Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

One button, then the next. Left over right.

Miss Pauling looked up at her dressing table mirror, catching her pink tongue sticking out in concentration. She pulled it back in, readjusted her glasses, and glared at the mirror. Who had known men’s shirts buttoned up the other way? Her fingers had stubbornly clung to muscle memory; she had rebuttoned it at least once already.

Tuck shirt tails into the waistband, then pull belt in tight. Fold too-long trouser cuffs under, discreetly fasten with safety pins.

She opened the small faded shagreen box with a creak and stared at her father's plain silver cufflinks for a moment. All these years later, she still missed him. She shook herself free of the fog of nostalgia and fumbled the cufflinks painstakingly into place. Hm, not too bad in a men’s shirt, she thought, peering in the mirror. The tightly belted waist pulled the Italian wool herringbone taut across ample hips, and her bust made a definite bow in the front of the shirt.

Sleeve bands to shorten over-long sleeves. Only use internal jacket pockets. Forego tie.

She did up the suit jacket, then quickly unfastened it again when she saw how the lapels bowed out stubbornly against the immovable object of her bosom. She was wearing this to look more professional, which seemed unfortunately to mean dressing like a man. In her case, with a second-hand suit, and a rather short one. She quickly grabbed a hair tie and scraped tendrils of dark hair back from her face, twisted into her low bun of habit. Checking the time – she was going to be late to meeting him! – she hurriedly wriggled her feet into sensible pumps, and scuttled out the door.

As the doors closed and the lift began its descent, Miss Pauling closed her eyes to quiet the butterflies in her stomach, wiping damp palms on fine wool worsted.

***

It had all started when the Announcer finally reached the end of her tether with regard to the Heavy Weapons Fighter’s faltering killscore. A not-really-optional invitation to his team Medic for a consultative meeting had turned up not only that the Russian’s PTSD (fully documented in triplicate, no less) had flared up lately, but also that nothing any of his teammates did was helping. The worried Medic had prescribed stronger and stronger sleeping pills, but these had the side effect of slowing him down in combat the next day. Faced with the prospect of reams of very expensive yet invalid system data, the Announcer had thrown her hands up and decreed a brief battle hiatus, with the Heavy to have paid leave in a city of his choice, in hope that it would help him recover his fighting form.

“And Rhonda? You’re going too.” The Announcer had barked, tossing a small folder down on the desk.

“W- why? I mean, why do I need to—“ She opened the folder to find First Class tickets to Paris, travel documents, and a brace of fat envelopes stuffed with of francs. “Helen, I can’t just—“

“Don’t you ‘Helen I can’t ’ me, Rhonda. That man is unbalanced right now, and needs a chaperone if he's wandering around a major population centre. Think of this as a secondment. Buy yourself something nice while you’re there. You young girls like shoes… and things..” The Announcer turned with an airy wave of her hand, considering the conversation over.

“But Helen, honestly, why me? If he goes on a rampage, I can hardly stop—“ Feeling hugely daring, Rhonda had ventured her objection, only to be cut off.

“You can and will. And why you? Because you’re a microbe, and inoffensive enough to not trigger any episodes. And because you have some of the sharpest eyes I have under me. You’ll steer him clear of anything that’ll make him worse. Now get moving, and bring him back either fixed or talking.” A final dismissive shooing motion from behind a thickening cloud of cigarillo smoke, and Rhonda had indeed gotten moving, pride at the unexpected praise warring with nerves.

***

Why on earth was she here in Paris, playing den mother for a giant Cossack man-mountain, who could probably squirt her skull right out of her head like a wet soap bar from a hand? It still seemed like make-work to her. The ridiculous mental image made a bubble of dark humour rise, and she barely managed to turn her giggle into a cough as the lift doors opened. Her heels clicked on the warm, honey coloured marble floor as she made her way to the restaurant.

The interior of the restaurant was opulent with crystal, gilded mouldings, and velvet banquettes, yet warmly lit by candles and sconces. The fawning Maitre’D conducted her to the polished mahogany bar, and she was startled to see the Heavy perched easily on a barstool. The charcoal suit fit well across the not inconsiderable span of his shoulders – of course, he could well afford bespoke tailoring – and the crystal tumbler in his hand seemed neither incongruous nor comically undersized. The detail that most drew her eye was the awkward set of his neck and shoulders. The Heavy was just as nervous as she was! He had probably received even less of a briefing than she had; she straightened a touch, feeling a little less dowdy, a little more certain of herself, and put a hand out for shaking. “Good evening, Mister Heavy Weapons Fighter.”

“Ivan. Call me Ivan. Is not name, but will do.” Her eyes widened, and he smiled – surprisingly kindly – at her surprise, amiable wrinkles crinkling at the corners of his eyes. “If we have dinner together, you cannot keep saying ‘Meester Heavy’. Will scare waiters,” he explained, flashing startlingly white teeth.

“Oh. Of course! In that case, please call me Rhonda. That is my name, however. “ Rhonda laughed nervously, hand all but engulfed in his palm. “I think our table is ready. Shall we go?”

“Da. Of course.“ With a crooked grin, he offered her an elbow which she took, despite it being about at her shoulder height. He pulled out her chair for her, conducting her into her seat with an overblown flourish that left her laughing again. Despite obvious discomfort, the Heav- — no, Ivan – was making an effort to put her at ease, and Rhonda was touched. They opened their menus, and pored over the choices in ornate calligraphy. In the golden candlelight, she watched surreptitiously as he extracted a pair of reading glasses and perched them on his nose. When the waiter returned, Rhonda dredged up hazy memories of high school language classes and ordered haltingly. To his credit, the waiter didn’t turn a hair, simply writing it down. When he circled the table to Ivan’s side, however, Rhonda was astonished when the Russian man ordered in fluent French, the syllables liquid in his basso rumble like glacier melt.

Another, older, gentleman was promptly summoned, the three of them consulting, heads bowed, over the leatherbound lists. As the staff left a few minutes later in a rustle of crisp linen, Ivan met her eyes with an engaging smile. “I order wine for us. Château Laville Haut-Brion 1937. I hope you not mind; is okay?”

“Oh, no, I don’t mind at all! I- Ivan, I never knew you spoke French. Do you speak any other languages?” It dawned on Rhonda that her earlier assumptions of the larger man had been too hasty, and she berated herself inwardly. He’s a man, a person. Not just another faceless employee. For shame, Rhonda!

“French, I learn early. Was language of Tsar and Court. Friend in gulag was White Army. Also speak Latvian, Lithuanian, Serbian, Polish, and Suomi. And Russian. Of course!” His low chuckle was infectious, and Rhonda found herself smiling with him. “I learn while working. Travel a lot. Before time.”

The older gentleman returned – the Sommelier, she realised – with a dusty bottle sporting a faded label. The presentation, opening and inspection of the wine proceeded smoothly, with minimal fuss. As Rhonda watched Ivan swirl the amber wine in the glass, large fingers familiar and easy on the delicate stem, she felt some tension leave her shoulders. Clearly there is far more to him than what is merely in the dossiers, she mused. And for a wonder, I want to find out.

Chapter Text

Dinner was a wonder; Rhonda had tasted things she had never heard of, flavours that had been a revelation to a quiet girl from the Midwest. Esoteric French names swirled around in her recollection, words like Chateau Mouton-Roschild, sanglier, navarin.. The wine had gone to both their heads – hers far more than his, of course. It was late, and they had been discreetly shooed from their table when the candles guttered. They hardly noticed, their conversation continuing as they entered the lift in the hushed marble lobby.

Rhonda gestured broadly, dark eyes flashing with passion. “I can’t believe y’re saying such horrid t’ings about Rimbaud! I love his work! The imagery, the raww emotional content—“

“—Pretensions and romanticised classist snobbery..” sniped Ivan smoothly, a large forefinger raised in mockery of a dry professor. “Andrey Bely much better. Richer. Unification of music and prose.” They exited the lift at the appropriate floor, voices only slightly softer in the silent corridor.

“Overblown braggart w’th delusions o’ linking th’whole artistic sphere.” Rhonda dismissed him with a flip of the hand, not realising she had picked up that gesture from Helen.

“That I will grant. At least Symbolists bring light to world. Not prosaic like Solzhenitsyn. Ivan Denisovich boring to man from gulag. Prefer even Zamyatin.” He brandished the room key floridly, and unlocked the door, his words sputtering out as he realised she was following him into the room. “Rhonda. Why you come in?”

“Because it’s my room too, silly? They w’re full up, and couldn’t give ‘s separate rooms. Some sort of Ambassador is ‘n town. “ Rhonda doffed her overlarge jacket, draping it idly on the floor lamp, and kicked off her pumps. “Don’ worry about it. “

Ivan stared at the enormous bed – bed, singular – with the expression of a dyspeptic polar bear given quadratic equations. “Then they can stay in embassy. But now where is leetle Rhonda to sleep?”

“I said, don’t worry about me! There's lots of spare blankets and pillows, and I’ll make a nest on the carpet over there or something. “ She pointed at the far side of the huge room, jamming the sleeve bands and cufflinks into their box with the other hand. “But y’ can’t be serious about Zamyatin!”

Ivan turned. “Tiny Rhonda cannot sleep on floor. Is not solution. “ His brows knit as he tried to come up with alternatives. He was nowhere near as drunk as she was, but tipsy enough that thinking was harder than it should have been.

Rhonda slipped her belt out of the loops, and draped it over the back of the chair. “Even Stalin threw him out! The man’s a hack!” Her eyes narrowed as Ivan stared confusedly into the distance.

Ivan had had enough of the argument. “Enough!” his voice raised, aggrieved. “I will sleep on floor. Rhonda will sleep in bed! Leetle lady should have proper blanket!”

“Look, you— you big moose! This bed is huuuuge!” She gestured at the mattress, which was scaled for rock stars plus entourage. “We can both fit on this thing.”

Ivan looked slightly doubtful, and scratched at one ear, while he slipped off his suit jacket. “You are sure? Do not want to roll over and crush you. You are tiny, like baby. ” He ducked his head sheepishly, blushing slightly.

“I’m sure I’ll manage,“ she blurted, cheeks pinking slightly to match. “I-I’ll go get changed in the bathroom. Th’ one onna left.” Scrabbling in her bag with one hand, the other preventing her trousers from falling down, Rhonda grabbed her nightcase and padded through the ankle-deep carpet to the bathroom.

She returned some minutes later, hair brushed out, in lilac cotton pyjamas. Ivan was sitting up in bed with a book, the familiar reading glasses gleaming in the pool of light from the bedside lamp. The covers were loosely draped around his massive frame, which did nothing to conceal that he was clad only in a pair of boxers (was that really a pattern of little miniguns?). At her approach, he looked up and smiled, slightly embarrassed. “Sorry. Did not know would be sharing room. Not normally sleep in clothes.”

Rhonda’s eyes widened fractionally at the mental image. The partial shadows only served to emphasise the fact that Ivan’s bulk was, despite the Scout’s taunts, far from fat. The heavyset Russian was powerfully built, his scarred, broad chest sparsely sprinkled with crisp, dark hair, and visible muscles had shifted in arm and abdomen when he lowered his book. The thought of that near-geological expanse of smooth, pale skin, naked.. She flushed to the hairline, and chastely climbed into her side of the vast bed, trying to ignore a flutter deep in her belly. To defuse the silence, she darte a glance over her shoulder at his book, “What are you reading? Is it good?”

“You would not like. Is Andrey Bely.” There was definite amusement in his voice, as he turned the page. She crawled across the bed on all fours, peering at the faded Cyrillic lettering stamped on the leather cover.

“Try me. I mean, read me some and see? Unless it’s in Russian?” If at all possible, she blushed even harder. Ivan smiled amiably, looking at her over the top of the book.

“I can try translate for you. But is better in Russian.” He cleared his throat with a basso rumble. “Here it is:

"The flickering landscape is burning
Its last: mid-day stars newly-kindled
Look into my soul, sparkling: “Welcome,”
With radiance silently streaming:
“The end of long wanderings, brother,
Lies here, in your motherland, welcome!”

Slow hour upon hour in procession,
Slow centuries, smiling, pass onward.
In ancient space proudly I lift it,
My glimmering goblet: the Sun. “

”..Wow. That was beautiful.” She met his gaze, dark eyes wide. “…But still. Bely is the most pompous poet I have ever read.”

“Bely is great man. You do not understand.” Ivan took off his glasses, placing both them and the book on the bedside table. “Russian is better. ” He smilingly poked her forehead with a forefinger.

Rhonda grabbed at the poking finger, “Bely is a stuffed shirt with delusions of grandeur.”

“You cannot have finger. I need finger for Sasha.”

She sat up, greatly daring, still hanging on to his finger, earnest rosy face mere inches away. “But don’ you see how 'e was writing for the establishmen’ an’ reputation an’ not f’r Art..”

Ivan pulled his finger firmly from her grasp, then leaned forward and kissed her.

Rhonda’s mouth went slack with surprise as her words were stopped. She froze for a moment, and suddenly she was kissing him back. His lips were warm and strong, with the slight rasp of stubble. She clung to him, fingers splayed across his broad cheek. Halting and gentle, his mouth coaxed hers open, their tongues meeting at the border at first hesitantly, then with greater boldness. He tasted like brandy and herbs and toothpaste, and the echoes of several bottles of wine on his breath made her head spin and a distant ache glow in her belly.

She broke the kiss when she remembered to breathe, looking up at him with an expression of befuddled wonder. “Wow.”

“Da. Wow is good word for this,” Ivan whispered, thumb stroking down her cheek. He tucked a curl behind her ear. “Is-is this good thing? You wish to stop? Thought maybe— ” He looked somewhat shaken and uncertain of himself. A sudden wave of tenderness and affection swelled up in her, and she wrapped an arm about his neck, pulling him closer.

“No. Don’ stop. Don’ wan' a.” And she reached for him again. With a soft groan, his lips fell on hers like warm silk, breathing her in, as he lay her gently back on the crisp linen sheets. As their mouths slid upon each other, she felt his hands caressing her through the pyjama top, outlining the lines and curves of her. One hand fumbled at the fastenings, and Ivan broke the kiss with a muttered oath as a button popped off. “Sorry.” Rhonda smiled shyly and undid the buttons as he chuckled, easing the shirt open, revealing that her rosy blush had indeed travelled quite a distance. “Um, Ivan?”

“Da? I mean, yes?” He stopped and looked a little hesitant.

She desperately wanted to put him at ease. “I haven’t.. done this in a whi– a long time. But ’m protected. 'S okay, right?” Rhonda babbled.

Ivan looked relieved. “Is okay. We go slow. Unless you say.” He winked mock solemnly, as his hands cupped the weight of her breasts, dwarfing them. The slightly calloused pad of his thumb rasped little circles around the areolas, and he relaxed visibly as they crinkled and stiffened. He bent to take one tiny point in his mouth, teasing the other with the edge of a nail, sudden sensation making her squirm with the answering ache between her thighs. He moved to the other nipple to circle and lave with his tongue, before trailing hot, soft kisses down her torso to her belly. His fingers stroked her sides, the curve of her breasts, the inward dip of her waist, the feathery brush over the curve of her belly and the hollow of her hip making her writhe. His fingers traced her waistband before gently hooking into it with one finger. “Is okay?”

“Y-yeah. S’okay.” Rhonda lifted her hips as her pyjama bottoms were slipped off, the sudden cool air only adding to her gooseflesh. She both hoped and dreaded that her pounding heart was audible, lips suddenly clumsy. Ivan cupped her bottom, his broad hands curving around her hips, gently stroking her legs and thighs until they parted. He lowered himself between her thighs, gazing for a long moment. Rhonda teetered between heat and embarrassment, knowing that the shadowed dampness was all too clear on the gusset. Ivan traced the edges of her panties slowly with one finger, barely hovering over the soft skin, before again hooking into the waistband. He slid that finger to rest over the very top of her cleft where the dampness began, breathy kisses on her thighs, pressing circles into slickened cotton over sensitive skin, coaxing her heart into a gallop.

When Ivan leaned forward and lipped at the damp fabric, hot breath puffing through the cotton, Rhonda let out a little squeak. This turned to a giggle as he carefully peeled the scrap of white down her thighs with only his teeth, grinning mischievously. He dropped her panties on the floor behind him, his gaze heating as he noticed the trailing threads of her excitement. He caught at one, licking off his finger reverently. “Am glad you like. “ He briefly knelt up to slide her further up the covers, and Rhonda caught sight of undeniable proof of his arousal. Any apprehension at Ivan’s impressive dimensions were swept away as he lowered himself again, mouth first tasting, then devouring her with a gentle, methodical ferocity. He took his time, plying every fold and ridge with broad strokes of the flat of his tongue, and striping with the slick underside. He sucked each fold and crevice, exploring them with the edges of his teeth, grazing with the roughness of stubble. His narrowed tongue slipped deftly under the hood at her apex, lips wet to swirl and suck.

Rhonda could barely contain the stream of fractured whimpers tumbling from her lips. Her thighs trembled under his broad palms, hips bucking involuntarily towards him, biting restlessly at her fist. When a thick, calloused finger slid into her heated depths, she fell apart, bucking sharply in orgasm. She let out a strangled, surprised, guttural squeal, her eyes then flared wide, then squeezed shut, her weakened hands clawing impotently at his wrist. A second finger curled gently inside her and started to swivel and thrust, and her eyes flew open in shock. “N—oh!” She barely had time to breathe before new waves swamped her awareness, her spine cracking like a whip, high, fluting almost-words like distant hawks. Ivan’s other hand slid down, pinning down her flexing belly with gently irresistable pressure, nerves riding the fingers arching up into them with tip and knuckle. The world shifted from white to blue and she arched like a bow, hands beating the sheets like blind birds, with a high wail that trailed off as her voice gave out, in a liquid gush all over his hand.

Chapter Text

When she recovered a minute or so later, Rhonda found herself cradled against Ivan’s massive torso, as he reclined against the headboard. He was stroking her sweat-damp hair and licking the fingers of his other hand lazily with every sign of enjoyment. “Wow,” She said, for the second time that evening. She stretched against him, catlike. “That was amazing. I’ve never ever had anything like it. “She ran a shaky hand over his chest, tracing the scars, and playing with the broad, flat nipple. At his sudden hiss of pleasure, she rolled over, taking it in her mouth and worrying at it with lips and teeth. Emboldened, she rubbed one thigh and knee over his erection, still sadly imprisoned in his boxers, watching it shift and swell further at the attention. She stroked briefly over the straining cotton while nibbling at Ivan’s rivet-hard nipples, listening to his rumbling moan, more felt than heard, bordering on a deep tiger purr.

Rhonda sat up, throwing her sweaty pyjama top aside, and knely to peer at Ivan’s hardness like a child at a fascinating rock pool. She deftly unfastened the boxer fly, allowing it to rear free of its restraints, then curled slender fingers around the heavy column. Ivan was more than appropriately endowed, his cock slightly thicker than her own tiny wrist, velvety foreskin already pulled back from the ruddy glans and precum dewing the opening. She bent to lick it off, grasping at the shaft with both hands, the swollen head all but filling her mouth. He tasted salty-sweet, the clean, musky scent of male filling her senses, silken veins throbbing against her lips. Not the longest cock she’d ever met, but certainly the thickest. Rhonda swirled her tongue around the flared crest, dipping it into the opening, while stroking up and down the shaft with growing confidence, cupping the heavy sac and sliding the foreskin rhythmically back and forth. Ivan let out a gasp and a guttural groan, one hand stroking her hair. She moaned in answer, enjoying his responsiveness, vibrations from her mouth making his hips twitch.

Ivan’s warm hand cupping her jaw. “You not have to do this. I can— “He gestured at his own groin with a curled fist. “Am maybe too big. You are— “He gasped again, as she trailed pointed nails over the velvet skin of his scrotum, tickling his inner thighs, and swirled the tip of her tongue under the fold of foreskin.

“Mmm?” More vibration on the head of his cock, and Ivan’s head fell back against the headboard. Rhonda pulled her mouth free, sucking firmly on the plump crown and just raking the crest with the edge of her teeth. “I have done this before, Ivan. And you did say that I was setting the pace, didn’t you?” Her voice dipped to a silky purr. “Don’t worry about me. “ With a cheeky grin, she started licking and kissing her way down the shaft, lipping and nipping at foreskin, tracing veins with her tongue, busy hands stroking at perineum, and sliding firmly around the base of the throbbing cock. Ivan did not answer, at least not in words, basso moans and whimpers leaking from his parted lips. His hips bucked involuntarily from the sensations, the lubricated shaft slipping through her hands.

Rising to her knees, Rhonda licked Ivan’s salt from her lips. “Raise your hips, Ivan sweetie, do, ” she crooned, sliding his boxers, damp from saliva and precum, down his treetrunk legs, flinging them onto the floor. The thought of this lethal juggernaut willingly at the sensual mercy of a petite woman barely a third his size stoked the rising heat in her belly. She clambered up to sit astride him, sliding her heated flesh along his shaft. The friction of his tender skin on her sparking nerves made her eyelids flutter, and they let out identical huffs of pleasure. Leaning forward, she kissed him deeply, tasting his sweat as well as her own dew. Ivan’s tongue flickered over the inner surfaces of her lips and Rhonda’s eyes closed as she reached behind her, guiding the swollen dome to her slippery opening. Ivan’s eyes widened as the flared head slipped suddenly into her, followed slowly by the rest, inch after inexorable inch forcing her wide open, glistening flesh stretched tightly around his. He groaned as he slid into her wet, strangling heat, his hands encompassing her tiny waist as she straddled him. Her head tilted back, mouth slack from being filled to the brim, having taken in all but the very last inch.

Rhonda started to move, rocking forward and back, sliding along the massive shaft at first gingerly, then with greater confidence. Her eyes flew open; she had never been so filled and stretched, the intensity of sensation arching her back in juddering orgasm. She clung to Ivan for dear life, clawing for air. The massive hardness inside her seemed to touch every deep nerve, swamping her in flame. Ivan held on as well, jaw set; it was all he could do not to cum from the spasming waves around his shaft as she clenched and shook. The wild abandon as she convulsed in his arms was unbelievably erotic; this tiny, Venus, literally out of her mind with pleasure, that he of all people had given. He showered kisses on her clenching fingers, watching her shudder, face by turns languid and frenzied, palming her breasts and pulling at her garnet-hard nipples. His cock felt heavy as hot iron, pressure gathering at the base of his spine. And when Rhonda flung weakened arms around his neck, biting down hard on the scarred muscle of his shoulder, he was lost. The brief pain reddened the white-hot torrent of molten pleasure that uncurled unstoppably, and he came with a roar, clutching Rhonda tightly with careful hands.

What seemed like days later, but was in reality most likely just minutes, Ivan opened blurry eyes to find Rhonda gazing languidly at him, stroking the sueded stubble on his head. “Hello there, “ she purred mischievously.

“Hello.” He smiled back dazedly, cupping her shoulder with a broad hand. “You are okay?” He was still flushed, heart still cantering.

She brushed her sweaty hair out of her eyes with one hand. “Oh yes. More than okay. I’m marrvellous,” she purred. “You know? It’s a good thing this bed is so big.” A tiny wicked smile surfaced as she slid off the bed and pressed a kiss to his damp forehead.

“Why?” He wrinkled his brow, fighting post-coital drowsiness. She padded off in the direction of the bathroom, turning just long enough to call over her shoulder, chuckling, “Because that is a hell of a wet spot, and this way neither of us have to sleep in it!”

Ivan laughed quietly to himself as his eyelids drooped, and he drifted asleep between one breath and the next.