#do i tag the bonesaw???

[kazumimishimadaily]

day 26: [TF2 THEME STARTS PLAYING] also!!! i also! came up with what roles the other characters would have (minus gin and kanna) if. anyone is interested. o_o

your turn to protect the intelligence (alternatively; team fortress DIE]

[ty-bayonet-betteridge]

(transfem top x ambiguous gender pov bottom, woundfucking smut, do not read if you are underage. trigger list will be in the first reply.)

the girl you've been talking to online turns out to be local. not too surprising since your city is so major compared to some of the other ones left, but still good news. you had plans to meet up tonight at a bar near her place and are almost ready when she sends you this text:

sorry have 2 cancel bc work running late. i work from home tho so if u want 2 come over i can send the address

you agree and she gives you the address to her apartment. she says the door will be unlocked when you get there so let yourself in. you send her a thumbs up and head over. her apartment building is very poorly designed - the only door into her place is accessible from the third landing of a rusted fire escape. you let yourself in after verifying that you have the right unit number. immediately after opening the door you are struck by the scent of blood and sweat, as well as other smells you can't immediately put names to and the humming of what sounds like a loud fan. she calls out from another room. she says hey. she says shut the door. you do. she says sorry i cant greet you im in the living room and cant move. you say thats ok and head towards her voice. the scent gets worse as you head through the door into her living room.

on top of the dirtiest sofa you've ever seen lies a man you do not know. he appears to be asleep, though with the state he's in it's difficult to tell. he has no legs, and no bandages covering the bloody stumps where they once were. the legs that previously WERE attached are sitting on the ground in a heap, along with his similarly detached arms. his chest cavity is open, and his ribs are unfolded. various tubes lead out of the open cavity. some of them are made of plastic and lead to what appear to be bags of saline, blood, and a strange machine with vents along the top that whirs loudly, the source of the noise you heard before. others are made of flesh, their shape and size similar to how you imagine intestines look, and they connect to several of the man's organs, which are currently stowed on a three-tiered rolling metal cart.

on the middle shelf is a jar of neon blue liquid, inside of which his heart sits, still beating thanks to live electrical wires leading to what appears to be a gutted and repurposed chunky plastic kid's electric piano. his lungs hang off of a hook on the side, inflating and deflating in a shuddering motion that is not at all what you expected breathing to look like. the middle shelf also holds his kidneys, one of which has been disconnected and sits in a pool of blood on the bare shelf. the other is in a jar of what seems to be some sort of clear jelly. the bottom shelf holds a concerning pile of viscera, none of it connected to the man. you pick out his stomach and intestines easily enough, but the offwhite translucent fatty mass that clings to the intestines and the sad grey sac included in the mix are foreign to you. the top shelf holds several organs you don't recognize as well - a yellowish-gray waxy lump in a vaguely phallic shape and a small red orb , both of which are suspended in the same jar of pale yellowish fluid and appear to connect back to the same fleshy duct. they twitch occasionally, but are otherwise motionless. another top shelf organ you identify as the liver. it has no special setup, simply laying flat on the shelf, but is nonetheless connected in several places and seems to be functioning normally, especially as you can see some sort of dirty yellow-brown liquid dripping out of it through a plastic tube and into a large, clear bottle that you're pretty sure was a mayo bottle at some point in its past. finally, two large cooking pots are gently simmering over a large camping stove, connected to the rest of the mess of tubes, ducts, veins, and flesh. one of the pots has a lid on, leaving you unable to see what's inside of it. the other is about half-full of an off-white, slightly meaty substance.

in the center of the mess sits the girl you're here to see. you've exchanged both lewd and non-lewd images before, so you recognize her well enough, though you haven't seen her in these clothes before. if you can call them that. she's wearing simple black panties, a pair of light grey ankle-height socks, a deeply stained apron with a heart and a KISS THE COOK on it (though somebody has taken a maroon fabric marker, crossed out COOK, and written SURGEON below it), a pair of yellow rubber dishwashing gloves, and nothing else. her legs have a thin covering of hair, as if she shaved four or five days ago and it's starting to grow back but she hasn't had the energy to shave it again. her wavy blond hair is unkempt, and she makes no effort to tie it back. this is somewhat concerning, as she currently sits hunched over the dismembered man on the couch, her hands inside of his open body cavity. her hair hangs around her face, the ends of it matted and dirty with blood and other fluids.

the man you thought was either sleeping or dead opens his eyes and turns to look at you, silent, a look of blank curiosity on his face.

she stands and turns to you. she looks like she hasn't slept in five weeks. there are track marks on her left arm. she extends a blood-soaked glove for you to shake. you take it, dazed. she says hey, nice to finally meet you in person. im riley. doctor riley grace davis MDE. you say nice to meet you too. she says sorry that theres not space on the sofa here. when she draws her hand back to gesture you wipe the blood off on your pants as best you can. she says do you want to sit at the kitchen table or go straight to the bedroom? you say um. you say sorry if this is rude but who is that? she says one of my clients. you say clients? she says yeah. you both look at each other for a moment. you say uh, sorry, what is it you do exactly? she says did it never come up? you say no. she says oh. she says sorry im used to people having heard of me, guess i forgot to mention. you say its fine. she says im a plastic surgeon.

you glance at the man with his organs spread out across the cart. you say that looks like a little bit more than plastic surgery. she says im very talented. you say isn't plastic surgery minimally invasive? im very talented, she repeats. come on into the kitchen, she says, turning to lead the way. you say uh, is it okay to leave him like that? she says yeah. you say isnt he going to bleed out? she says trust me, i'm a doctor. as she heads through the door she reaches one gloved hand to tap a frame on the wall. a smudge of blood is left behind on the glass. you look at the frame.

The assembled medical staff, Thinker-class parahumans, and administrative staff of the Parahuman Response Team East-Northeast, in cooperation with the governance of New Brockton on Earth Gimel, confer on RILEY GRACE DAVIS-LAVERE the degree of MEDICAL DOCTORATE EQUIVALENCY for recognition of medical knowledge and talent conferred by a parahuman ability, evaluated and classified as Tinker 8, as well as for the demonstration of excellence in prior practice of medicine and the use of that parahuman ability to complete an assessment of medical knowledge and talent agreed upon by PRT staff.

you follow her into the kitchen. in the time it took you to read her doctorate, she has apparently doffed both the apron and the gloves, which now sit on a pile in the floor. she holds out a bottle to you as you join her at the table. it's a green glass bottle with no label. what is this, you ask. beer she says. she says i made it myself. you take a terrified sip. it tastes amazing.

you are acutely aware of the fact that she is now topless. my eyes are up here she says. you say sorry, but she's grinning lecherously. she says you like'em that much? you say honestly i was stuck on how different you look from your pictures. she says wow, rude. you say i didn't mean it like that. she says how did you mean it? you take a second to collect your thoughts. you say your boobs are at least 50% larger in person. she says puberty is a magical thing. you say puberty? she says yup. you say how old are you? she says don't you know how to talk to a lady? you say absolutely nothing about this visit has led me to believe you're a lady. she laughs. you have no idea how to label the sound of her laugh in your mind. it would almost be a cackle if it didn't degenerate into a giggle. she says you wanna know how old i am? you say yes. she says me too, kid. you say what year were you born? she says 1998. you say okay, so- she raises a finger to stop you from talking. she drains her beer, then slams it down and starts talking very fast.

born in 1998, triggered and stopped aging mentally in 2005, went on puberty blockers in 2010, started aging mentally again in 2011, went off puberty blockers in 2012, undid my puberty and went back ON puberty blockers in 2013, then all of my self-modifications were undone also in 2013, and i dont know what else in my body changed at the same time, went off puberty blockers again in 2014, or 1 GM if you use that calendar, i dont because thats stupid but just in case, aged fairly normally until 2023, then undid my puberty again because i was scared, aged normally until 2029, and from then on my Amy and i have theseus shipped me about twenty times over because staying the same is boring. so yeah. the paperwork says i'm 38, let's go with that.

you dont know how to respond to that. to any of that. she gets up and says sorry, ill be back in a second. she leaves the room. you take another sip of the beer. you don't like beer. how the fuck does this taste so good? you glance around the kitchen a bit, not getting up. it's clean in the sort of way that indicates it doesn't see much use. the only thing that has clearly been used frequently is the microwave, which you can tell from here has probably never been cleaned since she bought it. at least the lack of mess means there's probably no mouse, rat, or ant problem. in here, at least. you vaguely wonder if the bloody, dying man in the other room would attract vermin.

she returns, shrugging on a filthy grey hooded sweatshirt and carrying a small case. she says sorry, room gets cold as balls sometimes. dont usually notice it while im working. she grabs another beer out of the fridge, then sits down and pulls a rolled cigarette out of the case. she pulls an old zippo out of the sweatshirt's front pocket, lights it, and starts puffing. it doesn't smell like nicotine or marijuana. want one, she asks. you say what are they. she says salvia mostly. she says bit of kratom to mellow it, but mostly salvia. are those safe to use together you ask. especially while drinking. she pauses. she says fuck, iunno. id hardly notice at this point if i started to OD. pretty sure im good enough to fix it if i do. fix it you ask. she says yeah. how you ask. she says im a doctor. damn good one too, she says. you say arent you a plastic surgeon. she says im a lot of things.

she says sure you don't want it? you seem tense. you say uh, ive never really been high before, don't want to start with untested interactions, no offense. she says none taken. she says youre drinking, though, that counts. you say im drinking but ive never really been drunk. she says wanna fix that? you say im good. she says good. she says being drunk sucks. she says worst depressant there is, just use tranquilizers if you want to start acting like an idiot and forget it all the next day. you say i didn't know you were so into this, um, scene, i guess? she squints at you. she says are you a cop? you say no. she says cause you're being awkward and simultaneously pretending you know and don't know what you're talking about and that's what a cop does. you say i'm not a cop. she says none of this is illegal. she says all this shit falls under the realm of reasonable materials for her research. you say i SWEAR im not a cop. she says and jeff in the living room there signed the consent forms and waivers before i started doing that shit to him. you say if i were a cop i would be given better training on handling this situation than just repeatedly saying im not a cop.

she says if youre not a cop why are you so fucking tense? she says calm the fuck down. you say um. she says you were so casual over text, thought we had good chemistry. you say we did. she says so whats got you like this? is it cause ive got a client? you start to answer her but she keeps talking. she says sorry about that, really. she says it was supposed to be a simple body swap job, organs out, couple changes, organs in, but dude keeps asking for more and more weird shit until somehow the plan has changed to him floating inside of a translucent biological skin suspended in a mix of lympatic fluid and vitreous jelly. you say what?? she says and i got no problem with that, but it means im gonna need a fuckton more meat than i thought i did when i started, and its gotta match him or his antibodies are gonna fuck him UP, so now im working his stem cells and bone marrow overtime to cook me up all the shit i need, meanwhile hes on life support and all this equipment is so esoteric i gotta babysit it the whole time, so i can't get away like we planned. again sorry about that she says.

you say its fine, i just didnt know what your job was. you say caught me off guard coming in and seeing a guy opened up like that. for a second started wondering if i was next. you laugh awkwardly. she does not laugh. she smokes a little more without saying anything. the silence goes on an uncomfortably long time.

she says do you want to be?

you say what? she says dates get discounts on ops, especially if its something hot or something simple. im really fucking talented too she says. she says you saw the state jeffs in and hes still alive and well. so cmon, anything you want? you say um. she says cmon, dont get shy now, tell me! you weren't scared to talk about kinks online. you say well there is one thing, not a body mod exactly but something that wouldn't be possible to do under normal circumstances. she says out with it, grinning wolfishly. you say im, uh, kind of into woundfucking.

she takes another gulp of her beer. she says god, who the fuck isn't? she says i'll never understand why that isnt a more common thing. seeing somebody as so much of an object that youd put a new hole into them just for your own fun. or alternatively, loving someone so much that you need to feel what it's like inside every part of them, need to connect with their muscle and blood just as much as you do the rest of them. fuck, it's delicious, she says, her grin stretching unnaturally wide, like a Glasgow smile that opened to reveal more teeth and gums. you have never felt more afraid. you have never felt more turned on.

you top or bottom, she asks. bottom you answer. good, she says, cause i've been wondering what you would look like screaming this whole time. your eyes widen. she downs the rest of her beer and stands up, grabbing your arm and yanking you up as she does so. she says cmon. you follow her, if only because when she pulls at you you briefly feel she may have the strength to tear your arm from its socket.

you pass through the living room. she shouts out yo, jeff. the unseamed man opens his eyes and looks at you. you cant read his expression. she says im gonna be busy in the next room for a couple hours. if you start dying, she says, slam your head into this. she grabs what looks like a game show buzzer off of a bookshelf covered in junk and sets it on the couch next to his head. she says should be loud enough for me to hear from the bedroom and come get you stabilized. blink twice if you got that. he blinks twice. she says cool, later. she pulls you through another nearby door and slams it closed behind her.

her bedroom is a confusing mix of the junk and grime you saw in the other room with a shockingly pristine bed. her clothes are strewn about the floor and the walk-in closet, with no organizational system you can discern, not even between clean and dirty. in fact, you wouldn't have called any of these clothes clean. she opens the cabinet under the bedside table, pulls out a huge roll of plastic sheeting, and covers the bed. ah. that explains it.

is this a dexter reference, or... you say, trailing off. she laughs again. what the fuck is that laugh? she says my amy got frustrated having to clean the sheets literally all the time so now i just do this instead. you say er, whos amy. she looks at you like youve lost your mind, a hypothesis you cannot disprove as you think on the situation. my wife, she says. wife you ask? she says fuck, did i not mention this either? shit, fuck, goddamnit. she says ive been married for three years. you say uhhhhhhhh. she says oh dont worry she knows! shes cool the relationships open. uh, unless YOURE not comfortable with me being poly, i guess. fuck i couldve sworn i mentioned this, she says. its not a problem you say. she says you wanna keep going? you say yeah. she says good.

she heads into the walk-in closet, grabbing a three-tiered cart from under a shelf and starting to wheel it to the bed. allergies, she asks? oxybenzone, you say. she says well im not planning to inject any fucking sunscreen into you, so i dont think thats relevant. you say look i dont know how any of this works, better safe than sorry. she says dont worry, you're always safe with me. AND im going to make you sorry, she says. she giggles before she stomps on a toggle on the cart that locks the wheels. you get a look at this cart and see that it has a collection of medical and not-so-medical implements, with the middle shelf appearing to contain various bottles, jars, and tubs of what you hope are medicines while the top shelf holds needles, sutures, scalpels, saws, scissors, and almost any kind of tool you can think of that holds a blade, from bread knives to x-actos. the bottom shelf has a large circular saw and a rusted chainsaw.

traffic light system for safety checks, she asks? you say yeah. cool she says. she pushes you onto the bed, the plastic crinkling as your head hits the pillow and you fall on your back. she sits on top of you, straddling your lap, holding your hands over your head by the wrist with one hand. she's freakishly strong, far moreso than her spindly limbs should allow. she takes the cigarette out of her mouth. you swallow. your eyes flick to it. you say sorry, can you, um... she grabs your neck, interrupting your speech and yanking your head forward. she leans down, spits on your cheek, and shoves the lit end of the cigarette against the same spot. the saliva buffers it slightly, but the burning feeling is still intense, a pain that rides through several seconds as she presses the cigarette into flesh. you hear yourself whining at the pain.

she flicks the now-extinguished cigarette aside and kisses you. it tastes like blood and morning breath and ash. she picks up one of the scalpels. in stark contrast to the rest of her home, each and every one of the tools is in sparkling pristine condition. she toys with the scalpel as she looks you up and down. you have any experience with being cut into, she asks? you say huh?, taking some time to process. oh, you say. um not really you say. never done cutting during play before and my only surgeries have been dental when i was a lot younger. she says no problem. she says im only gonna dull your pain a little, but let me know if i need to adjust sensation up or down. you nod breathlessly. she angles the scalpel and cuts through the front of your shirt, a swift motion that leaves the tip of the blade an inch or two from your neck. you recoil on instinct and she giggles again, pulling the knife back and moving the fabric of your shirt aside. she takes one of the smaller jars from the cart and dips two fingers in it, the scalpel dancing in her fingers as she does so, like a bored baton twirler doing pen tricks. the paste is bright pink, and she rubs it into the flesh of your upper stomach. you feel your nerves start to tingle slightly as she finishes.

she fills a syringe with something pastel red. placing her hand against the numbed area of your stomach, she spread her fingers, guiding the needle between two of them to hold it steady. you watch the point of the needle break skin, feel it sinking through your flesh. she depresses the plunger slowly. you exhale as she removes the needle. gooood toy, she says softly. your breath hitches at the praise and she smirks. she presses the scalpel to your skin, but doesn't start to cut. color, she asks? you say green. she smiles. she says making the incision.

the feeling of blade breaking skin isn't the sort of jarring penetration you thought it would be. the transition between the scratching pain of the scalpel against your skin to the actual slicing sensation is gradual, and you're not certain you could have pinpointed the moment if you weren't watching. you find yourself gritting your teeth, your jaw clenching involuntarily as your body tries not to vocalize the pain. it isn't intense, but it's persistent and deliberate in a way that doesn't match what you think pain should feel like.

riley is more energetic than youve seen her this whole time. she starts to hum happily to herself, cutting through your skin and flesh. the incision is vertical, two inches long and ending about an inch and a half above your belly button. she retrieves a pair of those metal clamps surgeons use to hold the incision open during surgery. you don't know what those are called. maybe you should ask her. you think that would kill the mood. you'll ask her after. she inserts them into the incision, adjusting the tension so that they spread it open about an inch. she notices you looking. she says you don't need to watch if it makes you squeamish, pet. you swallow hard. you say i want to watch. she giggles.

you lose track of time, watching her work. she wields the tools with a grace, precision, and speed you didn't think was possible. the blood wells out as she does so, flecks of it flying when she moves too frenetically, adding to the stains on her hoodie. it covers the ends of her fingers, drops trailing down to paint their streaks further down her hands and arms, like candle wax melting. your blood. her hands. you feel slightly faint, and you don't know if it's from arousal or bloodloss. the pain is constant, but still sharp enough not to ache. you breath shallowly, occasionally whimpering or letting your breath hitch as the scalpel catches flesh. for the most part, neither of you speak, though from time to time she gives soft praise, her voice warm and comforting as she assures you of how sweet and well-behaved you're being.

she isn't just making a hole. you don't know exactly what she's doing, but it's not just cutting. the needle and thread flash in her hands from time to time, and you can feel the muscle and fat in your torso being stretched and pulled, split and joined in new ways. your angle of view prevents you from seeing the operating area, to your dismay, and at times you almost speak up and ask if you could reposition so you could watch better - but you know you can't. it's not your place to ask anything of her. she's the one in charge.

still, you wish you could see. she described herself as a plastic surgeon earlier, but her movements don't match that description. it is not the slow, precise, micro-motion of a surgeon; her body language is free and expressive, passionate in a way that reveals her true nature. she is an artist, her chosen medium skin and meat, the tools of her craft surgical by their raw nature but not in the way she wields them. the blood-covered flesh, the sinew and fat held beneath your skin and even the skin itself are only the raw material with which she crafts her magnum opus. a sculptor of a living body, like a leatherworker or carver of bone taken to the logical conclusion.

she pulls off her sweatshirt, a sheen of perspiration covering her skin. your eyes are glued to her bare form. she notices you staring and flashes a predatory grin. aw, someone likes watching, huh? she says. you nod dumbly, and she chuckles. stupid little pile of meat, she says, affection in her voice. you think you might be in love. you cannot tear your eyes from her, though she evidently does not mind the attention as she returns to her work.

your gaze is not lustful, though doubtlessly lust is the predominant feeling in you. your focus is drawn to her through fascination and adoration, not arousal. you study her curves, the hair of her stomach, the dullling red stretch marks that frame her chest and gut and streak across her thighs, because this is the body of the woman who is recreating you. is this not the same as knowing the form of the god who shaped you in his image?

no, it is something different from that. this is not the god who made adam in his image but the god who knew man would need a companion, and shaped one from a rib torn from the body of his creation. a divinity that does not create from whole cloth but rends meat and bone until its craft is complete. a godly vulture, a being that tears its hooks into the carcass of the universe and pulls free a dried, gristly tendon, granting importance to that which exists but lied bound beneath the surface of the skin, out of sight, out of mind, waiting to ooze its way free from this veil of vellum. the perfected form of imperfection. the blood is drying in her filthy, matted hair. she takes a pill bottle from the cart, pours out a handful, and swallows them without water before returning to the frenzied stitching of your adipose tissues.

what must be hours later, she sits up and wipes the sweat from her brow, smearing your blood across it at the same time. she wipes more of the blood onto her thighs, apparently to clean her hands, though they are still caked with grime and gore. think its done, she says. she says anesthetic should be wearing off too. she sets the scalpel down and leans over you. she's right; you feel the sensation returning to the area she's operated on in full force. she lays on her side next to you, head propped up on her hand, her other arm draped across your body, cheshire smile on her face. you feel her fingertips lazily trace the edges of the gash before she slides one in.

how do you describe the sensation? what does it really feel like for something to work its way between the folds of your muscle, for subcutaneous fat and flesh to be pressed aside, molded, to make way for the penetrating presence of another? the pain is omnipresent, but not overwhelming as you expected it would be. the flesh holds sensation deeper than you thought it would as well - several inches beneath your skin, you can feel her fingers hook inside of you. you can't tell how much of the pleasure is physical and how much is psychological, but it is there, and it is overwhelming. you tense in response to it, moaning, and the tension causes your muscles to clench, sliding against her fingers, bringing sensation to new parts of your abdomen. the feedback loop overwhelms you, and you feel a disappointed whine escape you as her finger leaves the hole.

she giggles. so needy, she says. she says guess i did make you pretty sensitive, huh? you whimper in response. she says don't worry, i won't leave you empty too long. she moves, sitting on your lap, pulling the panties off as she does so. her dick flops out over your stomach. it is roughly human in shape, and on the larger end of normal human size, but its appearance throws you for a loop. it is stitched together, frankensteinian in construction, without even a consistent skin color. she notices you looking. you like it she asks? she says sort of had to bodge it together pretty quick, don't put nearly as much effort into my own body as i do others. she says amy could do better. you are far too horny to consider the implications of any of that. you whine, straining upwards to press the wound towards the tip of her cock. she laughs. good toy, she says.

she sighs deeply as she forces herself inside of you. ffffffffffuck, that's good, she says. your core muscles shift around her, flexing to squeeze her cock as she sinks it in, hilting inside of the hole. you moan, your hands coming up reflexively to cover your face in some act of shame or modesty which is at this point thoroughly meaningless. she pulls back out slowly, her cock glistening with your blood, before slamming back into you, new parts of your abdomen being forced aside to accommodate her. you think she is pressing against organs now. you desperately want her deeper.

she pulls your hands away from your face with one hand, and with the other shoves the finger that she had previously used to explore the laceration into your mouth. you suckle at it thoughtlessly as she rolls her hips, the tip of her dick forcing itself into your abdominal cavity. the taste of blood and sweat and dirt linger on your tongue. she starts thrusting hard, the repeated slamming of her cockhead against the parts of you that were never meant to be touched the only thing you can think about. it hurts. oh god, it hurts, and it feels so much better than anything you've ever felt. damn that's a good hole, she says. you don't say anything. she takes the finger out of your mouth. color, she asks? it takes you a second to connect the thought. green, you say. she says thank god. can i come in you she asks. you nod stupidly, your mouth still open from her finger being pulled out. she giggles.

she grabs your chin, tilts your head up, and presses her lips against you. she tastes like morning breath and your blood. it's delicious. you wrap your arms around her as she forces herself in and out of the gaping, bleeding wound in your stomach. she's so close to you, her whole body pressed against you as that massive, unnatural cock digs into your blood and muscle and guts. she doesn't smell like she knows what a shower is. she is practically laying on top of you. you can't think. your wrap your legs around her too.

she groans in your ear as she slams herself balls deep into the gash again. your insides are flooded with her cum. your own orgasm forces your core muscles to clench, tightening and sliding around her length, unintentionally milking her cock into you. she pulls out, laying the dick slick with blood, sweat, and cum across your stomach, as she pants. she rolls off of you, laying in bed beside you. unthinking, you turn onto your side and press your body against her. she wraps her arms around you and kisses you again.

you hear the sound of thrashing from the other room, followed by a cartoon buzzer sound effect, and then what sounds like the seinfeld jingle starts to play. she jumps to her feet. god fucking damnit, jeff, she says. she says i'll be right back as she crosses the room at a run, slamming the door behind her. the wound in your stomach is still bleeding. you have no idea how to process anything that just happened.

[breakingdownsomebarriers]

Been a hot minute since I’ve been on here, but I scribbled these down and figured I’d share! This is my first fully-formed clone squad known as Shatter Squad. The Shatter Squad is within the 501st, if that wasn't clear by the color. Some of those in the squad are transfers, such as Bonesaw and the twins (Tripwire and Deadbeat), while the others were put into the squad from the get-go. Some of these designs aren't exactly all in the same timeframe during their story. For example, Trip's design is actually a future version of him, while the others are mostly when the squad was freshly put together. Confusing? Yeah. I'm just a tad lazy and didn't want to change it lol I have some basic info down below of some of the members, if you want to have a read. If not, I hope you liked the doodles!

Coil is the leader of the squad, but I haven't decided on a rank for him yet. He's a pretty serious guy most of the time. On the rare occasion that they have extended downtime or go to 79's, he's much more loose and open to jokes. He got his name when someone from his batch complained about him being "tightly wound like a coil". It stuck. Bonesaw is a medic, and a damn good one at that. He is actually pretty snarky, sarcastic, and so, so very smug. When he's actually peeved at someone though he has a great resting bitch face. He enjoys verbally tearing into someone if they've done something stupid and got injured for it. A nat-born medic called him Bonesaw once because of his very good ability to verbally maul someone. Kept the name because he thought it was badass. Tripwire is the team's trap-setter and infiltration-leader. Very efficient in his work- super thorough and good at shifting plans on the fly. His name was originally Livewire, but it ended up shifting to Tripwire because he is prone to being "tripped" when someone hits a nerve. He's Deadbeat's twin (they were made in the same decanting chamber). (Bit of a note here regarding his future stuff. His eye is made out of recycled assassin droid parts and both of his forearms have been replaced with prostheses. I won't get into spoiler lore because...that'd be no fun. I'll write it out eventually but until then, my lips are sealed.) Deadbeat is the team's heavy weapons guy, with the Z-6 rotary blaster cannon being his firearm of choice. The poor guy can't stand shinies: they ask him too many questions, and he hates how arrogant most of them end up being. His name was given to him as a joke, and he was too indifferent towards it to look for a replacement.

Flint is the team's electronics expert. Absolutely a prodigy when it comes to tech and loves to tinker whenever he can. His name comes from his ability to go from kind and soft to prickly and sharp. Most of the time he's pretty passive and complacent, but if he's worn down enough he'll make jabs at pretty much anyone. He can only take so much shit from people before he'll throw self restraint out the window and fire back. Oh, and he's also an ARC trooper- so there's that.

Bombshell is the final member of the team, and is the explosives expert (note, he does already have a post of his own, so you can go and check that out if you want). Anyway, he's blue-yellow colorblind and this has led to a few funny moments during his time as a shiny. He got his name when Bonesaw made a comment that he was practically a factory with the amount of bombshells he kept dropping on the team. He liked the word, so he took it and kept it as his name.

[sodafrog13]

i need to pick up my tf2 hotline au again

[mnt-artss]

it’s such a struggle being a skit ego lover bc like. there’s probably not any art or x reader fics of bonesaw??? i’ve really got to do all of it myself??? sigh ☹️

[quatregats]

been thinking more about the Hornblower amputation thing & your tags. It's an increasingly weird storytelling decision the more I think about it, to give your hero such a fear & then *never have it happen to him*. Chekhov's bonesaw. I suppose it gets deflected onto Bush. ... Especially weird given elements of Hornblower's career/peculiarities are ~loosely based on Nelson, famous for leaving bits of himself all over. Hornblower is, like, NOTICEABLY unmaimed. What's with that? Theories? Thoughts??

Ohhh yes I think I've had similar thoughts - honestly, I think that's part of the narrative frustration of Hornblower is that there are multiple Chekhov's bonesaw moments and they drive me up the wall. I do think that the mention of his fear of amputation was setting up for it to happen to Bush, not him, but I don't think that that was honestly the greatest decision on Forester's part....and then again I tend to be extremely mean to Forester so maybe other people will disagree with me. That's super interesting thinking about Nelson though, because Forester seems to like and want to buy into the "fragile but brilliant man" archetype but I do think that the getting beat up and battered is possibly a necessary corollary to that?? Who knows though, real naval history people feel free to challenge me here.

Honestly the best theory I have for the lack of Hornblower maiming is that Forester really likes putting Hornblower in the torment nexus by making him experience his worst fears through the people around him, which I think on some level is worse for him - he's very empathetic (or rather, he is more empathetic than he thinks a Good Navy Man should be), so while he'll throw himself under the bus for no reason at all, seeing other characters thrown under the bus is actually a miserable experience for him. I do think that if it had been him who had lost a leg (instead of it happening to Bush) there would have been much less fuss over the whole thing, so I do think that was a good narrative decision of Forester's part. I think there's also a similar thing with people who he loves dying around him - he has a death wish and wouldn't care if he himself died, but instead he's left to sit there dealing with the weight of their deaths on his hands and the weight of moving on after that. I think that this is what Forester was (sort of) going for - especially taking into account his interest in the psychology of independent command, which this partially plays into (he can't develop meaningful relationships because people keep dying, thereby isolating him Worse) - but I disagree with how he chose to resolve it, and don't think that it can be considered a "happy" ending as-is (mostly because I strongly disagree with some of the character arcs and also with Hornblower and Barbara as endgame as they are in the books, without addressing any of their main conflicts - speaking of Chekhov's bonesaws....)

But none of that excuses the fact that Hornblower escapes from everything unscathed. Literally give the man some battle wounds or something idk - no wonder he feels like he lives in another world, he's literally untouchable :')

[gay-opossum-in-the-garbage]

Heh…Birds

Pairing: Medic/Scout

Rating: T

Word count: 1196 words

Other tags:

Awkward Flirting, Medic being weird, Bird Attacks, Crushes, Not Beta Read, Brief Descriptions of Violence, Engineer showing up at the end, They're crushing on eachother, third person, crossposted on AO3

Medic spent his time in the RED base’s infirmary doing the most important thing he could be doing; spending time with his birds. The pure white doves that he himself had rescued from a Prime Minister’s wedding were his utter pride and joy.

Whether it was playing with them or cleaning the blood off of his favorite, Archimedes, that was when he felt happiest. Besides when he was on the battlefield of course, the glorious sight of blood gushing from his enemies couldn’t be topped.

Though, even then, the birds were always nearby. They would always fly out when he walked out the steel doors and into the conflict, Archimedes propped on his shoulder. He was always just as excited as his owner when they were splashed with a BLU’s blood and guts, that’s why he was Medic’s favorite.

But of course, the Medic loved all of his doves. Though, right now it was just Archimedes and another one of his doves, both perched on his shoulders, while he wiped down his bonesaw.

They had just returned from a successful battle with the BLUs, a quite bloody one at that, and Medic of course needed to keep his tools looking clean enough. How else would he be able to convince his teammates to let him do surgeries on them?

While he cleaned the weapon, his mind seemed to wonder off to where it usually went during these rare moments of quiet: the Scout. Those adorable buck teeth, his freckled face, and those thrilling shrill, high pitched screams of his.

He drifted back to the initial celebration they had when they had killed the last enemy merc. The hooping and hollering of his excited teammates were ignored as all of his attention was on Jeremy, the Scout.

He was congratulating himself, pointing with his steel bat while exclaiming how amazing he was and how many “suckers” he had killed. While many of his other teammates found this behavior annoying or childish (and maybe it was), Medic found it endearing.

Medic laughed to himself as he sidestepped and pulled the Scout into a side hug, Medic’s hand placed on Jermey’s left shoulder with Scout’s face pressed against the Medic’s bloodied chest. He yelled out a congratulation to the team before patting his shoulder and letting Jeremy go.

When they all dispersed to go to their areas for a much needed break, Medic caught a glimpse of the Scout rushing to his room. He was pushing the brim of his hat down to cover his reddened face that was nearly the same color as the small splotch of blood on his cheek, mumbling something to himself while watching his feet. Medic felt his heart flutter a bit as he watched him speed-walk away.

Medic sighed to himself, putting the saw down before hearing a scream ring through the building followed by the sound of many tiny wings beating as once.

He flew around to see the Scout fly through his doors while being tailed by five hungry birds.

“Medic! Get your damn birds dude!” Scout shrilled as he pointed at the flock of birds

Medic whistled and had his precious flock settle down on the table he was cleaning his tools on.

“Ah, I do apologize Scout. They can get quiet…excited when they see you,” Medic laughed as he helped the two other birds off his shoulders.

“Medic, you gotta get a control your birds man. I’m getting real sick and tired of getting scratched,” Scout said as hopped up on the examination table. This had happened three times already, Medic had to admit, but it wasn’t his fault his birds loved the Scout so much.

Scout WAS very scratched up, though the wounds weren’t too deep and could probably be healed relatively quickly.

“Oh do not worry Jeremy, I will have a stern talking to with them,” Medic laughed as he hoisted up his Medigun on his stand and turned on a low stream of Über directed at the Scout.

He pulled up a chair and sat, looking up at the still bloody face of the younger man. It seemed that he couldn’t get to his room quick enough to get the blood off his cheek before getting swarmed.

Medic stood up, grabbed the rag he was using to clean his tools, and pressed it into the Scout’s cheek, trying his best to clean his face with the bloodied cloth. Medic watched as Scout averted his eyes while his cheeks became a rosy pink.

Medic smiled to himself as he sat back down put the rag in his pocket. He clasped his hands together and rested his head on his hands, just staring.

Scout kept making quick glances at the Medic while twiddling his thumbs.

“Uh, Medic, don’t cha think that you could, you know, up the Über?”

“Now why would I do that? I don’t want to waste all of my precious Über on some scratches”

It didn’t actually save Über.

They continued to simply sit in silence, Scout’s face progressively getting hotter as his wounds slowly healed. Medic eventually, out of nowhere, scooted forward and grabbed Scout’s wrist to inspect his arm.

“Did anyone ever tell you that you have amazing veins, Scout?” Medic smiled up at the other man.

“Uh…no?” Scout questioned.

“Did you know you have -O blood? That means are a universal donor”

“Uh, cool? I guess?”

“You should really let me draw some of your blood sometime. For the good of the team”

Due to the concerning amount of radioactive energy drinks the Scout drank, Medic questioned whether or not his blood would even be safe. He would have to test that next someone needed a transfusion.

But of course, he didn’t say it as a serious suggestion. In Medic’s mind, this was flirting, in Scout’s mind, this was a threat.

Even then, Scout still blushed while praying that the damn Medigun would heal him quicker. Medic let go of his wrist and simply watched him as the last of the cuts finally healed themselves.

He stood up and switched off the stream before getting a spare set of clothes for the Scout due to the ones he was wearing being shredded. Medic always kept a spare set of clothes for the Scout, just in case.

Scout had already jumped off the table, taking the clothes and making sure to keep his distance from the birds that seemed to eyeing him down.

“Well Scout, be safe, and watch out for birds,” Medic smiled as he patted Scout on the shoulder.

“Thanks, for the clothes and stuff. And control your birds!” Scout mumbled as he walked out the doors and down the hallway.

Medic watched him walk away, leaning on the doorframe and sighing to himself. He was so lost in thought that he didn’t even hear the footsteps of the engineer behind him.

He was only alerted to his presence when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Doc, you gotta stop putting birdseed in that poor boy’s pockets,” Engineer frowned.

Medic simply giggled to himself. He definitely wouldn’t be stopping anytime soon. Not his fault that he loved him.

[heychucklenuts]

Just wanna apologize for being absent or not posting much -- I've been fixated more on Pokémon as of late, which I may decide to bring over here through a post idea I have. If you've been sending asks for headcanon posts they'll be coming soon enough (and if not feel free to throw eggs at me).

I did want to mention something sillier though. A few months back, I downloaded the game FATE (2005), which I'd been wanting to do for a while after playing the demo on repeat.

What does this have to do with TF2?

In my current playthrough, I'm playing as Medic. Now unfortunately the first game only lets you have a cat or a dog to tag along with you, so with some consultation from my server, Medic now has an orange cat by the name of Bonesaw. So, here is the proof of that.

[cpericardium]

i just re-read worm after a few years and am thinking about getting into the fandom- can you recommend some fics and people to look into? good or especially bad, either way- i just dont want to be out of the loop ;)

You came to the right place!!! I have read far too much wormfic to ever be healthy again.

I would not intentionally recommend very bad fics to a fandom newbie because that just makes for an unhappy experience—you'll have plenty of opportunities to find the dregs if you just look at any of the most common recs on /r/wormfanfic. I have a list of some of my own favourites, but my tastes are particular and often clownish. Of them, these are the ones I'd rec to someone new. In fact, many of these I read before joining the community myself and still hold up. Loaf (or, the fic that sucked me into the fandom): Post-Gold Morning, Contessa tries to bake a loaf of bread without using her power. I read this, immediately had to make fanart, and then didn't stop. Case: Sequel to Loaf. Lisa teams up with a woman who isn't the Simurgh to form a private detective agency. Tabloid: Adventures of a PRT photographer slash cape paparazzo. Character study and lots of cape worldbuilding. It has art! Cauldron Quest™: Contessa in a quest, what will she do? Typewriter: Lisa can read between the lines (of Worm). It's Cold Out There Every Day: Vista is caught in a timeloop. Amy's Octet: A series of quizzes about Amy Dallon. Forward: Taylor tries to move on after Gold Morning. The Great Escape: The Birdcage opened and Eidolon is tasked with catching the escapees. A Certain Logic of Violence and Uncertainty: Marquis and Amy in the Birdcage, what will they do? Shinka: Lung character study. Looking Forwards: The reason I started shipping Contessa/Alexandria. Cherry on Top: Cherish character study. Valleyxandria: A day in the life of Rebecca Costa-Brown, a California girl. Dragon Unbound: Dragon unchained! Agent of Cauldron: A girl kills Eidolon, gets inducted into Cauldron. Very expansive worldbuilding. Ghostlight: Pretender can hear Alexandria's voice while piloting her body. Janus: Victoria in Taylor's body, what will she do? Hatching a Heist: A woman pretends to be a cape in order to rob her former employer. Steel Owl: Parahumans Online can be such a lonely place. I Need Some Space: Taylor's new stepsister is Vista. The Artist Formerly Known As Bonesaw: Two years after Gold Morning, Riley wakes up and she's still in the Slaughterhouse Nine. Authors to look into: Chartic, k800, maroon_sweater, henghost (but you HAVE to check the tags first), Fox_in_a_Box (this is for Number Stans), Redcoat_Officer, Harbin, TheSleepingKnight, Omega_93, Dusky

[batsandbonesaws]

*click*

“er, is zhis zhing on? Hoo! I’ve never done zhis before!”

“Yea. See? ‘S got dat.. red light thingy. Dat means it’s on.”

“Ah, halloo! I am ze Medic!”

“Yo, I’m the Scout. But ya probably already knew dat, ‘cause if ya don’t already know who I am, I don’t even know where to start with ya, brother. Anyways, we’re openin’ up our mail for a few days, thought ya might wanna ask us some stuff since we’re kinda a big deal, so ya better freakin’ hurry and start sendin’ in letters. As soon as ya see dis.”

“Yes yes, you can ask anyzhing regarding our love life or personal lives, und ve vill do our best to answer! Vhat are you vaiting for, go ask us now, schnell!”

(Hi! Mod here. Or, well, one of the mods. We made this blog inspired by @mugs-n-cans if that wasn't clear already. I (Sunny) will be writing Scout and the other mod (Cal) will be writing Medic. You're allowed to send asks about both RED and BLU mercs, as well as crossfaction. Feel free to send asks to the mods as well!)

Tags we will be using:

-> #bats and bonesaws for asks that both Medic and Scout will answer.

-> #bonesaw asks for asks that will mostly answer Medic.

-> #bat asks for asks that will mostly answer Scout.

-> #mod mail for any mod posts or asks.

-> #x ray imaging for fanart we reblog!

(This post may update.)

[wingedquill]

soulscream

whumptober day 1 | alternative prompt: "broken" | word count: 1572

fandom: Stranger Things | characters: Steve and Robin | cw: daemon-related torture, major character death (ish) | tags: daemon au, unhappy ending (for now)

Robin will hate herself forever for it, but part of her sees the whole “getting kidnapped and slapped around by Russian guards” thing as a big fucking adventure, a wild story that she’ll be able to tell people when they ask her how she spent her summer, right up until they start beating Steve’s daemon.

And then everything gets really real, really fast.

Her ears start ringing after the first hit, like it’s her they’ve just suckerpunched instead of Steve’s fucking soul, and all of her clever plans of a glorious escape turn to static in her brain. Steve screams, short and agonized, and she can feel his whole body spasming against her.

They’re tied back to back. She can see Estella but he can’t, he couldn’t even see the blow coming.

This isn’t happening. This isn’t—this isn’t something that happens.

The guard draws back his arm again. The baton comes back down. Steve screams again, somehow louder.

“Who do you work for?” the guard asks, swinging the baton back and forth like a batter getting ready to hit a home run. He sounds almost bored. Like this is something he does every day. Like this is normal.

“I—I don’t—” Steve gasps. “I don’t—please—please no—”

Another whistle of air, another crack. Estella whines, high and animal-like, like she’s a real dog. The general laughs from somewhere behind her.

“They start leaking Dust, after a while,” he says. “I’ve always found it a pretty sight. Most disagree. I will not have my men stop when you start to dissolve, Butterscotch. Who. Do you. Work. For?”

“No one,” Steve sobs. “No one, please—”

Another swing. Another. Another, another, another, too fast for Robin to track, too fast for her to distinguish them.

“Stop!” she hollers. “Stop, we don’t know anything, we’re just kids, he doesn’t…he didn’t do anything to you, stop!”

“Would you rather we ask your hummingbird?” the general snorts. The guard lifts his foot, lets it hover over Estella’s paw. “You did spit at me, after all. You did something.”

Achilles curls up against her chest, whole body vibrating like a tiny heart. God if they started…if they started hitting him…one strike of that baton would be enough to kill him, to kill her.

The guard crushes his foot down. Gold starts to seep out from underneath it, pooling over the floor like dry ice smoke. Steve’s whole body contracts, jolting so hard that for a moment Robin thinks he’ll knock them both over.

“Please,” Robin whispers, watching helplessly as Steve’s soul bleeds all over the cold tile floor. “Please.”

It’s all either of them can say for the next—hour she thinks? Longer? Steve stops screaming at some point, stops struggling against her. If it weren’t for the feeling of his breaths, and Estella’s long, continuous whimpers, she’d think he was dead.

“Stop,” the general says eventually, when there’s a veritable pool of Dust around Estella, bright and gleaming as a firework. Fuck, they were supposed to be watching the fireworks today, they were supposed to steal a gallon of ice cream out of the freezer and lug it up the big hill behind the mall, they were supposed to be goddamn children about it—

“You are very good at keeping quiet,” he says, and there’s rustling behind her. Steve’s warmth disappears from her back, and then she’s being hauled upwards, hands gripping her arms. She doesn’t fight them. She doesn’t want to give them any more excuses to—god there were knives on the fucking table, and pliers, and a fucking bonesaw, and she doesn’t know if the Russians are planning on using them on her, or Steve, or Estella, and—

“Most men would have spilled everything by now,” the general continues as his men bully Robin forward, and she can finally, finally make eye contact with Steve.

He’s conscious. Standing. But there’s something horribly, horribly wrong with his eyes.

They’re shuttered. Or empty. Or gone, or—

“Steve,” she croaks, trying to reach for him. One of the men yanks her arms back, hissing a command in Russian in her ear.

“But you’d let us break you without answering the most basic question. So either you are a better spy than any man I’ve ever trained, or you truly are just a know-nothing child.”

He tuts, almost sympathetically. Behind Robin, there’s a rattling of chains, a loud whine, the sound of a body being dragged over the floor. Steve twitches, tears slipping from his empty eyes as he’s finally able to see what they’ve done to him. Estella makes a noise like a sob, legs twitching as she tries to gather them underneath her.

She fails. They keep dragging her like a sack of meat, smearing gold across the tiles. Bile sloshes in Robin’s stomach.

“For what it’s worth,” the general says, shoving Steve towards the door. He stumbles over his own feet, whole body hunched over in pain. “I do hope it’s the former. I truly do. But either way…either way we are out of time to ask you things. But worry not. We will learn something from you nonetheless.”

“What are you gonna do to me?” Steve croaks.

Me. Not us. Robin wonders if the thought of them hurting her is so unthinkable Steve hasn’t even considered it, or if he’s trying to keep them from realizing it's a possibility.

“You have seen our accomplishments, yes?” the general says. He parades them out of the cell, one hand on Steve’s shoulder like he might try to run. Like he wouldn’t get a bullet in the soul for trying. “You have seen the rift. We believe there is another world on the other side, and we would like very much for our scientists to explore that world. But there are many possible dangers that we do not yet know how to prepare for.”

“So you wanna throw me in?” 

Steve doesn’t sound like he’s discussing the concept of being thrown into a fucking hellworld with his torturer. He sounds like he’s asking his fucking basketball coach if he really wants him to play the second half.

“No,” the general laughs. “No. We do not want to see what you might get up to unmonitored. But there is a test you may help us with.”

If she were a hero, Robin would tell them to do it to her. She would tell them that Steve had had enough. She would tell them that they’d already broken him.

But she’s not a hero. She’s not a hero, and she’s watching a daemon bleed on the ground, and this doesn’t fucking happen. So her vocal cords stay frozen shut, and Achilles stays safe against her heart, and she does nothing to stop whatever’s about to happen to Steve.

They push through another set of doors and there’s the rift. Most of it looks just as it had before, a violent mess of red and black spreading over the wall like a disgusting fungus, but there’s an opening right in the middle. Not quite big enough for a person.

“I’m told we finally broke through while we were having our…discussion,” the general says. He inclines his head, and the two men holding Estella start dragging her over to a massive cage on the end of a chain. “And so you get to assist us with our first, and most important test. To make sure the daemonic bond can survive unscathed between dimensions.”

“No,” Steve whispers, glancing between the cage and the rift. “No, you—what’s that gonna do?”

“We don’t know,” the general says. “Hopefully nothing.”

Steve looks at her wildly as the guards bundle Estella into the cage. Help me. Do something. She can read that as clear as if he said it.

But she can’t move. She can’t speak. Her feet are frozen to the floor and her tongue is glued to her mouth. She’s a bug encased in amber, and she can do nothing but watch as the two guards hoist Estella’s cage between them.

“Steve,” the daemon groans, Dust spilling from her mouth like vomit. “I love—”

The guards hurl the cage forward, right through the opening in the rift.

Robin stands there.

Steve’s knees buckle.

“Get her out,” he gasps. “Get her out, get her—get her out, get her out, fucking get her out of there!”

The general barks an order and the two guards scramble for the chain. Steve collapses entirely, limbs jerking and thrashing against his binds.

“Get her out!” he wails. “Please, dear God, get her—”

And he just…stops.

All at once, like the power’s been cut to his brain. His limbs stop jerking, his eyes stop rolling. He goes completely and utterly still.

Robin stands there.

The general leans down, presses his fingers against Steve’s jugular. Frowns.

“Playing dead will not work with me, Butterscotch,” he says.

Robin stands there.

The two guards haul the cage back out of the void. It’s empty.

Everything freezes for a minute. The general stares at the cage, and for the first time in this entire fucked-up ordeal, Robin thinks she catches a flash of guilt in her eyes.

He murmurs something under his breath.

Robin will spend the next week pouring over Russian dictionaries and anthropological texts to learn both the phrase and the meaning behind it. When she does, it won’t tell her anything she doesn’t already know.

Living broken. 

Severed.

Steve is severed. His soul is dead. He'll be an empty shell for the rest of his life.

And Robin just stands there.

[ty-bayonet-betteridge]

i see a character with identity problems and my brain goes That Guy Is Plural. and im like ok u right

[spookiifi]

Tumblr is being stubborn with me, so I have a screenshot of @the-rocket-scientist​ ‘s ask. This can also be accessed on ao3 here! 

Hiiiii!!! I had a lot of fun writing this <3

Hi kids! Do you like violence? Because this story is filled with it <3

I haven’t taken a single anatomy class when I was in high school/college so I apologize for any inaccuracies. This fic gets a bit bloody. For those that are squeamish I’d recommend reading something else.

You were the only human that had the guts to deal with Lucifer’s work. But he never turned, nor experimented on you. He never gave an explanation why.

You considered yourself a secretary of sorts, despite not having a front desk. You and the rest of the alternates’ work was highly confidential. A literal stack of papers had to be signed before you actually became his assistant. It felt like you were selling your soul to the company.

“Refusal to sign these forms or rejection will result in fatal consequences. Do you wish to proceed?”

Lucifer was so forward sometimes. Cold, yet organized in his work.

“…Yes?”

So why were you falling for this bastard of a scientist?

Your objective tonight was accompanying him during an autopsy. One of the human’s hearts filled with black blood mid transformation, sealing off the airways. This was both new and interesting to the rest of the lab. It would be studied greatly and a huge opportunity for larger discoveries.

“Bonesaw.” Lucifer held out his gloved hand, his eyes focused on the open corpse in front of him.

Clean instruments made for surgery were aligned on a tray between the two of you. Some looked as if they arrived straight from an operating room, while the rest mimicked torture devices from horror movies.

You didn’t hesitate on giving Lucifer the bonesaw. In the past, you watched him curl his hands around a ribcage and tear it open. The aftermath that day was…brutal to watch. Those plain white walls were splattered with blood. At least you weren’t the one chosen to clean it up.

Thank…someone for goggles and protective gear. OSHA?

“Tell me, what do you notice about this human’s lungs?” Lucifer turned towards you after successfully slicing through the ribs. You couldn’t tell how he was feeling through the protective mask covering his face.

The morgue was cramped with shelves, and there was little space to stand. The room was only meant for two or three people at a time.

Failed body parts were preserved in unknown substances, while a skeleton hung on display in the corner. You hoped it was made of plaster, but that intelligent mind of yours told you it was real.

The smell was the worst, taking a full week to get used to. You knew behind those freezer doors; other bodies lay motionless inside with tags on their ankles. In all honesty, they were the lucky ones.

Lucifer’s entire being was distracting if you were straight up truthful.

You wondered if he knew about your feelings towards him.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“The corpse, my dear assistant. What’s different?” Lucifer knew the answer, but he wanted you to figure it out. “We should practice on concentration next time.”

How in the hell were you supposed to focus when this fine of a mad doctor was staring you down?

You paused for a moment. “The lungs are dry, and the heart bleeds black instead of blue.”

He seemed satisfied. “Very good. Now hand me that seraded knife.”

Now was your chance. “So…I’ve been thinking. We’ve been working overtime the past week.” You said as you inspected his tools.

Lucifer raised an eyebrow at you as he carefully cut around the ventricles. “Yes? And?”

“Maybe we could spend one night off? Six and the rest of the alternates have this place on lockdown. We don’t even have to leave.” You shrugged as he placed the organ in a biohazard proof bag.

Lucifer stopped. “We spend time with each other every day. You are my assistant after all.”

You grit your teeth, trying to hold back the frustration in your voice. “I mean the other kind of time.”

He seemed to be catching on. “…I’m busy. Now, hand me the syringe. We need to dispose of-“

Fuck it.

“Busy with what?! Every other failed experiment that sits in this damn facility?!”

Lucifer dropped the threaded needle on the tray. He tore off the mask with one hand. “Our current subject is missing! Do you care at all about your career?! Did you even READ the forms you signed?!”

“Lucifer I didn’t mean-“

His face heated up. “We’re so close to reaching a perfect alternate! And you want to quit now?!”

Your eyes widened. Lucifer never yelled at you. Tear droplets formed in the corners of your eyes, and he realized his mistake.

“Oh, no…no please.”

You choked down a sob and turned away, not wanting him to see you like this. “Forget I asked. It’s nothing.” Quickly, you removed your gear and made a beeline for the door.

“Wait!”

“Goodnight, Lucifer. Until tomorrow.” You didn’t look back as you swiped your key card.

After a much-needed shower, you changed into comfy clothes and spent the rest of your night in your room. It was paid for by the Mandela Facility, resembling a college dorm so you were closer to work.

You missed your chance alright…It was a stupid idea in the first place. A bad decis-

Someone knocking at your door distracted you from your thoughts. The first sounded heavy, then grew softer.

“If Lucifer sent you, I’d rather-“

Until you heard a voice call your name.

“Please talk to me.”

You opened your door to find your boss standing in the hall. He wore the same outfit from earlier, besides any medical gear.

“Did I wake you?” Lucifer said, shifting awkwardly when you glared at him. “…Don’t answer that.”

You sighed. “Come in, and close the door behind you.” An uncomfortable silence filled the room as he followed you inside.

Getting comfy on your couch, he sat across from you. “I didn’t mean to raise my voice.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I mean it! And maybe you’re right. We have been working overtime. I’m just…stressed.”

Your eyes narrowed. Was he showing weakness towards you? “Maybe, or I am right? Those are two huge differences, Lucifer.”

He sighed. “Yes, you are. Without the asset, we could lose so much- I mean-” He stopped when you glared daggers at him. “I’m sorry for yelling at you. I didn’t know I meant so much to you.”

You nearly dropped your drink at that last part. “Say that again.”

“I didn’t know I meant so much to you?”

This made you grin. “I forgive you, on one occasion.” This seemed to intrigue him. “We get to leave early tomorrow.”

Lucifer chuckled. “Fine, my little assistant. Do you prefer red or white wine?”

[duckiesdoodlesdelight]

act 2 spoilers at the bottom of the 2nd image and then alluded act 3/ending spoilers below and in my tag rambles probably

(i have a few other dirge playthroughs but theyve either just begun or are romancing someone else or are Fucked up like guillermo. guillermo bonesaw the man you are. you WOULD do that last second wouldnt you.)

[ao3feed-tf2ships]

Medic-Merc Confidentiality

read it on the AO3 at https://archiveofourown.org/works/50191618

by pointsfortrying

Not fault of his, certainly. No, the real issue was the fact that there was only so much he could do with what limitations and odd restrictions he had to deal with. While he didn’t fully understand why his employers had barred him from continuing to perfect his new Medi-Gun’s ÜberCharge, he knew better than to outright break the few regulations they’d been given.

Even if it meant an annoying lack of progress. With a sigh, he tossed the bloody bonesaw in his hands he’d forgotten he was even holding to the side, pursing his lips with furrowed brows as he glanced towards Archimedes.

“It is quite the enigma, is it not?” he sighed, shaking his head, “I can make these men gods, but what use is goodhood if it only lasts for eight seconds? Even less, if more than one’s in need!”

A series of 9 loosely connected oneshots from the Medic’s perspective, each revolving around one of his coworkers and set throughout his time at Reliable Excavation Demolition.

Words: 15347, Chapters: 9/9, Language: English

Fandoms: Team Fortress 2

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: Gen

Characters: Medic (Team Fortress 2), RED Team (Team Fortress 2), Heavy (Team Fortress 2), Sniper (Team Fortress 2), Spy (Team Fortress 2), Scout (Team Fortress 2), Pyro (Team Fortress 2), Demoman (Team Fortress 2), Soldier (Team Fortress 2), Engineer (Team Fortress 2), Miss Pauling (Team Fortress 2)

Relationships: Heavy & Medic (Team Fortress 2), Medic & Sniper (Team Fortress 2), Medic & Spy (Team Fortress 2), Medic & Scout (Team Fortress 2), Medic & Pyro (Team Fortress 2), Demoman & Medic (Team Fortress 2), Medic & Soldier (Team Fortress 2), Engineer & Medic (Team Fortress 2), Medic & Miss Pauling (Team Fortress 2)

Additional Tags: Slice of Life, canon-typical descriptions of gore, Canon-Typical descriptions and discussions of surgery and other medical practices, Canon-Typical smoking and drinking, canon-typical internalized ableism (from the demoman), a single dead rat, the rat has been christened as Bobbert, tf2bigbang2023, Medic's a good buddy the fic, Vague timeline but starts off near the beginning of their careers at RED

read it on the AO3 at https://archiveofourown.org/works/50191618

[chiropteracupola]

tagged by @kigiom in this funky little game! thanks ol' pal!

rules: post the last line/snippet of what you wrote and tag as many people as there are words.

it is once again a flintlock fortress thing, which Julien was not supposed to be in, but slithered into anyway. this is probably partially because I missed writing him after finishing that last fic and also because there's nothing else I'm working on right now that both contains Julien and is suitably early on in the plot.* so a story which was previously just Fun With Lancets now has a Julien Laurent Is Frenchly Judgemental And A Little Bit Mean About His Co-Workers sideplot.

[Nonchalant, he struck his flint across the corner of Ludwig’s medical case and lit his pipe. Smoke wafted gently as he cast his eye over its contents, and Julien inhaled with a carefully-controlled enthusiasm, glad to have finished with his concealment. He brushed a gloved fingertip across the blade of the bonesaw, his own furrowed brows reflected in the highly-polished steel.

Ludwig was competent, that was for certain, although perhaps a little too enamored of that particular tool for Julien’s comfort. As for the rest of the men that had been hired on… Julien picked his way across a newly boot-scuffed floor and grimaced.]

Whether or not they were much more than a collection of useless, war-mad cretins would remain to be seen.

and I do not think I have 20 whole people to tag, so I shall simply say @dxppercxdxver, @wilhelmina-murray-harker, @sailorpants, @sanguinarysanguinity, @tgarnsl, @cedarboots, @clockheartedcrocodile, @natdrinkstea, @kaxen, and @wromwood, if you'd like to share?

*look, I'm trying to break my habit of refusing to ever write proper explanations of characters or stories that are more on the original side, and flintlock tends to fall more into that category with the way I talk about it despite the fact that this is in actuality still fic.** so I'm making an attempt to focus on stuff that is At The Beginning and Provides Relevant Context at the moment.

**this is wretchedly distant from the actual video game it is based on but the fact remains that we didn't make up these guys, only their extremely overthought backstories and funny little outfits.