Over on the tumbles, theminttu posted this image: http://theminttu.tumblr.com/post/49547738327/i-wanted-to-try-and-redo-this-old-as-balls-scout and WritingCyan expressed interest in a fic about the image. This is what I came up with. ------------ He didn’t even need to be restrained for it, and that’s what turned his stomach the most. He’d just lay there, wincing slightly when the scalpel cut deep, trying to piece together what the Medic was doing, by all of this. The Medic didn’t know that the Scout could see his face, reflected in the metal cabinet in front of the exam table where the runner lay, face-down, and twitching. He didn’t know that the Scout had been watching his face from the moment the physical turned into something else, when the Medic suddenly abandoned the stethoscope he’d been pressing alternately against the Scout’s upper back and instead dug his fingers into the Scout’s throat, choking him from behind, brows creased and pupils dilated, face livid as the Scout’s flushed with trapped blood. The Scout didn’t fight it, didn’t protest being shoved into the cold metal, merely looked at the smudges of grease on the steel where his face pressed and smeared. The Medic’s lips were thin and bloodless as he pressed a hand into the back of the Scout’s neck, presumably to hold him down, and reached to a rolling table for his instruments. He muttered in German, harsh words the Scout didn’t understand, but which precipitated the first cut like the sermon before the hymns. The Scout only sucked in a breath, and waited for the next. It came, angling towards his shoulder blade. It was deep, but the one after was deeper, perpendicular to that one, and the Medic drew his blade away slowly, angled it so the blood would flow more freely. The Scout watched the man bite his lips, watched his glasses slip unheeded down his nose. A swift downward slash followed, and the Scout hissed, then cursed himself. He was determined he could take it, take whatever the Medic gave him. The next four cuts in rapid succession burned wet-hot but he wouldn’t let himself down by showing it. Then, five cuts, a zig-zagging shape, and the Scout thought maybe the Medic was testing him, or punishing him. Thought surely, he’d been figured out. It shouldn’t be all that hard, at this point, but the Medic totally zonked out, when he did this, like the rest of the world wasn’t even there, like the Scout and his young flesh, fresh from respawn and largely unmarked, just waiting, were the only things that mattered at all. The Medic paused, and took a breath, and wiped sweat from his brow, but didn’t look up from the Scout’s back, blood welling and threatening to spill over at the Scout’s slightest movement. He brushed his gloved thumb over the most recent cut— at least the Scout thought it was the most recent. His whole back blazed with pain, and it was hard to tell. In the cabinet reflection, the Medic practically quivered, breathing harsh through his nose and pulling a glove off, finger by finger. The salt of his bare fingertips stung in the Scout’s incised wounds as they pressed, coaxed the blood to run, pushed against the skin of his shoulder and upper back in a cruel mockery of the earlier examination. His bare hand lingered there, on the Scout’s left shoulder, but the Scout didn’t need to be held down. The next two cuts surprised him a little, but he didn’t move, bit his lip against any sound. He could do this. He’d done it before, and the Medic never asked, never warned him, never explained, but if that was the best he was going to get from the man, he’d at least show that he could take it, would take it, wouldn’t complain. He’d feel sick over it later, but in the moment, he’d take what he could get. One and then three swift incisions convinced him that it was a word, which was new— usually the Medic seemed to carve into him just for the carnal joy of it. He’d mapped out muscle groups and arteries before, but a word… the Scout’s heart stuttered and his blood seemed to run cold as he thought about what it could be. What it would mean. If it was going to finish this thing the Medic did to him, explain it in terms of hatred or contempt, he didn’t want to know. The last series of cuts went at strange angles to one another, and while the first was deep, the final line the Medic carved was almost delicate, a thin, slow pull through only the first layers of skin. Only deep enough to bleed. The Medic stepped back as if to survey his work, an artist appraising his canvas, and mumbled again, softer words then, but none the Scout understood. When the Medic approached again, his face was slack, and his tongue wet his lips repeatedly. The Scout watched him, and licked his own lips sympathetically, pressed them together when he realized what he was doing. It wouldn’t do any good. The Medic’s bare thumb brushed the top of the first cut, almost gently, and sure, it hurt, but the Scout would bear all manner of pain for the Medic’s reverent expression, and his naked fingers counting the knots of his spine. His guts churned at the kind of person he’d become, but he thought, at least, that the Medic didn’t know. He watched the Medic stoop towards him, couldn’t guess at what he was going to do, and felt his heart in his throat. What now, oh god, what if— The soft kiss, at the very tip of that first wound, just where the Medic’s thumb had been, stilled the Scout, absolutely. Then, a mere brush of bare palm along the Scout’s ribs, and the Medic stepped away, and disappeared into his office adjoining the infirmary. That was the Scout’s cue, but he didn’t move, not for a long time, remembering the gentle press of the Medic’s lips against his skin, against his cuts, stinging. Was he trying to kiss it better? It was probably just bloodlust, or an enthusiasm for abused flesh. The Scout couldn’t let himself think differently. He stood, aching, stretched his arms over his head despite the searing pain when his back shifted, felt sticky new scabs crack, and blood flow anew, soaking into his trousers. It was the same every time, the same as every other time. Right. He turned his back toward that reflective cabinet, and looked over his shoulder. The word he could read, even backwards, “L-I-E-B-L-I-N-Gâ€, but he didn’t know what it meant. He’d heard it before, usually when the Medic adressed his doves and the Scout sat outside the infirmary with his ear pressed to the door, at late hours when the others were sleeping or gathered in the rec room, and the Scout could merely listen. He thought maybe it meant ‘pet’, and something stirred in his chest and then in his guts at the thought, but he didn’t know for sure, and in reality, the thing that turned his stomach the most was that he knew he was going to have to ask. ---------- It's just a short little thing, but I hope y'all liked it.
Yyeessss....... More please!
I fully concur with Anon 2. More more more please don't let this be a one shot!!!
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Title: Excised Author: Req aka unicornsandbutane Pairing: Scout/Medic Rating: NSFW! This is something of a sequel, though the first one stands alone, as well. Warnings: blood, surgery, strong language, and sexual content. ---------- ---------- Minute red speckles dotted the Scout's blue shirt, and the Medic wondered how long it had taken him to notice. Something told him it wasn't battle damage, wasn't accidental in the slightest. Something told him the Scout was trying to prove a point. Why would he do such a thing? Why would he let the wounds scab over, and let them crack when he moved too erratically, so flecks of blood soaked into his shirt and stuck it to his skin? Why would he let the fabric tear the scabs away again when the shirt was pulled free? Were there truly no bounds to that boy's arrogance? Any time he pointed his medigun at the Scout in battle, his target would suddenly zip away. The Medic fumed. Skittishness in light of recent events would be understandable. That the Scout would think him some kind of monster, largely expected. But hours into the mission, when the morning's blood dried into rust-brown patches, vivid fresh dots still welled up across the Scout's back. This could only mean he'd not only avoided the medigun, but also health kits, dispensers, sandwiches, and even respawn. The Scout bore everything the day threw at him, absorbed it, and kept running, letting the engraved letters congeal and then split again. That miserable wretch would pay. How dare he? the Medic thought, watching the Scout's shadow pass him, cast by his lolloping figure overhead. How DARE he? he seethed, when it didn't look like the Scout was going to ask for any help (a first, no doubt, that could not come at a worse time), mocking the Medic and his presence on the field. How dare he? the Medic repeated, over and over to himself, as the battle stretched into a stalemate, poor weather forcing both teams to fall back. Under threats of white-out conditions, the mercenaries under Builders League United holed up in their base. The trains couldn't push through this blizzard, and neither could they. The Medic paced his infirmary. How dare he? The Scout's bat scraped unmistakably against the concrete in the hallway, and the Medic's fingers twitched. It thunked against the doors as it passed over them. The Medic flung the doors wide, grabbed the Scout by his collar, hauled him into the infirmary, and pushed him against the wall with the übersaw at his throat. He was close enough to smell sweat and Bazooka bubblegum. "What do you mean by doing this?" he hissed, bright spots of rage standing out on his cheeks. The Scout stared, wide-eyed, and shook his head. "How dare you put my weakness in front of me?!" The Medic slammed his captive into the wall again, and the Scout's eyes flicked down to his bared teeth. "This is how you get your revenge? Flaunting those incisions in front of the whole team? You want me to be found out, don't you, you want someone to see!" The Scout seemed to watch a bead of perspiration sliding down the Medic's neck and soaking into his collar. "Well? Why don't you say something? You always have something to say. Where are all of your words now?!" The Scout shook himself, glanced up to meet the Medic's eyes. He licked his lips, took a breath, and didn't say anything. The backhand was swift, though it wasn't the worst the Medic could do. It landed squarely across the runner's cheek, but the young man hardly flinched. "What is wrong with you? You aren't speaking, you aren't clamoring for a dispenser, you aren't even moving! Wake! Up!" He smacked his gloved hand against the Scout's shoulder to punctuate. The Scout's nose scrunched. His wounds likely rubbed against the wall. Tacks supporting diagrams likely dug into his skin. "No matter. I can solve both of our problems." With a firm hand on the Scout's shoulder, the other never relenting with the übersaw, he muscled his team mate to the steel table where this all began. This time, the Scout struggled and thrashed. The Medic had a hard time getting the runner's bony wrists into the rubber and leather cuffs at one end of the table, and even more difficultly getting his kicking feet strapped down. But eventually, the Scout lay, as ever, face down against the gleaming metal surface, hat knocked askew, with the Medic staring at his back. The dried blood across the back of the shirt almost made letter forms in some places-- what if another team mate had seen? The Sniper, the Engineer, Gott in Himmel, the Spy? If they questioned the Scout about it, what would he say? What if they could guess what it said? The culprit would be obvious. Was the Scout really so brainless? Could he be that vindictive? He hooked the übersaw into a rumple in the Scout's shirt, turned the blade and tugged, until the pale blue fabric, freckled like a robin's egg with dry blood, tore open, ripped right up the middle and then snagged at the collar and the Medic had to tussle a little with the thicker stitching. The Scout shuddered under him as the cool metal brushed his skin, not yet with enough pressure to cut, to bleed, but enough to raise gooseflesh and the short hairs at the nape of the Scout's neck. These minute physiological reactions, unconscious and honest, made the Medic lick his lips. He wanted to smooth a hand, a bare hand, over the prickling flesh, soothe the arrector pili muscles, and feel the marked difference between his (admittedly) ragged incisions, and the soft, barely scarred skin stretching from trapezius to trochanter. He sniffed. He couldn't let himself get distracted. The ceiling-mounted medigun creaked on its hinges when he brought it into position, and the Scout thrashed with renewed urgency. "It is the Medigun, Scout!" He held the runner down by the shoulder, angry and frustrated and perplexed. "Let me get this over with!" The Scout writhed, a constant mantra of "nonononoNoNONO!" welling up and spilling out of him. "Don't. Be such. A BABY!" the Medic snarled. It was difficult to hold the medigun in place with one hand and the Scout with the other. It left no hand to depress the lever, and he was left with the choice between climbing onto the table to hold the Scout down with a knee or a foot, or going to the cabinet to find more straps. The latter would require letting go of his captive, and the former was undignified. "Why won't you let me heal you, you treacherous little ingrate!" he shouted, thumping the Scout solidly with one hand. "You've had your fun, now cease your torment!" The Medic's hated himself for the tremble in his voice, the desperation, felt his stomach turn when he noticed sweat gathering at his temples. Nevertheless he felt the Scout hesitate under his hand. The runner wrenched his head as far around as he could, caught the Medic's eye over his shoulder, frantic. "I dunno whatcher talkin' 'bout, Doc!" he choked out, blinking rapidly and squirming again. "Just, just don't--" "Don't hurt you, Scout? Is that what you were going to say?!" his mouth twitched and he bit his cheek to remain calm, to maintain a level head. The Scout shuddered and the Medic tsked. What a shame. Well. He was sure he could restrain himself when the brash Bostonian next came in for a physical. He could revert to the coldly aloof physician his Teutonic heritage insisted he become. He could live without the slight resistance the scalpel encountered before it punctured flesh, that first push inward like the first bite into a ripe plum, the slick slide of the metal through taut, youthful skin, the slow, bright well of blood in a new incision... He could ignore the sharp lines of shoulderblades, protruding as if to slice through the epidermis, break through. He could remain coolly detatched at the sight of trim, toned lateral obliques, or the serratus muscles' zig-zagging points of insertion making an ornamented arch over the abdominal cavity, like entryways at a Spanish mosque. He could live without. The Scout was shaking his head. "What?" the Medic snapped, stepping back from the gurney, schooling his face into one of disaffected disdain. "What is it now?" "Don't heal it up, Doc." The words were quiet, and clumsy, as if the Scout spoke despite himself. "And why indeed not?" the Medic adjusted a glove. "Look that's-- that's my business. Just leave it, arright?" "It most certainly is not your business. Not if you are attempting to expose me to the team. That makes it summarily my business, Herr Scout." He paced slowly to the head of the gurney, and pretended to inspect the frayed edge of the Scout's shirt, pinching it between his gloved fingers, if only to observe the inevitable flinch his touch would provoke. It never came. The Scout sighed slightly, and the Medic wondered for a hysterical moment if the brief pause had caused the runner to become bored. "I still dunno whatchu mean," the Scout answered lamely. "But uh... If you ain't gonna cut me up, could you let me go?" The Medic took a moment to turn that one over. "If I am not going to?" The Scout visibly tensed, and turned his face into the metal. "Or whatever!" Pursing his lips slightly, the Medic attempted to think through the Scout's strange behaviour. "Is this some sort of, of attempt at machismo? You think that by bearing these incisions, you are... more of a man, somehow?" "Look, I said whatever, okay? Just, fuck, either crap or get off the pot, goddammit!" Those thin shoulders, sinewy from swinging a bat but still with the acromion process standing out under the tendons, drew up close to the Scout's ears, which were flushed red-pink with blood. "And what if I did 'cut you up', as you say?" Gloved fingers trailed the lip of the table, inches away from the Scout's head. A mere twitch of the hand and he could touch the errant strands of hair that sprung up under the Scout's cockeyed hat. The Scout merely shrugged, a sullen, herky-jerky motion that made his shoulder blades flutter. "You would perhaps brag to our team mates?" When the Scout laughed, it was a short, barking sound that almost startled the Medic. "It ain't like that, Doc." "What is it like, then?" "I don't wanna talk about it," the Scout replied thickly. "Well I don't suppose you want to remain bound to this examination table, either." "Aw come on, Doc! Leave it alone!" "If I don't heal it, it may scar." "So what?!" The Medic was suddenly horrified that it would, and someday, in the communal shower the team shared, someone would notice the thin, slightly shiny lines, and ask. "'So'?! So?! It will be on your body for the rest of your life, Scout!" "I don't care!" "People may see!" "Big whoop!" "It would be there forever, Scout!" "I KNOW!" Silence, after the Scout's outburst, interrupted only by the two-note coos of the doves in the next room. The Medic's brows had shot up and he blinked at the young man, who, in turn, resolutely refused to look at him. He licked his lips and straightened his glasses, and tried to frame his thoughts. "Do you want it to scar, Scout?" He plucked his glasses from his face, wiped them with a cloth from his pocket, resettled the frames, folded the cloth in quarters and tucked it away again. Easy motions. Thoughtless, effortless. Something for his hands to do while the Scout remained infuriatingly silent. The Scout shrugged again, and it looked like a pout was gathering under his buckteeth. "How could you want that?" the Medic pressed. "It doesn't make any sort of logical sense." "What's it mean?" The words were spoken into the gleaming metal, muffled, and quiet. "I beg your pardon?" "The thing. On my back." The Scout tucked his face into his hat as it slipped off his head, hid his eyes. "What's it mean?" The Medic balked. The Scout had never before asked questions. Perhaps naïvely, the Medic had hoped the proud young man never would. "It isn't of any consequence," he sniffed. "I hear ya sayin' it to your birds, sometimes." "When would you have occasion to hear that?" "Does it mean, like... 'pet', or somethin'?" The tendons stood out in the Scout's neck. "It doesn't mean 'pet', as such, no." "Well then what?" The Scout's voice rose in pitch and volume and he cleared his throat, looked down again. "Is it your name?" An incredulous laugh was his answer, then, "No, no it is not my name." He may have been careless, but never so much as to reveal his name in such a way. "Oh." They both fell quiet, the Scout's muscles twitching now and again, and the Medic resisting the urge to pace. The clock ticked loudly on the wall, and the refrigerator cycled and hummed. "So... what does it mean?" The Medic wanted to tear his hair out. Of course the young man couldn't leave it be, couldn't be satisfied without knowing. That would have been too much to ask. "I mean I guess I could ask Engie, or the Spook. Pretty sure one'a them'll speak German, but, y'know, then they'd ask me why I wanted to know, and uh..." He shucked one shoulder up. The flesh of his arm squeaked against the steel, sweaty. "Was that a threat?" the Medic rasped, bracing his hands on the rim of the table and bending in close to the Scout, lip curled. "What? No!" The Scout didn't quail away from him, but his brows knit. "Just tell me what it means, arright? Does it mean 'scum'? 'Lab Rat'? 'Corpse'? What?" His knees jogged in his restraints. The Medic drew back, mouth drawing into a thin line, considering. "Does it mean 'bird', or like 'dove' or somethin'? Tell me if I guess it, please, Doc." There was something so plaintive in his voice. "It is a term," the Medic took a breath, despite himself. "It is a term of endearment." That seemed to give the Scout pause. The Medic watched the Scout chew his lip. "But... What? Why?" It was the Medic's turn to shrug. He was tired of answering questions. "The nearest translation in English would be 'darling'," he stated, matter-of-fact, wondering, if nothing else, how the Scout would react. For awhile the runner was still. Then, "So... When you, uh... when you kissed one of the cuts...?" The Medic turned away slightly. "What are you asking me?" "Was it about the blood, or uh, about, y'know. Me." "Do they have to be mutually exclusive?" "Aw c'mon, Doc! I gotta know, okay?" The Scout was fidgeting full-force again. "What for?" "Christ, Doc! Whaddya think?! I really gotta spell it out for you or what?" "That might be helpful, yes." The runner snarled and turned his face away, and the lines of his back tensed and bunched. "Look if ya didn't have my hands tied I might--" The Scout choked, coughed, didn't say anything more. This time, he jumped a little when gloved fingers brushed his skin, just behind the jaw, and the Medic watched those telltale goosebumps rise on the Scout's forearms again. Such strange contradictory responses. A soft touch and the Scout prickled; a smart backhand and the Scout held firm. How odd. "You might what?" the Medic encouraged, tapping over the Scout's lymph nodes to get his attention. He felt the mandible shift and the platysma contract as the runner swallowed heavily. "I might uh. Do like you did." "You might cut me up?" "NO, I might kiss you, ya crazy German fruitcake!" "What? Why?" "Because!" "Because what?" "Oh shut the hell up, you arrogant prick! Ain't gonna explain for your ego's sake." "Are you a masochist? Do you... enjoy the pain?" A note of hope crept into his voice, unbidden, and he fought to quash the anticipation rising in his chest. "Well, no, I mean shit, what kinda freaky weirdo do you think I am?" The Medic's lips turned down. "--I just, y'know. I can take it. Whatever. If that's what you wanna do, with me, or to me, or whatever it is, I can, y'know, I can take it." He tried to move his numb hands. "Yes, I have noticed," the Medic said airily, watching the Scout's biceps twitch. "Didn'tcha ever wonder why I didn't fight you? I mean, fuck, Doc. C'mon." "I didn't think about it," the Medic admitted. "I was focused on other things." "I could've fought you off if I really wanted to." "Ja, ja. I know." The Medic felt dizzy. "So... Whatcha gonna do, Doc?" The runner's latissimus dorsi tensed, slopes of the muscle group running through the carved word. "You gonna let me up? Kick me out? Tell the team? Heal this thing? What." The Medic drifted over to the side of the table, and stared for a quiet moment. He pushed the ruined shirt further out of the way, ran his fingertips down the Scout's prominent ribs, snatched his hand back, glanced at the Scout's face. The Scout's chin was angled up, and the Medic followed his line of sight to his own reflection in the cabinet. Their eyes met through the metal surface. With a snap the Medic pulled his gloves off. He leaned over the Scout and carefully, cautiously, touched his bare hands to the scabbed flesh. It was cool from being exposed to the air, and the ridges of the congealed incisions rasped his digits. They were minute ranges in a smooth topography, and he traced each letter, meeting again the Scout's gaze. They searched eachother, and the Scout shifted. It could have been, might have been a nod. The Medic turned back to his work. The pads of his fingers first, then the palms, working over the Scout's back, feeling out the contrast of bony landmarks under skin, corded muscle groups, interrupted by those cuts. He pressed his thumb into the B, heard the Scout inhale, drew his thumb harshly against it, until the scab cracked again. Blood seeped to the surface, slow, sluggish. His thumb dug in, pushed the blood up, like oil from a well, and it beaded, a droplet growing. If he was careful he could feed that little pearl of blood. If he, and the Scout, held still, it would begin to dry, just like that, form a sticky-tacky skin, and then the slightest movement would rupture it, and it would drip and bleed again. The Medic wet his dry lips, and saw the Scout watch him, mirror him. He gathered the little red drop on his thumbnail and brought it to his mouth. Slow, he licked the coppery taste from his thumb, sought it even under his nail. The Scout's pupils were huge and dark, taking him in. "I wonder, if you know, how I feel about blood, Scout." The Scout made a noncommittal face. He might have an idea. "I am rather fond of it. I like the texture. I like the smell. I like the taste." He rubbed his index finger into the crack in the B, already beginning to seal again. "I like the way it behaves, the way it runs. I like the way it sticks when it starts to dry. I like the range of colours." His nail raked the second L, scratched the leg of the letterform, and blood winked where he pulled the scab away. "I like penetrating the barrier between it and the outside world, bringing it out of the body. It is so intimate, is it not? Bringing something meant to stay inside the flesh out into the air? Most men, they want to search a body from the inside, in the dark, blind. I want to take the secret parts of the body, the inner workings, and drag them into the light. Do you see?" The Scout let out a quiet breath. "But, if you must know, yours is special to me. You are so young, so full of vitality. I might fool myself into thinking it is because of that I like the sight of your blood so much. You bleed so easy. Your skin is thin, perhaps by heritage, and your bones close to the surface. And because you are young, your flesh is highly elastic." He pinched over the N, for effect. "Your muscles are clearly defined-- you have spent the better part of your life as an athlete, I can tell, and while you are in the last vestiges of development, and your frame solidifies, your muscles remain tight, compact. They hug close to your bones, which are so long, and thin. You were practically built for flight." For a moment he glanced at the door to the adjoining room, where his birds slept in their covered cages. "The elegant interlocking of your radius and ulna is beautiful-- I could show you an x-ray. I have a favourite. Do you remember that nasty rotator cuff tear last Spring? You were in such pain. I didn't need x-rays of your forearms, but I took them anyway. I have never regretted it. It is like having a cherished photo. Even at the level of your bones, you can see the tension in your body, the pain driving your posture. It is like a dance. Are you beginning to understand, Scout? These are reasons you are precious to me." "Jesus," the Scout whispered. The Medic tugged the restraints free, and watched the Scout roll, sit up slowly, rub his wrists. When their eyes met the Medic fought his urge to look away. The Scout's mouth formed a funny line, and he winced. Those eyes were on him again, boring through, when the Scout lifted his hands and tugged his lip for the Medic to see the inside. Two little welts stood out yellow-white in the flesh, bright spots with brighter blood beginning to peek out, hit the wet membranes, and spread. "Look Doc," the Scout slurred, still holding his lip. "I'm bleedin'." He let go, and the shape of his tongue poked the little bite marks, and the Medic was on him. Seized him and kissed him and sucked the taste of blood from the Scout's tongue. Fingers wrapped in athletic tape clutched the Medic's shoulders, dug in, grapped handfuls of white coat. Hesitantly, the Medic's hands found the Scout's back, felt for the scabs. His naked fingertips ran over the letterforms, at first slowly, then quicker, rougher, as the Scout's teeth found the Medic's lip. He scratched the second I off completely, waited for blood to well, ran his fingers through it, felt the Scout tense. The blood spread where he rubbed it, stuck his fingers to the Scout's back where he lingered. He broke from the kiss to lick his fingers. "Fuckin' hell, Doc," the Scout panted, leaning back. "Don't you ever fuckin' stop kissin' me." He hauled the doctor close again and their teeth knocked and the Medic hissed but the Scout wouldn't let him pull away. Instead the younger man wrapped arms and legs around him, holding him tight, mashing his thin, chapped lips against the Medic's mouth, to the point of pain. "Goddamn, Medic. You taste so fuckin' good," he mumbled, never really moving away enough to speak. "What do I taste like?" the Medic asked quietly, kissing up the Scout's jaw to his ear. "I dunno," the Scout turned his head to meet the Medic's lips with his own again. "Like... Well like, you don't taste like anything. Except you, I guess." His kiss grew faster, messier, more demanding. "And maybe my blood. But it's the best damn taste ever." For a moment, he didn't speak, only moved his mouth with the Medic's, tugged his lip with his teeth, tasted him. "Don't tell me it ain't the same f'r you," he goaded. "You know it is. Say, am I still bleedin'? You need another taste?" The Medic made a high-pitched crooning noise and dropped his forehead to the Scout's shoulder. "Is that a 'yes'? Hey if I had a cut on my dick would you suck me off?" The Medic could hear the Scout's grin. He felt the trim, steely shoulders tense. "Not sayin' I'll do that or nothin', y'know, the cut, uh, thing. I was just askin'." "Is that what you want from me, Scout?" The Medic sounded hoarse, his words muffled by the ragged shirt and the Scout's shoulder. "Fuck yes," the Scout moaned, as the Medic's fingers danced down his ribs. He shook the doctor off for a moment to shrug out of the remains of his shirt. It slid down his arms and pooled on the floor. "I love the muscles along your sides, Scout. I could point to each as it is rendered, fully visible. As if the flesh was not even there. Do you know, I would love to skin you alive?" His nails ran over the Scout's external obliques. "I bet you would," said the Scout. "Yes," the Medic agreed, distantly. He watched the Scout's nipples harden in the cold air, gooseflesh rise again. "Might I...?" he gestured with his chin. The Scout's brows furrowed but he scooted back quickly enough when the Medic's mouth descended on his chest, kissing across pectorals, licking into the dip between them, laving the Scout's nipples until he gasped. "Fuckin' jeez, Doc!" he panted. "You--" he gripped the table, "You are one heck of a weird guy." "Well. Ja," the Medic admitted. But, as he was dipping fingers under the Scout's waistband, the Scout didn't say anything more. He pulled the Scout's belt free, and felt a rush at the almost awestruck look on the Scout's face. The runner's hands twitched, like he wanted to hurry the process along but feared breaking the spell that had gotten the Medic this far. The power was intoxicating. He fingered the button, toyed with it, and the Scout bit his lips and shifted his hips up. The Medic could feel an erection growing beneath his fingertips, but wouldn't allow the Scout a satisfactory touch. "Imagine it, blood from all over your body flowing here," he brushed his nail over the Scout's fly. "Filling capillaries, causing the flesh to stiffen. It is simply by a glut of blood that an erection even occurs--Ah! Look how quickly yours builds, how strong your blood pressure." Finally he cupped the Scout's cock through his pants, gave it a good squeeze. "Yes, it is quite healthy. And I can feel your heartbeat through it. Blood pulsing, rushing, making the veins swell." "Mgh. Yeah?" the Scout managed, the Medic kneading his cock, fingers brushing his balls. "Ja..." the Medic sighed. He tugged the button loose and fought the zipper down. The Scout's stare blazed into him and he pulled the runner's trousers and underwear down to his ankles in one swift motion and the runner struggled to kick his shoes and clothing to the floor. The Scout's erection stood away from his body, desperate and eager, but the Medic laid his hands only on the Scout's knees. "Do you remember when I would give you those reflex tests, the little hammer against your knees to make you kick? It was really just to watch your muscles flex; I know how good your reflexes are." The Scout jutted his hips up insistently. "All that running, Scout. Your quadriceps are delightful. Your hamstrings long, and loose. Look," he traced his fingertip along a line in the Scout's thigh. "Your sartorius. And let us not forget--" he hauled the Scout's left ankle up, braced his foot against the breast pocket of his lab coat, and began rolling the Scout's sock down. "--your gastrocnemius! Ach, Scout." His fingers cradled then dug into the runner's calf, working into sore, tired muscles. "Oh, but you have the legs of a sprinter. This toned calf with the muscles standing out, built up, exercised, conditioned for speed, mein Gott! Tapering down--ah! Your plantar tendon!-- to these thin little ankles, these bony feet. When you flex like this, I could point out each extensor tendon. They look like the strings in a piano, so tight, and bare." The Medic knew his face was flushing. He could feel it, and caught his reflection in the cabinet. "Yeah, fuck, Doc," the Scout rasped, bucking his hips up again. "C'mon, let's get off together." The doctor ran his index finger from the base of the Scout's cock to the tip, following a prominent vein. "And how would you like to do that?" He tried to suppress a grin at the Scout's full-body shudder. "D'you really wanna know?" His hips arched towards the Medic's hand, seeking friction. "I am nothing if not curious by nature," the Medic replied. "Alright," the Scout declared. "I wanna fuck you. I been thinkin' about it a long time. I'd sit outside yer doors and listen to ya feedin' yer birds, listen to how happy you sounded, an' get a little hard, at the sound of your voice. Sometimes, you laugh during a mission, like when you uber an' stuff, an' it just sounds so rich and throaty I can't help but imagine you swallowin' my cock. I look at the way yer nose scrunches up when you pull down the handle of your medigun and think about what kinda faces you'd make if I was balls-deep in your ass. I just... I never thought-- I didn't think--" "You didn't think I'd acquiesce?" "Well, no." "Hm," the Medic answered, rubbing the Scout's thigh absently. "It's not something I've ever done." "Hell, why not? Aw don't look at me like that. Seriously, coupla years ago my middle brother and me drove up to New York to see the Sox beat the Yankees. We totally creamed their shit, right, and my brother an' me got mad drunk with some other Sox fans. This chick wearing her Yaz jersey as a dress started makin' eyes at my brother, right, an' I was like, good fer him, 'cept that meant I had to make myself scarce for a while. Wandered around the place for fuckin' EVER, tryin' to figure out what all the fuss was about. All's I could tell was that the trains weren't as good as they are back home in Boston. Ended up in... Jeezus, what's that place called?" He snapped his fingers, trying to remember. "Greenish Village? Whatever, so this guy offers me some grass and I'm drunk as hell so I'm all, SURE, man, y'know? So he takes me up to his place and he ain't got shit in there but a quilt on the floor and a shitton of pillows, and the walls were all painted green and there was this huge fuckin' wheel of all these different colors an' patterns an' shit painted on the ceiling. We smoke some jays and lie on that quilt and stare at that wheel, and just, you know, be stoned as shit. And then he rolls over and he smiles with his mustache and then he's like, touching my stomach? But I'm high as fuck and can't string together two thoughts long enough to remember why that's a bad thing, so I let him do it, y'know?" The Scout chuckled at himself. "--So he fucked me on that quilt, and I liked it pretty good. Far as I can remember. I mean like, time passed really weird, because of the grass an' the booze, an' I prob'ly didn't cum as long as it felt like, but yeah, it was... Uh." The Medic had moved his hand to rub at the Scout's balls again. He couldn't believe the Scout had said all of that and maintained an erection. Maybe it was a very nice memory. "I am not convinced," he said. The Scout pushed off the table and dropped to the floor. "You just keep me posted on that," he smirked, working the Medic's pants down under his coat. "Aw, hells yeah," he murmured, drawing close to the Medic's half-hard cock. He didn't waste time. He wrapped his lips around the head, licking hot and wet into the slit and around. He sucked the Medic down, groaning, and the Medic fisted a hand in the runner's short hair and fought to keep his balance. The Scout's grip on his hips helped, but he felt like he was going to be knocked over by the force of the Scout's forward momentum. When the Scout pulled back to breathe the Medic stumbled and ended with his back to that reflective cabinet. "Damn, Doc," the Scout whispered, edging forward on his knees, "You look fuckin' hot with your pants around yer knees and your coat hangin' open on either side of your dick like that. Like a curtain for the show, or somethin'." He reached the Medic and touched his thighs, rubbing his thumbs in circles and smiling lop-sidedly up at him. "Now if you don't mind..." He was even more enthusiastic as he began again. He was noisy, and messy. The Medic watched the muscles in the Scout's neck strain as he bobbed his head, watched his jaw stretch. He watched the muscles in the Scout's forearm shift as he reached up to grip the Medic at his base and stroke what he couldn't suck. The Medic tried to maintain his composure, but it was difficult when the friction of the Scout's tongue felt so nice and he could imagine the orbicularis oris pulling around the Scout's prominent incisors, and the lingual artery flush with blood, keeping that tongue so hot. Strong, bandaged fingers held the Medic's hip, kept him from thrusting into the Scout's throat. He groaned and the Scout looked up at him and seemed to smile around the Medic's erection. With a last, clinging lick at the Medic's tip, he asked, "So how 'bout now?" "Vas?" "You gonna let me fuck you or what?" "...Vas?" "C'mon, man. I want it so bad. I been thinking about it, and jeezus nothing gets me off harder than picturing that when I jack off." "Scout, I..." "After everything you've done to me?" "You never complained!" the Medic snapped. "I was taking what I could get!" "Oh? What changed?" "Well for one thing, you kissed me, an' you touched my dick, an' yours was in my mouth a couple'a seconds ago. So I feel like maybe I could get somethin' other than elective surgery." The Medic said nothing but the Scout still stroked his cock lazily, and his pelvis snapped forward, wanting. "Are you afraid it's gonna hurt?" the Scout asked, sounding strangely genuine. He got silence in return. "Because I mean. Getting shot hurts way more. An' you've got the medigun, so... What's the big deal?" "Suppose I don't like it." "Alright. But suppose you do. Suppose it feels so damn good you wanna scream. Suppose you cum harder than you ever have in your life, an' all you wanna do is do it again." "And what is the likelihood of that?" The Medic crossed his arms but with the Scout's rough fingers touching him, his thumb passing over the head, he couldn't quite muster the stern face he'd tried for. "I'd say pretty damn likely. I mean, after that time in New York, I met this girl, and we had some times, y'know. She asked me to do her up the ass a few times, and fuck yeah, it was so tight. A while after that I asked her to put a finger or two in my ass while she sucked me off. It wasn't quite as good as being fucked on that quilt was, but she was a real good sport about it." He grinned. "She had the fuckin' tastiest pussy ever. You ever eat a really fuckin' delicious pussy, Doc?" "I--!" The Medic felt his blush deepen. "An' like, yer really goin' to town on her, an' you can see her moanin' an' all that shit, but you can't hear it cuz her thighs are pressed up to yer ears?" "I, you...!" "C'mon Doc, a while ago you were petting my dick an' going on an' on about blood flow. Y'know when a chick is really turned on her pussy flushes darker an' her clit starts to stick out. I bet that's blood flow, too." "It is, yes..." The Scout's thumb kept rubbing into his slit, and he couldn't concentrate. Especially when the Scout leaned forward to suckle just his tip again, tongue probing where his thumb was. "You taste pretty good too, Doc." He smiled. The Medic's knees quaked. "...You will stop if I tell you to." "Aw fuck yeah, yer gonna let me do it? Hells yeah. Alright. Go ahead an' lie wherever y'want to, an' hold on a minute." The Medic removed his boots and trousers, his coat, tie, vest, and shirt, trying not to grumble aloud or think about what he'd agreed to. He sat on the exam table, pulled off his socks, tucked them into his boots, and watched the Scout rifle through his drawers and cabinets. "Exactly what are you doing, Scout?" "I know you got Vaseline or somethin' in here," the runner answered, his head mostly inside of the cabinet over the sink. "Cotton balls, popsicle sticks, ice-oh-pro-pile alchohol... Alright. I'll bite. Where's it at?" The doctor sighed. "In the farthest cabinet, with the other ointments and salves." Soon enough, the Scout was trotting over with the Vaseline in one hand and his other hand hidden behind his back. He placed the glass jar on the table with a little clink, and bounced on his feet, grinning like a loon. "Ja, ja, alright. What have you got behind your back?" the Medic asked, sounding tired. The Scout brought his hand around slowly, to reveal one of the Medic's own gleaming scalpels. The Medic's brows drew close and he met the Scout's gaze. "Well, g'wan, take it," the runner urged, and the Medic plucked the blade gingerly from the bandaged hand. "Figured you might, y'know... wanna use it. You could uh. Make a cut right here," he pointed under his clavicle, "or here," he ran a finger over his trapezius, "an' I dunno. Suck on it or whatever ya wanna do." The Medic's cock leapt. His erection had flagged a little with inattention, but when the Scout directed him to make incisions, to make him bleed, he felt it fill so fast it almost hurt. He grasped the scalpel deftly and grinned at the Scout before pulling him in for another kiss. The Scout pulled away to open the jar, and he pushed against the Medic's chest until he lay back on the table. "Yeah, just like that. Now spread yer knees. Aw hell yeah. Damn, Doc. Lookit you, with yer dick against your abs like that. Can ya hold yer knees to your chest? Fuck yeah, like that. Yeah. You look so fuckin' hot like this. I hope these wheels are locked because I am gonna fuck you so goddamn hard..." He dipped his fingers in the Vaseline, and began rubbing the pad of his index finger against the Medic's ass. The doctor shuddered. The slick friction felt nice, and the Vaseline was slowly warming with their combined body heat. The Scout continued just rubbing there, increasing the pressure just slightly, until the Medic's eyes fell shut. He slipped the tip of his finger in, wiggled it, pulled out, got more lubrication, made a second pass. It surprised the doctor at first, but it wasn't completely unpleasant, so he let it continue. Soon the Scout started circling his fingertip just inside, stretching the muscle. "Ach!" the Medic whispered, and the Scout slipped his finger in further. "How's that?" he asked, attempting a few shallow thrusts with just his index finger. "I... do not know. It is painful, but..." "It hurts but it feels good too, right?" The Medic nodded shallowly. "I'm tryin' my damnedest to go slow, here, Doc, but you feel damn good inside." "Nng," the Medic said. With some more wriggling, the Scout's finger began slipping in and out more easily, and the Medic's breath quickened. "Think yer ready for another?" The Scout never stopped the thrusting of his hand. "I-- I am not sure," the Medic rasped, his fingers scrabbling at his hip. "How 'bout we give it a shot and you can tell me whatchu think." "Eegh," gasped the Medic. He started slow again, gathering another dollop of Vaseline and rubbing around the outside with just the pads of his fingers. The Medic squirmed on the table and tried to keep his eyes open to watch the Scout, his determined face, the way he kept biting and licking his lips. "Okay, Doc, here we go. Relax, awright?" The Scout flicked his eyes up to meet the Medic's, and maintained his gaze as he pressed the second finger in alongside the first. The doctor heaved a heavy sigh and tried to relax all of his muscles. "Yeah, that's good. Damn yer hot inside. Fuck, yer hot outside, too. Goddamn," the Scout muttered, slowly pushing his fingers in and out. He scissored the two and the Medic winced. "Aw shit, sorry, sorry. I didn't mean to do that so fast! It's just, fuckin' hell Doc I wanna be all up in you as fast as I can, and your ass is so smooth and tight..." The doctor shook his head and the Scout looked up from watching his fingers. With a tilt of his chin, the Medic urged him on, and the Scout redoubled his efforts at caution. The Medic would have laughed, if he could find his breath; the runner's tongue peeked out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrated on stretching the doctor gently enough. "Well uh," he said, when his fingers could move more easily, and scissoring them didn't seem to hurt the Medic as much as before. "May as well go fer three, just to be sure, right?" "Apparently you are the expert," the Medic huffed. "Yeah, okay. Um." He grabbed for the Vaseline with his other hand and smeared it over the Medic's ass in a thick swipe. His third finger dipped in easily, at least until he got to the knuckle. Then the Medic whined. "Shit, um, I'm sorry. Is that too much?" "Nein... Nein. Du bist... ach." "Uh. Should I stop?" "Nein, bitte," the Medic grit out. The Scout wriggled his fingers in further, felt along the Medic's soft tissues. "God it's so slick. And your ass is clenchin' my fingers so good. I'm gonna give you everything I've got, Doc, just you wait." Every time the Scout's knuckles breached him, the Medic felt a jolt. He couldn't decide if it was pleasure or pain, but his cock leaked steadily onto his abdomen, smearing across his skin. The scalpel was cold where he rested the flat of the blade against his side, waiting for his opportunity. Just that thought alone was enough for him to roll his hips into the Scout's erratic thrusts. A lance of pleasure shot through him, and he barked out a curse, his hips twitching toward the Scout's long, callused fingers. "Yeah? That was good? Lemme see if I can do it again for ya..." His fingers quested for that spot, his wrist flexing to send them deeper, and the Medic bucked until the Scout's fingertips brushed it again, and the Medic groaned. "Right? I told ya it could be fuckin' awesome," the Scout quipped, trying to rub just there. "The prostate gland," the Medic mumbled. A colleague at medical school, studying to be a proctologist, once extolled to him the benefits of prostate massage. He hadn't given it much thought, until now. "Yeah, whatever. How you feelin'?" His fingers bumped around inside and the Medic rolled his hips because they simply couldn't touch him enough. There wasn't enough friction. He wanted to be touched everywhere at once, and the Scout's fingers were not enough, they brushed here, rubbed there, stretched him fairly well, but the Medic quickly learned that there was too much inside of him that craved touch, too much the Scout's hands did not satisfy. "More," he demanded, voice low. "Aw, fuck yes," the Scout answered. "You ready fer all this, Doc?" He looked so cocksure that the Medic partway wanted to refuse him, but when the runner withdrew his fingers, he felt so empty and unfulfilled he could have cried out. The Scout moaned as he slicked himself, muttering curses and promises alike. When the Scout's cock brushed against the Medic, he shuddered. Soon, that lithe, supple body would be close enough. Soon, soon. The runner thrust in with three short bursts that robbed the Medic of his breath. He gasped raggedly while the Scout pulled back and angled back in again. The Medic's breath caught; the Scout was so close to hitting that place within him. "Deeper," he commanded, and the Scout leaned forward over him, dog tags dangling and skiffing across the Medic's sternum. Then, he was close enough. He was deep enough, but more importantly, he was close enough, and the Medic reached up and drew the scalpel slowly across the Scout's skin, following the contour of his clavicle, bringing up a bright, hot line that welled with blood. It dripped onto him in splatters as the Scout hissed but bucked even harder. The Medic swiped the dots from his own chest and tucked his fingers into his mouth, moaning richly around his bloodied digits. "Yeah, Doc, lick it all up. You like the taste of me? You betcher ass, ya do. Damn this stings," the Scout intoned. He leaned closer and the angle changed and the Medic arched off the gurney. "C'mere and get a better taste, yeah?" The Medic flung his arms around the Scout's shoulders, his back, clutching the scalpel in a white-knucckled hand, the other stroking those scabs over and over. He stretched his tongue to meet the Scout's torn flesh, to follow the rivulets of blood as they formed and suck them into his mouth. He pulled the Scout closer, close enough to set his lips over the cut and plunge his tongue into it. Ah, but it felt deeper against his tongue than he knew it was, could imagine opening it further and fucking the wound with his tongue, licking at the bone. He pushed his tongue against the incision, lashed back and forth, wanted to lick against shorn ligaments, wanted to drink the Scout down. He had the sudden grisly notion that the Scout's marrow would taste so rich and dark, and moaned, shaking, against the Scout's skin. "Fuck, that really burns, Doc. 'Course it always does. An' Jayzus you're so tight. It feels so fuckin' good, fuckin' you. Goddamn. It's better'n I thought it'd be, an' lemme tell you, I thought about it a lot, I mean, a lot." The Scout's hips sped up, And the Medic licked up and down the cut as it began to congeal. "I wanna fuck you on the battlefield, want you to ask for it, want you to come to me after a capped point or somethin' and drop to your knees. I bet you'd like it too, right, I'd be all scuffed up, maybe some shrapnel or a couple'a bullets in me, and you'd fuckin' love that. You wanna suck a bullet outta me? Feel the hole? Yeah, I bet you would, you'd wanna stick yer tongue all up in there and lick it out." The noise the Medic made vibrated his lips and died against the sticky incision. "Or is it really the cutting that does it for ya?" "Mnf," the Medic said. "Every time y'ever cut into me, it seemed so easy for you, like a hot knife through butter. You must keep your blades wicked sharp, right?" "Ja..." The incision was scabbing over in places and the Medic pulled at the Scout's skin, opening the line, but it didn't bleed and run like it had. He grasped the scalpel in hand and clawed into the runner's shoulder with the other, holding him steady. The Scout paused, buried to the hilt inside the Medic, and his thighs twitched with impatience. The second incision was not as long as the first, and the Medic drew it just a half inch lower, but it was slightly deeper, and blood seeped dark, almost black in the shadow the Scout's skull cast. He held the Scout still another moment, watching the beads grow, before the Scout's hips bucked and the droplets spattered and ran. As soon as the Medic released the Scout's shoulder, the runner was leaning over him. The Scout gripped the Medic's deltoids, an anchor, and seemed to push the doctor's body towards his cock. The speed and the friction was intense and hot and the Medic squirmed, tried to stretch his tongue to meet that new cut, tried to taste the fresh, running blood. He could imagine that with every pull and snap of the Scout's hips, the cut opened and sealed, muscles shifting, skin stretching and relaxing, and that it must hurt. "Tell me Doc," the Scout pleaded, "Tell me how much you want it. Tell me you like it, c'mon." "Ja," the Medic whined. "Ja, it is good. Harder." He brought the Scout's shoulders to his mouth and sucked at the cut, licked hard and slow at dried flecks. The Scout's nails bit into his hips and they moaned raggedly together as the Scout slammed into him and his teeth caught the smooth line of the new incision. "I love how much you love that, Doc," the Scout whispered, jolting as the Medic worried the cut open again. The Medic choked out a warning. He bent nearly double again and shuddered, almost wailing, as his cock twitched and spurted, thick splatters landing on his chest and abdomen. "Aw fuck yeah, fuck yeah, yer so tight, an' you look good all covered in yer own spunk. Fuck. Fuck!" His hips snapped erratically. "Goddamn, Doc, Imma cum all up in you. Yer gonna be full of it. Yer gonna be dripping with it. It's gonna be all up in there like I've marked you or some shit. Like you marked me." The Medic's whole body shook. He felt like he was cumming again and it almost hurt, it felt so good. His mouth stretched around a scream and he felt the two or three last punishing thrusts before the Scout groaned and the hot rush of the runner's release filled him. He watched the Scout grimace, his eyes clenching shut, noises spilling out of him between gasping breaths while his body clenched and rolled and arched. As the Scout came down, the Medic lay atop the gurney, shifting to press his overheated skin into cold metal. Finally the Scout heaved a shuddering sigh and straightened up, moving slowly. The Medic grunted when the runner pulled out, felt the wetness sliding out of him. It puddled on the steel. "Holy Jeezus, Doc," the Scout wheezed, bracing himself against the table. "That was fuckin' intense." The Medic said nothing. Aw, c'mon don't be like that..." The Scout tried to meet the doctor's gaze, but the Medic looked away. "Didn't you like it?" "What am I supposed to say to you, Scout?" the Medic answered waspishly. "'Thank you for the dance'?" The Scout's shoulders slumped. The line of the incision moved with them. "Well, I mean, I thought..." "What? What did you think?" The Medic bit his cheek. "I dunno! I thought, maybe, if we both had a good time, we could, y'know, do this again. Sometime. Or whatever." "Is that what you would like?" "An' you could cut me up if you wanted." The Medic observed his team mate carefully. "I mean, why'd you carve that word on my back if ya didn't-- uh. Whatever, y'know." The Medic looked to the side. He thought they'd been over that. "C'mon, don't tell me yer just totally done now." The Scout sounded so... desperate. "We probably should be, Scout." "Oh that is just so fucking typical!" "Vas?!" "You know what? Fuck you!" The Scout scrambled for his trousers, pulled them up his muscular legs, shoved his feet into his cleats without socks. "Ya never said a damn thing all those times you were cuttin' me up." The runner snatched his torn shirt from the floor; the scabs cracked, and bled. "Neither did you!" The Medic reached for his pants, sat on the gurney to pull them on. He avoided the splatters of release and stood to button his trousers. "Well I guess I should have! But you're more scared than me, and that's just fucking disappointing. That's not the kinda person I thought you were, but if it's the kind of person you are, then yeah, we probably should be just done." Already the Scout was searching for his hat, prepared to leave. "And what kind of person is that, Scout? What kind of person am I?" The Medic buttoned his cuffs with exacting precision. "Well I thought you were someone who'd go after what he wants, but I guess I was wrong. Where the fuck is my hat?" "You presume to know what I want?" "Sure, you could go on like that about someone else's legs, or arm bones, or skin. Whatever. You can do that? Fine by me." He stooped under the gurney and felt around in the darkness. "Scout, what do you want from me? Why do you want it from me? Why me, Scout, why me?" The Scout sighed, and straightened up. The Medic couldn't believe he'd allowed his young team mate to get under his skin in such a way. "You're the guy always runnin' around, holding us all together. Yer almost as fast as me, even, and that's impressive 'cuz you must be like, twice my age. An' I like that." The runner shrugged, and gesticulated as he went on. "Mostly though, it's yer voice that turns me on. Your voice and yer angry eyes and stiff frown, like yer fuckin' better'n everyone. I want you to fuckin' pay attention to me. I wanna be the center of your fuckin' universe. I wanna hear you moan and say junk I don't even understand, an' I want you to come lookin' for me when you want a screw. I want you to get all turned on, thinkin' about me, want yer fuckin' perfect face to turn all red and sweaty, want you desperate and hungry for me. That's what I want. An' I ain't afraid of that." He located his hat and bent to fetch it, spotted his bat by the door. "Apparently you want someone young and kinda built to cut up, an' you wanna drink blood an' junk like that. That's cool, whatever. You want that? You just let me know when you decide to be an adult about it." He flipped his bat up off the floor with the toe of his shoe, caught it, and saluted the Medic at the doors. "So, 'guten nacht' or whatever." The Medic wanted to cross the room in three quick strides, wrap his arms tightly around the Scout and tuck his face into the runner's hair. He wanted to breathe deep draughts of him and lick over his scabs. Instead, he was still standing there, blinking, with his shirt half-buttoned and his hair a mess, when the doors swung shut. ---------- ---------- So I'm not really 100% pleased with this, which is why I say the first one can stand alone. But, there are enough parts that I do like to prompt me to share with y'all. So! I hope it was entertaining.
Wow, that was hot. Wonderful work if you ask me.
Yes, good.
oh god yes.
To be entirely honest, I normally don't like this sort of thing with Scout - not one bit. But this? I fucking loved it. You made me like something, and I would be giddy beyond recognition if you would continue this. Seriously, it's really good.
None of my ship. All of my asfhdaslshfodnsl <3 <3 <3 Because surgery and shit. Medical terminology and cutting people up and yaoi and omg