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"Stop," Viktor finds himself saying sometimes, when Mikhail is undressing in his bedroom. "Let me look at you."
Perhaps he himself is already naked, sitting up against the headboard with the covers around his hips. Perhaps he is leaning against the wall, his glasses slightly askew and his lips swollen from a fit of hard kissing. There is a streak of sunlight sneaking through the barred and boarded window, or it is the middle of the night and there is only the sallow light of his desk lamp illuminating half the room and leaving the rest in shadow. It doesn't matter; Mikhail halts just as he is, standing bare-chested with his shirt hanging from one hand.
Viktor kneels up on the bed or pushes himself away from the wall. He puts his hands on Mikhail's shoulders and maps their incredible width.
"What a remarkable specimen you are," he murmurs, tracing the massive deltoidei and tricipites with reverence.
Mikhail stands even straighter under the praise, his chin tilting up and his chest pushing out. The movement of muscle beneath Viktor's hands is like a soft, slow landslide.
He imagines Mikhail in the bright sterility of an operating theatre—no, before the respectful, expectant hush of a lecture hall. He can almost hear the quiet scribbling of notes and anatomical drawings. He can almost feel the nimble weight of the pointer in his hand and taste his own crisp words as he discloses the wonderful discoveries he has made during his time in the private sector.
"Consider our subject. Nature has gifted him with superior size and strength, but as you will see, there is no endowment of nature that science cannot improve upon."
His palms press flat against the powerful swell of the pectoralis major. The ferocity of his arousal makes him tremble. He would spread Mikhail's ribs apart with the greatest care in front of their rapt audience, baring his marvellous thoracic cavity in the warm glow of a low-dose regeneration ray. He imagines the hint of pride gilding Mikhail's stoic silence, there in the corners of that well-beloved mouth for anyone who knew to look.
Oh, he can already hear the applause.
"You are perfect," he sighs, laying his cheek upon Mikhail's breast and listening to the mighty beating and faint electrical hum of his finest work.
Viktor's hands like to have something to do when his mind is preoccupied. They fold paper, or pull loose threads, or dismantle ballpoint pens. Sometimes they get away from him entirely. For example, he is sitting at the strategy table, tuning out Soldier's increasingly nonsensical tirade in favor of a thought experiment involving geckoes, when he realizes that his left hand has somehow ended up on Mikhail's right leg.
On his thigh, to be more precise.
He looks down to see his fingers slowly following the inner seam of Mikhail's trouser leg, wandering back and forth along a span of perhaps six inches.
Mikhail gives no sign of having noticed. He is slouched in his undersized chair, his arms crossed and his expression perfectly impassive. It is easy to mistake him for a simple creature, but as they say, still waters run deepest. Mikhail is far too self-contained to be truly oblivious, and the deliberate slowness with which he moves through life vacillates between charming and maddening.
Today, Viktor is inclined towards charming.
His fingers pause. For an instant, he is very tempted to pinch hard just to see if he can get a reaction. But that would not be very nice.
Benevolence makes him gently squeeze instead. Mikhail's gaze does not break from the far wall, and his breathing reveals nothing. His thigh is firm and warm, and Viktor idly wonders exactly how far he could venture into the delivery of a handjob before one of the others realized what he was doing.
He considers the practicalities. Drawing Mikhail's cock forth entirely would not go unnoticed. There is only so much the edge of a table can hide, and Mikhail's well-proportioned endowment is not one of them. However, he could certainly get his fingers inside Mikhail's trousers and then into the fly of his briefs. He could rub him off very slowly, with enough economy of motion not to show above the elbow. A sufficiently snug ring of thumb and forefinger and the proper application of pressure would surely be enough.
He imagines the rosy flush of vasocongestion creeping up from Mikhail's lower abdomen, to his chest and neck, finally revealing itself over the edge of his collar. Who else might notice it? In his mind's eye, Sniper glances this way, his brow briefly creasing in puzzlement over the color in Mikhail's cheeks before his attention returns to the front of the room.
Engineer would be quicker in his apprehension. His eyebrows would rise in sudden understanding. Perhaps he would throw a wink from behind his goggles and then avert his eyes like a gentleman.
Ah, but Spy would watch. There, from the seat nearest the door and from heavy-lidded eyes, he would not be able to resist admiring the leashed control of Mikhail's shoulders. He would drag overlong on his cigarette, forgetting himself, his smirk freezing on his lips as Mikhail held perfectly still. Perhaps he would be able to hear it just as well as Viktor when Mikhail's breathing finally began to deepen. He would catch sight of the faintest tremor as the muscles in Mikhail's legs locked in self-restraint and his jaw tightened—
Viktor's thoughts abruptly trip over themselves when Mikhail leans over with delicacy his size should not allow and whispers in his ear:
"Doktor is going very pink."
His throat clenches against the urge to clear itself. Ah. Right. Yes.
He removes his hand from Mikhail's thigh and places it primly atop the table.
"Jeez, you two. Get a frickin' room."
Someday, someone is going to surgically remove Scout's larynx and the world will become a slightly more harmonious place.
He and Mikhail are engaged in nothing at all unseemly. True, they are sitting rather close together, but that is unavoidable when sharing a couch barely made to fit three average men abreast. Viktor is himself broad-shouldered and no stranger to being the tallest in a room, but he might as well be a slender youth next to Mikhail.
Mikhail, for his part, seems not to have heard Scout at all. Nonetheless, he is setting down the most recent issue of Tactical Death and curling his hands together. There is a noisy crackle of popping joints.
Scout opens his mouth and then wisely decides to shut it. He settles back into his chair with a sullen glower, but after a moment, his gaze returns to the couch.
A perverse instinct makes Viktor put down his book and take hold of Mikhail's hand.
"Tsk." The breadth of his own palms and the length of his fingers only emphasize the improbable size of Mikhail's as they entwine. "You mustn't crack your knuckles, Heavy. It is bad for your grip."
"Yes, doktor." Mikhail, always the obliging patient, submits to having the back of his hand examined and his fingers straightened one by one.
"Okay, now you're just being fruits on purpose.”
Viktor ignores the boy, as there is nothing that vexes him more. Scout is a badly behaved child, but his antics are made amusing by the fact that it is obviously not disgust that leads him to fidget so. Viktor sees no reason to believe Scout's insistent claims of perfect heterosexuality any more than he would the braying boasts about martial prowess and muscular development. The boy's eyes linger on Mikhail’s hands as the magazine is picked back up. His skinny legs draw up defensively onto the chair.
Certainly, Mikhail's hands are worthy of attention. They are enormous, capable of snapping bone and tearing flesh apart. Yet Mikhail is careful with them in the way that a strong man must be careful, and he devotes them to the pursuit of making love with the same tenderness and precision with which he maintains his darling Sasha.
After a long, warm moment of consideration, Viktor marks his place in his book. Perhaps he will take Scout's advice after all. A private room suddenly seems to him a splendid idea, as is the thought of a large measure of lubricant and three of Mikhail's fingers inside him.
He smiles at Scout as he stands up. Such a pity for the little loudmouth that his acquaintanceship with Mikhail's hands will never extend beyond the occasional well-deserved cuff. If he was not so rude, Viktor might be generous enough to let him watch them at work.
Admittedly, Viktor is not quite as rigorous in inspecting his bedroom for unauthorized surveillance equipment as he is his laboratory. His work is of primary importance and sensitivity. Meanwhile, this is America, and it is 1969, and one of the principal advantages of being employed by the private sector is the corresponding privacy of his personal affairs.
There is a flicker of responsible thought amidst the violent flush of victory—a moment's curiosity as to how far that verdammt enemy spy made it into the base—and then he is shoving Mikhail down onto the bed, climbing on top of him, and detailing in a long, heated whisper exactly what he wants Mikhail to do to him.
"Rough, ja?" he adds, stripping to the waist and tossing his shirt over his shoulder. "Let's see if we can break the bed again."
Mikhail's grin flashes up at him, bright and sharp. "Whatever you want, doktor."
Hands clamp around Viktor's hips, and he is flipped onto his back hard enough to knock his breath loose. Before he can find air again, Mikhail's mouth is on his own, burning hot and pulling demandingly at him. He returns the kiss, then sinks his teeth into Mikhail's lip. He bites him on the edge of his stubbled jaw, and on his throat, and then hard enough to break the skin where his neck meets his shoulder.
He tastes blood as Mikhail laughs. He can smell it, too: dried on both of them, mingled with the perfume of sweat and burnt flesh and gunpowder. The rest of his clothes are yanked off without ceremony, and Mikhail's soon joins them on the floor. The bedside drawer is pulled clean off its rails in Mikhail's blind search for the lubricant.
"Kissing later," Viktor says when Mikhail tries to nuzzle at his cheek. "Sodomy now."
Mikhail is good enough to agree. Viktor ends up on his hands and knees, split open on slippery fingers. They're deliciously thick, twisting inside him as they spread the lubricant in deep. They move with slightly more gentleness than he would care for at the moment, but never mind that—only a few seconds later they’re pulling out and then he has what he wants.
He braces himself, a guttural sound leaving his throat as Mikhail's cock pushes into him.
It is always more than he expected, every single time. His eyes close in bliss as Mikhail begins to move. A moan escapes his open mouth. He should hope that if his bested enemies are listening, watching, that they are put to shame by the clockwork creaking of the bed and the inspiring sight of Mikhail's broad back, thick muscles flexing. Their heavy weapons man, whom Viktor had the pleasure of gutting today, is an inch and a half shorter than Mikhail, at least thirty pounds lighter, and surely not even half so virile. He has all his hair, for pity's sake, which should say enough about Mikhail's clearly superior reserves of testosterone.
They are pale imitations, the BLU mercenaries, all of them. Nothing at like his Mikhail, who puts enough strength into every single thrust to make Viktor shout and see stars. He will not flag, will not stint, will fuck Viktor all night if that is what it takes to please him, driving on until they are both wrung out and bruised and screwed out to utter senselessness.
Viktor lets himself be noisy tonight, so that anyone who cares to listen will know who has the better man.
The name Mikhail means, of course, Who is like God?
Viktor thinks of this as bloodlust and exhilaration carry him across the battlefield.
Mikhail is absolutely magnificent today, roaring like thunder amidst a hail of bullets and spent shells. Crumpled metal and limbs lie in his wake, and the sky above is draped in smoke. He is glowing, infused to glorious saturation with regenerative energy and unparalleled power. He is lightning made flesh, and he is flesh made metal. He is the titan Prometheus, bearing primordial fire down from the heavens, dooming the mortals who covet it with the promise of divine retribution.
The minigun flares, mowing down the last of BLU's resistance. Their colleagues race ahead into the clearance, and Viktor laughs aloud with unreserved joy as he follows in the craters of Mikhail's footsteps. His pack rattles on his shoulder, vibrating into the marrow of his bones, and he will feel the exhaustion of it in a lower back that is no longer so young and a head prone to aching tension--but later. In this moment, he is as invincible as Mikhail.
His creation is all he can see, filling up his field of vision with crimson light, and he wishes nothing more than to share this beauty with the rest of the world. They could keep on marching, he thinks. They could march on far beyond the petty boundaries of this desert town. They could conquer the earth, laying claim to whatever ground fell beneath their feet.
Who is like God?
It is a question that answers itself when the enemy's eyes show their whites.
And here, in the late hours, the sound of Mikhail’s sigh is startling in the quiet of the laboratory.
Viktor pauses in loosening his tie and looks up from his notes. It should not be easy to forget that Mikhail is in the room, but he does have a tendency to become absorbed in his work, and Mikhail in turn has the ability to sit silently for long periods of time. This is what makes him such good company. He reads, or drinks, or simply dozes with his eyes half shut and rarely interrupts.
At the moment, however, Mikhail is neither reading nor drinking, and the expression on his face is not remotely sleepy.
"What is it?" Viktor asks.
The corner of Mikhail's mouth hooks into something that looks like sheepishness, as if Viktor has caught him out with a thought he would rather not share. But it is gone as soon as it came. Mikhail shrugs.
"Is good look."
Viktor frowns, glancing down in incomprehension at his hand on the knot of his tie. "It is?"
Mikhail's gaze follows, dropping to Viktor’s throat. He nods.
"Is...not decent."
Reflexively, Viktor reaches towards the Russian-to-English dictionary that has taken up residency on his desk, but Mikhail is quick to shake his head.
"No, is right word. You are always wearing tie." His gaze moves next to Viktor's forearms, which are bare beneath the rolled-up cuffs of his shirt. "Always coat and vest. Many buttons."
Viktor considers that for a moment. The words are clear enough, but the sentiment leaves him mildly bewildered. He dresses plainly, like the practical, professional man he is, and it isn't as though Mikhail hasn't seen him naked too many times to count. Nonetheless, this evening's reading isn't pressing, the laboratory is locked up for the night, and he is not opposed to indulging Mikhail’s suspect definition of impropriety.
That that end, the finishes unknotting his tie and takes it off. He lays it on the desk and then looks back at Mikhail with his eyebrows raised.
“Well?” he asks. “Is that better?”
Mikhail looks him over slowly, the tip of his tongue flickering out against his lower lip for an instant. He nods.
“Anything else?” Viktor prompts, his mind already leaping ahead to both of them with their clothes off, making love on the desk. No, he amends—on the examination table. It’s bolted down.
Mikhail shifts in his seat. He purses his lips thoughtfully, as if giving the question full weight. "Stand up."
Viktor pushes his chair back and obliges him. He leans casually against the desk, feeling that standing at attention is not appropriate without a tie. Somewhere, the old schoolmaster who used to birch him for uniform infractions is turning over in his grave.
"Are you only going to look?" he asks, resisting to the urge to fidget when a few long seconds have passed.
"Shh," Mikhail says. He tilts his head in consideration. "Vest."
That, he can do. Five buttons are unfastened in measured order, and at a nod from Mikhail he takes the vest off entirely. He expects to be prompted to take off his shirt next, but to his surprise Mikhail only mimes the loosening of a collar.
"This button, here."
He unfastens the top button and wonders if Mikhail has some sort of heretofore unnoticed fetish for throats.
Mikhail leans forward, laying his hands upon his knees. "Suspenders."
He slides them off his shoulders and lets them hang, waiting to see if Mikhail will have him unbutton them too. The rumble of a low hum makes him reassess his previous hypothesis. Is there such a thing as a fetish for mild dishevelment?
Viktor does not consider himself a vain man, but there is something about the weight of Mikhail's gaze on him that makes his abdomen tighten with more than just arousal. He is not embarrassed, exactly, but he feels oddly...conspicuous. His weight shifts slightly from one foot to the other.
"Shoes off," Mikhail says.
He steps out of his loafers easily and glances down at his unremarkable black socks. It does not seem to him that he cuts a particularly enticing figure, but the expression on Mikhail's face says otherwise, as if these minor parts—shirtsleeves and gaping collar, hanging braces and stocking feet—add up to some particularly satisfying sum.
Mikhail crooks two fingers, beckoning, and Viktor is hard-pressed not to adjust the vest he's no longer wearing when he presents himself as bid. The concrete floor is cold through his socks, and the tap of his suspenders against his thighs is inordinately distracting. His trousers threaten to slide down his hips. He feels at once undressed and yet not nearly naked enough for the hot-eyed way Mikhail is looking at him.
He halts just short of climbing into Mikhail's lap. He leans over him, one knee coming to rest on the edge of the chair just between Mikhail's thighs.
"Well?" he says, waiting to be kissed.
Mikhail leans back, however, and examines him anew. His head tilted to one side, he reaches out and pushes Viktor's glasses up. He nods, seemingly satisfied with his work.
Viktor rolls his eyes. "Now you're just being ridiculous."
Mikhail shrugs, humming as if to say "Maybe so." Viktor might suspect he was being mocked, but from where he’s standing, he can see exactly how hard Mikhail has become.
"Strange man," he says, but not without a certain fondness. "What next, then?"
It is a relatively open offer, but he is going to have to insist on a change of venue if Mikhail wants his cock sucked. The laboratory floor is murder on his knees.
Mikhail runs the tip of one thick finger down the line of Viktor's shirt buttons. "Open."
He does so, unbuttoning his shirt to where it's tucked snugly into his trousers. He is quickly rewarded by the span of Mikhail's hands on his chest, the heat of them bleeding through his undershirt. They stretch across his ribs, pressing just firmly enough to make him aware of the meeting of flesh and bone, and then Mikhail's teeth are closing around his left nipple, barely blunted by cotton.
Viktor’s breath catches in his throat. He wraps one arm around the back of Mikhail’s neck and moans his encouragement. The next bite is harder, surely leaving a mark, and accompanied by an eager suck that sends a hot jolt through his nervous system. His hand slips down, palming at his swelling cock.
"Yes," Mikhail says, his voice like quiet thunder against Viktor's chest. "Do that."
His right nipple is worked to just as raw and assuredly red a state as the left before his undershirt is pushed up under his arms. He squeezes himself and then fumbles one-handed with his fly as Mikhail’s mouth delivers two more rough, smacking kisses without the barrier of damp fabric. He’s left with his hand jammed awkwardly down his trousers as Mikhail once again pulls back to examine his handiwork.
Mikhail breathes out hard and then pulls Viktor’s trousers and underwear down. "Keep going."
He must look like a fool, bared in gaps between hastily untucked shirt tails and sagging trousers, his undershirt rumpled and still half rucked up over his stomach. He can feel one sock sliding down his calf. There is some satisfaction, however, in noting that Mikhail looks just as ridiculous: poised to either tear right out of his fly or else come in his clothes just from watching. His prodigious cock is trapped against his thigh, leaving a prominent wet spot where the tip pushes against the inside of his trousers.
Viktor gives in and strokes himself openly, the tight clasp of his fingers pulling quickly. He can see Mikhail’s pupils dilate, the gaze upon him growing fixed and flatteringly intense, as if Mikhail means to consume the sight of him and burn the remains. His mouth runs dry, and he touches himself as if he is alone, without any art or artifice. He touches himself as if he is on edge and wanting Mikhail and is briskly making do without him, his hand moving with merciless efficiency as Mikhail’s grip shifts from his sides to his back and downwards, grasping at his buttock and thigh.
His eyes press shut when he comes. The rapid contraction of his muscles is unusually intense, and his body momentarily neglects to draw breath as he violently shivers through his orgasm. His semen wets his fingers, and if there is anything more indecent than opening his eyes to watch it drip down to stain the knee of his trousers, it is the unseemly satisfaction in Mikhail’s voice:
“Ah…handsome doktor.”