Overwatch: Volume vs. Precision (Zarya x Widowmaker, futa on futa)

Story by Kuroshio

Overwatch fan smut featuring a competition between Aleksandra Zaryanova and Amelie Lecroix.

Schlick... schlick... schlick...

Even accounting for the late hour, the recommissioned Overwatch live-fire range was uncharacteristically quiet. Ever since Winston had made the the decision to issue a recall on Overwatch agents, the range had been in use near-continuous use as individuals sought to knock off lingering bits of rust and get back on track to developing their skill sets, the sounds of gunfire ringing off the walls with an intensity that could rattle a person's brain inside their skull, the rumbling base of explosives so pervasive it threatened to upset any already shaky stomachs present. But none of those gloriously distinctive sounds were present.

Instead, the only place was near silent. The only sound stubbornly holding out against the supremacy of still quiet was nothing close to loud or noticeable. Even a muted conversation between associates would have covered it and yet the sound echoed off the walls, testimony to the range's near total lack of activity.

“Are you – how you say – close?” The French-accented query cut through the steady beat, halting it momentarily.

Schlick... schlick... schlick...

The response offered a Slavic inflection, “Am almost close.”

“Almost close?” the question came out confused, “This is like saying you are far away, no?”

“Nyet.” The switch to Russian was accompanied by a decisive, if strained, change in tone as Zarya ended the sniper's line of inquiry. Instead she drew upon her inner reserve of discipline and conditioning, the same tools she'd used to win Olympic glory. And yet, although what she was doing was an international competition of sorts, it was most assuredly not the sort that would have been suitable for broadcast across the entire world.

Schlick, schlick, schlick.

Zarya was standing but bent forward, the bottom half of her bulky combat armor and fatigues stripped down to her knees, bright pink panties stretched out between her thighs. In one hand she held her cock, ten inches of Slavic glory as thick as a beer can and as hard as her flexed biceps. In the other she struggled mightily with cramming a fat studded dildo in and out of pussy. The light sheen of sweat running up her heavily muscled arm and running along Zarya's brow betrayed the fact that the weight-lifter turned soldier had been at it for quite some time. No longer having to waste any effort justifying her progress, she bit down on her lip and closed her eyes.

Her hand stroked faster and harder, beating her meat like it was just out of the freezer and needed to be tenderized while the dildo plunged in and out at an uneven pace. Pussy juice and precum, both produced in spades by her well-trained body, dripped on the floor as she inhaled sharply, nearly bringing herself to her apex. But it was an effort that fell just a bit short and Zarya grunted in frustration, jerking herself off even harder. She was going fast and rough enough that her whole body was shaking from the force of her hand's motion, the pink-painted nails becoming a streak of brightness against the drab grey background of the firing range.

Schlick-schlick-schlick.

“Is that all you know how to do? No finesse, no subtlety. Mere foolish pounding.” Amelie Lacroix made a dismissive gesture from where she sat on the floor, “Tell me this: are you so puissant that technique means nothing?”

Zarya didn't answer, blowing her fringe of pink hair out of her eyes and slam-fucking the dildo hard enough into herself that it squelched between her fattened and reddened cunt lips.

Schlickschlickschlick!

“Am close!” she rasped, both her her hands working different parts of her immaculately sculpted body. Zarya could feel it inside her, the erotic warmth gaining momentum. Slowly in comparison to her exertions but still as inexorable as the march of a freezing winter across the Siberian taiga. All she needed was for her stamina and balance to hold while imagining something suitably sexy. Her precum flowed heavy and thick, providing not only the necessary lubrication but also the added volume as her iron-tight grip peeled foreskin over the head of her girlmeat, the wet sound increasing in frequency and intensity, joined by hisses and whispered words in Russian.

Widowmaker leaned back on the floor, her hands behind her and her knees together as she sat in front of Zarya. She licked her lips, sliding her tongue along slowly in an alluring manner, and extended a leg towards the Siberian. Zarya jumped at the unexpected contact but maintained her composure well enough that there was no interruption in the work her hands were doing. But the woman below stepped things up anyway. Still clad in her signature high heel, the French assassin dragged her foot along the woman's thigh and purred, “Almost, my dear?”

“Da, da

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