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Napoleon licked his way down, tasting salt and warmth and the fine curl of hair. Illya's pulse tripped against Napoleon's tongue as he investigated his partner's lower belly, hands shaping the narrow waist, tracing the perfect join of hip and thigh. Illya shifted under him and shivered like a fly-bitten horse as Napoleon kissed where his hands had been, nosing inward to softer, still more fragrant skin and the insides of those amazing thighs. Silk and velvet over muscle like iron; so soft for such a hard, capable man.

 

"Napoleon…."

 

Somewhere between plea and demand, the accented voice shaped his name as only Illya ever did. Napoleon smiled. He inhaled deep, pulling Illya's smell into his lungs, stronger here than anywhere else, enjoying, memorizing. Then exhaled, letting his breath play over the superfine skin of Illya's balls, barely a centimeter from his mouth.

 

Illya shivered again, harder, and slid his fingers deeper into Napoleon's hair, but he didn't grab. Yet. "Napoleon, please."

 

"Please what?"

 

"Please something. Anything."

 

Napoleon smiled again, because he wasn't cruel, no matter what some people said, and closed the tiny gap.

 

Illya's breath caught, then released in a soft groan as Napoleon licked, washing with great care, lipping with delicate suction, everything he himself liked and so rarely got, because even the wicked girls he'd known didn't usually do these kinds of things. Things Illya liked too, if the gasps and twitches and tightening fingers and muttered curses were any indication. His legs parted even further, an invitation that Napoleon took, touching beneath the sac and back to caress the sensitive perineum.

 

Illya muttered again, slurring something Napoleon didn't quite catch, but the Russian's body language begged in crystal clear tones. So Napoleon indulged them both, mapping every inch of Illya's balls and moving up to discover the base of the heavy, uncut cock. It had been forever since he'd had a chance to play like this, to linger; there'd been few others, in fact, whom he'd trusted enough – wanted enough – to take his time with. He shifted his hips against the mattress, trying to appease his own ache with a little friction. Patience. This is more important.

 

A sigh from his partner and fingers fell away to knot in the bedclothes instead. Napoleon lifted his head to survey the territory. Illya's skin was flushed, a light mottled red spreading across his chest. He'd propped up on his elbows and his blue eyes were half-closed and dark with desire, fixed on Napoleon's face, the Russian's expression as wide open as Napoleon had ever seen. Lust. Amazement. Confusion. Like he couldn't quite believe – "Illya?"

 

Napoleon saw him swallow. "This – is happening."

 

Napoleon's throat went tight. "It is," he murmured. "Oh, it is." He gently brushed his cheek, laden with five o'clock shadow, against Illya's eager cock.

 

"Oh." Illya's head went back, thigh muscles tensing against Napoleon's arm, hips twitching.

 

Napoleon nuzzled him, drowning in heat and scent, and flicked his tongue out to taste, finally, what he'd been trying not to look at for years, licking a slow stripe from base to tip. Salt. Musk.

 

Illya.

 

"Napoleon." Illya's voice broke, and that was more than Napoleon could take. He wrapped his arms around Illya's powerful legs and splayed one hand low across the Russian's belly, heel resting in the crease of Illya's thigh. The other he wrapped around the base of Illya's cock, pulling the foreskin away from the already slick head and lowering his mouth to savor the astringency there.

 

The noise Illya made then was indescribable; he fell back against the mattress, hips thrusting up. Napoleon tightened his grip and pushed back, pinning his partner down. Much as he wanted this, he didn't care to be choked in the process. Mouth watering in anticipation, he lowered his head until his lips met his hand.

 

Oh, God, but he'd missed this, the bitter salt taste so different from a woman's, the weight of flesh against his tongue. Illya had a beautiful cock, not that Napoleon had had that many to compare it to; not so long, but thick, and heavier than he'd expected for his partner's relatively slender frame. He swirled his tongue and twisted his hand as he moved, slowing to pull almost off and lick at the tip every few strokes. He lost himself in it, in the fact that it was Illya he was doing this to, with; Illya who moved under him like the sea, slow arch and retreat, tremors running through his thighs. Was his partner that close already? God, he was, and Napoleon hadn't played nearly long enough yet. How long had it been for Illya?

 

Illya was groaning now, almost too softly to hear, the sounds dragged out of him nearly in cadence with Napoleon's motions. Broad hands cupped Napoleon's head, fingers tangled in his hair again, tightening; hips trying to thrust despite Napoleon's grip. Napoleon slowed, eased back and tightened his fingers around the base of Illya's cock, pulling off, turning sucking into gentle licks and nibbles. This shouldn't end yet, it was too soon -

 

"Nyet. Nyet, nyet, ne ostanavlivajtes', Polya, please, don't stop," Illya ground out, low and tight and broken. "Don't stop." And Christ, but he'd never heard Illya sound like that, not after three days of THRUSH torture, that wasn't happy, it was, was – as if he really feared that he might be left there. God, partner, what, who the hell did that to you?

 

Well, not tonight.

 

He sucked Illya back down, plunging to meet his own hand and a little further, lips as tightly sealed as he could get them, and swallowed repeatedly, blunt pressure at the back of his throat. Illya gasped and surged against him, fingers knotting to the point of pain. Napoleon rose up and did it again, and again, hand twisting, everything slick and wet and so, so good and he didn't ever want to stop. His own body screamed at him but he wasn't going to come, he wouldn't come, not before Illya did. This was all for Illya, Illya breathing in harsh grunts above him, cock thickening in Napoleon's mouth, closer, closer, give it to me, partner. Give it to me. Give me everything.

 

Illya cried out and froze. Napoleon swallowed and kept on swallowing as Illya convulsed, body jerking three times almost violently and freezing again, coming hard and long down Napoleon's throat. Warm thickness leaked up to his tongue at last and that was it, his own body would be put off no longer. His own climax roared up and he pulled off, sobbing, pushing his forehead against Illya's hip as everything disappeared in a blaze of white sound.

 

 

The world, when he could be bothered to pay attention to it again, smelled of sweat and sex, and fingers carded through his hair, rubbing gently at his scalp. Napoleon pried his eyes open to find his cheek resting against the supple skin of Illya's belly, nose touching damp, dark gold curls and his hand curved protectively over the mostly softened mound of his partner's cock. He smiled and closed his eyes. His muscles felt like pulled taffy and his jaw ached and he was lying in his own wet spot, and he was happier than he could remember being in a long, long time.

 

The fingers stilled. "Napoleon?"

 

"Hmm." He nudged his head against Illya's hand.

 

A soft laugh that Napoleon felt more than heard, and Illya resumed the caress. "Hedonist," his partner said, low and raspy, and Napoleon felt that, too.

 

"Mm, guilty." Napoleon rubbed his cheek against Illya's warmth and sighed. If he wasn't careful, he was going to nod off, right here. "This is nice," he said eventually, some sated, undefined time later.

 

"Yes, it is." But there was just enough hesitation there to give Napoleon pause.

 

"Illya?" When there was no immediate answer, Napoleon carefully let go of his precious handful and raised himself up.

 

Illya looked like Napoleon's best and dirtiest dreams: delightfully wrecked, hair every which way, chest still glimmering with sweat, lips a bitten red. But his gaze was as sharp as ever. It would figure that Illya couldn't just lay there, drunk on afterglow, like any normal man would. Napoleon hitched himself forward enough to rest his elbows on either side of Illya's waist, his partner's hand slipping from his hair to curve around the back of his neck. "Illya."

 

The Russian drew breath and let it back out. "I – have no reference for this, Napoleon." His thumb moved gently along Napoleon's hairline.

 

"This?"

 

The hand not on Napoleon's neck gestured down their tangled bodies. "To lie here, like this, together. After."

 

Napoleon's brows pulled together, but he bit back the first, obvious question, considering. "Too dangerous?" he asked instead, quietly.

 

Illya nodded.

 

"Neither do I, really," Napoleon said after a few moments. "Not with a man. And not with someone who matters. Not for a very long time."

 

"And I – matter?"

 

Napoleon reached up to capture the fingers of Illya's free hand with his own and give them a hard squeeze. "You're the only one who does matter. Otherwise this never would have happened."

 

Something in Illya's face relaxed, but his eyes remained troubled. "I must warn you. You will do what you must, as will I, but I do not – share well. Not in this."

 

Warmth rose in Napoleon's chest. He pulled himself the rest of the way up and kissed Illya, long and luxurious, tongue playing; kissed him until they were both flushed and breathless with it. "Unless there's absolutely no other way, you won't have to," he said, watching Illya's face, tracing a blond eyebrow with one fingertip.

 

The eyebrow rose, dislodging Napoleon's finger. "You could no more stop flirting than stop breathing," Illya said, amused and resigned; it was a look he often wore around Napoleon, actually. And it stung a little bit.

 

"Flirting's just that – flirting. It's a fun game, and no one gets hurt. And it's useful. But it goes no further."

 

Both eyebrows expressed Illya's opinion this time.

 

"Dates for appearance, yes, I can't very well stop cold turkey without doing damage. But they end at the door. And," Napoleon tapped the tip of Illya's nose, "just so you know: I don't share well either."

 

Slowly, Illya smiled; not the lip-bitten upward twitch that served the general public, but his rare, real one, full and brilliant. Legs came around Napoleon's hips and he was abruptly looking up at Illya instead of down. His partner's weight pressed him into the mattress as the Russian stretched out over him, lazy as a cat in sunshine. "That's good," Illya murmured, lipping at the cleft in Napoleon's chin. He was still smiling. "Besides, you'll be much too tired to take any of them past the door anyway."

 

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