"You ever wonder why Talon's coffee tastes like burnt regret?" Sombra leaned against the rec room counter, swirling her lukewarm Don Rumbotico in its glass, the purple glow of her fingertips casting fractured light across Widowmaker's impassive face.
The sniper didn't glance up from polishing her rifle, her blue lips curling faintly. "Non. I do not drink swill brewed by amateurs." Sombra smirked, tracing the rim of her glass with a cybernetic nail, deliberately slow, watching the way Widowmaker's shoulders tensed at the sound.
The hacker exhaled through her nose, tilting her head to study the way Widowmaker's bodysuit clung to the predatory arch of her spine. "Bet Overwatch stocked this place with organic beans or some shit. Probably costs more than your last bullet."
Widowmaker finally looked up, yellow eyes narrowing, not in irritation, but calculation. "You are... unusually fixated on beverages today." Sombra's grin sharpened.
(Because you won't let me be fixated on the way your hips look when you reload.)
A flicker of movement: Widowmaker's gloved hand twitched toward her visor, a habit Sombra had catalogued months ago, the assassin's tell for discomfort. "Perhaps you should hack their inventory," Widowmaker murmured, voice smooth as poisoned silk. "If it amuses you."
Sombra leaned in, close enough to catch the synthetic lavender scent of Widowmaker's neural suppressants. "Oh, ma chérie, I already did." She tapped her temple, the nodes along her scalp pulsing violet. "Turns out Morrison hides a stash of aged tequila in his desk. Guess even boy scouts need vices."
Widowmaker's exhale wasn't quite a laugh, but the air between them warmed by half a degree. (Progress.) Then the sniper stood abruptly, her thigh brushing Sombra's as she moved, deliberate, testing. "Do not distract me," she warned, but the corner of her mouth twitched. Sombra watched her walk away, the sway of Widowmaker's hips rhythmic as a sniper's breathing. (One day, chica. One day you'll let me unravel you.)
The rec room door hissed shut. Sombra's fingers drummed against her glass, her other hand already flicking through Overwatch's security feeds, zooming in on Widowmaker's silhouette down the hall, the way her pulse point fluttered just once beneath her collar. (Gotcha.)
Widowmaker's breath hitched, a barely perceptible stutter in her mechanical rhythm, as Tracer's orange leggings flashed past the corridor junction. (Again. Always again.) The sniper pivoted on her heel, silent as a shadow, following the electric hum of the chronal accelerator down the hall. Tracer's laughter bounced off the walls ahead, bright and untamed, and Widowmaker's gloved fingers twitched at her sides. (How many times had she lined up that perfect shot? How many times had she...)
"Oi, Sombra! You still sulking in here?" Tracer's voice spilled into the rec room before she did, her bomber jacket flaring as she skidded to a stop.
Sombra's smirk deepened, her cybernetic eyes tracking Widowmaker's silent entry behind Tracer. (Oh, this is rich.) "Pilot girl, I don't sulk. I plot. There's a difference." Her fingers danced along the rim of her glass, the sound making Tracer's nose scrunch.
Widowmaker leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, her slow heartbeat betraying nothing. (Her pulse should be racing. Why isn't it racing?) Tracer's grin widened as she plopped onto the counter, legs swinging. "Right, right. So what's today's grand scheme? Stealing Morrison's socks again?"
Sombra's laugh was low, deliberate. "Please. Last week's prank was child's play." She flicked her gaze past Tracer to Widowmaker, watching the assassin's gloved fingers tighten imperceptibly around her own elbow. (Jealousy looks good on you, araña.)
Tracer twisted to follow Sombra's gaze, her chronal accelerator humming as she blinked in surprise. "Widow? Blimey, you're lurking like a proper ghost today."
The sniper's slow blink was the only acknowledgment, but her skin prickled where Tracer's eyes lingered, a sensation she hadn't felt in years. (Don't look at me like that. Not when I've memorized the exact angle to sever your spine.)
Tracer patted the counter between herself and Sombra, her grin softening at the edges. "C'mon, luv, no need to hover like a bloody specter. Sit with us... fresh start, yeah?" The chronal accelerator pulsed against her ribs, warm and insistent, as Widowmaker's gaze flickered over her like the cold sweep of a scope. (Why does her stillness feel heavier than a gunshot?)
Widowmaker glided forward, the whisper of her boots against tile measured as a sniper's breath, and lowered herself onto the stool beside Sombra, close enough that Tracer caught the faint metallic tang of Widowmaker's synth-lavender scent, the way it tangled with Sombra's ozone-and-spice. (She smells like a battlefield after rain.) Tracer's knee brushed Widowmaker's armored thigh, and the assassin didn't flinch, but her pulse, slow, so slow, stuttered just once beneath her collar.
"You know," Tracer said, leaning in with a conspiratorial wink, "I've been meaning to say... proper sorry about all those times you tried to pop me in the noggin." Her fingers mimed an explosion by her temple, her laughter bouncing off the walls. "Water under the bridge, yeah?"
Widowmaker's gloved fingers tightened around her glass, the condensation beading against her synthetic skin. "Regret is inefficient," she murmured, but her gaze lingered on the freckles dusting Tracer's collarbone, the way they vanished beneath the strap of her accelerator. (I counted every one through my scope.) Sombra's smirk sharpened as Widowmaker's voice dropped lower, almost tender. "But if I had to choose a target to miss... it would be you, petite fleur." The words hung between them, a confession wrapped in thorns.
(Bloody hell.) Tracer's breath hitched, her accelerator humming faster, but before she could respond, Sombra's cybernetic fingers drummed against the counter, the sound like a bullet casing hitting concrete. "Dios mío," Sombra purred, her eyes glinting violet. "And here I thought spiders couldn't blush." Widowmaker's glare could have frozen molten steel, but the tips of her ears, pale blue, almost translucent, darkened just a shade. (Got you both.)
Tracer snorted, kicking her legs against the counter with enough force to jostle Sombra's drink. "Blimey, you two are worse than a telenovela. Sombra, luv, if you're gonna flirt with murder-girl here, at least make it interesting." She winked, deliberately nudging Widowmaker's knee with her own. "Bet you ten quid she folds like cheap origami if you whisper in *French*."
Sombra's grin widened, her cybernetic nodes pulsing as she flicked a glance at Widowmaker's frozen posture, how the sniper's fingers had gone still around her glass, how her pupils dilated just a fraction at the suggestion. (Oh, *this* is juicy.) "Careful, pilotita," Sombra drawled, tapping her nails against her temple. "You're giving me ideas. And *my* ideas tend to leave people... exposed."
Widowmaker exhaled through her nose, slow and controlled, but her gaze slid sideways to Tracer, the way her bomber jacket gaped at the collar, revealing the delicate dip of her clavicle, the sheen of sweat clinging to her throat after training. (Discipline. Control.) Yet her pulse, sluggish as it was, thudded once, hard, when Tracer stretched, the hem of her top riding up to expose a sliver of toned abdomen. (Pathetic.)
Sombra's fingers twitched under the counter, a silent command sending a micro-drone skittering along the ceiling vents toward Tracer's quarters. (Let's see how *petite fleur* looks when she thinks no one's watching.) The hacker licked her lips, watching Widowmaker watch Tracer, the air between them crackling with something sharper than static. "Tell me, *chica*," Sombra murmured, leaning in close enough for her breath to ghost over Tracer's ear, "you ever wonder what spiders do when they're *hungry*?"
Tracer blinked, her chronal accelerator pulsing faster against her ribs. (Bloody hell, why's it suddenly so warm in here?) "Uh... wot?" She hopped down from the counter, stretching her arms overhead with a groan that pulled her orange leggings taut over her hips, Widowmaker's fingers spasmed around her glass, the condensation smearing under her gloves. (Disgraceful.)
"Right, well," Tracer flashed a grin, rolling her shoulders, "I'm knackered. Gonna go put me feet up for a bit." She sauntered toward the door, her bomber jacket swinging just enough to give Widowmaker an eyeful of that infamous ass, round, tight, bouncing with every step. (I could map its trajectory blindfolded.) The sniper's throat bobbed, her pulse sluggish but insistent, like a sniper counting the pause between breaths.
Sombra's smirk widened as the door hissed shut behind Tracer. "Oh, *araña*," she crooned, tapping her nails against Widowmaker's forearm, right over the spiderweb tattoo. "You're *transparent*."
Widowmaker didn't blink. "I have no use for metaphors." But her pupils were dilated, her breath shallow, not from exertion, but the phantom sensation of Tracer's warmth lingering in the air. (Disgusting.) The condensation from her glass dripped onto her thigh, tracing a cold line down the seam of her bodysuit. (Like a bullet's path.)
Sombra swirled her drink, the ice clinking like a mocking laugh. "Please. You've been staring at her like she's a high-value target." She leaned in, her voice dropping to a purr. "Except you don't wanna pull the trigger. You wanna *pin* her." Widowmaker's fingers twitched, not toward her rifle, but as if remembering the weight of Tracer's hips under her palms. (Weakness.)
"She is..." Widowmaker hesitated, the word sticking in her throat like a jammed round. "*Distracting*." The admission tasted bitter, metallic. (Like blood.)
Sombra's grin was all teeth. "Oh, *ma chérie*," she murmured, tapping a nail against Widowmaker's pulse point, slow, so slow. "What's the point of being Talon's best if you can't *take* what you want?" Her breath ghosted over Widowmaker's ear, the words slithering in like a blade between ribs: "Or are you scared she'll *outrun* you?" Widowmaker's spine straightened, her nostrils flaring. (Challenge accepted.)
"We are *Overwatch* now," Widowmaker corrected, voice colder than her own skin, but her pupils dilated, black swallowing gold as she stood abruptly. Her gloved fingers flexed once, not toward her rifle, but as if already imagining the press of Tracer's accelerator beneath her palm.
The sniper glided toward the door, her heels silent as a spider's tread, but Sombra didn't miss the way her hips swayed just a fraction wider, the deliberate arch of her spine. (Oh, *araña*. You're *hunting*.) The door hissed shut behind her, and Sombra was already moving, her drink abandoned, ice melting into lukewarm oblivion.
Her quarters were a nest of flickering screens, but the one she tapped into now showed Tracer's room in perfect clarity: the pilot sprawled on her bed, jacket discarded, her accelerator's glow painting her collarbones blue.
"Alright, chica," Sombra murmured, peeling off her coat with deliberate slowness, the fabric hissing against her skin like a lover's sigh. The nodes along her spine pulsed as she unhooked her bra, the cool air prickling her bare nipples. (Widowmaker's gonna lose her mind when she sees this.)
Her fingers traced the seam of her leggings, the slow drag of fabric down her thighs deliciously obscene. She stretched, arching her back until her vertebrae clicked, the cybernetic nodes along her scalp flaring violet. (Perfect.) The mattress sighed under her naked weight as she settled in, her thighs pressing together just enough to feel the slick heat between them. "Time for the main event," she purred, tapping the recording button.
Down the hall, Widowmaker paused outside Tracer's door, her gloved fingers hovering inches from the panel. (This is irrational.) The sniper's pulse, usually sluggish as a frozen river, thrummed faintly against her ribs, an anomaly, a malfunction she couldn't recalibrate. (She smells like gunpowder and oranges.)
The door chimed. Tracer's voice, bright and breathless: "Oi, who's...?" Widowmaker stepped inside before she could finish, the door hissing shut behind her like a trap springing closed. Tracer blinked up from the bed, her accelerator pulsing faster. (Like prey realizing it's cornered.)
Widowmaker's gaze dragged over her, the sweat-damp hair clinging to her temples, the way her orange leggings hugged the curve of her thighs. (Discipline. Control.) Yet when Tracer smirked, stretching her arms overhead with a groan that made her breasts strain against her thin top, Widowmaker's gloves creaked around the doorframe. (Pathetic.)
"You lost, luv?" Tracer teased, but her breath hitched when Widowmaker stepped closer, the scent of synth-lavender and gun oil wrapping around her like a noose.
Sombra's breath caught on a laugh as she watched the feed, her fingers trailing down her stomach. (Oh, araña. You're *done* for.)
Tracer looks up at Widowmaker with her right eyebrow raised in confusion. "Widow? What's wrong, luv?" Tracer asks while blushing softly.
Widowmaker doesn't respond verbally. Instead, she leans down, her gloved fingers wrapping around Tracer's wrists with deliberate, predatory grace. The sniper pulls Tracer up off the bed effortlessly, the sudden motion making the chronal accelerator hum against Tracer's ribs.
Widowmaker guides Tracer onto her tiptoes, their bodies now pressed close enough that Tracer can feel the faint, unnatural chill of Widowmaker's skin through the thin fabric of her top.
Their lips meet in a slow, searing kiss, Widowmaker's blue-tinted mouth cool at first, then warming against Tracer's parted gasp. The sniper's grip tightens, pulling Tracer flush against her, the hard edges of Widowmaker's armor pressing into soft flesh, a contrast that makes Tracer shudder. (Bloody hell... she tastes like gunmetal and mint.)
Sombra's cybernetic eyes narrow as she watches the feed, her fingers pausing mid-stroke between her thighs. (Oh, ma chérie. You *absolute* fucking liar.) The hacker exhales sharply, the nodes along her spine flaring violet with frustrated arousal.
Widowmaker's fingers slide into Tracer's hair, tugging just enough to tilt her head back, a sniper adjusting her angle before the kill.
Tracer moans into the kiss, her hands scrambling for purchase against Widowmaker's armored waist, fingertips brushing the spiderweb tattoo beneath the bodysuit's seam. (Christ, she's *freezing*... why does it feel so good?) Widowmaker's tongue traces the seam of Tracer's lips, a calculated invasion, and the pilot whimpers, her accelerator pulsing erratic blue against Widowmaker's chest.
Sombra's breath hitches as she watches Widowmaker's free hand glide down Tracer's side, slow as a scope's crosshair settling on target, before gripping the curve of her hip hard enough to bruise. (Should've known the spider wouldn't just *kiss* her.) The hacker's teeth dig into her lower lip, her own hips twitching at the sight.
Widowmaker's glove creaking as it dips beneath the waistband of Tracer's leggings.
Tracer gasps, breaking the kiss with a wet sound, her accelerator flickering like a malfunction. "W-Widow...!" Her protest dies when the sniper's thumb brushes the damp fabric between her thighs, the pressure agonizingly light. (Fuck, she's *mapping* me.) Widowmaker's exhale ghosts over Tracer's parted lips, her pupils blown wide, not with Talon's cold precision, but something far more dangerous. (Like she's memorizing every shiver.)
Tracer's breath hitched as Widowmaker's fingers curled possessively against the damp fabric of her leggings, the cold metal of her armored gloves contrasting sharply with the heat pooling beneath. "W-Widow," she gasped, her voice cracking around the edges, "what's this all about?" The sniper's thumb dragged a slow, torturous circle over her clit, and Tracer's knees buckled, her toes curling against the floor as she clung to Widowmaker's shoulders. (Christ, she's barely *touching* me and I'm already...)
"I want you," Widowmaker murmured, her voice low and deliberate, each syllable weighted like a bullet casing dropped onto concrete. Her free hand slid up to cradle Tracer's jaw, forcing their eyes to meet, gold boring into hazel. "I want you to be mine." The words were clinical, but her pulse, slow and measured, stuttered against Tracer's wrist where their skin touched. (Like a sniper's finger hesitating on the trigger.)
Tracer swallowed hard, her accelerator humming erratically against her ribs. "And if I say no?" she breathed, testing, her hips arching involuntarily into Widowmaker's touch.
The sniper's grip tightened fractionally, her glove creaking against Tracer's hip. "Then I walk away," Widowmaker replied, her tone flat, but her pupils dilated, black swallowing gold.
A beat. Tracer's lips curled into a shaky grin, her fingers tangling in Widowmaker's collar. "Well, luv," she whispered, breath hot against the assassin's parted lips, "better make it worth my while." Widowmaker's exhale was barely audible, but her fingers finally, *finally* dipped beneath the waistband, the cold press of her knuckles against Tracer's bare skin drawing a broken moan.
Widowmaker's gloved fingers paused at the hem of Tracer's top, the fabric clinging stubbornly to her sweat-slicked skin. "You wear too many layers, *petite fleur*," she murmured, her voice a slow drag of silk against stone.
Tracer's breath hitched as the sniper peeled the fabric upward, her arms lifting obediently until the cool air prickled her bare stomach. (Bloody hell, why's her *hands* so cold?) The moment Widowmaker's gaze dropped to her chest, Tracer's pulse stuttered, *there*, that fractional pause, the slight tilt of the assassin's head as her eyes traced the modest swell of Tracer's breasts beneath her bra.
"*Ah*," Widowmaker said, the syllable crisp as a sniper's bullet casing hitting the floor. "*Plus petite que je ne pensais.*"
Tracer's cheeks burned. "Oi! Not *everyone* can be blessed with Mercy's bloody *D-cup* advantage," she snapped, crossing her arms over her chest, only for Widowmaker to catch her wrists, pinning them gently but irrevocably to her sides.
The sniper's thumbs brushed the lace of Tracer's bra, her touch deliberate, *measuring*. "Non," Widowmaker corrected, her voice dipping into something dangerously close to reverence. "*Parfaite.*" Then, with a flick of her fingers, the clasp gave way, and Tracer's breath caught as cool air, and colder hands, claimed her bare skin. Widowmaker's palms settled over her breasts, *learning* their shape, her thumbs circling Tracer's nipples until they pebbled under her touch. "*Exactement* comme je le voulais," she breathed, leaning down to catch one taut peak between her teeth.
Meanwhile, in Sombra's dim-lit quarters, the hacker exhaled sharply, her thighs squeezing around the vibrating toy pressed snugly between them. "*Dios*," she muttered, her cybernetic fingers twisting the dial higher as she watched Widowmaker's mouth trail lower on the feed. "*That's* how you play it, *araña*?" Her hips jerked involuntarily, the nodes along her spine flaring violet as she imagined the *heat* of Tracer's skin beneath Widowmaker's glacial touch. Sombra's free hand dragged down her own stomach, her nails scraping lightly over her ribs, *there*, where Widowmaker's teeth had just grazed Tracer's, before slipping lower, her breath coming in ragged sync with the pilot's moans.
Down the hall, Widowmaker's right arm tightened around Tracer's waist, her fingers splayed possessively over the small of her back, keeping her upright as Tracer's knees buckled. "*Shhh,*" Widowmaker murmured against her collarbone, her breath cooling the sweat-slicked skin there as her left hand worked *in*, slow, *agonizingly* slow, until Tracer's hips stuttered against her palm. "*Tu es si chaude,*" she whispered, curling her fingers *just so*, her thumb brushing Tracer's clit in counterpoint to each deliberate thrust.
Tracer's moan was half-laugh, half-sob, her hands scrambling for purchase on Widowmaker's shoulders, her accelerator pulsing erratic blue between them. "*Christ... Widow... slow*..." she gasped, her toes curling against the floor, her body arching into the sniper's touch like a bowstring drawn taut.
Widowmaker exhaled through her nose, her breath cooling the sweat-slicked skin of Tracer's throat. "*Non,*" she murmured, her left hand twisting deeper, her fingers curling just shy of *rough*, her thumb circling Tracer's clit with sniper's precision. "*Tu es parfaite comme ça.*"
Tracer smirks through the pleasure Widowmaker is giving her. "You stuck in French mode or something, luv?" Tracer says with a shaky breath as Widowmaker's fingers curl inside her, pressing against the spot that makes her toes curl.
"*Oui*," Widowmaker responds, her voice a low purr. "*Et tu l'aimes.*" She adds a third finger, stretching Tracer deliciously, her thumb circling her clit in slow, deliberate strokes. Tracer groans, her fingers digging into Widowmaker's shoulders as her hips buck forward, chasing the sensation.
Meanwhile, Sombra bites her lip, watching the feed with half-lidded eyes. "Fuck," she murmurs, her voice strained as she presses the butt plug against herself, the smooth silicone parting her tight rim inch by inch. The stretch is sharp, delicious, and she arches her back, letting out a shaky exhale as she bottoms out. Her other hand guides the vibrator back to her clit, the dual stimulation making her thighs tremble.
"Damn you, *araña*," Sombra hisses, her hips grinding against the mattress as Widowmaker's fingers work Tracer with ruthless precision on screen. The hacker's breath comes in short gasps, her fingers twisting the vibrator higher, the buzzing syncing perfectly with the way Tracer's hips jerk against Widowmaker's touch. (Christ, she's *so* close.)
"Look at her," Widowmaker murmurs, her English smooth as poisoned silk, her fingers curling *just so* inside Tracer, the heel of her palm grinding against the pilot's clit. "You take me so well, *petite fleur*." Tracer's moan cracks into a whimper, her back arching, her accelerator flickering wild blue as Widowmaker's thrusts grow harder, faster.
"Fuck...*Widow*..." Tracer's voice shatters, her thighs clamping around Widowmaker's wrist as she cums hard, her pussy clenching around the sniper's fingers, her slick gushing over Widowmaker's knuckles in a hot rush. Widowmaker's breath hitches, her pupils blown wide as she watches Tracer unravel against her, her own pulse stuttering for the first time in years.
Sombra's vision whites out, her orgasm slamming into her like a sniper's bullet, her back bows off the bed, her thighs trembling as she cums hard around her own fingers, her moan muffled against her own wrist. The nodes along her spine flare violet, her cybernetic systems briefly overloading from the sheer intensity, her fingers twitching against her clit as aftershocks wrack her body. (Fuck. *Fuck.*)
Widowmaker's kiss was a slow, deliberate press of lips, her teeth grazing Tracer's lower lip just enough to draw a breathy gasp before deepening it with a twist of her tongue that tasted like gunmetal and something unexpectedly sweet, like stolen honey. When she pulled back, her gloved hands moved to the hidden clasps of her bodysuit with the precision of a sniper disassembling her rifle, each click of the fasteners punctuated by Tracer's widening eyes. "Bloody hell," Tracer breathed as the fabric parted, revealing the full, pale swell of Widowmaker's breasts, the cold air pebbling her nipples into tight peaks. "You've been hidin' *those* under all that armor?"
Tracer's hands were on her before Widowmaker could reply, warm palms cupping the generous weight of her D-cups, thumbs brushing over the stiff peaks with playful reverence. "Christ, they're *perfect*," Tracer muttered, her smirk lopsided as she squeezed experimentally, earning a sharp inhale from Widowmaker when her nails grazed the underside. "Bet you could crack walnuts with these." Widowmaker's lips twitched, almost a smile, as she arched into the touch, her breath hitching when Tracer's mouth replaced her fingers, hot and insistent around one nipple while her hand kneaded the other.
Sombra's cybernetic pupils dilated as the feed flickered, her own fingers pausing mid-stroke between her thighs. (Oh, you *bitch*.) The hacker's teeth dug into her lower lip as she watched Tracer's tongue swirl around Widowmaker's nipple, the pilot's fingers twisting the other between them with a roughness that made the sniper's hips jerk forward. (Since when does *she* like it rough?) Sombra's breath hitched when Widowmaker's hand tangled in Tracer's hair, *pulling* her closer with a growl that vibrated through the audio feed.
Down the hall, Tracer moaned around the stiff peak in her mouth, the vibration drawing a rare, shuddering gasp from Widowmaker. The sniper's thighs rubbed together, her free hand scrabbling at the pilot's chronal accelerator as if to *anchor* herself, an uncharacteristic loss of control that made Tracer grin against her skin. "Like that, do you?" Tracer murmured, her breath hot against Widowmaker's damp flesh before she sucked hard enough to bruise.
Widowmaker's pulse stuttered, her hands move to Tracer's shoulders as her hips rolled forward in a silent, desperate plea. (Fuck. *Fuck.*)
Tracer smirked as she slowly sank to her knees, her hands sliding up Widowmaker's thighs with deliberate, teasing pressure. "You're *so* bloody tall like this," she murmured, her breath hot against the damp fabric stretched tight over Widowmaker's hips. "Bet you taste even better than you look." Widowmaker's fingers twitched in Tracer's hair, her pulse, slow, so slow, stuttering when Tracer's tongue dragged a slow, wet stripe through the fabric, the outline of her pussy already visible beneath the soaked material.
"*Trop lent*," Widowmaker breathed, her voice barely above a whisper, but her grip tightened, guiding Tracer's head forward until her nose pressed against the fabric, the scent of her arousal sharp and metallic. "Do not tease, *petite fleur*." Tracer's grin was wicked as she hooked her fingers into the waistband of Widowmaker's thong, peeling it down just enough to expose the slick, swollen flesh beneath, her tongue flicking out to trace the seam of Widowmaker's pussy with a lazy, torturous swipe.
Sombra's breath hitched, her fingers twisting the vibrator higher against her clit as she watched the feed, Widowmaker's hips jerking forward into Tracer's mouth with uncharacteristic desperation. "*Dios mío*," Sombra muttered, her thighs trembling as Tracer's tongue delved deeper, lapping at Widowmaker's clit with rough, eager strokes. The hacker's free hand clenched at her side, her spine arching when Widowmaker's fingers fisted in Tracer's hair, *pulling* her closer with a growl that sent a shiver down Sombra's own spine.
Down the hall, Tracer moaned around Widowmaker's pussy, the vibration drawing a sharp, ragged gasp from the sniper as her hips stuttered forward, fucking Tracer's face with slow, deliberate rolls of her pelvis. Widowmaker's thighs trembled, her breath coming in shallow, controlled bursts, except for the hitch when Tracer's fingers slipped between her own legs, rubbing slow circles over her clit as she swallowed Widowmaker down with a greedy, wet noise that made Sombra's toes curl.
"*Fuck*...*petite fleur*," Widowmaker hissed, her voice raw, her fingers tightening in Tracer's hair as she felt the telltale coil in her gut snap taut. "*Je vais...*" Tracer's tongue thrust deeper, lapping at her entrance with rough, eager strokes, and Widowmaker came with a shuddering gasp, her clear cum spilling into Tracer's mouth in hot, pulsing waves, dripping down the pilot's chin as she swallowed every last drop with a pleased hum.
Tracer pulled back with a wet pop, licking her lips clean before sticking her tongue out with a playful wiggle of her eyebrows, her grin smug and sticky. "All gone, luv," she teased, her voice hoarse, her fingers still lazily rubbing circles over her own clit. Widowmaker's breath hitched at the sight, her hands yanking Tracer up by the hips, lifting her onto her tiptoes before crushing their mouths together in a searing kiss, her tongue sweeping into Tracer's mouth to taste herself on the pilot's lips.
In one fluid motion, Widowmaker spun them toward the bed, bending Tracer over the edge with a firm hand between her shoulder blades, her other palm kneading the plush curve of Tracer's ass with possessive pressure. "*Mon Dieu*," Widowmaker murmured against the shell of Tracer's ear, her teeth grazing the sensitive skin there as her fingers dipped between Tracer's thighs, sliding through her slick with a slow, teasing drag. "You are *dripping*, *chérie*."
Tracer arched into the touch, her breath hitching as Widowmaker's fingers circled her entrance, pressing just enough to make her hips jerk backward in silent demand. "You gonna..." Tracer's words dissolved into a gasp as Widowmaker's lips trailed down her spine, her tongue flicking against each vertebra before she sank to her knees, her palms spreading Tracer's cheeks apart with deliberate, calculated pressure. (Bloody hell...*that* tongue should be illegal.)
Sombra's fingers stuttered on the plug buried deep inside her, the nodes along her spine flaring violet as she watched Widowmaker's tongue trace the tight furl of Tracer's asshole, the tip pressing just enough to make Tracer shudder. "*Dios*," Sombra muttered, her hips lifting off the bed as she fucked herself harder on the plug, the ridges dragging against her sensitive walls in sharp, delicious pulses. (Fuck...*fuck*... she's gonna...)
Widowmaker's tongue speared deeper, relentless, her hands gripping Tracer's hips to keep her still as she worked her asshole with slow, torturous precision, each flick and thrust drawing ragged moans from Tracer's throat. Tracer's fingers twisted in the sheets, her back arching as Widowmaker's tongue curled *just so*, the pressure building low in her belly until her thighs trembled, her orgasm crashing over her in a white-hot wave that left her gasping Widowmaker's name against the mattress.
"Fuck...Widow..." Tracer panted, her legs shaking as Widowmaker pulled back, her lips glistening with her own spit. Widowmaker's breath hitched as she watched Tracer's cum drip down her thighs, her fingers trailing through the sticky mess with something dangerously close to reverence. "Got anything I can take you with, *chérie*?" Widowmaker murmured, her voice rough, her thumb pressing against Tracer's fluttering entrance.
Tracer's laugh was breathless, her hips twitching at the contact. "Normally I'd say just fuck me with your pussy, luv," she admitted, her cheeks flushing as she gestured weakly toward the bedside drawer. "But Mercy gave me a gag gift last Christmas... left drawer." Widowmaker's eyebrow arched as she rose, her hips swaying with predatory grace as she crossed the room, her fingers curling around the handle with deliberate slowness.
The drawer slid open with a whisper, revealing the double-sided dildo nestled among tangled socks, twelve inches of glossy silicone, thick enough to make Tracer's breath catch, each end flared for leverage. Widowmaker's lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk as she lifted it, the weight of it heavy in her palm. "*Parfaite*," she purred, her thumb brushing over the ridged surface before turning back to Tracer, her eyes dark with promise. "Now, *petite fleur*... shall we see how much of this you can take?"
Back in Sombra's room, the hacker arched off the bed with a choked gasp, her inner walls clamping around the buzzing plug as another orgasm ripped through her, her slick gushing onto the sheets in hot pulses. (Fuck... *fuck*... she's gonna...) The nodes along her spine flared violet, her cybernetic systems briefly overloading as her pussy clenched around nothing, the emptiness only heightening the sharp pleasure of the plug vibrating against her prostate. "*Dios... araña...*" she whimpered, her fingers twisting the sheets as she rode out the aftershocks, her breath coming in ragged gulps.
Meanwhile, Widowmaker's fingers traced the seam of the dildo's base, her thumb pressing against a hidden panel that emitted a faint, mechanical hum. "*Qu'est-ce que c'est que ça?*" she murmured, her brow furrowing as the vibration pulsed through her fingertips.
Tracer's grin was equal parts mischief and breathless anticipation as she sprawled back on the bed, her legs spreading wider. "Dunno, luv," she admitted, her fingers teasing her own slick folds. "Mercy just winked and said it'd 'enhance the experience.' Reckon it's got a pulse setting or...*oh fuck*..." Her words dissolved into a moan as Widowmaker shoved the other end inside herself in one smooth thrust, her hips rolling forward to seat it deep, the ridges along the shaft dragging against her walls with delicious friction.
Widowmaker's breath hitched as the dildo *clicked*, the vibrations syncing to her elevated heart rate, impossible, *impossible* but the proof was in the way her pussy fluttered around the silicone, the pulses matching the erratic thrum of blood in her veins. (Mon Dieu... it *adapts*.) Her lips curled into something feral as she crawled over Tracer, her free hand pinning the pilot's hip to the mattress. "*Alors, petite fleur,*" she purred, her voice dripping with promise. "*Let us see how long you last.*"
Tracer's gasp was sharp as Widowmaker slammed the other end into her, the stretch *burning* in the best way, her walls clamping down instinctively around the intrusion, foreign, *wrong*, but Christ, the ridges scraping against her G-spot made her toes curl. "Fuck...*fuck*... Widow!" she choked out, her fingers scrambling against the sheets, her entire body shuddering as the vibrations traveled up her spine. "I... I don't...*oh god*..."
Sombra's cybernetic pupils dilated as the feed glitched, her own hips jerking against the bed as Widowmaker *rolled* her hips, the dildo dragging against Tracer's walls with torturous precision. (Dios, she's *ruining* her.) The hacker's breath came in ragged gulps, her fingers digging into her own thighs as she watched Tracer's face contort, pleasure, panic, *surrender* as Widowmaker leaned down to bite the shell of her ear. "Tell me," the sniper murmured, her voice thick with something dangerously close to *emotion*. "Who do you belong to now?"
Tracer's laugh was breathless, her legs tightening around Widowmaker's waist as their pussies ground together, the dildo buried deep in both of them. "Bloody hell, luv," she gasped, her fingers scrambling against Widowmaker's shoulders. "You already *know* the answer to that...*ah!*... don't you?"
Widowmaker's hands slid up to grip Tracer's wrists, pinning them to the bed as she fucked her harder, the wet *slap* of their bodies drowning out Tracer's whimpers. "Say it," Widowmaker demanded, her lips brushing Tracer's pulse point. "Or I stop."
Tracer's breath hitched as she arched, her back bowing off the mattress, her voice breaking around the words. "*You*... christ...*you*, you *sodding* spider...*fuck!*"
Widowmaker's looks deeply into Tracer's eyes, her grip tightening as their pussies grind together, the dildo pulsing in sync with their ragged breaths. "You think I *tease*, *petite fleur*?" she murmurs, her voice low and rough with something terrifyingly close to sincerity. "Six months," she continues, her hips rolling in a slow, deliberate thrust that makes Tracer whimper. "You will wear my ring. And then..." She leans down, her lips brushing Tracer's earlobe. "*Then* I will show you what *true* possession feels like."
Tracer's laugh is breathless, her thighs trembling around Widowmaker's waist as she squeezes down hard on the dildo, the ridges dragging against her walls in sharp, delicious pulses. "Bloody *hell*, luv," she gasps, her fingers scrabbling against Widowmaker's shoulders. "You *really* know how to... *ah!*... sweet-talk a girl, don't you?"
Widowmaker's smirk is razor-sharp as she shifts her weight, pressing deeper, her hands sliding up to cradle Tracer's face with unexpected gentleness. "Non," she murmurs, her thumb tracing the curve of Tracer's lower lip. "I only know how to *take*." Her hips snap forward, the force of it driving the air from Tracer's lungs in a choked moan. "And you, *ma chérie*, are *mine*."
Tracer's and Widowmaker's breasts rub together as Widowmaker rolls her hips harder, grinding their pussies deeper onto the double-sided dildo. "Bugger me," Tracer gasps, her fingers digging into Widowmaker's shoulders as the ridges drag against her G-spot with each thrust. "You *really* think you're gonna wife me up after this, luv?"
Widowmaker's smirk is glacial, her hips snapping forward in retaliation, the bedframe groaning under their combined weight. "Six months," she repeats, breathless for the first time in years, her voice fraying at the edges. "You will wear my ring. And you will *beg* for this every night."
Sombra's fingers stutter against her clit, her cybernetic implants flickering as the feed zooms in on the moment the dildo *activates* a near-silcrete *whir* as hidden mechanisms engage.
Widowmaker's breath catches mid-thrust, her pupils dilating as the device *siphons* her cum just as she crests, the sensation foreign, *invasive*, her body tensing as it pulls her release deep into Tracer's womb instead of spilling between them.
Tracer's back arches off the mattress with a punched-out moan, her thighs clamping around Widowmaker's waist as the dildo *injects* Widowmaker's cum into her, the pressure *blooming* inside her like a second orgasm. "F-fucking *hell*..." she chokes out, her vision whiting out as Widowmaker's hips jerk forward one final time, her own cum flooding the sniper's womb in turn.
Sombra cums so hard her implants *short-circuit*, her fingers drenched as she watches Widowmaker collapse onto Tracer, their sweat-slick bodies trembling in tandem. (Dios... *dios*, she's *breeding* her.) The hacker's last coherent thought before static consumes her vision is the way Widowmaker's lips brush Tracer's forehead...*gentle*, fucking *gentle* as she murmurs, "*Maintenant, tu es à moi.*"