He badgered you relentlessly. In his own way. Medic is not as brash and obvious as Scout, but you wonder if he's learned a liquid slyness from Spy over the years; a startling seduction that evinces more velvet than steel.
At least you were alone when the first overture came. You can only guess at what the expression on your face must have been while you attempted to determine what the Doctor was getting at. The choice of words and interwoven threads of meaning clashed so starkly with what you had expected that comprehension eluded you. He was subtle, but eventually you realised what he was trying to communicate. You suppose you must have gaped from the way his smile widened into something predacious. He told you to think about it, and left you in the kitchen pouring juice on your trousers instead of in your glass, his boots clicking their retreat like a fingernail tapping the polished surface of a table. Waiting. Patient.
The fact that you never outright said "no" not only fuelled his persistence but also revealed to yourself that whilst it had never occurred to you, it didn't mean that you weren't interested once the idea was broached.
"But Heavy..." you'd stammered the second time he asked, his arm barricading you on one side when it had looked like you were going to bolt. The bone-white fabric of his coat was splashed with blood and you don't know whether it was the metallic tang or the forceful brightness of it that induced the wildness in the size of his pupils. You knew the last thing you wanted was to stand between the giant Russian and his Medic, and you had no idea what game the Doctor was playing in propositioning you.
Your hesitation just made him chuckle. "He knows." One hand rested against the wall next to your head, and he had caged you completely. You saw his nostrils flare as he leaned in, and you froze. "Zwei Liebhaber," he sighed in your ear. "It is better. We can show you." The heat from his breath slid down your neck. And then he was gone. You stayed glued to the wall, shaking in fear. Not of what he had said, but of how badly you had wanted it.
After that, Heavy was always there when the Doctor asked. The monolith's expression never changed as the Medic wooed you in his unique, gently coaxing manner that was so at odds with the mathematical precision of his movements and his appearance. You didn't know if Heavy approved or disapproved. That was a key piece of information that the smaller man had neglected to give you, but you took it as a good sign that the Russian wasn't swinging those enormous fists in your direction. You'd seen the damage they could cause and the thought of what his hands could do to you in an amatory setting made you quail. Quail, and then hunger for it.
Overwhelm isn't something you've ever sought in the bedroom, but now you cannot help but wonder at the advantages of it. By himself Medic could easily overpower and dominate you, but it would pale in comparison to the strength that Heavy had at his disposal. Together they could bend you to whatever end they desired and you would have no say in the matter. It frightens you when you think of the potential damage. It excites you when you think of the possible indulgence.
It would be more muscle and flesh and touch than you have ever experienced, a matchless loss of control and a delectable intimacy.
Medic must have seen the awareness in your eyes of the wanton abandonment in his invitation when he cornered you for the the final time, Heavy's shadow throwing you both into darkness. The Doctor's smile broadened and his pupils dilated as he edged closer to you, so close that you could feel the heat of his body seeping through your clothes. For one brief moment you thought he was going to run the tips of his fingers down your neck, but his hand pulled back. How he managed to caress you without touching was a practised cruelty from the ease with which he achieved it.
You couldn't stop yourself from leaning towards him as he arched down to whisper in your ear, from smelling the assured maleness of his body, from seeing the victorious need in the blue of his eyes. The promise he made bound a silken rope around your frame. "Later."
What happened between that moment and the knock on your door is forever lost to you.
He had not said where, but whether that was determined from the way you'd hid in your room or the fact that they had not found you outside of it since the matter had been decided is irrelevant. This will be a house call of a very different kind. A cure for the malady you'd not known you had fallen prey to.
The Doctor and his retinue of one glide into the room, the effect only slightly wrinkled by Heavy's need to duck in order to clear the top of the door-frame Or perhaps it is a premonition. You've never been as aware of his size until now, never as conscious of how the Medic manages to seem in command of a man so large.
You close the door and have barely turned from it when the Doctor's hands are clasped around your face, his mouth on yours. There is to be little preamble to this strange arrangement. Maybe the weeks of veiled suggestions were that preamble. Nevertheless, the keenness with which Medic tastes your mouth is stark and surprising. His hands pull gently to lead you away from the door, his lips never leaving yours, tongue deliquescent as it coaxes yours towards his. The flavours of his kiss are dark and dangerous, the slight scrape of stubble against your skin a beautiful contrast.
You're manoeuvred around to sit on the bed, and you jump slightly as you find that Heavy is already there, one hand slipping around your front to pull you back against the broad curve of his body, his legs bracketing yours, holding you in place as Medic finally releases you.
The assuredness with which he undresses is fascinating to see. There is none of the arrogance of youth that would make a spectacle of the performance. The play of muscles in his forearms as he unbuttons his waistcoat catches your eye. You've sneaked looks at the Doctor's bare arms before but to do so now, so openly, makes the blood rise in your cheeks. Or perhaps the timidity that rises with the heat comes from the fact that he never takes his eyes off you. So he can see where you're looking, can watch the reaction on your face as his tie slips free of its knot and his shirt slides off his shoulders. The squeezing thud of your heart is surely strong enough for Heavy to feel through your ribs, the increasing cadence vibrating against the palm of his hand, though whether the slight pressure of his fingers under your chest is an acknowledgement of this involuntary betrayal or a sign of his own interest in Medic's divestment is unknown.
The leather belt slithers free of fabric loops to wrap once around Medic's palm. He tilts his head a fraction to one side as if considering his options, the belt's length pulled taut between his hands. Dear god, you think, what is he planning to do with that? He must have caught the apprehension in your expression, baring his teeth as his smile widened. The belt slips free of his hands, the metal buckle making a dull thump as it hits the floor.
Medic pauses as he hooks the toe of one boot into the heel of the other. The slight disappointment in your eyes is something he toys with before denying the secret pleasure you hold at the thought of being fucked by a man in such striking footwear. You push your lower lip out in response. You grudgingly suppose that belt and boots cancel each other out this time.
Once his trousers have unclasped his waist, you can see his form unfettered: the broadness of his chest, the narrowness of his hips and the muscular length of his legs... why he cuts such a sharp figure in his uniform. There is no slouch in his posture, no pulling gravidity from age or inactivity. His maturity has done nothing but perfect his physique. Greek gods have nothing in comparison to this teuton. Your eyes drop. Definitely nothing in comparison! Your anticipatory shudder is answered by a low rumble in Heavy's chest, the back of one finger stroking down the angle of your neck.
Medic is not so crass as to jam himself in your face the way a younger man might, holding himself just far enough away to entice you to reach for him. But once your hands have grasped his hips, he moves forward to make your devouring easier. His fingers thread through your hair as you lap at his flesh, and he croons encouragement in words that are familiar in sound but devoid of meaning to you. You have never learned his language beyond a few basics but you're pretty certain he's not talking about his family or the price of butter. He's content to let you do what you wish with your mouth and your hands, but the grip he has on your hair tells you when he is most approving. And you find that you want his approval. Very much.
The Doctor has the self control to prevent you from taking him too far down the path to completion, but your mouth is not empty for long. There is a sucking eagerness in the way he steals the taste of himself off your lips as he strips the lower half of your body. Your shirt is pushed up and your body freed of constraint to allow him to stroke and enjoy what he uncovers. He pushes you back firmly against Heavy's stomach, kneeling down to hook your thighs over his shoulders. His training gives him an unerring guidance to where he knows you want him to go. There is breath-taking sweetness in his hands and a shockingly alluring sin in his mouth. He uses both heaven and hell to break you against the stoic rock behind you. Or not so stoic. Heavy's girth is not small, but it cannot hide how much he is appreciating what he sees. If what you feel pressing into your back is what you think it is, there'll be some significant physical challenges ahead of you. But with Medic's tongue teasing a slippery honey from you, you cannot muster much anxiety over what the giant behind you will do once it's his turn.
A finger hooks the bridge of his glasses to remove them from his face, and the Doctor burrows even deeper, his nose replacing where his tongue has swirled and beleaguered. He doesn't stay there long, raising his head and shifting forward to exchange his tongue for something more substantial, harder, thicker. He murmurs incomprehensibly into your ear as his hips rock gently to ease his way inside you, one hand splayed across your abdomen, thumb stretched out and down to find that special spot. Once Medic has pushed in as far as he can go, he withdraws completely, relishing the muscular squeeze your body bestows on him. Sinking in and out in a perfect, precise rhythm, he thrusts you against his Russian lover with increasing determination, that questing thumb stripping away what little poise you had until you're no longer ashamed of the sighs that fall from your mouth. The hooking drag and spearing impalement is an utter delight, and you revel in the tightness that comes from being so nicely filled. The sheen of sweat on his body increases as he strokes into you, and the signature dark cowlick of his hair becomes dampened and flattened against his forehead. Heavy brushes his thumb against the Medic's temple to clear the black strands aside and the Doctor raises his eyes to yours, so bright and large without his glasses to shield them. You know what he's going to demand of you a fraction of a second before he gives it voice, but the guttural, hissing reality of it is a titillating thrill.
"Say it."
You refuse, clamping your mouth closed to swallow the automatic reflex, your palms blindly reading the rippling motion of the muscles in his back.
His eyes narrow and he increases both pressure and speed to convince you.
"Say it!"
It almost slips out, your clamped mouth already forming the start of the word, but still you deny him, because you know that as soon as you say it, you'll be dragged up the mountain with nothing to stop you from falling off the summit.
He brings his mouth close to yours. "Liebling, you know I can fuck it out of you even if it takes hours but it is not nice to keep Heavy waiting. He's been so very patient, you know." The Doctor sucks gently on your lower lip, trying to draw your unwillingness out of it. Your legs are locked tightly around his hips, warring with the need to crush him against you and the desire for that delicious repeating ingress into you to continue. "Say it!"
And you do. More of a gasp than speech.
"Lauter, mein Taube," he admonishes you, his thumb circling. "So I can hear you."
Now it is more groan than gasp.
"Weider. Again."
Your fingernails dig into his back as the word is ripped from you.
"Medic."
A desperate word, given sound in need, but this time not in pain.
His hips shift and alter motion, turning the thrust into a grind.
"Again!" His voice has become as demanding as his body.
"Medic!"
"Again!" His perfect teeth nip at your neck in determined encouragement.
"Medic!"
"Again! Say it until you come! I want to hear you beg for me!"
You don't know if it's his words or the ragged desperation with which he says them, but god help you, you beg. Guiltlessly. Each time, his body shudders in response, what control he had now in tatters and he answers each call in the asperous sounds of his native tongue. His thumb presses down and rocks from side to side. And you fall, crying out his name as he rides you mercilessly through your orgasm. Until you feel surge of his own carnal aiguille inside you and his mouth swallows the final time you call for him. It hooks you up to a ledge away from the cold end of your descent, and what you think is the Doctor's utter exhaustion is little more than a brief pause. His hands grab your hips as he slides out of your body, flipping you over onto your front.
The sharp crack of his palm hitting your bottom makes you flinch.
"Take him!"
The command is delivered with every confidence of being obeyed, but how can you possibly domineer this colossus under you? It is a ludicrous dictate, but you see the glint in the Russian's eyes, the flare of his nostrils and the colour high on his defined cheekbones and you realise that not only is he willing, but that you are eager to attempt it, to experience the devastating unspoken authority over this glorious killing machine.
Your palms slide up and over the swell of his stomach to his chest, fingers knotting in the fabric of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head so you can see the hulking shoulders and burly, robust pectorals. Your hands cannot encompass enough of his frame so your mouth is employed hungrily as you explore his body, pushing back firmly until he is prone, pressing your face into a softness that cloaks an iron-hard musculature, tickling your nose in the hair on his chest. His scent is so different to Medic's that now you could easily tell them apart in the dark. Heavy's neck is bullish where Doctor's is sculptured and the slope of the muscles lead down to the clean definition of his shoulders. The expectancy on his face draws you closer, and the soothing stroke of his hand across the stinging welt Medic has given you strengthens your confidence.
You straddle his midriff and ghost your lips down the hawkish line of his nose. He tilts his head back to meet your mouth with his, the rumble of satisfaction rising up inside him and the scoop of his hands pulling you further up his body until you are forced to break your kiss. He positions you effortlessly and leaves you no time to back away from the suckling clasp of his mouth between your thighs. The broad, strong surface of his tongue washes over you and into you, drinking in the fusion of your clear lust with the pearly release Medic left inside you. Heavy doesn't need to hold you still. You willingly let him lap you clean, your fingertips trailing over his smooth head and back to where the hair is recovering from the morning's shave, finer than the dark stubble on his face that scuffs against your skin as he trails his tongue in the hollows between plump softnesses and the muscles of your thighs. The Russian could easily bring you to another orgasm like this, and at first it seems that is what he will do, nudging you to rock your hips and press against his face, eyes closed as he loses himself in the deed. Powerful arms hook over your thighs, pulling you down firmly until you worry he will suffocate, but the expert ripple of his tongue belies no distress. He takes his time, almost languid in the gentle, slow nod of his head as he eats you out thoroughly.
While you sigh and roll your hips, you cannot help but think what he could do with other parts of his body. His hands are of such a size that the larger curves of your body would be lost if held in just one of them. His fingers alone could easily have the capacity to make you gasp. What he has between his own thighs... well, that might need some creative thinking. But first you have to see it in order to gauge just how far you'll be able to go.
So you swing one leg to the side so you can leave the velvety embrace of his mouth and turn to face the other way. The Doctor is still kneeling between Heavy's thighs, his arms propped on them so his hands sit, interlaced, under his chin. Watching you with half-lidded eyes and his lower lip trapped under his teeth. It would be coy on any other face, but on the Medic it is lasciviously desirous.
You try not to let that distract you as you fumble with Heavy's belt, the long, thick shaft of his arousal pressing determinedly against the constriction of his trousers. Button and zip part easily, but you struggle to free him from the awkward angle his erection has been forced into. You have to use both hands to ease him out, the heat and pulse and girth even more impressive once you finally set your eyes on it. In perfect proportion to the rest of him. You have to resist the urge to sink your teeth into the lushness of it, but you don't hold back from taking as much of him in as you can, hands encircling him firmly to stroke from frenulum to base and up again. You figure if Medic's going to watch you, you might as well make it worth his while.
You worry that the scrape of your back teeth against Heavy's turgid flesh will make the man withdraw from your efforts, but you don't know how to avoid it. The width of him is a blatant fact that you struggle to manage, so you slide one hand lower to draw the firm roundnesses of his balls out from the opening of his trousers. The rolling, curling Russian words that unfurl from him sound pleased, so you continue to stroke and squeeze, mouth working slowly around him. You draw a sharp breath in through your nose as Heavy's fingers pick up where his mouth left off, and it isn't long before you get to experience just how good one of them feels inside you.
You cannot fathom how such large, powerful hands could be so lyrical and gentle. Hands that spend days clamped around the cold, solid metal of a strafing gun slide over and inside you as carefully as if you'd break. And while it thrills you that someone so strong can touch so delicately, it provokes a need in you to prove you're not as fragile as that. So you rock backwards against his hands, burying his fingers deeper inside you while the length of his thumb gives the same unrelenting attention to your clit as your mouth is giving his cock. The digital orchestration alone is enough to make you gasp, and the smug grin plastered across the Medic's face as he watches your composure fraction does little to help. You hiss your annoyance at him, but that just makes him laugh.
You know for certain now that there is no way you can fit that magnificent stanchion of flesh inside you, so you turn once again and straddle Heavy's hips, pressing his arousal against your own, sliding up and along him in a sleek line, your upper arms pressing your breasts together as the flats of your palms keep his dick anchored tightly against you. Damp fingers trail across your flesh and chafe eagerly at hardening peaks before your breasts are enveloped in the firm, calloused embrace of his hands. Kneading and stroking. As you lean into this delicious massage, your body traps his cock against his stomach, your own hands bracing against his shoulders as you fuck him with an increasing ferocity. You can be rougher than you would ordinarily be. Penetrative sex has never quite had the same dizzying effect as this sort of lubricious frottage has on you, and you've never had such a perfect opportunity to indulge in your preference as now, and you'll be damned if you waste it. It has the added advantage of asserting a certain level of dominance, of a hungry control over your bed mate. So you grind against Heavy's body with as much strength as you can muster, feeling the pulse throbbing through him as you ride him, edging up gradually until the thick, firm head is right against its smaller counterpart. The way it parts your flesh as you undulate over it is perfection. Until Heavy pulls you down flat against him, one hand pressing solidly into your lower back to increase the pressure until your toes curl and you carve reddening furrows down his chest until you convulse in an orgasm so intense it greys out your vision. The splash of warmth across your abdomen and the bear-like snarl brings you down out of the intense throes of climax, too weak to do anything but let Heavy thrust back and forth along your body, his free hand pulling your hair to bring your head back far enough to see him writhe under you with each powerful gush of ejaculate, and you realise that you did not take him as much as he acquiesced to you.
"Zwei Liebhaber," a voice breathes in your ear. "Just like I told you." You grit your teeth at the smugness in the Doctor's voice and silently praise the truth of his words as he slides his mouth down your body to show you again.