Have you ever looked into the mirror at your reflection and thought of reaching through to your image? Have you ever gazed at his hands, your hands, and imagined that the sensation of them on your skin might be alien, somehow different? Have you seen into his eyes, seen him sneering at you, and loved the way you looked beneath his gaze? Your mirror will never show you contempt unless you are displeased with what you see. Your image can't gaze down on you with his teeth bared like an animal unless you snarl. When you are bruised and pierced and sweating he will always be the same. But not for me. When I see my reflection he's always cast in blue, perhaps a little blurry as he stands over me (he destroyed my glasses long ago) but recognizable still, if only because I know every inch of his face like my own. His face is my own, but etched with arrogance, with indignity, with a kind of implacable curiosity that I crave to see in his expression every day. I've watched his face change, too. He returns to me sometimes with the scars my teammates have inflicted on him, lets me study them with eyes and fingers and lips. If there is blood he lets me study that too, only with my tongue. He knows what I love. He knows I love to learn and re-learn his face before he makes his face into my own with his tools or his teeth or the butt of a gun. Each of his scars becomes my own, and then he gives me more. That is where the differences begin. My blue reflection is almost always clothed until he decides to use me, and I am always naked for his use. Sometimes I am more than naked. There are times when I am truly exposed, when my reflection will take me and peel back the flesh and muscles bit by bit until I am utterly open to him; and as I look into his face, rapt and intent, I wonder if we look the same on the inside. It is in moments like that that his face will truly become a reflection of my own. When he's looking inside me, when his fingers are curling intimately around my organs, when he nuzzles my bare ribs, that's when I see the hunger in my reflection. When he's taking me I don't know what he must look like. Perhaps he doesn't want me to see him lose control. Maybe I am his way of losing control. When his hand is clutching my jaw like a vise, forcing my jaw open so that I drool whorishly while he stuffs his cock down my raw throat, maybe he sees himself swallowing it. But... he couldn't possibly see himself in me as he travels down my body, made slick with sweat and red in places where his nails dug in or where he beat or bit me. Does he taste my blood when he sinks his teeth in, or does he taste his own? When he's behind me, inside me, and my face is twisted in pleasure (which looks so like pain that it became hard to tell the difference long ago) he sees himself rended in two with lust and... and... Rended in two. The truth of a reflection is that a mirror does not have two sides, there is only one. There is only one man in the glass. The other is a superficial image. I remember now. I remember that my blue reflection looks just like me, but somehow different in little ways when I examine him closely. When he is undressed, there is no hunger in his eyes. His expression knows no craving when I am taking him. When I am looking inside him, when my fingers are curling around his organs, they're a little darker. His blood is a little richer, a little hotter. His heart beats a little faster. He looks afraid. Then he's silent, silent as the grave, and even his heart is quiet. In that moment he looks nothing like me. But I look everything like him. Who can tell the difference between a man and his reflection? Now I am the one in blue, and though I have no mirror, I will soon. When I find my reflection, he will be red.
I came here looking for senseless, hot, Medic on Medic action- something I've been looking for. Instead, I find this gorgeous piece of poetic literature.
This fic needs more love. Also, I want to see more!
Ask and you shall receive. It's not more Medic/Medic just yet, but it's written in the same fashion. Today we have some Heavy/Scout/Medic. Captcha: untwine truself Ooh, very philosophical, captcha. --- He's unafraid, this new red doctor. He's fearless, foolish, and deliciously self-sacrificing. I can tell that the Heavy thinks of me every time they look at one another, but that's only because the new doctor is yet another carbon copy. I wonder if that Heavy is disappointed with my red reflection. This doctor is not as utterly devoted to him-- to his well being-- as I was once. The new doctor goes between all the teammates, healing them as needed. As a good doctor should, I suppose. But there was never a time when I was not at that enormous man's back. It was understood that I was his, on and off the battlefield. There was a time when I needed to be his, just as there was a time when I needed to belong to my blue reflection. That time passed with the death of my first reflection. Now, seeing the RED Heavy on the battlefield scares me. Very little inspires fear in me anymore, but when I see him the fear of being seen for the turncoat I am turns my stomach and weakness blooms in my blood. I'm afraid that when he really looks he will recognize me for what I used to be instead of what I am. He'll see the nights we spent in my bed replaying behind my eyes. He'll see past the scars and under my clothes and see the touch of his hands tattooed shamefully across my skin, and those marks like a scarlet letter will spell it out for him. If he realized, I would not be able to give him a swift death. I'm not a Spy. The understanding that I no longer need him... no, that I no longer want to need him would boil in his thoughts and poison him until I could finally end it for him. Perhaps I'm afraid because I still care. But he's on the other side of the looking glass now. The Heavy on my side of the mirror is a somewhat unfaithful imitation of his crimson counterpart. He lacks the passion and enthusiasm of RED's Heavy, but he makes up for it in sheer force and fury. He is a storm. My counterpart and I are two sides of a mirror, but Heavy and his counterpart are more like the sky and the sea. One is reflective of the other, but the two never converge. My new Heavy is attractive in his own way, despite everything. He is a storm of shameless, undisciplined violence, even sexually. I watched him have his way with Scout once. Even if I hadn't caught them when I did, I would have known about it. We were in Dustbowl at the time. I can't say I care for the location. It is oppressively hot and dusty, even indoors. BLU, at the very least, has the luxury of minimal air conditioning. I had stepped out one evening for reasons too mundane to repeat only to be greeted by the sounds of a struggle from the shack to the left of the easternmost exit. Automatically I assumed it was a Spy trying to overpower someone. I didn't think anyone had a better reason to be in there, and god knows I'd been backstabbed plenty of times by spies who chose that location as their hiding spot. I did my best to make myself scarce as I circled around. I noticed as I approached that the victim hadn't screamed, or made any sound like screaming. In fact, it sounded as if he were trying to choke back screams. A tingle made it's way over my skin. Was the spy torturing him? The victim erupted into a high, choked squeal with the voice of boy-- Scout. I wondered if it was ours or theirs. At the time, the most obvious assumption was that he was ours. The thing I remember most clearly about RED's Spy was his sadistic streak. Deep and stifled as it was, it was there, the kind of cruelty that afforded the Frenchman the nerve to cut out tongues and hamstring his targets without batting an eye. God help you if the RED Spy got hold of you. I pressed my back to the stone wall of the canyon and eased up next to the decrepit little building. The sounds were as clear as they could possibly become under the sound of my blood pounding in my ears. Scout was choking on his pain, panting, sucking in air through clenched teeth with a distinctive hiss. There was another set of lungs panting with him, I was interested to hear-- had I just stumbled upon a rape scene? I trusted myself to be both quick and strong enough to take Scout's assailant by surprise, yet a certain bile fascination drove me to stay and listen. It would be a lie to say I was unmoved by the sound. Hearing the sound of the Spy's hips striking Scout's bare backside filled my mind with deliciously sickening thoughts. Imagine my surprise, though, when the second voice made itself known as a low rumble that could not have possibly come from either Spy. I might have guessed Sniper, but I knew he was still asleep in his nest. Demoman had passed out hours before. That left Heavy as the likely candidate. It was then I began to wonder what exactly I was going to see when I drove myself to peer between the slats of wood separating me from whatever was happening inside that shack. Even then I knew what a brute this Heavy could be. If I was caught watching something I was never meant to see, I wasn't entirely certain how many reservations the Russian would have about snapping my neck. But of course, I looked. Scout was getting louder now, more fevered. There was a pause occupied by shuffling, and the pounding of flesh on flesh resumed. I glanced between two planks warped by rain ages ago. The boy was on his back, supple legs spread wide and flung up in the air on either side of the enormous man fucking him with a crushing ferocity. Scout's mouth hung open in a silent scream, but what I saw in his face wasn't the distress or disconnection of a rape victim. His eyes were rolling, his tonge was wagging fruitlessly in his gaping mouth (perhaps in an attempt to make some mincing, provocative remark). When he finally formed a meaningful snippet of sound, part of a curse I think, Heavy struck him across the brow with a meaty fist, but even that didn't dampen the mood. Heavy's face was as stoic as I had remembered it except for the pinch of his brow. He was staring down at Scout with something like concentration, watching the boy's entire body rock beneath him. I could admit that there was something strikingly erotic in seeing Scout used like a small toy by this ogre of a man nearly twice his size. Heavy wasn't careful of his strength in the least. Scout's slender body was covered in tracts of dark bruises, the largest and darkest being on his hips, calves, and thighs where Heavy's hands undoubtedly gripped him painfully. His hips smashed into Scout so hard it seemed as if he were trying to fuck the breath straight out of him. Heavy's hand was so large he could barely get it around Scout's erection properly. It was the Heavy's cock that proved most impressive, though. The girth alone was something to marvel at, it was a wonder he didn't split Scout in two with it. There are clinical ways to describe it, but they would insult the memory. I'm loathe to use the words that came to mind lest this journal read like an awful romance novel. Still, watching it slide into Scout's hole, thick and wet with whatever improvised lube they'd managed to acquire, tore my composure to pieces. Scout's eyes took focus for a moment, staring straight at me and dragging me back into the present with a start that unintentionally bashed my head against the very planks I was spying through. Silence, tense, thick silence punctuated by Scout's panting. Heavy spoke up, to my surprise. "Come out, Doktor." Scout and I shared a gasp, but for different reasons I'm sure. He had known I was there, yet he'd continued like nothing was out of the ordinary (I would later learn that he'd spotted the white of my coat through another opening in the wood). I stood, though everything below my knees felt as if it had turned to stone, and stepped into the doorway. We three studied each other for a little too long. Heavy was eyeing my very visible erection. Scout was looking helplessly up at the Russian as if unsure what to do at that moment, and I was looking down at the boy's wilting erection. Heavy's gaze followed mine, and something must have been understood, because he resumed fucking Scout just as before. Scout's eyes rolled to focus on me, full of gratifying confusion and something not unlike fear. His mouth was open, saying something I paid no attention to because Heavy hit him again and opened up the bruise that had made a violet crescent along the outer edge of Scout's left eye from the last punch. Tears welled in the runner's eyes before he closed them completely. Before he had looked wanton, but that lascivious look had turned just as quickly to a grudging humiliation that had my erection straining. This Heavy, he is an observant brute. He gestured at Scout as if inviting me to a meal. There was no hesitation left in me. How could I hesitate after all I had already seen? Even so, my knees felt liquid as I dropped onto them. I undid my pants and then made the crawl to Scout, like a slog through deep water. The boy looked up at me uneasily, but mine is a treatment I suspect he will become accustomed to with time. There was no foreplay or fanfare on my part, I make no pretenses. I pressed my cock against his lips, which he pursed, but I clutched his jaw the way my reflection used to clutch mine and he opened his mouth to me. While I was not nearly as impressively endowed as Heavy, Scout still choked on my member when I made the first attempt at pushing it into his throat. The Russian shoved me off of the boy curtly and pulled out long enough to flip Scout onto hands and knees. Again there was that casual gesture of invitation before he resumed. I had to force Scout to open to me again, but when he did every single one of Heavy's powerful thrusts rammed him forward and pushed him harder, further onto my cock. He gagged and choked until he finally grew wise enough to slacken his jaw and relax his throat. It was a sloppy example of oral sex, but had I really done any better when my reflection had forced his length into my face? Scout was growing frantic again, whimpering only to recieve a bruising smack on the ass for each sound he made. He looked up at me, somewhere on a sliding scale of surprise, pleasure, and embarassment. His eyes were glossy with tears, rolling back when Heavy's thrusting grew shorter and shallower. It was Heavy who came first with a stifled grunt, mashing his hips against Scout's backside and locking up. Scout's throat vibrated with the warbling moan that forced it's way up. The runner trembled as though he were about to seize up, arching and jerking with his orgasm and spewing cum into the trampled sand. He gagged, throat constricting and finally milking a climax out of me. He swallowed loudly, given no choice but to do so. No one spoke once it was over. We dressed in a quiet fashion that meant something different to each of us, and went our separate ways for the evening. Scout came into the infirmary some hours later, floundering on his words. Heavy had torn him with that enormous shaft of his. I agreed to treat him, but not before I made use of his mouth again. How can I be a good mirror image if I do not imitate my reflection? I am forgetting who is the man before the mirror, and who is the image.
Sick hot autobalance sex? Why, yes. Personally, I want to see more guro in Medic-on-Medic bits, but I will trust this Anon to do whatever seems best.
Lord knows how long I've been waiting for some new Heavy/Scout and Medic/Medic and threesomes in general. Fantastic fic here. Lots of kinks hit.
This is so beautifully written, I absolutely adore the way you portray Medic and the way you write the dynamics between the BLU and RED team. It is very interesting and I can't wait to read more. Delicious sex scene too, I may add. You, my dear, have a marvelous talent and I feel so excited and honored that you graced us with this story. Please continue writing.
Jeeze you guys, thanks. I didn't think my random first person Medic drabble/erotica would get this kind of response. I'll try to get some more written here soon. Sick hot autobalance sex? autobalance Holy crap, Marty, the autobalance function never occurred to me as I was writing this. That actually makes so much sense. That said, when I get to the actual Medic on Medic bits I do want a bit of splatter eventually, but I try to keep sex and guro understated mostly out of fear that I'm going to either make it too hammy or otherwise fuck it up. >>7 Thanks so much, though admittedly I haven't thought much at all about the BLU-RED dynamics. Maybe you're seeing something I'm not bothering to examine. I'd love it if you'd tell me what you think of the overall dynamics. What is it you see?