1 . Name: joe d @ 2012-01-23 18:06

WARNING: GORE, CANNIBALISM, BLOOD, VOMIT, DUB-CON. I’m not kidding. This has to be the most fucked-up thing I’ve ever written, and I used to write original fic about serial killers that mutilated their victims (which has been lost to the internets). Lots of cannibal Medic floating around lately so. Here we go. I apologize for any medical inaccuracies, though there isn’t much medical talk, really. If I messed up, though, please tell me.

Medic/Heavy. Enjoy?

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Medic came to him at night, into his bedroom, touching his face with long, thin fingers. “Mein puppe,” he cooed, like one of his birds, distended smile stretching out over his features, eyes lost behind the glint of his glasses. Heavy made no move to recoil nor push him away. He only swallowed the growing lump in his throat and stared into the white lenses.

“What do you want, Doctor?”

The answer to that question was nearly always different, but invariably horrifying. Medic had requested to remove all of his organs, to pierce every inch of his skin, to drink his blood as it poured from his beating heart, among things Heavy preferred not to recall. Heavy wasn’t sure why he allowed this treatment to continue; whether it was a deep self-loathing, a taste for masochism, or perhaps that the man was incredibly handsome and on occasion allowed them to make love, but no matter how he reflected upon it, the best reason he could find to do it was that he could find no reason not to do it.

And Medic simply kept watching him with those eyes.

“I want to eat you,” he said, voice hushed, almost reverent.

He was answered by silence.

“I want you to watch.”

Heavy merely nodded as he stood up from the bed.

When he had become accustomed to the Medic’s requests, he wondered if his lack of horror would dampen the man’s enthusiasm. He was not terribly surprised to find that it did not.

By the time they entered the infirmary, Medic’s hands were shaking in barely restrained excitement. Heavy said nothing as he dutifully sat on the metal exam table, undisturbed by the spots of blood on the floor that Medic never bothered to clean.

When the doctor had sufficiently calmed himself, he swabbed one great forearm with alcohol and injected his subject with a special mixture he had concocted himself. Heavy knew the effects well; it would make the pain to come bearable but not mask it completely, and would of course leave him conscious and fully aware of every cut, every jab, every piece of himself that went missing.

When a tingling in his limbs let him know the elixer had begun to take effect, he lied back on the table as Medic set up the Medigun. It would not do to have his patient die when one of his requests had been his attention.

Humming to himself, Medic picked up a large knife, different from the ones he normally employed. Upon closer inspection, Heavy realized it was a carving knife from the base’s kitchen. A dull, sick feeling settled deep in his stomach, and by coincidence that was where Medic began his incision.

Heavy willed himself to watch as the knife sawed through his skin, blood welling up and dripping down his sides. Medic was methodical, cutting slowly and carefully parting the tissue, revealing the layer of yellow fat that cushioned him. “I have no desire to devour your fat,” Medic stated, tone detached, “but I anticipate your rectus abdominis to be quite delectable.” He reached further into the cut and Heavy winced at the burn as he spread the severed flesh wide. “I would have gone for your gluteus maximus, as I have read of its tenderness, but you very well could not have watched me remove that, could you?” he asked with a hint of amusement, becoming more relaxed now that he was deep within a living body. He grinned up at Heavy, who managed a queasy smile in return. It was easier when the doctor was happy, easier still when he related stories of previous surgeries gone hilariously awry, but in a situation such as this, Heavy expected only a joyful sort of fascination from the man.

Once he added refractors, Medic’s smile grew as wide as the hole in Heavy’s torso, and he replaced the carving knife with a scalpel for the more delicate removal of the muscle itself. It came out in a large, square chunk; a section that would have been part of a six-pack on someone with more defined abdominals. Medic brought the meat to his nose, inhaling deeply the coppery scent of blood. The organ dripped deep crimson onto Heavy’s stomach and the cold metal spreading him open. Already soaked in it up to his elbows, Medic could not help himself and sunk his teeth into the raw meat, chewing with a look of ecstacy on his face. Heavy pretended the lump of flesh had not come from himself, despite the strange void he felt within himself.

Medic sighed, open-mouthed, blood trickling down his chin and onto his vest. “Filthy,” Medic murmured, looking down at the bitten chunk, “but so good.” Setting the piece down on a steel tray, he lifted his scalpel again and removed another square, setting it down beside the first. Surveying them and nodding to himself, he removed the metal spreaders and adjusted the beam of the Medigun to heal Heavy’s wound.

“There we are,” he smiled, offering a bloodied hand to his patient to help him stand. Heavy took it, a little dazed from the experience and confused as to why he was being let up so early. He had anticipated a procedure such as this to last for hours, until he was nothing but bones lying on the table. His answer came when the corner of Medic’s smile twisted unnaturally. “Now let us hope my eyes are not bigger than mein stomach, ja? Now, sit, sit.”

The German ushered his partner to a small table, set with two chairs and, to Heavy’s barely noticed relief, only one plate. As Heavy sat, Medic rinsed much of the blood from the freshly butchered meat, and then moved to the counter along the wall where he had set a portable cook top. Heavy watched, unable to look away as Medic set the meat from his stomach atop the cooker and hummed to himself as he seasoned it with salt, pepper and spices. Within a few minutes, an undeniably savory aroma filled the room.

Gathering up the meat onto the plate, Medic smiled at Heavy as he sat down across from him. He had poured himself and his companion each a glass of red wine, and he cheerfully lifted his glass and nodded to him. “Prost, mein freund,” he offered before taking a sip of the drink. Heavy only returned his nod, feeling too nauseous to partake. Medic did not mention it and turned instead to his meal, cutting a piece from the unbitten slab and placing it carefully in his mouth.

The doctor nearly moaned as he let the meat slide around on his tongue, savoring the taste and texture before he began chewing. “Oh, mein puppe, you are delicious!” Medic exclaimed in the way one would compliment a chef on a good meal, “wunderbar, oh, you simply must try this!” With fervor he cut another piece and held the fork out to him.

“No thank you, am still full from dinner,” Heavy managed, unable to look at the delicious-smelling morsel before him.

“Nonsense!” Medic replied jovially, “do not lie to me, Heavy, dinner was hours ago. Come, come, eat!”

Heavy glowered, expression dangerous, but the smile did not fall from Medic’s face. “You not say I have to do this, Doctor.”

“If you are worried about cannibalistic diseases, those are acquired by eating the brain and spinal cord, not simple muscle tissue; you will be fine!”

Heavy’s expression began to break. “Doctor, please,” he whispered, an edge of panic to his words. He knew he could not deny the man.

“Aren’t you just the least bit curious?” Medic asked, his voice the dangerous one, the commanding one. “I promise it is delicious, mein puppe.”

Despite everything in him, Heavy finally took the fork and placed the meat—his own flesh—in his mouth. The moment it touched his tongue, his eyes began to water. It tasted rancid to him, and chewing only intensified it. He lasted only a few moments before he vomited all over the floor, the heaving of his stomach straining the freshly-regenerated muscles he had tasted.

As he vomited, he thought that surely he must do this out of self-loathing; surely this must be his punishment; he must be in hell, his sentence to be a slave to a stunningly handsome, psychotic man, a cruel perversion of something he desired in life, to be tortured by him until he was driven insane—until not even the temporary respite of lust gave him joy.

The point was driven home as Medic lifted his head when he had finished heaving and smashed their lips together. Nothing of the kiss was satisfying, tainted by vomit and blood and the lingering taste of his spoiled flesh on both their tongues. Tears he tried desperately to hold back spilled down his face, and Medic pulled away to lick them from his cheeks. Heavy’s lack of horror did not deter the doctor, but he still clearly enjoyed the other’s pain.

The rest of the meal was spent in silence. Medic continued to eat loudly and appreciatively, and Heavy refused to look at him, holding his face in his giant hands. When Medic finished, he daintily wiped his face, which did little to remove the caked-on blood and vomit, but he did not seem to care, smiling brightly at his companion who still refused to look at him.

“Thank you for the excellent meal, mein puppe,” he practically chirped, ignoring the dove that had come to poke at what was left on the plate. “We will do this again. For now, you may leave.” He leaned over to kiss the younger man’s cheek, but Heavy showed no reaction. He knew Medic would be true to his word; they would do this again, and there would be no reason for him to stop it.