idk if i ever gave you guys any of these but honestly idc either here's something about soldier that perrydotto requested a while ago??? -------- Each member of the team was always immensely grateful for the time away from the base that they were reluctantly granted by their employers; a man could only take so much accelerated regeneration of his body before he started to get antsy. For one week out of every six, they were turned loose, allowed to venture into the cities (often small, insignificant little things) and seek whatever means of pleasure they desired. For Scout, it was fast women; for Engineer, it was machinery; for Demoman, it was the bottle; for Soldier, it was cupcakes. His love for the little treats would be called incongruous, surprising, maybe even a downright lie by his coworkers, but it was true. Soldier had loved them ever since he had been a boy, kicking his legs at the table as his mother gathered the ingredients, twirling her apron strings idly as he watched her mix them with ease, her hand on his shoulders keeping him from stepping too close to the oven while they baked and the scent of vanilla poured through the house, sinking into the fabric of their cheap couches and drifting out the windows. She had always let him help put on the frosting, hers in perfect swirls, his in globs that left smears on his face. Of course, he hadn't had that for years; not since his father had broken her nose, and not since Soldier had broken his father's… Well. They were comfort food, pure and simple. Soldier had grown a taste for the cheap, simple kind they sold in grocery stores and supermarkets across the nation, with their crumbling sides and fake, stiff frosting, pointing up in curls, peppered with colorful sprinkles that felt more like chalk than anything. It was these he sought out, a comically small handbasket on his arm and his well-worn leather wallet rubbing his leg the wrong way each time he took a step. If the search had taken very long, he would have adjusted it, but a few feet away from the entrance was a table covered in plastic boxes filled with them; it seemed every shop placed them like this, as though there were some unspoken rule about it. Soldier scooped up one box of vanilla cupcakes with sprinkles, the plastic crinkling in his grip before he set it down in the basket. He scooped up another box, this one containing chocolate cupcakes, no sprinkles included. The milk was completely across the store, obviously contrived to make him want to buy other foods on impulse, but this was all he needed. He pushed aside the two boxes, their plastic crumpling again, and wedged a carton of two percent in next to them. There was no line, just a smiling young woman with long, blonde hair and a mole on her neck. She pressed her lips together when she rang up his purchase, as though containing laughter, and he smiled back at her. Soldier could appreciate the oddness of it: He, a tall, beefy soldier, buying two boxes of cupcakes and a carton of milk with a fifty dollar bill that had been collecting dust in his wallet. Plus, it was never a good idea to scare off the locals—that enmity should be saved for his enemies, not sweet little girls making minimum wage in grocery stores. As soon as he was out of the store, cupcakes and milk both stored neatly in a brown paper bag, he reached down and opened the box of vanillas. Even the lightest grip he could muster mashed the sides of the cupcake a bit as he lifted it up, resting the bag on his arm like a child so he could peel off the paper cup. His teeth sunk through the frosting, sprinkles tacking softly against them before falling victim to his molars, the strange flavor of pastel set against vanilla set against pure, overwhelming sugar, filling his mouth with the sort of grain and film that came with each of the mass produced treats. The taste and feel of it brought him back to his teenage years, when he'd first set out on his own, no money to his name because he had no name, not after what he'd done to his father. It had been a smart little shop in Michigan, a defiant bastion of light and warmth as rain pelted the town, and he had been more than skeptical… but they had been free, and the store owner had been kind to him, and that had been that. He swallowed, the frosting somehow wet and dry at the same time, crumbs caught in the backs of his cheeks and bits of sprinkle dug into his teeth, and sighed, pausing a moment to let the evening sun graze over his bare skin and to let himself savor the sensation. Cupcakes might be childish, and they might be feminine, but for Soldier, they were just… delicious. Completely delicious.
homosexuals -------- Medic ran across the battlefield, Medigun trained on his team's Heavy as they plowed through the BLU Team, mere ants in their path. He felt invulnerable, up until the point that Heavy's head suddenly exploded, raining skull fragments and brain matter down onto him. The laughter behind him made him turn, pulling out his Bonesaw and glaring at the BLU Demowoman. "You have nothing to laugh about." "Are you kidding me? Your protection's dead, you don't have a gun, and I've got a grenade right here." She held it up as though he could miss it, garish as it was. "On top of that, I'm shagging your wife!" Medic raised his eyebrows. "Tell her I said hello, then, I have not seen her in weeks." "Wait, wha—" The BLU Sniper took the kill before the BLU Demowoman could, and she left the spot feeling very confused. ---- "Don't be so upset, my dear," Medic consoled her team's Demowoman as they lay in bed together, the woman's arms wrapped tightly around her waist. "I told you at the beginning, we are not very close." "But he just didn't seem affected at all," Demowoman said, frowning. "He just… told me to give you a greeting. Like we were talking about the weather, or just—" "He is like that. I assure you, he was very likely just hiding his true feelings about the matter." Medic pulled Demowoman closer, although it had already seemed they were closer than should be possible, and kissed her cheek. "Let me help you forget about it, ja?" "Oh, Medic." Demowoman laughed, brushing her hands over Medic's waist, her breast; trailing up to cup her jaw and hold it there a moment. "You're such a fucking charmer. It's dangerous…" Medic smirked. "Says the woman who runs about with bombs all day." "I didn't say it was a problem." ---- "Oh, mein Gott," Medic groaned, biting his bottom lip as he thrust back against his teammate. "Heavy—" He came; moments later, Heavy followed. When they were dressed again and in Medic's bed, Heavy stroked Medic's shoulder with a large hand. "Doctor?" "Ja?" "You mentioned BLU Demowoman?" "Oh, ja," Medic said, waving his hand carelessly. "She came up to me after you were shot, and she tried to mock me by mentioning my wife. It was nothing." "I see." Heavy nodded slowly, pulling Medic closer almost unconsciously. "This does not bother you?" Medic snorted, patting Heavy's broad chest as he shook his head. "Of course not. Although I do hope she delivers my greeting anyway—Ada always goes home and throws out the tea when I go too long without speaking to her. It's very annoying." Heavy snorted and pulled Medic closer. "For sounding so cold, you still feel very warm." "I feel so accomplished."
what if that was too risqué for /fanfic/ oh shit what if i get banned what if i go to hell!!!!!! -------- Medic laughed to himself as the BLU Scout ran toward him, wielding only a wooden bat against his superior saw, designed purely to cut through bone quickly, efficiently. He supposed it was also meant to be less painful than older methods, but the way he used it, it was a weapon of torture. He demonstrated as much to the foolish boy who had tried so desperately and clumsily to bash his head open as he dragged him to the ground, slamming his skull against the hard dirt a few times, legs gripping tightly around his chest, before grinning down and pressing the blade of the saw to his arm. "I hope you enjoy using your left hand," he said as he pressed down, "and that you have fully appreciated your right for the past decade or two!" The shrieking of the boy beneath him only made him grin harder, saw more quickly. The blood that splattered onto his hands, his arms, his chest, his face, was lovely. When the BLU Scout's right arm was completely severed, Medic stood, gripping it tightly in one of his gloved hands. He smiled at his own team's Scout as the boy passed slowly, his face faintly green even as he grinned down at his counterpart. "Take this to the edge of the map, and then throw it as far as you can." "Oh, shit, that's fucked up," Scout said, laughing a bit before doing as he was told. With the boy's arm outside of Respawn range, he would lose it forever. "Doktor." Heavy was approaching, his large, beloved gun in hand, barely sparing a glance on the boy who was slowly losing blood at Medic's feet. He hefted the huge thing up, adjusting his grip, and motioned with a shrug toward the rest of the battlefield. "We fight?" "Of course, mein Heavy," Medic said with a grin, placing his bonesaw to the side and taking up his Kritzkrieg, a strange, sleek invention he had been given upon his employment with RED. He trained its red and yellow beam onto Heavy as the man shielded him, both of them running out into the midst of the fight, the roar of his minigun barely louder than the roars of the man himself. The sound of the gun screaming, its bullets hitting with dull, deep thuds into the bodies of their enemies as they ran toward the BLU Base, leaving a litter of corpses in their wake, was music to Medic's ears. Heavy's raucous laughter mingled with the shouts of the BLUs as they died, and Medic laughed with him. These men—these scum—were worth little more than a chuckle and the brushing off of one's shoulder.
xxx spirit healing -------- Sniper stood awkwardly in the middle of his pile of books and imported graphic novels, clutching his rabbit ear headband between his hands as he looked at Demoman, his mouth wanting to grin purely from nerves. "I remembered that you said you liked Lucky Star a couple of nights ago, and I…" He fumbled for words, running a hand through his hair. "It's just that I've got every issue here in my van." "My God," Demoman muttered, his jaw dropping. "I've only got two of them. How did you manage to get each volume?" He strode forward without hesitance, and Sniper felt his entire body relax. He hadn't realized just how tense he had been. "I've been trying for so long!" "I've got a connection," Sniper admitted. As Demoman knelt down to pick up one of the many books on the floor, Sniper jumped, remembering; he turned to shuffle through his many albums until he found the case he was looking for. "It's got every theme from the anime series on it," he gushed. Demoman stared at him in awe. "Put it on before I die." Sniper put the album on and instantly the beautiful voice of Aya Hirano filled his trailer. Sniper bit his bottom lip and pressed his rabbit ear headband into Demoman's hands before he burst, the lyrics pouring forth from him like water from a broken dam. "Aimai san senchi sorya punitte koto kai? Cho!" Demoman grabbed Sniper's hand, laughing as he joined, his rabbit ears bouncing. "Rappingu ga seifuku… da furitte kotanai pu~" "Ganbacchau?" "Yacchacchau?" "Son tokkya kyacchi ando ririsu yo! I SAY, WHOO—" "YOU SAY, WHOO—" Sniper grabbed Demoman's other hand and pressed his face close to the other man's, grinning. "No tanima ni darling, darling, FREEEEEZE," they sang simultaneously. "My God, you're amazing," Demoman said before he kissed Sniper, pushing him toward the bed. Sniper staggered and fell, and dragged Demoman down with him. "It's so fucking hot when a man sings Motteke Sailor Fuku," he groaned. "I know," Sniper moaned, "I know— I can't even control my boner right now ughhh." then they fucked -------- oh okay i don't feel like posting anything else i've written maybe i'll go to your gargantuan request thread or smth
I liked the Soldier one.
>>5 I did too, holy hell. That was really well-done. It also makes me want cheap cupcakes-- I have a similar affinity for the frosted cookies that they make. The taste isn't even great, but they're memory food and I can't ever have enough!
SO AMAZING. I love the Soldier one - and the way you portray Soldier as eccentric but not totally crazy, human and flawed, and I love the idea of him acting sweet to minimum-wage cashiers. I love the little glimpses into Soldier's past. And Medic and fem!Medic's marriage - fem!Medic saying Medic is hiding his feelings (I get the distinct impression she thinks nothing of the sort) and Medic being equally nonchalant and MEDIC/HEAVY ahh be still my heart. And I LOVE LOVE so much LOVE Medic taking BLU Scout's hand and flinging it out of range. But even more than that I love RED Scout's response. "Oh, shit, that's fucked up," Scout said, laughing a bit before doing as he was told. It gives me happy chills to see Scout being so ruthless.
oh man demoman and sniper that was awesome be right back laughing forever
Id read that Soldier one before, I swear I did! Love it, though.
>>7 oh goodness, thank you! i'm glad you enjoyed them so much. you kids are all lovely. anyway i literally just wrote this after an anon request over on Hipstr, it's about the halloween comic that just went up. specifically, it's about soldier and his roommate merasmus. -------- Merasmus glares at the salad set before him, grinding his teeth together. High blood pressure, indeed, he thinks. As if high blood pressure could be a problem for a magician! As if his heart could ever stop beating, when magic flows through it at every second, as surely as the air through his lungs! As if something so trifling as mortality clings to him the way it clings to other humans! “I can see your veins getting ready to burst from here, Merasmus,†Jane says from behind his newspaper. His voice is too rough for his insults to have any elegance. “Silence,†Merasmus snaps, stabbing at a tomato slice viciously. It splits beneath his fork, spilling water and seeds onto the lettuce around it. “I, Merasmus, do not require your health advice!†Jane glares at him from beneath his helmet, and Merasmus wonders, not for the first time, why his roommate insists on wearing the thing everywhere. If it was as glorious as Merasmus’ skull headpiece, then perhaps he could understand, but a dingy helmet that shadows his eyes like a shy schoolgirl’s bangs? He curls his lip in disgust, forked tongue pressing against the back of his teeth as he waits for another chance to insult Jane. “If you die, I’m going to have to find a new roommate,†Jane says, laying the newspaper on the table. “You’re a terrible one, but if you think I’m going to put out ads for another month and a half, you can think again, buster!†He stands, his chair skidding on the tile behind him, and stomps to the fridge. “You are going to relax, and you are going to take care of your heart, or so help me I will take care of it for you!†Merasmus shoots up from his seat as well, his chair teetering precariously for a moment before it rights itself with a thunk. “I’ll care for your heart, you insufferable prick—†“I’m not the one with high blood pressure,†Jane shouts, “so maybe you ought to just keep your concern to your own damn self!†He grabs the carton of heart healthy orange juice and tears off the cap. “You’re shaking like a leaf in a storm; now sit down, you irresponsible conman, or I will shove this carton so far down your throat you will not even have a heart to care for because it will get decimated by my fist!†Merasmus draws himself up to full height, his ram skull drawing over his face and giving him strength that doesn’t seem to extend to his left arm, inexplicably. He stalks to the fridge, ignoring Jane’s threatening stance, pokes his finger into the man’s chest, and— chokes on his own breath, pain shooting up his arm and around his chest like sparks, his throat seizing up and making him cough and wheeze pitifully as his prodding turns into clutching at Jane’s coat. The carton of orange juice falls to the ground, and Jane drags him over to the wall, where he phones for an ambulance. —— “Your bedside manner leaves much to be desired,†Merasmus sniffs, looking up at Jane with as much dignity as he can muster. It’s not a lot, honestly; something about being dressed in hospital scrubs and propped up on pillows that feel like cinder blocks takes an awful lot of fight out of a man. The nurses won’t even allow him to wear his ram skull. “Eat your goddamn salad,†Jane says. His helmet is off—the nurses really are sticklers for dress code—and his coat is hung over the back of his chair, with only his white shirt stretching over his muscles, which are intimidating and not at all fascinating. He pushes the bowl closer to Merasmus, and thrusts the fork dangerously close to his eyes. “After I get my blood pressure medication, and I get home, I am going to put a curse on you,†Merasmus says around a mouthful of carrots. “You are going to eat so much cabbage that you are going to die, and then you will know how I feel.†Jane rolls his eyes, and pats Merasmus on the arm. His touch most certainly does not send a thrill up Merasmus’ spine. “Whatever you say, magic man.†Merasmus closes his lips around his fork and decides not to kill Jane Doe. Jane leans back, propping his dirty boots up on the hospital bed, and Merasmus sneers in disgust. Maybe he will kill him, after all.
this one's a little more risqué, but there's nothing explicit, but still, MY BAD. also sorry for writing soldier as such a softie so often, i just... think it's p kawaii i guess... -------- Jane watches Merasmus from across the living room, frowning. It’s been two weeks since Merasmus had a heart attack, and Jane has been watching him like a hawk since then, in part because he Merasmus is too stupid to take care of himself (Jane caught him locked in the basement with God knows what kind of fumes just the other day, and had to drag him out amidst protests about his breathing being just fine and none of his concern), and in part because he just feels like it. And Jane likes doing things that he feels like doing, because he feels like doing things he likes. It makes more sense in his head. He closes his heavily annotated copy of The Art of War with a snap when Merasmus’ eyes drift to the candy bowl in their living room. It’s Halloween tonight, so the candy has to stay, but Jane would sooner undergo water drip torture than he would have to drag his unconscious roommate across the apartment again just because the man can’t take care of himself. “Yes, well,†Merasmus says archly, “if anyone needs me, I will be in the basement.†He starts to march out of the living room, but when he’s in the doorway, Jane speaks up. “Remember, I’m taking those neighbor kids out for candy tonight,†he reminds Merasmus. “Of course I remember,†Merasmus says, and his voice is high enough that Jane is sure he did not remember at all. “And when will you be back?†“I’ll probably bring the kids back by nine, but if I go back to be with my team, I don’t know.†Jane shrugs. “Ah. Yes. Team party, yes.†Merasmus’ shoulders are stiff, and Jane, for the sake of the man’s blood pressure, doesn’t mention how obvious it is that he forgot that, too. —— Of course the Spy gives children cigarettes and knives for Halloween. Of course the Scout gives them teeth. Of course the Heavy makes them cry, and then pays them off to get them to stop. Jane sighs. He packs the cigarettes into one pocket and the knife into the other, tosses the tooth into the bushes, and divides the money between the children. They each end up with 2,300 dollars, and he lets them run off to find the other members of his team in the building while he pockets around 30 dollars for himself. He’ll probably use it to buy them something special later. He walks into the foyer so he can have a stiff drink, punch his teammates, and convince himself that rubbing elbows with civilians hasn’t made him go a little soft. —— After pouring tobacco into the Spy’s drink and explaining to him why children shouldn’t be encouraged to smoke, Jane follows the trail the kids blazed, the Heavy’s booming laughter fading as he puts more distance between them. The children have left a trail of wrappers behind them that he picks up, and he follows it to the dark end of the building that the Demoman always sulks in on Halloween. The kids are there, huddled together as the Scot spins them some yarn about magical books and eye removal, until he finally says something interesting. “Merasmus?†Jane asks, pulling off his cardboard robot head. “The only thing that goldbricker’s doing at midnight is not the dishes!†And then from the other room, he hears his roommate’s voice, and all he can think is goddamnit, he’d better not have a heart attack in public. That would be embarrassing for everyone involved. —— Jane ends up breaking Merasmus’ staff in half, and lunging at him outside the building after he summons a gigantic eyeball. The Demoman runs around in drunken hysterics, the Scout screams with glee as he whacks away at the eye with his bat, and the Heavy breaks out his minigun like there aren’t three children standing a few feet away who could die at any given moment and who aren’t hooked up to Respawn. The realization just makes him punch Merasmus harder, and the magician blacks out, the eye disappears, and the Engineer comes storming out of the building yelling “what in tarnation,†and the party is kind of over. Jane slings Merasmus over his shoulder and brings the kids home. They’re shaken up, and pale, and they cling to him when he says goodbye, insisting they’ve had the best holiday ever. He grins at them despite the ram horn sticking into his back and ruffles the stocky kid’s hair. —— Merasmus wakes up with a groan, and visibly shakes himself out of his stupor. It is not in any way charming, it does not remind Jane of his old dog, and it does not make him want to embrace his roommate. “You knocked me out!†“You summoned my teammate’s possessed eyeball and nearly killed our neighbor’s children!†“You broke my staff!†“You crashed a party you weren’t invited to and then made me carry you home like a drunk kid on prom night!†“You carried me home!†Merasmus furrows his eyebrows. “Wait, you carried me home?†“Yes,†Jane says, “I carried you home like a doe with a broken leg.†Merasmus shivers. “How degrading,†he murmurs. He grabs a piece of candy from the bowl on the table, still full, and unwraps it. “Don’t you dare. If I have to carry you three times, I will tear off your legs, and I will have them replaced with robotic legs that make you walk even when you don’t want to. I have the connections, Merasmus; I have the will!†Jane slaps the piece of candy from Merasmus’ hands, onto the ground. Merasmus grabs his coat, his head injury apparently dashing away his sense of self-preservation, and tugs him close. “I am an adult! I can have sugar whenever I want to! It was only a measly little heart attack, Jane; I will summon millions of eyeballs if that is what it takes for you to let me have some sugar!†He pants furiously, and Jane can see how flat his teeth are from grinding them together so often, and on an impulse that even he doesn’t understand, he leans forward and kisses his roommate. It gets Merasmus to shut up, at least, but the rhythm of his pulse when Jane tears his wrist away from his coat if more than a little alarming. “If you have a heart attack again—†Merasmus bites Jane's lip furiously, and keeps his eyes open as he does it, staring Jane down. It’s unnerving and exciting at the same time. “If you think I am going to have a heart attack because you kissed me, you are living with a severely inflated ego, and you are going to die, because no one can be that confident without fate itself conspiring to teach them how ridiculous—†Jane rolls his eyes, and kisses Merasmus again, because it’s actually pretty nice. Something about the forked tongue and the hatred and the claws. They’re basically married, anyway; he does their taxes at the same time, for God’s sake. “Don’t have a fucking heart attack,†Jane orders, and Merasmus gives him the most withering look he ever has, and Jane wakes up the next morning with claw marks down his back and a magician drooling on his shoulder. He grabs Merasmus’ heart medication, in case he has some kind of panic attack when he wakes up, and he thinks that rubbing elbows with civilians and magic men has definitely made him go soft.
ere I will always love your writing
i wrote about werewolf demoman for sirkai?????? -------- As Tavish lay on the ground, his chest and shoulder pouring blood onto the dead leaves beneath him, he comforted himself with the thought that he had, at least, lived a fairly exciting life. He would have liked to experience more explosions, and God, yes, he would have liked to steal his eye back from the spirit who’d stolen it, but all in all it had been a very good life indeed. He sank his fingers into the loose soil around him, hissing when the movement pulled at his injuries and made everything burn, and slowly, his right eye went as dark as his left one. —— Tavish raised his hand to his forehead and groaned. “No more of the fuckin’ benders,†he promised himself as he sat up gingerly. He looked down: Lying in dirt, shirt torn, blood staining his clothes, missing his shoes— Blood staining his clothes? He slapped his hands to his chest, running them down frantically over his stomach, up to his shoulders, and oh, oh, that had really happened, hadn’t it? The wolf had really happened. “Fuckin’ a,†Tavish cried out, and it was only then that he noticed the rasping of his throat. He felt as though he had swallowed a cheese grater, and knew it came from having screamed while the wolf—if it had been a wolf; the thing had been bloody huge—tore him open. He hunched over his legs, staring at his bare feet, and pressed a hand to his shoulder. It should have been ripped apart. He knew this as surely as he knew that he was lying on the ground in the middle of the woods, as surely as he knew his own name. But as Tavish looked down at himself, he could see only his dried blood on unbroken skin: No new scrapes, nor cuts, nor scars. He still had the scar from his liver transplant, and he still had bruises from where he’d drunkenly bumped into things, but the lacerations he could remember receiving the night before had simply disappeared. “Christ,†Tavish moaned, and he hunched over once more, turned to the side, and vomited. —— It only took a few days to figure out what had happened. Tavish had grown up knee deep in the paranormal, had spent over a decade learning about the supernatural. His own left eye had been possessed and stolen, so of course he was experienced, of course he was able to piece things together. It wasn’t like werewolves were uncommon to begin with; everyone and their mother had heard stories about them. Besides, the fur growing over where he’d been wounded, combined with the sudden cravings for raw meat, were very telling. Then there was the frantic yapping of his neighbor’s dog when he returned to his flat. And the fact that he had a good enough sense of smell, now, to know what everyone else had eaten for breakfast. And the fact that his calendar had the night he’d been attacked on listed as a full moon night. Scratching at his shoulder, Tavish stuck his kettle beneath his sink and set about making tea. He had considered getting drunk, but really, he asked himself, should a fledgling werewolf be getting drunk? What if the alcohol somehow triggered a transformation, and he changed and gave into his desire to tear the neighbor’s pomeranian limb from limb? The landlord would never let him keep his flat if he went around murdering animals. He set the kettle on the stove, flipped his calendar to the next month to see when the full moon would come around again, and sighed. “Well, at least it’s not on Christmas.†His kettle whistled, and he flipped through the newspaper while his tea steeped, steadfastly ignoring the pomeranian still barking three doors down. —— After a week had passed, Tavish gave in to temptation and did two things: First, he picked up some depilatory cream at the store, and got rid of the hair and fur on his chest and shoulder. He felt barren, and rather less masculine, but he could hardly stand to look at himself in the mirror with the fur on. Perhaps it was for the best. Second, he went on another bender. Tea was only good for so long, and he wanted a distraction. Thinking about bleeding out on dry, cracked leaves was not a fun way to pass the time. Through his drunken haze as he tossed Laura (or Lauren, or maybe Lisa? Elizabeth? Erin?) on the bed, he thought that removing his hair might be all right if it always ended with women stroking his chest reverently, and babbling on about body hair being disturbing and coarse and distracting. —— Eventually, December came, and the full moon was five days away, and Tavish nearly broke everything in his flat because good lord, the pain and the rage and the restlessness had all hit him so suddenly and so completely that he needed to do something, do anything; there was smoke in his brain, a heady haze that permeated every corner, and he couldn’t tell if he wanted to fight or fuck or just start screaming and tearing off his skin; he couldn’t tell if he even had skin anymore or if he was made of fire, made of fur— Four days before the full moon, he spent twelve hours stuck in front of the toilet, a twitching, quivering mess, heaving until there was nothing left inside and then continuing to heave, dry and painful and terrible. His skin was greyed and flat and he felt like he was being stabbed all over. The pomeranian kept barking. Three days before the full moon, he slept like death. He dreamed of running, feeling the wind between his fur, rushing past his ears and snout; he dreamed of the hunt, of pouncing, of feeling blood between his teeth and claws. In his dream, he bit the pomeranian’s neck, and it finally shut up. Two days before the full moon, his body felt hotter than the sun, and he gripped his mug so tightly that it shattered and he spilled tea over his hand. It felt cold, despite being fresh, and he could barely stop himself from pouring the boiled water in the kettle on his skin to alleviate the heat; logic still trumped desire, and he jumped into the bath, and he let the water embrace him. The pomeranian kept barking. One day before the full moon, he heard his neighbor shut her door with the dog still inside, and he gritted his teeth until his jaw felt like it would shatter, and the pomeranian still kept barking, and he opened his door, and he opened his neighbor’s door, and he grabbed the pomeranian by its neck and he held it until it shut up. He stared at its motionless body, listened to the rush of blood in his ears, and he left. He walked from the city to the woods. On the day of the full moon, he transformed, and oh, it was grand. It was horrible. It was everything. On the day after the full moon, Tavish woke at the crack of dawn. He dragged himself back to his flat, clothes still torn and blood-soaked. No one saw him. He could hear his neighbor crying in her flat. He sank onto his bed, and slept the whole day through, feeling empty. Two days after the full moon, Tavish finally moved when he heard a knock at his door, and he opened it to see a petite woman dressed smartly in a skirt and blazer, her glasses taking up much of her face and making her look so, so young. She smiled at him, unfazed by the blood and the torn clothing and the fur peeking up from under his collar, and she offered him a job. Tavish accepted. Three days after the full moon, Tavish was on a plane to the United States, and he had almost nothing with him. He clutched the tiny bottle of airline booze and he was glad. —— Two years, Tavish reflected as he grabbed the newspaper from the kitchen counter, could do a lot for a man. Well, it hadn’t been exactly two years, he amended as he sat at the table and scanned the front page. He had been bitten in November, and it was only September now, but twenty-two months hardly seemed different from twenty-four. It helped that he had five jobs in which destruction was key, where he could take out his frustrations. It also helped that he was fabulously wealthy, and living on a property large enough for him to transform on without much risk. What didn’t help was the fact that he was living with his mum, who was as nosy as she was blind. “And why aren’t you working today, eh? Another ‘morning off,’ is it? More like you’ve been laid off, I suppose!†Tavish looked over the top of the paper at his mother, and smiled despite her glare in his general direction. “It’s me one mornin’ off, Mum, same as every month.†He was glad she hadn’t noticed that all of his days off came directly after the full moon. He realized she was blind, and so couldn’t possibly have seen the moon and figured him out, but it was still a relief; part of him believed, even now, that his mother could figure out anything he did. She sniffed. “I suppose one day off between five jobs is all right, then. Not nearly the best you could do, and still a bloody disappointment considering, but good enough for now.†Tavish stood as the kettle started whistling, and made his mother a cup of tea. “You’re goin’ soft on me, Mum.†He laughed as made his own cup of tea, and set them on the tray with the kettle, walking to the couch his mother was seated upon. “If you call me old, I’ll take your other eye. Make you look like a proper Demoman once and for all.†Tavish bit back a groan as he sank onto the couch himself, his body still sore from being pushed to the limit last night during his transformation. It didn’t wreck him as it used to, but he still ached like nothing else. “Who’ll make your tea when I lose the other eye, hm?†His mum scoffed. “Eight million dollars a year, and you’re willing to buy a mansion, but not an assistant? You’ve no priorities, lad.†Tavish laughed and pressed his mother’s tea cup gently into her hand. ----
part 2 of werewolf demoman i guess -------- It was some sick twist of fate that had the full moon falling on Halloween, Tavish thought as he looked at the calendar. Sicker still was the fact that BLU was pushing harder than usual, and it was almost certain that he would be on base during his transformation. He supposed he should give his team some warning, but what was he supposed to say? “When I was younger, I went off on a bit of a romp, got arse over kettle drunk, and what d’you know, a gigantic werewolf came and bit me, and now I carry its curse! Such silly days, those.†Tavish shook his head. He had to tell someone, of course, but he wouldn’t do it as stupidly as that. —— “…and what d’you know, a gigantic werewolf came and bit me, and now I carry its curse!†Tavish grinned at Sniper before tipping his bottle of whiskey back and finishing it off. Sniper stared at him, slackjawed, then stared at his bottle of beer for a moment, as though wondering how drunk he really was. “Right.†“Such silly days, those,†Tavish sighed. Sniper set his bottle down slowly, then reached over and did the same to Tavish’s whiskey. They were sitting in Sniper’s roost on base, empty cans and bottles all around them, and Tavish laughed at the creaking of the wood when Sniper stood. He stumbled, nearly falling from the roost, but righted himself. “I’m fuckin’ pissed,†he muttered. “‘Round the goddamn oak.†He crossed the small space and fell to his knees, digging through a cardboard box, and came back to sit beside Tavish, a book clutched in his hands. The Classic Study of Lycanthropy, it said. “You’re a good man,†Tavish slurred, and he slumped against Sniper as the man flipped through the book. The text swam before Tavish’s eyes, but he could see illustrations of wolves and men being torn apart and moons, and he barked out a laugh before he fell asleep. —— “So I hear you’re a werewolf,†Engineer said the next morning as he peeled an orange in the base kitchen. “There’s the strangest conversation opener I’ve ever heard,†Tavish said. He took a swig from his flask. “Yeah, I don’t suppose it would come up often.†Engineer tore the orange in half, and ate two orange slices before speaking up again. “For how long?†“Oh, couple o’ years. I’m fair used to it by now, to be honest. Does it bother you?†Engineer smiled. “Well, that’s good; better to adjust to things, I s’pose. And, well, I’ve seen a fair few things in my time that I reckon are worse than a little monthly problem. Lived down near Mexico damn near all my life, so between the crying ghosts and the blood-sucking rodents, this seems all right.†He popped the last orange slice in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “Do you need any help breaking the news to the rest of the team?†Tavish felt warmed by Engineer’s easy acceptance. “No, it’s fine, I’ll figure it out on me own. Can’t be that bad, can it?†Engineer shrugged and stood to drop the orange peel in the trash. “Sure hope not.†—— Medic nearly stabbed him before Heavy stepped forward, holding the doctor back by his shoulders as he cursed steadily in German. “I suppose I’ll just come back then,†Tavish said quickly, and he ducked out from the medical bay. —— “Don’t let it bother you,†Spy said as he appeared from nowhere. He took a drag from his cigarette, and fixed Tavish with a piercing gaze. “He’s German.†“That explains everything, does it?†Tavish drank until his flask was empty, and leaned against the wall of the hallway. “Yes.†Spy put a hand on Tavish’s shoulder, the same on that had been bitten, and kept his fingers light as though he could see the wound. “They have poor history with your kind.†“…well, all right, then.†—— “Bullshit,†Scout accused. “Fuckin’ prove it, man. I don’t believe in that shit, you gotta fuckin’ prove it.†“Scout, the moon’s not for two weeks. How am I supposed to prove anything to you?†Scout frowned, rubbing his chin as he concentrated, but Pyro sat up in their seat. “Hudda hudda hudda,†they said. Tavish had no clue what it meant, but apparently Scout and Pyro were psychically connected (or just spending too much time together), because the boy snapped his fingers and nodded in agreement. “Yeah, show us your bite wound, and then we’ll see—†“There’s no scar. It healed right after; every wound I get as a wolf heals.†Tavish pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’d show you me fur, but I take it all off.†Scout snorted. “What, you shave your chest?†“Of course not. I use a cream, it’s easier.†Tavish ignored Scout’s hysterics as well as he could, and looked at Pyro, who was either sympathetic or a bit constipated. Tavish had never really mastered the art of interpreting their body language. “Hudda hrmph hudda? Hudda hudda? Hudda hrmph hudda hudda, hrmph hudda hrmph hurr hudda.†They leaned forward, watching him with the glassy eyes of their gasmask, and Tavish could only furrow his brow in confusion. “Man,†Scout sighed. “Oh, fuck, man.†He wiped tears of mirth from his eyes. “But yeah, that’s a good question, Pyro.†“…sorry, what’s a good question?†“What’s the transforming thing like? How’s it feel? I figure, if you’re really changin’ all the time, you can probably tell us all about it. And we’ll know it’s true if it sounds true! Right?†“Hudda!†Tavish rubbed his hands over his face, then resigned himself to story time with Scout and Pyro. “Well. It’s bloody awful.†He wasn’t sure what else there was to say, but Scout motioned impatiently for him to continue, so he leaned forward and thought, staring down at his boots and imagining them as his paws. “It’s like being torn apart and put together inside out. I’m still mostly in control, but there’s a part of me, sort of pressing in from the back, that’s just violent. Completely violent. So I can run around a bit, even up on me two legs like normal, but the killing—†He paused. “Hudda?†Pyro prompted after a moment. “There’s just a bit of me that needs the blood.†Tavish rubbed his hands together, thinking of his claws. “But mostly, I’m myself, only covered in fur and with some wolf bits. Ears and such.†The three of them were silent. “…that’s fucking cool,†Scout said finally. “Just don’t eat me, dog-man.†“Wolf,†Tavish corrected. “Wolf-man, all right, fine. Either way you got fur.†—— Medic was much more rational the second time Tavish approached him, but Tavish suspected he was only so because his weapons were confiscated, and Heavy was sitting beside him. “So,†Medic said, sipping his tea. “A werewolf.†“Yes.†“My fourteenth-great-grandmother was killed by a werewolf.†He sipped his tea again. “In Greifswald.†“Er… sorry.†“Well, it’s not your fault,†Medic said with a sniff, “as I am sure you did not know the offender. This was in the seventeenth century, of course, when the werewolves there were still alive.†He smiled wickedly. “They are all dead now, of course. Brutally slaughtered, their bodies burned like trash.†Tavish laughed shakily. “Do you find extermination funny?†“Um—†“So do I,†Medic said, putting his tea cup on its saucer with a clack that echoed through the room. Tavish turned tail, retreating from the room before Medic’s scrutiny could kill him somehow. —— Heavy found Tavish that night, and raised his eyebrows, silently offering Tavish a bottle of vodka. “Thanks,†Tavish said. “Doktor is touchy,†Heavy said lightly as he drank from his own bottle. “Holds grudge.†“I gathered as much.†Tavish swished vodka in his mouth, and it burned pleasantly. “Do you think he’d forgive me if I let him do some studying?†Heavy roared with laughter. “He would remove your limbs, maybe.†He clapped Tavish on the back. “But do not worry, is not so bad. Respawn will put you back together.†Tavish groaned. They drank together for a bit, staring up at the moon as it hung above the base. Nine days until the change, Tavish thought, but only four days before the mania, and then would come the sickness, and the sleeping, and the burn, and the rage— He cut off that line of thought. “Why are you all right with this? If you don’t mind me asking.†Heavy squinted at his hands, then looked to Tavish. “In Russia, we have two kinds. One is not wanting to transform, other is wanting to. And one who is not wanting… he is good. He is only changing because of Devil. And one who is wanting, he is bad.†He smiled. “You? You are not bad.†Tavish was touched, but he snorted. “I kill people for a living. Enthusiastically. Blow ‘em to bits.†Heavy waved his hand dismissively. “Bah! Respawn will put them back together.†—— “And so, I’m a werewolf,†Tavish finished saying to Soldier. The man had been holed up somewhere, likely formulating a shoddy strategy to take down BLU, and Tavish had spilled his secret before Soldier could disappear again. Soldier tilted his helmet back and stared at him. “Do you think I’m an idiot?†Yes. “No.†“I figured you out in the first two months,†Soldier said, curling his lip. “The post-full moon vacations? The flu shit every month? The Nair in your barracks? Come on, man, what do you take me for, a buffoon!?†He let his helmet fall over his eyes again, and stormed away from Tavish, muttering under his breath about BLUs, before coming to a sudden halt. He turned and impaled Tavish with his gaze. “The full moon! The thirty-first!†He rushed back, and grabbed Tavish’s head in excitement, locking their eyes together and absolutely ruining Tavish’s sense of personal space. “You’re going to change, and you’re going to eat them!†“I can’t,†Tavish protested. “Don’t get moral on me, Private!†“No, I mean I can’t, they’ll all turn into bloody werewolves,†Tavish said. “Oh.†Soldier let go of him, and frowned. “Right.†“Yes, right.†“Damn.†—— Five days before the full moon, Tavish tore apart his pillow, and stalked through the base, and he nearly murdered Scout before Heavy stepped between them and gripped his arms and oh, a fight he understood, a brawl he could get into; he threw himself into it, struggling against the huge Russian, and for the first time the fog in his brain cleared enough for him to see the need to fight and rip and tear and kill and punch and kick and shout and nothing else, complete tunnel vision, and he made Heavy bleed and he felt his arm break and then his neck was between the man’s hands and— Four days before the full moon, he bowed before the porcelain throne while Spy watched him, smoking a cigarette and rolling him onto his side when he fell, so he wouldn’t choke on his own vomit. Engineer came in between his fits, and forced him to drink so he could vomit up something other than blood. Three days before the full moon, he slept like he was in a coma. He dreamed of running, feeling the wind between his fur, rushing past his ears and snout; he dreamed of standing on his hind legs, and masquerading as a man, and leaping on his prey before it could decide whether he was human or not; he dreamed of the hunt, and he dreamed of explosions, and of his claws and of his guns and of his teeth and of his bombs. In his dream, his fur peeled from his skin, leaving him all blood and muscle and bone; in real life, Medic cut him open while humming “lasst uns froh und munter sein.†Two days before the full moon, his skin was on fire, and his flask crumpled in his hand. Sniper pried it from his grip, put a hand on his back, and led him to his van. Scout and Pyro were waiting, kicking the dirt and playing with matches, and he put out the tiny fires with his bare fingers. They drove with the windows down, Scout chattering ceaselessly, and they stopped at a lake, and he jumped into it with all his clothes on while Sniper drank a beer and Pyro grilled burgers from the back of the van and Scout tripped over his pants. He ate his burger raw. One day before the full moon, he heard Soldier planning how to kill the BLUs, and he ground his teeth together until he could take no more, and Soldier kept murmuring from the room down the hall, and he opened his door, and he got his bombs, and he walked to the BLU Base, and he littered their hallways with sticky bombs, and he threw a grenade directly into their medical bay, and he blew them all up, not bothering to move as the blast engulfed him. He woke up in the Respawn room, listened to the buzz of conversation between his teammates, and the announcer’s voice rang through the base. He walked out to fight a day early. On the day of the full moon, he transformed, and oh, it was grand. It was horrible. It was everything. —— On the day after the full moon, the sun rose, and Tavish turned back to himself while conscious for the first time, and he laughed, because they had won. -------- SO THERE'S THAT. HAPPY HALLOWEEN, I'M OFF TO GO BUY SOME SMOKES AND LATER I'M GOING TO DRESS UP AS A GIANT HOT DOG
Nice story for Halloween!
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oh cool my thread is still here let's talk about rageboners i guess -------- There’s something obscenely satisfying about the feeling of flesh smacking flesh, Soldier thinks, but what’s even better is feeling the unyielding hardness of a cheekbone against his knuckles, hearing the faint crunch and grind of teeth as a man’s face gets slammed with all the force and weight of a cinderblock or two. His week’s been Hell. Dealing with that fucking judge (and he still hasn’t forgiven Scout for trying to get him burned, the little Benedict Arnold) and then getting sent to this mall despite his impeccable skills as a lawyer, forced to listen to spoiled little brats go into conniption fits over mechanical trains and Saxton Hale action figures, is almost too much as it is, but the beard—and the grenades, jumping Jehosaphat, the sparkling sash of grenades—is what put him past his limits. A man’s dignity can only take so many blows, unlike, apparently, this man’s face, which refuses to turn into hamburger despite Soldier’s best efforts. He’s a patient guy. He can sit through a whole five minutes of Merasmus bitching about magic and cholesterol before he snaps, and he doesn’t even snap completely! He knows how to control himself, dammit. The problem is, this guy’s got a kid with the girliest haircut this side of Denmark, and he’s actually got the gall to get upset when Soldier tries to fix that. The problem is, nine kids have cried all over him and his fake beard, and two of them nearly wet themselves while they were sitting on his lap. The problem is, he’s been sitting in that chair for hours, listening to women whine when they get up to him about how Scout is unfairly favoring single mothers and “you should really control people like him†and “he’s not some kind of pervert, is he,†and he really couldn’t care less about any of it. He’s sick of it. He’s done. He’s been raring for a good fight since Scout said he didn’t know he could name names, and now this idiot’s come at him like he thought his bulky suit was hiding fat instead of sheer muscle, and Soldier’s not complaining. And anyway, somebody has to ensure this kid becomes a man, and it’s sure as Hell not going to be his pansy father or the overbearing harpy in the orange turtleneck. Blood-flecked spittle flies from the man’s mouth onto the cheap tile floor of the mall. A droplet stops just shy of Soldier’s boots, so he decides to go easy on him as the man falls to the ground with a whump. Soldier watches him scrabble uselessly for a second, then lunges at him, straddles him, traps his thighs with his knees so that he can’t kick or crawl away. The man stills at that, momentarily paralyzed like he’s never felt another man’s rage-induced stiffy before, which is absurd, and really only proves that all his bulk is for show; Soldier’s had dozens, if not hundreds of hate boners pressed up against him before, and he’s broken them just like any self-respecting man ought to. This asshole and his leather jacket are a disgrace. Soldier shifts, drawing his fist back to drive the point in, but the guy starts flailing like a baby deer in a steel trap, and before Soldier can even take a second to laugh at him for being so uncomfortable and helpless and worthless, the doors crash open. “People of Teufort,†screams the old tool perched on a metal sleigh, carried forward by grizzled reindeer, “I am Old Nick! The Spirit of Australian Christmas—†he pauses theatrically, and brown-jacket, still pinned, clutches at Soldier’s shoulder like he might push him off “—and I have come for your children.†“…huh,†Soldier says. The guy under him bats frantically at his chest and waist, trying to get away, jerking his body under Soldier’s proud steel. It sort of tickles, but there’s no point in wasting time on this idiot anymore, not when this new guy—Old Nick, although he seems more like a deranged child molester than an Australian Christmas spirit; then again, going off of what he knows of Sniper, maybe that’s what he’s supposed to be like—is looking for trouble. And wearing an animal skull, which, after knowing Merasmus for so long, is a surefire way to piss Soldier off without even really doing anything. Soldier lets his arm fall like it wants to, force and weight and derision all packed into one tight fist delivered express to brown-jacket’s stupid, terrified face, and he feels the man go slack as he passes out, too flower fragile to take even one punch. Christ. He really can’t wait to get out of this mall and vent his frustrations on-base, preferably by snapping somebody’s delicate spine. Maybe Scout’s.