brutally soft woman.

My blog is for adults only.

[thomas-woman]

about.

[thomas-woman]

hiii i just wanted to let you know i love your fic his kind of woman and am really hoping to read more tf2 x readers from you! despite only having 3 fics you're my fav tf2 x reader author rn, i've re-read your fics more than once. take it easy and ty for sharing your lovely writing!!

!! This is so kind of you to say…Thank you so much!! I will be honest; I wrote almost 5k words for the final chapter of his kind of woman, but I’m stuck with it and have no idea how exactly to tie it all together. I have no idea when I’ll be completing it, if ever.

I do sincerely apologize for this, next time I won’t post anything longer than a single chapter until the entire thing is 90% done, it bothers me that I have something unfinished just lingering about, especially because I know I’ll be disappointing people.

On the bright side, no longer forcing myself to write and then scrap everything I’ve written over and over again for the final chapter of a single story has given me the freedom to write other tf2 reader inserts instead! So hopefully I’ll have something new to share soon enough!

Emphasis on hopefully, I'm rather drained from writing at the moment so I can't make any promises.

[thomas-woman]

How would you feel about someone drawing out scenes from your sniper fic with their ocs, like sniper x oc (with credit ofc) love your writing just wanted to ask in case you were uncomfortable with it or not

Oh absolutely go ahead!!!! I'm so honored anyone would like to draw scenes from anything I've written! <3

[thomas-woman]

i love ur fics sm im eagerly awaiting whatever you post next!! Some of the best tf2 x readers ive read recently <3

!!!! Thank you!! ❤️

I have many wips I've been chipping away at off-and-on, I'm just trying to balance writing something that's actually up to my personal standards while also not being paralyzed due to perfectionism. 😭

(On that note, the 3rd chapter of his kind of woman is about 70% done!)

[thomas-woman]

Bruhhhhhhhhh your fics are so good sixjksixiizokskkwoz I just binge read your Sniper ones and aaaaaaaaahhhhhhh

You have a very poignant way of writing, if that makes sense. Not in the overly negative sense, but more like it touches the emotional core, the soul. It feels like my heart is being cradled by your author hands and the slightest squeeze hurts, but you still remain gentle to the end. Maybe it's cus I kinda relate to your reader lmaooo.

Love your works and I'm shocked to see that its only these two fics to your name, plus a Medic fic. You write very well. Many thanks for sharing <3

aaaaaaa omg ;;__;; 💗💗💗 this brought the biggest smile on my face. Thank you so much for taking the time to type this up and send it to me...!!! ❤️❤️

I try very hard to get emotion across in my writing do to hear that I managed to accomplish that for you is such high praise ;;o;;

I'm working on many more TF2 reader inserts! (Mainly Sniper and a few with Medic) 🫡 I have a lot of WIPs and ideas, I just need to find the time to finish them!

[thomas-woman]

i actually really loved how you wrote scout in your sniper fic >__<

do you think you'll write any scout x readers?

I'm glad you liked how I characterized him!!

And yes! Actually I have an unfinished Scout reader insert lying around, I'll try to work on it more sometime so I can finish it and share it. ^__^

[thomas-woman]

His Kind of Woman

previous chapter

Chapter 2: Alone Together

Team Fortress 2 - M/F - Suggestive - Sniper/Reader - 5k words

gnc female reader, alternate universe, period typical attitudes, pining, friends to lovers, insecurity, fluff

ao3 link

Honestly, you're only doing this to make up for lost time with Sniper.

You try to shake off how pitifully desperate that feels.

Sometimes the guys would be given work that could be done alone. It was easy to just hand it over to them whenever you happened to run into them—assuming you had the paperwork on you—but other times they’d be called up to the building directly. 

Sometimes they showed up, other times they didn’t. Wasn’t like you’d get reprimanded for their absence, so you never got too agitated by it. 

Besides, you think they’ve been here long enough to know that if it was something mandatory or especially important, that urgency would be explicitly conveyed to them. 

So when you received the papers for a mark for Sniper to take care of, you weren’t expecting him to show up the day of to take a look at it. 

You nearly jump out of your seat when the click of the door opening resonates in the small space of your office. 

Sniper gives you a curt nod in lieu of a verbal greeting, “Heard you had somethin’ for me.” 

Maybe he just needed the extra pay. “I do,” your voice trails off into a hum while you scramble to try and find the relevant file for him to look at on your desk. In the meantime Sniper drags a chair from by the window to sit across from you. 

You feel a bit self conscious over how disorganized you must have looked, you truthfully didn’t expect him to come in so soon. On the bright side, you did just skim over it a few hours ago, and the broad details were fresh enough in your mind for you to rattle it off to him while you searched.

It wasn’t mandated, he could reject if he wished. “So, are you up for it?” 

He gives you that terrible, lazy smirk, his canines poking out from under his lip. “I am.” 

You sheepishly smile back at him, warmth kisses your cheeks. “Good! Now, uh, let's see...” ‘I knew I should have sorted out those papers before he got here...’ Once the desk turns up without what you’re looking for, you spin up and out of your seat and begin going through filing cabinets. 

For a few moments there’s nothing but the sound of cabinets opening and closing, the rustle of paper, and you agitatedly muttering to yourself under your breath. 

Sniper calls out your name, and you make a small noise in acknowledgment, “Y’coming with us Friday?” 

“What—? To where?” You’re still only half-listening to him.

“A bar.” This makes you pause your search, but only just for a fraction of a second.

“Is that even a good idea?” 

“Eh, they know how to behave themselves well enough.” That didn’t do much to assuage your skepticism. You could feel Sniper’s eyes boring in the back of your head, awaiting your answer.

“Oh, I’m not sure I'll be going,” you reply indifferently, still rummaging through drawers for that stack of files. 

Finally, you find what you’re looking for. “Just don't feel up for it?” 

“I don’t have a way to get there.” ‘And I don’t drink.’

“I’ll take ya.” 

You whip around, clutching the files to your chest. You make a surprised noise, something between a ‘what’ and an ‘oh’ before spluttering and clearing your throat. 

“Y-you don’t have to.” 

“I want to,” he replies easily. Then he pauses for a moment, the faintest display of apprehension in the way his jaw shifts. 

You give him your answer before he can backpedal; “I’m going, then.”

Honestly, you're only doing this to make up for lost time with Sniper. 

You weren’t close with any of the mercenaries aside from him, and you preferred to keep it that way. The idea of you—someone who didn’t even drink—going out to a bar was ridiculous enough on its own. You try to shake off how pitifully desperate you felt.

You stare at yourself in the mirror, absentmindedly brushing your fingers past the recently clipped hair at the base of your neck. Your subconscious thinks of his hands, far bigger than yours and calloused, and your face feels ever so slightly warmer.

A collared shirt and wide-legged pants that just about covered your knees. You looked presentable enough, you thought. At least for a bar. But a whisper in the back of your mind wonders if Sniper would like it, if he’d ever find you something to be worth admiring—

You turn on your heel to put on your flats and close the door to your quarters behind you. You never liked wandering the building at night, it already was too quiet during the day, and at night it bordered on eerie. While nothing about the halls were unwelcoming, and everything was well lit, you were a rather skittish person. 

You practically speed-walk out, occasionally shooting a look over your shoulder. Once outside, there was nothing more to do other than sit and wait for those headlights to pierce through the darkness of the night. 

You hear the van before you see it, on account of being preoccupied with gazing up at the stars. 

You stare at it for half a moment, your mind coming to terms with the fact it was too late to back out now, and stand up to make your way towards it. 

“Hey,” Sniper greets you as soon as you open the door to get in.

You suddenly feel small, especially when you sit and close it behind you. “Hey,” you reply in a tone that you pray comes off as casual. You immediately busy yourself with buckling your seatbelt to avoid looking at him. As soon as the click of it being secured in place is heard, Sniper is driving off. 

Your hands are already fidgeting in your lap, and your face itches with heat. Sniper on the other hand, looks completely at ease—at least from what you could discern out the corner of your eye. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, but the thoughts running through your head made it so. 

You couldn’t really deny it anymore, especially not now; you wanted positive attention from him. Something as simple as him telling that your shirt looked nice. The desire made you feel juvenile, and you mentally chastise yourself for it. 

It didn’t help that you had no idea as to what to say to break the silence, so you were left stewing in your own thoughts. And trying not to stare at your companion in lovesick admiration.

Sniper brushes his thumb over the corner of his mouth, lightly scratching, an idle and completely absent-minded gesture on his part. He’s driving with just the one hand, leaving his other free. You watch the wiry mass that makes up his lean arm and stare at his pronounced knuckles on his big hands. The way his arms are all fuzzy thanks to the hair there, back of his hands too, you wonder if it was soft thanks to that—

‘For all that is good—’ you scold yourself, almost facepalming before reminding yourself of where you are and instead resting your chin in your palm, elbow on the windowsill. 

You really weren’t expecting just this enclosed proximity to him having such an effect on you. But then again, could anyone blame you? For someone as reclusive as yourself, even something as simple as this was novel for you. 

Finally, you think of something to say. “How long will it take to get there?” 

“Eh,” Sniper hums, thinking about it for a moment, “About half an hour.” 

You sit up a bit straighter, your head snapping to look at him reflexively. ‘What do you mean half an hour?’ “Half an hour?”

“We’re in the middle of nowhere,” he states simply, punctuating the sentence with a half-hearted shrug. “Honestly, it’s just our luck there’s a bar even that close ‘round here,” he mumbles—more to himself than directly to you. 

You regret not asking for more details before accepting the invitation, now. 

Your silence must be understood by him in some way; “We aren’t too far yet, I can take ya back—” 

But still; you did want to spend time with him. And this was an opportunity to be in a more casual setting with him, to boot. “No, no. I wanna go.” 

You have a harder time shaking off that desperate feeling this time.

The matter is settled, and a comfortable quiet comes over the van again. Half an hour sitting in silence, it is. 

To be fair to Sniper, he does turn on the radio about 20 minutes into the drive. 

The volume is low enough to not disturb the oddly tranquil atmosphere of a midnight drive. You can still hear the movement of the vehicle, the occasional rattle or jostle. The road is empty, which wasn’t much of a surprise; Sniper wasn’t exaggerating when he said that you’re in the middle of nowhere. 

A thought pops in your head, “Are the others ahead of us?” 

“Yeah,” his mouth is slanted off to the side as he spoke, a mannerism of his you found strangely endearing. “They’re already there, I reckon.” 

You blink at him. “Huh?” 

“Don’t plan on staying with ‘em the whole night.” So he was showing up late and leaving early. You can’t help the way your lip twitches up in amusement. 

The passage of time helped you settle in a bit more, and you finally took conscious notice of Sniper’s attire. Just a pair of slacks with a collared mustard yellow shirt. One of the buttons at the top was undone, allowing the faintest bit of the hair on his chest to poke out from under it. 

“Somethin’ on me shirt?” Sniper’s eyes flick downwards at his shoulder for a fraction of a second before he dutifully returns his gaze to the road. 

To say you felt mortified was an understatement. And you couldn’t just brush it off and say ‘no’ because you clearly were staring at him— 

“Didn’t think you liked to wear bright colors.” You tear your eyes away from him and go back to staring out the window into pitch black nothingness. 

“Yeah, nah, just had it lying around.” 

The deluge of self-directed ridicule that followed your slip-up was nothing short of excessive. 

Your internal scolding is only halted when Sniper speaks again. “Do you shop in the men’s section?” 

The question actually makes you stiffen up a bit. 

“Uh,” you clear your throat, a familiar looming sense of dread welling up inside of you. You knew it all too well, the scorn and judgement that followed whenever topics like this were brought up to you. After you got to know him, you realized you didn’t have to worry about him scrutinizing you to your face at least, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t get nervous regardless. 

“Usually—Yeah, I do.” 

Sniper hums, almost thoughtful. “It suits you.” 

You don’t respond right away thanks to your brain momentarily short-circuiting. 

“Thanks,” you eventually eke out. 

It suits you. Not ‘you‘d look prettier in a skirt’ or ‘you should give dresses a try,’ but it suits you. 

You fumble with your hands repeatedly in your lap, suddenly feeling timid. As you force yourself to keep your eyes on the white lines on the road that are illuminated by the stark glow of headlights, you think you see Sniper cast a single look at you out the corner of his eye. 

All in all, it was pleasant to drive with Sniper. You wouldn’t be opposed to just driving around with him behind the wheel again—assuming you ever had the opportunity for such a thing, assuming he’d ever offer that to you—

The parking lot of the bar was far fuller than you expected. Perhaps a benefit of being one of the only ones out here. Sniper finds a spot the furthest out of the way to park, and as soon as he does he's unbuckling his seatbelt. You do the same. 

You stretch out your legs a little when you exit the van, using the moment to mentally psyche yourself up for potential interaction with the other mercenaries. 

If you had any luck, they wouldn't view your presence as a novelty and simply leave you alone. 

Preoccupied with gathering the mental strength to deal with the others, you fail to notice Sniper approaching until he’s right next to you. 

You jump. “Y’alright?” 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you blurt out, shaking off the remaining trepidation by wiggling your hands at your sides. 

Sniper doesn’t seem convinced, but you’re marching off in the direction of the building already. “Come on, I think they’re wondering if you’re still coming by now.” You call over your shoulder, prompting Sniper to follow behind you. 

You and Sniper have to brush against one another to squeeze past the door, not that it was narrow—just that the bar was that full. You bet the owner was going to be especially pleased with the profits tonight. 

The faint contact with him made your body feel hot, but butterflies didn’t have the chance to coalesce in your stomach due to a loud chorus of whooping and hollering. 

At first you bristle, concerned that it was a bar fight—but no, it appeared to be that one particular Scotsman had just won a drinking contest. You see Soldier give him a hearty pat on the back, his face looking red even from here—he must have been intoxicated. You wither just from the mere thought of dealing with Soldier of all people whilst drunk. 

A cursory glance around what’s visible to you doesn't reveal the other mercenaries right away—except for Scout. Who is—somehow—flirting with a woman near the counter. Either Scout lucked out with finding a woman that wasn’t immediately put off by his antics, or she was just tipsy enough to entertain him for her own amusement. 

A palm on your shoulder applying a firm yet gentle pressure startles you out of your thoughts. 

Sniper softly nudges you forward, and you splutter out a hushed apology as you step out of his way. 

“You’re fine,” he tells you, voice low in a way that makes your heart rate pick up just a little. His eyes quickly yet no less efficiently scanning the building with the sort of precision you expected from a man of his job description. 

And his hand actually remains on your shoulder. Sniper walks half a step—practically corralling you—before suddenly pausing and lifting his hand away. You find you miss the contact almost immediately. 

You look up at him from over your shoulder to find he is already staring down at you. Just meeting his gaze is enough to make your heart beat just that little faster. 

Sniper’s eyes flick away, a flicker of hesitance there. “Well, I won’t keep ya.” ‘Please keep me.’ 

“Have fun. Not like you'll be drivin’.” He then turns to give you two firm pats on the shoulder before leaving. You quickly lose sight of him in the crowd. 

You stand there, essentially paralyzed until a stranger bumps into you far more roughly. You find yourself apologizing again and forcing one foot in front of the other to make yourself scarce. 

You immediately decide to go to the far back of the building where you could be forgotten about. Maybe you’ll get to order something decent to eat, at least. 

The walk there allows you to think. 

You were fully prepared to be ushered wherever Sniper wanted you, something that you struggled to admit even to yourself. In matter of fact, spending time with him was the whole point, so you were kicking yourself for not speaking up and just telling him you'd rather sit with him. 

The title of lone wolf would be fair to apply to him, sure— but you wouldn’t go as far as to say he was antisocial. It wouldn’t be the first time one of you asked to hang out with the other. Now you’re just agitated with yourself. 

There are far less people back where you’ve walked, and you don’t feel borderline claustrophobic and uneasy having to brush shoulders with so many strangers. 

You are quick to find an empty table and take a seat, exhaling heavily, your shoulders deflating. 

A distinctly accented voice calls out your name, “‘Sup?” 

You are caught between going rapid-fire through the stages of grief, and finding it morbidly comedic that despite your best efforts you still had to engage with one of the other mercenaries. 

Scout comes up to the table you were seated at with remarkable nonchalance, shrugging off nearly shoulder-checking someone with such casualness that it nearly came off as inconsiderate. 

You see a glint around his neck, he hasn’t taken the dog tags off; they’re just tucked under his shirt. 

You squint, your eyes sweeping the area behind him. Out of all of them, Scout was low on your list for having to deal with, considering last you saw he was preoccupied. “Weren’t you just talking with a girl—?” 

He stops right in front of where you’re sitting. “Yeah. You jealous or somethin’?” You clamp your mouth shut, gritting your teeth behind closed lips. Your eyes narrow at him in blatant and unapologetic scrutiny. 

Scout grins cheekily at you; he’s just teasing, you realize, and the tension breaks. You relax, but only just a little. 

You're still uneasy; a combination of the usual trepidation you had when dealing with unfamiliar people—especially unfamiliar men—and your pre-established skepticism of the other 8 mercenaries. 

You didn’t know Scout well enough to discern his intent, and as a result you remained cautious. 

“Soo...” He begins, laying a hand on the table in front of you and resting his weight on it. 

“Is Miss Pauling with ya?” 

You blink at him, your expression incredulous. “No.” You answer bluntly. 

“Cool, cool...” Scout trails off with feigned indifference, his attention being caught by something you couldn’t see. ‘I don't know how to deal with you. Please get bored and leave me alone.’

A thought visibly passes through his mind, and his head snaps back to you, “You’re just sitting here by yourself?” 

“Uh, yes—?” 

“All by yourself?” 

You don’t have to know Scout personally to notice the mischievous glint in his eye. You sputter, lifting your palms up in a surrendering gesture. “Oh, that’s not—” 

Scout cuts you off, seemingly ignoring you. “Hey, don’t worry—I’ll hang out with’cha!” He snaps his fingers as if it was the most brilliant of ideas. 

Then he immediately sits across from you, flopping himself down on the seat so haphazardly that you were briefly worried he would fall over. 

It was at this moment you were made aware of his apparent tipsy-ness. You sigh in defeat, Scout props his chin in his hand and grins at you—either completely oblivious to your desire to be left alone, or simply uncaring. 

In hindsight, it was foolish to not think at least one of them would find your presence a source of curiosity. To the other 8 mercenaries, you were strictly business and never stayed any longer than absolutely necessary, never interacting with them more than what was required for your job. 

Well, if Scout was determined to sit with you, that was his decision. You didn’t feel like you had to make conversation with him. Better that you didn’t in fact, so that he would find you dull and leave faster. 

“Guess it’s your lucky day—uh, night.” The guy somehow had the audacity to not even look self-conscious after his mild fumble. You almost envied it. 

But then what he had said registers in your brain. “Huh?” 

“I mean, you're the only girl I'm talkin’ to now, doll.” 

He’s teasing you again, you know it without a doubt, Scout of all people was not interested in you. There was an absence of any real heat in his tone, he was talking to you like you were discussing the weather. 

Somehow that made it worse. You open and close your mouth, feeling like a fish out of water. Your heart pounds and a lump manifests in your throat, your neck itches with an uncomfortable hotness. 

Scout interprets your mortification as something else. “Aw, you don’t gotta be embarrassed!” He huffs out a chuckle. Scout isn’t being malicious, you know that—but he almost sounds patronizing and you want to disappear. 

“So you were jealous, huh?” 

“No. No, I’m—” you trip over your words. Light-hearted jabbing non-withstanding, you sincerely didn’t want Scout getting the wrong idea— 

“Alright, you’ve had three too many.” 

You and Scout both jump. 

“Don’t frickin’ sneak up on people like that—!” 

Sniper shrugs, but his eyes are fixed intently on Scout. “I just walked on up, mate.” 

“And you don’t know how much I’ve had, you got here like, 5 minutes ago!” 

“I can tell, it’s bloody obvious.” Sniper sounded like he was speaking from experience, maybe Scout couldn’t hold his liquor.

Scout rolls his eyes, crossing his arms defiantly. “Yeah, yeah. Sure, whatever. I feel fine.” 

"I feel great, actually," Scout emphasizes with a sluggish thumb pointed at himself and a smirk that could only be described as shit-eating.

Sniper’s eyes flick to you, then back to Scout. 

You interpret the banter as being lighthearted and low-stakes, as this was consistent according to the few times you’ve been present while the two men were interacting with one another. 

“Scout.” The second it leaves Sniper’s mouth, so too does any assumption that this was just the typical back-and-forth between colleagues. 

“Hey, what’s your problem—?” Scout seems fully prepared to escalate the bicker into a full-blown confrontation, until something flickers in his eyes. 

Scout opens his mouth, but Sniper interjects before the other man can speak. “Just don’t feel like draggin’ you out limp and covered in your own vomit again, is all.” 

Scout makes an affronted noise, gesturing wildly with his hands in place of words he couldn’t find. whatever event Sniper was referencing clearly was an embarrassing one for Scout. You are suddenly reminded of the fact that all of the mercenaries knew each other—including Sniper—for longer than you. Had more memories together, too. 

Scout gets up, the chair screeching thanks to the suddenness of the motion, and instead of continuing with the argument or worse, he shoots you a glance, then he looks oddly smug.

“Y’know what? Sure, alright.” Scout replies with that same smirk as before—it was easy for you to imagine him as someone who could get under people’s skin if and when he really wanted. 

Sniper’s jaw ticks, his shoulders set rigidly. Scout walks a few steps backwards with his hands tucked in his pockets. “I get it,” Scout tells him before he turns on his heel and is gone. 

Your words had left you entirely at this point, it all happened so suddenly that you weren’t even sure how to feel yet. 

There’s a beat where nothing is said, then Sniper shifts on his feet. 

“Want a drink?”

“Should you be drinking if you’re gonna drive?” 

“Eh, this is the first and only one I’ll be havin’.” 

“Yeah, but—” 

“Not quite how getting drunk works, sheila,” he chuckles, and—unless your ears are deceiving you—there’s an undertone of fondness in his voice that makes your own expression soften despite yourself. 

You sigh in acquiescence, and take a sip of your soda. 

You were more than happy to accept Sniper’s offer of having a drink, and followed him to a more secluded corner of the bar. He seemed to be in a more talkative mood than usual, which was always welcome. 

“By the way, did you really have to drag Scout out before?” 

Sniper looks exasperated just from recalling the memory, your lips quirk in a barely contained smile. “I did,” he rolls his eyes, “Wanker,” he then mutters under his breath. You can’t help but snort. 

“Is that something that happens often—?” 

Sniper shrugs noncommittally, taking a swig of his drink before answering. “Wouldn’t be able to say,” you cock your head at him in question. 

“Goin’ out like this—it’s not a regular thing. And, usually? I sit out for it.” 

Now that you thought of it, you shouldn’t be all too surprised that this was a once-in-a-blue-moon type of occasion, nor that Sniper elected out of it on average. 

You didn't have to ask if it was a new bar every time, or if they made sure to cycle between them lest they become too familiar at one spot—they’ve been at this far longer than you, and by now knew better. 

“Felt up for it this time?” You ask him, just to have something to say rather than out of any real curiosity. 

He glances at you. “Yeah.” 

A welcoming silence falls over the table—as silent as it can be in a packed bar full of patrons under varying degrees of inebriation, anyhow. 

“You don’t drink,” he suddenly points out, his tone more of a statement than a question, waving a hand in the direction of your glass. Talkative mood, indeed.

“I don’t,” you nod. “I just wanted to get out, I guess.” ‘I just wanted to be with you.'

There's a brief pause of mutual understanding. 

“Did you see any of the others yet?” 

“I did. Left ‘em all to it, though.” In that case; you consider yourself fortunate that Scout was the only one you directly had to speak to. 

You nibble on your lower lip in thought, weighing whether or not to say what you wanted. You decide to, albeit carefully. 

You didn’t like metaphorically exposing your own belly emotionally speaking, even outside of work. Not that you were cold-hearted; it was actually the opposite, you were too emotional, too sentimental, too everything. You learnt rather quickly during your upbringing—and many failed social interactions—that part of yourself was best kept toyourself.

While you and Sniper were friends, you still felt hesitant. But perhaps you and him could find common ground in this matter. “They can be...A lot.” 

Sniper hums in agreement, which dissipates your anxiety, then he looks off into the crowd, “Yeah, nah, you’re not alone—even I got to be in the mood to deal with them half the time, and I bloody work with ’em.” 

The wording strikes you as interesting. You can't help but find your thoughts wandering again as you raise your glass to your lips. 

You wonder if in his mind, you were just ‘one of the guys.’ An honorary title, one that you previously would have felt nothing more than indifference towards, now felt oddly bitter. 

And this bitterness compounded into further self-chastisement. You should be happy with what you had, not fooling yourself with daydreams of more and taking your bond for granted. 

The thought passed by your mind in such an unassuming manner that it made your jaw and shoulders tense, as if Sniper could somehow hear what was going on in your mind. 

The way he was currently looking at you, his head ever so slightly tilted in curiosity, did not ease your paranoia. 

Being observant was part of his job description, and this is the second time tonight you’ve made some sort of slip-up in front of him. 

“How long do you plan on staying?” You blurt out, hoping to give a subject to shift focus on. 

He leans back in his seat, impassive. “Whenever you’re ready to go.” 

You and Sniper didn’t stay for long. Last to show up and first to leave was a correct assessment of Sniper’s general conduct in social outings. Or, at least for outings he didn’t particularly care for. 

At first you thought he would at least make a round or two around the building to say goodbye to the others, let them know he—and by proxy you—would soon be leaving. No such thing occurred. Once you let him know you had your fill of the atmosphere of drunkards, he got up and you followed. 

It wasn’t until you were in the process of exiting the building with him that you realized he simply up and left. No farewells or anything. 

You increase your pace a little to match his longer strides, coming up next to him instead of walking behind him. “You’re not gonna say goodbye?” Your tone wasn’t judgmental, you were just curious.

“Nah.” You blink, equal parts surprised and mildly amused. 

“I don’t know why I thought you’d be…Closer?” You mutter, thoughtful.

Sniper’s eyes flick down to you for just a moment. He grunts, his mouth shifting as his mind worked. “Eh, they know me enough. Not like they’re gonna make a fuss just because I didn’t tell ‘em I was heading out.” 

‘Huh.’ Once again, you find yourself musing about how well they all knew each other—if not by willingly socializing with one another, then as a consequence of working together for so long. Despite this, you didn’t sense any overt coldness from him in regard to the others—at least from what you have personally seen.

While you didn’t know the full story, you don’t think a man who didn’t care at all about the people he worked with would drag one of them out whilst inebriated and covered in their own sick.

You get sudden a desire to grow even closer to him, and shake it off with a scolding reminder to just be grateful for your friendship as-is. 

You both enter the van and he starts it the instant your seatbelts are buckled. He drives off without any preamble, without so much as glancing at the bar growing ever smaller in the rearview mirror. 

The drive back is the same as the drive there; pleasant, music softly playing on the radio, and no pressure to make conversation. 

You unbuckle your seatbelt. “Well, I had...” ‘a good time’ wasn’t necessarily the proper description, but you didn’t have a bad time either. 

“A time,” you concede with a shrug, giving up on finding a proper descriptor for how your night went. 

Sniper laughs. An actual laugh—not just a single chuckle or scoff. You can’t help but join him, fondness for the man bubbling up in your chest. 

“We ought to do something ourselves next time,” your shared laughter had died down at this point, but you could hear the smile in his voice.

A cursory glance over to him confirms it; lop-sided, snaggletoothed and all. Your heart feels like it’s being pinched. 

“Yeah, we should.” Sniper looks over at you; maybe it was because you actually agreed to the idea, maybe it was because—like you—he heard the smile in your voice. 

Either way, the two of you have met each other’s eyes and like a gravitational pull can’t look away. 

You can’t tell what he’s thinking—not just by looking at him. But his smile is softer than before, barely there and no less charming. 

The instinct to look away out of politeness is paralyzed by something else, a blink is all it takes for the cogs in your mind to start whirring and for your consciousness to take the reins. 

You tear your eyes away from him and reach for the car door. “It was nice hanging out,” you try to sound normal but the sentence is uttered so hastily that it comes out as panicked rather than casual. 

Sniper replies about two seconds late; “Yeah, it was.” 

You’re already out the van and walking a few steps away until you hear Sniper call your name. 

You stop and look over your shoulder. He has rolled down the driver’s side window and is leaning out of it partially. 

“I meant what I said earlier,” he tells you, voice raised just enough so that you could hear him. 

“Which thing?” You holler back at him, your mind in too much of a frazzled state to be able to infer what he was talking about. 

There’s a small pause. “We should do something together, just us two.” 

You make a surprised noise in the back of your throat, “Oh! Yeah, definitely!” You eventually manage to reply. 

You can’t tell for certain from here, but Sniper seems pleased with your answer. He settles back into his seat and rolls the window back up. 

You waste no time at all hurrying inside the building, running your hands over your face once inside. 

The walk back to your quarters isn’t as eerie, on account of your mind being preoccupied with replaying almost every moment of tonight ad nauseam. You kick off your shoes the instant you shut the door behind you, and flop onto your bed with an exaggerated groan. 

You flip over on your back, staring at the ceiling, your arms splayed limply at your sides. 

You really, truly loved him.

Well, looks like this will be a little longer than expected!

I tried to wrap it all up in chapter 2, but it felt awkward and rushed, I couldn’t make it work no matter how hard I tried, so a third chapter it is! 😖

I can’t make any promises or estimates as to when the next update will be again, especially because the little I have written up next is even more sparse and unfinished than what was remaining for this chapter.

Thank you all so much for the positive response on the first chapter!! I was so pleasantly surprised, I wasn’t expecting it! It really motivated me to finish this chapter, thank you all. ;;o;; 💗

I hope you enjoyed reading! And as always I deeply appreciate any and all likes, reblogs or comments. Take care! <3

previous chapter

[thomas-woman]

Wow…I read your first sniper fic…and I loved it…I read the next one…and I loved it even more. <3

It’s literally all I’ve ever wanted to see getting written by somebody in the tf2 space.

Right messenger, right message, I’m so grateful for your writing, you’re an angel ╰(*´︶`*)╯♡ thankyou

Thank you so much!!! I started posting because I couldn't find the reader inserts I wanted to read myself, so it makes me so happy that other people relate to and enjoy what I write. <3

[thomas-woman]

His Kind of Woman

next chapter

Chapter 1: This Girl’s In Love

Team Fortress 2 - M/F - Suggestive - Sniper/Reader - 4k words

gnc female reader, alternate universe, period typical attitudes, pining, friends to lovers, insecurity, fluff

ao3 link

He’s the only person you’d consider a friend around here. You’re quite sure you aren’t his type, but that didn’t prevent your heart from aching. 

How annoying.

The reader is aesthetically GNC and is described as having short hair. (And being shorter than Sniper, of course.) The details of the AU aren’t so important that they need to be explained for the story to make sense.

The horizon line is wavelike, a testament to the high temperature. The stark blue sky with barely a cloud in sight only served a reminder of just how exposed all was to the sun.

Your armpits stick to your sides, the dusty toned lilac fabric of your shirt clinging to your skin thanks to your body’s attempt at regulating its temperature with perspiration. The duffel bag you’ve been instructed to take into base digs into your shoulder. The heels of your feet dully ache with every step you take, your calves and ankles feel tight. You’ve been walking for a while. 

Busy, you were almost always busy—there was almost always something to that needed to be done. Really, you had no idea how Miss Pauling did this all by herself before. Or, perhaps, you just weren’t cut out for this, a bitter voice inside your head suggests. You shake it off.

Mercifully, after this you would be able to retire for the day. It wouldn’t be long now. The thought of kicking off your damp clothes and flopping down onto your bed motivated you to keep going without rest. 

As you continue on, an all too familiar van eventually comes into view, parked in one of its usual locations. The vehicle feels like it’s burning a hole into the side of your face as you walk by, and you can’t help but spare a glance at it—not particularly interested in it by itself, but rather the man who resided in it. 

The marksman has been on your mind lately. You couldn’t determine if it was luck or misfortune that he just so happened to decide to park his van on your route to base today.

And your mind couldn’t help but wonder what the owner of said van was up to inside. 

You wondered how he chose to spend his day of rest. You wondered if he slept in late, or woke up bright and early. You’ve seen him only a handful of times inside the base downing a mug of coffee, black as pitch. The thought of his van scented with strong coffee passes your mind, right before the thought of waking up to such a scent. 

You ponder how his voice would sound, raspy and grumbling, upon first waking up—

Rapidly blinking to shake the thoughts out of your head, you keep going. It’s just the sound of your feet languidly hitting the dirt as the sun goes on with draining what little energy you have left. Until a new noise breaks the monotony. 

Your hand snaps to the gun holstered at your hip and your head whips to the direction of the sound. 

“G’day.” 

Misfortune, you decide. 

The truth was, you had actually been avoiding him lately. “H-hey—” your voice cracks from a dry throat, you clear it awkwardly before trying again. “Hey, Sniper,” you try to sound casual but you feel like a deer in headlights, and you felt like Sniper saw right through you. 

If he did, he gives no indication. “Back from one of your assignments?” It is at this moment you slow your feet to a stop. There was no avoiding this conversation. 

He’s leaning on the doorframe of the van, in a tank top and slacks, with simple brown loafers. The mercenaries got a day off today—except for you and Miss Pauling of course, who seemingly never got to rest. He looks like you caught him in the middle of doing just that—or rather, that paused his own rare moment of reprieve just to talk to you.

You shake the latter thought out of your head.

Sniper didn’t even do anything, no—it was entirely you. He was just as he always was, merely existing, and his mere existence was all it took for your emotions to spiral and slip out of your control. 

You liked being around him. You liked his underbite and the weird smile he had with all the teeth. And his long limbs, the veins wrapping around his hands and forearms. His hands in general. The roughness that naturally sat in his voice. How far your neck had to crane up to meet those steely blue eyes often hidden behind tinted aviators— 

At some point you realized you just liked Sniper. 

Your neutral observations became admiration. Despite appearances, you’re tenderhearted—and in hindsight, it shouldn’t have surprised you that he’s taken up much of the space in said heart as of late. But you weren’t about to let your foolish heart make a mess of the only true friendship you had here. 

“Yeah,” you reply a second off-beat. “Didn’t get a day off like you guys.”

He doesn’t answer you, instead he flicks his head down towards the duffel bag slung over your shoulder, “Looks heavy,” he murmurs, voice indifferent but his gaze anything but. 

“…Oh!” You sputter, “It only looks like it,” you brush off with a strained chuckle. A rather obvious lie, but one you throw out impulsively, if only to attempt to stave off the inevitable. 

Truthfully, the strap of the thing was pressing harshly into your shoulder with the weight of it, and that wasn’t even mentioning how your body was slightly tipped into the direction of where the bag hung, its mass threatening to pull you down with it. 

He tilts his head forward towards you, “Yeah?” His voice is low, rough.

Goosebumps manage to prickle your skin in complete defiance of the heat, your stomach twists into fluttering knots. This was why you needed space away from him—not forever, definitely not, just enough time for you to snap out of it and act like a human being around him again— 

“Let's have a look, then.” You just barely make out the utterance under his breath before he fully steps out, shutting the door of his camper behind him. 

His gait is lazy, and it only serves to give your heart-rate time to ramp up. By the time he’s in front of you, your palms are clammy. 

‘Get it together.’ 

Sniper stares down at you, eyes impassive and half-lidded yet gaze strangely intense. You feel like your feet are cemented to the ground. The sharpness of his stare mellows out with every blink until it dissipates entirely. 

You feel like you’ve been caught with your hand in a cookie jar, for some reason. 

He extends his—long, vascular—arm and bends his fingers in a ‘give it’ motion. It’s rather awkward giving it to him thanks to its weight, but you manage it. 

Sniper doesn’t seem to have any issue with its mass at all, however. That fact gives you an odd fluttering sensation in your belly that you dutifully ignore. 

His ease non withstanding, his brows pinch a little when he hoists it on his shoulder. 

Sniper shoots you an askance look, “Only looks heavy?” He parrots, tone skeptical. 

You feel your cheeks get a bit warm. “Well, y’know, I was carrying it fine—” 

“Where’s this going?” 

You blink up at him, momentarily surprised by the question. And almost immediately chastise yourself for the decision to make such direct eye-contact with him, as you feel the itching flare of heat coil around your neck and trail up your face, your heartbeat rabbit-kicks between your lungs. 

‘Get it together.’ 

“Ah, no—” you clear your throat, scrambling to find your words. “Just taking it to base, in one of the storages.” 

“Couldn’t they have just brought this in with the truck?” There were supply shipments every other week, sometimes longer—and in those times you or Miss Pauling would have to relay to the men the suggestion to be more conservative with supplies until then. 

You sigh, “I asked myself the same thing.”

“Right," he shrugs it up against his shoulder, adjusting it to rest more comfortably. The motion makes the lean muscle in his collarbone and upper arm shift and flex accordingly, his choice of top doing little to stop yourself from staring. The instant the bag settles into place you flick your sights elsewhere in momentary panic. 

“Let's get to it, then.” 

You open your mouth, then clamp it shut. 

Misfortune, indeed. 

In hindsight, perhaps you were being just a little overdramatic. 

It wasn’t like Sniper was the type of man who ever felt the need to fill silence with chatter, so the walk there was mostly uneventful. You found yourself stealing glances at him from your peripheral without even meaning to, and mentally chastising yourself each time you did so. 

At least it seemed like Sniper didn’t notice. In no small part thanks to what appeared to be something else that was on his mind. With how his jaw set and his eyes narrowed at the horizon in front of him as if in deep thought. 

Inside the base isn’t much cooler, but anything other than being in direct contact with the sunlight was preferable. You find that it is oddly quiet. 

“Everyone up and left,” Sniper explains. 

“Oh. How come you didn’t?” He had a mode of transportation, he could have spent his off day elsewhere more easily than everyone else, if he so desired. 

He looks down at you for a moment, “Didn’t have anywhere else I wanted to be.” 

The walk to the storage is just as uneventful, you had to beckon Sniper in the right direction occasionally—it was clear to you that he hasn’t spent much time inside the building, let alone this particular section of it. 

You fumble a bit with the keys after fishing them out your pocket and push the door to one of the storages open. Even after working here for almost a year, you still couldn’t make sense of the layout of the place—nor the inconsistency between doors and room sizes. 

It isn’t cramped by any means, but still rather small. There are boxes stacked up in all four corners, shelves fill the remaining space available. 

“Uh, just put it anywhere, I guess,” you tell him with a light shrug, still unsure yourself. 

Sniper plops it down on one of the shelves in the room, and as soon as he does you feel the looming feeling of awkwardness over the horizon. ‘I should get going now.’ 

“Thanks for helping me—and sorry for taking time away from your day off.”

“Eh, don’t mention it,” he replies with nonchalance and a shrug, he didn’t view doing this small favor for you as an inconvenience for him. You smile despite yourself. 

“Alright, I won’t take any more time away from you—” you begin, preparing to say your goodbyes. 

“Wait.” You stare at him, pinned in place just from his request.

Sniper says your name, “Tell me what I did wrong.” 

You blink, then blink again, shocked into silence. 

“What?” You eventually blurt out. 

He shifts on his feet, exhaling heavily. A hand is ran over his forehead in an anxious gesture. 

“Ya haven’t been around,” he mumbles, “And you’ve started leaving when I come in the room.” 

Your heart feels like its lodged in your throat, “Oh, Sniper, that isn’t—” 

“Yeah, it is,” Sniper interjects, his brows set low on his face, now. The sweat on your body isn’t just from the heat anymore, and it only adds to your discomfort.

“Just—” he starts.

“I didn’t—” you try. 

You both close your mouths, and take a breath. Sniper is still, silent, and expectant. 

You could not tell him the actual reason, you refused to jeopardize your friendship—which you held dearly. You didn’t want to overtly lie to him either, you felt like he was owed at least some honesty, especially considering it was appearing to be that your absence was felt by him. 

“I…I was in my own head. I didn’t mean to—I really like spending time with you,” you ramble, growing increasingly frustrated with yourself due to your inability to clearly convey what you felt, and offer a satisfactory explanation. 

Sniper’s weight gets shifted on his feet again, his expression fixed into that of stony neutrality. You couldn’t tell what he was thinking, but the looming question of ‘in your head about what’ was heavy enough to crush you with its mere suggestion.

Mercifully, forgivingly, Sniper asks no such thing. 

Instead, he wets his lips with a single swipe of his tongue, looking off to the side. “The feeling’s mutual,” you hear him murmur. 

For a moment there’s only the sound of your combined breathing, the silence in the air so dense that even a sound as soft as that felt loud. 

“It’s why I…” He shifts his jaw for a moment, as if considering whether or not to continue with what he was about to say. 

“I noticed it. That you were gone.” It takes longer than a second for you to process this.

He sighs, and with it goes the tension in his shoulders. He lifts up his arm and waves you to him, you step forward without thinking, just functioning off impulse. 

Sniper pulls you into a single-armed hug. Your brain didn’t know what to comprehend at first; the way he was holding you, or the fact that he just admitted that he missedyou. 

Him giving you a fond squeeze makes the cogs in your head finally start turning, and you give him a squeeze back. He releases you after this, and you have to make yourself tear away from him. 

In that short moment you felt his body heat through his top, you pressed it down against his sun-warmed skin as he held you to him. You heard his heartbeat thumping underneath, his large hand resting against your back, the low and drawn out exhale that escaped him—relief. 

When Sniper looks down at you, anticipation builds in your chest. “C’mon, I'll take you back.” 

You spend the rest of the day wondering what he was going to say.

A week later, you’re no less plagued by your ever growing affection for the man. 

While you were incredibly relieved that the previous matter was resolved, the issue of your emotions was still at large. 

It wasn’t even an argument, just a misunderstanding, but something about it made it linger in your mind. After ruminating on it long enough, you concluded the reason for its prolonged presence in your thoughts was due to the simple fact that Sniper would not have had that conversation with you to begin with, had he not felt some kind of bond with you. 

A close bond between friends, nothing more.

You stopped yourself from entertaining any further musing than that as you were quite sure you weren’t his type—if any man’s type, for that matter. 

Despite social pressure and ridicule, you weren’t about to scrub yourself of the things that made you yourself. Not to mention that it would be counterproductive to do so in hopes of finding love—as whoever you entered a relationship with would be loving a façade. It would be an incredibly poor foundation to build any lasting relationship on. 

Regardless, you found yourself pondering what kind of woman he would like. In your half-hearted musings none of the imaginary women you came up with resembled yourself. 

The sky is a dark blue with red beginning to bleed over the horizon, the sun would be shining eventually.

You found yourself at the base again, marking another chore off of today’s to-do list—double-checking that the supply shipment was correct. That was even earlier that day, and you just now finished. You’ve been awake for some time. You swallow a yawn and decide to help yourself to a cup of coffee before more residents of the base begin waking up.

You didn’t feel too strongly about the other mercenaries—aside from Sniper, of course. You felt neutral around some and off-put by others. Preferring to keep to yourself was something you had in common with Sniper, though yours was borne more out of timidity than a general preference for solitude. 

When you turn the corner to enter the kitchen, a silhouette is already darkening one of the tables. You instinctively steel yourself to trade pleasantries then get in and out as soon as possible—a shame, you were hoping to be able to enjoy coffee and the sunrise by yourself for a little while. 

Then you realize who it is.

“Mornin’,” is all Sniper says to you, not even looking up from whatever magazine he was skimming through. You blink, your reply delayed due to surprise. You think you make out some nature photography on the pages he’s lazily flicking through.

In that case, you didn’t mind having company.

The sound of him turning the page is incredibly loud in the quiet of the earliest hours of morning, and only then do you manage to give him a sheepish ‘good morning’  in reply. 

You've seen him in passing since the moment you had in the storage room, but haven't been able to have an actual conversation with him since. Not out of avoidance, it was just that neither of your schedules lined up.

His slouch hat is lying on the table to the right of him, a steaming mug of coffee in the hand he isn’t turning pages with. His aviators hooked on the collar of his shirt, and the drowsy narrowness of his eyes suggest that he needed the caffeine. 

You try not to think on how simple this all was, because if you allowed your thoughts to remain there for too long it was easy for the coldness of the base to melt into something warmer, like a home. 

You turn and swallow thickly to rid yourself of the lump in your throat. The room remains peaceful silence as you turn on the kettle and fix yourself a mug, Sniper's presence never fully escaping your attention. Once you’re done you make your way over to the table he was seated at, hoping that you didn’t look overtly shy while doing so. 

You sit across from him. He doesn’t look up from what he’s reading. You feel relieved.

It was nice being around someone that didn’t expect constant conversation from you. That wasn’t to say you didn’t enjoy a good conversation or small-talk, but occasionally you didn’t have much to say or just wanted to enjoy a moment in quietness. 

You don’t fight the heartrendingly sweet thoughts from coalescing this time. In the gentle silence shared between the two of you, punctuated only by the bare necessities—the sound of liquid being drank, paper moving against paper. 

Your heart ached, but it was aching before, too. It ached a little less after you indulged yourself in such a daydream.

It’s been so long since a word had been spoken that when he does, you nearly flinch, lost in thought as you were.

“Getting a bit long there,” you make a questioning noise in your cup, still in the midst of drinking. “Your hair,” he clarifies with a nod in your direction. 

Your eyes widen momentarily, you’re surprised he even noticed—let alone mentioned it. You unconsciously reach up to touch it.

“It is.”

Sniper hums in acknowledgement, a low, rumbling noise. You both return to drinking your respective beverages in peaceful silence. 

Until Sniper speaks again only a few seconds later. “Growing it out, or just don’t have the time?” 

“The time,” you’d be able to do that once you left the compound, but that wouldn’t be until the dead of night—assuming you weren’t overly exhausted and decided to actually cut your hair instead of tossing yourself onto your bed to sleep like the dead. 

Sniper holds the page he was in the middle of turning, his thumb brushing over it as his brows lowered in thought. His mind is seemingly made up when he sets the nature magazine aside. “There’s some things I left behind in me room on base.” 

“Y’could cut your hair here,” he offers. “If ya want,” he then adds on in a quiet mumble. 

You didn’t think about it until now, but Sniper would have quarters just as the other mercenaries did, but the fact he never used them and elected to stay in his van made you forget. 

You tilt your head at him, pleasantly surprised. “Really?” 

“‘Course,” like it was the simplest thing in the world. “Not like I'm using ‘em.” 

You didn’t even know where exactly his quarters were, and that only proved just how scarce Sniper made himself on base. 

“Where...?” 

“Eh. It'll be easier to show ya.” He could have just gave you directions, you think you both know that. 

You find yourself staring at Sniper’s back while he leads you. 

You both drank your coffee in tranquil quiet, and once you both were done he stood up with only a single nod to beckon you to follow. 

Sniper never made any comment about your choice of style, now that you thought of it. Neither your preference for pants over skirts, nor your hair that was unusually short for a woman—a fact that other people seemingly felt the need to go out of their way to remind you. 

It was safe to assume he didn’t have a negative opinion on the latter, at least. Considering he noticed it was getting longer and offered an opportunity for you to trim it back down instead of subtly nudging you to grow it out further. 

You nearly run into him when he stops abruptly, and only then do you realize that you’ve made it to your destination. He thrusts open the door unceremoniously, and you trail in behind him. 

The room is almost completely bare, a few small things here and there gave the faintest impression of who the room belonged to, but only if you were actively looking for them. 

A stack of books about the wildlife surrounding the area, for example. 

There’s a nightstand by the bed, and a small circular mirror on it. “Everything you need is in there,” he gestures to it flippantly. 

You nod. Your eyes briefly scan the room for something to sit on and find a chair in one of the corners. Before you even take two steps in that direction Sniper is marching towards it and lifting it up to place it in front of the nightstand for you. 

“Thanks,” you tell him, trying to temper the bashfulness in your voice. 

He simply grunts in reply, like it wasn't an issue for him. It pretty much never was an issue for him when it came to helping you, whether big or small, you slowly realize. 

Sniper hovers around the chair for a moment, his brows set low. 

“I...” His voice trails off, his arms hang limply at his sides, fingers flex in a fidget. His mouth settles in a thin line, and you can tell that without some gentle nudging whatever it was that he was going to say would remain a mystery. 

“Mhm?” 

Sniper looks off to the side, away from you. He almost looks embarrassed. “I was gonna ask if...You wanted me to trim it for ya.” 

Then his jaw goes rigid, his eyes narrowing seemingly at himself. “Not like you need me to or anything, forget it—” 

Your heart pounds. “I would appreciate that, actually.” 

His head whips to you, a look of genuine surprise flashing across his face before being steeled into a more neutral expression almost immediately after. There’s something that lingers in his eye, but you can’t discern it. 

He steps a bit to the side and pats the back of the chair, “C’mon, then.”

Sniper has always been taller than you. He’s taller than a fair number of people. But right now with you sitting and he standing, you are consciously aware of it; your stomach feels like it’s fluttering. 

The simplicity was what made your heart ache. It was effortless to imagine this as a normal occurrence, an unnoteworthy routine in lives that have been intertwined.

The butterflies in your stomach almost feel like nausea. It’s the sweetest wave of nausea you’ve ever felt. 

You keep your gaze slanted down, the mere thought of making eye contact with him through the mirror was enough to pin your eyes in place. His hands were distant yet so close. The hairs on the back of your neck stood at attention, the room was too hot to use chill as an excuse. 

Fortunately, Sniper was too focused on his task to pay any mind to your sudden timidity, nor your hands fiddling in your lap, or the way you avoided meeting his gaze even on accident.

In the moment it took too long, by the time it was over it ended too soon. 

He’s still behind the chair when you lean forward to turn your head this way and that to observe his handiwork. You’ve always cut your hair yourself, so this was a rather novel experience for you in of itself.

“What’s the verdict?” 

“Good,” you give him a beaming smile in the mirror. 

“It’s a bit uneven here,” his fingers brush up the nape of your neck, and you nearly shiver. 

Your voice is bordering on tight; “That’s fine, it isn’t perfect when I do it, either.” 

He hums, and simply hand rests there, his thumb tracing the wisps of hair so soft and slow that the contact barely registered in your brain. The second you think he’ll move it, he doesn’t. 

The moment feels more fragile than glass, yet just as cherished as porcelain. You feel like you can barely breathe, lest whatever just came over the room between you two dissipates and you are thrust back into the real world. 

The fact neither of you move says something, you think. But reasonable doubt smothers the thought. Too sentimental, too romantic of an idea. 

You hear Sniper exhale a quiet breath, then he suddenly runs his hand up to your scalp and messes with your hair. “Hey!” A laugh is shocked out of you, and you playfully bat his hands away. 

Just like that, whatever that was vanishes as quickly as it came. 

He chuckles, the sound warm and rich. “I reckon we have work to get to.” You hear his footsteps back away from the chair, allowing you the space to get up. 

“It was nice forgetting about that for a few minutes,” you sigh, rubbing the back of your neck idly. You almost felt the phantom of his touch—

“Likewise,” and with that, Sniper is out the door. 

You find yourself standing behind for a moment, a part of you still ruminating on what just happened—if anything. If you were just making a mountain out of a molehill. 

But it wasn’t like you had all day to just sit around in your thoughts. You sigh exasperatedly, and head out the room yourself.

I apologize in advance if this is overly vague in some parts and rough around the edges in others, I just wanted to write something quickly without having to do a whole lot of thinking. ;;__;; 

This kind of is a hyper-abbreviated version of an idea I had sitting in my mind for quite some time, but I just didn’t feel up to making anything long and/or detailed. But at the same time it was just sitting unfinished and I wanted to share the part I did complete. So this is might end up being more like a collection of moments with a loose thread holding it all together than one tight and cohesive narrative.

I’m not sure where exactly this is going, it’s not going to be long. Maybe one day I’ll come back to this idea and write something with more length, but I really just don’t have it in me at the moment… ;;

I purposefully kept the hair cutting vague to include various different hair textures. 

I kind of didn’t know where else to go with this at a certain point, so I split it into 2 chapters it and tried to push through it anyway and finish this part. I think you can tell, it’s kind of disjointed. Maybe my attempt can still be appreciated by a few others regardless. (Sniper still deserves more reader inserts… U__U)

I don’t know when I’ll next update this since like I mentioned, I’m a bit stumped. (I have a few scenes planned out and whatnot but they’re still very rough and unfinished…)

…Well, despite all of that, I hope someone found this enjoyable to read. 😖 ‘Til next time!

next chapter

[thomas-woman]

hii just wanted to send an ask showing my appreciation for your reader inserts. It's so rare seeing GNC female readers especially het GNC female readers.

I just felt very seen by what you've written and I come back and reread them every so often so I just wanted to let you know how much I love your fics. I'm looking forward to whatever else you write. <3

It fills me with so much joy to receive messages like this, you have no idea. ;;__;; ❤️

This is exactly why I made this account and started sharing my writing, It was difficult for me to find anything I strongly related to so I decided to write and post it myself!

It makes me so happy that other women like me can read it and see themselves in what I wrote. Tysm 🥺💗💗💗💗

[thomas-woman]

i know you're worried about characterization so i just wanted to let you know that i LOVED the way you characterized medic in your fic.

its so refreshing to see a take on him that isn't ooc darkfic bullshit. like come on people, how he acts with his coworkers / on the battlefield is not a 1:1 mirror to how he would behave in a relationship and i'm just happy to find an author who understands that.

Aa thank you so much!!! 🥺❤️

And I empathize with you, too...I feel pretty much the same way.

[thomas-woman]

The Clothes Make the Woman

Team Fortress 2 - M/F - Explicit - Medic/Reader - 4k words

gnc female reader, gender abolitionist themes, period typical attitudes, alternate universe (canon divergence), established relationship, fluff, lingerie, implied/referenced impregnation fantasy, possessive sex, body image and insecurity, intimacy

ao3 link

Frilly, dainty, feminine; it just wasn’t your style. Had he not requested it, you’re quite sure you would have went your entire life without ever trying it on. You were even more sure of how out of place you looked in it.

Yet there he was gazing at you like you were a work of art.

This uses his canon name, I actually don’t mind his name at all but some people seem to have strong feelings about it.

Very self-indulgent and this time, rather niche, too, I think.

“Oho, you are a sight, my dear.” 

You are sat on the foot of the bed, your hands on your lap, legs neatly together. Your back is ramrod straight. A white, dainty ensemble is barely covering your body; lingerie. A request from him which both fascinated and intrigued you. 

The request stemmed from a conversation a few nights prior. One thing led to another, and your beloved eccentric doctor admitted to you that he would be more than interested and doubly pleased if he could see you in such a garment. And you agreed that you would be willing to try such a thing on, if only out of curiosity. 

Not even a few days later did he come to you asking for…Specifications. Which colors you would prefer, any preferences for details or materials, and of course exactly what size underwear you wore. You answered rather noncommittally to all of his questions, not having much preference for something you’ve never worn before. 

It was another day or two after the lingerie was obtained before the two of you ended up here, with you finally wearing it. Herbert even insisted that he dress you in it, you obliged, and judging by the growing redness to Herbert’s cheeks and the intense focus behind his eyes, he rather enjoyed the act. 

In your opinion, the set was rather elaborate—but then again, you don’t have a lingerie frame of reference to be confident in that conclusion. 

Firstly, the underwear was crotchless, initially you had thought it was an unfortunate tear that occurred somehow but no—upon closer inspection it was clearly made to be that way. And just looking at it made your neck prickle with heat. Lace rimmed the pelvic area, framing your vulva once you put it on, and small, dainty frills decorated the hips of it. 

There was a matching pair of thigh-high stockings, mostly opaque yet sheer enough for whispers of your skin to still be visible underneath the material. You actually admired the lace detailing on those—if one didn’t know any better, a woman could wear these in an actual outfit.

The bra was more what you were expecting, however—small and leaving little to the imagination, plentiful amounts of lace. 

You felt a bit silly—the hair between your legs poked out of the thin material in a manner that only emphasized its presence, and that was to say nothing of how different you looked to, for example, the women in advertisements for these said clothing items.

Herbert brushing his hand over your collarbone snaps you out of your thoughts. One of his thick fingers hooks under the strap of the bra, touch light. He is admiring you, you realize. You don’t know whether to shrink or bask under his attention. “Schön,” he mutters under his breath, his voice just barely audible. 

His touch is reverent.

“It is good we won’t have to remove any of this, hm?” He grins at you, and when he sees the furrow in your brow his smile falls.

“Unless your mind has changed, of course.” 

“No, no, it’s not that,” you hurriedly reassure him. “It’s just…Well, I suppose I don’t get it,” at this, Herbert cocks his head. 

You shift a bit from where you are sat, a nervous fidget. The strap of your intricately laced brassiere slides down your shoulder in the process and you fumble to pull it back in place. 

“I thought being naked would be the most attractive thing,” it was you in your barest and vulnerable state, after all. You concluded that nudity would reasonably be the most alluring, considering the intimacy.

He hums at this, an inquisitive noise that took on a higher pitch, and subtle crease forms between his brows, a physical manifestation of his mind working. 

You wait, anticipating. Though you do not have to for long—he only needed a few seconds to gather his thoughts. 

“It is like fashion, yes?” He begins, slowly to ensure you could grasp the concept before continuing on, which was something you appreciated. 

“It is a manner of...Expression, ‘clothes make the man’ or rather, woman in this case—as the saying goes.” You mull over his words, examining his explanation as though it were a 4 dimensional shape; perplexed. 

When Herbert observes that your confusion had yet to be resolved, the crease deepens on his forehead. His eyes flick away from you, off somewhere else, before they return. 

Then, after a pause which indicated some manner of bashfulness; “There is something...Intimate about it.” 

“Seeing you like this, just for me, in something so…” His words trail off, uncharacteristic of him, only emphasizing his sheepishness. 

Taking both of his explanations in mind, the beginnings of understanding burgeon. Though, there still was a lingering insecurity in the back of your mind.

“Do you…Prefer me this way?” You hesitate to even ask, fearful of the answer. Your voice is small. 

“In this?” He points to the lacy ensemble you were wearing with only a flick of his eyes.

“No—I mean, yes, kind of,” you sputter. “More…Ladylike, I mean.” Ladylike, womanly, feminine.

“Nein. I love you as you are,” Herbert replies, simple, as easy as anything. The matter must have been settled in his mind—or perhaps he just can’t resist anymore—because he closes the distance and is now looming over your body, broad palms urge you to scoot back on the bed to make space for him. 

Affection and excitement bubbles in your chest, but you manage to temper the latter—you still had thoughts that needed to be expressed.

You weren’t oblivious to social and cultural norms. Herbert could have gotten with anyone, really. Speaking purely on aesthetics and barring his eccentricities as a contributing factor, of course. He was handsome, so much so that when he first expressed his romantic interest in you, you were certain he was playing some kind of cruel joke. He was not.

You could sometimes see it on people’s faces, the surprise when it became obvious one way or another that the two of you were in a relationship. When you entered adulthood those looks stopped bothering you, and you thought it was for good, too—then it was like all of the time and effort spend steeling yourself against ridicule crumbled. Turns out it was different when it was someone else who was alsobeing judged by proxy, too. 

Herbert couldn’t care less, he never brought it up and seemed completely unperturbed by it. You knewhe desired you in every way and found you attractive—his own personal Aphrodite, even—but you were still only just a human being, who had insecurities like everyone else. It weighed on you, occasionally.

“Really?” You blurt out suddenly, genuine surprise overcomes your features. “Everyone says I just look…Uh, boyish.” 

‘You should really grow your hair out.’ ‘How do you leave the house like that? It only takes a few minutes to shave your legs and underarms.’ ‘Makeup is like taking care of yourself, what are you saying to people when you don’t wear any?’

He stills, hovering over you. This, finally, gets a reaction other than blunt honesty out of Herbert; he cackles. 

“What?” He raises a brow, incredulous, his mouth quirked into a smirk—though not at your expense. It was simply that the very concept of you being anything other than feminine was humorous to him. 

“You are simply…Mm, what is the word? Thomas...?” 

“Tomboy,” you correct. 

“Ah, yes, danke, my dear. You are simply a tomboy, your sex is quite obvious.” 

Make no mistake, you were happy being yourself, you didn’t want to be ‘ladylike’—You just couldn’t see what he was seeing. “Yes, a boyish woman.”

Herbert looks just as surprised as you, now. “You look quite...” He pauses momentarily, mentally searching for the word, “—womanish to me,” womanly, you think he meant to say, you understand him regardless, and his attempt makes your lip quirk up for just a moment. 

You wonder, briefly, if all this time your perception of yourself had become distorted solely from the one million little different ways you were told since childhood that your mere, natural, unaltered existence was obscene. 

“Boyish,” he hisses out with a scoff, “Not that it is a bad thing, just that it is incorrect. The people saying such things about you are idiots.”

“A lot of people must be idiots, then...” You mumble impulsively. The protective heat in his cool eyes makes you realize you said it aloud. 

“That is exactly right, my dear,” he replies, voice firm. Herbert mumbles something in his native tongue—assumedly an insult to those who had said such things about you—with a roll of his eyes. He then leans down to press an affectionate kiss against your forehead. The atmosphere of the room becomes lighter with the kiss. Then it becomes warmer as said kisses traveled down to your nose, your cheek, then your mouth… 

Then, against your lips, “You are all I want,” the possessive lilt in his tone sends an electric frisson up your spine. 

He’s telling the truth. You know he is, and if there was any remaining doubt, the pure, unadulterated hunger for you in his gaze was more than enough to squash it. 

Herbert pulls away, and you chase his lips purely on reflex. He chuckles at your eagerness, the sound low and rumbling, and your face floods with warmth again. He gets up from the bed, and for a moment you are confused until you see him briskly go over to the nightstand. 

“Oh, I thought, since—” you sputter, face growing increasingly ablaze. You’ve been taking those pills he suggested to you. 

“Ah, yes, but as I explained earlier, they are not a guarantee—” 

“I know,” you blurt out. Herbert raises an inquisitive brow at you. Of course he remembered that you enjoyed the fantasy—and reality, including all that entailed—of him finishing inside of you, it was the same night he requested you to wear lingerie that you admitted it. Your mouth thins out into a taut line, self-conscious. 

Fortunately, your expression alone was enough to communicate that you did not want to have this discussion right now, and, mercifully, Herbert lets it go. Well, partially. “In that case, we have nothing to fret over.”

Your mind doesn’t get the chance to fully process what he said. He is quick to return to the bed, unbuttoning his slacks as he does so. Just the motion and sound of them coming undone is enough to make an ache present between your legs—a pavlovian response. 

He’s over you in a blink, his nose nudging against your neck, his mouth gliding up your throat and making you shiver, “Words are just exactly that, hmm?” He suckles on your throat, forcing a gasp out of you. “Let me show you how much I want you, liebling.” 

Herbert thinks you’re beautiful. Here, there, everywhere—just a beautiful human. Who just so happened to be dressed in silk, spread out on the bed you shared.

Of course he thinks you’re beautiful—how could he not? In the light of the morning sipping coffee; in the golden afternoon as you’re busying yourself with one of your little joys to settle down. In the sparkle of nightfall, when all is still and your body is as relaxed as it can be, slumbering.

You were bare where it mattered and that partial nudity only served to draw attention to itself, he mentally pats himself on the back for getting the crotchless ones. He could feel his pants filling out ever since he began dressing you in it, and now his cock was aching and leaking precum in the tight space of his slacks. The low light of the moon illuminated the planes and divots in your skin. You’re beautiful here, too—in the midnight hours, completely his.

Your chest rising and falling with shaky breaths, pebbled nipples poking out through delicate material, and the dewy sheen of wetness that he can see on the plentiful amount hair that shrouds your cunt, smatters your inner thighs.

You are the most beautiful, of that he is certain of. It was impossible for a man such as Herbert to notadore a woman he loved so, and how lucky he was, to exist at the same time as she. He open your legs farther, smiling down at you as he leans above you, his needy cock reminding him of its presence as it twitches for attention. He would bury himself in you soon enough, but for know, he situates himself in front of you, between your legs.

“You’re perfect, meine liebe.” 

The only reply you can manage is a warbled string of syllables that sound like his name—melting into a breathless moan, needy and high pitched. Herbert huffs out a laugh, deep and rich. His shirt was already removed courtesy of you, and you could see his furred chest rise and fall with his chuckle. Your trembling hands are clutching at his bicep, your fingers unable to encircle it completely. 

He shifts his arm and your jaw goes slack, the tendons in your neck stretching as your head tilts to bury in the pillow much as possible whilst your entire body jolts. The muscles in your thighs tense as he continues his ministrations. 

“Yes, that’s it,” he hisses out in a rasp as he leans over you, his voice rumbling in your ear. You whine when his hand quickens its pace. Your eyes squeeze shut and your face pinches with pleasure. Herbert finds that he can’t look away. 

His other hand clamps down on your hip while he moves to trace your throat with his mouth. Your voice is tight, panting between moans, out of breath as if you’ve been running for miles. 

“Love—” you pant out, unsure of what you were even asking of him. 

You feel his smile against your neck, and moves his hand again in a particularly deep motion, and you wail in response, your fingers curling hard into his muscular arm. He knew you were close, he could feel it in the desperate, taut pulsing around his finger. 

He slides a second finger next to the first, pushing past the rim of your cunt, stretching you. A mewl is punched out of you as he continues thrusting as he had before, the sound of his efforts audible thanks to your arousal slicking his digits. 

“Meine fraü," his adoring tone contrasted starkly with what he was doing—and the faintest hint of strain in his voice belied his own arousal, the effort it took to remain composed. 

“Those are lovely sounds you are making for me,” his honeyed voice groans into your neck, praise pouring out of his mouth effortlessly. 

“Louder, schatz. Yell for me, my sweet woman,” The barely maintained composure in his voice made your legs quake. 

A large thumb suddenly presses down on your clit and you shake, a sound similar to a sob slipping out your lips, you let yourself be swept up in the stimulation as Herbert coaxes an orgasm out of you, the muscles in your abdomen and thighs were spent, your head light and your limbs feeling gelatinous. 

He maintains the motion for a few moments longer to milk every bolt of pleasure out of you before your orgasm tapered off and faded away. Herbert smiles at you when he finally removes his hands from between your legs. 

You were too stimulated at the moment to even feel embarrassed about the sounds you were making. 

Your slick is smeared between your thighs, and it is if no surprise that some got on the panties, as well. It is then you notice how Herbert was also staring at that same very thing, except with a throbbing tent in his partially undone slacks and a focused intensity that made you clench around nothing. He makes quick work of his pants, kicking them and his underwear off in haphazard haste.

He had the look of a man intending to devour.

Herbert was always a rather passionate lover, but tonight he was especially fervent. The way his body blanketed yours, practically mounting you. His face nestled into your neck, every breath, groan and word spoken thrumming against your pulse. Those broad arms of his holding you close—like you were something to cherish. 

Your head is tilted to the side and into the pillow, exposing the other half of your throat to him; half due to all-encompassing sensitivity, half to muffle your warbled voice. 

You are breathless as you give yourself to him wholly; under his weight, pressed down into the mattress as if you were to melt into it. Possessive. And as embarrassed as you were to admit it to yourself, you were more than happy to be his to claim. 

You can do nothing more than accept, and you do so with great enthusiasm. 

“Schönste fraü,” he mumbles lowly, just loud enough for you to hear it. Your cunt clamps down around his leaking dick and he groans above you, raw and desperate. He pushes his hips into yours, excitedly pumping his cock into your cunt. A soft sounding grunt is punched out of you when he ruts into you particularly hard. The soft slap of skin meeting skin is audible. 

“Say it—Say it, schatz,” he hisses while nestling his head against yours. The soft authority in his tone—gentle yet firm—made your limbs feel like jelly. You know what he wants you to say. He has prompted you to say it many times before. 

“I-I’m yours—” You mewl. And much later, in the morning, you will think back on said sound with embarrassment, but right now your cunt is swollen with arousal, slick and wet as he pounds into you with zeal. He’s already made you come once from his fingers, and as he usually did—he was going to make you finish for him an additional time. From the second he crawled on the bed, he’s been on you like a man possessed. 

It wasn’t just mindless lust, the depth of affection he had for you was plain in every murmur of love and devotion against your throat, his nude form slotting into yours as if he was made to. The conversation from earlier has affected him, you think—if the protective manner his body was blanketing yours was any indication. 

It made your heart ache with warmth. 

Hearing you whine out his name between muffled moans into the pillow seems to drive him wild, pressing you down into the mattress with his weight now fully on your smaller body as his cock hits spots so deep inside your toes curl and your back attempts to arch on reflex. A futile effort, considering his solid mass on top of you prevented most movement. 

“I can tell, you want to be filled,” He murmured into your ear, his lips brushing against your lobe making you shiver. The fact that he was so boldly engaging in your fantasy made your heart rabbit-kick between your legs, excitement flooding your system.

“You’re so desperate for me to come inside you,” Herbert delighted in how your arousal and desire for him was so blatantly displayed; your hands clutching at his back, your legs wrapped tight around his hips, your cunt throbbing so intensely that it might as well had been milking him. 

You were already very sensitive, and so this was all you needed. Your orgasm simply comes. You whine out his name repeatedly, voice airy and breathless, devolving into hiccups and warbled cries. You cling desperately onto him for stability as you get swept up in the wave of pleasure, your legs squeeze taut around his waist, your ankles trembling from where they were crossed. Herbert pants as his breakneck pace begins to falter. 

“Gottverdammt—” 

A hushed cuss is torn out of his throat, sputtering praises and declarations of affection to you. His rambling devolves into a low moan as he slams his hips down into yours one final time. His is voice broken and breathy as he finds his release deep into your waiting cunt. It floods you with warmth, and his hips twitch and jump with each hot rope pumped into you. 

Then all is still, the only movement being that of the subtle rise and fall of your bodies thanks to your labored breathing. He shifts his head up to kiss behind your ear, murmuring your name tender and soft; like he was saying ‘I love you.’ 

You don’t want him to move right away, and you let him know this by still clinging onto him. He remains, allowing his member to go soft inside of you. However, eventually the very garments Herbert requested you to wear agitated you enough as to impede your enjoyment of the standard cuddling that followed after physical intimacy. 

You slide your arms off his back, and on cue he lazily pushes himself up. Herbert bites off a groan as he slowly eases himself out, his cock near dripping with his spend and your slick.

Herbert was quick to undress you. So quick that he was still recovering from his own orgasm, his face and neck flushed red, his broad chest rising and falling with the breaths he took to steady himself, his eyes half-lidded from the aftershocks of sensitivity. You feel warmth bloom in your chest. 

First was the thigh-highs you wore, the band of which left imprints of the delicate pattern on them upon your skin. Then his hands are just a distant sensation to you in the afterglow-laden subconscious of your mind. He undoes things here, another there, before you know it you are completely bare. 

While the garment was intricately crafted, beautiful—all of those things, it wasn’t the most comfortable. You felt relaxed when it all was off. 

Warm, familiar callouses cup your face. You blink open your eyes and see Herbert staring down at you, observant, expression soft. He strokes a thumb across your cheek. Your lips curl up in a gentle smile, and he returns it. He closes the distance, his lips moving languidly against yours in a lazy yet no less tender kiss. 

You may not be able to see the beauty he sees in you for yourself, but you feel loved, and that was more important to you. 

It’s a familiar routine afterwards; you don’t bother attempting to get up as you knew well enough at this point that Herbert would merely fuss over you and insist you let him take care of you. You are both wiped off and intertwined under the blankets before you know it.

After a moment once you both get settled, you hear Herbert softly call out your name, his voice quiet enough that if you had fallen asleep you wouldn’t have heard it. You make a quiet mumbling noise of acknowledgement. It takes another beat for Herbert to speak. 

“Earlier, you said that others seeing you as...Boyish was common,” he ventures, his tone careful. That wasn’t the subject you were expecting. You didn’t mind talking about it, the hesitation he had was evidence of care for you, and it made you nestle into him closer out of fondness.

“Yeah, it happens all the time,” you make an effort to keep your tone nonchalant as to signal that the topic wasn’t something you were uncomfortable with discussing. 

You weigh whether or not you should admit more, be vulnerable—the promise you made to one another long ago to do exactly that makes the decision easy. Your voice is quieter; “I think people want me to do certain things, and earlier I thought you did for a second, too.” 

“Things like what, meine liebe?” He immediately questions. You can feel the weight of his eyes on you, and something in your heart swells at the fact that you were perhaps the only person whose opinion of him he valued. 

“Oh you know,” you wave your hand in dismissal, attempting to downplay how much this all mattered to you. “Woman stuff, I guess,” you mumble, your lips curling into a frown. 

Immediately, Herbert huffs indignantly above you. “Ach, some give too much credit to sex organs.” You look up at him curiously from where you laid on his chest. 

“‘Woman stuff,’” repeating the phrase makes his nose wrinkle in distaste, and hearing him repeat something so inelegant forces a small smile to form on your lips. 

“Bah, they’re just organs, your sex is your sex, nothing more. It is not the clothes you wear or the things you like to do, it is not a feeling or your thoughts—it simply is.” 

Believe it or not, It was your first time ever hearing someone verbally express that belief. In hindsight, perhaps you should have assumed that a man like Herbert would hold some rather unorthodox beliefs himself, all things considered. 

You mull it over, and it slots into place easily; a square fitting into a square-shaped hole, effortless and simple. 

You nod, “Yeah,” you answer, agreeing. You answer like the small child who just wanted to play outside but couldn’t because her pretty dress would get dirty hadn’t just been acknowledged by someone other than herself for the first time in years. 

The room settles back into a comfortable silence, especially serene now that the topic had been settled. You shifted back into your comfortable position on his chest, your eyes had long since slipped shut, relaxation taking over you. 

After a minute or so, you murmur to him. “Herbert, I love you a lot.” 

His arm gives you an affectionate squeeze, it is firm and warm, like a weighted blanket. “Ich liebe dich mehr,” he instantly replies, and kisses the top of your head. You snort, rolling over so that your arms could better wrap around him in kind. Your heart feels full.

It’s easy to sleep after that, tucked under the covers with the form of the man you loved so close. 

Before you both drift off, the two of you muse just how fortunate you were to ever meet one another.

I suddenly got struck with inspiration and hastily wrote this in just a few sittings! @__@ 

My only language is english and one of my worst fears is messing up another language in my writing and have native speakers of that language have their souls leave their body due to secondhand embarrassment. I really hope I did alright here, if not I am so so sorry in advance... ;;o;; 

A lot of thoughts and themes here, but I feel like the story speaks for itself for the most part. I basically can’t find any GNC female readers (they almost always include reader putting on makeup, wearing heels, shaving body hair…) and, like a lot of my reader inserts, this stemmed from me wanting to create something people like myself could relate to. 

Also, conventionally attractive man x conventionally unattractive woman romances…Doesn’t exist, it seems like. And the few that’s out there almost always makes sure to add a “make-over” scene or something for the female character to “fix” her… 

Maybe 4 or 5 other people will read this and see a little bit of themselves, and that is more than enough to make me happy!

As for Medic…I actually am rather torn on how to write him. ;;__;; I knew I wanted to try this scenario with Medic specifically, so I did my very best, but I’m not sure if the characterization good, I’m not as confident with writing him as I am with Sniper.

Speaking of, I do like Medic!! My crush for him isn’t as intense as it is for Sniper, but I like him! (Clearly, since I wrote a whole reader insert with him, haha…) 

And on that note, I still have multiple Sniper reader inserts I’m working on! They all just took longer to finish than this one. 

Thank you for reading, I understand this is rather different to most reader inserts but I hope it was enjoyable enough regardless. ‘Til next time!

[thomas-woman]

It was so refreshing seeing a writer who actually understands Sniper. The fic was so beautiful, they were so sweet... Loved the was you wrote everything!!

Ah thank you!!! ;;o;; ❤️❤️

I think a lot about him and his characterization, he's my favorite TF2 character so he's on my mind fairly often..(I can be picky about how he's portrayed, too >__>)

Seeing this in my inbox brought a smile to my face ;; 🫶❤️

[thomas-woman]

on anon cus im shy but holy shit your sniper x reader is SOO GOOD like seriously it gave me butterflies. I had to get up and pace around my room while reading it's so hot and soo sweet like the INTIMACY??? pls pls keep writing more sniper fics we need more of them where he's a sweet boyfriend 🙏

!!!

Thank you so much!! ;;o;; 💗

Intimacy is very important to me in romance, I always love reading about it. (I'm a pretty big sap haha...)

I have more Sniper reader inserts planned! Hopefully I can finish them soon! <3

[thomas-woman]

Want

Team Fortress 2 - M/F - Explicit - Sniper/Reader - 9k words

loss of virginity, romantic and sexual inexperience, established relationship, fluff, intimacy

ao3 link

You wanted this, but you really didn’t know how it even went in practice. 

Luckily, you happened to be in a relationship with a man who had a near bottomless amount of patience and understanding for you.

This is extremely self indulgent... 😵‍💫

You had no prior frame of reference for something like this.

Fortunately, the man you were in love with—the first man you’ve ever been in a relationship with—didn’t care about your lack of experience at all. He didn’t love you in spite of it, or because of it. It was a complete non-issue for him.

You of course had an idea of how things went; the woman—that’s you—lays down and the man—that’s Mick—settles atop her and goes inside her. Simple. Until you reached adulthood and realized it wasn’t quite that simple, and then got more confused when you tried to understand. 

Sometimes the way it was described to you—whether it be from books, other people, or movies—sounded more like an elaborate stage play; saying the ‘right’ words and doing the ‘right’ things (having the ‘right’ body and making the ‘right’ sounds—) to get the desired result, hollow and devoid of any meaning deeper than that. And that put you off of the entire concept for many years, until you got older and learnt more. 

You would be lying if you said certain aspects of it didn’t squick you out, too. It wasn’t until you actually got used to receiving physical affection that went beyond cuddling, holding hands and hugging that you discovered that more physically involved intimacy might not be that gross, considering how much you liked Mick kissing you. And at some point your thoughts wandered towards the idea of Mick kissing you on other places, like your neck or shoulders, then your sternum. Your chest. 

You thought of his hands a lot, too. You already were familiar with what they felt like, sure—but you didn’t know how they would feel on other places. It was this growing curiosity welling up within you that led to what could be considered the catalyst for explicitly craving him sexually speaking.

It was during a rather heated bout of kissing in his van. Stars littered the night sky, and the moon was the only light provided. You had made out with each other before, but it was only one other time. This was different, because Mick was getting more handsy, and you were eager for his touch.

Eventually his hand reached under your shirt, and then you were finally snapped out of your reverie. Not only did you have no experience, you realized despite your excitement and curiosity, you weren’t ready to go there at that very moment. It was only a blink that you went still, but that was more than enough for Mick. He pulled his hand away the instant you froze up—ever perceptive of your body language—and it was then you explained yourself. 

You recall how your face itched with the heat of embarrassment as you told him in a roundabout, clipped and awkward manner. You remember how patient he was while you stammered and tried to find the words. And you don’t think you would ever forget how he simply tipped his head down to look you in the eyes directly, his expression free of judgement and completely indifferent. 

“Yeah, I figured,” he replied, unperturbed. You were relieved, and flustered, but mostly relieved. 

The day after you worried that things may become awkward between the two of you, but it never did. Mick didn’t bring it up again. And at some point you realized that may have been because he was waiting for you to initiate that. 

And so you give yourself time to mull it over.

It took two months since that night for your thoughts to sufficiently develop. And you not only felt ready, but eager—like you were on that fateful night. The only thing standing in your way was yourself, now. 

The world was tinted orange as the sun sunk over the horizon. Mick had just gotten done with disassembling, cleaning, and reassembling his rifle. 

‘Just do it now.’ “Mick, can I talk to you about something?” 

His attention is on you in an instant. “Always,” came his immediate reply. “Go for it.” He gives you a single nod of his head, a gesture for you to continue on.

Overthinking tended to be your downfall, as it usually spiraled into you freezing like a deer in headlights. So you open your mouth to not give yourself the chance to overthink this, too. “Remember when we were, uh, kissing?” 

The corner of his mouth twitches up, the ghost of a rakish smirk on his lips. It’s only there for a single blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment. “Got to be more specific, love.” 

It was a fair enough request, you have shared plenty of kisses many times since that night. You purse your lips, your face growing ever hotter. Mick doesn’t try to subdue his chuckle this time. It wasn’t at your expense—he just always found himself being endeared by how easily you got flustered.

“When we almost…When we were about to…” You fumble over your words, half-heartedly waving your hand in place of a sentence you were struggling to piece together, hoping that Mick understood your meaning.

He tilts his head, the movement so slight it was almost imperceptible. “When we…?” As soon as the question left his mouth you knew he fully understood what you meant, he just wanted to hear you say it. 

It was all in good faith; it wasn’t a bad thing that he wanted you to get used to verbalizing your wants and needs, especially considering that has never been something you were fully comfortable with. It didn’t mean that your face didn’t heat up or that you never got embarrassed when he prompted you like this, however.

You exhale heavily through your nose, narrowing your eyes at him to confirm that he really wanted you to elaborate. He only cocks his head at you, expectant.

“When we were going to—” ‘What’s a way to say this that isn’t vulgar?’ “Be intimate.” 

Mick huffs through his nose, snorting, undoubtedly finding your wording odd-sounding. It actually eases some of your nerves, the fact he wasn’t nearly as anxious over this as you comforted you by proxy in a way. 

Your lips form into a pout of feigned annoyance. “Hey—”

“That’s one way to put it, yeah,” he muses aloud at the same time you make your exclamation.

Whatever retort you had planned dissipates as soon Mick abruptly stands from where he was sitting. You feel your heart rate ramp up as he comes over to where you were seated on the bed. 

He stops just in front of you, and even though your neck has to crane up to meet his gaze you find that you can’t look away. His hand reaches out to cup your cheek, his thumb gently stroking. “You’re gorgeous lookin’ up at me like that.” 

It’s a compliment, yes—but it’s also an invitation to rekindle the passion from two months ago. Your stomach flips in a wobbly strain of excitement. His hand lingers on your face, the two of you simply enjoying the contact for another moment longer. After that moment passes he slips his hand away by gliding it off your jaw, his rough fingertips brushing as he went, leaving goosebumps in his wake.

This is immediately followed by Mick taking a seat on the bed right next to you, his hands resting loosely between his long legs, his fingers half-heartedly threaded together. Said long leg also pressed flush against yours. It was at that very moment you become aware of how your shorts had bunched up a bit up your thighs, exposing more of your bare skin. You could feel his body heat emanating through the fabric of his own clothing. 

He seems to notice how the brief physical contact was affecting you, and slowly, as if not to startle an animal, reaches his hand up. Your eyes are glued to it, curious and anticipating. When neither your body language shifts nor your expression, he lays his palm over your thigh, giving it a small squeeze.

He’s done that before; sometimes while he was driving and you were in the passenger seat, but the current context made you flare up with heat.

Then, frankly; “Tell me how you want it,” the flat timbre of his voice renders your mind incapable of working right away, you have to blink to get the gears working in your head. 

You swallow thickly. “Uh, well—” you now had the opposite problem; your mind was working too fast. 

It made sense he’d just want to get to the heart of the matter, that was an aspect of his personality you were well aware of at this point, but the bluntness still managed to ruffle you.

Truth be told, you hadn’t thought this far. You had just assumed that he would take the proverbial reins, and you were happy to follow his lead. 

“I don’t know,” the floor is very fascinating to you all of the sudden. “I just—want. You, I mean,” you splutter out. 

In your peripheral you see the cool blue of his eyes—they almost appeared green in the orange glow of sunset—cast a glance at you. There’s something present in the way he looks at you, the plain admission of your desire for him being the trigger. 

His hand then leaves your thigh to stroke along his jaw in thought. You find that you mourn the loss of contact almost immediately. 

“Right,” you hear him mumble to himself, his mind clearly working. After a small beat he fixes his gaze back on you. “You’ve gotten yourself off before, yeah?” 

That throws you for a bit of a loop. You’re able to make out ‘oh, god,’ and ‘do I really have to say this out loud?’ Through the momentary chaos of your thoughts.

You’re able to rein it in before it turns into mortification—if this actually goes all the way this time, merely talking of masturbation would pale in comparison. 

Still, words fail you, so you just nod. “Good,” it was a neutral remark on his end, but it still made goosebumps rise on your skin. His voice tended to have that effect on you. 

And it doesn’t lead to any further conversation on the topic like you were expecting. Instead you feel the weight of the bed shift as he moves to fully sit on it rather than on the edge, he doesn’t even have to motion for you to follow him—you do that on your own.

As soon as your settled your face is being cradled in wide palms and his lips are on yours. Mick was rather no-nonsense, so this wasn’t a surprise to you at all. But no-nonsense didn’t equal a lack of care; his kisses were slow yet fervent, his thumb stroked small circles into your cheek, the act blatantly affectionate. 

You don’t try to restrain the shudder that goes through you this time, and this emboldens him. One of his hands drifts down to your lower back, and even though you’re mildly acquainted with his physical strength at this point you still felt a fluttery feeling in your stomach when he pushes you forward into him. 

Now with your chests pressed together, he briefly pulls away from your lips to guide your head to the side before kissing your neck. You gasp, your hands clutching at his broad shoulders, and he gives your throat an experimental suckle. 

Electricity bolts up your spine, a sharp gasp escapes your lips. “Mick—”

He soothes the spot with a kiss before pulling away, satisfaction glinting in his eyes. Both of his hands come to rest on your hips now, his thumb and index finger idly messing with the waistband of your shorts. “Want more?” You nod frantically. 

But sense manages to cut through the arousal-induced fog in your head, and self-consciousness manages to saunter its way back in.

“Um, but I…” At your hesitation Mick’s hands glide up your arms to soothe you, and he leans his head just enough away from yours to look you in the eye. “You already know,” you mutter quietly. 

Mick opens his mouth to say something, but you speak again before he can. “How do you want to do it?” You toss the figurative ball into his court. Really, all you wanted was to be guided through this; even though the purpose of inquiring about your preferences came from good intentions and genuine care for you, to be completely honest you hadn’t the faintest clue. 

And you were just as interested in Mick’s preferences, too.

Mick pauses for a moment, his brows lower just a fraction. His eyes shift away from you, and it is then that you realize that your question had him feeling mildly self-conscious, himself. 

You find it both endearing and comforting to know that you weren’t the only one feeling that way—even though his own bashfulness was far less intense in comparison to yours. 

“You’ll need to elaborate there, love,” he eventually tells you. 

“Well, I mean…Do you just want me to lay down, or—“ 

A flicker of understanding passes across his features. And you have this funny feeling in the pit of your stomach, a feeling you’re familiar with—the one you get when you can tell you somehow said something odd, or missed a social cue. Usually you brace for ridicule, but you never have to with Mick. 

“I want you to enjoy yourself,” he somehow managed to sound soft while being curt.

A moment passes, his lips briefly purse. “It’s mostly all the same to me, on your back or wherever else, I’ll have you any which way.” Your face isn’t cooling down any.

Then his brows furrow, contemplative. You hold off on replying right away as to not deter him from continuing on this particular train of thought. Another second ticks by until he sighs through his nose, mind seemingly settled. “I’ll be honest, I’ve thought about you on your hands an’ knees, bent over.” 

Your heart pounds intensely enough for you to hear it in your ears. You don’t know why you haven’t considered that he’s pleasured himself to thoughts of you before, it just never crossed your mind.

“Or flat on the belly—it’s all good to me.” He runs a hand on the back of his neck, his jaw shifting a bit. You find your eyes momentarily locked on the tendons in his throat, the way his adam’s apple bobs.

When you finally tear your eyes away, your mind tries to conjure an image of how those positions would go, and you find that they all interest you. 

Your voice is still timid, but you pipe up nonetheless, “That sounds good to me, too.” He meets your gaze again, and the tension in his jaw has smoothed out along with the subtle creases between his brows. He actually looks pleasantly surprised—in his own, subdued way. 

“Yeah?” He isn’t expecting an answer; it isn’t even a genuine question to begin with—just something to say, and yet you find yourself nodding. Perhaps a little too quickly, because you catch a lopsided smirk on his lips that never failed to make your heart rabbit-kick between your lungs, and then he leans in. 

His nose nudges against your neck while that large of his cradles the back of your head. You exhale shakily when his lips brush over the pulse point on your throat. “You wanna be under me?” 

“Yes,” you choke out. You feel him smile against your neck.

His hands drift down to the hem of your shirt, “Let’s get this off ya.” 

Your heart leaps in your throat, and you make an active effort to ignore the cacophony of insecurity looming in the corners of your subconscious. You wanted this, it’s all you’ve been thinking about, and you weren’t going to let yourself get in the way of it. 

And so you let him, even though your breathing comes out shaky and your hands are gripping the sheets in a bid to ground yourself. He doesn’t take it off right away, though.

Instead his hands—those calloused, big hands of his—goes up underneath and feels up your bare skin. Your breath audibly hitches, and he stills for a moment before continuing on. His thumb brushes over the band of your bra, and his other hand fondles your side. It takes everything in you not to visibly tremble with nervous excitement.

“Raise your arms for me,” and you do without a second thought—or a first one, for that matter, lest your insecurity get the better of you. You squeeze your eyes shut while the article of clothing goes up and over your head. Mick tosses haphazardly.

“Just look at you,” his voice was so low in tone that you weren’t even sure if he was speaking directly to you or not. Either way, your stomach flutters. Mick wastes no time at all divesting you of your bra, the swiftness in which he unclasped it indicated he had done this enough times before in the past, it reminded you of the gap of experience between the two of you. 

He doesn’t rush actually removing it from your body, however. His head dips forward to plant kisses on your shoulder and collarbone, pulling the straps down and off of you at a leisurely pace. Your fingers run through his short hair, giving yourself something to do other than grasp at the sheets.

When it finally is off, you become acutely aware of how your nipples have long since pebbled just from his affections thus far. Mick isn’t so careless with the undergarment, he instead places it behind him somewhere on the bed. And now you were topless in front of someone else for the first time. 

You’re not quite able to look him in the eye, but you’re too curious of his reaction to look away entirely, so you settle with staring a little bit off to the side of him so that he remains in your peripheral.

You hear Mick cuss under his breath and whisper to himself; “Bloody gorgeous.” 

You shift a bit from where you’re seated, not sure what to do under the intensity of his gaze yet wanting even more of his attention all the while. 

His palms run up your sides again, and this time you visibly shudder, a shaky exhale escapes your lips. Your emotions were a flurry and you have to remind yourself to just breathe. And Mick—he knows you, knows that you, in your own words; could ‘get all jittery.’ All just from physical affection. He’s seen it for himself, too, many times in the past when you very first got together.

It took you a little while before you no longer needed to wiggle your hands or legs to shake the trembles off while you were cuddling together. Mick reasoned it was just symptom related to a lack of overall physical contact and a sensitivity unique to you. So he doesn’t misinterpret the shivers that run through you as a stop signal. Something you were grateful for, considering how desperate you were for him at the moment.

You were nervous, yes—but that didn’t put a damper on your ever growing desire. Nor did it change how much you wanted him to have you wholly.

Still, you jolt a tad when his hands gingerly cup your breasts, the sensation of someone fondling them was foreign to you, and gave you a bit of a startle. “S-sorry—“ You sputter, sheepish.

His hands still retreat to rest on your waist instead, giving you a small reprieve from the new stimuli. “Nothin’ for you to be sorry over,”  he rumbles, squeezing your hip reassuringly.

Mick nudges his cheek against yours, his mouth shifting to press an indirect kiss by your ear, “Not like you’ve ever been touched like this before, eh?” And just like that you relax again.

It was remarkable how good he was at that—then again, maybe you specifically were just particularly receptive to his manner of comforting.

You breathe out a hesitant chuckle. “Yeah, well, I mean—I liked it. A lot.” Your voice got increasingly smaller as you spoke, ending in a whisper. His the corner of his mouth twitches up in a half-grin, his slightly crooked teeth peeking past his lips. It was the sort of grin look almost never failed to make your face grow warm. He wore self-satisfaction very well. 

You really wanted him to undress now, too.

Before he could reply, you tilt your head towards his shirt, gesturing to it sans hands, “Y-you too.” You mentally kick yourself for stuttering, but Mick is completely unbothered.

“I s’pose that’s only fair,” a peck is given to your temple before he shifts back on the bed to comply with your request. You actually wanted to take it off for him, but his own enthusiasm is made obvious when he immediately reaches for the back of his shirt collar and tugs it over his head in one fluid motion, swiftly balling it up and tossing it in some forgotten corner of the van with the same nonchalance as he did your shirt.

You can’t help but admire him, just because you’ve seen him shirtless before didn’t make it any less worthy of admiration. Just as you always appreciated stars in the night sky or the colorful pastel tones of the sunrise or sunset. 

He’s lanky—that much was obvious even with his clothes on—and with sinewy, lean muscle. There’s scars on his torso and abdomen, his arms, too. His chest and limbs are fuzzy with hair, and there’s a tantalizingly thick thatch of hair that begins underneath his navel and disappears beneath his pants. 

You really want to let him know just how much you liked the way he looked, too. Unfortunately this desire did not translate into anything remotely eloquent. “I’m so attracted to you,” you blurt out and mentally slap yourself the second it exits your mouth. 

Mortification doesn’t get the chance to settle in thanks to how, fascinatingly, Mick’s expression is blank. Not from insecurity, and you’re certain he’s received compliments before, and he seemed rather at ease with himself physically speaking—maybe he just wasn’t expecting such a thing from you. It wasn’t like you made a habit of verbally expressing your more intimate thoughts and feelings. 

He scoops you up in his arms suddenly, shocking a shrill laugh out of you. You feel more than hear his responding chuckle, his chest rising and falling in short bursts against yours. It was an odd sensation, the hair decorating his pectorals brushing against your nipples, but it wasn’t unwelcome—just new.

Mick sits you in his lap, and locks lips with yours. He begins slow, then steadily ramps up in intensity. Kissing you with such fervor all you could think of was it. He draws gasps and bitten off whines out of you. Your arms, once loosely draped around his wide shoulders, begin to squeeze as he becomes increasingly passionate. Desire further builds in the pit of your abdomen whenever a grunt or uneven sigh is eked out of him.

His hands run up and down your spine, your hips, fondling there and occasionally your ass. Warmth floods your face and chest from the ardor in his grasp. Your body heat intermingles with his, he’s holding you so tight you swear you could feel his heartbeat against your own. You’re subconsciously pushing yourself into him—even though there’s no space between the two of you left, even though the strength behind his grasp kept you practically still. 

The rough texture of his callouses made you shiver in the most delightful way, and your stomach flopped with butterflies.

‘His hands are big,’ the thought passes your mind helplessly for what felt like the umpteenth time this evening. You consciously knew his hands were big, you had eyes after all—but it was so different to actually have them on you. Touching you and holding you while you were bare and vulnerable, like you were something to be cherished.

You didn’t feel trapped. His hold was impossibly tender, and you felt your heart flutter beneath your ribs. It all served to fan the flames of your arousal, to the point where you felt a dull ache between your legs. Pulsing and wanting. 

You don’t even realize that you were pressing your hips against him until he audibly groans, and you feel an unmistakable hardness press against your still clothed crotch. “Augh, fuck—” Mick fully groans out against your mouth. 

Just the sound of him, the feel of him—

His fingers curl into your hip, effectively pinning you in place and keeping your hips still. And you find yourself almost intoxicated by how, if he wanted, Mick could simply position you however he desired.

His voice is all but a rasp. “I’m gonna get you ready for me, then I’m gonna fill you up.”

You take a few greedy gulps of air, mostly to steady yourself than to actually catch your breath. You felt quite ready right now. “I thought you just did,” your voice is weak and slurred, lips pleasantly tender, you almost don’t recognize your own voice. 

Mick simply gives you that terribly rakish smirk, his unusually cuspid canines peeking from under his lips. “Nah, not by a long shot.” 

Your musing from earlier was confirmed when Mick lifted you up in his arms with a stunning lack of effort to have you sitting upright on the bed, propped up against the wall. He could move you however he liked, and some buried, long forgotten and primitive part of your brain takes delight in that.

Mick takes your shorts and underwear off in one single movement. And in a way, you’re grateful for that—drawing it out would have given your mind too much time to foster thoughts of internal chastisement over your body. 

You still felt an itching scorch crawl up your neck and coil around your cheeks now that you were fully naked in front of him, however. 

You knew the hair on your sex didn’t bother him—quite the opposite, in fact; you discovered Mick preferred hair on women, unlike the vast majority of men who would never have it any way other than shaven.

You remember the revelation shocking you at the time for that very reason, but in hindsight you probably shouldn’t have been so surprised that Mick, of all people, had an active preference for it. The topic at the time was in regard to the hair on your legs and pits, but it was obvious Mick meant everywhere on your body, not only those two areas.

Despite that, you were still bashful. Logically speaking you were aware of his attraction to you, and that it was mutual in both depth and magnitude, but you still were only human. 

It dissipated quickly when Mick began to fondle and paw at you with such enthusiasm that you almost felt tender—it was the most delightful sensation. And that wasn’t even mentioning the sweet murmurs of praise and affection he gave you.

So your nerves were already alight by the time his hand drifted between your legs, calloused fingers brushing over your pubic mound. You gasp, your back straightening on reflex, and Mick soothes you with a kiss to your temple. 

“You’re gonna have to spread ‘em for me,” he mutters against your skin, you’re not given the chance to do so yourself as his other hand is already parting your leg for you. 

There’s no preamble to it, he just slides his hand down to cup your sex properly. A strangled noise is punched out of you, Mick’s mouth only twitches upward. 

Wetness slicks his palm instantly. “Oh, this won’t take long,” he lowly murmurs to himself. You hear it regardless, and your face is awash with heat. 

Mick languidly drags his fingers up through your folds—not bending them to push inside, just feeling you up. Your breath stutters with a gasp, and find yourself grabbing at his vascular forearm just to hold onto something. 

You feel the tendons there flex and roll with the movement of his wrist, and he leans forward slot his mouth with yours. It’s deep, gentle. Your mind goes momentarily blank and your jaw slackens when the upwards path his fingers were on ends at your clit. 

He was barely touching your sex, yet you were already responding in such an apparent way. 

Mick carefully presses the pad of his finger to the sensitive nub, and the reaction is instantaneous. You manage to bite off a cry from slipping out, but the hand you had on his forearm grips tighter, your legs wobble a tad. Mick hums in what you detect as approval. The contact is short-lived, and it leaves you aching for more.

But not for very long; his finger glides back down until it prods at your hole, rubbing small circles around the rim to coax you a bit. You breathe out shakily, the sound almost tapering off into a moan. His finger slides in and the muscles in your hips flex, tensing due to the new sensation.

You hear a single hum come out of Mick, a crease forms between his brows. “You’re bloody tight,” he muses in a hushed tone against your parted lips, experimentally pushing his digit in further. In the back of his mind he was thinking of how perfectly you would squeeze his dick.

With how wet you were, the push and pull quickly became smoother. You were writhing all the while, your chest visibly rising and falling with heavy breaths. His fingers are proportional with the rest of his hand—large—so you did feel your walls stretch a little to accommodate the entry.

It didn’t hurt, just felt a bit odd—new. Soon he was pumping his finger in and out of you at a lazy yet steady pace. “You’re gonna take me real nice, I reckon.” You could practically hear the smirk in his voice.  

You feel your cunt pulse and clench around the digit, each time sending a wave of ice hot pleasure through you, all the way to your toes. You keen against him, your hips twitching upwards on impulse. He captures your lips again, greedily taking all of your moans into his mouth. 

Mick wastes no time at all rubbing at your clit again. His finger pulls out, seemingly satisfied with how wet and willing you already were, and found your clit to begin drawing lazy circles on it with his middle and index, causing you to sharply gasp.

He only chuckled warmly in response, which only served to fan the flames of desire within you.

Mick doesn’t break his lip lock with you as he continued his ministrations, the rough texture of his finger pads making the most pleasant frisson go up your spine. Your legs are shivering, and incoherent sounds of pleasure emanate from you. You whine out his name, he takes the opportunity of your open lips to push his tongue into your mouth. 

Kissing with tongue was still something you were getting used to, but you think you liked it in moderation.

His free hand cups your cheek to guide your face closer to his as he unashamedly lolls his tongue further in, immediately finding yours and running over it, over your teeth. All the while his fingers begin to apply a bit of pressure to your clit in addition to picking up the pace a bit more.

Your heart was racing, the throbbing between your legs growing in intensity, and you’re certain Mick could feel it on his fingers. He could tell you were just about there, too. 

“That feels good, doesn’t it.” Mick murmurs, the words rumbling out of his throat. All while his thick, textured fingers stroked at your tender clit. Your legs tremble, fawn-like.

He begins circling smaller and faster. Your legs tense, your eyelids fluttering the muscles in your abdomen jump and flex involuntarily. You writhe into and away from him, a reflex you had no real control over. Your body is shivering and your breaths are coming in short and gasping. You feel yourself barreling to an end, sweet and taut. 

Your legs seize and shiver. “Mick—” You gasp out, an ending in a high-pitched whine. 

“There it is, c’mon, roo,” his voice is low and soft, egging you on.

Your heart skips a beat at the term of endearment, he kisses you again with the same slow passion as before, and finally the ache you feel reaches its peak; pulsating hard again and again and again.

His name is spilling from your lips in short, breathless huffs. “That’s it.” He coos, his fingers still working to ride out your orgasm. 

Your moans become more quiet and less drawn out as your orgasm mellows and dissipates into welcoming warmth across your body. Once your body relaxes Mick slows his fingers to a stop. 

“That’s my girl,” he presses a kiss to your cheek, you feel your heart flutter, as well as feeling delightfully boneless.

He then gives you another—this one brief yet no less sweet—on the corner of your mouth. “Love you,” he mumbles against your skin, low enough only for you to hear. 

Your insides feel warm and fuzzy. “Love you, too,” a peck is laid on his cheek, the stubble there tickling you.

“That was real quick, huh.” You couldn’t tell if that was more of a question on his part or an observation, there’s a lilt in his low tone. You were unaware of what the average times for things like this was, but it was certainly faster than when you touched yourself, so you find yourself nodding anyway.

Mick remains close, cradling you in his arms around you and peppering lazy kisses wherever his mouth could reach while your breathing evens out. When it eventually does he gives you one final kiss on your temple, a smile appears briefly on his face—small and gentle. The affection in his eyes plain to see.

His arms release you to sit up on his knees. You watch him, rapt. His thumbs loop under the waistband of his pants, the position he was in allowed you to see the bulge between his legs, and the sight alone is enough to make you dully ache with want. 

You swallow harshly. “Can I touch you too?” 

“To get me off?” Mick chucks off his pants, leaving him in his boxers. The outline of his arousal is clearly defined now. You forget to take your eyes off of the visible tent there—you’ve never seen that part of him before, after all. 

Immediate was your hushed reply, “Yes.” The desire stoked within you was enough for you to be blunt, but your own bashfulness tempered it into a something quieter. 

Mick notices where your eyes are laying, and only then do you remember yourself and focus on something else. There’s a deeper hunger that makes itself known momentarily in his gaze, then it’s  gone the next blink. Self-restraint. 

“We’ll do that another time. I wanna get off in you.” 

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t feel just a little bit mortified at positioning yourself on all fours like this, practically presenting yourself to him. Just a little. 

The moments preceding this, Mick did let you touch and fondle him, just to help de-mystify that part of himself for you before going inside you. (You were particularly fascinated—and aroused—by how his foreskin moved up and down his cock with your hesitant, gentle strokes. You gave his balls ample attention, too.) But it was only for a little bit, with how his throat bobbed and redness crawled up his chest and neck, it was obvious his patience had finally worn down. 

Once Mick felt your curiosity was sated, he murmured into your ear, his hand squeezing your ass, telling you how he wanted you. 

And so with a bit of guidance from Mick, you find yourself with your face resting against a pillow, on your knees, with your bottom raised into the air—and you really had to arch a little due to the difference in height between the two of you. 

The embarrassment is dimmed somewhat when you feel his palms fondle your ass and thighs appreciatively. Mick spread them apart, and spat out a hushed curse upon seeing your glistening core on display for him like that. 

Mick mumbles something that sounds like ‘one second,’ and the weight of the bed shifts as he leaves it, but he returns as quickly as he left. A crinkling sound meets your ears, and realization flashes in your mind. You were so caught up in this that you had forgotten all about a condom. 

Mick wastes no time at all in sliding it on himself, and the bed dips once more when he settles behind you. His open eagerness amplified your own, but you were sobered when his hand came on your ass to spread you open for him again. 

“Um—” you blurt out, shifting a bit, not quite sure of what you even wanted to say. Mick stills, and when the moment passes in silence he prompts you; “Yeah?” 

Your cheeks itch with heat, “Mick—I’m nervous.” 

His hand moves to stroke up and down your side, soothing you. “Worried it’ll hurt?” 

When his fingers were inside of you it didn’t hurt, but... “I think so.” You didn’t want him to stop, not at all. But it didn’t feel right to bottle up how anxious you were beginning to feel. 

Mick’s fingers curl to massage your side a bit, and you melt into his touch. “I’m gonna be real careful with you, we don’t have to rush it,” he murmurs, you feel yourself relax further. 

“You still wanna give it a try, love?” 

You did. You’ve been wanting this for months. “Y-yeah. Yeah, I do.” 

Mick makes a noise of acceptance, then drags his hand back to grope at your cheek. Nothing happens right away, then you feel the head of his cock, heavy and hot, brush against your folds. Your breathing stutters. He guides it up and down, not entering you yet, or even directly teasing at your hole. Just leisurely rubbing the tip of his dick against your aching, slick sex. 

You feel yourself flutter around nothing, your body all but begging for him. It’s when he rubs it on your clit that you quietly moan.

“You’re sweet, all riled up for me,” his voice thrums through you. He slides it back up, this time lets it catch on your entrance. 

Mick does this one, two more times, then presses forward. You exhale shakily, your eyes blink shut, and you focus on the arousal coursing through to relax yourself. 

It isn’t one long, continuous push—it’s easing in, pressing in only to pull back out just a little, coaxing even more wetness out of you. Eventually you become so needy that your hips subconsciously squirm, your half-empty cunt clenching, well and truly yearning for him. 

His hand more firmly holding your hip now clues you into what is coming up next, and you almost feel like you’re drowning in anticipation. 

Mick slowly feeds his cock into you, no longer working you up and instead intent on filling you. Your mouth falls open in a silent moan, your legs going taut from the feeling of him spreading you open. 

You can’t help the noises that escape you as he steadily bottoms out. His hips softly press against your backside, and his balls rest on your labia. You can feel his abdomen rise and fall with heavy yet muted breaths. He’s as worked up as you are, you can tell, not just from the way he squeezes your hip just a little bit harder, but also from the deep ‘oh’ that emanates from the bottom of his chest. 

His other hand had left his cock once he filled you, no longer needing to guide himself in, and now fondled your ass appreciatively. A pulse of arousal shoots through you, making your muscles go taut—this time stuffed with his cock, and he groans. Your toes curl in the sheets. 

He grunts your name, the sound bitten off, then he pulls back only to lazily roll his hips forward. 

“O-oh, gh—” you gasp out. Your hands are clutching at the sheets, now. 

It didn’t hurt, but you felt almost tender thanks to a throbbing ache welling up between your legs as he continues to undulate his hips against you in the same rhythm. All the while his hands gave your hips gentle squeezes at random intervals, his jaw ticking when not going slack. 

You squirm a bit in his grasp, it’s completely unconscious on your part—your body was responding to stimuli, carnal. In so doing your hips press back against him, intermittently meeting his steady thrusts sloppily. One of his hands is suddenly on your back, just resting there, his palm a comforting weight.

“Fuck,” Mick hisses, elongating the vowel.

He interpreted your writhing hips as a desire for more. “Ya want it faster? Tell me what you need, love,” he sounds breathless.

“Y-yes, faster—” The way your voice sounded would definitely be something you’d be mortified over after this, but Mick thought it was the most beautiful sound in the world.

Mick does exactly as you ask, and picks up the pace in small increments to acclimate you to it. Your legs tensed, your eyelids fluttering as your muscles went from taut to gelatinous repeatedly. Soon he was thrusting into you in a brisk yet deep rhythm.

Heat flashes over your face and body whenever your cunt would involuntarily clench around his cock. The dull, aching pulsations increasing in intensity and frequency.

“You feel perfect, darlin’.” You might as well have been ablaze at this point, and your skin shuddered pleasantly just from the approval in his rough voice. All you could do was bite off a whimper as he pushed his hips forward into you again. 

“You embarrassed?” Your face was buried in the pillow, your hands clutching at the sheets and eyes squeezed shut, you grasped the sheets a little harder when he asked you such a thing, the faintest hint of something protective in his tone. 

You nod at first, then remember that he probably couldn’t see the motion that well. “Y-yeah. A little.” Your voice was breathless, almost whiny.

And the sounds he’s been making—you’ve never heard him sound like that before, either. Grunting and choked out curses, deep moans. Your name, groaned out or a quiet, hushed whisper. 

The hand on your back strokes up and down your spine, soothing you. You feel your chest constrict from the affection welling up in you.

“You’ll get used to this soon.” 

God. 

“You’re shakin’, love,” Your cunt clamps around him again and a quiet cuss is spat past his lips. You whine, it’s desperate and small, high-pitched and warbled in a way that sounded strange to your own ears yet perfect to his. 

“You don’t know half the things you do to me.” Your mind just barely comprehends the meaning behind what he’s saying—that he’s wanted you like this just as long as you did him, if not longer. He squeezes your hip again and the hand on your back glides up to rest between your shoulder blades. 

The soft slap of skin on skin becomes audible as Mick increases the pace a little more, giving you just enough time for your body to register its own sensitivity before he’s pushing back in again.

He loves this. He loves this because it’s you. Your distinct whimpers and whines, the way your hips press back against him like it was something you couldn’t even help, your body trying to get him just a little bit deeper. How he can feel each shudder underneath the palm he had on your back, your hips and thighs vibrating with your trembling. 

You’re reaching that peak very fast and very suddenly. You simply wanted him too much and for too long, you couldn’t help it—not at all. Not with him spreading you open, his callouses against your skin, the new sensations he’s been giving you, the sound of his voice, him—

You weren’t quite in control of yourself at the moment. Your body seized and writhed all at once, your eyes fluttering, lips trembling. You are distantly aware that you're calling out Mick’s name over and over, the volume and pitch increasing every time. 

Your hips involuntarily press back against him, and that, combined with everything else, forces a tone of voice you’ve never heard Mick have before. 

“My god—” It's so desperate and frayed, yet still him. Rough and accented, low and distinctly male. 

It punches an ache so deep out of you it almost hurts.

“Fuck—you’re perfect, just like that, like that—” He gasps sharply. And he grips your hips with a level of strength you weren't used to, an entirely unconscious thing on his part—it is then you notice the tremble in those very hands, the slight shake in his thighs. You didn’t need firsthand experience to know that he was right there. 

It’s exhilarating when Mick finally lets himself get a bit lost in it.  The sound of skin meeting skin is plainly audible, he’s bucking into you with enough passion that you’re being rocked a little—

Your name is torn out his throat in a choked half-snarl. His thrusts lose all sense of rhythm or pace as he gets swept up in his climax. Cum shoots out of him, thick and plentiful, and even through the condom you realize you can still feel its warmth.

Mick doesn’t stop right away like you thought he would, instead he keeps rocking his hips into you. The sounds you make are breathless, and you have to bury your face back into the pillow to prevent anything too weird-sounding from coming out. 

Your toes curl while he milks himself in your heat, he’s groaning deeply, sounding almost like he’s hurting and you're so stimulated that you can't think of anything else. 

He’s so warm, you can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to actually have him empty himself in you, unimpeded— 

God. 

Your body quakes, he gives one last pump, and then all is still. Calm. 

The hold he has on your hips softens completely when the muscles there relax. Mick’s chest is rising and falling with heavy breathing. The only sound in the van is of your combined panting now. Your legs feel wobbly, and you feel the urge to lay down. 

Once his breath evens out somewhat, he begins the slow pull out of you. You gasp softly, still sensitive, and he strokes his thumb over your hip to soothe you. 

In stark contrast to his earlier arousal induced zeal, he takes his time. A soft, almost squelching noise hits your ears at the same time you feel that your cunt is no longer being stretched open.

Mick rubs slow, sweet circles on your lower back. “Bloody hell,” he murmurs. He strokes up your spine, applying a bit of pressure there and you comply with it, let yourself melt into the bed, laying flat on your stomach now. Satiated. 

He’s still stroking your back, and your eyes flutter shut in relaxation. He didn’t have to ask if it felt as good for you as it did for him. “I’m gonna get somethin’ to wipe you off with,” Mick tells you, the words soft. You give him a quiet hum in acknowledgment, a kiss is pressed against your shoulder blade before getting up. 

You hear movement behind you, he’s taking the latex off now, you think. You blink your eyes open after a moment, shifting to rest your arms more comfortably under the pillow. You find yourself admiring his figure whilst his back is turned to you, your eyes just sort of landed on him. As you watch him shuffle around the van, running his fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck—it’s gotten a bit long, he’ll trim it soon—you feel sentimental. 

He’s disposed of the condom and has a few things in his arms—a towel and a shirt, another pair of underwear for you and him. When he turns to face you his silhouette is illuminated at the edges from the last bit of glow from the sinking sun. 

You feel your heart tug a bit, and smile sleepily at him. He returns it. You tell him you love him, and he returns that, too.

Now that you’ve both cleaned off and redressed, you simply bask in the presence of one another. You were equal parts amused and surprised when Mick gave you one of his shirts to wear instead of one of your own. The satisfied glint in his eye when you put it on without complaint made you feel warm.

You’re resting comfortably against him, Mick’s arm is wrapped loosely around you as he laid on his back, his eyelids drooping and his hand idly stroking your forearm.

Your hips harbored a faint ache thanks to his hardened grip from his impending orgasm, but only just a little. It’d fade away in a few minutes. And you felt that it was a physical imprint of his earlier passion and nothing more, there wasn’t any sadistic intent or cruelty there—just intense ardor. Like how your lips felt a bit sensitive from all of his kisses.

You rub your hand there, touching it in a completely absent-minded fashion—like how some people would intermittently touch a bruise or run their tongue over a sore tooth. Doing it just for the sake of it, to check how tender it really was, and so on.

Your brows must unconsciously pinch a little, or something, because Mick suddenly props himself up on his arm, eyes thinned out and tunnel-holed onto the hand you had on your hip.

His expression is anything but relaxed now. “Did I hurt ya there?” His voice is tight. He slowly reaches over, rubs his knuckles over the back of your hand in a silent request for you to move it.

You comply and allow your hand to be nudged away so he can feel for himself. “No, honey. Just a little sore.”

He brushes his fingers over the area, and you resist the twitch in your lips from forming into a fond simper over how careful he was being, it was sweet. Mick gives it an experimental press, and your eyes squint momentarily at the sensation. ‘Definitely a little sore,’ you thought.

Mick’s mouth settles into a taut, thin line, his brows set low. A displeased, rumbling sound escapes him.

You could sense that his mood was on the verge of shifting; like distant clouds over the horizon foretelling rain. That look on his face—you didn’t want him to worry, or be angry at himself. 

You shift more to face him properly from where you lay, and cup his cheek, this draws his eyes to over to you. “It wasn’t on purpose, you didn’t startle me or anything.” 

His jaw shifts and for a moment you think he’s going to reply, but whatever response he had never comes out. You try to think of how exactly to articulate this. You didn’t mind the soreness, but it also wasn’t because you liked the soreness or anything like that, it was the blatant display of emotion that you liked. 

“I got a bit carried away there, at the end,” he quietly admits in a mumble, his eyes flicking away from you.

‘It’s still so weird talking about this stuff out loud,’ you muse to yourself. But despite how weird it felt, you knew you needed to sort this out. 

Your tongue feels heavy, “I liked—Y’know, the…Holding, and how—uh—excited you were, at the end.” The words are inelegant and a bit scattered, but earnest.

Mick gives you an askance look, his eyes flick around your face. “You did?” He eventually inquires, almost hesitant.

You nod, “I did.” 

There’s a small beat where you see him study your face, searching for any hint of dishonesty. It is only when he finds none that he finally—reluctantly—relaxes. Mick presses a kiss on your forehead and settles back down next to you. 

He pulls you to him with a single arm looped around you, and you find yourself nestled securely against him. You slot effortlessly against his body, your head resting on his chest. You feel at peace, with the scope of your world temporarily limited to Mick and his van, you feel peace. 

You both stay like that for a while, long enough that sky is shifting through shades of blue now, it’d be black soon enough; then there would be stars to see. 

It’s easy for your eyelids to grow heavy when you’re this calm, warm, and nestled in with Mick.

“Hey, are you hungry? I’m starvin’.” Now that he mentions it, you were. Your eyes blink open, staving off sleep for now.

You nod, adding; “Can we get something this time?” In the context of your conversations, ‘get something’ meant ‘anything other than game, please.’ Not that you disliked it—but you still preferred to change things up every now and then, unlike Mick who you believed to be perfectly fine with only ever eating things he’s hunted or foraged. 

He considers for a moment, “Eh. Yeah, alright.” 

You chuckle airily, triumphant. Mick only scoffs at you, running his fingers up the nape of your neck to cradle your head affectionately. 

“After you get a bit of sleep first,” he tells you. You snort, not at all surprised he noticed your drowsiness. A nap sounded like a great idea right about now. He tilts his head to lay a featherlight kiss right above your brow. 

Right before you drift off, you think to yourself of how could easily spend the rest of your days just like this—with each other. Unbeknownst to you, Mick is thinking the exact same.

Hi…I began working on this because I couldn’t find any Sniper reader-inserts with a reader I could relate to, and with the dynamic I wanted to see. I’m a bit rusty, but I hope the writing is still okay! I kind of just wanted to get to the main event without meandering too much, but I also didn’t want to rush it completely.

I think the number of people who have crushes on Sniper is kind of small, so I’m happy to be contributing to more reader inserts featuring him (I have the biggest crush on him…)

I think a lot about Sniper’s characterization, and was worried that I didn’t quite pull off what I wanted here. (That’s a frequent point of insecurity of mine in regard to my writing @__@) hopefully I did okay with that, too. (I just couldn’t resist adding a reference to one of his voice lines…;; )

I have a few other Sniper reader inserts I’m working on, I’m looking forward to finishing them. ^__^

Thank you so much for reading, I hope you liked it. Feel free to let me know what you thought of this! And thank you a bunch for any likes or reblogs!!