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For Caesar's I am, And Wild for to Hold

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Napoleon stirs at Gaby’s hand carding through his hair. He is, apparently, the last one of them to wake. Illya watches him with an amused smile as he sits propped up against the headboard. Gaby has moved around to his other side, so Napoleon lies sandwiched between them. When she sees he’s awake, her fingers curl tight in the hair at the base of his skill and tug. He does not try to stifle his groan.

One thing leads to another, lazy kisses building to heat, and they slot back together, Gaby riding Illya’s face. Napoleon holds her steady, again, mouth and hands on her chest, her stomach, her throat, until she shakes apart and slumps to the mattress.

She and Illya exchange some look—hold him, Napoleon remembers— and he finds himself half-pinned on his back, head spinning with the rush of arousal. He can still move his hips, and he and Illya come nearly simultaneously, slick and hot, their legs tangled together.

After, Gaby rubs a thumb over the bitemark Illya left on his shoulder, her eyes closed and a satisfied smile on her lips.

When Napoleon gets up to shower, she calls after him. “Don’t put anything in your hair. It suits you.”

For a moment, he pauses, eyeing the mess of curls in the mirror. Then he snorts quietly and shakes his head. At this time of year in New York City, there isn’t a chance of that.

Gaby huffs a little when she sees but otherwise does not comment.


He’s noticed before how Gaby and Illya tend to walk arm in arm, her hand resting on his bicep. Sometimes, now, she gestures to him or just gives Napoleon a look, and he falls back to join them. They can only rarely walk three abreast, but about every time they can, they do. He gets used to the feeling of her small hand just above the crook of his elbow. Often, as she did that day in New York, she tells him to set his other hand over hers. It’s… not always when his fingers threaten to wander into other people’s pockets.

He still steals. It’s a useful skillset, and not one he can afford to let go rusty. But when Gaby or Illya is around, his hands stay where they belong.

At least Gaby will wear the things he steals from their marks.


They have a ritual before they go out, one that Napoleon rarely gets to see, with how often their covers keep them apart. Sometimes, he listens in. He and Peril still make a game of bugging one another. Nighttimes are one thing, both of them listening in on one another. Gaby and Illya play a couple often, since Napoleon needs his charm on offer for the mission, usually. Once the day’s work is done, he and Peril turn on the receivers. The sounds they make teach him the meaning of ‘making love’ even as the headboard clatters against the wall. He never asks what they make of what they hear from him.

Mornings, though. Napoleon hears murmuring, talking about the day’s clothes, mostly from Illya. It takes seeing it in person for him to fully grasp it.

It’s a memorable sight. Gaby in her oversized pajamas, sitting cross-legged on the bed with her morning coffee. Illya, dressed already, flicking through her wardrobe. He holds up dresses for her approval, and when she finds the one she wants, Illya drapes it reverentially over the back of a chair. Shoes and jewelry go next. From where he’s making breakfast, Napoleon watches and considers suggesting something that isn’t plastic. But it feels wrong to intrude, somehow.

He gets the pan off of the stove before Gaby starts getting dressed, which—


It’s not her lack of modesty that makes him catch his breath. He’s used to that. But Illya touches her so reverently. Not like glass or eggshell, not like he might damage her, but like he still cannot quite believe he is allowed.

Their Peril is a bona fide fountain of love, and now that they’ve gotten him started, he just can’t seem to help himself.

But Napoleon does not understand until he sees Illya sink to his knees to help Gaby into her shoes. She braces a hand on his shoulder as she slips on first the right, and then the left. He looks up at her, then, and she cradles his face with one hand, before giving him a quick, little tap on one cheekbone. There is nothing overt, no orders, no sense of a sharp shift in how they relate to one another. It simply… teases at something that lies between them.  

He does not quite know how he had missed it before.


The thing is, when Napoleon wants something, he tends to go after it. Illya and Gaby were the exceptions, and now that he has them, and he knows they aren’t going to disappear on him— Well. Why not?


When Napoleon tells them what he has noticed, Illya goes first very white, and then very red, and bristles all over. But Gaby just smiles at him, slow and sharp and satisfied, and sets her hand on Illya’s wrist, just above his watch.

“Do you plan on standing there being smug all day, or are you going to ask?” She says, and Napoleon very nearly cracks his shin on the coffee table.

He stops pacing and sinks into a convenient chair.

It is one thing to want. Napoelon’d had a fair amount of that getting to be close to them n the first place. It is another entirely to have something within reach, and then find himself taken in hand.

As if she has not noticed his reaction, Gaby continues. “We have to discuss it, of course. What you want to do. To us, with us. For me.”


If Napoleon expected his admission to force new distance between them, then he was wrong.

Gaby tests more things after that initial conversation; the one where they talked about who went where and did what.

“I don’t take orders.” Gaby had informed him coolly.

“And I don’t think I could take orders from both of you, not all the time.” He had replied, his hands shoved into his pockets.

Illya had snorted quietly, his gaze studiously fixed on his hands. “I would never have guessed.”

“So we both listen to you?” Napoleon had asked Gaby, trying not to glare at his partner. It would have been easier if Illya had smirked. “And… you decide whether one of us can tell the other to do something.”

They had gone on for a while like that, probing until they found how the shape of the terrain between them had shifted.


It seems to him, now, that they all are trying to fill in the details. Gaby stops him while he’s getting dressed. They’ve made a habit of joining him for dinner, breakfast, or both when they can, and often it means at least one of them is picking out the day’s clothes with one or both of the other two present. He has a tie halfway off of the rack when her small hand closes on his wrist and nudges it toward the one on its immediate left.

“Try that one.”

Napoleon looks at her, an eyebrow raised. He sees nothing in her expression that tells him she doesn’t mean it. “Since when do you care about clothes?”

She tilts her head, the angle of her jaw and the set of her mouth becoming a challenge. “Since now. Are you going to wear it?”

The way his heartbeat picks up as he loops the tie she chose around his neck goes on the growing list of things he plans to analyze in more detail later.


Another day, at dinner, Illya approaches and wraps one arm around his waist from behind. Napoleon leans back against him while he stirs the risotto. The next time he brings the spoon up to taste, he offers it to Illya instead.

“Is this what you made for Gaby in Berlin?” He asks.

“What, do you think it smells like feet, too?”

Illya chuckles, and the sound rumbles through Napoleon’s back. “Nyet. Is… I am not sure of word.” He tastes, makes an appreciative noise, and then nudges the spoon away. “Good job, Cowboy.”

After he leaves, Napoleon lets himself grip the edge of the counter while he waits for his stomach to stop swooping.


Gaby gets a new pair of goldenrod flats, the open box left on the foot of her bed. Illya receives a sweater made of soft, dark blue wool and mutters about it for what seems like ten full minutes.


Gaby and Illya draw him into their post-mission routines, too. Illya needs to organize, Gaby needs to unwind. So she sprawls on the couch while he fixes her a drink and runs her a hot bath. When she catches Napoleon retreating to the fringes, she beckons him over and directs him to help her out of her clothes. Something in her posture tells him that he may do only that, and, experimentally, he sinks to his knees as he helps her out of her panties.

He has seen Illya catch his breath doing this, pause and inhale slowly, overwhelmed so obviously that Napoleon could not have ignored it if he had wanted to. It does not feel the same for him, he doesn’t think. He can smell her skin, and if he leaned in just a little, he could press his mouth to her. He does not feel that rush until her hand clenches in his hair and pulls. The ‘do not touch me’ could not have been clearer had she spoken it aloud. He sucks in the same sort of deep, ragged breath he has seen Illya take over and over, his eyes squeezing shut.

After that, it… becomes something of a game. How close he can get to touching her before she pushes him away and makes him sit and watch while Illya finishes undressing her. His large hands on her, always so gentle.


More formal scenes follow, although never during missions.

Gaby orders him to hold Illya as still as he can while she explores every inch of him with an impossibly light touch. Illya takes Napoleon’s cock into his mouth and, at Gaby’s instruction, keeps him on the edge until he begs. Napoleon spends an evening between her thighs while Illya serves her, but may not touch her or himself.

And it’s good. But Napoleon has a sense that something is missing. He feels only slightly more than the usual relief afterward and does not seem to ever really feel the same sort of floating space Illya has explained to him, mostly in Russian, and in a hushed tone, as if nothing else would be appropriate.


They keep trying.

Napoleon has long since stopped thinking of sex in terms of failure and success. They all enjoy it. He likes the reminders they leave on his skin. He gets a thrill at watching Illya tug on the neck of one of his ever-present turtlenecks to hide the hickeys they all know sit barely out of sight. And the search for whatever it is Napoleon needs continues.


They do most of their exploring in New York and London, at either Gaby’s flat, or one of the two properties under Napoleon’s name that UNCLE knows about. They’re at her place, rain pattering on the windows, the radio playing, and Gaby has settled herself in Napoleon’s lap. None of them wear any clothes, and she moves against him with the sort of grace that makes him wonder how he ever forgets that she is a dancer, even as it causes his brain to short-circuit. When she stills on top of him, Napoleon groans in protest and lifts his head.

“I want to try something.”

“I’m listening.”

Illya, who had been ordered to sit and watch, since he had been reckless again, rises from his chair. They had discussed this, then, as a surprise for him, which is simultaneously worrying and flattering.

Gaby takes two pairs of handcuffs from him when Illya returns, kisses him on one cheek, and then directs him back to his chair with a nod.

“Well.” Napoleon blows out a long breath. “I did say I was interested in trying restraints.”

Illya snorts. “And that you could get out of all of them.”

“Not all—”


They both stop and look at her, just as they did that first night in Rome, although with considerably more affection.

Gaby has always been the best at keeping things all business. She holds up one of the sets of handcuffs and raises a brow. “Get out of these, and then you can come join us. Interested?”

His stomach swoops and Napoleon finds himself nodding almost before he has thought about it.

“Safeword?” She asks as she locks each wrist to the corresponding arm of the chair.

He grins. “Uncle.”

Illya, who has only recently gotten the joke, snorts quietly. Napoleon winks at him as he accepts the unfolded paperclip that will serve as his lockpick. Still easy, even one-handed and with subpar tools. The distraction will make it interesting, and he can be over there in a moment.

He does groan a little when Gaby gets up, leaving him mostly hard, with the afterimage of her kisses scattered from his hairline to his chest. As she walks to Illya, he whistles, long, low, and quiet, if for no other reason than for the sharp look she tosses over her shoulder, and the way Illya growls into that first kiss.

None of them are possessive, not amongst their trio, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be fun to tease.

He only half pays attention to the handcuffs. Illya has his hand between Gaby’s thighs, and while Napoleon cannot see the details, he can hear each of her little gasps, the flex of her legs, the way that Illya clings to the chair with his other hand so that he does not try to pull her closer. He waits, just so he has an excuse to watch a little longer, even if Illya is going to tease him about how long it took.

Gaby kneels, Illya trembles, and she closes her mouth around the head of his cock. There’s a noise Illya only seems to make when she does this, helpless and punched-out, as though he wants to protest that he does not deserve a touch that only goes one way. As if his self-restraint is physically battling just how good she is with her mouth. It’s beautiful and, like most beautiful things in a situation like this, just a little obscene.

Napoleon’s hand jerks, the pick falls from his fingers, and the cuff rattles.

In hindsight, it’s ridiculous. The cuffs and that pedal sound nothing alike. They feel nothing like the thick, leather restraints that had held him to that chair. He can move his head.



He cannot get out.


When he comes back to himself, he has his head in Gaby’s lap, and Illya is draping a blanket around his shaking shoulders. When he moves to shrug it away, Illya tucks it in more firmly. They settle on either side of him, hands on him. One of Gaby’s slips through his hair over and over. Her fingers rub at the base of his skull as if she wants him to arch and purr like a well-loved cat, and at another time, he might have. Illya rests one hand on his shoulder and rubs his back with the other. As if he needs it.

They have never been with him when this has happened before, the flashbacks to either the war or to— what he had just thought about. He always found a way to make it go away, then. Drink; hot water and expensive soap to wash away the cold sweat; a long, hard run. Except since he got— Oh come on, Napoleon — since he got strapped down and electrocuted, he cannot quite seem to run as hard as he used to.

Illya takes even more of the physical work than he did before. They’re going to run him into the ground at this rate. Burst that lovely, open heart of his. He pictures garnets, and remembers the feeling of his teeth buzzing in his jaw, and shudders again, and again until Illya’s hand is white-knuckled on his shoulder. Gaby murmurs to him in soft German and does not stop stroking his hair.

What must they think of him? Napoleon tries to relax and stop the trembling, but his body won’t listen. It’s almost as if it is taking revenge on him for all of the times that he made it lie for him, take lovers out of convenience, or as a quick balm. Everything he has put it through. Now, he can imagine all too easily that it is coming apart at the seams at long last. He won’t spill out ivory and rubies. He will be blood and bone, and everything will fill with the smell of mud made as much from piss and bile as rain.

At least his eyes remain dry.

When he finally stops, he does not shrug Illya’s hand away. There’s not much left of his dignity to salvage, and he feels like a half-drowned kitten. He lets Illya lift him, ignoring how odd a sensation it is. No one has done this since his father was still alive and he was still small. It feels both better and worse to have his feet on the floor of Gaby’s bathroom. While the tub fills, she sits with them, kissing Illya softly and going back to running her fingers through Napoleon’s hair. When a muscle in his jaw spasms, she rubs her thumb over it.

He could stop her. Napoleon tells himself that they would worry about him and that they will worry less if allowed to fuss, and climbs into the hot water without complaint. He does hiss a little— it is very hot— but then the heat begins to seep into his bones. It makes his stomach clench in a way that reminds him of everything they are currently not doing. When he looks over, Illya has a towel wrapped around his waist, and Napoleon lets out his next breath in a disappointed sigh.

Illya gives him a look. “Later, Cowboy. If I can wait, so can you.”

“I take her orders.” Napoleon jerks his chin at Gaby, who has somehow located his shampoo, bless her resourceful little heart.

“Listen to Illya.” She tells him, predictably, even though they all know the scene is over and they will not be making another attempt that night.

Illya smirks. It’s not like his. It does not show his teeth, and it’s kinder on average. With it still in place, he kneels beside the tub and pushes Napoleon back against the wall. He cannot quite help the groan that falls from his lips, shaky and too honest. Illya’s hand remains splayed over the center of his chest as Gaby climbs into the water along with him and settles in his lap. Then she presses her finger to his lips. Napoleon kisses it. He stays silent while his mind continues to calm.

The two of them work as a team. Illya scoops up water in those large hands of his until Napoleon’s hair drips into his eyes. Gaby’s hands take Illya’s place, nails scraping his scalp as she works soap through his curls. If he could, he would coax and draw her closer, he would lean over to Illya— although that would be difficult no matter what, with that large hand still on his chest. God knows he wants to touch her, but his body has stopped listening to what he wants. It is as if lurching between safe and terrified and safe again has snapped some cord and sent all his armor and his control scattering.

He tries to keep his face averted until Gaby catches his jaw in her hands and brings him to her for a kiss. Napoleon leaves his eyes closed after she pulls away, and so Illya’s kiss almost takes him by surprise.

They are, he thinks, too kind to him, but he cannot bring himself to make them stop. He’s fussed over them often enough, making sure Gaby doesn’t drink herself to sleep, and helping Illya find tricks to manage his episodes. He supposes it is… fair. It does not make it feel any less odd.


Illya finds him on the balcony late that night, eyeing an unlit cigarette. He smokes very, very rarely, since it leaves a smell that might give him away and his job is easier if he hasn’t stained his teeth. He still gives it a few minutes’ thought.

“Did you forget lighter?” Illya asks.

Napoleon turns, his face a careful mask of indifference, and then shakes his head. All of them have surrendered to summer’s heat and the heat of their three bodies by sleeping half, or in Gaby’s case fully, naked. The drop in temperature that came with nighttime does not seem to have affected Illya at all, nor does the breeze that always seems to blow through the higher levels of cities. He plucks the cigarette from Napoleon’s fingers and then methodically tears it to dust.

When Illya catches him watching, he only raises an eyebrow. “Gaby does not like smell of these.”

He lets out a short huff and leans on the railing. Their shoulders brush, and for a few minutes, neither of them says anything. Out of the corner of the eye, Napoleon watches him. He follows the lines of old scars, including the crisscrossing mess between Illya’s shoulders that always makes him grind his teeth, although they do not seem to bother their bearer.

“You did not tell us something was wrong.”

Napoleon lets out a breath that is almost but not quite a hah. “I didn’t think I needed to say anything.”

“Because you thought it was obvious, or because you thought we did not need to know?” Illya asks, in that dry tone of his that Napoleon actually quite likes, when it isn’t directed at him.

He sighs. Lying now would be a pointless exercise, given his little display earlier with the chair. “Both.”

“I never thought you were stupid.”

He is far too tired to hide his reaction to that, but Illya barrels ahead.

“Do you trust us or not?”

“...I do.”

“Good.” Illya nods once. “So no more chairs for you. Or cuffs. We will tell Gaby tomorrow, da?”

“Fine.” Napoleon sighs but stops before he steps inside again. “You don’t hide anything, do you…”

“Not… nothing.” Illya shifts, crossing his arms. It’s a painfully obvious move for a spy, and it sends an odd pang through Napoleon’s chest. “I do not hide things like this. Not from two of you.”

He sighs and beckons to Illya. “Alright. We should join Gaby before she comes looking.”

Illya chuckles, the sound rumbling low in his chest, and then catches him with a hand in the center of his back as he moves beside him. “This is why I came outside, Cowboy. I am not only one who worries about you.”


The next night, Gaby has to go and talk to Waverly, and Illya and Napoleon end up with too much free time for most of their normal activities. She comes back to find them on the bed, the new one she got especially to accommodate all of them. Napoleon pins Illya with one hand held carefully under his jaw, and the other forearm braced against the mattress. Despite the illusion of pressure on his windpipe, Illya presses upwards, both to chase each teasing kiss, and to meet the show grind and roll of Napoleon’s hips.

“Well, this is a pleasant surprise.”

Both of them look over in the same moment to where Gaby stands in the doorway, her shoes dangling from one hand. Napoleon can feel Illya’s ragged breathing against his jaw.

“Did I tell you to stop?” Gaby asks, and just like that, the three of them begin slotting back into place.


In Luxembourg three weeks later, riding the high of a mission well done, they tumble into bed together. Gaby presses Illya down, still laughing, and snaps her fingers at Napoleon.

“Cheeky,” he tells her as he helps her out of her panties.

She bites the side of his neck in retaliation and then raises her arms so he can remove her dress. Illya’s hands find his belt, Gaby’s the buttons on his shirt. They burn off their excess energy together. Gaby indulges their friendly competition until she cannot stand to let them touch her for another moment, and then orders them to see which of them can get the other off, first. It’s good, very good, the rush and push, the give and take. He does not end up in the same sort of space that Illya does, but something in him feels quieter, after, curled up and satisfied like a cat beside the fire.

Then he realizes neither of them made so much as a move to hold his wrists, and that they have not since that day with the chair. Perhaps it should be touching. Maybe he’s meant to curl up on his side and fall asleep smiling at them fondly. But he never asked them to walk on eggshells.

When was the last time he had someone care so completely about his wellbeing?


UNCLE sends them to Vilnius, next. As always, when they have to slip behind the Iron Curtain, Gaby tenses. Illya, too, jumps often. Napoleon would argue that it was in everyone’s best interests to keep their team firmly in the West, but it’s not like anyone is actually inclined to listen. Gaby’s stuck speaking faulty Russian, and Napoleon’s accent gives him away as American immediately, but their covers hold.

Illya blends in well until he has to actually act like a member of the KGB. Their mission goes sideways, and they end up making a break for it. It is both better and worse than Kiev. The three of them all come away in one piece, and they do complete their mission, but the scientist they were supposed to help escape to Israel gets shot. He lives, at least. They hand him off to the first team they’ve met before they get shipped off to Belgrade.

After an operation like Vilnius, they really ought to have been sent somewhere a little less politically fraught. They get a safe house, rather than a hotel, while they carry out surveillance on a Russian diplomat they think might be working with THRUSH. At first, not having to juggle covers comes as a relief. Then the close quarters begin to wear on them.

It comes to a head on the third day. Napoleon makes one too many sharp jokes and Illya rounds on him, glaring, his hands clenched by his sides.

Gaby’s intervention comes before either of them can make another move.

Jetzt reicht es Aber!

Just like in Rome, they both stop. They both turn.

She stays in her chair, fingers curled over the ends of the arms. “Are you done behaving like children?”

Beside him, Illya nods.

“I didn’t hear you.”

Something in Illya’s shoulders begins to give, just a little. “Да.”

“I think so.” Napoleon replies, and then amends “Yes” at the look Gaby gives the both of them.

Her eyebrow lifts. “Yes… what?”

For a moment, all three of them stand perfectly still. This is new. Gaby has not— they have not. They all have so many memories of rules pushed upon them, forcing their bodies and their minds into compliance. But this is not command. This is not a hammer, or a wall, or a cell door. This is Gaby in an armchair, looking at them with love in her eyes. This is their lover and their team leader knowing exactly what they all need after a botched mission and another that has them clawing at the wallpaper.

Napoleon surprises even himself by answering first. “Yes, ma’am.”


The title does not stay. Napoleon has the military and the CIA behind him. Gaby and Illya have the Soviet government and the KGB. But there’s losing control, and then there’s this.

There is Gaby’s hand in his hair, tugging until she learns exactly where and how hard makes his eyes fall shut and his mouth open. There is Illya on his knees, his head in Gaby’s lap while she reads the paper after a long day. There is Gaby tucked between them, sleeping soundly and sober, certain of her safety.

He realizes, eventually, that the problem before was expecting to get the same thing out of it that Illya does. It gets easier both easier and not once he gets over that idea.

It’s foolish to fight the person trying to give you what you want, but the first time Gaby digs her fingers under his armor and tries to peel it away, Napoleon pulls right back, grabs the jar of Groom and Clean, and disappears into the bathroom to tame his hair.

“Why do you keep nagging about this anyway?” He mutters, combing back his curls.

Gaby, of course, follows him to the door, because she’s stubborn enough for three people. She leans against the door, watching him, her chin set. “Why do you care so much?”

“I like it better this way.” He meets her eyes in the mirror. “Maybe for your birthday.”

They travel to Paris the next time that they have a little time off. They spend the first day wandering, taking in the sights. As night falls, the lights come up, bathing the old buildings in a warm glow. Napoleon takes a deep breath. The air smells of flowers and food from the restaurants and, of course, people. Gaby’s on his arm, at the moment, and he can smell her perfume, too, floral and citrus, mostly worn away after the day’s heat. But if he inclined his head a little and breathed deep, he could tell it was still there. Her other hand holds Illya’s.

That is the other thing that Napoleon likes about Paris. While still imperfect, this city offers a sort of refuge for people like them. So long as they are at least slightly discreet, they can walk together, all hand in hand.

He says none of this aloud, but somehow he doubts that he needs to. It’s one of the perks of working with the same team for nearly a year. They get to know you, eventually. He tries not to think about what it means that it does not bother him anymore.

It’s easy not to think.

He and Gaby dance, since Illya still does not care for it. Napoleon realizes she’s plotting as soon as her hand dips into the open neck of his shirt. He’s getting slow, or she’s getting better. He prefers to believe that it’s the latter.

Napoleon meets her as she goes up on tiptoe to kiss him. The arm around her waist tightens, although she already stands flush against his body. He does not stop kissing her as he hears Illya move behind him, but does gasp, quietly, as he is pressed between them. He turns half-way so that he can kiss Illya, as well. Her fingers, small, light, and quick, work their way down the buttons of his shirt until it hangs open. When he and Illya break their kiss, Gaby gently pushes at his shoulders.

“Get undressed.” She instructs, even as she slips out of her dress and into Illya’s arms. “When you’re done, come and join us. Watch for now.”

A smirk tugs at his lips. “My pleasure.”

Illya hmphs, although the quirk of his mouth betrays his amusement.

Gaby, meanwhile, flops gracefully onto the couch. Her hips rise, legs and stomach tensing. A moment later, her panties land on the carpet. She is flexible, still, from years of dancing, and Napoleon goes dry-mouthed as she spreads her legs until the outsides of both knees touch the edge of the couch. Illya drops to his knees with a very audible thunk.

What a darling.

Napoleon could be out of his clothes by now if he wanted, and they all know this. But he wants to watch more than he wants to touch right now. They fit so well together. Illya kneels, and she twists toward him, her fingers skimming over her breasts. He kisses her stomach and her thighs, quick and light since she is less patient about this. His hands curve around her hips, and then, clearly, even if Napoleon could not see them right there in front of him, he puts his mouth to her cunt. Gaby melts into the couch almost immediately, a sigh escaping her lips.

Now, he has to touch. Neither of them pays any attention to how he tosses the last of his clothes aside, heedless of the wrinkles that will inevitably form in them. He sinks down to one knee beside Illya, and then looks up, away from where Illya has now slipped a finger into her, when Gaby cups a hand beneath his chin. She draws him up onto the couch beside her and claims his mouth. She bites his lower lip just a little too hard as Illya does something

Ordinarily, Napoleon might guess what. It was only a bite, not enough to draw blood, but enough to sting and make him gasp against Gaby’s mouth.

She isn’t biting, now, which is— a shame. Napoleon turns his head for a moment to look at whatever it is Illya’s doing that’s making her cling to his shoulders and to the couch.

“Picked up a few tricks, did you, Peril?” He asks, aiming for casual and missing.

Illya makes this noise significantly more self-satisfied than his usual hmph and Gaby keens, her back arching and her nails digging into Napoleon’s bicep. They raise lines on his skin as she moves her hand back to his hair, grabs, and then pushes his head down to her chest. He goes with a noise like she’s punched the air out of him, and then bites at one of her nipples the way he has learned that she likes.

After she comes, she pushes both of them back, gently, and then slumps a little. Her legs drape over Illya’s shoulders. Napoleon rests his head on Gaby’s shoulder while she toys with his hair, watching Illya scatter feather-light kisses over her hips and thighs. When he reaches out, Illya takes his hand and squeezes. He feels—

He doesn’t quite know what he feels, but it’s good, the beginnings of stillness seeping in at the edges of his thoughts. When Gaby pulls his head back, fingers tight in the hair at the back of his head, he groans long and easy, and his eyes fall shut.


He has seen Illya melt at praise like this. Even now, it does not touch him quite like that, but he shivers, and his lips curve into a smile.

“So…” She tilts her head and looks at him, her eyes half-lidded, her face flushed. Then she takes his jaw firmly in her hand. “Do you want more?”

Yes. Gaby—” he licks his lips once, quickly. “Yes, I do.”

She nods and then leans forward until she can guide Illya to look at her, as well. “I’m going to try something. Tell me what you think of it.”

Then Gaby releases both of them, turns toward Napoleon, and slaps him across the face.

His head turns with it, since he had not braced himself, and his cheek stings. Illya sucks in a deep breath. When Napoleon exhales, it comes out a moan. Both his and Illya’s shoulders go loose.

Gaby smiles, strokes Napoleon’s cheek, and then stands. “Good.”

She walks to the bedroom, with its large bed, and both of them follow her without having to be told. Illya’s trousers are scuffed from the carpet, and Napoleon’s face and shoulder sting.

“I did not think—” Illya begins. They still hold onto one another’s hands. “I did not know you would like—”

“Neither did he, Süßer,” Gaby calls as she rids the bed of its sheets and blankets. “Kiss him if you’d like.”

Illya does like. He presses Napoleon’s back against the wall, just inside the bedroom door and kisses him until both of them have to gasp for breath and Napoleon is sure his cock has left stains on Illya’s pants. For all that he is the one doing the pushing, he yields so very sweetly to Napoleon’s lips and tongue and— Illya moans— his teeth.

They go to Gaby as soon as she calls them. She kisses Illya first, deep and slow, as she pulls him down onto the bed, taking advantage of the absence of a footboard. “Your clothes now, Liebling.” She tells him and then goes to Napoleon.

He fits his hands to her hips as she presses up against him, warm and lithe. Her hands smooth over his shoulders. Again, she bites at his mouth. Her lips wander to his jaw, and then to his throat, trailing downwards until she can stand with her feet flat on the carpet again. A moment later, she shoves, and he lets himself half-fall onto the bed beside Illya. Their shoulders brush, and Napoleon takes a moment to admire him again, all the long lines of Illya’s body laid bare.

Then he and Gaby lock eyes. Their matching smiles make Illya shift and give them a look slightly foggier than usual, but no less clear in its meaning.


Gaby settles on his other side. Slowly, she smooths a hand up Illya’s chest until it presses flat against his collar bones. Then, just as slowly, she pushes him down. He goes, of course, his head sinking into the pillow even as his eyes flick back and forth between them.

“You are plotting something.” He accuses them.

Napoleon laughs, low and quiet. “Oh yes.”

She kisses Illya first, her hand cupping his chin. The other curls around his wrist and draws it upward. Napoleon follows a beat behind. Together, they press Illya’s hands against the headboard. He groans as Napoleon leaves a line of biting kisses from his collarbone to one nipple. Gaby follows just a little behind. They have done this many times— stretched Illya out under them and taken him apart. They know his body as well as they know their own. Napoleon slides further down, releasing Illya’s hand, and draws a lingering kiss over a scar on Illya’s ribs. And, like tumblers falling into place, Illya reacts. His breath catches and shudders as it leaves his chest. Napoleon can feel the quiver in his muscles beneath his lips, and beneath the hand which he presses to Illya’s stomach. A moment later, he jerks and Napoleon looks up in time to see Gaby raise her head from where she has just licked a stripe up one side of Illya’s abdomen. She bites Napoleon’s finger, smirks at him, and then slides down to suck a bruise onto one of Illya’s hips.

By the time Napoleon bites his thigh, Illya has gone a delightful shade of pink from hairline to mid-chest that still does not hide the marks they have left. His hips shift, pushing up into nothing, but his hands stay precisely where Gaby had pinned them.

“Beautiful…” Gaby murmured.

Illya arches into her hand as she smoothes it up his side, his eyelids fluttering.

“Good?” She ran her fingers through his hair.


Slowly, he brings his arms down, his hands falling to her hips. They cover so much of her, those catcher’s mitts of his. Even now, the tenderness with which he touches her makes Napoleon stop and stare.

He barely has a moment to consider the picture they make before they reach out and tug him down. Illya kisses him again and then pulls away as Gaby turns Napoleon’s head with a hand under his jaw. She kisses just lightly enough that he leans into her, chasing it. Then she pulls away with a bite to his lower lip.

“Your turn.”

A shiver shoots down his spine. “Ah. Alright then.” He stretches out slowly, attempting for leisurely, and then smirks at Gaby.

She bends to kiss him, biting at his lips, one hand braced in the center of his chest. He cradles the back of her neck. He tries to turn his head when he feels Illya move, but her other hand clenches in the hair at the back of his head and tugs. He groans, and his eyes fall shut. The hand in his hair gentles, strokes. Her mouth drifts from his to his ear as Illya settles back on the bed.

“I’d like to see him fuck you, Schatz.”

He looks Illya over slowly, his gaze lingering on his mouth and the marks on his skin and on that very impressive cock. He refuses to be intimidated. Napoleon makes room for him between his thighs. “Just go slow, Peril. It’s been a while.”

“Of course.”

He shudders as Illya’s callused hands drag up the insides of his thighs. One leaves for a moment and comes back slick, making Napoleon jump.

Christ— that’s cold.”

Gaby laughs softly and tucks herself against Illya’s side. “He’ll be fine. Rub at first.” She meets Napoleon’s eyes. “You don’t want to give him anything too quickly.”

He groans and drops an arm over his face, somehow unsurprised. Then he inhales, sharp and shaky, as Illya follows Gaby’s advice. At first, it’s easy to lie back and enjoy it, the slow, almost curious rub of Illya’s finger, Gaby’s soft murmurs of ‘that’s right’ and ‘a little harder now.’ Too soon, though, he’s gasping and trying not to squirm. It’s not enough. It’s good, but it is nowhere near enough and if Illya or Gaby doesn’t do something he is going to scream—

Gaby slaps him hard on the inside of one thigh. He does not scream, but he yelps, loudly, and his eyes open in shock. Her glare nails him to the bed.

“You know we can’t do much if you’re playing composed.”

For a moment, he sets his jaw and tries to drag up some defense, but everything in his mind is need and heat.

Gaby lands another slap, and this time he groans, his hips shifting forward. When he goes to cover his eyes again, Illya leans forward and grabs his wrist. Slowly, he pushes Napoleon’s arm down to the mattress. He strains against the hold for a moment, and then arches, angling to rut up against Illya. He gets only a moment of relief before Gaby shifts up and cracks him hard across the face.

Then she grips him by the jaw and stares down at him, one perfect eyebrow arched high. “Either say something, or we stop.”

His jaw clenches and his throat works. For a moment, he lays there, breathing raggedly. Illya has stopped touching him entirely, the bastard, and his skin feels hot.

He’s still hard.

Napoleon swallows, and then averts his eyes, tongue flicking out to wet his lips. “Please don’t make me ask.”

Gaby pets his hair, and the hand on his face gentles. “I want you to.”

Quietly, he groans. “Gaby— alright. Come on, Illya. Just push a little, get your fingers in me. Should be easy— ah —” his breath jolts out of him, “Just like that.”

Her hand tightens in his hair.

“More,” he murmurs, spreading his legs a little farther. Then his eyes flick up to Gaby’s face. “Everything you’re willing to give me. Please.”

There’s no missing her pleased smile.

“Greedy.” She tells him and then slaps him again.

At the same time, Illya pushes a second finger into him. Napoleon’s chest rises and falls too quickly. He should be fine. He’s been fucked before and slapped in other contexts, but neither of them gives him a chance. Under Gaby’s guidance, Illya takes him apart with the same calm efficiency he uses to disassemble a gun. When Illya finds his prostate, Napoleon’s hips jerk enough that Illya uses his other hand to pin him in place. Gaby’s next slap lands almost uncomfortably close to his cock.

“Well done, Süßer.” Gaby murmurs, only barely loud enough for Napoleon to hear over the sound of his own panting. “Now— rub just there.”


The rest of that sentence is lost to a broken shout. When he writhes, Gaby settles astride him but tells Illya to stop. Her back is to him. He can feel the wet heat of her cunt against his abdomen, just far enough away from his cock to make it all so much worse. If she were looking down at his face— he does not know if it would make it worse or better, but they will see him come apart either way.

“Give him another.”

Napoleon groans softly. He knows how to take this, breathes through it until he adjusts. He hears the sounds of kissing and opens his eyes to find Illya muffling other sounds against Gaby’s mouth. From the angle of her arm, Napoleon would guess that she is stroking Illya’s cock. And if the rhythm of Illya’s fingers is anything to go by, she is going far, far too slowly. Every few moments, Gaby draws her hand away to land another slap, or to drag her nails over Napoleon’s reddening skin.

He is almost ready to beg by the time Illya’s fingers slip out of him. Gaby climbs off a moment later, a flush riding high on her cheeks.

“Illya? Napoleon?”



It feels like trying to think through a layer of warm molasses. His ass and thighs ache, and he cannot seem to remember the last time he has been this hard.



“Good. Are you both alright if you, Illya, pin his hands?”

Illya reaches out, with his clean hand, Napoleon’s pleased to note, to stroke the line of his jaw. “Solo?”

“Yes. God, yes. Just let go if I—”

“Of course.”

Their mouths meet for a moment, warm and hungry, and then Napoleon finds himself manhandled up onto his knees. Gaby gives a few nudges until he ends up kneeling over Illya’s lap with his ass rubbing up against Illya’s cock. Napoleon arches and raises his hips. Beneath him, behind him, Illya makes a noise like he cannot get enough air. Then a strong hand circles his wrists and pins them between his back and Illya’s chest. The pressure makes Napoleon’s head spin. The hand on his hip helps to steady him.

Gaby reaches under, between, and Illya groans against the back of his shoulder. He and Gaby move together, and then— He knows he’s more than prepared enough, but it’s been a while and Illya is not small. How does Gaby not choke up every time she takes this thing inside her—

Their laughter tells him he said that last part aloud.

Illya cuts off abruptly as Napoleon eases himself down. His hands tighten, and he presses his forehead against Napoleon’s shoulder. He can feel Illya’s breath hot on his skin, and the way his muscles tense as he tries to hold still. So Napoleon grinds down, gritting his teeth around a moan. His hands flex and clench behind his back. Gaby’s settle on his hips. She sets the pace, guiding the rise and roll firmly. It’s slow and makes Napoleon feel like he’s being slowly set aflame. Each leisurely thrust sends sparks through him, and Illya does not seem to be fairing much better, judging by his low moans.

Then Gaby leans in and bites the exposed line of Napoleon’s throat. He jerks under her, twisting in Illya’s hold, although he does not dare to move his neck. Her nails scrape down his chest, raising lines on his skin.

He cannot think through it all. The stinging heat on his skin mingles with the steady, aching pleasure from Illya. It’s still too slow, too fucking patient. He won’t be able to come like this, but Christ, that need is a pain all its own.

“Please—” He gasps, “Please, God —”

“You’re doing so well. Both of you.” She shushes him. “Just a little longer, Napoleon.”

She leans over his shoulder, then, and catches Illya’s mouth in a kiss. Her hand cups Napoleon’s cheek. As she pulls back, he leans toward her, his eyes closing, but she does not kiss him. Instead, she gives him a long, considering look, her eyes trailing from his hairline to his knees.

“I think you can keep your hands to yourself.” Gaby muses, a wicked grin on her lips as she moves off to one side, her fingers sliding down between her thighs. “Illya? He’s all yours.”

Illya releases Napoleon’s wrists, and the sudden lack of pull makes him tip forward. He ends up with his face pressed against the duvet and Illya up on his knees behind him as he pushes back into him. It is far from the first time he has ended up like this, and Napoleon arches under the hand Illya has braced between his shoulders, pressing back against him. When Illya moves again, all that endlessly frustrating patience has gone. His hips snap forward and, at Gaby’s encouragement, he does not offer Napoleon a chance to find a way to do anything but lay there and take.

When Illya comes, Napoleon is so close that his whole body aches with it. They both groan as they slide apart. While he grips the sheets to keep from touching himself, Illya slumps, breathing hard.

Gaby settles between them, lithe, damp with sweat, and Napoleon does not bother to stifle the low sound that rises from his chest. She reaches for his hand as she kisses Illya. Then she goes to him, pushes him onto his back, and leans down to kiss him. He returns it, half fevered, fingers still clenched in the sheets. Still, she does no more than kiss him until he creeps back from the edge. When she pulls away, he sees Illya watching them through his eyelashes. He looks sated, sweet, his long limbs artlessly relaxed and his head inclined toward them. Gaby looks, as well, and then sits back on her heels.

“Go,” she nudges him toward the head of the bed, and Illya.

Napoleon obeys. He does not quite crawl up the bed, but there are few other ways to move, and his foggy mind will not allow much else. He kisses Illya before he settles onto the mattress. Gently, the two of them coax him into sliding down, until his head rests on Illya’s chest. He loses a little leverage, propped up like this. Which seems to be the point.

He shudders as Gaby settles over his hips.

“Do you want Illya to hold your hands, Schatz ?” She murmurs, drawing her finger down his cheek.

Casual as she sounds, and despite the warm honey wine suffusing his thoughts, Napoleon cannot miss the flush on her skin, or way her hips shift, or the glimmer of wet on the insides of her thighs.

He licks his lips and then looks back and up into Illya’s face, and into blue eyes gone dark and full of want. Then he reaches up above his head.

Illya takes hold of his hands, not his wrists, and laces their fingers together. While Napoleon is still staring at this, unable to quite wrap his mind around it, Gaby sinks down onto his cock. He gives a hoarse shout and squeezes Illya’s hands.

Gaby has none of Illya’s patience. She moves in a grinding rhythm that makes her clench around him, hot and wet. He meets her, gasping broken curses.

The rest of the world falls away.

For all his efforts, he comes before she does, her nails raking down his chest. Napoleon cannot make it graceful. He’s been close for so long, and Gaby has already had one to take the edge off. She rides him through it, nothing gentle in her movements, and then takes one of his hands from Illya’s hold. The angle is hell on his wrist, but he slips two fingers into her and crooks them just so, thumb against her clit. Gaby’s pleasured cries ring through the fog in his mind, and when she comes, Napoleon breathes deep. That fluttering thing in his chest has broken through whatever locks he had placed around it.

Slowly, Gaby eases herself off of his hand, and down onto the mattress. Without her having to prod him, Napoleon moves his aching body to one side, so that Gaby can stretch out beside Illya. Then, slowly, he gets to his feet. When she grabs his hand, he gives it a gentle squeeze.

“I’ll be right back, darling.” He promises and then slips away to clean up.

When he returns a few minutes later, obviously still sore, but no longer sticky, and carrying a cloth for Gaby, he finds his partners tangled up on the bed, Gaby mostly under an apparently unconscious Illya. She shoves at his shoulder and then casts an incredulous look toward Napoleon.

From where he stands, he can clearly see Illya trying not to smile.

Then Gaby tickles his side, and he recoils with a yelp.

Пчелка, this is not fair.”

Napoleon chuckles, and then settles in on Illya’s other side, slinging an arm across his waist. “You brought it on yourself, a ghrá.”

Gaby discards the cloth, laces her fingers and his together, and then shifts over to rest her head on Illya’s shoulder. “What does that mean?”

For a moment, he says nothing. Then Napoleon sighs. “It’s something I used to hear my mother call my father. My love. Irish tends toward tooth-achingly romantic.”

That earns him a pair of laughs, and Illya’s arm around his shoulders, tugging him in close. Gaby kisses their joined hands. Then her teeth catch the pad of his index finger. He tucks his face into the crook of Illya’s neck as the remnants of the fog in his mind swirl dizzyingly.

“It’s okay, cowboy.” Illya’s hand presses between his shoulder blades, grounding him. “First time is... “ He lets out the rest of his breath in a long rush. When he speaks again, his voice is quiet. “Did you like it?”

He looks up.

Illya and Gaby are looking at him, expressions a mix of curiosity, hope, and concern. He kisses first him, and then her, before lying back down. It seems like the right place to be while he feels like this.

“I did.” He stretches a little and then closes his eyes. “Can’t say I want to do that all the time. But yes.”

“Good.” She murmurs. Her fingers find their way to his damp hair, carding through the curls. “Don’t fall asleep. We’re not done.”

Illya chuckles, and Napoleon looks up at her, raising an eyebrow. “I’m not sure how much more you can do to me. I got a good look at all this.” He gestures at the layers of scratch marks on his chest and abdomen. “Much more, and you might draw blood.”

“There’s always your back.”

Her cool tone sends a shiver down Napoleon’s spine.

“And Illya.” She bends and kisses him. “If you’d like.”

Да. But…”

“I know, I know.” Napoleon sighs. “We should discuss it. Later, if you don’t mind. I’m enjoying the moment.”

Gaby lets out a little huff that’s at least partly amused. When she lies back down, it’s with her chest pressed against Napoleon’s back, and her chin propped on his shoulder. “Think you can handle being honest about it?”

Sometimes it would be nice, Napoleon thinks, if they did not all know each other quite so well. But then none of this would work.

“Of course, a chroí.” He sighs, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Gaby kisses the back of his neck. “Start by telling us what that one means.”