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

Pairing: Napoleon Solo/Illya Kuryakin

Category: slash

Rating: R

Word Count: 1071

Summary: Post mission, at rest for a moment.

Table/Prompt: Plot! What Plot? Table Prompt: Spontaneous!Sex.

 

Illya’s voice was tight, but his touch gentle and at Napoleon’s softly whispered ‘yes’, there was another sigh, this time full of relief and Napoleon did not resist the urge he had to lean toward his partner.

Napoleon barely whispered his lips against those of his partner, soothing out the word again, ‘yes’, as one might calm a wild creature, inviting it to try the treat offered, held out to share. He could feel the smile on Illya’s mouth as he leaned closer, barely tracing the tip of his tongue along that lower lip as he had dreamed of doing so many times in the past.

An electric buzz started up in his blood when he tasted Illya’s tongue meeting his, joining his, kissing him again. This time it was just as slow and strong, but their tongues dancing and lips meeting more firmly, opening. He felt Illya’s hand slide along his cheek and behind his ear and up into the short hair on the back of his head, holding him firm and steady.

He tilted his head to better the angle and Illya’s tongue slipped past his lips and traced against his teeth, pushing gently, seeking an invitation to deepen the kiss again, and Napoleon granted him entrance, sighing now, himself.

He slid his hand along Illya’s neck and into blond hair, golden hair he loved to ruffle and tease about, but in truth it was something he liked about his partner. Illya’s refusal to tame it part of his charm and something that made him who he was. And who he was right now was the man in bed with him, kissing him breathless and hard and wanting. Napoleon pressed closer, meeting Illya’s exploring mouth with his own curiosity. They traded the kiss back and forth, tongues and lips seeking, finding one another and tasting desire and the faintest hint of mint left from the earlier toothpaste before bed. Underneath that was the solid familiarity of hard muscles under their skin as hands smoothed down necks and backs and then up ribs and shoulders.

Napoleon slid his hand down to the small of Illya’s back and pulled, bringing Illya full against him and then rolling to bring Illya over him. Finally he had both hands free to stroke the bare skin of his partner’s back, to bury in the fall of tousled hair and hold him as he kissed him with the buzz in his thumping pulse pushing him on.

Illya couldn’t tell which of them groaned louder when Napoleon pulled him over and if the sound was from the aftereffects of the injuries they had sustained on this mission or from the feeling of their very hard cocks pushing at one another with sudden insistence. He decided he didn’t care. The pain from his bruised hip was negligible compared to the sweet torture of the slide of cotton shorts against his heated skin and the equal hardness he could feel evidenced against him from his partner. It felt so good, too good, that hard flesh on flesh, cotton covered and needing. Needing to push and slide and his pulse pounding the blood so hard through him he felt certain that Napoleon must hear that beat like a drum as he felt it in every inch of his body. Then Napoleon’s hands were sliding down his back and over the cotton and gripping, pulling him hard to his own body, pressing impossibly strong, impossibly right.

The kiss didn’t break, became deeper, more insistent and yet still a slow exploration, as if sharing breath they shared life, shared essences, shared spirits that there was no parting from, no separation between the partners.

Napoleon swallowed the moan that vibrated between them, feeling that sound deep in his chest and echoed in the solid muscle of Illya’s chest against his as he pulled his partner over, closer, solid wall of body to body. The sensations didn’t compare to his earlier companion of the evening, the bulk of Illya atop him was nothing at all like the pliant curves of the woman he had wined and dined and danced with even as Illya was entertaining his own companion. And his reaction didn’t compare either. While he had enjoyed the momentary company earlier as a pleasant passing of time, a celebration of surviving another encounter with the enemy, it had not been the electrifying awareness that he was experiencing now.

Every nerve Napoleon had was tuned to Illya. He was aware of the blond hair brushing his cheek as Illya turned his head to deepen the kiss again, stroking his tongue against the roof of Napoleon’s mouth and then drawing back to nip at his lower lip, sliding up to do the same to one earlobe as his hands curled over Napoleon’s shoulders. Illya’s thighs bracing against his, chest and belly flattened to his, Napoleon’s hands stroking up and down Illya’s back and then again gripping his ass to pull him hard into him again, cotton shorts growing damp with the muggy stillness of the closed room and the heat they created between their steadily arousing bodies.

Napoleon tasted his way across Illya’s cheek and chin and down his throat to the pulse throbbing steadily there, echoed in his own veins, their hearts beating faster and heating them into a fever and felt Illya arch against him as he tongued that beating pulse and sucked just slightly, moving down to where his neck met shoulder to suck again, harder this time, and Illya’s breathing in his ear becoming ragged, matching his own. Their hips rocked together with that rhythm, pushing at each other pressing harder, Illya kissing and sucking just behind Napoleon’s ear and making him moan even as he could feel the mark he was leaving on Illya bloom under his mouth.

Illya spread his thighs to bracket Napoleon’s, pressing as close as he could to that heat and hard flesh, seeking release even as he wanted it to last and was rewarded with a surge from his partner, hips rocking up and hands tightening to pull him into alignment and they were still thwarted by cotton constricting them and Illya growled in frustration against Napoleon’s ear, hearing him gasp as he left off the lovebite to growl his own need, unable to articulate words, only the sliding of his hands up and then under the cotton making clear his need, their need.