Decided I'm gonna start posting more completed chunks of some of the WIP shorts that I'm happy with. Fuck it, right?
This is the first smut short (this teaser will be cut off before the actual smut starts, though), and the first Spy/Scout-centric one.
Reminder that these are OCs! Not the canon Spy and Scout! They are not related! Yes, the age gap is there and big, but they are not family! I always loved how the Scout and Spy personality archetypes played off each other in a pairing back before canon introduced the squick factor, and now that I'm writing an entirely OC cast, I'm gonna let my boys have fun :)
For the WIP, only warnings are for Scout's language, as always. The complete version will get to the good shit ;) Starts a little after some intro that I'm not happy enough with to post yet.
Summary: Scout is drunk, and lonely, and horny. Maybe Spy's down to... talk?
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[...]
Imbibe. That was a good word. Where had he even pulled that from? He’d probably heard it from Spy. Spy was always using all those stupid fancy words, and saying way too many of them for someone to make sense of it. All those stupid frog words, too. Why couldn’t he just speak English like a normal fucking person?
Even if he did make French sound good. Real good. Like, sexy without him even being a chick, good. Scout shifted, adjusting his pants slightly at the familiar throb deep in his gut. Fuck, was Spy sexy? Maybe, kinda, if he thought about it. Spies were kind of sexy just by being spies in the first place, really—dangerous, mysterious, refined, and stylish by default—but Spy, his Spy, had an appeal entirely separate from his profession. The French and the accent was hot as fuck, and something about his eyes was just… enticing, drawing you in while still reading everything about you. And that little smirk he had, the one that made it feel like he knew something he shouldn’t, something about you, and he liked it…
Scout sat up quickly, his head swimming a little, as he felt another deep throb, this time in a much more interesting location. Okay. Okay, fuck. Fuck. He looked at his beer and finished off the last mouthful, trying to ignore the building tension between his legs and think for a Goddamn second. Okay, so Spy’s kind of sexy. He’s also kind of a fag. Scout’s horny and—fuck, he guessed he could at least admit it to himself—pretty fucking lonely. He’s not fucking gay, not by a long shot, but it had been a long-ass fucking time, and he was getting tired of feeling nothing but his own hands.
Fuck, was he really doing this?
Huffing out a breath, Scout pushed himself to his feet. He dropped the empty beer bottle onto the couch—he’d deal with it later—and straightened his hat and pants. He was a doer, not a thinker. He wasn’t just gonna sit around here chasing his thoughts in fucking circles all night. Fuck it. Let’s do this shit.
He almost stopped and turned back as soon as he was through the door. The hallway was thankfully empty, but it suddenly seemed like a really long way down to Spy’s room; it was all the way at the other end of the hall, after all. He shook himself with a soft growl, pulling his door shut, and started walking. Well, staggering. Maybe he was a little drunker than he’d thought. The tapping of his cleats sounded way too loud. He flinched a little as he passed each other door on his way down the hall, half-expecting to see heads poking out to ask about his late-night wandering, but none of the doors popped open, no one appeared to question him. In what somehow felt like both hours and no time at all, he was standing in front of the door marked with a blue knife. For a few seconds, he just stood, swaying slightly, staring at the bland slab of wood and trying to force some order on his similarly swaying thoughts. Then he knocked.
The thunking of his fist against the door, again, seemed far too loud in the silent hallway. He fidgeted as he heard soft shuffling from inside the room. There were a few seconds, and the sound of footsteps drawing up to the door. He took a deep breath as the locks rattled and clacked, and then the door was swinging in, revealing a smoking, dressed down Spy.
His suit jacket and tie had been abandoned, and his shirt sleeves rolled up past his elbows. The first couple buttons of his shirt had been undone, revealing the lower edge of his balaclava and an inch or two of pale skin. He still wore his mask, gloves, and waistcoat, but he wore them as comfortably as another man might an old pair of sweatpants. He wore them well, too. Scout’s gaze had fallen on Spy’s face when he’d first opened the door, but now it started to wander. Spy looked skinnier without his jacket, Scout thought, with more defined hips. Like a really flat-chested chick, but… sharper.
“Bonsoir, petit. It is later than I would ’ave expected a visit from you,” Spy said. Scout blinked and looked back at Spy’s face. There was a warm, if somewhat confused, smile there. The mouth hole of his mask was slightly askew. Scout blinked dumbly again, and Spy raised an eyebrow. “Is there… anything I can ’elp you with?”
Scout took a deep breath, ready to explain himself, but nothing came out of his mouth as his mind completely blanked. Shit. Shit. He’d come down here for a reason, right?
“Yeah,” he said, “yeah, a’course. Wouldn’ta knocked otherwise.” He frowned. He’d wanted to talk? About… about… “Wanted t’talk ’bout somethin’.”
“Something?” Spy said, lifting his smoke to take a long puff. The corners of his eyes were crinkled. Scout nodded, closing his eyes when the world started to wobble a little. Something. Something about… Man, it was hard to think with the floor rocking back and forth.
“Why don’t you come inside, petit?” Spy said, his voice tight. Scout opened his eyes and saw Spy clearly fighting a smile. His eyes narrowed—was Spy laughing at him?—but he nodded and stepped into the room.
The Frenchman’s sense of style and class was well on display here, from the sleekly outfitted king-sized bed tucked into a darkened corner, to the elegant but comfortable sofa and wingback armchair arranged in cozy proximity to a pair of dark wood bookcases near the door. A record player sat on one of the end-tables beside the couch, and the table at the sofa’s other arm bore a finely detailed crystal ashtray, and a decanter full of deep amber liquid with a pair of similarly patterned crystal glasses arranged beside it. Even the walls had been draped in large sheets of deep blue fabric, hiding the grimy concrete and subduing some of the light from the overhead fixture.
Scout weaved his way across an expensive-looking rug to the couch, and he flopped bonelessly at the end nearest the record player as Spy closed the door and latched his numerous locks (he was up to four, now). The world had stopped rocking for the moment, and Scout’s thoughts were forming a little easier, but he still felt pleasantly muzzy. This was a good level of drunk, now that he’d staggered his way through his brief case of the spins. Thank fuck for his stupid-fast metabolism.
He watched Spy move to his desk in another corner of the room, gathering up papers and placing them carefully in a drawer that was unlocked and then locked again with a small key drawn from seemingly nowhere. It always amazed Scout how Spy could do that, the little tricks of sleight of hand that came so naturally he didn’t even seem to recognize them. No matter how closely Scout watched those slim, gloved fingers, he could never trace their movements well enough to see exactly what Spy did. Case and point: though Scout’s eyes had never left him, he had missed the entire replacement of Spy’s nearly spent cigarette with a new one, only noticing that Spy had a fresh smoke when he took a seat at the other end of the couch.
“So, mon petit voyou,” the masked man said, resting an arm over the back of the sofa in a strangely casual gesture, “what ’as driven you to seek the pleasure of my company this evening? I believe that you said you wanted to speak to me about-” He smirked and took a drag from his cigarette. “-‘something’.”
Something. Oh… yeah. Scout felt heat starting to rise in his neck. The fog that had laid over his brain when he’d stood at the door had dissipated, and he remembered with unpleasant clarity just what that “something” was. He took a deep breath and straightened a little from his limp sprawl. He licked his lips and rubbed the back of his neck. Maybe comfortably drunk wasn’t quite drunk enough for this. Fuck his fast metabolism.
Spy seemed to understand. As Scout’s silence held, moving from thoughtful to awkward, he turned to the end table and poured out two fingers of the decanter’s contents into each crystal glass. He held one out to Scout, who took it and looked over it, giving it a sniff. It was definitely some kind of hard liquor, but it wasn’t very much. He said so to Spy with an eyebrow raised, and was surprised when Spy barked out a laugh.
“It is scotch, petit,” he said, holding his glass lightly on his fingertips. “It is not like your mediocre American whiskeys, to be guzzled with more concern for ’asty intoxication than any true form of quality. This is oak-cask aged ambrosia, meant to be sipped and savoured, enjoyed for the subtle complexity of its flavours, rather than something so pedestrian as mere alcohol content.”
Scout listened to Spy’s wordy explanation with a frown, and he gave his drink another narrow-eyed inspection. “Sounds stupid. And faggy. I betcha drink fuckin’ wine, too.”
“Naturellement,” Spy said, sipping his scotch. Scout sniffed his again and wrinkled his nose. “There is little in life better than a glass of fine Cabernet Sauvignon and a lovely rare steak. Though, good scotch and a cigarette comes close.”
“’Specially if it’s one of yer ‘special cigarettes’?” Scout asked, not without a touch of bitterness. Being stoned hadn’t really been that bad—he’d actually enjoyed it a fair bit, that first time, once he’d eventually realized what Spy had given him to smoke—but a little warning would have been appreciated. He took a hesitant sip of the scotch, grimacing a little at the burning it left on his tongue and in his throat. He had to admit, it didn’t taste that bad, and the fumes it sent curling up his nose felt sufficiently alcoholic.
“That was just funny,” Spy said, and Scout glared at him. It only made Spy laugh. “Seeing you and Pyro ’igh as kites was honestly the best entertainment any of us ’as ’ad in far too long. And tell me you didn’t enjoy it. Go on. If you can make me believe you, I will take over your share of the laundry for the next month.”
As tempting as the prize was, Scout had never been a good liar and he knew it. He flipped Spy the bird and took a larger swig of scotch as he grumbled, “Fine, it wasn’t that bad. Was still a sneaky fuckin’ trick.”
“I am a Spy, mon voyou,” Spy said. “I believe ‘sneaky’ is to be expected.”
He took a longer drag from his cigarette, holding the smoke in his mouth for a moment. Scout could only stare in fascination as Spy let the smoke drift out in a thick, slow-curling cloud, and inhaled it back through his nose before exhaling it normally. Scout had seen that kind of shit in movies and on TV, but it looked even cooler in real life. Spy noticed his stare and smirked.
“As well as suave, mysterious, and dashingly ’andsome, non?” he said, and he mimed pushing hair back from his forehead, giving Scout a smouldering look. Scout snorted and, to hopefully hide the sudden flush rising again in his neck, quickly finished off his scotch; Spy’s glass was still mostly untouched.
“Bein’ suave ’n’ mysterious ain’t likely t’getcha much out here,” he said. “Just means ya got a fuckin’ nosy, pain in th’ass Scout pesterin’ ya for weed and booze and gossip.”
“And my devilish ’andsomeness?” Spy’s smirk grew. Scout made a face at him. The implications of the statement hit uncomfortably close to his recently recalled reason for visiting. He toyed with the empty glass in his hands until Spy held up the unlidded decanter with a questioning shake. Scout held out his glass and let Spy refill it, a little more than he had the first time. Scout took a swallow and swiped at his lips with a thumb, not meeting Spy’s gaze again. He could feel it on him, though; there was something unmistakable about the way having a Spy’s eyes on you felt.
Once again, the silence stretched. It didn’t quite lose its companionable quality this time, even if Scout couldn’t bring himself to do more than glance at Spy out of the corner of his eye. From what he could tell, Spy was more than happy to sit smoking and sipping his scotch. He was so patient, and calm. Understanding, if someone could be understanding and still be a sarcastic bastard sometimes. Scout sipped his scotch and coughed into his hand.
“Spy, d’you, uh… D’you ever get lonely?” he said, still not raising his eyes. Christ, he felt like a fucking chick, saying that, but Spy’s oak-cask aged ambrosia was working well with his earlier imbibing (imbibing? Was that actually a word?) to loosen his tongue. He’d never been that good at keeping his mouth shut anyway, once he got something in his head. The lack of immediate response made him round his shoulders, and he opened his mouth to take back the stupid, girly question.
It snapped shut again when Spy said, “Of course.” His tone was no longer playful and teasing. “Even in such a small space, with so many disparate personalities it is not easy to find… reliable companionship.”
“Companionship. Yeah.” Scout rubbed the back of his neck. Fuck it. He downed the rest of his scotch with a shudder, feeling it burn pleasantly all the way down his throat. He coughed again. “Y’ever… uh, get lonely in- in other ways? Like… the missin’ chicks kinda ways?”
Spy’s silence lasted long enough to draw Scout’s eyes up. He looked surprised by the question, but not displeased or, as Scout had feared, disgusted. He’d known Spy was kind of a fag—that was part of why he’d drunkenly stumbled down to his room in the first place—but that niggling little part of him, the South Boston boy who’d pummel anyone that said anything that could be even remotely perceived as gay, still expected to see some degree of distaste.
“You are asking if I ever weary of… lending myself a ’and, as it were?” Spy said, gesturing vaguely with his cigarette-bearing hand and sending swirls of smoke bobbing up toward the ceiling. Scout swallowed thickly and nodded. Spy surprised him again with a lazy shrug, as if it were the most normal line of questioning in the world.
“Bien sûr,” he said. “I may be a man of more varied tastes than the majority of the team, more willing to engage in—what do you like to call it? ‘All that faggotry’?” Another brief smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “But finding not only reciprocation of my tastes, but the proper level of compatibility, is difficult, again largely due to working amongst those with such volatile dispositions.”
Scout blinked; those were a lot of long words. “Uh, what?”
Spy let out a sound that, if anyone else had made it, Scout would call a snort. “I am willing to sleep with men, but none of the men ’ere are willing to sleep with me, or I with them.”
“Oh.” Scout looked back down; he’d started fiddling with his cup again without realizing. His stomach was… fluttering. “Ain’t no one worth your time, huh?”
There was a light clink as Spy set his still barely touched glass on the end table. “I am a Spy,” he said again, slowly, “and a Spy must ’ave standards. There are a few I believe would be acceptable, ’owever, if they ever felt so inclined as to approach me.”
Scout stopped fiddling with his glass. “A few?”
Spy nodded and stubbed out his cigarette, blowing out a last plume of smoke through his teeth. “Engineer would be interesting, but ’e ’as made it abundantly clear that attempting to approach ’im about indulging such desires would be… unwise. ’E is a married man, after all. Sniper, obviously, ’as a certain rugged charm. ’E is surprisingly sophisticated for a man ’oo prefers to live out of a camper van, and we’ve known each other for over a decade now, besides. Medic is also intriguing.”
“Doc?” Scout made a face. “He’s so fuckin’ old, though. Even if he is, y’know, like, an actual fag.”
“More advanced age need not be seen as an impediment, petit,” Spy said. “An experienced partner can make encounters far more ex’ilarating.” Spy locked Scout’s eyes with his own. Scout’s fluttering stomach gave a nervous lurch. “As can an inexperienced one.”
There it was. That look and those words. Even Scout’s alcohol-addled brain (though it was less addled than he had expected. Or hoped. Fuck his metabolism!) could sort out the blatant implication behind them. He fully expected to feel disgust—to be walking across the room and out the door without even having to think about it, despite the fact that he’d been the one to come here in the first place—but it wasn’t there. There was just the army of eager butterflies that seemed to have taken up residence in his stomach, and a thundering in his ears that he thought was his heart.