Archive of Our Own ^beta

“So. Widowmaker, huh,” Hana said as she tapped away at a handheld. “Is she like, blue all over?”

Lena choked on her pint and stared at the girl sitting across the table with queasy horror. “Jesus, Hana, you’re like twelve.”

“First of all, fuck you,” Hana said, not looking away from her screen, “and second of all, if she’s blue all over, doesn’t that mean she has a blue waf--”

“Oi! Shut your gob, you little fart!” Lena lobbed a potato wedge at Hana’s head. It tangled in the girl’s hair and Lena nearly hurled when she simply plucked the greasy bit of food out and ate it. The manners on this one, she thought. “What me an’ Amélie get up to is our business, not yours.”

“Boring,” Hana scoffed in disgust, stabbing at the buttons with her thumbs. “I’m gonna take the avoidance as a yes, by the way.”

“You keep her bits outta your mind,” Lena sputtered. “What even--why are we even talkin’ about this?”

“Cause this is what happens when you start dating the reformed enemy,” Hana said with malicious glee, clearing her level. She saved the game, shut the little machine down, and took a deep sip of fizzy soda. “If she’s even reformed?”

“She...has her moments,” Lena allowed, rubbing the back of her neck. She scarfed down the rest of her meal, balling up the remains of a burger and blinking to the trashcan and back. Lena felt her leg start to bounce up and down with the usual anxiety that came with thinking about her former enemy. “But she’s doin’ a lot better! Since we let her start keepin’ her creepy crawlies, she’s actually kind of like, social. Sort of.”

That at least was true. Amélie had even cracked something resembling a smile when Lena had revealed the huge tank housing a juvenile tarantula, a big bloke with dark black fur and fangs as long as Lena’s finger from the second knuckle. She’d near pissed herself trying to wrangle the thing into the cage and cried a bit on Angela when Fareeha ended up doing it anyway, but seeing Amélie’s not-quite smile and the results was all the reward Lena needed. She’d take Amélie slowly chatting with Zenyatta in the gardens over all the money in the world.

Getting a tender little kiss on the cheek and a shy, “Merci…” had just about made her day.

“She really is,” Hana conceded, peeling open a bag of her favorite shrimp crisps and going to town. “So what’s she like in the sack?”

“Oh my god,” Lena said, immediately regretting everything in her life that led to this moment. “I’m not discussin’ this with you. Or anyone. But especially not you!”

“Why? Is she super awful?” Hana crunched through another handful. “Or are you?”

“Not! Havin’ this discussion!” Lena clamped both hands over her ears and leaned back in her chair, blowing a hard raspberry to drown Hana’s voice out even further.

Truth be told, there really wasn’t...much going on for both of them in that department, though not out of lack of trying. In the four months since Amélie had come back with her to Gibraltar and getting herself free of Talon’s grip, they’d tried to go at it. A lot. Lena had been quite hesitant, not sure if even the rules of consent still followed, but Amélie had been pretty adamant.

Up until they actually tried to get anywhere. Lena had been told by all three of her former girlfriends that she was pretty good at head but even after twenty minutes she’d had to surrender with a sore jaw and Amélie wincing with apology.

It wasn’t even a lack of arousal, really. Lena had felt her hot and wet against the palm of her hand or her thigh often enough. The next thing she’d thought of was the possibility of Amélie being asexual--sex drive and sexual attraction didn’t go hand in hand--but Amélie had quite bluntly stated that she’d wanted her mouth on Lena’s longer than she’d wanted to kill her, which was a compliment. And then she’d proved just how much she’d meant that.

Thing was, and this was the kicker, it was like Amélie just couldn’t...well, come. She could get wet and she certainly liked foolin’ around, but she never reached an orgasm. Lena had called a ceasefire on most handsy activities, citing that maybe the new medication Angela had put Amélie on was responsible for it. They couldn’t do much for the actual mental programming Amélie still struggled with, but the biological stuff they could start on. It was a careful pace to keep from exploding Amélie’s heart or worse, but her temperature was starting to rise and on warm days she even looked a little less blue!

“You done being a huge wimp?” Hana said dryly as Lena uncovered her ears. “Dude, I’ve been on the internet since I was seven. I’ve probably seen kinkier shit than you ever will, but I’ll stop poking you. Just wanted to like...bond, or whatever, cause you’re garbage at video games and I’m bored of whupping you in Smash.” Lena felt her kick at her shin lightly. “Anyway, what I was trying to get across was that uh. Glad she makes you happy, Lena. And is also not trying to kill you constantly anymore.”

“Aw,” Lena said, touched. “Thanks, love. I, uh, appreciate your support. Just...when you try an’ bond, let’s not bring up my girl’s nethers into it, yeah?”

“Gotcha.” Hana held out her fist, and grinned when Lena bumped her knuckles against it. “Rank up,” she muttered. Lena didn’t quite get what the reference was to that, but she laughed anyway.

Agent Tracer Athena intoned over the base’s intercom, Please report to the upper floor for mission briefing.

“Ah, bollocks!” Lena bolted from her seat. “I forgot all about the--shit. Sorry, Hana! Let’s hang when I come back, yeah?”

--

In order to keep things professional and safe on the battlefield, the lines between Lena and Tracer had to be drawn very clearly. Like the lines between Fareeha and Pharah, or Angela and Mercy, or even Amélie and Widowmaker. Fareeha was the woman who constantly fell for the updog joke, Pharah was the human rocket launcher. Angela was the woman who made coffee for the entire group, and Mercy was the stoic medic who never flinched even in the face of bloodshed and gore.

Amélie was the quiet, somewhat spider-obsessed woman who never dressed in anything but long trousers and black turtlenecks. Widowmaker was the panting, glorious creature streaked in soot and ash, half naked, straddling her lap, and riding three of her fingers with shameless abandon.

Okay. So, lines not as clear as they should have been. But how was Tracer supposed to deny her woman anything she wanted, especially after a close call from a grenade forcing them together in a little corner?

Especially with Widowmaker gasping against her neck before licking the skin, turning each press of their mouths into hard, desperate kisses. Tracer’s harness had been the only thing keeping Widowmaker from ripping open her jacket to get at her breasts, which was a real goddamn shame because Tracer was going to bust a fucking vein if she didn’t get some air circulation around her accelerator’s core.

“Fuck,” Widowmaker hissed, her hips rolling. They hadn’t even managed to unzip her fucking suit; Tracer’s hand was squeezed into all that tight lycra and spandex, the shape of her knuckles lewdly highlighted by purple and then vanishing deep inside of the other woman. “We’ve never...you’ve never given me three before…”

“D-does it hurt,” Tracer asked, like a moron.

“Non, ma chérie,” Widowmaker moaned, eyes half lidded and burning hot. “It feels so fucking good.” A pulse ran through her, and Tracer felt her tighten just a smidge around her fingers. “It’s been weeks since you’ve been inside of me, I--ah! Fuck, fuck, fuck…”

Tracer decided that there was nothing more hot than Widowmaker dissolving into obscenity. So what if they were scoring a quickie on a mission while the rest of the team was no doubt fighting the good fight down below? If they needed help, they would have called.

“I’m--” There was a wild, startled look in Widowmaker’s eyes. “Lena, I’m close.”

Oh my god, was Tracer’s first thought. The thought of bringing Widowmaker’s first orgasm in the middle of a warzone, in a shattered little sniper’s nest where anyone could walk in and watch was not as off putting as it could have been. Really, Tracer reasoned, this was sort of fitting. Their first kiss had been kind of like this, only more dramatic confessions in the rain and less fucking like their lives depended on it. So. Not like it at all.

Tracer put her thumb against Widowmaker’s swollen clit, rolling the pad of it against her flesh. Widowmaker made an obscenely hot sound in the back of her throat, French whipping from between her grit teeth. It wasn’t just her ego that craved Widowmaker’s orgasm; she wanted to see Widowmaker absolutely fucking lose it.

But despite Widowmaker’s sharp breathing, her snapping hips, and Tracer’s frantic circles she was starting to see the signs. The confused desperation set in Widowmaker’s jaw, lips curling in a grimace.

“No, no, no, fuck,” Widowmaker panted, “get back here you son of a--”

Her scolding of her runaway orgasm was interrupted by a loud bang as a mercenary stumbled into the room, bringing up his gun. There was a moment’s pause where the three of them just sort of froze up and registered the absurd situation. Tracer realized that she was going to die knuckle deep in her girlfriend and man, wouldn’t her dad be proud? Not her mum, though. Mum would kill her.

Widowmaker reacted first, her torso twisting like she had a cat’s spine. One of Tracer’s pulse pistols had been snagged from the ground and with a quick sounding pop the mercenary was dead on the ground.

“Oh,” Widowmaker gasped. Then, her back arched hard, and her eyes squeezed shut. “Oh, oh--”

Tracer felt her contract around her fingers in long, milking pulls. She dropped the pistol and slapped both palms against the wall behind Tracer, fucked herself on her hand, shouting her name with reckless abandon. Tracer had never heard Widowmaker raise her voice once and the sound of it shot straight to her cunt. She employed every fucking fucking tactic she could think of to keep Widowmaker’s orgasm going, panting along with her.

“That’s right, love, you just come,” she gasped, ragged. “Take me in deeper...you’re alright. I’ve got you. Just fuck it out, god, you’re so fucking beautiful. So fuckin’ gorgeous…”

Tracer slid her fingers free when the last of the aftershocks had faded and Widowmaker was slumped in her lap, utterly exhausted. Her skin was shiny with sweat and eyes glassy in the aftermath, and if the added sheen was because of tears, then Tracer wasn’t one to judge. She was a proper girl about it too, and sucked her fingers clean before pulling Widowmaker in close, pressing trembling kisses against her face, the bits of her temples she could reach around the visor. Widowmaker purred under her touch, leaning her head up to give her a kiss, syrupy French rolling out of her mouth.

“Okay,” she said, voice muffled, “don’t mean to be a bit of a downer on the romance, but I’m gonna whack it now before I combust. That alright, love?”

One orgasm later Tracer was back to enjoying the satisfying afterglow and also massaging the slight ache in her wrist. Widowmaker combed her fingers through Tracer’s hair, couldn’t seem to get enough of just touching her. It took a bit before she realized what had exactly come to pass. Catching sight of the dead body not ten feet away helped that too.

Pieces clicked.

“Well,” Tracer said after a moment, “love, I think we found our problem.”

--

Four months later and Lena thought they were making great strides and breakthroughs. Amélie was regaining more and more of her memory by the week. Although she would never be who she once was, that was alright. Lena had never known Amélie Lacroix on a personal basis. She had fallen in love, stupidly, with a woman whose skin was blue and whose morals were skewed firmly in the realm of Really Fucked Up. She’d fallen in love with Widowmaker, and then fell further in love with the Amélie that came out of her shell when all was said and done.

Whomever it was that Amélie chose to be, well, that was her choice. Lena had never expected anything more from her.

Still, the programming was holding steady. Taking Amélie on a mission without supervision wasn’t the best. The little things could send her back into that dark, cold place where Widowmaker wasn’t just a callsign, but a way of life; the woman who had snapped Gérard Lacroix’s neck walked in Amélie’s shadow. Lena was more than happy to supervise Amélie on said missions, even though more often than not it ended with them in a sloppy tangle of sex, sweat, and orgasm via execution.

Lena wondered how heroic that made her, that she wasn’t as bothered as she should be. She wasn’t going to blame Amélie for her brain, wrapped around death as it was, to hardwire orgasm to murder. They were even working on that, too! Lena could wring out about four orgasms in a sitting if she did everything right; she had to start with her mouth, then her fingers, then fingers and her mouth, all in the span of Amélie putting her bullets in the bodies of mercenaries.

(The trick to lasting so long? Lot of recalls and abuse of time travel.)

Sometimes, if Lena hadn’t lost it during, Amélie would return the favor and get off a last high when Lena literally shouted You are killing me. It was always weird but they had a good laugh about it. Up until the one time Zarya had broken down the door of the sniper nest of the evening and Mei had been there and Bastion had been a tank and no one had laughed.

Another thing had come out from their too-strange-to-be-bad sex life. Amélie liked it fairly rough, and from what Google and some context clues had given her, had a filthy streak in French a mile wide. Went wild when Lena tried her hand at it. Google said that French in a foreign accent was sexy as all hell, not that Lena could see it. She’d been frightened that Amélie would get so affronted by her accent that she’d never sleep with Lena again.

The first time Lena had stumbled her way through ‘Voulez-vous coucher avec moi’ Amélie had stared at her for a full thirty (terrifying) seconds before tackling her to the bed and going down on her for a solid hour. A solid fucking hour. When people asked why Amélie had trouble talking the next day she’d just smiled.

All that said and done, there were some things Amélie had to do on her own. Killing Talon’s higherups in revenge was something everyone agreed was a mission that Amélie alone had to be in charge of. If she wanted backup, she’d have guns and bodies ready to tear the organization apart. If she wanted to skin the beast all on her lonesome, well, she’d have that too. The one thing she had to do was present her plan to the rest of the crew so that, should the worst happen, they’d be able to get in, grab Amélie, and get out.

Amélie had already taken down two, and somehow talked Reaper into the fold. Well, talked him into meeting her and then 76 had, in his own words, ‘beat the fucking sense into him’. Hana said it was the healing power of “gross dad makeouts.” Lena didn’t believe her.

Tonight was a strange mix of the two. The mission briefing room was tense when Lena and Amélie entered. Lena took a seat when Amélie went to the board, breathing deep. Her hands trembled just a touch before she started her outline. Set up a decoy building; make the shot from a different building. The target?

Amélie’s eyes went cold. “The head scientist,” she said, her voice crisp and cruel. “The man who made the Widowmaker.”

Everyone started shifting, leather and metal creaking. Zarya cracked her knuckles. Hanzo’s rolled the shaft of an arrow between his fingers. Jesse chewed on an unlit cigar and his palm rested on the grip of his Peacekeeper. One of Zenyatta’s orbs went a deep purple, oozing purple smoke. Even Angela looked ready for murder as she gripped a pen in her hand like a knife. Lena was proud of the show of solidarity, though she noticed Satya making a very concentrated effort to look at anyone else other than Amélie or Lena herself.

Reaper made a rattling noise in his chest, a dark chuckle. “I only wish you could make it slow,” he grated. “You deserve to enjoy every minute of his death.”

“As do I,” Amélie said. Only Lena could read the slight flush that creeped up her neck, which made her head tilt quizzically. “Usually I would request to take this mission alone. However, I…” Her eyes drifted over to Lena, lingering. “I require Tracer’s help, should flanking become a necessity.”

Lena felt honored beyond measure. Her chin lifted and she gave Amélie a single nod. “I’m all yours, love. You just let me know where to herd’em.”

Reaper choked. Seemed to be smothering his laughter. Satya practically curled into the arm of the couch and looked queasy. Lena wasn’t sure what that was all about, but Amélie was continuing with the planning anyway. A short flight out to Greece, where the scientist was stationed; three days and two night secured via hotel. Two days to get settled; two nights to get the job done. The third day was for the return trip home.

“I’ve already packed your suitcase, Tracer,” Amélie said. “Was all of the information satisfactory?”

--

The next day, after a quick three hour flight and checking into the hotel, Lena and Amélie went their separate ways to do recon. Greece was bustling and bounding with tourism. Lena kept her head down and her chest covered, and with a hat and some sunglasses no one looked twice at her.

She found the building--an innocent looking tall piece of shit that housed the worst human being in existence--and Amélie texted her to inform her of a chosen decoy. By the time she got back to the hotel she saw that Amélie had already returned and laid out nightwear for her, beckoning her into the bathroom for a soak and some good old fashioned snogging.

They slept through the night and started to prep for the mission proper in the morning. Well, more like Amélie prepped the decoy building and Lena sat in the hotel room kicking her feet and worrying. That was until she got a text from Amélie that was quite blunt.

>Open your suitcase. Wear the first thing you see.

Lena blinked, finding the message oddly cryptic, but she hauled up the suitcase and flicked it open. Her brain shut down as heat rushed to her head. She snapped the suitcase shut, cast a horrified look around the room as if someone had caught her peeping into something she wasn’t supposed to.

She cautiously opened the lid again. The dildo was still there. To Lena’s mounting horror, she recognized the sleek design and the color, along with the muted glow. Something as perfectly streamlined as...as that could only have been the work of someone used to working with hardlight.

Ha. Hardlight. Lena covered her face and shook. No wonder Satya hadn’t been able to look at either of them during the briefing.

>u got satya to make u a DILDO?????????

>It’s for you, chérie. After all, Reaper did tell me to enjoy myself.

--

It had multiple settings, Tracer noted. One ring around the base controlled the size of the piece inserted inside of her; Tracer had turned that all the way up, because she was a size queen at heart and if she was going to be embracing the absolute ludicrousy of the situation then, god as her witness, she was going to go all out. The second ring controlled the length of the business end, and the third managed the girth. These Tracer left alone for Amélie to deal with.

The black plate with the glowing blue center was level with her clit gave Tracer pause before she went slinging the thing on. Like anything to do with hardlight tech, there was no real electricity that went into the thing; it ran on its own long lasting, internal power source. Concluding that it couldn’t be a weapon, Tracer grabbed the bottle of lube Amélie had stashed beneath a pile of her knickers, she prepped everything up, took a breath, and got the sucker in.

The stretch was heavenly, fitting into her like a dream. She was never going to be able to look Satya in the face again, or else she’d do something stupid like thank her for it. Tracer stopped thinking when the little blue button made contact with her clitorous, a jolt of nothing but pure sensation racking through her body. She doubled over, wheezing, one hand fisted against the white shell. She could clearly feel her own hand around it, transmitted to her brain with a hi-how-are-ya sucker punch of pleasure.

So that was the trick, was it? Tracer had come close to owning a few Vishkar brand prosthetics herself, and Satya had told her that she would build the synthetic nerves around Tracer’s own, leaving her with total control over the limb. Well, Tracer thought, staring at the black and white device jutting from her hips, sign her the fuck up for a new arm or leg from Satya if her own ever got blown to bits. This was just proof that the woman was a goddamn miracle worker.

Tracer thought about texting Satya something stupid and decided to follow through with it.

>dude u should make sex toys as a career ur really good at it??

THE NUMBER YOU HAVE ATTEMPTED TO CONTACT IS BLOCKED.

>bollocks

THE NUMBER--

Right-o, then. Was Tracer so predictable? She just wanted to praise a buddy. With a put upon sigh she tossed her communicator to the bed and thought about starting the length process of getting dressed. Amélie had told her to wear the first thing she saw, which meant the dildo, and Tracer was damn well going to wear it. The only flanking she was going to be doing tonight was, uh, the sexy kind. Was there such a thing? Tracer stopped just as she pulled on a sports bra over the chronal core nestled between her breasts before shaking away the distraction. A thin, soft tanktop was next, though Tracer let her jacket remain on the bed.

She stopped a moment to just breathe, staring down at her chest. It was like something out of one of Reinhardt’s old comics, and maybe Winston had nabbed the inspiration. Tracer didn’t recall much of the operation Angela had put her through to get the important bits in; she’d been half dead and half alive, ripping apart at a molecular level as the Slipstream tried to drag her back out into the span of time and Overwatch pulled at her from the opposite end. The tug of war had left her bitter and scarred in her own ways, ways she liked to deal with in private.

Maybe once Amélie was back to rights, Tracer could work on herself a little bit more. God knew Angela had been hounding after her for therapy for years now.

The blue light of the time matrix was soft and pulsed in rhythm to what her heart had once done, and the energy it pumped through her could be mistaken as a pulse. She could only manage to blink and recall at will once she had the heavy metal of the harness. Without its crushing weight on her shoulders, Tracer could almost feel human again.

No wonder she’d grabbed at Widowmaker. They were two of a kind, sort of.

“The fuck are you doin’, mate,” Tracer whispered to herself, slapping her own cheeks. “No time to navel gaze, slag. Get some fuckin’ pants on, at least.”

Easier said than done. Not for the first time, Tracer cursed her whole ‘skintight leggings’ fashion choice as she pulled the orange material up. It caught and constricted the toy like a vacuum seal package-- Heh, package, I’m fucking hilarious,--which distracted her with sensation and the visual both.

Still, Tracer had ignored worse. She still kept her harness and the leather straps aside, though.

Tracer paced in the hotel room as she waited for Amélie to come back, just trying to get used to how it felt inside of her and connected to her. Tracer didn’t touch it much, because she’d immediately get carried away and tonight was special, but she did keep a pillow over her lap. It was a flustering shock to look down and see it pointing toward her hip and all the more temptation for it.

The sun set. The window opened and Widowmaker crawled through, followed by a sultry, humid breeze that smelled like the ocean. Silhouetted by nothing but moonlight, eyes burning bright gold, she was the stuff of nightmares. Tracer loved every spider-y, coach-er-maur inch of her.

Widowmaker’s eyes dropped to the pillow in her lap. Tracer shifted a little.

“Move it,” Widowmaker ordered softly. The smile she gave Tracer when she tossed the pillow aside was sin incarnate, carnal and starving. “Good girl,” she purred, sauntering closer. Then she paused, brow furrowing. “You’re alright with it?”

Tracer gave a short laugh, warmed. “Love, I know what the word ‘no’ means. I woulda said it if I weren’t. I’ll admit though, gave me quite a shock. How’d you even get Satya to agree?”

“I had, how does that saying go? ‘Some dirt’ on her, as it were.” Widowmaker chuckled. “Though I do not think Satya and I are on speaking terms at the moment.”

“She blocked my number when I tried to let her know that it was pretty bangin’,” Tracer added. “Think we should give her space.”

“Perhaps.” Her eyes raked Tracer head to toe, lingering between her legs. “May I see? I want to make adjustments.”

That made her shudder head to toe. Widowmaker’s eyes latched onto her body with unusual focus, her breathing hitching just a second before mellowing into that still, composed stillness. Made Tracer all the more eager. There was no shame in the bedroom between them. No real room for it, in between all of the hunger and the feelings that they didn’t speak of just yet.

“Lena.” Widowmaker’s voice was soft, questioning.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good,” Tracer said, thumbs dipping into the hem of her leggings. “Just...s’been a weird kind of day. Not bad weird, just not somethin’ I’d thought about before.” She paused just before she slid them down further than her hips. “Well, not quite that…”

“Oh?” Widowmaker sounded faintly distracted. “How so?”

“Guess I never thought about packin’ before. It...it feels kinda? Kinda good. S’at weird?”

Widowmaker looked up, and her eyes were clear. “Non,” she said simply. “There is nothing weird about that at all.”

“Oh, great!” Tracer grinned broadly, unable to hide the relief and elation. On top of the suspected PTSD and the dark bundle in the back of her head labeled Dissociation she hadn’t wanted to think about exploring her idea of gender or her sexuality until all the rest of her mess was in order. Acting out on things first was more her style anyway; that Widowmaker and Amélie were both beside her in that, offering nothing but acceptance, gave her confidence. “Then lemme just shimmy the ol’ willie out.”

Widowmaker did not look impressed.

“Eh? Eh?” Tracer drew out the second word, swaying her hips. “What’s the matter, love? Weren’t you all up and at’em to see it? My todger?”

Widowmaker’s eyes closed and her expression became pinched in that familiar expression that was half exasperated, half disgust. Tracer could see her lips twitching at the corners, though.

“My knob? Block and tackle?”

“Stop,” Widowmaker said. “I do not know what you are saying. Say it in French or in actual English.”

“Le pénis,” Tracer whispered, bouncing her eyebrows.

Widowmaker covered her face. Heaved a sigh. One could mistake it for giving up, but Tracer saw her shoulders quaking and she followed suit, slapping her knees. Widowmaker’s laughter was silent, so Tracer had to laugh loud and proud for two. She was wiping a tear away by the time Widowmaker looked up, shaking her head with a heavy sigh.

“I was planning on making you cum before we started our mission,” she said, too airily, “but if you would prefer to hold out, that is your decision.”

Tracer’s giggle caught in her throat with a strangled noise. “You never said orgasms were on the table.”

“Chérie.”

“Gimmie a minute!” Tracer shoved her leggings to her knees. “Ain’t so easy to wiggle outta these, y’know!”

Tracer straightened up and let out an ‘oof’ as Widowmaker pushed her to the bed. It felt strangely vulnerable to be so out on display, legs trapped in her suit, while Widowmaker loomed above her in her gear all composed and steady. It was a little bit surreal, something that could only happen in a dream.

Widowmaker’s eyes trailed down her body. Hungry gold was swallowed by black as she found her target between Tracer’s legs, a low hum rolling from her throat. It was followed by the cool, gloved tips of her fingers trailing down to the base, finding the settings. Her brows rose when she saw the third ring, blinking in question.

“I, uh. Big,” was all Tracer could get her mouth to say, suddenly shy. Widowmaker’s smile was vicious.

“Something to keep in mind when it is your turn,” she murmured. She went back up to the higher setting rings, started to spin them to her specifications. The shaft twisted to an inch longer, and half an inch wider, blue light settling over it like a shield. Nothing too drastic, Tracer noted, but her thighs twitched from phantom sensation, her breath scraping its way out of her throat.

“Now,” Widowmaker purred, coaxing Tracer to shuffle a little further up on the bed, “how would you like this, chérie? There is one more function I need to test.”

“U-uh,” Tracer stammered as Widowmaker swung her legs to straddle her knees. Her brain blanked when she saw her lick glossy, purple colored lips, and she felt overheated in her white tank and bra. “I guess just...t-touchin’ to start with?”

“Very well.” Widowmaker leaned forward, gave her a kiss that was surprisingly gentle. “You look good enough to eat,” she whispered against her mouth. “I have thought of little else but you all day.”

“Sure know how to make a girl feel special,” Tracer said, heat creeping over her cheeks and ears. It only deepened when Widowmaker cautiously wrapped one hand around the toy. Tracer felt the touch crawl up her spine, firing off in her brain. She sagged against the sheets with a shaky sigh, wiggling just enough to pull her bra and shirt off just behind her head. Widowmaker stared at her the whole time, barely blinking.

Eight months ago, it would have frightened her to be under such scrutiny. Now it just made Tracer grin, eyes falling half shut. “What’cha lookin’ at?”

“Une beauté,” Widowmaker said. Tracer knew just enough French to buck her hips, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth. Well, the fact that Widowmaker’s hand was starting to stroke up and down, squeezing and twisting at the head helped. “How is it that even now, I cannot get rid of you? My little annoyance. Even when we are on the same team, you leave me…,” Widowmaker breathed out the last word, “compromised.”

“Natural talent,” Tracer choked out. “Or you’re really attached to me.”

“Ah,” Widowmaker said, bracing her weight on one arm. “Perhaps that has something to do with it. Does it feel good?”

“Y-yeah,” Tracer rasped. Slow and steady weren’t the usual fare for them. “It...feels really good. Y-you can go faster, if y’want.” She met Widowmaker’s eyes, husking, “Plus vite.”

Widowmaker hissed between her teeth, and her hand stroked faster per the request. The smooth leather of her glove and the silky softness of her skin blended together. Tracer arched her back, gasping. Her eyes watched Widowmaker work her over, watched the sinuous flex of muscle in Widowmaker’s powerful forearm, her tattoo rippling over cyanotic skin. The pleasure nearly doubled and Tracer wished she’d at least grabbed her harness so she could recall, last a few minutes more.

Unable to handle it, she looked up, panting like an animal. Widowmaker’s face was neutral and her breathing steady. Even if her pulse weren’t hidden in the dramatic cast of shadow in the angles of her body Tracer knew that it would be similarly slow. Tracer felt like a hot mess and seeing Widowmaker staring at her, composed in the face of lust, almost made her lose it right there.

Widowmaker noticed. Smirked. “Come,” she whispered.

It was like flipping a switch. Tracer bucked once as fire flooded through her body, her cunt clamping on the insert as waves of pleasure wrecked her from the inside out. Widowmaker’s hand squeezed, her thumb rolling against the head, cooing endearments and encouragements. Maybe it was her imagination, but Tracer thought she felt something wet arcing up her body as she twisted on the bed, writhing underneath the assassin.

It felt like hours, but really it was a minute at the most. Tracer sagged as she washed up on the shore of her orgasm, her head spinning and her eyes blurry. Her throat felt sore; had she been screaming? Probably.

“Holy fuck,” she wheezed. “Amélie, my god…”

“Oh, good,” Widowmaker said. “So it does work as intended.”

Tracer lifted her head, peeled open her eyes, just in time to see Widowmaker raise her hand to her face. The crook between thumb and forefinger had a white line of fluid splashed against it. Tracer stared at it, uncomprehending, up until Widowmaker licked it away and hummed with satisfaction.

“What the--” She propped herself on her elbows, then sputtered. “No. You--you put jizz in it?!”

“It’s fake,” Widowmaker said, as if that helped (which, granted, it did). “Pineapple flavored.”

“Aww, my favor--no! No, I’m in a right snit! You didn’t tell me the thing was loaded! Oh my god, no, I can’t ever be in the same room as Satya ever again. This is gonna haunt me.” Tracer covered her face, then looked down at herself again. Pale ribbons of white not-cum were splashed up to her breasts, one streaked across the chronal core between. “You got it on my goddamn anchor.”

“Technically that was you, my dear.”

“Oh, sod off!” Tracer huffed. “And get off me so I can clean--”

Widowmaker bent her head, chuckling in the back of her throat, and licked a line off of her breast. The hot touch of her tongue left Tracer seeing stars, body shivering.

“I can clean up my own messes, sweet,” Widowmaker teased, lips brushing her skin. “Hold still.”

“Yeah, okay,” Tracer said breathlessly. She jerked when Widowmaker licked over the anchor, and then the underside of the other breast. She trailed kisses and licks down her body, over her ribs; Tracer’s abs went taunt when Widowmaker ran her fingertips on the underside of the toy as she nibbled blew air over her navel. An aftershock jolted through her, and Tracer watched as a drop of white squeezed from the head of the dildo following the contraction.

They locked eyes. Widowmaker dragged her fingertip across the head to snag that little drop, licked so it sat on the tip of her tongue, and leaned over her to give her a slow, drugging kiss. There was something filthy about it, Tracer thought as pineapple bloomed acidic sweetness over her tongue, but she couldn’t be assed to care about it other than linking the experience to the words super fucking hot.

“This is going to feel strange.” Tracer yelped when she saw Widowmaker open up a compartment in the toy, withdrawing a small, empty vial. “Which flavor should I try next?”

“You--” Tracer swallowed. “--Uh, your favorite, I guess.”

“Non, it will go to waste when you spend inside of me,” Widowmaker said quite nonchalantly. “Perhaps cherry? Cherry. Nobody likes cherry.”

Tracer simply lay there like an idiot while Widowmaker went to her suitcase, grabbed a little black case and opened it. Seven more vials lay within plush red velvet, filled with white. Widowmaker took two out, and after checking the cap she popped it into the toy and the lid of the small compartment slid closed. Tracer thought she should be more affected, or something. She was damp and sticky and still embarrassingly horny. All she could hear was Widowmaker saying inside of me and that pretty much ruined anything resembling higher brain function for the rest of the night.

“W-what’s the second one for?,” she asked.

Widowmaker looked at her, and smiled.

--

Top floor of an office building; seemed pretty risque, even for them. Tracer had been on edge until Widowmaker had assured her that the security cameras were off and they were in a technologically silenced zone. Tracer still flipped her pistols into her hands, blinking around the room and checking out windows, scouting the meager perimeter. She had faith that Widowmaker would have accounted for every possibility in a mission that heralded the death of a man who had destroyed her life.

Still. She wasn’t going to take any kind of chance with her girl while she was settin’ up.

A cool breeze blew into the room. Tracer turned, saw Widowmaker setting up her rifle, bending over the windowsill as she made quick adjustments. Her visor was down over her eyes, eight cameras running calculations for a man’s death. There was something…really hot about that, honestly. Amélie and Widowmaker both carried out tasks with sinuous efficiency, one action flowing seamlessly into the next.

Whether it was Amélie making a stew or Widowmaker pulling the trigger, both coaxed the same response from her. Tracer wanted all of that grace to melt away, leaving only the blistering sensuality. The fact that Tracer knew she pretty much the only one that could strip away all those frosty layers and warm her up from the inside out was a bonus.

Widowmaker clicked her tongue, muttered something under her breath. Cocked her hips. Tracer snapped her guns back into her gauntlets, her lips parting. The wind and her deep breathing were the only noises in the room.

“There you are,” Widowmaker whispered. It snapped Tracer out of the moment right fast.

“Got a visual on him?”

“Mm.” Her visor peeled back and she pressed her eye to the scope, her shoulders tensing. “He will be within my sights in ten minutes.”

Plenty of time, then. Tracer hadn’t forgotten the real reason she was brought along, after all. She kept her steps light, casual, as she walked up behind the sniper. She slipped off her gloves and tossed them to the side, laying her palms against the cold skin of Widowmaker’s back. Widowmaker shifted in response, letting her feel the play of hard muscle beneath smoothe skin. Tracer bit her lip on a giggle.

“Feelin’ a bit tense, love?”

“Perhaps,” Widowmaker said on a sigh. “Are you planning on doing something about it?”

Tracer pressed a bit with the heels of her hands, a not-quite-massage that was more an excuse to feel up that gorgeous back, feel years of strength and fighting melting under her hands. Widowmaker purred, arching her back.

“Perhaps,” Tracer teased in return, her voice dropping an octave. Her fingertips trailed over the spider inked into Widowmaker’s back, and she bent over her to press a kiss against the bright red hourglass. The woman didn’t so much as jump beneath her, but Tracer heard a soft inhale and smiled against her skin.

She dropped a hand to the zipper at the small of Widowmaker’s back, and drew it down. The catsuit parted and bared what she needed to get to; no need to get naked, really. Widowmaker shifted, hips raising and her legs parting to keep her stable and still. Tracer blew out a breath, the light from her harness catching on the slick on her inner thighs.

“Aw, love, how long you been wound up?” She reached out, slid her fingertips against the back of Widowtracer’s thigh, her touch light. “Don’t answer. Doesn’t matter, really. I’m gonna take real good care of you, okay?”

Widowmaker hummed as a reply, still poised at her rifle. Tracer bit her smile back, both hands moving up to cup her hips, stroke the tantalizing curve of her ass. When Widowmaker shifted on her feet, just a small motion, Tracer stopped and drew her hands away. Foreplay, Tracer had realized, wasn’t always a necessity with Widowmaker. Honestly, she could spend an hour figuring out each and every spot on her body that got a reaction--good or bad--but they didn’t have that much time allotted to them.

Widowmaker tapped her fingers against the side of the Widow’s Kiss. Impatience.

Tracer hurried to shuck off the bottom straps of her accelerator, tucking the leather strips through the ones around her chest. Easing her leggings down, Tracer had to laugh. She was about to--well. Let Widowmaker enjoy herself while she shot a rotten human being and got a long overdue revenge--for Amélie, for Gérard, for Widowmaker herself. Even for Tracer, it was a little ridiculous.

Still hot, though.

“I’m gonna lube you up, yeah?” Tracer dug into the pocket of her jacket and pulled out the clear bottle. “And me too, I guess.”
Widowmaker let out a ‘mmhm’ in answer. It wasn’t until Tracer pinched her right on the ass that she looked back, faintly scowling. “What?”

“Don’t ‘mmhm’ me, it’s enthusiastic yes or no.”

“Yes,” Widowmaker sighed, turning back to her scope. “It’s a yes, Tracer. Do you think I would have dragged you to a different country simply to--how is it said?-- blueball you?”

Tracer closed her eyes, bit the inside of her cheek. It was too easy that if she leaped on the chance for the pun, she’d hate herself forever. It took a superhuman effort, but luckily for Tracer, she was a little bit superhuman anyway. “Right, then. I’m gonna touch you, okay?”

“So gentle,” Widowmaker laughed under her breath, but Tracer heard the affection in her voice. “I am ready.”

Tracer popped open the cap and dribbled a bit on her fingers. When she put her fingers against Widowmaker she found her hot and slick and ready; so much so that it drew a sharp inhale of surprise, and might have buffed her ego up a bit. Tracer didn’t make a quip, and she didn’t waste time. She slid two fingers inside, scissored them open and shut; Widowmaker’s only reaction was to sigh through her nose, but Tracer saw the muscles in her back ripple as she dipped her hips back.

“God, look at you,” Tracer whispered, stunned. “I’m never gettin’ over how pretty you are.”

No comment, as expected, but Tracer didn’t mind that. She ekked in a third finger on a thrust, and the ease at which the digit sank in was an indicator of itself. Widowmaker stretched easily around her, and Tracer stopped when Widowmaker tapped her rifle again. She pocketed the lube, wrapped the fingers slick from lubricant and Widowmaker around the toy and gave it a bit of a pump. The ghostly sensation rolled through her, but now that Tracer was prepared for it, it wasn’t nearly as overwhelming.

“So, like, is this gonna be a thing for us now?” She braced one hand against Widowmaker’s back, coaxed her hips just a tad lower. “Me and my trousers ‘round my knees and my cock out?”

Whoa. That was definitely a thing that got said out of her mouth, Tracer thought.

“He’s inside of the building,” Widowmaker said, her voice deceptively calm.

“I can take a hint, love!” Tracer took a deep breath, guided the head of the toy in, and rocked her hips. Widowmaker clicked her tongue, and rolled her hips back. Tracer gripped her tight, breath choking out of her. Her legs trembled and she stayed very still for a handful of heartbeats, just gasping. It was a little embarrassing, but Widowmaker’s shoulders twitched too.

Heat. Cloying and thick; snug, not constricting. Tracer pulled back and sank in and it was still just as explosive. It was actually a good thing she’d gotten one orgasm out already; she’d have lost it in a minute and embarrassed everyone.

Once she caught her breath and adjusted, though, Tracer rolled her shoulders and gave Widowmaker a grin she couldn’t see. “What’s the status on the target, love?”

“Lingering in the lobby. He’ll be taking the elevator soon.” A deep breath that shook at the edges. “Ten more minutes.”

“Roger.” Tracer blinked, giving her forward thrust a little more oomph, the clap of skin on skin echoing in the empty room. She was rewarded with a soft gasp, Widowmaker’s thighs bracing themselves on the sill. “How you handlin’ this, love?”

“Plus fort,” Widowmaker growled.

“Ma’am, yes ma’am,” Tracer breathed. She rocked up onto the tips of her toes, calves and muscles. Dipping her eyes down to watch the toy vanish inside of Widowmaker made her breath catch and she dug her nails into tops of her thighs. She felt overheated and burning alive, and Widowmaker’s cool skin was the only balm.

“F-Five--” Widowmaker stammered, “Five minutes.”

Tracer ground her teeth, bucked harder. Her chest heaved beneath the weight of the accelerator, a ball of heat sat in the dip of her pelvis. Widowmaker’s fingers were steady on the scope, and Tracer saw her finger sliding toward the trigger. Fuck, for her sanity it shouldn’t have been half as attractive.

“Line him up,” Tracer hissed between her teeth, not quite aware of her own words. All she could think about was what Widowmaker felt, what she wanted, how absolutely fucking bonkers the entire situation was.

“I see him,” Widowmaker said on a quivering exhale. “Oh, god, I see him..”

She was going to kill him. She was going to jam a fucking bullet in the skull of the bastard who ruined her body, who stripped her of agency and emotion and Tracer was hungry for it. This wasn’t justice--murder was murder--but justice was more Pharah’s thing anyway. Tracer liked to think of things as tit for tat.

Tracer snuck her hand around, dipping her fingers to the front of the sniper’s crotch. She couldn’t reach inside the suit with the way they were positioned, but with how thin the damn thing was it didn’t really matter. She rolled her fingers against her clit from above the suit, felt Widowmaker clench around the toy hard from it.

“Lena,” she rasped.

“Eyes on him, love,” Tracer grated. “Eyes, on, him,” she repeated, punctuating each word with a blink of a thrust. Her head swam and her accelerator gave a warning beep.

A breath. Two. Then a muffled roar that split the night as Widowmaker pulled the trigger. Tracer grabbed her shoulders once Widowmaker let out a short, throaty laugh that trailed into a high moan, yanked her back. Her hips rolled back to meet each thrust, and Tracer saw her hands braced on the sill. She came with a hoarse shout muffled by biting into her hand at the last second, and Tracer’s entire body grew taut as she felt Widowmaker’s orgasm.

Pulsing strokes, powerful muscles clamping down on her. Now that she was aware that there was something inside the toy, Tracer felt a fullness in its base that made her sweat, nails raking down over the spider tattoo.

Too close, too close, can’t let it end--

Tracer took a breath and forced herself into a recall, her body nearly splitting apart at its seams. It wasn’t far enough to lose all traction on her pleasure, but enough to leave her with her wits as Widowmaker lost hers entirely. Fucking gorgeous.

“Clean kill, was it?” Tracer forced herself to ask, her thrusts turning shallow to keep Widowmaker going but not to overstimulate.

“Y-yes--ah,” Her voice trembled with bliss. “He saw me. Looked right into my scope. I watched him die…”

Tracer drew out, pulled Widowmaker away from the window so they could both sink to the ground. Once they faced each other Widowmaker pulled her into a fierce kiss, her teeth digging into her bottom lip, her tongue lapping its way in. Tracer shoved them both to the ground with a blink as soon as her accelerator gave her the go ahead, ripped the stupid catsuit in half down the middle, and shoved herself home. Any worry that she’d been too much was extinguished with a surprised, exalted cry from Widowmaker.

“He knew,” she said, eyes fever bright with lust. She was nearly giddy when she added on a moan, “ he knew I killed him.”

Widowmaker laughed and threw her head back. Wrapped her legs around Tracer’s sawing hips, took fistfuls of her hair. Tracer was in new territory here; usually Widowmaker’s orgasms were quick finishes, and she needed a break and a new target. Tracer had never seen her laugh over it; smirk, yes. Make a cold and honestly witty one liner? Certainly.

But those were impersonal kills. Kills for the sake of the mission. Tracer didn’t know if she’d lose Widowmaker to the elation, or if the elation would be too much--so that she’d never feel happy unless she kept killing. Tracer panicked, lunged, and sank her teeth into Widowmaker’s neck.

Pain could be grounding; Widowmaker’s voice was caught in her teeth and Tracer felt her cry out and tighten her grip.

“That’s it,” Widowmaker muttered, raking her nails over her scalp. “Yes, yes, just like that, fuck.”

Tracer sucked a bruise in the shape of her teeth, catching both of Widowmaker’s wrists in her hands and pushing them to the ground. Widowmaker could have grappled with her easily, so it was a good sign that she let herself be pinned in place. Her eyes were a little less wild, but they still burned like the heart of a fire.

Tracer went from ‘frantic’ to moderately teasing. “You--with me?” It came strained as sweat plastered her bangs to her face, dripped off her chin. “Amélie?”

“Yes,” Widowmaker groaned. She arched her back, tried for a kiss; Tracer bent her head down and gave her a sloppy one, not really pulling back as they rocked against each other, desperate in the dark. “I’m here, I am here--”

Tracer wasn’t sure what set her off. Widowmaker mouthing against her lips, or a deliberate squeeze of muscles, but the orgasm walloped her right in the ass and she slammed forward with Amélie’s name on her tongue. The aching fullness was released in a rush; she ground her hips against Widowmaker’s, sobbing from the force.

As if from a great distance, she heard Widowmaker groaning into her ear, felt her hands against her hair and the back of her neck. “My good girl,” Tracer thought she heard. “Ma chérie, give me every drop…”

She might have blacked out a little. When Tracer’s brain was back in her skull, her face was pressed against Widowmaker’s neck and her goggles were off. Widowmaker was petting her; Tracer caught herself still lazily thrusting, like she couldn’t stop. A stir of her hips made Widowmaker arch her back again, a sound of pleasure stuttering out of her throat; they were slick and dripping where they met.

Carpet was probably ruined. Would be a hell of a thing for the cleaning staff to deal with tomorrow morning.

“Insatiable,” Widowmaker laughed against the side of her head, her voice trembling. Tracer forced her hips to stop, still seated in deep, and pushed herself up on her hands. Widowmaker was a gorgeous sight beneath her, sweating and her skin just fading back to blue. Her hair had come undone, waves of black silk blending neatly with the shadows. The only real color--aside from, well, the blue--was from her eyes. They were as warm and gold as the sun, and Tracer lost her breath.

“Y-you--” Tracer cleared her throat. “You alright? I wasn’t too rough, was I?”

“You were perfect,” Widowmaker murmured. “I was...overwhelmed. I was very overwhelmed.” One of her hands rose to Tracer’s face, stroked over the apple of her cheek. “You annoyed me back once again, chérie.”

“Glad to help,” Tracer laughed. “Always gonna be here to bring you back, love. You can count on that.”

Widowmaker gave her a rare, beautiful smile. Tracer’s brain blanked.

“I love you,” she blurted out.

Widowmaker choked on air, slapped at her chest, then croaked, “What?”

Tracer felt her face flush, and regret was already bitter on the back of her tongue. Stupid, she scolded herself. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Her mouth always ran off and said the wrong thing at the wrong time and--and--

And Widowmaker was sitting up, cupping her face. Her expression was grave as she whispered, “What did you say to me?”

“I-I--love you?” It came out as a nervous squeak. “Kind of didn’t plan this all out. To be fair, I just came my bloody brains out, so you know. Take what I say with a grain of--”

Widowmaker kissed her. Tracer found herself on her back, Widowmaker on top of her, still kissing her again and again. Tracer figured it was a better response than getting a bullet in her teeth, or an awkward silence. Then she tasted salt and pushed Widowmaker back, eyes wide.

“Oh...my god, y-you’re cryin’,” Tracer sputtered.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Widowmaker snapped, her voice clogged. “Stop--stop talking. You are only allowed to say three words.”

Stunned, dizzy, Tracer said, “I love you.”

A watery sound ripped free from Widowmaker’s mouth before it latched to Tracer’s again. There was urgency in the way she grabbed at her chest, her shoulders; Tracer caught them trembling. Her own eyes wet and they burned at the corners and she croaked a laugh.

“Again,” Widowmaker ordered.

“I love you.”

Widowmaker straddled her hips, sank down. She rode her slowly, hands framing her face. Tracer wasn’t sure what the expression she wore was; it was an odd mash up of terror, and hope. Hunger, obviously; reverence. With her hair down, Widowmaker looked so...so vulnerable that suddenly thinking about her as her callsign wasn’t fitting.

This wasn’t a mission. This was...this was...

Amélie shuddered with each descent, the muscles in her thighs flexing hard as she pushed up. Lena fumbled a hand down to pet at her clit, did her best.

“I love you,” she whispered. Amélie shook her head. Tears rolled down her cheeks, dripped down. Some landed on Lena’s neck, her own cheek, rolled down her temple. So oversensitive, and drained, Lena already felt herself teetering on the edge.

It hurt, just a bit, to think that Amélie wouldn’t be able to share it, and she nearly recalled. She didn’t in the end. Lena covered the hands at her face, felt her own tears burst free, and gasped, “Je t’aime, Amélie.”

The warmth spread up from her hips to her brain, sizzling in its intensity but not overwhelming. Not enough so that Lena missed Amélie’s wide eyes, her mouth opening, a heavenly gasp. Her back arched and Lena felt her squeeze against her. Amélie’s eyes slammed shut; Lena’s forced hers to stay open.

They slumped together; Amélie slid off of her lap, cupping herself between her legs and whining, rocking against her palm. Lena eased the toy out of her, utterly spent, and rolled on her side to brush away thick locks of black hair with shaking fingers. She was exhausted to the core, and tender in ways she never thought she’d be, but she started to laugh and found she couldn’t stop.

“You,” she trailed off, waited until Amélie looked at her. “You did it! Hey! You, you did! The thing! I’m so proud of you!”

Amélie closed her eyes with a groan and a pained expression. “Do not congratulate me on an orgasm, Lena. Or at least don’t make it sound like you want it on the fridge.”

Lena propped herself on her elbow, grinning. “One shot, one kill, three big O’s. Am I a goddess or what? You shoot, I score.”

“Stop. Stop this.”

“Cheers, love,” Lena said, needing to get in one final push, “the cavalry came.”

Joking was easier than owning up to what she’d said and done. Or how Amélie had reacted. Lena was terrified, honestly, even though context clues were shaping up to be in the realm of reciprocation. She didn’t want to get her fragile little hopes up, after all. Better to blink away from her troubles than face them head on.

“Shut--god, shut up.” Amélie pawed at her face, tried to slap her away. Lena didn’t let her, poking and prodding at her sides with mad giggles. “Come on, you little shit, I am trying to enjoy the remains of my afterglow. You are impossible.”

“Come off it. You know you lo--” Lena swallowed the word. “--Like me!”

“Do I know that?” Amélie pretended to think. “Hm. I don’t know. Like seems like the wrong word.”

“Hey!”

Amélie gave her that same, half terrified look. Her eyes were stark as she whispered, “Je t'aime à la folie.”

She only recognized one bit of that, but it was the most important part. Lena trembled and did the most mature thing in the world by bursting into tears and sobbing, “That’s gay, love.”

And then she buried close, hands slipping over the remains of Amélie’s stupid purple catsuit. Her ear pressed between Amélie’s breasts, muffling her sniffles. Something like a heartbeat rushed between them, and Lena smiled.