marvel at my magnificent coloring job
shamelessly reblogs my fem heavy
“Did you know, after the camps were liberated, the homosexual prisoners were not released?”
Medic’s eyes are hollow as he looks into nothing and sees past it, into memories he’d tried desperately to repress. “They shuttled us from one prison to another. The yellow star branded me a survivor, a hero, even, while the pink triangle condemned me as a criminal.”
He emits a sardonic little laugh, running his hands through his hair. With his arms clean and bare, the camp tattoo is clearly visible. The sight of it makes him wince.
“Shuttled from one prison to another,” he repeats. “The ally-approved facilities were better than the camps, but it was still a numbing existence. There was at least enough food to eat, and I gained back most of my weight; most of the strength I had lost in that living hell. But most importantly, I regained my resolve. My resolve to escape.”
His eyes take on a steely quality, more focused than they’ve been since the start of the conversation. His fingers twitch.
“I did… horrible things. But no more horrible than what they’d done to me; giving me hope only to violently snatch it back, locking the door and throwing away the key. I couldn’t control myself as I dissected a living guard, wrote warnings with his blood. And I couldn’t believe… how much I liked it.”
There is a giddy tone to his voice as he continues. “Imagine, a doctor, sworn to ‘do no harm’, gleefully ripping apart men in all the ways he knows to be most painful; knowing exactly which vessels to preserve to keep them from bleeding out, which nerves to play to make them scream a macabre symphony.” His laughter is dark. “Oh yes, I liked it.”
“I escaped, very publicly faked my own death by stealing a vehicle from the Prime Minister’s wedding and driving it off a cliff. Oh, the explosion it caused! It was everything I needed; a cleansing fire for a new start.” He smiles, reaching out a hand. A dove hops into it.
“And that brings me to you, my little friend. What a perfect symbol of rebirth.” He rubs the bird’s head with a finger, and its eyes close in happiness. “Yes, you’ll do quite nicely. I admire your tenacity and bloodlust. Quite similar to my own.”
“The only quandary left, however,” he mutters, looking at the red envelope on his small table, “is how these people managed to find me, let alone deliver a letter to a secret bunker in Switzerland.”
He turns the envelope over in his free hand, having read the letter over and over again. An offer of employment, and the chance to be with like-minded people, bathing daily in the blood of his enemies while putting his skills as a healer to use on his allies. Plus, a considerable paycheck, and protection from a large organization. He had to admit, it sounded pretty tempting.
“What do you think, Archimedes? Do you think I should trust them?”
The bird tilted its head and cooed.
“Then it is decided. We leave in the morning. Come, let us round up your brothers and sisters.”
I wrote a lot over the past month, so in case you missed anything, here are my ficlets. Italics denote NSFW.
It was an accident with explosives that landed the RED Sniper in the infirmary with an injury Respawn couldn’t fix, and it sent the Demoman blubbering when he heard another member of his team had lost both of his eyes. The surgery was rushed but precise, and Sniper found himself feeling a bit better the next day as he lay on the hospital bed near Medic’s office.
In the middle of the night, the BLU Spy, his enemy, his lover, slipped into the base and found him dozing, gauze still covering his empty sockets.
“Oh, mon amour,” he whispered, running a gloved finger along his cheek, “what has happened to you?” Sniper stirred, sitting up against the pillows.
“And a good evenin’ to you, Spook,” he replied, the pale light of the moon making his teeth shine as he grinned.
Spy took his hand, clasping it tight. “I heard about your eyes. Oh, mon petite, I am so sorry,” he choked out, pressing his forehead against the back of Sniper’s hand. Sniper grimaced.
“What’re you bein’ so dramatic about?” he asked, petting Spy’s hand with his thumb.
“Your eyes!” Spy lifted his head, scandalized. “You’re blind! You will be forced to give up the job you love!”
“Whoa, whoa, I don’t know about all that,” Sniper replied, clearly annoyed. “I mean, it’s inconvenient, yeah, but give up me job? Are you outta your bloody mind?”
“But,” Spy continued, confused, “how will you be able to snipe, if you cannot see?”
“What, you think just because I’m blind now, I can’t shoot a rifle?” He huffed, taking his hand back and crossing his arms. “I’ll have you know I can shoot the wings off a fly just by sound and smell alone. Any sniper worth hirin’ knows you can’t pull off every hit on a clear day in the middle of the afternoon.” He sighed, running a hand over his hair and letting it rest on the bandage around his head. Spy looked guilty.
“I did not realize,” he said softly, and Sniper reached out to hold his hand again.
“It’s alright, love,” he soothed, “I guess I can see how you’d think blindness would be an issue, but bein’ blindfolded was a big part of my training. The sheep were very insistent on it, in case ‘a situations like this.”
“The sheep?” Spy asked, lifting an eyebrow.
“Yeah,” Sniper replied.
“The sheep.” It wasn’t a question, but a skeptical statement. It dawned on Sniper that France might not have had a Sheep Sniper Squadron like Australia.
“Australium’s a hell of an element, mate,” he grinned, showing his teeth again. “I ever tell you about my first girlfriend….”
It’s a way to relax, and after a week of hard losses, it’s sorely needed. The RED team nurses their wounded egos with bottles of Red Shed and a nip or two of Demoman’s scrumpy, talking and laughing as Engineer rigs some spare parts into a pretty nice radio. He tries at first to play some nice country tunes, but enough of the team objects that he turns it to a top 40 station, grinning crookedly when Sniper betrays his enjoyment with the tapping of his toes.
Scout, drunk and happy, jumps up and slurs along to In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida, turning a spirited air guitar solo into a silly sort of dance. He soaks up the laughter of the others and grabs Heavy’s hand, pulling the larger man into a sloppy waltz that lasts even after the song fades into Jumpin’ Jack Flash and Soldier starts ranting about a British invasion and at least those damn butterfly hippies are American, not that anyone is listening to him.
Long after Heavy has sat to catch his breath and Scout has settled between him and Medic, the calming melody of Hey Jude serves enough to send most of the team to bed. Engineer goes to turn off the radio, but Heavy stops him, telling him that he will dismantle it himself later. The Texan gives him and his two dozing companions a gentle smile, tips his hardhat, and lets them be.
Fiddling with the knobs, Heavy finds a station of old ballroom music; the kind Medic listens to in the infirmary when he’s experimenting. Turning back to his older lover, he strokes his hair with one hand, then holds it out to him. Medic takes it with a smile, leaning into Heavy’s strong embrace.
Scout jerks awake a few minutes later, realizing he is alone on the couch, but sees his partners aren’t far away. After watching them for a short while—Medic’s arms wrapped loosely around Heavy’s shoulders; Heavy’s hands holding the doctor close—he stands, tapping the tallest man on the back.
“May I cut in?” he asks, and Heavy grins at him, gladly obliging after planting a kiss on Medic’s forehead and another on Scout’s cheek. He takes Scout’s place on the couch, watching as the youngest man takes Medic’s hand gingerly, placing the other on his waist, the way Medic taught him.
The American jumbles the first few steps, until Medic starts counting quietly, waiting for Scout to get his bearings and take the lead. Once he does, Medic smiles broadly, letting the younger man lead him in a grand circle around the rec room. Scout matches his expression.
When the song ends, they settle back on either side of Heavy, nearly content to fall asleep right there to the gentle sounds of woodwinds and strings.