A/N: To the three people who bothered following: You had me by surprise, so I shall surprise you. Yes, it is smut; no, it is not much of a sequel as it is of a flashback. The idea just hit me randomly, so I thought I might as well write it and upload it. Lightened up the accent because I thought it was too distracting, by the way.

Might as well point out these: I questioned myself over and over on 'Oh, what am I doing?' whilst writing this, I still have my V-card and it is the first smut I've ever posted. Oh, erm, yea. Please don't hurt me Q-Q

Enjoy.

You are roused from your slumber by persistent scratchy knocking at your new room's door. Your eyelids flutter as your senses begin to wake up, too, sensations lazily creeping through your nerves, the bed—now warm and comfortable enough after a night's rest—pressing against you supportively. You glance around the room; it is not much compared to the others, since it is just a spare room. The rest have somewhat decorated theirs with personal things like hidden letters, comics, cigarettes or snacks. You groan and pull the covers over your head, wishing the person would stop knocking.

It does not.

"Yo kiddo," a familiar—albeit muffled—voice calls from the other side of the door, "wake up already. I ain't gonna have some amateur takin' over my job after my contract's gone."

You flip yourself over and grumble into the pillow. You are not a morning person. But the near-whine of the Scout has you sighing in annoyance as you prop yourself up on your elbows. "Go away, Scout," you say, loud enough for the other to hear.

"Nuh-uh, get outta dere. We got some serious Scout-trainin' ta do-" Metallic clicking and swishing snatches your attention. "Oh hey, it wasn't locked."

You immediately kick off your blanket and swing your legs over the edge of the bed. The expression of shock on your face is failed to be concealed. "W-when…!"

The Scout stands in front of you, looking back at the door left ajar. He claps his bandaged hands together. "Well, since dat's outta da way, go get ready, toots, da Admin lady told me ta show you some Scout tricks. We got maps ta check out. Well, you do, dey'ah all old maps f' me; gamed dere tons of times." He grabs your wrist. "C'mon toots!"

You yelp loudly, suddenly, and stumble forward. You instantly jerk your arm back. The sudden force has him staggering back slightly, but not as bad as you since you are relatively smaller.

The runner looks down at you. You narrow your eyes in annoyance and point at the doorway without a word. He tilts his head, the dog tags around his neck jingling softly with movement.

"Oh, for the love of the Fourth Wall," you sigh, "get out; I'll meet you in a couple of minutes."

He gets it; you know he does, because his gaze flickers to your chest for a split second, and you know he is doing that on purpose.

You blush softly, pushing him out and locking the door behind him. As you pull out a set of your uniform, you can hear him from outside: "Broads these days…"

In several minutes, courtesy of rushed movement and knocking on the door, you're done and out. He leaves the support of the wall he was leaning on and grins, eyes surveying the feminine version of his class's uniform you wear. "Ya gotta try harder if you wanna be as sexy as da pro Scout, toots,"

You rolled your eyes, tugging at the hem of your shirt to emphasise your next few words; "I think this is plenty tight,"

"You said it, toots, s'a eye candy dat's as good as mine." he chuckles with a wink. "But 'nuff's comparin' who's da best, we got trainin' ta do; race ya out!" Before you can speak, he dashes down the hallway, leaving you to follow behind with equal speed.

"Hey toots, keep up, dere's somethin' I want ya ta see!" the Scout calls ahead of you, waving a lean arm in attempt to catch your attention. The way he double jumps backwards taunts you.

You are panting by the time you reach him, having been running after him for some time for no rest. He tut-tuts at your stamina and tosses over a can of Bonk! as he pats your back.

"We gotta work on ya stamina sometime," he comments, arm rising up to sling around your shoulders. You pay that no heed; too busy catching your breath and drinking the radioactive drink to bother. The speedster continues, nudging you along; "Anyway, fun fact 'bout us Scouts: secrets and shortcuts."

"Secrets and shortcuts…" you echo, nodding slowly.

The Scout smirks in approval, even though this is not his first lesson with you. He leads you along low hallways, through unnoticeable and uninteresting gaps and alleys, even air vents around the area. Every now and then you sneak a glance back, telling yourself to remember the route should you get lost. The Bostonian, on the other hand, seems to have no difficulty as he breezes through the confusing passageways, all while striking up a one-sided conversation.

"…you should've seen da other guy, he was all bloodied and bruised and crying like bloody murder." The runner ends off with a dark, almost malicious chuckle. "Oh! Did I tell ya 'bout da time somebody wrote me outta character? Ain't fun not being da awesome guy I truly am; sure, still had da looks, but da personality? Nope,"

"Mm-hmm," you hum, more focused on the surroundings above and behind and trying to remember them than listening to Scout. He does not seem to notice your lack of a proper response, but you do not notice his soft smirk as he walks around you.

"You know toots, f' a broad, you sure do better dan I expected." he remarks casually from behind you as you explore the current room—it is unsurprisingly small with a few boxes littered around; there is a table against the wall, too, but what catches your attention is the lack of machinery you always absent-mindedly saw around the place. It almost seemed like this room was planned to be used as an office or whatnot. You walk forward, tracing the wall of faint and peeling paint gently with your fingertips in awe. Not a speck of dust, strange.

You stare at your clean fingers as you turn around. "Hey, Scout, what was this room used-!"

Warm lips pressed against yours eagerly, hungrily, and you are too surprised to pull away or push the speedster away. Even if you were not, you would not have been able to; he has his body pressed flush against yours. Although he is sudden, he is gentle; you can feel yourself giving in as he tilts both his and your head, spindly fingers caressing the locks of your hair. You shudder when he slides his tongue along your lips, asking for entry, almost demandingly so as he persists.

And who are you to not grant him that?

With a muffled rumble of consent, he slips his tongue into your mouth, and you know he is not used to this when he awkwardly explores. But you give him an 'A' for effort; you have experienced worse with irritating teeth knocks and having someone shove their tongue into your mouth. You let your eyelids flutter close, bringing a hand up to tug on his shirt. He tastes sweet, like maple syrup and soda with a unique 'Scout' tang. The way he gingerly slips a hand under your shirt to caress your breast though the fabric of your bra makes you gasp.

By the time he pulls away from you, his lean face is flushed; it is cute, honestly, especially when he looked away for a moment like he is uncharacteristically hesitant and shy. You find it amusing how he is panting softly from the kiss, but not from all the running he has done all day with you. But you have no right to say as your chest heaves with each breath, trying to comprehend what has just happened.

The Scout's awkward cough for confidence snaps you back to the real world—of you, against the wall, with him, in a hidden, camera-less room of an empty map during ceasefire and the rest of the Team back in the barracks. You do not notice the heat of your cheeks until you look into his grey eyes, now swirling and dancing with unreadable emotions of lust and anxiety and love.

But then he takes your soft, wide-eyed gaze as something else.

The runner pulls away, stepping back until he is several feet apart from you. He shakes his head and grabs his cap, fumbling with the black material with his fingers, like a depressed person facing denial and shock. "I'm- I'm sorry, I… I jus' dunno what came over me. M-maybe it's 'cuz ya jus' so friggin' cute an' all an' I can't help but stare at'cha from across dae hall but it ain't my fault ya such a friggin' tease jus' by standin' dere all casual but ya can't blame me f' findin' ya hawt an' not bein' able ta tell dat to ya in front of everyotherchucklenutevenifIdolikeyou-"

He abruptly stops when you approach him, pulling him into a tight hug. He seems to calm down, growing limp in your embrace.

"…I just don't want to hurt you, toots," he murmurs into your ear, voice a mixture of emotions, but you know that when his accent is not as noticeable and words not muddled, it is good. It is a sign that he is confident like he always is, other than being snarky and loud and proud. "Ma told me dat a true gentleman never hurts a lady, and seein' you chat with Spooks da other day got me thinkin' 'bout dat."

You laugh in disbelief. "Spy? Seriously?"

The speedster chortles too. "Yea, I guess comparin' an awesome guy like me to dat backstabbing frog-eater's pretty lame."

"Mm-hmm," You pull back slightly from the hug and trace small circles on his back. "And a hot chick like me would fall for Spy?"

"Heh, maybe,"

"I like you in character, Scout, stay like that." With a mischievous grin, you added: "The day you start acting like a Spy is the day that I call up the asylum."

This time he laughs out loud, not as humourless as the previous one. "Then ya comin' with me," He hugs your hips and lifts you onto the table, pushing away all irrelevant thoughts as he demands another kiss. You give a surprise—albeit pleased—yelp, but close your eyes and lean in. He slings his lean arms around your body, holding you close, like he is afraid to lose you, like he wants you all to himself. You can feel the heat radiating off him, and something hard against your knee, where it sits on the edge of the table. You peek an eye open to watch his cheeks colour even more when you 'accidentally' shift your leg; he moans softly into your mouth before pulling away.

You giggle, and he smirks. "You cheeky lil' broad," With unsurprising speed, he has you pinned down against the table, him with half his body hovering above you and the two dog tags clinking together. You still allow a small soft squeal to escape your lips, just seeing him above you, dominating you. The Bostonian leans down to nuzzle your cheek, then you neck, suckling on the sensitive skin while unconsciously grinding against you slowly.

Why you laugh, you will never bother finding out. Wrapping your legs around his hips and pulling him close; you tug at the hem of his shirt. He freezes for a second, pulling away to look into your eyes.

"Do you… do you really want dis?" he asks, strangely sincere; it is a part of him you have never seen before, and you are not sure whether you like it or not.

"Are you the foul-mouthed, loud and proud, obnoxiously cocky guy that dragged me all the way here?" you shot back playfully.

"Heh," His bandaged hands slip underneath your shirt, cool fingers and rough cloth stroking the sensitive skin of your waist. "You friggin' asked f' it, toots,"

"Race you,"

The Bostonian gets the message and sneers with smug overconfidence, but it disappears for two seconds—when he pulls his shirt off, and when you echoed the action, trying to keep up. Your necklace seems to hate you; it tangles and twists with your shirt until you forcefully tug it free. You know you are losing and he is winning, the both of you do, but you do not care. It is about just you and him.

Leather hisses beneath dexterous fingers, metal clinking against the cool tiles of the floor, headsets and hats spared the haphazard disposal in fear of damaging property and a hearing from the Administrator. You laugh as you pull your bra off with futile efforts—things never go smoothly when you rush—but before you can rid yourself of the annoying article of clothing, the Scout grabs your shoulders and pins you down almost painfully; you cough as some wind is knocked out from the force.

The simper on his face has you scared of what he might do for an instant, but the fear is overwhelmed by butterflies tickling you stomach when he frees you from your confines with questionable ease. A stronger shade of red colours your cheeks when he disposes of your panties, wet and moist from excitement. But seeing that only makes him smirk with an approving huff of breath. He keeps his position, hovering above you.

Cool air kisses your exposed skin as did the Scout with your lips, later trailing a sloppy wet trail down your jawline to your neck. He gropes your breast with eager bare hands of curiosity, no longer as gingerly as before, when you had yet to challenge him. You moan softly and bite your lower lip as he runs a thumb over a nipple, the other hand venturing downwards in lustful search for more skin. You tremble.

With your lips lonely and neglected, you tug at the runner's hair, earning his attention as you wet your lips with your tongue. He chuckles at how cute it is, almost childish in his perspective, but he offers two fingers which you accept with slight uncertainty and question. You swirl your tongue around them, pushing between, dragging against the calloused digits. They taste salty, but you do not mind, swallowing them until the knuckle, when he suddenly redraws with a wet pop.

You look at him in confusion, and he gives a mischievous grin in response. Shivers run through your frame as the speedster shifts lower, capturing a nipple in his hot mouth and flicking the tip with his tongue between sucks and nibbles. You slide a hand behind his head, keeping him there, intertwining your fingers with his ruffled brown hair. His free hand spreads your legs before gliding back up to caress the soft flesh of your chest; the spit-slick fingers finding their way to your entrance, dripping wet with arousal. Fingers lightly stroke the folds, gingerly, teasingly. Pleasure sparks through you in waves, soft and sharp and unsatisfying. You moan, rolling your head slightly and pushing him against your chest.

"Hurry up, Scout," you whine.

The Bostonian pushes against your hand, standing upright and gazing down at you almost wickedly. He sniggers and crouches down, giving you little to no time to comprehend his plans when a sudden surge of pleasure consumes you. A strangled, startled moan rips from your throat as he greedily laps and licks your core, flicking your sensitive clit with his tongue and rolling it in circles. His breath is hot on your moist skin, leaving a cold, neglected sensation afterwards. Soon two fingers, slick with your own saliva, join, stroking gently and teasingly. You buck your hips; the Scout pins you down, making you groan in frustration and impatience.

"Oh for the love of the F-"

You are interrupted by your own lewd cry as he slips the two digits in, curling them and inducing a breathy moan from you. You squeeze your eyes shut and claw at the table, gasping from the combined sensations of his tongue licking and fingers thrusting slowly, leisurely so. The hand holding your hips down slips away, travelling lower to fondle with his length, dripping with precum from lust and neglect. The runner moans, brows high and furrowed, eyes closed from the rolling waves of contentment as he strokes himself, nearly losing concentration of pleasuring you. Sweat rolls down both your brows and neck, both skin flushed and hot, the air cool and sharp, and the pleasure so tempting and sinful and unsatisfying. The pace quickens. Your breath hitches.

You weakly prop yourself up on your elbows and push yourself upright, entangling your fingers, slick with sweat, with the speedster's hair and holding him in place. You pant and gasp each time bliss overwhelms you, then a whine escapes from the back of your throat. Pleasure builds up gradually from your core. You are close, and he is no fool not to notice.

Immediately he pulls away after a final lick, swiping his fingers clean with his tongue. You lay back down; groaning and creaking your eyes open to gaze at him dazedly. "W-why did you stop?" you ask shakily, still shuddering from the dying glow of mocking thrills. "D-don't stop, Scout, please."

The Bostonian stands up properly and smiles at you; his lips are glistening with dampness. "What made ya think dat, toots?" He caresses the soft flesh of your hips, running his thumbs along your jutting hipbone before slipping down to grope your bottom, resulting in a small squeak from you. A hand leaves to hold himself firm and cajole his lust, hotter and harder. He shifts slightly and looks into your eyes.

"No turnin' back now," Again the Scout's voice—heck, even his eyes—drips with brimming sincerity. "Ready?"

You clench the edge of the table with both hands and nod, wearing a challenging bravado to mask your anxious excitement of shaky breaths and shudders. "Bring it,"

The Scout's grip around your hips tightens, and suddenly, though not unexpectedly, he pushes inside. Your breath is caught in your throat simultaneously as a pleasured hiss did from his lips, the sensation of fullness and having someone—hot, hard, yearning, lusting, wanting, needing—inside of you seemingly alien. It was far more superior to fingers or tongues, stretching you from what his digits had left prepared. It did not even matter if you were not his first, because from how he slouched over you slightly, huffing and blushing from the sudden overwhelming tightness and heat, it told you that he has not experienced such in a long time.

You push yourself up slightly, encouraging him to move with a kiss. The taste of yourself still lingers on his tongue, thick and somewhat sweet, to honestly admit. The runner groans into your mouth, grasping your hips with both hands firmly as he redraws slightly, only to push back in deeper. Any pain and discomfort is almost instantly replaced by soft, building billows of bliss as he pushes against the hot wet walls of your core.

The speedster's hold on your hips tighten, as though desperate, and he gradually quickens in pace. He breaks the kiss with a moan, shifting his head to whisper sweet nothings; the warm air of his breath tickles your ear, accelerated when he traces the shell with the tip of his tongue. He moves to suck on your neck and you claw at his back with blunt nails, mewling and moaning and a complete mental wreck.

For a moment, the Bostonian's voice breaks through the thick fog of pleasure: "Stamina, toots, let's see… how long… you'll last…" he whispers between pants, each pause right after a particularly rough thrust, each thrust accompanied by lewd squelching and the slap of thighs. He slips your knees over his shoulders and speeds up with no reluctance or objection on your end. He runs a sweat-slick hand upwards.

You manage a weak, breathy laugh. "Ironic… coming… from you,"

The Scout does not bother replying, too occupied with caressing and groping your breast with his free hand in attempt to make you come first. Incoherent words of how hot and wet and tight you were leaves his lips; he whispers and mumbles about loving it, about loving you. "You friggin' love dis, doan'cha, toots?" he growls when he finally has enough breath, enough sense and coherency. Two pairs of dog tags jingle and clink, the only sound different from your pants, your moans, your lustful cries.

He begins to slow down deliberately, tortuously. "Go on, say it, scream it; it's only you an' me, toots."

You groan in frustration and buck your hips. "Sonovaglitch, just end it already,"

"Sorry what was dat?" he mocks, though weakly and panting. "I couldn't hear ya over my awesomeness."

You manage to conjure up enough breath, and you do not know nor care whether you are screaming or not this time because he cuts you off with a greedy messy kiss and doubles up the pace from where he left off. He pinches a hardened nub roughly between his fingers, rolling it and rubbing it as he fucks you senseless. Crashing waves of pleasure and desire wreck your body merciless, building up with intensity until you could take no more.

Mind-blowing bliss, sharp and sweet, envelopes and consumes you, so strong that it is almost painful. You cannot tell whether you are breathing or yelling or crying, too distracted by the sensations, of the knowledge that it is just you and the Scout, heavy breathing and trembling, sweaty bodies. Your legs dangle limply from the edge of the table, no longer on his shoulders. You can hear faint chimes of metal above you, and you know he is hovering, supported by a hand on the table, the other still gripping your hip. You feel, rather than hear, his throaty pants and incoherent groans. He is still going, but not for long.

With your convulsing walls milking him of all he's worth, both volume and pitch of the runner's lewd words rise as he picks up the pace, cursing and swearing dirty promises that you fail to comprehend in your dazed state. But you do register the loud cry of your name and the warm, sticky fluid along your front afterwards. Your eyes flutter open to gaze up at the panting speedster in his stupor. He locks gazes with you and softly pushes his lips against yours one final time. Gasps and pants for breath follow behind a wet squelch when the kiss breaks.

"So," you start, lips forming a weak grin, "Scout stamina training?"

He smiles. "One you'll never f'rget, toots,"

You chuckle, laying back down slack with a fading blush on your face. Your body is still trembling from the experience.

Best. Training. Ever.