Chapter Text
You’re gonna kill me again, we both know it well
You wanna hear new screams coming out of me
You wanna hear new moans, break new bones
We both know who owns me, and there’ll be no escaping
—
Medic offered a generous arrangement of five and one dollar bills from his trouser pocket, dumping them onto the counter before the teller could greet him.
When he spoke it was terse, his no nonsense attitude following him through the miles of sand and dust their company truck kicked up in its wake. “I need a room for the night.”
The teller twirled to grab a key for him from the few options available. He swapped the key for cash, but quirked a brow after counting his keep, and spoke before Medic could slip away into his rented room. “You need your change, sir?”
“Turn your head the other way from the company I keep, and you can have it,” Medic responded, waiting for the slow, curt nod from the teller before he ambled up the short set of stairs. He felt the other man’s stare pinned to his back, surely suspicious of his intentions at the least, if he wasn’t already throwing every slur he knew at the German from within the safe confines of his mind. If he even understood what Medic was getting at.
Medic wasn’t worried about the likes of an inn keeper, especially not one in the degenerate slop bin that is Teufort. Nor was he going to assume he was smart enough to read between the lines, because so few people here were. He could do without the instinctual nauseousness that bubbled and pressurized in the back of his head when he was stared at, put on edge with the unpredictability of these townsfolk. For all Medic knew, the teller hadn’t caught his meaning at all, and was seething at the dawning realization that Medic was one of the killers for hire that was sucking up this town’s scarce resources.
Without a second thought toward the interaction, Medic slipped into his assigned room, leaving it unlocked so his company could follow his lead… whenever he decided to show up.
It wouldn’t be long. Scout couldn’t feign patience if it would keep his head in one piece, which amusingly, was something Medic deduced pretty early on in his distasteful career here.
A sliver of worry nagged at the back of Medic’s mind, because there was a real chance that Scout would get distastefully drunk during his pregaming, and land himself into a fight. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Like Medic, Scout was a man - a boy, really - of few vices. Despite the fact that he started their arrangement, he always seemed to need a little liquid courage to get himself to show up when Medic wanted to treat them to an off base rendezvous. It always made an unfamiliar twang shoot through his chest, anxious to please and petulant towards Scout’s skittish attitude at the same time. Medic was not without his own sordid indulgences, he reminded himself, feeling the varnished wooden handle of his surgeon’s bag, but at least he didn’t need to lobotomize himself to be seen with Scout in public.
It was only when he was disrobing the boy that he wished he could drink himself silly too.
For all he tries, Medic cannot get over the youth clinging to the Bostonian’s face. Babyfat cheeks that might never deflate, his snubbed nose and wide eyes that exuded a constant look of wonder, and Scout’s age barely being that of the legal drinking age all accumulated into Medic often feeling like a baby snatcher. Scout was grown, he had lean muscles and the build - and unfortunately, the blundering attitude - of a young man.
But in comparison to Medic who was all crisp cut muscle and face wrinkles and sunspots, he was a boy. Medic harped on it, uncomfortably fidgeting with whatever was in his hand at the time to cope with his intrusive musing.
Medic’s brain was his first and worst enemy.
It was a good thing that Scout was eager to keep it a secret, he supposed. Be it not for the taboo of homosexuality, the age gap might be a problem to the runner. Fortunately, Scout could only focus on one thing at a time, which translated to his moral shortfallings.
The fact that he needed to lose his wits to the dregs of a bottle certainly didn’t help Medic’s self confidence - he wasn’t a boar, in fact he liked to think he was a catch, visually speaking - but it ensured Scout would keep his tongue tied over the matter. Medic was hard pressed to find any excuse for himself, so he felt it wasn’t his place to press the boy about it either. Hypocrisy was an ugly look on anyone. It felt wrong to broach the subject at all, even in the confines of his own mind. It felt violating, much more so than slicing through abdominal muscles to manhandle Scout’s organs on the rare occasion the kid allowed him to. Medic has lived a lifetime of wrong decisions, and he would not mess up whatever he had going with Scout due to a misplaced insecurity that he somehow wasn’t good enough for a sober Scout.
The German reached into his leather bag, scraping up the few belongings he brought with him for this necessary outing. A bountiful trove of cash in case Scout wanted to treat himself to any food, or to bribe the teller at the front desk if he didn’t take Medic’s lowest bid; a long lab spatula, a mallet, cotton balls, matches, a morphine kit, and a rarely used canister of disinfectant.
First and foremost, Medic struck a match, and pulled out a cigarette from a pack that seldom saw the light of day. He made quick work of bringing the filter to his lips and lighting the head of it, watching the cherry illuminate as he pulled in a calming breath. It was starting to feel like more of his days were taken up by the oppressive Bostonian.
When he first arrived here, he would never have let his attachment get to this point. His philosophy used to be fun and done, and even that wasn’t something that encompassed sex in the slightest. It went for any relationship, platonic, or whatever was with the anomalous pull of his heart towards a man thirty years his junior. It kept less responsibility on Medic if his social interactions remained transactions. Until now, he never lived strictly with the sex that he was attracted to, nor had he thought his resolve would weaken over time.
But it did. And now he had to find ways to let loose, and let the fun pile up until his time here was done.
Through the years, it has become blatant that Medic likes to mold people. If he cannot brace his thumbs on soft tissue, if he cannot press white spots into skin and meld the body into the perfect subject, then he starts to itch. A penchant to change biomatter. An accumulation of boredom that steers his mind towards what is considered impossible among geniuses, and how he can break that preconceived notion to assert himself once and for all.
Scout had to defy the pattern. Someone had to eventually break down Medic’s predictability.
Medic dragged out an inhale that swept stuffy tobacco over his tongue, a woodsy flavor that he savored until he dabbed the half smoked cigarette out on the table, imagining as he would that the cool brown oak was the pristine tan of Scout’s skin. He twisted the bud out, watching the light leave its core as he wished he could just grow bored of Scout.
He was ready to end this suffocating train of thought.
Medic was so used to the routine of this particular vice that it was nearly mundane, forgetting for a moment that he had to jam metal into his frontal lobe.
Pour disinfectant on the cotton ball. Clean metal. Lift metal to face. It was all a drag, and Medic lazily pushed through the motions, aligning the scoop of the lab spatula with the innard corner of his eye before he savored his last clear thought, and pushed in.
He was interrupted as the door creaked open, a whining staccato that made the mad doctor flinch, and drop his supplies onto the table before it could breach his eye socket. “Not getting the party started without me, are ya?” Said an already red faced Scout, although Medic suspected it was due to sunburn, alerted only to him because Scout wasn’t stumbling into the room mumbling filthy prophecies of the afternoon to come.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you this sober this far from base,” Medic mused, biting back a grin at Scout’s offended expression.
“I ain’t… Ugh, don’t take me for a drunkard, Doc. What’s the harm in a little treat once in a blue moon, eh?”
With faux casualty, the German leaned back in his chair. He was too used to the give of his office chair budging beneath his weight, and when the chair didn’t move with him, he pinched his eyes in displeasure. Medic made himself comfortable theatrically, spreading his legs and sliding his feet farther out, shoes scuffing on the wooden floor while his head bobbled this way and that. “Little treats turn into addiction in the blink of an eye. You’ve seen it, I’m sure,” Medic drawled, raising his eyebrows behind his glasses as he nodded towards the dying cigarette.
“I’m not stupid, Medic, you can just say you think it runs in my family,” Scout sneered, although any heat that may have shrouded his tone was long gone by this point in their relationship. The young man closed the door behind him. Medic simmered in the finality of the click of it for a moment, before Scout filled the stillness of the room with his voice. “What are you doing anyhow?”
Medic missed the veil that alcohol put over Scout’s better judgement all of a sudden. At least then he wouldn’t feel the slow crawl of shame up his neck, sparking color to his bust.
Scout didn’t know he lobotomized himself to relax - that Medic was aware of - if he did he had never caught him in the act before. If Scout was sober for once, then it’s not going to go unnoticed that Medic is less talkative, or is easier to frustrate, once they are intimate.
The idiot wasn’t supposed to show up for at least another hour. He was supposed to be hunched over firewater, self deprecating about whatever it was that kept him so ashamed to see Medic.
The doctor glanced at his medical equipment spread across the table, feeling that this was Scout’s best attempt at a subtle calumny. Paranoia seized his belly, swirling his guts distractingly, his body bidding to make him sick.
“I was just… unwinding,” Medic finally uttered, after searching his expansive English vocabulary to provide it. “Weren’t you?”
Scout shrugged. “Nah. I mean - Two shots was all I had of some shitty liquor. I’m barely buzzed.”
“What inspired that, I wonder.”
If Scout was privy to Medic’s scathing edged retort, he didn’t show it, his eyes instead drawn to the shiniest item in the room. “Man, I thought you left the medical shit at base!” With no more chairs to occupy, Scout took the edge of the queen sized bed, lurching forward to rest his elbows on his knees, so focused on Medic that his skin crawled at his attention. He was in too well of a state of mind to appreciate the boy’s nuanced, sober, and clunky affection just yet.
“Maybe I can help you relax,” Scout offered.
“Not necessary,” Medic responded.
The two shared a look of contrite, Medic’s own resolve absconding the runner’s after he counted the seconds with his heartbeats. With a sigh, he scooped the lab spatula up, and handed it to his guest. “Fine. Listen to me, because you can cause damage, and I left the Medigun in my lab.”
Scout nodded eagerly, proud to brandish an object of Medic’s forte. The detailed visual dissection that Medic was performing on him didn’t hurt much either, making Scout sit a little straighter under the doctor’s appreciative gaze.
The word cute flooded Medic’s mind, urging him further towards the decision to probe himself.
“First,” Medic directed, grunting with the effort it took to drag his chair facing the boy, “put the spatula up to my right eye.”
Scout followed his orders with gusto, briefly pausing to visualize making two L’s with his hands so he got his directions right. Medic hummed, satisfied with Scout’s placement. He held his eyelid up with his ring finger. “Now, place the scoop of the spatula in the upwards corner of my eye. Closest to my nose.”
Scout followed directions without a word.
“Pick up the mallet.”
The runner hesitated. “...Why?”
If a piece of metal wasn’t driven into Medic’s orbital bone right now he would roll his eyes. “Scout, this is a transorbital lobotomy, not rocket science. I shouldn’t need to drag my feet through this.”
“A lob- You lobotomize yourself?!” Scout parroted, horror creasing his face into a much older version of himself, which Medic noted with subdued fascination.
“Don't mess this up, Liebe,” Medic asserted, his free hand snatching Scout’s wrist to keep him steady. “If you scoop my eye out, we’re going home.”
“How am I supposed to- Doc, I ain’t even ever paid attention when you were - when you’re-” Scout was tripping over himself, making a bigger fool of himself than when he first approached this behemoth of a medical malpractitioner for a tryst months ago. “I’m gonna mess it up!”
The doctor’s grip on Scout’s wrist was aching, but steady. He didn’t have the shaky hands of a nervous system oversaturated with caffeine. With the swiftness and finality of a train screeching to a halt, Scout wished he had no such vices, and could be reliable. Hot embarrassment was making his head spin like a tumble weed, his ears as red as the cherry atop the sore sight he was.
No wonder Medic poked fun at his intellect so much. If this was simple enough that Medic was letting him help and he still couldn’t do it, then what use was he anyway?
He was letting Medic down.
“It’s a simple procedure,” Medic promised, voice grinding and polishing Scout's jagged nerves.
Once Medic felt Scout’s wrist untense, he lightened his grip, but kept his hand on Scout’s for stability and control. “Bring the mallet up and gently - gently, Scout, do you hear me?”
“Yes,” replied the boy, feeling cumbersome. He tapped gently as instructed, and Medic jumped. His expression was graced with a smile.
Scout was again instructed to keep tapping, and he did, until the German’s jaw quivered and he breathlessly demanded Scout to pause.
“This is the gross part,” he said, knowing it would get Scout’s attention. “Scoop.”
Predictably, Scout did grimace. He was hard pressed to deny Medic when he had come this far, and when he was being looked like he was doing something right for once. Scout made quick work of it, dragging the lab spatula up and then down, repeating the motions and cringing at the organic squelches that movement of the tool generated. Blessedly, Medic groaned, thought process diminished to a glacial drag, which made Scout stop. Medic said, “Ja, gut, gut. Be careful when you take it out.”
Medic’s eye shifted in its socket, rolling to make room as the spatula webbed in brain matter and mucus dislodged itself from the older man’s body. Scout tossed it onto the table.
“Doesn’t it hurt?” He asked warily.
The lapse in their conversation was long. The German blinked, adjusting to his eye sliding into place after being off centered. This part always took adjusting to, his depleted intelligence a Godsent as much of a burden. The front of his skull exploded with thunderous pain, enough that it fried his spatial awareness. He reached for his morphine kit and sent the open disinfectant bottle splattering onto the ground, a growl catching in his throat at the thud of impact, and Scout’s responding hiss of surprise.
Every sound sent another bolt of white hot pain shooting through his head - a migraine three times the brutality of normal. He made quick work of presenting his arm, and tying a worn tube around it. Foolishly, he didn’t check the needle for air bubbles before he jabbed it in his arm, and thrust the plunger down. The morphine was a fast acting variant Medic had proudly cooked up himself, something he was saving to patent and sell after his time at Mann Co. was through. He figured he could piggyback off the accumulation of cash for the rest of his life, and quite comfortably at that.
All within the span of a minute, his pain shrunk until it depleted itself entirely.
Medic tried to think of anything that mattered, and his brain only fogged around loose ideas and concepts that would be a cause for mental exhaustion minutes before.
He smiled, and straightened his back. “Ach, you made such a mess. It gets easier with practice, do not worry.”
The implication that Scout would be asked to help with that at any point in the future made him stifle a shudder.
In place of the brooding doctor was someone that Scout recognized very well, intimately speaking. His smile was lazy to the point it was lethargic. Scout wondered if his demeanor had turned on a dime thanks to the lobotomy, or the morphine.
The hours that have passed since the last time he stuck himself in the brain were uncountable to Medic. Even more so in this state, unthinking, and finally not bearing the weight of his tense muscles. He was finally freed of expectations he put on himself, and of moral worries regarding Scout. This, yes this, was the purpose of human evolution. To eventually send oneself back to something more primitive.
Medic shucked off his vest in a hurry, solely focused on the night he had planned ahead. His white collared shirt followed, button after button slipping from stitched slits, and Scout watched in awe as Medic let loose.
As debased as the slow reveal of Medic’s feral, thick chest hair was, the poor boy needed a smoke after enduring that ordeal.
“Can I get a fag too?” Scout asked uneloquently.
“Excuse me?”
“Cigarette,” Scout reiterated, intelligence escaping him as more blood rushed from his head to his groin.
That, Medic could appreciate. He barely had to try to arouse any interest in Scout before his body was a hop, a skip and a jump into prurient thought.
Medic already had his pants halfway off when he nodded down towards them. “Look in my back pocket.”
Scout snickered, mumbling an odd word or two about playing this game before, and was rewarded with the cartridge he sought after. He shifted onto his knees on the bed, bracing a hand on the chair Medic throned, and leaned over to snatch the match box. Medic enjoyed the view as stood and circled the bed, stringing himself out lazily - headboard side - while palming himself through his briefs.
Scout was fully clothed, but it wasn’t hard to imagine what lay underneath when the German had seen it so many times. After all, turning his frontal lobe into mush had no effect on his memory.
Scout was a well adapted little thing. Medic held a soft spot for his thighs especially, where most of his muscle and fat entwined into the perfect kickstarters. Scout’s bench wasn’t impressive, but his deadlift certainly was.
Scout didn’t retreat back towards him until he was well into his second puff of his stolen goods, only coaxed back when Medic grew impatient, and selfishly wrapped his arms around him so he could drag him closer. “Liebe, at risk of sounding saturnine, your clothes are making the difference between a good time and a waste of twenty dollars.” He whispered a kiss right below Scout’s earlobe, the sweet spot he knew would get him squirming.
It was almost frightening, how attuned Medic was to Scout’s body. Scout swore he was not as sensitive as the doctor made him out to be, so headstrong about his own masculinity that at times it was pretty hard to enjoy himself with another man.
But that was just it. Medic could find a way to create matter out of thin air, deconstructing the law of conservation of mass just because he knows no one has done it before him, nor will they after him. If Medic tried hard enough, he could very well reanimate a corpse or mutate inanimate objects into monsters by willing it hard enough.
It was Medic’s potential, his scary, real potential that dragged Scout into his orbit in the first place. It is in his Goldilocks zone that he will stay, obedient and absorbing his radiance, because it just felt too egregiously large and daunting of a task to pull away from it. If Scout ever wanted to.
Maybe Scout liked when Medic’s large hands cupped the winged curve formed by his ribs because Medic wanted him to like it hard enough for it to become fact.
Scout didn’t know, but now, like his lover, he didn’t need to think.
He didn’t even realize his shirt had been pulled over his head until his cigarette was dotingly placed in its rightful place between his favorite finger and his forefinger. Back facing Medic, he could feel his clammy skin, and the scratchy carpet of his chest.
“How are you cold in this heat,” Scout huffed, exasperation and amusement swirling into one as Medic distractedly played with the clapse of his belt buckle.
“I’m not nursing a warm cigarette, my dame… and, I am old.”
Scout drew his hips up, squaring his shoulders against Medic’s chest so he could undress him easier. “Ugh, don’t remind me that you learned English in the 30’s.”
Exuberantly, Medic chuckled, and leaned in so close that he could rest his chin over Scout’s tensed up shoulder. He slipped off his belt easily, taking his time to enjoy the act of disrobing Scout, since he only could after a mind scooping procedure, before he responded simply, “You should have heard me when I was a beginner. I only learnt English from the motion pictures.”
Again, Scout scowled distastefully. Motion pictures, good grief.
“Since you haven’t drunk yourself half blind,” Medic drawled slowly, his thumbs slinking through Scout’s belt loops as he wedged his runners off, “maybe you can show me how athletic you are?”
Scout brought his cigarette to his lips for a parting inhale of its killer dopamine before he handed it to Medic. As he spoke, wispy grey-blue smoke sauntered through the increasingly shallow space between them. “...Eh?”
“I mean that I want you to ride me,” Medic said bluntly, too low in thought production to reach for the classier way he would want to say it should he be less lobotomized. He took the lit cig from Scout, and maneuvered it between his thumb and forefinger so he could keep his grip on it as well as Scout’s pants.
Scout straightened like he’d been shocked, and watched as Medic’s broad hands cinched his trousers to yank them down. He was as bare as Medic, and even though he ran hot like a radiator, he shivered under the cold, clinical exposure of himself to the doctor’s gaze.
Under normal circumstances, this would be the part where Medic revealed a scalpel and parted flesh for pleasure. Scout sure was glad the doctor had a begrudging soft spot for him.
“I can... Sure. Uh, reach in my pocket.” The boy offered a lopsided smile as he echoed Medic’s order from before, which Medic didn’t catch. With a stale expression, he did as he was told, rewarded with the treasure of a condom and a packet of lube. He blinked.
“That’s right, I do need this,” Medic murmured, and tossed the supplies to the side. Scout kicked his pants off his feet while Medic made his hands at home on his waist, eager to turn the runner around.
“I hate the smell of cigarettes,” Scout complained. He smoked more often in the last few months than he ever had in his life, hooked on the adrenaline of Medic’s orderly stare drifting to his mouth when he was of sound mind. In fact, Scout liked it a lot when the older man’s attention was on him at all. He was starting to associate the act of smoking with the high of Medic’s unchallenged concentration.
For all his eccentricities, his approval felt like the finish line to Scout’s very life. All the years he bruised himself sliding onto baseball diamonds and nearly crushing himself under the weight of a steel bar was in order for the hard-to-please Medic to examine him, and determine him a perfect male specimen. Medic’s intelligence has always been a matter of admiration to Scout, even if it was that same intelligence that spurred verbal lashings, or the dreaded brain scooping.
Scout thought that maybe if he swallowed his anxiety and put on a good enough show of confidence, then maybe Medic would be inspired to not indulge in whatever vice he did to become so lenient.
Unfortunately for Scout, Medic hadn’t even hesitated.
Scout was beginning to wonder if he just wasn’t attractive to Medic, which seemed silly when he thought about it in retrospect. Medic admired him, adored him, spoiled him rotten with compliments on his physique and the shape of his muscles. Yet, he wasn’t privy to what a night looked like with the Medic he was comfortable with.
It was nice to see the German relaxed for a few hours, but it wasn’t the same guy that stomped on him for all his noisy faults while uplifting his tactful advantages.
Heat seared across his collarbone like a hot bullet, and Scout was too late to startle and yelp before a tiny sun had been burned into his skin. His nerves screamed even though the heat retreated, leaving simmering ash in its wake.
“Jesus, Mary, and motherloving Joseph!” Scout hollered, and swung his upper body backwards until Medic caught him by the small of his back. He looked just as surprised as the poor Scout, who was calmed once his brain caught up to the pain processes he just underwent.
“Can’t you warn me before you do that?” Whined Scout.
The doctor stared at Scout through his eyelashes, an indulgently victorious grin on his face that, if worn by anyone else, would earn them a fist to the face. “I seem to recall you telling me you wanted it to be a surprise when I burn you.”
That was true, but Scout would rather crack a tooth in anticipation then swing and crash into the nearest object when pain bloomed across wherever Medic deigned pretty enough to bare his mark.
The only reason he even let him do it was because he looked at him like that. Like Scout was worth the space he took up.
Sometimes, Medic just liked to push and pull - see how much Scout would endure before he got mouthy, and then how much he’d have to placate the boy before he could take more. It was like supersaturating a mixture - saturate a solvent, heat it, let it cool and observe how it holds more solute beyond what it was made for.
“I’ve thought about branding your organs before,” Medic admitted, his voice an intimate, mocking soliloquy as chaste kiss after kiss was pressed into the fallout land around Scout’s newly acquired burn. The flesh smarted under the pressure and warmth of Medic’s lips, making the Bostonian press crescents into Medic’s shoulders. The doctor barely noticed, morphine numbing his veins and covering the traces of every scratch. Medic was really going to feel it in the morning. “Burn the letters of my legal name into it - not just M, or Medic, it wouldn’t be as potent. And no one would know… but for me.”
Bearing the permanent mark of Medic was something Scout didn’t know if he could bring himself to do. It rang like he was property or cattle more than a lover. Lover sounded like too haughty of a word, too.
Scout didn’t know what he wanted from Medic. He just liked when the doctor looked at him, and couldn't stand the thought of it being anyone else in his place right now.
Scout took it for the compliment it was supposed to be, no matter how misguided, and blushed. “Yeesh… I think you just wanna turn me into a freaking pariah."
Medic traded his answer for an action, rolling his hips up into Scout’s and earning himself a terse gasp that he could bask in the glory of. His favorite part of this all was how noisy Scout was. It was hard to miss his praise when it was being screamed at him.
“Doc-” Scout choked. Medic was quick to press his lips against the runner’s, tasting whatever cheap ale he drank before. It revitalized Scout, fed something sick and demanding inside him that he hadn’t realized needed to be fed. He licked over his teeth, his tongue, until Scout felt on the verge of suffocating. When the doctor pulled away, quick to disengage and move on to more intense practices, spit bridged the space between their lips, and broke messily against Scout’s chin.
He was so good at taking everything Scout had, at overbearingly stripping him, for skin and for bone marrow and all.
Even when the boy didn’t realize he was giving. Medic, for what little it was worth, didn’t even seem to realize he was taking, or of the trove of Scout’s loyalties that he already had.
Medic, sweet as can be, scooped the spit up with his thumb and pressed it into Scout’s pliable mouth. He wiped it over the inside of Scout’s bottom lip, and smoothed his hand down the column of his throat until he swallowed.
“Sometimes, I wonder if you can read my mind,” he said, amazed with Scout’s susceptibility. If Medic was a lesser man, he would take egregious advantage of him. He watched as Scout tore open the packet of lube. He was slow to render the sight in front of him, and by the time he spoke out, Scout was pushing him into the cheap pillows. “You don’t want me to do that for you?”
His question gave Scout pause, although it was quick, and before Medic could blink all slow and methodically, Scout was moving again.
The boy squeezed the lube onto his fingers and shook his head. “You wanted to see how athletic I am,” Scout recalled, drawing out his words until realization struck the doctor, “so I’m gonna show you how well I can stretch.”
“That’s obscene,” Medic said, grinning.
Scout didn’t push himself in spite of his haughty statement. He started out with one finger, swirling the tip of his digit around his waiting rim before he slowly, patiently breached his hole. Scout only showed this much patience when he was the one being penetrated, eager to stick his dick in anything that moved but unwilling to feel the pain of an improper stretching.
He would go as far to say that he liked this part more than he bared it - though he would never admit it aloud.
It was what Medic conditioned him for. It had sunk so far into Scout over the months that he almost forgot about the hours he would spend in Medic’s lap, teeth tearing at his coat and fingers clawing his nape as the doctor milked his prostate painstakingly. Scout’s cheeks felt like brimstone, the heat of his blush sinking so far under his skin that his cheekbones burned.
Once again, Medic was acutely reminded that the man in front of him was so very, very deliciously young.
He couldn’t linger on it as a hand was pressed into his chest, fingers fanned out while Scout’s head bowed reverently. He was two fingers deep in himself and stuttering out reassurances that were too quiet for Medic to catch the edge of.
“You’re doing good,” Medic hummed. He may be a bit of a buffoon in this state, but he knew when someone was prying for praise.
Scout chewed on his lip, eyebrows pinched as if in agony. It wasn’t that different from the expression he wore when bleeding out in combat. Medic’s cock twitched at the cruel thought, and Medic had had enough of the show.
“No time like the present,” he urged, and was shut up with a kiss that was much less practiced than those of his own, but thankfully his lurching hips were rewarded with the press of skin on skin.
Scout made sure the condom fit onto Medic before he slowly, centimeter by excruciating centimeter, lowered himself onto the larger man. Medic watched Scout’s cock bounce, eyes tracing his inner thighs and the strain they bore as they stretched to make room for Medic’s wide hips, slotted between them easily.
Scout was so accommodating towards Medic, showed the man a patience he barely had for the action of blowing his own bubblegum.
Medic, handsy - and eyes not too green with greed to admit it - grabbed a handful each of Scout’s upper thighs, enabling him to get his balance as he painstakingly made his way to bottoming out.
They both groaned when he finally did. Medic’s glasses sat askew, and he fixed them for a clearer picture as Scout upheavaled, and then dropped himself with a stuttered whine.
“You are allowed to take your time,” the doctor panted, too selfish in his state to entertain the idea of not thrusting up to meet Scout’s shaky undulations. That only strengthened Scout’s resolve to do this his way, clunky as it was.
The poor boy was already about to burst. His veins stuck out all over his skinny arms and neck, young blood fueling his carnal actions as he learned to take for himself. Medic made a mental note to have the boy fuck himself silly on him more often, if it was so hard for him.
He needed to learn. And Medic was proud to call himself Scout’s shepherd, at least in regard to the body and all its cravings.
Scout looked rather thoughtless, and much less focused than the German was. Where Medic took his time disassembling the boy’s sweaty, naked body - the rolling of his belly and the twitchiness of his muscles that strained under it - Scout was just trying to find a rhythm. He was failing, which aided his embarrassment, and made him flounder more.
“Can we do this with you on top?” Scout almost whined, his breath so far taken from himself that he sounded deflated.
Medic took pity before the Bostonian could push himself into disrepair.
“Slow - slow down, Scout. You’re overthinking this,” Medic said gently, a coo taking over his voice. Scout would find it patronizing if Medic didn’t guide him by his protruding iliac crest, guiding his hips into a balance of swiveling and grinding instead of the awkward bouncing he had practiced before.
It felt so much better.
“Oh G-God-”
“Ja, see, my… It is… You can feel better this way,” Medic supplied unintelligently, eyes fluttering. Scout’s tantric dance boiled his veins, providing a beautiful view from where Medic lay. “You just needed a - a guiding hand, yes?”
“Yes, Doc, guide me in anything- Wherever, for whatever, just- Fuck!” The boy chewed on his moans, body betraying him as his hormones flooded his nervous system, driving him feral.
In spite of all Scout’s vocalizations, Medic came first, since Scout was not practiced in using someone to find his own sweet spot, or even doing it himself. The doctor thrusted up to meet Scout’s movement, clumsily dragging out his orgasm as he filled the condom with his seed. In Medic’s head, he was filling Scout to the point of bloating.
If he couldn’t think before, he surely must have been clinically stupid now. All he could focus on was Scout’s soft skin, that he was so pretty in the right light of golden hour.
With his cock softening in Scout, he sat up after the weight of his climax passed. He took the runner’s cock in hand, smoothing the tips of his fingers over the heated flesh before gripping it near its base. Scout almost choked, a sound that, if Medic were younger, would have him filling to full hardness.
Maybe Medic liked Scout because the swiftness that he finished with felt like a compliment, like only Medic could do it to him. He barely had to pump his hand before the boy was creaming himself, cum spurting from the tip of his cock and soiling the doctor’s hand. Scout came with the German’s title on his lips, folding in on himself as his hips twitched and shuddered, chasing the feeling as long as his body would allow.
Medic was almost stupid enough to think that it was him alone who could get Scout in such a sorry state.
After they both finished, Scout shakily reached over for tissues. He distributed the cotton paper to Medic, and they wiped themselves down, tossing the soiled tissues in the metal fenced bin next to the bed before crashing into the covers.
Scout glanced at Medic, who was easing the bloomed condom off himself. He wanted to pull the older man in, chase after the blood clotting the marks made by his own nails and kiss them better, but he knew better. Medic would not be coddled.
Scout turned towards the window, letting the fading sunlight lull him into a rest his body craved, yet his racing mind protested.
—
Scout rose from Morpheus’ beckoning hold in stuttered phases, dozing for a few minutes just to be awakened again and again as the sun climbed higher on his body. It warmed his solar plexus, and made his cigarette burn scar throb, which acted as the proverbial kick in the ass he needed to awaken fully.
Fortunately, Scout was a morning person. He nearly jerked into a sitting position, awakening from the dead of sleep with a start. Selflessly, his first immediate thought went out to whom he shared an evening with, and his eyes sought out Medic. The German’s back was turned to him, shoulders hunched forward and body tense all while he miserably sandwiched his pillow around the back of his head to blot out noise.
Scout’s lips pursed, and he thought back to every time he awoke in Medic’s company, how he was always agitated and grinding his words through his molars like each syllable was slinging sticks and stones at him.
The boy ignored the sullen feeling that crashed over him, the uneventful epiphany of Medic always turning to mutilation as his unwinding activity. Scout didn’t see how he could relax in the way that he did if it was so painful.
His breath hitched on a sigh, politely turning his head so the noise was reduced, if Medic was awake to hear it.
Scout wanted to admire the cornrows of pink scratches he embellished into the doctor’s skin. His skin beveled around them, creating dips that Scout wanted to run his fingerprints over, or maybe even lick, just to watch the doctor squirm.
Medic wasn’t much of a fan for the morning after, so Scout didn’t try.
He stumbled like a newborn fawn, but his best attributes did well to support him after Scout got used to the shaky feeling of them. He took his time in the bathroom attached to their rented room, moving through the motions of a morning after. He showered the sweat, grime, spit and ash off himself, studied himself in the mirror and did his best not to think about it too much as the day moved on. If he thought about it, he might trick himself into thinking he was special.
He sure did feel special. Looking over all the cigarette scars placed on his hipbones and littering his sternum, he felt real special.