>>114 >>115 >>116 >>117 Thank you! I am extraordinarily glad that I am breaking people of their prejudices in this tale. I personally am firmly ensconced with the Twink Bloc of the fandom (Sniper/Spy presiding), so I haven't really pushed any boundaries of my own, here. Yet. It just pleases the shit out of me that I'm making you like things that you really shouldn't. Irritating little fuckshits in threesomes, especially. >>119 GOOD. I want suffering and tears and tearing of hair! But in all seriousness, my profoundest thanks for going to to the trouble of expressing yourself here. Thank you. It gives me the strength to continue, to know people are enjoying and understanding what I'm trying, in my own weird way, to convey. But you know what this thread really needs? More sex. -=-=- PART XIX He awoke several times during the night, starting upright as if stumbling. Electric shocks of panic ebbed away with gasps. Each time, he looked to his right, down to his slumbering lovers, sweat-glazed and breathing. Thank god they were breathing. He watched them for minutes at a time, stilling his own lungs to catch the soft heaving of their bodies, tangled limbs twitching, eyeballs rolling in dreams. Alive. And he would lower himself, half on the tiny mattress, half on the floor, and pull the sheet back over himself. Each time he gasped himself awake, he was slightly less drunk, until it was nearing dawn and vengeful sobriety was gnawing around the edges of his eyes. But they were still breathing, Spy sprawled on the mattress, his whipping boy beside him, half on the floor like Sniper was on the opposite side. Scout’s humid mouth stuck to Spy’s shoulder, his arm over the older man’s chest. They were a lovely tableaux, alien and profane. The lad’s body was clean and unbruised, blueish in the pre-dawn gloam. No trace of the evening’s punishments had trailed him through respawn. Sniper shuddered and cringed, his fingers digging into the carpet. Of course it had come to that. He remembered his drunken surprise, his half-formed rejections of the instructions Spy had given him, his refusal to handle the RED balisong, or the rags of Scout’s shirt. Eventually there were enough honeyed words, enough entreating moans from the muffled boy, that he had consented to lay his hands over Spy’s wrists, the agent’s hands wrapped around the boy’s neck, still sunk into his slow fuck. “Another lesson for you, then…when playing games of the breath, let your lover tell you when to spare her. If her grip falls from your wrists, your grip falls from her throat. In this way, you keep from killing each other. Like so…†he nodded to the Scout, still reclining on Sniper’s lap. The lad lifted his bound hands and took the Spy’s wrists, then looked up to Sniper and blinked meaningfully. Sniper met Spy’s gaze; his lidded, dilated gaze. The flush of his clavicles, the pace of his breathing, all told Sniper that he was laboring against his orgasm, drawing it out until he had set the stage—as he had done dozens of times, out there on their makeshift nests, in the snow. “Watch him for me. You will tell me when he has had enough.†Sniper nodded once, replaced the boy’s hands with his own, and watched a grin of the purest, blackest lust expose long, wet teeth. Leaning on Scout’s neck, pressing him into Sniper’s lap, he quickened his pace, and squeezed, seeking the hot little carotid with his talons. Tendons bunched and shifted under the bushman’s fingers. Scout squeezed his eyes shut and arched his head back into Sniper’s thighs, blushing, darkening, his body tensing with each impact, his hands clasped as if in prayer. It went on for long seconds. Sniper’s grip faltered, unsure. “No. Not yet. He is stronger than that…oui—†He held on gamely, watching the sweat snake from under the balaclava. Abruptly, the weight against his thighs altered subtly. He looked down—the boy was limp, an alarming shade of red, his eyes half-open, his mouth working, and those veins on his face—Sniper looked up. Foam flecked the agent’s teeth, grinning or grimacing, it was impossible to tell, and he snarled dire syllables as he finally burst, bearing down into the boy with a final violence, moaning hoarsely, and folding over the small, bent body with his own. Silence, but for the breathing. The ragged, bronchial gasps of a devoted smoker. And that was all. Spy straightened, eased himself out, laughed softly as he dragged fingertips through the mess on Scout’s stomach. “Ah! Look at him. I could not be more proud.†Sniper barely heard it, and could make no sense of it in any case—the boy on his lap was absolutely still. The eyes gazed into a middle distance, the head lolled. Sniper shrank back reflexively, letting the corpse thump to the floor. Spy looked up, already tidying himself. “What is the matter?†“What—how did—why did you—†“Me? You were entrusted with supervising this little operation. I did wonder where your objections had fled, so suddenly—I thought perhaps you were coming around. No? Cher, you look very upset…why did you hang on so long?†“I didn’t! I let go! You were supposed t’ let go!†The body faded suddenly, the soaked tie drooping to the carpet where the head had been. Sniper jumped. “There there! You have seen this hundreds of times. What is the matter with you?†Spy was languid on the mattress already, the sheets draped and cool. “I let go,†Sniper spoke from across the room. “You did not, I assure you.†Spy sighed, stretching. “You have had too much of that swill, cecchino mio. You are wavering where you stand. Listen—you can hear your little stable boy trotting up now.†And there were footsteps, and Scout sauntered in looking absolutely renewed—dopey from his blinding climax, touched with fog from the trip through respawn, and wearing the requisite newly-printed uniform, his sweat and bruises erased. He sagged against Sniper as soon as the door was shut and locked, kissed him deeply, stumbling backwards to the bed, pulling him down on top of Spy, who chuckled and caught them both up, the odd man out in the nude. How they all got undressed and settled in was lost in the fog of war, but now, surveying the quiet bodies in the new day, Sniper felt he had finally numbed. If this was what it took, he could weather it. He had weathered it—it was nothing but snatches of bad dreams, now, the evidence erased. Easily waved away, as the winter sun crept over them. Eyelids fluttered in the red mask, and Spy was whispering. “You are so far away. Come here. Yes, on the other side of the boy. Let us wake him.†Spy gently gathered Scout in his arms, careful not to jostle him. He cradled the cropped head to his chest, making narrow room for the gunman to lie behind. “He is so young—feel him. Yes. I remember this, waking up every morning, seized by turgid vulgarity. Take this…†Scout fluttered, murmuring greedily, seized and moistened by a forest of hands, coming awake fully only when Sniper withdrew his fingers and, with a grateful moan, sank gently to the hilt. Meeting the bushman’s eyes over the top of the cradled head, Spy whispered, “He fucks just like his mother.†The young man’s soft cries against his lover’s chest were almost enough to make Sniper forgive them both.