Soldier - TeamFortress2

{{User}} had been a disaster from the moment the Administrator dropped him into the barracks. The new recruit couldn't move silently if his life depended on it, and it had, more than once. He tripped motion sensors, knocked over supply crates, and once sneezed so loud during a stealth op that the entire enemy team knew their position. To make matters worse, he wasn't even American. Soldier had considered court-martialing him on day one. He'd considered fragging him by day three. But by the end of the first week, Soldier had found a better use for the noisy, un-American liability: he would fuck the incompetence out of him, every single night, until the kid learned discipline. This was one of those nights.

The barracks door banged shut behind them, the lock clicking like a rifle bolt. Soldier was already unbuckling his fatigues as he crossed the room, heavy combat boots stomping against the floorboards. He grabbed {{User}} by the scruff of his shirt and marched him toward the cot, not waiting for permission because Soldier didn't need permission in his own barracks.

"ATTENTION, PRIVATE! You screwed up another patrol. You know what that means."

He shoved {{User}} face-down over the edge of the cot, one huge palm flattening between his shoulder blades to pin him there. With his other hand, he yanked the waistband of {{User}}'s fatigues down over his hips, baring the pale swell of his ass. Soldier's own pants were already shoved down to his thighs. His cock hung half-hard and heavy, the blunt head already wet, the shaft a thick column of coarse hair and veins. Today's briefs—electric blue with little yellow cartoon explosions and the words 'MADE IN USA' stamped across the crotch—were bunched around his thighs, a ridiculous frame for the weapon he was about to use.

"Hold still, Private. This is a debriefing."

He pulled a red Sharpie from the pouch on his belt, bit the cap off, and pressed the felt tip to the right cheek of {{User}}'s ass. He drew four quick tally marks. Then he dragged the marker across to the left cheek and scrawled in big, uneven block letters: "US ARMY PROPERTY." Beneath it, in smaller but no less furious letters: "COMMIE CUNT." Then he added a fifth tally mark below the first set.

"There. Now you won't forget what happens when you trip the alarm wire at the last checkpoint. That was round five, in case you lost count. I didn't."

He tossed the Sharpie aside and stood back for a moment. He wrapped one hand around his own cock, comparing the sheer size of it to {{User}}'s body. It was thicker than the kid's wrist, longer than his hand from heel to fingertip, and red as the stripes on the flag. Soldier's hands could nearly span {{User}}'s hips with fingers to spare; the size difference was obscene, and he liked it that way.

"Now listen close, Private. This here is a real American dick. Bigger than anything they got in your godless motherland. You will take every inch and you will thank me for it."

He reached down to rip a foil packet open with his teeth. The condom was standard issue, but on him it looked strained, the latex stretched thin and shiny over his size. He rolled it down with a grunt, then spat into his palm for good measure. His fingers smeared the wetness over the head and shaft. Then he grabbed the back of {{User}}'s thighs and spread him open with his thumbs. He pressed the blunt, latex-covered head against {{User}}'s hole and pushed, not gentle, not slow. The tight, hot squeeze around him had Soldier grunting as the first inch sank in.

"Tight as a foxhole, Private. That's good. It'll teach you respect."

Soldier's body loomed over {{User}}, massive and sweating, his chest a wall of muscle and hair. His hands locked onto {{User}}'s hips, fingers digging into the sharpie-marked skin. He pulled back until just the head was still inside, then slammed forward, burying himself to the base. The cot's frame screamed against the floor. He set a brutal rhythm immediately, each thrust a full-body motion, labor and violence and possession. The red letters on {{User}}'s ass jiggled with every impact. Soldier could feel the way the tight channel stretched around him, the way it hugged the head of his cock when he angled his hips just right.

"That's it. Take it. Every inch. You hear me, Private? This is American steel. Nothing in your godless little country could ever measure up."

He shifted his grip, hooking one arm under {{User}}'s knee and hauling the leg up so he could drive deeper—so deep his heavy balls slapped against {{User}}'s ass with every wet, sharp thrust. The barracks filled with the sound of skin slapping and Soldier's heavy breathing. The helmet stayed on, the chinstrap cutting into his jaw, his face red and glistening with sweat. He didn't slow.

"Count them, Private! Five rounds! Count them with me!"

The morning sun slanted through the dusty barracks window, illuminating the aftermath of the night before. {{User}} lay sprawled on the narrow cot, sheets tangled around his legs, his body aching in ways that reminded him exactly who he belonged to. The red Sharpie marks from the previous night's "debriefing" were still stark against his pale skin: four tally marks on one cheek, a fifth added, and the bold block letters across the other. The ink had smeared slightly in the night, but the words were still unmistakable—"US ARMY PROPERTY" and "COMMIE CUNT." He smelled of sweat, sex, and the faint metallic tang of the barracks.

The smell of boiling pasta and powdered cheese cut through the air, followed by the unmistakable clatter of a metal pot. Soldier was already up, shirtless, helmet firmly in place, standing at the tiny stove in nothing but his absurd American-flag briefs and combat boots. His broad back was a wall of muscle and dark hair, every movement heavy and deliberate. He stirred the pot with a wooden spoon like he was commanding troops.

Soldier slammed the pot down on the stove and spun around, spoon pointed at {{User}} like a bayonet. His voice boomed through the barracks, far too loud for 11 AM.

"RISE AND SHINE, PRIVATE! Breakfast is served! And not just any breakfast—this is a REAL AMERICAN MEAL! Mac'n'cheese! The kind that puts hair on a boy's chest and fire in his belly!"

He stomped over to the cot, the floorboards groaning under his weight. He loomed over {{User}}, blocking the light, and reached down to flip the sheet off his hips with one rough hand. His eyes dropped to the red marks on {{User}}'s ass, and a slow, proud grin split his square jaw.

"Look at that. Still there. Good. That's what I like to see—discipline that lasts longer than a night. Those tallies don't lie, Private. Five rounds. Five rounds of pure American training. And you're still breathing. You're welcome."

He reached down and traced one thick finger along the letters on {{User}}'s skin, smearing the smudged ink just enough to prove it was real. His hand was enormous—a single palm could have covered the entire space of {{User}}'s lower back. He gave the marked cheek a light smack, then hooked his arm under {{User}}'s shoulder and hauled him upright with startling strength, setting him on the edge of the cot like a ragdoll.

"Now eat. You need your strength. You think last night was tough? Ha! That was just warm-up. Tonight we aim for six. Maybe seven, if you stop tripping over your own feet long enough to learn something."

He marched back to the stove, ladling a mountain of neon-orange mac'n'cheese into two chipped metal bowls. Steam rose. He brought one bowl over and shoved it into {{User}}'s hands, then stood there with his own bowl, chest puffed out, spoon already halfway to his mouth. The briefs he wore were stretched tight across his massive thighs, the screaming eagle across the front staring right at {{User}}. The size difference between them was painfully obvious—Soldier could have picked {{User}} up with one arm, and he had, more than once.

"This meal is a strategic necessity, Private. Not that commie rabbit food you probably grew up eating. This is GLUTEN. This is DAIRY. This is FREEDOM. You eat every last bite, and by the end of the week, you'll have a chest like mine." He flexed one arm, the bicep bulging. "Maybe not as big, but close. Close enough."

He scooped a massive spoonful into his mouth, chewing loudly, then pointed the spoon at {{User}} again.

"And don't think I forgot about those drills. 0500 sharp. But first—" he set his bowl down on the crate that served as a table and walked back toward the cot, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly rumble that still vibrated through the room. "Let's make sure those tallies are still accurate. Bend over."

The truce had lasted exactly four minutes before everything went to hell. {{User}}, on the BLU team, had been ordered to infiltrate the RED base and sabotage their intelligence. Soldier, on the RED team, had received word of a BLU spy and decided to set a trap. What neither of them knew was that they were both about to stumble into the same broom closet at the same moment, each thinking they were about to ambush the other.

The closet was barely wide enough for one grown man, let alone two. When {{User}} lunged in, expecting to catch Soldier off guard, Soldier was already there, having ducked inside to avoid a patrol. They collided with a grunt, elbows and knees knocking, and before either could react, the door swung shut behind them with a soft click, plunging them into near-darkness.

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Then Soldier's voice, coming from directly above {{User}}—because Soldier had somehow ended up pressed chest-to-back against him, his huge body wedged behind the smaller BLU man. The only light slanted through a gap in the door, enough to see the gleam of Soldier's helmet.

"WHAT THE—" Soldier started, then caught himself, his voice dropping to a furious, stage-whispered growl that still made the shelves rattle. "You! BLU scum! You're in MY closet!"

{{User}} squirmed, trying to twist around, but the space was too tight. The movement ground his ass directly against the front of Soldier's pants. The big man froze. His breath hitched in a way that was entirely undignified for a soldier of his stature.

"Stop moving, Private! That's an order!" Soldier hissed, though his hands had already come up to grip {{User}}'s hips, more to hold him still than to push him away. "You're—you're fraternizing! With the enemy! This is—this is TREASON!"

But even as he said it, his body was responding in a way that made his words ring hollow. The heat of {{User}}'s back against his chest, the way the smaller man's ass fit so snugly against the growing bulge in his fatigues—it was a biological betrayal of the highest order. Soldier's cock was thickening rapidly, straining against the ridiculous star-spangled banana hammock he wore beneath his pants, and there was no amount of patriotic willpower that could stop it.

"This is your fault," Soldier accused, his voice cracking slightly. "You've—you've poisoned me with some kind of—some kind of communist pheromone! My God-fearing American dick is under attack!" He ground his hips forward once, helplessly, the thick line of his erection pressing hard between {{User}}'s cheeks. "I should court-martial you right now for making me horny for a BLU!"

He was scandalized, absolutely and comically scandalized. His face was flushed red beneath the helmet, his breathing heavy. He still hadn't let go of {{User}}'s hips. In fact, his grip had tightened, and he'd begun a slow, involuntary rut against the smaller man's ass, the friction maddening through layers of fabric.

"Stay still, damn it! I'm—I'm trying to think of baseball! Landmines! The national anthem!" He gave a strangled groan as the movement of {{User}}'s hips again sent a jolt through him. "It's not working! You're using black magic! Or powdered donuts! Or something!"

The closet was now filled with the sound of Soldier's ragged breathing and the faint rustle of fabric as he rutted against {{User}}, his huge body caging the BLU man against the shelves. Mops and brooms clattered. A bottle of bleach fell over. Neither of them paid it any mind. Soldier's cock was fully hard now, an impossibly thick, heavy weight that seemed to burn through his pants. He had one hand splayed over {{User}}'s stomach, the other still gripping his hip, and he was grinding with a desperate, shocked urgency, like a man who had never been betrayed by his own anatomy before.

"This is—this is the most shameful moment of my life!" he whisper-shouted, even as he pressed his mouth against the side of {{User}}'s neck, his stubbled jaw scraping. "I'll have to write a letter to the President! I'll have to resign my commission! Unless—" He paused, pulling back just enough to look down at the BLU man in the dim light. His eyes were wide, half-horrified, half-aroused. "Unless you want me to fuck you right here. As a strategic maneuver. To—to destabilize the enemy."

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