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angelwheat · 2 months ago

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TF2 ; Demoman X Reader

Author's Note: Frankly, I projected a lot of myself into this as I've been pretty down bad myself these days... I just thought I'd write some angst with my favourite man for a change. (gif not mine)

Topics: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff

Pronouns: She/Her | Words: 4085

“Anybody seen that cyclops?”

“Where is that drunk son of a gun?”

“He’s probably passed out somewhere as usual. I’m sure he’s fine.”

She bowed her head and expressed her disapproval, exhibiting a small gesture of exasperation upon hearing her teammates’ jest about the widely held assumption of the Demoman.

Despite the disconcerting remark directed towards the Scotsman, the underlying question persisted in the mind of only one throughout the evening, prompting various conjectures regarding the whereabouts of him. Notwithstanding her diligent efforts to locate him, neither the rooms she meticulously searched, nor the crates of alcohol indicated by another yielded any answer to where he was.

Their team’s third consecutive victory brought about a celebration, characterized by the customary revelry of beer, friendly banter, and perhaps engaging in a drunken game of cards. That night, even the more reserved members of the team emerged from their usual seclusion to mingle amongst the rowdy ones, people like Spy and Sniper, or perhaps even Heavy, who often resided in the contentment of their own company.

With an empty glass in hand, the lady discreetly proceeded towards the kitchen, refraining from interrupting the lively discussion among the men engrossed in their game at the table.

Seeking to replenish her glass with another generous serving of wine, believing it is well-deserved after such a challenging and exhausting battle. As she entered the room, she encountered the Spy reaching for a bottle of wine stashed away in a hidden spot in the cupboard, before engaging in pouring himself a serving of one of his cherished and refined wines.

Hearing the gentle footsteps behind him, the Frenchman turned around, holding the tall wine bottle in one hand. The bottle was half empty already, and his glass had a perfectly measured pour of wine.

“Care for another drink?” He chuckled softly, seemingly slightly intoxicated as he smiled in a manner uncharacteristic of his typically serious demeanour.

“Well, if you’re offering.” She laughed, extending her glass towards him.

As she watched Spy elegantly pour the crimson liquid from the bottle, the girl took a moment to think.

“You never share your wine with anyone, Spy.” She pointed out, observing him as he withdrew the bottle.

Spy raised his eyes and spoke briefly. “We are celebrating, mon ami.”

She took a sip of her beverage, expressing her distaste for the strong berry flavour, as opposed to the rather bland wine she had previously.

“And it would be ungentlemanly of me not to offer.” He remarked, smoothing his suit with his free hand before resting against the counter.

Observing the Spy, she noticed his refined demeanour despite being tipsy. The Frenchman maintained an upright posture, although his distinguished manner showed a hint of decline. He stood casually and took a sip of his drink, savouring the exquisite taste of such a delicacy.

The lady imitated him by leaning against the counter a short distance away, lowering her gaze as she subtly shifted her footing. She gracefully crossed one arm over her body, while the other elegantly supported her wine glass, gently swirling the liquid within as she sighed.

Spy noticed her sudden change in mood and asked genuinely, “Something the matter?”

She gently brought her glass to her lips before lazily responding, “I’m just thinking.”

“About what, may I ask?” He hummed, his speech slightly slurring his accent.

Just as she opened her mouth a sudden boisterous commotion emanated from the game room, leading to the swift assumption that one, possibly Scout, had met defeat in their game of cards. Despite being initially startled, the girl soon found herself laughing quietly as a series of insulted followed in that recognisable Bostonian twang.

She watched the Frenchman simply roll his eyes in response to the boy’s fiery temper, while a hint of amusement played at the corners of his lips.

However, her laughter quickly subsided as a fleeting thought entered her mind, causing her gaze to lower towards the ground while her grin faded.

“Have you seen Demo?” She inquired, glancing at Spy.

The Frenchman looked to her, his brows knitting as he asked, sounding confused, “He’s not with the others?”

Amidst the throng, the girl would undoubtedly recognise the sound of his laughter, and on this occasion, it was curiously absent.

Demoman was generally a vivacious man, quite boisterous, some would say, but unique in all aspects of himself. He would never let go of an opportunity to have a drink and commemorate a triumph with his teammates. He possessed the ability to make every celebration unforgettable, yet he was missing this one.

“I haven’t seen him all night,” She responded, her face reflecting a concerned expression. “It’s not like him to miss a party.”

The Spy responded with a small nod, for she was correct as he recalled every occasion the Scotsman had been present.

Fully engrossed in solving the whereabouts of her teammate, she found herself neglecting her drink, her concern becoming overwhelming.

“The others don’t seem to care.” She mumbled once another roar of laughter erupted.

Spy maintained his silence, yet his attentive gaze conveyed a thorough analysis of her. It was evident from her somewhat closed-off demeanour, particularly her lack of eye contact, that a significant level of anxiety ran through her.

“I’m sorry, Spy.” She turned swiftly, placing her glass firmly to the counter. “I’m gonna go find him.”

With a humble nod, the Spy watched her as she left the room. He then calmly plucked a cigarette from his trusty case and continued his way, preferring to spend the remainder of the evening alone.

With a sense of urgency, the girl swiftly made her way through the corridors of the base, eventually arriving at the living quarters. She composed herself before reaching Demoman’s room, where a steel medallion depicting his class symbol adorned the centre of the door.

She paused for a moment, standing in silence. Leaning in gently, she hoped to hear any signs of movement from the other side of the door. When she heard nothing, she raised her hand and knocked nervously.

Taking a moment to quell the anxiety that was building within her, once again she listened for any subtle sounds coming from inside the room, visibly perking up when she heard faint shuffling.

“Lad I told ya to get lost.” Demoman grumbled, albeit muffled from the opposite side of the door.

A noticeable creaking sound filled the silent hallway as the door opened gradually, revealing a very sleepy looking Scotsman. As the bright light struck his eye, he squinted, adjusting to the contrast as his own room was shrouded with darkness.

With a sudden surge of alertness, Demoman’s grogginess vanished as he opened the door wider once he realised who stood before him. The Scotsman offered a prompt apology, to which she merely responded with a warm smile.

“I’m sorry if I woke you.” She said with an embarrassed chuckle.

“No, you didn’t. I-“ He cut himself off awkwardly. “You need something, lass?”

It was evident that he lacked his usual expression. Typically, his tone is cheerful, and he often smiled while he speaks. However, he appeared devoid of any emotion.

“I just wondered where you were.” She admitted. “You haven’t been around all evening.”

Observing the direction of his gaze as it lowered to the floor, the lady examined his slightly unkempt appearance. Short strands of hair emerged from beneath his beanie hat. The sleeves of his high-neck sweater were rolled up to his elbows, differing from his usual preference for long sleeves. However, what truly captured her attention was his eye, which appeared slightly bloodshot.

“Just busy.” He reassured simply, his voice quieter than usual, but the smile he gave was clearly not genuine.

She immediately noticed the way he nervously swallowed, and she could sense that something was amiss.

“We’re all celebrating.” She told, eyeing him attentively. “Do you want to join us?”

The way Demoman was not fully visible in the doorway already suggested what his response would be. His apparent detachment from reality was evident in the way he seemed to stare blankly at her.

“Maybe later.” He replied almost in a whisper, glancing over his shoulder at something she couldn’t see.

Demoman’s hand rested on the edge of the door as he stood slightly hunched beside it, as if he was seeking support from it. She perceived that he was keen to seclude himself once again.

“Do you want some company?” She fidgeted with her thumbs nervously, eyebrows arching in a polite inquiry.

The Scotsman paused for a moment before nodding slowly, almost sorrowfully.

He stepped aside to allow her entry into his personal quarters. She had only visited his space on a few occasions but was familiar with the assortment of components and papers related to his craft that were scattered around the room in boxes.

Behind her, the door closed with a soft click, and Demoman walked past her towards his workbench, where only a bright lamp illuminated the room.

“Make yourself comfortable, lass.” He lazily gestured to the rest of the room.

Swiftly glancing around the room for a moment, the girl politely sat on the edge of his bed just a few steps away from where Demoman had slumped himself at his desk. She crossed her leg over the other, sitting quietly as she observed his hands reaching for small materials and tools, guessing that he was constructing something new.

Her head tilted with curiosity as he worked with delicacy and caution, something almost no one got to witness. Watching him work had her unable to restrain from asking a question.

“What’re you working on?” She spoke softly as to not startle him.

“Just making a few changes to some of these.” He replied, sounding rather unenthusiastic as he reached for one of his well-known inventions placed nearby.

Held delicately between his fingers was one of his most remarkable inventions, an explosive invention indeed. Despite being aware that it was merely and empty shell of one of his prototypes, she politely nodded in acknowledgment, although it appeared that her subtle gesture went unnoticed, as the Scotsman scarcely directed his gaze towards her.

Subconsciously, she tapped her thighs, chewing her cheek as she surveyed the room with genuine curiosity. Her gaze settled on the photographs neatly displayed on his bedside cabinet, alongside what she presumed to be familial heirlooms and cherished keepsakes.

She had to refrain from cooing as she gazed upon a photograph of what seemed to be a young Demoman standing proudly with his parents.

The unexpected burst of laughter from the floor below startled them both, causing Demo to shake his head and huff in disapproval as he regained his composure.

“The others are wondering where you are.” She told, her tone gentle.

She swore she heard a faint sniffle from him before her responded.

“It doesn’t sound like it.” He retorted harshly.

Pressing her lips into a line, the girl pondered.

It’s blatantly obvious that Demoman is not his usual cheerful self. His tone has a strong tint of bitterness, which is extremely uncharacteristic of him. He’s suddenly so short-tempered and blunt, a harsh contrast to his typical easy-going and lively self. He’s certainly never been known to be a grumbler or someone who resorts to such snappiness unless he’s in the heat of a tough battle.

While observing the Scotsman with rapt attention, she noticed a sudden change in the way his hands began to tremble and shake vigorously, almost struggling to maintain control of his tools.

Her eyes landed upon an opened bottle of drink, the label of which she couldn’t read under the dim light, but it was seemingly abandoned rather promptly as its contents remained virtually untouched.

“Is everything okay, Demo?” She asked cautiously.

The Scotsman let his tools slip from his hands, hearing them clatter as they bounced onto the counter. He sank back into the chair, resting his head on the back.

“Aye, call me Tavish, please.” He drowned out, raising a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose.

She was aware of the Scotsman’s preference to be addressed by his first name, but she had developed a habit of primarily using his class name over the years, and so she politely apologised.

She furrowed her brows in a deep frown as she watched intently, seemingly lost in his own little bubble of emotions.

Tavish remained with his gaze averted from hers, directing his attention towards the ceiling as his hand slowly fell to his lap.

With a huff, the girl promptly rose from where she perched on his bed and walked towards him.

His gaze fixated on her as she stood before him, her hand gently pressing against the tabletop as she leaned against it.

“What’s going on with you?” She began, drawing in a breath. “You’re so snappy all of a sudden.”

Tavish simply blinked, his face reflecting a hint of sadness as his eyebrows lowered and the corners of his mouth turned down. He reached out with one hand and began to idly play with one of his tools, avoiding her direct gaze. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down noticeably as if he was struggling to hold back his words.

“Do ye hear the things they say about me?” Tavish blurted out; his words laced with upset.

The lady maintained a neutral expression, fully comprehending the implications of his words. She folded her arms across her chest, her shoulders drooping as she let out a sorrowful sigh,

“I do hear what they say.” She replied truthfully, watching him cautiously.

Very soon, she came to regret her words, for Tavish’s face visibly contoured with hurt.

His hand brushed across his face, as if attempting to erase the traces of his melancholy expression. “There’s only so many times you can take hearing the word ‘cyclops’ in a day.”

She sighed, her tone becoming more cheerful in the hopes of seeing him smile even a little. “But if it makes you feel any better, I don’t see you that way.”

However, it seemed that Tavish was far too engrossed in the depths of his own despair, as her words appeared to have no effect on him.

“Thanks, lass.” Tavish breathed a heavy sigh. “But it doesn’t change what the rest of ‘em think o’ me.”

The girl moved closer to him, noticing the gentle touch of his palm against his forehead as he winced slightly when the light caught his eye. She assumed that he had given himself a headache after spiralling into such a deep bout of self-depreciation, and on this occasion, it was not due to being drunk.

“You alright?” She asked gently, her eyebrows arching in concern.

Tavish nodded as he grumbled. “I’m just fine.”

Looking away briefly, the lady casually surveyed the room, merely glancing over the numerous belongings he had on display.

Every corner of his room held something that reflected the man Tavish was. His collection of components, chemicals, and materials for his craft, as well as his diverse array of family keepsakes, might raise questions for some, but he didn’t mind as they were all things he was deeply devoted to.

Her gaze settled upon a familiar memento of him – his trusty knight’s sword. It was respectfully placed against a cabinet that housed a meticulously organized collection of whisky. Beneath the sword hung a half-sized tapestry depicting what appeared to be a Celtic family crest, a distinct symbol of his cultural heritage and pride in his homeland. She couldn’t resist admiring it, taking in the intricate details with appreciation.

As her gaze continued to drift, she failed to notice the manner in which Tavish discreetly observed her from his seat. Throughout the duration of her silent presence beside him, Demoman experienced a sense of tranquillity, as her amicable demeanour alleviated some of the stressors that burdened his thoughts.

However, Tavish couldn’t help but wonder if she were admiring, or silently scrutinising as she remained avidly engrossed in her surroundings.

“Excuse the mess.” He piped up faintly, sounding embarrassed.

“Oh, don’t worry there’s no mess.” The girl hummed as she turned her attention back to him. “Trust me, your room’s immaculate compared to Scouts.”

A bashful smile graced her face as she cast a glance at the Scotsman, who, in turn, appeared perplexed as he observed her, his brows furrowed, and his head tilted in curiosity. Intent on lifting his spirits, she continued to speak.

“Well, I was just thinking actually.” She stated, making a gentle gesture towards her surroundings. “Your room says a lot about you.”

Tavish’s continued perplexed expression conveyed his unspoken words.

“It’s obvious that family is your biggest value.” She told with genuine sincerity.

The Scotsman’s eye scanned his room, admiring his decorations as if they were brand new. However, his gaze inevitably settled upon the photograph by his bedside, his most treasured possession, and he couldn’t help the sad sigh that fell from his lips.

“Aye, it is.” He answered, nodding softly. “But it feels like I only put shame on me family name.”

She noticed his hunched posture.

“Even for having not lost both me eyes yet.” Tavish grumbled.

Certainly, Tavish encountered a look of confusion from the lady. He made a casual gesture with his hand, silently conveying to her that she should disregard his words.

“I’ve a lot of expectations to live up to.” Tavish admitted, glancing back at the unfinished prototype on his desktop.

She nodded slowly, lowering her head.

Silence descended upon the room, broken only by the faint sounds of a ruckus emanating from downstairs. It seemed that Tavish’s decision to seclude himself in his room was frustrating him, as evidenced by his huffing.

“So, that’s why you’re cooped up tonight.” She deduced. “You’re trying to improve these.”

The girl gave a quick nod to the small construction in front of him.

“Aye.” He responded shortly, his hands continuing to fiddle with the delicate materials.

Her lips pursed for a moment as she considered her words.

“But, as a team, we don’t have any expectations of you.” She reassured him, hoping to lift his spirits. “And these don’t need improving in my opinion.”

Tavish reached up to remove his hat, running his hand though his unkempt hair, some of which fell over his face, partially covering his eyepatch.

“But that’s just it, lass.” He stated, raising his hands to make a gesture. “So long as these go kaboom they work just fine in your eyes.”

For a fleeting moment, a gentle smile graced the Scotsman’s face as he emitted a soft chuckle while playfully imitating an explosion with his hands. The light-hearted gesture, in turn, elicited a corresponding smile upon the girl’s face. However, his smile swiftly dissipated as a contemplative thought crossed his mind.

“But I see the faults all the time.” He added, letting his hands fall into his lap.

At that moment, the girl could only stare at him, her face contoured with hurt upon hearing him persistently berate himself and diminish his own value to the team. Seeing the true fragility of his self-esteem surprised her, as his vulnerability was rarely full displayed, especially when he was completely sober. One would truly need to share a strong bond with the Scotsman.

“I can’t stand being known as nothin’ but a ‘drunk cyclops’ ‘round here.” Tavish admitted, his tone tinged with a profound sense of dejection as his words effortlessly escaped his lips without restraint.

His words interrupted her line of thought, causing her to shake her head disapprovingly. The lady straightened up from where she had been leaning against his workbench and stood directly in front of him. However, he avoided making eye contact with her, preferring to sit and be consumed by his own sadness.

“Tavish, get up.” She instructed, her voice gentle yet firm.

The Scotsman turned to her, momentarily puzzled, but complied when she made an impatient gesture with her hands.

Wearily, he ran a hand through his hair and rose from his seat, standing slightly hunched before her, as if the weight of stress could topple him at any moment. Before Tavish could ask a question, the girl moved towards him and gently enveloped him in a hug.

Taken aback by her sudden action, Tavish was startled by the unexpected contact, his eyes widening in surprise. However, he quickly regained his composure and instinctively wrapped his arms around her. As soon as he felt himself settle in the comforting embrace, Tavish relaxed completely, practically melting in her arms.

The girl sensed the way in which Tavish gently pulled her closer, almost pressing against him, feeling his curly hair brush against her neck as he rested his head tiredly on her shoulder.

“I just wish you’d value yourself the same way as all this around you…” She said with sincerity.

Her gaze fell upon his family photo once more as she looked over his shoulder, gently caressing his back.

“I’m sure your mum is proud of you, Tavish.” She spoke, her gaze still fixated on the photograph.

Tavish shifted his position and gently pulled away, maintaining a loose hold around her waist, still yearning for her closeness.

The girl noticed the prominent frown on his face.

“Aye, but there’s always better for her.” He told bluntly.

She patted his shoulder reassuringly and smiled warmly. “I think that’s just what parents are like. They always want to see their kids succeed, right?.”

Surprisingly, Tavish’s smile turned up slightly, greatly contrasting the dismal expression he withheld.

“I’ve come to realise that you can’t work yourself into the ground to please others.” She admitted, subconsciously placing her hand on her chest.

Nevertheless, Tavish appeared visibly touched by her words, as he seemed to have become more animated and relieved of his weighty stress, even if only slightly. The girl couldn’t resist smiling with him.

“Thanks, lass.” Tavish breathed, running his hand through his hair once more. “I think I owe you one.”

She shook her head and replied, “You don’t own me anything. You’re my friend, and I’d be here for you anytime.”

Taking a step back, she let out a contended sigh and placed her hands on her hips, but she couldn’t help but notice how Tavish remained close by.

Perhaps it was simply because he had only one eye, or maybe it was genuine, but Tavish appeared to be observing her attentively with his head tilted down, gazing at her through his brows: much like a puppy yearning for attention. His hands were placed in his pockets as he began to chew his cheek sheepishly, shifting his weight on his heels a few times.

“Don’t give me that look.” She told, her tone playfully stern as she smiled broadly.

She heard the soft chuckle that escaped his lips, and a bashful smile quickly spread across his face.

With a playful roll of her eyes and a gentle click of her tongue, the lady extended her hand to draw him into another embrace. Tavish responded promptly, drawing her near and offering a friendly squeeze around her shoulders.

Just before she withdrew, she gently patted his back once again. At that moment, her gaze happened to fall upon the clock on the wall, and an idea suddenly came to her mind.

“Tavish, the night’s still young. I’d say there’s still plenty of time to celebrate today’s win.” She suggested. “Shall we put this behind us for tonight and share a drink?”

The girl raised her hand up before her, anticipating him to accept her friendly proposal. Without hesitation, Tavish grasped her hand, unable to suppress the smile on his face as they shook hand in agreement.

“Sure. Why not?” He agreed.

Without delay, the girl practically skipped towards the door, gesturing for Tavish to join her with a wave of her hand.

“Come on then.” She spoke over her shoulder “I think the boys have got some drink left.”

As she pulled the door open, she paused in the doorway and turned to the Scotsman who stood a step behind, her hand gracefully raising to cover her mouth from the side.

“But I know where Spy keeps his fancy wine if we really can’t find any.” She snickered mischievously.

Tavish’s face mirrored the same expression of mischief that of the woman before him, and they both shared a light-hearted laugh as they made their way down the corridor, eager to enjoy the rest of the evening together.

#tf2 demoman #tf2 demo #tf2 x reader #tf2 x you #team fortress2 #tf2 scout #tf2 soldier #tf2 pyro #tf2 heavy #tf2 engineer #tf2 medic #tf2 sniper #tf2 spy #tf2 hcs

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the-teufort-nine · 20 days ago

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CHEMICAL BONDS | RED Chemist!Fem! Reader x RED Mercs | SNEAK PEEK

A 2000+ word preview of my upcoming TF2 x F!Reader longfic! Set in the same universe as my Respawn Malfunction Trilogy, this fic will follow the RED Chemist, from her meeting with Miss Pauling, to her life on the RED team and all the various misadventures that come from that. This fic will have a darker, more explicit rating than RM, but it will also carry some of the OG trilogy's humour and fluff. I'm very excited to work on this, and I will be uploading chapters both here, and on AO3. Now, onto the preview!

Florence Pauling was having a very bad day.

She had, somehow, slept through all six of her alarms, and thus had to rush out the door of her very small, but very secure, apartment without even getting a sip of coffee or a bite of breakfast. Then, later on, as she’d been acquainting someone who’d been planning to stick their nose where it didn’t belong with her hacksaw, and she’d clipped one of his arteries while his heart was still fighting to pump blood, which resulted in her favourite skirt getting splashed by the crimson liquid.

The trip to the laundromat had been an awkward and nerve-racking one, to say the least.

While she’d been waiting for the stain to come out, she’d been contacted by the Administrator and given a sudden, daunting task. Apparently, Redmond and Blutarch were beginning to grow bored of the relative stalemate their respective teams maintained, and they wanted to hire two new people to spice things up, each brother intending to gain an advantage over the other. Which, in reality, would never happen. The Administrator would never allow it.

So, she told her assistant that she needed to, as quickly as possible, find a suitable lunatic that was both willing to sign their soul away to Mann.CO and compatible with the awe-inspiring, somewhat terrifying machines that would end up bringing them back from the dead time and time again. That latter point was, arguably, even more important than the former, because it took a long time to clean any incompatible particles and liquefied body parts out of the system.

Please don’t ask her how she knew that.

By the end of it, she’d filled out so much paperwork and killed, dismembered, and buried so many men in shallow graves that her stiff wrists throbbed with pain every time her feet hit the ground. The only saving grace of the day was the fact that she now had enough time before she needed to go home and collapse in bed to go and visit one of the local bars. She didn’t usually indulge, but she was already developing a headache from the stress of having to track down a new applicant, so she decided that she deserved a little treat.

Pushing open the doors to the closest establishment that didn’t look like a money laundering front, she plopped herself down on one of the barstools, its cheap, cracked red faux leather flaking off onto her legs.

The bartender, a grizzled old woman with a deep scar across the length of her face and more tattoos than Florence could count, raised an uninterested brow at her.

“What can I do you for?” she asked, sounding like she’d smoked fifty packs a day.

“An Aunt Roberta.” Florence replied, folding her arms and resting her head on the bar, “And some fries. Please.”

The bartender grunted and left to go and fix her drink, yelling her fry order towards the small kitchen in the back. Loud Italian curses were hurled back, mostly crude remarks about the woman’s mother, but the purple-clad girl could hear sounds of movement and dishes being moved around, so she figured the chef was probably doing his job. After a minute or so, a glass was set down before Florence. She thanked the bartender and took a small sip.

It was like being kicked in the throat by one of the Horses of the Apocalypse. The alcohol burned like molten lava as it slid down her throat, leaving behind a trail of simmering pain before pooling in her gut. Licking her lips, Florence tasted the tart flavour of the blackberry liquor. God, that was good.

As she nursed her drink, a man sat down on the stool next to her, placing his own drink on the bar counter. Now, in a busy bar, this wouldn’t have been very strange; people will sit wherever there is an open seat, even if it is next to a stranger. However, there were many open spots at the bar tonight, so the man’s presence instantly put Florence on edge. She wasn’t afraid, but caution and gut instinct had never failed her before, and she was getting some very bad vibes off of her sudden company.

“Well hey there, gorgeous.” the man started, leaning on one of his hands as he grinned, “Nice legs. What time do they open?”

Florence suppressed a grimace and took a quick glance in her immediate area, taking stock of every item that she could use to kill this creep if it came down to it. Or, maybe if he just kept talking. She was in a bad mood today.

Suddenly, her fries arrived, the bartender setting the food down in front of Florence as she leveled the man with a look that said ‘I’m just waiting for you to give me a reason to kick you out.’

The man leaned back slightly, a lock of his black, over-gelled hair falling into his face. Still, he didn’t depart. In fact, he kept trying, and failing, to flirt with the exhausted woman. She responded mostly in uninterested hums and quiet noises, trying her best to still enjoy her food despite the unwanted dinner guest that could not take a hint.

When she turned her head to crack her neck for a moment, she noticed slight movement in the corner of her eyes. Sure enough, when she looked back at her drink, she could see something fizzing and dissolving amidst the bubbles.

She took another sip, resisting the urge to gut the man when he smirked at her, assuming that she’d be defenseless soon enough. Jokes on him though; she had developed an immunity to almost every common hypnotic drug or poison. When he tried to make a move on her, she’d find a way to kill him. Discreetly, of course.

“Hey, buddy!”

Both the man and Florence looked over when a new voice rang out. A woman was leaning against the bar, sipping on what looked like a bottle of soda. She had H/C hair, bright, intelligent E/C eyes, a white turtleneck, a red leather jacket, and black bell-bottom jeans, a pair of black rubber boots acting as the final, albeit strange, part of her outfit.

“Betch’a can’t chug that drink of yours faster than I can finish mine.” she said, indicating to the man’s drink, some kind of beer, its froth having long since disappeared, “In fact, I’ll bet you five bucks that you can’t.”

There was something about the way that this woman’s eyes stayed locked on the creep’s drink that made alarm bells go off in Florence’s head. Why on Earth would someone make that kind of wager? This woman wasn’t even drunk enough to explain this strange challenge.

The man, however, did not see any red flags. All he saw was a pretty young woman offering him some easy money. “Heh, you’re on, toots!”

He grabbed his beer, chugging the golden liquid with relative ease. Meanwhile, Florence watched as the stranger drank her soda at a much slower pace. They made eye contact, and the other woman winked, confirming Florence’s suspicions that she had done something. But what exactly had she done? And why?

The sound of a glass being slammed down drew the raven out of her musings, startling her slightly. The man laughed as the woman shrugged and retrieved the promised currency.

“Hey, y’know, if you wanna keep yer money, I can think of another way for you to pay me.” he offered, opening his legs slightly and raising a brow, grinning lecherously.

“I’ll pass.” the woman replied, “Besides, I’ve got a feeling I’ll be getting it back soon.”

The man’s brows furrowed in confusion. In the bar behind them, a few sleepy patrons finally seemed to notice the woman’s presence, and, one by one, they filed out of the bar, the last one even stopping to flip the ‘OPEN’ sign to ‘CLOSED.’ The bartender wiped the counter, occasionally glancing over. Florence shifted uncomfortably, the feeling worsening when her attempted date-rapist suddenly clutched at his stomach, quickly sliding off the stool and rushing to the bathroom. The strange woman took a long sip of her drink before setting it down gently, her gaze sliding over to meet Florence’s.

“You should probably go.” she said, pointing towards the door, “Don’t worry about him; he won’t be bothering you anymore. Or, anyone, really.”

The woman snickered, like she’d just told Florence a pun or bad joke.

“What…” Florence started, looking at the woman, then the bathroom, then back at the woman, “what did you do to him?”

“You’re not from around here, are ‘ya kid?” the bartender asked, not even looking up from her cleaning, “Listen, just go home, and, if you know what’s good for you, keep yer trap shut. You don’t wanna stick around for what comes next.”

Florence sat up straighter.

“Actually, I think I do.” she replied, folding her hands in front of her.

The bartender and the woman exchanged surprised looks, before the woman tilted her head towards where the man had run off to.

“Alright, foxy mama! Just follow me, and try to keep your lunch. Gunnhild over there always sticks me on vomit cleaning duty, and I hate it.” the stranger said, before walking off towards the bathroom.

“You clean worse things than vomit, amlóði.” the bartender muttered, her last word sounding incredibly strange when pronounced by her raspy, New Mexican voice.

Florence was led over to the men’s bathroom. The stranger held her arm out at the door, motioning for the raven to stop. Opening the door with her foot, the woman slowly revealed the bathroom’s contents, and the sight made Florence gasp and take a few steps backwards.

She had been expecting to find the man unconscious, or perhaps simply dead. Instead, she saw him writhing on the ground, partially strewn across a large metal grate. His midsection was a bubbling, sizzling mess; melted organs, flesh, and partially dissolved bone dripping down the man’s sides, either pooling around him or falling into the grate. His mouth foamed with blood, his lips having since burned away, exposing red gums and corroding teeth. Parts of his throat looked like a burning film reel, spurts of blood bubbling up and out of the ever expanding holes.

“Not a pretty sight, is it?” the woman asked, leaning over, “I mean, I like it; he was a creep and he’s getting exactly what he deserves, and I’ve dealt with a lot of, like, pedophiles or rapists this way, but I know that isn’t exactly normal-”

“Do you want a job?”

The two women stared at each other for a long moment, the silence broken only by the sounds of the man dying at their feet.

“Uh,” the stranger blinked dumbly, “I’m sorry?”

“A job.” Florence repeated, reaching into her coat to retrieve the application forms she always carried with her, just in case. She hadn’t been planning on interviewing a woman, especially since all of the other mercenaries were, well, men, but the opportunity to get such a gruelling task over with tonight was too good to pass up, “One that will let you do stuff like… well, like that, for more money than you can imagine.”

She handed the woman an application form, watching patiently as she read it over. She leaned against the bathroom wall, taking in the many, many words, her eyes widening when she finally came across the part that talked about the income she’d be receiving.

“$5000 a month?” the stranger gaped, her jaw dropping.

“Well, that’s the starting wage.” Florence explained, “If we like you, and you’re kept on, then you’ll get a pay increase every year. Plus, you can take on contracts to earn extra income.”

The woman stared at her, dumbfounded, before looking at the papers again. She scanned every line, looking for where the catch must be. Of course, she wouldn’t find it; the real fine print was printed in invisible ink, but Florence could respect the fact that she actually read the offer. Most of the men she hired had barely even glanced at the papers before signing.

“Well shit,” the stranger laughed, lowering the papers, “5k a month to kill some guys in matching blue outfits? I’d have to be crazy to pass that up. Or… maybe I’d be crazy to accept… eh, fuck it, let’s do it!”

“Great!” Florence chirped, handing the woman a pen to sign her name on the dotted line. She watched as the words were scrawled onto the page. F/N L/N, Mann.Co’s newest mercenary.

#tf2 #team fortress 2 #tf2 x reader #tf2 tenth class #tf2 miss pauling #tf2 chemist #tf2 medic x reader #tf2 engineer x reader #tf2 demo x reader #tf2 scout x reader #tf2 spy x reader #tf2 pyro x reader #tf2 sniper x reader #tf2 heavy x reader #tf2 soldier x reader #tw gore #tw attempted drugging #tw murder

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ayothepizzahere4 · 7 months ago

Text

So ummm me and pookie bookie cookie poobie oobie woobie made this au typa thing with TF2 and kny SOOO :333

He most likely made a fusion of the breathing styles sound and sun breathing to make explosion breathing cus of his WILD demo and chemistry skills :3

He's probably a tsuchinoto or a hinoto, uses a saber to fight because his trusty possessed sword isn't scarlet crimson JUSTICR FOR MY BRO POSSESED SWORD 🙏🏽🙏🏽🙏🏽 probably fights mid rank demons (lower rank 4-higher rank 3)

Heavy DEFINITELY uses stone breathing he's very strong and efficient with his breathing style though it did take him a bit to learn :3

He's most likely a konoe due to his heavy steps and visibility to demons and uses a mono sword to fight (or maybe his OWN SCARLET IRON BULLET FILLED MACHINE GUN, KASHKA 🙏🏽🙏🏽🙏🏽)

LIGHTNING BREATHER LIGHTNING BREATHER OR MAYBE A MIX OF WIND AND LIGHTNING BREATHING?? LIKE JUST FOR THE SPEED Or most likely doesn't even use a breathing style because of how like stubborn he is

Definitely a mizunoe / Mizunoto because he's rude and just lets others do his job for him and just uses a plain katana or a scattergun (IF HE DOESN'T USE BREATHING STYLES)

Engineer probably uses a mixture of lightning and stone breathing because of how used he is to electric things like his robots (proud father <3) he's very speedy with his breathing style (he tries his best)

He's a tsuchinoto for his devotion to fighting and his unique way of fighting he uses a double sided axe (kinda like a scythe but the blades or bigger and the stick is smaller by like three inches)

Sniper probably uses serpent breathing because he's used to sniping and it's like the closet it is to that or something (even just piss breathing/j)

He uses this longer version of a machete because professionals have standards and fighting demons with short weapons is NOT professional. He's a kanoto because he doesn't train that much which leads to him fighting low rank demons to no rank demons

He can't breathe. Okay I'm joking if he did have a breathing style it would be mist breathing because of (NOT BECAUSE OF HIS SMOKING HABIT) but because of how he can just disappear out of nowhere with one of the forms

Uses a plain katana because he wants to have the best efficiency to protect others and fight demons at the same time he's a tsuchinoto :3 and he mainly just became a demon slayer because scout did and he does NOT know how to use swords

Pyro DEFINITELY uses sun breathing and admires how sparkly sound breathing is and wants to learn how to use sound and sun breathing at the same time

They were pretty disappointed when they found it they couldn't use their trusty flame thrower but learnt how to make do with a sword or an axe and they're probably rank mizunoe or kanoto

Soldier uses sound breathing because of how it reminds him of the fourth of July he's pretty reckless with his weapon and breathing style but it's okay because it's soldier :3

Rank konoe or mizinoto because of he's recklessness and uses a shaska (is that what they're called I forgir 😞😞😞) he Was DEVESTAED when he found it he couldnt use a shovel

Medic most likely uses blood/blood Sakura breathing OR insect breathing he just likes things that reminds him of work OFF of work so he decided to go with that

He's probably rank kanoto (they're all beginners so ERM yeah :3) despite him being pretty strong and smart in the field and uses a plain katana OR the weapon shinobou uses depending on what breathing style (I didn't fully decide yet :3)

ANYWAU I hope thats accurate and stuff lemme know if you wanna know what type rank and stuff they would be if they were demons :3

reblog and comment for me, my freakys

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typingatlightspeed · 3 months ago

Note

For the requests, how about something with vampire heavy? Maybe heavymedic, chefs choice though! Such a great cosmetic set.. <33

TF2 Fanfic - Appetites

Ludwig has heard legend of a secluded log mansion in the mountains of Siberia, and its occupant: a creature of the night that seeks men for both carnal delights and bloody meals. He shares only one of those appetites, but perhaps that can change.

Ao3 Link!

Had fun with this one. Love making Medic the one less fluent with the language they're speaking for once. :3 Enjoy!

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The structure itself was a building unlike anything Ludwig had ever seen. It was massive and elaborate, a manor house or mansion, but built of logs rather than stone, rustic yet grandiose, sitting hidden in the forested mountains of Siberia. The winds whipped in every direction, and as night fell, he tried to ignore the doubts rising in his gut as he trudged through the snow, clutching his coat close as he approached the darkened structure, no candles in its windows to welcome weary travelers, no warm glow inside to illuminate it for its occupants.

Were there really still any occupants to be found?

The place looked almost abandoned, its grounds unkempt, no footsteps leading to its door. Though as the snow fell and wind howled, Ludwig doubted any footprints would remain long anyway. He hazarded a glance behind him to confirm that his own tracks were being swiftly erased by the elements. He was not just alone, but isolated, with no way to find him save the knowledge of where he was headed.

He swallowed hard and kept trudging.

The locals in the village down the mountain had called him a madman when he asked about the place. Doubly so when he denied being there to exorcise the malevolence that dwelt there.

He didn't need their approval; fools.

The gate was unlocked, and swung open sluggishly, its hinges rimed near-solid and stubborn. He worried he may break the thing off if he pushed too hard, barely slipping his large frame through the opening and continuing on. The front door of the manor was large and dark, ornately carved by skilled hands. He was startled to find it, also, unlocked.

If the manner of creature that local legend spoke of lived here, it was surely not bothered by notions of security. The likelihood of someone braving the elements to stumble into this abode was slim, the chance of them surviving the trek just as narrow.

Ludwig closed the door behind himself, startled to find the interior comfortably warm compared to the harsh outdoors. Whether that was merely a symptom of not being buffeted by wind and snow or the presence of a hearth lit somewhere, he couldn't tell, but as he shook the snow from himself, he deigned to shed his scarf and hat, regardless, setting them on a small table beside the door.

The interior of the building was no less impressive than its exterior, a large foyer opening before him with stuffed bears, ermines, and wolves lining its walls amid other objets d'art. Under the balcony, a line of sconces were lit, leading down a hallway deeper into the structure, a long, crimson carpet showing the way. Taking a deep gulp, Ludwig followed the lights.

His footsteps felt unreasonably loud to him, soft creaking on hardwood as he slowly crept through the home, into a great hall lined with paintings, pottery, and weapons of war. Every sound seemed to echo off of the walls, up to the high, vaulted ceiling, and it made him feel deeply exposed.

Especially when it became clear that he wasn't alone.

"It's been a very long time since I've had a trespasser," a man's voice rumbled, warm and throaty.

Ludwig couldn't identify where it had come from, looking up and about to try and locate its source. He froze in place, trying to remember the rudimentary Russian he'd learned over the years. "Door was not locked."

A soft chuckle answered him. "So it was. You must have great purpose, braving the mountain to enter into my home. What manner of man are you, trespasser?"

Ludwig drew himself up, his spine straightening, his pride bubbling up to try and overcome the terror that was trying to take hold at the back of his mind. This was what he was here for. He was not about to run scared upon getting exactly what he wanted. "I am man of science."

"A man of science?" the voice repeated, amused. "This is certainly a change. Normally I'm forced to receive men of God, here to try and mete out His divine punishment."

"Divine punishment?" Ludwig asked, wishing his skill with the language were stronger. This lurking mystery man spoke so articulately that it took him an embarrassingly long time to recall his vocabulary so that he could formulate a response. He knew the words, but putting them together was proving difficult, and made him wish he had practiced speaking to locals more before making his ascent.

"So many previous callers of mine have come to exterminate me for the crime of merely having appetites their church finds... aberrant. Tell me, trespasser. Would you judge your host thusly?"

" I have no love for church." Ludwig felt a shiver run up his spine, and he wasn't sure if it was the cold, fear of the unknown, or fear of giving his next thoughts voice. "They would kill me for my appetites, as well."

"Oh? Do tell me, trespasser. What dark appetites would they pursue you for?"

"The touch of men."

Ludwig snapped to attention as a pressure alighted upon the small of his back, and it took a moment for him to register it as a large, broad hand, as there was no warmth to it to seep through his coat. Before he could react, another massive hand upon his chest tilted him backward, supported by the hand on his back as he found himself gazing up into eyes of the palest glacial blue he'd ever seen.

Their bearer was no less enthralling, a massive man with a strong jaw and an aquiline nose, larger even than Ludwig's impressive frame, and tilting him into his arms like it was no effort at all. He wore the clothes of a man of nobility, or at least refined taste, and no warmth bled from his body as it pressed against his guest's.

"It appears that is one appetite that you and I hold in common, my dear trespasser."

Ludwig couldn't bring himself to respond, words dying before they could even reach his throat and tongue. He was unsure whether its source was some mesmerizing power of his host's icy gaze, or the force of the sudden lust that had overcome him in an instant at being manhandled by this giant so easily, as though his tall, sturdy frame were nothing but a ragdoll.

"But that isn't the appetite that has clergymen skulking at my door."

As he spoke, Ludwig could see them; fangs. His canine teeth were long, sharp, and he found himself staring at them rather than his host's eyes. He felt his pulse pounding through his veins, and a yearning in his body the potency of which he had never felt before.

This was why he was here.

"And the one that does?"

"I think you already know, my dear trespasser."

"And?"

"And I would slake both with your body, by your leave."

"For eternity?"

The vampire grinned, tilting in to press a kiss atop the artery in Ludwig's neck. "Til death do we part."

#Lightspeed Replies #Anonymous #team fortress 2 #tf2 fanfiction #tf2 medic #tf2 heavy #vampire!Heavy

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