The Widowmaker (@IDwidowmaker) header
The Widowmaker (@IDwidowmaker) profile picture

status: active duty

classified
Joined January 2019
Photo by The Widowmaker (@IDwidowmaker)Photo by The Widowmaker (@IDwidowmaker)Photo by The Widowmaker (@IDwidowmaker)Photo by The Widowmaker (@IDwidowmaker)Photo by The Widowmaker (@IDwidowmaker)Photo by The Widowmaker (@IDwidowmaker)
The Widowmaker retweeted
[It's her voice he hears, on the off days. Down range of a target, a bullet having scuffed the outer ring -- nonlethal, and that just ain't gonna do. 'Don't overthink it'. She'd put a hand under his elbow when he was eighteen and fixed his aim and she had calloused hands.
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The Widowmaker retweeted
{{ I know I should finish the big fic but whoops archiveofourown.org/works/43…
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The Widowmaker retweeted
A ghost drifts through the darkness; this night red flowers will blossom on white snow.
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The Widowmaker retweeted
THE COFFEE There is the coffee. Shit, black, too sweet, too bitter, two people sat opposite each other all over the world. Where-ever the killing sends them. archiveofourown.org/works/20…
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Things I look forward to this holiday season: - Making polvorones - Skiing - Coming back as the decaying ghost of Christmas past to haunt an old miser until he puts up some damn decorations - Charity caroling
"Better Reyes" is what she named the empty grenade canister, apropos.
"Reyes once, without my noticing, rolled a smoke grenade into my room. Set on slow release. I talked the plume for an hour, maybe more, before I realized it was not him. Ohn, but I am not offended. That is how I met 'Better Reyes'."
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The Widowmaker retweeted
THE DINER There is the Diner. There is Reaper sitting across from Widowmaker, bullet holes in his Hawaiian shirt, trying to figure out what the hell went wrong. archiveofourown.org/works/20…
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The Widowmaker retweeted
The Balcony before it all, archiveofourown.org/works/20…
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Table and Chair, Choice and Consequence; archiveofourown.org/works/20…
‘There’s something about France in the the spring..’ Reaper’s voice is as ragged as it comes, a playful murmur out of a hundred billion mouths, nanite speakers: insects buzzing, knives crawling scratches across glass. The whispy tendril climbs as an insidious feeler vine around
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