An Overwatch TF/TG
(McCree to Widowmaker)

“McCree, you are doing very poorly. Perhaps you should switch.”

Jesse McCree grumbled, lifting his hat and looking to the archer with disbelief. “Come again, partner? Reckon them’s fightin’ words.” He looked to Hanzo with disbelief and scorn alike, his face flickering between the two emotions.

“Oh, do you?” The Japanese man arched an eyebrow, looking to the cowboy. “Because I ‘reckon’ that you should try this on if you want a snowflake’s chance in hell against me.”

With that, he tossed a suit at McCree, an empty costume that looked like something a child would wear on Halloween. It was a purple and blue suit, and was undeniable feminine. There were exaggerated curves, a lithe body, and thin and slender fingers that contrasted with the cowboy’s own.

“There is a changing room in this dropship. I suggest you make the move before the next round begins.” Hanzo smirked, turning his back on the man. Then he looked over his shoulder, that familiar damned cocksure grin on his face. “To face fear itself, you must master your own.”

***

McCree didn’t know what he was doing in the bathroom. He looked to the suit again, a scowl on his face. The thought of putting it on was… Well, it wasn’t exactly comforting for his masculinity. Hell, he was raised to be masculine beyond most men-and here he was about to dress like a woman.

Of course, the fact that he was wary of it bothered him more than anything else. He knew that if he refused to put it on, Hanzo would call him out on giving into his fears. Which meant that he had no choice but to put it on… Which in turn meant that Hanzo would get exactly what he wanted.

In the end, the deciding factor was the fact that Hanzo wasn’t wrong: McCree wasn’t doing his best. For once, the archer had hit his mark… And that meant that his word was worth a chance. At least if he continued to do poorly, then he could blame it on the man.

That in mind, McCree took the plunge. It had to be like stepping into a cold pool, tearing a bandage off, or plugging a Talon agent between the eyes: if he did it quickly, then it wouldn’t be as bad. The brown-haired cowboy shoved both his feet into the costume, wobbling unsurely on its high heels for a moment. Then he tugged it up his thick calves; past his thighs.

It was tight, way tighter than he’d thought. Getting it up his chest and over his arms would probably have been impossible without his mechanical arm. Somehow the fabric didn’t tear, and he pulled it up to his neck, tugging the seam closed and wincing as the crotch tightly pressed against his manhood. At least the seam seemed to meld together with ease, leaving him only the mask to put on.

“Well… Here goes nothing.” He grunted, tugging it over his head, pulling on the mask’s blue ponytail to tug it perfectly into place.

Then a rush overtook his body, a minty fresh sensation running along every square inch of his skin in an instant. He gasped, his chest hiking as he felt his body reshape and reform to fit it perfectly. Breasts grew from his chest, an ample bosom filling the top of the costume just as his ass swelled to complete the hourglass. His cheeks pinched as they sharpened, losing the squareness of masculinity in favor of a delicate heart shape. And, for the first time that he could remember, his face felt smooth and free of stubble.

“Merde…” He spoke, his voice soft and husky. He looked down to his slender legs and his supple body, then to his soft arms and long, delicate fingers. He was as delicate as some sort of ballerina now, but… No, that wasn’t quite accurate. It was more like he had been a plow horse, and was now a gazelle-he might look weaker, but that same strength was there.

Come to think of it, there was also a little more than he’d expected: he had two arms again. “Non! This is incredible!” McCree patted his left arm with his right, a smile across his plush blue lips. “I can’t believe this… How is this even possible?”

He looked up to the mirror, wincing slightly as he saw a blue-skinned Frenchwoman do the same. The reflection was beautiful, a dancer’s beauty gracing every one of her movements. Her movements… The woman pressed a hand to her chest, sighing. Her golden eyes glimmered with amusement, and she trailed a hand along her cheeks with a smile.

Somehow she had been changed into this new form, into… Well, Amélie. The name flowed as easily into her head as breathing, and she smiled softly. Apparently this body had thoughts of its own, and a skillset of its own. The blue-skinned girl stepped out of the bathroom, blinking in surprise as she saw Hanzo smirking at her.

“What?” She replied icily, her gaze narrow. “You have a problem with this, archer?” Her every word was laced with the perfect amount of disdain that could only be mustered by the French.

“That depends. Do you think you can hit a Pharah to save your life? Or will my scatter seek skyward once more?” He thrummed the string of his Storm Bow with a chuckle, looking her up and down.

She slapped her palm into his chest, making him stagger backwards against the wall of the dropship. “Please. I’ll pick that bluebird from the sky, then swat her canary. You just sit back and provide some overwatch.”

With that she turned on her hill, looking to the weapons rack. The six-shooter wasn’t really catching her interest… Though the sniper rifle certainly had its allure. She lifted it from the wall, blinking in amazement as it reconfigured to a smaller weapon. “My, my… So it’s not only a high-impact sniper rifle… It’s also a submachine gun. My favorite.”

She rested it in the crook of her arm, the dropship’s countdown sounding over the speakers. ++NOW ARRIVING AT ILIOS. PREPARE FOR COMBAT.++

Amélie smirked, her heels clicking against the floor as she joined the other soldiers by the door. “Well, well… Time to make some widows.”