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He’s got this all planned out.
And he’s had it planned out for a while, now.
‘Cuz this needs preparation, this needs outlining, this needs perfection. And Scout’s got this down to a tee: During a break time in battles, Scout’s gonna visit the recluse. Easy enough, he does that plenty already, and Sniper won’t suspect anything out of the ordinary.
Have a sit down, chat about anything, fill the air. Also easy enough, they do that plenty, Scout the lead and Sniper occasionally giving his fills with “yeah”s and “that right?” filtered in between. ‘Cuz Snipes always a good listener. ‘Cuz Snipes likes listening to him.
(And that ain’t one of Scout’s many daydreams. He knows Snipes likes his rattling ‘cuz the marksman said so. Driving down the road one time, Scout in the passenger seat, Sniper at the wheel, off to pick up Chinese take-out for the team. And Scout had dropped into a lull during a telling of a memory, a tale as old as time; his first time getting drunk, and his brothers attempting to quicken the hangover by splashing a bucket of water over him.
After the finishing of the story, Scout’s giggling and Sniper’s soft chuckles at the fact Scout accidentally kicked his second eldest brother in the groin out of pure reflex from shock of the water, there then had been a respite in Scout’s talking. Broken only when Scout leans against his window and saying, “I’ll shut up for ya, now.” ‘Cuz he knows Sniper is a man of few words, and a man who enjoys his silence.
Sniper turned on his left flicker, turning into a new lane, his eyes moving from the windshield to see the van safely cross over. His face had been obstructed from view for a moment, for all the moment that he had muttered softly: “I like hearing you.”
Scout didn’t see Sniper turn red, but he sure as hell felt himself begin the stages of morphing into a tomato.
He had continued talking, after that.)
So he’ll talk. He’ll be Snipe’s background noise, set the mood. Stretch a leg out. Lay back against the couch. Get his full frame on display, subtly seasoning the palate.
Talk. Chill out. Ask for a ride out to town, go to dinner. An actual dinner date, not one of those times they already did the same and ate at whatever place was available. An actual date. ‘Cuz Scout’s gonna ask Sniper out. And he’s gonna take the Australian to the finest cuisine America has to offer: Waffle House. His treat, of course. He knows how to treat a man.
Get him romanced good with syrup and dough, building up to Scout’s magnus opus of licking his lips, and sucking on a sausage he ordered. Put on a show, get the marksman sweating, get him hyped to shove Scout into the alleyway next to the restaurant and use up all that pent up energy immediately. Scout’s got that planned too, doing his namesake, scoutin’. That Waffle House was chosen for a reason. The alleyway a perfect place for Sniper to claim him, with rough hands squeezing on his hips and flattening him against the brick wall. Or hands fisted into Scout’s hair, forcing him downwards.
(He might be salivating at the mere thought of putting his mouth to work. Cucumbers are a poor substitute.)
All while using that voice Sniper has when snipin’ the enemy down, like he’s at a carnival shooting range. That deep growl that Scout always attempts to recreate on those lone, lousy nights when he’s only got his hands to entertain himself. There’s only so much he can do on his own, and only so much frustration he can pent up. God, he’s been needing Sniper to touch him practically ever since he laid eyes on the fucker. Sniper calling him a "mongrel" would be icing on that cake.
Scout passes the wreckroom, intending to walk straight by towards his destination. But Demo gives him a wave, seated across a table from Medic, playing cards, Spy meandering out in the background.
“Aye, matie!” Demo booms (geddit?). “Come join us, yeah?”
“Nah, not tonight.” Scout waves them off, his stride paused for just a moment to lay down some jealousy fodder. “I got a date to catch, fellas.”
Scout scoots off, back straight in full confidence and a strut like a peacock. He’s out before he can hear Spy accidentally inhale his cigarette and nearly choke himself to death from the utter surprise from the statement.
Scout continues his trek, out the base, his walk purposeful as he grows closer to Sniper’s van, his home away from home.
He knocks twice in quick succession. “Yo, Legs, lemme in.”
And he does, of course, whenever Scout comes to visit, opening the door with a lopsided grin, a mug of coffee in one hand ‘cuz the man is never seen without one. The blue overlay of the night is cracked with the warm orange of the light inside Sniper’s van, like the man’s opening the door to heaven. He might as be, honestly. All that’s needed to complete the picture is some of Medic’s doves.
“Scout.” He greets, with a nod, hat and sunglasses vacated from his face, welcoming the runner.
“Sniper.” Scout returns, with his own exaggerated bowed head, stepping inside when Sniper allows him space to do so.
Sniper locks the door behind him. “Coffee?” He asks, as Scout heads towards the mini fridge. Snipes always asks, but they both know Scout will deny the offer.
“Nah,” Scout says, opening the mini fridge to grab a Coke, fizzy drinks having always been stocked suspiciously after the first few weeks Scout came knocking, and Sniper allowing the company.
Scout plops onto the couch, Sniper across from him near a dinky table. He picks up a newspaper, the headline about some assassination of a politician Scout doesn’t care about. Though, as he squints at it, he’s pretty sure it was Snipes’ doing (Hot).
“So,” Sniper starts, as Scout takes a swig of his drink. “What’s the news?”
And that’s how it starts, how Scout was anticipating it. Snipes doesn’t need to be present at the base to understand the going-ons in it, ‘cuz Scout will gladly give everything he misses out on. And he does so, complete with gesticulating and re-lifting himself to pace in the small place, getting his jitters out.
He rambles, he meanders, Sniper listens and Scout talks of Soldier having stabbed right through his right hand after attempting, and failing, at stabscotch, and Medic claiming for amputation.
“Can’t say I’m surprised,” Sniper says, eyes still on his paper. “Wanker’s blinded by his own helmet.”
“Yeah, no kiddin’.” Scout scoffs, deciding to re-situate himself with the comforts of the couch. He leans back against the cushions, one leg propped up, the other stretched out. Got the goods directed at Sniper’s direction. Got his body on display like one of those marble Greek statues.
Sniper doesn’t look up from his paper. Scout sniffs, and takes the last gulp of his soda, before he crushes the can with his hands and throws it into an arch into the trash. He scores, but with little fanfair. Snipe’s still focused on the paper.
Alright. The mood is set. The mood is good. All he’s gotta do now is open his mouth and ask a question. Just a question, and change his life forever, for the better. His jitters are already coming back, making him shake his leg, wanting to jump up and take a run around the base like he does every night.
He’s prepared for this. He’s got this, obviously. He’s practiced in front of the mirror and when clobbering chuckleheads in the battlefield, and he’s able to seduce himself. Which obviously points positively to his abilities to seduce Legs. He’s got this shit memorized. Now he just needs to get his mouth back to working order.
Scout doesn’t realize he's been staring a hole into Sniper until the man in question raises his gaze from the paper towards his companion, a single brow in question.
Scout nearly feels like he’s been shocked with a taser, and he needs to re-position himself to a straight sitting position to quell his sudden racing heart.
Alright, fuck, here goes.
Gotta get this puppy on the road. The train’s leaving the station, heading out to conquer Australia. Oh yeah, choo choo motherfucker. Kangaroo’s on the menu, boys.
“Hey,” Scout prompts, and it feels like his mouth is suddenly dry. “Can I ask ya something?”
“‘Course, mate.” Sniper replies, and he infuriatingly returns his attention to his newspaper and nursing his mug of coffee.
“It’s really important.” Scout continues, leaning forward to emphasize his point. “Like, really freakin’ important.” The most important thing in his life, and Scout ain’t playin’.
“Well, shit—awright.” Sniper sets down his mug, folds his newspaper and turns fully to Scout. “Lay it on me.” He says, and there’s a genuine tone interest in his words. ‘Cuz this guy’s a goddamn gentleman, and Scout’s gonna sweep him off his feet.
Sniper’s leaning on his elbows, the spotlight on Scout. The Australian’s grey eyes could be construed as some glittering gem, something the runner could be lost in indefinitely, if Scout was poetic. As it stands, Scout marvels at the other man’s face, and thinks: God I want him to fuck me.
And this is it, this is the Moment. Not the climax of Scout’s allegorical rom-com, but the beginnings of a full-ass trilogy. Quadrilogy. Foreverilogy. What happens now opens the door to having Sniper to himself. To have this guy hold his hand and kiss him silly ‘till there’s nothing left in the world but the two of them. They’ll cuddle (cuddle!) in post-coital glee. Snipes squeezing his hand in all reassurance, rubbing his thumb across Scout’s knuckles and looking at him with the adoration he deserves, like all those fuckin’ romance novels put together. The most beautiful of romance Frankensteins.
Scout already spends a lot of his time in Snipe’s van as is, the intoxicating scent of coffee and cigarettes his own addiction, the time spent with the bushman something that puts him on Cloud 9. He doesn’t need to win the lottery, with what he’s already being paid to smash people’s heads in, but having Sniper—with all his rugged glory—is something no amount of money can compete with. Scout’s gonna play his cards right, he’s gonna ask Sniper out and then they’re going to date. Fuck. Yes.
All the planning, all the preparation, it’s all gonna pay off seamlessly. They’ll go out for dinner, the Waffle House a beacon passion with an near erotic level of grease. A safe and encouraging haven to start their blossoming relationship, a dribble of syrup trickling down Scout’s chin will prompt Sniper to reach over to catch the dribble with his thumb, his hand caressing Scout’s cheek in the process.
Sniper’s thumb will brush against Scout’s lips, reveling then how good and soft and dick-sucking worthy Scout’s mouth is. Coax his thumb inwards, and Scout will suck like a porn star. He’ll make Sniper’s breath hitch. He’ll have Sniper’s gaze turn from something lovey-dovey to something predatory, his smile turned to one of teeth and the walls of the Waffle House will fall away as Snipes has his hand in Scout’s hair while thrusting inwards down the smaller man’s throat.
Messy and rough and Scout will swallow every drop like a dying man. And he does swallow, back in reality, with Sniper across from him, and Scout needs to chant patience down to his nether regions.
Scout licks his lips in preparation. He opens his mouth for The Question.
“Can I blow ya?”
The air seems to freeze over, once the words are out and floating about between the two of them.
There’s a moment, then, of silence. Like any and all audial stimulus has been forcefully removed in their entirety. A good thing, because then Scout’s brain is able to comprehend what just came out of his mouth without interruption.
Alright. Okay. Not exactly the exact words he wanted to deploy, the plan was to have some build up before that. Really hype it up, get Snipes real fuckin’ wrung from the anticipation, go out to dinner first and play some footsie under the table. Get that motherfucker so riled up, so as soon as he’s alone with Scout, he forces the smaller man down on his knees and fucks his throat right there and then. Yeah. Yeah.
Alright. Okay. Plan A’s out, that’s cool. Scout’s a planner (don’t listen to what Spy might say, ya gonna take a toad’s word? Fuck off), a merc’s gotta have a whole system thought out before going out head first. Sniper’s a man of action. No need for pussyfooting. The direct route is the best route with this guy. Get straight to the point, ask to suck the guy’s cock and then commit to it. Go out to dinner later. Footsie then. Amaze the man with cock-sucking prowess now, make him see stars, render him speechless, have him be so fuckin’ amazed he’ll be the one asking Scout for a date.
Train’s still on the tracks, this shit’s going on without a hitch. Sniper’s blank stare is gonna morph into amazement any second now—
“... ‘Scuse me?” Comes a distinctly not blown (hah) away Australian voice. Ain’t no astonishment (yet!), no quivering in his voice to signify his pure and undiluted want. More of—well, Snipe’s voice is more... confused. Discombobulated, if Scout had to put a fancy-smancy word to it. Sniper’s brows are furrowed, his face contorted to mirror the perplexed nature of his voice.
Okay, back the train up. Scout feels like he’s just bonked the guy on the side of the head like he does with the enemy, blindsiding ‘em with his bat before they can even think ‘fuck off,’ and leaving their brains to splatter on the wall.
Sniper’s still staring at him. The train’s about to reverse into the station and blow everything the fuck up. There’s going to be hundreds of casualties. It’ll be on one of Sniper’s newspapers; Scout ain’t getting no Australian dick, global emergency declared.
Fuck. Shit. The camper’s getting hotter and stuffier by the minute. Scout shuffles in his seat.
“Well—y’know,” Scout fumbles, attempting to repair the situation. He’s got this, of course he does. He brings a hand lazily to mimic a motion, jerking the metaphorical dick into his mouth. “Suck ya off.”
Sniper’s silent again, a repeat from moments before. He blinks, like attempting to dispel dust from his eyes, and shifts in his seat.
“Uh,” Sniper starts, averting his gaze to look haphazardly around instead, and Scout feels like his watching the train crash in horrific slow motion. Sparks flying, the bright cloud of an engine exploding blinding him, Spy laughing at him in the distance a heinous reverberating echo banging in the confines of his skull.
Scout scrambles. He needs Sniper’s attention back on him, and he needs the spike of his heartbeat to go down. Spy’s laughing is getting louder, Sniper hasn’t pounced on him (yet?!), the marksman instead is stiff in his posture, leaning back into his seat. Away from Scout. Fuck. Fuck.
“I’m great at sucking dick!” Scout amends quickly, and he’s vaguely aware this his face is a blistering red. Sniper’s eyes are back at Scout, a small victory, his brows raised to his hairline in something that could be described as incredulous.
“Sucked a lot back in Boston, you know,” Scout gives a small chuckle, attempting to lighten the sudden strained atmosphere between them. And it’s true—he blew guys when he needed a quick buck. “Ain’t got no bad reviews, yeah? I’m the master of that shit. Lick and suck ‘till I got every drop, I got the name ‘Sweet Lips’ back home, y’know.”
Scout’s good at what he does. That there ain’t up for debate. He’ll give Snipes the best BJ he’s ever had in his life, and then some. He’s well self-assured (cocksure, which is a real word, thanks, and it fits well) in his abilities, because he’s goddamn skillful. He needs his confidence to ooze off him to rectify the apparent whiplash he’s given Sniper.
There’s another small, but no less excruciating moment of silence, wherein Scout rapidly thinks of the merits of doing what he does best—running—before a small wheeze interrupts it.
Sniper’s shoulders tremble, his leading scoff turning into a soft chorus of chuckles. His posture loosens, wiggling it out as he rubs at his face with a hand. The corners of the man’s lips are upwards, a light smirk, and he produces some of the most sublime sounds Scout’s ever heard. The bushman’s light chortle surrounding Scout with his own reprieve, his own grin growing wide and his morale re-establishes itself as firm footing. Saved, oh yeah, Scout always had this. He’s a planner, remember?
“Shit, mate.” Sniper mutters, giving his eyes one last rub before he straightens and leans leisurely back, looking back to Scout. “Well, I can appreciate a… professional.”
“Yeah!” Scout practically hops in his seat. “Yeah, that’s what I am, a professional.”
“Clearly.” Sniper sighs, and takes hold of his mug to down his coffee in one go. When his mug is re-established on the table, sights back on Scout, the runner still feels himself with a wide grin. He sits, expectant. Sniper taps on the table.
“So,” Sniper begins, slowly. “you want to just do a quickie, then? Here, right now?”
“Not a quickie,” Scout scoffs. Nah, baby, long-term. “A—a foreverie.”
Perhaps not the best choice of wording, as Sniper himself scoffs in return. “What, you gonna fucking sew yourself down there?”
Scout wrinkles his nose. “Ew, no, fuck off. I wanna be your go-to blow job.”
Sniper raises a brow at that. “That’s… a generous offer.”
“Right. You’re gonna get all this, baby,” Scout wriggles in his seat, the most enticing worm he is able to convey. “You wouldn’t turn down such charity, would’ya?”
Sniper snorts with a slight shake of the head. He gives a small fond mutter of “bastard, ” before he stands from his seat. “‘Course I would accept your proposal.”
The absolute euphoria that encompasses Scout is so overpowering he doesn’t notice Sniper moving to unbuckle his belt. Scout jumps from his seat like he’s had a bottle of Bonk!
“So ya gonna go out with me? Yeah?” Scout excitedly spews, eyes directed upwards instead of downwards to where Sniper suddenly stops unbuckling his belt. “We’re gonna go out on a date?”
Sniper blinks down at him. “A—date?”
“Yeah, man!” Scout eagerly exclaims. “Ride out to town, eat out at only the finest of establishments, me wooing you, gotta court you proper.” Scout waggles his brows to further solidify his point, and to further the charm.
“A date.” Sniper deadpans. He shakes his head, small smile emerging. “Y-yeah, yeah. ‘Course. I’d love to, ‘Roo.”
“‘Roo? ” God, Scout already knew this man was smooth, but goddamn. This is some Casanova level shit. Feels like Snipes donned some wings and made himself Cupid, shooting an arrow straight through Scout’s heart, multiple times. “Shit, man, you’re killing me here. Makin’ my knees weak.”
“Well, you’re jumpy like one.” Sniper’s smile is gonna make him black-out, at this rate. “Cute, too.”
What score is this guy at, a triple-kill? Whatever, Scout ain’t counting. All he knows is that Snipes is evidently determined to kill him.
Scout kicks a leg out from the combined weight of Sniper calling him ‘Roo and Cute, and going out on a date. He feels something good swell in his chest. “Well, you’re as handsome as uh-uh—” he waves a hand vaguely in the air, attempting to find an adequate animal. “—a horse. Yeah.” Yeah, ‘cuz Snipes has a long face and probably is hung like one.
“Hmm. Stick to ‘Legs’, ‘Roo.” Scout feels like he could be made of jelly, at that moment. He feels the overwhelming urge to stand on his tippy-toes and tongue wrestle with other man, but Sniper speaks before he is able to.
“So is this...” Sniper starts, shifting on his feet. He waves into the direction of his crotch, where his belt is half-unbuckled, one hand still gripping the thing. “...This still on the table, mate?”
Scout’s brain short-circuits then, eyes suddenly unable to move from the view of Sniper’s invitation, the barest hints of his underwear peeking through with the delight underneath.
Holy shit.
“Abso-fucking-lutely, my man.” Scout rubs his hands together, tongue swiping across his lips, a man on a mission. He promptly kneels like a king to his throne. “Gimme the goods, sugar.”
Sniper, honest-to-God, laugh-snorts, and Scout feels like that alone is his greatest achievement. Well, second-greatest, considering he’s on his knees in front of the guy.
And as he replaces Sniper’s hand at his belt, unsecuring it to open the gates to his bounty, feeling giddiness wrack his entire frame, Sniper’s hand rests on his head, like bestowing a crown. He thinks he now understands what Nirvana feels like.
Scout doesn’t miss the affectionate words that are spoken above him, and he doesn’t think his smile could be any wider, at this rate.
“You’re lucky you’re my favourite cunt.”
Oh, yeah, that’s a privilege he intends to exploit, as he leans forward for his prize.