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Your Words Can't Hurt Me (These Shades Are Gucci)

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Akande stares down at them from the loading dock of the drop ship, hands on his hips in very much the manner of a stern parent. It feels odd, because Akande is only twelve years older than her, but Widowmaker supposes that this is the price one pays for vacation. The Grecian sun beats down on her shoulders, skin numbed with cold already prickling beneath the sleeveless, backless shirt..

“Itinerary,” Akande says, voice rich and smooth. “Reaper, report.”

“BMX competition in three days,” Gabriel grates. He looks very charming in his neon yellow, Hawai’ian printed shirt, short jeans, and sandals, accented with a wide brimmed straw hat and deep red sunglasses. “I plan to enter, and I plan to win.

To punctuate his statement, his motorbike--black and shiny red metal, demonic mouths framing the wheels, built by his own two hands--is rolled down the track by a profusely sweating intern. Another one hauls down a grotesquely big suitcase. Any illusion of who it belongs to is shattered with a stamped image of Reaper’s mask on its surface.

“It has wheels,” Gabriel rumbles helpfully.

Akande turns his head as the intern lets out a victorious ohhh! as he guides the suitcase down to Gabriel’s side. “Sombra?”

Sombra plays with a hologram with her left hand, the other guiding an obnoxiously large cup of Starbucks iced coffee to her lips. She takes a deep sip, draining the last of her latte, slurping it up like a child. “Snorkeling,” Sombra says around her straw. “I’m gonna touch every sea urchin I can.”

Akande closes his eyes. Inhales, deeply. Relatable, Widowmaker thinks.

“Please. Don’t touch a sea urchin,” Akande drawls on the release of breath, his tone slightly amused.

“I’m gonna,” Sombra replies. “Just out of spite.”

“Very well. Talon will not foot the medical bills.”

Sombra finally looks up from her holoscreens, worrying her straw and sending droplets of latte tinted water over the concrete. “Starfish then,” she says, and Akande turns to Widowmaker now, brow raised.

“I,” Widowmaker begins, reaching up to let her hair down from its strict ponytail, “am going to sit by the pool. Perhaps the beach. I will sit in the sun, smell the breeze, and soak in the warmth.”

Akande is halfway through a nod when Widowmaker adds, “I am also going to fuck beautiful women. Repeatedly.”

Both of his eyebrows shoot up, and Akande blinks at her, speechless. Gabriel chokes on his spit. Sombra starts to poke her holoscreens with her straw, abandoning them to hold up her hand for a highfive without looking away from whatever secrets she is currently stealing. Widowmaker returns the gesture with a sharp smack of skin against skin, also without looking.

“Well,” Akande says, half laughing, “you are on vacation. Enjoy yourselves. We will return for you in two weeks. Considering the Prime Minister is footing the bill, charge anything you like to the tab. You’ve all earned it.”


The first two days are paradise. Widowmaker spends them by the poolside, slathered in sunscreen, listening to her music, and reading an erotic novel. The temperature never spikes to intolerable levels, and she stays curled beneath the umbrella. It’s on day three that she finally follows Sombra to the beach, white sands shifting in a light breeze as turquoise waters glitter like handfuls of gems. They carry with them folding chairs, towels, a cooler of ice with water, a beach bag full of little snacks, and a beacon to call for one of the little automaton waiters cruising up and down the shore to take and deliver drink orders. The essentials.

Widowmaker starts herself out with a mimosa, as it is still quite early. Sombra declines as Widowmaker begins to set up her sunning spot, stretching out beach chair and laying out her towel. They’re set up within a cropping of rock between them and the rest of the beach on both sides, though the anti-grav automatons have few difficulties finding them. As Widowmaker begins to rub the sunscreen into her skin, Sombra snaps on her ridiculous little flippers, casting her a look.

“Have you scored yet?” Sombra asks, without much fanfare. “Cause, like, the suite’s pretty much always open during the day. Gabe’s out biking around like a maniac and I have sea life to bother, so…”

“Not yet,” Widowmaker replies airily. “No one’s caught my attention.”

Which isn’t to say there hasn’t been a lack of interest. Widowmaker knows she makes quite the impression, and the women here are quite beautiful. But they’re docile. Boring. Or worse yet, shy. Conversation would be like pulling teeth, much less anything remotely physical. When she wants a tryst, Widowmaker would like it to be free of complications, thank you very much.

“Well, you’ve got time,” Sombra says, mistaking her following silence for disappointment. “Maybe you need to lower your standards?”

“This is a Louis Vuitton beach towel, Sombra. I lower my standards for no one.”

“Dig your own sexless grave, then. At least you’ll have me. I mean,” Sombra gestures to herself, “don’t I make the cut?”

Widowmaker doesn’t mean to do it, but she does. She bursts into laughter that quickly fizzles out at Sombra’s offended expression.

“Oh,” she coughs, choking back another chuckle or two. “You were serious.”

“You’re lucky I love you and we’re on vacation,” Sombra says, “or I would cockblock the ever loving shit out of you. I would make it my mission to make sure you never got a chance with a girl ever again. I would dedicate my life to the cause.”


“Picture it,” Sombra says, spreading her hands, “you’re alone with a beautiful woman, you start kissing her neck, maybe touching her ass.” At Widowmaker’s scowl, she amends, “Her breasts?” And when Widowmaker nods, she continues, “and then you’re about to hit third base, both of you just, like, ready to go and then I pop out of invisibility and whisper been here all along and…”

Sombra pauses for a moment. She’s flustered.

“That’s actually kind of hot,” she says, arms crossed with a hand to her chin in thought. “Can I do that?”

“No,” Widowmaker says plainly. “Don’t you have seafood to manhandle?”

Sombra laughs, and gives her a wink. “Okay, okay, I’m going. Enjoy the sun, araña. I’ll be back in like, an hour or two.”

Widowmaker bids her adieu with a wave of her fingers as she takes out her book and a bag of trail mix. It’s about thirty minutes later that she catches a flash of color in her peripherals, and she looks up from her book on instinct. She almost inhales her mouthful of trail mix as Tracer hustles down the shore, running straight through the shallows and foam, head thrown back in carefree laughter.

She’s wearing some kind of glowing backpack, a Union Jack towel trailing out from it and behind her like a cape. She’s wearing a tight red, white, and blue number, something like a bikini but with much less skin showing that Widowmaker’s own; she’s also added an ankle bracelet and water shoes. Tracer’s hair is held back by a sweatband, and she wears athletic sunglasses; her skin is glittery with sweat and surf, skin pinkened with what could become a sunburn if she doesn’t do something about it.

Tracer glances to the side. Spots her. Gives her a wave and a wink and then she’s vanished on the other side of the natural partition. Widowmaker stares after her, a little insulted, a little mystified. Then she hears a splash, a loud and very British, “ WHAT “, and then Tracer rounds back into view with her chest heaving.

Widowmaker leans back, bookmarking her place, and setting her trail mix back into her bag. “ Salut, ma chérie.

“You--you? You!” Tracer punctuates each word with a violent point of her finger as she stomps up to her spot, kicking up sand. “What the hell are you doing here?!”

“I’m on vacation.”

“Vaca--” Tracer sputters. Squints suspiciously. “You’re on vacation.

“I did not realize there was an echo in Greece,” Widowmaker says simply, folding her hands on her belly. “What are you doing here?”

“...Vacation,” Tracer says, and it’s like someone’s pricked her anger balloon with a small needle with the way she deflates, shoulders drooping. “Huh. What are the odds of this, eh?”

Widowmaker responds with a little shrug, trailing her eyes up and down Tracer’s body. An eyebrow quirks up. “Did you...fall into the water?” Her hair is limp and damp, and the towel hanging from her backpack is sagging enough for one edge to drag through the sand. It’s caked onto Tracer up to the tops of her knees from her mad rush to get to Widowmaker’s spot.

Tracer flushes deeper, and she grumbles, “Just gave me a startle, alright?”

Widowmaker laughs, then gestures to a spot of shade cast by the umbrella. “Sit. There are waters in the cooler, snacks in the bag. All purchased from the hotel bar, and unopened. No tampering.”

“Well, cheers then,” Tracer says. She moves over, lays out her wet towel and sits on it without complaint, digging out a bottle of water from the little cooler and sucking back half of it in one go. When she pulls the bottle away from her lips, Widowmaker realizes she’s been looking too long at that pretty mouth, and distracts herself with draining the last remains of her mimosa. She sets the glass against the sand, reaching for the beacon.

“So what’re your plans for vacation,” Tracer asks as Widowmaker hits the button. “And, most importantly, love, why are you wearing makeup at the beach?

“I plan to do exactly this,” Widowmaker answers, gesturing to herself, the beach, the atmosphere, “interspaced with, hopefully, no strings attached sex and plenty of cocktails. And I am wearing makeup because I like it, chérie, nothing more and nothing less.”

“Huh,” Tracer says, and her already flushed cheeks grow a touch darker. “Well, if it’s not goin’ too far for me to say this, I think it’ll help you with the uh...the second, bit, of your plans.”

“Mm.” Widowmaker smirks. “It was the ulterior motive for the lipstick, yes.”

“Well, then!” Tracer hurries to gulp the rest of her water, eyes averted. Widowmaker turns on her side, propping her head up on a hand. “I, uh...should be getting back soon-ish. Gotta group up. Mercy’s in a costume competition and 76’s grilling. An’ I really shouldn’t be interrupting your vacation, weird as that is to even say.”

“Stay,” Widowmaker murmurs. “We so rarely have the chance to talk, you and I. Perhaps,” and here, she hesitates, “we could take advantage of this odd sort of truce?”

Tracer looks at her again, then takes off her glasses. She looks down at her sandy legs, chews her bottom lip, before she slips off her back pack. She reaches in, fiddles with something, and the blue glow increases just a little. Her accelerator, Widowmaker realizes, just as Tracer sets it against the cooler.

“Alright,” Tracers says, and grins. “But that means you can’t shoot me if I get on your nerves. You invited me, after all!”

“Do you see a rifle on me, chérie?” Widowmaker waves a hand down her own figure, watches Tracer follow it with wide, shining eyes. “No? Then you have nothing to fear.”

So they talk. And it is easy, somehow, easier than it should be. In two weeks they will be enemies once more, on different sides of a war that will shape the world for better or worse. But for now, on this beach, in this secret little spot among white sands and roaring surf, they are two women.

How...utterly uncomplicated, Widowmaker thinks. There is a sort of lingering tension in the air as they talk, as Tracer scoots closer and closer, leaning forward to listen as they swap work stories, laughing and drinking water. Eyes linger. There is a shift in Widowmaker’s chest as her heart starts to pick up speed by a fraction. She lets Tracer use her sunscreen as the drink waiter finally floats down from over the rocks, hovering close by.

“Orders, ma’am?” the waiter asks. Widowmaker glances to Tracer, tilts her head to ask, and Tracer nods her head as she cracks open another water, digs out a small bag of pretzels.

“Mm, something stronger this time.” Widowmaker purses her lips, the says, eyes drawn to how Tracer lifts the treat to her lips, “Sex on the Beach?”

Tracer fumbles the pretzel with a splutter.

“Excellent choice, ma’am,” says the automaton. “Will that be all?”

“Perhaps a Screaming Orgasm for my…,” Widowmaker searches for the right word as Tracer covers her mouth, cheeks blazing red, settling on, “companion? Yes. Put it on the tab.” Widowmaker swipes the room card across the waiter’s sensor.

“Right away, ma’am. This unit shall return shortly.” And it’s gone again, anti gravs whirring across the sand.

Tracer watches it leave. Then she looks at Widowmaker and says in a tone of voice Widowmaker cannot read, “Was that your attempt at being subtle?”

Widowmaker blinks. “Y...eeees?” At Tracer’s raised brow, she corrects herself, “No. Not at all.” And at another bit of silence, tries, “Yes?” again, “This is very confusing.”

Tracer chews through a handful of pretzels, giggling, and washes it down with another drink of water. She’s actually quite delicate when she eats, which is a surprise Widowmaker will never admit to. After she swallows, and licks away a few granules of salt, she looks up at Widowmaker again with a sort of twinkle she did not expect.

“I mean,” Tracer begins in a low voice that curls in Widowmaker’s gut, “I’d be a liar if I said I never thought about it.” She tilts her head, the gesture innocent. “...Do you? Wanna? Fool around a bit, see where it goes?”

Widowmaker’s eyes widen. She sits up a little straighter, drawing in a short breath. “I...have protection,” she says, and Tracer flushes up to her ears. “Though I am clean, if there are other concerns--”

“No, no, I wasn’t worried. I’m clear to fly too.” Tracer rocks up to her knees, shifting until she is a mere breath away, kneeling in front of her lap. Her hands reach out, careful, landing on either side of Widowmaker’s hips but not touching just yet. “I’m on the pill, too, so...I mean. If you wanted to nix that…”

Widowmaker looks Tracer over, calculating. “You are not concerned for the sand?”

“I mean, unless you’re gonna shove a handful of the stuff up my snatch or you went wild before I got here, I figure we’re in the clear on that.”

Widowmaker makes a face, before it melts away with a snort of laughter. Her chest feels full and warm, yet light. It’s nice. She feels very nice. Something in her expression must give it away, because Tracer licks her lips, makes a move come up onto the chair when Widowmaker puts a hand to her chest, gently pushing her away.

“Let me move the towel,” she murmurs.

“What? No, you can leave it,” Tracer says, but she sits back as Widowmaker stands, takes the towel off her chair to start folding it. “Honestly, you could just give it a wash in the ocean…”

“This,” Widowmaker sniffs, punctuating her word with a snap of the fabric, “is a six hundred dollar towel. I am not having sex on it.”

“Oh my god,” Tracer groans, rolling her eyes, “then why did you even bring it out here! If you were lookin’ to get laid and all!”

“Because,” Widowmaker stresses, “this is a six hundred dollar towel and it makes me feel nice to lay on it.”

“That is so pretentious,” Tracer huffs, but it becomes a laugh. “Fine, fine! Chair looks comfy enough anyway.”

“It’s a rental,” Widowmaker says as she tucks the towel inside of the snack bag, then smirks. “It will survive.”

She pulls Tracer up, presses her down to lay against the chair while she unwinds the sheer, flower printed fabric around her hips. With that, she dusts off most of the sand off of Tracer’s trim legs--just in case--and then tosses it aside to straddle her, sitting on her hips while keeping most of her weight on her own knees.

Their first kiss is soft, all things considered. Not chaste, not with how Tracer’s left hand flies immediately to her lower back, long fingers warm and short trimmed nails lightly scratching softly against her skin. Not with how their lips press and pull, dragging and soft. Not with how Widowmaker lets more of her weight sink down, pressing their chests together.

Tracer’s other hand trails up her arm, squeezes against her bicep just before it moves to tangle in her hair. Widowmaker hums with satisfaction, smiling against Tracer’s mouth as she gives it a gentle tug, pulling her back just far enough to see Tracer smiling just as wide, before they draw back together for another kiss.

Widowmaker shifts, gently parting Tracer’s legs. She’s only a little amused at the ease and speed with which they spread for her, hooking over her waist and drawing her into the soft cradle of her hips.

“Let’s see if I can give you a screaming orgasm before your drink gets here,” Widowmaker purrs against Tracer’s mouth, trailing her lips to her ear as Tracer squirms beneath her, half laughing, half gasping.

“Oh, that was awful. You’re awful at this,” Tracer says, then twitches when Widowmaker gives a warning nip against the lobe of her ear. “Well, you are! At least say that kind of shit in French, it’s hotter.”

Mm, very well, you pain in the ass,” Widowmaker cooes in French. She isn’t expecting the sharp pinch to her rear in retaliation, or the sharp spike of pleasure that runs up her spine from it.

“I can understand you,” Tracer grumbles, pressing a hot kiss against the side of her throat. “Your shit dirty talk just sounds better in French.”

I’ll show you dirty, Widowmaker thinks, and she snags Tracers hands and pins them above her head with one of her own, licking her lips at the surprised noise she makes against her neck. She nuzzles against Tracer’s cheek, rolling hip in a slow, dragging motion. The friction sends pleasure zinging up and down her spine, and heat beats alongside her sluggish heart as she slowly grows in the brief cut of her swimsuit.

“Oh, fuck,” Tracer mutters above her, giving a testing pull against her grip. Widowmaker’s hand does not budge. “You’re...right ripped, aren’t you?”

“Mmhm,” Widowmaker hums. “Can I trust you to be a good girl and keep your hands where they are?”

Fuck yeah,” Tracer breathes.

Widowmaker releases her hands, only to run her own against Tracer’s exposed stomach. She purrs, feeling the warm, damp stretch of muscle and soft skin. Just below her navel she can find almost invisible fuzz of a happy trail, and follows it until she hits the hem of Tracer’s swim shorts. She drags her cold palms up flexing, sculpted muscle until her fingertips hook beneath Tracer’s top.

“May I?”

“Yes,” Tracer whispers.

Widowmaker hums as she pushes both hands beneath the stretchy fabric, her hands filled with the soft weight of Tracer’s breasts as her top bunches and hikes around her wrists. Tracer groans at the touch, pressing her chest into Widowmaker’s touch as she inhales. Widowmaker laughs low in her throat, tweaks her nipples between two fingers with a sharp flick of her wrists.

“Feels good?” she croons.

“Yeah, yeah yeah,” Tracer pants. “Really good…”

Widowmaker stops her petting to roll up the top of Tracer’s swimsuit to her collarbone. Her freckles trail down to her sternum and the tops of her breasts. As does her flush, Widowmaker notes with a smirk. She slinks down Tracer’s body, until she can press a kiss in the center of her sternum, feel her diaphragm expanding against her chin at the motion.

Then she bites, not too hard of course, just pinches a bit of skin between her teeth and sucks hard. Tracer gasps sharply at the sting, and then melts beneath her as she marks her way over to one breast. She flicks the tip of her tongue against her nipple, and Tracer moans for her so beautifully.

And so freely, for that matter.

“You’d think you’d want to be quiet,” Widowmaker murmurs, lips brushing the stiff, pink tip as her other hand seizes the other, pinching and flicking. “We might be hidden from private eyes, ma chérie, but that doesn’t mean they couldn’t hear you.”

“My team’s-- shit,” Tracer hisses when Widowmaker pulls the peak into her mouth, grazing her teeth against sensitive skin, “--far away ‘nough, an’ honestly, this beach’s probably seen people do worse than fool around. And you did promise me a screaming orgasm, y’know.”

Widowmaker releases her with a pop, laughing as she lips her upper lip. “The gauntlet is thrown, then.”

She tends to the other breast, leaving a deep, red mark on the sensitive underside to Tracer’s vocal delight. She shifts further down, leaving a visible trail with lipstick and lovebites until she nuzzles Tracer’s belly button, hands roaming around her to cup her firm ass with two greedy hands. That almost invisible trail tickles her lips as she asks, hoarsely, “ May I?

“Yes,” Tracer bites out, and her hips shift up. “Oh my god, yes, please.

The plea sends another bolt to her groin, and Widowmaker nearly growls as she lifts up on her knees just enough to get her hands on the hem. She yanks Tracer’s shorts down to her knees, and Tracer carefully pulls a leg up to get it out of them. When she spreads her knees for Widowmaker’s view, unprompted, Widowmaker finds the breath in her lungs rushing out in a deep exhale.

She’s pretty seashell pink, with only marginally tamed hair. She’d almost been expecting a landing strip. She might stare a touch too long; Tracer whimpers softly, starting to close her legs, face twisted with a touch of trepidation. Widowmaker reacts quickly, reaching out to stop her.

“No, no, chérie,” she husks. “Don’t hide yourself from me.” She licks her lips, eyes drawn to the red streaks and stains of her lipstick all down Tracer’s torso. Tracer allows her to part her legs again, carefully, slowly. “You are beautiful,” she admits, her voice raw.

“This is better than your dirty talk,” Tracer tries to joke, but her voice cracks in half and bleeds into a soft moan as she shifts her hips, swishing them side to side.

Widowmaker chuckles. She hooks her hands beneath Tracer’s knees, coaxing them up to her chest--marveling, only for a moment, at her flexibility--before she takes her first taste, a full swipe with her flattened tongue. She tastes salty, musky, heavy on her tongue with a light sweetness that is unexpected. Tracer wheezes above her, and Widowmaker turns her eyes up.

Just in time for the sunglasses she’s had perched precariously on her hairline to slide down and fit on the bridge of her nose. Tracer snorts, cackles around a groan.

“You rich, pretentious fuck,” Tracer says, writhing. “God, this is kind of hot? Are they G-guh-Gucci?”

Widowmaker rewards her with another deep hum, wraps her lips around the little blooming bud of her clitoris to coax it from its hood. She digs red painted nails into Tracer’s thighs, greedy for more, for everything. Tracer’s slick runs against her chin as she presses closer, lapping her way down from her clit to the soft little dip of her entrance and stroking all the way back up. Each inhale fills her with the human, endearing scent of Tracer--and the tangy harshness of sunscreen, the backdrop of sea salt--and she finds herself moaning freely against her soft flesh, her own hips stirring against the long stretch of the beach chair.

She parts from Tracer for a moment, panting and licking her lips. Tracer has moved her hands only slightly, enough to tug off the silly little sweatband to run her fingers through her wild hair, tangled with wide eyes turned a deep, rich brown from her desire.

“Dont,” Tracer pants, “don’t stop now love, oh please, please, please don’t stop.

“Hands,” Widowmaker grates, and adds, “You may move them however you’d like.”

She ducks her head again and an instant later she can feel Tracer’s hands against the back of her head, cupping her nape, tugging her closer. Widowmaker growls, drags her nails against the backs of Tracer’s thighs.

“Oh fuck--” Tracer’s hips snap. “Oh fuck, I’m gonna come--love, love, I’m gonna come.”

Widowmaker moans encouragingly against her clit, sucking it back into her mouth to let it back out with a pop. She circles it with the tip of her tongue as Tracer’s cries slowly rise in pitch, little yelps, until she grits her teeth and bucks with a sharp, “Yessss, fuck yes, yes, yes!” beneath her breath.

Not quite a scream. Which won’t do.

Widowmaker eats her through her first orgasm, sucking back her taste with greedy lashes. While Tracer writhes and bucks her way through the aftershocks, Widowmaker draws two fingers into her mouth and sucks until they’re slick enough, and slides them in deep. Tracer whines high in her throat, her hands tightening in Widowmaker’s hair.

“W-whoa, whoa--fuck is that really two?” Tracer stirs her hips, and Widowmaker rewards her with a steady thrust; curling her fingers on the withdrawal, scissoring them apart when she pushes in. Tracer parts easily around them, her cunt pulsing around them.

“No.” Widowmaker slides in a third and bites her lip on her next smirk, her thumb circling Tracer’s clit in short, sharp turns, listening to her groan for them. “Now there are three.”

“So--soon after, love, I’m not--” Tracer’s head tosses against the built in pillow of the chair, her chest heaving. “--I’m sensitive.

Widowmaker slows to a stop, cocks her head to the side. “Does it hurt?”

“N-no, no, what the fuck, don’t stop!” Tracer pushes her hips against the fingers pressed inside of her, and she sports the most debauched pout Widowmaker has ever seen. “Might be a little bit before I cum again, s’all.”

“I’m patient.” Widowmaker grins. “I have yet to hear you scream. Yelp? Mm. Moan? So beautifully,” she says, punctuating the word with a deep thrust, “ but scream? Ah, you’re making me work for it, aren’t you.”

“Nothin’ worth it--,” Tracer interrupts herself with a deeper moan, scrabbling her hands against Widowmaker’s shoulders, her back, “--ever--mmgh--came e-easy, yeah?”

Widowmaker slides in a fourth finger. Tracer clamps around her digits with a gasp, and a flick of her thumb has her cumming again, thrashing against the beach chair. Her legs spasm as Widowmaker withdraws, and she stares with glassy eyes as Widowmaker raises her fingers to her lips and cleans them off with her tongue.

“Water,” Tracer croaks, “then kisses, please.”

Widowmaker grunts in reply, reaching over to the cooler and plucking out two bottles of water and her shift from the sand. She pats her face dry with the latter, avoiding any sand, and then takes deep pulls of her drink from the water bottle. Her skin feels too tight for the energy running through her, and her heart--while still fatalistically slow--is pumping as fast as it ever has, making her shake from the onslaught of adrenaline and lust.

Tracer finishes over half of her water, sets it aside. Her eyes drag from Widowmaker’s heaving chest, and hungrily zero in at her groin. Widowmaker finishes off her water, drops it down to the sand--she’ll pick up her litter later, obviously--and drags both of her hands up into her mussed hair, fluffing it. Tracer bites her lip at the sight, at the bulge growing more prominent by the moment.

As an afterthought, Widowmaker removes her sunglasses, lets them join the water bottle with a careless flick of the wrist.

“Can I--do you want me to return the favor?” Tracer looks up at her with glossy, sex softened eyes.

“I don’t have any toys out here,” Widowmaker huffs. “I can’t...go as often as you apparently can, chérie.” She stretches for her beach bag again. “If you’ve changed your mind about protection, I have some--”

“Oh no, no no, that’s still so on the table for me if it is for you.” Tracer’s warm hands catch her waist, framing her ribs, guiding her back. “C’mere, gorgeous.”

Widowmaker dips her head with a smile, accepts the sloppy kiss Tracer presses to her lips. Tracers hands move over her ribs, then down to her back until they rest against her ass; she groans at the first tentative squeeze, then growls and nips Tracer’s lip hard when her grip grows tighter, clever hands kneading with a surprising strength.

Tracer pecks her way down to the center of her chest; a flash of white teeth against the red bow, a jerk of the head, and Tracer undoes the knot of her bikini top in an instant. Her hot little mouth wastes no time seeking out one of her nipples, and the shock leaves her gasping, one hand tangling in Tracer’s hair and the other petting over her neck, a shoulder, digging nails into her bicep.

Chérie,” she pants. When Tracer looks up through her lashes, Widowmaker licks her lips and whispers, “Good girl.

Tracer whimpers. Widowmaker relishes in the sound, but pushes her back just a little, shuddering as Tracer digs her nails into her skin, like a lioness denied her kill.

“I don’t need much more foreplay,” she rasps. Tracer’s eyes light up and she nods quickly, shimmying further up onto the beach chair and rests against its raised back, breathing hard. Widowmaker strips off her bottoms to mid thigh quickly, quietly huffing in relief as she frees herself from the constrictive material.

“Oh my god,” Tracer groans. “It’s not fair that you’re so bloody pretty. Are you sure you don’t want me to…” She flits her eyes down, licks her lips, “...prep you a bit? Unless you got lube in that beach bag of tricks of yours.”

Widowmaker has to take a moment to just breathe, because now she’s thinking about Tracer’s eager lips wrapped around her cock, sucking her down and gripping tight with those greedy fingers and--

She knows she wouldn’t last five minutes.

“I--” Widowmaker clears her throat, feels the heat of her flush deep in her skin, “--I have lube. Yes.”

She drags the bag over and tries not to hear Tracer mutter, “Rubbish,” under her breath. She reaches behind bags of junk food to a little black pouch she stashed beneath it all, and figures that--just for own peace of mind--asking one last time wouldn’t hurt.

“I have condoms,” Widowmaker reminds. “Are you sure...?”

“We’re clean, I’m on the pill.” Tracer smiles gently, and as Widowmaker fishes out the small bottle of lubricant, Tracer takes her cheeks in both hands and guides her into a soft kiss. “You’re very sweet for asking this much, though.”

“I--consent is important in matters like this,” Widowmaker mutters with a scowl and tries not to feel like a schoolgirl stammering in front of her crush.

“Even sweeter! Had an ex-girlfriend who took it off mid-go and I didn’t realize until she’d already come.” Tracer shudders in disgust. “Kicked her ass up an’ down my block, hand to God.”

“...Do you still have her address--”

Tracer pinches her cheeks. “Don’t cut the mood with murder, love.”

Widowmaker huffs, and pops open the cap. She pours a generous amount in her hand, wraps it around herself and hums as she slowly strokes. Tracer watches her, which adds another element of heat to her motions; Widowmaker feels sweat sliding down the back of her neck as she twists her wrist on the trip up, grunts from the bolt of pleasure.

She removes her hand when she sees Tracer swallowing hard, passing her slick fingers against the folds of Tracer’s sex. She doesn’t really need it, Widowmaker feels, but it doesn’t hurt to make sure it doesn’t hurt.

“God,” Tracer whispers tightly. “How much longer are you gonna make me wait? C’mon, love…”

Widowmaker bites her own lip at that, and with another demanding squeeze from Tracer’s legs, she moves up. Wraps a hand around her base until her head slides against heat and wetness like a shy kiss, and with a simultaneous rock from both of them she slides two inches in easily.

“Hoo--” Tracer breathes, eyes fluttering. Her hands roam over Widowmaker’s upper back, petting over her hair, “--that’s--nice.

Widowmaker grunts an assent, jaw clenched tight. Their earlier play and the helping of lube left Tracer wet enough to take even more of her cock on the next tentative thrust, and by the the third withdrawal and return her pelvic bone presses snugly against Tracer’s. Widowmaker grabs at the back of the chair’s headrest with her hands, arms framing Tracer’s flushed face.

She stirs her hips, softly grinding her hips against Tracer’s, and is rewarded with a deep throated groan from her throat and Tracer’s nails digging into her shoulders.

They fly to her hair when she pulls her hips back and thrusts, hard.

“Oh shit,” Tracer hisses, “yeah, yeah, that’s perfect, fuck--”

Widowmaker growls and steals a breathless, wet kiss as she does it again, and again, going just a little harder each time, a little faster, until all she can do is pant like an animal against Tracer’s open mouth. Beneath the sound of Tracer’s whines, her high little moans that she smiles around, Widowmaker can hear the slap of their skins against each other. She slows her pace just a bit, and tries to get English or French to her tongue to ask if Tracer is okay.

She doesn’t even need to speak. Tracer practically sobs, “Fuck me,” like a demand, and draws her nails down Widowmaker’s back hard enough to leave welts. Their sting works like a whip to her back; Widowmaker gets one foot in the sand for traction, tightens her grip against the headrest and gets back to it.

Her teeth find Tracer’s neck and she bites, snarls against her sweet, sweaty skin. She can feel the heels of Tracers feet find her lower back and dig in like spurs, folding up her body to bring Widowmaker closer, harder, faster until it feels like they’re going to break through the sturdy metal of the chair.

A singing ball of heat nestles in Widowmaker’s lower belly; she finishes her mark against Tracer’s pulse, panting against her ear, “I’m close.”

Tracer bucks beneath her, shuddering. “Oh yes, yes yes, yes--”

She nips her ear. Manages to pull her brain cells together to ask--whether for permission or not, “Inside?”

Please!” is what Tracer wails back.

Widowmaker snaps her hips forward, grinds hard, and she bites against Tracer’s shoulder as the heat rushes through her in tingling waves. Each pulse of her orgasm draws a whimper from her own throat, another frantic grind against Tracer’s soft body; dimly, Widowmaker can feel Tracers nimble fingers snaking between the, circling her own clit.

Then, still coming, Widowmaker feels it. Tracer’s cunt squeezes around her in demanding, milking waves, coaxing another shot, another burst. Tracer throws her head back and screams, wordless ecstasy that echoes faintly.

They rock against each other, and though Widowmaker finishes first, she doesn’t stop stirring her hips for Tracer’s benefit until she slumps against the chair, hands falling against her chest, eyelids fluttering.

“What,” Tracer croaks after a few minutes of harried panting and stillness, “what year is it?”

Widowmaker blinks rapidly, trying to clear the fuzz out of her mind to answer. “ 2077.”

“Oh good,” Tracer says, and opens her eyes to give Widowmaker a lazy, satisfied grin, “‘cause I was worried you’d fucked me into the next century there, for a bit.”

Widowmaker surprises herself by laughing, rich and full. Tracer lets out a hoot of her own, legs squeezing her waist. The low hum of an anti grav unit breaks up the mirth. Widowmaker looks up and sees the waiter hovering there, though by the disturbance of the sand it hasn’t been there very long.

“Your drinks, ma’am,” the waiter says. “Also, purchase of the beach chair has been added to your tab.” And though it has no self aware AI like an omnic, it responds in what Widowmaker can only be a dry voice, “For obvious reasons.”

“Right. Yes.” Widowmaker clears her throat weakly, and Tracer covers her face with both hands beneath her, quivering with laughter. “You can um, set the drinks on the cooler…”

“Very good, ma’am.” The unit does so. “Is there anything else this unit can help you with?”

“...Napkins.” The unit produces a stack of soft tissues from its inner compartment. “That...will be all, thank you.”

Tracer’s muffled laughter bursts into cackles as the waiter leaves. “Oh, I am mortified. God, there’s gonna be such a mess when you pull out, no wonder your rental became a purchase. I told you to leave the towel.”

Widowmaker thinks about getting her mess on her very expensive towel and she cannot help the biological reaction that follows. Tracer blinks up at her with a frown, and looks down between them.

“Did...did you just go soft when I suggested--

Widowmaker withdraws, flustered, shoving a handful of napkins into Tracer’s face while she takes a few for her own, cleaning herself off with precise, clinical strokes. Tracer yelps a curse and brings the napkins between her legs to mop up. Widowmaker huffs a laugh, ties the front of her top, pulls her swimsuit bottoms back onto her hips, retrieves her shift and sunglasses and makes sure they are sand free. Once redressed, she fluffs her hair again, then opens up the pouch to retrieve her lipstick and a compact. She redoes her lips and then looks down.

At least the beach chair doesn’t have any...visible stains. Widowmaker still hesitates before putting down her towel again, but Tracer’s towel is still soggy and sandy to boot. That done, Widowmaker pulls out a small garbage bag from beneath the cooler and starts to collect their refuse. She hears a snap, and when she looks up she sees Tracer tugging the top of her bikini back into place. Silently, she puts a handful of napkins into the open bag Widowmaker offers, moving gingerly.

Widowmaker frowns. “Are you hurt?”

“A little sore,” Tracer admits, “but in all the best ways.”

“...Good.” Widowmaker stretches back out against the beach chair, seizing her Sex on the Beach and taking a testing sip. “Magnifique.

Tracer hovers, and it isn’t until Widowmaker curls a finger in her direction that she joins her on the chair again, curled against her side, picking up her own drink on the way. At the first sip, Tracer coughs a little; “Oof, that’s stronger than I thought. Tasty, though.” She taps the rim of her glass against Widowmaker’s with a soft, ‘cheers, love’, taking another sip.

Widowmaker reclines in the shade, one hand holding her drink and the other petting through Tracer’s hair. Without a bath proper, it’s a little stiff and matted, but she doesn’t care. Tracer drains her drink faster and then wraps both arms around her waist, turning on her side. One leg is thrown over her hips, almost possessive, and Tracer hums low in her throat.

“You smell so nice,” she murmurs, voice soft. “Nice and cool…”

“Don’t fall asleep, ma chérie. You’ll burn to a crisp. Put some more sunscreen on first.”

Tracer whines and huffs until Widowmaker sets her drink down with another laugh, sits them both up. She runs the lotion against Tracer’s exposed skin, rubs the excess into her own, and only then she lays back again. This time, when Tracer snuggles back in, Widowmaker allows her to drift off. Twenty minutes later she finishes her own drink, and then there’s a pleasant buzz humming in her bones.

It’s warm. All she can hear is the hiss and sigh of the ocean waves, and Tracer’s soft little snore against her shoulder. Widowmaker lets herself drift for a little, half awake and half asleep. She’s not sure how long she’s out for until she hears the distinctive sound of flippers against sand. With a grumble she forces her eyes open, and of course, it’s Sombra coming back from her little sea trip. She has a plastic container with a seahorse in it, and she’s dripping wet from the sea.

Sombra stops dead in her tracks when she sees Widowmaker and Tracer curled together. Widowmaker smirks. Sombra’s face almost cracks in half with her grin.

“Did you--”

“A lady never kisses and tells,” Widowmaker replies airily, but she does tickle Tracer beneath her ear enough to get her to stretch her neck with a murmur of her name and a breathy giggle, revealing the top edge of a particularly purple bruise.

Nice,” Sombra laughs.

“Whossat,” Tracer yawns, picking up her head. “...Oh, hey.”

“Ey.” Sombra waves with her fingers, then holds up her prize. “Check it out. I’m keeping him.”

“You are not keeping it, Sombra.”

“I’m gonna go into town right now and buy him a tank and everything, fuck you!” Sombra’s stomach roars with audible hunger. “...Okay, maybe I’ll catch him again tomorrow. Food first.”

Tracer sits up, stretching her arms over her head. It means she disentangles herself from Widowmaker as a result, and for a moment she wonders if this is what it’s like to feel the cold. “Oi, my mates are grillin’ down the beach. While we’re all on vacation, might as well bring you two for lunch, yeah?”

“Wait, are you serious?” Sombra blinks.

“Well, yeah, why not?” Tracer turns her head, and smirks. “You’ve definitely earned yourself a burger.”

“I’m not saying no to free food.” Sombra holds up her sea horse container. “I’m gonna toss this little guy back. Text Gabe. We’re eating Overwatch tonight.”

Widowmaker looks at Tracer and smirks. “Mm, well, if the main course was as good as the appetizer…”

Sombra rolls her eyes hard, moving back to the water. “My god, Widow. Go, go, I’ll call someone to pack our shit back up to the suite. You’re probably not going back to the room tonight.”

“I’m not?” Widowmaker tilts her head.

“You’re not,” Tracer confirms, slinging her arm around her shoulders, moving into her lap. Widowmaker lets out a hum of delight and wraps her arms around her waist, keeping her there. “You’re bunkin’ with me.”

“...Are you using that in a euphemism right now, or…?”

“I mean, I could be, if you’re into it.”

Widowmaker squints. “I...kind of am.”

“I’m still here,” Sombra interrupts dryly, “just letting you know that.”

Sombra finally leaves after a little bit more teasing. Widowmaker texts Gabriel to let him know where they are, but to her shock, he’s already sitting at the table when the three of them get there. He’s half smoke, which explains why he hasn’t died of heat stroke in his BMX gear.

Widowmaker does not expect to be greeted by the old soldier with a diet soda or a burger fresh off the grill, dripping with grease, melted cheese, the buns slathered with mayonnaise and ketchup, but she is, and she tucks in readily.

Tracer sits plastered against her side. On the beach, Amari Jr. is in the middle of spiking a volleyball into the sand, just barely missing Sombra’s face. The Vishkar agent comforts Sombra, while Amari Jr. is bodily picked up by the Russian. Mercy sits in the shade sweltering in her toga and wings, a golden trophy resting in her lap while Ana Amari shoves a tall glass of lemonade into her sunburned face.

Overall, it is not how Widowmaker expected the day to end, the three agents of Talon folded into Overwatch as if they belong. Well, she thinks, watching Tracer wolf down half a hot dog in a bite, feeling a mix of disgust and affection, it is vacation.