Chapter Text
Like with any other group of lads stuck in one place for too long, locker room talk occasionally brings about the crude question of tits or ass and whether or not one is better than the other. Sniper doesn't often volunteer his opinion on the matter unless pressed but he's usually ready with an appreciative woof whistle for the centerfold of a voluptuous sheila on a porno mag or a new poster taped to the public shower wall. He's not immune to the cliches; curves-in-all-the-right-places with endless gams or however the saying goes.
Funnily enough, he knows Spy's preferences. Tits man, that man is. And Spy isn't above making some sly pun or double entendre about a busty gal from his past conquests. Real tomcat shit that Sniper knows isn't posturing or overcompensating. Spy's bloody lived it. Sometimes when they're being frisky Spy will give Sniper's chest a little squeeze and move on, like maybe he's wishing he can get a bigger handful. It doesn't bother Sniper. Sniper knows what he's good for and what he ain't, and Spy keeps sleeping with him so apparently it's not a deal breaker.
It never occurs to him that Spy might harbor some insecurities with how he carries on, always pompous and confident and doubly so in the communal showers.
Sniper blinks at the new poster pinup, hair still damp, towel midway folded at his hips.
Scout nudges him with a grin. "Oh man, buddy. Never seen you look twice like that. Missy caught your eye?"
Stunning brunette, long hair, exposed back, a cheeky little smile with enough bend to her back to show what the photographer wants to flaunt. He likes it enough to tuck the image in the back corner of his mind for later, hence the staring.
"Got a nice rear end, is all," Sniper says, knocking his knuckles against it. It's true. His statement gets a couple of chortles from the rest of the crew, including Spy.
But when Sniper glances at him, Spy is looking at the poster with the kind of measured intent he usually reserves when studying a new mark. Still with a leering smile, of course, but Sniper has gotten familiar with the looks Spy throws when he's giving some sheila the up 'n down—and this ain't it.
Not enough tits on her, Sniper guesses, and finishes dressing.
It's not hard to admit that he likes how trim Spy looks in the suit and vest. Used to be, with denial always swinging its fists, but not anymore. Spy is less inclined to take advantage of it the more Sniper is able to give a simple, casual compliment like a normal speaking citizen of society instead of stewing and sweating in jaw-clenching silence.
"You look nice. Where did you come back from?" Sniper asks as Spy dumps himself into the corner the camper's small dining bench.
Spy grunts. He's wearing a new suit of neutral colors, the cut and fit all traditional-like that suggests he's come from some kind of stuffy big-wig event of new money folks. Plain but well-made, considering how the jacket rides up Spy's backside and still looks effortlessly good. The suspenders tug his trousers higher as he curls into a semi-exhausted lump, shaping his ass in the air as he buries his face into his arms.
"Classified. But I'll have you know it was a terrible time with terrible food and worse drinks," Spy says, muffled. "Absolute waste of my skills, being assigned this contract."
Spy used to be so button-up around everyone. It's funny to see him lower his guard enough to turn into a sulky sad sack like the rest of 'em when a mission goes wrong.
Sniper stretches over the table to pat his arse in sympathy. When that gets no reaction, he starts rubbing each side in soothing circles. Not like he can pet Spy's hair with that mask of his on, and Spy's just far away enough that Sniper's too lazy to reach over.
Spy lets out a sigh, lifting his head with a miffed expression. He takes Sniper's hand off his bum while he sits up.
"You'll put me to better use," Spy says, sounding tired and exasperated, but his gravelly murmur still sends a little shiver down Sniper's spine, especially when Spy stands and comes around to slide into Sniper's side of the table.
Spy remains dour about the mission, and Sniper gets that Spy's just here for a quickie to blow off steam. While Spy situates himself over Sniper's lap, Sniper brings his hands around to grab Spy's arse, kneading the lean muscle. He really does like the how the vest tapers his slim waist, narrowing down to the fit of the trousers. With Spy straddling him, all the angles and lines of his body are like crisp folds of paper, sharp and precise and nothing soft. Sniper doesn't give a fig for fashion, but he knows what looks good—that being Spy's trousers hugging his ass.
Spy guides Sniper's hands to his chest, frowning, but bends his head down to kiss him slow and messy. Sniper plays at Spy's chest for a bit, enough to unbutton the vest and sneak his thumbs in to rub at Spy's nipples through the dress shirt. The annoyed stiffness to Spy's posture relaxes as he sinks into Sniper's palms.
Nothing like having a good pash before the real work starts. Some time in the middle of all that, Sniper's hands make their way back to Spy's backside, first under his jacket, trailing down his spine, and then back to palming one asscheek, giving it a firm squeeze.
Swear to god, Sniper can feel Spy's muscles clench. He lets out a huff, barely a real breath, but Spy leans away, again taking Sniper by the wrist to redirect it someplace else—like the front of his pants. Sniper cups the bulge automatically, feeling the weight of Spy getting hard for him, but that doesn't distract from the growing mystery of the night.
"What, your arse off limits?" he asks, going for Spy's belt. "Got it hurt or something?"
Spy allows Sniper to pull off the belt and forcefully gives Sniper another kiss and nip at his lower lip.
"… I've had enough of having my skills be misused for tonight," Spy says mildly. He takes Sniper's hand again, bringing Sniper's fingers to his mouth to suck lightly at the tips before sighing, "I've more suitable assets for you. Use them."
Spy's using that low and flirty voice of his. The one that sometimes makes Sniper's brain leak from his ears, and maybe his brain does leak a bit, all the parts that are responsible for keeping his nose clean, logic saying he should shrug it off and pretend that he doesn't give a fuck about Spy beyond shallow companionship and sex.
And Spy's mouth is so damn wet and hot. Sniper can imagine it around his cock, or Spy's slippery fingers in his ass, curling them just right to get Sniper moaning like a whore. Sure, Spy's got plenty of great skills at his disposal. Could go on and on for two nights if they could.
Sniper sort of knows what this is about. He has the image of that pinup poster in his head, the brunette with the impressive behind. He's already wanked off to it last week. No reason to tell Spy that, but he has a feeling Spy knows that he did.
And it's not like Spy is being insecure or self-conscious about his own body. The man's too fucking old and jaded for that. Sniper can recognize the cold and calculating look Spy had given the poster and how Spy had expressed his disdain for his contractor tonight. It's that mercenary instinct in all of them to want to be competent in every way. It's being aware of your own strengths, knowing how to use your own skillset to its full potential—and it's only funny to think how Spy considers the lack of curve to his bottom a detriment and not an asset.
Sniper kisses him. Drags him down to hide his grin while shoving his tongue between Spy's teeth.
It's just fucking shagging another bloke on the team. It's not that bloody deep. Why Spy decides to confabulate the two goes clear over Sniper's head.
"I like your flat arse," Sniper mumbles, stopping when he needs the air. "C'mon. Turn around."
Spy gives him a stare. Like he's trying to read a cipher or something. Brilliant. This is what Sniper gets for rooting a spy. This is why it's easy to give Spy compliments. He doesn't quite believe in any of them.
Sniper gives his rear end a smack, and Spy's brow goes up in disbelief.
"Mate, you're the one asking to be used. So get t'being useful," Sniper huffs.
Spy rolls his eyes but does as he's told, halfway fighting against Sniper on the bench until Sniper has to be the one to pull Spy's trousers and pants down, and even then Sniper has to keep him from tyring to grind back in his lap.
"No, y'slippery bastard, stay. Don't try to sit. Just lean forward on the table," Sniper groans, wiggling and sliding down in the seat while pushing Spy to prop his elbow up. Bloody hell. Of all the places he's trying to do this.
There's a second where Sniper runs his hand down, knocking his knuckles against Spy's rump to make him lift it slightly. He catches Spy's shoulders hunching in an embarrassed way, and Sniper really likes the look even though there's nothing pinup-worthy about it. Hell, he doesn't even know if Spy's a brunette. Likely not, judging from the hairs on his bum.
Speaking of, Sniper's got both hands on proper, each cheek in his palm. Real, real good. Easy to grab and spread apart, kneading the skin and dragging his teeth down the middle. Spy's breath stutters, thigh muscles flexing before he hunkers down over the table.
"….Ass man," Spy finally says, relaxing in Sniper's hold. "And not even one with a good eye for them. No wonder you don't tell anyone."
Next time the lads start bickering about it in the locker rooms, Sniper resolves to holler about ass until Spy needs to leave the room out of sheer mortification.
"Too fuckin' right," he says, wetting his lips, and lowers his head down to prove it.