>>42 Good veriews mate me flake out tank you very mulch

>>43 Aha, thank you! I've never really written either of them before, so I was worried...And yeah, I've noticed that. The person I wrote this for (and myself as well, tbh) finds it kind of irritating that it happens so often. There are so many other things to talk about!

Also, I wrote another thing. Sniper/Spy again. I feel like my mojo is returning to me, but I may be entirely wrong. Either way, here it is?

-----------

Inspiring Artwork: http://monmercenaire.deviantart.com/art/TF2-Accept-No-Substitutes-322731078

“Obviously an amateur and a fool,” the BLU Spy hissed, wrapping his arms around his lover. “Mon dieu, bushman, you’re so naive!” His grip tightened; he squeezed as hard as he dared; he squeezed so he could feel the tremors of the Sniper’s pulse and the warmth that came from his core. What he would give to be able to hold him, all of him, to take that heat and energy and love and touch all of it at once. As always, though, height difference and reality got in the way. There were some things that would always be in the way, he knew that, but other things…if he could stop anything, anyone from separating them, he did it, no matter how much blood got on his hands.

The RED Spy had been in the way. He had been between them. That fool, that lowly thief—he thought that by stealing the BLU’s face, he could take his Sniper. How pathetic. A paper mask and a rose, that was it? That was all he brought? He thought the love of Spy’s wild marksman could be bought with such cheap trinkets? It was insulting. It was idiotic. And worse—it almost worked.

Forget the mask and the flowers; he had been impersonated before. He did not care. What hurt worse than that was the hand on his Sniper’s shoulder, the kiss on his Sniper’s cheek, the removal of his Sniper’s hat, the fingers in his Sniper’s hair. That filled his blood with fire and his spirit with fury, and it drove him forward with a force rivaling that of any explosion that the battlefield had seen—and still, still…it wasn’t the worst part. No, what hurt the worst was the smile, the goddamn stupid naive idiot grin on his face, His face, his Sniper’s face. The pretty face and the rose and the kisses had been enough for him; he was convinced.

That smile didn’t belong to anyone else. It was for him, for the BLU Spy, and any other fool who wanted to try and take it would be introduced to the sharp end of his knife—just like his opposite number. And he took the Sniper’s hat and buried himself in his back and his scent and held him as tightly as he could, trying to convince himself that his lover knew he was more than just a pretty face and the pretense of romance.

—————

BLU Spy was the first man he had ever really…well, there’s a strong word one could use there, one that Sniper shied away from. But for the first time in his life, he cared about the man. He felt for the man. He was more than just a pretty face and the pretense of romance. Sometimes he was a ghost, and Sniper almost felt alone—but suddenly he would be there, everywhere, all over him, and at those moments the lonely bushman would realize he’d never felt so full in his life. And sometimes he was aloof, but then a particularly lewd joke would set him to snorting and giggling and he’d fall over and they’d roll in the dust together, fuck the suit. And sometimes he seemed angry, but when properly poked and prodded it would turn out the spook was just insecure and terrified that they would fall apart. This, it seemed, was one of those times.

He loved these times, just like all the others—he loved all the times and moods and faces and all the things he said, though some he wished could go on forever and some grew irritating when repeated. But he loved his lover’s jealousy because it meant he mattered. He would never provoke it on purpose—that was dangerous for everyone involved—but whenever the Spy began to seethe, whenever he looked at someone with murder in his eyes, whenever he risked a mission for the sake of making the bushman his, Sniper knew he meant something. It wasn’t a necessary behaviour; he would never stray. He couldn’t imagine wanting to leave someone who held him so tight, who sometimes buried his face so far in his skin it looked like he really was a ghost, trying to enter him entirely, possess him. He never meant to make the Spy jealous. It just happened. And God, he felt so cherished when it did.

He didn’t know what RED Spy was doing there, and frankly, he didn’t care. He didn’t give a rat’s ass if the rose was a joke or a trick or even sincere. The Sniper had no idea how much planning and waiting and pining had or had not gone into that moment. There was only one thing he cared about—he had heard it: when his lover’s dagger sang the song of death, the BLU Spy sang along, just a single word: “Mine.”

—————

“Mine.”

And that was it, that was the end. Months of pining, weeks of hoping, days of planning—all for nothing. All of it crashed around his head with a pinprick of pain and a solitary word: “Mine.” That, he was being warned, would be the end of that. He was an unwanted, unnecessary, uncared for distraction. He had no chance. Sniper would never be his.

The unfairness of it all had boiled in the background of his every thought since the day he found out about this—this shameful, this disloyal, this unbelievable thing. This “relationship.” RED Spy hated it, and he did not understand.

He had noticed the bushman’s charms long ago—far before this cretin, this snake, this lookalike, surely. The glint in his eyes, the point of his teeth, the way he would seem predatory one moment and bashful the next, the things that he was skilled enough in to blow Spy’s mind away, the things that he was so clueless about that Spy itched to take him by the hand and help him. And other things, yes, other things he had noticed, in the showers, or while doing, ah, reconnaissance work. Muscles, hard and lean; the way his tongue ran over his lips when he really concentrated; and of course, the impressive anatomy that Sniper, unlike most men, felt no need to cover with boxers and briefs. Most alluring to RED Spy, however, was his musk. He had always prided himself in being able to tell apart any two perfumes or cigars, and men were no different. His teammate’s smell haunted him at night and lingered in his nostrils no matter what he ate or drank or fucked. But what he wanted, he knew, was illegal in his cherished one’s homeland, and approaching him would be nigh impossible. So he watched, he listened, he waited.

He did not watch closely enough. He had no idea how long this affair had been going on, but by the time he discovered it, his doppelganger had a firm, tight grip on the object of his desire. Too firm to be dislodged by all the obvious, logical things—“He is an enemy,” Spy could argue, “you cannot trust him. We are on the same team,” he could try to say, “and could more easily walk together, talk together, sleep together. It might be allowed. We could be allowed. We could be all right. We could be.” But he knew Sniper wouldn’t listen. He was too dedicated—damn it, that was one of the things he admired about him. The whole development left him hopeless, and yet…

At the same time, it gave him hope. The BLU Spy and he were not too different, after all, were they? And could the Sniper not be convinced that he was better, even if only for reasons of convenience? For weeks, he tortured himself with schemes, plans, and follies, each more complicated than the last. But each of them infuriated him, for what value had a relationship gained through subterfuge?

He did not know how it arrived on his desk, but there it was. A single red rose. It was so simple, he thought, so small and sweet and easy to understand. And that was it, he thought—he needed something simple, something that Sniper would not find too deceitful. His plan came to him in an instant—all he needed was an opportunity and a message, and both of those were in his hands. A mask to bring him close, and a rose to show his heart.

He did get close. He really did. His hands touched That Face, his lips kissed That Cheek, his fingers ran through That Hair and it was perfect, so perfect, finally perfect, too perfect. He let his guard down. He died. He lost Him. A knife took his life and a single word took his hope.

“Mine.”

He was a fool, he realized as he fell. An amateur, and a fool. And good Lord, so naive.

>>42 Good veriews mate me flake out tank you very mulch

>>43 Aha, thank you! I've never really written either of them before, so I was worried...And yeah, I've noticed that. The person I wrote this for (and myself as well, tbh) finds it kind of irritating that it happens so often. There are so many other things to talk about!

Also, I wrote another thing. Sniper/Spy again. I feel like my mojo is returning to me, but I may be entirely wrong. Either way, here it is?

-----------

Inspiring Artwork: http://monmercenaire.deviantart.com/art/TF2-Accept-No-Substitutes-322731078

“Obviously an amateur and a fool,” the BLU Spy hissed, wrapping his arms around his lover. “Mon dieu, bushman, you’re so naive!” His grip tightened; he squeezed as hard as he dared; he squeezed so he could feel the tremors of the Sniper’s pulse and the warmth that came from his core. What he would give to be able to hold him, all of him, to take that heat and energy and love and touch all of it at once. As always, though, height difference and reality got in the way. There were some things that would always be in the way, he knew that, but other things…if he could stop anything, anyone from separating them, he did it, no matter how much blood got on his hands.

The RED Spy had been in the way. He had been between them. That fool, that lowly thief—he thought that by stealing the BLU’s face, he could take his Sniper. How pathetic. A paper mask and a rose, that was it? That was all he brought? He thought the love of Spy’s wild marksman could be bought with such cheap trinkets? It was insulting. It was idiotic. And worse—it almost worked.

Forget the mask and the flowers; he had been impersonated before. He did not care. What hurt worse than that was the hand on his Sniper’s shoulder, the kiss on his Sniper’s cheek, the removal of his Sniper’s hat, the fingers in his Sniper’s hair. That filled his blood with fire and his spirit with fury, and it drove him forward with a force rivaling that of any explosion that the battlefield had seen—and still, still…it wasn’t the worst part. No, what hurt the worst was the smile, the goddamn stupid naive idiot grin on his face, His face, his Sniper’s face. The pretty face and the rose and the kisses had been enough for him; he was convinced.

That smile didn’t belong to anyone else. It was for him, for the BLU Spy, and any other fool who wanted to try and take it would be introduced to the sharp end of his knife—just like his opposite number. And he took the Sniper’s hat and buried himself in his back and his scent and held him as tightly as he could, trying to convince himself that his lover knew he was more than just a pretty face and the pretense of romance.

—————

BLU Spy was the first man he had ever really…well, there’s a strong word one could use there, one that Sniper shied away from. But for the first time in his life, he cared about the man. He felt for the man. He was more than just a pretty face and the pretense of romance. Sometimes he was a ghost, and Sniper almost felt alone—but suddenly he would be there, everywhere, all over him, and at those moments the lonely bushman would realize he’d never felt so full in his life. And sometimes he was aloof, but then a particularly lewd joke would set him to snorting and giggling and he’d fall over and they’d roll in the dust together, fuck the suit. And sometimes he seemed angry, but when properly poked and prodded it would turn out the spook was just insecure and terrified that they would fall apart. This, it seemed, was one of those times.

He loved these times, just like all the others—he loved all the times and moods and faces and all the things he said, though some he wished could go on forever and some grew irritating when repeated. But he loved his lover’s jealousy because it meant he mattered. He would never provoke it on purpose—that was dangerous for everyone involved—but whenever the Spy began to seethe, whenever he looked at someone with murder in his eyes, whenever he risked a mission for the sake of making the bushman his, Sniper knew he meant something. It wasn’t a necessary behaviour; he would never stray. He couldn’t imagine wanting to leave someone who held him so tight, who sometimes buried his face so far in his skin it looked like he really was a ghost, trying to enter him entirely, possess him. He never meant to make the Spy jealous. It just happened. And God, he felt so cherished when it did.

He didn’t know what RED Spy was doing there, and frankly, he didn’t care. He didn’t give a rat’s ass if the rose was a joke or a trick or even sincere. The Sniper had no idea how much planning and waiting and pining had or had not gone into that moment. There was only one thing he cared about—he had heard it: when his lover’s dagger sang the song of death, the BLU Spy sang along, just a single word: “Mine.”

—————

“Mine.”

And that was it, that was the end. Months of pining, weeks of hoping, days of planning—all for nothing. All of it crashed around his head with a pinprick of pain and a solitary word: “Mine.” That, he was being warned, would be the end of that. He was an unwanted, unnecessary, uncared for distraction. He had no chance. Sniper would never be his.

The unfairness of it all had boiled in the background of his every thought since the day he found out about this—this shameful, this disloyal, this unbelievable thing. This “relationship.” RED Spy hated it, and he did not understand.

He had noticed the bushman’s charms long ago—far before this cretin, this snake, this lookalike, surely. The glint in his eyes, the point of his teeth, the way he would seem predatory one moment and bashful the next, the things that he was skilled enough in to blow Spy’s mind away, the things that he was so clueless about that Spy itched to take him by the hand and help him. And other things, yes, other things he had noticed, in the showers, or while doing, ah, reconnaissance work. Muscles, hard and lean; the way his tongue ran over his lips when he really concentrated; and of course, the impressive anatomy that Sniper, unlike most men, felt no need to cover with boxers and briefs. Most alluring to RED Spy, however, was his musk. He had always prided himself in being able to tell apart any two perfumes or cigars, and men were no different. His teammate’s smell haunted him at night and lingered in his nostrils no matter what he ate or drank or fucked. But what he wanted, he knew, was illegal in his cherished one’s homeland, and approaching him would be nigh impossible. So he watched, he listened, he waited.

He did not watch closely enough. He had no idea how long this affair had been going on, but by the time he discovered it, his doppelganger had a firm, tight grip on the object of his desire. Too firm to be dislodged by all the obvious, logical things—“He is an enemy,” Spy could argue, “you cannot trust him. We are on the same team,” he could try to say, “and could more easily walk together, talk together, sleep together. It might be allowed. We could be allowed. We could be all right. We could be.” But he knew Sniper wouldn’t listen. He was too dedicated—damn it, that was one of the things he admired about him. The whole development left him hopeless, and yet…

At the same time, it gave him hope. The BLU Spy and he were not too different, after all, were they? And could the Sniper not be convinced that he was better, even if only for reasons of convenience? For weeks, he tortured himself with schemes, plans, and follies, each more complicated than the last. But each of them infuriated him, for what value had a relationship gained through subterfuge?

He did not know how it arrived on his desk, but there it was. A single red rose. It was so simple, he thought, so small and sweet and easy to understand. And that was it, he thought—he needed something simple, something that Sniper would not find too deceitful. His plan came to him in an instant—all he needed was an opportunity and a message, and both of those were in his hands. A mask to bring him close, and a rose to show his heart.

He did get close. He really did. His hands touched That Face, his lips kissed That Cheek, his fingers ran through That Hair and it was perfect, so perfect, finally perfect, too perfect. He let his guard down. He died. He lost Him. A knife took his life and a single word took his hope.

“Mine.”

He was a fool, he realized as he fell. An amateur, and a fool. And good Lord, so naive.

Aaaand I have no idea why that posted twice. Yike.

You're not done yet. Who sent the rose? Tell us who sent the rose, gaddammit.

Damn, Knight, ever single time you post a story, I desperately want to see it continued.

Training, of course, though that one was always meant to be multi-chapter. But also the April's Fool one, the Itsy Bitsy Spyer one, and now this latest Red Spy With Rose one. They are all too good! Such goodness can't be contained within a single chapter, I want to see mooooooooooooore!!!

/Says the person who has been taking over four months to write a 3500-word-long story and is still far from finished. I'm well aware that I'm the last person in the word who can ask others to write more ^^"

>>48 You're seriously too kind, and I'm afraid I've got too many other things in the works to guarantee continuations to all those things--well, except for Training. I WILL finish Training, goddammit. But meanwhile, here's my super-belated, not-well-thought-out, kinda shitty MvM contribution--part one of three.

-----Cold Hard Heart, Chapter One-----

The Sniper liked to think of himself as adaptable. He had to be, really, for all the different places and situations his job landed in him. And so far, he thought he’d done a pretty commendable job of adapting to this particular turn of events. He’d adjusted to the idea of robots after a day or two, even the ones that looked too much like him. And working with the other team was easier to get used to than he’d feared—the BLUs and the REDs turned out to be fairly similar. The only difficulty was having two of everyone now; two Soldiers got frighteningly loud, two Demomen got dangerously drunk; two Scouts were headache-inducing; two Heavies made things a tight squeeze; two Medics bounced horrific-sounding ideas off each other. The Pyros, on the other hand, were actually less hazardous together, and seemed to understand each other better than anyone else on either team could. They spent most free time mumbling off to the side and erupting into raucous laughter. And there was no better brainstorming combination than the two Engineers. Sniper reckoned that was a good thing, considering they were up against an enemy of the mechanical sort. He saw very little of his own opposite number, and even less of either Spy, much to his dismay. He’d thought this might be a chance to make friends, but he supposed it was better if he kept to himself. They had a lot of work to do, and a lot of money to make. Best not to complicate things or act suspicious.

Between fighting, preparing for future battles, and trying to get the occasional good night’s sleep, all of them were kept very busy, and he didn’t actually interact with the BLU Spy until the day they decided to take prisoners—or, as the Soldiers insisted calling them, “loot.” The battered battle-bots had been subdued by the Spies and wrangled by the Engineers, who planned to take them apart to see how they worked and whether or not they had any weaknesses. Sniper shouldered his way to the front of the crowd that was forming around the pile of metal bodies just as the BLU Engineer began to speak.

“Now, we got a lot of prisoners here—yes, Soldier, prisoners; I ain’t callin’ nothing with my partners’ faces on it ‘loot.’ Simmer down. Anyhow, it so happens we got a couple extras, and I thought maybe some o’ y’all might want to have your own crack at them, interrogate them or such. So, if you got an interest in that—” Half a score of riotous, persistent voices erupted before the Engineer could continue; the mercs all seemed to have an opinion to share or a claim to make. It took both Texans firing rounds into the air to get them all to pipe down, while the few quiet team members scowled and stuffed their fingers in their ears. Finally, the BLU cleared his throat and continued. “If you got an interest, come see RED here or myself, and we’ll fix you up. But I’m gonna take those of you who weren’t hollering first, so let’s see…” He peered over the groaning, grumbling mass. “BLU Medic, RED Demoman, RED Heavy, BLU Spy, BLU Pyro, RED Sniper. C’mere, boys. The rest of you, get!”

Reluctantly, half of the mercenaries shuffled off, more inspired by the Engineers’ earlier warning shots than actual obedience. The rest of them crept towards the ominous collection of metallic bodies behind the two mechanics. After looking for just a moment, Medic gave a haughty sniff and shook his head.

“There is no blood in this piece of garbage. Not even any internal organs! What would I do with it? You cannot perform surgery on robots.” And with that, he stalked off.

Heavy nodded in agreement. “Metal man would not get along with Sascha,” he explained before thanking them for the offer and leaving.

“What about you fellas?” Asked one of the Engineers. RED’s Demoman had fallen asleep on the shoulder of BLU’s Pyro, who was trying frantically to either support him or push him away—it was hard to tell, but both of them were edging out of the room. Sniper hesitated. What would he do with a robot? He had a momentary and absurd mental image of him sitting in his roost talking to a de-weaponized machine and pretending it was his friend. That idea was dismissed with a shake of the head—after all, the talking would be too loud and possibly alert an enemy of his location. He was about to step forward and decline the Engineers’ offer, but before he could, BLU Spy strode out in front of him.

“We may choose from any of these?” Both Engineers nodded, and an unhealthily smug smirk stole over the Spy’s face. “I will take this one, if you please,” he asserted, pointing to a cold, lifeless Sniper. “But first, I would like to discuss with you a few modifications.”

The BLU mechanic frowned. “Modifications? What kinda—”

“In private, mes ingénieurs,” the Spy snapped with a glance back at Sniper. The marksman gulped.

“Alright, excuse us, Stretch. We’ll just be a minute,” drawled the RED Engineer to his teammate with a friendly tip of the helmet. Sniper tipped his hat in return, frowning as the two Texans moved to the next room to discuss modifications with the Spy. They left the robot behind. Curious, he gave it a prod, but it didn’t respond. It really did look eerily like him. Sniper glared at it, wondering what that BLU wanted with his lookalike. The spook had a lot of talents, sure, but if robotics had been one of them, he wouldn’t have asked the Engineers for help. Maybe he wanted to interrogate it, but how much could one really get from asking a machine questions? Scowling, he poked through the pile of robots, finding a Spy model in no time. Narrowing his eyes, he met the weapon’s dead, deactivated gaze.

“Now then,” he murmured, half to the robo-Spy and half to himself, “if I was that spook, what would I want with a fake Sniper?” He knew what he would do with a fake BLU Spy. His mental image from a few minutes before pushed its way to the front of his mind, except this time it brought a slight flush to his cheeks. It was too easy to picture himself sitting in his roost with the Spy-bot, talking the day away and pretending the BLU was actually there with him, hanging on to every word. He almost considered it for a moment, claiming the robot for his own, but it would be entirely impractical. The noise factor was still a concern, and besides, what if one of his teammates overheard him? God, he could just imagine the sort of stupid things he would say.

‘You all right there, love? Bit of a rough go today, but I gotcha covered, no worries. You’ll be safe up here with me. Been thinkin’ about this a long time, you and me. Used to watch you through my scope sometimes, y’know—just watch you! Well, yeah, I’d shoot you after a minute, but a bloke’s gotta do his job. And ‘snot like you’re innocent, either, Mr. Backstab. I tell you, you got a mean—well, no use talking about it; all that’s over now. Now it’s just you and me. Though I wouldn’t mind you stabbin’ me with something else, if you catch my drift…’

Sniper groaned and clamped his hands over his reddening face. After years of sitting alone behind his rifle for hours on end, he’d developed a tendency to let his imagination run wild when no one else was around. It kept him from getting bored, but it also led to wild fantasies that had no hope of coming true; he’d been hiding this particular ill-fated crush for years now. Anyway, it wouldn’t do for the three others to come back and find him staring into a robot’s eyes and blushing furiously. What was taking them so long?

Glancing around to make sure no one was looking, he tiptoed towards the door behind which the Engineers and the BLU Spy were discussing the robot’s modifications. He leaned forward, trying to catch what they were saying. After decades in the wilderness avoiding wild beasts and years in the base avoiding backstabbing spooks, he’d developed a keen ear, and he was able to grasp snatches of conversation. He heard his own Engineer first.

“—clear, it has to be the RED Sniper?” He froze. Why the hell were they talking about him?

“Mais oui. That is essential.”

“How come?”

“I have my own…personal reasons.”

“Dagnabbit, Spy!” That was the BLU Engineer. “We ain’t got time for this. You can have the bot, fine, but this—”

His counterpart cut him off. “Hell, speak for yourself, but I think it’s fascinating.”

“Will you do it, then?” The Spy’s voice was cold as steel.

His fellow BLU tried to reply. “Absolutely n—”

“Sure,” the RED agreed, interrupting again. “Come pick ‘im up in the morning.”

“Merci, mon ami. Your cooperation will not be forgotten…”

The BLU Engineer’s spew of choice expletives almost drowned out the sound of footsteps, but the Sniper was able to stagger back from the door just in time to not look suspicious. He turned towards the pile of metal bodies as the three emerged: one triumphant, one excited, and one disgruntled. The Spy strode right past him, stopping before the robot that would still be his. The frenchman had an odd crooked smile on his face as he reached out and tilted the robotic Sniper’s chin up with one finger, the kind of smile that made the real marksman’s skin crawl.

“I will come to retrieve him at seven tomorrow morning. Thank you for making the time to suit my…specifications.” The spook’s eyes never left that cold, dead face, not until he turned to leave. He threw one last glance back at the three of them, calling out one last “A demain, gentlemen” before slipping away. The Sniper could have sworn that before he disappeared, the Spy met his eyes for one breathtaking second. But then, perhaps that was just his imagination again.

“What about you, Stretch?” The RED Engineer asked, jolting him out of his reverie. “You want to get your hands on one of these tin sonofaguns?”

“I…” The Sniper frowned; he wasn’t sure anymore. Certainly, his silly little fantasy was out of the question, but the Spy’s reappearance had reminded him that despite all his daydreams, the BLU was very clever, very dangerous, and not very fond of him. Whatever the Engineer was doing to that robot, it had something to do with him, the RED Sniper, and could possibly end up hurting him. Perhaps the spook was going to spar against a simulation of his fighting style, or perhaps he’d found a way to torture information about the real Sniper from his robotic counterpart. Truth be told, the bushman didn’t understand machines that he couldn’t shoot or drive, so he had no idea what was possible.

He resolved to find out.

“I want this one,” he declared, nudging the robo-Spy he’d been ogling earlier. “And I want those…modifications. Same ones the spook got.”

The BLU Engineer practically snarled. “Now listen here, you goddamn kangaroo—”

“Hey!” The other mechanic snapped, cutting his counterpart off once again. “You better watch yourself around my friend Stretch. No reason to treat him any less kindly than that sneaky weasel, now is there?”

“Alright then, I’ll tell you the same thing I told Monsieur Bizarro back there—we ain’t got this kinda time!”

“Speak for yourself,” replied the RED Engineer with a shrug. “I reckon it’ll be simple enough. Guessin’ you want yours tweaked a bit differently, Stretch?”

The Sniper blinked stupidly. “Ahh…I mean, like I said, same as he got. Except, except this is a Spy, so—you know. Not Sniper. Me. Not me. Spy.”

His teammate seemed to be biting back a laugh. “Sure thing, buddy. BLU Spy or RED?”

“BLU.” His reply was immediate. It was the only thing he was sure of.

The other Engineer swore again. “Does he even know you’re doing this? Seems mighty roundabout to me. And how come you even know what kinda mods we agreed to? He was pretty keen to talk in private, just now.”

“Good questions,” RED Engineer agreed quietly. “You sure you want this? After all, that Spy—”

“Reckon I got a better handle on him than you two do,” Sniper blurted. None of his answers were good ones—the Spy didn’t know he was doing this, he wasn’t sure he wanted this, he had almost no idea what modifications he was asking for, and what he did know he learned by eavesdropping. The Engineers were both smarter than him; he knew he didn’t stand a chance. He kept his eyes down and waited to receive a good telling off, or worse.

Instead, he heard a hearty laugh. He let his gaze shift back up and saw his teammate chuckling and shaking his head. “Reckon you do, Stretch. Reckon you do. My apologies…I gotta have his done first, since he’s gonna be here at seven, but how about you stop by at around noon tomorrow and pick up yours?”

“S-sure thing,” he stammered. He wasn’t sure how that had worked, but he didn’t care. He stumbled out to his camper on shaky legs, wondering what the hell he had gotten himself into. It didn’t matter, the Sniper told himself as he shut the door. He kept the lights off and fell right into his bed. The battle in which they’d secured the robots had been long, hard, and brutal, and while the Medics had made sure he had no lasting injuries, every single part of him was sore. With a stretch and a sigh, he let his eyelids drift close. He’d worry about the modified metal man and the spook’s suspicious intentions in the morning. Until then, it was best to relax. The Sniper let his hand wander between his legs and his mind wander once again to the BLU Spy…

Oh Sniper, you so naive.

I love this so far! I love the description of what the pairs of mercs were like together (like the Pyros being friends, the Medics being ... terrifying friends.) Can't wait to see more, and Sniper's reaction when he sees the "modifications".

Great as always. Your fics never fail to be awesome.

I wrote this for mumbling-mice in an attempt to make her cry. I sniffled a little while I was writing it, but it was probably way more sad in my head than it is in words. God, I hope it's even comprehensible...

-----Sometimes on a Saturday-----

Sometimes a man has nothing better to do than sigh out some old sad story to a piano player at a bar. He'll talk to me about a place he used to live, or a place he used to work, or a car he used to drive, or a woman he used to love. This fellow in particular doesn't usually see much difference between the first three, and has never had interest in the last. He comes down to L'Ombre Bleu every Saturday telling the same tired old tale, hoping it'll finally stumble into the right person's ear.

The place is always some godforsaken desert in the middle of nowhere, and the job is always death. When he tells the story, he brushes over the death, like it's inconsequential, like it doesn't matter. The end of someone's life is just another check in his pocket. There's only one thing matters about the place, and that's the lover he finds there. The lover is something special, someone you'd come to Paris hoping to find and end up losing your mind looking. He always stops when he gets to this part--stops talking, stops moving, stops breathing. The way he tells it, that frenchman could make your heart stop beating, cut it out and make you eat it, and you'd still love him. He's got a million different monikers for him, but not a single real name, not unless you know anyone who'd call their son "Spook" or "Spy" or "Blue." It doesn't seem to matter. It doesn't seem you could fit all of him in one name.

Sometimes, he'll explain, a man had nothing better to do than take another job on his week off, a job where death is nothing to be brushed over. Every time, he'd spend the weekend with his lover, and he'd live for the rest of the week on nothing but cold coffee, stale jerky, and the words that were whispered in that bed. The words were his favourite part, to hear him tell it--not the sex, not the warmth, not the shows the other man would put on for him. The words. They were what let him know that he was handsome, that he was interesting, that he was good in bed. They were what assured him that he was fantastic at his job, that he was a professional, that he was not a monster. Once, they even convinced him that he was truly loved, and that was a difficult notion to shake. The words were what got him through the week alone, when he took an outside job--except for the one time they fought.

He describes the argument as silly, but he never laughs. Something about going out to a fancy dinner, how they couldn't do it because they'd be recognized. The lover, the shadow of a thousand names, didn't seem to care, but the professional, the sad Australian sack leaning against my piano with the weight of too many years--he cared a great deal. What if they'd been caught? What then? He always asks me the question, but he's forgotten the answer, the others he knew long ago who paid the price. All he remembers is the fight, that it was worse than the battle he had to face alone that week, with no Get Out of Death Free card.

The exact nature of that particular job has escaped him by now; it was always just about shooting folks and getting paid. This one, he remembers, was especially tough, because the target wore a mask. A dark suit and a dark mask, making a dark path down a dark alley and doubtlessly plotting some dark deeds. Since he didn't have the usual comfort of his whispered words, he was antsy, impatient, unprofessional. He didn't stop to think. He shakes when he tells this part. The bullet flew, the target dropped; the sniper collected his check and decided to apologize to his lover the next day. He didn't stop to think, not once that late Friday drive home; it all seemed so simple.

They always met in the van on Saturdays. "My place or yours," they would sometimes joke, but as far as he knew, the spy didn't have a place. So the cramped little camper was Their Place, not Mine or Yours. Our Place, he still calls it.

He still doesn't know why he didn't find his lover in Our Place. He called out, he waited, he fumed. Once or twice he's admitted to me that he cried. And then everything clicked in his mind. The dark suit, the dark mask, the dark deed, the dark day. He didn't stop to think. To this day, he shakes when he tells me that he drove right back the way he'd come, to the place where he was suddenly certain he'd shot the only man whose life was worth a damn to him. It's too easy to picture him stumbling out of the van, staggering into that dark, dusty alley, and shouting out every name he's ever called his lover. I always have to stop playing at that point because I hate how the story ends. Not the ending that he tells me, but the real one.

The way he tells it, he went back to Our Place and found the ticket that time, a plane ticket to Paris with a note that said: "I found a restaurant where we won't be recognized. Saturday, 7:30. Dress code: my usual outfit, but bring a name instead of a mask. That goes for both of us. A bientot." He says there was an address scribbled on the back. I don't have to ask him the street name or number. He is here every Saturday, without fail, in the same fading suit. Every week, he asks me a different name, though I know they all mean the same man. Every week, when I shake my head, he wonders if his lover meant next Saturday. He insists the man is alive, that he made it to Paris, that the target that night really was just some stranger.

I don't know what to tell him. Not the truth. I can't tell him that I didn't see him the first time, or the second, or the third. I won't tell him about the replacement they hired for him, because there's little to tell, and I refuse to tell him about my old job, because then I'd have to tell him about the rest. I don't even let him know that I'm the only one who can see him, because then he'd ask why no one else can, and it would all have to come out. Sure, I'd love to assure him that the masked man he killed was not his lover, but then I'd have to say how I know. I'd have to explain that stumbling screaming into a dark alley where you've just killed someone very important isn't a very good idea. I'd have to point to the place on his temple where the first bullet went through, and then I know I would lose my composure.

Indeed, if I got that far, I'd start to tell him how long I'd waited that Saturday night, with my face uncovered for the first time in years and showing real hurt for the first time in decades. I'd admit that I hadn't been able to eat the expensive food, that I'd come sulking back to base to find him nowhere. That I hadn't even been able to find Our Place. I'd have to tell him that for years I thought he'd abandoned me because of that one silly fight, that after all the nights and whispered words I had meant nothing to him. And then, of course, I'd need to explain that I'd only come back to this place, this address, out of bitterness, intending to burn it down the day I quit my job, to remove every reminder of him from my life. I'd probably even own up to how much I cried when I saw him standing there that night, in the once-fancy restaurant that had been knocked down a couple notches to "bar," wearing that stupid faded suit and asking everyone, to no avail, if they'd seen me. I almost thought he was a hallucination. That damned suit is so faded you can see right through it, but then, so is he.

I can't tell him any of that. I can't tell him that he's dead and I'm not. I can't tell him that he's the one that doesn't have a place now, and that mine is no longer in his van but right here, on the dusty piano bench. I can't tell him that I'm the one he's looking for, because if I tell him, he might go away forever, and as much as I hate the story, and how it ends, he's still the one telling it. And now it's me who wastes away alone all week, living on nothing but my lover's whispered words and waiting for Saturday. I can't live without him, so I tell him nothing.

Well, that's not entirely true.

Even though he doesn't know it's me, doesn't recognize me with all the years and without the mask, I did tell him one thing.

Every Saturday, when he comes walking straight through the thick double doors in the suit he must have been buried in, he looks me straight in the eyes, he smiles, and he calls me by my name.

I'm sorry to say, it's not very comprehensible. My brain was so hard at work simply trying to figure out what was going on that I couldn't actually enjoy they story. I had to go back again, with the advantage of hindsight, and study the text just to figure out what happened.
I think it has mostly to do with narration. It's fallen into the Dramatic Vaguely of Vaguely Dramatic Drama, wherein the narrator simply spews an abundance of poetic imagery without taking time to connect the scenes together, or illustrate their relevance to the story, and whilst failing utterly at giving specifics necessary to grasp the story easily. What you end up with is something that sounds pretty and makes no sense whatsoever.
The other thing is organisation. Things are just out of order, and some things are missing entirely--I just didn't have the information I needed when I needed it. How am I supposed to make sense of a description of Sniper's death before you've told me that he's dead? For that matter, how am I supposed to make sense of a description of Sniper's death when you don't include his death in the description? Somehow, he got from being upset in an alleyway to having a bullet in his brain later on, with only the most dramatically vague suggestions as to how. You've got similar problems in almost every element of the story: Sniper exhibits characteristics of dementia for reasons not explained until the end of the story; Spy has become The Pianoman for reasons not explained until the end of the story; the simple fact that The Pianoman is Spy doesn't come clear until the middle of the story...
You've got to tell us things.

It seems to me like the above commentary (I'm afraid I'm not quite sure how to quote posts, forgive me) is criticizing the style of narrative rather than offering any sort of legitimate way to make an improvement.

I can understand why this type of writing might not be to one's taste, but to insist that someone's style is [wrong[/i] merely do to the fact that it doesn't fit your perspective of how writing works seems somewhat close-minded to me.

Not all stories require every detail be spelled out to the reader.

I personally like pieces that are vague like this, as they leave a lot to the imagination and often somehow manage to resonate more with me.

It seems to me like the above commentary is missing the point of the comment it's white knighting against. Try reading the first two sentences again, where you will find the issue at hand is clearly stated.

If Knight wants to be vague and mysterious, that's fine. If Knight is so vague and mysterious that I don't have a clue what's going on in his story, then he has a problem. Yes, a problem. Being able to communicate effectively is a essential to all literature. It has nothing to do with "taste."

>>52-55

I really enjoyed the ficlet itself-- and caught up to understanding it fairly easily. I guess I can't speak to anything else... For me, it worked, it reminded me (in a warm and pleasant, if still heartbreaking, way) of ghost stories I'd read/heard before, or of a particularly gentle, tragic visit to the Twilight Zone.

Granted, it could have been made clearer just why Spy took on the piano playing job, but I didn't find it hard to believe that returning to the scene of an assassination could get Sniper killed.

So, I guess in the end, I don't want to get into any arguments over clarity of communication, because while it is different from taste, it also varies from person to person. I had no trouble with the vague parts or the slow understanding, and that's all I can say. (To be fair, I have been left stumped and baffled by stories that other people got right away, so I don't think it makes me a 'better' reader or anything, it just meant I understood *this* story)

>>52
I enjoyed the story and I love the composition. Looking at the marks of your craftsmanship, I can see the reactions you were aiming for—and you got them in me. Four—four!—times your story threw me for a loop, like an emotional rollercoaster, and it was perfect.

My thoughts/emotions while reading were literally these:

1. Sniper is in Paris looking for Spy, who never shows up. It’s driving him slowly crazy. Spy left him, what a son of a bitch. (Resentment.)
2. Oh god. Oh no, Sniper... oh no. Spy didn’t leave you, he’s dead, you killed him in that alley and you’re clinging to your made-up explanation to keep from accepting the truth. (Sadness/pity.)
3. Wait... if Spy is the pianist, why is he doing this? Why doesn’t he reveal himself to Sniper so they can be happy together? (Confusion.)
4. Oh. No, no, no, oh Sniper. Oh, Spy. Oh, my heart. (Sadness/understanding/resolution.)

The ability to emotionally manipulate the reader is a hallmark of a great story, and yours did it four times! Maybe >>53 is correct that a few extra details and a little less vagueness wouldn’t be bad—if Spy has to guess that Sniper’s ghost is wearing the suit they buried him in, how does he know where Sniper was hit by the bullets? Sniper himself couldn’t have told him and you don’t mention if the ghost is pulling a ‘Sixth Sense’ and showing the wounds that killed him. For that matter, how does Spy know how Sniper died at all? Sniper always tells the story as if he didn’t, and Spy didn’t know Sniper was dead until he saw his ghost at the bar. Maybe a little exposition on this would prevent >>53’s confusion. Still, I understood it easily enough and I think this is a brilliant story, one of the best I have read in the fandom.

As I said on tumblr, this isn’t my otp, but you still just about had me crying at the end. At work. Very awkward. I’ll have to make a note only to read your sadfics in the safety of my own home. Now, please write us a happy one? One where Spy thinks he has lost Sniper, but then they’re happily reunited and Sniper is moved by Spy’s emotional outburst because he wasn’t quite sure if Spy returned his feelings. Yes, something like that, please. To ease my aching heart.

I wasn't going to comment this time because, tbh, I have a MASSIVE case of Angst Aversion. Thus, I'm horribly biased against tragedies.

It's like... I don't like chocolate cake. Somebody could bake the greatest chocolate cake ever, a chocolate cake so good it could make the Gods weep in bliss, a chocolate cake so good it would go down in history as mankind's greatest accomplishment! And my opinion of it would be "meh, it's ok, I guess..."

So, I can't say that I liked this story, due to my personal bias, and was going to say nothing.

But since the other commenters brought up the topic of comprehension, I figured I could be objective on that.

I had no problem understanding the story. I thought it worked perfectly well in a "sixth sense" kind of way: the whole story takes on a completely different meaning upon the reveal of the plot-twist at the end. I didn't find it confusing.

>>57

<i>For that matter, how does Spy know how Sniper died at all? Sniper always tells the story as if he didn’t, and Spy didn’t know Sniper was dead until he saw his ghost at the bar.</i>

I thought these lines made it pretty clear.

"I don't know what to tell him. Not the truth. I can't tell him that I didn't see him the first time, or the second, or the third."

"I'd have to explain that stumbling screaming into a dark alley where you've just killed someone very important isn't a very good idea."

Sniper claimed that he went to the date, even thought Spy was there and didn't see Sniper + Sniper admitted that he did an extremely reckless thing while dealing with the assassination of a very important person, right before the date = Sniper was killed in that dark alley and became a ghost.

I imagine that somebody like Spy, who is surely very familiar with the countless ways a job can go wrong (especially since he started working with Respawn, allowing him to actually learn from his deaths), can easily tell what mistakes will cost you your life.

Now, please write us a happy one?

I vote for a sequel to the April's Fool one or the Itsy Bitsy Spyer one or the Red Spy With Rose one, please ^^



In any case, can we stop referring to disagreements with other commenters as "white knighting"? White knighting means defending somebody for the sake of playing hero and looking good. It's extremely patronizing to call another commenter a white knight, because it implies that their opinions are just a shallow excuse to show off, that they don't know what you are talking about.

It's basically "you couldn't possibly say that you disagree with my criticism because you honestly do! There is no way you've actually given your opinion any thought, or else you'd believe the exact same thing I do! Clearly, you are just kissing up to the author like a mindless fangirl/boy!"

To which my reply is "fuck off." I only respect other people's opinions for as long as they respect mine.

That was absolutely stunning. It was incredible. I almost want to elevate it above fanfiction and call it "literature". It makes you look deep and think about it. This may be what confuses some people, but sometimes a good story doesn't just lay it out for you, but makes you ponder what was written.

And the style of the story telling was so very different and well done. I very much enjoyed it. One thing I wonder, and is sort of left to the imagination, is whether Sniper's ghost is real, or if it's Spy's hallucination. I cried. I really did.

Holy wow, I never expected this sort of response to that story. Honestly, whether you liked it or not, I'm honored that you're talking this much about it and glad to be getting some concrit as well as compliments. It was written hastily and with a specific person in mind, which probably contributes most to the confusion, and for that, I'm sorry. I'll try to do better in the future! I'm glad I was able to make some of you cry, and holy shit--literature?! Anon, you are actually being too nice to me.

Anyway, I dunno if you'd call this "a happy one," but it's a silly one. It was supposed to be about two lines, but I'm crapall awful at keeping things short. I'll be writing actual serious things that I put thought into again soon, but for now I just had to respond to this post: http://mumbling-mice.tumblr.com/post/32556031345

-----For Men-----

“Do they make those shirts for men?” Sniper asked his teammate as he plopped down at the table.

Pyro looked up, surprised. It had taken her a few months working for RED before she felt close enough to the guys to wear her street clothes around them, but she’d been trading her uniform for something more comfortable almost immediately after battle for the past few weeks. Her coworkers’ reactions had been pleasantly surprising—all of them were fine with her femininity; most had guessed her sex before the big reveal, and Medic had known all along. Since there were no other women at the base, she felt no need to worry about what she was wearing, but sometimes she liked to dress up just for the heck of it, especially since she’d spent so long wearing nothing other than that damned stuffy uniform.

She was confused, though, by Sniper’s reaction to her shirt. It was supposed to be nice, sure, but it was a decade or two out of style by now, and patterned in a way that she personally found appalling. Had it been cut to show off her cleavage, she might have thought the bushman was hitting on her, but no. And why did he want to know if they made it for men? It seemed pretty clear to her that they wouldn’t—the colours shifted between turquoise and pink, and the whole thing was covered in disgusting embroidered flowers. It had been a better choice than all of her lumpy sweatshirts, but most of her finer things were tumbling in the dryer, and here was the Sniper questioning her about her ugly and obviously feminine shirt. She scowled. “You making fun of me?”

“What? No, never!” Sniper looked almost hurt. “I’m asking you a question, mate. Do they make ‘em for men?”

“What’s it to you?” She asked, wary. “Looking for something to wear other than that dusty old thing?” Unlike Pyro, the bushman had yet to wear his street clothes around the base, preferring to wear his worn red shirt until the smell grew unbearable and then walk around shirtless while he washed it.

He shook his head. “Nah, got plenty of other shirts. Just don’t wear ‘em out here; don’t want ‘em getting dirty, smelling like blood and piss.”

“Like you, you mean?”

“Oi!” Sniper plucked his hat from his head and gave her a playful whack with it. “Only when I don’t shower,” he admitted with a chuckle. “But I take nice care of my shirts.”

“Look, Sniper, do you really think they make these for men?” Pyro twisted in her seat, trying to expose her teammate to as many views of the strange, flowery shirt as possible. “It’s hard enough to find a woman that’ll wear this…”

“I mean, I dunno, that’s why I asked. But I wouldn’t be surprised. I’ve got one, actually, looks kinda like that, only the sleeves…”

As he went on, Pyro came to an important realization: no one would ever appreciate this shirt the way Sniper did. Her course of action became more and more clear to her as he continued to describe his seemingly horrifying wardrobe—finally, after about fifteen minutes, she interrupted him, unable to take it a moment more. “Do you know how to sew?”

Having received an affirmative answer, she dashed upstairs, leaving Sniper behind and bewildered. When she came back a few minutes later, she was wearing a lumpy sweatshirt and carrying a small rectangular box.

“When’s Smissmas, again?” Pyro asked casually, sliding back into her seat.

“Few months from now,” grunted Sniper. He had become absorbed in the morning paper while she retrieved the package.

“Well then, I guess that Smissmas came early this year!” As she spoke, she slid the box out from under the table and waved it in her teammate’s face. At first he looked confused, even a little miffed at being distracted from the crossword, but as soon as he opened the package, everything changed. His eyes widened, his mouth gaped, there was a glimmer in his gaze, and his tensed shoulders suddenly relaxed. He looked from the present to the Pyro to the present and back.

“A-are you sure?” He asked weakly.

“Positive. You’ll have to bring the chest in a little, and maybe lengthen the sleeves, but—”

“Ahh, you’re the best, mate!” He started to shift forward for an embrace, and Pyro pulled back, but there was no need—Sniper was simply hugging his new ugly shirt to his face. “I owe you one…Think a gold chain would go well with this?”

Pyro blanched. She had opened a can of Australian fashion worms, and there was no turning back…

bahahaha, oh, Sniper, you precious, fashion challenged man...

Sniper and ugly shirts, an OTP we can all agree on.

So obviously, since I have at least two stories going right now and a bunch more in the works, the thing to do is ignore all those and write this useless piece of porn.

-----The Partial Observer, Observed-----

The camera was state-of-the-art, a video-capturing device of such caliber that it could only be accessed by wealthy Australians or employees of TF Industries. On its gleaming tripod it cut an imposing figure: cold, but tinted with a warm, delicious promise. Shaking fingers opened the casing, inserted a blank tape, and closed it again. The hands that stroked the record button were already wanton with expectation. They straightened the subject's accoutrements, and with one final cough, he stepped into the frame.

The Sniper's face wore a nervous smile. He'd never really done this before, wasn't sure where to start, what to say, what to do. The usually fearless mercenary rocked from side to side on the balls of his feet and rolled his head back until his neck cracked. Close your eyes, he told himself, deep breaths. You know what you want. Planting his feet firmly, he faced forward, staring right at the camera.

"Fancy seeing you here, spook." A smirk. "Can you handle your own bloody job for once, or do you need me to hold your hand again?" He raised one eyebrow, pretended to wait for a response, then laughed and continued. "Yeah, nah, guess I wouldn't mind. In fact..." He made a show of removing his hat, examining it critically for a moment before looking right back up at the lens with an ear-to-ear grin. "Wouldn't mind grabbing a bit more of you than that."

The hat dropped to the floor. As he removed his shirt buttons one by one, making a show of each patch of revealed skin, he couldn't stop thinking about how strange the whole thing was. The mercenary was painfully aware that he was posturing himself seductively when no one was there, and that he extensively flirting with an imaginary person. He was talking to himself, talking dirty to himself, and the little metal box wasn't anywhere near as appreciative as a real man would be. Still, when he got his shirt completely unbuttoned, he let his left hand stroke and accentuate his lanky, wiry body, while the fingers on his right hand came into contact with a nipple and began to rub and circle it in all the ways that he knew the Spy loved. The RED Sniper shirt was finally shrugged to the ground and he stretched, drawing the moment out a little longer than necessary.

He hoped the walls really were soundproof. This was something he did not want to explain to Soldier. His head tilted towards the bed behind him, beckoning. The camera whirred quietly, recording the way the Sniper turned around, showcasing his back--though it was hard to say whether Spy would be more interested in the muscles or the backstab wounds. Imagine he's here, he reminded himself. You can pretend, I know you can.

Two hands--one gloved, one ungloved--planted themselves on the mattress, and he leaned forward, letting his ass jut out so that it would be ideal for the Spy, were he there, to grasp at it, to squeeze it, to slide beneath his jeans and fondle it, to bite it, to spank it...He let his hips move--nothing silly or feminine, just a subtle side to side to make it clear what he was offering. And in case that wasn't enough, he threw a cheeky grin over his shoulder and spoke, once again, to the lens.

"What're you waiting for, Spy? Got qualms about doing the whole 'dirty bushman' deal? Heh, I guess I am pretty dirty..." He rolled his shoulders back, letting the motion travel all the way down his torso. "How 'bout you help me out of my filthy things?"

With a final chuckle, he slid his hands off the mattress and occupied them with his belt. When it was off, he tossed it to the side with the RED uniform shirt. The camera caught the sound of the Sniper unzipping his fly, but the film was being impressed with image after image of the bushman's backside in a lonely room with a single bed. He inched his jeans down at an excruciating pace, slowly but surely revealing the bare flesh beneath--no boxers, no briefs, just firm, rounded buttocks. Finally, after having fully traced the curve of his ass, he let the jeans drop to the ground, not bothering to step out of them. His hands, now free to roam, squeezed his own cheeks, spread them, massaged, smacked, and stroked. One finger slid down the center and found his hole, and he looked over his shoulder once again, imagining that the man he wanted was there.

"What, not good enough of a view for you? Something else you wanna see? Yeah, alright..." He brought his hands back in front of him, out of the camera's view, and then with one final smirk at the lens, he began to turn.

Truth be told, he was starting to get used to his metallic companion. The original awkwardness was wearing off, and the unblinking gaze of the lens sent a thrill to his very core--no one was there, no one was watching or judging him, it was only himself and the machine. He had complete control over the tape and where it ended up. He could do whatever he wanted. And oh, he wanted this. His intentions for the tape briefly resurfaced in his mind, joned forces with the intoxicating effects of freedom, and went straight to his cock. His cupped hands were unsuccessful in their attempt to hide his full arousal from the camera as he slowly turned to face it, but didn't take away from the sight of him slowly revealing himself. His fingers slid up, up, first letting the camera see the base, then the length, then finally the tip. A smear of precum ended up on his thumb, and he was tempted to lick it off, but knew that he couldn't. He smeared it across his chest instead. His jeans, still pooled around his ankles, were finally kicked off. He was ready.

It was a good thing that the Spy loved the Sniper's smile, because in that moment, fully naked and open in front of the camera, he couldn't keep himself from grinning. He almost never got a chance to be truly and completely nude at the base, and he certainly never got to display himself like this, erect and wanton. Just thinking about it made him more eager, and he shook with the difficulty of moving slowly as he gave his cock light, teasing strokes, making sure to tug at the foreskin and slip over the head.

"Wanna see something good, spook? Want me to put on a show for you? Yeah? I'm gonna make you moan like a bitch in heat, just you wait." He reached into the pillowcase and pulled out a small, crinkled tube, squeezed something slick into his palm, and then coated his fingers with it. His body was lowered carefully to the edge of the bed, positioned so that the camera could see as much of the area between his legs as possible. Showtime.

His left hand returned to his cock, teasing and stroking, while his right hand slipped lower, searching for his entrance. He'd done this a million times in bed before, but always under the sheets, always in the dark, and never with any record of it. Being this exposed sent a rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins, and he couldn't hold back a low, desperate keen. Remember who you're doing this for, he told himself, and he slid his index finger in.

"Spy..." He moaned, simultaneously pumping and penetrating himself. "Fuck, fuck, Spy, fuck me--" It wasn't the most intelligent dirty talk, but he was already losing touch with his wit and his self-control. The camera looked on in silence as the man on the bed fucked himself, his hips rocking and his cock throbbing, and recorded every groan, every sound of flesh on flesh in the otherwise quiet room. It couldn't show the fingers crooking inside the Sniper, but it did show the desperate expression on his face when they hit the prostate.

Every moment made it harder for him to control himself. "Sp...Spy..." Soon he had three fingers inside of him, and his cock twitched in his grasp. He was getting close. "Sp...oh God oh God oh God, S--S--Sp--aahhh..." His eyes were tightly shut, his mouth gaping with ecstasy, inhaling on a high pitch and exhaling low. Remember, remember, there was something he was supposed to remember, but it wasn't important now, everything took backseat to absolute sensation; his muscles spasmed on the brink of orgasm. Unable to restrain himself, he screamed the name of the man he wanted, craved, whose touch he needed--

"Sniper!"

It was over.

The sound of heavy breath echoed off the walls and the camera's microphone. The film impartially recorded the man's slide from the edge of the bed to the floor, how he curled up and covered his face.

The Spy swore under his breath, slipping his fingers behind the Sniper mask and pulling it off. It fluttered to the ground next to the trembling, naked frenchman. No longer encouraged by the camera or his own arousal, he scrabbled for the Sniper's clothes, still crumpled on the floor. He pulled them close to himself, covering his crotch and casting glances about suspiciously to reassure himself that no one was watching. He never let anyone see him like this: exposed, emotional, frantic, splattered with his own release...

No one except the camera. The Spy glared at it from his huddle on the floor, as if daring it to tell anyone what he looked like naked, how he pleasured himself, or who he fantasized about. Perhaps this had been a bad idea, he thought--but no, he'd already put too much work into it to give up now. Modifying the mask so as to allow for removal of the Sniper's clothes and perfect mimicry of the man underneath them, stealing a uniform from the man himself so that the garments wouldn't change into pinstriped finery own as soon as they were shed, and of course, acquiring the camera... Too much work, far, far too much work for him to throw it all away.

He scooted out of the frame, then cautiously stood so that he could turn the camera off. His hands were still shaking as they pulled out the tape, but now they vivid not with nerves or lust, but with rage--fury at himself for ruining everything at the last moment. He would have to do it all again; to work himself up for a week with fantasies of the Sniper offering himself up, to finding time in his schedule to film himself pleasuring himself while wearing the Sniper's face, and he'd have to master his self-control enough not to scream the wrong name. He groaned in frustration, flopping back on the bed and wrapping himself in blankets, covering as much of his thin, pale body as possible.

The tape was ultimately unusable, he mused, but nothing was perfect on the first go. In the morning he would watch it, critique his own technique, and mark down things he would have to do differently next time. He'd get it right soon enough. Before long he would be able to watch the Sniper strip, stretch, tease, writhe, moan, scream, and come for him. Maybe he'd even make more than one video; God knows just one piece of erotica gets tired after a while. He could experiment with different toys, maybe even costumes...Soon, however, his plans were drowned out by the post-orgasmic buzz filling his brain, and he rolled to the edge of the bed so that his arm could drop down and fish once more for the Sniper's clothes. He pulled them up and hugged them tightly, ignoring the fact that his torso was sticky and smelled like sex. All of that was overwhelmed by the softness of the shirt, the coarse realness of the jeans, and the fact that they both still smelled like him. He buried his face in the stolen fabrics and inhaled deeply. The fantasy of the Sniper's presence took over his mind, and as he drifted into sleep, his face resolved to a calm, bittersweet smile.

I beg to differ, this porn is definitely not useless. This porn is much-needed.

I had to go back and re-read the beginning after the reveal and I really loved the extra layer of meaning it gained, just, yes, very good. This might be my favourite instance of that particular type of solo porn...

I suppose this is you?

http://louderthanthemelody.deviantart.com/art/The-Partial-Observer-Observed-332304738

Yup, you found me! I'm also this:
http://knightspooky.tumblr.com/post/33519314552/the-partial-observer-observed

And eventually, when I feel like fucking around with Word, more of my stories will be on this:
http://www.fanfiction.net/u/3420023/darkwhitewolf

Oh, good then. I was just afraid someone stole your gorgeous fic. Wouldn't be the first time.

Ahh, thanks for your concern--yeah, I used to try to have a different username on everything, before I realized it was way confusing. I would change my deviantArt name, but you have to spend money to do that, soo...

But yeah, I don't think anyone's ever stolen one of my fics--one time, somebody thought Anne wrote one of my shorts, but that was just a result of confusion and it actually seriously bolstered my ego because I look up to Anne a lot, aha--

>>63 By the way, Anne, I don't know if I've mentioned this before, but every time you comment on something I write I just freak out internally. You're my hero.

This one time, someone on tumblr suggested imagining your otp playing chubby bunny and I complained because I worked as a camp counselor this summer, and we were all taught that chubby bunny was a dangerous game, and then Loco said that death by chubby bunny sounded romantic, and then this...happened?

-----Chubby Bunny-----

It was the Spy’s idea. The Sniper had bought the giant bag of marshmallows, intending to have a campfire outside, but the days were growing short and the nights were growing cold, so his french lover suggested that they consume the treats inside instead.

“Besides,” the Spy purred, “now we can make it a game.” He popped a marshmallow into the Sniper’s mouth, where it was immediately chewed and swallowed. He clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “Non, non, bushman, like this—” And with that, the Spy pushed a marshmallow between his own lips, pursing them suggestively around the round, succulent treat before moving it back behind his teeth. “Chubby bunny,” he managed without much difficulty, though it was harder to enunciate “Your move, jarman” without sounding incredibly silly.

The Sniper had to laugh. He thought the whole idea paled in comparison to a nice night by the fire, where they could roast their own food and sing songs and look at the stars, but it didn’t matter. As long as he was with the Spy, he was happy—and how could he not laugh when the love of his life was not only sitting right next to him, but also making ridiculous faces and talking around a mouthful of marshmallow. Grinning, he grabbed a sweet and got in the game.

Soon, both of them had mouths full of ‘mallow and big swollen cheeks, and pronouncing “chubby bunny” became a more arduous and ridiculous task. The Spy reached forward to squish the Sniper’s cheeks, but his hands were batted playfully away. With a snort, the frenchman rocked back, suddenly straightened, and adopted an intensely serious expression. He looked his lover dead in the eyes, chubby cheeks and all. The bushman was shaking with mirth before the Spy even opened his mouth, and when he finally tried to say “chubby bunny,” the Sniper dissolved into a fit of hysterics.

Regaining his composure was impossible, and he couldn’t get the full phrase out. “Ch-chubb—” The Spy was still wearing that ludicrous serious marshmallow-stuffed pout, it was too silly— “Churb—ch—” Had his mouth not been full of sweets, he would have been cackling like a madman, but as it was, his laugh came out as a sort of choked grumble— “Chorbabor—!!”

The Spy’s eyes widened with sudden alarm. His lover was still shaking, but there was a new desperation in his eyes, and his complexion was growing less and less healthy. The choking sounds didn’t seem so silly when the Sniper fell to the floor, his limbs twitching. The Spy leapt to his feet, terrified.

“Mon amour! Are you alright? Should I take you to Medic?” was what he tried to say, but all he could manage was “Mormnrormnr” before he, too, started to choke. He sank to his knees next to the shuddering Sniper, one hand on his own throat and the other reaching out to hold the hand of the only man he’d ever truly cared about. But something was happening to his motor skills; with his brain deprived of oxygen it became harder and harder to grasp at the bushman, and that hand he wanted to hold seemed to jerk out of reach at the last minute.

The Sniper was growing pallid; he looked like death. Half-chewed, moist marshmallows were oozing out of his slack-jawed mouth, but it was too little, too late. It was all he could do to turn his head and look at the Spy, who was beginning to slump to the ground. “Orr lorrb ooh,” he choked. “Lorrb ooh.”

There were tears in the frenchman’s eyes, though whether they were due to his lover’s last words or his own asphyxiation was difficult to tell. “Orr lorrb ooh trrr,” he gasped. “Jrr torm…” Saliva was dribbling down his chin, and his eyes were half-lidded, but in his last moments, the Sniper still would have sworn the Spy’s face was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. Happy to die in his soulmate’s gaze, he stopped struggling, stopped twitching, and stopped living.

This would have been the final straw for the Spy even if he hadn’t been choking to death on marshmallows, because the bushman’s life was more dear to him than his own. As it was, tears bathed his face, mixing with snot, saliva, chewed-up marshmallow, and a little bit of blood that seemed to be coming out of his nose. He collapsed, disgusting and broken, to the floor. The whole thing had been his idea. If he had listened to the Sniper, they would be sleeping under the stars right now, not asphyxiating in a dirty, smelly camper. The regret would have stuck in his throat, had there been any room left by the marshmallows. “Arr rorrrvrr,” he gasped, and breathed no more.

They were found there days later, swollen and lifeless, surrounded by the sickly sweet stench of the food that had killed them. Respawn did not pick them up, because while they had died countless stupid, pointless deaths on the field, none of them were as senseless and idiotic as this. Marshmallows were their dumbest and most final end.

I feel like a horrible person for laughing at this but it IS horribly hilarious. As always, love to see updates from ya knight! Even if they are morbidly hysterical.

Thank you, Knight.

And we all learn a valuable lesson about marshmallow safety (and everyone knows any lesson worth learning can be taught via OTP).

Thanks, all! I've been in a bit of a rut recently, to be honest, because school's keeping me super busy, but I'm trying to get myself back into the swing of things. I wrote something tonight, but I'm super rusty and also kind of tired, so it may not be up to par. We'll see how I feel about it in the morning, but for now, y'all can read it--as always, please feel free to crit the fuck out of my writing.

----------

Inspiring post/artwork: http://ruumiinlaulaja.tumblr.com/post/36354616252/seeriotsdraw-wreck-it-wemble-jmandrake-he

The white plastic telephone gleamed under the cheap fluorescent lights, ominous as ivory or marble. Its corners were scuffed, its numbers were faded, and its cord was chewed, but it had recently been given a polish, and already it outshone the man at the desk. The fidgeting figure in the swivel chair had dispatched high-level gang members and low-level politicians without batting an eye, and could wrestle teeth out of a live crocodile’s mouth, but here in this world he was out of his element, out of his comfort zone, and, even though the phone had yet to ring, already out of his mind.

The Sniper didn’t want to be there. One try, he had promised his dad, one go at an honest profession with a desk, a cubicle, an office, a steady salary, and coworkers who wouldn’t try to kill him when the work day was over. It was ridiculous, honestly—the old man hadn’t worked indoors a day in his life, and here he was forcing his son to be some sort of paper-pushing shut-in. The Sniper liked to tell himself that was why he’d picked this job: instead of being a respectable nine-to-five salaryman, he’d stick it to his dad by becoming a phone sex operator. That, he told himself, was the reason, and not the fact that nowhere else would even consider hiring someone who hadn’t had a job with proper paperwork in the past two decades.

A harsh trilling noise brought him back to reality. Shit, the phone! He took a breath to steady himself, but the more he thought about what he was about to do, the more he trembled. A second breath. A third. The phone was on its fifth ring before he managed to pick it up.

“G’da—er—hello? How may I, uh, be of assistance with your…what can I do for you?”

There was a pause, then a velveteen chuckle oozed through the receiver. “My my,” it cooed, “you sound out of breath already. Let me guess—first day?”

It was a man. Oh God, oh God, what was he supposed to do? He had been expecting lady callers! “I, er, um. D’you have the right number?”

The voice on the other end erupted into a full-blown cackle. “Aha, you really are new at this! Yes, mon ami, I have called this number in the hopes that I might hear another man’s voice whispering filthy, wonderful things into my ear. Do you think you could do that, or shall we call your supervisor?”

“N-no!” He didn’t want to have to talk to the boss about his very first call! After all, they had told him that men called sometimes, he just hadn’t expected it right away…He’d never been intimate with a man before, but he had signed up for this job, and by God he was going to do it. He glanced at the sign taped to his cubicle—‘Be hot, be naughty, be professional.’ Right. Here goes…”Sorry about that, you startled me is all. First day, new job, you know how it is. That accent—you from France? You’re not calling from there, are you? That’d be a hell of a long-distance bill…”

“You’ve never talked dirty to a man before, have you?” The stranger’s tone was infuriatingly teasing.

“So what if I haven’t?”

“This will be your first time, then…Mmm, I am going to enjoy this. Let me help you, petit—tell me about yourself.”

“Um, well, this is my first time working this kind of, ah, establishment, but you already knew that…Used to do sheep farming out with my folks, then got into more of—well, I guess you could call it freelance work—”

The voice was laughing again. “As fascinating as these details are, cheri, what I meant was tell me about yourself right now. What are you wearing? What do you look like? How do you feel? What do you want to do to me?”

He struggled to remember all four questions, fearing that forgetting one might be deemed unprofessional. “Uh, lessee…Got on a white polo, a red tie—that’s my favourite colour, red is—slacks, um….”

“Boxers? Briefs?”

“Er…” He flushed. “Neither.”

A low whistle came through the receiver. “Oh my, lucky me…How tight are your slacks?”

The Sniper squirmed in his seat. This strange frenchman was obviously imagining him naked, thinking about his cock, wanting to touch him; it all seemed so alien and foreign. To make matters worse, something about the other man’s voice was making him hyperaware of the rough fabric of his slacks rubbing against him as he fidgeted—and he was rather enjoying it. “Pretty tight, I guess. I can feel ‘em, rubbing on me—”

“On your cock?”

“Y-yeah.”

He thought he heard a suppressed groan before the other man continued. “Please, tell me what you look like.”

The questions from before! Of course! “Um, alright, I guess. Taller than most blokes, not too muscular for an Australian, but still got some good definition, sideburns…” Be hot. Be naughty. “Got some, ah, a good amount of hair on my chest. And scars, scars from my big-game hunting days.” That was something people liked in men, wasn’t it? Hair and scars and muscles?

“Mon dieu, you sound delicious…” The Sniper beamed; he was doing a good job! He tried to ignore the flush of heat that he felt at being described as ‘delicious’ and chalked it all up to professional pride. “Are you cut or uncut?”

“Told you about the scars, didn’t I? I mean, most of those were bites, not cuts—”

“Your cock, cheri, are you circumcised?”

He blanched. He hadn’t even thought of that. “Oh, um, yeah, no, u-uncut.”

“Perfect.”

“And, ah, in answer to your third question, I’m feeling…” How was he feeling? He had to stop and think a moment. “Little overwhelmed, honestly.”

The voice was incredibly soft. “Are you afraid?”

He bristled. “No!”

“Nervous?”

“…Yeah.”

“Uncertain?”

“Yeah.”

“Uncertain of what?”

“Mmm…What I’m doing. How to do it. Whether it’s even a good idea. Whether—whether I might enjoy it too much.” Oh, now he was admitting more to the stranger than he had to himself.

“How much is too much?” It was amazing, how he could sound so genuinely concerned and warm, and at the same time seem to lure him towards something new, crazy, and dangerous. Perhaps it was the fact that he sounded like he cared that scared the Sniper so much.

“Enjoying it at all is too much.”

“And why is that, cheri? What’s wrong with loving your job?”

“The job’s fine. Loving another man, though…”

The voice on the other end laughed. “Mon ami, I am not asking you to love me. I am asking you to speak to me while I touch myself. I know it is your first day, but surely that’s not too tall an order?”

The Sniper gulped. That exchange just now, that hadn’t been professional at all. Time to return to the questions. “What I’d like to do to you…” He bit his lip. Should have thought this one through.

“You have no idea, do you?” He could practically hear the smirk on the other man’s face. “Mmm. I can just picture you, sitting there in your crisp, tight new work uniform, your rough, scarred body chafing against the fabric, your big Australian cock rubbing against your regulation slacks…” The Sniper tried to ignore the rush of blood to his lower regions— “Yes, I can picture you trembling—are you trembling?”

“Y-yes.”

“Do not worry, mon ami, there is no need to fear; I’ll take care of you…Tonight, you are fresh and uncertain, but by the time we are through you will know what sort of things a man can do with another man. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Y…yeah.” He did his best not to think about the truth in what he’d just said.

“Well then, shhh, let me…Do you know what I would like to do to you?”

“Lotta things, I guess. Kiss me, maybe?” It seemed like a good place to start; he figured men did that the same, at least.

“Mmm, yes—I would love to grab your bright red tie and pull you right up close to me, to kiss you…To run my fingers through your hair, to touch my lips to your lips, to put my tongue in your mouth, to move my mouth all over your body…I would love to taste you. Do you want to taste me?”

“God, yes.” Was he allowed to ask the other man those questions? What was he wearing, what did he look like? What did he taste like? “Bet you taste real nice…”

“You’ve never tasted another man, have you?”

“Nah.”

“Oh, but you have been depriving yourself. Do you know what I would love to do to you?”

“What?”

“I’d love to come and hide under your desk, unzip your tight little slacks while you work, and suck you off, right there in the middle of the office.”

The Sniper’s breath caught; his slacks were becoming tighter by the moment and he couldn’t hold the questions in any longer. “What are you wearing?”

“Oh? You want to know? How delightful…If I were to come into your office, I would favour a three-piece suit, tailored and well-cut, all the better for the professional setting. Right now, however? I am wearing nothing.”

“Oh, baby…” Between the image of the immaculately-dressed man debasing himself in the workplace and the reality of the naked man holding on to his every word, the Sniper was having trouble holding himself together. “Are you…” Be hot. Be naughty. “Are you touching yourself right now?”

A few moments of breathing, then one long, hissed response: “Yes…Are you?”

“No…should I?” It was becoming harder and harder not to; he hoped the stranger said yes.

“Oh please. Yes, please, touch yourself. Please, for me. Touch yourself right now.”

“Er, right.” His eyes darted from side to side; surely this was the sort of place where touching yourself on the job wouldn’t be too out of the ordinary, right? After a few moments, he decided it didn’t matter—the cubicles were fairly secluded and, thankfully, soundproof, but that didn’t make the process of undoing his zipper and pulling himself out any less unnerving. He clutched his half-hard cock in one hand and the receiver in the other.

“Are you doing it?” The voice was getting breathy and impatient. “Imagine that I am there with you…imagine my hands stroking you, my lips wrapped around you…”

He stroked himself lightly; it was starting to work, but he had to know… “What do you look like?”

There was a long moment of silence punctuated only by the sound of both men breathing. “I cannot answer you, cheri,” the stranger finally responded. “I would not be calling in for sex if I thought I could trust anyone with my face.” The Sniper’s face fell, and it must have been audible, because the frenchman immediately continued, “But I can tell you about my hands—they are small, lithe, largely uncalloused. And my mouth, mmm, all you really need to know is that it loves to be filled with huge Australian cocks like yours.”

“How d’you know it’s huge?” Granted, the Sniper liked to think of himself as having a larger-than-average penis, but there’s no way anyone should have been able to tell over the phone.

“I suppose it is an Australian thing. Why do you think I put up with the long-distance bills for this particular hotline?”

He stopped pumping himself for a moment out of sheer incredulity. “Wait, wait, hold on just a tic—you actually are calling all the way from France?”

“Now is not the time to think about my phone bills, mon ami,” the stranger growled. “Think about me on my knees, wrinkling my suit just for you. Think of me stroking you, gently but firmly. Think of my lips, my tongue, all over your wonderful raw cock. Imagine me playing with the slit, with the foreskin, with the head. Imagine my lips wrapping around you; imagine them going all the way down to the base. Imagine what it would feel like to have yourself down my throat, how it would feel when I swallowed.”

The Sniper had a very good hands and an even better imagination, and it took no time at all for the frenchman’s voice to get him fully hard; it was easy to pump himself to the brink of bliss. He could tell that the other man was getting close too, and that brought him even closer. “Oh baby, oh baby, oh….ahh…ahhh!”

Sprawled awkwardly in his swivel chair, he stared at the ceiling and thought for a moment about his situation: during his first call as a phone-sex operator, he had come harder than ever before in his life—and it had been to a man’s voice. He lay there, dripping in his own release, until the voice interrupted him.

“Did you finish?” The other man sounded frantic; he was panting in between words.

“Yeah.”

“Mon dieu, all over yourself?”

“Yeah…”

“And in the middle of the office, in the middle of the day?”

“Yes.”

“Oh God…” There was a strangled sound from the receiver, followed by slow, heavy breathing, and the Sniper suddenly realized that he had, for the first time in his life, brought another man off. There was a clicking sound from the other end, and then the other man asked, muffled, “Are you allowed to smoke at your desk?”

“Dunno. Guess so. Why?

The stranger laughed a sad little laugh. “I am a firm and sentimental believer in the post-orgasmic cigarette. No matter! I’ll just light a second and smoke it for you.”

The Sniper chuckled. “Appreciate it.”

“De rien. So tell me now, petit…How are you feeling?”

“Better. Worse. ‘Bout the same.”

“Ah yes,” the stranger responded drily, “of course.”

“I mean, better than when you first called, that’s for sure. Worse ‘cause I’m more confused about what I want than ever. And about the same, ‘cause I’m still uncertain of everything. Oh—well, almost everything. Figured something out.”

“Which is?”

“Figured out what I wanna do to you. I thought, you’ve got a better idea of what I want than I do, but I wanna learn, and I’ve got to for this job, so if I saw you…I’d strip down, yeah, then kneel on the ground right in front of you, and then I’d let you do whatever the hell you wanted to me.”

The stranger let out a wistful moan. “You had to wait until after I’d already come, didn’t you, you horrible little tease?”

A grin split the Sniper’s face. “Sorry mate. But you know, if the long-distance isn’t too bad, you can always call again…”

“Mmm, I suppose I’ll have to, won’t I? Yes, I’ll have to call for you as often as I can; I don’t like the thought of other men hearing you say such wonderful things to them…” The Sniper shivered; no one had ever said anything so possessive to him, and it thrilled him to the core. “What name can I give to the operatore, to ensure that I get you again?”

“Um…” He hadn’t been planning on having or wanting regular customers, but his perspective had changed a lot in the past few minutes. “Sniper. Ask for Sniper.” His boss would know who he meant. “And what…what can I call you?” It was a risky move, and not entirely professional, but if the man planned to monopolize his time he figured he ought to at least give the Sniper a pseudonym to call him by.

There is a long wait before he gets his answer; he imagines the frenchman pondering, lounging naked on some hotel bed in Paris and blowing smoke rings. “Spy,” the stranger finally decides. “Why not? You may call me Spy, monsieur Sniper.”

“Spy…” He likes the alliteration, the way it hisses out of his mouth, and the secrecy it implies. “Well, pleasure doing business with you, Spy. Hope you do call again soon.”

“But of course. Au revoir, mon ami—oh, and Sniper, I do hope you get a chance to clean yourself up before the next call.”

The Sniper laughed, hung up, and leaned back in his chair. Yes, a good shower would do him good—and so would a good long introspection session, but that would come later, after the work day was done. He glanced at his watch and was shocked to discover himself only 30 minutes into his shift. “Holy dooley,” he mumbled, “this is gonna be a long night…”

He found himself looking forward to it.

Wow, I have no idea why a few of those last paragraphs are in the present tense; it should be:

There was a long wait before he got his answer; he imagined the frenchman pondering, lounging naked on some hotel bed in Paris and blowing smoke rings. “Spy,” the stranger finally decided. “Why not? You may call me Spy, monsieur Sniper.”

“Spy…” He liked the alliteration, the way it hissed out of his mouth, and the secrecy it implied. “Well, pleasure doing business with you, Spy. Hope you do call again soon.”

Wait, I know I was wearing pants when I started reading this, what happened!?

Oh my God this was hot! ...now I just want the two of them to meet in real life...

I wonder if Spy recognized him when he called himself Sniper. To me it seemed like he did. I bet Sniper doesn't have a clue, though. Anyway, this was one hot and great story!

You know this could very well be the beginning of something bigger. After all, one got to wonder what's Sniper going to sound like once he'll be accustom to his now job. And there could be many more conversation between these him and Spy ... and what if he get caled by some of the other classes ... Oooh, there's so many possibilities!!

*and now I'm grinning like an idiot*

Holy mackerel, this was amazing. Awkward, hot and funny. I'd love there to be a sequel.

Thank you very much, you several anons! I should be able to get a bit more writing done than usual for these next couple weeks, since I'm on winter break--but I'm not sure if I remember what I'm doing, so as always, concrit is appreciated. Anyway, here (finally) is a continuation of Cold Hard Heart. I actually started this chapter like a month ago and wrote the second half yesterday; bonus points to anyone who can find the point where I stopped and started again. I hope to have this fic finished before the end of the week. Ta-da?

-----Cold Hard Heart, Chapter Two-----

“He is far superior to you in every way,” the Spy sneered. “Look, he even sings opera!”

And it was true; he couldn’t believe it: the robotic Sniper let loose with a masterful soprano aria, and the real gunman thought “Well, that’s it then. Aren’t many opera-singing Snipers around; this tin can’s gonna get my job.” The machine’s surprisingly robust voice rose higher, reaching impossible notes, as the BLU Spy’s laughter boomed. The Sniper shuddered, he was useless, he was over, it was—

It was six o’clock in the morning when the RED Sniper jolted awake. He peered out the window of his van, incredulous that he had woken up just four hours after going to sleep. He was able to rise at any hour at the slightest noise; it was necessary for the job, and he was able to go for days with hardly any sleep, but when given the opportunity to get a good night’s rest, he always took it. Well, almost always.

Six o’clock. One full hour before the BLU Spy would be receiving a robotic version of the Sniper, modified to somehow function differently. It wasn’t too late to stop him, the bushman thought, to station himself by a window in the Engineers’ workshop and give that machine a good old fashioned headshot. But he couldn’t, he reminded himself, falling back onto the bed with a groan. He couldn’t destroy the machine without people realizing who had done it, and he didn’t want his team’s Engineer or the enemy Spy angry with him. The Engineer was one of his few good friends, and the Spy…He shifted under the blankets, restless and anxious.

He really ought to go back to sleep. He was exhausted, and it wasn’t often that he got a chance to rest like this. But he was jittery and tense, every part of him alive with apprehension. What was the Spy going to do with his robot? Would he be able to figure it out just using the similar machine he’d asked the Engineers for? And what the hell was he going to do during the six hours that had to pass before he could pick up his pseudo-Spy? Grimacing, he rolled over, yanking the covers over his head.

He drifted in an out of sleep for awhile, sometimes dreaming, sometimes worrying the robot situation over and over in his head, sometimes putting near athletic effort into trying to find a comfortable sleeping position, and eventually succumbing to the alluring prospect of masturbation. After a brief moment of recovery, he checked the time. Eight o’clock. The Spy had his robot. He couldn’t fall asleep now, so he cleaned up—his sheets first, but he decided the rest of his van could use a little spic and span as well. Organizing, scrubbing, dusting, polishing, anything to keep him occupied. Should he check the oil? Definitely. Why not give the whole van a tune-up? Good idea! He got out his tool kit and focused resolutely on the task at hand, willing himself not to look at his watch. It worked for a while, but then the Sniper began to worry about just how hot the sun had gotten; what if it was past noon already? He couldn’t bear it, he had to check.

Eleven-thirty. Close enough. He put a good effort into getting ready—it was eleven-forty-seven when he left—and then he strolled towards the Engineers’ workshop, trying to slow his fevered pace. He arrived outside the door at eleven-fifty and began to pace.

Immediately, the RED Engineer poked his head out. “Ah, Stretch! I was wondering who brought a goddamn herd of elephants out here.” It was a jibe, but it came with a grin. “Need somethin?”

The Sniper stilled his feet, though not without difficulty, and muttered “Came for the…y’know. Robot thing. Spy. Robot.”

The mechanic burst out laughing. “Pretty darn eager, aren’t ya?” He put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Just a few more minutes, partner—I’m almost done, but the last couple modifications are important ones. Trust me, you don’t wanna miss ‘em.”

And with a wink, he disappeared back into his workshop. The Sniper leaned against the wall, tapping his foot nervously and straining to hear the noises coming from inside. Finally, the door opened again and the Engineer’s grinning face reappeared.

“Alright, buddy. You ready to take him home?” The Sniper gave a nervous nod, and the Texan opened the door a little wider, tugging out a dolly bearing the Spybot. “Now I’m guessing you’ll wanna turn him on back at your place, where you won’t have so many people watching…” The Engineer showed him what button to press, and the Sniper thanked him hurriedly—he knew it would be all too easy for a conversation with his friend about robots to turn into technical jargon. Pulling the Spy home was a surreal experience. Its blank metal eyes seemed to stare at him, and it wasn’t until he walked right into the side of his camper van that the Sniper realized he was staring back. He gave a little embarrassed cough, checked to make sure no one was watching, and wrapped his arms around the robot. It was awkward, but he managed to hoist it off the dolly and up the steps of his van.

There was a clang of finality as he set it down on the hard floor, and the Sniper held his breath as his finger stroked the “ON” button. “Here goes nothing,” he muttered, giving it a swift hard jab and taking two strides back. The robot hissed, clanged, beeped, and made an ungainly whirring noise as its eyes slowly brightened, going from blank and lifeless to bright and sinister. As the startup noises began to slow and fade, the Sniper clenched his fists, ready for a fight. Finally, it spoke.

“Well, well, well, bushman.” God, that sneer was uncanny. “It seems you have dragged me into this van you call home. How…quaint.”

“Didn’t bring you here to make fun of my place,” the Sniper growled. He made a point of keeping his van tidy, and the fact that the BLU Spy always mocked his dwelling despite that was a bit of a sore point. It was eerie how much the mechanical man resembled him, startling how easy it was to talk to it.

“Oh, I know why you brought me here.” The robot’s chuckle was tinny and superior. “Do not look so cross at me, mon ami. We both know what you want.”

“Alright then,” he grumbled, licking his lips. He had no idea what the robot thought he wanted, but he was certainly ready to find out. “You know what I want? Give it to me.”

“So forward,” the machine hissed, and suddenly it was whispering into his ear, clutching his shoulder with a cold, stiffly-jointed hand. “I thought you’d never ask…”

An unexpected vibration brought the Sniper’s eyes downward, where they were met with the sight of the Spybot’s metallic crotch—it was moving. Metal plates shifted, gears whirred, and the panels that covered the area where the real Spy’s cock would have been began to move out of place, making way for something large, pink, and definitely not part of the original machinery.

A dildo.

The Engineer had installed a dildo. It was huge, it was vibrant, and if the slick sheen on it was what the Sniper thought it was, it was self-lubricating.

Panicked, he tried to move backwards, to detach himself from the sextoy-sporting Spybot, but the machine’s grip on his shoulder was hard, and dammit, so was the Sniper. He didn’t want to be, he didn’t want to like this, but pink protrusion was now vibrating against his crotch and the voice of the man he wanted was growling in his ear.

“Don’t struggle, mon amour,” the robot cooed. Robots, the Sniper noted, were not meant to coo. “We both want this.”

“N-no, no! Stop it, you stupid bloody machine!” Squirming only made it worse; fuck, how was he going to get out of this?

The thing tisked at him. “Why are you fighting me? Is this a game? Oh, ‘no’ is certainly a fun word, cheri, but for your sake, I ought to be programmed with a safe word, n’est-ce pas?”

A second metallic hand was creeping up his leg, moving steadily towards his crotch. The Sniper jerked his leg up, trying to shake it off. “This isn’t a game, you snake!” The robotic appendage remained firmly attached to his thigh. “There isn’t a safe word, and no means no! Now get off!” He gave his leg another violent shake and was once again unsuccessful—although the hand halted its slow but sure procession towards his cock.

The Spybot tilted its head, looking almost hurt. “What is wrong, Sniper? I only want to please you. See here—“ The dildo started vibrating harder and faster, pressing against the marksman’s crotch. Against his own volition, the Sniper groaned; the vibration against his erection was a welcome break from the monotony of his own hand, and the auto-lubrication was leaving damp spots on his trousers. “I can do it,” the machine hissed in his ear. “I can show you the moon and the stars, mon coeur, I can give you the pleasure you’ve always dreamed of. Stop being so foolish and let me fuck you.”

The Sniper gritted his teeth. Nothing had ever been so tempting, The only difference between his current reality and his nightly fantasies was that he always pictured a Spy made of flesh and blood. This could be his chance. He wasn’t a fool; he knew he’d never get the real Spy in his bed, and the machine that held him was awfully close to the man he wanted. The sound of that voice asking to fuck him was too much; he wondered how the Engineer had managed to make him sound so real…

The Engineer! He’d almost forgotten. The RED Engineer, his friend, had programmed the Spybot like this. Why? Was it a joke? Some kind of cruel, sick way of telling the Sniper to fuck off and leave him to his work? Frantic, he wondered what he could have done to lose the man’s friendship—they’d been teammates for years, and he’d always found a close companion in the hardworking mechanic. He couldn’t imagine how he could have ruined their bond. Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe the Engineer thought he was doing the Sniper a favour. Oh God, had his friend noticed his ridiculous crush? He had thought he was being subtle, but now it looked like his buddy was…what? Throwing him a bone? The Sniper had no idea, but whether this was a sick joke or a well-intentioned gift, he felt pathetic. He didn’t want his best friend making fun of him or feeling sorry for him.

“Why?” He heard himself sputter. “Why…why any of this?”

The robot’s eyes glowed. “Why? Why would I want anything else? Your pleasure—“ and there was that hand, finally cupping his crotch, feeling much better than lifeless metal had any right to—“is the reason for my existence. It is all I live for.”

The Sniper stared for a moment into those bright, lifeless eyes. This was wrong, it was all wrong. He wanted the Spy, yes, but what he longed for was the man that made his work day near impossible, the maddeningly superior spook that teased him without end, the enigma that was always out of reach. He wanted to be dominated by the shadow, and he wanted to get under the shapeshifter’s skin. The hunk of metal that was wrapped around him was just a sad, supplicating imposter. It was wrong, all wrong, and he couldn’t do it.

“You wanna please me?” He growled.

“Oh, yes…”

“Then get your bloody hands off me. Right now.” He made his voice as cold as he could, though it was difficult to sound intimidating with a robot fondling his erection.

“But, mon amour—“

“Get your fucking hands off me, and don’t call me that. I mean it.” The machine hesitated for a moment, then finally let go. His shoulder ached; he could tell he would have a bruise there in the morning. “Thank you. Now, put that thing away,” he instructed, gesturing at the dildo.

He could literally hear the gears shifting in the robot’s head. “I…are you sure? Are you sure you don’t want—“

“Positive,” he spat. “Put. It. Away.” There was a brief whirring, then finally the pink menace retracted and the crotch panels slid back into place. The machine was strangely silent. “There now. That’s everything. Much better.” No response from the Spybot. Frowning, the Sniper waved his hand right in front of its eyes. Nothing. He snapped his fingers. Still nothing. Even tapping its forehead elicited no response.

He didn’t know if it was broken or in some kind of sleep mode, but since the moment had ended, there was nothing to distract him from the fact that he was still painfully hard. And if the robot wasn’t going to react to anything, he didn’t see any harm in finishing himself off—he’d just have his usual daily wank a bit early. He settled himself on his cot and unzipped his trousers, giving a huge sigh of relief as his cock sprung free. The Sniper had never seen any need for fancy things like underclothes, and he reveled in the feeling of fresh air on hot, bare skin. He let the Spy’s voice echo in his imagination as he wrapped a hand around himself…

Suddenly, the Spy’s voice was no longer fantastical. “Please,” came a quiet hiss from the motionless machine, “let me help. All I want is to please you…”

There was a desperation there, and the Sniper almost felt sorry for the thing. He was, after all, denying the only thing it seemed to be programmed to do. Still, his resolve was firm. “You stay right there, you bloody hunk of tin. You’re not touching me, do you hear?”

The thing let out an inhuman whine. “I only want to help, please…”

The more pathetic the robot became, the less the Sniper wanted it. “No,” he repeated. “Not gonna happen. Although…” He did feel bad, if not for the robot, for the fact that the Engineer had spent all morning programming the thing and here he was, not using it. To let the machine touch him, at this point, would feel like giving up, but… “How about you keep talking to me, yeah? No whining, just…just Spy stuff.”

The Sniper didn’t know if robots could smile, but he could hear the smirk in the Spybot’s voice. “D’accord.”

With the Spy’s voice growling from a few feet away and his own hand pumping desperately, he came in record time. He’d have to get rid of it, he decided, as he wiped his fingers absentmindedly on the sheets. If he didn’t get rid of the machine soon, it would end up convincing him, he was sure. Yes, he’d have to take it back to the Engineer right away. Right away…

He must have laid there for thirty minutes afterwards, half naked and sticky with is own release, before he finally sat up and cleaned up. The robot watched him the whole time. The Sniper wasn’t sure if he could bring himself to turn it off.

Ah, can I say I'm an utter fan of your stuff? I've recently come across it and I like what I see (my favs was probably the 'Unsent Letter' and 'Note found in a van' - it'd be interesting to see how that would have developed). I wonder how this robot story is gonna develop and can't wait to find out!

Aw yeah, I have been waiting for more of the robot story! Glad I finally got the chance to get back on the 'chan for a couple minutes, this made me immensely happy.

Oh look, the shortest Christmas story in the world!

-----Ornaments-----

The Spy had to develop the film himself. It would have been impossible to find someone else who would do it on such short notice, especially today, of all days. He needed them by tonight, after all, for it to be a proper holiday. A little present from himself.

When the photographs were ready, he took a bit of tape and stuck them all to the wall by his bed. His favourites were closest to his pillow—picking favourites at all had been difficult, but he was pleased with his selection. With a contented hum, he ran a gloved hand over those chosen few.

The enemy Sniper asleep. The enemy Sniper stretching as he awoke. The enemy Sniper bending over to pick up his clothes. The enemy Sniper among his teammates, handing out misshapen holiday packages containing presents he’d surely knit himself. The enemy Sniper opening his own gifts with a wide grin. The enemy Sniper in an ugly sweater that he’d gotten in the mail. The enemy Sniper at the payphone, smiling for once as he talked to his parents.

He could have gotten more, the Spy mused, if he hadn’t needed time to sneak back to his own base and develop them. He thought wistfully of the enemy Sniper at Christmas dinner, getting a little bit tipsy, bellowing Australian carols out of tune. But he had still gotten quite a few good ones, he reminded himself, and that was something to be thankful for. No use thinking about what you don’t have, he thought sternly. The Spy could have wasted quite a bit of time thinking about all he didn’t have…

“Joyeux Noël,” he murmured to himself. The pictures on the wall, he reasoned, could smile enough for both of them.

Wait, why did I sage that? My bad.

Poor stalker-Spy...

Ah, what a joyful Boxing Day - I do have a guilty pleasure for stalker Spy, given he has the tools for such a thing right on hand.

Thanks, all--the reason I didn't write a longer Christmas fic was that I was busy with my Secret Santa gift! It's number 25 on the thread, and was my first attempt at writing Trucks 'n' Vans. Check it out if you want. I hope to have more of Cold Hard Heart written very soon!

I was just sitting around thinking to myself, "I need another Knight story."

Has it really been like four months since I wrote a thing? Yiiiikes...Well, I'm trying to pick it back up. Here's something!

Inspiring art: http://raideo.tumblr.com/post/47524118561/i-could-corrupt-you-it-would-be-easy-woops-i
Inspiring music:

The Sniper made him furious. It wasn’t the bullets that would find their way between the Spy’s eyeballs, it wasn’t the drawled insults he heard at the end of a failed knife-fight, it wasn’t even even the man’s horrendous smell—on the contrary, those detestable things were normal, comfortable. The ability to carelessly hate his enemies made his job more enjoyable, giving him a little rush of self-satisfied triumph at every kill. No, what he hated about the Sniper was his smile. That simple parting of the lips, that flash of teeth, it was just so easy, so teasing, so intimate, so goddamn fucking infuriating. It was one thing to smile at a defeated opponent, but the Sniper smiled even when he was defeated; raised an eyebrow at the Spy as he fell to the ground with blood oozing from his back as if he was remembering a private joke. That little grin meant that even when he died, it didn’t seem like he’d lost. It made it seem like he enjoyed the Spy’s company, like he knew the wanton fantasies that were growing more and more passionate every day in the frenchman’s troubled mind. He was becoming consumed with the desire to tear that smile apart, to nip and pull at the other man’s lips, to wrench those teeth apart and shove his tongue between them, or something else, to occupy that smart little mouth with something else, to make it unable to do anything other than moan and scream the Spy’s name…

Maybe it was too obvious, that Friday, how present those desires were in his mind when they fought. He had cornered the Sniper, disarmed him, and pinned him against the wall, and still that stupid, simpering smile was there, filling the Spy with a fury that started in his belly, rose like bile up his throat, and then sank back down to his groin. The frenchman’s breath was ragged, and he didn’t notice how close his face was to the other man’s until that detestable smirk turned into a full-out laugh.

“Give us a kiss?” The Sniper teased. The Spy tensed, his expression frozen.

“What?” He rasped. “What are you—”

The assassin rolled his eyes. “It’s a joke, you uptight ponce. We’re both in this gig for the long haul—not that I mind, love this kind of work—but there’s no reason we have to hate each other.”

The Spy gave a snort of contempt, his body relaxing in both relief and disappointment. “Don’t make me laugh.”

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to do. C’mon, a lighten up, Spook. What’ll it take to get a smile out of you, huh?”

The frenchman’s lips pursed. “Making you scream,” he hissed. True enough.

The Sniper’s grin widened lazily. “Alright then,” he allowed with a shrug, spreading his arms out in an open stance, “go ahead. I’m all yours.”

It was too much. The Spy didn’t take a moment to think about his actions, just let his fury drive the knife into the Sniper once, twice, then ten times; he plunged into the man over and over, long past the time he stopped moving, until the body disappeared and he was left panting on the floor.

Enough, he decided. This could not continue. He had to do something.

The battle ended on Friday night, and by Saturday afternoon he was ready. The Spy was experienced in such matters, and therefore efficient. By late Saturday night—the Engineer, in a moment of frustratingly unnecessary accuracy, would have called it very early Sunday morning—the Spy completed the last preparation: locking the door to the cellar of the outbuilding that he had made his. Behind him, naked, bound, and knocked out cold, was the other team’s Sniper—that, too, he hoped, would soon be his.

He pulled off his gloves and smoked an impatient cigarette, flicking ash all over the floor in his agitation. He had been so caught up in forming and carrying out his plan that he hadn’t had time to really think about his actions, and he wasn’t keen to reflect too much. He didn’t want to start feeling guilty, or feeling anything, he just wanted to finally sate this as-yet insatiable and every-growing urge. The idea seemed less appealing, though, when the Sniper’s mouth sagged in an unconscious drool instead of a devilish smile. Swearing under his breath, the Spy threw the half-smoked cigarette on the floor and crushed it under his heel. No more waiting.

He reached towards the Sniper’s chin, intending to tilt it up and hopefully wake his captive. But something stopped him. He ground his teeth, incredulous at his own hesitation. It was just a finger, he reminded himself, just one little finger giving his prisoner a wake-up tap. He killed this man every day on the battlefield, he had dragged him all the way here, so why was it so hard to touch him now? He could feel the heat emanating from the other man’s skin, and he found himself wondering, stupidly, if touching his bare face would burn him. “Bete,” he reprimanded himself softly, yet he found himself reaching into his jacket pocket and retrieving his gloves. As soon as he slipped them back on, touching the Sniper was once again easy.

He cupped the other man’s cheek with his right hand, giving it one soft, longing stroke before he pulled back and slapped him. “Wake up,” he spat. “Nap time is over, bushman.” The Sniper’s body spasmed to attention, legs splaying and arms stretching against their bonds. The marksman’s head first lolled, then jerked in different directions as his brain caught up to the fact that he was blindfolded.

“Where am I?” The Sniper rasped. “Where the fuck am I?” The anger in his voiced masked the desperation, and in the place of his normal smile, there was an angry snarl. It wasn’t as satisfying as the Spy had thought it would be.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, petit,” the frenchman replied with a smirk. The Sniper’s eyebrows raised and his mouth gaped in recognition, and the Spy’s lips curled into a Cheshire grin. Who’s smiling now? He thought.

“Spy? You…you did this?” Bound legs quivered, bare feet scrambled fruitlessly against the ground.

“You were expecting someone else?” He allowed himself a small chuckle. “You didn’t let me hear you scream last time, Sniper…”

“Oh God,” the Sniper whispered. “You can’t be serious. Fucking hell, Spook, I was just joking around, I was only—You can’t just…” He gulped. “Fine. Go ahead. Stab me, shoot me, torture me. I don’t give two shits; I’ll wake up fine in the morning. If what it takes to remove that goddamn stick from up your arse is beating the hell out of me, then—”

The Spy cut him off with a bitter, hysterical cackle. He couldn’t help it. “Mon dieu, bushman,” he snorted, “you are so naive. So innocent, with your simple visions of violence….” He leaned in towards his captive, tilting his chin up with two fingers. “I could corrupt you,” he hissed. “It would be easy…” He was so close, nearly bumping noses with the Sniper, and once again his breathing was ragged, but the urge to cover the other man’s mouth with his was nowhere near as strong as it had been. Even when he closed his eyes, he heard the fear in the other man’s gasps; he could feel the trembling that lived under the Sniper’s skin…

He couldn’t do it. He took three swift steps backwards to regard the man he’d taken for himself. The Sniper seemed terrified, the Sniper was quivering, the Sniper’s usually smiling mouth was distorted in a grimace, the Sniper was…oh God.

The Sniper was erect.

The Spy sank to the floor, mouth agape, unable to believe what he was seeing—what he was hearing, as the Sniper began to moan his name.

“Spy…Spy…Where’d you go….Come back, you halfhearted bastard. Put your hands back on me, please, please touch me…It doesn’t even have to be my cock, just please, touch me again, you son of a bitch…Said I was all yours, didn’t I? Meant it, I meant it…Keep me down here if you want, make me yours, do anything you want to me…Please…Spy…”

The Spy’s breath was shallow, as if his lungs had shrunk to the size of thimbles. Too much. Too much. This was too much. He wanted the Sniper, yes, but he’d never considered the attraction, furious and perverse as it was, could be mutual. He hadn’t factored in the complications of the other man playing along, wanting him, wanting more. He had wanted to finish this silly obsession, not extend it. And the Sniper, despite his bindings, was so frank, so open about his desire that it intimidated him. He had trouble sating his own sick fantasies, how could he ever placate this raging beast that was locked in the cellar with him? How could he cooperate sexually with this man who he’d put so much effort into hating; how could he go back to hating this man after sharing his passion? Too much, too much, it was too much…

His legs seemed to have turned to jelly beneath him; they shrank from the idea of standing or moving. He couldn’t budge, he couldn’t do anything, not until the Sniper moaned his name again. Even then, he could not advance; it was all he could do to remove the glove, with some shaking difficulty, from his right hand, to unzip his fly, and to wrap his clammy fingers around his burgeoning erection.

He brought himself off quickly, but not quietly. Even after stuffing a fist in his mouth, he couldn’t completely silence his desperate gasps. “Sniper—” he choked out, “you—you disgusting, infuriating—ah, merde—you ridiculous—nnggghh, unprofessional…aahhhh!”

The Sniper didn’t seem to fully realize what had happened until a speck of liquid hit his face. Unthinking, he darted his tongue out to taste it. The Spy craned his head up from where he was huddled on the floor and watched the other man’s face, watched his captive realize that what he’d just swept into his mouth was a droplet of the frenchman’s cum.

For the first time that night, the Sniper’s face melted into that heart-wrenching lazy grin. “And you call me filthy…” The bushman’s baritone flowed into a smooth, dark chuckle. “Come on, then. Don’t tell me you brought me all the way out here just for a look. What else do you want to do to me?”

A rush of familiar images and fantasies flooded the Spy’s brain, along with a host of new, unbidden desires, all of them clamoring to answer the Sniper’s question. Suddenly filled with energy, he stepped towards his captive, shedding his rumpled pants on the way, and slipped the blindfold off.

“What don’t I want to do with you?” He answered, finally letting the Sniper see his own twisted smile.

Forgot to add the music link cuz I'm an idiot: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gwcdsIUfMag

Good Evening. I'm Will Shat-All-Over-Myself-When-I-Saw-That-Knight-Had-Returned. You might remember me as Captain-Jerked-Off-Most-Satisfyingly-To-His-Latest Story from the original Star Tracking-This-Thread Like-It's-The-Only-Thing-On-The-Internet.

And of course you decided to stop here! God, that's such a tease... But thank you for this, I have missed reading your fics!

Oh HELLO. Sniper, Spy, Depeche Mode soundtrack? Could my day get any better?!

(spoiler alert: it can't)

Oh, Knight, I missed you so much.

Well done!