monstrousintent - Tumblr blog

monstrousintent · 21 days ago

Text

TF2 Fanfic - Pleasure Doing Business Chapter 4

Bidwell arrives at Spy's smoking room, and if Spy weren't already livid with him, the interruption certainly wouldn't help. Bidwell want Spy's help to find out just what the hell he and Hale really are, and he's willing to do anything do get it. Much to Spy's chagrin.

Ao3 Link! Part of Monstrous Intent!

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

Warnings: Mildly dubious consent, since Bidwell is using a blowjob as basically payment/a bargaining chip, but absolutely isn't being forced into it. He just thinks it's his best bet at getting what he wants.

(Within Monstrous Intent BLU Spy and BLU Scout are not related in any way. They are in fact different species.)

---------

As Bidwell strode through the halls of the Granary base with affected casualness, he felt his stomach begin to tie itself into knots. It was one thing to face the sort of dangers he did every day as Saxton Hale's right hand. It was another thing to face the sort of negotiations he did every day as assistant to the CEO of his company and de facto fixer.

It was an entirely different thing to walk into Spy's personal turf to try and wrangle a favour out of him, two months after he'd tackled the man in front of a room full of people and beaten him bloody over a misunderstanding involving getting caught being fucked by Soldier in the men's room by the object of his affections. Bidwell let out a long, heavy breath. There was no easy his way out of this situation. At least, not without eating significant amounts of crow for his outrageous trespass. Spy had tried to give him good advice and genuinely cheered him on, only for Bidwell, in his alcohol-heightened shame and rage, to accuse him of sabotage and pummel the poor man, someone he'd considered as much of a friend as he would allow himself to.

This was going to suck so much.

He came to a halt in front of the smoking room door, a small plaque attached denoting it as simply: Private. Taking a deep breath, Bidwell straightened his tie and jacket, then smoothed a hand through his hair to try and calm his nerves. Finally, he knocked.

"Entrez!" came Spy's voice from within, though Bidwell was at first unsure it was even him. It sounded so warm, almost bubbly. It was unsettling.

All the same, Bidwell opened the door and stepped inside, recoiling in shock at the sight that greeted him.

Spy sat on a leather armchair, his jacket and tie cast away to the floor without care, his neck arching away as he panted, soft sounds of pleasure leaving him. Scout straddled his lap, shirtless and wearing his uniform pants rucked down his hips below his tail, the waistband of his jock strap sitting above it. He was lifting Spy's mask away from his neck and nibbling at the exposed skin there, along the faint line that remained from the week he'd spent decapitated in the RED Medic's refrigerator during their first year of the Gravel War. Scout hummed soft little sounds of encouragement, the soft smooching of his lips interspersing little bites and licks, one hand slowly opening the buttons of Spy's shirt as his other arm wrapped around the man's shoulders, holding him close as he teased him. His tail wagged lazily.

His eyes slowly opening, Spy craned a little further—partly to encourage Scout, partly to see around him at his visitor—only for those eyes to snap open wide in horror.

It was not another member of the team at the door.

Bidwell was at the door.

Bidwell was in the base.

Bidwell was in his smoking room.

"Oh!" Bidwell yelped on reflex.

Scout turned to look over his shoulder, letting out a cervine cry as he bolted off of Spy, leaping behind the chair as though to make to hide, peeking over its back anyway, his antlers poking up a foot above it.

In the time it took the faun to scurry off of him, Spy journeyed through all five stages of grief, his entire body untensing by the time he reached acceptance and leveled a cool, deeply accusatory glare at Bidwell, crossing his legs to perhaps help disguise the raging erection tenting his trousers. His reaching to the end table beside his chair and snatching up his lighter and cigarette case further distracted the eye. Though whether tapping out a cigarette, lighting it, and taking a long, languid drag, was misdirection or merely the last line of control Spy had in holding himself back from launching at the man in his doorway, neither he nor Bidwell could be sure. Regardless, he exhaled a plume of smoke, never breaking eye contact.

His blue eyes felt like ice as they bored into Bidwell's very soul.

"Did you not see the sign on the door?  This room is private," Spy snapped.

"You told me to enter," Bidwell replied meekly, hand still on the doorknob. This had already started amazingly poorly. The urge to just bolt from the base and never interact with Fortress again bubbled up at the back of his mind. Whether the fact that his knees had locked and his legs refused to move was lucky or unlucky had yet to be determined.

"I had thought one of my teammates was at my door," Spy snapped, quickly shedding acceptance and sinking backward into simmering anger. He did not have the patience to play cool and collected with Bidwell of all people. "Civilians are forbidden from stepping on Builder's League United property without permission, in case you've forgotten."

"MannCo personnel have permission, when making supply deliveries," Bidwell countered.

"And what do you have to deliver me, then?" Spy leapt to his feet, jabbing a finger at Bidwell. "Another unwarranted pummeling, you gay little Judas? You'll have a much smaller audience for this one, I fear."

Scout's eyes widened as his presence was referenced, and he sank slowly behind the chair until he and his antlers were out of sight, only to peer around the side of the chair to watch, instead. He hid again as Bidwell leveled a look at him.

"It's not like that, Spy." He looked between Spy and Scout's antlers poking out from behind the chair. "Can we talk in private?"

"We are in private," Spy seethed, memories of his broken nose and the murmuring of scandalized party guests drifting in and out of his train of thought.

"Alone, then," Bidwell clarified. "Without your..."

Spy's glare upon Bidwell didn't waver. "Mon petit cerf."

Scout's fingers alighted upon the top of the chair's back, and he peeked over it. "Yeah, babe?"

"Please, give us some space. We'll resume this later."

Scout pouted, shooting Bidwell a viciously dirty look. "Seriously? You're killin' me!"

"I'm not happy about it either," Spy huffed. "I will make it up to you, cher. Depending on how long this may take, you may wish to find someone else in the meanwhile."

"Yeah, sure. But we're finishin' what we started later, okay?" Scout complained, stepping out from behind the chair and tugging his trousers back up. He fiddled with his fly before giving up and giving Spy a final longing look.

"I promise," Spy soothed, taking his hand and finally breaking eye contact with Bidwell to press a kiss to the faun's knuckles."

Scout smiled at that, charmed by the gesture. "Okay. You need anythin', I got my radio on me."

"But of course."

The faun snatched his shirt and headset from the floor before sparing Bidwell another dirty look and pushing past him, slamming his shoulder into the taller man's before slipping out the door and closing it behind him.

"Charming," Bidwell muttered, smoothing out his jacket.

"Far more than you," Spy spat, crossing one arm over his chest to support his elbow as he smoked. "Showing up unannounced to my smoking room and interrupting my afternoon with my paramour and demanding my attention?"

"How else was I supposed to get ahold of you? You've ignored every phone call I've tried to make for the past month. I know you know they're me; I sold you that Australian caller identification machine myself."

"It did take you an entire month to muster the courage to call me, didn't it? Perhaps if you'd been more proactive..."

"Proactive?!" Bidwell barked, balling his hands into fists. He slammed his eyes shut, his mouth drawing up into a straight line as he forced himself to resist rising to the obvious bait. Spy was pissed with him, rightly so. But getting into another fight with him was stupid and childish. Besides, he wasn't so sure he'd win against the man without the elements of surprise and betrayal in his corner. "Look." He took another breath, finally looking back to Spy, who was smirking, pleased with how easily his words had riled him. "Maybe it did take me that long to muster the courage. Maybe I thought it would be a good idea to give you space. Doubt you'd be any more interested in speaking with me the day after the Gala and all."

"Yes, well, the day after would have seen you sitting by the phone with no response. I had a late night. Much like yourself, I found myself in the arms of another. However, to accomplish it I didn't have to make a fool of myself, fuck a stranger in a bathroom stall, and pummel someone I called a friend bloody in front of the entirety of Builder's League United." Spy harrumphed and turned his back on Bidwell, as though daring him to make a move. He rounded the chair and made a lazy beeline for his bar. "I merely asked, like an adult." He plucked a decanter from the shelf and clacked a rocks glass onto the bartop, pouring himself two fingers of whiskey.

Wincing, Bidwell approached slowly, like he was rounding on a cornered wild animal, having no idea how accurate a description that was. All the same, he pressed on, noticing quite pointedly that Spy had only poured one drink for himself and put away the decanter. "I deserve that."

"You deserve far worse. It is only by the terms of my contract and not wanting to deal with your employer-cum-lover that I haven't put a bullet between your eyes, putain." Spy took a swig of his whiskey, thoroughly not in the mood for this.

"I know," Bidwell sighed, deflating a bit. "But I wanted to talk to you. To apologize for what I did. For making a scene and attacking you. You didn't deserve any of it. I was being a jackass."

"The bruising to my face and ego were severe. The bruising of my reputation in front of a room full of my peers, however?"

"Spy, I'm sorry. I truly am. What I did was... was unconscionable."

"Go on," Spy bade, unimpressed. He knew Bidwell well enough to know the man didn't grovel to anyone but Saxton Hale, and he certainly didn't beg forgiveness. He was a cutthroat versed in espionage and wetwork, much like a corporate iteration of Spy himself. Even their friendship had always been some form of transactional. It was how things went in their line of work.

So what was this actually about?

Bidwell's eyes narrowed the slightest bit. It was becoming very clear that Spy had clocked him already, and that the remorseful act wasn't going to cut it. Did he feel bad about his behaviour at the gala? Of course he did. He was acting like a fucking teenager. He was spiteful, liquored-up and angry, and took it out on the wrongest man he could have. It had damaged—likely destroyed—a perfectly good working relationship. But he had ulterior motives for his apology, plain as day, and Spy wasn't about to be caught off-guard by him again.

With a sigh, Bidwell scratched through his hair, fingers carding through carefully to avoid messing it up. "Fine. Honestly, I'd be content to never see one another again, just forget the whole thing and leave it alone. But I need your help."

"Ah, there it is. Of course you do. I shouldn't be surprised, of course. That's what it's always been."

"Spy—"

"Mais oui! When Mr. Bidwell needs something done and can't make time to leave his darling Saxton Hale's side long enough to do the work himself, he outsources it. Why dirty his nails when Monsieur Spy is always a phone call and a briefcase full of money away?" Spy interrupted, swirling the whiskey in his cup before drinking the entire rest in a single gulp, slamming the empty glass on the bartop with a sharp clack.

Bidwell sighed, suffering in a bitchy hell of his own making. "Spy, listen. I need—"

"I think you've already gotten what you needed, yes? Saxton Hale's girthy Australian snag up your ass?" Spy crossed his arms over his chest.

With a scoff of disgust, Bidwell mirrored the motion, crossing his arms in return. "Fuck's sake—that's exactly my problem!"

That had caught Spy's attention. His eyebrow arched up, lips quirking just so. "Oh? Trouble in paradise, Bidwell? Don't tell me you're both bottoms."

Bidwell hated it here. "No! No. I just," he sighed, "we've been hooking up since that night. Pretty regularly."

"So what's the problem?"

"That's all we've been doing. Just fucking. I just—I don't know what Mr. Hale and I are, and it's driving me insane!"

"Mr. Hale," Spy purred, sauntering over to lean his arms atop the back of his chair, an impish grin crossing his teeth. If there was one thing that could distract him from his wounded pride, it was drama. "Still calling him that? Or is it part of your little arrangement? Not quite 'master' but still so taboo."

"Tch," Bidwell shook his head. He should know better. He should say to hell with all of this, turn on his heel, and leave. He'd already given Spy enough ammunition to make his life miserable, and lord knew the man already had the motive. Instead, he slunk over to the leather sofa that sat against one wall, sinking onto it with a loud creak. "He's my boss, Spy. But we're screwing around. But other than that he still treats me the same. Yeah, he flirts with me now, gets handsy when we're alone, but unless it's sexual, it's the same as before. Bidwell do this. Bidwell do that. Bidwell bribe this guy. Bidwell steal that information. Bidwell grab me an angus ribeye and a VB longneck for lunch, I'll sizzle it up at me desk."

"Your impression is startlingly accurate."

"Thanks." Bidwell sighed. "Even after sex, we clean up and it's right back to business. And the whole time he calls me Bidwell. I'm starting to wonder if he even knows my first name."

"What is your first name?"

"And I just don't know what this all is to him!" Bidwell continued, ignoring the question. "Am I anything to him? After the gala, I thought there was something there! The way he grabbed me and carried me off to the plane! The way he tore off my clothes! The way he—"

Spy loudly cleared his throat.

Bidwell froze for a moment, and cleared his in turn, a blush crossing his cheeks. "A-anyway, it was passionate! I thought it was the start of something! And ever since, aside from the sex, nothing's changed, and I'm losing my mind trying to figure out what we are! Is it just a workplace affair? Or is there something more?"

"Have you tried asking him?"

"What, just up front like that?" Bidwell pouted. "That would be so awkward I'd crawl out of my own skin. I'd rather chew my own leg off like an animal caught in a bear trap."

Spy frowned at that imagery. "Mon ami, it sounds like you've been caught in a bear trap of your very own," he chuckled, all too pleased with himself as Bidwell crumpled in on himself in exasperation.

"Ughhhhhhhh!"

"So you've come here, hoping to prostrate yourself before me for what? Advice? Really now, Bidwell."

"I don't want advice, Spy, I want espionage. I need you to get the information I need. Tap his phone lines, eavesdrop conversations with his other CEO buddies. Hell, disguise as one and bait him into talking about it! I bet they like to brag about how they're fucking their secretaries; Mr. Hale can't be any different."

"Their secretaries are usually busty young women, not twinks with large noses."

"Do you really think Mr. Hale would grasp the distinction?"

"Hm. Touché."

"Is my nose really that big?"

"Bidwell," Spy sighed, ignoring the question, "you're truly prepared to hire me to spy on your boss in order to find out if he's your boyfriend or not? To hire me, a man you attacked and embarrassed in a room full of his peers?"

"I know it's not the wisest decision..."

"It's downright idiotic, even for you," Spy scoffed.

"It's desperate," Bidwell corrected, leaning his elbows on his knees with a slouch. "Which is why I'm here on my knees asking your forgiveness enough to take this job."

"I don't see you on your knees."

Spy locked eyes with Bidwell, ice blue searing into dark brown. Bidwell's tongue darted out to wet his lip, thoughtful. Finally, with a weary sigh, he slid from the couch to the floor, to his knees. "I'm sorry."

A thin smirk crossed Spy's lips as he stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray beside his chair. What a wonderful sight. He made a mental note to ask Miss Pauling for some stills from the surveillance footage. He tilted his head a bit, eyes warming, chin canting up in appreciation. "No."

"Oh come on, Spy! I have a briefcase full of hundreds in the truck ready for you. I can get you dossiers, shipping logs, guns, tech, more cash! Anything you want, you just say the word and I'll pay you whatever you want to do this job."

"A briefcase full of money, indeed," Spy chuckled, turning away. "No. Now get out of my smoking room."

"You're turning down an offer of anything you want? Seriously? Spy, I don't think you realize what kind of carte blanche I'm offering you here."

"And yet all I wanted was to see you grovel and squirm. I've got what I wanted. You can get what you want just as easily; just don't outsource the problem. You mustered up the courage to speak to him before. What happened to that Bidwell, I wonder?"

"That Bidwell got drunk and kicked your ass; is that a Bidwell you really want to deal with?"

"Frankly, I don't care to deal with any Bidwells."

"Jesus fuck, Spy, what do I have to do? Suck your dick?"

Spy cackled. "Yes, that's exactly what I want. A coerced blowjob from a desperate man in exchange for services rendered. Bidwell, have some self-respect. There are literally eight other men on this base I could request the same act from and receive it with enthusiasm. And skill. In fact, when you arrived, you chased off a man who was intending on doing exactly that."

Bidwell recoiled. He'd been speaking hyperbolically, but...

The reputation of Team Fortress wasn't a secret to anyone who worked with BLU. Word got around, especially about a team of mercenaries living as a polycule. The salaciousness and scandal were too exciting not to be spoken about in hushed whispers and off-colour jokes. And Spy had basically confirmed as much just now.

He looked Spy up and down. The man wasn't his type, but even he couldn't deny that he was handsome. Maybe...

"So let me make it up to you. I screwed you out of a blowjob, I can give you one. Show you how much I mean this apology. Spy, you know me well enough to know I don't get down on my knees for just anybody, and I sure as hell don't suck dick for just anybody either."

"And you'll suck dick for me?" Spy sighed, turning back to Bidwell with a roll of his eyes.

"If it proves to you how serious I am."

"You're not leaving until I take this job, are you?"

"No," Bidwell challenged. "And I know that if anything happens to me, your handler'll have you in a shallow grave within half a day."

"So it seems we're at an impasse, then."

"It seems so."

Spy scowled, glaring daggers at the younger man. His pleasant afternoon plan of sensual lovemaking with Scout had been thoroughly derailed by a presumptuous corporate drone barging in, demanding work, pretending at apologies two months too late, and offering—of all things—oral sex to prove his resolve. If he weren't so petty he might take him up on it. After all, he was left wanting, his erection flagging through the force of his fury, but the feeling of phantom teeth on his neck still haunting him. The sooner he was rid of Bidwell, the sooner he could seek Scout out and hopefully continue where they'd left off. Assuming Scout wasn't busy with somebody else already.

Turning away from Bidwell, Spy checked his radio, flicking the device in his pocket on. Merely tuning it to Scout's usual channel revealed the answer. As usual, the faun had left the channel open on his headset, and through his earpiece, Spy was treated to the dulcet tones of Scout wailing in pleasure amid the dull sound of flesh clapping to fur and Medic's coos of encouragement. Scowling all the harder, Spy lingered, listening to his boyfriend and his casual lay making rough, frenzied love for the whole team to tune in to. He wished he could be there, muffling the faun's cries of ecstasy with his cock between his lips, grinning to Medic as the doctor took him, sharing their mutual lover between them.

Spy snapped the radio off with a jolt. Fuck's sake he was hard again. And behind him, Bidwell knelt, demanding permission to do something about it.

Spy sighed and scrubbed his hands over his face. Why couldn't Bidwell have just showed up for a rematch? Frankly, he'd much rather just fist-fight the man and call it even, regardless of who won. That impulse alone had him realizing he spent entirely too much time with the rest of the team and their ways of settling disputes—a thought he tucked away for later examination. Instead he was fighting a battle between his aggression and his sexual frustration, and horrified to learn that he was beginning to lose ground to his own dick. Hormones were clouding his judgement, far more than they rightfully should be, and he was galled to discover that perhaps he'd grown too comfortable with such ready and indulgent access to pleasures of the flesh, basically on-demand. He'd been seduced by his own hedonism, lust battling his pride in a duel to la petite mort. He was trapped, stuck between a cock and a hard place.

He half-turned, regarding Bidwell out of the corner of his eye. He knelt there still, sitting back on his heels, hands on his thighs, awaiting an answer. How the man managed to look comfortable while sitting seiza style, Spy couldn't begin to fathom, though a small part of him respected the stamina in his knees if nothing else.

"Spy, I'm not kidding when I say I'll do anything," Bidwell rejoined upon seeing the rogue glance at him once again.

"I'm not going to force a man to blow me," Spy hissed, feeling his resolve growing shakier and shakier. "I am not a rapist."

"Rapist?!" Bidwell gawped, trying and failing to stifle an absolute guffaw. "Fuck's sake, I'm asking you for services rendered and offering sex as payment! You're not taking advantage of me, Spy, I'm offering it as a transaction."

"For a service you're desperate to obtain."

"I know other spies. I can hire any one of them. I came to you because of your expertise, and because you know me well enough to be able to impersonate me if you need to." Bidwell shook his head ruefully. "I'm desperate, but I'm not without options, for fuck's sake. Do you really think I'd debase myself like that?"

"Bidwell, you're offering to suck my dick to prove how serious you are about an apology you gave to convince me to spy on a man who may or may not be your boyfriend." Spy turned to fully face the other man, but did not move from behind the chair. "You realize exactly how debased this comes across, I imagine?"

"Would you prefer it as part of your payment package, then?" Bidwell chirped smugly.

"So you're a prostitute now?"

"Prostitution is sex for payment. This is sex as payment. An advance on your compensation, if you will."

Spy hated the fact that they were discussing the job as if his involvement was already a done deal. That it wasn't the thing up for debate, but whether Bidwell would blow him or not. Hated more, however, was the fact that he was running out of reasons to say no.

Well. At least the surveillance footage would be excellent blackmail to hold over the man's head. Spy had that, at least.

"Fine," he huffed, giving in.

Bidwell's tongue poked out to wet his lips, the gravity of what he'd talked himself into talking Spy into doing suddenly putting its weight upon his shoulders. "Good."

His mouth drawn into a displeased line, Spy finally stepped out from behind the chair, his trousers tented out in spite of himself, looking positively obscene as he slowly approached the kneeling man.

"For all of your protesting, you seem a lot more interested than I'd thought," Bidwell mused, eyes glued to the sight as a smirk tugged at his lip.

"Don't flatter yourself," Spy grumbled, coming to a stop in front of him and looking down the line of his body at the younger man. "I turned on my radio to see if I could get Scout in here to throw you out."

"And?"

"And he's currently being fucked—loudly and thoroughly—by our medic. So you've cheated me out of my plans for a relaxing afternoon of passion with my lover. That is the only reason I'm acquiescing to your ridiculous offer." Spy opened his belt and fly, looking up from Bidwell and setting his gaze squarely at the wall. "Go."

"So sexy," Bidwell sneered. All the same he rucked Spy's trousers down his thighs a bit and tugged his shirttails out of place, exposing his underwear. Bidwell's eyebrow couldn't help but tick upward at the distinctly French style: a low-slung, hip-hugging waistband with a panel that ran up the centre of its front, its fly artfully hidden in one of the panel's seams rather than called out with an obvious y-front. The navy cotton did well to showcase the older man's slim hips and the way his body tapered in a way that his suit's trendy, boxy tailoring did not, even as it tented out aggressively, cruelly restraining Spy's hard cock.

So sexy, Bidwell thought.

He licked his lips, hands coming to rest on Spy's thighs as he briefly considered his next move. The scent of him, of cologne and smoke and musk, the warm skin under his palms, the lewd sight of his briefs straining to contain him; it all had begun to make Bidwell's mouth water, to make heat begin pooling between his own thighs. Sure, this was transactional, a bid to get what he wanted, but that didn't mean he couldn't enjoy himself, right?

Spy might not be his type, but he was very handsome. What he could tell with that mask on, anyway.

After a moment's debate as to how impersonal he wanted to keep this—whether he wanted to just tug his cock through the fly of his underwear, the minimum amount of nudity required—Bidwell's fingers crept under the waistband of Spy's briefs and curled inside, slowly tugging the garment down his hips until they pooled around his thighs with his trousers, rucked down just enough to access all of him. Above him, he heard Spy's breath hitch at the bold move. Clearly, the man had been expecting the impersonal approach.

Spy watched Bidwell appraising him, lips parted around heavy-yet-shallow breaths, fresh lust flooding his nervous system at the sight of a handsome younger man knelt before him, inspecting him with hunger in his eyes. His cock stood proudly from dark pubic hair that had been trimmed and maintenanced, its foreskin already partially retracted, clinging to the crown's ridge as its tip poked out, pink nearing purple with renewed arousal. It was average in size, curving upward a bit at its final third, and his balls were drawing up a bit in anticipation. He had no anxiety about the size and shape of his genitals—after all, he'd specifically chosen to make them look the way they did—but he almost regretted not shifting to something a little bigger, a little intimidating, if only as a power play, a challenge to Bidwell's abilities.

It was probably immature.

That rarely stopped Spy.

What did stop Spy was Bidwell's warm fingers tracing a line up the underside of his cock, tickling around the head and urging his foreskin back, and him licking his lips again as he finally took hold of the base to steady it. He looked up to Spy—his warm, dark brown eyes locking onto his own, pupils blown wide—and took him into his mouth in a single smooth motion, down to the root.

Spy jolted, barking out a curse as searing, wet heat enveloped him in an instant, his hips bucking forward on their own. Bidwell seemed utterly unperturbed by the motion, and Spy gasped as he pushed into the man's throat for a bare moment, curling forward and nearly losing his balance. With a smug little huff through his nose, Bidwell pulled back, completely off, and came to rest with his lips pressed to the tip, mischief in his eyes.

"Problem?"

Spy hissed in a breath to steady himself. "Bit of a dramatic opening volley."

"I wanted to make sure I had your attention," Bidwell teased, his voice humming through Spy's oversensitive flesh as he spoke against it like a deeply ineffective microphone.

"Where else would my attention be? There's a man on his knees in front of me intent on sucking my dick!"

Bidwell chuckled a little. "It's always funny when you're crass, Spy."

"You don't get to speak so fondly of me. We are not friends. That ship has sailed." Spy looked up, fixing his eyes on the wall, refusing to offer any further banter. A stern look settled on his face. It absolutely wasn't a pout. Not even slightly.

Bidwell ignored Spy's pouting and set back to work, soft licks assailing the underside of Spy's cock, lapping gently at the head, just the tip of his tongue teasing little sparks into the older man. He could hear it in how his breaths picked back up, in how his posture settled, in how his fingers twitched like he wanted to grab Bidwell by the head and force himself back into his mouth. He kept at it.

He typically paid handsomely for services rendered, and Bidwell would have this compensation be no less lavish.

Spy's eyes slid closed, his head tilting back as he focused on the sensation, those licks growing a little longer, lingered a little more. The texture of his tastebuds rasping wetly at him, pebbly smooth and slippery against his hypersensitive flesh had Spy practically seeing the tiny bumps of his tongue in his mind's eye, the contact of each and every one a miniature shock of pleasure firing hundreds at a time, building into a bright and shining bliss with every pass. He reserved his moans, pride refusing to give Bidwell the satisfaction so early into the proceedings, but all the same his breaths grew heavy and strained in his throat, seeking his voice to bring out with them.

He quickly found his resolve unraveling as those lingering licks segued into warm lips wrapped around his head, bobbing up just a bit, and inching downward, taking the first third or so of him into Bidwell's clever mouth. Heat, soft and scorching, enveloped him, wet and welcoming. Bidwell's tongue cupped the underside of his cock, pressing against it in lazy undulations, a mild, calculated amount of suction keeping it close and in constant contact. He remained there for a long moment unmoving, as if simply relishing the weight and feel of Spy's cock in his mouth.

He moaned, just slightly, the sound living mostly in his throat, the barest vibration against Spy's most sensitive spots. It made his breath hitch. How dare he play dirty like this, taking this transaction and making it sound like a cherished treat? It was a naked appeal to Spy's ego, and damn it, it was working amazingly.

Spy echoed him; softly, barely a sound at all, but it was clearly what Bidwell had been looking for. His free hand came up to cup Spy's balls, rolling them gently in his palm and feeling them tighten a bit at the sudden contact. It earned him another sound, one slightly closer to a groan, and he set to work.

Spy had to grit his teeth at the sudden increase in stimulation, Bidwell beginning to bob his head shallowly and properly suck in earnest. It made his eyes cross in spite of being closed. His tongue pressed into him on every outstroke, like it was pushing him away only to come back with vigor, taking him slowly deeper with each ingress, filling his mouth more and more with Spy's length, plunging him further into that slick, torrid paradise between his parted lips.

It burned and bloomed, pure bliss throbbing out into his body from that single point of pleasure, and before he realized what he was doing, one gloved hand came to rest in Bidwell's hair, threading through and scratching encouragingly at his scalp, following the movements of his bobbing head. Soon saliva pooled in Bidwell's mouth, each stroke a slurp of increasing volume, and it made Spy's balls ache with each vulgar sound he made as he sucked.

Spy considered himself well-versed in the art of fellatio, a journeyman in the field with hundreds of years of experience. His standards were high, and impressing him took considerable skill.

Bidwell had quite a bit of skill, it turned out.

In spite of himself, Spy couldn't stay silent. He cursed, biting out strained gasps of, "Merde, fuck," as Bidwell's tongue stroked him, lips tight around his shaft as he was thrust in and out between them.

He kept his speed even, clearly in no rush, content to savor the taste of Spy's cock and coax him gradually and inexorably toward completion. When Spy's other hand cupped his cheek, he knew he'd won.

"How dare you," Spy grunted, tension threading rapidly through every muscle, his arms, legs, back tightening as he could feel himself approaching the edge, heat and pressure filling him and threatening to spill over. "Fuck."

He jolted as he felt Bidwell's laughter vibrate around him, the hot puffs of air from his nose ruffling his pubic hair. The little bastard was too fucking smug with a cock in his mouth.

It reminded Spy of himself in a way he both disliked and found himself impressed by. Perhaps it was narcissism, perhaps it was the way he pulled nearly all the way off with a long, slow suck and plunged back down to the root, but Spy couldn't hold back any longer, and with a strained groan emptied himself into Bidwell's waiting mouth. Hot throbs pushed his seed onto the younger man's tongue, pulsing between his lips as his hips fought and juttered to not fully thrust in and take his throat. His hand at the back of his head held him in place until he was done, though even through the haze and rush as pleasure took him like a kick, Spy knew he was barely trying to recoil, the backward pressure against his hand a mere formality, a play at succumbing to power that wasn't truly being used.

When at last Spy was done, he hefted a heavy breath and pulled himself from between Bidwell's lips, stepping back only to watch him exaggeratedly swallow, making eye contact all the while. It was terribly sexy, and quite the power move.

Spy had to respect it.

"So, do we have a deal, then?" Bidwell asked, slowly climbing to his feet as he fussed with his hair.

Spy huffed, red-faced beneath his mask, nearly panting as his head swam with pleasant chemistry. He hiked up his underwear and trousers, tucking himself away and closing up his fly. "Fine," he finally grumbled, fiddling with his belt. "Give me his schedule and your schedule for the next week and I will get you my invoice. I will get the information you need."

"Of course," Bidwell chuckled, finally fixing his hair. "Pleasure doing business with you, Spy." He extended a hand for a shake.

Spy hefted out a laugh. Spies really were all awful, weren't they? "I can't believe you thought I would sabotage your chances with that moustachioed side of beef."

"Him walking in on me fucking your Soldier did seem too coincidental to be coincidental, don't you think?" Bidwell replied, retracting his hand to put them both on his hips.

"From what Soldier told me, he did all the fucking." "That bitch," Bidwell hissed, but there was mirth in it.

Spy snorted. "I hope you don't think I've forgiven you for tackling me and breaking my nose in a deeply stupid, jealous rage in public."

"I hope you at least forgive me for tackling you and breaking your nose in a deeply stupid, jealous rage. The public part is unforgivable; I understand."

Spy elected not to mention that the most unforgivable part was interrupting the spell he'd been maintaining to disguise Pyro. The last thing he wanted was for Bidwell to mistake him for a soft touch. "But of course. What's a little violence between friends?"

"Is that what we are?"

Spy chuckled softly, withdrawing a cigarette from his case and lighting it. He took a few puffs before offering a half-shrug. "Who can say?"

#Monstrous Intent #TF2 Handy Mann #TF2 Cloak and Batter #TF2 Bidwell/Spy #TF2 Blunt Trauma #TF2 Bidwell #TF2 Spy #TF2 Scout #nsfw /

4 notes · View notes

monstrousintent · 21 days ago

Text

TF2 Fanfic - Pleasure Doing Business Chapter 3

A MannCo shipment to Fortress stationed at Granary ends up including Bidwell along for the ride. His minor business on behalf of MannCo however is nothing compared to the personal business he's there to settle. But mostly this chapter is dick jokes.

Ao3 Link! Part of Monstrous Intent!

Chapter 1 Chapter 2

No warnings just lots of bad jokes.

---------

Engineer held his hands up as he slowly beckoned the truck backing into the garage of the base. It had been a while since Granary had been stocked up, and with Fortress being the latest transfer there, they'd been responsible for getting ahold of MannCo and ordering a new shipment of supplies to keep the base churning. In addition to the extra supplies their team always tended to require.

"Little more, little more," Engineer called, finally turning his palms out to halt the truck when it had gotten inside the building, close enough to easily unload. He approached as workers in MannCo branded coveralls climbed out of the truck and rolled up the back shutter door of the vehicle to begin unloading. He looked to Medic, who was finishing propping the doors to the interior of the base open, a clipboard in one hand. "You got the order, Doc?"

"Of course! I will direct where the crates go," he announced, coming to join his companion as the workers unrolled a ramp from the back of the truck and loaded a crate onto a hand truck.

"What's this fella?" Engineer asked, peering at the markings on the crate.

"Manifest says," the worker snatched a clipboard from his companion and squinted at the words printed on it, "this crate's all one item. Economy pack of... personal lubricant." His eyes widened a bit as his mouth drew into a line. He purposely did not make eye contact with either of the mercenaries.

Engineer's face grew pink as he waited for the man to say a damned word, ready to challenge him. Medic merely tittered.

"Aheh, that one can go to the infirmary. Down that way, take a left, end of the hallway, danke."

"Yessir," the worker mumbled, handing the clipboard back to his companion and making a quick egress.

"Your team is our number one buyer of the economy pack, you know," came a voice from the cab, stealing the mercenaries' attention as a slim man in a suit slid off of the truck's bench seat and carefully climbed out of the open door, reaching back in to snatch a briefcase out before closing the door.

Both of them knew that big nose and boyish haircut anywhere.

"Mr. Bidwell, ja? To what do we owe the pleasure?" Medic asked, immediately turning on the charm. It was very abnormal for Saxton Hale's right hand to be anywhere near the battlefields of the Gravel Wars, let alone riding along on a delivery. It had the doctor's hackles immediately raised. His wings fluffed up a bit unconsciously.

Bidwell adjusted his jacket as he casually sauntered over, proper and uptight as ever. "Since you gentlemen clearly have a vested interest in our... intimate product line, Mr. Hale has asked me to offer you one of our newest catalogs. We've been exploring branching out into a new market, and thought your team would perhaps be a good... test market for those products," he explained, clearly a little uncomfortable based on how his ears were growing pink.

He opened his briefcase and withdrew a catalog with bare-bones graphic design, handing it to Medic. It read MannCo Adult Toys And Novelties: We Sell Products And Like It Rough, which felt almost like an afterthought compared to how the page was dominated by a photograph of Saxton Hale in a leatherman's cap, chaps, and ridiculously tiny leather shorts barely restraining a raging erection, brandishing a riding crop. A speech balloon emanated from him, proclaiming, "No returns or exchanges!"

"We're still very much in the testing and product design phase with the catalog, as you can clearly see," he quickly added, trying not to look at the cover.

Medic smirked and showed it to Engineer, who lifted an eyebrow. "I think you wear it better," he teased, earning a wheezy chuckle from his friend.

"Well thank you, I s'pose," Engineer ventured, scratching at the back of his neck awkwardly. "All the trouble of a house call for that, though?"

Medic opened the catalog and began flipping through it curiously, immediately tuning out the conversation.

"No, no, not just that," Bidwell said, waving a hand in front of his face. "I have some other business, too, but this was a good opportunity to deliver the catalog. Or, the catalog is a good opportunity to do the other thing," he rambled a bit, the nerves that had been simmering quietly under the surface finally beginning to bubble up.

Engineer smirked. "You here to see Spy?"

"Is he around?" Bidwell blurted out, his voice cracking a bit. "I do have something to talk to him about," he rejoined, trying to school his expression and salvage some of his dignity.

Shaking his head, Engineer clapped the skinny man on the back, gesturing broadly to the door into the base. "Spy's smokin' room is on the way to the infirmary. You'll be able to tell because it's the door that says, 'private,' on it."

Bidwell jolted at the impact, forced forward a few steps by his own momentum, then turned, regarding Engineer with a sour pucker of his lips. "Thank you, Mr. Conagher," he harrumphed, and set off into the base, his briefcase clutched in a white-knuckle grip.

"Almost wanna follow the kid and watch the fireworks," Engineer chuckled, shaking his head. He turned back to Medic as the other porter in the truck unfolded another hand truck and began wheeling down the next crate. "You wanna keep helpin', Doc? Or are you gonna stare at MannCo brand butt plugs all day?"

"It's not just butt plugs," Medic replied, rolling his eyes. "See? They have novelties too! Look! Penis-shaped pasta!" He hooted out a little laugh as he showed the item to his companion.

"Could whip up a pretty good cockcio e pepe with that," Engineer nodded, struggling to keep a straight face.

Medic giggled. "Or penis alla vodka?"

"Maybe just a classic pasta e fagioli?" Engineer asked, mangling the pronunciation for the sake of the slur.

A squawk of a laugh left Medic, fading into a fit of giggles in reply, making Engineer the victor.

"What're they called anyway?" he asked around a chuckle, peering at the catalog, only to find it entry marked as, 'Dickaroni and Cheese'. He frowned. "They didn't even try."

#Monstrous Intent #TF2 Handy Mann #TF2 Bidwell #TF2 Engineer #TF2 Medic #nsfw /

5 notes · View notes

monstrousintent · 21 days ago

Text

TF2 Fanfic - Pleasure Doing Business Chapter 2

Bidwell's not sure where he and Saxton stand, and Hale doesn't make it any easier on the poor guy on the set of a rather... illicitly-themed photoshoot.

Ao3 Link Part of Monstrous Intent!

Chapter 1!

No warnings, just some light public dry humping.

---------

"You sure this looks alright?" Hale asked, tugging at the too-tight leather shorts he wore, a little concerned with the silhouette they presented. Typically, he never found himself self-conscious about the size of his cock. He was on the upper end of average for an Australian, rather large by American standards, and had certainly never had a complaint in bed. The problem was, that only counted for when he was hard.

And he wasn't hard, he was standing in front of a camera crew wearing nothing but leather short shorts, chaps, boots, and a little leather hat with metal studs on it. They'd tried to sell him on a harness too, until they realized there were none on hand that would fit around his broad chest. He looked down the line of his own body, wearing more clothing than he normally did, but he couldn't help but feel naked.

Especially as a grower, not a shower, the tight shorts left more up to the imagination than he'd actually prefer for a photo shoot like this. He couldn't let people go around thinking the great Saxton Hale wasn't a physically impressive specimen from every angle!

"You look amazing, Mr. Hale," Bidwell assured him, trying desperately to maintain eye contact even as his face flushed bright pink. He stood off to the side of the set, which was dressed to look like some kind of sex dungeon, bondage cross and a matte painting of a wall lined with shackles behind the CEO.

"Don't bloody feel amazin'," Hale huffed, fussing with his tiny shorts again. He shot a look to the photographer, who was hashing out details with his lighting technician. "Oi, you!"

"Sir?"

"When're you gonna be bloody ready to take these photos?"

The photographer looked to the tech, who held up a few fingers and waved his hand side-to-side. She turned back to Hale. "About five minutes, sir!"

"Aces, I'll be back."

"Wh-where are you going, sir?"

"To make meself look good in these fuckin' pants," he groused, stomping off. "Come on, Bidwell." He made for the restrooms in a huff, his assistant startled and chasing on his heels.

"Mr. Hale, wh—" as the door to the men's room closed behind Bidwell he found himself slammed against it. Hale's body pressed close to his, dominating his space, and before he could register what was happening, his boss' tongue was in his mouth. The paperwork and clipboard under his arm clattered to the floor as he reached up to wrap his arms around Hale's neck, urging him onward.

Hale's hands followed the slim curves of Bidwell's sides down to his hips, grabbing at him, squeezing, sliding around back to grasp his meager ass and lift him up with a groan as the smaller man kissed back in turn. His little hat plopped down on top of the scattered papers as Bidwell's fingers threaded through his hair, the smaller man's long legs wrapping around his waist.

It was so sudden! It was so passionate! Bidwell's head spun as Hale tasted and groped him, giddy butterflies fighting the heat in his groin for attention within his own body, both losing to the hot, slick tongue invading his mouth.

They grunted, moans swallowed between them as Hale began to grind against Bidwell, humping at him amid heated breaths and the soft thumping of bodies against the wooden door. Hale felt those too-tight shorts grow even tighter, his cock straining against the leather, the zipper barely holding him back as he rubbed himself against his assistant's own eager erection tenting his trousers.

When their lips finally parted, Bidwell gasped. "Mr. Hale!" he whined, fingers digging into the thick muscles of the larger man's back, a whimper following as Hale took the opportunity to bite at his neck.

"Mmm, thanks, mate," Hale hummed, making sure to suck in just the barest hickey below his collar before pulling away and setting him down.

Bidwell blinked up at him in confusion, doubly so as he stepped away and picked up their dropped things. "Sir?"

Hale set the little leather hat back atop his head and palmed at his cock, now starkly outlined in utterly lewd fashion by the tiny short he wore. "There we are. Aces. Much better visual for the catalog cover. Can't 'ave the masses thinkin' Saxton Hale's got a wee willy, eh?" He chuckled, taking a deep breath as he looked over his disheveled assistant and handed him back his paperwork. "Great work, Bidwell," he said with a grin, and ushered the man aside before opening the restroom door with a brave but wholly unnecessary kick and striding back to the set.

"Right, let's get these photos!"

Bidwell turned and watched him leave, the door—which was hinged to open inward—hanging half off of its hinges and wide open.

It was so sudden. It was so passionate. It was to get Hale hard so that he'd look good posing in those criminally tiny shorts to preserve his ego for the camera.

So why did it have to be with him? Like this? Couldn't he just have jerked off for a bit and come back unfinished?

Why him?

With a heavy sigh through his nose, Bidwell straightened his papers and adjusted himself in his trousers, and dutifully followed, holding his clipboard perhaps a bit lower than usual.

#Monstrous Intent #TF2 Handy Mann #TF2 Saxton Hale #TF2 Bidwell #nsfw /

5 notes · View notes

monstrousintent · 21 days ago

Text

TF2 Fanfic - Pleasure Doing Business Chapter 1

It's been a couple of months since the Builder's League United company gala, and Bidwell and Saxton Hale have been shagging regularly ever since. But that's all they've been doing. And Bidwell doesn't know what that means. Fortunately, he does know someone who can find out without putting himself through the mortifying ordeal of emotional vulnerability. Unfortunately he beat the tar out of that someone a couple of months ago at the Builder's League United company gala.

Luckily, anyone can be bribed. Anyone.

Ao3 Link! Part of Monstrous Intent!

Lbr Saxton Hale might not have a monster dick but he fucks like a damn monster. No warnings on this chapter other than Bidwell being OBLITERATED lmao.

---------

Bidwell gasped for air, each breath punched from his body as Saxton Hale's hips slammed against him, as his cock slammed into him, as he was filled so aggressively and thoroughly it chased the air from his lungs with each deafening crash of flesh. Breathing in was a struggle, both from the sheer unrelenting pace of Hale's thrusts and the way the giant Australian's body pinned him to the floor, his chest and its wiry hair grinding into Bidwell's back and crushing him as he balanced on the toes of his boots and hammered home with ruthless force.

His vision had long gone blurry, his mouth hanging open, spit pooling under his face as it pressed to the floor, all of what little sense Bidwell had left in his mind dedicated entirely on trying to find enough air to stay conscious. The rest of his thoughts were long gone, cooked down into a slurry by the vicious ramming of Hale's fat cock into his quivering body, the relentless hammering at his prostate, spearing violent bursts of agonizing pleasure into his body until all he was was pure electricity, sparking and bright, melting his physical form into slag beneath the mighty mass of muscle. All Bidwell could do was breathe and feel, the sheer power of Hale's cock inside of him the only thing keeping his hips in the air, the rest of his body completely boneless.

Hale grunted with his efforts, the clap of skin on skin filling the room along with his pants of exertion. Bidwell had long since gone silent, his moans pinching out as his voice first went ragged, then disappeared, the sensory onslaught too much to bear, to maintain use of his own body. Hale considered it an accomplishment, a sign that he was on the right track, and had redoubled his efforts in turn.

A good root wasn't a good root unless you both came away from it sweaty, messy, and sore. And it took a lot to leave the mighty Saxton Hale sore.

He was getting there, though. Time to bring this home. His morning break was almost up and he did have meetings later in the day.

Hale reached under Bidwell, taking rough hold of his cock in one massive hand, engulfing the oversensitive organ in his warm, calloused grasp. He grinned upon hearing Bidwell gasp in reply, finally catching enough air, and proceeded to pound it back out of him, picking up speed the smaller man didn't even know he could achieve.

"You gonna blow for me, mate?" Hale asked, running his thumb over the head. He could feel Bidwell's hole attempting little clenches, grasping at him with muscles that had been overpowered fifteen long minutes ago and battered into submission.

Then there was the squeeze he sought, Bidwell's body suddenly tensing every part at once, his voice returning in a ragged, mindless, animal wail of absolute overload as he came, filling Hale's hand with his release. He shuddered and shook, paroxysms of pleasure rocking his entire body as Hale's cock continued to punish his prostate, milking his climax out of him cruelly.

Bidwell collapsed, his legs finally fully giving out, flopping to the floor with Hale's hand still around his cock, and let himself be used as a hole for the giant to fuck, pounding hard and deep and growing sloppier as he closed in on the edge.

"Crikey!" Hale grit out, arching up as he came, stalling out inside of Bidwell as he pumped his load deep into the smaller man.

Bidwell felt the pulse of Hale's cock against his rim, the push of come flooding his body, and wasn't sure whether the lightheadedness was from his own climax, the sensation of Hale filling him with his seed, or asphyxiation.

White spots began to prickle at his vision.

Okay, more than a little bit was asphyxiation.

When Hale pulled out and rolled off of him, Bidwell gasped in a deep breath, coughing with the suddenness and shocking an ache through his abused pelvic floor. He did not move from where he lay, face-down on the floor of Hale's office, however.

Hale sprawled onto his back, sweaty and grinning like a maniac. "Proper root, that."

Bidwell made a sound that might be agreement.

Checking his watch, Hale reached around to find his hat. "Right, me smoko's up. You're on lunch, yeh?"

Another possible affirmative sound.

"Aces. Enjoy the rest of your break, mate. I'll get us some tea." With that, Hale stood and tucked himself back into his shorts with little ado. He stretched a bit and looked down at the utter mess of a man that lay crumpled on his office floor with a grin. He had to give it to Bidwell. For such a small American bloke, he took it like a bloody champion.

Bidwell huffed out a breath with a final noise of confirmation before he dimly listened to Hale's bootfalls tracking away, and the office door opening and closing.

He shivered, wishing that instead of a hot tea to look forward to, he had Hale's arm around him, his head resting on the Australian's massive bicep as he quivered and recovered. Would Hale grant him that if he asked? Would that be too personal? With a sigh, he tried to push himself off of the floor to clean up.

His arms gave out and left him flopping face-first to the office carpet.

Well, he did have fifteen minutes left on his lunch, at least.

#Monstrous Intent #TF2 Handy Mann #TF2 Bidwell #TF2 Saxton Hale #nsfw /

3 notes · View notes

monstrousintent · 21 days ago

Text

TF2 Fanfic - Nice

Some banter, some romance, some 69ing. Nice.

Ao3 Link! Part of Monstrous Intent!

Since MI has so much of it that's been written outta order and also I can't fucking count apparently I'm calling this baby part 69 of MI, even though it's the 70th piece written. Not as monstery as it could be either but sometimes you just wanna write two husbands bantering and making love. <3

---------

Sniper regarded his supine lover with a warm smile, eyes roving the man as he reclined, half-sitting against a pile of their pillows, on their creaky BLU-issue bed, arms tucked behind his head to support it as he craned forward, watching his husband watching him. The warm light of sunset filtered through the blinds, lighting the rolling hills of muscle that made up the Scot's highlands and lowlands, dusted gently with dark curls to add texture to his topography. His single dark eye rested half-lidded, a smile on his lips as he watched the other man's eyes dart hither and thither, unable to alight upon a single place, hungry to take in every detail in its totality. Always, they were drawn back between his thighs, where his cock was hard and wanting.

Demoman's smile was an easy thing, pleased and flattered by the attention of the naked man standing before him, gawking at him dumbly like it were the first time he'd ever seen a dick. Mind, he looked at him like that every time he saw him naked, and the mixture of wonder and adoration on his features never lost its novelty. Demoman could understand. Honestly, he felt the same way every time he saw Sniper in the nude.

How in the hell could he be so lucky as to be married to this man?

"Ye good, Dee?"

Sniper huffed out a soft little laugh, caught goggling at him like a teenager with his first nudie magazine. "Yeh. Just—you're bloody gorgeous." He climbed onto the bed, onto Demoman, and straddled his lap with a contented little sigh, looking down at the adonis he called his husband. "Don't know 'ow you ended up with a piece of beef jerky like me," he chuckled, hands coming to rest on Demoman's chest, groping idly at him.

"Ah ye ken," Demoman hummed, his hands settling on Sniper's hips and sinking down to cup his ass. "I like a good chew." He squeezed generously, pulling a laugh from the other man. "Now shut yer gob. Yer right braw and ye ken it."

"Sure," Sniper replied with a grin. He certainly got around enough to justify confidence in his own looks. "But I like when you say it."

Demoman chuckled, leaning in to press a kiss into the fluff at the centre of Sniper's chest. He inhaled deeply, utterly entranced by his scent, and nuzzled at him, enjoying the sensation of soft hair tickling at his nose and cheeks. "Yer braw. Yer gorgeous. Yer dead sexy. Yer devastatin'ly handsome. Yer the finest piece o' arse on two legs," he teased, giving his meager ass another generous grope.

Sniper huffed out a little laugh. "And I'm yours."

He could feel Demoman smiling against him. "And yer mine."

"And you're mine," Sniper rejoined, coaxing him out of his fuzzy chest to tilt up for a kiss.

"And I'm yers," Demoman sighed, closing the distance and claiming his lips.

Sniper's arms slipped around the bomber's shoulders, holding him close. His lips parted, tongue seeking Demoman's, a gentle caress only to retreat and find him again, tenderly wrestling not for dominance, but to taste. Each man wanted all of his senses filled with the other, and as strong hands squeezed Sniper's ass, and it pushed a soft laugh from his nose.

"Want somethin'?" he teased, lips moving against Demoman's as he spoke, one eye cracking open to meet his husband's with a devilish sparkle.

"Nae anythin' in particular. Just ye. Always ye. However ye'll let me."

"Let you," Sniper echoed, leaning back with a wry smirk. "Like you need any more permission than I've already given you."

"Still dinnae believe I have it," Demoman sighed, a little dreamily. "That I'm worthy."

Sniper frowned. "Don't you start with that, Tavish."

"I'm nae!" Regretfully wrenching his hands from Sniper's cheeks, he held them up in mock-defense. "Promise. I just—I cannae help meself. Yer just so amazin', it's hard tae believe."

With a roll of his eyes, Sniper clasped his hands to Demoman's, threading their fingers together. "And yet I married you."

"Aye, well no accountin' for taste."

Sniper leaned in and bit Demoman's nose.

"Ow! Alright, alright, I'm worthy! I'm worthy!" the bomber capitulated, wrenching his face away from Sniper's with a laugh.

"Bloody well right you are!" Sniper growled, snapping at the air with a loud clack . "Now stop that. I'll gut any cunt who insults me 'usband, even if it's the man 'imself!"

"See, that's what's so attractive about ye, Mickey. Ye stick tae yer principles."

Sniper nodded, considering that. He shrugged one shoulder, squeezing at Demoman's hands. "And here I thought it was me arse that was so attractive about me."

"And yer voice. Yer sense o' humour. Those long legs. How hairy ye are..."

"Not me face?"

"I mean if yer intae horses."

Sniper grinned. "You'd know, bein' a horse's arse and all."

Demoman barked out a laugh as Sniper shoved him back onto the bed, off of the pillows that held him up until he lay flat, awkwardly diagonal across the mattress. A stray pillow flopped onto his face, making him laugh all the harder as Sniper kept their fingers laced, preventing him from easily pitching the thing away. He bat at it ineffectively until finally giving up and biting it so that he could chuck it aside with a toss of his head. When he turned back, Sniper was already closing in on him, claiming his lips in another kiss as he pinned his hands to the bed and pressed his weight down against him.

He was hard, and doing his best to grind against Demoman's cock, also trapped between them. It was difficult, neither wanting to let go of the other's hands to situate themselves comfortably, or hold them together for easy strokes. Instead, Demoman rolled his hips, rutting up against Sniper, both men clumsily humping as their breaths puffed between them, lips and tongues tangled in a kiss.

"Wanna suck your cock," Sniper gasped, pulling out of the kiss, his eyes glassy with lust. "You're so bloody gorgeous I need your cock in me mouth."

That made Demoman's breath catch. Sure, it was deeply sexy when Sniper talked dirty. With a voice like his, how could it not be? But this wasn't dirty talk. This was plain-spoken desire. Intent. Need. And he felt the same way. "I need ye. Wannae swallow ye down, make yer voice crack the way it does when ye cannae handle how good ye feel."

Sniper pecked Demoman on the lips one last time before letting go of his hands. "You first, though. I can't wait."

A grin crossed the bomber's lips as his hands shot down to Sniper's hips, grabbing hold. "Nae. I'm nae waitin'."

"Wh—"

Reminding Sniper who the stronger of the two of them was, Demoman rolled Sniper off of him, then grabbed one leg and yanked him sideways, nearly pulling him off of the bed. Quickly, Sniper understood what was going on and let himself be rotated, his hips grabbed once again as Demoman pulled him back atop himself, now facing the opposite direction, straddling his husband's face.

"Yer too lovely a treat tae wait for," Demoman teased, tilting up to kiss the tip of Sniper's cock and making him shiver. He turned his head, kissing gently at the taller man's thigh, relishing the soft skin and its soft hair. He took a deep breath, a sigh leaving him at the scent of his lover. He wondered what it was like for humans. He knew they could smell their lovers' aromas, the pheromones gathered in dense hair and upon their skin, the musk of their genitals, but how potent was it? Could they tell people's scents apart like he could? Did the scent of a lover make them feel so at peace, like that person, their beloved, was their home? Swaddled in warmth and peace just by mere aroma alone?

He lifted himself up, kissing up his thigh to the crux of his hip, and down his balls, feeling them draw up a little at the attention. His grin softened into a gentle smile as he lipped at the loose flesh a bit, feeling Sniper's breathing grow a little deeper atop him.

"Coulda warned me," Sniper grumbled, but there was no real displeasure in it. Not as those warm lips paid such gentle attention to his sensitive skin.

"Aye," Demoman replied noncommittally, letting go of his hips to take hold of the base of the cock above him and gently stroke.

Sniper groaned softly, not caring about further banter once he'd been touched properly, turning his attention to the lovely sight before him: Demoman's spread legs and hard cock before him. He lowered himself, letting his body weight rest on his chest and knees atop Demoman as he settled his arms on the man's muscular thighs and set to pawing at him. One hand scooped his balls into his palm, his fingers kneading gently at him, feeling them tighten a bit in his loose grasp. He nearly missed the sigh that answered him—muffled as it was between his own legs—but a second, louder one ensured he'd hear it as he took hold of Demoman's cock and gave it an appreciative squeeze.

"C'mere," Demoman urged, his free hand grasping Sniper's hip and urging him downward. "Put yer weight on me; it's fine, love."

"Want you to be able to breathe," Sniper chuckled softly.

"Dee, yer seventy kilos soakin' wet."

"Oi, you cunt, I'm seventy five and you bloody know it!"

Demoman snickered at the sheer indignance in Sniper's voice. "And I can handle that, nae danger," he soothed, giving Sniper's hip a squeeze. "Now come down here and let me have a taste o' ye."

Giving in, Sniper stretched his legs out, easing his weight on top of Demoman to no noticeable difficulty for the other man. He didn't even flinch. Sniper tried not to let being a gangly scarecrow of a man bruise his ego too much.

The warm lips that wrapped around his cock helped in that endeavour, distracting him quite nicely. "Crikey!"

Demoman merely hummed his contentment as he sucked in more of his lover's length, the hand on his hip urging him down to meet him, to bury him in that slick, wet hot bliss. He let out a groan that reverberated through Sniper's sensitive flesh as the bushman took his cock into his mouth in turn, mouthing wetly at the head as his tongue teased back his foreskin.

Soft sighs of pleasure filled the quiet space of their room, the smacking of lips and slurping of saliva accompanying pursed lips and undulating tongues, quivering thighs and groping hands. Skilled, supplicant mouths worked in tandem, coaxing bliss from heated flesh, writing words of love and desire with clever tongues and careful suction, each man's brow furrowed in a mix of pleasure and concentration.

It was the one thing Sniper was sort of iffy on, regarding sixty-nining. He paid so much attention to making Demoman feel good, to the way his tongue sought out the right spots, the way his hand worked the base of his shaft, the way he cradled and played with his balls, that it was hard to make sure he was giving a good blowjob while he was also being deeply distracted by receiving one. He had to focus both places at once, or either his skill would suffer or Demoman's would be going to waste, him too focused to appreciate the pleasure.

It was a ridiculous circumstance, one that seemed so much less pressing with other positions. Even when he was sandwiched between multiple partners, the expectation of skill from the man in the middle was diminished. It was clear and obvious he was going to be overwhelmed from the get-go. But here, sucking his husband's cock while the gorgeous Scot returned the gesture, he felt a sort of pressure to perform that didn't exist in other, similar scenarios.

He was probably overthinking it.

When Demoman yanked his hips down and took him into his throat, he stopped thinking at all.

Sniper howled around his husband's cock, the maddeningly tight heat around him stealing the sense from his mind. He mirrored the action, taking Demoman to the root in turn, his eyes clamped shut as he forced back the urge to gag and let his voice pinch out around the obstruction, his hips stuttering and trying desperately not to blindly rut into that glorious throat lest he choke the amazing man beneath him.

Demoman held him there for moments unending, his own sounds of pleasure blocked by the intrusion, his own hips shivering with desire. Heat shocked through both men, rippling through their bellies and up their spines. The bomber wrapped one arm around Sniper's waist, holding him down, holding him in his throat as his free hand wandered up to squeeze at his meager, fuzzy ass.

Sniper pulled back, gasping for air, almost worried for Demoman's complete lack of breath but unable to will himself to do anything but moan as clever fingers found their way between his cheeks and began to tease at his hole with rubbed circles. "Fuck, Tav!"

Finally, Demoman relented, let go of him long enough to let him pull out, and heaved a deep breath. He was a little dizzy, but by the gods did it make him shudder to watch a line of thick, mucousy saliva trail from Sniper's cock to his lips. "More," he croaked, grabbing again at his husband's slim waist. "Wannae swallow ye down," he rejoined, desperate for more.

"Gonna put those fingers in me?" Sniper asked, lips pressed to the crown of Demoman's cock, his voice thick with lust.

Demoman grinned and popped his fingers into his mouth, sucking at them, letting the thick saliva pulled from his abused throat coat them before returning them between his cheeks, pressed with purpose against the man's entrance. "Only if ye come back down."

Sniper did not need to be told twice, and urged by the bomber's insistent grasp, lowered back down into his mouth, into his throat, pushing as deep as he could as his balls came to rest over the bridge of Demoman's nose. Heat, searing and choking, enveloped him, and true to his words, Demoman pushed his fingers slowly into him, opening him up around the spit-slick intrusion and making him wail.

Sniper laid like that for a long moment, his hole breached, his cock in Demoman's throat, his eyes crossed, electricity arcing through his body and sparking out. He barely touched the bomber's cock before him, but when those fingers set to motion and began to curl come-hither taps against his prostate, he needed him in his mouth. He gulped him down greedily, desperately, his voice muffled around the bomber's thick length, and when Demoman began swallowing around him, he lost himself.

Sniper sucked without skill, without guile, without thought, needing his mouth full of his husband's hard cock. His arms wrapped around Demoman's thighs, holding them tight, the idea of performing gone, replaced with merely animal need and hunger.

All too soon, that throat was gone, his hips lifted by one strong hand as Demoman gulped down great breaths, woozy and fuzzy-headed but needing more. His fingers never stopped teasing inside of him, never ceased drumming out pleasure as they flicked against his prostate, just erratically enough to keep him guessing, just steady enough to keep pushing him closer to the edge, and if he had the presence of mind, Sniper might have wondered if the man were performing perverse morse code, tapping tender messages of 'I love you' on his bliss button.

The recess didn't last long, however, Demoman taking a deep breath and pulling Sniper back down, taking him back into his throat, swallowing him down and making him shudder and twitch. He could tell Sniper was close, his rangy body all tension and desperation, the way he sucked at him like it was a primal need, like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality making his own body grow tighter, his own balls draw up, his own belly fill with lava and brain begin to melt in his skull.

Whatever worries about skill Sniper had were gone, passion and hunger taking their place as he guttered and shook, tilting dangerously close to the edge. His breaths puffed hotly through his nose, his head swimming, his hips juttering and humping as shallowly as he could. But with his cock so deep, he could feel the flexing of Demoman's gag reflex teetering on too much. He could feel the man's throat ripple and clench around him, just as his hole rippled and clenched around his busy fingers.

It was so much, it was too much; he needed Demoman. He wanted Demoman. He was under him and inside him and all he could smell was him and all he could taste was him but all he could hear was himself fraying further and further as his cock silenced the man's moans around him, and soon those flicking fingers began to thrust, and it was all over.

Sniper gathered his knees beneath himself, hiking himself up, out of Demoman's throat, nearly out of his mouth in a bid not to fully choke him as his voice left him in hoarse, cracking keen. His lips snapped shut around Demoman's cock as he wailed around it and came, his hole clamping down in fluttering waves around the bomber's fingers, which shoved in to the last knuckle to fill him. He shuddered and shook, his whole body jerking with the force of his climax, and he felt himself slip free of those warm, soft lips, spending himself partly between them before the rest of his load splattered onto Demoman's face, the man moaning beneath him, just barely loud enough for Sniper to hear over himself.

And then he was sucking and sucking, one hand grasping the base to work it as Sniper chased the high of his orgasm, the heights of his pleasure, hungry for his husband's seed, the taste on his tongue, before the ecstasy faded and he sagged in sated exhaustion.

It didn't take long at all, the desperate need too sexy to ignore, that hungry mouth, the suction, the lashing of his hot, soft tongue, and Demoman groaned his release, filling Sniper's mouth with a warm, thick load that he swallowed down greedily and sucked until there was no more, the bomber's voice pinching out in overstimulated yowls of protest.

Finally, they were done, and both men flopped together, panting and sweaty. Slowly, Demoman freed his fingers from Sniper's ass and went boneless atop the bed, gulping down air. A small headache from lack of air teased angrily at his temples. It was worth it.

Sniper slid off of his husband, flopping to his side, still half-thrown over him as he let his face come to rest on the man's thigh. "Crikey."

"Aye."

"You're too good at that," Sniper huffed with a chuckle.

Demoman grinned. His tongue darted out to taste the semen cooling on his lips. "I can dial it back if ye need."

"Don't you fuckin' dare."

They both chuckled breathlessly.

"Ye gonnae come up here for a cuddle, then?"

"Yeh. Lemme get my legs to work." Awkwardly, Sniper gathered himself together and shifted around, so that he was laying face-to-face with Demoman, a sharp-toothed grin crossing his face as he saw the stripes of come the bomber wore. "Lookit you." "Wear it well, aye?"

"Aye," Sniper agreed, tilting in to lick a drop of his own seed from Demoman's nose.

It sent a shudder through the bomber. "Christ, Dee. Eatin' yer own come off o' me."

"Like that, then?"

"Gimme a wee bit and I'll show ye just how much," Demoman purred, threading an arm under Sniper's waist and tugging him flush to his body.

"Alright, but next time I wanna watch when I give you a face full, yeh?"

"Aye, it's a deal."

Sniper found himself being hauled into a kiss, his own semen smearing from his husband's face across his own.

#Monstrous Intent #TF2 Sword Van #TF2 Demoman #TF2 Sniper #nsfw /#nice

7 notes · View notes

monstrousintent · 21 days ago

Note

HI I REALLY LOVE YOUR FIC SERIES AND I WAS WONDERING IF I CAN TAKE INSPIRATION FROM IT FOR MY OWN AU ???????? THANKS <3 again i fucking love ur works , currently my lifeblood

Wah thank you so much omg! :D And of course, inspiration is free bby! (Though, hell, people have written things set in MI before too, I love that shit. A few of them have even been incorporated into the canon. :3) If you'd toss me a link when you make things for your AU, I'd love to see what you're cooking up! <3 I'm always excited to see more monster AUs for TF2!

Thank you again for dropping me a line! It means the world to me that people enjoy my silly self-indulgent passion project so much! ;3;

#Lightspeed Replies #Anonymous #ilu anon tysm!!!

2 notes · View notes

monstrousintent · 4 months ago

Note

I’m signed into the wrong AO3 account, so consider this my comment on Think About Baseball! (Perfect title, by the way! 😂 I definitely laughed.)

As always with your writing, it’s funny and extremely hot and so in-character and well written 🥹 Thank you for doing all that research and sharing this gem with us!

Poor Sniper lmfao…!

At the end he’s like beaming Demo, don’t do it! Learn from my mistakes!

And Demo’s like none of us would be here if we were the kind of men who learn from our mistakes 🫶🏿 and then he shoves Sniper over lmao

<3<3<3<3<3<3<3!!!

Wah Strange thank you so much! I'm so deeply flattered, you're so sweet awuh ;3; And I'm glad you liked the title, I had a good tee-hee when I thought of it. :3

And oh man yeah if that man were coherent enough to talk he'd warn Demo but there's nothing he can do but get shoved into a boneless ball so Demo can kip next to him and become Scout's next ADHD hyperfocus handjob stim victim, lmao.

So fukken true too lol not a goddamn one of them learns from any of their mistakes; not each other's and definitely not their own XD

#Lightspeed Replies #subpar-lemon-bar #waaaah thank you so much strange ilu dude

3 notes · View notes

monstrousintent · 4 months ago

Text

TF2 Fanfic - Think About Baseball

Scout loves him some baseball, but also needs to have something to do with his hands while he watches. Luckily, Sniper is something he can do with his hands.

Ao3 Link! Part of Monstrous Intent!

An UNREASONABLE amount of baseball research done for a short funny haha fanfic about handjobs I s2g. Also shoutout to @beepiesheepie for shootin' the shit with me about this gag MONTHS ago lol this has been on the to-do list for too long.

I realized too late that this easily could've NOT been an MI fic but then I was like fuck it.

"Long belt to left side of field, hopin' for it, and... unable to get it," the announcer on the television droned over the sounds of a roaring crowd and a cheering Scout, the camera following the flight of a baseball as it sailed over the left-centerfield fence, much to the ineffectual jumping of an outfielder.

"Yes! Hell yeah! Freakin' beautiful! You see that shit, Snipes?"

"It's a home run!" the announcer on the television added.

"Fuckin' A it is! Conigliaro creamed that!" Scout crowed, gesturing broadly to the television, his eyes never leaving the screen. "Freakin' beautiful."

"Y-yeh, sure, mate," Sniper finally replied, his voice pinched, breathy. He couldn't bring himself to care about the game if he tried.

He'd been relaxing on the couch, half-in, half-out of a nap when Scout had arrived and plunked down beside him to watch the day's baseball game. Sniper had simply stretched his legs out over the faun's lap and tugged his hat down over his eyes, no worries. The day's game was Scout's beloved Boston Red Sox up against the Detroit Tigers, after all, so Sniper didn't mind.

Yes, it meant that Scout would invariably be yelling at the telly and get up in arms about some play or another, but his friend's hooting and hollering had grown pretty easy to ignore over time. Sniper found himself resoundingly Used To It, and able to doze in spite of the faun's volume.

At least until Scout had gotten understimulated.

Normally, he would bounce his leg or fiddle with something as he watched, spending out his energy through some sort of fidgeting, some motion to let his mind stay engaged, but Scout had neglected to bring anything with him, and with the other man's legs laying across him, he couldn't tuck one leg up to bounce, and without proper heels or toes, he couldn't perform the motion with his feet on the floor as easily as he used to. So he was stuck.

"Hey Snipes," the faun had said, about five minutes into the first inning. "You want a handy?"

"What, right now?"

"Yeah, I need somethin' to do with my hands, I'm all antsy."

"Worried your team's gonna lose?"

"Against the Tigers? Ain't no way. Look, you want a handy or no?"

Sniper hadn't taken long to weigh his options. Sure, they were in a public space, but frankly worse had been gotten up to in the BLU rec room with regular frequency. "Alright."

And it had been settled. Scout had opened his fly, tugged his cock free of his trousers, and slowly stroked him until he'd gotten hard and comfortable in his grip, then set about idly teasing him as he watched the game, paying no attention to the near-automatic motion of his nimble fingers.

That had been three innings ago, and now, near the top of the fourth, Scout had been playing with Sniper's dick for a good fifty minutes or so. The bushman had melted into a puddle atop the couch, unable to do little more but shiver and hiss, staring blindly up at the ceiling and gripping the cushions for dear life. His hat had fallen to the floor unnoticed. Scout's fingers traced the ridge of the crown of Sniper's cock, circling, circling, circling, making the other man's head spin as his hips shuddered and jerked.

"Conigliaro's somethin' else, man. You know 'e only got one eye? Not like Demo or nothin'; it's still in 'is head an' stuff, but 'e's blind in that eye. Got hit by a real nasty pitch, right in the face. Sox still won the pennant that year," Scout rambled, his fingers pausing their circling to begin a series of come-hither swipes from frenulum to tip over and over, making Sniper's hips jerk up into each motion, the man's soft sounds turning to throaty gasps. "Saw that game live, too! It was at Fenway; Sox versus the Angels. Hamilton beaned 'im somethin' wicked. Cracked 'is cheekbone, dislocated 'is jaw, fucked up 'is retina. You knew right away that it was bad 'cause you could hear it hit 'im. It was brutal."

"Uh... uh huh..."

"Took 'im outta the rest 'a the season, an' the next year. Lost the Series to the Cardinals, an' I guarantee you if that fucker Hamilton hadn't beaned Tony C, we'd've gone all the way. The two chuckleheads they replaced 'im with—an' it took two guys to replace just him—couldn't hit the broad side of a damn barn! Twenty-four RBI in three hundred twenty-seven at bats between 'em! Rookie fuckin' numbers, man."

"Scout," Sniper gasped, white-knuckling the couch cushion with one hand, fingers threading through his own hair as he clutched at his head with the other, heat and pressure boiling over inside him. His face was bright red, his whole body trembling, his balls aching for release. Scout's voice washed over him in a torrent of noise, joined by the announcers, the crowd, the sound of his own laboured, panting breaths, a slurry of sensation that melted together around him as those calloused fingers wrapped around his shaft for a few lazy strokes before coming back to just teasing at the head, tracing repetitive motions on his hot, sensitive flesh. The tip was purple and weeping, and Sniper thought that he might be weeping too, his eyes watery with overstimulation as he struggled to breathe, to exist under the onslaught of Scout's feather-light touches. "Mate... please..."

"Tony C's a fuckin' contender though, I'll tell you that. Came back last year, knocked out twenty homers, eighty-two runs. For a guy with two eyes, that's a good season. For a guy with one, that's freakin' magic, man."

"Mate..." Sniper whimpered, hips stuttering into Scout's grasp, a whine leaving his throat as he began rubbing his thumb over the top side of his cockhead, slow circles accented by his index knuckle brushing the other side. He was going mad, tormented, tortured by Scout's idle, unfocused touches, feeling like he could barely breathe.

"Havin' a real good year this year, too. But that's to be expected. Guy's always been good, an' tough. Five years ago Conigliaro led the league in homers, an' played a hundred thirty-eight games, with a cracked freakin' wrist! Hit by a pitch for that one too."

"Scout, please..."

"I ain't sayin' opposin' pitchers had it out for the guy, but 'e got 'is arm broke by a pitch in 'is rookie season, too! They knew this guy had the juice an' they needed to take 'im out!" Scout chuckled. He pointed at the television. "Oh that guy who was just up, that was Billy Conigliaro, Tony's little brother. I think 'e's gonna be a guy to watch out for too. Havin' a great season. Not a homer champ like Tony, but 'e ain't no slouch, either. A real slugger, this kid. That groundout notwithstandin'."

Sniper bit his lip, trying to hold back a torrent of pathetic noise as Scout's fingertips traced fire across his skin and boiled his brain in his skull. "Scout..."

"Moses walks and... ugh, another groundout. Damn fine top 'a the innin', though, huh?" Scout said, turning to look at his companion as the Sox took the field and the Tigers came in to begin their turn at bat.

Sniper was sweating, wet-eyed, and panting, writhing on the couch in a pathetic mess as Scout toyed with his cock. He couldn't muster the presence of mind to respond, too far gone into maddening, agonizing pleasure.

"Oh, shit, it has been like four innings, hasn't it?" Scout laughed sheepishly. With a shrug of one shoulder, he shimmied out from under Sniper's legs and straddled them. The game could wait, the changeover took a little bit, and judging from the bushman's state, this wouldn't take long. Taking hold of the base of Sniper's cock, he wrapped his lips around it, enveloping him in wet heat with a little moan.

The reaction was instant, Scout's tongue stroking his oversensitive flesh, and Sniper came with a howl and a jerk, nearly bucking into the faun's throat from the sheer sudden force of it, both hands snapping down to grab his antlers as he filled his mouth with his long-delayed climax. He hissed, he cursed, he shuddered as bone-deep throbs of agonizing pleasure rippled through him, leaving him light-headed as he emptied himself onto his friend's tongue, and when it was finally over, he flopped bonelessly back down, shuddering with aftershocks, his breath hitching with each jolt.

Scout swallowed gladly and pulled off slowly, leaving Sniper to whimper with overstimulation. "Sorry 'bout that," Scout chuckled, looking down at his utterly wrecked friend. "Kinda forgot I was jerkin' you off, just kinda became somethin' my hand was just doin' idly."

Sniper made some kind of sound, possibly positive. It mostly just sounded like he was deflating.

With a grin, Scout settled back under Sniper's legs and pulled them onto his lap as he turned back to the television to watch the rest of the game.

"What the hell happened tae him?" Demoman asked as he walked into the room to see his husband slowly losing his corporeal form on the couch.

"Real good handy," Scout shrugged, eyes glued to the screen. He began to tap his fingers on Sniper's leg, fidgety energy already beginning to well back up in him. "Hey Demo, you wanna shove 'im over an' sit next to me? I need somethin' to do with my hands."

#Monstrous Intent #TF2 Speeding Bullet #TF2 Sniper #TF2 Scout #TF2 Sword Van #TF2 Demoman #nsfw /

6 notes · View notes

monstrousintent · 4 months ago

Text

TF2 Fanfic - Like A Fox

Some vignettes on the subject of Spy's natural form: that being a three-tailed red fox, starting Scout finally getting to see what his newest boyfriend Really looks like, and how concerned Spy is about showing him.

Ao3 Link! Part of Monstrous Intent!

Dedicated to @beepiesheepie for being a bro and shooting the shit with me so much about fox Spy, and thus inspiring me to actually write more with him! :D

---------

The door to the smoking room clicked shut softly, making Scout's eyes crack open. Spy had come back, a pair of water bottles in his hands and a fond smile on his lips as he looked over to where Scout lay on the couch, still naked and splayed out. He must have conked out, since he definitely didn't remember anything past when Spy had cleaned him up after they'd had a late afternoon frot there.

"Ah, you're awake," Spy chuckled, striding over and handing him a water. "I'd thought I might have killed you, the way you passed out post-coitus." He urged Scout to tuck his legs up and took a seat, cracking his own bottle and taking a sip.

"Field was real muddy today, so the fight wiped me. Hooves sink in way easier than feet," the faun chuckled, tugging himself up to sit and cracking his own bottle. He took a deep swig and settled back against the arm, taking a moment to just observe Spy.

The kitsune perched on the edge of the couch, having not fully committed to settling in. He'd put his shirt, trousers, mask, and shoes back on, but his tie, waistcoat, and jacket still remained thrown over his desk chair from earlier. His tails were out, as they usually were during off-hours these days. There was no reason to put in the extra effort to hide them around the team, and Spy had mentioned once or twice that his tails were the hardest part to change, like they didn't like to be hidden. Every other part of his form was second nature to take, but he actually had to pay at least a little attention to keeping his tails out of sight.

It was a well-known trait of kitsune, he'd explained. Many a folktale of his kind ended with a kitsune's disguise failing because their tails had refused to stay hidden, and outed them. Scout had found it funny that the same thing had happened to Spy, in the end. Though when asked, Spy had denied having ever heard any folktale about a kitsune failing to hide his tails specifically because he was getting the best rimjob of his life.

A smile crept across Scout's lips as he silently observed the man, the way his eyes fell closed as he drank, the bobbing of his adam's apple as he swallowed, the way one pinkie finger seemed to refuse to make contact with any vessel he carried, seemingly more by habit than decorum. He could never wrap his head around the idea that this man, so proper and put-together and elegant, was really a small woodland creature. A magical, supernatural one sure, but a fluffy little fox all the same.

"Hey Ren?"

Spy lowered the water from his lips, an eyebrow lifting in reply. He had yet to remark on his paramour's seeming need to shorten the already rather short names of his partners, but there was something about his chosen name being given a loving diminutive that made his chest feel light, so he chose not to interrogate any of it, instead.

"How 'come you don't hang out in your natural form? Like, we all know what you are."

A soft scoff left his nose. "For much the same reason I don't walk around on base without my mask. My identity and privacy are my own." After a moment, he added, "And as you know, this," he gestured to himself, "is my preferred form." His tails curled around his legs, protective. Scout knew the motion well now. He'd hit a little too close to something vulnerable, and had to tread carefully lest Spy get snippy and shut him out.

Being in love with him made him no less of a prickly fucker sometimes.

"You don't do it when you're alone?"

Spy's lips drew up into a line. "Sometimes. Every so often even I have to relax fully."

That brought a grin to Scout's face. Spy was so uptight all the time, he almost didn't believe that statement. "Bet takin' a nap like that's gotta be comfy as hell."

"There is something about being able to curl up into a ball—something a human body can't quite do—that is deeply restful, I'll admit."

There. The tension was beginning to drain away. Scout felt his footing in the conversation grow stronger. "Snipes told me once that he's seen it. Your natural form, I mean."

"Twice," Spy admitted. "Once because I was a mixture of exasperated and exhausted, and was simply fed up with controlling myself. It was after the incident where Engineer discovered my true nature. The other... well I'll be honest it was an entirely petty method to get my way. But when pet play is involved, the man with more experience being an animal is tempted to... flex that fact, a bit."

Scout made a note to ask Sniper about that sometime. "Man, that ain't fair."

"Demoman said the same, but he took it in stride, I assure you," Spy chuckled.

More questions to ask Sniper sometime. "No, man, I mean it ain't fair that Snipes gets to see that twice. I wanna see what you really look like."

Spy regarded Scout for a long moment, his expression unreadable, his eyes studying his face for a long moment. "I wonder if that's wise."

"Whaddaya mean? Ren, you're my boyfriend! Why does a guy you're fuckin' get to see the real you but not the guy you're in love with?"

That made Spy wince just the slightest bit. It was true, and he'd admitted as much out loud on multiple occasions, but it still didn't make someone else—even the object of his affections—telling him how he felt feel like a violation, like something presumptuous and insulting. His lips drew into a pout, partly frustrated with his own knee-jerk. This was Scout. This was Jeremy. This was the first person he'd earnestly confessed his love for since practically the turn of the damned century. He deserved better. He'd earned better.

"Sniper's used to sexual congress with all manner of monsters. Humanoid shape isn't a requirement for him. Merely sapience and consent. It's... simpler for him to reconcile my natural shape to the nature of our interactions."

Scout frowned. "You're usin' big words because you don't wanna answer the question."

Spy frowned in turn. Scout was getting too good at reading him. "It's easier for a man who fucks monsters as a hobby to deal with the fact that a man he's had sex with looks just like a normal animal in his natural form," he said plainly, a bit of distaste colouring his tone. "It's one thing to know it, but it's another to actually see it, and have to confront it."

Scout sat up, his shoulders hunching forward. "So what, you think I'm gonna get all freaked out if I see you as a fox 'cause then it'll hit home that I been fuckin' a fox, an' it'll make things weird?"

"In essence," Spy sighed, averting his eyes. He elected not to voice his worry that it could sour the relationship in its entirety.

Shaking his head, Scout scooted down the couch to sit beside Spy, wrapping his arms around him. He pressed a kiss to his shoulder, a warm smile crossing his lips. "After all the effort I put into gettin' you in my life? Come on. Plus I'd be a hell of a hypocrite if that weirded me out after my ass went into rut, an' all that shit with Engie."

A soft laugh puffed out of Spy's nose at that. "Fair enough, I suppose."

Scout slouched low, peeking up at Spy from behind his shoulder, his eyes sparkling hopefully.

Spy couldn't help but laugh. The bastard was entirely too cute for either of their own good. "Fine. But if—"

"Ren if it changes a damn thing you deserve to drag me outta respawn range an' put two in my skull," Scout interrupted, giving him a squeeze.

"I was going to say that if you pick me up without my permission I'll bite you, but I appreciate that," Spy chuckled, standing. He walked slowly to his desk, unbuttoning his shirt. Shedding the garment, he draped it over the chair with the rest of his clothing, kicking off his shoes and socks as well. He couldn't help but notice Scout's eyes upon him with rapt attention as he stripped, amused at the scent of pheromones. The faun was incorrigible. Once his trousers and underwear were off, he stood before Scout nude, tugging his mask free and running a hand through his hair to fix it. "You're sure you're prepared?" he asked, tails lashing nervously.

"Babe if you don't transform I'm just gonna tackle you and bend you over that desk; standin' in front 'a me naked an' hot like that. So it's probably a good idea you do it now before I get all riled up."

Spy snickered. "You were riled up from the moment I began unbuttoning my shirt."

"Well yeah, you're hot."

"So good of you to notice," Spy teased. He took a deep breath, pushing down his own anxiety as he let go of all of his control.

Fur erupted all across his body in an instant as he shrank, his skull elongating, his ears shifting upward, his arms growing, legs shrinking, feet lengthening in a flurry of changes as the human shape of a man became the vulpine shape of a fox. Unlike Demoman's transformation it wasn't gradual, it wasn't in stages, and it didn't last long enough to fully observe in detail. Merely two blinks of the eye passed in the time it took the kitsune's body to completely reorganize itself, and before Scout could gasp in surprise, a fluffy orange fox with three tails stood on the floor in front of the desk on four dainty black paws.

Spy sat down on his haunches, his three tails resting on the carpet behind himself, and looked up at Scout, supernatural intelligence hiding in his narrow, orange eyes. "Ore da," he said simply, with a mouth that should not have been able to form the words. "This is me."

Scout's mouth fell open as he took in the sight with wide eyes. He was a fox. With bright orange fur, a white muzzle, chest, and belly, black ears, and black legs. His tail ended in a ring of black with a fluff of bright white at its tip. His nose was black, twitching as he sniffed the air, and black fur rimmed his eyes and winged out at the corners, like dramatic eyeliner. His whiskers twitched as he waited for a response, ears slowly falling, pressing down with concern the longer the silence stretched.

This was a mistake. This was a mistake. This was a mistake this was a mistake this was a mistak—

"You're adorable."

Spy's head tilted to the side, ears immediately pricking up. "What?"

Scout threw his hands out to gesture to the fox before him. "You're freakin' adorable! Look at you! You're so fuzzy!"

Spy blinked, his whiskers twitching. "You're not... repulsed?"

"Holy shit Ren why would I be? You're the cutest thing I ever laid eyes on, an' that includes the time Snipes knit a little sweater an' put it on Archimedes!"

A soft huff of relief left Spy in the shape of a laugh. "Far be it for me to not take a compliment, I suppose."

"I dunno what you were worried about, man. It ain't like I fuck you when you look like this. I fuck you when you look like a real hot guy with three tails. Don't mean you can't work both looks," Scout chuckled. He pat the couch next to him. "I know you ain't a fan 'a hooves on your furniture, but I'm assumin' that don't go for your own claws. C'mere."

With a rueful shake of his head, Spy trotted over and leapt up onto the couch, trying not to begin regretting everything as he heard Scout bite back a girlish squeal. He'd never seen the man so taken by cuteness in all the time he'd known him, and it was remarkably funny, even if he worried this would inspire him to take him less seriously. "Of course not, they are my claws on my furniture. And I have hundreds of years of experience with them, as opposed to your approximate year."

Scout pouted a moment. "Yeah okay jeez. But man, look at you." He couldn't resist a grin. "I never seen a fox this close before. Only in pictures, or at the zoo. You don't see 'em in the city 'n all."

"Well, now you have seen one up close. As much as I qualify, being a supernatural creature."

"You're more of a fox than I am a deer."

"Touché."

Scout gripped his thighs, digging his nails into his fur to resist the urge to touch Spy, to pick him up and cuddle him and pet him and play with his little black paws. He wanted to poke his sharp little teeth and tease at the fluff sticking out of his ears. Instead, he studied him, taking in every little detail with wonder.

Spy could practically feel him vibrating next to him, and with a roll of his eyes, offered, "You can pet me."

"I can?"

"Scout, you're my boyfriend. You're allowed to touch me unless I say otherwise. I've already given you that permission."

Scout shrugged one shoulder. "I didn't know if that applied to every shape, or just the human ones."

A little smile tugged at Spy's muzzle, one with more muscles for expressions than any natural fox's would allow. The amount of respect Scout had gained for his boundaries never ceased to surprise him. Or touch his heart. "Thank you." He nodded, sitting up and fully facing the faun. "But yes, you're allowed."

With a grin, Scout finally reached out a hand to touch him, starting with a gentle caress of his head, fingers sifting into his fur and scritching between his ears. A soft little sound, a quiet vulpine sigh, left Spy as he leaned into the touch, relishing the nails against his scalp.

"You like that?"

"But of course. Getting your head scratched is a universal pleasure."

"Yeah, that's fair," Scout conceded, giving a final scritch before moving down, petting down the back of his neck where the fur grew thicker, denser, before smoothing out along his shoulder blades and down his back. Like a cat, Spy stood, lifting his haunches and turning to encourage Scout's fingers to the base of his tails, where he dug in for a good scratch. A vulpine whine left Spy's throat, and he arched into the touch.

"You're so soft," Scout marveled, his hand traveling down one of Spy's tails and closing as it slipped off the tip.

"And this is merely my summer coat," Spy bragged with a smug little tilt of his head as he circled around to face Scout again. "When the weather is cold again I will be much fluffier."

Scout grinned at the thought of a chunky-looking fluffy winter coat on Spy. "That's so freakin' cute. I'm gonna wear you like a scarf. Just wrap you around my shoulders."

"I supposed that's a more ethical way to get oneself a fox stole," Spy chuckled. He tapped Scout on the knee with one paw. "Would you be so kind as to cross your legs?"

Scout tucked his legs under himself, cris-cross. "Like this?"

"Merci," Spy hummed, and climbed into Scout's lap. He spun himself in a circle and laid down, curling up with his paws tucked under himself and his face buried in his tails. A smirk pulled at his muzzle as he heard a soft squeak leave Scout's throat.

"Oh my God."

"You stopped petting me," Spy grumbled, letting one tail flick out in annoyance before returning it to the others.

A wobbly smile crossed Scout's lips as he set back to work, scratching into the fluff at the back of his neck, behind one ear. "You takin' a nap on me?"

"You got to take a nap. It seems only fair I get my turn."

"I didn't get pets when I was nappin'."

"Perhaps you should have asked."

#Oops reblogged this out of order #Monstrous Intent #TF2 Cloak and Batter #TF2 Spy #TF2 Scout

13 notes · View notes

monstrousintent · 4 months ago

Note

What are all the MI boys doing for the upcoming valentines? Are Pyro and engie gonna give chocolate? Or heck even make chocolate for everyone else? Maybe they just want a quiet relaxing day with cocoa, and Pyro is the fire again!

Yanno what? Sure, why not. This baby takes place between "A Hand-Made Apology" and "Drink to Regret". Enjoy!

TF2 Fanfic - Valentimes

sfsdfsfsdf

Ao3 Link! Part of Monstrous Intent!

Fuck it we ficlet. Five cute ficlets featuring some of the various relationships on base!

(Note that I slotted this into where it should go in the timeline, so Scout isn't dating Soldier or Spy officially here.)

Warnings: Mild vibrator use on a non-genital body part (dullahan!Soldier's neck void), boner joke. Otherwise this is surprisingly safe for work lmao.

(Within Monstrous Intent, since it was begun way back in 2013, BLU Spy and BLU Scout are not related in any way.)

Shoutout to @beepiesheepie for the Soldier/Scout gag in chapter 1. And shoutout to my adorable husband @brokengaming because chapter 4 is partly inspired by one of his cutesiest pet names for me. Love you, bear.

---------

Chapter 1

"Engie showed me this, it's wicked strong," Scout explained, plugging in one end of what was ostensibly a wand-shaped massager. At least, that was what Engineer had introduced it as, before using it absolutely not for its intended purpose. Scout found he quite preferred the unintended purpose.

"It looks like something Merasmus would swing around," Soldier joked, his voice echoing through the room as it seemed to come from everywhere at once. He had removed his head at Scout's request, after the faun had said he wanted to try something new and fun.

Scout scoffed, fading into a laugh. "Buddy, if that old wizard has one 'a these, no wonder 'e's the guy Snipes turns to for all 'is sexy magic stuff." With that, he sat up on his knees, scooting over to Soldier. He braced one hand on the dullahan's shoulder as he looked down into the endless black void inside his neck. With a slide of his thumb, he clicked the switch and the wand jumped to life, vibrating with powerful intensity and startling Soldier for barely a moment before Scout jammed the thing into his neck void, the vibrations somehow rattling through his entire body and more.

His voice bellowed out in a wordless mess of noise, his whole body going stiff, his cock leaping to attention in his pants. He grabbed at the faun's shirt, white-knuckling the fabric as pleasure rocked all of his senses at once. It would have been blinding, had he eyes to see.

Dimly, he heard Scout chuckling at the reaction, declaring, "Hope you like your Valentine's Day present, Sol!"

Chapter 2

"How's the cocoa, darlin'?" Engineer asked, rounding on the ratty rec room couch where Pyro sat bundled up with a large mug of what was allegedly cocoa grasped between his hands. It was hard to identify the drink under the layers marshmallow and whipped cream on top, dusted with cinnamon and cocoa powder, a graham cracker sticking out and topped with a toasted marshmallow.

Pyro looked up from the frankly visually stunning beverage to see his lover carrying a plate bearing a half dozen chocolate cupcakes, their paper wrappers covered in pink and red hearts, the cupcakes themselves iced pink, with rainbow sprinkles atop them. His eyes went wide in wonder to behold them, and he looked from the cup to the plate in awe. "I need to put a ring on you," he said, half-scooting to let Engineer sit, even though there was plenty of space on the couch.

Engineer chuckled and sat the plate on the coffee table, settling in against Pyro and cuddling up to him all the same, watching with interest as the djinni finally took a careful sip from his mug of cocoa, a soft moan leaving him at the richness of the flavour. "Good?" Engineer asked, smiling knowingly. He'd pulled out all the stops on that drink.

"Oh my gods," Pyro merely replied, looking to his lover with soft eyes, like he'd fallen in love all over again.

"I'll take that as a yes," Engineer chuckled, leaning in for a kiss, but not before licking away Pyro's whipped cream moustache.

Chapter 3

Demoman bit back tears as he looked at himself in the mirror. He'd never been so moved by a gift in possibly all his life.

He wore a warm, soft, wool sweater in dark navy, with a band across the chest bearing the azure, cyan, and grey of the DeGroot clan tartan, painstakingly rendered in yarn. It fit him perfectly, just loose enough for comfort but matching his measurements properly, and as cozy as any garment had ever been.

"Knit it meself," Sniper said, a bit bashfully as he watched his lover's face in the mirror for his reaction. The fact that the man seemed to simply be staring made him shift nervously. Somewhere in the pit of his stomach, away from his rational mind that knew that Tavish loved him, he feared the curse of the Boyfriend Sweater.

"Mickey," Demoman finally said, his voice cracking around the word. He couldn't hold it back in any longer, a torrent of emotion rushing forward at a gift so laborious, so thoughtful, so loving. He whirled around and captured Sniper in a crushing hug, tears rolling down his cheeks as he crushed him to his chest. "Mickey ye went tae all this work for me?!" he bawled, planting his chin on the other man's shoulder and nosing in against his jaw. "I cannae believe!"

Sniper let out a soft breath of relief. "Wanted to have it done in time for Smissmas, but I also wanted to keep it a secret, and since we're together so much, it took longer to finish," he chuckled, hugging Demoman back.

"I love it; I love ye!" Demoman replied, burying his face in Sniper's neck and pressing kisses to his warm skin. "I dinnae what tae say but thank ye!"

"No worries," Sniper soothed, squeezing him tight. "Wasn't sure if chocolates would be a good idea for Valentine's Day, what with—"

"Michael Mundy if yer about tae make a 'dogs cannae eat chocolate' joke about yer werewolf boyfriend I'll throw this bloody sweater off the side o' the mountain."

Chapter 4

Heavy squinted at the cardboard valentine held between his fingers, comically tiny in comparison to his giant hands. He wished he had his reading glasses, but luckily the text was mercifully large. "I choo-choo choose you," he read aloud, a grin spreading across his face. "And there is picture of train! Oh ho ho, this is very funny!"

Medic grinned in turn, puffing out his chest in pride at so easily and accurately tickling his lover's funny bone. "I'm glad you like it," he hummed, fluffing up his wings a bit.

"I love this," Heavy assured him, setting down the valentine and taking Medic's hand, bringing his knuckles to his lips in a soft kiss. "I love you," he rejoined, tugging the man down into his lap, wrapping his arms around him.

"I love you too, my Misha," Medic cooed, cozying into his arms.

"I have valentine for you, too," Heavy hummed, a self-satisfied little smile crossing his lips. He pressed a kiss to Medic's temple before the doctor turned to look at him.

"You do?" Medic asked, eyes fairly sparkling.

Heavy reached behind his back and withdrew a small card, handing it with great ceremony to the garuda in his lap. "Happy Valentine's Day, my Herbert," he hummed, kissing his temple again as Medic snatched the card from his hands.

Medic held the card out from his face a bit, a charmed little coo leaving him at the image of a bear holding a big heart, upon which a little white bird was perched. There was no text printed on the card, and instead the heart the bear held had been written upon with a black pen, in Heavy's tidy hand.

"I love you beary much, my lovey dove," Medic read aloud, feeling like his face would break from smiling. "Oh, Misha!"

Heavy found himself bowled over onto the bed in a flurry of giggles and feathers.

Chapter 5

Spy closed the manila envelope he'd been hunched over and set his pen down, finally finished with paperwork for the evening. He leaned back in his chair and stretched, arching his back and relishing the few pops his spine rewarded him with. Finally, he'd had the peace and quiet to power through and finish a few reports he'd been dragging his feet on, the hustle and bustle of the base generally making it hard to concentrate on such drudgery.

His coworkers were already varying degrees of distracting in various degrees of pleasantness, but cooped up in the frozen hell of Coldfort kept everyone closer, more on top of one another and in one another's business, and made getting any privacy a special brand of impossible.

Thank the gods for Valentine's Day.

If there was one thing that could keep everyone out of his hair for hours at a time, it was one another. And the promise of the base's resident couples spending time together with the added benefit of Scout having several dalliances to indulge over the course of the day in addition to his official partners meant that Spy finally had the solitude required to finish his tasks.

So now he was left merely with time to himself, which was nice. But a day shut away was making him antsy, and dimly, the kitsune realized that he would not be afforded the opportunity to be social for the rest of the evening, and likely the next morning. Normally that wouldn't bother him. He was prone to solitude, and enjoyed his own company immensely.

But he couldn't help but feel a bit disappointed. He didn't much like that realization, and decided to distract himself, standing and striding over to his bar with intent. A glass of his best whiskey and a roaring fire would give him the company he needed. There was certainly no reason to be so put-out at being excluded from the frivolous festivities of a saint's feat day-cum-secular consumerist celebration of the most saccharine idea of 'romance'.

He nearly dropped the bottle in his hand when he heard a knock at the door.

Not waiting for an answer, Scout barged in, hair and fur still moist from a recent shower. "Heya Spy, you still workin'?"

Spy sighed, setting down the bottle. "Non, I've finished. And I was about to settle in for a nice quiet eveni—"

"Oh, good, I was worried I was gonna be botherin' you," Scout interrupted with a grin. It was then that Spy noticed he hadn't moved his arms from behind his back.

"What are you hiding?"

Scout looked around, "What, me?"

"Yes. You're holding something behind your back. What is it?"

With a pout, Scout deflated a bit. "You got me. Man, I had a whole thing planned to be all dramatic an' shit about it. But, uh, here." From behind his back he brought out a heart-shaped box and held it out. "For you."

The box was so pink it was nearly magenta, and reeked of chocolate. The lid bore a picture of a cartoon fox, with curling white text surrounding it, reading, 'You're a real fox, Valentine!'

"Happy V-Day, Spy."

A snicker rasped out of Spy's nose. It was so stupid, but with context, it was hilarious. Spy took the box with a small, rueful smile, holding back what he knew would be a deeply ignoble laugh. "Thank you."

Scout shifted from hoof to hoof for a moment. "I'll, uh, I'll let you get back to your nice quiet evenin' you were talkin' about, then," he said, a fake, nervous chuckle in his voice as he stepped back to make his egress.

Until a gloved hand caught his wrist.

"This is a lot of chocolate for just one person," Spy said plainly. "I don't know what kind of bottomless pit you take me for."

"Well, I—"

"You're just going to have to stay here and help me eat it all," he added, shoving the box back into Scout's hands.

It took a moment for Scout to process it all, but when realization dawned he beamed. "Sure, yeah!"

"Come, have a seat. I was just about to pour some Oban. I'll pour two," he hummed, heading back to the bar.

Once Scout had settled in and opened the box of chocolates, Spy sat beside him, handing him a crystal highball glass to match his own, with two fingers of top-shelf scotch. "Happy Valentine's Day, Scout," Spy offered as they clinked glasses.

"Happy Valentine's Day," Scout replied, in wonder.

#Monstrous Intent #TF2 Batting Helmets #TF2 Texas Toast #TF2 Red Oktoberfest #TF2 Sword Van #TF2 Cloak and Batter #TF2 Teufort Nine

10 notes · View notes

monstrousintent · 4 months ago

Text

TF2 Fanfic - Silver Thread Chapter 4 FINAL

Flush with new information and new research, Medic burns the midnight oil without realizing it, leading Scout to go looking for him. They discuss the implications of using the silver thread, familiar binding, souls, and lifespans. Medic finds yet more purpose in his magical research.

Also Scout has tapetum lucidum now. Or did he always have it? *shrug*

Ao3 Link! Part of Monstrous Intent!

Chapter 1! Chapter 2! Chapter 3!

Was that enough magic worldbuilding for you guys? Hot damn this one became a WHOLE ASS THING that was only supposed to be a SMALL ASS THING but then I got on a real roll about it lol. BUT honestly the stuff I figured out writing this is going to influence so much going forward, and helped me answer a lot of my own questions as to how I was going to handle stuff for later on. I love it when a plan comes together. :3

---------

"Fuck's sake," Scout grumbled, the infirmary office door squeaking loudly as he opened it. They really needed to get Engineer up here to grease the damn hinge already. It had been like this since the last time they'd been stationed here. All the same, he poked his head into the office, the rest of him slowly following as he snuck in from the hallway into near-darkness.

The lights were off and night had long-since fallen, the only illumination in the office coming from the moonlight streaming through the high windows and flashes of azure light as Medic's hands swept through the air in calculated arcs with precise flicks and jerks of his fingers, tugging threads of magical energy from the aether and weaving them together into half-begun spells before dropping away and beginning again. The light shone off of Medic's glasses as it swept into then out of existence, making spots dance before Scout's eyes as he gingerly approached, enshrouded in shadow.

"Doc?"

Medic yelped, jolting in sudden alarm as a voice from the darkness pulled him from his focus, the only thing his eyes could lock onto in the gloom a pair of green dots that seemed to glow. He blinked owlishly, the phantom trails in his vision from the bright magical light making it hard to adjust. "Scout?" he finally ventured, realizing whose voice he'd heard. "Is that you?" He frowned, seeing those green glows blink in the inky void of his office. "Have you always had tapetum lucidum and I just hadn't noticed? Or is that new?"

"Tape-what?" Scout waved him off as he approached, finally stepping into what little moonlight illuminated the area near Medic's desk. He was naked, unsurprisingly. He had a habit of not bothering to make himself decent on his way to and from the bathroom at night. "You okay, Doc? Why're you sittin' around in the dark?"

Medic tittered, a bit embarrassed. "I may have lost track of time and sort of... not noticed."

"I'll say," Scout huffed. "Me an' Heavy hit the sack hours ago, man! We figured you'd catch up, but when I got up to piss an' you still weren't there, I figured I knew where I'd find you. But in the dark?" He shook his head, a little dismayed at just how wrapped up Medic had gotten. "How're you even gettin' anythin' done like this?"

"Ach, it's mostly weaving work at this point," Medic sighed, flopping back into his chair. "I'm sure I have what I need to do down, I'm just trying to figure out how to adjust my somatics and pull the right energies in the right directions to get the results I want. I need to meld a few elements of the familiar binding spell into my ranged healing spell, and I'll finally have the effect I'm trying to achieve."

"Familiar binding?"

"Ja, it turns out the way the medigun grasps the silver thread is by mimicking the opening moves of an archaic version of a familiar binding spell, the part that separates out and takes hold of the target's silver thread. Typically a familiar binding spell, like what I performed on Archimedes, will take that thread and permanently bond it to the fully intact silver thread of the caster, binding their souls together. It's how Archimedes now shares my unlimited lifespan. Though other aspects of that spell bind our minds and senses and elevate his sapience. Those, I don't need to mimic—"

"Wait, so because you attached Archie's soul to yours, he's immortal?"

"He has a functionally unlimited lifespan, just as I do, and just as you do. He is not immortal, and can very much die. Which is why it's important that he's registered in Respawn."

"Okay, yeah, but Doc don't you get it? Fuck a healin' spell; ain't this the solution to Misha's whole agin' problem? The whole 'he's gonna grow old an' die and we ain't gonna' thing? You could just make the big guy your familiar an' then—"

"If it were that easy, every wizard would make their beloved their familiar. But it doesn't work that way," Medic sighed, clicking on his desk lamp and bathing the area in dim light. Sitting atop the desk was a large, dense magical tome bound in human skin with steel fittings, Medic's disheveled composition book containing all of his magical studies and theories open beside it and covered in notes and diagrams scrawled in blue ballpoint pen. Scout couldn't read it, but he wasn't sure whether the notes were in German, or simply illegible due to Medic's nightmarish penmanship. Either way, he squinted in the sudden light and peered at the book all the same.

"The entire familiar spell requires an animal of lesser sapience than the caster," Medic explained, pointing to a callout on the tome itself. "I've spent most of the evening going over the second volume of Codex Principium. I bought it from Merasmus, and it details the familiarization process in great detail. Unfortunately, only the soul binding is relevant to my uses, as the spell also melds the minds and senses of caster and familiar, which is why Archimedes and I can understand one another perfectly. I can also scry through his eyes with minimal effort, should I choose."

"So Misha's too smart?"

"In essence. Trying to bind two minds of comparable sapience creates a feedback loop that actually disrupts the spell and causes it to fail entirely. The minds are too complex for the spell to function, for all intents and purposes."

"Okay, but it's the soul bond thing that makes the lifespan thing work, right?"

"Yes."

Scout fairly danced from hoof to hoof in excitement. "Well that's the solution, right? If you can figure that part out, then you can bind Meesh's soul to yours without changing who or what he is. Does that make sense?"

Medic grinned. "It does. But outside of familiar binding or the creation of specific undead, I'm unsure of a way to actually attach the souls together permanently. The addition to the spell I'm devising right now simply teases out the thread, allowing the temporary grasping of it to channel the spell. The actual soul binding is tied into the psychic link in both the archaic and modern iterations of the spell, in spite of their comparatively different orders of operation."

"Meanin'..."

"Meaning this spell can help me figure out how to grasp another creature's silver thread, but it cannot tell me how to bind it to my own in any way that will be useful for Misha. Or any other person, really. Only animals, and even then it can get iffy depending on what sort of animal one is working with, down to the individual animal, if they are intelligent enough."

Scout's face fell. He looked ready to cry, looking up from Medic's notes to the doctor, whose face wore the shadows of the room heavily. "So there's no way?"

Medic looked over his notes, rubbing at his chin with his thumb and forefinger for a moment. "I didn't say that." He laid a hand on Scout's back, sliding to his shoulder and giving him a gentle squeeze. "It will merely be incredibly difficult. But once I master teasing out the thread and taking hold of it, and adapting that into this healing spell, I can work outward from there. Once I have a firm grasp on the thread and manipulating it, I can research and experiment from there." A grin crossed his face, and Scout could see the resolve building in his eyes. "It will take time, Spatz, but I will take hold of Misha's thread, and I will stitch it onto my own soul," he shot up, standing from his chair and sending it rolling backward, flaring his wings wide, galvanized with purpose, "binding us together for as long as I live!"

As soon as it arrived, Medic's manic grin fled, softening into something gentle, something thoughtful. A soft laugh hefted out of him.

As long as he lived.

Heavy was right.

Til death do they part.

#Monstrous Intent #TF2 Putting Up With The Brat #TF2 Medic #TF2 Scout

6 notes · View notes

monstrousintent · 4 months ago

Text

TF2 Fanfic - Silver Thread Chapter 3

Medic and Sniper visit Merasmus to finally get an authority on how all these magical processes work, and maybe get to the bottom of exactly what spells are involved in the medigun's functionality!

Merasmus is so fucking done you guys.

Ao3 Link! Part of Monstrous Intent!

Chapter 1! Chapter 2! Chapter 4!

Heads up y'all there is so much fucking magic worldbuilding here it's kind of obnoxious, lol. Hit a serious wikipedia rabbithole trying to figure out what should go in the medigun formula, combined with me watching the Meet the Medic outtakes over and over again and just HMMing about it the whole time.

Also fuck me I love writing Merasmus. When he's not being pathetic and put upon I just imagine he's super fucking dramatic and catty lmao

---------

"For the last time, Merasmus is not interested in the Church of Latter-Day anythi—oh. It's you."

Sniper tipped his hat in greeting as Merasmus deflated, having swung his door open wide and begun shouting preemptively. "Mormon problem?" he asked, amusement curling his lips.

Merasmus sighed in a mixture of disgust and embarrassment. "The moment the local mission religions find out there's a practitioner of the dark arts in their neighbourhood, they all think enough pestering will somehow sway me. So it's become a sort of battle of attrition between the local Mormons and the local Jehova's Witnesses as to who can add my eternal soul to their scoreboard." Merasmus scoffed, "Fie! As though the eternal soul of Merasmus the Magician could be won by friendly idiots in business casual attire! It has long since been pledged in service of Bonzo, the circus god, regardless! Good luck snatching a soul from his clutches," he chuckled, waving off such matters as though discussing what his favourite kind of cookie was.

"Er—"

"What is it you want?" Merasmus asked, grabbing for the doorknob with a raised eyebrow. "I can't imagine this is a social call, Mundy."

"Actually, it is. Sort of." Sniper half-turned to look behind him, where Medic was closing the passenger door to the camper van, having strapped the medigun on while Sniper exchanged pleasantries. "Got the Doc with me. 'e's got a few questions for you."

The old wizard peered past the human on his doorstep to the approaching garuda and narrowed his eyes. It wasn't so much that he hated Medic as that he didn't like him very much at all. The giggly airhead was a natural at formalized magic, even before his ridiculous accident (which had showcased how much potential he had, even though he'd failed spectacularly) that had blessed him with a body with an aptitude for innate magic, putting him infuriatingly ahead of where a nascent mage of his education level should be.

The man should be an apprentice, running errands for a master wizard, alphabetizing material component closets, puzzling out the most basic of cantrips, and drawing magic circles over and over again until his hands grew gnarled but his form was perfect! Instead he had already figured out how to astrally project months ago, and how to travel the astral to reach remote locations accurately! Before he'd learned how to fly with his own two damned wings! It was simultaneously galling and deeply impressive, and if there was one thing Merasmus hated, it was someone who was a bigger showoff than he was.

"Dr. Ludwig," he hissed, hunching a bit at the sight of him.

"Hallo, Merasmus!" Medic hooted as he jogged up the dirt walkway that led from the curb through the front yard and castle gates. "Apologies for visiting without notice! I hope you're not busy?"

"No more so than usual," Merasmus grumbled, stepping aside to allow the mercenaries entry. "Come in, but be aware I will be billing you for this visit. The wisdom of Merasmus does not come cheap."

"News to me," Sniper mumbled with a chuckle as he followed the familiar path to Merasmus' library, Medic and the magician himself in tow.

At least, until they passed from the foyer and beheld the entrance to the parlor on their way, inside of which a gang of children who could have been no older than twelve were presently hard at work. A little boy pushed past them with a mumbled, "'scuse me," as he wheeled a toilet out of the room on a hand truck. Inside, a team in miniature hazardous material suits were tearing up the carpet and the padding beneath, while a pair of girls in sundresses and hard hats were going over a clipboard and discussing disposal logistics.

"What the hell is this?" Sniper asked, skidding to a halt and staring into the room. He'd remembered Demoman telling him that Merasmus hired children to do his cleaning because they worked cheap, but this was a whole operation!

"Ugh," Merasmus huffed, "my roommate has an unfortunate and infuriating habit of forgetting where the bathroom is. So he installs other bathrooms in various places." His voice dripped with venom as he spoke. "Without installing plumbing to match."

Medic and Sniper recoiled in disgust.

"Why do you need a roommate?" Medic asked, looking around the castle in which they stood.

"Money is... tight."

"But you live in a castle."

"And castles are not known for being cheap to maintain, Doctor. Wizardry is a niche profession with a very saturated market. We all find ways to make ends meet."

"I can't imagine these sorts of repairs are cheap either, even with child labour," Sniper mused.

"Ja, why not simply evict him, if he is costing you this much in cleanup?"

Merasmus regarded the mercenaries with a look of utmost suffering, like that was all he wanted in the world. "My roommate... makes a lot of money. And has no idea of the value of a dollar. He pays through the nose in rent, so in spite of the toll he takes on my patience and sanity, it's worth it in the end. You couldn't imagine the property taxes on a castle, even in the Badlands."

"I suppose not," Medic hummed with a shrug as Merasmus ushered them along to the library.

"And so you understand my problem," Medic explained, coming to a halt from the pacing he'd been doing as he talked.

Merasmus had watched him, his slit-pupiled eyes following his movements with distaste as the nascent mage had given him the play-by-play of his research over the past several months, and the past day's series of breakthroughs. "I've never heard of a healing spell that behaves this way," he said, sitting forward thoughtfully.

"Precisely, so I'm seeking to devise one!"

"But you say this machine can already create the effect."

"Yes."

"And you have no idea how."

"Yes."

"And until you began studying magic, you had no idea it was even creating a magical effect. Which it does without spell trigger nor traditional magic item crafting structure."

"You understand my problem," Medic repeated, a bit giddy. "I somehow, as a layman, created a magic item that can cast an extremely complex and heretofore unseen spell, and now seek to reverse-engineer it."

Merasmus didn't know it was possible to frown this hard. He rubbed at his temples for a moment. "Turn it on."

"Oh, ah, yes," Medic stammered for a moment before pointing the medigun at Sniper, who sat across the table from Merasmus, casually sipping from a mug of tea. He threw the switch, a warm blue light latching onto the bushman and overhealing him comfortably.

Merasmus' eyes flashed green, slit pupils widening, and he nodded. "Even the energies are wrong. I see the silver thread, but even for a healing spell, this isn't normal." He watched for a long moment, the gears turning in his head. "Modern, formalized healing magic doesn't have this resonance, and has a milder impact on surrounding ambient energies. This is archaic."

"So you're saying the spells I've learned to cast with my hands are not the same as what the medigun is doing?"

"Same practical upshot for the most part, but yes. That's exactly what I'm saying." Merasmus rose from his seat, eyes scanning a few bookshelves until he saw what he was looking for. Gesturing vaguely with his hand, a soft glow surrounded a single book and yanked it from the shelf into his grasp. He opened it and flipped through the pages. "Early magic developed by humans was clumsy, unrefined. But it was iterated on over millenia to become the wizardry you know today. Such magic is referred to as formalized magic, to contrast with innate magic, like what you use to fly, or what a púca might use to change shape, for instance."

Sniper thought back to that evening he and Demoman spent with a púca and smiled fondly at the memory.

"Early formalized magic was more ritualized than modern forms. Typically it relied even more heavily on material components and geometric patterns to shape the magic in the way the caster wanted, but was more dangerous and deleterious on the caster as a result. They hadn't yet innovated magical circles or paper seals or other methods various traditions developed to better channel magical energies. Casting a ritual meant typically gathering arcane power in the body first, and using the ritual to then direct and shape it. It was akin to being struck by lighting when the ritual was powerful enough."

"You've cast those spells?" Medic asked, peering around him at the book in his hands.

Merasmus turned and stepped away, regaining his personal space. "I was born before time, dark larvae from the putrid womb of the ancient ones," he hissed, ignoring Sniper's mumble of, 'here we go again'. "The earliest magics were partly my doing! I suffered these agonies that magic might be wrought upon the red earth!"

Medic blinked owlishly in surprise. A smile crossed his face. "I think you would like my friend, Pyro. He's very old too."

"Yes, all ancients get along famously," Merasmus sighed dismissively. "Here, this is the ritual that matches your machine's resonance." He jabbed his finger at a page, upon which were drawn a complex series of shapes and had a list of components drawn, but all of its text was in some language Medic couldn't decipher. "What, exactly, is in the fluid you fill this machine with?" he asked, gesturing vaguely at the medigun rig the doctor wore.

Medic took off the rig, setting it on the coffee table gently. "Let's see here; it is a mixture of paracetamol, iodine, ethyl alcohol, silver nitrate, and blood."

"The components for this spell are benzoin resin from the styrax tree, a violet ichor refined from kelp, neutral spirit, and using a blade forged of silver to draw blood."

"Neutral spirit?"

"Clear alcohol, something unaged and unflavoured, like vodka or everclear," Merasmus clarified.

Medic nodded, the gears turning in his head. "Benzoin resin used to be used in tinctures to treat wounds and lesions, but benzine can be obtained from it, from which nitrobenzine can be obtained, which can be used to make paracetamol."

Sniper sat up, a bit surprised by the doctor actually knowing something about medicine.

"And the violet ichor refined from kelp would be iodine, I imagine. Isolated, iodine is a dark purple, almost black as a solid, and creates a brilliant violet colour as a liquid. It's not an efficient method of obtaining it, but I know some producers of iodine use kelp as a source, as it's rich in the element."

"Wait, so you're suggestin' that the mess of stuff you threw into this just 'appens to be a more chemically refined version of an ancient ritual's material components?" Sniper asked, finally actually engaged in the conversation.

"I do believe that is what I'm suggesting," Medic tittered. "And the electrical current I run through it must act as a substitute for that shock of magical energy that would pass through the caster!"

"Open up that casing," Merasmus demanded, kneeling down to be eye-level with the backpack on his table.

Medic did as he was told, opening the housing to show the pack's interior. By any rights Engineer would have had a heart attack at the complete mess that was the medigun's cable management, wires seeming to hang at all angles, tubes flowing in as many different directions as possible. The removable and refillable bottle of chemical solution sat anchored at the mouth of the opening that led down the connecting tube to the gun itself. Hanging from the opposing corner was a small blood bag, from which the tubes led to the chemical bottle. He stood back and watched over Merasmus' head as the wizard inspected its contents, feeling a bit self-conscious at how inelegant a construction it was.

Merasmus muttered a curse, looking from the open book back to the wiring and back down the to the book in shock and horror. "How are you like this?" he finally asked, less an actual question than surrender to complete exasperation.

"Is there a problem?"

Merasmus jabbed his finger at the open book, at the geometric patterns detailed on the page. "You perfectly replicated the patterns that are to be drawn for this ritual in the shape of your wiring! Every single loop and whorl and place you've anchored these wires corresponds exactly to the patterns required for shaping the energies of this spell!"

"Really?" Medic asked, glee tugging at his grin.

"Everything except the tubes," Merasmus sighed. "And I believe that is your x-factor in this whole mess."

"How so?"

Standing, Merasmus straightened his robe and looked with utter disdain at the device on his coffee table. He snatched up the spellbook and flipped through a few pages. "You remember the singular material component for the spell that created your familiar, yes?"

"My blood."

"The modern ritual circle for that is very different from its original iteration," Merasmus explained, and turned the book to show him the page. A shape like a circle with a few whorling loops inside was drawn on the page. His eyes flicked to the tubes that carried the blood from its bag to the chemical reservoir inside the medigun's backpack. It was a circle with a few whorling loops inside, an overlong tube shoved inside to fit rather than trimmed to drip efficiently. He licked his lips thoughtfully, almost horrified at the realization.

"I've been... making the team into my familiars?"

"Not entirely. The original spell requires more than just blood and the shape. You've been casting an incomplete version of the spell, one which pulls at the silver thread to separate it out and holds it ready."

"The familiar spell does this?"

"When I taught you the spell I told you it would bond you permanently, that your bird's lifespan is yours, and that when he dies, he will take a part of you with him. I didn't think I needed to spell out that I meant your soul, Doctor."

"So when I made Archimedes my familiar—"

"You bonded his silver thread to yours, making your souls extensions of one another," Merasmus said, rolling his eyes. "Honestly, it's like you never read the entire chapter on familiarizing with a creature in the book I sold to you.

"Actually, the chapter on familiarizing is in volume two, and you merely sold me volume one," Medic corrected, thrusting a finger into the air. "The first volume glosses over the subject lightly, which is why I came to you to teach me to do it personally."

Merasmus finally tipped from frowning over into scowling. "You have your answer, don't you?" he snipped.

"I do!" Medic hooted, brightening up instantly, completely oblivious to the wizard's souring mood. "Thank you for your wisdom, my friend! Ah, how much do I owe you for your time?"

With a glint in his eye, Merasmus' scowl slowly transformed into a smirk.

#Monstrous Intent #TF2 Merasmus #TF2 Sniper #TF2 Medic

9 notes · View notes

monstrousintent · 4 months ago

Text

TF2 Fanfic - Silver Thread Chapter 2

Medic and Pyro make a breakthrough on figuring out how the medigun works, and thus how to replicate its effects using spellcraft. Medic does some research, and meanwhile Pyro and Scout spend some quality time together. Heavy, of course, ends up having very sound, practical advice for his dear doktor.

Ao3 Link! Part of Monstrous Intent!

Chapter 1! Chapter 3! Chapter 4!

Yeah originally it was just gonna be a one-shot for the purposes of the smut and a little exploration of the magic shit, but tbh the magic worldbuilding was so thorough in it that I was like fuck it we multichapter now lads. So uh, warning for lots of magic worldbuilding. But there's also smut so that's cool lol

---------

"Ready!" Pyro chirped, shifting his vision to focus on just the material and astral layers of reality.

Medic threw the switch on the ceiling-mounted medigun, a warm azure glow gathering in its barrel. He took hold of the thing and brought it to bear, angling it to the operating table, upon which Scout had been secured with a series of leather belts buckled across his torso and arms, legs, and hocks. The faun flinched on instinct as Medic grinned wide—his teeth too white, too many of them on display—and let the medigun's beam find its way to Scout, bathing him in its warm, blue glow.

Scout relaxed, but just barely.

"You don't think the beacon will create interference?" Medic asked, looking to Pyro, who examined the medigun's beam and Scout himself, focusing."

"Shhh shh sh!" Pyro waved a hand to hush him, turning all his attention to the beam. "This works just like the handheld version, right?"

"Aside from a few additional settings on its painkilling capabilities."

Pyro let out a little, "Hm," at that and stroked his fiery chin as he watched. The light was azure on the material plane, but on other layers the colour of its core magical energies shone out in a sooty, necromantic grey.

"You, uh, you see anythin' interestin'?" Scout asked, nervously. Medic had explained the basics of their research after running him down (and cheating! He flew down the hallway!) and tackling him, dragging him back to the infirmary to be their guinea pig as punishment, but Scout had retained very little. Probably because until Medic finally gotten a rag and some rubbing alcohol out to wipe his forehead, he still had a strikingly well-rendered dick and balls drawn there. It was more than a little distracting, even if it was Scout's own handiwork.

"Shhh shh sh!"

"Awright, jeez."

"Shh!"

Scout pouted and laid back, letting a heavy breath out of his nose.

"There!" Pyro finally shouted, jabbing a finger at the beam. "It took me a second, since the magic is grey on this layer. Hard to see silver in it. But there it is! The thread!"

"The thread? While he's still in his body?"

"Yeah!" Pyro turned this way and that, observing. "It's coaxing it out of him, unraveling just a little bit. Thinner than when a spirit projects out, since the membrane needs to stay intact, but it pulled a stitch to unspool just a little of the thread, and it's connecting to the nexus of energy at the mouth of the barrel."

Medic looked from the medigun to Scout in wonder. "It's not interrupting the membrane?"

"It doesn't look like it, but the thread it's pulling is super thin. It's not like the corded thing that wraps around you when you project. It's only taking what it needs."

"Perhaps that's why the tether can break with enough distance, and cannot pass through solid objects like the thread does when spirit projecting. It's just a tenuous little string, and not something more substantial."

"That's my bet," Pyro agreed. He licked his lip, and suddenly fell over onto Scout, completely unconscious.

Scout yelped, shifting and squirming under the belts, panicking. "Pyro? Holy shit, PYRO?!"

Medic stepped back with a start, but was cowed when he felt a coldness on his wrist. "Oh. Was that really necessary, Pyro?"

On the astral plane, Pyro's spirit giggled devilishly. He reached for the thread connecting Scout to the medigun, slowly, carefully. It didn't respond to his touch, other than a slight wobble in the shape of the beam. So when he grabbed hold of it and yanked it down, it made both Medic and Scout jump again when the beam suddenly cut off from the faun, dissipating until only a soft blue glow remained at the mouth of the medigun's barrel.

Pyro nodded, satisfied, and fell into himself, awakening with a muzzy, "Yep, you were right!"

Scout would've slapped him if he could've moved. Instead he had to settle for thrashing angrily in his bonds as Pyro pushed off of him and regained his feet. "What the hell was that?!"

"Oh, I just projected my spirit really quick so that I could interact with the silver thread," the djinni replied casually, adjusting his chemsuit a bit.

"Is that why the beam shut off?"

"It didn't, though! See? The medigun's still on, I just broke the connection. But it can be reestablished."

Medic took his cue to resettle the medigun on Scout, the beam flowing down to him and locking back on with a warm, soothing glow. "Just as if you had run too far ahead of me on the field and out of the maximum range of my medigun," he said, finishing Pyro's explanation. "This is excellent! Now we have proof that the medigun is performing magical operations somehow, and the mechanism by which those magical operations function!" Medic tittered, a giddy, "Hoo hoo!" bubbling out of him as he rounded the exam table to clap his fiery friend on the shoulder. "This is wonderful, my friend. A massive step forward in this project! Danke!"

"It's nothing," Pyro waved him off with a smile. "After all, we still need to figure out how to replicate that unraveling as part of the process of the spell. This might even require crafting a new spell, or at least some metamagical jiggery-pokery to jury rig it into what we need. I'm not great at the scientific, formal construction side of magic, but the practical upshot is absolutely my realm of expertise, so I'm sure we can do it."

"Absolutely," Medic agreed with excitement. "Though I'm surprise you never noticed that effect of the medigun before."

"You saw how hard I had to look. Finding a silver thread the size of an actual piece of thread in a glowing grey beam's no small feat."

"Ah, yes, the colour of necromancy would obscure it on layers where you could see the thread in the first place."

Scout's eyes fluttered closed as he tired of staring blankly at the ceiling. Dimly, he wondered how hard it would be to bite through his own tongue and bleed to death in his own mouth. Respawn would be a mercy compared to being held immobile and bored out of his skull as the nerd squad talked magical theory.

"So, what's the next stage, you think?" Pyro asked, tapping one foot idly.

"Hmm, well I think we have no further use for Scout for now, so I suppose our next course of action is to research methods of teasing out the thread to grasp it, so that we can begin figuring out how to incorporate the spells. I have a book on astral projection and safety in my office, so that's a good place to start."

Pyro nodded, humming a little in thought. "Not really a two man job, is it?"

"No, I suppose. Would you like to take a break, my friend?"

Looking Scout over, a hopeful pout on the faun's face at the mention of a possible end to his torment, Pyro grinned. "Sure. I'll hang back here, make sure Scout's learned his lesson."

Medic chuckled. "Just be sure to clean up any mess you make," he teased, and left through the door to his office, leaving Pyro alone with their captive.

"Heya Py, uh, how—how you doin'? Buddy?" Scout stammered, a little worried as Pyro rounded on him slowly, tugging off a glove.

"Oh I'm doin' great," Pyro teased, letting one hand come to rest on the faun's thigh and watching him tense immediately. "Look, I'm gonna be honest. That prank was killer. I just wanted to sweat you for a minute. Well, and because I really don't wanna sit around bored while Medic reads a book in my general direction. I'm not a theory guy, I'm a praxis guy."

A slow, heavy breath left Scout as he sagged, relaxing finally. "So you ain't gonna torture me or whatever?"

"Why would I torture you?" Pyro asked, genuinely baffled.

"I dunno. Funsies?"

"Shit, Scout, what kinda guy do you think I am?"

"I mean you do burn people to death on the daily."

"Yeah, for money."

"Okay, yeah, fair."

"I mean, I could, if you wanted me to."

"What, torture me?"

Pyro waggled his eyebrows. "Yeah, I mean you're already strapped down. It's not all sexy like Dell does it, but..."

Scout looked at him like a deer in headlights, his brain now suddenly forced to fight a losing battle with his dick. He really just wanted to be let off of the table and make his escape, but the way Pyro was looking him over had him considering other things. "Ain't this kinda a shitty position to fuck around?"

"I could probably make it work." Pyro leaned his arms on the edge of the exam table and crossed them over each other, lowering his chin atop them with a smile. "If it's a no that's fine, Scout. I just figured it might be fun."

That smile made Scout mirror the expression. "It would, but does it gotta be here?"

Pyro's eyes softened for a moment, before his smile grew impish. "You wanna go back to my place?"

A snicker escaped Scout's nose at the pickup line. "Sure. An' you ain't even gotta buy me dinner first."

Scoffing, Pyro straightened up and began to unbuckle the supine faun. "Like you're that expensive a date."

"Man, you could at least let me pretend," Scout laughed, yanking his arms free and stretching them once Pyro had the first two belts off.

"Nah, you're way more fun this way. More of a 'let's hit the diner the morning after and spend the day hanging out' kinda guy."

The look Scout gave him could've melted Pyro. He hadn't quite realized just how accurately he'd summarized part of the other man until the words had left his mouth, but it was true; all of it. And the way his eyes shone, the way his lips quirked in a soft, gentle smile, it was clear that Scout felt seen. That he felt understood.

Pyro wanted to kiss him all over his adorable face.

So he did.

Pyro's fingers were losing substance, barely holding their separate shapes as he clumsily carded them through Scout's hair, flames tangling through his sandy locks, hand shaking. His other hand had already blended, a mitten of fire clutching at Scout's furry hip as the faun rocked into him, burying himself in Pyro's hot depths. Each ingress was chased with a sighing moan, joined by a kiss, and preceded by a squeeze as Scout dug his fingers into the djinni's plump ass cheek and filled him again.

Their lips lingered together, never quite leaving one another, never quite breaking, but barely contorting into the shape of a proper kiss at the same time. They parted around moans and panting breaths and the touch of tongues, but all the same closed enough to smack and rejoin their efforts, moving together in undulating waves much the same way their bodies did.

Blankets and pillows were rumpled into a plush mountain of fabric against the barred, metal headboard of the bed Engineer had welded together for himself and his partner. Pyro was poised against that mound, pressing into it as Scout pressed into him, sinking into softness on all angles as he made love to his fiery friend.

His other arm was wrapped around Pyro's back, holding their bodies close. He loved it, feeling all of him against himself before Pyro's body would inevitably lose shape and substance. His belly was a little chubby, his hips were wide, his ass was soft and thick, and his legs were wrapped around his own hips as he ground into him. His cock rubbed against his belly, and the heat pouring off of it sent a thrill through him. He could feel the weight against him growing vague, features disappearing against his hip, his chest, his belly, his back, his hands, his lips. Pyro was losing shape, and before it was gone, he made sure to cherish what it was, just as much as he would cherish the next part.

"Gods, Scout," Pyro whispered, trying to keep his face intact as long as he could, trying to keep kissing the faun and drinking in his sighs of pleasure. "You make me feel so good."

"So good," Scout echoed, biting back the urge to pick up his pace. He wanted to fuck Pyro for as long as he could, to relish the beautiful, strange, otherworldly body under him, around him. And as he plunged deep into the djinni's hot, lube-slick depths, he tried not to lose himself in him.

It was more than a little challenging, between his supernaturally strong senses, the djinni's touch feeding into them, and trying to keep a slow, relaxed pace. Scout liked to fuck hard and fast when he was on top. He liked to snap his hips and drive in deep and clap fur to skin. He liked to impress with the strength and stamina of his legs, even if his sexual stamina didn't stack up neatly with them, but his refractory period could get him back in the race in no time, so that a short break of playing and heavy petting could see him railing his partner until they saw stars.

Pyro liked it slow. He liked to hold and caress, to luxuriate in the touch of his lover. It kept him together for longer, let him do more, have more done to him, before the furor of his lust made him collapse in on himself and lose most of his substance. So for him, Scout fought hard to slow himself down, to take it easy, to linger, and it hadn't escaped the djinni's notice how much of an effort it was.

All for him.

He could feel Pyro spreading across his skin, lighting up every nerve as flames began to engulf his body, the substance of the man slowly consuming him in a full-sensory caress that had his already hypersensitive body sparking and guttering under the sudden wave of all-consuming pleasure. It washed over his skin, through each hair follicle, across his hole and around his cock, every button of bliss being pressed at once with gentle insistence, and he felt like he was beginning to drown. He was inside of Pyro, and Pyro was all around him, and soon flames licked up the entirety of his body, an omnipresent lover's touch, and he whimpered as he fought to keep his mind, to keep his thoughts, to keep his slow, steady, languid pace as he rocked into what was soon the only fully solid and substantive part of Pyro left.

Scout's eyes fell shut as he shuddered and quaked, "Pyro," he whimpered, too far gone to summon any words but his lover's name.

"Lay back," he heard from all around him. "You took care of me so well. It's my turn."

With a foggy nod, Scout did as he was told, shifting his legs to fall onto his side and roll on his back. Somehow, the tightness never left him, the hot depths of Pyro's hole seeming to move with him, though no pressure formed atop his hips as he laid back and let himself be consumed. He didn't understand it, and probably never would. But it didn't matter.

What mattered was that he'd made Pyro feel good enough to lose his shape, and that Pyro was using that to make him feel good enough to forget how to talk. He writhed atop the bed, the body-wide bliss growing stronger, the slick, hot pressure around his cock beginning to move, to stroke him, to ride him, and soon he was clutching at nothing, grasping at air, arching up into that blessed pressure as Pyro's body consumed him hoof to antler, the guttering, fluttering, quivering throbs of sensory heaven drove him finally into insensate ecstasy. His eyes opened blindly, rolling back, staring out at nothing as he humped at the air, unable to chase the sensation but enveloped by it all the same, panting and moaning mindlessly as his thoughts boiled away to nothing. Only one remained, given the barest voice amid his plaintive whimpers, "Love you so much."

Pyro went still, as much as he could, hearing the faun's words. He knew. He knew, and as Scout began repeating it, murmuring like a prayer as he squirmed on the sheets, breathy and supplicant, he knew.

"Love you so much, love you, love you, so much, so so much, love you so much, oh fuck, so much," Scout rambled, cursing as Pyro returned to motion, returned to riding him in as much as a formless mas could said to be.

It was terribly honest, horribly vulnerable, devastatingly sweet. Pyro couldn't help the fond little sound that escaped him amid his sighs of pleasure. "Scout," he cooed, and then Scout was coming, shuddering, bucking up with a cervine bellow as he came deep in what remained solid of the djinni's body, filling his hot depths with his seed, blind and mindless with pleasure as he clutched at the bed and tugged up the sheets.

It was almost enough to drown out Pyro's own wail as he followed Scout over the edge, taking him to the hilt and spilling onto his belly, a splatter of hot come painting the faun's chest and belly seemingly from nowhere amid the flames that consumed him, his hole fluttering around him and making him whine.

Scout whimpered, overstimulated in every sense of the word, pleasure bordering on the edge of pain as Pyro burned away atop him, cooking his brain down to mush. Mercifully, the djinni began to recede, to regain his shape in the wake of his orgasm, leaving him straddling his lover's hips, cock still inside of him, bowed over his body.

Dimly, Scout noticed that as Pyro's hand reformed, it was holding his, fingers threaded together around the sheet he still gripped.

"Pyro," Scout hummed, muzzily.

"Hey," Pyro giggled, breathless.

He received a loopy grin in reply, and a squeeze of his hand before Scout turned his eyes blindly up to the ceiling and let them flutter closed. His face settled into exhausted contentedness as he gradually flopped, fully boneless, to the bed. Pyro chuckled softly and rolled off of him, laughing a little harder as Scout hissed and jerked as he slid out of him.

"C'mere," Scout mumbled, reaching for Pyro, who cast a quick spell to clean them up before settling in against the taller man, curling up against his side to rest his head at the crux of his chest and shoulder. He threw an arm across Scout's belly, and a leg over Scout's leg, and cuddled in/, a happy little hum leaving him as Scout curled his arm around him to hold him close.

"How you doin'?"

"Nap," Scout mumbled, heading steadily towards sleep with each passing moment, exhausted to the bone from such extreme stimulation.

"Sounds good," Pyro giggled, utterly charmed by the drowsy faun. "I think I'll join you. And when we get up maybe we can hit the diner and spend the day hanging out."

If Scout had heard him, Pyro wasn't sure, silence and the deep breathing of a man claimed by slumber answering him instead. He smiled warmly and pressed a kiss to Scout's chest before settling back down and closing his eyes.

The door to Medic's office opened slowly, a soft whine leaving the hinges and disturbing the mostly-silence, which was otherwise filled only with the soft cooing and fluttering of doves perched around the high windows near the ceiling, nesting, preening, eating, and attending to various avian activities.

All except Archimedes, who alighted upon the shoulder of the room's newest occupant, Heavy stepping through the door and closing it a bit more swiftly, as though speed would make it squeak any less. "Doktor?" he ventured, looking from the feathered friend now perched upon him to his feathered lover, less perched on his desk chair so much as draped across it, one clawed foot on the desk itself, the other hanging over one of the chair's arms, the other arm digging into his lower back as he bowed backward over it, the wrists of his wings bracing against the floor. He held a book above his face, squinting at the words in annoyance as he read. Atop the desk itself was a notepad with some scribbled words and diagrams on it. A pencil was wrapped in the talons of his foot, wiggling around in the air and doing nothing other than suffering the novelty of being gripped by a foot.

"Doktor?" Heavy tried again, his first entreaty falling on deaf ears. He trundled casually over to the desk as Archimedes tucked himself between the collar of Heavy's vest and his neck, cozying in with a soft, contented coo.

Medic nearly dropped his book in surprise as he looked to see Heavy standing there, looking at him and his ridiculous position with curiosity. A grin broke out across his face, and he closed the book, setting it on the desk. "Heavy!" he crowed, fussing around in a fit of limbs to right himself so that he could properly greet him.

Heavy couldn't help the smile that crossed his lips at the sight, utterly charmed by how cute he found the garuda's delight followed by immediate flailing and struggling. He rounded the desk and helped the best way he knew: by sweeping the man out of the chair and into his arms, holding him against his chest like a blushing bride, and capturing him in a kiss. Medic melted into his grasp gladly, bringing a hand up to caress his lover's jaw as they parted.

"Aheh, thank you, Schatz."

"No problem, Doktor," Heavy said warmly, mirth in his voice as he let Medic down to stand on his own two feet. His wings ruffled up and settled as he smoothed out his clothing.

Heavy grinned again. Cute.

"What are you working on?"

"Ah, I'm still trying to crack this whole, 'healing spell that works like a medigun,' problem," Medic replied, tapping the book on the desk. "Pyro and I collaborated earlier today and made quite a bit of headway! We've realized that the medigun teases out a small amount of the material that forms that silver thread that anchors me to my body when I astrally project."

"You were spirit projecting?" "For a bit, yes." "And you didn't let me know?" Heavy teased with a waggle of his eyebrows.

"Schatz, if I told you every time I projected I'd never get anything done. I'd be too busy screaming and moaning on the astral plane," Medic chuckled, answering with a waggle of his own.

Heavy stole past his lover and sat in the desk chair. "I do not see how this is problem."

"I did not say it was." They shared a flirty grin before Medic continued, "Since deducing that about the medigun's function, I've been in here poring over my book on astral projection trying to find methods of isolating and pulling out some of the silver thread using spellcraft, but sadly my book is largely unconcerned with such uses of astral magic or the silver thread. It's more practical in its subject matter. And considering the proximity of the silver thread to the soul, I'd like to have some guidance on the matter before I begin experimentation. With physical matters I can play blindly now that I have the medigun as a safety net. Metaphysical matters... not so much. At least, not yet."

Heavy nodded sagely.

"And I have made that promise to you to be... more careful with my magical experimentation," Medic added, glad for the way it softened Heavy's expression instantly. He'd been making efforts to be more mindful of Heavy's requests, and wanted him to know as much. Left to his own devices, he might be a bit more reckless.

"Silver thread attaches soul to body," Heavy mused, understanding the seriousness.

"Not just while projecting either, it turns out. Pyro explained to me that it anchors the soul even when it is inside the body!" Medic added, growing a bit giddy to share the knowledge.

"So you want to take piece of this?"

"More that I want to pull at a little bit of it. Pyro compared it to unraveling a thread from a sweater."

Heavy nodded. "This make sense."

"The medigun basically does this and binds the thread to the nexus of energy at the mouth of its barrel, transmitting the energy to the recipient along the line of the thread, which is why it behaves the way it does, and has a maximum range. So in order to make healing spells cast by hand function the same way, I would need to be able to pull a thread and use it to channel the spell for its duration. So I will need to discover how to do so, and formulate a new version of my healing spell using this process."

"Hold onto piece of soul?"

"More like a piece of the energy that contains their soul and holds it in place."

"Like leash around neck. But for soul."

"Precisely!"

Heavy pouted in thought. "What kind of magic would do this? For what purpose?"

Medic half-sat on the edge of his desk in thought, glad to have his giant lover to help him puzzle things out aloud. "I imagine the primary purpose is for something like binding one's soul to an object while the body continues to animate, like how a lich creates his phylactery."

In the interest of keeping Medic on-topic, Heavy did not ask for him to elucidate on what the hell a lich was.

"Or perhaps to bind two creatures' souls together in some fashion."

"Like marriage?"

Medic went still a moment, turning his gaze up to the giant, who seemed unaware he'd said anything notable. A smile crossed his lips, the doctor utterly charmed. Of course his darling poet would think of matrimony when presented with the concept of intertwining two souls. He giggled a bit, laying a hand atop Heavy's which rested idly on the desk's surface, giving it a gentle squeeze. "That's quite the romantic way to go about marrying someone. To become literal soulmates."

It was Heavy's turn to be charmed.

"Earlier, Pyro and I spoke with Demoman for a bit. He made a similar comparison to soulmates, actually. He called Sniper his. Even I can't deny the sweetness of such a sentiment," Medic cooed.

"They are babies," Heavy teased, fondness in his voice.

Medic hummed out a soft little laugh. "If they're babies for being so cute together, what does that make me and mein Kuschelbär?"

Heavy tugged Medic's arm, pulling him backward to lay atop the desk, cradling his head in one massive hand. He leaned down and kissed him, a soft, chaste caress of lips. "We are even bigger babies."

Medic broke down into giggles at that.

"For spell question, maybe talk to somebody who knows more about soul magic. Do not know if Miss Pauling knows this magic, but Merasmus is likely to know. He can make undead like Soldier, so maybe he has idea. Or can tell you where to look next."

Humming in thought for a moment, Medic nodded, his hair gradually mussing more and more as he lay with his head in Heavy's palm. "An excellent idea, Schatz! I should see if Sniper is willing to come with me; we could visit tomorrow after work." "Sniper?"

"He has a better rapport with Merasmus than I do, and I'm sure there'll be something he's looking to purchase while he's there. If there's one way to make that old wizard more pliant to working with you, it seems to be putting money in his pocket."

"No different from most men," Heavy mused.

"Yes, but most men don't seem to have quite so many debtors chasing after them."

"This is fair."

Medic let out a sigh, content in having a plan of action. "But for now," he turned his eyes to the windows that lined the tops of the exterior walls, "it should be dinner time soon, ja?"

"Soon, but we have some time."

"Some time? Did you have something in mind?" Medic asked, again waggling his eyebrows.

Heavy stood, unzipping his vest, sending Archimedes fluttering up to the window sill to join the other doves. "Would be shame to waste my lovely doctor laid out so nicely for me."

"A terrible shame."

#Monstrous Intent #TF2 Red Oktoberfest #TF2 Flash Fire #TF2 Medic #TF2 Pyro #TF2 Scout #TF2 Heavy #TF2 Archimedes #nsfw /

5 notes · View notes