ALERT! THIS IS NOT A NECROBUMP! Actual real new content, inspired by the fact that I'm meant to be working on my thesis. Basically, while days on Coldfront are working out nicely, lately, the Medic still has some bad nights. ---------------------------------------------- The Medic had decided. If the Heavy ever showed the slightest interest, he would let him- the Medic’s hand clenched around the neck of the wine bottle as he poured another glass. He couldn’t name, even in the privacy of his own mind, what he would let the big Russian do to him. For years, he had avoided drinking in the company of comrades, co-workers or teammates, for fear of what he might accidentally reveal. Occasionally, he dared to hope that -it- might be pleasurable. The Heavy admitted to having done it before, and his huge fingers were delicate on his gun, on the chessmen. However, even as he tried to drink in courage with the wine, the Medic was afraid. His stomach churned at the thought of being used like that, like a woman. He reflected on how durable women must be, designed to withstand treatment that could wound a man, could kill him. Lilli, his long-ago lover, had enjoyed it, especially when he followed her orders, used his fingers first. Already warm with the wine, the Medic’s body heated further as he thought about the Russian’s hands. However, the Medic knew that he wasn’t built like a woman, his organs lacked the females’ resilient elasticity. Anyone who wanted to bed the Heavy would need that ability, badly. Draining his glass, the Medic wondered how one could even offer to engage in such an act. The Heavy wasn’t inclined to violent assault, as the Medic had initially feared. In retrospect, that fear had been freighted with hope. If the Heavy would not attack, the Medic might have to offer- but how? Another glass of wine. The Medic understood that alcohol often helped in this situation. Lilli had been flirtatiously tipsy when she had first invited herself back to his room. Again he felt a surge of nausea at the ridiculous image of himself attempting to play the coquette. Would he be able to drink enough to make a pass without drinking so much as to pass out? He was relatively certain that being slobbering drunk wouldn’t help to win the Heavy’s affections, anyway. It certainly didn’t render the Demoman any more attractive when he passed out in the hallway and belched in his sleep. No, alcohol would not serve, the Medic decided even as he topped up his glass. Unconsciousness, though... perhaps there was something useful in that. Sedation, anaesthesia, a clean, painless sleep while he let the Heavy- let him do- the Medic took a large gulp of wine. He could write his offer out on a note- fuck me, please- then let himself into the big man’s room and pin it to his shirt. An injection of morphine as he waited for the Russian to return would ensure that he would wake up, or respawn, with no memory of whatever pain ensued. Or, no- conscious sedation. Curare would keep him immobile, keep the pain at a distance, but still allow him to observe the entire procedure. Dazed by the wine, he lay back on his bed and imagined what the Heavy might do. Obviously, the first step would be to nudge the Medic’s shoulder, to see if he was truly unconscious. He put his own hand gently on his shoulder, imagining it as the Russian’s. A nudge, then possibly a gentle slap across the face. His own touch shocked him, almost enough to make him cry out- he didn’t, he couldn’t- he was drugged, his Heavy was touching him. He imagined the Russian giving in to curiosity, to desperation. As he had pointed out, they were far from the comforts of women. Any unresisting warm body might suffice. His hands followed his fantasy of the Heavy’s touch, undoing his tie, unbuttoning his shirt and stripping it away. Yes. The big Russian might inspect him, like a new gun, like livestock, prodding his muscles, stroking the straightness of his limbs. The Medic was no weakling, but he was sure that the Heavy’s hands could wrap around his upper arm completely. Sliding out of his trousers, the Medic imagined that the Heavy would have no trouble lifting him. He didn’t weigh as much as the minigun, even if he would be limp, dead weight in the Russian’s grip. He pictured the big man pushing his thighs apart, possibly brushing his penis with the back of one large hand. Would the Medic be able to get an erection under sedation? He hoped not, but supposed it wouldn’t matter, not if the Heavy was going to fuck him. In reality, his member was erect and aching, despite the wine. He cupped it loosely in his left hand while he pressed the fingers of his right into his mouth and sucked on them. Slick fingers were a courtesy that Lilli had demanded, and they did make later penetration easier. Perhaps the Heavy would know the same technique. Letting his head roll back, fantasizing about sedation, the Medic pressed a finger against his anus. It didn’t hurt as badly as the first time he had tried, but it ached. He breathed deeply- an unconscious man would not seize up against this intrusion- and let his dream of Heavy push further in. Just imagining that the big man was fucking him made him moan- loud and inchoate; it sometimes happened with patients under ether. Sprawled bonelessly on his bed, he pumped his finger in and out. He was far enough gone in his fantasy that he could stroke his cock without shame, imagining the Heavy’s belly pressed against it, moving rhythmically as the big man fucked him. The Medic cried out, a strangled sound like a patient fighting anaesthetic, and braced his heels against the edges of the mattress. In his mind, the Heavy was using him. There would be no reason for him to practise restraint, not with an unconscious body for a partner; the big man could be rough and bestial. Moaning again, the Medic arched his body from heels to shoulderblades. The Heavy was coming inside of him, slamming into him, lifting him up by the hips to fuck him more deeply. Medic’s orgasm erupted, semen splattering his chest, his hand, the Heavy’s belly, the big man’s face. Exhausted, intoxicated, the Medic fell back to his mattress. His eyes rolled back in his head and his hands slipped away from his body to lie limply on his sheets. The wine was forgotten, his shame was forgotten, everything but bliss was forgotten as the Medic’s feigned sedation merged with real sleep.