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Dutch Courage

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With a heavy heart, Zenyatta finally embraced the truth: the sex was… disappointing.

Charming, witty, handsome: Genji was everything that Zenyatta had not known he found so impossibly attractive in a partner. True, it had taken time, but in that wonderful, featherlight fall he’d learned love in all its forms. Love under a starry sky, foreheads together, tears and fears exchanged like gifts. Love that overwhelmed and left him dazed. Love that made him want.

Yet when they finally took the tumble into bed together the wild, exciting, messy lover he knew had melted away into awkward tenderness and hesitation. Certainly he could not say that it had been an unwelcome approach at first. It was honest. But as night after night passed beneath Genji’s oh-so-careful hands, Zenyatta began to wonder just what part of him was supposed to be made of porcelain that he should be handled so cautiously.

Genji was sweet. But sweet left him hot and damp and hungry as Genji’s body collapsed onto him with a torrent of praise, bringing him off with touches that were little more than adequate. In their post-coital haze he’d feel warm and loved but hardly satisfied- which in itself cast ugly, guilty little shadows across their time together, as if he were simply too base and selfish to appreciate that with which he had been blessed.




The white light of morning cast sunbeams through the open window of Zenyatta’s kitchen. On any other day he might have considered a quick run, or an hour of rooftop yoga, with Genji at plastered to his side like a loving shadow.

Today, he stared at his boyfriend as he poured his tea and tried to interpret his expression. Though Genji did not smile, exactly, the corner of his mouth quirked in cautious excitement as his eyes flicked back and forth across the screen of his phone.

“Is it from your brother?”

That got his attention. Genji blinked, then barked out a short, bewildered laugh. “Definitely not. An old friend of mine will be in town for the next couple of weeks. I have not seen him in a great many years.”

By the way his eyes glimmered Zenyatta did not have to ask if friend was a slight understatement. An old flame, he supposed, though Genji’s relationships had by his own admission always been shallow things.

“We fooled around,” Genji added swiftly, suddenly earnest, “but that is all! I was not easy company when we met- he was kinder to me than I deserved. He has invited me out for drinks.”

Zenyatta placed his tea to one side with a small, fond smile. “You do not have to explain yourself to me,” he said, gliding to his side. His hand threaded itself through the sleep-mussed tangle of Genji’s hair. “I would love to meet him.”

Genji froze.

“Are you sure?” He raised an eyebrow ever so slightly in what Zenyatta recognised immediately as concern. “Jesse and I… we do not hold back.”

Zenyatta could imagine only too clearly. Even in the early stages of their relationship Genji had confessed the excesses of his youth- or what he could remember of them, anyway. But there was still that glint in his eyes, a kind of unapologetic spark that, whether they were bickering idly over a menu or sparring at the gym, always strengthened Zenyatta’s resolve.

“You do not think I can keep up.”

Genji flushed a familiar and all-too endearing pinkish colour. “N-no, it is-”

“I thought,” Zenyatta continued evenly, “we had discussed your unfortunate habit of underestimating me.”

“It isn’t like that,” Genji protested, a little weakly, “I mean it.” He raked a hand back through his hair, brow knitted in consternation; beneath, his gaze skittered to the floor. “Sometimes I just want to let go for an evening, and… and I could not bear to see you think less of me for it.”

He hardly had the chance to finish before Zenyatta was upon him with both arms wrapped around his neck and his face buried in the crook of his neck; up close he smelled of coffee and bed and the sultry musk of his skin almost always masked by some expensive aftershave or another.

“I love all of you, Genji,” he mumbled, punctuating himself with a kiss. Even as Zenyatta drew back one hand curved up to cup his cheek, holding his gaze steady. “You have nothing to hide from me.”

Genji’s eyes softened. “Then,” he exhaled, cupping Zenyatta’s palm into his cheek in a gentle squash, “I would love for you to come.”




Jesse McCree was a big, burly wolf of a man, wearing a thick scruff of beard and an easy smile that creased those dark, serious eyes and settled on him like warm honey.

“So you’re Zenyatta! Pleasure to meet you.” He threw out a hand, easily twice the size of his own, and shook his arm with firm, masculine assurance. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

There was something about him, a kind of innate impropriety, that made it almost impossible not to smile back, even laugh as he added, “And here I was thinking he was exaggerating about snagging a real knockout.”

Zenyatta had never considered himself competitive as such. Nor did he feel himself particularly threatened by the presence of his new American acquaintance. In fact, he liked him immensely, all the more so when he led them to a battered cadillac with a sheriff’s badge pinned to the rear view mirror.

(“He is showing off,” Genji smirked against his temple. “He will be in no state to drive us back anyway.”)

But there was something about the easy way they pawed each other around: the way McCree could swat at Genji with one broad, hairy hand whenever the latter made some pithy comment on his driving; how Genji shoved his shoulder in return and stole the cigar right from between his teeth. It must have tasted like his mouth, Zenyatta thought, but above that came the realisation that had Genji would never have dared take such liberties with him.

Perhaps, Zenyatta thought, he simply did not properly invite them. Or make them inviting in the first place.

The thought drifted after him like a balloon on a string as they pulled up, distracting him from the revelation that they had not arrived at a bar or restaurant but a club, pulsing with music and energy and people. Within seconds of walking into the dark, close space Genji’s fingers had curled possessively about his wrist, which would have been touching were it not so clearly an afterthought by the way his eyes settled instead upon McCree and then the bar.

“The first round is on me,” he shouted, up on his toes to catch his friend’s ear and gesticulating wildly with his free hand.

As they fought for their place at the bar the memory of Genji’s expression lingered, a nervous ghost, and when McCree called out for two whiskeys on the rocks and a mineral water he found himself interrupting. “Three, please.”

Immediately, Genji’s brow crumpled with concern. “You do not have to-”

“I know.” And when McCree laughed and told Genji to relax, eyeing him with a new kind of curiosity, Zenyatta could not help but feel an odd little rush of pride- and triumph.

One round turned into three. Each drink fought its way down, burning his throat and warming his belly. All worth it, if it meant he could meet Genji’s eyes over the rim of his glass as he took sip after sip, see the way they widened when he drained in one the shot of liquid heat McCree so generously poured out for him next.

True to form, Jesse applauded. But Genji only watched him with glossy eyes that darted between the two of them before hopping to his feet. “We did not come here to sit and drink all night, did we?” he demanded, hand flattened hard on the bartop. “Come on! Are you going to dance or not?”

The floor seemed to rise to meet his feet a moment sooner than Zenyatta had expected as he rose from his stool, and when he looked up to follow his eyes lagged behind the movement of his head as if suspended. But all in all, he decided, the effect was not altogether unpleasant. Rather like floating, even, especially once he settled in close behind McCree, who possessed the uncanny ability to part dancers like Moses before the sea. This close he could see the thin trickle of sweat on the back of his neck.

Then McCree stopped, and, despite his best efforts, Zenyatta did not.

A familiar pair of arms pulled him back. “Easy, Zenyatta!” Genji turned him around, and to his surprise he found that he was smiling at him, all gentle affection. “I have you. Dance with me?”

How could he possibly have said no? Zenyatta had never danced in a place like this before, never like this anywhere but the privacy of their own apartment, but as Genji drew in close it seemed the most natural thing in the world. Just moving between the two men was intoxicating in its own right, the music a hypnotic backbeat to their voices, little more than a buzz in the din, their breathing.

Genji’s face was a moon beneath the lights, and he swayed towards it like the ocean to the shore, willing to find hands on his waist, his hips, lower. Instead they took his hands and set him into a chaste little turn and traced around the lines and curves of his body without ever making contact. Not enough. Not when he had only to step back to be met by the smell of liquor on McCree’s breath, his skin-

(“He doesn’t even like tequila,” Genji laughed into his ear, “it is just for his image,” and the word slurred, imeeji, as if they were sharing some secret language that made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.)

- so conspicuously physical at his back it made his head spin more than the very real alcohol lighting a fire through his own bloodstream and making him bold. Before he could regret it Zenyatta pressed back against McCree, only to find those strong hands planted on his waist to guide him. What he had not expected, however, was to find himself being drawn all the closer, to not so much be guided as commanded with absolute authority until he swayed like a willow. Against his cheek he felt the scratchy tickle of beard, and the hot, heavy pant of breath as they moved against each other in ways that seemed far too intimate for dancing alone.

His eyes flickered up from beneath the sleepy fringe of his lashes. Barely half a foot away, with eyes bright and pupils blown, a brilliant constant in the crush of bodies, Genji stared at him as if he were a total stranger. A stranger he wanted to make very familiar indeed.

Without breaking eye contact, Zenyatta curved up and nuzzled into the warm, stubbly crook of McCree’s throat to plant a kiss on his jaw. And in the flickering twilight of the club, Genji’s eyes shot wide open and gleamed with disbelieving light.

At once the man at his back seemed little more than a pleasant distraction. Even before he’d finished mouthing it Zenyatta recognised his name on the Genji’s lips, and by the time he had he was slipping out of reach with a wild backwards glance of his own, the heat sweltering beneath his skin until he wanted to claw it off.

Genji pursued.

Past the throngs of dancers, through a few wandering hands that caught at his waist, Zenyatta wound a circuitous path that Genji seemed inextricably bound to follow. That he had only the outline of a destination in mind did not much trouble his thoughts, nor the prospect of what would happen when the hunter finally caught his quarry. Within half a second of them slipping through the fire escape Genji was already snatching at him with new, uncharacteristic ferocity, over and over, until suddenly he was stumbling right at his back

and the world swung sideways as Zenyatta was knocked face forward onto a cold expanse of metal.

A phantom beat droned hazily in his ears, already ringing with flushed heat. Genji gave a little groan into his back. “Ah, shit…”

Dazedly, it occurred to Zenyatta that he had fallen onto the hood of a car- the parking lot? Yet as the pressure on his back lessened his hand lashed back entirely of its own accord to keep Genji snugly in place: feet planted on either side of his own, thighs to thighs.

Genji shifted against him, and automatically Zenyatta arched until his ass pressed tight and sweet against his groin- and the fat, swollen thing already straining those expensive jeans. When he looked back over his shoulder Genji stared back at him with the eyes of an animal.

“Is this what you wanted, Genji?” Even as he spoke Zenyatta knew sounded different, so short and breathless and uncontrolled. “Jesse is not here.” Then, impulsively: “I am all yours.”

A half-strangled sound choked out of Genji’s throat in the moment before he fell upon him.

His eager mouth found his throat and jaw and peppered it with attention. But the moment Genji’s lips bumped against his own he took them in his teeth instead with a quick, teasing nip. No kisses. On that, even in through the glorious fog of his intentions, Zenyatta was resolute. Granted that sweetness all the urgency between them would sap away the momentum that had brought them out here into the cold night air- that sent big, rough hands scrambling beneath his shirt, that allowed him to guide those hands to the corded waist of his sweatpants.

The night air licked his bare skin for only a moment before Genji covered him again, jeans shucked to his ankles with a clinking of belt buckle. The knuckles of his fist cleaved the soft meat of his ass as he lined himself up, swore, then pushed.

Vodka softened the burn, then the breach as the head of Genji’s cock popped into him in a gut-clenching jerk that had Zenyatta fogging the hood with his gasps and tears pricking in his eyes.

“Fuck- shit– Zen-!” Genji’s moan vibrated against his spine, belly-deep and bestial, he’d never spoken to him like this before- “So tight-”

Tight enough to sting, no matter how much he’d had to drink. Come the morning his impatience would strike back with a vengeance. But suddenly it seemed to Zenyatta that nothing existed past this moment, past the pain and fullness and the hands gripping his wrists as if they were the only thing keeping them planted. He bucked, and another fat inch of cock crammed itself past his abused hole.

“More! Please, Genji,” the sounds emerging from his throat, they were scarcely human, much less his voice, “I will not b-brea-”

Above him Genji laughed shakily, mumbling something incoherent in his native tongue, but before Zenyatta could finish a hand relocated to the centre of his back and forced him down onto the hood with a hollow thump. It was all the weight he needed to keep Zenyatta pinned and withdraw- until, with a deep, throaty whine, he felt Genji’s hips slap firmly into his ass as he bottomed out at some strange and uninitiated angle.

And it hurt, by the Iris it hurt, stretching him too wide too quickly, too brutally. But within each burst of pain bloomed pleasure like he had never known, thrust after thrust. By the time Genji’s head hung low over his back, half-drooling against his neck as he moaned his name again and again, Zen, Zen, yes, Zen… by then, the two were indistinguishable, and unbearable, and he didn’t ever want it to end.

It had to. Genji’s hips drove home hard in one final, uncoordinated thrust, the universe contracted to a mutual gasp- and a thick, pulsating flood painted Zenyatta’s insides and his own stomach ivory.

Little by little, Zenyatta returned to himself. As he raised his head he felt the thread of saliva connecting his lip to the hood of the car break, while Genji rocked into him with the last of his drowsy strokes he scarcely felt through the heady glow of adrenaline; only on the backthrust did he notice the thick, wet path drooling its way down the inside of his thighs.

“Genji…” The urgency had drained from his voice already, leaving behind a deep, husky murmur that slipped all the further away from him as Genji sank down against him, stomach to his back. “Aren’t you…?”

Genji grunted softly, trembling. “I don’t want…”

“I know.” Zenyatta’s muscles protested as he twisted around, but it was worth it to plant a kiss on his lover’s mouth, rosy and chapped with attention. The moan Genji gave as he finally slid out vibrated across his lips, nearly swallowing his voice altogether. “Neither do I.”

Now that Genji was more or less standing on his own- less, he suspected, rather than more- he forced himself up onto his elbows. Mmm. A dull ache throbbed in his core, one that intensified quite nicely as he fumbled with the sagging waistline of his sweats for some sort of decency- not altogether aided by Genji’s roving hands, but they were a welcome addition, particularly when his mouth descended on him not a moment later. Before long he found himself coaxed onto his back, letting Genji steal deep, hungry kisses from his throat, hip pitching idly between his legs-

Only for his attention to be stolen by a long, low whistle.

“Damn. I was gonna tell you two to get a room, but…”

Zenyatta eyes snapped open. His inverted reflection stared back at him, flushed and smiling and warped by the glass, before his attention slowly refocused itself on a golden shape hanging above the dashboard.


Briefly it occurred to Zenyatta that he should probably show something like shame for being caught out in the open wearing one man’s come on the hood of an entirely different man’s car. In the morning, he thought airily, he would probably be mortified. But for now… for now, modesty could wait.