Napoleon dresses slowly, as if the seconds between each button could delay the inevitable. It’d be ridiculous if Illya hadn’t been taking two minutes to put on his socks.
Napoleon was on the edge of the bed, in the middle of the mattress. Illya was on the same side, but seated on the corner of the mattress. They hadn’t spoken since, but the silence was not because they had nothing to say. Rather, the silence was a necessity- they had too much to say to each other. They made due with sitting together, stealing glances and delaying the inevitable together.
Napoleon could still scarcely believe what had occurred. Yes, Illya and he had worked well together. Yes, it had been an incredibly successful mission. Yes, Napoleon had frequently admired his temporary partner’s tall, lean frame. Yes, he had reminisced about what Illya would be like as a lover- would the giant be gentle, caressing him tenderly while they breathed each other’s air? Or would he be rough, leaving bruises on Napoleon’s hips and making him beg for release?
The answer, it had turned out, was both.
After Napoleon had returned Illya’s watch (and prevented his own murder), they had begun negotiations over what to do with the tape. Both parties had agreed that neither side should have that sort of power, so the only obvious conclusion had been to destroy it. Illya had remained unconvinced of this answer.
“May need it later.”
Napoleon had rolled his eyes.
“I may need an Astin Martin later to show up a certain ’00 agent, but that doesn’t mean I should keep one on standby. The technology may surface again, Kuryakin. We’re only delaying the inevitable.”
Illya’s eyes had snapped to him at that point, and Napoleon had swallowed and turned away to fix himself a glass of scotch. He ignored how his hands uncharacteristically shook during the pouring. He almost jumped when a slightly larger hand covered his own, and he felt the unmistakable warmth of another body close behind his own.
“Is only short solution. Soon, one side will win, no matter what we do.”
Napoleon closed his eyes and enjoyed the warm breath on his neck, the whisper in his ear. He rocked back ever so slightly on his heels, until he knew they were almost touching. His entire back felt hot, scorched from the heat coming from the Russian.
“That’s then. We can have right now.”
There was a large hand then on his hip, branding his skin. Napoleon set down his scotch on the table and allowed himself to lean fully back, finally touching Illya from head to toe. He kept his eyes closed and savored the way they seemed to fit.
“Hmmm, convince me, Cowboy.”
Napoleon had smirked then, turned around in Illya’s arms and yanked on his shirt collar, grinding against Illya’s half-hard cock and murmuring in his ear,
“Oh darling, that’s what I’m best at.”
“Convincing enough, Solo. You may burn tape.”
Napoleon raises an eyebrow as he continues to struggle to knot his tie. His hands are shaking again, a tell that is frustrating for multiple reasons. Mostly because it renders his stoic, aloof mask completely useless.
“Glad to see diplomacy may yet work between our two countries.”
Large hands once again cover his own, and Napoleon allows them to push his own hands to the side and begin tying a knot. He refuses to look up and meet Illya’s gaze, however. Instead, he keeps his focus on breathing evenly, swallowing as fingers capable of so much destruction carefully craft a perfect Windsor knot. He swallows as a stray thumb lingers on the side of his neck, and steels himself for the unavoidable.
They had not stumbled together into the side bedroom like Napoleon had fantasized about a few (dozen) times, a fit of passion overtaking them. Instead, Illya had stared intently and longingly at Napoleon as they walked together into the room. They had been facing each other, moving in a halting dance as both refused to look away. Napoleon’s hands had been on Illya’s wrists, squeezing tightly to make sure Illya would not move his own hands away from their spot on Napoleon’s body (one hand still on his hip, one hand splayed across Napoleon’s left shoulder blade). Illya had stopped them a foot away from the bed, then began efficiently stripping Napoleon on his last defense- his clothing.
Illya had finally looked away then, allowing Napoleon to breath for the first time since they had begun. It wasn’t a good sign that he already felt lost, overwhelmed by the onslaught of emotion and desire that he had carefully kept locked away before now. Illya wasn’t helping, as he began to place gentle, feather-light kisses upon every new part of skin revealed to him. Napoleon bit back his whimpers successfully until Illya began biting him as well, then soothing the skin with his tongue.
Napoleon groaned then and desperately wished his skin would mark.
Illya had nipped his ankle when he had removed Napoleon’s socks and allowed him to step out of his trousers, and Napoleon had laughed sharply at the playfulness. Illya had looked up at him again, smiling softly. Then he had smoothly rolled his body up Napoleon’s until he was standing at full height, still fully clothed. Napoleon was now breathing heavily.
“Undress me.” The command was uttered quietly, yet Napoleon still hurried to obey.
He had done so with hands that trembled when they were not pressed to Illya’s cold skin, skin that was firm and dusted with blonde chest hair. Napoleon meant to hurry the process along, but he could not help the reverent way his palms swept across Illya’s chest, how his fingers pressed and kneaded firm muscle wherever he found it. He couldn’t help but press his face to Illya’s flesh and simply breath in the scent of his Russian lover, mouthing at Illya’s collarbone, hip, and shoulders with no thought to pattern or seduction. He was simply overwhelmed by his lover’s naked form, and he knew he was helpless to conceal his awe and adoration.
Strong hands had gripped his shoulders when he had sunk to his knees and buried his face into the thatch of hair at Illya’s groin, cock now fully hard. Napoleon had looked up, dazed, as Illya frantically yanked him to his feet, growling low as he latched his teeth to Napoleon’s neck, sucking a bruise and whining into his skin. Napoleon had gasped and swayed on his feet, and they had both fallen into bed together.
Then Illya had looked up from Napoleon’s neck, and moved to kiss Napoleon. Napoleon had…he panicked. To kiss Illya would destroy him, he was certain.
To kiss Illya would mean Napoleon would not be able to let go of him.
So Napoleon had wriggled up and flipped over under the guise of getting the slick from the bedside table, handing it haphazardly over his shoulder while presenting his ass enticingly. There had been a pause, before he had been shoved angrily into the bed, face first as terrifyingly strong arms held him down while propping his ass up. Then Napoleon had heard the pop of a cap, and allowed the fireworks of lust to override any remorse he might have for a lost kiss. He gasped in anticipation when Illya hissed in his ear,
“ Then I will not give you gentle, Cowboy.”
Illya was being gentle now, as his hand was tenderly tracing Napoleon’s swollen lips. He had bitten them in a useless attempt to silence his groans as Illya had viciously and thoroughly prepped him with his large, calloused fingers. They were throbbing and red, and Napoleon still refused to meet Illya’s stare as he pressed down with the pads of his fingers.
“You use this way before, Cowboy?”
Napoleon knows he should lie, knows he should try to spare them both the idea that this could be more than what it has to be. He still shakes his head and kisses the pads of the fingers, not trusting his voice.
Illya nods his head in response, then cups Napoleon’s face in his large hand. Napoleon is forced to look up as Illya applies gentle pressure to his jaw, and he meets Illya’s gaze for the first time since they began to dress. Ice blue eyes meet his own sea-storm stare as both seasoned professionals are undone in one look. It lasts less than a few seconds, and both men will remember it for a lifetime.
Napoleon looks away first, unable to bear the weight of the moment. Slowly, giving his American lover time to move away, Illya leans in. He presses a soft kiss to Napoleon’s cheek, and both men struggle to breath for a moment.
Then Illya releases Napoleon’s jaw and offers his hand to the other man.
“No fire alarm on balcony.”
When Illya thrusts into Napoleon for the first time, Napoleon lets out a cry that is more ragged than he would have liked. He cannot help it, but Peril is perfect at this. He knows his hips will indeed have bruises, his chest is covered in sweat, his neck is covered in possessive bites. His ass is already pleasantly stretched, and with Illya inside of him he feels….not complete. That’s too much for what this is. But he does feel filled, he feels whole.
There’s no small part of desperation in the way he immediately begins to thrust back, frantically fisting the sheets and arching his back like a cat. He curls his toe and tries to press back, but Illya just grunts and holds him still, clearly needing a moment for composure. Napoleon is having none of that.
“Come on, Peril, fuck me already!”
Illya just shoves him back into the mattress harder, then reaches his arm around and tugs Napoleon up. It’s effortless how fast he goes up, despite the resistance Napoleon tries to bring. They end up on their knees, Napoleon tilted back with his back in a bow, Illya’s arm caging him in like a steel bar. The similarities between their current position and how Illya had almost strangled him in the green bathroom are not lost on either man. Napoleon groans as Illya’s cock hits him wonderfully deep, and Illya bites a mark in Napoleon’s shoulder to keep from cumming.
Then Napoleon begins to move, and Illya must think he’s trying to get away because he digs his teeth in and slams Napoleon back down onto his cock. Napoleon lets out a startled whine, and feels Illya smile into his shoulder.
Oh, that won’t do at all.
Napoleon smiles back and raises his hips, only to be slammed back down again. Illya swivels his hips when he reseats Napoleon on his lap, and Napoleon can’t help but reach one of his arms back to grasp Illya’s hair. The reaction is instantaneous, as Illya moans and begins to thrust up and in ferociously, pounding into Napoleon’s hole while placing kind, caring kisses on his neck and shoulders. Napoleon closes his eyes tight as he allows the sensations of pleasure to wash over him, skin alive as his nerve endings light up in ecstasy. Illya’s cock is big and brushes over his prostate with nearly every thrust, filling Napoleon up and making his bones ache in pleasure. His hole is squelching and wet, his legs burn from the exertion of forcing himself down, forcing Illya into him.
He’s never gotten it this good, it’s never meant anything like this. Illya holds him like he’s simultaneously a threat and something he never wants to let go. Napoleon clings to Illya like he’s viciously claiming his prize or about to surrender himself completely.
There’s sweat between their bodies and the noises they make are obscene, the slick adding to the cacophony of debauchery in the room. Napoleon feels himself nearing completion, and a moment of panic overtakes him because not now, it’s too soon, he can’t let this end yet. He tries to slow his hips, tries to get some refuge from the pounding his ass is taking but Illya just adjusts his hold and shoves two fingers into his mouth, searching and claiming all at once.
Napoleon’s eyes roll back in his head as he screams around them, cumming untouched onto the bed before him. Illya tenses as he does, giving two long, slow strokes before he too is cumming into Napoleon’s spasming hole. Both men collapse forward and to the side of the puddle, panting for breath and clinging to each other.
Both know they’ll never get to hold each other this way again.
Both men watch the tape burn while keeping a respectable distance. Neither trusts themselves to get too close- there’s too much crackling between them.
“It’s been terrible working with you, Peril.” Napoleon quips.
“I will never forget you. I will never forget what we might have had.” He thinks.
“You’re a terrible spy, Cowboy” Illya shoots back, allowing himself to indulge in some vodka.
“You would have been the joy of my life.” He thinks.
Their heads turn as Gaby and Waverly enter the room, and both men listen in stunned disbelief as their allegiances shift with one meeting.
Napoleon doesn’t seek out Illya that night. Illya doesn’t go to Napoleon’s room either.
Neither of them do anything for weeks. They’re still waiting to see when this will all fall apart. Happy endings of this sort don’t occur in their business. But weeks turn into months, and by the time fall comes around Waverly announces that the team is on “permanent loan” for the foreseeable future.
By the time fall comes around, Napoleon knows how Illya takes his tea (he won’t drink coffee). Bu the time fall comes around, Illya knows which socks Napoleon wears with which pair of shoes.
By the time fall comes around, Napoleon has started to look Illya in the eye again.
In the end, it’s a bullet grazing Illya’s eyebrow that makes Napoleon act. Half an inch to the right and his Red Peril would be no more. Napoleon waits until Gaby has finished stitching Illya up while sipping his coffee and blatantly staring at Illya’s face. Gaby magnanimously refuses to notice, but she does snap at Illya to stop squirming in his seat. Gaby leaves with a peck to Illya’s cheek and waves goodbye to Napoleon, who merely nods as she exits the room.
Then Napoleon gets up slowly and moves to stand in front of Illya, who is watching Napoleon like a wary tiger. Napoleon reaches his hand forward to lovingly caress his partner’s cheek, and looks him in his eyes the entire time. Then he leans in, eyes searching to an answer to his unspoken question.
Stay with me.
Illya’s face is hard, but his eyelids flutter close as he finally presses his lips to Napoleon’s in answer.