This is all I've got of miarr's glorious Medic/Scout medfic, "Phenomology." I know there's another part somewhere, and I'd be very grateful if someone posted it.
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Phenomenology


EXPERIMENT NO.001


“Interesting,” said Medic, and adjusted the nipple clamps.

“Mother fucker,” Scout panted, or something like it; the gag was quite a good muffler and besides, he was not very coherent. His eyes looked glazed, dark and half-lidded, though physiologically speaking this could have been for any number of reasons. Medic had a suspicion the cloth had soaked up a small measure of chloroform. Not a lethal amount; merely enough to dull some of the pain. Regrettable, but not overly significant in the general course of events.

He ran a hand down Scout’s flat stomach and pressed two fingers against the femoral artery, adjacent the groin. His pulse was so fast that the heartbeats nearly blurred together, like the thrumming of a high-caliber engine. Scout gave a small gasp, hips bucking, and clenched his hands in their bindings. His thighs trembled beneath Medic’s glove.

Responsive, Medic noted, though he didn’t pause to write it down. The procedure was strictly empirical. Scout was shaking all over in tiny, shuddering spasms, flushed and sweating, groaning low in his throat. The restraints stretched him out on the examination bed, arms spread wide and feet tied to a spreader bar above head level for better access. It had been quite a stroke of luck, to find the old thing in his stock. Medic wasn’t sure how efficient the arrangement would have been otherwise.

It was superbly efficient now. He took hold of the vibrator, buzzing steadily, and pushed it deeper, thrusting in then out—a strong rhythm, granting no quarter. Scout actually keened, high and needy, like an animal pushed beyond its limits.

Fascinating.

When he finally released the cock ring, Scout climaxed immediately and messily, all over his stomach and Medic’s hand. He made several noises, similarly muffled by the gag, and by the time it was over could only lie slack in his bonds, shivering, though with less intensity than previously evinced. His heart rate took some time to return to normal levels, and even then he remained flushed, most distinctly in areas of the neck and face.

It was quite an attractive sight, in all frankness; certainly more appealing than Scout’s usual idiocy. A compelling instance of medicinal examination, as well. Medic undid the restraints—though he left the gag, along with the clamps—and made a note to induce the condition more frequently in the future.





EXPERIMENT NO.002


The next time, Medic took care to keep away unwanted substances and sterilized all his instruments beforehand. As expected, without chloroform Scout retained a greater deal of his sensory perception, as well as increased awareness of his surroundings. Consequentially, he responded much more directly to stimulus.

“You freakin’ son of a bitch,” he said, and strained against the bonds. Medic had foregone the gag in favor of obtaining more verbal input; he had confidence things would not get too loud. Behind him was a syringe with a sedative, just in case, but this was a perfunctory caution and had slim likelihood of actually being used.

At the present moment both heart rate and breathing were normal, though Scout was already flushed a bright red. Presumably this was an inherent predisposition.

“If you vould stop struggling, please,” Medic said, looking up from double-checking the last of his listed variables. It was critical to maintain detailed records of the procedures, to avoid later unexplained discrepancies in the data. “Ze restraints are quite sound, and you vill only tire yourself.”

“I could do that,” Scout replied. “Or, here’s a thought! You could untie me, you sick fuck.”

“Name-calling vill get you nowhere,” Medic said calmly. “And ze shackles are more for your protection zan mine.” This was not strictly true, since Scout chained down was generally safer for everybody, and spared Medic from having to deal with his thrashing. Besides, the visual had a certain aesthetic value which Medic thought was important to incorporate in his work. True men of science recognized that beauty and knowledge were closely linked.

There was much knowledge to be gleaned from these experiments. Medic swabbed the inside of Scout’s elbow, stretched facing upwards on the examination cot, then picked up a particular syringe. Scout’s eyes widened with recognition: he was already familiar with it from their previous sessions.

“Aw, shit,” he said. “Not this again. Why can’t you have sex like a normal person instead of sticking that freakin’ crap in my—”

His breath hitched loudly as Medic injected him with the formula, directly to the cubital vein. It was the same spot he’d used last time—luckily, needle marks showed up strongly on Scout’s skin. Then Medic stepped back, activated his pre-set timer, and very carefully observed.

By fourteen seconds, Scout already began showing signs of quickened breathing, more blood rising to his skin. By thirty-nine seconds his struggles had increased markedly and he was making breathless, frustrated sounds, flushing all over. By forty-one seconds he had taken to rubbing against the bedding, bordering on desperation, and sweating more profusely than room temperature allowed for. No more than one minute and six-point-two seconds after the initial injection, Scout’s penis reached a fully erect state—and, as a nice touch, he’d accidentally let slip “Medic, please” in between gratuitous cursing and insults to Medic’s national heritage.

Medic stopped the timer and set it aside. Still over the one-minute mark, but his compounds were undeniably effective, and distillation seemed to be having the desired effect. Perhaps the next batch would be the final variant—then he would have produced the first chemical aphrodisiac powerful enough to trigger complete arousal in less than sixty seconds. A gratifying medical achievement.

“Come on, doc,” Scout whined, and Medic looked him over: lying naked on the cot, fists clenched and legs drawn up, tensed as though to start running. His cock was hard, curving up against his lower abdomen, and his ass bare to the world. He stared at Medic with a mix of hatred and arousal. “Do something, shit, willya just do something already—”

“Very vell,” Medic allowed. Far be it from him to cause any delays in the plan.

The current experiment dealt with the issue of respiratory distress in conditions of heightened physical tension. After affixing the cock ring (to which Scout barely protested anymore—classic Pavlovian training, Medic was proud to say) it was time to bring out the newest contraption.

He’d calculated the dimensions of Scout’s neck earlier, and adjusted the markings on the leather accordingly. As expected, the strap nestled in the hollow of his throat when loose, but rose up at the slightest twitch of the chain. Medic was pleased with the final results. The slip-on collar had been used to train the Rottweilers guarding his previous clinic, but was quite easily re-purposed. He had to make sure not to apply unnecessary pressure except in short intervals, but aside from the imminent danger of strangulation everything was fine.

Scout made some half-hearted remonstrations throughout, mostly using words like ‘fucked up’ and ‘pervert’, but when Medic inserted the first slick finger into his ass, Scout let his head fall back against the cot and moaned, low and rough and wavering.

Latex gloves did not allow for optimal sensory transmission, but he could feel Scout’s tightness, the clenching of his muscles and the way his stomach quivered, as if holding in a breath. His breathing was unimpaired—Medic could hear the short, harsh pants from his mouth—but his posture belied significant nervous energy.

“Take a deep breath,” Medic reminded him when he prepared the vibrator and nestled it right against Scout’s hole, already slick. “I do not vant you hyperventilating—not yet.”

Scout shot him a suspicious look, but then Medic pushed up and in and Scout jerked with his whole body, making a high, needy sound. His hips thrust up and his toes curled reflexively, breath hitching when Medic angled the buzzing vibrator deeper. The tension in his body decreased considerably after that, a by-product Medic had noted several times previously. Speaking from a purely physiological viewpoint, Scout was very well-suited to being fucked.

Breathing was fast and shallow at present, heart rate tolerably accelerated and pulse strong. Medic kept thrusting, upping the rhythm, and when Scout’s mouth fell open to inhale he tugged the chain in his hand.

The collar immediately tightened around Scout’s neck, cutting off his respiratory tract, and Scout gasped uselessly without drawing air. He clawed at the bedding, open-mouthed, and arched slightly off the cot. Medic counted two seconds and released his grip; Scout sank back down and drew in a deep breath, coughing.

“Sehr gut,” Medic murmured. Scout’s neck was long and pale except for the faint red stripe circling it, where the leather had bit in. In times like this he wished he had an assistant at hand, to record his findings with a camera. “Let us try zis again.”

He built a sort of rhythm, cutting off Scout’s breathing at semi-regular intervals, in keeping with his thrusts and the electrical stimulation, which he gradually amplified. Every time Scout would try to take a deep breath, Medic twitched the chain and the collar tightened. In short order Scout began exhibiting signs of disequilibrium and light-headedness, presumably from the lack of oxygen. Symptoms included a rise in the pitch of his voice, involuntary muscular spasms in his hands, and increased perspiration, resulting in a thin sheen of sweat covering his body. His cock was large and flushed, straining against the ring—he was perceptibly nearing his limit.

Medic was fascinated by limits. They were so clearly made to be pushed.

When he reached the highest setting on the vibrator, Medic tugged the chain. Scout made another of his small, choked-off noises, and bucked against his hand. Instead of releasing his grip after a few moments, though, Medic tugged tighter, watching Scout struggle for air. His neck was already covered in abrasions, from the hollow of his throat to the sensitive skin under his jaw. Medic began slowly counting under his breath: eins, zwei, drei...

Scout’s chest began to heave as he tried to force oxygen into his lungs, nostrils flared in alarm. It was no use; his trachea was securely constricted.

Vier, fünf, sechs...

His mouth was open wide, pupils dilated and black, skin damp with sweat. Medic thrust the vibrator in, ruthless, and Scout jerked so hard he nearly unfettered the restrains.

Sieben, acht, neun...

Scout was shaking all over now, spine perfectly arched. He was trying to scream without air.

Zehn.

Medic loosened the slip collar then quickly released the cock ring. Scout inhaled sharply and choked, coming all over himself in thick white spurts.

Several minutes passed.

Scout’s shivering abated incrementally, and his breakneck heart rate returned to normal. It took him a record three minutes to regain voluntary motor functions. The involuntary spasms, Medic was interested to note, lasted much longer—Scout’s fingers kept seizing long after the restraints were unlocked.

His breathing remained ragged for a good while, and his voice had not regained its natural pitch by the time he left the infirmary. Scout’s uniform being casual as it was, the bruises on his neck were highly visible. Medic offered him a bandage to cover the wounds, but was hoarsely rejected.

After Scout had gone, Medic stowed away the slip collar, idly rubbing his thumb over the leather. He wondered how long it would take Scout to recover from the damage to his airways, though it was only superficial. A repeat session might significantly hinder the healing process; on the other hand, it might also help build up cardiovascular stamina. How many repeats would be necessary in order to escalate the damage from acute to irreparable?

Medic smartly uncapped his pen and began to write. Perhaps he ought to explore the subject further. These were questions which begged to be answered—for the sake of science, if nothing else.





EXPERIMENT NO.003


Their next session was long in coming: shortly after Medic finished compiling the data from the previous experiment, the team underwent another increase in operative activity which did away with all free time. Medic was kept too busy for anything except work, which was hardly as intellectually engaging as his recreational pursuits. By the time he met Scout again, Medic was not in the best of moods and more than eager to proceed with his schedule.

His temper improved slightly once the restraints were firmly in place and Scout began exhibiting signs of nervous anhelation. There was no need even for a stethoscope to ascertain this, as Scout’s reactions had been extensively documented during past sessions and Medic was familiar with the data. Scout was a predictable creature, consistently displaying acute tenseness and refusing to relax against the examination table. This was a fairly typical physical condition which marked the beginning of their sessions—as was his current shortness of breath. By the end he was never nearly so composed.

Usually Medic didn’t mind Scout’s anxiety, and even made a point of exacerbating it. Regrettably, this time it would have to be dispelled in order to implement his scheduled plans. He hefted the syringe.

Scout’s renewed struggles were still never entirely for show at this stage; today he put up enough of a fight that Medic had to hold him still with a gloved hand pressed hard to his bare chest. When this proved inefficient, Medic decided to integrate a psychological element from their previous session. He moved up and closed his fingers around Scout’s bare neck.

“Hnnghk—” Scout made a choked sound, struggling to wrench free for Medic’s grip. There were still faint markings from last time, not quite faded yet. Medic squeezed harder to watch the abrasions redden a little. Remarkable. He should conduct a follow-up study, if time allowed in the future.

“Today you are required to remain calm,” he said, and Scout made another cut-off sound, this time incredulous. “I vill demand constant supervision, so you must relax. Begin now.”

Another clenching of his fingers, for good measure, and Medic released him. No sense in causing pre-emptive damage, as it might unduly affect his findings.

Scout lay on the examination table, hoarsely sucking in air and trembling everywhere. Medic noted with acute interest that his fingers were twitching, perhaps a muscle-memory of the seizures from their last session. Definitely a case for a follow-up.

He bared Scout’s forearm—somewhat roughly, to still the shivers—and injecting the formula.

Medic could see Scout’s brows furrow in confusion, before his expression gradually melted into lax neutrality and his whole body began loosening. As much as he regretted the missed opportunity to re-calibrate the compounds of his aphrodisiac, this session called for a muscle relaxant. Medic had his own specialized variant on the standard analgesic which the chemist laboratories produced, as did any self-respecting man of medicine. His was notably more potent, which increased the harm in high dosages; however, Medic found the risk of inducing paralysis in his patients invigorating rather than something to be nervous about.

“Whu... hao...” Scout’s tongue was awkward and heavy, fumbling with the vowels. “What’rye doin’?”

“Simply ensuring zere vill be no disruptions,” Medic said briskly. “Today, ve are being most delicate.”

“Sonova...”

“Merely pragmatic.” Medic peered at Scout over the edge of his glasses, unsmiling. “I cannot risk any of your sudden movements, und today neizer can you.”

“Whas’t mean?”

“You shall see.”

Scout groaned, but weakly; already the muscles of his larynx were relaxed to the point which impeded loud noises. Medic generally approved of this development.

The Dittel sounds were long and straight, made of shining stainless steel. Medic unwrapped them from the sterilized packaging with utmost care. His own gloves had been thoroughly sterilized as well, since one could not be careful enough in this setting. Luckily the urinary tract in a healthy specimen like Scout was very likely clean already, and would need no initial preparation for what he had in mind.

Today’s experiment focused on artificially-induced loss of involuntary muscular control. Logic dictated he focus on those muscles charged with the most sensitive involuntary actions, the internal urethral sphincter being a natural choice. Medic looked forward to witnessing Scout’s reactions to the procedure; he had no doubt they would be quite novel.

Indeed, when he turned back to the examination table, Scout stared at the sound with half-lidded eyes, uncomprehending. His lips were parted, the jaw having trouble clenching or closing fully under the effects of the analgesic.

“Wh...” he tried, and Medic could see him stop to reconsider the use of complete sentences. He was likely experiencing gradual difficulty in forming words. “Cock r’ng?”

Medic favoured him with an appraising look. “Not today,” he said. “However, I vill keep your request in mind.”

Scout tried to shake his head, and could only manage a mild swaying motion. Instead, he settled for: “Fuck’r.”

“Hush.” Medic passed an antiseptic wipe over Scout’s flaccid penis, paying special attention to the tip. “You vill now hold perfectly still.”

The sound gleamed under the fluorescent as Medic took it in one hand, the other curled at the base of Scout’s cock. There was no reaction initially, but when Medic neared one to the other Scout’s eyes widened in alarm.

“Wh—” he started, slurring badly. Medic positioned Scout’s cock and touched the straight tip of the Dittel to his slit. “Hah—s-st—”

“Breathe in deep,” Medic commanded, and pressed carefully, carefully. The tip sunk in, just a fraction, and Scout sucked in a breath so fast that Medic could hear it like a rip in the air. He tried to wrench away reflexively, eyes wild, but all that happened was a faint tremor and his right wrist jerking spasmodically. Medic’s formulas were well-known for their efficiency.

“Exhale now,” Medic said, and waited. Scout breathed out, high and wavering. Medic used the opportunity to adjust his grip fingers on the sound again, and let gravity do the rest, drawing it into Scout’s urethra inch by inch.

“Ah,” Scout said, stretching it out: ahhh going on and on, rising as he inhaled shallowly and dropping in pitch as he exhaled, rough and needy, almost a whine. It took eight seconds for the sound to fully sink into the urethra, the metal disappearing down the slit with maddening slowness. Scout had his eyes tightly shut by the end, though his mouth was open and slack. Medic acted on a hunch and twisted the sound, just a fraction; Scout didn’t move but he choked on something suspiciously like a cry.

It had been wise, choosing the 8mm sound, though Medic had itched to try something with a wider circumference. He wished, abstractly, that he could monitor Scout’s breathing and heart rate, though it was impossible to do without letting go of the sound or moving his hand from the base of Scout’s penis, where it was keeping a steadying grip. It was not absolutely essential; best to focus on the subject at this time.

Scout was sweating profusely, some of it already staining the sheets of the examination table where his hips were pressed flat against the surface. His thigh, bicep, neck, and abdominal muscles were all trying to tense but couldn’t, immobilized as they were by the relaxant. The result was a curious effect which left Scout obviously winded, despite the lack of actual movement. Considering the restraints, he could do nothing but let the sensations affect him—something Medic was quite eager to see.

After a moment of letting Scout catch his breath, Medic spoke. “Ve are now at your external urethral sphincter, directly next to your prostate.” It was for his personal satisfaction than Scout’s sake; Medic had been looking forward to this part. “Remember, at all times remain calm.”

“Yeh,” Scout was about to say something else, probably derogatory, but Medic twitched his fingers slightly and Scout made a sound like he’d been punched in the solar plexus.

“Moth’fu—ahh...” he gasped, trailing off breathlessly, and when Medic repeated the action he almost writhed.

Intriguing. Medic could see Scout’s fingers, wanting to twist and snarl in the sheets but unable to move. He imagined his toes were similarly attempting to curl, to no effect. Scout began showing signs of arousal, among them flushed colour and the stiffening of his cock. A similar sensory reaction, albeit achieved from a different direction than was customary.

Scout was moaning soft and unsteady, sprawled loose-limbed on his back. Medic began stroking with careful precision, watching keenly. To the untrained eye Scout was completely pliant, but his skin felt feverish, even through Medic’s glove. His chest was rising up and down in what, without the analgesic formula, would likely have been genuine respiratory distress. It fit well with the way his cock was hard in Medic’s hand.

They had almost found a rhythm when Medic decided to proceed, and nudged the sound deeper in. Scout froze.

There was some faint resistance, naturally, but it gave way as the Dittel squeezed past the tight ring of muscle. “Inhale, exhale,” Medic reminded him, but Scout did neither; he stared at Medic with panic in his eyes, nostrils flared in alarm. The sound pressed past the external sphincter—responsible for voluntary actions—and when Medic let it push past the internal sphincter, Scout actually whimpered. He squeezed his eyes shut and made a noise like a sob, the tip of his cock swollen and leaking.

A model patient, Medic thought. Scout was now fully conscious, yet helpless in the most comprehensive sense of the word. He was incapable of moving any limb of his body, or even tensing a muscle; if Medic decided to test his gag reflex he couldn’t even close his mouth. Now, with the sound as deep as it would go, he was incapable of controlling his urination. Medic could keep him like this for minutes, hours—even after the relaxant wore off—watching the pressure build until Scout cracked under it. Even his involuntary actions were subject to regulation. He was completely under Medic’s control.

His objective was accomplished. Medic looked at Scout’s expression, open like a bleeding wound, and felt the keen satisfaction of a procedure undergone successfully.

As he withdrew the sound Scout began breathing again, raggedly, as soon as they retreated past the sphincters. Further out and the metal dragged against the prostate again, already sensitized. Scout’s breath hitched then, and the moment Medic removed the sound entirely, he gave a weak cry and ejaculated.

“Excellent,” Medic said, and set aside the sound. He undid the restraints and set about cleaning the work environment, even folding Scout’s clothes in a neat pile on a chair. There was much to be done in the aftermath of the experiment.

He was at his desk and well into the process of documenting his methods when the relaxant wore off sufficiently to allow movement. Scout dragged himself off the examination table and into his clothes, avoiding eye contact. He moved woodenly, fingers clumsy, starting to shake as they regained motor ability. Out of the corner of his eye, Medic clinically noted the long stretch of his neck, faintly bruised; the way he winced when pulling on his pants.

“Mind zat you wait an hour before urinating again,” Medic said, just as Scout was nearly out the door. “Und drink plenty of vater. Zere may be a faint burning sensation; it is to be expected.”

Scout turned to look at him then, and the look on his face surprised even Medic. The only word to describe it was furious. Then Scout went out and the door closed behind him, and Medic was left alone with his work.

He picked up his pen again and continued writing. Already, a part of his brain was planning the next experiment. Medic’s fingers itched at the thought: true science, after all, lay in the empirical research.

I'm looking for the Sniper/Scout fic "Child Molestee" and I can't remember who the hell wrote it. Anyone got it?

Also TeratoMarty's fic with Medic frothing over Heavy and there is an examination and then Medic privately decides urethral fucking is a good idea? I am so good at summaries.

Also where'd the TeratoMarty lungfucking fic get to?

Also that series of BLUScout fics
The ones that all start with


ok

ok so


(I am so specific but I'm sure you all know what I mean)

I'd love to see Strangle Hold get back up here (don't remember who it's by. It's a Spy/ Sniper fic) Also (and yes, I know this one is an oldie) but Detachable Sniper would be a nice fic to get back (I believe it's by TeratoMarty.)

Reposting Stranglehold by Duck


The BLU Sniper squinted against the late afternoon sun. He was stretched out along the wooden floor of the highest room in the BLU compound, peering down on the battlefield below through one of the two windows. A bead of sweat ran down his scalp to his temple, pausing before it slid down his cheek. The showers would be cool welcome relief after this heavy heat. It had been a slow day so far; the end to an even slower week. Patient man or not, his finger itched for the trigger. Perhaps, he thought, it was time to find a new vantage point.

Sniper had been camping out in this particular room during the daily battles for about a month. It was likely the REDs had caught on, finding ways to navigate outside the range of his deadly riffle. This meant that he would have to scout out new positions after this battle, regrettably postponing his shower, and testing the most promising during the next battle. This was not unexpected, but was unfortunate.


Not unexpected because in the 28 weeks he had spent working for BLU, he had not managed to find a single position the REDs didn’t wise up to eventually. Unfortunate because Sniper had found that this particular location seemed to present some sort of obstacle to the RED Spy. The past month had been hot and cramped, but blissfully stab-free.


Sniper paused his vigil, taking a hand off of his riffle to scratch an itch on his back.

The Red Spy, like all Spies, was a bastard.

He took obvious pleasure in his underhand methods for disposing of his enemies. Sniper was no nancy-boy; fire and bullets he could handle just fine, but he cringed at the memories of waking with a gasp in re-spawn, squirming at the ghostly phantom of a butterfly knife sliding into his back. The Marksman got goose bumps thinking about it.


Sniper’s thoughts were interrupted by a flash of motion in his peripheral vision. He brought his hand back to his weapon and shuffled on his elbows, pivoting the riffle so he could get a better look through the scope. A crooked smile pulled at his dry lips. Speak of the slimy RED devil himself!


Barely peaking out behind a tool shed was the unmistakable flicker of the enemy Spy de-cloaking. As the figure shifted, something metallic glinted at hand level. The spy had the Intel. Maybe that was why he had been careless enough to wander into Sniper’s territory. Cocky little bugger.



As Sniper inhaled, he could feel the rough splinters of the floorboards through the fabric of his shirt,pressing into his belly. The sun had descended just low enough in the sky that he no longer had to squint through the yellow lenses of his glasses. He took careful aim through the scope at the opaque shape of the RED Spy. He exhaled and fired.


The riffle cracked in his ear. An almost physical presence that filled the room but was gone in an instant, leaving only a buzzing in his head. The recoil felt familiar as a lover’s touch against his shoulder. Finally, he thought as he checked the scope to make certain he had hit his target.


But what was this? The Spy was not only still alive and breathing, but making a run for it. The RED was limping across the bridge with the briefcase clutched in one hand and the other pressed high against his thigh. The little worm wouldn't last long, but didn't have to. He was mere yards from safety.


Bloody cloaking device, Sniper thought. Why wouldn’t the fucker just die?


“Not so fast you little wanker,” Sniper hissed under his breath.


His heart leapt as he realized the window was too small to provide a good shot. The Spy was going to get away.


He scrambled to his feet, aware that he was now exposed to the RED Sniper’s line of sight, but too deep in the chase to care. He was a hunter, with the scent of his wounded prey intoxicatingly close.


He lunged to the second window but overshot. His upper-half dangled out in the open like a big blue target. Sniper barely pulling himself back inside as a round from his counterpart buried itself in the window frame where his head had been. It appeared he wasn't the only predator on the hunt.


He took a deep breath and steadied himself on the sill. A second round buried itself next to the first with a thunk that he felt rather than heard, safe behind the wall.


There was no time to steady his racing heart. No time to properly take aim. The RED Spy was almost across the bridge and out of range.


Sniper brought up his riffle and readied it to fire. Relying on years of experience, a brief glance through the scope, and a shit-ton bit of good-old-fashioned luck, he pulled the trigger.
The BLU Sniper squinted against the late afternoon sun. He was stretched out along the wooden floor of the highest room in the BLU compound, peering down on the battlefield below through one of the two windows. A bead of sweat ran down his scalp to his temple, pausing before it slid down his cheek. The showers would be cool welcome relief after this heavy heat. It had been a slow day so far; the end to an even slower week. Patient man or not, his finger itched for the trigger. Perhaps, he thought, it was time to find a new vantage point.


Sniper had been camping out in this particular room during the daily battles for about a month. It was likely the REDs had caught on, finding ways to navigate outside the range of his deadly rifle. This meant that he would have to scout out new positions after this battle, regrettably postponing his shower, and testing the most promising during the next battle. This was not unexpected, but was unfortunate.


Not unexpected because in the 28 weeks he had spent working for BLU, he had not managed to find a single position the REDs didn’t wise up to eventually. Unfortunate because Sniper had found that this particular location seemed to present some sort of obstacle to the RED Spy. The past month had been hot and cramped, but blissfully stab-free.


Sniper paused his vigil, taking a hand off of his rifle to scratch an itch on his back.


The Red Spy, like all Spies, was a bastard.

He took obvious pleasure in his underhand methods for disposing of his enemies. Sniper was no nancy-boy; fire and bullets he could handle just fine, but he cringed at the memories of waking with a gasp in re-spawn, squirming at the ghostly phantom of a butterfly knife sliding into his back. The Marksman got goose bumps thinking about it.

Sniper’s thoughts were interrupted by a flash of motion in his peripheral vision. He brought his hand back to his weapon and shuffled on his elbows, pivoting the rifle so he could get a better look through the scope. A crooked smile pulled at his dry lips. Speak of the slimy RED devil himself!

Barely peaking out behind a tool shed was the unmistakable flicker of the enemy Spy de-cloaking. As the figure shifted, something metallic glinted at hand level. The spy had the Intel. Maybe that was why he had been careless enough to wander into Sniper’s territory. Cocky little bugger.

As Sniper inhaled, he could feel the rough splinters of the floorboards through the fabric of his shirt,pressing into his belly. The sun had descended just low enough in the sky that he no longer had to squint through the yellow lenses of his glasses. He took careful aim through the scope at the opaque shape of the RED Spy. He exhaled and fired.

The rifle cracked in his ear. An almost physical presence that filled the room but was gone in an instant, leaving only a buzzing in his head. The recoil felt familiar as a lover’s touch against his shoulder. Finally, he thought as he checked the scope to make certain he had hit his target.

But what was this? The Spy was not only still alive and breathing, but making a run for it. The RED was limping across the bridge with the briefcase clutched in one hand and the other pressed high against his thigh. The little worm wouldn't last long, but didn't have to. He was mere yards from safety.

Bloody cloaking device, Sniper thought. Why wouldn’t the fucker just die?

“Not so fast you little wanker,” Sniper hissed under his breath.

His heart leapt as he realized the window was too small to provide a good shot. The Spy was going to get away.


He scrambled to his feet, aware that he was now exposed to the RED Sniper’s line of sight, but too deep in the chase to care. He was a hunter, with the scent of his wounded prey intoxicatingly close.


He lunged to the second window but overshot. His upper-half dangled out in the open like a big blue target. Sniper barely pulling himself back inside as a round from his counterpart buried itself in the window frame where his head had been. It appeared he wasn't the only predator on the hunt.


He took a deep breath and steadied himself on the sill. A second round buried itself next to the first with a thunk that he felt rather than heard, safe behind the wall.


There was no time to steady his racing heart. No time to properly take aim. The RED Spy was almost across the bridge and out of range.


Sniper brought up his rifle and readied it to fire. Relying on years of experience, a brief glance through the scope, and a shit-ton bit of good-old-fashioned luck, he pulled the trigger.

The BLU Sniper felt something akin to warmth after his team-mate’s praise during dinner that night in the mess-hall. It was either that or heartburn from Pyro’s chili. Nope, scratch that. It was definitely heart-burn. He tugged on Medic’s sleeve when the German made to leave, pulling the tall man down so that they were eye-to-eye.

“Ja? Vas?”

“Where do ya’ keep the anti-acid, mate?” He asked quietly. “ Feels like something’s trying to crawl its way out of my chest.”

“Nein,” Medic said, straightening up and adjusting his spectacles. “I will get it. I am heading to the trauma bay now. No trouble.”

“…Danke,” Sniper said, trying to remember the little German that he knew. For some reason the dirty words always stuck in his head longer than the polite ones. He hoped that danke meant thank-you and not fuck-you.

“Natürlich.”

Medic left, and Sniper turned back to dinner. Scout, who had been chasing the RED Spy when Sniper’s second shot hit home, was particularly enthusiastic about Sniper’s kill.

“—and it was like BOOM, man,” Scout said, dripping chili on the table as he gestured with his spoon. Spy moved his cup out of the line of fire, rolling his eyes. “Hit that fucker right in the head. Right. In. The. Head.”

“The crazy part was that he kept going for like, ten feet. I swear his brains were dripping down his neck! And he was still walking!”

Sniper rubbed the back of his own head. He wondered what it had felt like. Had the RED Spy woken up in re-spawn gasping like a fish out of water, still feeling that sickly warmth on the back of his neck? It would serve him right, of course. But still…

He looked down at his chili, and then pushed it aside before standing to leave. No one seemed to notice. Scout had evidently said something which irked Spy.

“ ’onesty, petit. I zink you would not know where to feed yourself if you did not flap your mouth so much.”

“Shut it Frenchfag!”

“Had your fill already?” Medic asked as Sniper nearly walked into him on his way to the out. “Here, I have your anti-acid.”

“Thanks. Hate to rush, but I’m full as a fat lady’s socks, and I’ve got to scout out a new place to set up tomorrow,” Sniper explained. “The REDs have caught onto this one.”

“Das ist aber schade,” Medic said, placing the tablets in Sniper’s hand. As he felt the nitrile against his skin, Sniper realized he had never seen Medic without gloves on. He felt uncomfortable as the man gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder.

“What?” Sniper asked, confused. “Schade?”

“A shame,” Medic said, walking back to his seat next to Heavy. “Then of course, they always do, don’t they?”

“Hey, Sniper wait up,” Scout called from the mess-hall, his argument with Spy either finished or forgotten. “Want a hand?”

Sniper gave a ambiguous shrug and the Scout followed him.

Scout didn’t grate on Sniper’s nerves the way he seemed to with Spy or some of the other BLUs. As a quiet man, he found the constant chatter almost…pleasant. Scout didn’t mind holding up both ends of the conversation. If he was honest with himself, Sniper supposed he was rather fond of the young man, still a child in many ways.

By the end of the evening, they had chosen a location that didn’t seem terrible.
--------------

~The Next Day~

As the battle progressed, Sniper found himself grinning more than he had any right to, and felt happy as a dog in a hubcap factory to boot. The spot he and Scout had chosen was proving quite fruitful; two non-fatal RED hits within the first hour.

He took aim, firing off a round at the RED Engineer unfortunate enough to wander into no-man’s-land. Make that two non-fatal hits and a headshot within the first hour.

Engineer’s body twitched once, and then lay still.

He had seen neither hide nor hair of the RED Spy, but the hairs on the back of his neck had been standing at full attention since he woke up that morning. Something was stirring in the dark passages. Since the enemy agent didn’t seem the type to sulk in the shadows licking his wounds, Sniper suspected that the Spy had turned his thoughts toward retaliation. As a precaution, the sharpshooter had positioned a shard of mirror nearby, so he could watch the room to his back while he worked. Hopefully he wouldn’t be caught with his pants down, so to speak.

Sniper dropped the rifle across his knees, surveying the battlefield with an unaided eye. What was that Frenchie ratbag up to?

He was startled by a knock at the trapdoor.

“Hey Wombat, let me in!”

It sounded like Scout. Even so, before he turned in his chair, Sniper placed the kukri on the crate he was using as a table; right beside the #1 Sniper mug, and well within arm’s reach. Then, with a grunt and a kick, he pushed aside the heavy trunk sitting on top of the hatch.

“ ‘s open,” He said.

“Thanks man.”

The hatch swung open, clunking heavily on the floor. Noticing that his knuckles had turned white against the grey gunmetal, Sniper relaxed his grip on the rifle slightly. He watched as the Scout placed his bat on the floor, then levered himself into the room. The visitor shut the trapdoor behind him, moving the trunk back in place before brushing the dust off his hands and straightening up.

“I was wondering when you would show, RED.” He motioned with the muzzle of the rifle. “Take off that disguise.”

“ ’ow did you know it was me?” The man asked, dropping the Bostonian accent. For a brief and disconcerting moment, the Spy’s voice came out of Scout’s body before the rest of the mask vanished. The RED Spy stood in the center of the room.

“You reek of cigarettes. Plus, Scout never calls me Wombat,” Sniper said, raising the rifle. “It’s always ‘faggot’ or, if he’s feeling friendly, ‘kangaroo-fucker’. And he never visits me in the middle of battle.”

“Hmm,” Spy said, slowly making a move toward his pocket. Toward the knife. “Noted. I thought you two were close; you think of ‘im as un frère, non? ”

“Yeah,” Sniper said, leveling his gun. “Not really the touchy-feely type, our Scout.”

Sniper pulled the trigger, but instead of a satisfying crack, the rifle emitted an empty ‘thunk’ noise that poured ice-water down his spine. Of all the dumb mistakes!

He had forgotten to reload.

Spy lunged forward before Sniper could get his head together. Grabbing the Austailian by the lapels of his vest, the Frenchman pulled him out of the chair and shoved him back up against the wall. His head hit hard and his arse collided with the crate, toppling it with a crash. The mug shattered and the Kukri skittered across the floor.

The spook may have been as thin as a starved dog, but he was strong as piano wire. Sniper twisted but, pressed up against the wall, couldn’t get the leverage to toss the other man; he was too close.

“Bloody Spy,” Sniper said, snapping up the butt of his rifle into Spy’s nose instead. “That was my favorite mug, wanker!”

There was a satisfying crunch as the rifle hit home.

Spy clutched his hands to his nose, butterfly knife falling to the floor. Blood bubbled through the black leather of his gloves, and Sniper slid sideways out of his reach, throwing himself toward to hatch.

He was about to kick the trunk aside when one of Spy’s long arms wrapped itself around his throat, hauling him back. Sniper clawed at it through the fabric of the suit, trying to get a grip and pry it off.

Sniper struggled, trying to throw Spy over his shoulder, but misjudged. He found himself on the floor with Spy straddling his lower back. His sunglasses fell off, and without the yellow lenses, the world seemed unnaturally blue. He tried to get his feet under himself to stand, but his boots slid in the ceramic shards of the mug.

Spy’s fist pressed against the back of Sniper’s neck, crushing his windpipe against the man’s elbow. Sniper couldn’t breathe. He scratched against Spy’s arm, trying to peal it away. He couldn’t breathe.

“Think of zhis as payback,” Spy said, “for all zhe times I ‘ave respawned with the feel of one of your bullets rattling around inside my skull.”

“Nnkg?” Sniper asked.

“You take pleasure in killing me, more zhan my other team-mates; why?”

Sniper made confused, animal noises.

“Non, zhat was rhetorical . I do not expect an answer.”

“ n’gack,” Sniper said nonetheless.

“I know what you are zhinking,” Spy continued, tightening his grip. “Zhat my plan is not so good, because if I kill you, poof! Et, par bleu, you will wake up good as new.”

“But you forget one zing,” Spy said. He had lowered his head so that he spoke the words right into Sniper’s ear. His breath was warm against the back of Sniper's neck.

“I can still ‘umiliate you, mon moineau.” Everything slowed down. Sniper struggled like an animal, but his arms and legs felt like they were filling with sand. He found his mind grasping the most inane details as his body screamed for oxygen. He noticed the peculiar rough feel of the carpet beneath his cheek. Strange, because it had felt so soft and giving beneath his boots.

He felt Spy, sitting like a bag of antlers on the small of sniper’s back. Spy’s thighs were against his sides, trembling with the effort of keeping him immobile. Above all he felt the arm around his neck. Black dots filled the edge of his vision. Sniper’s face was red, quickly approaching blue, when the pressure finally let up. He gasped, coughed, and gasped again, drawing in lungfuls of air that burned deep within his chest.

He felt a fumbling hand beneath him, then something tugging at the waist of his pants. At first he thought Spy was searching his pockets—an absurd notion, but then realized the man was removing his belt. Once he managed to draw it through the last belt-loop, Spy wrapped the belt around his wrists, securing Sniper’s hands behind his back.

Spy rose to his feet and, grabbing Sniper by his belt-loops, flipped him over with a grunt. As he settled back down, Spy’s knee slipped between Sniper’s thighs, so that his weight rested on Sniper’s legs. The only sounds in the room were the wheezes from Sniper’s throat.

Sniper’s absorption with the simple act of breathing was interrupted when Spy reached down and palmed the BLU’s balls; an act which, even through the thick material of his jeans, sent a jolt through Sniper’s cotton-filled brain.

He jerked his head up, trying to look Spy in the eye. Trying to get a sense of what was going on, but Spy had his head bent down, focused on his task. What the HELL was Spy doing?

“Wh-Wha’--?” Sniper couldn’t form his mouth around the words. “NO--”

Sniper was half-hard already. Not from Spy’s touch, but from the rush of adrenaline; the rush of finding himself still among the living. Spy’s other hand ghosted across the skin at his hip, just above the elastic of his boxers. His shirt must have become untucked in the struggle. Sniper briefly wished he hadn’t worn his koala-print underwear before the hand dipped below, gripping his length.

Sniper hissed.

“Bloody hell, Spy. This isn’t—Jesus!” Sniper’s voice sounded wrong and it hurt to shout, but he did so anyway.

He bit back a moan of horror, afraid it would be taken for pleasure. Spy had popped the snap and pulled down the zipper, freeing his cock. Sniper felt betrayed by his own skin as his body responded to the hatefully gentle ministrations. Spy somehow knew just where to touch. Or maybe it was just the fact that someone else was touching him, caressing him. It had been awhile.

A hand groped upward, finding a nipple beneath his shirt, and this time Sniper did moan. Spy finally looked up. His eyes shone behind the mask; thin amber rings around dark, blown pupils. His smile was all teeth.

“Bon dieu, tu m'excites...” Spy said under his breath, in a way that made Sniper think he wasn’t meant to hear. Then louder: “If I didn’t know better I would zhink zhat you are enjoying zhis.”

Sniper broke the stare. Turned his head to the side, looking away. His arousal grew as Spy stroked just so with slippery, blood slicked gloves. He wanted to fight, but his body was paralyzed; torn between pleasure and shame.

“I can’t believe you would... ung, Oh god!”

His thumb finally touched the sensitive head of Sniper’s cock, flitting over the slit. Sniper bit his lip and made small, conflicted noises into the carpet. Spy chuckled, grabbing Sniper’s jaw and wrenching his head back to centre so he could watch Sniper’s flushed face.

“Just kill me, you bastard,” Sniper said.

“Peut-être,” Spy said. “I might...if you beg me to touch you. ”

“Yeah. Right.” Sniper said, between hitched breaths.

“ Non, I will,” Spy said, bending down so his mouth was over the shell of Sniper’s ear. “Just beg for me to fuck you... and I will shoot you in zhe head like a mad dog.”

Spy managed to pull back his head before Sniper could tear out his throat with his teeth. Barely.

“Just a few simple words, chien.” Spy said with a smile.

Sniper turned his head to the side again and mumbled something.

“Quoi?” Spy said. “I didn’t catch zhat.”

“Please,” Sniper spoke through his teeth. “...Fuck. Me.”

“Non, en Français.”

“Bastard...” He hissed, trying to remember the words. His erection was throbbing, and he almost wanted what he was being forced to ask for. Almost.

“...Baise-moi.”

“Very good,” Spy said, pulling his gun out its holster. “Now, as promised.”

“Close your eyes now, mon moineau, ” Spy said, and Sniper did.

The gun's muzzle, warm from being nestled against his body, pressed against Sniper’s forehead. Spy pulled the trigger.

I feel so stupid in trying to explain the plot but: Does anyone have that fic where scout forces himself on medic and then some time later spy comes in and does some weird stuff, scout gets fed up with spy and he kills him. then in the last chapter medic asks scout if he knows what schadenfruede is.

is it just me or is the first part of that sniper/spy story copy pasted twice in the same post?

Thanks so much for the repost of Strangle Hold!

>>10
haha wow it is, oops, sorry !

>>11
np!

Does anyone happen to have the Scout/Medic fic, "Go Avay..." in their stores? I think that's what it's called.

This post has been deleted.

I have "Go Avay" saved. Anything special I have to do to repost, or just copy the whole thing into the body of the reply window?

Looking for Doghouse and On The Surface of It, two great fics that were unfortunately never finished. The first was an AU where everyone was a prostitute, the second was about Spy tricking Heavy into sex and things spiraling from there.

I really, really hope these aren't lost for good.

There is a serious lack of RobotLyra's amazing Medic/You fic.

I'm just sayin'.

This post has been deleted.

>>4
the stories you're talking about were from the thread titled TARGET SIGHTED by SCOUT, right? (yeah, that was the name)
i have them saved, can't post them right now but i will tomorrow.
I also have saved the dramatic reading an anonymus lady had made of the last chapter, but it's in my computer back home, so it could even take a full week before i get that one back...

First time posting to TF2chan . . . . well, second if you count the poorly-formatted previous attempt that I deleted. Oh, well. Second pass!

Go Avay - by andrew ryans caddy

-------

"Hey Doc!"

Medic knocked over a rook. He righted it with care, the sense of touch muted by his thick gloves.

"Ja, Herr Scout?" he said with heroic patience.

Scout slapped his hands onto the table and leaned over the chessboard. "Whatcha doin?"

Medic grabbed the swinging dogtags in his fist before they could wreak havoc on the battlefield. "Vhat does it look like?"

"Like fatass is staring at a plastic horsey."

Heavy, brow furrowed in concentration, did not appear to hear the boy's voice. Medic envied him.

"It is called thinking, Herr Scout. Perhaps you have heard ze term?"

"Yeah, yeah." In a truly inspired act of finding ways to be irritating, Scout tugged his tags free and turned away only to begin opening the infirmary's metal cabinets. "Hey, do you need, like, help with anything?"

"No," said Medic, as he studied the position where a delicate movement of Heavy's fingers left his queen.

"Like, body parts to bag, needles to jab into things, experimental drugs to feed to guinea pigs, stuff cleaned, that kinda crap. I could do it."

"Herr Scout." Medic pushed up his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes for a moment. Tennis shoes clomped about the small room. "Are you bleeding?"

"Naw." Scout peered at a row of pill bottles, all labeled fastidiously in German with the proper dosage and effects of feeding them to unsuspecting teammates.

"Are you sick?"

The hinges of a cabinet squeaked. "Nope."

Medic's bishop made a bold foray into enemy territory. "Are your intestines bursting through the abdominal wall, resulting in massive bleeding and catastrophic organ failure?"

Scout checked beneath his shirt. "Naw."

"Zen," said Medic, narrowing his eyes at the board, "go avay."

Out of the corner of his eye, beyond the expanse of patterned squares, he saw Scout's face fall.

"Fine," he muttered. "You don't gotta be a Nazi about it."

The boy stuck his hands in his pockets and sulked out, leaving his disarray behind him.

"Kinder," Medic said under his breath.

For a few minutes there was only the precise clicks of the pieces. The chess set was in the center of a sturdy and serviceable table, covering most of the bloodstains. Heavy loomed above like a contemplative mountain.

"Leetle man has crush," he said as he moved a knight.

"Vhat?" Medic's glasses fell onto the table. "On who?"

"You, Doktor," said Heavy, his brows lifting with amusement.

Medic retrieved his glasses and polished the lenses with the corner of his labcoat. The only effect was to give them reddish streaks, but in any case it was mostly for show. "I don't know vhat you are talking about."

"Vhen not on battlefield, he pesters everyvun. Especially, follows you until you shout. Is lonely." Heavy's shrug involved a great migration of mass. "Is not hard to see."

"Is-it is ridiculous." Medic replaced his glasses and straightened them. "Ze boy hardly says a vord that is not an insult to us or a boast of his skills vith vimmen."

"And people, they are alvays what they say." The black bishop was dwarfed by Heavy's fingertips. An afterthought: "Check."

Ridiculous, Medic thought, even while a suspicion took root in his mind and slowly blossomed into an idea. Despite the distraction, he did well. He lasted nearly twenty minutes this time.

--------------------

The next day after the usual battles, Scout needed to think, so he went out back to hit grenades with a bat and see how far they went before they exploded.

It wasn't like the doc hated him or anything. You couldn't hate teammates. If they were weird and crazy, they were your weird crazies, and nobody better screw with them. Honestly, Scout didn't know what his own deal was. The doc and him were usually on other sides of the battlefield, except when Scout ran back for a second to get patched up. Once early on they'd tried to work together. A while after Scout crossed home with the enemy intel in his hand, the doc had stumbled up to the door, covered in mud and dust and with a bunch of bullet holes through his coat, and panted out, "Ze qvick little bunny can heal himself."

BAM! Right up in midair like the Fourth of July.

So it wasn't like they knew each other that well. Scout just kinda liked the doc. He was smart and he kept his shit together when things were all going to hell. It took a special kind of balls to go out there with barely any weapons and put all you've got into covering everybody else's ass. He had patience, and that was fascinating to Scout, like weird foreign things were.

KABLAM! Nice new crater.

Scout was winding up the next pitch when he decided; screw it. Subtlety and thinking about things never got him anywhere. When in doubt, run through the middle and see what happens. Worst thing could happen was Medic got all huffy and, "Ach, leaff me alone, I must vork" and that happened practically anytime Scout talked to him already, though it didn't even make sense, cause how much vork could one guy have, anyway? Scout laid the bat against his shoulder, tossed the ball in his free hand, and was about two steps toward the base when he remembered it wasn't a ball.

BOOM.

Whatever. Respawn was closer to the infirmary anyway. Scout jogged over and stuck his head in, but there was nobody there. He tried Medic's room next, and even knocked. See? Manners. Not like he waited for an answer before opening the door, Christ, he wasn't the Pope.

"Hey Doc!"

Medic was sitting at the desk by the window, blinds closed, reading what looked like a textbook by the light of a little green lamp. It was one of the first times Scout had ever seen him without his coat on, just in an old-fashioned dress shirt and black suspenders. The doc looked up like he'd been expecting him.

"Ah, Scout," he said. "Come in. Und close ze door."

The look of warm invitation Medic aimed over his glasses knocked Scout's brain out from under him. Before he could think about it he'd done as he said. The room looked a lot like Scout's, except without socks on the floor, and instead of girly pictures torn out of magazines tacked up on the wall there was that sketch of the naked guy in the circle with the four arms.

"I, uh, got something I want to talk to you about," Scout said, because he'd figured he'd think of something clever to say when he got there and it wasn't happening.

"Ja, I know," said Medic.

"You do?" Scout perked up. This was gonna be easier than he thought.

"Of course." Medic swiveled his chair around and leaned back. The knot of his blue tie was nestled at his throat. Scout wanted to reach his hand up and pull it loose. Just because he didn't understand why anybody would wear a tie if he didn't have to. "Do you think I haven't noticed how you behave differently, lately? You are helpful. Comparatively courteous. Alvays over my shoulder."

Scout rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "Pretty obvious, huh."

"Only to one who is paying special attention." Usually Scout got pissed off when he thought somebody was laughing at him, but something about the smile hovering around the doc's eyes was kind of nice, maybe just because he couldn't remember ever seeing the doc looking like that before. Relaxed, and like he was thinking of a good joke.

"So, hey," Scout said, taking a few steps forward. This was going way better than he expected. "Long as you don't mind it, maybe we can, y'know, do something about it."

"An excellent idea." Scout had never really noticed how Medic's glasses made his eyes big and expressive. "Vhy don't you come here, and ve can have a more intimate discussion..."

Scout was there before the little glint behind Medic's smile sank through to his conscious mind.

Scout always thought of everybody else on the team as slow. Maybe that wasn't right. It turned out Medic could move pretty damn fast over a short distance. Say, from reaching for something hidden under his desk to grabbing Scout and pressing the sharp and very, very pointy edge of a bonesaw to his throat.

Behind his glasses Medic's eyes gleamed.

"...about ze jars vhere I am going to place your organs, Spy."

----------------

"Woah woah woah! Not funny, doc!" Scout babbled while he tried to wriggle away from Medic's grip. "Not cool! You got it all wrong! I'm on your team!"

No use. Scout was built around the idea of not getting caught in the first place and Medic was a whole lot stronger than he looked. The jagged teeth on the sawblade were covered with flecks of what looked like rust but what turned out in closeup - Scout was really, really close up - wasn't.

"Exactly vhat a Spy vould say," Medic hissed, his face the width of the saw away. "Thought you vere clever, didn't you? Find ze damning black mark in my files, use ze handsome young to get past ze old qveen's guard."

"Look, I don't know what you're talkin' about!" Scout tried to back away. Medic followed him step for step until he was pinned against the door. "I ain't a Spy!"

Medic pushed the saw up harder. It didn't have far to go. Scout could feel the jagged edges against his throat with every throb of his pulse.

"Vhere is ze boy? How long have you taken his place? Speak, or vhen I am done gutting you ve vill tear your base from its foundations!"

Scout realized he'd never seen the doc really pissed before. He was really wishing he could've kept that streak going.

"Doc, it's me!" Respawn or not, dying still wasn't exactly a whole lot of fun, especially when it was your own teammate and the worst response to a proposition in fag history. Goddamn, all girls ever did was say they had to wash their hair. "C'mon, man!"

That kinda frantic high-pitched note? Not something Scout was proud of.

"Prove yourself!" Medic's eyes glittered. "Vhere do ve keep ze spare key to ze veapons lockers?"

"Under the potted plant in the hallway!"

Medic's hand around his shirtfront yanked him closer. "Vhat is in the refrigerator at 2Fort?"

"Some ham, a hollow grenade full of baked beans, an' carrot cake from Pyro's birthday!"

"Who plays left field for ze Red Sox?"

"That doesn't prove anything, dumbass, everybody knows Carl Yastrzemski!"

Slowly, still eyeing him like he was gonna sprout a stupid accent and a backstabbing knife any second, Medic let go of Scout and lowered his weapon. "Scout. It is really you?"

"Yeah." Scout rubbed his throat. "I know other stuff, too. Like how the first thing you do after battles is polish the mud and gibs and stuff off your boots, or how you only call people 'Hair' when you're pissed off. I don't know what you're talking about with any files, though."

Medic turned aside to put the saw down by his desk. He was quiet for a minute before he started talking, the way newscasters do, like what they're saying is important but it's got nothing to do with them.

"I vas careless, vunce. Vhen you are young, you think ze rules do not apply, zat you are invincible. I vas lucky. Zere vas no firm evidence, and I had money for ze bribes to make zem look ze other vay. However, our current employers are very...thorough. I doubt zey do not know."

"What are you goin' on about?" Scout said, baffled.

"I mean to say zat I have certain inclination zat are verboten," Medic said, as he straightened his tie and didn't quite look at Scout.

The lights in Scout's head took a minute to line up and blink in unison. "You mean you really are a queeah?"

When Medic pushed up his glasses and glared, he looked like his old self again. "To put it vith your characteristic tact and delicacy, yes."

Scout shifted from foot to foot. He rolled his eyes up to the waterstained ceiling. "Oh."

Medic prickled. "Vhat do you mean, oh?"

"I kinda figured, since you're all fussy about keeping clean and you're all buddy-buddy with the Rooski 'n all."

"Heavy is a dear friend, and caring for vun's personal appearance does not mean vun is homosexual, it means vun is not you," Medic sighed. "In any case, I apologize for ze trying to kill you."

"Naw, man, that was pretty badass." Scout grinned. "I didn't know you had it in ya, Doc."

Medic gave him a look with a touch of that scaryness in it. "Remember that, should you feel ze urge to tell anyvun vhat you have found out."

"You kiddin? Hell no. You don't rat on teammates." Scout scratched the back of his head. "Sides, it's not like it's a big deal or nothin."

"Not a big deal," Medic echoed flatly.

"Maybe where you came from - hell, where I came from, you got any idea what guys do to fags? - but here, who gives a crap? It ain't the same. Out in the real world I'd get in trouble for splattin' people's brains out. Here, I get a bonus if I do it faster."

Scout leaned against the wall. The end of his handwrap came loose and fluttered as he gestured.

"Besides, if there aren't any girls around and it's in between fightin', it doesn't count as queeah."

His brother in the Navy'd told him that, and Scout knew everything his brothers said was true, except for "Come back here, I just wanna talk!"

"An...interesting viewpoint," Medic said, though he looked relieved.

"Screw you, you know I'm right- Hey. Wait a minute."

All of Scout's energy went to his body primarily. His head got by with the leftovers, on the principle that you didn't have to be good at thinking things through if you were good at hauling ass. Things tended to work their way through his brain after waiting their turn.

A grin was plastering itself over Scout's face. "You called me handsome."

"Mere fact." The doc straightened his cuffs. His eyes kept hiding behind his glasses. "Obviously you are an attractive young man. Do not let it go to your head."

Scout's expression had to be goofy as hell, but he didn't give a shit. "You think I'm hot."

"I did not say zat-"

"It's your lucky day, Doc. Most fags wish they could get this fine a piece of ass. So how bout it?"

Medic was giving him a look like he was trying to measure something that kept moving. "You can't be serious."

"I mean it, man. You know you want me." Scout leaned into a seductive pose that was only a little bit ruined by the wince when his elbow smacked into the wall. A question crept into his voice. "Don't you?"

Now there was a funny thing. He'd never seen the doc look unsure before. "It is verboten, Scout. Ze risks-"

"Fuck that!" Scout exploded. "You're always thinking of reasons not to do shit. 'That won't work.' 'You'll get hit with a rocket if you go that way.' 'Not right now Scout, you're on fire.' Even you've gotta get sick of always thinking about shit instead of just getting it done, and if it doesn't work, fuck, you don't lose nothin' and you've got a great story. What are you so fuckin' afraid of, man? Give me some friggin credit here. I like you, dumbass! Why don't you-"

Medic's expression was slowly changing from annoyed to a funny sort of determined, and suddenly he grabbed Scout by the shirt and Scout just had time to think that this time he was definitely gonna get sawed in the throat and then Medic was kissing him.

And, you know, he was a smart guy. That was pretty much the only way Scout was going to shut up.

-------
The boy learned quickly.

Medic had thought to frighten him off, shock him into silence at the least. He could not think with the young fool babbling at him.

Yet instead of running off Scout was pressing his lithe body toward him, his mouth open and eager, making small and no doubt unconscious noises, his hands grabbing fistfuls of Medic's shirt. Perhaps there was something to be said for not thinking.

Scout pulled away and panted, though he did not go so far as to let go. "How's that, Doc?"

"Sloppy," said Medic, licking his lips thoughtfully. "However, zat can be improved vith practice."

"Sure, sure, we can do that." He tugged on the knot of Medic's tie and used it to pull him closer. He smelled of fresh sawdust and grass. "How does this whole queeah thing work, anyway?"

"How it vorks is you do as I say."

"So like everything else." Scout was grinning like a fool. At this range it was not unappealing. "But I'm thinkin you're wearing way too much clothes."

Medic corrected him - he meant too many clothes, that being a peculiarity of English Medic had taken pains to master - as Scout undid the buttons down the front of his shirt.

"Don't pull them off, dummkopf," he said, rendering assistance before the impatient boy ruined his second-best shirt. He swallowed the last syllable when Scout's hands took the liberty of slipping under the open fabric and stroking his stomach. It had been a long time since anyway had touched him. He did not normally allow it.

"You get to see me naked all the time, but I never get to see you," Scout said, pushing Medic's shirt off his shoulders and trying to tug the still-buttoned cuffs off his wrists until Medic shoved him off and did it himself. "Totally unfair."

"To be naked in ze clinical context is an entirely different creature. I am a professional."

"Yeah, yeah, you know you snuck a peek." Scout tossed his hat on the bed and peeled off his shirt, leaving his dog tags to jingle against his, yes, slender and well-defined chest. "Do I get to feel you up now?"

"If you must," said Medic, unwilling to admit that he didn't know exactly what Scout meant. The hand down his pants made things clear. Medic attempted to hide his gasp by kissing him. If the boy knew he could make Medic's skin tingle with electricity and his heart pound, he would never hear the end of it.

Scout's free hand tugged open his belt. The wraps became tangled, and Medic pulled Scout's hand free to unwind them.

"Hold your hands up, bitte," he commanded, his body complaining at the loss of contact. "Honestly, vhy in the vorld do you not simply vear gloves?"

"'Cause these look cooler," Scout said, as Medic unfastened his pants and set his teeth to the task of unwinding the white cloth. His eyes widened. "Holy Christ, that's hot."

"Efficiency," Medic said, allowing himself a sliver of pride as he dropped the wraps and pulled down his pants, then took a moment to divest himself of his boots. Scout was doing the same, undressing shamelessly until he stood in his bare skin. He tossed his underwear on the floor, Medic noted with irritation that lasted until the younger man pushed him down onto his bed.

"Way too slow," he said, pulled off Medic's underwear and undershirt and tossing them aside."I ain't got all night." He paused to take a good look.

While Medic was in excellent condition from carrying around the heavy Medigun and pack as he ran about trying to keep a herd of reckless fools alive, he was aware he was no longer as young as he used to be. Yet there no poetry could flatter like Scout's low whistle and murmur of, "Damn, Doc."

"You are not so bad yourself," Medic said generously.

Scout snorted. "I know that."

He explored Medic's body with relentlessly eager hands, running down his shoulders and chest and across his stomach. Medic bit his lip, fighting the vulnerability of pleasure and knowing that a Scout aware of the devastating effect of his simple touches would be insufferable for days.

Scout lifted Medic's glasses away, and the world's focus softened. The light down on Scout's arms gave him an edge of glow in the yellow lamplight.

"Be careful vith zhose!" Medic barked.

"Yeah, yeah." Scout set them down on the bedside table with a surprisingly gentle motion. "I don't run around breaking people's crap all the time, y'know. Just Engie's."

He laid himself full length on top of Medic and dove in for a kiss. He made a startled noise when Medic made use of the leverage to grab him and flip him over.

"As I vas saying," Medic said, moving down to kiss Scout's throat, "you vill do as I say."

"You're senior fag," Scout said. "An' hey, you bein' bossy? Kinda hot."

Medic ignored him and set to mapping his body with his fingertips. It was astonishing how much smaller he seemed when pinned down. He gave an impression of size through sheer motion and force of personality. In the rare case when his body was still and quiet, but for softly elevated breathing, it was fascinatingly compact. Medic licked a dark rose nipple, then took it in his mouth for a more dedicated suck.

"Jeez, that feels weird," Scout said with a sound that was part laugh and part gasp, shifting beneath him. Medic put one hand on his hip to keep him securely in place. "Not like bad weird or anything."

Medic ran his fingers along Scout's ribs, watching as they moved with his quickened breathing. He lifted Scout's hands to kiss the sensitive inner wrist, inhaled his scent from the fold of his elbow. He enjoyed the pulses of arousal slowly winning over his body, the way the air warmed on his skin. He was determined to take his time. How long he had denied himself these sins of the flesh, and for such good reasons, though oddly he could not think of a one of them now.

"You're gettin' into it, Doc," Scout said a little breathlessly, rising up on his elbows to watch as Medic kissed the curve of his hipbone. "You been hard up for a while or somethin'?"

"Zat is none of your business."

Scout was quiet, and so must have realized this meant yes.

Medic touched a trail down his thighs, stroked the exceptionally defined muscles of his calves, and kissed a path upwards again.

"What are you gonna do?" Scout said, with a strange note in his voice.

"Nazhing you vill not enjoy."

Scout watched as Medic's lips brushed his taut stomach. Rather more taut than it should be, in fact, muscles held tight against Medic's attentions. Medic paused and looked up at him, a realization sinking through.

"You are nervous," he said with a hint of disbelief.

"Naw!" Scout squirmed. Medic's hands held him firmly by the hips.

"You are nervous," he repeated, vastly amused. "I have personally vitnessed you charge into machine gun fire, zen respawn and try ze same tactic again, and you are frightened of a naked man."

"A naked man who isn't gonna be gettin' any if you don't shut up."

"Vell zen." Medic ran his fingertips upwards along the inside of Scout's magnificent thigh. "You give me no choice but to put my mouth to better use."

Scout, who in daylight would lower his voice for no one, bit back a fascinating cross of gasp and whimper as Medic's lips enveloped his cock.

God in Heaven. Medic had nearly forgotten how much he enjoyed this. He heard a soft sound as Scout's head fell back onto the pillow. He was ruthless, finding and exploiting every point of pleasure. Long fingers tangled in his hair, pressing with the palm.

Medic smacked Scout's hand away and raised his head. "Pushing downvards is against ze etiquette," he said.

Scout's hand fell away. His eyes were closed, lips parted. He ran his tongue across them before he spoke. "Right. Senior fag." His voice was barely more than breath. "Anything you say."

Was there anyone who couldn't love that phrase?

Medic took special care to reward him well. He wrapped his hand around the base of Scout's cock and lavished the length with his tongue. It was intoxicating to hold the power of being the center of a man's world, having him entirely at his mercy.

"Jesus fuck Christ doc!" said Scout.

His thighs clenched and relaxed under Medic's hands as he babbled in rapturous, obscene delirium. Soon even that became beyond him, dissolving into whimpers that crescendoed to a final moan of ecstasy.

Medic sat up and wiped his lips. Scout was spread out before him on his bed, fingers clutching and releasing the blanket, legs spread. It was some time before his eyes opened.

"Fuck, Doc," he said with a hazy grin. "I...fuck."

"High praise," said Medic, not entirely facetiously. He sat back and regarded Scout warmly, giving himself a few lazy strokes to finely hone the edge of his arousal.

"So, what do I do for payback?" Scout watched him with interest. "What's good manners n' shit?"

"Can you stand?"

"Get bent." Scout's jaw set and his eyes flashed, returning to a more familiar expression even while his limbs trembled with the dregs of orgasm. "I ain't leavin' til I'm good an' ready."

"That isn't vhat I said. Can you?"

Scout pulled his legs up from around Medic and hopped off the bed. "Any other tricks you wanna see?"

Medic followed at a more measured pace, slipped around behind Scout, and wrapped his arms around him. The younger man's skin wore a slight sheen of sweat. His body tightened for a moment before relaxing. Medic wondered how long it would take to teach him that his hands would bring only pleasure, make him eager and pliable from the first touch.

"Put your hands against ze vall, bitte," Medic said into his ear.

To his surprise Scout did as directed, though he threw a glance over his shoulder.

"No doin' anything to my ass, okay?" he said. "I ain't ready for the full fag experience."

"Of course," Medic murmured. "Keep your legs togezzer."

Medic took his cock in hand and pressed it into the cleft where Scout's thighs met. The heat and pressure made him exhale roughly, despite his best attempt at control.

"I never thought a' that," Scout said with amazement.

"Imagination," Medic said, rocking his hips and trying to suppress his panting as his control frayed, "inspired by your magnificent legs."

Scout squeezed his legs together experimentally, and Medic's carefully cultivated self-possession flew out of his grasp. He grabbed Scout's waist and thrust against him with the force and passion of his full body, closing his eyes and opening himself to the full force of the sensation of Scout's hot, slick flesh and the soft noises he made, none more fascinating than the gasp and arch when Medic bit down on his shoulder and released the cry of his climax into his salt skin.

Medic stumbled backwards and fell onto his bed before he could remember to let go. Scout landed on top of him as a pile of elbows and knees. The bed being intended for one, there was no room to lay side by side. Scout solved the problem by draping himself over Medic, pushing his arms around until he found a comfortable configuration.

"You bit me, Doc." Post-orgasmic, his voice lost its aggressive edge, and his face took on an appealingly dreamy cast. Medic made a note to keep him in this state as much as possible. "I'm gettin' a rabies shot before the next time."

"Make an appointment," said Medic. "I vill see if I can fit you in."

For now, perhaps, privately, he could admit to a strange fondness for the boy. There was a charm to his brashness, a certain honesty. His recklessness and instantaneous shift from impulse to action spoke of a freedom Medic had never known.

"You better." Scout groped for the lamp. He succeeded in knocking it off the table, which gave, to be fair, the same result.

"Clumsy idiot," said Medic, running his hand through Scout's short hair. Tomorrow the gloves would be on again.

Scout lay his head on Medic's shoulder. Medic felt the brush of lashes on his skin as his eyes closed, and the ghost of his soft, even breathing. "Blow me, dumbcough."

Go Avay (continued) - by andrew ryans caddy


--------------------------------

The cheapasses in charge here didn't give them beds anywhere near big enough for two, but Scout kept ending up in Medic's anyway.

What? His room was nicer. Got like sun in the morning or some shit. Also it was pretty funny to see Medic naked and with his hair all stuck up all over the place, way different from how everybody else only got to see him all wrapped up in a labcoat, and it was funny how the first thing he did was grope his hand around for his glasses to get a better look at the totally hot guy in bed with him.

This time Scout was the first awake, and it was quiet. He wasn't used to that. At home there was always somebody putting shoes on or rattling through the closet or talking somewhere until it seemed like the world had been going on for hours without you. The blinds were open and threw in fat bright bars of sunlight onto the bed, around where Scout was wedged between Medic and the opposite wall.

He didn't feel any need to get up right away. There weren't any fights scheduled this morning, and it was nice to just lie around a bit without the announcer yelling through the loudspeakers. There wasn't even the usual daybreak sound of Soldier yelling at the dumb rooster Heavy'd stolen from the REDs (he thought it was cute) to DO YOUR GOD-GIVEN JOB, IF YOU THINK WE GIVE OUT FREE RIDES HERE YOU ARE GOING TO FIND YOURSELF SERVING YOUR COUNTRY AS A SORELY MISTAKEN PLATE OF NUGGETS. He must've been sleeping in for once, or stuck between a naked guy and a wall like Scout was. He'd been acting weird lately, talking real quiet, which is to say you couldn't hear him from across the room, mostly around Demo...

Okay, that was something Scout really, really didn't need to think about. Thinking about Soldier having sex was like thinking about your mom having sex, except your crazy mom who kept yelling at you to SHINE THOSE BOOTS MAGGOT I WANT TO SEE MY FACE IN THEM no matter how many times you pointed out that you were wearing sneakers and there were plenty of mirrors in the bathroom, jeez.

Anyway, lying there was nice for five minutes or so. Then Scout got bored. Also, he had a bad case of being a healthy young man early in the morning, and it was jabbing Medic's thigh at an angle that was getting uncomfortable.

"Hey." He poked Medic in the arm. "You gonna sleep forever or what?"

"Past sunrise for vunce vould be nice," he said without moving or opening his eyes. His voice was all foggy, the way people's were first thing.

"Wuss. The sun's been up for ages."

"Vas a figure of speech." He flopped his hand around like trying to gesture, but there wasn't much room, so he ended up just kinda patting Scout on the chest instead. "Ja, ja, I am getting up."

He looked different without his glasses on. Less like the doctor running around ducking bullets and putting people back together and more like just a guy you'd see anywhere. He looked more naked with them off than without clothes. It made you realize he had eyelashes.

"I said wake up," Scout said, pushing the blankets out of the way and climbing on top of him. "I didn't say anything about getting out of bed."

Scout kissed him and it was still new, like something he hadn't quite figured out if he could really do anytime he wanted. Medic ran his hands up and down his forearms, which felt way sexier than Scout would ever've thought. His hands were real soft from being in those gloves all the time. Also he was a really good kisser.

Scout was sort of getting the hang of this. He'd never been shy around touching people, but still it was weird to touch somebody else in the places and the ways you always had to be careful not to when you were wrestling or horsing around. Just running his hands up for the sake of feeling the ridges of the ribs under his fingertips, and watching how Medic's stomach rose up and down underneath. Scout's model for what a body was like was his own, and Medic's was like it in some ways, but different. Like how Scout'd never thought that little dip in the bone under your throat was anything special, but when he kissed there, Medic made some really interesting sounds. Scout liked how he could make him lose it a little, like getting to a secret nobody else got to see.

"Ve vill be late to breakfast," Medic said, sounding and looking like he thought something was funny, kind of a smile that was getting less drowsy.

Scout sat up and straddled him. "You give a shit?"

"Not really."

Medic reached up and pulled him down to kiss him, and it was really weird when your reflexes said anybody who grabbed you was gonna get you in a headlock and bash your face into a wall, but Scout figured he could get used to it. Scout liked how different Medic was in bed from the all-business guy he was on the field, and not just because he hated assumptions about fighting and screwing styles being the same because if he heard one more goddamn crack about being fast, he was gonna smack somebody's skull inside out.

Medic smelled like guy and like fancy soap. Scout'd thought that was only for girls. Normal soap was good enough for him, you know, the gluey white bar that was older than he could remember and in a weird shape from being stuck back together a dozen times. Did they make fancy soap for guys? Maybe in Germany. It was a definite guy smell.

"I vant to show you something good," Medic murmured. His breath tickled Scout's ear.

"Yeah?" said Scout, who always had to ask since he was fast enough to get out of any trouble his curiosity got him into.

"Ja. But you must follow my directions exactly."

That would sound a lot more stern and official if it weren't coming from a guy with his hair falling loose over his forehead and his nipples showing. That's another thing you never knew without touching, that his hair was soft.

Scout's eyebrows went one up and one down. "What sorta directions we talkin about, Doc?"

Medic sat up on his elbows, kind of throwing off Scout's balance, but he could improvise. Medic was trying to give him a look over glasses that weren't there. "Herr Scout, you have let me put your organs back into place vith nothing more than commands zat I hurry up. I zink you can trust me vith a simple thing like this."

Okay, so maybe that made some sense. Still, it wasn't like a prom date, where you knew what was gonna happen and who was gonna get to second base. Did guys even have bases? "Yeah, but respawn doesn't cover my ass."

They probably measured it with soccer or something else totally gay.

"Relax, leibchen," Medic said, running his hands up and down Scout's hips so it was tough to get pissed at how his little smile was kind of whats-the-word. Patron something. Not the tequila. "I am not going to be doing anyzing to you."

If Scout had known the word, the little smile on Medic's face would've made him forget it. Along with his own name.

"You are going to be doing to me."

They did call it batting for the other team, though.

While Scout was trying to think of a response that was more sexy and suave than yes please, Medic reached over and felt around in the drawer of the bedside table. In a minute his hand came out holding a jar.

"Isn't that the stuff you grease your gun with?" Scout said.

"On ze battlefield, vun must improvise," Medic answered as he dipped Scout's fingers in the cool, smooth stuff and told him what to do next.

"You crazy?" Scout said, and was going to climb off him except it was hard to get the leverage and a lot of really vocal parts of his body liked it there. "I'm not stickin' anything up your butt! That's gross, man!"

Medic's eyebrows had a way of moving around all sorts of ways, like those flags they used to send messages over the distance before they figured out they could just use a phone. "As a matter of fact, you have no reason for concern. The anus is a very efficient self-cleaning organ. "

Scout stared at him for a second. Then he couldn't help it and started giggling like a loon.

"Man, Doc, you are lucky you're hot, cause that is without a freakin' doubt the worst sexy talk I have ever heard."

Medic rolled his eyes. "Get off of me."

"Hey, c'mon, I didn't mean it like that."

"Do as I say," he said, and there was a promise in his voice that got Scout to actually do it. He rolled off and got up on his knees, waiting for something interesting to happen that'd make up for not having Medic's body between his legs anymore, which would take a lot.

Medic rolling over, getting on his hands and knees, and looking at him over his shoulder in a way that had to mean get on with it, for example.

For once, something to say wasn't right on Scout's tongue and jumping out his mouth. He had to go looking for it.

"Um," he said, gesturing in a way that didn't help much, "what am I supposed to do?"

It was one thing to figure, yeah, liking it when a guy sucked your dick was probably faggy, another to deal with him pointing his ass at you.

"Start with your fingers, bitte," Medic said, and yeah, Scout caught him rolling his eyes. Prick. Hot, naked prick. "Use ze lubricant."

"You are one bossy fag," Scout said. "You sure, man? This stuff is cold."

"It vill varm up." He kind of wriggled his ass, and if he wanted Scout to be able to think that was not the right way to go about it. "Hurry up, ve don't have all day."

There wasn't anything to do except start sticking fingers up his butt. Scout started out with one, going slow, still half convinced Medic was going to turn around and smack the crap out of him. Instead he just watched over his shoulder and nodded along, making little encouraging sounds, like Scout was moving his furniture for him.

"That's right, zere. Keep going."

It was a surreal feeling. Not really bad though. Scout'd never thought about what this kind of thing felt like from the inside. Sort of warm and tight, and yeah, it was a whole new thing to think about putting his dick in there.

"Add anozer," Medic said. His breathing was steady, but Scout got the feeling it was taking some effort. He did what Medic said, cause at the end of the day, a guy had the last call on what went in his butt.

The sun through the blinds made right lines on his body and highlighted how deep the black of his hair was, and made the streaks of silver shine. There was something about being the center of an older guy's attention. One who thought Scout was good enough to give him time of day. He was rocking back a little, and his face was tilted up. His hair moved around a lot more when there wasn't that stuff he put in to make it stiff and shiny. Scout put his hand on Medic's hip for balance.

"Scissor your fingers."

"You sure?" When he nodded, head dipping down below his shoulders, Scout did. "Doesn't that hurt?"

"Nein." Medic shifted around to open his legs up more. His hand was pressing down hard on the mattress, making little valleys around the fingers. "A little. Like ze ache of running, or ze bruises of a vinning fight."

Scout had to say he was pretty impressed with how the doc kept his cool. Maybe that's what made his stomach jump when he curled his fingers a little and Medic gasped, with his eyes gone wide.

"Sorry, sorry! Am I not supposed to do that?" Shit, Scout didn't know the rules here! He sure as hell didn't want to break anything.

"Again," Medic said, rocking himself back onto Scout's fingers.

Scout tried to remember what he'd done and where he'd touched. This time he watched Medic's face as close as he could while he was around the other end, though he didn't even have to, because he could feel it through the hand on medic's hip, how he tensed and arched his back while his lips opened and let out a moan you could tell he was trying to keep quiet cause it wasn't much more than a breath.

Scout noticed his cock was so hard it hurt.

"Sehr gut," Medic murmured, and it was a good thing it was too himself cause Scout sure didn't have a clue what he was talking about.

"English, doc, you gotta tell me what to do here."

"You're doing very vell on your own." Christ, who'd ever heard Medic's voice go like that before, especially wiggling his hips like that? Come to think of it, running around hauling a laser heal gun and trying to keep all of them glued together gave you a serious case of nice ass. He was breathing hard, and his back was arching.

"Now, take me."

Scout's mind went blank. "Like, what, to the movies?"

"No, dummkopf," Medic growled, twisting around to glare at him and sounding a lot more like himself, naked and with his hair stuck to his forehead a little with sweat or not. "Ze ozzer sense."

"Zee....ohh."

"Slick yourself vell, I don't vant to be injured by your clumsiness." He had the stern thing in his voice down pretty well until Scout pulled his fingers out and it ended in a moan.

Scout didn't think he'd ever done anything faster than he got that lube on.

He wasn't really sure where to put his hands. They ended up on Medic's hips, and he didn't seem to mind, so he went with that. He got things all lined up, and hesitated.

"So do I just...?"

"Ja," Medic panted, pushing back so that Scout could feel him at the tip of his cock. "You just."

At first he thought it wasn't going to work. Then he pushed a little harder.

"Oh Christ fuck shit motherfucker goddamn."

"Yes," said Medic. His head was arching back, making this throat stand out.

Scout pressed in slow, or at least he thought it was slow, he didn't have any standards to go by here. Medic grabbed the headboard with one hand and made this sound that was like a car that wouldn't start except incredible.

"Zat's right," Medic panted. "Keep going, just like zat."

Truth was, Scout didn't need to be told anymore. He was the kind of guy who trusted his body more than his brain, and if his brain said this should be gross and weird, his body disagreed by moving out and in a little, and shit, shit that was nice, so Scout did it some more.

Medic let out a moan that must have come from down in the pit of his stomach, arching and grabbing so the muscles in his arms stood out. He whispered, "Mehr..."

Scout was sliding out a little, and said, "Man, I told you, I don't speak that shit!"

Medic reached back and grabbed his thigh to pull him in, leaning his head back with eyes with more open punch-you-in-the-gut want than Scout'd ever seen, and said, "More."

There were times you just didn't argue.

Scout let his body do what it wanted, and that was fuck Medic like there was no tomorrow.

He made sounds that might've been German or might've just been sounds, all Scout knew was they were good and all he had to do to get more was move into him. It was like running except in place and it felt like angels and magic and all that goofy stuff except on his dick.

Medic let go of Scout's leg so he could jack himself off, mumbling and moaning stuff that had to be obscene. Scout was moving in a wild way he couldn't even think about controlling, and even thinking at all was more than he could handle right now except if it was hot and fuck and good, and when he came it was like having his lights punched out by an angel.

While he was still halfway to la-la land, he felt Medic grabbing his hand and moving it on his dick, which seemed like a pretty good idea. Scout'd never jerked off anybody who wasn't him, but it was pretty much the same, except for how it felt different and the gasps Medic made until he spilled over his hand and dropped onto the bed.

Scout rolled off of him, or tried to. He got stuck up against the wall again. That was okay. Felt kinda nice and cool against how hot his skin was. Right now, the wall could get blasted down by a pile of dynamite and it'd be okay.

It felt real quiet, now, with just the birds outside and Medic's breathing as it slowed down. He looked relaxed, with his eyes lidded and a smile kind of curling around the corners of his mouth.

Scout said, "Gaddamn."

Medic said, "Mm-hm."

"You give pretty good instructions."

Medic laughed, slow and deep. "You sveet talker."

It was quiet again for a minute. Good quiet. That was the thing about Medic; he didn't chatter all the time just cause he felt like he was supposed to.

"We should probably go down to breakfast, huh," Scout said.

Medic moved around to fit him better by his side. "It's Pyro's turn to cook. Zey vill be flicking ze burners off and on to stare at zem for a vhile yet."

"Good thing. Don't feel like movin' yet." Scout flopped over Medic, just to bug him, but instead of trying to push him off he just laughed, so he settled in. "S'nice here."

Even if the company did need to give them bigger beds. Cheap bastards.

21 Man Caddy just reposted this the other day

God damn it. All right, does anyone still need Child Molestee, or is that up too?

I've got some fics that I saved for reading a while ago. Not sure if some of them were popular or anything, but there are a few gems that seemingly went unnoticed. (most are general fic, but this is the only recovery thread)

A Necessary End
As Long As I Got You (REDUX) (deal w/ it kilo)
Asymptote
Blutsauger
Body and Soul
Don't Fear the Reaper
Helmets, Possibly Parties
King of My Hill
Knives n' Shit
Lessons
Our Secret
Sans Face
Unnamed TeratoMarty fic (spiderhoovy)
The Team Meets The Team
Ties (adult parts included)
Traume

http://www.mediafire.com/?10lb2ynhisivxce

Does anyone still have that Engie/Scout afanfic by either DuskZephyr or Zuul?
(I'm pretty sure it was Zuul though)
Or any Engie/Scout fic in general that they might have saved?
My previous collection died along with my laptop.

So like, I'm not sure if anyone actually saved the archives from the previous chan that just went down, but I have all the /afanfic/, /fanfic/, and chat logs from before. There are some really great fics in there, oh my goodness.

I've put them up on mediafire in .html files within a zip folder, just in case no one saved it. (And if everyone already has the archives, WELL. I would be a dumbnut, so then just ignore this post.)

Let me know if they're fully working, thanks.

/afanfic/

http://www.mediafire.com/?krtjeim4k4czi8c

/fanfic/

http://www.mediafire.com/?e291od9lxiquk39

Chat Logs (some are epic fic in RP form, and the rest are hilarious.)

http://www.mediafire.com/?w649kwxy35hrwwm

Here's some more. I didn't visit this chan for a while so I don't have any recent fics, sorry.

http://www.mediafire.com/?eguvckgucrjdpek

several bears, I downloaded your link, but got a bunch of technobabble ish code instead.
is there something i need to download to view it?

>>28
You need Winrar to extract the files. I saved the webpages, not the fics themselves, so they're all html files.

herp derp how the fuck do i respond to posts in this text-only format

Looking for 'A Boy and his Tentaspy' if anyone has it

I don't think it's in the archives...

>>23

I can't find it currently-- gimme Child Molestee pretty plox?

>>19

huh, so somebody cared that was gone

that would be http://www.megaupload.com/?d=CAI9MGDJ

i actually lost that link myself and found again by searching "hot chicks should sleep with me instead" 'cause the google cache is kind of un-updated, that should help some of you other guys a lot looking for the more recent fics

http://www.megaupload.com/?d=KJ6QAT5H

also i'll just leave that here too

...stupid k's and t's have way too much fucking static and why are they in THE MOST COMMON CURSE WORDS

Does anyone have Addiction? It had Spy and Scout and Scout stole Spy's ciggs so they both fuck in order for Spy to get them back?

French Lessons is the only thing I have saved, but I have alternate links to It Gets Me Places and Ridiculosity so here if y'all love these too <3

French Lessons
http://www.megaupload.com/?d=0T6VG1QM

It Gets Me Places
http://www.fanfiction.net/s/5447372/1/It_Gets_Me_Places

Ridiculosity
1. http://idlepabulum.livejournal.com/2445.html

TYVM for Ties several bears

Oh and someone has got to have Just To Make Myself More Attractive To You. :]

Oh shit and A Dangerous Kiss that was the best thing ever fucking written.

All right, this time I checked and confirmed it's not up in his particular thread yet, so here it is, albeit sans author's notes:

Child Molestee - by Teratomarty


------------------------------------

The Sniper and the Scout were engaged in target practise, which is to say, the Sniper was methodically sending arrows through the bullseye, trying to get his speed up, while the Scout blasted his scattergun in the general direction of the targets.

"Why'ncha get a REAL weapon?" the Scout mocked. The scattergun roared out as he unleashed a hail of bullets downrange. A few of them hit the bales of hay they were theoretically aiming at.

"The bow's a fine weapon. Silent, quick to reload, and out in the brush, you can make your own ammo. I'd thank you to keep to your own target, mind. Crafting 'em takes a while." The Sniper drew the bow and fired in one effortless motion.

His sheer calm infuriated the Scout. He was going to get to the Sniper if it was the last thing he did. "Yeah, right. You just never got over playing Cowboys And Indians. It's a freakin' kids' weapon!"

The Sniper nocked, pulled and fired, again piercing the bullseye without apparently aiming. "You think so?" the Sniper gave a faint half-smile. "Why don't you have a go, show me just how easy it is." Nock, pull, fire, and he handed the weapon to the Scout.

Scout glared at the weapon. "Sure thing. Ya realise, ya look like a total faggot, prancin' around with this thing?" He yanked at the string, which barely budged. With a mighty heave, he managed to draw the bow, and held it with trembling arms. "Ya want people ta think you're a homo?"

"Why should I care if they know?" the Sniper said quietly.

Several things happened quite quickly. The Scout started to yelp in surprise, let go of the bowstring, which peeled the skin off the inside of his forearm, and the yelp changed to a scream of pain,

"What the HELL, man?" The Scout clasped his smarting arm to his chest, dropping the bow.

"Don't dry-fire it, never drop it, they're both bad for the weapon." The Sniper's slightly wider smile belied his instructive calm. Scout knew the asshole was laughing at him.

"You can't just SAY shit like that... oh shit oh shit oh shit, you're not gonna try an' jam something up my ass now! Exit only, EXIT ONLY!"

By now, the Sniper was genuinely laughing, a quiet chuckle, but nonetheless. "Not bloody likely, mate, I'm a bottom. What would I do, hold yer at gunpoint 'til you agreed to roger me rotten? I don't know how your tastes run, runt, but doesn't seem likely!" The Australian walked down-range to get his arrows, shoulders still shaking, and left the Scout gaping behind him.

------------------------------------

The Scout was in a state of shock for days. Running around the base, he'd think: no-one just ADMITS that! Bashing in skulls: what's that even mean, a bottom? Grabbing the RED intel: he actually wants guys to do THAT? He was burning with curiosity.

It was bad enough when there was a battle on, and at least he had hollering enemies to keep him distracted. Alone in his bunk, he wondered. How could the Sniper be an actual fag? How did he turn into a fag? Did he want to be a lady, or something? Did something gross happen to make him a fag? Did he LIKE it? The Scout briefly wondered what it felt like to have THAT done to you, but firmly vetoed any thoughts of anal experimentation on his own. Poop comes from there.

He jerked off, resolutely thinking of anything BUT the Sniper.

A few days later, when his teammates' random collisions left him alone in the mess hall with the Sniper, his curiosity boiled over. "Yo, Snipes," he said, almost without thinking, "so you're a fag?"

"Aye." As the Sniper took another bite of his lunch, it became clear that this was as far as his answer went.

"But, man, I mean," the Scout tried to distil the life-altering cognitive dissonance generated by a homosexual Sniper into a concise statement: "HOW?!"

"... Generally I'd like to go out for drinks with a bloke a few times, maybe go walkabout in the bush for a couple days, get to know each other..." the Sniper smiled wryly.

"No!" the Scout hissed, aware that he was being mocked and terrified that someone might hear him even talking about this. "I mean, why guys? How do you even WANT guys? Do you even KNOW about girls?"

The Sniper grimaced slightly. "Scout, I know you're just curious an' all, but do try not to be a total wanker, right? I just like blokes. I like how they look, how they laugh, how they smell, how their hands feel. Yes, I've tried it with sheilas, and yes, they're softer and all, but it's just not me cuppa, all right?"

"Awright, awright, I'm just... tryina get a handle on this." Scout thought for a moment- a very short moment. "So you really let guys DO IT to ya? I mean, WHY? Did someone touch you funny as a kid an' make ya weird?"

"Much as I appreciate your concern for me psychological well-being, you've gotta understand: now yer just bein' disgustin'. No-one 'made me weird.' I've just liked blokes, for as long as I can remember. I have gone to great and occasionally embarrassing lengths to keep a bloke's attention."

"So you just... LIKE it?"

"What better reason to do anything, runt? I could've stayed in the Smoke, become a doctor, married some poor sad sheila... but I didn't want to. So I went to the bush, taught meself to hit a gnat in the eye from a mile away, got into interestin' situations with a variety of blokes, and generally did as I bloody well pleased." He stood up and tipped his hat. As he walked away, Scout couldn't think of any further questions.

-----------------------------------------

Scout did come up with more questions about the Sniper's... situation later that day, though, and even more that night. Some of them concerned things like the term "cocksucker" and what that might mean in terms of someone who really WOULD... but some of them were things he could actually ask someone about. Not the Sniper, though.

"Yo DOC!" the Scout let himself into the infirmary.

"Yes, Scout?" The Medic hardly looked up from the gory illustrations in the medical book he was reading.

"I need to ask you some questions." The Scout kicked a spare chair around and sat on it backward, heedless of the German's lack of enthusiasm. "What makes someone a homo?"

"Do you mean, what is the cause of homosexuality?" The Medic rolled his eyes, but put a bookmark in his text.

"Yeah. Like, why?"

"Zere are many theories, Scout," the Medic shifted into lecture mode. "However, ze most popular misconception is zat all men who engage in homosexual activity are ze same. Zere are actually four distinct conditions, vhich share some symptoms and may confuse ze layman." Medic said "layman," but clearly meant both "moron" and "Scout."

"Yeah?" The Scout was willing to overlook it as long as he got some solid answers.

"Ze first is ze obligatory receptive homosexual. Effeminate in both body und mannerisms, he is essentially a voman in a man's body. Suggested treatment is surgery und hormone therapy to make him into a true voman." Weeeeird, thought Scout, but he didn't interrupt.

"Second is ze psychological receptive homosexual. Owing to trauma in his early life, possibly resulting from a domineering mutter and a veak or absent father. Zis type is confused as to ze nature of affection. He can und vill make love to a voman, but he seeks out men to replace an absent father-figure." Now that sounded like Sniper, he'd said he was missing something with girls. "Suggested treatment, psychoanalysis und avoidance of all-male environments." Yeah, right, thought Scout. That's not gonna happen in 2Fort. Snipes is screwed.

"Zen, zere are ze active types of homosexual behaviour. Ze most pathological is the aggressive active homosexual. He seeks to exert power over other men by assaulting zem sexually. It is an arrested development of the Oedipal complex; such men will primarily assault men who remind them of their fathers and only form immature relationships with vomen. Suggested treatment, chemical castration until psychoanalysis proceeds far enough to cure ze Oedipal fixation." Oh, Scout thought, that explains the stories about rapey fags.

"Finally, zere is the opportunistic active behaviour. Zis is not truly a homosexuality, but an over-active and undirected sexual drive. Such men cannot control their sexual urges, und vill engage in homosexual activity when no other option presents itself. Treatment involves cold showers, healthful exercise, und avoidance of all-male environments. Vith proper precaution, paid female companionship may abate the sexual urge to reasonable levels." Fuckin' A, thought Scout, Doc just prescribed me a hooker!

"Thanks, Doc!" The cout sprinted out the door and went for a run to clear his head. An overactive sex drive didn't sound so bad to the Scout. And if 2Fort's cold showers and constant battles didn't "abate" him or whatever, nothing could. It didn't sound like a medical condition, it sounded like bragging rights! Also, he added in the back of his mind, it's totally not my fault that I'm curious about the Sniper. It's not even his fault, his parents messed with his head or something.

Bemused, the Medic went back to his book.

-----------------------------------------

Now that he knew what was going on with Sniper and the contents of his own trousers, Scout could see the logic. A guy with an overactive sex drive had to be practical about things. He'd signed up for a five-year hitch with BLU, and in the absence of any girls, he wasn't going to get ANY until he turned 23! That was an impossibly long time. But if Sniper wanted to, if it would make him feel better about his parents and stuff, then why not help each other out? The early alarm for the beginning of the day's battle sounded, and Scout prepared to join the fray. He was able to concentrate much better today, now that he had a plan. He dominated the day, and prepared to dominate the night.

Time seemed to crawl by. Dinner (disgusting), the Soldier's briefing (boring), watching TV with his teammates (agonizing). Eventually, after Star Trek, the Sniper said good-night and peeled off to do whatever he did in his van. After waiting a discreet interval of fifteen seconds, the Scout followed him.

"Yo, Snipes," the Scout trailed the Sniper to his van and kicked the flimsy door shut behind him. "I been thinkin'. You like to suck cock, right? So, I was thinkin', how 'bout I let you suck my cock?"

The Sniper raised an eyebrow. "I've 'eard worse pick-up lines, but they were delivered by blokes with a gun to me 'ead."

"Well, I don't know how it's s'posta go. Whattaya want, chocolate an' flowers?"

"Actually, a bottle of wine never goes amiss, but no. Look, Scout, I sussed out that you were curious from the frog-eye stares I've been seeing lately, but, no."

"C'mon, man, why not? Doc says I gotta overactive sex drive; I need to... yanno."

"Scout, ALL blokes your age have an overactive sex drive, which is part of the problem. You're too young for me."

"What? 'Fraid you couldn't keep up, old man?"

The Sniper rolled his eyes behind his tinted glasses. "No, Scout. We 'ave nothing in common, you're not my type, an' shagging your teammates is a terrible idea."

"What do we need to have in common? YOU'RE stuck out here, I'M stuck out here, you need to smoke some pole, and I need my pole smoked!"

"Scout, you sweet-talker," Sniper said dryly.

"So what's your type, then? Ya want Solly comin' onta ya? 'Cause I guarantee I got a way bigger dick."

The Sniper pinched the bridge of his nose under his glasses. "No, Scout, Solly is not my type, either. Anyhow, I think you're forgetting that we all shower together; don't make claims that are so laughingly easy to disprove, right?" Allowing Scout to sputter, Sniper continued. "Just so you know, my type is clever, funny, cocky blokes who know what they want."

"Awright, so, if Solly was all that stuff and not Mister HUT HUT HUT MAGGOTS all the time, you'd rather have him than me?"

"Scout, if Solly were charming and witty, he wouldn't BE Solly! It's a nonsense. I'm not about to get involved with anyone on base, right? Now bugger off."

The Scout left, only to jack off furiously in his bunk. He thought of Sniper. Thought about how good it would feel to have an actual mouth on his cock. Sniper wanted it, right? That was what Medic had said. He needed it, to fix his fucked-up family shit. Eventually, Sniper would ask for it, would beg for it. Beg for it- Scout came, biting his lip to keep from screaming.

Shit, he wanted Sniper.

-----------------------------------------


A few nights later, Scout decided to try again with Sniper. He hatched a plan to get the marksman while his defences were down. Get him while he's asleep! Just start rubbing up on him! By the time he wakes up, he'll be halfway to giving a blowjob, so why not just finish? In the Scout's humble opinion, it was genius.

Around one in the morning, the Scout sneaked out to the Sniper's van. He'd never noticed quite how loud walking over sand was. He forced himself to go slow, but the bumper of the van creaked when he stepped up on it. He listened at the door, and didn't hear anything for a moment- shit, what if he'd woken the guy up? After listening for a moment longer, a rasping snore allayed the Scout's fears. Operation Get-A-Blowjob was GO!

Sliding the door open as quietly as possible, Scout crept across the tiny space. The Sniper's breathing was reassuringly deep and regular. He was asleep on a narrow fold-down cot facing the door, his hand under his pillow. Almost cute, actually. The Scout stalked forward-

"SPY ROUND HERE!" the Sniper hollered, swinging his kukri out from under his pillow and cleaving the Scout's skull like a coconut.

A few minutes later, the Sniper was waiting when the Scout respawned.

"Sorry about that, mate, but what in blazes were you doing?"

"You killed me!"

"I'm an assassin! You think I got this old without keeping one eye open?"

"You killed the Hell outta me!"

"I said I was sorry!"

"No, it was AWESOME! You just came out all WHACK WHACK CHOP!"

Sniper looked tired, even for a man who'd been awakened at one in the morning. "What were you doing in me kip?"

"I was seeing if I could get you to blow me in your sleep."

"Jaysus Kee-rist."

"No chance of an apology blowjob? For chopping up my brain?"

"You weren't using it anyway. Go back to bed, Scout."

-------------------------------------------

The kukri to the forehead put a damper on Scout's efforts to get a blowjob out of the Sniper. Their interactions gradually slid back to normal over the next few weeks- the Scout stopped staring at the Sniper, and the Sniper stopped ignoring the Scout. The Boston boy decided to forget he'd ever even tried, and attempted to direct his onanistic efforts toward pin-up girls. It worked, sometimes.

Then, it was phone call day. The phone in the intel room was patched through to the outside world, and each member of the team was allowed a fifteen-minute long-distance call to his family. They went alphabetically by class, the Scout right before the Sniper. Afer the Announcer told him to ring off with his mother, the Scout hung around in the hall to hear what the Australian said.

First came "Hi, Mum, it's me," followed by a string of amiable mumbling, cut off midstream, then conciliatory mumblings. There were further cheerful mutters, then the tone changed entirely. "Hallo, Dad." The Sniper sounded wary, guarded. He was trying to apologise, then to explain. Louder sentences got cut off short, Australian curses bitten in half. It went quiet in the Intel room, so quiet that the Scout pressed his ear to the door, and suddenly the Sniper slammed down the phone.

The scout was still poised embarrassingly close to the door when the Sniper strode through, looking more haggard than he would after a day of being repeatedly shivved by the enemy Spy.

"Get a good earful, runt?" he snapped.

"Uhh... sounds like they put ya through the mill."

"They hate me," the Sniper said flatly.

"They don't HATE you," the Scout assured his teammate. "They get disappointed, they yell an' holler, but they love you. You're their kid," he said, as if that explained it all.

"I'm one long string of failures."

"Not from where I'm standing. You can shoot anything, from anywhere, survive for MONTHS in the middle of freakin' nowhere, and you went from 'asleep' to 'chopping my head open' in like two seconds flat." The Scout followed the Sniper down the hall. It was the Soldier's turn to call whoever he had to talk to.

The Sniper smiled wryly. "That's not exactly about to win my parents' approval."

"Medic says you're only a homo 'cause you wish your father loved you."

Sniper stopped dead in his tracks, and looked momentarily ready to cry. Closing his eyes, he said, "Scout, if I were trying to earn me dad's love, I can think of at least eighty things to try before sleepin' with other blokes. One of 'em involves slaughtering a water buffalo in me mum's front garden, so just... shut up. And don't talk about me behind me back."

"Sorry, man... sorry." The Scout felt like utter shit. "I... I didn't say anything about you. I just told him I needed to know." He thought for another minute, but culdn't come up with anything better to say than, "I'm really sorry."

The Sniper took a deep breath, jerked himself upright, and looked at the Scout with a steely glare. "You still want that blowjob?"

"What?" The Scout could feel his brain burn out its clutch as he tried to change gears.

"I said, d'you want to put your cock in my mouth an' let me do the dirtiest, most enjoyable thing known to Man." His voice was a rough whisper.

"I mean, uh, OF COURSE, but... why now?"

"Because I'm lonely and angry and miserable, and sucking blokes off makes me happy. Come on."

Scout followed the Sniper out to his van, his pants already uncomfortably tight. It was hot and cramped in the bump-out camper, and smelt of dust, baked mildew and bachelorhood. As far as Scout was concerned, it was the perfume of raw erotic power. He stripped off all his clothing and stood naked in the centre of the little room almost before the Sniper could lock the door.

"Eager, I notice," the Sniper looked sideways at the Scout's erection.

"Oh, Hell yeah." the Scout stroked his cock.

"Heh. Get on the bed."

The Scout flopped down full-length on the little cot, groping his chest, legs and thighs, showing off. The Sniper knelt, head bowed, and kissed the Scout's thigh. The Boston boy could barely breathe- holy shit, he was really gonna do it! The Sniper nuzzled and licked the Scout's belly and inner thighs, losing himself in touch, taste and scent. He carefully avoided the runner's cock, until the younger man whined in frustration.

"All roight, all roight," the Australian smiled slyly. "Patience is a virtue, aye?" He slurped down on the Scout's cock.

The Scout felt like he had double-jumped off the edge of Offblast. He couldn't breathe, his stomach was in free-fall, he clutched wildly at the sheets. After a moment, the Sniper eased back, and the sensation resolved itself to merely the most amazing thing the Scout had ever felt.

For all that he was a good Catholic boy, the Scout thought he'd come up with some pretty inventive methods of masturbation. The Sniper's hot, deep, velvety mouth trumped all of them, though. He bucked up wildly, fucking the older man's face, grabbing messy handfuls of his slicked-back hair.

The Sniper took it all, resting one hand on the Scout's pelvis to moderate his thrusts, sliding the other up the younger man's chest to play with his nipples. The Scout couldn't believe the squeaks and moans coming from his own throat. When the Sniper simultaneously pinched a nipple, rolled his thumb over the Scout's hipbone and swirled his tongue around the head of the Scout's cock, that was it. The Scout groaned inarticulately, grabbed the Sniper's head, and shoved his cock down the older man's throat. He came to the incomparable sensation of the Sniper swallowing around his cock.

To say that the Scout had never felt anything like it before would be an understatement. He came, and when he thought he was almost done, the Sniper would swallow again, and the Scout was still coming. He struggled, but the Sniper pinned his hips and wrung another few throbs out of him. Dazed and blissful, the Scout was too busy looking at the stars on the inside of his eyelids to notice when the Sniper pulled off, patted his cock dry, and laid down beside him.

He did notice, though, when the bed began to shake. Peeling his eyes open, he saw that the Sniper had his pants down around his knees and was jerking himself frantically, the fingers of his left hand sliding deep between his thighs. The Scout watched, riveted- it was filthy, and completely thrilling.

"You're totally finger-banging your own ass, ain'tcha?"

"Aye- " the Sniper's reply was breathy, desperate.

"Holy shit, you're a fucking faggot." It wasn't so much an accusation as a revelation, sounding almost like admiration from the Scout. The Sniper moaned his agreement.

"You really like taking it up the ass, don't you?!"

The Sniper groaned in abandon, and the motion of his hands sped up. Scout noticed that he had a boner again, and had a brilliant idea.

"Yo, Snipefag, knock it off." He put a possessive hand on the Sniper's thigh.

"Christ, Scout, what? I'm not exactly in the mood for second thoughts!"

"Even the second thought where me an' my overactive sex drive bang your ass for you?"

Sniper looked up, stunned. "You're serious?"

"'Course I'm goddamn serious. Take off your pants, wombat."

The Sniper didn't have to be told twice, and struggled out of his clothing. He looked different naked, the Scout noticed. Less like the stone-faced Sniper and more like a guy who could seriously almost cry in the hall outside the Intel room. Scout didn't like thinking about that; he just wanted to feel a new part of the Sniper around his dick. "Bite some pillow, pillow-biter."

"I like it on my back," the Sniper's eyes flashed, "an' I'm the expert 'round here. Kneel up at the end of the bed."

The Scout did as he was told. The Sniper hauled the pillow down to the middle of the bed, sat on it, and lay back. From there, he slid his long, lean legs around the Scout's waist. The runner shuddered with pleasure at the simple touch of the Sniper's calf on his hip.

"Roight, now come forward and lean- OW!" The Sniper struggled away as the Scout lunged forward, jabbing his erection toward where it seemed like it ought to go.

"Blimey, mate, I hope y'don't try it like that with the sheilas!" The Sniper held the Scout back with one long arm, and the Scout wasn't about to mention he'd never tried anything with any girl. "Here, let me aim yer..." the Australian guided the head of the Scout's cock to his ass. "Hold up a tick, I think we'll be needin' more of this." He grabbed a jar of Vaseline that was wedged beside the mattress, and smeared some on both of them. "Now, let's have a go, gentle-like. It's not a race."

The way the Scout's heart was hammering, it felt very much like a race, though he didn't bring it up. He concentrated on going where the Sniper put him, sliding into unbelievable hot tightness that seemed to be ridged in all the right places to drive him insane. It looked like it was doing something for the Sniper, as well. He grunted underneath the Scout, red-faced, panting, until the Scout slid forward and-

"Aauh!"

"Oh holy shit man did I hurt you? Sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry-" the Scout froze, every joke about how painful ass sex was suddenly taking on terrible new meaning.

"Oh- fuckin' 'ell, mate, no, just do that again!"

The Scout shifted his hips experimentally, trying to move the same way-

"Oh CHRIST!" That was definitely a happy scream, and it made the Sniper's body tighten around the Scout. In the last moments before his brain shut down entirely, the Scout realised how wonderful the Sniper looked, the golden light pouring in through the camper's small windows onto the fine sheen of sweat over his long, taut limbs. Then, it was all just motion, heat, skin on skin, kisses and moans. The Scout slammed his hips against the Sniper, gripping him round the neck, swearing and nipping at the other man's lips. For his part, the Sniper bucked and wrapped his legs around the Scout's waist to draw him deeper.

The Scout's mind surfaced again, just long enough to think, "Let's see him worry about his stupid parents NOW," when suddenly the Sniper's body was tensing underneath him, his hand sliding between their bodies to stroke his cock.

"Oh, Scout," the older man moaned. "Please- harder- SCOUT!"

The Scout fucked the Sniper as fast and deep as his athletic body could manage. This was better than batting skulls, better than running, better than anything. Just when he wanted it to last forever, the Sniper came. The amazing pulsating tightness around the Scout's cock, the long, lean arms around his shoulders, the slide of their tongues over each other undid the Scout. He was coming, too, impossibly hard, impossibly long, deep inside the other man. He collapsed, overwhelmed by the ecstasy.

When he rolled off, he noticed that the Sniper's semen had hit him in the face. "Oh, GROSS," he scrubbed his cheek with a corner of the sheet.

"Boom, headshot, " the Sniper laughed roughly, stubble rasping the Scout's face as he licked the stickiness away. Suddenly, it was all too clear to the Scout that he had fucked a man.

"I'm not a fag, okay?" he said, pushing away from the Sniper.

"Sure you're not," the Australian agreed. He put his arm around the Scout, who didn't really register that the marksman was rolling his eyes. "Anyone who's ever been to jail knows, only the bitch on the bottom is a poofter."

"You're my bitch?" the Scout asked, propping himself up on one elbow.

"Of course." Another unheeded eyeroll.

"HA! You're totally my bitch! DOMINATED, roo-puncher!"

"Anything you say. Just go to sleep, aye?" The Sniper pulled the Scout down to rest on his chest, and the younger man was out almost before the Sniper finished his sentence.

-----------------------------------------

There are a few more sections after this, but they don't have any sex in them and the piece overall was left uncompleted. If you want them, let me know and I'll post them.

Insomnia is a beautiful thing. Here comes something else:

Asymptote - by Quise

-------------------------

It’s been awhile, but Engineer can still remember the first day he had arrived, stepping off the train with his beat-up little suitcase, one side tied together with string, since the latch had broken on the way there.

Medic and Spy were there to greet him, their blue uniforms stark against the sand and dust. He spared a glance towards the train as it rattled off again, sweeping up a trail of dust in its wake.

He reached up to tip his helmet at them, saying, “I’m Engineer, I suppose. It’s good to meet you folks,” and extended his hand towards them for a handshake.

Medic nodded at him curtly. “You as well. I’m Medic, and this is Spy. You’ll be meeting the rest of us back at the base, I believe,” he said as he turned on his heel and led the way back to base, his hands neatly clasped behind his back.

For an awkward moment, Engineer stood with his hand hanging in the air.

Spy raised his eyebrows, taking a deep drag of his cigarette. “Well, it’s good to meet you,” he said, and finally reached out to shake Engineer’s hand. As he curled his fingers forward, Engineer expected to feel his fancy leather gloves, smooth against his palm.

And felt nothing but the dry, hot air of the desert.

Spy laughed as Engineer snatched his hand back from where it had sunk straight through Spy’s very solid-looking hand. His mouth hanging open, Engineer clenched and unclenched his hand, trying to figure out if he’d simply hallucinated something, the heat getting to him already.

“You’ll get used to it, laborer,” Spy said, still chuckling and snorting a bit as he turned towards the buildings in the distance.




The thing is, you did, really—by the end of the week, Engineer had already stopped flinching out of the way when Heavy made to stride right through him with guns ablaze, and now, it’s just part and parcel of the job.

He can’t quite explain how it works, which frustrates him, to some extent—he’s used to being able to break things down into their component parts and piece together their inner workings. Regardless, it becomes second nature to shoot straight through his teammates, or to test for Spies by passing a hand through a teammate’s arm. They all joke about what’s going to happen once they get back to the real world and try to stride straight through people on the street.

Engineer isn’t really a touchy-feely sort of guy, but he hadn’t realized how often he slapped a friend on the back in congratulations or tapped someone on the shoulder to get their attention, gestures that now leave his hand waving awkwardly in midair. As time goes on, he’s picked up the habit of whistling one sharp, piercing tone to get Demoman to turn towards him or to get Medic’s attention when he’s hunched over an anatomy book.

They all have their little tells, really, and you can’t live in close proximity with eight other men without noticing these kinds of things.

Scout always forgets—it must come from being from a family full of boys used to kicking and punching and whaling on each other at every occasion. He still goes in for a celebratory high-five at the end of matches—most of the time, now, he just laughs as their hands pass through each other, but every so often, he still stumbles forward a step. On one memorable occasion, he’d tried to leap onto Heavy’s back and put him in a headlock, and had ended up falling a good two stories or so when he’d passed right through and careened off the roof. It was a good thing the boy was pretty darn resilient.

As much as he barrels through people on the battlefield, Heavy always turns his massive shoulders sideways to squeeze past people in the narrow corridors underneath the base—evidently a lifelong habit born of maneuvering in spaces not intended for a man his size.

After hours, they generally try to respect the conventional boundaries of their bodies for politeness’ sake, which suits Engineer just fine. Pyro seems to ignore this unspoken social rule, his arm swishing through Engineer’s chest when he accompanies his slightly garbled stories with his usual enthusiastic hand gestures. Soon enough, Engineer learns to interpret these gestures as some weird sign of camaraderie, Pyro cheerfully waving a hand through his shoulder as he passes by.

When he pulls out his guitar in the evenings, Demoman often tries to loop a hand over his shoulder to forcibly drag him into a drunken chorus of “Braes o’ Killiecrankie”; depending on how many Engineer’s had, Engineer usually obliges him, though after a certain point, the singing’s most likely to dissolve into another discussion regarding the viability of adding a grenade launcher to the improved sentry he’s working on.

Engineer has to admit that there are aspects of the situation that he doesn’t mind. For one thing, it definitely discourages teammates from the temptation of using his helmet as an armrest. Also, Soldier’s peculiar brand of camaraderie gets a little less intimidating when his emphatic chest-prodding finger slips straight through Engineer’s chest.

Like Engineer, Sniper’s fond of his personal space; it’s only the end of matches that catches him occasionally, when he walks up with a cheerful “’Ey, good work out there, Truckie,” and a hand out for a polite handshake, only to give an embarrassed grin and tip his hat, instead.

Even Medic, who’s been here just as long as Heavy and Soldier, trips up from time to time. Every so often, Engineer still notices him reaching for the wrist for a pulse when he heals someone in the field, or moving to pull clothing away in order to examine a wound more closely.

Spy—Spy, though, is curiously immaterial, self-contained, his suit crisp and neat no matter how much dust is getting kicked up by sentry fire. He doesn’t seem to make the fumbles that most of them do. Sure, he gets killed and maimed the same as the rest of them, so it’s not as if he’s completely untouchable, and god knows his accent should be obnoxious enough to make his presence clear in Engineer’s mind, but—

But there’s a part of Engineer that gets almost anxious when Spy fades from sight, invisible and untouchable. It’s almost enough to make a man question his own senses, really—there’s just something off-putting about reaching out to touch something that you know can’t be touched, only to see it disappear in front of your eyes, too.

Then again, he’s always been partial to the more physical aspects of things. Math’s beautiful on its own, but it’s especially lovely when it manifests itself in a perfectly-timed ammo feed or a calibrated teleporter, abstract beauty arrested in a tangible object.

So it’s just part of the job.

-------------------------

It’s another hot day, and Engineer can’t help but savor the slight chill of a breeze down his neck as he tightens a bolt on his dispenser. At the next light gust of air, though, he tenses, and then turns with the next breath, his wrench swinging through the air, expecting it to impact satisfyingly on RED Spy’s skull. Instead, it whooshes right through, and all he gets is Spy fading into sight and laughing.

“A little high-strung today, aren’t we? Well, perhaps not high-strung enough—if I had been RED, I believe you’d be headed back to respawn this very second with a knife lodged in your back.”

“Ain’t you got better things to do than sneakin’ around and givin’ your own team heart attacks?” Engineer says, turning back to his dispenser.

Spy shrugs and flips open his disguise kit, drawing out a cigarette. “Heavy and Medic are locking up that last point right now with Soldier—I believe it’s going to be an early day. Besides, I think my time would be better spent watching your back for you, since you cannot seem to do it for yourself.”

“Well, that’s mighty noble of you,” says Engineer, raising an eyebrow at him.

“You should appreciate it more, mon cher—chivalry’s in short supply these days,” Spy responds with a smirk.

“You know, I would remind you that you seem to be mistakin’ me for a lady, but somehow, I doubt it would make much of a difference,” Engineer sighs.

Spy gestures with his cigarette. “I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”

Engineer takes a breath to make a smart-ass remark right back at him, but it’s cut short as his eyes widen and he grabs his shotgun from where it’s propped up beside his dispenser, firing off a volley of shots towards Spy.

Spy flinches, fumbling his cigarette, but he doesn’t turn around as the RED Spy collapses behind him, his knife dropping into the dust.

Engineer ejects the spent cartridge from his shotgun pointedly.

“Well, merci,” says Spy, after a pause, drawing another cigarette out of his disguise kit and lighting it before offering the case towards Engineer.

Engineer can’t resist smirking at him as he plucks a cigarette out and leans towards Spy, who lights it with a flick of his lighter.

For one disorienting moment, he can’t tell if the warmth he feels is Spy’s fingers, close to his, or the flame.

Engineer’s not much of a smoker, but he finds himself sharing a cigarette with Spy again, late one night. Their fingers overlap when he carefully hands off the cigarette and waits for that moment when he knows that Spy’s fingers are settled on it before letting go.




He seems to find Spy basking in the glow of his dispenser far more often than strictly necessary, these days. Engineer can’t find it in himself to complain, through. Company’s company, and Spy is good conversation, to boot. Engineer crosses his arms over his dispenser, idly running his hand over its surface.

This time, when he hears a whispered “Bonjour, Engineer” at his nape, he almost doesn’t jump. Almost. “Spy, one of these days, I’m gonna…”

“Bash my head in with that wrench of yours?” Spy finishes for him with a chuckle. “Unlikely, I’m afraid.” Spy crosses one foot over the other to lean on the dispenser—and falls straight through, of course.

He’s rather proud of himself for not laughing at the disgruntled look on Spy’s face. “You all right down there, partner?” he says, instead, offering him a hand up—and then pulling his hand back when he realizes that it probably wasn’t going to be much help.

“Yes, yes, merci,” Spy says with a scowl, standing up and brushing dust off his suit.

Engineer can’t help but grin a bit at Spy, ruffled and indignant as a wet cat. “Your tie’s askew,” he says. “Not very dashing, that.”

Spy fixes his tie in a brisk, practised motion. “Well, do I pass muster, now? After all, I have an image to keep up, unlike the rest of you philistines.”

“Better. Wait, you’ve got something—“ Engineer gestures to his own cheek, and Spy mirrors him, passing a thumb over his cheekbone. “No, no, other side, and up a bit.” Engineer’s got his bare hand inches away from Spy’s face before he realises what he’s doing and aborts his attempt to wipe off the smudge of dust. Instead, he points, his finger hovering above Spy’s mask, and Spy swipes the dust off with the tip of his finger.

“Well, merci,” Spy says, after an awkward pause. “I’d best go and—“ he gestures vaguely towards the sound of gunfire, and disappears. Engineer follows the soft, rolling sound of his feet over gravel until it fades away, too.

He’s a little distracted for the rest of the afternoon, preoccupied by rubbing the fingers of his bare hand together and wondering what he would have felt.




It probably wasn’t the best idea to indulge in a few cases of beer up on the roof when they can’t even catch each other before they stumble over the edge, but it’s such a nice night out that they simply couldn’t resist.

They’re all a little tipsy. Engineer can’t deny that. He catches himself on his hand as he slumps sideways, somehow expecting to rest his head on Demo’s shoulder and instead falling right through. Demoman laughs and reaches out to try and right him, only laughing more when his hands pass through Engineer’s arm.

Eventually, everyone trickles back downstairs, Heavy hovering a little at Medic’s shoulder when Medic weaves a little. (Medic attempts to bat his hands away with an “Honestly, Heavy, there is no need for this,” but it comes out a little less sharply than his usual battlefield instructions.) When even Sniper yawns and heads back downstairs with a wave, it’s just him and Spy lying on the roof. It’s dark out, but he can see the glowing cherry on the end of Spy’s cigarette, casting a warm glow on his face when he takes a drag.

Spy has his jacket off and his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow, and Engineer can feel the heat coming off of Spy’s skin when he lies beside him, their arms close. It’s enough to make him want to reach out those few inches more, but he doesn’t want to disturb the glow of contentment curling in his belly, something to do with the pleasant haze of alcohol, the still night, and the warm, solid body beside his.

When Spy turns his head towards him, Engineer instinctively tilts his head sideways and leans in, expecting their noses to bump up against each other, the roughness of chapped lips—the little things in kisses that ground them to reality. But there’s nothing, not even the touch of skin or the fabric of Spy’s balaclava. A moment later, Spy pulls back with a laugh. “Well, that simply won’t work, will it,” he says, and Engineer can’t help but chuckle, too, because he’s never had to worry about his partners becoming immaterial before, and it’s just the darndest thing.

Spy shifts closer to him. “I—Stay there,” he says, a strange hesitation in his voice. “Just stay still. You can manage that, oui?”

It’s the strangest kiss he’s ever had, with none of the hot slickness of tongue or the dry softness of a simple press of lips—just their mouths, so, so close, breathing each other’s air. He can feel the barest bit of heat when Spy brushes his cheek by his—still not touching, just there. At the angle of his jaw, there’s a hint of his fancy French cologne, a subtle, dark scent in the hollow under the edge of bone.

Engineer brings his hand up to cup Spy’s face, almost touching, but not quite, his thumb stroking down the line of his cheekbone. Carefully, like he’s placing a delicate connection in a ‘porter. He should be clumsier, alcohol slurring his movements, but something about the near-touch of Spy’s lips had brought the world into sharp focus, the soft blur of drunkenness gone and replaced with an electric awareness. It should feel absolutely ridiculous—two grown men not-quite-touching in utter silence—but somehow, it’s gripping, so close and yet so far from touch.

When he pulls back a bit, he can see Spy’s eyes fall closed. Spy seems to tilt his head into Engineer’s hand ever so slightly before freezing still, a bare breath away from the pads of Engineer’s fingers.

Engineer can feel his breathing quicken when Spy slowly places his hand over his and turns his mouth into the hollow of Engineer’s palm. He can’t seem to tear his eyes away from Spy’s mouth, and god, he just wants to grab at Spy’s neatly-pressed collar and muss him up, to fit his hands around the curve of Spy’s skull and bring him that last inch closer.

Spy drags his mouth back to meet Engineer’s, hovering, and if Engineer closes his eyes, he can almost feel something.

-------------------------

Spy avoids him for days after that, enough to make him believe that he’d somehow imagined it. Sometimes, he can see a shimmer at the edge of his vision when he’s building a sentry, and his breath catches in his throat. There’s a part of him that wonders when he had gotten so attuned to that slight sheen of color hanging in the air. The sound of decloaking speeds his pulse every time now, and he knows it should be mostly in readiness for RED’s Spy. But he can’t deny that there’s a part of him that hopes that he’ll turn around to see a familiar blue suit and that damn smirk, that deliberate cant to his hips.

Pyro makes a curious noise when he waves a hand through Engineer’s shoulder, making his usual spychecking rounds. Engineer gives him a smile and a thumbs-up, waving off his concern.

When Engineer thinks of Spy and feels the sudden, sharp need to touch, he can almost fool himself into thinking that it’s a matter of missing skin contact when he’s out in the field with team. Basic human needs, that’s all.

If he’s honest with himself, there’s simply more to it than that—he wants to grasp Spy and wrench him out of insubstantiality, to jostle him out of his faint aloofness and secure him to reality by his bare hands. It’s like the best kind of difficult math, an infuriating and enticing puzzle, the kind where Engineer won’t be satisfied until it comes unravelled into the neat lines of a blueprint.

He’s never wanted to touch something so much.




When Spy finally comes to him, it’s with that familiar gust of breath at the back of his neck. “Engineer.”

He twists around, the movement familiar, especially with the weight of his wrench in his hand. Spy doesn’t flinch, though—just backs up slightly, his back to the barn wall, and that small gesture of trust makes Engineer drop his wrench, hands thumping on wood as he pins Spy to the wall behind him, breathing hard.

There’s just his arms bracketing Spy’s body against the wall. Spy could escape at any time—slip through his arm and disappear into the hot desert air with only the barest shimmer—but instead, he leans against the wall and gives Engineer a long, considering look. He’s letting himself be caught, and that realization makes Engineer’s mouth go dry.

Spy looks entirely unconcerned, taking a drag of his cigarette and holding in the smoke for a moment before turning his head to the side and blowing it out. “Well then, what were you planning to do now?”

Engineer can feel his face flushing, and he opens and closes his mouth a few times, trying to articulate anything halfway intelligent—what had he planned to do, anyways? “I. Ah.”

Raising an eyebrow, Spy leans in to brush his mouth close to his ear. “Hm. I would recommend that you figure that out, mon cher. By this evening, preferably.”

It’s only when Engineer pulls his arm back that Spy steps away, brushing by him.




That evening, he sits down with a set of blueprints for a new sentry, trying to distract himself, but he can’t seem to concentrate properly, fumbling elementary calculations, his writing even more scrawled than usual.

There’s a smart rap on his bedroom door, and when he opens it, Spy is leaning on the doorjamb, one of his hands slipped into his pocket. “May I come in?”

Engineer grins at him, nervousness and something hot and pressing twining in his belly. “Make yourself at home.”

Spy is immaculately dressed, as usual—crisp white cuffs peeking out from his jacket sleeves, collar pressed, and his tie knotted into a neat Windsor.

“Now, tell me what you’d like off.”

Engineer likes to think of himself as a fairly eloquent man, but Spy keeps on catching him without words. He seats himself on the edge of his bed, trying to get his bearings. “Wanna run that past me again?”

Spy shrugs. “I thought I’d been rather straightforward, but I might have been mistaken. Should I rephrase it?” Spy looks straight into his eyes. “Tell me what items of clothing I am currently wearing that you would like to see removed.”

“Shucks—well, you know.” Engineer makes a vague gesture towards Spy’s chest.

Spy runs a hand down the pressed line of his jacket. “You really need to be more specific,” he says with a grin. He toys with the edge of his cuff, a movement that would have looked nervous on anyone else, but on him only succeeds in coming off as an indication that he’s willing to wait, thank you. Engineer licks his lips nervously and shifts in his seat.

“Your suit jacket, if y’ please,” he says, at last.

“Reasonable enough,” Spy says with a smirk, moving to unbutton the jacket and draping it over Engineer’s worktable. “What next?”

“Cufflinks?” Engineer gestures at his cuffs, and Spy twists the cufflinks off in a deft movement, dropping the sleek silver affairs onto the table with a click. Without them, Spy’s sleeves droop open at his wrists, a sliver of skin framed by the edge of his gloves.

“Your belt, now,” he says, eyes drawn to that patch of bare skin. The belt joins the cufflinks, coiled into a neat curl. “Tie?”

“You’re being dreadfully methodical about this, mon cher,” Spy says as he tilts his chin up to loosen the knot.

“’Fraid methodical’s what you’re going to get with an engineer,” Engineer responds.

Spy tilts his head, as if considering this. “Fair enough, I suppose,” he says with a dramatic sigh, draping his tie over Engineer’s work chair. “Mon dieu, what was I thinking. I’ll be asleep before we get anywhere below the belt area.”

“Shut up, Spy, and take off that fancy waistcoat,” Engineer says, and he can’t quite keep that grin back, especially when the corner of Spy’s mouth quirks in response.

It’s slow and unhurried—waistcoat, dress shirt—each piece of clothing coming off with the slither of fine fabric. Spy stands deliberately just out of Engineer’s reach—shoes, socks—but close enough that Engineer thinks that if he leaned forward and reached out, he could run a hand over the flexing muscle of Spy’s belly when he stretches up to take off his undershirt. A thrill of electricity courses up Engineer’s spine with each word that passes his lips, Spy playing along with each of his suggestions with his usual aplomb, only occasionally commenting on the way that Engineer’s face seems to be attempting to match RED’s uniforms.

When Spy steps out of his pants, he doesn’t even bother to drape them over a piece of furniture, his movements no longer as fluid and controlled as they had been. Engineer can see Spy’s chest rising and falling, his mouth slightly open, and his mouth goes dry at the realization that Spy is getting off on this, on Engineer’s eyes and Engineer’s voice.

Save for the balaclava, the gloves are the last thing to go, dropping to the floor with a soft slap.

Spy projects an easy confidence even when standing naked before Engineer. There’s a long, pale scar that clings to the side of his ribcage, and a smaller, but more vicious-looking one above his hipbone, others scattered along his side. The distinctive edge of a burn scar licks around his shoulder, disappearing into the line of his back, and Engineer just wants to trace its line with his mouth and feel smooth skin and tough, raised patches alike against his lips.

He’s a bit at a loss, to be honest. There’s no instinct to ride, fuelled by touch and heat, only careful, deliberate words, but he falls back on the simple desire to get Spy closer to him. “Hey, you’d best get into bed, at least. Can’t be comfortable standin’ on a cold floor in bare feet.”

Spy chuckles. “So solicitous, mon cher.” Spy kneels over his lap, and Engineer’s all of a sudden conscious of the way that Spy is very, very naked, while he’s goggles and a hardhat away from his full gear.

“Would you like me to touch myself? My neck, my chest? My legs? My cock?” Spy’s voice is a low murmur in his ear, the implication clear: where do you want to touch me? Where would you touch me, if you could?

The room’s dark, and he’s grateful for that, because he can feel his face blushing hotly. He usually wouldn’t do anything like this—he’s always been pretty quiet during sex, breath and moans enough for him. He leans his head in, his voice low by Spy’s ear. “Run your hand down your chest—slowly now, ain’t no rush.”

He’s close enough to hear Spy inhale sharply, though nothing shows on his face. “You are sadly lacking in imagination, Engineer,” he says, his voice smooth and teasing as usual. But, he’s also dragging his hand down his chest, stopping only when Engineer says “Stop,” as Spy’s hand reaches his hipbone.

“Don’t you go no lower for now,” Engineer says. His voice is hoarse, and he can’t seem to get it to work quite right.

Spy raises an eyebrow at him, but stills, his hand making small circles in the hollow of his hipbone. He wiggles a little, smirking at Engineer and bringing his other hand up to circle around his nipple. “Higher is fair game, non?” he says, looking Engineer right in the eye. Being deliberately provocative.

Engineer manages to croak out “Yeah, that’s all right,” and Spy smooths his hand up the supple curve of his neck as he tilts his head back, his back arching.

Engineer can feel his breath catch when Spy’s fingers slip into his own mouth, moaning theatrically around them, his eyes slipping shut. Spy’s fingers leave a glistening trail down his throat when he trails them down again to his chest.

He undoes the buckles on his overalls and tugs off his glove, trying to distract his hands to keep them from reaching out to touch Spy. He automatically reaches down just to cup himself, but Spy’s eyes snap open. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. After all, it’s only fair, yes?” he says with a playful edge to his voice.

Engineer groans, but he complies, fisting his hand in the bedsheets. Spy hums approvingly. “Very good. Go on, now, tell me what you would do.” He hears the sheets rustle against each other, and he can feel Spy at his shoulder, his breath harsh against his ear. “Let me give you an example, yes?”

Engineer swallows and nods.

“I would kiss your neck here—“ The barest breath over the vein on the side of his neck. “—and here—“ The warmth of fingers at the back of his neck, along the edge of his hair line. “—and then lower.” The ghost of a finger tracing down his back, along his spine.

It’s all so very, very careful, their hands precise and slow to try and keep them from sinking through each other’s skin. And Engineer doesn’t want careful—he wants to push Spy against the wall and pull that ever-present smirk off his face; he wants to kiss him, sloppy and wet, to press bruises into his skin, to bite down on the muscle of his shoulder. Most of all, he just wants to feel his skin, the muscles shifting underneath, the strong lines of his bones.

He shivers, sharp and sudden. “That’s all very nice, yeah, but I think I’d rather focus on tellin’ ya what I’d like to see now, if you don’t mind.”

Spy raises his eyebrows, looking slightly miffed. “Well then, be my guest. Not much of a romantic, are you, mon cher?”

“Think I’d call it practical, really. Slick your fingers again, Spy,” he says hoarsely. Spy raises an eyebrow at him again and complies, slipping his fingers into his mouth. “Think you know what I’m going to ask, right.”

“Perhaps,” Spy says, bracing himself with a hand against the wall. “But I would like to hear you say it nonetheless.”

Engineer smirks at him and leans forward just the slightest bit more, so he knows Spy can feel his breath over his ear. “Would you kindly finger yourself for me, Spy?” he says, his heart beating a tattoo in his chest. “Just start with one, slow ‘n careful, but two or three would be awful nice, eventually.”

He’s close enough to hear the gasp that Spy lets slip. For a moment, Spy leans in towards him, reaching for a kiss, before he stops and simply looks at Engineer, panting a bit. “I—I believe I could indulge you in that regard, monsieur.”

“That’s awfully kind of ya,” Engineer says, smiling.

He can see the tendons shift in Spy’s arm as he works a finger into himself, the rise of his chest when his breath hitches. When Spy starts to move, Engineer has to twist his hands in the bed sheets, because all he wants is to grip Spy’s hips, to stroke a hand down his arched back and to feel Spy’s body stretched around his own fingers.

Spy’s thighs tremble slightly where they straddle Engineer’s lap when Engineer asks in a hushed voice if he’d be ready for a second finger.

“Would d’ya care to lie down, Spy? More comfortable for you, I’d imagine,” Engineer asks, soft against his ear. There’s something about falling back on courtesy—a way of expressing something that would usually come through soft touches and kisses or a steadying hand.

Spy nods, withdrawing for enough time to drape himself down on the bed, smiling when Engineer slides down next to him and leans in for another near-kiss, breath brushing over each others’ lips. “You know, if you wanted a better view, you could have just said so, Engineer,” Spy says.

“Nah, ‘s not that,” he says, and pauses to inhale sharply when he sees Spy slip two fingers back into himself and press a moan into the bed sheets. “Well, not all that.”

Spy lets out a breathless laugh at that, moving back onto his own fingers in a steady rhythm, his body taut with want.

“You look real nice like this, ya know,” Engineer says, all breath, his hands clenching in the sheets to keep himself from touching himself, from touching Spy. “Stroke yourself—nice and slow.”

“I admit I didn’t quite expect this much from you, Engineer,” Spy says with a gasp. He’s smirking at Engineer—but that smirk has soft edges and half-lidded eyes, and that, more than anything, makes Engineer swallow hard.

Even with the expanse of skin close to his, Engineer can’t help but notice the dark smudges of Spy’s lashes when his eyes droop shut as he strokes himself again at Engineer’s word. It makes him want to pass a thumb over the thin skin under his closed eyes; there’s the barest hint of darker circles there, familiar reminders of late nights over books and blueprints. It’s beautifully real, and Engineer can’t help but smile.

“I—I think you should touch yourself now, mon cher,” Spy says with a heated, unfocused glance down his body. Engineer’s tempted to hold out for a “please,” but he’s honestly too far gone for that. There’s Spy writhing inches away from his hands, all hot skin and breath, anchored to reality by Engineer’s words, and it’s at once too much and not enough.

When he finally, finally wraps a hand around his cock, his eyes drifting shut, Engineer knows that his fingers are not long enough, that the calluses on his palm should be softened by leather gloves, that the grip is all wrong, but Engineer leaves his eyes closed for a bit longer, holding on to the image of Spy touching him.

“Look at me, Engineer,” Spy says.

His voice is low and wrecked, but still infuriatingly confident. Engineer moans and cracks his eyes open, in time to see Spy lick a slick line up his palm before trailing that hand down his chest and wrapping it around his cock with a long, slow stroke, just the way that Engineer had requested before.

Engineer swallows. “Faster.”

Spy groans and complies, his hand working smoothly on his cock as Engineer stares, completely unable to tear his eyes away. He crawls closer to Spy, taking a deep breath and leaning over him, whispering into his ear—nonsense, mostly, insults and endearments all mixed up and pouring out his lips, with the low, repeating mantra of “god, god, I wanna touch you so bad,” and somewhere in there, the barest breath saying, “go ‘head and come for me, darlin’, come on, please.”

Spy turns his head with a gasp, pressing his wrist to his open mouth, and does. And that’s all it takes.




Afterwards, they lie beside each other under the covers, close enough to feel the warmth coming off of each others’ skin.

Engineer reaches out across the mattress, an axis to the curving asymptote of Spy’s spine. “Hey,” he says, his voice soft.

Spy turns towards him, blowing out a puff of smoke and stubbing out his cigarette in an ashtray on the bed table. For once, he doesn’t say a word. He stretches out an arm to meet Engineer’s own, and their hands fall into other, fingers curling around their palms.


Eventually, Engineer finds himself back on the train, faded red and blue buildings receding in the distance. The same beat-up little suitcase rests at his feet, the clasp now fixed.

There’s the touch of two fingers to his wrist, tentative and light, before it withdraws. He takes a breath and tries not to shiver as he feels Spy sit down beside him, his leg brushing against his own.

“I never did shake your hand properly, did I, mon cher?” Spy says after a few moments.

And Engineer reaches out and shakes his hand, simple as that.

Spy’s got a good handshake, solid and confident. His hand is gloveless, and Engineer can feel the bumps of his knuckles, the long bones of his fingers, the tips of his neatly-trimmed nails, the slightest bit of sweat in the hollow of his palm, the pad of his thumb stroking over the back of his hand. They both hold on to the handshake a little longer than usual, skin against skin, the warm weight of their hands resting on Engineer’s knee.

When Spy moves to let go, Engineer pulls him forward and kisses him silly. It’s warm, wondrous, and so lovely—and he can feel Spy smiling against his lips.


-------------------------------

They’re so used to having to take things slowly and deliberately.

It feels like such a luxury to wrench a surprised gasp from Spy when Engineer pins him to the wall, the door falling shut behind them. Engineer can’t help but kiss him over and over, pressed against him from their lips to their legs. Later—later they’ll take the time to touch everywhere—he’s always been good at being thorough, after all—but now, all he wants to do is push against Spy and get Spy’s skin under his hands.

Neither of them says a word. It feels bizarrely foreign, and Engineer almost instinctively slips into voicing what he wants to do, as usual. They’re used to reading each other’s gasps and moans, but it’s novel to try and interpret Spy’s shivers against his hands, the tension in his muscles and the way he pushes into Engineer’s touch, rather than his hoarse words. Engineer’s words crest against Spy’s lips—please, yes, I want—but then recede, his mouth caught up with kissing Spy breathless.

At points, it’s awkward, their hands colliding when they pull at each other’s clothes, their teeth clacking together when they kiss, but it just makes Engineer laugh in delight, reveling in the physicality of it all. They stumble their way over to the bed, tripping on pants and discarded shirts, Engineer supporting Spy when he threatens to overbalance.

He’s seen Spy bring himself off, hands drifting towards the spots that make him shiver: his nipples, his belly. Engineer knows Spy’s lean frame and broad shoulders, but it’s exhilarating to match the sight to touch—he closes his eyes, mapping out the swoop of his back muscles, the sine wave of his vertebrae, the ragged scar following the curve of his ribs, the dip at the base of his spine. There’s an exploratory thrill in finding the back of Spy’s knee with his lips, or to sink his teeth lightly at the back of Spy’s neck and feel him shudder and buck. It’s all familiar, and yet so new.

There’s so much Engineer wants to do: things he’s whispered into Spy’s ear to see him breathless and coming in his own hand, things that Spy has suggested in a low voice with his mouth breathing a hot trail over Engineer’s skin, intimate and dirty. In the end, though, he can’t seem to get enough of lying tangled with Spy, grinding against each other, their hands everywhere. It’s almost laughably basic, but the feel of Spy’s skin against his own seems to derail his thoughts, leaving him gasping and wanting.

When they’re both completely exhausted, Spy falls asleep, pressed close against Engineer. Engineer keeps himself awake long enough to gather Spy into his arms as best he can, before drifting off, feeling completely overwhelmed and utterly content.




The most amazing things, though, are the little unexpected touches: to be able to take Spy out to lunch and feel their arms press against each other as Spy leans over to recommend something fancy and French off the menu. He offhandedly bumps his foot against Spy’s as he reaches for the pepper—he can see Spy open his mouth, no doubt to chide him about adding pepper to a meal whose spices were balanced by the chef, only to close his mouth and nudge Engineer’s foot back. It’s completely ridiculous, but he can’t help but shiver at the smallest things. In the middle of a bustling restaurant, he might not be able to kiss Spy the way he wants to while they linger over coffee, but he can’t resist placing a hand in the small of Spy’s back as Engineer holds the door open for him. When they walk together, Spy keeps on touching his arm to emphasize a point he’s making, resting a hand on his shoulder—little incredulous touches, as if he can’t quite believe this is real.




Engineer likes the evenings when they sit together, Spy leaning against him and flipping through a cheap paperback—an Agatha Christie, from what Engineer can glimpse of the battered cover. Engineer’s taking the chance to catch up on a backlog of journals, only slightly distracted by the warm line of Spy’s side against his own. It’s awful nice to be able to read some of the most up-to-date stuff; by the time their mail gets to base, journals are usually a touch out of date, and it’s darned hard to get his hands on some of the more recent Soviet research.

Spy reaches over and pats his leg when Engineer makes outraged noises at some of the utter nonsense that manages to get published, scribbling notes in the margins—for Pete’s sake, were some of these articles even peer-read? Thankfully, there are a few redeeming articles to be picked out, and he soon finds himself flipping between the journals and jotting down equations on hotel stationery, considering a way to make his teleport even more efficient.

“Engineer, I must insist that you stop making vaguely pornographic noises while reading about quantum thermodynamics, or whatever it is this time,” Spy says, leaning into Engineer’s space and plucking his reading glasses off. “It’s a sad, sad day when I feel jealous of—“ He glances at the author of the article. “—Dr. C. H. Bennett, egghead extraordinaire, you know.”

“’S pretty exciting stuff. I can see why you’d be a mite worried,” Engineer grins up at Spy.

“Really. Should I just leave you and Docteur Bennett alone in peace, then? I’ll just go and find myself a pretty young thing at the bar,” Spy says, moving away from him with a smirk.

“Well, I’ve heard that Dr. Bennett is willing to share,” Engineer says, wrapping a hand around Spy’s tie and tugging lightly to bring him close again.

“Hm. And what if I’m not willing to share?” Spy plants a hand on his chest, his fingers five points of warm pressure.

“I guess we have a heck of a dilemma, then. On one hand, Dr. Bennett’s really quite the smart cookie. Won a couple awards and everything. And you’re a bit of a vain bastard with an ego only slightly smaller than Scout’s, for starters,” Engineer says, reaching to wrap his arm around Spy’s back, hovering over it by instinct for a few moments before Spy nudges back into his hand with a rueful look. “On the other hand, I don’t know how good Dr. Bennett is at kissin’.”

And that feels familiar—the playful back-and-forth standing in for touches. Instead of answering, though, Spy leans in and kisses him, long and lingering.

“So, how do I compare to the good doctor?”

Engineer grins and strokes his thumb along Spy’s cheekbone. “Ahh, I reckon you’ll do,” he murmurs against Spy’s lips.




He knows Spy’s an early riser, being a light sleeper and all, but it’s awful nice to wake with Spy pressed against his back and kissing his neck. Slowly, he registers Spy’s hand stroking down his chest and curling lazily around his cock.

“Geez, ain’t you tired at all? I could sleep for days,” he murmurs, not opening his eyes yet, revelling in Spy’s slow, sleep-muffled touches.

“Shh, cher, don’t ruin my fun,” Spy whispers, his voice still rough with sleep. His accent’s thicker in the mornings, and Engineer can’t help but like it. “You don’t even need to move, if you don’t want to.”

Engineer pushes back into his touch, tilting his head back to catch Spy’s lips. “’s that so. Well, I guess that’s all right, then.”

“You’re terribly lethargic in the mornings, you know. A bit unbefitting a hardened mercenary.”

“Didn’t remember anything against sleeping in when I signed the contract,” Engineer says, trailing off into a soft groan when Spy strokes his palm over his cock, slipping his other arm around his chest.

“Hmm. Might have been in one of those ridiculous subsections, you never know. Somewhere in there with having a great deal of sex with very handsome Spies. Fraternization or somesuch,” Spy murmurs with a chuckle that Engineer feels against his back.

“Well, we’re a bit late for that, then. An’ don’t laugh at your own jokes, it’s unbecoming.” Engineer twines his hand with Spy’s, pressing their joined hands against his chest.

“I’m terribly witty and you know it. It’s part and parcel of the job description, I’m afraid.”

“Good lord, I hope they’re doing a performance review soon, then. Your one-liners are downright terrible, Spy.”

“You wound me, Engineer.”

Spy kisses him slow, his tongue pushing languidly into Engineer’s mouth. His hands smooth down Engineer’s thighs, and it’s all too slow and lazy to be full-blown sex, but it’s awful nice to just lay there and be touched, the soft morning light casting a golden glow on the sheets and on Spy’s hands.

“We’re going back to base soon, you know,” Spy murmurs against his neck.

Engineer feels a little thrown by the change in subject, his mind still fogged with warmth and sleepiness. “Hm—where ‘r they sending us now? Viaduct?”

He feels Spy’s body tense minutely against his back. “I believe so.” Spy curls impossibly closer and strokes his hands down Engineer’s chest, warm and lingering. Oh.

Engineer twists around in Spy’s arms, cups his jaw, and leans in. His lips stop a bare breath away from Spy’s own, the motion familiar from stolen almost-kisses on the battlefield. “This—this is us, too, you know,” he murmurs.

“Mm.” Spy doesn’t say anything, but his hands hover at the back of Engineer’s neck and trace lightly down his spine, and Engineer feels his muscles relax.

Spy’s hands dip lower and squeeze playfully. “So, I have some ideas to wake you up properly, mon cher.”

“Get me a cup of coffee, and we’ll talk.”



It does feel good to be coming back. Engineer’s looking forward to making those adjustments to his teleporters, especially since Spy suggested a way to tuck the wiring in and make them harder to sap. Scout strides onto the train burdened with an overabundance of baked goods from his mother. (He makes the mistake of asking Spy what he’d done over vacation, making a strangled noise when Spy smirks and says “Well, Engineer, for a start.”) Soldier reports that he did not accomplish his objective of liberating Scout’s mother from the clutches of RED Spy, but he had gained additional intelligence regarding Scout’s mother’s flower preferences, and as such, did not consider this campaign a complete loss. Demoman claps a hand on Engineer’s shoulder and pulls out polaroids from his wine tour of southern France. Judging from the increasingly blurry, tilted shots of Medic sipping dubiously from a glass and Heavy daintily gripping the stem of his wine glass between two massive fingers, they hadn’t gone for the usual swill-and-spit method. Pyro spends a good portion of the trip regaling him with a story that, as far as Engineer can figure out, involved Sniper’s van, Las Vegas, and a motorcycle race.

Engineer keeps a hand on Spy’s arm on the last leg of the train trip. As the snow-capped rooftops come into view, Engineer feels the weave of Spy’s suit fade under his fingers, his hand gradually slipping through. Spy places his hand over his, and even though he can’t feel the soft leather of Spy’s gloves anymore, Engineer’s hand still feels warm.

Does anyone have "Money shot" by "I eat paste"? It was mostly centered around some weird morale-building movie starring Medic and Heavy, where Engineer and Medic find each other vaguely attractive but Medic was starting to notice the Heavy as a person rather than a meatshield...I'd really like to see that one started up again.

Can anyone find a old kink-meme request? It was written by an anonymous, and was an AU with Scout as a high school kid and raep van Sniper

Normally don't go in for that thing but it was well enough done that I'd like to see it back.

>>40

"Jesus, Ma…" Rick, (known mostly as 'Scout' to his friends) mumbled under his breath. "This really sucks. Gary always wants to drive but when it's his own brother he's gotta go an' be a giant fucker."

He slammed his rusting locker shut and glanced up and down the hall with trepidation. Not that he was scared or anything but man, he just hoped the upperclassmen weren't doing dope outside the school again.

This area of Boston was not exactly ideal, but Scout's family wasn't wealthy and his Ma had done her best to ensure all her children had an education. Scout didn't blame her for that. What he did blame her for right now was this weird bout of bizarre excuses that were makin' him take the long walk home through all sorts of weird places. At least he always knew he could run fast if there was too much of a problem.

No sooner had he had this thought then there was a shout behind him. "Well if it ain't Scoot!"

The six (SIX) teenagers snickered and advanced on him. They might have been bullies looking for a bit of fun harassing an underclassman, but Scout spotted a bowie knife glittering in one boy's hand.

He could hear their laughter as he immediately took off running.

"Aincha gonna stay and fight tough guy? Thought ya were supposed t'be so tough Scooty!"

Scout ran for a few blocks and ducked behind a building. They were just not letting up and it was still way too far from home. Maybe he could find a place to hide. That camper van there looked pretty junky and abandoned: dings in its sides, drawn curtains.

He tried the door and scrambled backwards when it was opened for him.
"Well whot's this then?" the man with giant sideburns and a hairy chest leered down at Scout. He backed up.

"Shit man I totally..."

"You want to come in mate?" The smile seemed inviting but was maybe a little unnerving. "That gang there givin' you trouble. We can't have such a cute little bloke getting hurt. You must have a mum somewhere. I'll give ya a ride."

Normally Scout would have protested being called cute, but this guy was way older than him. Yeah. Just some geezer thing and totally better than the gang. "Yeah, thanks man."

The inside of the van seemed merely functional, but the bed seemed to be modified to be quite a bit bigger than the average bed one would find in a camper. Scout was forced to sit on it like a couch so he could sit down for the ride. His rescuer clambered into the front seat.

"Where am I taking you?" The engine gave a great cough and spluttered to life. Well shit, the thing actually worked.

"Uh, Fleet Street." It was about a half block away from his house. Scout did know better than to tell a perfect stranger his proper address. "So you uh…English or something?"

"Australian."

"Oh."

"What grade are you in?"

"Tenth."

"Mmm, that is a good grade. I loikes that one."

"What'd you say?"

"Good grade to be in, mate."

"Ohhhkay."

The walls were decorated with some weird, almost tribal looking stuff, and a large rifle sat in the corner. Scout's eyes zeroed in.

"Cool gun man! What d'you do with it?"

Sniper grinned to himself. "I'm a hunter. A sniper."

Okay, that was kinda neat. "What sorts of thing do you go for?" He could see the sign for Fleet Street up in the distance. Just when the conversation was getting cool. Guns were freakin' cool.

"Generally faster creatures, give myself a challenge."

"So like deer and stuff?"

"You could say that, mate." He pulled up the van and climbed quickly back into the back seat. "The whole idea is to have it so that they don't know what's coming before it's too late." There was the distinct click of a van door locking.

Sniper clambered over to the bed, pushing Scout down onto it with that horrible leer back in place.

"Oh god, you're going to kill me!" Scout screamed, only to have his mouth muffled.

"Nothin' loike that mate. Sometimes I just have a bit of fun with what I catch. Release 'em back into the wild, all gentle like."

This baffled Scout until he felt the press of something hard against his knee.

"Mmmfph Muuuffph."

"Now you're a kicker aren't yeh, an ouch, apparently a bit of a biter, so we'll just take care of that won't we." Sniper flipped Scout onto his back with surprising strength.

His face now muffled by the pillow and his arms and legs pinned by surprisingly strong thighs, Scout swore he was not going to cry and get out of this crazy rape fag's grasp. There was a slight scuffling sound above him and Scout's trousers were yanked down. He gasped hard as a slimy…oh shit that was the guy's finger oh shit oh shit oh shit ew, what was the slime?

"Ow. Whry drr yrr wrrna stirrk anythrring in thrr yrr crazy fag, poop crrms outta thrr!'

Above him, Sniper just put a chilling hand on his back, tracing little patterns. "I promised I'd be gentle with you mate."

Scout turned his head to the side. "That is not fuckin' gentle…what'd you do, stick another one in? OW cockfag, OW!" He prepared himself to scream his head off. Anything to get the attention of anyone, and it came out as a moan as one of those fingers touched /something/ inside him that suddenly made spots dance in front of his vision and his embarrassment mount as he couldn't help himself from starting to get aroused.

Sniper grinned and adjusted his fingers. "You loike that don't you. They all do in the end."

His cock now straining and pressed against the bed combined with all the stretching and the spot inside him being teased mercilessly, Scout broke his second promise to himself and started to cry. Cry and moan at the same time.
"None of that now mate. Hands and knees then." Scout was allowed to push himself up.

There was the tearing of the package of a condom and for just a second Scout almost brought his concentration back. He'd remember finding a used condom once in the room he used to share with his brother Alex and upon finding out what it was and whose it was…yeah that was gross. Think of Alex getting it on with that ugly zitty fatso chick who had been the only one who'd ever want him. He could punch this sonofabitch and get away.

Above him, Sniper unzipped his pants. God this guy had hair everywhere. It was all over his legs and Scout could feel it tickle him…oh god, this was it.

Scout yelled as one powerful thrust let the Australian penetrate him. Oh there hadn't been enough of those fingers had there? Think of um…rainbows. Shit now he was going to associate rainbows with gay fag sex.

What he wasn't expecting was for his cock to be taken up in one powerful hand and given a firm stroke. The painful sensation was lessening in his behind and he concentrated on the warm hand working away at his cock. Turned out the slimy stuff was only Vaseline and not some kind of weird octopus rapist secretion.

Sniper began to thrust, slowly, enjoying the sensation of one of the most perfect virgin asses he'd ever pounded in his life. Below him his little catch was moaning, involuntarily bucking against him both into the cock in his ass and the hand stroking him alternating.

Close, but wanting to prolong the experience as much as possible, Sniper could feel himself getting close, but preoccupied himself with nipping at the back of Scout's neck while he waited for the boy to come.

Shuddering hard, Scout came, but he wasn't allowed to flop bonelessly with shame at what he'd done or how good it had felt. Sniper was still going, pulling out and drawing back in, that chest hair tickling the back of his neck, groaning and finally finally coming. He took a deep breath, wiped the film of sweat off his skin and stood, giving scout's trousers a tug. "There you go mate, we've had our fun, haven't we. And now, you get to go."

The van door unlocked with a click and Scout beat hell out of the van, doing up his pants as he went. He kept running, even though he felt exhausted and didn't stop until he got home. He barely noticed that the weird salesman guy in the pinstripe who kept skulking around their neighbourhood was coming out of his house until he was almost on top of him.

"Careful with ze suit petit. By ze way. Did you enjoy ze time avec mon ami? I am sorry, but I really did need some time to visit with your muzzer. She is a most delightful lady."

Scout had no words.

I have a few fics that I've saved from the Chan post-crash. Are only the authors allowed to post them, or may I if I make sure people know who wrote them?

Does anybody have Pet by uh... Magpie? It was the fic with medic/pet!sniper and the spy from the opposing team picking up on it. PLEASE SAY YES.

I require "Water" by Corvine. Please someone repost it!

Little Lady I can email you the archive files if you want it, I've been spamming it to my friends since I read it.

'King of My Hill' will always have a special place in my heart. By the way, shouldn't we just wait for the archives when it gets put up?

>>45
Your email please?

It's in the field.

Anyone got that fic with the Medic teabagging the medigun during sex with a patient? Can't for the life of me remember the name. I think it used to be up on ffnet, but it's not anymore, for some reason.

Does anybody have the one where Engineer has sex with a certain cartoon character? I think it was called "Fucking Amputees" or something like that.

Also, does anybody have the one where Engineer keeps Soldier down in his basement and feeds him breakfast? It involved Soldier giving Engineer a blowjob. I can't remember what that one was called, but I miss it so.

>>50

The Engie/Soldier fic is called 'The Palm Of His Hand'
Both of those fics can be found on Fanfiction.net
The other can be found in the cartoon crossover section.

>>51

Unable to find the cartoon crossover section. Link please?

>>52

http://m.fanfiction.net/s/6243096/1/

I think this is the fic you're thinking of

>>52

Sorry, I should have been more detailed in my instructions. Happy reading!

>>42 post away! I don't care who's got them, so long as you credit the author, or at least mention that you didn't write it if you don't know the author.

Anyone got the one where Scout's having incest fantasies about his mom?

Is it this one?

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6081413/1/The_Queen_Dowager

Gotcha covered. Money shot, by i eat paste

The showers shot out hot water that dripped down the Medic's bare skin in small streams. His flesh reddened. Medic pushed the strands of soaked hair from his face. Steam flooded around the man in a thick fog. He took a deep breath gathering the hot air into his lungs, forehead pressed to the cold tile, gloved hands moving slowly down his front. A soft sigh escaped past his moist lips as he pressed closer to the cool wet wall as if it were another body. The feeling of cold and warm simultaneously made his skin uncomfortably more sensitive.

The looming presence of the large man behind him did not go unnoticed. Medic became nervous, glancing over his shoulder. The large Russian smiled, his arousal very obvious as he watched the German's hand move over the red, wet skin.

"Vat are you doing, doktor?..."

The Medic continued to face the wall. He couldn't bring himself to turn to the other man.

"I....I am.....I-"

"STOP THE CAMERA!", the Soldier yelled in frustration as the Sniper kept the film rolling.

Spy flipped lazily through the script, "Cut. You 'ave to say 'cut'."

"Look guys my arms are really fuckin' tired," The Scout's arms came down quickly, the make shift boom mic the Engineer had rigged up was a mass of wire and metal. It took a bit of effort on the Scout's part to hold it up especially in their shower scene.

"Why do we even have 'em talking! Let's just get to tha fuckin' already!" Scout whined.

Spy glared, annoyed, "Eet needs a story otherwise it won't make sense...Molly."

Scout glared angrily, murmuring a "fuck you man...", readying to take a swing with the long pole of the boom mic.

"SENSE!? None of zis makes sense!!" Medic threw his hands up in frustration as the Heavy stood quite embarrassed of himself, "Vy vould I vant to," he pulled the papers from the Spy's hands and read off a few stage directions, "'Press myself against ze cold tile vall' or," he flipped to the next page, still naked and dripping wet,"'Pleasure myself vith my gloved hands?!' VY AM I VEARING GLOVES IN ZE SHOWER!?"

The Engineer fiddled with the camera wires, "Well...some people like that kinda stuff."

Sniper idly watched the angry German, sneering, "'s colled a kink."

"I KNOW VAT IT IZ!" Medic yelled, grabbing the clean, dry towel from Heavy's outstretched hand. The large man quickly recoiled his arm. Medic dried himself and threw it to the ground mumbling in German to himself.

"Eet eez in ze script, mon ami."

"I VANT NOZING MORE TO DO VITH ZEES...ZEES...ATROCITY!"

"DOCTOR!" Soldier stood up quickly from the stool he was perched on, "WE ALL agreed this was NECESSARY! FOR THE TEAM! FOR MORALE!"

"For our dicks." the Demo-man chimed in, bottle in hand, "'ere ya go! This'll clear up those pesky inhibitions mate!"

"YOU CANNOT GET ME DRUNK AND EXPECT ME TO FORNICATE ON CAMERA!"

Spy murmured, "'e's right. Too drunk and 'e won't be able to get a proper erection," he gestured to the Medic's cock as if it were a stage prop.

Having the three men stare at his limp dick with pensive looks upon their faces was enough to turn the Medic's discomfort into seething anger.

"So how do we get him to fuck?" Soldier mumbled to the Demo-man who shrugged.

"YOU DO NOT GENTLEMEN, I QVIT!"

Medic did not want the Heavy to follow him as he angrily left the showering area, but like a puppy, the man followed. Just because they were "drafted" to make a porn video for the team together didn't mean they had to develop a relationship outside of their professional one.

Three days ago. Fuck, he wished he could take back that day...

"You do not have to follow me, Herr." the doctor growled at Heavy as he entered his room. The doctor gripped the door ready to shut the large man out, "Please leave me."

"...Vanted to make sure doktor was alright..."

Ugh, the giant man was horribly timid outside of battle. It was almost annoying to see how easily he was intimidated by the doctor. Medic preferred Heavy's on-field persona; the violent and strong killing machine that made him feel protected.

Medic's nose scrunched up as he placed his retrieved spectacles on to his face.

"I vould like to be left alone for ze rest of ze night," he waved the large man off as if he were swatting at an annoying fly. The Russian smiled lightly and nodded, lumbering back a few steps as the door was slammed in his face.

Three long days ago, the Medic thought to himself as he found undergarments to cover himself from the dank cold in his living quarters. It was three days ago that the Medic was 'coerced', as he would now see it, into the arrangement by his team, "for morale".

Medic was a very practical man, and at the time the Spy and Soldier made sense.

Make the men feel better, relieve their oppressed libidos, they'll fight better and in turn his job would be easier, they both told him in tandem. No rushing around to heal sluggish teammates who were 'weighed down by their sense of loneliness' or 'too tense to battle properly' as the Spy put it.

They insisted he be the one to "perform" because he'd know the "right way", which the Medic decided to take as a complement, being a professional in his field and knowing the anatomy of the human body well.

And he had 'experience' of course. Sex was just a way to satiate one's hunger; nothing more, nothing less. It did not matter what the individual's gender was, as long as they were deemed healthy to perform properly by the doctor.

Medic happily agreed to the arrangement, feeling as though he were doing a special duty to his team that he could later lord over them. It was just another addition in the long list of reasons why he was the most integral member of their squad.

He was deterred, however, when he was told who his partner would be.

Medic scoffed as he laid down on his well made bed wishing he had gone to his ward. He couldn't leave now. He didn't want to see any of them, he was too annoyed and too tired. A well deserved night's sleep was in order, to forget about everything and everyone.

~~

Four days earlier:

~~

Scout was bored. Bored and brimming with unbridled energy since the snow storm had couped him and his team up in the cold tin can they called a base. The weather was so bad that the usual solitary Sniper was forced to move inside the base for his own safety from the cold and the harsh winds that threatened his rickety old van. He reluctantly shared a room with Scout after being denied any sanctuary by the rest of his teammates. He seemed especially dejected by the final "no" that came from the Spy, who wanted nothing to do with anyone outside of battle.

Scout happily accepted the man into his room, knowing full well he could bother the hell out of him and snoop through his stuff periodically.

The young man fished around in one of the old boxes of magazines that he pulled out from under the Sniper's cot.

"Guns, guns, guns...hunting...guns..." Scout murmured to himself quickly scanning the front covers of the thin books,"guns...hunting, gun-well hello there." A wide grin plastered itself on his face as he spied out a large photo of female breasts on the wrinkled and ripped glossy. He held the magazine by a page and let the centerfold slowly unfold, whistling. Wolfish grin, the boy rolled the book up under his arm and grabbed the few other porn mags underneath.

Like a kid who'd just stolen a fist full of candy, the Scout nimbly ran off, looking for a quiet, secluded place to put pin-up girls to work.

It was the loud burst of giggles that the Pyro heard first, recognizing the short girlish laughing as Scout's immediately. Some sort of mischief was being caused and Pyro wanted a piece of it. Scout ALWAYS knew how to have fun. The fire bug jogged down the hallway to a small computer room where the Scout sat on the floor, magazines spread about him, flicking through a few old pages before crumpling up the book and shoving it behind his back. He scrambled to around grabbing at the other magazines before the Pyro plucked one up quickly and stared.

"Huuuuuuhdaaaaa."

"YO MAN! GIMME THAT! It's mine ya fucking mumbling fag!!"

"Huu kuh shuh!"

"I DON'T WANNA SHARE WITH YOU!" he snatched the book from the Pyro, who balled up his fists and pointed at the Scout. The kid watched as the Pyro whipped his flamethrower from behind his back raising it in the air and letting out a loud "HUDAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

Scout scooped up the magazines sloppily as the Pyro's fire licked at his heels. His shirt tail caught fire and much like his giggling, the loud screams he let out sounded much like that of a little girl.

After about a lap of relentless chasing the Pyro had cornered his prey. Weapon still trained on Scout, Pyro held out his hand and motioned for the Scout to hand over the contraband.

"Hudaaaaaaahhhh"

"Suck my dick! You ain't gettin' the-"

WOOSH. The Scout was burned to a crisp along with the skin mags, little pieces of Scout shirt and paper embers fluttering in the air. Five minutes later as the Pyro watched the charred boy's body disappear and the last magazines curl up in fire, the Scout burst from the respawn area in a slew of curses and slang that not even Pyro could begin to figure out.

It drew the attention of the Engineer who just happened to be passing by the two as Scout began to take pot shots at the Pyro with his bat, smacking the flamethrower from the man's hand. The southerner tried to calm the Scout only to get inadvertently whacked by the bat weilding boy. As the Engineer grabbed his bleeding nose and let out a howl of pain, the Soldier, who'd already been running to the source of the noise screaming "SPIES!" as he let loose a rocket on the three, sending each man across the room in separate directions from the explosion.

Scout was first to get to his feet and charge at the Pyro only to hit an invisible wall. The Spy materialized before the dazed and slightly charred boy who got to his feet quickly and made for the firebug. The suited assassin grabbed the boy's shirt and held him in place.

"You're fucking screwed firebug, those weren't even MINE you cock sucking dumb ass prick!!"

Pyro shrugged after checking himself for damage, "Huus whuu dehh?"

"The fuckin' Sniper's!" Scout mocked a long rifel and clicked his finger miming a gun shooting, "He's gonna blow your fucking head off from now till fuckin' the end of time!!!"

"COMPOSE YOURSELF LADY MAGGOTS!!" Soldier barked out, quieting the mass of vile words that was the Scout.

"What eez zees about ze Sniper?" Spy narrowed his eyes at the original bickering pair.

"The fuckin' Pyro fuckin' roasted all of the bushman's skin mags!"

In an eerily calm way the Spy let the Scout loose. The boy stood staring at the Frenchman. Spy flicked out his knife and went after the Pyro slashing at the man who let out a long howl,"EH WHU UHN AHSHUHDUHN!!!"

The blooded Engineer grabbed the Spy around the waist restraining the flailing Frenchman who slashed at the curled up Pyro in a crazed fashion.

"LET ME GO I WANT TO KEELL HIM MYSELF!!" The Spy growled out.

"Calm down!!" Engineer struggled to keep the Spy from turning the Pyro into his personal pin cushion.

"Zose books were ze closest thing to a woman on ZEES BASE."

The Engineer stared at the Spy and then looked to the Soldier who lowered his rocket launcher slowly, thoughtfully.

"Those were the one's I borrowed from ya?..." the hardhat asked the assassin who nodded.

"And... the one's you gave me?" Soldier murmured to the Engineer, who nodded slowly in response.

The man latched around the Spy's waist looked to the Pyro and glared, releasing the assassin as if he were letting loose an attack dog.

"GET 'IM!"

~~

Their revenge on the Pyro was swift and brutal. After the fire-starter had respawned for the fourth time having been stabbed, bludgeoned and blown up, the mob's anger had subsided but were still left with the same problem.

It would seem that the entire team's "stash" was Sniper's stash. And the Aussie wasn't all too happy to learn that not only had the Scout been rooting through his stuff but had completely fucked up all of his porn. Those involved with the tormenting of the Pyro felt a twinge of guilt:

Had it not been for Scout, none of it would have happened.

They'd all been stuck inside the compound for a solid two weeks now. The steady storm of snow and ice built up to where they could not launch a proper attack. Even the enemy RED team had given up in their pursuit to freedom. They had, although, successfully cleared a path for their mail to come in...and a small area large enough for their entire team to stand outside and hurl baseballs, bombs, rockets, and eggs, at the side of the BLU fort. None of it did much damage but it annoyed the hell out of Soldier.

With nowhere left to run, literally, the Scout found himself at the center of controversy. Pyro sat back, arms folded, unclear if he was angry or just still scared out of his wits.

"It was a damn wrong thing what ya did, boy." The Engineer shook his head, "And if ya do somethin' wrong, ya fess up to it or it'll come back an' bite ya in the ass."

"I didn't slice and dice the shit out of the Pyro! That was you guys!"

"Why the fuck were you rootin' through my shit, kid?"

"I wasn't going through nothin' that wasn't left out! PLUS! PLUS it's my room anyway ya fuckin' faggot!!"

"See, if ya had let me stay with you..." the Sniper murmured to the Spy who looked particularly peeved at the situation.

"Yeah, cause the sound uva bed banging against a wall woulda been much better than this..."

The Sniper stood up and advanced towards the Scout who stayed put, egging the man on as the Spy and the Engineer pushed him back to his seat.

Engineer sighed, "Yer not helpin' yer case kid."

"My CASE?" Scout laughed a few short chuckles amidst his broken English, "Like I'm on trial or somethin'?"

"Well yeah...kinda...you burnt all our porn..."

The boy became silent with the realization that they were all very seriously considering some form of punishment for his actions. Goddamn his short attention span and ability to get into trouble so easily. And now he was going to have his ass beat for wanting to jerk off.

Silently watching in a thoughtful and oddly serene manner, the Soldier took in a deep breathe before, yelling the first idea that popped into his head.

"WE WILL FUCK THE SCOUT." he said with the kind of absurd certainty one could liken to a delusional mental patient.

The four merely looked at him, each communicating their own disbelief in a range of facial expressions from the Spy's slightly slack jawed, uneven brow to the Scout's loud and sudden sputtering laughter.

And continuing on as if the others had the same gung-ho attitude, the army man explained, "WE PUT A WIG ON THE YAPPY LITTLE BOTTLE ROCKET AND GO AT HIM!"

Silence.

"You can't be serious, man...", the boy stuttered.

"WELL I AM PRIVATE! YOU DEPRIVED MY MEN OF SATISFACTION, YOU ARE A DETRIMENT TO MY TEAM!! IT'S MARTIAL LAW AROUND HERE, MY LAW! I AM GOD, AND AS YOUR GOD I WILL USE MY POWER TO DECLARE YOU THE TEAM FUCK-PUPPET DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!"

Scout stared.

"FROM NOW ON YOUR NAME IS MOLLY, YOU LIKE LONG WALKS ON THE BEACH, AND SUNSETS! DO I HEAR A YES SIR?! "

"....are you outta your FUCKIN' MIND, man?!" the boy yelled back.

The Spy, the Sniper, and the Engineer analyzed the Scout. The boy WAS small enough to look like a girl if you squinted, and he did certainly scream like one.

Pyro threw his hand in the air quickly pointing at the boy, "EHH HUV AH HMMM FURSH!" The firebug was looking for revenge and he would get it even if it meant taking the boy's anal virginity.

Scout shot back an ugly terrified look, "LIKE HELL YOU DO, RUBBER-SUIT!!"

"Well then I get seconds..." Sniper chimed in quickly, ignoring the single voice of protest.

The team was divvying up the lad as if he were a piece of meat. The group became louder as each man seemed to lose their inhibitions and agreed to go along with the idea of using the boy. Scout couldn't make any sense of the cacophony, having his own little panic session in his head but lost it as he watched the Engineer laugh and make a thrusting gesture with his wrench.

"HEY HEY HEY!! LISTEN ta me, this ain't happenin'!! Besides this ain't all my FAULT after all!", Scout yelled as the chatter quieted, "We wouldn't be gettin' no mail if the fuckin' Heavy would just help us fuckin' plow a path and scrape the FUCKIN' ice off the doors, but NO! We can't have that cause the FUCKIN' Doc thinks he'll catch the sniffles! He's from GODDAMN MOTHER FUCKIN' RUSSIA ain't 'e!? AIN'T IT ALWAYS SNOWIN' THERE AND SHIT?!"

Surprised by the outburst, and the fact Scout had a slight grasp on geography, the four glanced at eachother and considered his point.

They all had their personal vendettas against the Medic. He was smug and snide, his need to berate them when they were hurt.

Soldier, who was certain the doctor was a Nazi at one point, feared he was still a sympathizer to the cause. And when the Medic seemed to side with the giant Russian, all sorts of hellish (and insane) scenarios broke loose in his head; the commie and the nazi taking charge of his platoon after murdering him in a staged coupe. They'd burn flags and books and the constitution, all kinds of American things, pissing on the smoldering remains of freedom.

The Scout kept rambling, "The guy is such a JACKASS when you realize he don't give TWO SHITS about ANYUV us cept the GIANT MEAT SHIELD-"

The Spy felt irked by the German since day one. Respawning sucked, but so did having to wait for everyone else on the team to be taken care of and treated before he was considered. The doctor insisted he was teaching the Spy to handle his pain.

"Do you know how many shots ze Heavy can take before he ez finally taken down?"

Spy would sit silently as bandages and gauze and stitches and finally, the Medigun were used to cease his pain.

"Forty! Ze man was shot forty timez before he went down!"

Utterly unbearable, so much that he would ask the Sniper to "assist" him to the respawn.

"And FUCK you guys!! If ya wanna go and shove your creepy punishment on ANYONE why not on the FUCKIN' HEAVY! It's his fuckin' fault too, for bein' SUCH a PUSSY and LISTENIN' ta the GERMAN FRUITCAKE!!"

The situation with the Spy made the Sniper hate the Medic. The assassin was his...friend, or at least that was the little mental box he filed Spy under.

At first the Aussie found it funny, stabbing and shooting his team mate to death. Spy deserved it for all of his annoying cockiness.

But after the first few times, Sniper started to feel bad.

At times the Frenchman's injuries weren't even too serious, but the Spy refused to ask for the German's help. He claimed it was more painful to deal with the doctor's blathering, than to be shot in the head or stabbed a few times. Sniper knew what was expected when Spy would come to him, limping, bleeding, and wounded, with an unlit cigarette in his mouth. The assassin would take a few paces back and lean uncomfortably against the far wall, as if he were lined up for a nonchalant firing squad.

Sniper loaded his rifle, shaking his head, "I don't want to do this anymore, mate..."

Spy lit his cigarette and stared at the reddened tip "But you will."

The sharpshooter frowned and lowered his gun "Nah, ya know what...I don't think so this time-"

Spy took a drag from his smoke, "Your mother's a whore."

BANG.

Sniper stared at the Scout, memories swimming, refocusing his anger.

"SO IT AINT ALL MY FAULT!" The boy ended in a huff.

The Spy narrowed his eyes at Scout, "Gentlemen...I can't help but agree..."

~~
The small room emptied leaving only the smug looking Scout and Sniper behind. The boy gazed over to the Australian, pulling a rolled up magazine from the back of his shirt. He held it out for the Sniper to take.

"Go on fag, take it. Found it when you guys dragged me in here. I musta dropped it before Pyro made me into a campfire. I got no interest in...", he unrolled the glossy covered booklet, "'French men in maids outfits'."

Sniper yanked the magazine from his hand, glaring, face flushed in embarrassment.

"Where the HELL do you get somethin' like that?..."

"Jus' keep it quiet alright?"

"It's not like I even LOOKED inside, the pages are all stuck together, ya fuckin' perv."


-----

Second part

~~

When the Engineer and Spy decided to let Demo in on their 'plan', the Scot reminded them how cabin fever could affect one's judgement, and that vengeful mob mentality was no way to deal with their frustrations.

"Yar all idiots," he said shaking his head after a long drink from a brown glass bottle and setting it down on the wooden table .

Spy scoffed angrily as the Texan defended the idea, if only for his own personal gain.

The Engineer fancied the German in all of his smug egotistical glory. It turned him on. And if this was the only way to see the Medic laid out and aroused, then he'd take it. Then at least Engie would be able to embellish upon all the dirty fantasies he had.

Demo mumbled, "Believe me, I think tha guy's a bit of an prick an' I'd stick 'im up the ass too if I thought it'd take 'im down a few notches," he fiddled with an open canister bomb, unscrewing the lid slowly, "But wha' makes ya think he'll even agree ta the idea?"

Engineer cleared his throat, "We appeal to his intellect and his pride. Make him think he's doin' us all a favor..."

The man seated at the table nodded as if he considered the idea to be fairly good, "Well, if you're prepared ta humiliate the man, you better be ready for what might happen after all it's said an' done," he smirked.

-
Present day
-

The Medic turned over in his small bed, hard mattress creaking beneath him. The banging noise became louder and louder until he realized the clamor was not a part of his dream at all. He watched the metal door to his room rattle as the two voices outside argued, one yelling angrily how there should be "no locked doors in my compound", another voice, lower in tone trying to cease the undulation of volume.

"Doktor is tired..."

"I don't give a SHIT if he's tired! THERE IS NO NAP-TIME IN WAR!"

It was five in the morning. None of the others on their team besides the Heavy, Soldier, and himself would be up for hours. He knew the man's game. He wouldn't budge.

"THAT'S AN ORDER! I WANT THIS DOOR DOWN! I WANT IN THAT ROOM!"

"I don't vant to break doktor's door."

Medic murmured half asleep, annoyed with the both of them. Just a few more minutes, he figured, as the giant Russian voiced refusal once again to open the door.

In his dreams the German would often find solace in memories of home, of quieter times, faces that he knew but barely remembered, swirling like water in and out of his mind. He innately knew the faces that appeared to him in his dreams, even if their images were dulled by time.

None of the idiots here on his "team" could invade his mental privacy with their whining and intolerable cries for "Medic!" or "Doktor!" or "My arm! They blew my arm off!". Their demands and their weaknesses were far away...

Medic basked in quiet whispers of recollections and the feeling of two warm arms around him; whose they were, he could not tell.

"-OF MY WAY!"

"NO! EEZ TOO SMALL IN HALLWAY!"

With a loud boom, that frightened the Medic into a frenzy of arms and legs all tangled in a blanket, the door to his room bellowed and fell inward. The Soldier's uniform was singed, the tips of his collar still burning. The face that one could make out beneath the helmet was smeared in black from the explosion. The hallway behind the Soldier was all kinds of fucked up.

"UP AND AT 'EM DOC!" Soldier didn't seem the least bit angry, in fact he sounded quite happy to see the doctor in his quarters, as if he half expected something different.

Medic didn't want to show the American he was shaken. With as much precision as he could muster, he gently put his glasses on his nose and stood stiffly, knees shaking.

"SO WHAT'LL IT BE TODAY? TRAINING REGIMENT OR SNOW SHOVELING, LADIES?"

There was the question. The one he always expected since the day they found it near impossible to exit the compound.

"If ve had proper attire and eqviptment, I vould be more zen happy to go outside vith our dear Heavy. But ve do not..."

He knew the Soldier would work them into the ground if they went out there. He'd treat the situation like they were in battle. A battle against the elements. It was useless, it would only keep snowing, the wind would continue to blow and create snow drifts where they had just made clearings.

The RED team for all their effort, already found themselves trapped back in their own fort after the ice and snow piled up in their small clearing.

They, the whole lot of them on the BLU team, could not possibly hold himself and the Russian responsible for the situation.

The army man looked him over and set his jaw tightly before yelling out, "DO NOT FORCE ME TO MAKE IT AN ORDER, PRIVATE!" The Soldier whirled around to the Heavy who was trying to pick up the demolished door and set it back into place. His gaze slowly met with the American's.

"YOU WILL COME WITH ME OUTSIDE AND WE WILL RAPE MOTHER NATURE IN ALL HER ICY GLORY! DO YOU HEAR ME!?"

The Russian looked from Soldier to Medic. The German shook his head.

Heavy complied with the silent order, stating a clear "No."

The doctor sneered. It felt good to be able to control the man with just a flick of his hand or nod of his head.

Soldier fumed.

"If either of you falls ill, I vill have to care for you, ze respawn doez not cure sickness as ve have learned through ze Engineer's misfortune in contracting a stomach virus...." Medic remembered how, with every respawn, the Engineer would vomit violently from the room to the infirmary.

"...Training it is..." Soldier growled to the German, "after we will break for an hour, then REPORT to the DESIGNATED AREA AT FOURTEEN HUNDRED HOURS FOR FILMING!! NOW GET YOUR GIRDLE ON AND MOOOOVE, GOOSE-STEPPER!!!" Soldier screamed at Medic who took as much time as he saw fit in dressing himself properly.

Heavy stood at the door obediently, waiting for the doctor as the Soldier continued his stream of inane mouth noise.

And so went their day, just like the countless others, well with the exception of their added end of day 'activity'. Yesterday's awkward first day of really diving into the project made the Medic angry with all of them, with himself.

And if they Spy knew how truly awkward the German felt he'd be happily skipping about the BLU base, bathing in his vindictive victory. Naturally, Sniper would be attempting to get into the Frenchman's pants, because a happy Spy is easier to persuade to bed than a sad brooding one. Scout would feel confident that his anal virginity was safe with the heat off him, and the Soldier, well, he'd still be insane, but he'd know he had the mental upper hand over the 'nazi' and the 'commie'.

But the doctor was a proud man. Too proud to let the Heavy, who listened to him like a trained bear, shovel some snow; too proud to let the Soldier break him during their inane training exercise, and too proud to stick by his decision to quit the BLU's pornographic pet project. Medic's emotions were his and his alone to manipulate.

His Russian 'meat shield' seemed drained after their training exercise, dazed from scaling tall sets of stairs; condition training that required him to haul his giant gun up and down and up and down with him. Medic was not too worried. The giant man was tired, not exhausted. Heavy spent his hour break between their training and filming sleeping, bent over in a chair that looked too small for him, head resting in his arms.

Medic sat across from him after a long shower; half was spent washing and the other half making sure the big man didn't fall asleep while taking his own shower. Medic had finally managed to get the Russian to lean himself forward against the wall and wash properly.

A loud grumble sounded from the Heavy as he took in a deep breath.

The already long day was going to get longer...

Medic had the opportunity to flick through the small section of the script they'd be covering that afternoon. He murmured some assuring words in an attempt to convince himself that giving the Heavy "a half oral half hand job" wouldn't be all to bad. Noooo, it wouldn't be uncomfortable at all to perform a sexual act with an individual he had no attraction to....

'Why couldn't it have been the Engineer,' the Medic thought listlessly. That would be easier, at least the doctor enjoyed his company...

Stirring from his sleep, probably woken by his own loud snoring, Heavy sat up. His eyes crossed in a daze but focused quickly on the Medic as if trying to recall where they were and if they were in the middle of training or not.

The German murmured a "You are fine, just rest...".

And with a big half sleepy smile, Heavy laid his head down once more to rest for the ten minutes left of their hour. Medic didn't know why but felt compelled to gently reach over and rub the back of the man's head in a soothing manner. The sleeping man sounded like a large purring beast as he adjusted his head into a more comfortable position.

In all of his time at the base, Medic had never really considered his Russian comrade as a person rather than a tool. He'd never noticed the way the man's shoulders sat unevenly, probably due to the strain his weapon put on his dominant arm. The tiny peaks of the Heavy's shoulder blades poked from beneath the thick skin of his bare back. Medic watched the muscles beneath the man's skin twitch as he began to drift deeper into sleep. The doctor was still gently stroking the Russian's head...

"ALRIGHT YOU COCK SUCKING MAGGOTS!!"

Medic jumped, completely unprepared for the loud outburst, but it was nothing compared to Heavy who sat bolt up right screaming "RED SCOUT HAS SANVICH!!" The leg of his chair snapped sending him backwards, roaring until he smacked the floor like a piece of meat.

Soldier continued on, seemingly louder, if that were at all possible, "I DO NOT REMEMBER GIVING YOU PERMISSION TO FALL, PRIVATE!"

The doctor leaned over the table worried the man might have a concussion. Heavy lugged himself up slowly, the sharp adrenaline rush leaving him panting and wide-eyed.

"FIIIIVE MINUTES!" he turned on his heels and left the room.

The Russian gripped his head giving a grumbling moan, finally on his feet. Medic looked him over and deemed him fine.

"Ze sooner ve get out zere, ze faster zis vill be ovah, ja?"

Heavy nodded, "Vat does eet say for me to do?" he asked, pointing to the script.

"Ah it looks as though you have ze easy part, just laying back and relaxing..."

"Vat does doktor do?"

Medic tried not to let his face twist into a sour expression but could not hold back, "Just vorry about yourself, it vill be obvious shortly..."

Heavy yawned looking tired once more, unwilling to continue his line of questioning. He followed the Medic onto the staging area.

Sniper was seated behind the camera that was pointed off to the right of the set, towards the large expanse of the room that held most of the BLU team members. Spy stood leaning back onto a table, watching the Demo and Scout laughing. Pyro watched the Scout angrily, dropping a tray of food onto the table next to the masked assassin. With a muffled grumble the rubber-suit headed back to the kitchen to fetch the rest of the food for the cast.

Engineer was hunched over on the floor trying to repair a frayed wire mumbling to himself, "Wish the kid would stop kicking around this cord..." He only stopped to look up and stare as the Medic, who was only clad in his rubber gloves and a towel pass by him, stepping over the hardhat's equipment with care. Heavy dragged his feet, taking the same path. Engineer quickly grabbed the bundles of wires to keep the big man from tripping over them.

The Russian, clad only in his pants and large boots (as per their scripted directions) sat himself down onto one of the staged crates as fatigue overtook him again. He yawned as he rubbed his big balled up fists into his eyes, attempting to rub the sleep from them. He leaned back and let the noise of the room wash over him, tuning out what they were saying. Their voices became white noise, lulling him into a serene state of mind.

"ALRIGHT! I WANT THIS DONE IN ONE SHOT! WE ARE WORKING WITH LIMITED AMMO!-"

"Film." Sniper corrected the American.

"Alright, Gentlemen, you have prepared for ze scene, non?" a smirk quipped at Spy's lips as he addressed the two, "got in enough practice?"

Medic grumbled at the Spy, but Heavy could only wonder what he was talking about.

Scout clamored with the boom mic, "C'MON let the cocksucking faggot-ing begin!!"

Medic attempted to find his 'happy place' so he could escape any mental scarring from what he was about to do to the large man, as the Soldier yelled "THE CAMERA CAN GO ON NOW!" and the Sniper replied with "You mean 'action', mate".

'What was the last good lay I've had?', the doctor thought as he centered himself between the Russian's legs, leaning up with the beginnings of a grin playing at his lips, 'Mmm, tall, blonde German soldier. He was a good fuck, even if he was all energy and no form.'

Heavy's face turned red, still half lidded with sleep, completely caught up in the moment as the Medic's mouth went to his neck. He groaned and began to push his hips forward. The veil of sleepiness amplified the wonderful little shots of intense sensations; lips dragging down the skin of his neck and up to his jawline. To his dismay, the doctor avoided mouth to mouth contact even as he a gave a small begging whine. Rubber covered fingertips dug into the skin of his back.

Heavy couldn't care that the others were watching, sneering at the two of them. In fact, he barely noticed....

"CLOSE UP! THERE!" the Soldier burst out standing immediately behind the Sniper, who slammed his eye socket into the sight of the camera.

"What the fuck man!" Scout yanked the headphone from his ear as feedback came screeching through.

Medic looked over his shoulder, angrily, completely thrown from his fantasy.

"KEEP ROLLING, KEEP ACTING!"

Heavy grunted, eyes squeezed shut, face flushed as the Medic dragged his fingers over the man's skin in a smooth tantalizing way, still scowling at the film crew. The Russian began to undo his own pants, tugging them down so that his erection was freed. He couldn't wait, he groaned for attention.

"Goddamn thing..." Sniper growled trying to reposition the clunky old camera. He cursed at it as it began clicking loudly, "film's fucking stuck..."

"Hold on, hold on, lemme see what's goin' on..." the Engineer said, intervening.

Just as the Medic was about to get up and call it quits he felt a hand on his, pulling his palm, wrapping his fingers around the Heavy's long thick cock.

"Please...do not stop..." the large man's eyebrows knit together.

The doctor pulled his hand away and slowly removed his gloves, eyes locked on the face above him that looked so painfully wrapped in passion.

Only a few simple touches sent the man into this kind of state? What would happen if...

Medic licked his palm and began to work the man's erection slowly, in long strokes. Heavy bumped his head back against a crate, shifting it slightly.

The group behind the doctor had congregated around the camera, bickering with each other, pointing at wires and yelling orders to the Engineer who was more than slightly pissed off at the interruption. "Fucking cock blocking BLUs...", he grumbled to himself.

Hips rolling in precise rhythm, Heavy bit down on his fingers, the intense pleasure rising. Medic found the entire scene enthralling; the way the man moved. With each hard stroke, the man jerked forward. He squeezed the head of the Russian's cock as he came to the top and the man would groan.

Heavy's jaw hung slack and his body, as big as it was, moved in a strangely erotic fashion, his stomach tightening causing him to curl forward slightly.

"M-more...please..."

Medic couldn't remember what went through his mind, but he found himself compelled to wrap his lips around the man's cock and take the entire length into his throat. Heavy's legs parted, he bent over completely, stopping short of grabbing the doctor's head for fear he might quit the wonderful swirling strokes of his tongue. The German's mouth was so hot and wet, like he imagined, and it felt wonderful as it moved up and down . The tight seal formed by his lips dragged his skin up and down with it.

Words failed the Russian as he tried to warn the Medic how close he was to orgasm and how fucking good it all felt; it all came out in a loud growl that was drowned out by the sound of their arguing team mates. His eyes rolled back as he came.

"Stop TOUCHIN' on it kid!!" Engineer shoved the bouncy little Scout away from the camera, untangling the film carefully.

Medic swallowed, feeling confused and turned on all at the same time.

With little jolts of movements as his limbs continued to spasm, the big Russian man leaned back slowly, closing his eyes and letting sleep overtake him.

Engie closed the hatch on the video camera declaring, "THERE! It's fixed!"

"Woll, someones gotta wake the big guy up now..." Sniper glanced over the few heads in front of him to the sleeping Heavy.

Medic stared blankly at the floor for a second before making eye contact with the others. They hadn't seen or noticed a thing...

"Bah!" Demo took swig of his drink, "'e'll never wake up now, looka him!"

"Let the sleeping dog...giant..lay or whatever the fuck...either way I'm not goin' over there, so you can stop looking at ME, ya baguette munchin' faggot."

Spy growled, "Fine zen, doctor," he called out, "we'll finish zees tomorrow!-"

Medic pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. At least he could say he had practice now.

THANK YOU. I was waiting for someone to post this SO MUCH; I haven't seen many fics where Medic is indifferent to Heavy at first. But is I Eat Paste still on the Chan? I haven't seen them.

Does anyone have whatever was posted of fivetail's visitation fic? Will they be posting it any of it here?

We badly need vivisectionist medic and you. If there's one out there someone post it, if not I'll have to take a stab at writing it.

Wrong thread, this is what I get for tabbed browsing. Good job to everything who dug up fics.

On the old chan, there was a fic with Heavy finger-fucking Scout and another Scout/Heavy story involving a reacharound. Anyone want to repost them?

>>17

Is this it? ((Note, I did not write this; I think RobotLyra did, but don't quote me on it!))

Medic and You Part 1

You have just decided that musical accompanimunt for a routine medical examination is in fact a very bad idea. It's not that you aren't a music lover, your copy of Pet Sounds with grooves worn down close to non-existence attests to that. It's just that if you had the choice, you'd really prefer something other than the howl of german opera. But the immaculate gleam of the medical office is firmly the realm of the Medic, and judging from the scratch and hiss of the record, Der Ring des Nibelungen is on permanent rotation, and not likely to be displaced for anything short of Ragnarok itself. So you grit your teeth through another earsplitting aria and hope to get this over with as soon as possible.

It's not that you don't appreciate the Doctor and what he does, oh far from it. He's saved skins more times than you can count. It's just he's a little... what's the word ... intense? Something about him makes it difficult for you to relax. Maybe it's that his accent is a little intimidating. Maybe it's the fact that his eyes are a shade of blue so deep that it doesn't seem entirely normal. Or it could be that just last week you saw him disembowel an enemy spy using nothing more than a repurposed bonesaw. Whatever the case, sitting on a cold steel exam table in your unmentionables sure isn't helping matters.

In the meantime, the Medic seems unnaturally cheerful today. While he's certainly at home in a skirmish, this office is where he's most comfortable. From the crisp click of his immaculately shined boots on the laminate floor to the flawless white of his jacket (how the hell DOES he get those bloodstains out every time?), every inch of him exudes confidence and energy. You fight off a wave of goosebumps, cursing inwardly.

He examines a clipboard, adjusting the round glasses on his nose, humming quietly. “Now, how are ve feeling today, hm?”

“Well no extra holes as of late, so pretty good I'd wager!” Your weak smile wilts into a chewed lip under the ultramarine gaze.

The levity shoots right by him. He scribbles briefly on the clipboard. “Yes, yes. Good. Now hop on the scale, bitte.”

He starts putting you through the motions of the standard physical. Weight, height, visual observation, all that. Even with the melodramatic howling in the background, you think you're finally beginning to ease up. Then a rubber gloved finger artfully traces the alignment of your spine.

Goddamnit, ANOTHER wave of goosebumps. You're praying he doesn't notice as you hop back up on the table, but oh goody here comes the stethoscope. At least now you can blame it on the little cold metal pad.

He places the stethoscope pad onto your skin in the hollow of your chest, and you just manage not to startle when it makes contact, but before you can congratulate yourself on not looking like a complete idiot, you can see his brow furrowing. He pauses, makes a little doubtful noise in his throat. And just when he lifts the device away, and you think he's moved on, you realize he's just going over to turn down that stupid record player.

In the silence of that examination room, the cacophony of Wagner was never more missed than now. He returns and listens again to your pulse, and tells you what you're already painfully aware of.

“Your heart rate is elevated.”

Before you can respond, he's reached the pad around to your back, arm nearly curled around you. “Breathe deeply”, he orders. He's focusing on you intently now, as you try your damnedest to inhale normally. A few gasps and rattles later, and his brow has dropped even lower.

“You are very tense.” He announces as he returns to his clipboard. “Perhaps the conditions here are beginning to tax you.” He pauses as he finishes his scribbling. “Or, is there another reason, possibly, vhy you could be so nervous?” His expression indicates that he clearly suspects the latter.

“I-I'm sorry... I guess I'm just not that good with... doctor's appointments.” You blather. The statement is ALMOST true. You'd probably be a lot more relaxed if you didn't have those eyes bearing down on you, like you were some sort of specimen to be dissected, opened up to have all your secrets revealed.

He sucks his teeth in vague irritation, a soft sharp little noise that makes you check slightly. “Basic medical examination is intended to detect and diagnose problems BEFORE they become serious. There is no reason to be so high strung. But if you do not relax, I cannot check you properly.”

You attempt to hide a pout as well as you can manage (not very), and try to focus on something else. Maybe if you can just get your mind off it, you can get it over with. And that's when your eyes land on a little black case in the corner of the office, almost hidden by another jacket on the rack.

“Wait, you brought that to field operations?”

“It alvays comes vith me.” He replies tersely, marking a few notes.

“Huh, so I guess you play, right?”

“Mmm.” He makes a noise in affirmative, and tries to get back to his poking and prodding of your flesh.

“Then how come I've never heard you?”

Now it's his turn to look uncomfortable. To be honest, it's a little unusual. You've never seen that kind of expression on his face.

“It is not important. Now hold your arms out in front of you.”

You follow his directions, but continue your interrogation. “Come on. If you love that thing enough to bring it with you into a war zone, then you must be really good at playing it.”

“A true musician is never fully satisfied with his skills.” He partially mutters, slipping a pressure cuff around your arm.

“That's not really an answer.” As the cuff tightens around your arm, it occurs to you suddenly. “Waiiiiit. You're embarassed about it, aren't you?”

“I have NO idea vhat you're talking about.” He snatches the pressure cuff off, and sulks over to the jars of medical supplies on the shelf. It is eminently clear that your positions have been inverted.

“It's not a big deal to be embarrased by something. I mean, look at me.” You try to be as pleasant as possible, but he marches back and jams a tongue depressor into your mouth.

“Pah, nonsense. I have nothing to be embarassed about.” He growls as he shines a light onto your tonsils.

“Ehn ay or eee.” You mumble around the mouthful of popsicle stick.

“Vhat vas that?” He removes the popsicle stick from your mouth and you repeat yourself.

“Then play for me.”

He freezes, in mid notation. You can't help but smile a just a little. “Come on. Play something for me. Just me, nobody else. I promise I won't tell anyone else about it.”

You can see the expressions on his face changing, as his train of thought gathers steam. Finally he glares at you.

“I vill play for you, but not now. Later. Tonight. After Call to Quarters.” He snaps. It takes him a moment to comport himself. “Now can ve continue vith the YOUR examination, bitte?”

“Yes I think so.” And your curiosity and anticipation does indeed make the rest of the appointment go much smoother.

You realize you've never seen the Medic out of uniform before. In these later hours of the evening, in the golden-lit comfort of his quarters, he has dispensed with the white overcoat and the constricting tie, leaving him in his shirtsleeves, rolled up to his elbows and collar opened. He's also, oddly enough, barefoot, a token of casualness that nearly takes you aback. But he seats you on his bed with that familiar air of definitive action.

The violin case is set on a small table, along with the record player. In the corner of the room he rifles through a box full of records, and selects one. You can't make the title out from where you're sitting, and he notes your craning to see. He turns the sleeve over, and tsks quietly. “Now. You asked to hear me play, and you vill. But none of your prying beforehand. Just sit and listen.” He sets the vinyl onto the turntable and takes up the violin case.

When he opens it, you catch the gleam of amber wood. But as he draws it out, the instrument appears clearly scarred: there are superficial scratches and burns, the blister of a patched bullet hole, and splattered haphazardly across the entire object, the maroon glare of what can only be dried blood.

You make to ask a question, but catch yourself as he starts twiddling the pegs and checking the tune. He has that look on his face that tells you interruption is out of the question. When he's finally satisfied with the sound, he sets the needle on the record player.

The record must be a recorded audio accompanimunt, and the track ticks rhythmically for a few beats, the sound of a metronome counting in the time signature. After one measure, it fades to silence, and the Medic draws the bow across his violin.

The quiet, chill tone of piano on the record, is a distant contrast to the warm, rich voice of the instrument played before you in the here and now. His eyes close as he focuses entirely on the music, which is all the better for you, because you don't realize that your mouth is hanging slightly ajar until the piece is almost complete. There is a familiarity in his posture, his expression, that same intensity that made you pause before, but now, in the intimacy of his room, with his music, it draws you in like a moth to a flame.

You raise your hands in quiet, heartfelt applause, and struggle for the right praise. After a moment or two you manage to settle on “That was AMAZING, what was it?”

He turns his face away slightly, but not soon enough for you to miss the slight rosyness on his face. He clears his throat in a businesslike manner and mutters. “J.S. Bach, Air in G. It was adequate. My vibrato lacks clarity, however.”

“Will you quit the modesty act? You're incredible! The best I ever heard!”

He rubs the back of his neck with one hand, somewhat flustered by the praise, but he doesn't take it badly. “Thank you... but I feel I lack interpretive skill. Anyone can become passably proficient vith enough practice, but true art takes years of development.”

“It's more than I could do, I doubt I could get one squeak out that didn't sound terrible.” You inch over to one side of the bed a little self consciously as he sits beside you.

“Nonsense. Everyone loves music in some form. So everyone can be taught. In some form.” His voice is slipping into a softer register, and he is watching you intently again. Not the surgical, scruitinizing stare of earlier today, but something entirely different. It makes you shift slightly as you sit. He takes the inch you've given and presses closer by another half.

“I don't know...” you start, but trail off.

“It is not so difficult,” he murmurs. His arms bring the violin up towards you, and he tucks it gently under your chin. One broad hand takes yours and delicately presses your index finger down onto the fingerboard. His other arm brings the bow around and he draws out the note. “E. And now to G.” He moves your fingers again, and the calloused pads press one down into a new position. “A,” he breathes against your cheek, and draws again. This continues for a while, but soon your hands are laid gently aside as he takes up the melody, chin hooked gently over your shoulder. He is murmuring something softly, actually singing, right into your ear, something in german...“Wie lieblich sind deine Wohnungen...”

Your hands, now free, have slipped down by your sides, and one rests on his knee. You can't stop it from gripping slightly as his lips brush across your ear as he continues, “Meine Seele verlanget und sehnet sich...” And then, he presses a kiss to it.

Your gasp carries more voice than expected, but he laughs softly, and goes along with it. “Such a sound. Those who cannot play can always sing. I have played for you, vill you sing for me, Kleine?” His mouth, warm and insistent, inches its way down your cheek to settle in the hollow of your neck.

You can only manage a soft moan, and you realize he's set the violin aside and enfolded you entirely in his arms. One hand reaches up to graze against your throat while the other presses low on your belly. “Vhere talent is lacking passion vill aid, for vithout passion, all is mere clockvork,” he rumbles against your neck. The lower hand dips under fabric, seeking skin.

You burst out with another little sound of surprise, and you hear his amused hum. “The racing heartbeat again. Vas this the reason all along?” The thickening haze of arousal is momentarily cleared by the realization that he can actually mark your pulse from merely pressing his mouth against that swelling vein in your throat.

He growls, as his hand dips lower, pushing clothes out of the way on the journey down in between your legs. “They vere leery of my 'passions' in Greifswald. But how can I deny them? Mein Leib und Seele freuen sich,” he intones, and a cool even line of teeth graze against your skin.

“Oh god,” you can't help but gasp out, as he finds you, deep down, and begins to stroke, deft surgeon's hands working with diabolical skill. You note helplessly that he has pulled you fully onto his lap by now, and his other hand is working to rid you of your shirt.

“And it appears I am not alone,” he laughs gently, in between nibbles. When he has managed to pull the shirt off, he tilts your face towards his with his free hand, and kisses you fully. His lips are soft compared to the rough trace of stubble that lies as a shadow under his skin. The press of dark, wet velvet takes over your mouth, and leaves your moans muffled.

He breaks the kiss, gradually, and fixes you with those eyes again, and they are dark, dark blue, almost black in this low light. “Now tell vhat you vant...”

His fingers inside of you twist out another wave of pleasure and you're about to moan for him to hurry up and make love to you before you lose your senses but he presses a finger to your lips first.

His smile is the like brief gleam of a concealed knife, and he purrs. “Ah ah... in deutsche.”

You flounder desperately, trying to remember any of the little snippets of german he has attempted to ingrain in you, but his warmth and his stare and the imperative hardness of him pressing into you makes it nearly impossible. You whimper plaintively the only thing you manage to hold onto even now “...bitte.”

His smile softens in mercy, and he cups your chin. “Ah, schwach kleine. I should not be so cruel.” His thumb traces the line of your lower lip. “You vould say: Eroberst mich.”

“Eroberst mich.” You repeat. “What does it mean?”

“It means, 'take me.'”

Your eyes widen, and his mouth falls over yours again, muting any further commentary.

He keeps you on his lap somehow in the frenzy of movement and the tangle of limbs, while he strips the rest of your clothes, and bares his own skin as well, leaving only his white shirt open and flung haphazardly around his shoulders. His strength startles you as he lifts you up, one arm under your legs, and eases the blushed length of his erection into you with infinite care. Enthroned on his lap and full to the point of ecstasy, you claw fruitlessly behind you to get more of him in your grasp, and settle for looping your arms up and behind, to thread through his hair. He rocks forward and up, with a little moan, fingers on your chest grazing roughly across a nipple. The other snakes down your front again, more free without the constriction of clothes, to work its magic.

You wish you knew German, because he is saying such terrible, wonderful things in your ear in between the nips and the licks, things that sound both elegant and profane at the same time in that guttural tongue. But you settle for the sound of his voice getting higher and louder as he presses into you again and again, and your near wordless moans are accompaniment enough.

You can feel the heat of him as his stomach and chest press up against your back, and one hand splays over your chest, a cage to catch your pounding heart. He nips at your earlobe and slides back into English just long enough to growl, “Sing, sing for me!”

You can't help but oblige him as he presses in again, and his hand between your legs circles insistently, pulling an aching soprano cry out of your throat. He matches it with a wail of his own, before urgently bringing your face around to kiss you again. Under the hood of your half-lidded eyes, you can see his face, blushed with abandon, hair slightly askew, fine dark brows knitted in rapture. Even in this madness of pleasure, you take care to remember it, for he has never looked more beautiful.

He gives a harsh little shout, and tightens, all around you, as he slips over the edge. Then, a shuddering moan slips out and he drapes himself over your shoulder, as you follow after him, breathless and dewed with perspiration. In his completion, he eases backwards onto the bed, taking you with him. Rolled onto your side, he curls around you, one arm flung haphazardly over your body. When the rattle of both your breathing has finally dwindled and he has slipped delicately out of you, you hear his soft, musical laughter on the back of your neck, as he presses a final kiss there.

“A fine performance, don't you think?” He muses.

You nuzzle back against him as he reaches over and sets his glasses down on the table. “I'd say a standing ovation is in order, but I don't think either of us can at the moment.”

His short bark of laughter makes you smile as much as the fingers that flicker up your side.
“Vell put, Kleine. Vell put.”

((Once again; didn't write this.))

Medic and You Part 2: Verboten

It's been three weeks since your little private performance with the Medic. Since then, the doctor decided that it would be in the best interests of the both of you, if the dalliances were kept sub rosa. He is nothing, if not devoted to at least appearing professional. And as if to emphasize the fact, a sudden burst of particularly intense combat with the opposite team makes it nearly impossible to meet with him, even if the scandal of discovery meant nothing to the both of you.

The frenzy of activity does nothing to distract you from your growing longing, however. You see him out in the field, in each skirmish. You watch him as he follows the surge of the attack, swift and sure, boosting his comrades in both strength and morale. You watch as he races back and forth, just inches from the line of fire, as you defend your base from a payload attack. You watch as he works to heal all the wounds, with the sternness of his clinical detachment, and yet with the unspoken tenderness of a dear friend. Your eyes meet across the battlefield, from time to time. And you can see the smile that curls ever so faintly across his lips.

It seems that even he is not immune to longing, though. He begins to tease, as combat starts tapering off. His touch lingers, as you congratulate amongst yourselves after a successful sortie. He watches you, pointedly, through another of Soldier's blustering tactical dissertations. At one point he even catches you by surprise, in an empty hallway, coming up behind as stealthily as a Spy. His arms loop around your body briefly and his stubbled jaw skims against your cheek. “Soon, mein herz...” he rumbles into your ear, and before you can whirl around and grab a hold of him, he is already striding off, as cool and unflustered as ever.

He is driving you mad.

And then, mercifully, the fighting trickles to a halt. The opposing team driven back to lick its wounds and regroup, you find yourselves in a temporary cease fire. You are both barely even off the field and into the base when his gloved fingers creep over the back of your neck. He purrs softly, “2200, tonight,” before slipping away, leaving you to cling for dear life to the doorframe, lest your legs give out entirely.

The rest of your teammates have settled in for the night, when you finally slip round the corner and down the stairs to his quarters. You have to stop to collect yourself so you don't knock too hard on his door, but your knuckles have barely tapped once before you hear him answer, “Come in, kleine.” You claw at the knob, barely keeping yourself from flinging the door open, you simply cannot wait any longer. You must have him again, have him pressed against you, or you're certain you'll lose your mind.

What you see waiting in the room promptly erases all thoughts in your head from existence.

The Medic is there, seated easily in his little swiveling chair, legs crossed saucily. He sets aside his journal and pen, as a smile of beatific innocence plays across his features. It is all in complete contrast to the black SS uniform he's wearing.

Your mouth makes a few open and shut movements while the door squeaks closed behind you, shutting with a faint, yet ominous click.

“Schätzchen, is somezing troubling you?” His tone is light and musical, and combined with that grin of his, it hits you like cold grease trickling down the back of your neck. You raise a hand and gesture vaguely at him, and mumble something about why or how or oh god you can't possibly be.

He raises one eyebrow and then remarks airily, as if your reaction is a totally unexpected surprise to him. “Oh, zis uniform? You vish to know how I came to have it?”

You can only swallow and nod slightly as he rises from his chair, and prowls toward you, chatting as conversationally as if he were at afternoon tea. “I recall, I had just returned to Greifswald University vhen it reopened in '46, and I vas not there even a veek before I got some strange mail. Some distant relative, a step-cousin or an uncle, tvice removed, something like zat, killed in action, and his personal effects had to be returned to zhe family. But he had no living direct kin, and so the package kept passing hands, until it arrived in mine. Inside vas zhis uniform.”

He plucks idly at a shiny silver button. “I meant to dispose of the verdammten thing, no man vith sense in his head vould be caught vith a Waffen uniform on his hands vith the Red Army routing the local garrison for trial. But... I just could not. Somezhing about it compelled me to keep it. I heard rumors about its psychological impact on ozhers. To be entirely honest, I never believed something as simple as an item of clothing could elicit a .... vhat is the vord... visceral response. But I vas curious. And I remained curious, when I noted it vas almost nearly my own size.”

As he draws close to you, you can see how it fits him, indeed almost his own size, but perhaps a little snug across the chest, and the line of the dress jacket sits a little high on his hips. But even so, it looks good on him. Far too good. The clean, crisp lines and the shining leather belt around his waist accentuate his already impressive physique, which is not quite yet softening into the effects of middle age. And then there's the color. Black just suits him, for some reason. Keeping the suit hidden has only kept it from fading; it is black as ink, crow feathers, midnight, black as charcoal.

He lifts your chin with one appraising finger “I can see now zhere is some credence to zhe claims. You seem frightened, Liebeling. Tense.” A gloved thumb traces the line of your bottom lip. “You have shown such behavior once before. Vhen you vere in my office, under my examination.” He draws close enough to press you back against the door, looming over and pressing his forehead against yours. “Do fear because zhe uniform strikes it into your soul as zhey were touted to do? Or do you fear because you desire zhis?”

Your jaw works a little, while your mind attempts to reboot, and come up with a valid excuse or protest, but he seals your lips with one finger. He has apparently been preparing for this little exercise for quite some time, and there is no stopping him now. You find yourself questioning whether you even want him to stop.

“I have a theory,” he muses. “Zhe item itself is not zhe focus of desire, but zhe simple fact zhat it is verboten. Vhen one should not vant, one only vants it more.” He begins trailing a hand down his neck, and starts undoing buttons. “Zhe only vay I can think to properly treat such a condition is to indulge it.”
He grasps one of your hands in his, and brings it up to his now bared chest, to flatten over the hollow where his heart lies. His pulse is strong under your fingertips, and a nipple rises to attention as your fingers graze past. “Ve shall desensitize you, until your guilt is gone.” He moves your hand inexorably downward, to rest at the waistband of the jodhpurs. “And to start, you must come face to face vith your anxiety.” A quirk of his eyebrow suggests exactly HOW you will be facing things.

As you kneel between his legs, your mind races for an alibi. Just imagine you're sucking off a cop instead, something trite like that. Oh I had no idea I was going so fast, officer, do you think you could let me off with a warning? Cliche, tame enough, keep your eyes closed and you won't be able to tell the difference. But as he reaches down, and cups your chin upwards, you are forced to meet that glacial gaze, that carnivorous smile, and there's no excuse your mind can make. You're pleasuring a man who looks like the pride of the Party, and you realize with a guilty writhing in your stomach that you are enjoying it.

You fiddle awkwardly with the buttons on the woolen pants. The suit smells like gunpowder, the mustiness of age and old cedar, which mixes with the Medic's usual bouquet of alcohol antiseptic and the distant chill of peppermint. You pull him out of the fly, and he's already hard. Maybe this whole uniform thing makes him as hot as it does you, but he's a lot less torn up about it. Hell, he looks like he loves every minute of it. He paws gently through your hair, and curls fingers around the shell of your ears as you lean in and gently presses your lips to his heated flesh.

Although fully in control, he is gentle and patient, and lets you explore with your mouth at your leisure. He hums appreciatively as kisses turn into full-tongued licks, tracing his contours. “Sehr gut,” he murmurs, and you shiver slightly. He is apparently not even going to give you the mercy of his silence either. “Remember, kleine, it is just a uniform...” he comments amusedly above you, and the softness of his belly moves with his warm laughter.

Well, if he's going to be all chatty about this little hang-up, then you're going to make it difficult for him to speak, you decide. Eyebrows knit with concentration, you take him into your mouth as much as is comfortably possible. The pressure of your suction causes him to clutch tighter into your hair and reduces him to a shuddering moan. “Nnn! Mein Gott...” he sputters briefly, before lapsing into silence broken only by the rough panting of his breath.

You continue in this way, hungrily lapping and suckling, edging further into arousal as you listen to his moans. You wonder how close he is to the edge when suddenly, he tenses, and abruptly pulls you away from him, both hands framing your jaw. He pulls you upwards, to assault you with a hungry kiss. The pressure, the warmth, the intensity of it is so arresting that you barely even notice that he's maneuvered you over to the bed, until your knees are folded underneath you by contact. Falling back on the covers with a startled gasp, he arches over you, open shirt like drooping black wings.

A frenzy of tugged clothes and hurried kisses ensues, he kisses every part of you that becomes exposed, from throat to chest to belly, flicking at your nipples, dipping into the hollow of your navel, and even down between your legs, paying back your previous obedience in full. The sweet agony of his mouth is momentary, however, and you can see the hunger glittering in his eyes, as he just barely tugs the jodhpurs down his hips enough to be out of the way.

A moment of profound silence as he stops, and drags gloved fingers down your body. “You vant I should leave the jack-boots on?” he muses, and the smirk that settles on his face would tempt a saint.

Shame be damned, you grab him by the lapels of the uniform, knuckles white against fine black wool, and pull him down until chests meet and bodies rub together. “Shut up and just give it to me already,” you hiss into his ear.

He enters you with a shudder and a smile of vicious indulgence, while one gloved hand reaches up to pin your wrists above your head. The other lingers down at the space between your hips, and he doubles your bliss with his skillful attentions. He grinds into you, smooth and firm, and it is exactly what you need. You are pinned down under his hands, under the control of a black-clothed conqueror, helpless to do anything but ride out his passions, and it is ecstasy.

At some point in the fierce tangle, he releases your arms, and they immediately wrap around him again to hold on for dear life. He buries his face in the side of your neck to lave and suckle the tendons and the pulse of the vein there, while stubble frictions your cheek into sudden heat. Moving upwards, teeth are grazing across the curve of your ear. When he actually traces the curvature with his tongue, you gasp something incoherent, and your fingers claw bluntly along his back. He is pressing into you and on top of you, driven deep into the mattress by his weight, and you can feel his heat where you join, and it's all cluttering together in a mix of sensation and sound, and when he thrusts into you a final time, you can feel his release deep inside. As his expression melts from exquisite torment to satisfaction, you spill over the edge at that very moment, high and white and perfect.

Sense returns, to find him still sprawled over your body, breathing slow and deep. You lay there, for a few moments, then comb idly through his hair with a free hand. It seems to rouse him from his stupor. He arches up and away, but not before favoring you with a tender kiss.

He finally pulls the uniform off, and examines it, looking distastefully at the stains of sweat and human release. “A sorry state,” he muses, as he lays it carelessly on the chair.

“We'll have to be more careful next time.”

He turns towards you, and the look of wonder and faint curiosity on his face is almost as good as the look of his climax. “Next time?” he asks, gesturing to the clothes.

All you answer him with is a smile.

I LOVED THIS. Scratched my uniform-kink itch wonderfully, and I have a special...interest in those black leather SS uniforms. Mmmmm...Medic in an SS uniform...I'll be in my bunk.

>>64
Yups, that's the one RobotLyra wrote. Mmmm, that SS uniform just tickles my fancy.

>>67

Thanks for clearing that one up for me! I always liked this one!

>>2

I have the rest of "Phenomenology". Would you like me to post it up?

Didn't say it was bad, just said it needs to be beta'd.

Does anyone happen to have all of Bunkmates? It was a Sniper/Spy fic, and I have the first two parts, and I would really like the ending. I remember it got posted, I just forgot to save it. Much love and muffins for anyone who can send it my way.

>>71
Here's all I have (seven parts, I'm not sure how long the whole thing was):
http://www.mediafire.com/?dka0f5gdyc51vcd

>>72
Oh thank you so much. I appreciate it.

Oh derp. That's the part I had. I remember there was a second thread with the ending. Arg, ellusive little thing

OH SH-T, I should have checked this place first. Thanks for all the reposts guys/gals. This is wonderful.

>>43

A pet sniper/medic? WANT please!

I'm looking for that one really hot Scout-Medic-Heavy threesome with a jealousy kink. I forgot the author, but I remember the basic plot was that Medic got jealous of how Heavy was using the cart to heal instead of him, and went to the Scout to get some petty revenge. It was so very hot and in character...

Also, I'm looking for that one where they all went shopping.

>>77

I have one where the entire team goes grocery shopping, but there's no sex in it at all and you asked about it in afanfic so I don't know if it's what you're talking about.

I think this is it, Graph.

THE SHAPE OF A BOOMERANG (by Insidiae?)


It had seemed so important at the time.

Thunder Mountain was an invaluable resource that BLU needed to control, no matter what. Somehow, RED had managed to get a hold on it first, as they always did – something Medic couldn’t understand, especially when he was certain that Thunder Mountain had been discovered by BLU’s Engineer while he was looking over his grandfather’s blueprints – and once again, BLU was forced to push their way through the territory, hauling their cart of supplies behind them.

The Administrator was there too, of course, calling the shots and demeaning members of both teams no matter how well they did. Medic had the sneaking suspicion that she knew about Thunder Mountain long before anyone else.

“Mission will begin in thirty seconds.”

Medic stood behind Heavy, building up an Uber. “I am fully charged,” he announced, with 5 seconds left in set up.

Heavy grinned at him as the gates opened, then shot off faster than Medic had ever seen him move. Medic was briefly paralyzed by his surprise, then scrambled to catch up with the large man who was standing next to the cart, slowing crawling up with it.

“Herr Heavy,” he panted, “vhat do you think you are doing?” He raised his medigun to release the Ubercharge, but Heavy pushed it to the side.

“Ne,” he said with a shake of his head. “Don’t, Doktor.”

Medic blinked at him. “Was?”

“I have cart,” Heavy said. He laid a large hand on the metal rim, caressing it almost lovingly. “Is good enough. You should help others.” As if to prove his point, a well-hidden mini-sentry opened fire on them. Medic watched as Heavy gleefully raised Sasha, shattering the mounted gun, while a healing blue stream from the cart closed his wounds.

“Herr Heavy-”

“Leetle man needs help,” Heavy insisted. Sure enough, Medic could hear Scout’s cry of, “Doc! Come on, man!” in the distance.

But that wasn’t the point. The point was that no one was as well-suited as Heavy to be healed by Medic. Soldier and Demoman were good second choices, but they tended to rocket- and sticky-jump to areas Medic couldn’t reach, leaving him stranded. Pyro was okay, but lacked the heavy fire power that really benefited from an Ubercharge. Engineer had his dispenser for all of his healing needs. Sniper never went to the front lines, and thus an Uber would be wasted on him, and he couldn’t heal Spy because that would give away his position.

And Scout… Scout would just wait until was fully healed, before running off again without a care in the world, leaving Medic in his dust.

Medic opened his mouth to voice his objections, but Heavy sent him a look that silenced his protests. "I am fine, Doktor."

"Alright," Medic said, resisting the urge to snarl. "Fine." Fine. He grit his teeth and left Heavy with his precious cart in search of Scout, the ire withing him rising with every step he took. He couldn't explain why exactly Heavy's refusal made him so enraged, only that he needed some outlet to let it loose.

That was then.

Now, however, lying on his back with Scout hovering between his legs, Medic can't help but think that his response may have been somewhat juvenile.

And how exactly did they end up in this position? Medic remembers the slow push of the cart up the mountain, the Administrator's bored sigh of, "Victory," the RED running away, defenseless. He remembers his anger blocking all thought, even the delight of winning, and then there was Scout, whooping with joy, and-

"You sure about this, Doc?"

Medic glares up at Scout, because what the hell kind of question is that when they're both already naked and sprawled on the floor of the former RED base? "Are you having second zhoughts?"

"No!" Scout says quickly. Unable to keep still even now, he runs one hand up and down Medic's thigh, and the older man appreciates the gentle gesture. "It's just, I thought you and lard-face were..."

Medic raises an eyebrow. "Vould it really matter to you if ve vere?"

"Hey man, not cool," Scout murmurs. "I ain't no home-wrecker." As he says this, however, he slides a hand between Medic's legs, nudging a condom-covered finger at the cleft of his ass.

Medic sighs as that finger starts to push in, reveling in the feeling. It's been so long since he's been on the receiving end, since Heavy is always afraid he'll...

At that thought, Medic scowls. "Herr Heavy and I are teammates und comrades und nozhing else. Ve vork vell togezher. Zhat is all."

Scout pauses. He slowly rolls the condom onto a second finger, looking down at Medic pensively. Finally, he says, "Don't bullshit me, Doc. I've heard you two fucking."

"So vhat?" Medic snorts. "Ve are having sex now. Does zhat mean you vant to marry me?"

Scout sighs and pushes both fingers into Medic. He understands the appeal of casual sex well enough, especially given the circumstances. He pushes his fingers against the inner walls of Medic's ass, but jerks to a stop when a smooth hand closes around his own erection. "Whoa- fuck!"

"I am getting impatient," Medic says dryly. His thumb flicks over the tip of Scout's arousal in a way that makes him yowl. "Eizher fuck me or leave."


"J-Jesus fucking-" Scout pulls away, just enough for him to bend backwards - remarkably lithe, the boy is - and reach into his shorts. He grabs another condom from a pocket and discards the one on his fingers, throwing it behind him. "Christ," he murmurs as he rolls it onto his cock, "I was just trying to make it hurt less, ya goddamn fascist."

Medic narrows his eyes and a reaches a hand up, grabbing Scout's jaw between his thumb and forefinger. "Vatch it, trottel," he warns.

They stare at each other like that for a long moment, at an impasse. Finally, Scout says, "Yeah, yeah," and swats away Medic's hand. He grabs one of the German's legs and throws it over his shoulder. "Now, ya might feel a big prick," he says with a grin.

Medic rolls his eyes. "Don't flatter yourself, junge," he says, but then Scout is inside him and it doesn't matter.

The doctor hums. Oh, how he's missed this feeling! And while Scout probably overestimates himself, he's still more than adequate for giving Medic that wonderful, filled sensation.

Above him, Scout rises up a bit on his legs and grabs onto to his thighs, thrusting from his hips. Medic raises his ass a little in return, groaning as this new angle finally allows Scout to hit his prostate.

This right here, this is what he's been missing. The white lights bursting behind his eyes on every stroke; the ability to just let go and let someone else do the work for once. Just one time, he'd like Heavy to take control, but the Russian always insists on-

Medic manages to glower, even through his building pleasure. The reason for all of this, he realizes, is jealousy. He's jealous. And of an inanimate object, no less. That gottverdammte cart! He tries to focus on Scout, on the way the boy's mouth feels on his chest, or his hand on Medic's cock, but all the German can hear is Doktor, Docktor-

"Doktor?"

Medic's eyes snap open and he whips his head to the side. In the doorway, with a look of open-mouthed shock on his face, stands Heavy.

"Holy shit!" Scout yells and he tries to reel back, but Medic locks his ankles and squeezes him with his legs, holding him in place. "The flyin' fuck? Lemme go, Doc!" He struggles, but Medic doesn't budge an inch, and the difference in their body types becomes apparent. They're the two fastest members of the team, but while Scout is built lean and aerodynamic, Medic has thickly muscled thighs for short bursts of speed, which now clamp Scout tightly.

"Nein," he says simply, and Scout gapes at him.

Meanwhile, Heavy is still frozen in place, trying to come to terms with what he's seeing. "Doktor, what...?

Medic grins nastily, all teeth and curled lips. "Kleine Mann braucht Hilfe," he tells Heavy, knowing that he'll understand the German. /Little man needs help./ His smile looks like shards of glass as he watches Heavy put two and two together, and the look of betrayal that falls over the Russian's features is so delightful that Medic almost finds himself giggling. Feels bad, doesn't it? Can you feel the schadenfreude? Medic gloats in his personal victory, unable to take his eyes off of Heavy's expression.

Then Scout punches him in the face.

"You lying sack of shit!" he roars. "I tell you not to bullshit me, and what do you fucking do?"

"Doktor!" Heavy cries, an automatic reaction to seeing Medic injured.

"Oh, get a life, fatass. He's fine." Scout drags Medic's head up by his hair and presents it. His nose, broken from Scout's punch, is already beginning to heal thanks to whatever shit Medic jacks himself up with that lets him regenerate. "Teammates and nothing more, my ass," he growls under his breath. To Heavy, he says, "Drop the gun, get in the room, and close the door."

"Wha-"

"I said do it, chucklenuts! Don't make me say it again!"

Medic begins to come out of his daze as Heavy obeys, dropping Sasha with a clang like a cannon and closing the door with a click like the safety of a gun. The noises rattle Medic brain, and he returns to complete awareness only to find Scout tugging on his scalp. "Feiger hund! Verpiss di-!"

"Shut the fuck up!" Scout slams his head back down onto the tile. Another wound to be mended. "You've lost your speaking privileges, pally ."

"Razvedchik?"

Scout sighs and turns his attention back to Heavy. "C'mere, big guy," he says softly, sounding suddenly exhausted. Heavy takes a few slow steps towards him, his eyes drifting downwards to Scout's cock, still balls deep inside Medic. "You understand what's going on, dontcha?"

Heavy's brow furrows as though he's unsure, but he nods.

"Sie Hurensohn," Medic moans, bringing a hand to his bruised head.

"Yeah, fuck you, Doc." Scout clucks his tongue. "You know I didn't know about this, right?" he asks Heavy. "You know I'm just trying to make the best of this shit?"

Heavy smiles, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Da."

Scout's lips twitch. "Alright, alright. Drop trou, fatty."

Medic chokes, coughing and spitting and turning red in the face. "Vhat do you zhink you are d-"

"You must actually think I'm dumb as shit," Scout hisses. "You really think I'm going to let you use me and get away with it? Fuck that." To his side, Heavy is unbuckling his belt and unzipping his fly. Medic watches closely in spite of himself, even as Scout says, "I'll tell you what I'm doing. I'm going to keep fucking you, and while I do, I'm also going to suck this big lug off."

Medic's eyes bulge. "But vhy-?"

"/Because/, deutschebag, this is the best thing I can think of to fix /your/ stupid mess. I didn't want to be part of this sort of shit - I told you I ain't no home-wrecker - but you made me a part and now I'm going to make the best of it." He shrugs, and the dog tags hanging around his neck jingle with the movement. "At least this way, I figure, everybody gets something. Real community-like. Ruskie over here should love it."

Heavy harrumphs and pushes down his pants and underwear.

"And when all of this is over, we're going to forget it ever happened and move on."

Medic snarls. "Und you zhink I vill go along vith all zhis because vhy?"

"Because, chucklenuts," Scout says, "you're still hard," and he reaches a hand to the base of Medic's erection and drags it up, the athletic tape grazing against the vein on its journey. Medic howls and Scout leans down to swallow the sound with his mouth, then brings it back to nip at Medic's chin. Mouth attached firmly to Medic's throat, he starts to thrust again.

Medic tries to say something, but can't find the breath to form the words. Scout keeps ramming his prostate now, and as angry as Medic is at the whole situation, he also really, really wants to come. He can get his revenge on the little /rotzbengel/ later, and plans to do just that - just as soon as he sates the burning hunger he's drowning in.

Satisfied that Medic is no longer truly protesting the turn of events, Scout allows himself to fall into an easy rhythm. Losing himself in the pace, he motions with one hand for Heavy to come closer, and turns his head to the side to take him into his mouth.

Too big to fully swallow, Scout instead licks a long line from the underside of Heavy's cock, then swirls his tongue around the head. His thrusts into Medic slow somewhat as he divides his attentions between two tasks. One of Heavy's large hands settles on his head, firm but gentle, helping him keep the rhythm.

Medic makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a whine of dissatisfaction. Grinning around the head of Heavy's erection, Scout reaches down half-blindly to dig his fingers into Medic's pelvis and snaps his hips forward. Medic groans again, this time sounding much more pleased.

While Scout concentrates on Medic, Heavy trails his free hand down to tug at himself, gripping the parts that Scout's mouth can't reach. When Scout finally focuses back on the Russian, he finds the large man jerking himself quickly, and follows the movement with hungry eyes. His tongue darts to lick at the seam beneath Heavy's foreskin, and when Heavy rumbles like thunder from the back of his throat, Scout repeats the action.

Heavy rewards Scout by leaning forward, curling over his head, and reaching a single, thick finger down, between the globes of Scout's ass and into him. Scout pulls away from Heavy's cock, lets out a yelp, and comes immediately at the intrusion, spilling into the condom - into Medic.

When the white clears from his vision, he tries to roll away, but Medic digs his heels into his thighs, pulling him even closer. Scout risks a look at his face. Medic's expression looks like it couldn't choose between fury and arousal, so eventually it settled on a mix of both. Hoping to wipe the scowl of his face, Scout stretches his hand between them and grips Medic. He glances back up to see if Medic seems happier, but frowns at what he encounters.

Medic isn't looking at him. Medic is staring straight at Heavy, and Heavy is staring straight back at him. It's as though Scout doesn't even exist. Determined not to be forgotten, Scout tries every trick he knows - tightening and loosening his fist as goes, twisting at the base, fondling Medic's balls, but ultimately, it is Heavy who holds the key to Medic release.

"Doktor," he whispers, almost inaudibly, and Medic comes right there and then, all over Scout's hand.

Heavy follows a second later, long spurts of semen falling onto Scout's hair and face. The boy sputters and reels away, this time successfully removing himself from Medic's grip. He reaches for his discarded shirt and starts wiping himself off as the other two come down from their orgasmic haze.

"Well, that was fun an' all," he says as he pulls his socks on, "but next time you queens fight, do me a fava' and fuckin' work it our yourselves." He snaps the button at the top of his trousers and pulls up his fly.

Heavy grabs the shirt from him and rubs at his ear. "You miss spot," he says by way of explanation.

Scout grimaces and snatches his shirt back, making sure he's completely clean this time. The last thing he needs is for Demoman or Spy to find him with come in his hair. He pulls the shirt down and examines the now thoroughly-ruined piece of clothing with a wince. "Aw, wicked gross, man." He stuffs it in a garbage can by the door, along with the used condom, but then decides to take the bag with him. With any luck, he'll be able to get Pyro to just burn it all.

For a moment, there's this terrible, awkward silence. Then Scout shrugs his shoulders, cocks his head to the side, and says, "Well, see you fairies later," making a hasty exist.

Heavy watches him go, then turns to Medic. The healer is rolling onto his side, fingernails digging into the tiled floor beneath him. There's a murderous glint in his eyes that Heavy knows all too well. "Doktor?"

Medic snaps his seething gaze over to him. "Vhat. Is it. Herr. Heavy."

Heavy cows a bit in the face of Medic's rage, but steels his resolve. "Let it go."

Medic resists the urge to scream, but just barely. There's a million things he wants to say - petty insults, horrible curses, even an apology.

"Doktor, pozhaluĭsta."

A million things.

"Doktor?"

Medic chooses to say none of them.

And his silence speaks loudly enough.

>>79 THANK YOU SO MUCH. I offer you my e-babies.

>>78 And yeah, that's the one I'm looking for. I'm sorry about asking for that here; I'm relatively new to the Chan. I only found it about a week before it crashed and I'm still figuring out how everything works. I'll just...slink over to the fanfic-requests.

I'd like to get a repost of that delicious fic where Spy prostate-milks fingers Scout and asks something along the lines of, "Do you like zis, petit?"

>>81 Are these the droids you're looking for? And if not, uh, well, this is certainly similar.
-------
"Do you like zhat?"

Scout groaned in response, pushing himself back against the fingers that were invading him. He was on his stomach - not even sure how he'd ended up like this, but here he was - legs sprawled open to let...to let things happen. It wasn't good to examine closely what was going on, he might start thinking about what the hell he was doing and he'd only just recently managed to stop doing that, for the most part. Don't think, just let it happen because it feels so fucking good. There's this spot inside him that he never even knew was there, never even /dreamed/ was there, but hit it just right and suddenly he's seeing stars in the best possible way. Like right now. So not only was the question one he didn't want to answer, it was a fucking stupid question to boot.

"Did you 'ear- "

"I heard you!" The words were a breathless snarl as Scout shifted and squirmed on the bed. He was propped up on his elbows, leaning heavily on them as he tried to keep some small semblance of self control. That was pretty fucking laughable for a Scout but if he didn't do it, he'd end up humping the mattress and screaming the most embarrassing things. As it was his legs were trembling with the effort of restrained movement, hips rocking back and forth with each thrust of the fingers in him. "An' fuck you!"

"I'm being serious, darling. It's really very important to know. Do you like zis or not?" The question came accompanied by a little curl of the Spy's fingers that left Scout feeling like he'd melted from the waist down. The sensation was so intensely overwhelming that he had to pull away a little bit, curling forward with his arms clutched in close to his chest and his head hanging low as he panted out shaky breaths into the mattress. Did he like this? What kind of a question was that?

"Yeah, I fucking like this! Okay? So shut th' fuck up!"

The only response he got was a soft little chuckle, but that was enough for him to pull his head up and glare at the Spy. He was just fast enough to catch sight of the Spy's absolutely devilish grin. So fucking smug and pleased with himself. Fucking asshole.

"I'm not laughing at you, just at 'ow angry you get." Spy leaned in close, nuzzling up to Scout's cheek. Scout could feel the man's breath ghosting along the line of his neck, cool against the thin layer of sweat that covered him. When he stopped to think about it, it felt like Scout had run a mile, when all he'd done was sit here and let...and let the Spy finger-fuck him, basically. "I'm glad you like it," continued Spy, the words punctuated with a soft kiss on the curve of Scout's jaw. "Because I like to make you feel good. I'd do this all the time if you let me..."

All Scout could do was whimper in response. As Spy talked, he kept moving his hand, slow and steady now, so that Scout was left on the brink of climax, his whole body hot and trembling. He felt dizzy with need and though he knew the Spy was talking still, he couldn't hear a word of it. He was lost in his own little world, utterly overwhelmed and aching for release. The last of his self-control, so precious and so tightly held, was slipping away now.

Another thrust of the Spy's fingers and he was moaning into the sheets in between each gasping breath.

A curl of Spy's fingers, their tips pressing briefly against that one spot, and Scout's moans were almost screams. Spy lingered there for a moment, two fingers gently massaging that spot in Scout that had no right to be there. It wasn't fair to have this thing in him that made him feel like this, that made him want to do these things.

Again Spy's finger's pulled away and thrust into him, faster now. Again, and again after that, faster and faster, sensation building on sensation until Scout simply could not take it any more. He was babbling something - variations on "Oh god" over and over again - as he clutched at the sheets beneath him, his hips grinding helplessly into the mattress.

"Just let it out." Spy's voice was soft as velvet, purred into Scout's ear. He could hear the tension in it, the slight, breathy eagerness, and realized that Spy was getting off on this. Getting off on watching him writhe on the bed and absolutely lose his mind and somehow knowing that was incredibly hot. One tiny little shift of Spy's fingers and that was it, Scout was done. He came with a strangled cry, his whole body taut and shaking for one glorious second. It passed in an instant and his body went slack, leaving him sprawled, exhausted, on the bed. His heart was pounding in his chest and his legs were trembling still as he lay there and tried to catch his breath.

Does anybody have the fic based on one of Syberfox's pictures in which Medic, Spy, and Sniper are fucking each other at the same time? I THINK it was called, "Support Class", but I can't be too sure. If you got it, post it here, please!

>>82
Thank you so, so, so much!

i remeber a story involving demo,engie and drag!sniper.
i think it was by marty

>>85
This old thing? It's called:
------------------------------------------------
SNIPER WHORE

“Oh, bloody Hell,” the Sniper panted. “Oh, oh please-” His wrists were tied to his ankles, forcing him to keep his legs spread wide as he knelt on the standard-issue cot. The brunette wig was improbably still on his head, though the bra straps had slid down over his shoulders and the stockings were slipping down his thighs in the absence of a garter belt. He wasn’t aware of any of that, though. In his drunken, dizzy state, the only thing that seemed to matter was his erection, which was straining against the confines of silky panties.

“For a wombat, he makes a lovely lady,” said the teammate who’d supplied the women’s clothing

“Maybe this game’s gone a bit too far-” said the one who’d tied the knots, his face red with alcohol and shame.

“Please-” the Sniper repeated, tugging at the ropes.

“You want us to untie you?” The second man moved forward, ready to dismantle his handiwork.

“No,” the Sniper lifted his face to his captors. “Truckie, Demo, I want you to fuck me.”

The Engineer stopped in his tracks, but the Demoman stepped forward. “Ooh, yer a cheeky little strumpet, you are. I lay claim to his arse, you can ha’ his hoor mouth, boyo.”

“I’ve never-” the Engineer’s jaw dropped.

“Ye’ve never had a blow job, ‘ave ye?” The Demoman smiled broadly. “Tha’s all right, oor little tart has given ‘em before, haven’t ye?” He patted the Sniper’s cheek condescendingly.

“... yeah,” admitted the Australian, his shame only arousing him further.

“This ain’t right,” the Engineer protested, trying ineffectually to conceal his erection with his hands.

“Aye, but oor little dolly likes it all wrong.” The Scot stroked the Australian’s shoulders like a pimp showing off his wares. “Goo on, then, tell the man how you like it.”

“Hard,” the Sniper panted. “I like it hard an’ fast.”

“Oh, you dirty girl,” the Demoman purred, and popped his finger into the gunman’s mouth, and leered at the Engineer. “Where else are ye goin’ tae get an offer like that, a hundred miles from any female but that bloody harpy of an Administrator?”

“You want this, Sniper?” the Engineer looked worriedly down at his teammate.

“Mmh.” The Sniper’s cheeks hollowed as he moaned his approval around the Demoman’s finger. “Why else d’ya think I was willin’ to play at bein’ a sheila?”

“Tha’s hardly a ringin’ endorsement!” the Demoman withdrew his hand and struck the Sniper on the cheek. “Pour out yer soul, slut.” He pushed the Sniper over onto his back.

“So bad,” the Sniper panted. “I want it so bad. Up alone in my nest while the battle’s in close, out in my van at night, all I can think of is how bad I want to suck cock.”

“But it’s... dirty.” The Engineer’s voice was hoarse as he raised a token objection.

“‘S why I like it,” the Sniper murmured darkly.

For a moment, the Engineer couldn’t do more than bite his lip and breathe through his nose. For his part, the Demoman dug in his footlocker for the jar of vaseline that was the lonely mercenary’s friend.

“D’ye ken what I’m going tae do tae ye, lad?”

“Fuck me,” the Sniper moaned.

“I’ll do more than just fook ye, lad. I’m goin’ tae give ye the deepest, most brutal rogerin’ a fannybawws like ye has ever had in his whole bloody life.”

“God, please.” The Sniper writhed, pulling against the ropes.

The Demoman yanked on the Sniper’s legs, hauling the lanky man to position himself between his knees. Unzipping his fly, the Scot showed off his cock. “Ye see that? Tha’s a blue-ribbon black pudding, an’ I’m goin’ tae shove it up ye ‘til ye scream... but only if ye ask, oh pretty please.”

“Please, Demo, I’m begging, fuck me. Make it hurt, use me any way you want, just fuck me.”

“That’s the way.” The Demoman pulled the silky panties to one side and began sliding a greasy finger into the Australian’s ass. He looked over at the Texan, who was standing as if hypnotised, staring at the dressed up, trussed up Sniper. “Come on, Truckie, do yer bit. Fuck him in his hoor mouth.”

Moving deliberately, the Engineer kicked off his boots and overalls, and straddled the Sniper’s shoulders. “I can’t do this,” he murmured.

“Truckie!” the Demoman roared. “Dinnae be such a big girl’s blouse! This man needs a shag, an’ we’re goin’ tae shag him!”

“No, I mean,” the Engineer untied the knot that bound the Sniper’s left wrist to his ankle, “I need his hands up over his head so’s I can saddle up.”

“Fair enough, then!” The Scot kept fingering the Sniper while the Engineer lashed his wrists to the head of the cot and tethered his ankles to the rails. “Aren’t ye a picture,” the Demoman leered down at the Australian.

Auburn wig cascading framing his face, no glasses to obscure his blue eyes, long limbs spread, panting with desire, the Sniper smiled. “I know.” His tongue flicked over his pointed canines. “Come an’ get it, lads.”

This time, the Engineer didn’t waste a moment in straddling the Sniper’s chest, but paused as he took his cock out of his boxers. “You sure you want this, Slim?”

“God, yes.” The Sniper opened his mouth, delicately covering his bottom teeth with his tongue, inviting the Engineer in.

The Texan took a deep breath and pressed the head of his cock against the Sniper’s tongue. He let the breath out as a moan, and thrust into his teammate’s mouth. The Sniper moaned in turn, the vibrations tingling up around the Engineer’s cock.

“Aye, tha’s the way...” the Demoman leaned forward over the Sniper’s long body. “Brace yerself, totty.” He pushed in in one blissful thrust, heedless of the way the Sniper screamed around the Engineer’s cock. “Take it, “ he growled.

The Sniper responded by lifting his knees to the extent of the tethers and moaning with abandon. “God, yeah-” he gasped as the Engineer pulled out of his mouth for a moment. He tongued the slit of the Engineer’s cock, groaning at the loss of contact.

The Engineer moved to brace his hands on the wall. By now, he was more drunk with sensation than he’d ever been with alcohol. He shoved down the Sniper’s throat, unaware of the skill the Australian was using to take him.

The Demoman did notice, though. “You dirty tramp,” he smiled. “How long did ye have to practise that?” He was rewarded by a twitch of the Sniper’s cock, a tightening of the muscles deep inside the other man’s body. “Auh, aye- ye’re well enjoying yerself, aren’t ye?” He scooped some more vaseline out of the jar and stroked it onto the Sniper’s cock.

Arching his back to use what little leverage he had, the Sniper pressed his ass against the Demoman’s hips and moaned around the Engineer’s cock again.

That was all it took for the Engineer. Hiding his face in the crook of his elbow, the Texan tried to stifle a howl as he came. He collapsed against the wall, gasping and all but boneless after his orgasm, whimpering slightly as the Sniper lapped at him to swallow the last of his semen.

Roaring with delighted laughter, the Demoman thrust deep into the Sniper’s ass. He had a stranglehold on the Australian’s cock and balls, preventing him from reaching orgasm. “I’m goin’ tae fill yer guts with me jism,” he growled down at his captive. “Ye’ll be drippin like a strumpet for a week. IS THAT WHAT YE WANT, YE HOOR?”

“Yes- yes- please- please-” the Sniper panted, writhing on the Demoman’s cock. “Please, Demo, let me come- oh-”

In the moment of his own orgasm, the Scot unclenched his hand and stroked the Sniper’s cock, bringing the Australian to a screaming climax. They shuddered and thrashed against each other, though the Sniper was pinned by the Engineer sitting back on his chest. That only seemed to amplify the Sniper’s pleasure, as his screamed again.

“Ooh,” the Demoman sighed, pulling out of the Sniper’s ass. “Tha’ was quite the ride, wombat.”

“A certified rodeo,” the Engineer smiled as he untied the ropes holding the Sniper down.

“You’re both welcome to have another, any time,” the Sniper said, pulling his partners down to lie on the narrow cot with him.

"but only if ye ask, oh pretty please."
should not be this hot of a line

I have a story saved called 'Could you look at this' in which Scout ties Medic up and has his dirty way without Medic's consent. Then Spy comes into the picture and it becomes this epic threesome. However the thread ran out at the point where Spy pulls out a mysterious box. Does anyone have the second part to this if it exists? Vat vas in that box?

The second part exists SOMEWHERE, I am sure of it. I've found the archive of the original post, and the link to the second thread (which, of course, does no good, but if someone's a techno-wiz and can make it work somehow, here, go nuts: http://www.tf2chan.net/afanfic/res/4933.html), but not much else I can find right now. Will keep looking in my files. Maybe it's hiding in there somewhere.

>>89
http://shankie.dreamwidth.org/177580.html?#cutid1
found it?

>>90
That was delicious.

Does anyone have that hilarious fic where the entire team "milk" a tentaspy?

I'm looking for a very creepy fic about a spider-monster Medic feeding a Spy to a caterpillar/worm thing-monster Heavy. I do not know the title or who wrote it, sadly.

If it's been reposted already, please forgive me, I'm a bit blind.

>>93

It's called Spiderhoovy by TeratoMarty. I don't know if it's been reposted already, but I checked Marty's thread and it wasn't there, so here you go:

Something odd was happening on the RED base, the BLU Spy was willing to concede that much. Neither their Medic nor their Heavy had been seen for a week, and there didn't seem to be any replacements, unlike the Engineer, who had disappeared about the same time, to be replaced in short order. Moreover, the Demoman reported seeing a massive spider, the size of a man, scuttling around the ceilings of the enemy base. Then again, who knew what the scrumpy might make him see. After all, he'd also reported seeing a giant octopus with Spy's own face in the sewers. He said it hadn't bothered him, since it was on their side.

However, the Sniper was both in possession of both eyeballs and usually sober, and he, too, had reported seeing something strange on the battlements across the way. He did not make any fevered claims about giant spiders. Instead, he gave a factual if puzzling report of something round, white, perhaps as much as a metre wide, that moved to quickly to get a bead on. A balloon? Not possible, mate. Anything that light, subject to that much wind resistance, would have bobbed about like a cork in a stream. This, whatever it was, moved quickly in purposeful straight lines.

The Spy made a mental note to find out about the RED's... whatever-it-was, at the earliest opportunity. However, when the Demoman didn't show up for the next battle, it became clear that no-one had seen him since at least mid-day, the day before. He hadn't come through Respawn, and his stash of scrumpy was untouched. Consulting quickly with his team during the count-down, the Spy made a slight alteration to his own battle plan. He would disable the RED sentry, kill their Engineer and Sniper, then go looking for the Demoman and any mysterious round, white weapons.

The REDs had a new Engineer, a baby-faced boy fresh off the farm- it was almost pathetic how easy it was to break his toys and send him home to mama. The Sniper, however, was a cagy old beast. He had wedged himself into a corner where the Spy couldn't get behind him for a decent backstab. Instead, the espionage agent retreated down the hall, out of earshot, and disguised himself as the RED Pyro. Mimicking the mumbling abomination's shuffling tread, he approached the Sniper again.

"Fpy chkk," he muttered.

The Sniper didn't move from the eyepiece of his scope, but he did flare his nostrils and inhale deeply. Instantly, faster than the Spy had thought the Australian could move, he had his kukri out and was slashing perilously close to the Spy's face, in the air above where the illusory Pyro's head appeared.

The Spy blocked the blow, sustaining a painful chop of the cleaver-like weapon on his left forearm. However, that bought him the time he needed to draw the Ambassador as his useless disguise dissolved. The large-calibre pistol settled the matter, removing the Sniper's face as its mighty report rang out.

Cloaking again as quickly as possible, the Spy clutched his wounded arm to his chest and left the Sniper's corpse behind in the little bolt-hole. He hoped that he could find a med-pack soon. As he stepped out into the hallway, though, he saw a flash of something white moving up in the rafters.

Clamping his handkerchief on the wound with his free hand, he followed whatever-it-was. Treading silently, he stared all around him. He rounded a corner and saw nothing, but felt something sticky brushed his face. Even as he flicked away the adhesive strand, he looked up to see what it might be, and froze in his tracks.

The BLU Sniper had been right- it was round, white, just about a metre across. However, the Demoman had not been wrong- it scuttled across the ceiling on arachnoid legs, black, jointed, smooth as plastic except for the stiff black hairs protruding from the backs of them. However, what neither of them had mentioned was the RED Medic's body, protruding from the spider body at the waist, clad in his usual Teutonically formal shirt and tie. Biting his tongue forcefully, the Spy withheld a gasp of disgust. He was glad to be invisible.

Glad, that is, until the thing launched itself from the ceiling and dropped on him with unerring accuracy. It pinned him to the ground with eight spindly, pincer-tipped legs, its immense abdomen hanging over his face like a diseased moon. At this intimate angle, the Spy could see that the white body was composed of chitinous segments with a yellowish membrane stretched taut between them, like the skin over a pustule. There was a marking in the centre of the underside, he noticed as the monster turned to face him, in the shape of a perfect red cross.

"Guten tag, Herr Spy," it said to him as his cloak dissolved. "Sight is such a limited sense, don't you think?"

"Quoi-" the BLU gagged.

"Splendid, am I not? Respawn is an amazingly flexible system, as our... former... Engineer discovered."

"You intend to weaponise being a freak?" The Spy subtly flexed his muscles, looking for a point of leverage to escape from the strong, spindly legs. There was none.

"I already have," the Medic-spider said haughtily. "You, though, are about to become a small part of a much greater weapon."

Abandoning his careful test of the monster's strength, the Spy began struggling in earnest.

"Zis will only sting for a moment," the Medic-monster said, cheeks rippling and stretching as insectile mandibles slid out of his mouth between his teeth and lips.

The Spy screamed as the Medic's face approached his own. The Medic's gloved human hands shoved his head to the side, pulled away his coat, and the Spy felt a sting as the thing's mandibles pierced both shirt and skin on his shoulder. Almost immediately, a burning-cold numbness began to radiate out from the wound.

The Spy screamed again, but the sound was strangled, sloppy. He tried to kick out as the monster walked about on top of him, but he could barely do more than wiggle his toes. He was treated to an up-close view of the thing's spinnerets, writhing obscenely as they began to extrude silk. Using hands and spider legs in tandem, it wrapped him up like a parcel. Once he was done, he used his spider limbs to heave the Spy over his human shoulder and scuttled off down the corridor.

The Spy tried to think, but couldn't concentrate over the pounding f his heart in his ears. His tongue felt overlarge, filling his mouth, and he couldn't feel any of the rest of his body at all. His eyelids seemed to be the only part of his body that still responded to his will. He kept his eyes open, hoping to see something, anything that he could use to his advantage. All he could see was the Medic-spider's swollen, pallid body.

"Hallo, Lieber," the Medic cooed, halting as he opened a door. "Are you hungry?"

"Da." The RED Heavy's voice rumbled, somehow thicker than usual. The monster Medic dropped the Spy to the floor. He landed awkwardly, staring at the ceiling. By rolling his eyes to the side as they could go, he was able to see the RED Heavy. What had been the RED Heavy.

Glistening folds of flabby white tissue stretched at least twelve feet long. The Heavy's head sat atop the heap, his neck merging corpulently with his shoulders. His massive arms were still in place, along with his saggy pectoral muscles, but underneath the arms were four stick-thin legs that waggled aimlessly, and his gut merged into a segmented, pulpy tail. The Spy discovered that he could still feel his stomach when it cramped- he had to suppress the urge to vomit.

The giant maggot that the Heavy had become had been sucking on something held in its human hand- the Spy had taken it for a brown leather sack of some sort. Then, the Heavy dropped the thing to the floor, and the Spy realised that the lone eye of his own team's Demoman staring out of the mess. It stared at him crazily, then blinked, causing a tear to roll down the Scot's ruined face. Some dark fluid, flecked with white, oozed out of the wound that the Heavy had been sucking.

"Isn't he vonderful?" the Medic crooned to the Spy as he used a scalpel to slice away the silk bindings. "I believe he is aobut to pupate, and he vill need to be strong for zis ordeal." The Medic beamed over at the grubworm monstrosity. "Zat is vhere you come in."

The Spy managed an inchoate noise, which the Medic accepted as a request for further lecturing.

"My venom paralyzes ze prey, slowly dissolving ze muscle und ze bone. Ze organs und ze brain are last to go, keeping ze meal alive, fresh und, incidentally, out of the Respawn. Since it has been more than 24 hours, the Respawn system may have already saved Herr Demoman's condition as his default state. It vill be interesting to see." Bending down, the Medic jabbed his scalpel down through the Demoman's panicked eye, then waited until the Respawn system dissolved the corpse. "Zat, of course, is just scientific curiosity. Ve have work to do." The Medic-spider turned back to the grubworm. "Komm, Liebling, I love to watch you eat."

Exercising the last option open to him, the Spy shut his eyes.

>>92

That was by Marty; I think it was called "The Milk". I don't have it, sadly. Anyone else?

>>94

I wrote that? Really? Jeez, what'd I been drinking?

Anyhow, here's the one you found hilarious:
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THE MILK

“Aw man, we’re outta milk,” the Scout whined, upending the carton over his breakfast cereal. A few pathetic drops plopped onto the dry flakes.

“I believe I haf a solution,” the Medic said from across the kitchen counter. “Herr Spy, come here.”

“Non.” A voice echoed up from the drain in the kitchen’s tiled floor.

“What’s that freak gonna do about us being outta milk?” The Scout frowned. “No offence, Spyfag.”

“None taken.” The four-inch metal grating popped off of the drain, and something blue began to squeeze up through. Moving in pulsatile waves, like a balloon slowly being filled with jelly, the Spy’s head emerged from the sewer. It was followed by his shoulders, extruding from the narrow drain, and then by the French man’s arms, which brushed slime and creases from the previously impeccable blue suit coat. Finally, a thick sheaf of tentacles slithered out of the drain, slapping wetly against the floor as the Spy heaved himself into a semblance of an upright stance. The rest of the team, assembled for breakfast, tried not to stare. “Keep your ‘ands to yourself, Docteur.”

“So, what, you have some spooky Spy way to get more milk?” The Scout looked quizzically at the former man. “Maybe steal it from the RED base?”

“I do not see why you think I would, even if I could.” The Spy raised his chin, but it quickly sank again. “Mon dieur, ‘as anyone got a cigarette? Being some ‘orrible octopus is not easy.”

“Smoking is terrible for your health,” the Medic smirked, then procured a pack of cancer sticks from inside his coat. “But you can have one if you allow me to demonstrate your milk capacity.”

The Spy compressed his lips sharply, but could not tear his gaze from the packet of sweet, sweet nicotine. His hands, now with short sharp claws poking out of the tips of his gloves, were shaking.

“Merde! Fine!” He grabbed at the smokes and jammed one into his mouth, momentarily revealing pointed, interlocking teeth. “For ze love of god, give me a light.”

The Medic cupped the Spy’s hands possessively as he lit the cigarette. “Sit down, Herr Spy, if you vould be so good.”

The Spy did not so much sit at the table as wrap himself around a chair. In the bliss of his first smoke of the day, the Spy didn’t seem to care that the Medic seized one of his tentacles and held it aloft.

“Zo,” the Medic said, preparing to lecture his team. “In ze first days after ze teleporter-respawn-tomato-sandwich incident, before Herr Spy gained full control of his new limbs, I observed zat ze tentacles vould sporadically secrete a vhite liquid from ze tips. I analyzed ze substance, und found it similar in composition to mammalian milk, only vith more protein und less fat. Ze perfect nutrition, in ozzer vords, for ze fighting man!” Gripping the Spy’s tentacle, the Medic began to wring it out over the Scout’s cereal bowl.

“Hey!” the Scout yelped, gaping at the bulging appendage above his breakfast.

“Ow!” the Spy objected as well.

“Aw, Hell naw,” the Engineer said, standing up to approach the sorry scene. “Doc, I respect you as a man of Science, but you musta never milked anything before in your life.” He grasped a tentacle and gave a firm, gentle downward squeeze over his coffee cup.

“Oh,” the Spy said quietly.

“What, like this?” The Scout seized a tentacle and yanked it toward an empty bowl.

“Agh!” The Spy’s claws dug into the table.

“No, boy, an’ if he was a cow he’d’a kicked ya. Like this.” The Engineer repositioned the Scout’s hands and guided him through a few strokes.

“Ah-” the Spy began, but the Heavy broke in.

“You do it this way, use more elbow.” He took a tentacle in his huge, warm hands to demonstrate. The Medic watched, fascinated, and copied his large friend. “In Russia, on collective farm, I milk hundred cow a day.”

“Tha’s yer problem,” the Demoman opined. “Ye do it like a factory, no care, no tenderness for the puir coo.” He picked up a tentacle and slicked it tenderly. Holding his breath, the Spy sat quite still.

“You are all WEAK!” the Soldier thundered. “The action of a man is bold! Sun Tzu said that!” He twisted a tentacle roughly.

“Ooh-” the Spy moaned.

“Shut it, crouton. You will sacrifice your individual milk for the good of the team!” He pinched a sucker firmly.

“Oui-” the word was barely a whisper.

“I’ve milked a sheep, and I’ve milked a water buffalo, but I never did milk a Spy.” The Sniper set down his coffee cup and gingerly twiddled the end of one tentacle over it.

“Gentlemen-” the Spy began, in a slightly panicked tone, but he could not continue as his tentacles twitched and pulsed in the rhythm of his teammates’ caresses.

Not wanting to be left out, the Pyro shuffled forward. The Spy gasped, “Non!” but the mumbling abomination wrapped his rubber-gloved hands around the last remaining tentacle and tugged the full length of the muscular appendage.

“Ngh-” the TentaSpy’s eyes were wide in his flushed face.

“Hey, I think it’s comin’,” the Engineer remarked as a bead of white appeared at the underside of the tip of the tentacle he was working on. The entire team sped up, trying to be the first to get milk.

“Non- non! OUI! Mais oui! MON DIEU!” the Spy cried out. He shuddered, bucking uncontrollably as thick, creamy spurts of fluid erupted from every tentacle.

“Hey, it IS milk!” the Scout cheered as the white ooze filled his cereal bowl.

“Auh- please- no more-” the Spy begged as he slid off the chair, utterly spent.

Ignoring him, the Scout shovelled a spoonful of cereal into his mouth. He chewed once, then spat the mush away. “Gah! It tastes like cigarette cheese made in a sewer! That ain’t milk at ALL!”

“I think I coulda told you that.” The Engineer stared down at the sweaty, sated Spy.

“May I have anozzer cigarette?” the TentaSpy sighed from the floor.

>>96
Barp! So delightfully sick. I laughed my ass off at “In Russia, on collective farm, I milk hundred cow a day.” . Good stuff, good stuff.

>>96
Many thanks, Marty. A great fic, as always.

Okay, someone HAS to have TARGET SIGHTED.

Like...all of it.

PLEEEEAAAAASE you will make my xmas if any of you do.

http://www.megaupload.com/?d=YF75Z0S7

I put together a good portion of the fanfics from before the crash onto here, hopefully someone will find what they're looking for here.