(This one really gets into a Spy interpretation that I have teased at in the past and written about in a more casual way... Anyway, the first chapter is written in two separate parts, the past-tense bit of establishment, and then the start of the present-tense bulk of the story) Ch. I- The Arrangement ---/-/--- It was the RED Sniper who'd noticed first. He couldn't be sure himself how long BLU's Spy had been slipping, and he wasn't sure exactly what he could or should do about it once he knew. On the one hand, the Spy was an enemy-- and a real pain besides-- but there were only so many times the Sniper could take advantage of a weakness before he worried that doing so would weaken his own game. He had to admit, as bad as the Spy could be when he was on top, at least it kept him on his toes. Kept him sharp. It was entirely self-serving when, on the following weekend, he offered to buy the man a beer. "Going to poison me while we're off the clock?" The Spy joked weakly, but there had been a moment of clear surprise just before. Another little sign that he was fraying at the edges. "Nah. Just feeling sociable and you walked down the street at the right time." He shrugged. "C'mon, cure what ails ya." "I don't drink in public..." The Spy hesitated. The teams did sometimes socialize on weekends, though they'd all grown careful not to let it lead to anything resembling a friendship between bases. Still, it wasn't exactly strange to see a mixed group at the bar, or to see pick-up games of different sports in the little park, a friendlier conflict between the men of RED and BLU. "One beer really count as 'drinking'?" The Sniper raised an eyebrow. "Most of my mates headed out of town this weekend, I'm running out of options here." The Spy shrugged lightly, recovering a bit more of his neutral mask. "It's your dime, Monsieur. One beer it is." They drank side by side, the Spy nursing his single beer while the Sniper knocked a couple back, side by side in the back booth. The Sniper didn't ask any questions. If he had to guess, the Spy was just wound too tight, anyway. The transition to a new base always piled the stress on RED's Spy, and he figured whatever paperwork their teams Spy had to fill out for base transfers was the same on BLU, not that he knew much about it. He knew Mountain Lab was worse than most, when it came to writing up reports for the company, and he knew the Medic was unsympathetic to the point of jeering laughter whenever their own Spy complained, since he had to do his own paperwork and reports even when the team wasn't making a move. Monday, though, the Spy's nerves seemed to have deteriorated, whereas the RED Spy was finally calming. It wasn't until Wednesday that the Sniper gave into the idea that he'd have to do more if he wanted his old enemy back. It was bad enough admitting he did, but he missed the challenge when it was gone, and he didn't like the shakiness the BLU Spy had now. When he heard the Spy coming, during the afternoon round, he grabbed his wrist and held him, expression mildly irritated at most. "Look, not that I mind dying less often, but you need to get yourself sorted." The Spy's game face wavered, before settling into an unreadable frown. Still, there had been flickers of shame and doubt there, along with the looks he normally allowed himself. "So it is obvious?" "Dunno about obvious, but I've noticed you being off. It was a nice break for a while, but... I mean, if you slip, then the next thing you know, I'll be slipping, not having to worry about you." "My team hasn't noticed... I don't think." "Well then bloody tell whichever one of them you trust most if you can't fix this yourself." The Spy snorted. "Yes, because I trust my team so much. Euh... Would you believe... Mountain Lab is just a bitch to handle?" "After a week and a half?" He challenged. "Look, it's not my business--" "You are damn right it is not your business." "--And I don't care what your problem is. But you need to get it dealt with. Or I won't be the only one who sees you slipping." It came out like an order, and the Sniper was more than a little surprised when the defiant edge left the Spy completely. He blinked in surprise a moment and then nodded, before catching himself. "No one is going to catch me slipping." He said quietly. "I did." "Seeing things is your business. And I fight you more than most." "Just get it fixed." "It is not a thing I would trust my team with, that's all." The Spy glanced to where the Sniper still held his wrist. "Were you planning on killing me, then? Not that I would complain, if you wanted to let me go instead." The wry smile twisting at his lips disappeared when the Sniper wheeled them around to slam him back into the wall, replaced after a moment with a sharp, unsettling grin, something so close to the old Spy in a fight but somehow wrong. The rest of the week, the Spy had his moments-- generally, however, they occurred after he respawned from a failed attack on the Sniper. It was enough to keep the charade going in front of all the others, but in all his attempts on the sharpshooter's life, the Sniper could see that the Spy was still slipping. When the weekend rolled around again, he made the same offer he had before, but a little more gently. There was no longer any point in pretending he didn't know the Spy wasn't himself. "If I am going to drink, it is going to be more than one lousy beer." The Spy groaned, shaking his head. "Thought you didn't drink in public." "I don't. I am buying a bottle of wine and going back to my apartment." "You have an apartment? Near Mountain Lab?" "The climate suits me better than the desert... I used to have the Engineer teleport me out on the weekends. I came by it when we were at Double Cross." The Sniper nodded. He knew the town well enough that he figured he couldn't be too surprised, except by the fact that the Spy would keep a home in a small nowhere place like that. It was the 'hub' for a few of the bases, after all-- the same place the men had gone to drink when stationed at Lumberyard and Sawmill. "Buy your own bottle and you can join me if you want." The Spy offered, weariness creeping in. "I never thought that you of all people would have an investment in my mental health..." "I wouldn't call it an 'investment', exactly..." The Sniper frowned. "I like pitting myself against the best, that's all. You ask REDs over often?" "No. But worst comes to worst, I will respawn on Monday morning, and nothing is so depressing as drinking alone. Besides... sometimes out here, I confess, my worst enemy is the closest thing I have to a friend. So we might as well." "Might as well." The Sniper agreed. He got along fine with his own team, but he understood the sentiment. He knew little things about them, his teammates, and sometimes they were good company, and he'd do anything for them because even with respawn, he couldn't shake the thought that he was their lifeline and they his. But he knew the Spy too, in a different way. An intimate way, even. And yes, maybe he did care about the man. Not in a friendly way exactly, but the Spy was an extension of the war, a part of the war that he was closer to than most. The Spy was just a part of the everyday workings of his life, and in that way, it was important to him that the Spy work well, so that his life would continue working well. After a stop in at the liquor store, he followed the Spy back to an apartment building, and up to the penthouse. It was not exactly impressive-- it was still the same sad little mountain town he knew, after all-- but it was tastefully appointed, and the security measures he could see were extensive. They drank, and they talked about nothing of consequence, and the Spy's general decline had halted when Monday came, but it hadn't reversed. Thursday, the Spy made a grudging invite, and Friday night after work, the Sniper showed up at his apartment. "There's no real helping it here." The Spy admitted over drinks. "I held out well, but... I used to see a professional, that's all. In Paris. I haven't had a vacation in a long time, and the weekends are far too short for such a trip." "What, like... like a head doctor?" The Sniper's brow furrowed. He'd probably been guilty of calling the Spy mental more than once, but he never thought the Spy was actually mental. "Not that kind of professional." The Spy looked away, huffing to cover his embarrassment, and the Sniper laughed. "Oh-- You're not telling me-- I mean, that's rich! Never thought you had to pay for it!" "Not that kind of professional, either. Although I wouldn't be surprised to find that for other clients, that is the case." Even in his own apartment, the Spy was never without his mask, and he'd admitted the weekend before over wine that this was not entirely because he had company. The Sniper couldn't be sure that his mask was hiding a blush, but he guessed that it was. "All right, so not a prostitute, either. You're not telling me you can't even get a massage closer to the base than Paris?" "I am not telling you that at all. But my needs are... I don't go to a masseur. And if I did, I would be exacting in my background checks and in my study of the building, the identity and personal history of all regular clientele... To be able to relax, I need an environment I can trust, and I need to be in hands that I can trust. It is an occupational hazard. This isn't a sex thing for me. If all I needed was sex, I could have it." "So then what?" The Spy gave him a measuring look before nodding. "I went to see a professional, as I have said... One who I thoroughly vetted. You are familiar with what a dominatrix is?" The Sniper choked on his drink, and the Spy took a little amusement from the wide-eyed stare. "You went to a dominatrix?" "No. Well, once. I... didn't respond to her the way I needed to. She was very good, don't get me wrong. I recommended her very highly to any man I knew who expressed even the slightest desire to grovel at a pair of dainty heels. I went to a man." The Sniper just stared, and the Spy coughed, adjusting his tie. "As I said, it isn't a sexual thing for me... but security is a concern for me. I don't relax properly unless I am in the care of someone I feel can provide it. I have never had an intruder burst in on a scene intent on killing me, but should it happen... I just feel safer, with a man." "I can't believe this..." The Sniper groaned. "No, neither can I-- that I am telling you, I mean. But every time you say you don't need to know what is wrong, you seem to mean different. And no one would believe you if you spread the tale around, though you do not seem the type to. After all, suppose they asked how you knew? Another perversity of this war, that a secret should be so much safer with an enemy than with an ally." "Right. Wasn't planning on telling anyone. Just... didn't picture you as the whips and chains type, reckon." "I am not. It is all about control and security. Not about sex, not about pain, just... Spies do not relax. Not if they want to live. It is all but impossible to turn that wariness off. I do not sleep well at night, as a consequence. When I belong to someone, even if it is just for an hour, even if it is just because I pay him for it... For that hour, I am not a spy, I am not anyone or anything that I am not told to be. And I am told to relax. And I relax." The Sniper nodded. "Yeah. I can see how you can't exactly get that around here." For a while, they went back to drinking in silence. The Spy broke it, as his own slowly-sipped-at glass had emptied. "Can I talk to you again sometime in private?" "Thought that was what we were doing." "We are. But it is late, and I have had as much as I ever have. I just thought... you really are the closest thing I have to a friend. You might as well be a real one instead of merely a proxy. The next time I tell you something about myself, it could be because we are friends, and not because I have weighed the risks and decided you would be a fool to betray my so-called trust." The Sniper swallowed and nodded, setting his own glass down. "Next weekend?" "Next weekend." The Spy agreed. Saturday evening, the Sniper dropped into the Gold Coin and had a round with his team, and Sunday he turned in early in anticipation of the working week, but when the working week came, the Spy was the same as the previous week. No better, but still no worse, and the Sniper was glad to see flashes of the old Spy here and there in all their fights. Friday night he showed up at the Spy's with a case of beer, and the Spy directed him to leave it in the kitchen, leading him back to the sofa without. "The thing I told you last weekend... I've spent all week wondering if perhaps it was a mistake..." The Sniper shook his head. "Forget it." He couldn't, of course. The unbidden host of mental images had started when the Spy first said 'dominatrix', and though they had changed a little to reflect the Spy's corrections, there were stray thoughts that ignored the man's words-- not about sex, not about pain-- to pop up at the most inconvenient times. Still, that was his problem to deal with. "It doesn't bother you?" "No offense, but you spooks are all bonkers anyway. So if that's how you deal with it, I bet our Spy does something weirder." He shrugged. "I see. And... how invested are you, in my mental health?" The Spy fidgeted nervously, and the Sniper caught up a half a beat after the question had been asked. "I don't know." "I just... I respond to you. I could, I mean. When you want to, you can have quite the firm voice for commands. Moreover, you're quick, accurate, and stronger than I am, so the question of safety is nonexistant. I have already had you in my home for drinks. If you were really willing, it would solve a lot of problems on my end." "I don't even know what that entails, mate." "You show up, you give me orders, you stay a while... and you make sure that I am safe for a while so that I can relax. I am not asking you for anything you would find objectionable, and if you ever need a favor from me, it is yours. I am responsible for so much, more than the team even knows about... and I am always on alert. It is exhausting. I cannot be my own man, not always." "You say 'give you orders', like it's easy. I mean, if it's not about sex and it's not about-- about whips and chains or what have you, then... I mean, what the hell's that even mean, orders? What kind of orders did your hired bloke give you?" "Simple things. Kneel, don't move unless I tell you, count until I say you can stop... Remarkably effective, counting. Nothing in the mind but numbers, after a while. I've tried doing it to calm myself, but it isn't the same. And I get antsy when there is no one watching over me." The Sniper nodded slowly, still digesting the fact that the order had been made at all. A part of him was still digesting the fact that he and the Spy had become friends over a couple of nights of drinking together and figuring out the parameters for trusting each other off the field. "And you say it's not a sex thing?" "Not for me, no." The Sniper nodded again, frowning. He didn't mean to look disappointed-- he didn't want to look disappointed!-- but he had no idea how you went about a thing like that without it being a sex thing. Then again, if it was, he had to suppose the Spy would have been happier with the girl... but he tried not to think too much about that. "I'll sleep on it." He offered. "It is not as though I expected you to leap at the suggestion." The Spy said wryly. "But I do appreciate your thinking on the matter. I hate the spiraling feeling I get when I go too long without being able to relax decently... that feeling of losing control. It is so different from giving control away." ---/-/--- He tests the idea on the field, rather than during one of their friendly weekends, when he smells the Spy's cigarette smoke and orders him to drop his knife. It clatters to the ground behind him, and he turns to see that same expression he'd caught for less than a full second when he'd ordered the Spy to get himself sorted. A little astonishment, a little craving... This time it doesn't disappear behind the mask, doesn't become any one of the Spy's 'acceptable' expressions. This time, it only becomes something openly needy, something subservient. It's electric, having that look aimed up at him, and the Spy drops to one knee, under the guise of retrieving the fallen knife. "Monsieur." He bows his head. "Next time I hear you coming, you're going to have a real fight on your hands, Spook." "I'd better not let you hear me coming, then." The Spy smirks, but he stays down on one knee, hand just resting over his knife. "Yeah, we'll see." The Sniper grins. He steps forward, grabbing the Spy by the tie, and the Spy is graceful in rising to his feet when it is pulled. "I'll do it." "Merci." The Spy whispers, and the slight smirk does nothing to diminish the submissiveness in his gaze and posture. The Sniper feels as though it should. The Spy is a creature of contradictions, though, and the Sniper cannot figure him out, even with what he's been told. He sees relief when he pushes the Spy against the wall, though, and this time he recognizes it as such, relief when he makes promises disguised as threats. Gratitude when he growls 'your arse is mine' in the moment before the kukri sinks in. After a while, he wakes up in respawn after not having heard or smelled the Spy's approach, and it's the first time in a long time he hasn't been able to sense the man coming. He's a little bit relieved himself, though it still feels strange to admit as much.
This is perfect Anne! As always, I eagerly await the next chapter from you.
Oh, er. Yes, please.
Wonderful. Why do I have this feeling it WILL turn out to be a sex thing, too..?
Oh Anne, why do you do this to me? I'll be eagerly awaiting the next chapter to yet another one of your glorious stories.
This looks excellent so far. I always liked the idea of Spy having to be on guard 24/7 and having a tough time relaxing at all. Keep up the good work!
Well this is serendipitous. I recently read a novella on the subject of BDSM being "not a sex thing" and became more interested in the mental effects rather than the sexual gratification involved. I'm looking forward to future installments, and, as always, I love your Spy and Sniper characterizations.
Is this story going to be 100% from Sniper's POV, or will we ever get what's going on in Spy's head? It would, in my opinion, help clarify Spy's motives. Maybe I've been reading too fast, but it still doesn't seem very clear why Spy's willing to confide in an enemy Sniper about a very personal and potentially dangerous weakness. Other than that, though, this is very relevant to my interests and I'm hoping to see where you go with it.
Your stories are incredibly addicting. I can't wait for the rest of this.
Effing BRILLIANT. I just- It's so hard to find BDSM done RIGHT nowadays. After that disaster of a publication 50 Shades hit store shelves... Thank you. Thank you so much for doing this right.
>>10 what he/she said
First of all, thank you, everyone! I'm sorry to be less prompt than my old usual in updating, I have a new schedule that involves early mornings and bus rides and very little time to myself to write... so I'm working with that. Second of all, I'll be doing my best to get into the heads of both Sniper and Spy, but as to the question of his willingness to confide... part of the problem I think is the time compression in the first chapter-- I didn't write out all of their conversations that *weren't* about Spy's weakness, which was perhaps a mistake on my part, eager as I was to get down to the meat of it. Spy was honest (for Spy, anyway) about his reasons-- the weighing of risk and reward and deciding Sniper wouldn't say anything, or at least nothing anyone would believe from him, and the fact that he responds to Sniper. He did not, of course, bring up his growing desperation, but then, Sniper already saw that he was getting to the point where he had to do something... Anyway, I'll try to spend enough time in both heads so that the motivation doesn't feel muddled in future, and thank you for the note! And now... I guess onto the fic! ---/-/--- Ch. II- A New Game ---/-/--- They decide on Saturday evening, making the arrangements during the first round of Friday, grappling hand to hand. The Sniper isn't sure what to expect when he gets there, but he has all of the early part of the day to himself. He spends the morning driving out into the woods to meditate on the arrangement, before heading back into town in the late afternoon. He misses the desert-- he always had such a clarity of mind when he could head out into the desert to be alone with his thoughts. Still, the woods were silent and deep, and he was undisturbed there. The Spy finds no such peace of mind alone, but he takes the morning to shop, and the afternoon to cook. It's therapeutic, if not quite what the doctor ordered. He misses the security of another body in the apartment, and it's not the same without orders, but it makes the place smell nice, and he has a comfortable ache all the way up his arms from kneading and rolling fresh pasta dough. He still has his mask on, when he answers the door, and that doesn't surprise the Sniper. The apron does, and the towel over his shoulder, and the bare hands and forearms, his shirtsleeves rolled up and gloves gone. "Please," The Spy bows, holding the door and stepping out of the way. "Ravioli is all right, I hope?" "Yeah... Yeah, that's great. Didn't know you'd be making me dinner... sure could use it, though." He nods, stomach growling its agreement. He'd skipped lunch, lost in his quiet appreciation of the wilderness, the reprieve it gave from the tumult of his thoughts, and he'd forgotten dinner entirely. "But of course. I had to do something with my day... and I had to have something to feed you, in case you came straight here... Something to let us start off on the right foot. Last night I wrote up some pages for you." "Oh?" The Sniper blinks, taken aback. "Wasn't aware there'd be required reading." "It is for both of us, really. A run down of what sort of things I require, and what I would allow, and what I will not. I prefer not to say no, while I am in my role, so... you should know ahead of time what not to ask me for." He shows the Sniper to the table, where there is a stack of neatly typed pages set safely back from a single place setting. The Spy stands beside the table, a spot just outside the personal sphere of the chair, and after a moment, the Sniper takes a seat. He notes the Spy's slight smile, the mingled relief and satisfaction. "You are free to make notes, I will bring you a pen-- your own limits, of course, but also anything that you would enjoy. Dinner can be a usual thing, at least-- I have a feeling you wouldn't take monetary payment for this, but it should be worth your while." The Spy reaches forward, flipping to the third page and tapping a line, drawing the Sniper's attention to one of the bulleted points. 'SERVITUDE', with notes beneath. The Spy's interest in providing prompt and efficient service, the note that he could practically hear in the Spy's voice that read 'No, I do not own a maid costume'. He barely notices the Spy moving from his spot standing at the table, and then the pen is placed at his hand, and he makes a little tick mark by the section, offering a grin. "Well, I'll never say no to a good meal." He nods. "You can go through the rest at your leisure. Tonight we get used to each other first. Once we are both happy with the parameters we set, we can move on... I really do appreciate this." "Yeah, well... I mean, I don't keep on top of my game if you're not on top of yours, like I said. Besides..." He chuckles. "I'll admit, I like the idea of making the enemy Spy do whatever I say. Within reason, within reason... Still, though, and all." "Too attractive to pass up." The Spy smirks, excusing himself to the kitchen with another shallow bow. "Yeah." The Sniper says quietly, swallowing in an attempt to relieve a sudden dryness in his mouth and throat. "Attractive." He flips through the first couple of pages. He doesn't understand the attraction in the things the Spy has highlighted... He wants to, but the last thing he's ever found peace from is taking orders. If all it takes is a couple weekends of his time to give the orders, though, then it doesn't bother him-- he likes the Spy, more than he ever thought he would. The conversations they'd had over drinks showed him that they had similarities under all the differences, and he has a certain amount of respect for anyone who can go up against him in a fight. He's learned the Spy's strengths and weaknesses on the field, or he's begun to-- he isn't sure he'll ever get to the bottom of them. It's odd, going from the kind of white-hot hate he's felt on the field-- a hate that never really extended into his off hours, where it never paid to hate anyone-- to this... a calm warmth that came from having a place at someone else's dinner table. From being called the closest thing the man had to a friend, and from that, to being a real one... It was odd to find he was doing this now out of reasons that were not wholly self-serving. It was no better to think that there was something self-serving in this, and it wasn't what he'd first thought. The Spy returns, ladling pasta onto his plate, the ravioli swimming in marinara. "I have to apologize, the grocery store could offer absolutely no fresh parmesan." "Canned stuff's fine." The Sniper assures him, but the Spy's expression says otherwise. "The 'canned stuff' is an abomination." He corrects. The Sniper grins slowly. "I could always order you to pick some up for me sometime." The Spy grabs the pen and flips through the pages he had typed up, scrawling 'NO FAKE CHEESE' across a blank space, and the Sniper laughs. The Spy makes another trip back to the kitchen, coming back in with a glass of wine and his own plate. He places the wine in front of the Sniper before pulling out a chair for himself. "I should probably sit at the table, for now..." He chuckles. "While I am still my own man." "Would you... not normally be?" "Not normally, no. Unless you prefer it. When you come over here, for the time that you are my master, the apartment is yours, the furniture is yours, and I am yours. I will be more than happy to serve you dinner, I can clean the place under your supervision, or... I mean, any little task. But the furniture is yours. Unless you tell me otherwise, my place is on the floor." "Do you, erm... prefer it that way?" The Spy nods, taking a bite. "It's... comfortable for me, sometimes. To feel small, subservient... it is not a feeling it's easy to get when you are the master of your own house, sitting tall in a nice chair. And... it is more than that. It is the muscle feedback from holding a position on my knees, too. It's a whole package, that is the thing I think most people would not understand. It calms me, it makes it easier for me to think when I wake up the day after, having had the chance to relax, it is very much a mental experience, a-- a psychological one. But it is also a physical one. Even without whips and chains, it is a physical experience." "Just not a sex one, yeah?" The Sniper coughs, taking a sip of his wine. "Mm, good. You made these from scratch?" "Thank you, yes. I did the sauce last night, some of the prep work, but I made those today. Glad you like them." "And the sauce? Hell, Spook, you know they sell jars of the stuff?" "Would jarred sauce taste this good?" "Guess not." He chuckles, taking another bite. "Mm-- no, guess it wouldn't. You cook for your team? Because I might have to switch sides if your side eats like this all the time." The Spy hides a laugh in his hand, shaking his head. "Sometimes, but not as well-- I don't have the time. Anyway, to answer your more important question, no... not a sex thing. An emotional one, though. There is a lot of trust involved here. It takes time to build, but... even when you are hiring a paid professional, as I used to, a relationship develops. The same as it would with a trusted doctor, in a way. It is a client relationship, but that does not mean there is not trust and dependence on service... and the nature of the thing, of course I develop some attachment. It is in my nature, perhaps. I never used to put too much thought into it-- I paid a man to think about these things for me." He laughs. "I can handle that." The Sniper nods. "You feed me and I can handle whatever I have to." The Spy smiles at him, and they both go back to eating. When he finishes, the Sniper pushes his plate back, returning to the papers. It really doesn't look like the Spy needs things from him that he can't give. He doesn't know if he'll be able to go without asking for things the Spy won't be able to. He's gone as much of his life as possible without relying on anyone, or letting them in. Noticing the Spy losing it had led to wanting to help him, selfishly at first and then out of a budding friendship-- bad enough without the budding attraction. For the Spy, this was firmly Not A Sex Thing, and the Sniper wanted to respect that, but he did worry that for him, it was. The experience he had was nothing like this, hadn't come with paperwork and talk... but it came with a feeling that he doesn't know if he can separate from sex. He makes no additions that he fears would tempt him too greatly-- there are things the Spy has not specifically vetoed, but he knows they would lead him to want things so far from being on the table that the Spy hadn't touched on them at all in his write-up. "I want to try." He sighs, half to himself. "You need a little something tonight? You've been pretty ragged." "If you're ready." The Spy leans over, taking the stack of papers and looking over the notes made in pen, the Sniper's handwriting an untidy scrawl desperately trying to hold itself together for the Spy's benefit. "Here." He points to the floor nearby, a spot on a thick throw rug, and the Spy quickly moves to kneel, head bowed and palms on thighs. He is a sweet picture like that, something so different from the Spy on the field, and yet right in line with the man he's begun to know. He holds himself in place, exactingly still, and even though there is no relaxation in the lines of his shoulders, in the rock-solid statue he makes, the air around him is relaxed and calm. The Sniper places a hand on his head, thumb stroking over the mask, fabric rumpling at the touch before smoothing back into place. There was nothing in the Spy's write-up about the balaclava, and the Sniper knows better than to ask about it now-- he's given the Spy permission to relax, something he can't have if he's being questioned. He goes with the first example the Spy had given him. "Count. I'll tell you when you're done." He orders. His command voice is perfect-- firm but quiet, and the Spy complies without thought. He counts in French. The longer he goes, the easier it is, and he likes being free from thought. He is aware of the Sniper, but there is no edge to that awareness, just the reassuring knowledge that the man is nearby even when the hand leaves his head. He can hear the slight comfortable creak of his chair as the Sniper relaxes, can hear the wine sipped at and the glass set back on the table. And everything is fine.
This story is very interesting and I can't wait for more! No matter it will lead to sex or not (it's in afanfic so it highly will be, but I'm ok even without it.) Captcha:SURRENDER igstand Indeed, captcha. Indeed.
I would have liked to know if there was any mentioning about sex in the papers. Perhaps we will find out in the next chapter.
Anne you are amazing
Again, thank you very much, all! (and there is no mention of sex in the paperwork... but of course, it's only a first draft of their agreement... and things are early yet...) (feel free to imagine me winking in the least subtle manner ever while typing that, because... er, yeah.) ---/-/--- Ch.III- Added Reality ---/-/--- The Sniper doesn't relax completely, though there's something oddly lulling about the Spy's voice, about letting a language he doesn't speak wash over him, even when he can follow along with the numbers easily enough. He listens carefully to the Spy's voice, stopping him at the first sign that that voice is growing ragged with use. "Good." He says, with an air of finality, and the Spy stops speaking, though nothing else changes. "Here." At that, the Spy moves to kneel at the Sniper's feet. He's practically more liquid than man, the Sniper barely able to register him rising to his feet before he is on his knees once more, head bowed and hands once more in place. It was no great distance to cross, but it is still eerie and impressive the way the Spy can move, the way it seems natural for him to move. He'd been given a list of free touches-- things he was allowed to do without verbal warning, though there was still a note made that he shouldn't move too quickly if he didn't want to risk a little fight. He reaches out slowly and tilts the Spy's head up with one finger under the man's chin, brings the last sip of wine to his lips. The Spy swallows, looks grateful and graceless and yet there are no stray drops whatsoever. The Sniper wonders if a bigger mouthful would have been a different story, imagines the Spy with wet reddened lips, with big thirsty swallows that left thin dribbles down his chin. He sets the empty glass aside without another word. "Stay?" The Spy asks, his voice small, half-broken, alien and sweet. His mouth snaps shut as though trying to recall the word from the air, and he shoots a darting glance up to the Sniper, questioning. "Yeah. I'm staying." He nods, letting the Spy's head fall to rest against his knee. "Anything else you want to say? You can now. You did good... now you can just relax." "Yes." He laughs. "I can. Thank you, a thousand times... It-- it's good, that we started small. I can still talk, a little. Mostly I want to sleep. I haven't in so long, not well." "You don't have to talk if you don't want." "No, no, I do... I didn't explain this part... I know, I wrote you up a paragraph, but a paragraph is no explanation. Should show you..." The Sniper nods. There had been a brief one, at the end, letting him know he would need to stay a while after the scene, that circumstances would dictate what was needed of him. He'd been struggling to take in the bulk of the thing and hadn't known what exactly was 'needed', not after the whole thing was over, but the Spy is drowsy and smiling, pulling himself to his feet with a stretch and a pop and a little yawn that the Sniper echoes. "Walk me down the hall first..." The Spy leans into him when he stands, though he moves under his own power. "If things are truly intense... even a little thing, after so long, it hits me. But after something big, I will need taking care of. It is like being drunk, a little... I can explain more tomorrow, if the writing is not enough, it isn't, but I didn't think..." "What do I do?" "I already ate." The Spy points to a door, and the Sniper opens it, ushering him inside and sitting him on the edge of his bed. "So... I already ate. Just... make sure I get to bed and leave me a glass of water, and stay until... stay, tonight. Guest room or here or... so I can sleep?" The Sniper nods, helping the Spy undress as dispassionately as he can when he sees the man fumble with his buttons, dizzy smile still in place, eyelids drooping. "How long since you've had a good night's sleep?" "Good? Week... week after coming to Teufort... I get an hour here or there." The Sniper goggles. Teufort... they'd begun at Teufort almost a year ago, the first base he was stationed at, and he believes the Spy was hired there for BLU around the same time. A long time to sleep only in fits. The Sniper was a light sleeper himself, depending on the stimuli, but at least he did sleep-- unless something big enough came near, he slept through the night fine, except the first few nights in a city, if he had to stay in a city long. "No wonder you're falling asleep on me." He covers the Spy up. "Merci." He waits until the Spy is snoring, before he makes his way back to the little dining table, and past it to the kitchen. He hates to rummage around the Spy's apartment while the man is essentially passed out, but he won't wake him for this. Finding a glass is easy enough in the end, and the risk of running across something private in the kitchen cupboards is low. He takes the glass of water in and sets it on the nightstand, waits a moment to be sure the Spy sleeps through the intrusion before going back to the hall to find the guest room. Unlike the Spy's bedroom-- not a large room, but lavish, in shades of powder blue and soft gold-- the guest room has a simple nightstand and lamp, craftsman style, like the small dresser and twin bed. The bed, dressed not in the luxurious silks of the Spy's bedspread, but in a soft red plaid flannel. Clearly not the Spy's style-- perhaps things that had come with the apartment, or just things that were available. He's comfortable there, finds it as close to his style as any truly indoor space could be. In the morning, the Spy is in the kitchen when the Sniper gets there, cheerful over a pan of eggs and a pot of coffee. "Sleep well?" The Sniper asks, scratching at his chest, his shirt unbuttoned over a plain white tee. "Marvelously. I am sorry if the write-up wasn't clear... I wasn't expecting to get so far, or so... well, you saw me." "Yeah. You seemed to feel it was normal, so..." "Optimal." He nods brightly. "Normally I respond... well, for a scene like last night, had I not been deprived for so long from a regular outlet, I would have slept well for the night, been potentially clingy, a little... For an extended scene, you may have to put me to bed-- No. No, that is more than you signed up for. Just cover me up on the couch if I don't cooperate when it comes to walking. I may hold onto you for a bit, but once I drop off, you can slip away. I'll get you a copy of my key, if you want to be able to sleep somewhere else. After all... I keep nothing here that I need to keep safe. I have other places, for all that. I don't mind giving a key." "If you're sure. Guest room's plenty comfy." The Sniper sits at the table. The Spy smiles and nods, before serving up two plates of eggs and two mugs of coffee. "Ask me if you ever want your own key, then. After a very good scene, I can sleep well almost every night of the week. I got eight solid nights of sleep once out of one day as a personal slave, actually, it was very rewarding. We don't have to worry about that now, one step at a time, but even if I don't sleep straight through, I've had enough to refresh myself. Something I can replay in my head to get most of a night of good sleep through to Wednesday... not flawless, but pretty good." "So... is that it, then? Put you to bed, glass of water, let you hang onto me a bit?" "Those are the basics... just... if I cling, the touches on the list you have, any of that-- the more you give me, the faster I will let go. And I may not cling, for a while. It developed slowly, with my professional. If I need reassurance, give it, but there will be plenty of times when I just want to fall asleep." "All right. Good to know." The Sniper nods, taking the opportunity to eat ravenously while the Spy speaks. "Look... I didn't think to write anything down about it, but... if you need anything after, anything, you just tell me. That... that is the problem, with having all my personal experience with professionals... I pay by the hour, he is more than happy to stick around to provide aftercare, and has no real emotional or physical needs from me, I have never really thought about what one does for a Dom when playtime is over..." "Don't really know, myself." The Sniper shrugs. "I-- I mean, I had a-a girlfriend once who liked being spanked sometimes, but that's not really this, is it?" "No... no, I suppose not." The Spy chuckles, taking a bite of his cooling breakfast. He feels guilty about the half-lie, and at a time when the Spy is putting so much trust in him on credit, but this thing the Spy has is 'Not A Sex Thing', and the Sniper doesn't know how to admit that it was a man and not a woman. He's never held any deep personal shame, just a caution that kept him from divulging the information to anyone who might take issue. The way the Spy frames things, he can't tell, and he can't bring himself to put that out there, knowing it's his most dangerous secret. After all, the Spy keeps his own secret, in the mask... The Spy coasts through the morning on a high, offering clarifications as the Sniper flips through the paperwork again looking for any kind of hint, but there's 'responding to men' and there's 'Responding to men', and in the Spy's case, it's such a hard call to make. He always thought he had a good read on other men, could spot his kind from not regardless of what stereotypes were or weren't fit. Even at his most relaxed, the Spy is somehow unreadable. "I'll try not to ask for anything you can't do." He says at last. "Oh, please." The Spy rolls his eyes, taking a sip of coffee. "After everything you have agreed to for me, if you need something, some reassurance or comfort, anything I can prepare for you beforehand or do for you in the morning, I want this to be an... well, an agreeable arrangement for us both. Besides, I am sure my ass is not nearly as tempting a target for fun as your ex-girlfriend's." The Sniper can think of no retort that would not immediately dig him a more-than-sufficient hole. He hurriedly shovels in the last of his breakfast, taking a healthy swig of coffee to wash it down and dragging the back of his hand across his mouth. "Well, if I stick around all night, and you're up bright and early all chipper and ready to cook, that's good enough for me." He says, ignoring the danger zone that was envisioning that kind of fun with the Spy. It was easier to deal with the thought that the Spy was perhaps attractive when he was trying to remove the man's head... but then, there was something satisfying in seeing the change in the man, knowing he was the reason... Really, there was something satisfying about all of it. Even if it was Not A Sex Thing. "Any time your needs, wants, or comfort levels change, we can talk. You don't only have to come here for a scene, you can come around just to... be, I suppose. To make sure there's nothing I should have written about for you, no questions or worries. Or to watch a movie or something. That is, if there is ever anything worth watching on the television..." "Big if." The Sniper laughs, but he relaxes a little. He can't quite help it, when the Spy is just leaking an aura of relief. It's something beyond the placid professional he was used to seeing before the man's decline, it was... it was wonderful.
Goddammit, Sniper! Don't try to play hard to catch now! I had the most cutest images in my head when the Spy was being sleepy.
Aw, I really love the trust growing between the two of them. Just wanted to comment to say how much I'm enjoying your writing and that I'm looking forward to this being updated.
Ch. IV- Get Me Down On My Knees ---/-/--- He doesn't abuse any power he might have, during the week-- he tested the ability once, when he ordered the Spy to drop his knife and heard it fall. That's more than enough for the Sniper, and while perhaps he should have been relieved not to get a knife in the back, the enormity of it is still sometimes terrifying. They fight, when he does hear a false step or smell a whiff of smoke, and the Spy's grin when they do has a certain edge when he's losing, but one when he's winning as well. The outcomes are about even, depending on the odds. If a round ends with the two in each other's company, they escape the bloodbath together, or take each other out quickly when it's not an option. It's an option Friday afternoon, and the Spy offers a cigarette, lighting it once it's between the Sniper's lips. "Thanks." He nods, and the Spy's demeanor has shifted from competitor to servant, but only slightly, in the making of the offer and the giving of the light. He is back to lounging and smirking once the moment has passed. "It's nothing." He waves a hand, but there's a secret warmth in the smirk that the Sniper likes to think no one else gets. "You had a good day today. If your Engineer hadn't kept me so distracted, I might have broken your streak, of course..." "You might have. Or you might've been another notch." He'd stopped keeping track long ago, of course, though the edge of a sill in his usual nest at Teufort still bears little tally marks made by the blade of his kukri. He doesn't know if RED and BLU have sent other teams there since he and the Spy rotated out with their own, doesn't know if another Sniper tries to keep track of his own score there. He'd fast discovered it was pointless, when computer printouts tallied all the battlefield statistics for the team, and he was welcome to make copies of his own. He rarely even bothered with that anymore, only when he needed to reassure himself on some point. It wasn't like other jobs, after all... so much of it was meaningless to keep track of when his employers received his results. He could never put the same names on his resume more than once, even if he had names for his enemies. "What do you want to do tomorrow?" He asks, blowing out a plume of smoke. "I was hoping you would tell me." The Spy laughs. "No, no, that's fine... The same, to start, would suit me well enough. Though... if you come early enough, I can actually serve you dinner. I mean, in-scene. Cook for you properly, clean up under your supervision, all that." "If that's what makes you happy. Told you before I'd never turn down a good meal. You want me looming over your shoulder telling you when you miss a spot? Or is that too much?" "You can." He takes a long drag, shooting the Sniper a little smile. "You can even make threats as to what sort of punishment I will be in for if I fail to please-- I am not interested in pain, but I do love the theatre of it, the anticipation... and having a consequence, even a fake one, hanging over my head to spur me onto perfection. I adore mental discipline, above all else. I just need someone to motivate me to it." "I can come over earlier a bit, if you like, watch you cook." "Good, good. I'll get my shopping done in the morning, you can come by any time after noon, I should think-- and what am I shopping to make? It should be your choice." "Oh, dunno... I like spaghetti bolognese." "Spaghetti bolognese?" The Spy raised an eyebrow. "Yeah." "Well... I don't have an extruder, so it won't be from scratch, and it's not at all the kind of pasta to hold onto a bolognese sauce, but if that is what you want, that is what you will have." "Such a snob about food." He snorts, giving the Spy a gentle punch to the arm. "What do you put it on?" "Penne, tagliatelle... Pappardelle, which... maybe I could make from scratch. Or lasagna. But, if you want spaghetti--" "Well, now, hold up... didn't think about lasagna." The Sniper scratches at his chin, making a show of deciding. "How is your lasagna?" "To die for." The Spy answers, so absolutely serious that it's almost funny. "Yeah?" Beneath the fully serious expression, the Spy can feel a mounting excitement. It will take him the better part of the day to get everything done, even if he spends the night prepping whatever he has on hand, and to be doing it all under the Sniper's watchful eye, awaiting his ultimate approval... already, some of the week's stress ebbs at the thought. No skimping on time and effort, under these circumstances, it all has to be from scratch, and he can just picture making the Sniper feel at home while he works, making sure he has a comfortable seat to take whenever he likes and a clear view of the little kitchen. "Absolutely." He nods, with a flash of a grin. "Lasagna it is." The Sniper returns both, cigarette dangling from his lip, paper wet where his tongue has prodded around at the filter in thought. He ashes it into an old coffee can, and holds the can out for the Spy to do the same. "An excellent choice, Monsieur." The Spy says, giving his cigarette a little tap over the can as he inclines his head in a little mock bow. They both laugh, more than the not-quite-a-joke merits, both relax into the shared space between them as their boundaries of personal space bleed into each other, forgotten. On Saturday, the Spy answers the door once again in his apron, dusted with flour this time, and he shows the Sniper in to where fresh lasagna noodles are being rolled out, and there are little bowls of minced garlic and mirepoix waiting to become part of the bolognese. "Can I offer you a glass of wine, Monsieur?" "Probably shouldn't start in on the wine too early." The Sniper grins at him, offers a little touch to his chin, brief and affectionate. "I'm sure I'll have plenty opportunity with dinner." "Coffee?" The Spy offers, demure, and there is a gleaming espresso machine on his counter which is too much temptation to ignore. "Will it take you away from cooking too long?" "Absolutement pas, I will get you whatever you desire." His stomach flip-flops at that. Any word but 'desire' he might have born easily. Not A Sex Thing, he reminds himself. "Just an espresso." The Spy nods and glides to the machine, opening the cupboard over it. The Sniper watches him at work, wiping the flour from his hands on the towel over his shoulder before handling the grounds, the cup, and neatening everything every step of the way so that by the time he's finished, the machine looks as if it's never been touched, much less used. He presents the espresso as if making some holy offering, head bowed, gaze steady from below his eyelashes as he waits on tenterhooks for approval. "Oh, now that's good." The Sniper groans, before the cup even touches his lips, the steam and the aroma sending him. The Spy watches a moment longer, for the first taste to earn the same response, and then he is bowing and returning to his cooking. The Sniper leans against the counter to watch a while, as the Spy moves onto the sauce, browning the first of the diced vegetables in olive oil and sighing over the scent. The Sniper doesn't blame him, as the sizzle of garlic and onion hits the air. He takes a seat in one of the Spy's dining room chairs after a while-- it's already been positioned to give him the perfect vantage point on the whole process, the Spy's back as he works, sauteing the meat and humming his soft approval at each stage. All told, it's a half an hour before the Spy's work is a sauce, and he moves it to the back burner and finds a small saucepan, before gathering more ingredients and moving the empty little dishes from his earlier prep work to the sink. He wipes the counter down before measuring and laying out the new ingredients-- butter, flour, milk, cheese, some kind of spice that he grates himself into a tiny dish. He takes two of his olivewood spoons from the canister with the rooster painted on it, laying one alongside the ingredients and using the other to gather up a taste of the bolognese. He carries it over an open palm to catch any drips, presenting it to the Sniper to taste. It's heavenly, the tomato a balance of fresh sweetness and sharp acidity, the meat adding to the heartiness, the seasoning perfect... it takes the Sniper back to the Italian restaurant he'd frequented in Adelaide, whenever he had to be in the city at all, to the sauce you'd lick right off your plate without worrying about who stared, and the Spy drinks his reaction in with a deep breath and a smile his professional demeanor can't fully dampen. The licked spoon goes into the sink, and the Spy takes another ten minutes on the second sauce. He doesn't offer a taste, and the Sniper doesn't ask-- it looks rich, when he stands up to peer at it, and the Spy is fast running out of wooden spoons at the rate he's using them anyway. "What are you putting in it?" He asks, as the last bit of seasoning is thrown in, the one he hadn't gotten a good look at when he'd been watching the Spy's back. He'd seen the grater, though that was little help to him. "Nutmeg." The Spy answers, voice soft. "It's a bechamel." "Looks good." The Sniper affirms, watching the Spy swell with satisfaction. He hovers a bit while the Spy assembles the lasagna. There are no layers of fluffy ricotta, only the pasta and the two sauces, with sprinklings of parmesan from a big bowl that's been freshly grated and set aside in preparation. There's enough to the bolognese that the Sniper can't imagine missing anything, and once it's in the oven, the Spy turns to him with another little bow. "Anything else for you, Monsieur?" He asks. The process of cooking, and of thinking about nothing beyond the meal and the eventual enjoyment thereof, is a fine stress-reducer, much improved by the Sniper's presence, and there is a looseness to him beneath the careful posture of servitude. "Come and sit with me 'til that's done." He says, and there is no question in his voice at all, another thing for which the Spy is grateful, as he trails behind the Sniper all the way to the couch. The Sniper sits, and the Spy kneels at his feet. "Don't suppose you have... dunno, any... poetry memorized, or anything. Might be more entertaining than just numbers." "Only in French." "That's fine. Recite it for me." The Spy does, voice rising and falling with dramatic inflection. The Sniper can pick out words here and there, barely any which come with a meaning to him, but he appreciates the rhythm of it all, and the emotion, which the counting had lacked. The Spy has a fine voice for recitation, no matter the language, and when he at last falls silent, the Sniper reaches out slow to place a hand atop his head. "Good. Thank you." "De rien." The Spy pushes up into his hand, almost imperceptible. The buzzing of the oven timer spoils whatever moment might have stretched on between them, but the scent that had been filling the apartment is such that the Sniper can't find it in himself to complain. The Spy serves him, once the lasagna has had the chance to set a little, food and wine, before standing by with arms folded behind his back, awaiting judgment. The Sniper has no words, can only agree that it is to die for, pasta fresh and tender and thick with the sauces. Once he has expressed sufficient pleasure, the Spy kneels again. He stands only to refill the Sniper's wineglass. "Eat." The Sniper gives the empty space at the table beside himself a little thump, and the Spy finally moves to perch on a chair, to fix his own plate. Once there, he does eat, though he often loses himself in watching the Sniper finish up his plate. He takes another bite at every wordless prompt, the Sniper fixing him with little looks when he realizes the Spy is forgetting, giving a little snap of his fingers and pointing to the other man's plate. The Spy serves him seconds, though it takes him the same time to eat one serving as it takes the Sniper to eat two, between his late start and long pauses. When the Sniper finally pushes his plate away, the Spy takes it along with his own, and the Sniper watches him do the washing up, watches him wipe down every surface before hanging up his hand towel and apron. The Spy returns to stand before the Sniper. "Anything else, Monsieur?" "You try the wine?" The Sniper offers his own glass, and again the Spy drinks from it, adam's apple bobbing. There are too many touches not on the Spy's list that the sight of that little motion makes him want. Amazing the way so much can stand out in spite of the balaclava, the fabric thin and close-fitting. He doesn't know if he wants to see what's underneath. Sometimes he is desperate to and other times afraid. "Have another poem in you?" "I might... I will try." "I won't know the difference." He nods, chuckling. He directs the Spy back to his spot on the living room rug, slumping back into the sofa. "You could make something up if you had to. I just like the sound of it, reckon." Again, he listens-- this time, he hears the places where the Spy's recall is less than perfect, little hesitations over one word or another. He lifts the Spy's chin after the man finishes, giving him a small smile, slightly cooler than the appreciation he'd displayed for the first. "Will you have something memorized for me next time?" He asked, a little bit of teasing to his tone, on the verge of being too sweet for what they had. "Oui, Monsieur. In English?" "Doesn't matter. This time. Might set you something specific, down the road... Haven't thought that far ahead yet. We can worry about that in the morning, how about? Up." The Spy rises to his feet, and when the Sniper holds out his hand, palm down, the Spy helps him to his own. "I'll worry about it in the morning." The Sniper corrects, placing a hand on the small of the Spy's back and turning him towards his bathroom. "You don't worry about a thing when I've got ya." "I don't." The Spy smiles, lets himself be led. "Teeth. Piss if you need to." He gives the Spy a gentle shove through the door, letting him go. He'd forgotten any kind of overnight bag for himself, but at least he remembered the Spy could take care of that much before bed. When the man emerges, he slides an arm around him and all but drags the half-asleep spook to bed. This time, a set of pyjamas is hanging on the door of the Spy's armoire, and the Sniper helps dress him. "Stay?" The Spy whispers. "In a minute." The Sniper nods, tucking him into bed. "Be right back." He avails himself of the toilet, and gives his mouth a rinse, before carrying the Spy's glass of water back to the bedroom. No sooner is it on the nightstand than the Spy is cuddling his arm. "Scoot on over if you want me to stick around here for the night." He snorts, giving the Spy a couple of careful shoves. He removes his belt and boots, before stretching out between the sheets and the big comforter. The Spy's hands are icy, and he chafes them between his own, which stops the clinging. Once the Spy is well on his way to dreamland, the Sniper finishes tucking him back under the sheet, rubbing at his arm through that until he's sure the Spy is warm enough.
Aaaaahhh this cuteness is killing me! Moar!
So sweet. Made me smile all the way that I read. Thank you Anne. Also now I want lasagna. A lot. *drool* Can't wait for more. (And I have been thinking. Spy said he feel safer with the man, but there is one woman who maybe can protect him better than men. And that's the Announcer. She might be happy to boss him around while making sure he's safe under her supervision. But I can't think of romance between these two though. (nervous laugh). ok, I guess I'm rambling and I wil shut up now.) Ps. sorry for my English, I'm not very good at it but I will try to improve.
Ah, Spee, I know that Feel. The pleasure of quickly and efficiently serving someone, garnering their praise, letting them make the decisions, allowing yourself to be entirely within the control of another and relinquishing that control you would usually exact yourself (though for me it is Decidedly A Sex Thing)-- I'm glad to see that represented in a favourable light. Also, that you detail the Aftercare, and the Spy's lingering lethargy after a stint in Subspace, these are actually fairly rare in fiction as far as I can tell. Speaking of lethargy, being that their D/s relationship doesn't really involve any SM, I wonder if the Sniper will get the adrenaline rush that contributes to Top Drop, or if he'll suffer any ill effects whatsoever other than the continually referenced 'budding attraction', which, by the way, I could see being explored some more. Like, was the Sniper already feeling that way before the Spy's revelation, or did it come after with the "unbidden host of mental images", those "stray thoughts that ignored the man's words-- not about sex, not about pain-- to pop up at the most inconvenient times"? Because, those would mean very different things about the Sniper. Is he only attracted to the Spy because he provides an outlet for the Dom streak he didn't know he had? The line I quoted above is I think my favourite in the whole thing so far because, Pobrecito, Mr. Mundy, if you're just now discovering you're more into pain than just spanking a fellow's ass, and this arrangement doesn't allow for it, nor, explicitly, exactly the -kind- of into it you are, you're in for a world of not-wholly-satisfying encounters. Of course I might be projecting. Anyway, I know you've written this pairing a million zillion times and maybe you feel Done with explaining why one is into the other BUT that's totally MY favourite aspect of fanfiction: the how and why, not necessarily the what, and in addition to wanting something absolutely bursting with ricotta now, I'm hungry for more explication, there.  With relation to that, I'm also happy to see that the two aren't immediately IN WUV with eachother and preparing to go skipping off into the sunset to eat super special blissful moon pies together; not just because they're mercenaries and on opposite teams, but also because they're, y'know, people. To that effect, I wonder about their cross-faction friendship and that it is stated as such. That didn't go over particularly well with the Administrator when the BLU Soldier and RED Demoman tried it, and I can't see her waffling on that point, really. Looking forward to watching this thing develop. Â
Fingers crossed the Sniper will be holding the Spy n the morning when he wakes up
First, thank you everybody, and my apologies that I'm not able to do much (if any) writing/posting on weekdays! I'll definitely be exploring the Sniper's growing feelings for Spy more-- he tends to think about the physical attraction more often when he's Domming for Spy, but a lot of his feelings are coming from the fact that they're getting to know each other in general... I've just been focusing on the D/s relationship. (and the aftercare is one of my favourite things! So I'm really glad it was appreciated. As for morning cuddles... well, I'll leave that to the chapter...) ---/-/--- Ch. V- Let's Play ---/-/--- This time, the Sniper is the first to wake, finding the Spy sprawled half across him, unselfconsciously cuddly and gently snoring. The bedsheet is a tangle between them, as he'd gone to sleep between the layers of the Spy's bedding, but the Spy is unbothered. He is warm, as well, which the Sniper is glad for, after how cold he'd been. He idly strokes at the Spy's back, wonders if he should-- it hadn't been on the list, but then... the list hadn't covered waking up under a blanket of Spy, either. When the Spy wakes up, he rolls away with a sheepish smile and a soft apology that the Sniper won't accept. "Nothing to be sorry about. You warned me you could get clingy. Besides... I stayed warm, so..." "Oh, yes, I suppose so." "Feeling good?" "Very, thank you." He lets out a sigh, any awkwardness that came with waking up half on top of the Sniper bleeding out of him, relaxation flooding back in. "You?" "Can't complain." The Sniper grins. "You need the bathroom, or...?" "No, please, by all means take it first." The Spy waves him off. "I'll be starting coffee in a minute, I think..." "Lovely. Useless without it." He chuckles, rolling out of bed. At least he can get some relief for his bladder, and in practical terms, that's all his early morning erection demands. It's not nearly as satisfying as a good wank first, but he's in the Spy's home... it feels a bit like crossing a line, to get off in another man's bathroom. Well, unless that's what you're there for, but he's been good about firmly reminding himself that he isn't. After he washes his hands and face, he heads to the kitchen, following the scent of strong coffee. The Spy is in his apron, humming over a bowl of eggs as he whisks them into a smooth consistency. There is a little of that submission still, when he smiles over at the Sniper with his head ducked to increase the height difference between them, to let him look up. "Do you think you'd like to stick around a while today? There is an omelet in it for you if you want breakfast, but I would be happy to keep on cooking for you through the weekend." "Doesn't sound like something I can pass up." He grins. The Spy sets his beaten eggs aside to fix up the Sniper's coffee, hand hovering over cream and then sugar, eyes on the Sniper for a reaction. "Just one lump." The Sniper nods to him, grin still in place. He'd barely moved his head in shaking it over the cream, but the Spy had passed it up almost instantly at the smallest gesture. "You are welcome to the paper while I get breakfast seen to. Just keep the pages in order... Not that it matters much, it is hardly a newspaper to begin with." He rolls his eyes. "Appreciate it." The paper is on the table already, and the Sniper hadn't realized he'd been so leisurely with his morning ablutions, to allow for the Spy to get so much done. It didn't surprise him to see the man was terribly efficient at home, he'd seen proof enough of that watching him cook, watching him keep his kitchen spotless in the midst of a lasagna. Still, with the paper brought in, the coffee so far underway before he'd emerged, and breakfast prep started... Having coffee and a newspaper, sitting at a real table... it was surprisingly comfortable. The Spy had had a point, the local paper was not much to speak of, but it all felt so... So normal. He likes that more than he ever thought he could. The smells and little sizzling sounds of breakfast have him salivating just a little, as he flipped past stories that gave little taste of the world beyond the little mountain town between the bases. A couple of mentions of RED and BLU business-- he recognizes the name of a company mining concern, and skims through the warring op ed pieces on the danger of having the mercenaries around versus the boon they provided to the town's economy. "Gruyere and green onion." The Spy appears at his elbow, placing his plate before him. "Next weekend I can try to have something else on hand, if you have a favourite..." "Nothing in particular..." He shrugs, digging in. If he had had any lingering regrets about the arrangement that the lasagna could not banish, then the omelet would have done it. The eggs had to be fresh, had to come from some local farm and not just a supermarket. They were too much like the eggs his mother made, the ones he'd spent his childhood gathering for her every morning before working whatever chores his father set him. Not that he would ever say it aloud, but her eggs had never attained quite this level of fluffy softness. Good as they'd been, they never seemed to melt in the mouth the way the Spy's did, leaving behind the thick gooeyness of the cheese and the bright little bits of green onion. "Okay, what's your secret?" He asks, when the Spy joins him with his own omelet and cup of coffee. "Monsieur, what isn't my secret?" The Spy laughs. "A tablespoon of water for every egg. A good deal of butter in the pan. Quality ingredients. And, of course, I am French." "Fair enough." He chuckles. "Y'know, I've heard a lot of speculation about that. Couple blokes on the team reckon at least one of you spooks isn't even from France and it's all an act to throw the rest of us off." "I can hardly speak for your teammate, but I am definitely from France." "Just bringing it up, not saying I ever believed it." The Spy nods, falling silent, but he doesn't seem to be sulking. After he takes their dishes, he disappears into his room, returning with a small wooden box. "No questions." He says firmly, holding it out. "But you may look." The Sniper feels a little tremor in one hand as he reaches out to open the box, and he clenches his fist against it, can't bear to feel that shakiness even without his rifle in his hands. There is something wrapped in a brightly coloured cloth, and at the Spy's nod, he lifts it out, feels the weight of it in his hand, the odd shape. The Spy watches him intently, holds stock-still as the Sniper unwraps the object only to find that it's a small chunk of stone. The bit of cloth itself, however, when it's loose and unfolded in his hand... There's a coat of arms on it, most of it red, with a blue band at the top. A rearing unicorn on the main field, and a row of fleurs de lys along the blue band. He has a lot of questions-- is the heraldry personal? A family, a place? Why the stone? Why show me?-- but he doesn't ask any of them. He merely carefully rewraps the stone in the cloth and places it back into the box. The Spy closes it again, with a soft, satisfied 'thunk' of the felt-lined wood falling shut. When the Spy returns from putting it away, he looks exhausted, and the Sniper steers him to kneel before the couch. "You need this?" He asks softly. "Sorry, yes... I just-- I didn't think... Having a history is draining. Someday I will let you ask, but not today." "Not today." The Sniper promises. "Today you don't have a past. Isn't that right?" "Oui." "What do you have?" He looks up, questioning. "No past. No tomorrow, either, don't want you worrying about tomorrow. So what do you have?" "Today." "That's right. Right now. Just this minute. What do you have?" "Just this minute." "Good." The Sniper's smile turns indulgent, and he strokes the Spy's head. "And what are you thinking about?" "J-just this minute." "Good boy. Tell me. Just this minute, just what you can feel or smell or see or hear, right this minute. Nothing else." "My knees." He lets out a soft, pleased sigh. "In the carpet. The pressure on them." "Good. And?" "Breakfast, still... it hangs in the air a little, when you breathe in deep..." "Mm, yeah, go on." He rubs absent circles, like petting a big cat, except there are no ears sticking straight up to ruffle. "I am still in pyjamas... it's warm just where my hands rest. The rest is cool." The Spy dutifully reports on the minute details of the world as it touches him. This time, he does not wait for prompting. "Your hand." "That's right." The Sniper breathes, still stroking gently. He can feel that same tremor, the one that comes at the edge of a revelation he's not sure he's ready to face. He lets his hand slide around to the base of the Spy's skull, cupping him, urging him to lean back instead of forward, to place the weight of his head in the Sniper's palm. The Spy does, lets his shoulders drop and spine lengthen, body relaxing. "I can hear a train, in the distance. And... I feel... good. Loose again. Like this morning." "Up." The Sniper removes his hand, patting the sofa, and the Spy pulls himself up to take the seat, leaning against him. "Hey... you know I didn't mean anything." "I know. I always knew. I just wanted... I wanted to give something up." "You do that enough, don't you?" "But you... you are a good friend. For how we started, you are a remarkable one." The Spy shakes his head weakly, and every word seems sighed out as if a great burden is leaving him a syllable at a time. "I don't mean power, or control. I give those up, yes... I wanted to give up a piece of what made me. I cannot give much of myself at once, not in that way... But I want to start." The Sniper nods, moving the Spy to lean back against the couch instead of into him. He goes only far enough to find where he'd dumped the contents of his pockets before bed the night before. He brings something over in one clenched fist, pressing it into the Spy's hand. The Spy unfolds his fingers to look. A small coin with a kangaroo one one side, a tiny hole bored through to allow a loop of waxed string through it. "Never did get around to putting it back on the keychain..." The Sniper chuckles. "Just... figured I wouldn't lose it if I tied a string on it... not sure what the logic was, with that, but I haven't lost it yet, so..." "So you carry a little piece of home with you always?" "Mum gave it to me when I left home. For luck." He smiles. "That... that is nice." The Spy nods, rubbing his thumb over the shiny surface before handing it back. "That must be lovely... to have someone wish you luck when you head out into the ugly parts of the world." "Well, it's nice having her-- I mean, 'approve', that's not the word... but she doesn't fuss about my choices. Long as I'm safe, she doesn't throw a fit over my job like my dad does." The Spy nods, and the Sniper throws an arm across his shoulders, pulling him back to settle close against his side. "I'd wish you luck," He chuckles. "But that wouldn't go well for me, would it?" "I suppose not. When I am lucky..." "I pay the price." He chuckles. "That's fine, though."
How did I ever missed this little marvel?? ... shame on me ...
Simply amazing <3 and so sweet. I can't wait to see how this progresses. ^_^
I know this won't happen, but I would love to see the Sniper misusing his power over the Spy on the battlefield. It wouldn't suit the story's sweetness, though.
I'm always in such awe of the way you take these characters and spin them into these wonderful dynamics. I find this such a refreshing take on the usual Sniper/Spy tropes. Can't wait to see what you do with this!
Thanks, all! A quick author's note: This particular story is not-too-long and focuses on how the relationship forms, but there will be a sequel about the consequences of having a 'friend' on the wrong side of the conflict. That said, it ain't over yet, so... ---/-/--- Ch. VI- Fulfilled at the End of the Day ---/-/--- The Spy flaunts the effects of his newfound peace of mind by sneaking up on the Sniper, without a sound, without the betrayal of a wind-change and the scent of smoke, without any warning signs until the Sniper is waking up in respawn with a tingling between his shoulders and a little dizziness. It's not the fair-ish fight a part of him had hoped for, but he takes a certain pride in the fact that the Spy is taking him out so flawlessly, a certain perverse glee in being dominated for a change. Neither one has a winning streak last long when they pit themselves against each other. The Sniper still struggles with wants, privately, whether or not he is struggling with the Spy as well, but at least on the weekends, the Spy struggles with nothing. Friday night, he had whispered two little syllables into the Sniper's ear, a place he can never go back to. Even if he were to try, nothing is the same. In the years he's been away, the entire city has been rebuilt from the ground. The people he loved there are a quarter century gone, and the places. The Sniper had taken those syllables, had taken everything else, and let him forget a piece of his past for the second weekend in a row. It was like being exorcised-- the memories remained when the scene ended, but they were transformed, lighter... less painful. Now, on Saturday, the Spy folds himself down into his preferred posture, where he is free, and the Sniper sits over him to struggle with the combined weight of both their demons. It's not a desire to hurt, he realizes, as he watches the Spy hold his position like a figure carved out of marble. The fantasies that spring up unbidden have nothing to do with pain. The hisses and moans in his dreams are more akin to pleasure, and the Spy's face in his mind's eye is always placid in its bliss. It's the marks he wants to leave, that's all, some claim of ownership to hide beneath the three piece suit. He doesn't get off on the act of leaving welts-- the thought of the act, anyway-- but on the knowledge that they were his to make. Not that it had to be welts, he didn't think that was wise. Too potentially unsafe, would take too much recovery time... and it might turn his stomach to do off the field, where even without a medic's intervention, respawn was only ever a quick stab away. A tattoo was too permanent to ask, and too dangerous for a man who needed to keep any identifying features to a minimum. A hickey would be ideal, except there was the Spy's other parameter, Not a Sex Thing, and even if he could allow that as a gentler show of mastery than any other branding would be, the Sniper knew he'd never keep sex off his mind with the Spy's throat under his teeth. He's not interested in doling out pain the Spy doesn't want, and he's not interested in giving more than he gets back-- when it comes to pain, he has all he needs from his day job, he's sure... But the Spy loves the theatre of it. Would he like props? The smack of leather into the palm of the Sniper's hand as a playful threat, a gentle tap to spur him into place? He doesn't think that flogging the Spy is what he wants, but he does think he wants something he can hold in his hands. The scent of leather, something to keep time with... not a whip, a crop... he could steal the Soldier's old Mann Co. catalog and have it sent, hidden under a new rifle... could hit the end against his boot in time as the Spy counts for the sound of leather on leather. Could feel the sting on his own skin smacking into his palm just for the sound, could gently prod at the Spy, all for show... "I've got a question for you in the morning." He says it out loud, doesn't want to forget. "For now, you just stay right where you're at and think about what I told you." "Mais oui, Monsieur." The Spy murmurs, expression one of sweet calm over the concentration. The Sniper can see his fingers twitch slightly in muscle memory. Speaking of props, he decides, he'll buy a few good locks and make the Spy pick them for some reward. Time him, maybe, if he likes... Rewards he's still figuring out, though he's had some time to learn what the Spy most needs. They tend to eat dinner together-- or have so far, and the whole thing is a kind of reward for the Spy as it is, but he wants to give him something more than a word of praise. When the Spy breathes out a little word of accomplishment, the Sniper finds the box of cigarettes and lighter on the end table, tilting the Spy's chin up with a touch and placing one cigarette between his lips. "Good boy." He smiles, just a touch predatory, as he lights it. "You deserve a treat." The Spy sighs out the first plume of smoke with a grateful upwards gaze and soft smile. "I please you?" "That's right." He gives the Spy's head a pat and a stroke, can barely feel the suggeston of the texture of hair beneath the mask when he presses harder, only for that nebulous idea to disappear beneath the smoothness, leaving him with no clear picture of whatever was beneath. "Merci." "My pleasure, Pet." The nickname feels right tripping off his tongue, and the Spy pushes up into his hand with that extra pleased dizzy grin, with a haze and a twinkle in his eyes at once. He is sweet, strung out on subservience, and he deserves every bit of sweetness the Sniper can trust himself to give in return. When the Sniper finally removes the last of the cigarette from between his lips, the Spy kisses his hand, holding it in both of his own. He decides he trusts himself to return the gesture. The lips may be straight out and the cheek could be dangerous territory, but a kiss to the hand was just a tiny temptation, and he liked to think he was a man who could navigate tiny temptations safely. He lifts the Spy's hands up, brushing his lips across a couple knuckles. "You're a right sweetheart, when you're properly taken care of." He chuckles, letting the Spy lean against his knee and petting his head again. "Mm-hm." "What's next, you need a rest now, or more?" "Mm." His cheek is smushed to the Sniper's knee, eyelids drooping heavily. "Bed it is. I'll wake you for supper, you've time for a nice nap. Up. On your feet, come on." The Spy pulls himself up on the hand the Sniper offers, and on the edge of the couch. When he wavers on his feet, the Sniper is quick to wrap an arm around him. "I've got ya..." He smiles easily, guiding the man back to his bed and helping him get comfortable under his covers. The Spy mumbles, something in French that the Sniper isn't sure he'd have made out even in English. "That's right." He says anyway, stroking the exposed strip of the Spy's brow, skin cool and clammy. "Gonna warm up okay? Here, scoot. I got time to warm you up some before it's time to get dinner sorted. How do you feel about Chinese takeaway? My treat, since you've been such a good pet all weekend." "Oui." The Spy sighs, tugging at his duvet in a weak attempt at welcoming the Sniper into bed. With another chuckle, he slides in and wraps an arm around the other man. "Here. Borrow a little warm, pet. I've got ya." "Oui." "Hey... I know what I want." "Mm?" "We'll talk about it later. Just... letting you know, I know what will make me happy." The Spy nods and snuggles up to him, with a pleased sigh as his back is rubbed. "You... you do a pretty good job making me happy, you know?" The Sniper says seriously. "I didn't know what I was getting into... or what it would do to me, beyond a couple-few extra pounds, but... I really like this. It's-- it's nicer than I thought, being needed by someone and... and having a place in a home that's not on wheels." He's not sure the Spy had been awake for it all, but he's not sure it matters... that time, the words were for him. They could be for the Spy when he was awake and alert. When the Spy dropped off into sleep, he slipped out of bed, fetching a glass of water before returning to pull the man back into his embrace, chafing over his back and arms until the Spy felt warm again. Once the Spy wakes, his head is being carefully cradled, and the glass of water brought to his lips. He drinks gratefully, pulling himself half into the Sniper's lap and smiling up at him. "I still feel a bit... you know?" "You've got through Sunday for it to wear off. We'll go easy from here on out-- remember, dinner's on me this time. You have a favourite?" The Spy shakes his head, relaxing. "It's in Normandy." He says, after a moment. "Hm?" "Saint-Lo. Before Dover, before Paris, before the rest of the world, I am from Saint-Lo in Manche, Normandy. I just... You told me that story, the last smoke break we had, and... I thought, if you could talk about your family, I could work on opening up." "You don't have to... but... I guess it wouldn't mean much if you had to, yeah?" "Indeed." The Spy smirks gently, before lying against the Sniper, loose-limbed and heavy, air rushing from his lungs. "Do you go home often-- I mean, did you, before RED?" "Between jobs. Mum liked me to. Dad... I'm sure he appreciated it in his own way. Do you?" "What to? It is a very different city now. No... I went to Paris, often, but never to Saint-Lo. No one waits for me there. I have not been back since my first time leaving France." The Spy looks faraway for a moment, and though the Sniper had promised he'd go easy, he felt it was another case of the Spy needing something... Something to take the edge off of old realities. "Do you have a felt tip pen?" "Yes, I think so. Why?" "I know what I want." He smiles simply. "On my desk in the living room, with the other pens, if I have one that works." The Sniper leaves the bed, disturbing as little of the organized chaos of the Spy's rolltop desk as possible while unearthing the pen. He brings it back, looking the Spy over. "If I was going to write on you, where would you rather?" He offers. "... Write on me?" "Yeah. It's-- it's what I want. You said I ought to tell you if I thought of something, and I thought of it." The Spy shrugs out of his shirt and turns, offering the back of one shoulder. He can feel the gentle drag of the pen, cool and wet on his skin, as each letter slowly coalesces, 'reading' the word-- the name-- that forms. MUNDY He smiles to himself at being marked, wonders if he was meant to know what it said. "Last call to pick what you want from the takeaway." The Sniper offers, his mouth dry at the sight of stark letters spelling out his possession of the Spy. The gaze that turns back to him is adoring, a punch in the gut. "Chicken?" When he calls the takeaway place, he orders the chicken chow mein, the chicken fried rice, the orange chicken, the paper chicken, and the garlic chicken. One of those, he figures, has to be what the Spy wants. He'd meant to give the Spy a real break, but when the food arrives, the Spy is kneeling beside the couch instead of sitting on it. They eat the Spy's cooking at the table, but based on where the man is already seated, the Sniper spreads everything out on the coffee table and sits on the sofa. "Should've grabbed a fork." He snorts, picking up the bamboo chopsticks. "Never did learn to use these damn things..." The Spy takes them, snapping them neatly to disconnect the two from each other before picking up a piece of the garlic chicken and offering it up to the Sniper. He has the same look, the subservient, craving look that the Sniper has learned to give into. Best intentions aside, if the Spy needs to play his role a little longer, then the Sniper can let himself be pampered. "I was going to feed you." He says eventually. "Get food into you, I mean. Well-- No. All right. C'mere, then, who's a good pet?" The Sniper has no skill with chopsticks, but he unwraps the Spy's paper chicken and holds it out for the man to take bites from, and before he knows it, he's feeding him his whole meal. The adoring look has never been stronger, the electric jolt when the Spy's lips close around a fingertip and he isn't sure if the flick of a tongue is his imagination too much to ignore. "Spook, I think I need to take the guest room tonight." He says, voice low. "Did-- Are-are you not pleased?" The Spy closes a hand around his leg and he strokes his head and pours another sip of water into his mouth. "I am. But I need to have this conversation with the sober you. And I need a bit of space. I'll wait 'til you're sleeping before I go, no worries. Just telling you ahead of time." "I am still yours." The Spy says, and there is a surety beneath the waver in his voice. "You marked me. With your name." "How do you know it's my name?" He challenges, just to keep the topic away from his own inconvenient need. "What else can it be, mon Maitre?" This nickname is also new-- and he is used to 'Monsieur', but it doesn't jolt through him the same way. It doesn't imply the same sense of ownership, and it does not always carry the same frisson of devoted need. "That's right... I marked you with my name. I'll stay until you're asleep, Pet." "Merci, Maitre." He cuddles into the Sniper's knee, before welcoming another bite of food, and the Sniper doesn't know how to scoop up any rice without becoming too messily intimate in the feeding, but he dangles noodles one at a time down into the Spy's mouth. "Baby bird." He snorts, catches the flash of humour in the Spy's eyes in return. "More?" "Later." The Spy sighs. "Breakfast of champions." The Sniper begins packing up the leftovers. The Spy's refrigerator is small, but there's room for everything. He walks the Spy to the bathroom first, and then to bed, and true to his word, he stays until the Spy is sleeping, his temperature normal. In the morning, the leftovers are sitting out, with the Spy's forks sticking out of the containers, and he eats the chicken chow mein straight out of the box, the Spy rolling his eyes as he brings over a cup of coffee. "Thanks for the weekend. I needed to go a bit long... I'll be a bit fuzzy on and off today, probably, but I will be sharp for the work week. Same as it ever was." He smiles. "Did you sleep better with your own space?" "Not really... I just... I'm pretty comfortable with you." "Next time, then." The Spy smiles. It dims after a moment. "So what is it?" "I-- I want this thing to keep going, I really do." The Sniper begins, hates himself for the way the Spy's expression falls further. "But?" "But, I mean, you say for you it's not a sex thing, and you look at me like you love me, and I don't know anymore, Spook, because--" "I promise!" The Spy interrupts. "I know, I have developed an attachment to you, and if I have ever crossed a line, then I apologize, but it is not, and I would never intentionally--" "I think it's a sex thing for me." The Sniper pushes the words out, holding up a hand to halt the other man. "... Oh." "Yeah." "That is not what I was expecting." "That's the shape of it." The Spy sits down heavily at the table, looking up at the Sniper with a lost expression. "With women?" "No. With men. With you. I mean, I want it to be with you, but it's not for you, so... it's just hard, and I've been trying to figure it out for myself, but I keep coming back to it." "I am not opposed to having sex with you, you know, just because this is not a sexual outlet for me." The Spy's smile returns, gentle and tentative. "I don't take partners often... I have had enemies that it was more prudent to run from than to fight. Some of them may yet discover I am still alive. No one they send to seek out my loved ones could ever be a better assassin than you. This arrangement could work very well, then. You have learned what aftercare is for me... If it is sex for you, then we can find out a way to make it work. I just have to stay awake for it." The Spy laughs at himself at that, before reaching out to place a hand on the Sniper's arm. "You want to make a go of this, then? Because I've gotten to like you." The Sniper grins at him, offering the noodles. The Spy takes a bite, paying the shared spoon no mind at all. "We can re-write our limits to include sex. That is no problem for me-- just because this has been stress relief and not a turn-on for me in the past, that does not mean it is a turn-off to include sex. I am used to a professional, that is all... it's not the same as a partner, with some feeling behind it. And there will be some feeling behind it." "Can I ever see you without this?" The Sniper asks, lets his thumb trail along the edge of the Spy's mask at his chin. The Spy hesitates, sorry when the Sniper closes off at that hesitation. "You can. It is not easy for me to be without it, that is all. But... I have not showered yet. When I do, it comes off. I could... I could leave the door open for you, if you want." "That's a good enough start for me." The Sniper nods, relaxing. "I don't spend much time without even here--" "You told me." Another nod, a reassuring touch to the chin again. He smiles when the Spy relaxes in turn. "I want you to know me." The Spy sighs. "I do. And I will." "Thank you." "No worries." He leans in over the table, his lips grazing the Spy's cheek, feeling the reassuring warmth of his skin and the scrape of his stubble. "I can honestly say, with you, I have none."
I have been reading a lot of your stuff, Anne, especially the TF2 fictions. All that is left for me to say is that you manage to give us wonderfully vivid characterisations, plots where even the most dedicated slash-fic or pwp fans sure are grateful for those beautiful stories. It's like a delicious cake that is being covered in awesomeness,fluff, fruits, sparkles and all the sweet things while being spicy at the same time. No matter how often these two have been shipped and slashed, you manage to get it fresh again and more than worthy to read. On this particular one: I agree with the idea of submission and domination having been shredded to nothing by a certain monochrome book and therefore, this is very nice to read. It's one of those occassions where the "special wants" part does go along in a realy plausible way with the character. I certainly don't mind Spy's change of heart on the "it's not a sexual thing" statement, though. It means we are probably rewarded with awesome sauce on top of that delicious cake. Keep up your magnificent work!
And now the question that's going to open a can of wriggling worms, what exactly is the Sniper getting off on here? I hope you address this in story, especially when it starts moving into that tricky territory of "what do I want vs. what does my partner want".
I am looking forward to how the sex between them is going to go. Not because it's going to be great, but because I really want to see how it's going to play out. Will Spy still be a 'pet' in bed? Will he want Sniper to dominate him there too? Very excited.
The subject matter of this story really isn’t my cup of tea. But here I am lapping it up anyway. Anne is turning me into a filthy deviant. Thank you.
Sniper's confession to the Spy and the awkwardness that follows is the cutest thing I have ever read.
Thank you all very much! I appreciate all the comments, and just knowing that you guys read and really think about and feel for what I'm writing. (and again, so sorry that real life has cut so much into my writing time!) ---/-/--- Ch. VII- Come On ---/-/--- After the Spy's shower, after he towels his short-cropped hair off as thoroughly as possible, he slides his mask back on, but he does it slowly, giving the Sniper a long last look at him without. "Thank you." The Sniper breathes the words out just as slowly, speaks them as though they're fragile, and the Spy just nods. He pulls out a blank notepad and two pens, from his overstuffed rolltop, and motions the Sniper to sit beside him on the sofa. "We should continue this." He balanced the pad on his knee, so that the Sniper could reach, passing over the red pen and keeping the blue. "We drew up a little... contract, of sorts, for me, for all the things that are not sex. Now we need to get all of this on paper." The Sniper feels lost with all of this, just as much as he had the first time, but he lets the Spy pull him along in an easy wake, leading the way with what experience he has. "This is a little new for me, too." The Spy gives him a gentle smile, guessing at the root of his nerves. "I think it will be good-- and I think I know enough to apply what I am familiar with to this-- but don't think you are a novice and I an expert. We embark on some things together. Let us start simply-- first, what do you want?" "You." The word tumbles out too quickly, and the Sniper worries once it does that that was the real fragile one. "You flatter me." He laughs, soft and surprised and pleased. "Specifics would help." "I want you to be mine. I mean-- I... Well, that's a start, right?" The Sniper rubs at his neck, the red pen doodling aimlessly across the margin in loops and squiggles. "And I am. You want to keep writing on me?" "Maybe. Sometimes. I... I realized... I do want to leave bruises. Not from beating you or anything, just..." "Love bites?" Another little near-laugh of delight. "Cher, that is hardly something one puts in a contract, I consider it part and parcel of the experience of being made love to. For that, you can roll the balaclava up, to about here." He indicated the top of his neck, just under his chin, and that was enough long, pale throat for the Sniper. He had the whole rest of the man to mark, after all, for all that it would be seen. "That can't be all you want. Back when you used to spank your old girlfriend, was that for her, or for you?" "Well, long as we're being honest, he wasn't my girlfriend, and I guess it was for both of us. I don't need it--" "That is fine, as I don't need it. But that is within my limits, with you-- or, it will be. Our first time, no scene, no games-- you need to learn me in bed as well as in scene, before we combine the two." "Right, sure, yeah. What about you?" When the red pen does not make a move to write, beyond the doodling, the Spy rolls his eyes and writes for the Sniper. 'LIGHT SPANKING- OPEN HAND' Below that, on its own line, he answers the Sniper's question. 'BLOWJOBS' "That's not exactly specific either." The Sniper teases, unable to hide the lump in his throat. "Giving, receiving... I like it all. Once we... know each other, I would not be against making that a part of the scene. Once the sex between us is comfortable, I can combine the two. My preference would be to suck you off, in that case-- I already enjoy being down on my knees, and I'm sure it will be an enjoyable order to give, every now and then." "All right." His throat is dry, and he feels like the Spy is amused by it, but there's not much he can do now that the Spy has given him tacit permission to imagine getting those blowjobs. "I am flexible in bed. There will always be room to amend our agreement as we expand our comfort zones with each other, and as we get used to things... but when we begin incorporating sex into our play, this is where we start." "I won't ask you for anything unless I think it's what you want." The Sniper promises. "I know you said you hate saying no." "I like to keep character." The Spy nods. "Well, I'll do my best." "You'll continue to develop a feel for me. If you see me tense at an order, you can change it. And..." This time, it's the Spy who hesitates, nervous, before making another note. "Aftercare is going to be even more essential, now... If this isn't going to be just a temporary emotional bond caused by taking these roles on for an evening or two, if we are going to be lovers, then I am going to need you, not just to see to my physical well being and to let me cling a moment, I-- I... If you could cling back--" "That is not a problem." "I don't know... I don't know how this changes things, for me. But I believe it will. That's all." "Spook, I've been wanting to hold you from the start, you don't need to write it on a piece of paper if you want me to hold you at night. I-- I'm comfortable, with you. I might need a little breathing room sometimes, but when you need me, I... I can hold you." "Post-orgasm breathing room?" The Spy arches an eyebrow, smile wicked but warm as he jots it down. "Just a little bit." "So far, you are not throwing me for any loops." "I'd like a riding crop." He blurts it out, takes the Spy's gentle teasing for a challenge, and that does it. The Spy is visibly thrown for that loop. The Sniper only wishes he hadn't cringed back. "You said you didn't need to beat me." There is a small touch of reproach to those words, and the Sniper folds his hand around the Spy's, causing the blue pen to leave a jagged mark next to 'BREATHING ROOM' "I don't. I don't want to... I want to have it. I don't need to use it, just--" The Spy does not merely relax, he brightens, and there is a sharp pleasure in his eyes. "As a symbol?" He asks. "A little token of power?" "Well, yeah, and... I could get a sound out of it. I thought maybe you-- You said you like the theatre of it, I thought maybe you'd like props, too. And I won't ever do anything you're not keen on, but I want to have stuff." 'PROPS', the Spy writes. Just beneath that, 'RIDING CROP- SHOW ONLY'. "Do you know your limits?" He asks, turning to a fresh page. "Dunno, it's been a while... maybe-- Maybe!-- three times in a night, if we start early and--" The Spy holds up a hand, choking on laughter. "Those are not the limits I am referring to. What will you not want to do?" "Dunno. I... I don't want to fuck this up." He sighs. "I don't want to hurt you-- not the kind you don't just respawn from, I mean. Work's work, but this is... This is real. And I'm not used to the kinky stuff, I don't know." "As I said, we can come back to it." The Spy nods slowly, before tapping his pen against the paper. A moment later, he is writing. "For the time being, no restraints. If you wish to explore them in the future, we may come to some agreement, but it will never be extensive, and you will have to accept that I may free myself without your say if I need to. Some find freedom in restraints, but I have been bound for real." "I don't think I need to... I mean, if it really doesn't... if it's no good for you..." The Sniper shifts, uncomfortable, and the Spy leans in and kisses his cheek. "We'll both of us grow in this. We will both of us stretch the bounds of what we once called comfortable. For me, this may mean restraints, someday-- if you desire something, if I have listed it as a soft limit, then you can ask for it in the future, and we can discuss it." The Sniper shakes his head. "I think one discussion's enough, I don't-- I'm not a big discussion man." "If there is nothing you feel strongly about, then you may certainly spare yourself the trouble, but I want you to know, some of the things that I am saying no to now are things that I may say yes to as my comfort increases. I am marking those things so that you know. It may be that they will appeal to you someday even if they do not now." Most of the Spy's limits are soft, when he gives it enough thought, though some are softer than others. It is with some surprise that he realizes even the idea of being struck with the riding crop was one he could see himself accepting-- not soon, not often, and perhaps not easily, it would require yet another layer of aftercare to deal with that kind of physical punishment, and not just treating his body. Still, there were few things that he couldn't see himself doing just once, if the Sniper needed them. He is happier to believe that the riding crop will remain purely for show. It shakes him to think he would say yes to that... "Sensory deprivation is one that I would enjoy playing with." He says at last. "I am not ready for it now. But I think I will be." "Like... you mean, doing it blindfolded?" "Doing anything blindfolded. Or without sound. Or... well, there are ways to experiment, sexual or otherwise. I am not there yet. I was never able to get there before. I rely too strongly on my senses... even when I had someone to go to, I couldn't hand over that particular power." "I'd like that." The Sniper grins. The idea of the Spy stretched out on his back wearing nothing but a silk blindfold is definitely an attractive one. It isn't sensory deprivation, he realizes, the more he pictures the scene-- it's a sensory trade-off. He could take the Spy's sight for a little while and give him a heightened awareness of touch, say. Run feathers and ice cubes across his skin... A conversation for another day, then, whenever the Spy was ready to ask for that. "And you? Anything you have thought of-- something you need or something you need to avoid, either way." "Well... when we-- when we start mixing sex in... I know you said you'd rather give blowjobs, when we do, but I could get you off, right?" "Well..." The Spy blinks, hesitates. "Well, yes, of course you could. If you give me the order, then I do not see myself turning down a good time." His grin returns, slow and wolfish. "Give you the order?" "... Yes." "Tell you where to stand and then just... have my way with you 'til you couldn't take it any more? Tell you just when to come?" The Spy writes 'FORCED ORGASM' and shifts in his seat, doing his best to ignore the picture the Sniper paints. The note is not exactly what the Sniper had said, but he feels it's close in spirit. He likes the idea of being helpless to say no to pleasure-- he spends so much time denying even innocent pleasures. The idea of being ordered, not to serve, but to enjoy, that is a fine one. After a little thought, he writes another line beneath that. 'ORGASM DENIAL' "Those two don't exactly go together, do them?" The Sniper's brow furrows just a little. "No. But we might enjoy them both. Either you can stand me in front of you and order me to take it while you bring me off, or you can touch me, use me, tease me, and make me wait." "How long?" "Through to late Saturday night. I do need to get my equilibrium back, I need Sundays for that. But the game can begin almost as soon as work ends Friday. The game can being as soon as the last round of the day ends, if we wind up together when it does. As long as we are careful." "All right. Might have to try both, then. Once we get there. Can't think of anything, myself... I just... I want something to hold, something-- a prop, and... and I want to be able to mark that you're mine. And maybe one of these days I'll get to blindfold you, and someday we'll do these... but I don't know the rest. I don't know me, you know?" "Then we will both get to know you." The Spy smiles. "Any ideas for what you will need, for aftercare?" "So far it's just been holding you and a good breakfast." "And for now, maybe that is all you need. But if it ever isn't, then tell me. We can keep making changes when we need to, to all of it. For now we have a start. Do you want to come back to the bedroom? No scene, no games, just the chance to start learning each other?" "Are you sure?" The Sniper asks, though the Spy has to hide a laugh at how eagerly he leans forward at the offer. "I am sure. Our first time, with no roles. As much or as little as we are up to. We can take everything slowly, if you are unsure." He nods, and lets the Spy lead him back to the bedroom for once, feeling ready to stumble over his own feet at every step. He has stripped the Spy before, but never with any permission to linger. This time, he lingers. With his eyes, with his fingertips, with long caresses of warm, rough palms, he lingers at every step as he helps the Spy to shed his clothes, to reveal the still-shower-fresh body beneath. The Spy takes the lead in kissing him, leaves no space for the Sniper to wonder if he feels back to himself or if some of the previous night's perfect submission still seeps into the moment. His own clothes are stripped away, his own skin explored, his own body kissed... The Spy is lily-white next to him, his hands so slender. When it comes to size, there is little difference, and yet the Spy seems much daintier somehow, even when he is taking even footing, even when he is taking the upper hand. It is a simple meeting of hands and bodies. There is no struggle for positions, for special acts, for anything. They merely move, pace glacial at first, to touch and to be touched until they feel they have learned each other, until they melt into a sticky relief in the center of the bed, shoulder resting against shoulder. After his requested breathing room, the Sniper rolls to gather the Spy close, mumbling some little affirmation. It is returned in french, but somehow he's sure he understands that it is returned, just the same.
I love this story so very much. Anne you are wonderful.
Who knew that negociations and paper work could be so entertaining??
Again, thank you muchly, you guys! And... this is the last chapter here, though I'm trying to work right now on plotting out a sequel that's about their troubles with the Administrator discovering the relationship, instead of just about how the relationship starts/unfolds. So without further ado, the chapter y'all have been waiting for. ---/-/--- Ch. VIII- Master and Servant ---/-/--- They develop a routine over the month that follows. Wednesday nights the Spy sneaks out to the Sniper's camper-- sometimes for a quickie and a smoke and a cuddle, for light conversation. Once to take real time on each other, leading to his sneaking back at dawn on Thursday, slipping into his room on BLU's base just in time to come out again. On Fridays, they hurry to meet in the Spy's apartment. Sometimes they order food, sometimes they cook, always they make love, and even rushed or rough, they are careful with it. The Sniper in particular pays minute attention, seeking out the Spy's every tell. And then, on Saturdays, from dawn 'til dusk, the Spy is his, and he does everything he can to take care of the man, to keep him occupied and unworried. Saturday night is the Spy's aftercare, where he is made to drink some water, and given more for the morning. He is held and cuddled, and he is praised until the Sniper can speak no longer, let to fall asleep to a honeyed voice letting him know what a good pet he's been, and warm hands chafing over his arms until his temperature has raised. Saturday night is the Spy's aftercare, and Sunday morning is the Sniper's, when he wakes to hot coffee, an enthusiastic blowjob, and a hearty breakfast-- the Spy has varied the order some, in seeking out perfection, but the parts are a constant even as he rearranges them-- and his own praise, the Spy sincere in his gratitude and in his emotion. "Can I leave you?" The Sniper asks, concern bleeding into his voice around the edges of his masterly control-- another Saturday, and though they haven't planned it out to be, they have both allowed for the chance that it might be the week they change things up. Both men look forward to experimenting with the introduction of sex to scene. "I-- I wouldn't be long. I thought I could run a quick errand, if I set you a task before I went." "Bien sur." The Spy nods, and there is trepidation, but there is also curiosity. The Sniper's only errands before now had been Friday nights, either picking up food or gas. The Spy keeps the kitchen so immaculate that the Sniper can't imagine there's much to clean, but the week's dusting has yet to be done, he can see the build-up on the bookshelves and television from all the time they've been away. "All right." He smiles, his control returned as he takes the Spy's chin in his grip. "You can start with the dusting. I've got errands to see to, and I want to come home and see this place spotless. Think you can handle that, Pet?" "Oui, Maitre." The Spy says, the suggestion of a shallow bow in the lowering and raising of his eyes, though his head stays still in the Sniper's hand. The trepidation has vanished, with a new game in place, and he is determined to make a clear difference in the apartment before the Sniper's return. The Sniper leaves, and the Spy sets to work dusting, seeking out any surface that might need his attention and working his way through the apartment, feather duster in hand and soft cleaning cloth over his shoulder. He decides against giving the furniture a polish, he has no idea if the Sniper actually plans to give him that much time, but he changes the sheets on the bed, trading the formerly-crisp white cotton of the night before for dark blue silk. He puts out fresh towels, the whitest and fluffiest his linen closet has to offer-- he'd admitted, when they'd last sat down to amend their growing agreement, to a new fantasy. It had not been so sexual that it changed the way he saw himself, but it had been intimate enough that he had never thought of asking it of his old professional. If they were to start the transition slow, then 'personal bath attendant' was a fine way to do it. The cleaning cloth comes out one last time, to make sure everything in the bath was gleaming just as brightly as the kitchen always did, and he looks it over with a smile, before bringing out a few candles to set around the edges of the tub, around the sink, and the now-dustless tank of the toilet. The Sniper drives out to the feed store. It's as close as the town has to a pet store, and has an attached saddlery and a small selection of leather goods. Mostly horse tack, some things of general interest to the ranchers, farmers, and outdoorsmen of the surrounding areas. In a place like this, he knows, the feed store is a major hub. Well, as major as anything can be said to be, in a small town in the mountains. He'd seen the wide swathes of farmland that stretched between these mountains and the desert, driving himself between bases. He'd seen sheep up in the foothills, reminding him of home-- or, the place he'd once called home, before 'home' started to mean the Spy's apartment. He tells the clerk he's picked up an affectionate stray that he thinks will make a good companion on his camping trips-- that he's not gunshy when they pass too close to 'those mercenaries', and could be fine with hunting. He just wants a collar. He returns to the apartment with the gift shoved down into his vest pocket, and opens the door to see the Spy standing there, presenting himself and his handiwork. A glance around betrays no speck of dust, and he smiles. "Good. Might have a present for a good little pet..." He says, sliding into the sphere of the Spy's personal space. He places a finger just under the Spy's chin. "Roll your mask up to here and you can have it." The Spy does, doing his best to temper an excited smile of his own as he awaits the Sniper's mouth, expecting to be sucked at, perhaps nibbled on. "Close your eyes." The Sniper's voice is soft, at that, and the Spy complies, though this is not so expected. He gasps at the feel of leather circling his throat, and it is so like the gasp the Sniper has heard in bed, the one that comes when he is touched just right, that he doesn't hesitate in fastening the collar. "You like it?" "Oui, Maitre..." The Spy sighs, shivers, smiles. It is plain black leather, the perfect width to fit him comfortably, and he catches sight of himself in the mirror over the mantle and can barely contain himself at the picture he makes, the sleek black line peeking over the open white collar of his shirt, the silver of the stainless steel ring at the front where no tags are attached, no lead... He would not mind either, someday-- another way for the Sniper to someday mark him out as personal property, to put a name on him, a proof of ownership. "You can wear it like this for now." The Sniper says, his voice still quiet, but with a steel firmness. "But it stays with me. I give it to you." "Oui, Maitre..." "Next time, I want the mask rolled up an inch higher. All right? One little inch?" He taps the Spy's chin, and the Spy nods. "Oui, Maitre." "Good boy. What else do you have to show me?" The Spy smiles, leads him to the bedroom in silence, where the bed is a vast sea of decadence, looking cool and welcoming after the unexpectedly hot day outside. Heat was something the Sniper normally shrugged off, but he doesn't think he would mind giving in and spending some time lazing about that bed in his underwear. The Spy leads him into the bathroom before he can say as much, where the unlit candles have been artfully scattered across each surface-- all spotless, as he had commanded-- and the towels are fresh and thick, one folded carefully upon the floor by the tub. "Hm... can I get a bath?" He smiles, hand straying to the Spy's waist a moment. "Mais oui, Maitre." The Spy's smile betrays a hint of slyness, of spy-ness, though that utter subservience remains, his gaze dropping away from the Sniper's eyes. "Lukewarm. It's a hot day." "Maitre." He nods, fusses carefully with the taps. The Spy rolls up his sleeves before pouring out salts, reaching in to stir them with one hand, and the Sniper watches the way the water gleams on his bare forearm before he dries himself neatly on a hand towel. The hand towel is draped over the Spy's shoulder, damp from use but still neat in its placement, and the Spy turns back to him, eyes carefully downcast as he unbuttons the Sniper's shirt. There is a certain professionalism to his every movement as he does, so different from the way he undresses the other man before making love. The Sniper lets his shirt fall to the ground, strips out of the undershirt beneath himself while the Spy returns to the taps, waiting a moment before stopping the water when he's certain the tub will be full enough. He kneels on the folded towel on the floor, undoing the Sniper's belt. His touch may be professional, but he slides it from its loops with an aching slowness before his hands move to the fly. The Sniper rests a hand on the Spy's shoulder, lets the other man remove his boots and then his socks before helping him the rest of the way out of his trousers. The Spy continues to offer himself to be braced on as the Sniper swings his legs up over the edge of the tub, as he lowers himself into the water. It's exactly what he wanted, not cool enough to chill and not warm enough to overheat, and he watches lazily as the Spy rises. His belt is hung on the hook on the door, his socks rolled up carefully and placed inside one boot-- the Spy leaves the bathroom only briefly to line the boots up by the bedroom door. He watches the Spy carefully take each article of clothing and place them one by one into the white wicker hamper in the corner, and only once all of that is done, and once he has carefully washed his own hands, does the Spy return to kneel beside the tub. The Sniper relaxes, sinks down deeper in the water, as the Spy reaches down, down, to run a washcloth over his chest for the sake of contact alone. He moves around a little, to do the same for the Sniper's whole body, going over everything once before soaping the washcloth. The second pass is to clean, the first was just to touch. "Strip." The Sniper orders, his mouth a half-smile, his whole body lax and happy after being washed and worshiped. The Spy does, also slow, also careful. He is barefoot to begin with, but he hangs his belt with the Sniper's, and places his clothes in the hamper, piece by piece. His hand hesitates at the collar, and the Sniper shakes his head. "Leave that-- and you can keep your mask. I'll be careful. Now come." He spreads his legs to make a space, swirls the water with one hand and offers the other for the Spy to hold, to keep steady, and the Spy moves to sit where he is directed, to let the Sniper return the favor, scrubbing and kneading at the Spy's back, running the cooling cloth up and down pale, slender arms and legs. True to his word, he's careful, and with the Spy sitting straight up instead of leaning back into him, it's not hard to keep the water from splashing up to the level of his collar, let alone his mask. The Spy leaves the tub first, offering his assistance from outside, and quickly moving to dry the Sniper off, a warm and thorough toweling that ends with him back on his knees until the Sniper motions for him to stand. Again, the Sniper returns the favor, with a coo of 'that's a good pet' as he gets the Spy comfortably dry. His cock has been twitching since placing the collar on the Spy, half-hard at a couple of points in his special bath treatment, and when he moves to lead the Spy to bed, he can see no hesitation. He moves slowly just the same, though the Spy's expression is practically orgasmic to begin with when he loops a finger through the ring on the collar to lead him, laying the man out and kissing him, trailing from lips down to mid-chest. "I want to hear you tell me what you want..." He says, voice a low rumble, lips against the Spy's skin. "Want you to ask me real sweet... Anything you want, if you ask me sweet enough, I want to do you right." The Spy stretches out beneath him, smile momentarily wicked. "I want your cock." He moans the words out, writhes and twists and lets raw need paint his face, feeling rewarded by the Sniper's visible reaction. It feels more comfortable than he had expected, this slide into sexual submission. He has never felt quite so valued before-- his professional had been good, and even before the shift in their relationship, the Sniper made him feel personally cared for, but the look in his eyes now is something so beyond that, a meeting of lust and wonderment. One hand rubs and squeezes at his waist in a little reassuring massage, but he finds that the Sniper is all the reassurance he needs. He is loved, that's the fantastic thing-- if either of them has said the words, it has been in the heat of the moment, and he can't be sure of them, but with the collar on and the look the Sniper gives him, and the memory of meals and conversations and nights spent spooned together, he doesn't doubt the love is there. "I want your cock." He repeats, breathless, and he thinks it's the last English he'll manage for the night. "It's all yours, Pet." The Sniper promises, his voice struggling to contain itself against the tide of emotions that only the Spy has ever seen. He has never had the luxury of a lover he could tie himself to, only disposable fun. The Spy tugs weakly at him, and he doesn't know how much is for his benefit and how much is the Spy's own need, but he moves up to straddle the other man's chest, to gently cup his head. The Spy's mouth falls open, the Sniper's thumb stroking at his cheek, encouraging, rewarding. Every sign points to the Spy's own enjoyment, even if some of it is for show, for him. The Sniper can read enough to be comfortable with that. He fucks the Spy's mouth softly, enjoying the sight of his cock disappearing past the man's lips too much to want to hurry it. After, when the Spy has swallowed every last drop of his release, sucked and licked him clean, he picks the man up and repositions him, getting the Spy's legs up over his shoulders, his head down between the Spy's thighs. The Spy looks exhausted after his own orgasm, blissful and floating the way he is at the end of their scenes, and the Sniper strokes at his face, across the top of his head, and down one arm, tucking him into bed. "Dinner's me tonight." He says, before realizing he has no pants. No anything, without going down to his camper, and he'll have to send the Spy to get him something clean come Sunday, but the Spy's pyjamas fit him, and the Chinese takeaway delivers to the Spy's apartment. He leaves the Spy to doze on and off while he makes the call, the garlic chicken and chow mein, the broccoli beef, the egg rolls. He isn't sure if the Spy is saving the wine he finds for something in particular, but he figures the man needs water anyway, and when the food arrives, he half-carries the Spy out to the couch, still naked, and lays him across his lap with a couple of extra throw pillows to prop him up against, to alternate between feeding bites to himself and to the Spy. The Spy's grin is easy, when old jokes are repeated, and when fingers stay longer at his lips than they need to, and he drinks thirstily when the Sniper lifts his head and brings the glass to him. It is a while before he can transition back out of soft mumbled French for every reply he makes. "How are you feeling?" The Sniper asks, when they've demolished half the food before them and the Spy has begun to answer him in English. "So good." The Spy sighs, picking up an egg roll and offering it. The Sniper takes a healthy bite, hums approval as he chews. "Is the collar... good?" "Yes, thank you. I... I've never had-- I love it." "I know you can't exactly wear it all the time, but... I can put it on you when we play. And... I thought... If you had something physical, something you could wear, and you knew it meant I was watching out for you and you were safe and we were alone, then... maybe you wouldn't need your mask every second." "Maybe." He nods, fingering the steel ring. "I wouldn't ask you to give up your mask right away, of course. But... if every time, you get it just a little closer to being off, then someday you could have it off completely, even just for a little bit. And then maybe someday as long as we had the doors locked and the blinds drawn, you wouldn't need to wear it in your own house all the time. And then maybe... I don't know. I thought it could help you be more comfortable. And I thought it would look good." "Well... time will tell, on the first, and I will try. As for the second... you tell me?" "You look good enough to eat." The Spy grins up at him, and when the Sniper polishes off the egg roll, the Spy just keeps grinning as his fingers are licked clean. "It means a lot to me." The Spy says softly, when his hand is returned to him. "Means something to me, too. Seeing you... all mine. And-- Hell, I mean, today was... That was fantastic." "It was." He nods, brightening. "I should bathe you more often." "Yeah, wouldn't mind a good soak every now and then. Was thinking more about that other thing." The Spy chuckles and cuddles up to his chest, eyes falling closed again. "I'm full." "Yeah. I'll put the rest away for breakfast. Wore you out, huh?" "Mm." He beams. "Good." "Can I sleep in it?" "Of course you can. You've earned it. No one around but me to see you, you sleep in as much or as little as makes you comfy." "'m comfy." He grunts, and the Sniper has a hard time sliding out from under him to get the leftovers put away. "Less comfy." The Spy calls after him, from his spot alone on the sofa, and when the Sniper returns, his arms are crossed over his chest, his skin cold to the touch. "You're freezing! I thought I got you warmed back up, fuck, I'm sorry..." "Ca-va." He shrugs, pliant as the Sniper gathers him back up. His temperature is quick to come back up again, despite its second quick drop. He is not exactly steady on his feet, but by the time they reach the bathroom, he's steady enough to be let go, returning to the Sniper's side after his evening ablutions. It's early to turn in, and the Sniper picks up a book after his own trip to the bathroom, before rejoining the Spy in bed. While the Spy drifts in and out of easy sleep, the Sniper reads aloud, until he's ready to do a little drifting off of his own, the Spy snoring as he clings to the Sniper's side. "Sweet dreams, Spook." He smiles, tracing a finger along the collar and dropping a kiss to the Spy's brow. He settles down, wrapping his arm around the other man and scooting down beneath the covers. He feels confident his own will be.
Mmm what an excellent note to leave on, if I was confident enough with my drawing capabilities I'd certainly draw something for this.
Aw, I really loved reading this! Looking forward to reading more about how it all unfolds with the Administrator. Your writing is lovely.