A friend prompted me with doing a few Class & You fics and I had this idea that the "you" half is all behind-the-scenes-staff - kitchen and laundry and what have you. I'm a stickler for logic and it bothers me whenever a random stand-in character just appears out of nowhere for the sole purpose of boning some class. So, uh, here's the first of those and probably my least favorite (I am not a Scout fan). Gender ambiguity fun ensues. I'll just warn you, my writing style is a little strange and I like to wax overly poetic about stupid shit. Smirk/The Butterflies - Scout & You Your face was growing hot, and not just with the steam that rose in billowing clouds out of the sink as you scrubbed - almost-clean plate in one hand, sud-soaked sponge in the other. Your apron is messied from a days' work - that's three meals a day, making no mention of the cleaning work in between - and your hair a likewise mess, but normally that wouldn't bother you. No, just today, it happens to be quite a problem, one that you frantically attempt to fix up and pat down whenever your current partner looks in the opposite direction. It just had to be him, didn't it? Murphy's Law, you guessed, would have it that you are given dishes duty with Scout on an uncomfortably hot, humid night, cramped in the small back of the base's kitchen, almost shoulder to shoulder as you both systematically powered through the burgeoning sink of dirtied dishes that a team of nine men and their behind-the-scenes crew might create. Which is to say, quite a few. You knew him, but just marginally enough to be flustered when he did those... things. During breakfast, you'd try your best to casually slide his ordered usual (pancakes, of course) in front of him, but his cocky little smile and nod put the casual right out of that. Bring out his soda at lunch, only to be met with that smirk jutting rudely out from the rest of his boyish face, blue eyes dancing even under the broad shadow of his cap. And, god help you, slide him a tray during dinnertime, and even in his bruised, tired, slumping end-of-the-day stature, his usual polite "thank ya" put a knot in your stomach, which doubled up on itself when you made eye contact and he smiled, tired and genuinely thankful. Mama taught him some manners after all, even if the boy did still wear his hat at the table. And now, here he is, humming ever-so-lightly to himself as he dries and shelves the dishes you rinse. The cap of contension now lies, discarded in the heat, on the far side of the kitchen, removed upon entering the varitable steam-cooker of a linoleum prison. After you'd made your hellos, chat came with some difficulty, the butterflies in your stomach now rampant and intent on gracing your sensitive ribcage with their flitting wingtips with every word he spoke. The smirk never left his face, not even as he complained to you about dishes duty. "Man, I tried to trade out for sweepin' or laundry or somethin'," Scout shrugged halfheartedly, sliding a stack of sterile-white plates into their respective cupboard, "Dishes just aren't my thing. My ma did them when I was back home, guess they just never grew on me." Sweat was just beginning to darken his light dusting of mousy hair, already crushed down to his head from a long day in the sun. You watch with a little smile pecking at the corner of your mouth as he heaves another heavy load up over his head into an empty cupboard, the sleek muscles of his exposed arms gliding under fair - albeit bruised - skin. You were about to make a remark in response to his statement when he quite suddenly turned and caught you staring - which was rather rude of you, actually, serves you right to be caught. The halfassed smile that constantly played at his face grew just so slightly with his ego as he made his half-turn to face you, those sharp blue eyes aggrivating your blasted butterflies once more. You could feel your face growing even redder as you tried to quickly turn back to your work, but once Scout got on a tangent, there was no stopping him. "Checkin' out the guns, huh? I don't blame you." His cocky voice drifted like the steam through the room, he himself inspecting the guns in question, flexing his (admittely nice looking) arms beneath his stare. "They come naturally when you do the stuff I do, plus workin' out, that too..." He trailed off as you concentrated harder on your scrubbing, and you realized with a little start that he was silently looking at you, that same narcicisstic smile planted on his handsome face. When you turned to face him, his arms were crossed, placing him in a quintessential knowing stance. You couldn't stop yourself before the word bubbled out of your mouth in a frustrated inclination - "What?" "You dig me. No, it's totally clear, you can be honest, I know I'm pretty much prime and all. Not to mention when you're faced with the crop a' old-timers like everyone else is here." He shrugged, closing his eyes momentarily as he turned back to his growing pile of dishes, towel in hand. "It makes sense, though, why yer always lookin' at me funny and blushin' and stuff." The smirk on his face was almost unbearable in vauntingness now. Even if what he was saying was true, you were determined to prove him wrong. You huffed a little melodramatically, as if what he was saying was to ridiculous to even laugh at. "I'm the only server on the base, I've gotta look at everyone. When I bring them their food." You reassured him with another slightly melodramatic roll of the eyes as you plunged a mug into the soapy depths. "And just because you and I are close in age doesn't mean I've gotta 'dig you'." Feeling as though you covered your ass sufficiently, you decided to cut your defense short, hoping he'd either revoke his statement or, even better, drop it altogether. He harumphed quietly, still sneering as he inspected the last of the plates a little too strenuously. You were almost back to a regular heart rate and more focused on getting those last few silverware pieces done when he spoke again, a little abruptly, in a voice more coated with faux vaingloriousness than you'd heard from him before. "Well, uh, it's kinda possible that I'd been diggin' on you for a little while," Scout shrugged, "I mean, just because we ARE kind of close ages, and you're not really bad-lookin' or anything like that, and you're... nice, I guess, not a lot of the guys are really nice and that's cool." Now it was him that avoided eye contact, shelving the remaining dishes that you'd passed along during his short statement. There was none of that politeness in it this time, just him coating his words in false cavalierity to make up for that small note of question and - was that nervousness quavering in his final intonation? This must be a breakthrough. In an almost role-reversal, you felt a soft grin float to your lips as you watched him out of the corner of your eye, putting away the last of your chore, your hands working themselves dry on your apron to no avail. You didn't even know it was possible for the self-centered Scout to feel in any semblance of that way, especially towards someone like yourself. Even the fact that he tried to play it off so cool, like he always did, made your knees quiver a bit. You were right on the verge of admitting your rather schoolgirl-ish feelings when you realized Scout wasn't even standing there anymore. Fast as he was prone to being, he had sauntered unseen to the gaping doorway of the kitchen, and had a hand laid on the light switch for the main overheads. "You mind if I turn these off now? Our work's done in here and I wanna get to bed." The tone of his voice implied that he'd forgotten all about your previous shortlived conversation, and with a disapproving sag from those inner butterflies, you resigned yourself to keeping up the facade of nonattraction. "Go ahead," You called back, a little more aggrivation hanging in your words than intended, which you fixed with an overwhelmingly neutral, "I've still got to dry off back here, I'll get the lights in the back." A curt grunt of agreeance from Scout as a small clang resounded from the massive lights shutting off. In the meantime, you dried your hands off, absentmindedly taming your steam-mussed hair at the same time with an errant hand. You listened as you flipped off your half of the lights - a swivel on heel as the lithe shape of his slight shoulders disappeared into the hungry darkness of the base hallways. Several light footsteps later, he was gone down the hall, leaving nothing but quietly echoing steps behind him. And his hat! It's possible that you subconsciously took the opportunity for a quick conversation more as you snatched up the plain cap, lying forgotten on the counter near the front, and quickened your pace in his direction. His footfalls were heavier as they lead away, and gossamer moonlight from the occasional open-curtained window made his figure an easy one to follow. Scout slowed and turned when he noticed that he wasn't prowling alone in this dark corridor near his room. You slowed and eventually halted as you neared him, unable to read his expression in the dark. "Forgot your hat," You panted, slightly out of breath from the jog. "Didn't think you'd want to run off withou-" "When I said you weren't bad-lookin', I meant you were actually very nice lookin'." Scout suddenly blurted, cutting you off mid-sentence. As you cocked your head slightly, it dawned on you that this was the first time you'd seen him flustered, and that he'd been visibly so since he left the kitchen. You let that dreadful word slip from your mouth once more - "What?" "Look, I'm not great at expressin' some things," he shrugged - this time a more exasperated and almost ashamed event than before - and continued, "But I kinda let it go to to my head when you were lookin' at me, and, uh, I kinda got a problem with that happenin'." The smile that had been hiding just under the surface of your own face breached as you recognized the moon-highlighted expression on his face as apologetic. That's where those manners went. You chuckled very slightly, the only response you could muster at that second. "I can see that," You managed after a short, awkward moment. His baby blues still darted around in avoidance, that smirk of his wittled down to an unsure grimace as he floundered for more words. Before he could find them, you stood on tiptoe just so slightly - he was quite the tall boy - and planted a gentle kiss on his unsuspecting mouth, an act of impulse you almost never caved in to (but now seemed like a good time to start). You pulled away, a mutual look of mixed bewilderment and almost-naivety on your faces. While his remained, yours quickly faded into a small, somewhat guilty smile, signifying that, yes, you'd lied just a little, too, you'll forgive him if he'll forgive you. Upon seeing that grin of yours form, his returned as well, although a little more relieved than anything else. Just as suddenly as it had happened the first time, you were kissing him again, despite the two of you being a great deal less unsuspecting. His arms were hooked around your shoulders this time, pulling you together beyond where your lips met, pressing your chest to his in a tight hug. The kiss was almost innocent in its sincerity, nothing but two peoples' faces trying to be as close together as possible, the tip of your nose grazing his slightly freckled cheek as you moved to pull back again, this time the smirk on both your faces. "You're not so hard on the eyes yourself," you chuckle after a few breathless moments, a hand on his chest assuring you that his heart was beating just as quickly and erratically as your own. He clasped his larger hand over yours, bring it up to his face to briskly kiss your knuckles, never so much as relieving pressure from the arm slung around your shoulder, holding him close to you, which was apparently just how he liked it. Which was lucky for you, because you felt the same way, quite comfortably warm despite the hot weather, breathing easy at last with your face buried in the divot of his collarbone. Breath hot on your temple, he not-quite-whispered to you, "My room's just a few doors down," urging you out of your pleasant hiding place, although still under the gentle pressure of his arm around your shoulders as you both strolled down the hall, in no particular hurry, you still clutching his hat in a free hand. Your mind was racing to the point of all other things becoming a blur. Thoughts rattled inside your head with every rise and fall of your steps, bobbing slightly against Scout's shoulder. It would have been helpful to see into his mind for only a second, just to gain some clarity and maybe a little level-headedness - he seemed so calm, if not lightly redfaced at the moment, a spring in his step that was not there before your lips met. And then you were at his door, with you hanging behind as he opened up and let you in, flicking the switch that let dim light flood the square room for just the split second before you struck out and turned it back off. He countered with a small sound of confusion. "I like the moonlight," You explained, a slightly playful tone having taken in your voice. Scout didn't seem to mind striding over to his single window and flaying open the curtains, letting the both of you bathe in the pure moonlight of the summer night that poured through the pane of the window. He leaned against the wall by the window to shuck off his shoes, working with a surprising slowness and deliberation. Those were followed by socks, gloves, pants - leaving a scantily clad Scout to stand up straight, reaching behind him to peel away the tight uniform shirt he bore every single day. The glow of the light over his skin was breathtaking, almost porcelain, appeareaing to have a purifying, healing effect as it touched at all his bruises, cuts, scars. Your eyes darted over those things as his clothes piled up in a heap on the floor, a sympathetic glint flickering in them as you tallied up the Scout's various maladies. Instead of waiting, you went to him, a sudden will overcoming you to wish him well again, despite the fact that he'd made no deal of the wounds. You placed your hands back on his smooth chest, appreciating the gentle twitch of every muscle, every pump of his now calmed heart that you were so determined to get racing again. It possessed you in an almost matronly way to bend to his arms and stomach and kiss every one of those ailments, bless every one of them away with a touch of your lips and a great deal of sympathy. How could you complain about working in a hot kitchen when all the working classes are out there getting rattled around so badly, you reprimanded yourself, first and foremostly crooking your neck to peck a glaring, battered spot on Scout's chest with a gentle kiss. Before you could go further, Scout hooked a slim hand under your chin and pulled your face upward to face his, hair glowing red-gold in the halo of the moonlight backing him. The look on his face was crippling, endearing and warm, so unlike the Scout you'd served so often in the mess hall. "You don't havta do that," He said with a smile - not a smirk but a smile - as he placed a hand at your waist. "I'll be just fine." You reached a hand up to grasp his that cradled your chin, lips twitching into a worried crescent. Your bodies pressed together like this, you became aware of the heat of his crotch, alluring just behind the soft material of his breifs. Your attention was drawn there, the hand having discarded his hat at the door traveling to the elastic band at his waist while his blue eyes watched your face with piqued interest. While your hand rest there, touching at the bones of his jutting hip, his began to work the buttons of your work shirt, unsurprisingly quick and skillful, leaving your shoulders bare in no time. You kicked your own shoes off, working your way backwards to his well-made bed, pulling the barely clothed Scout by the hand with no reluctance from his end. Soon enough, you were sitting together, mouths on each other once more, this time open and lapping, eyes closed and hands gripping. He was intent on getting your pants off, and in your overheated frustration, you were as well. With some teamwork and a few breathy chuckles between the two of you, they slid down your thighs, pooling at your ankles, flicked away with a small kick. It was plain to see that the sight of your exposed, radiant skin, smooth and flawless, excited the already aroused Scout, proving itself in the growing tent in his shorts. He became bearing, pressing down on you, coaxing you wordlessly into laying back with him over you, casting a hazy shadow over your already excitement-blurred eyes. You didn't need sight so much, anyway - just the smell of it all was enough to drive you crazy. Scout's undeniable musk, sweat and the faint undertone of some aftershave long gone and possibly even some fragrant soap from a shower that morning. It was splendid. Fantastic. All-encompassing and lustful. Hands at his waist again as he laid a plentiful amount of short kisses on your sensitive neck, your fingers gently worked their way under the elastic, this time pulling them away, careful not to catch on his sharply portruding cock, still stiffening even as you yanked his breifs to the crook of his knees. Scout hissed inward sharply as he became aware that he was visible, might as well be naked, stark as the day he was born. In return, he leaned away, hooking his thumbs in the band of your underwear as he did so, not-so-gracefully pulling them down and off your feet before tossing them aside and hovering over you once more. That smirk touched both your faces, the gleeful beam that very well suited his soft features and pleasantly arching eyebrows, mischevious in a way, but attractive in so many more. He spoke the first words that had been said in quite a few lustful minutes. "You ready?" He asked in a voice deep with anticipation. You felt the need to ponder just for a moment, if only to figure how to go about this whole messy ordeal. After you nodded, biting your lip just the tiniest bit - enough to catch his attention - you placed a cautionary hand on his shoulder, stopping him from further movement. You had a few requests of your own to share. "Would you sit down?" You asked, voice a little shaky - oh, those butterflies were back, a thousand times worse than they ever had been, a whole colony of butterflies in your chest and stomach tickling your insides and it was good. Although a bit confused, Scout did not object, and somewhat awkwardly positioned himself on the opposite end of the bed, spread-eagled, that stark exclamation point of an erection leering almost painfully full up from a thin thatch of mousy-brown hair. When he'd made himself comfortable, you got up and angled yourself although you were sitting in his lap, which, really, you were. With a knee placed on either side of his thigh, you were hovering at the very top, his dick just on the verge of entering you, the breath in his throat catching as you moved forward to taste his lips another time. Simultaeneously, he gave up a slight moan and gripped at your wrist, holding you to the spot you were at - not that you'd want to leave, anyway, his chest firmly against yours, hearts pounding like your lives depended on it. Unceremoniously, yet still quite deliciously, he slipped into you, eliciting a mutual grunt from your throats, gutteral and passionate and deep. Animal instinct took over before you knew it, and quite suddenly you were riding him for all you were worth, rocking both your bodies with carnal thrusts and slams and the frantic meeting of flesh-on-flesh. The butterflies weren't so much butterflies as they were dragons now, hot and fiery and bursting inside you with ignited breath and flame. Scout's nose was practically in your ear as a single hand tousled your hair, too lost in pleasure to get a decent grip on anything, your name leaving his mouth in soft gasps every so often. There was a moment when, for the life of you, you didn't care if he was enjoying this as much as you were, lost in all your fireworks and bursting scapes of stars, but it was oh so apparent that he was, head lolling back in lax motions, leaning on his elbows, sweat beading at his brow and rolling down the defined slopes of his soft cheeks and beyond. It was art. Together, you were making a work of art. For some strange reason, it touched your mind how concerned with your appearance you had been an hour ago, compared to now, how you reveled in your cumulative sweatiness, in the gently tousled look of Scout's fair hair, in the rising blush of his cheeks that gave you a warning sign that he was on the edge, much like yourself. The heat was building in your stomach, in your heart and lungs, and in what felt like no time, you were clawing at his back, softly scraping his exposed shoulder with your searching teeth and tongue, looking for something for your mouth to do since it was far beyond coherent speech. In that one moment, you felt him grip you tighter, hold you closer, and you knew he was there - a soft grunt and heavy panting later, you were, too, and you could feel the climax of this sweet young man inside you, which was just about the greatest reward you could garner for a hard night's work. Under the covers, cold from sweat and exhausted, you held each other, beautiful in your collapse. He on your outside, chin nestled in your hair, holding you possessively to his chest as if to give off a (very Scout-esque) message of 'mine, mine, this is all mine'. It couldn't have been more perfect, simply could not have. Not a care in the world touched your mind, not a worry or a cross. But one seemed to plague Scout's, as he spoke before drifting off to sleep. "What about in the morning? Don't you have to get up and get to work in the kitchen?" He asked. The rise and fall of his chest while speaking was magnificent and organic in inexplicable ways. You were quiet for a time, not so much concerned, but plotting your words carefully to leave something good in his mind before you closed your eyes for the remainder of the night. "Just think of it this way - I'll be that much closer to getting you pancakes tomorrow."