Coughing up blood, Demoman fell to the ground of the shack, too weak to even throw his arms out under him to break the fall. With a sickening crunch he fell, a gasp escaping the Scot as the wind was knocked out of him. Standing over him was Soldier, a bloodied shovel in his hand and a manic, atavistic grin stretching across his face. For hours now, they’d been fighting, first with grenades and rockets, then with bombs and bullets, and finally, when their ammo had been depleted, with whatever they had on them on the time. Soldier’s helmet was dented inward, and there was a long, nasty gouge on his left cheek, but compared to Demoman, he was well off. Demoman had underestimated the American, and before he could even stand his ground, he had a shovel in his face and a fist in his stomach. Now, he was floored, too tired and weak to continue fighting. But he refused to acknowledge it.

“Aww, had enough, Braveheart?” Soldier sneered as he stood over Demoman. “Or maybe you want some more ass kicking before I take that which is rightfully mine?”

It took a minute for Demoman to catch his breath again. “Ahhh!“ he yelled before trying to stand up again and lunging at Soldier. Before he could even get up onto his feet, Soldier struck down on him with another blow of his shovel. The sharp edge collided with the Scotsman’s temple and knocked him back down, leaving a nasty gash in the process. Then, without missing the beat, Soldier swung his boot and kicked Demoman in the head, the blunt force making the Scotsman’s vision reel and his mind go numb. When he could think clearly again, he heard Soldier laughing over him.

“Face it, you sad cyclops,” the American said, leaning down and bringing Demoman’s face up to his own. “You’re beat. You can barely even stand. And if you just admit it, we can forget this whole sad business and get on with our jobs.” the American scrutinized his adversary, almost certain how he would react. He’d fought enough men on the battlefield to know there were three major types; the thinker, the coward, and the one who never gives up. And he knew how to deal with every one of them.

“Ye can go fuck yerself if ye think ah gonna surrender to ye,” Demoman growled, shaking himself free of Soldier. He might not have had the strength to stand, but that was no reason to concede. As long as he still drew breath, the Scot wasn’t going to give up the fight.

Soldier knew this. Most people dismissed him as an irrational psycho, but the truth of the matter was that he probably had a greater understanding of the nature of battle than anyone on either team. Seeing people blow up and die before you gives you a strange understanding of how they view death and defeat. Some are terrified and try to flee. Some grimly accept their fate. Some, of course, don’t even see it coming, and can’t register what has happened before it is too late. And some refuse to accept it altogether. Those were the worst type, Soldier had always thought. They denied him of victory by refusing defeat, which was something he could not stand. He needed to see his enemy squirm and lose hope to gain any satisfaction from a kill. Letting an enemy die proudly was worse than letting them live. But Soldier, clever as he was, came up with a solution for this. If an enemy couldn’t be beaten by death, what could break them instead? And after a bit of…experimenting, the American had found what he considered the most potent way to break an adversary.

“So, that’s how it’s gonna be, is it, maggot?” Soldier said quietly, a smile spreading over his face.


“Tha’s how it is,” Demoman said, giving Soldier a look of seething hate.

With a chuckle, Soldier knelt down and took off his helmet, giving him have an full view of the man before him. “Well, alright then. Just know, you brought this on yourself…” Demoman should have taken the sound of a belt rustling as the first red flag, but he was really in too much pain to have it register. He did register, however, Soldier’s hand coming down to the waistline of his own pants. Before the enervated Scot could react, Soldier had pulled his pants down, revealing tartan boxers and smooth, dark calves. Lovely.

“Wot the fock are ye-“ just as he realized with a horrifying, wrenching feeling what was going on, Demoman’s head was smashed into the concrete by Soldier and his arms were wrenched up behind him. Yelling and grunting, the Demolitions expert started thrashing, trying to get free of the grip Soldier now had him in. The American had him pinned to the ground and was holding his wrists down with one arm, while the other was working on his own pants. Demoman bucked and squirmed about, but Soldier was too heavy and strong to throw off. After a brief bit of struggling, Soldier had pulled off his own pants and torn Demoman’s hat off, stuffing it into the Scotsman’s mouth as a makeshift gag. Demoman coughed as the leather item was thrust in his mouth, and tried to spit it out before his face was once again pressed into the concrete.

“I’m gonna enjoy this,” Soldier said with a malicious inflection in his voice as he took his member in his hand and began pumping. Like a fish out of water, Demoman was bucking and thrashing less and less, too tired and to really continue fighting. He was bleeding from his mouth and the side of his head, and he was sure a few bones were broken. Soldier, it seemed, still had plenty of energy left. Once he was fully erect, he leaned down and ripped Demoman’s boxers down, giving him a full view of the Scot’s firm rear. Then, he wasted no time plowing into Demo’s entrance, thrusting as hard as one would hammer a nail.

The flash of pain Demoman felt as his entrance was stretched was unbearable. He screamed from behind his gag and started thrashing again, only to be hit hard in the back of the head. Soldier pushed in further and further, stretching Demoman to his very limits. Then, once he was fully in, he gave a grunt of satisfaction and started to pull out. Just as Demoman felt the slightest shadow of relief, Soldier thrust in again, this time throwing his arms forward and pinning Demoman’s hands in front of him. Demoman let out another cry of agony, a sob escaping the gag. As he bit down on his hat, Soldier kept pushing in and out, a rhythm of alternating pain and soreness building as he thrust. To Soldier, Demoman was wonderfully tight, and with the first few thrusts, he felt like he could have had an orgasm and been done with it there and then. But that wouldn’t have been fair to Demoman. He deserved to be properly broken like every other man Soldier had taken.

Without lubricant of any kind, Demoman felt like his anus was being torn apart. With each push inward the pain inflamed and each pull out was like leaving an open cut. Hurt as he was, he whimpered and bucked, trying to get out of Soldier’s terrible reaches. After a while, he realized it was in vain, and just closed his eye as tight as possible, trying to block out the horrible thing that was happening to him. But Soldier’s little grunts of pleasure, and the pain of a cock thrusting back and forth in him, though, made this impossible. He couldn’t help a tear coming down from his closed eye.

After what felt like an eternity, Soldier finally came, shuddering as his semen spilt into the unwillingly man he was screwing. All Demoman could do was cry hoarsely and shiver as he was emptied into, like some whore. When he was done, Soldier stood up and let Demoman’s wrists go, wearing a satisfied grin all the while. He put back on his helmet and looked down at the man before him. The Scotsman was shuddering and sobbing, his ass still raw and pain still fresh in his mind. But it was only when Soldier noticed the tears in Demoman’s eye that the American was satisfied. “Should’ve just given in,” he said with a chuckle before turning and leaving the shack, satisfied. It always worked.

Demoman felt ashamed of how he was sobbing so unapologetically, but at this point, there was nothing else he could do. He’d been beaten, raped and broken by the man he’d once considered his friend, the man who turned against him at the whim of a microphone. Of course, he’d done the same, but that didn’t make the pain any worse. In a way, it meant the Administrator had won. She’d accomplished what she’d wanted, which was to turn them against each other, inexorably, to a point where they’d never have anything but hatred for each other. And maybe that was what Soldier wanted, too. He was a man of war, after all, and being friends with the enemy was no good way of defeating them. So maybe Soldier had won. In any case, there was one thing Demoman was sure of; he’d lost.