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

Pairing: Napoleon Solo/Illya Kuryakin

Category: slash

Rating: R

Word Count: 6,585

Summary: Conversation after a mission leads to new understanding.

 

 

 

 

“Maybe Waverly is right, Illya, we aren’t really good bets for happily ever after, are we?”

“Personally or as agents, Napoleon?”

“As agents, I mean.”  Napoleon sighed.  “I want to think we could marry and have all that, but the truth is, the life of an agent isn’t really very conventional.”

“Or guaranteed to be long lasting.”

“No, there is that.”  Napoleon took another long drink of his scotch, draining the glass.  They were in his apartment, he had the nicer couch, and Illya was sprawled in the corner of it, relaxed in a way he never was at headquarters or on a mission.  

Napoleon leaned forward and poured more vodka in Illya’s glass and scotch into his own, then mirrored Illya’s boneless relaxation.  He turned to watch his partner lean forward for the refilled glass, watching the way he langoured like a well fed cat, which he was, since the remains of dinner on the coffee table was evidence of it.  

“And being an active agent would make fidelity in marriage something of a problem.”

“Sexual fidelity, perhaps yes,” Illya said.

“Of course, yes.  You know the things we’ve done in the line of duty.”

“Or the line of fire.”

“Yes.  Could you ask someone you loved to put up with that?  Or would you put up with it if the shoe were on the other foot?  Imagine you were married to April.”  Napoleon saw a look pass over Illya’s face, so brief it might have been his imagination and filed the information away for later inspection.

“Not my type,” Illya took another drink and resumed his sprawl, turned more toward Napoleon, one knee drawn up and shoes off, he looked at Napoleon from under his lashes, looking half asleep already.  But the fingers of his hand resting on the back of the sofa keeping time to the music on the radio belied his drowse.  

“Ok, imagine you were married to a field agent, any field agent, and she had to do the things we do.  Would you be able to let your wife go out not only into danger but into other men’s beds to get the job done?”

“Sex isn’t love, Napoleon.”

“But could you?”

Napoleon leaned forward, sitting his once again empty glass on the coffee table.  His own shoeless feet were getting cold so he swung his legs up onto the sofa to tuck his cold toes along the edge where the cushion met the seatback.  

Illya, having slept in the same bed with Napoleon as budget constraints put them more often than not in motel rooms with but one bed, knew those cold toes.  He reached down and pulled Napoleon’s feet over and laid his thigh across them.  Immediately, Napoleon sighed at the furnace-like heat radiating there and settled back into his own corner of the sofa.

“Could I let my partner go into danger, put themselves at risk, in uncertainty, in some bed other than my own?  Yes.”

“And knowing she may have honey-trapped information out of an enemy, you’d be able to live with that?”

“Again, sex is not love, Napoleon.  Sex is an activity, separate from affection or fondness.  It is, unfortunately, a tool we often employ in our job.  But it is not love.  Did you love Angelique?”

Napoleon’s eyes opened wide, “No!”

“And you have no illusion that she loved you?”

“Certainly not.”  Napoleon thought about the sophisticated THRUSH agent.  No.  Angelique was singularly incapable of the softer emotions.  But she was a sexual athlete like no other he’d met and she was perhaps the only woman he’d met who could match him measure for measure in the dance.  She was as good as, as strong as, and perhaps as voracious as any man Napoleon had ever met and that may be part of the reason he went back for more.  The adrenaline of bedding the THRUSH agent was equal to the rush he got bedding a man, though he didn’t indulge in either pleasure very often.  And with Angelique, he never had to temper that aggressive adrenaline rush as he would with another, softer, companion.  She was as good as bedding a man without the social awkwardness of same sex pairings that were frowned on by his society.  He hadn’t really thought about it that way before.  It was an interesting revelation.

“Making love is something else entirely, Napoleon.  Making love is not exclusively or only a physical act.  It can be a companionable meal, a conversation, a shared joke, a simple look.  Love is many things, Napoleon, and very many of the things it is, can’t be defined with any kind of simplicity.  Sex is simple, Napoleon.  Love is very, very complicated.”  

While he contemplated Illya’s assertions, he watched his partner, whose eyes were fully closed now, fingers still silently tapping time on the couch back.  The blond had drawn his other leg up on the couch, his one arm along the seatback and the other up behind his head.  He had a contented half smile on his face and Napoleon loved to see these rare unguarded moments, felt privileged to share them.  He often watched  his partner, watched him doing paperwork, in the gym, during missions. So much of conversation during affairs was unspoken, they were each used to the watchfulness of the other.  But it was a rare thing that Napoleon could indulge in this kind of observation, just for the pleasure of it.

Of course, he knew that his partner was attractive, he wasn’t blind, nor was he deaf to the whispers at the water cooler and in the secretarial pool.  But that was territory he refused to contemplate.  While personal involvement between agents wasn’t expressly forbidden, because really, who else but another UNCLE employee could really understand the pressures and difficulties of this job, it was Napoleon’s opinion that involvement with his partner could go very awry, considering he’d never had a hint from Illya that he might have interests of that inclination.  Then again, Illya kept most of his inclinations of any sort under a pretty tight security blackout.  

Maybe it was the three glasses of scotch and the wine with dinner, but Napoleon found himself contemplating his partner in a whole new light here on the sofa across from him.  

Early on, before Waverly had partnered them, Napoleon had indulged in a little fantasy of Illya, but when his boss had paired them, he gave up that fantasy as too much distraction.  Suddenly he found that fantasy returned with force.  And how could it not?  Illya splayed on this couch, relaxed with shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal corded forearms and his tie loose and first few shirt buttons undone was a picture of temptation for Napoleon.  He allowed his gaze to roam as it wanted.  The way Illya lay there, his white shirt was pulled snug across his strong chest, the shoulder holster pulled the open collar back to reveal the hollow of his throat and defined that shoulder to show the muscle beneath.  The lounged position with one knee bent pulled the black suit pants taut against thighs strong enough to pull an adversary over his head, Napoleon had seen Illya do that more than once to an attacking enemy.  There was something endearingly vulnerable about the sock covered feet and Napoleon felt a moment’s guilt at visually caressing his partner head to toe, but only a moment, since he never got to indulge this particular enjoyment.  

His eyes roved back up to Illya’s hair.  Despite his teasing, Napoleon  loved how the blond hair fell across his partner’s forehead, so soft looking, like living silk.  And that kissable looking mouth, the slightly fuller bottom lip that so often looked ready to be sucked, and the ever so slight overbite that was only apparent when Illya laughed, such a rare occurrence that Napoleon treasured each one he could evoke.  And those eyes, the most brilliant blue, like a perfect sailing sky, deep and endless.  And wide open.

Oh shit.  Caught.

Illya relaxed into the lull in their conversation, enjoyed the feeling of security, belly full of good food, the warmth of the vodka firing through his veins and the utter trust he had found he could give to  his partner, and felt the returned trust like a warm Summer sun shining on him from Napoleon.  He gave himself a moment to just bask in this rare contentment.

Napoleon’s cold toes tucked under his leg, he adjusted his position on the couch and leaned back on one arm, feeling pleased with this small contact.  He knew he was watched, and he let it happen.  It wasn’t like he hadn’t done his share in return, though he doubted that Napoleon ever saw it.  

Illya had made a study of Napoleon, when they became partners it was important, imperative perhaps, that he know his partner as well as he knew himself, if they were to put their lives in each other’s care.  So he had watched, and learned.  His partner used his charm as a shield, it was the first line of defense in an impressive arsenal.  But when slick talking failed, his partner was no slouch in the fight department, he could and did fight his enemies with every bit as much fire as he protected the innocents in their care or seduced the secretaries at work.  Napoleon made a show of his appreciation of the ladies, but Illya caught the occasional and subtle assessments Napoleon made of men they met, too.  It could have been mistaken for sizing up an adversary or rival, but just as often it was an appreciation not unlike that he gave the women, just so much more understated, nobody noticed.  Illya made certain of it more than once.  

Napoleon had an appreciation for all the fine things in life.  He liked good food, strong drink, old wine and tailored suits. He enjoyed these things more when shared, for Napoleon was generous and found pleasure in the sharing of these finer things, perhaps more than the thing itself.  Illya knew this as he was very often the one Napoleon sought out to try a new restaurant or night spot with.  He always told Illya it was a test run, he wouldn’t want to bring his newest conquest somewhere he’d not experimented with first.  Illya got a private amusement at being Napoleon’s occasional experimental date, though he would never put it quite like that to Napoleon.

He continued to observe as the years passed.  Napoleon very definitely noticed men as often as women, but Illya realized early on that Napoleon very rarely indulged that particular pleasure.  Not nearly as often as he himself did, in any case.

Illya watched Napoleon from under his lashes, careful not to let his partner catch him at it for the moment.  Knees bent and both arms up cushioning his head against the couch arm, Napoleon had and air about him tonight like a man on the edge of some precipice.  He had been restless earlier, his conversation certainly underscored that, to Illya at least.  But for the moment, Napoleon was still.  Tie loose and jacket off, his shoulder holster dark against the crisp whiteness of his shirt, Napoleon was a study in dark and light.  Dark hair, dark eyes, light shirt crossed by dark lines of leather straps, Illya found the contrasts compelling, as compelling as the contrasts of the man himself.  Compelling, yes, the word echoed in his head.  Napoleon could compel him with gestures, looks, small touches, they had an entire unspoken vocabulary between them that they used on missions and yet, with so much unsaid, they didn’t seem able to break that last communication.  

Illya played back the earlier conversation.  ‘You’d be able to live like that?’ Napoleon had asked.  And he had answered, but perhaps what he said was not what his partner had heard.  The realization that Napoleon was very likely unaware of the one thing he shared with Illya that truly set them apart from other agents, that realization hit Illya full force.  Napoleon had no clue that Illya enjoyed the company of men as he did.  His eyes opened wide at the thought, and found Napoleon meeting his gaze.

Oh shit.  Caught.

Napoleon couldn’t, didn’t want to look away.  He wondered what his partner saw in his face, if it was something he revealed that caused the flash of surprise that was quickly damped down.  As he continued to watch, Illya’s expression relaxed again, and without either of them moving at all he suddenly felt the heat again, where his now warm toes still nestled under Illya’s thigh.  He watched as Illya’s eyes dilated and was quickly aware of two things.  One, his toes were pressed into the underside curve of his partner’s ass.  Two, those were not the digits he wanted nestled there.

Illya wouldn’t look away from those dark eyes, the watchful gaze of his partner.  He knew now that this last secret unshared was all that might have been holding them back from something that could be bliss or could break them.  All this time he simply thought Napoleon found him unappealing, or lacking some certain something.  But that wasn’t it, not if the pure hunger he saw now was anything to go by.  No.  His partner simply had never suspected.  What he contemplated now could ruin everything he treasured, or could make it that much more fine and beautiful.

His mouth suddenly dry at the thought of what he was about to risk, he slipped the tip of his tongue out to wet his lips in preparation to speak and saw his partner’s gaze flick down and back up and he almost choked on the words.

“You, Napoleon, are a man of patterns.  If you run true to form, tonight after I go my own way you will slip out to a club I’m aware of and find a companion for the evening.  I will go to a jazz bar to find my own company.”  He swallowed, his voice so low with the strength of his emotions, both fear and hope, that he was afraid his voice would crack as it hadn’t done since he was a green teenager in school.  “I suggest that perhaps we explore some alternative choices.”

Napoleon understood the cliché ‘hit like a ton of bricks’ and found himself experiencing it.  

How long had Illya known?  How had he?  Had he given himself away, he thought he had hidden his attraction, in fact, he felt he had hidden it rather well even from himself at times.  But wait, Illya was suggesting… was he suggesting?  Was he…

Equal measures of fear and hope flared in his chest, literally stealing Napoleon’s breath from him so he wasn’t sure he could speak.  He opened his mouth and all that happened was something that sounded and felt like a sigh of relief.  

“I didn’t, I never knew, you… How did you…”

“I saw you one night, going in.  I was on my way there for my own purposes.  I didn’t want to intrude, so I found another option that evening.  But I started watching more closely.  The next time I almost ran into you there, we’d had a particularly frustrating mission and I saw you cross the street as I was on my way to the club.  You were very relaxed the next day.  I realized then that you didn’t indulge very often, and usually only when something, usually work, had you restless.  As you have been the last few days.”  Illya paused, never breaking eye contact.  “What I didn’t know until tonight was that you had never seen me there, that you hadn’t even a suspicion.  You didn’t, did you?  Suspect?  I would have told you, had you asked.  Until tonight, I honestly thought you just had no interest.  In me, that is.  But I was wrong about that, was I not?”

Napoleon recognized in Illya’s voice his own mixed fear and hope.  He realized that Illya, his cool self-possessed partner, his unflappable companion, this strong beautiful partner he valued above all, his partner was offering another kind of partnership altogether.  A partnership he realized he had desired for at least as long as he’d desired his partner.  A desire he had very successfully hidden from himself.  

Illya watched the light fill those dark eyes, the light of hope and desire, the light of one last secret shared, the light that was Napoleon’s heart.  And he hoped that his own heart was as easily read, feeling at last free to offer to Napoleon what had always been his, for so long now.

Napoleon saw a joy fill Illya’s eyes, blue ice warmed by something unspoken and felt he wanted to drown in it, in that blue gaze, to offer at last what he had so long denied even to his own awareness, to give himself over into the keeping of that gaze, that feeling, that heart where his own had longed to live all this time.

Neither of them knew who moved first or were even aware of moving, they just were, all at once, kneeling on the old couch, thigh to thigh and chest to chest.  Napoleon with one hand in Illya’s shining hair and the other on the curve of his ass.  Illya with one arm curled around Napoleon’s neck, fingers stroking behind his ear down to his shoulder and back up to his hair, again and again, tormenting, his other hand on the small of Napoleon’s back, strong fingers massaging, pressing his partner tighter to himself.  

It was a fierce kiss, not a sweet or delicate meeting but a rousing shout of possession, not a soft exploration but a territory marking by predators that stole breath and branded lips.   

Illya slid his hand up Napoleon’s back, moving the other hand to match and slid his hands up to cup Napoleon’s neck as he slid his kisses over to his partner’s ear.  “And sex with someone you care for, that can be a most glorious gift, my friend.”

Napoleon heard the thickened accent and the intent in those words and shivered with the strength of his reaction.  His lips found Illya’s ear and nipped, then he replied in a voice gone rough with desire and more, “Yes, Illya, you are right as always, a gift I so want to reciprocate.”  He kissed his way back to that pouted lip and sucked it between his teeth, then explored further again before pulling back to look into Illya’s eyes,  “And make no mistake, tovarisch, sex isn’t love, that may be true, but sometimes love can be sex.”  Napoleon gave him a grin that promised much.

With a growl Illya took that teasing mouth again in a kiss while his hands started to unfasten the rest of the buttons on his partner’s shirt.

“We need to talk.”

“Talk later, touch now,” still growling.

Napoleon’s shirt had gotten impossibly tangled with his shoulder holster and Illya was ready to rend the cotton, but Napoleon put his hands over his partner’s, stilling his frantic movements. They both took a deep breath, still kneeling on the couch. Napoleon gathered up those capable hands, kissing each palm and then holding them close to his chest said, “Let us pretend for a moment that we are civilized and move this to a more comfortable venue.” He stood and pulled Illya to his feet. “Besides, I don’t want to explain to the techs why or how the buttons exploded.”

Illya chuckled, “Or to Medical why we have matching scorch marks.”

“Indeed.”

They entered the bedroom, only the light from the hall showing the way. Shirts were untangled and holsters unwound from shoulders, then they were drawn back together like magnets, hands smoothing up under unbuttoned shirts and undershirts pulled out of trousers while again their mouths sought one another.

Illya had heard the secretaries whispering about Napoleon, his skill with his lips and tongue were not exaggerated by their gossip, in fact may have been under-reported. He felt devoured and yet couldn’t get enough, his partner’s mouth on his was a revelation, a perspective on Napoleon he hadn’t expected. Illya wondered if in fact the reason the secretaries didn’t describe Napoleon’s mouth as hungry and devouring and ravaging was that he held back with them, and if so Illya wanted to see how much more Napoleon could give than they had known, those girls with their whispers and sighs. The nice thing about slipping around as unnoticed as he did was that he heard so much more than anyone knew.

Napoleon felt like a he had been stranded in the desert and Illya was the oasis he had been longing for and he could not get enough of the taste of his partner’s mouth.  He ran the tip of his tongue along the line where Illya’s teeth met gums, exploring and memorizing before plunging further, deeper, teasing patterns on soft palate and hard, then tracing again teeth and gums and then twining with Illya’s, their tongues speaking some hidden language only lovers ever got to know.  He ran his hands up between the cotton shirt and Illya’s strong back,  smoothing his palms over the strong musculature there, feeling the ripple as Illya made his own moves in mirror fashion.  He realized that he was going to have to let go of his lover’s mouth if he wanted to remove the undershirt that he was gathering ever higher.  He moaned at the thought of losing one moment of contact with the delicious vodka tinged flavour of his Russian.  

Illya ran his hands up his partner’s chest, tracing collar bones and ribs and back down to run his hands up the strong back, feeling traces of scars, ones he knew well and others that had come before they met. He kissed Napoleon back with fervor and enthusiasm, inviting and plundering in turn, feeling those strong capable hands of his partner’s stroking fire along his skin.  When Napoleon moaned he immediately understood the frustration, he too wanted the clothing they were covered in to disappear but was unwilling to detach long enough to discard the superfluous items.  The kiss continued until Illya slid a hand forward again and pinched one pebbled nipple on the solid chest against his.  

“Ah, god above, Illya, please, yes,” Napoleon’s whisper was ragged and drug up from a deep well of desire and longing and Illya pushed the shirt off Napoleon before fastening his mouth where his fingers had been, sucking and biting and stoking and pinching again the one he wasn’t worrying with his teeth and lips and tongue.  He started guiding his partner until the backs of his knees hit the bed and with one more push, Illya followed him down to the bed, teeth and tongue never leaving contact with his lover.  He stroked the bared flesh with his hands and followed with his mouth, tasting, touching, nipping with teeth and soothing with tongue, every inch of skin explored, working his way again up and tracing teasing patterns along collar bone and the dipping hollow of Napoleon’s throat and then up the cord of his neck and then the soft flesh just behind one ear, teeth pulling one earlobe while his hands continued to roam and knead and finally stroking one hand down to flick the button of Napoleon’s suit pants open and so very slowly tug the zipper down, all the while Napoleon’s hands were busy on any part of Illya that would stay still long enough for him to stroke and tease.  

Napoleon pushed Illya up and grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled, baring the flesh he wanted to explore, this started a frenzy of clothing flying until they were both bare and rolling on the bed, mouths and hands and skin on skin and breathless with it until Napoleon had Illya pinned down and was working his way down Illya’s chest and belly and finally reaching his current goal.  

They knew each other’s bodies, years of gym showers and shared motel bathrooms and missions where they huddled together for warmth or cover from enemy fire or hiding in small spaces waiting for their moment to accomplish the job and return home successful, but now they were learning each other with other senses, reveling in the freedom.

Napoleon licked and nibbled and bit and tasted his way down, treating Illya’s nipples to nibbles and bites and laving with his tongue and tracing his way down rib after rib, dipping fingers and then tongue in his navel until finally pushing Illya’s thighs apart to settle himself, hands stroking and his breath warm on flesh, taking Illya’s hard cock in his hands to stroke, cupping heavy balls in one hand and using the other to slide up and down as his mouth hovered, lips barely touching the tip.  Illya’s hands fisted in the bedspread and he drew his knees up and out to give Napoleon all the access he desired, and was rewarded with that hot mouth opening and swallowing and sucking him down to the base and back up again, talented tongue working the underside and fingers and lips slicked and sliding and devouring again and again, deep again and again, dark hair brushing his thighs and belly as hands and mouth finally drew strangled moans out of him.  And then Napoleon’s slick fingers started to explore, never breaking his rhythm, sliding back, massaging their wicked way between cheeks to stroke Illya most intimately, teasing and circling, flirting with pushing inside and pulling away again and again until the pleading sounds encouraged him to breach that ring of muscle and slide in and out, deeper with each slow stroke in time with that sucking mouth, adding another finger as Illya relaxed and opened for him, seeking and finding the button of his prostate and stroking so that the moans became louder and Illya’s cock surged with each stroke against the roof of Napoleon’s mouth.

Illya wanted this to last and realized he might not hold out as long as he wanted if this continued, his control was nearing its limit.  He reached down and fisted his hands in Napoleon’s hair, pulling his face up, rising to meet him and kiss his own taste off his partner’s lips, licking then sucking Napoleon’s lower lip between his, biting and soothing in turns, followed with his tongue pushing in that hot mouth, tasting his own musk and the faint trace of the scotch Napoleon drank earlier.  The combination of tastes and the knowledge that Napoleon tasted of him made Illya’s cock throb harder and he could feel his pulse thundering in his ears.  Breathless from all of it, he rolled his lover and pressed full length against him.  

How many times had he woken in those motel beds during missions, wrapped in Napoleon’s scent, wishing that the warm body pressed up to his in sleep was there by choice and not circumstance.  He had lost count.  And now that body was his to explore, that scent his to taste, finally.  He was starved for it, and fell on Napoleon just like that, desperate for every inch of flesh under his hands and mouth.  He stroked and licked his way from nipples to navel, tracing the pale pink scar low on Napoleon’s belly and lower, biting his way along the crease of Napoleon’s thigh to his center, to the hard flesh he had wanted to touch for what seemed like always and with no preliminaries, he swallowed his partner whole, once, twice, three times before slowing and using his hands to guide and stroke and learn the inches of his partner’s cock, hard and throbbing just as his was.  Napoleon arched under him, heels planted, back bowed, his hands pushing against the head of the bed and incoherent sounds coming from deep in his chest, strangled encouragement and pleading in equal amounts.

Napoleon didn’t know which was worse, the overwhelming desire to consume his lover or be consumed by him, the wordless want in him that felt like a cavern only his partner could fill or the bursting joy that made him feel full of light and hope and like he would pull apart at the seams if he felt any more full with it.  

“Illya, Illya please, tovarisch,” he reached down, much like his lover had done to him, threading his hands in that tousled blond silk and tugged, and the sound of Illya’s mouth disengaging from his cock with a sucking plock of a sound made him groan again, dragging Illya up and over him to kiss, wrapping his arms around the strong back, sliding his hands down to cup and dig his fingers into the cheeks of that perfect ass and pull his partner tight against him, hard cocks sliding against each other and making both of them moan and arch harder into each other.

Napoleon bit Illya’s earlobe, hard, thrusting up at the same time, opening his knees and trapping Illya’s hips with his thighs so he could continue the thrusting slick rub of cock to cock.  His voice in Illya’s ear was low and gruff with his desperate last grasp of control, “Illya, I can’t take much more, as much as I want nothing more than to keep on like this for the rest of my natural life, I want you inside me, I need you inside me and I want to feel you, now, in me…” and then he lost all control of his voice when Illya pressed his mouth to Napoleon’s ear and growled one word, “yes.”  Napoleon thrust up against Illya and the words that came out of his mouth were a guttural mix of moaned French and English pleading.

Napoleon pushed Illya back to turn and reach up again to the headboard and slide back a panel in it.  Inside was a pair of carved wooden boxes.  He opened one and pulled out a small jar of petroleum jelly and handed it to his partner and started to kneel up on the bed to turn over when Illya stopped him.  

Illya reached out and turned on the small bedside lamp, flicking the shade so that only a soft indirect glow lit the bed, then pushed his lover down, on his back, leaning over him on one elbow, the other hand on Napoleon’s chest, both of them breathing hard with their arousal.

“I want to see you, Napoleon, I want to watch you.”  He slid his hand up to push the dark sweat damp hair off his partner’s forehead, as he had wanted to do so many times in the past under other, less intimate circumstances.  

Napoleon swallowed, unable to speak.  He could only nod, then ran his hands up into Illya’s hair to tug and draw Illya’s mouth down to his, hoping his actions could speak for him as he had lost the ability to express himself any other way.

Illya slid back down, not taking Napoleon in his mouth this time, but kissing along Napoleon’s thigh, his hair tickling a trail along the other thigh, his tongue and lips and nipping teeth keeping Napoleon’s arousal high.  He popped the top off the jar and took a generous pinch out, sliding his fingers and thumb together to warm it then with the other hand positioning Napoleon as he wanted him.  Small moans from his lover encouraged and goaded him on, sliding slick fingers against and then into Napoleon, his other hand kneading at Napoleon’s thigh and then sliding up to stroke his chest and belly, stopping to tease a nipple and then stroke again while he continued to slide his fingers, two now, in and out, relaxing and preparing his lover for more.  And all the while, teasing and tasting and licking and nibbling everywhere but Napoleon’s cock, keeping the tease going, sliding his tongue along skin, flicking against his lovers balls and then letting his breath warm the underside of the hard cock he was trying to ignore.  He played his mouth back over the crease of Napoleon’s thigh, taking a mouthful of flesh and sucking hard as he pushed a third finger inside and curled his fingers to find that sweet spot that would make Napoleon beg for more, and he did.  

“Prendre moi, please, Illya, maintenant, now, ah…” Napoleon arched up under Illya’s hands.

Illya rose then, pulling his fingers out and sliding more lubricant over his own hard cock and pulling Napoleon’s legs up over his arms and positioning himself, then looked down to see Napoleon had once again put his hands up to brace on the headboard, breathing harsh and fast, eyes dark with want, and Illya had never seen a more beautiful picture in his life.  He leaned in for a fast hard kiss on lips that were parted and panting with need.

Illya took a hold of Napoleon’s hips and pushed forward, meeting resistance and slowly, very slowly, continued to press against and then into his lover, feeling Napoleon tense and then breathe deeply in an effort to relax, saw him close his eyes and a line appear between his brows.  Illya stopped, gauging Napoleon’s reactions.  He smoothed one hand over his partner’s belly, up to his chest and then cupped his cheek, Napoleon’s eyes opened.

“It’s been,” a pause as Napoleon took another deep breath and relaxed again, “a long time, tovarisch.”

Illya started to pull back until Napoleon’s heels dug into his back and stopped him.

“That was not a request for you to stop, merde!”  Napoleon used his braced arms for leverage and pushed himself down, head flung back and arching into the move to impale himself on Illya’s hard cock, and the hot tight slick engulfing almost undid Illya, who dug his fingers into Napoleon’s hips and pushed to meet his partner until he was seated fully inside.

Both of them let out a yell, and again their eyes locked and Illya started to rock, rubbing against Napoleon’s prostate and feeling his lover’s cock respond with a throbbing against his belly. He reached for the lubricant and took more, stroking it on Napoleon’s cock, matching the rhythm of his body to that of his hand on his partner.

Napoleon let go of the headboard with one hand, still braced so he could push back to meet Illya’s strokes, and reached up to stroke Illya’s chest, then wet one finger with his tongue and flicked his wet finger over Illya’s nipple, one and then the other, never breaking eye contact, watching his partner’s arousal, feeling his partner’s arousal, feeling like he wanted to scream with the need to fulfill that arousal and his own and at the same time wanting to make that arousal last for the rest of his days on the planet.  He was torn between wanting to come and wanting to watch Illya come.  It was the worst choice he had ever had to make.   

Illya let go of Napoleon’s legs to slide them around his hips and leaned over his lover to pick up his pace, Napoleon’s cock trapped between their bellies and Illya’s hand still wrapped hard around him, stroking faster.

“Come for me, Napoleon, pribudte teper, now lyubov, now.”

And Napoleon could do nothing else, arching up and letting out a hoarse cry as his eyes rolled back and closed, he came, harder than he could remember, maybe ever.  

Illya pressed into that heat, pushed faster, feeling his own orgasm building, head flung back now and eyes tight shut as he felt the edge coming, closer, faster, falling with a harsh cry of his own he stroked one last deep thrust and filled his lover, spilling himself into that tight wet dark and fell forward, strength lost and lightheaded with the power of his release.  

He came back to himself, feeling hands stroking his shoulders, smoothing his hair back from his forehead, lips pressed to his temple again and again.

He looked up to see Napoleon with a look of happiness in his expression, a contented peacefulness he suspected was mirrored in his own face.

“Thank you, tovarisch, mon poursuite de chat, for your gift.”

“It is I who thank you for your trust, my friend.”

Napoleon reached up behind his head, into the box again and came back with a handkerchief, soft with many washings, and swept it down to wipe the wet stickiness off Illya’s belly and his, then Illya took it from him, “Let me, Napoleon,” Illya said.

Illya rolled over his lover, pressing a kiss to his lips and then disappeared into the bath and returned, a warm washcloth in his hands and tended to his lover, carefully checking for damage, for he had lost all ability to be gentle near completion.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No, partner mine, you did nothing of the kind.”

Illya returned to the bath, and then came back to find Napoleon had pulled off the bedspread and turned down the sheets.

“Will you stay?”

Illya wondered how loaded that question was and then Napoleon continued.

“I don’t… usually I, that is. Ah…”  Napoleon was uncharacteristically awkward.

“You don’t often invite young men back to your flat to view your etchings?”  Illya’s voice was gentle in his teasing, seeking to put Napoleon back at the ease they had just had.

“No, Illya, I’ve never, ah, here, I.  Dear god, no.”

Illya stepped closer, put his hands on Napoleon’s shoulders and looked into his eyes, “You don’t have overnight guests, is what you are saying.”

“No, yes, that is, I take young ladies out for dinner and a show or dancing and then take them home where they then invite me in for coffee and I provide a little light entertainment before politely taking my leave.  My encounters with gentlemen friends are short lived and we take a motel room somewhere where we are not known and I leave well before the wee hours of the morning.”  Napoleon sighed.  “Illya, you are the only man I have ever actually slept a night with, and I would very much like to do so again.  And not having it involve uncomfortable motel mattresses and the distinct possibility that enemies will break in at any moment with guns or knockout drugs would be an added delight.”

“Are you likely to break into French again?”  Illya’s eyes danced with mischief.  

“That depends entirely upon your recovery time and further interest.”  Napoleon raised a brow at his partner.

“Oh, I think I can guarantee further interest.  Why French, you know many languages.”

“My Quebecois grandmother would speak only French, so I spoke it as well as English throughout my childhood, until her death.”

“No wonder your accent is atrocious.  I think I can live with that.”

“Nightcap before we retire?”

“Please.”

Napoleon brought their refilled drinks from the living room to find Illya lounging in the bed, sheet low across his belly, leaned against the headboard with a pillow cushioning his back.  

Handing the drink to Illya, he joined his partner in the bed.

“You know, none of the whispering secretaries in the pool ever mention your appendectomy scar.  Curious, don’t you think?”

Napoleon took a swallow of scotch and smirked.  “Illya, you are a secret agent.  Haven’t you discovered yet that the best place to hide is in plain sight?”

“We need to talk.”

“Talk later, mon chat.