The Spy was never uneasy, could never be caught off-guard. However, on one particularly cold night, he found himself sauntering down the hallway of the base, his pace hesitant and cautious. It could have been the chill of the night air causing the hairs at his neck to stand on-end; he tried to tell himself that over and over in his mind. That, and he wore only a thin, silky bathrobe—which garnished laughter from the other mercenaries—and a pair of slippers that made a rubbery squeak with each step he took on the unforgiving cement floor. His breath hitched as a thunderous boom echoed against the walls. A hellacious storm was roaring outside, and there was probably lightning to accompany it, but the hallway had no windows to prove this.
He blindly slinked through the building, a hand caressing the wall to aid him to his destination, which would not be far from his own room. He would have rather been lying in his warm, inviting bed, but the sound stirred from his sleep, and in a panic, he had to investigate despite his better judgments. As thin as the walls were, it would be no doubt the noise was coming from the room beside his. No one else was housed in this corner of the base. There was only one person the Spy knew it could be.
The Frenchman ran his ungloved hand against the name plate as he reached the door and traced the engraved lettering.
Another breath, deep and assuring. The Spy grasped the doorknob again and gently turned it, which opened with a small click. At least the Pyro did not lock himself in, he thought in his head as the door slowly opened, the old hinges screaming in agony.
There was a dull light illuminating the room—a lamp overturned on a desk, its drawers open and contents askew upon it and the floor. The Spy saw the unmade bed, realizing the mattresses were hanging off the frame and, oddly enough, ripped open in long slices, causing him to shudder. He dared to take one step into the room and saw the glass shards on the floor, the window smashed as the cold air and rain poured onto the windowsill and floor, the curtains whipping against the wind.
“Pyro,” he called softly, his voice unnaturally wavering, “Mon amour?” In that moment, he had forgotten the Pyro’s dislike of being spoken to in another language, but it was enough to cause a stir in a dark corner the Spy saw in his peripheral vision. Eyes followed the movement, and the Frenchman found himself entering the room fully and closing the door, and he cautiously moved towards the figure. As he neared, the Spy realized it was his lover hunched over, hiding in the shadows, his flame-resistant suit ripped and torn in places around his back, traces of blood pooling against the material.
A hand thrust out. The Spy could barely make out the outlines, but he swore he saw razors protruding from ripped holes in the other man’s gloves. There was a muffled assortment of words. The Pyro did not want him to come closer, but against his better judgment, the Spy diminished the space between them. Again, the masked male mumbled, his voice dripping with anger. It made the Frenchman take a step back, but he was not about to let his partner suffer in silence, cold and alone. His palms touched the Pyro’s shoulders—he felt muscles beneath his flesh tighten. His fingers massaged into the suit, but his attempt to relax the other man’s body was futile. The Pyro only tensed up further and emitted a low growl—a very inhuman growl—before rising to his feet and turning to the Spy in too quick a haste for him to react properly.
“Pyro, please,” the Spy whispered, trying to calm the other man, whom suddenly seemed to grow miles in height. It was then he realized his own body had been leaning in on itself and his knees were buckling. And then, he wheezed as his back slammed against the wall, his robe wrinkled in a clenched fist. He could hear the material rip in the Pyro’s grip as well as his own ragged breath as he struggled to breathe. He squirmed, but the masked male was stronger, heavier, and the black void of the mask where his eyes should be was staring intensely into the Spy’s. There was more muffling, but it sounded nothing like Pyro. It couldn’t be Pyro—not his Pyro.
The Spy felt his body being raised, his slippers lightly touching the floor until they fell off entirely in soft thuds. Desperately, he lifted his arms and held his hands on both sides of the other man’s mask. His Pyro would normally allow it to be lifted, to see his scarred and burned flesh and abnormalities. This Pyro did not stop him, and the Frenchman thumbed under the mask and slowly peeled it from the other’s face. He only pulled the thing halfway before his breath caught in his throat and his eyes went wide, nearly bulging from his skull. Lightning flashed, illuminating both faces for a quick second. But, it was enough to catch sight of the horrific sight before him.
The scream seemed to come out of nowhere, but the Spy’s mouth hung agape and his vocal chords strained under the sudden sound.
The Pyro’s mouth was wide, as if someone sliced at him from the corners of his mouth to his ears, and his teeth were long, jagged, razor-like, dripping with what could have been saliva or venom in brackish-water hues. He grinned like a Cheshire cat and leaned into the Spy’s face, his heated breath stinging the Frenchman’s skin where it touched, like daggers stabbing into flesh. His blistered tongue drug across the Spy’s cheek like sandpaper, leaving a sticky substance in its wake.
His voice was lost, his mind numb. The Spy was limp with fright and repulsed by the atrocious scent of the not-Pyro’s breath. His eyes welled up with tears as the other man’s unnatural teeth sank into his neck, leaving a bloody mess in his wake. The Spy was dropped to the floor, his body crumpling like a ragdoll, and the only instinct he had was to reach for the knife strapped to his thigh beneath his robe, but the other man—if even a man—yanked it from his grip and slung it across the room with a clang. The Frenchman gave a startled cry as he felt the Pyro’s clawed fingers dig into his skin as he was lifted by the thigh, his back pressed to the floor. He felt the blood seeping from the wounds. The other man now squatted before him, the grin still etched on his face, and he leaned over, grabbing the other thigh with as much cruelty and separating them, exposing the Spy completely.
His eyes once again bulged with realization and he started to struggle, only causing the cuts in his flesh to deepen. Then, he felt the harsh tongue dipping in and around his backside, causing his body to shudder and tense up.
“No, stop,” he whimpered, his hands weakly gripping the Pyro’s arms, but the other male continued, the textured tongue scraping against tender flesh and muscle, tasting and relishing in the flavor and the fear. “Help…someone…” The Spy knew no one would hear his plea for the storm that raged on outside, weak as his voice was.
A millennia could have passed in that moment before the Pyro withdrew his tongue, leaving a goo trailing from his mouth to the Frenchman’s rear. It made him sick and he felt his stomach churn, but it was too empty for retching, so he dry-heaved instead. Caught in his nausea, the Spy took no notice of the other man clawing against his suit, tearing it from his body in shreds until he was nearly naked himself. The Pyro sported fresh wounds from his own frenzy to remove the outfit, but he paid them no mind. Realization struck with the haggard scream forcing its way through a dry throat as did the hardened member that entered him in a harsh thrust and continued thrusting until he could feel the blood seeping over his buttocks.
The Pyro showed no kindness, no care, and no emotion other than pure cruelty and disregard for the other’s well-being. He drove into the smaller body with enough force to crush the Spy, and his choked cries were confirmation of the pain and betrayal and utter disgust coursing through his being. This wasn’t his Pyro—it couldn’t be! His mind repeated this over and over again as he feebly raked against the floorboards. His thoughts were the only things keeping him attached to whatever reality this nightmare had—that, and the intense pain coursing over his shaking body.
Again and again, the Pyro entered the Spy’s body until there was a gurgled groan. A few more thrusts were made before the Frenchman gagged at the feeling of hot seed filling his backside to mix with the blood. He was released quickly where his body went limp and his skin went pale, but his eyes remained fixated on the larger man, who loomed over him once again. His clawed hands dug into the Frenchman’s shoulders and began to shake.
“Wake up,” it growled.
The Spy hung in his grip limply.
His eyes closed.
“Spy, wake up!”
His eyes darted open and his upper half shot upwards. There was blinding light, the sound of chirping birds, and gentle hands on his shoulders. The Spy looked around. The storm was gone as were the disheveled room and other-Pyro. He found himself in his bed. His hands touched at his throat and blankets were removed to find a naked body, no fresh wounds upon it. He blinked.
“Are you alright?”
The Spy blinked again and turned his head to see the Pyro kneeling on the bed beside him. His eyes were wide and filled with worry. There were no jagged teeth, no dripping goo, nothing but scar tissue and normal, human frown.
“You were thrashing about,” the Pyro murmured, “Sorry for waking you.”
“…A dream…” the Frenchman looked around. He jerked to the side and grabbed the Pyro’s face with both hands, enticing a giggle from the other man--as he was a ticklish one--before taking the larger hands into his own. No claws. Only singed fingers and jagged, unkempt fingernails were found. He heaved a sigh before resting his forehead against the other’s chest.
The Pyro, in turn, placed his arms around the smaller body, enveloping the Spy in his warmth and smiled. “Yes, a dream. But, you’re safe now. I will protect you always.”
The smaller man raised his head and looked the other in the eyes. His lip gave a quiver, but he suppressed it. He was good at hiding his emotions, even though he often made himself vulnerable in the presence of his lover. It was hard to be so emotionless and professional around the Pyro, and he found a smile appearing on his face.
The two rested back into the mattress, arms and legs entangled in a knotted mess. The Spy gazed at the resting form of the Pyro. His eyebrow rose.
“Did you take your medication, mon doux?”
The scarred man pouted. “You know I hate when you do that.”
“My apologies. But--?”
A sigh. “Yes.”
The Pyro reached over to take an empty bottle off the nightstand and shook it before setting it down again. The Spy exhaled relief before nestling into the crook of the other male’s arm.
“You are weird sometimes, and I’m the one who has to take medicine.”
“I know,” sighed the Frenchman, “Never change, okay?”
“Whatever you say, Spy. Whatever you say.”
The two had to share a laugh, even if the Pyro knew nothing of the implications. That was just how they were together. Soon, both men were drifting into a peaceful slumber, but not before the Spy took one last look at the larger male, pulling his lip back and inspecting his teeth, just in case. Before long, he was falling into unconsciousness, the nightmare beginning to be a distant memory at the back of his mind.