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Theme Me	By : dizzymushroom Category: +S through Z > Team Fortress 2 Views: 1860 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with Valve or Team Fortress 2. This is a work of fiction. I am not making money through this work.

Chapter List
- 1-Theme Me
- 1
Note: I'm proud of myself for this. I've never actually finished a piece of porn before. Therefore, constructive criticism is a requirement for anyone reading this, please and thank you. I apologize for the shortness.
Theme #55: Masturbation
The Cloak and Dagger, handy invention that it is, keeps him safely invisible as he waits. It won't be much longer now; The sun has been down for several hours, and he can hear the various noises of the REDs bedding down for the night.

This has become a bit of a vice for him, unhealthy in every sense of the word, and yet, like a fine drink or an expensive cigarette, he cannot help but crave these nights where he can slip in, undetected, and indulge himself. He has yet to be caught doing so, even after nearly three months, and this gives him a feeling of boldness and security that he really cannot afford but prefers to affect anyway.

A good fifteen minuets later and he is beginning to worry that he will have to sneak back to BLU unfulfilled that night. The RED base has fallen silent, but there is no sign of the owner of the room. This has happened once or twice before, and he is pretty sure he knows where he could find the boy, should he be so inclined to seek him out, but he'd like to think he's not that desperate for a bit of fun. Anyway, even if he was, it wasn't like he could just- but then he hears the loud, brash voice he has been waiting for out in the corridor, calling out a very rude goodnight, coming closer. He smiles to himself, slightly disconcerted but willing to ignore the undignified amount of relief that voice brings with it. He had almost thought...well, where else was the boy to sleep? Up in the Sniper's loft? Certainly not. He doubts he has worked up quite that amount of courage yet. It will be a sad day for him when he finally does.

Scout practically throws his door open, catching it with his foot as it rebounds off of the wall and kicking it closed. The boy is scowling, his shoulders hunched forward and his body drawn tight with tension. RED lost the day's round of fighting along with their newest set of intelligence, and Spy has no doubt that, being the only Scout on the RED team, a healthy portion of the blame for that had been heaped upon the hapless child. This works in Spy's favor, of course, so he can hardly feel bad about it, but considering the boy spent most of the battle in respawn because of him, he feels he at least owes him some pity. He has no doubt that the RED Sniper has just spent a long couple of hours listening to exactly how many ways Scout is going to get his revenge on that dashing BLU debonair of a Spy. It is almost enough to make him laugh, but that would be stupid on his part, so he doesn't.

He watches silently as Scout toes off his cleats and kicks them across the room where they thud against the wall and flip a couple of times before joining the helpless mess that passes for a floor. On the other side of the wall, the RED soldier shouts something unintelligible and Scout, in the process of peeling off his grimy, dirt stained socks, shouts something rude back. When the solder responds again in kind, he throws one of his socks at the wall, but it sails to the floor miserably short. Scout, apparently loosing interest, flops backwards onto his bed with a sigh.

A peaceful silence falls over the base. Even Scout seems to be succumbing to it, some of the nervous tension draining from his slender body, his eyelashes fluttering closed as he reclines back on his mattress, tucking one hand up under his head. It is an appealing image, and Spy thinks that, with different lighting, the boy would make a decent model for a painting- his sharp angles and sun-bronzed skin would be lovely on canvas, but they deserve a softer, more sensual light than the harsh illuminations of the florescent bulbs the forts are supplied with.

Slowly, lazily, Scout lifts his free hand and removes his hat and headset, running the palm of his hand over his short, tousled curls before letting the headgear drop with a muffled thump to the floor beside his bed. Just as slowly, he peels his shirt up over his head, tossing it aside as well and kicking his way out of his pants. Spy watches all of this appreciatively, and waits.

The boy always starts off slowly, hesitantly, as if he isn't quite sure what to do with himself. His fingers flutter uncertainly above his abdomen, tracing absent-minded patterns above the skin, stalling, thinking. Spy can already see the boy's length beginning to fill beneath his boxers, so there is no doubt as to where his fingers want to be- Spy knows where he wants them to be, but he doesn't get a say in this.

Eventually the boy capitulates to the urging of his body and the tips of his fingers skim flesh, dancing through the scattering of ginger curls just under his bellybutton, traveling feather-light down his hip to the elastic of his boxers, then over the material until they ghost over the hardening flesh beneath it. The boy takes a deep, shuddering breath and continues leaving teasing brushes across the forming outline of his cock. Spy watches greedily, his gaze flickering back and forth from the boy's hand to his face, observing carefully where his long lashes leave trembling shadows across his slowly flushing cheeks. Scout makes a low humming sound in the back of his throat as he adjusts the angle of his hand so that he can palm himself gently through the fabric and begins to carefully knead the flesh. His cock is surprisingly eager under his hand, filling and raising under his careful ministrations. The boy's lips move slightly, the tip of a pink tongue darting out to wet them, making them glisten. He shifts restlessly on the bed, flexing his toes as his hips shift upward in small, slow circles, grinding up into his palm as his hand presses down, fingers curling around the flesh as it hardens enough for him to get a grip on it through his boxers.

It isn't long until the thin material is doing little to hide or even restrain much of anything. Spy licks his lips, feeling his own swelling cock press inquiringly against the fly of his trousers. His hands twitch against his thigh with the urge to touch, but he has done this enough times that it has become almost routine, and he can ignore the growing discomfort for now.

"Fuck..." Scout's voice is almost non-existent, a breathy whisper layered thick with need. His hand leaves his cock for a moment, but only so that he can push down his underwear, allowing his dick that small, last amount of freedom. It pops free, dark and swollen, to stand out proudly from his pelvis. Its head is already glistening with pre-cum, a drop beading on the tip and slowly slipping down...

Spy licks his lips again, focusing intently only on the sight before him and sternly not sparing any concentration to the many ideas and fantasies that dance temptingly on the peripheral of his mind. Loosing himself to those thoughts would be a bad idea- he's almost certain that if he allows himself, one night, to imagine himself slipping up to the boy cloaked, holding his hips down and taking his cock into his mouth and sucking him to completion, then the next night he may actually want to do so. And the next night. And maybe, the night after that, the temptation would be to strong. Maybe he would slide silently out of the chair he had 'claimed' as his own, press the boy down into the mattress...he is only human after all, and if he cannot resist the siren call that has lead him here so many times already, what makes him think that he can resist something so much more tempting? But doing that, giving himself away, is forfeiting the game, automatically revoking his 'free pass,' you could say, and he is not willing to slip up so thoroughly just yet.

So he watches hungrily as the boy takes himself back in hand with a mostly-choked off moan as he swipes the pad of his thumb over the head, smearing the glinting wetness across the slit and down the bulb to the ridge, and doesn't think about the way that thick, hard length would feel in his gloved hands, doesn't give knowledge to the thought that he could make the boy moan so much louder than the breathy half-whimpers he only allows himself.

The Scout's hand picks up its pace, twisting slightly on every up-stroke, his hips twitching up into the touch as his breathing speeds. The flush from his cheeks has crept its way down his neck like a spreading stain, a fine layer of perspiration appearing on his forehead. The noises that escape him are a little more choked, a little more desperate and a little louder. He raises his other hand to his mouth, biting down on the filthy gauze that still wraps both hands. He never bothers to peel it off before he does this, and Spy has often wondered, later, how he can stand the rough texture of it against his most sensitive areas. It has never seemed to bother the boy so he assumes it is some kind of fetish. Or he is so used to it he doesn't even notice, but the first has a kind of appeal to it, so he generally continues with that train of thought instead.

Spy's own hands are gripping the material of his pants so hard he had no doubt he is creasing it terribly, but he doesn't case. His cock is straining the front of his pants now, pressing up insistently and begging for attention. He continues to deny it, of course- it is as much a test of his own fortitude as it is the promise of being able to get himself off unrestrained once he is out of the danger-zone of the RED base that keeps his hands firmly where they are- but he has to carefully regulate his breathing. He doubts the Scout will hear him over his own writhing and gasping, but it is another chance he does not want to take.

The Scout doesn't make it easy for him, arching up off the bed a little as the jerking motion of his hips and hands begin to take on a frantic edge. He's practically trying to shove his fist into his mouth by this point, and even that's not doing a whole lot to stifle the noise he's making. Spy sits stiffly in his chair, gripping his pants so hard his knuckles begin to ache. Scout's toes are curling in his sheets, the hard muscles of his legs and ass, torso and arms flexing and shifting underneath taunt skin as he drags himself closer and closer to the release he craves. Finally he gives up on biting his hand, choosing to clench his teeth and grip the bedsheets beneath him instead as his other hand works his twitching, jerking cock.

"S-" Spy closes his eyes briefly, opens them again in time to watch as Scout finally cums, trembling and panting and continuing to fist himself desperately as the milky fluid spills over his hand and onto his waist. Some of it, on the boy's down-stroke, makes it up to his chest where it glistens triumphantly on his skin in the harsh florescent light. Spy watches, soaks this up, struggling now to keep his breaths shallow and quiet as he lets the image burn itself into his memory for later, more intimate viewing.

"Sniper... the name is barely whispered, uttered on the last wave of pleasure in the tide of the boy's orgasm, but it is filled with the longing and devotion of the young and besotted. Spy ignores the sharp, out of place feeling of intrusion the name always seems to bring to him, and focuses instead on the way the boy goes limp on his bed, panting his way through the aftermath, spent cock stilling against his hip after a few last weak spurts, limbs spread out in a way that might otherwise be called ungainly but now possess a lazy sort of elegance. The mess of semen on his belly and chest is beginning to run and drip down his sides and into the hollows his bones and muscles make beneath his skin. Spy is now more aware of his own cock than ever, and he can feel it twitching and throbbing, trapped inside his own pants, painfully constricted and begging for release. He is almost dizzy with the urge to touch himself, but he can't. Not here. Not yet. But he needs to leave soon. Very soon.

Another long silence fills the room. Scout's breathing has more or less evened out by the time he finally opens his eyes. He spends a moment staring blankly at the ceiling before he casts a guilty glance at the small wooden cross hanging innocently on the wall just above Spy's head. A blush of a different sort darkens his cheeks and he wipes his hand halfheartedly against his thigh as if trying to get rid of the evidence before giving up and pushing himself up from the bed. He spends a couple of minuets rooting around through his room and collecting various toiletries, and completely avoids looking at the cross again as he pulls on a robe and slips quietly out the door.

Spy gives himself a couple of minuets, both to give the Scout time to make it to the shower room and to take the edge off of his own arousal. When he does stand, he still has to carefully adjust himself before heading out, already looking forward to and, indeed, planning RED's next defeat.
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