So, in a fit of procrastination and a masochistic desire for harsh crit, I've decided to put a few of my oneshots up here as well--I might as well warn you right off the bat that so far they're all Sniper/Spy, although I can't speak for what I might add here in the future. Also, they're not very, how you say, "good." Most of them are just fluffy as hell, but there is actually one with dicks, so in afanfic it goes. I'd like to reiterate that I'm quite new to the chan and still haven't the foggiest clue what I'm doing, so if I do something stupid, please let me know! Also, crit is more than welcome. I suppose I'll start off with probably the fluffiest thing I've ever written, as it was also my first oneshot, and go from there. Also, question: would it be proper etiquette to also post ficlets inspired by pictures? I have a few little drabbles which originated as reblogs on tumblr; if I posted them here I would probably provide a link to the original art and then post the story underneath. Does that sound right? Anyway, here's some shitty fluff. -----Warming----- His safe place. The only place he felt warm, the only place where he could relax his usually battle-tense muscles. The only place he could let his words flow instead of inspecting each one before it left his professionally tight lips. The only place he could show his face. In the arms of the enemy. His bare nose, free from the usual balaclava, nuzzled against the Sniper's bare, heat-radiating chest as he tried to ignore the ticking of the watch he'd left on the bedstand. He could see nail marks on the slowly heaving chest, and tear stains—both his own doing, pouring his feelings out onto his lover. His fingers stroked the signs that he'd been there, that he'd done that, and that he had felt—anything. That he had let his guard down, cast it aside, and let himself be taken in by a man he was paid to kill. Just as he did every night. The slow-burning energy of the body beneath him changed as the beautiful creature himself shifted at his touch. A sleepy smile appeared on half-awake Australian lips, and sluggish hands stroked the Spy's hair gently, dragging roughly against the smooth scalp. "What're ya doin' now…" A low, friendly rumble came from the still half-asleep assassin. "Thinking," he replied, still running a pensive pointer finger slowly up and down the other man's torso. "'Bout what?" The bushman shifted comfortably, letting his arm rest, weighty and warm, on the introspective mystery breathing by his side. The frenchman looked up. "Love you," he answered simply. A heavy eyelid lifted, and the two gazes met. Another soft smile from the Sniper. "C'mere," he mumbled, drawing the Spy in for a light, sweet kiss. After that, both eyes opened, studying the lines on the usually hidden face. "Thought you were gonna get some sleep." The frenchman shot a worried glance toward the ever-ticking watch in response, but the Sniper shifted a lumbering arm towards the table and gave it a well-aimed flick, sending it straight into the trash can. The same limb came down assertively around the Spy's shoulders, bringing his head to the pillow and his body up next to his lover's. Still half-asleep, the Australian wrapped his arms around the misunderstood enigma of a man he welcomed into his heart every night, and squeezed him tight, hoping perhaps to cuddle away the pain. "Sleep," he insisted. "Got a couple hours still…" But the bright blue eyes were still wide-open with alarm, making his lover sigh and give a soft chuckle. "Couple hours today," he clarified, stroking the pale, beautiful, too-hidden cheek, "and a bunch more tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that…" "Forever?" Murmured the Spy, lifting a skeptical eyebrow. "Much as I can manage to keep the ol' heart beating," he assured, giving the underexposed nose a gentle peck, "it belongs to you, y'hear?" A soft, usually-gloved hand caressed the Sniper's neck, fondling the point where he could feel the sluggish, resting pulse. So delicate. He didn't know how it could keep going through the rest of this life, violent enough without daily war games. He didn't know how it had already beat steady for so many years. But he hoped that it kept going. He hoped, selfishly, that his lover's warm blood would pump on longer than his own. He wished it because that precious blood, too simply spilled, powered the lanky tangle of rough skin and smooth touch that was his only friend, only confidant, only love, and only home. He didn't think he could last without him.
I use the word "also" too much, don't I? Ah, well. Anyway, here's the one and only thing I've written so far that has dicks. I'm quite certain that it's awful, as it was pretty rushed and I have no idea how to write sex scenes, but here it is. -----Hidden----- There were a lot of things the Administrator hated. Her employees. The Mann brothers. Saxton Hale. Those Aperture people up north. Her job. Her life. Herself. She hated the sharp angle of her chair and the glare of the screens and the number of cigarettes she'd already had. She hated the headache she had from trying earlier this morning not to frown. She hated watching all the boring things her employees were doing—there was a Soldier talking to his heads again, there was the RED Scout on his fifth hour of looking at himself in the mirror, the BLU Scout on only his third hour of the same, drinking Demos, Pyros sitting around thinking about whatever the hell Pyros think about, BLU Heavy being surgically prodded at by his Medic, RED Engineer building more pointlessly dangerous things, BLU Sniper sitting around, RED Sniper taking off his hat, another Soldi— Wait. She flipped back a channel and stared in disbelief at the RED Sniper. What was he doing in the BLU base? And why was he—oh God. The hat wasn't all he was taking off. He shrugged off his vest, glancing at the door wearing an expression unreadable from the camera. Hurrying a bit, his fingers went to his buttons, fumbling a bit until he dragged his gaze away from the entrance to the room and back to the task at hand. The red shirt fell to the floor and he kicked it and the vest underneath the bed as he unbuckled his belt, pulling it out hurriedly and tossing it under with them. As he began to undo his fly, the Administrator moved her hand towards the controls. She moved camera 39-B—the one focused on the room containing RED Sniper—to the main screen and zoomed in, taking another sharp puff on her cigarette as she saw the trousers fall to the floor. She was watching so attentively, she told herself, so as to understand the Sniper's motives, and how he had gotten into this room in the BLU base—which room was it? She reached a hand towards a folder on her desk and pulled it towards herself without looking, opening it awkwardly and glancing down intermittently to flip through pages. During one glance down she missed him removing his boxers, and tisked in disappointment when she looked back up to see him crawling under the covers of the bed—ah, she could at least note that the room had a bed, a residential suite—pulling the blankets all the way over his head and squiggling around, causing them to bunch and twisting himself into all sorts of odd positions that Helen—no, no, the Administrator—almost found herself wishing she could see. Finally, he seemed to settle down, although the covers still twitched and the springs still creaked from time to time. He stayed like that for fifteen minutes, and she was so enraptured with fascination and confusion, so busy wondering why the RED Sniper was hiding naked in a bed in the BLU base with all his clothes hidden under it, that she forgot to check and see just which BLU mercenary would be getting this unconventional surprise. She would have jumped, startled, when the door opened—had she been a lesser, weaker woman. The man striding into the room seemed to be wearing a mood matching her own—stormy, grimacing, glaring behind himself as he slammed the door—the BLU Spy. The Spy muttered under his breath at the door frame, aiming a kick at it and swearing audibly. His hand plunged into his pocket, reaching for a cigarette as he turned absentmindedly—he almost didn't see the overly noticeable lengthy lump of man in his bed, but he wasn't quite that empty-headed, and his head snapped to attention as his jaw dropped as far as physics and the human body would allow it to go. Slowly, he withdrew hand from pocket and pulled out his knife, flipping it open and creeping soundlessly toward the bed. The figure under the covers shivered, though whether it was from mirth, excitement or fear was impossible to tell. Finally, the Spy poised himself over the mattress, knife raised and ready to kill, and darted his other hand out to suddenly rip back the blankets. The noise that followed was the odd bastard lovechild of "Sacre bleu!" and "Bloody 'ell!" as both mercenaries exclaimed in unison—the Spy shocked by the awkwardly sprawled naked Sniper in his bed and the Sniper shocked by the knife hovering so close to his bared skin. They froze that way for a moment before the BLU drew in a deep breath, exhaling with a shudder as the knife clattered to the floor, slipping between the bed and the wall. His gloved hands rested on either side of the Sniper's raw, still-trembling body, which began to relax as the Spy's gaze raked over it hungrily—though not without confusion. He took a few more shaky breaths before beginning to mutter again: "Alors, qu'est-ce que tu fais comme ca, tout nu dans mon lit comme ce n'est pas de probleme; bien sur, on ne peut pas dire que je ne l'aime pas, ce-cette idee, mais c'est dangereux et pourquoi tu te caches comme ca, tu es comme un enfant de temps en temps, je jure a Dieu; mais bien sur il n'y a pas d'enfant si seduisant comme toi—alors, qu'est-ce que je dis maintena—" The Sniper lifted a long, rough finger to the Spy's rapid-moving lips, which fluttered for a moment longer before coming to a violent halt. "You're doin' that thing again, love," the RED growled softly, letting his digit slide ever so slightly against the soft skin above it. "Y'know I can't understand when you do that, c'mon. English, s'il vous plait." The frenchman scowled slightly at the cheery mispronunciation before responding, slowly, as if unable to remember the words, "What…are you…doing…in my bed…naked? What," he continued, picking up steam despite his reddening cheeks and the occasional hungry gulp, "made you believe that it would be any kind of good idea to come here, to my base, without any sort of cloaking device, on a day when my team is more furious, more ravenous, more bloodthirsty than usual, to come here in the nude and huddle among my sheets like some silly child making a fort inaarrhhhggnn…" The finger had intruded his mouth, and was joined by another, both pushing themselves against the Spy's tongue and the insides of his cheek and rotating gently. "Now, shhh, how'm I supposed to explain myself with you goin' on like that?" The Sniper rumbled pleasantly, bringing another hand up to grasp playfully at the Spy's tie. "Saw you were havin' a rough day, and I just figured I'd do that thing you always do…" He was working the tie off, tossing it off to the side where it fell to join the Sniper's clothes and the still-open knife. Always? Helen—the Administrator—came back to her senses with a start as the Spy attempted to splutter around the calloused fingers teasing his soft tongue. This was something they'd done before, something they did regularly? How had she missed it? She made a mental note to look through the backlogs as the frenchman managed to get both intruding digits off to one side of his mouth and hiss around them, "Always cloaked, always in your van away from teammates and cameras, always discreet, always later at night—" The van, the van, of course, she would have to place a camera there later… "Aw, shush." The Sniper suddenly removed the fingers and replaced them with his own tongue, pressing his hot mouth excitedly against the Spy's as he retraced the invasive paths his skin had made with a softer, sliding, wet enthusiasm. The frenchman couldn't stifle a groan as they pulled away and the Sniper continued, pressing his wet fingers to a spot on the white shirt that he knew was covering a nipple and making tiny, moist, insistent circles, "It's just, whenever I have a bad day on the field, you're always waitin' there, hidin', ready to put yourself—" the fingers suddenly pinched and the Spy let out a little strangled noise; the Sniper grinned and lowered his voice— "at my mercy." Both his hands began to occupy themselves with unbuttoning the dress shirt, their eager fumbling not quite matching the Australian's smooth rumble. "So I figured, since your teem wasn't doin' so hot today, maybe I oughta do somethin' hot for you, yeah?" Though the Spy still wore both shirt and blazer, both were now unbuttoned, and the calloused hands were now roaming hungrily over his exposed chest; fingers and nipple were reunited at last. The Spy caught himself breathing heavily and attempted to calm himself with a strangled, undignified cough. "You…you…" His own gloved fingers were working their way over the Sniper's shoulders now; Helen didn't remember him putting them there, and didn't remember when he had left the ground and straddled the naked man in his bed; was it during the kiss, perhaps? The Spy frowned, shaking his head as if to clear his thoughts, but all he came out with was, "This is your idea of hiding? Huddling so obviously under my own bedsheets?" "Hey," protested the Sniper, pulling softly at the lapels of his bedmate's jacket, trying to tug it off entirely, "I don't got any fancy-pants watches like you do, lil' Spook, just tryin' to do my part." He looked genuinely frustrated, and the frenchman stopped massaging his shoulders for a moment to stare down at the struggling bushman, still grasping his clothes insistently, so eager to cheer the Spy that he was getting himself worked up. The BLU's scowling mask gave way to a tender smile, and he planted a kiss dead in the center of the other man's frown, dragging his lips down the length of the nose to the tip, pulling off for a moment, and then pressing his mouth gently on the Sniper's. He was met with an immediate and ravenous reaction; the RED parted his lips and used his grip on the lapels to pull his lover closer for a long, messy, dirty kiss. Only when the insistent heat near the Spy's crotch became unignorable did he pull away, gulping for breath. His eyes flicked down the Sniper's quite uncovered body, confirming his suspicion. "You're hard," he noted faintly. The bushman grinned, bringing a knobbly knee up to brush against his partner's own considerable cloth-covered erection. "So're you." Despite his considerable flush and shortness of breath, the Spy smirked and finally shrugged off his shirt and jacket, which joined the rest of the clothes on the floor. "Well, you are, as you said, at my mercy," he noted, pulling his gloves off so they could join their fellow accessories and placing his bare hands on the other man's chest, letting each nipple be touched by a finger but refusing to move against them, "what do you think we should do about these?" As he asked the question, he rolled his hips firmly forward, letting their separated stiffnesses slide teasingly against each other. The Sniper drew in a sharp breath; he was having trouble keeping up the playful facade. "Got a few ideas," he whispered, moving his hands to the Spy's belt and fingering the buckle as he craned his head forward, trying to make his intention obvious. The effort was not lost on the frenchman. "Hmmm," the Spy mused, "so, you'd like to suck me off, then? Let me sit back, writhing and moaning your name, while you lick and pump and tease me until I fill your pretty, dirty little mouth and you have to swallow me down?" The Sniper's eyes widened; he was able only to nod. The BLU narrowed his eyes and removed his hands, straightening so that he was kneeling over his partner and his enemy, which the RED seemed to take as a yes. Bare legs pulled out from under still pinstriped-clad ones as the Sniper prepared to reposition himself to give head—but he never got the chance. The Spy's hands flew to the underside of his lover's knees, pushing them forward and forcing the Australian to keep lying on his back. He replaced the two hands almost immediately with one arm, putting his palm the back of one knee while resting his elbow against the other, so that with his free hand he could unbuckle his belt. "Always so aggressive," he growled, leaning forward as he worked at the fastenings around his crotch. "Did you forget, amour? Today, you are attempting to 'do that thing I always do,' are you not? Then is it not fair—" he was incredibly deft with one hand; the trousers were already slipping down and the ungloved hand was now fingering the waistband of suspiciously feminine undergarments— "would it not make sense for me to do, as you say, that thing you always do?" The Spy tugged down, freeing his full and impressive arousal and baring his teeth in something between a snarl and a grin. The Sniper gulped. "I—ah—that is—well, we can try, but we never, I dunno if—" "Hush," the frenchman reprimanded, using his unoccupied hand to give the other man's bare, now-exposed ass a scolding smack, eliciting a gasp. Smiling at the reddish hue on the raw backside before him, he opened his bedside drawer and began rummaging through it. "You know how it is, petit, when you've had a long, stressful, frustrating day, and you just need some way to blow of some steam, let out your frustrations—" he stopped to smirk; he had found what he was looking for and when the Sniper saw it, his face turned a colour rarely seen on the human face— "unless, of course, you're scared?" The Australian's breath was coming in desperate pants, and his eyes were wild, but he gulped, calming himself a bit, even managing to smile at the man holding the bottle of lube. "Me? Scared? Nah, mate, just…watch it down there, yeah? And don't expect this to be a regular…this'll be my gift to you, alright, for today?" The Spy, who had been struggling to uncap the bottle with one hand, stopped and frowned. "Today?" "Yeah, you know, today. Holiday, romantic—" "Today is February the thirteenth," the Spy corrected with a glare. "You still haven't changed the calendar in your van, have you, bushman?" "What? That's—" Suddenly, the confusion in the Sniper's eyes cleared. "Ohh, yeah, reckon I haven't yet. Well, it's a day early, bu—AAAAAHHHH!" "Keep your voice down!" The Spy hissed, removing his arm from the back of the Sniper's knees and clamping it over his mouth. The other hand was now occupied, with one of its lubed-up fingers gently but insistently probing the Sniper's backside. The bushman's legs, now unrestrained, scrabbled against the mattress, and his toes grasped at the sheets. "Do you want my teammates to blow my door off its hinges and find an enemy Sniper, one who just defeated them in battle, naked and vulnerable right in the middle of their base?" He added a second slick digit and his lover whined around the hand on his mouth. The Spy smiled; BLU was dominating for once. "Yes, that's right," he cooed, pulling the muffling appendage back a little so all the Sniper's little noises were audible, if just barely. He began to increase the pace, thrusting his fingers in mercilessly until his partner was moving to meet them. Suddenly, unbidden, the bushman bit down on the hand in front of him; the Spy must have hit just the right spot. The frenchman grit his teeth in a grin and yanked his fingers out of the Sniper's ass. "Ready?" "I—" Too late. The Spy pressed his ridiculously hard cock against the bushman's entrance, causing a whole new chorus of gasps and groans that needed to be muffled. It was fascinating to watch the Sniper's face as the considerably short man slid his considerably large dick into places where, apparently, no probe had gone before. "Mon cher, when I am done with you, you will want this treatment more than just tonight…" There was, of course, no response from his partner, whose mouth was full of hand and whose ass was full of Spy. It was during the Spy's second, less careful thrust that Helen heard a shrill noise behind her. Spinning around, she discovered a very red Ms. Pauling with hands to her mouth and clipboard fallen to the ground. With a bit of embarrassment, she realized that she had been watching these two go at it for several minutes now, on the biggest screen with the volume pumped up. She coughed, attempting to regain some semblance of dignity despite the image behind her of the gasping, undulating Sniper and the panting, thrusting Spy. She summoned up her best glare and aimed it right at her employee. "Yes, Ms. Pauling?" She spat icily. "There's—they're, uh—those two—isn't that—" The Administrator simply raised an eyebrow and let the poor girl splutter. Finally, she seemed to regain the ability to speak. "We should, um, that is, I think we ought to—don't you want to do something about that?" She was almost shrieking, her shaking finger pointing at the screen. "Hmmm," the Administrator mused, spinning around to face the action once again. The Sniper was moaning the Spy's name now—his real name. Impressive. "Yes, yes of course. Install a camera in the Sniper's van immediately…"
Instead of pulling an actual prank on April Fool's Day, I wrote this. Enjoy? -----Fool----- The Spy was known for being a devilish son of a bitch. Not the most coveted title in the world, perhaps, but the frenchman embraced and cherished it. His brain was always working at full capacity to maintain that image, and to contrive new ways to present himself as a clever damned bastard. And there were certain American holidays, he discovered, that were perfect for this… He was especially excited about his latest project. A delicate venture, it was—the timing had to be perfect, he had to be extremely careful to get close enough, it would have to work on the first try, and it had to be today, unless he wanted to wait another year. So he was cautious. After the battle commenced, he spent about a third of it performing his duties as usual: backstabbing, intelligence theft, sentry sapping, and putting the Ambassador to work. So far, so good. As usual, he kept his eyes keen and his gaze observant throughout the well-practiced paces of battle. Soon enough, he located the enemy Sniper's roost—time to move onto step two. Trying to act as normal as possible, he snuck his way into the building housing the RED assassin. A cloak here, a disguise there, a careful dodge of the Pyro, and, ha! He had to smirk at the success of his mission so far. Magnifique. Now, to find the Sniper. Predictably, the Australian was hunched over his rifle, totally attentive to the tumble underfoot, lending a bullet whenever he could, and grinning and muttering to himself whenever he got a headshot—which, and the Spy had to admit this was impressive, was most of the time. However, he was far too busy concentrating on slipping into the roost without making a sound to dwell too long on the Sniper's skills. He watched and waited, knowing that soon, the RED would need to reload. It happened after a series of potshots at a particularly evasive Scout. Good boy, the Spy thought, licking his lips in preparation as the other man's broad, rough hands reached out to fill themselves with bullets. The gun was unloaded, the fists were occupied, and the kukri was almost out of reach—he wasn't going to get a better shot. So, as quickly as he could, he uncloaked and sprung into action. The face. The first face the Sniper made was exactly what the BLU had expected: something between shock, anger, confusion, and fear, with widened eyes and furrowed brow, not to mention beautifully flushed cheeks. Yes, the expression that the bushman formed at the firm, wet touch of the Spy's lips pressing up against his, the way he squirmed under the gloved hands on his shoulders, and the way his eyes widened when an impudent tongue flicked across his lips—it was perfect. He had flawlessly predicted the Sniper's reaction. What he didn't predict, though, was his response. Wiry arms wrapped around a tiny waist, chapped lips parted eagerly, letting the Sniper's own tongue out to play, and as eyelids closed the RED assassin let out an entirely unprofessional moan. The Spy froze for a moment, unsure of what he should do—fight? run? reciprocate? He ran the options through his head, ran them against the image he inhabited, and let a bit of instinct come out to play as well. The verdict was overwhelming. Keep going. And so the Spy kissed him back, and fondled him, and let out a few undignified sounds of his own, and when they finally pulled apart, part of him—the part he always ignored—wanted to dive right back in. And the face the Sniper was making now, oh, that first one was nothing compared to this. Each of the features told him a different story, suggesting that what was going on in the bushman's mind was just as muddled and violent as the battlefield below. The mouth, with teeth bared and saliva dripping, presented the picture of "predator," while the flaring nostrils shuddered with desperation. Best of all, though, were the eyes: wide and glistening with disbelief, hope, and affection. Affection. How…adorable. How long had Mr. Jarman been keeping this under wraps, he wondered? Looking at that face, that wild, desperate, pathetically loving face, no man would have been able to say it. It would have been too cruel, too much even for the most weathered, desensitized mercenary. No decent, caring, moral person would have been able to say it at all. But of course, the Spy remembered as he bared his toothy grin, he was none of those things. "April Fools!"
And here's the last one that isn't art-inspired. I'll wait for the go ahead from those wiser than me before posting those ones, I think. Anyway, this. I think it's really horrid, but I think that about all my writing, so who knows? -----Unsent Letter From a Sniper----- Dear you, No, hell with that—"dear" is the wrong word, totally wrong. You're not a "dear" anything. You're the sickness, you're what's wrong. And you don't start a letter with "Dear sickness"—well, I don't. You might, actually, you're just twisted and sick enough to do call an illness "dear," because after all, they're your brothers, aren't they? The hurts and the maladies, you see them all at family reunions, and if anyone or anything is dear to you, it'd be them. If you gave a rat's ass about anything, I bet it would be kin—but you don't. I know you don't. I know. How do I know? Oh, I bet you're all amused right now, pressing your stupid thin little lips together in a stupid thin little smirk. Well, knock it off, because even if we've never had a proper conversation, I can tell—and don't be so snooty as to ask me how. I'm not a bleeding idiot, that's how, and though you'll probably never properly realize it, you're not so good at your job as you think you are. Sure, you sneak around, and you do your research, and you hide away with all your precious little gadgets, but that's all legwork; I'm using my eyes, observing, watching. You'd be surprised at what I see, what I remember—for example, that little mask you wear? Useless. It clings so precisely to your skin, bet you could take it off and I'd still recognize you right away in a crowd. You can't hide from me. You can't stop me from seeing it. You probably don't even think there's anything to see, you superior wanker. But there's plenty—I've caught all those coy little glances, the way you move and hold yourself, the way you breathe when you've got me pinned—not a thing escapes me, especially not you. You couldn't ever escape me—that is, if I wanted to catch you. But I don't. I don't want to catch you, I don't want you—I hate you. I hate seeing you look at me like that, the way you think you can get away with it, that you think I'm too dull to even notice when it's so painfully obvious, the way your sickness is infectious, the way you look at me like I'm a piece of meat to be devoured and then forgotten—because, remember, I know how you are, how your capacity to care starts at zero and only goes lower. That thing your mouth does when you ogle me, there's no affection there, although I must admit when it runs simultaneously with the other thing you do with your eyes— But that's not worth a tic, is it? You could be lying with your eyes to get me closer to the truth you grip between your teeth—and I know that's the truth, because as a lie, as a secret, I would do you no good. If you look at me with longing, it's out of some pathetic, sick desire, some physical urge, the need to jump my bones and then forget the next morning—but you've got your goddamn work cut out for you. I must admit, though, if you can get someone like me—straight-laced, professional, and a sucker for a good pair of tits—to want to get intimate, well, guess you're better at your job than I give you credit for. But I don't want intimacy; I'm a full grown fucking man and I don't want to be cuddled and sweet-talked by some pansy-ass traitorous spook—yeah, that's right, traitorous. I don't trust you, I can't, I couldn't trust you even if I wanted to. And I'll admit that I do. Want to trust you, I mean. I hate it, I don't want to want to trust you, but I do. There, I said it. So what? Not like I can, and—fuck, I'm not going to. God, I hate you. You make me sick. Really. I've told you about the illness, how it's your family and pride and self and all you could be faithful to, but what I forgot to mention was how goddamn contagious it is. I know it's an outright malady, so don't try to convince me that it isn't, that you're not—I'm around my second score of years and my mind has always made sense to me, no matter what happened or who I met or what I did. But now everything's a mess, a jumble, and I have wild fantasies that don't make sense, and I'm haunted in my dreams; I even get a fever whenever you get too close. If I get any sicker I'm afraid I'd let you grasp and use and fuck and leave me, and I'm almost sick enough to want you to. Almost. But I don't think I'll ever be sick enough to trust you. That's the problem with your little game—if you did really want me, that'd be betraying everything you're supposed to be, and to be faithful to your duties, you'd have to betray me. No matter which way you go, if we ever got close, it would give me a reason not to get close to you. If we were on the same side, maybe it'd be different, but you're a betrayer either way and to get involved with you would be stupid—and like I said, I'm not stupid. I'm not stupid, so I'll stay away from you. I'm not stupid, so I won't send this letter. I'm not stupid, so I won't tell you how I feel. I won't give you the chance to slither in and make me ill. If I think that you're alluring, fascinating, desirable—that's just the symptoms talking, and I have to ignore them if I ever want to recover. And I do—I have to remind myself of that sometimes, but I want to be over this. I want to be healthy again, and I know you can't do that for me. No matter how desperately I wish that you could. Love—No, Anything But That, The Sniper.
Are you going to continue this? Sniper's letter made me curious.
Knight, your one-shots are very nice to read! I really am hoping you will be continuing "Training" as well! "Different Asselol".... This captcha scares me.
>>5 >>6 Ahh, thank you both! I may, at some point, continue any or all of these one-shots--well, except for Warming, since it's really just a moment and not very continuable--but my first priority is, indeed, Training, which will continue as soon as I have the time to write it, hopefully soon. Until then--should I post some more old little shorts that I have, the ones that are based on pictures? Would that be alright?
Do it. You really need to.
>>7 I agree with 8. You need to. Right now. Or I'll explode. Seriously.
>>8 Well, alright, here goes. Again, these are all Sniper/Spy, and they're mostly just silly and fluffy. In fact, I'm pretty sure they're entirely that. Anyway, here's the first one--not actually inspired by art, but by the introduction of the Cozy Camper and a lovely idea from Anne the Cat Detective--the post I responded to is here: http://annethecatdetective.tumblr.com/post/19381072561/tf2-update-or-teddy-roosevelt-koala-buddy-otp I apologize now for how stupid it is, but I still kind of like it. For some reason. ---------- Sniper’s eyes darted furtively from side to side. He knew he was alone in his van, he was always alone, but the embarrassment he would suffer if any of his teammates found him…He peeked out the window. No one. Good. He closed the shutters and slung the pack off of his shoulders, tenderly removing the tiny stuffed koala he had secretly nicknamed “Little Mundy.†“Here we go, lil’ mate,†he breathed, setting the toy on his bed as he kneeled on the floor. “And now…†It was with a less gentle grasp that he held his other plaything—a miniscule doll version of the other team’s Spy. He looked at it a moment, running a thumb almost softly over its precious button eyes, before moving it to the mattress with the koala plush. Holding Little Mundy in his left hand and the tiny Spy in his right, he began his forbidden ritual— “Ohonhonhon! Bonjour, monsieur Mundy!†He growled in an entirely off-base approximation of the frenchman’s voice, as he wiggled the little masked doll so it seemed to be talking to the miniscule marsupial. “Say your prayers, for I have come to kill you!†Woosh! The Spy toy flew towards the koala, but stopped suddenly just short of it, as the Sniper whispered in his own voice, “Wait!†and shook he stuffed animal with vigor. “Pourquoi should I wait?†He continued in his silly Spook voice, making the little man’s limbs flop about. “Because,†he responded, waving Little Mundy, in a more serious and natural voice—though it was beginning to wax dramatic. “Because I love you!†Both toys were still for a moment as the Sniper drew in a haggard, emotional breath. Finally, he let the bitty voodoo Spy tremble a bit and said in his awful accent, “Mon amour—I LOVE YOU TOO!†The grizzled veteran of a mercenary brought the two plush figures together with an exuberant flourish, mashing fuzzy koala muzzle against dark cloth mask in what he surely believed to be a romantic kiss. He was just beginning to make rather undignified smooching noises when a noise from behind him made his heart stop cold. “So,†drawled the enemy Spy, uncloaking and narrowing his eyes, “what exactly are you doing, bushman?
I wrote this one during Tekkoshocon, because I'm an idiot who comes home at 4 AM and writes fanfiction instead of getting her three hours of sleep before getting ready to go in to staff again the next morning. Look at the pic first, because otherwise I'm afraid the fic might be hard to understand at the beginning? Uncertain, but here we go... Inspiring art: http://-dummkopf.tumblr.com/post/19707458116/pudding-is-very-thick-and-difficult-to-eat-without ---------- He hid. Of course he hid. Hiding was his job, although suddenly that trusty skill was strangely absent—his shadow lay thick and heavy against the wall, betraying how solid, how real, how obviously flawed he was. For some reason the Spy was now unable to grasp his knife or reach to his watch; the leather of his gloves never moved from his face, attempting to hide or at least stabilize his shame. He was huddled, less covered than an ostrich ducking its head in a hole, when echoing footsteps rang out behind him. “Spook?†Merde. It had to be him; it couldn’t have been any other silly RED fool, one who would have practically fallen on his knife. No, it had to be the blunt, bold bushman who was continually able to avoid death and, apparently, utensils. Both of those facts appealed to the Spy more than he could admit even to himself. The Sniper made his job more enjoyable; he was a worthy opponent, and killing him was always a pleasure, and the frenchman was usually able to convince himself that the little grunts that the taller man made and the and the way he jerked around at the end of the butterfly knife had absolutely nothing to do with it. He was usually able to convince himself that the Sniper was prey for backstabs and nothing more. Then again, the lanky Australian was usually not using his tongue to prod and lick at thick, creamy substances—so sweet that the Spy could hear him make small satisfied noises—and usually, if he caught a glare from behind tinted aviators, the frenchman was able to think about things other than that same beautiful red tongue running over his skin, gently prodding toned muscles, flicking over hardened nipples, sliding down a trail of body hair, and finally coming to lick and swirl and lave and tease at—at—at parts of him that were not supposed to come into play on the battlefield. And yet, there he was, and the Sniper had seen him, and the Sniper was approaching him, and the Sniper was talking to him, and while he felt as though he was drowning in shame, that low, rumbling voice still sent warmth coursing through him and he waited hopefully for more. He knew he was about to get chewed out, shouted at, but at least he would be making the other man scream, even if it was not for the reasons he wanted. So he flushed, and waited, and determinedly looked away, trying his best to hide his blush and his erection so as to maintain at least a semblance of something that used to be dignity during the verbal abuse that was sure to come. But the only thing that came was silence. Nothing was audible but the Spy’s own haggard breaths, which began to slow as the quiet stretched out the moments, and he would have thought the Sniper was gone if not for the absence of the renewed sound of footsteps. Finally, he deemed his face presentable and let curiosity overcome embarrassment—he turned his head to look at the bushman. There, just an inch in front of the Spy’s face, was the Sniper’s gloved hand, and in that hand was an unopened pudding cup. The tall assassin’s face was unreadable, but his grip on the proffered food was surprisingly tender and, sensing the BLU’s apprehension, he knelt next to him and pressed the treat into the Spy’s palm. “For you,†the Australian explained. “I got loads back in my van, so—yeah.†He was frowning, and seemed to want to say something else, but he didn’t say another word, and neither did the Spy, nor did his fingers tighten around the plastic cup. His eyes narrowed at the Sniper in distrust and confusion, eliciting an exasperated sigh from the RED. “Look, it’s not poisoned, okay? Promise.†The Spy’s expression did not change. The Sniper scowled and pulled the gift back. “Here, fine—†Not quite as gentle as before, he ripped the lid of the pudding cup off and scooped out a dripping fingerful. The frenchman’s eyes widened as the gangly bushman sucked the liquid chocolate off; more heat went to the bulge in his pinstripes and all too soon the finger came out again and the treat was proffered a second time. “See? No tricks. Now go on! We both have jobs to get back to, yeah?†Still wondering at his good fortune, the Spy took the pudding cup gingerly, glad for the gift from a man that he had feelings for—physical feelings only, he told himself. The Sniper stood and turned away, and joined the Spy in silence for a moment, but when he threw the BLU one last look over his shoulder and saw that the huddled man was still not eating, he couldn’t hold his tongue. “Christ, mate, c’mon! It’s good stuff—sweet.†On the last word, the Australian swooped down and pressed a swift kiss to the other man’s mouth, running that hot, wet tongue over trembling lips before pulling back. The Spy tasted chocolate on his lips; it was another moment before he was able to finally choke out a response. “Very sweet,†he agreed, stroking the Sniper’s stubbled face for a moment. “I will treasure it.†Perhaps what he felt was not only physical, after all. The bushman grinned goofily, grabbing the Spy’s hand with his own. “Well, like I said,†he rumbled, “there’s more where that came from.†And with that, the Sniper was off, back to his rifle, leaving the Spy to lap at his pudding and wonder just how soon he could pay a visit to that camper van….
Oh goodness. This one is embarrassing. They're all sort of embarrassing, but this one--it was part of my contribution to the running "Spy's baguette" joke on tumblr. I also wrote a really dumb Spyrector drabble with a baguette joke, but it is literally too stupid and too short to post. So here's this. Inspiring art: http://ootheca.tumblr.com/post/20216861324/sniper-putting-vegemite-on-spys-baguette ---------- “Stop that.†“Nah.†“I said stop it!†“Why should I?†The Sniper smirked at the Spy over the hot, stiff loaf, glad to be making the frenchman flustered for once instead of the other way around. The masked man seemed less amused, puffing huffily at his cigarette and frowning at the weathered hands spreading that strange substance over his hardened dough. “I never said that this baguette was for you to touch,†he hissed, wincing as the Sniper spooned another glob of—that—onto his length of bread. “Aw, c’mon,†the Australian grinned, spreading the essence of his homeland over the tantalizing crust with his worn, yet skilled, hands. “You know you wanted me to have it. Otherwise you wouldn’t’ve brought it out, now would you?†Spy growled in response. “I have boundaries, bushman. Standards, if you will. And I do not want your back country swill on my flawless baked goods!†“Swill?†The Sniper put a hand to his heart in mock offense. “Y’think vegemite is swill? Beg to differ, mate. It’s bloody delicious. Here—show ya—†And with that, he dipped his ungloved hand into the jar and came back with a fingerful of dripping brown goop. The frenchman cringed in disgust, but couldn’t resist letting that rugged hand find its way into his mouth. He even sucked longingly at the finger for a moment before the taste of the vegemite registered—at which point he spat it out: spread, hand, everything. “Disgusting, bushman! Horrid, as I expected!†He screeched, scraping his taste buds against his teeth in an effort to rid himself of the lingering flavour. “Well, alright then…†The Sniper almost pouted; he seemed genuinely disappointed, and even the Spy had to stop flailing for a moment to watch him flick his tongue out sadly to swipe the remaining vegemite from his own fingers. The Australian sighed and slumped for a moment, before straightening suddenly and shooting a grin at the man sitting next to him. “Got any left for me, Spook?†And before the Spy could do anything, the taste of vegemite was replaced with coffee and butterscotch and sweat as the Sniper’s tongue made a sensual sweep of the inside of his mouth, scooping up all the unwanted flavour and not at all shying from wrestling with the tongue-in-residence. The frenchman let out a heated groan, and when his companion pulled away, licking his lips, the baguette had shifted up, to an even steeper angle. The Australian assassin raised an eyebrow. “Like that a bit better, y’little weasel?†He teased. Spy coughed and straightened his tie, hoping to retain some dignity, but he had to admit— “Quite. Much more suited for my palette. If it’s not too much trouble, I’d love another serving.†He let a flirtatious purr sneak into his speech; it wasn’t too often he got a chance alone and at peace like this with the enemy Sniper. “Heh, alright.†The RED chuckled. “But can I have some of this, first?†Stubbled jaw rubbed against crackling crust, and the Spy smiled widely when that warm, wet mouth wrapped itself around the end of his baguette. “Ooohhh, yes,†he groaned. “Swallow it down, bushman. Every last crumb is for you.â€
Fun fact: The bomb threat in this fic was inspired by actual events! I have a lot of friends at the University of Pittsburgh, and they've been getting a lot of bomb threats recently, although I think things have calmed down recently. Also, captcha is "not mignon"? I'm insulted. Inspiring picture: http://hunterv.tumblr.com/post/20582510247/requested-during-live-stream-by-ribbonkrazekiru ----------- The Sniper hated his birthday. When he was little, he’d loved it, yeah—he got presents and parties and he would play outside with his friends, but now…His mum sent him something each year, but it always came a few days late because the Administrator had their mail searched thoroughly and he’d never had the heart to tell her it hadn’t come on time. He had friends, or close enough to it, sure, but he was a grown man now, and parties were out of the question. Too juvenile, and too silly, especially for a fellow who wasn’t particularly pleased to be getting another year older, and especially considering that they were in the middle of a war. He supposed he did get to play outside, in a way, he thought with an unamused huff, but it wasn’t exactly pleasant, seeing as he spent most of the day alone, dying horribly. Not to mention the fact that the Sniper’s birthday was in the dead of winter. He couldn’t even sleep in his van, what with how cold it got out here… He produced something between a shiver and a sigh as he opened the door to the room he had to bunk in during the winter months. It was quite bare, Spartan almost, because the Sniper hated the enclosed little room and refused to make it seem anything like home. He gave it a glare as he stepped in, ignoring the shouts from outside—the Soldier seemed to be raving about a…â€mom fretâ€? The gunman shook his head in confusion and shut the door to the noise, supposing their Spy must have gone after the other team’s mum again. He didn’t care to participate in that argument. If the frenchman was going to see his lover, then good on him. The Sniper almost envied the mother BLU; his own masked lovebird hadn’t come to see him at all today, not that he had ever told the enemy Spy that today was his birthday…besides, they’d only been romantically involved for a few weeks now. Still, the roguish little spook usually came to visit him in his nest during the battle at least once a day, and today—nothing. Just his rotten luck. Just another reason to hate his birthday. He began unpacking from the day’s battle, removing his weapons from his person and placing them carefully on the ground—the room didn’t even have a table, just a bed and a chest for his belongings. He had just set the sniper rifle down when he heard an odd noise—familiar, but entirely out of place. It sounded like…Carefully, he withdrew his hands from the weapon and straightened. His jaw nearly hit the ground. “Joyeux anniversaire, mon cheri.†The Sniper couldn’t stop gaping. The noise had indeed been the sound of the BLU Spy uncloaking—uncloaking on his bed, relaxed as if it was the most natural thing in the world to suddenly appear in an enemy based dressed the way he was, that is to say, not dressed very much at all. With his brain still incapable of forming words, the RED ordered his eyes to do a bit of reconnaissance: they swept over the sly face he knew too well, hungrily drunk in the exposed chest, stopped tenderly at the rose held delicately in a gloved hand, ran hopefully over the blue leather on the fingers, jumped to the surprisingly arousing sock garters and then finally, hesitantly, drifted to petal-covered crotch. There they lingered for quite awhile—their relationship was still fairly new and the Sniper was not at all used to seeing him in things like that. God, the spook was a sight, and it was all he could do to choke out a few syllables, which, unsurprisingly, ended up being the wrong ones: “B-but…my team, they’ll—you should leave!†Thankfully, the Spy had already learned that his lover didn’t exactly have a way with words, and he made no move to leave; he only grinned. “Your team? Oh, please, bushman, they’re all outside wondering where you are and why the base hasn’t exploded yet.†Exploded? But why would…When he figured it out, he could have hit himself. “Bomb threat,†he groaned. That was what the Soldier had been screaming about, of course, not “mom fret,†how could he have been so stupid? “You called in a bomb threat?†The Spy just let out a melodramatic sigh in response. “Is that really important? It is your birthday, cher.†“Wh—but—how did you know that?†The Sniper spluttered. Just a smirk and a word, “Spy.†That was all the explanation that was needed. “So, you…you called in a bomb threat so that my team wouldn’t catch you visiting me on my birthday?†The Australian drawl was full of hope; did the spook really care about him that much? The Spy’s grin just grew more devilish, and his reply sent a chill down his lover’s spine that stopped the stopped the heart on the way and landed right between his legs. “I called in a bomb threat so that your team wouldn’t hear us fucking on your birthday.†Finding his partner entirely unable to respond, the BLU continued: “Now, come, aren’t you going to open your present?†“S-seems like you did most of that for me already,†managed the Sniper with a weak chuckle and a half-step forward. “Oui, I did get a bit impatient,†the barely-clothed frenchman responded with a shrug, “but I left the best part for you, so come here.†Still in shock, the birthday boy staggered towards his blue-wrapped gift. He was shaking; they had barely gotten this far, and now things were moving so quickly—he would have liked to take this one slow, but he supposed his team could decide at any moment that the bomb threat was bogus, so—when he finally reached the bed, he sank to his knees, bringing his hands to grip the Spy right above the hips, rubbing gently as he draped his torso awkwardly over the still-crossed leg and let his head approach the scanty undergarments, aiming with his mouth to remove them and find what was hidden beneath the dark cloth. “Tsk, now, what are you doing?†The Spy’s voice stopped him, as well as the Spy’s finger under his jaw, tilting his gaze up. “You’ll get the scent much better from the flower itself than you ever would from a few petals.†He held the rose towards the Sniper’s face, and the gunman blinked in confusion. “The best part?†Surely the Spy in front of him, nearly entirely exposed and ready, apparently, for a good fuck, would be the highlight of the evening? “But of course,†the frenchman growled, waving the flower. “This is your birthday present. The rest—†he let the rose drag over his neck, down his chest, circling a nipple— “the rest of this is yours any day.†He held the rose out to the entranced bushman once again, and an ungloved hand plucked it carefully from the leather grasp. The Australian gave it an appreciatory sniff. “Red,†he noted faintly, glancing back up. “My favourite colour,†purred the spook. The Sniper smiled widely, letting the rose fall and reaching a hand towards the masked face so he could pull himself up to plant a kiss on smug, stubble-surrounded lips. “How long do we have?†He murmured, placing his knees on either side of the BLU, straddling him. “Mmm…†The Spy took his time thinking as those leather-clad fingers wrapped around his lover’s waist, tickling and exploring and tugging at clothing. “Well, I left them a little message outside—a nonsensical riddle of sorts that ought to lead them on a wild goose chase until, hmm…†He nuzzled the other man’s unshaven cheek, leaning close to one ear to whisper, “We have at least until morning.†The Sniper would forever be grateful that the other man never said a word to anyone about the excited noise he let out at those words, but his lover’s next utterance was even more exhilarating. “Perhaps I shall let you unwrap me all the way,†the Spy mused teasingly, bringing those huge Australian hands to his mask, where they immediately started touching and stroking. It was then that the Sniper lost total control of his body and fell forward, bringing the both of them tumbling onto the mattress and bumping the Sniper’s head against the wall. Normally he would have cursed the barren room and its narrow cot for his new injury, but at the moment all of his cursing capabilities were allocated elsewhere, slipping breathily out in response to the spook’s tender touches—and with the writhing body beneath him, the steady stream of french in his ear, and the smell of roses still lingering in his nose, the little room was beginning to feel more and more like home. This, thought the Sniper as his hands slipped under the balaclava and began feeling unexplored aspects of his lover, was the best birthday he had ever had.
And finally, these last three are a series--turns out I'm a sucker for dancing, something I always knew but wasn't always aware would lead to incredibly cheesy drabbles. Here they are, anyway! -----Dancing, Part 1----- Inspiring art: http://jannelle-o.tumblr.com/post/20359432350/b “Told you not to call me that.†The Sniper was being very difficult, very stubborn. He let his hand be grasped, but he did not move, aside from the tug he gave to the brim of his hat—a motion born of suspicion, of fear. The RED Spy had to sigh, but refused to let his date’s mood get him down. “Alright then,†he replied with a playful little smile. “Hey, cheri, give it a try.†“That’s no better at all, and you know it!†The Australian hissed with audible alarm. A sweat was beginning to break out on his face, and from such a short distance, one could tell that confusion was clearly king behind those yellowed shades. The calmer assassin waited quietly as the usually collected gunman drew in a deep, steadying breath. “Look, y’know I love all those lil’ pet names you give me, but I just…Goddammit, we’re in public! We can’t—†Red leather met red lips as the Spy lifted a single finger to silence him. “This,†he explained quietly, “is a dance hall. It is meant for dancing. It is not meant for shouting, and all your yelling and flailing about will draw much more attention to us than anything else.†His voice wasn’t scolding per se, it was too soft, too gentle, but the Sniper felt rebuked anyway—if not by his partner, by the people who had indeed started giving them strange looks, their eyes searching for the source of such desperation and volume. He gulped, and kept quiet as the Spy continued. “In fact, if you would like to remain inconspicuous, it would be best for us to dance together. It is too dark for us to be easily recognized, and even if we were, I have seen all sorts of pairs waltzing here: parents and children, friends, cousins, strangers, teachers and students…coworkers…†He cupped his companion’s jaw gently with his hand, forcing the bushman to look into his eyes—sharp as ever, and cunning, but…today, surprisingly warm. Warm and hopeful those dark eyes shone as he whispered, “It is not too much I ask for, is it?†The Sniper was stunned. He was supposed the insecure one, the emotionally volatile one, the one who had to ask himself every morning if this was real, who wondered even as the Spook slumbered next to him what he had ever done to deserve something this wonderful, and who felt awful for everything he had ever asked of the man who insisted on being called his lover, no matter how eagerly the Spy had done it. He was supposed to be the one who had no idea what was going on, while his man handled everything with a firm grip and a confident smirk. But now—he couldn’t tell if he had just gotten better at seeing the man through the mask, or whether that man was only able to play smug and in control for so long—and perhaps it was a bit of both that made the Spy seem, for the first time, vulnerable. It was beautiful. It was fascinating and terrifying and comforting all at once. “‘Course it’s not too much,†he breathed. “Nothing’s…I mean, I just, I’ve never really done it before, y’know? Danced.†He considered looking his lover in the eye, but found himself strangely able to look only at the floor. “I’m sure I’m bloody awful at it…†Warm laughter brought his gaze back up—the Spy was chuckling. “Is that all, bushman? Really? That’s the root of this whole fuss?†He shook his head in exasperation and, before the Sniper could raise a single objection about how many people might see, he pressed a quick kiss to his partner’s cheek. “You silly little thing,†he teased, “no matter how hopeless you are, you’ve got the best dance instructor this side of Paris at your side—by the end of the night you’ll be able to show everyone else here a thing or two.†The Australian couldn’t help but smile, despite his nerves. He liked the sound of that, but it didn’t seem possible. “I don’t think so, Spook…I’ll probably just end up embarrassing you…†He started to self-consciously pull down the brim of his hat again, but the Spy gripped his other hand, moved back a step, and held his arm out, waiting for the Sniper’s own to join it. “Hey baby,†he repeated soothingly, “give it a try.†This time, the he said yes. This time, and the next time, and the time after that… -----Dancing, Part 2----- Inspiring art: http://jannelle-o.tumblr.com/post/20832529280 It was his first time leading, and though the trained assassin would never let it show, he was terrified. Not because the man in his arms was dangerous, not because of anything sensible at all—simply because he wasn’t sure he’d be any good. They’d been out dancing every Friday for the past month, but the Spy had always led, and only last week had Sniper really gotten the hang of following. It was a slow dance, but he was jittery, he thought maybe they were going too fast, and his legs felt floppy and leaden and wrong, so he had to ask— “A-Am I doing this right?†He couldn’t be, really, there was no way. His awkward, stiff steps were nothing like the frenchman when he led. The Sniper always felt secure with that leather grip on his shoulder and his waist, and with those warm eyes holding him steady. He wished he could make the Spy feel that safe, that strong. Instead, the masked man was still comforting him. “Oui,†he assured, and though he was being lowered near the ground it was clear that he was still in control. The Sniper liked that. If the Spy was in control, then he could relax. It was the thought of not being in charge that calmed him, not being on edge like he was all day gripping his rifle like the last thread connecting him to life. The man in his arms was that thread, really, but he breathed, and smiled, and held him gently. The gunman had to trust that he wouldn’t fall away. As the night went on, he grew more confident. He didn’t take control, not exactly, but he wasn’t butchering the job of leading as awfully as he’d thought he would. With his lover next to him, cheering him on, and the lights dim enough to hide his mistakes, and even the matching hats they’d bought at a boutique earlier that morning, he felt himself growing, as a dancer and a person; he felt his heart expanding in his chest and he grinned wildly. He squeezed a little tighter, humming happily in time with the music. His partner’s response took him absolutely by surprise. As he concentrated on his footwork, there was a sudden weight on his chest, and he had to miss a step when he realized that the Spy’s head was laying there. The frenchman’s eyes were closed, he was smiling peacefully, and nuzzling—the Sniper froze. Spies didn’t nuzzle. And yet, there they were. The moment was brief, because as they turned, the resting man’s hat fell off, and they had to stop and laugh and retrieve it from the crowded dance floor, but it stuck in the Australian’s memory and never really left, because for the first time, the Spy wasn’t in control. Instead, the Sniper held his life in his arms, and he felt the weight of him—all of him. He felt every aching muscle and stored up sigh, and the warm breath near his heart carried the whisper of every word left unsaid. Not just vulnerable, he was almost a child, and the gunman was filled with the drive to take care of him—to hold him forever, to ease off all those invisible burdens, to let the masked man collapse against his shoulder and to tell him everything was going to be alright. For countless measures of time, this urge would be a silent, although not-so-secret one, felt every night they slept together, when the Spy would curl up among the blankets and practically purr, and the gaunt assassin would stay up awhile and watch him, holding him silently and occasionally running his hand over that face, that shoulder, that chest, that back. He knew there were things it would take his lover years to tell him, truths that were so hidden they would have to be coaxed out on their own time, and that was fine. He knew it would take years for the masked man to admit he needed him—but for now it was enough that he trusted him, more than enough, because the Sniper knew he didn’t trust anyone else. When they came back together after dusting off the fallen chapeau, his partner asked him, “Need any help, cheri?†“Nah,†said the Sniper, placing his hands firmly and kissing the Spy briefly. “I’ve got you.†-----Dancing, Part 3----- Inspiring art: http://felixfellow.tumblr.com/post/21329331942/for-your-eyes-only It was the first time he could swear with certainty that he knew what he was doing. It was all familiar: the dark whirling dance hall, the Spy in his arms, the music, the steps, the dance. He had learned to follow or lead with grace and ease, to switch positions at just the gentle touch of a gloved hand, to read his partner’s movement and expression—and he certainly wasn’t going to complain about having an excuse to hold the other man closer, or gaze into his eyes, no, he could do that all day. The best part, though, was the banter, whispered between them just loud enough for two to hear, creating their own little world on the crowded floor. “You’ve gotten quite skilled at leading, mon cher,†the Spy murmured. “It is as if I am never in control anymore…†“C’mon mate, we both know that’s not true,†the Sniper replied with a grin. “It’s a miracle I can move my legs this well at all, after last night…†“Oh, pauvre,†his partner cooed, “perhaps you’d like to switch?†“Nahh, I can do this. I’d do anything for you, Spook.†Bemused, the frenchman batted his eyelashes. “Oh! How romantic, for a bushman! Very well then, sweep me away.†The Sniper dipped his partner down; their combined skill brought them nearly to the floor with no effort, and he growled in that masked ear: “Oh, I will, darling.†Spy failed to stifle a little excited intake of breath, not a gasp, but enough to widen the taller man’s smile as they rose again easily— “I could even try sweeping you away tonight, if you wanted…†He hooked his leg over his lover’s, the proximity of his body and the raw hunger in his eyes betraying his intentions. “Oh, naughty,†scolded the frenchman with a smirk, doling out a gentle slap on the rear that somehow went unnoticed by the writhing crowd, but that successfully coaxed the offending appendage back to the ground, where it loyally resumed the dance. “I think I’ll do the sweeping for now, if you don’t mind—though I will remember the offer.†The Sniper chuckled. “Gonna do the sweeping for me? I oughta get you a little maid’s outfit.†“So cheeky!†The Spy exclaimed, giving the other man’s backside a squeeze this time. The Australin let out an embarrassing involuntary noise at the touch—thankfully masked by the music. “You oughta talk…hey!†His glanced away from his partner for the first time that night, looking over to the far corner of the dance hall where the DJ sat. The music had just changed, and the bushman melted into a smile. “Heh, this song’s perfect for you.†The Spy looked surprised and confused, so the Sniper waited a minute for him to recognize the tune. They turned gently as the frenchman’s brow knotted together and he listened intently. For your eyes only, can see me through the night For your eyes only, I never need to hide You can see so much in me, so much in me that’s new I never felt until I looked at you Something was dawning in the masked man’s eyes—not quite recognition, but something that was almost realization. His expression surprisingly soft, he looked up at his partner. “Do you mean…is this…?†“Yeah,†replied the Sniper with a happy, steady grin, “yeah, this is…†For your eyes only, only for you You’ll see what no one else can see, and now I’m breaking free For your eyes only, only for you The love I know you need in me, the fantasy you’ve freed in me Only for you, only for you “It is…a bit cheesy, but—†the Spy’s smile was almost shy— “it is perfect, I suppose.†“Cheesy?†The Australian protested. “Bond movies aren’t cheesy, they’re classic!†“Bond movies?†Puzzlement took over the frenchman’s features. “What are you talking about, bushman?†“Y-you know, Bond, James Bond? He’s a secret agent, they—they’re spy flicks. Come on, you have to have seen at least one Bond movie!†“This song…is from one of these, these ‘Bond’ films?†The Spy was frowning, which led the Sniper to stroke his cheek briefly with one hand. “Yeah, mate. And that’s why it’s perfect!†But even as the words left his lips, the bushman could tell he was saying something wrong, as the smirk on the other man’s face slipped and fell into a scowl. “I, I see.†The dapper assassin coughed and looked away, an immense flush visible even in the dark and under the mask. “Of course…†Dumbfounded, the Sniper stared silently, trying to figure out what he had done or said to earn his love’s displeasure. Both of them were silent as the record sang on. For your eyes only, the nights are never cold You really know me, that’s all I need to know Maybe I’m an open book because I know you’re mine But you won’t need to read between the lines “Aw piss,†he breathed, the realization hitting him like a stab in the back. “Go ahead and hit me, I’m an idiot.†“Hit you?†the frenchman repeated, cooly hiding his interest. “Seems a little extreme, non?†“No, no, I’m an idiot. A grade-A no-brained wanker. I…†He paused, halting the motion of his feet, and his partner crashed into him. The Sniper took hold of the moment and the spook, not letting him back away. “You know you’re more than that to me,†he whispered. “You know I know that’s not the only reason this song fits you.†And then there was a moment, or half a moment, where the song was ending and not a breath was taken but the two gazes met each other again, wordlessly exchanging sentiments and shared memories. There was no doubt that both men were strong, physically and emotionally, but trust had been difficult to build at first, and Sniper knew that he was the only one who knew his lover so intimately. So much of what the masked man told him had been told to no one else, both compromising secrets and intimate whispers that slipped out in the heat of the moment. They hid almost nothing from each other and everything from everyone else, to the point where the bushman had to laugh at other people’s impressions of or ideas about the Spy. No one knew him like he did. No one. They could warm each other’s beds, each other’s hearts, and as the number changed again, to a raucous disco number, the eyes behind the mask warmed as well. Yes, the song had been perfect, but both men were more preoccupied with the perfection in their own hands. “You silly fool,†the Spy rumbled, leaning against his taller partner and sliding his hands around his waist. “Let’s get out of here,†he whispered in his ear. “Yeah,†the Sniper agreed with a wide, dumb smile, still just a little unable to believe his luck, despite how long they had been together, how much they had done. “My place or yours?†“Mine,†his lover purred. “I have something that is, ah, for your eyes only.†The frenchman detangled himself, backing up so they could leave, and at first the other man laughed—until he saw leather gloves fingering the edge of the never-removed mask. “W-wait—you don’t mean—†“Come now,†the Spy grabbed his hand with a playful smirk. “I’ll lead.â€
I swear, don't stop. I'm loving all these little short stories, fluffy and silly. This makes my bad days look good. Thank you for this!
>>15 Oh jeez, thanks! That really means a lot to me; I know I often turn to fanfiction to brighten my stupid day, so I'm glad to hear I could do the same for someone else. Also, somehow, I found one more--it doesn't have a title, and it's short as hell, but here it is anyway. ---------- The Sniper wasn’t coming out. He’d been in his van all day—it was close to noon already, and the Spy, who had made it through half a pack of cigarettes just waiting for the other man, had had enough. He whipped out his knife and began operating on the lock, stabbing and jiggling until the door slid slowly open. He slipped silently into the Sniper’s space. It was still, dark and quiet in the van, and the Spy saw the hunched shape of his lover crumpled up under too many blankets. He crept forward noiselessly, crouching by the Sniper’s bedside, breathing lightly on the Australian’s face. One eye opened immediately, brimming with wild energy; the bushman had already been awake. “Y’smell like smoke,†he grumbled in a voice that hadn’t been used all day. “Your fault,†chided the Spy gently, rattling his half-empty cigarette case. “Now get up, you silly fool, it is late.†“No.†The Sniper couldn’t have been blunter. “What, have you fallen ill? A great huntsman like you? Surely not…†“No.†“Then you ARE being lazy.†“NO,†he was snarling now, and as his other eye opened the Spy could see how haggard he looked. “I just…Don’t wanna get out. Not today. Too much…†Too much what? The Spy didn’t care, didn’t need his lover to finish his sentence. His brain ran through things he had done in the past to rouse the Sniper from his moods—doing humorous imitations of their coworkers, singing (badly) in French, cooking, and good old fashioned kissing. He suggested all of these to his partner—and each of them was shot down with the same precision and deadly accuracy that the Sniper showed every day on the battlefield. Finally, the Spy was out of ideas. “You,†he hissed through gritted teeth, “you are IMPOSSIBLE.†His gloomy companion grunted, shifting under the blankets so he was facing the ceiling. “You gonna leave now, Spook?†He grumbled. “Hmph.†The Spy leaned back and crossed one leg over the other, turning his own gaze towards the roof of the van. “Non, I do not think I will.†The Australian squirmed again, turning to face his lover. “The hell are you gonna do, then? I’m not lettin’ you smoke in here…†“That is fine,†the Spy assured, turning his gaze back down to meet the Sniper’s eyes. “I will simply stay with you.†The bushman frowned at the Spy’s sly smile. They stayed like that for uncountable seconds, minutes even, until finally the Sniper rolled back around to face the wall. “You’re a funny lil’ Spook,†he grumbled. The Spy simply chuckled. He had seen the grin on his lover’s face before he turned away.
Sorry, I'm lousy at crit unless there's something glaringly obvious to me. I admit I haven't scrutinized this for errors, so nothing stands out. It's keeping me curious and entertained. I'm a schmuck who eats this stuff up, admittedly. But for what it's worth, I'm enjoying your writing.
>>17 Ahh, thank you so much! I'm still glad there's nothing glaringly obvious--and more than that, glad you're enjoying my writing. I'm kind of an idiot, so last night, when I gave up on my homework because I was too tired, I decided it was high time to write some more shitty fluff. My brain wasn't properly working, so this probably won't properly work either, but there it is. The end feels really weird to me, I don't know. ----------- Inspiring artwork: http://kynimdraws.tumblr.com/post/22343539179 It was hard to say when they had started swapping stories. At first, the BLU Spy and the RED Sniper only hurled insults and taunts at each other as they wrestled and slashed and dodged, but at some point those taunts grew into boasts, and the boasts grew longer, and more complicated, and somehow they established a ritual. Each morning, the Sniper would set up and wait. At some point around lunch the Spy would appear, and instead of lunging at each other as they did on their first day, they would eye each other from across the room, the RED sipping his coffee and the BLU puffing at his cigarette for a few silent minutes until the first opened his mouth to speak. He would tell his story, and after he finished, the other man would try to one-up him. After that, of course, is when they killed each other. The Spy, armed with an ability to quickly spin deceptions, usually started the telling, prompting with his fantasies the Sniper’s true tales garnered from years of dangerous work. The frenchman, of course, had his own stories, but he had to be careful with which ones he told, and only rarely and guardedly did he feed the bushman something real. The other man could always tell when he did; the mask turned downward in a deep-set frown and the accented voice dropped half an octave. Occasionally, neither of them could think of a story, so they would ask each other questions until one of them felt inspired—making sure, of course, to keep up a professional appearance; they weren’t buddies getting chatty, of course not, they had simply developed an interest in each other. It was on a particularly slow day for both of them that the Spy asked about the water buffalo. “What is that thing you say, tireur rouge, about the carcass of a water buffalo?†He sneered from his corner near the door. “Have you really slept in one?†The Sniper looked startled for a moment, then concerned, but soon enough he cracked a grin. “Yeah. Alright, I reckon I can tell you that one. But I’m warning you, it’s a doozy.†The frenchman smirked smugly in return. “Go on then, bushman. Impress me.†The RED sighed wistfully and settled himself, turning his back to the battlefield and leaning against the windowsill out of which he’d been shooting. He tugged on the brim of his hat, signaling to Spy that he was already setting the tone for the tale. “It all started when I was a wee ankle-biter, ‘bout seven or eight. Dad came home with this funny-lookin’ thing, still very little, and explained to me that he was a water buffalo, that he’d grow to be big as a horse, and that it was my job to raise him. Supposed to teach me a bit about responsibility, get me ready to run the family farm.†The BLU chuckled a little at this, and the storyteller allowed himself a small smile as well before continuing on to recount several cutesy anecdotes about the buffalo growing up. He explained that at first, he had been hesitant about the project, since it just started like chores, but soon enough he and the animal had become inseparable, and that the young Australian had decided to train the unlikely creature to fight off attackers and fend for itself after one fearful night when he lay awake listening to the dingoes and praying they wouldn’t devour his friend. The buffalo took to the training well, and after a few years was relegated the recently vacated role of “watchdog.†Despite his pet’s ability to take care of itself, the young Sniper still spent time with him every day, and talked to him like a friend or an older brother—about his life, his friends, school, his family. “This is adorable bullshit, Sniper,†the Spy interrupted when he realized he had spent twenty minutes already smiling warmly—and embarrassingly—at simple scenes in which a gangly, lonely boy talked to a mindless animal. “Please, we both know that you’re no farm boy.†“Right you are,†the Australian replied with a sly grin, “well, ‘bout the farm boy part, at least. But I ain’t bullshitting you. After I got done with school, my parents decided it was already time for me to settle down, find a wife, and get busy with livestock. Goes without saying that didn’t sit too well with me. Sounded dull as hell. So I said, ‘Fuck it,’ I grabbed my dad’s old hunting rifle, my own knife, and a few other things, and I high-tailed it out of there, all ready to hack my own way through whatever life through at me—but I wasn’t alone.†He glanced over his aviators to see the frenchman giving him an incredulous look, cigarette drooping comically from his lip. “You took the creature with you?†“Damn straight I bloody well did. Didn’t trust my parents a tic back then; thought they might butcher him or some nonsense, so I brought my best friend with me.†“Your best friend was a water buffalo.†The BLU couldn’t help rolling his eyes a bit. “That’s pathetic, you know?†The bushman shrugged. “Speak for yourself. Helped me out of a good many scrapes, he did…†The Spy listened quietly as more of the tale was recounted, and didn’t bother either to pick up the cigarette that did end up falling from his mouth or to light himself a new one. Instead, he listened, transfixed, to the adventures of the Sniper and the Water Buffalo, battling dingoes, crocs, and angry locals, leaving one of the partners with a distinctive scar right above his left front hoof. “We travelled like that for two years,†the Australian recalled with a sentimental smile, “‘til I got my first military job and had to leave—†“You left him?!†The Spy blurted, leaning forward and spluttering in shock. “Figured he could hack it on his own,†the storyteller explained with the curious raise of an eyebrow. “Big ol’ bloke was tougher than me, and I intended to hack it on my own. Figured it was only fair. Plus, we passed by a herd of feral buffalo, yeah? And my little buddy found a sheila of his own kind that he liked pretty well. ‘Sides, it ain’t healthy to be too attached to a childhood pet, right?†“Ah—mm,†the frenchman murmured in uncertain agreement. With a cough, he attempted to take the reins: “Well, that was very nice, monsieur, but I have—†“Not so fast.†The Sniper stopped him with the quiet intensity of his words, making the Spy realize they had reached the most important part of the tale. “Story doesn’t end until about five years after that, when I got back from a job that didn’t go too well and had to rough it in the outback for a couple weeks, hunting for my food and all. Hard to keep warm out there, lots of nights, especially when it rains. So, I used a trick I’d learned overseas with deer—you shoot an animal, slice it on open, slip right in and go to sleep—now, don’t look at me like that, would you rather catch your death of cold in the middle of nowhere? Anyway, I was desperate, so the first living thing I saw that’s big enough, I shot at. You know I hold myself to high standards: one shot and it was down. It was so cold, and I was so tired, that I didn’t actually realize it until I had halfway cut it open, you know?†“Pardon? Realize what?†The Spy coughed, and then horrified revelation dawned in his eyes. “You shot a water buffalo, you disgusting—†A finger flew to the BLU’s lips—neither of them remembered getting close enough to each other to touch one another’s lips, and yet—“Now now,†Sniper grumbled, “let’s not go hurling insults, yeah? My life was on the line…Anyway, like I said, wasn’t till halfway through carving him up that I saw it—the scar above the left front hoof.†For once, the smug frenchman seemed at a loss for words. “So—that is—you actually—†“I killed my best friend,†the RED confirmed solemnly. “And then you slept in his corpse?†“Be a shame to let it go to waste—hey!†The Spy’s head was bent and his palm was pressed to his face; had Sniper’s story really been that exasperating? He frowned; he had always thought it was a sad story—then again, it had happened to him. And then the snotty frenchman started shaking—with laughter no doubt—and making strange, undignified noises, probably snorts of amusement. Peeved, the lanky assassin gripped the blue-clad chin in front of him and forced the BLU’s face out of his hand and up into a yellow-tinted gaze. Almost immediately he was hit with a pang of guilt. “Holy Dooley,†he breathed in disbelief. “Piece of piss, Spy, I’m so sorry.†The Spy was not simply crying. He was not sniffling, he was not blinking away tears, no—the Spy was blubbering. He was loud and wet and messy and suddenly he was in the Sniper’s arms, clutching desperately to the red fabric of his shirt and using it as his own personal tissue. “Spook, hey, it’s okay, it was a long time ago, yeah? No big deal, nothing either of us can do…I mean, you never even met him. I knew him best, and I’m alright, so you—you can be alright too, no worries, mate…†He patted the enemy on the shoulder and whispered comfortingly in his ear and wondered what the hell was going on. He had no idea what had suddenly turned the calm, cool, sly assassin into the sniveling wreck that was nuzzling into him now. He had no idea if it was real or a ruse. He had no idea how to cheer the Spy up. And he had no idea why he wasn’t objecting to comforting an enemy. He wasn’t sure why it felt so right, so suddenly satisfying, to hold the smaller man and tighten around him as if to squeeze away all his problems. He didn’t know how long he had wanted to do this or how he had managed to hide that desire from himself. He didn’t know or have an idea of very much at all, a fact which was punctuated by the Spy a moment later—he raised his narrowed, reddening, tearstained eyes to the Sniper’s and hissed, “Idiot.†Somehow, the jab didn’t bother the RED a bit. He just brought a rough thumb up to wipe the tears off his companion’s face, letting his hand keep going and curve under the Spy’s jaw again—tenderly this time. “What about you, then?†He murmured. “Aren’t you gonna one-up me? What’s your heartbreaking tearjerker story?†“You wouldn’t like to hear it,†replied the frenchman with a sniff. “It is about unrequited love.†“Is it, though?†“Hm?†“Unrequited love. Are you sure that’s what the story’s about?†The Sniper arched a hopeful eyebrow. “You know,†the Spy replied, a smile spreading slowly over his face, “I’m not sure it is anymore.â€
The story is good. The ending is pretty weird, but eh, it's fluff, I can suspend my disbelief for the sake of a sweet conclusion. It cheered me up, so it did what fluff is supposed to do. At first I thought Spy was OOC, but the argument that "the supposedly refined assassin laughs like a pig, so wouldn't he cry messily too?" is a convincing one, I can buy it. However, there is one thing I can't buy. Each morning, the Sniper would set up and wait. At some point around lunch the Spy would appear, In-game, Sniper is one of Spy's main targets. Assuming the mercenaries start working at morning, I can't believe that Spy would keep away from one of his main targets for half a day. It would be highly unprofessional of Spy, and his teammates would be (rightfully) pissed at him for utterly failing to stop Sniper from shooting at them. I think it would work much better if you just say that Sniper and Spy meet peacefully during their lunch break, without the implication that they haven't seen each other all morning.
>>19 Yeah, the ending...I feel like it could have worked better if I had just worked with it a bit more, but I was literally falling asleep. A smart person would have gotten some rest and worked on the fic again in the morning; it's rushed and weird and it shows, but I'm glad I was able to cheer you up nonetheless! And I definitely like the idea that Spy crying at all is very rare, but that when he does he's a total mess. It would take a lot for his veneer to crack enough to let him cry, and I feel like if he went that far, he would lose almost all of his control for a short period of time. Oh wow, I didn't even think of that as one of the things that's wrong with this, but you're right; that's really off. I like the situation, though, where they know they're there to kill each other but they swap stories before they go at each other's throats., so maybe the Spy comes up frequently for stabbing reasons, and at some point during the day, one of those encounters turns into storytelling? Either way, thank you for pointing that out, good call.
Something I wrote today--this is why I never get homework done... -----Mother's Day----- “Good Lord, bushman, what are you doing out here?†The Sniper gritted his teeth; he knew he was late for his usual rendez-vous with the Spy, and he had been expecting the masked man to show up soon, but that didn’t change the fact that at moment, his lover’s presence was just a bit grating. “I’m calling my mum,†he explained with an exasperated sigh. “Could you wait a bloody minute?†The frenchman exhaled a cloud of smoke, leaning casually against the payphone that the Sniper was hunched next to. He frowned at the other man, flicking some ashes into the sand. “You’ve been standing there with the receiver pressed to your face for twenty minutes, cher. Perhaps she’s out of the house.†“Naw, naw, she’s home, she always stays home on Mother’s Day, and dad makes her a casserole so she doesn’t have to do the cooking for once, and—†“Well, perhaps they are home, and she’s a little busy at the moment,†suggested the Spook with a devilish grin. “Your father is a very forceful man; I’m sure he wouldn’t want her to take a phone call while they were in the middle of fu—†“Oh, stuff it, won’t you?†The Sniper snapped, shooting his partner an unfriendly glare as he wound the phone cord anxiously between two scarred fingers. “Is something troubling you, mon amour?†The Australian grumbled something, but the Spy was still in a playful mood, and didn’t want to switch to serious conversation just yet— “Alors, if I have misjudged your father’s bedroom capabilities, perhaps you could send me to your mother as a Mother’s Day gift? Not that I am itching to wander, of course, but if you asked it of me, I would be glad to give the wonderful woman my—†“Shut. Up.†The Sniper’s growl was low, cold, and quiet, and though he claimed he could never be intimidated, the Spook silenced himself immediately. At least five minutes passed in complete quiet, with one man furiously inserting quarter after quarter and redialing the phone every time he heard a beep, and the other smoking and watching with concern, eventually putting out his cigarette on the top of the payphone. Finally, he had to say something. “Mon cher, I really think she’s not going to pick up. Perhaps if you tried again tomorrow? You could…†The Spy trailed off when he saw the look on his partner’s face. “Last time I talked to her, I told her, you know?†He explained with a hollow voice, never taking his eyes off the buttons or removing the receiver from his ear. “I told her about you.†A chill of guilt squirmed somewhere behind the frenchman’s sternum as he murmured, “Oh, mon coeur…†His gloved hand reached out to touch the Sniper’s shoulder, but it was intercepted by the other man’s stern, strong left arm, and an iron grip clenched around his wrist. The Australian’s eyes never moved from the phone. “Look,†the Spy tried, “I am sure she is not home, and if you just call her tomorrow, you…you can…†“She picked up. No, don’t look so excited—the first time, the first time I called today, she picked up. Then as soon as she heard my voice…†The cord rattled against the payphone’s metal siding; the receiver was shaking in the Sniper’s hand. Suddenly, it fell, and the spook twisted out of his lover’s tight hold to twirl around and catch it. “That’s enough for today, petit,†he asserted quietly, attempting to finally hang it up, but the bushman grabbed for it wildly, reclaiming it and holding it tenderly, as one would a baby or a beloved pet. “No, no, I—†the lanky assassin choked out the words, finally gazing into the eyes of the man standing there with him. “I just…let me try one more time, okay?†The hopelessly hopeful crack in the Sniper’s voice told the Spy that after “one more time,†there would be “one more time,†and a million “one more times†after that. He sighed, and pressed a kiss to the other man’s unshaven jaw. “One more time, mon amour, of course,†he whispered, wrapping his arms around the usually unshakable gunman, who was dialing the same old numbers once again. As one more time became twenty more times, the immaculate frenchman became more stiff from standing up than he was worried about the effect of dust on his suit, and he sank to the ground, sitting in front of his lover’s feet, wrapping his own legs behind them, and leaning against those knobbly knees, hugging the wiry thighs. Eventually, the Sniper, too, became tired—or maybe he just ran out of quarters—and he sank into the dirt with him, letting their two bodies intertwine as the receiver fell, forgotten, to the ground. They stayed that way for a long time—not kissing, not carressing, not moving at all—simply huddled in the dust holding each other as the sun set. They stayed that way until the sky grew dark, and then, they simply shifted, lying flat on their backs as the Spy held his lover’s hand, stroked his palm, and whispered stories his own mother had told him about the constellations, the legends behind the stars.
I think I'm going to hug my mama tomorrow.
My heart hurts now. That is not a complaint.
You know, I have to say I really like the dynamic you created with Sniper's mom. Not enough fics do this, especially when dealing with homosexuality back in the late 60s. In terms of critique, I think you should show more and tell less. There's a bit too much description and verbose tagging (and sometimes just really confusing speech tags) that could be cleaned up. You also have a tendency to use run-on sentences that hinder the emotional impact. Easy fixes, though.
I've finally got a little bit of free time, so I'm trying to get back in the groove of fanfic writing, figuring out how to get back into a story and write a continuation, so that I can finally get back to my main fic, so I decided to write a few sequels to these little shorts--here's the first of them. It's a follow-up to "Unsent Letter from a Sniper." -----Note Found in a Camper Van----- Fool. Idiot. Bete. Ah, perhaps those are the wrong words with which to open a love letter—but since you seem so intent on spurning any attempts of love, I may as well speak my mind, non? You are infuriating. Impressive, yes, how much you see—and yet you miss the most important things. You caught me! But alas, it seems that once again I have eluded you. An illness. You are frustration incarnate, chiding me for your fever while what you have given me is terminal, makes me sluggish, makes me opaque, makes me…a man of my profession is never weak. Still, you weaken me. My symptoms have not escaped your discerning gaze: the wandering eyes, the shortness of breath, and the hunger—yes, you diagnosed me correctly—the hunger for you. I cannot hide from you, you claim—very well, then. I shall no longer conceal my intentions concerning you, or at least, not those that you so soundly reasoned out. But be warned, cretin, I am at least a little better at my job than you seem to believe, and you a little worse at yours—there are things you missed; such as my capacity to care. But never mind that—the careless one is you; we shall move on. I don’t expect you to trust me. You are not so much of a half-wit as that, or at least, if you are, you’ve hidden it very well. But to deny my invitation before giving me a chance to extend it, oh, fou! You do not know what you are declining. It is true what you say, that I would have to betray my team or you, but it is obvious whom I would choose, if one simply reasons it out a moment. After all, you are entirely aware of my intentions, whereas my team remains happily ignorant. Are you following me, bushman? Of course you are not. This did not occur to you, nor did it occur to you that I am perhaps not all I seem to your shaded eyes. It did not enter your mind that none of us, not even I, is immune to the ravages of the symptoms of affection. That denying something for which you ache is not necessarily a good thing. That you would miss a single feature in your simplistic, far-off analysis of me. You claim to not be stupid, but it is obvious that that is not true, for you are starving yourself of titillating experience on the grounds of imaginary principle. So, convict, I pray that you never recover. You have been my soporific and my stumbling block, and instead of giving me assurance, finding out just how you feel has left me furious. So consider yourself warned, fils de pute: from this day forward you shall feel my wrath. You may sense eyes burning into you, but not until too late will you locate them. You may feel arms wrap around you, but no longer shall I be gentle with my handling of you; you will feel the iron clutch of my fingers around your beautiful, bobbing Adam’s apple. You may hear my breath quicken, but always with a snarl before a gasp. And with each blade that sinks between your spineless vertebrae, with each shot that echoes through your puny brain, may you remember whom it is you scorn. Perhaps the metallic glint of my instruments of death will remind you that you might have had a warmer touch, administered with gentle hands and a breathless gaze. I want nothing more than to inflict on you a thousand little deaths, but there is more than one way to make a man writhe and scream. I can only hope that one day your eagle eyes and professional skill will live up to the reputation you have built them, and that your lovely little brain will one day be able to wrap around the notion that I am not so shallow as you have decided—but come, try to wade, and I shall suck you under, never allowing you to surface again. I am just as ill as you, or worse; perhaps we both are chronic. Perhaps we are each other’s antidotes. Or poisons. Perhaps one day you will be brave enough to find out. Until that day, I am the demon at your heels. Avec tout mon amour sincere, Your favourite ghost. P.S. You may be wondering how I procured your previous unsent emissary? Hm, well, you may also want to consider a lock for your camper door, to be employed while you slumber. Tu dors comme une ange malheureuse.
Also, just, holy hell, wow--just, thank you so much for all the positive feedback on Mother's Day; I really expected it to just be a short, silly little thing, and yet... >>24 Your response and crit is especially appreciated; I've always been a huge fan of your work and I've been itching to know how I can improve my writing. Seriously, thank you so much. I've been waiting to respond to this because I wanted to reply and post the next story at the same time, but then I posted this one and forgot to reply, so...
I ship Sniper/Spy, so I read (and write) a lot of 'fics pairing the two. I'm not sold on your take of their relationship. It's almost too cloying and sweet for what we know of how Snipers and Spies operate, especially if these are supposed to be THE canonical Sniper and Spy of the "Meet the" videos. Change their names to "Alice" and "Bob", and the short stories become an entirely conventional fluffy love story with the occasional quirk related to TF2, when in my opinion it should be the other way around. I'd like to read more stories about how this relationship came about, and what sort of difficulties (other than being gay in the 60s and working opposite sides of the conflict) they face. They can't be all lovey-dovey all the time, can they? (And no, the time Sniper cold-cocked Spy doesn't count, because they still hung out anyway. Where's the time they had an argument so bad they didn't meet after hours for ages, just killed each other on field over and over again?)
Oh, these are lovely. Thank you for posting.
>>27 Ahh, what you say is more than fair--to be honest, most of the pieces I post to this thread are sort of spur-of-the-moment, self-indulgent little things, especially the ones based on pictures. I do have a lot to learn about writing, and my pieces do get obnoxiously sappy. As for a piece on how the relationship came about, I'm sort of working on that; my main fic () focuses on that, although I haven't updated it in ages because I've been too busy with schoolwork to do anything other than these dumb little ficlets. Hopefully, though, I'll be able to write more now that it's summer--and in addition to updating my main fic, I'll try to write less sappy, silly things. Thanks for your critique! >>28 Ahh, thank you so much! I have two bits to post today--one that I'm sort of proud of and one that I'm putting up just out of a strange feeling of obligation to post everything I write here, even if it's absolute shit. Guess which one I'm posting first? Yup, the one that sucks. I edited one sentence that I simply couldn't stand in the original version up on tumblr, but I still really hate it. Feel free to skip it. ---------- Inspiring artwork: http://annethecatdetective.tumblr.com/post/24231260324/publicrabbit-koalasrdelicious-sloppy-as Somewhere among the months of flirting, conniving, planning and wheedling, it probably should have occurred to him. An obvious thing. One that could quite possibly undo the entire operation. He should have foreseen it, really. But he didn’t. Why? Must have been the Sniper’s fault—yes, that was it. Definitely the Sniper’s fault, now that he thought back on it. Things had been proceeding at a steady pace ever since it began—since the day they had fought and the Spy had discovered a bulge in his enemy’s pants. The look of flustered desperation on the bushman’s face was enough to start the masked man pursuing in earnest. He was practiced in the art of love, and had observed his lanky foe enough to know just how to woo him—an easy enough job, once he knew that the Australian also cradled a spark of unprofessional feeling. The courtship had moved like a dance, perfectly in time, never missing a beat: talking, flirting, resisting, fighting, meeting, finally kissing—today, according to the Spy’s unofficial schedule, was to be the day they removed their shirts for the first time, with much fondling and groping to be had, perhaps a bit of biting, and, if they were really ahead of the game, a little grasping of clothed crotches. This was, after all, the bushman’s first relationship with another man, and even his conquests with women were positively pitiful compared to the frenchman’s. The spook knew he had to take things slow. So, while he definitely should have been able to see this coming, he really couldn’t be blamed. He was trying to be considerate; this whole mess was the Sniper’s fault. At first, things had proceeded as predicted. Gloved hands had slid under sweat-soaked clothing to slide hungrily over toned abdominal muscles. The Sniper had groaned, leaned into the touch, and grasped at the Spy’s jacket. The blazer had soon hit the floor, followed by both men’s vests, work shirts, and undershirts. The Australian’s single glove had come off, though his partner kept his hands in their leather sheaths. The two of them had been pressed together, chest to chest, hands massaging each other’s backs, when the Spy, who had been planting sucking kisses on the other man’s neck, was distracted by a low, sensual voice in his ear. “Fuck it,†the Sniper growled, pulling away a little. Rough hands shot up to grasp the spook’s face, steadying the masked visage so that the marksman could fix it properly in his gaze. The calloused fingers were gentle, but firm as they stroked the jutting cheekbones that lay beneath the BLU’s second skin. “Not gonna beat about the bush here. Don’t want you thinking I’m easy, spook, but I need this. I need you.†The Sniper’s breath was hot against the frenchman’s covered ear, almost as solid as the digits fondling his face. “Right. Now.†The Spy shivered. This was at least a week earlier than expected; he had underestimated his target’s libido. There was no slowing down now, and no stopping—not that he would want to. But he hadn’t had the time to plan, and he had no idea how to predict the bushman’s pace from here on out. He thanked the stars that he was experienced enough to let his instincts take over. “As you wish, mon chou.†Another round of gratitude sent to the stars: he’d had the foresight to reserve a hotel room for this occasion, and that meant there was a bed that he could push the Sniper onto. Spreading his lover’s legs, he stood between them by the edge of the mattress, grinning like the devil would if the devil had ever been a kid at Christmas. After plucking off the bushman’s shoes, he ran a teasing over the sole of each foot, sending a jolt through the man beneath him. “Jesus Christ!†The marksman jerked his legs out of the Spy’s hands while his companion doubled over in undignified laughter, snorting and spluttering for a moment before regaining his composure. “Ticklish, mon amant?†The spook teased, barely able to keep a straight face. Before the Sniper could object, however, a gloved palm was pressed between his legs, tracing light circles over the erection growing there. “Shh, there, there…You’ll like my next touches much better, I assure you…†The marksman was only able to make incoherent noises as he watched the Spy’s hand slide up over his zipper and land on his belt buckle. The belt joined the rumpled pile of clothes on the floor, and the frenchman’s fingers slid up and down the length of his lover’s fly thrice before finally undoing the zipper, flying to the Sniper’s waist, and pulling the trousers all the way off in one swift movement. He laughed again, when he saw his companion’s boxers. That should have tipped him off, the fact that he thought the Sniper’s undergarments were strange. He really should have seen it coming, but the damn bushman was moving so fast. And besides, he stopped paying attention almost immediately to that ridiculous Australian flag, because he realized that his partner’s undergarments were blue. His colour, not the Sniper’s. “Showing your allegiance, are you?†The Spy murmured, letting his hands rest on the marksman’s hips. “Mmmm…†He leaned in to give the Sniper a kiss on the cheek. “I do appreciate that.†“Bet you know what I’d appreciate.†His partner shot back. The frenchman, who was learning fast, bet he knew too. A moment later, his suspicions were confirmed by a pair of rough Australian hands groping at his belt buckle. After a few seconds of frustrated fumbling, the Spy backed up a step and decided to give his pet a show. He considered himself an expert in the art of the striptease, and so, judging by his reaction to the simple unfastening of the belt, did the Sniper. His attention was nothing short of rapt, perhaps even hypnotized, as the spook unzipped his fly, and the masked man was so focused on pleasing his audience that he failed to predict the look of absolute shock and embarrassment that surprised the Sniper out of his adoring stupor, the look that sank in right as the Spy finished unzipping his pants. “What the bloody—what’s wrong with you, you frilly little poof?†The Sniper fell backwards, hands flying to cover his eyes. “Thought this wasn’t gonna be no nancy girly stuff!†Frilly? Girly? The Spy frowned. This wasn’t the reaction he’d been hoping for at all… And then, after far too many seconds, it hit him. How, he thought with a groan, had he not realized this sooner? How had he not thought of this? It really, truly should have occurred to him. But it hadn’t. He had acted like a blundering fool, and now he was about to pay the price, because really, he should have known. He should have known that the Sniper wasn’t ready to see a full-grown man wearing lacy women’s underwear. “Calm yourself, cheri—†The Spy tried to lean forward and lace his arms around his lover’s neck, but one hand swatted and pushed him back and stayed extended, as if it could ward him off. “Don’t get all poncey and french on me! It’s already bad enough as it is!†“Bad? Oh, really, convict? What’s so bad about it?†“‘Cause—Christ, just because I fancy blokes, doesn’t make me a sheila. Doesn’t make you one either.†Oh, was that it? He smirked; he could work with that… “Mais non, of course it does not. These garments have nothing to do with me being feminine, as I’m sure I could remind you on the field. I wear these simply…because…†His hand reached out and grabbed the Sniper’s outstretched hand. “they feel…so good…†And with that, he pressed his lover’s palm against the exquisite lace that was straining to hold him in. “Do you feel it?†For a moment, the bushman was transfixed again, letting his fingers play over the delicate patterns that concealed a raging heat, but as soon as he dared peek from behind his other hand, he had to pull away. “Ah, pardon—†the Spy was not giving up now— “the lace feels only mediocre on the skin of the hands. Allow me to demonstrate better.†Whatever feelings the Sniper may have had about his partner’s undergarments, they were unable to stop the removal of his own at the spook’s hands, and soon his cock was naked, erect, and flush against his belly. The frenchman had to stop and admire it for a moment. He’d never seen the bushman so exposed before, entirely nude except for his socks, and the sight of him cowering sans clothes was invigorating, to say the least. “Magnifique,†he whispered. “Glad you think so,†the Sniper muttered, gripping his face and turning such a shade of red that the Spy could have cried out with delight. He held his tongue for the time being, though—he knew that the marksman was about to go much redder. Shuffling forward a little, he grasped the bushman’s erection at the base, shifting his own hips forward so that the two cocks were touching through the lace. “See?†He rocked forward, and then back, forward, and back, forward, back, letting the tickling frills of the fabric slide over the Sniper’s length, supported by his own arousal. “Doesn’t that feel lovely, petit?†The Sniper’s eyes widened and began to peek out from behind his own fingers. “F-fuck,†he gasped, amazed by the sight and sensation of their two cocks rubbing against each other, separated only by a tiny strip of lace. “Fuck, that’s…†Instead of finishing his sentence, the marksman grabbed the Spy by his shoulders and ground up against him. “Christ, this feels so—†“Wrong?†The spook guessed. “Right?†“Yes. Both. Goddammit, holy dooley, that’s…shit….yeah…that’s….†The Spy watched with interest as his lover’s speech deteriorated into pants and gasps—the fact that the Sniper was much less experienced than he did not escape him, and sure enough, after just a few minutes the bushman hollered, spurting cum over both their stomachs and the frenchman’s frilly undergarments. Pretending to be displeased, the Spy scooped a fastidious fingerful off of the panties, giving it a momentary critical glare before sticking his tongue out and licking it off. “Oh dear, we’ve made quite a mess. You are lucky I was not wearing one of my more expensive pairs today.†The Sniper was still struggling to regain his breath, and seemed suspiciously close to drifting off to sleep. “Mon amour, I hope you do not think that you are done. There’s still me to take care of, is there not? Sit up and take these lacy things off me, bushman.†The Australian blinked up at the man above him. There was no denying that the Spy was formidable—in his speech, his actions, his battlefield capabilities, his sexual experience, and the way he took command—and it sent shivers down the Sniper’s spine. A powerful creature, frills and all. He leaned forward, flashing the spook a cheeky grin. “Yes sir.â€
And here's the one that I much prefer. -----Possessed----- His palm had already hit the door when he heard it, reverberating like a siren’s wail. Too late to take it back, too late to turn away. To run away. Fuck. He hoped the very loud, very sensual, very female moan issuing from inside would be enough of a distraction to let him close the door without being noticed, but he knew better. The man inside took pride in noticing every little thing. He couldn’t escape. He could never escape. Not from him. And he couldn’t escape from the scene before him: the man for whom he harbored far too intense feelings wrapped around a woman, an unknown, a wisp of a thing, who was shrieking and moaning and shouting encouragements in french. God, he wanted to leave, but something intangible was weighing down his feet and paralyzing all the muscles in his neck that would have at least let him look away. There was a moment. Silence broken only by the pants of the woman, who had full, pouty lips and fluttering eyelashes. The man on the bed turned, his face hardening as he moved his eyes to meet those of the intruder at the door. It hardened, but that didn’t stop him from seeing how it had looked before. Warm. Looking towards that pretty little bird with warmth. Now his voice was cool. Always like that, always so cool. “I shall be with you in a few minutes, tireur. If you would be so good as to wait in the kitchen…†Of course. Of course he would be good. The Sniper shuffled sideways, unable to take his eyes off the intimate tableau until he reached the tiled floor of the kitchen, where he shuffled over to the refrigerator and hunched against it, hands in his pockets. Should have known this would happen. Stupid. And he could still hear it. Damn, they were loud. Was that a french thing? The Spy was always so quiet with him, but now he was murmuring, encouraging, shouting even. She was a nice looking thing. Lively, sounded like. He pulled his hat down over his eyes, screwing them shut as if maybe it would all go away. It didn’t. Obviously. Finally, it all culminated in a swift series of shrieks. He’d never heard noises like that from his—his—his what? Surely this sort of encounter didn’t happen with a “lover� And even after they were finished, after they were all done, he could hear them whispering to each other. French, of course. Maybe it was a french thing after all. Maybe that would console him later. It certainly wasn’t working now. After another minute, the Spy strode in, clad in nothing but a light silk robe. Blue. If the Sniper listened close enough, he could almost hear something like guilt in his murmur. “I wasn’t expecting you, bushman.†“I…mum’s got the flu, didn’t wanna see me. Thought I might catch it, so I thought, thought I’d come see you. Like you’d asked me to, before, before you knew I had plans. With my parents. That I don’t have anymore. So I thought I’d come see you, like you asked—†“You are talking in circles, mon ami.†The Spy reached out a hand—still gloved, Christ—to rest on his shoulder, to try to steady him. The other hand cradled the Sniper’s chin, tilting it up so the two could look in each other’s eyes. Once they locked gazes, he couldn’t look away. He could never look away. The spook’s eyes were unreadable, and so was the little smile that grew under his mask—still wearing the mask too, crikey. “It was…nice of you, to come see me. I have missed you.†“Have you.†He let his eyes flit towards the main room before coming back to look at the Spy. “I see.†He left his hands in his pockets. “Of course I have,†the frenchman sighed, stroking the Sniper’s cheek. “Come see me tomorrow night. I’ll make it up to you.†“Don’t have to make it up to me,†he snapped, jerking his head away. “I know what I am to you. Always knew. It’s no surprise.†If there was one thing the Spy had taught him, it was how to lie. “What you are to me?†The man frowned behind the mask. “And what is that, pray tell?†“Just your work fuck.†The spook looked as if he was about to protest, but he kept going. “No, I am. I know you can get whatever, whoever you want, out here in the real world. I might be…alright, I guess, compared to all those grizzled old wankers out on the battlefield, but here, you can have a different little doll in here with each of your goddamn three square meals a day. Or you can pick one and keep her. You can whisper to your lil’, lil’ coke-ette all weekend long, all soft and painted and pretty, and during the week I’ll be waiting in my van, gangly and hard and unshaven and willing to take whatever you feel like giving me. So, so…so I’ll see you on Monday.†He started towards the door, but the Spy shifted to block him. “No, stop that. Stay here tonight. She is going. I say the word, she is already gone. You are right that she is one of many—but you are one of a kind.†“Oh, put a sock in it, you snake. Don’t have to convince me to stay. I’ll be around whenever you want me.†“I want you tonight,†the Spy insisted. Before the bushman could say another word, the spook raised his voice so it could be heard in the other room. “Valerie! Valerie! Est-ce que tu peux retourner che—†“Stop it!†He snatched the frenchman’s hand, yanking him away from the kitchen door. “I’ll be fine; you don’t need to coddle me. Give the gal a proper goodbye, why don’t you…†The Spy rolled his eyes. “That could take hours. She does go on…†“I heard her.†The mask curled into a sympathetic frown. “It’s aggravating.†“Why bring her around, then?†He couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice. “Cher, mon cher…†He reached towards the Sniper’s face again. “You must know that I care for you. You are my favourite—†“Don’t mean nothing.†The gaunt marksman edged away. “Don’t trust a thing out of a spook’s mouth.†His gaze flitted again in the direction of Mademoiselle Valerie. “Don’t have reason to.†“You are my favourite,†The Spy repeated firmly. “But I am a man with a large appetite. I cannot always have my favourite, and do you expect me to fast when we are apart? I must curb my hunger, just a little here, a little there. Please understand.†“Already told you, I do understand!†“No, I do not believe that you do. You think you are another throwaway, a distraction from the tedious hours of work. First only among a few hardened mercenaries, instead of among all the men and women I have met during my life.†“Fancy words,†the Sniper snorted. He didn’t understand why the Spy was pursuing this, pursuing him, when there was no reason to pursue. He wasn’t running, wasn’t struggling. He was more than content to lay down and let the spook have his fill. Why bother lying, trying to convince him that he was anything special? “More than just words.†The frenchman’s hand was on his shoulder again, and he couldn’t flinch away this time, didn’t have the energy. “You, after all, are the only one to whom I am willing to show my face, my naked face.†“What? But you’ve never shown me—†“You’ll come see me tomorrow night,†the Spy’s voice was in his ear, now, shaking him to the core with a quiet power, “won’t you?†After a moment of brows knit with confusion, realization dawned in the Sniper’s eyes. Slowly, awkwardly, he brought one hand out of his pocket and stroked the mask covering his lover’s face. “Yeah…†He whispered in awe. “Yeah, ‘course I will…†He knew this part. This was the part where the Spy would say “Good,†and praise him like a nice little pet: give him a pat on the head, and later, throw him a bone. This is the part where the Sniper would lap it up, elated to be able to please his master in any way. But instead, the expression that crossed the frenchman’s features was tender, almost vulnerable. “I’m glad,†he confessed. For some reason, for once, it seemed he was telling the truth.
>>30 oh man, i saw this on tumblr. i normally don't like sniper/spy, but this hit a lot of my tender spots. great work.
>>30 This was interesting. And infuriating, in the way I imagine it was meant to be infuriating. Mostly, interesting. It's the first fic in this collection that strikes me as being more than just fluff. There was conflict, and character development, and everything. I even had to sit and think about it a little afterwards. Then I read it a few more times. It was great. Now do it again.
Questions: 1. Where is this taking place? If it's Spy's apartment, how'd Sniper get in? This is an important detail, since that also tells us how far into the relationship this particular moment is. 2. What is Spy and Sniper getting out of being together, besides the sex? In this short story, Sniper comes off as clingy, whiny, and passive aggressive; Spy a manipulative narcissistic nymphomaniac. In other words, two horrible people in a dysfunctional relationship. 3. Valerie should be more than just the MacGuffin that gets the conflict between Sniper and Spy going. Either expand her role so she is more central to the story, or have her leave in the opening paragraph, with the torrid sex already over. Hell, it doesn't even need to be a person (male or female) at all! All you need for the argument to go off is for Sniper to notice some sign that he's not the only person in Spy's life.
>>33 Good advice, overall. I enjoyed the story whilst under the impression that the point was to portray two horrible people in a dysfunctional relationship. Or at least one horrible person and a person sorely deprived of social skills. >>30 It took me quite a while to figure out what was going on psychologically with Sniper. I'm a little bit concerned that my understanding was due largely to my conveniently very compatible headcanon, and that other people might not have put the pieces together as well. I also think Sniper bent a little too easily in the end. I can understand that he <I>wants</i> to believe what Spy tells him. Maybe he's desperate or maybe he's got some self-respect issues, or whatever, but while that's going on, he also needs to be a guy who has a plan to kill everybody he meets. I do like the fact that he gives in in the end--it gives the story a nice cyclic structure, true to the nature of relationship abuse--and I don't think it's terribly out of character <I>if</i> Spy had to work at him more, or if Sniper had more time to work up a delusion of his own. I just can't see him melting into Spy's arms at the first mention of a bare face. It's too trusting to be Sniper. Still, it was a great start and, I think, your most enjoyable short so far. It's nice to see you stepping away from the fluff and playing with ideas of a bit more substance.
Thank you all so much for the comments and critique! It really means a lot to me that people thought it was worth picking apart. I hope to deliver more substantial things in the future--I'm afraid that this next submission is not that, though. I'm really not fond of this one, especially after "Possessed," but I decided to try my hand (and mostly fail) at writing in first person. I'm...I'm really not pleased with it, but it's my policy to post everything just in case. I also might write sequels to it, because I feel like it could be the beginning to something that doesn't suck, although it's just not great on its own. I don't know. Anyway, here it is! -----The Small One----- I only went there, you must understand, because the Soldier tasked me to. Our demolitions man claimed that, in his most recent drunken stupor, he had lobbed a few high-powered explosives towards the other base during ceasefire—technically, this is against the rules, although I can’t imagine that ruthless shrew of an Administrator letting herself be upset by it. She usually applauds the spread of violence. Nonetheless, it would be best for us to check, the two of them insisted, best for her to hear from us first if anyone was hurt out of battle, because then we might seem at least a bit like responsible people. And so, alone and sparsely armed, I was sent in the wee hours of the morning into the enemy base to search for injuries; my comrades offered nothing by way of a plan other than: “It’d be easy for you, being all…sneaky and French.†They were right, of course. It was child’s play. Most of the sights I saw…well, I cannot say any of them were particularly normal, but there is very little that perturbs me. The RED Soldier mutters orders in his sleep. Their Engineer’s metal hand moves and jitters even while the rest of him slumbers. The Medic seems to consistently work late, very late—and I found the Heavy asleep in a chair in the German’s office. Demo had a bottle in his hand and filled the room with snores. My own opposite number was unsurprisingly impossible to find. I am, since that night, continually amazed that the Scout ever has energy on the field, as he seems to dedicate entire nights to rubbing his cock and moaning a million different names—not all of them were female, which is interesting. The Pyro simply sat. Whether or not the being behind the mask was asleep was impossible to tell. I moved on. No one seemed injured, so far—there was just the bushman left to visit, and then I could crawl back to the base and back into my bed. I made sure I was totally silent when I slipped into the camper van; I did not desire to wake the sleeping jarman. I have experienced…very negative consequences when discovered by him on the battlefield. That particular night, I was not in the mood for a face full of piss or a stomach full of knife. I hid, and I was silent, and I should not have been noticed, and yet— “Hey there, Spook.†I froze. I felt like my heart had come to hide between my teeth and my stomach was rioting in protest. Merde, merde, I did not want to deal with his antics, and I could not for the life of me figure out how he knew I was there. He kept speaking—his voice, and this was confusing, was a sort of slow, warm, rumble. He was relaxed. He seemed…content? “How was your day, lil’ buddy? Eh? Really? Aces!†Was there someone else in the van? I scanned the place frantically for someone else, another Spy, another anyone, but I saw no one. It couldn’t be…was someone there better at hiding than I was? No, impossible. “Me? Ah, I’m okay, mostly. Well, alright, to be honest, I’m not doing so great. M’leg got shot up today, and after hours, too—I know! Can you believe that? Gotta tell your team to shape up, mate…†The Sniper was injured. I knew that the Sniper was injured and I knew that I could go, but for some reason I found myself entirely unable to. He had to be talking to a BLU, and the only Spy on the BLU team was yours truly, and I was not replying to the marksman. Who was he talking to? I had to know. Call it professional curiosity, if you will—I simply had to. I crept closer. In his arms he was cradling…something. A soft, tiny little something that he frequently nuzzled and gave soft, chaste, kisses to. He murmured to it softly, his eyes still shut tight. “No worries, darling, I’ll live. Survived worse than this, even without all this fancy medical hocus-pocus they got up here. I’m not gonna leave you, I promise…†He hugged the thing tightly to his face, and that’s when I first saw the little blue limbs and began to feel the horror of recognition. Dear God, it couldn’t be—no—yes—it was. He raised it up, arms pointed straight at the ceiling, and opened his eyes (he was awake, shit, he was awake, this wasn’t him talking in his sleep, he was awake) with a disturbingly serene little smile. I clung to one wall of the van in shock and disgust as he continued to coo to my tiny, simplified likeness—the Itsy Bitsy Spyer. “Long as you stay with me, it’s all blue skies, y’hear? And this—†he tried to move his left leg and I noticed the bloodstains on the sheets, the awkward way the limb was sticking out, and the pain that was evident on the Sniper’s leg when he attempted to shift it— “Argh, Christ! This, this’ll just be here for a day or two. ‘Til whenever the rest of those wankers notice I’m out of commission. Probably right before the next battle, ‘cause I won’t show up at Solly’s buggered ol’ meeting. And anyway, ‘til then, it’s just you and me!†His cheery, toothy smile started to fade a little, and he let the little voodoo doll fall onto his chest. He didn’t drop his hands, though, and seemed to be reaching for something. “Just you and me…†The arms fell to his side and he looked at the small cloth figure with something between anguish and disgust. “Just me and a pathetic ragdoll impersonation of you, Spy.†Peeved, he swatted the thing to the floor and rolled onto his side, facing away from it. I tried to leave, then, but almost immediately he turned back towards the plush little me and gazed at it with longing; his leg had gotten too stiff for him to get up out of bed and go grab it. “Piss…Ah, well. Good night, Spook.†He blew the thing a kiss before drifting off to slumber. I bolted out of the van, and didn’t slow, not for an instant. What the hell had that been? The bushman—he didn’t actually have feelings for me, did he? Good lord, what a mess. All those times he has pinned me on the field, exerted physical dominance, covered me with his bodily fluids, all of those seemed dirty, now; he had sullied the pure art of death with his disgusting, his sexual, his—his—ugh. I did not, I do not pity him. We reported his leg to the Administrator; let the RED team deal with their wounded colleague. And while they’re at it, let them burn that accursed little doll. I am sick of it. If he tries anything during the fighting today, I plan to threaten him. Let the rest of his team, of my team learn about his little secret, then we’ll see how forward he is, eh? I only hope he does not make those ridiculous puppy dog eyes that I saw him sporting in the van that day. If he does, I believe I shall have to borrow some of Demo’s equipment during the next ceasefire…
Oh, look at you in all your modest little modesties. You don't like it, phah. This story is quite good, actually. It's just absurd enough to be interesting, the feelings the subject matter gives me are also interesting. I'm not sure if I find Sniper's whatever-it-is to be extremely hilarious or extremely sad. I was laughing my head off and stewing in sympathy at the same time. It's wonderful. Nice to see a sensibly horrified reaction out of Spy, too. The fact that he felt shocked and violated and disgusted, like a real human being would be, as opposed to overwhelmed with a saintly desire to help or certain other reactions one could expect to find in pornography makes all the difference between hairbrained fluff and a really compelling, honest short story. You're right in that it does look like it could be the foundation for some brilliant sequels. Nudge, nudge.
Ok, I don't normally go gaga over fanfiction. But this story? Holy crap, this story hit my preferences with the perfect accuracy of a highly-trained sniper! First of all, variety. This is the one and only non-rape Sniper/Spy fanfiction I've ever seen where Spy does not want to get in Sniper's pants (so far), and (so far) is disturbed by Sniper's infatuation and wants to get away from him. The role-reversal is a very welcome breath of fresh air. Second, I love how self-aware and upset Sniper is. He knows that what he is doing with the doll is pathetic, and is angry about it. Third, I love how realistic Spy's reaction is. What Sniper has been doing is not cute or romantic, it's creepy, and Spy being disturbed, freaking out and going all "oh God, nononoNO!" is perfectly believable. Fourth, even though Sniper has been doing something creepy, it's both passive enough (since he hasn't actually been following Spy around or anything like that) and sad enough (guy is injured, probably has lost plenty of blood, and as far as he knows he'll be spending the next two days stuck on his blood-soaked bed, starving and hurting alone; plus, it's 1968, if you are gay you are in a really shitty situation, and he has fallen in love with an enemy combatant to boot. He can't be totally blamed for going a little crazy) that his actions don't come across as that harmful. That is to say, he doesn't come across as a real stalker, but more as somebody who needs to clean up his act. Thus, the reader can still root for him to eventually get a happy ending with Spy. I honestly think this story has the potential to be as good as Training. If you turn it into the first chapter of a multi-chapter fic, the result could be truly awesome. There is SO MUCH potential for character development and genuinely interesting drama, it would be a real pity to leave it as a short one-shot. I wholeheartedly recommend you keep writing it. I'd LOVE to keep reading it :)
Yes please! there really needs to be a second part to this and maybe even more. I love the potential this has and I'm not going to go in to too much detail considering the other coments basically sum up everything I wanted to say. Keep up the awesome stuff!
I have definitely been enjoying these one-shots, they are rather good! The fluffy ones especially, though this last one intrigues me as well.
Wow, thank you all for your kind praise! You will, without a doubt, be seeing a continuation to "The Small One" at some point in the future, though certainly not until after I'm done with my current main fic. Speaking of my main fic, guess what I finally updated today? Training has been mentioned a few times in this thread, but never linked to--for those of you who may be wondering, here it is: http://tf2chan.net/fanfic/res/3439.html Once again, thank you all so much!
Heyyy, tf2chan, long time no see! I went off to work for a few months in a godforsaken place with no internet access and little free time, so I haven't really written anything in three or four months. I decided I should make my first foray back into writing with a pairing I've never written before (PS, it's Soldic), for my friend's birthday, so it is, how you say, bad. Still, here it is? Comments and crit are always appreciated. -----Interrogation and Confidentiality----- Medic knew that the question was coming. Scout warned him first, explaining that "Solly's up to some weird faggoty shit." Sniper shared a more in-depth story with him over a cup of coffee, seeming strangely jumpy about the miniature interrogation, and the next morning Engineer asked with a laugh if he'd had his talk yet. It seemed Soldier was saving the doctor for last--why, Medic couldn't say, but he didn't mind. He felt that he was entirely prepared for the experience, especially after his run-in with a breathless, furious Heavy shouting about how he was going to "kill tiny rocket man." He knew what was going to be asked of him, and he knew what his answer was supposed to be--the one he'd memorized years ago, the one that never changed, the one that lived underneath his tongue, ready to jump out at any moment. It had to be ready, it had to be natural, because sooner or later the question always came. Medic was just glad that this time, it wasn't only him. For the doctor, it was a few hours after dinner on a Friday night when the question came, charging through the door in the form of a bustling bundle of American muscle. He glanced up from the book he'd been leafing through, feigning disinterest, and was surprised to see Soldier still fully garbed in his battle gear--Medic himself had shed everything but his work pants and shirt. His teammate, on the other hand, had actually gone as far as to bring his rocket launcher with him. The doctor wasn't sure whether to be amused or worried, but he didn't have much time to reflect on the subject. "Medic!" Soldier roared. "I have a question for you! You will answer with the truth, or you will answer with your life!" He had to bite back a smirk; death didn't seem very threatening in this place, as it would be only temporary, and he doubted that his visitor--about as familiar subtleties as Demoman was with depth perception--would be able to tell if he was lying. Still, he responded as if presented with a grave situation. "Ah, of course, my friend. Between the two of us, there will be no secrets. You are aware, of course, that doctor-patient confidentiality goes both ways?" "I, ah--what? Of course I am!" The American's fists clenched with certainty. "I am very, intensely aware of that, because you just told me. So, tell me, maggot...what does that mean?" "It is very simple," Medic explained, steepling his hands. "Since you are my patient, everything that you tell me in private is kept secret. If you come to me and require assistance because you've accidentally shoved your rocket launcher up your ass, I will tell no one, even if it is hilarious." This time, he allowed himself a smirk. "In return, anything that I tell you now will not leave this room. Makes sense, ja?" Soldier hemmed and hawed for a few moments. "Hrmm...confidentiality, eh? Of course, rocket launcher up my own ass..huh..." Medic thought he heard something that sounded suspiciously like "wouldn't be the first time" before his visitor nodded and saluted. "Affirmative! Anything said in this meeting will be entirely confidential. Now, private, prepare for questioning!" The doctor nodded and adjusted his glasses, put at ease by his teammate's quick agreement and obtuse nature. "I am ready, Soldier. As Scout would say, 'lay it on me.'" "Ahem. Yes." He set his rocket launcher down, pulled a clipboard out and scrutinized the first page for a moment before looking up at Medic and blurting, "Are you in a relationship with our Heavy Weapons Man?" He had known the question would be asked, but he feigned surprise for Soldier's sake. "Vas? Me? With Heavy? You must be joking!" His laughter was genuine, but his guest only got more serious. "This is not a joke, kraut. Reports indicate that you are closer with Heavy than you are with any other man on this team. Do you deny it?!" Soldier was getting closer, stomping towards Medic with furious energy. "Nein," he replied with a shrug, trying to hide the fact that the advancing mercenary as making him a little nervous. "Heavy and I are very good friends. We work closely together on the battlefield, and in that we are...compatible. And yes, after work we often talk together, drink together. But there is nothing strange about that, is there?" Soldier scribbled a few furious notes on his clipboard before replying. "Compatible, eh? And close. I'd say that's very suspicious, soldier! How am I to know that you're not more than friends?" Medic smiled; the answer to this one was easy. "It is well known that Heavy's gun is named after a fraulein he has back home. Since we are close, he tells me quite a bit about this Sascha. The man is dedicated. He would not be unfaithful." "Hmmmm..." Soldier rifled through the papers that he had on his clipboard, occasionally casting another suspicious glance at his host. "Very well, private. It seems that your story checks out with previous interrogations." Medic beamed, and moved as if to stand up and see his guest out, but the questioning wasn't over. "Hold it! Don't think I'm done with you yet, maggot." The doctor sighed and settled back down. "Are you and any other member of this team in some sort of relationship?" "Nein. Unless you are counting friendship, in which case--" "What about the enemy? Do you have any relations with any member of the other team?" This was becoming tedious. "Define 'relations.'" "Y--you know! Relations. A relationship." "I relate to plenty of people," Medic replied with a shrug. "I would say that you and I have a relationship, wouldn't you, Soldier?" His visitor's response was to splutter and turn red. "I--wha--that's--how--you--" "A relationship," the doctor continued coolly, "in which I heal you and you yell a lot and we crush the other team. That is what we do, ja?" "I--oh." Soldier grunted with embarrassment. "Ah, yes. That is, indeed, what we do." "Is that the kind of relationship you're asking about?" "Negatory! What I mean is--ahem. When a man loves a woman very much--or a man, or a sheep, or a shovel--he does things to them. Naked things." Medic struggled to keep a straight face. "I have given full-body exams to every member of this team, so..." "Dammit, doctor, no! That's not what I'm talking about!" Soldier barked, slamming his fist into his palm. "I'm talking about intercourse! Booty duty!" "Sex?" Medic asked for clarification. "Making love, yes." The American had advanced close enough that his host was perfectly able to whack his helmet with the book he'd been reading. Medic made good use of that opportunity. "Argh--what was that for? You asked!" "Please," Medic rolled his eyes. "Do not call it that." "Making love?" The doctor whacked him again. "Ow--I mean, hey! That is a perfectly serviceable phrase!" "Oh, don't be such a baby," the German scolded. "It is a foolish, juvenile phrase. The process of sexual intercourse cannot create 'love.' There can be a certain sexual chemistry, yes, and there are theories that chemicals released during orgasm can increase the partners' attachment to each other, but sex is...hmm, how do I explain...you have had sex, ja?" "I--" Soldier reddened. "That is classified information!" "Sex is stimulation, working in harmony with your partner to create pleasure." Medic put his book down so he could gesture while he talked. "Arousal, foreplay, dirty talk, touches, fellatio, the stimulation of the penis and the prostate, sweat, energy, building to climax, orgasm, afterglow--yes, to be properly executed, these require a certain intimacy. But love is not required, and it certainly is not 'made.'" He wrinkled his nose. "But nein, if you must know, I have not had sex with--Soldier?" The man before him had turned a magnificent shade of scarlet, and hands that used to be clenched in certainty were now shaking, and Soldier moved the clipboard down over his crotch--but too late. Medic had seen what his guest was so desperately trying to hide, and his lips curled in a newly confident smile. "You know, Soldier, I don't think you ever mentioned why you are asking these questions." "O--Official procedure. Part of my job is to ensure that the sexual conduct of all mercenaries is in accordance with Australian and, more importantly, American law," Soldier explained with an uncomfortable squirm. "I see," Medic smiled, leaning forward. "And who interrogates you?" "P-pardon?" He straightened again and adopted his most clinical tone of voice. "Herr Soldier, have you ever had sexual relations with another man?" "What?! Of course not!" He let his professional timbre slide just a bit and raised one eyebrow. "Have you ever wanted to?" "I--this is highly irregular, private! The one who is asking questions here is me, so why don't you--" Medic picked his book back up and whacked his guest again, this time on the side of the head. "Ow!" Soldier's hands automatically flew to massage his new bruise, and the clipboard clattered to the ground. "Well, well, well..." Medic grinned and let his glance flicker from his guest's face to his obvious arousal. Too late, Soldier realized he'd been discovered. He reached down in an attempt to cover himself, but the doctor swatted his hands away. "This is highly unusual, my friend. The general procedure usually involves asking someone to dinner and a show, not interrogating them about their sexual history with coworkers." "T-the purpose of these questions--Australian law--" "You're not fooling anyone, dummkopf." Medic reached forward and ran a finger over the other man's bulge. "Do you want help with that?" Soldier shuddered and made a strangled little noise. "Y-you said you hadn't...all my questions, you--" "I have gotten very lonely here, ja," the doctor answered, tracing his guest's arousal with two fingers this time. "No one has shown any interest in me--until now, that is." He grinned up at the other man, who tried once again to protest. "I'm not...private, you misunder--sweet holy Christ almighty!" Soldier's hips bucked uncontrollably into Medic's hand, and he bit his lip in an attempt to stifle a groan. His host was partially amused--after all, he was barely doing anything, and the other man was responding so marvelously--but he was also relieved that the subject had turned from interrogation and the danger of getting fired to flirtation and the chance of getting laid, and as he watched the American squirm, he himself grew more and more aroused. "Mm? I misunderstand?" The doctor rose, moving closer, but removing his hands from his guest's erection. "You're showing very clear symptoms of homosexuality, but if you want a second opinion, I suppose we could go ask--" "N-negative!" Soldier growled, gripping Medic's shoulders and glaring from underneath his helmet. "You...Goddammit, start touching me again! That's an order!" The doctor's only reply was to chuckle and grind their hips together. Both of their knees began to quake, but it was the American who lost his balance and began to stumble backwards. Medic directed them expertly to his bed and pushed his guest down onto the mattress, taking the opportunity to plant a kiss on Soldier's neck. He got another growl in response, and the other man's huge hands groped his arms and torso, seeming unsure of where to grab. The German let him fumble, finding his gruff uncertainty endearing. His own hands slid expertly over and under his visitor's clothes, taking off belts and undoing buttons and zippers wherever he found them and giving appreciative caresses to the hard, toned muscles he found everywhere. His mouth, meanwhile, migrated upwards, over the chin and through the stubble. Soldier didn't seem to know what to do when a tongue started laving across his lips, but his mouth opened when the doctor nipped at him and suddenly there were two tongues between his jaws instead of one. Rough hands finally fingered Medic's shirt buttons, and once they'd made an opening they prodded experimentally at his nipples. The German let out a pleasantly surprised cry and was jolted out of the long, wet kiss. He smiled and leaned forward again, but Soldier held him back. Medic frowned. "What's wrong?" The other man didn't answer. Peeved, the doctor squirmed a bit, making sure to thrust his clothed erection against Soldier's. The American bit his lip again, but didn't loosen his grip on his host's shoulders. "What," Medic repeated, "is wrong, Soldier?" "This," the man underneath him finally replied, "is in accordance with neither Australian nor American law." The doctor scowled. "Enough with that scheisse. What are you going to do, report me? 'Ah, you see, Ms. Administrator, I ordered him to touch me and then he did.' That story's not going to win you any medals, my friend." Soldier winced. "Dammit, Fritz, if anyone finds out..." "They won't," Medic assured him with a smirk. "Doctor-patient confidentiality, remember?" The American's grip weakened a little, and he leaned forward--not for a kiss, but to nudge the helmet off his teammate's head. Soldier tensed for a moment, then let it roll off the bed and clatter on the floor. The doctor buried his nose for a moment in the other man's close-cropped hair and gently kissed his forehead before pulling back. "Now," he said briskly, "shall we continue?" Soldier stared at him, wide-eyed--he really did have huge, wide eyes, Medic noticed, and such a lovely shade of brown...Finally, the man beneath him grinned and nodded. "Affirmative! We will sally forth and meet the orgasm!" The doctor giggled, then sunk his teeth into the other man's partially-exposed shoulder, eliciting a strangled gasp. He laved at the shoulder and the neck while his hands wandered down, past pectorals and abdominal muscles hard and slick with sweat. His fingers fumbled with Soldier's fly, undid the zipper with unprecedented eagerness, and pulled his briefs down impatiently, freeing the American's cock. For a moment, he stopped his attentions to the other man's neck so he could get a good look. The size, he judged, was impressive, and the tip was already leaking. His own arousal twitched in response--he unzipped hurriedly and pulled himself out, panting as his fingers brushed sensitive skin. Soldier, unsure of what happened next, had stopped moving, and Medic decided that the best route, in this case, would be the simplest. He rolled his hips forward, pushing the two erections together, and both the American and his member writhed in ecstasy. Encouraged, Medic ran his tongue over his palm--Soldier made a funny noise at that--and grasped both of their cocks in his warm, slick hand. His teammate started bucking into that hold immediately, which sent jolts of pleasure through his own cock. Soon they were thrusting together, grunting obscenities in German and English and planting needy kisses on each other's mouths. It was over far too fast, by Medic's estimation. Soldier came into his palm with a triumphant roar, but the doctor wasn't there yet. After just one frustrated grunt, however, the American realized his assistance was needed. He wrapped his hand around his host's still-erect cock and began to rub. The noise Medic made was embarrassingly high pitched, which he blamed on Soldier's callouses and rough, quick pacing. A few moments later, both their chests were splattered with white. The air was filled with the sounds of laboured breath and the smell of sweat and sex. Medic rolled off Soldier with a contented sigh, wriggling out of his pants and kicking them off of the bed. The two of them barely fit on the little mattress side by side, but the doctor didn't mind. The American was shellshocked, staring at the other man in the bed like he was some strange sort of creature he'd never seen before. For a long while, neither of them spoke--one because he was comfortable in the silence, the other because he didn't know what to say. Finally, Soldier got his voice to work. "Medic, that...That was a show of unprecedented merit! You need to make sure you're getting a good night's rest every night, though, so you can build up your energy for the battlefield, so I think I'll retreat for n--Hey!" The doctor had given him a light whack on the head. "Dummkopf," Medic murmured with a sleepy smile. He wriggled closer to his companion, nuzzling his muscled chest. "I am prescribing you one night of bed rest, starting right here, right now. Doctor's orders." "But--" Soldier's protests died away when the doctor's arms wrapped around him. He let contented sleepiness wash over him as well, and buried his face in Medic's hair. They stayed like that for a minute, drifting towards slumber, before the American spoke again, slowly. "What we just did..." "Sex," the German mumbled agreeably. "Right. Love is not necessary for that, correct?" Medic's smile seemed almost sad. "Correct." Silence lay with them for another minute before Soldier's final interruption. "But...it is possible?" At first he thought the doctor had fallen asleep, but finally, the reply came, just a warm whisper against his ear. "Correct."
I'll attempt to smell a hocerent reply when I've stopper staring into giggling with a big stupid grin on my face.
I loved this so much! Well-written, IC, funny, cute and sexy. And bonus points for never even bringing up the word "nazi." It seems like that topic always pops up whenever Soldier and Medic talk to each other in fanfiction.
>>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…â€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.â€
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!