Had clean-up and debriefing been a little less arduous, Napoleon would like to think he'd have remembered to be on his guard when at last he made it home that day. The security system protecting his apartment had been updated with the latest from Section VIII hardly a month ago, and there surely ought to have been some sign it had been compromised, had it occurred to him to look. But for a mission to be successful isn't enough to make it clean, anymore than being Number 1 of Section II is enough to make it permissible to leave the loose-ends to other people. With the whereabouts of three UNCLE agents still to be confirmed at the time of handover, the bodies of four different enemy agents littering the route (two merely tranquilised, one shot, and the fourth run under the wheels of a truck) and no more than theories of precisely how day-and-date for the transfer had been leaked at all, what should have been the end of the matter had proved barely south of the middle.
By the time he makes it home, Napoleon has little on his mind beyond the anticipation of a long, hot shower and a quiet evening with his feet up. A chance sighting of what might-or-might-not have been a familiar face some hours earlier is the furthest thing from his thoughts, and it stays that way until he steps into his own bedroom and hears the unmistakable click of a gun being cocked to his left.
Napoleon freezes, heart rate spiking under a rush of adrenaline – though it doesn't precisely slow again after he recognises the accented tones of the voice saying, "Turn around, please, Mr. Solo. Slowly, if you'd be so kind."
Hands raised, Napoleon rotates on the spot – slowly, as instructed. Illya is sitting in the corner of his room, right on the edge of the halo of light spilling in from the corridor. He must have dragged a chair in from elsewhere in the house just for the purpose, though this must be the least important detail Napoleon could be focusing on under the circumstances. Most of Illya's body is shrouded in darkness, the light from the doorway catching only the near side of his face, lines of shadow throwing his features into sharp relief. You'd have to know the man very well indeed to catch any hint of a twinkle in his eye. You'd also have to tear your gaze away from the one part of the tableau Illya has made sure catches the light – the barrel of his gun, pointed steadily at Napoleon.
"Well, this is a pleasant surprise," Napoleon purrs. There's no way to study the gun in such close quarters without Illya noticing, and staring is at least better than sneaking glances at it later – nevermind that in this low light that means staring long enough to suggest nervousness, which is unfortunate. It's a common enough model – a Makarov pistol, if Napoleon's not mistaken. Not a piece of hardware he's had his hands on in quite some time, but the design is hardly so esoteric that there's any mistaking that the safety is off. The Makarov stares back, unblinking.
"Your gun, please, Mr. Solo. Put it on the floor." Illya doesn't jerk the muzzle of his own gun to hurry Napoleon along. He doesn't lift his chin. His gaze remains level. "Your communicator as well."
Napoleon tugs his Special out of its holster and lays it carefully down in front of him. "I'm afraid I left my communicator in my jacket." Which is presently slung over the arm of the couch in the living room, discarded as he came in.
"Sloppy of you," Illya observes. He may have a point, but the emphasis suggests less a critique and more that he isn't going to be so quick to believe an UNCLE agent has 'accidentally' left his communicator out of reach.
"I can turn out my pockets if you're not convinced."
"While you're at it," says Illya, with what just about passes for studiously bored disinterest, "you may as well also turn out the heels of your shoes, the hidden compartment on the underside of your holster, and the various crevices of the lining of your shirt."
Napoleon doesn't bother suppressing his grin. "Not to disappoint you, but this particular shirt came directly off the rack. Not an exploding button anywhere in the make, I promise."
"A likely story. Take it off. Your pants and shoes as well."
Now this is a bit more like it. Losing in the field does tend to leave Illya in a bit of a mood – not that Napoleon generally minds, but he's a little tired to appreciate so much extended foreplay tonight. Napoleon begins unbuckling his holster without delay. "You know, most people who want to see me naked only have to ask politely, maybe let me buy them dinner first."
"You may find this a poor time for you to mention anyone else who's had that pleasure lately, Mr. Solo." To Napoleon's sensitive ears, the casual drawl with which the words are delivered is just that bit less casual than it had been a moment ago. It's all far too gratifying for him to care much that Illya surely sees him hiding his grin in his sleeve as he strips off his shirt.
"I thought I caught sight of you in my pursuit today," he tells Illya, conversationally, bending to unlace his shoes.
"Oh?" Illya's tone will admit to nothing.
Napoleon casts through his memory for specifics – little more than a glimpse of a familiar silhouette through the tinted window of a car, lost in among a thousand other momentary impressions, formed and forgotten before they could be properly catalogued in the excitement of the chase. "It would have been right about when we were run off the road just short of the tunnel, if I remember correctly."
Napoleon shrugs. "I may have been a little distracted at the time." His pants join the tidy pile already comprised of shirt, undershirt, socks, shoes, and holster. Napoleon stands up again in nothing but his briefs. "Do you, ah, want these gone too?"
He turns back around in time to catch Illya giving him a long, slow once-over before bothering to reply. "No cracks about what deadly weaponry they might be concealing? That's very restrained, by your standards."
Briefly distracted by the heat of Illya's gaze, Napoleon finds, to his chagrin, that he's quite without the comeback that remark so badly deserves. "Is that a yes or a no?"
Illya shrugs. "Please yourself. But once you've made up your mind, I want you on your back on the bed, arms over your head."
It's a harder decision than Napoleon is up to this late in the evening, but perhaps discretion is the better part of valour here – there's not much to be gained by appearing too eager. Underwear left undisturbed, he stretches himself out over the bed, hands just below the headboard. He's fairly sure he knows where this is going.
Illya doesn't move until Napoleon is still, rising smoothly from his seat, the rectangle of light from the doorway trickling steadily down his body as he approaches the foot of the bed. He's dressed in nothing more threatening than slacks and a simple white shirt, the buttons loose at his throat – it's certainly not his customary burglary attire. Much as he does appreciate the figure Illya cuts in the latter, the sight of him now sends a spike of lust through Napoleon's body. But for the gun, he looks like he belongs here – relaxing in Napoleon's apartment, needing no other excuse.
Illya crawls up the bed on his knees, balancing with professional ease as the mattress dips beneath him, so that the moment never quite arrives where his shifting weight directs the barrel of the gun beyond the outline of Napoleon's body. Illya settles straddling his chest. The gun comes to a stop just beneath Napoleon's nose, pressing into his flesh with a force finely calculated to communicate that attempting to move out from under it would be unwise. Napoleon finds his passing familiarity with the model swiftly updated by a sudden and intimate awareness of the precise contours that make up the business end of the standard-issue Makarov pistol. He's pleased to note that Comrade Makarov evidently had little use for sharp corners or raw edges. Despite the unavoidable cold weight of the piece, the muzzle presses into his flesh without digging, the protrusion of the barrel rounded smoothly back to meet the join against the slide.
That's probably not a selling point that makes it into the brochure, mind.
This, Napoleon reminds himself in the wake of that last thought, is emphatically not the time for a sudden burst of giggles. He may trust the confidence of Illya's hands further than he probably ought, but a lifetime's experience with firearms has left its share of scar tissue, visible and otherwise. Nevermind the absurdity of the situation, trusting a gun in intimate contact with his body is a lot to ask.
"Now be a good man," says Illya, "and hold still for me." With his free hand, he reaches for something from behind himself, out of sight.
Napoleon's gaze remains locked on the gun barrel, cross-eyed in a futile attempt to bring it into focus. He's hardly breathing as Illya closes the handcuffs around his right wrist, switching the gun to his left hand so he can close the other cuff. Napoleon gives them an experimental tug once he's done, testing his new range of movement, though he knows without looking that the chain will have been fed through the gaps in the headboard. The handcuffs feel very well made.
Napoleon wraps his hands around the bars of the headboard. He doesn't really need anything to hang onto, but it'll make it easier to stop himself pulling against the cuffs later and rubbing his wrists raw. "There's this discreet little store I know downtown," he tells Illya, conversationally, "sells a padded version of these. Same effect, but much more comfortable..."
"I am sure." Illya sniffs. The pressure against Napoleon's upper line of teeth lessens as the gun moves downwards, dragging lightly over Napoleon's upper lip, then the lower, then over the flat of his chin. Illya runs a thumb lightly over the faint impression left by the muzzle in the soft skin between Napoleon's nose and mouth, as if testing the staying power of the mark, and Napoleon longs for the freedom to move, even a little. He'd barely need to tilt his head to get his lips around that thumb – perfectly placed to watch the look in Illya's eyes as he runs his tongue over the pad. It's a mouth-watering thought.
Oblivious to Napoleon's agony, the Makarov comes to a rest under his jaw, inclined upwards, the barrel turned sideways against his throat. Napoleon will feel it there when he speaks next, digging up into his neck. He doesn't like to think what might happen if he sneezed.
"Comfortable," Illya continues, returning to Napoleon's handcuff recommendation from so many brief seconds before, suitably unimpressed, "of flimsy construction, and much easier to break out of."
Napoleon pouts. "There's no shame in it if you know the store already."
"No, Napoleon," says Illya – and Napoleon certainly catches the switch to first-name-basis even if Illya doesn't, rather undermining the harshness of anything else he might be about to say, "I think not. These will do nicely." Satisfied that Napoleon is restrained, he and his thumb retreat down the bed, the inseam of his pants scraping torturously over the bulge in Napoleon's underwear before he comes to a rest, just below Napoleon's hips. The Makarov doesn't budge by so much as a fraction of an inch. It's rapidly becoming apparent Napoleon is going to need to distract himself if he's going to survive this.
"I don't suppose you could give me a hint as to how you got past my security today?" he asks, latching onto the first suitable avenue to come to him. "It does so worry the people over at Section VIII whenever you let yourself in."
"Maybe you left a spare key under your mat and forgot about it." The solid pressure of the muzzle of Illya's gun drags lightly down the line of one of the tendons in Napoleon's neck, pausing in the space between his collarbones, then starts to move along the hollow behind the left – mapping the lines of his body, inch by inch, as if cataloguing them anew. Illya's eyes follow the path with rapt interest, while Napoleon tracks its progress in the path of goosebumps, an involuntary shiver balled up beneath his skin that follows in its wake. You'd think once a man was already chained down on his back, it would be no hard thing for him to keep himself from making any sudden movements, but staying still is beginning to burn too much of Napoleon's concentration for comfort.
"Does that seem like the sort of thing I'd do?" he protests, weakly. This is certainly not the moment to admit that there have been times Napoleon has all-but-seriously considered giving Illya a spare key, usually a day or two after a visit like this one, wondering wistfully how long he'll have to wait for the next. It's a foolish notion, tempting as it might be. Illya isn't likely to take well to the idea Napoleon is in the habit of giving away spare keys to his lovers, in any case – let alone the reaction should Section VI ever catch wind of it.
Napoleon will have to let them and some of the lab boys in tomorrow, to take a good hard look for whatever evidence of how the deed was done that his visitor may have left behind. They won't be pleased, but with any luck they'll find the weakness, and by the next time they get around to updating everyone else's systems, the flaw will be accounted for. It's not purely a matter of rank or favouritism that Napoleon's apartment tends to be the first to get the latest upgrades. Few other agents have their security field-tested so thoroughly, or with greater margin for error.
Here and now, Illya leans forward on his knees, sets his nose in the groove behind Napoleon's jaw, under his ear, and inhales softly. Following the line down his neck, he opens his lips under Napoleon's chin, and begins to follow the path the Makarov has already mapped down Napoleon's throat with the plane of his tongue.
Napoleon closes his eyes and hisses out a long, slow breath. The need is growing by the minute to be able to get his hands on Illya properly and demonstrate his feelings about the pace. His hopes that Illya wasn't in the mood to torture him with excruciatingly prolonged foreplay are beginning to look ill-founded.
"Can I take it from your presence here today that THRUSH was behind the upset earlier?" he tries. Likely this statement would have been better delivered sans the slight rasp which has infiltrated his voice since last it was used, but it's too late to regroup now. "We did find membership cards on a few, but there's some debate going on as to whether they might have been forged." A risky way of boosting one's underworld clout – not least for the consequences should the real THRUSH catch wind of their trademark being infringed upon – but not unheard of.
"As I've told you many times," says Illya, "my contracts with THRUSH are not exclusive." The cold outline of the gun traces the curve of Napoleon's left pectoral. Napoleon has to crane his head forward until his chin digs into his neck to see what Illya's doing, and he almost regrets it. The view makes his blood run hot and cold at once: Illya certainly isn't bothering with safe trigger guard discipline, and the safety remains where it was when Napoleon came in. It's always possible the gun isn't loaded, of course – that its role as a prop in this charade is exactly what it seems – but it's just as possible that it is. At this range, even a blank could be deadly. You just never know, with Illya, and Napoleon certainly isn't going to invite him to put a bullet hole in any part of his furnishings to prove the matter one way or another.
No, the only way he'll know for sure will be if Illya slips. And Illya... won't. Napoleon is relatively sure of that.
He swallows. He isn't sure how much longer he ought to trust his voice either. What was it they were just talking about? Illya and THRUSH and their... open relationship. Ah, yes.
"You should really consider doing some work for us one of these days," he offers. "You know we're not above hiring the occasional outside contractor with specialist skills."
The path of the gun spirals slowly inwards, circling the darker pad of Napoleon's nipple. Illya does not look up to reply. "And I am sure hiring a known THRUSH associate would give no pause to your superiors."
You might be surprised, Napoleon thinks, but leaves the thought unvoiced. It's an old argument, and this doesn't feel like the moment when pushing a little harder might change Illya's mind at last. Breathing remains a matter of some concentration. "It's not so bad as all that. Why, I understand your most recent endeavour can't be positively linked with THRUSH at all."
Illya snorts softly. "Believe me, I am no more eager to claim responsibility for this fiasco than THRUSH may be." The Makarov circles the outline of the hardening nub once, twice, its path tightening no further, but what at last touches his nipple isn't metal but Illya's tongue – a long, hard swipe of delicious warmth that presses firmly into his flesh.
Napoleon gasps; it takes long seconds for the substance of Illya's reply to come back to him. It's almost, but not quite, the confirmation Napoleon needs. "Sounds like you've had a very trying day," he manages. "Perhaps you should tell someone about it. It could be good for the soul to, ah, unburden yourself."
The twitch of Illya's brow is not happy. "Must you fish so plainly?"
Now, that's unfair. Illya is very much aware that Napoleon is going to have to report this incident – he can hardly tell his boss he spent this long in enemy company and never even made the effort. "If you can't tell the man who you have chained to his own bed in his underwear, who can you tell?"
"You are very confused about how interrogations work if that is your presumption." The gun moves down again, counting Napoleon's ribs, soft fingers trailing behind to check its work.
As a matter of fact, Napoleon has always found that very little loosens an enemy's tongue like the manic glee that comes with having an UNCLE agent tied up in a vulnerable position, but that's a conversation for some other time. "Were you planning on interrogating me? I should warn you, I'm impervious to torture."
"I could be convinced to gag you."
Napoleon licks his lips. "How, exactly?"
Illya catches his eye, the edge of a smirk creasing his lips. He turns his palm into the bed by Napoleon's hip, at last pointing the pistol away – Napoleon can't quite hide a soft exhale as the muzzle leaves his body. Illya straightens his knees and stretches forward, bringing himself flush to Napoleon's body. With his free hand tucked beneath Napoleon's head, Illya pulls him into a searing kiss, and Napoleon goes a little boneless in gratitude. The kiss goes on and on, until his toes start to curl, the unmistakable shape of Illya's own arousal heavy through his clothes, resting too-lightly beside Napoleon's own, and the need to thrust to thrust up to meet the body warm against his own becomes all but maddening.
At length, Illya releases him, some part of the tension in his own wiry frame lost in the exchange – which is for the best, as Napoleon himself can't bring himself to do much more than gaze back adoringly just at this moment. He should probably worry more about how easily Illya can play him like a fiddle, but at times like this it's so very difficult remember why he ought to mind. "Better?"
Something dark and irritated flickers over Illya's face. "You know better than to console me for my loss, Napoleon." Reaching blindly for his gun he returns his attention to the vicinity of Napoleon's naval, where his previous explorations had left off. His fingers trail briefly through the line of dark fuzz leading downwards to vanish beneath Napoleon's boxers. The Makarov follows, flat against his stomach, pointed downwards. Napoleon takes a startled breath and holds it, allowing Illya to slip the muzzle into the hollow that opens beneath the elastic upper hem of his pants. That same elastic catches and stretches over the barrel as Illya turns his wrist, testing the give of the fabric experimentally.
Had Illya meant to interrogate him, Napoleon thinks dizzily, he'd hardly need scalpels or even truth serum. A good many men would crack at the first threat of a gun pointed where it is now.
Then again, most men presumably wouldn't be nearly so hard as Napoleon is under the same circumstances, so that might not be a terribly relevant standard. It's going to take more than this to get Napoleon to so much as change the subject; casual conversation in dire circumstances is his lifeline.
"As one of the causes for your loss, I suppose consolations might be a little gauche," says Napoleon, as Illya rolls the gun smoothly left and right along the hem, "But I have a hunch I can credit you with being the one who made me as the decoy today. Am I right?"
In the bottom of his field of vision, Napoleon sees Illya smile thinly. "A man moves differently when he has the freedom of adjusting his destination in the name of losing his pursuit. One would have to know you very well to tell the difference, Napoleon Solo, but I had you made long before you saw me."
Napoleon frowns. "But the pursuit didn't let up until long after we made it into Queens ..."
"Because that was how long it took for me to convince the lieutenant in charge of the operation that I was right." Illya sighs, short and irritated, and when he speaks again, it comes out in an angry rush, as if a dam has burst, "THRUSH saw fit in this endeavour to hire me in a strictly advisory capacity, to aid in an operation trusted to a fool of junior rank and mediocre prospects, so intimately aware his odds of promotion rode on his performance that he resolved to take no advice but his own. Responsibility for success would be for him to claim alone."
"Or for failure," Napoleon adds, mentally filing every word away for future consideration. This is a perspective on events that is quite enlightening.
"Would that his superiors see it that way." Frustration expressed, Illya's mood seems to have calmed back to the level of mild irritation. "But as my arrangements with THRUSH do not provide compensation in the event of failure, I can credit him with nothing but having wasted some weeks of my time. This will scarcely stand me in better stead with THRUSH in future. Indeed, if I hope to find any satisfaction in this affair," Illya goes on, raising his eyes to meet Napoleon's with a look of unbridled intent, "I am looking at it now."
Napoleon grins, feeling pleased with himself. "By all means, do help yourself." At the office tomorrow morning he'll now be able to report this visit as having provided enlightening intel on the day's events – as well as evidence of some hitherto-unforseen flaw in their latest security upgrade. He can now lie back and allow his favourite enemy spy to have his wicked way with him with a clean conscience.
Well, relatively speaking, at least.
The look on Illya's face is wicked indeed. "I intend to," he pronounces. The pressure of the elastic tightens around Napoleon's waist as Illya drags the Makarov lower, revealing a shallow V of flesh below Napoleon's hips. Breathing is theoretically easier now he doesn't have to feel the metal of the gun heavy against his chest with each exhale, but as the hem of his boxers hooks tight around the tip of his erection Napoleon begins to pant helplessly, caught between wanting more and wanting less of that friction over his sensitive flesh.
All at once the pressure retreats, Illya withdrawing just slowly enough to prevent the hem snapping back, and then he turns the gun away and sets it once more on the bed, pointed to the door. Before Napoleon can quite put his scattered self back together, he watches Illya palm a small knife, slip it flat up the leg of Napoleon's boxers, then lift and twist to slit the unfortunate garment open in one movement. Napoleon barely has even time to flinch.
A protest at the waste of a perfectly good pair of boxers dies on Napoleon's lips. He'd had his chance to get them safely out of the line of fire earlier, and he'd passed it up. Given what he's learned tonight, he could probably even claim them as a work expense, he thinks, a hysterical giggle bubbling in his throat. Perish the thought of trying to get that past Mr. Waverly. "They do come off, you know," he offers, weakly.
"I do know," says Illya, who seems to be wilfully misunderstanding as he repeats the action on the other leg, brushing flaps of loose fabric away to fall shapeless to the bed before secreting the knife back to wherever it came from.
Freed of constriction, Napoleon's cock juts upward, curving back lightly towards his stomach, apparently quite oblivious to the real danger Napoleon's reproductive legacy was in mere moments before. Illya shifts his head and treats it to an appreciative study, which doesn't much help matters.
"Why Napoleon. If I didn't know better, I might suppose you were enjoying this." Illya's expression is sly as he slides his fingers into the dark curls at the base, encircling it with possessive intent.
"A rather good thing you do know better, isn't it?" Napoleon murmurs. It's an even weaker offering than his last; Illya could try the composure of a saint. With agonising deliberation he lowers his head and begins to mouth the shaft of Napoleon's cock, eyes closed with a look of lewd contentment. He hums faintly with what might or might not be agreement.
It's so close and so far from being everything Napoleon needs, a viciously slow tease of the least sensitive parts of a very sensitive member, and all it takes to make him throw back his head and keen. "Illya..."
A familiar, solid shape is suddenly pressed inwards against his hip. Illya has the pistol in hand once more – Napoleon doesn't need to look all the way down to know that. He finds himself catching Illya's eye instead. Illya may be rather too well-brought-up to attempt to speak with his mouth otherwise occupied, but his expression brooks no argument. Napoleon nods, slightly. He won't try moving again, though he'd barely arched upwards then.
The ugly weight digging into his side remains. Napoleon holds his hips carefully still against the bed, but his reward is the heat of Illya's mouth closing over the head of his cock, and that's reward in plenty. Napoleon might well have been made to promise Illya all manner of questionable things for a single minute of that glorious, wet suction, and the unspeakable things Illya can do with his tongue. For Napoleon, who has always found the greater part of the pleasure of the act of sex in that reflected back to him in the fulfilment of his partner, this is the height of decadence. For long minutes, the greatest agony of his life is that of the conflicting needs to lean his head back and moan, or to be able to watch Illya work, seeing in every flicker of a lid the evidence that Illya savours doing this to him this near as much as Napoleon himself.
Illya has always been far too good at this for comfort – too good to let Napoleon come a moment before he means him to. Barely has Napoleon begun to lose himself when he pulls off with one last, long lick, raising his head to better survey the results of his handiwork. And if he comes up flushed and a little mussed, lips shining with saliva, the look in his eyes as they sweep the length of Napoleon's body promises that the picture Napoleon himself makes is equally debauched.
"Ah, Napoleon," he sighs. "One could believe you must have deprived yourself entirely since last we met, the way you come apart for me."
What may be the last firing neuron left in Napoleon's higher functions notes this as dangerous territory. "Mm. A man does have his needs," he replies, indistinctly. Whether Illya actually believes his own words (unlikely – wishful thinking at best) is somewhat immaterial; the implications are best played down.
"And you more than most?" Illya quirks an eyebrow, his fingers absently mapping the head of Napoleon's cock. The lack of a foreskin has always held an odd fascination for him, and the habit of returning to his old explorations when his attention drifts is one Napoleon finds strangely endearing.
"Not at all," Napoleon assures him. "But perhaps I do have... some of those needs fulfilled less often than others."
"And the need to have an opposing agent chain you down," Illya leans forward on his elbows, his smile playful, "and ravish you – how often do you indulge that one?"
For the most part Napoleon would submit that his needs are hardly so specific – or at least not specific in the way suggested. "Well, there in lies my dilemma. So few opposing agents willing to tie me down and ravish me are any good at it." He gives an exaggerated sigh. "One so often has to compromise."
Illya's free hand run lightly up Napoleon's side and down again, thumb finding the crease where his torso meets his thigh, dipping further to find the soft skin between them. "Naturally, you've auditioned any number."
"I feel," Napoleon pronounces, "the present candidate has some promise."
"Does he?" Without breaking eye contact, Illya delicately licks the head of Napoleon's cock, slow and deliberately lewd.
"I may have wanted a word stronger than 'promise'," Napoleon allows, as Illya's mouth descends again in earnest.
Illya ignores him, once more intent on his task. The conflicting needs to feel, to watch, to listen and converse are once more beginning to require more of Napoleon than he's quite sure he can manage. Watching nonetheless pays dividends when he sees Illya all-but-absently turn the gun away, flicking on the safety without looking before pushing the pistol across the bed to the edge of his reach. Empty hands fall to Napoleon's hips, thumbs rubbing slow circles into the soft flesh inside his hip bones before dipping between his legs. Illya presses back impatiently against his thighs, spreading them until they start to burn to give himself better access. Napoleon may well ache there tomorrow – Illya does occasionally forget people can't all be former Russian gymnasts – but objecting is the furthest thing from his mind. He'll ache in more places than that by the time Illya's had his way with him. If he's lucky.
Having thus far denied himself, Illya seems to relish the freedom of having both hands free. One he wraps at the base of Napoleon's cock to steady himself as the head brushes the roof of his mouth, while his other hand drifts southward, following the trail of hair to cradle his balls, to find the place behind where he can press the flat of his thumb and make Napoleon buck helplessly – gladder now than ever that the danger of upsetting Illya's trigger finger is past. Illya seems to have forgotten the gun altogether (and that should worry Napoleon more, the awareness of its presence on the bed at all itches at him in spurts even as Illya turns his brain into jelly) as he changes hands. Finding the pucker of Napoleon's body, Illya slips two fingers inside, slicked with nothing but his own saliva, but so easily – as if Napoleon can't open for him fast enough, surprising both of them so much that they freeze.
The heat of Illya's gaze bores into Napoleon as they hang there, panting. Illya twists his fingers; Napoleon shivers. Angles them and thrusts, and Napoleon's mouth drops open, his vision blurring around the edges.
"So eager," Illya murmurs, and Napoleon wonders for a crazy moment whether just the sound of someone's voice could be enough to make a man come.
He flinches as the fingers leave him, bereft as Illya reclaims both his hands to fumble urgently with his own fly with shaking fingers. All this, and Illya hasn't properly shed a stitch; Napoleon couldn't say for sure if he's so much as taken off his shoes.
There's little skill or surety left in Illya's hands in his rush to draw himself out. His pants are already open before he remembers to retrieve something from one of his front pockets, forcing him to fish awkwardly in the sagging flap to the left of his fly, having gotten this all in the wrong order in his hurry. He finds whatever he was after, pulls the top from a small tube and coats his own cock liberally, and it's all Napoleon can do not to wrap his legs around him and try to drag him in.
Illya drops the tube without so much as replacing the cap – lord knows what it might do to Napoleon's carpet or linen, but such lofty concerns are a thousand miles away as Illya crawls up under him and thrusts himself deep into Napoleon's waiting body.
It's almost too fast; whatever he's used for lubricant not nearly enough to sooth the burn, and Napoleon near sobs from the want of it. Pleasure will come; for now, to feel Illya like this, every inch of his length straining for welcome in Napoleon's body, is as much as he can bear.
But it's for the best that Illya needs a moment to gather himself, his mouth falling open, his eyes fluttering closed. "Oh... Napoleon."
Napoleon sighs in answer, and wants so badly to kiss him. Irrationally wants it without suffering Illya to withdraw a single inch from where he is to reach, as if either of their spines were up to that task, let alone with Napoleon restrained.
Illya blinks and seems to recover himself a little. His hands flex on Napoleon's skin, the right clammy where it grasps Napoleon's thigh to guide it over his shoulder, damp with lubricant. The look he gives Napoleon is more composed, a little sly. "Alright?" he asks.
"More than," Napoleon assures him.
"Good," says Illya, and begins to move.
Napoleon almost isn't ready; misses the moment he might have taken to centre himself, but by the third thrust he's forgotten why he ever imagined the need to. Above him, over him, inside him, Illya's control lasts less than half a dozen breaths before it cracks – less than that again before it shatters, and he fucks Napoleon at a ragged pace that sets his every nerve alight. There can be such precision to the way Illya moves when he's in a mood to prove something; he can play Napoleon's body as if it were the first instrument he mastered, bringing a scientist's attention to the least detail of success. But there's nothing like precision in him now, and it's times like this that Napoleon lives for. When he's treated to see Illya lose himself and take with a thoughtless hedonism Napoleon isn't sure he could match. The awful truth is that Illya plays him just as well in those moments as any others, and whether that's a testament to his own skill or Napoleon's own need, Illya can drive him through the bounds of satisfaction with what seems like not a thought in the world.
Now, he bends Napoleon's legs back up against his chest and sets a bruising rhythm that forces him up the bed. Napoleon's elbows bend until the cuffs dig into his wrists anew, and he has to release his grip on the headboard and set himself adrift, chained down and left with nothing to anchor himself by. Napoleon lies back and surrenders, able to trust now that Illya will still be the one here with him when he opens his eyes again. He could let Illya fuck him like this all night, would only his own traitorous body hold out so long. His impatience with the pace from only minutes ago feels sacrilegious – if he could save this moment he would; he never wants this to end. How he could ever have arrived home expecting no more than rest and sleep makes no sense, let alone how he manages to let Illya go in the mornings, time after time...
Illya grasps Napoleon's cock, the traces of lubricant still slick between his fingers and looks at him and moans, "Napoleon..." then mouths a word that might be 'now'.
Napoleon's moment slips away from him; when he comes back he's missed altogether which of them it is who let go first, only that the spasms as Illya coats him from the inside become the shudders in his own body as his semen spills across Illya's hand in wracking bursts, that pleasure like this could almost kill a man.
After, Illya lies slumped half-across him, idly wiping his hand off on Napoleon's chest. Woozy, Napoleon decides there's something about this moment not quite perfect – a persistent ache in his shoulders has followed him stubbornly back to earth.
"Illya?" he murmurs, finding his voice throaty but firm.
Illya makes a sleepy sound of irritation.
Napoleon tugs the handcuffs tight against the bars of the headboard with a deliberate clang. "Do you think you could let me out of these now?"
"In a minute," Illya grumbles.
Napoleon is, in fact, far more comfortable than any man in chains has any right to be – he's certainly slept in less comfortable circumstances – but therein lies the problem. There is a small but real danger of them both dropping off like this, and Napoleon has just enough unfortunate experience of where that leads that he emphatically does not like to imagine the state of his shoulders tomorrow morning if they do. "Illya, if you fall asleep on me like this, I will find a way to make you regret it."
Illya hums against his neck, turns up to press his lips against the underside of Napoleon's chin, and levers himself briefly onto his elbows over Napoleon's body to deliver him a serious look. "I said, in a minute," he declares, and slumps down, draping himself more firmly over Napoleon's body, apparently mindless to the fact that his nice white shirt is now dragging directly through the mess he made of Napoleon's chest a moment ago.
Perhaps against his better judgement, Napoleon relents. Illya can have his minute. It surely won't be the least pleasant minute he's endured today.
Maybe in return he can convince Illya to give him a minute (or ten, or even some multiple of sixty) before he leaves.