Overwatch, Reaper and Windowmaker (Vulgrim x allycat)

[OOC: Continuing from the end of the Overwatch short available on youtube called Alive, the following story shows the conflict in Widowmaker’s mind as she works for the evil Talon terrorist organization that earlier had made her kill her husband. Character backgrounds can be found at playoverwatch.com or http://overwatch.wikia.com/wiki/Overwatch_Wiki. Much of the backstory will be made up along the way.]

From the rear hatch of the aircraft, Windowmaker rested her rifle against her hip and watched as chaos flooded the streets below. The hovering platform spun around as the rear door closed, leaving her in shadow.

She never felt so alive as when she pulled off a mission. Tracer made it so worthwhile too. The silly girl could have easily been eliminated, but she wasn’t the target. “Mmm,” hummed Windowmaker, feeling her vapid pulse quicken just a bit.

“Merci, Tracer,” she said in her French accent. And she actually meant it. Her shoulders turned away from the closing door. Her high heels struck the floor’s metal plates as she found a long empty bench spanning the length of the troop carrier section. None of the crew dared bother her. They always found any excuse to stay up front and at most, use the intercom to mention anything to her.

She secured her rifle and dethatched her grappling hook from her left arm, placing the device and her two venom mines into a steal ammunition box. She left her mutli-eyed assassin visor on, latched up and out of the way against her forehead. Now she could relax her mind and review the event. Reaching a hand behind her head, she tugged her ponytail over her shoulder. She took a shallow breath. She didn’t need more, even after all the roof top running.

She thought of the mission. The Omnic, Tekhartha Mondatta, was dead now. The shot was perfect. There were no flaws. Nothing needed improvement. She smiled satisfied with her mission. Looking down the isle to the control room, she winked at the navigator, who widened his eyes and gulped.

She thought, “Ha! Men were so amusing.” Closing her eyes and leaning her head back, her mind suddenly fell back into memories. She helplessly recalled one particular night in France when she felt love and sadness and dread. She remembered something she thought had been erased from her mind, at a time when she had a different name:

“Honey?” said Amélie Lacroix, a tall raven-haired beauty, who started to wonder if she was actually wonderfully alone. “Gérard?” She stepped across the front hall. It felt strange to be the only one in the chateau. Overwatch normally left agents around the property to observe her, ever since her talon capture and desperate escape. They didn’t trust her at first. They probably still didn’t. She didn’t know why. And now with the place all to herself, at least for a few fleeting minutes, maybe she could let herself feel a little romantic. She’d have to hurry though. If Gérard was not home, he would be soon. Her hands clasped her skirt at the thighs as she ran up the stone staircase of the medieval home. Normally all the stonework made her feel cold, but that night, she felt her heart race and her desires soar.

In the bedroom, she closed the curtains in each quaint little lucerne. Privacy was a must. She walked back to the closets as she reached behind and unzipped her dress. The formal outfit with its long sleeves restricted her shoulders and arms. The skirt, stopping just above the knees and limited her stride to an almost hobbled gait. The zipper seemed a mile long, and she couldn’t wait to free herself from the maudit outfit. Once unzipped, she still had to tug her tiny wrists and lithe arms free of the snug sheaths. She yanked and tugged to get her upper torso free. The sleeves peeled down her arms, inverting along the way, but she didn’t care about the dress. She had to hurry. She pushed down at the hips and sighed in relief as the garment finally hit the floor, graciously allowing her to step free of its confines.

A glance at her forearms, and their flawless untouched skin tone, suddenly clicked her thoughts back to the aircraft just after the killing shot.

As the plane engines roared, Windowmaker bit her lower lip. Thinking of her past never helped her. She remembered that night at the chateau. The images in her head just wouldn’t stop. She had screamed that night. The grief overwhelmed her. Her body was normal then. Her mind, she thought, had been intact.

Years later, her soul was gone. Her skin held a genetically altered blue tint. Her heart barely thumped. She looked at her arm, violated with a spider webbed tattoo with one word cauchemar written in a dark calligraphic font as if penned with an ancient quill.

“Cauchemar,” she whispered, “my nightmare for certain.” She closed her eyes and critically analyzed her happiness on the fateful night, as if Amélie Lacroix had been someone else.

The front door of the medieval hideout banged about downstairs. Upstairs, at a dresser table by the bathroom, Amélie spritzed her bare arms and wrists with a gardenia scent. She paused and listened. She heard only Gérard. His footsteps were unmistakable. She bit her lower lip. They were truly alone.

She sighed, “No guards tonight, my love. Bon ben.” Her eyes and smile both gleefully widened in the mirror. She turned on the padded stool and leaned back in her long shear silk nightie, placing her elbows on the table behind her. She glanced down her body, calculating the best pose to take. She crossed her bare legs, giving them a quick shake to let the nightie’s long slit line up just right. The material slip off and showed her shimmering legs.

She reconsidered something. “Shoot,” she muttered. She rushed over and pulled out some stockings and garters. Then she found some high-heeled strappy sandals. “Gérard? I’m up here.” She cringed. Maybe she shouldn’t have called out. Her husband’s footsteps now came up the stairs, but she could do this. She had time. Then again, maybe not.

She rolled up the stockings and slipped a foot into one, then the other. She sat and carefully slid the silk up her legs. She had to hurry. Maybe she could skip the garter belt. No. She’d wear that for certain. “Give me a minute!” She closed the bathroom door and pulled her panties down to her thighs, away from the stocking tops.

If this was going to be a romantic night falling into a sexual romp, she wasn’t going to sit there and fight garter straps as she got her panties off. The panties would have to go over the garter straps, not under. She stepped into the belt loop and pulled it up her legs and over her wide hips, letting it settle into the cinch of her waist. The silk nightie fought her the whole time as its slinky material kept sliding down and getting in the way. “I’m coming!” Now she played with the straps and clips, attaching them to her stocking tops. She clipped the front, back, and sides, while her feet kicked about the shoes. She regretted not choosing pumps. At least she could have just shoved those on her feet without delay. The straps she kicked around now had tiny clasps and needed careful work to wear properly.

A minute later, the bathroom door opened. Amélie Lacroix smiled at her husband. She let her rushed moment pass and she said, “I saw that we were alone tonight.” She slid a hand down over her breasts and let it fall over the long slit of her nightie. “I’m hoping we can take advantage of it, being alone.”

Her voice almost purred.

The small drop ship was eerily silent as it left the scene, flying away from London faster than anything could hope to keep up. Not that anything would. There was too much confusion left behind in Widowmaker's wake. As usual, the assassin had made a perfect kill. Only the quiet hummings of the plane's engines could be heard as the woman once called Amelie reflected on her past life -- on who she used to be.

A man named Gerard had come to their home in France that day -- busy as he was with work, spearheading the Overwatch Initiative, it was rare that he sometimes came home at all, but that night ... that night was special. That night, he was meant to spend with Amelie. To belong to her, to be her loving, caring husband, like he so often never got the chance to be. No more Overwatch, no more playing hero.

Just her, and him, and a night together.

"Amelie?" he had called out to her, leaving his things downstairs. Gerard had made his way up and to their room, only to hear her calls from their bath. He frowned, but didn't question what she was doing -- trusting that, whatever it was, it must've been important. The man sighed and ran a hand over his handsome face. If he had to be described in one word, then it was probably 'pure.' Gerard was pure of heart, pure of mind -- he was the textbook definition of a hero, with strong, somber features, his brown hair somewhat greeting, though he kept a strong jaw, fierce eyes, and an overall stoic yet friendly expression.

And Amelie was every bit as beautiful as he was handsome. Every bit as kind as he was pure. Sometimes, he couldn't decide which he loved more -- her, or Overwatch. Though the guilt he often felt for putting work before his wife told him how he truly felt. Nothing was more important than she was.

Nothing.

And so when she stepped from their bathroom, wrapped up in silk and lingerie, he could only blink at her. It was almost comical, really -- his face painted red with embarrassment, though his eyes lit up in a way that showed his wife he was incredibly interested in her, her intentions, and whatever she was wearing. "Uh," he started, clearing his throat. Gerard couldn't hide his smile. "Amelie, I didn't -- you look..." He couldn't find the words. What was he supposed to say here? He could face the cruelest villains, brave the most intense assassins, but she had completely disarmed him with her works alone.

Amelie had always been good at stealing the breath from him, and always without ever trying.

He smiled.

"You look beautiful, mon amour," her husband gently cooed, making his way over to her. Gerard took her hand and kissed the knuckles, smoothing his thumb over the spot his lips had touched. A second hand moved to her waist, and he pulled his beautiful wife close, and his lips touched her mouth next, capturing the woman in a soft and passionate kiss. "We are alone. You planned this?" He chuckled awkwardly and looked down at her again, brows raised.

His smile still hasn't faded.

Amelie’s slender body fell so easily into her husband’s grasp. Her hand seemed so minuscule when pressed against his wide chest. During their kiss, her head fell back against his rugged tightening hold on her. As his arms built a frame around her body, she loved how the silk slipped over her skin. The wispy blue satin material couldn’t be thinner and slinkier and naughtier.

She regained her breath. “All I planned tonight was to be ready for you. I’ve missed you so. Even though we’ve been together these past two weeks, it’s like we were both in our own worlds. I didn’t mean to be. I know you didn’t. Let’s start again. Please. I need that.”

Flashes of pain interrupted her thoughts. She had been a Talon prisoner for weeks. She couldn’t remember anything. But she knew they had tortured her somehow. They did something to her very being. But what? Overwatch probably had it right to wonder themselves about her. Did her husband still suspect something? She hoped not. In fact, a voice inside her required she make him trust her again. What could be wrong with that?

She smiled. She needed to smile. It just seemed the right thing to do, even though deep down inside, she felt inklings of her world burning away in total chaos.

Playfully pushing her husband away, she walked slowly over to a flat screen, defining a wall of the bedroom. “Let’s have some music.” Her hands tapped over the glass, and a calm enchanted melody played. She opened a drawer and extracted two wine glasses she had hidden days earlier. The idea of feeling love had preoccupied her for a while now. A preoccupation with sneaking in a romantic moment led her to hiding little things around the room to help set the mood. A wine bottle sat behind some books. A corkscrew rattled around with her make-up in a dresser drawer. Other options got tucked away to prevent any suspicious guards from seeing them during routine bug sweeps.

She smiled, almost chortled. Men looked so cute when they sincerely found themselves at a loss for words or actions. Sometimes a woman just had to tell them what to do. “Come here. Hold me. Tell me nothing else matters. Everything else is merely a distraction. Say you want me.”

The need to be desired hit her hard. Her mind and body demanded to know that he still wanted and trusted her. Being alone with him was the only thing more urgent than trust. A more assertive voice deep inside her seemed to be reaching out and pushing her forward.

She still held the glasses as she shrugged. “I’m surprised I’m still wearing this outfit as long as I have. You can rip it if you like.” It wasn’t like her to say that, but she crinkled her nose in a quick frisky flirt as confirmation that he had permission to go a little further than normal. She rubbed the bowls of the glasses against her silk nightie, carrying the curves over her breasts as her mouth fell agape.

The flirtation would make anyone envy the crystal flutes.

Her lips pouted. For some reason, a voice inside her wanted to tell him to run.

Gerard watched her carefully, letting out a surprised 'oof' when she pushed him away. A smirk his lips after seeing that she'd been playing, and the man could honestly say that he was at a loss for words at her entire display. Amelie seemed trying to prove something, but what? She was certainly making a show. Perhaps she'd just missed him; perhaps she was making up for lost time. Or perhaps she felt the need to remind him of something. Remind him that she was still his wife, the woman he'd fallen in love with? Tell him, show him, explain to him that she was still the same person, that they hadn't broken her, that her spirit was still intact?

He frowned at the teasing. Not because he didn't enjoy it, but because this wasn't Amelie.

Amelie didn't have to try. She never did. And this was a woman trying her damnedest.

But it wasn't her fault.

"Amelie," Gerard sighed, his shoulders slumping, suddenly heavy with guilt. Her husband made his way over and took the glasses from her hands, pulling them away from the woman's pert breasts. He placed the glasses behind her, on their dresser, then put his hands on his wife's shoulders. He looked in to her eyes. "You have nothing to prove to me. And I have nothing to prove to you. You're still my wife. I still love you. You are..."

He paused to think.

"When you were gone, I did not only lose my wife, mon amour." Tears welled in his eyes, though he tried his hardest to fight them. He had to be strong in front of her, just as he was strong for Overwatch, but Amelie was the one thing -- the one person in the world -- who could make him feel naked and vulnerable. And so he couldn't fight his emotions. "I lost me. I lost a part of myself. I could not focus on work. I could not be who Overwatch needed me to be. My mind, it was... elsewhere."

He pressed his forehead to hers, their noses touching. The hands on her shoulders moved down to her back, gripping the thin material of her nightie -- and he simply shredded it between the blades of her shoulders, peeling it off of his wife so that it fell around her waist, useless to hide her from him. "I love you. Without you, I am nothing. Overwatch is nothing. Do you see?"

He hoped desperately that she did.

Gerard kissed her, then pushed the woman forwards slightly, up against their dresser. The glasses fell, but he didn't care. Crystal could be replaced. His hands fell, free to roam her body, and he groped at her ample breasts, pressing his strong body against her curvaceous frame. His heart was beating like a drum against her chest, and his hands found her waist, hoisting her up on to the piece of oaken furniture so that she could wrap her long legs around his waist.

Amélie felt the weight of her husband pressing against her body, forcing her back to the glass screen. Her hips shoved into the recess above the cabinet. “Oh, Gérard!” She pinned his waist between her legs and clasped her hands behind his neck. She pulled herself up against his body and then let her torso fall back, showing him her bare breasts. With one hand holding onto his shoulder, she slid the other hand down his chest and then tugged at his belt buckle as their bodies undulated in a passionate rocking motion.

She squeezed her legs tighter. “Take me over to the bed.” She pulled their faces together and refused to let him talk as her mouth glued to his lips. Her fingers rummaged through his hair. She had missed the passion. She had missed being this alive.

In an altered body, Windowmaker didn’t feel like smiling at remembering these things. The emotions hindered her. Such memories should have been removed. With a deep breath, she calmed her silent heart as she sat alone in the cargo section of the aircraft. Her eyes opened at sensing a presence. “I know you’re there.” She closed her eyes and thought of her very first kill.

“Gérard!” was all that Amélie could think to say. She kissed again. With her eyes closed, her tongue slowly explored his mouth. She felt a deep need to make him happy. That night needed to be special. Given what had happened, any night could be the last. “I want to make you so happy tonight.” Her elbows squeezed in at her sides, pressing her breasts together. She arched back to give her husband a perfect view. Her nipples aimed right back at him. She wanted him to lift her higher against his chest and press her bosom against his mouth. When he tried to kiss her, she held firm and insisted with another glance at her chest, as if saying its all for you. Normally, she didn’t take such control, but it turned her on to insert a moment of power. Once he complied, of course, she’d let him take over again. It felt like a new side to her kicking in. She didn’t expect it. But she did enjoy it. “Don’t hesitate.” Her eyes darted down to her chest again. “Ravage me this way.” It was a different voice for her. It shocked her. It felt like a more controlling assertiveness she never knew she had.

Now her heart really started to race.

With their chests pressed so closely together, Gerard could feel his heart racing in time with hers. It was the best feeling he could think of, holding her in his arms. Knowing she wasn't someone's prisoner, knowing she wasn't being tortured, abused, hurt, mistreated -- those thoughts wounded him, and he winced, as if physically struck by them. The thought of her suffering made his heart sink, and once again Gerard began blaming himself for things, even in the heat of all of this. But when she called his name and demanded his attention, he felt his spirits lifting again. The man gripped her hips and held her tighter against his waist, grinding himself in to her as they continued their kiss. Just as he was hoping to say something, their mouths touched again, and he forgot what he'd plan on telling her at all.

Gerard --

In another place, there was laughter. It would've made anyone else's heart stop, if Widowmaker's wasn't already frozen in place. The lights in the bay of the dropship dimmed, and a dark cloud of smoke pooled from the vents. Shortly in its place stood a man, if you could call him that. Some doubted he was human, though the pale strips of flesh on his arms where both armor and cloth failed to protect spoke against that theory. Arms crossed over his chest, Reaper leaned against the wall of the ship, his head cocked subtly to the side as he looked at the woman once known as Amelie from behind Death's mask. He let out a low hum from somewhere deep in his throat, and his words left his mouth like gravel.

"Nice shot," he said, throwing a look towards the ship's heavy door, as if he could pierce the thick steel barrier and see the panicked streets of London beyond. "Should've killed the kid, though." Reaper's tone was almost condescending. There wasn't any doubt in his mind she could have ended Tracer when she'd had the chance, but Widowmaker had elected not to, for reasons he could only guess at. He studied her carefully, then laughed again. Funny, Reaper thought. Her name. The only person she'd made a widow was herself.

In another place, in another time, Amelie's husband had her hands resting firmly on her flank, fingers digging in to the flesh of her round, supple ass. When she pulled back to show her breasts to him, his breath caught in his throat and he looked up at her, face torn with want and need. He tried to find her lips again, but she stopped him. Purring low in his throat, Gerard gave one breast a kiss, then a playful, teasing nip before sitting Amelie higher on his chest as he turned to take her towards their bed, his face buried comfortably between her mounds along the way.

Without a word, he tossed the woman on to the mattress -- dropped her, really -- and watched as she bounced off of it, but before she could get very far, her husband was back on top of her in a second. His lips found hers once more, but not for long. He wouldn't neglect that chest. One hand kept himself above her, resting against the sheets, though the other moved down to take hold of a breast, giving it a nice, firm squeeze. He let out a low breath and placed his face between them again, and this close, he could hear Amelie's heart beating. The man's lips parted, and he captured his prize between them. Gerard groaned in to the woman's chest as he sucked firmly on one of her tender, rosy buds, the flat of his tongue pressing hard against it. He listened carefully for some sort of response, wanting to hear every little delicious sound his wife had to make.

“That’s so good,” said Amélie, stroking her husband’s hair as she road high on his body and his face planted firmly against her breasts. As she looked down at the top of his head, she felt the tongue swirls going around her plump nipple. As he then shifted his mouth to the other, her eyes helplessly closed and her head fell back as she enjoyed the passion that she invoked in her lover. She had made him launch into such a furious series of passionate moves. The dance was lost to instinct now, but she had ignited it. And he deserved it. A part of her had a dark reason for him to enjoy this one night. The rest of her just wanted love.
A breast tinged with a sharp ache from a playful squeeze. “Ah!” She gave his shoulder a frisky slap. “You’re so bad.” When he started carrying her over to the bed, she panicked a little bit, cranking her neck about, worried that she extended too high up. She checked if she might hit the ceiling fan. “Oh!” She lowered her head, but he leaned back a bit more as they went under. Hopefully, he thought she just moaned.
Suddenly feeling her body trampoline on the bed, her exhilaration shot up with the initial bounce of her body. With him pushing back down, pinning her to the bed, she loved feeling his weight across her whole figure. The pressure dominated her and let her give into notions that there was nothing she could do to stop him. She lifted a knee and rubbed that one free leg against his side.

A dark voice inside her yelled for her to act. She defied it. Nothing would stop her from letting him have one last moment of love with her. She vowed to let him have his way with her and then she would listen to the voice hiding inside, only then. The angry murmur droned in her head, but she ignored it and faked a happy moan. She felt the passion, but happiness could never be genuine with a darker half fighting over her soul.

The dark voice spoke again as Widowmaker retorted, “I only kill the assignment. If Tracer had been official support, if she had been more than a bystander, I would have taken the extra effort.” The assassin stood and steadied herself on the moving aircraft by raising an arm to grab an overhead camouflage mesh. Her long ponytail swayed with the ship’s sudden turns. Allowing her hips to move a bit with the momentum was her making a clear signal to him. The subtle shift in her weight was her coldblooded body’s idea a blatant flirtation. She had hoped the man would be present to watch her work. Now having seen her succeed again, did the kill get his exhilaration going like it did her?

She wasn’t certain about his motives. For her, when a deadly steel kiss touched its target, she wanted to extend the high. She hoped to make the most of her restrained excitement. After all, she could feel her heart pound once inside her chest. She closed her eyes and waited a second. Another strong ferocious heart pound hit again. It amazed her how fast and how strong it was going now. Looking right at him, she really was turned on now. Pound; her heart throbbed once again.

Amélie pulled her body back over the bed. She tugged at the nightie tangling around her hips. She wanted to show Gérard her powder blue colored panties and garters. She wanted the visual to burn into his mind of her bare chested body and the panties waiting for him to pull them off. She was all for him. She existed only for him. Her whole soul held control until she made him happy. Then she would have to give him over to her dark voice. She had no choice.

Reaper regarded the assassin with a blank stare. He was emotionless, expressionless, and completely unreadable behind Death's mask. At the woman's explanation of why she'd left Tracer alive, he answered her with an unconvinced 'hm,' not moving from his spot as Widowmaker climbed to her feet. She couldn't see it, but his eyes narrowed from beneath his cowl, held on the woman with suspicion b her actions. Not that Reaper had any reason to fear her, really. She was good -- but he was better.

His ego told him that, at least.

When she rocked her hips for him, saying nothing but eying him mischievously, he let out a low rumble from somewhere low in his throat and uncrossed his arms. Reaching forwards, he took Widowmaker by her chin, cupping her soft flesh fiercely. His fingers dug in to her like claws, and his touch was cold. Still, he smoothed a thumb over her plump lips, staring in to her -- through her, really. There was an interesting pause between the both of them, and he tilted his head, listening.

"That's new," he said, though didn't elaborate on whatever it was that he had heard.

Gerard lifted his face from Amelie's breasts, his warm lips reluctantly letting go of one of her swollen nipples. When she struggled to get her nightie down from around her hips, he helped her, gripping the fabric with both hands and pulling it down her long legs. Once it was well and off again, he simply tossed the worthless gown off to the side, resting on his knees in front of his wife. The man reached up and unbuttoned his shirt, then quickly peeled it off, showing himself to her. His body was strong, but marred with scars from previous battles -- Gerard had always been a fighting man.

His hands went to her thighs, then. Gerard caressed the insides of them, feeling her warm, gentle flesh. Fingers played with the straps of her garters before taking hold of her soft, blue panties, and those, too, moved down the long trek of her legs. Letting out a soft breath, Gerard placed his hands on her legs again, then slowly pried them apart. She was in need of something, he could tell -- Amelie was never this needy, not always, and she was feeling adventurous. They both were. And so her husband settled on to his stomach between her legs and placed soft kisses on her chest again, moving down the path of her belly until his lips came to the insides of her thighs, where his hands had once been. He treated the woman like a flower, delicate and gentle always.

Reaper was neither of those things.

The hand on her chin moved down to Widowmaker's throat, and he gave her a rough shove back in to her seat, where she'd bounce off of the cold, steel wall. Before she could try and escape him, he was on her in a second, towering over her with his large, dark and intimidating frame. A clawed hand took hold of her long ponytail, and he stared down at her. "You're sure about this, spider?" he asked, pulling back on her hair so that she was forced to look up at him. "I don't play nice."

Again, he tilted his head, listening -- reading her, trying to find the sound of her heart. Did this excite her as much as it did him? Now they would truly see.

Reaper would be the only man to ever tug on her Windowmaker ponytail and be allowed to live a second longer. She decided to grant him such a harsh use her trusses because she actually loved some good hair pulling. She didn’t smile or say a word as her head pulled back, leaving her neck fully exposed. She certainly didn’t like just giving in to such a weak pose, open to an easy deadly strike. She swallowed and with the neck kinked back, her throat gulped, but not out of fear. It all made her heart beat so hard in her chest. Beat, as in once.
Her latex gloved hands slid up the sides of her outfit to the deep plunging neck. Her fingers slipped under the opposing diagonals. They glided up to the sides of her bosom, stopped, and slowly drew away making the V wider. The outfit strained to keep her modesty. It finally gave and popped her breasts free, exposing so much more of her blue skin. The silent act had to be the clearest indication of her mindset with Reaper.

Amélie’s hands grabbed at the bed sheets and twisted them around her wrists. She couldn’t be more turned on. Her heart beat faster and faster. She felt guilt just lying back enjoying herself so much. It was him that she wanted to please, but maybe this too made him happy. “I’m ready. Please, lay on top of me. Let me feel your full weight. I’m craving it too much.”
She hugged his upper back with her stocking covered legs. She had lost one high-heeled shoe somehow. Normally the straps held on annoyingly well. Maybe it was the rush in the bathroom that made her miss tightening the clasp. Maybe they broke a strap. She wiggled the other foot, but of course that heel remained locked on good and tight.
Her hands rummaged through his hair as he continued to use his tongue to explore in newer ways than she was used to having. Now, she wished she hadn’t said anything. She didn’t want him to move. The idea of climaxing right there intoxicated her. Her dark said, promised to take over when she did.

“Don’t make me come just yet.” She worried the second she’d come, she’d…

…kill him like a black widow spider should, but Windowmaker respected Reaper, and she promised herself to let him live after they had some fun. Her hands slid across the dark body armor. She licked the tip of her gloved index finger and touched the exposed skin on his arm.

Gerard smirked in to Amelie's sacred place, not moving an inch from where he lay with his face between her heavenly thighs. The man's hand raised, and he gripped at one of his wife's pert breasts, fingers closing in around the supple flesh. He could feel that it was still wet with his spit, his lips and tongue having left no place untouched. Her husband's wet appendage thrust itself between her tiers and explored her womanly tunnel, and Amelie's sweet moans were all he needed to keep going. But when she pleaded with him not to make her cum just yet, he lifted his face and looked in to her eyes, thinking to himself.

No, she was right.

The were meant to do that together.

He chuckled at his wife in a teasing way, climbing back on top of her again. Gerard kissed her chest, her sternum, her neck, and then her lips, allowing the woman a small taste of herself, still fresh on his tongue. "Not yet, mon amour," he purred, reaching down to finish unbuckling his pants. They came loose around his waist, and he guided Amelie's hands to his hips so that she could help him pull them off. With a bit of shuffling, they were discarded easily, and, bare to his wife now, he took his position on top of her once more, the crown of his impressive shaft poking at Amelie's slick folds, requesting entrance. He held his breath and pulled back slightly to stare in to the woman's eyes as he plunged in to her, pushing his length halfway.

"Amelie," he sighed, swallowing hard. Again, the man kissed her.

Again, Reaper rumbled. He watched the little spider as she reached up to expose herself to him, shapely breasts spilling from the confines of her tight body suit, freed to the air and to his gaze. The assassin reached down and took one in to his grasp, giving it a sharp squeeze. Her warm flesh felt cold in his clawed hand, and when she ran her hands over his armor, she could feel his smirk, though Widowmaker couldn't see it at all behind that eery mask of his.

The man chuckled, reaching down to his belt. It came undone and fell to the flooring with a heavy clank. That seemed to be some sort of invitation, then -- or some silent command, instructing Widowmaker to finish the job he'd started for her. A simple tug down on the front of his pants stood between her lips and his cock, which she could already see an impression of, slowly forming beneath the material of his trousers. "Behave yourself, spider," he warned, wise to her tricks. "Your venom's no good on me."

Reaper peeled the visor from the top of Widowmaker's head, gently tossing it down on to the seat just beside her so that it wouldn't get in the way. He pushed a few strands of strangely-colored hair from her strangely-colored face, staring down in to those strangely-colored eyes of hers. The two were certainly discovering interesting things about each other. Widowmaker's heart had a beat, after all -- and though it wasn't quite certain who or what Reaper was beneath that mask of his, there wasn't any doubt that the man was living, given the compelling amount of evidence he had tucked away behind his trousers.

The sexy assassin slipped down along the rough black Kevlar of the dark figure. Her tiny hands clasped at his hips and then slid under the waist and forced the heavy coarse clothing free. She paused to look up at his mask. Typically a man needed a smile at this point to reaffirm and encourage and to build passion. To the deadly itsy bitsy spider, this was just sex. Her knees touched the floor and her hands tugged at the pants, releasing him right in front of her face. She clasped the shaft at the base and kissed the tip with her blue tinted lips. The rounded end felt so soft and slippery smooth. The musky scent filled her nose. She hadn’t experienced the pleasure of that manly fragrance since…

“Oh god!” screamed Amélie, her dark voice wanted her to be loud so things would progress faster. She, herself, wanted to take it slower for fear this could be the last time. “Hold my wrists down.” It sounded fetish and sexual, but it was her only way to maybe give Gérard a chance. Her dark voice burned in her head as punishment.

Weeks earlier, Amélie couldn’t move her bound body. She looked up at a dark shadow and spat. “I’ll never kill him. You might as well give up now.”

At the chateau, pinned under her husband, she moaned as she felt him slide in and out. Her body ached and begged with each withdrawal. Then when he pushed in, a void mentally and physically felt satisfied and giddy. Then it all repeated again. She moaned, knowing it would only hurry them both to the end. She didn’t know what the dark voice inside her head had in mind. There was nothing she could do about it. Her blissful state brought her closer to her subconscious than ever before. Still she could get no answers, nor say anything to warn him.

“Faster, Gérard,” she said, “unless you need more time. Take me there now.”

It was the dark voice that made her say that last bit. Her eyes darted around the room, looking for weapons and laying out a plan. She screamed silently in her head, “No!”

Windowmaker’s gloved hand encircled the base of the shaft. She loved the scent of men. She gently licked the tip to savor it. She then did an odd action of putting her nose by the base and slowly sliding her face along the shaft, quietly inhaling along the way. “Mmm,” she moaned, surprising herself with the vocalization. The traces of muskiness were so precious.

The moan bothered her. It wasn’t right for an assassin to express so much. She fell silent, but still smirked when she realized how the long drawn out inhaling probably looked like she had just sniffed a Cuban. There was a time when she would have giggled like a little girl at such silly thoughts, but such trivial notions just wasted her time now.

The shaft showed defiant confidence all by itself. She could take her time and it would stand just as firm. She liked that, and licked it, and wrapped her lips around it, pushing in, taking it into her mouth. It took effort to blow a man properly. The angle, holding the lips to keep the teeth away – it all took care. So the bastard better make some noise if she was going to work him like this. She adjusted her legs and raised her hips to give the maximum movement for herself.

She began now in earnest. Her mouth slowly sucked him in and then she gingerly flexed her arm muscles to carefully withdraw the shaft to the tip. Her forearms pressed against his thighs, giving her a good base. Her biceps gave her a machine like precision.

Now she moved faster. Her tongue felt the convex surfaces of the veins. Her nose became overwhelmed with his scent. Her view was limited to just his belly. It blurred as she bobbed. She was putting trust in him as she limited her defenses. That really bothered her, but she continued to work him. She wondered if he would stop her half way and then do her fully. She felt conflicted. Maybe she wanted to swallow him. The idea of getting him all the way there turned her on. With so many options, they’d have to do it all again.

She pistoned her head faster and faster. If he wanted an adjustment, a good hair tug or forceful head grab would always be appreciated. It would be an affront to her to have worked so hard and not feel that she reach a maximum potential for lack of feedback. She’d have to kill then. For now, she prayed he would break his silence and moan. Her bobbing workout deserved some encouraging noises.

The mysterious assassin known as Reaper was a large and intimidating man -- and so it only made sense that his cock was large and intimidating, too. She pulled down his pants, and as soon as the did, the material simply faded away, dissolving in to smoke and filling the air with wispy, shadowy strands. He chuckled at this; it'd been that easy all along, but the sight of her on her knees before him was just too much to behold. He couldn't have passed that up.

When she released his beast, it sprang forwards to meet her from its confinement, bouncing off of Widowmaker's blue-tinged cheek. He was thicker than her wrist, and larger than she could hope to hold in both hands. A hand held tightly to her hair still as she repositioned herself beneath him, inhaling him like some kind of cigar. He made a low, subtle sound when her lips touched the tender flesh of his long, vein-filled shaft, something low in his throat that he just couldn't quite contain, but had clearly tried to.

The noise was even louder when she took him in to her mouth like some kind of expert. Suddenly, Widowmaker's mission in life wasn't to look at people from the other end of a scope -- it was to devour him like some sort of cock-hungry slut, and it showed. The woman was a professional in every since of the word, and sucking down a load of his spunk was her new calling. And so Reaper was embarrassed to admit it, embarrassed to do it, but some noises, he just couldn't hold back, and it frustrated him that she was riling him up so. The hand on the back of her head tightened, and he suddenly thrust his hips forwards as some way of getting back at her.

The assassin's girth spread her lips wider so that they formed a wide, oval-shaped ring around him, and he didn't stop until he felt his length resting comfortably in her throat, heavy orbs pressed against her blue chin. With a rumble low in his throat, he pulled back on her hair and forced her golden eyes to stare up at Death's mask. The horseman sat like that for a moment, choking her, cutting off her supply of air, and he didn't stop, wouldn't stop, couldn't stop, until he felt the satisfying beat of her heart again. She wouldn't be able to breathe again until it happened.

And he knew it would.

Amelie suddenly felt her wrists secured, a pair of powerful hands gripping at them and pinning them to the sheets. Her husband moaned sweetly, blissfully -- nothing at all like the noises Reaper made, which were low, dark, and almost angry. As they made love, he found that it was hard to tear his lips from her own, and he kissed his wife over and over, again and again as they tangled beneath the sheets of their luxurious bed. But he couldn't take much more, and she couldn't either, from the sound of things.

As he got closer and closer to his climax, he made the mistake of letting go of her wrists, and Gerard sat up a little higher on his knees to get a good look at her. He wanted to see her face when they reached their peak together, wanted to memorize and visualize every sweet little detail, the way her eyes closed or her lips twitched when he came inside of her. Biting his tongue and increasing his tempo, Lacroix's member suddenly swelled inside of Amelie's constricting love-tunnel, and he released inside of her, filling the woman up entirely with his essence and being.

Her husband panted, slumped against her somewhat, his weight pressing in to Amelie. Gerard pushed the dark hair from her face and found her lips again, refusing to pull himself from inside of her. "Amelie," he sighed, but that was all he could think of saying. He seemed content, to just bask in the afterglow of what they'd done together.

But that was a mistake.

For Widowmaker, the grip on the back of her head tightened and it thrilled her. It felt so dangerous and out of control for her to submit so willingly. The man dictated the speed and he made it clear that sex with him would not go the way of a black widow spider. She would be the one to be in danger. And she loved it. If fate killed right then and there, it was fate. Nothing she could have done would have changed it.

There was anger in his sex play. She felt it in his hip thrust against her. Suddenly her blowjob ceased movement. She was trapped. When she opened her eyes, she saw the skull mask looking down at her. His hand prevented any movement. She couldn’t even gulp. If he came now, she’d choke.

It turned her on.

She thought, “Let fate happen.”

She had nightmares that got her off like this. Her fingers dug into his hips. A challenge was being made here. She just didn’t understand it. But did it matter? She never felt so aroused. Her heart pulsed. She knew it burnt more oxygen, but she had no control. Her body was giving in and her soul wanted more.

Whatever he searched for, he could have as far as she was concerned. His shaft blocked any relief for her burning lungs. Minutes seemed to have gone by. Her nose and mouth couldn’t take in air. She looked defiantly back. Her vision tunneled as the oxygen in her blood lowered to about where she’d pull the trigger for the most accurate of long distance shots, the ones that required deep meditation and gyroscope stabilizers. Most snipers had to coordinate breathing and heartbeats to the pull of the trigger. She always went further than that. But now she knew the lightheaded feeling was going too far.

Her hands dropped to her knees. She wondered if he’d climax in her mouth before she passed out. She hoped so. She had put some effort into all, and it peeved her if her time had been wasted. But then again, maybe he had no further use for her. She felt anger and rage that she had been so foolish, but she held still because she just felt so turned on by it all. This kind of sex hit a deep chord inside her. Her heart gave one last large pulse. She knew that was it for air. Even her cold body couldn’t last longer. The faint feeling made her close her eyes and enter a happy bliss.

Amélie screamed. She had climaxed and now her body sweated, her heart raced, and her lungs begged for air. “Don’t get too comfortable. I’ve been fantasizing too long about something to let you off so easily.” She pushed him over and rolled on top of him. Then she just collapsed. “Just give me a minute. I’m, I’m, yeah. Fantasies can be too demanding.”

Inside her head, she was not relaxing. Panic and fear shook her need to get more time as she fought a dark voice pouring into her sexual high and dancing with delight. She concentrated to hold back whatever plan it had for her husband.

Suddenly her body, without her consent, climbed forward. Her nipples tantalized her husband’s face. She flexed her long legs, swinging them around as she sat on his chest. The dark voice completed its total control and smiled down at Gérard. “I’m ready,” her voice said in the sweetest most loving tone. “I need this. Really.” She pealed off a stocking and tied his wrist to the headboard. She peeled off the other and tied the other wrist. She smiled down the line of her cleavage right into his eyes. “I love you, Gérard. Always, remember that and cherish our time here.”

She slid forward and pushed herself over his mouth. “Do me. I’ve been wanting this so bad.” She leaned back to reach behind and massage his resting manhood. Her hand felt the wetness and used it to lube her motions. Her thighs squeezed his head and every muscle flexed as hard as she could to hold him right in place. She then slid a bit further forward covering both his mouth and nose. She stroked his shaft faster. “Yes!” she screamed. The act turned her dark side on like nothing else, but her true soul screamed for mercy for him and for her. Her very being begged for the act to stop, but the dark voice abused the trust the gullible man had placed in a lover once captured by Talon. She wouldn’t let up, especially when he would start to figure out that the love making had ended at the climax.

This act wasn’t love.

Windowmaker always wanted to know what that man had thought and as she felt faint, maybe now she got a glimpse. She deserved it if this was the last time she felt any thrill at all. She opened her eyes and stared at the mask, but they began to glaze over.

Staring up in to his mask, Widowmaker must've felt something -- something strange, deep down, something that tickled her almost-beating heart. She wasn't as alone as she thought she was. Amelie was dead -- had been, for some time. Talon had murdered her years ago. But with her death, the perfect assassin had been born, someone who only felt alive in the face of danger, or when she squeezed the trigger, lining up the perfect shot and an incredibly blissful kill.

Whatever it was she must have realized, Reaper had, too. They weren't so unlike, the both of them. Their similarities went beyond their love for chaos and carnage, went beyond working for Talon. They both loved to gamble, and the things they liked to bet the most? Their very lives. Reaper loved being in control. He loved showing this little spider that her venom couldn't stop him. That her web couldn't tangle him. That he was completely immune to her, that he was in control.

He smirked, though she couldn't see it. The blue-skinned whore must've loved this feeling, must have loved the uncertainty of what was to come next, even if it was death. And Death was staring her right in the eyes. It laughed in her faces, its cock buried in her throat like a sword in its sheathe. He could see her consciousness fading, the life slipping from her -- and he felt her heart still in a way it hadn't before, as if she was well and truly dead. The cock hadn't been pulled from her throat yet.

He waited until the eyes rolled back in her head.

When the man's wrists were tied, he gave them a few experimental tugs, looking up at his wife with risen brows. A grin played at his lips, but it was soft and short-lived. "Trying new things, are we?" Gerard asked, trying to insert some light humor in to their love making. When she put her breasts to his face, he nuzzled them and gave each one a tender kiss on her rosy buds, his teeth grazing one before she pulled away again. Before too long, something else was in his face instead -- something moist, warm, wet, and much more sacred.

It was a shame that his wife's most intimate spot had to be the thing that snuffed him out.

Naive, gullible, and as trusting in his wife as he was, he didn't think much of it. She'd pull off of him eventually; he knew that, he trusted that, he believed that. His lips parted, and he pushed his face further in to her pot, licking up Amelie's honey. Little did he know that this wasn't Amelie anymore. His wife was well and truly dead. This was some artificial thing, some person that'd been created in a torture room. She wore his wife's face, she had his wife's voice, but it wasn't her. Gerard hadn't known that his wife had become the thing she'd feared most in her life, and he never would. His tongue buried in to her, though he couldn't breathe. But she'd pull away, give him the chance. He knew that, and he trusted her.

At least, that was what he kept telling himself.

There was an explosion in Widowmaker's throat, and something swelled. Just as she'd been about to fade away, her vision black and blurred, she'd find herself coughing and choking. Reaper's cock tensed in her throat, and thick ropes of his hot, sticky spunk went down both pipes, choking her. He groaned loudly, halfway with pleasure, halfway with anger, and pushed hard on the back of her head, forcing her nose against his pelvis as he forced the woman to swallow all of him.

And then there was relief (or disappointment, perhaps). Death pulled its scythe away, and his cock dislodged itself from the warm tightness of Widowmaker's throat. It sprang free from her messy lips with a light pop!, leaving a mess of drool and cum behind in its wake, doomed to dribble down her chin, on to her naked breasts. Still as thick and stiff and long as he was going in, Reaper shamed the assassin by putting the fat belly of his tool across her face, from chin to forehead. Juices oozed from his crown like some kind of fountain, spilling on to her flesh and painting the woman's bluish skin a creamy white.

The man let out a faint 'tsk, tsk, tsk, as if scolding her for something. "You aren't dead," he rumbled at her. "Not yet. I still have use for you, little spider." He pulled his cock away from her ike he'd stolen the woman's trophy, as if it was something to be revered. The man backpedaled a step or two, then simply fell in to one of the seats along the wall. His cock stood like a tower between his legs, erected like some kind of monument that represented everything Widowmaker wanted in life. Thrill, danger, uncertainty. He spread his arms out along the back of two adjacent seats, looking very much like a king from where he stared down at the cum-drenched woman who sat on her knees. Reaper curled a finger at her, gently beckoning the woman over.

"Crawl."

He wasn't asking.

Amélie squeezed her thighs together against the sides of his head. She grabbed onto the top edge of the headboard. She didn’t bother to stroke his erection anymore. At some point he’d start bucking and she needed to hold firm. Or maybe he’d assume she was playing a breathing game with him, and he’d calmly pass out expecting her to stop. How kinky would he think she’d go? She was oddly curious.

They knew each other for years, but trust and sex always messed things up for any couple. Fantasy led to strange requests and before couples knew it, they were in the ER admitting to a doctor something shameful. That night, there would be no ER for Gérard.

Her leg muscles burned. Still she held tight. She flexed her abs and prepared for a horrible, horrible struggle.

Windowmaker coughed and gagged as her body fell to the metal floor. She couldn’t talk and she pushed her rear up into the air and aimed her face down to clear her lungs. After a moment of recovery, her eyes threw shade at him like no woman in the world could. She coughed a few more times, looked right at him and licked the floor for a few of the larger drops of his cum.

“Don’t get too cocky,” she warned. “We’re having fun, but I’m not a pet spider.”

She pushed up to all fours. Her breasts hung free of her catsuit. She considered her options. She wanted the high from blowing apart a world leader’s head to last just a bit longer. Puerile anger issues from her a new boyfriend wasn’t going to get in her way that night. So she moved forward, her hips swaying and her eyes locked on him. She moved like a hunting cat. Staying on her hands and knees, she didn’t care if it looked demeaning, she knew what she wanted. The look on her face either meant desire or death and she could fulfill either in a second. So which one did the Reaper think she was taking closer towards him?

To keep him on edge she stopped and glanced at her amo box. Then she moved forward, put her hands on his knees and lifted her body up. She sat on his thighs, put a hand down to her belly and fidgeted with her outfit. “Shhh,” she put an index finger from her free hand onto his mask. “Just a second.” And slowly a slit opened between her legs. She held a tiny tool between their faces. The fingers twiddle the metal and she tucked it into the V of her catsuit.

Now she addressed his erection. Her gloved hand clasped the shaft. “For the next round, I’m queen of the mountain.” She raised her pelvis, and aimed his tip. She cringed and felt around between her legs to get everything in line. When the awkward hip moves stopped, she smirked as her body slowly lowered down, mounting herself onto his shaft. Her wrists rested on his shoulders. She lifted her high heels, and placed the soles of her shoes against his calves, just a like a jockey getting into positioned into the stirrups.

Now she paused and looked into the mask. She didn’t move. She just felt the void filled with his manhood as if daring him to keep the erection without her moving one bit. She gasped and closed her eyes. “Spank me.” Her hips just slowly twisted for her own satisfaction. She’d hold back as long as she could. How long could he keep it up?

She pushed her tits against his mask. “I bet you want to kiss these.”

(( This seems appropriate, lol. ))

It took longer than it should have for Gerard to realize something was wrong. Horribly, terribly, impossibly wrong. This wasn't satisfying some fetish anymore, this wasn't getting lost in the throes of passion. This was something else entirely. When her legs squeezed around his head, thighs pressing in to his neck and cutting off the air, his heart skipped a few beats. At first, he didn't want to believe it. Couldn't believe it. But at the end, it clicked -- it clicked hard, and it clicked fast, and, truth be told, Gerard didn't feel like fighting at all. If he died, he died. If not, he'd have to kill his own wife with his own hands.

But he had to fight -- and he did, for a while. But before the life faded from him, before he finally stopped all of the struggling, he thought to himself. "I'm sorry, Amelie," was what he wanted to say. He just wanted to look at her one last time -- to tell her he didn't blame her, to let her know that this wasn't her fault. "I still love you." But the words didn't come, because they couldn't. He couldn't see, nor breathe, or do much of anything at all except make this easier for her. A small part of him hoped and believed that Amelie was still a person, deep down inside the widow's heart.

After a few moments, Gerard stopped fighting -- and everything was still.

Death had taken Gerard that day, though Widowmaker seemed intent on taking him now. Reaper watched as the woman crawled to him, and she could swear that his mask was almost smirking. He watched her like she was some sort of pet, until she stubbornly reassured him that she wasn't. The man chuckled once more. He appreciated that kind of attitude -- admired it, even. She'd be so much more pathetic and so much less desirable if she could be tamed, he thought.

When she moved to straddle him, hands on his chest, he simply looked up at her, with the subtle tilt of his head. No noises, no words, no anything, until she spoke, and then he laughed. "Mm," Reaper answered, deciding to humor her. Fine. She could have this one -- they were on the same level, after all. When the woman took his girth in to her nimble hand, he purred again, looking down from the small knife she'd produced to where she had her grp on him. As Widowmaker lined herself up with his throbbing erection, he placed his hands on her hips and listened as she spoke again.

"Gladly," the man said in his low, malicious tone. Fingers moved to rear from waist, and he took hold of Widowmaker's thick, round ass, and even Reaper had to stop and admire it for a moment. He gave each cheek a rough squeeze, claws digging in to her flesh, and as she sank down on him, he groaned, and a hand brought itself back to give her juicy rear a loud spank, though the catsuit didn't allow for as much contact as he would've liked. Reaper sank his claws in to the material and tore to either side, until it ripped apart around her shapely flank. His fingers kneaded the now-bare skin, and he reached back once more to repeat the action, except this time he was greeted by a louder noise and a satisfying bounce of what she had to offer.

When her chest was pushed to his face, Reaper let out a low growl, happy with the sight and feel of them, though somewhat annoyed by the teasing. He buried his mask between them, then gripped her ponytail again, pulling her head down slightly so that they were eye to eye as she rode him. The man's cock buried itself in to her all of a sudden as he raised his hips to meet her own, hilting himself inside of Widowmaker's narrow canal. "Do you want me to?" he challenged, though she'd get the sense that his question was mostly rhetorical. How curious was she to see behind that mask of his really?

He released her hair then leaned back again, getting a better look at her. Reaper started thrusting up and in to his little spider, watching her breasts as they bounced with the motion. He pulled one hand from her ass to grope at them, giving each of Widowmaker's tits a rough squeeze. Again, she was spanked, turning her bluish skin a bright shade of red. His cock filled every little spot as it continued its invasion, filling the assassin up entirely. Every so often, he'd groan or pant with pleasure, frustration, and sometimes both, though Reaper hadn't given her a genuine moan just yet.

That'd require something extraordinary.

Amélie held firm for several minutes after her husband stopped moving. She didn’t dare let up. Her thigh muscles burned and she made them squeeze even harder. She had to be certain he was dead. Then she fell back and rolled off the bed. She had done her job. But just to be certain, she crawled back up to the bed and checked his pulse. Nothing. Yes, she had – the horror of what she had done hit her so hard. She knew that in her mind lurked some dark presence. Given how Overwatch didn’t trust her, they would now surely assume the worst now.

Her heart raced again for terrible reasons now. Any joy evaporated.

Who would believe a person could be programmed? She needed help. Logic and shock mixed as she tried to avoid thinking of what she had done. She only knew of one person who might be able to restore her normal mind. At an Overwatch campus, Mercy did so many medical miracles. But could Amélie make it to Zürich?

Rather than let grief flood her thoughts, Amélie used her new cold hearted skills to avoid thinking about her husband. She blamed the Talon. She needed answers. She stood by the bedside and vowed with all her heart to find out who exactly ordered the death of her husband and she’d kill them too. No, she wouldn’t just let herself be arrested and locked away. She’d do something about it. She’d confront the bastard who really did this and make them…

“Spank, harder, I, need, it, to, hurt,” screamed Windowmaker, burning her leg muscles as she road Reaper like a stolen horse. “More,” she ordered. She felt him grope her breasts and the squeezing of her soft flesh helped. But it didn’t hurt enough. It didn’t punish her enough. She missed the notion of feeling a man’s weight lie over her body. She missed feeling warmth and companionship. As quickly as she craved those notions, she rejected them. That wasn’t her anymore.

At the moment, she needed to feel more intensity to maintain her high from the kill. She searched constantly for ways to hold that wonderful feeling of elevated life. For her pain and pleasure went together in sex. Guilt made that happen. She felt she didn’t deserve sexual bliss without pain. She needed to punish herself anytime she orgasmed. Deep inside, she blamed her sexual desires on ruining her life. If she had only held back that fateful night, her husband might have lived. The guards would have returned and she could have confessed to harboring a dark soul. Amélie had been so trusting and now, Windowmaker dug her fingers into Reaper’s shoulder. “Harder!”

Her hips rose and fell faster. Her eyes locked on the mask and then she’d look away to feel him inside her. She alternated her gaze to him and her inner sensations, as she gave herself a ruthless pumping.

On one down stroke, she lifted a leg, using a hand to keep it straight as she pressed its knee by her shoulder. One the next down stroke, she rotated her torso. She intended to do an about face, but the girth inside her slowed her down. She now had both legs over Repear’s right thigh. She had lost all leverage. “Lift me and lower me. Again. Again. Mmmmm. Ok. I’m going to complete the turn now.”

She wanted to face away. The shaft would feel different and hit new spots inside. Also Repear could watch her rear bob, as she pressed both hands down on his knees for leverage.

Widowmaker's memory would fade away as she left Gerard's still-warm corpse behind, the poor man left tied to his bed, naked and spent, for the guards to find. There wouldn't be any denying what had happened to him. No hiding it, no trying to spin some lie like she did her webs. Gerard had been known as a caring man, as a heroic man, pure of heart and soul. He would have never turned to some other woman for his own desires, and everybody knew that. So when they found him the next morning, and when they found his wife mysteriously gone, well, there wasn't any guessing as to what'd happened to the man and why.

Talon must have corrupted her.

But that was it, for this story -- though, of course, Widowmaker had a complicated and extensive past. There was always that time with Mercy...

Before she next thought could begin, Reaper snapped his new 'girlfriend' (if she could be called that) from her memories with a loud spank on her thick ass again. When she egged him on, he growled audibly at her, frustrated by her constant challenge. He smacked her flank again and again, his claws digging in to her tender flesh until her cheeks were left more red than they were blue, and still she begged for it, bouncing up and down on his cock like some kind of trampoline, impaling herself on to his impressive length every time.

He wasn't sure what'd suddenly brought on this side of her. Did she just get off on pain and self-loathing, or did this go deeper than that? When the woman twisted, his girth still very much buried inside of her, Reaper let out his first real moan, his voice an octave higher than his previous grunts and groans of pleasure. "Agh," he grumbled, placing his hand on the small of her back as she turned to let him fuck her sideways. Beneath his mask, the man grit his teeth and scowled, but he wouldn't pass up this opportunity to explore the insides of her pussy in new and interesting ways.

The assassin placed one hand beneath the backs of her knees and raised her legs in to the air, thighs forced tightly together. He could feel her walls squeeze around him, and Reaper's other hand wrapped around her torso, hugging her tits close to his face as he quite literally pulled her off of his fuck-stick only to force her back down on top of it again. This went on for a while, until she twisted on top of him entirely -- and when she assumed the position of reverse cowgirl, Reaper was certain that he was beginning to lose his damned mind....

"You damn spider," he swore sharply at her, giving her ass another hard thwapping. From this angle, he could watch it bounce with the motion, and Reaper found that so much more satisfying. Still, he grew tired of this 'Queen of the Mountain,' and without warning, the man stood, forcing Widowmaker up with him, though he didn't pull himself from her at all. An arm wrapped around her front to keep her back pinned to his broad chest, and he quite literally lifted the woman from the floor, suspending her in the air with his sword still hilted deep inside.

Twisting, he pushed Widowmaker's naked front up against the cold steel of the wall, gripping her beneath the thighs and splaying her legs apart from behind. With her tits mushed against the bulkhead, and with her feet off of the ground, the camo netting above them was really the only thing to grasp at for support as he proceeded to fuck the poor spider from behind, pushing against her in an undoubtedly awkward and uncomfortable way, though he was able to reach even deeper than ever before, his front pressed hard against Widowmaker's back still.

A hand reached around to grip her chin, and he forced her to look over his shoulder and directly in to his mask, their 'noses' touching. "Mewl for me," he commanded, though he didn't sound too threatening -- could it be that Reaper was actually lost in passion? He couldn't quite kiss her, but that didn't stop the man from bringing his face in close to her own. The wet sounds of sex filled the bay of the dropship as he continued pummeling in to her, and Reaper could feel that he was nearing his end, but he wouldn't stop until he'd at least heard the blue-tinged woman say something lewd and nasty again.

Windowmaker smiled, knowing she was getting to Reaper. His voice straining at a different octaves confirmed it. She took the harsh spanking. She wanted the pain. Somehow, she seemed deserving to have a sting if and when she took joy.

“Mewl?” she scoffed, as she grabbed at the ceiling military mesh while her body got pressed against the wall. Her limbs spread out like a spider stuck to a web. Her inner ramparts throbbed as her body finally edged towards to a nice peek. Intending to use a gentle voice, the pounding forced her to instead grunt out, “Now, I, know, you, are, trolling.”

She leaned her head back to his as if doing so out of love and care. Her hand reached to gently touch the side of his mask. She mocked him, “How, about, this? You, have, my, permission, to, come, now.” She tried to laugh, but instead moaned and panted. “Ah! Oh! Yes.” Good, little, boy.” She didn’t care if she pissed him off. Maybe he’d like. She closed her eyes and enjoyed hit a sexual peek. The muscles in her legs went limp, but she still clasped the mesh above. With her legs lowering, her body squeezed him even tighter.

At the chateau, Overwatch agents had found and removed the body. It was an active crime scene.

Tracer looked around the grounds. She blinked about the topiary to places where she thought she had seen something. Mostly she found bits of trash. She blinked several yards over to a small tool shed. “Hmmm, nothing. Mrs. Lacroix how did you leave?” She saw a manual push grass cutter and giggled at the ancient equipment.

“Winston!” She blinked to a stone patio area. She whispered, “Winston?” Blink. In a sharp staccato, as she called in a normal voice, “Winston?” She opened a heavy painted wood door, built long before people got beheaded for working with French aristocracy. Blink. “Wow,” she said, seeing the elaborate stonewalls and floors. “Cool.” Blink. Upstairs, she looked over the railing. She waved at an Overwatch guard. Blink. In the bedroom, she saw yellow numbered markers, tagging various spots in the room where something significant had been removed.

“Winston? There you are. I checked the grounds, love. I don’t see anything through the gardens. I’m guessing, Mrs. Lacroix took an extra car left for her.” She looked at her companion. He always kept too busy. Still he had always took time for her and she wished she could return the favor. She picked up a scanner to offer him and held it out. She had a crush on the guy and one day, she wanted to make certain he knew it. “Do you need this to…”

“Go, Fuck, yourself,” said Windowmaker, still being pumped. “Mewl. Please. It’s, too, late, to, troll, me. I’m, coming, already.” She closed her eyes enjoying the extension to her killer’s high. Maybe a part of her soul hoped the guy had enjoyed it too. He better have. It had been a tough workout. Then again, if he didn’t look out for himself, why should she care? She felt the pieces of her torn uniform. Her hand touched the angry exposed skin that Reaper had cruelly slapped so many times. It made her hum in bliss. He did a nice job.

Over by her amo and supplies, she had packed a black catsuit with a red corset. It wasn’t her normal outfit, but she could slip it on. She looked at reaper. He could watch too, if he wanted. What she really craved now would take place when they landed. In the darkest corner of her mind, she wanted revenge and she wanted the name or names of the Talon leader that ordered her first hit. It wasn’t fair. After all, she still hadn’t been paid for that hit after all. Now blood would do. The thoughts of revenge faded away as the sensual sexual state calmed.

"So," one guard said, sounding bored. He yawned, clad in the usual grunt outfits most Overwatch soldiers kept themselves wrapped up in -- mostly blue with a hint of yellow, with darker armored plating. The pair stood at the door leading up the steps and to Amelie and Gerard Lacroix's room, where one of the most brilliant minds of their time was doing his damndest to figure out this part of the story.

"What?" asked the second.

"Reyes or Morrison?"

"That's not even a question," the second grumbled. "Morrison. Reyes is crazy."

"Yeah, I mean -- I guess? I feel like Morrison holds back a little too much, though, y'know? I fought with Reyes once. Against some of the guys, in Talon. You wouldn't believe the way that guy moves. He's a monster with those shotguns of his."

"No way. You seen Commander Morrison fight? I have. Reyes ain't got nothin' on 'em, I'm tellin' ya."

"Yeah. Maybe."

As the two continued to debate who was better as a figurehead for Overwatch, now that Gerard was gone, their bickering was suddenly cut short, as a brown-haired girl permanently stuck in her early twenties suddenly appeared right in front of them. They jumped and lifted their rifles, but didn't shoot. After all, who didn't know about Tracer? Still -- it was something you had to get used to, her constant jumping around like that. She was gone quick as she came, and they both sighed.

"Freak," Guard One muttered.

"Yeah."

"What's up with that accent? Is she English, or Australian?"

"English, you idiot. See the patch on her jacket?"

"Australia has that flag, too."

"... oh, yeah."

They both fell silent.

"She's cute, though," said One.

Two agreed. "Yeah."

In another place, at another time, a man once known as Gabriel Reyes let out a loud grunt and poured himself in to the object he'd been abusing. When she teased him, when she humiliated him, when she spoke out against him, he didn't care. Few men dared to look at him at all, even fewer dared to mock him -- and in such a compromising position, in such a vulnerable way, if Widowmaker had the stomach to call him out like that, to quite literally mock him right to his face...

Well. It made her more fuckable, frankly.

With a growl low in his throat, the man's cock tensed, and Reaper suddenly pumped his little spider full of his own venom. Reaper's spunk was unnaturally warm -- warmer than she was used to, thicker, and more excessive, too -- but it was hardly enough to burn her, though it sure initially felt painful. With a grunt, he dropped Widowmaker on to her feet again, then gripped her ass and slowly pulled himself out. He rolled his shoulders and twisted his neck to both sides with a few audible cracks, then simply fell in another seat again. Smoke and shadow filled the air, and suddenly his pants were covering him again, though his still-hard cock could still be seen through the material.

"Get dressed," he said to her, then looked at her again. Reaper laughed. "If you can."

They'd be landing soon, and at a Talon base, well, she didn't want to be walking off of their little jet with a shredded catsuit. There was a long, uncomfortable silence between them. Reaper was inspecting his clawed nails. Finally, he glanced her way again. The man just couldn't help himself from mocking her, even after all of this. "You know why you didn't kill her?" he said, brow raised. Death looked her down. "You're weak. You're pathetic. You've lost your bite. You had her in your sights. I saw it. And you did nothing."

He yawned, sounding bored.

"Was that Widowmaker down there?" he asked. "Or was it..."

"Amelie Lacroix," Winston sighed, looking at the bed where Gerard's body had once been. "What have they done to you..."

The large man -- if you could call him that, really -- looked terribly sad. Not just for her dead husband, but for his wife and all of Overwatch. Without Gerard's guidance, the reigns would have to be passed on to someone else. Gabriel Reyes or Commander Morrison seemed the most likely, but even Winston couldn't decide between the two of them.

They were both his friends.

"Hm?" he heard something from behind, all of a sudden, and with a flash if light, Tracer was standing near the door. His brows raised, and the gorilla turned to face her. "Oh! Lena," he greeted, reaching up to fix his glasses. "There you are. Er... yes, I'll take that. Thank you." When the scanner was offered to him, he neglected to tell her that the thing was actually useless for this particular job, but it pained him to see Tracer disappointed in any way, and so he smiled, happy to know that she at least felt like she was helping.

"Did you have any luck?" he asked, placing the device aside and hoping she wouldn't notice. Fortunately, Tracer had a way of always finding newer, more interesting things to home in on. At the woman's response, he just frowned and heaved another sigh. "I see. Well. You tried your best, Lena. We both did. But even you can't turn back time that far..."

They needed something else to talk about. This was too depressing.

"How's the chronal accelerator working?" he asked with a spout of interest, always happy to discuss one of his inventions. "I'm working on a new model, you know. Hm. The tricky part will be taking it off and putting the newer version on to you before you have a chance to blink away. If we're careful, it might work. I have a few ideas. I wish I'd brought it with me. It's back at the lab."

Widowmaker used a relaxed stroll over to her duffle bag and amo cases as a way to dismiss most of Reapers rant. Taking a wide stance, she bent over at the hips. Her quick fingers opened the cloth bag and extracted a tiny black catsuit. She also mined out a red corset. Peeling herself of her purple latex scraps down to her boots, she dislodged her lower legs. At one point she raised a hand to gesture a talking puppet, mocking Reaper’s little speech. A cable-free grappling hook lodged into the wall next to Reaper’s head just before he could say her birth name.

“Don’t even,” she said, as she stretched black latex up her naked body. “I already answered that.” Her arms strained into the suit. She aimed her torso at him, paused, and then zipped her bare breasts up into a shiny black sheen. Bowing, limber and quick, she grabbed the red corset. She didn’t look forward to donning all the rest. Loading up the bombs onto her hips and hiding the other weapons took so much time. It all reminded her just how much effort sex required to free herself from her equipment. She pulled-in the laces behind her. “Awe. Don’t look so glum.”

Tracer handed the scanner over to Winston. Her gloved hands lingered on his large fingers. She clearly didn’t care about the device. She woke herself up from her trance and blinked away to the other side of the room, to sit on a cabinet with her legs in a pretzel.

“She has a almost a full day lead on us,” said Tracer. “You know it’s now a wait and see. If you find a clue as to where she’s going, you know it’s gotta be a red herring planted by her. I vote we send one of others to double-check anything we find here. It’ll be a dead end waste of time, unless you found some radioactive isotope to track her with. You guys didn’t put a tracker on her did you? Sometimes, I wonder if Overwatch secretly…” She blinked right by Winston, “do things they technically shouldn’t.” She whispered, “Is she? Tracked? Is a radar screen somewhere got a little blip going?”

Her hand rubbed the covered arm of his jetpack suit. Nothing of his fur showed except around his face. The bulletproof power suit was all she could lean against. “It’s always great working with you, especially during such tough times.”

She looked up at him literally and figuratively. Did he feel the same way though? It was tough reading Winston. The guy could always hide behind his work. Eating peanut butter seemed the only time he honestly stayed in the moment and did not let so many other things distract him away into a cloud of R and D. “We should stay here tonight. The carriage house has a roomy garage with a couple of empty tractor tires inside. Perfect, aye? Just a bit rustic and dirty. We’d have to rough it, here together and all.” She wondered if they did it, where would she sit or lay when it came to oversized tires. Tires were his furniture of choice at his lab. Not exactly comfortable.

Speaking of which, heading back to his lab worried her. He was talking about her timepiece again. She was certain he would just get distracted there. Maybe if she batted her eyes a bit more, he’d notice her.

Reaper raised a brow behind his mask, though she couldn't see it. Eyes narrowed, the ghostly-looking man watched her with extreme interest as she dug through her bag, pulling out yet another catsuit. Sure, that made sense. Widowmaker was a professional, after all. There wasn't anything strange about that. When the corset came, though, he blinked, then flinched slightly as the cable zoomed past his head and landed itself in the wall of their little ship, his head slowly turning to look at it.

"Hmph." A glance back at Widowmaker. He watched her lace the corset. "How... chic." He'd kept forgetting that she was from Paris. Well, even the deadliest assassins couldn't shake their sense of beauty, he guessed. Interesting choice of attire, though. Reaper leaned back in his seat, legs crossed. "Aren't you sore?" he mocked, sounding annoyed. "I already gave you two good fuckings." He had to give her credit, he supposed; she wasn't shy, and she certainly didn't hold back.

Reaper wasn't sure if he'd be able to go for a round three with her.

Back in Gerard and Amelie's room, Winston frowned. The man listened to Tracer, and knew that she was right. When Lena finished speaking, his shoulders slumped, and he almost didn't notice she was behind him until he felt her touch on his back. "No," Winston admitted, rather sheepishly. "I thought about it, but... I didn't want to suggest to Gerard that maybe his wife had been brainwashed." A look over his shoulder and at the brown-haired girl. "I should've convinced him. Maybe... if I'd just been a little more careful..." he trailed off, putting the blame on himself.

Someone had to carry the guilt, after all. Amelie certainly wasn't...

"Hm?" When Lena suggested staying in the carriage house -- together, over night, all alone -- Winston actually blushed, his greyish skin turning red for a moment. "Er -- well, I..." He fixed his glasses and cleared his throat, frowning. "I really should get back to the lab, I've... I've got..." He tried to come up with some excuse -- an excuse -- to dodge spending a night alone with Lena, hoping some deep feelings for her wouldn't surface, but when she began to frown at the sign of rejection, his heart ached and he just couldn't refuse her.

Winston cherished her too much for that.

"Well, alright," he finally said, managing a small smile. "But they better be some good tires." Gerard kept a few banana trees in the garden, too, planted there for Winston specifically. The tropical plant looked a bit strange amongst the otherwise medieval home, gut the man had insisted. "Come on." With that, he scooped Lena up in his large arm, then placed the woman on his shoulder. There was just enough room for her to sit there and he made his way towards the window of the bedroom. The fact that they were on the third floor didn't bother him; a few well-placed hops and swings and they were down, though he'd dropped Lena halfway.

Before she had a chance to hit the grass, he caught her in both arms and let out a small chuckle, setting her on her feet again. "Careful," he teased, looking around. The carriage house wasn't much further. "What are we going to do in a a carriage house?" he asked, wondering if Tracer had any ideas. "I'm so used to my lab..." He said it sheepishly. Winston relied heavily on technology to get most of his entertainment fixes. What were they to do in a old, rustic place like this? She probably had a few ideas.

“Winston!” screamed Tracer, feeling the suddenly accelerations just before they landed together on the ground. She let herself slide off his arm and then she gave his hand a pull, leading him through a wood path. “Come on. It’s getting dark. We’ve been at this all day.” She let her accelerator lower its power a bit as she gazed off at the sun hiding behind the trees. “I never really knew the Lacroix’s. I guess you must have spent time with them. I get the feeling you’ve been here before.”

The wooded path opened to a meadow protecting a quant stone barn.

Lifting a large metal hook, latching a barn door, Tracer opened a converted garage entrance. She turned and gave Winston a mischievous smile. “I didn’t want to be at the main house tonight with all the guards poking their noses around.” She flung open the door. “Come on. We’ll enjoy an evening in provence.”

She turned and walked backwards across a polished cement floor as she yank herself free of her bomber jacket, pulling it out from under her chronal accelerator straps. She dropped the leather jacket on the floor. She tightened up her equipment straps around her shoulders, but started tugging at her holster straps wrapping her legs. She stopped and let her guns drop to the floor. She kicked off her shoes. “I thought it would be more rustic. I didn’t realize they had revamped the insides like this. It’s so Overwatch lab looking.” The décor brought a smile to her face at that moment, because she realized, Winston would like it. She pointed at two large tractor tires by a lead glass window, a rusty pitchfork, and some out of place bails of hay. “There are the tires I glimpsed when I did a millisecond run by. It’s like a barn in that corner.”

Overhead lights turned on. “Wow, Gérard like his tools. Car shops have less equipment than this place.”

More lights flickered on as she flipped switch after switch.

“Cor blimey!,” said Tracer. “It’s big. Less romantic though—I mean rustic than I had hoped. It’ll just have to do. Right Winston? Hey! There’s a kitchen. I bet he has wine.” Her hands reached under the glow of her accelerator and she started to unzip her catsuit underneath as she walked backwards for a few steps and just stared at him. She turned and looked over her shoulder while proceeding over to the open kitchen area.

“You want more?” said Windowmaker. “You’ll never get enough of me.” She didn’t like being asked if she was sore. It suggested weakness. She suddenly grabbed onto the overhead mesh as the aircraft landed. She wanted to think of some insult comment about a quickie, but instead picked up her riffle. “Lead the way, big boy.”

One day, she’d eventually see some of the Talon leaders. She could then decide if she wanted to kill them on the spot or wait till later. It depended on how suicidal she felt at the moment. The morbid notion gently ebbed and flowed in and out of her mind—just like any normal person would—she paused to think about that. Maybe normal people didn’t ride a roller coaster of guilt flashes and cold apathy. No, surely everyone felt like riding the edge of death now and then. She pushed the thoughts to a corner of her mind and slung her duffle bag over her shoulder. The sack almost matched her size, but she managed its weight quite easily.

A green light turned on, and Widowmaker slammed her hand against a large button. The rear exit of the platform opened. She looked back at the Reaper, before he did something annoyingly dramatic like disappear into vapors. “I’ve always wanted to try it upside-down, hanging from a cable. There are a lot of high ceilings on campus. “C'est juste pour…” She turned and walked down the ramp.

((Just an FYI, I'm having fun, but if you want to take a break or stop at any point, don't feel like you're obligated to keep playing. I know how things get sometimes.))

Reaper stared up at her with cold, empty eyes, and though his mask was expressionless always, she'd almost get the sense that he was scowling at her. The man let out a scoff. "Is that right?" he challenged at her rather bold claim. Was Widowmaker so certain of his obsession with her? What's to say he wasn't just entertaining himself? She was a convenient enough tool to pass the time. Further still, who was to say that she wasn't addicted to him?

Well. She was a manipulator. He reminded himself of that. Always had been.

When she told him to lead the way, he grunted in response and didn't speak out loud. The man dissipated in to smoke and shadow, passing right through the assassin with the cold chill of death. He took form on the ramp again, setting his heavy boots on to the slope. Just as he did, the door leading from the bay in to the cockpit opened up, a Talon pilot stepping out and looking rather... well, unsure. Reaper heard his footsteps and sighed.

"Right..." He'd almost forgotten. Couldn't have the man telling stories about how Reaper and Widowmaker had fucked each other silly on the way back home.

Turning, he fished in to the inside of his coat and pulled out one of his large, one-handed shotguns. He aimed the thing at Widowmaker, then shot right past her. The pilot's armor exploded as a large series of holes formed in his chest, and he fell back in to the cockpit, dead without a sound. Reaper eyed his weapon, and though it still had three shots left, he simply tossed it on to the floor at his feet, then glanced at Widowmaker again. "Coming, my love?" he asked, voice dripping with sarcasm. When he stepped out, they were on a large Talon base, stuck somewhere far beneath ground. The hangar they'd landed in was bustling with activity, most of the Talon soldiers gathered around small TVs and watching the news. The assassination was being covered on every major station across the world.

"Looks like somebody's famous."

((We can skip ahead with Reaper and Widowmaker here, or move to another scene between two others, etc., whatever you'd like to do. Feel free to poke me in PM about it.))

Winston eyed Tracer, looking a bit unsure as they made their way in to the barn together. He sighed, thinking to himself. Animals were kept in barns, weren't they? A frown. Well, he wasn't sure if he'd consider himself an animal. After all, he was the closest living creature to humans, the closest living thing to Lena, but, at the same time -- ...

No. If his kind could take over the moon, then he was sure he was sophisticated enough to be counted as a person. Winston tried not to think about it too much.

"Wow," the man lowly murmured, his eyes lighting up as they made their way inside. One light came on -- then the next, and the next, and the next, until the whole place was illuminated. "I haven't seen this before." He walked -- well, hobbled, really -- past Lena and moved to inspect the place. Gerard wasn't a great scientist by any means, nor was his widow, Amelie. The only two others he could think that would have use for a lab like this were Mei and Mercy -- and, well, himself, of course.

As he walked by one of the many screens and terminals, it came to life and something popped up on the monitor.

" ATHENA (Prototype) - Activate? Y / N "

Just as Winston was about to touch a button, Tracer caught his attention again. "Huh?" he asked, having barely heard her slip-up about romance. When she turned to face him, heading towards the kitchen and undressing herself along the way, he caught a look in her eyes he hadn't ever really seen before. It was mischievous. Not that Lena was usually anything but mischievous, but this time, it was different. Less playful, more serious. Less witty and cute, and more... predatory. He wondered why she'd done that. Any other man might have been able to take the hint, but not Winston.

It confused him.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," he sighed, looking back at the screen again. With a roll of his shoulders, he followed after Tracer, eventually catching up, though she'd disappeared from sight before he'd had the chance to. Turning the corner, he caught sight of her again, but there wasn't any telling what she was up to. "Wine? I don't know -- my body's built for more alcohol than most humans can handle. It'll take a lot to get me going..."

(OOC: I’m wondering if you look at 2:09 in Recall, if the man on the far left is Reaper. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I3WhdXPaUd8 . Hey, maybe it is. Someone else drew this: http://hanzo-the-archer.tumblr.com/post/132684540319/blackwatch-reyes-reaper-overwatch-origins)

As the last nurse left, Amélie grabbed the door just before the magnetic lock took hold. Wearing a business dress with long sleeves and just above the knee skirt, the outfit sheathed her perfectly. She could be on a board of directors, a naughty but still politically correct one. Her high heels click-clacked on the hospital building’s hard floors. With her hair up, she looked very official and few people, even security questioned her presence pretty much anywhere. Even at an Overwatch base, she once got in to see her husband without ID. The guards just typically stared, tried to talk about something with her, and very kindly breached security by opening doors for her – especially if she carried a filing box. Dressed as she was, she was the equivalent of a man with a tool belt, who could go anywhere – only no one would remember the man. She would always be remembered. So she’d have to hurry.

In the last room, she found Dr. Angela Ziegler’s lab. “Mercy?” A tall blonde woman in a lab coat looked over a computer next to an electron microscope. She was beautiful, and Amélie didn’t know why, but the woman seemed so alluring. It was almost like Amélie had a sudden crush on her.

With all the guilt swirling around her head, how could she be thinking such school emotions? She tried to set the notions aside, but she couldn’t. Somehow the need for help was turning on parts of her brain. She pursed her lips and her sad puppy eyes welled up in tears. She started to fear that she had been mentally altered to not only kill but to also seduce, anything for the mission. Her current self-imposed mission was to get help. Sexuality answered. At that moment it seemed to be kicking into overdrive. She bit her lower lip and walked over to the blonde. “I really need your help, something awful, horrible happened.”

Tracer giggled at how clueless Winston could be. “We’re not getting drunk tonight – well, not as goal! I have other ideas.” She held onto the rim of his battlesuit’s neckline. Pulling her self up to his face, she kissed. “We’re alone. Just to make that fact known. Sometimes I don’t think you put two and two together unless there is an integral squiggle in there. She kissed again. “How do you unbolt out of this? Do you need help? It’s been so long since I’ve seen you out of this thing.”