"I know what you're thinkin'," the scout said, smirking. "Pretty nice, huh?"
The Demoman mirrored the younger man's smirk, his eyes traveling down Scout's body.
He wasn't bad to look at.
Tavish had expected gangly limbs and a pigeon chest, but the scout was a runner: he had high, tight pecs, the muscle close to the bone, and what he lacked in arm muscles he made up in abs,
lithe muscles rippling under the surface of barely-tanned skin.
The muscles of his thighs were enough to make a grown man weep--rises of long muscle stretched taut from the way he was half-sitting, half-crouching.
His calves, though slender, looked like they were sculpted from marble.
“Wanna touch? I won’t bite ya or nothin’,” he said, cheerfully. Then, a moment later, he frowned a little. “Unless...you’re inta that.
I’m pretty sure Sniper and Spy are, but I don’t like to play that rough, so, uh. Sorry, man, but nah.”
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