So I wrote this like a year ago for knightspendid. Friend of mine finally convinced me to post it here for crit. Sorry if it's bad guys! Prayin' this doesn't end up a formatting fiasco! It was becoming horribly routine of the BLU Spy to be stalking through the halls of the local hotel as of late, returning to his room alone to sleep off the liqueur running through his system. He was almost grateful that the town just outside of the current base he was working at had a high class bar and hotel, not just some backwater joint that served the most disgusting beer known to man. Here he was able to sit back at a table and watch whoever was performing that day, a jazz band, a classical singer, and sip on his Disaronno. Many of his team mates and rivals also flitted about the bar, most trying to find a Mademoiselle for the evening. Usually he would be out and about with them, but he just didn’t feel the need to. Why when he had good music, good drinks and a comfortable bed to return to after his outing? (Not to mention the fact that he was able to gather information on everyone else in the bar when he wasn’t busy trying to get some.) This particular night, he had seen his own Medic and Heavy return to their room. They always did, it seemed. (He wasn’t sure if they just clicked when they started fighting the war, or if they had known each other before they started working here.) The RED Scout finally seemed to shut his big mouth for long enough and left with a particularly classy lady. (Although, how long she would stay with him was definitely worth betting on.) The RED Demoman and BLU Soldier glared at each other, both leaving with someone who was busty and not leaving a bit to the imagination. (Those two always tried to out-do each other since the WAR event.) He had seen the rest of both teams leave; many alone, some had an arm taken by another. The Spy remained there, breathing in slowly on his cigarette. The spiced smoke filled his lungs, and burned his nose. He watched as the particular singer (jazz, this week) clung close to the microphone stand, it making her silhouette look even curvier against the dim smoky background. Not that he wasn’t interested, and not that he wasn’t capable of charming her and making her cry out for him throughout the night, but lately he just hadn’t had the heart. He sipped at the sweet drink, watching her finish her song. She slowly made her way over to a small table in the corner of the bar, almost hidden by the piano. She leaned against the table, smiling and reaching out to someone. She tilted the tanned mans face up in the air, and he gave her a crooked smile. The RED Sniper was still here? Suddenly he couldn’t look away, enthralled by the way the bushman couldn’t turn away from her. She leaned down, whispering in his ear and the Spy could hear that throaty chuckle from the Australian as he pulled his beer to his lips. He had stopped breathing, he realized, albeit embarrassed. He brought his smoke back to his lips, needing it more then ever as the scarred face leaned in return whispering back at her. He could almost feel the stubble on the marksman’s face rub against her soft powdered skin. She grabbed his hand and gently pulled him towards her as he pulled a few bills out of his pocket and placed them on the table. The Spy could hear her ridiculously feminine laugh as he led her towards the hallway that would put them in the elevator that would bring them to the third floor that would lead them to 307; the Sniper’s room. (What, he is a Spy. It’s his job to know where the enemy is at all times.) The Spy frowned. He could just imagine the trip there. His clumsy rival fumbling with his hands and she leaned in close, trying to steal a kiss. That leading to them kissing while the elevator brought them to the third floor. He would do his best to get a feel before they arrived, and she would let him, and they would feel the passion building in their guts and they would walk as quickly as they could without raising suspicion. As if people didn’t know where the mercenary was taking her and what they were going to do. They would get to the door, and he would fumble with his key card, slurring out that butchered language of his in frustration. When he eventually gets the door open, he would take a moment and let her walk in first to see the room. After she gets a glance, he would reach around her, holding her from behind, whispering in her ear sweet nothings in a low husky voice as he rested his chin on her shoulder. She would smile, turning in his embrace and kissing him. They would stay like that, just feeling and tasting each other till he lifts her gently by the hips placing her on the bed. She would wrap her legs around his waist as he crawls over her, kissing and nipping at his neck. After a few more minutes sitting in the bar, the Spy sat up, finishing off his drink and feeling the warmth tingle throughout him. He smiled at the waitress as he placed a generous amount on the table and began his walk to the elevator. He got in, and pushed for the fourth floor. As he stepped out, his mind continued down the path it was once going; now the busty woman was without her dress, the Sniper without his shirt and hat, although his aviators never left his face. He grabbed at her chest gently, only being rough when called for. A hushed “Yes, more.†as he worked his lips down her body. He would whisper things, “Yer a real beaut’, Sheila. “ as she would rub her leg between his, causing him to let out an almost animal like sound, growling and biting down on her pale skin. The spy quickened his pace, eventually pulling out the key card to 409 and stepping in. He briskly shrugged off his jacket, hanging it on a chair. He slid his shoes off. He didn’t need to bring home a woman. He didn’t need anyone but himself. He tugged a few buttons loose as his shirt fell to the floor, soon followed by his dress pants. He was too warm now to care. Maybe tomorrow he could bring them to the dry cleaners, or have them pressed. He collapsed onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. He knew the Sniper would be inside her now, making her cry out whatever name he had given her. Would he have told her his name was Lawrence Mundy? Or would he have kept that a secret? Would he have given her an alias? Or would they have just went on without exchanging names, caught up in each others eyes and the feel of each others hands? He would thrust hard and she would cling to him like there was no tomorrow. He would almost mutter something that could bind him to her, his heart still aching and reaching out for anything that could hold the poor man and keep his loneliness and heartache at bay. Instead, he bites his lip, holding it back, knowing he can’t have a relationship. Knowing it wouldn’t bode well to moan words of love. The Spy reached down between the sheets, stroking at his almost hard bulge. He was oh so familiar with imagining the other when he left with someone. Every time though, the little fantasy would end with himself beneath that tall rugged bushman. It was himself moaning beneath him, clinging to him like there was nothing else in the world. He was staring up into those green calculating eyes, and it was him feeling the Sniper’s breath on his skin, listening to his horrible accent as he mumbles over and over how amazing he is. The BLU Spy is the one laying beneath him as he cums, crying out anything because they cannot share their names. It’s the BLU Spy who moans and rambles in French, nails digging into tan scarred skin. It’s the BLU Spy who the RED Sniper holds tight, whispering quietly into his ear, and it’s the BLU Spy who falls asleep in his arms. It’s the BLU Spy who wakes up early, kissing the bushman on the cheek and saying “Bon matin, cher.†It is the BLU Spy who falls asleep alone, drunk and lonely, dreaming of what he couldn’t have.
My god, that was beautiful. Awesome job, Anon.
Just wanted to say first, love the striking imagery, very lovely, though the use of parentheses seems excessive just glancing at the story as a whole, and second, the French say "bonjour" for good morning, I'm pretty sure.
oh gosh. this gave me slight tingles. i can literally almost imagine how spy feels, both emotionally and physically. really amazing imagery.
Ooh. I like it. It's very emotional and well written, especially at the end. Continuing this would make an excellent multi-chap story, but if you want to leave it as is, it's still good.
In addition, >>3 Nah, Bon matin is good morning, bonjour is good day. They use either sometimes. Also, I think mademoiselle is usually used for young girls (like kids). Madame is used more often in any case, because it can be used on girls of any age without sounding too strange. But eh, I'm just learning French, so don't quote me on it.
Oh my this was very good, I love how classy youve written the Spy and the loss of his composure toward the end was delicious. Kind of makes me want to see the reverse now with the sniper seeing the spy charming the literal pants off of someone.
Umm okay number 6, I mean, I'm just looking at a chapter titled "common mistakes in French" and it says people in France don't say bon matin, however people in Quebec do so maybe this Spy is Canadian. In that case, we're both right.
This was really good! I hope that you'll continue it, I'm very interested in what may happen next.
Hey guys! Sorry to confuse- Spy is not French Canadian. I however am from a horribly French Canadian town so I apologize for the mix up. Bon matin is pretty common here. I apologize if the mistake upset anyone! Thank you all so much for the feedback! If I find more time between work and life I'll add on to this one.
Absolutely nothing makes me happier than Sniper/Spy heartbreak. You are fantastic and this is wonderful.
And here is where I weep...
And there was much crying
I kinda of sort of wrote a sequel.. Hope you guys like it! Sorry if its bad/format messes up! Chapter 2/ The RED Sniper had risen that morning to aches throughout his body, the other side of his bed empty and a hard on that hurt almost as much as his worked joints. And thoughts, dreams he hadn’t been able to shake for the past few months. It was a mistake, bringing the singer from the bar to his room. She was demanding, craving, lusting for stamina and force. Something he didn’t have the heart for by the time he got her undressed, on the bed. Regardless, she got her wish. His body was covered in scratches, hickeys, bruises, and a black eye – the latter of which was earned by asking her to leave. He didn’t quite remember what she had thrown at him and, at the time, didn’t really feel much thanks to the beer he drank. He was exhausted and nowhere near sated. He did better than most on the base. Back home, he couldn’t score a goat. Here, though, women seemed to like the scars and the accent. Usually, sniper only needed to relieve himself every couple of months. More so as of late thanks to someone. With a yawn and a stretch, he slipped his torn shirt back on; the woman’s perfume which clung to him stirred up by the motion. He stepped awkwardly down the hall towards the elevator, feeling old the whole way. The bushman was starting to feel like his father… He needed a coffee and fresh air. He stood before the elevator, his hair disheveled and his shirt doing a poor job of hiding the scratches down his back and arms. Slowly, he reached out and depressed the button, reminding himself to avoid her the next time he drank. Hell, maybe avoid the entire fucking bar. This town. The base… The BLU Spy. The elevator doors slid open and he lurched into the small box, only noticing said Spy was also inside on his entry. The spy looked up, his usual calm expression replaced by one of horror, and then, disgust on noticing the state of the Sniper’s outfit. The sniper hadn’t brought a change of clothes. “Reckon Oi don’t needta remind ya there’s no killin’ on weekends,†the sniper grumbled to his dismayed co-passenger. The Spy’s bright blue eyes were alight, his features emphasized only how utterly pissed he looked. “I am a professional, Monsieur. I know the rules. I also know how to dress in public.†The sniper let out a disgruntled hmph and leaned back against the mirror. He didn’t dare look away from the spy, the chilling blue eyes of whom were locked onto him in turn. The Spy’s lips were chapped - his eyes just a tad bloodshot. Likely the Frenchman was dehydrated- hung over. The hints of dark circles under the Spy’s eyes were enough to tell the sniper that he had a horrible sleep. The man was without his usual suit jacket; instead clad in a well-tailored vest over an unnaturally crisp white dress shirt and tie. As the bushman’s brown eyes traced over the BLU, so did the blue eyes glance over the RED, all the while gleaming with disgust as though beholding some walking, talking trash heap. “Don’t look at me like that, like yer so much better.†‘Course he wasn’t. Not with the way he would tease him, brushing his fingers over him at work. Make such clean kills so personal. “I am not the one who thought it would be appropriate to go into public like you left a whorehouse.†Another frown; she wasn’t a whore, just a one-night stand (Who, admittedly, he had to kick out because he was sore and needed a bit of sleep). God, why was he taking the Spy’s scrutinizing looks to heart… The Spy looked less and less disgusted and more furious. “What,†the sniper quipped, “you didn’t end up with a Sheila?†He did his best to sound cocky, but in reality, the idea of the Spy ghosting his fingers over another person, his breath on her skin, drove him mad. He thought of the spy’s supple leather gloves tracing over a beautiful little thing- probably French. Every touch meaning to tease, never to give full satisfaction. The sniper couldn’t shake the feeling that Spy had been trying to tease him the same way; like some beautiful little thing caught in a trap. There were times, while he died, when the same gloved hand would run down his chest, or along his jaw, with a whisper of something in French barely entering his ear. Sometimes, even before he knew the other was behind him, the sniper could swear he felt those chapped lips brush over his neck, or his ear… The things it did to him. The BLU was the reason he came to the bar, hoping someone would come along for the evening. The reason he had bothered to flirt- tell the curvy woman she was gorgeous. Bloody hell, he couldn’t even remember her name. He remembered how confused she looked when he asked her to turn around. When she gave a pout- “You don’t wanna see my face? After I worked so hard to doll myself up…†He had tried to play it off as nothing, but let out a small, awkward laugh. “S’just a better angle, darl.. Oi’ll be able ta go fer longer. Easier on my legs.†Again, another pout, but she got on her hands and knees and he kneeled behind her. He ran his calloused hands over her dark, curvy hips. His fingers dug into her soft, warm flesh, all up and down her back. He brushed her hair aside. If he closed his eyes and ignored the sound of her voice, it was pale skin and a muscled back with faint traces of scars which hunched over before him- scars he had hoped were from his knife. When the sniper leaned in, smelling her perfume and running his tongue down her shoulder, her back, all he could think of instead was the smell of a familiar French brand of cigarettes. He thought of the taste of sweat, not from the warmth of the hotel bed, but instead from a long day’s death-match, perhaps mixed with the unmistakeable tang of blood from a fresh wound; specifically, a cut from his knife. Maybe they would fall to the floor, and Sniper would manage to pin him down, to press his blade to his throat. He played with her hair just a bit, but instead imagined blue fabric. His fingers curled up in the Frenchman’s mask, his fingers tracing over forbidden skin. And God, he would feel the gloved fingers run along his jaw, see that smirk, and he would kiss him, taste him, tug at his clothes and- and And just like that, he was looking at the woman again, a small pout on his face. He could hear the disappointed sigh from underneath him. “Look, RED. Just lay back-“ “Darl, Oi don’t think Oim feelin it-“ The upset look she shot him shut him right up. The sniper didn’t make a fuss when she climbed on top, promising that she could get him hard. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on what was happening, but her breathy moans and her soft voice were making it worse. He decided to reminisce on the day’s battle instead, the way the Spy had sounded so dirty when he whispered whatever the hell it was in his ear. And when he had slipped past him in the bar, he saw him sitting at that lonely little table, sipping on his drink. He probably would have laughed, if he’d have brought his beer over and sat with him. Maybe teased him. Or put a bullet in his head. He felt her nails dig into his back, felt her claw lower and lower. He tried to think of fucking the BLU into oblivion on the wooden floor of his perch. Knowing splinters and cuts would be covering both of them, their bodies slick with both blood from the fight and cum from the sex. And then kissing, melting into each other. Not caring that they still had to kill each other. Every time he felt the heat of desire in his gut, he remembered it wasn’t the BLU above him and would quickly become flaccid, much to the offense of – what’s her name again? She left screaming at him, holding her dress to her chest. He fell asleep drunk and alone, eye swollen, heart heavy and body aching with desire for the BLU. The Spy’s disgruntled voice broke him out of his daydream. “Non. I had a few drinks and then retired to my room. The women here are nothing near refined.†Sniper couldn’t help it; he broke into a small grin, a chuckle escaping his lips. “Reckon Oi learned the hard way… Bloody beast, Oi had.†The BLU looked a little less angry, now just annoyed instead (There was no way the cold eyes and the little frown were jealousy). “It looks as if you were mauled.†The elevator bell chimed, one more floor till they would step out and go their separate ways. It was cramped in here, like his perch. His heart began to race at the fleeting thought of the other pressing him against the wall, pushing his blade to his throat. “An animal would have been more fuckin’ gentle, mate.†Two seconds, and that annoyed frown turned to disgust again. “You were the one who brought her to your room, cochon.†There was the last chime, then footsteps. Sniper frowned, his heart sinking. Funny how hearing the Spy’s steps retreat put him more on edge then when he heard them approach.
wow, this is banging! i like your focus on the women, they are usually ignored completely if/when they are even brought up. the tension is great too, goddamn. i hope you continue this, i really do.
absolutely wonderful, thanks for sharing, and hoping for more.
delightful will a 3rd part follow? I cant wait to see how things might continue
Perfection. Please, dear anon, give us more.
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Thank you for this gift.