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The Sniper grunts as he shoves his door open with a shoulder, tossing his hat off and putting his glasses somewhere he's bound to forget, setting down his rifle and kicking off his boots. His shoulders and back ache, and the cramped capacity of his stupid van helps none.
He strips down to his boxers, not bothering to put his clothes anywhere particular except on the floor, and barely steps up the ladder before he's able to get in his too small bed. He stretches out, feet knocking against the wall as he tries to crack his back.
Sniper lays in his bed for another few minutes before huffing and flipping over onto his stomach. He bunches up his blanket and shoves it between his legs, and he can't be fucked to go through the effort of kicking his boxers off. He slowly rolls his hips down, squeezing his lean, muscular thighs together and groaning at the sweet friction right against his clit.
He squeezes his eyes shut and continues to hump his already gross blanket. He definitely needs to wash it after this (not like he would anyway). Sniper pulls some more of the fabric between his legs, moaning softly at the relief it provides. His hips move roughly, desperately, his hands fisted into his pillow now.
Sniper pictures hands all over him, grabbing his ass and pulling him down every time, satisfying him with a knee or a thigh to his groin. He starts to sweat, the majority gathering between his thighs and mixing with his slick, his boxers now halfway soaked.
He feels incredibly dirty as he moans and ruts like an animal into the blanket, sweaty in all the most unbearable places and bound to smell like more of a swamp. Mick squeezes his thighs again and grinds hard, pressing his hips against his bed again and again, eyes rolled back. He's nearly there, so, so close, just a little more.
He bites his lip hard, canines digging into the already cracked flesh as he grinds hard downward, thighs stuttering and knees pressed together. Sniper keeps moving, rocking against his dirtied blanket, his clit throbbing with sensitivity.
He kicks his blanket away and starts to wish he had some AC in his van, because he's hot as hell. Sweat is in every crevice. He tugs at his soaked boxers where they rode up into his thighs, cringing at the wet, rapidly cooling spot.
His bones feel like jelly, and after a while, his eyes are heavy. Sniper, along with his whole van, now smells like a wet dog, humid to the point where he can't help nodding off. He'll shower later. Probably.