AN: The title and story is based off the song You Rascal You, specifically Hanni El Khatib's cover of it. It's an epic and stylish song, and it just gave me inspiration for this angst-ridden piece ;) Enjoy.
Disclaimer: Team Fortress Two belongs to Valve; You Rascal You belongs to Sam Theard.
You Rascal You
The Sniper isn't happy that the Spy has found him. It's all in the way the Spy moves into the room, with a light smirk on his unshaven face and a dark look in his stormy blue eyes. Try as he might, the Sniper simply can't look away as the man approaches him. He really should have been more careful.
"Thought you were safe up here, hm?" the Spy taunted, giving the hide-out an unimpressed sweep with his gaze. The room is baked in the midday sun; the Spy adjusts the collar of his blue suit.
The Spy is slimmer than the Sniper. He looks lithe and quick but a little fragile. It makes the Sniper sick in the stomach, knowing how deceitful his appearance is and how ruthlessly merciless that mind is. "Well, congrats on finding me," he murmurs, setting his rifle against the floor. There's no use in trying to shoot him now. He's too fast on his feet, especially when they're in such close proximity.
And things always take a turn for the worse when they're in such close proximity.
The Sniper regrets it. He regrets letting the Spy in. He regrets and shudders whenever the Spy touches him, be it a punch in the gut or a long, slow kiss on the mouth. Sometimes, he can't stand the tension when they're secretly craving each other, but what he can't stand even more is the dull ache in his chest.
The Spy couldn't care less.
Sure enough, the Spy's already closing in. The Sniper takes a step back, his ass hitting the ledge of the window where he's been peeking out of. The Spy puts his gloved hands on the Sniper's shoulders and forces him to sit down. "Good man," the Spy says, and the Sniper can't help but notice the purr in his voice. It does nothing to ease his mind.
Those hands slide down his chest slowly, and the Sniper is glad he's still clad in his red shirt and brown vest in spite of the heat. The Spy knows how to make the Sniper want him, and that's another thing that pisses the Sniper off. He hates the fact that the Spy uses him like a toy, with or without the Sniper's consent. Some days, he gives in without a fight. Today, however, that agony in his veins makes him shove the hands away when they glide to a stop at his waist.
"Mon cher," the Spy hisses, pulling back a little to look into the Sniper's face. There is no concern on the Spy's own masked visage. He's merely annoyed that the Sniper isn't playing along with his game.
"Not today," the Sniper says, trying to gently push the man and his tempting body away from himself. "Later, maybe. Just not now."
For a second, the Sniper thinks he's won. The Spy hesitates, and he rarely does that. But there's a quick snap behind those chilled blue eyes, and the Spy takes the Sniper's face in his hands and presses a hunting kiss on his open mouth. The Sniper can only close his eyes and feel everything: the smooth texture of the gloves against his cheeks; the wet tongue between his lips, tasting his mouth; the heat between his parted legs as the man brushes his body against his. Everything inside him is tingling again. He can feel it becoming something frantic. It always ends like this.
"God damn it, I said no!" the Sniper bursts, voice husky and dry from lack of use. He manages to get his hands on the Spy's beloved blue jacket, and he flings him to the side, so that his body isn't insanely close to his.
Now, the Spy's glaring. Hatefully. "Fuck you, Bushman," he spits, unexpectedly, making both of them jump.
"Yeah," the Sniper retorts, turning to stare back into his face, "yeah, buddy, I think you've done enough of that lately."
There it goes. The mad rush of blood to the face. The Sniper can feel his cheeks burning, and he instantly heads for the door, wanting to make a point, wanting to both display his humiliation and hide from it. He can't do this today. He can't stand this. His blood is turbulent and rolling.
The Sniper makes it halfway across the room before the Spy grabs a fistful of his red shirt and throws him against the wall. The Sniper yells in shock as he hits the wall hard, but the Spy's already advancing. Before he knows it, the Sniper is being hastily undressed. The Spy is angry. He wants this, badly.
"Fuck off," the Sniper snarls, prying at the Spy's arms. But like he's always known, the Spy is stronger than he looks, and the Sniper feels the air graze his torso as the Spy undoes his shirt. He slides his hands underneath the shirt and up the Sniper's toned back, making the Sniper arch slightly at the touch.
"You know you want this," the Spy grunts in his ear, hot breath making his skin crawl. The Sniper tilts his head away and remembers to breathe: those gloved hands are on his belt.
"I said fuck off." The Sniper hates the distinct tremors when he speaks. Maybe it's by accident that the Sniper goes with it. He manages to seize the Spy's jacket, and he's about to shunt him away when his other hand bumps clumsily into the Spy's hip. Intimate. Maybe it's the memories that trigger it, the feelings that he's had before whenever he's with the Spy like this. It has always felt bad, but some moments have felt good.
Good and bad. Hot and cold. Red and blue.
That's when the Sniper drags the Spy forward and plants a loathing kiss on those thin lips. The Spy thinks it's a victory; he smiles into the Sniper's dry, slightly cracked lips. But it's not his victory. It's the Sniper's. He moves around and slams the Spy against the wall, shooting his hands into the sleeves of the Spy's jacket and forcing it off the slighter man. Then it's the buttons on that shirt, and that god forsaken tie. All the while the Spy kisses him and his neck and runs his hands up and down his body. The Sniper doesn't remember when his shirt got taken off, but it's on the floor, in the corner of his eye, a pool of abandoned red.
"I'll let you be on top today," the Spy teases into his lips, "if it makes you feel better."
The Sniper is a different man, and he puts his hand on the Spy's thigh and lifts it up and maneuvers the leg around his hip. The Spy presses his foot against the Sniper's leg, and their groins rub up and down one another. The Sniper breathes deeply, the sound heavy and muffled. The Spy rocks his hips forward, his body shimmying away from the wall.
He needs this, the Sniper. He undoes his belt and then helps the Spy with his. He never breaks off from their kiss, which is sloppy and prolonged and a little too much for them to handle. It's a turning point when the Spy gasps with something like longing deep in his throat. The Spy pushes his trousers to the floor and kicks them off, along with his shoes.
The Spy is naked. He's naked, and he's pressing himself tightly against the Sniper, and the Sniper feels complete and mad. He pushes the Spy higher up the wall, one hand gripping the man's ass while the other caresses his inner thigh. The Spy wraps one leg around the Sniper's waist and reaches down for the Sniper's cock. He pushes it inside him, eyes shut and lips eager.
The Sniper is overwhelmed by lust. He moves harshly, using the wall to hold the Spy and his damned body in place. They don't make much sound. The intensity is killing them both into silence, save for a minute gasp from the Spy or the hoarse grunts from the Sniper as he thrusts in and out of the man he would be glad to see dead. The Spy writhes against him rhythmically, even though there really isn't much rhythm and isn't much passion. It is never passion. It's just animalistic thirst. They need the friction and fight like they need life itself. It's that vital, that real. Their flesh rub and slide with sweat as the Sniper moves his hips frantically, each breath shakier and tighter than the last. His cock feels hard and he feels so damn powerful, forcing the Spy into relentless but whispered moans.
Limbs locked in place, hips thrashing, mouths open wide, eyes hazy but staring. The Sniper takes it all in, laps it up. He looks down and sees the Spy's own throbbing cock. He takes one hand away from the Spy's thigh and fondles the man's erection. The Spy reacts eagerly, bucking his hips up desperately. His head is tilted toward the ceiling, throat exposed, so vulnerable and beautiful. The Sniper loses himself, and he pumps his fist around the Spy's cock up and down, feeling the Spy coming close, feeling the Spy climax and spray himself all over the Sniper's muscles with a fruity voice that cracks when it moans. The Sniper feels this, feels everything; every tensing of a muscle and every humming vibration of the Spy's euphoria.
The Sniper hauls the Spy's climaxing body up into his arms and fucks him harder and more ruthlessly than he's ever done. He's loud; the noises are ripped from him. His hands hold the Spy's ass, thumbs caressing and yet painful on the skin. It's not long till he comes violently; it's explosive, the pleasure. The Sniper bites his lip, but it's torn out of him: "Fuck!" His release feels like it could – should – last for eternity. The Sniper's mouth hangs open and stays open as he pants heavily, releasing inside the Spy and thumping his cock several more times to live that pulsating pleasure.
Their breaths are extremely shallow and weak afterwards. Dull crimson behind shut eyelids. The Spy's chest expands several times as he gasps in air; the Sniper can feel the Frenchman's lungs filling and then deflating, his torso muscles rippling as they work furiously to breathe and recover. Those gloved hands are still grasping his shoulders, but less urgently so. Those legs linked around his own are less pressing. And the lips brushing across his neck are less enticing.
There's a bite of sadness, but the Sniper believes he's the only one that feels the teeth of reality sinking in.
It always takes several long minutes, after he's calmed down, for the Sniper to figure out the next move. This time, he skips the ritualistic kiss on the lips and instead withdraws, pulling himself out of the Spy and holding himself away from the wall, where the Spy is leaning, naked, except for the mask and gloves. He has never taken those off before. Neither of them sees the point in doing so.
The Sniper's trousers and boxers are a mess around his ankles. He takes a tissue out of the pocket, cleans himself up, pulls his trousers and boxers back on and sets about getting his red shirt. Mechanical. Precise. All the while avoiding the unwavering stare of the Spy.
The Sniper puts his red shirt on slowly, because he's really waiting. Waiting for unknown dreams to flourish into life. Perhaps he expects too much from the Spy, but underestimating the Spy is just as painful as loving him.
But, no, the Sniper doesn't love him. Oh he doesn't. He can't.
"Tie."
The Sniper turns around; the Spy is half-dressed and disheveled, with his white shirt un-tucked over his trousers and blue jacket still crumpled on the floor. The Sniper searches and finds the tie tossed under a chair. He bends down to pick it up and walks toward the Spy. Daring takes him. The Sniper boldly drapes the tie around the Spy's shoulders, then brings the two ends of the tie together at the front and starts to do the knot.
Maybe the Spy's just as surprised, because he doesn't really say anything, and yet the Sniper still feels tortured. The Sniper keeps his face lowered (the Spy's lips are so close), yet, despite the torture, something has obviously rebuilt itself inside him. For one, he's smiling. He never smiles around the Spy.
"I'll be glad when you're dead, you rascal, you," the Sniper says vindictively, sincerely, softly, his smile stays steady.
Their eyes happen to meet. The grin that slips past the Spy's control is pleasing to both of them.
The Spy laughs, and that's just about as much as the Sniper dares to hope for.