wraith.

— wrvth ; an indie, sel, & mutuals only rp blog for Reaper of Overwatch, as loved by Batzy ( 21+ | they/them or fae/faer ). 

carrd | headcanons | message for plotting. 

-hates tedious, repetitive tasks (like paperwork) 

-creative, likes to make and do things with his hand (sewing, fabric crafts, art)

-strong emotions, impulsive (retribution)

“Keep you company?” Summer repeats with a soft, warm giggle in her voice. It sounds a bit scandalous to her ears if she’s honest. 

“I wish I could…” Summer walks over to his desk and picks up the name plate to read his new title, “Strike Commander, but I…” 

She puts that down and smirks at him. 

“You owe me money and I’m not feeling charitable with you.” Summer teases before taking a seat on the edge of his desk. Did he really owe her money? No, but she likes to bother him nonetheless. 

“Don’t you have a cowboy to pass all this paperwork on? Or how about Captain Handsome? Come on, you never have time for me. Me?! Your favorite person in the whoooooole~ wide world!” 

“Alas, the world is a cruel and unforgiving place.” 

He sits upright and squints. She is oddly insistent, but it isn’t like he really wants to finish this paperwork. Report deadlines had always been more of a suggestion to him. 

“One, I don’t trust that idiot not to draw dicks all over them just to piss Morrison off. As much as I would pay to see that, I’d have to redo all them.” 

That’s an idea for later. He’d have to make sure to get it on film. 

“Two, we’ve had a lot of missions lately.” Talon had grown bolder, and the ache that chewed at Gabriel’s muscles day in and day out had only grown stronger. When they landed in the hangar, it was all he could do not to drag himself to his quarters and disappear into his heated blanket. 

If Talon got wind of it. . . It was best he didn’t let anyone know about it, until the Talon situation was under control. Any sign of weakness would only further embolden them. 

“You’ll have to forgive me - all I have to give you is paperwork.” He leaned back in his chair and plopped a heavy boot on top of his pile of paperwork - reports and invoices and all the shit he’d never wanted to deal with - crossing his legs at the ankle.