Widowmaker x Reader

Widowmaker could be described as patient by those who do not know her personally. She’s a sniper. She can lay for hours muzzle aimed at one spot. Amber-gold eyes never glazing over, mind never wondering, and a chambered round that is guaranteed to hit its mark. Yet, this is not Widowmaker’s true patience. The blue skinned woman demands that orders are followed without hesitation. When things don’t go her way on her time, she’s, at best, a bit testy.

When you… “move in”, she upholds her expectations. The second you hear her call out “Mon chouchou, come” you better be moving the second she starts the command. She’s not a woman to keep waiting, and the shackles around your ankles do not allow for speed. But those first few days you had to learn this the hard way.

You have no idea how long you’ve been in captivity, but it feels like its been a month since you where first trapped in the woman’s basement. After the days of crying, anger, and fear, you’ve gotten use to her. Now, you still shutter with each of her touches and you would leave first chance you get. But, no longer is every second filled with worry and anxiety. You were doing your daily chore, sweeping the hard. wood floors of the mansion. Your shackles jingling with every shift of your weight. Sweeping the dust and dirt into a small pile, you get ready to sweep the grime into a dustpan when Mistress, as she demands you call her, beckons you from her office. You sweep up and throw away the pile before jingle-jangling to her office. Walking in, you put on your best smile.

“Yes, Mistress?” She doesn’t look up from her paperwork.

“Since when does a pile of dirt take precedence over me?” Her eyes slowly shift her gaze to you at the door

“E-excuse me?”

“When I call you what do I expect?”

“My immediate attention.” She slowly rises from her desk.

“So, no excuse for taking your time with the dust pan.” She moves her eyes to the shine of a camera lens that you could’ve sworn wasn’t there seconds ago.

“I-I…” You take a step back in confusion due to her over reaction. The more relaxed atmosphere ruined by a spike of adrenaline.

“That’s what I thought,” her eyes return to yours, “I think some more time downstairs should mend this… lapse in judgement.” The basement wasn’t just sitting in the dark. The woman, whose name you don’t even know, would ever so often slink into the concrete shelter. The lights remaining off, she would jolt you with pure fear, by raking her manicured hand down you bare back, blood beading on the wound. Or she would feel the crunch of your skull between her fist and the concrete floor. And the most unsettling of all, she would hold you. Soft touches and feathery kisses litter your skin while she tells you how all your friends and family despises you and how their life has only improved. She would include details that places just enough doubt in your mind to sew the seeds of manipulation. At hearing that she wished for your return to that hell, you panick.

“P-please Mistress. I’ll do anything. I’ll get those tattoos you where talking about. Anything you want. It’s your‐” Mistress shushes you, beginning to move forward.

“Mon biquet, what gave you the idea that you have any say in these matters. I already have what I want, and if any new desires form, I will take as I wish,” she gives you a smile. She’s standing directly in front of your frozen form. Ever so gently, she grabs the collar around your neck, dragging you toward the basement. You kick, and struggle, and keep up. Tears stream down your face as you continue to beg.

“Please. Please, no. Anything but this.” She reaches the door, and pushes you in. A push that is hard enough to push you into the room and down the stairs. Your body slamming into the creaky wooden steps. Eventually, you roll to a stop at the bottom of the steps. And the woman makes her way down to you.

“I hope you learn your lesson this time. You’re at my beck and call. You are mine. Don’t forget.”