Work Header

Russian Roulette

Work Text:

The battlefield had been filled with the usual noises of the day—guns firing, men shouting, sounds of metal clashing against skulls—and it seemed to be never-ending under the fierce sunlight. The Administrator was having a hellacious time keeping up with the mercenaries’ doings as she switched her microphone from team to team, announcing who had what intelligence at the moment, giving everyone constant reminders of how much time was left in the mission, and what Spy was in what base as if she had cameras installed everywhere on the godforsaken plot of land with buildings strewn about, wayward trains pulling through as their gears grinded with age.

The RED Sniper gave a grunt. There were no decent hideaways in which to build his nest. He was deemed rather useless—at least in his mind, for he was not equipped to chase down briefcases as were his teammates—so he busied himself in tracking down enemies for easy pickings with his Kukri. Up until now, his effort had been in vain as he weaved in and around open buildings, but in a moment’s hesitation, something stirred past his yellow-tinted vision. It was hardly noticeable, but just enough movement to warrant the possibility of a cloaked Spy passing through. The bushman was bored enough already, and tracking a potential foe sounded worthy in his mind—fun, even. Besides, the bastard earned being hunted down for the bullet put through his brain earlier in the day—a shame for any Sniper that warranted revenge. Either way, the thrill of the hunt had already crept along his spine and he began his pursuit.

A toothy sneer was about his face as the bushman crept along, stepping over tracks and sliding his lithe body along the fencing, never registering a sound that could be heard over the background noise of mercenary killing mercenary. The cloak would not last forever, he knew, and the Frenchman’s ever-present scent of expensive cigarettes was enough to keep on the trail. Fancy bastard.

Sadly, the hunt would not drag out as long as the Sniper had hoped—it was not really enjoyable when the prey was unawares of being stalked, but the adrenaline pumping still caused excitement. There, near an abandoned boxcar, the BLU Spy paused, his cloak disappearing. He had no time to create a new disguise, let alone turn around, before the hunter pushed him against the side of the boxcar, using his full weight and arm strength to slam a gloved hand on the metal side, forcing the Frenchman to release his grip on his gun with a curse.

Bushman,” the Spy spat with all the breath he could muster with air having been forced from his diaphragm, “I thought I smelled something foul.”

Spook,” came the boastful reply as the Sniper triumphantly wedged his Kukri between the boxcar and his captive’s throat, causing a slight tear in the Spy’s skin. Neither seemed to pay any mind to the droplets of blood forming at the surface. There was only tension as the hunter reveled in the capture and the Frenchman anticipated a quick death.

The moment never came, at least not fast enough to suit the Spy.

“Today, porc.” The BLU enemy growled, impatient with the unnecessary prolonging of his life, which would be moot once he respawned and returned to backstab the Sniper for his indignation. He only gave a gruff grunt as the blade pressed into his neck, barely causing concern for death. “What are you waiting for?”

The Sniper chuckled under his breath, exhaling in hot bursts against the Spy’s neck, which suddenly was exposed from underneath his mask. There was also a click of his revolver and the pressure of the barrel at his head. When did--?

“Nah, mate. I’m thinkin’ I can’t just let you go and shoot me again after splatterin’ me brains all over the ground over there. I’m thinkin’ you need some sort of punishment and reminder who’s the sharpshooter in these parts.”

“Oh, merde, spare me your life story. Just. Kill. Me.”

The Kukri slid away from the Spy’s neck hastily, leaving another slice, though slightly deeper and caused more blood flow. He shut his eyes, preparing for the inevitable death blow and to hide the pain now tingling about his open flesh—also, giving way to his aggravation of having a costly white shirt spotted with red. His breath held, but the Sniper never delivered. Instead, the gun tapped against the top of his head. The BLU man would have probably shivered had he been able to see the expression on his enemy’s face; the Sniper was showing nothing short of devious planning as ideas came to fruition.

“Get in the boxcar,” he spoke with a callous tone and lifted off the smaller body to point into the open doorway with his blade. Once released, the Spy turned to give the bushman a look of pure hatred and disdain.

“And, if I do not? Are you going to ki--!”

He was cut off by his own gurgled howl as the gun fired and sent a bullet through the side of his left shin. He wobbled and fell to one knee.

“Get. In. The. Bloody. Boxcar.” The Sniper spoke again, with unnatural calmness as he pointed to the doorway again. He only took a moment to look behind him. No one was alerted by the gunfire as it mixed in with the already-echoing sound of other weaponry along the compound. No one would be caring enough to risk their life to interfere for the sake of a teammate—not if money was not offered, at least. He grinned.

“You are out of your fucking mind,” the Spy winced as he gripped his leg, but with very little options, he obeyed, slowly rising to his feet, his weight shifted to his right leg, an air of defiance about him as he raised his nose to look at the bushman. The gun was nonchalantly aiming for his good leg, and he gave an exasperated sigh, The Frenchman ushered all energy into hiding the severity of the pain, but he merely received a shit-eating grin for his efforts.

The Spy turned again to face the entry of the boxcar and staggered towards it. He took to the steps, suppressing groans of agony as he pulled himself upwards by way of holding the rail, dragging his injured leg behind him. But, injuries be damned, the Frenchman was not about to show weakness to his enemy. Finally, he lifted himself into the boxcar, torso falling against the floor and body rolling until his legs were inside as well and he rose in a sitting position. He shot the Sniper a glare. What now?

During his ordeal, the hunter had already followed behind him, and he stood tall above the seated man, the gun never moving away from one part of his body or another. The Kukri, however, had been stuck into the Sniper’s belt, allowing his free hand to grab the door and slide it shut with an agonized cry. He closed the space between them, lowering onto his haunches and pressing the revolver into its owner’s face.

“Lick it.”

Excuse me?” the Frenchman grunted, completely not amused at his captor’s antics. He would further protest had the gun not been forced upon his lips, yet he would not open his mouth to give the Sniper the satisfaction. At least, not until a calloused thumb dug into his open wound through his pants and he cursed aloud. The BLU man glared through the tears that dared to form—they would not fall!—before hesitantly thrusting his tongue upon the weapon, catching the underside of the barrel with the tip and licking in one quick motion. He leaned back and closed his mouth, his eyes never moving from the Sniper’s face and his shoulders shrugged as if to say ‘good enough for you, asshole?’.

The bushman, in turn, gave a gruff laugh and loomed over the smaller man. “Yeah, I bet you like that, huh?” He pressed the gun to the Spy’s mouth again. “Go on, then. Show me how much you like it. But, be careful; she’s loaded.”

The Frenchman gave a look of disbelief. What was this crazy man’s plan here? Death was by far better than this depravity. Yet, those eyes that looked upon him through yellow tint showed no form of playing tricks. And—goddamnit for looking—the Sniper’s pants were sporting a visible bulge which grossed him out even further to think the taller man was enjoying this embarrassing torture.

“Or, we could play a game,” the bushman hummed as he opened the magazine and rotated it and removing a bullet before clicking it back into place. “I think it goes by Russian Roulette, yeah? Each time you disobey me, I’m going to shoot. You might die; you might not. Fun, huh?”

The Spy closed his eyes, his eyebrows knitted above them. Of course, he was going to take death over this ridiculous position he found himself in. The Sniper nodded at his decision and aimed the gun at the Frenchman’s head.


The BLU Spy opened his eyes, instantly glaring at his captor, who could only shrug and chuckle. “That was your first chance. Don’t suppose you’ll be so lucky next time.”

Again, the Frenchman defied the rules put before him, and again, he was rewarded by his insolence with a searing pain bursting through his right calf. The Sniper was rewarded with the scream and curses overflowing in the Spy’s mouth. The hunter wasted no time in aiming the revolver again, but his captive threw up a hand of defeat and nodded, his teeth gnashing together and his eyes shut against the pain. He once again obeyed, looping his tongue around the warm metal, and for a moment he smelled and tasted the aftereffects of the gun being shot some moments before. The Spy did his best to ignore the crude encouragement from the RED enemy and the blood pooling beneath him as he became braver with the humiliating display, going so far as to take the entire length of the revolver into his mouth, tightening his lips and working his way off it with suction before it made a pop as it left his mouth.

This seemed to delight the Sniper in a dangerous way as his free hand had already been fondling himself through his pants. He stopped his ministrations, gazing over the Spy and his expression of disgust before revealing teeth in a grin that made the very core of the Frenchman jolt. He reached for the revolver out of desperation, barely touching it with the tips of his fingers before the bushman slammed the weapon against the Spy’s temple. He slumped and fell over onto his side, his vision blurry and his head echoing as he barely held onto consciousness—though blacking out would have been preferred to escape the reality of his hell.

The Frenchman threw his hands onto his head, trying to stop the rattling sensation in his brain, not realizing until it was too late that the Sniper had grabbed his smaller waist and was fumbling with his designer belt. He let out a groan of protest as the buckle gave way and his face scrunched once the skin of his backside and thighs were exposed in one swift motion.

“Don’t you even dare--!” the Spy threatened, but the Sniper shoved his hand into the smaller man’s cheek, forcing the rest of the Frenchman’s face to squish along the flooring. He emitted a string of angry or desperate words in his native tongue as his body tightened--trying as it might to keep the cold intruder from entering his backside--but the metal buried itself deep in one unforgiving motion. He nearly gagged at the sensation, winced against the pain, and shuddered at the knowledge of the gun still being very much loaded, having only a moment’s notice before the weapon pulled out and slid in again with the kindness of an irate rattlesnake.

The Sniper, in turn, merely spoke words of disgusting encouragement, and reminded the BLU mercenary that he had brought everything down on himself—and to take the length of his own gun like the little slut he was--among other unpleasant lies that were loud enough to take away from the frantic moans that signaled the loss of personal preservation.

The Spy could not decide in those terrible moments what was worse: the bushman fucking him with his own loaded weapon, or the fact that he was starting to show a liking in the form of an aroused member and panting that could no longer be determined as pleading for abandonment or continuance. The hunter seemed tuned into this knowledge, and laughed throatily, his hand moving from the Frenchman’s face to reach around to his aching arousal, never ceasing in the debauchery to his captive’s backside. He was delighted to get a surprised gasp that tangled with a drawn-out moan.

I am not enjoying this! I have lost too much blood and cannot think straight! I am going to—ah, fuck, that feels good! The Spy wailed as he felt the gun retreat and a warm, wet member pump into him in harsh thrusts, the throbbing of his arousal intermingling with the throbbing of his injured leg and causing his body to be wracked with pain and pleasure in immeasurable amounts. His gloved hands raked against the boxcar’s floorboards as his composure was long lost and his hips began rocking to meet the RED Sniper’s thrusting—much to the bushman’s delight.

It was over as quickly as the shot to his leg; the Spy gave a gurgled cry as his body was shuddering with the forced orgasm that left his head swimming, only to regain his grasp on the situation as he felt hot, sticky seed burst into his body, the excess oozing down his thighs. The grip released, allowing his body to slink into the floor, but realization set in and reacted with his instincts—the Sniper had put the gun down during the ordeal, and the Frenchman quickly rolled over and grabbed it, aiming it into the hunter’s face as both men stared at one another.

“Well, now, the tides have turned,” the Sniper sneered as he rose to his feet, “Go on then, shoot me. I’ll just come right back and start all over again if you feel you haven’t learned your lesson. Shoot.”

The Spy bore holes into the other man’s very being, his hand wavering before he aimed the gun at the other man’s chest and fired.


With disbelief, the Frenchman pulled the weapon open, his eyes going wide.

No bullets.

The Sniper shook his hand, allowing the bullets he held to rattle together before dropping them to the floor.


“Atta boy,” the RED hunter nodded slowly as he turned to pull open the rusting door and allowed light and noise to fill the boxcar. He was gone in an instant, leaving the BLU mercenary to his devices.

Another sigh. The Spy rubbed his hand over his face before looking at the gun he held in a grip like Death. He aimed the weapon at his temple, hovered momentarily, and then slung it along the floor to the other side of the boxcar angrily. He paused in his self-hatred to carefully pull his pants onto his waist before dragging himself towards the edge of the flooring, sharp blue eyes scanning all that he could see beneath the harsh sun before rolling onto his back and taking a deep breath. He would live with the wounds for now--he decided without reason other than to see the RED enemy die by his own hands in the very near future.