PART I Sniper puffed up the incline, dislodging snow and scree underfoot. Ten seconds until the control point activated—with any luck he’d beaten the spies and stickies to his favorite blind. He bent double as he gained the ridge, dropped flat on his front and crawled the last six feet into position behind a big drift. Perfect sightlines. His breath caught his laser and flared blue as he sighted briefly towards their base, exhaling, resettling his bush hat. The hike had sweated him up some, and he could feel it chilling on his back, his neck, around his hatband. And it was go time. The first clutch of stickies exploded uselessly on the point, sound and fury signifying nothing. In the distance, he heard the low whine of a machine gun spinning up, and bullets started thudding into snowbanks below. Sniper held his breath and waited, but nothing came near him—no one had seen him set up. He lifted his rifle, braced himself, and waited for a target. Three minutes passed. A Soldier down, two Scouts, and one winged Medic that limped off while his pet Demo lobbed grenades randomly, finally falling out of sight behind a building. Sniper was just stretching and resettling his legs out behind him when a firm, familiar grip closed on the back of neck. He froze, sight resting on his cheekbone, hands on the stock and alongside the trigger respectively. A warm, electric noise thrummed over him as he felt the other man settle against his back, the newly-visible mass blotting out some winter light. “Roight on time.†“I think you will find I am fashionably late.†A sharp, slightly chilled nose nuzzled the back of Sniper’s neck, followed by a rough chin and mobile, murmuring lips. “‘as anyone seen you, potshotting away up here like some kind of cheap, Aussie Whitman?†“Nah. Their…your heavy artillery is babysitting a hysterical medic, and the sniper’s doing fuck all. You sure no one’s seen YOU? Stupid of you to decloak up here.†“No one ever sees me, cucciola mia.†Spy stopped worrying Sniper’s neck and reached forward, sliding his gloves down the other man’s arms. Sniper closed his eyes and bit his lower lip, thinking they would begin as they usually did. The memory of their last tryst, the anticipation of today’s—he lifted his hips a little, pressing denim into suitcloth until he thought he could feel what he wanted underneath. But Spy’s hands grazed on, until they rested on the rifle. Sniper opened his eyes. The red sleeves of the pinstriped suit looked dull against the snow, like clotted blood. One leather finger insinuated itself over Sniper’s, squeezing the trigger cozily, and suddenly Sniper was afraid. “What d’you think you’re doing?†“We’ve been doing this long enough to open the playing field a little, no? While I more than enjoy our pedestrian escapades,†and here Spy seemed to do just that, to revel in a memory that made him moan and give the other man’s ear a delicate probing, “Haven’t you ever wondered what it was like,†he was breathing into Sniper’s ear, “to kill one of your own?â€
You have my attention.
Go on... I'll just wait here, resting my chin on my hands and gazing at my computer screen.
I like where this is going.
SNUFF PART II “That’s…well no, it isn’t even possible. I mean yeah, I’ve smacked that little shit around once in a while, for like using my aftershave or just being a brat, but no, I mean, we can’t even, it’s not like—†Sniper knew he was just running at the mouth, nervous, not knowing what was being proposed. But you couldn’t actually kill your own teammembers. That had been covered in training, and the few friendly fire incidents after that had seemed to confirm what they'd been told. Behind him, Spy had brought a hand up to light a cigarette, which glowed next to Sniper’s cheek as Spy settled back down. The agent took the rifle himself, squirming forward across Sniper’s back and thighs until he had a grip he liked. Sniper thought he felt a throb in Spy’s trousers as he watched—no, more felt—him set up a shot. It was fascinating. It was thrilling…nauseatingly so. He watched the buttery gloves grip the gun, one finger caressing the trigger guard. Cigarette smoke caught the laser, and gleamed. “I had no idea y’knew how to use that thing.†“Mein Schatz, I have picked off many a distant diplomat from rooftop sun decks. Now, watch.†Sniper watched. He’d seen Spy kill before, of course. He’d bitten his knuckles as the invisible man had unveiled himself behind Sniper’s own teammates, coiled like a cat, and slammed the knife into them. After the two men had begun their…dealings…Spy began to notice his voyeur, often taking the time to glance up to the outdoorsman’s current nest, knowing that a gesture as delicate as a lifted eyebrow could be seen through the rifle scope. Sniper learned to hold his sight steady with one hand, while the other slipped under his belt buckle. And he helplessly bucked his hips into the ground, grinding into his own fist as Spy took longer than necessary to dispatch men that Sniper saw and spoke to in the barracks every night. Afterwards, Spy would playfully slice the air above the bodies, assuming fencing poses for the benefit of his hunched and laboring audience, then meet him smelling of blood and fresh tobacco. But this: not only to watch his lover kill, but to smell it, to feel his controlled, sharpshooter breathing, to absorb the hammering of his pulse, the damp heat of his burning skin—it was another thing entirely. Something new. Something visceral and real. In the clingy membrane of his balaclava, Spy looked like the reef sharks back home; he looked like the satin-scaled bushsnakes that could fell a man in heavy boots with a single stab. As he watched Spy settle into the gun, he saw himself: settling into the easy rut of the forever war. They were twin killing machines, obscenely pressed together in that snowblind, breathing smoke and steam like dragons. Amoral engines, without even the shark’s hunger or the snake’s fear to justify themselves. Spy’s easy murmur brought Sniper out of his reverie: “Ah, here is one of yours…that idiotic ghoul in a cheap suit that you blues call a ‘spy’. Mm hn hn hn.†Spy dug his boot tips into the snow to either side of Sniper’s legs and dug his pelvis into Sniper’s spine. The tip of his tongue protruded boyishly. He inhaled, tracking the other agent with the muzzle of the gun. He exhaled. Sniper flinched as the shot cracked across the gully. The distant BLU spy tumbled forward into the snow, and a pile of his own brains. Spy automatically cranked the bolt to reload, then turned away from the rifle sight and grinned. “Bello.†He pushed the gun back towards Sniper. “Now you.â€
Oh, boy, I am glad that I checked back on this again. Killing has never been so sexy. Honestly. Please, do go on.
You have my undivided attention
PLEASE DO GO ON.
Oh, do want! Why is this so sexy? Love the comparison to reef sharks in particular, it's something I never would have thought of but it fits so well in a way...
SNUFF PART III Sniper took the rifle and settled it against his shoulder. The stock was warm from Spy’s shoulder, the barrel hot. The popcorn sound of the fight came up through his daze for the first time in minutes, and he ducked as a stray rocket dislodged snow from the viaduct above. He realized he was clenching his jaw, and forced it to relax. Spy was half rolled to the side, his legs draped over Sniper’s waist. He propped his face in one glove and took a drag, watching the sharpshooter watch him. “You did not care for it?†Spy smiled. “You are conflicted.†“Yeah, Christ, he’s a blue! He’s my teammate,†Sniper realized he was angry, “he lemme borrow a book last night.†“What book?†“Uh, ‘Ada’. Russian writer, Nabokov.†“Ooh. Perhaps I have misjudged him.†“It doesn’t bleedin’ matter!†Spy shushed him. “I am sorry, I did not mean to poke fun. But your objections ring a little hollow. Exhibit A…†Spy moved to cover Sniper’s back again, vanishing out of sight behind. A leather hand smoothed Sniper’s shirtfront and ducked under his belt. Spy spat his cigarette into the snow and buried his face behind the other man’s ear, inhaling sharply. Cool, thin leather closed over Sniper’s savage erection, and squeezed. He gasped, and blushed like a sunburn. “Ngh, lift your hips. Yes. Here I find you straining at the leash, and not a minute hence, you are paying lipservice—†Spy was ripping at Sniper’s cowboy belt buckle, talking low and fast through his teeth â€â€”to some misguided sense of pity for your precious brer bleu. Awful hypocrisy. You loved seeing me gun him down. Do you hate the man?†“No.†“Do you love him?†“No!†Spy chuckled, his grip moving in a slowly rhythm. “I am not sure you understand the nature of our mission here. We were all told how things work, of course, but somehow I think very few of us really ACCEPTED it.†The hand—now warm—slipped from Sniper’s jeans and grasped the back of his neck, pressing his face to his rifle sight. “Look.†Spy pointed to the field, where a fresh BLU spy was just shimmering out of sight. “He is disposable.†He pointed at a demo man being belabored by a scout. “So is he.†He pointed at a BLU medic, screaming for help as he was gunned down on the point. “And that one. Every one of us will ‘die’ a thousand deaths out here in the snow; in the red canyons; clinging to mountains; cringing in bunkers; under the wheels of trains; choking on dust and sand and blood—blood—blood.†Sniper sweated in fear, feeling the awful weight of the words more than he felt the flesh, the rasping chin, the snapping teeth. Satan was at his shoulder, and He was speaking the truth. Spy went quiet and still, only breathing into the rifleman’s ear. “Now, do your ~fucking~ job.†He snatched Sniper’s chin, but turned his face gently, and looked into his eyes. The red mask was briefly unsettling, the color of the Enemy. The blue eyes stood out like reflections of sky in a puddle of blood. “Try to enjoy it, petit. This is what you—what we have, now.†He leaned past the man’s grip, and Spy’s mouth tasted of smoke, sweat, and the iron tang of cold air. With Spy’s suitjacket stuffed under his hips, Sniper settled into his sight and looked for targets. Above and behind, Spy worked his jeans down, rubbed his ass and flanks with those fucking gloves. Leather brushing his bare skin, snaking between his buttocks, stroking, parting, teasing. Sniper shook, or shivered, wanting to turn over and take the man in both arms, take some of his tension out on the expensive collar, the fragrant neck. But the caresses kept him facing into the distant fray, stifling whimpers. Spy gripped either cheek and spread them with his thumbs, bending to let his unclipped tie roll out a long dry lick, from the back of the tensed ballsack, up the intercrucial to stroke the acutely sensitive zones exposed by his grip. Sniper shuddered, bucked a little, tried to look over his shoulder. Spy smacked his ass sharply. “I want to hear that mule kick in the next thirty seconds, and I want it to count.†Sniper looked forward, trying to focus as Spy amused himself by following the tie with his tongue. “I love how you keep yourself clean,†he mumbled into Sniper’s ass. He licked and circled with his mouth, matching his insistence to the gradual relaxation of the muscles, finally pressing the strong, pink tip of his tongue through Sniper’s last clench, opening his jaw to thrust it in further. The other man pressed his hips up into the mouth, whining for more, trying to open his legs but caught in his jeans. “Angh…oh my g—fuck, jesus christ yes, yes, yes—†Sniper babbled and arched his back until Spy withdrew, resting one hand on the lower man while he rested on his knees and started to undo his belt. Sniper felt one gloved thumb slip between his cheeks and begin pressing into him, testing his resistance, teasing him with a tiny fuck. He responded earnestly, pleadingly, and was rewarded with Spy’s silky, foreskinned phallus pressing lengthwise along his ass as the upper man leaned into him, started whispering into his ear. “You will get what you want when I see you kill. Focus. I can wait. I can wait until they find us and send spies, rockets, bullets, or tiny morons with baseball bats.†Spy was grinding him slowly, letting his cock slide up and down Sniper’s ass. The anticipation was murderous. Sniper wanted to pin him down and force him in, but those weren’t the rules. And they had to keep a low profile. He imagined they’d both been conspicuously absent for long enough to arouse suspicion. Sniper breathed, scanned the field, tried to ignore Satan enjoying Himself with mortal flesh. Spy pressed his cheek to Sniper’s. “Look, cher. There is my friend the RED Medic and his patient, that poor shellshocked hulk that calls himself a soldier. And aren’t they just traipsing along without a care in the world. I wonder wherever le bleu Sniper might have got up to…†Spy sat back and looked down, aiming a smart little globe of saliva at the point where his cock pressed against Sniper’s ass, ready, wetted, waiting for the rifleman to take the shot. Sniper inhaled. He exhaled. He squeezed the trigger, and the soldier’s helmet shattered just as the rifle’s recoil shoved Sniper a half-inch backward onto Spy, who sank the rest of the way in with a great chuckling moan. Spy let himself fall forward over Sniper’s back, trying to hold his thrusts to the bare minimum required to maintain sanity. “Now put that poor orphan quack out of his misery.†Another shot, which Spy rewarded with a slight quickening of their pace, and soon the gun was forgotten as they lost themselves in tangled mouths and sweat and snow. CONTINUED IN PART IV
((whoops sorry about the formatting fuckup in the last paragraph there))
My dear you have me by tenderhooks.
Holyshit. I am so aroused right now. That was by far the hottest Sniper/Spy scene I've ever read. And bottom Sniper? Hnnngh. You, sir, have made my day. Have 100 free internets.
Hnnnngh- I like everything I see here.
I love you. May I bear your children?
Ooh, somebody pass me a fan, that was hot... More soon?
Oh... Oh, wow. This is ridiculously sexy. Please continue.
I keep rereading this and editing it past the point where i posted it. >:| After I'm done posting the Parts I'll upload the whole thing somewhere in a better-edited version.
>>18 Did you want a beta? 'Cauuse I'd beta the fuck out of this. Email's up in the email field if you do.
>>19 Thanks very much for the offer! I am working with an editor now, and frankly I'm a little cagey about editing my own stuff, although Part I, especially, probably doesn't make it seem that way. :p I was all "heh i'll just write a fanfic, it'll be easy". HUBRIS. STUPIDITY. So I've got a much snappier set of chapters here and will be posting the next chapters with more forethought. And of course I'll put the whole thing up somewhere in an honest, edited state. Everyone else: Thank you VERY much for your comments, especially CatDetective's, because holy shit I love your current story. I swear I didn't read it before I started mine, I think your rays of genius were just radiating over the whole board, like gay microwaves, when I came up with SNUFF. Anyway, Part IV coming up. I hope you enjoy it.
SNUFF PART IV “Well don’t that beat all.†Engineer tucked his goggles up onto his forehead, to get a better view. He held BLU team’s mimeographed, stapled statistics in front of his lunch tray. The pages had just arrived via pneumatic tube, as they did every month, and were still a little curled from the delivery cylinder. “What? Lemme see!†Scout bounced up, nearly upending his tray. The whole team, with the exception of Engineer, had long ago stopped bothering with the sheets of numbers sent from the Head Office. The columns of figures recorded the minutiae of the war, and when Engineer wasn’t poring over them in his workshop, they were kept in a briefcase in the intelligence room. Everything was accounted for, from gallons of water used in the showers, to family-sized cans of green beans consumed in the mess, to number of respawns, kills, environmental fatalities, average indoor and outdoor temperatures, number of rats captured in the pantry, and medical data gathered in the course of respawns. But it made the dinner conversation drag, to have to call out the customary bragging and bullshitting by checking the scores. Besides, everyone’s numbers stayed roughly the same—both teams advanced at about the same rate, one never really overtaking the other, like Alice and the Red Queen. Engineer had his own uses for the numbers, but wisely demurred if called upon to confirm or deny mess hall claims of killing streaks, inviting his coworkers to check the listings themselves. “Go easy there, young man. Made me lose my place.†Engineer fished a pair of rectangular reading glasses out of his bib pocket and lit them on his nose. Scout jiggled impatiently, leaning on the back of the Texan’s chair. Engineer ran a fingertip down the columns. “Lessee…Sniper. RED kills, May: four hundred thirty five.†He paused and smiled as Sniper was clapped on the back and toasted. It was a significantly higher number than last time they’d heard a score, six or seven months ago. Engineer continued, “Here’s what’s got me stumped: BLU kills, May: one. Now what do you suppose that means?†Fifteen eyes swiveled to Sniper, who froze in mid-sip. He lowered his mug. “How the fuck should I know?†“Language!†Soldier barked from his armchair. Heavy patted his arm. Sniper scrambled internally, panicking. Buying time, he stood and stretched, then angled over to where Engineer sat with the papers. Sniper took them, pretended to look them over, finally gave them a sniff. “Ah, well, there y’have it. Mimeograph’s almost out of ink. You can smell it. See how the printing’s gotten all light and patchy? Probably just a misprint. Like, a piece of their report imprint fell into ours by mistake. Something like that. Happens all the time. Hate to meet the bloke who only racked up one kill this month though, jesus.†Sniper gulped the rest of his coffee and excused himself. Shit! Bloody fucking christ, what a pathetic lie. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and hustled out to the patch of scrub gravel where he kept his RV. The night was cold; the viaduct was above the snow line, even in early summer. Sniper stepped up and locked the door behind him, flopping sideways into his bunk, boots still planted on the floor, hands behind his head. He’d have liked to ask Truckie how the kill counters worked; he’d assumed it was based on surveillance cameras or respawns somehow, but now it seemed the weapons themselves did the tallying up. It was too late for suspicious questions like that. Sniper briefly brought his hands to his forehead and groaned. He hadn’t actually killed the BLU spy; he hadn’t even been wielding the gun when the man’s head blew up. The memory made him a little queasy; no one liked seeing their own colors run. Come to think of it, he guessed he’d never used anyone else’s gear. His guns were always there in the respawn when he woke up, familiar and constant as his own limbs, almost as intimate as flesh. He remembered how Spy had cradled that limb, caressed that flesh. In retrospect, it seemed filthy, invasive. Like unnecessary surgery. Like a probing pink tongue. He remembered how he had fixated on that peeping pink at the corner of Spy’s mouth as the agent settled in on his kill. How Sniper had wanted to touch that tongue, that little cresting bit of velvet tucked in the rough mandible. To nip it, pinch it, pull it out, suck it into his own mouth like a canned peach. You could lead a man around like that, as if on a leash. Trap a man’s tongue and the rest will follow. Spy’s tongue was silver. A silver tongue would be cold in this weather. He shook his head sharply—weird thinking. Get ahold of yourself. Relax. He tilted his head back on the mattress, catching slats of moon through the venetian blinds, enjoying a ghost-memory of Spy catching his recoil on his cock, oh god. He dreamily put one hand in his lap, twisting his head to the left, catching the meat of his other palm in his teeth. He worked on the spot, imagining it was the other man’s slender neck. It was as far as he had undressed the Spy—he thought he could have peeled anything and everything else off the man, even with bullets thudding around them, but in skirmishes the balaclava stayed on. Spy had insisted, permitting only fingers and tongues pushed under the filmy hood. Sniper’s thoughts drifted farther back in time, a month ago, their first real encounter. It had been in an outbuilding at the gravel pit—Sniper had been badly wounded, and ran to ground in a shack. His machine gun ammo had been exhausted in a poorly-executed dash from a pyro, who was now hunting him down. Sniper didn’t know if his kukri could hack through that awful rubber suit fast enough to save him from broiling alive, but as he drew himself back to bring the blade down on the hurrying footsteps, he heard gasps instead of snuffling, and stayed his hand. The RED Spy almost somersaulted into the little building, his suit scorched, balisong clutched desperately in one hand. They saw each other and froze, both men grimacing in fear, neither willing to take the bad swing that could open him up to a better one. Inevitably the rival pyros tracked their prey to the hutch and tempers flared; and it was all over except for the stench of burning rubber. Sniper watched the monsters burn, chest heaving, and only startled out of his defensive fugue when he realized his enemy was swatting flames off the sleeves of his bush jacket. “Quit hittin’ me will ya!†Sniper hated how shrill he sounded then, the stress of the near-inferno had gotten to him, and now this fancy lad was flapping at his burning shirt. It was almost too much, and the spy had stepped back as he saw Sniper’s grip tighten on the big angled blade. They tensed, then looked away from each other, embarrassed to be caught in such a stalemate, but neither ready to go back to the fight. Finally Spy lit a cigarette—white and tan, Sniper realized, not black like the spy he knew—and slid down the wall to crouch and smoke, regarding the area around Sniper, rather than the man himself. Sniper recognized this as what it was: a gesture of no-harm-meant, but he tightened up anyway. There was no telling how badly wounded the masked man had been when he stumbled into this hut. The pyros could’ve been some kind of setup; he wouldn’t put anything past those bastards. Better dead than RED, they always said. “Please help yourself.†The spy was suddenly offering his open cigarette case, a neat row of clean smokes lined up under a little black ribbon. He still did not meet Sniper’s stare, keeping his eyes casually angled to the side, or lazily sweeping the view they had from their hiding place. Sounds of the fray had grown more distant. Sniper realized the nearby point had been captured, and his team had moved on without him. He was in the habit of taking his time to move to a new position anyway, hanging back to wipe his face and yes, have a smoke. But he’d never had company before. Could you poison a cigarette? He didn’t think so. And anyway, why would the agent bother? He could think of a dozen screaming reasons, but mirrored Spy on the floor ,with his back against the opposite wall, and reached out—farther than was practical, really, but you could never be too careful—and fingered one cigarette from the case. As he patted down his vest pockets he heard a click, and there was the assassin’s golden lighter hovering just beyond his unlit tip. Cautiously, he leaned in to suck at the flame, then touched the brim of his hat and exhaled. “Decent of you.†He realized too late he had said it in a way that implied the spy usually wasn’t, but the other man only smirked and nodded. Ten seconds of quiet piled on. They breathed and smoked, each listening to his own heartbeat winding down. Sniper dug the heel of his boot into the crumbly wood floor. “Sniper. BLU team.†The bushman extended one sooty hand, and Spy shook it. His gloves were so soft, they were almost oily. “Spy. RED. Perhaps you are familiar with my work.†Sniper caught the twinkle in his rival’s eye, and snorted before he could catch himself. Suddenly both men were giggling ridiculously, the adrenaline ebbing as relief flooded in with nicotine, making them giddy. The giggles fell apart into hilarity so loud that even as he shook and wiped his eyes, Sniper worried they’d be found. After a while, he could speak. “I—a hee hee hee—sorry mate, ahahah, but I think we should be going. Sounds like yer mum is callin’ you home.†Spy was rubbing his forehead and giggling, but sighed in agreement. The Administrator’s flinty echoes had reached them both, even from the loudspeakers at the next point. Both men stood and dusted themselves off; Spy straightened his tie. There was a pause as neither of them volunteered to turn his back first. Spy held up three fingers. “Un. Deux. Trois.†A few more snickers as they slid out the door facing each other, almost touching, and backed away until both slipped out of sight behind boulders. Sniper remembered making it back to his medic in a state of exhilaration approaching drunkenness, a feeling that had stayed with him the rest of the night.
Baw, you're too kind. (I will henceforth think of myself as a gay microwave, though) Oh gosh the end of this chapter was silly and sweet and wonderful... I like that feeling, of the first tumble forward into something like love. Also, I pretty much love any solo Sniper times, especially that detail with the heel of the hand, it made it seem much more real.
Yeah, I wanted to segue into a Sniper solo scene but got a little sidetracked with flashbacks. >:|
>>23 I liked the flashbacks, they made me giggle.
More Please! I love it.
:D please continue~
"there is no friend like a reader" you guys! Thank you so much for all your support. I'm working on Part V right now, but taking more time to edit because rrgh, those first parts i posted are just junky compared to their current incarnations in my word processor, I've edited them so much since posting. The bumps are so much appreciated. Thank you all very much.
And now you have me craving for MOAR
Please, take this bump. Enjoy it. Because I'm sure enjoying this, that set-up was just fabulous.
Checking in for the first time to let you know that you have one more reader eagerly awaiting Part V. Never before has an adult fanfic had so much... control over me. Please, please, I beg you to keep this up.
This is currently the best thing on afanfic. I am really looking forward to seeing more.
This post has been deleted.
Hi guys. Thank you so much for the bumps over my long absence. I hope I can get this back on the rails. I also hope my italics tags are going to work. ------------------ SNUFF PART V Sniper woke up still wearing most of his clothes, one leg off the mattress, head thrown back, one hand down his pants, drooling on the other. This wasn’t unusual, he’d never been a sound sleeper—too high strung—so when sleep finally did take him down, it had to be an ambush. He extracted his hands, each soaked with their local fluids, and rinsed out his mouth and gloves in the van’s tiny sink while he brooded over last night’s dreams. Hard to say exactly when reminisce turned to dream, but Sniper recalled snatches of weirdness as his hands rolled over themselves under the faucet—an extended, subconscious riff of the meeting in the shack: feverish mouths, desperate pawing at the red suitcloth, then the spy laughing queerly as Sniper’s hands became boneless and unresponsive, everything going wrong suddenly. He was still trying to undress the other man with useless hands, even with the horror of his rubbery fingers veering off the red jacket buttons, flopping at the ends of his wrists. He had backed away from an unblinking red beast, its mask stretched to bursting over gnashing jaws. He recalled waking up in a panic, disturbing the quiet in the van with a brief thrash. He’d fallen back to sleep, but now, standing at the sink, he resolved to drink less coffee before bed. Or more liquor. Nothing more was said to Sniper about the reputed teamkill on the readouts, that day or the week following. He fell into a comfortable rhythm of successes, each day on the field closing with some personal satisfaction, even without a team win. He rarely glimpsed his lover through the scope, but wondered why the spy kept away. He’d done it before, often for reasons that were obscure. Sniper had learned to wait, thinking of Spy as something like a cat that let itself out as it pleased. Still, a flash of red suitcloth would give him a jolt, a sharp breath, and disturb his aim for a second or two. He began looking for signs of the agent: his brand of cigarette butt in the snow, fine threads caught on shrub thorns, a whiff of smoke or cologne. Sniper spent the week undisturbed, and wondering. No messages arrived, though it would have been easy to leave them at the isolated RV. Sniper realized that the spy wouldn’t have had anything to say, even had he written. What would they talk about? The cafeteria meals, the other teammembers, the faint homesickness, the various pathologies that drove or smothered their comrades? Sniper mused on this as he tapped his teeth with his pencil. It was two weeks without a trace of his demon lover, apart from glimpses through his scope. What was one possibly supposed to discuss with a ghost, an incubus, a serial killer? In this vacuum where they both lived and died, there was nothing to comment upon, except what was obvious to both of them. This was what Sniper attempted to do. Let me tell you About snow Sniper frowned and put an X through the couplet. It read like a line from a television show, or worse, a Robert Frost poem. Nothing he’d bother anyone with reading, in other words. He began again. How cold has the snow made us? How frostbitten our fingers on triggers How brutish are th Jesus, what a bunch of tripe. Sniper sighed explosively and shoved his stool back from the tiny built-in desk. Handwriting was for third graders; real men used machines. He thought wistfully of his old Royal, doubtless rusting in a garage or a landfill. Traveling light meant leaving luxuries like typewriters behind, in the real world. But Sniper thought he knew where he could borrow one, just for the night.
Sniper just go to him! This is my favourite fic, glad you're back.
SNUFF PART VI The viaduct base’s little sitting room—which BLU indulgently called “the Rec Roomâ€â€”was warm and wooly after the icy walk from the RV. Sniper let himself in quietly, and pulled the door to. In front of the wood stove, where he always was, Soldier dozed upright with his gun in his lap, trench shovel against his knees. Whisky and pipe tobacco sweetened the room’s wartime fug—mildew, sweat, coffee, old carpet, new firewood. Sniper crept past the veteran, careful not to bump his throne. He stopped creeping and let his boots scuffle and tap as he reached the hallway along the bunkrooms. It was only polite to alert the other men that someone would be walking past their doors. Sniper had moved to his RV in the first place because of the barracks’ nighttime murmurs. There were the predictable noises: belches, coughs, dropped boots, music and laughter. Then, the covert activity of nine men suffering the slings and arrows of long term sexual deprivation. After the first few weeks at work, after the back-slapping camaraderie of a new, shared venture had begun to tarnish, the team had seemed to repel apart. The diaspora sent the medic to his clinic early on. Engineer took to a cot out in his workshop. Soldier, exhausted from night terrors, took to “keeping watchâ€. And Sniper bunked in his van. So it was with some reluctance that he made the long stroll past the bunks. A life in the bush had sapped his tolerance for close quarters; he didn’t relish overhearing the nightly noises again. But he was driven by the desire to make contact, to communicate in some way with his lover. This urge rode him like an itch, drove him out of his van and into the snow and gravel to “borrow a typewriter†from the doctor. He was vaguely aware of plans he hadn’t really made, to present his problem to the Medic, to throw himself on the mercy of doctor-patient confidentiality and find some poultice for this vulnerability, a vulnerability he could see turning into an obsession. The RED spy had found a pinhole in the sniper’s defenses, he knew now, and was gradually dilating it—a tug here, a tear there, a pull or a stretch until the devil could fit his entire body through. Maybe modern medicine had something for this, he thought. Maybe the doctor knew some grim German technique of stifling this weirdness, of returning some control to Sniper’s thoughts. A door creaked as he walked past. “Heya snipes; thought that was you. What’s doin’?†Sniper startled out of his reverie, and turned. The scout was loafing against his doorframe, gilded with lamplight from inside the room. A damp-looking cigarette clung to his smirk, which was not unkind. “Hey yourself. I was just going to ask the good doctor if I could borrow his typewriter. Time to write a letter home, and I never was any good with cursive, y’know?†Scout laughed easily and shifted against the doorframe. The sniper thought about making a quip, something about Scout’s recent graduation from grammar school, composition notebooks, et cetera, but stopped himself as he glanced over the younger man’s face. There was stubble along that jaw—reddish-blonde, yes, but rough. Not peach fuzz. The very lightest of trace wrinkles at the corner of the eyes, and just starting to touch the forehead. Was the boy always a man, and they just hadn’t noticed? Or had it happened in the last few months, while Sniper wasn’t paying attention? He realized then, that he had always considered the scout a sort of mascot, a competent fighter yes, but certainly a child. And now, seeing the rough jaws, the wide shoulders, the muscular hands, he realized there were no more children amongst them anymore. The thought made him feel tired, suddenly, and sad. Scout met the bushman’s gaze, and brought his dogend up for a drag. “Doc stays up late. Whyncha come in for a drink?†He swung the door a little wider and took a step back, letting his bandaged hand follow him over the doorframe. Was his voice lower, too? Sniper stilled, breath caught at the invitation. Familiar abivalences pricked his brain—loneliness versus misanthropy, social anxiety, remembering irritation at the boy’s daytime rambunctious familiarity. But here, limbs slung across the lighted doorway like powerlines dipping across a prairie, Scout was not loud, not tense, not braying. In fact he seemed a harbor; calm, a languid frog in a pond of yellow light. A frog prince even, lithe and cool. More than anything, Sniper wanted to be soothed. And distracted. He wanted to be looked at, and spoken to—simple things. Human things. “Sure.â€
Yay, there's more! Ahh, I love this.
I like how someone finally describes Scout as an adult. I know he acts like a kid, but he really is at least close to being an adult.
SNUFF PART VII Sniper handed the joint back to the young man and subsided into a slouch, whisky warming in his glass, smoke tickling his throat. With no room for a sofa, the single bunk was the only seating available. Scout had swiped a few extra pillows from the abandoned rooms, and lined the wall along the bed, making a serviceable couch that faced a television perched on the sink. A little bathroom with toilet and tub was tucked behind, and Sniper wondered how the kid tolerated such close quarters. It seemed even smaller than the RV, but Scout’s personal effects decked every surface, speaking of a long and enthusiastic tenancy. Posters, photos, magazine clippings, and baseball cards were taped and pinned all around. They reflected the wide, shallow dreams of young men: their simple sexualities, their hero worship, their mistaking machismo for masculinity. Sniper exhaled, coughing a little. He wondered idly if Scout moved the clippings from base to base, or if he had a different hoard in each room. Johnny Carson mimed on the television, the volume turned all the way down to let the Coltrane record play on. Scout pinched out the joint and propped it in the ashtray. He could see the sniper starting to drift a little wide, but that was okay. Let the guy unwind. Scout really had meant for them to just have a drink, but the drink made them talk and the talk swung to the only topic they had: the war, and what they did before the war, and what they’d do after. Scout had spent his life in a scrum of bouncing big brothers, chicks under his mother’s wings. When he signed up to the Builder’s League, he thought he’d traded one big family for another. The reality of the older mercenaries was a disappointment—these professional men were a jumble of strange traumas and subtle pathologies, and their scars kept a tally of violence that stretched for decades. They regarded the young recruit with something like pity. No one was more maudlin than an old soldier, and it seemed like looking at that jittery, gung-ho kid had just twisted the knife in their memories of real warfare. Scout wrote a lot of letters home, but his mother’s replies only told him how much the BLU censors had redacted before delivery. Sniper had listened to all this with whisky in his hand, and nodded, in the quiet way he had. Scout had offered the grass casually, and a touch gratefully. He thought the older man had looked a little guilty at his characterization of the other BLUs as standoffish. He felt lonely enough to take advantage of that guilt. “Haven’t smoked in years,†Sniper mumbled. He shakily took a drink, a few drops escaping and rolling down his chin as Scout jostled the bed sitting down. Sniper swiped at them with a finger. “How’d you even get it in here?†“Big brothers,†Scout replied, raising his glass in salute. “First thing they sent me, and a postcard from Cocoa Beach, Florida. I bought ma and everyone a trip with my first paycheck. S’funny, the postcard had been blacked out a little, but the pot was all there! Guess BLU don’t care about that stuff.†He sipped to the memory. “Guess they don’t.†Scout turned then, just to look at the older man, who was sunk so far back in pillows he was almost buried, his ropy body thrust out in front of him and angling down to the floor. He’d crossed one boot over the other and his hat was still on, drooping over his eyes as it mashed against the wall behind him. Scout couldn’t help but laugh a little, and the sniper looked up with bloodshot eyes. “What?†“I dunno, you just look like one’a those paintin’s you see in hotels—you know, the sleepy cowboys on their rickety old horses, ponchos blowin’ in the prairie wind…†Scout wavered his hand across the whole room, miming a breeze over the wide, American frontier. Sniper watched the boy’s face as he swept the room, catching cold television light on one side, hot incandescent on the other. The colors made a halo in his pale stubble, in his trimmed hair. “And you look like the moon,†Sniper returned, reeling a little from the pot. The young man frowned. “How d’ya mean?†“The moon, kid. In space, right, there’s no atmosphere. So the moon can’t hold onto any heat from the sun. Everywhere on the moon where there’s sunlight, it’s gonna be hotter than an oven. And everywhere there’s shade, it’ll be freezing. Colder than freezing. Been reading about it, about the astronauts and what they’ll have to wear to stay alive. That’s how you look in this light—hot on one side, cold on the other.†Sniper pointed to one of the boy’s cheeks, then the other, fumbling and rasping the stubble. “Wow. We’re kinda poetic, y’know?†Scout laughed again, admiring the bushman’s rakish pose. Sniper took a dignified swig of his whisky in response, but hummed in surprise as the scout gave the bedframe a little shake, spilling another dollop of liquor past his chin. The boy caught the gunman’s hand as it came up to wipe his mouth, and leaned forward. “Naw...let me.†Sniper’s eyes went wide as the pink mouth met his chin, and sucked. He glanced down at the close-cropped head, and caught Scout blushing as he came up. Whisky glistened on his lower lip. “Aw, jeez, I’m sorry. It’s the grass, it makes me kinda, kinda, queer like this—†his apology was just noise, and Sniper could feel the boy’s pulse in his wrist, where Scout had grabbed him, still held him, radiating through his wrappings from his hot little veins. God he was adorable, sweet, soft. How Sniper had hungered for softness, and in this swirling golden moment he could give himself up to the liquor and the grass, he could shrug off the starvation the spy had inflicted, and let his guts come unknotted all at once. He wanted to feel more of that pulse. With his free hand, he set his drink down on the bedside table.
I really, really like how this is playing out. Continue!
I just wanted to say that I really love your style of writing! It's very beautiful; you know how to pick just the right word to paint a picture of each scene in my mind, your characterisations are spot-on, the narrative flows smoothly - it's a pleasure to read this whole thread. I'll be checking back for more!
SNUFF PART VIII They started with his hands. Scout inhaled sharply as the bushman pulled his hand—still wrapped around the older man’s wrist—to his mouth, and nipped the tucked-in edge of the athletic wrap. Sniper’s free hand took Scout’s wrist as he began to unwind the bandage, moving his chin in circles and pulling Scout’s hand away at an even pace, the strip playing out between them. Sniper finished one hand, the bandage piled on his chest, and started on the other, pulling Scout forward until he leaned across him, still sunk in pillows. Underneath, Scout’s hands were clean and pink, as warm as the gunman had hoped, lightly calloused, fragrant from the day’s wearing. He pressed one naked palm to his cheek, overcome with tenderness, and they both laughed with simple relief, and exhilaration. Scout plucked away the bush hat, and tossed it onto the floor. Their eyes found each other, blue on blue, and Sniper felt an arrow pierce his chest: in the dueling glow from lamp and televison, the boy’s eyes took on a gas flame hue that Sniper hadn’t seen in two weeks. All at once, other features piled on: the finely-boned hands, too aristocratic for baseball, with long, smooth nailbeds. The pallor shining up under the farmer’s tan. Even something in the angle of the jaw, the set of the teeth, the swagger of the shoulders around the long, vulnerable neck. Scout stopped and searched Sniper’s stricken face. “Jesus guy, you okay? Listen uh, we don’t have to do this—†“No no, no—just remembered something, is all. Thought I left the stove on in the van. But—I didn’t.†He pressed his unsteady mouth into one naked palm, then the other, pulling Scout onto his lap and leaning back into the pillows. “It’s fine. It’s nothing. It’s nothing.†Soothing him like he was still a child, whispering, talking himself down at the same time. It was just the pot. Or he had a type. It didn’t matter. Straddling him, Scout reared up into dimness and was still. “You’re sure it’s okay?†He was biting his lip, and Sniper longed to worry at it with him. “Shh, yeah, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, come here—†and he pulled, and stroked this quivering athlete’s beautiful arms, and captured the back of his neck at last, keeping up a gentle pulling, pressing them closer, letting his fingers plow the bristling nape like talons in mouse fur. But Scout was not a mouse, nor a boy, and the density of the young man made this obvious as he bent forward on Sniper’s thighs, pressing him into the mattress. He was lean and hard as a sport pony, and as his small, mobile mouth found Sniper’s earlobe, Sniper thought he could even smell an equine vigor about the younger man—sweet oats, green alfalfa, dirt, and leather, and iron buckles, and sweat, and life, life. He arched his head back into the pillows and let the beast graze on his throat—here was the drug, he thought with a sort of detachment, and how clearly it was making him see those pastures and paddocks (and pasterns and fetlocks, he added, fingers digging into Scout’s triceps, musing on his other muscles, thinking of hooves and cleats kicking up clods on the open grass). “Stay with me,†Scout murmured, “don’t drift too far. We’re here.†He sat up and took Sniper’s hands in his own, kissed each palm, unbuckled the fingerless gloves and kissed them again when they were bare. They pressed their naked hands together briefly, strongly, so the palms stuck a little when they pulled them apart. Scout was breathing hard, and rolled back on his thighs to reach Sniper’s glass on the bedside table, drank, offered the glass to the man he straddled. Sweat glittered at his temples, and Sniper finished the drink before replacing it on the table. They looked at each other, breathing, waiting. “Touch me.†Sniper gave Scout’s arms a reassuring squeeze in reply. “No, I mean touch me. Touch me.†Scout was still, eyelids heavy. He gazed steadily at the gunman, waiting. Snipers first caresses were tentative, platonic. He moved to Scout’s shoulders, stroked his thumbs under the jaw, touched the adam’s apple, the impetuous chin, the lips. Then the ball of his thumb was sinking into softness, and he realized he was inside the scout’s mouth. Lust went off in his body like a bomb. What had been sweet, suddenly burned and prickled, and he hooked his thumb over the colt’s lower teeth and pulled him down onto his chest, and didn’t take his thumb out until he slipped his tongue in. They moaned; Sniper nearly growling, Scout a hoarse tenor. They devoured each other’s mouths. Scout wedged his hand under Sniper’s head and twined a fist in his hair. The older man’s hands lost all semblance of civility and plunged down Scout’s spine and up again, then down to cup the spread buttocks, grip the bunched thighs. He pulled his rider’s hips down hard onto his own, forgetting to be ashamed of his erection. He reached into his pants and adjusted himself, then resettled the hard little ass on top. It struck him as terribly adolescent, to be drunk and stoned and fully clothed and grinding away in some tiny bedroom with jazz on the turntable, and he let himself enjoy it. He also let himself enjoy the view of Scout’s stiffening trouser front, and the hint of endearing self-consciousness as Scout let his own hand stray to his crotch and close around it, squeezing and caressing. The look of need the young man gave him was enough to send a shudder through the bushman, and he bucked his hips hard enough to make the Scout wince. “I guess we’re both pretty skinny, huh†he panted, dog tags jingling. “Mm,†Sniper mumbled over Scout’s fingers, which had found their way into his mouth. “Thorry about that.†Scout laughed happily, though it turned into a moan as Sniper sucked hard on his fingers, pulling them deep into his mouth. The older man looked up under his eyebrows, making sure Scout was watching, then parted two fingers with his muscular tongue and pressed the tip between them, stroking and probing. It was the most suggestive thing the Scout had ever seen, and it made him weak with need. Sniper paused, kissing the much-suckled hands, and looked up at the man on his lap. He wanted the scout to tell him what was next, what he wanted, what he liked. He stretched luxuriously, pressing up into those resilient flanks as he did so, smiling. Finally he put his hands behind his head in an attitude of relaxation. “Well?†“I think,†panted the young man, “that I’m going to need a shower first.â€
wow
holy fuck you dont know how happy this made me
Hnnnn.... Oh, lawdy, On most situations with Scout, I end up loving the situations but Scout is more a prop human then my mind's Scout. Shista,this was the best Scout I have seen. Not quite mature but definitely no longer a boy playing at being a man. I'm sincerely hoping this response was not overly biased, but that hope is sunk, lol.
I have a thing about hands. Needless to say that this latest installment made me very very happy.
Holy hell, I feel ashamed of my own writing whenever I read your work and now you've thrown Scout in. I love this story though. Such wonderful description and such natural emotion to go with it. I can't express much more, words always fail me most when I need them to talk about what I liked. Keep it up!
Okay, I HAD to comment on this one. I just noticed the Captcha before going away from this page. authority ofamage I'm not sure what the authority of a mage applies to but... yes. Yes, captcha. TOXO's work is magical and very much an authority on something at least.
With all the comparisons of scout and spy sniper was making, I can't help but wonder.... Are spy and scout, um, related somehow?
You guys are so sweet. Thank you for your comments. I can't wait to get this republished somewhere in a cleaned-up version; this one posted here has a lot of stuff I've edited, fixed, or just improved in the file I've got on my laptop. I guess that happens to everyone who writes. More soon.
Are you guys losing your minds from boredom yet? I know this scene is taking ages, but isn't that kind of how good, first-time sex works? All that tentative exploration, all that stopping to admire the view, all those little checks and balances of our self-consciousness and worry for our new lovers, and the time dilation of delirium. Anyway, I hope it's working. Stay with me. ---------------- SNUFF PART IX “You need a shower worse than I do, hotshot.†Scout stood up and took Sniper’s hands, pulling him to his feet. They both reeled, leaning on each other and giggling, waiting for the room to stop spinning. “You saying I stink?†“Yeah, but it’s a good stink,†Scout mumbled, inhaling the older man’s fragrant neck. “You smell fuckin’ incredible. It’s like…jesus christ, you just smell good—†“Come on, I want more than that. I give you a whole speech about bloody moonlight, and all I get is ‘fuckin’ incredible’?†Sniper grinned, holding Scout close and playfully bending his arm up behind him. “Uncle! Uncle! Okay, you sadist, you asked for it—†Scout paused, his hips resting against Sniper’s. The gunner realized he still had a few inches on Scout, and that the kid must be all legs to be able to knock hipbones like this. “You smell like all the good shit, y’know? You smell like booze, and grass, and sweat, and oil from your guns, and when you first came into my room you smelled like snow, and now you smell like I’ve been working you over for about two hours, ‘cause I have, and you smell like you wanna do something about it. You smell like the backseat of a Caddy at the beginning of the end of a really, really good night.†Scout’s voice had become more earnest and near, the longer he talked, and he murmured the closing metaphor into Sniper’s parted lips, their foreheads touching, and Sniper drank those last poetics straight from the softened mouth. The kiss was so slow, so light, that Sniper felt every pulse of blood through Scout’s lips. He let his tongue flow underneath the other, probing at those rushing veins for a rhythm, his hands stroking the youth’s neck and face very, very lightly. He played over the backs of Scout’s wide teeth; sucked on one lip, then the other, bit them lightly. With every tug at his mouth, Scout’s groin throbbed a response against Sniper’s thigh. Scout began to lead them backwards, almost waltzing, reaching one hand behind him to pat along the wall and around the corner, where he fumbled to turn on the bathroom light. “C’mon…this place comes with all the amenities. Ensuite bathroom, room service, fresh towels…you gotta take advantage of all this shit. Besides, it’s my turn.†He grinned and sat on the toilet lid, reaching sideways to the tub to turn on the shower, and pulled Sniper onto his lap. “Turnabout is fair play,†Sniper replied, and sat down firmly over what felt like a painfully solid erection. Scout grimaced, in that acute state between greed and oversensitivity, and amused himself with grinding up into Sniper while they waited for the water to warm. The temperature in the little bathroom bloomed as steam billowed from the tub. Sniper’s vision dimmed, and then Scout was laughing at him. “I was wonderin’ how long you’d be able to keep those on,†he reached up to Sniper’s face and plucked off his fogged-up aviators, setting them on the toilet tank. The gunner blinked and squinted—everything was bright, and blue, and as he waited dazedly for his eyes to adjust to a world without yellow lenses, he felt nimble fingers plucking at his shirt buttons. Scout leaned back as he undid one button, then another, starting at the older man’s neck and teasing himself with the incremental revelation of flesh. Sniper’s chest was silkily-furred, and Scout thought of red Australian wildernesses as he plowed his fingers over the tanned breastbone. He thought of the alien suns that skin had soaked in, thought of foreign dusts filming over the man’s form. He loved listening to Sniper’s voice—the accent made his American heart thump. Scout knew it was silly; he didn’t care, giggling at his own naivete as he slipped the final shirtbutton and gripped either side of Sniper’s well-traveled ribcage. The man on his lap was not muscular, but nor had he ever been fat. He had the ropy musculature and clinging skin of old guys who had spent their lives “skinnyâ€, and sidestepped that middle-aged bloat, sliding right into “distinguished†without a backward glance. Scout wished fleetingly that he would meet the same fate in twenty years—here was a man he would not mind growing into. But jesus christ, his pants ached. And this striptease was going to kill him, and the shower had already been on for ten minutes. “We’re gonna run outta hot water.†He stood, moving Sniper’s hips off his lap. The bushman leaned against the wall and let the kid loosen his belt and yank his open shirt off his shoulders. The steam was curling his hair, and dusting Scout’s with dew. He saw the runner’s movements become needy, then authoritative, and it felt delicious. His body went limp under the firm hands, and then they were both startlingly naked, and the hot water was abrading their delirious skin, and Scout’s mouth on his own felt almost cool, in comparison.
Please do NOT apologize for the slow speed of this scene, I am loving every second of it. I absolutely adore careful detail, and the amount of time you take to describe each emotion and physical interaction is filling my stomach with butterflies. You are lovely, this is lovely.
SWEET DELICIOUS FOREPLAY. captcha: expect, withiin
I'll have to admit, I was disappointed for this to turn to the pairing I hate the most (better alternative would have been basically anything else; BLU Spy would have been ideal). But I shall stick around, hoping for better times.
Eh, sex and good writing is sex and good writing. *shrugs* I love your Scout, dear. Looking forward to the next portion of this deliciousness.
Don't you dare fucking apologize for the slowness. This is one of the hottest things I've ever read and it's rare that I come across such a fantastic depiction of one of my favorite pairings. Never stop. I'd have your fic-babies if I wasn't on the pill.
Well, okay. But this has to end sometime. So I'm calling it. It's time to close this chapter so we can move on to more important things than Sniper and Scout having absolutely delirious sex in a tiny, steamy bathroom. ------------------- SNUFF PART X They held each other so tightly, they thought they might lose their balance. Time seemed to waver and drift, moving in sluggish throbs that built up against each of Sniper’s blinks, rushing past only when his eyes closed. He let his fingers loosen their grip on the body against him, let them slalom down the muscular back as Scout leaned in, humming in pleasure. Everything was slow, and slick, and almost too hot to stand. A strange desperation was closing in on Sniper, and he found Scout’s hand in the deluge and put it gratefully to his mouth, then kissed the boy himself, bringing their hands together down to their swollen cocks. It was the simplest thing in the world to take each other from there. Scout uttered a little moue of surprise as he felt Sniper’s foreskin shift under his fingers, and looked down. The bushman, briefly embarrassed, met Scout’s grin and was assured that his new lover delighted in the novel shapes of his body. The didn’t speak, focusing on finding out everything they could by touch, all blushes and questioning glances and heads tipped back and groans of pleasure. Scout quickly intuited the purpose of a foreskin, and stroked the sliding length of his lover slowly, moving between their bellies. Sniper did what he could with spit, but it washed away so quickly. Finally Scout reached out of the tub, into his trouser pocket, and came back with a little pan of hair pomade. The smell of bergamot and sandalwood enveloped them as he scooped a daub of the petroleum jelly out of the can. He spread it on himself slowly, acting out for Sniper a little, showing himself off. Sniper realized he had expected the American’s member to be as compact as the American, but the young man sported a startlingly large erection. It suited him, Sniper realized. It was proud, almost boastful, rounding out thicker in the middle, and as solid now as the runner’s thick, pale thighs. It looked out of place in Scout’s small hands, he mused, and slid his own hands down to replace them. They played at gripping their erections together in slick hands and bucking against each other; they slid across each other’s bellies, they took turns caressing and gripping, and finally when both sensed a mutual determination, they brought each other off--firmly, intently, and messily. Scout howled his swan song on his toes, through teeth clamped on Sniper’s shoulder. The older man laid his cheek on the bent head and shook, stoic but for a guttural moan and trembling knees. Scout recovered first, and started to soap Sniper gently. “Why d’you suppose it does this,†he asked, making a face at the come turning ropy in the water. Sniper just smiled sleepily, and let himself be rinsed. In ten minutes, they were both cleaned up and sitting chest-deep in the steaming tub. Scout had fetched the joint from the other room and relit it, his nude scramble making Sniper helpless with laughter, and returned to the tub with a slosh. And it was only then, through the clear water, that Sniper got a really, really good look at him. “Jesus…you’re all shaved!†“Yeah man. Why do you think I’m so goddamn fast?†Scout yawped in merriment at the outdoorsman’s shock. “It’s real, uh, metropolitan of you. Very artistic.†Sniper was slightly disturbed, his realizations of Sniper’s maturity clashing with this almost prepubescent nudity. With his relaxed penis swaying harmlessly underwater, and his smooth white skin, Scout looked very much the kid again, and Sniper felt the beginnings of guilt and anxiety about what they had just done. “You do…you do have some hair, right?†“‘Course I do, Mister Humbert. Say, you worried about something? Wanna see my driver’s license?†Sniper let himself be teased, the hot bathwater sapping his will to worry. Eventually Scout propped one graceful foot on his shoulder, and fetched a safety razor from the caddy. He whistled while he soaped his leg with a mug and brush, and let Sniper lick the fresh skin when he was done.
That was hot. HOT. I came buckets.
Oh hi. Nice of my thread not to just shit itself right off the board while I was gone for a month. So um. Enjoy. I hope this all formats properly. -=-=-=-=-==-=-=-=-=-=-=- PART XI He had to peel himself away from the hot, clammy boy.  Some inner alarm had jolted him upright, and he squinted into the filmy window: it had snowed in the night.  The room was all soft with it, blueish and still.  Scout sprawled over the tiny bunk, burning in his sleep like a steam engine.  They smelled of sweat, soap, and washed hair, the room still tropical with sex and bathing. Sniper realized he had the echoes of the Announcer still ringing in his ears.  The broadcast repeated: “Repeat: fields closed due to adverse weather conditions.   All service personnel to remain on standby.†Sniper looked down at the young man, who slept on.  In the watery light, his features were clear and relaxed; an acne scar here and there, like little craters on a pale world, and the tender marbling of hot blue veins at his temples and eyelids.  His throat fluttered with his pulse, and Sniper admired the simple vitality of it.  Of him.  He stroked one of the shorn limbs, and mercifully disarmed the alarm clock on the bedside table.  Let the creature sleep. — “Come.†The infirmary door was slightly ajar.   “Herr Scharfschütze!  I see you very little these days.  Bitte, make yourself comfortable.†Medic rose to shake Sniper’s hand, then busied himself lifting cats off the opposite chair, then applying himself to the stolid-looking coffee service next to his desk.  “Milch?  Zucker?†“Thanks, yeah.  Looks like we got a snow day.† Sniper took the offered chair, reaching down to stroke one of the disenfranchised cats.  It purred; a little white cat with a smudge of black on its muzzle.  All of Medic’s cats looked this way; something to do with a breeding program.  Everyone had his hobbies. “Ja.  We may be in here for some time.  See the height of the stuff at my windows!  It is like die Ostfront all over again!  Ha ha!† The doctor’s teeth clinked merrily on his mug.  “Of what service can I be?  What are the symptoms?†“No no, nothing like that.  Just thought you might have a typewriter I could borrow.†“Of course, certainly.  But it is bad manners to come visiting, only to take something away!  We have nothing to do today; let us chat, my friend.  Tell me what it is you are writing.† Medic propped his chin on a gloved fist, as if he were a coy gossip at high tea. “Letters home.  Me mum always dresses me down for my handwriting, so I thought I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction this time.  She’s a tough old lady, but her eyesight is going.†“Fascinating!  Cataracts?  Diabetes?  Myopia?  There are many interesting illnesses that affect the elderly in your country, I have read, some having to do with the wild and domesticated animals in the ‘bush’.  Perhaps you can tell me your opinion on the case study from the Sydney Medical School, where the patient’s moustache was afflicted with a skin and hair condition normally found only in sheep—†And it went on like that for much of the morning.  Sniper relaxed into an easy patter.  Talking to the doctor was easy, as long as you didn’t try to pull him out of his conversational ruts—pathology, eugenics, cabaret—and the gunman’s mood was languid from the night’s exertions.  After a bout of particularly eager questions on his experiences with necrotic native spider bites, Medic’s little grandfather clock chimed 8 o’clock.  “Ach, mein Gott.  But I have kept you from your letters.  Let me fetch the machine, it is in the dispensary, for the labels,†and he bustled through the door to the storage room, leaving his mug behind. Sniper idly scanned the office while he waited, Medic’s humming and clinking muffled by the closed door.  There were a few competent, charmless gouache studies of Alpine meadows on the walls, and battered file cabinets, and the clock.  The desk itself was scrubbed and squared up with its notepad, pencil cup and green felt blotter, a corner of which now bent up carelessly against the mug.  A scrap was visible underneath.  Sniper’s interest was piqued.  With Medic sounding reassuringly distant in the other room, he snaked his hand under the blotter and pulled out a battered photograph. It depicted a boy of seven or eight years, sitting—no, tied—in a chair in a dark room, his round face and white button-up shirt overexposed by the flashbulb.  He wore glasses, short pants and knee-high socks with small, neat shoes.  His expression was enigmatic, strained; a shock of black hair fell over one eye.  Sniper turned the photo over, the paper crisp and new.  There was neat, cursive handwriting on the back. Remember—we have him. What was this?  Sniper knew the doctor was a queer bird, but children tied to chairs?  And what did the note mean?  He slipped the photo back under the blotter as the door banged open behind him.  “DOC!  Yo, I need my pills!†Scout clattered into the office, colliding with the back of Sniper’s chair.  The cats that had colonized the gunman scattered under the furniture.  “Jesus, sorry.  HEY DOC!  Sorry man, sorry.  I’m in a fuck of a hurry my alarm clock didn’t go off I’m late as shit--why are you here?  DOC, COME ON MAN!  Where is he?!†Medic kicked the pharmacy door open in a panic, “Vas?! Who is hurt?†“Easy kid, you’re not late for anything.  We’re snowed in; we’re off today.†“Aw thank Jesus!  Man.  Hoooooo.†Scout leaned heavily on the chairback and exhaled explosively.  He seemed genuinely rattled, and his hands shook as he ran them over his buzzcut. “Why the fuck’d my alarm not go--um.† He’d caught Sniper’s eye.  “Awright.  Listen, I’ll see you guys at the mess.  I guess there’s still breakfast, even if it’s a snow day.  Doc, I can come back later.† The Medic nodded once, and Scout was gone.  The doctor gave Sniper a brief, tight smile.  “Einen Moment. Der Maschine, of course.† He returned with typewriter in arm, and handed it to the other man.  “I really do not need it back any time soon, but if you would like to visit, I’m sure die Katzen would be happy.  You are good with animals.† “Sure, Doc.  I’ll pop my head in, next time I’m passing by.†Sniper took his hat in his free hand, and settled it on his head.  Medic was looking at him strangely, which wasn’t unusual by itself--the doctor was eccentric, but to what extent, Sniper could never tell.  The German opened the door for his guest with customary good manners, but laid a hand on his arm as he moved to leave. “That boy...I do not know what you mean to do with him, but kehre vor Deiner eigenen Tür.†Sniper stared at the narrowed blue eyes.  “Pardon?†“Do not shit my fucks, Herr Scharfschütze.†As the door closed behind him, Sniper reflected on the wisdom of not correcting the idioms of a man who could remove—literally—all of one’s blood.
Medic keeps kitlers. Medic keeps kitlers. My day has been made.
Ooooh, more plot? I am excite! Thank you for providing another great chapter! This just keeps getting better and better, and I’m still in love with your writing style – you have a way of painting with your words that is very enjoyable to read. I also love your dialogue, how each character speaks in a very distinct fashion, just like in their ‘Meet the’ videos; it’s great to read. I have a small question, though – I understand Medic’s veiled mind your own business, we have a very similar expression in my own language, but which English idiom is he going for here? I’d like to know so I don’t make the same mistake he is. English idioms are hard.
60 Thank you very much! The original German is apparently traditional, meaning 'only sweep your own doorstep' (mind your own business), but he really has no idea what he's saying in English in the second place because, as you said, English idioms are hard (also "don't shit my fucks" is something a friend has started saying and it cracks me up). Although I discovered in my research that a lot of English idioms are identical to German ones, which makes sense.
>>61 You’re welcome, and thanks for the explanation! Yeah, the German proverb goes: Ein jeder kehre vor seiner eigenen Tür, dann wird die ganze Straße sauber, i.e. if everybody sweeps in front of their own door (minds their own business), the whole street will be clean (there won’t be any problems). In my native language we say to sweep in front of your own door (getting your own problems solved first) before sweeping in front of other’s (getting involved in their mess). It’s good advice in any case. As for the don’t shit my fucks, I thought it might have come from a mangled English proverb that I wasn’t familiar with – I’m kind of glad it didn’t, since I won’t have to memorise yet another nonsensical idiom. I’ve been told that even excellent foreign speakers of English sometimes trip over the idioms, either failing to comprehend the meaning of the English ones or directly translating another from their native language and making no sense, and I really like how your Medic makes this mistake here as well – even if he didn’t use the occasional German word, it’d still mark him as a foreigner and a second- or third-language English speaker. I can relate to that. ;)
>>62 I'm glad to hear it's reading alright. All the Germans I know speak three or four languages, so I'm trying to base Medic's speech patterns on them. Also, if you ever have any questions about English, especially idioms and metaphors and colloquialisms, please hit me up. I only speak English, but I really speak it, if that makes sense. I love talking about English. But mostly "don't shit my fucks" was a joke. The friend I was talking to about this chapter suggested it in jest and I decided to put it in because it's nonsensical in a very specific way, but mostly because it makes me giggle like an idiot. This story has gotten wildly out of hand and I am currently doing all sorts of contortions trying to get it to end up at the finale. Thanks for sticking with me, everyone!
PART XII There was nowhere to go. Sniper checked each exit in the base, feeling claustrophobic after so long inside, but they were well and truly snowed in. It piled against the doors, impossible to shift. Lugging the typewriter, he ended up in the mess. At least it was somewhere to sit. It was empty, a leisurely breakfast sitting picked-over on the counter. Sniper wasn’t hungry, but made a slice of toast for something to do. Engineer was spread over one table, surrounded by notepads and coffee, pulling printed ribbon through his fingers, paper that Sniper recognized as respawn ticker tape—machinery so vital and so sensitive had to be constantly monitored for malfunction, and the spawner dumped reams of tape every day. Sniper wasn’t sure what it was for. Engineer looked up at the sound of the toaster, and gave Sniper a friendly nod. “Mornin’! You missed everyone; I think most of ‘em went back to bed.†Sniper felt it would be impolite to sit anywhere but with Engie, so he slid in across from the technician with his toast on a plate. “Something wrong with the respawn? Seemed fine to me, last few weeks.†Engineer tilted back in his chair and fixed Sniper with a bemused expression. “Really? Thought you’d seemed a little distracted lately, but gee! You really haven’t noticed the spy?†Sniper’s guts dropped as he struggled to control a grimace of fear. Oh god—what did they know? “Spy? Their spy?†“No, y’big goose. Our spy! Well, his body, to be more precise.†Sniper stared at Engineer. Body? Was this some sort of homosexual lunchroom patter he hadn’t run into yet? “What?†Engie leaned forward earnestly, brows knitting. “Shooter, our spy’s been respawning, headless, for the past week and a half. You really ain’t seen?†Now that he mentioned it, Sniper thought he recalled seeing the BLU Spy’s corpse in respawn once or twice. He figured the RED sniper had found a good line into the base, or that the spy had simply gotten unlucky with ordnance tossed into their spawn room. It happened. “You know, my spawn position’s a ways in front of his, but yeah, I guess I have looked back a couple times and wondered. You’re telling me he’s just…respawning? Without his head? Already dead?†“No sir, he’s alive. For a minute or two, anyway. Then the body shuts down of course, and respawn picks it up and spits it back out, ad infinitum. Got no idea what the hell’s goin’ on! Or where his head’s at. Dunno if it got blown off and out of bounds, or if there’s something wrong in the machine itself. I keep tripping over him on the way out. Tried to shut down just his printer, just until we found his head, but couldn’t really do it without mucking around with everyone’s. I guess it don’t do no harm; just creepy is all.†Engineer looked haunted for a moment, then peered back down at the tape. He read a few more inches before sighing and leaning back. “Spawner’s built with high capacity in mind, but I don’t feel right about letting it print all the time like that. Can’t be good for the contacts, and god knows what that kind of traffic is doing to his genome. It’s four degrees warmer in there than it should be.†He rubbed the bridge of his nose, his cropped scalp, sighing. “They only told me enough about this thing to keep it running; I can only guess at the theory behind it.†Engineer looked up. “Aw, my apologies. This ain’t your concern. Must be boring.†“Well no, wouldn’t call it that.†Sniper bit his toast. “Sounds like a goddamn freak show, actually.†“Yep.†They sat quietly, engaged in their own private musings on the nature of headlessness.
I love the headless spy reference hehehe
Not one, but two updates? Day made.
Oh my goodness. Two updates? Happy birthday to me.
Spybody! I giggled. Ah, headlessness, an endless source of amusement...
I feel sorry for the BLU Spy. I bet the RED medic is really enjoying having the BLU spy head in his fridge.....
PART XIII It was awful, being canned up with the rest of them. After a weird night, weirder morning, and too much coffee, Sniper found himself actually pacing the hallway—something he thought people only did in cartoons. He could distantly hear an argument from the sitting room, where the more sociable men tended to gravitate. The accents were clear even when the words were not, and he could dimly follow a back and forth between Demo and Soldier over something to do with the battle of Agincourt. Soldier often started fights this way; his “military history†was whatever made sense to him, with the names and dates cherrypicked from distant memories he had of the real world. With space and tempers running short, no one was in any mood to humor the old vigilante. So Sniper paced. The smell in this part of the hallway was overpowering—through a door carelessly ajar, a scorched rubber suit was just visible on a bare bedframe, slouched and greasy. Bits of rubber waffled out through the bedsprings. Pyro never removed the suit, never so much as took off his gloves to pick his nose. Despite his self-imposed quarantine, the effects of stewing in an airless sheath were apparent—Pyro carried with him a stink like a tire fire in a frat house bathroom: it billowed through any room he approached, driving men and animals before it, like a red tide poisoning the sea. He either didn’t notice or didn’t care, apparently pleased by his solitude. Sniper paused, swathed in the unpleasant odor, an idea forming. He knocked, lightly. “Afternoon,†he said, touching his hat. Pyro lifted one glove languidly and let it drop. Taking this as permission, Sniper opened the door and took a step forward. “Listen, I think we’d all like to get out of here. I was just wondering…do you think you could spare your thrower, just for a minute? I just need to get back to my van; I know your piece’d make short work of that snowpack.†The mask squeaked around to stare. The Pyro said nothing. The lenses were greasy with soot, and Sniper began to notice scorched cans of mess hall rations here and there in the jumble of Pyro’s bizarre hoard. With the labels burnt off, it was impossible to tell what he’d been eating. Sniper returned to the thing on the bed, prickling a little under the impassive gaze. “I know it’s a favor; right, I’d owe you one. Just want to get back out to my own digs, y’know?†He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, trying to seem casual. Friendly-like. Rubber squeaked as Pyro lifted a bottled soft drink to his mask, inserted a rubber proboscis from the muzzle, and sucked noisily. His gaze remained steady, the cola draining slowly. “Look, I...please?†Slurrrrrp. Sniper thought he heard a muffled belch as he walked away. -=- “Just wanted a goddamn typewriter,†Sniper muttered. Talking to himself. That was another thing he thought only happened in cartoons. The pert little machine was sitting on a bare desk in one of the unoccupied bunkrooms. He shuffled around outside the door, loath to confine himself to an even smaller space. The little room was dim and musty, snow blinding the single, high window. The metal folding chair was chilly. So were the keys. and here I was looking XXX (he hammered Xs over his mistakes) finding blood on the sno(you)w that fox suit threadbarren, everywhere rubbed sparse on the same paths bullets riXXXXXXXX bullets slipping the same holes and holes catching cold only Sniper leaned back, chair creaking. He re-read the page, chewing a thumbnail. It was better, certainly. Better than what he’d started yesterday, and better than nothing. In this sober afternoon, so far away from comfort or distraction, the RED spy’s absence came slithering back to bite him. The stupidity of what he was doing, the desperation of it, took hold suddenly, and he felt himself burn with shame. He shoved back from the desk and knocked his hat to the floor, rubbing at his temples. A grown man, writing bad poetry in a cold room, and for what? To impress a boyfriend? And not even that; just a perverse office fling: some sick, wartime, any-port-in-a-storm, battlefield cottage fuck. This was ridiculous—he was ridiculous. His degree in “contemporary literature†was ridiculous, which was why he had picked up a gun in the first place. The gun that had gotten him this job. His head hurt. Tack. Tick. Clack clack. Sniper’s eyes came up slowly. Keys depressed themselves on the typewriter as he watched, a new line appearing on the page. but, soft! what sight from yonder snowdrift breaks Ding. New line. it is the beast, and juliet has a gun. Sniper grasped blindly at the air around the typewriter, discovering cool cloth and solid flesh he could not see. Leather hands found his body, and he was swept into the arms of a ghost. “Forgive me,†it muttered, “it is a lovely poem.†“Where—how did you—why are you here,†Sniper finally settled on one of his dozen pressing questions. “Snowed in here with the rest of you, of course.†Sniper felt his hair being smoothed back from his face, his head cupped and stroked. The tenderness of it was disorienting. “You’ve been gone—†“Non. Not gone. Watching. Doing my job, yes, but watching you when I could. You put on a thrilling little show. I wish you moved like that when you knew you were being looked at.†Sniper was grinning foolishly, ducking his face into the gloves that held it, kissing them, nipping at them with his teeth. “I wish I could have touched you, several nights ago, when you were alone in your van.†Spy touched him now, Sniper’s shirt moving eerily, as phantom hands played over his chest. “You looked at though you were dreaming.†“I was dreaming.†Sniper wondered if the unseen agent had touched him, had lit butterfly hands on his body as he slept helplessly. What would have stopped him? Perhaps he was responsible for the mess Sniper had woken up with. The idea was sickening, invasive. And thrilling. “What job? What’s RED doing, sending agents in the off hours?†Sniper addressed his questions to the wall behind where the spy sat on his writing desk, still cloaked. It was maddening. “God damn it, what are you still hiding for? The fucking door’s closed.†“Shhh…do not cuss at me. Think. Do you want some bleu oaf to blunder in and see me here?†An unseen glove patted Sniper’s cheek. “Alright, but what use is sneaking around BLU at night?†“None whatsoever, ma cher—unless ‘gathering intelligence about your enemy’ seems a worthwhile pursuit.†The sarcasm felt inappropriate, under the circumstances. Sniper was silent, nostrils flaring. He thought he could hear the monster smiling at him; making him feel small and foolish. “You are angry?†“I—†Sniper felt his face burn. “Of course, you do not know why you are angry. You know you have no right to be angry. That I owe you nothing.†The voice chilled, the hands fell away, and Sniper felt he had come unanchored from the room itself—that he was floating. After a moment, he dared to reach for where the spy had been, but only touched the wall. A lighter clicked, and a plume of smoke rolled over his shoulder, issuing from nowhere. The voice came from behind him. “Ah, kochanie, I did not expect this naivete from one so well-traveled,†Spy sighed, his voice unctuous and pained. “But I suppose you travel alone.†That stung. “I had a gift for you today; a symbol of my trust and affection. Now, I do not know if I should give it.†“Well, is that so. Buttering up the ‘enemy’ now, I guess. Aren’t I supposed to beware of sneaks bearing gifts?†Sniper hated the petulant words as soon as they fell out of his mouth. At this rate, his face would burn away completely. I’m a grown man, he thought. His resentment for the spy welled like pus. He hated the hollow melodrama of this scene, this stupid snit he had been dragged into, hated this eurotrash lothario for ensnaring him, and especially hated how these taunts and dances and moues made him want nothing more than to fuck the prancing bastard—savagely, feverishly, exhaustively. Sniper turned to face the voice, and reached out. The ghost did not evade him, in fact stood submissively while Sniper hooked his lapels, pulled him forward. He smelled smoky breath, felt the mask catch on his rough cheek. He blundered to Spy’s mouth, which burned and devoured just as he remembered. He shut his eyes, and the agent was there, in winter-lit memory. He opened them, and he was standing alone in a room with his mouth open, and his fists balled in front of him. “Turn it off,†he growled. “Turn off that goddamn gadget before I send you home the hard way.†“This is the hard way,†Spy laughed, and pressed his thigh between Sniper’s legs. They were both straining at their trousers, and Sniper shoved until he was pressing his ghost against the wall. “Turn it off, spook.†He pinned Spy and started invading his clothing, searching for the device that shrouded the agent. “No. It would ruin your gift.†“I don’t—†“Shut up, and give me your hands.†Spy caught Sniper’s wrists and guided them up, up to his elegant neck, still sheathed in his balaclava. “Go ahead,†whispered the Spy. “Close your eyes. It will be easier to find your way.†“You want me to—to strangle you?†“No, buffone. I want you to skin me.â€
Oh, yes, more please. Just, dying over here.
Hey guys, sorry about the lack of italics in spy's addition to the poem. Oversight on my part. >>71 Anne, let's post filthwords about spy and sniper at each other, forever
I’ll join Anne in begging for more and dying over here! You know, I love the English language too. For a foreign speaker, I’m quite the Anglophile; I can get high on just beautiful words alone, even if I’m reading a text that’s otherwise uninteresting to me, and I collect words—every time I come across a word or phrase or sentence I like or which is unfamiliar to me, I copy it to my notebook. There are published works I read that never warrant a mention, but I think I now have a full page from your fic alone. Your prose is just delicious, invoking every sense of perception and teasing the imagination, a literary gourmet meal—the kind that, if it were real cuisine, I could never afford to taste. Thank you so much for sharing, and please, never stop! I’ll be delighted to eat read everything you write.
Toxo, please continue forever. >>73 You're foreign? What's your first language? Your English is astonishing for someone who isn't a native speaker (well, writer in this situation).
This story is written so well. “No, buffone. I want you to skin me.†Oh god, that line. Your entire story is like one giant poem.
MANY THANKS! >>73 I agree with 74. your writing, even in the comments, is just astoundingly good. Thank you for reading my story, and especially thank you for enjoying it the way you do, which is the way I hoped people would enjoy it. Have you read any Nabokov? Through my constant, slavish references you can probably tell he's my favorite writer. English was his third or fourth language, but I insist that Lolita is the great american novel, precisely because it was written by an outsider: the only person with a good view.
>>72 FOREVER. (Captcha says 'command', so I guess that settles it. An exchange of filthwords has been commanded)
I don't know what a "surplus ercempi" is, Mr. Captcha, but it sounds sort of filthy, so go ahead and have some. -=- PART XIV The mask. Shut your eyes, the spy had said. Skin me. His fingers trembled at Spy’s pulse points. He had stolen caresses under the balaclava before, even tongued the perimeter, but knew instinctively to let it alone. Spy’s face was intensely private, nearly obscene; unsuited for public consumption. And how Sniper had wished to consume it. In the swimming black behind his eyelids, the gunman thought of death adders rubbing their sloughed skins on the red rocks of his homeland. Sniper opened his eyes, and found his fingers resting on nothing. He moaned in frustration. “Let me see you; I just want—†“Shh…liebchen, if your base is anything like ours, there are cameras everywhere, cameras even I have not found. Right now, the footage is only of a mad poet, becoming agitated and aroused in an empty room. Explicable. Odd, but not alarmingly so—not against the rest of these poor outpatients. Here—†the Spy shifted under his hands; there was the sound of silk, and Sniper’s vision was blotted out. “You may borrow this, if it helps.†Spy knotted the tie at the back of his head. “Try not to cry on it.†Sniper bared his teeth and tightened his grip on the spy’s throat. He thumped his insolent lover against the wall, eliciting only a winded chuckle. But he left the blindfold on. It helped. His brain quieted in the dark. Again he thought of snakes, how their skins became prismatic after a slough, how they shone in the dust. His fingers loosened around the neck, crept down to the naked shirtcollar, slipped a couple buttons by feel. Between the lapels, he found the finely stitched hem of the mask, and slipped underneath. This was as far as he had gone before. The throat was mobile and alive, jugular and trachea swimming in blood under thin, hot skin. It vibrated like a drum as Spy hummed encouragement, lifting his chin, stretching his expanse of neck as Sniper slowly peeled upwards. The material was membrane-thin and exquisitely giving; difficult even to feel against his fingers, it put up so little resistance. Sniper held the mask up under the chin and dipped his head to sample that naked throat, tasting sweat and aftershave, tonguing stubble. One hand traveled over the jaw, forcing the head back against the wall, firm and greedy, mask bunching around his knuckles. His fingers invaded the Spy’s mocking mouth, gripped his teeth, pried him open. The tongue lapped at him, moans hollow in the gaping throat. “Oui,†moaned the agent, squirming. Gripping the mandible like a landed fish, Sniper bit down on the filmy material and began to pull. It burst and laddered like a stocking, tearing away from the spy’s head in a silken web. He spat the stuff on the floor, pulling threads from his teeth. His pelvis knocked against his captive’s, pinning him to the wall. Still grasping the naked face in one hand, Sniper began to fondle it with the other. As the blind read faces with fingertips, so the blindfolded poured over the unmasked man. Angles. A sense of sharpness, felinity. Planed cheeks, and a slightly cleft chin. Neat, arched brows. The skin fine, and slightly oily. The hair of medium length, combed back from a peaked hairline, a little matted from the pressing of the mask. His shampoo smelled of sandalwood. Delicate eyelids, smiling at the corners. Stiff, fluttering lashes. The already-familiar aquiline nose and succulent mouth. Without light or color to distract him, Sniper’s senses plunged into these explorations as if wading into a swamp. It was almost too much, too visceral, too tender. He could not help but wonder how it would feel to take the spy’s jaws in either hand, and pull him apart, climb into his splitting flesh, wallow in his iridescent organs. He smelled the forgotten cigarette, then sweat, then the expensive soap and cologne on his lover. Smelled his own miserable greed, his dusty clothes, his old snow. Realized he was breathing hard and stroking the alien flesh, massaging the lips and tongue. He withdrew his fingers from Spy’s mouth, leaned his wet hand against the wall, and tried to catch his breath. “You should see yourself just now,†breathed the agent. “You are absolutely rampant. I believe you cannot decide if you want to fuck me, or kill me. It is gorgeous.†Sniper heard him suck once on his cigarette, and flick it away. Breathing smoke, Spy closed in on his neck, nipping his jaw, storming under his shirt to suckle and tongue. The mouth descended where scouting hands led, buttons slipped, buckles undone, and at last, the long hard pull of a zipper. Sniper leaned heavily on the wall, arching over his crouching wanton, and tried not to tremble to pieces. The long ends of the tie slipped over one shoulder as he bent forward to set his forehead on the wall, reach down and—for the first time—entwine one fist in the Spy’s hair. He pulled experimentally, and was rewarded with a gasp. “Yes,†entreated the spy, letting the English trail into a hiss. The obscenities that Sniper wanted to speak, to command that the Spy perform, were entirely conceptual—so filthy and depraved, he could not imagine what language they’d be in. He only knew he wanted it, that he would hurt the kneeling man very badly if he was not indulged instantly, and when leather fingers freed him from his pants, he thrust home the moment he felt mouth, while speaking in tongues. He had never had him like this, never on his knees, supplicating. Sniper felt he would go mad with power. He hit the Spy’s throat and kept pushing, knocking the back of his head against the wall, holding him by his hair while he let the man squirm, unable to pull away. Spy couldn’t breathe, choked off completely, and Sniper counted slowly to twenty before withdrawing. He rested, slick, on the gasping lips, but already Spy was murmuring, coaxing, entreating, and swallowing him again. Releasing his hair, Sniper set both fists on the wall and began to thrust into the mouth, firmly, relentlessly, the Spy whimpering, clinging to his belt to steady them. It was not long. A bubble of hot poison swelled, and burst across the Spy’s mouth. In the strangled language of orgasm, he was ordered to suck it down, the final spasms lapping at the man standing over him, receding, and leaving the conquerer damp and melancholy. Sniper sank to the floor with his ruined ghost, and let himself twitch and tremble into a remorseful embrace. “Shhh,†whispered the ghost. “Shhhhh.â€
YES. This is beautiful. This is like poetry, but then it's also porn, which makes it pretty much the best thing in the world. I want to curl up with this chapter and let it whisper sweet dirty things in my ear always.
I read this latest chapter no fewer than 3 times at work today. I hope you're happy, 'cause I know I am.
I don't post often (cause I'm a shy poster), but this.... this was just so... amazing, godly, tasty? I can't even think of a word that would do this justice. Also, "A bubble of hot poison swelled, and burst across the Spy's mouth." guh, forever sexy.
Oh...oh my god. That was amazing. Gorgeous. Brilliance. Like, I just...I give up writing forever. I can't...I just.../wow/.
This story is great! My only suggestion is that I don't think it really needed the sex. I suppose I could be biased, though, speaking as a gay man.
According to the captcha, I am 'being ngleed' right now, which is pretty much accurate. I really appreciate the comments. >>81 Oh my god, right? I can say that, because it's not mine. I stole it from Nabokov: A normal man given a group photograph of school girls or Girl Scouts and asked to point out the comeliest one will not necessarily choose the nymphet among them. You have to be an artist and a madman, a creature of infinite melancholy, with a bubble of hot poison in your loins and a super-voluptuous flame permanently aglow in your subtle spine (oh, how you have to cringe and hide!), in order to discern at once, by ineffable signs— the slightly feline outline of a cheekbone, the slenderness of a downy limb, and other indices which despair and shame and tears of tenderness forbid me to tabulate—the little deadly demon among the wholesome children; she stands unrecognized by them and unconscious herself of her fantastic power. >>83 Now THAT is feedback you don't hear much around these parts, and I find it refreshing. You know what? This started as a sweet n easy fuck story with a gory gimmick, but around Part IV I think something in my brain snapped and I started getting all these...plot ideas. So many...too many for this one story, actually. So now it is a long and grueling fuck story with a whole gory storyline. As an aside, Tim, would you be willing to contact me off the boards to answer some questions I have? I'm writing a thesis deconstruction of feminism in the TF2 fandom and I have always, always wanted to get the perspective of male fans, particularly gay male fans. These next few chapters might get weird, everyone. Buckle up and take your protein pills.
Yet another wonderful chapter! I just love, love the sensuality of your writing, how everything is taste and smell and touch, and dirty and sweaty and not-perfect. Your characters are wonderful and your metaphors stunning, startling the reader and striking home the drama of the scene. Just delicious to read, but delicious in that guilty-pleasure fashion that leaves your readers sinfully glutted and still wanting more. I also love your Sniper. Everything he does is so tinged with guilt, like he’s fighting himself every step of the way and still losing to his own baser nature. Spy is at peace with what he is, but Sniper seems in constant conflict with himself. It’s interesting to see a person usually so poised lose control and spiral down into half-madness. I wonder if Spy realises just how much he gets to Sniper—he probably does, and loves it, and deliberately stokes the embers of Sniper’s guilt. I’m looking forward to the subject of Sniper’s moment of infidelity with Scout being brought up between them, if it ever is. I can’t even predict how Spy will react to that, or whether he already knows. This whole fic is just mmm—please, give us more! (I like the sex, though. This is the most high-class porn I have ever read. I feel at the same time a better, cultured, more refined person for enjoying the penmanship—and a terrible one for delighting in the subject! Don’t you dare take away the sex!) >>74 Thank you! My first language is Danish. I’ve learned English in school since the age of 10 and up through high school, opting for the extra A-level classes in my senior year. Other than that, my proficiency with the language stems from books and films, since foreign movies and TV series here are subtitled, not dubbed. I still make mistakes, though—some of them I later spot and rage over, others result from unfamiliarity with some obscure rule of grammar and those I’ll sadly never catch—and my spoken English is not nearly as good as this, since I don’t have a chance to practise often. I’m told I speak perfectly understandable English, but to my consternation with a noticeable Scandinavian accent. >>76 Aw, you guys are making me blush! Thank you for the kind words on my commentary—yes, I really do enjoy reading this story, not just because of your luscious style of writing, but also for your intricate plotlines and fantastic characterisations. I would read this a dozen times, and have, and read it again. However, I must admit that my familiarity with Nabokov consist only of a brief meeting in high school, where we were set to read excepts from his ‘Lolita’. After reading this and knowing your source of inspiration, I am going to buy the whole book as soon as possible! Are there other books you would recommend? I’m not picky!
>>85 I highly recommend starting with Lolita, and from there it's going to be a matter of personal taste. Laughter in the Dark is more of a screenplay than a novel, but still very good. Ada is my personal favorite, but its prose is even more purple than Lolita's, so it's not for everyone. Only for people that love books like black forest cakes, books that almost make you sick, they are so sweetly dense. Back to our regularly-scheduled psychodrama, already in progress. -=-=-=- PART XV He was not shocked when the Spy lifted him bodily, cradling him like a child, though the two men were not much differently-sized. He let himself be laid on the bed’s bare mattress, let his blindfold be removed. He was exhausted, and craved the tenderness more than dignity. “Do you feel better?†Spy was stroking his forehead. Sniper didn’t answer, merely sat up and salvaged his hat from where it lay. Settling it on his head, he noticed the wadded red balaclava on the floor. He picked that up, too. “Want this back?†“No, merci. I have plenty.†Sniper held it to his nose before tucking it into a vest pocket. Sandalwood. “And to the winner, go the spoils,†Spy murmured. Guilt pricked at Sniper, and he turned towards the voice, floating above the indent on the mattress. What he had done with—to—the Spy was new to him; all that rage and helplessness was something he kept tightly screwed into jars, as deep in his psyche as he could shove it down. He had lost control, and it had emptied him out. “Are you staying here?†Sniper asked. With me? he added, unspoken. “Yes. I cannot leave, any more than you can. Not until the snow melts or we are freed somehow. I spent last night in this very room, in fact. Listening to you. Well, you and the boy.†Spy’s voice was casual—carefully so. Sniper imagined him examining his gloves. “His room is on the other side of that wall.†Sniper said nothing. He had a sense of having expected this, and wondered how he had convinced himself nothing would come of it. “Listen, we—†he began shakily, “you and me never agreed to anything, this wasn’t…y’know…this isn’t—†“Cher, do I really need to lower myself—lower both of us, actually—to explaining, in detail, why it would distress me, listening to you noisily rutting a fresh-faced co-ed? Please, consider my position: cowering in the very creche of the enemy, on a bare mattress, in a cold room, with only an extended soundtrack of betrayal to keep me company? Please,†he said again, and lit a cigarette, the flame flaring for a moment beyond the cloak. “I am a professional. Not an automaton.†His exhalation was melancholy. “I do not know why I exposed myself to you again, here, just now. I suppose I missed you. I assume you did not use protection with him?†“Well, we didn’t do anyth—†“Please! Spare me these awful details; do not relive your conquest on my account. It is just that I know things about your scout, things that make me fear for the medical records of your entire team.†“He’s not like that; he wouldn’t be—†“What? Fucking someone else?†Spy laughed mirthlessly. “Were you ever a twenty-year-old boy? Of course he is fucking ‘someone’ else. Dios mio, the things I have seen in this base put our discreet indiscretions to shame. Do you have any idea, any idea whatsoever, what sort of material an agoraphobic pyromaniac keeps around to amuse himself on long winter nights? You do not, because you are not criminally insane. As for your scout, I believe if the rest of the team weren’t a swarm of faggot-lynching paysans, he would simply take his door off its hinges and hang a red lantern in the hall. He embarrasses even the Burroughs novels he reads to the mirror.†Spy was chuckling now, almost affectionately. Sniper felt sick. “Non, non. Take your head out of your hands. Mon dieu, but you are adorable.†Spy laid a phantom limb across the gunman’s shoulders. “You will agree that we must do what it takes, to make things right between us. Unless you wish to end this. I would understand, of course, but…you are so valuable to me…†A warm glove took Sniper’s chin, and as he watched, the cloak evaporated. His spy was there, but dressed in blue, gazing at him. Nonsensically, he realized how the blue of his eyes clashed with the blue of his mask. But it was the same man, only cleaner and better-shaved than he should be, under the circumstances. “Cameras—?†“They are in black and white.†“But our spy is in respawn; if you run into someone, they’ll know.†“We will not go far.†Spy took a drag, twinkling, and passed the cigarette to his lover. “Go and reconnoiter the hallway; see if anyone is there.†Sniper did. Empty in both directions, and quiet but for voices from the distant mess. Medic’s office door was closed at the far end. “All clear.†Spy glided into the hallway, taking Sniper in his wake. “Where we going?†In reply, Spy reached out, and knocked gently on Scout’s door.
Flailing with joy. The tenderness wants to kill me, then the betrayal discussion did things to my heart, and guh... there is something dark and wonderful threading through here and I want to keep it in my pocket forever. I was supposed to be shutting down and getting stuff done, and then this updated and I was all 'Whoops, that can wait!'
Gah, I want to know what Spy's going to do. I'll be here, twiddling my thumbs until you come back. >>85 I'm totally a creepy person with the oddest impulse to help people learn, so if you're ever in want of someone to practise with...well, just ask. I don't know any Danish, so it might be hard for me to explain things to you, but I'm willing to try!
I want all of you to know that I make an actual literal fist of celebration every time I see there's a new comment. This is like writing a novel in a stadium where the whole town's there to cheer you on!
I was wondering about the nationality of your Spy. I'm assuming he's French, but multilingual? He uses an awful lot of Italian as well, so it somewhat confused me. I mean, yes, the actual canon Spy uses some Spanish and some Italian phrases, but still. Also, I love this fic. If it were an octopus, I'd hug it.
>>90 Thank you! I guess my Spy is officially "european", with a mixed accent and lots of fluent languages. Maybe he was even an army brat, growing up in so many different places that he has no official language or home. I prefer sticking close to the cannon Valve spy, as I interpret him, where a lot of his lines were in languages other than french (prego, amigo, etc). In this story I'm also using him as a conduit for my obsession with word choice, in that he tries (as much as I am able to write, which isn't much, as an only-English speaker) to use the proper word for the proper expression, and reaches into many languages to do so. "Kochanie" is Polish for "honey", for example. He gasps "oui" when Sniper's got his mouth forced open, because it is a word you can still say with your mouth open (to a certain extent), but says "yes" when he gets his hair pulled, because it trails off into a hiss and that's the kind of sound I wanted him to make just then, the kind of sound I have made when my hair was being pulled. At his core, I see Spy as very much the International Man of Mystery, who speaks everything from Esperanto to Cantonese, capable of sweet nothings in dozens of tongues.
I am at once devastated by and utterly in love with the idea of manwhore!Scout. As always, Toxo, your writing is achingly beautiful. I cannot wait to see where this story goes.
Oh my golly gosh this was... FANTASTIC. Your writing is beautiful. Simply beautiful. Text that is translated from one language to another has a certain stiffness to it, but this... This is like liquid or silk. You are a phenomenal writer. It's sexy and elegant and surprising-- your metaphors are unexpected but they always make sense and make at me look at the characters in new ways, which is probably what the ideal metaphor should do. keep it up ahhhhhhh.
I love catching the story right before it falls off the front page. Forgive the missed day or two; I was busy with preparing for, and marching in, the Occupy protests yesterday. I hope everyone who participated had a safe and fulfilling day. So this chapter was difficult to write. I'm prone to wallowing in my prose, as you have noticed, so writing genuine emotion is extremely difficult. Either I get it too glib, or too goopy, and I'm still not happy with how this ended up, but. I'd like to keep the story moving. I hope it's readable. -=-=-=-=- PART XVI “Heya guys, you caught me on my way out. Gonna go see the doc; been having some headaches, y’know?†Scout’s eyes were vague and hungry, with lavender circles beneath. “Spy!†he looked at the agent as if stumbling, “They fixed that respawn thing, huh? Great! Yeah. Glad you made it out, man. Let’s catch up sometime; I’m late for my appointment, y’know how he gets—†“I have just been to see the good doctor. He wished to examine me, to make sure there were no complications, from my technical difficulties. He will be busy for the rest of the day, but he instructed that I bring you these—†Spy flourished a little envelope at Scout, who snatched it and ripped it open, dumping two nondescript pills into his palm. “—for your ‘headaches’,†Spy finished, as the impatient patient bounced away for a mouthful of water. Spy let himself in, beckoning Sniper to follow. He shut the door behind them. Scout had been listening to music in the listless afternoon, and the cluttered little room was dimming as winter sun withdrew. “What the hell was that?†Sniper whispered, but the young man was back, looking infinitely relieved. “Thank you, jesus,†he said, flopping down on the floor. He gestured to the bed. “Come in. Limited seating, guys. Sorry. You bored as me? I am so fuckin’ over this whole ‘snow day’ thing. Can’t even get outside to move around.†Sniper was still smoking Spy’s cigarette—the agent pulled out two more and tapped them on his case. “Absolument, I am bored. May I offer you one? I find good tobacco often relieves my headaches.†He held it out, but not too far. Scout had to turn onto his knees and reach for it, but the cigarette eluded his grasp at the last second. Sniper saw the look pass between them—Spy smirking sweetly, teasing the cigarette just out of reach; the boy looking up, meeting the agent’s eyes, and falling in. Scout crawled the last few feet, and sat on his heels at Spy’s knees. His lips parted to accept the cigarette that Spy placed between then, and he sat very still while the latter lit his own. And then, as if performing a benediction, the spy bent at the waist, laid fingertips along the young man’s jaw, and brought his hot cherry to the unlit tip. They sucked, coaxing the burn between them. The glow lit both their faces golden, and Sniper stopped breathing. It was as if the holes in the balaclava were oddly-cut mirrors—Scout’s blue eyes and curled mouth were reflected perfectly in the older man’s face. The bed creaked as Spy leaned back and inhaled lustily. “It is customary in the United States, to tip your deliveryman. And that is two deliveries for you, today. If you do not count the gift of fire.†He admired his glowing tip, propped on an elbow, sighing smoke. Sniper recognized these gestures, and his heart sank. He had fireside seats to a choreography of seduction, rehearsed into routine by a man so gifted at influence, that Sniper wondered why the spy ever bothered killing anyone at all. And Scout didn’t stand a chance. The young man glanced at Sniper, then back to the spy. “Lucky for you, I’m seein’ double.†Spy rolled his eyes at this bit of flip, and crossed an ankle to the opposite knee. He tilted his head back, stressing the line of his neck while he exhaled, and Sniper realized he had never seen the man at ease until now. It was fascinating. The looseness of his spare limbs—limbs that would look malnourished on anyone else, but that made the agent look like a fashion model—the way they fenced triangles of space that leaned as he moved, isosceles to equilateral and back again. Scout ducked his head under the angle of Spy’s leisurely leg, emerging in his lap. The man tolerated the sweet, eager hands rumpling his jacket; he regarded his prize heavy-lidded, even bored. Sniper studied his utter comfort, in clothes that would make a lesser man itch and fidget. He didn’t belong with the rest of them, stuffed into a tin can in the middle of the wilderness. He could not possibly enjoy his time with these rough-skinned, terrestrial men—and Sniper counted himself in that number. He looked down at Scout, engaging every charm he could muster to coax a kiss from his coquette, and he could comprehend the kid: big family, dust, grass, laughter. Scout was measured in known quantities, as were the rest of them. But the man beside him, whose bony knee even now lit softly on his own, was, and always would be, a cipher. He felt his thoughts go still. An odd sensation crept over him. It was pity. Sniper knew all about privacy and isolation, knew about wearing out your tires on red rock, looking for the next empty campground. But the secret agent’s solitude was of a different flavor. He lived and breathed human beings, smothered in them, always pulling them closer, devouring them whole. But Sniper could see that he never stopped to taste—and how could he? Intimacy was his profession. What did that leave for himself? Sniper clandestinely stroked the blue leather glove on the bedspread, his tenderness choking him. Spy smiled at him, and Sniper realized that his horror and helplessness over the past two weeks were not mysterious at all. His affliction was simple: he was lovesick. He was still gazing at the agent as the young man, beginning to sweat as his pill kicked in, piped up. “Hey! I didn’t know you guys were fags.†He stated it matter-of-factly, and Spy’s stinging slap came as a surprise. “Language, petit.†Scout looked wounded, his mouth open and glistening. “What the fuck, man. I know what that means. And I’m not fuckin’ small.†Those blue eyes glittered with something Sniper hadn’t seen before. His breathing was rapid, shallow. “Oh?†Spy turned back to Sniper, speaking to him for the first time since they had arrived. “Is this true?†Sniper’s face warmed, and he looked down. “Fuckin’ A it’s true. Hit me again and you’ll find that out the hard way.†Scout bit his lower lip, making no move to escape.
new walking dead update TONIGHT'S AWESOME.
He looked down at Scout, engaging every charm he could muster to coax a kiss from his coquette, [...] That alliteration was just lovely. This entire story is lovely. You don't know how much I needed this poetry, it satisfies so many of my needs. Here I was just browsing the chan and happened upon this treasure. Thank you. And please, never stop. (God, in all these years, why haven't I thought of copying beautiful prose into a notebook before? Thank you, too, fellow anon, I'll be christening a notebook with several lines from this fic. And I'll be checking out Nabokov as well.)
>>96 You don't know how happy it makes me that someone noticed that. Although it was only after I posted that I noticed the sentence was kind of ambiguous in its subject (who's doing what now??). Oh well. More shit to fix in the rewrite. :I Should be another update coming soon. I actually chopped about a third off this last update and put it in the next one, so I already have a head start wooooOOOooooo. Alsoooo...other writers might find these links useful: The Uncensored French Language: http://www.orbilat.com/Languages/French/Vocabulary/French-Uncensored.html How to joke, curse, and talk dirty in French! I was hoping the site had one of these pages for every romance language but I couldn't find them. The site is sort of poorly-organized. French Military Terminology and Slang: http://www.151ril.com/content/history/culture/3 Dozens of French armee' terms of familiarity for the whole team. I found snipers, engineers, scouts, soldiers of course--it's all there. This is why Spy calls Sniper a "parrot": French snipers were called 'parrots' and 'ducks' for how their heads were always popping up and down. Magical Slang: Ritual, Language and Trench Slang of the Western Front: http://www.firstworldwar.com/features/slang.htm Really good essay on the organic development of slang used by troops in the first and second world wars, how it tied into the morale and psychology of the soldier, and how it resembled tribal "taboo" magic. Really interesting reading, with examples from British, American, French and German military.
I love this thread so much. It’s turning into the ultimate literary appreciation thread – not only are we treated to a most delicious fic, but also book recommendations and now writing references! This thread is a perfect thread and I’m not ever leaving. Toxo, you tease us! I can’t wait for your next update. The confrontation between Spy and Sniper on Sniper’s infidelity was everything I’d hoped for; I can’t decide whether Spy is genuinely hurt or if he’s just manipulating Sniper, or both, and I love that. Your characterisations are, as I’ve said before, wonderful, and it’s especially fascinating to me how your Spy is so opaque to Sniper and the reader both—I really can’t predict anything he’ll do, and that keeps me at the edge of my seat! And I’m really looking forward to more Scout too. I like Scout, unlike most people visiting the ‘chan; he’s such a malleable character, and I love what you’ve turned him into. And Scout on drugs, oh god, that just really gets to me in all the right wrong right ways. You have no idea how relevant this is to my interests! ‘Headaches’, hmm? I noticed Spy dropping those inverted commas in there and it got me smiling in what I’m sure must have been a most unsettling way. I wonder what Medic is really slipping him, and why. Nng, can’t wait for more! >>96. Heh, you’re welcome. I started using notebooks years ago, when I was still learning the language; I became annoyed with having to put down my reading to check an unfamiliar word in the dictionary, so I started making notes of them and looking them up later. I still do that, though much more infrequently. Now, it’s mostly inspirational paragraphs or particularly beautiful word-constructs that I save in my books. This fic is a great source of both.
But i.. but... Write more! I NEEED more its so hard to find good fan fictions. It really is. Let alone good ones that have the characters personalities right and who write well, AND have good sexy times in it? You need to continue this or .. ill come to your house and stab you in the back. lol. Not really.. just.. write.. more. Goddammit why you make me wait?! lol. I AM A FAGGOT HUMP MY RUMP More more, i love you as a writer. Do it! do it for the sake of the fandom!
>>99 Hey thanks for the kind words and enthusiasm, but just some friendly advice: don't type like this. You're going to get underage b&.
I'm not typically a commenter but I just have to for this thread. Thank you so, so much for this wonderful fic. It's sexy and elegant and well-written and keeps me hanging on every word. I almost wish I hadn't found this thread as early as I did so I wouldn't have to wait for each post; the anticipation is killing me!
Hi guys, sorry for the long wait. I'm trying to figure out exactly how I want to play this next scene. Actually AnnetheCatDetective, if you are reading this, I would like to consult with you particularly. My beta writer is meeting deadlines right now and you're the one person I can think of whom I'd want to advise me on this stuff. If you're available to chat, let me know!
I sent you a message via the tumblog, but if you check back here first, yes, yes, a thousand times yes! Feel free to email me, went ahead and included it instead of saging. (so yeah, anyone whose hopes I may have raised and dashed can start throwing things now)
Toxo, Anne, you both have tumblogs? I’ve recently made a [t] account of my own (wooh! 7 posts!) and I’d love to follow you both—any chance you’d let me know your tumblog-usernames? (I’m the English-second-language anon from this thread, and Anne might remember me as the anon rambling about cephalopod anatomy in ‘The Dustbowl Horror’, in case you’re wondering.)
AnnetheCatDetective is me-as-me, atcdblu is me as mostly-a-BLU-Spy-but-also-every-other-class, and huitblu is ((cough)) my tentaspy blog (not the 'The Dustbowl Horror' tentaspy, even, but one from an unfinished fic on LJ) (also, yay cephalopod anatomy!) Saging for lack of on-topic contribution...
Anne, I didn't get your message on Hipstr but I did just add you to Y! chat. If you're up late tonight, drop me a chat. >>104 I feel uncomfortable about posting a link to my tumblog in a tf2 pornthread, for obvious reasons, but I would be happy to ping you via email or somethin'. (-_- ;;) Also hello readers, sorry that this is also not an update.
Ha ha, I caught you, you little scamp! Prepare to rocket back up to the top of the page. Many thanks to AnnetheCatDetective for beta help with this next chapter, and the rest of the plotline. If you haven't read her fics, I cannot recommend strongly enough that you do so. She is the only author I reliably read on this board. ---=--- PART XVII Scout was ready for the blows when they landed—a flat palm, then a stiff backhand. Spy still held the young man’s torso between his thighs, and the latter made little sounds of relish at each slap, his fingers digging into the bedspread and Sniper’s thigh, respectively. “Non,†Spy warned, plucking Scout’s hand away. “My friend has had his fun. He will merely watch this time.†Spy’s expression hardened as he met Sniper’s surprised look. “And he will benefit from my tutelage, no doubt. Because—†he gently seized Scout’s throat, bore him back on his heels, and finally to the carpet at Sniper’s feet. “—I question seriously that he was able to intuit your true nature. Is that right? Say yes.†He gave Scout a little shake. “Yes,†Scout answered automatically. Spy sat up and brought his spare hand behind him, to Scout’s groin. “We will test your hypothesis, about hitting, and ‘the hard way’. This is science. You are familiar, of course, seeing as you spend so much time playing doctor with Herr Doktor.†He grinned, and the young man’s eyes widened. “So—†started the spy, and brought his hand off the throat, holding it up. “We will see.†The impact was firm, and welcomed with a moan from its victim. “Ah, yes. There it is. This is fascinating, mon perroquet.†He addressed the Sniper, then turned back to his ward. “Every— time— you strike him—†Spy punctuated with more lovetaps “—his bistouquette throbs in the most arresting fashion. I suppose you two have tried this game?†Spy looked up. Sniper was frozen in place, his mouth tight. “No? A pity. The boy has needs too, you know.†Scout squirmed with urgency, clawing at Spy’s legs, his hips writhing on the rug. Spy pinched his cheek adoringly. “Even if those needs are perverse.†He looked up at Sniper while he worked his hand over Scout’s trousers. “He was not lying, then. Why did you keep this from me? There is plenty here for both of us.†Scout agreed with a guttural noise, and took hold of one of Sniper’s ankles. “Hold still,†the agent murmured, and his balisong fluttered from his pocket like a moth. The others flinched, and Sniper met the spy’s waiting gaze. “Haven’t you ever wondered what it was like,†Spy said, “to kill one of your own?†“Don’t.†The bushman’s voice was low. “What? What’s goin’ on?†“Shh, poppet. The grownups are talking.†“Man, you know I like these games—but c’mon, this is a lil’ weird. Right? Yeah? …Guys?†Scout sounded very small, all the way down there on the floor. His grip on Sniper’s ankle tightened. Spy held a steady gaze, challenging the gunman, his knife in one hand, flickering, making it snap and gnash above the young man’s chest. “He loves to be hurt, you know. Loves ‘toughing it out’, loves admiring his black eyes and nosebleeds and ligature burns in his mirror. He swings and sways and poses and pouts and I must admit, he wears them well! Which is too bad, because Dr. Feelgood is not about to let his favorite patient show off queer lovebites to that lynch mob you call a ‘team’. That medigun makes short work of the furrows Herr Doktor plows in young Scout, does it not? I said, SHUT UP.†Spy cut off Scout’s fresh objections at the quick, slamming the blade into the floor beside his head. There was a horrid electrical noise, and the disguise fell apart, jostled into failure by the violent motion. The smoke and shreds of light vanished instantly, revealing the red-clad monster himself. He followed with a heavy hand, muffling the cry of shock. They were both breathing hard, now—Scout in the grip of fear and stimulants and aborted lust; Spy genuinely angry, and for the first time in Sniper’s memory. His teeth were bared at the young man’s sweating face. Sniper dropped to his knees at Scout’s head, taking the agent by the shoulders. “I reckon I owe you one—you know that! But don’t take it out on him; he didn’t know any better.†“Have you idiots been paying attention? It doesn’t matter, do you understand? It doesn’t matter what we do to him. What we do to each other.†Spy was gesturing strangely. His breath was coppery on Sniper’s face, and the bushman had the briefest sensation of staring into a lawnmower. “We are gods, bello mio. As long as thatâ€â€”he threw one trembling finger in the direction of the respawn—“still churns, we are immortal. Olympians!—drinking, fighting, fucking, and eating each other alive. Yes, alive. I could slit you from shaft to sweetmeats, pluck out what I wanted, and still be right here sucking bile from your liver as you strolled, whole, through that door.†He stroked Scout’s stomach, seemed to consider it, but returned his stare to the bushman. Sniper realized the devil was searching his face for signs of awareness: a nod, a frown, anything but his disturbed incomprehension. Slowly, quietly, he watched the man get ahold of himself. His breathing slowed; the telltale pulse at his temple stopped fluttering. Slowly, he pulled his hand away from his thrall’s mouth. “Motherchristing shit,†Scout said. “That was awesome.â€
I agree with Scout.
Holy hell. I first wanted to write about how much I love your Scout, but I could say the same for all the others too. It'd get kinda repetive. And here I wasn't even looking for Spy and Sniper, just for some quick and nice read, but I started reading and absolutely couldn't stop. Also, is it actually Snipers fault that BLU Spy is headless? Since 'he' did give him a nice headshot, which would usually be impossible. Getting thoughts about love in fandoms such as this to not sound sappy and out of character is a thing that deserves massive praise. Everything flows so realistically. This definitly goes to my favorites, mhhh. Also, Medic's Kitlers made my evening. Seriously, it doesn't happen often that stories actually make me laugh :D
Anon from 109 again; So when I posted, the next chapter was up and fuck, the rest of my evening will be spent in bliss. I have suspected some Medic and Scout, but having that topic adressed and all that talk and………… …excuse my while I go and spazz around a bit. I think you've heard it a dozen of times already, but you're amazing.
Is it weird that I'm so taken with your sniper? Because I feel like him sometimes, the way he did watching spy and scout. By the way, your writing style is exquisite and your interpretation of the character's personalities is enthralling. The characterizations are frightening, especially's spy's, but when I read I'm surprised there was ever any other way to see them. ...I am so invested in this fic you have no idea
Hello. Because no one had commented yet, so I could, I deleted the latest update and am reposting it below after making some niggly word choice edits that were keeping me awake. >>108 >>109 >>111 it makes me so happy to read stuff like this. I seriously just do this for the comments, because they feed me. Tell me everything. Show me on the doll where I touched you. I'm really glad 111 said what they did about "feeling like Sniper does sometimes". That's the ultimate compliment--if at any point, I can reflect anything of the human condition, I have accomplished my goal, no matter how briefly. This fic is loosely written with inspiration from my own codependent, dysfunctional, abusive relationships with extraordinarily charming, extraordinarily destructive men. I learned my lessons the hard way. Sniper may have to meet the same fate. -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- PART XVIII Spy and Sniper both looked down. The young man was grinning, wild-eyed. “Snipes, you been fuckin’ the RED spy all this time? Holy shit, man. Brass balls.†He turned from Sniper to Spy. “And that lil’ speech was goddamn incredible! It’s like I got the Joker sittin’ on me! C’mon man, let’s do this thing.†He fondled the agent’s hips, smiling hugely. “Vingt-Deux. Maybe someone has been paying attention, after all.†Spy was looking down at Scout with authentic surprise. The runner put his hands behind his head casually, beaming. “You do not fear death?†“What’s the fuckin’ point of that? It’s like you said—I’ll be back in thirty seconds.†“That is precisely it. Canardeur?†He looked up at Sniper, who shook his head. “You two are bloody batshit.†The dim, blue eyes—four of them, now—glinted at him in the darkening room. Spy was helping Scout to his knees, and they settled together on the floor, the latter half-draped across the older man’s lap. “Ha! Whatever, chief. I quit havin’ this fight a long time ago. No one in this fuckin’ place seems to give a shit that we straight up can’t die anymore.†“Of course we can die! We die all the time!†“Maybe you do. Not all of us have to play grabass with our arch nemesis just to get our scores up. Kidding!†Scout glanced up at the agent, who smiled a tiny smile. “I mean, I was just playin’ my part earlier, beggin’ for mercy and all that; that’s like the whole point. But uh, Snipes…seriously, man. Get with the program. You’re Superman now, yanno?†“Think I like you better without the pills, mate.†Scout frowned. “They’re for my headaches, asshole.†“Yeah, likely. Those ‘headaches’ are what the rest of us call ‘reasoned thinking’ and it isn’t bloody reasonable to just throw up your hands and decide you ‘don’t care’ about dying anymore, no matter what sci-fi bullshit comes with this job! It isn’t—well, it just isn’t bloody human.†“Cher, you are the one being unreasonable—it is unreasonable to, when faced with immortality, pretend that it does not exist. Pretend that the human condition still applies to you. Pretend that you are anything other than what you are: a warrior who awoke in Valhalla.†Sniper, kneeling there on the thin carpet, facing down his monstrous lover and the lost boy, had the sense of a thing greater than himself, looming into the room. Abruptly, ruefully, Spy shook his head. He proffered a graceful glove. “Come here, kochanie—this is very dull talk for a party; c'est la barbe! So let us celebrate. To hell with philosophy. Here is a fat young boy for us to feast upon, yes?†Spy jostled and stroked the scout like a cat. He continued, unctuous, and Sniper felt the knots uncoiling in his guts as the rich voice unrolled. “And we do not even have to be gentle with him; what a treat. Come, cher. Scout, do you have more of that gasoline you call ‘whisky’? Let us entertain my dear, dear friend. Dolcezzo mio, please come to me.†Sniper crawled to them, and accepted the gloved hand, and then the drinks, and was soon intoxicated with both. There was nowhere else to go. -=- The rest of the evening, and well into the night, was spent destroying Scout’s room. The mattress dragged off the bedframe and onto the floor; piles of red and blue garments; spilled drinks; careless ashtrays. The boy threw himself on the mercies of his master, begging and babbling until he was gagged with the much-abused silk tie. Spy met his squirming eagerness with measured restraint, and restraints, binding the lad in all manner of inventive pretzels, teasing him tirelessly. Scout’s shirt met a sad end, cut from him in strips. Barechested, his hands bound behind him with the remains, his eyes fluttered and rolled as Spy taught his gunman lover to sensitize the compact, pink nipples with a series of hard pinches and delicate licks. The expert bent the boy over both their laps and beat the thighs and buttocks with firm, leathered blows. Gloves ran up and down the muscular legs, which blushed with pain, and chafed the prickling heat there, eliciting groans of enjoyment. Sniper watched with fuzzy interest as his agent took the tenderized boy to the mattress on the floor, rolled him onto his front, fixed his pants, cut his bonds, and took a few steps back. “Take me, if you can.†Scout grinned wolfishly, rubbing his wrists and wiping drool off his face where the tie had wicked it. The scuffle was heated, brief, and gorgeous. Scout dropped the older man to the mattress with a quick sweep of his legs, but Spy was like a cat: more dangerous on his back, and when the lad fell on him, he was ensnared instantly. He caught up Scout’s wrists again, pinning them up painfully between his shoulderblades with one hand, tsking the while. “Non, non. Sloppy work, petit. You are in quite the pickle now, yes?†The captor slid his free hand under the lad’s waistband at the back, pulling until the trousers came free of the still-pink buttocks and the insistent erection. Scout squirmed happily. “Whatcha gonna do, pervert?†He leaned into Spy’s ear, his voice breathy. “You’re hurtin’ me, y’know.†“I regret that it is necessary. But you have left me no choice.†Spy’s free hand began to caress between the buttocks as he played along. “What I am about to do to you, is so shameful, so incredibly humiliating, that you would not possibly allow me to proceed, were you to become unsecured.†“Jeez, that’s horrible! Surely there is some way to protect my honor.†Scout practically waggled his eyebrows. “My darling, you could attempt to kiss me. I have been known to feel merciful after a truly excellent kiss. But remember, your reputation is at stake—spare no expense.†Sniper was too drunk to roll his eyes, so he settled for taking a seat against the wall with a good view, and helped himself to another drink. He watched the matched mouths of the combatants, listened to the music from the record player, to the hums and rustlings and little gasps. Finally they came up for air. Scout turned to look at Sniper. “I don’t think it worked, man.†“Why’s that?†“He’s still a frog.†Sniper frowned. Scout was biting his lips. They both started to laugh at the same time, and Scout was still laughing when his wrestling partner flipped him onto his back, and pried him out of the rest of his clothes. “You will pay for that remark, fanfaron.†Spy slapped him playfully, and pointed a warning finger. “Stay.†Leaving his toy on the mattress, he approached Sniper and crouched down. He laid one glove on Sniper’s cheek. “Come, this is supposed to be fun… Oh, заÑц, I know this is difficult for you—think how it was for me.†He laid one hand on his chest, and there was pain in his eyes. Sniper added a little guilt to the awkward miasma sloshing through his brain. “Look at him. Yes, just turn and look.†Spy was whispering, sitting close. “He is exquisite. That supple mouth; those burning eyes. I understand completely, why you succumbed to the temptation.†He stood up, giving Sniper a hand. “When you could not have the whole thing, you found what pieces you could.†He did not offer to explain this last, cryptic comment, merely kissed the drunken gunman on the mouth. He tasted of smoke, yes, but also whisky and boy-sweat. A little later, Sniper held the young man’s torso in his lap, a hand behind either of his knees, pulling them up and apart. Spy knelt before them, very slowly unfastening his trousers, savoring the noises of impatient greed and adoration from his gagged boy. Scout’s hands were tied together in front of him, and he grappled with his own arousal as best he could. “Hold him still.†Spy held his gloves out to Sniper, who bit their fingertips and pulled them off, tossing them aside. Bare, vaguely seamed with the pink stamp of the stitching, they moved like purblind cave creatures across the straining legs. Scout’s toes flexed and curled as beautiful fingernails scraped the dorsal planes of his thighs, dipping inward to taunt his vulnerable recesses. Spy was murmuring wistfully, fading from French to Italian, and through dark languages indefinable by either of the other men. Both listened, watching the monster's mouth moisten each syllable, feeling the low growl of utterances that could not have been filthier if they were perfectly translated. He brimmed with this poetry, and it spilled from him, and they were heavy with it, and Scout kept quiet, to listen, even when slickened fingers insisted that he yield, that he suck and clench and finally relax, quivering, waiting. There was some English, as Spy unrolled the condom, but it succumbed to the declarations of war that Germans call ‘language’, when the barbarian arrived at the gate. Pressing, pressing, and sinking, sliding, and fucking the tense, sweating young thing, but slowly, and now the poems of swallowed consonants, of decaying vowels, a pace measured not in inches, but in milimeters—because after all, the French invented the metric system.
I seriously doubt that I'll be able to put into words the effect this story has on me. Toxo, your writing is so wonderfully delirious and richly-textured that reading your prose is a pleasure and a privilege, and I sincerely hope that you never, ever stop writing. I am in love with your characterization and descriptions and Sniper's internalization of everything unfolding around him, and how your choice of words is surprising yet spot-on and speaks to some dark verisimilitude. In short, I love absolutely everything about this. Thank you.
Oh, god, that last paragraph was so sexy.
Three-ways are one of my greatest pet-peeves, especially if it involves Scout, but for some reason I can't pull myself away from this story. Your writing is just so beautiful and vivid, pure bloody poetry, and there's nothing I love more than a writer who can make my heart flutter. It's like sugar coated glass to me; it hurts, but I can't bring myself to stop savouring every bit. Also, love the tiny Batman reference, especially since Arkham City just came out.
That was beautiful. Just beautiful.
Christ in a bucket. I usually don't comment this much on a fic, but I just can't believe how much emotion your writing has brought out in me. Literature doesn't do that to me, it just doesn't, but I'm flooded with an overwhelming sense of helplessness when I'm reading this story. It's that feeling where you can't do anything but sit back and watch things happen and wish they could have gone another way, complete with that amazing, mesmerizing, captivatingly grotesque character who's always there to help you fall faster. It's like you wrote--Sniper had the sense of a thing greater than himself, looming into the room--that, there, is what I'm getting. He's so bloody pitiful I just can't tear my eyes away, and I feel like I'm right there with Sniper as he loses himself. I absolutely hate the feeling, but at the same time I can't get enough of it. At the beginning of your latest installment, I was genuinely begging Sniper, inside, please don't go, please don't, and when he took Spy's hand my world came crashing down. I'm not sure what this is supposed to mean to me, exactly, but I know that it means a lot. Toxo, thank you so much for this story, and never, ever stop writing.
>>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.
Wow my head is spinning with this.
Anon 114 here, with another miserable attempt to describe how wonderful this fic is. Unlike uberepicfail, at the beginning of the last update I was silently egging Sniper on, partly because I wanted to read some sexin' but mostly because there is something so darkly seductive about a monster. And your spy is so deliciously monstrous. I love how this last update took me from delighted eagerness to utter devastation at the end. I feel a little silly to admit how strongly I can be affected by the characters in a story, but the events of this segment have been worrying away in the back of my mind all day: those last two sentences in particular absolutely wrecked me. I am afraid to find out what happens next but I must know. There are no words.
Talk about mindfuck. That they actually killed Scout once there… I'm speechless. This whole thing is so incredibly hot and wrong and I can't stop reading. Such a deliciously dark thing covered in pretty words… it somehow feels like Spy's the one telling this story. He's the temptator, getting Sniper to do all kinds of stuff he wouldn't do; making us read stuff like this and love it. As a side note, you get a huge bonus point for the asphyxiation. It's probably one of my favorite kinks out there.
>>121 I hope in a good way, and in a way that isn't detrimental to the narrative. Honestly I'm starting to get sick of myself, with the constant fucking and melodrama and doubletalk. Writing each chapter is becoming an exercise in balancing the frosting vs. the cupcake, and at this point I'm eager to finish so I can start all over with a really clean copy. >>122 I love hearing that people are approaching the Sniper's trials from opposite sides of the stadium; some of us rooting for his freedom, some for his destruction. That's so fucking cool. As for your emotional response, I'm flattered, but feel I must remind everyone that I'm working with borrowed material, here. We only care about these mad lovers because they're Sniper and Spy; I can't take any credit for that. >>123 I like this perspective a lot--a third version of interpreting events. The asphyxiation comes from personal experience. I never killed him, but he probably would have let me. I feel like a lot of this story is a thinly-veiled "MY BOYFRIENDS: LET ME SHOW YOU THEM." That's fine with me. My motto is "Objectify Men Daily". d(-____- )b So, to change topics for a minute, I've been doing a lot of reading on the whole concept of fandom recently. If you guys aren't familiar with the scholar Henry Jenkins, look him up. He's an academic from MIT, now at USC, that focuses on fan interactions within the wider umbrella of media and internet studies. He's done a little work on game fandoms and female gamers, but not much, his focus being mostly on usenet and even small press fanfic/slash in the 1990s. But he's collected all these interesting bits of self-reflection from women (and a few men) who have written or read slash in generations that preceded our own. They say things about their own fandom for things like Babylon 5 and other, more obscure shows that could easily be applied to us--the biggest differences are that TF2 is an interactive franchise, not a passive broadcast, and secondly, that the official canon is so incredibly narrow. With something like Star Trek, you have decades of shows to dig through, to construct a truly comprehensive worldview of how the characters live and interact. Comparatively, in TF2, we have the Meet the Team videos, which probably clock in at under 30 minutes total viewing time, the tiny bits of flavor text, the bits of update text, the short comics, and then the game itself. The latter could arguably be called an "infinite media", in that you never play the same match twice. Then there's Garry's Mod, which is essentially a dollhouse, but which is used by a small minority of fan creators, as far as I can tell. The weirdest thing I've discovered so far in my research for my own paper, is that a very solid number of TF2 fans have never played the game. Don't own it, don't play it, have never worn a hat or clicked on a man wearing the wrong-colored clothes in their life. This, to me, is the biggest and most interesting mystery of the fandom: that such a massive, well-organized, tightly-policed fandom, that consistently produces work of staggering quality, is partially or even mostly based on those <30 minutes of footage, and bits of comic and flavor text. The media consumed vs. media produced ratio there is staggering. And as a devoted gamer and particularly a devoted player of TF2, the idea that there are harder core fans of the franchise than I, who have never touched a WASD, just blows my mind. I also have some books to recommend to you guys but I think I'll wait until I actually pos the next chapter because this is getting long. Anyway, feel free to share your thoughts on Jenkins or fandom or whatever. I'd love to read them.
Toxo, when your Spy says things like “When you could not have the whole thing, you found what pieces you could†and “He fucks just like his motherâ€, I start wondering… Do you have more mindfuckery in store for us? Please, yesss… >>124 And this is why I love your thread so much—I learn something new every time you post. I’ll have to go look up Henry Jenkins now. Also, I’m interested in knowing more about the paper you’re working on yourself, if you won’t mind sharing. What is the focus? It sounds interesting! I’m also curious about what you yourself do for a living; a paper speaks of academic credentials to me—did your studies kindle the love of beautiful prose and fan the flames of inspiration? Maybe I chose the wrong profession, then—I’d love to be able to do what you do here. I also have a confession to make: I’m one of the non-player fans. I’ve played TF2 a few times, years back, but my current computer can’t run the game without lagging and I don’t have the time or money to visit an internet café frequently enough to establish a decent level of proficiency; I’d be the eternal nØØb. I also tend to think that gaming isn’t as rewarding as writing, drawing, blogging or otherwise communicating on the internet; these pastimes result in a tangible product (fics, drawings, new friendships), whereas time spent gaming, especially if there isn’t a specific goal to reach, like completing a level, which will result in a reward, feels ‘wasted’ to me without anything to show for it (okay, maybe hats, I suppose…). To me, the gaming part of the fandom isn’t really all that important anyway; most fics seem to be centred on the resolution of interpersonal conflicts between characters off the battlefield, not on anything that happens in the game; the teams fighting each other is a plot-device in fanfiction if mentioned at all. So the actual game isn’t really relevant to the parts of the fandom I participate in. Why do I then like Team Fortress 2 in particular, when I don’t play the game? I think the limited canon is part of it; there’s so much uncharted space on the map I can colour in to my liking without worrying that I’ll accidentally overlook some obscure but crucial detail. Likewise, the characters are fun to play around with; they’re very three-dimensional for being little more than cartoon characters, with small canon glimpses into their backgrounds that make them fascinating to poke at and puzzle out, and knowing so little about them fuels the imagination to fill in the blanks. But I think it’s how the game setup itself ties into the fluff that makes TF2 uniquely appealing to me: in most video-game fandoms, in-game tools like the Medigun and Respawn are deliberately ignored for the sake of realism, but the TF2 fandom embraces them. This permits me to enjoy a lot of things I’d otherwise steer clear of—I (usually) don’t like character death or permanent injuries in my fanfiction/fanart, but TF2 creates a safe, guilt-free place for me to explore all kinds of otherwise dangerous/lethal situations without disrupting the status quo. I can kill off a character in a fic or read about him dying, and it’s okay because I know he’ll just respawn later. This is particularly important to me here on /afanfic/, because it lessens the cognitive dissonance I experience from enjoying guro, medical and torture kinks as a healthcare professional trained to a Pavlovian ethical response when confronted with the deliberate, sadistic infliction of pain. The fandom does generate a lot of that stuff, maybe for the same reason—this thread alone reveals that I’m not the only person here internally conflicted about liking these things, even if I might be the only one actually doing some of this out of a sexual context, but in TF2 nobody really gets hurt and that makes it okay to like it. Ah well, I'm getting tl;dr. I hope this verbose ramble makes sense and that my foreigner’s grasp of your beautiful language hasn’t muddled my meaning. I’ve become somewhat self-conscious about replying to your thread; the last batch of commenters praise your writing much more eloquently than I. I think I’m starting to suffer from a bit of Freudian vocabulary-envy…
Sorry, forgot to sage. My bad!
Agreeing with the anon above. There is something incredibly satisfying about having such a vast array of possible scenarios and character interpretations at one's disposal without having to worry whether or not a story you have come up with fits into canon or whatever passes as such in a given community. I do actually play the game, but only on a casual basis and with people I know closely (to avoid inflicting my pathetic performance on strangers) and it's certainly not what draws me to the fandom. The TF2 fandom feels like a far more creative place than most other fan communities because it doesn't (have to) bother with the usual fandom wank of canon evidence etc., but rather moves on, sort of transcending the small work on which the works on here are based, to create a staggering variety of stories. It feels like those people on here who create truly awesome pieces of fiction are doing it for the joy of creating something of their own while playing with a few shared expectations with regard to characterization and possible plot points, while in many, many other fandoms there is something decidedly more re-creative to it. Other fandoms circle around the work they are based on, here it kind of seems like TF2 is at the center, but everyone takes it from there in whatever direction they please. I enjoy that. (This got a little rambly and is possibly hard to understand - like several persons before me in this thread, I'm just going to apologize in advance for not being able to get my points across in an entirely coherent fashion, not being a native speaker and all.) Also, wanted to let you know that this fic is easily one of the greatest I've read on here and a prime example of what I just tried to talk about. Since some people have pointed out novels they feel reminded of, let me just mention Die Verwirrungen des Zöglings Törleß by Robert Musil, even though I'm not at all sure if anybody who's not a German native speaker has ever heard of this. Much of the social dynamics seem similar and so does the emotional confusion/turmoil that the main character finds himself in.
I want to thank both of you, from the bottom of my heart, for taking the time to give me your thoughts on your participation in the fandom. I want to encourage everyone else who is reading this to do the same. Book recommendations: do yourself a favor and get the Lyonesse Trilogy by Jack Vance. Vance is one of these secret authors--a person so incredibly talented and influential that he virtually disappears inside his own genre, despite the extraordinarily far-reaching echoes of his work in pop culture and literature. He is a science fiction and fantasy author, which is probably why he was never taken seriously as a writer. Call him the Nabokov of fantasy, I think. Speaking of Nabokov, in keeping with my theme, I have included some of his work in this little chapter. It is from his poem-novel Pale Fire. --=-- PART XX “Merci.†Spy accepted the plate. “I regret that I am a burden for you, until this little siege is over.†The two of them breakfasted in the empty room, enjoying stillness and bare walls after so many hours in the yellow riot of Scout’s room. “Only time I’ll get you to myself indoors, I guess.†Sniper sat beside the agent, making the bedframe squeak. He smiled shyly, and thrilled when it was returned. “Very true. Although, it has not been so bad. I relish the opportunity to teach, and you make an able pupil.†Sniper grinned at this, but felt the punch land in his gut anyway—still, it was more of a rabbit punch than the freight train that would have sunk him a few hours ago. He was getting better at this. “Cabin fever was not covered in my contractual insurance. You will have to entertain me today.†“I find Scout’s ‘frittata’ bloody entertaining.†Sniper forked the mass on his plate. The breakfast duty roster was nothing if not egalitarian. “Oh oui, I know you do.†“Haw haw. How old are you again? Ancient, I reckon. You got some silver in that scruff.†He swiped at the rough stubble around Spy’s mouth. “Oughta be taken out back and shot.†“You may do to me whatever you wish in your outback; I will rise again, like the phoenix.†Spy’s gesture was grand. “Nahhh…you old guys can manage maybe once every forty-eight. Your dongers get all stodgy.†Spy made a face like he’d bitten a bad tomato. “What did you say? My what?†Sniper laughed helplessly, barely keeping his plate. “Mon dieu, if you value my peace of mind, keep your disgusting local idioms bottled up with the rest of your offal. How did you savages found an entire country on such ugly language?†“Quickly, and without all that sneering or prancing about, unlike you fancy lads.†“More impertinence! It is what I have come to expect, alas. Finish your tea; I want to hear everything about your vulgar red wastelands.†Late morning found them locked in the little room, leaning against each other on the mattress. Sniper had quickly run out of outback tales—you shot one rabbit pretty much like you shot another; the homesteader’s desert held few charms for those who hadn’t grown up in it—and Sniper soon fell to the sorts of words he knew best. “Would it be ridiculous, to tell you some more poetry? Promise it’s not mine this time. I keep the good stuff locked up, for special occasions.†He tapped his temple. Spy sat up and looked at him. His face, unshaved and well-used as it was, held a certain relaxed earnestness that Sniper didn’t think he had seen before. He seemed to be searching the gunman’s eyes for something. “Is that a no?†“Non, non. It would be ridiculous. And I would enjoy it very much,†Spy replied quietly. He lowered himself back into his place against the worn vest, but let his head fall under Sniper’s chin. Sniper rested his cheekbone on the masked skull. He thought he felt a quickening of his lover’s pulse; an almost eerie stillness pressed their bodies together, their disparate angles locking up like teeth, red and blue. He shut his eyes, letting himself breathe, making space to remember. But he need not have worried, because the couplets were there instantly, crowding around the edges. Snow, and color, and the beating of wings against cold glass. They jostled brightly, and he smiled, his stomach weightless with the anticipation of speaking. He felt almost as if he could not begin. He began. â€I was the shadow of the waxwing slain By the false azure in the windowpane; I was the smudge of ashen fluff - and I Lived on, flew on, in the reflected sky. And from the inside, too, I'd duplicate Myself, my lamp, an apple on a plate: Uncurtaining the night, I'd let dark glass Hang all the furniture above the grass, And how delightful when a fall of snow Covered my glimpse of lawn and reached up so As to make chair and bed exactly stand Upon that snow, out in that crystal land! Retake the falling snow: each drifting flake Shapeless and slow, unsteady and opaque, A dull dark white against the day's pale white And abstract larches in the neutral light. And then the gradual and dual blue As night unites the viewer and the view, And in the morning, diamonds of frost…â€
And here I'm still being amazed at how you write those pure and hot sex chapters and then suddenly go over to adorable and light conversations. Subtle signs that indicate how they really feel for eachother. Hell, those signs are all over the story. I absolutely adore you for those. They're rare in fanfiction. Most of the time, the signs get handled in a 'BAM IN YOUR FACE' way. You make them just flow in, little details or a slightly lingering gaze. And then there are parts like 'their disparate angles locking up like teeth, red and blue.' which remind me that they actually are supposed to be enemies, adding some kind of… bitterness to the situation. I'll just silently add you to my list of favorite writers and go back to my corner, waiting for another update. (I don't think I ever read anything which updates this fast and still holds such a quality, by the way. Wow.) At your paper; I just recently started playing and had been a on again, off again fan for half a year or so. I see the fandom somewhat differently after this, liking some characters more than before and having a better understanding of them. Though it might have been different if I had watched replays or read the comics more too, who knows. Also, I never really liked FPS games. This is the first one I own and that's about how noobish I still am. I completely agree with the posts from above, too. It's just an amazing fandom (: Now I shall go and look up Jack Vance. You can never know enough actually good fantasy authors. My personal favorite unfortunately didn't get translated into English yet. It's the Pandæmonia Trilogy, written by Christopher Lode. If you should see it in a store in a few years, think of me and buy it; it'd be worth it. (and hey, another German speaker! Though I've never heard of that book either… you make me want to look it up now)
I love how active this thread is! The work of this Henry Jenkins guy sounds interesting too. I take it that you're looking into his work a lot for your own thesis, Toxo. >>125 I agree with a lot of what you mention; the limited canon and the mechanic of respawn makes us explore and create some really new and exciting things. Also, those spy quotes. Exactly my thoughts. (Haven't read Part XX yet!) I do enjoy playing TF2 myself, and purposely disallowed myself from entering the fandom until I was able to understand the "Meet The" videos and see more of the game/the characters themselves (or, the canon). While I enjoy playing it, I've been too busy lately to do so, and my internet has been too wonky to play decently. Hats were an exciting prospect, something I'd like to have before I draw them, but again, time. (Not sure why I am sharing this, just figure my ~strange reasoning of playing/attaining items before contributing to the fandom~ could be found interesting or something.) What with Respawn, though, TF2 is my bloodiest fandom yet. The gory stories and art have really got me fascinated, like a horrible train wreck; I want to look away but it's just so damn interesting. Much like what's happening here in your fic. Although what's making me antsy is what's been hinted at between Spy and Scout, and not the Valhalla (go figure). Sorry if my response is the least eloquent yet--writing is definitely not one of my strong points.
>>124 Oh absolutely in a good way. Trust me, I know what it's like constantly writing smut. It turns into a chore more than a pleasure. However I would read the fuck out of anything you write, it's gorgeous.
Hey guys. Just a quick update. I've been in the Occupy Oakland and Occupy San Francisco protests all this week. We saw action on Wednesday and got teargassed about five times. I'm super tired and my brain is bent on making propaganda posters and coordinating with other protesters so I haven't had time to sink back into our sleazy little twilight world of intrigue, although I very much miss it here. More soon. I hope others are participating in their local Occupations, having fun, and staying safe.
Hi folks. As I mentioned above, I've gotten kind of deep into the Occupy protests this past week. It's been hard to return to the land of snow and twinks (that would be my planet in Homestuck) but here I am with another weird update. Enjoy please. -=- PART XXI It was time to return the typewriter. “I am here, now. Your captive audience. No need for love notes, though of course I would adore them. If more poetry comes to you, simply whisper it in my shell-like ear.†Sniper hitched the heavy little machine under an arm and left the spy in the vacant room. A careful sweep by both of them had revealed no cameras, no recording equipment. It was safe, if cramped. The snowstorm raged on, dumping more than enough inches to keep them snugged into the base. Talk was less raucous now, with the team mostly retreating into what solitude could be scraped from the corners of the cheerless building. After much haranguing, the pyro had finally wrenched himself off his mattress and trudged around to all the possible exits—all the doors opened outwards, built of blast-resistant steel, and none of the windows were large enough for even the scout to wriggle through. Pyro let off a little puff of aggravated flame, and returned to his room. Standing in front of the doctor’s office door, one knuckle raised to knock, Sniper paused to bolster himself—the constant contact with the other men had worn him down some, but any visit to Medic meant inescapable tea and biscuits, and eager, learned chat. He knocked. “Ja? Who is there?†“Sorry doc, didn’t know you were busy. I can come back later—†“Einen Moment.†There was the sound of hushed discussion. Sniper tried not to eavesdrop, but could make out a question or request, to which the doctor responded with something like “Are you quite sure?†Then approaching footsteps, and the door swung open. Medic nodded, smiling tightly, a strange color in his cheeks. He glanced over the gunman’s shoulder. “You are alone?†“Yeah. Doc, I can come b—†“Come inside quickly, please.†Medic took his arm gently and pulled him in, shutting the door close behind. He shot the deadbolt just as Sniper smelled the cigarette, then the perfume. The doctor’s black leather chaise lounge was draped in something other than cats, something it took Sniper a few seconds to make sense of—a girl. Adorable, pale, made up in a fashion thirty-some odd years out of date. Her black lace sheath dress set off by long pearls, brown curls, lacquered cigarette holder, long gloves, and dramatically-lined eyes. Blue eyes. “Scout?†Scout laughed, his big teeth flashing on his painted lips. Sniper looked at the floor, his cheeks burning. It was as if he had walked in on something utterly and privately profane—or sacred. He groped towards the door, stammering apologies, before the doctor caught his sleeve. “Ach, zo. Therapy is sometimes uncomfortable. Scout has been speaking to me, about your relations, and it was his idea to invite you in just now. Please, sit. Let me get you some tea.†Sniper sat, still clutching the typewriter. He kept his hand up, shading his eyes from the bizarre radiance on the couch. A soft little cat wound itself around his leg, flopping over one boot on its back. It purred and writhed, looking up under Sniper’s hand with its strange yellow eyes and black muzzle-spot, chirping. “Forgive little Ushi; she is in heat. Raus, liebchen.†Medic set a teacup down at Sniper’s elbow, and sat behind the desk, where he took up his writing pad and fountain pen, leaning back in his chair. “A-hm, hm. Scout. You were telling me about last week, the first encounter with Herr Scharfschutze. You did not have intercourse on that occasion, correct?†“Welp, I’m sorry you two, I really can’t stay.†Sniper stood awkwardly, setting the typewriter on the desk. “Best of luck with the—the therapy and all that. Sorry I couldn’t be of more help.†Both doctor and patient were talking to him as he headed for the door and—stopped. There was something between him and the exit. A smoky voice whispered, so that only he could hear, “Non…stay. This is completely fascinating.†An erotic frisson cut through Sniper’s embarrassment, a cold thrill at the familiar voice. He turned, the others having noticed his pause and grown quiet, watching to see what he would do. “This is…some kind of treatment?†“Yes, my friend. Psychiatry! I am responsible for our team’s overall health and wellness. That means treating scrapes and bruises and exploded limbs, of course,†Medic waved dismissively, then steepled his fingertips, “But we cannot bandage the psyche. We must use surgical means, to address pathology of the soul.†He patted his breast pocket tenderly, aiming for his heart, Sniper supposed. “Please. Sit.†Sniper sat. And for the first time, let himself peruse the gamine on the couch. The shoulders a bit too wide, the jaw a little too strong, but yes—she was lovely. Certainly the loveliest thing he’d seen since being sent to live among these savages. Medic watched him watch the girl, and Scout merely tilted his head back and inhaled from his cigarette holder, exposing a long, white throat. It was a gesture Sniper recognized easily. He suddenly remembered the invisible incubus in the room. Where was he? Scout was asking him something. He looked up, into the strangely transformed face. An eerie, feline face. “I said, whaddya think?†“It’s— I—†“C’mon, you’re not really a fag, are ya?†“Never really gave it much thought.†Sniper surprised himself with the truth. He hadn’t. “Y’like girls, too. You like me.†Scout cut his eyes at Sniper, inhaling shrewdly. “You’re not a girl.†“Am so. Right now I am. I’m beautiful, too. Ain’t y’sick of not having beautiful things?†“Girls aren’t ‘things’, kid.†Sniper felt strangely defensive, as if Scout was merely playing dressup, was borrowing retro trappings of femininity to put on a sort of puppet show. He suddenly recalled brief liaisons, mostly unplanned encounters on the range, with outdoorswomen at home, women who would sock a man in the jaw for ridiculing their lipstick—or lack thereof. “Fine. And I ain’t a kid.†“This is excellent. We are making real progress!†Medic scribbled notes feverishly. Sniper almost heard a muffled snort from behind him, somewhere in the corner of the office. He ignored it intently, gaze fixed forward. “Now, Scout. Approach him. Tell him how you feel.†And these movements were something new, something thrilling and unsettling—as the girl walked towards him, wavering slightly on her heels, Sniper felt his pulse quicken, and the scent of vanilla reached him before she did. She took his hand—smooth, black glove plucking his rough fingers off the armrest—and pulled him back toward the couch. “Komm, bitte,†Scout said, his accent atrocious. He looked at Medic, who nodded, smiling. “Genau.†“You learning German?†Sniper just wanted something to say, something to let him hear his own voice and remind him he was actually, personally present in this bizarre tableaux. It grounded him a little, and he sat firmly on the leather chaise. “The doc is teaching me.†Scout leaned back on the headrest, losing his composure in a flicker of doubt. His body language stiffened a little, lost a little of its grace, and he plucked at the hem of his dress. Two, three seconds of discomfort were all Sniper could endure. “I do like it.†“Y’do?†“Yeah. It’s—you look a beauty. You really do.†Touch her, something hissed almost inaudibly beside his head. Or, he thought it did. He was already reaching out as the breath cooled and vanished. He was already letting the painted boy bury his cheek in one palm. “Gut. Yes. Just pretend I am not here,†Medic murmured, peering over his busy notepad.
...what the mind fuck... captcha : emphasis pheyrea
On what I can now safely call an exceptionally stuck up snap judgement, I've purposely avoided any and all gaming fandoms on the basis of rumors. I'm glad to see them proven wrong. I don't even know what to say about this entire fic. Or the thread itself. Except, perhaps, that it's horribly distracting from writing my own papers. Not that I mind. I don't think I will ever mind anything this does. You just create things that, in other circumstances, I would entirely refuse to look at, and then make me want them, want to know more about them, with rabid intensity. Random acts of alcohol fueled murder-rape-sex-I-don't-even-know are not my usual territory. Nor are awkwardly poetic trysts that end in guilt and regret. I'm an avid consumer of pointless fluff, and you're rapidly making me want far, far more than that. I'm afraid I sound a bit improperly stalkerish, there, and I apologize but I'm attempting to word a particular sense of awe that this story has inspired that, to be honest, I don't have near the skill with language to explain decently. You are amazing, your fic is amazing, and I am thoroughly amazed.
135: Well said, and I suspect you speak for a number of us. Oh, and I'm a noob here - I know I've seen it before, but I haven't been able to re-find it. Would someone be kind enough to AGAIN explain how to create the referential link to a prior post? Chagrined gratitude.
While cross-dressing is really not my cup of tea, I'm definitely curious to find out where you're going with this new development.
I... I love Weimar Cabaret Scout even more than I thought I would. And I love boys in cabaret girl outfits a lot already, so... Also, I'm just happy whenever kitlers show up, which I don't think I even mentioned the first time... someone else did, but yeah.
Ahh, now I'm really getting torn here. Situations like this therapy session would make me anxious as hell, so I am just as fidgety reading this as Sniper is experiencing it. Nevermind the dynamics between him, Scout and the RED Spy. At the same time, I sit here, eagerly awaiting what happens next. Oh man this just gets better and better.
Hello. I don't even really know how to handle comments like >>135 except to say that they make me ineffably happy. I haven't felt this happy since Double-Soup Tuesday at the Orphanarium! But seriously, your comments keep me alive. Please enjoy this short chapter. PART XXII His skin burned wherever Medic’s gaze fell, as if lensed under sunlight. The little couch was a long, black stage, the doctor a shadowed director in the back row. Sniper’s discomfort was acute. He reminded himself why he was doing this—it was only good if his lover was watching, and besides, the boy looked better and better in his ensemble as the shock wore off. A clean, smoky, sweetly-scented girleen, as coltish and depraved as the cabaret slips she mimed. It was theater, Sniper realized—a performance for his delectation, and the doctor’s. Never mind the psychiatry. Never mind the doctor. Never mind. There was a girl. How rare. How singular. He shut his eyes and followed the wafting vanilla to its primordial lowlands, hunting along Scout’s decolletage, reminding himself to think of the spy glimmering somewhere in the room. As long as he had the benediction of the libertine, it was alright. He mouthed the humid neck, made soft from shaving and powdering. And there, not far from there, was a familiar mouth with its big white teeth, humming encouragement. This warm little creature was confined this time in a sort of reticent excitement, a trembling attempt at modesty, the knees crossed in their filmy stockings, instep bouncing rhythmically, anxious as a rabbit. For an instant, he wanted to tear those stockings from their limbs, snap and scatter the pearls. The impulse passed, but he leaned back, wiping lipstick from his mouth. Slightly mussed now, she was less convincing, but it hardly mattered. They were falling down this particular hole together, and Scout gently plucked off the bush hat and the aviators, fussing once or twice over Sniper’s hair, the movements daintily nervous. Here was a sweet vulnerability in the boy, a sort of slice in his being that one could press open and peer through. Whether it was a true manifestation of some inner gender, or merely the revelation of a private fantasy—with just this shallow probing here on the couch, it was impossible for Sniper to know which—he could feel, instinctively, that this sweetness was being offered as a reward for some gentleness he had performed, that the young athlete needed a vessel into which he could spill his secrets, and that somehow, the doctor was not a good fit—or perhaps was already full. But the costume was unnecessary, now that he knew. The wig merely clouded the face; the dress didn’t fit right. The gunman slipped the first off, leaving the long stockings on, and the gloves too. Sitting beside the shorn girl, he made believe they were in back row theater seats, and crept a hand over one long thigh, parting the legs and lifting the black lace hem against his wrist as his fingers slid up, up. Scout uttered a little moue as his legs parted wide, eager to be discovered. Sniper was almost surprised by what he found, so deeply had he joined in this little fantasy. The black panties seemed impossibly tight over their charge, and he pulled Scout down underneath him, lying full length atop the caressing, pressing young man. Knees came up on either side of him, and he slid his hand under to press and stoke between the legs, gripping the sheathed erection. The dress slipped halfway off over Scout’s head, and Sniper tangled him in it, covering his head and pinning his arms. It was then he noticed the doctor had approached. And in his peripheral vision, a flash of steel—instantly he had Medic’s gloved wrist, and the scalpel twitched between them. “The hell you think you’re doing, mate?â€
I'd try to make fanart for this treasure of a fanfiction, but lord knows I'd fail.
You never cease to amaze us with your writing, toxo. I'm at the edge of my seat.
Seconding ferretsoda. And damn, you write a short chapter and my reading speed decreases by half at least, as if I subconsciously try to make it last longer. It worked. And I love it. You got me with that fantasy too, by the way. (and well, Snipes. You know Medic. What did you expect.)
>>141 >>143 Please make fanart! Oh please do! I really enjoy your thread in /afanart/ and I've been thinking about illustrations of this story forever but I'm insanely busy. >>142 I'm terribly sorry about the short chapter! I will update again soon, I promise.
PART XXIII “That is unnecessary,†the doctor sniffed. “He is my patient. I will not harm him.†Sniper released him, sitting up and swinging one foot to the floor. “What’re you up to, then?†“It is part of the therapy. Usually we get this far on our own, but you have been an able assistant. Are you ready, Junge?†“Ja,†answered Scout. Sniper reflected that German was a poor choice of tongues for romance, but perhaps that wasn’t what was happening, here. Medic insinuated himself between the lad and the gunman, pressing against both. He smelled of soap, mostly, but with a body heat that, even through his lab coat, betrayed his excitement. It was shocking--the doctor was very pointedly aloof, his smile was welcoming but never weak or hungry. Sniper found himself studying the arch profile, the perfectly-combed hair with its tiny, dashing curl. What must it be like, to inspire something as primitive as lust in a man so impossible to read? He envied the scout, just a little. To be so warm and livid that even this stolid man of science wanted you, it must be exhilarating. And a little part of him thrilled, at the closeness of the usually distant physician. The obvious arousal, the slight dampness of his brow, and his thigh laid next to Sniper’s on the couch. “Would you kindly hold him still?†Sniper swallowed. “How so?†“Just there. Yes. Make sure he does not slip; this is delicate work.†Medic guided Sniper’s hands to Scout’s lap. The gunman crouched on the floor beside the sofa, and Medic leaned over his subject. The scalpel dipped slowly, alighted on the straining black satin of the panties. It was a slow incision, controlled, even as Medic’s breaths came rougher and shorter. The satin gaped after the passing of the blade, and the pinkess underneath was so bright that it burned in its black mouth, throbbing like a tongue. The young man barely dared to breathe, and the doctor did not stop until he had reached the deep crux of the legs. “Let him go.†The flesh escaped quickly, as if being exhaled, and Scout arched in the cool air. Medic smiled at his handiwork, his eyes a little over-wide. He leaned down to Sniper and cupped a hand conspiratorially around his ear. “This is very good for him. I believe he is working out some issues having to do with his father; perhaps his mother too, why not. This is very powerful symbolism; we are making great progress.†“Symbolic of what?†Medic sat back up, grinning. “I have no idea!†The doctor whipped the dress from Scout’s head, tossing it aside, and carried the young man bodily off the couch, heading straight to the operating room with his happy burden. Sniper watched dumbly, unsure of what was going on. The door swung shut behind them, and Sniper heard a gentle metallic thump, squeaking, the clatter of instruments. He was about to excuse himself in confusion, when the Medic swatted the door open and called him into the dark interior. There was Scout, arrayed in state on the stainless steel operating table. Sniper had always wondered why there were stirrups on that thing, but they seemed simply utilitarian, now. “Herr Scharfshutze, I will try to stay out of your way. But as you and the boy are already intimate...†he indicated the patient, who smiled and bit his lower lip. Sniper’s skin chilled in the cool air of the operating room, and he could not bring himself to simply approach the table. The young man was very pale on the brushed steel, catching bouncelights from the reflective surface as he moved, his eyeshadow very dark. Under the single bright light in the windowless room, the table took on the character of an altar, and its smiling subject, a sacrificial virgin. Medic’s face dropped away into shadow, his spectacles glinting. Sniper heard him turn to a fresh page in his notepad. “What am I supposed to be doing in here?†“Whatever comes naturally, please.â€
I might've laughed a little too loud at the "I have no idea!" part..
Hi. I am now slightly less sleep-deprived. The chapter I posted this morning was fraught with typos and since there were not any comments yet, I decided to tear it down and edit it and repost. Please excuse the inconvenience. I was at Occupy Cal last night and things got a bit rough. -----=----- PART XXIV Sniper felt as if he had lost his way at some point in the last forty minutes. He approached the watchful boy as if he were wavering on a tightrope, one foot in front of the other, in concentrated unease. He was merely watching all of this play out, as if the doctor or the boy were laying down track for him--or the unseen spy. Remembering his purpose in this room was a shock--where was the masked man? His silent audience, his secret. It was almost as if he could turn his head and find the demon on his shoulder. But it was empty, and now he had arrived at the cold edge of the table. Nothing about the Scout was lively, now. He was as static and pale, slightly bluish under the fierce operating light, vulnerable as a fresh autopsy. The powder, the wanton eyes and stained lips. That the slit in his panties had spilled all that pink flesh, just added to the sense of a disembowelment, an extrusion of secret organs, and Sniper felt as if he were trespassing in the burial preparations of a boy-king. The little prince was beginning to be a habit; it seemed he could not spend more than a few hours out of contact with that compact, livid body, and through no fault of his own. As he drew alongside the shifting ribs, he vividly recalled the taste of them. The sounds of anguish he had wrung out from this fluttering throat, and the way he and Spy had caged him between their long limbs, like some luminous ocean innocent in a lobster trap. The steel table was so cold under his grip. His breathing had gotten away from him, and there were other, distant reminders that his body, his responses, were fighting him at the end of a long chain. He observed coolly as Scout bit his smeared lip when he felt Sniper’s hands start their kneading, smoothing, pawing gestures, taking in the white flesh like scything a harvest. Like brushing out a snow angel. And then there were the rough kisses, the bitten nipples, the worried ilia. Even the dry rubbing of his empty mouth along the tops of Scout’s stockinged feet, still curved into those dainty shoes, set into the stirrups. He did not become aware that the doctor had been taking notes, until the scratch of the pencil ceased. He looked into the umbra outside the operating table, and saw the glinting spectacles, hovering disembodied above a yellow pad. The doctor approached. “Allow me,†his voice was low and soft. It sent a stab of adrenaline into Sniper’s guts. The scalpel appeared without fanfare, but Scout whimpered as it was set down behind the first incision. Medic, at one side of the table, leaned forward over the boy’s stomach, and made a small cut in the fabric over his cleft. Gloved fingers followed, the doctor entering his cut like any exploratory surgery and, finding what lay beneath satisfactory, he withdrew with a small smile. “Please approach from the proper angle, and we will begin.†That little smile grew no larger, but deepened--the doctor’s dimples were rakish. Sniper swallowed, his pulse pounding in his ears. He moved to stand between the stirrups, and felt almost numb as his zipper was clinically parted, and a part of him he barely recognized was pulled into cool air. Scout wrung himself back and forth on the table, mad with anticipation. “I administered the preparatory treatments earlier today,†Medic assured the gunman. “She is clean, and slick. And while I would do this myself, I’m afraid my sense of hygiene is...over-acute. It is a personal failing. So you will understand how grateful I am, to have you here...†It was difficult to meet his eyes. In the way that some patients feel a compulsion to throw themselves from deadly heights, should they go too near the edge, Sniper looked into the distinguished, German face and felt he should kiss the man. “Allow me,†the doctor said again. And his smile cracked into a grin as he pressed one open palm on Sniper’s coccyx, and with the other, took his straining erection. Guided through the slit in the fabric, the pressure on the base of his spine steady and insistent, Sniper found himself sinking with scientific precision into the boy on the table. It was impossible to tell whether the resultant moan was his, or the doctor’s. Once he had found his stride, the medic stepped back. Notes were taken. Sniper felt himself assume angles and noble expressions for the benefit of the observations being made, resisting the instinct to crouch and rut and grunt. He fucked the young man, studiously, precisely, his sense of distance increasing as he watched himself do it. It was not long before the notepad was set down, the doctor approaching Scout’s head, which was thrown back and to one side, and it was with a feeling of completion that the gunman watched the physician’s straight, businesslike member being wantonly engulfed in stained lips. “I know what little Fräulein likes,†the doctor breathed. “They do like their little toys, the sweet Mädchen. Mmh.†He reached beneath the table and brought forth an unfamiliar object--a sort of hand-held machine, bulbous on one end, the other tapering to a handle with dials, and finally a long electrical cord which trailed into the gloom. Medic flicked a switch, and the machine began to buzz. Scout tightened on Sniper in excitement, and when the blunt end was pressed to the head of his cock, pressing it into his abdomen, he began to writhe and buck with an enthusiasm muffled only by the doctor’s enjoyment of his mouth. How long did they stay like this, the three of them? Sniper found himself in the most baffling and stimulating moment of his life, the seconds unrolling like long, plush carpets. Medic handled the instrument with all the grace of his profession, even as he rolled his head back and pressed into the soft, red mouth. When the gunman felt the cool leather gloves at his flanks, dipping beneath his pants to push them down, he simply could not muster any shock. Why not? he recalled thinking later, even days later. He was the only one that noticed the spy working behind him, although the others might have wondered why he chuckled and gasped at that particular moment. He had simply thought of a bad joke--that once again, he was being stabbed in the back. But it was worth it. The soft breaths on his ear, the grip on his hips, the new kinetic urgency transferred to the prone boy, who in turn noticed only a greater power behind the gunman’s thrusts, and braced himself to match them, sliding his tongue along his doctor’s organ. It would be over-wishful, to say there were four simultaneous climaxes in that strange, dark room, and indeed, it was more like the fall of a civilization--a clatter, more than a bang. Nor does it matter precisely when. But it ended in a tangle--a slick, sticky tangle of saltwater from strange oceans, of spare limbs, of spent ghosts clinging to the still-living. The little machine was switched off and set in a kidney pan to await sterilization. The doctor braved a delicate kiss with his patient, his heart full of rare elixirs until his clean, sensible blood sluiced them away. The gunman arched into an incubus, which was gone in the next breath, leaving its hot ectoplasm as a last curse. And the boy, of course, the little prince--he was anointed as befit his royal blood.
Amazing chapter, very hot ;)
Holy crap. Captcha: intimate, urprim.
I love this story so much. With every chapter, it gets impossibly hotter, creepier and even more perfect than it already was. Your writing is so...wild, but at the same time really precise, like certain words aim straight for the subconsciousness. I can't help but read each paragraph several times and let it sink in for a while before I can read further. So much that it forced me to adjust my screensaver settings :)
Hope everything is going well with you, Toxo.. anxiously awaiting updates ;)
Captcha: "publishing rsityftw". Yep. So the occupation continues, and it turns out people don't pay you to be a revolutionary, so there's been a lot of scrambling for survival money over here, which prevents fanficking. And then of course, the was the unbelievable derail of Law & Order: BLU, which just wrapped up the second part of its two-part pilot episode, plus commercials, and even though Cat Detective is doing most of the work, it's still a very convenient excuse not to be writing SNUFF. Enjoy. =---------= PART XXV They say cats always land on their feet, but at that point, there really wasn't a floor. When Sniper found himself dressed and sitting in the stifling cold of the office not long afterwards, the sense of freefall lingered like a hangover. The boy was gone, cleaned up and packed off to his room or simply elsewhere, it didn’t matter, both the Medic and his guest were tired of decadence and depravity, however wrapped up in medicine or romance it had been—who cared, Sniper thought dully, drinking his tea. How many decisions had he actually made in the last hour and a half; how many had been made for him? He couldn’t remember, and never would. The doctor dropped primly into his desk chair, where he crossed one ankle to the other knee, and looked sidelong at the gunman. There was one moment of calm. “My friend, it is a relief to have someone in this base that I know I can trust.†Sniper’s words came reluctantly; he felt wrung out and estranged. “No worries, doc. It is what it is.†One of the white cats jumped into his lap and did a slow pirouette before tucking itself into a little loaf. Sniper smiled, and stroked the creature. “There is more than that. Something has happened to me—I need an ally, and I believe you are the man for it.†Medic was solemn; his brow knitted as he fished under his desk blotter and brought out the photo of the boy. “Do you recognize this child?†“No, I don’t.†Medic sighed. “Many would not. He is…something of a son. A boy I am entrusted with. He has been taken from me.†“Kidnapped?†“Yes.†“Doc, I can’t leave this base any more than you can, even when the blizzard clears out. If you’re asking me to do something back in the world, I could maybe write someone a letter…†“Nein, no, it is nothing like that. This was here.†“I don’t understand. You brought your kid to the viaduct?†Medic blew out his cheeks, exasperated in a general sense. He seemed to be struggling with something. “I am not sure how to explain this to someone who is not—to a man of wilderness, not of science. But I know you are educated, that you read books and attended proper schooling. It is difficult—he is my son, yes? But only in the sense that I caused him to be born.†Sniper said nothing. “The specifics are not important, and anyway, my notes are all in Deutsch.†Medic waved a hand irritably. “He was born here, with us, in the gravel pit facility several years ago. His physical maturity has been accelerated; a modification of the medigun technology—it is less accurate to say he was born, and more accurate to say he was respawned. ‘Spawned’, actually. Printed. If he is my son, he is as much anyone else’s here; the genetic structure is something like, eh, vas ist, ja, der ‘jigsaw’ puzzle. Do you understand?†“I’m working on it.†Sniper’s cat was purring. “I had to fill in the gaps somehow; the biological sample was somewhat damaged in the fire, and in the intervening time, and by however many hands it has passed through in twenty-odd years. Regardless, it is done. It took years of animal trials, but I did it. He is perfect. And they stole him from me.†“Who did?†“Those schiesse-sucking REDs!†his fist hammered the desk twice, three times. The cat flattened its ears, but stayed where it was. Sniper leaned forward. “You’ve been keeping a child at this base? At the others, too? How did you transport him? Why didn’t any of us know about this?†“We carry so much materiel from one location to another, no one questioned my extra crate here, extra drum there. And there are always basements, tunnels, caves sometimes. I just said I needed somewhere to dispose of medical waste, somewhere safe and distant from our water supply and living quarters. It is one of the benefits of being the only specialist in your field, I am sure you have noticed this—they do not question you, when it comes to your area of expertise. No one would second guess your assertions about rifle maintenance, or shooting blinds.†“I guess not…†“They have him. Right now, they have him. Gott knows what he must endure—I am positive their physician is taking his own samples so that he can make a counterfeit, a fake! Die schweine—drawing blood, running stress tests perhaps. Exploratory surgery, ach mein Gott…it is what I would do, and he has always been jealous of me! He knew I would be the first! He is ignorant; his science is flawed, and he only wishes he had thought of—†“Doc,†Sniper interrupted, “What is it you want me to do about this?†“They’re holding him hostage. They will keep him until they get what they want, and maybe if they get tired of him they will tell the company. That cannot happen.†“What do they want?†“They want our spy. They have his head; now they want his body.â€
Ho-oooly shit. Now, English may be my only language, but I am far from the understanding even the other commentators of this fic have- let alone YOU- but I just had to tell you how much I appreciate this. Just got done reading it for the first time; sat down and read the whole nine yards, and my mind, I can tell you, is completely blown. I feel like I've been through some kinda mental gymnastics here. You have no idea how many times I looked up words... Was breathless at multiple points throughout... Anyways. I just feel like I've come out of this with an appreciation of language no teacher of mine has ever inspired in me, and I thank you kindly. Also the porn wasn't bad either.
I was wondering when we'd hear more about the boy! And you've left us with another exciting ending! Argh I just can't wait for more.
Little catloaf. A lovely touch. You speak feline as fluently as you do psycho mercenary.
154 All the English-as-a-second-language-speakers in this thread are so cool. I can't tell you how happy I am to hear from you, and it's really impressive to me that you go out of your way to read fanfic in a foreign language and look up the words. I should do that, damn it. How lazy am I? Okay folks, it's that tiiiiime agaaaaaain... =----------------------------------= PART XXVI It was a long, weird walk back to the bivouac. Spy was there when he arrived, chain smoking on the bed, reading a comic book pilfered from Scout’s room. He let it fall onto his chest and smiled at Sniper. “Did you have a pleasant doctor’s visit?†Sniper didn’t answer right away, lowering himself into the desk chair instead. He looked at his hands. “Do you...†he began, “know anything about our spy?†Spy sat up, shifting closer along the edge of the bed. “I do, cher. I did not want to get you mixed up in that mess. It is our docteur’s scheme, I’m afraid. An elaborate method of extracting some biological samples from his nemesis; some sort of cloning project that has turned into an arms race between them--†he swirled his finger beside his ear “--why do you ask?†“I figured you had to have been involved.†“I have no interest in their little science fiction spat.†“Well, you’re the only man on this base that could even conceivably locate, and then steal, a secret child from the enemy.†Sniper looked up, catching the blue eyes. Spy handed him a freshly-lit cigarette, which he took automatically. His lover’s brand was sweeter than his own, and in this moment, it irritated him. He smoked anyway. “You flatter me.†“But I’m right.†“You are.†Spy smiled a little lopsidedly. “You and I will have our little secrets. It is the damned reality of this war--Montagues and Capulets. I hope you trust me enough to know I’d never put you in harm’s way. You have...corrupted my loyalties somewhat, I am afraid.†Spy reached out, cupping the gunman’s rough jaw in one glove. Sniper smiled. “So--the doctor told you all this?†“Yeah. I thought you would have stayed for that, but I guess you let yourself out.†“Stayed?†The spy looked confused. “Stayed where?†“Medic’s office? You were there the whole time, I thought. Or did you leave right after...right after?†“After what?†Sniper’s guts chilled. “You were there,†he said firmly. “You came with me to the office. You were there, with Scout.†Spy’s face shifted almost imperceptibly. He dropped his hand from Sniper’s chin, and leaned back. “‘With Scout’, is it. And the doctor saw fit to disclose his personal problems, I gather. What did you three do, exactly, to put him so at ease.†His affect was flat, his questions slamming shut on themselves. “If this is a joke, it’s in bloody poor taste. You were there. You were with me; I felt your bloody hands all over me; you whispered in my ear! You told me to!†“No. I have been here all afternoon. I did wonder what was taking you so long...†Spy looked at his knees. His mouth stretched over his teeth as he raised his eyes. “The three of you, eh? Our little tryst was just your training wheels, I take it. You were simply practicing for the main event--some sordid performance with the petit pute and his pet pharmacist. Or were you the pet, today? Perhaps they had you coming and going. Perhaps you borrowed some rouge from that tiny bitch, and made yourself pretty for your precious boyfriends. I trust everything went well? Plenty of filth spilt on my rangy gunman, then. My precious peroquette, lathered with German seed. Fantastico.†He sucked at his cigarette, lids lowered, the deadly monotone running out uselessly against the grey walls. He blinked once, twice. He looked away, then back at the stricken man at the desk. “I apologize, I--I lost my temper. I don’t know why you would do such a thing, and then tell me about it, so perhaps you are telling the truth, and you really thought I was there through it all. You do not need to try and obscure your infidelities with tales of hallucination, my darling. It is enough to simply not mention them. It is what a gentleman would do.†Sniper started upright, breathing shallowly, knocking the chair back. The agent looked up at him. “Bebe, you are positively sallow. I am sorry I said you were telling stories, but what did you expect me to think? Are you feeling well?†He rose and approached the frightened man, wrapped him in smoky limbs. “Shhh. Come here.†They rocked together for a moment, Sniper muffling his breaths in the familiar throat. Yes, here was control. Here was sense. This man, that he could touch and lean upon and inhale so greedily, this man was real. The spy stroked his back, turning his head to take in the crux of the jaw, the soft droplet of the earlobe. Sniper began to breathe more easily. Perhaps it could be forgotten, set aside like anything else that was nonsensical, but ultimately meaningless--unseasonal weather, or a freak accident. Nothing to be done. Yes, already he could feel it leaving him, as if it were a rowboat he had kicked away from the dock. Goodbye, then. “Ah, you smell of him. You smell of them both--and you smell of fucking, and of cheap perfume.†Spy’s voice was matter-of-fact. Sniper shook him off, stumbling away. The room was stifling, tiny. He couldn’t get away; even with one hand on the knob, there was nowhere else to go. The sense of freefall returned so abruptly he almost staggered, swaying against the shut door, his lungs squeezing him like a fist. Spy stood smoking, casually inserting one hand into a pocket. “You are, perhaps, over-stressed. Sometimes battle fatigue only becomes apparent when there is no battle.†“I’m not ill,†Sniper rasped. Spy tilted his head forward, looking up past quirked brows. “Aren’t you?â€
It's not fair how much you make me love your writing. Damn. Do you have anything else on the internet that I should be reading (Besides LAW & ORDER: BLU)?
Oh snap, son. Shit just got real. That said, your writing is wonderful, as always. And I agree with the above Anon, I would absolutely love to read anything else you've written.
(there is an update under all this; the impatient may scroll down) Hi folks. Long time no post. As for other writing, I contributed to a story a few days ago called The Queens; it is over on /fanfic/. My other writings were mostly for professional game blogs and don't make for very entertaining reading after the fact. There will absolutely be more actual writing from me very shortly. In other news, I have two new drawings in the General Art Thread in /fanart/. I'm thinking it might be time to start my own thread over there. =------------------------= PART XXVII The silk tie was already sogged with blood, wicking it down the front of the crisp dress shirt and into the lap of the corpse. Sniper stood well back from the gruesome tableaux, Medic beside him. Engineer gestured helplessly. “It just keeps up, fellas. There isn’t a shutoff within reach, for obvious security reasons, so it’s not like we can just flip a switch until we figure out the god dang problem.†His face was drawn under the hardhat and goggles, days of confinement funneling his attention to this one project until it had become an obsession. The raw neck continued to seep as the doctor approached it and crouched down. “It is a relatively clean cut.†“Does that make a difference, doc?†“Who can say.†The three men studied the dying body. Finally, some lingering vitality went out of it, and it went still--Sniper hadn’t realized it wasn’t already still--and respawn picked it up. They waited thirty seconds in awkward boredom before the strange, dry sounds of molecular assembly began, followed by a familiar tang of ozone, and the spy’s fresh linen and cologne. Another dapper decapitant crashed bonelessly forward and began to gush. The effect was unnerving. “Horrible, ain’t it?†No one answered. Engineer knocked his hat into his hands and rubbed his pate roughly. “If you think you can get it stabilized in a lab somewhere, I’m sure the machine will be better for it. Just a lil’ worried about what happens when Demo falls asleep in full kit next to the wood stove again, and she’s gotta bring us all back at once, after running hot for weeks, y’know?†Engineer laid one sympathetic hand on a wall, as if caressing the machine itself. “Anyway, I’m about fed up with this, gentlemen. I’ll leave y’all to it.†He let himself out. Medic stood and brushed his hands on his coat, though he had touched nothing. “One minute is not enough time. Five may be.†“We have to get this thing across that frozen wasteland without it being picked up by respawn.†“And without being seen.†“I don’t think even five minutes is going to cut it.†“No, you are probably right.†Medic studied the thing intensely, banked fire in his eyes. A fascinating challenge. He pulled a medigun out of a locker and leveled it at the corpse in its wallow of blood. The beam hit home with a warm thrum, and Medic set it on the floor, still running. He approached the body again, flinching a little when it twitched. Sniper reluctantly joined him--the corpse aroused instinctual aversions; it was deeply uncanny, a life-size mannequin of flesh, oddly dissembled, the fresh-pressedness of it just making it all so much more vile. Medic leaned into the neck of the thing, watching intently. “Fascinating. See how the tissues begin to knit and clot.†“Will it grow a new head?†Medic snorted. “I would be very surprised.†They watched. The thing twitched with vitality, seemed to be struggling for life, the gloves flexing mindlessly against the floorboards. And died. Medic frowned, rubbing his chin. “Ach,†he sighed, standing to clap Sniper on the arm. “I suppose it would not have been that easy, ja? Come with me, my friend. We will need equipment from the laboratory.â€
I started a tumblr just for writing: http://toxofics.tumblr.com
I saw your update earlier this morning, before rushing out the door, and I’ve been itching all day to get back online so I could re-read your latest two instalments, having also missed the previous one because of work. I was not disappointed! I don’t understand why nobody else (as I’m typing this) has commented yet? I am tired and not as eloquent as I could be, but this deserves a response; please forgive any fatigue-induced foreign-language grammatical mishaps. First things first, your second-to-last update: Wonderful! It quite chilled me. Sniper going half-mad was just perfectly written, and I very much sympathise with him; I can’t figure out if RED Spy is being an utter manipulative bastard or if there’s something else going on, and it thrills me no end! And those two last lines… I’m back to hating Spy now, I think. I don’t even know if he’s is just playing with Sniper, punishing him, or past half-mad himself. Love it! And your newest update – plot! I’m really excited for this too, despite the lack of kinky porn. This small interlude really tickled my curiosity; I want to know what this is all about! >>160 In other news, I have two new drawings in the General Art Thread in /fanart/. I'm thinking it might be time to start my own thread over there. Your creativity shames me; wonderful writing and art?! I’m glad you’re part of this fandom, though, sharing your talents with the rest of us. Please, never stop! >>157 All the English-as-a-second-language-speakers in this thread are so cool. I can't tell you how happy I am to hear from you, and it's really impressive to me that you go out of your way to read fanfic in a foreign language and look up the words. I should do that, damn it. How lazy am I? Heh, it’s really not all that impressive, at least not in my case; English is almost first-language to me by now, after years of education and hundreds (thousands? I have lost count) of books. I think I read faster in English than in my first language, and certainly my English punctuation is better. Most of the time, the people I correspond with online can’t tell I’m not a native speaker. It’s really too bad that my spoken English is marred by an atrocious accent from lack of practise; I guess I should travel more. >>161 I started a tumblr just for writing Well, I did ask you for your tumblr earlier in this thread; I’ll go follow you there and finally de-anon myself to you. I hope that’s alright with you...
Changed the URL of the tumblr to reflect that my writing partner Quiz and I will both be posting there: http://fuckmarrysue.tumblr.com >>162 Thanks again for reading and commenting, and I think people don't have a lot to say at this point that hasn't already been said. Plus, the most recent updates have been very much about plot and very little about boners, so I don't blame anyone for waiting for the good stuff.
Plot makes sexy times more fun. Just wanted to put that here. I found I needed to read it some more, I am out of the loop, so to speak. So I will continue this on Tumblr. Makes things better
I have promptly followed your fic tumblr, good sir. And now I'm excited to read the revised version of this. Loving the plot as well. Ah, poor Blu Spy.
The creepy descriptions of the BLU Spy's decapitated corpse were delicious. Can't wait for more.
PART XXVIII Sniper stood by with a stopwatch and clipboard while the Medic worked feverishly, calling out numbers, notes, and times of death as he tore through one spy after another, using the respawn countdown to gulp coffee and biscuits, or to check Sniper’s notes. For the gunman, it was by turns boring and nauseating. He would turn away, and back again only to find the doctor up to his armpit in the severed neck. At times there were sounds he preferred not to investigate at all, keeping his eyes locked firmly on his notes. The margins filled with doodles--interlocking crosshairs, a crude sketch of a crocodile. The was a heavy, flopping splash as Medic, in exasperation, slit open the spy’s belly and pulled out the interiors, letting them fall where they may. Sniper looked steadily at his hands. “Zwei--nein. No. Forget it. That one does not count.†Medic swore a hair-curling oath in his native tongue, stripped off his soiled gloves and hurled them down onto the steaming pile of offal. He stepped over the midden and made for the gunman, shaking his hands as if they were wet. Sniper jumped away when Medic patted his shoulder companionably, and the doctor laughed. “Fear not, that is what the gloves are for.†Sniper knocked his hat into his hands and rubbed his forehead roughly. “Doc, can we take a break--this is starting to get to me.†“Of course, of course.†Medic led him to the far end of the respawn garage, where they both leaned against a wall, enjoying the relatively fresher air. “Is medicine always like this?†“No, no. That was not medicine. I wonder, though, if the proper inducements to keeping this man alive are necessary to motivate my success.†“How d’you mean?†Medic gestured at the far operation, already supporting a fresh body. “Well, he will be back in mere seconds, no matter my bunglings.†“What about the boy?†Medic cocked his head to one side. “Ja,†he said softly, “Of course. True. They have him, don’t they?†Sniper glanced at the physician, who was lost in his own thoughts. Presently they returned to work. --- By late afternoon, Medic had developed a series of procedures that kept the body alive for four minutes and forty seconds, precisely. This was the limit of their progress, and after many more disappointing hours, he threw up his gory hands in surrender. “No more! I cannot stand it. We cannot wheel the beast across a battleground in an iron lung, and I am at the end of my patience for this--this--this butchery! Better doctors, with better equipment, have tried, and failed, to do what everyone seems to expect me to--to--to conjure out of nothingness, with rags and scraps!†He dashed his tools to the ground, where they tinkled and danced. “I have only one brain, one set of hands! I cannot build an entire central nervous system out ofâ€--he cast around for something to lavish his rage upon--â€girly calendars! And expired ordnance!†Sniper stopped him before he could finish the kick he aimed at a pile of grenades. “Doc. Doc, listen to me! Let’s get out of here; let’s do something else for a while. Jesus christ, we haven’t even eaten today--†“Could you eat?!†“No, but it’s been hours and hours! Let’s go, come on. Let’s just go.†He gripped the doctor’s arm as if he were steering an intransigent drunk out of a party. Medic seemed to lean into him, allowing himself to be brought into the hallway. Sniper shut the door behind them. “Why are you helping me?†The gunman slung his hands on his belt and took a breath. “I dunno, doc. Does it matter?†Medic tilted his head back, leaning against the wall. His eyes were shut, and Sniper noticed a spatter of dark blood across one lens of the doctor’s glasses. “No, I suppose not. Scout, for all that he is dear to me, would not be able to stand still for something like this.†“He wouldn’t. So you needed me, is all. That’s what mates are for.†Medic smiled. “‘Mates’,†he pronounced. “Well, sure.†“That is very charming.†Sniper looked at him askance, wondering if he was being made fun of. The doctor opened his eyes and regarded the other man seriously--blue, Sniper noticed, even behind the smeared lens. “Schütze, I am not a sentimental man, and perhaps I am overtired, but--†“No,†Sniper interrupted. “It’s okay. You don’t need to explain.†Medic dropped his gaze and smiled. Sniper did the same.
Yep. This is good. Still enjoying mindless vivisection? I know I am!
... Words fail me. I ache to be half of the writer that you are, Toxo. This is the first post I have ever made here on TF2chan, and I just... I have nothing to say. Nothing and everything.
Found this a few days ago. I'm in love with it and I am dying to read the next part. You are an amazing writer Toxo.
170 Learn. To. Sage. Please.
171 Sorry about that.
PART XXIX The room was dark and stale in the winter’s early twilight, and Sniper stumbled as he let himself into the room. He bent to grope for the interfering object--a gracefully discarded boot. The Spy shimmered into visibility, leaning against the far wall, and exhaled. “I’m glad you aren’t taking any chances.†Sniper shut the door behind him, wading into the smoke and closeness of their nest. “Given up for the day?†“Yeah. Nothing more to be done.†He dropped to the bed in a boneless slouch. “And the doctor?†“Obsessed, of course. I left him there; he’d stopped speaking English hours ago.†The Spy laughed, and it was light, musical. Sniper smiled at him, and noticed the near-beard prickling at the mask. His own scruff bothered him, catching the collar of his shirt, itchy when he let his jaw drop to his neck. He rubbed it, and the Spy mirrored him. “Disgusting, no? I think it flatters your rugged mien, but me? I am like a parachute dropped on a cropped cornfield.†“Oh, it’s terrible,†Sniper leaned into the other man, “shameful. I wrote to the French consulate; they’re excommunicating you within the week.†Spy grinned, accepting the weight of the gunman, leaning back on the mattress. “‘Excommunicated?’ Being French is not a religion.†“Isn’t it?†Their mouths met in heat and roughness. Spy trailed over Sniper’s rough jaw, chewing the apex of his chin gently at first, then hard. Sniper yipped. “Y’can’t do it with your teeth. Don’t they teach you to shave properly during Sunday school?†“Abbé François was very firm on d'études de la chevelure. Once, I was even spanked.†“Mhm. And how old were you?†“A tender twelve. And so were my lashings.†“Punished for improper shaving at twelve years old?†“Mais oui. I was precocious. Very well developed.†“Tell me more.†Sniper murmured into the heady fabric of the mask, working his fingers under the pinstriped jacket. “Never. You are a lout and a pervert. I will call the gendarmes.†“Do as I say, Tender Twelve, and I will go easy on your poor arse.†“Help! No, Abbé, not the lash!†They clasped each other in momentary joy, the static between them forgotten or wiped away completely, Sniper could not tell. He forbid himself from dwelling on it, forcing himself to grasp this moment of relief, to clutch at the hot, bony torso of his lover and lap at the pallid skin working itself free of the collar. Giddy laughter deepened, and stretched to moans. Sniper moved languidly against the man under him, his tongue lazily touring the bony palate and soft red gums, fingers brushing the mask. When the Spy slipped a hand between them, he anticipated a more profane touch, and stiffened a little, biting his lip. but something harder shifted itself into the agent’s hand, and then a blade was against his cheek.
Geez, you are a mean one, toxo! Stop playing with our hearts Awesome as always, cant wait for the next. Their dialogues are so well done and so sweet.
What is this? Nooooooooooooooooooooooo! Wonderful update my friend.
I avoided this fic all this time because crossfaction sniper/spy is probably my least favorite pairing, but I heard it was one of the best fics on the chan ever, so I thought I'd give it a shot. And hoo boy, am I glad I did. I'm not very good with words, so I can't really express all the things I love about this fic (there are so many), but I will say that I'm very, very sorry that I didn't start reading this sooner.
Oh wow. Their banter is just wonderful. And for the last sentence… hell, for all we know, Spy could just be like 'I'mma shave you now', but somehow, the whole mood suddenly shifted for me. From playful joy to aroused to… well, tense and still aroused, but definitly more cautionously so. All in just a few words. While it may not have been intended that way, I'm still impressed. Wonderful chapter, as usual!
PART XXX “No. No no no no.†Sniper was locked in place, his hands buried under Spy’s shirt, waiting. The blade patted him gently. “No?†“No. I’m not like the kid. I don’t want to play murder with you.†“It is terrible, to be so misunderstood.†Spy’s voice was mincing and musical. Sniper had learned to fear that tone. He felt his palms becoming damp and sticky against the other man’s chest. “That was not what I was suggesting at all.†“No?†“No.†The agent held his eyes for a long, strained moment. They sprung up at the same time, Sniper digging into the ribs for purchase, Spy yoking him with his free arm. They kicked and grunted, falling to the scrubby carpet, and Sniper waited for the knife to go in. He had nothing, his kukri and guns snowbound, and far, far away. He clenched, sure it was coming, preparing to bite down on his scream and bleed out with dignity. But he felt no steel, nothing but the dull bruising of the Spy’s limbs pressing him down, making him quiet. Like he was livestock. Run to ground in his own warren, staring into teeth and heat, waiting to be devoured. He was filled suddenly with an urgent need to look behind him, to make sure his mother wasn’t there in the corner, by some miracle, watching him give it all up, watching him be cut into long ribbons by a man who wore cologne, a man who owned a shoe tree, a man who, even now, was prickling him with a knife that a rangewoman like his mother would have laughed out of any pub, kitchen, or homestead. That wasn’t a knife. So he didn’t turn, didn’t look behind him. He knew she wouldn’t be there, because he knew he was alone, in this strange little cell, with his own personal demon. And he didn’t want to see the look on her face. “Shhhhh,†the agent said, breathing hard between clenched teeth, laughing raw and dry. It was almost a grin. “Don’t be stupid, cher—†“Fuck you.†“—If I had ever wanted you dead, I would have done you long ago. And if you really wanted to get out of this, you would already be screaming for the boy wonder. He could hear you, you know. Easily. I did.†Spy moistened his dry mouth, panting. He had bitten his tongue during their tussle, and his teeth were filmed with blood. His voice was thick with it. Sniper searched the ceiling for a response. Spy watched him with bright, inquisitive eyes. He felt as if a cloud had passed over the sun; a break in the overcast had opened, and then shut on him. His lover sensed him miss his cue, and rushed to fill the strange emptiness. “Would he save you, do you think?†Spy relaxed his grip as he felt the gunman slacken under him. The knife tip slid between Sniper’s whiskers, wending its way across his jaw. “Would he do his job, do the right thing, and knock my brains out against the wall? Or would he want in?†Sniper blinked slowly, concentrated on his breathing. It was a fantasy, a sex game, and these were just little lovetaps between the two of them. Yes. They had an understanding. Besides, he had bloodied the man’s teeth; he had played too rough. He was a lout, and now he was ruining their fun. He smiled up at the musing spy. “Hey,†he said. “Yes?†“I’m sorry.†The mask split into a dazzling, bloody smile. —- The leather was soft and warm on his teeth. Sniper opened his eyes and watched the glove gently slide away, running out the length between them, stopping at the buckle. “You really think you can do this?†He nodded, the animal scent of leather filling his mouth. “My brave boy. Hold very, very still. If the strop goes limp, it will get damaged, and the edge will spoil, and then we will have to saw our beards away in chunks. Now—†He stopped, looking into Sniper’s face with bemused expression. “Wha ish id?†“Nothing, it is just...I want to make sure. Do you trust me?†Sniper nodded instantly, hating the doubtful tilt of Spy’s mouth. “We start with the canvas...†The balisong twitched and shivered, and jumped at Sniper’s face, then back again, shiff, shiff, shiff. The strop pulled at his bite. “Canvas first, to make the blade hot, and more easily-shaped.†Spy lifted his eyes to Sniper’s, smirking at his joke. The knife never stopped moving, the rhythm soft and hypnotic. Spy hummed under his breath, keeping time. “Yes. Good.†He tested the edge on his tongue. “Hot.†One glove nudged at Sniper’s lips, flipping the strop to its other side, wetting itself in his saliva. Now he could taste the canvas on his tongue—salt and dust. Spy smiled. “Almost done.†The balisong lapped at the leather, and again there was the breathy song, even the knife singing something like slit, slit, slit. Sniper closed his eyes. Presently it stopped. Spy delicately tested the edge on his thumb. “Ah.†Sniper felt the glove at his mouth again, and loosened his aching jaw. The strop slipped out. He opened his eyes to see Spy sliding his belt back through its loops. “You’re like some sorta prancy prep school Batman.†“Better, surely.†“Better.†Sniper smiled and looked down. His hands were still braced on his thighs, kneeling on the hard carpet. He was stiff with the tension of his bite, and shook out his wrists as he rolled his neck. “I have not done it this way in a long, long time.†Spy set the sharpened blade on the counter top, and let the water gush into the sink, biting off his gloves and tossing them onto the bed. Sniper crowded forward, making Spy laugh and toss his head as his naked hands were caught up and kissed. “I believe you have some sort of fixation.†“Fetish?†“Yes. You are a pervert, certainly. Obsessed.†Sniper examined the imprints of the gloves’ seams, rubbing them with his own calloused thumbs, then dipping his mouth to tongue the length of them, in and out of the webbing of fingers, circumnavigating the hot, salty palms. Spy let his head fall back against the wall. “Mmh. Oui. Again, do that again with your tongue.†“This why you wear those silly gloves all the time? Can’t keep it together when they’re being touched, I s’pose...†“Oh, indeed. Any old brute could mangle them, and I would be in transports of joy.†“Slut.†“At least I don’t talk with my mouth full.†Sniper plucked at the agent’s belt, thumbing it open, pulling the buckle undone. “Y’know, I always wondered why you had toothprints on your belt.†“Any theories?†Sniper stopped sucking a finger long enough to reply. “Oh sure, I took it to the guys, soon as I noticed.†He tongued the crux of the thumb, eliciting a hiss. “Demo always said you had a thing for amputees.†“Go on.†“Engineer reckoned you’d developed a taste for autoerotic asphyxiation, and Medic—†he stopped himself to bite first one palm, then the other. Spy writhed and bit his lip. “Yes? Medic?†“Medic said your doctor had developed a, what’s it called, neurotoxin. Some sort of paralytic you’d use to knock our guys loopy long enough to have your way with ‘em, gagged on your belt of course, before sending ‘em off to respawn. And no one ever remembered, because that was the nature of the thing.†Spy was looking at him blankly. “Did you...really?†Sniper smirked at him. “What iz zee mattah, you do not truzht moi?†The grimace of horror that followed his little performance was absolutely worth the cold drenching from the sink that followed. Sniper snatched the giggling sneak to his cold, clingy chest in retaliation. “Clammy monster! Of course I trust you, I just assumed you would have remembered all those times...down on your knees...in the north shed...†His jibe ran out uselessly against Sniper’s mouth, and they stayed like that until the water ran hot in the sink.
You guys are too smart for me. I was all "hehe, shaving is a good gimmick, they'll never see it coming" but nope. Felice got it right away. So I went with stropping. Sorry for the long wait before the last two updates!
Toxo I'll wait forever to see yoru updates. Also curse you I have a horrable knife fetish and your not helping.
Haha, aww, I'm sorry toxo. Didn't mean to. Before I ever post any comment at all, I read it over like fiftythousand times to make sure I don't say anything stupid and it just occured to me… damn, I'd have liked to see some shaving. Adorable little domestic moments. If I should do something like that again, just ignore me, alright? Even though that was interesting too. I have to admit that I never heard of stropping before, you really never stop learning. Also, agreeing with >>180 in every aspect. Knives are wonderful, aren't they?
So much has happened to me since my last post, and tonight's. I am thrilled to announce that I have completed SNUFF. It's done. I will post the first of the last two chapters after this. But first, a few announcements: Chapters XVII and XVIII have illustrations. They can be found in my thread in /fanart/, as well as here: http://fuckmarrysue.tumblr.com/post/26067845029/snuff-part-xvii and here: http://fuckmarrysue.tumblr.com/post/26137588104/snuff-part-xviii respectively. That tumblr is the new home of the final version of SNUFF, with some minor edits that do not appear in this thread (because you can't edit your posts, etc). The link is: http://fuckmarrysue.tumblr.com/tagged/snuff At some point I will make a page on that tumblr with a chapter listing and so on. I will probably continue to illustrate some or all of the finalized chapters that I post there, so if you want to keep an eye on them, you might want to follow fuckmarrysue. Before we get down to business, I want to personally thank my TF2 cabal for their help, which (between all of them) included inspiration, pep talks, editing, submission to ceaseless interrogation about which versions of a chapter were better, and being my pocket while I played the actual game: AnnetheCatDetective, CosmicTuesdays, RN and W from the LCs, and everyone who ever posted in this thread to say anything, positive or negative. There is no friend like a reader.
PART XXXI “It’s buggered, then.†The German was slumped with exhaustion, nearly at a right angle to the locker doors he leaned on. Sniper’s comment followed a long and haggard silence. The doctor’s glove was steady on his coffee mug, an anchor. Sniper didn’t think the other man had been to bed at all. Surgical tubing, KritzKriegs and Mediguns, blunted scalpels and balled-up gloves littered the floor. Blood was tracked everywhere, and the physician’s spectacles were nearly opaque with grime. The idea of spending the night in that drafty shack, with only the endless procession of gentleman corpses to keep him company...Sniper squared himself against his horror and disgust, and started forward to pat the doctor’s shoulder-- The mug exploded against the wall like a gunshot. Those steady, bloody hands bunched in fists, tangling in the soiled labcoat. The doctor ranted, the language so thick with rage that Sniper couldn’t follow it, but the outburst was short, not even a sentence, just a blast of words, rattling off the walls like the cup’s shards. He recovered almost instantly, unclenching his hands in his pockets. “I--can not---keep it alive.†“Doc--†Medic held up one stiff hand, his eyes shut. Sniper closed his mouth. He was touched by this crack in the German’s veneer, but embarrassed too--not just to see him so vulnerable, but that he’d not been here to share in the man’s failure. The doctor was his partner in this venture, however distasteful the venture was. But no, he’d been tangled in silk ties and leather strops and warm gloves all night-- “I can bring it back.†“Say again?†Medic looked pained, screwing up his mouth before launching into an explanation. “Heart rate, respiration, and so on--it does not matter if he is ‘dead’, you see--I could easily get him breathing again after five, even ten minutes after cardiac arrest. Especially in the cold. It is not as if brain death or damage is a concern, ha ha; we are merely concerned with transporting a fresh body.†His glove squeaked as he made a fist. “But respawn keeps picking him up--†“Genau! Precisely.†They shared a glance. “Perhaps we--†“Maybe if--†They stopped. Medic took a shaky breath, and continued. “It would be the simplest solution, of course. But I do not know anything about how the mechanism works--the uptake, or the output. And I would not dare touch it, even to shut it off temporarily.†“Engineer?†Medic made a gracious gesture. “Oh yes, I am sure he would listen carefully to our explanations about why we wished to compromise our own safety protocols in order to fulfill the hostage-swapping demands of the enemy.†Medic rubbed the bridge of his nose. “And I am sure he would waste no time securing us in the pantry, to await the burn notice.†“If he even bothered.†“Ja. Of course, I have physically examined him myself--he is quite capable of subduing either of us. And if he told the others, we would not have long before they threw us a little hands-on retirement party.†“Would they, y’think?†Medic shook his head at the floor, arms crossed. “I could not possibly say. No. Perhaps.†Each man mentally ticked off his teammates--what loyalty existed was professional, not personal. Sniper remembered the loneliness, and was briefly, intensely grateful, thinking of his loving enemy, his friend, sleeping late in their tangled sheets even now. “Gentlemen. There is a plan B.†The spy was brazenly red and rumpled, peering in through the invisible barrier that kept him out of BLU’s spawn, even now. Medic started, and caught himself on the lockers. Sniper hoped he had better concealed his own shock. “Und vas ist das, Herr Spion?†The doctor’s tone was venomous. In reply, the agent tucked his cigarette into his mouth and opened his coat, retrieving the ugly mass of a sapper.
PART XXXII “Is it done?†“Ja.†The medics speak in tandem, hating each other for it. Spy bends at the waist, dipping one glove to brush a rivulet of blood from the cold mouth. It soaks into the leather. A red corona stains the snow around the recapitant, and the spy goes to his knees in the slush, leaning in so close that his breath melts the flakes on the blue balaclava. The strange glow of the mediguns engulfs him, playing over both spies in a violet borealis. “Why is he not breathing?†When he looks up at the doctors, his face is contorted with fear. Sniper cannot recognize him; he has never seen this man before. Spy snatches at the nearest medic, smearing blood on the white coat. “You have botched it somehow. You have killed him!†Both physicians retreat. “No.†“No. He is just cold, dummkopf. Hypothermia. Listen to his heartbeat.†“Yes, listen.†The medics nod contemptuously. “Be patient.†He presses his ear to the cold chest, and Sniper watches his anguish stretch thin, waiting. He must hear it, then--the Spy’s face melts into a muddle of expressions, none of which Sniper has seen before. It is with difficulty that he identifies the agent’s authentic relief, then his joy, and finally, finally--yes, there is no mistaking that--his love. He bites the inside of his cheek, and tastes blood. “Dieu merci...†When the RED Spy is on his feet again, he is his old self. He fixes his beatific smile, looking waxy in the cold. “Docteur.†The RED Medic steps over the patient and joins his teammate, who murmurs something. The physician nods and turns, and Sniper sees the flash of a red laser on the doctor’s upraised glove as he makes a signal in the direction of the RED base. There is a pause, and the distant screech of a door. Sniper catches a pale leer in the interior, and then a tiny figure is thrust out. It staggers upright, like a fawn, and begins to run towards them. The door slams behind. When Medic snatches the boy from the snow, they are sobbing. Medic pulls the ugly alpine sweater from his pocket and bundles the boy into it. It reaches his bare knees, and Medic lifts him off his feet and turns back towards Sniper. As the doctor draws near, Sniper hears him whispering in German, and sees the child nod once into his neck. Medic sets him on his feet, dwarfing the little hand in one huge glove. “We are finished here, Herr Spion,†he calls out. “You do not need me here, nor the boy, nor my teammate. We are leaving.†“Just a moment.†The RED medic lifts his patient, his Spy lending an arm. They totter to the wooden fence and sit, the BLU spy beginning to shiver and blink, the bluish flesh of his head still jarring painfully with the bruised border of his neck. RED clutches him, chafing his arms to warm him up, speaking in low tones as color returns to his skin. His medic stands beside, keeping his medigun on his patient, his eyes on his opposite. There is hatred in the gaze between the doctors. “What do you want, spook?†Sniper finally calls. He’s exhausted from this ordeal, and anxious to return to base, to get past the nuisance of repairing the respawn, of explaining to Engineer why it needs to be repaired at all. The spy looks up from ministering to his double, who parts his lips to accept one of two freshly-lit cigarettes. Sniper feels a vague nausea as the two share a vaporous kiss. The sight is eerie, and dully frightening. “I want to give you a choice,†the agent calls out. “Something like the choice we all made, at the beginning. I will not insult your intelligence by asking if you understand what will happen to you if you refuse my offer; I think I have already insulted you enough to last us both a lifetime.†There is no trace of an apology, just a simple statement of fact. He pauses to slip his coat over the BLU spy’s shaking shoulders, and saunters towards the huddled group on the other side of the control point, stopping just short of harm’s way. “I was not lying to you, when I said you were valuable to me--in fact, I have lied to you very little. I did not have to. You were a good time. And a good friend. And a decent fuck. You got me everything I wanted--easy kills, a certain devotion, even a poem or two. New friends--the little scout; sweet little Scout and his eager mouth; I will miss him.†Spy smiles cordially at the doctor, who grimaces and put his hands over the child’s ears. “Your good physician and his fascinating method of psychoanalysis. I hope you will have me on your couch again soon, Docteur.†Spy’s little bow is sickening. “Schwein.†“...Your hearty Engineer, who was a study in brutish obstinacy until the very end, as good strong peasant stock tends to be. Marvellous man. Reliable. Do you know, I think he would have been able to repair your respawn, after all? One sapper has never presented him with much of a challenge, before. It would have worked--shut it down just long enough to get us here, then let ‘Truckie’ pull you out of the fire. I confess that I almost let him live,†Spy squints, pinching the air with one glove, “because, I think, a part of me will miss this.†He spreads his arms gracefully. “All of this. Our ‘War’.†Long seconds drag by. “This it, then?†Sniper replies, mouth drooping. “This your big monologue? Where y’tell everyone how you did it, how y’had a lend of us for a few months, then you stand there looking a smug bastard while everyone gets up and claps? You expect me to believe any of this? It’s horseshit.†He jerks his chin at the BLU Spy, soaking up the medigun on the point. “And all for that? So you could go fuck yourself?†In a half dozen strides, the Spy is upon him, leathery talons bunched in his vest. Sniper blinks impassively at the agent, arms loose at his sides. “You absolute idiot. Is that all you can see?†He tears the aviators off his captive’s face; hurls them away. Everything is blazing blue, painful in the snowglare. Spy shakes him viciously, and mad flecks of slaver chill on Sniper’s face. “I have done so much more than that--I have ended this fucking war. And what’s more--my side has won. I have fulfilled my mission to the most exacting degree, with only the tools provided.†Spy releases him, and Sniper stumbles backwards, Medic catching his shoulder. “Oui, I used you to reunite my lover with his head--but I have also performed the most perfect act of espionage of the modern era, and it is, by the way, very much the modern era.†“What?†“How long do you think you’ve been here, you lanky halfwit? Eh? How long? Can you count it in days? Weeks? Years?†“I don’t--†“Shut up.†Something is thrust into his face. “Look. Use those perfect eyes for something useful.†Sniper takes the scrap. It is the torn corner of a magazine, and shows a date: June, 1992. The date is shocking; science-fictional. Sniper looks up; the spy is scanning him for a response. He flicks at the paper with one finger. “I found this myself, long ago. I do not know how long, because it is plain to me now that this farcical immortality of ours plays hell with our sense of time. Perhaps they gas us in our sleep, or keep us locked up in the machine for months or years at a time--we have no way of knowing!†He steps back, breathing hard, and lights a new cigarette. His hands shake. “But it is over now. We have stopped it. And I am offering you a choice.†He squints from Sniper to Medic. “Both of you.†Spy holds up one hand. “Before you say anything, know this: as I speak, I will signal my comrade--your match, actually--and he will start his stopwatch. BLU will have exactly twenty minutes to prepare in whatever way they see fit--†Spy ticks off on his fingers, “You may barricade yourselves inside, you may leave the mountain, you may even form up and charge at us, if you wish--but after your time is up, you are fair game. Any one of my teammates who wishes to settle old scores will do so; you will be his thing.†He lifts two fingers and then inclines them, as if in benediction. A bright red spot plays briefly over Sniper’s chest, signaling. Medic speaks up, “And the others?†“The offer does not extend to them. You do not know how hard I fought, just for you and the bushman. Never let it be said that we do not reward loyalty.†The spy is tense as he sucks his cigarette. The other three do not move. Finally, he lifts one hand to Sniper’s face, and his fingers quiver as they settle themselves on the long jaw. Through the damp, filthy gloves, Sniper can feel that old burn begin to worm its way to his skin. He is sure the spy can feel his muscles creak and twang as he grits his teeth; he knows that calculations are being performed, likelihoods weighed; he knows that the agent will not be surprised at his answer, whatever it is. The Spy softens, and inclines his head, speaking low. “Think of it, mon ami. There is no RED, no BLU anymore. No war. No ‘missions’, no empty orders. Your opposite; he is patient, intelligent--he is exactly like you, in every detail. He is a wonderful man.†The spy’s thumb travels his cheekbone, skating that old scar. There is a bit of the old tenderness, in the snow falling between them. “You could find happiness, there. As I have.†Sniper smiles. “If he’s anything like me, he won’t be able to look himself in the face after this.†Spy laughs softly. “Ah, well. What do you say?†Sniper drops the magazine scrap. “I say you’re the Father of Lies.†The spy’s gaze lingers on the gunman. He pockets his free hand quickly, as if it has been scalded. “It is better to be a slave in Heaven, mon petit canardeur.†His eyes glint, reflecting the snow. Sniper stands very still, waiting it out. Spy’s expression collapses, becoming dully inscrutable, and the gunman watches him turn and step away. He is graceful, over the snow. "Good luck, Herr Scharfschutze." "Leaving?" "Ja. They will not spare us, as you know." Medic glances down at the boy, who stares at the figures on the point. Medic gives the pale little fist a quick shake, affectionately, and the child looks up at him. "We'll need you in there, doc." Medic nods at his boots, mouth tightening. "Good luck," he says again, and picks up the tired child. Little wooly arms wrap tightly around his neck, dark eyes shining over his shoulder. Sniper watches them trudge towards the train tracks. The snow thickens, and blots them out. "Fourteen minutes, perroquet!" The spies share an ugly laugh. Sniper’s hands clench in his pockets, clawing at phantom weapons. This would be the perfect time for it, he knows--one last idiotic tantrum, spraying bullets, kicking up clotted snow. And then being put down like a sick animal, falling on his face in dirty slush, and dying there, his lover breezing away, arm in arm with a doppelganger. It is exactly the right thing to do--and is, of course, impossible. He takes a deep breath, and the icy wind makes his teeth ache. Dawn seeps into the gully, so diffuse in the snowfall that his shadow is erased. He bends to retrieve his glasses, and walks back towards his buildings, alone. FIN
As always, Toxo, your writing style is superb. I’ve been following ‘SNUFF’ since the first post and every instalment has been nothing short of mind-blowing, often breathtaking, sometimes chilling, even nauseating, but amazing for that, too. Still, I must admit the ending was a let-down for me, considering how much you’ve built up to it. It’s the grand finale that never happened. The Big Reveal seems too abrupt, too out-of-the-blue, and I felt a lot of the plot lines were left dangling unfinished. - If they’ve been the victims of an ‘endless respawn loop’ plot and the year is actually 1992 (or later), how could Scout receive post cards (and weed) from his mother and brothers? Did BLU fake it? - If RED Spy’s plan was to reunite BLU Spy’s head with his body, why not just destroy his head and let him respawn, or return his head to the BLUs? If BLU Spy was RED Spy’s lover all along, and he does seem to be, the way he interacts with RED Spy, laughs with him at his own team’s misfortune, there would be no reason for the REDs to insist on getting his body; he could have respawned normally and just walked across the battlefield to them on his own. - If BLU Spy is RED Spy’s lover, why does RED Spy snipe him so casually (and insult him to boot) in part 2? In fact, their relationship was never even hinted at before the last part. I had to read that paragraph twice, because it made no sense to me. It wasn’t a shock, a gut-punch like so many other revelations in this story, it was just ‘huh?’. - In the flashback of their first meeting, we learnt that Sniper and Spy met a month ago. It seemed to me that there was already chemistry between them that first time. Yet, according to Engineer, BLU Spy has only been respawning headless for a week and a half by the time they get snowed in. Did RED Spy pursue a relationship with Sniper before losing his lover (in which case the whole plan to seduce Sniper and steal Medic’s clone-child to get him back seems, well, less of a plan)? - If RED Spy has ‘lied very little’ to Sniper, why would he want the war to end, after all his talk about godhood and immortality? He has everything he could wish for, can live out every dark desire—and he decides to end it. For what? There’s no reward waiting for him after, nothing from the outside world he would want to return to—all his past lovers would be aged at least 25 years since he last saw them, any family members, parents, siblings, likely dead. The world has continued without any of them. Why would they, least of all RED Spy, want to leave? And his employer would not thank him for ending the war after all the effort of keeping it going for 25 years; surely, Spy is intelligent enough to reason that RED (and BLU) have their own reasons for continuing the charade. If the Companies are powerful enough to fool all of them into fighting an endless war, why would Spy think his team would just be released after wiping out the BLUs? Chances are, the BLUs would just be replaced by a new team and nothing would have changed. And RED Spy should know that cross-faction classcest will not be tolerated, after the WAR! between Demo and Soldier. What makes him think he’ll be allowed to keep his lover, or RED Sniper keep BLU Sniper? - And finally, I was disappointed that Scout didn’t make an appearance in the final part. He has featured at least as much in the story as Medic, yet we’re cheated out of his reaction to Spy’s revelations. We never find out if he’s related to RED Spy, as Spy hinted at in part 19. In the end, he turns out to be nothing but a fucktoy—not only for the other characters, but for you as the author and us as the readers as well. It could be symbolic, I suppose, if this was hinted at being his purpose, having no purpose, in the story, but it isn’t. While I love Scout and the way you’ve written him, going by the Chekhov’s Gun principle, he shouldn’t have been in the story. He doesn’t contribute to the development of the plot at all; with Spy’s final revelation, everything we’ve learned about Spy through his interactions with Scout, everything Sniper has learned about himself, every part of Scout’s character that has been explored, is made pointless. There’s no deeper meaning to any of the characters. Spy was a bastard and a liar all along, Sniper was right to distrust him, and Scout’s involvement never really mattered, except as an object of literary (literally?) masturbation. I think that’s what really bothers me about this ending: that this story has so. many. deep themes, and none of them are ultimately explored. “Haven’t you ever wondered what it was like, to kill one of your own?â€; '“We are gods, bello mio. As long as thatâ€â€”he threw one trembling finger in the direction of the respawn—“still churns, we are immortal. Olympians!—drinking, fighting, fucking, and eating each other alive.â€â€™; Scout’s very complex psychology; Sniper and Spy’s equally complex relationship—it all just becomes... nothing, in light of the last part. I understand that this has been a lengthy and time-consuming project for you, and that you probably just want to see it finished so you can turn your attention to other matters. This story will always remain one of the best I’ve ever read, in the TF2 fandom and outside. But, in all admiring, worshipful honesty, the ending didn’t live up to my expectations. I’m sorry.
One of the benefits of being a published author is that once your book is out, your readers have to ask these questions of themselves without expecting any answers. It forces them to use internal reasoning and critical thinking to get past issues that aren't arrayed for them on a buffet, sneeze guard included. On the other hand, one of the benefits of fanfic is that readers sometimes get those answers. So, okay, I will be interrogated. 1. Yes. But it doesn't really matter. On the scale of "insane shit MannCo can do", forging letters from home (large swathes of which are redacted by company censors) isn't real high up there. Besides, why would you assume authenticity of a scrap of garbage RED Spy produces from seemingly nowhere? 2. a. Because they preferred to use the hostage swap as a reason to shut down BLU's spawn. That was the entire point of the exercise. They had a bargaining chip, and they used it. BLU had no idea the chip was rotten, and didn't need to--they had the carrot (RED Spy's seduction of Sniper, a confidence game) and the stick (we have two hostages; you have no idea one of them is a double agent). b. They had to use the body transport as the excuse to get RED to shut down respawn. You can't get into the other team's respawn--it's built into the game mechanics. There's a big red NO sign over all entrances. RED Spy needed someone to get that sapper in the door and onto the equipment, but he also needed a good reason for his patsy to do it in the first place. Why didn't they just let BLU Spy's head respawn, walk to RED base, get a sapper, and walk back? Because if the body is respawning separately, the head would have, too. There's no guarantee they'd ever get that spy back, or that the BLU Medic would be able to put it back together by himself, and so on. Far safer, for this precious person, this head, to be kept under RED custodianship, with a medic who clearly knows what the fuck he's doing when it comes to severed heads. 3. Good agents don't "hint at" their real relationships; that would be tipping his hand. But I shouldn't have to tell you that Spy loves himself. I doubt the two spies even met before BLU's head ended up in the fridge--how could they? Why would they bother? Sniper was a mark, the man on the team judged most useful as a contact and a target and a puppet. But of course, who does Spy love best, after all? Himself. Vanity and pride are his sins and his weaknesses. The tenets of Satanism are based largely on love of the self, and how many times did Sniper think of, and refer to, Spy as a devil? Spy can only love himself--can only conceive of loving himself. Everyone else is made uneasy by their mirror opposites on the other team, which is the natural response--the two Medics hating each other, even as they work to accomplish something so incredible. Sniper mentions that it is eerie to see the two spies together--a feeling hinted at again, earlier on, when the family resemblance between Scout and Spy is mentioned. The technical term for this is Westermarck Effect--people who are related to each other and/or grow up together develop a mutual sexual revulsion. It's the thing that keeps mammals from choosing close blood relatives as sexual partners except in bizarre circumstances. In opposition to Westermarck is something called GSA--Genetic Sexual Attraction. This is a documented phenomena you have probably heard of, where people who are related but did not know each other in childhood will sometimes fall violently in love due to their similarities. 4. First of all, when a liar tells you he hasn't lied to you much, I'm not sure believing him would be the best route. Secondly, RED still has their respawn. They are still gods. They have removed godhood from BLU. How powerful the company is, what they might do about something like this, is not clear--not even to RED Spy. Besides, what good is immortality when you're confined to a square mile of rickety outbuildings in the middle of the wilderness? 5. My view is that a character's existence is not rendered moot just because parts of his story are ambiguous. This wasn't Scout's story. It also wasn't Spy's. Or the other Spy's. Or Medic's. 6. I hate to have to say this nakedly, but Sniper found out exactly what it was like to kill one of his own. To kill seven of his own. To be incredibly blunt, he fucked up big time. He was manipulated, seduced, bullied, wheedled, drawn, pushed, and talked-into a series of decisions that ultimately ended in the destruction of not only his entire team, but his way of life as well. Fourteen minutes. Medic and his boy walking into a blizzard with a sweater and a medigun. Engineer dead, or so RED Spy asserts, and with him, any hope of repairing the respawn. It won't matter how hard they fight or how long they hold out. RED can wait forever. 7. The ultimate exploration of betrayal and consumption, of using other people, of being used, of being destroyed, of destroying, is death. Causing it, failing to stop it, and finally experiencing it. Our joy and our foil in the TF2 fandom is respawn--it gives us ultimate freedom to wrench open flesh and wallow in gore, because they'll be back in 15 seconds. The only way to raise the stakes is to threaten respawn itself. That's what this story is about. All that said, your dissatisfaction is completely reasonable, and entirely understandable. I don't resent it in the least. I am not a novelist and this is not genuine literature, and my efforts to address large themes will inevitably fall short, and for that I am incredibly regretful, and I offer my apologies. My greatest wish, with this and with other stories I post here, is that I am able to create a genuine response within the reader. I want them to have fun with the things I think are funny or clever, and I want them to get off on the porn, I want them to be repulsed by the horror. But the harder and stupider part of writing, is that I want them to have room within my stories to find their own way. This is what makes the TF2 fandom so wonderful, and what makes Valve storytelling so compelling--they don't tell us much at all. The hardest instinct to muffle for new writers is the instinct to explain--exposition is just incredibly boring, and it's so difficult to write stories that allow the reader to read without becoming confused, but also without having to skim. My mistake with SNUFF was probably the lack of a "blind beta reader", someone to whom I never ever spoke of my plot background, ideas for plot solutions, character traits, and so on. I should have had someone reading this who knew absolutely nothing except when I put a chapter in front of them. But I just didn't plan for it. SNUFF began as a one-off--Spy and Sniper were supposed to have a single tryst in the snow, with the threat of fratricide used as a seasoning to heighten the excitement. 36,000 words and eleven months later, my snowy little spite-fuck had become a full-blown orgy. At no point did I write an outline or make any of the other logical and recommended diagrams required for good storytelling--it was just a series of What Ifs that I did my best (and sometimes, not my best) to stitch together. Unfortunately, there isn't anything i can do about that other than offer a genuine apology for not providing you personally with a satisfactory conclusion. It is a cop-out to claim I never wanted to satisfy, that I wanted to torment, and that the lack of blatant and detailed wrap-ups was intentional because I felt it was more realistic and thus more affecting, because the entire point is to write a good story that makes you feel good about feeling bad in those ways. By way of explanation, I can tell you I love novelists who use my own ignorance as a tool. I crave mystery, and I love things like SCP which rely so much on a lack of information to create horror. I love it when I don't get spoon-fed a conclusion. Case in point, Sniper has no idea what he's going to find back at BLU. Did the RED Spy murder everyone? If he got Engineer, how many others were there, standing in his way? What DID happen to Scout? Why did Spy mention him specifically, at the end? What if he was lying about Engineer, though? Will it matter? I can tell you four things: 1. There's a fuck of a lot of backstory, enough for a retelling from the perspective of the RED Spy. 2. I was planning an epilogue. 3. I know what happens to Medic and his boy. 4. I don't know if I want to create an expanded universe, here, getting sucked into never-ending branching shorelines. But I might. Which is why I can't tell you anything else. As always, thank you for taking the time to read, think, and type out a response. I really appreciate the time and thought.
It's been years since I wrote an essay for purposes of analysis or critique, and really, >>185 covered most of my issues with the story. That isn't to say I didn't like it; on the contrary, I enjoyed a lot of this story. The ending just seemed like a letdown, it came on so suddenly. (It was also pretty terrible for the BLUs, but that just comes down to taste. I was kind of hoping Sniper would get a little of his own back, but stories can't always have happy endings.) Mind you, it's been months since the last update, and the plot might seem to come together better if I read through it all again in one sitting, like a novel. I realize that, like every long-running story here, this was posted episodically. I find that stories kind of take on a different flavour when you have days or weeks go by between chapters. I'm not sure if you intended this story to work more as a novel, than as a serial drama, or if it wasn't something you concerned yourself with. As it progressed, I kind of got the impression that it was originally planned as a one shot. I loved that first part where they fuck in the snow. People always want more after something that good, though, and I don't think you were wrong to expand on it. I suppose I just get more picky when a story changes from beautifully written smut, to a drama with frequent sex. Honestly, there was so much more focus at first on the sex and emotional drama, than there was on the conspiracy with respawn and kidnapping, that when everything suddenly switched over to the decapitated spy, it was jarring to me. I was left wondering where the poetic, beautifully written encounters between lonely horny people went; I thought we'd get a few more hints about Scout's psychological issues and apparent drug addiction, and maybe see Sniper grow a little stronger, or at least work out one or two of his problems. I guess in the end, I felt that Snuff might have worked better as related but separate stories, than as a single one. I'm hardly innocent of having too much crap going on in one story, mind you... and as I've said before, I enjoyed much of this one. Aspects of it just left me feeling unsatisfied.
I think one of the other problems with this story is that fanfic is supposed to, at its very base, satisfy. It's recreational reading. And I was approaching this like it was a book, not a fanfic, which lead to a disconnect in the goals of the reader and the narrative. Also, the long pauses between updates really plays hell with our sense of momentum and expectations. Six months between stropping-and-fucking and Climactic Conlusion is too long to ask a reader to maintain the pacing of a story internally, even if it were better executed in the first place. In order for this climax to hit its pacing properly, I would have had to spend another few weeks posting smaller updates and building up to it. But read from the beginning in one go, it would have seemed even weirder to have redundant scenes padding out the end. Probably the best way to tackle that issue is to never post anything until the whole thing is done. That way you can control the pacing manually. As it is, there will be a handful of people who read it in real time on the board, another handful who read it in a different pace on Tumblr, and then the "long tail" of people who read the entire thing in one sitting, on this board (with commentary from readers) or on Tumblr (without commentary). Of the four ways of reading it, I think I was planning more for the one-shot reader than the serial.
Here's a question for SNUFF readers: if I rewrote the end, would that be something you wanted, or would it be George Lucas-variety awful? It's not like this is a formal book/author/reader setup. We can work on things.
Honestly, I'd rather you put your energy towards new stories than go back and redo anything. Recently, someone posted a long (and thoroughly valid) critique of my current ongoing story, where they complained it just had too many different things going on at once. I conceded that I'd stretched myself thin, but I also was/am nearing the end of the story, and if I had the energy to fix the issue by redoing the whole thing, I'd use that energy to write a new story instead. Long fanfics aren't like a picture, where someone can say "you drew too many fingers on his hand" and you can go "d'oh, I'll go fix that now". Especially by the end of a fanfic, criticism is interesting, but not useful as applied to that particular story. Instead, it is useful in consideration of future works, where you can plan better, research more, or what have you. So in my opinion at least, I'd rather see another story that expands on, say, unresolved aspects of this one, than have you change the end. That's my two cents.
Actually, if it really bothers you, I don't see why you couldn't just expand it / edit out small things as you see fit. Can't say it made me horribly upset though, just slightly confused for about a minute.
Hi. I just spent the better part of two days reading (and rereading parts) of this on here after a recommendation I found on tumblr proclaimed it as a wonderful SniperSpy fic. This is one of the single greatest pieces of fanfiction (of any genre or fandom) I have ever read. Your character interactions are so poetic, believable, and relatable to me, they are truly beautiful. Your description of Scout in particular is unlike any I have found before, the single closest I've ever found to my headcanon, and I think one of the highlights of this. This piece has moved me to the point of tears more than a few times. I teared up for RED Spy's betrayal of Sniper in the ending of this (job well done), but I was confused about a number of points, the majority of which Anon 185 brought up rather effectively and you've already responded to. The question that will nag me in the coming days is: Why does RED Spy think anyone would allow him to keep BLU Spy? The rest of BLU's been given a death sentence, what would make BLU Spy any different in the eyes of RED Spy's teammates? And wouldn't BLU Spy's possible death (without respawn) effectively render the entire use of Sniper pointless in the end? The concept of BLU Sniper damning his entire team to death is an interesting and well thought-out one, but RED Spy's betrayal only to rescue what is probably an equally damned lover is something that will leave this ending (though by no means the rest of the story) somewhat of a disappointment to me. I hope you do choose to write some manner of an epilogue, maybe even more chapters or a rewrite. I also look forward to anything else you might come up with (fic, art, or otherwise) and am following your tumblr. Please keep it up. Apologies for this being so long.
First of all, I'm sorry for the lack of constructive criticism in the upcoming comment. Second of all, I LOVED the ending. I've been sort of slipping in and out of the TF2 fandom for the last year or so and I've liked this fic from the first chapter. Every time I came back and discovered new content, I re-read the whole thing. And every time I was stunned. This time was no exception. Since the beginning, there was this vaguely dark atmosphere, these little moments where one just KNEW things wouldn't end well for Sniper. But holy shit, I didn't see this coming. I honestly thought Sniper and Spy's fucked up affair would spiral out of control, that they would end up willingly going to hell together in some terrible way, possibly taking Scout and/or Medic with them. I won't lie, that was a scenario I was looking forward to, so the actual ending hit me like a ton of bricks. But the more it sinks in, the more I love it. When I read >>185 I thought they had some brilliant questions and felt really dumb for not noticing all these discrepancies. I also couldn't help but think that maybe the ending isn't really that good and maybe I just wanted to like it because I adore the rest of the fic. Then I read your explanations and I had to change my mind again. I hope it doesn't sound like I dislike >>185's comment, in fact I love it. Without the discussion it sparked, I wouldn't spend nearly as much time thinking about different aspects of the ending. And really, it's almost like we are Sniper and you are Spy. You led us along, cruelly manipulated us with your devilish charm, made us think things were going in certain direction and in the end, you left us feeling betrayed and confused. But that's more than okay - it's genius. To show us how Sniper feels AND to make us feel that way as well, by, for example, the somewhat abrupt cut or by mostly only implying what actually happened in the meantime. I'm not sure if that was your exact intention but, well, that's how it worked on me and it was a very powerful reading experience. Thank you so much for writing this. [Sorry if my English sucks]
This was a brillant ride, but the ending was pretty confusing to me. Spy's out-of-character simplicity in thinking that BLU and RED actually mattered/ not discovering the truth about the two organizations despite his plans throughout the entire story, is just one of the odd aspects of the end. I didn't read any of the comments since anything explained after the story is over is irrelevant in my mind, but that's just my two cents.
>>192 In my opinion, RED Spy's masterminding of the RED "victory" means he got to (mostly) call the shots in terms of being able to offer BLU Medic + Sniper amnesty. The BLU Spy is already a traitor to his team, so there's no reason for RED to want him dead. In war, if someone defects to your side, generally you don't murder them just because it's time to mop up the rest of their (former, disavowed) comrades. Thanks for all the followup comments, guys. I appreciate your thoughts and reactions a great deal. I have some plans for SNUFF so I will keep you all updated when there's new content.
I've followed this fic as one of the fics to read on the chan, and I still stand by that. That being said, a lot of the previous discussion made a lot of sense, too; namely, the fact that story could have worked better as a series of loosely related vignettes rather than chapters of a story. But I don't think further clarification or an epilogue would really enhance this story, in the same way many books or movies should have stopped at a certain point and not gone on any further, if you pardon my reference to pop culture. Yes, there are questions unanswered, motives that could have been explored or at least hinted at earlier, but I think the effect you created fit the mood of the piece just right. It may not make perfect sense, but the world the characters live in doesn't, and so I'm content with that. But that's just my opinion.