fic: Atria
Dec. 19th, 2015 05:15 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bonnefoisTitle: Atria
Series: Tf2
Character/pairing: Heavy/Medic
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 614
Summary: Their pillow talk inevitably involves internal organs, and piles of bodies.
Author's note: Canon typical gore, also mentioned Medic violence towards other mercenaries and people. A treat for Erikonil in the TF2 Secret Santa. Related to The Tell-Tale Part, because once I started a paragraph about pillow talk, I couldn't help but write gory pillow talk.
According to a Russian-English dictionary, Blood vessels in Russian sounds like this.
Thanks to VampirePaladin for the beta.
Medic rested his head against Heavy's chest. Stripped down to sheets, lingering pleasure and sweat. The lights dimmed, there was only the faint scope of moonlight from a half-shuttered window. Heavy's fingers absently traced scars. Little failures, from knife wounds, to even swords. They were reminders of every time he'd turned to find himself alone on the battlefield, with nothing but Medic's broken body lying behind him.
"Your heartbeat is so fast. Perhaps you have Tachycardia, or an arrhythmia," Medic said, in a far too cheerful manner for one discussing something potentially deadly, but that was his way.
"This word is?"
"Tachycardia? It means a far too rapid heart-rate. One of the many possible heart issues, though with that new one, it shouldn't be a problem. I tested that heart thoroughly. If not, then I could always replace it. All I need is a fresh enough corpse, or someone not paying attention. Perhaps I will yell surprise as I take their organs. It'd be even better if I could find a birthday hat, or some kind of noisemaker..." Medic chuckled to himself at the joke.
Medic traced his fingers over the scars, new and old that he'd left. Bite marks and scratches covered Heavy's chest, neck and arms. Medic always left a mark somewhere on him, like scraping out his name on Heavy's skin. The fingerprints just weren't always physical.
"Tachycardia," Heavy said, trying out the words.
"Much closer this time," Medic said encouragingly.
"It is no defect," Heavy said. He rested his hand at the juncture of Medic's neck. "Is you."
He smiled, then, on the edge of sleep and his frenzied, bloody dreams.
"The blood goes through your vessels, and it runs through each artery, to pump blood into your veins," Medic said. He rested his palm there, to feel every heartbeat.
"Say again?"
"Vessels?" Medic said.
Heavy pronounced it wessels, testing out the word. He then repeated it in his native tongue.
"Ah, it sounds so beautiful and harsh that way," Medic said. He rested, almost dreamy in his languor. "Even deadly. Just like you."
He traced Heavy's lips with his thumb. "The average heart is seven ounces, but yours is much larger. It beats over hundred thousand times a day, and pumps over two thousand gallons of blood. Almost as much as you spill each day." The last words were said on a cheerful lilt.
"No, more," Heavy said. He kissed each fingertip, each callous of his hand. "Don't forget to count the blood you spill."
"Of course. We are a team, after all," he said. There was something so dangerous, so utterly merciless in the way he said it. Even at rest, he was still a killer.
His doctor, his bloodthirsty murderer. A man who could make grotesque art of whatever bodies he got ahold of, and could heal up the worst of wounds in his team.
"Tomorrow, we should spill enough blood for two hearts. Or maybe four," Medic said.
"Tomorrow, we will make a tower of bodies so large, the other team will not come out of the base," Heavy said.
"I like the way you think," Medic said.
Series: Tf2
Character/pairing: Heavy/Medic
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 614
Summary: Their pillow talk inevitably involves internal organs, and piles of bodies.
Author's note: Canon typical gore, also mentioned Medic violence towards other mercenaries and people. A treat for Erikonil in the TF2 Secret Santa. Related to The Tell-Tale Part, because once I started a paragraph about pillow talk, I couldn't help but write gory pillow talk.
According to a Russian-English dictionary, Blood vessels in Russian sounds like this.
Thanks to VampirePaladin for the beta.
Medic rested his head against Heavy's chest. Stripped down to sheets, lingering pleasure and sweat. The lights dimmed, there was only the faint scope of moonlight from a half-shuttered window. Heavy's fingers absently traced scars. Little failures, from knife wounds, to even swords. They were reminders of every time he'd turned to find himself alone on the battlefield, with nothing but Medic's broken body lying behind him.
"Your heartbeat is so fast. Perhaps you have Tachycardia, or an arrhythmia," Medic said, in a far too cheerful manner for one discussing something potentially deadly, but that was his way.
"This word is?"
"Tachycardia? It means a far too rapid heart-rate. One of the many possible heart issues, though with that new one, it shouldn't be a problem. I tested that heart thoroughly. If not, then I could always replace it. All I need is a fresh enough corpse, or someone not paying attention. Perhaps I will yell surprise as I take their organs. It'd be even better if I could find a birthday hat, or some kind of noisemaker..." Medic chuckled to himself at the joke.
Medic traced his fingers over the scars, new and old that he'd left. Bite marks and scratches covered Heavy's chest, neck and arms. Medic always left a mark somewhere on him, like scraping out his name on Heavy's skin. The fingerprints just weren't always physical.
"Tachycardia," Heavy said, trying out the words.
"Much closer this time," Medic said encouragingly.
"It is no defect," Heavy said. He rested his hand at the juncture of Medic's neck. "Is you."
He smiled, then, on the edge of sleep and his frenzied, bloody dreams.
"The blood goes through your vessels, and it runs through each artery, to pump blood into your veins," Medic said. He rested his palm there, to feel every heartbeat.
"Say again?"
"Vessels?" Medic said.
Heavy pronounced it wessels, testing out the word. He then repeated it in his native tongue.
"Ah, it sounds so beautiful and harsh that way," Medic said. He rested, almost dreamy in his languor. "Even deadly. Just like you."
He traced Heavy's lips with his thumb. "The average heart is seven ounces, but yours is much larger. It beats over hundred thousand times a day, and pumps over two thousand gallons of blood. Almost as much as you spill each day." The last words were said on a cheerful lilt.
"No, more," Heavy said. He kissed each fingertip, each callous of his hand. "Don't forget to count the blood you spill."
"Of course. We are a team, after all," he said. There was something so dangerous, so utterly merciless in the way he said it. Even at rest, he was still a killer.
His doctor, his bloodthirsty murderer. A man who could make grotesque art of whatever bodies he got ahold of, and could heal up the worst of wounds in his team.
"Tomorrow, we should spill enough blood for two hearts. Or maybe four," Medic said.
"Tomorrow, we will make a tower of bodies so large, the other team will not come out of the base," Heavy said.
"I like the way you think," Medic said.
