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

Pairing: Napoleon Solo/Illya Kuryakin

Category: slash

Rating: PG

Word Count: 500

Summary: Written for a challenge prompt – “dinner prepped at home and slashy naughtiness”.  This is a follow up to “Anticipation”.

 

 

 

 

Napoleon held the spooned sauce up for Illya to taste, one hand under the bowl of the spoon in case it dripped.  Illya leaned over and sipped the thick liquid.  Napoleon raised his brows.  Illya nodded.

“It’s good, just enough garlic.  Perfect.”

Illya watched as Napoleon took his own taste, lips wrapping around the wooden spoon, and he licked his own lips.

Napoleon took the pan out of the refrigerator and slid it into the warmed oven, checked the level of the flame under the pan on the stove top and then turned to Illya, still at the sink.  He saw the look in his partner’s eyes and couldn’t resist asking, “What are you thinking now, tovarisch?”

“Remember the first time you made your Grandmother’s pasta sauce for me?”

“I do.” 

Illya could see the memory fill Napoleon’s eyes, in the way the irises darkened with dilation, the way they widened slightly and then narrowed, his brows raised and then lowered as his lids fell half shut with remembered sensation. 

“How long is it until dinner?”

“Long enough.”

Napoleon reached out one hand and stroked his palm along Illya’s cheek and up into his hair to tangle his fingers in that silk, stepping closer and placing a feather light kiss on Illya’s mouth.  He placed the same feathering kisses in a line up Illya’s jaw to his ear, “I remember in excruciating detail, moyO sErtse,” he whispered, voice roughened and low, nipping that earlobe.

Illya’s hands came up to smooth across Napoleon’s back, strong fingers massaging their way along his spine and then buried in Napoleon’s dark hair.  He held his partner’s head still so he could move his lips back to Napoleon’s, pressing a kiss there, tongue lapping, seeking entrance, being granted it.

Illya could taste a hint of sauce, a hint of the red wine they had been drinking, but most of all he could taste the unmistakable essence of his partner, his lover whose textures and moods were so familiar after all this time, and yet still enticing and exciting and he delved deep into that mouth to mark it as his.

Napoleon responded, open and accepting, his own tongue exploring known territory as if for the first time, welcoming Illya’s plundering and giving it back, pushing Illya against the sink and running his hands down to his ass to grip and pull his lover against him, humming into the kiss when he felt Illya’s hard cock against his own, frustratingly separated by clothing.  He mirrored Illya’s taking, lapping his tongue into Illya’s mouth to trace teeth and gums and then push deep, a preview of what they both knew they wanted.

Hips rocking together, they remained with arms locked around one another, lips searing kisses one after another, giving and taking and giving back again the lead in this dance they had been engaged in for so long, hands stroking under shirts to find skin to soothe and tease and map.

“Dinner will keep, tovarisch.”

“Hmm, yes.”