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“Amélie…”
Mercy’s voice is hesitant, splintered, and it cuts through the eerie silence of the abandoned base like a knife. Yet Widowmaker’s countenance remains what it always is - cold, calculated, focused on one thing and one thing only.
Sounds of shattering glass beneath her feet fill the room as Widowmaker slowly makes her way towards Mercy, Widow’s Kiss ready at her side.
And Mercy is paralyzed, frozen in place by something unseen, rendered incapable of doing anything but stare in sorrow-filled dismay as her potential killer comes closer.
“Do not call me by that name,” Widowmaker finally says as her face comes into the light. Mercy clutches her staff at her side.
“And what name would I call you, then? Widowmaker? I could not bring myself to do that.”
Widowmaker frowns, a wave of anger running through her. “Your excess of emotion makes you weak, docteur.” She points Widow’s Kiss in Mercy’s direction, aiming straight for her head. All she’d have to do then would be to take the shot. Just move her finger a teeny tiny bit, and it would be over. That’s how it always was, after all. Une balle, un mort.
Angela tenses, clenching her fist, fighting her damn hardest to keep herself under control. She refuses to break. She is supposed to give strength, to be strength. She can’t come apart, she won’t, not even if her Amélie, now a cold-blooded assassin at Talon’s hand, is pointing a gun at her.
And she’s certain that it’s her, now. No amount of physiological alteration could disguise those eyes. Those eyes that had stolen her breath away so many times all those years ago.
“Amélie,” she calls again, refusing to call her anything but. “Do you truly not remember anything? Have they truly stripped you of all that is human? It does not even seem possible…”
And it doesn’t. Nothing she could come up with using her highly trained medical knowledge could seem to explain how somebody could take a person and methodically strip them of their humanity, turn them into a living weapon.
“Of course I do not remember. I remember nothing, I feel nothing,” Widowmaker utters, walking towards Mercy again, her voice becoming more dangerous with every step she takes. “There is nothing but my mission now, docteur. And right now, you are my mission.”
Mercy violently shakes her head, dropping the staff at her side, and lunges for Widowmaker, capturing her face in her hands. Widowmaker hisses, as if the contact from the woman’s skin was hot as fire.
And yet, somehow, she does not struggle, but rather lowers Widow’s Kiss to glare at Mercy with burning golden eyes.
“I cannot believe that. I will not. There has to be something left of you in there…” Mercy says, her tone cautious yet so sincere. “Bitte, Amélie. Tell me I am not wrong. Tell me there is still something I can do”.
Widowmaker scowls, something about those blue eyes striking her as utterly infuriating. Mercy is far too close, the heat radiating from her skin causing a sensation that is more pain than discomfort.
“You are wasting your time,” she dismisses, fighting to hide the fact that something inside of her is screaming, and it’s terrifying, because she isn’t supposed to feel that - or anything that isn’t the thrill of a target brought down.
For the first time that night, Mercy smiles. “Nein, meine Schöne.” Her hands cup Widowmaker’s face a little more softly. “You have not killed me, have you? You are supposed to, but you haven’t.”
Widowmaker groans, dropping her weapon to put her hands on Mercy’s shoulders, pushing her away. “Leave me, Angela.”
The second the name leaves her lips, she freezes.
How did she know? At no point had anybody in her presence referred to the woman before her as anything other than “Mercy”. And she didn’t even think about it - it was as if the name slipped out on its own.
Widowmaker pulls back, shoving Angela’s hands from herself. Suddenly she is shaking all over, as if having lost control of her body. “Merde," she hisses, bringing a hand to her temple.
Angela stares, suddenly full of worry, especially the way Widowmaker is trembling. She moves to try to help her. “Amélie, are you oka-“
“Stay away from me!” Widowmaker shouts, clutching her head as if in pain.
But Angela ignores her, leaning over to pull her into an embrace - her, Widowmaker, Talon’s top assassin and ultimate weapon, who had undoubtedly taken the lives of countless people.
Despite feeling like she has been engulfed in an inferno this close to Angela’s warm skin, Widowmaker crumbles, falling to her knees and taking Angela down with her.
Angela holds her tightly, a hand running soothingly through Widowmaker’s long ponytail. Yet in stark contrast to her gentle touch, Widowmaker’s hands clutch tightly at her arms, nails almost ripping through her gloves. The tremors still have not subsided, and she is reduced to just kneeling there in the doctor’s arms, not knowing what has come over her.
“What are you doing to me,” Widowmaker falters, the fragility somehow making her accent more pronounced.
“I do not know, myself,” Angela admits. She genuinely does not know what she’s doing, having a killer who is supposed to be her enemy in her arms. And her mind tries, unsuccessfully, to suppress the thought that perhaps she is indulging in what could be the last time she would ever hold Amélie in her arms.
Widowmaker growls, shoving her face underneath Angela’s neck, hands digging into her suit.
“Shh. Alles okay,” Angela coos. Something inside makes her stay that way, holding Amélie until whatever is ailing her disappears - and not just her instinct as a medic.
“Do not tell me it will be okay!” Widowmaker spits, still refusing to meet Angela’s eye. Yet Angela just shakes her head, holding her more tightly.
“I’m sorry meine Schöne, but I will not let you order me around in this context,” Angela says, smiling, somehow unafraid of what Widowmaker’s reaction will be.
“Tais-toi!” Widowmaker shouts. Then, before Angela can say or do anything, she pulls her down by the collar of her suit, and crushes their lips together.
Angela doesn’t know how it happened, but she can’t and won’t stop to try to process it. As if an automatic response, her arms wrap tightly around Amélie’s neck, and her lips mold against those cold ones, the contrast in their temperature making her flinch only slightly.
In the past, they would start slow, with gentle, teasing movements intended to leave the other wanting more. But this time, there was none of that. They skipped right through it all, going straight to the part filled with breathless kisses, with lips and tongues desperately seeking each other, with hands clutching at whatever piece of bare skin they could find.
Amélie’s kiss is avid, hungry, of a kind that Angela could recall feeling on a few rare occasions in the past. Only this time, those lips are cold, and it’s an odd, yet not entirely unpleasant sensation. Angela returns her fervor, occasionally pulling at the dark blue ponytail, as if trying to make up for all the years that she hadn’t been able to feel that way.
“Amélie—“ Angela calls when their lips separate for air. Widowmaker shushes her by placing two cold fingers upon her lips.
“Don’t.” she says. “I do not know how long this will last. Eventually I will feel the need to kill you again. So please,” A pause. “Let me feel you while I still can.”
Angela responds with a groan, pulling Amélie back toward her to press her lips firmly against her neck. She doesn’t think — doesn’t want to think, because she knows that if she does, common sense will tell her that she is playing with fire and will get burned. So for now, she shuts off all rational thought, and just revels in being able to touch Amélie again - even if now she is the Widowmaker.
She peppers hot kisses all over Amélie’s neck, unsure if there will even be marks given her strange new physiology. But she doesn’t care. She doesn’t care about anything but quelling this hunger that has come and taken over her with the speed and intensity of a storm.
“Help me with this, meine Schöne,” Angela asks, realizing that she will not be able to strip Amélie of her catsuit by herself. Amélie sits with a frustrated grunt, pulling down zippers and unclasping straps until the single piece of clothing that covers her entire body is gone.
Angela freezes, forgetting how to breathe as she takes in the sight of a nude Widowmaker. The entirety of her skin is a purplish blue, but she is specially taken aback by— Mein gott— the indigo nubs are the center of her breasts.
“Are you going to touch me, or just stare all night?” Amélie demands, trying not to think about the fact that she is sitting stark naked for the eyes of Overwatch’s medic.
Angela shakes her head, moving to all four so that she can crawl over Amélie. “Even with this altered form, you are still as beautiful as I remember,” she whispers, lips ghosting over Amélie’s ears. Amélie inhales sharply, goosebumps covering her skin.
Angela locks their lips together again, this time allowing one of her hands to cup Amelie’s breast. Amélie moans into her mouth, an arm clutching at her neck. Angela smiles through their kiss, because despite its anomalous temperature, touching Amélie’s breast fills her with a feeling of familiarity that almost brings tears to her eyes.
“Mhm, mein gott, how I’ve missed you,” Angela breathes between kisses, her hand boldly kneading Amélie’s breast, over and over. It’s soft, so soft, just as she’d remembered it.
Amélie arches instinctively into her touch, not knowing what has come over her, only that she needs more.
What feels like a jolt of electricity suddenly coursing through her veins makes her gasp when Angela leans down and takes a hardened nipple between her lips. Her tongue swirls around it, gentle yet purposeful, and absolutely delicious.
"Angela," Amélie groans, clutching the doctor’s blonde ponytail with her fingers. Angela responds by moving her face from side to side, running her tongue over the nipple in zig-zag motions, intensifying the sensation.
Some part of her wonders if this is what it’s like to feel. To desire. To crave something other than the thrill of killing. Something human.
A gasp leaves Amélie’s lips when Angela’s teeth graze over her nipple. And Angela stops, looking up with worried eyes. “Too much?”
“Non,” Amélie responds, breathless. “N’arrete pas.”
So Angela obeys, moving back down to take the nub into her (wet, hot) mouth again, this time allowing her teeth to clutch it just enough to create a pain-edged pleasure. Her free hand goes to the other breast, kneading it as she’d previously done to the other, lightly pinching the nipple between her thumb and forefinger.
Angela moans with satisfaction when she feels Amélie quiver underneath her, pulling at her hair. She knows that this moment will not last, and that the entire affair is a positively terrible idea, but nothing in the world could make her able to resist the feeling of having Amélie in her hands like that.
Amélie whimpers when Angela pulls her mouth away from her breast. She’d been enjoying herself far too much.
A smile ghosts over Angela’s lips as she presses kisses down Amélie’s abdomen, running her hands over the smooth skin, feeling the curve of her waist, the soft indentation of her ribs. “I have spent too many nights missing this body,” she purrs, nuzzling her way to Amélie’s navel.
She pauses when her eyes move down to look between Amélie’s legs, feeling her heart being caught in her throat at how visibly wet Amélie is.
A slender finger draws a languid, calculated line down Amélie’s slit, its tip becoming coated in her juice. And Amélie’s legs tremble, her eyes closing tight.
“Fuck.”
“Hush now, meine geliebte. Don’t think, just feel,” Angela coos. The term stirs something within Amélie, something she can’t put a name to. Yet, she quickly forgets about it when she feels Angela’s tongue presses flat against her labia.
She groans, loud and feral, her hand instinctively grabbing a fistful of Angela’s ponytail. Angela pays it no mind, holding Amélie by her hip, pressing her into her mouth.
She runs her tongue through Amélie’s folds, no longer fazed by the cold of her body. She’d missed tasting her, missed this feeling that she’s hers, that she can draw those sounds and those quivers from her. So she doesn’t think, focusing only on eating out Amélie like she was born to do it.
Amélie thrusts her hips into Angela’s mouth, biting hard on her bottom lip in a futile attempt to disguise the sounds attempting to leave her. The pleasure is raw, intense, much more real than anything she’d ever felt since her reconditioning. In that moment, she could forget about that. About her reconditioning, about Talon, about her life an assassin. About everything save for the sheer ecstasy that was having Angela’s mouth between her legs.
Amélie may no longer remember it, but Angela had had time to become all too familiar with her body - with what she liked. She remembered just how to make Amélie crazy. And so she does, drawing tiny circles on Amélie’s clit, concentrating on that specific spot and repeating that same movement until she was screaming.
Her satisfaction is endless when Amélie reacts the same way she used to when— when she was human. She whimpers, contorting her spine and clutching at Angela’s hair as all sorts of profanities leave her lips.
Amélie gasps desperately when Angela sinks two fingers inside of her with almost unbelievable ease. And Angela lets out a moan of her own — Amélie is so wet, and her walls feel so incredible around her fingers.
“I’m going to make you come, meine geliebte,” Angela croons, staring up at Amélie as she begins to move her fingers.
“Oui,” Amélie mutters, as if she cannot manage more than one syllable.
“And I want you to not hold back.”
“Oui.”
She brings her mouth back down to Amélie’s clit, drawing more circles on it as her fingers pump in and out, curling at just the right spot that she knows Amélie likes, over and over.
And Amélie sees stars. She could die like this, she really could—
“Fuck, fuck. Fuck.”
It feels good, so fucking good, and the pleasure takes control of her body, and she doesn’t know if she can—
“Angela”
With the doctor’s name on her lips, she comes hard, her hand carelessly pushing Angela’s face into her cunt, her hips thrusting upwards.
And Angela doesn’t move an inch. She stays right there, as she does, making sure Amélie rides out her orgasm to its very last brim.
It takes Amélie several moments to come back to reality, and to register the picture of Angela kneeling and sucking earnestly on her two fingers, as if not wanting to let a single drop of her juice go to waste. She does not think she has ever seen anything hotter in her life.
“Amélie,” Angela mutters, short of breath. “You really are incredible.”
Amélie sits up, leaning forward to take Angela’s (gorgeous, flushed) face in her hands and kiss her lips deeply, tasting herself within them. Angela moans into her mouth, her arms limp at her sides.
“Angela,” Amélie calls, breaking the kiss.
“Ja?”
“I want to feel you.”
“Wh-“
“I want. To feel you.”
Oh.
Amélie’s gaze is intense as it stares into Angela’s eyes. Angela remembers what Amélie had meant in the past when she’d said those same words in bed. How Widowmaker was able to remember that, she doesn’t know, but she won’t stop to ask.
In what feels like a blur, her suit and all of its accompanying trinkets are off, and she is just as nude as Amélie. And a mere second later, Amélie’s hand is at the back of her neck and pulling her into a kiss so fervent it leaves Angela dizzy.
When she pulls away, Amélie gently pushes Angela down with a hand on her shoulder. Angela knowingly lays back, supporting her weight on her elbows. She watches in awe as Amélie positions herself between her legs, their hips perpendicular to each other.
Both women moan when their clits make contact, their combined wetness creating a slick, wet sound.
“A-Amélie,” Angela whines, desperately needing the pleasure that is so closely within her reach.
“Don’t talk, mon ange. I need this.”
Angela swears she feels her heart stop when Amélie says those words. She hadn’t called her that in years. Tears threaten to form on the corner of her eyes.
She doesn’t have time to think anything else when Amélie grabs her knee, beginning to move her hips, grinding their wet cunts together.
Angela mewls, biting her lip and closing her fingers into fists. She hadn’t felt Amélie against her like this in so, so long, and it feels just as incredible as it always had, only this time she’d spent years believing she’d never see let alone feel Amélie again.
“Ah, Amélie, you’re so good,” she moans, moving her hips in accordance to Amélie’s rhythm, desperately wanting more contact, more friction, more Amélie.
Amélie uses Angela’s knee as leverage to push herself back and forth, grinding into Angela as if no time had passed at all. She shouldn’t remember this, shouldn’t feel this desire. But what drives her is almost a primal need, something she has no conscious control over.
"Fuck, Angela,” she groans, this time feeling an entirely different pleasure. Her movements are so natural, so knowing. She must have done this a lot, when she was still human.
The sounds escaping Angela’s lips add to Amélie’s delight — she is beautiful, a whimpering, naked mess underneath her. A thought crosses her mind then: she could die happily if that were to be the last thing she ever saw.
Angela calls Amélie’s name, again and again, blue eyes never leaving Amélie’s gold ones. Amélie bends forward for a moment, planting a kiss on Angela’s lips.
“Are you close, mon ange?”
"So close, Amélie…don’t stop, please.”
Amélie smiles, something she does almost never, these days. And she leans back up, grabbing Angela’s leg again. She moves her hips faster, putting all of her effort into grinding hard against Angela, desperately seeking that apex she’d felt moments ago with Angela between her legs. Together they form a cacophony of mm’s and ahh’s, profanities, and the wet sound of flesh against flesh.
And Angela almost cries, because the unfortunate reality is that she still loves this woman so damn much, had spent years in agony because of her absence. And now she has her again, for this ephemeral moment, but at least right now it feels so utterly incredible, she can’t manage to think of anything but—
“Amélie, I’m so fucking close— please please please—“
Amélie is too caught up in her own pleasure to form words, so she holds tightly to Angela’s leg and rides her hard, pushing their clits together again, and again, and she feels that pressure building in her groin, and—
“Angela!”
Their joint orgasms are loud, messy. It causes Amélie to collapse on top of Angela, both of them laying in a breathless, sticky mess.
The rest of her body turned putty, Angela’s fingers languidly stroke Amélie’s hair, which hardly remains tied into the ponytail.
So they stay like that for a while, sharing silence together. Because both of them know that, once this moment is over, they will be enemies once again. And Amélie does not know if she will be able to stop herself from trying to take Angela’s life when she sees her again.
“Ich liebe dich, meine geliebte,” Angela whispers, a single tear running down her cheek. She isn’t sure if Amélie heard her, but concludes that it’s better that way.
Because sex or no sex, Amélie is still gone, only the Widowmaker remains now. So she lays still a little longer, holding on to the woman she loves while she still can.
Translations (in order of appearance):
(Fre) Une balle, un mort = one shot, one kill
(Ger) Bitte = Please
(Ger) Nein, meine Schöne = No, my beautiful
(Fre) Merde = Shit
(Ger) Alles okay = It’s alright
(Fre) Tais-toi! = Shut up!
(Ger) Mein Gott = My god
(Fre) Non, n’arrete pas = No, don’t stop
(Ger) Meine geliebte = My darling/beloved
(Ger) Ja? = Yes?
(Fre) Mon ange = My angel
(Ger) Ich liebe dich = I love you