Akande hired/masquerading as Lucio’s bodyguard tho – having Lucio ride or choke on his dick in the limo to/from concerts, staying in his suit while Lucio gets stripped off because Akande likes watching that tiny naked bod. And Lucio LOVES IT.

Lúcio is always more hopped up on adrenaline before his concerts. Afterwards he tends to be mellow; almost sleepy and kitten pliant, all his energy pumped out through the loudspeakers and given to his audience.

Before, however, he is jittery and almost nervous. Full of an energy that needs to be directed – and Akande is a very good conductor.

The limousine is huge and still he has to curl marginally forward, the back of his head pressing against the roof as he stares down at Lúcio between his thighs, trying his hardest to choke himself on the big cock hanging out of Akande’s pants.

He’s been cuddling with it like an old hand, sure and loving as he made sure to drag it all over his cheeks and drool generously against his bush as he kissed the swollen base and sucked at the large, warm ballsac beneath.

Now, though, he seems grotesquely out of his waters, trying and failing to push the swollen glans into the back of his throat.

“Easy,” Doomfist murmurs, large hands holding Lúcio’s head with gentle steadiness; keeping him from forcing himself farther down. “You will have to rouse the crowds. Be kind to your throat.”

One hand travels down, curling around Lúcio’s throat; holding on just a little too tight. Just enough to make him choke and get his eyes to tear up.

“Open your mouth. Tongue out.”

He taps the tip against the slippery surface; pops it between Lúcio’s swollen lips and back out again. He slaps his cock high against his cheeks until the kid has to close his eyes against it, kneeling and letting himself get degraded.

Akande smirks, fist tight around his cock, jerking himself in small, efficient flicks of his wrist. He pulls his cock away from Lúcio’s searching mouth and instead smears his balls across his nose; pulls him in close enough to place them on his forehead while he smothers him in the humid heat behind, barely accessible with his pants still on.

Lúcio groans, delirious, small tongue out, lapping at whatever strip of skin he can find.

Doomfist loves how easily this little music man submits. How he has him wrapped around his little finger – and, in proxy, the masses that flock to him.

“Now. Back.”

He aims carefully, watches with lazily slitted eyes as he jerks off onto Lúcio’s eager tongue, stretched out as far as he can, eyes classy, fingers drumming against his thighs. He wipes the rest against the boy’s goatee, watches him try and lick it away.

He likes the thought of him on stage with his cum in his face.