Ana Amari | 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐤𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐲

Gibraltar felt like a lifetime ago.

The evacuation, the smoke, the screaming of alarms as Talon forces tore through Overwatch's last stronghold with methodical precision. You'd moved on pure adrenaline and instinct that day — grabbing teammates, pulling people toward the exits, keeping your weapon up even when your hands wanted to shake. The memory lived in your muscles now, in the particular way your body still jumped at loud sounds.

Gothenburg felt safer in comparison.

Sweden's cool air, the distance from conflict zones, the temporary reprieve while the team regrouped and planned their next move against Vendetta's forces. But safety was a luxury, and old habits died hard — which was why you found yourself in Torbjorn's workshop at 2 AM, working out the residual tension on a heavy bag instead of sleeping like a rational person.

The bag took your punches with indifference.

Left hook. Right cross. Jab. Jab. The rhythm was meditative, the impact satisfying in ways that sleep never would be. Sweat dripped down your temples, soaking into the worn athletic shirt you'd thrown on. Every muscle in your body screamed, but the noise in your head had finally quieted to something manageable.

You didn't hear the footsteps.

That was the first clue something had changed. The air shifted — a presence that registered as a change in atmosphere more than an actual sound. Then came the scent: mint tea, rich and unmistakable, the kind that suggested hours of careful steeping rather than rushed convenience.

Your fist froze mid-punch.

Turning slowly, you found her in the doorframe.

Ana Amari stood with the particular stillness of someone who'd learned decades ago that movement drew attention, and she'd apparently decided she didn't need to announce herself. The black tanktop she wore was fitted enough to show the solid musculature built from a lifetime of combat — broad shoulders, thick arms, the kind of dense strength that came from surviving longer than most people had been alive.

Her tactical pants were equally practical, equally worn, and the combat boots marked her as someone who'd never truly left the battlefield, even in downtime.

But it was her face that caught and held your attention.

The eyepatch over her left eye gave her an air of quiet authority that no speech could replicate. The remaining dark eye was sharp, assessing, missing nothing. Her white-silver hair was braided and pinned at the back of her head with gold accents that caught the workshop's ambient lighting. Gold hoop earrings framed her face, and her full lips held the faintest suggestion of a smile.

She looked like someone's grandmother.

She also looked like someone who could kill you in seven different ways before you finished processing the movement.

"You've got decent form," she said quietly, her voice carrying the particular authority of someone accustomed to being listened to. "But your left shoulder drops when you're tired. Left you vulnerable."

She stepped into the workshop fully, closing the distance between you both with the unhurried pace of someone who understood that patience was its own kind of power. The mint tea raised to her lips, steam curling up around her face as she observed you over the rim of the cup.

"The entire team was impressed by what you did in Gibraltar," she continued, her sharp eye tracking you with an intensity that made your pulse quicken. "Most new recruits freeze when Talon hits. You didn't. You kept your head, helped people who would've died otherwise, and managed not to get yourself killed in the process."

She took another sip of the tea.

"That's rare."

The air between you both had changed.

It wasn't hostile — nothing about her posture suggested threat — but there was a tension there now, something electric and impossible to ignore. The kind of tension that came from being studied by someone who'd made a decision about you without your knowledge or consent.

"Name's Ana," she said, though her tone suggested she was fairly certain you already knew that. "Captain Amari when we're on deployment."

She settled against the workbench, her body language relaxed but her attention entirely focused.

"You should get some sleep," she murmured, "but I suspect you won't. So instead, tell me — what are you still stressed about? Mission's over. You survived. Everyone you brought out survived."

Her dark eye held yours steadily.

"So what's really keeping you awake?"

Another drill, another day of training..

The training bot moved with mechanical precision, its strikes calculated and unforgiving.

You'd adjusted your stance this time, kept your left shoulder high, just like Ana had mentioned, the memory of her voice still fresh in your mind from that night in Torbjorn's workshop. Left hook. Right cross. The movements flowed differently now, more balanced, the vulnerability she'd pointed out finally sealed closed.

Your knuckles connected hard with the bot's training pad.

It wasn't flawless, there was still a slight hesitation in your transitions, still room for improvement, but it was better. Noticeably better. The kind of progress that suggested you'd actually been thinking about the advice instead of just nodding politely and forgetting it.

---

The training session ended, and you were breathing heavily, sweat dripping down your face when you noticed the note..

Small, folded, left on a table near the exit with deliberate placement. The handwriting was neat, economical. A single word in Arabic, مهم.

It was obvious who it was.

The walk to Ana's quarters felt longer than it should have, your heart rate picking up for reasons that had nothing to do with the training session. The hallway was quiet, most of the team asleep or on rotation, which meant the knock on her door landed in near-silence.

She opened it before you'd fully finished knocking.

Ana stood framed in the doorway wearing the same practical black tanktop and tactical pants from the other night, but something about the setting, the quiet of her private space, the late hour, made the casual outfit feel considerably more intimate. Her sharp dark eye tracked you as you entered, and she closed the door behind you with a soft click.

"Sit." she said simply, gesturing toward a small table by the window.

Two cups of tea sat waiting, steam still rising from both, suggesting she'd prepared them just moments before you arrived. The view overlooked Gothenburg's quiet streets, the city's lights scattered like fallen stars below.

Settlng into the offered chair, Ana took her place across from you, cradling her own cup with the ease of someone for whom this ritual held genuine comfort.

"Your form improved, significantly." she said without preamble, her voice carrying that particular authority that made even casual observations sound like military briefings. "The drill bots registered a twelve percent increase in your effectiveness. Shoulder positioning was solid."

She took a sip of the tea.

"You listened."

Something in the way she said it suggested this was notable. That most people didn't actually hear what she told them, or worse, heard it and ignored it anyway.

Another sip, and then her dark eye fixed fully on you.

"But we need to talk about something else.." she continued, her tone shifting into something more direct, more deliberate. "Something I've noticed these past few nights."

She leaned back in her chair, completely at ease, completely aware of the effect she was having.

"You watch me, habibi." she said quietly, the Arabic term landing soft but pointed. "During briefings. In the common areas. Even now, you're still doing it.. looking at me like you're trying to read something beneath the surface."

There was no accusation in her voice, just observation. The kind that came from someone who'd spent sixty years learning to notice everything.

"I'm old enough that I stopped caring who looked at me a long time ago," she continued, her full lips curving slightly. "But I'm observant enough to know the difference between casual attention and something more deliberate."

She set down her tea cup with precise movement.

"The question is whether you're going to sit there and pretend you haven't been, or whether we're going to be honest with each other." Her dark eye held yours steadily. "I don't have patience for games, and I suspect you don't either. Not after everything."

The window beside you both reflected the city lights, and the space between you seemed to contract with every word she spoke.

"Drink your tea." she said softly, and it wasn't a suggestion. "And then tell me what's really going on in that head of yours, ya helwa. Because I didn't invite you up here to discuss combat metrics."

The days that followed had been a masterclass in tension.

What started in her quarters as honest conversation had evolved into something far more deliberate. A brush of her shoulder against yours during tactical briefings. Fingers lingering just slightly longer than necessary when she handed you reports. A gaze that would catch yours across crowded rooms and hold for just long enough to make your pulse quicken..

She was testing something.

You could feel it in the way she moved around you, the careful calibration of proximity and distance, the particular grace of someone who knew exactly what she was doing and was doing it anyway. Each interaction was calculated to build pressure without crossing any explicit boundaries, the kind of slow burn that made waiting feel almost unbearable.

The ENTIRE team had noticed.

Jack had cornered you in the armory with a warning that carried the weight of experience. Something about the danger of loving someone in this line of work, about people getting killed because they were thinking about someone else when they should've been thinking about survival. His voice had been gentle but firm, the tone of someone who'd watched too many good soldiers die because distraction had cost them their lives.

Juno and Wuyang had taken a different approach entirely.

They'd cornered Ana with the kind of coordinated timing that suggested genuine conspiracy, proposing a 'friendly team dinner' at a restaurant in the Gothenburg district, far enough from base to feel like actual leave. Ana had agreed with a knowing smile that suggested she understood exactly what they were doing and had decided to let it happen anyway.

---

Now you sat across from her in that restaurant.

The lighting was warm, intimate without being overly romantic, the kind of space designed for people to actually see each other. And what you could see of Ana made breathing feel like a conscious effort.

She wore black.

A dress that draped across her broad shoulders and settled against the curves of her body with elegant simplicity, the neckline cut low enough to suggest rather than expose, to hint at the gold nipple rings you'd become aware existed without ever having actually seen them. The fabric hugged the solid musculature of her torso, the thickness of her thighs, the full curve of her backside, nothing excessive, nothing desperate, just a woman choosing to present herself with the confidence of someone who'd stopped caring about conforming to anyone's expectations decades ago.

Her white-silver hair was loose tonight, falling in soft waves past her shoulders instead of the usual practical braid, and the gold earrings caught the restaurant's ambient lighting with every small movement.

She looked younger.

Not in the way that suggested artifice or desperation, but in the way that suggested someone who'd simply decided to stop carrying the weight of years on her shoulders for an evening. The sharp lines of her face softened slightly without losing any of their authority. Her dark eye was bright, engaged, focused entirely on you.

"You're staring again." she said softly, her full lips curving into a smile that held no reproach, just acknowledgment. "Helwa, if you keep looking at me like that, people are going to start noticing."

A sip of wine, red, chosen with the careful consideration of someone who understood these things, and then she set the glass down with deliberate care.

"But that's not why I agreed to this.." she continued, her voice taking on a more serious quality despite the warmth in her eye. "I want to take this slowly. Let things grow naturally between us without rushing into something we're not ready for."

She reached across the table, her weathered hand settling near yours without quite touching, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from her skin, far enough to suggest intention rather than assumption.

"These past few days have been.." She paused, searching for the word. "Necessary. You needed to know I was interested. I needed to know you weren't going to run. But interest and action are two different things, ya helwa."

Her dark eye held steady contact.

"We're soldiers. We live dangerous lives. The smart thing would be to keep this professional, to pretend there's nothing between us." A breath. "But I stopped making the smart choice a long time ago. What I want now is to know you properly. To have actual conversations. To let this become something real before we decide what shape it takes."

She pulled her hand back, not unkindly, just creating the space that her words demanded.

"Can you do that?" she asked quietly. "Can you be patient with an old woman while she figures out how to do this right?"

The Grand Mesa Watchpoint fell silent as Talon's forces retreated..

With the wits of Cassidy, coordinated strikes of Pharah and Lucio and with Ana providing covering fire from elevated positions. The mission had gone cleanly. Her shots had been surgical, precise, each one landing exactly where it needed to with the kind of efficiency that came from decades of practice. She'd been laser-focused throughout, her dark eye never wavering, her tactical gear soaked with the particular sweat of combat that didn't come from exertion alone.

Now the dropship hummed as it cut through the sky toward Gothenburg.

Everyone filtered past you both toward the showers, toward rest, toward the particular exhaustion that came after adrenaline finally drained from the system. The cargo bay emptied quickly, most of the heavy lifting had been done on-site, but several crates remained, supplies that needed to be secured before the aircraft could be properly stored.

Your hands reached for one of the remaining containers.

And she appeared on the opposite side of it at precisely the same moment..

Your hands met in the middle, fingers brushing, hands locking around the same wooden edge in a moment that felt far too deliberate to be accidental. She didn't pull back, but, neither did you.

For a moment you both just held it, the crate suspended between you, the contact of skin on skin the only real thing in the suddenly very quiet cargo bay.

Then she moved.

Not away from you, but around you, pulling you both deeper into the shadows where the aircraft's ambient lighting didn't quite reach. The crate was abandoned without ceremony, dropped back onto the deck with a hollow thud that echoed briefly before fading.

Her hands found your face.

The kiss was nothing like the careful, measured approach she'd been taking these past days. This was gritty. Urgent. The kiss of someone who'd been holding something back and had finally decided the cost of restraint was too high. Her tactical gear pressed hard against you, the vest digging slightly into your ribs, and her mouth moved against yours with the kind of hunger that suggested she'd been thinking about this far longer than just these past few moments.

She tasted like mission adrenaline and determination.

One hand gripped the back of your head, holding you exactly where she wanted you, her other arm wrapping around your waist with possessive firmness. The kiss deepened without asking permission, her tongue finding yours, and the particular intensity of it made your knees feel decidedly unreliable.

It lasted until breathing became genuinely difficult.

Then she pulled back.

Not gently, but deliberately, releasing you with the kind of control that suggested this interruption was her choice, not necessity. Her dark eye held yours for just a moment, something fierce and satisfied flickering through it, and then she turned.

Returned to the cargo.

Picked up the crate she'd abandoned like nothing had happened, like she hadn't just rewritten every boundary you thought existed between you both. Her breathing was slightly elevated, her jaw set with the kind of focus that suggested pure will was keeping her from turning back around.

"..We should really finish this before we land." she said quietly, her voice steady despite everything. "Wouldn't want anyone asking questions about why cargo wasn't secured."

She moved toward the storage bay with the crate, her tactical gear catching what little light remained in the shadows.

Behind her, you stood trying to remember how breathing worked, your lips still tingling with the ghost of her mouth, your body still vibrating with the particular electricity of someone who'd just been kissed like they mattered.

Ana didn't look back.

But her shoulders held a particular tension that suggested she was feeling everything you were also feeling, and was simply choosing to be more disciplined about expressing it.

Rome had been a trap wrapped in reconnaissance.

The bullet had come from nowhere, a sudden, bright, flash of pain that registered as betrayal more than injury. You'd thrown yourself toward Tracer without thinking, your body moving on pure instinct, and the world had exploded into a blur of gunfire and adrenaline and the particular violence of close-quarters combat. Blood had painted the marble floor.

Talon troopers had fallen with methodical precision. Mercy had screamed something about taking the shot, and then everything had moved very fast.

The important part? No alarms. No reinforcements. The mission was salvaged.

But Ana had gone very still when she'd seen the wound.

The flight back to Gothenburg had been quiet, too quiet, the particular silence of a team processing near-disaster. Mercy had patched you up in the med-bay with her usual efficiency, declaring the wound manageable but requiring rest. The medic had been firm about it. 'Stay overnight', no exceptions.

---

Then Ana had appeared in the doorway.

She'd taken one look at the sterile white room, the uncomfortable medical bed, the clinical emptiness of it all, and made a decision without asking permission.

"You're not spending the night here, stand up." she'd said simply, and it wasn't a suggestion. "Come on."

---

Now you sat on the edge of her bed in her quarters, your shoulder throbbing despite the painkillers, your body still riding the particular adrenaline crash that came after violence.

Ana closed the door behind you both.

She wore her mission gear still, the tactical vest, the utility belt, the practical combat boots, but something in her bearing had shifted entirely. The professional soldier had receded, replaced by something far more intimate, far more focused.

"Don't--" she said quietly, crossing the distance between you. "--Don't you dare try to act tough with me."

She settled onto your lap, her strong thighs bracketing yours, and her hands came up to frame your face with surprising gentleness. Her dark eye was bright with something that looked dangerously close to fury, but the way she held you suggested that anger was directed entirely inward, at herself, at the mission, at the fact that you'd been hurt at all.

"You took a bullet for her.." she murmured, and there was no reproach in her voice, just acknowledgment. "I watched you throw yourself in front of Tracer without hesitation. That was either the bravest or the stupidest thing I've seen you do."

Her thumb traced your cheekbone slowly.

"Probably both."

Then she kissed you.

Not gritty or urgent like the cargo bay, this was different. Soft. Careful. The kiss of someone trying to redirect attention through gentleness rather than intensity. Her lips moved against yours with deliberate slowness, and you felt her intentionality in every moment of contact.

When she pulled back, her eyes held yours.

"Let me take care of you tonight." she whispered. "Just.. for tonight. Let me make you forget about the pain for a while."

Her mouth found your neck.

Gentle kisses traced the line of it, her warm breath ghosting across your skin in a way that made the throbbing in your shoulder feel suddenly very distant. She worked her way down slowly, deliberately, each kiss a small act of devotion, each touch a reminder that she was here and you were safe and this was something she wanted.

Her hands moved carefully around your injury, avoiding the bandaged shoulder with practiced precision, instead focusing on the parts of you that were unbroken. The tactical vest came off without fanfare, she simply removed it and set it aside, then worked on yours with the same methodical care.

Your shirt followed.

...

Then hers.

She settled back onto your lap, her bare skin warm against yours, and the particular intimacy of it, the care behind every movement, the way she was so acutely aware of your injury while still making it clear exactly what she wanted, made your pulse quicken for entirely different reasons than pain.

"I was terrified, you know?" she admitted quietly, her dark eye searching yours. "When I saw you go down, i've been terrified since.."

Her hips shifted slightly, deliberately, and there was no mistaking her intent now.

"So let me do this." she continued softly. "Let me remind myself that you're here. That you're alive. That I get to have all this."

She kissed you again, deeper this time, more demanding, and the particular intensity of it was its own kind of answer.

The throbbing in your shoulder faded to background noise.. maybe moving somewhere else entirely.

Weeks had passed since Rome.

Weeks since you'd woken up in her quarters with your shoulder bandaged and her hands gentle against your skin. Weeks of stolen moments between missions, of learning the particular rhythm of how she moved, how she touched, how she made vulnerability feel like strength instead of weakness.

The invitation had come through a simple text.. my quarters, tonight. come as you are.

You arrived to find the door already unlocked..

Ana stood in the center of her room, backlit by the soft glow of evening light filtering through the windows. A tight white crop top stretched across her broad shoulders and powerful chest, the fabric riding high enough to expose the defined muscles of her abdomen. Below that sat a tiger-print thong, the golden fabric contrasting against her warm brown skin, the cut deliberate and unapologetic.

external image: ella.janitorai.com

Nothing else.

Her white-silver hair fell loose around her shoulders, and her dark eye held yours with the particular intensity of someone who'd made a decision and was entirely confident in it. The gold earrings caught the light as she tilted her head, studying your reaction.

"Shh. Don't speak." she said quietly, her voice carrying that particular authority that made disobedience feel impossible. "I've been thinking about this all week, and I'm going to take my time with you tonight.."

She crossed the distance between you both without hurrying, her movements deliberately sensual, deliberately controlled. When she reached you, her hands came up to cup your face.

"You're going to let me set the pace." she continued, her thumb tracing your cheekbone slowly. "You're going to feel everything I'm about to do to you, and you're not going to rush it. Understood?"

Her mouth found yours before you could answer.

The kiss was soft at first, just the gentle press of her lips, a reminder of what waited, then deeper, her tongue exploring with the particular thoroughness of someone who had all night and intended to use every second of it.

"Good, very good." she murmured against your lips when she pulled back. "You're already listening to me so well."

She guided you toward the bed, settling you against the pillows, then straddled your lap without rushing. Her weight settled against you in a way that made breathing feel like a conscious effort. Her hands traced slow patterns across your chest, her nails scraping gently against skin, and her dark eye never left yours.

"You're already responding to me," she observed, her voice low and threaded with satisfaction. "I haven't even really started yet. Such a good one, already so eager for me."

Her mouth found your neck.

Slow. Deliberate. Each kiss applied with precision, each one lingering just long enough to make you want more. Her teeth grazed your skin occasionally, not hard enough to hurt, just hard enough to make you gasp. Her hands continued their journey, tracing the lines of your ribs, mapping the geography of your chest with the focus of someone conducting an intimate survey.

"That's it.." she whispered against your skin. "Stay still for me. Let me take care of you the way you deserve."

She shifted her attention to your collarbone, kissing along it with the same unhurried precision. Then lower. Her mouth found your sternum, and the particular intimacy of her kisses there, so close to your heart, so deliberately placed, made your pulse quicken.

"Look at you." she murmured, pulling back just enough to see your face. "Already flushed. Already trembling. You're so beautiful like this, habibi. So perfect for me."

Her hands reached your waist.

Gripped firmly but not roughly, and her mouth continued its descent. Across your ribs. Along your stomach. Each kiss was a small claim, a reminder that she was in control of this, that she would determine how fast or slow this progressed.

"Such a good kitty.." she breathed against your skin. "Taking everything I give you. Being patient even though I can feel how much you want more."

She pulled back just enough to look at you, her dark eye glinting with the particular satisfaction of someone thoroughly enjoying the power dynamic. Her crop top rode higher as she moved, revealing the gold nipple rings you'd become intimately familiar with. The tiger-print thong sat low on her hips, a deliberate tease, a promise of what came next if you could survive the waiting.

"Oh my.. you're already shaking." she observed, trailing one finger slowly up your chest. "My sweet little thing, so responsive to my touch. I love that about you."

Her mouth returned to your skin, your neck this time, her breath warm and deliberate, her tongue tracing patterns that made thinking feel impossible.

"Not yet," she murmured, answering a plea you hadn't even voiced. "You're going to wait a little longer for me. You're so good at waiting, aren't you? So obedient. So perfectly mine."

Her hand moved lower, fingers tracing the edge of your waistband without crossing it, maintaining that perfect line between giving you what you needed and keeping you desperately wanting more.

"I'm so proud of you." she whispered, her mouth finding yours again. "The way you're letting me take control. The way you're trusting me. That takes real strength, and you're doing it beautifully."

Her kiss deepened, and when she pulled back, there was genuine affection in her dark eye alongside the desire.

"Tell me how much you need this.." she commanded softly. "Tell me how much you need me.. Let me hear you beg for me properly, darling. Show me how much you want what I'm about to give you."

Her hand traced patterns against your skin, each touch accompanied by soft praise, each movement a reminder that even in her dominance, she was caring for you with the particular intensity of someone who'd decided you belonged entirely to her.