He wouldn't ever call it 'hero-worship'.
Never. Because it wasn't – not at all – not in the slightest.. He didn't look up to Sam Scudder, he never admired Sam Scudder, or made an effort to learn about him, or his life. He didn't ask the other's about him. He didn't read old articles about him (beyond research). And he was not even curious about him as a person.
Though… As all the heartless rogue he was, Evan was only human and, while he made no effort to – he couldn't help but notice things.
Little things.
Snippets from late night conversations. Old reminiscing. Comparisons being made behind his back.
"Oh remember when-"
"He really digged that-"
"He was taller than-"
"Smarter than-"
"Better looking than-"
But none of that really bothered Evan – they were just pieces of a puzzle that he subconsciously began to put together. Unintentionally forming some idea of the man behind the smiling face in the rogues' portrait hung up in the Flash museum.
Nothing more – or so he thought.
While he made no effort to - Evan would work and study light and reflections and think quietly to himself, thoughts swirling, imaginations churning to that chiseled brunette who's legacy he basically stole.
Had he discovered this part already? Evan thought as he found a way to shrink his mirror clones to miniature sizes.
What would he do? The scot pondered as he growled in frustration over another failed attempt of his to create a new invention – something that wasn't originally Sam's.
Am I better than him yet? His conscious whispered, every time he got an appreciative glance from the other rogues – a jerk of the thumb in his direction when he was 'the man for the job'.
Am I better yet?
Better than him? No not yet. Am I better now? Better than him? No… not yet.
Evan knew that's it started – had to be. That's when the new mirror master's life started a phase. Where everything began to feel like an upward climb - A challenge. And always too far away, at the very top of this figurative mountain that never seemed to end; There was Sam, arms crossed over his chest, that know it all smirk plastered on his face, just like in the photos that soon decorated the inside of Evan's work book.
"just try." That smirk always taunted, "just you go on and try."
Never did Evan stop to consider that his secret rivalry with a dead man was starting to look a little like something else entirely –all he knew was every new discovery he made, every bread crumb he gobbled up from the trail Scudder left him, was getting him closer to his goal.
Evan held the teabag close to his face as he took a hard hit – trying to relax a little - He'd been pulling all-nighters, unable to sleep with the excitement of a big heist coming up. The scot needed to make sure the rogue's escape route was full-proof, so he ate up late hours poring over the mirrors and the light, the impossible fractions and machines and the tools.
But now he needed a break and the familiar sting of coke could sing all his troubles away. He snorted and sneezed – the last coherent and slightly intelligent thoughts he managed to squeeze out his cottony mouth was "…good stuff" before he crawled onto his bed with a shaky giggle. The pop pop popping at the front of his skull and the light, carefree sensations in his chest. With a long sigh, he tossed the crumbled wrapper in the trash before flopping back onto the mattress.
The scot hummed and ran his fingers through his matted hair, tugging lightly at one particularly soft strand. He was aware that his mouth was moving and the far away voice chanted softly, "Better now? Better yet? Better now? … dinna fecking…. Mmh …" he ran his hands down his face and pressing into his lips with the tips of his fingers, fighting to stay awake.
His doughy lashes brushed against the cheek of another when he tried to open his eyes, though he knew without having to look who's rough, lightly stubbled chin met his. Slipping up his face in a way that made him shudder. Evan could feel the bed dip and a heavy weight on his body. Squirmed against it sluggishly, the scot reached out and gripped air.
You're not better yet.
"Ohssorry…" Evan panted, though his attempts to capture the slippery phantom straddling him did not subside. He rest his hands on Sam's thighs and ran his palms up the searing heat building between his legs. The silky smooth voice his mind had assigned Samuel Scudder hissed lightly.
You're nowhere near better yet…
"Hushat…" he groaned, feeling his hand… or Sam's hand, pull his cock from his trousers – at this point, it didn't matter who as long as they felt good, "Touchit therr…." He whimpered lightly when Sam began to stroke his thick organ, "Touchit… th… hhhh…"
Sam cupped Evan's chin in one hand and ran his hot tongue over the scot's lips, coaxing them to open up so he could shove the wet muscle inside – where the scot opened up and gagged out a pleasured explicative because every little touch the Mirror Master graced him with was everything all at once. Painfully intense and muffled, feather-light and crushing. That expert hand continuing to hike up and down his shaft, making the scot buck and whimper.
Not good enough.
"No I'm – I'm not…! Not better…. Than yeh…hnnn-hnaa…"
Scudder chuckled and bit down hard on the other's lip - Evan's squirming was growing ever desperate and needy with every cruel dragging motion down that slick shaft. All building up like a haze under pressure – to a point of explosive capacity. Evan stiffened and arched off the bed right before it all came together suddenly in a rush of pleasure. And Sam was suddenly gone and everywhere all at once like a puff of smoke and Evan gave way. Shattering under the mirror master with a choked sob.
His hand milked every bit out of him and his hips continued to buck up hungrily in an echo of the desperation that had been.
"Thank yeh sir."
Not good enough
"Thank you…"
Never…
"Thanks…"
Good enough.
"Tha…."