Mercy doesn't like Widowmaker. It's no secret to anyone, least of all herself. This isn't about like.
She always expects Widowmaker to be cold, but her skin is warm against her fingers, smooth under her tongue as she licks a broad swipe up her chest. Widowmaker probably never begged for anything in her life, and yet she's making tiny pleading sounds as Mercy's lips skim between her breasts, intentionally avoiding the soft, firm flesh and hardened nipples she's urging her to touch. She'll get to those later, she thinks, and drags her teeth across the sharp jut of Widowmaker's collarbone instead, earning a gasp that coils deep and hot inside her.
It's a heady sort of power, having someone like Widowmaker at her mercy, leaving someone she loves to hate breathless and desperate and writhing beneath her, wanting release only she can give. And she could leave her like this, aching and wanting and unsatisfied, could teach her that she won't get her way every single time, but there's a thigh wedged tight between her legs and the rasp of breath blowing hard and warm against her, and Widowmaker looks so pretty when she's wrecked, so human when she needs.
She drags her tongue over the stark red bite, soothing it, and chases the incongruous sweetness of Widowmaker's perfume and the salt-sharp taste of sweat-slick skin. Widowmaker is not the only one with needs, and it's been far too long since Mercy explored someone else's body with her own.
"Do something already!" Widowmaker demands, but when she tries to thrust against her, Mercy grabs her hips and pins her to the bed, digs her nails into Widowmaker's skin. A warning.
"Eventually," she says, meeting Widowmaker's dark and angry eyes with her least sincere smile. Then, she laughs, and gives widowmaker's swollen, bluish lips a kiss that's more teeth and pain than pleasure, simply because she can.
Craving a little bite doesn't mean she likes her, making a person come doesn't mean she likes her. Sometimes, a taste is all one needs.
She hopes.