* ROT.

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☠ = pushing them against a wall .

before she realizes, idle nagging and offhand comments transform into a physical presence that pushes against her chest ( gently ) until she leans against uncomfortable stone.

absently, she notices that even though sombra is wearing an impenetrable smirk and her eyes remain alight with mischief, she has left her an easy out – it is nowhere near a tight hold, let alone violent.

– she sighs.

in an instant, with a grip on sombra’s shoulders that causes her nails to bite into the fabric, she reverses them – frail she might be, but it was a charade to begin with. she does not miss the way sombra allows herself to be disarmed like this, the way a twinge of fear flashes behind her gaze even as she maintains her indifferent demeanor. her expression is all easy confidence, soon bleeding into a sneer that is entirely too self-assured. 

widowmaker gouges her nails in harder, presses her more roughly against the concrete, leans her weight into her hold until she sees a twinge of pain. bones stand out against the sallow skin of her hands, jutting out unnervingly; not the grasp of a woman, but of a beast.

her face is disfigured into a frigid scowl.

“ you’re too needy, ” she snarls, and her voice is a rasp that rips from her throat and leaves it stinging. 

( but is it not her own needs that prompt her to drop teeth to skin on this empty rooftop, just as sombra planned? …ah, perhaps she is softening towards her, she thinks, as she bites down hard. )

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☀ = giving them a gift of ___ ( asker’s choice ) .

slender fingers -- controlled, but quivering from exhaustion -- gently tuck the flower stem behind julie’s ear.

widowmaker offers her a smile that is neither sharp nor cruel; instead there is a vague sort of sadness in the lopsided curl of her lips, a discontent that is unlike her, unlike the self she allows others to see. ( it is an unspoken gesture of self-derision. )

they are two who have been reduced to symbols and statements, far beyond their characteristics as humans --

-- perhaps she sympathizes, to an extent. 

perhaps she sees too much of herself in this woman, and it has dredged to the surface a vulnerability rarely exhibited; discomfort pricks against the skin at the base of her neck.

her gaze is distant as she brushes blonde hair down over the petals.

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♒ = lying to them .  

“stand down, and i will be granted asylum – except, that isn’t your choice to make.

empty promises are worse than harsh truths.”

she resists the urge to spit on the ground; who is he, who was granted numerous second chances, to lecture her on the value of peace? who is he to lie through his teeth? perhaps a decade ago she would have believed him; softened and desperate as she was, but she has long since given up on allowing herself hope that will only be snuffed out later on. cold reality has hardened her to any kindness she could possibly receive; openly she denies herself any hand outstretched in offering, pushes away compassion when others insist she accept it. beaten until she conformed as they wished, until she liked blood on her hands and underneath her nails and splattered on her skin –

she takes a shallow breath,

– and leans into the scope.

thunder rends the quiet night asunder, and leaves ringing silence in its wake.

(but if one were to read her body language, it speaks entirely clearly; she won’t let the woman out of her sight. turns her entire body, tired and aching as it is, to make sure lena never has a view of her back. to make sure she always knows what lena is doing.

it’s a mask, and nothing more.)

at the moment, lena is rifling through tools widowmaker cannot hope to identify; her familiarity with any type of machinery extends only to the operation of her own arsenal. they are precise-looking, though, with delicate metal and plastic that winks in the low-light.

suspicion clouds over her gaze like a film, a sneer curling her lip. she doesn’t speak.

logic dictates that she should not turn down help freely given, but she has to wonder at her willingness to accept it -- the situation feels all too familiar. helpless to refuse such generous goodwill (that she doesn’t want. it makes her stomach churn and her heart creep into her throat.)

she pulls her knees closer to her chest. despite her exhaustion, she will not sleep -- staves off the feeling on encroaching drowsiness through willpower alone, bites the inside of her cheek until she tastes blood and feels the jolt of pain that snaps her from her haze.

but only just.

when lena finishes examining her kit and takes steps towards her -- easy, widowmaker notices, calm strides with her hands out at her sides, to reassure her (as if she is some common caged animal!) -- she fixes her companion with a sharp glare. even with the bags under her eyes from lack of sleep and her cheeks too-sharp and sunken, she easily brings to bear all the vitriol she has in a single look. her question is clipped, spat out like it stings.

(even though her shoulders sag from the weight of her dread, and give it all away.)

“what?”

her self-satisfaction and relative emotional invulnerability are paramount; open, healthy attachments are not something she can sustain, or perhaps would even want to sustain. she much prefers to twist others around her finger than to stand on equal ground; for her, a good relationship is an unbalanced one, with her in an indisputable position of power. predisposed towards manipulation over communication, she often either ignores or is indeed unaware of her own harmful behaviors; thus she is an undeniably toxic partner, or even friend. 

   with a clenched jaw, he continues to stride forward. he wishes that talon would just leave him alone. he had made it clear many times that he did not want any affiliation with them. ever.

   however, her words cause his steps to falter. it is slight, almost unnoticable, but it is there.

   ❛  are you implying you are not here on behalf of your masters?  ❜ he then stops, still not turning to face the widow. the implication that widowmaker was essentially a hound, controlled by its owner, was a correlation he did not plan to stop making. 

   hanzo’s fists clench in their pockets. it was nothing new that the elder shimada was nothing but a coward, but it being spat to his face by one who hardly had the right to? it angered him.

   ❛  your organization is not my problem. you simply do not know how to take no for an answer.  ❜

the pause in his stride is as good a confirmation as any; her words struck hard and true. the smirk on her lips creeps wider across her face at that -- he strikes back with barbed derision, but the satisfaction of knowing she has already gotten to him --

-- it eggs her on.

“careful, little prince, to not turn your back on your enemies, lest they take the opportunity to sink a knife into your flesh.”

her tone is light, almost musical in its nonchalance, as if she were idly observing the weather. her own displeasure at his assumption -- she is so much more than a dog, even if talon paints her as otherwise, even if she must paint herself as otherwise -- is bitten back and held, unspoken, on her silver tongue.

his fists clench. lazily, her gaze shifts to his hands.

“your anger is poor at hiding your discomfort. you are an unskilled liar, elder heir.”

I have never liked angry men.

“are you so threatened by mere words? coming from the mouth of a wild beast, only controlled by the chain around her neck --” the comparison is envenomed, bitten off at the end as if it stings.

but she still smiles, even through that. smiles, even though he disregards his good fortune and deigns to speak to her as if she is lesser. as they all do.

“continue to keep your head down and walk away with your tail between your legs -- oh, how the mighty have fallen!