Happy days!
Britain's favourite heroine is in the motherly way! That's right Tracer, AKA. Lena Oxton, has been spotted out in town with a lovely baby bump. Fans around the world flood the internet with congratulations and speculations aplenty.
There's just one problem...
-o-o-o-
A crowd has gathered in the lounge at Watchpoint Gibraltar, all circled around one red-faced member of the Overwatch team, as they watch a vast projected screen glow with a news feed.
“… In other news, fans of Overwatch were in a stir this morning as the restored organisation’s official poster girl and Britian’s homegrown hero: Tracer, was spotted in Camden Town with a surprising update for her fans.”
The screen switches from the grinning face of the news anchor to an image of a young woman known worldwide. Tracer’s spiked brown hair would give her away in any crowd, even if she wasn’t wearing her usual bright orange and white uniform. Her shiny amber visor catches the light and hides her eyes behind it, but a sheepish smile and blushing cheeks are clear to see below it. Her gloved hands tug at the battered brown leather of her flight jacket, pulling it tight over her chest, where the bulky white chassis of her chronal accelerator glows like a lighthouse drawing all eyes to the fidgeting hero.
Tracer’s futile attempt to cover the shining beacon on her chest and avoid notice is clear, but the hero doesn’t seem angered or distraught by being caught by the camera. There’s an expression of bashful excitement on her face, an embarrassed smile on her lips as she realises that any chance of anonymity and going unnoticed are gone.
Even if her jacket could close over the piece of temporal life-support strapped to her chest, it couldn’t cover what lies below.
Orange spandex stretches tight over a gigantically pregnant belly, as round and bright as a peach as it catches the light. Tracer looks about ready to pop, huge and fat and full, and now the whole world knows, or rather believes, that their favourite hero is about to be a mother.
“Fans of Tracer, real name Lena Oxton, have been celebrating and wishing their hero well.” The anchor continues, as scenes of people in cosplay cheering and dancing flow behind her, thread after thread of posts across all social media scrolling with a universal excitement. “Betting markets across the world have begun taking wagers on everything from the sex of the child, to baby names, to the identity of the father. Tracer herself has declined to comment beyond thanking her fans for their support and their excitement.”
Tracer returns to the screen, hurrying along a sunlit cobbled street, a handheld camera following her as she blushes and walks against the flow of people stopping and noticing the hero in their midst.
“I… I’m over the moon, obviously. Having a baby… which I am. Um, still doesn’t feel real… in a way.” She smiles nervously. “But yeah, thanks to all my fans. You lot are why we do what we do at Overwatch, couldn’t do it without you.”
“Will you be stepping back from heroics? Is this the end of Tracer for the time being?” a voice behind the camera asks.
Tracer squirms. “I guess, for a while yeah… cause of the baby. But being a hero is my life, it’s who I am, I’m sure I’ll be back. Don’t you worry.”
With a soft click the screen goes black, and a chorus of laughter and teasing fills the room, all focused on one furiously blushing Tracer.
“Awww, congratulations Lena.” D.va giggles, giving the humiliated hero a playful shove.
“You must be so flattered by all the attention.” Briggite agrees, sitting forward with her hands between her thighs. “All those fans wishing you well!”
“And all those people wondering about baby.” Zarya rumbled, grinning wide as she wraps a colossal arm around Tracer’s shoulder, squeezing her tight. “What are you hoping for, pupsik, a boy or a girl?”
Tracer buries her face in her hands, knees tucked up to her chest as she sits on a couch surrounded by her friends and fellow heroes, and is utterly humiliated.
Almost every woman of Overwatch has joined the party, all the people Tracer loves and respects the most, and whilst she knows none of the teasing is mean spirited, there’s no way she can escape the torture of their ‘kindness.’
“I think you’ll be a wonderful mother.” Mercy chuckles, gliding around the back of the crowd and petting Tracer’s hair. “One day.”
“Well that’s just the fucking problem, isn’t it!” Tracer whines, emerging from her miserable cocoon and staring up at her old friend with a quivering lip. “The whole world thinks I’m knocked up right now!”
“You should never have gone out in that state.” Sojourn tuts, one of the few assembled heroes not smiling. It’s been less than a year since she took the mantle of leadership of the restored hero team, and now her best member is going to be out of the picture thanks to her own stupid mistake.
“I needed to get home, Emily caught an early flight.” Tracer pouts at the stern, white-haired figure glowering down at her.
“And as always, you forgot to recharge your accelerator.” Briggite sighed. “Well, what are we going to do?”
“I don’t know.” Tracer pinches her brows.
“Too bad you spoke to them, we could’ve said it was a cosplayer.” D.va sighed, “That’s what I did last time I got caught with my panties down.”
“That only worked because I impersonated you.” Echo reminded her airily, “Unfortunately Tracer confirmed her own identity to those present.”
“Which also rules out claiming it’s a deepfake or a hologram.” Briggite leaned back and stroked her chin thoughtfully. “Sorry Lena, I think you’re fucked.”
“So what? I’ve gotta go on international Tv and explain, ‘sorry, I’m not actually pregnant, my guts were just stuffed with cum?’” Tracer threw up her hands and jumped off the couch, stalking away from the group that had surrounded her and pacing back and forth.
It was true, and every woman assembled can’t help but think back fondly to the previous day. A dozen thick, fat, futa cocks stiffen beneath armour and latex and skintight suits, remembering how Tracer had so dotingly taken care of them, as she always did. Wet tongues lick hungry lips. Eyes of every colour of the rainbow drink in Tracer’s body from head to toe. Thoughts turn from how to fix the imminent public relations disaster, to how it had been created in the first place.
It was Tracer’s own fault, of course. It wasn’t like any of the assembled heroes had forced her to whore herself out to them, to slobber and stroke and squeeze their gigantic cocks until they burst inside her. She had been the one begging them, ever the needy little slut, and how could any of them have resisted?
Many years ago, Cadet Lena Oxton had earned a relationship as the team’s go-to cumdumpster, always happy to help relieve tension however she could. Before she’d even been blessed, or cursed, with her abilities she’d bounced her tight young butt on anyone who needed her. She’d served leaders like Ana and Sojourn beneath their desks, played doctor with the promising young prodigy Angela Spiegler before she ever took on the mantle of Mercy. She’d helped Moira ‘experiment’ before she had shown her true psychotic colours, shared a secret tryst with Amelie Lacroix before her fall, and so many others now retired, or turned, or sadly passed away.
It had been a long few months, resurrecting an entire international superhero organisation was hard work, and that sunny Friday had been the first day as long as anyone could remember where every single woman of Overwatch had enjoyed a day off.
It had started innocently, new faces getting to know one another, old faces reminiscing, and one horny British hero who couldn’t help but drool at all the gorgeous new friends she was making.
Tracer’s fiancé Emily, is thankfully not a jealous woman, and allows Lena to have her fun, which Lena does, voraciously.
She can’t quite remember when the conversation had turned from casual to sexual, or when words had begun to be accompanied by hands.
She definitely does remember sitting in Zarya’s lap, moaning as the beautiful behemoth of a Russian paws her tight cockney rump, kneading her cheeks through orange Lycra, and rubbing her titanic slab of she-cock between Tracer’s open thighs. She can practically feel Angela’s fingers snaking through her hair, holding her head steady as three delicious brown cocks dangle over her panting mouth, Pharah, Symmetra, and Sojourn all lined up from lightest to darkest, a banquet of virile futa cock for her to stuff her face with.
Tracer whines softly to herself, thighs squeezing together to quell the familiar greed burning in her ever-ready womanhood. It’s not her fault any more than it is her teammates’. She can’t help herself. Britain’s best hero has been a nymphomaniac cock-addict since puberty, and even the strongest willed cum-junkie on the planet couldn’t have resisted the world-class abundance of perfect hero dicks her friends are so happy to provide to her.
It's a miracle she hasn’t gotten pregnant yet, but Mercy’s extra-strength birth control pills and half of the condoms sold in all of Spain have so far kept her baby free.
“Ah.” Echo says, breaking the thick, tense, hungry silence. “It looks like miss Chester has seen the news feeds as well. She is in the landing bay.”
“Eep!” Tracer’s squeak of terror is well deserved.
As a fiancé, Emily Chester is loving and supportive and energetic enough to keep pace with Lena easily, but as she knows from personal experience, her temper can be as fiery as her hair.
Emily sanctions Lena’s whoring, she loves her completely, degeneracy and all, but there is one line she has forbidden Tracer to cross, and the entire world media is happily announcing that she’s leapt across it like a fucking Olympian.
Tracer’s scramble for an excuse to feed the press as to why she’s been wobbling around with a fifteen-pint cum-gut, turns to grasping at straws for anything that will spare her from Emily’s wrath, but before she can find any lifeline, a scowling redhead bursts into the lounge.
“Lena Elizabeth Oxton!” Emily barks, and a chorus of ‘ooooooh’s and wolf whistles follow her as she storms to the squirming heroine. “Explain… your… self… now!”
“Um… hiya Em.” Lena mumbles.
“Don’t ‘hiya Em’ me! Why the fuck is every news site on the planet telling me you’re nine month’s pregnant with a baby that doesn’t fucking exist.” Emily snarls. “At least it had better not fucking exist or…”
“It doesn’t!” Lena jumps in, grabbing Emily by the hands and tugging her pleadingly away from the grinning crowd of women watching the spectacle with glee. “I’m not pregnant, I haven’t been… it was just a misunderstanding!”
“Misunderstanding?” Emily replies, dryly.
“Yeah… yeah you see we had a tough mission, y’know with the wildfires in Sudan, so when we all got back to base we were feeling all stressed.”
Lena tries to ignore the giggles from behind her, it doesn’t work.
“We… um, we worked off that stress together like we usually do, but it had been a while and the girls were very, er… full. So by the end of it I was very… uh…”
“Full?” Emily asks, eyebrows raised. “You’re telling me that you drank so much spunk you looked like you were in your third trimester with twins, and then went out in public?”
There’s a hint of amusement and rueful pride in Emily’s expression now, and Tracer finds herself pushing her luck before she can stop herself.
“Well I didn’t drink it all, it was a three-hole workout.” She grins, before Emily’s scowl returns and she hastily continues with her pitiful explanation. “I didn’t mean to get spotted, I saw your text about getting home early, so I though I’d be there to welcome you back. Problem was the accelerator.”
She raps on the glowing device on her chest with her knuckles and sighs. “Bloody thing ran out of juice in Camden Town.”
“Where you got caught, and instead of telling the world just what a greedy little spunk-guzzler you are, you said you were pregnant.”
“Yeah.” Tracer hangs her head. “I’m so sorry Em… I wasn’t thinking, I’ll figure out a way to fix this, promise. I just gotta think, come up with some excuse…”
“No need.” Emily sighs, shaking her head before placing a kiss on Tracer’s cheek. “I know how to sort everything out, and how you can repay me for this mess.”
She pulls Tracer back towards the wide semi-circle couch were all of her fellow Overwatch heroes are still sitting, watching and grinning at Lena’s discomfort.
“Ladies… my wonderful fiancé has convinced the whole world that she’s pregnant, after two years of telling me she doesn’t think we’re ready to have a child. I think this is the perfect opportunity to kill two birds with one stone.”
“W… What?” Tracer squeaks, but Emily’s grip on her waist is like a vice, keeping her in place as all of her friends and teammates sit up with excitement.
“We could lie, say it was all a mistake or a trick or whatever lame excuse Lena can come up with, but if the planet wants Tracer to have a baby, I say we give her one.”
Emily shoves Tracer to her knees and strokes her palms over her cheeks, tipping her face to stare up at the women looming over her. “I want this fucking tart knocked up, and I don’t care who does it.” she smiles slowly, licking her lips at the bulging, tenting pants of the futas around her, rising to their feet. “That being said… I’ll personally take care of whichever of you studs breeds my whore wife as long and as often as she pleases. Call it a perk of being our donor”
Tracer swallows heavily, partly out of terror, partly out of growing lust as, one by one, the beautiful godly cocks of Overwatch are released. Some thick, some long, some curved, some straight, some palest milky white, some deepest, richest brown, but every last one of them ready to pound her stupid, and make her mistake into reality.
“Oh… bollocks.” Lena whimpers, as Zarya strides confidently to the front of the pack, her gigantic frame spreading the crowd like a ship through the sea. Eighteen inches of Russian bitchbreaker hang before Tracer’s tomato-red face, thicker than her wrist and simply too heavy to stand fully horizontal even as it throbs with virility.
The scariest thing is it isn’t even the biggest, but Tracer knows the pink-haired amazon won’t be holding back. She mews pitifully, surrendering to her fiancé’s grip on her head, letting her tongue slide from her lips and her thighs spread wide in eager anticipation of the first of many perfect breeding tools.
“I always liked the thought of having children.” Zarya grins. “and ‘Auntie Zarya… I think I could get used to that.”
Tracer can only gurgle, as her mouth is made home to the first few inches of a gigantic Russian cock, her eyes staring meekly up at the woman she adores. Emily smiles back, no vindictiveness in her eyes, just love and a little mischievous satisfaction.
“Time we both get what we want, my love.” She whispers into Lena’s ear. “I can’t wait to see you pregnant for real, your beautiful body just bursting out of that tight little suit… and our baby girl… we’ll be one big happy family. You, me, our daughter, and all of her ‘aunties’ who helped make her.”
Tracer relaxes into the pleasure and the joy the domestic daydream Emily has in store for the rest of their lives, and makes sure that the first of her future daughter’s aunties’ cocks is properly spit-lubed, ready to make her a mother for real.