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The water tastes sweet.
It takes him by surprise, and he thinks of spitting it out; poisoned with lead, maybe antifreeze. But this was the same water that was in his canteen yesterday. Nothing had changed. It’s still murky with dirt and should still taste like the bottom of a boot, but it doesn’t. Now it’s citrus and sugar, things he hasn’t tasted since before the world went to shit. Lemonade.
He swallows as slowly as he can, savoring a flavor that may end up killing him. He feels the grit in his mouth, settling in his throat, and it should definitely taste like he’s licking a stop sign. He inspects the canteen for leaks or anything foul, but comes up empty.
Interesting.
The morning sun is lazy over the peaks of canyons, and has yet to turn the cold earth warm with its rays. Roadhog slides his mask back over his mouth to take a deep, filtered breath. The air is already warm, and in an hour or two it’ll be uncomfortable. Rolling his shoulders with a grunt, his body reluctantly starts to wake up.
His partner in crime seems to have disappeared, because he’s not where he left him. The bedroll he’d last seen him on is sloppily tied up and ready for transport. Bits and pieces of scrap litter the ground around their campfire, which looks like it’s only just gone out. Junkrat must have started another one in the middle of the night. A lonely footprint leaves a shallow trail in the sand, a round divot alongside it.
Roadhog isn't about to start worrying about the bastard. They’re far from their next stop, maybe another day until civilization, nothing to bother them out here. Junkrat’s gotten this far on his own, he can go a night without a babysitter. If anything, it gives Roadhog more time to himself, enough time for an extra nap. He scratches at the wide swell of his stomach, untrimmed fingernails catching on his bellybutton and making it tingle. He yawns, and the mask displaces itself ever so slightly.
There it is again. Sweet.
He tilts his mask up to his forehead, the brightness of daylight stinging his eyes, and sniffs.
It’s not the water. It’s the air.
He looks around the valley they’ve found themselves in, and it’s greener this time of year. The shrubs look healthy, and the trees are shadier, as sparse as they are, but he can’t see anything unusual. He can’t imagine orange trees growing out here. He hasn’t seen one in years. No more water from the sky, only acid. Acid doesn’t grow oranges.
But how nice would it be to find one? A jackpot, honestly. Vitamins are just about the rarest thing in Oz, right up there with children and hospitality. Just a single orange would be worth more than Junkrat’s remaining leg. A funny thought.
He stands to get a better view of the valley, and his back pops loudly. He sees a large cluster of rocks, and with the thin landscape in front of him, he can guess where Junkrat is.
“Hey!” He roars, and it rolls over the land loudly, practically echoing on the canyon walls. As the sound dies away, he can hear the shriek of metal on stone. A few seconds later, a head of wild hair pops over the top of the boulders, and he can see the tips smoldering all the way from where he stands.
“What?” Junkrat yells, and his voice shreds at Roadhog’s ears. “Can’t a bloke piss in peace?”
Roadhog doesn’t answer. It has the man cursing and shuffling behind the rocks, doing whatever it is he’s actually doing. Roadhog watches Junkrat limp toward him in the distance, and the closer he gets, the more exhausted he looks, shoulders tight and brow sweating. It’s not that hot yet. Was he building something out there? Could have been up all night with it, for all he knew. He notices how Junkrat gives him a wide berth as he passes, at least a good few meters between them instead of the mere centimeters he's normally offered. He heads toward the mess he’d left behind at the camp, gingerly picking it all up and tossing it to the floor of the side car. The silence is something new.
Junkrats clenches his fingers into fists and bares his teeth, twitching and jerking, more than he normally does. Roadhog can’t say he notices everything about Junkrat’s behaviorisms. He’s only been employed for a few months now. He’s certainly aware of his insomnia, his lack of boundaries, tact. Those are things you learn right away and get used to. Roadhog doesn’t know what every little fidget means. Not yet, at least. All he sees now is a man shaking like a leaf, breath heavy and tired. He looks about ready to cark it.
“You sick?” He asks. Whatever the kid’s stricken with, it looks painful. His shoulders hide none of it, hunched and weak. When Junkrat turns to face him, his eyes are wide and unfocused. They’re so suspicious, as if Roadhog is asking something out of place. He’s not. Junkrat is the weird one here.
“No,” Junkrat answers, but it’s slow and drawn out, like it’s not entirely true. At least Roadhog can cue in on that. That tone could be considered sarcastic, but Roadhog knows that look on his face. It’s something he’s seen every day since he took up his hook and gun, that same emotion that crawls over everyone’s face when they see him: fear.
Of course Roadhog doesn’t believe him, not with that out of control body language. What is he so scared of? It’s just the two of them. The breeze howls quietly in his ear, and draws him back to his previous thoughts. The air. Oranges. Jackpot. Maybe Junkrat had found them and didn’t want Roadhog to know. Cut him out of the deal. Roadhog had murdered people for a lot of things, but he doesn’t think he could kill someone over some fruit. Another funny thought.
He lifts his mask up gently, just up to his nose, and that definitely has Junkrat’s attention. He’s always been curious about what’s beneath, and he’s always front and center when Roadhog pushes it back to eat. But now, instead of crawling over to get a glimpse of skin, he’s stiff as a board and brimming with tension.
Roadhog sniffs, and Junkrat plasters himself to the bike with a loud metal twang.
He isn’t sure what the hell is going on, but it’s probably stupid. The kid’s finally snapped. The radiation has finally sizzled the last bit of sanity left in his rattled brain. Roadhog pulls his mask back down to watch the way Junkrat’s chest heaves in panicked breaths, his fingers trying to find purchase in the smooth chassis of his bike. He looks like he’s backed into a wall and Roadhog’s about to punch the shit out of him.
He doesn’t know what to say. If he asks what’s wrong, he knows he won’t get an answer, at least not a convincing one. He almost hates that terrified look on the idiot’s face. It doesn’t belong there.
“You smell that?” He finally asks, and Junkrat looks like he’s about to cry. His hand is clasped over his mouth and nose like a muzzle.
“Yeah,” Junkrat barks from beneath his greasy black fingers. “You fucking reek.”
So much for that helpless look he’d been sporting. Now he’s picking fights. Roadhog grunts because of course he stinks. When was the last time either of them took a bath that wasn’t made of sand? Regardless, he doubts he’s going to pry anything out of Junkrat right now. If he’s got the oranges, Roadhog’s bound to find them eventually. Maybe Junkrat would paint them like his grenades so he’d never find them. More funny thoughts.
“We’ll reach Wagga Wagga by tonight. We’ll get clean then.”
Junkrat still looks so damn wary. They’d gotten over the phase of distrust in their first month together. As much as Junkrat clings to his bodyguard, he’d still surround himself with bombs and bear traps every night, and would wake at the slightest movement. A useful habit for the outback. It’d taken several weeks for the barricade to slowly drop, one trap at a time, until he trusted Roadhog enough not to slit his throat in his sleep. It’d only taken another week after that for the bedroll to somehow move closer and closer to his, for the distance between them to vanish. Roadhog wonders if he’d done something to bring them back to square one.
He’ll get answers later. He knows he will. For now, he packs up their things as Junkrat watches carefully from his side car. He stamps at the barely warm fire pit before heading to the bike. Junkrat is nestled deeply into a thin, moth-eaten blanket, and his hand is still glued to his mouth and nose. Roadhog can’t possibly smell that bad. He could be trying to keep in his vomit. His skin looks fevered and glistening with sweat, and it beads at his sharp nose before dripping off. They might need a doctor, if the sickness doesn’t turn around. Roadhog just hopes Junkrat has the sense to tell him if he’s actually dying.
When he straddles the bike, Junkrat leans away, keeping his head turned into the blanket. Roadhog might enjoy a quiet ride today. Hell if he hasn’t had one since this deal started. At least Junkrat will stay out of trouble while he drives. No more tossing grenades at passing trees or mixing volatile chemicals while traveling at 150 km an hour. Just the wind and dirt and roar of burning gasoline.
It’s turning out to be more difficult than that. Junkrat is a mess with whatever’s in his system. He shivers like he’s freezing in the blistering heat. He shrinks into his blanket and tries to hide it, but he’s crying. Roadhog can hear it clear as day, even over the deafening rumble of the bike; whining and whimpering like a lost pup. The edges of the blanket are soaked with tears, maybe sweat, but Junkrat keeps rubbing at his face and it’s not helping. His fingers stay clamped to the rim of his car, white-knuckled and shaking.
They make frequent stops, each one growing more and more urgent, which only makes Roadhog’s patience thin. Junkrat will slap the car loudly as his signal, and rush off before they’ve even come to a complete stop. Junkrat always finds something to hide behind: an alcove, a crop of rocks, a dip in the earth. Anything to keep Roadhog’s eyes off him.
Roadhog waits and waits and waits. Whether he’s shitting or puking his brains out, it still shouldn’t take as long as it does. He’s tempted to follow him, just to make sure he doesn’t drop dead. But Junkrat is desperate for this privacy, and he’ll give it to him. The terrible look on his face when he returns only gets worse. His eyes are puffy and red, and all his muscles look tight like he can barely move. The sweat is thick and never ending.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters, and it’s a pitiful sound. Disgusted and hopeless.
After the tenth or so stop, Roadhog offers him a can of hogdrogen. It won’t cure him, but it’ll lessen the pain that’s radiating off him. Junkrat clasps his hand around the opening, creating a loose seal of flesh to suck the gas through. It makes the man shiver and gasp, but it seems to have helped. He cradles it against himself under the blanket like a lifetime. Now Roadhog has to make sure he doesn’t overdose.
Night does not help like he thinks it will. Junkrat is more out of it than he was all day, and he’s reduced to mumbling and curling up on the floor of the car, making himself as small as he can for someone who’s nothing but long, gangly limbs. His head rests on the seat, and drool trails out of his mouth freely. Even with the cool night air and the relief from the merciless sun, the sweat is still pouring out of him. A good night’s rest on a real bed will do the kid wonders, Roadhog muses. If he’s not fixed by morning, it’s off to the doctor for sure. With Junkrat’s experience with them, it won’t be a fun time for anyone.
They don’t reach the little town until midnight, maybe later. They stop at the first motel they see, and it looks busy. Not the best situation to be in, but he can’t guarantee they’ll find better. He needs to get Junkrat settled as soon as possible. Roadhog is surprised to see people outside, given the time. It must be the weekend. They look cleaner than the junkers he’s used to, casual clothes without the rips and tears. Real shoes. This place must be more civilized than he’d originally thought.
When he swings off the bike and it raises back up with a shrill squeak, Junkrat finally makes himself known. It’s quick, fingers shooting out of the blanket and snagging at his pants like a fish hook.
“Don’t leave me out here,” he whispers, and it’s barely heard over the chirp of crickets and howl of dingos. Roadhog realizes the people outside are watching them silently in the shadows of the second floor overhang; Men with wide, manic eyes that match Junkrat’s so easily. They obviously aren’t junkers; not dirty enough, have all their fingers and teeth. But they stare with something dangerous and unafraid. They’re ready to start a fight, but Roadhog is tall, imposing, not to be fucked with. They keep their distance.
Roadhog slides his hand across Junkrat’s back to help him out of the car, blanket scratchy against his palm, but he jerks away as if burned. He struggles out of the car on his own, and every movement makes the men look more threatening, coming closer in the cover of night like the killers they couldn’t possibly be. Junkrat pulls the blanket over himself like a shield, and follows Roadhog as closely as he can. He doesn’t touch him.
The door jingles with old, dirty bells, and the mousy little clerk looks up with a polite smile before dropping it like a deadweight. This place doesn’t seem too keen on them. Maybe he really does reek and Junkrat wasn’t exaggerating. She is watching Junkrat with far too much curiosity to be comfortable. For some reason, Roadhog doesn’t think it’s the blanket or peg leg making them so obviously engrossed. It’s the same fierce, wide-eyed look as the men outside.
“A room,” Roadhog hums, and it’s like she doesn’t even hear him, see him. She’s stuck on Junkrat. He raps his big, ringed knuckles on the counter, and it brings her back, but barely. She won’t stop staring at his companion, even as she goes through the motions of collecting their money and handing over the key. These people couldn’t know about Junkrat and his treasure. They’re a week out of Junkertown, at least four days from the closest junker territory. The closer they get to Sydney, the safer they are. People out here don’t quite know the hell of the wastes. They don’t know how the scum of the earth live. And yet, they look ready to jump Junkrat and rip him apart, even this tiny woman behind the counter has that predatory look in her eyes. Roadhog’s got his work cut out for him tonight. He can’t relax.
Their room is on the second floor, and as hard as it is for Roadhog to get up stairs, it’s nearly impossible for Junkrat. After a few steps, his legs tremble like a newborn calf and he nearly collapses. Roadhog watches him pull the blanket tighter over his head, hiding his face. Probably shame. Nobody likes to feel helpless.
“C’mere,” Roadhog murmurs with a stretched out hand. Junkrat refuses to take it. “I don’t have all day, Rat.”
“Don’t,” is whimpered from beneath the blanket, and a metal hand finds the railing. He puts all his weight on it, and his legs slowly come up a step. “Don’t touch me.”
Roadhog is getting tired. He’s not normally so patient. He waits at the top of the stairs, watching as Junkrat practically crawls up them. His hands are poised for quick intervening. Should Junkrat’s wobbly knees finally give out, he’ll be there to reach out and grab him. Roadhog doesn’t think he can survive falling down a flight of stairs, not when he’s sick as a dog. His breathing is loud in the empty stairwell, strained and upset. A distraught moan cuts through it suddenly, and for a moment Roadhog’s brain goes to bad places, uncomfortable sparks pop under his skin to give him goosebumps, his throat going a bit tight. It’s a knee-jerk reaction he’s not proud of. He rolls his shoulders to get it out of him.
When Junkrat finally reaches the top, it’s clear that he needs immediate attention. His hands are gripping the blanket cocoon as tight as his fingers will allow, and the sweat and tears have started bleeding through the fabric into dark splotches. He should have just carried him up the damn stairs. Even as he goes to help Junkrat down the hall to the room, his hands are smacked away with a ferocity that’s been saved for just this moment.
“Rack off,” Junkrat hisses, hobbling away without Roadhog. Roadhog takes the lead again easily.
They’re in the room with a quick slip of a card and a loud creak of the door, and everything is dark, cold, and quiet. Roadhog flicks on the light, and the room is bathed in yellow flourescent light. Old bulbs, practically antique. The room is basic and outdated, but looks clean enough. Two queens, adorned with typical ugly comforters, and a questionable couch in the corner. Junkrat immediately flops down on the bed closest to the door, springs squealing in protest, long legs curling up under the blanket that’s been such a lifeline. Roadhog wants to drag him out and throw him in the shower, but Junkrat had made such a fuss about his smell earlier. The least he can do is shower first, let the kid nap, and go the rest of the night tending to him uninterrupted.
The bathroom is far too small for the likes of him. He can barely fit his feet into the tub, and he has to stand with one in front of the other. The shampoo and conditioner provided is puny, but there’s plenty of individually wrapped soap bars. He’ll probably need three just to clean himself. With the shower running hot, thick steam filling the air, he can finally take his mask off. He takes a long, cleansing breath, and it hits him again.
Oranges.
For fuck’s sake, Junkrat’s definitely hiding them from him. With the smell so strong, he’s probably eating one right now. It’s sweet and tangy, just as he remembered it all those years ago. If he concentrates, he can just about taste it, sour at first, tart, and then a burst of sugar like candy. He remembers the stringy pith that would always get stuck in his teeth. Childhood, a time before Mako died.
He massages the shampoo into his greasy hair, and it’s such a godsend to feel it all wash away. He’d felt tired before, but now with that nostalgic smell heavy in the humid air, he feels fresh and ready to take on any tantrum Junkrat could throw at him. He’ll give the bastard a sponge bath if he has to.
He keeps the shower short; he needs to save the hot water for Junkrat. He tousles his hair in a towel before putting his mask back on. The steam had calmed his dry lungs, and when he opens the door, clouds of it drift into the room with him.
Junkrat is fidgeting under his blanket wildly, toes curling into the comforter underneath. His breath has gotten to the point of panting like an animal moments from death. Each exhale is emphasized with a thin whine, devolving into low groans of pain. When Roadhog gets close, Junkrat curls up tighter, turning into an immovable rock.
“Hey. Bath time.”
Junkrat only answers with more labored breathing. Even under the blanket, Roadhog can see the shiver of tense shoulders. When his good leg twitches out from under the ratty fabric, he sees the barest glimpse of a milky white thigh.
Junkrat had removed his pants.
They lay crumpled up on the arm of the couch, having been thrown from across the room. Along with his prosthetics, it seems. It isn't like Junkrat to treat those so poorly, but he's definitely not thinking straight. The arm is on the floor between their beds, and the leg had found its way under the nightstand. At least Roadhog wouldn't have to fight Junkrat out of them to take a bath.
“It'll make you feel better,” he reasons. He didn't want to force Junkrat into the bath if he didn't have to. It'd be nothing but kicking and biting and screeching, and the last thing Roadhog wants is for the dangerous looking guests to hear any of that. “C’mon, Rat.”
He should know better than to try and touch Junkrat at this point, but he does. His fingers barely brushed across his exposed ankle, and Junkrat is suddenly up in arms. The blanket flies up over Roadhog’s head, and by the time he pulls it off, Junkrat has already escaped into the bathroom. He's quick, despite only having half his limbs. The lock clicks, and the water starts. That was easy. Way too easy.
Roadhog wonders if the kid can even bathe himself, given his condition. He could pass out and drown, or be too weak to get out. Roadhog thinks of all the ways Junkrat could die as he pulls on his pants and going about booby trapping the room. This was always Junkrat's job, and Roadhog can't figure out how any of the wires cross or how the explosives trigger, so he just pushes a dresser in front of the door. It’ll do.
He places his canteen on the nightstand, along with a can of hogdrogen. Junkrat will probably need its help to sleep. He's even generous enough to give Junkrat one of his pillows. Unfortunately he doesn't have much else to give. He just needs to make him comfortable enough until they can get to the doctor. Maybe he can find a drug store before he has to put Junkrat through that torture.
An hour passes, and the water is still running. He hadn’t heard the thump of a body falling or a head cracking on porcelain, and if he presses his ear to the door, he can hear whimpering and panting. He’s not dead yet. Roadhog’s sure the shower is freezing now, but maybe that’s what he needs. He was sweating buckets before. Maybe he’s just standing there with his mouth open. It wouldn’t be the first time.
The television offers him some time to zone out and not worry about his charge. Infomercials are the only thing playing this time of night, and they’re not at all convincing. Bright colors and loud voices. One channel has a news program, but it’s nothing Roadhog wants to think about. The world is better everywhere but here, and he doesn’t need to be reminded. He’ll take Junkrat off this garbage continent and show him how things are supposed to work, how life is supposed to be lived. He’s not ready to try and explain it all to Junkrat just yet, not like this. He’ll teach Junkrat everything there is to know, and revel in the amazed look on his face over and over. One step at a time.
The water turns off, and Roadhog tensely waits for the sound of a foot slipping on a wet floor, followed by the crunch of a spine, but nothing comes. When Junkrat comes out moments later, Roadhog makes the effort not to look at him. He’s been hiding under the blanket for a reason; he won’t pry. He slinks over to his bed and slides under the covers in one fluid motion. Silence.
Roadhog leans over to turn off the lights and the television, and the room goes soft and quiet. There’s a lamp post just outside the window, and it bleeds gray through the off-white curtains. The little bit of darkness is calming, and Roadhog hopes some of that is getting through to Junkrat. The sound of sheets shifting restlessly is clear in his ears, moaning and whining muffled beneath several layers of cloth. He wants to force Junkrat to eat something, but he doesn’t think it’s possible. Maybe it’s just best to sleep it off and have a big breakfast.
Roadhog settles back onto his bed before undoing the buckles of his mask. It all comes undone, and once he puts it beside him on the bed for quick access, he takes a nice, deep breath.
He nearly gags.
He sits up fast, because the smell is thick like smog, pungent and overwhelming. It’s that same citrusy scent, like cracking open a rind and the mist hitting his face, but it’s so damn strong, like he’s in a goddamn grove. It’s sticky sweet like syrup, earthy like fresh bark. Deep and powerful and demanding. It’s coating his skin in thick sheets, drowning his lungs and coercing the hair on the back of his neck to rise. It’s a musk.
A gentle sob permeates the air, and it lights Roadhog on fire.
It’s not oranges. It’s Junkrat.
There’s no hesitation as he stands between the beds, grabs the corner of Junkrat’s blankets, and yanks them off. But it’s as if Junkrat was expecting that, and as soon as he’s laid bare, Roadhog has a frag launcher pressed into his throat.
Junkrat doesn’t say anything, just taps his finger on the trigger. Roadhog focuses on staying absolutely still, or else he’ll be losing his head. He’s not about to call Junkrat on a bluff. That was everyone's mistake. Junkrat doesn’t make bluffs. Roadhog lets his eyes fall over the sight of the man, naked and shaking under him. His legs are spread wide, not even bothering to hide the erection pressed to his belly. The flames in Junkrat’s eyes are as bright as the sun itself.
“I knew it,” he spits, and his thick eyebrows lay low and tight together. “You’re just like the rest of them.”
Roadhog still doesn’t move, not as the angry tears are streaming down Junkrat’s clean face, not when he looks so close to losing control. The kid is still sweating like it’s summertime, and Roadhog can’t look away from the growing wet spot between Junkrat’s legs. The frag launcher stays firmly stabbed into the flesh of his neck.
“You’re an omega,” Roadhog finally says, just to really cement that knowledge. He’s an omega. Roadhog closes his eyes and grimaces. Of course he is. That stupid mask had kept his scent out, and he was an absolute twit for not figuring it out. The signs were all there.
He hadn’t seen an omega since before Oz died. They’d been a precious commodity, sold for fortunes and fought over. Breeders. Need to keep the Australian people alive, need to rebuild the world. But this place isn’t kind to the weak. There’s nowhere safe to have a baby. Those that tried would succumb to infection, and those that couldn’t would be kept as slaves. The red earth is as barren as its people.
Junkrat bares his teeth and jabs the weapon at Roadhog again. “You’re not the full quid, are you? I was doing real good covering myself in dirt to keep the smell out. Then you came along. Did this.”
Junkrat gestures to his whole body. Roadhog swallows, and the frag launcher makes it difficult. What had he done?
“Thought I could at least make it to Sydney before it hit. But you fucking drongo, you were being sweet on me. You said you’d get me outta here and I was stupid enough to believe you!”
Junkrat is pushing forward now, sliding his leg off the bed and standing. He leans into the launcher to steady himself, and Roadhog is forced to step back, silent and careful. He doesn’t remember doing anything particularly sweet to Junkrat. He kept him alive and made sure he ate and didn’t fuck with him.
It occurs to Roadhog, suddenly, that that may have been the only kindness Junkrat’s ever known.
Roadhog hates that horrible, unsure look on the kid’s face. He’d brought this on Junkrat. He’d been good to him. Junkrat had felt safe and cared for, and the scent of a big, strong alpha had triggered his heat. That’s why he’d been complaining about the smell. That’s why the motel patrons had watched him like a piece of meat.
“Rat-”
“You gonna sell me?” His eyes are wide and manic in the meager light, still wet with tears. “Or maybe you wanna keep me all to yourself, you fat fucking pig! You gonna breed me? Keep me banged up forever? Fill me with pups?”
He watches the thoughts running through Junkrat’s head, all of them so easily expressed on his face. Each one is worse than the last. Junkrat had escaped from something awful, and had been on the run ever since. His one last shot of freedom is Roadhog, and it’s being ripped away from him. He’s desperate.
“Joke’s on you, I can’t make no more! They ran me dry. I ain’t worth nothing!”
Roadhog’s breath hitches. More? They?
Junkrat is growling low and threatening, despite having to look up at Roadhog. He looks so small like this, shaking with need and fury and adrenaline, and yet he’s the one with Roadhog on the ropes. He hops forward on his one leg, and there’s no more room. When Roadhog’s ankles hit the side of the bed, he’s forced to slowly sit on the edge, finally letting Junkrat loom over him, if only by a few centimeters. The weapon moves up to his chin, making Roadhog’s head tilt back until they’re eye to eye. Roadhog exhales through his nose, and watches the snarl pull Junkrat’s mouth tight.
“You alphas are all the same. Take, take, take. You’re the ones that burned the world. Why do I gotta pay for it?”
Roadhog is trying to figure out what to say to convince Junkrat not to kill him. Apologies are worth less than dirt. The finger on the trigger is getting more and more twitchy. He swallows again, and it struggles to get down.
“Not your fault,” he says, gently as he can, because that crazy look is still burning fiercely in those golden eyes. “Dealt a bad hand.”
“Yeah, and you won the fucking lotto, didn’t you? Biggest bastard I ever seen. Bet you’ve fucked tons of omegas, you piece of shit. None of them put up a fight like I did, huh? You get off on making them cry?”
Roadhog grits his teeth. He’s a murderer, not a monster. “No.”
Junkrat looks so smug, completely unconvinced. Roadhog would think that spending all this time together would mean something. He might even consider Junkrat a friend, at the end of the day. Junkrat hadn’t had issues touching him before. But Roadhog being this close to him at his most vulnerable seemed to have ruined everything. He exhales slowly again. “I’m not like them.”
“Isn’t that what they all say?”
Roadhog doesn’t answer. Junkrat grins, despite his trembling. His skin is glowing, even in the shadows of their little room, and he’s still pumping enough pheromones into the air to suffocate him. It’s dense with desire, terrified and full of hate. The scent had already started to tear away at Roadhog’s restraint, even with the threat of an instant death. His cock betrays him, slowly growing hard in his pants. He doesn’t have his belt buckle and cage to hide it, but Junkrat hasn’t noticed.
“I liked you, mate. A whole lot,” Junkrat whispers, and the grin fades in a way that makes Roadhog sick. “Thought you were better.”
“I am,” he answers a little too quickly, and the launcher jerks his chin up painfully. “Wasn’t gonna hurt you. Was just worried.”
That skepticism is heavy on Junkrat’s face, as if he doesn’t have any reason to believe him. But he does. He’s got plenty. He’s been there for him this whole time. Roadhog feels brave as he lifts his hand up to touch the barrel of the launcher. Junkrat watches cautiously as he gently moves it away from his face. Roadhog makes sure Junkrat’s looking at him, really looking at him, because this is the first time Junkrat’s seen him without the mask, and that fact must just now be hitting him. His quick, round eyes take in his scars one by one, the thick stubble along his jaw, the broadness of his nose.
“I’m not like them,” he repeats.
It looks like Junkrat wants to give in, with the quiver of his lips and the catch in his breath. Roadhog lets his shoulders drop, the stiffness in his muscles going lax. When his hand moves to touch Junkrat’s stump, just so he can bear some of his weight for him, the kid gladly accepts, leaning into it with a whimper. His face is red with want, and the touch sends pleasant little jolts through the both of them. His fingers caress the spongy scars along his stump, up to his soft inner elbow. It’s soothing, kind, and very much needed. Junkrat looks like he’s damn near melting into it. He wants Junkrat to feel safe again, to relax, go back to bed and not worry. In the morning he’ll help Junkrat with anything he needs, get a real breakfast with all the fixings. He’ll get Junkrat through this. Roadhog lifts his other hand to press a reassuring thumb to the sharp protruding bone of his hip, and the launcher is shoved right back under his chin. Roadhog grunts at the sudden clack of his teeth.
“If we’re doing this,” Junkrat hisses, “I’m calling the shots.”
“Wait, what?”
“I’m going to let you fuck me, asshole. On my terms.”
Roadhog sits on that for a moment. He’d say that Junkrat’s absolutely lost it, but he can’t really blame him. His eyes are dilated and blurry as they memorize Roadhog’s face, his breath shallow and lewd. Hunger is so clear. He can’t imagine how the heat is making him feel; his body craves the touch of an alpha, despite how much he must hate it. Sure, he could probably tough it out for the next few miserable days -maybe they could find some suppressants out here-, or he could use Roadhog. Giving the power to Junkrat would help with his trust issues, at least. He’s not going to be used like the times before. He’s going to be the one in control.
Roadhog gives a soft nod. Whatever Junkrat needs, he’ll give it to him.
Junkrat pulls the launcher away, but doesn’t drop it. He might still need it if Roadhog gets too bold. Roadhog waits for his commands patiently, taking in more of the heady scent surrounding them. It’s a smell that bowls him over, riling up his senses and ruining his brain. He can’t let it take him over. He has a job to do, and one wrong move will literally kill him.
Junkrat nudges the launcher against his shoulder, and he takes the hint. He pops open his pants and shimmies them down his legs as quickly as he can while sitting. Junkrat watches carefully, and the sight of Roadhog’s erection has him biting at his lip and shuddering. A good sign.
He scoots up the bed and offers up his hands. With only half his limbs, there’s not much Junkrat can do without some assistance. The kid looks warily at his outstretched fingers, but eventually moves into them. Roadhog’s hands encompass his lithe hips and delicately pull him forward, making sure not to move too quickly or squeeze too hard. Gentle is the name of the game.
They both moan into the touch, burning hot and intense through their nerves. Junkrat rolls his body and rests his elbow on Roadhog’s shoulder. The launcher is still clutched tightly in his fist.
“I’m gonna ride you, and you’re gonna help.”
Roadhog nods again, bringing Junkrat onto his knees over his lap. As his fingers slowly move to his ass, he feels the slick immediately coat them, warm and wet. There’s tons of it, enough to spill into his palm between Junkrat’s trembling thighs. He’s thankful for that. Like Junkrat had said, he was a big bastard. Junkrat is gasping for breath as Roadhog pulls his cheeks apart, pressing against his surprisingly loose hole. He’d probably been fingering himself the entire time he was in the shower, trying to find some relief. He prods at the muscle, feeling it give easily, producing even more slick. Junkrat suddenly has the launcher pressed to his temple, and he can smell the metal and gunpowder over his sweet, mind-numbing scent.
“Now,” he growls, and there’s no playfulness in it. He’s been in heat for a full day with nothing to calm the storm but his own useless fingers. He’s waited long enough, and his body reeks of it.
Roadhog moves him closer until they’re belly to belly, and Junkrat hasn’t lost that frenzied look in his eyes. He’s impatient, staring Roadhog dead in the face as he guides him down onto his cock. The head presses up until the tight pressure finally gives, taking him in with a dirty squelch and a wet pop.
Junkrat throws his head back and lets out a sound that makes Roadhog want to tear him apart, shove him down and fuck him as he wants. His alpha senses scream at him to put this omega in his place, show him how this really works, but he just grinds his teeth and lets Junkrat sit on his cock, sliding down at his own pace. His nostrils flare at the intensity of their coupling, the fiery scent growing more and more overpowering. He removes his hands from Junkrat’s hips to grip at the sheets beneath him. He feels them give, tearing with a sharp ripping sound. Junkrat’s hips roll like a wave as he pushes down more, and the launcher still poised at his temple forces Roadhog’s head to tilt to the side.
“How’s it feel, big guy? To be helpless?”
He wishes he wouldn’t say things like that. It leaves a sour taste in Roadhog’s mouth, even when his nose is full of Junkrat’s sugary perfume. He fists the shredded sheets and grunts, closing his eyes to enjoy the feeling of Junkrat’s tight hole surrounding his dick. It’s consuming him like fire, clenching in pulses, drawing him in frantically. He takes deep breaths through his nose to calm himself down, but it only fills him with more of Junkrat’s stifling pheromones.
Junkrat rocks up and down, slowly taking him in bit by bit. His bouncing is making Roadhog lose his goddamn mind, and he isn’t even in all the way. When Junkrat rests his stump on his wide shoulder, the touch sends more hot tremors through him, begging him to give in to his biology and give this omega a pounding. The hard metal pressed to his skull barely keeps him in check.
It isn’t much longer until he’s all the way down, and his slick little ass sits nice and pretty in Roadhog’s lap. Junkrat pants heavily, and the air is so fucking thick with his stupid incredible stink that Roadhog is being strangled by it. He loves the flutter of Junkrat’s insides, ravenous and wild. The pale, freckled thighs resting over his tremble with need, and Junkrat is looking up at him again. There’s tears there, but they don’t make him look weak. They make him look confused.
“This is nice,” he mutters, as if he’s not quite sure yet. This is probably the first time Junkrat’s ever felt pleasure of his own volition, and that stings something terrible in Roadhog’s heart. “‘S good.”
Junkrat sniffs and blinks to get rid of his tears, but they just fall from his eyelashes and drip onto Roadhog’s belly. Roadhog sighs at the sudden shift of emotion. Junkrat seems less unhinged, now that he’s more comfortable. He hopes he can keep that up. The fingers on the launcher wiggle to get a better grip, slipping from all the sweat, and Junkrat takes a shaky breath before lifting himself up and dropping back down.
It’s a beautiful feeling. His bony hips twitch and thrust, enveloping Roadhog so perfectly. Each bounce is accompanied with a fevered moan, a wet slap of flesh. Junkrat’s cock rubs against his belly button, and he wants to touch it, show Junkrat how good he can make him feel, but that would most certainly earn him a grenade to the mouth. He’ll wait. Patience is not so easy, given the situation, so he bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood. His hands are still tangled in the sheets, binding himself there for the safety of both of them.
He has to watch Junkrat fuck himself on his cock. He moves with purpose, with growing fervor. His back arches, and Roadhog wants to touch the sharp lines of his ribcage, squeeze his thin waist while he roots him deep. He wants to pull him up and down like a cock sleeve, but he’s not here for himself. He’s Junkrat’s toy, not the other way around.
“Oh, mate,” Junkrat purrs as he sits down hard, pushing him in as far as he’ll go. His tongue lolls out of his mouth. “This is real nice.”
Yeah it is. Roadhog lets his head tilt back so he stares at the ceiling instead of Junkrat’s wonderfully throbbing body. The heat between them is unbelievable, and it’s getting harder and harder to stay sane. His hips twitch up ever so slightly to meet Junkrat’s, and the man howls.
“Do it again!” The launcher taps none too gently against his face, but he follows the order. His hips pivot off the bed a little more, and Junkrat is a seizing pile of mush in his lap. He’s touching his sweet spot, and Junkrat is so lost in the sensation. A few more thrusts has Junkrat wailing and pressing his stump to the side of his neck harshly. If he still had his hand, it would be clawing at his back, leaving long red trails in their wake. Now, Roadhog’s brain yells, take him now. The thought makes Roadhog’s knot start to swell, and Junkrat notices immediately. He sits up straight, giving Roadhog another rough knock to the head and a glare with enough venom to make Roadhog shiver. This must be the part where Junkrat always got the short end of the stick. A good alpha would be kind and careful with a knotting. A bad alpha would break and bruise. Junkrat’s never known what it’s like to be treated right, and Roadhog feels his stomach turn violently.
“I’m not like them. It won’t be like that.”
“Make sure it ain’t.”
Junkrat appears to trust him enough to keep his cool. Well, he’s still got the launcher pressed to his cheek, so not really. But Junkrat rolls his hips again, making the knot grow appreciatively. He’s giving Roadhog permission to knot him.
Carefully, he untangles his fists from the ruined sheets and presses them to Junkrat’s hips again, settling his thumbs over his taut abs. They stroke his skin, sending more shivers up Junkrat’s spine. He stares into Roadhog calmly, his eyes going fuzzy and bewildered, and pushes down again.
He helps Junkrat along with his thrusts, up and down without too much grip. He’s guiding him, not forcing him. Junkrat’s moans are truly pornographic, warbled and greedy, and it makes Roadhog groan in response. The tight, unbearable heat clutches around Roadhog impatiently, and the blood rushes to his knot too quickly. Junkrat rocks into it with shaky jerks, his breath urgent and whining.
“Fuck!” He cries as everything grows tight. Roadhog’s head is full of nonsense as the knot pulls at his hole, keeping them grounded together. With each quick little tug, Roadhog gets closer to release, and Junkrat gets more carried away. Roadhog takes the leap and moves his hand lower, down to Junkrat’s cock rubbing wetly against their bellies, and gives it a squeeze.
He waits for the launcher to clock him again for being so brash. He’s overstepped the boundaries, regardless of his intentions. Instead, it clatters to the floor with a loud, dangerous thud, and Junkrat’s arm wraps tightly around Roadhog’s head, crushing it to his shoulder as he screams. He pulls and pushes Junkrat down in time to the stroking of his cock, and Junkrat is crying into his neck.
“Please, please, please,” he sobs, and it’s a bittersweet sound, as if he’s begging for mercy. It’s become a habit. Roadhog breathes against the shaking shoulder crammed against his nose, and gives Junkrat the release he yearns for. He’s not like them.
He yanks Junkrat down one last time, and the knot finally locks in place. The cum surges out of Roadhog, and Junkrat is howling as it fills him up, searing and thick. As the knot pulses and Roadhog’s brain goes a little fried, he still has the sense to pump at Junkrat’s dick, fast and crucial. Roadhog is admiring the feel of stuffing Junkrat full, and Junkrat must be too, because he’s grinding down as hard as he can, making the cock in him shift and pull at his hole, milking him of everything he’s got. Junkrat lets out a sudden, loud gasp that sucks all the air out of him and leaves him stiff and stuck in a silent scream. He cums between their heaving bellies, little spurts accented with powerful twitches.
They’re breathing so hard, and Roadhog is still trapped against his partner’s shoulder. He closes his eyes and breathes in the honeyed scent that’s been driving him insane, trying to pinpoint every part of its chemistry. The skin pressed against his mouth tastes just like it smells, but salty with sweat. His body shudders as more cum drains out of him and into Junkrat, so ready to burst. He can feel the lump of it in his belly as he releases Junkrat’s softening cock.
Junkrat doesn’t move. He stays wrapped around Roadhog’s head, panting in his ear, drooling into his neck. Roadhog’s done a good job, from the looks of it. He’s proven himself trustworthy. They can both relax, knowing they have each other’s backs. Roadhog will help him through this, keep him satisfied until the heat dies away, and he’ll enjoy it for the first time in his life. Junkrat doesn’t have to worry about anything. Roadhog will make sure of it.
His body is loose and pliant, easily movable, but Roadhog likes the feel of him draped over his stomach, keeping the warmth burning between them. Roadhog soothes a big hand over Junkrat’s bumpy back while the other strokes a quaking thigh. They’ll stay knotted for a good long time, definitely too long for Junkrat’s lack of patience. Thin, shaky fingers slowly find their way to the back of Roadhog’s head, carding through his thick silver locks and getting lost in them. Roadhog opens his eyes, and the scars along Junkrat’s neck and shoulders are suddenly bright against his skin.
Teeth had made their marks on him over and over, each one leaving behind their own scent, to let every alpha know who he belonged to. It will follow Junkrat forever, and no amount of scrubbing will destroy it. If Roadhog could concentrate, he’d be able to pick out every single one of those scents, memorize them, track them down in the night and gut them like dogs. It’d all be part of the job Junkrat had hired him for, and he wouldn’t even charge extra. It would be a pleasure.
The flutter of Roadhog’s eyelashes clue Junkrat in on his thoughts, and he presses his lips to Roadhog’s ear. It’s a balmy feeling, beautiful and poisonous.
“I don’t belong to anyone,” he whispers, and it’s as soft as the light coming through the curtains.
Roadhog kisses the dip of his collarbone, and holds Junkrat to him carefully.
“I know.”