1 . Name: Anonymous @ 2013-07-29 08:24

It was never her that he was attracted to. It was just the idea of her.

It was just a fantasy he gladly visualized while he was sitting on his sniping point on a particularly lazy summer day. It was when the BLUs were either very lazy or incredibly quick (it was usually the former; few people actually managed to pass him). The sun would burn his skin and make him smell the soon-to-be tan that he, for some reason, rarely got. He lurked for his prey in the shadows, shielded from any and all unwanted contact. True, it used to get quite boring sitting there, alone. Very boring. At times, even lonesome.

But she was never bored.

She ran, skipped, jumped, fell, bonked, smacked, hit her enemies, not even stopping to catch her breath. She was a nettlesome backslapper, the dread of the Heavy and the Spy’s personal pest. Nobody wanted to be around her for much too long. She would talk them to death. Even in heat of battle, she rarely shut up, shouting victorious cries and sometimes referencing that odd American pastime. She swung her bat and scraped her knees, yelling for dispensers or even more frequently, a Medic. She was a child, really. A twenty-something child who would complain and whine about getting shot in the shoulder (like it was still terminal as it was outside the bounds of Respawn), jump and require everyone to look her way whenever she performed one of her jumps or hits. And that same, troublesome child would then turn on her heel and beat the shit of the Spy who dared to stand behind her.

It must have been fun to be her; to be around her. She was always in action, always in motion, as opposed to the still, patient wolf that dwelled in towers like a mad warlock. At times, between filling his jars of Jarate with hot, almost viscous urine and wiping the sweat off his furrowed brow, he tended to watch the jumping jackanapes through his magnifying scope. He loved her lithe, agile legs, moving across the dust and kicking it, sending it flying around her sneakers. It was a good thing that he couldn’t hear her obnoxious drawl among the rapid Gatling guns and blasting bombs. He watched her speed, her grace, her body.

He was jaded when he watched her, and minds lacking excitement loved to fantasize. Her legs sped up across the field, her auburn hair dirtied with dried-up blood and filth that fell on her tanned limbs. Her skin roasted nicely in the desert sun; never burning and always becoming that sweet shade of golden brown.

She had nothing to run from. She was just moving, baseball bat in hand, running her bandaged hands through her messy hair. She shook her head, the fuzzy ponytail jumping around like a jackrabbit. She would lift up the sleeve of her stretched-out shirt whenever it slipped and revealed her pale, spotted shoulder. The Sniper watched the Scout run again, admiring her legwork and absolutely hating that little black skirt she wore… or were those shorts?... either way, he hated them.

Mmm.

A hint of a smirk crept across his rugged, unshaven face without him even knowing it. The longer he watched the despicable nuisance, the hotter he got under the collar, and he found himself sticking his tongue out and running it over his upper lip.

Taut. Brown. Agile.

It must have been so easy to imagine those lively limbs flailing around his hips.

He watched her idly, as she ran and puffed, not wanting to waste a second of that pumped-up energy that the energy drink gave her. Only once did she stop, seeing a new horde of the BLU team. She ran behind a small shed, picking out a yellow and bright red soda can from her bulging backpack.

Speaking of bulging…

The node in her neck bobbed as she gulped down the liquid in one greedy sip. The cherry-flavored toxic mass dripped down her cheek in streaks, falling on her shirt. It dripped down her russet neck, down her cleavage, and for a moment, the Sniper imagined himself sprung over her, licking the sweetened drops off her chest, her legs clinging to him like a baby koala clings to its mother. He’s press her against the wall, his hands flying over her guileless virgin limbs. Oh, he liked that.

He tugged at the front of his pants, loosening them up a bit. Dear God, did he like that.

“Hey!” She shouted, eyes glaring up at the tower. Her small, bandaged fist crushed the can into a lump and dropped it on the dusty ground, kicking it with the tip of her shoe. The Australian moved up from his scope and, once again, she was nothing more than a pestering little ant with a voice that sounded like nails across chalkboard.

“Get your head outta your ass, we gawt a battle to win!” She commanded, tapping the end of her bat against her palm.

She ran again, and this time he did not focus on her movement. He focused on the enemy Heavy and his doting, scampering Medic. Her voice and legs were lost in the fray.

It was never her that he was attracted to. It was just the idea of her. And he...

He shook his head, noticing that the bulge in his pants was still present and unwilling to leave that soon.

He was a man of integrity. And integrity, as he knew, was the ability to stand by an idea.