#you know a DA game is out when I have to mute half the fandom & distance myself from anyone not friends lol

[triaelf9]

DA fandom really hearing the lords of fortune saying "we return items of CULTURAL SIGNIFICANCE to their rightful owners for an acquisition FEE and keep everything else" and being like

DUR HUR THESE PIRATES (they're not pirates, they're treasure hunters & thrill seekers but that's for another day) DON'T STEAL ANYTHING DUR HUR WHERE ARE MY MORALLY GRAY SHIT

I'm sorry but are you kidding me??????

Are you actively trying to misread shit? Like ACTIVELY? Also I really hope ya'll aren't the same folks who got mad about cultural disrespect in the DA games & now are mad that they added in some sensitivity????? OOPS the grey wardens got the morally grey treatment in DAI & this game and we're all mad, but we want morally grey shit?

Look, if we're dunking jokingly that's fine, I'll chuckle along too, but like people are ACTUIVELY upset at this stuff and are wanting to "rewrite" the game to make it "better" and it's like okay calm down. Take a breath. If the game isn't clicking for you, you don't have to play it.

Or at least tag your mopey takes like good LORD. *insert game here* critical is RIGHT THERE.

ALSO equating "morally grey" to like "why aren't my favs racist, sexist, homophobic, and culturally insensitive like they USED TO BE" jesus christ think about what you're saying.

Again if the game isn't clicking for you THAT'S FINE, but stop giving ammo to the gaters that plays into their "this game sucks b/c it's woke" fascist dreamland.

[harcourtholmesii]

Heaven’s Choir

Figured I could post some of my older works that are currently on AO3. Let me know what you think!

Fandoms: Team Fortress 2

Pairings: Heavy X Medic (Slight)

Warnings: - Referenced / Implied Violence and Gore - Referenced Death - Threats of Violence

Words: 1284

Takes place before everyone on the team has been gathered, but it is not explicitly important.

Enjoy!

He couldn’t sleep. The explosions from his first day of combat blasted still throughout his eardrums, and he felt the ghost of his limbs where they were but where they should not be. Being blown apart by rocket launchers or gunned down by sentries were still etched into his memory, and despite the miracle that was the Respawn system, Mikhail still could not separate his present physical health, with his dying moments on the battlefield. How did they do this? How were they supposed to do this?

The seven mercenaries had each parted ways once the battle was over, not one word was spoken to Mikhail after the battle. It was a horrific loss, apparently, not that Mikhail understood why. They were alive, weren’t they? But their objective had been lost. They weren’t acting like this was a battle where strategic points were taken and lost in an instant; they were reacting as if it was all some kind of childish game. He did not understand how they could look at it this way.

Being the newest of the seven mercenaries, he supposed it took time to come to terms with what they faced every day. He was a mercenary. He had done some truly terrible things in his life. He was brought up defending his sisters and mother, night and day, up until a week ago when he left them behind. He had killed before, many times in fact, so that way he could protect his family and earn them a living, no matter the blood that stained the rubles he earned with each murder to his name.

Mikhail sat up in bed, pondering this mess he had gotten himself into. He should have just snapped that woman’s neck when she turned up on his doorstep, threatening to reveal where his family had hidden themselves away. He should have! But she had promised him work, with enough money to sustain his family long after he had died. And it was far away from the horrors of his home. But, it meant being far away from his mother and sisters. Did no one else in this base have anyone to go back to? Did none of them really care how they saw their entrails on the outside each time they were on the battlefield? They were fighting a stalemate. The game had ended ages ago, and yet here they were, pawns circling each other on a complex chess board.

It was a soft sound that got Mikhail’s attention. Light, soothing and beautiful. He had not heard such a sound in… well, since he was a child. It was faint, but as he stood and opened his door, he could hear it clearer than ever. A skilled artist was pulling the bow over the strings of a violin; a melancholy piece, slow and angelic, carried its way down the corridor. Somewhere in the base, it seemed that Mikhail was not alone in his struggles to sleep.

He shut his door behind him, and followed the sound with ease. Without the Demo-Man’s disruptive guffaws and without Soldier’s proud proclamations, the halls were empty and quiet. It was as if there was a clear line, like a trail that led Mikhail out of the Defence corridor and past both the Support and Attack corridors. Instead, the sound led him into the underground, where only a few choice rooms were accessible. It was to the Medical Bay that Mikhail found himself.

From this side of the door, he could hear those sullen notes, how the bow wept to play them and yet how the violin sang like Heaven’s choir. And to think… Mikhail glanced about the door, the two large crosses glaring at him in the dark of the hallway. How could a man like the Medic, the man with that wicked grin and cruel laughter, how could he produce such a fine piece? Mikhail rested his forehead on the cool of the door, the metal biting slightly into his skin, but he cared little for it. He was much too focussed on the spell that bound him to his spot. He dare not press further, lest the harmony stop.

He did not know for how long he stood there. When the music had come to its end, he noticed his legs aching from how he had been standing, and he felt a slight burn in his brow from where he had rested it all this time. He pushed his weight off the door, the sound of gunfire and roaring bullets muted in his mind, replaced instead by the harmony he memorised. It was not a piece familiar to him. For all he knew, it could have been simply the Medic tugging on strings, unsure of what to perform. If it was, however, Mikhail still longed to hear it again.

He could just barely make out the sound of a shutting case, and then footsteps, slow but light heading towards the Medical Bay doors. Mikhail stepped back, turning his head to realise that there was no corner to duck around; no objects to hide behind. The door opened before him, and Mikhail was frozen in place. The man that stood before him still looked as impeccable and professional as he did before the battle, sweater vest and tie, button up shirt and ironed pants tucked into his boots. He seemed just as startled as Mikhail, taking a half step back at the other’s presence blocking the door. His steel blue eyes widened behind the spectacles, looking up at Mikhail with surprise and bashfulness. The faintest tint of pink entered the doctor’s fair cheeks, but he was quick to regain his composure, the colour disappearing as quickly as it had come.

“Herr Heavy.”

“Doktor…”

“Can I help you?” For a moment, the two of them stood there in silence. The other had gone back to his professional persona, the one he put on in the meeting before the battle. Mikhail cleared his throat, and shook his head, unsure of exactly what to say. He did not think he would be caught out so suddenly.

“Vell, zhen if you don’t mind, I shall be heading to bed.” Medic gave him a polite nod of the head, stepped around the giant of a man, and proceeded to make his way to the basement stairwell. As Mikhail watched him leave, he felt his voice trapped in his throat. He needed to say something. He should say something.

“Guten nacht, Herr Heavy.”

“Wait, Doktor.” The other stopped, but did not turn. He stood now at the base of the stairs, one hand on the banister. His head was tilted slightly, but otherwise, he gave no further attention to Mikhail. “I… Would you play again?”

The German turned on the spot, looking at Mikhail analytically, his eyes darting about the Russian’s face. He was looking for something. Something that Mikhail clearly did not have, or perhaps he did have? He did not know, but Mikhail felt the weight in his chest fall away as the German’s lips spread into a sincere smile. One that Mikhail had yet to see.

“I always do.” Medic’s voice was softer, less crisp. It was the voice of a tired man. A man who had found a kindred spirit in Mikhail. “Tomorrow night, you should join me. Don’t stand outside on your own, ja?” Mikhail nodded, feeling his own mouth part in a relieved smile. He followed the German up to the stairs, and as the man turned to lead the way up, Mikhail caught the faintest of that rose tint to the doctor’s cheeks.

“Da. Wish to watch you play next time.”

“Next time, mein freund, you vill.”