Chapter Text
I run a tight ship. All-American, all the time. Even though half of them are filthy immigrants, they still adhere to my codes, my rules, my regulations.
And if they don’t… well, most of them know better.
“THAT WAS NOT PART OF THE PLAN.” I boom, grabbing our Spy’s shoulder and yanking hard to turn him around. He avoided my gaze as he returned to the base, he looked down and away and didn’t even give me the courtesy of defiance. I’ll accept deviations from prior planning. All good Soldiers have to be able to think on their feet, of course! Sun Tzu has an entire chapter or three dedicated to improvisation and taking risks for the good of the team…
“I know it was not part of the plan—because there was no plan.” Spy snaps at me and attempts to brush off my grip, still not meeting my gaze, but I hold firm. The heel of his hand comes up to jab my forearm, and I can see the surprise in his eyes when the hard sinew in my arm doesn’t budge, my wrist stays locked and my fingers continue to crumple the crap out of his precious little suit.
I snarl low in my throat, stepping closer and enjoying the unease in his gaze as he finally stares up into my unforgiving eyes. “There is always a plan,” I hiss, flecks of spit mixing with the sweat of his hot day in a mask and something in me gloats at the disgusted expression he tries to tuck away behind an apathetic front. I can see through it, though. I can see through all his little games.
I can make him beg for mercy.
He eyes the teammates slipping out around us, and I can see new sweat darkening his temples and where his mask lies against his upper lip. I stay frozen, waiting for our last witness to leave.
“Scout!” I bark, and the kid freezes with his hand on the handle. “Lock the door behind you…” I direct him.
Spy’s eyes flick over to see the youngster hesitate, and I slowly tear my gaze away from my adversary, but by the time I look up, the lock’s been pressed and the door is clicking shut.
“What’s wrong, froggy?” I ask, low and dark.
When his hands come up and shove me hard in the chest, I’m caught off guard and release his jacket. He preens, straightening it and sneering at me like he’s so much better. Civilized, perfect Spy.
I want to rip him apart.
My fist connects with his jaw, and he reels from it before coming back at me with one of his fancy martial arts moves. I don’t go for the frilly pansy shit. I hit hard and fast and don’t take shit from some prancy little ninny like this French fuck. The blows hurt, made by the edge of his hand to precise locations, but my body is hard as a brick and just as hard to recover from when I slug him in the face again. He reels, breaking his defensive stance and lapsing into a boxing crouch, fists raised to protect his face—until I smash them into it. His nose leaks blood as he circles with me, eyes sharp and focused despite my hard blows, and I flash him a dangerous grin.
Maybe he’s not such a Nance after all.
When I try to swing again, he grapples with me, and I lose the upper hand for an instant before we’re tumbling to the cold tiles and I slam him back against the bench, growling about incompetence and lack of patriotism, two of the things I loathe most in the world embodied in the flesh of a skinny French zipper.
His toe is sharp in my side, fingers fighting for purchase on my head, back, neck. He finds a grip just as I pull him up and away from the bench, prepared for another slam. His other arm wraps around the bench and pulls, saving him from the full impact of the slam and causing me to overbalance, the sneaky little rat.
I pitch over, momentum guided by the hand latched onto the back of my neck. My face slams into the slatted bench seat between his flailing legs and I snarl, letting go and rearing back with a broken nose, a split across the bridge leaking blood and stars blooming behind my eyes. I hear him laughing from where he is sprawling on the other side of the bench, an obnoxious snort punctuating the derisive, nasal, un-American trumpeting coming from his lungs.
I raise my boot to the edge of the bench just as he brings himself up to sit and shove hard. His back slams into the lockers, edge of the bench hard against his chest and arms. If I’d shoved any sooner, I would have gotten his face or neck, and I curse myself for missing the opportunity. Sun Tzu would be ashamed. He says one must never pass up an opportunity to decapitate your opponent in new, painfully creative ways.
“You fucking psychopath.” He snarls, snorting blood and gasping for air as I press harder, determined to crack something important.
“You wanted this, Spy. You think you can just disobey a commanding officer like it’s nothing? I don’t think so!”
“Commanding officer?! You’re a self-appointed lunatic bent on each battle allowing you to emerge as a hero from the depths of—STOP THAT YOU SHIT EATING SON OF A BITCH!” He wheezed something after that outburst. Probably along the lines of, “oh, mon dieu, I can’t breathe, perhaps I should apologize to the man with his immaculately shined boot trying to shove this piece of locker room furniture through my chest.” One of his arms is pinned to his stomach, the other is scrabbling uselessly against the underside of the bench, trying to maneuver free, but between the lockers, the bench itself and the support bar, trapping it from the side, that arm isn’t going anywhere. He couldn’t be in a more desperate position if I’d planned it—and it’s invigorating to see the pain and weakness in his eyes where only minutes ago there was defiance and a staunch bitchiness that I’ve taken right out of his system.
He looks up at me as his eyes glaze, chest heaving against the hard edge of the bench, and I feel something rush through me—power, victory, and a hunger for spoils before I strike the final blow.
I reach down and haul him up, keeping the pressure between the bench and the lockers so that it hurts the entire front of his body as he’s yanked up from his pitiful position at my feet. Both of my hands grip his suit, one at his chest and the other at his stomach as I heave him up into the air and then slam him down against the bench. His head cracks against it, the brief breath I’d allowed him leaves his lungs in a painful arch, and a soft, pitiful sound like a whimper leaves him. I smirk, but it falls when he makes a show of defiance, wrapping his legs around my waist, and yanking hard to the side. The shift in equilibrium bringing me into the lockers, but it’s not hard enough to do any actual damage.
I’m on him immediately, yanking him up by the front of his shirt and, between his legs wrapped around my hips and the fact that I’m so pissed at him, he’s not even touching the bench anymore. He’s grinning, teeth smeared red and mask stained with his own blood.
It isn’t until he lets out a guffaw that I slam him down against the bench, bearing my weight down on top of him and grinding him into the—
He moans.
I move to pull back, but he follows me, rolling his hips up against mine, a sneer wrinkling his nose and baring his teeth still.
“What’s wrong, sir?” He spits, blood and slaver splats against my uniform.
“What’s—this is not regulation!” I growl back, trying to pry his skinny legs from their vice-like grip around my waist. I slam him down into the bench, thrusting my hips to swing him down with force again and again, trying to get him to release me. Instead, he clings on like a monkey, and the hardness I feel every time our crotches grind against each other makes my stomach roil with nausea. This is not the time or place for such vile acts, and especially not when I’m trying to teach the bastard a lesson!
“Ah, and yours is?” He asks, rising up with a roll of his hips to grab the front of my uniform and yank—
This bastard is—
This fucking—
SPY—
The probe of a slick, warm tongue brings me back down from the paralyzing outrage seething through my veins. I grab him by the back of his mask, wrench him away from his gross molestation and slam him face first into the lockers.
“Ahaha… that hurt.” He groans as I pull him back again. His tongue is split, and he pokes it through his lips to wag at me before my lips are on his, this time of my own volition, and I can taste him, hear his gasps, feel his feet slip down to the floor again, and his body presses harder against my own, backing me up to the lockers—
“NEGATORY.” I announce, shoving him away far enough for the most intense kiss of his life to break and then turning around to slam him against the lockers, my lips sealing over his again and abusing the split at the corner, nipping at the cut in his tongue when it probes my own, and grinding our hips ferociously together.
Need builds within me, and I hate it. I draw back a fist and feel something crack when I send it pile driving into his side. A double lungful of air fills my mouth and I pull away with a laugh, sneering at his twisted expression. The punch didn’t make anything easier. I still want him.
His eyes meet mine, and I don’t see hate or anger.
Want.
I grab his mask again and haul him forward, teeth clicking painfully, but neither of us move to pull back. His tongue probes past my curled lips, past the bared teeth of my grimace of angry confusion to twist with my own, lure it into his mouth and—he tilts his head, delves further into my mouth, and arches up against me.
I slam him back against the lockers and my hands fumble with his belt, his pants, shove them down hard when I can’t work the button and smirk at the grunt of frustration when the pop of a button is heard.
“Oh just wait until I get at your fancy shirt.” I growl when he pulls away to huff out an angry breath of air.
“Is undressing me further really necessary?” He asks, shrinking away when I grab the front of his shirt and wrench, popping buttons and seams and getting a pansy groan from Spy.
“No, it’s not.” I tell him, carefully unbuttoning the top button of his jacket before ripping it open and snapping the other two off, onto the floor. He head butts me, and my nose starts bleeding again, throbbing from the whack, but I grab his arms, whirl him around and shove him against the lockers. “You’re on thin ice, maggot! Don’t make me use that tie.” I growl, and he chuckles but behaves until he hears my zipper.
“Ah, so the prelude is over, then?” He asks, pressing harder against the lockers and licking his lips as he looks over his shoulder and down at my impressive erection.
“Fighting is an important part of any man’s habit, and I haven’t enjoyedbeating the shit out of anyone in far too long.” I bark, grabbing his mask again and shoving his face back forward. “Eyes front, you traitorous blotch on my roster. I’ll teach you to go off the rails.”
“Oh, please do…!” Spy groaned, wiggling his hips and laughing against the cold grey metal, red streaks and prints of his face here and there on the otherwise spotless paint. “I could use a good screw before I write a report on—“
“HOW YOU FAILED TO FOLLOW A SIMPLE ORDER?”
“On your gross misconduct with a fellow officer.”
“FELLOW?” I sputter, thrusting in hard, unwilling to be hindered by his pathetic begging for mercy.
“Oh!” Spy grits his teeth and his fingers curl into fists against the lockers. “Shit… ah… yes, fellow… we are all the same rank here, you brute… now keep going or I’ll lose my mind…” One of his newly made fists slams into the locker and he arches to force himself back on me with a groan rolling up his throat from somewhere deep, primal, strange from Spy.
I like it.
I bring a hand up to wrench his mask up to the nape of his hair and dive in for a hard bite, wrenching something wonderful from him, a mix between pain and pleasure that provokes a hard roll of my hips up into him. He’s tight, and it’s hard going, and I pull out to slick my hand with spit before I notice he’s fumbling with one of the lockers.
I spin him around and slam him back with a hand clenched around his throat. “Going for a weapon? Too much of a coward to fight hand to hand like a real man?!” I accuse him, leaning in close, my eyes narrowed in a glare. I was just starting to maybe think he was worth keeping on the team.
“It’s… it’s Scout’s.” He chokes past the vice grip I have. “You…” he drags in a dry breath and I loosen my grip on his windpipe enough that he can get a small amount of oxygen. “You think that little spunk-farm doesn’t keep lube in every available nook and cranny?”
I stare at him hard for a moment, eyes boring into his watering gaze. “Wellwhy the fuck didn’t you SAY SOMETHING EARLIER?!” I bark, releasing him to investigate this supposition.
There is, indeed, a bottle of lubricant hidden in the back. The little termite attempted to hide it between the cans of a six-pack of Bonk! but I am too vigilant for such trivial methods to work. When I withdraw, Spy is stretching out on the bench, a smile on his lips and his pants and shoes gone.
“No need to prepare me, but a little slickness would be better for you… blood is a terribly sticky lubricant, oui?”
I wrinkle my nose at his statement and kick off my boots before dropping trow. I uncap the lubricant, slather my erection with it and mount the bench before pulling Spy over to me by his legs, and draping them over my shoulders, taking in the marks covering his body. I’ve done all this to him, and the French whore still wants me inside him.
He gets what he wants soon enough, it doesn’t take long before I’m balls deep inside him, pulling noises from him that I’ve only heard on the battlefield before and it only makes me more eager to bruise his hips with my thumbs and bring him onto my cock at a faster pace. His hands grip for me, first latching onto my neck, then my hair and then pulling hard and only releasing when I slam him down into the bench, a hard moan leaving him at the impact.
“Fuck… Soldier… yes…” he shivers around me, his cock leaking against his stomach, untouched and still so fucking desperate just from me shoving him around a bit and kissing and fucking the daylights out of his tight, perfect ass.
“Your ass… isn’t fucking PERFECT. GODDAMMIT.” I snarl, thrusting harder, faster, determined to show him that he is French and stupid and not the best fuck I’ve had thus far in my life.
By the time my balls hitch and he’s already gone, long past coming across his own chest and stomach like some mamby pamby teenager, my name is the only thing on his mind, on his lips. Those damned delicious, tempting lips.
I pull out and add my seed to the jets across his stomach, unwilling to come inside someone so deluded.
He rolls his eyes back and closes them, stretching like it’s a fucking luxury, like he feels amazing after being beaten to a pulp and fucked into submission.
“So, my ass is ‘perfect’?” He asks me, pulling his cigarettes from his ruined jacket and lighting two, passing the second to me.
“Shut your whore mouth.” I snap, sucking down a lungful of frilly French smoke before blowing the breath out my nostrils. “This is terrible.” I growl before taking another drag.
“Mmm… yes, a travesty.” He agrees, flicking ash onto the floor carelessly.
I flick the butt onto his pants before moving to collect my own.
“As much as I enjoyed this, kill me on your way out, won’t you?” He asks, and I look up at him with a frown from unlacing and pulling my boots back on. He rolls his eyes and finishes his cigarette in another quick drag. “I don’t think either of us want to explain all this,” he motions to his entire body, “to Medic… you have minimal damage and I look like I just got hit by a bus and then fucked by a freight train.” He winks at me and arches his hips. “Very nice, by the way. I haven’t felt this sore in years. Kudos, really.”
I flush and stand quickly, marching to the door when he clicks his tongue. I pause with my hand on the door before making an about-face and opening my locker to get out my shotgun.
“The head, if you please… and perhaps next time I’ll show you how skilled I am with—“
I shove the barrel into his mouth and he looks up at me, our eyes meeting for a brief moment, but long enough for him to trail his tongue over the long metal tube sensually.
I feel a twisting in my gut, though I’ve just come, and pull the trigger before he can provoke me further. His head disappears and I turn my back on his body, not bothering to watch it and his clothing disappear as I make my way to the door.
When I open it, Scout, Sniper and Demoman are standing outside, staring wide eyed at my blood flecked clothes and the general disarray of my appearance.
“He fought back.” I snarl, hoping the flush of arousal might be mistaken for that of victory. I hurry to the showers, eager to wash him from me. The cologne and blood and the very idea of him.
Next time…
There wouldn’t be one.