Mar 9
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thanks for the tag, @retiredficwriter!!
Make a poll with 5 of your favorite rarepairs/crackships. See which one is everyone's favorite!
Choose your fave rarepair!
Baekhyun/Kai (EXO)
Ana/Widowmaker (Overwatch)
Nemu/Uryuu (BLEACH)
Shone/[Force from You Fight, and I Love] (Only Boo! crossover)
Sokka/Ty Lee (Avatar the Last Airbender)
PROPAGANDA UNDER THE CUT!
obviously, my favorite is kaibaek. i feel like i don't ship a lot of rarepairs so these were kind of hard to come up with after kaibaek and widowana fjdsljldg i might have forgotten a more obvious one, sorry!
tagging: @ariadnekurosaki @takeanumbrella @monwillica @sssneakiest and idk if it's my internet connection but tumblr isn't letting me tag anything else. if you wanna do it, do it and tag me! i wanna see your rarepairs :D
Change of Heart
Here’s the WidowAna commission! Commissioned by someone who wishes to remain anonymous.
(Older content)
Summary: In which Amelie feels her ice melting away after familiarity strikes her heart and she feels the need to return to Overwatch. Seeing Ana reminds her of what they used to have- and boy can that woman make a girl see stars.
Reblogs > Likes
!!!Minors and ageless blogs dni or you will be blocked!!!
Fandom: Overwatch
Relationship: Widowmaker/Ana Amari (FWB), mentioned romantic interest of Sombra/Widowmaker
Warnings: NSFT/R18+, Widowmaker is a trans woman with facial feminization and top surgery but no bottom surgery: Words used to describe her bits are cock/dick, FWB relationship, bondage.
Words: 2.5k
_________________
Overwatch had banded back together in another stand against the cruelty of the world, a war that would never be won. Of course, it needed to be done secretly- that went without saying. The government wasn’t fond of people with super powers causing a mess of things again. Every former agent that held the recon communicator got the message from Winston.
Even if they were playing for the same team.
Amelie could remember portions of being a member of Overwatch, the entire experimentation on her caused a big jerk in her memories. Yet, the communicator had jostled some more, a little tug in her memories that made her cold heart ache until she was absentmindedly stroking over the shape of it with her thumb, a frown to her plump lips. It would take her months to make her decision after this moment.
For once, in years, she had felt lost and confused. FELT something other than nothing. She once had had a purpose of being one of the greatest marksmen around, never missing, always taking down her prey without a shed of a doubt of anything that came after.
~Rest under the cut~
red carnation
Amélie has earned a punishment, and Ana delights to deliver.
Amélie Lacroix is pretty when she balances on a single foot and twirls with her arms raised above her head. She is pretty when she smiles and laughs, not the performance she executes onstage but something genuine.
She is pretty with her cheeks flushed pink and her lips curled downward in a childish pout. Ana likes her like this, likes her balancing on the edge of embarrassment, annoyance, and arousal.
“I said I was sorry,” Amélie says. On the stage she is always poised and graceful, but off it she can be surprisingly immature. She’s used to being feted. Coddled.
“Yes,” Ana says, unmoved. “But if I don’t teach you a lesson, you’ll think you can get away with it, and I’m afraid you can’t.”
Amélie seems about to say something before she thinks better of it and closes her mouth. Her blush deepens. She looks like she wants to mutter another disrespectful remark under her breath. She has not yet learned to show Ana the proper respect. But she will.
“I’m sorry, Madame,” she says. It’s less of a whine this time.
“There you go. Now, hands around your ankles.”
The expression that flashes across Amélie’s face shows that she clearly thought a display of genuine contrition would be enough, but to Ana’s delight she does not make a fuss. She bends smoothly in half, dancer that she is, and stands still with her posterior skyward.
“Good girl,” Ana murmurs, and cups a cheek. Amélie’s body is all muscle, but there is still some softness there. Her leggings are tight enough to outline her plump lips. Ana enjoys the view, but she will not deign to touch Amélie there today.
Amélie lets out a soft noise when her leggings and underwear are brusquely yanked down, but she doesn’t move. Ana strokes her soft skin and spreads her cheeks for a better look. Amélie is waxed, as always, and her pink lips are prettier without the cloth in the way, but Ana’s attentions today are for a different hole.
“Does Gérard play with this?” Ana asks, as she reaches for the lubricant. It’s a cruel question, maybe, and Amélie’s silence is the only answer necessary. If Gérard paid his wife any attention at all, she wouldn’t be bending over for Ana.
The solid metal plug is small for this first infraction. When it’s been slicked up, Ana presses it to Amélie’s waiting hole. She shivers at the cold, but she takes it easily enough. It slides securely into place. Ana tugs on the ring and relishes the gasping moan Amélie swallows back.
“There we go.” Ana pats it, wipes off her hands on the waiting towel, and pulls Amélie’s leggings and panties back up. “You can stand.”
Amélie does. Her cheeks are so red she looks like a tomato, though perhaps that’s just gravity pulling all the blood to her head.
“I won’t be able to dance,” she says quietly. Humbled. The thought sends a spark through Ana.
“You’ll have to,” Ana says. “I’ll be watching.”
.
The ballet is Salome and the director ruthless; she barks objections at her dancers over an arm held a degree lower than appropriate, a spin a quarter of a rotation too much. Certainly she would object to the presence of an audience, but the names Ana Amari and Overwatch hold a great deal of weight. Ana doesn’t really feel guilty about pulling rank for something as innocuous as this.
So she sits in the theater, a few rows back from the stage, a lonely audience of one. Her tablet is open on her lap and she’s only half-paying attention, but every now and then she glances up and meets Amélie’s eyes.
Amélie is the lead, of course, draped in exquisite crimson to foreshadow her bloodlust. Certainly Amélie has perverse tastes, Ana thinks wryly, but she can’t imagine her collecting heads. But there is an unrestrained animalism in her movements, especially when the director orders a More! Push yourself!
At first Amélie’s motions are jerky and unsure, but sharp criticism catches her soon enough and muscle memory takes over. Her job is much too competitive to allow for distractions, even ones as lovely as the one Ana has engineered.
She wonders how the plug feels as Amélie spins and leaps and runs across the stage. Surely it makes itself known with each little motion. Is she clenching tight around it, afraid it will slip loose and show her coworkers how debased she is? Does she relish the shifting weight of it every time she moves her legs?
Perhaps she will come to think of it as not such a punishment after all.
Ana is pleasantly wet there, seated in the lavish old theater, a show before her. Amélie seems to be performing for her benefit alone. Perhaps she’ll ask for Gérard’s head on a plate. Mesmerized as Ana is by her thin body swaying amongst all that blood-red cloth, she thinks perhaps she would acquiesce.
The dancers are permitted a brief break and promptly scatter to their phones, the restrooms, or to get something to eat. Ana remains where she is, continuing her work until a buzz from her own phone distracts her.
It’s Amélie.
Please may I take it out
Ana smiles despite herself.
No.
please I cant take it I cant focus
When Ana doesn’t respond, there are a few moments of silence, and then a picture.
Amélie’s fingers are soaked and shiny with viscous strands of her own nectar. Three of them, wet down to the knuckle. Ana leans back in her chair and lets out a deep sigh. Five minutes is not long enough to join Amélie in the bathroom, and she likes drawing things out anyway. But she entertains the fantasy anyway and imagines sucking Amélie’s fingers clean and then going down on her. She would toy with the plug, have Amélie coming in moments.
After your rehearsal as I said.
A longer pause. Then, finally, Amélie responds.
yes madame.
overwatch is gay culture
sorry about ending the stream early yesterday! ill try to finish it later on in the week. in the meantime have some (unrequited) widowana
Imagine Ana and Widowmaker bonding over tea. At first when Widowmaker joined the ranks of Overwatch she wouldn't be able to sleep well and wandered the halls. Until one day she ran into Ana in the kitchen and Ana offered her a cup a freshly made tea. Which didn't really help her sleep but made her feel welcomed. It became a sort of trend and now they both look forward to their nightly talks.
The first night is quiet. To be honest, Widowmaker doesn’t want to stay at all, but she accepts the cup in a gesture of ‘friendliness’ that Dr. Ziegler had encouraged her to demonstrate. Ana, picking up on her intent, lets her sit in silence. She watches the Frenchwoman sip at the tea mechanically. Drinking, but not tasting.
It is pouring the second night, rain pattering relentlessly on the kitchen windows they sat by. “Nothing like a good cup of tea to keep you warm, hm?” Ana says, breaking the silence. Widowmaker stares down at the light brown liquid in her cup, steam still wafting from its surface. It is hot, but she feels none of it. “No.”
Widowmaker shows up at the kitchen again and again in the nights that follow. Ana always welcomes her with a soft smile, a second cup of tea ready and waiting for her companion. Conversation comes as easily as coaxing a few dribbles of water from a rusty tap, but Ana manages. She asks about Widow’s day, how she feels about leaving Talon, how she is adjusting to Overwatch. Answers are succinct, but are given with less hesitation as time goes on.
After one difficult mission, Widowmaker sustains heavy injuries and is confined to the med bay. She lies in bed, eyes closed in meditation, until she opens them at night when Ana shows up with her tea set. She blinks; she wasn’t expecting any visitors. “I know how cold the med bay can get.” Ana winks, and hands her a cup of tea. Widowmaker cradles the cup in her hands, before lifting it to her lips. Odd. It is…warm. The med bay’s fault, no doubt.
“Are you going to stick with ‘Widowmaker’ 24/7?” Ana asks one night. “Or may I call you by your name?” Widowmaker doesn’t answer. When the pot is empty, she finally murmurs, “Amélie is fine.”