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The Devil on Your Shoulder
/It should have been a child's play. The target was right where she wanted her; between her crosshairs, unsuspected and defenceless. An index finger on the trigger, waiting patiently, until the time was right and she pulled.
So what had gone wrong? Why was she, a well-trained elite agent of Talon, fleeing, pursued, with her target unharmed and mission failed?
As Widowmaker made her escape through a foreign city in the dead of night, her mind reeled ad she bled out, pain blooming yet again across her body./
The assassin clutched her left shoulder. As a certain rival would say: ever get that feeling of déjà vu? She found herself in the same white room, sitting on an operation table and bleeding out. While her injuries weren't life-threatening, it was the fact that the Widowmaker had not only failed a mission but was also injured and had to be rushed to the medics.
It was laughable, was it not for the sheer humiliation from her peers and superiors, and the rage from knowing that she would likely be treated by the First Responder again.
The Field-Medic.
The devil of a woman whom the sniper could not stand.
Even as she was staining the white operation sheets red with a growing pool of blood, the Frenchwoman kept her mind on one thing; it wasn't her target's security's fault for putting her here. This fate, which Widowmaker could consider worse than death, was not her superior's fault, for they had confidence in her – as they should – as they assigned her this mission, and they had only done what they had to do by sending her to the doctor for treatment. It wasn't the security guards who were to blame for managing to hit her with a bullet or two.
No. Throughout the whole ordeal – painfully calling for help at the nick of time, admitting the mission to be a failure, and facing the scorned wrath of her superiors, including Reaper – Widowmaker kept in her mind one thing; she remembered over and over the one who it truly was that had led her to such agony and humiliation.
Mercy. That woman occupied the assassin's every thought with devilish temptations and memories the Frenchwoman rather forget. It was a distraction that had nearly costed the sniper her life time and again, and it only led to more visits that added even more memories.
And she hated the doctor for it.
The Frenchwoman would have hoped that they would send someone else to mend her wounds, was it not that as she did, the Swiss woman stepped inside the room.
Their eyes met – scorn versus mirth – and the Field-Medic's lips quirked minutely as she closed the door behind her and made sure to lock it.
"I am beginning to think that you are getting into these accidents as an excuse to see me." The comment made the lilac-haired woman bristle. "I'll have you know, you can visit me whenever you want, Amélie."
The sniper wanted to spit back, with as crude words as she could, how wrong the dark-haired woman was and how she would never choose to visit Mercy of her own volition, but held her tongue and swallowed the words. The doctor took delight in Widowmaker's anger, after all.
Not that the silent treatment dampened Mercy's spirits.
"Let's see here…" She looked at her chart. "Bullet wound in left shoulder and minor grazes and cuts along both legs and right arm… I see." She met the agent's gaze and smirked. "Nothing too serious but I need you to undress yourself for a full body check-up. I must be thorough and clean every wound I can find. Well, I suppose I'll be patching you up as usual."
Widowmaker glared daggers but did as she was told. She hated that she could only, at best, wear a pair of panties underneath; the suit was perfect for a silent assassin such as herself, but it became uncomfortable if you were to wear clothes underneath.
With the damaged suit, visor, and boots put aside, and the simple black panties discarded, the sniper sat down again, cheeks hot with ire and shame.
Hatred. Annoyance. Discomfort. She hated the medic for many reasons but above all else, she hated how the devil-woman made her feel; and the assassin was known to not feel anything besides the moment of her kill. She didn't count lust as an emotion; to her it was merely an act of betrayal from her body.
A betrayal that took over rationality and silently allowed hands to roam over blue skin, caressing with such expertise and avoiding the open wounds. This continued for a whole ten minutes as the First Responder touched her patient's legs, thighs, working her way up to the sniper's midriff and along the nice curve of her backside.
It was torturous.
Finally, the raven-haired woman decided she had had enough for the moment and stepped away to fetch medical supplies.
"It's truly bittersweet to see you like this, my dear," Mercy stated. She grabbed the antiseptic and cotton wads. "Your body is the image of perfection…and while I'd hate to see you hurt, you bleeding make me dizzy with excitement."
"…"
"Don't fret, meine Liebste." The Swiss glided over to the assassin, her Valkyrie-suit allowing her to hover slightly above the floor. "I will take care of you, as always. And in kind, you'll pay the consultation fee the way I like it."
´As if I had the choice.´
Taking the silence as the Frenchwoman having agreed, Mercy kneeled down before her patient's left leg. Washcloth in hand, she delicately cleaned off the blood around Widowmaker's cuts, the cool water soothing the pain if only slightly for the Talon agent.
The sniper watched her doctor impatiently; it was agonizing to wait – without being able to do anything – for the inevitable that would come and soon enough, ruby-red lips kissed naked skin along her leg, up to her thigh and sending pleasurable jolts that had the lilac-haired woman shiver.
Say what you want about the devilish Swiss, the woman was as skilled in bed as she was with medicine. She knew the lilac-haired woman's weak spots and made effective work of little movements like a single stroke along the collarbone, a nibbling of the earlobe, a lick across a full rear…
Not that the assassin would admit it even to herself.
Once she had cleaned off the blood, Mercy moved on to the other leg, worshiping it with kisses and licks as if she savoured the taste of Widowmaker's flesh. It was teasing, enough get the assassin going and staining the sheet with liquid arousal, but teasing nonetheless.
"Now for the antiseptic…"
The Frenchwoman hissed as cotton wads damp with the liquid pressed against her wounds, but she'd have to bear it; it was a process that repeated itself when her doctor took care of her arm as well, whilst kissing it and simply staring lovingly at it.
"Now, as for your bullet wound," Mercy then stated. "The quickest way to treat it would be with the Caduceus staff. Just bear with it for a little while longer, in ordung?"
The sniper braced herself as the Field Medic took aim and a golden light emerged from the end of her staff – a piece of miraculous technology – and connected with the Frenchwoman's shoulder, immediately making flesh stitching itself back together (the bullet having been removed prior to this, of course) but not without the pain of recreating every sinew, muscle, and nerves.
Once it was done, Widowmaker inspected her shoulder as best as she could, pleased to see the wound gone without as much as a scar. However…
The dark-haired beauty glided over to her in an instant. She was only a few inches away from claiming full lips.
"At last, you're in working condition, meine liebste. No-one wants to see you back in action more than me, you know."
The sniper leant back, trying to back away, but the Field Medic climbed up on the table, straddling her lap, inching closer…
"I just can't get enough of you, Frau Amélie."
As soon as their lips met the assassin's will crumbled. The soft ruby lips and the wetness of a playful tongue darting past hers dominated the agent and she gave in, despite her own protests; as if two voices – one against it, the other for it – were telling her different things, but the temptations were too enticing to resist…
/././././
How had it come to this again?
Widowmaker bit the operation sheet, desperate to not make a sound. Face down, ass up, the sniper was orally serviced by the devil of a woman, full ass-cheeks kneaded and spread as Mercy (ironically) mercilessly lapped at her quim.
When would she ever learn?
The First Responder's tongue was oh-so-talented and they both knew it: the Swiss didn't focus solely on the Frenchwoman's sex; she paid equal attention to its sensitive bundle of nerves, making sure her patient felt better than good until she was a complete mess.
The cold-blooded assassin was a woman with an icy heart to everyone but to the Field Medic, she was a compliant bitch in heat that needed to cum, and only Mercy was capable of bringing her over the edge.
And so she did over…and over…and over again. It was truly a hellish cycle of depravity, one that Widowmaker came back for time and again, one way or another, for the sake of quenching both their sexual appetites.
As the dark-haired woman ate out her patient, tonguing velvety walls and licking up sweet juices, the Frenchwoman shuddered and moaned against the sheet. Her eyes rolled back into her skull from the assault of her pleasure receptors until finally—
The sniper let out a shameful moan as her body convulsed. Her sex spilled wet arousal as she was pushed over the edge yet again and she saw stars, her mind completely wiped clean aside for the pleasure she was riding out for what felt like an eternity.
Deep breaths. Widowmaker groaned, trying to muster enough strength in her arms to push herself up, only for a hand to press down on her back.
A soft, seductive voice whispered into her ear, "Stay. I need to see if your arm is properly functioning, meine liebste. So turn around…"
There was no escape from this. The assassin would make a mistake again and receive medical attention. Even if she didn't, the devil on her shoulder would convince her to seek Mercy out, back to the pit of debauchery she loathed, yet couldn't avoid.