1 . Name: Grey Narcissus @ 2009-06-08 13:37

Taken from kink meme number 82. Whoever came up with that idea I dedicate this to you, such a fab idea! Thank you.

******

It had been another hard mission. It seemed everyone was getting wise to his normal tricks, it was almost as if they were ready for him now. No matter how long he sat in his various hiding spots, there never seemed to get in any decent shots. While the rest of his team were off blowing things up and “boinking”, he had to sit watching air. Not that the Sniper minded much, it was his job after all and he was bloody good at it. Except, it seemed, today.

He sighed. Another defeat would mean another long rant from the Soldier on how the whole team was worthless and pathetic. That was the last thing he needed, all he wanted to do was get back to his room and lie in the shower for a good hour until his joints stopped screamed, then possibly relieve a certain ‘tension’ that had been building since the day before. A hard day followed by an aggressive group rant was the last thing anyone needed.

“… worthless, pathetic, maggots!”

Ah, he was late. Not that it mattered, the pattern was always the same: we were lazy, we were maggots, we didn’t work as a team, if we didn’t win next time he would personally beat the crap out of every last one of us… standard fare.

The assassin was not, however, expecting the tirade that was leveled at him as soon as he stepped through the door.

“And THIS maggot is the worst maggot of all! What does he do but sit on his British fag ass all day and take pot shots at the enemy, while WE are putting our asses on the front line and get them handed back to us on the plate!!”

‘Ok what?’ the Sniper thought, rubbing the bridge of his nose. ‘That was wrong on so many levels.’ He was too tired to retaliate, but the aggression didn’t stop, the Soldier had found a scapegoat and he wasn’t about to let go.

“In fact, his girly boy, flim flam has cost us nearly every battle since this fragging war began! He doesn’t do anything useful, he occasionally picks off an enemy, or distracts their Spy with his bare behind for a few minutes and then he’s back to being totally useless. He’s not even a real man! When does he ever engage in actual combat, if he were under actual fire he would shit his whiny little pants and scuttle off back to Britain!!”

Everyone had backed off about a foot from the screaming Soldier, he’d never verbally abused another teammate with this level of ferocity before. Sure they hadn’t been at their best, but everyone knew they had a far better Sniper than the REDS and he did a brilliant job, it was just unfortunate that today he hadn’t racked up a single kill. They watched the Australian with trepidation. His face was hidden beneath the brim of his hat and his hands were clenched into tight fists. No one was sure if he was crying or about to stab the Soldier in the face.

When he finally spoke, his voice was clipped and dangerously quiet…

“I ain’t British mate. I ain’t fucking British.”

He didn’t want to leave the room, he wanted to stay and teach the Soldier some proper respect. But he was so angry, he didn’t want to be responsible for losing his team their General. Walking away seemed the best option, for now.

It wasn’t until he was in his own room, far away from the locker room that he let himself breath again. He had never been that pissed off and frustrated before in his life. To be shouted at like that, by a bloody Yank with more bullets than brain cells… It was so unprofessional and unfair, that he it was only by vividly imagining smashing in that smug, jaw with the butt of his rifle that he stopped himself doing it real time.

What right did he have to let his anger out at the assassin? It was as much the rest of the team’s fault as it was his.

‘Yanks. All of ‘em bloody uncivilised and incapable of professional behaviour…’

He let this frustration fester for the rest of the day. He could hear the rest of his teammates preparing for the battle tomorrow, renewed with a desire not to face the Soldier’s rage. They all felt sorry for the Sniper and his unfair treatment, but no one was willing to brave either him or the Soldier to put it right. Better to let them work it out for themselves.

It wasn’t until the fortress had fallen silent for the night that the Sniper felt able to venture out and confront his aggressor, leaving his gear back in his bedroom, he didn’t need any props to teach the Soldier a lesson8. He had spent all evening considering his options and decided that there was only one thing he could do to alleviate all his problems…

Light filtered out from the crack under the Soldier’s door. Of course he would be spending the small hours formulating the plans for tomorrow to be 100% certain of a long overdue BLU victory tomorrow. The Sniper faltered at the door; the last thing he wanted was a rocket up the arse, or to be blamed for yet another defeat.

He steeled himself and knocked, the force echoing down the concrete corridor. The sound of papers being shuffled and a bark of,

“State your business.”

He paused. Was he really going to go through with this? Of course! He had his honour as a professional assassin, an integral member of this team and an Australian, to consider.

“We need to talk, now.”

He tried not to sound like a woman about it, but in an effort not to alert the rest of BLU team his voice was little more than a half-assed murmur. The door was wrenched open, there stood the Soldier, his belt and helmet discarded, his blue uniform left open. Instead of making him seem more casual and relaxed it only served to expose his impressive military physique to the lanky Australian.

“What do you want Private?”

It didn’t sound like a question. More a sound of annoyance. It was obvious the Soldier felt the matter of the Sniper’s worthlessness was a closed matter, not open for further discussion. The assassin had other ideas. He jammed his foot into the doorframe and pushed the startled Soldier back into his room.
The American was too outraged to formulate a suitable protest, lashing out ineffectively at his assailant. His papers were swept off the desk and the taller man rammed a boney knee between his legs to keep him in place. The darkly focused eyes behind those smoky lenses did little to assuage his fear.

“W… What the HELL do you think you’re doing!”

The Sniper didn’t smile, or betray any sense of emotion, instead he bent his head low to whisper dangerously in the Soldier’s ear,

“You’re gonna apologise to me for being a dickhead…”

That was all he needed to say. The American knew he had fucked up, that he had wounded the wrong man, and now he would pay for his sore misjudgment as a leader, but he could never admit that. He could never back down or apologise.

The knee was ground hard against him, and he growled.

“This is insubordination. Get your maggot hands off me, or you’ll wish your mother never…”

He choked; the Sniper’s hands were at his throat. He would MAKE him understand what it was to feel humility. The Soldier’s face reddened, the panic in his mind was telling him that this man was insane, he had to fight him off and prove once and for all that he was a failure and a dangerous agent.

A well-aimed punch to the gut knocked the winded assassin back sufficiently for him to lose grip on man beneath him. Another to the face knocked him to the floor as a heavy boot was ground into his boney neck.

“You are pathetic. You are the reason we fail. You are a dead weight, worth nothing to BLU team. I wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire.”

Another kick to the gut. The Sniper groaned. It hurt, but not as much as the Soldier’s abuse. He knew now that he had to properly show him how much he had mistaken his enemy. That the Australian was a man to be reckoned with, not just some worthless maggot to be beaten by his so called superiour officer. He wished he had his kukri.

The Soldier swung his boot back for another sharp kick but his ankle was grabbed and twisted away, casting him off balance.

‘Top heavy’ the Sniper thought, he hadn’t had much call for fighting Soldier’s, but they were all the same.

He had been in scrapes like this before. Receiving a kicking in enclosed spaces. He could absorb the pain and deliver it in kind. The Soldier’s strong jaw would be like glass under the other man’s justified rage. The crass American reeled from the pummeling, his great thick head spinning from the force of the slighter man’s aggression.

A boot to the back and he was falling. The desk caught him but before he could recover the Sniper was on him, locked against his back. The Soldier’s hands were pinned to the desk and another punch struck him hard on the back of the head. His face rebounded, spewing blood over his plans. The Australian was grinding against his behind, but it was only when he felt those gloved hands fumbling for his zip that the Soldier understood what was happening.

He tried to struggle against the inevitable but he was struck again and again until he could hardly see straight, let along fight off those strong arms pinning him. He tried to spit out another insult, but all he could spit was blood. He felt exposed, both by his distinct lack of chest covering and the sudden rush of air against the back of his legs.

The heat of the other man’s flesh pressed against him. Oh God no. He couldn’t be serious. The Sniper was muttering again, his accent becoming thicker with every second. He barely understand him over the pounding of the blood in his ears and his own heavy breathing.

“I’m gonna teach you some manners ya incultured Yank. I’m gonna make you sorry ya ever crossed me.”

For the first time in as long as he could remember, the Soldier was afraid. He struggled again, his whole body losing strength with every failed attempt. He heard the Australian’s dark chuckle behind him and he was invaded. He had never felt a pain like it before. Worse than being shot or stabbed. It was like a burning inside him, tearing his insides out.

The Sniper thrust again, and again, every movement gave him the satisfaction he craved. The Soldier would learn not to cross him again. Blood was dripping onto the Sniper’s skinny thighs, it was warm and sticky and intensely satisfying to know that he was hurting the American. But he wouldn’t be happy until he got the apology he wanted. If he couldn’t beat it out of the Soldier, he would fuck it out of him.

A deeper thrust brought a strangled cry from the receiver, who tried to blink away the tears of rage stinging the corners of his eyes. He couldn’t believe this was happening. Hands dug painfully into his fleshy sides and the desk groaned under their combined weight. The Sniper tried not to admit how good it felt dominating a man who had never known domination before.

He was tight and aggressively dry, growling his muffled curses into the desk, but he had long since stopped struggling. An unequivocal surrender. Success. The taller man snarled and snapped his lithe hips against the Soldier’s abused hole. The tortured groans only fueled his vengeance.

He was so close. As he felt himself begin to lose control he pulled his hand back to form a rough fist. It connected sloppily with the Soldier’s shaved head launching him forward. The tormented man slumped, blacking out and tightening around the Sniper who spurted his hot liquid and swore…

Then there was stillness, neither man could more or make a sound. That was until the Sniper pulled away, letting the other man slip to the floor with a heavy thud. And it was only when the Australian had put himself away and wiped the blood off of his legs, that he allowed himself to look at the fallen Soldier lying with only his loosened jacked for protection.

He was a mess; blood streaked thighs and more blood smeared across his face. Bruises were appearing on his hips and shoulders, and his nose was broken. The Soldier had never been a handsome man, but whatever looks he had once boasted would be tainted forever. The Sniper rolled him onto his back with a firm boot and the unconscious American groaned.

Was that a pang of guilt somewhere in the assassin’s heart?

“Damnit,” he muttered.

Ignoring the further groans that escaped the Soldier’s bloodied lips, his abuser dragged him across the floor and onto his neatly made bed. He didn’t reckon a military man would much mind sleeping in his own blood. And if he wanted to get healed he could go to the Medic himself, He’d be alright now, now that he’d learned his lesson.

As he reached the door, the Sniper turned to observe the carnage he had left in the Soldier’s life. His plans were bloodstained and chaotic, his uniform was ruined and he had more injuries than he did after a battle.

The assassin smiled sadly and shut the door with a snap.

“Sorry Mate,” he said into the gloom of BLU fortress. “Nothing personal.”