It’d started as a joke.
A joke whispered among some of Overwatch’s recruits when they were alone. Quiet giggles and laughter would surround the playful chatter that came with curiosity over their newest member.
But with most jokes made at someone else’s expense, it only took one imbecilic joker to push it too far.
Junkrat is known for being the instigator for these events, and this scenario is no different as he catches the big guy in question alone, standing at the door to his room and prepared to enter before he’d rudely been cut off by the lanky rat. Akande, or DoomFist, as he’d preferred to be called by his new ‘teammates’, wrinkled his nose in disgust as the scent of soot and smoke wafted from the junker.
“What brings you to block me from entering my own room?” he questions, form tensed from the expectation of a fight. This kid had been explained as a loose cannon upon his initial introduction to the members, and he was not in the mood to brawl before getting his rest. Training itself was tiring enough.
Junkrat’s already sly grin widened as he was acknowledged, his head tipped back so that he could meet the taller’s eye, “Oh I ain’t gonna stop ya from steppin’ yaself ‘round me ‘nd we both know I ain’t much of a blockade now ‘nyway, eh?” His hands are held up briefly, a placating gesture to say he hasn’t come for a fight. Doomfist’s gaze flickers to his right arm at the action, eyeing the design of its metallic extension.
“Then why are you here?”
“Well, there ain’t any rule ‘bout gettin’ t’ know ya new teammates,” he’s still grinning, and at this point Doomfist thinks it’s safe to say he never stops, “‘nd I was gettin’ m’self all in a tizzy wonderin’ ‘bout this mysterious new recruit. ‘Course it wasn’t easy gettin’ Roadie t’ let me come up to ya all by me lonesome but I assured ‘im that me ‘nd ya were jus’ gonna have a friendly chat ‘nd I’d be outta yer hair wit’ not a scratch on me by dawn.”
That almost makes sense, and Doomfist finds himself nodding the slightest amount before his mind catches up to the rambling Junker, “— Dawn?”
The sun’s barely set for the night.
“Right,” his unwelcome guest exclaims, only to squeak out a surprised gasp when Doomfist not-so-gently nudges him out of the way of his door, his hand already tapping away at the entry code to open his room.
“You are not staying with me for some childish sleepover when I intend to be getting my rest.” His voice is stern, almost fatherly as he steps inside, fully intending to shut the door on his unwanted guest. Junkrat, however, has other plans, and he moves faster than the taller expects as he wedges himself through the narrow space of the doorway that isn’t taken up by Doomfist’s hulking frame. The door shuts behind them both, and Junkrat has only a minute to celebrate his accomplishment before Doomfist’s robotic hand is at his throat, touch threatening enough but not enough to close his airways as he finds his back against the cold steel of the door.
“Ack — Whoa, whoa, whoa, hey! Easy there, mate!” Junkrat babbles, his prosthetic arm coming up to curl the best it can around Doomfist’s wrist, his flesh hand twitching wildly as he holds it in a way he hopes looks calming. He’s used to the display, memories of when he’d first hired Roadhog springing into his mind. “I was jus’ figurin’ ya might be lettin’ me in what wit’ ya openin’ th’ doorway wit’ me there ‘nd all,” he continues, mind reeling to diffuse the situation and catch up with the words bubbling from his mouth, “‘sides, I’m already ‘ere now so we might as well chit-chat ‘cuz ya ain’t gonna get rid a’ me without some fine pleasantries after pinnin’ me t’ ya wall, mate. Hell, I’d say we’re movin’ a bit fast but I ain’t complainin’ or nothin’ heh —”
“Shut up,” Doomfist booms, releasing Junkrat with a shove and stalking away as the blond rubs at his throat, tension bubbling out of him now that the threat of his airway being cut off is no longer there.
He looks like he wants to say something, but for perhaps the first time in his life, he holds it back, instead choosing to look around the room. It’s nothing special — a few books here, a place for clothes there, a table that Doomfist is now occupying, and a bed that looks as though it hasn’t even been touched. It’s almost immaculately clean, compared to the mess he and Hog made in their own, and the lack of decor almost makes the place feel claustrophobic. “Nice place,” he mumbles regardless, trying to get on the other’s good side.
A grunt. Promising.
Junkrat huffs, and walks to the sitting man, making it a point that he refuses to be ignored with the way he hops onto the table to sit directly in front of the other. He notes the way Doomfist’s brow twitches as he tenses, but somehow, the man manages to ignore him.
Can’t be having that.
“So, Doomfist, aye? Did it come ‘fore ya got yaself a big fancy arm or after?”
Junkrat can see from the expression on the man’s face that he’s caught him off guard, but Doomfist deflects it easily.
“Did you grow up wanting to be a trashy rodent or did you just fall into an unfortunate moniker?”
Junkrat grins, “Touché.”
Doomfist seems to relax a little at that, and it’s not long before the room’s filled with Junkrat’s chatter and Doomfist’s more clipped, straightforward answers.
It isn’t long, however, before Junkrat decides it’s time to reveal his intentions for bothering the older man in the first place.
“So,” the Junker starts, hands clasping together in front of his face as he leans uncomfortably close to Doomfist, “wit’ a handle like that, have ya ever actually fisted someone before?”
He says it so casually that one might think he was asking about tonight’s weather, and it leaves Doomfist’s mind blank as he stares, dumbfounded, at his guest. Suddenly his face feels all too hot, the tips of his ears burning, and Junkrat is far too close. He clears his throat as his mind digs for a response, and he scoots his chair back to make the space greater between them.
Junkrat, the asshole, just chuckles and leans closer, his eyes twinkling with a childish delight.
“Excuse me?” he finally manages, trying to ignore how close Junkrat’s gotten. His senses are filled with smoke and soot, and he can feel the other’s breath. Way too close. Way too cocky.
“Ya heard me, mate.” And there he goes, subtly inching closer. The fact he hasn’t been decked gives him the confidence, “If ya ain’t, well there’s always a first time fer everythin’, ain’t there?”
Doomfist finds himself surprised when the statement brings a warmth pooling into his guy. He wasn’t a inexperienced — he new what the action entailed and he clearly could tell that Junkrat was coming onto him, but he wasn’t disgusted. On the contrary, truly. He doesn’t answer the question, but his statement flows out unbidden, his voice somewhat hoarse with how dry his mouth felt it had become, “Such an action wouldn’t leave you in a healthy state. My hands are too large for your frame.”
Junkrat laughs, a loud, raspy guffaw escaping his lungs as he tosses his head back and dissolves into cackles. For a moment, Doomfist feels as though he shouldn’t have said anything at all, until the blond drops his head and levels a smouldering gaze in his direction, grin reaching his eyes, “Mate, ya’ve seen Roadie’s hands ‘nd I assure ya, I’ve taken those plenty o’ times in me life.”
The connotation has Doomfist’s blush coming back full force. His face felt as if it was burning up, “And he’s okay with this?”
“Sure, me ‘nd th’ big lug ‘ave got ourselves an open relationship. Heh, he knows I’m here ‘nd t’ be frank I think he’s enjoyin’ a break. Can’t blame ‘em, can ya?” That grin grows wider, yet it’s edges soften, “I ain’t goin’ behind anyone’s back ‘ere, mate, if that’s ya concern.”
The fact that Junkrat and his... partner... had apparently discussed what sent the blond here in the first place came as a surprise to Doomfist, and air shuddered out of his lungs, expelling the nerves that crawled up his spine, tingling along the heat that replaced it.
Having not been shoved back, the shorter took this as a sign to close the space between him, and with a movement that seemed almost practiced he slipped from the table and onto Doomfist’s lap, straddling him and hooking hands into his shoulders. The taller jolted, but refrained from pushing him away, his own, larger hands settling around Junkrat’s waist as he fought with himself on whether to shove him away or tug him closer.
“Ya chill wit’ this, mate? Ain’t ‘bout t’ try ‘nd get m’self rooted by some poor bastard that ain’t cravin’ it.” A breathless giggle escaped him, “‘less ya are into that sorta roleplay shit or whatever. I ain’t th’ type t’ judge.”
“No, no, this is fine,” Doomfist responds after a moment’s deliberation, his fingertips pressed a but more firmly around Junkrat’s narrow waist.
“Cheers,” is the response he gets before the junker’s head lifts and closes the distance between them in a needy kiss.
Doomfist’s not sure what he expected, but the junker’s lips turn out as rough and callous as the rest of him, as though he’d been chewing on them just before their encounter began. He hums against them, letting Junkrat lead and moving slow and sure against impatient and needy advances. The blond’s dying to be welcomed into his mouth, tongue swiping along his lips and teeth tugging, demanding the unrelenting force to ease up.
To let him in.
He practically squeaks when Doomfist’s mouth finally opens, only for the elder’s tongue to push back, establishing dominance with one stroke. A mechanical finger wedges into the edge of Junkrat’s lips, forcing his mouth to open further, to deepen their kiss, and he complies with a groan.
Doomfist’s other hand slips down the small of the other’s back, rubbing slow circles into tense flesh. Junkrat whines and wiggles, already panting, and pulls his head away.
“Y’know, I don’t think ya ever told me ya actual name,” he tries, voice more jittery than usual.
The taller pauses at this, and though he debates not telling him, his head dips down, lips hovering beside Junkrat’s ear and breath hot. Junkrat quivers, then gasps as he nips it lightly. “Akande.”
“Aw, gesundheit, mate,” Junkrat teases with a grin, though the effect is lost with his flushed condition and unfocused expression, “‘m Jamison. Now that that’s outta th’ way, let’s say ya put ya title t’ good use.”
Bossy. Akande’s eyebrow raises, and his hands lift to Jamison’s shoulders, nails digging into skin and raking down with enough pressure to pull angry red lines to the surface. For anyone else it may have hurt, but the blond shudders and arches into it with a hiss of breath, breathless giggles spilling from him. He repeats the action to ensue it’ll leave a mark, rewarded with a soft groan, and can’t stop his grin, “Why don’t you beg for it, Jamison.”
With Jamison on his lap and pressed against his waist, he can feel the response his command has on him almost immediately, and it provokes a similar reaction, his clothing beginning to feel a bit too tight.
“C’mon mate, that ain’t fair!” Jamison’s all but whining, his hips attempting to roll and grind against Akande’s. When he’s held still, that grin vanishes for the first time to make room for a pout, “I already fuckin’ came here t’ seduce ya ya fuckin’ drongo ‘nd I fuckin’ brought lube ‘nd everythin’ ‘nd now ya want me t’ what? Get on me knees ‘nd beg fer ya? ‘Oh please, sir Akande, bestow upon me ass ya glorious fingers ‘nd then maybe ya dick!’ Ain’t ya a hard mother fucker t’ lay?” His frustration has him rambling, and Akande’s almost tempted to let him continue, but they have more important things to be doing.
It’s easy to lift Jamison up, and the motion is enough to make the junker pause. His face flushes with color, mouth slightly ajar and looking so kissable with his caught in the headlights expression that Akande can’t resist dipping his head for an open-mouthed kiss. It’s sloppy, but neither seem to mind as Akande shifts to hold Jamison up by his ass, fingers of his flesh hand slipping beneath his cargo shorts to find with a pleasant surprise that the blond’s gone commando.
Jamison must sense his intrigue, because he mumbles against his mouth, “Was really fuckin’ ridin’ on wooin’ ya, heh.”
“Sly little Rat.” Akande’s fingers venture deeper beneath the fabric, tongue exploring Jamison’s mouth as his fingers push into the cleft of his ass, finding the spot he’d been searching for and pressing his fingers against it. Jamison’s moan rumbles against his lips, and he pushes back into it.
Using the same hand, he starts a rhythm, never pushing inside but teasing with the pressure, using his fingertips to grind Jamison’s crotch into his and retreating back for the other to chase and grind into his digit. It’s sloppy and uncoordinated, his partner a hot mess of lust and need at this point, but he settles him into a rhythm that has them both moaning against each other’s lips.
Akande waits until he thinks he’s about to burst before he begrudgingly separates from the blond, tossing him haphazardly onto his unused bed. Jamison bounces slightly as he lands, and looks about ready to reach up, dazed and searching for his contact, when Akande’s voice booms a husky, “Strip, and prepare yourself for my fingers.”
Jamison trips over himself in his rush to follow Akande’s orders, peeling off his cargo shorts with ease and wrestling with his one shoe. He debates ripping his prosthetics off as well, but decides that doing so in the heat of the moment could be a shellshock for a first time. The thought pulls a giggle, and the tension of doing this with the larger man melts into giddiness. Before he flings his shorts to the ground, he fishes a bottle from them, opened and half empty. Should be enough.
His fingers dance around his cock, exposed to the air and flushed red as it bobs against his navel. There’s an urge to jack off right then and there, but when he looks up to meet the hungry gaze of Akande, he swallows the desire and pops the cap, sheepishly watching his hands as he coats them in lube.
Right, ok. How many fingers would he need before Akande would be able to take over? He decides on two, and wastes no time rolling onto his stomach and spreading his legs, reaching behind himself and pressing his face into the sheets in preparation for his babbling.
Akande watches as the other takes no time in preparation, almost painfully quick in how he spreads himself and pushes a finger inside of himself with a muffled gasp. He palms himself through his clothing as he watches before deciding quickly to shed the fabric as well. His hand curls around his length, not as lengthy as Jamison’s own but nearly twice the width, and for a moment he’s concerned that he could actually hurt the guy.
Jamison’s moan snaps him from his thoughts before he can think further, however, as his second finger nestles itself inside, scissoring and beginning to thrust into himself with abandon. Akande looks over the blond’s shoulder to find him drooling freely, already looking fucked out as his hips twitch, cock twitching and throbbing with each movement and already leaking.
“A’ight I think ‘m — ah — ready fer ya now, fuckin’ please Doo — Akande, fuckin’ do it please, fuckin’ root me wit’ ya hand! Fuckin’ goddamn please —”
Akande’s cock twitches at the begging, and he reaches to finally touch Jamison, soothing his robotic hand down his spine as his other hand retrieves the the bottle of lube. “Roll over,” he commands, “and don’t touch yourself. Only I’m allowed to touch you until I say otherwise, is that clear?”
Jamison hesitates to withdraw his fingers, but he eventually does as he rolls over, looking too caught up in endorphins to properly catch what Akande’s saying. Akande continues, even as he hooks the blond’s flesh leg over his shoulder to give himself a better angle.
“You should see yourself right now. I haven’t even touched you and you’re already this close. Bet you could come just from my voice. Maybe I won’t even touch you and we could test the theory, huh?” His partner whines and Akande relents. It’d be so easy to fuck him silly right now, and he almost does, but the earlier request drives him to drizzle lube into his flesh hand and coat his fingers in it, pressing his index finger against the junker until he’s able to slip inside.
Jamison’s eyes widen as he arches into it, surprising himself with the volume of his unmuffled moan, sending a new pang of desire straight to Akande’s weeping cock. It’s hard not to hurry right along and get to where he could bottom himself out in the junker’s ass.
Akande’s able to keep his control, just barely. He twists his digit around within the other, taking care to spread him wider even as he feels around for the spot he’s sure will make Jamison a mess. It’s not long before it seems he’s found it, the junker keening and babbling incoherently as he firstly brushes against it, and then presses into the spot.
“Fuck fuck fuck fuck mate — holy shit ya gotta — ya gotta do that again. Shit!” the blond hisses, bucking into his hand. Akande splays a hand across his waist to pin him, other hand working his middle finger in as Jamison flat-out wails for more. At this point the whole place probably can hear him, but as long as Akande doesn’t stop he couldn’t care less.
As if reading his thoughts and wanting to torture him, the taller does pause, leaving Jamison impatient and whining as he takes the time to add more lube to his fingers, and when he resumes his actions on Jamison, a third finger joins, thrusting shallowly into him as his pinky circles around the rim of his sensitive flesh.
“C’mon,” Jamison moans out, head lulled to the side and drool coating the sheets as he fixes his gaze on Akande, “I ca — fuck — I can fuckin’ take ya all now! D-don’t ya make me fuckin’ wait anymore! Jus’ fuckin’ fist me already!”
Jamison certainly can’t take it, Akande muses as he tunes the junker out, instead thrusting his fingers slowly into him, only to drag them along that one spot as they retreat out. That seems to stop Jamison’s impatient whining, replacing it with moans that taper off to hoarse giggles.
“Ya — ya better fuckin’ — I ain’t gonna hold out long enough — fuckin’ hurry, mate!” Jamison eventually manages, and finally, Akande speeds the process up.
Three fingers turns easily into four, stretching Jamison wider than he’d ever been before, and it burns so deliciously that he has to wonder why he’s never done this before. His hips buck weakly against the other’s hand, still held down, and he can hear himself begging for respite. Begging for more. Begging to cum. It’d been building up slowly in his gut, and he can hardly stand it anymore.
“Almost there,“ Akande grunts, ever helpful as he shifts, withdrawing his fingers for a final coating of lube, and braces the tips of all his fingers against Jamison’s hole, “Are you ready?”
Jamison wants to scream at the question. In fact, he does, his hands scrabbling to grab Akande’s wrist as if he can force him to shove it inside him, “Jus’ fuckin’ stick it in me ya fuckin’ drongo or I’ll blow ya t’ kingdom co-”
Akande effectively shuts him up as, finally, he eases his hand inside. Whatever Jamison was going to say is lost in a high moan, and the hand pinning him down finally lifts, allowing him to roll his hips effectively against Akande, forcing his loose fist deeper into his body. The taller wants to ask if he’s alright, but a quick look at Jamison’s face and the way his body clenches around his hand tells him he’s fine.
If he said anything now, Jamison would probably try and rip his head off anyway.
Still, he moves slowly, his robotic hand dropping to curl around himself and mirror each shallow thrust of his flesh one as he fucks Jamison with his fist. His body jerks at the touch of cool metal, and he surprises himself with how loud his low moan is.
He surprises Jamison, too, but the blond grins widely at him the next their eyes meet, gaze unfocused and yet still so piercing. So bright.
“Akande, mate I’m — I’m fuckin’ — I’m gonna -” Jamison suddenly groans, his body tensing as he clenches around Akande’s hand. His cock throbs, and the larger male finds himself dipping his head down, lips quick to close around the head of Jamison’s shaft in hopes of catching the other’s cum.
The act is sudden enough to the blissed junker that he practically screams through his orgasm, limbs scrambling for purchase as he tries to buck his hips up, spilling into Akande’s throat.
Akande’s pretty sure he feel’s the blond’s prosthetic leg thump against his head, but he doesn’t mind, instead pulling his hand out of Jamison and climbing over him. His cock, still hard, brushes against the junker’s inner thigh, and he has to stop himself from pushing right into him.
He has to make sure it’s alright, first.
“If ya don’t cum in me after that ‘m still gonna fuckin’ blow ya up.”
That answers that question.
Akande is quick to bottom out in Jamison after that, thrusting hard and fast until his hips stutter, Jamison’s body limp from exhaustion yet his moans still loud and needy, babbling nonsense as he holds onto Akande’s shoulders for dear life. He’s shut up with a sloppier, deep kiss, eagerly pushing into it and swallowing up the other’s moans as he finally cums inside him.
It’s fuckin’ perfect, and he’d be happy to lay there for hours, reveling in the euphoria with Akande laying half on top of him, but when he finally rolls off, Jamison gets a peek at the night sky, and giggles sharply.
“Well,” he breathes, voice raspy, “still got ourselves a while ‘fore dawn.”