The joke is obvious but I love it anyway.
Dedicated to mai waifu Deers, who should know by now that letting me witness a joke will usually mean this happens.
She was a beautiful woman—long legs, silky black hair, clothes that fit so tightly they might have been part of her skin—and she was running her hand along the inside of the BLU Spy's thigh, either uncaring of, or aroused by the fact that they were in public. More than just in public; surrounded, really, by the crowd of the club they were in. The throbbing of the mass of the people as they danced matched the throbbing of Spy's erection as he petted her arm, a smirk spreading across his face.
She rubbed her hand against him one more time before hooking her arm through his, leaning on Spy as though she would fall if he wasn't there to hold her up. That might have been the case, he reflected as they both stumbled a bit while heading to the back of the club, giggles pouring from her like champagne from a bottle.
The club was designed for this sort of thing, all dark and labyrinthine in the back, with rooms that one could pretend were for "wholesome recreation"—the pool tables and such certainly gave that message—but which any fool could deduce had seedier reasons for existing. She tugged him into one and kicked the door shut with one of her hot pink pumps, running her hands down the lapels of his coat.
"Madison," she said, grinning.
"Émile," he lied in turn, his fingers playing at the hem of her dress. The skirt reached so high, and the neck dipped so low, that it barely covered her assets. He didn't mind.
She tugged his belt off like it offended her, unbuttoned his pants; used the hem of them to drag him to the pool table until it hit the small of her back. Madison turned in his hands, the soft cloth of her dress twisting a bit beneath his grip, and tossed her hair to the side when she glanced back.
She looked positively coquettish, but the way she ground against him made it clear she was doing more than teasing. Spy—Émile—pushed her dress slowly up her thighs, onto her back. She wasn't wearing anything beneath it, as he had guessed. The only thing that covered her skin was a tattoo on the small of her back.
SLUT, it proclaimed.
"I bet you are," Émile told her before slapping her ass with a grin. "A little slut, bent over and ready for me. I bet you do this all the time." (With that thought in mind, he tugged a condom from one of his pockets and put it on while she spoke. Fucking diseases, always keeping him on his toes—)
"Fuck yeah, I'm a little slut," Madison purred, rubbing herself back against his hands, his dick, laughing. "Do you think I'm bad?"
"Oh, so bad," Émile said.
"You gonna punish me for it?"
He pushed a hand between her legs, shivered when she tried to ride his fingers. "I will, and you'll like it, won't you? You're such a whore."
He punished her there in the dark, seedy room, and she liked it.
The BLU Spy ran from his RED counterpart, his left arm slashed wide open and his own knife barely wet. The bastard had stricken him out of nowhere; Spy had felt secure, beneath his cloak, supposedly alone as he traversed the field.
Luckily, his team's Demoman was on top of things. The sticky bombs on the ground caught the RED Spy by surprise. Spy stalled and turned to witness the decimation. The man's corpse was there, surprisingly still very recognizable, if one could just mentally piece him back together and overlook the burnt edges. He would merely have laughed if he hadn't caught sight of a unique patch of flesh.
SL, it said.
"Son of a fucking—"