#I just gotta tighten up for real and me more diligent about saving

[woohooincoffin]

Hmmmm if I tighten up, I could have a full 30k down payment saved up……………..

#one more year with my parents for this….. is worth it #and ill be done or one semester away from my #my degree #so…. #I just gotta tighten up for real and me more diligent about saving #then I can shift focus to moving out a new job and house purchase etc #etc etc aahhhh

[captainsourwolf]

Everything Bagel Please

“Maybe I should take my pants off for this.”

Rhett isn’t paying attention when Link starts muttering. He’s too focused on the laptop in front of him instead of the man next to him. He ignores Link’s question, barely hears it, and waves him off with one quick gesture.

Link huffs and Rhett hears the couch squeak as he rises. A moment later the bathroom door in Rhett’s office shuts loudly. Intrigued, Rhett glances up from the screen, but only briefly, before shrugging and focusing back on his computer.

The house is too quiet for a few minutes except for the sound of Rhett clicking away and the occasional curse from Link down the hall. Normally Rhett would go investigate, but there’s too much he needs to get done before they go home for the evening. Diligently he works, enjoying the mostly-quiet of the house for a few more moments.

He really should’ve paid attention the first time.

Rhett feels Link’s presence before he sees him. Hears his feet tapping along the hardwood and stopping next to him. And then he’s bumping into Rhett, softly but with purpose, and—and rubbing against Rhett’s arm.

“Link, what—“

“Don’t you think this is better? With no pants?” Link interrupts him and when Rhett finally gives up and turns around, he nearly chokes on his own tongue.

Link. Nude save for the edible underwear. The plastic-paper material is flimsy and stretched around his half-hard cock, his balls barely contained in the undercarriage area. Rhett feels his entire body flush with heat as he takes in the sight of Link standing there, hands on his hips, everything exposed and on display for Rhett.

“I asked a question,” Link says, voice a little breathy and high, his cheeks pink. “Aren’t these better without pants?”

Rhett doesn’t answer. Can’t answer if he’s being honest. Link is—he’s fucking obscene and it’s all for Rhett. Licking his lips, he looks Link up and down. Takes in the pink on his cheeks, the perky nipples, the taut belly and slim waist and slender hips; the way the edible fabric clings to Link’s skin and looks ready to snap if he so much as moves, and the tantalizing peek of his cockhead; and after a moment, all the way down his long leans legs.

“What’re you—I mean...” Rhett pauses and can’t help licking his lips a second time. Fuck he feels parched already. Link grins down at him where he stands and bumps his cock against Rhett’s shoulder again. “What—how—Link.”

Link laughs and swivels his hips, covered dick brushing against Rhett’s shirt sleeve and pulling the underwear even tighter around his length. Swallowing hard, Rhett shoves his laptop onto the couch next to him and turns his full attention on the treat man beside him. He reaches out, big hands closing around Link’s slender hips, thumbs pressing into the crease between thigh and groin as he guides Link in front of him straddling his knees. He’s delighted to see Link’s cock twitch and a small wet spot growing on the underwear when he presses down harder.

“You gonna lick it?” Link’s voice is low as he stares down at Rhett. He lands on his knees, spread wide across Rhett’s lap and upright in a rare height advantage, underwear stretching with him almost comically. A few seeds of the everything bagel seasoning pop off as he moves.

“Only if it tastes good,” Rhett murmurs, then grips Link tighter and pulls him closer. He nuzzles against the smooth skin of his underbelly, breathing him in and smelling nothing but Link and the underwear. “Does it taste good?”

Link shudders in response. Rhett watches his cock swell, the red papery fabric filling out nicely until the head pokes out the top; precum smears wet across the waistline. Link moans softly and Rhett can’t help it. Nudging Link forward, he glances up, watching Link’s face, and closes his lips around the tip. He sucks the taste off Link’s skin and digs his fingers into Link’s ass cheeks, holding him still.

Link huffs, mutters a quiet, “Taste alright?” and twists his fingers in Rhett’s hair. Rhett hums, like he’s thinking real hard about his answer, then runs his tongue along the slit to catch the precum pooling there. Link gasps and his hips stutter.

“I don’t know yet.” Rhett smirks up at him, loving the flush in his cheeks and the perfect pout of his mouth and the way his breathing has gone ragged and rough. He gives Link another little lick. “Think I need to do a thorough taste test. Will it underwear?”

His joke earns him Link’s fingers tightening in his hair and his other hand pinching his shoulder. Wincing, he laughs and jostles Link by the hips, squeezing lightly.

“Get to tastin’ then, I have a feeling this stuff won’t last long,” Link gestures to his crotch where the underwear is already dissolving and breaking apart in some spots.

Rhett nods, licks his lips. He tugs Link forward again, gets him as close as possible, and dives right in. Licks the underwear along the length of Link’s cock, nibbles his way around the waist and the ties on the sides, doesn’t stop until he’s nuzzling his nose against Link’s balls where the everything bagel seasoning patch rests. There he pauses for a second. Link tries to rut against his face and drag his dick along Rhett’s beard, but Rhett holds him still.

“Papery,” Rhett says and licks the underwear once more. Then he inhales deep where the seasoning covers Link and gives him one hard lick around his sac. “Bagel-y.” Link moans and rocks his hips, fingers gripping Rhett’s hair on the verge of too tight. Rhett sighs and runs his tongue around the barely contained outline of Link’s balls, catching the seeds as they fall off. “Tasty.”

He grins and Link groans long and low. He’s leaking a wet trail on his belly and Rhett’s face. His cock jumps in the confines of the underwear when Rhett keeps running his tongue around. Eventually he manages to get every bit of the seasoning and starts working his way back up along Link’s length. The papery plastic begins to break apart under his lips, leaving a sticky, sugary mess behind that sticks to his beard and mouth.

“Just—“ Link sighs and rubs his cock on Rhett’s bearded jawline. Rhett sees his brows knit together like he’s trying to figure out what he wants. He shifts around, grunting and sitting up straighter so he can pull Rhett’s face right into his groin where he’s nearly busting out the top of the underwear. “Get it off, get me off, do somethin’. You know what it tastes like by now.”

Flushing with heat, Rhett wedges his fingers under one of the ties on the underwear and yanks on it till it breaks. Link moans and Rhett pulls it down, just enough to free Link’s cock and get his mouth on it without a barrier. He lets the underwear hang and sucks Link down in smooth stroke. He tongues the vein along the length of him, teases the sensitive spot under the head, gets him good and wet until there’s spit and precum wetting his beard and sliding over Link’s balls.

“Fuck, baby, yeah, love the taste of my cock.” Link moans and rocks his hips in time with Rhett’s mouth, using the hold on Rhett’s hair for leverage. “Don’t you?” He tugs Rhett off and tilts his head back, and Rhett just nods and whines in response.

“Taste so good,” he rasps out before enveloping Link in wet heat once more. A strangled moan and Link is holding him in place, thrusting his cock into Rhett’s mouth with little shallow ruts. Rhett lets him, gripping onto his hips tightly as Link uses his mouth to get off. The underwear keeps sticking to his cheek and he’s pretty sure a lot of it has dissolved and broken apart into his beard, but he doesn’t care. As long as he’s got a mouthful of Link’s cock, the stuff can stick wherever it damn well wants to.

Hips stuttering, Link whines and tries to get as close as possible, practically pinning Rhett to the back of the couch. “Almost there,” he huffs out. Rhett encourages him on with gentle squeezes around his hips and butt, and hums around his dick that make him moan high pitched and broken. He knows every tell Link has, knows that the way he’s losing rhythm and the way he’s going taut as a bowstring under Rhett’s hands means he’s about to cum.

But Rhett has one more spot he wants to taste. He taps Link’s side, much to his aggravation, and urges him back a little. Link groans but slips from Rhett’s mouth with an obscene amount of spit and precum.

“One more spot I wanna taste, didn’t get the full flavor profile.”

“Oh my god, just—get me off, please,” Link begs. He wraps a hand around his shaft and strokes himself slowly, letting Rhett guide him down onto the couch on his back. Instinctively he bends his knees and spreads his legs wide, giving Rhett plenty of room to shoulder his way in between.

“Looks like you gotta lil somethin’—“ Rhett murmurs. Then he’s ducking his head down and pressing his lips right to Link’s taint and sucking the smooth skin into his mouth. There’s a faint hint of bagel seasoning and everything that’s distinctly Link and it makes Rhett moan, loud and uninhibited.

Link’s hips jerk. Rhett throws an arm over his waist, pinning him down, and wraps his other hand around Link’s thigh, fingers digging in hard enough he’ll probably bruise later. Rhett licks him, tasting him, and then sucks his balls into his mouth, too. Link keens high and loud and his hand speeds up on his cock.

“Taste good down here, too,” Rhett rumbles. Then he’s dipping lower and circling Link’s rim, light and teasing, and back up across his taint. Link’s hips raise slightly, hand a blur on his cock. Rhett can tell he’s about there so he noses his way around Link’s balls and the base of his dick, licking the faint taste of seasoning away with his tongue.

Link’s rocking hips still. He tenses up and his balls tighten and he’s clenching his thighs around Rhett’s head as he cums hard over his fist and belly. Rhett holds him steady through his orgasm until he finally slumps down to the couch with a whimper. He lets go and scooches himself back, sitting on his knees to take in the sight of Link post-orgasm.

Sweaty and blissed out, Link’s chest heaves. He’s got his eyes closed as he lies there, hand loose around his softening cock, jizz thick and messy on his knuckles and stomach. The underwear is no longer in one piece; instead it sticks to Link’s skin is bits and pieces, most of it stuck to one thigh and the rest in patches. It would almost make Rhett laugh the way it frames Link’s groin in sticky patches, if his own dick wasn’t trying to bust through his pants.

For a moment Link is quiet, catching his breath while Rhett palms himself between Link’s still spread knees. He opens one eye and smirks at Rhett. He props himself up on his elbows, watching Rhett cup his dick through his jeans and squeeze to relieve the pressure some.

“Was the taste to your satisfaction?” Link asks. He sits up fully, fingers deftly undoing the button and zipper on Rhett’s jeans. Rhett groans at the feeling of relief on his aching dick. “Did it underwear?”

Rhett hums in thought as he crowds Link down into the couch, eyes fluttering closed and a soft moan escaping as Link reaches into the front of his briefs. He wraps his hand around Rhett’s cock, rubbing his thumb across the slit through the slick mess.

“Design and structure leaves a lot to be desired,” Rhett starts, rolling his hips down. Link strokes him slowly.

“But the taste—“ he pauses to kiss Link, a low growl rumbling through his chest. “The taste was spot on.”

#rhink #rhink ficlet #rhink fic #lemon #so so so so SO lemon #what have I done

[foureyeswithanicesmile]

He’s back, the man behind the mask.

tags- mentions of sex trafficking, drug usage, violence, slight angst, slowburn. This also may or not be the beginning to a series i’m writing, might publish on A03 at some stage. Enjoy.

You prioritised your role as a private investigator, no matter how hard or endangering the job was; You always got to the bottom of it. However, after being too direct, you found yourself dancing with the devil after being tasked with the death of one of the worst of the worst.

When first researching the man’s death, you got your hands onto his autopsy report, revealing the kind of trauma he went through physically, as you didn’t care for the man’s personal wellbeing whatsoever.

“ He had a lot of blunt force trauma to the ribs and legs- and what bullets were found in his lungs and oesophagus?” You perked whilst you re-read over the knowledge documented into your note book.

“ Don’t you think he had it coming?” The masked forensic scientist spoke suddenly, his words almost startling you.

“ Excuse me?” You asked politely, unsure as to what he was getting at.

“ He ruined young girls and got their fathers hooked on meth- Why are you trying to look into him?” The man reiterated, his grip on the files tightening.

At this point in your career, you became accustomed with these kind of questions like ‘ why?’ or ‘ how do you live with yourself?’, In all seriousness you couldn’t disagree with them, the things the people you were given large sums of money to explore about were deplorable. Yet you had no exact choice, the fact you worked in a form of law enforcement allowed you to deter from the fact you too had a history of obscene violence.

“ My conscious isn’t up for discussion- what bullets were found” You now demanded, voice both tired and stern.

Even with your pistol strapped to your hip, the pathologist chose to ignore your requests.

“ I’m sure your family are pro-“

Before the sentence could conclude, you pulled out your gun and pressed it at the side of the man’s head, your other arm wrapped around his neck in order to secure him in place.

“ Tell me or I blow your fucking head off” You threatened with a whisper, the pathologist now beginning to tremble as the cool steel rested against his temple.

“ .45 Calibre bullets- Thats what was found” The man spewed, listening to you mumble the words back to yourself in remembrance.

“ Good- anyone else with these same bullets?” You requested as you released the pathologist from your deathly grip, hands now writing in your charcoal note-book; almost nerd like in comparison to your harsh demands prior.

“ Y-yes, multiple men have been reported dead in the last week or so with the same bullets”

A week? You’ve heard about these deaths on the news but it was never disclosed how close they all were to each other.

“ Names Fitch- names” You requested once more with a raised brow, now looking over at the pathologists identification badge diligently.

“ I can’t disclose tha-“

You cocked a brow, the deathly glare now sending shivers down his spine.

“ Jordan Greenfield, Jack Cunningham, Mark Evanston and Jonathan Brown” He spewed, occasionally stuttering over his own words. You hadn’t paid much mind to his stutter however, you were too focused on writing and researching the men named. If somehow you could find a correlation between all the men- you could crack the case for certain.

“ Thanks Fitch” You finalised, now leaving the facility.

In your own matter of research, you’d found out that all the men reported to be shot by a .45 had all partaken in a drug and sex trafficking ring not too far back; A little more research and you eventually found yourself spending your entire night on it.

That was until you received a fairly frustrated call from a friend.

“ You pulled a gun on the guy who did the autopsy? Are you kidding me?” Grayson’s voice rang through the phone’s speaker, his loud voice only eradicating any excess tiredness you had from before.

“ Listen Grayson I know- I know and I get it-“

“ Did you kill him?” Grayson asked, your face dropping about the accusation and the declaration of the death itself.

“ Dr Fitch is dead? Are you fucking kidding me?” You leaned back in your chair as you asked, a free hand rubbing your eyes whilst Grayson began to explain.

“ He was shot- Autopsy will say more but I’m convinced that somebody on your case doesn’t want you looking into it- so don’t” Grayson requested sternly as you furrowed your brow in contemplation.

He was shot?

“ I need a copy of that report Grayson- anyway you could get it for me without it being almost illegal?” You asked with an almost determined tone, now leaning forward with anticipation. Grayson however was quite displeased with your determination on this case; Someone could be watching you right now and you’d have not a single clue.

“ Are you seriously worried about that report? Shouldn’t you be telling the family to lock their doors or some crap like that?” He sighed, the sirens of police and ambulance cars blaring behind him.

“ Grayson come on man- you gotta” You insisted, now gliding more towards your desk as you scribbled Dr Fitch’s name and date of death into your beloved A5 notebook.

“ I’ll see what I can do alright- I’ll bring it to you when I can- IF I can” He finally agreed, an evident light up on your face.

“ Thank you Grayson, I’ll buy you a coffee when you hand it to me I swear” You finalised before cutting off the phone, adrenaline now racing through you- followed by worry.

If Dr Fitch was killed just a few hours after your information gain; did that mean you might’ve been next? Was this the same guy who’s been putting bullet holes in other people almost everyday?

In times like these you wish Jason were still around; Whilst he may not have agreed with your career he at least would’ve went with you to bust these fuckers you know?

The remembrance caused you to look over at the framed picture you had when he first died. It was of you, him, and some bad guy you both kicked the shit out of. He was notorious for taking polaroids of little girls as they slept; So you did the appropriate thing and took a picture of him instead.

Evening after and you felt restless; pacing your living room after what seemed to be hours whilst you evaluated everything that’s happened in your investigation.

Come meet me at Wayne Manor. I got the file.

The text that appeared onto your screen wrote; Your lips parting at the thought of even returning there.

You hadn’t been to Wayne Manor in years; especially after Jason kicked the bucket. You couldn’t help but feel enraged after hearing about Robin #3 Tim Drake. You liked Tim Drake, you really did think of him as a good kid- But after the death of Jason you would’ve thought Mr Wayne would quit the Robin act entirely.

Anxiety filled your heart as you found yourself outside of the manors gates, shuffling your shoes so that they clashed together in rhythm.

“ What a pleasure to see you back here [last name]” Alfred greeted, now holding out his hand for you to shake in greeting. You were quite fond of the old man; his sense of wisdom and comforting nature made him seem like a safe-space in comparison to Bruce’s cold teachings.

You never were fond of Bruce; After he tried to take you in as a young teenager and allowed you to observe the training of his younger ‘ sons’- you found him almost revolting after a few weeks. Eventually you parted ways with a large allowance, in which you saved for law school.

“ Master Dick is in the batcave- you do remember where that is correct?” Alfred asked as he halted; you consequently doing the same.

“ Of course I do- thank you Alfred” You smiled, now beginning to walk your way towards the hall leading to the secret entrance.

“ Oh and [last name]” He called out, you now pivoting to look back at him with a curious face.

“ I hope to be seeing you around more”

“ You really decided to get me down here again- What part of ‘ I’ll get you coffee’ did you fail to comprehend Dick?” You greeted, now almost snatching the files from his hands in order to observe them.

“ Why’d you need em anyway? Thought I told you to withdrawal” Grayson answered, choosing to ignore your dismissive attitude towards him.

“ I’m intrigued by the case- and the money I’m being given would pay off every debt in the world” You answered, only flickering your eyes up to him once before reanalysing the files.

“ Where do you think it came from [name]? It’s probably the earnings off all those young girls and meth” Grayson theorised sharply, you now freezing.

“ I’m being stalked by the fucker who’s killing everybody” You announced quietly after scanning over the words “ .45 calibre in the neck and lungs”.

Out of all the dangerous cases you took on; not one time were you ever discovered by a suspect. Maybe that was because you hadn’t taken on many serial murder cases- but regardless, shit was getting real.

“ You think? Why do you think I brought you here?” Grayson almost shouted, arms crossed as he looked at you with piercing

eyes, his body weight clearly leaning on his one leg.

Brought you here? What does he mean by that?

The thought was evident on your face as you mumbled both Grayson’s and Alfred’s words back to you.

“ ‘ hope to be seeing you around more’ Wait a fucking minute- Did you bring me here so I could hide from whoever’s out there??” You interrogated, now pissed off with the set up you found yourself in.

“ You aren’t hiding [name]- You’re simply retreating for a while- no harm in that” Grayson now spoke calmly in hopes that it’d also calm you- which hadn’t worked whatsoever.

“ No harm in that?? You’re acting like Bruce Grayson- you really are” You affirmed harshly, now collecting your file and storming out.

“ Don’t call my motherfucking phone” You declared angrily before continuing your pace to your bike.

“ Wait- I have news about-“

“ About what Dick- what is it now?”

“ Jason”

“ Are you fucking serious? You want me to stay so bad you speak ill on the fucking dead?” You shouted again, your grip on your file tightening as you let out steam.

“ I’m not speaking ill on anyone” Grayson sighed, now rubbing his temples with his hand.

“ So don’t fucking tell me anything” You spat, now taking yourself back to your moped.

“ Leaving so soon [last name]?”

“ Yeah Alfred- hopefully for good this time” You finalised, now slamming Wayne Manor door behind you almost piercingly loud.

Your way home was certainly memorable, you had noticed that there was another motorbike rode by a man with a brown leather jacket following you in your small moped mirror. Leaving you no choice but to swerve through other cars on the road and take a longer detour.

You believed to be safe when you returned to the comfort of your down-town apartment; now listening to the heavy rainfall outside whilst waiting for your coffee to brew.

All was peaceful and typical; You reiterating all of your ‘case of the month’ knowledge whilst you waited for the night to take its course.

Until you heard heavy footsteps behind you. Leaving you frozen in place.

“ Drop every form of weaponry you have- scream and I’ll put a bullet in your skull” The low-toned voice spoke. The command itself left you contemplating- perhaps you could dive under the counter and fight whoever’s holding a gun in your direction.

“ You hear me the first fucking time- drop it” The voice almost shouted, leaving you no option but to throw your gun beside you.

“ Now turn around- slowly- no sudden fucking moves”

You did as the entity behind you told; the sight of him almost alluring.

Of course it was the guy on the motorbike. But he was more up close now.

He wore a red mask- the shade matching the red symbol on his chest-plate. Two pistols held firmly in your direction.

“Little birdy on the street told me there’s an investigator searching for .45 bullets” The man announced, tilting his head almost sarcastically.

“ Fuck does that have to do with me” You spat, now leaning back onto your counter calmly- now analysing ways to either fight or escape.

“ Another little birdy told me it’s you” He announced again, laughing forcedly after he observed your defeated expression.

“ So it is you huh- Didn’t think you’d be the type to come onto me so quick” The red-masked man commented- you now biting back a snappy comment.

“ Alright- you’re going to get on my side of the counter and we are going to leave- you understand?” He laid out to you,

leaving you no option but to nod in agreement.

Carefully you walked over to him, surprised at the conveniency of the position you were in. His left arm hugged your neck in a way that communicated his severity- his right arm holding a pistol firmly into your back. If he was to shoot you- he’d paralyse you, which’d get you off his tail easily for the next year or so.

You exhaled breathily, now deciding to follow through with your hit-or-miss escape plan.

“ You know something?” You peaked, The red masked man exhaling after you inquired.

“ I can cut you a favour- seeing as though I’ve been on your tits for an amount of time now” You fake offered , almost completely surprised at the man’s gullibility towards you- especially after being a convicted killer.

“ Oh yeah? What’s that favour then?”

“ I’ll break one rib instead of all”

After that, you used your left leg to boost yourself onto the counter- using the man’s grip on your neck to secure you as you elevated yourself off of the floor- completely manoeuvring yourself over the mans’s shoulder, only barely missing the bullet he shot at you.

After getting over, you took no time before stabbing him in the back of the leg.


You may be wondering, ‘ how did I get a knife?’- But you’ve been hiding one in your coat pockets for what seemed to be years now- just in case it was needed in times like these. The predicament you were in now reminded you of Bruce’s old teaching/saying “ Never bring a knife to a gun fight”, In which you almost always answered “ You don’t bring anything to a gun fight.”

The man groaned as the knife began to penetrate the back of his right thigh- luckily not going in too unbearably deep due to his thick protective attire.

After being forced into a kneeling on one knee position, he used it as an opportunity to pivot into your direction- now beginning to shoot bullets at you.

Luckily you managed to jump over or duck them, now kicking the pistol out of his hand before attempting to kick the man in the side of the head- In which his hand pushed your foot away.

You tried to kick and kick again- eventually having him swoop your leg with his spare one.

After you slipped onto your back- the man took this as the opportunity to attempt to mount you. Before he could get his hands around your neck you used all your force to kick him into the face with both feet; Knocking him back.

The both of you rose to your feet at the same time- now clearly sharing piercing glares.

“ You don’t have to make this worse for yourself”

“ I could say the same about you”


Those remarks were the last things shared before you leaped onto your coffee table and then kicking the man into the face- his arms unfortunately shielding his mask.

After that- the both of you shared an exchange of punches that you both either ducked- blocked- or accepted.

At some point- you punched the masked man into the face directly, the hard material of his helmet causing you to gasp in pain.

“ Fuck that hurt like a bitch out of water” You swore, now standing still in front of the masked man, shaking your hand in order to dismiss the throb of your knuckles.

He took this as an opportunity to punch you into the chin- causing your back and your head to collide with the coffee table behind you due fo force.

You weren’t loosing this easily. You were used as Jason and Tim Drake’s roll model for a reason- and you were sure as hell going to live up to it.

Your thoughts were interrupted as a boot stomped angrily in your face’s direction- leaving you no time but to roll out of the way and allowing your coffee table to be completely broken at the force. This guy wanted to kill you now- If he hadn’t intended to before.

After he demolished your coffee table similar to most of your apartments living room- you charged into him so that he’d knock your couch over- now leaving you straddling him and attempting to stab him with your knife once more.

“ You come into- My fucking home- and you try to kill me” Your words broke out- now fighting with his hands as your knife almost broke through his masks eye barrier.

You were strong- even he had to admit that one.

Using all of his body weight- the man turned you over and threw your knife into oblivion, his hands now gripping aggressively at your neck.

Your arms desperately punched and hit the masked man, now looking at your peripheral vision and noticing the cracked glass of the framed picture of you and Jason.

“ N-No” You choked out, head completely craned into the broken glass’ direction whilst you began to loose your sense of consciousness. Out of curiosity, the masked man also peered into your eye’s direction- now observing the picture.

What the hell was his and his old friend’s picture doing in your apartment.

#dc comics #dc fanfic #dc universe #enemies to lovers #red hood #red hood x reader

[glitchinthesystemspiderbyte]

[36] Glitch in the System - Start to Finish

Some additional followup to Venganza.

Recovery happens.

-

Recovery was something of an uphill battle for Widowmaker — a Sisyphean task at best, equally irritating, boring, and detrimental to years of diligently honed physical ability.

Though otherwise regarded as exemplary with regard to following orders, the assassin approached her recuperation with uncharacteristic impatience and quiet disregard of Moira’s stern but simple directives. The geneticist’s orders were by no means complex or burdensome; far from either, she simply instructed Widowmaker to allow herself ample downtime between their now-daily physical therapy sessions.

“A precaution, if you will,” Moira explained, draping her lab coat over one primly-crooked forearm. “The reduction of unnecessary stress will only expedite your convalescence. ”

Rationally, Widowmaker knew the doctor’s statement was true; still, their one- to two-hour sessions felt painfully insufficient of so much inactivity, no matter how challenging they proved.

At first, the sniper managed a handful of early morning runs, bookended by the brief, two- to three- hour interlude tucked surreptitiously into Moira’s otherwise sleepless schedule. Hidden among the smallest hours of the day, Widowmaker ran circuits around the garden perimeter, avoiding not only the doctor’s suspicion, but that of the rest of Talon’s elite. Though she reliably completed her first few laps with no issue, the assassin was often forced to cut those nigh-sacred excursions short, then end them entirely. Try as she might to secure it, her right arm - still confined to a sling - seemed incapable of tolerating the combination of areal cold and even the barest minimum of movement as she ran. Despite her best attempts at concealing the resulting discomfort, her inability to perform even basic therapeutic exercises the following day made Moira palpably suspicious.

“You’re sure you haven’t done anything to bother it?” she asked coolly as she completed the adjustments on her patient’s brace. “Anything?”

“Of course not,” Widowmaker lied, holding the doctor’s unwavering gaze.

Moira merely stared at her a long moment, offering Widowmaker a narrow-eyed glare that told the sniper with little ambiguity she knew she was lying.

“You will need to be more careful, then,” she replied, straightening. “Even small, simple movements can upset distressed ligaments. Do be gentle.”

As the geneticist waved her out of her office, Widowmaker felt less like she dodged a bullet and more like it had been intentionally, strangely misfired.

Foregoing the calisthenics, she attempted the familiar, practiced motions of barre within the safety of her bedroom. It was hardly a workout, but it was something. In that, too, she met resistance from her own body as broken ribs and the unyielding knot of damaged muscle along the line of her stomach refused more than a half-hour’s exertion. Even yoga - which she hated, regardless - proved untenable.

Every meter along her road to recovery felt like an endless trek across the landscape of her own personal hell. When part of her worked for more than an hour, she was lucky - and that was rarely the case. More often than not, what limited functionality Widowmaker could seize upon often left some other part of her screaming, a traitorous screech that prevented the establishment of any plan or regimen to which she could adhere. All there was were scattered insufficiencies, pain, and compounding agitation.

That, and her daily meetings with Moira, punctuated by her recurrent admonitions against anything strenuous.

“I don’t like her, either, but she knows what she’s doing,” Sombra murmured late one evening, face tucked against the sniper’s thigh as she curled, mink-like, about the other woman fuming at the edge of the bed.

“It is not enough,” Widowmaker said flatly, slipping long fingers through her hair to prod delicately at the tender trail of stitches along the right side of her skull.

“Spider,” the hacker chided, headbutting the other woman’s leg. “She could have you running marathons and it wouldn’t be enough for you.”

Widowmaker only huffed her resignation - a wordless acknowledgement of the truth.

“If it bothers you so much, why don’t you ask her to do more?” Sombra asked.

“No one asks Moira to do anything.”

With a heavy sigh, Widowmaker stood and moved across her room, pulling drawn curtains aside to reveal the dark of the winter’s night beyond, its otherwise impenetrable shadows illuminated by a mix of lamplight and its refraction off gentle, persistent snowfall. Somewhere between each individual flake, she saw that same restlessness staring back at her.

“Walk with me?” she asked, peering over her shoulder.

Sombra lifted her drowsy gaze to meet the sniper’s, blinking away the looming threat of sleep. “Right now? In the snow?”

“You can wear my coat.”

A slow smile crept across the hacker’s lips. “Such a lady.”

Once her starting volley of protestations against the cold subsided, Sombra allowed Widowmaker to guide her arm in arm through the garden, now a composite of snow-white geometry reaching toward the sky. Clearing its borders, they meandered aimlessly about the edge of the estate, then to its gates and beyond. There, a stretch of road yawned before the expansive Talon outpost, almost entirely devoid of signs of life save for the evenly-spaced streetlamps lighting the way toward Venice proper. As they followed that linear path, Sombra glanced up to her colleague, one eyebrow quirked in an expression of pointed curiosity.

“So.”

“So?” Widowmaker parroted, briefly meeting her eye.

“Moira.”

With a dismissive grunt, the sniper retrained her gaze - still somehow so bright even amid the darkness - on some nonexistent point ahead of them, buried amid the city lights. “What about her?”

“She’s something.”

“That is a word for her, yes,” Widowmaker replied. “I assume you have done your requisite digging.”

Sombra grinned. “You know me so well.”

Widowmaker did not return the gesture. “Then you understand why she is given so wide a berth.”

Shrugging her indifference, the hacker released her partner’s arm, shoving faintly shaking hands into the pockets of her borrowed coat. “I guess?”

“You guess?” the sniper asked, suddenly sharp. Sombra was, if nothing else, remarkably perceptive; that she could regard Moira with such a staggering lack of concern - especially knowing as much as the other woman likely did - was startling.

Confused, Sombra stopped mid-step and turned to face the assassin. “She’s a genius, sure. But, come on, araña - any of you could take her. Hell, I could shut her down with a wave of my hand.”

Widowmaker stared at Sombra a long moment, expression unreadable but for the faint purse of her lips indicating she was at all engaged in their discussion, weighing her response. From an objective standpoint, she could almost see how one might consider Moira relatively innocuous: monumentally smart, yes; dangerously cunning, sure. Her dedication to progress at any expense was known the world over, equally revered and reviled. On paper, these traits could, she supposed, seem harmless on a broader scale.  But Moira - real, flesh and blood Moira - was more than just smart; she was ruthlessly innovatory. Through that ingenuousness, she channeled that singular quality into a unique strength - one that anyone less privy to her experiments would, Widowmaker realized, likely fail to see.

With a leveling breath, she stepped closer to Sombra, lowering her voice instinctively despite their being otherwise alone.

“Moira does not need muscle or superior firepower to be a threat,” she explained. “She made Gabriel what he is, and played a significant role in my reprogramming. That is smart. Now, extrapolate: she decides whether Gabriel remains as is, or whether his condition is amplified more cancerously than it already is. She is the arbiter of his health, just as much as she is the proprietor of my autonomy. She decides whether I retain any ounce of humanity, or whether I am just another machine in Talon’s employ. That is strength.”

Sombra balked at the explanation given her, brows knit in accompaniment of the frown creasing her face. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

“You would not have cause to do so,” Widowmaker replied. “You lack the lived experience beneath her thumb we possess. I suspect those whose lives you change might view you in quite the same way.”

“Hey, now,” Sombra interjected, pointing an accusatory finger even as her frown evanesced into a fey smile. “You comparing me to Doctor Human Rights Violation? That hurts, araña.”

This time, Widowmaker did return the smile, albeit it much smaller as it replaced the concern from moments ago. Sombra’s deflection made it clear she understood her point - a disarming tactic the sniper appreciated for its efficacy in pulling her from the edge of detachment. “Yes. The two of you have so much in common. Very tall—,”

“—spider—,”

“—and brilliant, and eminently capable.”

“Better.”

Offering the hacker her arm again, Widowmaker turned on her heel and started back toward the mansion, now a looming shadow. “Thank you,” she offered at last.”

“For?” Sombra asked, tilting her head.

“Walking with me. It is difficult, all this waiting.”

“Clearly.”

Widowmaker gave the other woman the slightest shove, tightening her grip so as to not throw the hacker off balance. “I am not good at being patient with myself. I never have been.”

Sombra walked silently beside her, the world around them peacefully quiet but for the crunch of snow beneath their shoes. “You gotta�� be careful about that,” she said at last.

“Oh?”

Pulling the sniper closer, Sombra curled her fingers into the sleeve of Widowmaker’s sweater. “If you’re not careful, you’re going to hurt yourself more. Then this whole thing starts all over again.”

Widowmaker chewed on her words, myriad replies tumbling through her mind. At the core of the matter, she knew Sombra was right. Injuries, improperly nursed, only begat more injuries as barely-healed ligaments and bone gave way under even regular duress. She’d seen it in ballet as much as she had in the field: dancers with broken ankles rising en pointe only to fall; soldiers, their wounds still fresh, charging headlong into a fight despite their inability to support basic combat armor or even their own weight. It never ended well, and she knew it.

Still, that intemperate loathing for too much relaxation and rest persisted; in that persistence, Widowmaker considered her having never expressed it to Sombra. “I am afraid I will complete my recovery only to find myself incapable of doing my job,” she admitted.

“Makes sense,” Sombra nodded. “And you’re gonna’ need some work to get back on track. But you’ve got two pretty big advantages on your side from what I can see.”

“Go on.”

“One: you were literally reprogrammed to be good at the things you’re good at. Sure, you need to keep up with it, but they basically made you an expert.”

Widowmaker blanched.

“Two - and this one’s more important, so stop making that face: you’re you. You care about being the best, so I don’t think anyone doubts you’ll make sure you end up back on top.”

With the most imperceptible of smiles, the sniper released Sombra’s arm to take her hand instead, shoving both back inside her coat pocket. “You are very kind, cherie.”

“Just stating the truth. Now, do me a favor.”

“Hm?”

“Please take it easy so we can get that woman out of here.”

*Read from the beginning or check out our intro post! All stories tagged under #glitchfic. Table of contents located here.

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