oneortheother
TMF Expert
- Joined
- Sep 16, 2008
- Messages
- 375
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- 18
A Ticklish Quickplay on King’s Row:
“Let’s try that again,” Widowmaker said with a sigh as she appeared at her defence team’s respawn point. Her team, the witless fools, had just lost the first point on King’s Row, and she would need to carry them if they were to have any chance of victory. This being QP, she naturally had an absurd team composition of Hanzo, Genji, Doomfist, McCree, and Soldier 76, with nary a tank or a healer to be found.
She loosed another breathy sigh and began running towards the apartments that overlooked the road to Checkpoint B, her black high-heeled boots clacking on the cobblestone streets. Her blue skin shone in the evening light as she hooked her way up, crouched, and snuck her way behind the attackers. From this vantage spot, she would be able to guard the point and warn the team of any flankers trying to sneak around. If this all went smoothly, she would be able to get back all the ground they’d lost and pushed the payload all the way back.
Taking deep breaths, she started to line up her shots. The payload was just starting to clank its way down the street. There was a Mercy in the back, healing a Rein. She would have to take her out with a headshot, quickly and quietly, one shot, one kill, or the heals the Mercy would provide would render the entire exercise pointless. Her teammates were throwing themselves at the Rein’s barrier to provide amble distraction. She might score a triple kill or even a team kill before the enemy team knew what was happening, and only then might she have to hook herself to safety.
It was just when she was getting a bead on the Mercy’s head when she heard the pitter patter of light, nimble footsteps behind her. Widow knew she had forgotten something—a poison mine where a flanker might creep up on her, damn.
She spun round and saw a brown and orange streak around her, blue blaster bolts flying. Widow leapt for the window and fired a hook, but before the hook suddenly changed trajectory.
“Whoops, looked like you dropped something!” said a cheery voice with that distinctive Londoner twang. “Here you go!”
The blur whirled and spun around her, Widow grunted as she felt the wire from the hook start to bite along her shins and legs. Her sniper rifle quickly transformed into a submachine gun as she fired a few more shots. A few of them seemed to hit, including a volley on the Tracer’s head, but right when it looked like Widow might be able to score a kill, the Tracer Recalled back to heal all her lost health and quickly zipped around to finishing trussing up the grunting and grimacing blue-skinned woman.
Widow’s wrists were forced to her chest, near her shoulders by the wire, and she felt her rifle slipping from her fingers as she tottered to the floor. She wriggled on the ground like a fish, and she soon found she was unable to gather the leverage to snap the wire nor twist her way free of the tight cords that was wrapped all around her.
“Grah,” Widow said, writhing on the wooden floorboards of the apartment. She reached for her rifle, but Tracer gave it a little kick to knock it far out of Widow’s reach. “Do it, then. Finish me. I know when I am beaten. C'est la vie.”
“Well, well, well, I guess I could eliminate you,” Tracer said in a bubbly, chipper voice. Beyond her orange-tinted goggles, Widow saw mischief in those big brown eyes. “But what would be the fun in that?”
Widow tried to tap her high boots on the floor to make enough noise for her teammates to come rescue her, but they too busy dealing with the payload to pay attention to her. Besides, Widowmakers were known for operating by themselves away from their team. She would be trapped with Tracer, she realised, until she was finally put out of her misery. Tracer giggled at the display, tucking back a lock of brown hair that had gotten into her face.
“Sorry, love, but it looks like you're all mine!”
"Mon dieu..." Widow let her head droop and thunk on the floorboards. The damn girl was right. The hook was strong enough to support Widow's weight, so it wouldn't snap easily, that was for sure.
“But first, better check you don’t have any weapons on ya,” Tracer said. “Be a mighty shame if our fun came to an abrupt end cos I didn’t look, eh?”
Widow was reduced to muttering under her breath once more as Tracer’s gloved fingers began questing into several sensitive areas. Those questing patted and prodded along her sides and chest, which were emphasised by the skintight purple and red bodysuit that was her classic look. A few of those spots made Widow snort and gasp, especially along the sides and stomach, though she took care to keep her expression as blank as possible.
“Something the matter?” Tracer asked, after Widow was unable to contain a half-squeak escaping her lips and a half-smile creeping across her face. “You seem to be smiling.”
“Only at how pathetic you are,” Widow said in a strained, tight voice. “Your team needs you, and you preoccupy yourself with something like this.”
“Well, the way I see it, they’re playing five on five now, eh? I’m contributing to the team by keeping you out of action. Don’t make it sound I’m shirking my duties!” Tracer reached Widow’s ankles and began undoing the straps of those black high-heeled boots. “How do you run in these things, anyway? Can’t be easy trying to be stealthy clacking about!”
Widow said nothing. She merely focused her efforts on getting her breathing under control. She hoped that by removing the boots there would be enough slack for her to get her feet free, but what then? She certainly wasn’t going to be outrun a speedster like Tracer, especially without her hook or her weapons.
The boots soon slid off to reveal a pair of slender, dainty feet with high arches and jet-black toenails. “Awww, these things are just adorable,” Tracer said. I wish I had time to paint my nails. Really didn’t think you were the type to get a pedicure!” As she finished pulling off the second boot, Tracer’s hand brushed against the bottom of Widow’s foot, and the blue-skinned assassin let loose a yelp.
“Ticklish, are you?”
“Most certainly not.”
“Sure about that, love?” Tracer giggled. “I had my suspicions before, but it looks like you just went and convinced me! Let’s see just how ticklish these pretty things are, eh?”
Widow gnashed her teeth together, curling her toes as Tracer wiggled her fingers perilously close once more. They made contact by gently pinching and wiggling her pedicured toes, the scratchy leather of Tracer’s gloves itching maddeningly. Each toe in line got played with and stroked, while growing bubbles of laughter threatened to splutter out of her mouth with every wiggle. It had been years and years since she had been tickled, and she had quite forgotten just how sensitive she was—it was hardly the sort of thing that came up that much during her work with Talon, after all.
After Tracer finished all the toes on the left, she switched feet, but not before sneaking in a quick stroke up the other foot. Widow squealed at the surprise sensation, which prompted Tracer to burst into laughter.
“I knew you were trying to hold it in!” the brunette said, chortling. “You sure you can keep it in for much longer? Cos I am just getting started! And you’re looking like you’re right on the edge of breaking.” She leaned forward a wiped a trickle of sweat from Widow’s brow. And then she went straight back to the toe teasing. She did the wiggling for a bit longer, but she soon tugged off her gloves so she could give those squirming, splaying digits a more earnest tickling. The rough material of the gloves had been bad, but Widow soon discovered that sharp fingernails were far worse.
Tracer, chuckling to herself, pulled back the toes, one at time, so she could keep it trapped in place while her other hand tormented it all over, from the pads, the tips, underneath along the base, and especially the highly sensitive webbing in between.
Husky laughter began breaking free from her pursed lips at this point, and Widow stepped up her defences to try to keep her composure. She kept trying to roll herself away, but Tracer used legs, strong from all that sprinting she did, to keep the assassin pinned in place. Any attempts for her feet to flee the marauding fingers were unsuccessful due to Tracer’s adroitness and alacrity.
“Gosh, look at you go!” Tracer said, laughing. “Let’s see if we can’t get you really giggling!”
Widow thought she was laughing far too much as it was, but Tracer soon demonstrated that far more forced mirth was possible when she slipped her lightning-quick fingers between her squirming toes. Those bare fingers quickly started to wriggle, stimulating and scratching the highly delicate skin between every toe all at the same time. Widow tossed her head back, scrunched her eyes shut, and felt absurdly powerless as more spluttering chuckles flowed freely from her lips. This was worse than being jumped by a diving Winston.
“Nononon! Arrêtez! Stop, stahahahap! Stahahahap! Dahahamanit it, you foohohhoolish girl!”
“Foolish girl?” Tracer repeated. “That’s a bit rich coming from you! You’re the one laughing your head off!” She removed her fingers from the gaps between the toes, but Widow didn’t get a respite though, for she began stroking her nails all over the soles, especially those deep arches, leaving white trails in the pale blue skin as they scratched and scribble away. “Still say you’re not ticklish?”
Widow growled and grit her teeth together as the merciless nails continue scything away up and down her squirming feet. The anger flowing through her helped her keep it together as soon she managed to get her laughter under control till she wasn’t even smiling.
“Well, Miss Not-Ticklish, it’s nice to see you smiling! You look pretty when you’re not being grumpy, you know?”
Widow murmured more curses and threats of revenge as Tracer hovered over her, ignorant and grinning. The brown-haired girl clapped her hands together with glee. “You know, I’m wondering where else you might be ticklish… Let’s have a look, shall we?”
“No, we shall not! Non, non, non!”
“Aww, it’s cute that you’re trying to be so demanding in your position. You're not the boss though.” Tracer’s outstretched lunged for Widow’s torso, but the sniper managed to put all her body weight into a little hop that moved her a whole inch or two. “And you aren’t going anywhere, love.”
Tracer hopped onto the other woman’s waist, so she was straddling her and pinning her firmly to the floorboards. Widow’s arms were bound across her chest as if she were some kind of Egyptian mummy, so it wasn’t too easy to get access to her bountiful crop of ripe locations on her torso, but there was nothing stopping Tracer from squeezing around Widow’s wide, womanly hips or toned sides.
Giggling to herself, Tracer started by reaching out and digging her bare fingers into Widow's sides, wiggling them into the smooth skin that was scarcely protected by the thin fabric of the catsuit. She would attack the left flank with both hands squeezing and goosing away. Widow hissed and tried to turn away, but her attempts to evade simply meant it was the other side’s turn to endure the torment.
“Feels like I’m playing an instrument here!” Tracer observed, chuckling as she went away from grabs to rapid fire pokes with those darting quick hands of hers. She would place all ten of her fingers in a row and prod away as if she were playing a piano. “And what sweet music I am creating! I never knew you had such a cute giggle.”
Widowmaker would have denied it if she could, but each press and jab on her sides and stomach was forcing more and more gusting, husky laughter from her lips, till the apartment was echoing with the sound of her reverberating mirth. It was such an embarrassing sound, like the whole world was laughing at her, laughing at her weakness.
“Oooh, and it looks like I’ve found a fun new spot, love!”
Again, Widow wished dearly she could deny it, but there was nothing denying the jolt that shook through her voluptuous body when the tips of Tracer’s nails began poking and scratching away at her hips. Squeezes were equally effective at provoking her into hysterics, and wild laughter continued to flow freely from her purple lips.
The tickling before on her feet had been quite bad enough, but Widow was fast discovering that being tormented and teased on her upper body was indefinitely worse. The foot tickling had been of a lighter quality to it, but being attacked on her midsection felt much more potent. Widow wondered if it was perhaps because of its location higher up her body, or simply because the tickling technique had devolved from strokes and wiggles to the more aggressive and muscle-stimulating pokes and squeezes, almost like some kind of warped massage.
When Tracer leaned in close to try to dig her fingers into Widow’s armpits, the blue-skinned woman swung her shoulders and managed to crack Tracer across the chin to knock the girl off. Sensing an opportunity, Widow wriggled her way to her feet and hopped to the open window and tumbled out of it. It hurt to leave her rifle behind, but the cords were tightest around her arms, so t didn’t seem like it would be any use even if she had it. Widow landed on the cobblestones without a problem, and she managed to make quick headway on the cords around her arms—it was much easier to loosen things when you weren’t getting tickled madly by some insane girl.
Widow made it halfway down the street, the wire from her hook having loosened enough to allow her a short, shuffling gait, when the annoying speedster caught up to her. Tackling her from behind, Widow found herself slammed into a silver lamppost with a grunt of pain.
“That wasn’t nice of you to hit me like that,” Tracer said, “I was going to let you go soon, but I reckon I’ve changed my mind.” The wire around her legs had gotten loose, but it was no cause for celebration, as Tracer picked up the cords and used it exclusively around Widow’s wrists this time. She looped it around a nook in the post, so now the beautiful blue-skinned assassin had her arms tied tight and taut above her head.
Tracer hugged her from behind and put her fingers right on those exposed armpits while Widow panted and grunted.
“Cootchie cootchie coo, love…”
“Arrêtez! Arrêtez! Arrêtez! Je suis désolé! S'il vous plaît!” Widow threw her head back and shrieked as she felt those ten wicked fingers press into her armpits. Her legs were free to kick and scuff at the ground, but there was no escaping those fingers. Spinning and twisting in place achieved nothing, as Tracer remained behind her despite the squirming—she was just too fast, and Widow soon tired of her struggles, especially as more and more ticklish laughter was forced from her. Before long, the street was filled with Widow’s snorts and giggles, though the sound of gunfire in battle in the distance meant they were unlikely be overheard.
Like the most annoying players, Tracer knew how to alternate speeds—it was no use to keep on blinking constantly, after all. You would just end up without charges and get eliminated. The bare fingers working in Widow’s armpits started off slow, plodding, and maddening. At a snail’s pace, they raked their way from top to bottom in the soft, pliant flesh while the assassin shrieked with high-pitched laughter.
Before long, Widow felt like her entire underarms were tingling from these straight lines being slashed into her highly sensitive underarms, up and down, up and down, up and down. She twisted from side to side, but Tracer still had her hooked from behind, and there was no shaking her off, the pesky, irritating girl.
“Awww, what’s wrong?” Tracer began to ask, her fingers pressing deeper to prevent Widow from answering. “Does this tickle? Oh, I’m sure it does… you’re really giggling up a storm now. It tickles so, so, so much, doesn't it? Can you feel my fingers? Feel them teasing your underarms? Oh, dear, you can’t lower your arms. Such a shame… I guess you’ll have to sit there and let me tickle you till the game is over. You better hope it doesn’t go to overtime.”
Widow howled as she started to feel those accursed fingers ever more keenly with every passing second. After a while, Tracer moved on from those slow vertical motions and began mixing it up with even more brutal methods. Widow tossed her head from side to side when wide circles were drawn in the hollows of her armpits, Widow hissed laughter through clenched teeth when nails zigzagged in her underarms, and Widow stamped her feet hard on the ground when Tracer’s fingers manoeuvred to really dig deep in the very centres.
“What’s wrong, love? Is this already too much for you? Gosh, and I’m going so slow as well… how are you handle when I, to quote my mate Lucio, ‘amp it up’?” The damnable girl seemed to really be enjoying herself, from the everpresent grin on her face and her cheery demeanour.
The blue-haired femme fatale wouldn’t have thought it was possible for things to be amped up further, as her armpits were already in absolute unquestionable agony, but Tracer’s fingers started to accelerate. They scratched furiously and fast through thin fabric of Widow’s skintight attire, leaving white trails in their wake.
Giggling, Tracer pressed her fingers firmly into the armpits to find the beginnings of the upper ribs and began to glide and squeeze her way down the ribcage, counting and examining the pronounced ribs of Widow’s slender body. After working her way down the ribs, taking care to examine the sharp and contour of every last one of them, Tracer finished with a flurry of scribbling motions at Widow’s stomach, though sadly, it wasn’t very easy to tease the navel because of the fabric covering that highly sensitive little nook. That being said, with enough probing, Tracer was able to get her fingers worming into that belly button easily enough.
Then, it was straight back up again. Tracer scurried her nails over the belly, poked at the sides, then started her meticulous inspection of Widow’s ribs once more, celebrating the conclusion of the circuit with a powerful tunnelling into Widow’s armpits once more. The whole process took less than thirty seconds with those damnable quick fingers of hers, which made Widow almost feel as if her entire body was being tickled at once.
As Widow shivered in ticklish agony, Tracer remembered an experience she had enjoyed not so long ago. It was not her first time toying with a defeated foe. After all, it was Quickplay! What was the point of Quickplay if not to muck about and practise the unorthodox? Everyone knew that. That was the only logical reason for all the absurd team compositions, strategies, and behaivour you inevitably saw after a night of good ol' QP.
A few games ago, she had managed to hunt down a Mercy that had gotten herself isolated from her teammates. She was wearing that black and red devil skin which gave her a pair of horns and long pronged tail. Oh, what fun they had shared together. She had kept trying to fly away but Tracer would reach out, grab that tail, and yank her back.
After doing this a few times, Tracer knocked down the healer and hopped onto her back. The grounded angel slapped the ground fruitlessly while Tracer’s fingers snaked into her armpits so hard that her Caduceus Staff went flying. Tracer teased the underarms for a while before poking around in the ribs too, which made the Swiss medic squeal and squeak in frankly an adorable fashion. The situation was so juicy that Tracer would have felt bad neglecting a single potentially ticklish spot, so she ripped off those boots the Mercy was wearing to go scrabble up and down on those bare feet as well. Mercy’s pale, angelic feet proved to be devilishly sensitive indeed, and they were very pretty things, too, with hellfire red toenails and chalk-white soles.
Tracer had even pulled it off in comp a few days ago with a D.Va that had overextended and had her mech exploded. Pilot D.Va’s flightsuit was no match for Tracer’s practiced, deft fingerstips as they drilled into her armpits, squeezed her knees, and goosed her sides. It had been such a shame that she had only been able to spend about thirty seconds with the super cute Korean before Tracer’s team yelled at her to get back in position and start harassing the squishies on the opposing team (comp was no fun, really, there were too many toxic players there).
It wasn’t easy to pull this off, Tracer knew, which was why so was so loathe for this fun to finish with the adorably ticklish Widowmaker she had before her. Just last game, she had been so close to catching a Sombra for some tickle fun, only for the elusive Latina hacker to use her Translocator to teleport away. Oh, how disappointing that had been!
So, Tracer decided she only owed to both herself and this red-faced assassin to give them both a grand finale. “Cheer up, love!” she said. “I’ll let you go after this.” She stopped her fingers from tickling as a sign of good faith.
“Will… will you?” Widow’s voice was a little hoarse from all the forced laughter. “Vraiment? Really? I don’t know if I believe you.”
“Oh, come now! This isn’t that bad, is it?” Tracer’s grin was wide and toothy, and there was no malice in those big, bold brown eyes.
In contrast, Widow’s look was that of pure venom, but Tracer had just the cure. She reached out a hand to scratch quickly down the sniper’s right underarm to convert that look into a giddy forced grin.
“Just tell me—who’s a ticklish little girl?” Tracer asked as she spoke in that silly voice reserved for infants or puppies, slapping her chest as she spoke, unable to contain her mirth. “Huh? Is it you?”
That murderous look flashed back onto Widow’s face, which Tracer took as her cue to start poking around her sides once more. A few pokes in all those fun locations the brunette speedster had detected earlier turned Widow back into a giggly mess, especially when those prods graduated into claws lunging up and down the ribcage. “What’s wrong? You don’t know the answer? Guess I have no chance but to keep on tickling ya, then! Don’t say I didn’t give you a chance!”
Widow was starting to say more things which sounded suspiciously like a confession that she was a very ticklish little girl, but Tracer chose to ignore it.
“What are you saying? Speak up! I can’t understand you!” Naturally, as Tracer said this, her lithe fingers had crept back into Widow’s taut, soft armpits to render the sniper unable to make any kind of coherent conversation.
“Moi! Mohohohoi! Meeeheeeheee! Nohohohow stahahahap dahahahamn yohohohou! Arrêtez! Arrêtez s'il vous plaît!”
“Awww, now was that so hard?” As Tracer ripped the cords away to allow Widow’s tired arms to slump down, she snuck in a quick kiss on Widowmaker’s cheek. “Cheers, love,” she whispered, and she was gone.
It was just another ticklish Quickplay on King’s Row.
“Let’s try that again,” Widowmaker said with a sigh as she appeared at her defence team’s respawn point. Her team, the witless fools, had just lost the first point on King’s Row, and she would need to carry them if they were to have any chance of victory. This being QP, she naturally had an absurd team composition of Hanzo, Genji, Doomfist, McCree, and Soldier 76, with nary a tank or a healer to be found.
She loosed another breathy sigh and began running towards the apartments that overlooked the road to Checkpoint B, her black high-heeled boots clacking on the cobblestone streets. Her blue skin shone in the evening light as she hooked her way up, crouched, and snuck her way behind the attackers. From this vantage spot, she would be able to guard the point and warn the team of any flankers trying to sneak around. If this all went smoothly, she would be able to get back all the ground they’d lost and pushed the payload all the way back.
Taking deep breaths, she started to line up her shots. The payload was just starting to clank its way down the street. There was a Mercy in the back, healing a Rein. She would have to take her out with a headshot, quickly and quietly, one shot, one kill, or the heals the Mercy would provide would render the entire exercise pointless. Her teammates were throwing themselves at the Rein’s barrier to provide amble distraction. She might score a triple kill or even a team kill before the enemy team knew what was happening, and only then might she have to hook herself to safety.
It was just when she was getting a bead on the Mercy’s head when she heard the pitter patter of light, nimble footsteps behind her. Widow knew she had forgotten something—a poison mine where a flanker might creep up on her, damn.
She spun round and saw a brown and orange streak around her, blue blaster bolts flying. Widow leapt for the window and fired a hook, but before the hook suddenly changed trajectory.
“Whoops, looked like you dropped something!” said a cheery voice with that distinctive Londoner twang. “Here you go!”
The blur whirled and spun around her, Widow grunted as she felt the wire from the hook start to bite along her shins and legs. Her sniper rifle quickly transformed into a submachine gun as she fired a few more shots. A few of them seemed to hit, including a volley on the Tracer’s head, but right when it looked like Widow might be able to score a kill, the Tracer Recalled back to heal all her lost health and quickly zipped around to finishing trussing up the grunting and grimacing blue-skinned woman.
Widow’s wrists were forced to her chest, near her shoulders by the wire, and she felt her rifle slipping from her fingers as she tottered to the floor. She wriggled on the ground like a fish, and she soon found she was unable to gather the leverage to snap the wire nor twist her way free of the tight cords that was wrapped all around her.
“Grah,” Widow said, writhing on the wooden floorboards of the apartment. She reached for her rifle, but Tracer gave it a little kick to knock it far out of Widow’s reach. “Do it, then. Finish me. I know when I am beaten. C'est la vie.”
“Well, well, well, I guess I could eliminate you,” Tracer said in a bubbly, chipper voice. Beyond her orange-tinted goggles, Widow saw mischief in those big brown eyes. “But what would be the fun in that?”
Widow tried to tap her high boots on the floor to make enough noise for her teammates to come rescue her, but they too busy dealing with the payload to pay attention to her. Besides, Widowmakers were known for operating by themselves away from their team. She would be trapped with Tracer, she realised, until she was finally put out of her misery. Tracer giggled at the display, tucking back a lock of brown hair that had gotten into her face.
“Sorry, love, but it looks like you're all mine!”
"Mon dieu..." Widow let her head droop and thunk on the floorboards. The damn girl was right. The hook was strong enough to support Widow's weight, so it wouldn't snap easily, that was for sure.
“But first, better check you don’t have any weapons on ya,” Tracer said. “Be a mighty shame if our fun came to an abrupt end cos I didn’t look, eh?”
Widow was reduced to muttering under her breath once more as Tracer’s gloved fingers began questing into several sensitive areas. Those questing patted and prodded along her sides and chest, which were emphasised by the skintight purple and red bodysuit that was her classic look. A few of those spots made Widow snort and gasp, especially along the sides and stomach, though she took care to keep her expression as blank as possible.
“Something the matter?” Tracer asked, after Widow was unable to contain a half-squeak escaping her lips and a half-smile creeping across her face. “You seem to be smiling.”
“Only at how pathetic you are,” Widow said in a strained, tight voice. “Your team needs you, and you preoccupy yourself with something like this.”
“Well, the way I see it, they’re playing five on five now, eh? I’m contributing to the team by keeping you out of action. Don’t make it sound I’m shirking my duties!” Tracer reached Widow’s ankles and began undoing the straps of those black high-heeled boots. “How do you run in these things, anyway? Can’t be easy trying to be stealthy clacking about!”
Widow said nothing. She merely focused her efforts on getting her breathing under control. She hoped that by removing the boots there would be enough slack for her to get her feet free, but what then? She certainly wasn’t going to be outrun a speedster like Tracer, especially without her hook or her weapons.
The boots soon slid off to reveal a pair of slender, dainty feet with high arches and jet-black toenails. “Awww, these things are just adorable,” Tracer said. I wish I had time to paint my nails. Really didn’t think you were the type to get a pedicure!” As she finished pulling off the second boot, Tracer’s hand brushed against the bottom of Widow’s foot, and the blue-skinned assassin let loose a yelp.
“Ticklish, are you?”
“Most certainly not.”
“Sure about that, love?” Tracer giggled. “I had my suspicions before, but it looks like you just went and convinced me! Let’s see just how ticklish these pretty things are, eh?”
Widow gnashed her teeth together, curling her toes as Tracer wiggled her fingers perilously close once more. They made contact by gently pinching and wiggling her pedicured toes, the scratchy leather of Tracer’s gloves itching maddeningly. Each toe in line got played with and stroked, while growing bubbles of laughter threatened to splutter out of her mouth with every wiggle. It had been years and years since she had been tickled, and she had quite forgotten just how sensitive she was—it was hardly the sort of thing that came up that much during her work with Talon, after all.
After Tracer finished all the toes on the left, she switched feet, but not before sneaking in a quick stroke up the other foot. Widow squealed at the surprise sensation, which prompted Tracer to burst into laughter.
“I knew you were trying to hold it in!” the brunette said, chortling. “You sure you can keep it in for much longer? Cos I am just getting started! And you’re looking like you’re right on the edge of breaking.” She leaned forward a wiped a trickle of sweat from Widow’s brow. And then she went straight back to the toe teasing. She did the wiggling for a bit longer, but she soon tugged off her gloves so she could give those squirming, splaying digits a more earnest tickling. The rough material of the gloves had been bad, but Widow soon discovered that sharp fingernails were far worse.
Tracer, chuckling to herself, pulled back the toes, one at time, so she could keep it trapped in place while her other hand tormented it all over, from the pads, the tips, underneath along the base, and especially the highly sensitive webbing in between.
Husky laughter began breaking free from her pursed lips at this point, and Widow stepped up her defences to try to keep her composure. She kept trying to roll herself away, but Tracer used legs, strong from all that sprinting she did, to keep the assassin pinned in place. Any attempts for her feet to flee the marauding fingers were unsuccessful due to Tracer’s adroitness and alacrity.
“Gosh, look at you go!” Tracer said, laughing. “Let’s see if we can’t get you really giggling!”
Widow thought she was laughing far too much as it was, but Tracer soon demonstrated that far more forced mirth was possible when she slipped her lightning-quick fingers between her squirming toes. Those bare fingers quickly started to wriggle, stimulating and scratching the highly delicate skin between every toe all at the same time. Widow tossed her head back, scrunched her eyes shut, and felt absurdly powerless as more spluttering chuckles flowed freely from her lips. This was worse than being jumped by a diving Winston.
“Nononon! Arrêtez! Stop, stahahahap! Stahahahap! Dahahamanit it, you foohohhoolish girl!”
“Foolish girl?” Tracer repeated. “That’s a bit rich coming from you! You’re the one laughing your head off!” She removed her fingers from the gaps between the toes, but Widow didn’t get a respite though, for she began stroking her nails all over the soles, especially those deep arches, leaving white trails in the pale blue skin as they scratched and scribble away. “Still say you’re not ticklish?”
Widow growled and grit her teeth together as the merciless nails continue scything away up and down her squirming feet. The anger flowing through her helped her keep it together as soon she managed to get her laughter under control till she wasn’t even smiling.
“Well, Miss Not-Ticklish, it’s nice to see you smiling! You look pretty when you’re not being grumpy, you know?”
Widow murmured more curses and threats of revenge as Tracer hovered over her, ignorant and grinning. The brown-haired girl clapped her hands together with glee. “You know, I’m wondering where else you might be ticklish… Let’s have a look, shall we?”
“No, we shall not! Non, non, non!”
“Aww, it’s cute that you’re trying to be so demanding in your position. You're not the boss though.” Tracer’s outstretched lunged for Widow’s torso, but the sniper managed to put all her body weight into a little hop that moved her a whole inch or two. “And you aren’t going anywhere, love.”
Tracer hopped onto the other woman’s waist, so she was straddling her and pinning her firmly to the floorboards. Widow’s arms were bound across her chest as if she were some kind of Egyptian mummy, so it wasn’t too easy to get access to her bountiful crop of ripe locations on her torso, but there was nothing stopping Tracer from squeezing around Widow’s wide, womanly hips or toned sides.
Giggling to herself, Tracer started by reaching out and digging her bare fingers into Widow's sides, wiggling them into the smooth skin that was scarcely protected by the thin fabric of the catsuit. She would attack the left flank with both hands squeezing and goosing away. Widow hissed and tried to turn away, but her attempts to evade simply meant it was the other side’s turn to endure the torment.
“Feels like I’m playing an instrument here!” Tracer observed, chuckling as she went away from grabs to rapid fire pokes with those darting quick hands of hers. She would place all ten of her fingers in a row and prod away as if she were playing a piano. “And what sweet music I am creating! I never knew you had such a cute giggle.”
Widowmaker would have denied it if she could, but each press and jab on her sides and stomach was forcing more and more gusting, husky laughter from her lips, till the apartment was echoing with the sound of her reverberating mirth. It was such an embarrassing sound, like the whole world was laughing at her, laughing at her weakness.
“Oooh, and it looks like I’ve found a fun new spot, love!”
Again, Widow wished dearly she could deny it, but there was nothing denying the jolt that shook through her voluptuous body when the tips of Tracer’s nails began poking and scratching away at her hips. Squeezes were equally effective at provoking her into hysterics, and wild laughter continued to flow freely from her purple lips.
The tickling before on her feet had been quite bad enough, but Widow was fast discovering that being tormented and teased on her upper body was indefinitely worse. The foot tickling had been of a lighter quality to it, but being attacked on her midsection felt much more potent. Widow wondered if it was perhaps because of its location higher up her body, or simply because the tickling technique had devolved from strokes and wiggles to the more aggressive and muscle-stimulating pokes and squeezes, almost like some kind of warped massage.
When Tracer leaned in close to try to dig her fingers into Widow’s armpits, the blue-skinned woman swung her shoulders and managed to crack Tracer across the chin to knock the girl off. Sensing an opportunity, Widow wriggled her way to her feet and hopped to the open window and tumbled out of it. It hurt to leave her rifle behind, but the cords were tightest around her arms, so t didn’t seem like it would be any use even if she had it. Widow landed on the cobblestones without a problem, and she managed to make quick headway on the cords around her arms—it was much easier to loosen things when you weren’t getting tickled madly by some insane girl.
Widow made it halfway down the street, the wire from her hook having loosened enough to allow her a short, shuffling gait, when the annoying speedster caught up to her. Tackling her from behind, Widow found herself slammed into a silver lamppost with a grunt of pain.
“That wasn’t nice of you to hit me like that,” Tracer said, “I was going to let you go soon, but I reckon I’ve changed my mind.” The wire around her legs had gotten loose, but it was no cause for celebration, as Tracer picked up the cords and used it exclusively around Widow’s wrists this time. She looped it around a nook in the post, so now the beautiful blue-skinned assassin had her arms tied tight and taut above her head.
Tracer hugged her from behind and put her fingers right on those exposed armpits while Widow panted and grunted.
“Cootchie cootchie coo, love…”
“Arrêtez! Arrêtez! Arrêtez! Je suis désolé! S'il vous plaît!” Widow threw her head back and shrieked as she felt those ten wicked fingers press into her armpits. Her legs were free to kick and scuff at the ground, but there was no escaping those fingers. Spinning and twisting in place achieved nothing, as Tracer remained behind her despite the squirming—she was just too fast, and Widow soon tired of her struggles, especially as more and more ticklish laughter was forced from her. Before long, the street was filled with Widow’s snorts and giggles, though the sound of gunfire in battle in the distance meant they were unlikely be overheard.
Like the most annoying players, Tracer knew how to alternate speeds—it was no use to keep on blinking constantly, after all. You would just end up without charges and get eliminated. The bare fingers working in Widow’s armpits started off slow, plodding, and maddening. At a snail’s pace, they raked their way from top to bottom in the soft, pliant flesh while the assassin shrieked with high-pitched laughter.
Before long, Widow felt like her entire underarms were tingling from these straight lines being slashed into her highly sensitive underarms, up and down, up and down, up and down. She twisted from side to side, but Tracer still had her hooked from behind, and there was no shaking her off, the pesky, irritating girl.
“Awww, what’s wrong?” Tracer began to ask, her fingers pressing deeper to prevent Widow from answering. “Does this tickle? Oh, I’m sure it does… you’re really giggling up a storm now. It tickles so, so, so much, doesn't it? Can you feel my fingers? Feel them teasing your underarms? Oh, dear, you can’t lower your arms. Such a shame… I guess you’ll have to sit there and let me tickle you till the game is over. You better hope it doesn’t go to overtime.”
Widow howled as she started to feel those accursed fingers ever more keenly with every passing second. After a while, Tracer moved on from those slow vertical motions and began mixing it up with even more brutal methods. Widow tossed her head from side to side when wide circles were drawn in the hollows of her armpits, Widow hissed laughter through clenched teeth when nails zigzagged in her underarms, and Widow stamped her feet hard on the ground when Tracer’s fingers manoeuvred to really dig deep in the very centres.
“What’s wrong, love? Is this already too much for you? Gosh, and I’m going so slow as well… how are you handle when I, to quote my mate Lucio, ‘amp it up’?” The damnable girl seemed to really be enjoying herself, from the everpresent grin on her face and her cheery demeanour.
The blue-haired femme fatale wouldn’t have thought it was possible for things to be amped up further, as her armpits were already in absolute unquestionable agony, but Tracer’s fingers started to accelerate. They scratched furiously and fast through thin fabric of Widow’s skintight attire, leaving white trails in their wake.
Giggling, Tracer pressed her fingers firmly into the armpits to find the beginnings of the upper ribs and began to glide and squeeze her way down the ribcage, counting and examining the pronounced ribs of Widow’s slender body. After working her way down the ribs, taking care to examine the sharp and contour of every last one of them, Tracer finished with a flurry of scribbling motions at Widow’s stomach, though sadly, it wasn’t very easy to tease the navel because of the fabric covering that highly sensitive little nook. That being said, with enough probing, Tracer was able to get her fingers worming into that belly button easily enough.
Then, it was straight back up again. Tracer scurried her nails over the belly, poked at the sides, then started her meticulous inspection of Widow’s ribs once more, celebrating the conclusion of the circuit with a powerful tunnelling into Widow’s armpits once more. The whole process took less than thirty seconds with those damnable quick fingers of hers, which made Widow almost feel as if her entire body was being tickled at once.
As Widow shivered in ticklish agony, Tracer remembered an experience she had enjoyed not so long ago. It was not her first time toying with a defeated foe. After all, it was Quickplay! What was the point of Quickplay if not to muck about and practise the unorthodox? Everyone knew that. That was the only logical reason for all the absurd team compositions, strategies, and behaivour you inevitably saw after a night of good ol' QP.
A few games ago, she had managed to hunt down a Mercy that had gotten herself isolated from her teammates. She was wearing that black and red devil skin which gave her a pair of horns and long pronged tail. Oh, what fun they had shared together. She had kept trying to fly away but Tracer would reach out, grab that tail, and yank her back.
After doing this a few times, Tracer knocked down the healer and hopped onto her back. The grounded angel slapped the ground fruitlessly while Tracer’s fingers snaked into her armpits so hard that her Caduceus Staff went flying. Tracer teased the underarms for a while before poking around in the ribs too, which made the Swiss medic squeal and squeak in frankly an adorable fashion. The situation was so juicy that Tracer would have felt bad neglecting a single potentially ticklish spot, so she ripped off those boots the Mercy was wearing to go scrabble up and down on those bare feet as well. Mercy’s pale, angelic feet proved to be devilishly sensitive indeed, and they were very pretty things, too, with hellfire red toenails and chalk-white soles.
Tracer had even pulled it off in comp a few days ago with a D.Va that had overextended and had her mech exploded. Pilot D.Va’s flightsuit was no match for Tracer’s practiced, deft fingerstips as they drilled into her armpits, squeezed her knees, and goosed her sides. It had been such a shame that she had only been able to spend about thirty seconds with the super cute Korean before Tracer’s team yelled at her to get back in position and start harassing the squishies on the opposing team (comp was no fun, really, there were too many toxic players there).
It wasn’t easy to pull this off, Tracer knew, which was why so was so loathe for this fun to finish with the adorably ticklish Widowmaker she had before her. Just last game, she had been so close to catching a Sombra for some tickle fun, only for the elusive Latina hacker to use her Translocator to teleport away. Oh, how disappointing that had been!
So, Tracer decided she only owed to both herself and this red-faced assassin to give them both a grand finale. “Cheer up, love!” she said. “I’ll let you go after this.” She stopped her fingers from tickling as a sign of good faith.
“Will… will you?” Widow’s voice was a little hoarse from all the forced laughter. “Vraiment? Really? I don’t know if I believe you.”
“Oh, come now! This isn’t that bad, is it?” Tracer’s grin was wide and toothy, and there was no malice in those big, bold brown eyes.
In contrast, Widow’s look was that of pure venom, but Tracer had just the cure. She reached out a hand to scratch quickly down the sniper’s right underarm to convert that look into a giddy forced grin.
“Just tell me—who’s a ticklish little girl?” Tracer asked as she spoke in that silly voice reserved for infants or puppies, slapping her chest as she spoke, unable to contain her mirth. “Huh? Is it you?”
That murderous look flashed back onto Widow’s face, which Tracer took as her cue to start poking around her sides once more. A few pokes in all those fun locations the brunette speedster had detected earlier turned Widow back into a giggly mess, especially when those prods graduated into claws lunging up and down the ribcage. “What’s wrong? You don’t know the answer? Guess I have no chance but to keep on tickling ya, then! Don’t say I didn’t give you a chance!”
Widow was starting to say more things which sounded suspiciously like a confession that she was a very ticklish little girl, but Tracer chose to ignore it.
“What are you saying? Speak up! I can’t understand you!” Naturally, as Tracer said this, her lithe fingers had crept back into Widow’s taut, soft armpits to render the sniper unable to make any kind of coherent conversation.
“Moi! Mohohohoi! Meeeheeeheee! Nohohohow stahahahap dahahahamn yohohohou! Arrêtez! Arrêtez s'il vous plaît!”
“Awww, now was that so hard?” As Tracer ripped the cords away to allow Widow’s tired arms to slump down, she snuck in a quick kiss on Widowmaker’s cheek. “Cheers, love,” she whispered, and she was gone.
It was just another ticklish Quickplay on King’s Row.
