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thetriggeredhappy · 4 years

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Hi!! I love your work sm dude! QwQ Your Running Blind series is legitmately incredible! (It had me crying hadhs) I always get super excited whenever you talk about it or update it, Taking Shots is so creative and funny and sweet just AAGH I love it so much- It is probably my favourite fanfic in this entire fandom. If you are at all taking requests, I would like to ask if you could do an EngieSpy fic with Spy knowing exactly how to get Engie all flustered cus I think that would be cute -w- Ty!

ahgfdsj don’t mind that this took forever,,,, here’s some cheesy cheesy romance ft. a cheesy romantic

(no warnings)

Dell Conagher was a 45 year old man. He had more degrees than fingers (including the false ones) and a considerable amount of respect and acclaim in the wide majority of academic communities. And besides that, he made himself a formidable opponent in combat, taking no prisoners and becoming a tactical nightmare to deal with, able to push and direct in a way that others couldn’t do so effectively single-handedly.

So you’d think that there wasn’t much that would leave him flustered, but figures—there were people who could fluster bigshots like him just as much as there were people to fluster your average Joe. Maybe he should consider it a humbling experience, but he was plenty humble already.

What he hated was that it was so predictable of him, the things that made him blush. Nothing unusual—some of the other members of the team had initially assumed from his accent and general demeanor that surely he would balk and blush at more risqué jokes and shenanigans, but he could swear and chuckle just as much as the rest of them. And while he occasionally got fired up over things, he didn’t tend to get hot when he got angry so much as stern and then very much cold.

No, what got him to stammer and make a damn fool of himself was just the thing that not many people had the guts to do to him over the course of his life—goopy, sappy, extremely romantic displays.

Just his luck that he’d fall for a Frenchman.

Part of what got him so flustered—and therefore more frustrated with himself—was the fact that he was smart enough to figure out that it probably took an awful lot of work to do the things Spy did for him. He didn’t know of a good florist in a hundred mile radius of their base, and Spy had ranted about it enough that he’d also gathered there were no particularly good wineries around either. And you probably had to take a class to get as good as Spy at decoration and whatnot, surely, and cooking too. Setting a whole table and room and making a romantic dinner with wine older than his grandad with a whole bouquet as a centerpiece, well, it must’ve taken Spy all day, or, or maybe even weeks of planning and plotting and scheming—

And he tried to dissuade Spy from going to all that trouble, every time he pulled off some stunt like that. Shook his head and called him a sentimental old fool. But it never made Spy’s grin budge, maybe because Spy could tell the comment reflected right back onto the Engineer too. And he didn’t let up.

Instead he walked straight up to the Engineer and took his right hand, bending at the waist and lifting his hand to lay a brief but meaningful kiss on his knuckles, and already Dell was flushing, even before Spy got to the verbal part of his greeting. “Hello, mon cher Monsieur Conagher,” he said, smirking a little.

“I can’t feel that, you know,” he reminded, keeping his voice level and glancing between his gloved hand and Spy’s face.

“Oh? I’d disagree,” Spy purred, and guided him a half step forward before kissing each knuckle in turn one more time in succession. “I’d say you must be feeling something, at least.”

“What makes you say that?” he asked, brows furrowing just a touch.

“Why else would you be so red?” Spy teased, the slightest further uptick at the corner of his mouth, and the Engineer huffed, pulling back his hand and looking away.

“Hush, you,” he muttered, flustered, moreso as that just made Spy laugh.

“Mon cher, don’t tell me this makes you embarrassed,” Spy said, looking well amused by the idea.

“Well, you’re the one making a damn fool of the both of us, right where anyone on the team could see,” Dell pointed out.

Spy raised an eyebrow. “Is this your way of asking me to stop?” he asked.

“Well—yes! It is!” he said, even though a significant portion of him immediately protested.

“Understood,” Spy said, and the word was tailed by a little grin that told him he’d just gotten himself waist-deep in some new kind of trouble.

He waited for the kicker, when Spy did immediately stop with the showy displays of affection and admiration. The punchline ended up showing up relatively quickly in the form of a bouquet in a vase there on a workbench right in the middle of his workshop, unannounced and unprompted, without even a note. But he knew who it was from, even if he had no idea when Spy snuck past his security—or how long Spy had known how to sneak past his security.

And after that first gift, he found others cropping up in similar fashions for a while—most often flowers, and occasionally wine, chocolate, other luxury goods he’d never buy for himself but couldn’t help but be delighted by when he received them as a gift, especially from his lover. They appeared occasionally in his workshop, or sometimes beside the coffee maker (presumably because he tended to be the first one there, the first one awake in the morning). And the one thing he could count himself being lucky about was the fact that Spy didn’t seem to be there to catch how it made him blush, every single time.

He tried to bring it up, when he and Spy were together, and Spy perfectly feigned ignorance and misunderstanding, as well as confusion and amusement. He stopped bringing it up, knowing it wouldn’t get him anywhere.

And then one day, for reasons he didn’t understand, the gifts shifted. He still got roses and flowers, usually just in time to replace the previous bouquet in the vase that had made a home in his workshop (although moved somewhere they would be less of a fire hazard). But less often did he get the wine and chocolates and similar classic romantic fare. Instead he found, occasionally, that he would glance up from his work in the workshop at the clock on the wall, and he would realize he’d worked straight through dinner again, and he’d curse his iron-clad focus for a moment before his eyes fell to the counter below the clock to land on a plate containing a full and well-rounded meal, covered in plastic so as to protect it from sawdust or similar mess.

He found that, suddenly and for reasons he couldn’t immediately explain, he tended to have leftovers waiting, labeled with his name, in the fridge despite him not having put them there. He found the shirt he’d discarded as a lost cause after a bad tear washed and stitched cleanly and sitting on top of his pile of clean laundry. He found a spare set of new laces just when he started to wonder if the ones in his boots needed replacing, and his supply of water bottles he kept near his station to stave off dehydration mysteriously never getting any emptier.

And for some reason that flustered him all the more, because flowers and wine and kisses on the back of the hand were nice, were a lovely display to think of and accomplish. But to be thinking of him so often, to notice such tiny details and to keep on top of them and to fix them—without even saying anything, at that! To notice those things meant that Spy was thinking of him so much more than he expected, than he’d ever feel right expecting, was more than he could ever ask from any partner and it just...

He found himself bringing it up one day, chest filled to the bursting and needing somewhere for it to go. He and Spy were sitting together in the smoking room, and Spy had some album playing—worn enough by then that Dell could just barely understand it well enough to parse out that it wasn’t English. Whatever it was, it was low and soothing and non-distracting and filled the room just as much as the warmth of the fire and the lingering smell of exotic spices from some point in the past.

Stronger was the smell of Spy’s cologne, though, there sat next to him, warm against his shoulder. He couldn’t tell much about what it was that Spy was reading, just that it looked to be a play of some kind based on the spacing of phrases, and that it was in Russian. He was sure his own reading was probably significantly less interesting, just being the order form for the next month’s shipment of parts that he needed to parse through.

Easy to get distracted from, was a way he could refer to it. Easy to stop thinking about it and to instead think about the man leaning against him.

“Spy?” he asked softly.

“Hm?” Spy hummed, looking up from his book.

“Why do you keep doing things for me?”

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Spy smirked.

“I’m being serious,” Dell said, voice still quiet.

Spy’s expression didn’t so much fall as it did relax. “Are you?” he asked. “Isn’t it obvious?”

When Dell just frowned, Spy deigned to elaborate.

“I do these things because I care about you, mon cher,” he said simply. “To make you happy, because I want you to be happy, because I care about you and you deserve to be happy. If I’m not doing a good job, correct me so I can do better.”

“It’s not that,” he said quickly, and hesitated. “I just, I don’t understand—“

“—What, why I care? Why you deserve to be happy?” he asked outright, and maybe that was it. Maybe that really was all. And maybe it showed on his face. “Laborer, have you considered that your reluctance to accept my gifts and acts of appreciation are because you’re uncomfortable with the idea of someone holding you to such high value in such a real and tangible way?”

“I—I don’t—that’s—“ he stammered, face going red.

“That perhaps others caring about and valuing you has been either a distant dream or something you imagined to be a reality because you needed the morale to get through the day, and now your mind and emotions are significantly freed up and you don’t quite know what to do with yourself, which is something both new and intimidating for you, someone who always tries to be so in control of your own life?”

“Why the sudden psychoanalysis?” he managed, feeling more than a little bit tense.

“Because I have a feeling you intended for this conversation to be your asking me to not do things for you because you feel you don’t deserve them, and quite frankly I’m stubborn enough that you will never change my mind,” Spy said, and leaned in to kiss him, an ice pack on a sucker punch, startling and disorienting and...

And nice.

When Spy pulled back, he seemed to see the disorientation, and he smiled. “It’s alright that you don’t know what to do yet. It’s alright if you never know. I simply enjoy doing these things for you, as often as I can without treading on your toes or making you feel smothered.”

“You never do,” Dell assured with the part of his brain that was still functioning.

Spy kissed him on the cheek gently. “You are very sweet, Dell Conagher,” he said simply.

“Me? You’re the one who—“

“Shush,” Spy laughed, and gave him another peck. “Just accept that making you happy is what makes me happy, oui? Is that such a strange thing to ask?”

“It feels like it,” Dell admitted.

“Well, perhaps the millionth time I say it, it won’t,” Spy teased.

“You’ll say that a million times?” he asked, incredulous.

“I’ll say it as many times as you’ll tolerate. I’ll say it on the hour every day until you get entirely tired of me or die, whichever comes first—or perhaps at the exact same moment. I’ll learn every language on the planet and say it in each and every one until you can repeat it back to me fluently. Because, mon cher, I mean it, and when I mean something, there isn’t a soul on the planet who can stop me from making it absolutely clear that I mean it, not even the person I love most in the world and his ridiculous, skewed lack of ego. Do you understand?”

The Engineer kissed him, and kissed him, and kissed him, and yeah, he understood. He really did. And maybe Spy was right—maybe he would believe it someday. Maybe someone that stubborn was the only type of person who could convince him.

Time would tell.

#tf2 #team fortress 2 #engiespy #napoleon complex #shut up me #my fanfiction #everybody talks #this be some Gay Shit #also thank you!!

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