WIDOWREAPER

Widowreaper is my otp (obviously) but I also ship gency, time dragon, zen hack, high justice, junkmetra, and Anaheirdt So don't be surprised if you see some of that on my channel.

[atehere]

This one was a lot of fun to make, their colour themes just go together so well

[mtex-deactivated20190422]

My husband @nftex and I decided to Widow-Reaper it today :)

[mtex-deactivated20190422]

Her Eternal Sin [Ch’s. 7&8]

As you’ve probably noticed, I’m back from Vacation! Thank you everyone for being so patient during my absence. I’m going to avoid a long introduction because I’m sure you’re all excited to dive into the next chapter. Lucky for you, I’ve included two chapters! As promised, I have some lengthy reading in store for you since I’ve been gone so long.

I also have some art included from two very good friends of mine. I couldn’t be more thankful for their help bringing my chapters to life. Give them both a follow, they’re amazing artists!

@albanananana​ (Ch. 7 art)

@pviane​ (Ch. 8 art)

I decided to include all my previous chapters here because I’m sure it’s getting harder to find them all among my crazy blogging.

Ch. 6

Ch. 5 (NSFW)

Ch. 4

Ch. 3 (NSFW)

Ch. 2

Ch. 1

Chapter 7 will be Amèlie’s POV, and Chapter 8 will be Reaper’s POV.

As always, enjoy!!

Ch. 7

Amèlie felt dizzy as the room seemed as though it was spinning. It had felt like the floor gave way below her. A sickness washed over her. She ran in zig-zags towards the bathroom. Falling to her knees at the toilet, she began to vomit. Every part of her body ached.

She felt her hair being pulled back. It was Gabriel. The man who just discovered her true identity that she herself had no idea about. Talon had been using her as an experiment all these years without her knowledge. The blackouts, the strange emotions, all coming together in full explanation.

She reached for the bathroom counter near the toilet, attempting to pull herself up. Gabriel helped her stand to her feet. Leaning over the sink, she scooped water into her mouth with her hands, and splashed water over her face. She didn’t dare look up at the mirror. She was sure she looked ghostly. Falling back to the floor, she lifted her knees to her chest, hugging her arms around them.

Gabriel knelt down in front of her. He stroked her hair with his claws in attempt to comfort her. He wore his mask, hiding his facial expressions from her.

“What am I going to do?” She questioned aloud, mostly to her own self, but Gabriel replied.

“You’re going to move on from this and keep living how you have been…as Widowmaker.” He stated. As if it was so easy to just move on after finding out she had been living a lie. She wondered what her personality was really like, what her emotions had felt like before the changes. The dreams she had during her blackouts were clear now and raced through her mind. She began to remember what she had looked like. She remembered the people she loved and cared for. Love and care were no longer apart of her design. At least not until she met Reaper…

“How?” She questioned him, looking up. Tears were streaming down her cheeks.

“We cannot change the past. We cannot change who we’ve become. So we must continue to be who we are now…” He spoke with wisdom and understanding, for he too went through changes the day he began living hell on earth as a monster. She knew his story as well as he now knew hers. It was then she realized, they would always need each other, and they were meant to end up this way. He was right, she couldn’t change who she’d become…what they’d turned her into. She was a cold-hearted assassin, and there was no going back from it.

She nodded her head slowly in agreement and stood to her feet. From this day forward, there will be no more tears, and no more sadness. She wasn’t going to try and fight who she’d become. Talon destroyed her mundane ways, but the joke was on them. She would find a way to have her revenge, but in the meantime she would keep her experiment findings secret. She would continue to work with Reaper on the field. When the time is right, she will make Talon wish they’d never touched her.

“So…” Gabriel stood to his feet with her and walked out of the bathroom and began pacing her bedroom, nervously pounding his fist into the palm of his other hand. “We have a new partner…” He stopped pacing and stood to look at her standing in the doorway of the bathroom.

“What?” She questioned with a tone of frustration and annoyance.

“Yeah…so uh…it wasn’t easy breaking into your medical files. Someone helped me…” He began to explain. “She is a hacker…actually that title doesn’t really do her justice.” He paused. “Anyway…her name is Sombra. She’s from the Talon base in Dorado, Mexico. She was recently transferred here. And the only way she would help me enter the science lab, was if I agreed to allow her to partner up with us…” He spoke quickly. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” She yelled, throwing her hands in the air. A series of French profanities quickly followed behind as she stomped out of the bedroom. 

He followed her out into the living room, only to fetch his cigarettes from the coffee table. 

“I’ll be outside if you need me.” He told her before leaving her apartment.

She saw him to the door and slammed it shut behind him. How could he be so stupid? A new partner? Since when does he need help breaking into places? She was beyond furious. He knows how much she hates working with others. Working with him was enough of a headache already. 

She needed to find a way to calm her nerves and a shower would do just that. She surprisingly began to feel more like herself. All it took was the truth and a small mental breakdown. She hoped the blackouts would be gone for good now since her mindset had changed perspective. Stripping away her previous day clothes, she entered the shower. She turned the knob to scolding hot. It felt good over her sore, tensed muscles. Steam from the hot water filled her lungs as she inhaled. She felt refreshed and renewed. From this day forward, she would no longer look back. 

Keep reading

[reaperxwidowmaker-blog]

Yaaaaaay you are back I'm so glad awesome chapters.

[deadlypen1]

What’s tumblr doing trying to recommend ships for me?

[reaperxwidowmaker-blog]

I don't know am I ???🤔

[pixl0915]

Sombra & Friends (Pizza) by 시얼리

Translated by me

[deathandthewidow]

VIII

“Again.”

She grunted as she spun, the kick landing squarely against his forearm. Gaining momentum, Widowmaker threw a few more jabs towards her sparring partner, who caught each in stride, never losing balance.

“Again!” he growled, the roughness of his voice betraying the monster beneath the man.

Both of their faces were pulled in concentration. Neither had practiced with an equal – or even a challenge – in far too long.

Widowmaker had been hesitant to accept Reaper’s proposal, at first. Once again, she found herself worrying that, should they ever find themselves on opposite sides, he might know all her weaknesses. This was something neither her pride nor her programming could accept.

But, given the circumstances, she needed something to take her mind off the recent recurring visions of her past. And he’d offered her a perfect distraction.

He found an empty warehouse not too far away from the lakeside cottage, with plenty of space and privacy. It was there that they’d been fighting for days– basic workouts at first, working up to one-on-one duels when they felt sure she was ready.

Even still, she’d yet to beat him. Her long legs– perhaps her deadliest asset – would lash out, only to find herself pinned in one position or another under his unrelenting grip. It was certainly frustrating.

Today, they’d been sparring for hours already, taking breaks only so Widowmaker’s heart could return to it’s usual slow pace. He didn’t want her to overdo it, after all, lest the hallucinations return. So far, they hadn’t.

He watched as her usual ponytail followed the shape of her movements, cracking like a whip with every spin.

Widowmaker found herself deftly dodging every heavy punch the Reaper hurled. Finally, sensing an opening, she grabbed his outstretched arm and tried to flip him, but he dissipated in her hand, turning to a mist that swirled around her. 

“Mon dieu,” she spat, looking for anything she might recognize… his claws, his mask – 

Those eyes.

Fiery irises and a wicked grin appeared from the darkness. His arms reappeared suddenly, lashing out at her. She ducked, trying for a sweeping kick along the ground, but his legs had not yet reformed.

Knowing she had just put herself in a vulnerable position, she spun and lifted herself into a back-flip, putting distance between herself and her opponent. 

It’s taking a bit for him to re-shape, she noted.

Once he resembled his usual form, she unleashed her grappling hook into the wall behind him and lunged, looking for a choke-hold. Instead, he grabbed the wire with one hand and pulled her into him, and they found themselves face-to-face. He could’ve ended it right there, until he saw her mouth twitch into a little smile.

He caught the slightest twinkle in her eye– she was leaning in, lips parted ever so slightly, and he could’ve sworn she was about to…

…and the next thing he knew, the wind had been knocked out of his barely-living lungs, and the rest of him was on the ground, beneath the sharp heel of her combat boot.

She smirked and offered him a hand.

“Very clever,” he conceded, taking her hand and accepting his defeat.

“I’d feel better if I knew you weren’t going easy on me,” she huffed, winded from the fight.

Reaper considered this, but dismissed it immediately. He wasn’t one to “go easy,” after all.

“We should get back,” he said. “Your vacation ends tomorrow. You’ll need to be well-rested.”

“Very well,” she agreed, satisfied with a single victory after days of aggravating losses. 

The Widow and Death gathered their things–his mask, their guns– and headed home.

—

Inside the cottage, Reaper waited patiently in the parlor while Widowmaker bathed. Since his skin was constantly regenerating, he never seemed to get “dirty,” per se. 

He’d grown sort of accustomed to their routine – he’d go about his business until her check-up was done, then they’d train, and in the evening, pass the time talking about anything from missions to music until she was tired enough to rest.

The evening after the nightmare, however, had been a long discussion over whether or not she should take the serum into her body, reinforcing her inability to feel. Reaper, in disdain of the modern technology that resembled the one responsible for what he’d become, suggested good old-fashioned exercise and training instead. And, well, here they were.

He glanced up at the sound of her bare feet against the hardwood floors.

There she stood, in her usual jumpsuit – preparedness a prerequisite, and whatnot. Her wet hair was pulled up in a tight bun, but some shorter strands dusted her face.

“In the hurry to get back,” she said, eyeing him like a cat eyes a bird, “I believe we forgot to stretch, to cool down.”

“You know I don’t have to do that,” he responded immediately.

“Oui, but I do,” she replied, not missing a beat. “Why don’t we dance a bit? I wouldn’t want to wake up sore.”

Reaper quietly pulled his mask off –now, he rarely wore it when it was just the two of them. He was growing fonder every day of having someone see his unearthly countenance without batting an eyelid.

What’s she planning? he wondered.

She waited beside him, one leg in front of the other, arms at her sides. Reaper stood, pushed the coffee table a bit to the side, and extended his right arm.

Widowmaker accepted immediately, and he pulled her into a swift embrace. She spun out from him, extending both their arms, and the dance had begun. 

Step after step, they’d meet eyes for just a moment. Then, he would look down, or away, or–in Widowmaker’s case, close her eyes entirely and let him lead for a bit, listening for the swish of his cloak and the clunk of his boots that preceded the next movement.

Reaper occasionally felt a soft chill as the Widow’s breath grazed his neck, his cheek. The hand he rested on her hip rocked back and forth in time with her sensual swaying. She fell in closely, suddenly, her lips just inches from his ear.

“Why did you ‘esitate?” she asked. “Earlier. At the warehouse.”

The Living Death wished, then, that he could retreat into the mist and darkness he knew so well. Why did he hesitate? When she pulled away, the mischief in her eyes suggested she already knew the answer, but wanted to hear him say it.

Volatile from the defeat, his embarrassment quickly turned to something like rage. Passion.

A sturdy arm – one she’d spent much of the day avoiding – wrapped her in a vice, keeping her pressed close to his armored body.

“Blood still runs in these veins, arañita,” he growled, low and dangerous.

She moved a hand that had been bracing herself against him to brush her fingertips along his face, and murmured: “That is all I needed to know.”

With the sum of the strength in her dancer’s feet, she pulled herself through his grip, up into a tip-toe, planting her lips firmly against his. 

Like the victim of a fast-acting venom, the Reaper found himself close to paralysis, able only to move in ways that would bring the woman in his arms closer to his poisoned body.

In turn, the Widowmaker wrapped her arms behind his neck, sealing his place in her web.

She knew he’d lifted her off the ground, but hadn’t realized until her back hit the cushions that they were now on the couch. The impact unraveled her hair from the bun, and the locks fell neatly around her face, spilling over the edges of the sofa. A heavy hand slammed down beside her head, and he was on top of her, one arm holding his weight while the other held her delicate chin at just the angle he wanted.

Widowmaker ran a hand over his close-shaved head, finding it surprisingly soft, though some ridges of hidden scars remained. Then, over the broad shoulders and rough leather of his coat, and down to the sleek metal of his chest plate. She felt his presence all around her, and knew he’d used that odd trick of his again to transport them so quickly.

He pulled away abruptly, and she wondered what his next move would be. Examining him through half-lidded eyes, she noticed that, again, it seemed to be taking longer than usual to piece himself back together.

“Mon cher,” she gasped, concern bleeding into her voice, her thoughts.

His head whipped up to the sound of her voice, a part of him longing to hear more. But most of his attention was on keeping it together, even though he was suddenly starved and there she was, looking so tantalizingly unaware of what he was – no, not her, he reminded himself, a blackened, clawed hand reaching up to press against his face, to steady himself in reality.

Widowmaker watched him struggle to reassemble. What she saw was mostly a man, but something had blurred him at the edges. There, she found that black smoky substance that was him, but at the same time, wasn’t.

“What is this? What’s wrong?” she wondered aloud, hoping she hadn’t caused whatever was happening to her companion.

“No, I just… haven’t…” he coughed, then growled at his weakness, the frustration serving only to dishevel him further.

“Fed?” she finished.

Precisely, he thought, though he couldn’t find his voice at the moment. He’d been so focused on her, and her recovery, he’d started to neglect his own form’s requirements. He had felt the hunger tugging at the seams of his being, but put it off. He’d held out far longer than this before – but never while keeping his old, human body in tact, he now realized.

It had been over a week since his last satiation. 

In the blink of an eye, Widowmaker was up, armed, and using her standard-issued holo-screen to search Talon’s hit list. In a motion as simple as brushing her teeth, Widowmaker assigned herself to a basic group-assassination, and the authorization came through promptly.

“Let’s go,” she said, pulling her hair up into her signature ponytail, and throwing a few personal effects into a duffel bag.

“Wheeeere?” The voice that came from Reaper’s form was only half-his.

“To feed,” she replied simply, calling up her personal aircraft. It auto-piloted to their location, from where she’d hidden it in the forest, within minutes. As she opened its door, Reaper ghosted inside.

Widowmaker’s mind raced while she took the piloting seat, setting their coordinates for a small island town in Greece.

I kissed him, she told herself, and the words sounded wrong even in her own mind. I kissed him, and he turned into a monster.

She glanced back at him in the reflective surface of the windshield, and noted he was neither better nor worse than minutes before. At the center of the mess, was still him. But much of his outfit, limbs and hair were constantly swirling in and out of view, wisps of solidified darkness playing at the outline of his form. His eyes were closed tight in concentration, but every now and again Widowmaker felt the burning gaze on the back of her neck, her shoulders, and had the strange sensation of being locked in a cage with a starving beast.

She pushed those thoughts to the back of her mind, refocusing on the task at hand. Child’s play, really, but after their last mission, she was determined to execute this one flawlessly. The recon had already been performed; all that was left was to deal the killing blow.

She clutched at the single syringe of the Widowmaker’s serum she’d swiped on their way out, deliberating whether or not to take it now.

Another episode, especially during a mission, was a serious concern. The other, edging into priority over the first, was the thought that if she ruined this, and the Reaper kept degenerating, it would be her fault.

At that, she set the aircraft to auto-pilot, and plunged the needle into her arm, just like the scientists had taught her. Liquid ice flowed once more, and she gave a little shiver as it settled in.

The time it would take for the serum to circulate, in such a small dose, was less than the flight time by her calculations. She sat back, then, dropping the empty plunger into her bag, and pulling the Widow’s Kiss into her lap. She closed her eyes, and let her slow-beating heart do its job.

In the silent black sky, Death and the Widow flew, readying to descend on their targets like predators in the night.

—

Thanks to all the awesome folks who continue to read and leave great feedback for me.

The new highlight intro was simply too good not to use in this chapter! My goals for the next few chapters, without giving too much away, are to try and incorporate some in-game places and people into the story more frequently. Here’s to hoping!

[lacygnenoire]

deathhless replied to your post “You caught me in your web..”

“Maybe I want you to bite me..”

“I may or may not be capable of arranging that, mon corbeau~”

[juza-the-cloud-deactivated20221]

Visit Original Link

Art is by @bearable-bear

the rest was by my sinful hand and voice

inspired by this post

[jovial-juno]

//old domestic WidowReaper doodle inspired by one of my conversations with @verrottweil

[overwatch-fan-art-deactivated20]

Overwatch - Team Talon by Petitecreme

[mtex-deactivated20190422]

Widowmaker was getting ready to take her lethal shot as Reaper stepped in front of her sniper rifle, interrupting her. She lowered her weapon and stared at him through her infra-sight mask, confused. He lifted one of the goggles from her eye…

Reaper: I just wanted you to know…that no matter what happens out there…you’ll always be my little nightmare.

Widowmaker: You’re pathétique…

She lifted her hand to touch his tarnished, skull mask. For he too was her nightmare.

SFM by @pviane

Thank you so much for the cute interaction :)

[flayedprincess-deactivated20190]

With a sharp intake of air, Widowmaker shot upright, her bright yellow eyes adjusting to the darkness of her room. She breathed heavily for a moment, her usually slow-moving heart drumming against her chest. She moved her legs frantically to kick away the plain white sheets, and swung them over the side of the bed. She studied her pale blue hands and arms as she sat there, a thin sheen of cold sweat coating them. When she reached up to touch her forehead, sweat had built up there, as well, causing some of her midnight blue locks to stick to her. A dream. All that over a dream. She’d visioned a cottage, overlooking a quaint little French town. She had seen his face - warm, brown eyes and a smile that was not like the half-assed ones the Talon agents offered her before they sent her away on a mission. It was a real smile. It was not unusual for the Widowmaker to dream, but this one unnerved her. She remembered certain, silly things, that made her feel… Uncomfortable. They reminded her of a time she was not meant to be reminded of. The dishes on the little table in the breakfast nook, the smell of coffee in the dimly-lit kitchen, the veins on the back of his hand as he held his mug… Her own hands in the dream. Ivory, with a pink undertone… She caught a glimpse in a mirror hanging in the hallway, and the woman that stared back was not Widowmaker. Rosy cheeks, and pink lips. Long, natural black hair and green eyes… A heathy glow to her normal-colored skin. Definitely not Widowmaker. Ameliè. Then, it all changed. In a blink, those friendly green eyes turned to a horrifying yellow, like the monsters children imagine under their beds. The warm, porcelain flesh turned cold, and blue. The hair lost its warmth, so black it shone blue now. And the blood. Everywhere. It splattered the mirror where the now blue husk of a woman had been staring into, and made a trail down to the hallway floor. “Why?” She looked to her hands, a bloody kitchen knife. And him… The brown eyes glassy, his throat ripped open. Blood pooling around him. “Stupid.” Widowmaker stood from her bed, and ceased to remind herself any further of the dream, or nightmare, whatever it was. An annoyance… Rather, a distraction, they called them. Her eyes had fully adjusted to the room now - The walls were something between blue and gray now, and the floor a cold tile. Talon didn’t waste much time or effort attempting to make their agents rooms more… Homey. Not that she cared, she kind of liked the muted, dark room. She felt most comfortable in the dark and secluded. Rain beat against the singular window in the room to the left of her bed, and when she pulled back the heavy, dark curtain, she could see a gray, overcast sky. She liked the rain though. She flicked on the bathroom light switch, and the ugly, harsh fluorescent light hummed to life. She felt something as she looked into the mirror. But she couldn’t quite place the twinge she felt deep in her chest. In the light, she looked like she didn’t… Belong. She looked so freakishly inhuman, it was like she shouldn’t exist, except perhaps maybe outside of a story meant to frighten children. But this was real life. And this was how she really looked. She broke away from the mirror before she felt anything else that would only succeed to confuse her even further, and turned on the faucet. Leaning over, she splashed her face with icy cold water a few times to rinse off the sweat, then leaned over the sink taking a few deep breaths as the water dripped off her face. When she rose back up and dabbed her face with a towel, she flinched seeing another figure had joined her reflection in the mirror. Some people blended into a crowd, and were just… There. They didn’t stand out, nothing about them was too significant. Widowmaker… Well, Ameliè had been one of those people long ago. Not that she was boring, she was just… An average person. She didn’t stand out very much. There was nothing average or muted about Reaper. His scent was even significant. Gun powder and leather, and some otherworldly smell not even Widowmaker could put her finger on. Almost 7 feet tall, clad entirely in black with that mask that looked like it was made of bone - He certainly was not one of those people who blended in. “You don’t normally jump.” His voice was gravelly and rough like usual, and sounded almost disconnected from his body, or even from this earth. He was so… Supernatural. “I had a nightmare. Forgive me for being a bit on edge.” She folded her arms. “Why are you in here?” “I heard you screaming. Quite a nightmare to do all that to you.” He did not quite sound sympathetic, but she knew he must have cared at least a little bit if he teleported here to check on her. His tone did sound almost inquisitive, however… She lifted an eyebrow. “Sounds like someone wants to hear what it was about.” He shrugged. “I think it was my life before. Before all this.” The mood changed, and he stood a little more rigid than before. Before. That was not a good word in relation to Widowmaker. “Don’t get your panties in a twist, Fauchese. I’m not relapsing, if that’s what you think. It just… Startled me.” She hopped up to sit on the bathroom counter, and swung her legs beneath her like a child would. Startled was not the word Reaper would use to describe the look in those big, usually empty, amber eyes. She was clearly very shaken by what she’d dreamt. “You’re lying.” “I’m not a liar.” “You can take out an entire family and smile about it. One nightmare shouldn’t “startle” you. Something hit a nerve.“ She continued to swing her legs, staring at the cracks between the bathroom tiles, following the squares as a way to distract herself from this ugly conversation that was doing nothing for her nerves. "Leave me alone.” “No. Something isn’t right.” “I don’t want to have to have another shot.” That was certainly new. Somewhere under that mask, his eyes widened. The Widowmaker serum was vicious, shot into her arm straight in the vein in her inner elbow with a long needle. She had to be strapped down to a table the first few times, then it became easier the less she felt. Both mentally and physically. “I didn’t think you gave a shit what they do to you.” Then it happened. It rolled down her cheek and landed on the sweatshirt she’d worn to bed. A tear. She touched it, and once she knew for sure it had really happened, she started to bawl. Reaper watched Talon’s most talented, cold and unfeeling sniper weep while she sat on her bathroom counter, and honestly had not the faintest clue what to do. This was just as terrifying to him. The most uncomfortable situation he had been in for a very long time. “Help me, Gabriel.” Her pronunciation of his name was so gentle, so French, that it didn’t sound as if it should be associated with him. “You need your serum. Like it or not. You can’t fall apart like this.” Oh, how it had hurt him when she was just becoming the Widowmaker. He watched as they strapped her down, stuck her with needles, talked to her like she was a dog until eventually, she began to act like one, loyal only to them. Following orders without emotion. He watched the bright eyed young woman become the cold, superhuman assassin that was before him now. Or was really that who was before him, crying in her bathroom because she was afraid? Afraid of her own past, because of what kind of punishment she might receive for being reminded of it? He could see that terrified woman was still inside Widowmaker. That Ameliè was in there. She felt his arms wrap around her and it was like being enveloped in fire and it was perfect. Reaper’s body was like a furnace at all times, the opposite to her coldness. She continued to sob, wetting his coat as she shoved her face into it. His hand awkwardly patted her back, and before long, he found himself shushing her until the choked sobs began to subside.

(Not finished yet mates, will update soon)

[deathandthewidow]

VII

Birds. There were birds.

Amelie opened her eyes and shivered. When did it get so chilly…?

Wait.

Out the bed. Across the floor. Bathroom. Mirror.

A doe-eyed woman looked back at her, skin fair as snow, just a hint of peach on her cheekbones and the tip of her nose.

She turned, removed her sheer white nightshirt. 

Flawless, pale skin down her back; flowing dark brown hair. Her arms next– a mole here, a freckle there.

“Amelie?” a voice called from the other room.

Whose…?

“Ma chérie, come back to bed, you’ll catch a cold,” the voice called again.

She obeyed, her bare feet shuffling along the cool tile floor. She stepped back into the bedroom, heart racing.

Something’s wrong.

The copper smell of blood hit her before she felt the warmth against her toes.

Look down. Crimson so deep, it was nearly black.

Look up. On the bed.

A man laying still, sky-blue eyes open and glazed. His lips turn purple as he bleeds out from his throat, unable to speak any longer.

Her hand uncurled– a small, silver knife clattered against the floor.

“Why?” his lips formed, but the word never came.

Why?

—

She shot straight up, her near-superhuman body almost throwing her from the bed entirely.

The first thing she noticed, was that she was not alone.

Charlotte spoke: “Madame, vous allez bien?” In her hand, the empty bottle of cognac.

The Widow held her head, hoping she could feign a hangover in place of the nightmare.

Spiders do not dream, she told herself.

“Did you drink this yourself?” Charlotte asked.

Widowmaker glanced over the nurse’s shoulder, noticed the glasses were missing from the coffee table.

How much of last night was imagined?

—

The nurse spent much of the appointment timidly chastising her patient for the drinking. 

As for Widowmaker, it passed as she tried not to imagine movements in the corners of the room – dark visions of what she’d done to her husband, and so many thereafter…

“So I must insist you come with me, get some fresh air and some food.”

The words took a few seconds to sink in.

“Quoi?” Widowmaker asked, playing at annoyance.

Charlotte examined the sullen sniper. Her yellow eyes were hardly bleary– in fact, they seemed to have an alertness to them close to fear.

Another moment passed, and Widowmaker spoke again: “Yes, I think you are right. Let’s go.”

Charlotte hadn’t expected her to agree so easily, but she was grateful for the cooperation.

Widowmaker stood slowly, still trying to mimic a hangover – though she hadn’t had one in ten years, easily.

She let herself immerse in the replay of last night, trying to overlook the strange nightmare. There was simply no way she could’ve imagined it all.

“I’ll wait outside,” Charlotte blurted out. Widowmaker, topless, had forgotten she was standing there, and had started undressing in front of her. 

“Very well, I won’t be long,” she replied coolly, glimpsing at her mousy nurse from the corner of her eye. She caught a hint of blush creeping over the young woman’s face. Since her forcible recruitment, Widowmaker had grown accustomed to a lack of privacy. She found the nurse’s courtesy almost odd.

Widowmaker pulled on a black turtleneck and olive ankle-length skirt over her light combat gear, plus some fashionable boots, a large sun hat and sunglasses to complete the disguise. She let her hair cascade over her shoulders. The whole look was rather dated, but more importantly, her skin was covered.

As soon as she heard the front door shut, she rushed to the kitchenette, where two glasses sat on a small drying rack.

It did happen, she sighed to herself. Then she nearly laughed at the mental image of Death doing her dishes.

—

In town, the ladies sat on the patio of a small cafe. Cobblestone streets and tiny storefronts surrounded them, bustling with locals and tourists alike. 

Their order consisted of two cafe au lait, plus a petit dejeuner to split between them.

Whilst they waited, Charlotte tried to make pleasant conversation. She wondered how the assassin was faring, hungover, in broad daylight, surrounded by the somewhat noisy hustle and bustle of the town.

“When was the last time you got out like this?” Charlotte asked.

“I honestly can’t remember,” Widowmaker replied. Her expression was masked by her big, round sunglasses.

Charlotte felt a pang of pity. How much of this woman’s life was spent working… killing?

“You look lovely, really,” she said. “You’ve drawn quite a few looks from passers-by.”

“It’s probably the blue skin,” Widowmaker scoffed, though most of it was covered or at least shaded by her sun hat and clothing.

“Non, madame, I think they are wondering if you’re an actress or a model,” Charlotte insisted.

“Hmm,” Widowmaker replied, dismissive. In truth, she was quite flattered.

Charlotte bit her lip, scrambling for something to talk about. She knew Widowmaker was likely most comfortable not speaking, but it was her job to assess her health, after all, and even getting her out here was a small victory, so might as well keep trying…

The food arrived then, and the women tucked into some of the most delectable croissants and fruit Widowmaker had tasted in years.

The coffee, burning hot, felt heavenly as she sipped it down, too.

“Tell me,” Widowmaker said, examining her nurse through the dark lenses of her disguise, “How did you come to work for…us?”

Talon, Charlotte knew she meant. How did such a soft, sweet little thing like her come to work for the world’s most insidious terrorist organization?

Her usually-chipper demeanor faded into melancholy. Big, green eyes downcast, Charlotte said: “Overwatch killed my family.”

Widowmaker teetered on the precipice of empathy, as if she was watching someone else sit there feeling sorry for the young woman. With her pixie-cut hair, big eyes and delicate nose, just a few freckles here and there, she almost resembled…

“Such a sweet, foolish girl…”

“Why?! Why would you do this?!”

She’d laughed then, right in the face of…

Of…

Charlotte noticed that Widowmaker had gone deathly still. It was like half of her was here, another half of her in some alternate reality, far from this mundane brunch-time cafe.

“Madame?” Charlotte inquired.

Behind the sunglasses, Widowmaker was seeing memories now that no longer belonged to her.

Before Gerard…

At cafes not unlike this one. Passing glances in the hallways of…

A touch, a kiss…

Lena.

“Madame!” Charlotte hissed, waving a hand as discreetly as she could in front of Widowmaker’s face.

The sniper nearly fell out of her chair as she snapped back into this reality. The one where she was the Widowmaker, who worked for Talon, who’d been brainwashed and reprogrammed like some sort of mindless Omnic and had killed him and the nurse was watching, she would know, she would tell–

“What’s wrong? Madame, what happened?”

“Stop calling me that,” Widowmaker snapped.

“I-I’m sorry, but I must know, for my report–”

Again with the damned reports. Widowmaker was getting rather sick of it.

That thought startled her. Sick of what? Her programming refused to believe the answer was Talon.

“Let’s get out of here,” Charlotte said softly. The last thing she needed was this super-human assassin running away on her. What would she tell HQ?

Wrapping up the remaining croissants, Charlotte paid from her holoscreen and offered a hand to Widowmaker, who didn’t take it, but quietly walked ahead, trying to think of a logical explanation she could offer. 

First Gerard, now Lena… her mind reeled at the implications of her visions.

How much had Talon taken from her?

The women traveled the short distance back to Widowmaker’s cottage, tucked on a ridge just above the town, enough out of the way that no one would stumble upon it. 

—

Inside, the mid-day light streamed through the glass walls of the parlor. Charlotte sat unknowingly in that same place Reaper had been not even a day ago, and Widowmaker on the couch once more, changed back into her normal light combat gear, curling into herself like a scorned child.

Or a dying spider, the image came to Charlotte. She dismissed it and continued pressing.

“They’re memories,” Widowmaker said. “From my old life. That is all.” 

“But they obstruct your vision, non? Aren’t you worried this may happen on a mission?”

“Never,” Widowmaker hissed. “It never has.” 

But three times in one day…

“Listen,” Charlotte spoke, her eyes worried but not unkind, “Take this.” She opened her satchel and pulled out a small, self-refrigerating medicine case. Inside, three syringes of the Widow’s blue serum. 

 “I will leave it with you. I will report that you were concussed from the mission, and I gave you this and painkillers to relieve you. Rest, and if the visions continue, you must use these to go back to… the way you’re supposed to be.” 

Widowmaker absorbed this. The nurse was being friendly. 

“Why?” Widowmaker asked, suspicious.

Charlotte smiled sadly. “Because you and I are the same. We did not ask for this life.”

The words struck the Widowmaker as if she’d been punched in the gut. She curled further into herself, something searing the edges of her eyes.

“Merci,” she whispered.

Charlotte nodded silently, and left the bag of croissants on the coffee table.

“And no more cognac,” she quipped, before seeing herself out.

—

Alone, the setting sun sliding over the horizon, the burning in her eyes turned to blurriness. 

Is it happening again? she wondered, and started reaching for the medicine case.

Tears began to stream down her face, unbidden, sprinkling like raindrops onto her thighs.

A soft rumble followed by the heavy step of a boot told her, without looking up, that the Reaper had arrived, like he said he would.

A hand, large and warm, rested tenderly on her head. The couch dipped down, and she knew he’d sat beside her. Slowly, he ran the hand on her head through her midnight-silk locks, tugging them gently in his direction. The smell of forest wafted off of him, and she wondered where he’d been. 

For now, she could not stop the tears, so she let them fall. Each one beckoned another, and the quiet sobs wracked her body. 

“I’m here,” he spoke, his gravelly voice so certain.

She folded into him then, his big, sturdy hand cradling the back of her head, and she let her chin rest on a shotgun shell holstered to his chest.  She cried for the lives she’d lost – her friends, her family… her own.

As the moon rose above the mountains, Death and the Widow mourned together, remembering the lives they would never have again.

—

A/n: Heavy stuff. Sorry for the silence, I had finals to finish and rent to pay. I’m back now! Thank you to all the kind folks that continue leaving comments and feedback. 

I hesitate to make WidowTracer content, though I love the pairing, since I’m so strongly devoted to WidowReaper. But I do think they have some undeniable connection– as seen in the Alive cinematic– and I think the fandom has done a beautiful job portraying the two together.

[viclopb-draws]

Haven’t posted in a while so here’s a lil draw of the talon duo

[madame-lacroix]

sleepy Widowmaker is my favorite thing on earth like

napping in sweatshirts twice her size after missions because even though she’s a sniper her heart restricts her from doing excessive amounts of exercise and she gets tired really easily

catnaps against Reaper’s side. he just huffs and grumbles but eventually he’ll sleep too and they’ll wake up with Sombra sprawled out across both of them

falling asleep literally anywhere. dropships? yep. break room couches? you bet

please just let this woman rest

[wizardelf]

they’re best friends,,,, go ahead and tag as widowreaper i ain’t stopping you (psst..click the pic to check out more of my work)

reblogs are greatly appreciated!

[naffeclipsedoppelganger]

So um.. is collage au still open for headcanons? Sorry love this au so much and miss as well. Anyways I just have to ask this, I know christmas is only 29 days from now so any headcanon of them celebrating or what they love to do in this festive occassion?

Oh yes of course! Christmas is definitely a crazy time for the collage kids, but its one of the most fun too!

It gets cold and bitter outside with all the snow, definitely a call for all the coats and mittens and hats. Fareeha is the one with most layers simply because she can’t stand the cold, Lena wears the most adorable hats and Angela is always stealing whatever scarf Genji has on.

All the students flock to Angela’s and Fareeha’s dorm room simply because the Swiss woman makes the most heavenly hot chocolate. Genji is addicted to this delicious treat and is often begging her to make some more. 

Jesse and Genji are notorious for hanging up mistletoe whenever possible. Fareeh and Angela certainly don’t mind it though they can’t help but laugh at their mock innocent expressions when their boyfriends guide them to a doorway with the plant overhanging it. 

Hanzo loves the snow, but only from a distance. This however doesn’t stop Lena from dragging him out into it just to make a snowman. They do boost of they’re amazing snowman making skils however. Plus, Hanzo loves seeing Lena with a red cheeks. Lena on the other hand, is crazy with nose kisses as his nose gets red in the cold. 

Most of the kids head home for Christmas break, so before everyone leaves the Shimada’s host a little party at their frat house, and everyone comes with gifts and eggnog. 

The brothers give their gifts in private, Hanzo and Genji wanting the moment to be special when their respected girlfriends see their presents. Jesse and Fareeha are easy to kiss and trade presents out in the open, while Lena proudly parades around the beautiful necklace Hanzo gave her. 

Once its time to leave for home, Fareeha takes Jesse with her home. Lena manages to convince Hanzo to meet her family, and he takes off with her. 

Angela, however, insists that Genji goes home to his father, but he refuses to leave her all alone on the nearly deserted campus. This brings tears to her eyes, and they spend Christmas Eve on her couch sipping hot chocolate from warm hugs and recounting Christmas memories from when they were children. 

For Pro. Reyes and Miss. Lacroix, its a time to finally stop hiding and actually spend quality time with one another. They spend the nights at Gabriel’s house, and together they decorate it and flirt and shoot insults that aren’t really insulting back and forth. Waking up together on Christmas morning and surprising each other with small but important gifts.