I really enjoy your tf2 self aware au! Got me thinking about how each of the mercs would react to like the readers hobbies or like shit that the reader would think is pretty mundane. Like reader talking about how they can sing/draw/cook and the mercs think its the coolest thing. Just hyping them up honestly.
Love your writing, and hope you have a good day 😊
Team Fortress 2 Self-Aware AU: Hobbies
"I like to sing sometimes."
You admitted it offhandedly one afternoon while the two of you were playing a Casual match on 2Fort.
Scout immediately perked up, despite the fact that he was in the middle of making off with the enemy intelligence.
"No kiddin'?" he blurted. "Sing somethin'!"
"I'm not singing in the middle of a match!" you shot back without missing a beat.
"C'mon!" Scout protested. "It wouldn't even be da weirdest thing we've heard over voice chat."
He shuddered dramatically. "I still can't get dat stupid 'Get behind me, Doktor!' dhing outta my head."
You couldn't help snorting at that. The poor mercenary had been forced to listen to players reenact that meme for nearly an entire match. It had clearly left psychological damage.
"Why?" Scout asked, a teasing grin spreading across his face. "Ya scared?"
"No," you insisted. And thank goodness he couldn't actually see you. Because if he could, he'd notice the way your eyes darted off to the side, your cheeks warming ever so slightly.
Scout's grin only widened, as though he could somehow hear your embarrassment through the microphone. "Den sing."
"...I'll think about it," you mumbled after a long pause.
Scout reacted like you'd just handed him the winning lottery ticket. "I GOT A MAYBE!"
He threw both arms into the air in triumph, nearly forgetting the intelligence tucked under one arm.
If it weren't for your constant reminders over voice chat to keep running, he probably would've stopped to celebrate right there in the enemy courtyard.
"You are impossible," you muttered, laughing despite yourself.
"I bake cookies sometimes."
You mentioned it casually during a Competitive match, your attention focused more on the choke point ahead than on the conversation itself.
You hadn't expected much of a reaction. But Soldier stopped dead in his tracks, throwing both hands toward the heavens and gasped so dramatically you almost thought he'd spotted an enemy ÜberCharge.
"YOU CAN CREATE RATIONS?!" His voice echoed through the battlements.
"They're..." You blinked. "...desserts."
Soldier stared at the sky as though you had just revealed classified military intelligence.
"DESSERT RATIONS!" he declared triumphantly.
You couldn't help laughing. "I guess that's... one way to describe baking."
"Negative!" Soldier barked. "That is the correct way to describe baking."
He spoke with the unwavering confidence of someone who had never once questioned his own logic. "You possess tactical food production skills."
"EVEN BETTER!" His enthusiasm was somehow contagious.
Soldier continued as though he were delivering an official military evaluation. "A competent soldier wins battles."
He pointed dramatically into the distance. "A competent baker wins wars."
"...I don't think that's historically accurate."
"History is written by survivors—and survivors require snacks!"
You laughed so hard you nearly missed a callout from the other players.
For a moment, the match faded into the background.
Soldier's booming voice, ridiculous as ever, filled your headset.
Then, after a brief pause, his tone unexpectedly softened. "You are an invaluable asset."
The words were simple, matter-of-fact. And completely sincere.
His usual manic grin seemed to ease, replaced by something quieter—something almost... proud, that it completely caught you off guard.
"...Thanks," you said, smiling to yourself.
To you, baking cookies had always just been a small hobby.
To Soldier, it was proof that you could create something that brought people together, kept morale high, and made bad days a little easier to endure.
In his mind, that wasn't just baking. That was supporting the team.
And somehow, despite all the shouting, patriotic speeches, and spectacularly flawed understanding of reality, Soldier always had a way of making you feel like even your smallest talents were worth celebrating.
You mentioned it casually while the two of you wandered through a Community server, capturing control points at an almost leisurely pace.
There wasn't much fighting going on, so it gave you two just enough downtime for idle conversation.
It was meant to be nothing more than a passing comment.
Instead, Pyro stopped moving entirely. "Mmph?"
Their masked face tilted upward, as if they were looking directly at you through the screen.
You smiled. "...You paint too?"
Pyro nodded so enthusiastically that their in-game camera began bobbing up and down, almost making your own screen bounce.
"...I'll take that as a yes."
"Mmph!" They immediately launched into an animated explanation.
Their gloved hands waved through the air, they spun in circles, pointed at random objects on the map, then back at themselves, all while an endless stream of muffled sounds poured through the microphone.
"Mmph mmph! Mmph-mmff! Mmph!" To anyone else, it would've sounded like complete nonsense.
"...Wait..." you interrupted, trying to piece it together. "You like... bright colors?"
Pyro nodded so hard you thought they might shake their own helmet loose.
Another eager nod. "Orange?"
Pyro practically exploded with excitement, spinning in place while repeatedly looking up and down so quickly that your camera could barely keep up.
You laughed. "I knew it."
The rest of the match passed with the two of you discussing colors. Or... at least, trying to.
You talked about acrylics and watercolor, about accidentally mixing muddy browns when you were aiming for something prettier, about the satisfaction of finally getting a painting to look the way it did in your head.
Pyro answered entirely in muffled noises and frantic gestures.
Somehow, you always understood.
Not perfectly. Not every sentence.
Enough to know when they were excited.
Enough to know when they were describing a favorite color or talking about painting a sunset or flowers—or perhaps flames.
With Pyro, those subjects could honestly be the same thing.
By the end of the round, your team had lost.
The chat quickly filled with complaints, accusations, and the usual arguments that seemed to follow every defeat.
You barely noticed because you were still smiling to yourself.
Because to you, TF2 had never been about winning every match. It was about the moments in between.
The ridiculous conversations. The unexpected friendships. The little memories you carried with you long after the scoreboard disappeared.
And with Pyro, you’d found someone who shared a love for painting without either of you ever needing to explain why.
Somehow, beneath the muffled speech and the gas mask, Pyro made your little hobby feel understood.
That feeling stayed with you far longer than the loss ever did.
"I learned guitar when I was younger."
You mentioned it during a short break between the chaos.
After you had clicked pause, the battlefield had frozen in place.
Rockets hung motionless in the air. Stickybombs sat patiently on the ground. A Heavy remained forever mid-laugh.
For a few blissful minutes, nobody was trying to kill anyone.
From somewhere above, Demoman could hear the unmistakable crunch of chips through your microphone.
You were apparently helping yourself to a snack. Meanwhile, he was doing exactly what anyone would've expected: enjoying a bottle of Scrumpy.
At least he was, until he heard your next sentence.
"I learned guitar when I was younger."
Demoman nearly fumbled his bottle.
"...Ye play music?" he asked, genuine surprise creeping into his voice.
"A little," you admitted with a sheepish laugh.
He looked utterly unconvinced.
"Sae?" Demoman scoffed. "Thon still means ye know hou tae play!"
"It wasn't anything serious." You shrugged, not quite understanding why he sounded so impressed.
"Play fer us sometime!" he said with a broad grin before taking another swig of Scrumpy.
"I don't know..." Your eyes drifted off to the side, despite the fact that the Scotsman couldn't possibly see you. "I'm probably not that good anymore."
"Aw, dinnae sell yerself short." Demoman waved a dismissive hand. "Ye cannae possibly be worse than me after A'v haed enouch scrumpy an decide it's a grand idea tae play the bagpipes."
You chuckled. "Well... bagpipes are a pretty difficult instrument."
"Aye." He nodded solemnly. "They're e'en more difficult after five bottles."
"Or Soldier," Demoman continued, warming to the topic. "The man gets his hands on a trumpet once ivery few months an suddenly thinks he's leadin' a military parade."
"He insists he can sing."
"I don't think I've ever heard him sing."
"Consider yerself blessit."
"He somehow manages tae be off-key while shoutin'."
You couldn't hold back your laughter anymore.
"Okay, okay!" you interrupted between giggles. "I'll take the guitar back up!"
"There we gae!" Demoman pointed at you triumphantly, as if he'd just won an argument. "Thon's ma lass."
The words were spoken so naturally that you couldn't help smiling.
He finished the last of his Scrumpy before casually tossing the empty bottle aside it shattered harmlessly against the ground.
Demo then pushed himself to his feet, slinging his grenade launcher back over one shoulder. "Ready tae get back oot thare?"
You looked over the battlefield, where everyone was still frozen exactly where they'd been moments before. "...Sure am."
You reached over and hit Play.
The world sprang back to life. Rockets resumed their flight. Explosions echoed across the map. The Heavy finally finished laughing.
And within seconds, Demoman was already charging into the fight, cackling all the while.
"Try no tae let us dee ower quickly!" he shouted.
"I'll do my best!" you called back, laughing.
Maybe one day, you'd work up the courage to let him hear you play.
If anyone could convince you that you were better than you gave yourself credit for, it was probably Demoman.
You mentioned it casually while the two of you pushed the payload cart during a Casual match.
The cart was moving at its usual slow pace, and with the constant explosions, gunfire, and interruptions happening around you, there was plenty of time to fill the silence.
You weren't expecting much of a reaction.
After all, it was just a small comment. A little hobby.
But Heavy immediately looked down at you with interest.
"You make clothing?" he asked.
You blinked at the way he phrased it. "...I mean—yeah."
Heavy nodded slowly. "That is impressive."
You couldn't help laughing. "It's really not."
Heavy stopped walking for a moment. Not because of the enemy team. Not because of the payload.
But because he genuinely disagreed.
"It is." His voice was calm and certain. "You take string..."
He gestured with one massive hand, as if imagining the process. "And you make something from nothing."
"It takes time. It takes patience. It takes care." Heavy looked back toward the payload, continuing to push. "That is something worthy of respect."
You went quiet, as you hadn't expected that.
Most people reacted differently when you mentioned knitting. Usually, it was some variation of confusion.
"Why would you do something so boring?"
"Isn't that something old people do?"
"How do you have the patience for that?"
Eventually, you'd stopped bringing it up. It was easier than explaining why you enjoyed something other people didn't understand.
Heavy didn't think it was boring.
If anything, he sounded like he understood it.
Because Heavy knew what patience was. He knew what it meant to take time and effort to create something meaningful.
And maybe, in his own way, he understood the comfort of having something peaceful in a world full of chaos.
A small smile appeared on your face. "Sometimes I crochet too."
Heavy immediately looked interested. "Really?"
You nodded. "Yeah. It's a little different from knitting. You use a hook instead of needles, and you can make different patterns and shapes."
Heavy listened carefully. Not politely. Not because he was just waiting for the conversation to end.
But because he was actually interested.
"Please," he said, his expression softening. "Tell Heavy all about it."
You explained stitches. Patterns. The little mistakes you made and had to undo. The satisfaction of finishing something after hours of work.
Heavy listened to every word.
And as the two of you pushed the payload through the battlefield, surrounded by explosions and chaos, you found yourself talking about yarn.
And somehow, it was one of the most peaceful conversations you'd ever had in a match.
"I like fixing little electronics."
You mentioned it casually while the two of you worked together on setting up a sentry during a Competitive match.
The rhythmic clang, clang, clang of Engineer's wrench hitting metal had brought back memories. Quiet nights spent tucked away in your garage. Old electronics scattered across a table. Random pieces of junk you'd collected just to see if you could bring them back to life.
It was relaxing. Comforting, even.
But you didn't think much of it. It was just a little hobby, after all.
But the second Engineer heard you, he nearly stopped swinging his wrench.
"Ya what?" His head snapped toward you, a huge grin spreading across his face.
You immediately felt awkward.
"Just... fixing things," you explained. "Replacing batteries, soldering wires, putting parts together..."
You trailed off. Compared to Engineer, it sounded almost silly.
This man could build automatic turrets, had literal teleporters and advanced equipment that belonged in a sci-fi film. And that’s not even talking about the other things he could do in the official lore.
You, meanwhile, mostly found broken gadgets in old boxes or discarded electronics and wondered if you could make them work again.
It wasn't impressive. At least, that's what you thought.
Because Engineer didn't seem to agree. "Ya solder?"
"A little," you admitted.
For a brief moment, Engineer went completely silent.
Your stomach sank because you feared that maybe he expected more.
Engineer slowly smiled. "...Marry meh."
Then immediately burst into laughter. "Engineer!"
"What?" he asked, completely serious despite the ridiculousness of the statement. "I mean that professionally."
"That was definitely not professional!"
Engineer just chuckled, clearly far too pleased with himself. "Look, anyone who knows their way around a soldering iron is someone worth keepin' around."
Before you could answer, a voice suddenly interrupted.
The BLU Spy had appeared behind you, fully visible now and looking deeply unimpressed.
Unfortunately for him, your sentry had already noticed and immediately turned.
Spy's eyes widened. "Oh, you have got to be—"
The sentry unleashed a barrage of bullets.
"Spy check!" you laughed.
The BLU Spy quickly disappeared from view again, retreating while probably cursing under his breath.
Engineer shook his head, amused. "Guess tha' fella playin' him wasn't very good."
Somewhere on the other side of the map, a very annoyed Spy was probably planning revenge. But for now?
You and Engineer stood beside your newly upgraded sentry, laughing over a silly little conversation about broken electronics.
And somehow, your little hobby didn't feel so little anymore.
You mentioned it casually in the middle of a Community server match, right after the two of you had finished healing up a teammate.
Thanks to your teamwork, calls for Medic had been surprisingly quiet.
Which meant, for once, you had a moment to actually talk.
You weren't trying to make it sound impressive— honestly, you didn't think it was impressive at all. Lots of people cooked. It was just something you enjoyed doing.
But Medic immediately became interested.
"Vhat is your specialty?" he asked.
You blinked. "My specialty?"
You thought about it for a moment. "Homemade pasta."
You answered honestly. Simple.
Nothing worthy of making a big deal out of.
At least, that's what you thought. Instead, Medic's eyes lit up behind his glasses. "...From scratch?"
You paused. "Yeah? Is not a big deal. It's not like I just confessed I can make five-star beef or something."
Medic stared at you like you had just said something completely ridiculous.
"Liebling..." He adjusted his glasses. "Zhe fact zhat you can create food from individual ingredients is impressive on its own!"
You blinked. "...Really?"
"Of course!" Medic gestured dramatically with his free hand. "You take separate components, combine zhem, and create somezhing entirely new. Zhat is practically science!"
You couldn't help smiling at the way he explained it.
Only Medic could somehow make making pasta sound like a medical breakthrough.
"Plus..." His expression shifted into one of mild frustration. "Hast du seen mein team? Aside from Herr Engineer, most of zhem can barely make toast."
Not a small laugh. Not a polite chuckle.
A full, loud, completely undignified snort.
So loud that you honestly wouldn't have been surprised if you somehow spit onto your monitor.
Medic only smirked. "And zhat is on a good day."
You completely lost it—laughing so hard you had to pull away from your microphone, one hand pounding against your desk while Medic quietly enjoyed your reaction.
Then a message popped up in chat. "What are you laughing about?"
You quickly composed yourself. "Uh—nothing! Just talking to myself!"
You immediately turned back toward the battlefield, rushing toward the next teammate who needed healing as a convenient excuse to change the subject.
And yet, even while you returned to the match, you could still hear Medic's quiet amusement through the headset.
Neither of you said anything else about it, but both of you kept the same little secret grin.
Because somehow, in the middle of explosions, screaming teammates, and a chaotic battlefield, you had managed to make Medic genuinely excited about pasta.
You mentioned it casually during a payload match.
Although, to be fair, there wasn't exactly much for a Sniper to do during these kinds of rounds.
The cart was constantly moving. Enemies were constantly pushing.
And most of the time, the only thing Sniper could really do was pick off anyone who got a little too close.
So between long stretches of waiting and watching the battlefield, the two of you ended up talking.
One thing led to another, and soon enough, you were both sharing your hobbies.
Sniper admitted that he enjoyed birdwatching. That didn't surprise you. Actually, you thought it was a beautiful hobby.
There was something peaceful about sitting quietly somewhere, waiting patiently for the perfect moment to see something most people would overlook.
Which was exactly why you felt a little embarrassed sharing your own hobby afterward. Because compared to that, photography sounded a lot less impressive.
You didn't own some expensive professional camera. You didn't travel to breathtaking locations. You didn't capture rare wildlife or anything like that.
You just had a folder on your phone filled with pictures of things that caught your attention.
Little moments. Things you thought looked nice.
Things that made you stop and think, I want to remember this.
"Yeah?" Sniper's response was simple, because he sounded so genuinely interested.
You glanced away, even though he couldn't see you.
"I mostly take pictures of sunsets." You said it quietly, almost like you were apologizing for it. You weren't sure why.
Maybe because it felt too simple. Too ordinary.
But then Sniper answered. "That's bloody beautiful."
His voice was low and calm. No teasing. No exaggeration.
And somehow, that made the words hit harder.
You smiled, your face warmed slightly as you looked down at your screen. "Thanks."
The two of you fell quiet afterward, but it wasn't an uncomfortable silence.
With Sniper, it never really needed to be.
You didn't need long conversations or constant jokes to enjoy spending time together. Sometimes, just existing alongside someone was enough.
His breathing softly filled your headset. The distant sounds of the battlefield echoed around you.
And every so often, the sharp crack of Sniper's rifle followed by a successful headshot broke the quiet.
It was strangely peaceful.
After a while, Sniper spoke again. "Y'know...you've got a good eye."
It was such a simple compliment. But coming from him? From someone whose entire profession revolved around observation, patience, and noticing details others missed?
It meant more than you expected.
A small smile crossed your face. "Really?"
"Yeah." Sniper paused before adding: "Not everyone notices things worth rememberin'."
You thought back to the pictures on your phone.
The sunsets. The little moments. The random things that had caught your attention.
Maybe they weren't professional photographs. Maybe they weren't perfect.
But someone like Sniper had seen the value in them.
And somehow, that made them feel a little more special.
You mentioned it casually while the two of you waited for Spy to return from respawn.
Fifteen seconds. That was all.
Fifteen painfully slow seconds of staring at the timer while the rest of the match continued without you.
"Hm." Spy gave a noncommittal response as he pulled out a cigarette and lit it.
He glanced upwards toward you. "What?"
"You don't sound impressed."
Spy simply exhaled smoke. "It was merely a comment."
The way he said it, however, made it sound like he was dismissing the entire thing.
And maybe that was why it bothered you. You knew reading wasn't some extraordinary skill. It wasn't like you were saying you could scale mountains or perform some impossible feat.
But still, the least he could do was pretend to be interested.
Especially since you were both trapped in spawn for another few seconds.
You narrowed your eyes. "You're really not impressed."
The respawn timer continued counting down.
Then, just as the doors opened and Spy stepped back onto the battlefield, he spoke. "...What genres do you enjoy?"
You blinked, as the sudden change caught you off guard.
That wasn't what you expected.
Honestly, you didn't talk about your reading hobby much. Not because you were ashamed of it... well. Maybe a little.
You just didn't know many people who enjoyed books the same way you did. You had never joined a book club because the thought of scheduled discussions and forced conversations sounded exhausting.
But Spy? Spy was different.
The man appreciated fine wine. He appreciated art. He appreciated carefully crafted things.
Surely, he understood the value of a good story. Maybe not quite as much as an expensive painting or a perfectly aged bottle of wine, but you knew he'd read poetry. You knew he had an appreciation for romance and drama.
And somehow, that made admitting your favorite books feel even more intimidating.
"It's embarrassing," you finally admitted quietly.
Even though he couldn't see you, you still found yourself looking away.
Spy immediately scoffed. Not cruelly. Almost fondly.
"Chérie..." He said as you made him switch weapons, pulling out his knife as he moved through the battlefield. "Everything is embarrassing before it becomes art."
For a moment, you didn't know how to respond. Because coming from anyone else, it might have sounded like a pretty phrase.
Coming from Spy? It sounded like something he actually believed.
Eventually, you told him the title of one of your favorite novels.
"...It's bad, isn't it?" you asked after a while.
"Non." Spy answered immediately. "It has... feeling."
You looked toward your screen. "Really?"
"You enjoy details most people would overlook."
A small smile appeared on your face.
That was probably the closest thing to a glowing review you were ever going to get from him.
The victory screen appeared moments later, declaring victory for the BLU team.
The other players celebrated as the chat filled with messages, but you barely noticed.
Because Spy had just done something far more surprising than winning a match. He had admitted he respected your taste.
And coming from him? That was practically a standing ovation.
