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By The Skin of Your Teeth

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“Okay,” Tracer panted as she swung in through the open window of a dilapidated skeleton of a house, already twisting the dial of her accelerator into ‘home’ mode so she could shuck it off without vanishing into the temporal void. “We got like fifteen minutes tops, drop your pants and think about really, really sexy things.”

“That would be so much easier if you didn’t talk,” Widowmaker said, dropping Widow’s Kiss to the ratty carpet and practically clawing at the clasp of her body suit, wriggling out of skintight PVC as fast as she physically could. 

“Less talk, more snog!” Tracer tossed off the last leather strap and made it to a topless Widowmaker in three strides, throwing her arms around her broad shoulders to drag her down into a kiss. 

Widowmaker grunted something against her mouth, but Tracer wasn’t particularly interested in that–at least not until Widowmaker straightened out, Tracer still clinging to her upper torso. The height difference meant that she was a few inches off the floor, but it was hot either way, so Tracer wasn’t complaining. 

“Stop–” Widowmaker huffed, “–kissing me, Lena, and actually help me get the suit down.” 

“Aw fine, but I won’t like it. I mean I will but kissing’s really great and you’re missing out, in my professional opinion.” Tracer let herself drop down, then sank to her knees and grabbed the loosened material at Widowmaker’s hips. She jerked them down to midthigh, huffed, “Sod it,” and tucked in with a tilt of her head to kiss against the soft folds bared to her. 

She heard Widowmaker hiss, felt a hand tangle in her hair. “Lena,” Widowmaker whispered tightly, “I thought it was your turn.”

Tracer didn’t really have the time for a heartfelt conversation–that pleasing Widowmaker was in itself her own reward, that she didn’t need to get an orgasm–pleasant as they were–to feel good, to feel satisfied. Physical needs, hell, she could handle those herself. All she really needed was the intimacy.

And maybe she was a slutty bottom with an oral fixation and Widowmaker was the tall, blue drink of pillow princess that she’d been searching for, sure, but that wasn’t nearly as romantic. 

She dragged her tongue through Widowmaker’s core, a hot and messy swipe that flicked against the hood of her clit; the second pass of her tongue left Widowmaker wet with saliva, but the third rewarded Tracer with a hint of musky salt. She moaned against sensitive skin, her hands locked with greedy delight against the backs of Widowmaker’s thighs; the assassin hissed beneath her breath, combing through Tracer’s hair with both of her hands. 

“Good girl,” she husked, and Tracer whimpered at the praise, the words dripping down her spine to settle like little marbles of molten lead in her pelvis. “Good–ah, fuck–good girl. Just like that–a little…little lower, Lena…”

In two minutes Widowmaker’s breathing had grown deep, slow and heavy, ragged at the edges like fraying rope. She didn’t pull Tracer’s hair, but her grip was solid and inescapable, palms against the back of her skull and fingers splayed like a spider’s web. In shallow strokes of her hips she ground herself against Tracer’s mouth, her tongue. 

Tracer had just gotten her lips around Widowmaker’s clit, sucking against her just as footsteps creaked out the hall. Tracer froze; Widowmaker froze; and in the darkness, Reaper growled, “Widowmaker? Are you here?” 

Tracer stared up through fogged glasses, meet Widowmaker’s terrified eyes. 

And yet. After a moment, Widowmaker’s hips moved a fraction of an inch against Tracer’s slackened mouth. She swallowed, hard, nostrils flared as she took silent breaths as the heavy steps of Reaper’s boots came ever closer, slow and steady. Tracer’s heart raced in her throat even as she flicked her tongue in a carefully paced curl. 

So long as Reaper didn’t go into the bedroom itself, he wouldn’t see either of them from their position. Tracer’s accelerator was facedown against moth eaten blankets, and it was a silent machine anyway; no humming or noise to give them away.

The creak of a door opening down the hall. Reaper’s claws dragging against aged wood. 

Widowmaker? Report.” 

Widowmaker bit down on her bottom lip, her cheeks flushed and tendrils of hair plastered to her temples from where they had escaped her high ponytail. She never moved faster then a sluggish back and forth, to take care not to set the fucking catsuit to squeaking and god Tracer had never been more wet than she was right the fuck now. 

She was so lucky her tights were the fancy liquid repellent kind, or there’d be so many unfortunate questions to answer. 

Another door opened. A grunt. Then the unmistakable sensation of someone in the doorway, the unnatural chill that Reaper carried lingering close by the threshold. Widowmaker’s eyes screwed shut and she came, every muscle locking together in tension; Tracer held her breath, eyes fluttering shut in supplication as Widowmaker’s orgasm ran from her open lips, dripped down her chin. 

…Huh. Must not be here,” Reaper said out loud, confused, then he was gone; trailing as smoke out of the house back the way he came. 

Tracer lasted fifteen more seconds before her breath exploded out of her in a great gasp and she gulped down air, her lungs screaming with relief. Widowmaker’s knees trembled before she sank into Tracer’s lap, holding her close; against Tracer’s sticky cheek, a pulse was just slightly above the average human rate, which meant Widowmaker’s ticker was going fucking nuts

“Oh my god,” Tracer managed. “Oh my god. Oh my god.”

“Oh my god,” Widowmaker echoed, her voice an octave deeper, hoarse. “We could have died.”

“We could have super fucking died! And you–you came from that!”

“I did,” Widowmaker agreed gravely. 

“You pe-tit morted all over the place when Reaper was in the fucking doorway. Ame,” Tracer shook her a little, slightly hysterical. “He woulda given us the bad succ.”

“It’s la petite mort, first of all, and I’ve told you not to refer to Reaper’s condition as any kind of–of suck. It’s so dumb. It’s so dumb, Lena.” Widowmaker said on a disgusted groan.

“But it’s true, ain’t it? You go around huffin’ out souls or lifejuice or whatever, I’m gonna call it the bad kinda succ.”

They spent a moment together in silence, still recovering. It was when Widowmaker’s heart had resumed it’s modified pace that she said, “That better not have awakened anything in me.”

Tracer bit her lip. “…Not gonna lie, I kind of hope it did.”