#opposite. sombra. tlacehualli.

[godblooded]

jesus christ bruce for once for fucking once can you just do what i’m asking without fucking making me explain myself? i just -- look after holls. can you just fucking do it? this fucking once, stop asking.

when she looks up at him his whole body is moving. the armor is sleek, black, perfectly so. around him flow tendrils and tendrils, moving and slithering. (he isn’t in the suit. he’s wearing a nirvana tee and jeans. he isn’t in the suit.) his eyes are white-blue and they don’t glow, but their vicious set peers at her, holds her whole. she’s going to be sick. the world is all glow-worms and colors like they float out from where they are. the cowl’s ears are knife-sharp. (he’s not wearing the suit.)

holly’s face has no definition to speak of. it’s all waves and ever-changing geometry. she’s trying to push the giant penny, like she always tries to do. she’s nothing but a blur of gold in selina’s view.

she doesn’t know what she’s been drugged with, but it’s fucking nasty. her eyes are burning, her skin is burning. that bite mark at her shoulder’s nearly healed, but the urge to scratch at it is almost overwhelming. bruce reaches out to touch her --

she hits him right across the face, clips his jaw hard, leaves three red marks where her nails connect. it’s horror that she feels when she realizes with her claws on she would’ve really hurt him. her fingers curl up into her palm and start scratch scratch scratching just light. her temples are beating. her mouth is dry and when she tries to breathe in it feels like her throat is cracking.

lina!!

she freezes when holly collides with her in a hug, a customary goodbye that’s always theirs. her heart hammers so hard in her chest it chisels its way through her ribcage. she can’t find the wherewithal to see, not really, so she presses both her palms to holly’s face and kisses her forehead for a moment so lingering she doesn’t even know if time keeps moving. she tells her bruce wanted to hang out, asked her specifically if she would watch nightmare on elm street with him. she lies so easily. a car backfires somewhere aboveground and she almost jumps out of her skin before turning on a heel to retreat quickly, clicking all the while.

-----------

she’s lost track of time. it’s going on hour three of this delirium, and this terrifying confusion heaps and heaps on in piles. she paces the apartment, tries to stop blinking the blood-splatter from her eyes, slowly going bloodshot themselves. her pupils are absolutely enormous, black discs swallowing gentle brown. there’s a hand underneath the couch that belongs to a child when she looks to the floor and it shoots under and out of sight, dropping the cat to her bruised knees to look. (there’s nothing there.)

she doesn’t know what’s in her system. she thinks she’s waiting for it to wear off, but a looming paranoid shadow makes her reluctant to even speak to anyone. colorless, she knows, odorless, she knows. gaseous -- that’s the only reason she’s reacting this way. she hadn’t ingested anything, but something she’d breathed in is the culprit. her palms are red, red, red where she’s dug blunt nails in enough to viciously irritate her pale skin. that bite mark is dog-eared with angry pink where it was nearly closed, scraped at furiously by her hands. pain is the only thing that makes sense when the world throws itself into reverse.

there’s a differentiation in sound outside. noise changes. something isn’t right, something is wrong, something is right-wrong. the front door is suddenly violently assaulted by a series of slamming blows, and the sound of a voice bellowing warps into a senseless uproar.

(it’s not. the door isn’t moving. there’s no sound coming from it at all.)

but the cat swears there’s a man’s voice growling through the doorjamb and she finds she throws herself backwards to the floor, skittering away in a frantic attempt at escape. it’s silent, and then -- another BANG BANG BANG.

LINA.

she presses her hands to her ears and goes quiet.

[chronal-anomaly]

What does Lena value the most in herself and others: Emotions or rationality? Why?

Unprompted || always accepting

Ideally, she'd rather say rationality. But in reality, Lena knows that it is quite the opposite.

Lena sees the world in very black-or-white, which is rooted a lot in emotional bias. Good-and-bad, with very little time nor patience for the gray spaces in between. A lot of it stems from military conditioning at a young age ("We are the good guys, we're shooting at the bad guys"), and her experiences growing up in post-war London. With a lot of her friends and partners being either omnics or pro-omnic, they rarely had patience for "the other side" so to speak. Often times "the other side" would be the ones swinging baseball bats into her friends and breaking them down for scrap metal - there was no hearing that out.

Once someone falls into that "bad" category, it's difficult to get back into the good category - not impossible, just difficult. @tlacehualli's Sombra is a great example of that; She began in the bad category, given her affiliation with Talon and nothing else, and due to their shared interests and a lot of work done on both sides, Lena now sees her as a good friend of hers.

In some ways, this method of sorting people based on their actions and affiliation could be considered hyper-rational. However, due to the fact that it's rooted in her emotional consideration of people, I would say that emotions are more valued.

This can also be seen in her actions. There are very, very few opportunities where Lena will ignore a cry for help, even at great risk to herself. These actions can include disobeying direct orders, diving into potentially dangerous settings, and drawing unneeded attention to herself instead of whatever the target may be. While that emotion can take many names, it is the driving cause to a lot of her heroism - the need and drive to help others.

[apoapsis]

@tlacehualli​ said,

                    It's damn near impossible for Sombra to miss anything that happens within Talon. Shit, especially when it was something this big. All of the grunts are abuzz with it; Sigma had decimated three of their number in incredibly violent fashion, the kind of way she'd only seen a couple of times up to that point.There was also the fact she'd been keeping her ear low to the ground with anything that had to do with Sigma. He'd been captured recently and she worried. He could be unstable, and whilst she didn't particularly think that being with Talon was good for him - it was something. People like them didn't have a lot. So she's pacing back and worth and damn near worrying a hole into the floor in front of his quarters when she finally catches sight of him heading that way, and the tension in her shoulders relaxes as her arms fall way from their folded position and she damn near rushes to him - she's fussing, touching him here and there and making sure he doesn't have any wounds or something.Finally she stops fussing so much and just looks up at him, searching his eyes with her own and she's frowning a little.

                      "Viejo, what happened? Heard you turned some of the guys into atoms or whatever.”

“They didn't fuck with you, did they?"

                   ... God, what had he done?

It was one thing to endure repercussions for SIEBREN’S actions as-is; it is a completely separate matter when he lands himself in hot water entirely of his own volition. On the dropship home, the astrophysicist had wondered how long it would take for news of his misdeeds to circulate the facility-- turns out that they were much quicker at reporting on things than he anticipated, as he had found himself immediately escorted to Doomfist’s executive office, where both Akande and Moira had been poised at the opposite end of the man’s desk. A lot of the meeting is a blur, so to speak, as he attempts to guiltily avoid eye contact without coming across as disrespectful-- even while his productivity, his competency-- and, worst of all-- his future here, are all called into question. Not enough to simply say sorry and move forward; although... there is subtle comfort-- however remote-- in the way he is interrogated so gently.  If he were perceiving this from an outside perspective, he’d never have realized it was an interrogation session whatsoever. He liked that about Akande, despite the TALON council leader’s frequent disapproval and strong disdain of his much gentler nature than what had been described in his medical documentations.

                          ‘... Do you require yet another psychiatric evaluation, Dr. de Kuiper? I find it strange, how you were supposedly captured and detained by Overwatch for less than a month, and then, again, in less than a month of having returned home, you go out of your way to not only personally interfere with your unit, but...’ Akande lifts the report up to the light, clearing his throat pointedly before continuing to ensure he has SIGMA’S direct attention. ‘-- according to this same report, instead of allowing them to neutralize known Overwatch special-operative agent Shimada Genji, it says here that you slaughtered an alarming percentage of your assigned five-man unit. I’ll ask you again, SIGMA; do you have any intention of being an asset to me, or just another liability?’

SIGMA winces each time he recalls that snippet of the meeting, sweltering under the oppressive, suffocative wave of disappointment that they had both been holding him under, too frightened to argue his case, to demand to know why Genji had not been pardoned for his assistance in returning SIGMA back into their hands no worse for wear. He’s too timid. He crumbles under any pressure applied. The journey back to his room after was a very brisk one, as any Enforcer he passes would stop to stare-- a couple of them even rest a hand on holstered sidearms and follow him with their gaze. His punishment had been to return to his quarters for the evening without anything to aid with the thick, black and blue welt fanning out over his mid abdomen, the implication there being that he was expected to remain in there until otherwise indicated. Effectively under room arrest-- just without the door being locked, or a proximity-triggered alarm. Safe to say that he shouldn’t expect dinner tonight. If anything, in the morning.

... For what it is worth, I do believe you did the right thing, SIGMA. The more you roll onto your back in submission, the more they are going to take from you. It’s always easier said than done-- ... but I am proud of you for doing it on your own.

                    ‘... He saved us from whatever Overwatch had in store for us-- I...I do not understand why they are overlooking his role in my return... It’s beginning to frighten me, the lack of interest they have in my perspective-- how they never listen to me...’

I know they don’t and it is okay to be upset by that; they made you do it.

                It’s a terrible shame that he can’t take more delight in receiving such rare praise from someone he holds in the highest regard-- but it brings a sense of comfort, to know that SIEBREN recognized the fact that, most of all, he had a right to be so deeply upset by what had taken place. It was rare for him to acknowledge that when tension was running high. It’s sweet of him to notice-- even sweeter of him to have said anything at all. He doesn’t anticipate seeing Sombra pacing outside of his room-- and for a moment, he hesitates, wary of the notion that she may, in fact, also be upset with him. Tonight just seemed to be getting worse and worse...

SIGMA flinches a little when she rushes him just to crowd him, very unappreciative of the way she picks and prods at his body and jumpsuit, obsessively checking for any semblance of damage.“... So you did hear...“ He mumbles uneasily, although unlike before, with the laceration, he doesn’t fight her on it, instead openly and silently resigning himself to allowing her to invade his personal space without comment until she deems him no worse for wear.

                     At the very least, she doesn’t seem upset with him-- just concerned.

“... A-ah, well... technically speaking, it didn’t start off quite that way...“ He admits warily, activating the access keypad, lethargically drifting into his room once the door slides open so that he can go straight to bed, indifferent to whether or not she remained for a change. It felt easier to display his docility when he made himself smaller, such as curling up under his blanket to sulk, knees pulled taut to his chest as he curls in on himself tightly.

                    “-- I had... specifically requested that Genji receive some degree of leniency with TALON’S affinity for hit-lists-- I TOLD them that he was the one to set me free, to allow me to return home to you all safely. He was under no obligation to help me... a-and yet...!“ Oh, he can already feel himself getting worked up, leaving him furiously rubbing at his eyes in an attempt to dissuade the moisture threatening to bead up and spill down his cheeks. Stop fucking crying! All he does is cry!

“-- I-- I-I DID NOT EVEN WANT TO HURT THEM-! I ORDERED THEM TO STOP...!“ SIGMA barks sharply, his voice momentarily filling the sterile, stagnant silence of his room before he’s reflexively snatching one of his pillows to squeeze against his chest. This is why he doesn’t request hugs when he’s like this-- he’s crushing the damn thing flat. If it were a living person, he’d be breaking bones and squeezing the very life out of them. “I gave warning after WARNING! AND YET THEY JUST FUCKING MOCKED ME! TO MY FACE!”

                  “I--... I just-- I couldn’t-- I--“

He has to take a moment just to breathe; he still feels like he’s suffocating. When he finally looks at Sombra again, he looks so haunted. “He saved me, Sombra... a-and he asked for absolutely nothing in return of me. They could’ve-- they--... Oh.... I was so afraid of them sending me right back to my original facility... and yet he showed me such a degree of compassion I’ve... never... really experienced since my initial release... Even though he knew I would simply return to TALON, Genji still chose to release me...”

                   “... Why would I ever overlook such a kind gesture...?“

“-- A-AND MORE IMPORTANTLY, what is so wrong with that-!? I spend THREE YEARS doing EVERYTHING TALON requests of ME, a-and yet... the one request I ever make is.... too much? Are they fucking serious? I AM THE MOST WELL-BEHAVED RESIDENT OF THIS FACILITY-!! I DO EVERYTHING I AM TOLD-- I NEVER QUESTION WHAT THEY DECIDE IS “BEST” FOR ME-!! And yet.... A-AND YET...!?”

                  “... In WHAT WAY is any of this MY fault...!?“

[godblooded]

@tlacehualli

the cat’s a vision as per in enormous black sunglasses, black jeans, a charcoal grey tshirt. her lipstick is deep burgundy, a differing shade from her general cherry red. she'd agreed to it -- something silly, something stupid. traveling for her birthday. lina, i will literally be fine. i'm gonna stay with tio! we'll have fun. you and tia go have fun! you never do anything for your birthday. you won't even let me.

they're always low-key, anyway. meant to be quiet. another year is supposed to pass in obscurity and whatever the fuck the cat is, she's too timeless to age. she can't. ( and maybe selina's forgot how to cleave them in half. maybe selina doesn't exist near as much as the cat does, and the cat is no one. )

the problem is selina doesn't even know how to pack for these things. she isn't going to take out a diplomat, no dead world leaders, no human trafficking evidence to dig up. just... a week in mexico. a week in mexico. she's staring at an open suitcase, heels, heels, heels -- and she doesn't have anything else. there are clothes strewn across her huge bed. sombra's going to get here and she's still going to be trying to pack.

she doesn't have any idea what to take. and holly's at the manor, so she can't ask her.

maybe outfits to go with heels would be a great idea. what does she have that isn't black....?

[godblooded]

@tlacehualli (x)

[ txt: pretty ] I miss u too

[ txt: pretty ] it’s all that stagnant water just fucking floating and I thought the gotham river was bad at least it’s not in one of the most supposed beautiful places on earth

[ txt: pretty ] you’re not pretty ur gorgeous

[ txt: pretty ] but pretty’s good too

[godblooded]

@tlacehualli

“ -- mic check, mic check, miccheck! ”

stark’s voice comes through loud and clear over the earpiece. selina likes to say sometimes he just sounds like pure yahoooooooo every minute. what’s that, zest for life? the boy’s certainly -- stark, that’s for sure. he gives a cheerful laugh selina can see on his face without seeing him at all.  she kind of loves when he actually has a good time ; the poor guy hasn’t had any fun in way too long.

“ loud and clear, tin can. ”

the cat’s got a leg dangling over the edge of a building. she loves her a good ol’ fashioned heist. the kind that’s supposed to be simple, easy in and out. there is something breathlessly exciting about showing off her skills to someone who trumps her in most areas. selina aims to (dis)please, but sometimes the cat’s absolutely salivating at the opportunity to impress. a legend, no less!

a heel tings constantly against brick as she bounces it off and on, off and on, back and forth. clawed nails click together rhythmically, and she awaits tonight’s partner in crime.

but, like, take the phrase literally and figuratively.

it takes only the sound of a translocator to break her out into a vibrant red smile, one that glints in her soft eyes. she speaks without turning her body at all. she doesn’t have to see to know.

“ hey, pretty, come here often? ”

[godblooded]

@tlacehualli​ (x)

air rushes through the cat’s lungs when she grips the bar easily and she watches sombra move, feels the beating little tap tap tap inside her bad ear while it’s overwrought. the pressure doesn’t bother her, even if the ache is a sharpened dullness. she’s become accustomed -- sometimes it’s the only thing she can feel. without batting an eyelash, the cat (still wearing her mask, she hasn’t realized it’s still on her face) she grabs the translocator. it isn’t quite a grab as it is simple -- selina briefly measures its arch in the loop and floats it right into her hand at the highest point before its drop. it’s almost cradling the thing lovingly.

without thought, hand shoots out to grab the other bar and she lets it swing alllllll aside. okay! feet grasp the wall and stop her from swinging back, and the other swing returns to where it began, idly swishing across the way. when she lets go she lets herself drop, swings up and around to grasp with her feet and end up facing the wall. a simple loop around, footing returned faces her the right way.

she gives the translocator just one toss. one. down, up. off long fingers, measuring weight.

“ nice throw! calculated brilliantly. here it comes! ”

selina tosses the translocator with an arc just as careful, feet pointed to either side. she doesn’t move ; the swing doesn’t sway at all. an extreme rarity when she’s not flashy.

“ toss it back! toss it back! ”

[chronal-anomaly]

@tlacehualli asked:

"Huh. No fucking shot, you actually looked like a little rockera, look at you." Sombra's tone is bordering on affectionate; she's got a polaroid of Lena way back in the day in her hand and the pilot has a messy but somehow actually still pretty sick looking mohawk.

"You're not gonna believe this one but - " Her circuit hand extends and she's playing a video fashioned out of her memory; she's looking in the mirror putting on Los Muertos paint in glowing green and her hair is in a mohawk - it's magenta, the same color as her cybernetics now, and smaller and tighter and clearly involved more hair gel. But hey, a mohawk's a mohawk.

She dismisses the video and seems contemplative for a second, stretching out her elbow by grabbing it over her head with her hand. "You think us back then - those punk kids - would like who we turned out to be now? You working with the supercops. Me at fucking Talon." Sombra laughs darkly. "Think I'd wanna punch myself in the face." || Unprompted ( always accepting )

Lena really shouldn't be surprised anymore. After all, they had told her when she was a kid that nothing was gone forever, not really. Including, apparently, the film from one of the many illegal underground concerts she attended, seemingly lifetimes ago. She could still remember the smell of alcohol and smoke burning her throat as she screamed along with the others, a breathing, living massive of people living solely in the moment. In all honesty, Lena didn't remember this exact picture, taken by the side by a childhood friend whose name was long lost to time, sign of the horns flying high to whatever beat pulsed through her chest. The mohawk, so carefully combed earlier, now flopped over her eyes - likely disturbed from the headbanging throughout the night.

"Hey, look at that!" Lena stared at the hologram, at the short display of a much younger, much different Sombra going through a similar ritual. Putting on the war paint.

Wonder if either of them truly knew what meant at that age.

Maybe they were more similar than Lena thought. Kids, caught up in matters well beyond their years. It wasn't fair, sure, but they could hardly afford to rage at this like they did The Man so many years ago. Cards fell where they did, and Sombra and Lena were just two lost kids trying to make it in a world that wanted the exact opposite for them.

"Yeah, yeah. Guess we're not where either of us would want to be, huh?" Lena handed the photograph back, ignoring the swell of emotion that threatened to choke her out. "If you have changed all of this, what would you be doing right now? Me, I'd be in competitive gymnastics, maybe. Or retired from the military."

[godblooded]

if the world is full of colors and sounds, if the universe is louder to see and too vivacious to feel, where prior it was horrifying now it’s almost comforting ; it feels like the first time things have ever made perfect sense. it feels like the first time she’s ever delivered herself wholly to someone else and not been afraid, afraid, afraid.

good girl. she feels her thighs shiver, shudder, clench the very second they’re parted. there’s a tension across her shoulders that presses them into her own mattress, back arching. achilliean, olympian, that body’s been an instrument of so many assassinations ; dynasties have quietly crumbled beneath her heels, whether she’s spilt the blood or forced the weapon into another’s hand. if she bares throat, she bares throat, that pretty marble column decorated with those thinning red slashes quieting against her skin over time.

her swallow is so great that it morphs and twists into a weak gasp the minute she feels the friction. it’s high and fluttery and soft and squeaky all at the same time. she’s trying to take everything in the best stride she can, and there’s that drop in her stomach, an elevator ten or so floors that dangles before an abyss.

she kisses her because selina needs an anchor and in that tossing storm her mind becomes sombra is a very neon light. it makes her breathe deeper, quieter, bearing down against that thigh with another moan.

“ just — both. fuck me with your fingers, your mouth— “

her grip tightens. she’s all muscle, contradictory to her whines.

“ please. ”

Keep reading

[godblooded]

the kiss makes her shoulders relax only a little. it’s strange, to have this feeling ; as fucked up as it is, it’s better than the alternative ; in her mind she’s already given up, and that’s okay. for once, it’s okay. and maybe she just needs to feel that lie to get used to it. to feel like giving in to the fear is a better idea than the rage.

the fear’s better than the anger. there are no claws to flick and no heels to kick. she’s here and she’s exposed and she’s telling herself it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine. it’s frightening to think about.

but she always makes fear into anger. ( it’s easier. it’s easier to listen to the desire to hurt instead of the desire to feel what it really is: fear, fear, fear. )

“ thanks. ”

it’s like unbuckling armor, taking parts off piece by piece. chestplate, pauldrons, greaves ; there are so many parts to it. it always feels that way. removing one piece, another, another, until she’s nothing but what’s underneath, pale and small, a thing that sometimes feels like it should’ve died rather than survived to adulthood at all. selina never knows how to feel about herself ; the only thing she knows is ‘not very good’ is the best descriptor.

“ i don’t know. i’m — really nervous. ”

honesty spills out of her mouth, wide brown eyes soft and pitifully real, puppydog huge. it’s sheepish, embarrassed. her fingers tense. open, close into her palm. she feels — pretty ashamed about it. her smile frays thin but it’s not fake, which is quite a development.

“ i was hungry and then my stomach decided to retreat. ”

it makes selina absolutely sick that her next thought is i know plenty of people who would throw more than a mill at you for me. it makes the insides of her wrists, her palms, her whole body itch. it’s the anxious itch that makes her want to scratch again, keep scratching deeper and deeper until she finds something that feels better than fear. it makes her want to chew the inside of her cheek open. those soft brown eyes flick out the window.

she gnaws the inside of her cheek. a little. not enough to bleed, enough to feel the way it stings a little bit. it’s enough to make her feel like she’s sitting in a seat in a plane on a runway about to leave gotham to go to mexico city to spend a birthday vacation that she’s going to love.

she keeps repeating it to herself. they’re going to have the best time. she loves sombra so much and they’re going to have so much fun. she wishes the way she swallows doesn’t feel like she’s trying to suck a tennis ball throw a straw, but her shoulders lift and drop with the motion.

the bat handles smooth as silk. she loves the fucking thing. you can sit there sometimes and barely even know that it’s moving even if it’s not big, even if it by all rights should jostle and tumble. the bat moves streamlined, and she starts to compare how it handles to this jet. it’s better to keep her mind preoccupied. she tries to imagine the way cogs turn. she does everything to stay in her head.

“ of course it will be. ”

the way she sounds is... strange. to her own ears anyway. the way her voice used to sound when she was a kid -- when she’d get in over her head without steel heels on her feet or a whip on her hip. when she was nothing but a gentle-eyed falsity convinced she had the power and then realizing, head whirling, the scales had tipped. moving into this odd submission. it’s the voice she used to fall into when she just knew. it sounds soft. it sounds the way something fragile at the end of a gun looks. she sounds her height without a pair of heels.

defense mechanisms are so fucking weird. she blinks and hears it click like a camera shutter for no reason at all. her ears pop just a little and when she swallows they pop again. fuck. please tell her she has gum. she has to convince herself to move. to look. she has to take her hands and her body and her fingers and get them to move, to fucking move. to remind herself to reach for something, or to have a body at all. there’s gum and redbull and probably a bunch of spare packets of crackers in her tote. she needs to get her hands to work to get it.

she manages. reaches over and ferrets through with sleek fingertips that tremble imperceptibly. the shiny little foil crinkles in her fingers and she hands one over before she slips a stick of gun in her mouth. her tinnitus is inevitably going to become so much worse if she doesn’t cushion it a little, and that high pitched whine like a dog whistle she hears a good chunk of the time layered over the world is already frustrating.

“ you’re good like that. you’ve got it. ”

soft, still, less blatantly exposed. this time she sounds like she believes herself say it.

[godblooded]

it makes selina absolutely sick that her next thought is i know plenty of people who would throw more than a mill at you for me. it makes the insides of her wrists, her palms, her whole body itch. it’s the anxious itch that makes her want to scratch again, keep scratching deeper and deeper until she finds something that feels better than fear. it makes her want to chew the inside of her cheek open. those soft brown eyes flick out the window.

she gnaws the inside of her cheek. a little. not enough to bleed, enough to feel the way it stings a little bit. it’s enough to make her feel like she’s sitting in a seat in a plane on a runway about to leave gotham to go to mexico city to spend a birthday vacation that she’s going to love.

she keeps repeating it to herself. they’re going to have the best time. she loves sombra so much and they’re going to have so much fun. she wishes the way she swallows doesn’t feel like she’s trying to suck a tennis ball throw a straw, but her shoulders lift and drop with the motion.

the bat handles smooth as silk. she loves the fucking thing. you can sit there sometimes and barely even know that it’s moving even if it’s not big, even if it by all rights should jostle and tumble. the bat moves streamlined, and she starts to compare how it handles to this jet. it’s better to keep her mind preoccupied. she tries to imagine the way cogs turn. she does everything to stay in her head.

“ of course it will be. ”

the way she sounds is... strange. to her own ears anyway. the way her voice used to sound when she was a kid -- when she’d get in over her head without steel heels on her feet or a whip on her hip. when she was nothing but a gentle-eyed falsity convinced she had the power and then realizing, head whirling, the scales had tipped. moving into this odd submission. it’s the voice she used to fall into when she just knew. it sounds soft. it sounds the way something fragile at the end of a gun looks. she sounds her height without a pair of heels.

defense mechanisms are so fucking weird. she blinks and hears it click like a camera shutter for no reason at all. her ears pop just a little and when she swallows they pop again. fuck. please tell her she has gum. she has to convince herself to move. to look. she has to take her hands and her body and her fingers and get them to move, to fucking move. to remind herself to reach for something, or to have a body at all. there’s gum and redbull and probably a bunch of spare packets of crackers in her tote. she needs to get her hands to work to get it.

she manages. reaches over and ferrets through with sleek fingertips that tremble imperceptibly. the shiny little foil crinkles in her fingers and she hands one over before she slips a stick of gun in her mouth. her tinnitus is inevitably going to become so much worse if she doesn’t cushion it a little, and that high pitched whine like a dog whistle she hears a good chunk of the time layered over the world is already frustrating.

“ you’re good like that. you’ve got it. ”

soft, still, less blatantly exposed. this time she sounds like she believes herself say it.

the stutter hits her ears and she automatically backs up and out of sombra’s space. the gesture is surprising, but it’s like a lioness very suddenly losing its appetite. selina reins in her emotions as best she can for a second and wheels herself back around, pulls back feeling. calm down. calm down. her fingers flex. the dull sound of click click click in the cabin’s quiet is selina’s knuckles cracking. she doesn’t even make a fist. pop, pop, pop -- in between cartilage. her fingers fan out again and she scratches along the armrest’s fabric.

“ sorry. ”

she apologizes because it’s something she’s trying to get better ( with herself ) about. she’s trying to recognize when she doesn’t mean to do that, but it’s all her sharp physical instincts that make her do it. intrude on space when she’s afraid, intrude on space when she feels threatened, she’s trying to make the lines between the two sharper ; sometimes she’s afraid she’ll blur them, hurt without meaning to hurt. ( she’s so good at hurting without meaning to hurt. don’t focus on it, don’t. you’re already anxious. )

those sunglasses leave her shirt and find her face again. if she closes her eyes and opens them, the world is one filter. one. just that smoky grey. it’s strange how making everything so uniform can bring her thinking back to it, too. a weird, stupid trick.

“ can you just... remind me there’s nothing waiting to clap me in irons and haul me in the brig on the other side of this plane ride? ”

the way her humor tries to make its way into the vulnerability of that statement -- remind me you’re not going to sell me is what it comes down to. remind me i can stop thinking about this. ( it’s not going to make it go away, she knows, but she can try to make it quieter. )

embarrassment is what makes her ears feel hot -- or fear, she doesn’t know. everything feels the same when it’s this intense. ( it’s shame. she feels deeply fucking ashamed to have to ask that question. what kind of scared thing has she turned into? )

“ that’s so fucking stupid. i’m sorry. ”

she swallows down the forget it. she’s trying to teach herself it’s okay to just... fucking be. it’s important to just exist and be fine with the fact that she does it. god, why does it feel like she has to apologize for being alive? isn’t this shit behind her?

( it can’t be behind you when all you’ve ever done is ignore it. )

[godblooded]

the stutter hits her ears and she automatically backs up and out of sombra’s space. the gesture is surprising, but it’s like a lioness very suddenly losing its appetite. selina reins in her emotions as best she can for a second and wheels herself back around, pulls back feeling. calm down. calm down. her fingers flex. the dull sound of click click click in the cabin’s quiet is selina’s knuckles cracking. she doesn’t even make a fist. pop, pop, pop -- in between cartilage. her fingers fan out again and she scratches along the armrest’s fabric.

“ sorry. ”

she apologizes because it’s something she’s trying to get better ( with herself ) about. she’s trying to recognize when she doesn’t mean to do that, but it’s all her sharp physical instincts that make her do it. intrude on space when she’s afraid, intrude on space when she feels threatened, she’s trying to make the lines between the two sharper ; sometimes she’s afraid she’ll blur them, hurt without meaning to hurt. ( she’s so good at hurting without meaning to hurt. don’t focus on it, don’t. you’re already anxious. )

those sunglasses leave her shirt and find her face again. if she closes her eyes and opens them, the world is one filter. one. just that smoky grey. it’s strange how making everything so uniform can bring her thinking back to it, too. a weird, stupid trick.

“ can you just... remind me there’s nothing waiting to clap me in irons and haul me in the brig on the other side of this plane ride? ”

the way her humor tries to make its way into the vulnerability of that statement -- remind me you’re not going to sell me is what it comes down to. remind me i can stop thinking about this. ( it’s not going to make it go away, she knows, but she can try to make it quieter. )

embarrassment is what makes her ears feel hot -- or fear, she doesn’t know. everything feels the same when it’s this intense. ( it’s shame. she feels deeply fucking ashamed to have to ask that question. what kind of scared thing has she turned into? )

“ that’s so fucking stupid. i’m sorry. ”

she swallows down the forget it. she’s trying to teach herself it’s okay to just... fucking be. it’s important to just exist and be fine with the fact that she does it. god, why does it feel like she has to apologize for being alive? isn’t this shit behind her?

( it can’t be behind you when all you’ve ever done is ignore it. )

cars. cars, buses, planes, trains, cranes, motorcycles, bikes, fuck, bicycles. if it’s mechanical, selina loves it. if it’s mechanical and it goes vroom vroom -- fast -- that means selina loves it. if it has an engine and an accelerator she wants to spend her entire life working on it, touching it, tuning it, listening to it.

( in another life, a perfect one, maybe one not as chaotic as this, selina would be a mechanic. she would be something, anything generally covered in oil and grease while sifting through the metal guts of whatever beast she has on her hands that day. selina would be a phenomenal mechanic. there’s not a practical thing she can get her hands on that’s not presto, one, two, three, once she has it open in front of her. )

there’s wonder always on her face. maybe she thinks everything about it is beautiful -- how crazy human beings have to be to put themselves in tons of insulated steel and call it good. and flew. in the sky. where birds do, fucking birds. she thinks a lot about how human beings have no business being as capable as they are, but.

when you know so many aliens it kind of becomes a topic of discussion.

that anxiety’s building again. you ready? she has to be. she has to calm down sometime. has to, has to, has to calm down sometime.

the cat gracefully drops into a seat beside sombra not moments or so after her words. her sunglasses push up again, and it feels like hours since she’s seen the world without that charcoal filter. she reaches up and tugs them off, slides them back in the collar of her tshirt. she fidgets, again, draws a couple breaths. her fingers tap again on the armrest. her expression flicks to sombra and her smile twitches. she leans in, close as she can. that smile wants to stay but it’s trying to leave about as quickly as the hacker’s pet frog can hop. she asks quietly,

“ hey, can i ask you a... really stupid fucking favor? ”

[godblooded]

cars. cars, buses, planes, trains, cranes, motorcycles, bikes, fuck, bicycles. if it’s mechanical, selina loves it. if it’s mechanical and it goes vroom vroom -- fast -- that means selina loves it. if it has an engine and an accelerator she wants to spend her entire life working on it, touching it, tuning it, listening to it.

( in another life, a perfect one, maybe one not as chaotic as this, selina would be a mechanic. she would be something, anything generally covered in oil and grease while sifting through the metal guts of whatever beast she has on her hands that day. selina would be a phenomenal mechanic. there’s not a practical thing she can get her hands on that’s not presto, one, two, three, once she has it open in front of her. )

there’s wonder always on her face. maybe she thinks everything about it is beautiful -- how crazy human beings have to be to put themselves in tons of insulated steel and call it good. and flew. in the sky. where birds do, fucking birds. she thinks a lot about how human beings have no business being as capable as they are, but.

when you know so many aliens it kind of becomes a topic of discussion.

that anxiety’s building again. you ready? she has to be. she has to calm down sometime. has to, has to, has to calm down sometime.

the cat gracefully drops into a seat beside sombra not moments or so after her words. her sunglasses push up again, and it feels like hours since she’s seen the world without that charcoal filter. she reaches up and tugs them off, slides them back in the collar of her tshirt. she fidgets, again, draws a couple breaths. her fingers tap again on the armrest. her expression flicks to sombra and her smile twitches. she leans in, close as she can. that smile wants to stay but it’s trying to leave about as quickly as the hacker’s pet frog can hop. she asks quietly,

“ hey, can i ask you a... really stupid fucking favor? ”

hand lets go and for a second selina’s little heart stops in her chest. she can’t quite help it, but it’s like... it’s like she can’t conceive how to keep moving without it. she blinks down at her palm like she’s never seen it before and counts the clicks her heels make and the distance to measure how far each stride is. not a lot, for her. she’s, like, more than mostly leg and more than half ass and whatever’s left is her upper body. she turns her wrist and flicks her fingers to hold nothing. she remembers she’s not in the catsuit -- no goggles, no goggles on her head.

( the cheek kiss pacifies her. she loosens, relaxes a little bit, looks less like she’s so tight, so taut she’s all tied up in knots. )

she’s not on a mission, but she’s boarding a plane. she actually doesn’t even realize she gets in there before she whistles quietly and touches the ceiling with fingertips and a soft sound of awe that comes out in half a sigh, half an oh like she’s absolutely adoring the second they get in the plane.

“ oh, baby, baby, baby, talk to me. you’re a pretty birdy, aren’t you? pretty, pretty baby. ”

selina’s talking to the plane with a voice so full of sincere honey it’s absolutely having a love affair. with a plane. what? it’s a nice vehicle.

“ you purr like a kitten, i’ll bet. these are good bones for a fancy-shmancy set of wings. impressive. -- pretty. ”

she forgets there’s, like, a whole other person here and she’s just lavishing praise on an inanimate object. a plane. a fucking airplane. she touches it so fondly. selina loves a good machine of any form, but the very mechanical are her favorite things. she has a bone-deep affection for anything with an engine that accelerates.

she reaches into her bag, procures a redbull of some nondescript color and some nondescript shade and holds it out. she’s always right on the money when she has to be. ( was that in a pocket - pocket - pocket of that bag? )

“ at your serrrrrvice. ”

cute kitten.