Sombra is afraid of Roadhog. It is not the nervous jittery excitement when dealing with Reaper who has a short fuse but is no match for her tech skills – but actual deeply seated fear. 

This man – this beast – is all natural, brutal force. There was nothing she could do about him with her tech know-how – if his scrapyard of a gun did no longer work, he still had huge meaty fists and a surprisingly absent conscience to wreak havoc.

Which is why her body’s first reaction when his thick fingers close around her arm a split second before she can glimmer out of existence is… to gush.

He towers over her, huge and forbidding, bleeding from a few shallow gashes, large gut constantly moving with his labored breaths, and all she can do is stare up at him like a little kid, mouth agape and cunt growing warm and tingly, swelling to puffy sensitivity.

“I think… we can come to an understanding,” she tries, voice scratchy and wobbling, knees feeling weak as she is rooted to the spot and her nipples become tight and painful.

Her eyes drop to the sausage thick fingers, staring at the short nails, painted with black, chipped polish – and she imagines them on her tits; pinching the dark, plump nipples and twisting them mean and brutal… pull at them until she has to go onto the very tips of her toes and whine because of his utter disregard to the delicate tissue.

God, but she wants that. Wants him to torture her breasts. Torture her. Lift her around and play with her body and…

He’s laughing at her. He sounds like he’s going to keel over any second, breath labored and rasping and it makes her even hotter for him. She wants him to rail her and breathe like he’s not going to make it through because he’s giving it to her so hard and good, and…

“Yes… I do think we can.”

He sits her on top of a barrel filled with chemicals and laughs again when she pushes his hands away so she can peel out of her leggings herself and salvage them.

“Shut up,” she mumbles under her breath, but there is no conviction behind it. She hates it when people laugh about her but she is so hot for his cock, that she can’t bring herself to care.

Her leggings are hobbling her knees when he loses patience ans gets a hold of them. She makes a breathless sound when he pushes her legs up, keeping her pinned like a goddamn babe that is a bout to get a diaper change and she feels her cheeks pound fiercely with a flush of anger and embarrassment.

He laughs again, more wheezing as if the sight of her cunt – already a fucking mess – is the best joke he’s heard all day.

“Been desperate?” he asks, and his expressionless mask with the large empty glasses of his goggles frightens her but it also makes her belly twist in on itself, her toes curling in the air and her cunt clenching before practically blooming open on another gush.

“Sh-shut up,” she says again, her voice girlish high and thin, sharp nails scratching against the barrel beneath her when one large finger slides through her gash and then holds it up – shows her the glistening slick coating the blunt tip.

She groans and tries to look away, but Roadhog is like a doctor’s visit: she is afraid but can’t just not look. She needs to see how he moves, needs to stare at his treetrunk arms as he reaches down and fumbles out of her line of vision – and then he is making a step forward and her legs get spread wide pushed farther up, knees pressing against her tits and squeezing the air from her lungs just from his huge belly pinning her small and cramped up beneath his gut, her cunt open and for the taking, puffy, ready, primed for dick-

and then she feels it, blunt and huge like a can of soda and the fear bounces back up as if it had hung on a rubber band, more forceful now, making her eyes widen and her mouth open, no sound coming out.

He can’t force that into her. He’s never going to be able to force that thing into her. And she wants to see his goddamn fucking cock. She wants to see it and hold it and try to cram it into her mouth. She wanted to know how long it was. Was it long? Or was it short and fat? A stout fat dick just for her to plug her up and make her drool and get her cunt to burn as it tried to adjust…

He tried slipping it into her once,

twice,

then grunted annoyed (Just like a pig. Just like a goddamn pig, and it made her even hotter, made her eyes well up with tears thinking this was an actual… an… actual…) and shuffled back a little.

“Too tight,” he comments, and reaches between them. She wants to laugh into his face, hysterically tell him that anybody would be too goddamn tight for that thing he called a cock – but his fingers on her make her shut up, mouth snapping closed, teeth clicking as he forces two fingers at once in, making her soft, spongy walls stretch until there actually were tears sliding down her temples and her nose was starting to run.

“Oh fuck,” she groaned – grunted – and her hands shot down, sharp fingernails digging into his arms without him seemingly noticing. “Oh fuck,” she says again, more emphatically, ringing for breath as her knees push against her chest and her vision swims. He’s not doing much. He’s fucking her without any finesse or regard to her pleasure; he’s just trying to pry her cunt wide enough open to cram his fat pig cock into her – yet her body is already winding tight and sensitive, belly twisting, the fear folding into itself and making her giddy until her teeth are chattering together and her bladder feels full, full, overfull, so sensitive she thinks she’s going to lose mastery of her bodily functions.

“Oh god. Please. Please please please, give it to me, give it to me, I’m.. I need.” She digs her fingernails deeper and stares into the expressionless void of his mask. She doesn’t think she has ever needed anything as badly in her life. Her orgasm just comes and doesn’t go or it does and she can’t tell because he’s winding her higher, pressing his big thumb onto her clit and just mashing it beneath the rough pad.

He’s laughing again, too, low and wheezing and bearing down onto her.

“Soon. Soon. Gonna open you right up, little piggy.”