#withspite

@withspite​.  open prompt.  /   ❝ do not mess with me right now. ❞ / from gabe/reaper!!

‘  riamh  ,  ‘  irish  lilt  remains  low  ,  tone  dripping  with  irritation  at  his  attempt  at  a  threat  .  never  had  she  feared  him  and  she  would  not  start  now  ———  there  are  few  things  ,  even  fewer  people  ,  that  she  truly  feared  ,  but  more  importantly  ,  she  has  worked  so  long  with  him  that  to  fear  him  now  would  be  absurd  .  so  ,  if  he  expects  her  to  leave  after  being  made  to  wait  so  patiently  for  him  back  in  her  lab  ,  he  will  be  sorely  disappointed  .

no  ,  she  stays  in  the  doorway  from  which  she  had  called  to  him  ,  hands  clasped  behind  her  back  and  posture  as  prim  as  ever  .  silence  falls  as  she  studies  him  carefully  ,  the  watchful  eyes  of  the scientist  taking  in  whatever  data  she  can  garner  on  his  current  state  .  

@withspite​:  “  you broke it.  ” sym @ pouty arrow boy

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 his  first  reaction  is  to  be  indignant  to  a  fault,  to  hide  the  broken  pieces  like  some  sort  of  child  that  had  shattered  his  mother’s  favorite  vase  -  or  even  more  accurately,  a  husband  who  had  broken  the  good  plates  in  his  effort  to  seem  extraordinary.  hanzo  was  not  used  to  shame,  and  he  was  certainly  not  used  to  a  woman  making  him  feel  embarrassed  -  so  imagine  his  surprise  when  that  firm  tone  reaches  his  ears  and  he’s  attempting  -  no,  scrambling -  to  hide  the  broken  pieces  of  her  turret  behind  his  back.  he  wishes  his  cheeks  did  not  immediately  inflame,  wishes  that  he  could  look  her  in  the  eyes...  but  situations  like  this?  oh,  he  was  a  piss  poor  liar,  and  it  showed  in  the  way  he  clears  his  throat,  backs  himself  to  the  nearest  wall,  and  keeps  his  crimes  hidden. 

                   hanzo  shimada  was  scared  of  one  thing  and  one  thing  only:

                                                                                    satya  vaswani. 

                                  “ i  have  no  idea  what  you  are  talking  about. ”

SHE IS A MACHINE, BRUTALLY EFFICIENT AND UNENCUMBERED by human morals that would keep most from pulling the trigger. The removal of feeling, the slowing of her heart rate, further honing of her body... it all served to make her a better weapon, a better killer. She obeyed without question, she pulled the trigger without question, and sometimes - she even enjoyed it (as much as she could). The Widowmaker’s current state allowed her to exist in a limbo that bore no consequences for her human psyche, no concern for her past, only her present. At Talon’s behest, she killed and killed and killed, seeing the change of history at each pull of her sniper rifle. This would be no different - or so, she thought. 

When Amélie had been given the order to dispose of Jesse McCree, former Blackwatch/Overwatch agent, she had hardly bat an eyelash at the provided dossier. Inwardly, however, curiosity had bloomed. She remembered him of course, she remembers everything from her days with Gérard, few of the agents included. The cowboy stuck out vividly in her mind, charming, vivacious, even daringly flirtatious. A wink and a tip of his hat to a married woman... well, she had enjoyed it. Had enjoyed that Southern drawl and politeness that came with it. Gérard had seemed to especially like him, too, something about ‘a heart of gold.’ Those memories did not leave her, but they did not haunt her either. Emotion was not attached to them - even if she knew they should make her feel something. 

Every machine has it’s rusty gears, it’s un-oiled cogs and displaced screws. Amélie didn’t recognize the proverbial blind spot she had for this gun-totting, belt-buckle wearing, cigar-smoking idiot until she had her sights trained on him, has her fingertips upon the trigger. He is, perhaps, the most dangerous mark she’s ever had - the one who could end her as easily as she ends him. But that’s not what she notices, as she stares at him through her scope, visor allowing the adjustment to the night time darkness and her body remaining chilled despite the Southern heat. On the contrary, instead she notices how finely he’s aged - how that rugged handsomeness and exuded combination of warmth and slight danger is still prevalent in all that he does. And that distraction... it makes her sloppy. 

      She actually misses the shot, and all she remembers afterwards is pain. 

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When Amélie comes to, it’s not in a morgue, not in a Talon hideaway, and not in her own home. She expects to be either dead, or in intense agony, but instead... she feels like she’s floating. Eyes that have been shut for what feels like an eternity slowly peel open, amber hues adjusting the bright, diffused light of... the bedroom. She blinks once, twice, and a third time - fog in her brain toiling away at her awareness. It takes a good several minutes for her to grow aware enough to truly assess where she is, starting with the bed, the walls, her clothes... Her clothes. Eyes squint almost accusingly down at the large shirt (definitely not hers... is that plaid?) hiding her svelte frame, stuttering briefly on the side of her abdomen - where most of that dull pain is coming from. On reflex, she moves to reach down her right arm to peel back the hem of the shirt-dress, only to find that it will not budge. 

“ Merde. ” She tugs again, and again. When each attempt gives her nothing, her head tilts and she finds the object of her placation: one hand, cuffed to the railing of the bed. Somehow, it only being one felt more insulting than both. Slowly, she sits up, relieving a bit of the pressure upon her shoulder to press her back against the bed frame (wincing, as she does so). Mile-long, dark tresses fall about her like a curtain, and an impatient huff blows them aside, while she exams the blankets warming her chill body. Rustic, country... and to be quite honest, they smelled nice. The shirt smelled nice, the room smelled nice, the bed smelled nice... all of it was masculine, earthy. She knows where she is in an instant. 

@withspite​​  unpopular opinion.  /   ❝ 🔥 ❞

i’ve been outta unpopular opinions since ever ago so i’m just gonna talk about moira. something i’ve noticed people confused on and questioning is how she’s such a fucking nerd (her dance emote, the anime sprays, the anime references, her dance emote) but also a sophisticated, brilliant scientist who speaks so eloquently and shit. and while thinking about this does kinda give me whiplash because its such a wild combination of traits and interests, i think that’s kinda the point maybe? she’s a character who’s core theme really is duality and from her abilities to her design to even all This, that shines through.

“Aren’t we supposed to be working?” || sentence starters || @withspite​

“We  are  working.”  

The  words  come  out  in  a  low  growl  and  though  his  face  is  hidden  behind  his  mask,  you  could  practically  feel  the  frown  tugging  at  his  face.  Irritation  set  heavy  and  rigid  within  the  wide-set  of  his  shoulders.  Too  often  he  was  paired  with  this  annoying  little  rat,  every  time  sombra  never  failing  to  make  his  blood  pressure  rise  considerably.  You  would  think  he  wouldn’t  tolerate  her  teasing  behaviour  or  endure  any  of  her  taunts  or  prodding,  but  he  knows  that  she  is  useful,  an  asset  one  could  say,  and  so  he  resists  the  urge  to  really  snap  at  her.  He  is  sure  she  knows  how  she  is  playing  with  fire,  that’s  fine,  one  day  she  would  be  burned,  greedy  fingers  for  knowledge  venturing  too  close  to  the  flames.  

Until  then  he  will  endure  and  use  her  skills  to  his  advantage.  Sombra’s  expertise  with  computers  is  near  unparalleled  after  all,  and  damn  useful  even  with  her  fickle  sense  of  loyalty.  Even  so,  though,  in  moments  like  these  where  she  is  grating  at  his  nerves  that  doesn’t  stop  the  clench  of  his  teeth  and  burning  glare  sent  her  way  from  behind  the  bleached  bone  of  his  mask.

@withspite​ for une jolie petite ballerine

the  night  has  dawned  long  ago,  streets  of  the  city  at  the  base  of  hanamura  alive  with  activity.  it’s  rare  these  days,  he  finds  himself  here  -  this  is  certainly  more  of  genji’s  scene  than  his  own,  but  this  is  an  indulgence  he  partakes  in  greedily.  much  of  this  city  is  his,  much  of  the  buildings  are  his,  and  yet  he  knows  few  of  the  local  clubs  by  name,  even  less  the  owners  outside  of  those  who  owed  upon  their  debts  or  provided  their  establishments  for...  more  illicit  activities.  perhaps  these  were  not  the  best  places  to  take  her  on  nights  he  could  escape,  but  they  were  not  picky  -  him  especially  so.  how  could  he  be,  when  he’d  been  enamored  with  her  the  moment  she  had  set  foot  upon  that  stage?

ballet  was  not  his  interest  of  choice,  and  for  the  most  part  he  usually  found  the  elder’s  selected  entertainment...  lacking  in  the  department  of  what  interested  young  men.  this  time,  though,  this  time  something  had  been  done  right  -  because  from  the  second  she  moved  upon  that  stage...  the  graceful  flow  of  water  and  flex  of  a  svelte,  sinful  frame...  he  had  been  enraptured.  his  father  hadn’t  noticed,  but  genji  had,  and  were  it  not  for  his  prodding,  were  it  not  for  an  incessant  need  to  pursue  what  he  desired,  perhaps  he  would  have  let  the  ballet  company  take  their  leave  without  the  dragon  having  sunk  it’s  claws  into  that  beautiful,  beautiful  dancer. 

but  alas,  he  had,  and  so  here  they  were  -  the  engine  of  a  sports  car  far  too  expensive  to  not  be  flashy  idling  roughly  in  the  lot  outside  the  club.  people  know  his  car,  his  plates  -  they  don’t  park  near  him,  and  they  don’t  look  at  him.  he  was  royalty  here,  and  it  was  a  burden  he  bore  with  pride.  darkened  hues  fixate  upon  the  woman  in  his  passenger  seat,  left  hand  drumming  softly  at  his  steering  wheel.  the  right?  it  sat  nestled  upon  a  slim  thigh,  pinkie  and  ring  finger  tracing  patterns  only  a  few  inches  away  from  the  apex.  his  nostrils  flare,  and  the  engine  is  cut.  without  the  roar  of  the  v8,  it’s  easy  to  hear  the  bass  of  the  nearby  club  bumping  in  time  with  flickering  lights.