He reminded her of everything dirty and disorderly in the world.
The acrid stench of gunfire filling her mouth, her lungs and sweat dripping down the sinewy contours of his back, overwhelmed by the sensation to violently push him away and pull him closer at the same time. Her insides feel like liquid dripping from the gutters of the slums she grew up in.
Young Satya Vaswani stands transfixed by the small peephole in her room, the only source of daylight hitting her smudged face, pressed against the glass, counting each drop that descends from its perch. The manipulation of the droplet as it refracts the rays of light sparkle tauntingly at her, an island of beauty in a sea of mud and shit and poverty. She smiles when a ray of enriching sunlight crosses paths with the stream of water just right, the perfect balance of nature and design melding to create something pleasing to the eye.
The older version can bend her own reality, can bend herself against the workshop bench, can bend her lips to accommodate his, melding and clashing and melding and clashing, teeth biting down and tongue sweeping across. Heaving shoulders and soft caresses – a fire building in the pit of her chest – and her hair comes loose from its neat and tight bun from atop the crown of her head.
He fiddles with the front of her official Vishkar blazer, unzipping and unsheathing a corner of her sun-kissed shoulder and bicep because he won't let her leave to go back, can't fathom a world of order, can't fathom a world without her in it, won't accept that this is who she is and that isn't going to change, the same way she failed to show him the way.
Or perhaps not a failure, just something else that she had to accept she couldn't change.
He pulls away and she's under him breathless and squirming, staring at the molten amber that are his irises, fiery with anger. "You know you ain' leavin', yeah?"
With eyes brimming with moisture that she can't tell is from the gunpowder or the situation. "I have to," she murmurs, lips weak and numbed from pressure. "If there's a possibility, however small, of Vishkar being dismantled, it has to be myself to do it." She reaches out to him, aware of the soot wearing on the cuff of her blazer and he turns his face away when her hand finally reaches his face. "Jamison, please."
"What'cha wan' me ta say? I mean, I'm not the one to mince words, Satya." He presses himself closer, impossibly so, and even clothed she can feel him between her thighs. She clenches her eyes shut and attempts to take a calming breath, arching her back against the worktable she was haphazardly set upon. "You want ta go back an' take 'em out and if they fin' out that that's what yer doin'-"
"They'll kill me," she nods, eyes closed more passively now. "I'm aware. But you doubt my ability to do this."
It's not a question hanging precariously between them, it's a statement.
"Look at me."
She heaves out another sigh, anchors her hand to his shoulder blade, and slowly opens her eyes.
"I don't doubt you in anything," he starts, repositioning himself so that her head is cradled in his prosthetic hand. "An' I don't want ta be the one to stop ya. But if yer doing this because you're trying to prove something to someone-"
Lucío goes unsaid. "I don't have to prove anything." Satya says, more firm about this than anything else. "I'm doing this for myself because it's what is right, because I have a greater purpose in this life and this is what I was meant to do."
Jamison heaves a sigh from above her, the wide expanse of his chest growing larger and constricting, and then he slowly, tortuously, slips his other hand down the front of her slacks, curling two of his fingers in her warm liquid sex and retracting, feeling every ridge and callous of his digits against her slick walls. She leans her head back further into his hand, mouth contorting open beyond her control and she wants to think that he was just being really considerate in letting her head rest against his hand, but this was probably his plan all along. Sanjay never made her feel this way, never made her feel the need to bite her lower lip, jolts of electricity from below with every thrust, reaching into parts deep within herself that she never knew existed. She groans and it's embarrassing and it's high pitched and unappealing to the ear, but he covers her mouth with his and how could someone this frustrating make her feel so good?
Heart thumping against her ribcage and she sees flashes of light from under her eyelids, fingernails pinching into his skin, and a scream bubbling from her lips, well contained within his own. He keeps pumping his fingers within her long after she has drifted down from her high.
She peers up at him from beneath her lashes and views him slips two fingers in his mouth in contemplation, as if it were the most normal function to do in the world, as if they didn't know where they just were. Finally, with a pop, the fingers slip out, shiny with saliva in the last hues of daylight, and she blinks, looking between his face and his fingers.
"Seems to me you made yer mind up already, love," he says, unaffected. "Reckon I'll have to be okay with tha'."
"What-" she starts, but it sounds weaker than intended so she clears her throat and tries again, "What are you going to do?"
He rolls his shoulder, "S'not up ta me. This is yer mission. An' you havta do it."
"And I have to do it," she agrees.
"I don't gotta like it," he mentions off-handedly, and her lips curve upward.
Her uniform, she'd imagine, is probably covered in soot, from which she'd have to take the time to wash it and redress, which means that leaving this evening isn't a possibility now. "You don't want me to go."
"What can I say?" The blond shrugs, staring down at her with intense golden eyes. "I got used to yer pretty little mug around here. Who else can I look at? Roadie?"
"There are beautiful women here," Satya points out practically.
"Don't know what you mean."
"Amelíe?"
"That Widowmaker broad? She killed 'er husband!"
"Angela?"
"Valkyrie seems a little…flighty, to me."
"Fareeha?"
He pauses, nodding his head in approval. "I do like a good woman with missiles." She smacks his arm admonishingly, and he laughs aloud with mirth, mischief shining in his eyes. "I ain't lookin' at nobody else. I ain't wan' ta look at nobody else. An' you can't make me, so there," he sticks his tongue out at her for good measure, and she giggles. She slows, and comes to a stop, when he gets alarmingly close to her face, pressing his pointy nose against her curved one. "Do you want ta look at som'one else?" He asks, uncharacteristically quiet.
"No," she says with a shake of her head before she even has to think of the answer.
"Plenty of nice lookin' blokes," he says with one wide eye. "They got both legs an' both hands an' keep yer clothes nice an' clean."
"That's not what I want," she says and it's hollow because yes, that's what she wanted before but that doesn't mean that's what she wants now.
Jamison leans back, less than convinced. He uncups his hand from the back of her head. She misses the warmth, and wants him closer again. Reaches out for him.
But he's already walked away, standing hunched in the middle of the room.
She leans up, and pulls up her slacks, zipping them up, trying to ignore the smudges on various areas of her ivory uniform and tries to take a step. Fails because her knees feel like jelly and nearly stumbles forward.
She hears a clatter on the ground and he's there in an instant, holding her upward.
With her eyes she's begging him to believe her, but her face doesn't change, the façade doesn't crack.
He rubs his hand through the nest of his hair, wild yellow and black tendrils becoming more and more unruly. "S'alright Satya. She'll be alright."
"It isn't," she says with a shake of her head. She knows the sting of rejection, the pressure of judgement, and she won't subject him to that. "And I'm sorry."
He brightens suddenly, crooked smile marring his features. "Nothin' to turn your knickers in a twist, love. Can't do nothin' about things tha's already done, right?" He cards his hand though her dark ebony tresses and she leans into the touch. "Think I should let you alone ta do what needs to get done, eh?"
"No," she says, shaking her head, looking at him under her lashes. "I don't want to be alone right now."
"Then you won't be." The junker smirks roguishly and she kisses his cheek.
She still doesn't expect it when he lifts her up and stands up at full height as a small yelp escapes her mouth. "Junkrat," she says in surprise, and he looks at her for a long moment, one eyebrow arched wildly.
"What'd I tell you 'bout calling me tha'?"
"A momentary lapse, Jamison," she corrects with a smirk before he ambles onward. "Where are we going?"
"Yer room."
"Now?"
"No time like the present," he singsongs with glee, skipping up the stairs two-by-two.
"Jamie!"
The door parts open right before they step in the room and he bounds up to the bed, and when she thinks he'll just throw her onto it, he sets her down, hair fanning out beneath her on the pillow. She's smiling and if she weren't so happy in that moment, she'd be disgusted with herself.
She has to prepare, to focus on the task at hand, but instead she's helping him remove his peg, and memorizing every freckle on the bridge of his nose in her mind's eye.
Younger Satya Vaswani pulls her arms through her official Vishkar uniform for the first time. She's impressed by the pressed cotton of the fabric, the versatility of the design, and the symbolism of hope that it means for the world. She looks at herself in the mirror and she'd never particularly been self-absorbed in her looks because she didn't have the means to be. With trepidation, she pulls her hair up and back, looping through her hair in its tie in one wave, sweeping it into an elegant, yet simple bun. From her nightstand, she gathers her visor and sets it on her face.
The older version feels the fabric hastily pulled from her skin, tossed on the ground.
She crawls backward until she's over the pillow and expertly Jamison navigates her every dip and curve down her body, every breath against her skin bringing her closer to absolution, spreading her legs apart and feeling herself clench around him as her sex spasms in tandem against his tongue. She buries her orange polished nails into the black and blond spikes atop his head and arches her neck in ecstasy.
He reminds her of everything dirty and disorderly in the world.
And she revels in it.
DAC
