two holiday-themed headcanons for my favorite Overwatch pairings
Emily and Lena
Lena stood in front of a door with two big paper bags in her hand. The door she was so associated with, the door, behind which the only love of her life was living. The one with who she would spend the upcoming three weeks she, as an Overwatch agent, got for holiday vacation. Of course, she had to be ready for an emergency meeting at any minute, but now, she just wanted to enjoy the time with Emily.
She pushed the door bell and listened carefully to hear footsteps from behind. The door opened and there Emily was, her face covered in flour. looked like she wasn't expecting her to arrive this early.
"Lena, oh god! you're already here!" Emily couldn't hold it in herself and hugged her girlfriend tight, completely forgetting that she was carrying the bags with christmas presents for her and Winston.
"Yeah, love, I wanted to surprise you," Lena responded with a smile after Emily let go and picked up one of the bags. She suddenly panicked and grabbed it from her.
"No," she shrieked and covered the open bag with her hand, "Don't look in, there are presents there."
"Didn't you forget about Winston? You know we are visiting him like last year," Emily just laughed and let her into the room. These Holidays will be great, well, like every Holidays, when they could be together.
When Lena took off her pilot jacket and left the presents aside, her girlfriend was already sitting on the couch in their living room. While she was heading there, she observed the apartment closely.
"Not much has changed since I visited last time" Lena constated, as she sat beside Emily, clinging onto her and started placing soft kisses on her girlfriend's face.
"You're being so clingy, what's going on," she giggled, being basically forced to not leave. Lena didn't answer, just rested her head on her chest. Emily slowly closed her eyes, while playing with her girlfriend's brown hair.
These times were nothing but pure domesticity and love. And they wanted to stay it that way.
Reaper and Widowmaker
It was Christmas.
Everyone was slowly collecting families to their homes to spend precious moments together and to enjoy time with their loved ones. The issue was that not all have said people they value to be with.
This could describe the woman known as Widowmaker. The times, when she was looking forward to this time of year, to the time she could spend with her family and especially her beloved husband, were gone.
The worst thing was Widowmaker still viewed these heart-warming memories. The only thing Talon couldn't take from her, the countless times she was standing on the planks of a big theatre having a ballet recital. The times her husband brought her a bouquet of flowers when she was getting ready to go on the stage. This all was now nowhere to be found, only inside her.
The truth was, Widowmaker still enjoyed ballet. She practised figures from her past recitals, when no one was around, which was at the moment.
Seeing her dancing was breathtaking and a particular someone, who was observing her dance, knew that.
After a few steps, Widowmaker eventually stopped in her little performance and looked around the small room. She knew someone was with her.
"Gabriel," she whispered, "Are you here?" He didn't have to cover himself in the blackness anymore. However, he was patient and stood still.
Widowmaker went back to her ballet. However, as soon as she slowly rose her arms to the air, she felt something heavy on her left hand. The woman swiftly turned towards the one, who was holding her. It was who she thought. Reaper.
"I knew you were watching," she said, when he remained holding her hand in the air.
"Can i dance with you?" his deep voice floated towards her, when she wrapped her right arm around Gabriel's waist.
"You don't know how," she responded with a hint of annoyance, although he knew she didn't actually mean it.
"Is that a problem?" he whispered, when he let go of her hand. She stepped closer, unstrapping his mask, revealing a dark, bruised skin and two black eyes, staring at her. He was surprisingly warm as well, even she could feel it.
"I suppose it does not" she finished as she laid her head on his chest. They truly didn't have to talk a lot with each other. Their body language could make up for a full-on conversation.
hey, everyone, merry Christmas to you all over the world
and if you don't celebrate Christmas i wish you at least a happy start of the year 2021, i wish your deepest desires come true and i Hope you enjoy this time of year with your family and loved ones
the headcanons you have read are just me, contributing to the respective ship's fanwork, still, i think they're decent
so again, have a merry Christmas, happy New year and i wish you the best
Could you write something where reaper and widowmaker are sleeping together and reaper has a nightmare about Widowmaker dying right in front of him and when he wakes up he hugs Widowmaker and tells her how much she means to her. If you can't I understand
So. I ran with this prompt. (Although I must admit I changed a lot. No cuddling but they’re kind of kind to each other?)
nsfw for violence, murder and smut, but like over 2,5k of smut
word count: 4.349
ripe andruin
.
His dreams are memories—or fragments of; gunshotsringing in the godforsaken alleyways of LA, the smell of cheap detergent at thelaundromats and the sound of coins being inserted in the machines, the way themattress dipped in the bunk above his when his fellow recruit shifted in arestless sleep.
Mostly, he dreams of his time at Overwatch.
Of the inside of his office where he spent most of histime behind the two computer screens on his desk, analyzing data and satelliteimages and maps and intelligence reports, he remembers the mornings the best.
Steam drifting from his styrofoam cup of black coffeeon the tabletop, the sunlight streaming inside from in between the slantedshutters, and the soft whirl of his computer fan are details so remarkablyvivid, he might as well have been inside his office again.
There are other things too: the stampede of Bastionunits across the battlefield, ceaseless gunfire, the propeller of a Crusader’spower armor as he storms forwards, and the air a palimpsest of smells:smoldering metal, and wires, and bodies, one chasing out the other.
Arguments with Morrison seamlessly blend into theirlast fight at Swiss HQ.
He doesn’t remember the fluorescent tubes glaringtheir light down on them as harshly as this. Morrison’s uniform has blood onthe collar, like his knuckles do, but the stains stand out too boldly, brazen.
And then, the smoke alarm ringing throughout thecorridor as the bombs he had his squad plant in sector F go off. Evacuationprotocol 4 being initiated. Athena’s robotic voice ringing through thespeakers.
Jack stares at him in shock, his bottom lip split andred and raw; his brows furrow together and his eyes narrow as he realizes whatthe extent of the betrayal is. His mouth moves, but he can’t recall whatexactly it was what Morrison yelled at him. Traitor,perhaps, or just his name, it doesn’t matter what it was, because he canremember quite clearly the anger in his eyes, of his expression.
Colons of smoke roll down the hallway as the bombs insector C reduce the laboratories to rubble and shake this side of the building.He uses the opportunity to push forwards and shove Morrison against the wall,but has to take a punch to the gut and ends up grunting in pain.
They’re grappling like street rats, relying solely onthe adrenalin burning in their veins. His nose still stings from Morrison’selbow, busted, the blood crusted dry in the hairs of his ring beard and on hislips.
It’s getting harder to breathe, to see, but at onepoint he managed to pin Morrison down with his forearm pressed to his throat.Chunks of debris get blown past them when the bombs in the sector they’re in gooff; white dust covers the floor while the smoke becomes so thick it clogs upagainst the ceiling and smothers the light of the fluorescent tubes. His jaw issore from a mean left hook, his teeth grit as he puts more weight into hischokehold. Jack’s eyes are watery, gleaming in the dark.
I trusted you—He mouths this at him,like a curse, his eyes a set of embers smoldering in the sockets.
Here, the bomb in the room right of them woulddetonate and the blast would knock down the wall over Gabriel’s back, buryinghim in plaster and concrete while his body would shield Morrison from most ofthe rubble. He always ends up burning from the explosion.
But this time it doesn’t, this time he doesn’t wake upon a cot in some abandoned apartment complex or a bunk in Talon’s HQ orwherever he decided to lie down to rest and didn’t miss the small window oftime where he actually could. He’s experienced that a lot as Reaper; missing thatelusive moment where he’s so tired he could actually fall asleep, before hisbrain kick-started back to thinking ceaselessly, planning and plotting andconsidering.
The fabric of the sleeve of his Blackwatch uniformbecomes an elbow guard, attached on one end to a spiked gauntlet and on theother to black straps wrapped around his elbow. He watches how the tiles andthe dust and the pieces of wall change into sand, how the smoke makes way forthe afternoon sunlight, saturating the landscape in a golden glow, like a sepiafilter.
Widowmaker’s looking up at him and he pushes downharder, makes her gasp for air, feels her struggle underneath him. Her gut isbleeding out, he knows, because herecognizes this place: the desert route their latest target was taking from theAlgarve to Lisbon, with the large billboard advertising Coca Cola, its paperpeeling and its colors faded to a dirty pink.
Accusations remain unvoiced in his mind, the outlinesof his plan were so simple: he would block the car and take care of anybodyguards while she sniped the target from the rafters behind the billboard.But he underestimated the amount of mercenaries that were hired, driving onmotorcycles in gaudy colors ahead and aside and behind the car.
He could’ve handled them, he told her afterwards, shewasn’t supposed to deviate and get off her vantage point.
She wasn’t supposed to get shot in order to.. to what? Protect him? The notion aloneis enough to make him scoff in derision—There was only one priority and that waskilling the target. He’s said those words so many time, they might as wellbecome his last ones.
They weren’t, and he doesn’t want to remember whatwords were.
Her smirk had infuriated him, just like her handhard-pressed to her abdomen, the blood slowly tainting the pink of her bodysuitdark, spreading, always spreading.
Mission accomplished, she had toldhim, as if it was a joke by then, as if it warranted her pressing her mouth,her damned mouth, so close to his mask.
And now he’s above her, bearing the brunt of thesunlight on his broad back, on his black coat, on the silver markings of aspine. With his forearm pressed to her throat. In this position, it would belaughably easy to crush her windpipe.
Reaper finds himself so angry at her that he wants to.His anger always had this potent promise of destruction, especially towardsthat what was his, at one point or another.
Overwatch,Blackwatch, and now her.
Her eyes are wide in his shadow, reflecting his masklike the skull it’s supposed to represent. She should’ve stayed put, he thinksto himself, should’ve kept herself from harm. Maybe she should’ve stayed awayfrom him all together, because he never intended to become…
If he acknowledges this attachment to her, it becomessomething tangible, something that takes root in his chest and suffocates himfrom the inside out. This thought makes Reaper put all his weight onto hisforearm.
Widowmaker struggles violently underneath him, buthe’s got her wrists pinned stuck beneath his kneecaps. She can’t buck up herhips and try to wrap her legs around his torso or neck, because of the shotwound in her gut. Her body is restrained, immobilized due to its own mortality,fragility, and yet more desirable despite it all.
The cartilage structure around her trachea crunches,cracks completely then and the scream dies stillborn in the cavern of her openmouth, but he’s pushed the pliancy of her throat past its breaking point withthe flat of his forearm. Fractures her larynx, continues to exert too muchpressure and waits for her to choke on the blood, on the lack of air.
The corners of her mouth are slick with a reddishspit.
For a brief moment, he succumbs to an emptiness thatnumbs him from tip to toe. Her lifeless body, her battered throat, her dulleyes, it doesn’t evoke any reaction from him. Reaper stands up and comes topause next to her, looking away from her towards the horizon. The sun hangshigh in the afternoon sky. In the shadow of his silhouette, her blood comesacross as black.
He alwaysends up burning from the explosion.
His chest’s too tight, as if clumps of coal remainsmoldering inside his lungs. He opens his mouth and smoke comes out, stuckbetween the inside of the faceplate and his own face. Remorse, loss, regret,they coil hotly in his stomach.
This is what he was afraid of; the anguish ofresponsibility over her death, and more deeply, that he can’t be on his ownanymore, that he can’t be on his own anymore now that he has her.
Reaper blinks slowly and the interior of the motelroom appears, disappears, flickers like a mirage in the desert: the opposingwall with its floral wallpaper, the lamp on the night table and his mask nextto it, flat and facing the ceiling, his coat draped over the backrest of thechair, the open doorway to the dark bathroom.
He reaches blindly for his shotguns under the bed withone hand, wants to have his fingertips bump against the stock or the barrel ofone of them, to be reassured by the knowledge of having them close-by.
There’s a blue mosquito light plugged into the socketnear the bathroom and its glow seems to drag on towards his side of the bed,highlights the several blood stains on the floorboards that the cleaning ladycouldn’t get out.
His hand and wrist are caught in the light, the palescar tissue there discolored, blessed silver.
Eventually, he rolls over on his left side and trapssome of Widowmaker’s long tresses underneath his elbow. She groans lowly,shifts until her knees are pulled up under her torso and takes part of thesheets along her, exposing his right side.
“Get off.” It’s a whisper, in a hoarse, gravel andwine voice; the soles of her feet flat against his shins, pushing.
But he doesn’t budge, only presses the sharp joint ofhis elbow down onto her hair and makes the mattress dip—until she feels it inthe roots of her hair, hisses and turns onto her back, cranes her neck to peerat him with half-hooded angry eyes.
In the scarce lighting, her teeth are too white,contrasted nicely by the darker blue of her lips.
“What’s gotten into you?” Her question pushes out theheavy silence in the motel room.
There’s a low buzz then; a mosquito getting zapped bythe blue light.
He grumbles, “nothing—” and rakes his left armunderneath her back, underneath the fabric of the sleeping shirt she’s wearing,drags her closer against his chest while the palm of his hand comes to rest onthe dressing over her abdomen.
“So careless,” Reaper says as he exerts some lightpressure on the wound; and he imagines the raw meat of her abdomen, bloody andmessy, riddled through with the thin steel wire he dipped in cheap vodka andused to stitch her back up.
He continues gruffly, “and for what?”
Her breathing hitches when his palm comes down on herlower belly and stays there, warm and heavy, painful. A gasp slips past herlips and resounds too loudly inside the cheap motel room. The corners of hisscarred, fucked up mouth twitch upwards at the noise.
“You,” Widowmaker replies matter-of-fact, but there’sa throaty quality to her voice, accentuated by a shaky exhale, the slow riseand fall of her chest.
It’s a tease, the way he digs the heel of his palminto her abdomen, into the tenderized skin under the white dressing. She wincesand slaps her hand against his right shoulder, trying to force him back, yet hedoesn’t budge. But there’s a glint in her eyes, a spark.
“I ordered you to stay put,” he chastises, bringinghis face closer to hers, “I had it covered.”This comes out in a growl, a rumble from deep within his chest.
His hand moves up towards her midriff, between herbreasts, up her clavicle to the base of her throat; the hemline of her shirt isbunched up around her stomach, leaving her abdomen and the cotton panties theygot at a convenience store bare. They’re white, five a pack, poor quality.
Reaper’s dipped his hands in a pair of those before, andthe elastic band tears easily.
“Sixteen mercenaries isn’t what I would call covered,” she rebukes, her accent makingher sound even more smug to his ears, but she then tilts her head to the sideto give his open palm more access.
His wrist slides down again, over her naked breast,dragging his fingertips over her collarbone slowly, but his fingernails areclipped short and don’t hurt like the sharp claws of his gauntlet would. Herhips buck up shallowly, almost timidly. She’s learned that her desire for himcan be a double-edged blade.
There’s an edge to his tone of voice when he answers,“I’m already dead.”
Widowmaker croons when his fingertips brush over hernipple, and murmurs with a curt, staccato laugh, “but you don’t feel that way, mon chèr.”
It’s not to his habit to kiss her; most of the time heburrows the sharp of his canines into her neck, or the junction of it with hershoulder, sometimes he nips at the handles of her hips or leaves marks all overher smooth tummy, on her breasts, on her thighs.
But kisses are different, they mark a turning point,smoothen the serrated edge of his rough mouth with the unfamiliar intimacy ofher lips against his. His thumb and forefinger catch and pinch her nipple. Shemoves her head even closer to his, until their foreheads touch and she looks asif she might confess something to him, something he can’t stand to hear.
There’s nothing remotely gentle about how he presseshis mouth to hers, open and hot and hungry; he moves so he’s half on top ofher, steadying himself with his right hand on her hip, pushing one leg betweenhers. His tongue swipes over the seal of her lips, pokes in between and slidesover the back of her teeth.
Reaper feels her hands on his flanks, pulling at thetank top he slept in to touch his scarred, lacerated skin. She’s always cold,but when he’s worked up like this, when he wants to fuck her like this, it’ssoothing.
Her moans and gasps when he kneads her breast andplucks at the elastic band of her panties to make it snap back against her hip,they’re hushed by the kiss, reduced to shaky exhales and little mewling noises.His beard is bristly against her chin, but she doesn’t seem put off, just likeshe isn’t put off with it when he eats her out.
“I wanna fuck you from behind,” he says gruffly, afterhe breaks the kiss and feels his lips slick with spit, both hers and his own.
When he grinds his knee against her cunt, Widowmakermoans helplessly, rocks against him for more friction, more contact. If therewas more light, he’d be sure to see a wet patch on those panties. He’shalf-erect in his boxer shorts.
He resettles himself above her, removes his arm fromunderneath her back and sits between her spread legs. It’s difficult todistinguish her features in the darkness, especially now his broad back blocksthe little light of the street lantern outside of the motel that falls into theroom through the vertical slots of the blinds. Her hair’s glossy, spread outover both of their pillows, and her eyes glimmer wetly as she stares up at him.
“I can’t lie down on my stomach,” she tells him whenhe grabs her and pulls her closer so her crotch is flush against his. Her kneesare cool against his sides, his tank top bundled up around his midriff.
Widowmaker winces when he rocks his hips to hers hard;the movement a strain on her abdomen. She knows he doesn’t care about herdiscomfort. It’s only stress relief, a chance to work the bugs out of hissystem. Her body reacts to his, affection starved even if she’s programmed notto feel affection.
And she doesn’t,but her heart always beats a bit faster then it’s supposed to when he as muchas touches her in a way that doesn’t bring pain. It’s enigmatic, like apunctuation mark in a line of code.
The hitch in his movement comes as a slight surpriseto her. Reaper leans over her so their faces are close again, brings one handto the hinge of her jaw, sweeps his thumb over the skin there; the whisper ofhis breath a promise against her mouth.
“On your knees so your ass is up, then. Face down.”
She cradles the crown of her head with her hands whenhe rubs his cock up and down her cunt, at a pace that gives too much friction,makes her soak through those thin cotton panties. Her hips buck back up againsthim, try to match the cadence of his and she could come from this alone if hewould put his hands all over her body: her breasts, her thighs, her hips,wherever.
Reaper presses his wet mouth down to the column of herthroat, not biting and sucking like he usually does when they’re about to fuck,but kissing, tasting her cool, smooth skin with his lips and the tip of histongue.
His cock is hard, too hot in the confines of hisboxers, but instead of getting on with it, flipping her over and peeling herpanties off her ass, he keeps grinding down against her for a bit longer. Herstilted gasps overshadow the restless, sultry silence in the room.
And when he finally dips one hand underneath theelastic band to finger her clit with the pad of his thumb, Widowmaker’s reducedto a panting, trashing mess. Her pussy’s so wet, there’s a squelching soundwhen dips his fingers down even lower to tease her.
“Gonna do you good now, com’on move,” Reaper orders,voice roughened up, but his tone soft, less barbed than usual.
Widowmaker regards him for a moment, sunken into thepillow, still coming down from the high of his hand, his cock rubbing againsther. She doesn’t understand why she wants his mouth on hers again, but she’ssweltering from the desire poised upwards under her skin. Sweat gleams alongher hairline, in the hollow of her collarbones.
She pushes herself up on her elbows and grimaces atthe dull echo of pain that spreads throughout her body. Reaper helps her pullthe sleeping shirt over her head and tosses it over the edge of the bed, allowsit to discolor under the blue glow of the mosquito light. Her fingers skim hisribcage playfully when she helps him get out of the tank top.
The sheets end up on the floor, discarded.
They’re motionless; she’s sitting upright now, withher long legs still curved over his hips. Her chest is heaving, the scarcelight gliding over her perky tits down her ribs and back up again. He doesn’tkiss her, but he honest to God wants to and that’s enough reason for him not todo it.
When she’s positioned on her knees in front of him, withher wrists crossed under her cheek, her profile outlined against the whitemattress, legs slightly spread, and her hair all over the pillow and hershoulders, Reaper pushes down his boxer shorts to his knees. Her spine isarched and he slides his palm along the curve up to her ass, teases the pad ofhis thumb over the cleft. And he makes a show of pulling down her panties andletting them slide down her thighs, get stuck in the sweaty insides of herknees.
Widowmaker makes a low whining sound when he rubs downthe crack of her ass then, pushes down on her asshole to stretch the dry ringof muscles briefly, further down to her cunt again, to slick his thumb, andback up, but slowly.
“You don’t,” she pauses, swallows reflexively when hepushes his thumb back in, “usually draw it out like this, mon…”
Can’t finish the endearment when his mouth pressesdown on her right ass cheek, teeth bracketing skin between. He hollows hischeeks and sucks hard, leaves his mark there. Her hands clench into fists whenshe pushes back against him. There’s a break in routine; every time Reaper doesthings like this, it’s to prep her for his cock.
This is just to tease her, to make her feel good, all hot and tight in her belly,tighten the springs until she’s ready to pop.
“Maybe I like you better this way,” he drawls, butthere’s an inflection to his voice that suggests he’s worked up too, workinghimself up over her, and he continues, “all bothered because of me.”
And then he’s got his thumb to the knuckle inside herass and two fingers in her wet pussy, pushing the two in deeper when he pullshis thumb out, establishes a rhythm to fuck her open.
She entertains the thought that this is how he getsher to beg for him and ducks her face against her wrists, defiant with hersilence, close-lipped.
His mouth—hisdemanding, scarred and botched mouth—kisses the cleft of her ass and she’sshuddering when his tongue flicks out and licks a hot swipe down her ass crack.The bristle of his beard’s prickly against her hypersensitive skin. He switchesout his thumb for his tongue and her insides are short-circuiting, a spasmrunning along her thighs.
“S’il te—” she presses her hips against his face,wants his tongue deeper, wants his fingers deeper, until her cunt’s gushingover them and the muscles in her legs give out on her.
Reaper curves one hand over her left flank to steadyher; obscene, squelching sounds fill the motel room as he eats her ass out,reveling in all the needy noises that escape her. His cockhead is leakingprecum, but a part of him wants to make her come first, then fuck heroversensitive cunt into the next orgasm.
Everything comes crashing down around her when hemakes this sloppy, slurping sound and flicks the tip of his tongue against herasshole after he pulls out; her breathing’s haggard, her toes curling and hershoulders shaking.
But Widowmaker hasn’t even wrestled through the highof her orgasm when she feels his fingers slip out of her cunt. He teases thelips of her pussy with his cockhead, smears the precum open over them.
He pushes in then, slowly, makes her take him inch byinch, pulls back out in the same agonizing pace. Her knees dig into themattress, and the balls of her feet smack up against his upper legs. She movesher head, uncrosses her wrists and slams her left fist onto the pillow when hestarts to fuck her in earnest.
His fingers skim over her waist, trail over her flanksand then down again, dip into the meat of her hips when he thrusts in hard,sharp, deep, push her against him, deeper. Her abdomen’s protesting fromthe movement.
This is nothing like the first time they fucked, shethinks to herself as she tries to swallow down her moans, when he didn’t give ashit if she came or not, just used her body to masturbate. And she, well, she just wanted to feel something.
Afterwards, when they were assigned more missionstogether, broke away from Talon, the changes in his behavior were gradual butnoticeable. Reaper started to make sure she was wet, warm, willing.
Widowmaker exhales shakily when she feels him press akiss down her spine, curved over her.
“Good girl,” he whispers as he picks the pace up againand fucks her fast, allows the smacking of flesh on flesh to chase out thecompliment he just gave her.
Another orgasm wrecks her and her arm falls flatlyagainst the headboard. Everything blanks out to white in front of her eyes.Drool coats her bottom lip, the corner of her mouth, the mattress.
Reaper grabs onto a few tresses of her long hair andpulls her head backwards until her neck’s curved into a painful angle. He snapshis hips forwards, pulls out slowly, snaps his hips forwards again. He won’tlast much longer, but fuck, isn’t shebeautiful like this, just for him?
He rides out his orgasm in a few more thrusts,spilling his spunk inside of her, and watches how some comes dribbling outafter he’s pulled out entirely. Her cunt gleaming wetly in the light streamingin through the window.
“I think… I pulled my stitches,” she says in afucked-out voice, hoarse and exhausted, but also pleased, sated.
There’s far more emotion in her voice now.
Reaper brings one hand to her abdomen, to check if thedressing wasn’t bled through. It’s slick and he’s sure that if he holds hisfingertips to the light, he’d see blood on them.
“Roll over, there’s still some vodka left, gonnasterilize the wire and try to stitch you back up again,” he orders as he startsto move, pulls his boxer shorts back up to his hips. “Shit. Why didn’t you saysomething?”
There’s a tired chuckle in response, her weight movingaround on the bed, the sound of her getting comfortable. Her panties arestretched around her knees. He puts his palm on her thigh subconsciously.
“I suppose I didn’t want to, mon chèr,” Widowmaker finally says when he caresses the meat of herthigh with his thumb, continues, “I was rather enjoying myself.”
“So careless,” Reaper scolds, but there’s no bite, “andfor what?”
I feel you are a necessity in my life do you feel the same about me Widowmaker?
“…That is awfully straightforward, even for yourself, Reaper,” the widow would begin, expression quickly shifting into that of slight confusion as she stared down the masked man before her. Her commander was barely the one to approach for small talk, let alone heart-to-heart discussions of ones feelings, so to be met with the latter option of all things?
Well, it was shocking to say the least.
“–I suppose one could say that, after all I do tend to rely on you to ensure my survival whilst out on the battlefield. Without you, I know for a fact that I would not be here right now, mon corbeau. For that, I thank you.” Pausing for a moment, Widowmaker shifted her gaze away, giving her companion a nonchalant shrug before bothering to continue.
“You have grown on me since we have met, I can tell you that much now. I am not sure if I have taken your idea of ‘necessity’ in the way you wished for it to be conveyed, but I will say now that if our lives were to be entwined for a little while longer… I would not be complaining. I do not think that I ever would.”
