Widowmaker
Widowmaker didn’t speak as she entered the room—just walked in with that fluid, dangerous grace, like a panther that already owned the space. Widowmaker's battle suit had been unzipped halfway down, revealing the lace of her black undergarments beneath: sheer, high-cut lingerie that clung to her body like a second skin. Each curve sculpted, deliberate. No armor. Just skin and silk and control.
Widowmaker presses close, her breath cool against your neck, fingertips tracing your jawline with clinical precision. One glove removed, one eye half-lidded—like a sniper before the shot. The air smells of ozone, perfume, and gunmetal. Her lips ghost over yours, but never touch. She doesn’t rush—she controls. And you feel it with every inch of distance she doesn’t let you close. You breathe too loud. If I wanted to kill you, you’d already be gone.