JE NE VAIS PLUS TE LÂCHER.

JE NE VAIS PLUS TE LÂCHER.

[horreurscopes]

too fast for freedom

widowmaker print for holiday matsuri ! i started working on this forever ago & got super carried away. started out inspired by a very short scene in florence’s delilah and then just kinda spiraled 

[superluminas]

" you asking me to return it? awful bold. "

it's said with a grin, a laugh, an indication that she, too, is thinking of how this rifle has given them reason to meet on the field again. an unstated invitation that will last as long as lena refuses to bring it to her.

they move across the rooftops with an elegant ease as though they've done this dance a thousand times before. as though this is not a new stage, but one their steps have graced every night for years.

despite the sudden repositioning, there is no hesitation from lena, no faltering in her movements. jumping through time has long since ceased to be jarring, though the reaction of the other woman is still as entertaining as ever.

her own smile mirrors widowmaker's and she can't quite help the way her gaze, for only a moment, falls to the woman's lips. the curve of them. the paint across them as though she were dressed for a date rather than an assassination.

" oh? were we not already? "

a clear invitation to push this fight further. to push each other further.

lena does not stop her from diving from the edge, giving her one... two... three seconds before her accelerator flashes to life and she is darting to the rooftops widowmaker would be aiming for. not the only path that would take her closer to mondatta, but one that would lead to the best shot.

her prediction is right; the woman comes into view yet again, long legs carrying her through the shadows. it takes no time to catch up and yet, once more, lena makes no effort to overtake her.

" come on. at least give me a challenge! "

within the taunt is a request; an urging to give everything she has, to hurt her and make her work.

[latrotoxine]

" oh, no. i was not asking." more of a demand, really -- one she already knows lena will defy, if only to be able to justify and feed her need for this little charade.

" you will do that for me. won't you?"

amélie needs no such justifications: every choice made in preparation to see her was conscious, deliberate, from the dark red of her lips to the deep plunge of her neckline, to the heavy fragrance that adorns her skin and hair. a sillage so powerful it leaves a trail behind her, betraying each step where she once stood.

vanilla, amber and bulgarian roses -- indulgent, sweet. mixes now with sweat. with blood. were it not for the weapon in her hands, amélie would prepare herself no differently for any other date. in fact, even less so.

lena is in hot pursuit behind her as she lands upon the subsequent rooftop, yet once again, she makes no attempt to gain on her -- despite her clear advantage. it would end things too soon for her, wouldn't it? or perhaps, she's too afraid to find out how she would feel to be so close to her. skin to skin. when there's no longer any guise of a fight to justify the rush she's feeling. the demand for a challenge elicits a sharp, amused laugh from widowmaker, still audible between the rapid staccato of gunfire, sprayed mercilessly at her pursuer.

" if you want a challenge, you'll have to stop holding back on me. or have you already forgotten the reason you've come?"

a chilling reminder - mondatta's life is still in her hands, and she could have already guaranteed it long ago. by indulging in this need, lena is placing it in jeopardy.

and amélie has not been known to fail often.

" so come a little closer. i promise -- i won't bite. "

not unless you want me to. behind a wall, a venom mine deployed - all but guaranteeing their proximity should lena choose to close the distance. risky on her part, for many reasons, to engage anyone - let alone tracer - in this close of range.

her superiors would call her stupid for this.

but if she wants a challenge, they will both need one. in more ways than just one.

[superluminas]

there is some relief as the rifle's scope shifts off of mondatta, but even greater is her excitement. shots spray around her, and blue light swallows the darkness of the night, effortlessly dodging every bullet. she can tell that widowmaker is aiming to hit. to kill. and yet, in the woman's eyes, lena can see the same fire. the same anticipation to draw this out.

only one fight and already they know each other's capabilities well enough to choose when to hold back or let all out.

lena can't stop the smile that spreads across her face as she slips into the flow of time, rushing up the stairs to meet widowmaker on the roof.

up above the city and the crowd below, the gunfire breaks for a moment. just a moment.

" you say that, but you seem awful happy to see me. "

and then she's blinking forward again, guns raised, legs pumping and carrying her easily through the momentum. a bullet wreathed in blue wizzes just past widowmaker's cheekbone. another careful show of her precise aim to miss.

lena laughs, positioning her pistols in a mockery of holding a rifle.

" still in a twist 'bout that one? don't worry- taking great care of it. looks nice over my fireplace. "

she keeps pace with widowmaker's long strides, never overtaking her despite easily being able to. not until just the right moment as the woman turns a corner around a ventilation unit. then she's meeting her in her step- a flash of light and a sudden block to her path. a challenge; react or find another way before the bullets land.

[latrotoxine]

" keep taking care of it for me. the next time i see you, i trust you'll remember."

through it, she is bound to her . an excuse to see her again, and again, and again, and again. should lena ever wish it.

lena moves effortlessly amidst the spray of her gunfire, light on her feet, graceful -- almost like a dancer.

two halves of one whole. with incredible synchrony, she mirrors her own movements, breathing new life into a beloved, cherished art form long stolen from her.

the rush that floods her veins is electric. each and every nerve in her body fires as one, propelling her body forward across the rooftops with a newfound, thrilling fervor.

it is intoxicating enough to almost forget, for just a moment, why exactly she's come. why they've both come. if not for eachother.

it is the earpiece she wears that serves as a ceaseless reminder of duty, and the consequences should she return in failure. a bullet nearly kisses her cheek -- another deadly demonstration of her opponent's markmanship prowess, yet amélie makes no point, no effort, to adjust any movements, knowing well her shots will never land completely.

still, lena is anything but predictable. another flash of blue, and to her surprise she finds herself completely cornered, standstill, trapped between the edge of a building and the ventilation unit beside them.

breathless, she meets her gaze unflinchingly. blue eyes are wide, amused, slightly wrinkled at their corners -- a smile as true and as playful as the one that tugs at the corners of her lips.

" we can play dirty, if that's what you want."

at such a range, she has no realistic path forward: only down. down, back up, and around - through another set of rooftops, ones that are likely crawling with more of mondatta's security team.

yet in doing so, she can simultaneously get herself even closer to her target. the clock is ticking, and there is no time to waste. she needs to think quickly, on her feet.

so, she prepares to dive, readying her grapple.

" come and get me, lena. je t'attendrai."

[superluminas]

lena has never been particularly religious, but mondatta's words- his talk of the iris- it's given her something to hold onto. without overwatch, she's had to find her own convictions and goals. the fight against omnics has long since turned into a desire to protect, to maintain peace at every turn.

she steps forward into the crowd, getting closer but remaining carefully away from the stage; lena knows better than to become to visible. too public. after all, on top of the personal security, there are cops lining the perimeter, and whatever respect and celebrity she once had as protection is gone. now 'tracer' is nothing more than a terrorist.

but in the crowd, even the people that recognize her make no move to reveal her. not in this crowd of omnics and humans alike- all seeking peace and change.

she smiles to herself as she glances around at the faces. the bright eyes all watching mondatta.

and then her heart drops.

it's a feeling at first; instinct striking before her thoughts can follow up, but it's only a second before it clicks. the guard just behind mondatta is nervous, hand to his ear. something is wrong.

her gaze follows his to the roofs and, carefully, she pushes through the crowd and into the darkness. who knows how long she has before whatever threat this is reaches mondatta. there's no room for a mistep or error, no time to look each rooftop over, no time to pinpoint based on sight alone.

so she calculates; what angles have a clear view? what building has a direct shot?

there. a gap in the architecture that shows clear through to the buildings behind it and the night sky beyond. there's no time to doubt, all she can do is hope she's right as her accelerator flashes to life and carries her higher.

in an instant she knows she calculated right, because there hangs talon's sniper, scope locked right on mondatta. the feeling in her stomach could easily be fear if she didn't know it so intimately.

excitement.

the rush of a fight about to start.

she gives no warning before her guns light up the same blue as her accelerator, raining down shots around widowmaker. and yet not a single one hits. sloppy enough that, if the woman is paying attention, could be pinned as purposeful.

" guess you ain't quite fast enough. "

[latrotoxine]

vulnerably exposed and suddenly engaged, amélie is left with no choice but to release her sights on the target. this mission may very well become impossible to salvage if the eruption of gunfire spooks the crowd - or the security - below them.

the last mission that tracer intercepted ended in complete disaster. she returned to her superiors empty handed, bearing serious wounds from the very gauntlet she had been ordered - and failed - to retrieve. worse, inflicted by a child no older than ten. worse still, her own weapon, the widow's kiss, expensive as it is dangerous, taken by tracer in the midst of her own confusion and desperation to escape.

yet where frustration and animosity should linger, there is only respect.

lena's reputation precedes her: agile, precise, and competent. yet similarly to their last encounter at the museum only months prior, amélie notes rather quickly that she cannot seem to land a single shot on her, despite the fact she cannot outmaneuver her. rather she knows her marksmanship is more precise than ever -- tracer aims, yet she aims purposefully to miss.

to do so is a demonstration of profound skill and utmost control. one that only a fool would mistake for her ineptitude.

by allowing her these shots, lena has instead extended an invitation to dance - as if to say, catch me, and we'll see if you can succeed this time. unspoken in all except the eyes. a challenge she welcomes.

upside down, amélie greets her with a smile, before pulling herself upright and opening fire of her own.

she makes no effort to truly miss her -- she knows by now that tracer will dodge semi-automatic fire rather effortlessly.

" what a lovely surprise. i was hoping i'd see you tonight...."

a gentle laugh passes her lips, inaudible over the piercing staccato of gunfire. it's an invitation for lena to follow her, up the stairs and onto a nearby rooftop, barely besting her speed only by the help of her grapple.

" you know, we should really stop meeting like this...."

breathless already, her heart blossoms to life beneath her ribs, invigorated, resurrected, by this little game.

" i believe you have something of mine. have you come to return it to me?"

[canned-piss]

ive been drawing all night, love these two

[latrotoxine]

@superluminas -- 💋

the incredible gravity of her task tonight was clear from the moment it was placed into her hands, and hers alone. success is expected, yet perfection is demanded.

tekharta mondatta's assassination, more than any other, must be nothing short of perfect. anything less will be considered a failure. patience, discretion. infesting london's rooftops, the very men hired to keep him safe begin to drop like little flies, one by one, until she has lost count of how many obstacles have been cleared from her path. clean and bloodless, strangled by the cable retracted from her wrist.

she enjoys watching them writhe beneath her hands, floundering and helpless as the color fades from their lips -- such breathlessness is a feeling she knows so very intimately. as she lowers them to the ground, silent and gentle, the last thing they see is a direct reflection of their own impending demise. dying eyes and a cadaverous complexion, the quickness of her own breaths seeming to mirror their own.

the men fall, and an unobstructed line of sight to mondatta unravels with all of the ease of a red carpet. it would almost be laughable, if not for the fact that it bores her. not even a single drop of blood taints the leather of her gloves, nor has a hair fallen out of place from her braid.

and yet she knows her time here grows ever shorter. there remains only minutes before a guard on the ground notices something is amiss, and the city and its perimeter enter a full lockdown.

but mondatta is not to be killed so hastily. this must be done right. in a public display, at the right moment, encircled by a frantic throng of his horrified followers.

complete disorder, bedlam, and outrage. if she fires too early or too late, the display will be forfeit and the mission will fail. it is a delicate, precarious task, one that requires a patient executioner.

the cable of her grapple, twisted around her thigh, becomes her anchor as she descends from the roof of an old hotel, and mondatta's skull is brought into perfect, unobstructed focus.

unobstructed, almost -- were it not for the sharp flash of blue that suddenly lights her periphery.

[lizardios]

[viseurougeinsp]

“« Pour moi, une séparation est l’avant-coureur de l’abandon ; et l’abandon, c’est la mort. »”

— Honoré de Balzac, Illusions perdues | Deuxième partie – Un grand homme de province à Paris (via artdelivre)

[veradia]

dinner party widowmaker 🖤🍷

[feuillesmortes]

From the script of Hiroshima Mon Amour (1959) by Marguerite Duras; Dir. Alain Resnais (translated by Richard Seaver)

[lanuitestmonjour]

“Je suis seule. Dehors, le monde est en train de rire, de s’amuser, de parler, je suis seule, seule avec mon corps, qui ne veut rien, qui ne demande rien, sauf de mourir.”

— Valérie Valère - Le pavillon des enfants fous