Author's notes:
This story is derived from a picture on deviantArt, drawn by Protowilson. It's available here (warning: NSFW). The story was written with the artist's permission.
Reviews are much appreciated.
Many thanks to my beta readers for their support, editing, and insight into parts of the male psyche.
The characters belong to Valve and the game developers. I just borrowed them for my own sordid purposes. I make no money from this.
"Alert! The enemy has taken our intelligence!"
The BLU mercenaries looked up in unison in the direction of the speaker from which the Administrator's voice came.
"What are you waiting for, ladies?" barked the Soldier. "Move!"
"Alright, old man, chill out!" The Scout took one last swig of soda, straightened his cap, and dashed down the hallway after the enemy thieves.
"You!" the Soldier indicated the group of men hunched over a map of the area. "Cover the other route!"
The men grumbled even as they moved to comply with the orders. The Medic overheard the Engineer mumbling something about hats and cattle, while the Demo disparaged the man's mother. Medic wasn't entirely sure; it was either that or something about chicken fricassee. That pompous American always assumed that he was in charge, had the best ideas. Unfortunately, it was usually easier to go along with him than to argue the point. Until the orders came for suicide missions.
The first detachment-the Scout bouncing down the hallway; the Soldier backing him with firepower; the Medic; and Pyro with his…or was it her? flamethrower for good measure, chased the disappearing briefcase through the bowels of the base to the Intelligence Room. The Medic brought up the rear, as usual, giving his teammates a dose from his medigun each in turn.
The Scout had just rounded the corner into the heart of the BLU base when shouts and the staccato tattoo of gunfire echoed through the concrete corridors, calling the group from their search.
"This way, maggots!" beckoned the Soldier, indicating the opposite passage leading to the open-air courtyard within the base.
"Hey, thanks for showing us the way, Captain Obvious," quipped the Scout, doubling back to lead the charge.
They didn't have far to go. A RED Soldier and Scout were making a dash towards freedom, briefcase in hand. The BLUs caught up to them, intent on foiling their mission. The Medic kept a safe distance, assessing the melee. The Soldier and Pyro took on the enemy Soldier carrying the briefcase, wheeling him into a corner so that Pyro could ignite him. The Scout dashed off to put the rest of the BLU mercenaries on their guard for a second wave of attacks.
That left the enemy Scout, springing around the perimeter, looking for an opportunity to help his teammate out of his quandry. The Medic pulled out his bone saw; three solid hits and the annoying youth would be as good as gone. He waited quietly for his opportunity, and raked his saw across the boy's backside. 'That will slow him down considerably,' he thought, satisfied with his effort. He moved in and prepared for another blow.
"The enemy has dropped our intelligence," the Announcer reported as the BLU Soldier and Pyro completed their work.
A moment's distraction, and the world took one step to the left. The enemy Scout dove between limbs to retrieve the briefcase. Intelligence in hand, he barreled up the stairs, only slightly slower for his injuries.
"The enemy has taken our intelligence," the Announcer's voice sneered, taunting the BLU mercenaries. Pyro and Soldier gave chase. The Medic made to follow, but something—someone-caught hold of his medipack. He felt, but did not see, a leather-swathed hand cover his mouth and nose, and the point of a knife in his back threatened the thick cotton of his lab coat. "I believe, Doctor, that you have an appointment to keep," a debonair voice whispered into his ear. The warm breath tickled, and the Medic felt the silken lap of an invisible tongue trail up behind his jaw line to the base of his earlobe. A shiver ran down his spine and settled deep in his gut.
The knife retreated and the Medic felt a shifting warmth as the Spy maneuvered around him. He heard a small click, and breath later, a masked face and red suit emerged from a puff of smoke.
"You have known for quite some time, Doctor." A snake-like smile grew under the Spy's intense grey stare. "And I don't like to be kept waiting."
The Medic found he could not face the man whose hands and voice had plagued him for weeks. At first, it was only when he was alone, and later when he was among his comrades, he would feel someone behind him. A voice. His voice. Teasing. Tantalizing. Promising. Only for him. No one else heard these words. His teammates thought he was neurotic. He wondered if he was hallucinating. This was just a figment of his nitrous oxide-poisoned brain, too much time in a haze of fumes generated by the medipack.
He risked a glimpse. Those eyes were still there, waiting for him, peeling him away, laying his fantasies bare. The Medic dropped his gaze to the bonesaw in his hand. The enemy Scout's blood dripped slowly from the weapon's teeth, and according to the colors of their respective coats, the Spy's should, too. His breath raced out of his chest; he did not realize he had been holding it. He should be attacking this man, or calling for backup, or both. But he couldn't bring himself to do either.
Voices from the skirmish above filtered through the corridors, reminding him of his obligations and loyalties. The Medic looked up, listening for his name.
"You are not going to kill me?"
Slowly, the doctor in blue leveled his head to meet the steady gaze of the RED Spy. His bright blue eyes betrayed smoky, libidinous warmth within, though his stiff posture indicated distress.
"Nein," his reply was gruff, strangled. "For now, at least."
Slowly, deliberately, the Spy raised his hand to the Medic's cheek. The supple leather of his glove was buttery and beguiling. The Teuton turned into the caress, his lips grazing the pale interior of the Spy's wrist. The skin was so different from what he imagined. Delicate. Tender. The Spy's thumb traced his cheekbone with tiny strokes, carefully avoiding the spectacles resting on his nose. His breath caught at the sensation and he swallowed, but the convulsion couldn't get past his collar, which seemed too tight. He sucked in a breath. He felt a little light-headed.
"The enemy has dropped our intelligence!"
The Announcer's voice sounded through the bowels of the base, pulling the Medic attention from the Spy. He glanced up and down the hallway, looking to see if an intruder had witnessed their exchange. Or worse, a teammate.
"Merde!" the Spy swore under his breath, frustrated with the interruption. He grasped the doctor's tie and pressed his lips to the Medic's. The Medic twisted free, startled by the Spy's audacity.
"Not here."
With a glance to indicate that the Spy should follow, the Medic turned down the corridor to seek the relative safety of the intelligence room. Tucked deep in the bowels of the base, the room was cool. Fluorescent lights illuminated the functional areas of the room—a desk in the far corner, and a fire panel opposing it. Windows ran along adjacent walls, showing a dim conference room and the blinking lights of the expansive mainframe room. The briefcase that the BLUs were charged with safekeeping was conspicuously absent.
Cautiously, still on the alert for interlopers, the Medic moved to the desk to set down his saw. The tip of the blade quivered in the stark light, his hands shook. 'Beruhige,' he murmured. His body was betraying him. His mind was abandoning him. He tried to release his grip, his fingers were locked around the handle of the weapon. After a moment, he coaxed them free and the blade clattered gracelessly on the surface, shaking his nerves and splattering half-congealed blood on the plush woolen carpeting below.
The Medic felt like an engine running on too little oil—advancing in fits and starts, trying to control his movements. But heat was starting to build inside him-it rolled out from his core in wave after palpable wave. He wondered how long it would be before he exploded. He wondered if it showed.
The Spy crossed the room, closing the gap between them.
Without thinking, the Medic reached for the man in red, deftly catching the him in an embrace. The Spy picked up where he left off, his lips eagerly resuming their exploration of this new territory. Careful and circumspect, as if afraid of causing offense, the Medic deepened the kiss. The acrid flavor of tobacco flooded his tongue, but that was tempered by a low, lingering sweetness of chocolate. The warm knot in the base of his spine grew, unfurling into his groin and growing heavy.
The Frenchman's fingertips ranged over the Medic's body while carefully avoiding the medipack. Gloved hands swooped down his chest and around to his spine, finding their way to his buttocks. The Spy squeezed and pulled the doctor closer to him. Concentrations of heat glanced off one other, and the effect was electrifying.
The Medic broke the kiss and twisted free from the Spy's arms. He withdrew, taking a couple of steps as if to flee, before reconsidering and changing directions. He reached the edge of the carpeting and paused, before changing directions again. Nowhere he turned could lead to the escape he sought-from his own mind, from his irrefutable desire.
He came to rest at the railing overlooking the mainframe room. Leaning over the smooth metal support, he tried to gain control of the situation. Of himself. He wondered how someone as elegant as the Spy could be interested in someone like him, who spent his days up to his elbows in intestines. Still, he could not deny the effect the walking enigma had on him. He felt himself growing harder even as he willed his arousal to slacken. His body betraying his mind. The lights beyond blinked in the darkness, constellations of electrons shuttled from machine to machine through miles of wires, controlling their world, their reason for being.
The enemy's shoes squeaked lightly as he stepped up behind the doctor. Fingertips landed sweetly, unobtrusively, at his waist, disappeared, and a moment later, he heard the click of the toggle switch powering down the medipack. The fingertips returned for another moment, then disappeared a second time. The Medic felt the tug of the ground line being pulled free from between the canisters, and then heard the spark of the resisters being discharged. He was free of his duty.
"Danke." the Medic thanked him quietly. He unclipped his belt and the Spy lifted the heavy pack from his shoulders and set it on the carpet. The hose and barrel of the gun wound around and came to rest nearby. The Medic rolled his shoulders, grateful to be free of the weight.
"Turn around." The Spy pulled the Medic away from his contemplation of the darkness. He stood, brazen in his own desire; smoky eyes smudged with the soot of wantonness bored into his own, and desire strained the front of his trousers. His tie was loosened, askew, and the shirt below drew the eye inward to the flesh of his throat peeking from below the mask. The insisting pulse in the Medic's groin gained strength, surging forward in a quest to be free of its confines. He shifted his weight and perched on the rail, unsure of what to do with his hands.
The Spy stepped between his legs and placed his hands on the pane behind them, entrapping the doctor with his frame.
"Why do you fight yourself, Doctor?" the Spy asked with a silken voice. "That way lies madness. I watch you wonder about my taste, the feel of my fingers…just so…" he drew his hand from the glass and traced the doctor's lips, chin, and collar. His lips parted, and the Medic sucked in a breath. Dexterous fingers landed on his shoulder as the other man deftly slid apart the top buttons of his overcoat.
The Medic removed his hand from the rail to contour the Spy's hip and thigh. He trailed underneath the slim-cut suit, testing the firmness of the man surrounding him. Dominating him. Hard cords of muscle yielded little under his gloves, flexing and twitching with the Spy's movements. His blood drained from his brain as he imagined the glorious shapes the Adonis before him could take. He needed to see this, to know. He needed to consume him. The Medic loosened the Spy's tie and parted the top button.
He was stopped by a deep red glove over his own blue. Red navigated the pair across the closures to the slim buckle of the Spy's belt. A brief pause, and the Spy guided the Medic to his swollen trousers. The Medic's eyes met the Spy's, cruelly prominent from behind the mask.
"Oui, mon cher," he invited.
The Medic cupped the warm bulge, testing, massaging, gauging the Spy's girth. As he caressed through the fabric, he felt the shape changing, growing thicker and more certain. The Spy let out a groan as his hips rocked into the Medic's hand, encouraging him onward.
The Spy reached down and claimed the blue-encased wrist a second time. He rotated the Medic's hand so he now felt his own burgeoning erection. "Now you," the command slid out as a suggestion. The Spy turned his attention to the Medic's shirt. Bit by bit, the Spy exposed the Doctor's pale torso to the cool air of the Intelligence Room. Soft kisses tracked down his sternum and over his abdomen, to the hair that wandered upward from his trousers.
The Medic arched his back in offering to the masked man whose ministrations left him begging. Desperate. Hungry. He felt himself climbing ever-closer to that peak that would release him. He gripped his own length, tugging, fighting against the fabric that constrained him. He needed freedom. And he needed it now.
Rising, the Spy leaned into the Medic's ear. "You wish for control, Monsieur, but you have it backwards," he purred. "A man knows control, true control, when his mind works in concert with his body…" the words curled, rolling off the tongue like warm cream. The Spy withdrew to meet the doctor's eyes, "…and does not fight it."
The Medic opened his mouth to speak, but didn't trust his voice. He leaned in to close the gap between his lips and the Spy's. He was stopped with a gloved finger.
"I am not finished, Monsieur."
Taking the Medic's tie in his hands for leverage, the soft leather of the Spy's gloves slid across the Medic's chest as he came to his knees between the Medic's feet. He lazily traced looping curlicues across the Medic's abdomen, planting kisses at random, savoring the flavors of his skin. His fingers set to work on the buttons of the Medic's trousers. The Medic stared as inch by glorious inch, he was freed.
The Spy bowed his head, and drew his tongue along the underside of the Medic's shaft. The doctor twitched-the saliva chilled deliciously in the cool intelligence room. The Spy caught the tip in his lips and slid downward to encase the Medic's arousal.
The Medic's knees liquified and he sank, glad of the support the railing provided. His breath came fast and deep, finding a rhythm with the Spy's ministrations.
The Spy urged him closer with a glorious tugging, his facile tongue circling the shaft, tracing the fault-lines of his veins.
The Medic's eyes swam with the sensation; the world began to spin. His awareness coalesced on the microcosm of nerves in his core shouting for joy and pleading for release. He reached to grasp the Spy's head, to guide him, to encourage him take ever more. The slick fabric of the Frenchman's mask slid easily through his fingers, preventing him from gaining purchase. A plaintive whimper slipped from within as the doctor undulated, rolling his hips forward in an unspoken plea.
The sound elicited a chuckle from the Spy, who did not alter the pace of his entreating pulls. The moist reverberations crashed against the Medic's length in a euphoric cacophony. The Medic twisted, pushing, arching, begging, seeking a position that would drive him further into the Spy, who dodged and corkscrewed, running the smooth muscle over the Medic's head at a diagonal and beginning the suction anew with a faster pace, eliciting an ancient rhythm from the Medic's hips. Leather cupped from below, bathing tender flesh in creamy fabric. The fire in his core coursed freely through his veins, and he was barreling toward the apex that would take him to a glorious free-fall. The Spy changed tactics yet again and he was licking, bathing…
And then there was nothing.
The microcosm screeched in protest, the Medic opened his eyes to see the Spy rising before him, licking his lips. The Medic pulled him upright and stared, open-mouthed, at the glorious, generous man whose mouth bewitched his mind and his body.
The pop of buttons undid them completely.
The Medic locked his lips on the Spy, eager to taste himself on the other man. The chocolate and tobacco harmonized with a complex, musky flavor and the sweetness of almonds. He scrabbled at the buttons of the spook's shirt, fumbling with the closures. The buttons either gave way to frenzied tugs through the fabric or popped off, landing silently on the carpeting at their feet.
Latex-covered hands slid easily over the sheen of sweat that glistened on the Spy's body. The Medic reveled in the feel of the warm flesh slick under his hands. The moisture accentuated the Spy's musculature, highlighting the swooping planes of his chest and abdomen. The doctor brought his hands down to the Frenchman's prominent erection, opened the fly, and withdrew his hardened length. The Spy was brazen in his display. His cock mirrored the rest of him—lean, flaring beneath the head. Entirely unapologetic about its presence. Preening in the stark light from the lamp above. The Medic stroked it, learning its shape, enjoying the weight of it in his hand.
The Medic began to guide the Spy to the position he had occupied against the railing. But with fox-like dexterity, the Spy maneuvered to the right, and pushed the Medic down to a sitting position on the desk. He positioned himself between the Medic's knees, a sly grin on his face.
The Medic began…"I…"
The grin widened. "Non."
The Spy grasped the Medic by the shoulders and pushed him down on the desk. The light from above reflected on the Medic's glasses, occluding his sight. Disoriented, he shifted and moved to sit up. From a myopic viewpoint below his spectacles, he saw a gloved hand grasp something, then felt the tug of his tie being pulled to one side. A flash of steel, and a knife split the surface of the table, pinning his tie with it.
The Medic squirmed under the knife point, trying to find an angle where the light did not reflect on his glasses. The knot of his tie slid upward, tightening around his throat. The Spy leaned over him; their arousals met, sending the Medic's nerves into a riot as the fabric of the Spy's tie tickled its way up his torso. "I didn't know you were into that sort of thing, Monsieur," he teased. "Perhaps next time I will be more able to…accommodate you. But for now, humor me."
Taking the Medic's wrist in his hand for a third time, the Spy closed his fingers around their bases. He leaned over and thrust, gaining leverage and rattling the desk drawers in their railings. The Medic tightened his grip, their combined heat sublimating into glorious friction.
"Mein Gott!"
"He cannot save you," the Spy growled.
The Medic's hips rose in concert with the Spy's thrusting, and a pinprick of urge began to grow within him. The tie constricted and the doctor fought for breath, gasping as someone drowning. His vision swam and his nerves sang; every point of connection felt as if it had been amplified a hundred-fold. With each thrust, he lost a bit more footing as the desk inched its way across the carpeting, the drawers echoing their rhythm. Words tumbled from his mouth. German, English, and no language at all. Coaxing, encouraging, begging. Gaining momentum. Growing louder. He was no longer sure whether he was hearing the desk or the blood rushing in his ears. The furniture's plea for release paled in comparison to his own.
A guttural cry was ripped from the Spy's throat as he convulsed in the Medic's hand. He tightened his grip and with a jolt, found his own release. Waves rolled through him, taking all rational thought away with each thrust.
A minute later, the Medic looked around and noticed that the butterfly knife was gone. He rolled himself off the desk and stretched out on the floor.
A disembodied voice came from nearby. "Cigarette?"
"Bitte."
The announcer cut through the doctor's foggy brain. "The enemy has secured the intelligence."
Two sets of eyes watched lazily as a briefcase appeared, covering the evidence of their encounter. And the cycle began again.