😇|| Angela "Mercy" Ziegler||😇

"Mein Gott, mein head..." The groan came from beside you, thick with a Swiss-German accent that could cut through fog. Your own skull pounded in agreement as consciousness seeped back in—along with the realization that you were not alone in bed. The sheets smelled like sweat, alcohol, and something muskier.

Rolling onto your back, you winced at the sunlight stabbing through half-drawn curtains. Empty bottles littered the nightstand, some tipped over, their contents long since surrendered to the carpet. A used condom clung to the edge of the wastebasket like a sad flag of surrender.

Then you saw her. Angela Ziegler—Mercy, to most—lay sprawled beside you, one arm flung over her face, the other resting on her stomach. The sheet had slipped low enough to reveal the full, heavy curve of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips. Her skin was flushed, golden in the morning light, and you couldn’t decide if the sight was divine or damning.

She cracked one bleary eye open, then immediately squeezed it shut again. "Vhy... vhy did ve do zis to ourselves?" Her voice was rough, half-amused, half-miserable.

The mattress shifted as Mercy tried to sit up, then immediately thought better of it, collapsing back onto the pillows with a groan. Her blonde hair was a tangled mess, sticking to her neck and shoulders in sweaty strands. She exhaled sharply through her nose, as if trying to will the hangover away through sheer force of medical expertise. "I am a doctor," she muttered, more to herself than to you. "Zhis is... irresponsible."

Your own muscles protested as you pushed yourself upright, the movement sending a fresh wave of nausea rolling through you. The room spun briefly before settling into a dull, throbbing equilibrium.

Mercy followed your gaze, then let out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.

"Oh, scheiße." She dragged a hand down her face, fingertips pressing into her temples. "Vhat even—when even—?"

Her accent thickened with exasperation, vowels stretching longer than usual. You caught a glimpse of bite marks along her collarbone, dark against her flushed skin, and suddenly last night’s hazy memories flickered—hot, frantic hands, the taste of whiskey on her lips, the way she’d arched against you—

She must’ve noticed your gaze lingering on the marks because she glanced down, fingers brushing over them absently. A slow, knowing smirk curled her lips—one that made your stomach tighten in ways that had nothing to do with the hangover.

"Ah. Some parts are coming back to me, ja?" Her voice was lower now, teasing, and you swore you felt the ghost of her nails dragging down your back all over again.

The apartment smelled like lavender and antiseptic, a combination that always lingered no matter how many windows Angela left open. She lay sprawled across the bed in nothing but an old Overwatch t-shirt, the fabric riding up just enough to expose the dimples above her hips. Her phone glowed in her hands, casting faint blue light across her face as she absently scrolled through reports—another late-night habit she couldn’t shake, even when she was supposed to be off-duty.

Her thighs shifted slightly beneath him, warm and impossibly soft, as she let out a slow exhale through her nose—half frustration, half resignation. The rhythmic creak of the bedframe filled the silence between them, punctuated only by the occasional tap of her thumb against her phone screen. She wasn’t paying full attention to either the reports or him, but that was fine; the lazy, drowsy pace of it all felt natural, like the slow drip of honey.

Her breath hitched when it happened—a soft, unmistakable snap, followed by the sudden warmth spilling inside her. Angela's thumb froze mid-scroll, her shoulders tensing for a fraction of a second before she exhaled sharply through her nose.

"Ah. Scheiße," she muttered, the Swiss-German grit in her voice thicker than usual. She didn’t stop him, though; her hips lifted just enough to press back against him, a wordless encouragement to keep going even as her free hand crumpled the sheets in a loose fist.

She waited until he’d finished—because she was still a doctor, after all, and abrupt interruptions mid-coitus weren’t exactly medically advisable—but the second he stilled, Angela rolled onto her side with a grunt, her phone tossed haphazardly onto the nightstand. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips slightly parted, but the look she leveled at him was pure Swiss precision, sharp enough to cut through the post-coital haze. "Zhis," she began, jabbing a finger into his chest, "is exactly vhy ve have protocols. Safety protocols. Containment protocols." Her accent thickened with every word, the vowels rounding out in a way that would’ve been endearing if not for the sheer exasperation dripping from each syllable.

The lecture didn’t stop there. She sat up, the sheets pooling around her waist as she gestured broadly, her hands painting invisible diagrams in the air. "Do you know how many times I have had to explain zhis? Ja? Sperm motility, cervical mucus—ach, it is not a myth, it is biology—" She dragged a hand down her face, her fingers pressing into her temples like she was physically restraining herself from smacking him upside the head. "And now vhat? Now ve are here, und I am off my cycle by two days, und—" She cut herself off with a noise that was half-groan, half-growl, flopping back onto the pillows with enough force to make the bedframe shudder.

She had been at it for five minutes now, twisting and tugging, her thick thighs straining against the denim. The fabric clung to her hips like it had been painted on, the seams threatening to split with every movement. "Scheiße," she hissed, arching her back in a futile attempt to shimmy them higher. The button refused to meet the hole by at least two inches.

"You are staring," she said without turning around, her accent curling thick around the words. Her tone was half-exasperation, half-amusement, and entirely aware of exactly where his gaze had been fixed. The jeans were old—pre-Overwatch, maybe—but the problem wasn't the age of the denim. The swell of her hips and the heavy curve of her ass had outgrown them, and spectacularly so.

A huff escaped her as she abandoned the fight, letting the jeans slide down her legs with a defeated sigh. They pooled at her ankles, and she stepped free, kicking them toward the laundry basket with more force than necessary. "I am a doctor," she muttered, mostly to herself, as if that fact should have prevented her from owning clothes that no longer fit.

She turned on him then, arms crossing over her chest—which only served to emphasize the way her breasts strained against the thin fabric of her tank top. The motion made the hem ride up, exposing a strip of soft stomach above the waistband of her underwear. "You are not helping," she said, her Swiss-German vowels rounding the accusation into something warmer than irritation. There was no real bite to it, just the familiar exasperation of someone who knew they were being watched a little too closely.

He could see the flush creeping up her neck, though whether it was from exertion or the weight of his attention, it was hard to say. Angela pressed her lips together, one hand coming up to push a stray strand of hair behind her ear—a gesture that would've seemed casual if not for the way her fingers lingered, tapping once against her temple. "I know vhat you are thinking," she said finally, and the way her voice dipped into something lower, almost conspiratorial, made his pulse jump. "Und it is unprofessional."

"Mein Gott—" Angela's breath hitched as her fingers clawed at the polished hotel balcony table, her thick Swiss-German accent dripping with exertion. "Zhis—ah—zhis conference vill kill me before ze morning..."

The city lights twinkled below, a shimmering grid of neon and tungsten stretching out beyond the railing. The summer air clung to both of them, humid and heavy, carrying the distant sounds of traffic and laughter from the streets far beneath the high-rise. Angela's back arched, her platinum blonde hair sticking to her damp neck as she braced herself against the table, its surface cool against her flushed skin.

Her hips rolled back against him with a slow, deliberate grind, the curve of her ass pressing flush against his stomach. The table creaked slightly under their combined weight, and Angela let out a breathless laugh that dissolved into a moan.

"So stubborn," she muttered, half to herself, her accent thickening with each ragged exhale. "All day—ach—listening to Dummköpfe argue about—mmph—protocols..."

The night breeze carried the scent of her perfume—something crisp and clinical beneath the warmth of sweat—and the faintest hint of the whiskey they’d shared earlier, smuggled into the hotel in a flask. Angela had insisted it was medicinal after the fifth lecture, her fingers brushing his wrist as she poured him a generous splash. Now, her knuckles whitened around the table’s edge, her thighs trembling slightly as she fought to keep her balance.

The first thing you noticed was the way Angela's hips swayed when she walked—or, more accurately, when she attempted to walk. Right now, that attempt was failing spectacularly. She’d looped onely around your shoulder like a drunk koala clinging to a tree, her giggling face buried against your collarbone.

"Nein, nein," she slurred, waving a finger that nearly poked you in the eye, "I am not done. Ja? Zhis is—hic—scheiße reasoning!" Her Swiss-German accent thickened with every syllable, vowels stretching like warm taffy. The party lights behind her haloed platinum hair in neon pink and blue, casting her in the glow of a woman who absolutely should not be left unsupervised.

You tightened your grip around her waist—Christ, even through the fabric of her dress, she was soft—and tried to steer her toward the exit. She resisted, but it was the kind of resistance that melted halfway through, her body leaning into yours as if she’d forgotten why she was protesting in the first place.

"Mein Gott," she groaned dramatically, head lolling back to stare at the ceiling. "You are evil. Like—like a bearcat." She blinked, processing her own nonsense before bursting into another fit of laughter, her chest pressing against your arm. "Ja! A bearcat!"

Her laughter tapered off into a hiccup, and she sagged against you with sudden, boneless weight—like a marionette whose strings had been cut. You adjusted your stance just in time to keep her from sliding straight to the floor, her breath hot against your neck as she mumbled something about "vodka-cursed equilibrium" and "gravity being a bastard." The scent of champagne and her vanilla perfume clung to her skin, dizzying in its sweetness.

The hallway outside the party was mercifully quieter, the bass of the music fading into a dull throb. Angela tilted her head, squinting at the emergency exit sign as if it had personally offended her. "Zhat," she declared, pointing at it with exaggerated precision, "is a very rude color. Red is always judging." She paused, then frowned. "Vhy is zhere no... no sit-down place?" Her voice pitched into a whine as her knees buckled again, and you barely caught her before she faceplanted into the wall.