This was done for a dear friend, who has pushed me to write. Not just what I like, but also out of my comfort zone. I dislike torture, and so on. So this vicious mind-fuck... I blame her.
If you like it, please direct all compliments to; .net/u/1926216/dear_cecil. Direct all complaints to her, too :3
As always, apologies for my writing, and my lack of beta.
When the hell had it gotten so cold? They're stationed in a desert base for chrissake. Why is it so... oh. Sniper pries open his gummy eyes and takes a look around. In the dim light it's obvious he's naked. And he's in his nest. And also it's night. That explains why he's cold, at least. Why he's naked, and why he's tied to a chair for that matter, is a mystery. He pulls at his bonds, there are quite a few. His ankles are tied to the front legs of the chair, his wrists are tied to themselves behind the chair, and his chest is tied to the back of the chair. How very cliché. The ropes dig in but otherwise don't budge, no matter how hard he strains. Fan-fucking-tastic. If this turns out to be another one of Scout's pranks the runt won't have tendons to run away with, let alone crawl with before Sniper is through. Gloved hands press over his eyes, and a deep voice croons into his ear.
The voice is unmistakable his, though the accent isn't Aussie but the Queen's English. Only one man dares that particularly irritating slight.
"Fucking Spook." He spits. The hands pull away and the enemy Spy saunters out from behind the chair, looking hurt.
"Why petite, you offend me. I am no invisible spectre."
The Spy thankfully drops his perfect imitation of Sniper's voice. He pouts, placing a delicately spread hand over his heart.
"Are you saying you wish me dead?"
"'M certainly wishin' somethin' of the sort, ya poncy fairy."
"Oh mon ami, you cut me to the quick," the spy saunters closer, one hand outstretched in supplication "However are we to reconcile our differences?"
"Let me outta this chair an' we'll see how cosy we get."
Sniper feels his irritation growing, becoming a low growl that rumbles in his chest. He snaps at Spy's hand when it reaches out to stroke his cheek. He doesn't get a grip but he gets satisfaction in feeling his teeth catch and tear at the soft leather of Spy's expensive glove. The Spy strips the ruined glove off in disgust and Sniper smirks. It's short lived as the glove is immediately slapping him across his face.
"Such hostility, petite. Enough to actually justify those bonds."
The Spy comes close, running a hand across Sniper's shoulders and behind his neck as he circles the captive sharpshooter. Out of the way of gnashing teeth, of course. Once he's back in front of the Sniper he waggles his finger as if the Aussie is a troublesome child.
"Non, I think you are right where you should be. But... I could always take your mind off of it."
The Spy raises an eyebrow suggestively, slinking closer and straddling Sniper's lap. This close the growl is unmistakeable, and if looks could kill the Spy would have dozens of arrow riddling his body, all at awkward and painful angles. Sniper bares his teeth, straining against his bonds. He would fucking rip out the spook's throat, even if he had to chew though the ropes to do it.
"Try it an' ya won't get outta here alive."
It is no idle threat. Sniper calculates how far away his kukri is, how weak the ropes are, and just what he can lift off the Spy that can free him. He's distracted by the feel of a warm wet slickness running up his left arm. While Sniper was distracted the Spy was busily sucking on his fingers and is now dragging them up his arm. Sniper shudders in complete revulsion. The Spy, however, takes it as some kind of excitement and smirks with the smugness of a self-indulgent French man too overconfident with his abilities. The slicked fingers move across Sniper's shoulder and migrate to his chest. They smooth up and down his sternum, while the Spy all but licks his lips. Obviously he's thinking how wonderful it would be to arouse the Sniper. Sniper, however, is thinking only of how disgusting this is. He doesn't know where that mouth had been, and he doesn't want to know.
"Oh but petite, I think you want this."
Spy brings his fingers to his lips, his tongue darting out to lick and swirl around one fingertip with expert skill. He hums, and Sniper watches transfixed. Not with the dread of those doomed to awkward arousal, but with morbid fascination. What human mind could truly comprehend the myriads of sexual diseases that thrived on that tongue? The thought alone is enough to send another shudder of disgust through Sniper. The Spy smirks and runs his slicked fingers over Sniper's chest, cooing to him sweetly.
"I see you shiver at my touch, petite. Give into it, let it take you over. I know you want me... and I can give myself to you and give you so much more…"
The Spy trails off, his tone implying a treasure trove of unimaginable dark pleasures to be had. Sniper snaps out of his disgust induced trance and levels the Spy a flat look.
"No, I don't. I really don't."
The Spy's hand slicks down his chest, trailing a moist track downward, and he chuckles indulgently. When he reaches down to cup the Sniper it's pretty obvious just how true his words are. But as Sniper thinks on what he had just claimed he realises that perhaps he had lied. Perhaps he does have an interest in the Spy; an interest in carving off the Spy's dick while he listens to the anguished French screams. And he's determined to hear those screams before this is all over.
The Spy loses his smug air and regards the Sniper with a calculating eye. Sniper stares right back, imposing the image of blood and torture in his mind over the masked visage. It's enough to have him smirking. This was really not going the spook's way. The Spy slides placidly from Sniper's lap and turns his back, his hands disappearing, to reappear with a lit cigarette. The acrid smoke curls delicately from the glowing end and Sniper's nose twitches, his smirk waning a little. His craving for a smoke was starting to become more than just an itch. The Spy takes a puff, oblivious, and starts pacing.
"And so you do not. That is quite the problem." The Spy glances at Sniper and elegantly indicates himself "For me of course, not for you."
The Spy circles behind him in his pacing and Sniper tenses. He hates the Spy with all his being, but nothing can get him quite as riled as a Spy at his back. And it makes him snap.
"What, torturin' yer boy-toy ain't enough fer ya? Ya gotta kidnap enemies and fuck with them too?"
The Spy calmly circles back in front Sniper, taking a long drag on the cigarette before backhanding him. It wrenches his head to the side, but he turns back and spits at the Spy.
"Bet ya can't get it up without beating 'im black and blue."
The Spy transfers the cigarette from his hand to his mouth, before he backhands Sniper's other cheek. Sniper tastes blood on his tongue and pinkish spit hits the Spy's shoe. The Spy exhales a long stream of smoke in Sniper's face, stepping forward to extinguish his cigarette on Sniper's left nipple. The pain is so intense Sniper lets out a low howl, trying to squirm away from the burning ember. Sweat breaks out on his skin but he keeps it up, speaking through gritted teeth.
"Ya sick freak, ya don't know anythin' about love. I hope one day he snaps an' he rips yer throat out."
The Spy pulls out another cigarette and lights it, his eyes unreadable as he stares down at his captive.
"It'd be more than ya deserve, too. Is there some fight still in him? Or have ya broken him completely? No fun beatin' on an unresisting kid, huh?"
The Spy doesn't stop staring calmly and Sniper falls silent. Without knowing which barbs were getting to the Spy he couldn't say much else. The Spy keeps quite for a moment before speaking softly into the silence.
"Are you quite done, Petite?" He waves his hand in a sweeping gesture, the smoke trailing from the cigarette lending a graceful air to the motion. "Or would you perhaps like to make dubious comments on my mother's nature? Or my father's? Perhaps make a racial slur? Non?"
Sniper glares at the Spy as he walks up, the Balisong flashing out and settling under his chin, forcing his head up. He aims spit at the Spy's face but misses, and gets nicked for his troubles.
"Do not speak of things you have no knowledge of."
The Balisong traces down Sniper's throat, blade slicing neatly through skin and brining up a thin well of blood. It moves to his right nipple, and nicks that, too. He tries to mask his wince but the ever-sharp Spy sees it and snorts in contempt. He walks over to a nearby table and rummages in the pockets of his coat. A small bottle of clear gel emerges, as does a small vial of mauve fluid and a syringe. The Spy doffs his coat, placing it neatly on the back of a chair. His shoulder holsters are next, the weight from his revolver making quite the wooden thunk when it hits the table.
Sniper starts to feel a niggle of doubt when the Spy discards his remaining glove on the table top and picks up the vial and syringe. The Spy makes quite a show for Sniper; slipping the needle through the vial's seal agonisingly slow and drawing the strangely viscous liquid into the syringe little by little. The empty vial is discarded on the table and Spy flicks the syringe whilst nudging the plunger, expertly ridding the chamber of any air bubbles. The burn and nicks on Sniper's skin are mere dull throbs by now, but the surge of blood from his pounding heart has them stinging anew. He knew he would not like what was in that syringe, not one bit.
"Well, Petite, I think it's time to get rid of my problem…" The Spy loosens his tie as he walks back over to the Sniper "And give you one of your own."
"Don't come near me ya sick fuck!"
A new wave of sweat breaks out on his skin and Sniper starts pulling in earnest against the rope, ignoring the layers of skin he was leaving behind and the sting of the rough fibres rubbing the raw, unprotected layers underneath. The Spy merely smiles in response.
"Now is that not an intriguing concept? To define a 'sick fuck'. I wonder what would classify as such."
"You do, ya creep." Sniper hisses, snapping at the Spy, but the man stays well out of his range.
The Spy circles behind Sniper. One soft finger pad touches the nape of his neck and travels down the upper ridges of his spine. Sniper lets out an almost inhuman snarl and throws himself forward. The force tips the chair forward and he lands face first on the wooden floor. The impact knocks out his breath and he gasps, his face pressed into the floorboards by his bodyweight. There's a dark chuckle from behind him and he feels sickening sensation of being drawn backwards as the Spy rights the chair. One hand holds firm his shoulder why the other presses a finger on the exact spot on his spine that has him exploding with fear and frantic struggling.
"Why, I do believe I've found a sensitive spot, petite."
The finger presses harder and Sniper can just feel the sharp press of a blade. The blade, that the Spy used so often to take his life while he was busy picking off his enemies through the scope. But it wasn't the blade, or even a blade. It was smaller and merely pinched instead of sending agony through him. After a moment the pinch and the hand on his shoulder retreats and when the Spy walks over to the table he sees that the syringe is empty.
He can't feel any immediate effect. But that doesn't mean it won't manifest soon. While the Spy takes off his tie and vest he tries to slip the ropes again. The blood from his raw skin is soaking into the rope, not helping his escape one bit. Instead it's making the rope stiffer and swelling the fibres. He lets out a desperate whine, feeling his strength waning because of his restraints.
There's a scrape of wood on wood nearby as the Spy drags the chair his coat was hanging on in front of the Sniper. He turns it and straddles it, arms crossing on the back as he smiles indulgently.
"I took it from Medic's infirmary; the vial. It's something he's been secretly working on for months."
The Spy pulls out yet another cigarette, his other long since finished, and lights it. He takes a long drag and breathes a cloud of smoke in Sniper's direction, his grin threatening to split his face.
"I was interested in what he was trying to achieve. And curious as to how he would fare."
Sniper can feel a tingle of warmth spreading from the nape of his neck. It spreads along his shoulders and down his arms at first. Soon he can feel it down creeping down his torso and into his legs. The contrast of his warming body and cold air makes him shiver. He blinks and realises the Spy has been talking. His voice had faded slowly out to a pleasing hum in his ears. Sniper struggles to focus.
"…Of course I didn't think he would succeeded. And he has had some near fatalities in his test runs. They were educational. Warned me to keep from "borrowing" it until he had perfected it."
Sniper notices that the Spy was smirking at him now. He feels a warm flush gathering on his cheeks. He also notices that his burn and nicks were starting to tingle. Little points of pain turning to faint pleasure. The Spy dismounts the chair and walks up to the Sniper. The cigarette is removed from the Spy's lips and the glowing end dips towards his chest. Sniper clenches his jaw, and tenses for the pain. Instead he hisses in shock when the ember on his right nipple brings a flash of white-hot pleasure. The warmth from his body is starting to pool in his groin and he looks at his groin. To his horror he was half-hard already.
There's a metallic clack and Sniper can't articulate anything more than a howl, the Balisong that slices along his chest bringing yet more sharp pleasure.
"An aphrodisiac, Petite. An effective and peculiar one that interferes with the nervous system. Turns pain into pleasure."
The Spy proves his point by scoring a bicep, bringing a hot spike of pleasure. Sniper struggles in his bonds, but it's no longer clear if it's away or towards the Spy. It was just struggling, his raw wrists adding to the rush pooling into his groin and making him harder. All too soon he stops struggling altogether and falls slack against his bonds, his head falling forward into his chest. His erection is staring him in his face, sitting there like a giant white flag. His body is submitting, working against him. Pain he could use; pain he could focus into rage and use it against his enemy. Pleasure… pleasure was something he couldn't control. And the loss of control makes him hate the Spy even more.
"What d'ya want?"
His fight is no longer there. No, now it's bargaining. What low would he have to sink to in order to get out of here? He can't bring himself to look at the Spy. He's been effectively brugh to his knees. So to speak. But he's not going to show the Spy just how much it's hurting to be powerless. The Balisong settles under his chin again, but this time he tips his head up to get away from the throb of pleasure that's echoed by his dick twitching. He doesn't meet the Spy's eyes, looking off to one side.
"Look at me."
The Spy's voice is oddly soft and Sniper's gaze flickers to the Spy's face and his eyes are caught. They spend a good minute staring at each other before Sniper blinks and looks away. The Balisong draws away and Sniper's head once again falls to his chest. If Sniper believed Spy human he would have thought he saw a flicker of pity cross his enemy's face before it was replaced with a calm superiority. But he wasn't human. Couldn't be if he was submitting not only enemies but his team to his madness.
"What do I want? That is such a general question. Perhaps you would care to narrow it down to something a little more specific?"
Sniper lifts his head to glare at the Spy, but there is nothing mocking in his expression. The Spy is genuinely interested in Sniper's question, should he be able to be more specific. He still shoots the Spy a dirty look, half-hearted as it is.
"Why are ya doin' this, then?" The Spy raises an eyebrow.
"Many reasons." Sniper begins to growl, but the Spy holds up his hand for silence.
"But specifically I am here to test Medic's aphrodisiac," he continues, "Or rather; test it out for myself. See the effects firsthand."
"And ya couldn't have done this to yer boy-toy instead?"
"Non, of course not"
The Spy waves a hand as if that's the most natural conclusion in the world. Sniper gapes at him.
"What in bloody 'ell d'ya mean 'of course not'?"
"I mean that with him it is complex."
The Spy fixes Sniper with a mysterious look. Sniper's confusion is evident but the Spy deigns to leave him in the dark.
"I did tell you to not speak of things you do not understand."
Seems the Spy is done answering questions; the blade of the balisong scores his other bicep, making it a mirror of its brother arm. The pleasure is as white hot as pain and pushes Sniper the point of a too-hard erection that can't bear to be touched.
Sniper has to bite his tongue to keep in his moan. The Spy is now taking to tracing along his collar bone with the tip, a thin welt of blood springing in its wake. The Spy tilts his head and leans closer, making a show of trying to understand his captive.
"What's that, petite? I didn't quite catch that. Did you want to try again?"
Sniper sucks at his bottom lip while he waits for the pleasure to subside enough for him to put together a very important question. The knife leaves his skin and he takes a breath.
"Why are y-uhn!"
Spy lets him get a little further before nicking the hollow of his throat with the blade and his moan cuts off his question. His breath is starting to come in shorter gasps and the warmth of his body has turned icy-hot in the cold desert air. His rational mind is fast being put on the backburner and he struggles to piece together his mind.
The spy flicked both of his burned nipples and Sniper bucks his hips into the air, thrusting against nothing, a pathetic whine escaping him. He would be mortified, angry, murderous, if he was still capable of more rational thought. But he is a creature of pleasure now. He needed it, ached to be touched. Ached to be given more of this surreal pleasure.
"I'm sorry petite, I can't answer if you don't articulate properly"
Spy's voice is mocking, and he tweaks a nipple again just to watch the Sniper cry out and buck his hips. He was once aging the smug bastard that had planned and plotted and tied Sniper up like this. Sniper just shakes his head, rolling it slowly from side to side. The Spy's voice nothing more than a hum. There was only pleasure and the burning desire for release. And, as he tries to free his hands so he can touch his aching dick, his raw wrists bring him more pleasure. He's oblivious to the wolf-like keen he's making, just concentrating on rubbing his wrists until blood soaks the ropes and drips down his hands.
Sniper moans in response, his dick twitching to a particularly strong tug of his arm that sends a fresh flood of blood and pleasure over his skin. The Spy smirks, unbuttoning his shirt. He straddles Sniper's lap, feeling the stirrings of his own arousal at the sight of a moaning, writhing Australian beneath him. He touches the Sniper's cheek. Desperate, Sniper presses against the hand, rubs against it, as if he could find relief by that friction alone.
"Petite, stop. You will scar your wrists."
Sniper gives no indication he heard, continuing to rub his bleeding wrists against the rope. The pleasure is so good, too good. He can't stop. Now the Spy understands why Medic had always insisted on padded restraints for his test subjects. He grabs Sniper's chin, forcing the befuddled man to look at him.
Sniper gives a small moan. A frown passes over his face before he shifts his head in the Spy's grip so he can snap at the hand and catch the thumb in his teeth. The Spy tenses; he did not have the benefit of pain being pleasure. But the sharpshooter is sucking on the thumb, not biting it. His hands are normally covered by gloves, his sense of touch perpetually dulled by them in his day-to-day routines. So the scrape of those teeth and the hot slick of Sniper's tongue has a wave of blood draining south. This feeling is erotic enough to have the Spy wondering if he's discovered yet another kink. The Spy wrenches his hand away, because he was the one supposedly in control. Sniper lets out a whine, he was enjoying that.
The Spy has had enough of teasing. He's had enough of this idiotic bushman, so proud and self-righteous. But in truth he dislikes being out of control as much as Sniper does. It is time to deal with him. The bottle... he's left it on the table. He retrieves it and resumes his spot on the Sniper's lap. He drizzles the lube on Sniper's dick straight from the bottle, cold. Sniper bucks his hips, letting out a loud moan. The Spy caps the bottle, discards it on the wooden floor. He takes a firm grasp on Sniper's aching erection and squeezes cruelly. Sniper howls and the Spy grabs a fistful of hair, forcing Sniper to look up at him.
"Look at me!"
The harsh hiss of his words penetrates the fog and Sniper opens eyes clouded by lust to see the Spy snarling down at him.
"Let's see where your precious pride is now."
The Spy jerks him hard and fast, until Sniper his arching up. The force of his orgasm taking him completely unawares. The Spy looks into Snipers eyes as the man comes over his chest and the Spy's hand. He etches the look of utter wanton abandon on Sniper's face in his mind. He keeps pumping until Sniper is utterly spent, all the while sneering down at him. Sniper's cries aren't simply of pleasure; they're of despair as well. It's salt in the wound; not only having his body submitting to the Spy but showing just how vulnerable he is as well.
The Spy slides from his lap, wanders over to where Sniper's clothes were piled and wipes clean his soiled hand. Sniper is left gasping as he comes down from the ultimate high. There's something warm and stinging in his eyes, his fuzzy mind does not grasp what it means until he feels trickles of moisture running down his cheeks. He's crying tears of humiliation and the churn of shame in his stomach is cutting through his pleasure induced fog. A hollow lump opens in his chest and his rage starts coming back, bit by bit. The life of this Spy that has seen him at his most vulnerable is now forfeit.
The Spy retrieves his cigarette case from his jacket, lighting one up. He turns to regard the Sniper, one arm crossed defensively over his chest while he smokes furiously. He seems to ignore the significant bulge in his pants, settling instead for just glaring. How dare he, how dare Sniper startle the Spy. Spy was the one in control here, not him. This was supposed to be something fun, something to take him mind off of everything and relax. Instead he's here and riled up because a wanton bushman had accidentally found a sensitive spot.
Spy was glaring at him as if he was some dog that had hocked up something into Spy's favourite pair of Italian shoes. While Sniper would have loved doing something like that, the Spy had no right to be that righteously indignant. Not while he is still tied up and drugged up. Still… Sniper looks down at his crotch and lo; there was his erection, returning with a strong will. Well... fuck. Sniper glares as only he can, one lip curled.
Spy smokes his was through one cigarette, and another, and is onto his third before he relaxes. He still keeps up his glaring contest and Sniper begins to growl again. His shame has settled into a cold rage, something he could forge and use against the Spy.
Could but won't get a chance. The Spy makes sure of that. He stalks up to the Sniper and sticks one leg out, his perfectly shined black leather shoe quite neatly trapping Sniper's dick between it and his stomach. The Spy put on pressure, until Sniper's growl becomes a yowl of rage. His breath picks up and his body regains that lovely flush, that one that says Sniper is a wanton whore. The Spy sneers at the panting Sniper, letting off the pressure for an instant before putting more on. A groan of pleasure leaks from bitten lips and Sniper glares like he could set the Spy on fire.
"Fuck ya, spook!"
Sniper spits at the Spy. The Spy blinks, and then grins. He all but crushes Sniper's dick before removing his foot altogether.
"You know what? I think I will."
"Ya do and yer a dead man."
Sniper stares at him with cold eyes, and his voice dips to a low whisper.
"You have made that threat once before. I have yet to see you follow through on that." The Spy scoffs.
Spy takes the tie hanging loose around his neck and takes it off so he can slip it over Sniper's head. The silk felt good against his skin, cool and sleek. But the intent was anything but good. The Spy slips off his belt, gives it an experimental flick in Sniper's direction. It leaves a bright red mark under his eye, but Sniper doesn't flinch. He does shiver though. Fuck this, fuck the Spy, and fuck the enemy Medic for coming up with this fucking aphrodisiac. The Spy puts his belt to one side and pulls off his slacks, stepping out neatly and folding them. He picks up his shirt and vest and folds them as well. He places them all neatly on the table.
He's calm, too calm for Sniper's liking, when he comes before Sniper again. The Spy doesn't say a word, just kneels to retrieve the bottle of lube. Instead of standing, though, he stays kneeling in front of Sniper. The Spy pours some lube on his hand, and Sniper has to wonder what the fuck. But not for long. The Spy leans forward, between Sniper's thighs, and takes his dick in mouth. Swallows it whole. Sniper throws his head back and lets out a long moan. Fuckitty fuck that was good. The Spy bobs and licks and sucks, expertly giving Sniper the best blow job he's ever had. Not that Sniper would ever admit to it, even in the dark recesses of his mind.
Sniper grits his teeth and curses the Spy all ways to Sunday but he's relentless. He brings Sniper to orgasm, lips all the way to the base of his dick and nose pressed to his stomach. Compared to last time this was quick and dirty, so when the Spy pulls off and stands Sniper doesn't think anything of it. Suddenly Spy's lips are on his and his own come is being dribbled into his mouth. He slams his mouth shut, but the Spy keeps Sniper's head in place. His Balisong under Sniper's chin ensures he has to swallow the whole salty, terrible mess. The Spy lets Sniper go before he can bite and watches as Sniper gags.
"Ya fucking asshole."
"No, Petite. That will be you."
The Spy watches his retching with no trace of amusement. He simply waits for Sniper's inevitable erection to come back. It takes a minute, perhaps more. Sniper can't tell because his strength is waning. Apparently the aphrodisiac cut down the refractory period to just a fraction of the normal time. This was too much in such a short space of time. And he can't really puzzle out the Spy's meaning. He doesn't have to; the Spy lathers Sniper's dick with a fresh coating of lube before stripping off his boxers. He's as hard as Sniper and smirks as he sits on Sniper's lap, his back to the now struggling sharpshooter.
"Don't ya dare, don't ya fucking dare!"
The Spy doesn't even pause in reaching back to guide the tip of Sniper's dick to his ass. Sniper can feel the slick of lube, and the warm, sucking sensation as the Spy presses back against him. There wasn't the resistance he'd assume; the Spy must have been preparing himself as he sucked off Sniper. How very like a spy. In a display of the acrobatics that keeps him alive on the field the Spy lifts one leg up high and swivels on Sniper's lap until he's straddling it properly and can rest his hands on Sniper's shoulders. The Spy shifts, getting comfortable. There's a two bars on the chair, connecting the front legs to the back. The Spy uses this to dig in his heels and lift himself up, almost off Sniper's dick, before sinking back down again. His smirk is horrible, knowing, one finger flicking Sniper's nipple. Sniper can't hold back his moan and the Spy finally, finally, breaks into a grin and lets out a moan of his own. He grips Sniper's shoulders and raises himself almost off again and then sinks back down, his moan of pleasure echoing Sniper's own. He chuckles, darkly, and drags his nails down Sniper's chest.
"Why petite, so nice of you to take up my offer." He rocks his hips, ass clenching around Sniper's dick as he echo's the Aussie's moan again. "I told you I could give you so much, and myself."
He starts up, slowly riding Sniper's dick, teasing the both of them. Sniper resists, oh how he resists; biting the inside of his cheek, which only serves to add to his pleasure, and then just staying still, eyes screwed up tight while he listens to the Spy laugh at him and moan and bring forth moans of his own by aggravating his throbbing injuries. The Spy keeps his slow pace, the flushed red face of Sniper and his stifled moans too delicious to rush through. Eventually the Spy sees tears of desperation leaking from Sniper's tightly shut eyes, and he leans forward to lick at them. It sends a shudder through his body and he decides it was time he sped up. He put his arms around Sniper's neck, pulling their chests flush. Sniper was too tired to even turn his head, let alone bite at the Spy. So h rides Sniper, faster and harder, ass slapping obscenely against Sniper's thighs as he traps his erection between their stomachs. The friction, the desperation, the expert clench of the Spy's muscles... it bright Sniper to his third orgasm a few seconds behind Spy, his semen slicking the Spy's ass even more and making the last few seconds a mere white blip of pleasure.
The Spy rests against Sniper, taking advantage of Sniper's exhaustion. It was all the marksman could do just to breathe. The Spy sighed and rests with one arm curled between Sniper's chest and his, looking like the cat that got the cream. He runs light fingertips over Sniper's shoulder, watching the light indentations they made in the pale skin. If this was consensual and they were lying down in bed it would be picturesque. But the Spy wasn't content, he was positively elated. He had penultimately humiliated and degraded Sniper. After that earlier hiccup he felt on top of his cruel little world. The Spy nuzzles and nips at Sniper's neck. The marksman stirs, gives a quiet groan. Spy flashes a wicked smile and suckles hard at Sniper's neck, high and just under his jaw. That would be a hickey in the morning. Spy has marked his territory, his work here is done.
He stands up, disengaging from Sniper with a lewd squish. He stretches languorously before sauntering to the table tt pluck his cigarette case. He had one lit between his lips in no time. He exhales a cloud into the room. Ah, post-sex cigarettes, how great thou art. He deserves a shower after that wonderful little romp, if he does say so himself. Sniper has a simply pull one set up in the outside bathroom portion of his nest. But there was also the matter of Sniper's wrists to contend with. He had lost a lot of skin, and blood. He wouldn't go to his Medic for healing; too proud. And the man would obviously be too tender to take care of them himself. Spy should do the humane thing and just slit Sniper's throat so he could respawn. But then the Spy isn't humane.
Sniper looks to have passed out. The Spy picks up his Balisong and flicks it open, the metallic clicks loud into the air, and stabs Sniper in the shoulder. He gives a low moan of pain but otherwise doesn't stir. He begins to shiver and the Spy smirks. Oh yes, definitely out. He can have his shower and come back and finish off Sniper when he's feeling cleaner. The Spy saunters out to the shower, smirking.
Sniper waits until he hears the sound of running water before he even thinks of moving. He'd have to do this quickly. He calls up the rage that he had forged from his shame and reaches for the knife in his shoulder with his teeth. With the aphrodisiac finally worn off the pain is excruciating. Adrenaline floods through his system. Sniper needs it; he's almost too exhausted to move. His teeth grip the handle of the balisong and with a quick jerk of his head he rips it out. Pain blinds him for a moment, teeth scraping uselessly against the metal handle almost with force almost hard enough to break them. Carefully Sniper tilts his head, lets the balisong slip until he has the blade clenched in his teeth. He turns his head over his shoulder and opens his palm. With skill and a little blind luck the knife falls into that awaiting hand. The blood slicks his palm, makes it difficult to get a secure grip. For one terse second Sniper thinks he's going to drop it, and then he has it firmly in hand. He saws slowly at the rope. The white-hot pain from his raw flesh and the thick, blood-soaked rope makes for slow going. With a snap the rope falls away, taking skin with it and new wave of blood coats his hands. Sniper has to pause, stretch out his tired, sore arms before he quickly cuts the rope binding his ankles.
He's free. He's exhausted and sore and bleeding and abused, but he's free. He stands first and stretches the kinks from stiff muscles. Soft, French singing comes from the shower. The Spy. As Sniper steals to his simple outback shower he can see the pale, muscled figure swinging his hips sensually. Looking at that ass Sniper sees red. With a growl he pounces on the Spy. It catches him unaware, but he reacts quickly, slamming Sniper into a wall. Sniper growls again and reaches for Spy's hair, wrenching his head back and baring thick tendons and taut skin. The Spy struggles, even against the painful pull of hair, but Sniper slices neatly through that vulnerable neck. Blood spurts over the wood of the shower and over the Spy's naked chest. He grabs at his throat, gurgling. Too soon he's sliding down the wall, staring up at Sniper with surprise. Sniper watches, expression stoic and eyes hard, as the Spy's lungs fill with blood and he drowns in his blood, even as he bleeds out. Just before the Spy dies Sniper spits on him.
"Try tha' again, spook, an' I promise ya I'll make ya look like a saint"
The Spy only gurgles. His body is quickly picked up by respawn, leaving Sniper with the bloodstained shower. He lets the knife clatter to the ground, slumping against the wall. His ordeal is finally over, he doesn't have the strength to stand. Hot tears burn just behind his eyes, but he won't cry. He's done enough of that already, and the deed was done. The Spy is dead and he is free. He rests until he can stop shaking. Then he stands, pulling on a cord. Subdued, Sniper takes a shower, forgetting for a moment everything that has transpired by losing himself in the simple daily ritual of ablution.
He staggers back into his nest naked and is confronted with the evidence of the horrible deeds. Biting the inside of his cheek Sniper gathers all the clothes and weaponry that was left behind and makes a pile. The bloody rope that had held him he uses to tie it all together. Viciously, with clipped, angry movements, Sniper pisses on the bundle then douses it in lighter fluid. He wriggles until he's leaning half out his window. He light the offending mass in his hand and then sights the enemy base, lobbing it as hard as he can. Even with his tired, shaking muscles his arm and aim are good. It lands in front of the enemy base, burning quickly. It is a symbolic gesture, subdued compared to the bloody, horrible black murder that he is concocting in his mind. He watches it until the fire down to embers. Never again. The Spy would never fuck with him again. He would make sure of that.