There is no such thing as too much love. Pharah was in love with a wonderful woman. She cared about her, her goals , her dreams. And fareehah did in return towards Angela.Their relationship is unique, it has shown her that too much of a good thing can and should be wonderful. This good thing is their passion towards each other. Every bit of detail about her she has learned to fall more in more in love with, from the way she writes , to her laughter, how she twirls her blonde her around her pen, and how she looks when she's focused. Love sure is an amazing experience. She is glad to be in that experience with her, because she is indeed the the love of her life.
Pharah (Fareehah): talking to her mother (Ana) about how she met Mercy ( Angela) :
We met at a lowes; i was working the morning shift. She came in with her paper and pencil; and me being who I am thought; hey what's the worse that could happen. I approached her nervously, each step I took seemingly growing louder and louder. My throat became dry and cracked, I worked up the courage to introduce myself, and asked; “May i help you with anything ma’am?, She quickly replied; “Yes, well... I’m having trouble figuring out what type of wood is used for starting fires.” I directed her to our log section, showing her the assortments of logs we had for every need. “Okay over here we have traditional firewood, we have logs, and we have starter logs.” As our conversation continued she finally found what she came looking for. “Okay thank you so much Fareehah for helping me!”; I was excited that she remembered my name, “You’re very welcome ma’am; I’m glad I could assist you.; i said happily. I asked her for her name and she told me. Im sure there is some unspoken rule in flirting with customers but at that time I didn’t care. We hit it off from there!.
Fin for now more to come
Im new to this so please read with a caring heart!
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Reader perspective on being friends with Gerard Lacroix at his time of death.
also incorporated a relationship with a particular Blackwatch member to ease the angst.
“Watch my back.“
You whispered through the ear piece over to your eye in the sky, Agent Lacroix. He was one of the best snipers in Overwatch. As long as he was on duty, nothing could stand in your way. You trusted this man with your life. The rest of the team deemed you two as the dynamic duo of stealth missions. The scout and the sniper. But, what more would you expect from the best of friends being paired together? The two of you had decided to join Overwatch many years ago and have been hooked on missions together ever since.
You were out on a mission to retrieve intel on abandoned Talon hideouts. Simple tasks; take photos, scavenge the place, find any occupying personnel, collect any remaining documents. You returned to the drop ship with your tasks completed after searching these hideouts for 2 months and couldn’t be more excited to be in route for your return to Watchpoint: Gibraltar. You watched as Gerard pulled one of his wedding day photos from his pocket, happy to finally be coming home.
"Mon amour Amélie, tu m'as manqué.”
Gerard was a man that spoke from the heart. His wife was the absolute center of his universe. You’d love coming home from missions and seeing them together again. Amélie was so beautiful and graceful, all of what you’d expect from a ballerina. Her poise and demeanor were just so breath-taking. She had stopped performing in Paris to stay at Watchpoint after Talon kidnapped her almost one year ago. Thankfully, you and Commander Reyes raided the property upon her disappearance and found her with no injuries.
Upon arrival, everyone was very happy to see you and Gerard safe, however Amélie was no where in sight. She was always the first to embrace you with sweet French goodies and run after Gerard with an infinite amount of kisses.
But, not today. Not again.
You look over at Gerard, you can see defeat settling in his eyes. He sighs deeply and begins.
“She hasn’t been well since her return from Talon. Those bastards. But if it wasn’t for you, Amélie would have never escaped the grips of Talon. I’m so thankful she’s back home. I know it will take time, but she will heal. Just promise me one thing, chérie…”
“Anything.”
“Promise me we will always be partenaires de crime until the day we die?”
You nodded, sending a smile to the man’s face. He let’s out a small chuckle and continues, lightening the mood.
“I always think back on the night her and I first met.”
“Awe yeah, I remember. Amélie was begging me to attend her family’s ball at the Chateaux…and that’s when SOMEONE invited themselves, hmm?”
You raised your eyebrow at him. He could read the sarcasm on your face with this expression. At this point, Gerard is nonstop laughing at the recollected memory.
He could barely speak through the laughter. “And, t-then I asked you f-for a photo because a Lacroix does not show up for just anyone!”
“Yes, you cheeky fucker. On top of not being invited, you still go because I sent you a picture of her for approval. You’re sneaky ass repaid me by playing matchmaker, bringing Gabriel along to be my date instead!”
You are both rolling at this point. Holding your stomachs and wiping laughter-induced tears from your cheeks on such a pleasant memory.
“Cannot complain chérie, I married the woman of my dreams thanks to that night. Plus, look at that lovely diamond on your finger, soon to be Madame Reyes. What a life, ah? I couldn’t have asked to share this with anyone else other than you. Give my regards to Monsieur Reyes. Goodnight chérie.”
“Goodnight Gerard.”
“Cariño, it’s time to go.” Gabriel placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, the sudden touch sending a shock through you, bringing you back down to Earth from your flashback. You were on your knees, resting at the foot of a stone engraved with your beloved best friend’s name, Gerard Lacroix.
Your couldn’t let this go. A time where your best friend was still living. His wife was still family to you. But unfortunately, times had changed.
“I can’t leave, Gabriel. He was my best friend. I should have known something would happen. I should have sensed something wasn’t right when we returned that night. We brought her home, I should have been more careful. I should ha-” You began to choke on your words. Tears overwhelmed you as they vigorously streamed down your face and fell onto the stone surface below you.
Gabriel got down to your level and wrapped you in his embrace. He managed to help you up from the grass, and slowly walk you out of the cemetery. Hesitant at first, he sighed and looked down at you.
“Without him, I wouldn’t have met you and fallen in love with you. He will always be with us, amor. Now let’s get you home.”
You began walking into the Overwatch aircraft when Gabriel grabbed hold of your wrist. He knew this would be the last time you’d come to Paris. The Lacroix couple were the only reason you ever visited anyway. So he finally asked, “Any last words, cariño?”
You looked at him with a soft smile, then shut your eyes and felt the cool breeze as it passed. A deep breath settled in. You looked off into the distance, city of Paris right in front of you. Only now, it was just the home of distant memories.
tfw you’re slowly edging towards the end of your fic but you still have like 3k or more to write D:
Widowmaker tugs at the neckline of the tight-fitting dress Luis got for her at an H&M on the Gran Via in Madrid, covering her arms and dragging on to past her knees. The punto di roma fabric would be stifling in this weather for any other human being, but she’s more concerned about the fact that it’s a size too small. The brim of her felt summer hat falls in front of her nose again and she huffs in exasperation.
“It’s not a bad disguise,” he says with a dark note of humor to his voice, amused at how apparent her annoyance is, “you look like a movie star.” Reaper has the audacity to grin at her, then.
She rolls her eyes and throws the hat onto the mattress of the queen-sized bed, tapping her foot impatiently as he stows both of the trunks away into the rickety wardrobe. They won’t be needing their guns for the preliminary recon, only her helmet to track the heat signatures of the target inside his beach house, a pair of binoculars and a print-out of the satellite pic. With a low thud, the double doors of the closet fall shut.
“I’m not sure what you’re supposed to look like,” Widowmaker mutters disdainfully as she turns and gazes outside the window.
They got a shitty view of the broad street: the small terraced houses with walled front yards all have sycamore trees that cast the shadows of their foliage over the sidewalk and there are a few cars parked along the curb. Two stray cats are lazily sleeking their fur with their raspy tongues in the shade of a vale green hornbeam, figuring as both a hedge and a closing.
Reaper chuckles darkly before pushing his aviator sunglasses up the bridge of his nose. His skin is starting to flake, slowly deteriorating to a sallow color. He answers gruffly, “like your husband.”
Widowmaker blinks slowly, hypersensitive to how the mattress dips next to her head when he shifts closer to her body, to her face, but her mind is playing tricks on her, distorting the paneling of the ceiling until there’s a row of fluorescent tubes against concrete.
And she drifts out of the here and now, drifts to the white room with the door bolted shut in the left corner and the mirrors lined up onto the right wall. She’s sitting on the concrete floor— on her knees and her kneecaps are bruised a brownish purple—and handcuffed to a metal railing that’s nailed to the wall. Here, her answers are always wrong even if they’re right.
They broke her in the first forty hours; the man in his dark suit slaps her across her face every time she answers his question, no matter what she says. Who are you?
Je suis Amélie Lacroix.
It’s wrong.
Her cheeks sting an ugly red from his coarse palm, from the knuckles of his backhand. Tears roll down her face.
They’re starving her, humiliating her; their gazes a deadweight on her shoulders when she starts to plead.
It’s so, so wrong.
She struggles in her chains, blinks and watches how the white room changes into that of the cheap motel just outside of Lisbon. Her brows furrow together. Handcuffed to the headboard of the queen-sized bed, the sheets are warm under her naked back and her hair is spread out over the pillow; and he—Reaper, Gabriel—kneels over her, the heat radiating off his brutalized skin, his cock hard and jutted out, his neck angled so he looks down at her.
“Suck.” He orders gruffly.
Her jaw slack at his demand, unhinged. She turns her head and opens her mouth wide as he takes his cock in hand and brushes his cockhead against her bottom lip. Their eyes meet for an instant and then she slides her mouth down his cock, taking in more and more until it nudges the back of her throat and breath eludes her. Her nostrils flare.
Gabriel brings his scarred, right hand down to her forehead, chastises, “Easy.”
She relaxes her gag reflex, slides the flat of her tongue down his shaft and hollows her cheeks; she sucks him deep and hard, wants to bury the tip of her nose into his pubes as she holds him down deep in her mouth.
Her lips are tender, wet when she lets go; her teeth and the cavern of her mouth exposed to his scrutiny and the paneling of the ceiling above him.
There’s no more urgency in her body anymore, her muscles no longer taut, as he jerks his cock off above her and comes over her face with thick ropes of spunk.
“Good girl.” He praises as he drags his palm down her clavicle, her sternum, down to the flat planes of her belly.
Widowmaker heaves a sigh, burrows the back of her head deeper into the pillow as his cum dries on her face, regards him with half-hooded eyes: the lacerations on his broad chest, the pale tissue of old gunshot wounds, the scars dragging onwards over his face, the skin that’s missing here and there.
He’s going to get her out of the cuffs in a few, he tells her in a rough voice. His blunt, thick fingers curve over her cunt and she keens lowly. Her hips buck up instinctively.
And all thoughts of the white room, the man in the dark suit and Talon have disappeared when he starts to fuck her open with two fingers.
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An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
She sinks further into the cushion of the seat when he ignites the engine and turns on the headlights. The rumble of the engine seems to reverberate throughout the entire cabin of the truck, and rumbles onwards throughout her chest.
Reaper presses the button to roll down his window and grabs onto his shotgun again, cocking the barrel in the direction of the electronic switch of the shutter gate. He tilts his head to regard her again, asking, “You still a decent shot?”
The look she levels him tells him everything there’s to know and he blows the switch off the wall. With a start, the shutters of the gate clatter as they roll upwards and exposes the inner square of the basis. She turns her cheek against the backrest of the seat when he hits the gas and brings the truck flying forwards on its hover wheels, watching the movement of his fist in his lap, still holding onto his shotgun.
“Subtle.” She chides him playfully, but her roughened-up voice throws off the effect.
He chuckles darkly as he drives up the speed and comes barreling towards the control post with its road barriers. His response is to the point, “But effective.”
Started writing a WidowReaper fanfic. I’m into deep.
Reaper’s returned to the main room of the control center after a quick roam through maintenance and the hallways. His footsteps echo softly through the open doorway, then the sound dies away after he comes to a standstill and leans against the doorframe. He crosses his arms over his chest and tilts his head to the side. His mask ominously reflects the greenish light of the three 55inch computer screens.
It’s quiet aside from the electrical fans of the main servers, swirling restlessly. Widowmaker straightens her back, but doesn’t cast a glance in his direction, instead she starts to rub her right ring finger. He kicks the heel of his left foot against the doorframe. Small noises like these should draw her attention right away, but she remains focused on her hand for some reason.
“What are you doing?” He asks, with a voice gruff from the heat.
Her profile is cut out across the green binary looping endlessly on the computer screen. Her voice clear and cold as she responds, “Nothing.”
