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No. 3942
Marked for deletion (old)
>> No. 3945
-_-
>> No. 3949
BLANK THREAD
WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS SHIT
WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT ANON

OKAY SO. SINCE THIS THREAD IS TITLED "fanfic faggots," HAVE SOME OF THE THINGS I'VE STARTED WRITING AND HAVE YET TO FINISH, TF2CHAN.

--------

#1 — RED Spy/BLU Scout; fluff
(this one's length actually works)

RED Spy sneaks into BLU Base on one of the two teams' cherished days off. He knows Scout is usually awake early, accustomed to years of early morning drills thanks to cross country, so he is surprised when he finds Scout still dozing in his room. Spy shuts the door behind him quietly, locking it before he tucks a chair beneath the knob, a quick, yet reliable way to block the door completely which has become his custom when visiting Scout.

Spy toes off his shoes (one of Scout's habits rubbing off on him) and removes the jacket of his suit, bringing the lapels together and folding it once, horizontally, before he places it on the small table in Scout's room. He sinks onto the mattress and lays an arm carefully over the young man's side.

Scout shifts, kicking his legs like a puppy, and Spy is unsure whether he wants Scout to wake up or to stay asleep. After a few seconds, Scout settles down again, to Spy's simultaneous relief and chagrin. He sighs contentedly as Scout unconsciously presses his back into the warmth of Spy's body, and kisses the young man's hair.

He can wait until Scout awakens on his own.

----

#2 — RED Spy centric

When the sun dies in the godforsaken place that RED Spy now resides, he imagines it rising over the small town he once lived in. Reminiscing, he knows, is a weakness, so he pushes these thoughts to the back of his mind. He has had years to perfect the professionalism and emotional detachment necessary of a spy.

In the still hours between midnight and dawn, though, he has difficulty separating himself from the memories. The darkness that settles over the bases comforts him, makes him feel more sentimental; almost, he thinks at times, vulnerable, though he would never say so aloud. A good spy is never vulnerable, and RED Spy is not just good — he is one of the best at what he does. He is nearly perfect.

These moments, when he is alone and trapped in his mind, remind Spy of his mother. He can easily imagine the way that the sunlight hits her grave, placed directly beside his father's, in the quiet cemetery just outside their town. Spy does not dwell on this. Dead is dead, and it's as he remembers the message of a play he once attended: The dead are unconcerned with the dealings of the mortal world. Once one dies, what is left behind is left behind; life continues and the dead ascend to some place beyond human comprehension.

It's comforting, in a strange way, he thinks. If he's right, then his parents never had to and never will feel shame for having a murderer for a son...

When Spy has exhausted this line of thought, it is in time to see the bleeding sun, dragging itself up, reborn from the ashes. It reminds Spy of the men he has killed. He cannot remember all of them; even more horribly, he cannot remember the face of the man he first killed, though he has been told countless times by acquaintances that the memory has never left them.

Still, though he cannot remember imagery, he can recall feeling. When he closes his eyes, Spy can still smell and hear and taste his surroundings; small, cramped, uncomfortably warm, the tinge of rust in the air, his palms sweating and cold. His nerves were shot to Hell, and he was berating himself for his carelessness in the same way he had as a schoolboy when he forgot an assignment.

It had been a routine surveillance job, and somehow, he had gotten himself cornered — trapped like a rat, waiting for confrontation. His fear had overwhelmed him, made it difficult to focus. One moment he was standing still and choking on his own breath; the next, adrenaline was rushing through his veins as he grappled with the man, the rush of his own blood pounding in his ears as his heart pumped the rhythm of a tango in his ribs.

Spy can remember fumbling with his balisong, struggling to remove his new weapon from the uncomfortable, bespoke jacket of his suit. He can remember with extreme vividness the rush of hot blood over his hands as it erupted from the man's body; the pull as his knife thrust through flesh, tore muscle, clung to bone. He can remember staring at his nails for ten minutes when he arrived "home" (a dinky little hotel room, the expenses of which were covered by his employers) later, mesmerized by the blood that had stained his cuticles and dried in the side spots between skin and nail.

Afterward, he had stayed up all night, practicing with the balisong. He did so for weeks until it became second nature: Reach into your jacket; flick it into the natural position; twirl it past your thumb and back into your palm; catch it in the middle; perfect your grip; let it lock; flip if necessary; plunge and don't hesitate; move on to your next target or escape swiftly. The flair involved in the routine was just as important as the rest, a tactic used to make him look superior, to intimidate. It also happened to impress the organization he worked for more than a normal method might, and what Spy could do to get paid that extra bit, he would.

After he had taught himself that, he bought the kidskin gloves he still wears. They have always kept the blood off of his hands.

----

BLU Sniper/BLU Scout/RED Spy; death

When the battle is over, Scout climbs up into Sniper's roost after telling Pyro he's too tired to celebrate. Pyro understood, patted him on the shoulder, mumbled something that probably would have comforted Scout if he'd been able to concentrate and be comforted, but instead it just tore the hole in his heart wider. By now it's a gaping wound, and as he leans against the wall of the roost, clutching Sniper's favorite blanket, he just feels raw.

That fucking blanket. He can barely look at it, but he buries his face in it, breathing in deeply. It smells like Sniper. He always loved it, pushing it over his shoulders when it got cold; sometimes Scout would wake up with it draped over him, and blink over at Sniper for a few seconds, just drinking his coffee from that lame mug he had.

Scout looks for the mug, then quickly glances away when he notices the blood spatter marring the words "#1 Sniper."

Scout shuts his eyes and tries to push away the cold of the night. He's shivering, but he doesn't want to cling too much to the blanket; the stupid smell of his own skin will steal away the scent of Sniper, and then what would he be left with? Yellow fleece?

He tries to imagine the feel of Sniper's arms circling around him, pulling him back to lay against the man's chest. He's already starting to forget.

Scout wishes Spy was up here with him, helping him remember. Spy would remember, he always remembered things. It's his job to remember them, Sniper would say if Scout ever mentioned how strange it was, that Spy could remember the feel of his old hardwood floors on a cold morning, or that Spy could remember all three of their birthdays when Scout could barely remember his own. Of course he's going to remember things, he's been trained to do it for years. A man's got to do his job, you know as well as any of us do.

Scout does know, but this job he's doing now... it doesn't feel worth it. Nothing feels worth it. He wants to tell BLU — tell RED, too — tell the whole world to go fuck itself.

He wants to be with Sniper again.

He wants Spy to get in here and be with him, because oh, fuck, staring out the slats of the blinds on the windows and watching the sun set is filling him with this horrible dread. He almost feels as scared as he did on that first day... but then he remembers that he killed the RED Sniper.

Bashed his goddamn head in.

In fact, the fucker's blood is still on him. Oh, God.

Scout clutches the blanket to himself just as Spy shimmers into view, stumbling slightly as he rushes from the ladder and toward Scout. Spy falls to his knees beside Scout, murmuring some unfamiliar words in French and some familiar ones, like, "je t'aime," and, "mon cher."

Scout doesn't know what the Hell "ne pleure pas" means, but the way Spy's voice cracks in the middle of it fucking hurts. He grabs Spy by the jacket of his suit and pulls him forward, clings to him, kisses Spy with as much desperation as Spy is kissing him with.

With Spy, Scout feels a little less like he's lost.

But only a little.

--------

And, well... I hate to leave it on that sad note, but the rest are too adult for /fanfic/. Also, my French is probably really shitty, sorry. I took Spanish classes, not French classes.

Double-also, I SHOULD have updated my "Friggin Octospy" thread instead of doing this, but... well... I don't actually have anything for that right now, whereas these were all written at least a week ago (the oldest being nearly a month old). But I will definitely update F.O. this week, I promise you. I PROMISE YOU.
>> No. 3950
Oh hey self, way to forget to type "#3 —" on your third one, that sure does make you look smart :|
>> No. 4037
Well hey. It does rock. Cause. You know. Aim isn't doing it for me.
>> No. 4038
Wifey, lern2sage. I thought there was an update! D:

That aside, those drabbles are really great! Like... WOAH! D: *is awestruck* Please, write more!


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