“You are making this difficult on purpose.”
“I think that's the point, is it not?”
Illya scoffs. “You are insufferable, Cowboy.”
“And you are in no position to talk, Peril. If you'd prefer, if it helps the temptation, I could gag you.” Napoleon casts him a smug look, and Illya swallows.
“You are one who talks too much.”
“You're lucky I'm in a good mood.” Napoleon finishes unbuttoning his vest and moves to his cuffs, divesting himself much too slowly of his starched white shirt. Illya is already shirtless, his jeans opened and crooked on his hips. The evidence of Napoleon's game is all over him, he's sure – the wetness at the front of his boxer shorts, the embarrassing pink his body flushes when aroused, the hair falling in front of his eyes. Solo's gaze sweeps over him again and again, studying him. Probably trying to commit him to memory, Illya guesses; the American. The sentimentalist.
Napoleon's dress shirt and undershirt are abandoned over the back of a nearby chair, and finally, he retakes his place straddling Illya's thighs. Illya plants his feet, bending at the knees to try to encourage him into the cradle of his hips, but Solo holds his ground, simply leaning back to meet him. His leverage is compromised, Illya realizes, by his position – he briefly forgets himself, takes a hand from the headboard and reaches for Solo, but Napoleon bats it away.
“You've done so well so far. You really want this to end now? I'll walk out, Peril – I will.”
Illya grumbles at the threat and replaces his hand around the wrought iron bar in the headboard. No hands – what is he supposed to do without his hands? Of course, if asked, Napoleon would say something like “Lay back and enjoy it,” as he had a couple of hours ago when he had suggested the game to a bewildered and slightly drunk Russian. Illya is reminded of why he rarely drinks – it impairs his judgment, and then he ends up here, the target of a con by Solo, having agreed to something far too elaborate for his minimalist tastes. Why not just reach out and touch him? Why not just take him?
Napoleon is dragging his fingertips lightly up and down his chest, and Illya sighs, content, and realizes that of course it's because this feels good – the build-up, the tease, even the comedown later. Napoleon's decadent American leanings mean he has picked up some wonderful habits along the way, such as this one – his tendency to just sit and admire, something Illya is not used to. Absently, Napoleon curls his other hand around Illya's side, and Illya shivers – because his hand is cold, and because his body is aching for more.
“Shh. You're being so good,” Napoleon mutters, almost not for Illya's benefit at all. He's mesmerized by the way that when he brushes his nails against the blond's chest his nipples tighten and peak – his body must be so on edge, so wound. Napoleon struggles through the murky water in his head because he wants to think that thought clearly – he has done this, he has made this extremely composed man putty for him, obedient and pliant and warm and soft. It's immensely satisfying, and he moans under his breath, scooting forward a bit to indulge himself.
He aligns their groins, sitting just below where Illya really wants him, and Solo gyrates slowly, still clothed in his slacks. He rocks against Illya and Illya gasps and bucks and struggles hard against the temptation to let go of the headboard again. Napoleon can see the effort in the sinews of his triceps, and admires the way his eyes close in pure, focused concentration. “Don't you dare let go,” he reminds him, cruelly, punctuating it with a palm pressed against the underside of his cock through his boxers.
Jesus, they aren't even fully undressed yet and Illya is sure he could definitely come in his trousers. He thinks about the time in the restaurant, when Napoleon teased and stroked him under the table before finally taking pity on him in the restroom, making him orgasm quietly in a tiny stall with a stranger at the urinals and zipping him back up over the mess, leaving him to collect himself before dizzily returning to the booth. He wants that now, wants Napoleon to make a mess of him and defile him and use him as his pornography, and he supposes that's what he's doing, that this exactly is what Napoleon gets off on – his helplessness, his total inability to satisfy himself when Napoleon can do it so much better. The headboard is just a metaphor for surrender – Solo knows that he could let go if he really wanted to, and that's the point, that Illya willingly submits, resigns himself to the treatment because it's what he really needs, and Solo knows it.
Napoleon unbuttons his own pants. Illya licks his lips instinctively as his cock springs free, and he sees his partner shudder at the cool air. He wants to wrap his lips around him and make him sing with pleasure, wants to drive him insane with the wet heat of his mouth and then let him use his body to satisfy his every urge and know that he is the reason the coolest, most composed man in New York City comes apart so wholly, wants Solo to tell him as only he can that he drives him wild. It's his instinct, his need to be in control, and he pushes it down inside him and arches his back, making his body more feminine in shape and pose, wanton and submissive. He hears Napoleon gasp and then growl, naturally settling lower into the bend Illya creates. His back is against his thighs, and Illya moans and rotates his hips up into the brunet's round ass, the friction of his boxers and Solo's linen pants setting the heat inside his belly positively aflame.
“You wanna fuck me?” Solo asks bluntly, stray curls against his forehead, lips pursed and cheeks flushed scarlet, and Illya can't manage words as he watches him stroke himself. He's too pretty, the contrast of dark red lips and cheeks and dark hair against his milky skin coquettish and inviting. Illya feels delirious, overwhelmed by Solo's grinding against his need, and nods weakly, feeling as though he would beg if he could only manage to speak.
Napoleon stands, and Illya involuntarily lets out a noise that is suspiciously close to a whine, but he is graciously quick to toss his trousers and his briefs across the room and Illya only has a split-second to admire the fine way his thighs are muscled before he kneels again on the bed and pulls off Illya's jeans, then his shorts, and throws them to the side as well, and then he's on top of him again, in the cant of his hips where he belongs, skin against skin for a moment before he kneels up and begins preparing himself, twisting his body and holding onto Illya's bent knee for balance as he sinks one, then two, then three fingers inside, his cock bobbing enticingly at Illya's chest.
“Want to have you inside me... been waiting all day,” Napoleon murmurs, leaning over to scatter tender kisses across Illya's jaw. He moans and throws his head back as he hits a particularly sensitive spot inside himself, and Illya bites his lip. “I've been thinking about you like this for weeks; you're so beautiful when you let go, when you let me take control” he pants at him. He kisses him again, this time on the mouth. “It's always too long between when I have you and I have you again.”
Illya is inclined to agree, even though this is a week off and the last time he had him was yesterday.
“And you're so good,” Solo continues, as if in awe, and the last syllable comes out in staccato as he presses against his prostate again.
Finally he drops back and aligns their bodies again, and as he sinks himself slowly down onto him, Illya savors every inch of inner flesh, savors the look on Napoleon's face as he fills him, the half-lidded eyes and parted, wet lips and the stubble on his throat as his head tilts backward.
He goes to move and surprises Napoleon, usually so in-tune with Illya's body, and relishes the shocked “Aa-ah!” this elicits, rocking his hips again, not wasting any time. He has found a way to use his grip around the bars as substitute leverage, and he feels dominant and it's heady as he rocks his hips to slap audibly against the soft flesh of Napoleon's butt. He feels Solo relax a bit more around him and picks up the pace, and Napoleon wonders when he lost control. He lets Illya have a few more strokes before he regains his composure and, breathlessly, rises up just as Illya does, too, and his cock almost slips all the way out before he sinks quickly back down on it, immediately setting a brutal pace.
Illya's head thrashes back and forth and his hips are still on the bedspread, his eyes shut tight so his whole world is the noises Solo is making and the feeling of him around his dick, and he feels as though he might explode with sensation, the pleasure rising up to consume him.
“Put your hands on me,” Napoleon demands, and Illya doesn't need to be told twice, his large hands going immediately to Solo's waist and resting gently against his sides there. He keeps his hips still and his eyes open, watching the brunet as he works, studying the way own fingers ghost across Solo's skin. He tries to savor the feeling, but it's always over too soon when it gets this heated, rapidly approaching and all at once everything overtakes him and he's lost, swooning, floating as all the tension he didn't realise he'd had unfurls and releases.
He is so glad he has his hands on Solo to anchor him back to Earth. He still tracks the movement of his hips beneath them. The hard line of muscle clashes with the soft curve of his partner's pout as he watches Solo peak and arch through his own post-orgasm haze, Solo's body reaching, vying, higher and higher. Finally, he collapses back against Illya's legs, his full weight settling onto him. Listening to their shared breathing, Napoleon enjoys the slickness of his skin against Illya's, the warmth they create together. He raises his head to look at him... and laughs.
Illya scowls. “What?” he barks.
Napoleon shakes his head. “Just you. You look so worn out.”
Illya rolls his eyes. “No more of this, your special games,” he promises, not believing it himself.
Solo pats his thigh, very condescendingly. “Right, Peril. Never again.”