#anamaker

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.

The first shot is always indicative of how their duel is going to unfold, and how important their mission is. When it’s lighter and the lives of innocents aren’t at stake, it’s always frivolous shots at random targets. A screw head in a street sign. A car antenna. The bulb of a street light ridiculously far away. The neck of an empty soda bottle sitting on a rooftop’s ledge.

When the stakes are high and neither can indulge in a private duel, the shots are always more dangerous. Warning shots for the other to stay back or else. A bullet grazes over Ana’s head, causing her hood to fall back. A scope in Widowmaker’s visor shatters, red light going dark. It’s not confined to the snipers themselves, either. The tip of Pharah’s yellow visor is broken off by a shot taken while Ana’s watching. Sombra’s SMG falls out of her grasp, as she cradles a wrist impaled by a dart.

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.”

“How rude,” Ana says, sly smile on her lips as she grabs her ‘captor’ by the hips. “Didn’t even have the courtesy to ask what’s my poison.”

Widowmaker’s smirk grows as the toxic green fumes around them start to dissipate. Ana’s hood and hijab had fallen back, and Widowmaker reaches out to run her fingers through soft white tresses. Neither woman shows any sign of urgency or wariness; this is a game they had played many times before. 

“I know what’s your poison, Amari.”

“And yet, you hesitate to deliver it.”

An eye twitches, and Widowmaker leans down. Ana’s hands travel up her sides, their eyes locked in a smouldering stare.

“I do not hesitate.”

Gritting her teeth, Ana forced herself to sit up, feeling her head spin from the movement. She stiffened at the hands grasping onto her biceps to steady her, and the body that came to sit by her side.

“You merely cleared a debt. Do not wish for more.”

No answer. She closed her eye in a half-hearted attempt at willing her companion away, ignoring the cool touch sliding up her shoulder and neck, to cup her face.

“Do we not get a second chance?” Widowmaker asked in that low, velvety purr. There was a tinge, just a slight tinge of regret from the woman that was Amélie. 

Ana opened her eye, banishing the memory of a trembling hand reaching for hers. “There is no ‘we’. There never was.”

“Well then.” A thumb trailed over the curve of her bottom lip, before reaching up to her eye patch. “Do we not get a chance?”

“We don’t deserve one.”

A throaty, muted laugh. Then the chilly touch glided to the back of her neck, and pulled her into a poor facsimile of a comforting hug. “And here I thought, there is no ‘we’.”

Ana pressed her lips into a thin line, fingers digging lightly into pristine white sheets when a kiss lingered on the edge of her jaw.