Actions

Work Header

In Ruin, In Rapture

Work Text:

Defend the payload.

Blunt orders, and an insultingly simple mission. Widowmaker shifted on her stomach, running her fingers against the grip of her rifle. Compared to her usual solitary hunt, this was an outrage. Hours of preparation, after days of intensive research on a target, followed by the delicious rush of elation after the kill was a glass of wine from Côte de Nuits. This was a glass of the watered down swill found in a box. There was no challenge, no rush. Nothing to really make her feel.

Again she had to wonder what was stopping her from taking out the heads of Talon and moving on to greener pastures. She knew where they slept; how beautiful would a massacre like that be? To have their own venom turned upon them? It would be nothing less than sheer art.

Of course, that was merely an impulse that would lead to ruin. Widowmaker did not entertain such nonsense. It would sit in the back of her mind, though, a pleasant thought to mull over. The radio began to crackle on two channels; she tended to one, voice low and clipped.

“Widowmaker. Status report.”

“Caught a glimpse of the fuckin’ monkey,” was the snarled reply. Widowmaker’s sharp inhale was misread as apprehension. “Overwatch’s here. Tryin’ to flank us.”

Keeping her voice level, Widowmaker purred, “Let them try. Surely you are more than capable of handling a beast? Come...lead them into my web.”

A grating laugh, followed by a, “Roger, ma’am,” and the radio went dead. Widowmaker switched to the other channel, the line full of static and the deep bellows of an animal. What could one expect from a hacked radio signal? Ah, but she only needed to hear one voice among many. Every muscle began to coil with anticipation as she listened to the one way feed, eyes scanning the rooftops and then down to the back alleys below.

Show yourself.

A flash of blue. Over the radio, a giggle.

If she could still feel emotion, Widowmaker would have likened the full body shudder that wracked her as unexpected elation. The dregs of the former Overwatch were predictable targets, boring at their best and mind numbingly dull at their worst. To combat quarry like that was an utter waste of her potential. Considering all that had been taken from her to leave more room for said potential, Widowmaker did not take the insult well.

But Tracer, well. Tracer was fun. Never standing still, whipping back and forth between past, present, and future. Time meant everything to Widowmaker; patience was her greatest weapon. Time was as tangible as water to Tracer in contrast, her ability to slip and slide through the currents of causality hypnotizing and mindboggling. She was predictable only in what she responded to--injustice and danger to the innocent, how droll--but no chase was the same. Every encounter was something new, something vicious and harrowing. Constantly, she had to learn new ways to position herself, new ways to shoot while on the run, new plans and--God. Utter exhilaration.

Widowmaker allowed herself to close her eyes at the thought of actually killing her. It would be long, drawn out; days of battle, and toil until they were both weary and spent and had little options left to them. Tracer would fall back, forced to retreat; Widowmaker would allow Tracer to think she had done the same. Then she would take aim, wait for the perfect moment. The pull of the trigger would be followed with a breathless laugh; Tracer would go down, but not messily, no. No, no.

No gore. Just a clean, quick shot. Widowmaker would watch the life drain out of her through the scope of Widow’s Kiss, and whisper as tender a goodbye as someone like her was capable of. Would Tracer be facing her? Would she be able to see the lights in her eyes go out? Maybe she’d even get to see that long, slow exhale as Tracer succumbed to death’s embrace. God! Another shiver wracked down her spine and Widowmaker shifted, wetting her lips.

Once she put Tracer down, though, she would have to kill Talon’s best and retreat to somewhere far off and secluded. After Tracer, no death would ever, ever compare. She knew on instinct that the kill would change her all over again, down to a cellular level. She’d had quite enough of such drastic changes to her person, though, which was only part of the reason she didn’t devote everything into killing Tracer.

Besides, there were other ways to--

The hairs on the back of her neck rose as her body registered the distortion of time, and seconds before Tracer said, “What’cha lookin’ at?” Widowmaker had moved to crouch and shot her wire out, bounding for safety. Tracer’s laughter and her bullets followed. Widowmaker’s heart, sedate as it was, might have sped up for such a pure sound if only because she could simply imagine how she would sound in her death throes. She clicked her radio on.

“I am moving from my position,” she informed the rabble around the payload monotonously. “Try not to die.”

She turned the radio off once more. Maybe the operatives she led would survive; maybe they wouldn’t. It wasn’t her problem anymore. She was an assassin, not a babysitter. Widowmaker led the chase, somehow managing to keep a step ahead of Tracer. Her blood did not rush in her ears, but her muscles were marginally warm from the energy racing through them. Tracer always made her feel like this; a degree above frigid. A good chase, a fantastic hunt, could undo even the most hardy of Talon’s physical conditioning or at least tease at it.

“Where ya’ goin’, love?” Tracer flashed to run beside her. “Gettin’ cold feet already?”

Widowmaker swung her rifle up as if to fire, then brought it back. As expected, Tracer blinked away from the perceived storm of bullets, and was rewarded with the butt of her rifle ramming into her diaphragm. Tracer stumbled back with a wheeze. Widowmaker looked over her shoulder.

Chérie,” she cooed, “cold feet are the only kind I have.”

The banter was a staple in their hunts as well, and a sort of well hidden, agreed upon sign. If they were both making quips at the other, than they weren’t truly aiming for the kill. Maiming, perhaps, but not a kill. Widowmaker was all too aware of the why’s. Overwatch wanted the contents of the payload, and Widowmaker needed to be kept busy so that they’d have a fighting chance. Predictable, but she wasn’t going to complain.

Tracer grinned. Widowmaker shot her grapple and they continued their hunt. Widowmaker slipped into a building, went into the center of a spiraling staircase, and grappled again; the ascension was quick and she went to the top floor, darting into what appeared to be a sort of conference room, and slid into a corner. She let a bit of wire slack come free from her gauntlet and stretched it across the doorframe. A deep breath. Then Tracer was barging through the doorway.

Widowmaker pulled the slack tight. It caught around her ankles and Tracer tumbled forward with a curse. Widowmaker pounced and let the barrel of her rifle kiss the glowing blue of Tracer’s harness, one metal boot pushing the air out of her body.

Tracer tensed to slip back into time. Widowmaker let her see her finger on the trigger.

“Not a move, chérie,” Widowmaker said coldly, “or I shoot.”

The healthy flush of exertion had faded from Tracer’s face, replaced by the pale pallor of fear. To have no choice but to wear one’s greatest weakness out and proud...Talon would have burrowed the device deep into her flesh if they’d had her, Widowmaker noted distantly. Melding cybernetics and reality warping machine with Tracer’s blood and bones, and gifted her with thick, bulletproof armor to keep it all intact. Tracer would have been Talon’s attack dog to Widowmaker’s executioner.

It was good, then, that Talon had never--and would never--get their hands on Tracer. For some strange reason, her grip tightened at the idea of Tracer broken beneath Talon’s hands.

No, she thought to herself. They will not have her. This is my prey.

“My team’s gonna get the payload,” Tracer said at last, voice quivering. “Your mission’s in jeopardy, love.”

“I could not care less,” Widowmaker drawled, watching Tracer’s eyebrows rise to her hairline. “I have more interesting things to do than watch over children.”

By increments, she shifted Widow’s Kiss away from the blue light in the center of Tracer’s chest. Instead it rested against her heart; Tracer’s cheeks regained their color, and now it deepened. Her eyes darted to the gun against her heart, then slowly trailed up. Widowmaker knew her eyes were on her body, and was mostly unaffected.

Mostly? Her own eyes flickered to watch Tracer pull her bottom lip between her teeth. Intéressant.

“Your aim was to keep me away from the battle.” It was not a question. “Your team knows this.”

“An’ they’ll find me,” Tracer replied with a breathless confidence.

“Will they?” Widowmaker breathed, and her head tilted as she moved the barrel up. It made a slow, languid journey up the pale column of Tracer’s neck, nuzzled her rapid pulse, stroked over the strong cut of her jaw. She ran her tongue over her teeth as she rested the edge against Tracer’s bottom lip. A kiss.

“Y-yeah.” Tracer’s voice cracked. “All I told’em was that I was goin’ to find you.”

Widowmaker narrowed her eyes. “How did you know I was going on this mission?”

“I didn’t. Just had a gut feelin’, is all.” Tracer didn’t shrivel under the calculating chill of her gaze. “Plus, lots of tall places for a sniper to hang about.”

Widowmaker felt the chuckle in her throat, a quiet and mocking thing. The barrel of the rifle moved back to the center of Tracer’s chest. “Clever girl.”

“Got my moments,” Tracer chirped. “But I got a question while you got me, love. What’re you even doin’ here? S’not your style.”

“You presume to know much about my style,” Widowmaker said, and she pressed her foot down a little harder. The heel dug in at just the right angle to make lesser creatures squirm, writhe; Tracer merely took the increase in pressure with a soft grunt, and stared her in the face.

“I know enough that you won’t kill me,” Tracer retorted boldly. “Too easy for you, love.”

Widowmaker was half tempted to pull the trigger anyway, just to prove her wrong. The impulse rode her hard and she blinked, moderately surprised with the strain of ignoring the urge. Tracer was right, anyway.

“So’s the way I see it,” the girl beneath her heel continued, having the gall to put her hands behind her head with faux nonchalance, “I just gotta keep you here with me till my team nabs the payload.”

Then I’ll leave went unsaid, but it rang in both of their minds. Widowmaker should have been incensed, insulted, infuriated. Lacking the capacity to feel any of those things, however, left her with only a mild sort of pride in being so quietly manipulated. She hadn’t guessed Tracer would have had it in her.

Brava, chérie. You are not usually this astute.”

“Like I said,” Tracer giggled, “got my moments.”

Widowmaker merely hummed, eyeing her up and down. “And you will not assist your team in securing the payload? Even when there is a second squadron of Talon’s cannon fodder lying in wait for them?”

Tracer’s eyes went wide. Widowmaker laughed again.

“With proper warning, though,” she added silkily, “I do not think they will struggle.”

Tracer didn’t move for a moment, and the battle warring within her was glaringly obvious. Good girl, Widowmaker thought. Do not trust me without reason. Of course, that in itself was all a part of the trap.

“Why would you go an’ help us like that?” Tracer’s voice was wary. Widowmaker simply blinked. “Unless it’s a lie.”

“I’ve no reason to lie. I told you before that the mission means little to me.”

“You don’t care about a lot of things,” Tracer argued.

Touché. Widowmaker pursed her lips in thought. “Then would you prefer a trade, chérie? I can let you go right now. You can run to your little friends. Make the difference. Or you can warn them now and stay here to keep me entertained. However, should you leave, I will have little choice than to take shots at my enemies.”

“That’s a crock,” Tracer hissed. “There’s always a choice!”

“Ah,” Widowmaker purred, “and you have one to make, don’t you?”

“An’ what’s stoppin’ me from makin’ to leave, then offin’ you?”

“Because,” Widowmaker said, very softly, “you would not shoot someone in the back, chérie.” She added, mockingly, “It’s not your style.”

“Bugger,” Tracer huffed. “Fine, fine. Lemme up.”

“Made your choice already, have you?”

“Don’t get all high an’ mighty on me right now, love,” Tracer grumbled. “Seriously, lemme up. You trade good info for a good time, yeah?”

Oui,” Widowmaker hummed. She rattled off the locations of Talon’s own little cavalry. “Two hours’ worth of entertainment. At the least.”

Two hours?!

“Talon really wants that payload,” Widowmaker sighed. “Not enough to ensure they hired more than street thugs and bodies, though.”

After a moment she removed her foot and took a generous step back. Tracer blinked to her feet, raising one gauntlet to her lips, fiddling with hidden switches and buttons. Widowmaker sauntered to a long abandoned chair, taking a seat. Crossing one leg over the other, rifle held over her lap, she watched Tracer pace around the room while grumbling. Finally she made contact, the gorilla’s roar half worry, half emotion. Disgusting.

“Tracer! Where are you?!”

“Uh, I’m--” Tracer looked to Widowmaker, and she held a finger over her lips. “--I’m on Widowmaker’s trail.”

“She really is here?! Put out your distress signal, Pharah will be with you shortly--”

“Nope, no, no need! Got it all under control, mate,” Tracer sputtered. “Seriously, big guy, I’m bein’ careful.”

Widowmaker snorted. Tracer shot her a heated glare and drew a hand over her throat.

“You don’t have a careful bone in your body, Oxton.” The sound of rapid gunfire came over the line, followed by another bellow.

“Right, okay, news!” Tracer shouted to be heard above the clamor. “Talon’s got backup, an’ it’s big! I’ll keep Widowmaker outta your skies, but the rest is gonna be up to you.” Tracer repeated the coordinates, adding, “Careful out there, Winston. Can’t lose you, love.”

“You be careful too. The minute, and I mean the minute you need help--”

“Got a distress beacon for a reason!” Tracer hurried. “Gotta go, mate! Can’t lose sight of her!”

She ended the call with a sigh, and then--to Widowmaker’s absolute surprise--disabled her gauntlets altogether. Tracer set her weapons on the conference table and stepped back. Widowmaker was not too proud to admit that she stared, uncomprehending. Then it clicked, and she felt a laugh bubble in her throat. It quietly shook her to realize that only Tracer could make her really laugh--whether in disdain, mockery, or disbelief.

“Ah, chérie, is that part of our deal? For us both to be without weapons?” Widowmaker stroked her rifle like a cat. She debated the idea of it, and recognized that Tracer was too full of honor to kill her unarmed. She set her rifle upon the table as well, reverent, and stood.

Tracer didn’t have to know about the knife tucked into a compartment in her leg, or the venomous capsules hidden behind false teeth. Widowmaker was never truly disarmed, and would never allow herself to be; all Tracer would get would be her rifle, and even that was like leaving behind a limb. She had such few things to truly call her own, and was viciously territorial of what little she did possess.

So why could she lay aside a weapon, even though she was in the same room as an enemy? The tattered remains of Amélie Lacroix, a ghost that lingered in her psyche, told her so very little and none of it related to Tracer anyway, so it couldn’t have been a past connection. Added to that, Tracer herself never gave any indication that she was looking for Amélie in Widowmaker’s skin.

“So,” Tracer said, breaking the silence between them. “Two hours, yeah?”

Widowmaker’s stomach roiled. Emotions were a foreign entity to her; physicality, however, was not. Hunger was a gargoyle perched on her shoulders, claws digging in deep; for food, for sensation, for blood. It drove her now, raking talons down her back. Widowmaker didn’t speak as she approached. Tracer reacted as if she was on the attack; she swallowed hard, and took a step back. Then another, and another, until her back was against the glass of the window and Widowmaker had her caged against it.

She didn’t flinch as Widowmaker raised a hand to her face. She did shut her eyes as her goggles were removed and tossed aside with a flick of the wrist. Widowmaker couldn’t make out the expression on her face, now so much more open without the ridiculous eyewear. She looked younger, softer, vibrant like a fresh painting. Her breathing went shallow, Widowmaker noted.

“What are you doin’, love?” It was a short breath, a whisper.

“Entertaining myself,” Widowmaker replied. She was ashamed as she actually hesitated before she allowed her fingertips to press against Tracer’s cheek. The warmth was scalding. Blood was pooled just beneath the skin, a ruddy blotch. Widowmaker’s ‘normal’ had always been the cold, the hollow cage of her chest, the blue pallor of poor circulation, but grazing the backs of her fingers along the fine bone structure of Tracer’s face made it seem...almost alien. In the abstract, she had always known that her physiology was not natural. She’d just never been close enough to see the contrast.

If she had thought Tracer would be still for this, she was mistaken. Tracer fidgeted in little ways, eyes fluttering. Her mouth opened and closed constantly, as if she wanted to speak but lost the words--or her nerve--before she could let them fly.

Widowmaker cupped her neck, her palm against the column of her throat. She didn’t squeeze, didn’t put any pressure. She wasn’t even sure why she’d done in the first place. Tracer shuddered underneath her touch, and let out a slow breath.

“Feels nice,” Tracer mumbled.

“I am not too cold?” She had meant the question to be said mockingly, but there was a strange inflection to her words that Widowmaker had never noticed before.

“Nah, nah. You’re fine.” Tracer’s bangs fell in her face and she huffed. Widowmaker found herself pushing the chestnut colored fringe away, almost startled at the silky feeling. Tracer’s hair was always a riot of cowlicks and flyaways, windswept--timeswept?--that she’d expected some kind of product.

Widowmaker paused. Raised her gauntlet to release it from her forearm, and set it on the ground before she tangled both hands in Tracer’s hair. Tracer made a startled noise that was soon swallowed by something like a moan, eyes closing in bliss. Why? Did it feel that good? Widowmaker had never had someone’s hands in her hair before. Perhaps Amélie had allowed her husband to touch her so intimately, but like many things about the woman, the very thought disgusted her. Such casual contact, such intimacy, had never made sense to her. Until...

Widowmaker stared hard, even as she dragged the tips of her fingers against the girl’s scalp, felt her thick hair running against her palms and through the spaces of her digits. Her hands went still, cupping the back of Tracer’s head. When Tracer peeled open her eyes, they were glassy.

“What--?”

Hunger roared chaos in her chest. Widowmaker gripped her skull and dragged her in. Tracer squeaked against her mouth, and Widowmaker went as still as death as she felt Tracer grip at her waist. Both of their eyes were open, the contact intense. The venom capsules in the back of her mouth reminded her that all it would take was a hard bite, and Tracer wouldn’t be able to rewind time fast enough.

It wasn’t until Tracer’s hands went slack, merely resting instead of clawing, that Widowmaker felt herself relax. The kiss went from painfully chaste to something less. Tracer’s eyes fluttered shut.

It couldn’t have been pleasant, really. Her lips were dry, and cold; Tracer’s were chapped and warm. It was like kissing the sun, nearly burning her to the bone. But still Tracer melted against her, lips moving against her own with a sure familiarity. A good kisser. Must have had a lot of practice.

Widowmaker pulled back a fraction. Actual anger nipped at her at the thought. No, not anger--not intense enough--but something. Something ugly, something with teeth.

Ah, she realized. Jealousy.

She wet her lips and kissed her again. It was even...better, somehow. She still didn’t close her eyes--she didn’t trust Tracer enough and was frankly a little insulted that Tracer didn’t share the same caution--but she recognized the beginnings of a dance. Amélie had been a dancer, hadn’t she? Was there some muscle memory involved?

The blistering swipe of a tongue against her bottom lip had her inhaling sharply, fingers clawing into the back of Tracer’s head. After a heartbeat--and several of Tracer’s own--she parted her lips and allowed the contact. Tracer tasted like faint mint and the artificial tang of an energy drink. Above all she was warm, scalding like rich coffee; Widowmaker felt a rush of victory when Tracer moaned into her mouth, stifling another tense reaction when she began to move them up and down her waist and sides. Eventually, though, it grew to be too much; her skin felt pinched and wrong, Tracer’s hands like sandpaper reaching through the layer of her suit.

“Stop,” she ordered. Widowmaker barely recognized her own voice; it was rough and an octave lower, her accent thicker. “Hands off of me.”

Tracer snatched her hands away like she had been burned. “Wha, ah, sorry, love!” She panted like an animal, lips shiny and swollen from kissing; Widowmaker felt the heat in her own and marveled at it. “Didn’t--think entertainment was snoggin’. Two hours of this, huh? Sign me up.”

Snogging. Widowmaker sneered at the term.

“S’at face mean we’re gonna stop?” Tracer actually pouted. “Damn, I--damn. Fair ‘nough.”

“I--” Widowmaker had never been at such a loss for words before. She struggled with what she wanted to say, and settled on, “I cannot feel your hands on me. Turn around, hands on the glass.”

Tracer hesitated, her brows drawing together. Ah, there was that caution. Good girl.

“What if I just…” Tracer shifted, putting both hands behind at the small of her back and pressed her weight against them, essentially trapping herself. “There we go! No touchin’ you, yeah?”

“No.” Widowmaker dragged her fingers against Tracer’s pulse, felt the fluttering life rushing beneath her skin. “Not...yet.”

Humor flashed across Tracer’s face; expectation, too. “Yet?”

“I will not repeat myself,” Widowmaker said. She laid both hands on Tracer’s face and kissed her again, licked her way in. Tracer groaned into her kiss and Widowmaker watched the muscles in her forearms go tense with the effort of self restraint. It was the first time she’d ever seen Tracer actually use any self-control and somehow the idea that she was exercising it for Widowmaker’s comfort was arresting.

Tracer was gasping against her mouth when she broke the kiss to breathe, a bead of sweat trailing down her cheek. “Hell, love,” she wheezed, “Bit more of those an’ I’ll be dead on the floor.”

“Mm, chérie, you say that like it would be a detriment.” At Tracer’s startled look, Widowmaker frowned. “What? It was a jest. I don’t want you dead from my tongue.”

“That makes one of us,” Tracer mumbled, then went red at Widowmaker’s sharply arched brow. “Fuck, I mean--kiss me again. Shut me up.”

“You want my kiss?” She rad the pad of her finger along Tracer’s flushed lip. “You want me to kill you, chérie?

The words crawled down her spine. Widowmaker was not versed in the art of torture, had never heard anyone crave her art. For Tracer, of all people, to ask--she felt too big for her skin, her nerves tingling with pain that nearly bordered on pleasure. She felt heavy, solid, anchored; it was like the rush of death, only magnified and enhanced, lingering.

Widowmaker’s mouth was dry, of all things.

“In like,” Tracer stammered, “a purely metaphorical sense? Save for the kissin’ part. Would bloody love that, honestly.”

“So greedy,” Widowmaker whispered.

She grabbed a fistful of silky hair and wrenched Tracer’s head back; the girl in her grasp let out a shocked cry, but didn’t release her own hands. Widowmaker rewarded her with a cold kiss against her fluttering pulse, dragging her teeth and tasting her heartbeat. Her eyes fluttered; Tracer tasted like sweat and skin and heat. She wanted to sink her teeth in deep until she drew blood, until Tracer flooded her mouth and choked her with fire. She would die from the inferno, Widowmaker realized, but Tracer would die with her.

God. She wanted to tear her open and crawl inside. She wanted the grave to consume them both. She wanted--wanted--

“--fuck you,” Widowmaker whispered against bruised skin.

“What’d--I--even do,” Tracer whined, writhing against her, against the glass.

Widowmaker pressed both hands against the window and pulled back. Tracer panted, her arms shaking from strain. A tremor pulsed through her body, weakening her legs; appalled at herself and desperately hungry for more of the feeling, Widowmaker let the joints of her prosthetic knees lock up for support. Her heart was still a tortoise compared to the hare bounding in Tracer’s chest, but her entire body hummed. The uncomfortable prickles in her limbs came in waves, now. Widowmaker felt actual sweat between her breasts, and just beneath her visor.

She was removing the headpiece without a second thought, dropping it next to her gauntlet. She was impatient.

“I want--” The words clogged in her throat and Widowmaker shook her head, grinding her teeth. “I want to fuck you.”

“Oh.” Tracer’s voice was a thin whip of a thing. “Wait, hold on, what? For, for real?”

Oui,” Widowmaker answered brusquely.

“I mean--right here? There’s a bloody window an’ everything!”

Oui.”

“Don’t you ‘wee’ me!” Tracer was flushed to her ears, the tempting red spilling down to her neck. It only highlighted the purple silhouettes of Widowmaker’s teeth that had been left behind, which made something in her purr with satisfaction. “You an exhibitionist, love? Didn’t think you were the type!”

Widowmaker grabbed her hips, pressing against the tops of her thighs with the heels of her hands. Tracer drew in a sharp breath, but she did not say stop. She shivered, and licked her lips, and her eyes--hazel and flecked in gold--were swallowed by the dark circle of her iris, but she did not say stop. She bit her lip and warred with herself, shifting on her feet--

But she did not say stop.

Widowmaker would wait it out if she had to. She could find her patience again. Leashing her hunger she stared forward, barely blinking. She wanted to see the moment of surrender, when Tracer consented. Had to see it. Craved it.

“Oh, fuck,” Tracer breathed at last, and swallowed. “Widow…”

Bliss. Her hands wrenched up, moving behind Tracer and taking her wrists, smoothing over Tracer’s shaking hands. She forced them apart, coaxed Tracer to bring her arms around, and released her hands.

“Undress,” Widowmaker ordered, voice clipped.

“You could be nicer about it, love,” Tracer snarked. Her humor vanished in a startled yelp when Widowmaker cupped her between her legs, and none too gently at that. “Fuckin’ hell--

“I can fuck you through your clothes,” Widowmaker hissed against her ear, “or I can fuck you under them. Either way, chérie.

“J-just, give me a moment, I--” Tracer shifted, fumbling at the straps over her thighs. “Gotta be careful, too loose and the accelerator will pop right on off.” Quick, practiced movements soon had most of the straps gone, the harness securely attached to her chest. Widowmaker supposed she could have helped, and did so by pressing close, digging her nails into Tracer’s lower back. It drew a curse from Tracer, a helpless arch of her back, and suddenly there was no distance left between them.

The last buckle came free. The hunger had turned into a bone deep ache that radiated through the whole of her being. Widowmaker grabbed at Tracer’s hair again, biting at her lip. Tracer whined, and Widowmaker hear the slap of flesh against glass; she caught Tracer pressing both of her hands behind her, still struggling not to touch her. Widowmaker solved it by dragging her hands back and to her chest.

She supposed it felt...nice. Tracer seemed to think so, her breath wooshing out of her mouth with a startled little fuck. People and their reaction to her breasts were always quite amusing to watch; to Widowmaker, it was just flesh. Most physical sensation was dulled--helped with the whole pain threshold--so the hesitant, careful kneading only prompted a roll of her eyes. The pins and prickles seemed to have moved on, which Widowmaker was thankful for.

An explosion shook the walls. Tracer froze, her flush turning her the color of a raw beet. She snatched her hands away with a whispered hiss, just as a barrage of explosions seemed to rock the foundation. Not in the building, Widowmaker deduced; she caught a glimpse of blue in the distance. That was callsign ‘Pharah’, wasn’t it--ah, and there was ‘Mercy’, hovering just above her, a beam of blue light feeding into the technology of Pharah’s suit. They lingered in the air before vanishing into the streets below, no doubt to begin a true siege against Talon.

“What was I thinking,“ Tracer hissed. “We can’t--anyone can just catch a look and--”

Widowmaker cupped between her legs again, and curled her fingers against neon lycra. Tracer sputtered a moan and bucked her hips. She did not stay stop, Widowmaker noticed. Her hands reached out and rested against Widowmaker’s shoulders, gripping tightly.

“I wonder what I will find beneath this,” Widowmaker whispered. “Will you be wet for me, chérie?

“I-I--this ain’t the least bit fair, you--”

Widowmaker slid her free hand up, relieved to feel that Tracer did not wear a suit, just high waisted leggings. Her fingers traced the hem, then just higher still, vanishing beneath Tracer’s jacket. She inhaled when she grazed bare skin.

“No shirt?” Her voice was rough. “Bold, aren’t we? If I could reach your chest around your little harness, would I find a brassière? Or did you go without that, as well?”

“Not like I’m achin’ for the support,” Tracer quipped back raggedly. “I’m streamlined, love, don’t really need one.”

Something inside of her clenched. Widowmaker made a thoughtful noise in the back of her throat and the clawing hand against Tracer’s crotch turned more exploratory, brushing against the seam of her thighs. Either Tracer liked stringy underwear, or she went without that as well; either way, Widowmaker couldn’t deny the shocking thrill that raced up her spine. She couldn’t remove the jacket, not with that stupid harness in the way, but she could have Tracer mostly naked in seconds.

She moved her hands to the hem of her leggings, and slid the tips beneath. “I take these off, and I will be upon you, chérie.

Tracer looked back. Widowmaker watched the muscles in her jaw flexed as she literally chewed on the idea, and couldn’t help herself from dipping her head to graze her teeth against the charming helix piercings in Tracer’s ear. Tracer shuddered against her, breath fogging the glass, before she gasped.

“You only live once, right?” Tracer arched her back. “Fuck. Fuck it.”

Widowmaker heard a growl leave her throat, felt it scrape its way past her teeth; she yanked down on the hem of Tracer’s leggings, nearly clawing it off. Tracer squirmed, the scrape and squeak of bare skin and metal on glass echoing inside of her skull. It was visceral, damning. She shouldn’t have been capable of this. Widowmaker stopped thinking around the time she got her hands on Tracer’s thighs again, now bare.

If her cheeks had been burning, then the bare, soft skin of her thighs were like the barrel of a gun after five minutes of constant fire. Widowmaker reveled in it, dug her nails in hard enough to leave marks. Tracer yelped, gripped at her shoulders, and pulled her into a sloppy kiss. Widowmaker let her in, and turned her fingers inward.

At first, it was just messy curls, coarse and textured. When Widowmaker probed further she found they grew damp. Tracer was a molten furnace, slick and dripping. She was soft and pliant, Tracer’s moan caught in the back of Widowmaker’s throat. She swallowed it down to keep it, hoard it like dragon gold. She alternated with spreading Tracer’s lips and cautious exploration. A hoarse sound ripped from her chest when she found Tracer’s clit; Widowmaker was startled that it had come from her to begin with.

“I suppose that answers my question,” Widowmaker grated.

“Oh, god,” Tracer whimpered. “Wi…Widowm-mak…

Chérie, how long have you been aching for me?” Widowmaker clicked her tongue. Another explosion from outside; Widowmaker looked down and saw the brawl spilling into the streets below. She paid it little mind, adjusting the joints of her prosthetics to support the both of them; Tracer’s leggings were trapped around her knees. “When I kissed you? When I had my hands in your hair?”

A choked groan. “Give yourself credit,” Tracer managed, her accent mangling the words in her pleasure. “Been way earlier than...fuck, c-circles, circles.”

Widowmaker made circles.

“Ah,” she breathed, one arm propped above Tracer’s head. “Perhaps when I had my gun to your lips?”

A short, startled groan and Tracer rocked her hips, her breathing deep and heavy. Danger was an aphrodisiac then. Something to keep in mind. Widowmaker laughed darkly, and the tip of a finger slid against the source of all that blistering heat. Tracer nodded, grabbing at her neck. Widowmaker inhaled and sank it in, shuddering when Tracer took her to the knuckle.

“What a good girl,” she purred against Tracer’s cheek. “You called me an exhibitionist before, didn’t you? Hm? What about you, sweet girl. Begging for more even when the fight is just outside?”

Tracer drew in a sharp, shaking breath. “Oh, fuck!”

Widowmaker rewarded her with a second finger, found it sinking in just as easily. Tracer squeezed her neck, clenched around her fingers.

“All it would take is someone looking up, chérie,” Widowmaker rasped. “Just one person. Maybe one of your fliers, soaring high to slaughter their opposition. What would they think of you, if they turned their heads and saw you letting me fuck you like this?”

“They’d--” Tracer groaned. “--Probably be really fuckin’ jealous! Know I’d be.”

“You have no shame,” Widowmaker said, edging on giddy. Tracer was no meek little flower; she had steel in her spine. It thrilled her. Widowmaker slid a third finger in on her next thrust, heard Tracer shout with delight, her nails scoring hot, blistering lines across the spider against her shoulder blades.. “Chérie, you’re soaking my glove.”

“I’d drench it if you didn’t forget my clit,” Tracer snapped. Widowmaker laughed at the audacity, but she stroked against Tracer with the pad of her thumb. Whining, whimpering; her wrist faintly ached from the angle but Widowmaker pushed the annoyance to the back of her mind, sucking more bruises against Tracer’s mangled neck.

All at once she was aware of the changes in herself; emotions simmered beneath thinning ice. Her heart pounded as best it could. Her cooled blood rampaged through her veins, leaving prickling tingles with each surge. Widowmaker panted, sweat sliding down her neck. She felt raw, animal. It was barbaric, humiliating; she hated it. She might have loved it.

“Four.” Widowmaker snarled. “Can you take four?”

Tracer nearly wailed. “Won’t know till--we--try, oh, fuck me yes--

It was snug, only allowing for shallow thrusts. Widowmaker rolled her thumb around her clit harder, faster; Tracer twisted and bucked in between the glass and herself, half giggling, half gasping. English fled from Widowmaker’s tongue as she stared at Tracer, at her bangs plastered to her flushed and freckled cheeks. She wore lust well, at least. At least she didn’t know French.

You are mine,” Widowmaker hissed between her teeth. “I’ll chase you down to the ends of the earth. I’ll kill you. I’ll ruin you. I won’t let anyone hurt you.

It was as close to love as she could get.

Tracer thrashed and Widowmaker felt her clench hard before she threw her head back, shouting. She bucked onto Widowmaker’s fingers once, twice, straining before she relaxed with a half sob. Widowmaker took care as she pulled her hand away, too breathless to be amused when Tracer sank to her knees, jelly limbed and radiating with afterglow. Tracer pressed her forehead against Widowmaker’s thigh; Widowmaker twitched at the touch, struggling to catch her breath.

“Was it as good for you as it was for me?” Tracer gave her a loopy grin. Widowmaker couldn’t speak. The heaviness, the hunger, was still crushing down on her. “Widowmaker? You alright, love?”

Tracer reached up a hand, and ghosted her fingers against the W on Widowmaker’s torso. Her stomach twitched and she sucked in a ragged breath. Tracer flashed blue, vibrating in place, and looked somewhat more put together; she hadn’t fixed her leggings but her eyes were clearer, brighter. More focused.

“Scratch my back an’ I scratch yours, yeah?”

“You will be disappointed,” Widowmaker panted as Tracer found the zipper, started to draw it down. “Talon’s precise, biological restructuring--left little in the way of, of--”

She looked down when Tracer swore. Only her knees locking with a solid click stopped her from collapsing. There was a sheen on her inner thighs, and now that there was a little more give in her suit, Widowmaker was aware of a heavy pulse thundering between her legs.

“Holy shit,” Tracer whispered. Widowmaker was inclined to agree. Then Tracer kissed her, and the sound that left her was embarrassingly soft, delicate. It was a sound that Amélie would make and it offended her beyond belief. Still her hips twitched forward; Tracer’s hands slid up the backs of her thighs, cupped her ass, pulled her to her mouth.

She moaned, a guttural sound. Gunfire was a distant noise in the back of her mind; she stared down at the chaos unfolding below. Overwatch’s agents had indeed secured the payload, and were...oh, dear. They were escorting it into the garage of the building. Or trying to; Talon was making a last ditch effort to subdue them, guns blazing. Someone--’Pharah’--went down and then returned back in a blinding flash of golden light.

Then Tracer’s mouth slid around her in a lewd kiss, and Widowmaker stopped caring. Let them see, she decided, and laughed blissfully at it.

Let them see her on her knees. Let them see that she’s mine. Let them see that I’m…

She raised wet, sticky fingers to her lips as an afterthought. She tasted arousal and intimacy, a rich, spicy wine that lingered. Tracer must have noticed because she let out a groan against Widowmaker’s flesh, and the vibrations made her back arch. It didn’t take long. This was also something Tracer had experience in, clearly. That, or Widowmaker supposed it was the lack of experience she herself possessed.

The orgasm was, in a way, life changing. Her body snapped tight as she tangled her fingers in Tracer’s hair, rolled her hips, let her head fall back. She did not yell, or scream; it was a short, strangled gasp of air, then a long and slow exhale as fire rampaged in her. It was like a kill. It was life.

Tracer leaned back on her haunches when it was through, licking her lips. Slick coated down her chin, which was thoroughly embarrassing. Tracer wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

“So,” she began, voice quiet, “what now?”

Widowmaker glanced out of the window. Nodded. She gathered up her visor and her gauntlet with shaking hands, replacing them. A syringe lay hidden by the wrist. Widowmaker extracted it, put the needle into the inside of her elbow, and released. At once, the overwhelming heat was replaced by cold--more for her body’s sake than her mind, as she’d already made her choice--and as an afterthought, she zipped up her suit. The wetness that lingered between her legs was distracting and made her crave a shower, but it wasn’t completely unbearable. The sweat took some getting used to, though.

“Love?” Tracer’s voice hitched with something like fear.

“Move away from the window,” Widowmaker ordered without emotion, retrieving her rifle from the table. “And compose yourself. All eyes will be on this window soon and I do not think you’ll be keen to show them so much of you.”

“O-oi,” Tracer stammered, yanking up her leggings and rushing with the straps. Another flash of blue and she was put together, as best as she could be. “What’s this all about? Hey? What are you--”

Widowmaker kicked out the glass of the window with a robotic leg, took aim, and fired. The first Talon agent dropped dead before he could clobber ‘Mercy’ with his gun. The second slumped over before he could fire a bullet in the monkey’s direction. Widowmaker chose her third shot to hit a grenade strapped to one unfortunate woman’s thigh, and the violent explosion claimed seven more in its blaze.

“You’re,” Tracer gaped. “You’re helping us?”

“It’s like you always say. The world could always use more heroes,” Widowmaker mocked. “Well, you will have to settle for me, chérie.“

“Just like--like that?” Tracer broke into a broad grin. “Was I that good of a lay?”

“No,” Widowmaker lied easily. “But you were entertaining, which is more than I can say for Talon.”

“...Y’know what, I’ll take it.” Tracer blinked to the table, and her gauntlets were back on her forearms. “Well, love? How do I look? Composed?”

Widowmaker looked her over. Her neck was covered in a mix of angry red and blotchy purple, bruised and stinging. The straps around her legs were crooked and clearly put on in a hurry. Her hair was tousled and clearly spoke of having someone’s hand in it twice over. She looked fresh out of a fuck.

“Perfect,” Widowmaker said tonelessly. “Tell your team not to shoot me full of--”

Tracer blinked forward, stole a quick kiss, and was out the door before the last word.

“Lead.” Widowmaker blinked slowly, felt her lips curl, and turned her attention back to the fight. There would be weeks spent in custody, perhaps interrogation if Overwatch was feeling particularly angry.

She could hardly wait.