Sep 5, 2017
coeurdeveuve replied to your post “:)”
i feel this bc widow is like this too
a muse who could easily be friends w/ reaper once having cracked through his shell: hi
reaper: it’s time to Leave
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coeurdeveuve replied to your post “:)”
i feel this bc widow is like this too
a muse who could easily be friends w/ reaper once having cracked through his shell: hi
reaper: it’s time to Leave
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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⇝
Your muse’s voice! || send them to me you cowards
Like talking to an empty room. He can’t help but wonder how much personality he’s projecting on her because he can’t help but talk anyway, and how much is just gone. But he suspects there’s more. It’s always lurking just under the surface, like there’s a person bricked in behind one of the blank walls. Also like he’s toeing a hair-fine line, because he’s seen what happens when she needs to kill, how quickly she can move, how it’s like a violence of emotion in the split second when she makes the kill.
pulls gently on his hair. for science.
He tenses up a little too quick, but once he recognizes the brief tug as something tentative and not “tearing scalp” levels of damage, turns and frowns. “Just cause I don’t put mine up like you do don’t mean it’s free game.”
( @coeurdeveuve )
there’s no feasible reason why his plans shouldn’t go unhindered -- or so he thinks. it’s all been planned well enough. it’s late at night ( he feels safer when the rest of the world is nearly as sightless as he is ) on an insignificant day, and he’s watched his target over the course of a week just to be sure all will go smoothly. what he failed to account for was the fact that someone else may have their sights set on the same target.
she’s there, not far from where he stands now, propped upright upon his cane. she doesn’t move much, so it’s not a shift in the air he feels. rather, it’s the heat of a body in the cool evening; it’s the scent of something familiar diluted with the stench of talon, and as he draws closer, now hovering in place of walking, it’s the sound of a slow heartbeat. he doesn’t know how to confront her, but he’s not keen on leaving his target to someone else’s whims.
❝ ... am i supposed to call you widowmaker now ? ❞ no more than a soft voice carried by the breeze as he hangs nearby among the trees, out of sight -- though to her, can anyone be out of sight, truly? ❝ we were on a first name basis. ❞ once upon a time. he’s not so easy to recognize now, though. ❝ i hope you’re not about to shoot the man in that cabin. ❞
“ Things die. That’s part of life. ”
Oh. Lord. He’s being lectured on the nature of things by the brainwashed sniper. As far as he’s concerned, that’s as low as he can go right now, so he laughs in return, loud, boisterous, offensive to the gravitas she worked so hard to cultivate.
All things die. Where on his body, where on his soul, was he marked to the contrary? Where, in his short life, did it say the face of death was long and far away?
But, he supposes, to live within such confines, ever intimate with death and danger, was a contrariness of its own. Despite the pain, despite the blood on his teeth, and all he’ll earn for saying anything, he responds, “Please tell me you’ve said that in Reaper’s earshot.”
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because she's just in the middle of a reconditioning treatment, and clothes can't be worn in the tank they submerge her in. she's left naked except for the mask over her eyes and the plugs and wires along her skin.
Hmm. Breezy. || Accepting
Which means he’s early. Or late. Off schedule. Who cares? He tends to let go of empathy once he sheds the persona of the hour. So he retreats farther in the bunker for now. Not by much, just to a small room where he can uncork an ungodly expensive bottle of wine, pour two glasses, and wait.
he probably likes to eat food in bed and get crumbs everywhere, the heathen. |:
imagining jesse in your bed? it’s more likely than you think ;) || accepting
“Can’t say I’ve ever tried that.” and he’s never gonna. Gross. Still, her regard for him is telling, so how to reward her? With a wink. “I hear Château Guillard has beds with sheets so clean you can eat off’em. Maybe I’ll experiment there, no?”
' i am a weapon, and weapons do not weep. '
He’s leaning casually on a balcony, pointedly not looking down where she perches, the smoke from his cigarillo angled at a slant to them both, giving her the wind direction. They could be any two people on earth right now, watching a sunset, sharing a moment.
Well, they could have, but that’s never stopped Widowmaker before.
“Not even for the setting sun?” The cool silence he gets in return tells him enough. “S’pose not. Are we happy?”
By which he means do you have the shot? As opposed to anything else.