#reaperwidow

“I want to have with Amélie what you and Reinhardt have.”

Ana had been fumbling around in her deerskin handbag for her keys when he said those words. Even at seven in the morning, it was pitch dark out, and underneath the light of the street lanterns the fog was thick, palpable almost. His breath came out in visible puffs. She glanced at him from her peripheral, half of her arm swallowed up by her bag.

He’d scraped his throat then, embarrassed, and took out his pack of cigarettes, flicked open the lid and pulled one out.

OW moodboards (s): Widowreaper (Amélie Lacroix/Gabriel Reyes).

Let me see you Stripped down to the bone Let me see you Stripped down to the bone Metropolis Has nothing on this You're breathing in fumes I taste when we kiss

widowreaper text messages Yaaaasssss

The “Perks” of Being A Multishipper, 2017

He glances at the open doorway before opening the snap, more out of habit than any actual concern that Amélie sent him something raunchy or that Ana might walk into the guestroom. The sound of the doorbell echoes onwards faintly from downstairs. Gabe faintly registers the noise, standing slightly hunched in front of the settee, eyes glued to the screen of his phone, sunlight fanning out around the outline of his body as if it’s desperately grasping for something.

Fuck, the curse escapes him in an exhale and becomes something tangible in the quiet of the room, you’re just too much, Amélie.

Even in just a simple sport shirt, Amélie manages to look effortlessly beautiful. Her hair is pulled up in a high ponytail – to keep it out of her neck during running, no doubt – but cascades over her shoulder as she tilts her head cheekily, flashing him a playful smirk. What really catches his attention however, is the look in her eyes.

5 times Gabriel spoke to Amélie, and one time she replied.

1

Gabriel watches her saunter over to them, still holding the bouquet of lilies the presentator gave her after the performance. Her cheeks are rosy and her hair's down now, done away with the tight dot from earlier. Amélie Lacroix looks beautiful, even slightly out of breath, and after she's said hello to Gérard in soft-spoken French, she turns to him. And he's a bit taken aback by how naturally tall and slender she is. Even in her slightly-worn, white ballet slippers, Amélie stands proud, eye-level with his nose.

"Hey," Gabe greets, holding out his hand. "I was really looking forward to your performance and you killed it. You were great."

2

Reaper towers over her, casting a shadow along the white tiles of the interrogation room. Amélie looks up at him, teary-eyed but resolute, biting her teeth broken in silence. There's a big bruise blooming purple on her right cheek. He takes a step forwards, the sound of his boots deafening in the small space. 

"God made man in his image," he mutters dryly, as Amélie cowers, scrambling towards the corner of the room. 

He looks down on her, the light reflecting off his bone-white mask, and continues, "But he created from nothing and I have something--well,  someone to work with. Don't I?

3

She's past the breaking point, halfway between who she was and who they want her to be. 

When Reaper enters the interrogation room, she flinches but doesn't jolt out of her chair anymore, in anger or in panic. It took him nearly two weeks to accomplish something that’s normally a process of months. Reaper reckons he has seen sides of Amélie Gérard has never considered, never even wanted too. 

He carefully puts the plate down on the table. Her eyes gleam wetly in the fluorescent lights when she looks straight into the sockets of his mask. 

"It's pretty good," Reaper says, motioning to the food. "Trust me."

4

Before Widowmaker's brought in for debrief, Reaper takes her aside. Her body doesn't show any signs of emotional trauma, her face is blank, expressionless aside from the arch of an eyebrow. 

Reaper wonders what she will look like after the biomedical engineers have gotten their grubby hands on her. 

"Welcome home," he says, a tad too wry, a tad too... expressionate; and he clenches his hands into fists when he’s realized his mistake, gloves crinkling loudly, claws pricking into the leather.

Widowmaker regards him for a split-second, not knowing what to make of his words, before giving a curt nod in return.

5   

Gabriel Reyes looks at Widowmaker for the first time without a mask and expects... violence. 

But she doesn't react, merely assesses him and closes the distance between their bodies. Her eyes are unnaturally bright, even in the dark. 

For a brief moment, Gabe considers turning away from her and all this tension and chemistry that’s built up between them. From fuck-ups to successes with blood and murder and gunpowder in between.  

He thought he helped build a weapon but Widowmaker's turned out to be so much more. 

"I'm sorry," Gabe croaks, the apology slipped out in the space between them before he fully knew what he was saying.

+ 1

Widowmaker laughs in that haughty, chilling way she has and puts her hands on his broad shoulders. As if she couldn’t think of one reason why she should suddenly start to care.

Her face is dangerously close to his when she replies, "I'm not." 

It’s the funniest thing Gabe’s seen in days and he barks out a laugh, shaking his head. “Let me rephrase that,” he says. “You’re the only one getting off tonight. Not me.”

Outside, the evening sky darkens overhead, the setting sun somewhere behind the skyline gives the cityscape a whitish lining and the light that streaks through the buildings, falls on the flowerheads of his potted geranium. Amélie blinks slowly and meets his eyes with hers, folding her hands in her lap, and he notices her mouth’s slightly agape.

She accidentally bumps the tip of her pump against the coffee table.

There’s a touch of nervous excitement to her voice that brings out her accent even more. “You’ve got an interesting approach to the concept discipline, Gabriel,” she says while drumming her fingertips into the meat of her thighs. “It sounds a bit like punishment.”

WidowReaper Week, day 2. Weapon of Choice

guns, venom mines, transmutation, seduction, intimidation, etc, etc.

ao3 | day1 | series

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Widowmaker stirs on the sofa, softly, and slowly blinks her eyes open; the room’s discolored in the glow of the dying sun, the reddish light cascading through the large windows behind her. She settles upright, kicking a couple of pillows off the couch, and hauls a hand through her long, loose hair.

“You’re up… finally,” Reaper says, coming into the sitting area of their hotel suite in full gear.

He walks over to the circular table and unceremoniously plops down in the armchair, starts removing his heavy boots when she shifts into a sitting position, sleepy-eyed still, and massages the spot between her brows. She stretches her arms over her head and rolls her neck, gazing absentmindedly at the bouquet of yellow flowers on the table. One of the open windows in the bedroom thuds shut loudly, probably from the wind.

“EPFCG’s are in position,” Reaper informs her as he takes off his right gauntlet. “Sombra’s working to overload the broadband network. Get ready.”