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Widow has a way with facial expressions, and Moira knows it.
Sombra rolls a different set of dice, her sixth set now—Maximillien insists that the stickman swap hers more often if she has a “lucky” streak so she doesn’t bankrupt his casino—tumbling into snake eyes that make Widow’s Aces proposition win at a 30:1 while everyone else groans for their losses. Widow taps the rail with a chip and nods at the dealer, coloring up, and freeing her space at the table.
Maximillien knows how to spoil high rolling council members; the omnics serving her all night bring the best wine. The warm buzz sings electric beneath her skin, and it would be tempting to stay a bit longer to indulge if not for the desire for a different delectation.
The light pink blush splashes across Moira’s cheeks, pale skin damning her tipsy state as she swirls her preferred scotch in hand, evidence that she is also enjoying her drinks. Widow still occasionally finds it astonishing that she manages to make each movement precise—the stacks of chips ordered in perfect, even columns in front of her, the stray hair swept back the moment it falls against her brow, the devilish cut of her eyes and the slightest hint of a smile—as if she wasn’t affected in the slightest by the alcohol.
She knows that Moira will stay for a few more rolls, probably until Akande rolls craps, possibly until she finishes the drink resting between slender fingers, but she will follow. Moira is a smart woman. She knows better than anyone how to read the smallest of nonverbal cues. Others might wink, maybe even tap the chip a certain number of times, but such blatantly obvious things don’t work for them.
“Took you long enough.” Widow peels herself away from the wall, sliding her phone into her clutch. Sombra could keep a distraction going—her infectious laughter rang out over the crowd even tucked away in the employees-only area.
“What can I say? The table was hot.” Moira chuckles and sips her scotch, watching as Widow saunters over and pushes her back against the wall with two fingers to her chest.
“I’ll say,” Widow purrs, loosening the necktie covering the two buttons Moira has already undone due to the actual heat. The casino is busy, the sheer amount of people making it warmer than usual. It’s making the starch of her shirt weak, less than the usual crisp, and it’s slightly damp from the thin sheen of sweat on her chest. Widow has watched her pick at the fabric at the table for the last hour, glaring at the lines of wrinkles developing.
“Lig dom cabhrú leat.” Moira takes the invitation, working through the rest of the buttons on her shirt.
Her pale skin, her sterile smell, none of it is Angela, but she would be lying to say she didn’t think about her every time, and she would be equally dishonest to think that Moira didn’t do the same. The two are impulsive, sure, but they aren’t fools. She can’t help but wonder if this isn’t why Angela also indulged in this brilliant and mad woman, but those are thoughts she pushes to the back of her mind each and every time. All in the past. Force the thoughts down with action, regardless of recklessness.
Widow presses herself against her exposed chest when she finishes tugging the fabric from beneath her beltline, “For someone so cold, you sure do overheat easily.”
Moira makes a noise in her throat, momentarily too distracted by blissfully cool skin to argue.
Any further disagreement is cut off when Widow presses her lips to hers, fingers dancing over her belt buckle and making easy work of it. Moira’s ability to maintain that insufferable smirk is what makes the ability to break the facade so satisfying. Widow licks her lips when she hears the quiet gasp after she dips her fingers beneath the line of her briefs
“You’re insatiable,” Moira tries to laugh but her breath catches when Widow presses her knuckles in the groove of her sharp hips.
“What’s a little fun between coworkers every once in a while, hm?” Widow runs her fingers over her cheek, her jaw, smoothes her hand over her neck. “Perhaps, you shouldn’t be as good at what you do.”
“Implying I could be any less than a perfectionist about anything I do.” Moira leans back, resting her shoulders against the wall and tilting her hips to chase the contact of Widow’s hand.
“Oh, I know very well what you can do.” Widow savors that hooded gaze and husky-voiced confidence before kissing a trail down her neck, nipping her collar bone when she cups her hand between her legs. “But we don’t have much time and I want you to reward me later.”
“Wha—” The question disappears when Moira watches Widow drop to her knees, flipping her grip to pull the offending fabric out of her way as she drags her tongue down her navel. Moira doesn’t dare mess up the gorgeous way Widow has her hair pulled up, so she opts to drag her free hand through her own hair, glad the other is still occupied by her glass, lest it be too tempting to grab hold.
Widow hums as she moves her kisses lower, dragging both of her hands down Moira’s sides and pulling her slacks down further. She revels in the way the muscles tense under her touch, the slight recoil as her fingers trail over her ribs, easing as her hands smooth over her taut abdomen, rippling when her tongue parts the ginger curls at the crux of her thighs.
Moira has the audacity to sip at her scotch—damn her for managing to make arrogant confidence so attractive—smile curling around the edges of the glass, hiding her gasp in ice as Widow’s tongue flattens against her.
Widow appreciates the way the muscles flexing beneath Moira’s pale skin cast shadows in the more ambient light of the back room, how her grip tightens in her own hair as she struggles with her inability to pull Widow closer, and how good that lidded gaze watching her kneel before her feels. All things that are far more telling than her smirk, and half the fun of these encounters was wiping the smirk off her face anyway.
“Didn’t you say we don’t have much time?” Moira teases, voice deep with lust, dual-colored eyes barely open as she watches Widow lave her tongue through her folds.
Widow also appreciates the promise that such a question holds, the unspoken ‘as much as I’d love to keep you there longer’ hanging in the air makes her head feel full of a warm static. She thinks that without her augmentations, it might even cause the rise of a blush in her cheeks.
Though her circulation doesn’t show it, Moira can sense it. As if there’s an unspoken cue, her fingers reach for Widow’s cheek, her touch gentle, questioning. Her impossibly long limbs stopped startling her lover—if they were to call each other such a thing—many encounters ago, and instead Widow leans into the contact ever so slightly. Enough of an answer for both.
The moment passes.
Widow narrows her tongue, doubling her attention on her task. Her nails sink into those sharp hips, angry red welts serving as a silent command to stay still and be quiet.
The only response is a muffled groan from Moira as she tangles her hand back in her hair, throwing her head back, savoring the way Widow’s tongue circles her clit as best she can without being able to yank her by the hair the way she knows she loves. “Widow—”
Widow turns her head, nuzzling against her inner thigh before biting, sucking hard to leave her mark. She has to readjust her grip when Moira’s knees buckle, the scotch sloshing over her fingers causing a sharp curse unrelated to the previous few she had been muttering, and Widow huffs a laugh against her warm skin. She will pay for that.
She would do it again in one of her slow and steady heartbeats. Moira’s heated look is enough to make it absolutely worth it.
“Brat.” Moira leans far enough to put the now nearly empty glass down in a nearby plant and pulls the pins from Widow’s hair. She scratches her nails along her scalp, now ignoring whatever resolve she might have had, and pulls.
It always seems to happen in such a pleasant slow-motion—Widow manages to think vaguely as her face presses to Moira’s heat, lapping at the slick between her lips, curling her tongue against her clit like she’s been starved of it—the moment that Moira finally lets her professionalism dissolve, lets herself indulge. It’s bliss to watch her facade crumble.
“You like it,” Widows sighs against her skin, dragging her hands lower so she can spread her open more with her fingers, pressing open-mouthed kisses against glistening ginger curls. “I can tell.”
“Keen observation skills,” Moira teases, but there’s a certain impatience beneath the playful banter. Her fingers are restless in Widow’s hair until she gets it spilling from the updo down over her shoulders, and rumbles a pleased groan deep in her throat at the sight.
Widow considers teasing back about how she thought she liked her hair this evening, but would rather hear more of that pleasant vibration of barely withheld moaning.
A cheer from the table nearby muffles Moira’s sharp inhale, but Widow feels it when she finally applies true pressure to her. She sucks hard on her clit as she slides two fingers into her with ease, the wet heat demanding as the muscles clench and pull on her. She’s glad that her other hand still rests against her hip so she can push her back against the wall and stabilize her when her legs start shaking again.
The fleeting moments in which Widow gets to see Moira relinquish her death grip on control are delightful. The way her head lolls forward against her neck now, eyes no longer open, no more playful glare or smirk, just concentrated pleasure.
Her entire body language changes, the tension snaps, the strings severed; the ever professional and standoffish geneticist becomes the broken and lonely woman she hides beneath an identity Talon has merely constructed for her.
Both of them are constructs. That much they can understand. That much brings them together in this pitiful sort of way. They can chip away at layers of trauma and abuse until there’s some semblance of humanity in broken beings. Concept characters hellbent on finding their way through a story in which they no longer have autonomy.
“Brilliant.” Moira breathes, barely audible over the din of noise, fingers frantically tugging at Widow’s hair now. “Please. Right there, just like that.”
Widow crooks her fingers as requested, rubbing against her walls in the smooth and deep way that Moira seems to love, waiting until she feels her whole body tense. Not yet, not yet. She looks up at her, watches the way the muscles in her neck flex, the way she bites her lip to stop from crying out, enough that she draws a small bit of blood from her chapped lips.
Widow struggles to hold her up while the tremors shake Moira’s lower half, glad she chose her rifle arm for the task. She presses against her, anchoring herself so she can leverage her hand and tongue in the precise places that will make Moira come undone.
This moment every time is the one that makes her feel the most alive. It is the moment of the kill. The moment her prey is hers and hers alone to savor. Each of her senses, ones she can admittedly thank Talon for in these moments, go into overdrive; she can hear the shift in Moira’s heart rate in between each slow thud of her own, can count each of her breaths even as her own stop, can map the tension in her muscles through a glance, can practically taste her orgasm before it happens, and it is fire on her tongue when it does.
Moira is not loud, but her body speaks volumes when her voice does not.
She glances down after a few labored breaths, a single blue eye barely open that matches the icy tone she uses. “Up.”
That is a command that sends goosebumps cascading over Widow’s already chilled skin. “Yes, sir.”
Technically, Moira outranks Widow within the council. The first time that Widow had slipped ‘sir’ into a mission affirmative, she watched the pretty pink blush dust those freckled cheeks in such a brilliant shade that it had been on her mind for days. It was more than a week after the first time that she tried it again…
And it seems Moira knows all too well that the reaction she had that day had created the very first of their many heated encounters afterwards, and Widow can still control the situation, using the nickname as her own sort of command.
Be rough with me, commanding officer.
Moira grabs Widow’s throat, her fingers digging into the space beneath Widow’s jaw. “Is this what you want, damhán alla?”
“Y-yes,” Widow hisses between her teeth, grabbing hold of Moira’s wrist, but not attempting to fight the hold.
“What was that?” Moira holds her at arm’s length, eyes dark with an unreserved lust, nostrils flaring as she continues to try to even her breathing.
Widow’s body is rocking beneath the waves of the pleasure already smothering her senses, and she had expected to be made to wait until they were in private for the retaliation. Moira could easily drag her off the ground and let her hang there in her hand, could push her against the wall, could throw her to the ground and take her on this horrendously patterned plush carpet.
She catches her off guard, and if not for being a confident woman, Widow would be embarrassed at how wet she is thinking about all the possibilities.
“Yes, sir.” She concedes, far too eager to move the scene forward, the background noise of their surroundings completely drowned out by the heartbeat hammering against her ribs.
“Turn around then.” Though Widow is quick to comply, she feels the sting of Moira’s nails dig into her hips before she finishes the motion. Her breath is hot when she sighs her pleasure against her exposed back. “Go hálainn.”
Widow echoes her pleasure, the carnal moan briefly hidden when she dips her head, arms braced against the wall when Moira’s hips push eagerly against hers. Now it’s her turn to be supported by the demanding grip on her hip, even as Moira wraps her other arm around her, pulling the short dress up her thighs.
Moira drags her nails from the tattoo on her thigh and between her legs, finding no fabric resistance, dipping into her liquid heat with a satisfied groan. “Were you expecting me?”
“Perhaps,” Widow breathes, arching her back and bucking her hips back. “You could say I was...hopeful.”
Moira chuckles, a smoky sound that sends a shiver down her spine.
“You’ve been so good to me,” she says as she keeps a languid pace despite the earnest way Widow chases the contact. “It’s only polite that I return the favor.”
“You usually make me—” Widow moans, knees buckling when Moira presses her fingers hard against her, swirling tight circles around her swollen clit. “—wait,” she finishes in a whimper, knowing that not doing so would only further delay her gratification, and she was in no mood for edging this evening.
Moira knows that beyond the lust, they are in a fairly public hallway, and being interrupted does not suit her in the slightest. “You know the wait is worth it.” She hooks her fingers back into her tight heat, pulsing them in time with the way their hips move together. “Tonight will be no exception if you are good for me.”
Widow’s eyes close, the white washing her vision and the heat building in her core too distracting to think of a coherent answer. She only barely manages to bite back the scream as she clenches around Moira’s fingers, and the strong grip holds her as her hands slide off the wall and she leans back, finding it easier to lean into the tall woman than to brace against the cold wall.
Moira moves slow, is gentle with her as she removes her hand. Her arms remain wrapped around Widow longer than either of them expect, and her kisses against her neck are soft. It’s as stark a contrast as her eyes, but Widow doesn’t attempt to dissuade the action. She finds she rather likes the attention.
But they cannot stay like this. Even as Widow finds herself relaxing, Moira steps back and clears her throat. “I will see you at the briefing then?”
“Yes,” Widow grins, adjusting her dress down her legs as she turns to face her. “Sir.”