late. It was inevitable.


They tumbled haphazardly through the laundry room door and, laughing, onto a pile of dirty kasaya and sashes. As Zenyatta’s back hit the fabric Genji’s teeth clashed against his lips, already bruised and swollen with countless stolen kisses. Not just his lips. His whole body felt raw with the young ninja’s attentions.

Robes were shucked and jeans wriggled out of in record time, the two of them whispering and giggling all the while like naughty children. His own kasaya had barely touched the floor before Genji was upon him, kissing the curve of his throat and his now fully bared chest, his bites willful now rather than accidental. Careless. Once or twice Mondatta had caught him trying to cover his less discreet bruises, and the crisp talking to he’d suffered meant he did not want to repeat the experience.

Fortunately, it was easy enough to distract him. Drawing Genji back up into another deep, heartfelt kiss, he slid down his body in turn until he lay level with his briefs and the increasingly pronounced erection concealed within. To think that he had been shy of him once! Now Zenyatta slid him out with a deft stroke, inhaling the humid, sour-sweet scent of him, and pressed inwards.

Fat and hot and thick against his cheek, Zenyatta nuzzled into the shaft, relishing the twitch of blood in each vein whenever his eyelashes fluttered against the sensitive flesh, the head of it. Penetration was out of the question, of course, even his mouth, but Zenyatta came dangerously close even so, plush lips a cushion to bump against as he lifted his gaze. At first his treatment had Genji’s eyes rolling back and summoned the most incredible sounds from his throat, sounds so lurid and noisy Zenyatta was sure they would be caught.

Genji whined.

“You’re such a fucking tease,” he gasped. Somehow he made it up on his elbows for the better vantage point. “God, you don’t even know how good you look right now.”

Zenyatta had some idea. Genji had told him over and over again, never seeming to tire of arranging the monk in new and increasingly lewd positions- and Zenyatta in turn found that he never seemed to tire of being arranged, either, not when he saw the look in Genji’s eyes, a fire so like tears glistening in those swollen pupils.

He was so beautiful in his longing. Little wonder he’d worn down his resistance this far. Little wonder he allowed himself to be pushed back and his legs splayed, exposing the reddened jut of his own cock and the delicate pink of his hole beneath.

Hot though his breath was it had nothing on Genji’s eyes. They blazed across his most sacred of places with the same plundering determination as before, and without so much as a trace of shame. Before long Zenyatta found he was letting himself be licked open with quicksilver darts of the tongue- tongues are for prayers, right, so they can’t be that bad, his excuses were always so creative- that climbed his spine in dizzying shocks, hips chasing that warm wetness whenever Genji drew back. By the Iris, but he was too good at that, surely that in itself was the most sinful of indulgences-

Far too quickly Genji shifted back. For his part Zenyatta reclined, thighs spread obscenely, breathing shallowly as his thoughts slid from one part of his body to the next with the path of Genji’s gaze. The glowing warmth spreading from his core.

Genji licked his lips. The sweat on his body and the flush to his cheeks made him seem faintly ill, feverish. Lovesick, he’d insisted once, and it had made Zenyatta laugh. Neither of them laughed as the young Shimada heir reached for his cock and pulled on himself, grinding into his own fist.

“Please,” he urged, breathless, and Zenyatta knew exactly what was coming next, “just– just the tip, I swear, that’s all. That doesn’t count.”

“Genji… my vows” His protests were swallowed by another kiss, deceptively chaste but devastating all the same. Would it always be like this, he wondered dizzily, would every man sow discord and chaos amongst his thoughts with their affections? Or was it the kind of magic that Genji alone could weave?

The proximity was dangerous. Something blunt and spongy kissed against his hole, and Zenyatta felt his cock twitch in almost primal betrayal at the sensation.

“I’ll be gentle,” Genji promised. Another kiss. Zenyatta’s body answered with a shudder. “Nobody has to know.”

His eyes were very wide and very black. Zenyatta knew better than to believe him. Yet around the edges of his pupils he could see sparks of green like ancient magic wheeling through the dark.

So he let himself be pressed back, Genji’s hand pinning his thigh right back against the laundry from under his knee, lip worried between his teeth and brow knotted with concentration as he lined his cock up with the tight pucker of his hole and pushed- and for a moment the stretch burned so intensely Zenyatta nearly changed his mind.

“Fuck- yeah–” Genji’s voice had deepened abruptly, rough and ready, “you’re so tight…!”

But even as the breath hitched in his throat and every muscle in his thighs pulled taught it was all worth it to see the bliss in Genji’s eyes through the tears when his body gave in and the head of his cock breached him with a thick, clumsy pop- when Genji sucked in a breath and hissed in Japanese, trembling with the effort of controlling his hips. The truth was that Zenyatta wasn’t certain he trusted Genji to keep his word.

That, he realised now, was part of the attraction. Knowing that at any moment his resolve could crumble- that as Genji just barely withdrew and humped back in he was quite literally inches away from being speared and rabbit-fucked into disgrace, though Zenyatta was sure he wouldn’t last for more than a handful of half-thrusts.

He’d just have to lie back and find out.


Chapter Text

Pairing: zen76 (zenyatta/soldier:76)
Kinks/ Warnings: piv sex; zenyatta with both male and female genitalia (valve focus); visually impaired soldier: 76
Summary: zen and 76 share some down time together.




He was so full.

To think that those four little words were the only coherent conclusion Zenyatta could glean from the garbled, overworked static of his processes- if there were any space for it in his head he would have marvelled at it.

“You done already?”

The low, gravelly murmur of a voice slid between his senses like sandpaper, startling him from his reverence with a small stutter of hips on hips and yet another ripple of sensation as the cock within him resettled in its snug new silicone sheath. By some miracle Zenyatta just about rerouted his attention to the man beneath him, head bowed in abashment.

“Ah- forgive me, Soldier: 76,” he answered, a touch breathlessly, “I was-”

“Forget it. Might as well get comfortable.”

What surprised Zenyatta most of all was his tone: the way the edges of it curled with the unwelcome guest of what he could only assume was amusement, banished from those thin, wry lips but determined nonetheless to make its presence felt. In fact, the whole of his body seemed intent on betraying him. Stretched out beneath the omnic the unsunned white of his skin had already warmed to a giddy pink that left each jagged scar in red relief; beneath, if he really looked he could see the minute tic of each muscle as he sat up onto his elbows, and the sleek crease of abdominals jumping as the action drove his cock almost beyond that glorious stretch and into pain.

Handsome, he’d insisted earlier. The ugly truth, 76 shot back. He was a hard man, and not one to be placated, no matter how gently, by warm words and touches. They would walk another path together.

“Comfort,” Zenyatta repeated, slow and thoughtful and unrelentingly droll. “Of course. That is why we are here.”

At that 76 scoffed a laugh, though it swiftly dissolved into a short, sharp moan as Zenyatta leaned forward and the cock settled snugly within him was forced to angle against his inner walls- which was wonderful in its own way, stimulating sensors he’d forgotten he even possessed, but not so satisfying as touching the man’s unmasked face.

Stubble prickled across the receptor-laden pads of his fingers until they slid to a mouth that parted willingly enough for the tips, held them between his teeth so he could lap at the metal. Zenyatta’s other hand climbed the carved planes of the man’s face, pausing to thumb the delicate creases around those bright, beautiful, empty eyes. What did he see? Little more he supposed than silver and gold and, above that, a vivid starscape of teal. For Soldier: 76 he would paint the world with every last inch of his body, hold the moon to his eyes to watch the light glow behind them.

With slow caresses down his neck and chest Zenyatta eased the man back onto the mattress until they almost lay flush together. If he eased up, let 76 slip out of him, he might have kissed him, though some selfish part of him could not bear to empty himself even for a moment. Instead, with a long, languid roll of his hips, he began to grind into 76’s hips, barely exposing more than an inch or two of him at a time before swallowing him greedily back inside with an audible kiss of silicone and skin- audible even over 76’s husky gasps and moans.

Automatically those big, scarred hands broke with mercy or restraint to grip the spiderweb of metal and wiring that composed Zenyatta’s spine, yet still gentle by his standards. His processor would be overloaded with warnings before the night was out, wires tugged and sensors stimulated to breaking point. Unintentional. But there were, Zenyatta knew, so few people who could really take what a super-soldier had to give.

Riding at the apex of his thrust Zenyatta found those warm, white fingers and threaded them through his own- and as he sank back down, clitoris drawn tantalisingly across firm skin and a light thatch of pubic hair, they clung back.

Chapter Text

Pairing: hanyatta (human!zenyatta/hanzo)
Kinks/ Warnings: drunk sex, powerplay, teasing, licking/ oral sex, alcohol, body worship
Summary: zenyatta loves hanzo, but he particularly loves him when his inhibitions have been somewhat lowered.




In vino veritas. Hanzo was, Zenyatta had swiftly learned, so much more malleable after a few drinks.

Sat in across from him, the dark intensity of his eyes and the purposeful tilt of his head could almost have been called intimidating- from the waist up. From the waist down, in broken seiza, his thighs sprawled and one fist gripped the angry red jut of his erection, knuckles white not with force but tension. Restraint.

Zenyatta was nude. When he cocked his head, touched his free hand to his own chest- flushed skin, rosy nipples, without a stitch of modesty- he heard the whimper in Hanzo’s throat as viscerally as if it were his own.

In his other hand he held a porcelain tokkuri of newly heated sake, and he tilted it idly from side to side.

“Are you thirsty?” he asked. Eyes wide, lips faintly pursed, all pretty innocence. His attitude was, perhaps, a touch affected, and most certainly cruel, but displays like these had the most wonderful effect on Hanzo’s body. His fist tightened to a stranglehold.

“Y… yes.”

The answer came soft and hoarse, scarcely audible, yet Zenyatta allowed himself to revel in it with a laugh that was not unkind. The rounded base of the vessel came to rest atop his chest, contents trembling. “I know. Is this what you want?”


“Hanzo,” Zenyatta continued, lips quirking a touch as he felt Hanzo’s approach stagger, saw the desperation rising to his eyes, so wide and hopeful and, “do you love me?”

“Y-yes- yes, you are beautiful, please, let me–”

Heat flooded Zenyatta’s body. He smiled sweetly. “Then your wish… is mine to indulge.”

All it took was a tilt, an arch of the spine that thrust out his hips, and the contents of the tokkuri spilled lazily down his body in a clear, glossy stream that branched in rivulets between the muscles of his chest and stomach.

Like any well-bred lover he waited, watching intently for the very slightest inclination of the head. Then Hanzo’s mouth was upon him, all hard breath and soft lips before they parted for his tongue. Beginning at the divots of his collar where the sake pooled he lapped it back with almost kittenish abandon, so close his beard scuffed his skin raw before the hot stroke of his tongue drew across it and left him shuddering and gulping for air.

Hanzo slid lower. Deftly he licked a loose ring around one nipple, coaxing it out fat and hard for him to suck for just a moment before the heady warmth of the sake called him back down his ribcage to his stomach until sparks danced beneath Zenyatta’s skin and behind his eyes. That clever tongue fluttered against his navel, and then-

then he was on his cock, kissing and suckling and licking with loud, alternating smacks as he savoured every last drop from base to head and then lower still, until he lay in a daze against Zenyatta’s thigh, licking indiscriminately between the smooth, heavy swell of his balls and the body-warmed pool of alcohol in which his lover sat.

Without thinking he cupped one hand to the back of Hanzo’s head and drew him all the closer, forcing his nose against the sensitive space beneath his balls- and the man dissolved almost instantly into a moan, enthusiasm rekindled. When he came, Zenyatta decided, he would do so across that proud nose, that mouth. Another taste to salt the burn, and the sandalwood sweetness of his skin and sweat.

“Good boy,” he murmured, and even his own voice sounded wonderfully thick and distant, as if he were listening through the wall of his own pleasure. “Good boy.”

Chapter Text

Pairing: hanyatta (human!zenyatta/hanzo)
Kinks/ Warnings: chastity-related kinks, teasing, oral sex, begging
Summary: the sister fic to sweet-talk, in which zenyatta takes an interest in the elder shimada brother instead.




By nature Mondatta was a humble man: level-headed, kind, and proud of little more than his monastery, and his students… and his precocious little brother, who knew his weaknesses so acutely that he sensed trouble from the very moment he was introduced, pulled aside as the Shimada coterie entered the monastery.

“Ah- and this,” Mondatta interrupted himself, gently turning Zenyatta to face the three men before him, “is my brother, Zenyatta. Please do not hesitate to turn to either of us if you seek answers; he is wise beyond his years. He is also he finest warrior the Shambali have to offer,” he added with a twinkle. “I believe your clan are renowned for their physical prowess?”

If only he had not twinkled.

“Hanzo,” Shimada announced with an almost defiant toss of his head, “is quite the prodigious young man himself. We have spared no expense in his training; you will not see a more dedicated pupil. He, too, is an exemplary martial artist.”

An almost imperceptible line appeared in Mondatta’s brow. “Indeed?” he answered stiffly, and Zenyatta almost laughed aloud. It was not often that he had the pleasure of seeing his brother’s wise and oh-so-leaderly plumage ruffled. “Then I am sure they will make excellent sparring partners.”

And it was true, they did: moving against one another like the moon against the sun until Zenyatta had the young heir pinned by the throat with one thigh, or Hanzo him with both arms locked at his back, panting with exertion and the approbative eyes of their audience- so close he could scent the camellia oil in his hair, and feel his breath on the back of his neck. Their sweaty tangle disengaged to more fittingly receive praise- or reproof, dedicated as Sojiro Shimada was to his son’s improvement- they would be dismissed.

After the first session Hanzo vanished to his room, to study, he claimed. After the second, he surprised the both of them by lingering long enough join Zenyatta in meditation. By the third, they walked the temple boundary, if not side-by-side then at least together, Zenyatta atop a wall while Hanzo trailed behind him with one hand trailing through the snow on the elaborate, untended brickwork.

Where it collapsed into rubble he’d hopped down, sandals slapping on the stonework, to an utterly inscrutable gaze.

“You look like a gazelle,” Hanzo blurted out, then blushed when Zenyatta laughed at him- not unkindly, he’d thought, but Hanzo had fled regardless. He supposed he should have thought of Hanzo as a predator, a panther with a hunting gaze, but to his mind those bright, wary eyes and the hidden tension in his limbs resembled nothing more so than a young hare.

After that, it was a short and inevitable tumble into each others’ bedchambers.

Chastity, temperance… never before had they seemed particularly difficult virtues to maintain, but whether he realised it or not Hanzo had stretched his resolve threadbare. Not because he pushed him- but precisely because he would not.

You are a monk, he’d murmur, words broken on his mouth between sloppy, inexperienced kisses, teeth bumping together, lips swollen, you have made a vow, and Zenyatta could almost have wept at how abruptly he would withdraw before plunging them both back into the airless world of their embraces. But he’d seen Hanzo’s eyes, too. The way they widened at every new boundary with both apprehension and hunger alike, as if they glimpsed the consequences to which his hands, so much busier when they were not clenched, were so willfully blind.

And, deep down, in some wild, dark part of him, Zenyatta knew that they liked what they saw.

Not that either of them would have known from the urgency with which they moved over one another. Hanzo had, if not explicitly banned, then discouraged him from using his own body for any overtly obscene practises: kisses, deep and clumsy and intoxicating as they came, on mouths and throats and shoulders, were acceptable. Latching on to one of the young heir’s plump pink nipples, while so very worth it to see Hanzo flush and squirm, was not.

Do not dishonour yourself. His eyes were blown dark and glassy as lacquer, and one hand strayed uncertainly to his chest to touch the tender bud Zenyatta had made of his nipple. You must be pure. Then, imploringly: please.

The terrible, glorious irony, of course, was that the more reverent Hanzo became of his chastity, the more perverse their trysts became, edging closer and closer still to the very limits of that boundary with dizzying momentum.

With a soft, wet slurp, Hanzo pulled off his cock: eyes glazed, lips red-raw. Saliva glistened from crown to base. Involuntarily Zenyatta found his head filled with fantasies of it pressing into the tight space of Hanzo’s ass, kept so carefully secret from him in all but their most intimate moments. Saving them both the temptation, he supposed, but he burned with need all the same.

“Y-you prefer me like this,” Zenyatta said, but found he could not make it into a complaint. How could he complain about feeling this way, so painfully, wonderfully aware of his body, sweet and luxurious as an overripe peach?

Hanzo hesitated, but only for a moment. “I prefer you honest,” he said, hoarse from taking so much so deep, though his eyes darted sideways, “and disciplined.”

“Like you?” Zenyatta teased, gazing with a half-lidded laziness he knew already was bound to infuriate him.

What did it in the end, though, what pushed them both over the edge– that was the fingertip he placed delicately beneath Hanzo’s chin to raise his attention to the easy, full-mouthed smile Zenyatta wore for him like sin incarnate.

Hanzo dove between his thighs, lapping featherlight at his balls and then, hesitantly, the hitherto untouched space beneath that had Zenyatta’s hips jerking from the bedding and his hands clapping over his mouth to stifle sounds he had not thought himself capable of making.

There was no room for laughter now. His hole clenched desperately around the nothing of which he was becoming painfully, maddeningly aware.

“P-please… just… I need…”


Yet Zenyatta’s heart was still foolish enough to leap when Hanzo turned him over and slid up against his back, breathing hot and hard against his ear as he fumbled between their bodies. Something blunt and spongy slid between his buttocks for one blissful moment- then lower until it slid between his thighs, made all the smoother and slicker by Hanzo’s generous attentions.

A soft, plaintive whine escaped him before he could swallow it down. “Hanzo…!”

But his protests died in his throat as two strong, calloused hands clapped around his hips and dragged them back into Hanzo’s with an audible slap, and in their place came short, sharp, bestial pants. The head of his cock nestled tight up against his balls, twitching palpably against the sensitive skin before grinding into the base of his cock and back again until Zenyatta trembled with its absence scarcely a moment later. All the while Hanzo grunted above him, shuddering, mottled the back of his neck with deep kisses that became bites as the peak of each thrust drew them flush. Like biting a bullet. The trembling punch of his hips sang with inexperience, but Zenyatta’s body remained hot and swollen and ignorant of whatever the shortcomings with which he had been presented. All that mattered was getting more of it.

Later they would switch positions, face-to-face with Zenyatta’s arms around Hanzo’s neck and his fingers fisting in his hair, his own cock trapped between their bellies as he fucked Hanzo’s between his thighs with more measured thrusts. He would seize the fat head and try to position it against his hole, and Hanzo would slap his hands away and scold him between breathy curses, and he would laugh with mindless adoration and disappointment. But for now the humid heat of that strong, lean body on top of his, tense with rapidly-fraying self-control, leaving salt on his lips– it consumed him.

Shimada’s visit would be short. But these nights… they would be long, and sweet, and savoured.

Chapter Text

Pairings: hanyatta (hanzo/zenyatta) mcyatta (mccree/zenyatta) zen76 (zenyatta/ soldier: 76)
Kinks/ Warnings: human zenyatta, multiple partners, fetishisation of chastity, object insertion (anal beads), voyeurism, dirty talk, grinding
Summary: as a monk, zenyatta is bound to a vow of chastity; to the men who try to woo him, however, it is less a religious undertaking and more of a suggestion


“You have a beautiful heart,” Mondatta told him once, “but I fear it will lead you astray.”

At the time Zenyatta had laughed; the fox he had hidden away in his robes, after all, had done him little harm, and in the end it was worth the scratches and nips to mend its broken leg. But Mondatta held firm.

“Brother,” he soothed; he framed Mondatta’s face in his hands and fixed those tired eyes with his own, suddenly earnest. “You have nothing to fear. I am no wilting flower.”

“But you are curious,” Mondatta sighed, as if all the troubles of the world had suddenly been placed at his feet to be solved. “All I ask is that you are careful.” Then, after a beat: “I mean it, Zenyatta. There will be a time when you are asked for more than your kindness.”

In all, it was Mondatta at his truest: serious, heartfelt, and completely and utterly correct.

First there was the dark-eyed dignitary from the East, with his patrician’s bearing and his coldly handsome face, hard and lovely as a statue’s. His visit to the temple was purely diplomatic, in theory. But from the moment they met his loneliness had struck Zenyatta above all else, and from their first walk through the monastery’s gardens he seemed, for all his haughtiness, he seemed honestly glad for the company. What he did not notice for several days was the flush that warmed his cheeks when their hands touched in those increasingly frequent moments in which his well-mannered gestures became any excuse at all to be close to him.

On the night he finally put his arms around Zenyatta his breath was warm with sake and emotion and fear. But his lips- they were softer than they had ever looked.

Kisses, inevitably, were not enough. The dignitary cradled him in his lap so that he could smooth his hands beneath his robes and raise gooseflesh along his thighs, though never any higher. He toyed with the jade beads he had placed about Zenyatta’s throat earlier that night, cold little stone kisses against his neck and chest that clinked together as he squirmed.

“Ask, and you shall have it,” he insisted. “Clothes, jewels, books. You will be my most favoured courtesan, and you will want for nothing.”

But Zenyatta laughed into his neck, soft and kind. He smelled good, like camellia oil and expensive silk. “Lord Shimada, I could not abandon my vows-”


“-and you cannot buy my honour.”

Something about that word, honour, seemed to mollify him. In the end Lord Shimada was, if not satisfied, then willing to accept a place at the end of his bedroll while Zenyatta sat up against the pillows and touched himself, gasping and shivering by his own hands. Beneath that glossy-eyed gaze he felt like some sort of brazen idol on an altar, his skin gleaming with the same camellia oil he had so admired in the dignitary’s hair.

As for the dignitary himself... he sat, and watched, and scarcely moved, his expression a frieze of dazed adoration. When Zenyatta blinked away the overstimulated tears from his eyes he saw an inky flourish of black hair stuck to his lips, raw red and open as he strangled his cock in one mean fist. But it was from his other that Zenyatta took the string of those prized beads to feed them, one after the other, into the swollen pout of his hole.

The dignitary left with a look of stern resolution and a litany of promises, yes, but alone. The next to come so dangerously close was the bounty hunter. Jesse McCree, he called himself, a name with such curious flair that not even Mondatta could not help but grant him sanctuary in the temple. Bandits were on his trail, or so he claimed: “Didn’t take too kindly to me after I put a bullet in their boss’ head.”

Stories dropped from his lips like scarlet honey, bloody but sweet to Zenyatta’s fertile imagination: cunning thieves, would-be assassins, dread pirates, all felled by the man’s Peacemaker. Perhaps McCree sensed that curiosity in him from the beginning, because before long he was making himself comfortable on a floor cushion in Zenyatta’s private chamber and chatting with him into the night.

The moon rose. Ready to make some excuse, Zenyatta unfurled himself and made for his bedroll- only to be interrupted.

“I could show you a good time.”

Zenyatta froze where he knelt, back to the man. His fists bunched uncertainly about the sheets. “I am sure you could.”

“Hey, now.” A small, soft laugh, velvet-thick as the smoke from those cigars of his; Zenyatta pictured the rise and fall of that broad chest, revealed by the generous ‘v’ of his shirt. “You don’t hafta humour me. Why don’t you take a look at decide for yourself?”

Zenyatta turned. Lounged back against the wall, knees spread wide apart, McCree held the in one hand the great, fat length of his cock, curved up towards his hairy belly and twitching visibly between his fingers.

And in spite of himself and all that stellar self-control for which he was so often praised, Zenyatta found himself flustering. “Very impressive,” was all he could manage. Impressive did not cover it. Even after years of bathing with his brothers and his tryst with the dignitary, McCree was by far the largest man he had ever seen.

“‘ course, I’d have to get you ready first,” McCree broke in; his words slurred lazily as he adjusted his grip around across the meaty thrust of his cock, held as if in demonstration. “I’m a gentleman, after all. But I got a generous mouth for a body like yours, sweetheart, and plenty of fingers.”

Thick, calloused fingers. Zenyatta had touched the hands beneath his gloves, and the thought of them pressing against his most intimate places, spreading him… involuntarily he imagined the blunt head of McCree’s erection stretching him wide. Being fucked face-down on the bed, pounded raw by a man who called him darlin’ and honey while he ruined him with that brute weapon of a cock.

A great, covetous shudder passed through his whole body. McCree caught it like a butterfly in a net and grinned. “Yeah, you’d look real pretty under me.”

Zenyatta had not expected him to take rejection so easily, but he’d only laughed again, even kissed him good night like a real gentleman. For weeks after his departure he dreamed about those lips, first on his hands and then his throat, then-

There were always others to distract him. Like the veteran he found in the snow, weak and exhausted but with a fire burning in those eyes, the colour of that place where the snow meets the sky. Later Zenyatta learned how limited their sight was, but it scarcely mattered. Without a word to Mondatta he whisked him into his bath and warmed him there, skin on skin, until the ghostly white of his skin flushed rosy in the water.

As his sense returned the first thing he did was groan and rub a scarred hand over his brow. “A monk. Unbelievable. The last thing I need right now is a sermon.”

But he had not complained when Zenyatta put his head on his chest, listening to the beat of his heart and the rise and fall of his lungs for weakness; in fact, for all his grumbling, it took no time at all for Zenyatta to realise just how starved he was for physical contact of any sort. When a hand brushed the graven curve of his hip he sucked in air like one thirty years younger, fumbling with a lover for the very first time. Zenyatta had only to shift against his side in search of a more comfortable position to bring the tip of the man’s erection to just beneath the surface of the water, alarmingly red against the curl of white pubic hair at its base.

Zenyatta did not touch him. He did not have to. Silent but for the slosh of water and each ragged breath, the veteran snaked an arm around his waist and drew them side by side, chest to back. All Zenyatta could do was grip the edge of the bath as the man rubbed himself between his own stomach and the pliant curve of his rescuer’s ass in hard, rhythmic thrusts that had him hissing against his ear. It was as close as they came to kisses.

“So-- so goddamn smooth,” the veteran stuttered, before the molten heat of his climax overwhelmed even the heat of the bath.

Instead of the name Zenyatta asked him for afterwards, in what he supposed must have been the afterglow, the veteran left him with hand lingering on his cheek and a long stare, as if etching the vague shape of him into his brain, and he had known instinctively that he would return.

They all would, eventually. Whenever the temple bells heralded the arrival of a new guest his head jerked up, eyes bright with anticipation and interest. And Mondatta… Mondatta shook his head, and turned upon him a candid gaze that always sank soul-deep and undid whatever delusions Zenyatta had of subtlety.

“Take care, little brother, when you lie down with lions,” he said. “Even tame, they may yet swallow you whole.”

Zenyatta only smiled, rose, and let the walk to the temple gates whet his own private appetite.

Chapter Text

Pairing: mchanzo (hanzo/mccree)
Kinks/ Warnings: superhero au, costumes/ masks, secret identities
Summary: When the masked hero Vigilante reveals his true identity to Hanzo, he doesn't get quite the reception he was expecting.


“But I just took ‘em off!”

Jesse McCree- part-timer, deliveryman, and now alter-ego of the mysterious hero Vigilante- stared back at him with such wide-eyed, wounded-deer disbelief that Hanzo very nearly felt guilty for thrusting back upon him the mask, scarf and hat with which he had only just been entrusted.

“You heard me.” He held the dark strip of fabric that composed Vigilante’s mask between thumb and forefinger, as if it were some distasteful item of lingerie. “Put them on.”

For a moment it looked as though McCree was going to try and argue with him, maybe produce some of those smoky Southern niceties he liked to pour out for him like finely aged whiskey. It was almost a pity to see him half-laugh in wonderment and begin to tie it mask back into place. Not, Hanzo reminded himself sternly, that they would do him any good without Vigilante’s mystique to turn their cliches to charm. Right now he was just the American who delivered the mail and had the nerve to strike up conversations with him in the hallway as if they were more than acquaintances.

(The drinks they shared once or twice a week did not count.)

It was, of course, not Jesse McCree who had spent the last few months courting him with impromptu rescues from Shimada Inc. and its remaining yakuza goons, or sweet-talked him, or demonstrated the uncanny ability to say things to his face that would earn anyone else a fist in the mouth. Things like you done with your little pity-party? and how about you treat me with a little respect before I leave you to rot, hombre? that made his heart pound and his pride flush hot in his cheeks, sharp tongue shrivelling in his mouth.

“You ever think,” McCree asked casually, eyes darting up to meet his as he knotted the fabric behind his head, “that you might just be in denial? Unless you’ve got some kinda kink for masks you ain’t mentioned before.”

Hanzo seated himself at his desk and scowled. “It is almost as if you do not want to fuck me.”

Yet his head still span when Vigilante straddled his hips, eyes creased with the smile hidden behind his scarf. Beneath, his shoulders formed a broad, relaxed frame over the barrel of his naked chest, dark with hair and criss-crossed with the scars Hanzo had spotted countless times down the deepened v of a shirt when McCree had visited (not that he had ever paid them much attention). A muscled stomach, softened at the belly, formed the final distraction before Hanzo gave in and looked between his legs, where, from an untamed patch of hair, the hero’s erection bobbed thick and dark with blood.

(Jesse McCree would never have made him hard like this.)

In a titanic display of self-discipline, Hanzo’s hands wandered little further than Vigilante’s hips. “It is an improvement,” he allowed.

“You mean with the mask,” Vigilante quipped, shifting his considerable weight in Hanzo’s lap until he moaned deep in the back of his throat, head smacking dully against the wall, “or without anything else?”

“Do you ever shut up?” Yet, willingly or not, as Hanzo worked his aching dick free from his slacks he found he was smiling- crookedly, maybe, in challenge, but smiling nonetheless. He even managed to  bark out a surprised laugh when Vigilante reached right back and slicked him with lubricant with his own hot, paw-like hands. “When you want cock, maybe?”

Vigilante cocked his head playfully, revealing an eyebrow raised in theatrical query. “Guess you’re about to find out, Mister Shimada.”

When he finally sank down onto him, hole soft and pliant as it enveloped his cock like a fever, head thrown back until in his pleasure Hanzo glimpsed a scruff of beard above the edge of the scarf, Hanzo could almost make himself forget not just that only Jesse McCree, in that devil-may-care cadence of his, had ever called him Mister Shimada but that, right now… he liked the way it sounded.

Chapter Text

Pairing: reapyatta (reaper/human!zenyatta)
Kinks/ Warnings: teratophilia, mild dubcon, biting
Summary: A continuation of the Zenyatta's Vows Are In Danger series.

The creature in the barn would not be his last secret from Mondatta, but it was certainly among the oddest.

A coyote, Zenyatta had thought, when one of his brothers complained of strange noises from within, or a frightened goat. Searching the darkened corners had revealed little. Yet when he returned the following day, the offering of sweetened milk and bread left for the barn’s new occupant had vanished, and around the empty bowl swam a dark, indeterminate shape.

It recoiled from his lantern with a curious chittering gurgle, as if the sound were stifled by its own form. With patience, however, he coaxed it into the palm of his hands.

“You are the strangest thing I have ever seen,” Zenyatta informed it, stifling a laugh between words as the little shadow crept over his shoulder and pooled in his clavicle. He moved his hand to catch it, only to find it sliding between his fingers. “But you may stay here, until you have fully recovah–”

A shock of cold across his nipple thrilled a gasp from him and set his back ramrod straight. The shadow only made that rippling sound again and clung tightly to his breast, seemingly content to settle scarce inches from his heart.

“Settle down, now,” he breathed, and a smoky, guttural laugh rumbled against his ear in reply, as if it knew how little of the monk’s heart was truly in his request.

After that, once he had finally pried the little thing from his body and staggered back to the temple proper with hot, prickling skin, he supposed he should have been more careful. Should have told Mondatta, or come prepared with more than his wits on the next night, and the next, as the shadow grew and grew and slid beneath his robes with increasing audacity: his chest, his stomach, climbing the curve of his spine until gooseflesh broke across his shoulders. The food was secondary. What it devoured was him.

On the final night, Zenyatta should not have been surprised by the suddenly and unmistakably human body that suddenly pressed him into the hay and sent his bowl of offerings clattering to the floor.

“Y-you- what are–” He struggled against the encroaching darkness, the being’s edges flickering like candlelight, only to feel clawed hands encircle his wrists and, with a visceral start, a face press into the back of his neck: eyelashes, a nose, a mouth surrounded by beard- a mouth that spoke, in a deep, raw voice.

“A ghost.”

But there was nothing ghostly about the weight on his back, compressing his lungs with each shaky breath- nor the long, twisting tongue that lashed his shoulder blades yet left nothing but the ghost of sensation in its wake, jerked his back into an obscene arch as it tugged on something belly-deep within him. Claws pricked through the silk, pettinging around his sides until they found nipples, plump and bared to the cool night air.

“Sensitive,” he commented. A shift, and then a palm rolled over the shape of his cock and all the blood rushed from Zenyatta’s head in what felt like a single hard pulse. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

Zenyatta answered, only to hear a mewling sound in place of words.

“Thought so,” the darkness said- but though he laughed when the monk’s hips jerked away from what had to be his own cock, pressed hard against his ass, he did not chase him, content to grind and murmur something cutting about purity that Zenyatta could not hear above the beating of his heart.

Shadows coiled around his ankles, his arms, whatever skin they could touch. But that single rude hand did not stray from his cock, working him into his robes without pretence or shame, dragging him to the fringes of his own resistance until the monk could feel his end in his throat.

“That’s it,” the shadow grunted, “Give it to me.”

Instinct tilted his head, exposing the delicate line of throat and shoulder and that tender spot that throbbed with life between them. But it was will that kept him still when the shadow’s mouth opened against it.

And he bit.

Not even Mondatta’s eyes lingered for long on the neat red circle on the back of his neck, and its position kept it from his own eyes for most of the day. Yet whenever he turned his back to a mirror, Zenyatta could not help but pause, and stare, and wonder just what sort of bargain he had really struck.

Chapter Text

Pairings: doomyatta (doomfist/human!zenyatta)
Kinks/ Warnings: sparring/ fighting, rough sex, frotting, size difference, power play, orgasm denial
Summary: surprise! zenyatta's vows are still in danger.

Akande Ogundimu was, Mondatta assured him, an important individual in his home country.

“Wealthy, you mean?” Zenyatta offered, his head cocked at an angle that so frequently demanded a roll of the eyes or a gentle cuff. This time Mondatta acquiesced with the smallest of sighs.

“Yes. But he is a brilliant man in his own right- I believe him when he says he wishes to understand our ways.”

As usual, Mondatta’s insight was not to be underestimated. When Akande arrived he was a hulking behemoth of a man, built for the combat of which his calloused fists and clever prosthetics promised to make high art, but his eyes were what left the lingering impression: great and golden and vigilant as a hawk’s. Above all else Akande exuded an aura of chaos and control so finely balanced it seemed impossible to tell when one reigned over the other. In brief, he was almost completely unpredictable, and that fascinated Zenyatta.

He spoke with the others, of course. Followed their routines and ate from their table and probed their wisdom with a ruthless curiosity that Zenyatta suspected some found insensitive.

“But can you really claim to know peace,” he overheard Akande asked an increasingly flustered Sister Varsha, “if you never leave the sanctity of these four walls?”

To Brother Dolma, he commented, “Your brothers and sisters are nervous around me. Maybe they think I’m trying to confuse them.”

Maybe they did. Maybe they were right. Every question seemed to lay a careful trap for the unwary, each word a noose to catch Akande’s prey in their own belief. Certainly he was a formidable man to have on one’s scent, particularly when he stripped to the waist and aimed blow after blow at the temple’s training dummies, reducing them to straw and shreds in minutes.

But Zenyatta had never been afraid of a clever tongue, and nor had he ever made a particularly good spectator. The challenge, both intellectual and physical, was simply too appealing. It was only a matter of time before he approached the man to have his feet loosely bound (“My hands, he deadpanned, “are for strictly meditational purposes.”) and his own physical prowess assessed with ruthless efficiency. Akande’s eyes swept up and down his body for only a moment or two before he smiled.

“Interesting.” Exertion had licked a fresh sheen of sweat across his body, granting his skin a curious pearly lustre whenever he moved in the half-light of the evening. “So there are fighters in the Shambali after all.”

“One or two,” said Zenyatta airliy. “But Mondatta would not forgive me if I harmed a guest under his roof.”

The broad echo of Akande’s laughter followed them into their respective stances. But from the moment they sprang into action it became clear that neither party was planning on sparing the other an ounce of their potential. For as much thought as Zenyatta had given to maneuvering about Akande’s bulk, he had never considered how he would manage his weight; he bore down on his slight frame, making the most of the difference without a trace of remorse. And while the first reversal left Akande staring at the place in his arms where his slight opponent had once stood, seemingly baffled, its follow-up did not; Zenyatta saw only the glint of his eyes before his jump-kick was caught effortlessly mid-air in one enormous fist and his body thrown to the mat.

Winded by the fall, it was all Zenyatta could do to wheeze his objection before Akande cut right back in, still smiling down at him scant inches from his face.

“Not bad,” he said. “But you really thought I was going to hold back, didn’t you?”

Zenyatta opened his mouth- but the words started from his lips as Akande knelt and the weight returned all over again, knee nudging his own apart. In moments, he was covered.

To the victor, the spoils.

For a moment he considered a struggle. But when Akande’s hand slid between them and trapped his cock against his thigh with one heavy palm his hips jolted into a treacherous lurch, chest tight above, and below- below, he was starved for it.

It should not have surprised him, Akande’s size, but as he worked his erection free of his loose training gear he found yet another way to catch the monk off guard, so heavy with arousal it fell upon his belly like a blunt weapon; Zenyatta scarcely noticed his own waistband being pulled and teased until it pressed up against bare skin.

“Does your master hold back, monk? Does he help you up and soothe your bruises?”

His voice was hard, punctuating himself with a slow roll of the hips, until Zenyatta could only gasp and squirm. With adrenalin roaring in his veins from the fight he felt hot and sensitive enough to burst already, his dick twitching with sudden, dizzying interest as Akande drew lines along his skin. His lips buzzed against his throat, each word a kiss denied.

“He has been cheating you. But I won’t.”

Automatically Zenyatta pitched upwards, seeking more of that precious friction that could push the both of them over, but all he found was that hand again. It squeezed his cock just a little too hard for comfort before suddenly, damp with sweat, its grip widened to encompass the both of them at once. Just like that, his thrusts were smothered in favour of Akande’s long, luxuriant strokes that ran just a hair shy of a true rhythm, keeping him on that subtle knife’s edge of anticipation while that fat cock pulsed against him.

“This,” Akande breathed, every word a huff of hot air against his skin, “is what it means to fight. This is what it means to fight.”

Time vanished, then, between the rut of hips that never gave way to fucking, and the the hand that refused to give what Zenyatta begged for in his gasps and shakes. Only the sudden kiss of cool air across his lower body drew him back to his senses, just in time to watch Akande pump himself to a generous climax across the monk’s belly.

When Akande rose Zenyatta could or perhaps would not follow, bruised and dazed with blood-hot ivory seed cooling in a smear on his skin. Not his. Like a voice in the darkness Akande’s fingertip found the swollen head of Zenyatta’s cock and pinned it back against his stomach.

Then, just as quickly, he let go, and when his erection sprang back as fat and unfulfilled as ever the monk could almost have wept.

“Next time,” Akande said, with those hawk’s eyes fixed upon him, “I want to see you win.”

Chapter Text

Pairing: hanyatta (hanzo/human!zenyatta)
Kinks/ Warnings: human zenyatta, age/ power imbalance, car sex, hanzo is a sugar daddy
Summary: Zenyatta isn't sure how or why, but he seems to have carved out a very specific niche for himself at Hanamura castle.




“Didn’t have the boss down as the sugar daddy type.”

For one so self-possessed, it surprised Zenyatta to realise just how thoroughly those two words had rattled him. Certainly, Zenyatta had a peculiar arrangement with the stern, troubled master of the Shimada clan. Their first meeting had been a matter of old-fashioned courtesy, an altogether too-curious traveller introducing himself to Hanamura’s shadow-emperor; one conversation became two, then a tour, and then… then it became a month of company and closeness and before he quite knew where they stood Hanzo was taking him to dinner on an almost nightly basis, buying him suitable attire in the process. And then…

That did not necessarily mean that he was- as the two suited guards he had overheard in the castle grounds had suggested in their hushed, scathing conversation- that he was a kept man. The expression they used had been alien to him, but Zenyatta had understood it from the tone in which they had spoken it alone.

And it was so very rewarding to see Hanzo blossom beneath even the smallest of his attentions like a sunflower brought out from the dark: a hand on his, the lightest touch of Zenyatta’s head against his shoulder in the car, a ripple of laughter at that deliciously scathing wit of his that seemed, to the monk, to unveil itself with greater frequency each day. It seemed inevitable that they would fall into each other’s arms eventually, Hanzo’s worshipful reticence gradually giving way to a hunger Zenyatta had hitherto thought impossible from someone so painfully controlled. Acting as his plus one at various events had been a request granted entirely with his pleasure even without the funds Hanzo ardently promised him for in thanks. They, Zenyatta promised right back, did not matter, his presence was a gift in itself, but Hanzo would not be convince.

Tonight was no exception. Beautiful though the venue had been- one of the most exclusive restaurants in the city, Hanzo informed him, commanded for one night by Japan’s most influential men and women- Zenyatta had not much cared for the other guests. Even with Hanzo’s hand resting proprietarily on the small of his back he had felt their eyes upon him with the invasive quality of mouths instead, lingering at his lips, his waist, his buttocks. Appraised, and every now and then he had caught the smug curl to the corner of Hanzo’s mouth and knew that the results were just as he had hoped.

They looked at his earrings, too: two enormous disks, of that incredible yellow purity he had only ever seen from behind glass, attached to the lobe by diamond posts. Hanzo had put them in himself, kissing the sensitive space behind his ears and murmuring about the colour against his skin.

A “sugar daddy type”.

Their weight was a distraction now, in the cool silence of Hanzo’s SUV, caged by the seats at his back and the expressionless blank of the privacy screen in front. Neon city lights filtered through the window and stained Hanzo’s skin with their indecent beauty, his mouth a voluptuous scarlet before the car continued its seamless glide through the streets. Some private burden of his own appeared to occupy him, and though his expression softened as Zenyatta reached out to touch his knee he did not voice the cause.

A sharp corner was all the excuse they needed to fall into one another.

They tumbled together as a snarl of tangled clothes and fumbling hands and a hot, hungry mouth that jewelled his throat with kisses that Zenyatta knew- with some strange, base instinct- would bruise. The next turn slung them both against the car door, the weight of Hanzo’s body compressing a sigh from him in the moments before their lips clashed together again, half teeth. Within moments Hanzo had ripped open the fly to his trousers, sleek and so perfectly skintight (Hanzo standing back from the mirror and nodding approvingly, unable to meet the eyes of even Zenyatta’s reflection, cheeks glowing, sake-touched and more. Perfect, he promises-) his underwear had to be matched accordingly. Flimsy. Easily tugged aside, almost ripped. It was, Zenyatta had learned, Hanzo’s prerogative: he was the one to pay for each and every ensemble, after all.

This time he did not even bother to undress him fully. Instead, he pulled the opening over Zenyatta’s dick until the seams popped and fell upon him. Beard scuffed his thighs, breath humid on bare skin, and then suddenly soft lips sealed around the glans with such clumsy urgency that sucked the air from his lungs until his head fell back against the window. One of Hanzo’s hands had already climbed his stomach, heaving up the expensive silk of his shirt (cold, smooth fabric drawn over his nipples, Hanzo smoothing it over his chest just a little too firmly, coaxing them out into plump little rosebuds-) to expose as much of his body as possible.

That motion was what drew Zenyatta’s eyes, half-lidded as if weighed by the delicious, luxurious pleasure sinking through his veins like the sweetest slumber, to the opposite window. Hanzo’s wristwatch flashed its ludicrous extravagance back at him, along with a figure he only half-recognised, sprawling with parted thighs and bite-swollen lips and ruined clothes that cost the earth.

When his head jerked again, when Hanzo pulled off his cock in favour of cupping him with calloused hands and buried his tongue in his navel instead, his earrings glinted back at him like eyes in the darkness.