Heyyyy, guys. How's it going? Well? I hope so. Remember when I used to write fanfiction? No? Me neither. I'm totally rusty, but I figure if I wanna get back into practice, there's no time like the present, so over the next month I'm gonna be trying this 30 Day NSFW challenge that I keep seeing artists do on tumblr. Please please please let me know if you have any critiques; I have no idea what I'm doing. Also, sorry in advance--this first one isn't very NSFW. -----Day One: Cuddles (Naked)----- “Ugh,†the Spy sneered, “this is ridiculous. I knew that your van was disgusting, but good lord! Don’t they make vehicles with air conditioning in Australia?†“You’re the one that wanted to come here in the first place!†The Sniper snapped back, peeved—and a little hurt. He knew his van wasn’t much to look at, but the old girl had been with him through more scrapes than he could count, and she was more of a home to him than anywhere. When the Spy had suggested, with a wink and a cool mention of privacy, that they have drinks together in the van, he had been elated. He had even tidied up a bit and brought in some fresh flowers—for the lingering smell, he told himself, not for the Spy—but he had forgotten that his trusty old camper had no air conditioning to speak of, and was even hotter and stuffier than the desert outside. The frenchman was clearly uncomfortable, despite having taken off his jacket immediately, and he punctuated every sentence by fanning himself with a gloved hand or mopping his masked brow with a silky handkerchief. The Sniper had brought him some lemonade—which was eyed with only a moment’s suspicion before being greedily gulped down—but even the sugary drops on the Spy’s lips couldn’t convince his mouth to take any shape other than a sour pout. The Sniper sighed. “Look, sorry—she’s an old model, and I guess I’m more used to the heat. Maybe you should just go, and we can try this some other time. I’ll get a fan, or we’ll, I dunno…†The Spy ran his tongue pensively over his lips, catching stray drops of lemonade—as well as the Sniper’s attention. “No,†he said, after a moment, “I cannot return to the base. I told them I was leaving for the night. Business. A lie, of course. To return now would be terribly suspicious.†He shifted uncomfortably and adjusted his tie, seeming not to notice the Sniper’s dumbstruck expression. “You…The night? Leaving…†Had his tongue always been this thick? This hard to move? He gulped and tried again. “The whole night?†“Mais oui,†replied the Spy with a winning smirk that was barely dampened by his flush and his sweat. “That was my intention. But sweaty, tch—it is not a good look for me. And with the heat of another body, at this point, I believe I would boil over. A shame, but we can, as you said, try this some other time.†The Sniper, previously oblivious to the temperature, became suddenly aware of the heat. His face was hot, and it felt like a fire was spreading from his chest down to somewhere beneath his gut. His fingers, always rough and sure, were now slick with sweat, and he wiped them nervously against his pants. The Spy had planned on staying the whole night? With…the heat of another body? His body, the one that was suddenly betraying him? There had been hints, sure…better than hints, outright flirting, and the Spy had stolen a kiss the night before, which had sent him reeling—fuck, he was still reeling, he couldn’t keep up with this; it was all more than he’d let himself admit he wanted and far more than he’d ever had— “Sniper?†The Spy was fanning himself lazily, still obviously miserable with heat. “I,†he coughed. “I’ll get us some beer.†What else could he do? The camper didn’t have a refrigerator, but the Sniper’s icebox kept the bottles much colder than room temperature, and when he held one out to the Spy it was accepted like a gift from god. Before he had time to talk himself out of it, he grabbed the back of the frenchman’s chair and swooped in to give him a kiss. The Spy tasted like smoke and sweat and lemon juice, and he was surprised by the softness in his lips. He pulled back after a moment, his face red and glowing, but a gentle gloved hand followed his face, slowly tracing the line of his chin. “Monsieur Sniper,†the Spy murmured, his eyes and his voice reflecting pleasant surprise, “I do believe you are trying to give me a heat stroke.†The marksman ducked back, embarrassed, sat opposite the other man and opened his own beer, taking a slow swig. The Spy opted against actually drinking his, choosing instead to press the cool bottle against the hot skin on his face and let out a groan that, in the Sniper’s estimation, was unfair and unnecessary—not that he minded. They sat like that for awhile, one man slowly emptying his drink and saying very little while the other chattered about other hot climates he’d visited, and nursed his gradually warming beer, occasionally giving it a disdainful sip. Finally, both bottles were empty and the two were left without anything to help against the heat. At some point during the conversation the Spy’s tie had worked its way off, and finally he unbuttoned his waistcoat with a dramatic sigh. “How can you stand it,†the Spy asked, “especially at night? How can you sleep like this?†The Sniper shrugged. “Usually sleep naked,†he grunted. It wasn’t until his companion’s eyebrow quirked and his mouth started curving into a mischievous smirk that he remembered—the Spy wasn’t planning on going back to the base tonight. “It—it helps, with the heat,†he continued, “if you don’t have any clothes on…†He trailed off; the Spy was already slipping out of his waistcoat. “You wouldn’t mind, would you?†The Spy inquired, already fingering the top button of his shirt. “I am having such difficulty in this heat, so if it would be better—“ “Yeah, nah, it’d definitely be better for you to take your clothes off. I-I mean, I don’t mind at all if you’re naked. I mean…fuck.†“Not tonight, I’m afraid,†the Spy frowned as he shrugged his shirt off. The Sniper took a deep breath; the shirtless frenchman was a sight to behold—lithe, but clearly strong, and sprinkled with body hair and a few jagged scars. “This is much better, but I am afraid the heat is still affecting me too much for me to give you the performance you deserve.†Those gloved hands hovered over the expensive belt buckle on the last few words, and the Spy looked up, seeming to relish his companion’s reaction. The Sniper couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, could barely breathe as the other man removed his belt, then his pants. “Besides,†the Spy continued, lazily slipping his fingers under the waistband of his own silk boxers, “it is getting late, and we must be well-rested to give them a good show on the battlefield tomorrow, non?†The Sniper tried to remember enough English to respond coherently, but the other man’s boxers hit the floor and he gave up. The naked Spy was glorious, graceful; he reminded the Sniper of stories he’d read as a boy, fairy tales with magical forests full of impossibly beautiful human-like beings that would appear before you, lead you into danger, and then disappear in the blink of an eye. The mask helped with that impression, probably. He was torn between wanting to keep his own clothes on, certain that his own body would pale in comparison, and the urge to rip them all off and throw himself on the other man, but he knew that neither was really the appropriate reaction. The Spy gave him an inquisitive look, and the Sniper, gulping, unbuttoned his own shirt the rest of the way, tossed it unceremoniously in a corner, and let his undershirt follow suit. The frenchman watched with rapt attention as the Sniper joined him in nudity, letting out a low, appreciative chuckle. The marksman’s cock gave a hopeful twitch, but he silently willed it to keep still. It was indeed getting late, and pleasant as the idea was, the thought of the Spy fucking him was one that the Sniper was still processing. It became immediately obvious that the both of them would not fit comfortably on the Sniper’s bunk, and despite the Spy’s protests, the Australian insisted on sleeping on the floor. The Spy seemed reluctant to put his host at such a disadvantage, but even more reluctant to sleep anywhere other than the bed. The Sniper reassured him that he’d slept in much less comfortable situations and been fine, and reminded the Spy that it was his own fault the van was so cramped and hot anyway. Finally, the frenchman agreed, stretching himself out on the bed and giving the Sniper all the blankets. “Are you sure?†The Sniper asked, gathering the blankets in his arms. “Might cool off during the night.†The Spy shook his head. “It would be a welcome relief. I will be fine, I assure you.†“If you’re sure…†“Yes, yes.†The Spy sat up for a moment and reached again towards the Sniper’s face. The other man leaned in and they shared a short, chaste kiss. “Good night, bushman,†the Spy murmured, managing to look equally sleepy and self-satisfied. He was asleep moments after his head hit the pillow. The Sniper sat up for awhile, wondering at everything that had happened, but after about an hour the thoughts began to jumble in his head, and he, too, drifted off to sleep. A series of loud thumps and a sudden touch at his shoulder jolted the Sniper awake. He didn’t know how much time had passed, but he guessed it had been at least an hour. When he tried to sit up, something warm and heavy stopped his body from leaving the floor. It took him a few moments to get his bearings, but when he did, he could scarcely believe what he saw: the Spy had joined him on the floor and was cuddling into his side. “Spy,†he hissed, unsure as to whether the other man was awake or not, “you okay?†The Spy squirmed pleasantly against him, pressed his face into the Sniper’s shoulder, and let out a contented hum. Gloved fingers wandered sleepily over bare skin, past a nipple, and stopped where they felt the marksman’s heartbeat. The Spy’s arm and chest were warm, but when the Sniper gave his back a tender, tentative stroke, he found the skin there cold to the touch. “Thought you were too hot,†he snorted. “No,†the Spy muttered, half-asleep, scooting up so that he could speak into the crook of the Sniper’s neck, “you are.†His lips pressed lazily against the other man’s skin, and the Sniper shifted, ever-so-slightly, so that he could place a kiss on the Spy’s forehead in return. They lay like that, bodies intertwining, until warm slumber washed over both of them. Both bed and blankets were totally forgotten; neither could remember better comfort than bare skin on hard floor. Their heartbeats and their breaths came in unison, and they whispered fragments of dreams into each other’s skin until sunlight crept through the windows.
Oh wow. I loved this. Please continue!
Why come up with a new premise when you can just continue what you did yesterday, am I right? So yeah, Day 2 is a shameless continuation of Day 1. -----Day Two: Kisses (Naked)----- In the moments between gaining consciousness and opening his eyes, the Sniper was sure he was still dreaming. He was no virgin; he’d fucked his fair share of women, but never spent the night with one, at least not comfortably. So, when he became aware of warm limbs intertwined with his and soft breath against the skin of his neck, he didn’t think he could possibly be awake. And yet, when his eyes opened, there was the Spy. The other man was still naked—they both were—and was murmuring something incomprehensible into the Sniper’s shoulder. The marksman stared. He was real. This was real. Light was creeping steadily through the cracks around the blinds, and the Sniper glanced up at his clock, his heart skipping a beat—if they were both late for work, what would people think? But they still had about an hour, and he let out a sigh of deep relief, wondering if he should wake the Spy, the man he’d spent the night with but hadn’t fucked. How long did he take to get ready in the morning? All those fancy layers…all of them still soaked in sweat, too. He decided that he ought to at least let the other man know what time it was. The Sniper let his lips ghost against his companion’s cheek. “Spook,†he breathed, “you up?†The Spy made a noncommittal noise in response, somewhere between a groan and a squeak, but he began to shift in the Sniper’s arms. A gloved hand skated down the marksman’s chest, teasing at his hipbone and making the Australian catch his breath. “Spook,†he repeated, “let’s not start anything we can’t finish, yeah?†“Mmm?†The Spy finally blinked his eyes open, and followed the Sniper’s nod to the clock on the wall. “We got an hour ‘til work starts,†he clarified, thinking that the Spy might still be groggy. “How much time d’you need?†The frenchman let out a disappointed sigh and fixed his mouth into a pout. The hand at the Sniper’s hip slunk back up to a less tempting patch of skin—the nape of the man’s neck. “A shower will be necessary,†he explained, playing idly with the Sniper’s hair. “Not as necessary as I’d hoped, but the team will be suspicious if I return conspicuously sweaty and reeking.†His nose scrunched up. “Besides, it is my preference to be clean.†“Don’t think you reek,†the Sniper protested, pressing his nose against the other man’s sternum and breathing in deep. “You are used to me,†the Spy dismissed. “Don’t think I’ll ever be that,†he laughed, bringing his face level with his companion’s. “Oh?†The Spy pressed their foreheads together, murmured into the corner of the Sniper’s mouth. “And is that a good thing, or a bad one?†The Sniper kissed him in answer. Kissing the Spy had been nerve-wracking at first, and there was still a rush of adrenaline—he was sure he was getting addicted, to the taste and the heat of his mouth, to the always-surprising softness of his lips, to the wildness of his tongue. He couldn’t explain it with words, how he found the Spy terrifying and comforting and alien and just like home. Instead, he tried to transfer it all in the space between their lips, moving urgently, desperately against the other man. When they finally pulled away, the Spy pressed a finger against his lips. “Now who is starting something that he will not be able to finish?†He tugged his finger down, pulling the Sniper’s lower lip back far enough to showcase his sharp bottom teeth, then finally dived back in for another kiss, rougher and more passionate than the one before. His tongue fought the Sniper’s for dominance and more than once found each other’s lips between their teeth. The Spy pulled away only to latch his mouth onto the Sniper’s neck, biting and sucking a bruise to the surface of his skin. The Australian moaned, threw his head back, and suddenly noticed the clock again. “Fuck, Spook, you gotta get in the shower,†he gasped, clawing at the other man’s shoulders, uncertain if he wanted to push him away or pull him closer. The Spy growled, wrapping his arms around the marksman and giving him one final squeeze before pulling himself back and sitting up. “You are right, of course,†he sighed, glancing up at the clock and swearing under his breath. The Sniper watched him dress, one of the first awkward things he’d ever seen the Spy do—his clothes and skin were both sticky with sweat, and more little french curses escaped him as he struggled with his pants. The Sniper himself stayed sprawled out on the floor; it took him less than ten minutes to go through his morning routine, and the frenchman was beautiful to watch, even as he muttered at his jacket and fussed in the small space the van provided. They were both half-hard still, despite their efforts to keep the morning chaste in the interest of haste; the Spy gave his bulge a disapproving glare and buckled his belt with some difficulty, while the Sniper, still with all the time in the world, gave himself a few slow strokes. The Spy noticed, of course, out of the corner of his eye. “You,†he pouted, “are very difficult to leave.†Caught between embarrassment and giddy delight at being wanted, the Sniper laughed, his cheeks flushed. “Give us a kiss?†He asked hopefully, sitting up on the floor. In two quick strides, the Spy was at his side, and their mouths melted together. The Sniper kept his hands to himself, but the frenchman gave the naked man’s cock a single, slow stroke before pulling away. The Sniper closed his eyes; it had to be a dream; this was all too good; the Spy’s touch was too good. “Monsieur Sniper,†the Spy hissed in his ear, “we must keep on meeting like this…†When he opened his eyes, the Spy had gone without a trace. He rubbed his cheek, brought his fingers to his own lips—it hadn’t really all been a dream, had it? The Sniper staggered to his feet, stretched, started about his own morning routine, and almost convinced himself that he really had dreamt the whole encounter, until, glancing in his mirror, he found the bruise the Spy had left on his neck. Smiling, he ran his fingers over the blemish and found the other man’s teethmarks, still there. The Sniper grabbed his rifle and set off to work with a cheerful whistle and a spring in his step, thoughts of sex and violence mixing pleasantly in his head.
Hurray for "shameless continuation of Day 1". Please do continue.
Oh god Knight I love you. Never leave me again.
Yes. You could make day 3 another shameless continuation and no one would speak up. In fact, yould you please make day 3 a continuation of day 2 ?
Thanks so much, all! Just an FYI; I'm going to be busy today, so I might end up doing both Day 3 and Day 4 tomorrow--sorry for the delay.
These are just lovely. I love that you made day 2 a continuation from day 1. Really looking forward to reading more from you.
I completed my Sniper/Spy challenge in 30 days. I dare you to do the same.
>>9 That's my plan--sorry I've been slacking these past couple days; they've been busier than I thought they would. Day 3's halfway done, and I'll catch up tomorrow, hopefully. Sorry for the delay!
Sorry again for the delay! Holidays happened, and I wanted to get this one right. The next few should be a bit easier than this one; I hope to catch up soon. And yes, it is another shameless continuation~ -----Day Three: First Time----- The Spy hit the ground with a loud thud, the Sniper’s left hand on his shoulder and his kukri at his jugular. “Ruddy sick of you turnin’ invisible like that,†the marksman growled, lowering himself so their noses almost touched. His snarl was vicious, but there was something in it that reminded his prey more of a grin. “Think you can just creep in and out like that, without me noticing? That’s just plain rude, that is.†The allusion to that morning was obvious, and the Spy let out a harsh laugh, still aware of the blade at his throat. “My apologies, monsieur,†he replied in his most mocking tone—though he tried to show with his eyes that the apology was sincere. “Is there any way I could make it up to you?†The Sniper took in a sharp and sudden breath as the Spy shifted under him; they were close enough that he could feel every movement of the other man’s body. He had to end this soon, or they’d end up making a career-ending scene. “Here’s an idea,†he hissed, pressing the flat of his blade against the Spy’s skin. “How about you bleed out for me?†“With pleasure,†spat the frenchman. “But do not think that this is over, bushman. I’m coming for you…And you’ll be coming for me, later.†He fixed his face into a mischievous smirk as the Sniper slit his throat. The marksman stood back up, breathing heavily. The sight of the Spy bleeding out on the ground put an end to his cock’s hopeful twitches, but those last words still echoed in his brain. Later… True to his word, after just a few minutes, the Spy was back—although the Sniper didn’t realize it until he felt cold steel scraping at his Adam’s apple, swiftly followed by warm breath laughing softly against the back of his neck. “So, my dear little bushman,†he hissed, “how do you want this to go? Do you want this in your throat? Or perhaps…†The knife skated along the edge of his jaw to the back of his neck, then down between his shoulder blades. “From behind?†The Sniper spluttered, unable to form words, and his nemesis gave a velveteen chuckle. “Think it over…†the Spy purred, plunging the knife into his back. Over the course of the day’s skirmishes, the two killers made their plans for that night in harsh whispers dripping with innuendo. The Sniper’s camper, as they’d discovered the night before, was no good, and the Spy’s thin-walled room in the base was also out, as he explained to the Sniper during a particularly rough tussle, hissing into his ear: “I want to make you scream.†Thankfully, the hotel in the nearby town was air-conditioned, and because the area had little tourism to offer, it saw few visitors, making it perfect for their purposes. Besides that, it was a Friday, and no one would think it strange if either or both of them left for the weekend… The Sniper told the woman at the desk that he was there to see a friend who had just checked in a little earlier that evening, and she gave him the room number, three flights up. He took the stairs, trying to clear his thoughts and steady his breath, but all he managed to do was muddle his mind and make his pulse quicken. He wanted to take another moment, outside the Spy’s door, to compose himself, but the other man must have heard him coming, because the door swung open immediately. “Bienvenue,†the Spy welcomed him with a sweep of the arm, quirking a smile. The marksman entered, the door was closed, and suddenly the Sniper felt like every empty space in the room was pressing in on him; silence roared in his ears and his blood thrummed with anxiety and anticipation. The room was plain but pleasant, and in the corner was a battered trunk which must have been brought by the Spy. The Sniper himself had brought nothing; he had no idea what he might want or need, or how long he would be staying—although he hoped he could stay overnight. The hotel bed was big enough for two, and even if he embarrassed himself before they slept, he knew that falling asleep in the Spy’s arms was something he could do, something they both enjoyed. He could look forward to that, at least—or so he hoped. He was roused from his thoughts by a gentle touch to his shoulder; the Spy was at his side, giving him a sympathetic smile. “Nervous?†“Fuck you,†the Sniper answered, giving his companion a light, playful punch in the ribs. The Spy scooted back, and the touch on his shoulder was immediately missed. The marksman shoved his hands in his pockets and looked at the ground. “Yeah, bit.†There was a tsk from the Spy, who reached out and tilted the Sniper’s chin back up. They studied each other for a moment. The Spy’s face, usually unreadable, evidenced a tumult of thought, as if there was something he desperately needed to say but there was no way to put it into words—at least, not in English. The Sniper, on the other hand, found his mind suddenly blank, so all he could do was stare into the other man’s eyes and search for an answer there. They were drawn towards each other, and finally, by silent consensus, they gave up on what couldn’t be spoken and pushed forward into a kiss. They took the time they hadn’t had that morning to explore each other: to probe at each other’s mouths and to grope at each other’s bodies. The kiss didn’t break until the heel of the Spy’s hand found the hardening bulge in his companion’s pants. The Sniper gasped, pulled back, and fixed the Spy with a stare full of wonder and lust. “Less nervous?†The Spy asked, quirking an eyebrow. “Fuck nerves,†breathed the Sniper. “Let’s do this.†“Have you put thought into my question,†the frenchman inquired, lightly stroking his companion’s jaw, “about how you would like this to go?†“Been thinkin’ about it all day,†he growled. “Oh? And what exactly have you been thinking about?†“You in my arms…you slipping away, disappearing…Wanna hold you, feel you there, and know you’re not going anywhere.†“Specifics, cher,†the Spy scolded lightly. “You’ve already felt and held me; I don’t have to go anywhere until Sunday afternoon—until then, what do you want?†The Sniper’s eyes widened at the possibility of being here all weekend with the Spy; emboldened by the idea, he blurted: “I want to feel you in me. I want—I mean—bloody hell, I’ve fucked girls before, but you’re my first—er—ain’t lots of blokes shagging blokes where I come from. And I don’t want this to be…I mean, I don’t want you to think…Never, you know, liked it much, with girls. I want this to be different.†The Spy smiled, understanding. “I never worried that you saw me as a…a last resort, in a battlefield with no women. You are far too nervous,†he laughed, “and your kisses are far too tender.†He gave the Sniper a gentle peck, then drew back, his expression growing predatory. “You want your first time with a man to be different from anything you’ve ever experienced, something better than you’ve ever felt before?†The Sniper bit back a whine. “God, yes.†Grinning, the Spy planted a line of kisses along his jaw, mouthed down his neck and found the place where he’d left a bruise that morning. The mark was gone, of course, erased by the day’s first respawn, but he remembered the exact location, precisely how the Sniper’s skin had felt beneath his teeth—he couldn’t help himself; his memory turned into a reenactment, complete with the other man’s heated moan. He finally pulled back to admire his work and unbutton the Sniper’s shirt, eager to touch, to taste, to feel that hardened, lithe body underneath him. Between long, hungry kisses, they undressed each other, all the while edging closer and closer to the hotel bed. When the Sniper bumped against the edge of it, the Spy smiled and gave his shoulders a light push, so that he fell back, naked, on the crisp, fresh linens. The fabric felt stiff and cool against his bare ass, and he immediately missed the heat of the other man’s body. The Spy stood over him, tugging his gloves off with his teeth, wearing nothing else but his mask and an impressive erection. The Sniper gulped at the sight of it, gripped by the urge to touch that cock, to hold it, to taste it, to have it inside of him, even though he wasn’t quite sure how it would fit. It was all crashing down on him, the realization that something he’d denied himself all his life was finally happening. He was breathless. “I’m ready,†he whispered. “Fuck, I’m ready.†The Spy laughed. “Not yet, you aren’t. I would love this to be, as you say, ‘bleedin’ aces,’ but let’s try to avoid any actual bleeding, hm?†The Sniper blinked, confused, as the Spy went over to his trunk and rummaged around in one of the smaller compartments. It was a nice enough view of the frenchman’s ass, but he was impatient, and was very glad when the other man returned to the bed with a crinkled tube in his hand. “Now,†the Spy resumed, squeezing some of the tube’s contents onto his now-bare fingers, “you are certain that you are ready?†He nodded furiously; he had no time for words; he needed this. The Spy placed one hand on the marksman’s hip, let his thumb trace teasing patterns near his cock, and slid his other hand down between the man’s legs. The Sniper was surprised at how electric that first touch was, when the Spy’s slick finger simply traced around his hole. He hadn’t realized how sensitive that skin was, and when that single digit started to work its way in, he completely forgot how to breathe. The Spy whispered to him softly, praises, encouragements, and kissed his neck, willing him to relax and breathe as he slowly prepared him. The first finger went in as far as it could go, then began moving in and out. Just as the Sniper was about to say, once again, that he was ready, the Spy added a second finger, and the words caught in his throat. It was certainly different from anything he’d experienced, but he couldn’t help thinking that it was supposed to feel better. He was just wondering if the other man’s cock would feel all that different from his fingers, when suddenly the Spy hit something inside of him that sent a jolt of pleasure through his entire body. His hips bucked, his cock twitched, and his voice caught—and the Spy smiled triumphantly. He brushed up against that spot again, and again, and the Sniper was glad that the other man seemed to know just what he wanted, because he had lost the power to articulate it. A third finger was added briefly, then all three of them removed and the Sniper whined at how empty he felt. He looked up at the Spy, who was spreading the slick stuff on his own cock, and panted, “Am I ready now?†The Spy’s gaze swept over him hungrily, taking in the flushed face, the heaving, writhing body, and the sense of desperation emanating from the Sniper, and he sucked in a deep breath. He climbed onto the bed, kneeling over the Sniper, and lined up the head of his cock with the other man’s entrance, but didn’t move to push in. “You tell me. Are you?†“Yes,†the Sniper groaned, throwing his head back. “Please, yes, please fuck me...†The Spy didn’t need to be asked twice. He slid into him slowly, reminding himself that it was the Sniper’s first time. It was hard to forget, what with how tight the other man was—by the time the he was fully sheathed, both of them were wide-eyed and panting. The Spy draped his body over the Sniper’s, mouthing again at his neck, moving up his chin, and meeting his lips for a series of short and breathless kisses. Their eyes met, the frenchman’s hands slid down to grip his companion’s hips, and he began his second slow thrust, shaking with the effort of self-control. The Sniper felt like he was suffering from sensory overload: the hands at his hips, the fingers occasionally leaving their posts to stroke at his cock, the mouth ghosting over his skin, and the Spy inside him, filling him up—he had no idea that he could feel so full. The first few thrusts were awkward, slow, and painful, but as the Sniper got used to that hot hardness inside of him, he began to accept it, then to like it, then to crave it. When the Spy found his prostate again, the Sniper forgot all nervousness, all apprehension, all pain and discomfort; he did his best to push into the frenchman’s thrusts, craving that contact, that movement, that pounding sense of bliss. The Spy, sensing his urgency and his need, increased his pace, and they thrashed on the bed together like a single eight-limbed creature. Their mouths locked together, they nibbled each other’s lips; the Spy’s thumbs pressed bruises into the other man’s hips; the Sniper scrabbled desperately at the frenchman’s back, leaving tingling red trails along his spine. The Spy came first; tautening and bucking uncontrollably into the other man before finally finishing inside of him. He didn’t slide out entirely until he had brought the Sniper off, too, with his deft fingers curling around the marksman’s erection and pumping just a few times before sticky release painted both of their chests. Only then did he collapse on the bed next to the Sniper; only then did he allow himself slow breaths and calm thoughts. Beside him, the Sniper was still panting, eyes wide and cheeks flushed. Neither of them said anything for a few long moments; the Spy was eager to know how his companion had enjoyed himself but didn’t want to ask the question, while the Sniper wanted to tell the Spy how fantastic he was but didn’t want to gush like a blushing virgin. Still, they were comfortable with quiet, and more importantly, they were comfortable with each other. It was the Spy who finally broke the silence. “Well,†he ventured, biting back questions like ‘did you like it’ and ‘what did you think’ in favor of: “will you stay the night?†The Sniper turned his head towards him, hopeful. “Can I?†“Idiot.†The Spy rolled his eyes and ran his fingers through the other man’s hair. “Of course you can.†“Thank you. For everything, for the whole—I mean, hell, wow, thank you. I—you’re great, and I—“ The frenchman cut him off. “Thank you, as well. I trust that you enjoyed yourself, then?†“Yeah,†the Sniper breathed. “That was—you’re, fuck—that was perfect. I loved it. Er, was I…? I mean, I’d never—†He was silenced with a kiss. “You were fantastic,†the Spy assured him. “I loved it as well.†“Great,†mumbled the Sniper, too tired to think about the implications of what they were saying. He melted into the Spy’s arms, muttering nonsensical happy noises into his shoulder. The Spy, on the other hand, was not at all too tired to think about what they were saying, and what they had said before, and what they had done together. He stayed awake for a long while after the Sniper drifted off, stroking the other man’s back and thinking about what he had gotten them both into.
This one's a bit short, partially because of the nature of the prompt and partially because I'm catching up. For the first time, not a continuation of previous days--fear not! I'm not done with those two! But I couldn't figure how to work Day 4 into where they are now, and I decided it was high time I wrote some ladies. Or, one lady, at least. -----Day Four: Masturbation----- The Sniper slammed the door of her camper and let out a sigh of relief. The quiet stillness of her home on wheels was all the welcome she wanted after an exhausting post-battle dinner with the team. She’d tried to get out of it, as she often did, but Soldier had insisted on all nine of them celebrating their first win in over a week, and the Sniper had had no reasonable excuse for not participating. She chuckled to herself at the idea of telling her zealous, patriotic teammate: “Sorry, I’d rather go home and have a wank; got awful close and personal today fighting the Spy and now I can’t stop thinking about her body and her saying sexy things in that stupid bloody fuckin’ french accent.†Nah, that wouldn’t have gone over well. She rolled her head back, cracking her neck, and tossed her vest off in a corner of the camper. After a moment’s consideration, the hat and work shirt were thrown into the corner as well. She needed to do some work on the van, and clean her rifle, of course, but she could do that later; she’d waited long enough for this. She lowered herself onto the bunk with all the weariness of one who’s just survived an all-day battle followed by over an hour of unwanted socialization with loud and quarrelsome mercenaries. Her shoes were kicked off, her aviators folded carefully and set on her little bedside table, and her hairtie pulled out of her ponytail and onto her wrist. Finally, she flopped back onto the bed, closed her eyes, and let herself remember the Spy… It had been mid-afternoon, she remembered as her left hand wandered lazily up under her shirt, when she’d heard the enemy Spy creeping towards her. Having already been backstabbed several times that day, she had been eager for an opportunity to beat the spook at her own game. The Sniper’s coarse, work-worn fingers slid under her sports bra and over her nipples as she remembered the way she had grabbed the Spy by the shoulders and slammed her against the wall, the way that the other woman had wriggled in her arms—her hips twitched at the memory, and she hastily unbuttoned her pants with her right hand, slipping under her soft cotton underwear to where she was already getting wet. Damn shame, she reflected as she thumbed at one of her nipples and got her own slick fluids all over the thumb and first two fingers of her right hand, that she didn’t know a word of french, because whatever the Spy had been spluttering during that fight, it had been sexy as hell. She could only remember that throaty, beautiful accent, and imagined that all the gibberish words in her head meant wonderfully dirty things. “Fuck,†she muttered, sliding her middle finger into herself, “fucking fuck me, you fucking spook.†Dirty talk, she reflected, was not one of her own talents, and she lamented the roughness of her hands—not because she regretted working with them, but because they were so very different from the Spy’s tiny, dexterous fingers, which were doubtlessly smooth underneath the gloves she always wore. The difference between them gave her imagination quite a lot of work; all she could do was pump her middle and index fingers desperately into herself, rub at her clit with her rough, slick thumb, and try to picture what it would be like to have the Spy’s clever hands down there instead—or better yet, her clever mouth. She let out a moan at the thought of the Spy’s mouth—the frenchwoman was the only one on her team who wore lipstick into battle, a ridiculous dark red that the Sniper had first dismissed as prissy but had later grown to appreciate. It accented the roundness and the curve of her lips, made them look absolutely edible, and provided a breathtaking contrast when she curled her face into a snarl and showed off those perfect white teeth. God, she was marvelously ferocious. The Sniper tried to imagine, as her hips bucked forward to meet her eager fingers, how their fight might have gone differently, how the Spy might have whispered in her ear that struggling like this always excited her, how those little gloved hands might have found their way to her hips and explored the skin underneath her shirt, how she herself might have lunged forward and finally met that perfect, delicious little red mouth. Her left hand, the one not occupied with her cunt and her clit, scrabbled desperately over her body, twisting and rubbing at her nipples, and she reveled in how glorious it would have been to have the Spy touching her there. She pictured her enemy on her knees, reaching up to unbutton her pants, and she felt herself nearing her climax. Her hands moved at desperate speeds in an attempt to keep up with her bucking hips, her writhing torso, and her shaking legs. She swore under her breath—and then suddenly she was breathless, her whole body taut, and she let out a choking cry as hot, perfect release washed over her. Panting, she lay sprawled on the bed, her hair in disarray, her cheeks flushed, and her whole body still quivering. After taking a moment to breath, she pulled both her hands out from under her clothes, and she brought the one that was still wet with her own juices up to her mouth. One by one, she licked her fingers clean, sucking the taste of herself from her skin and wondering idly what the Spy tasted like. She moaned around the slick digits in her mouth, letting herself in one more brief fantasy—that of getting her head between the Spy’s legs, of seeing that marvelous treasure for herself, of stroking soft pink skin and letting her lips and tongue caress her most sensitive spots, of tasting her, of getting her hands on her, and of making her writhe and moan in pleasure rather than in pain. She’d have jumped at the chance to spend all day on her knees if she could make the Spy come apart with ecstasy. It wasn’t until she’d quite finished her cunnilingus daydream and pulled her saliva-wet fingers out of her mouth that she noticed an odd smell in her room. Smoke? She sat up, now alert, and heard a soft, throaty chuckle from across the room. “My my,†cooed the enemy Spy as she appeared suddenly, lounging in a chair that the Sniper had thought was empty. “What a riveting performance.†Those neat little white teeth, peeking out from behind her smirking red lips, had never seemed so much like fangs.
I hope the next day will be about men again.
>>9 You know what, Anon? 75% of the fics on this thread are already about men, as are 98% of the Sniper/Spy fics I've written and probably 99% of existing Sniper/Spy fics overall--plus, I already stated that I'm definitely going to write about men again. If men are your preference, that's fine, but I don't write fanfiction just for you. As a queer woman, I personally find it extremely frustrating when I want to find a portrayal of my OTP that I can relate to on a physical level and I have maybe two options, and I find it even MORE frustrating when I finally find what I'm looking for and the author is immediately shot down and discouraged by a bunch of anonymous people who are just looking for more of the same; who have no critique of the story other than "it has girls in it." I can understand why the vast majority of tf2 fanworks are m/m; after all, the classes in the game are all canonically male. But for fuck's sake, do you really have to complain if there's even just one thing that's different? I challenge you to find a single tf2 fanfiction that features a pairing with any female character (EVEN THE ONES THAT ARE CANONICALLY FEMALE) without at least one complaint about the fact that it's not m/m. If you prefer fanfiction with two dudes doing it, that's totally fine, but I'm writing at least one of these every day until July 29th, so if you want more of the same, you don't have to wait long, and while you're waiting, there's pretty much this entire website full of m/m fics to keep you occupied. Go find something else to read until I'm done with Day Five, which pretty much has to include at least one male, since it's "Blow job."
*I meant >>13 not 9.
I saw Day 3 reblogged on tumblr but I'm glad I checked here so that I could read day 4 (although I'm severely pissed off on your behalf after reading that anon comment above). Fuck the entitlement and the entire attitude that that comment encompasses. I've enjoyed everything you've written for this challenge so far (particularly the shameless continuation of how that relationship is developing). I also loved your portrayal of different versions of the same characters and the way you've still managed to make them distinct and recognisable as those characters. I looked forward to your updates for the past few days and was not disappointed with what you wrote. I'll continue to look forward to any updates you choose to do but at the same time, I wouldn't blame you for not wanting to continue this if that's the kind of "feedback" that people think is okay to leave.
Aaaahhhh genderswapped sniper/spy! And well written at that.. This is the definition of something being like Christmas morning. If you want to write a continuation of the gender swap like you did for the first two days, I for one would be more than happy to recieve it.
Even though I personally prefer malexmale pairings, I do admit that the occasional genderbend is a welcome change of pace. There are few other writers I would trust to handle anything genderbendy, and I think Knight has proven herself very capable of writing it well. Please continue to write whatever you want to, because I will read and worship pretty much anything you post.
Thank you all for your kindness! (To be honest, >>16 characterization is the thing I worry the most about, because I'm not sure I'm good at it, so thank you very much! Also, day 4 is also on tumblr, if you're looking for it: http://knightspendid.tumblr.com/post/54806540235/sniper-spy-30-day-nsfw-challenge-day-4) On days when I feel that I can't naturally continue with the boys from the first three days, I will probably go back to the ladies--but for now, here's day five, which is another shameless continuation of days 1-3. -----Day Five: Blow Job----- The Spy slept fitfully all night, his mind preoccupied with worries about having gone too far, already, with the Sniper—not physically, of course, in his mind there was no such thing, but emotionally. That first night, when they slept together without fucking, when they just cuddled…it had been a long time, for him, since he’d spent the night with someone who had given him no sexual gratification that day. And the fact that he, the Spy, had been the one to initiate that non-sexual intimacy—it bothered him. The whole thing bothered him the way that one is bothered by the cloying over-sweetness of a beloved dessert. Something was off, but not enough to make him stop, not yet. What had even made him stay that night? The camper had been intolerably hot, despite the lemonade, despite the beer, despite the flowers—there had been flowers. He had almost forgotten, but the Sniper had brought in fresh-picked flowers. Maybe it was those that had made him decide to stay that night instead of giving up and getting a last-minute hotel room, or simply sneaking back to the base without his teammates noticing. He hadn’t even been sure if he liked the Sniper when he got there that first night; there was a physical attraction, sure, and he found the man’s nervousness when it came to non-work-related things to be amusing, cute even. But he didn’t know how much they had in common, and how well they got along, and yet he had stayed, and talked, and crawled, naked, into the other man’s arms… He loved it. That’s what he had said last night, before the Sniper fell asleep. Truth be told, the Australian man was obviously inexperienced in bed—at least when it came to other men—and while his tightness had been exhilarating, he was not the world’s most skilled lover. And yet, the Spy had been telling the truth—he had loved it, every moment, from the Sniper’s first nerve-wracked kiss until now. There was a sense of accomplishment at bedding an enemy, sure, and it had gratified him to no end to watch the Sniper’s face contort in bliss and know that it was all his doing, but that didn’t account for all of it. That didn’t account for how comfortable he felt just having the other man asleep beside him. There was another element, a sort of fondness that he refused to give a name in any language, aware that doing so would be dangerous. The Sniper mumbled in his sleep, squirming and nuzzling into him. There was a surge in the Spy’s heart; he couldn’t help it; he pressed a gentle kiss to the other man’s parted lips. The Sniper’s eyes flew open, dazed and surprised—but not enough to pull away. He tilted his head lazily to allow more contact between their open mouths; the Spy pushed forward and their tongues tangled together in a wordless morning greeting. “Morning,†murmured the Sniper after they finally pulled apart, seeming amazed that the other man was still there, still in his arms. “I did not mean to wake you,†the Spy apologized, “but your lips…Mmm, they are made for kissing.†The marksman laughed, flushed, and shook his head. “Nah, too bloody chapped to be made for anything like that. Yours, though…†Stirring a bit, they melted into another kiss, and it was then that the Spy noticed his companion’s morning erection. He wrapped his fingers around the Sniper’s cock and leaned forward to whisper in his ear. “They’re good for more than that, you know.†The Sniper’s breath caught as the frenchman gave him a slow, teasing stroke. The Spy pushed him the other man off of his side and onto his back, scooting himself down to where he could easily get his lips around him. He needed this, something raw and physical; he needed an escape from the all-too-personal sweetness that the Sniper seemed perfectly comfortable with. And besides, he thought as he settled between the man’s legs and ran his hands up and down his thighs, the Australian’s cock was a tempting mouthful, long and hard and beautiful. He ran his tongue over his lips as he glanced up to meet the Sniper’s marveling gaze. “Fuck,†the marksman choked out, “you sure?†He smirked. “It would be my pleasure.†The Sniper let out a shaky laugh and nodded wordlessly; the Spy wasted no time in getting his hands on him. He grasped his shaft with one hand and let the other wander—over a hip, up and down a thigh, back to his ass, even down to tease at his taint and his still-sensitive hole. The Sniper jolted at the myriad of touches before the other man even got his mouth on him; when the Spy licked at the base of his scrotum, he moaned. Taking his time, the Spy occupied his lips and mouth first with the marksman’s balls, sucking one into his mouth, and then the other. After that, the hand that had been stroking the Sniper’s erection moved down to fondle his testicles, leaving his cock to the mercy of the Spy’s soft lips and clever tongue. The Sniper gasped, eyes rolling back, as the frenchman worked his way slowly from the base to the tip, mouthing at the vein he found and finally, as he reached the head, licking under his foreskin and finding the small, sensitive slit. He lapped up the few drops of precum that he found and then drew back for a moment to catch his breath. The Spy’s previously-wandering hand moved to the base of the Australian’s erection, the other hand still cupped around his balls, and finally he took the head of the Sniper’s cock into his mouth. The marksman groaned, unable to contain himself, barely able to believe how wet and hot and velvety soft and how just fucking perfect the Spy’s mouth was around him. His moan gave way to desperate swearing as the other man slid more and more of him between those rounded lips with each sucking, tongue-swirling bob of the head. The Spy, skilled beyond the Australian’s belief, was determined to work his way down to the base before the other man came. When the Sniper felt himself hit the back of the frenchman’s throat, he whined, and his hips bucked involuntarily. “Fuck,†he whispered, certain he’d made the other man choke. “Sorry, sorry…†The Spy, however, was far from upset. Pulling his mouth off of the marksman for a moment, he reassured him. “There is no need for apology. In fact…†He closed his eyes and nuzzled at the Sniper’s cock, smiling. “Please don’t hold yourself back.†Before the Sniper knew exactly what was happening, the other man had resumed with gusto, engulfing half of his erection in that perfect wet heat. The Spy’s hands moved to the bruises they’d left the night before and once again gripped the Sniper’s hips, pulling and encouraging the man to thrust into his eager mouth. The marksman moaned incoherently as he was taken in further and further, fucking the frenchman’s throat. By the time the Spy had reached his goal, his lips brushing taut skin and pubic hair, the other man knew he couldn’t last much longer. With a few final thrusts, he came, shuddering and groaning as he did, and the Spy swallowed it all with admirable grace. He released the Sniper slowly, centimeter by centimeter, as if he was reluctant to let the experience end. Finally, the softened cock fell from his pink, wet lips, which he licked one last time before looking back up at his companion. The Sniper panted, staring at the other man in wonder. His lips kept moving soundlessly, as if he had something to say but couldn’t even think of the words. The frenchman raised an eyebrow at him, smirking with all the smugness of a man who can make someone else fall apart and knows it. After a moment, though, the Sniper’s wordlessness was almost unbelievable, and he asked, “Come now, bushman, that can’t have been your first blowjob, can it?†After a moment, he regained his power of speech. “Nah, I just…Nah, but it’s been awhile, and, bloody hell, I just woke up, and suddenly…and you’re, you know…I mean, fuck, you swallowed all of it?†The Spy grinned. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.†His companion laughed, but it was a choked, nervous laugh. He frowned. Had he, in his need for something blindly sexual, moved the Sniper beyond his comfort zone? “Are you all right?†“I’m fine, just…†The marksman flushed furiously and scratched the back of his neck, admitting: “Never done that myself, yeah? And, well,†the Sniper eyed his companion’s own growing erection as he spoke, “not to brag, but I’m not too used to not being good at things.†“Oh, please,†the Spy scoffed, relaxing. “Even if your first time is less than perfect—well, you know what they say: experience is the best teacher. And I, of course, am a close second-best.†The Sniper laughed at that, a little, and the frenchman leaned over him to kiss his cheek. “Besides,†he assured, “I will be very glad with whatever you can do for me.†And again, the Spy marveled at the fact that he was telling the truth.
Challenge accepted and completed: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/9426558/1/Morally-Ambiguous
>>20 Fair enough--I was thinking more of fics here on tf2chan, since that's where I spend most of my time (and where I see the most ew-female-character comments), but I never specified that. Anyway, here's day six--I'm sorry to say it's a bit half-assed; today's been very busy and I'm too tired to be good at things... -----Day Six: Clothed Getting Off----- They went out for lunch. It was convenient, the Spy told himself sternly, and that was the only reason. They had enjoyed each other in bed; they wanted to continue enjoying each other in bed through tomorrow; they both needed food, so why not eat together? In public, of course, they were simply friends—or, if they happened to run into a coworker, rivals who had unhappily bumped into each other. Thankfully, no one from RED or BLU interrupted them during their hour at the local diner, so they were allowed to be friendly, at least. The Spy was surprised at how much they had to talk about; he almost regretted how well they got along. The Sniper was usually either entirely quiet or loud and vulgar on the field, shooting silently or shouting obscenities at his teammates and enemies until his throat was raw. In friendly conversation, however, his wordless dedication made him a good listener, and his enthusiasm made him animated and interesting when he did talk. The man was becoming harder to resist, to imagine letting go of. He tried to distract himself by focusing on the Sniper’s lips as he ate, and the bob of his Adam’s apple when he swallowed, and sure enough, halfway through the meal he was ready to take the other man right there on the red and white checkered tablecloth. He waited, of course; he had to, but when he thought no one was watching, he slid one foot up the Sniper’s thigh. The marksman gave him a warning look, but the Spy knew he’d gotten his attention. They hurried through their meal, making little noises of effort, and the Sniper got something white, wet, and creamy on his lip, which the frenchman purposefully did not point out to him. The conversation died when they started shoveling down their food, and the Spy silently congratulated himself for averting his own arrival at a conclusion that he was beginning to fear was inevitable. They rushed back to their hotel room, and there the Spy finally licked the spot of cream off of the Sniper’s lips. The other man opened his mouth and let his companion’s tongue explore there, too—their faces latched together while their hands grabbed at each other furiously, groping and stroking. An experimental buck of the hips showed that they were both hard. The Spy swore under his breath; after half an hour of sexual frustration in a public place, he just wanted to get the both of them off; he wanted to make the Sniper fall apart and he didn’t want to wait to do it. Thankfully, his companion seemed to have a similar idea. They rutted desperately against each other, the Sniper growling like a cornered predator as the other man latched onto his neck. Finally, the Spy pulled down both of their flies, leaving just one thin layer of cotton between their erections—the Australian had chosen not to wear underwear, and his hot flesh was already exposed to the cooler air. The Spy’s hand stroked and fondled both of them as they thrust together, and the occasional brush of cock against fabric only made them more eager. It was an embarrassingly short time before they were both coming all over the Spy’s briefs—and, unfortunately, his suit, but the frenchman couldn’t bring himself to care. He was about to lick the cum off of his hand when the Sniper snatched his wrist and started to do it for him. The Spy was speechless. The sight of the other man stuffing his flesh into that eager mouth, the way he moaned around him, the way he licked up their mixed release like it was the best treat in the world, and the way he sucked wantonly on each finger—it was almost like receiving five tiny blowjobs. The brush of that velvety tongue against his sensitive skin was far more erotic than it should have been. The Sniper gave an appreciative hum when he finished, licking his lips one last time. “We taste good together,†he murmured, mouthing along the Spy’s jaw. The frenchman tilted his mouth up to kiss him firmly, tasting the both of them inside the Sniper’s mouth. “Perhaps we should open our own restaurant chain,†he joked when they pulled away, “famous for our ‘special sauce,’ hm?†His companion laughed, but shook his head. “Don’t want anyone tasting your cooking but me,†he growled, nuzzling into the frenchman’s neck. The Spy laughed and patted the back of his head reassuringly, but he couldn’t help wondering if the whole thing wasn’t a recipe for disaster.
Part of the reason I started this challenge was to write more sex and more mushy stuff. I'm not doing a very good job of that. -----Day Seven: Dressed/Naked----- On Sunday morning, the Spy offered to get some food for the both of them and bring it back, since eating in public places was clearly a challenge. The Sniper had resisted, though mostly in jest, grabbing him and pulling him back towards the bed, but he let the other man shower—though not without a quickie in the bathroom—and dress, while he himself sprawled naked on the bed, watching the Spy with lazily lustful eyes. “Miss you already,†the Sniper murmured as the frenchman put his hand on the doorknob. “There there,†the Spy cooed, looking back at him, “I won’t be long. Besides, absence makes the cock grow harder.†The marksman laughed, and before his companion could close the door, he called out. “Hey!†The Spy poked his head back into the room, and the Sniper gave him an earnest grin. “It’s not just my cock missing you, yeah?†The Spy barely had enough time to fit an uncomfortable smile to his face before the door was slammed and he was halfway down the hall. His hands fidgeted as he hurried down the stairs, and his mouth twisted itself into a scowl. He was exceedingly uncomfortable with the way his relationship with the Sniper was proceeding—the fact that he could use the word “relationship†to at all describe their weekend of lust made him cringe. He had wanted fucking, not feelings, and he had expected to touch the other man, not to be touched by him. He hated every little twinge of his heart towards the bushman, and each sweetness of the Sniper’s was beginning to infuriate him. He had expected someone gruff, taciturn, and crude, and instead he’d uncovered this dedicated, caring, and heart-wrenching magnificent bastard. Fingers shaking, he lit a cigarette and puffed with agitation as he walked towards the corner store, where he’d be able to pick up some prepared sandwiches. His mood soured even further in the store, despite the fact that he’d taken the time to smoke the entire cigarette before entering. He found himself automatically noting to himself which meats the Sniper preferred, which he’d appreciate the most, and which he’d be most disappointed by. Gritting his teeth, he ordered the one that would undoubtedly be the marksman’s favourite, and the one that looked the least unappetizing to himself. The girl behind the deli counter flashed him a sympathetic smile. “Rough morning?†The Spy answered with a smoldering glare; she simply laughed in response. “Guess so, huh? It’s gotta be rough if it’s a two-sandwich type of day already.†The frenchman rolled his eyes and gripped the counter tightly; the last thing he needed was more frustration. “They are not both for me,†he hissed. “One is for a… frien—an associate.†“Awww, a date?†The girl gave him a conspiratory wink. “Well that’ll get your spirits up, now won’t it?†The look the Spy gave her could have made an orchard wither, but she was not to be deterred. “Here,†she whispered, reaching under the counter and dropping a small brown bag into the larger bag that contained their wrapped sandwiches, “on the house.†He immediately reached in to inspect the contents of the bag, and was mortified to discover two huge red heart-shaped sugar cookies. “I do not want your cookies,†he spat, handing the little bag back to her. “They’re free cookies. Before, you had no cookies, and now you have two cookies. What’s to complain about?†“I don’t need this, this pointless sweet sickening thing in my life!†The Spy snapped. “You allergic, or—“ “I was perfectly fine before you gave me your cookies, and I did not ask for these cookies, and I have gotten along marvelously without cookies these many years, and I am well aware that for a man in my position, cookies can be dangerous, can be life-threatening, and if anyone knows about these cookies we will be ridiculed at best and quite possible killed, so no matter how much I want these cookies, I cannot let you give them to me!†The girl gaped for a moment in silence, while the Spy, realizing how much he had said, flushed under his mask. “I think,†she finally managed, choosing her words slowly, “that maybe someone else needs to hear that more than I do.†The Spy coughed, looking down into his bag of sandwiches. “You…you may be right.†She nudged his arm and held out the small paper bag. “Take the cookies?†He hesitated a moment, then grabbed them and finally met her eyes. “I will,†he promised. “Thank you.†The Spy walked briskly back to the hotel, filled with a renewed and different agitation. He would never have believed himself, a great keeper of secrets, capable of spilling so much that he had kept even from himself to a total stranger, and yet, there it was—proof that the bushman really had gotten under his skin. His stride lengthening, he thought about the things he had said. It was true, he had been fine before the Sniper came into his life. He had not asked for the man’s affection, and had gotten along without genuine fondness for decades now. Fucking was already risky enough; any real emotional connection could actually get them both killed. And yet, he discovered a strange thrill within himself as he realized that he didn’t care. So they were risking the notice of dangerous people; so what? They both were dangerous people. And it was no weakness, he told himself, to acknowledge one’s own feelings, as long as one could still function professionally. At this point, he knew, he did not need the Sniper’s love—but he wanted it. He had always prided himself in going after what he wanted, and this was no exception; he would do whatever it took, even if it meant loving the Sniper back, a task that sounded easier with every passing minute. He grew excited at the thought of seeing the Sniper again, eager look into his eyes without his view being darkened by stormclouds of discomfort and doubt. He wanted to mark the man for his own again and mean it, and he wanted to make that smooth, professional assassin moan with desire. He had trouble keeping a normal pace in the hotel lobby, and started sprinting the moment he hit the stairs, one hand gripping the sandwich bag while the other grabbed at the railing to stabilize him on the sweeping turns. He slowed again when he reached the third floor and forced himself to walk to the door of the room, not wanting to alarm the Sniper. He knocked softly and called, “It’s me,†before unlocking the door and stepping in. The Sniper was spread out on the bed, stroking himself, and when his companion came into the room, the marksman came too. “Fuck,†he breathed, looking up at the Spy apologetically. “Sorry, mate, just—well, you were right about absence, yeah?†The frenchman couldn’t help but smile; the marksman made quite the pretty picture. “It has a profound affect on many vital organs,†he murmured. He set the sandwich bag down on their little end table, and was about to suggest that they eat, but the Sniper still had a wanton gleam in his eyes as he rolled onto his front. “Can I make it up to you?†He rumbled, eyes fixed hungrily on the Spy’s crotch. “My, you are eager.†The frenchman grinned; he had loved the Sniper’s nervousness, but the confidence that he’d gained during just one weekend together was equally rewarding. “Don’t you want lunch first?†“Think I need an appetizer.†The marksman chuckled and licked his lips, reaching towards the other man to pull him closer to the bed. The Spy laughed as well, and began undoing his fly, but he backed away from the bed and beckoned the Sniper towards him with a jerk of the head. “Ask me nicely,†he teased. “Mmm, I’ll be nice alright,†the Sniper growled, climbing off of the bed and crawling on all fours until he could kneel at the frenchman’s feet. “Pretty please? With a cherry on top?†The marksman’s voice was dangerous, the same low whisper he usually reserved for the field. The Spy found it electrifying to have such a primal force kneeling naked before him. “Well,†he allowed, pulling his hardening cock from the confinements of his briefs and giving it a few strokes, “I suppose that just a bit won’t spoil your lunch.†“Thank you,†the Sniper whispered, his breath ghosting against the other man’s sensitive skin. Without another word, he dove in with gusto, his hands and mouth working the Spy’s cock. The Sniper was still a relatively inexperienced fellator, but he’d already improved since his first try the morning before, and what he lacked in skill he more than made up for in enthusiasm. The Spy found himself wishing he’d backed against a wall; he did his best to steady himself and grabbed the back of the other man’s head, more for support than anything else. The Sniper took that for encouragement and sped up, pumping his hand and bobbing his head with fervor. Deep-throating was still beyond him, but he had quickly learned that every hum from him pulled a strangled groan from his companion. When the Spy felt that he was about to come, he couldn’t verbalize it, so instead he pulled the other man’s head back a bit, forcing him to relinquish his cock. Just as the Sniper started to complain, the frenchman released, spurting into the bushman’s open mouth and spattering his face. The marksman’s swallow of what did land between his lips was surprisingly grateful. “Reckon that was enough to whet my appetite,†he decided, wiping his face with the back of his hand and licking the Spy’s cum from his knuckles. “What else is on the menu today?†The Spy smiled and knelt down, not bothering to tuck his spent cock back in. He ruffled his hand through the Sniper’s hair and gave his cheek a long, tender stroke. Whatever the Sniper did for him made him happy. “I brought sandwiches,†he said, “and cookies.“
*more sex scenes and less mushy stuff. Also, less writing at terrible hours of the night.
more anything from you is.... splendid. badum tss as if youve never heard that one before. no but seriously, love it all. to death. continuepls
Are you kidding? If mushy stuff comes with the Spy having am emotional breakdown over heart-shaped cookies, then I want more of it!
Aww, thanks, you guys! I hate to do this, but I keep staying up too late to write these and I almost fell asleep in my car a couple times today, so I'm gonna try to get some rest and hopefully write some more tomorrow!
OK. I have only one minor critique about everything that I have read. on rereading I noticed the phrase " with gusto" showed up in both oral scenes. When reading the sections broken up it is fine, but when reading straight through it cuts the impact the word has on the reader. Try and find a new way to indicate enthusiastic cock sucking for the next fellatio scene(if there is one). Reusing a phrase too soon sounds like recycling, which is dangerous for writing. Besides this one thing, the rest of everything is spectacular. I love the masturbation fic, it was a fantastic break from what was going on. And the shameless continuation with actual turmoil and emotions is wonderful. So, thank you for these, and keep up the great work!
I feel for the Spy. It's extremely annoying when your fuck buddies start being more affectionate than they should.
I'm back, and with less gusto than ever! Day eight was supposed to be Skype sex, but I didn't feel like going into the specifics of a ~nifty Mann Co. invention~, plus I have a huge hard-on for payphone scenes, so phone sex happened instead. Sorry this took a million years; I had to help run vacation bible school last week and I've been catching up on the sleep I lost from that. Hopefully I'll be getting back to a more regular schedule...Also, I sure as fuck hope I'm right about le telephone rose; you know most dictionaries don't have the word for that? At least, not the dictionaries I consult... -----Day Eight: Phone Sex----- The Sniper called his parents on Wednesdays. Mondays were start-of-the-week team strategy meetings, Tuesdays his mum had book club, Thursdays were when his dad played poker with “the guys†(a group which occasionally included his wife, who won eight games out of ten when she played), and Fridays were the weekend, when none of them felt like having a long and potentially angry family discussion. So, after Wednesday’s fighting ended, he drove out to the nearest payphone and gave them a call. This week’s conversation went as expected: updates on mum’s garden, dad’s grumblings about his job, both of them urging him to come visit; usual stuff. After a goodbye that lasted maybe fifteen minutes, he finally hung up, burning with a mix of frustration and affection. With a grin and a chuckle, he turned back towards his van—only to hear the payphone suddenly ring. He looked back at it, eyes wide. It rang a second time. He looked uneasily from side to side as it rang again, then reached out to touch it. After the fourth ring, he steeled himself and picked it up, putting it to his ear and listening. There was a moment of silence, and then— “Sniper?†The voice was all too familiar; it had been hissing filthy things in his ear all weekend and spitting murderous insults at him all work week. “Spook? What in the bloody—how?†“I don’t want to bore you with all the details, no matter how impressive they might be,†the Spy dismissed. “Where are you?†“Another payphone,†he answered, “the location is unimportant. And before you ask, do not worry—this line cannot be tapped. I have been…tampering, with the machines.†“How the hell did you know I’d be here, at this phone, at this time?†The Sniper growled. There was an impatient sigh on the other line, followed by a chuckle. “Mon cher, why don’t you say my name in that deep, sexy voice of yours, hm?†The marksman’s fists clenched. “Dammit, Spy, I don’t have time for—“ He broke off, suddenly feeling very stupid. “Spy. Right. Spying. On me. Makes sense.†“Good. Now, moving on—“ “’Course, you know,†the Sniper grumbled, “it’s pretty bloody rude, if you ask me. Unprofessional. I don’t snipe at you during my off hours, now do I?†“I don’t think it would be nearly as intimate, or…illuminating.†The Australian harrumphed one more time, still uncomfortable with the idea of the frenchman knowing more about him than he’d told. “How ‘bout from now on, if you wanna know something illuminating, you fuckin’ ask me, or else I will take up sniping at you in my off hours.†“Noted. May I ask you something now?†He sighed. “Went through all this effort to phone me, might as well.†The Sniper could practically hear the curl of the other man’s smirk. “What are you wearing?†“What am—bleeding Christ, Spy, you know what I’m fucking wearing!†“…For someone who is so utterly irresistible in person, you are making it remarkably difficult for me to be properly aroused,†the frenchman complained. The Sniper froze. “Spook,†he rumbled, his voice dangerous. “Did you spy on me, tamper with the payphones, and drive out to some undisclosed location just so we could…could say sexy things to each other over the phone?†“Non,†the Spy denied, “I spied on you, tampered with the payphones, and drove out to an undisclosed location so that we could participate in, ah….merde, how do you say ‘le telephone rose?’†“Bloody—you know more English than I know fuckin’ French, okay? ‘The telephone rose.’ Sounds like a piece of piss two-bit horror flick.†“Forget it, bushman,†the frenchman snapped, clearly growing frustrated. “Now, listen very carefully. I want you to wrap your hand around your cock immediately, and I want you to tell me what you would want to do to me if I were there with you right now, and I want you bring yourself off while I talk you through it. Do you understand?†The Sniper was silent for a moment before answering. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand you.†“Unimportant. Is your hand on your cock?†“What if somebody sees?†“Oh please. Have you ever seen another living soul out there?†“Didn’t see you, and you were well enough watching, weren’t you?†“No one is as skilled at observation as me. No one else will see you…†Something caught in the Spy’s breath, and when his voice came back, it was shaky and predatory. “No one else is allowed to see you like that…Especially if I cannot see you myself…†The Sniper bit his lip, still peeved, but suddenly aroused at the thought of the other man being so possessive. “Are you touching yourself?†He growled, hand straying to his own pants. The only response was a few long, deep breaths, and a whispered: “Oui.†“Bloody—fuckin—“ He struggled with his fly, swearing under his breath as he pulled his half-hard cock out. There was, he had to admit, something erotic about being out in the open where anyone could see him doing something absolutely reprehensible; he was used to doing reprehensible things in safe hiding spots or behind closed doors. And the thought of the Spy in a similar situation was delectable, especially to the soundtrack of the frenchman’s labored breathing. “Bet you look like a right picture,†he found himself hissing. “All flushed and sweaty and hard, trying to make sure no one sees you…†“Now, we are getting somewhere,†the Spy groaned with relief. “I missed this, I missed hearing you, I miss your body beneath my fingertips—“ The Sniper barked out a laugh before starting to stroke himself. “You would wax poetic during phone sex,†he chuckled. “A-ahh! So that is the word for it!†“For…’telephone rose?’†“Mmm,†the Spy confirmed. “A little less subtle in English, isn’t it?†“Spook, no offense,†the Sniper growled, giving his cock a few more encouraging passes, “but linguistics ain’t my idea of sexy.†“Oh? And please, tell me, what is?†“Like the idea of you, trying to keep all composed, losing your cool and tearing off your clothes, my clothes...That sneaky little mouth of yours all over…†“Oh, yes,†the Spy whispered. “If I could get my hands on you, my mouth on you—I would love to mark you, to tease you, until you begged me to suck you off, to fuck you.†The Sniper swore under his breath. “Beg for me, cher?†“Please,†his voice cracked as he pumped himself harder. “Please, please, I need you here. Need your lips around my cock, god, please let me come down your throat…†“Only—“ The Spy coughed, had trouble choking out his response. “Only if you let me swallow every last drop. I’ve missed the taste of you, the feel of you, missed you…†“Missed you, too,†the Sniper panted. “Missed your hands on me and your mouth around me and your fancy stupid smell and that little way you growl and I missed your eyes and your scrawny legs and your cock, that perfect fucking cock, I always feel empty now without it inside me—†“Beg,†the other man reminded him, his voice harsh and ragged. “Please—“ and it was no affectation, no simple fulfilling of the Spy’s wish; the marksman felt himself overflowing with raw need—“please, I’m begging you, fuck me. Fuck me now, fuck me hard, fuck me till I can’t bleedin’ walk anymore, please, Spy. I need your cock in me, I need it. I’ll do anything for that cock, fuck, I’ll do anything for you…†They were both getting close; the Spy was whispering half-understandable encouragements, begging of his own, and both men seemed to be reaching the edge as they whispered dark, dirty things into the phone and each of them pumped himself furiously. It was when the Sniper came, and all reason was washed from his mind by a wave of pleasure, that he let something slip that he hadn’t quite known he’d felt. “Need you—fuck—gotta have you—love you—“ There was a sharp intake of breath from the other man, and the Sniper idly wondered for a moment, staring at his cum-splattered hand, if the Spy had come as well—and then he suddenly realized just what he’d said. Mortified, he opened his mouth, searching for something to say, an apology, an assurance of uncertainty, or something, but before he could find any of the words he needed, there was a click from the other line. The Sniper was left gaping, covered in sweat and shame and semen, as the dial tone broke the desert’s silence with its unfeeling, incessant drone.
Oh, how heartless to end like that. Delicious.
Seconding ZiGraves! Loving how this is developing.
The plot thickens! Also, dirty talk. There goes me being entirely unaroused by this crap... Not that it's crap. But. Well. It's team fortress two.
Because sageing is SO last season
Sorry! I forgot... vnv
because demanding a sage after only 3 days since the last post isn't the stupidest thing ever. I can see it after a week. but 3 days? really?
This post has been deleted.
Some people just don't get it, as it seems. Some people don't even try, apparently.
Thanks for all the nice comments, all, and I'll try to update more often so that fewer bump-related killings take place. This one took a bit longer than it honestly should have, because I ended up relating too much to the Spy and I'm still not very pleased with the end, but I decided I've been sitting on it long enough. -----Day Nine: Against the Wall----- The Spy did not kill him for two days. It aggravated the Sniper on multiple levels—because it was unprofessional, terrible strategy, and because he wanted to talk to the Spy, touch him, or see him up close at least, so that he could get a handle on what the other man thought of him after the payphone incident. He could handle rejection, he told himself, he wasn’t angry about that, but this sudden loss of all contact with no explanation was beyond frustrating. What was he supposed to do? His answer came on Friday evening, when he returned from a long day of fighting to find his camper wreathed in a cloud of cigarette smoke. As he approached the vehicle, the Spy appeared, leaning against the van with an unreadable grimace on his face. The Sniper stopped short, unsure of what to expect. “Seven days,†the Spy growled. “Last Wednesday, I kissed you and asked to come over. Thursday, we spent the night in this overheated deathtrap. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, I fucked you; the next two days, I killed you, and on Wednesday, over the phone, you say you love me? Seven fucking days,†he repeated with a disgusted sneer. “And I thought snipers were supposed to be patient.†He didn’t know what to say. He had never felt so much like a scolded child; he stared at his feet and didn’t seem to be able to look up. One of the first things he’d learned, starting out as a sniper, was to be patient, to wait until you could get the perfect shot. He’d known that for decades, and yet here he was, fucking everything up because he pulled the trigger too soon. The Spy had been his first chance, in all his years, to have a man in his bed—better yet, a man he liked, cared about, even…and now that chance was slipping away, was beating him over the head with his mistakes. “Suddenly so quiet,†the Spy muttered harshly, scowling at him. “I…†His head was an unmanageable jumble of thoughts; how was he supposed to untangle just one of them and articulate it? His gaze still planted firmly on his own feet, he murmured, “Sorry.†“For what?†“For—bloody fuckin’ hell, Spy!†The Sniper glanced up at the other man, frustration finally overcoming his embarrassment. “For pissing you off. Sorry I did that. Because you, pissed off, are a right pain in the ass.†The Spy’s eyes flared and his lips pressed together, but his voice remained dangerously calm. “And do you have any idea what you did to ‘piss me off?’†He looked back down at the ground; the frenchman had a way of making him feel like a third grader who’d been sent to the principal’s office. “Said I loved you,†he mumbled, barely audible. “After just seven days,†the Spy repeated. “Sorry, I—Christ, what do you want?†Shame and anger continued to battle within him, both driven by the fact that he had no idea how to patch things up between them. “I know how long it’s been, I know what I said, and I know you went AWOL on me for two days, so now I don’t know what the fuck you want me to tell you.†The Spy pursed his lips as the other man looked defiantly back up at him. “I want you to tell me the truth.†“I am telling the truth. I really, honestly, don’t know what the bleeding hell to say to you that’ll make you act like less of a pisshead.†The corners of the Spy’s mouth gave an odd, ugly twitch, and the cigarette shook between his delicate fingers; his calm veneer was still there, but it was cracking. “You said you loved me,†he said quietly. “So?†The Sniper spat. Despite the venom in his voice, the Spy did not look away from him; the frenchman met his eyes with a concerned and earnest gaze that seemed vulnerable and out of place set above that twisted scowl. “Do you?†The question was quiet, but piercing—it fit the Spy well, in that way—and the Sniper floundered for an answer to parry it with. “I dunno, I—I mean, sometimes, in the moment, the things you say—“ “Do you?†The cigarette fell to the ground, a forgotten stub of ember and ash that died quickly in the desert sand. “I…†The Spy had wanted him to tell the truth, he remembered. He tried. “I really, honestly can’t say. Surprised as you were to hear that come out of my mouth—not really a problem I’ve had before, yeah? And I…piss, guess I was too busy wondering if you’d ever talk to me again to start asking myself if I loved you. It’s hard for me to—I’ve never really, with anyone else, I don’t think, so I can’t…†“Alright.†The Spy cut him off before he could babble any longer, massaging his masked temples and closing his eyes for a deep breath. “Alright. Just—whether you loved me or not, I would want to know. Either would be fine, but I…I want you to tell me the truth. Do not,†he growled with a sudden ferocity, “think that you can get away with lying about this. This time, it is fine, but if you ever say something like that again and don’t mean it…†The Spy’s voice trailed off into a violent tremble. Hands twitching, he pulled out another cigarette. Though the Spy’s face was sour and his voice was bitter, the Sniper couldn’t help but find an awful sweetness in what he said. For a Spy to ask so earnestly for honesty was a big deal, and suddenly he understood that the other man’s disappearance wasn’t a punishment, or a show of disgust—just like him, the frenchman hadn’t known what to do, hadn't known how the Sniper felt about him. “Like me that much, huh?†He asked, his voice low and quiet. The Spy lit his cigarette and scowled. “Unfortunately.†The Sniper smiled. “I’ll be more careful, then, here on out.†“You do not need to—I am not a china doll. There is no need for delicacy, only—“ The marksman finished his sentence for him. “Honesty.†The Spy shrugged, tried to make it nonchalant. “We are putting our cocks in each other’s mouths, the least one can ask for is a bit of trust between us.†The Sniper laughed at that, then took a few cautious steps towards the Spy. “Can I trust you to talk to me, then, ‘stead of running off all the time and disappearing?†He asked, reaching out to touch the other man’s arm. “I am talking to you right now.†It was the Spy’s turn to look away. “First I’ve seen of you up close since Wednesday’s battle.†“Sometimes…†The Spy waved his cigarette in the air, making sure to use the arm that wasn’t in the Sniper’s grasp. “Sometimes a man needs to disappear for a bit, especially a man like me. Sometimes a man needs time to himself, to think, to strategize.†The Sniper shook his head impatiently. “We all need time to ourselves, mate, but how about letting me know next time you’re about to give me the silent treatment?†The frenchman smiled; good humor was beginning to creep back into his features. “You don’t like to lose sight of your target, do you, mon ami?†“No,†the Sniper growled gently, “I don’t.†The Spy extinguished the barely-smoked cigarette against the side of the van and tucked it neatly back into his case before reaching out to stroke his fingers across the Sniper’s cheek. “I will be careful, too, then.†“Not too careful, I hope,†the marksman chuckled, leaning in closer to the other man. The Spy smirked. “Oh, cher, never…†Their kiss was too passionate to be fast and frantic; every movement of their tongues against each other was an expression of need, every nibble of teeth on lip was a reprimand, a reminder not to hurt each other. They took their time. When they finally pulled away, it was the Spy who suggested they move things to the camper. The Sniper quirked an eyebrow, surprised. “Thought it was too hot in there.†“Sweaty is not a good look for me,†the frenchman admitted with a shrug, “but it is a much better look than ‘emotional outburst,’ and since you’ve seen that, it will do no harm to show you sweaty as well.†“Love to see you sweaty, but only, I mean, if you’re sure—“ Grabbing him by the front of his shirt, the Spy pulled him closer and hissed in his ear. “Would you rather I fucked you here, where anyone could see us, or inside, where we can afford to be much less careful?†He punctuated those last few words by cupping and fondling the growing bulge in the Sniper’s pants, and the marksman was unable to speak for a moment, unable to admit how embarrassingly erotic that first option sounded… “Inside,†he whispered hoarsely, and no sooner had the word left his mouth than the Spy’s tongue entered it; the frenchman pulled him into the oppressive heat of the camper and shut the door, kissing him all the while and tugging at his clothes. They had enough patience to properly remove each other’s shirts, but when the Sniper reached for his companion’s fly, the Spy grabbed his hand and guided it to his back pocket instead. The marksman reached in and gave the other man a teasing little grope before closing his fingers around what he found there. “Had pretty hopeful expectations for this talk, huh?†The Sniper teased as he pulled the small, crinkled tube of lubricant from the frenchman’s back pocket and held it out. “We’ve had plenty of talk for one night,†the Spy snapped, snatching the tube out of the marksman’s fingers. Gloved fingers gripped the Sniper’s shoulder, and suddenly he found himself face-first against the wall. The frenchman’s hands fondled his hips, sliding towards the buckle of his belt, while the man’s breath hot breath ghosted against his neck, whispering, “I want to make you scream.†The Sniper groaned, his eyes rolling back, as the other man undid his belt and pants, pushing them out of the way and grasping at his ass with those hands—still gloved. He let his eyelids shut, let himself be taken over by pure sensation; the Spy was right, they’d talked plenty and admitted more than he suspected either of them had meant to, and now they both needed wordless, breathless, exhausting relief. He gasped as slick and clever fingers pushed into him and quickly found his prostate, and he found himself unable to make a sound when they were replaced by the Spy’s cock. The Spy did not start things off slowly and build the pace gradually, as he had every time he’d fucked him that weekend—he took the Sniper hard and fast, poured all his frustration and worry and affection into every thrust, and savored every appreciative moan he got in return. Only when he found himself getting close to release did he force himself to slow down, resisting the urge to ram into that tight, perfect ass just a few more times—instead, he pulled himself carefully out. Before the Sniper had a chance to turn his low, needy groan into an articulate complaint, the Spy had turned him around, his hands suddenly gentle as they caressed his chest, his sides, his back, his hips, and the back of his legs. Both men were achingly hard and dripping with precum, but the Spy took his time. He helped the Sniper out of his shoes and pants, lifted one of his bare, gangly legs up and guided it around his waist. The marksman noticed that his companion had been too impatient to properly remove his own trousers; he had unzipped his fly and pulled his cock out of his briefs, but the pants themselves were tailored to fit and still clung loosely to the Spy’s hips. The gloves were still on, too, but he could feel the sweat seeping through them as the other man gripped his hips and pushed him up and back against the wall. “Go on,†the Spy murmured, bending his knee just enough to nudge the marksman’s still-standing leg. It took the Sniper a moment to figure out what he meant when he said, “You can trust me.†He figured it out when one of the frenchman’s hands slid down the back of his thigh, giving it a gentle push in the right direction. After a sharp intake of breath, the Sniper locked eyes with the other man, wrapped his arms around his neck, and pulled his other leg up around the Spy’s waist. It was awkward, for a moment, adjusting to the shift in weight, and their neglected erections brushed erratically against each other, but finally the Spy steadied them both, lifting the marksman carefully and guiding himself back into that tight, wet heat. He pushed forward, letting the wall support some of the taller man’s weight as he fucked him, slowly and steadily. The Sniper expected the other man to kiss him, but it seemed that the Spy just wanted to look. With the concentration of a scholar, he studied the way the marksman’s face reacted to every thrust—the movement and expression of his eyes, the flush in his cheeks, the sweat that formed on his forehead, the shape his lips made, the sounds that came from him, and the way the little lines in his face would move and change with his expression. The Sniper watched, too; watched the way that the Spy’s brows knit together in concentration, watched sheen gather on his skin and damp spots grow under his mask, and watched the way his mouth couldn’t seem to close even if he wanted it to. Then he watched as the Spy lost the ability to keep going slow; his eyes squeezed shut, his jaw dropped, and a strangled sound clawed its way out of his throat as he gripped the Sniper’s hips and started thrusting uncontrollably. It was hard for the marksman to concentrate on anything other than the Spy fucking him harder and faster, but he kept his eyes locked on the other man’s face, and the expression that painted his features when he came was more than worth it. He tried to burn that face into his memory, in the few moments before it melted away and the Spy suddenly had difficulty supporting the Sniper’s weight, even against the wall. Swearing under his breath, the marksman struggled to disengage his legs, one at a time, barely avoiding a tumble after the first foot hit the floor. When he was finally standing securely, he let the Spy lean against him for a moment. They were both wrecked, the Spy wrung out from his orgasm and the Sniper close enough to his own climax that he was considering just rutting against the spent frenchman a few times so they could bask in the afterglow together. But before he could do anything to bring himself off, the Spy slid to his knees, seeming more liquid than human, and wrapped his lips around the head of the Sniper’s cock. By the time gloved fingers reached the shaft, ready to give a helping hand, the marksman was coming hard, his legs shaking and his hands scrabbling against the wall. The Sniper sank to the ground, breathing hard, and took in the sight before him. The proud, poised, and elegant Spy was slumped and kneeling on the ground, his pants a wrinkled mess that didn’t cover the spent cock peeking out over the layers of fabric. He was bare from the waist up, save the gloves and mask, his whole body was flushed and covered in sweat, and while he’d swallowed most of the Sniper’s cum, some of it had dribbled down his chin and was dripping onto his chest and stomach. He was beautiful. “All that going on about honesty, and you’ve been lying to me this whole time, haven’t you?†The Sniper managed between breaths. The Spy looked up, frowning, and the marksman clarified himself before he could upset him—“Sweaty’s a great bloody look for you.†The frenchman gave a little hollow laugh, wiping self-consciously at his brow with the back of his hand and then, almost as an afterthought, wiping the cum off of his chin and licking it off of his fingers. He closed his eyes and sucked on each digit individually, humming as if he was enjoying a favourite dessert. It was impossible to resist kissing the Spy after seeing something like that—it was impossible to resist inviting him to stay the night, or the weekend if he wanted. The Spy frowned. “I should not spend two weekends in a row away from the base,†he pointed out with reluctance, “and neither should you. It is suspicious. But…†The Sniper’s face is so pleading, so endearingly desperate, that the frenchman couldn’t bring himself to say no. “Mon dieu, how could I resist you? I can stay the night, but I must leave in the morning. And do not worry—I will wake you before I go.†They piled onto the camper’s tiny bunk together this time, the Spy draping his naked body on top of the Sniper’s, and though by all rights sleeping in such a position should have been uncomfortable, the two of them seemed to fit naturally together. Falling asleep that night was the easiest thing either of them had ever done, and the last thought the Sniper had before drifting off was that in the short space of nine days, he had become the luckiest man in the world.
Hnngggg this fic is slowly becoming one of my favourites-please continue it soon!
"The Sniper’s face is so pleading" --> "The Sniper’s face WAS so pleading" ?
>>40 Oh shit, it finally happened--this is embarrassing, and I never do this with anything else, but when I write Sniper/Spy fics, I always find myself slipping into the present tense, which I think is because annethecatdetective writes in the present tense a lot and she's a big influence on me. Almost every fucking thing I write with these two starts out in the past tense, then halfway through I realize I'm in the present and I have to go back and correct all but the first two sentences. And one of them finally got through. Dammit. Sorry about that; I'll correct it on tumblr, and here...well, there's nothing I can do. Thanks for catching that.
i'm really enjoying it so far! can't wait until the next update!