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"You don't really want to do this."

"No?" Illya prowled toward him, unhurried, inexorable. Goddamned sneaky Russian was between him and the only way out of the small cave they'd taken refuge in, and the storm howling outside made any thoughts of trying to scale his way up the sea cliff now look like assisted suicide. Not that Napoleon would feel the cold, at least; the drug pounding through his system had taken care of that.

"Illya, it's the gas, dammit, you know that, it has to be! I'm feeling it too, but – "

"Hm, yes you are, aren't you?" The Russian's gaze dropped southward and Napoleon felt it like a physical caress across his crotch, a hot, friendly hand that weakened his knees and further stiffened his already aching cock. "You've been flaunting that in front of me for years. Years, Napoleon," Illya growled, his accent thickening, voice a low rumble that Napoleon had only ever heard in his best, worst dreams. "You've made free with it to everyone, women, men – oh yes," he purred as Napoleon started, "did you think I didn't notice? Everyone. Everyone but me." Illya was less than a foot away now, blue eyes washed to a dark, glittering gray in the stormy half-light, heat and lust rolling off of him in waves, Napoleon could smell him. "But we will fix that now."

Storm be damned. Napoleon feinted left and made a break for it.

The next he knew, stone pressed cold against his back and Illya pressed hot against his front, pinning him to the cave floor with the full length of the body Napoleon had been trying not to watch for more than a year now. Chest to chest, groin to groin, his partner's erection shoving hard, hard into the hollow of Napoleon's hip, a white-hot brand even through four layers of wet clothing. The drug-enhanced arousal that Napoleon had only just barely been keeping leashed snapped its restraint.

"Illya." Napoleon arched up, moaning his partner's name, fighting Illya's hold on his wrists as the Russian's mouth descended. Illya licked rain and sweat from his throat, and Napoleon shuddered at the sharp nip of teeth. Painful and sweet, and he'd had Illya this close before, had this whipcord body flush against his own in rescue or relief but never like this, in lust and madness, never these lips against his skin. Just the gas, he knew with that bit of his rational mind still functioning, because Illya wasn't like him – Illya didn't bat, even occasionally, for both teams. It was the thrice-damned THRUSH gas driving his partner down this road hell-bent for leather, brakes gone. Napoleon had breathed some of it too but Illya had taken it full in the face when the glass had shattered. The THRUSH scientists had been trying for mind control – what they'd gotten instead was a devastatingly powerful aphrodisiac.

He dug his fingers into Illya's shoulders, dimly aware that his partner had let go in order to tear at the remains of Napoleon's shirt. Illya covered the newly bared skin with savage kisses, finding a nipple and sucking hard. Napoleon shouted and grabbed at wet golden hair, back arching in a plea for more. Illya gave it to him, biting and licking and sucking again, broad fingers tormenting the other nipple while Napoleon twisted, half-mindless, beneath the barrage. Mindless enough in fact that he completely missed the strong fingers at his waist until he groaned in relief as his trousers were jerked open and his underwear down, and shouted again as those same strong fingers wrapped around his cock and pulled.

Sweet, raw friction and Illya's heat against his side, the smells of ozone and fucking and Illya in his nose and Illya's voice in his ear, slurring filthy, beautiful things in Russian, words of sex and love that nobody ever meant, not like this, not in the middle of passion winding higher higher tighter until the air was gone and Napoleon shouted one more time and fell, ecstasy black as night sucking him down, dimly understanding as he drowned that Illya fell with him.

Napoleon swam slowly back up to consciousness, feeling weight on his legs and delicious, tickling warmth at his groin. He managed to raise his head and saw Illya sprawled over him, licking gently and quite deliberately at his half-hard cock, broad hand curved in possessive warning around his hip. A hot, intent blue gaze met his, and Napoleon groaned and lay back, closing his eyes in arousal and despair as his own body betrayed him again. It was going to be a long night.



Under his fingers. Sweat-sharp in the air he breathed, hot-salt against his tongue. All he knew, all there was. All he most wanted, desired, craved. All that he must, would, possess. All of him. Napoleon.

Flesh silky hard in his hand. Sliding against his tongue, stretching his lips, the spiky-sweet taste, alkaline edge of the pleasure there had been, the pleasure coming again soon, soon. He would own this man and he alone, never again the many, the legions his partner had seduced. No more.

Napoleon moved against him, beneath him, taut muscle twitching, flexing in waves like the ocean, faster now, the beautiful voice breaking, rising in plea. In need. In wild, keening surrender as the flesh in his mouth gave up the essence of the man, forever into his keeping. Owned.

Owned this way and all other ways, soon, as well. And what he owned, he kept. He growled out his triumph, tossing his head back, fingers digging into the hard thighs that filled his hands as the bliss ripped through him again. Not satisfied yet, no. But he would be, with his partner. His.



Napoleon lay on his back and panted, heart still racing, as the world came back into focus. His mouth was dry but his head was something closer to being clear. Which was interesting because two – or was it three – earth-moving orgasms in less than half an hour should have had rather the opposite effect, but maybe all this activity was helping to flush the gas out of his system. A smile pulled at his mouth because that was funny, wasn't it? God knew he'd used fucking as an antidote for things before, but never quite like this … fucking. Oh, God. Would Illya try to – Napoleon's eyes snapped open and he stared up at the half-visible cave roof. Illya was right but wrong, too, Napoleon had been with men but not many, and he'd never let anyone try, never trusted anyone enough to –

A low rumble from the vicinity of his hip, much like the purr of a big hunting cat, the golden-tanned, blond variety who was currently sliding up his body, a sleek full-skin caress that fired nerves in its wake and it hurt, almost, the way the arousal sliced through him yet again. Illya loomed over him, practically nose to nose, eyes nearly black, color only a thin ring. If orgasms were the solution, then he was practically duty-bound to help Illya get off as many times as possible, a prescription for as much sex as either of them could stand. And then, somehow, he would have to go back to seeing the man as his work partner and only that. Assuming, of course, that there was any way in hell that their partnership could survive this. Napoleon swallowed. "Illya."

His partner bared his teeth in something that wasn't quite a smile. "For how many years, and still you cannot say it. I know you anywhere by way you cannot quite say my name. Why is that, I wonder?" The Russian's voice was low, raspy, drugged half out of his English. His breath brushed warm against Napoleon's face.

Napoleon swallowed again. The air was full of salt and musk, Illya's and his own, thick and heavy. His mouth watered. "You used to do something to mine, you know. In the beginning. Not quite the way anyone else said it."

"Did I?" Illya leaned in and for a wild moment Napoleon thought – but Illya's lips touched his jaw and his partner licked, then chewed along the bone up to the curve of Napoleon's earlobe. "How did I say? Na-po-le-on." Hot breath washed the sensitive inner ear channel as Illya whispered his name. Napoleon locked his arms around Illya's waist as he shuddered and thrust up, shoving his cock against Illya's, both of them impossibly hard again.

But Illya reared back, breaking Napoleon's hold. Then he straddled Napoleon's chest and Napoleon found himself staring at the underside of Illya's full, heavy erection. Then at the wet tip of it as Illya took himself in hand and aimed downward. "This time I want your mouth," Illya hissed, and the breath jammed in Napoleon's throat as he arched and sobbed and came, just like that. And somewhere, lost in the glittering black brilliance behind his closed eyes, he heard Illya laugh.