Fandom: The Man from U.N.C.L.E.

Pairing: Napoleon Solo/Illya Kuryakin

Category: slash

Rating: R

Word Count: 2062

Summary: After the mission, cleanup

Table/Prompt: Pounce Porn Table Prompt: You’re Gorgeous When You’re Angry


“Would it make you feel better if I put all this on for you?”

“It wouldn’t be quite the same, as you’d be here and not out in public and if you were out in public, well, you’d just disappear into the character and… there you go, not the same.”

Illya was quiet for a time, carefully picking out the stitching that had sewn his partner into the costume for the night’s mission. “It’s your strength, you know Napoleon. You are so sure and certain of who you are that it is always there, the core of you is always known, even when glossed over with the persona of an accountant or adventurer, you are always you. It keeps you off the psychiatrist’s couch.”

Napoleon looked down at the shining head now bent over the boots he wore, unlacing the stiff leather cords off the eye-hooks, freeing him from the tight confines of the costume as surely as he’d ever freed him from the bounds of a THRUSH cell. Napoleon stood when his partner directed, feet free now of boots and satin sliding off his skin, leaving him in only the stockings and the belt which had held him together under the slick satin. He started to push off a stocking when Illya stopped him.

“Let me, you’ll tear them if you go too fast.” Illya rolled the fishnet stocking slowly down Napoleon’s thigh and calf, broad palm against the back of Napoleon’s knee to lift his foot up to complete the job. By the time Illya was half through with the second stocking, Napoleon had stopped breathing.

To distract himself from the sensation of Illya’s hands on his skin and his sudden and needful reaction, he started to talk. “Isn’t it like that for you too? You are the strongest man I know and you must realize that who you are informs your actions, keeps you focused? You are always who you are, even as you disappear into another.”

Illya, still with his hand on the back of Napoleon’s knee, looked up. Napoleon again stopped breathing. The look in his friend’s eyes was the one he got when he was assessing a THRUSH stronghold and deciding where to place charges for the greatest explosion, it was the look he got when dinner was finally served after a long and difficult day; it was intoxicating.

Napoleon was very aware in that moment of the one last very restrictive garment he wore, the belt that had been uncomfortable and odd at the beginning of this night was now constricting and painful. It was also the only thing between Napoleon’s sudden awareness of his partner and Illya’s understanding of too much.

Illya ran his hand from the back of Napoleon’s knee up the back of his thigh and then to his hip and side as he stood, lightly running his fingertips up Napoleon’s ribs and then across his shoulder until his palm and fingers were wrapped around Napoleon’s neck and his thumb rested on the pulse throbbing in his throat.

Napoleon could feel the flush spreading up his neck and face, felt the heat of it all the way to the center of his breastbone, his eyes were locked with Illya’s, so he saw when his partner’s own heat was tamped down, a cruel shutter slamming on the promise in those eyes.

“You missed a spot,” Illya said and turned to pick up the cold cream Napoleon had used to remove the costume makeup.

Napoleon’s hand shot out and wrapped around Illya’s wrist, holding him still with the cold cream in one hand, the other captured.

“Kiss me or kill me, Kuryakin, but choose fast.” Napoleon leaned in and pressed his mouth to the frown on his partner’s lips.

There was a thunk as the jar of cold cream bounced on the carpet and Illya’s now free hand came up to fist in Napoleon’s dark hair, tousled from his earlier removal of his disguise wig. Illya pulled his head back and Napoleon couldn’t tell if what he saw was in his partner’s glacial eyes was deadly wrath or kindled desire. Illya wrenched his other hand from Napoleon’s grip to place his broad palm in the small of Napoleon’s back. The boots Illya still wore gave him just enough height that when he pulled the now barefoot Napoleon to him, they were of a height and pressed pelvis to pelvis. The denim Illya wore was rough against Napoleon’s thighs but the oft washed cotton of his button-down shirt was soft on Napoleon’s sensitized nipples. All of it was maddening to Napoleon’s still too confined cock. Still Illya held his head back and Napoleon fought the fist in his hair to lean in for another forbidden taste and the hand in his hair relented, pulling him in and Illya’s mouth was hot and devouring on his, Napoleon’s hands fisted in the cotton shirt, pulling his partner close and desperate.

Then that damn fist in his hair was pulling again, Illya pulling his own mouth away just when Napoleon had determined that drowning in that kiss was his idea of paradise. The look was still there, deadly and unknowable, hunger or anger, Napoleon couldn’t tell and didn’t care, but he knew he had to get Illya to talk or there would be no resolution.

“If I’d known that playing dress up would get such a strong reaction, I’d have done it years ago.”

Napoleon counted at least three languages he actually knew and two he could only recognize, if not translate, in the stinging curses that Illya spat. That was definitely anger, and it was beautiful; Illya’s color high and his eyes bright. But he’d loosened his hold in Napoleon’s hair and for a moment Napoleon wondered if he was leaping from the pan and into the fire, and decided he wanted to burn. He leaned forward and shut his partner up with another kiss.

Napoleon knew he’d always felt proprietary, possessive, a little jealous when it came to his partner and he let people mistake it for jealous of who his partner got, it was just easier all the way around.

He had sublimated the feelings for so long, successfully hidden this from himself so that he was overwhelmed now with the resurgence of it, surprised, too, at his partner’s seeming anger. Had he missed something all this time, had he spent these last years willfully ignoring his partner’s reactions as he had his own? He knew Illya had women, had seen him happy in their company, had his own women sometimes turn away from him toward the cool blond. That had never bothered him the way the attentions of the occasional man did, noticing his partner in ways he wanted reserved for himself to see and yet valued their friendship too much to pursue. The overwhelming loss he felt at the thought struck him deeply and he felt his reaction change, pouring his apology into the kiss where moments before he had poured defiance and desire and desperation. Napoleon realized that the kiss had changed from Illya’s side as well, his hands no longer holding his head still or pressing his back to hold him in place, instead, those hands were now brushing over his back, rough callused fingertips so gently tracing the compression marks from the tight costume he had spent the evening in. He tilted his head just a fraction to strengthen the kiss, to taste deeply of this well he so wanted to never stop drinking from, to give something besides desperation back to his partner.

When the kiss broke again it was Napoleon who drew back, slow and with lingering nibbles on Illya’s lips, tracing feather kisses to his ear while one hand stroked the skin of Illya’s throat exposed by the open collar of his shirt. His lips against Illya’s ear he softly asked, “Was it the stockings?”

“No, Napoleon, in your case the clothes don’t make or break the man. I’ve seen you wear the most hideous outfit as if it were a tuxedo. You can wear a towel with panache.” Illya spoke quietly, hands still restless on Napoleon’s back.

Napoleon had an image in his head then, of Illya in his own disguise for the evening, and it was not right. Illya should be in only the garter and the stockings, but not the fishnet, in sheer black silk instead and with only the lace tops of the stockings and the black straps of the garter framing the evidence of his rampant masculinity, the contrasts stark, dark silk and pale skin. But Napoleon realized he didn’t really need that either, not the false trappings, just the man.

“What was it then? Will you tell me?”

“I’m not sure I can, Napoleon.” Illya sighed against Napoleon’s ear, and continued, “I do disappear into disguises, characters. I have always had to do so, sometimes to get a job done, sometimes to survive. I’m a little afraid that someday I will forget how to come back out again. And you so effortlessly know who you are, you shake the persona off like a dog shakes off the river water.”

“You should see yourself as I see you, then, partner mine. For I always see you, even when you aren’t there.” And how true it was, Napoleon realized, he saw Illya underneath every disguise, inside the silence he wrapped around himself for protection or for privacy or for the sheer bloody-mindedness of it. And he saw Illya where he was not, always at his side even when their separate roles in a mission took them apart. And if he were honest, he saw Illya in his arms in his bed in his dreams, and he wanted.

Illya’s arms wrapped around Napoleon, steel bands that held him as fast as any trap ever had, Illya’s mouth on his neck now, marking, taking, imprinting himself there and Napoleon moaned his acceptance before pushing one hand between them to open more buttons on the soft cotton shirt to pull the collar back and place his own mark on Illya’s pale flesh.

How Illya got naked without ever losing touch with his partner, Napoleon didn’t know nor care, he only cared that the sensations on his skin now were cool sheets under him and hot skin over him and the constriction of his own remaining clothing was gone and replaced with a wet sucking heat that demanded his every ounce of attention.

Illya was everywhere, hands and mouth mapping every bare inch of his partner and then doing it again and finally taking Napoleon in his mouth to drink him like wine and Napoleon cried out when the orgasm hit like a body blow and bucked, Illya sweeping up to take the moan into himself as well, locking his mouth over Napoleon’s even as the other gasped for breath and gave over to the explosion of sensation.

Napoleon rolled his lover, never breaking the kiss but taking control of it, feeling Illya give the control of it over, and repaid his partner in kind with stroking explorations and tracings of tasted kisses everywhere and centering finally on Illya’s hard cock and delighted in the inarticulate sounds his lover made as he brought him to the brink again and again until the keening need made him swallow that hardness bringing Illya over finally to sated loose limbed relaxation.

Napoleon slid up to kiss Illya and lay back against the pillows, both of them catching their breath and still touching each other, languorous and slow.

“Mmm, gorgeous,” Napoleon murmured.


“You’re ‘what’, partner mine, gorgeous when you’re angry, could we fight like this more often?”

“You think this was a fight? You have some strange customs, Napoleon.”

“You weren’t? Angry, I mean, could have fooled me.”

“Not with you, my friend, with my own sudden inability to hide from you, to be as unknown as I thought I was.”

“I never want you to be unknown or unknowable to me, Illya, I want you…”

Illya raised up on one elbow, looking down at Napoleon, waiting.

“That’s all, Illya, I want you. Here. Always.”

“We haven’t got always, my friend.”

“Then I will give you all that I have until I can’t anymore.”

Illya kissed him then, and made Napoleon forget that there was still resolution to be found.

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