Chapter Text
The safehouse stank of gunpowder, sweat, and wet metal. A space made from scraps and survival—floor scorched, mattress half-burned, cracked concrete walls still trembling faintly from the echoes of a mission gone sideways.
Junkrat was pacing. Bare-chested, ribs showing under ash-smudged skin, half-limping, half-buzzing like he’d swallowed his own detonator.
"Bloody perfect job that was," he muttered, voice high and thin. "No plan, no payout, just bullets flyin’ an’ me guts damn near out me fuckin’ side—"
Roadhog sat motionless on the mattress. Watching. One boot off, mask still on. A presence more than a person.
Junkrat spun on him. “You just gonna sit there like a lump, or—gonna say somethin’? Like, ‘Nice job gettin’ us shot, Jamison’? Huh?”
Roadhog didn’t move. Just gave a quiet grunt. Low. Controlled.
Junkrat’s grin twitched. “Y’know what? Don’t. I get it. You don’t talk when yer pissed. Just grunt and loom.”
He crossed the room. Close now. Inches away.
“You ain’t the only one burnin’ up inside, mate.”
Still no response. Just the faint hiss of breath through the filter.
Junkrat leaned in to kiss him.
It was instinct, reckless impulse.
But it stopped dead when his mouth hit cold rubber. A jolt—clunk—as his teeth knocked against Roadhog’s mask.
He pulled back with a surprised laugh, hand to his mouth. “Ow—shit. Right. Forgot the bloody mask.”
Roadhog looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time since they got back.
Long pause.
Then, with that same steady, mechanical rhythm, Roadhog reached up.
Thumbs under the clasps.
Click.
Hiss.
The seal broke.
The mask came off slow. Set down beside the bed like it was made of something sacred.
Roadhog didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to.
The scars, the weight in his eyes, the years of silence etched into the way his jaw clenched—Junkrat saw all of it. And he ached.
“Fuck,” he muttered. Not mockery. Not amusement. Just honesty.
Then he stepped forward, softer this time, and pressed his forehead to Roadhog’s.
“I talk too much,” he said, breath hitching.
Roadhog’s calloused hand came up. Cupped his face. Not rough—yet—but possessive. Deciding.
And then he kissed him.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft. It was raw and open and filled with everything they never said. Roadhog’s mouth tasted like smoke and blood and something bitter he couldn’t name. Junkrat moaned into it, fingers clutching at Roadhog’s vest like a lifeline.
His body practically buzzed with need. Friction built fast as they stumbled backward—Junkrat straddling Roadhog’s thick thigh, grinding into it with ragged breaths.
“You wanna fuckin’ wreck me?” Junkrat panted, teeth flashing. “Do it. I want it. Want you.”
Roadhog’s response was wordless.
He gripped Junkrat by the waist, lifted him like nothing, and threw him onto the mattress. The springs screamed. Junkrat bounced and laughed—high and wild and desperate.
Clothes came off fast. Torn, half-burned fabric hitting the floor. Junkrat spread out, lean body littered with bruises and half-healed scars.
Roadhog knelt between his legs. Massive. Silent. Hungry.
“Gonna split me open?” Junkrat whispered, wide-eyed and wanting. “Use me till I can’t think straight?”
Roadhog just grunted—and shoved in two spit-slick fingers.
Junkrat arched, a strangled sound escaping his throat. “Oh—fuckin’ hell—”
No prep, no sweet talk. Just pressure, stretch, and the weight of someone who knew how to dismantle a body from the inside out. Roadhog’s fingers crooked just right, and Junkrat gasped like he’d been struck.
When Roadhog pulled his fingers free, he didn’t hesitate.
Replaced them with something much thicker. Hotter. Blunt and too big.
Roadhog lined up. Junkrat locked eyes with him—and didn’t flinch.
“Do it,” he whispered. “Break me.”
And Roadhog did.
He pushed in with one slow, deliberate motion, filling Junkrat completely.
Junkrat clawed at the mattress, eyes rolling back. The sensation was overwhelming—hot and deep, pain and pleasure tangled into one sharp spike.
Roadhog bottomed out with a brutal grind of hips, hands braced on Junkrat’s thighs to hold him still.
“Gonna break me,” Junkrat whispered, voice shaking. “You’re fuckin’—you’re gonna split me open.”
Roadhog just pulled out an inch, then slammed back in.
The bed groaned under them. So did Junkrat.
He loved it.
Loved the burn, the way it felt like getting crushed under a collapsing building, the way Roadhog held back nothing.
Fucking him like he was just another battlefield.
Thrust after thrust—brutal, merciless—Junkrat writhed, bit his own hand, sobbed into it. Pleasure lanced up his spine, made his brain blank. His cock throbbed untouched, leaking across his stomach.
“Harder,” he slurred. “Don’t—don’t stop—don’t you fucking stop—”
Roadhog didn’t.
He shifted one hand to Junkrat’s throat, not choking—just holding—owning him, pinning him open like a specimen under glass.
Junkrat came first.
It hit like a detonation. Back arched, mouth open wide, no sound but a dry scream torn out of his lungs. He jerked in Roadhog’s grip, come streaking across his belly.
And still—Roadhog didn’t stop.
He kept going. Fucked him through it. Let him ride the aftershock.
Only when Junkrat’s body was twitching, legs limp, breath shredded—then did Roadhog thrust in one final time and grunt low in his throat. He held deep—hot and full—and came with a shudder so massive it rattled Junkrat’s bones.
Silence followed. Just wet breath.
Junkrat couldn’t move. Didn’t want to.
Roadhog stayed there. Still buried inside. One hand sliding from throat to chest, then lower—like he was checking if he’d broken anything important.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Junkrat rasped, half-laughing.
Then softer. Honest.
“...That was so good, mate.”