She's not used to being on this end of Reaper's shotguns. Sombra takes a deep breath and flexes against the restraints, but they don't give.
Across the room and directly within her line of sight, her teleport lies in a pile of broken pieces. Sombra can't tear her eyes off of it. It's not as if she thought he'd be anything less than thorough, but her heart gives an unpleasant lurch when it starts to sink in that she really is trapped.
"Or what, you'll kill me?" she asks, not nearly as brave or as bored as her tone implies, but trying for both.
The room is dimly lit and Reaper blends in with the shadows to terrifying effect. It gives the impression that he's everywhere at once, from the smoke tendrils creeping around the single bulb in the ceiling to the phantom whispers of sensation Sombra can't help feeling against her skin.
"I thought you were more imaginative than that," Reaper says, looming over her. He presses the tip of one shotgun into Sombra's inner thigh and keeps applying pressure until her legs are shaking and it feels like the metal must be white hot through her clothes. He could kill her. But he's right; he could do a hell of a lot worse to her first. Sombra's reminded of what little she'd been able to dig up on Blackwatch, of Reaper telling her with blood on his claws, "you don't torture for the truth."
He doesn't care what she has to say for herself; this isn't about information or intel. It's about betraying him and getting caught.
"I thought you'd hear me out," she accuses.
"I needed answers," Sombra hurries to tell him, far too conscious of the gun pressed to her thigh, though she doesn't dare look away from Reaper's mask. She's always appreciated how he can make a threat out of simply being in a space, that still, silent intensity that now has her fighting not to squirm in place. "This thing is bigger than Talon, bigger than your grudge with Overwatch-"
He jabs the gun directly into her muscle and that's going to bruise. Sombra swears. "I'm serious, Gabe. They might be onto something." She knows even before she says it that it's a mistake - after she'd traded Talon intel with Amari - but, "just trust me, I-"
"Trust." Reaper repeats. The room grows darker by shades, and Sombra has never been so scared in her life. Faceless corporations and shady conspiracies are one thing; she knows firsthand what Reaper can do. "You wouldn't know trust if it was broadcast on every frequency you watch."
Her heart is pounding, chest tight. Sombra's never seen him this angry and she doesn't know if there's a single move she has left to play. His gun is still maddeningly steady against her leg. "I trust you," she offers, mouth dry and her voice barely more than a whisper.
Tendrils of the thick smoke surrounding Reaper reach out and wind themselves around her wrists, her knees - soft and breakable, but Sombra doesn't dare try. And then he drags the tip of the shotgun up her inner thigh until the bulk of it catches between her legs.
Sombra shudders and lets out a whimper without meaning to. There's far too much blood rushing to her clit for the amount of danger she's in; she needs her tech, needs a minute to breathe, needs to get herself under control because the room is all but spinning and she's starting to think that she likes this.
"Uh huh," she gasps, trying to let Reaper see that she's not struggling. The muscles in her thighs twitch from how hard she's fighting not to close them around the barrel of his gun.
Reaper's mask tilts almost imperceptibly. The tip of the gun gives a sudden jerk and Sombra feels herself go hot with the realization that it is indeed doing something for her. She can hear how loud she's panting, echoing off the bare walls in the silence, and it's a fight to keep herself still.
Reaper leans forward until the sheer bulk of him blocks all the light in the room, and his voice is a deep, sinfully amused rumble that sets off butterflies low in Sombra's stomach when he asks, "you like that?" He presses the gun more firmly between her legs, and Sombra can't even trust herself to speak.
The way her hips jerk in response is probably answer enough. Reaper's laugh is unkind. Not forgiveness, but it might be enough for now.
Certainly more than Sombra could have hoped for otherwise. "Please-"
"We will talk," Reaper promises, but he presses the bulk of his gun up between her thighs until Sombra can grind up against it with every small, shocky roll of her hips, and it's an almost embarrassingly short time before she's coming, thighs clenched around Reaper's shotgun hard enough that she can feel every little detail on the sides.
It feels like she should say something, still tied to a chair at Reaper's mercy and trembling with adrenaline, gun between her legs and leggings wet with her cum, but for possibly the first time in her life, Sombra's got nothing.