1 . Name: VS @ 2012-12-24 01:34

The first TF2 fic I've finished so far. I expect to write other pairings and some genfic in the future, but for now, here's some crossfaction Sniper x Spy smut. I have some strong opinions on the pairing, but rather than do anything else, I decided to put into use the advice that I should write what I'd prefer to see. This is the end result. Please enjoy.

Thanks a bunch to Glue, fondofit and Cyan for beta reading!

---

Once again, the enemy Sniper is causing my teammates grief, despite sitting in the same spot from the beginning of the battle onwards. As ever, it falls to me to dispose of him, despite how easy it should be for anyone to do so.

As poor a challenge as it is, I nod an agreement at our disgruntled Medic and Heavy, and slip out to that spot of his where even an idiot could find him, yet which is isolated enough that none of his teammates bother to visit. I have business of my own with him, too, I must admit. Although it is contingent on whether or not he can put up a decent fight.

With a little care, making my way behind enemy lines to where he is camped is no trouble at all. Each step of that staircase I am already familiar with, but I stay on alert in the unlikely case that one of his teammates is waiting to ambush any intruder. I creep silently through the doorway, balisong in hand, and take care to avoid the floorboards likely to creak. I see he has learned his lesson about that jury-rigged shield of his; the expanse of his back lies defenceless in front of me, an invitation. As engrossed as he is in scoping out targets, he does not even notice the sound of me decloaking. Careless.

I flick open my knife, raise my arm to strike. Out of habit I glance up a moment and spot an object in the near distance. A rocket, headed for the very window the Sniper is peering out. No time to think. I act on instinct, throw myself to the side. The Sniper stumbles, ducks, and turns to watch the path of the rocket. He catches sight of me. I curse whichever addle-brained Soldier fired this way, and right myself while the explosion rocks the room.
I have already lost the element of surprise. My attempt at a pre-emptive strike fails, though I am quicker to get back on my feet. The Sniper jumps back out of my slashing range. He steps back, laying down his rifle on a nearby crate.

“You...” He growls, eyes narrowing. He draws that oversized excuse for a knife of his, and drops his hat next to the rifle. I lunge as he does so, but he meets me halfway. Our blades clang together. I jump back, myself, while he tries to swing at me. I just about avoid losing my fingers.

I try briefly for duelling. I have speed on my side, I have succeeded before. But he parries my every swing or thrust, keeps me beyond arm’s length. The size of our blades is unmatched, I can’t get close enough to deliver a decent stab or slice. A change in tactics is called for. I switch to my revolver and take aim, he bares his teeth at the action. Then he leaps at me like some oversized dog, striking the revolver from my hand.
It figures he would resort to fighting like an animal. I sneer at him.
He has made a mistake, placed himself within striking range. I draw my balisong once again, lashing out. He catches it in the palm of his gloved hand, wincing but looking pleased with himself, before tossing it away to the other side of the room.

Now disarmed, he backs me up against the wall with his kukri to my throat. I feel the wooden boards dig into my back as he does. More than that, though, I feel the heat rolling off of his body, he is so close. We are still panting from the exertion of trying to kill each other.

“You win this time, it seems.” I will not admit that the fight excited me, not in so many words, nor that the blade pressing against my throat still does. All the same, I let my eyes become hooded, and I lick my lips, a subtle invitation. Of course, he picks up on it, watching the languid sweep of my tongue. This is a game we have played before.

“No funny business.”

“I would not dream of it.” I give my most charming grin and he snorts, ducking his head and giving me a sidelong look, assessing.

“Now, what am I going to do with you...” He almost growls the words.
There is that gleam in his eyes, prompted by adrenaline and lust and bloodlust all at once, which tells me he isn’t sure whether he wants to fuck me or fuck me up, now that he has me at his mercy. I savour it for a moment before I roll my hips against his to sway the decision. Carefully, though - I am mindful of the blade at my neck. He breathes out, not quite a sigh or a gasp.

“That how you want it, then?” Moving in closer, never a man to miss the opportunities that come his way, he presses himself against me. We are chest to chest, so very close, and I feel the heat radiating off him even more strongly. The line of cold steel against my throat keeps me on edge, and as he adjusts the grip of his right hand to hold it more comfortably, I realise he intends to keep it there.
I cannot complain about it too much, even only to myself. As I lean in closer I feel it bite ever so slightly into the skin of my neck, and the threat it might bite harder makes my pulse pick up again.

“Oh, yes.” I let the words slip out of my mouth with my breath, hot against his ear, and I feel him suppress a shiver before grabbing my chin with his free hand.

He kisses me rough and deep, the back of my head suddenly meeting the boards behind it. His tongue slides forcefully against mine until both of us have to break away to breathe. He bites my lower lip and runs his tongue over the marks left behind. I retaliate, and find him pressing his knee in between my legs to nudge my growing erection. Gasping slightly, I cannot help but rub up against his leg, friction adding to the heat that has already pooled in my stomach. As much as I seek more, I still keep some self-control, mindful of cutting my throat open. The possibility, I admit, both worries and excites me.

He has not remained immune to the situation, either, as if he could. Dignified bushman that he is, he still drags himself up and down against me, cock tenting in his jeans as he begins to pant again.

We kiss a second time, more sloppily. And a third. And a fourth, until both his lips and mine are swollen from it, and from the nips and bites we leave on each other, some more aggressive than others. I am forced to take a less assertive role with those kisses at least, pressing my head back against the wood for safety’s sake. Somewhere along the line his wounded hand carefully finds my shoulder to get greater leverage, and my own gloved ones make their way to the small of his back, drawing him closer.

Perhaps I should feel somewhat ashamed of grinding against him with clothes still on like an ignorant adolescent, but the arousal and the anticipation he might kill me any moment are a potent cocktail. I doubt he will kill me right in the middle of things, not with the quiet little sighs periodically slipping from his mouth as ruts up against me. The aborted fear of it, however, makes me bite back a gasp whenever his rocking makes the knife scrape slightly against my Adam’s apple.

There are ways to achieve the much the same effect with a partner who doesn’t want to make a necklace out of your teeth, but where would the novelty be in that? Respawn has given us the chance to mix the big with the little death without worry, and I do so with gusto. We use the very same passion to fuck each other as we do to kill each other. One always follows on the heels of the other, with us.

I grip both hands tightly on his hips and pull them closer to mine, looking for greater friction once again. Next time will be my turn as victor, I console myself.
For now, there is a handsome man with legs almost tangled in mine rocking against me, eying me with a look clouded by lust, and it sends another jolt through me and down to my cock.

But there is calculation in his eyes, too. He runs the tip of the kukri further up my throat to beneath my chin. The idea that he might break the one unwritten rule of our trysts, an unspoken agreement between professionals who value a fuck without feelings, and kill me before we are done - that clears some of the wool from my brain, and I stare indignantly at him, opening my mouth to object.

“Might want to tip your head back there, spook. ‘Less you want to lose it.” His voice is thick and low, that of a man absolutely strung out, and I realise he is close. I comply - what other choice do I have with a blade at my throat? But I pull on his hips to make up for no longer having the luxury of grinding against him properly.

And then he is biting down on the base of my neck, fingers clenching and unclenching reflexively at my right shoulder. My back arches at the feeling of those wickedly pointed canines of his digging into my flesh. The vibrations against my skin tell me he is stifling a moan, and a shudder runs through him as I drag his hips against mine again. The slide of my erection against his deeply satisfying, even through the layer of clothing between us. Another whole-body shudder runs through him, he bites down harder on my neck, and it abruptly becomes clear that he has reached his climax.

I let out a breath I did not know I was holding, and intend to simply breathe deeply, but it turns into a series of panting gasps, and I find myself biting down on my lower lip to stop any undignified noises coming out while the Sniper tongues the marks he has left on my neck. He has gone almost boneless against me, and lowers his blade a fraction, enough that I can look him in the eyes. His face is flushed and his pupils still dilated; it is admittedly a highly attractive look for him. He presses the fingers of his left hand against the bitemark as if in revenge for the injury left on him earlier, and grins nastily when I let out a hiss.

“Look at ya, all sweaty and red faced and desperate. Not so smug now, are ya? Nah, comes down to it and you’re just a bloke like the rest of us.” He gives me a quick peck on the lips, mock affectionate. I roll my eyes, faintly apprehensive that he will try to make me beg, because shivery and, yes, desperate as I am, I would give up some dignity to be able to finish.

“Fils de pute, at least have the courtesy to shut up and finish me off.”

He barks out a laugh, and then his left hand is migrating down to feel me up through my trousers. The contact is welcome, and I could not stop myself bucking against his hand if I tried, embarrassing as it is. He leans in for a kiss, a touch more insouciant than the earlier ones - I am glad of it to stifle any ridiculous noises I might make, although predictably he draws back right when I begin to make the most undignified ones.

A throaty moan escapes me as he rubs my cock just the right way and he patiently waits a moment and then draws another out of me, and another, until I would be curled up around his hand if not for the blade at my neck. As it is, I am reduced to holding on to him as my climax finally crashes over me, like a wave of prickling fire, almost taking the legs from under me.

“You like that?” He gives me lopsided, smug smile when I finally regain the ability to talk.
Much as I did, I am most certainly not going to admit it. Especially not when it means admitting that he had me close to begging with something not unlike a simple handjob. I purse my lips instead, giving him the most bored stare I can muster.

“Suit yourself. Say hi to my counterpart for me, tell him his record’s shit.” He draws back his arm and swings the kukri. I feel a brief searing pain in my neck, and after that, brief oblivion.

---

Respawn finds my mind clouded both with the temporary fog that it usually induces, and with the lingering after-memories of my orgasm. The brief sharp pain of my death I try not to linger on, for such is the way of things. The drawn out humiliation before? That, I do linger on, deciding to show him just what it is like the next time I win one of our little duels.

And as I run my hand over my throat, I once again tell myself that although the more efficient way to do my work would be to kill him, I have been making the best use of any disadvantageous situation he puts me in. Critically distracting him from the battle by other means, as it were. Well, that and satisfying my sexual desires. Oh, there is a somewhat charming creature or two on-base, but it wouldn’t do to pursue such affairs with the danger of getting somewhat attached. Better to sleep with an enemy than risk that.

I light my cigarette and stride out the door.

After all, the enemy Sniper is somewhat of a brute, and regardless of his ruggedly attractive body, I’d still rather gut him and string his innards up in the rafters than whisper sweet nothings and promises of romance his way.
Glancing at my watch and then cloaking, I think that I am glad the Sniper’s idea of professionalism doesn’t preclude on-the-clock fucking, because then, as the Scout says, I would be shit out of luck.