#sniper angst

[rorichuu]

hii can I get a support class where the reader is mad and they accidentally hit them and then they cry cause they regret it :((((

SHARPER THAN WORDS.

pairing: support class x gn!reader

authors note: ooh, yes okay, I love this—I love a little angst... thank you for sending this in, friend! :) + READ DISCLAIMER!!!

disclaimer: death is mentioned in Sniper's and deeply exaggerated for the drama (aka life is more precious)... Medic's is the only romantic one, I feel like it fits better with the dynamic I was going for :((( I hope this clears up the confusion!! enjoy!!

MEDIC:

Medic's absence was hard to ignore, stuck in his operation room, experimenting on god knows what... spending night after night without him until the ungodly hour he finally rested. You sat in the rec room, bouncing your foot as your thoughts raced. Impatient, you let out a frustrated groan, launching yourself from your chair and walking towards his office. Your hand slowly opened his door, the creaking not evident enough to Medic. You frowned and leaned against the doorframe. "Hey, hon?" He let out a small hum, back slouched at his desk as he wrote continuously on sheets of paper. Assumably, his experimentations. "Gonna come to bed soon?" You asked, walking over to him with your hand on his shoulder. Medic dismissed you as he walked over to his operating table, continuing his work on the cadaver. You clenched your jaw and crossed your arms, visually upset now.

"Medic." Your voice was low and poisonous, he felt your tone run through him alarmingly. Medic turned his head, eyes observing your figure.

"Ja, Liebling?" (Yes, darling?) His eyebrows furrowed now, his hands now extracted from the body. "What is wrong, z'vy are you out of bed?" Not understanding why you were so upset, he waited till you gave him a response. You let in a sharp inhale.

"I haven't seen or talked to you in days. God forbid, weeks!" Your voice raised and hands flew out, clearly upset. Medic shook his head, continuing.

"Schatz, (Sweetheart/treasure.) you're being a bit dramatic," he said, upset his work was being interrupted. "Please, go to sleep. Es ist spät." (It is late.) He mumbled. Your head tilted to the side, offended of his tone.

"Pardon?" You squint your eyes, slowly advancing to where he was standing. Your hand was planted on the steel, medical bed, the other balanced on your hip. Medic sighed deeply.

"I can't talk right now, you know this," he glanced at you momentarily. "Work is work, it’s a responsibility." This was your final straw. Your lips formed a thin line, head pounding with a newfound anger... you were absolutely pissed.

Forcefully, you pushed your shoulder against his, his medical tools clashing against the metal as you stomped off. Though you couldn't see it, Medic stumbled on his feet and looked back at you as you walked away.

"Don't bother."

. . .

The night rolled by at an excruciating pace as you sat on the edge of your shared bed. The light of the lamp dim as it shadowed your face. Sleep avoided you like a sickness as you held your hands on your eyes. Tears rolled down your face, guilt washing over you as you left that argument on repeat in your mind. Though it twisted and snarled into something far worse than it was, far worse than you intended, you drowned yourself in that guilt like a drunkard.

You flinched, a small gasp leaving your throat when you heard the door click open. That familiar figure lingered at your door for a moment before catching your tear-soaked face. "Oh, Mein Liebe..." (My love...) He whispered, shedding his coat and throwing it on the bed carelessly as he fell to your side. His hand comforted you as it placed heavily on your shoulder, he held you tightly before embracing you in a hug. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Liebling... (Darling) Oh, forgive me." He whispered on, your shared guilt now found in your embrace. You looked up at the man, and he pouted at your diamond tears. Medic brought his hand up and wiped your tears away. "Y/n?"

"I'm so sorry for pushing you. I didn't mean it, it was mean of me. I swear, I didn't mean to hurt you." Though you were crying in his hands, the man let out a laugh. You sat confused, gulping as you hid your face in his palm out of embarrassment.

"Oh, my love. It shouldn't be you who should be apologizing. I wasn't there for you when I needed to be. Ich war schuld..." (I was at fault.) Medic apologized, lifting your face to his. "Please don't cry," his humored smile comforted you, reminding you to know the situation wasn't as drastic as you had put it out to be. "I will be here for as long as you want me to." He kissed your forehead and wiped your cheeks once more.

"Let us sleep, meine liebe."

.

.

.

SNIPER:

It was the end of the job, rain now poured heavily outside the windows as you tapped your foot angrily. You were leaning against the wall in the community room, the others noticing this as they slowly started to slip away from you. Everyone knew why you were upset, it happened on the battlefield... even the enemy team knew not to mess with you and Sniper's heated argument.

The door clicked open as the tall New Zealander walked in, his eyes quickly escaped from yours as he set his sniper down. You stared daggers into his back as he grabbed a mug of coffee from the pot. Sniper sighed and set the cup down with a clack. "Don't give me the silent treatment, Y/n." He spoke, the silence broken now. You took a deep breath before speaking.

"I don't need your help on the field, you know that," You spoke. Sniper huffed, shaking his head. "I can handle myself fine, and you know it." You pointed a finger at him as you walked towards the man. Your eyes are slight and glaring now. The man observed your argument before turning to face you.

"I know you can."

"Then leave me be, Mundy!" You exclaimed, the man lowering his head as he hid under his hat now. "My actions are my own. Those are my kills... and I can't afford to have you be responsible for my mistakes." You punched his shoulder as you spoke, stomping out and grabbing your coat before exiting on swift feet. As soon as the door shut, Sniper had let go of that breath he had been holding… for what seemed the entire time. Sniper stared at his gun, reflecting.

. . . flashback to the battle . . .

You held your weapon in your hand, eyes glaring at its violence as the outside began to curdle into muted noise. Anger was fueling your senses with little to no control. Your eyes lifted and finally caught Sniper's own, and you glared. And you knew why he was taking almost every kill of yours. You had stumbled once in battle, the enemy Demoman holding his signature blade to your chest as he stood over your injured figure. Holding it up high before plunging it into your chest. Suddenly, Sniper had taken out the Demoman, leaving you to respawn.

— What had angered you was that Sniper felt some sort of responsibility for you. To never let you go through that again. And having known and been close to each other for years; willing to lay each other's life for one another... he cared for you deeply.

To let you fall back into that pain, that horrid sight of you dying in front of him when he could have done something. It hurt him. Far more than he would have thought.

So he did what he could.

. . . present . . .

As soon as you left the room, your breath caught up to you. Your chest began to rise and fall quickly, that familiar burn in your throat making it hard to breathe. A sudden cry left your throat as you felt warm tears fall from your cheeks, begging for any kind of escape from your immediate regret. You swung yourself backward and opened the door back up. Sniper turned his head to find you wrapping your arms around his figure. His arms immediately found yours and took you in. "Oh, roo," He cooed, rubbing your back as he rested his head on yours.

Moments passed, and your crying died down enough for you to talk. Swallowing hard, you let out a big sigh, looking up at him sorrowfully. "I'm so sorry, Sniper. I didn't mean to—when I had hit you, I seriously wasn't thinking. I was so upset..." You found your voice hiking, your chest hiccuping again before the man leaned down and cupped your face.

"Y/n, I understand," He said to you. Leaving you biting your lip anxiously. "We do things we don't mean ta' when we're upset, and I would never, ever hold that against you." He sent you a small smile, quick, but unmistakable. You hugged him once more. "I just wanted to protect ya." You looked up at him again.

"I know. But you won't lose me, please know this."

"I trust ya, I always have ... but the fight is over now, yeah? We understand and don't need ta' dwell onnit now." The man said before ruffling your hair.

.

.

.

SPY:

"God, why do you think you're so great? Do you really think you're better than everyone else!" You and Spy have been arguing back and forth till the clock ticked to the newest hour. Voices rise, fingers pointing, and all by you. Spy listened and gave you simple responses; you felt each dagger of his short 'answers' kill at your heart slowly.

He stood with his head high. And even though he was hurt by your anger and sorrow, he showed nothing but a furrowed brow. Believing he was annoyed by you, you sniffled and exclaimed: "Why won't you speak to me? Am I really that low to you?!" You choked out a sob with your response. You had lost sight of the argument. Your words were vulgar, mouth moving without second thought. Cheeks hot with anger and eyes threatening to spill tears. Spy broke little by little seeing you like this.

Écoutez-moi..." (Listen to me...) He spoke low, hand reaching out before you slapped it away.

"No!" You exclaimed, Spy clenched his jaw, leaning back to give you space from the sudden throw. "I... I'm tired of feeling like I'm under you!" You hit him. You flinch, regret washing over you, your hands shaking now. Spy went to hold you; to calm you from your sudden anxiety. You tried to pull from him, but his hold was firm. Slowly, you dropped your hands, falling into his hold as you mumbled slurred apologies. The Frenchman shook his head.

"Breathe, Y/n." He hushed, voice soft as you softly cried on his shoulder. Taking your time to calm down, Spy noticed your breathing begin to slow. Proud of you, he held your shoulders and guided you to sit down... swiftly getting you a glass of water for you to drink. You took it graciously, gradually drinking it as you felt yourself calm down. The man sighed, sitting beside you in silence. You sniffled.

"I'm sorry." You whispered, feeling your eyes begin to water again. The man shook his head.

"No need to be," he responded simply. "I never knew you felt this way, and I'm glad you communicated with me." You put your glass down, laying your head in your hands. You draw out a groan.

"No… when I hit you, I shouldn't have hit you, and I did," Spy rested a hand on your back, slowly rubbing to soothe you. "I'm so sorry."

"I'm not hurt. I'm okay, mon ami," (my friend) he took a deep breath. "I have never once felt you were below me, Y/n. Nor anyone."

"Not even Sniper...?"

"Ehh, well..." You laughed at his response, wrist wiping the last tear away from your cheek. Spy lets a small smile rest on his face as he leaned back, thankful your spirits were back up. "But I mean it, don't doubt I think otherwise." He stood and brushed off his suit, as he always did before standing. "Take as much time as you need."

"Thank you, Spy." The man nodded before hearing the door click open, both of you looked over at the entrance.

"Hey, Spy! I know Y/n was havin' a rough time and was wondering if you knew where they..." Scout stood awkwardly, his stature still; unmoving. "Oh."

"Scout, leave."

"Right, just a moment, big guy," Spy rolled his eyes as Scout held a boat with a taco in it. Flavored with your favorite toppings. "Y/n, you can have the last taco." The boy sends a wink and finger guns before escaping Spy's wrath.

(Spy was appreciative… :)

.

.

.

rorichuu!

. . .

TAGLIST: @simp999

[ragequat]

I uh. I realize I forgot to post this other poster I made HELP. Have some father son angst featuring spy and scout

[as-is-above-so-below]

The Captain - Simon Riley x Sniper!Reader, Wife!Reader

Let's Have a Baby 2.0

summary: Ghost’s sniper wife (reader) joins Task Force 141 on an op, against his wishes call sign: Freyja warning: implied sexual content, MDNI Note: A special thank you to @lethalchiralium and @peachesofteal for workshopping with me, per usual, and for being the best beta! Enjoy and blessed be! << Previous | Next >>

Simon Riley did not cry when his first daughter was born.

He didn’t know how to process his grief amid his love’s agony and emptiness. She spent days on end, curled into the plush rocker in the corner of the empty nursery or lying flat on her back, staring at the white ceiling. His guilt was no match for her shame – as she clutched the tiny hospital blanket to her chest, sobbing that she couldn’t name her. Couldn’t name the daughter that they didn’t get to bring home.

Her wails – I’m sorry I’m weak, Please don’t hate me, I'm fucking useless – echoed in Simon’s mind when he named that baby. He knew, in his heart, that Freyja loved her with her entire being, everything she had. He knew that, if she could, she would have picked the most beautiful name, better than anything he could have come up with on his own. So he named her after his wife, so his daughter would never leave his mind.

When Joan Vanadís was born, Simon stared at her for hours. He memorized every detail of her soft features, inhaled her scent, and poured over her deep brown eyes and button nose. His wife barely got to hold her in her first day of life. Sure, he had cried, as many fathers do in the delivery room. He was completely unsure of how it was possible that he helped create this beautiful, innocent little person.

But his son, oh his son, was an entirely different animal.

Where Joanie came roaring into the world, Arthur Simon was quiet. Quiet like his father, but the spitting image of his mum, minus Simon’s curved nose (Poor thing, he thought). The gentle cry from such a delicate thing broke whatever terrified stupor he’d been in since learning that they were having a boy. The doctor placed the blue bundle on his wife’s chest, and he instantly broke down. The ‘big bad Ghost’ was a blubbering mess as their son’s small hand curled into her skin, his eyes closed, and his mouth curled into a frown. He hesitated, hand hovering over the boy until Freyja’s came and pressed his palm into the tiny body, much smaller than Joanie’s when she was born. The steady rhythm of Arthur’s little lungs working underneath his fingertips made something inside his chest snap and crumble into dust.

Whatever fear he had about having a son was gone. As he had promised their daughters, he again swore that he would be better. Better than his father. He promised he would raise Arthur the way he should have been.

In the months that followed, taking care of his son healed a piece of Simon Riley. A piece that needed the father he had fought so hard to be.

The newborn seemed to have that effect on people, particularly overgrown men.

Arthur’s godfathers and grandfather returned to England about three months after he was born. Johnny brought his partners by the second they stepped off the plane, not even offering time to dress down in civilian clothes.

König was the first in the house, carrying his and Roach’s duffels as Johnny snuck in a moment alone with their partner outside. Freyja appeared, almost making him jump out of his skin at her sudden appearance.

“Herrgott, Kapitän!” he cried, hand on his pounding heart. “You scared me.”

Freyja had Artie strapped to her chest, sucking happily on his pacifier as he stared up at her face. He was already a certifiable mama’s boy, always enamored with her and clinging to her at every waking moment (and then some). “Oh, thank god,” she sighed, unraveling the fabric from her waist and shoulders. “I need a nap.”

His eyes blew wide through the holes of his hood, and he quickly stepped back. “Nein, Freyja, ich will ihn erschrecken—”

“König, nimm deinen Patensohn.” She didn’t allow him any time to hesitate, pressing the baby against his chest. The Austrian immediately dropped the bags from his shoulders, wrapped one arm under the baby’s bum, and rested one large hand against his back.

“Freyja–!”

She was gone.

König desperately wanted to give him back. He couldn’t take the heartbreak of another kid, especially his own nephew, staring at him with pure terror, trying to get away to safety. But this child, a sweet thing, had easily and without hesitation reached for him when Freyja moved to hand him off. It was as if he already sensed that his mom would never hand him off to someone that didn’t have her full trust.

He had gotten used to Joan by that point, but she was almost a year old when he saw her last. And she was much bigger than the infant boy in his arms, done up in an (admittedly) adorable, light blue onesie, with stripes nearly resembling those of the Scotland flag (Soap most definitely bought it for that reason and that reason alone). What if he dropped him? What if he held him too tight? What if he moved and hit Arthur’s head on something? What if–

A small tug caught his attention, his mask shifting downward. König glanced down at the boy curiously pulling the thing toward his mouth, which he put a stop to. “Iss das nicht, welpe. Du weißt nicht, wo es war,” he whispered, using a finger to nudge Arthur’s fist away from his mouth.

They simply stared at each other, the man holding the baby’s gaze, surprised that the little one was tolerating it. Then in a shocking turn of events, Art jerked the fabric up and over his head, making cooing and gurgling sounds that resembled an attempt at a laugh. Both under the hood now, König froze for a moment, completely and utterly bewildered. No grown adult, let alone an infant, had ever warmed up to the giant so quickly, immediately. Artie made another noise, and beyond his control, tears started to flow freely down his paint-smudged cheeks, a huge smile lighting up their dark cavern.

As König sobbed and shook, he pressed his forehead against Arthur’s, trembling body clinging to his godson like a lifeline.

König didn’t know how long he stood there with gentle but clumsy hands palming his scars and features, reveling in the attention. He never wanted it to end. He didn’t fail to notice what felt like Ghost’s hand on his opposite shoulder, brief but definitely present; then, the familiar press of Johnny’s cheek between his shoulder blades and the imprint of his firm hands on his hips.

Yeah, you could say Arthur Simon had a gift for healing.

.

.

.

“Uh oh, Dada!”

Freyja chuckled at her husband’s exasperated expression, staring at the ceiling as the plastic cup bounced across the floor. Simon had spent the last ten minutes trying to slice up an orange for Joan, who, in that time, had thrown the loose cereal onto the floor, tossed her plastic fork across the room, and finally dumped the cup of water into his lap.

“Yeah, uh oh,” he sighed, bending to pick up the cup but not bothering with his now-soaked pants. “Lovie, I’m almost done. You have to be patient. We don’t throw things.”

“No!”

“Look, Joanie, here.” Simon broke a wedge off and held it out for her. Two little hands took the fruit, holding the rind as Joan gummed at the soft flesh. “Can you say, ‘Thank you, Daddy’?”

“No!”

“You’re welcome, baby.”

Arthur rested quietly in his mother’s arms with his cheek pressed against her breast as he dozed after finishing a bottle. Some mothers would have found Arthur’s level of attachment overwhelming; he rarely wanted to be put down, oftentimes crying out for her even when handed off to Simon. Similar to how Joanie gravitated to her father, Artie clung to her, and Freyja took pride in that.

When she looked up from her son, she found Simon had stripped out of his soiled sweatpants and now sat in only black boxer briefs. It was an unusually lazy day due to the poor weather outside. Simon got the kids up and fed at the usual time but didn’t do much to dress them, opting for fresh onesies. Joan’s was a dark navy, while Art’s was cream with mini tan teddy bears.

Joanie finished the orange slice quickly and placed the rind on her plate. She balled one hand into a fist and slapped the top with an open palm in a jerky movement. “Dada, more.”

“That’s right, ‘more’,” he praised, mimicking the sign for her. “Good job asking. Here.”

He placed the rest of her snack on the tray, and she immediately started nibbling at one. Simon leaned forward with his forearm on his knee, getting to eye level with the girl. “I’d really like an orange. Could you share with Daddy, lovie?” he asked while offering a hand. They had quickly learned to keep her hands occupied and practice hand-eye coordination in constructive ways, rather than letting her get bored. That was when she tended to start throwing things, as demonstrated by Simon’s now discarded pants.

She seemed to consider it, before dropping the piece she had already half finished in his palm and grabbing another.

“I meant one that wasn’t half-eaten, but this’ll do. Thank you.” He met Freyja’s eyes, his cheeks tight with laughter as he finished the fruit. 

The rain thundered against the glass windows, filling the space behind Joanie’s giggles at the funny faces Simon made. Her clothed feet kicked the legs of her chair. It was there – in their kitchen on a rainy Tuesday afternoon – Freyja realized just how content she was with the life they had built together. Observing her husband as he wiped the sticky juices dribbling down their daughter’s chin and pushed her blonde curls back; her touch brushing their son’s warm, squishy cheek with her thumb.

She soaked in the atmosphere a moment longer before speaking. “Simon?”

“Yeah, love?”

“I think Artie’s my last.” Her voice was quiet, almost unsure. They’d never really discussed just how many kids they wanted. Against his initial fears, Simon was a natural; he was just as much in his element taking care of their kids as he was on the battlefield. She didn’t want to take that away if he wanted more, but she honestly couldn’t go through it again. Recovering from a c-section royally sucked, but giving birth naturally was not an option.

Simon’s brows pinched together as he swiveled away from Joanie, searching her face. He watched how her careful fingers stroked Arthur’s face, her other hand wrapped around the baby’s thigh to secure him to her. Her touch slid down to his chest, measuring his tiny heartbeat and steady breaths. He often did the same with both of their children; the gesture grounded him in their reality, and he figured it did the same for her. “Alright,” he finally said. “I’ll call for an appointment to get snipped.”

He said it as if he were talking about grabbing a takeaway on his way home from work, which gave Freyja a slight shock.

“Just like that?” she asked, turning in her chair to face him better. “Are you sure?”

“You’ve given me three beautiful babies,” Simon cooed, reaching to drag his large hands up and down her thighs. Freyja melted into his touch, legs spreading so his knee could slot between hers. “S’the least I can do. If you’re done, so am I. I had a feeling, anyway.”

“A vasectomy just seems a bit extreme. Maybe we can just use condoms?”

He raised a brow at her with an upside-down grin, challenging her. “Do you wanna try that again, with feeling? Look me in the eye and tell me you’re never gonna let me cum in you, ever again?”

“...Birth control?”

“Remind me, how did we have our daughters?”

“I hate you.”

“But I’m right.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“Still right, though.” Simon rose from the table and leaned over her, resting his weight on one hand next to her thigh. He slipped the other around the back of her neck and tilted her head up, stealing a long, slow kiss. He muttered, “I’ll go next week,” against her lips before resuming, tongue gently prodding her bottom lip.

Freyja broke away and glanced up at him through her lashes with a teasing look. “You sure you can last that long without sex?”

“You’re gonna be the death of me.”

Ghost, Soap, and Gaz shipped out to replace the other half of the task force a few days later. They were only gone for two weeks, executing the final excursion to retrieve a stolen weapons cache. König, Roche, and Price had done most of the leg work but decided that the sergeants and lieutenant were better equipped for the situation at hand. 

Johnny’s demolition expertise certainly came in handy this time around.

Still, Simon was sore and aching for the comfort of holding his kids and wife after what felt like the longest two weeks of his life. It was their first time leaving both babies with the other parent since Arthur was born.

Unlike his last time returning from a mission, the house was quiet, which allowed him time to take his boots off at the door and shed his mask. König’s car was parked in their driveway, leading him to believe the operative was spending the night in their guest room. Whether Roach was there too, he didn’t know.

The hall light at the top of the stairs flicked on, and Freyja appeared in a silky nightgown, standing on the last step with a tired smile and messy hair.

Simon stopped at the bottom of the stairs and hummed while his eyes roamed her body with a dopey smile.

“Welcome back,” she whispered, locking her fingers behind his neck to tilt his head back, giving him access to slot their lips together. Freyja moaned quietly at the firm hands on her hips and thighs, gripping and digging into the soft flesh. “How’d it go?”

He shrugged and pressed another chaste kiss to her lips, humming against them. “No snags. Soap got to blow stuff up.” Simon’s mouth trailed down her jaw, throat, and chest, gentle and loving.

Her fingertips brushed a gash on his cheek. Most likely from shrapnel, if its depth and jagged edges were any indicators.

“M’fine, love.”

“Joanie’s out cold, but Artie’s awake if you wanna see him. I just finished feeding him.”

That woke him up a little bit. A soft breath of air tickled the wet spots on Freyja’s skin from his silent chuckle. Simon’s arms wrapped around her waist, and he nuzzled his face in her chest as he soaked in her presence. They’d gone more extended periods without seeing each other, but whether they were apart for a week or a few months, he still missed her like crazy.

“She doing better in her room?”

“Much. She’s having some nightmares but goes back down eventually. She’s having a good night.”

“Mmm, in that case, I won’t wake her. We can surprise her in the mornin’.”

When Freyja turned to lead him upstairs, he couldn’t help himself as his hand swung up and connected with her ass, a sharp CRACK! resonating through the air.

“Simon!”

“M’sorry, couldn’t help it. You left yourself wide open on that one,” he teased, his voice low to not wake their daughter or guests. As expected, Arthur’s quiet coos reached his ears the closer they got to their bedroom. Simon dropped his gear by their bedroom door and approached the bassinet on Freyja’s side of the bed. The little boy stared in his general direction, wiggling like a (precious) worm.

The man beamed down at him and carefully slid his hands under Artie’s back with his thumbs hooked under the infant’s arms, lifting him out of the crib. “Hi, beautiful boy,” he mumbled, pressing his pursed lips against his cheek, leaving multiple kisses in the same spot. He held his son back out for a moment, a confused expression on his face once he pulled away.

“Where’d it go?”

Freyja shifted to her knees on their bed and rested her chin on his shoulder, peering down at their son. “What?”

“The baby scrunch.”

“Huh. You’re right. I didn’t even notice.”

“I just…last time I held him, he still curled up. I missed it,” he said, a grown man literally pouting.

“I know…” She let her hands slide down from his shoulders to his chest. “I’m sorry, Si. I know it sucks. Being away comes with the job, and that means we miss things. We’ve been lucky so far with Joanie, honestly.”

Arthur had quieted down, sucking his pacifier as he studied Simon’s painted face and clinging to his shirt.

A knock at the doorframe caught their attention, and all three turned to the source. König rubbed the sleep from his eyes, bare feet padding across the carpet until he reached them. “Hello, Lieutenant. Did the operation bode well?”

“Yeah, everything was just as you said it – was…”

The baby had started to whine again and let go of his dad, reaching for his uncle with grabby hands. The man’s face flushed, but he didn’t make a move to take the baby. Once the shock wore off, Simon took the initiative to hand Art off, and König gladly received him.

He immediately settled again, laying his head back in the crook of König’s elbow, humming softly against his pacifier. “Hallo, welpe,” he said in a hushed tone, rocking his nephew gently.

“Well, that’s new,” Simon grumbled, sitting on the edge of the bed to avoid awkwardly standing there. Simon wasn’t too annoyed, but he was somewhat sad. He had missed his babies dearly and looked forward to some serious attention. But his usually shy baby, who never wanted to be handed off to anyone besides his mother and occasionally Simon, was suddenly choosing their friend over him.

How much had he missed in such a short amount of time?

“I apologize, sir. I am as surprised as you are. He’s a good boy; I think we have been around so much the last two weeks…”

“König.”

“Ja?”

“Drop the sir. We’re not on base. I’m not mad.”

König blinked at him, confused. “It’s… Scheiße, wie sagt man ‘gebräuchlich’ auf Englisch? Ich weiß es nicht. It is normal to use sir where I’m from.”

Simon glared back. “And this is my house. You’ve done as my wife has said to gain my son’s affection. So now, you will do what I say to get back in my good graces after robbing me of my child. Are we clear?”

“I feel…bad. Please, take him back–”

He shook his head and stood again, scratching at the light stubble that had formed on his cheeks over the last few days. “And I’m telling you, no. It’s fine. I have to shower anyway.”

“Alles klar.”

taglist: @esthervalea, @miss-leto, @sweetestcowboy, @blueoorchid, @apocalypticseagull, @eatingtheworldsoffanfiction, @covenlovenn, @330bpm-whiplash, @gnoccheyy, @jaggernauticals, @dwkfan, @untoldshortsofthefandomsdoms, @bobfloydsgf, @maviee, @thomaslefteyebrow, @kyovy, @prodyng, @scout-fang, @avalkyrieofparis, @misshoneypaper, @berryjuicyy, @voteforpedropascal, @beakami, @addictedtothefictionalworld, @kaghost

Copyright © 2023 as-is-above-so-below. All rights reserved.

[0hlilith]

I have more, Fellas… Hear me out,

What if… after the events of “The naked and the dead” Scout discovers that Spy is his dad, AND that Sniper knew that too? And way before him? He's mad of course! But... … who else can he tell it too? His Ma' is thousands of miles away! And his brothers no where to be found! and besides Sniper… with who could he talk to? What if the rest team knew too?

What if they just didn't bother to tell him? What if they just see him as just a team-mate And not a friend? Or not an actual member of the team? Just a person that they're Gonna work with for just a few years? What if they have to pick a side and they choose Spy over him? What is he gonna do? Cry about It? He’s 27 for god’s sake! He’s tough! He’s not gonna cry about that his own Team that watched him on his best and worse moments, that watched him slowly get better as a merc and person that he himself almost considered them as a Family, choose the cranky old Spy of him! He’s better than that!… … Right?

[deviationmaniac]

"You know how we deal with enemies fraternising like this, Miss Pauling? We kill them as punishment, and at some point, they will be afraid of their own friend's presence."

Still trying out my simple style, and what better than my two boys? The Administrator isn't the happiest that they've been buddy buddy.

[tyrianludaship]

Me seeing people on twitter talking about morally grey characters like they're completely irredeemable and makes them abusive rapists as a result even though the bad actions they've done is only comparable to a Wile E. Coyote cartoon skit but gorier:

[cheemscakecat]

Found some more Pain for y’all

So, spoilers for the Tf2 comics that might never be completed.

Ya’ll remember what happened with Sniper and his parents?

So first his parents die, which is terrible enough because he called them every week and trusted them. But on top of that, he finds out they adopted him, and he can’t find answers on where he came from. And he spent six months dealing with that emotional baggage.

But thankfully, he’s right about Pauling knowing where to look, and go to New Zealand and meet his birth “parents”.

But his father is a national embarrassment that destroyed the country. His birth parents can’t stand each other. And on top of that, his imbecile father has the gall to ask him for money.

The lab was the only place that didn’t flood, and when “mom” leaves, she breaks a hole in the roof. And she left without her son or any of the people who came with him.

Something else important is that other teammates are there, including Spy. This was important enough to Sniper that the other teammates could know what was happening [Pauling could have lied to them]. Spy’s instinct when the room starts filling with sea water is to snap Pauling out of her Administrator disapproval panic.

If Medic hadn’t brought Sniper back with his mad science, this would have been it. A terrible demise after being left to drown by his garbage biological “parents”.

In my bucket scene analysis, I talked about how Spy wanted to do one last good thing for his team when they thought they were going to die. He wanted them to write down everyone’s last wish and fulfill them, so nobody died as depressingly.

I imagine it impacted his decision to lie about Tom Jones being Scout’s father. He saw what happened to Sniper here and didn’t want his son to die confused, disappointed and angry. Because he cares about Scout more than those two crappy New Zealanders cared about their lost boy.

[pyrobean]

SPEEDINGBULLET BUT IN THIS SCENARIO

I AM NOT GUILTY

I AM NOT GUILTY EITHER I AM JUST THE ARTIST…

angst is my weakness.

[obsidiandious]

I discovered the circle brush and went buck wild (i like circles)

I was going to write something like this on my other blog but too late

[rayclubs]

give me your Sniper takes

Okay so there are two crowds of Sniper fans.

The first crowd believes him to be an anxious mess who has every mental illness. Their Sniper is awkward, insecure, depressed, touch-starved, that Sniper needs to be reassured, hyped up, defended în social situations. They often pair him up with Scout or Demo, who is a more social type - the latter, for the record, I think is a good character duo, though this is the wrong way to go about it. You'll often hear this crowd talk about "sopping wet kitten of a man" and amp up his childhood drama. În other words, they recognize that Sniper has social issues, and believe that a miserable depressed whumpee is the only natural outcome of this.

Then there's the contrarian crowd. They really dislike sad wet kitten Sniper, so they assert that no, he doesn't actually have any social anxiety or childhood trauma at all. They claim it's not in the comics (it is), they misinterpret his professionalism, they pair him up with Medic or Spy to show off how cool and macho he is in comparison. You'll hear them talk about feral Sniper, and most hardcore porn is written by them.

Then in the middle there's me, who has childhood trauma we don't talk about on this blog, and who is pretty socially anxious, yet very distinctly not a mess. I figure that there's more directions one's personality can take as a result of this baggage than is depicted in fandom. Basically, I think Sniper's issues made him kind of an asshole and that's okay.

He has insecurities, so he adopts a professional demeanor and silently judges everyone who doesn't. He's been ostracized în childhood so he doesn't have any experience in building and maintaining relationships. He's anxious so he says rude things to people and barks at them to leave him alone. He gets all tense and twitchy in a crowd and thinks it's the crowd's fault, not his own. Even when he's trying to be nice, he has so little experience and positive role models in his life that he can't help being a dick.

I call it the Raymond Clubs Theory of a Socially Awkward Shithead.

[habitabel]

I need spy and scout fanfics that are the father son angst dynamic please guys I need to resolve some inner issues and this is the only way please guys if you have links or is willing to write them or even DRAW them please tell me

🙏🙏🙏

[jermer10]

hey! :3 could you write some sniper x reader. maybe angst??? thanks <33333

TF2 working it out | sniper x reader

suggestive, gn reader | thank you sm for the ask anon!! <33333

drabbles under the cut :P

"Hey...how ya' been?" Scout awkwardly smiled at you, giving a chaste pat on your shoulder. You, truthfully, had been a mess - hair gone unbrushed, eating little to nothing, eyes red with recent tears. "I've been better." You feigned a smile, it seemed to appease the young man. "Yeah, alright, just take it easy, yeah?" He grinned, smacking your back lightly and strolling off. You were so pathetic. Three weeks ago Sniper had broken up with you after a 3 year relationship, no rhyme, no reason. It had obviously destroyed you, but living in the desert with nine emotionally repressed men gave you no space to work through it. Now, you had them one by one ask you throughout the day if you were alright, Soldier being the harshest, "WISE UP MAGGOT, WE'RE IN THE WAR ON AMERICA!" Engie being the most accommodating, soothingly rubbing your back whilst you cried your eyes out. Everyone else being awkward, but trying to help in their own ways. No sign of Sniper for a week or so, he wouldn't leave the van, wouldn't show up to grab dinner with the rest of the team, wouldn't go for after work drinks. But the battlefield? That was a different ballgame entirely. He was racking up the most kills each match, hiding in places no one could see him, no deaths, elusive, as always. That was the worst part. It seemed like the breakup hadn't affected him at all, he had always been a recluse, and now he was a better mercenary because of it. You could only feel hopeless, accumulating the least kills, dying so often you weren't even bothered to go back into the match at some point, walking off to a quiet part of the map, places where the slaughter had already passed. You sat, legs hanging over the side of one of the many wooden platforms incautiously placed next to steep drops and cliff ends. "I'm so stupid, so fucking stupid." You choked out ugly sobs, the tears burning holes in your cheeks. You had done everything for that man, you cooked for him, cleaned his van, sucked his dick, repaired his weapons, fuck, you had your whole future planned out with him after this god forsaken war was over. Things you didn't have to do. Things you wanted to do. You had tried so hard for him, accommodated him when others wouldn't have even given him a glance. Sniper had thrown it all away, he had thrown you away. You were on a battlefield, no time to grieve the loss of what you thought would be forever, no time to reconcile because he was too gutless to face you after breaking your heart. And what did you have to show for it? Your beat up face from rubbing your eyes so hard they bruised? The not so quiet sobs your roommates could hear from across the halls? You really were stupid. And you had felt worse when you felt a hand grasped shoulder, looking up you see him. "Oh my god, fuck off Mundy." You spat as aggressively as you could muster, though it did admittedly sound more desperate than aggressive. Sniper sat next to you anyway, feet dangling off of the side of the platform. An air of awkwardness hung over him, clearly he had been watching you enough to have slipped away from the fight to talk to you. "I- I'm sorry, y/n," He begun. You glanced at the man from your peripheral vision, he looked off into the distance, seemingly trying to come up with the words to say. His hands absentmindedly fidgeted with his gloves, prodding at the material and shifting himself uncomfortably. The urge to hold him overwhelmed you. The countless times you had comforted him as he suffered from some sort of anxiety attack or depressive episode, the motions were almost routine. "Ya know how I get, I overthink it. Most of the time I don't even think- I'm just- scared." His voice cracked on the last word. He was rambling, you cautiously placed your hand in his own, rubbing your thumb on the back of his. He nervously stared at your hand, and then at you. "Mundy, you really hurt me. You gave me no explanation, you ignore the team and I for weeks, and now you sit here telling me that you’re the one who’s scared? I’m scared too! I’m fucking terrified!”

You begun to cry, “I still thought that we would do this together, both of us, scared as shit and alone, but together.” You stopped yourself from saying anything more, you would have just started blabbering incoherently. Sniper grimaced, wiping away at his eyes from under his sunnies. “I know. I’m so sorry.” He sobbed himself. You looked at him, tears still rushing your face, lips trembling, hair messy, blood splatters from the previous match tracing your otherwise perfect skin.

Sniper saw every inch of you, raw. “I am so fuckin’ stupid.” He breathed out between sobs and huffs, his body language begging you for some comfort. You obliged, leaning in to hug him. He swooped you up in his grasp, breathing in your scent, grabbing in a handful of your hair, drenching your shoulder with his own mess of tears. “Where do you even go from here?” You asked yourself out loud. Sniper answered by peppering your skin with kisses, sniffling between each kiss. “Oh…” You trailed off, heart swelling with sadness, love, and a new nervous hopefulness, maybe you would be alright.

[as-is-above-so-below]

The Captain - Simon Riley x Sniper!Reader, Wife!Reader

Part 6: Darling

summary: Ghost’s sniper wife (reader) joins Task Force 141 on an op, against his wishes call sign: Freyja warning: implied sexual content, MDNI Note: PART 6 HAS ARRIVED! Thank you for all of your support! A special thank you to @lethalchiralium and @peachesofteal for workshopping with me, per usual, and being my beta! Enjoy and blessed be! (p.s. ghost drinking an orange sodie lol) << Previous | Next >>

Simon could hear his daughter’s screams as he came up the walkway to their front door, duffel slung over his shoulder. He had returned from a month-long deployment an hour ago and only allowed himself enough time to debrief and return his weapons once on base before hopping in his car and heading home.

He entered the house, still in full gear (mask and all), to find his heavily pregnant wife pacing the living room, their crying daughter in her arms. Her eyes and cheeks were red when she turned to the door, sobbing in relief at the sight of him.

“Oh, sweetheart. What’s going on?” he asked, dropping his bag by the door and going to her.

“She has a-a cold.”

“I can see that.” He wiped at the snot and drool on Joanie’s lip with his glove. “Where’s Roach?”

“He went to pick König up. You didn’t see him?”

“No. Must’ve just missed ‘im.” When Price handed out assignments for their most recent deployment, Roach had offered (more like decided) to stay with Freyja for the duration of his absence. With König also deployed, it made sense for him to help her with the baby and housekeeping while Simon was gone. Better than staying on base – alone – for a month. Knowing someone was in the house with his family made him feel better about leaving for such an extended period, especially with his track record. The last time he had left the country, leaving his pregnant spouse behind…

Simon rubbed his daughter’s back, his heartstrings tugging at the thought of her being in pain. “Give ’er here, I’ll take a turn.”

“Si, no, you must be exhausted-”

“I am exhausted, which means I’m in no mood to argue. Go to bed, love, please.”

His pleading didn’t seem to affect her as she went back to doing laps around the couch. “The doctor said there’s nothing we can do. It just has to pass. I’ve tried everything. Chest salve, shower steam, saline – nothing’s working. Every-Every time we put her down or sit down, the screaming just gets worse. Can’t stop…moving, and your son is kicking the shit out of me-”

This was ironic, considering how Joan only kicked when Simon or one of their friends spoke or touched her belly. Now, their son only ever kicked for her.

“Freyja.”

She stopped her rambling and found he had stepped into her path; he firmly held her biceps and dragged his hands up and down. Freyja sniffled as another tear slipped down her cheek. No singular word could describe how she felt (and probably looked). Drained, fatigued, beaten, dog-tired; none quite did the trick.

“You look like shit. You need to get some rest.”

“No, Simon, please just go to…bed.”

Soon as Ghost took Joan and returned to massaging her spine, her wails simmered to quiet whimpers as she cuddled into him. She dropped her head onto his shoulder, little fingers hanging from the collar of his shirt to the top of his vest. Their baby was getting big, her senseless baby talk beginning to lean more toward coherent vocabulary. When Joanie cried a soft “Dada” against his neck, Freyja started to sob harder, the heels of her palms dug into her eyes. 

Shit. “What’s wrong? She stopped screaming bloody murder. That’s a good thing.”

“I’ve been trying to calm her down for hours! You come home, and after five minutes, you’ve fixed it. She hates me! She fucking hates me!”

“Frey, look at me.” He stopped comforting Joan for a moment to tilt his wife’s chin up, forcing her to listen to him. When she did, he took his hand back. “Babies see their mothers as an extension of themselves. She knows your heartbeat and breathing sounds; she gets food from you…”

“Who told you that?”

“…I read about it.”

Freyja softened, tears no longer flowing freely. “You read parenting books?”

“Of course I do. I want to be the best for them and you.” He pulled her into his chest with one arm, his covered lips pressing into her hair. “You are her mother. I could never take your place. You’re her home. But I’ve been gone for a month, and I’ve never been away from her this long. There’s something to be said about missing her dad and wanting some comfort.”

When Simon brushed her tears away, she turned to kiss his palm, then rested her cheek there. Freyja didn’t know how, but her husband sure had a way with words, always knowing how to make her feel better. 

“Better?”

“Mhm,” she hummed and, before she could reach to pull his mask up, Joanie whined in frustration, kicking her legs impatiently, about to start up again. Simon chuckled and let his wife go, his heavy boots thunking against the hard floor as he began what would be a long night of getting his steps in. 

“Good. Now do as Daddy tells you and go to bed. Don’t make me tell you again.”

.

.

.

Coming up on the end of her pregnancy, the ‘waddling’ stage was in full swing. If Freyja thought she was big just before Joan was born, she was almost certainly a whale now, and she was losing energy much faster than before. This time around, though, they were sure to schedule a c-section for the week before her due date. The OB didn’t put up much of an argument with her medical history and Joan’s early arrival.

Her phone pinged again as she rounded the corner toward her husband’s office.

And again.

Joan’s irritable whines became more evident as she closed in on her destination. “Si, I can only move so fast.”

“Oh, thank god.” Ghost detached Joan’s iron grip from his mask while she was distracted. She continued to kick her little legs against him, trying to get away. “She’s antsy. I can’t get her down for shit. She’s sick of me.”

He wheeled his chair around the desk and tugged her missing sock back on (to her protest) until he reached the other side and placed her feet on the floor. “See? Mum’s here. Go see her,” he cooed, her tiny hands gripping his thumbs for support.

“Dad Ghost” as she had lovingly coined Simon in his work attire, was a walking contradiction. An arguably massive man, a masked mystery to majority of the population on base, snapping otherwise cocky and egotistical soldiers back in line. Still, no one dared to laugh as he screamed at them for poor technique or a lackluster performance with a blonde baby on his hip or strapped to his back. It never failed to make her want to giggle, hearing such a soft, gentle tone from the big scary skull plate affixed to his balaclava. 

Freyja was halfway across the room when he stood their daughter between his comically large boots. “She won’t go that far,” she admonished. “If you give her too big of a task, she’s not going to even try-”

As if sensing her mother’s doubt, Joan took a steady step forward, still holding Simon’s hands in deep concentration. Then another, and another –

Until he couldn’t stretch forward anymore, and she let go, hobbling towards Freyja until she stumbled at her feet, letting out a soft baby grunt.

They both stared at each other in silence, eyes wide and mouths agape in shock. Neither spoke for a good minute, until Joanie pulled herself up again by Freyja’s cargo pants, babbling, “Mum mum mum mummm”, gnawing at the thick material and looking up with big, brown eyes.

“Did she just…?”

“I told you, she’s bloody brilliant.” Simon shot up to scoop the baby and place her in his wife’s waiting arms.

“My big, smart girl! I can’t believe it!” She squealed and giggled as Freyja peppered her face in fat, wet kisses and gently shook her. Ghost joined in, playfully nibbling at the rolls on the other side through the black material covering his face. Joanie smacked them both away, screaming with joy. Amongst all the commotion, Price stopped in the doorway on his way to their brief (which they were about to be late for). 

“What’s going on here?” he asked, fists on his hips in faux anger. “I thought we had an understanding! No fun at work without Granddad.”

“We officially have a walker on our hands!”

Price gasped and crossed the room in an instant. “And I missed it?!” He shoved the stack of mission folders at the lieutenant and stole his granddaughter from her mother, hiking her high up on his waist. “You walked without me? I’m offended, little miss, but I’ll settle for a victory lap.”

He plucked his green bucket hat off the top of his head and dropped it onto hers, earning a high-pitched shriek of delight when it covered her face. “Let’s roll, everybody. We’ve got a meeting to get to,” he commanded before marching down the hall. “Oi, lads! She walked!”

A chorus of cheers broke out in the distance, followed by a wall-shaking group chant, “Joanie! Joanie! Joanie!”

Freyja just stood there, pouting, arms crossed atop her belly. “Just once, I’d like to celebrate our baby’s milestones in peace.”

“You know that’s not possible, love.” Ghost chuckled next to her, offering a single pat to her ass as they headed to the briefing. While neither of them would be going, it was their job to know what was going on during their impending absence. The ruckus started to die down when the couple sat, and the others followed suit. Soap placed a mug of peppermint tea in front of her, which she thanked him for, and  Laswell, Gaz, and Soap filed around the table.

“Kӧnig and Roach should be here shortly,” Price said, bouncing Joan on his lap as Ghost passed out manila folders.

Gaz checked his watch with a furrowed brow. “It’s five past. Maybe they forgot?”

“Just give them a few minutes. I’m sure they’ll be here.”

“His office was closed, so he’s definitely in there. I can go grab ‘im. It’s no trouble,” he offered, the metal legs of his chair scraping against the floor as he stood up.

“Be my guest, Sergeant,” Freyja hummed, making eye contact with John as she sipped her tea, hiding her mischievous grin behind the cup. She waited for an appropriate amount of time, about how long it would take to take ten paces up the hall before she held up five fingers. 

“You’re a demon.”

“Five, four, three, two…”

“Verdammt nochmal!” 

There’s a loud bang, eerily similar to the sound of a six-foot-six body slamming into the floor. Boots thunder against the ground until Gaz appears in the doorway again, eyes wide and blushing like a madman.

“Genau deshalb habe ich das Militär verlassen, keiner von euch hat den Anstand, verdammt noch mal anzuklopfen!”

“Didn’t knock, did you.”

“Nope.”

“How bad?”

König stomped into the meeting, red as a tomato as he jerked his long, tangled (read: freshly fucked) hair into a knot at the base of his neck before slipping his hood on. Roach walked in behind him, grinning like an absolute idiot (read: clearly the one doing the fucking), albeit a bit flush, and his clothes untucked and wrinkled as he plopped beside John. 

“At least I didn’t get knifed this time.”

“Der Tag ist noch jung, Unteroffizier.”

“I don’t know what that means, but it sounded like a threat.”

“It was,” Freyja sang, her body shaking as she attempted to withhold laughter.

By the time Price had finished divulging the details of the op scheduled for the end of the month (which was also around the time of her c-section, which left Freyja and those deploying disappointed), Joanie had escaped his hold to crawl across the table and landed in her mother’s lap. She sat back against Frey’s round belly, happily gnawing on a teething ring while the captain combed her fingers through her soft, blonde curls. 

John cleared his throat and leaned back, tipping the chair on its back legs. “So…In a shocking turn of events, Roach is the top–”

“WHAT DID YOU SAY, CAPTAIN?!” Soap screeched after choking on his coffee, leaving a stain on his shirt as it dripped from his nose.

“Oh, mein Gott…” 

“I don’t know. What did I say, Sergeant?”

Across the table, Roach held his lips between his teeth as he wheezed, quickly signing, “Only for my king.”

“PLEASE PLÖTZE! Stop talking!” König, finally deciding he’d had enough, shot up from his seat and practically sprinted out of the room, almost bonking his head on the door frame on his way out. A moment later, he stormed back in and snagged his forgotten file awaiting him in Roach’s outstretched hand before turning back out.

Biting his lip, Soap muttered, “Interesting…” to himself, eyeing the Austrian’s retreating form before flicking back over to Roach. The Brit was already looking at him, probably having heard him being sat next to him. He winked with a devilish smirk, and practically purred, “S’alright, happens tae th' best o' us.”

.

.

.

A few days shy of their next mission, and the birth of the newest Riley, the gang gathered around their living room for one last game night before Roach, König, Soap, and John departed for another mission. Roach and König were less than pleased to be missing the birth of their godson, but it couldn’t be helped.

Kyle placed a red eight down on the stack of cards, ending his turn. “C’mon, mate, what’s the wildest thing you’ve done on a mission?” he prodded, raising a brow in Simon’s direction. “You know all our stories. It’s only fair.”

The two shared a knowing look, and Freyja giggled once before Kyle interrupted, “Besides that, you heathens.”

Simon pressed against the kitchen chair he had dragged in for himself, seriously considering what he would consider the most outlandish activity he had partaken in outside of combat. Particularly, that didn’t involve screwing his wife in places they shouldn’t, like public places, sniper lookouts, cars, or supply closets…

Before he could drift too far, he caught the saucy side-eye his wife was throwing him from her deep armchair.

“No.”

Soap peeked up from his hand with a quirked brow. “Does Ghostie have an embarrassing secret? Now we have to know!”

“It’s not a secret, and I’m not embarrassed by it just because I don’t flaunt it around,” he said, shot back the rest of his whiskey, and replaced his mask. Simon didn’t always wear it with their friends; he just so happened to feel inclined to it that night. There was no rhyme or reason as to when he needed the comfort; the urge just came and went as it pleased. 

He tried his best to sound completely disinterested, hoping the discussion would blow over as he threw down his card. “Blue.”

Unfortunately, his plan did not work, and all interest in their game of Uno was lost. Kyle threw his hand down on the table, completely giddy. “WHAT IS IT?! TELL US!”

Simon groaned, throwing his cards at his wife, who simply laughed. “See, look what you did.” He sighed and begrudgingly unhooked his mask from behind his ears, tossing that at her too. After a beat, he let his tongue loll out, revealing a silver ball.

Several (if not all) of their jaws dropped, save for Freyja’s, who was utterly thrilled that this was happening.

Johnny was the first to speak. “Is…that…” he stuttered, staring unabashedly in disbelief. 

He snapped his mouth shut again once everyone had had a decent look. “Alright, can we move on please–”

The Scot pounced across the space, clearing the coffee table as he knocked Simon out of his chair, taking them both down into a heap on the floor. They wrestled as he tried to dig his fingers into Ghost’s mouth and pry it open again. “LEMME SEE!”

“JOHNNY!” Simon roared, bucking and thrashing his hips in attempt to get the man off, but he quickly scooted up until he sat firmly on his chest, knees pinning his shoulders as he yanked the piercing back out.

“Awe, so that’s why you’re always fuckin’ like horny teenagers! Oh, ah bet that feels good on your cu-”

“SHUT UP, SOAP!” “THAT’LL DO!” 

Freyja whipped her slipper at Johnny’s head, which he swiftly dodged. Meanwhile, Gaz was face down on the floor, having a fit and struggling to breathe. Price looked like he would actually rather die than endure another moment of the scene unfolding at his feet. Kӧnig was carefully weaving between people and furniture to remove Soap before he got hurt, and Roach stayed in his spot, mouth open in silent laughter.

Thank God Joanie was a heavy sleeper.

“Are you gonnae sit there ‘n tell meh that a’m wrong? A husband should always eat arse!”

“JOHNNY, OH MY FUCKING GOD!”

Kyle finally caught his breath and cut back in, “But does it WORK?!”

Everybody froze, including Kӧnig, whose hands looped under Johnny’s armpits, about to extract him. From underneath him, Simon glared up at his wife (who started this whole fucking mess). “Freyja–”

But Freyja, being the brat she is and loving the chaos, “…It works.”

Simon covered his face with both of his now freed hands, so utterly sick of her shit as the sergeant shook his shoulders, he and Gaz both screaming like madmen. Kӧnig still hovered over them, ready to remove Johnny if Simon called for it, his red hair up in a neat top knot at the crown of his head. A few strands hung loosely by his ears and at the peak of his forehead, framing his pale skin.

“AAAAAYYYYYY, SO YOU DO GIVE GOOD HEAD!”

He removed his shield at that, looking up at Johnny with a confused expression. “Who said I don’t give good head?”

Price flinched with a crinkled nose and grabbed his hat from the back of the couch. “That’s my cue.”

“Scary guys either have monster cock or scary good head,” Kyle stated as if it were pure fact.

“But he has both.”

“I can’t fucking take this.” Simon finally shoved at Johnny and the Austrian lifted him with ease, standing the Scot back on his feet.

Soap dusted off his pants. “Damn, you’ll have’ta get one’a those, Köni,” he teased and turned to face the giant, looking up at him with a boyish grin. 

König’s skin, ever the shy one, immediately painted itself a rosy hue, unable to be hidden by any hood or mask. Even Roach was taken by his brashness and turned a little pink himself, choosing to sip his drink. König was, unfortunately, frozen in place, wide eyes staring down at Johnny’s proud face.

Three seconds pass.

Then two more.

Then three again.

“OH MY GOD, THAT WAS THEM?! The threesome you told me about a few weeks ago, was them?”

With nowhere else to go, König collapsed onto the couch and pulled the neck of his sweater over his face. “Verdammter Himmel, Johnny…” If he could crawl into a hole and die, he would.

“What can ah say? M’services are world-class.”

“Can confirm,” Roach added, having put his glass down so he could use both hands to talk.

Johnny raised a brow and dragged his eyes from Roach’s shoes, slowly up his shins, then his thighs and chest before settling on the challenging smirk on his freckled face. “‘S that so?” he asked, stepping into the space between Roach’s knees and the table.

Roach simply nodded, looking up at his boyfriend through hooded lashes, resembling a lovesick puppy with shocking accuracy. He knew exactly what he was doing, too, the tip of his tongue poking out between his teeth. Roach was a…talented flirt, to say the least.

His glass was carefully removed from his hand and placed on a coaster. Without a second thought, Soap wrapped his fingers around Roach’s wrist, dragged it behind his neck, and tossed the man over his shoulder. Gaz gaped, completely dumbfounded into silence – flabbergasted, if you will. He paused in the entryway, looking over his opposite shoulder.

“You comin’, Kö?”

König, still tucked away in the corner of the couch, peeked out from the cocoon he had created with his sweater. Even his forehead was tinged red, still. He openly stared for a bit before mustering up enough courage to rise again, and in an impossibly meek voice for such a large man, replied, “...Yes, sir,” and loosely tangled their fingers together.

Kyle threw his hands up then dropped them onto his head, dragging his cap back a bit. “WHAT IS GOING ON?!”

Freyja offered a sympathetic pat, her bottom lip jutted out. Poor Simon, who had returned to his seat, covered his mouth with one palm as he tried to contain his chuckles. He pulled his mask back on after retrieving it from the floor.

“Don’t worry, Gaz,” she said and poked his cheek. “We’ll find you a nice girl.”

“I GET AROUND FINE!” He swatted her hand away, glowering at her. “You’re all just a bunch of slags!”

He jumped up, abandoning his beer and putting his hat back in place. “Where’s my niece? I need to restore my innocence,” he grumbled, trudging upstairs.

“Simon, did he just call us sluts?”

“Yes, darling.”

taglist: @esthervalea, @miss-leto, @sweetestcowboy, @blueoorchid, @apocalypticseagull, @eatingtheworldsoffanfiction, @covenlovenn, @330bpm-whiplash, @gnoccheyy, @jaggernauticals, @dwkfan, @untoldshortsofthefandomsdoms, @bobfloydsgf, @maviee, @thomaslefteyebrow, @kyovy, @prodyng, @scout-fang, @avalkyrieofparis, @misshoneypaper, @berryjuicyy, @voteforpedropascal, @beakami, @addictedtothefictionalworld

Copyright © 2023 as-is-above-so-below. All rights reserved.

[desired-fantasy-writings]

TF2 Masterlist

Please read the rules before requesting!

(If you want to check out a characters specific masterlist its linked on the name of the character.)

Scout

Spy

Demoman

Engineer

Heavy

Medic

Sniper

Pyro

[brainrotwriter]

Spy waited for tears and screams. Perhaps a gun to his head or a bat to his gut. Maybe a 'I hate you!' or a broken 'Hold me!'

In fact, he would have preferred it.

Anything, anything but this.

Anything but indifference to his biggest regret and shame.

Anything but this.

Remember This post I made about Scout being completely indifferent to the fact Spy is his dad and it slowly breaking Spy apart? I finally got around writing it out XD Come get your angst <3 <3 <3

[h0mo-gatoxp]

hiiiiii I base this on a beautiful drawing I saw on twitter, the artist doesn't have a tumblr so I can't post it but you can follow him on twitter @rabidratbaby_ an if u want u can also follow me for see my other things and interact @h0mo_gato