clawsextended

[clawsextended]

selina’s never had a home.

maybe she’s always wanted one. or maybe she’s always wanted a concept where she’s felt safe. maybe she’s always desired the idea of security and it’s a pipe dream — she wishes it wasn’t — but sometimes, maybe just selfishly, sometimes she tries to imagine what it might be like.

a place where the sun streams in, a place where it’s warm and the thermostat is mild and the air smells like fresh laundry. a place where there’s bread rising in the oven and the television plays soft static and one of holly’s custom gamecube smash controllers dangling off a plaid cushion. with the phantom dream of a framed photograph, the phantom concept of her own smile trapped in time.

she imagines emma makes that easily for henry, that regina — for how annoying she is — must have a framed photo of him, his ears and his cheeks and his enormous smile beaming from her desk. it’s something she wishes she could do, something she does for holly on their refrigerator but can’t find her paranoia quiet enough to hang a picture. she’s already obsessed about the fridge placement being impossible to see from any windows — checked and climbed herself to see.

but she’s here, now, and finds herself briefly — oh, overcome by the desire to touch everything. she toes carefully out of her heels and loses an entire six inches of height, which leaves her at the tender height of 5’5”. she shrugs out of her leather jacket and does so by letting go of emma’s hand only a moment — gravitates back again once she’s neatly hung it on the nearest surface.

“—have you ever had a song stuck relentlessly in your head?”

she clicks the screen of her phone and there’s a soft, low tone crooning suddenly with a quiet series of hand trumpets. and without much thought she softly takes emma’s hand in hers.

“you can step on my feet all you want. —sorry. it’s driving me catshit. —just follow my lead.”

“you get used to it. i’ve been this way my whole life.”

she can’t remember a time the anxiety wasn’t tremendous, wasn’t creeping and crawling. she hates thinking about it. so she won’t. she consciously tries to force the thought as far from her as she can, and she will. she doesn’t want to feed into all that, doesn’t want to let it eat her alive when she’s just…

…okay for once.

so she won’t. she doesn’t. and it takes effort, she knows it does. the sensation like trying to sit on top of a whole pandora’s box waiting to explode, all those dark things slithering out like eager vipers. sometimes she can dull the feeling, but it’s always at the expense of everything else. when she shuts down she shuts down hard.

“thanks, though. for being cool about it.”

the trepidation in her tone is tight, taut as fishing wire. that, that’s enough to make her feel a little spike in that tension inside her skeleton. she’s always nervous when it comes to this sort of bone-deep honesty. (she feels like she’s always looking for an out without meaning to. constantly trying to free the other person from having to deal with her.)

she hums in approval and smiles, quite genuinely. it’s easy to imagine emma sitting at the table with a cup of coffee, a table she hasn’t even seen yet, and an old newspaper that absolutely still exists in this fictional square. the thought fills her with unexpected but welcome warmth.

“i like it. it’s gorgeous. very austen.”

#CLAWS EXTENDED. #FAULTYCONSCIENCE

[clawsextended]

“you get used to it. i’ve been this way my whole life.”

she can’t remember a time the anxiety wasn’t tremendous, wasn’t creeping and crawling. she hates thinking about it. so she won’t. she consciously tries to force the thought as far from her as she can, and she will. she doesn’t want to feed into all that, doesn’t want to let it eat her alive when she’s just…

…okay for once.

so she won’t. she doesn’t. and it takes effort, she knows it does. the sensation like trying to sit on top of a whole pandora’s box waiting to explode, all those dark things slithering out like eager vipers. sometimes she can dull the feeling, but it’s always at the expense of everything else. when she shuts down she shuts down hard.

“thanks, though. for being cool about it.”

the trepidation in her tone is tight, taut as fishing wire. that, that’s enough to make her feel a little spike in that tension inside her skeleton. she’s always nervous when it comes to this sort of bone-deep honesty. (she feels like she’s always looking for an out without meaning to. constantly trying to free the other person from having to deal with her.)

she hums in approval and smiles, quite genuinely. it’s easy to imagine emma sitting at the table with a cup of coffee, a table she hasn’t even seen yet, and an old newspaper that absolutely still exists in this fictional square. the thought fills her with unexpected but welcome warmth.

“i like it. it’s gorgeous. very austen.”

“oh, i’m always anxious. it’s like a thing. it’s like everything underneath my skin is just electric impulses all firing off at the same time all the time. it’s just sorting through which of the anxiety’s real and what’s in my head.”

the cat absently twirls herself on a heel around their joined hands and then falls back in step with a little click. she’s movement, constant, personified, something so liquid it’s unreal to watch. it’s like a tear in the fabric of a reality all its own. physics don’t apply to her, and there’s a grace her every motion embodies. she’s living choreography.

it’s easier to talk when she’s moving. the buzzing energy has a place to go that’s not just inside her. her fingers always seem to itch — she can’t count the little thumbprint bruises that mark every inch of her.

“i’ll consider another hit or two. just because it felt pretty good, honestly. and it did relax me some. it’s a little impossible to get out of my head.”

there’s no escape hatch out, no trap door. she’s a prisoner to it so often. but right now? she’s pretty calmly herself. as calmly herself as she can get.

“right now? there are only two people in the world for the next few hours. in my head, that’s alright.”

she’s trying to speak her thoughts a little more frequently. —and when they reach a particular curb, divided between lawn and concrete, the cat walks the other side between their joined hands before segueing back in like a mock tightrope. she never so much as falters, serpentine, winding in, out.

#CLAWS EXTENDED. #FAULTYCONSCIENCE

[clawsextended]

“oh, i’m always anxious. it’s like a thing. it’s like everything underneath my skin is just electric impulses all firing off at the same time all the time. it’s just sorting through which of the anxiety’s real and what’s in my head.”

the cat absently twirls herself on a heel around their joined hands and then falls back in step with a little click. she’s movement, constant, personified, something so liquid it’s unreal to watch. it’s like a tear in the fabric of a reality all its own. physics don’t apply to her, and there’s a grace her every motion embodies. she’s living choreography.

it’s easier to talk when she’s moving. the buzzing energy has a place to go that’s not just inside her. her fingers always seem to itch — she can’t count the little thumbprint bruises that mark every inch of her.

“i’ll consider another hit or two. just because it felt pretty good, honestly. and it did relax me some. it’s a little impossible to get out of my head.”

there’s no escape hatch out, no trap door. she’s a prisoner to it so often. but right now? she’s pretty calmly herself. as calmly herself as she can get.

“right now? there are only two people in the world for the next few hours. in my head, that’s alright.”

she’s trying to speak her thoughts a little more frequently. —and when they reach a particular curb, divided between lawn and concrete, the cat walks the other side between their joined hands before segueing back in like a mock tightrope. she never so much as falters, serpentine, winding in, out.

“i wish i hadn’t been so anxious i burned the whole high in like ten minutes. —of course she did. she’s my favorite little schemer.”

she’s only ever looking out for the cat, after all, only ever trying to help. her mother is… extremely stressed. almost all the time. her mother is almost never calm, but emma? emma just keeps bringing out selina’s better self — and sometimes, maybe, she’ll actually take care of herself.

it’s a tall order, but it’s possible.

she softly toys with fingers in her own, plays with digits that she finds feel so perfect — this is the most comfortable she’s felt in a long, long time. she could laugh, she thinks, even if she doesn’t, but it’s burgeoning in the recesses of her chest.

“you did good. perfect hangout, i’d say. and i get to see your place? come on, what’s not to love? ten out of ten series of choices. pretty ingenious.”

she bolsters emma’s confidence without batting an eyelash. she has a multitude of good things to say, suddenly. it feels like they’ve all been there for hours and hours, days, maybe her entire life. like she’s just been patiently waiting for this opportunity. like it was always supposed to happen.

#CLAWS EXTENDED. #FAULTYCONSCIENCE

[clawsextended]

“i wish i hadn’t been so anxious i burned the whole high in like ten minutes. —of course she did. she’s my favorite little schemer.”

she’s only ever looking out for the cat, after all, only ever trying to help. her mother is… extremely stressed. almost all the time. her mother is almost never calm, but emma? emma just keeps bringing out selina’s better self — and sometimes, maybe, she’ll actually take care of herself.

it’s a tall order, but it’s possible.

she softly toys with fingers in her own, plays with digits that she finds feel so perfect — this is the most comfortable she’s felt in a long, long time. she could laugh, she thinks, even if she doesn’t, but it’s burgeoning in the recesses of her chest.

“you did good. perfect hangout, i’d say. and i get to see your place? come on, what’s not to love? ten out of ten series of choices. pretty ingenious.”

she bolsters emma’s confidence without batting an eyelash. she has a multitude of good things to say, suddenly. it feels like they’ve all been there for hours and hours, days, maybe her entire life. like she’s just been patiently waiting for this opportunity. like it was always supposed to happen.

“hmmmmmmmmmmmm.”

the sound is prolonged, a finger raising in mock contemplation to her lips. emma brings out of her the best parts — parts she hasn’t seen since holly was no more than as high as her knee. a sense of whimsy tends to escape her more often than not, but lately she discovers a store of it. she didn’t know she had all this joy in her — didn’t know it was there, let alone still there.

she turns comedically to consider the door of the library with another hum. the urge to break in with little to no effort rises in her gut, how very, very easily it would give way with just a little — hm. no. she spins on a heel, regarding emma again with a curious glance.

honestly? the concept sounds flattering. sweet. the concept of emma’s place is novel, cute, honest. so she decides, in that very easy way, that that’s where they’ll go.

“i am the worst showoff,” she wanders by and takes emma’s hand in the process, steering herself in the sheriff’s direction, “c’mon. show me your humble abode, yeah?”

and she means it. it’s a little stupid thrilling, a little stupid exciting, a little gleeful in a silly way she can’t explain. it’s anxiety that’s curling in her gut but it doesn’t succeed at hampering her.

“holls knows i’m out. i’m willing to bet she helped you plan this because she’s always going lina, please go have fun. and that’s exactly what i’m doing so i’m the grownup here and my daughter can’t tell me what to do.”

she swings their joined hands with a little skip, one that clicks her heels.

“lead the way.”

#CLAWS EXTENDED. #FAULTYCONSCIENCE

[clawsextended]

Harley’s love for Selina is one of my favoritest things in the whole wide world

Harley Quinn vol 3 #61 art by Otto Schmidt

#I BURNED SO LONG SO QUIET. #POPGUNLOADED #[THATS BABYGIRL.]

[clawsextended]

“hmmmmmmmmmmmm.”

the sound is prolonged, a finger raising in mock contemplation to her lips. emma brings out of her the best parts — parts she hasn’t seen since holly was no more than as high as her knee. a sense of whimsy tends to escape her more often than not, but lately she discovers a store of it. she didn’t know she had all this joy in her — didn’t know it was there, let alone still there.

she turns comedically to consider the door of the library with another hum. the urge to break in with little to no effort rises in her gut, how very, very easily it would give way with just a little — hm. no. she spins on a heel, regarding emma again with a curious glance.

honestly? the concept sounds flattering. sweet. the concept of emma’s place is novel, cute, honest. so she decides, in that very easy way, that that’s where they’ll go.

“i am the worst showoff,” she wanders by and takes emma’s hand in the process, steering herself in the sheriff’s direction, “c’mon. show me your humble abode, yeah?”

and she means it. it’s a little stupid thrilling, a little stupid exciting, a little gleeful in a silly way she can’t explain. it’s anxiety that’s curling in her gut but it doesn’t succeed at hampering her.

“holls knows i’m out. i’m willing to bet she helped you plan this because she’s always going lina, please go have fun. and that’s exactly what i’m doing so i’m the grownup here and my daughter can’t tell me what to do.”

she swings their joined hands with a little skip, one that clicks her heels.

“lead the way.”

“like i know where to go make out in this town? that’s not exactly the kind of scouting i do.”

hands pocket themselves in a leather jacket and a head inclines with a calm glance, a ghost of some mona lisa smile present on her lips. it’s enigmatic, difficult to understand, but for emma it’s absolutely as radiant as every cocky grin. it’s the soul of who she is — subdued. a little quiet.

she finds herself gravitating toward emma regardless, hands reaching out to touch a waist and assist in that descent. it’s just… how she tends to function.

“this awning’s much lower. it’s not even a fun drop.”

which she completes as a sentence by falling right off the side in a gratuitous lean, landing without much care.

“boring.”

#CLAWS EXTENDED. #FAULTYCONSCIENCE

[clawsextended]

“like i know where to go make out in this town? that’s not exactly the kind of scouting i do.”

hands pocket themselves in a leather jacket and a head inclines with a calm glance, a ghost of some mona lisa smile present on her lips. it’s enigmatic, difficult to understand, but for emma it’s absolutely as radiant as every cocky grin. it’s the soul of who she is — subdued. a little quiet.

she finds herself gravitating toward emma regardless, hands reaching out to touch a waist and assist in that descent. it’s just… how she tends to function.

“this awning’s much lower. it’s not even a fun drop.”

which she completes as a sentence by falling right off the side in a gratuitous lean, landing without much care.

“boring.”

“you could never.”

humpty dumpty? she doesn’t think emma could ever. she’s positive the princess of the story is the only thing emma can ever be — it suits her, the more selina looks at her. it’s her button nose and her sparkling eyes and her flaxen curls and her pretty charming cheekbones when she smiles. no, princess was kind of written for her.

she glances down again, unfurling to look out. the options are always so limitless. she can do anything she wants. a hand lightly presses hard into the knob of her shoulder, feeling a hard knot knead beneath her fingertips. she rolls her neck one side, the other. a crack accompanies.

“princess looks too good on you.”

it’s a wink. and only a brief second before she flips down to the first roof, landing soundlessly, effortlessly.

“c’mon. let’s get out of here. i’ve got the goods in my pockets.”

she waits patiently for emma. just to. maybe be sure she’s okay.

#CLAWS EXTENDED. #FAULTYCONSCIENCE

[clawsextended]

“you could never.”

humpty dumpty? she doesn’t think emma could ever. she’s positive the princess of the story is the only thing emma can ever be — it suits her, the more selina looks at her. it’s her button nose and her sparkling eyes and her flaxen curls and her pretty charming cheekbones when she smiles. no, princess was kind of written for her.

she glances down again, unfurling to look out. the options are always so limitless. she can do anything she wants. a hand lightly presses hard into the knob of her shoulder, feeling a hard knot knead beneath her fingertips. she rolls her neck one side, the other. a crack accompanies.

“princess looks too good on you.”

it’s a wink. and only a brief second before she flips down to the first roof, landing soundlessly, effortlessly.

“c’mon. let’s get out of here. i’ve got the goods in my pockets.”

she waits patiently for emma. just to. maybe be sure she’s okay.

she laughs. softly. she can’t help it, there’s nothing about it that she can stop. it’s gentle and musical, the tinkle of a harpsichord, the pluck of a harp’s heavenly strings. her hair tumbles into her face and she laces her fingers together where they’ve been sheathed. she has to agree, she is warmer.

(and she’s her, so ask her if she’s fazed. she isn’t.)

“please. it’s okay. seriously. it’s not your fault i have bad circulation. leather’s good for keeping warm but this is a fashion jacket, not a function jacket.”

she quietly glances out toward the horizon for a second. pupils ping across surfaces — she can see everywhere she can go from here. in the absence of light she’s something fascinating, wrinkles and crinkles and scars pockmarked across pale, pale, pale skin. errant smudges of red slash her mouth like some faintly bloody memory, but it does nothing to harden her visage. she is, perhaps, unashamedly herself, viewed unfiltered.

she peers back, turns her attention to the inner sanctum they’ve hidden away to.

“there’s the easy way down or the hard way. but if the alarm system goes off, literally the sheriff is currently otherwise occupied. aka doesn’t give a fuck.”

she cracks a grin. it sands down the last of her edges.

#CLAWS EXTENDED. #FAULTYCONSCIENCE

[clawsextended]

she laughs. softly. she can’t help it, there’s nothing about it that she can stop. it’s gentle and musical, the tinkle of a harpsichord, the pluck of a harp’s heavenly strings. her hair tumbles into her face and she laces her fingers together where they’ve been sheathed. she has to agree, she is warmer.

(and she’s her, so ask her if she’s fazed. she isn’t.)

“please. it’s okay. seriously. it’s not your fault i have bad circulation. leather’s good for keeping warm but this is a fashion jacket, not a function jacket.”

she quietly glances out toward the horizon for a second. pupils ping across surfaces — she can see everywhere she can go from here. in the absence of light she’s something fascinating, wrinkles and crinkles and scars pockmarked across pale, pale, pale skin. errant smudges of red slash her mouth like some faintly bloody memory, but it does nothing to harden her visage. she is, perhaps, unashamedly herself, viewed unfiltered.

she peers back, turns her attention to the inner sanctum they’ve hidden away to.

“there’s the easy way down or the hard way. but if the alarm system goes off, literally the sheriff is currently otherwise occupied. aka doesn’t give a fuck.”

she cracks a grin. it sands down the last of her edges.

oh. oh. the cat whimpers helplessly the second lips touch her neck and she finds herself baring it easily, rolling aside with the most absurdly innocent gesture. it’s a weakness and she begins to wonder if every inch of her is this achilles heel. she could collapse into it, those tender little touches. it melts her.

she bites her own lip, peers back into that seaglass green and finds herself — transfixed. shy. she feels a brief flush cross her cheeks, freckles prominent when that gesture sets in. it’s demure in its way. she seems so small in emma’s grip.

“uh… yeah. it’s — really windy up here?”

she means it. quite literally, she gently places smooth fingertips against the back of the swan’s neck, five little chilly points before she kisses her own palm and presses it to the other’s cheek. yes, maybe she’s — kind of always freezing.

deep flint-black, soft, soft brown peers into those eyes. it’s almost nervous — almost timid. a way she generally almost ever isn’t.

“i run cold.”

#FAULTYCONSCIENCE #CLAWS EXTENDED.

[clawsextended]

oh. oh. the cat whimpers helplessly the second lips touch her neck and she finds herself baring it easily, rolling aside with the most absurdly innocent gesture. it’s a weakness and she begins to wonder if every inch of her is this achilles heel. she could collapse into it, those tender little touches. it melts her.

she bites her own lip, peers back into that seaglass green and finds herself — transfixed. shy. she feels a brief flush cross her cheeks, freckles prominent when that gesture sets in. it’s demure in its way. she seems so small in emma’s grip.

“uh… yeah. it’s — really windy up here?”

she means it. quite literally, she gently places smooth fingertips against the back of the swan’s neck, five little chilly points before she kisses her own palm and presses it to the other’s cheek. yes, maybe she’s — kind of always freezing.

deep flint-black, soft, soft brown peers into those eyes. it’s almost nervous — almost timid. a way she generally almost ever isn’t.

“i run cold.”

she doesn’t want emma to be sorry for anything. not ever again, actually. she doesn’t want her to be sorry for that bite — she doesn’t want her to be sorry for the way she touches her, for the hungry understanding that the cat tastes on her tongue. she’s delirious with it — a euphoric sense that flushes her entire body.

she’s never been wanted… no, that’s not true. she’s never been wanted and seen. she’s seldom had a person able to know her, able to touch a part of her that’s real. she feels nearly delirious when lips touch hers again, lets out a gentle, skittering sigh. that sound only just tumbles across the savior’s collarbone.

the long, broad, thin line of her waist presses diagonally against emma’s body, a hopelessness on full display. she moves herself so easily, the balancing act of it all a place she exists. this world is all her own, physics applying absolutely nowhere when it comes to her. the cat greedily consumes until she can’t feel anything else. she lets out an exhale that shudders — the touch of fog between them expelled a product of hot breath and frigid morning alike.

“how else am i supposed to get warm, anyway?”

to be utterly and completely fair, she is a little chilly. it’s, after all, very high up.

#CLAWS EXTENDED. #FAULTYCONSCIENCE

[clawsextended]

ANNE HATHAWAY & EMILY BLUNT Actors on Actors | Variety (Dec, 2023)

#THE CAT. #LET’S HEAR IT FOR AMERICA’S SWEETHEART. #[DAPH CONTENT DAPH CONTENT.]

[clawsextended]

she doesn’t want emma to be sorry for anything. not ever again, actually. she doesn’t want her to be sorry for that bite — she doesn’t want her to be sorry for the way she touches her, for the hungry understanding that the cat tastes on her tongue. she’s delirious with it — a euphoric sense that flushes her entire body.

she’s never been wanted… no, that’s not true. she’s never been wanted and seen. she’s seldom had a person able to know her, able to touch a part of her that’s real. she feels nearly delirious when lips touch hers again, lets out a gentle, skittering sigh. that sound only just tumbles across the savior’s collarbone.

the long, broad, thin line of her waist presses diagonally against emma’s body, a hopelessness on full display. she moves herself so easily, the balancing act of it all a place she exists. this world is all her own, physics applying absolutely nowhere when it comes to her. the cat greedily consumes until she can’t feel anything else. she lets out an exhale that shudders — the touch of fog between them expelled a product of hot breath and frigid morning alike.

“how else am i supposed to get warm, anyway?”

to be utterly and completely fair, she is a little chilly. it’s, after all, very high up.

the cat shivers at the sudden sting of something oh so light, the suggestion of pain and the promise thereafter and the way it doesn’t fulfill. she lets out another whimper, something helpless. emma apologizes and selina finds herself never wanting an apology less.

she feels the edge of the corner she’s leaning on, half of a knee angled out just so, the rest of her adamantly turned toward emma. the sun isn’t up yet — the hours between them continue to exist, the ones no one else can ever know. selina keeps these things selfishly hoarded to remember forever, to ingrain in her body.

she shakes her head, brushing emma’s nose with her own. it’s the littlest thing, limitlessly tender, colored with the ragged way she breathes. eyes are flint-black in the dark, stricken something shiny and faint. it’s a glimmer, and she kisses her again, presses against the other with a type of longing she has honestly never known. she doesn’t care that it’s cold, not where she is, not even at all. she can’t think outside of such vivid emerald and how she cannot fall out of it.

“don’t be sorry.”

whispered, she’s shaking her head again, stealing another kiss that lingers, yearns. feels so perfect she doesn’t even know what to call this feeling at all. it’s shapeless.

“don’t be sorry at all.”

#CLAWS EXTENDED. #FAULTYCONSCIENCE

[clawsextended]

the cat shivers at the sudden sting of something oh so light, the suggestion of pain and the promise thereafter and the way it doesn’t fulfill. she lets out another whimper, something helpless. emma apologizes and selina finds herself never wanting an apology less.

she feels the edge of the corner she’s leaning on, half of a knee angled out just so, the rest of her adamantly turned toward emma. the sun isn’t up yet — the hours between them continue to exist, the ones no one else can ever know. selina keeps these things selfishly hoarded to remember forever, to ingrain in her body.

she shakes her head, brushing emma’s nose with her own. it’s the littlest thing, limitlessly tender, colored with the ragged way she breathes. eyes are flint-black in the dark, stricken something shiny and faint. it’s a glimmer, and she kisses her again, presses against the other with a type of longing she has honestly never known. she doesn’t care that it’s cold, not where she is, not even at all. she can’t think outside of such vivid emerald and how she cannot fall out of it.

“don’t be sorry.”

whispered, she’s shaking her head again, stealing another kiss that lingers, yearns. feels so perfect she doesn’t even know what to call this feeling at all. it’s shapeless.

“don’t be sorry at all.”

she tells her to look and selina blinks, enormously moved simply by the touch. she cannot help but remain just where she is, asking, begging to be loved — above and beyond the subject of forgiveness, pleading for it in all but words. she leaves the question open because she yearns to be heard.

and she is.

she’s forgotten that sensation of heartbreak mere milliseconds ago, it rolls right off of her. she loses herself in the kiss with such unimaginable honesty her heart thump thump thumps hard in it, her arms easily linking around the sheriff’s neck. she presses into it deeply with utter promise, suddenly — immensely comprehensive. it’s as though there’s this way they’ve both learned a dialectical difference and discovered the same word for the same thing — which is precisely what love is, isn’t it?

she’s absolutely breathless and her soft brown eyes slide shut in a needlessly simple display of trust. her whole body is nothing but that, suddenly, replacing all the blood in it with solely a yearning for closeness. her lipstick leaves itself all over the other’s mouth with zero shame as per the subject. back arches with incredible ease, breath intermingled.

she gets it. maybe not completely, maybe not utterly, but she gets it. she gets that reason you lean in, she thinks, she gets it. she gets the need to be closer, to get closer, to be as close as she can possibly be. and she needs to be here, has never needed to be so goddamn here in her entire life. she’s purring.

for once, for just a second, she stops thinking.

#CLAWS EXTENDED. #FAULTYCONSCIENCE

[clawsextended]

she tells her to look and selina blinks, enormously moved simply by the touch. she cannot help but remain just where she is, asking, begging to be loved — above and beyond the subject of forgiveness, pleading for it in all but words. she leaves the question open because she yearns to be heard.

and she is.

she’s forgotten that sensation of heartbreak mere milliseconds ago, it rolls right off of her. she loses herself in the kiss with such unimaginable honesty her heart thump thump thumps hard in it, her arms easily linking around the sheriff’s neck. she presses into it deeply with utter promise, suddenly — immensely comprehensive. it’s as though there’s this way they’ve both learned a dialectical difference and discovered the same word for the same thing — which is precisely what love is, isn’t it?

she’s absolutely breathless and her soft brown eyes slide shut in a needlessly simple display of trust. her whole body is nothing but that, suddenly, replacing all the blood in it with solely a yearning for closeness. her lipstick leaves itself all over the other’s mouth with zero shame as per the subject. back arches with incredible ease, breath intermingled.

she gets it. maybe not completely, maybe not utterly, but she gets it. she gets that reason you lean in, she thinks, she gets it. she gets the need to be closer, to get closer, to be as close as she can possibly be. and she needs to be here, has never needed to be so goddamn here in her entire life. she’s purring.

for once, for just a second, she stops thinking.

she stops. freezes. emma pulls back from her and — it strikes her so hard, so fast. it’s like the way she senses the change ekes out an accidental droplet from her left eye —

and then emma laughs and her nose wrinkles, her brow crinkling. she doesn’t understand what she said but she’s bewildered when the reaction isn’t vicious. she swiftly reaches up to press the heel of her hand into her eye, digging in to catch whatever other tears want to escape. she has to duck her head, press forward so far she’s against red leather with a great heave of breath.

“sorry. i’m — sorry. god. i’m sorry. i’m sorry, i’m sorry.”

she finds her hands reaching up to wind tight, but she can’t bring it in herself to look up, knelt and accidentally desperate to be forgiven. for something emma even forgives her for seconds prior. she just knows it slices through her heart, right down the middle, the way emma stiffens and selina is responsible somehow inhumanly for it in a way her brain blows disproportionately. it minimizes the panic until its smaller and smaller — somehow hurting emma raises a tier high than the possibility of being hurt, somehow that feels heavier, worse in her heart.

“i feel like i can’t do a single goddamn thing right and i’m so sorry. i’m just trying and that’s all i can ever figure out how to do. it’s just always my stupid mouth. but you —“

it feels like it’s a never-ending thing. because she’s doing everything right. she’s doing everything.. right?

she blinks, glances up, catches green in teary brown and keeps her hands tight in red leather. even knelt, judas begging christ for acceptance, her posture remains simple. natural. her voice is hoarse and thick and quiet with choked emotion.

“ —you don’t think i’m wrong?”

#CLAWS EXTENDED. #FAULTYCONSCIENCE

[clawsextended]

she stops. freezes. emma pulls back from her and — it strikes her so hard, so fast. it’s like the way she senses the change ekes out an accidental droplet from her left eye —

and then emma laughs and her nose wrinkles, her brow crinkling. she doesn’t understand what she said but she’s bewildered when the reaction isn’t vicious. she swiftly reaches up to press the heel of her hand into her eye, digging in to catch whatever other tears want to escape. she has to duck her head, press forward so far she’s against red leather with a great heave of breath.

“sorry. i’m — sorry. god. i’m sorry. i’m sorry, i’m sorry.”

she finds her hands reaching up to wind tight, but she can’t bring it in herself to look up, knelt and accidentally desperate to be forgiven. for something emma even forgives her for seconds prior. she just knows it slices through her heart, right down the middle, the way emma stiffens and selina is responsible somehow inhumanly for it in a way her brain blows disproportionately. it minimizes the panic until its smaller and smaller — somehow hurting emma raises a tier high than the possibility of being hurt, somehow that feels heavier, worse in her heart.

“i feel like i can’t do a single goddamn thing right and i’m so sorry. i’m just trying and that’s all i can ever figure out how to do. it’s just always my stupid mouth. but you —“

it feels like it’s a never-ending thing. because she’s doing everything right. she’s doing everything.. right?

she blinks, glances up, catches green in teary brown and keeps her hands tight in red leather. even knelt, judas begging christ for acceptance, her posture remains simple. natural. her voice is hoarse and thick and quiet with choked emotion.

“ —you don’t think i’m wrong?”

emma kisses that spot softly and the cat releases a helpless, involuntary whimper. it escapes from her mouth with a tremor in her ribcage and she finds herself paused. she hugs her so easily and selina’s arms remain at her sides, dangle there until her hands lift to wrap around emma in kind, until her arms understand slowly what to do. the embrace is unfamiliar and she allows it.

holly is different, it must always be said. it’s always been different. that kid wormed her way immediately into the heart of a sullen, gloomy little girl absolutely full of fear, overwhelmed by hate, and showed her precisely what it had meant to love unconditionally. she still does it — every single day. selina sees her smile and remembers, without fail, what love is, what it’s like when blanketed entirely in innocent warmth. and so, selina loves that way, too.

but holly is different, and she seldom trusts her hands on anyone else. she’s solid as stone in the swan’s arms because the cat is ever unyielding — there is no softness to her frame, nowhere not marred by scar tissue, not toughened to marble by force. the tenderness emma aches to impart lacks sorely across the surface of her body. she tries not to think about proximity, gently buries back in kind in this very calm cocoon of their own making.

“a kiss can be even deadlier if you mean it.”

she says it quietly, almost absently, and feels it for the second time in her life she’s ever spoken those words. they’re never used lightly — nothing about her is. but she lets her eyes slip shut and the world filters in on all sides, black, shadowed in dark that comforts, for once.

her grip tightens just a little. she speaks in this shadow between them, the one emma creates that keeps her safe, “i don’t feel like you. i wish i did. i wish i could. but i can’t, because i don’t know any other way to be.

—everyone taught me how to hate. i’m the only one who taught me how to love. but i don’t touch anyone. and no one touches me. and that’s just fine. except now.”

which she can admit is — strange, humiliating in its total exposure. there’s her heart-rate, inevitable. she breathes out quietly. imagine a train on a track.

“some people just don’t ever get to be real. but i guess this is the first time i’ve ever wanted to be.”

#CLAWS EXTENDED. #FAULTYCONSCIENCE

[clawsextended]

emma kisses that spot softly and the cat releases a helpless, involuntary whimper. it escapes from her mouth with a tremor in her ribcage and she finds herself paused. she hugs her so easily and selina’s arms remain at her sides, dangle there until her hands lift to wrap around emma in kind, until her arms understand slowly what to do. the embrace is unfamiliar and she allows it.

holly is different, it must always be said. it’s always been different. that kid wormed her way immediately into the heart of a sullen, gloomy little girl absolutely full of fear, overwhelmed by hate, and showed her precisely what it had meant to love unconditionally. she still does it — every single day. selina sees her smile and remembers, without fail, what love is, what it’s like when blanketed entirely in innocent warmth. and so, selina loves that way, too.

but holly is different, and she seldom trusts her hands on anyone else. she’s solid as stone in the swan’s arms because the cat is ever unyielding — there is no softness to her frame, nowhere not marred by scar tissue, not toughened to marble by force. the tenderness emma aches to impart lacks sorely across the surface of her body. she tries not to think about proximity, gently buries back in kind in this very calm cocoon of their own making.

“a kiss can be even deadlier if you mean it.”

she says it quietly, almost absently, and feels it for the second time in her life she’s ever spoken those words. they’re never used lightly — nothing about her is. but she lets her eyes slip shut and the world filters in on all sides, black, shadowed in dark that comforts, for once.

her grip tightens just a little. she speaks in this shadow between them, the one emma creates that keeps her safe, “i don’t feel like you. i wish i did. i wish i could. but i can’t, because i don’t know any other way to be.

—everyone taught me how to hate. i’m the only one who taught me how to love. but i don’t touch anyone. and no one touches me. and that’s just fine. except now.”

which she can admit is — strange, humiliating in its total exposure. there’s her heart-rate, inevitable. she breathes out quietly. imagine a train on a track.

“some people just don’t ever get to be real. but i guess this is the first time i’ve ever wanted to be.”

her hands are moved and she blinks — a bewilderment that settles across her eyes. it’s waking up again, again, again and again and again each time. she sees the world again and it looks new, cushioned in the haze of an unfamiliar high. hooded eyes blink in a manner so gradual it could be audible, could hear the click of lower lids against lashes.

“please don’t be sorry.”

a genuine statement, whispered with every word in mind. she hears emma speak, hears the words and takes them in — do. the cat manages to control the urge to act on that. a contrarian part of her brain hears emma and insists she rushes bullheaded into it. her hands yearn to touch. her palms itch.

she can’t not kiss her. it hits her. right in the heart. she gently squeezes both those hands, brings joined digits together to lean forward and just kiss her, oh, she has to. a soft and plush and terribly tender thing, a contrast to the way something in her bellows with great need.

“you won’t ruin anything.”

because that promise has to echo, it comes straight from narcissus’ mouth.

she presses another kiss, ever so lovingly, to the corner of that mouth. just there, like memory.

she tries to gather herself together, get her thoughts straight. doing is so easy for her, moving and touching. her body has an intelligence her mind shares, but it’s natural, requires no effort. the cat knows grace as her very first language, fluid movement and the way hands can brush, warm, hot breath. she speaks it. but words are difficult, sometimes elusive.

“i don’t know how to do this where it isn’t a game. and i’m not playing anything right now. but i don’t know how to make this real, so i just need you to know that. i’m fucking afraid of everything. but i’m not afraid of you.”

and she absolutely thinks that’s the craziest sentence she’s ever spoken. maybe set of them, even. she is. she’s terrified of everything. but emma’s hands on her don’t make her want to flay herself alive, as most things do. she feels her face flush, that embarrassment almost always following just behind.

eyes drop. she sighs, leans in. it’s so rare she can’t make eye contact. usually it’s an overwhelm of it. (she wishes smiling was easier for her when it’s not performance — she thinks emma’s smile could keep her warm in a snowstorm.)

“my head makes everything so jumbled up. god, and i can’t make it stop. but right now? it’s… mostly quiet.”

a lean back into the touch. she finds herself sighing softly.

“i just want to feel okay for a little while. it’s pretty new.”

#CLAWS EXTENDED. #FAULTYCONSCIENCE

[clawsextended]

her hands are moved and she blinks — a bewilderment that settles across her eyes. it’s waking up again, again, again and again and again each time. she sees the world again and it looks new, cushioned in the haze of an unfamiliar high. hooded eyes blink in a manner so gradual it could be audible, could hear the click of lower lids against lashes.

“please don’t be sorry.”

a genuine statement, whispered with every word in mind. she hears emma speak, hears the words and takes them in — do. the cat manages to control the urge to act on that. a contrarian part of her brain hears emma and insists she rushes bullheaded into it. her hands yearn to touch. her palms itch.

she can’t not kiss her. it hits her. right in the heart. she gently squeezes both those hands, brings joined digits together to lean forward and just kiss her, oh, she has to. a soft and plush and terribly tender thing, a contrast to the way something in her bellows with great need.

“you won’t ruin anything.”

because that promise has to echo, it comes straight from narcissus’ mouth.

she presses another kiss, ever so lovingly, to the corner of that mouth. just there, like memory.

she tries to gather herself together, get her thoughts straight. doing is so easy for her, moving and touching. her body has an intelligence her mind shares, but it’s natural, requires no effort. the cat knows grace as her very first language, fluid movement and the way hands can brush, warm, hot breath. she speaks it. but words are difficult, sometimes elusive.

“i don’t know how to do this where it isn’t a game. and i’m not playing anything right now. but i don’t know how to make this real, so i just need you to know that. i’m fucking afraid of everything. but i’m not afraid of you.”

and she absolutely thinks that’s the craziest sentence she’s ever spoken. maybe set of them, even. she is. she’s terrified of everything. but emma’s hands on her don’t make her want to flay herself alive, as most things do. she feels her face flush, that embarrassment almost always following just behind.

eyes drop. she sighs, leans in. it’s so rare she can’t make eye contact. usually it’s an overwhelm of it. (she wishes smiling was easier for her when it’s not performance — she thinks emma’s smile could keep her warm in a snowstorm.)

“my head makes everything so jumbled up. god, and i can’t make it stop. but right now? it’s… mostly quiet.”

a lean back into the touch. she finds herself sighing softly.

“i just want to feel okay for a little while. it’s pretty new.”

and then she’s always a tuning fork, always so given to this disaster — desire is everything, anything, it floods her entirely. she can’t help this either, because the cat is nothing if not physical. her body demands the movement and emma moves her hand — which only spurs her to grip, which only yanks from her ribcage a ragged breath.

(emma doesn’t realize the strength of her hands and the patient way she’s always poised is because she’s attentive to the blonde’s every breath, yes — but the ground below is far, far down. and does she think she’d survive it? absolutely, she’s a stupid idiot, but it had only taken a brief flash of scarlet and gold in her mind’s eyes to instinctively angle herself at every turn. she consciously and unconsciously assures emma’s secure.)

she forgets to flinch. fingers brush over that deep dent of a scar, the memory of a cigar burrowing every moment save for now; now, for once, it’s absent. she doesn’t have to shy away from the typically intrusive feeling that happens — because it doesn’t even trip a switch.

“you can have as many minutes as you want.”

selina thinks she might need an hour or so to remember how to breathe. she blinks, and blown pupils crowd out brown, but it doesn’t matter, anyway. she absolutely must lean her nose until it touches emma’s, very comforted by the gesture. very feline. eyes close, and the cat, great panther, has never felt such a sense of mutually requited honesty, a sense of reciprocated comprehension so kismet it forms all-encompassing safety.

she forgets she’s being touched, only a little, cushioned by the hits taken as intentionally as possible. it’s how she purrs, how there’s a closeness that needs its own new definition. she thinks this might be the actual truth of what romance is — a delirious happiness she sears into her memory to hold unyielding, to draw on in every moment needed and unneeded.

#CLAWS EXTENDED. #FAULTYCONSCIENCE