Tracer had been feeling uncomfortable all evening.
It wasn’t the company - spending Christmas Eve with one of her oldest friends and her girlfriend was by far one of the best nights she’d had recently and even the continuous threat of Talon hanging overhead couldn’t diminish that.
She leaned back in her chair, watching Winston and Emily talk about something-or-other in hushed tones drowning amidst the soft melody drifting through the speakers.
It was always relaxing, spending time with either of them, removed from the real-world politics that plagued her, from the horrible things happening in the world, from the ever-present awareness of being an Omega in a world chock-full of Alphas. Here she was just Lena, celebrating with a friend who wasn’t moved by anyone’s status and her Beta sweetheart who didn’t care one way or the other.
Tracer took another sip of her hot chocolate as she listened to Emily’s laughter. She should count herself lucky to have her, she knew that. Not many people would be so understanding of her job, of what she had to do, of the week-long absences and the broken promises and the knowledge that she might not come back one day.
She was lucky to have her and it made a pin-prick of guilt stab at her heart.
“I’m hopping outside for a bit,” she announced, standing and stretching with a deliberate slowness that belied the uneasy restlessness in her bones. “Catch some air.”
“Are you feeling okay?” Emily stared at her with her usual mix of concern and gentle indulgence, already taking a step forward as if to check that she was alright. The sensation of hollow emptiness inside Tracer’s chest intensified.
“Not to worry, love! Just feel like cooling down.”
She didn’t look back as she hurried to the door and breathed a sigh of relief once it slid closed behind her, the cold wind biting at her nose and cheeks helping to clear her head for just a moment. But even the crisp air couldn’t hide the smell she was oh so familiar with.
“How long have you been out here?” she asked, peering critically into the darkness beyond the crates scattered around the place and following the trail of scent on shaky legs.
There was no answer, not a verbal one, but she caught sight of a miniscule movement, a shadow that didn’t belong. The glint of eyes and teeth.
Widowmaker’s posture was casual and relaxed, the black coat around her shoulders a far cry from her usual skin-tight outfit. Tracer diligently kept her eyes from studying her further.
“Not for very long.” The Assassin’s gaze slid over her once, twice, before focusing on something over her shoulder. “She seems like a nice girl.”
Tracer didn’t have to turn around to know that she was referring to Emily, clearly visible through the large window front behind her. Out of Widowmaker’s mouth, the compliment sounded like an insult, like something you’d say for the mere pretense of politeness. Or like a threat.
“She’s none of your business.”
“No, I suppose she is not,” Widowmaker mused, raising a hand. Tracer jerked away before it could make contact with her skin, the scent of Alpha and the imaginary sensation of her touch remaining nonetheless. “Although I wonder if I am hers.”
Tracer only had a moment to frown in confusion before blue-tinted hands took a hold of her shoulders and whirled her around, her front bumping into one of the crates. She stiffened as a lean body molded itself to her back and a cocoon of pheromones enveloped her, the winter cold suddenly seeming far-off and inconsequential.
Bloodless lips brushed over the shell of her ear.
“Does she know?”
Tracer trembled, something in her body jerking awake at the feel of the Assassin’s body pressed against hers, something she knew she shouldn’t feel, something she shouldn’t have given more than a passing thought to.
“Know what?” Her jaw gave a painful twinge as she gritted her teeth. “There is nothing to know.”
Slim fingers appeared at her throat, soft and teasing, and she wasn’t strong enough to fight them off a second time.
“Does she know how you look at me? How fast your heart beats when we are fighting?” Widowmaker murmured softly, the mocking words sending a shiver of heat down Tracer’s spine and proving the other woman right by making her heart speed up.
She swallowed. “I’m an Omega, love. Can’t help my instincts.”
The Assassin hummed in the back of her throat and, as if she hadn’t heard her, gave a slow roll of her hips. With an excited flip of her stomach and another stab of guilt in her chest, Tracer realized she could feel the other woman stiffening against her, that the semi-hardness of her cock dug into her flesh. That the Alpha pheromones in the air were joined by her own as the Omega in her responded.
A deceptively gentle grip forced her head to turn towards the window. Still the same scene Tracer had left - Winston and Emily cheerfully making small talk, cookies and hot chocolate lying forgotten on the table beside them. A different world than the one out here, one of warmth and kindness instead of icy cold and tension, one Tracer should desperately want to re-join.
She slammed her eyes shut.
“Then why can’t you look at her?” Widowmaker asked and parted her lips to deliver a tortuously light kiss to Tracer’s ear. “If you have no reason to feel guilty, why won’t you open your eyes?”
Tracer shook her head, but obeyed nonetheless. She tried to focus on Emily’s face, on her freckles and the joy she felt so freely instead of the overwhelming presence at her back, tried to remember that she could give her the warmth Widowmaker would never be able to.
A cool hand slipped underneath her jacket to rest against the skin of her stomach. “What do you feel, chérie?”
Tracer took a deep breath, stomach pressing tightly against the other woman’s palm for a long moment, before prying her chattering teeth apart.
“I love h-”
Widowmaker bit down hard on the shell of her ear. The pain was unexpected, surprising, but it wasn’t an indignant shout that left Tracer’s throat - a choked groan disrupted the wintry quiet around them instead.
“If that is true,” the Assassin snarled, teeth still maintaining their hold and causing a surge of wetness between Tracer’s thighs. “Tell me that you never think of me. Tell me that it has never crossed your mind what it would be like if it was me in your arms. In your bed.”
The hand on her belly, warmer now, the icy cold soaking up her heat and becoming softer, different, in the process, began to inch up towards her chest and Tracer squirmed. She had to, needed to, try and resist.
Widowmaker rested more of her weight on her and forced her head to turn back from where she had instinctively tried to avert it from the window. “Look at her and tell me that you have never imagined she was me.”
“I have- I have never-” she tried, but the image of red hair and freckles was fading, blurring before her eyes. Instead memories resurfaced of nights spent in the dark, of blue skin and dark hair swimming in her mind, of a longing for coolness instead of warmth that she couldn’t justify.
“You have never what, chérie?” Widowmaker’s fingers traced a line up to her bra, never quite sliding beneath. “Never moaned my name while you were with her?”
She tweaked one stiff nipple over the cloth and Tracer jumped with a gasp.
“Never wanted me to fuck you while we were fighting?”
Widowmaker was rock-hard now, her cock pressing insistently against her, and the scent around her made Tracer’s mouth water and the flesh between her thighs pulse in unfulfilled arousal.
She hated this.
She hated feeling like this, hated that it would hurt Emily if she knew how much Tracer wanted Widowmaker, how she spent so much time convincing herself that she wasn’t tempted at all, that her guilt stemmed from instincts she couldn’t control rather than from emotions she didn’t want to think about.
When the Assassin moved to slip beneath her bra, Tracer’s hand shot up to keep her palm immobile. Her own fingers trembled.
“I can’t,” she choked out, trying to get her thoughts back in order. “I don’t- I don’t cheat.”
The word had a finality to it that left a bad taste in her mouth. Because when she was honest with herself, the guilt she had been feeling for months, the crippling sense of shame she’d felt when she hadn’t even been capable of sparing enough time to get her girlfriend a Christmas present - it all came down to the sense that she was betraying her.
That she ought to make up for her straying thoughts and the feelings Widowmaker shouldn’t inspire in her by being more attentive, more loving.
But she hadn’t crossed the line yet. She hadn’t given in, despite her instincts telling her that she wanted an Alpha, despite the connection she felt when they were lost in their very own dance on the battlefield.
She could still turn back.
“But do you want to?”
Tracer slumped forward and bit her lower lip to disguise her high-pitched whimper when the other woman suddenly changed directions and slid her hand beneath her waistband, diving into the warm wetness without warning.
“Do you want to?” Widowmaker repeated, grinding two fingers against Tracer’s clit and making her thighs tremble. The mockery in her tone was gone to leave behind nothing but a serious question. “You say you can’t, but do you want to?”
A drop of sweat ran down Tracer’s neck to pool against the Assassin’s hand still resting on her throat. She was aware that her voice sounded husky and weak when she spoke.
“Why are you here?”
There was a beat of silence, then a quiet hiss. “To show you what you are missing.”
Tracer noticed the sound of her zipper before she quite realized where the sudden draft was coming from, her head snapping back to catch Widowmaker’s gaze in a panicked plea.
Her waistband was pulled down to her thighs with a single, harsh tug to leave her naked and bare and shivering in the cold air.
“You don’t have to say yes,” Widowmaker growled as she got to work on her own pants, lips brushing over Tracer’s cheek just short of her mouth. “It will be easier when you do not bear any responsibility, no?”
Before Tracer could fully parse the meaning of her words, something hot and hard was sliding between her legs, through the abundant wetness to be found there, and the stab of arousal in her gut made it far too difficult to concentrate on what she had wanted to say, what she had been thinking up until that point.
It was all going too fast.
Her body was aching, the Omega in her was screaming at her to accept the Alpha cock being offered, but when she turned her head in a daze and caught sight of red hair behind a pane of glass, she remembered.
“Wait,” she panted, only half-aware that she hadn’t been able to bring herself to spit out a ‘stop’, even as her thighs clamped tight around the rock-hard length slipping idly along her folds. “We can’t- bloody hell!”
A simple rock of Widowmaker’s hips made the entire length of her cock rub against Tracer’s clit and the emptiness inside Tracer clenched desperately, the Omega in her longing to be filled and bred.
Distantly, she wondered if her heat had come early - or if she’d simply denied her body for too long.
“We can’t do this. We can’t.” With every word, every precise roll of the other woman’s hips and every touch of full lips to her ear, Tracer’s voice grew weaker, needier, until even she couldn’t be sure it wasn’t supposed to be a plea. “I’m not...”
I’m not that sort of person.
Her thighs tensed to keep Widowmaker in position, to make sure she wouldn’t lose the sensation of her cock between her folds, and she wondered if perhaps she was that sort of person. The sort who stood bent over a crate in the middle of the night wishing for nothing more than to be fucked while their partner was just inside, non-the-wiser.
The sort of Omega who craved a knot even at the cost of their own values.
The sort of Omega who shivered and whined, still muttering about can’t and shouldn’t and wait even as she reached back to spread herself in a clear invitation.
The coldness brushed over her for only a moment before it was replaced by the hot and heavy sensation of Widowmaker’s tip sliding up to her entrance, circling the slippery skin with too-teasing movements that painted a burning path up Tracer’s spine.
God, it was too much.
Too much to fight against, too many thoughts swirling in her head, too many conflicting desires pulling her apart at the seams.
“C-Condom,” she whispered feverishly, saliva gathering in her mouth and the emptiness inside her aching and clenching in protest at the thought. “You need to use one. I’m not on birth control.”
Warm breath ghosted over her neck, pearly teeth scraping against the sensitive skin of her ear. The amusement in Widowmaker’s tone had a deep, dark quality to it as she spoke.
“An Omega who is not on birth control. Not on suppressants. Tell me, do you know that your body has been screaming for me since the first time we fought?” She chuckled and Tracer’s shoulders quaked. “Even when you are not in heat, I can smell it on you - how wet you are when I am near.”
Widowmaker’s palm left her waist for a moment, only to return holding a rectangular tin foil package up to her eyes. Too high, purposeful, so Tracer was forced to view it alongside the blurred vision of her girlfriend behind glass. “After you have taken every possible risk with me, is this really what you want?”
The head of her cock rubbed another steady circle against Tracer’s dripping entrance, a promise of liquid heat and satisfaction. Completely and utterly, just this once.
“You have to,” Tracer whimpered, trying to remember that this was important. “What if-”
Widowmaker made a contemplative noise in the back of her throat, the vibrations travelling through her lips and down Tracer’s neck to cause goosebumps along her arms. The condom was flipped between her fingers - and then, with a quick flick of her wrist, thrown away into the black of night.
Tracer’s mouth opened in a silent shout - protest or shock or plea - as Widowmaker suddenly plunged into her, easily, hot and bare and filling, and the fingers around her throat squeezed tight. Air supply restricted and mind focusing into a sharp point, she felt every ridge and vein, every bit of pressure against her inner walls, as the other woman entered her - steady and insistent, until she was fully sheathed within her.
Then, and only then, did the grip loosen and Tracer could suck in a desperate breath while the world came back into stark focus.
“Look up,” Widowmaker ordered, knuckles a gentle pressure against Tracer’s jaw. “Look at her.”
Through the tears gathering in the corners of her eyes, Tracer did. Emily. Still talking to Winston, laughing at something he said. Still thinking Tracer was out here by herself.
Guilt had no time to take hold, not when Widowmaker suddenly rocked her hips, sending a spark of pleasure up her spine that soothed the desperate pulsing between her legs for the shortest of moments.
“What do you think she would say?” The accented words were just a bit rougher than before, just a bit heavier. Affected. “You are pulling me in, chérie. Do you wish I would move?”
The points where they were plastered together were warm even through the fabric of their clothes, the skin of Tracer’s ass pressed tightly against the other woman’s loins, and it was impossible to deny the insistent twitching of her lower muscles or the shiver causing her body to tremble.
Tracer felt like she had expressed this sentiment far too often, like the words had lost meaning. Perhaps they never had any to begin with, not when she wasn’t willing to back them up, not when they were empty platitudes meant to make her feel better.
“You can, chérie,” Widowmaker murmured, hand sliding around Tracer’s middle to catch her in a tight grip. “And you are.”
Her movements began unhurried.
She drew back with a focused sort of slowness that caused Tracer’s teeth to chatter in anticipation - and pushed back in with the same sense of languid enjoyment, as though she was loathe to miss the sensation of gliding inside her for even a moment.
It was torture in any sense of the word, Tracer’s gut aching for more, for satisfaction, for the fulfilment the Omega in her craved. The tension in her limbs built at the unhurried and steady pace and her breath came in a choked staccato.
“Can you feel me?” Widowmaker purred, and Tracer could have answered in a thousand different ways. How the other woman molded into her back like the piece of a puzzle she hadn’t known she was missing, how the vice of her arm around her felt like freedom rather than a chain, how she had never felt as full and complete as she did now - how she could feel Widowmaker in her thoughts, in her head, as much as in her body.
Instead, she willed herself to look up again.
Willed herself to feel the guilt in her bones, to feel the love she was supposed to feel for the woman behind the glass. And froze.
“She is looking this way.” Widowmaker’s tone was casual, the roll of her hips never breaking its rhythm. “Do you think she can see us?”
Emily’s form stood in stark relief against the light, her gaze resting on the both of them like she knew where to look. The expression on her face was one of worry.
“Do you think she can see movement?”
Suddenly, Widowmaker’s hips shot forward in a hard thrust and Tracer slumped down onto the crate with an unintelligible curse, knees turning to putty. She knew it was impossible for them to be seen in the dark, even just as shadows.
Yet, it didn’t matter.
Because it wasn’t just the Omega in her who wanted the woman behind her - it was her, Tracer, Lena, and she couldn’t find it in herself to care when the tension between them had finally come to a head. There would be time to hate herself later.
“Please,” she begged, rocking back into the still too-slow thrusts. “Faster.”
There was a short beat of silence, and then Widowmaker leaned over her to trap her against the cool metal of the crate, scent and arousal covering them both like a cloak.
“As you wish.”
The change was immediate. Like flipping a switch, the other woman started pounding into her with nary a break between thrusts, digging into every sensitive spot, ever weakness Tracer had. Like an Alpha would. Like Tracer wanted her to.
Where her movements before were a slow stroking of flames, now the blaze threatened to consume Tracer.
Widowmaker growled into her neck, a grunt breaking through the controlled exterior at the apex of every thrust, and Tracer’s eyes rolled into the back of her head knowing there was not a scrap of latex between them. Just the other woman’s cock, raw and bare and causing ever more wetness to trickle from between her legs with every harsh pump.
Her fingers curled and tensed atop the crate as burning surges of pleasure pounded into her.
She felt the fingers on her neck twitch, bend, and she knew it was coming even before Widowmaker’s hand squeezed to cut off her air again. Just like before, the world disappeared.
Just like before, every sensation in her body was highlighted.
“If she saw us, would you be able to stop?” Widowmaker’s voice was low and soft, the only sound breaking through the static in Tracer’s head. Not even her own groans or the slap of skin on skin registered. “Could you stop, knowing you might never feel me again?”
Tracer met her next thrust, and the next, in lieu of an answer until they were moving in sync, the way they moved on the battlefield - in a dance known only to them.
Blood rose to her head, a pounding behind her temples that matched the one underneath her navel. Her breath was wheezing, wispy, yet none of it mattered as the arousal in her belly began to build towards its finish.
The cock inside her twitched and it would have been easy to come right then, if the other woman hadn’t let go of her neck with a chuckle. Tracer’s whine was humiliating and immediate.
“You are clenching around me,” Widowmaker mused, dragging her lips wetly across Tracer’s jaw even as she gave a particularly brutal thrust.
Sweat gathered in the hollow of Tracer’s throat and even with all the noise in her head, even without the other woman’s knot in her, her climax began to build.
“Do you want to come?”
Tracer squeezed her eyes shut, the pressure inside her fanning out and threatening to make her collapse where she stood. “Yes. Yes, please.”
Twitching, throbbing inside her, Widowmaker changed angles and god, Tracer had never been wetter. Had never been as desperate to give all of herself to someone else as she was in that moment. Her forehead touched the blessedly cool metal beneath her as she felt herself opening wider to the merciless pounding, as her body instinctually prepared to take a knot, chanting senseless pleas under her breath.
The other woman’s quiet groan was unexpected.
It slithered underneath Tracer’s skin to send a sharp twinge of arousal straight to her groin. Widowmaker was cool and collected, controlled, and Tracer had barely allowed herself to dedicate a thought to her pleasure - but she felt it now, the unsteady throb of her cock, the vibration of something like a heartbeat against her back, the subtle signs of breathlessness in her voice.
The smooth bulge grinding against Tracer’s entrance.
“You can’t,” she panted, arching her back and seeking more contact regardless. “You can’t come inside. You can’t knot me.”
Resting more of her weight on her, Widowmaker snarled and rutted into her, harder and more insistent as her knot grew. Tracer could only imagine what it would feel like to be tied with her, to feel the other woman breed and mark her.
She cried out sharply as teeth dug into the space where neck met shoulder, a short and sharp twinge of pain amidst the pleasure that was immediately soothed by a tongue gently lapping at the wound.
“You do not have a choice,” Widowmaker reprimanded her sharply, although Tracer could not tell how much of her tone was caused by arousal. “I will come inside you. I will knot you.”
Her voice softened into a purr.
“You are going to remember me, chérie.”
And then, suddenly, her knot pushed inside - already far larger than Tracer had ever thought she’d be able to take.
“You can’t. You can’t,” Tracer repeated like a prayer, lower body tense and nerves balancing on the edge of release. She reached back to grip Widowmaker’s hips, to push her off, but her muscles would not obey.
With a sob, she urged her closer, urged her to do exactly what she’d been threatening to do, to destroy even the last chance Tracer had to pretend that she had no part in this. To pretend that she hadn’t wanted this since the first time she’d caught sight of blue skin and cruel lips.
When the knot finally slid in with a muted pop, Tracer had reached her limit. She quivered, shallow thrusts and a feminine grunt next to her ear pushing her over the edge, the arousal that had been simmering in her veins for years spiralling out of control.
She came with a startled shout and a stream of tears down her cheeks.
Jerking back and forth, her climax making every muscle in her body clench, she didn’t notice the sudden stiffness of Widowmaker’s lean form until the other woman moaned into her neck - long and low, as expressive as Tracer had ever heard her.
The knot inside her swelled to its full volume and even had Tracer been capable of recognizing the exhaustion in her bones, it was impossible to stop a second orgasm from building.
The tangle of sensation in her lower stomach burst as Widowmaker finally found her own release with a last pump, thick ropes of cum filling her up without a condom to keep the flood at bay. Mixed with her own wetness, the liquid heat would have trickled out of her if it hadn’t been for the throbbing knot plugging her up tight.
Widowmaker’s hips shook as she blew load after load, none of which had a chance to escape - and Tracer took it all gladly. Clenching around the bulge inside of her - almost stretching her too much, almost painful - all she could do was hang on and hope the stars bursting behind her eyelids didn’t mean she would pass out.
There was a last trust, a last trickle of cum, before Widowmaker stilled her movements and came to rest fully on top of her. Their hurried breaths, one panting and one just barely quickened, rose into the air in silvery clouds.
“Why are you really here?” Tracer asked eventually, after her heartbeat had settled enough to speak. “Why do this? Why now?”
She didn’t bother looking up - she knew Emily was still inside, probably still worried for someone who was bound to break her heart sooner or later. And with a soft body on top of her and the satisfaction of a recently mated Omega soothing her brain, Tracer couldn’t even find it in herself to care just yet.
Widowmaker was silent as she tugged them closer together, chasing away the encroaching cold with an unfamiliar sort of ease.
“I do not know.”
The monotonous drone couldn’t hide the sincerity of it, even as she squeezed Tracer’s middle in a mild warning. Perhaps it was the sex that had made her soften, perhaps it was her Alpha nature telling her to be mindful of an Omega in her arms, perhaps it was simply the messiness of their relationship - Tracer didn’t care.
She took a deep breath as Widowmaker’s cold nose brushed across the expanse of her neck, and relaxed. There were things she had to figure out, apologies she had to make, feelings she had to accept or bury deep.
But for now, she was content in the icy cold.