Anybody who wants more Soldier
People generally knew to avoid Soldier when he had THAT look on his face, because when he had THAT look on his face, it meant he was either ready to fight or ready to spill a new conspiracy theory he cooked up while beating people (and sometimes himself) over the head with his shovel.

And people generally managed to hide pretty quickly. The only exeption was Scout, who in an exercise of complete irony never managed to get out of the kitchen fast enough to escape Soldier's rants.

Today, Soldier had declared that the lamps were watching them and recording their brainwaves, so the lecture was held outside.

"I know what you're thinking, Scout: You're thinking why run from the lamps, instead of killing them all? Well, we have to conserve our ammo for when the great bee army comes with their fancy new government-issued guns to kill us all. We have to be prepared! Isn't that right, Maggot?" Scout sat down on a nearby crate and sighed. Today's lecture was going to be very long. "Yes, sir." Soldier smiled. Scout had adressed him properly, and it was something very few people did. He rewarded Scout with a quick peck on the lips.

Eevrybody had wondered why Scout never put up much resistance when Soldier began to drag him away from the rest of the team for another story or something. Well, why not? His stories always ended well, anyway.

"That's right, boy. Gotta be ready for them big guns! And the bees, they're at war with the butterflies. You see, the flowers are emitting hallucinogenic pollen into their hives, and the butterflies are too high to care! Goddamn hippy butterflies. So the bees are--"

This time, Scout interrupted Soldier with a quick kiss. "Hey, Soldier. You talk too much. How about we discuss the birds and the bees instead?" Soldier apparantly liked the idea, and kissed Scout back.

Meanwhile, Pyro was watching from the kitchen window. He was drying the dishes, while Medic was washing them. He tapped Medic on the shoulder and informed him that oh hey look Soldier and Scout are playing by the fence!

"What are you talking about, Pyro? Soldier-- Oh!" It was then that Medic actually looked out the window and saw exactly which "game" it was that they were playing. Medic sat the dishrag down and turned to Pyro. "I'll be right back. Just wait here a moment, and finish drying Sniper's mug, if you would." Pyro didn't get why Medic rushed so quickly to get outside- They were just playing a game, right? Maybe Medic was going out there to play, too! He picked up his little pink towel and did as he was asked, drying the last of the dishes.

Scout and Soldier barely noticed Medic rushing over, but it became painfully obvious when Soldier was pulled abruptly up off of Scout, causing Scout to loose balance and fall onto the floor.

"What are you two doing out here? You understand the entire base can see you." Medic went into a frantic rant about oh God you two don't you ever stop to think about things why can't you just do this in your room and Scout you got dirt on your uniform you're going to have to wash it now and Soldier you should know better--

And then it was Scout's turn. "You mean follow your example? You know we can hear what you and Heavy do all night, right?" Soldier looked at Scout, giving him a thumbs-up for his comeback. Medic blushed a bright red and hurried off in a huff, muttering something about dishes and Pyro.

Soldier laughed and said, "See, boy? That's what the lamps do to a guy. Once they get your brainwaves, you're done!"

Soldier and Scout smiled at each other for a moment, before walking off towards base to continue their lecture.

Scout raping Sniper plz
Clink, clink. Sniper looked up from polishing his scope upon hearing the noise, expecting to see Scout moodily climbing the stairs to his room. He was surprised to see the young man already in the doorframe, leaning on the jamb, his dog tags in his fingers noisily announcing his presence. Sniper stared blankly.

“C’mon man, put that crap down.” Scout crossed the room and unceremoniously shoved the cleaning supplies out of Sniper’s lap and replaced them with himself.

“Oi, watch it!” Sniper exclaimed irritably. He turned away from Scout, who was hooking his arm around his shoulder, to carefully set his rifle on the bedside table. When he turned around he was immediately assaulted with Scout’s lips, teeth, and tongue on his neck.

“Sh-shit, slow down,” Sniper gasped as Scout bit down rather viciously on his shoulder. His request fell on deaf ears; the boy seemed to be on a mission. Scout pressed his weight into Sniper’s chest, and the older man obligingly leaned back on the bed.

“What the hell’s gotten into y-” his protests were muffled by a sudden and rough kiss, Scout’s tongue forcefully invading his mouth. Sniper fought back with his own tongue, trying to regain some shred of control over the excitable young man. Scout pulled away and caught his breath before giving a wide smile.

“Nothing,” he answered belatedly and sat up, rummaging around in his pockets. Sniper tried to move but found that Scout was sitting on his chest, his knees pressing almost painfully into his ribs.

“Would you bloody get off me for a moment?” he spat. This is not how things were supposed to go. He was supposed to be in Scout’s position right about now.

“Nah,” Scout bluntly replied. He produced a length of cord from his pocket and swiftly pinned the sharpshooter’s wrists above his head and secured them to the headboard. Sniper, completely taken by surprise, did not think to resist until it was too late.

“What the- what do you think you’re do-” when another kiss stopped him, he didn’t reciprocate, and instead stared daggers at the boy who was not following the rules at all.

Scout broke the kiss and moved down to straddle Sniper’s legs despite Sniper’s continued protests. Using his safety from Sniper’s hands to unbutton and spread open his shirt, he trailed his hands firmly down Sniper’s chest to his pants. He unfastened the leather belt and opened the trousers, placing his hand lightly on the bulge that lay beneath. Oh, Sniper thought furiously, if only he could get to that brat’s throat right now.

“Get. The. Bloody. Fuck. Off. Mmh-.” Sniper’s attempt at a severe voice was stopped dead as Scout began to massage his crotch. He moaned in spite of himself. Scout quickly pulled down his pants and underwear. He sat back, took off his shirt, and then paused; looking as if he were trying to remember what came next.

“You stupid kid, you don’t even know what you’re doing,” Sniper jeered. Scout looked up suddenly, glaring at the bound man.

“I think I get the gist of it from all the stuff you do to me,” he snarled. He spat in his palm and his smile returned as he wrapped the hand firmly around Sniper’s hardening cock. He was clearly enjoying having power over the usually dominant man.

“Aah-“ Sniper couldn’t believe he’d let himself get into this situation. He closed his eyes as Scout began to stroke, unable to help himself. His eyes snapped open however, when two fingers were shoved into his mouth.

“Come on dude, you don’t want me to just shove ‘em in dry, do ya?” Scout asked when he felt Sniper’s teeth beginning to bite down. He roughly swirled his fingers around before Sniper could get a hold on him, collecting as much saliva as possible. Continuing to stroke Sniper’s member with his left hand, he moved his right hand to Sniper’s inner thigh. He stopped then, looking rather reluctant.

“I told you, ya wanker,” Sniper laughed a little. His laughter was cut short when he saw the look on Scout’s face, positively furious.

“You really shouldn’t be laughin’, man,” he growled and forcefully inserted a finger into Sniper’s entrance. Insulting the kid was just egging him on, Sniper realized through the pain.

“Relax, boy,” Scout said in a mock-Australian accent as Sniper groaned, “I know you like it.” Sniper grimaced at the alien feeling, is this what it felt like for Scout? No wonder he had fought back so hard the first time. The only thing keeping him still now was the feeling of Scout’s persistent stroking. He tried to relax his muscles, understanding now why Scout had previously complained of how difficult that could be.

“Now, where is it?” Scout said mostly to himself, curling his finger and feeling around inside Sniper. He watched Sniper’s reactions with a curious expression. When Sniper moaned long and loud, he grinned and continued putting pressure on that spot, adding his second finger shortly afterwards, “There we go.”

Sniper gasped as Scout stroked him and touched that spot inside him that he was so familiar with in Scout’s body, but knew nothing about in himself. He almost didn’t notice when Scout removed his hand from his cock and began undoing his own pants. He heard Scout spit again and a soft moaning as he began to stroke himself. Then Scout removed his fingers from Sniper, who closed his eyes and braced himself, but nothing happened. He looked up to see Scout holding his own member in his hand near Sniper’s anus, biting his lip in a nervous expression.

Sniper was done arguing, he just wanted more of that feeling. “Go on, then,” he said hoarsely, and flopped his head back down.

“Man, this shit is pretty gay,” he heard the kid say as he felt pressure slowly elevate on his entrance. Sniper clenched his fists around the rope restraining his arms, pain spiking in his body. Scout gasped, pushing into Sniper. The sensations were new for both of them, though they had been connected so many times before. The head of Scout’s penis brushed against Sniper’s prostate and the pleasure came flooding back. Scout, thoroughly lost in the feeling, leaned forward, resting his head on Sniper’s torso. “Can I…move?” he near-whispered, relishing in the sweat and heavy rise and fall of Sniper’s chest.

“Oh, now you want permission?” Sniper could almost laugh at the young man, so confident and yet so unsure, “Yeah.” Scout chuckled weakly and began thrusting his hips, his body remaining close to Sniper’s.

As he worked to an unsteady rhythm, the two men began voicing their pleasure together. Sniper’s low, guttural grunts mixed with Scout’s breathy, shallow cries. The younger man slid up a little to hook his arms around Sniper’s neck when the older man began to twitch his loins to meet the younger’s sharp movements. Sniper’s brain became a fevered mess as their slick bodies pressed together around his cock. Somewhere in the back of his mind he wished his arms were free, but that thought was dashed against a particularly strong thrust from Scout, who moaned loudly. Scout wondered if Sniper was feeling the way he always felt, or if it was different, while Sniper wondered the exact same thing.

Eventually, the younger man felt he was close to coming, and turned his head up to deeply kiss Sniper, who this time returned it hungrily. “Mmmhh,” Scout moaned into Sniper’s mouth as he came, feeling himself spill into the other man. He pulled his lips away and continued thrusting, moving one hand down to stroke Sniper, rather angry with himself for coming first again. The sensation of the hot liquid flowing into him and the added effort sent Sniper over the edge in a way he had never known before. He let out a long, low groan as his vision left him briefly.

Scout pulled himself out of Sniper and collapsed on his chest into the sticky mess there, the two panting heavily in the silence following. Sniper broke the quiet after a few moments.

“So-” his voice was hoarse and he coughed to clear his throat, “What was that all about, mate?” Scout looked up at him and laughed.

“I-haha- I won the bet.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Sniper asked, completely confused as Scout rolled off of him and continued laughing, beginning to untie the bonds.

“You said- ha- you said if I took out both BLU Heavies I could be on top.”

“Wha-” Sniper sputtered as he searched his mind. Scout grinned as he worked at the knots.

“Remember? ‘You, take down two Heavies? Ha, well fuck me if you can pull that off, kid!’” he said, resurrecting the horrible Australian impression. Sniper’s eyes widened in surprise and anger.

“I said that a bloody month ago! That was a joke and you know it!”

“Yeah, I didn’t think you’d agree to my flawless victory. ‘S way I had to tie you up.” Scout said matter-of-factly as he loosened the last knot, finally releasing the older man, “Y’ain’t mad are ya?” He edged away from the Sniper, who was now in possession of his arms. Sniper sat up and glared at Scout, grabbing the shoulder of the retreating boy. He pulled him into his lap and his disgruntled expression became a devious grin.

“Tell you what, mate,” he paused to bite lightly on Scout’s neck, “If you get rid of the Pyro, you can do it again.”

Soldier/anyone, seriously... he gets nu love.
SOLDIER/ANYONE?

PREPARE FOR HET

Apologies to Jones and Author for kind of stealing their idea without permission and submitting a story without a beta.

(Took some liberties here re: gender. I can make a guy version if popular demand decrees.)

--


The song on the radio is old, one your parents sang around you when you were younger; and he catches your quick smile of nostalgia, because somehow despite that helmet he never misses /anything/, and he asks you if you know how to dance.

You don't know.

He stands up, poker-straight, and holds out his elbow and you have no choice but to take it, really, kicking a chair out of the way as you go.

It's just the two of you alone in the break room with a radio and one of the cats that infest the complex sleeping on the counter next to the coffee machine. It's dark outside, sunset maybe, you're not quite sure - anyway, the only lightsources are the bare flourescent bulb overhead and a lamp by the ratty couch illuminating the end table with it stacks of ratty magazines (gun catalogues and Reader's Digest, which nobody reads). You wrap your arms around his neck, shyly, because you're not sure about touching a man you've watched decapitate people with a spade, but he chuckles and rests his hands around your waist.

He leads (of course). You think it's a waltz, but aren't sure, so you have to watch him to figure out where to go at first. It's a slower song and you begin to sway despite yourself.

He grins at your obvious inexperience (he has a lot of teeth and they are very white). You apologize, it's been a while, and he tells you that it's like riding a bike, you never forget.

You say, "Apparently I did."

He says, "It'll come back."

You say, "I hope so."

He laughs to himself, inside his mouth, hmm-hmm, and you wonder where he learned to dance because he's /good/ and you weren't expecting that at all. His movements are practiced and controlled and oddly fluid but he's giving you room to watch and follow. You dimly remember years back, doing this with - someone else, not really paying attention. You wish you had, now. It'd be nice to be able to challenge.

"See, you're getting the hang of it."

"Dancing's not really my thing."

"/That/ sounds like an /excuse/, private."

You smile, then, "Maybe."

He dips you and you squeak which is not very dignified and he knows because he's grinning like a fucking cat that's found the cream. When you right yourself, puffing a little /only/ because you were surprised, you find yourself being held a little bit closer. Odd.

He's in a curious mood this evening. He's not as scary at times like this, off-duty, off the battlefield where bloodlust seizes him and makes him spastic and schizophrenic; he's actually being, could it be, nice. Well - nice for him, which means, at least, not as abrasive as usual. He's humming along with the radio.

You try to catch his eye under the helmet and resort to tipping it back (which coincidentally forces you to pull closer to him, against his jacket, up close where you can smell aftershave and paper and paint). He frowns, briefly - it's his personal space and you didn't ask permission - then raises an eyebrow. "What?"

"What do you do under there all the time?"

"My own business."

"Hmm."

"Eh, it's nothing you have to worry about."

"I hope not, but I can't always tell."

He laughs again. You tuck your head underneath his chin and hear his breath hitch for /just/ a second. Hah. Bet he didn't see that one coming.

The song dies down, replaced by the low velvety murmer of the station's announcer, and the two of you are left there swaying gently, silent. He buries his nose in your hair and makes a soft sound in the back of his throat.

You think for a moment, held there with your ear to his heartbeat, but it doesn't take much deliberation. You press your lips against his throat, a pulse underneath the stubble, and when you pull back he traces his nose down your cheek, and you hang for a moment, sudden doubt, uncertainty. You feel him smile an inch from your mouth, and fuck it.

He's not breathing when you kiss him and he doesn't seem to remember that he needs to.

He pulls you up, a hand above your waist, a hand below it, giving you a better angle. You pull the helmet off, a quick glance over to make sure it lands on the couch - too much noise might alert the rest of the base - well who cares, you're being kissed.

It started off gentle, sort of bumping mouths, but gentle isn't his style and you know it and make him fight. His tongue is in your mouth, warm and solid, you're not sure if your feet are touching the floor. They're not; he's scooping you up, and you lose contact for a few seconds, both of you breathing heavy, you grab the lapels of his jacket as he tosses you back onto the couch and you drag him down with you and start all over again.

Jacket's off, he can't get out of it fast enough, and then you grab his dogtags, reach around his back to untuck his wifebeater and undo his belt, tug his pants down and then grip his back again. (There's muscle moving under your fingers, sleek and taut, it's so good to handle a man after so long-) He's exploring up your thigh, tugging your underwear down but leaving your nylon stockings intact. You move a hand down to his ass and pull him forward, you can feel it, his forehead is pressed against yours, eyes on yours, and he's breathing heavily. You nip a kiss to the side of his mouth and whisper into his cheek bone, "come on, come on do it"

He kisses you again, growls gently against your lips - "is that an order?" - and you say "mhmm" and push his shoulder around till he's sprawled on the couch, wide-legged. You straddle his lap as you unbutton the front of your dress, meeting his half-lidded eyes and unable to stop yourself smirking in triumph at the reversal of roles. You wiggle a little, just for emphasis, and he makes an exasperated noise and pulls you into him with a hand at the back of your neck, kissing hard.

His free hand moves inside your dress, into your bra, cupping your breast; you grind against him, frustrated now, and bite his lip a little to make your point. He just grins, and presses your head into the crook of his neck so he can free a hand to push your skirt up over your hips.

"Patience," he murmers.

"God - d - just-" You shake your head, feverishly. "Do it."

"Do it, what?" There's something velvety and dangerous in his voice now.

"Please!"

He chuckles.

"Please, sir," you're begging.

"Mmm." A thumb moves across your nipple and you gasp. "Well, /iiin/ that case..."

You moan against his mouth, so wet already, grabbing his hips (brushing your fingers along his inguinal ligament) as he pulls his boxers down. His fingers are at your entrance, sliding inside once and then out and tracing, teasing you, and you make some kind of undignified noise that makes him kiss your neck. You rock forward on your hips to allow yourself some space, some breathing room. A brief glance down to make sure you're in the right place, and then you spread your legs a little wider and then you sink down and he draws a deep breath, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallows.

It takes you a few seconds to adjust and you brace yourself against the back of the sofa for balance. But you need this, and he's licking his lips as though they're suddenly dry, so you begin to move.

He's so warm and thick and slick inside you and there's so much of him, more than enough, and you wonder why you waited so long to get to this part when it's so good. You're panting into the hollow of his neck, riding him for all you're worth, and his grip on you suggests his appreciation.

His hips are trying to help out but you bite his shoulder, lightly, just enough to get the message through. You're on top here, /dammit/, but he's getting the message, you see his wicked grin in the corner of your eye. It figures that a man like him would like it rough. You bite again, savage him a little, careful with your teeth, dig your nails into the sofa and try to leave a mark.

Your dress has slipped down your shoulders and your hair is a mess, you're absolutely certain of that. You find yourself not really caring. He's rubbing against that place inside you that's turning your legs to jelly and your head to something else altogether and his hands are warm, calloused, one at your waist and one ghosting up your back.

You can't stop the sounds you're making, you can't, and you shift your arms to circle around his neck, grabbing his dogtags, watching his muscles move under his thin cotton undershirt as he arches up into you. Your nails leave bright half-moons on his skin. There's beads of sweat on his forehead, on the exposed parts of his arms and chest, probably on yours as well - he's getting red-faced which means he's probably close, a thought solidified by the urgent way he curls an arm under your shoulder. His breath is hot against your ear and you can feel his thighs bunching beneath yours and it smells like sex.

You step up the pace now and he blasphemes against the Lord. Your nerves are on fire, you're losing focus; you just want /more/, you're pretty sure he does too and you're both going to get what you want. But there's something else-

"What's your name?"

He blinks, meets your eyes (so blue, here in the dimness), unable to keep his voice level. "Hah, h- P-pardon?"

You bend closer.

"Tell me what I'm gonna scream."

He pulls your ear next to his mouth and tells you.

He's throbbing inside you now, buried to the hilt, so close. The world is slowly fading away and you're moving as one, rocking back and forth vaguely in time with the radio still on in the background. Your mouth is on his and he's got a hand tangled in your hair and you tighten around him, pushing it, let's see how long you can last /now/ and he grunts and grips you closer. Your limbs are tangled in or around his and that's fine, that's teamwork.

And then he's coming, straining up into you with a strangled cry. You ride it out, the fluids making your movements more slippery but it's so good and you're right there, you're /right there/ and you repeat his name like a mantra and he's stroking your swollen lips around the place where your bodies meet murmuring encouragement under his breath and you /can't/




You regain use of your senses and you've collapsed into him, your arms around his neck, your chest heaving against his. He pulls you off his dick, carefully, so you're sitting sideways on his lap. He lifts his hips briefly to tug his boxers back up, and then his pants. And then he nuzzles your hair and holds you, safe and securely his, and hums along with whatever song that is.

There's nothing inside your head, no problems, no ideas, nothing in the world you want. And you're perfectly fine with that. You curl up into his chest and all you can think is how you had no idea Soldier could dance.

Medic/Engineer please. The intellectuals should fuck.
Fuck, this is gonna be so goddamn long... Sorry about that, guys. ALSO. If you were thinking about doing this prompt, DO IT ANYWAY. God knows the more talented writefriends here can come up with better stuff than this tripe.

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Engineer isn’t so sure about this examination. Medic has an unsettling glint in his eyes.

His apprehension heightens as Medic locks the door to his office.

His fears are confirmed when Medic painfully pins him down onto the examination table.

“D-Doc…,” he starts, but he quickly falters at the quietly sadistic look on the doctor’s face.

“Time for an examination, ja?” Medic says with a slight edge in his voice. He flashes a quick grin that lacks humor or warmth, and that just seals the deal for Engineer.

“Doc, this ain’t an examination and I don’t intend on stayin’,” he says coldly, struggling against the weight on his chest. Medic just pushes down harder, causing Engineer’s determination to leave to flare up. He struggles more, catching Medic off guard and pushing him off for an instant.

Before he can dash to the exit, however, there’s an ominous clatter of metal and before he knows it, he’s thrown face-down onto the examination table again, this time with a morbidly rusty and visibly sharp saw nuzzling against his neck. He throws his shoulders, trying to wriggle out of Medic’s commanding grip while vainly trying to distance himself from the weapon.

Medic is merciless and presses the saw against Engineer’s skin so that the Texan can feel the individual teeth pricking his neck. With a sharp, quick movement, Medic flicks the weapon, and Engineer gasps as those teeth tear away skin. He can feel the blood prickling to the surface of the broken skin then drizzling down his neck.

“Just a flesh wound, Engineer, and not close enough to za jugular, I am afraid,” Medic comments mildly as Engineer’s breathing becomes shallow from the shock of the wound. He casually places the saw next to Engineer on the table as if nothing happened and Engineer can see specks of blood on the saw’s infernal teeth. “But try to behave, ja? Things vill be much easier.”

A gloved hand is pressing him down onto the table while another deftly undoes his overalls. The Texan grunts in protest, but they fall on deaf ears. Soon he can feel cool air against his legs and, to his shame, behind, and this makes him attempt another chance at escape. A six-foot-something German isn’t easy to throw off, however, and his efforts are fruitless.

It doesn’t matter, as the cold is quickly dispelled by Medic nearing his bare flesh. Engineer flinches as he feels the material of Medic’s jodhpurs against his skin. He is now painfully aware of what this “examination” will be consisting of and is now both more desperate and more helpless to escape from it. The worst part is, Medic is humming casually while rummaging within his medical supplies for god-knows-what. It’s as if the bleeding, panting man currently hunched over the examination table doesn’t exist.

“It iz very important to prepare for such things, Engineer,” he says, finally speaking after a period of silence. He speaks to Engineer as if he is both interested and eager to receive medical lessons from him. “Za way some of our teammates go about… Extremely unsafe. Dummkopfs, all of zem.”

“And I’m guessing slittin’ a man’s throat’s on yer list of safe medical practices?” Engineer growls from his awkward position on the table. A pungent smell fills the air and he can vaguely see Medic fiddling with something on his fingers.

The doctor pauses for a second, and smiles. It’s frightening how benevolent he can look even after ruthlessly drawing blood from a person.

“Zat was irrelevant to za primary medical procedures,” he explains calmly. He ignores Engineer’s yelp of surprise and indignation as he deftly spreads a clear, viscous fluid around the man’s entrance, maintaining an unmoving control of his movements despite Engineer’s bucking and struggling.

There is still some of that fluid on his gloves when he’s done. Engineer knows because he can feel it, slick and cold, when Medic runs a hand along his cock. His face reddens at both the physical contact and the knowledge that the protests he’s making with his body aren’t as ardent as they were earlier. There’s that sick, shameful sensation of knowing that, despite how loudly his conscious mind is fighting against this, his body will react favorably to it. Engineer knows this, and he knows that Medic knows this.

What’s worse is how Medic knows Engineer knows this, but decides to show that he knows this anyway.

“Za human mind and body are very curious sings, Engineer. Zey have zer contradictions,” Medic started, as in a lecture. He slowly stroke’s Engineer’s cock while he’s doing this, enjoying the sight of the man struggling not to escape, but to not betray any display of pleasure in his actions. “Foa example, you vill tell me you ah not enjoying zis, however…”

Engineer manages to choke out an uncharacteristic curse at the good doctor, who merely smirks in reply before pausing the movements of his hand. There’s a groan that mixes heated lust and shame as Engineer hardens to the stimulation. Medic, thankfully, says no more. He knows that the chaos in Engineer’s mind is painful enough.

That and he has other plans. Distracted by his inner conflict and frustration, Engineer fails to notice Medic reaching for the bonesaw once again.

“It getz za blood pumping, ja?” is all he hears before being yanked up and feeling the raking of angry saw teeth against his collarbone. He screams in surprise and pain while Medic appreciatively watches the blood drip from his saw and down Engineer’s chest.

Seemingly finding a new point of anatomical interest, Medic fingers the skin around Engineer’s collarbone with curiosity.

“Za skin nearest to za bone is thin. How much vould it take to reveal it beneath za flesh?” He muses to himself. He keeps Engineer propped up so that his back is arching. Medic supports his upper body by keeping an arm near his neck, making Engineer’s breathing shallow and labored. Medic explores the flaps of skin a bit more before unceremoniously pushing Engineer back down onto the table. Even though his lips are dry and chapped, Engineer tries not to lick them because he’s close enough to the table to lap up some of the spilled blood on the table if he does.

Apparently satisfied by his brief medical explorations, Medic places a hand firmly on one buttock, probing around Engineer’s entrance with the other. He deftly pulls out the earlier tube of lube and applies more in a professional, detached fashion. At this point, Engineer is drained and can only focus on trying to keep his ragged breathing even. The throb of blood and the sting of sweat on his wounds make him feel nauseous, and even then, he doesn’t have to feel it for long before he’s struck with another bolt of pain, specifically in a concentrated area at his posterior.

“Almost done wiz za examination, Engineea,” Medic croons, uncharacteristically running a tender hand down Engineer’s face. He smiles (sweetly, it could be said) at the moan of anguish this evokes. “You did very well toward za end. A good sing, zat, otherwise you vould be lying in a larger pool of blood.”

His laughter is just as chilling as the statement he made, both drowned out by the returning, guilty pleasure of his hands bringing Engineer’s cock back to life. Engineer can’t help but think that this is Medic’s twisted way of giving him a “treat” for being a “good patient.” He’s probably right.

Contrary to his earlier actions, Medic’s thrusts are gentle and follow a similar rhythm to his treatment to Engineer’s penis. The sharp pain that came with his unexpected entrance falls to a dull ache and in combination to the almost loving caresses of Medic’s hand, the feeling is almost blissful. But like with everything relating to the temperamental Medic, such bliss doesn’t last long. Engineer grunts as Medic pushes into him particularly hard. He closes his eyes knowing that things will only escalate from here. And he’s right.

The thrusts come harder and faster and now there’s the slick, abrasive grip of rubber pulling at Engineer’s skin. The cold, almost sociopathic composure displayed earlier slowly dissolves as Medic pants out what sounds blasphemous in German. Heat becomes evident in the sweat that beads on his forehead, glasses slipping down his nose. Engineer can only hiss and moan at the continual barrage of pain and pleasure coming with every movement. His own blood mingles with sweat and smears across his body as each thrust jerks him across the examination table. Voices, heat, and movement culminate to dizzying heights before a clear, German exclamation mingles with a deep, rumbling groan. When the heat seems like it can’t go any higher, it peaks as Medic comes forcefully into Engineer before nearly collapsing onto the other man from exhaustion.

Moments later, all traces of blood, semen, and sweat have been meticulously cleaned up and the office looks as sterile and clean as it’s always been. Medic, despite his sadistic tendencies, does have enough ability to mend most damage done to the human body and does so for Engineer, who accepts his treatment grudgingly. Scars will remain, however, and Engineer is almost positive that he isn’t going to make plans on getting new ones.

Almost.

Tentaspy/Scout I dare anyone of you
Here you go, with luv<3 -hides identity-

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The tendrils wound around soft flesh, throbbing with the blood that freely flowed through them. Slipping one up under the underside of the lithe blonds chin, wetting and teasing the flesh. " Come now, moi Petit Prince..." That smooth voice now taking on a husky tone called out as the hapless Scout was drawn ever closer to that pulsing mass of flesh that where the TentaSpy's many legs. " I can touch /every/ spot you enjoy, C'est Luc zat no other man can do the same, non?"

He let a pleasured purr at the soft whimpering of the Scout, he was long past protesting-- he knew what would happen; he'd resist, Spy would touch those very places he talked about, and then he'd eventually give in-- so instead he submitted to the touches. As the TentaSpy had said to him many many times, '/Mieux vaut plier que rompre/', the phrase haunted him some nights, 'it's better to /bend/ then to /break/'. He felt those solid coils wrap tighter, slipping around his limbs, into those gray brown pants. A gasp, a pant, exactly what he was looking for.

The flushed panting face of the Scout always amused him, watching him worm as one firm tentacle wound its way around his aching arousal, pulsing and tugging. Another would probe deeper and he'd be rewarded with that barely muffled groan and the perfect arch of Scouts back. He always found it well... cute.. how the thin blond Scout would bite down on his knuckle, trying to remain quiet. He knew he was enjoying it then, even if just by the flashes of pink tongue he caught when seeing the boy lap at his own flesh. He knew what Scout was thinking.

" Viens ici que je te saute..." He murmured slipping into his own tongue as the blond was drawn closer, probing deeper he felt that sweet spot and saw that jerk and gasp of his smaller partner. " Good, non?" He whispered against the shell of Scout's ear while those vine-like tendon worked faster, leaving his play-toy lip and nearly mewling for him.

Scouts pants were faster now, and he could feel that that tight ring of flesh clenching on occasion-- it wouldn't be long now before his effort would be rewarded. " S-spy..." He relished in the Scouts tone, it was weak and delighted, and TentaSpy proudly delighted in draining the boy of his cockiness if just for a moment.

" Do you want to /crier/?" He cooed softly, but the steely tone under that playful taunting was as obvious as the sun to Scout.

"Please..."

"Hm?"

"/please/!"

Finally satisfied with Scouts pleas he picked the pace back up, probing deeper and flicking the tip of that tentacle repeatedly against that bundle of nerves that set Scouts body on fire. A few more minutes at play and Scout was crying out for him as he rocked steadily against his probing flesh, groaning and releasing all over himself and those ever winding tentacles, barely managing to stay alert through the high-like sensation of afterglow.

Tonight he wanted to hear him, but tomorrow perhaps he'd shut him up. Smirking he cradled his worn out playmate, " Come moi Petit Prince, let us get you clean."

Scout having a seeeecret crush on Sniper.
So secret that it hurts. ;_;

------------------------

Scout imagines it often.

Everything from the warmth of Sniper’s arms to the hardwood floor of his nest. The flavor, heat, and wetness of Sniper’s mouth (all tinged with the bitter taste of coffee) and the roughness of his chapped lips slightly scratching his own. The heat from Sniper’s neck as he wraps his arms around them and the slight tickle of Sniper’s chest hair on his own woefully skinny, smooth, and pale body. The ache in his nether regions that throbs painfully at the feel of Sniper’s own hardened cock against his stomach. The slickness of everything caused by increasing sweat and precum and the intoxicating smell caused by the combination of both. The screaming anticipation as he feels Sniper’s head at his entrance, the screaming pain as he pushes in, and the screaming pleasure as he thrusts in, hitting that particular spot in that particular way, over and over and over again. The mingling of deep, almost animalistic grunts with high-pitched, short gasps. The feel of Sniper’s hands all over him and his hands clawing at every bit of skin he can grab. The immense, mind-blowing, impossibly hot and impossibly intense climax that has him screaming loud enough for the entire team, the entire enemy team, and the entire universe to hear. The satisfied moan of Sniper next to him, followed by a warm chuckle and an arm wrapping around his shoulder and pulling him close. The smell of sweat and coffee and musk of Sniper as he falls asleep next to him.

He imagines it more often than he can count, more vividly than anything he has ever seen or actually experienced, and wants it more than anything anyone would possibly comprehend wanting.

And Sniper is absolutely clueless because whenever Scout sees him, he gives off the impression that he hates his guts by insulting him, hitting him, and being a colossal dick to him. As far as he’s concerned, Scout would probably prefer him dead, and since that’s not a particularly pleasant feeling to have around someone you’re supposed to be working with, Sniper tries to avoid Scout as much as possible. He’s not quite sure why Scout treats him that way, but he’d rather not suffer the minefield of asking, so he just disappears whenever he sees Scout around.

As soon as Scout sees Sniper seeing him coming, then darting somewhere else to avoid him, Scout will bite his lip so hard he’ll draw blood. He can’t stand how badly he wants it, nor the idea of Sniper (or anyone else) ever finding out, so the only thing he can do is find somewhere quiet and imagine it all over again.

Sniper/Medic rough passionate sex on the floor with clothes still half-on
Here you go. This is probably like my third porn I've ever written, I hope you guys like it.

--+--

Medic’s not quite sure how they ended up this way – it was raining outside, the floor was slippery, he’d skidded on the slick linoleum and when Sniper reached to steady him he’d only pulled the Aussie down with him – on top of him –

It’s a good thing Sniper loves spontaneity. Really, really loves it. That was all it took to get him to mash his lips to Medic’s and kiss him until they were both bruised. When they part, Medic grins, plucks Sniper’s hat off, and puts it on his own head. That entices the Aussie to lean in and kiss him again, and Medic reaches up to wrap his arms around Sniper’s neck to get their bodies closer together. Sniper positions himself more firmly on top of Medic, pinning him down by the long tail of his coat, and their tongues tangle together, saliva swapping.

Next thing both men know, Medic’s got his coat and shirt unbuttoned and his pants and underwear off completely, but he’s still wearing the hat. Sniper’s bare from the waist up, kneeling between Medic’s legs. Between them there’s probably enough clothing for a single outfit but they could care less. They need each other now.

Sniper reaches into his back pocket and Medic rifles through his coat and they both produce tubes of lubricant at the same time. Sniper’s is gun oil, Medic’s is first aid cream, but both have been used in the past and they know it. Quiet chuckles are had by both, but Sniper’s laughter is cut short when Medic leans up to suggest they use his – it feels better inside him.

Sniper asks him what else he can do to make Medic feel better and the German gets that twinkle in his eye that means something absolutely delicious is about to go down.

Medic slicks up Sniper’s cock for him then lets the Aussie take control, hitching his legs up around his waist. The slide in is mildly painful – they both know what they’re doing but preparation’s at a minimum. Medic cringes, biting his lip and drawing blood. Sniper kisses it away, murmuring words of passion with varying degrees of obscenity but one hundred percent sincerity. He means every word he says, from the cursing that’d make a sailor blush to the sweet nothings that’d make a poet jealous.

Medic moves his hips back onto Sniper and the Aussie’s incapable of words for a moment. Then he growls lowly and starts to pound into the German, finished with the niceties. If Medic wants to be used, he’ll use him. The first few movements reward him with lovely cries of pleasure, but soon Medic gets his voice under control, grinning at Sniper and rocking back in a counter-rhythm, pushing down with each thrust up. Medic wants to be taken rough and fast, he wants to feel like a whore, and he wants Sniper to do him like no tomorrow.

Sniper would be a fool to refuse.

They nearly come together, Sniper buried to the hilt and Medic howling into his mouth as they kiss hard enough to click teeth. They part just for a few seconds, panting into each others’ faces, then touch lips again, soothing bruise and bite. Medic doesn’t want him to, but Sniper disconnects from him with a quiet wet noise. The Aussie makes it up to him by staying close, cuddling.

Sniper murmurs three little words in Medic’s ear, and the German smiles fondly, wraps his arms around him, and they both rest in the afterglow, listening to the rain outside.

Medic/Spy and fluff. MANLY fluff, so no girly adorable sweethearts, but... buddies. And Spy being very-very trashed up/feverish.
No. No, Spy he was /not/ ill, thank you very much, and yes, he was going to bravely saunter out to the other team’s base and boldly and cleverly steal their intel from under their very noses. He would come back as suavely as he had left, and no one would question him for it and instead, celebrate him as the dashing and daring hero that had saved them all from a grueling day of fighting and savagery.

Except Medic.

Dear, motherly, overbearing Medic.

Spy, is something the matter, he said. And of course, Spy said no because there definitely not something the matter. Everything was perfectly fine, and that red tint in his face was merely because it was just a tad warm today. That was all. He stepped on something slippery, which was why he wobbled slightly as took a step, ready to embark on his James Bondian escapade into the opposing team’s base. Dust got into his throat, which was why he ended up on the ground coughing very loudly and very hoarsely.

What, haven’t you ever gotten a particularly persistent bit of dust stuck in your throat, docteur?

Not enough to make that sort of cough, the doctor primly replied. The doctor, predictably, knew just what kind of cough that was, and it was not the kind that came from some measly dust in your throat.

Verbal coaxing would not work because Spy ignored Medic and was staunchly insistent on proceeding with his glorious adventure. He got to his feet in a most dignified manner, cleared his throat, and had barely walked a few feet, when Delirium, that was directing his affairs from a fever to hallucination, discovered to him the hallway, where he also espied a dispenser. Medic correctly identified that it was a dispenser, and Spy that it was a heinous enemy sentry; and the dispute lasted a very short while as Medic effectively restrained Spy from landing one of his sappers (really his cigarette-case) onto Engineer’s building.

God who sends the wound sends the medicine! He had vainly bellowed as he struggled against Medic’s strong arms.

And I am that medicine, Medic replied, and he added that he would also be the medicine to stop Spy’s quixotic behavior, indicative of the quotes the man was now speaking in. Medic resigned to playing the role of poor Sancho to Spy’s Don Quixote except this time, he would make sure the man would not go running into enemy Heavies mistaken to be vicious dragons to be vanquished instead of idly watching in resignation. The feeling of exasperation, however, would be the same.

With his hands now firmly steering Spy towards the infirmary, Medic stoically marched the delirious man down the hallway, bearing all flailing arms and hoarse outbursts of protest and Spanish literature.

Do not steer me from my will, señor! Spy exclaimed. I must have my will for it is what I please and when I do what I please, I am compelled to fulfill my desire so that it is in my will to be desired and when there is no more to pleased, there begins my will.

Mein gott, Spy, you were doing so well, Medic said. And it was true. If anything was now an indication of Spy’s elevating fever and increasing loss of wits, it was his inability properly quote Don Quixote which, up to this point, he had been doing quite near verbatim.

Mercí, señor, Spy replied, I am quite pleased out of my seven senses.

Medic took a step back and scrutinized Spy with a furrowed brow and pursed lips. The loopy grin plastered on Spy’s face was quite worrying, and his face was a rather nasty shade of red now. When Spy toppled head first into Medic’s chest, it gave the doctor a chance to relieve the delirious man from his balaclava, a feat that proved difficult with Spy’s listless form threatening to spill onto the floor with Medic’s every movement. With a resigned sigh, the doctor scooped Spy up into his arms and carried him the way back to his office.

He walked quickly, for fear of running into the other teammates with the unconscious Spy draped in his arms in a way strangely reminiscent of the Pieta. Instead of profundity or a majestic sorrow, however, the limp form of Spy evoked worry and irritation from the doctor.

Ridiculous man, he huffed, and Spy’s head nodded into his chest almost as if he were agreeing with him.

He was almost at his office when Spy stirred and suddenly gained consciousness, eyes blinking several times in bewilderment. He did not move and instead just stared up at the doctor with that terribly unreadable face. It was unsettling, seeing Spy’s eyes open that wide when it’s customary to see them perpetually half-lidded with the disdain or haughtiness that so defined the man. Medic slowed to a stop, peering back at Spy, quite unsure of what to do. Perhaps he needed something?

But instead, Spy broke out into a tired smile and raised an arm and affectionately patted Medic on the cheek, evoking a look of affronted surprise in the good doctor.

The proof of the Medic is in the healing, Spy said, and then his head drooped back into his chest as his mind settled back into unconsciousness.

Medic remained rooted in his spot for a moment, pondering that absurdly clear look in Spy’s eyes and the even more absurdly sane and rather touching statement the man had made amidst his fever and delusion. He mulled it over in his mind, coming to the conclusion that he wouldn’t mind it so terribly much of Spy would more often say interesting little things like that, sick or otherwise. But he decided not to expect too much of him and dismissed the occurrence as he stepped into his office. With the proper facilities all within an arm’s reach, he was able to set Spy down and prepare him for what would most likely be a long and intensive period of rehabilitation. He just hoped he wouldn’t need it himself afterwards.

Medic/Spy and fluff. MANLY fluff, so no girly adorable sweethearts, but... buddies. And Spy being very-very trashed up/feverish.
Göttingen
***************

Battles were always rough on the team, the explosions, bullets and yelling took a great toll on the physical body and the stress would tear at the mind. This was nothing new, this was their job, and they adapted. Most of the team could even sleep at night without a single nightmare. The exception being Scout, but his dreams were of monsters lurking in the canals and less so about the horrors of war. It was nothing new for BLU base to end the night with stitches and bandages, followed by laughter, followed by booze and more laughter.

Tonight was more of the same, except Sniper never came back, and not everyone was laughing. Spy sat in the corner, jacket tightly folded in his lap smoking and smiling along with the rest, Medic noticed however that the smile never reached his eyes. Now, Medic was not one to care about the feelings of his teammates, he just cleaned up the gore. That isn’t to say he didn’t notice, human sorrow was always so fascinating.

As was stated, Spy smiled and smoked when he was upset and, as the night progressed, beer bottles piled high next to him in an amusingly neat pyramid. Medic supposed that Spy was very drunk by now, though, the only hint of that was his cigarette drooping. Medic himself was feeling rather warm, his tie loosened and his body relaxed in the dusty chair. The rest of the team were less reserved in their drunken behavior and a deafening cheer resounded as Engineer announced that he had finally fixed the radio. Medic rolled his eyes. Hooray, more American hippy rock, Medic and Spy took a simultaneous drink.

Surprisingly though, once Engineer had set the radio down and smacked it a few times, a soft piano melody filled the room. Scout reached for the knob, but quick as that Spy reached over and slapped away his hand, smile never fading but eyes softening surprisingly. A woman’s voice followed shortly, she was singing a melancholy tune, how typical of French music. There seemed to be little appreciation for the song, as the loud talking and laughter continued, but Medic and Spy sat close enough to hear.

The song trilled on for a few verses, soft and warm. Somewhere between mournful and blissful the woman’s voice seemed to go on without breath, so calmly.

“Bien sûr nous, nous avons la Seine
Et puis notre bois de Vincennes,
Mais Dieu que les roses sont belles
A Göttingen, à Göttingen.”

A hand holding his chin up, weight leaning on his elbow as it sunk into the couches arm, posture lax, cigarette discarded for once, eyes soft and serious, gazing nowhere. Spy’s deep voice quietly floated from his still frame, he sang.

“Nous, nous avons nos matins blêmes
Et l'âme grise de Verlaine,
Eux c'est la mélancolie même,
A Göttingen, à Göttingen.”

Oh... Medic knew this song, he had heard it many times before. It… brought up memories…

“Kommt es mit Worten nicht mehr weiter
Dann weiβ es, Lächeln ist gescheiter
Es kann bei uns noch mehr erreichen
Das blond Kind in Göttingen…”

He stumbled a little, but Medic quickly recalled the lyrics and recovered, his sharp German voice cutting in, notably louder than Spy had been singing.

“Was ich nun sage, das klingt freilich
Für manche Leute unverzeihlich:
Die Kinder sind genau die gleichen
In Paris, wie in Gottingen”

“O faites que jamais ne revienne
Le temps du sang et de la haine
Car il y a des gens que j'aime,
A Göttingen, à Göttingen.”

Spy's voice rose to meet Medics, the two now singing very audibly.

“Et lorsque sonnerait l'alarme,
S'il fallait reprendre les armes,
Mon cœur verserait une larme
Pour Göttingen, pour Göttingen.”


Together they hummed, smiling at each other through the smoky air… Spy’s smile reached his eyes…

“C'est bien joli tout de même,
A Göttingen, à Göttingen.”

“Doch Sollten wieder Waffen Sprechen,
Es würde mir das Herz zerbrechen!-”

“Mon cœur verserait une larme…
Pour Göttingen,-

“Von Göttingen….”

...........

A painful silence filled the room, all of BLU was staring at Medic and Spy with open mouths, Engineer casually sipped his beer.

Standing, Spy brushed a hand on the radio and tuned it to an American channel, The Beach Boys “Wouldn't it be Nice” was playing. The drunken party like ambiance returned.

As Spy left the room, Medic noticed his jacket was left laying across the armrest, in his front pocket the silver rim of a cracked pair of sunglasses poked out.

*********************************************************

French: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K7mfHs-BtO8&feature=related
German: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C8sVd3cmNQ4&feature=related
Male Voices: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0WuIfIbeFw0

If you want to follow along, I start four verses in.

and I hope I am not stepping on any toes by posting this RIGHT AFTER >>143 (which I LOVED by the way)

but the second I read the request I immediately thought of this song, and I had to write it... sorry sorry sorry sorry a thousand times for posting so soon after you!

(And, Er… Sorry about the lack of sex. Here, how about in the end Medic follows Spy and buttfucks him with Snipers glasses. The End! Fin! Das Ende!
… Oh ow… I hurt myself by imagining that. Never mind.)

Finally did the Medic x Heavy bondage request. I couldn't find a beta, but did my best to look for mistakes and fix them, so I hope it suffices in the porn department :3

-----

As the REDs roared and cheered in a post-battle success to wander down to the communal lounge and get raucously drunk (Demo, more so), Heavy left the others.

Everyone patted him on the back, and then let him go: as cheerful as everyone was, it was hard not to notice the grazes of errant rocket and bomb blasts, and as the large Russian proudly declared, he had taken six bullets to the torso.

He was tough to take down, and he knew it, marching down the halls purposefully. Of course, even for a man like him, it was usually impossible to survive those kinds of odds. No, he owed a certain man his life on many an occasion. A man that had slipped off ahead of the rest of the team…

Heavy returned to his room, stripping off his bandoleer, vest and shirt, looking down at the now-stinging bullet holes. His vest had taken the brunt of the damage, as had the medigun’s soothing rays, but he could see the injuries for himself. The battle-high and residual medigun painkilling effects wouldn’t last forever; he had somewhere to be.

He stood outside the infirmary, his shirt now a makeshift bandage stopping his blood from dripping over the floor, and knocked.

“Ze doctor is ready for you,” came the reply, and Heavy intuitively understood what that meant, trying not to tremble in excitement.

Pushing the door open, he stepped inside and shut it behind him politely, staying silent.

Medic was there and waiting, wearing a smile on his face, his labcoat, gloves, boots, and nothing else.

The doctor tutted, stepping forward as if unaware of what he was displaying, analysing the extent of the injuries. “Zis is unacceptable, Heavy,” he said sternly. “Get on ze operating table.”

The other man obeyed with a solemn nod, knowing his role, excited by what came next. Every injury was like a trophy, and nothing was a bigger thrill than how the other man treated them.

Once on the table, Medic easily pulled Heavy’s hands above his head (with no resistance) and strapped them down securely. He knew the pain had to be settling in by now, but he knew that Heavy and he loved to laugh in the face of death. In battle; in the operating theatre, it was all the same.

Medic loved to mix work and pleasure.

“Look at zis,” he stated coldly, prodding a rubbery finger at one round, burgundy-scarred hole at his shoulder, making the large man flinch and bite down a roar of pain. “Perfect cartridge entry. Straight through the flesh. If this is embedded in a muscle,” he chastised, calmly, “I will have to keep you here for days.”

Heavy tried not to react to that statement, though his pulse was racing at the thought. He knew what came next…

The sound of metal, and Medic was reaching for a scalpel, plucking it from his tools with a loving sweep, caressing it gently in his gloves. “Now, mein leibling, stay very still…”

Heavy fought the instinct to yell, biting his lip to muffle a choked gasp as Medic sunk it with a fascinated expression into the open wound, tears coming to his eyes as the doctor sank it in deep. His wrists pulled against his bonds on instinct, one of the many reasons he preferred it this way.

“Ah, there it is…”

The doctor’s voice was like a caress, keeping him calm. The other man knew exactly what he was doing, and Heavy was wholly resilient to pain… as the other man had discovered on their progressively more dangerous explorations.

He did cry out, however, as Medic inserted a second implement swiftly, yanking the bullet from its entrance wound, dropping it in satisfaction onto the other man’s stomach, before reaching for his medigun, letting its healing powers wash over the other man, who was nearly weeping in relief.

It was worth it, though, Heavy thought, closing his eyes momentarily to bask under the medigun’s power, and the power of knowing how much the other man /loved/ to dish out a little pain.

Sure enough, upon opening his eyes again, he could see Medic’s excitement physically, though turning his gaze upward slowly showed a dark fire in the other man’s eyes.

“Such a good patient…” cooed the doctor, stroking one hand over Heavy’s head, mixing the sweat there with streaks of blood from his glove.

“Doktor,” Heavy rumbled out, momentarily overwhelmed by the affection he held for the other man. He always knew how to do this to him, throwing him into agony before dragging him into ecstasy.

A flicker of a kind smile crossed Medic’s features, before being smothered, eyes boring intently into Heavy’s. “Now, we have work to do,” he stated, voice cold and clipped in an instant, rummaging in his toolkit.

Heavy knew exactly what he was getting, he could tell by the trembling and excited motions of the other man, and was proved correct as Medic reverently drew out a syringe, cradling it, before releasing his two-handed embrace of it in order to stroke down Heavy’s arm, right down a likely vein.

“Let’s make it all better,” Medic said softly, savouring the moment, watching the sharp tip of the needle sink into the skin, pressing down slowly on the syringe.

Heavy felt weak and woozy. He had never liked shots. Never. But Medic had a way of making them tolerable, and it helped that he knew the other man really, really got off on it.

“There,” Medic’s voice came in a husky purr as he withdrew the needle, swiftly bandaging the wound up. A special little blend of his, with just enough anaesthesia to make the necessities more enjoyable for the both of them.

Picking up his surgical tools once more, he got what he needed as he waited for the effects to settle in on the larger man, who slowly enough relaxed, giving consent in a tiny little grunt.

Medic loved his work, and enjoyed yanking the bullets from the other man’s body, examining for any permanent damage – no, he didn’t want that, Heavy was far too good for that – lovingly wiping up the sweat, the fresh crimson and dried rust of blood on his skin. Stitches applied here and there, antiseptic to the grazes. He loved the man so much. Utterly uncomplaining. Accepted every one of his perversions. Was strong enough to take them, too.

He was aching and it was driving him mad by the time he was done, bandages and gauze crossing the other man’s highly muscular arms.

He carelessly wiped the blood from his gloves on a pre-prepared towel, hands trembling slightly, now. Heavy looked still slightly sedated, but he hoped that wouldn’t last long. He liked being the centre of attention.

He moved around the operating table, leaning over Heavy’s face, planting a rough kiss onto his lips, biting just hard enough on the lower lip to leave an impression of his teeth, and make the blood pulse harder against his tongue.

The larger man grunted softly, slowly more aware, struggling slightly against his bonds, obviously wanting to deepen the kiss, but Medic was keeping his distance. Wouldn’t want to overstep his bounds in the patient-doctor relationship, now…

His hands ran down Heavy’s body feverishly, admiring the proportions. Some might call them grotesque, freakish. Medic saw them as nothing but the epitome of human perfection. Those arms could rip him in two; his torso was shaped like a barrel and could take more punishment than any single experiment he had ever had.

He however still had the same weaknesses that all men had. Himself included. He rubbed and pinched at the hard buds on the man’s chest, rolling the nipples between his fingers, accented by the squeak of rubber and a sharp, masculine grunt from the bound man.

He soothed afterwards. He was a doctor. He could be nice, if he wanted to be.

He avoided all the freshly stitched wounds – a flinch here or there was nice, but he did not want to undo all his fine work – hand trailing lower and lower, below the man’s stomach, undoing his belt.

“Doktor.”

Ah, then the mixture had worn off. Good.

“Heavy,” replied Medic indifferently.

Heavy shuddered quietly. He loved being abused by this man. “Make me feel better, doktor.”

“Patience,” was the reply, drawn out slowly between his teeth, as now his boots were gone. He was naked, open to Medic’s critical eyes.

“Du bist schön,” the doctor breathed, with a playful smirk on his features; Heavy got the impression he was being emasculated by the compliment, somehow. “You’re just what I need.”

Before Heavy could even register the words, Medic’s tongue ran up over his cock. His interest had been subtle before, but now he was thickening and lengthening fully as the doctor traced the veins wetly, dark eyes gazing up at him behind the glasses.

Heavy fought down the impulse to move, to say something. Endurance, it was all about endurance…

The very tip of that tongue flickered right over the most sensitive part of his head, right at the slight fault at the tip, and it took all his energy not to cry out, hands twisting uselessly in their straps.

Just as it seemed like Medic would be gentle, merciful, and offer him something more substantial, he withdrew entirely, making the large Russian growl in need. He was panting, eyes following as the doctor rummaged across the table for what would (hopefully) be the last time.

Medic was surprisingly agile for his age, climbing up onto the large table with little difficulty, straddling the larger man’s hips, a wicked smile on his face, and bottle in hand.

The man on top knew what he was doing, and all Heavy could do was watch as he slicked himself up – gloves shining with the viscous liquid – widening his legs and with an expression of approaching rapture, gripped the man below him and guided him inside, closing his eyes as he sank down, knees coming to grip at his body.

The larger man saw the moment of fracture in Medic’s expression, and it was a thrill to watch. In all of their games, he never doubted the other man’s intentions. Moments like this exemplified that. He could see the adoration behind the lust when the doctor’s blue eyes opened again, properly smiling at him instead of smirking.

And then he moved, and it was heaven. The operating table was fortunately study – it would have to be for a man of Heavy’s size – but it rattled with every roll of Medic’s hips, gloved hands pressed to the broad chest underneath him, ruthlessly rocking back and forth as they both snarled and groaned in pleasure.

It was good, it was always good. Heavy found the relief all the sweeter for the torturous build-up, and Medic’s expression showed he had found what he needed, driving himself harder down against his hips, gasping with exertion. Heavy would help if he could, but he knew his lover needed the control under the circumstances.

Physically, Heavy was weaker than he normally would be, and Medic’s little concoction ensured heightened pleasure. It meant he was not going to last long against an onslaught so deliciously violent, the other man’s body gripping and pulling at him tightly in a way guaranteed to make him explode.

“Doktor!” he cried, as it began to overwhelm him.

“Sssh,” Medic soothed, resting harder on his hands by now, sliding one off to grip the table for fear of doing real damage to his lover. “A little more…!”

“Da,” Heavy breathed, swallowing, trying to stay in control a little longer. He could see Medic arch and gasp over him, he knew he was close…

Medic took himself in one hand – he could get off on just being penetrated like this, but it would be very bad to upset any of the other man’s wounds – and gasped something in German, plastering his stomach in orgasm as he shuddered, but still moving his hips with a harsh groan.

It was all Heavy needed, having held himself in check for as long as he humanly could, shouting as he came, a relief better than any anaesthetic, better than the medigun.

But not as good as that sweet little kiss pressed to the corner of his mouth after all that debauchery. They were both sweat-slick and exhausted from their post-battle surgery and revelry, the two the one and the same.

“Now,” Medic breathed, panting heavily, “bed rest.” He grinned tiredly before adding, “another successful procedure.”

Heavy nodded, sighing as Medic freed his wrists. “You go with me, yes?” The infirmary was a cold and lonely place to sleep. He much preferred his bed.

“Ja,” Medic replied, with a smile.

Because he wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Heavy.

I want some Spy/Soldier, because the mental image of classy honhonhon Spy seducing GRR ARG MANLY Soldier is awesome and lol.
Ah, umm. Very mild tones of gay here... Maybe, if you think it's good enough, I can continue...? (-> fussy newbie here)

Unbeta'd eurofagness follows.


Soldier didn't quite give a damn that somebody else chose this time to take a shower; why should have he, really. It was just some mild curiosity that made him peek over to the other stall, wondering who it was actually.

Slender frame, pale, creamy white skin, almost entirely unmarred, long, delicate limbs… Ooh. The new Spy.

"What are ya, some kinda greenhorn?" Soldier scoffed. "Haven't you seen action or what?"

Spy turned with a surprised look. Without the balaclava, his expression was easy to read. "And pray tell me, vhy you assume zat…?"

"No battle scars!" Soldier pointed out, quite literally. "Real men, real fighters, who face the enemy every day carry the slashes and bullet marks with pride, for they bear testimony to their bravery!"

Spy, who had spent fifteen years in the secret service, tilted his head to the side as he turned off the water. Soldier never noticed the calculating glint in his eyes.

"I suppose, you have many battle scars," Spy smiled. Soldier snorted and stomped over, sticking his chest out.

"Do I have many? Hah! Look at me, maggot, this is a real man's body!" His skin was indeed a mismatched map of knife wounds, bullet marks, burned flecks and even tooth marks on his left calf. Spy measured him from top to toe, once, twice then nodded with appreciation. He reached out with that artist hand of his and poked Soldier's well-toned stomach with a slender finger.

"Nice sixpack."

Soldier just gaped after him leaving with nothing more but a thin towel wrapped around those nicely angled hips, which were _swaying_ for Heaven's sake.

It's easy to mistake his quiet demeanor for gentleness, and the doctor's faithful tagging at his heels could easily be mistaken for devotion; but the truth is that close contact doesn't suit either of them. Most of their time is spent fighting - sometimes the enemy, mostly each other; the rest is angry silences and avoidance.

It's quite amazing how they can spend two hours in the break room, Heavy sprawled on the couch with a Russian newspaper and a six-pack, Medic sitting tightly at the card table falsifying paperwork, two whole hours and neither of them even looking at the other.

Admittedly, it's usually because of what they do after they fight.

Medic starts disagreeing with Heavy's tactical decisions about five to ten minutes after first fire. By the half-hour mark, he's pissing blood and screaming with every corner turned. For the next hour, it's stony silence and a medigun beam administered only at the very, very last second. He resorts to one-word commands. Most of them are in German, which was never something Heavy was very fluent in, so he ignores them and follows his own plan with a weary “Da, Doktor”. Medic has rarely noticed.

Of course, the doctor has a bad habit of darting back for other people, peering around corners, and getting himself stabbed, so sometimes Heavy needs to bellow over his shoulder. Sometimes he uses words that are not very nice.

Towards the end of the battle, as victory draws closer and the body count rises higher, Medic starts to get into it, swapping the gun for his bonesaw and trimming the edges of the field, taking care of survivors - sometimes snipping select body parts off for later study, sometimes kicking a barely-conscious bleeder around just because the noises they make are satisfying in a way the pound of a minigun isn't.

They're quite a force to behold even without the rest of the team, mowing through bodies like a steam engine with a cow-catcher.

Then it's over.

The adrenaline wears off, the locker room rains sweat, and the water cooler is always, /always/ empty when it’s needed the most. New aggressions arise for every one that was worn off on the battlefield. There is a physical high to victory (or failure), and Heavy is very familiar with it. It's always the same; from a bar fight, to a boxing ring, to the trenches where his countrymen died.

The first time Medic approached him after their first battle -- “Vell, let's see how badly you fucked up. Ach, if you 'ad listened to me, zat shoulder vould not be dislocated," he said, clearly slightly disgusted by his partner's disheveled state, a clear contrast to his immaculate white lab coat --Heavy threw the rickety exam table into the wall and walked out of the clinic.

The second time, Medic ambushed him with a needle full of some dodgy tranquilizer, probably from the county co-op. He woke up strapped to a table, with Soldier ready to hold down anything that hadn't been properly incapacitated.

The tranquilizer did nothing for the pain. It didn't seem to disturb the doctor at all. The bullets came out anyway.

The third time Heavy was prepared - outsmarted once, yes, but not twice - and crushed the syringe between his fingers, growling as the doctor who, defeated, crossed his arms in the hallway of the BLU's bunker and said, “If you vant to die, zat's fine, but ze company's life insurance policy does not cover suicide."

"Why are you never not talking?!"

"If you ver' not a total mongoloid, I vould not hav' to talk so much, ja? Dummkopf ruining my chemicals.."

"Shut up-"

It wasn't a kiss so much as a bite aimed at the German's mouth -- and to his relief, Medic fought back - pushing, spitting in his face, finding out that trying to move Heavy was like trying to tilt a house, using words whose venom made their meaning unmistakable.

Heavy's widening grin was also unmistakable. It was not a friendly grin.

The second best part was the way the doctor's face fell when he realized that he was not going to win. The best part was when the anger took over, cold and bitter, and he decided to fight anyway.

Heavy's hands were bruising perfect purple fingerprints into the doctor's arms through the heavy cloth of the lab coat. This time, when his mouth closed over Medic's, the other man bit back, attacked him with teeth and tongue, hissing and swearing and hateful.

But it was Medic who grabbed the front of Heavy's bloody t-shirt, who half stumbled and half dragged them backward until they were in a storage closet, and it was Medic who pulled them both down against several crates marked "HAZARDOUS MATERIALS". He pulled himself up to lie back on one, heaving for breath. Heavy slammed the door shut with one hand, gripping Medic's neck with the other, and pulled the cord on the dangling fluorescent light overhead to bathe them both in sickly orange-yellow. Medic wrapped his legs around Heavy's waist and yanked his disgusting shirt over his head with a noise of supreme frustration.

The doctor's hands moved to his own shirt, crisp and clean, unbuttoning frantically, loosening his tie so Heavy's hot breath on his shoulder turned to a savage bite, breaking skin, squeezing out beads of blood. Heavy was thrusting weakly in anticipation as he unzipped their pants. He yanked the doctor's down to his knees, then shoved fingers unceremoniously where they did not belong.

The act elicited a shout and a tube of some kind of ointment from nowhere. Heavy ripped the cap off with his teeth and knew for certain that the doctor was the worst kind of hypocrite.

It did make things smoother. Every twist of Heavy's fingers elicited a new movement, a different sound -- most of them vaguely painful; deliciously desperate. It was amazing how much of a whore the good doctor became with anything poking him around inside, and Heavy was not being gentle.

He realized too late that Medic was trying to kiss him. It was sloppy and full of saliva and the texture of their stubble. Heavy was busy slicking up his cock with his spare hand, distracted, drawing blood from Medic's lower lip as he broke the connection to pull his fingers out.

When he forced his way in, the doctor was suspiciously prepared, arching into the penetration. It didn't feel like a woman; he didn't understand how Medic was enjoying it at all, but the throbbing of his cock against his stomach, losing drops of pre-come, made it clear. He pressed into each thrust as Heavy began to pound him. The latex of the doctor's gloves was cold against his back as fingers dug into scars and fresh bullet wounds, pressing Heavy's head into his neck.

/Medic making lot of noise. Could be problem. Would need to rough him up after, say was fight. /

The suggestive moaning he was making might be a little hard to sell as a brawl, but Heavy had figured out that people rarely argued with him unless they had to.

Each movement sent lances up Heavy's spine. The way his partner was writhing feverishly, swearing, nipping at any patch of skin heavy granted him - it wasn't helping. At all. The doctor was close around him, slick and slippery, rising into Heavy's pounding. The crate was probably giving him splinters. Good.

It didn't take much to set the doctor off, staining his clean undershirt with his own semen. He tightened almost painfully around Heavy's dick and he had no choice but to come; grunting, teeth clenched, hands digging painfully into Medic's straining hips.

Heavy zipped up and decided his shirt wasn't worth salvaging. Medic was just lying there, panting. He pushed his glasses back into alignment and sat up.

"Zat did not happen."

"What are you talking about?"

"Good."

It's that kind of understanding that makes them a good team.



In the stony silence of the coffee room two weeks later, Heavy realized that it was funny exactly how often the two of them "didn't happen".

---

Tried to do a "_____ and you" for another class and got a drabble that was a whole bunch of NOT AS PLANNED and tl:dr. Not beta'd as of yet, so I hope it's not terribly offensive to the senses. I offer my apologies in advance.

---

You have to wonder what made you stop last night. Scout likes to tell stories, sometimes, “I knew this guy, man. He fucking knew things. Like, the future.” While the others booed and hissed, they still listened. Entertainment was entertainment, after all. But they were absurd stories.

It was highly unlikely that you ‘knew things’, but none the less, you found yourself lingering. It was late, even for your ilk. Three? Four in the morning? Long before dawn in the cold months of the year. You had left what scant warmth your bed had offered to piss, and cursed your bodily functions the whole way. The porcelain and tile were frigid, and your mood was terrible. Bed was what you wanted, and you hurried back with unerring purpose.

Until you passed the attic stairs.

The rickety things, with their narrow steps, led to the Sniper’s nest. Despite the cold and the discomfort, you paused there. Perhaps, out of compassion? He almost never left the damned place, and you knew for a fact that it was forsaken by others for a reason. The rest of the base at least managed to generate some kind of heat, either from dying furnaces or bodies. But the nest was just wood, buffeted about by high winds and god’s displeasure. It must have been freezing.

You frowned, and not just because of the lack of feeling in your toes. Sniper.

What strange creature. There was no doubt that he was good at his chosen profession. He was one of the enemy’s nightmares. Death with naught but a dot for warning. A long distance watcher that turned windows from viewing ports into places of incredible danger.

But despite steady hands and nerves of steel, he was remarkably awkward. When one could coax him into talking about his work, or his home, he was charming and confident in his speech. But these instances were few and far between. And above all, only to be found in one on one conversation. When you had approached him, seeking that same ease, in the busy common room or kitchen he had seemed an entirely different person. Halting, clumsy with words, and seeking escape.

The others had seemed amused at your confusion. Sniper, they informed you, was vastly anti social. Many called him comrade, and were pleased that his scope was on their side, but few would call him friend.

You chewed your bottom lip in deliberation. What moments of dialogue you’d had, were in secluded hall ways, and empty corners. Never in the nest. It was an unspoken rule that the place was forbidden (not that it needed to be enforced, due to its dreary condition) during normal, human hours. Much less at this ridiculous time.

But why, then, had you found yourself with an incredible urge to climb those stairs?

You’d fought with yourself for long minutes in the dark before giving into your curiosity. The accent was slow. Companioned with your urge to stick your nose where it didn’t belong was the need for silence. It was like being a school child out after curfew, and it left your feeling very, very silly. One foot, then pressure to see if it would creek, careful application of your body weight, and then the other. Over and over. One stair at a time.

There was no door at the top. Just a rectangular hole in the nest’s floor, guarded on either side by rails. It was a little brighter at the top, than in the belly of the base. And as you ascended, you realized why. The fool man had a few of the windows open, and starlight fell.

It was freezing up here, as you had guessed. Why on earth would he leave the windows open? You could hear the howl of the wind from your crouched position. And something else. But you’d paid it little attention at first.

One step, and then another, and you could see the room. You guessed that only the top of your head broached into the nest itself, and even that was obscured by the rails, but you could see rather well. In particular, you could observe the reason that the windows were open. His beloved rifle, some ammunition, and a long cold cup of coffee were placed by the sill of one of the portals.

He was still prepped for work. He was surely mad. But where was he?

You’d scanned to the left, to a few beaten crates and a coffee maker, and then to the right. There he was.

You’d sucked in a breath sharply, but thank god, inaudibly. Now you knew what that sound had been, playing on the edge of your hearing. Breathing. Heavy breathing.

Here was your Sniper. Lying on his back on a worn mattress layered with sheets and blankets. His vest was discarded, shirt open, and one fist clenching a handful of the bedding. The other, was wrapped around a rather prominent piece of his anatomy, rising from his open trousers.

His trademark hat and glasses had been set carefully aside, so your view of his face had been unimpeded. Eyes screwed shut, mouth closed tightly, with a faint sheen of sweat even in this weather.

His hand worked quickly, with surprising force. He was not teasing himself. His fingers arced, squeezing his cock as they rose, and his thumb running over the head at the apex. The end of it glittered with moisture. Every once in a while, he would give himself a particularly violent tug, eliciting a quiet gasp from his own throat.

It was hypnotizing. The way his clothing strained to contain him, the sounds your ears could barely capture, the way his spine was starting to arch.

His expression began to contort. His brows drew together, and his mouth opened. He seemed…pained? No… /guilty/. A word managed to burst past his lips…

…Then his hips rose from the twisted, dirty bedclothes. He came into his hand and across his naked stomach.

Or so you imagined. You had not remained to see. Down the stairs and through the hall you went, in a panicked flash. In retrospect, you can only pray that you were as silent upon exit as entry.

He’d called your name.

/Your name./ There was no mistaking it. Long, sleepless hours of rationalization did nothing to convince you otherwise.

And now here you are.

In the kitchen staring into a coffee mug, the contents of which were no longer steaming. Most of the others had come and gone, heading to the showers or elsewhere to prepare for the day’s fighting. Which was not more than an hour away. You had best begin your own preparations. Doubtlessly, familiar routines would clear away confusion for the time being. The mug goes into the sink, and you to the room’s exit.

Despite its sturdy construction, the door is little barrier to sound. A voice on the other side of the battered oak makes you falter. There are back and forth murmurs, and then silence. An unbelievably long minute later, courage returns and you step into the hall.

Spy is there. You nearly leap clear of your skin. This amuses him. The ass.

He does not wait for you to initiate conversation. “Sniper,” He informs you, “asked me something curious.” Smoke oozes from the corners of his mouth, which is pulled into a wicked smile. “I am a light sleeper, you see, and he knows this. So, he asks me if you were in bed all last night.”

You feel your heart tear loose form its moorings, and drop into your belly. Perhaps Spy can hear its impact, for his smile grows impossibly wider. “I am, of course, an honest man. I told him that I heard you leave your room once, in the earliest of hours, and that you did not return for many minutes after. You seemed in such a hurry then, too.” His eyes are intense, and they shine with a hunger you cannot place. They bore straight into your skull, and you have never felt so naked. “His reaction was… peculiar. I wonder why?”

He is the devil.

You push past him, and he offers no resistance. Spy’s laugher nips at your heels and chases you down the hall.

The impact as you round the corner is sudden and jarring. You clutch your nose, and wait for the world to right itself. Your stammered apologies fall silent as your vision clears.

Sniper stands before you and the panic that fevers your brain is mirrored in his eyes.

He /knows/.

Continuation of the Sniper and You fic is in great demand! (Kink Meme Vol. 5)

Also loved the Heavy/Medic bondage fic.

>>16

Yes, please continute Sniper and You!

Aww man that Soldier/You was my FAVORITE

>>18

THIS DAMMIT, THIS

you've made me so happy

>>15
>>16
>>18
I whole heartily agree!

>>15
please let there be more

>>15 fffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff moar

loved all the stories! agreeing that soldier and you was ultra sweet C:

>>15
someone please finish this!!!
<3

<3 for the Sniper & You one. I hope it gets continued!

>>15
AHHH OMG MORE.

Sniper and you must be continued! I want to see hows this works out. hehe

Who wrote the Sniper and You ficlet anyway? The author might not even be around here anymore.

>>1
oh god....do want moar
and moar of >>15
<3

Please, oh god please... More Sniper and You. I need it so bad. D:

More Sniper & You, pleease~

More Sniper & You. Moooooore. D:

Sniper & You -

DO IT DAMNIT!

Anyone, please, finish off Snoiper and You.
IT CAN BE UYRFVFHGFUY HOT.

hot <3333

>>10
I'm so glad someone reposted that C:

FFF.
If no one finishes >>15 I would ask permission to finish it myself. Because I will, if no one else does C:

>>38
Go for it. No one's claimed it as far as I know.

We need a soldier/scout rape fic. Please do?

To the anon who made this: you are a wonderful, beautiful person and I love you very much.

>>39 I'm going for it. Wish me luck~

I'd like to request something smutty with regards to what the hazing rituals are like in the barracks. I'm not too picky about the class, but I'm kind of partial to Sniper.

*waits hopefully*

>>42

You, my friend....are a saint.

>>42
Good luck, Godspeed, May the Force be With You, By the Power of GraySkull, Rock On!

Note: Sorry this took so long. This is my version of the continuation of >>15 Sniper + You ...with sexy times!
Be kind...I'm an /afanfic/ virgin writer.

Another note: I don’t do accents well, so I will just type as grammatically correct as I can without a beta and leave the audio to your imaginations~


...Feel free to critique. Nicely. Enjoy~

--

Before you can react, the man grabs your shoulder to keep you from bolting. His grip is a little too strong, and you wince slightly in pain. Glancing around, Sniper leans close to you, and you feel yourself start to get goose bumps.

“I need to…to talk to you. Later.” His voice is hesitant, but he seems to force himself to continue. “After the battle…in my room.” In his nest? You feel yourself tense nervously, but you nod in agreement. He seems satisfied, and removes his hand, walking away…probably to return to his lair. You rub your shoulder and walk towards the kitchen, grabbing an orange juice. Not feeling hungry at all, you sit by yourself, drinking slowly.

It was going to be a long day.

--

Being distracted and nervous had taken a toll on you during the fight. Countless times you respawned because one enemy or another shot you, stabbed you, or blown your face off with a rocket. After the siren that ended the match with a stalemate, you are feeling exhausted and a little achy.

Dinner had at least been good; Medic had whipped up some German mess that had turned out to be edible this time. Sometimes you wonder if that crazy man put something in there…because some of your nervousness had faded away as you chowed down on whatever it was the doctor had cooked.

Suddenly you found yourself standing at the base of the attic stairs. You don’t even remember leaving the dining hall. The room was lit; Sniper must be up there. He seems to notice your presence, because you hear him clear his throat.

“Come on up, then.”

The nervousness returned as you set your foot upon the first stair. Hesitating, you glance behind you. No one was around. With a frown, you gather what courage you have and move into the cold room. It looks quite different when it’s lit. While it seemed creepy last night, it’s almost homey now.

Stepping into the room, you see Sniper watching you, an unreadable expression in his eyes. He pats the bed next to him. He wants you to sit next to him on the bed? Swallowing, you do as he says, sitting about an inch from him. Sniper removes his had and glasses, setting them on the other side of him before rubbing the back of his neck.

“You…were in my room last night, weren’t you?” he said sheepishly. You feel a blush rise to your cheeks as you nod slowly. He groaned in embarrassment.

“Then…you heard…” Again you nod, your blush deepening. You’re afraid to meet his eyes, and instead look at the floor. An awkward silence fell between the two of you for a few minutes, though you swear it was an eternity.

“I…I’m sorry.” He muttered at last. You glance up, startled, to see him staring at the floor too. His anguished and embarrassed look made your heart squeeze in pain. Suddenly, you realize that you do not want him to look like that. The revelation startles you.

“Sorry?” You question his words with a frown. Sniper looks up at you, though he doesn’t meet your eyes.

“Yeah. Sorry for uh…aw you know.” He was still too embarrassed to say it. A smile creeps onto your face, though the blush still remains. Without thinking, you scoot closer to the man, who looks confused.

“It’s fine.” The blush that had been fading away returned with vigor, making you look like someone spread tomato paste all over your cheeks. “In a way it was kind of…flattering.” And it had been. He could have said any other name on the team, after all. “Really.”

Shock crossed Sniper’s face, and his expression had you wondering if you had said something wrong. The man seemed to gather his courage, and his bright green eyes connect with yours. Before you knew it, Sniper’s lips were against your own, and you stiffen in surprise. They were dry, but soft. After a moment you find yourself relaxing, and you lean into the kiss with a small sigh. You are wrapped into surprisingly gentle arms and pulled onto Sniper’s lap. Surprisingly enough, he did so without breaking the kiss.

A small noise comes up from the back of his throat, and his tongue runs against your lips hopefully. You part your lips to let him in, and that same tongue slips into your mouth, exploring every inch curiously. Moaning, you straddle Sniper, who gasps slightly and pulls away, looking at you in surprise. Smiling, you decide to take the matter into your own hands and you tug at his shirt. Sniper hesitates for only a moment before pulling his shirt off quickly, his sunglasses catching on the hem and falling in the heap with the article of clothing on the floor next to the bed. You remove your shirt as well, and he stares, a deep flush crossing his face as his eyes admired your upper body.

When his eyes finally move up to meet yours, the fierce look of need nearly has you wanting to tear off his pants as well as your own. But Sniper seems to want to take it slow, running his hands up your sides and pulling you against his chest. The feeling of warmth makes tingles run down your body. He kisses your ear, and you gasp loudly. Sniper chuckles. “Not used to that…?” He murmurs, and his lips move down to your neck and down your body, kissing and sometimes even biting. The sensation has you gasping and moaning for more, and you don’t even realize that he’s laid you down on his bed until he is undoing your pants and pulling them off with a swiftness that has you wondering if he’s really as patient as he seems. His hands trail down to your crotch and he pauses thoughtfully. Whimpering, you arch your hips a little, your body aching for touch. He chuckles.

“Someone’s impatient.” Sniper’s hands finally reach you, and you exhale in a moan, not caring who hears. His hands are remarkably capable for someone who is alone a good amount of time, and he is quick to find what makes you cry out the loudest. Your hands grip the sheets, and the loss of sensation has you stop in mid-groan as you open your eyes to see what had him leaving you without that glorious touch. You are about to complain when you see him undoing his belt and removing his pants, revealing a rather sizable, and very hard, package.

You shift to a sitting position before moving to your knees, and before he can react, your hands are on his erection. He groans softly as your hands stroke his length a few times before you bend down and give his tip a lick. He cries out, his hips twitching violently while his hands find your hair, gripping softly. With a smirk, you take his head into your mouth. He thrusts unexpectedly, and you fight back a gag.

“S-sorry, love,” he rasps between breaths. Your lips twitch in what was supposed to be a smile before you take as much as you can into your mouth. Exploring him with your tongue and mouth, you manage a steady pace while Sniper tries his hardest not to shove his whole length into your throat. Soon he pulls back and you let his pulsing member free, looking up at him with a question on your tongue. Before you can ask, though, his lips are on yours and he gently pushes you down onto the bed. His breath was ragged as he pulled away from you, his lust burning in his eyes and making you shiver with eagerness. You know your eyes reflect the feeling, and he smiles.

“Are you sure about this…?” This is it: your one chance to say no. Not like you’re going to say anything but yes. You nod, and his smile gets wider as he places his lips back on yours and pushes into you. There is a little pain at first, but as he thrusts in and out at a slow pace, the pain fades and a wicked pleasure replaces it, making you beg for more. The kiss is broken as the two of you concentrate on your lower bodies, establishing a rhythm. When he thrusts down you push back in order to take as much of his length as you can.

The gentle pace begins to speed up as time passes, and soon he is riding you at a frantic pace. Your soft moans become cries of ecstasy as you find yourself moving closer and closer to orgasm. Sniper leans down, his breath rapidly fluttering against your ear. “This time, I want you to call /my/ name.” He whispers heatedly.

“A-ah! Sniper!” At the top of your lungs you cry out as a white flash of pleasure courses through your body, and Sniper pulls out quickly, jerking himself off a few times before he comes as well. Exhausted, he falls next to you, and you both fall silent except for your heavy breathing.

Once you catch your breath, and he catches his, he chuckles and wraps you up in his arms. “Now we’re even.” He mutters gently. You smile and snuggle up close to him as he pulls a blanket over the two of you. It wouldn’t be cold if the two of you shared body heat.

A few minutes after the two of you fall asleep, a shimmer is seen by no one as the Spy steps out of the corner with a smirk on his face. “Well. /That/ was certainly interesting.” With a leer at your two sleeping bodies, the man slinks down the stairs, and towards his room. He would have to fix the problem in his pants now…and there was no way he was going to get caught doing so.

***
The end.

...and in hindsight I find that his glasses magically reappear on his head. -sigh- oh well.

You have done a wonderful thing, Jaiven.

A very, very wonderful thing.....

>>46
Love the ambiguity regarding gender. My only criticism is that you tend to switch between present- and past-tense (and sort-of future-tense at the end, there?) quite a bit and it's a little jarring.

Otherwise, may I please have some more, sir?

Like maybe where it leaves off with Spy?

And ends up with a Sniper-You-Spy sandvich? *lascivious, hopeful grin* YOU CAN DO IT, YOU HAVE THE POWER </capslock>

you are credit to team, i thank you

>>49 I actually was considering that sandwich. Maybe I will.

Yeah I caught that switch AFTER I posted. So I went and appointed myself a beta~ maybe the next one'll be better ;D

You know what I think of this, Ray. <3

That it's spectacular, but needs beta -nudgewinkhintwhinecough- and that you shoulre write moar.

Worthy sequel, but it's more like 'you' in the first one did not want, and suddenly in this, do want. I was hoping for almost raep but that's just me.
Otherwise, brilliant.

>>49
Dear god, yes.

...Orange juice?

Fucking hot, man.

This is just a bridge between the Sniper + You and the pretty next ‘chapter’ that I decided I’d be attempting for you guys.

Scrunchy is my hero, and beta'd this, as well as bashed me over the head because of my terrible issues with past and present tenses. <3 Many thanks to her~

I BRING YOU: Spy + You + Rape.

---

Opening your eyes, you are completely startled to see that you are in the arms of Sniper. It takes a minute for you to remember what happened that night, and when you do, you smile a little. As unexpected as last night had been, it wasn’t all that bad. Everyone is a little sexually tense these days, after all.



You shift around a bit, and the movement wakes up the Australian. Obviously, he is a light sleeper. He mutters something unintelligible, and lifts his arm up to let you go. Obligingly, you hop out of bed and slip into your clothes before Sniper himself rolls into a sitting position. You laugh a little: though his hair was short, it was still a bit of a mess. He half-heartedly glares at you, shooing you off with a wave of his hand and a muttered, “see you later,” and you trot down the stairs, pleasantly surprised at the considerably warmer temperature of the main part of the base.



Almost immediately you run into Spy, whose smile is as unclean as Sniper’s jarate. “What were you doing up in Sniper’s nest, /mon ami/?” He asks with a sneer. You try to walk past him, but he steps to the side to block you again. Glaring at him, you mutter about it not being his business. Spy’s smile only gets wider.



“Oh, come now, you can tell me. Did you have a late night chat?” He steps forward, making you loose ground. “Maybe the two of you had a nice, cozy cuddle session. Or perhaps he just fucked your brains out.” The last sentence startles you, and he laughs softly, moving close enough to whisper in your ear.



“You can’t hide anything from /moi/,” Spy mutters before you push him away, just as Sniper walks down his stairs.



“Eh? What are you two standing about for?” The Australian asks the two of you curiously. Spy just shrugs and goes on his way, probably back to his room. You blush, and follow Sniper to breakfast.



---



The day is particularly good. You don't die once, and you even manage to keep the enemy Spy from sneaking into your base. As you eat your dinner, a healthy stew whipped up from Engineer, you wonder what celebrations the team will have tonight. Usually there was some sort of bonfire, or just an enormous drinking session that ended in hangovers and a brutal loss the next day. To your great surprise, everyone just goes about their usual night-time business, finishing their dinners before heading off to bed. With a disappointed sigh, you rise to your feet. Sniper left about an hour ago, just grabbing the stew and going back up to his nest. It hurt a little that he hadn’t even said hello or something.



As you walk back to your room, you are again intercepted by Spy. Your eyes roll. “Go away, Spy.” You grumble. “I’m just going back to my room.” You are not about to go up to Sniper’s nest without his permission. Not after last time. Spy, however, doesn’t move.



“So rude, /mon ami/, perhaps I just wanted to talk to you,” he says with a devious smirk. You scowl at him. No one with that expression on their face is up to any good. The masked man steps closer to you, though this time you stand your ground. He reaches up as if he wants to touch your face, and you grab his wrist with narrowed eyes.



“I said, go away.” You repeat, pushing him backwards with a firm hand, and he stumbles back. His face falls from the ‘I’m-pretending-that-I’m-being-nice-to-you’ expression into a glare so furious that it makes you freeze. Before you know it, the butt of his Ambassador is slammed into your head, and your world goes blank.



---



When you wake slowly from the blow to the head, you find yourself in Spy’s room, bound quite firmly on your stomach upon the assassin’s bed. You struggle a little, but he's tied your hands to the bedpost, and your feet to the foot of the bed. The bastard’s even got you gagged with his tie. The man in question is sitting in his desk chair, smoking a cig. Naturally. When he sees you struggling, he smirks.



“Ah, /bonjour mon ami/. Did you sleep well?” He chuckles darkly, and you struggle, too dazed and angry to realize your danger. The gag blocks a string of cuss words from reaching Spy’s ears properly. In fact, you sound a bit like Pyro. Giving up, you just growl, resting a moment to catch your breath. Spy is obviously unimpressed.



“Rude as always,” the man sighs to himself, rising to his feet and walking over, putting the burning side of the cigarette to your (oh, you’re nude) side. You scream, though it’s muffled by the gag, and try to writhe away from the pain. It’s futile, however, and he pulls away with his crushed cigarette in his hand. He tosses it with a bored expression on his face.



“Ah, /mon cher/, I am going to enjoy this.” He leans down to look into your eyes with a wicked grin. Suddenly the gravity of the situation hits you, and you start flailing against your constraints. To no avail, however, and the man is undoing his belt slowly. Only now you see the rather large bulge in his pants.



Whimpering what was supposed to be a plea for mercy, you struggle again, hoping just maybe the spare ties that bound you firm would slip loose. To your horror, the knots only got tighter, nearly cutting off your circulation. Immediately you stop struggling, and Spy laughs. When you look back, the man is completely nude save for his gloves and mask. And he’s hard. Almost painfully so. Again you whimper, though it only makes the man smile more.



“This will only hurt a little…if you do what I say,” he whispers into your ear, and you glare at him despite your fear. He smirks, taking off the gag, and you gasp for air for a few moments before taking a deep breath to scream. Before you can do so, he slaps you hard enough that tears form in your eyes.



“No screaming, first of all,” Spy hisses sharply, and you shut your mouth to cover a sob. “And, no running. My door is locked, so I will be able to catch you before you try and escape.” He unties your hands and legs carefully, and you obediently lay there until he motions you to sit up. When you do, he grabs your head and pulls it down to his erection.



“Well?” It’s obvious that he wants you to suck him off. Already you feel like gagging. When you don’t begin immediately, he squeezes your head hard enough that you cough out a cry, before licking his head. He moans, triggering another gag before he jerks your head towards his cock, and you open your mouth reluctantly to let it in. Thrusting his hips, he forces his length down your throat, making you gag violently. He doesn’t even let you give him head, just thrusting in and out while holding your head steady. Over and over you gag, tears running down your cheeks. It was humiliating to be subject to this. What did you ever do to him?



“I want you…to know this…” Spy hissed between moans. “Sniper is mine. Understand?” He was doing this because he wanted Sniper? You jerk your head back in surprise, earning a violent smack to the head before he shoves you back into position, and you gag again. Before you actually hurl from the amount of times you’ve gagged, Spy pulls out of your mouth.



“On the bed, on your stomach. Now.” You freeze, staring up at the man in horror. He was going to…? With a sneer, he shoves you on the bed without any ceremony. He studies you for a moment, and once you arrange yourself in the way he wanted, he shoves his spit-lubricated erection into you, and you yelp in pain.



“You /will/ be quiet!” He hisses, grabbing his knife from the bedside table and slashing your arm with it. Quiet sobs wrack your body as he roughly pulls in and out of you, the pain overriding any sense of pleasure you could get from this. The man mutters in French behind you, moaning occasionally as he picks up speed. All you want is for this to be over.



You know he’s close when his French starts getting louder, and his thrusts become erratic. With a grunt, he releases in you, and you gag again, nearly vomiting all over the sheets. When he pulls out, you feel under the pain a sense of afterglow, and realize you had hit orgasm as well, but you hadn’t felt it at all. Was that even possible?



“Get out…and remember what I said.” Spy whispers in your ear, and pulls away, grabbing your arm and throwing you roughly by your clothes, folded neatly by the man’s. You hastily put on your clothes and dart to your room. Once the door is safely closed and locked, you hide under your covers in a fetal position. Sobbing yourself to sleep, your last thought is a grim one. You wish that you had never met Sniper.

I...I don't know how to feel.... oh my god
but please, do continue. I wanna see how this plays out

I don't know how to feel....about how immensely I enjoyed this.

Oh...my...god.

This is fucking incredible, man.

You+class isn't really my thing, but you're a wonderful writer man. Shit was hot as hell.
PLEASE DO MOAR!

You wish that you had never met Sniper.Gets me everytime, Ray... -sniff-

I still like this lots.

Again many many MANY thanks to Scrunchy for being an amazing beta <3

Requests anyone? I know ya'll wanna see a kinky Sniper + You + Spy...but I haven't a clue how to do it. SO I WANNA GET SOME IDEAS FROM YOU PEOPLE.

I apologize; since I am so awful at accents I pretty much left them completely out of this story. I've said this before, but I'll say it again. I'MSOSORRY.

Next section after this will be the last, then I'm off to try and work on less complicated fanfictions. Hope you guys enjoy this~

----

For weeks you avoid Sniper and Spy both, keeping your eyes cast down and remaining in your room when you aren’t fighting or eating. Everyone notices your behavior, especially Medic, who has taken to dogging your footsteps everywhere you go. He asks you questions, however you don’t respond. At all. You haven’t spoken since Spy raped you.

You are preparing yourself for the fight when Medic comes up to you, trying to get you to talk once again. “Come now, tell me what’s wrong. You have been all but useless to our team for almost a month. /Something/ is wrong and I must know what it is!” Medic is obviously frustrated today, because his eyes narrow in impatient anger. You stare blankly back at the man, as he pushes his glasses up on his face in irritation. “Mein gott, I am your Medic! I have the right to know!”

Sniper walks in at that time, his eyes drifting over to you. You can tell that you’ve hurt his feelings by refusing to speak to him. It’s his fault that Spy did this to you, though, so you push past Medic and Sniper in your usual angry silence.

---

Later that night Engineer cooks up a meal of spaghetti and meat sauce; a meal that is welcomed by the whole team. You take a plate and sit in a corner by yourself. Only a few minutes later Spy walks in, looking like he owns the place. Fear strikes your gut and you rise to hurry out of the room. You can’t be anywhere near the man, and as you pass Sniper he catches your eye. It’s then that he makes the connection, and though you move as fast as you can, he follows.

Before you can run for the safety of your room, he grabs you and hefts you onto his shoulder with a grunt, and starts walking down the hall. “You’re being a stubborn little ass.” He grumbles as he turns to go up the stairs to his lair. You struggle and beat his back, trying to make him put you down. It was in vain, though. He sits you on his bed, a hand on your shoulder to keep you from running away. Fear rips through your belly. You can't escape, you’re trapped again!

The fear gets to Sniper, and he takes his sunglasses off with his free hand. “What the hell is wrong with you, mate? What did I do? You said that…that…” his voice breaks as he stammers, and you blink in surprise, though your anger remains. You didn’t know he’d been this hurt. Good, he aught to be sorry for what he did to you. Wait, he doesn’t know what he did wrong, does he?

A flare of anger replaces the fear, and you shove his hand off. Well he needs to know what he did wrong! He made Spy rape you, dammit! You stand as the rage fills your entire body, though instead of lashing out at the man, the anger focuses on your vocal chords.

“It’s your fault!” You snarl at the man, taking a step forward. A baffled Sniper backs away with his hands up as if to shield a blow.

“Wh-what?”

“Because of you he did that to me! That sick, perverted, disgusting asswipe! He said that you were fucking /his/!” Sniper is complete confused, staring at you with wide eyes. Does he think you’ve gone mad? Somehow that makes you even angrier. He shouldn’t be confused!

“Who said I was his? I don’t know what you’re –“

“H-he did!” You can’t say his name. You can’t. The anger is chased away by a returning sense of fear; the fear of the slimy man’s name. You back away to sit on the bed again and you don’t realize that you’ve curled up into a fetal position. Sniper sits next to you, placing a gentle hand on your arm, the one that Spy slashed. You inch away, making Sniper flinch back.

“You aren’t saying anything helpful…”

“S-s….Sp…” You try to say it. You try your very best, but you can’t. Fortunately, Sniper seems to understand. There aren’t very many names with ‘Sp’ in them, after all.

“Spy? He said I was his? Fucking spook, he’s crazy. You should know that.” He tries to scoot closer to you, but you push him away with a hand, and Sniper frowns. The Australian is silent for awhile, and you turn your head to see what he’s doing. Sniper’s face is thoughtful.

“…What /exactly/ did Spy do…?” His voice was low, and dangerous, though the anger wasn’t directed at you. After all, not many actions end up with the victim not talking for several weeks.

You can’t seem to form any coherent statements as you try to explain. “Angry…hit me unconscious…too scared, door was locked, took off his /pants/, made me, he m-/made/ me…” Suddenly you burst into tears, sobs wracking your body, and you find yourself in Sniper’s arms again as he struggles to comfort you.

“Shh…” Sniper rocks you back and forth slowly as you cry into the man’s shirt. It’s oddly comforting. For minutes all you do is let yourself be rocked as you cry, until you cannot shed another tear. Finally you are silent, and Sniper stills his movements, though he strokes your hair gently.

“You say…that this is my fault?” Sniper looks down at you; you can feel it from the way his body strains, but you don’t look at him. Instead, you focus on his shirt and nod slowly. It was still his fault. You are supposed to be angry…but all that crying sapped the energy from you. To your surprise, Sniper laughs harshly.

“Well fine. I’ll fix it then.” He gently lifts you off his lap and sets you on his bed. “Now. Sit here and wait. I’ll be right back.” To your surprise, you obey, lying on his bed as Sniper walks back down the stairs on some mission or another.

---

Until you wake up from a gentle shake from Sniper, you don’t realize that you fell asleep. You glance up at him with a confused look, and movement behind the man catches your attention. The sight you see almost has you bolting out of Sniper’s nest. There was Spy, bound and gagged with rope. And damn you to hell if he wasn’t naked, also.

“He won’t do you any harm, mate. He’s as tame as a rabbit.” Giving Sniper an incredulous look, you manage to speak again.

“What are you going to do to him?” What if what Sniper does makes things worse? Will Spy go after you again? Sniper only chuckles darkly, and Spy struggles to free himself. It was pointless, as pointless as you trying to escape the ties had been.

“Not what I’m going to do. What /we’re/ going to do. We are going to teach Spy some bedside manners.” His grin lights up his face in a wild sort of way. Through your fear, you manage to feel butterflies in your stomach. ‘We?!’ What made him think you were going to do anything with Spy? “You know, a little bit of revenge.”

Revenge. In a way, that sounds good to your ears. It would teach the man not to mess with you…or Sniper. The fact that you had unconsciously included Sniper in your list of ‘no messing with’ has you surprised for a moment before you are distracted by a furious ramble of muffled nonsense coming from the gagged Spy.

“Shut your trap,” Sniper growls, kicking the man to the ground. You find that you don’t have any sympathy for Spy as he writhes on the floor. Placing a booted foot on Spy’s back to keep him from moving around too much, Sniper looks over at you with a raised brow.

“Well? How should I start?” The question leaves you confused, though Sniper waits patiently as you work out exactly what the Australian means. He wants you to tell him what he’s going to do to the man? Swallowing, you work up your courage before you answer.

“Take off the gag,” The remark has Sniper’s brow raise in surprise. “Then smack his face. Hard.” Shrugging, Sniper obeys, jerking the gag down and backhanding the man. It was hard enough to make spittle fly from the man’s head, which had turned forcefully towards you with the blow. His eyes glare at you with pure hatred, making your fear return in a single, breathtaking blow. Sniper notices and smacks the man’s head the other way.

“Do not look at our teammate,” Sniper growls at Spy, who is dazed at the force of the Australian’s hand. “You don’t deserve to look at /anyone/ after what you did.”

It was then that you suddenly realize that it wasn’t Sniper’s fault. Sniper couldn’t control Spy’s actions. All your anger suddenly turns completely to Spy, and now that it wasn’t divided between two people, the fury is almost overwhelming.

“Cut the bastard,” you suggest suddenly, making Sniper look at you briefly. He nods, and then walks a few steps over to his kukri before returning to Spy. “Got a request as to where?” You lift up your shirt’s sleeve to reveal the scar on your right arm – you hadn’t approached Medic to heal it. Now it would be a permanent reminder of how Spy violated you. The scar ran from your shoulder down to your elbow. “His /left/ arm.”

Sniper grimaces in sympathy before turning back to the bound man. His kukri glinted ominously before Sniper jerked him up roughly so his weapon could slash down across Spy’s left arm. Spy screamed; loud enough that Sniper shoved the gag back in place until the Frenchman was just whimpering. The Australian turns back to you, ignoring the blood pooling on the floor.

“Like that?” He asks, and a brow rises, waiting for you to respond. The feeling of excitement, and arousal, that you suddenly feel freaks you out a little. You don’t want to be like Spy. But...you can’t help it, but you like this kind of revenge. To your shock, you smile at Sniper, who smiles reassuringly back. What other things could the two of you do to Spy…?

----
TO BE CONTINUED.

Okay, it's well written, well done, and you've done a great job of portraying how 'you' reacted to the rape; but Revenge!Rape makes me cringe a bit. I suppose it'd be in character, though. I'd like to see where you go from here.

>>62
I didn't much like it either. But the way the original writer of the first part of Sniper + You portrayed Spy I felt like it needed to go down SOME sort of path, and my determination to make a threesome with "You" in it wound up walking down this one...oh well. Thanks for the input :>

>>63
I'd actually forgotten that you weren't the OP, you're just that good. You're right about the first portrayal of Spy; it does seem like the OP had plans for him...

Oh boy, oh boy.

I was going to suggest that spy would disguise as your sniper, and do his... thing, before real sniper joins in.

But this is really great so far, I would love to see the final part soon.

I like this.

Yes yes..oh god.

WAIT WAIT RAPE THAT HAS REALISTIC PSYCHOLOGICAL EFFECTS? IN /MY/ CHAN?

>>67
IT'S MORE LIKELY THAN YOU THINK. *points to Addiction*

Also, great what you've done so far. Hope this continues.

>>67
Shocking, ain't it?

I reread because I love you, Ray... gimme more to beta. Naow, plz? =D