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Kinktober 2019

Chapter Text

 

In hind sight, anyone but Tracer would have been better equipped to deal with Widowmaker.

It wasn’t that the young agent wasn’t capable- if anything, her enduring hope and compassion in the face of violence was an inspiration for the older, weathered members of Overwatch. Tracer was the next generation- spunky, bright, and determined to make their world a better one.

It’s just, well.

She just happened to be very, hopelessly, gay.

 

  “How could you?” Tracer demands, shaking the frame of the bed. Widowmaker’s still form stared at the ceiling, make prone not only by her new mutations as a result of Talon, but also by the restraints keeping her against the bed. Cuffs keep her hands and legs secure to the edge, her body and neck tight with bindings cross her figure. Tracer jostles the bedframe again, and though Widowmaker’s body twitches as a result, her eyes stay cold.

            “You’ve murdered so many,” Tracer murmurs, voice low. “Do you even remember their names? Their faces?” Widowmaker takes a slow blink, infrequent, odd, and Tracer grimaces.

            “No,” she answers herself, tightly, and the push against the bed is purposeful.

            “You never really cared, did you? The lives you’ve ruined; the people you’ve helped kill. I’d ask, again, but you never know, do you? You’re just, you’re just,” Tracer closes her eyes tight, hands clenching, before she lets loose a cruel chuckle.

            “Just a puppet now. Talon’s, no less.”

            Widowmaker makes no response, no movement, nothing but the cold press of her body against the white bed. Tracer runs her hands along the edge of the bed, pulling on the blanket, and shakes her head.

            “I used to admire you,” she confesses, gentle in the hot air. “You were Amelie, beautiful, bold. You inspired me to be free.”

            She scoffs, shaking her head, moving to walk from the bed to the door opposing. The white room, so sterile, so neat, is a sharp contrast to the confusion and nostalgia that wracks her brain.

            “I had the biggest crush on you,” she laughs, something rude, something cruel. The dramatic turn to face Widowmaker is unnecessary, a flair, but she follows through just to place one hand on the skinny blue ankle of her captive.

            “Do you even see me? If I touched you, would you even know?”

            Awful, guilty, desire. Widowmaker’s face doesn’t twitch, her chest doesn’t rise, what little human matter left of her gone the moment her body hit the bed, restraints chaining her down. Tracer slides her hand upward, closer, eyes still on Widowmaker.

            “You kissed me.” It’s the truth. First year, charity ball, her in a short pink dress and Amelie, only Amelie then, in a long purple one. It was an impossibility for her to do anything but stare, lost, dazed, at the beauty that graced the dance floor, the smile adorning her pale face. Smooth, clear, unlike the dirty freckles that dotted her own.

            Amelie had kissed every one, calling them stars.

            She’s Widowmaker, now.

            “You kissed me,” Tracer repeats, louder, harsher, and her hand comes up to rest on the green hospital gown barely covering Widowmaker’s legs. Her armor, weaponry, removed long ago for the sake of safety. Her mind was never quite there to begin with.

            “You kissed me!” Tracer shouts, and her hand punches into the mattress between Widowmaker’s thighs, the surface warping to her touch.

“I had Emily, and you kissed me anyway!”

            Widowmaker twitches.

            “I loved you,” Tracer trembles, her eyes narrow as they trace the blue form beneath her. “I had Emily, but I loved you. And you had Gerald.” The weight of the bed lightens, her hand unfurling to rest on Widowmaker’s thigh, suddenly exhausted.

            “Amelie, when will you come back to us?”

            Widowmaker blinks, long and slow and tired.

            And then her eyes move from the ceiling to the hand resting on her thigh.

            “Emily was a good girl.”

“What?” Tracer yelps, leaping back. Her hands twitch for her pocket, the communicator tucked in the side for cases of emergency. Still, she cannot bring herself to grasp it, Widowmaker’s eyes tracing her movement.

“Emily.” Widowmaker murmurs, airy and listless. Her chest stills, her eyes wander, though her limbs stay cold.

“Do you, do you remember? Amelie, is that really you?” Hope and despair twist in Tracer, the realization of what could be occurring seizing her chest tight. Mercy should be here, not her, here to grasp Amelie and persuade her with pretty words and promises of safety, friendship. Tracer swallows, throat sticky, her hands inching to the communicator once more.

“Tracer.” Widowmaker whispers, and her hands twist this time, waving her closer. She shouldn’t, she really shouldn’t, but Tracer finds her feet tiptoeing without her command. 

“We can make you better,” Tracer plead, grasping the edge of the table. Widowmaker blinked, once, twice, and the fluttering of her lashes against her blue skin drove cruel hope into Tracer. She took in a breath, slow, able, and spoke.

“Tracer. Kiss me.” Tracer rears back, eyes wide, word echoing in the room.

“Excuse me, what!” Inane, crazy. Widowmaker shakes her head, barely, neck still caught in the leather band strapped to the bed.

“Tracer.” Widowmaker calls again, high, pretty, and Tracer swallows. This isn’t right, Widowmaker’s not right, driven mad by chemicals and testing and torture. Talon had sunk their claws into her, and even Mercy could not guarantee that there was a way back.

But.

But.

“I’m cold.”

She is, and Tracer knows that. Knows her body temperature is a cool 8 degrees, knows her fingers are freezing to the touch. Knows that her blood pumps slow, so slow, so Talon can send her spiraling under the waves and still live. Knows that Widowmaker is cold from her blood to her hands to her heart, freezing, brittle shards.

“Lena,” Widowmaker whispers.

Amelie was so warm.

“Don’t do this,” Tracer warns, but her feet move, and her arms move, and then she’s half on the bed, lips shaking. “Amelie, is you’re there, don’t do this.”

“Lena,” Widowmaker murmurs, and her eyes slip shut. “Do you remember?”

“Oi, oi! Hey, Amelie!” Tracer jostles the bed, arms shaking as she touches the bound skinny wrist. It is so difficult to tell whether she is breathing, her pulse so slow, her breaths so shallow.

Does she remember? Of course, of course, but Tracer cannot think. Her mind is as dizzying fast as any bullet to a normal eye, and yet, she can not determine this memory.

Only.

The charity ball, and the warmth of which Amelie has embraced her. The stars, twinkling in the night sky, lighting the steps Lena had danced upon. The chill of the evening, near Midnight, and the feeling of Amelie’s moist lips against her chapped ones.

Mercy is going to kill her.

Tracer places her hands on Amelie’s chest, pumping once, twice, thrice. She takes in a deep breath, and presses her lips against Widowmaker’s cold ones.

Nothing.

She does it again, and again, and then she’s gasping and shaking because Widowmaker breathes, eyes on her, a smile, a real, true smile, breaks out on her blue tinted skin.

“Lena,” Widowmaker murmurs, and it’s her, surely, but maybe it’s Amelie too, “Do you remember?”

“I do,” Tracer, Lena, shakes. Widowmaker smiles, then frowns, her pretty face pulled down as she stretches her bound hands. 

“Lena, I want to hug you.” Tracer stares at the blue form under her, at Widowmaker’s eyes, at her furrowed brows, at the wet lips that are formed so cutely. She runs her hands along the straps crossing her chest, chaining her down, stress and safety prioritized over her comfort.

She is a prisoner of war, after all.

“I can’t, Tracer shakes her head. Her hands trace the form of the straps still, and then she’s spread, laying flush with Widowmaker’s body, fingers entwined. Cold.

She’s so cold.

“Lena,” and it’s Amelie, and it’s Widowmaker, she does not know. “Lena, kiss me.”

She does, she does, the transfer of air becoming real kisses, tongues meeting, lips loud. It’s a little odd, spread out in the bed, the shocking chill of Widowmaker against her skin, the crinkle of her gown against Tracer’s uniform.

“Lena, Lena, Lena.” Spills from Amelie’s mouth, and then Tracer is kissing her ears and her neck, spreading blooms of warmth everywhere she goes. Amelie’s hands begin to warm and she smiles against the curve of her breasts, glancing upward at the blue skin.

“Amelie,” she breathes, at home, at ease, here in the present with Amelie. Amelie smiles at her, still cold but warmer, tilting her head forward. The strap around her neck catches and she chokes, startled, shaking violently.

“Amelie!” Spills from Tracer. Amelie is shaking, cold, colder now, the warmth Tracer has planted along her skin melting away as she shakes under the straps keeping her bound. She shakes her head, barely, and grits her teeth.

“Talon,” she hisses, quivers, voice tight and breathless. “Talon kept me bound.”

That doesn’t surprise Tracer. None of this should, the fear, the flashback, the whiplash of cold reality settling in happy spaces. But she’s Overwatch, an agency of creating joy and peace in the world, and she would not be an agent if she could not start with one person. Rebellion and fear grip at her fingers, and yet they are strong when she priest open the buckle of the neck strap, pulling them apart.

“Breathe,” Tracer urges and Widowmaker sighs, shakes, her shoulders twisting forward and back as she rocks against the bed.

“Hands,” she begs, but Tracer can’t, not that, and it must be visible on her face because Amelie screws her eyes shut, face pinched.

“Legs,” she says instead, and that; that Tracer can do. No weapon, no armor, and the belts of her ankles come undone. Her feet curl, pressed down into the mattress, and her shaking slows.

“Amelie?” Tracer tries.

“Lena,” she murmurs, tired eyes opening. “Kiss me, Lena.”

It is more and less difficult this time. Tracer kisses the edge of her lips, pulling on the bottom lip, letting Amelie pull hers. Her hands slide into the long hair spilling beneath her, left loose after capture, combing through the strands. Amelie shivers and gasps, drawing concern, but she’s smiling so brightly as she cranes her neck up without worry to plant a kiss on Tracer’s nape.

“I’m warming up,” Amelie chuckles. Warmth, joyous and sentimental, rush through Tracer as she palms a breast and moans. Amelie’s grin grows wicked as she kicks out with one leg to tug Tracer close.

“I’m quite nude like this. Would you like to join me?” A grin splits both their faces as Tracer leans in to kiss again, saliva spilling from the corner of Amelie’s mouth. Her hands make fast work of her clothes, jacket and belt hitting the floor with a noisy thud. Her shirt, caught by the chronal accelerator across her chest, stays on. Her leggings do not, though tight as they are, and Amelie chuckles as Tracer hops on one foot while pulling the other off.

“Don’t laugh!” Tracer pouts. Her whining is quickly cut off into moans as Amelie kisses her again, tongue poking at the roof of her mouth, their lips curled into a smile.

“Lena, have you ever scissored before?” The word sounds so rough in Amelie’s gentle voice and Lena laughs. She plays with the edge of Amelie’s gown, knowing she has no underwear underneath, and winks.

“What do you think we brits are best at?” Amelie gives and exaggerated roll of her eyes at that, but there’s no denying the wetness that coats the inside of her thighs. Lena slides a hand at the surface, as cool as the rest of Amelie’s new body. But her genitals are the same, familiar, and it is easy enough for Lena to press two fingers into her vagina.

Amelie moans, warm, needy, legs crossing over Lena’s back to pull her in. She smiles something pretty, beading sweat beginning to dot her face, hospital gown crinkling in her haste.

“Lena, please,” she sighs, wriggling her bottom. “I want us to do it together.”

Sunny brightness flares in Lena’s chest at the words. She grins, smearing her wet fingers against the bed, shuffling out of her panties. In the past she might have been embarrassed about the hair that shapes her groin, tangled and wild as the hair on her head. Now she enjoys the contrast with the smooth nudity of Amelie’s skin as she lines them together, legs carefully angled.

“Ready?” The smirk is undeniable in her voice and Amelie groans, exaggerated, before thrusting upward without warning. Tracer yelps, surprise nearly sending her tumbling from the bed, her hands outstretched to wrap around Amelie’s form.

“My love,” Amelie purrs, “I have been ready.”

Lena smiles, slotting them together again, this time careful as they slowly grind. Her hands shake, digging just slightly into the blue skin beneath, drawing red or blue blood. Amelie shivers and gasps, back barely arching against the straps still tight across her abdomen. Lena’s hands grapple with them, snapping the buckle open, sucking and biting at the bare breasts and stomach beneath.

“Lena, oh, Lena,” Amelie calls, her moans overcoming words as her legs shake. They close in tighter at Lena, their fluids smearing as they move, and Lena quivers as pleasure racks her form. Amelie lifts her hips to properly rock their clits against each other, and Lena shouts as pleasure takes its hold on her.

Her eyes screw shut, hands tight against Amelie’s back, mouth open in pleasure between Amelie’s breasts. Her body shakes, fully, the white walls and ceiling glaring bright as they meld between, drowning out Amelie’s blue form. She says something, maybe, but Lena cannot think beyond pleasure.

It is abruptly cut off by a hand around her neck, strong, terribly strong even by skinny fingers, and then Tracer is tossed from the bed onto the floor. She startles, hands flying to her midriff, but the communicator tucked so securely in her pocket is now crumpled under her clothes discarded in the room. Amelie, Widowmaker, stands on the bed, broken straps dangling from her wrists.

“Amelie!” Tracer shouts, but it is too late. Even nude, hospital gown ripped from her form with sharp nails, Widowmaker is a threat to be reckoned with. Her armor and weaponry are locked away in a separate compound, Tracer knows this, and the cameras monitoring the base will notice Widowmaker’s escape. Even if she dies here, Widowmaker will be captured again.

That was the plan. 

The air fizzles to her left, and Sombra appears. Tracer feels her heart seize, cold, colder than the touch of Widowmaker’s skin, at the smug grin on Sombra’s face. Her hand waves at the air and there is Widowmaker’s rifle and gear on the floor.

“Love the show, chica. Very sweet,” Sombra greets, cackling delight. Then she’s gone, back to a fizzle of air, Widowmaker with her. She must be in the room, still, and Tracer is careful to stand before dashing to her jacket, communicator still there.

A hand grips her wrist hard, pulling her hack onto the floor. She grunts, legs kicking, until a familiar pair of lips ghost hers.

“Remember, Lena.”

Even as the form disappears and alarms sound in the complex, no doubt warning every agent of her escape, Tracer cannot find strength in her to run after the two. Her mind spins, dizzy, the words closing in on her even after Mercy and S76 burst into the room to recover her nude form.

Remember.

Remember.

She cannot.