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Yes. Oh, yes. Illya tilted his head, urging Napoleon back a hair with just the slightest of pressures, and kissed him. His chest was tight, making it hard to breathe; something was lodged in his throat. He'd wanted this for so long; the love and desire were so mingled for him now that he couldn't separate them with the sharpest of knives. But Napoleon…oh.


That Napoleon would die for him, he'd known. That Napoleon would live for him…Illya had only hoped, expected nothing more than that his sensual partner would agree to expand their friendship to "friends with benefits," as the slang phrase went. And Illya would go into it with both eyes wide open, and deal with his own personal fallout later on, in private.


But Napoleon loved him. That changed everything.


His partner's lips were sweet with the traces of fine brandy; Napoleon would forgo alcohol altogether rather than buy less than the best for his own cabinets. "Life is too short," he'd commented to Illya years ago, "to drink bad booze when you don't have to." Illya prompted gently, licking, seeking more, and with a soft exhale Napoleon obliged.


Illya's body surged at the first soft touch of tongues. Sweet and bracing and underneath, finally, the taste of the man himself. Why this should be so different from the women and the one other man Illya had kissed, he didn't know. But it was. He groaned softly at the back of his throat, and tightened his grip on Napoleon's thigh.


That seemed to break the paralysis. Napoleon moved, one elegant hand sliding into Illya's hair and the other slipping against the small of Illya's back, and kissed him back.


Oh, yes. This was what he had wanted.


A hot, hazy eternity later, the world moved and Illya realized that Napoleon had slid from his chair and taken them both to the floor, somehow avoiding both the empty glass and the coffee table on the way down. Napoleon's weight settled on him, heavy and wonderful, one muscular thigh pressing between his own. More wonderful still was the unmistakable ridge of his partner's erection pushing solidly into the hollow of Illya's hip. Napoleon was hard. For him.


Illya pushed back and gasped into Napoleon's mouth as the pressure set off an explosion of warmth between his legs, curling about the base of his spine. Napoleon murmured something and kissed the edge of Illya's jaw, nibbled at the sensitive skin beneath it. Illya tilted his head to give that mouth better access and felt the carpet, and the unyielding floor beneath it, press against the back of his skull. So good, to have this at last, Napoleon in his arms, wanting him, it was fantastic, it was … not quite what Illya wanted. "Napoleon."


His partner hummed against his throat, wet tongue teasing at the hollow. Illya shivered and spared a minute to be grateful that he hadn't chosen a turtleneck today, but eventually he made himself use the fingers he'd carded into Napoleon's hair. "Napoleon," he breathed, urging his partner's head up. "I want you very, very much," he said softly, punctuating the words with kisses, "but carpet burns won't make for a quick repeat engagement."


Napoleon blinked down at him. This close, his eyes were the color of rich chocolate dipped in honey, and dark with passion. Then his mouth quirked up into that small, lopsided smile he had sometimes. "Picky, picky."


"Up, Polya. Don't say it," he warned, raising an eyebrow as Napoleon's smile broadened into a grin, which was exactly what Illya had been going for.


"You give me an opening like that and then tell me I can't take it?" Napoleon rocked back onto his knees and then onto his feet, extending an arm to pull Illya up as well. "You want to take all the fun out –" His breath caught as Illya continued the motion and wrapped one arm around Napoleon's waist, plastering their bodies together from knees to nipples.


"Will the other opening I've given you make up for it?" Illya murmured, his body tingling, his blood racing. He'd always been amused by the reputation he'd somehow acquired at U.N.C.L.E. as someone inexperienced, uninterested even, in things sensual. He was quite well experienced, thank you; he was just far, far quieter about it than his flamboyant partner. But to be saying these things here, now, to Napoleon


"Illya." Napoleon's eyes darkened further and then they were kissing again, deep and wet this time, Napoleon's fingers burrowing into Illya's hair and holding close. Illya tightened his arms around Napoleon's waist and upper back, but still it wasn't quite close enough.


Illya tore his mouth away and nuzzled the line of his partner's jaw, flicking the tip of his tongue over the mole on the left side. Five o'clock shadow prickled against his tongue. "Show me your bedroom, Napoleon," he said, breathing the words at the edge of Napoleon's ear.


Napoleon's breath caught again and Illya felt him smile, there where their cheeks touched. "You've already seen my bedroom."


"Show me again."




Napoleon had gained a few pounds over the years; they both had, actually. But it suited him; Illya liked him sleek and solid, watching now as the white dress shirt came off to reveal broad chest and shoulders outlined by the close-fitting undershirt. Illya's fingers slowed, then stopped, on the buttons of his own shirt.


"You're falling behind, partner." Napoleon sounded amused. He'd already toed his shoes off and he paused now as well, hands at his unbuckled belt, one thumb hooked beneath the waistband of his trousers and fingers splayed as if to frame what was tenting the front.


Illya swallowed. "Keep going," he said, low.


Something flashed through brown eyes. "You must have seen me undress about a million times," Napoleon said, a smile teasing at the corner of his mouth.


"But I could never watch."


The smile bloomed, smooth and seductive. And – disturbing. Napoleon took two steps forward, enough to put himself within Illya's reach. "You could even … help, if you want to." He reached up with one hand, catching the edge of Illya's shirt between first and middle fingers and tugging lightly.


"I could," Illya agreed, wondering why a tiny part of him was suddenly uneasy. He spread his palm against Napoleon's chest to feel the strong, steady heartbeat. "If you think you need it. Or…" he began to slide his hand downward, "perhaps I could just provide some … motivation." And curled his fingers around the considerable bulge at his partner's crotch.


Napoleon took a sharp breath and his hand covered Illya's and pressed, keeping it exactly where it was. "I'm motivated," he growled, and kissed Illya hard.


That mouth should be registered as a deadly weapon, Illya thought absently, lips parting and tongues dueling for the warmth within. Reputation and water-cooler gossip hadn't lied on this one – Napoleon truly was a superlative kisser. He tugged the undershirt out of his partner's pants and wormed his hand beneath to find skin, pushing against the small of Napoleon's back. The move ground the back of Napoleon's hand against Illya's needy cock and he groaned, fingers tightening reflexively. Napoleon gasped, warm breath into Illya's mouth, and his hips jerked, pushing back. Illya squeezed again, deliberately this time, and there were a few glorious moments of heat and pressure.


Then Napoleon untangled them somehow and took a step back. Illya's eyes snapped open; he hadn't known he'd closed them. Napoleon looked magnificent: color high on his cheekbones, eyes dark and lips bitten red.


"Clothes," Illya rasped, his blood singing. "Off. Now."


Napoleon smiled wickedly. The undershirt came off with a move that showed off fine pectorals and barrel chest, lightly furred with dark hair. Nothing that Illya hadn't seen before. But never like this. Illya's own shirt, shoes, and pants hit the floor and were promptly forgotten as Napoleon's hands dropped again to the waistband of his trousers and kept going this time. The American sighed softly as the buttons came undone and the considerable bulge got more so, released from its wool confinement. Napoleon stepped gracefully out of them, his eyes never leaving Illya's and that smile still playing at his mouth, and started to fold them. That was entirely too much.


Napoleon laughed softly as Illya pushed him down onto the bed. "The crease will be ruined, leaving them like that," gesturing at the grey cloth now flung haphazardly over a convenient chair.


"That's what Del Floria's is for." Illya crawled onto the navy coverlet and stretched out on top of his partner, groaning in the back of his throat at the feeling of finally, finally, having Napoleon close enough, Irish-pale skin against his, warm and whole. He trapped Napoleon's thighs between his own and pressed down, cotton briefs against silk boxers, wiggling to align things just so and trying not to groan again at how good it felt.


"Oh, you feel good," Napoleon said on a sigh, and Illya hid his smile in his partner's neck, smelling sweat and the faint trace of aftershave.


He nibbled his way up, running his tongue across the cleft chin he'd wanted to taste for years. "Wait," he murmured, hips shifting, "and I'll feel even better."


"I think that was my line."


"I doubt you have a patent on it."


Napoleon chuckled, and it vibrated intriguingly against Illya's chest. His legs shifted between Illya's and suddenly Illya was on the bottom, Napoleon's weight against his groin nearly enough to make Illya's eyes cross. "That line's so old Noah's got the patent on it. There're a few other techniques I might claim ownership of, though," Napoleon murmured, hot mouth drifting down Illya's neck to tongue the notch between his collarbones.


"You have some new insights to boast?" Illya said, his breath coming shorter as Napoleon slid downward, ending on a gasp as curling lips found his nipple, which had certainly never felt like that before. "If the species has – oh – been doing this since the F-Flood, at least – bozhe – Napoleon –"


"And I'm the product of all those years of refinement. So just lay back and enjoy the ride."


And for long moments, Illya did, pleasure drowning out the little voice in his head that insisted, once again, that something was wrong. His fingers wound into thick, black hair as Napoleon's mouth and hands discovered him, exploring his body like the American was making a topographical map. Illya moved restlessly, twitching every time Napoleon found another bundle of nerves that Illya'd had no clue existed, and there seemed to be rather a lot of them. Electricity flowed beneath his skin, sparking, building, following his partner's hands and finally wrenching a low cry from him as Napoleon's fingers slipped beneath his briefs and played, too lightly and much too quickly, across his aching erection. "Napoleon!"


"I take it I can remove these now?" Napoleon asked.


Illya let go of his handfuls of hair and levered up on both elbows and glared down at the smugly smiling man who lay between his thighs, one strong finger hooked under the waistband of his briefs. "You'd bloody well better!"


"Mmm. Hips up," Napoleon murmured, and moved to the side as Illya balanced on elbows and heels. Napoleon worked the damp white cotton down Illya's legs and sent it sailing over the side of the bed before resuming his place. Illya wondered just how hard it was possible to get as Napoleon ran a caressing finger up the side of him, working the foreskin as Illya worked on not screaming, or coming, or both, right then and there. "You're beautiful, Illya," Napoleon murmured again, low and throaty. "All cream and gold and berry red –"


"The penis is not a thing of beauty, Napoleon," Illya managed, skin tingling madly at the sight of his partner's mouth so very close to the body part in question.


"Oh, but it is. It is and you are." Napoleon's eyes were fathomless and oddly opaque, his lips pink and parted and wet as he licked them. He wrapped his hand firmly around the base of Illya's cock. "And I'll bet you taste as good as you look." And Illya realized, just as the dark head dipped, what it was that was wrong.


He nearly lost the thought, and any other thoughts whatsoever, as Napoleon sucked him down. Hot, wet, tight heaven, foreskin eased down and clever tongue playing across the ultra-sensitive head. Illya dropped his head back between his shoulders and squeezed his eyes shut until he saw red and tracer white, thighs taut with the effort not to thrust. So good, dear god, so unbelievably good, no one had ever – wait – ah, god -- He dragged his head back up and forced his eyes open.


Napoleon looked quite comfortable between Illya's legs, hand wrapped around Illya's straining penis as easily as if he did it every day. But his expression as he sucked, pulling off now to lick and nuzzle, was one of focused concentration, almost distant, as if he wasn't – quite -- "Wait," Illya breathed, reaching a hand again to his partner's tousled hair. "Napoleon, wait."


"Why? Too fast? Don't worry, we've got all night and I can pretty much guarantee you a second coming."


"That's not –" Illya nearly hissed in frustration. "Polya, stop. Stop."


Napoleon lifted his head this time. "Why? You want this, it was you –"


"Yes, dammit, but not like this. I don't want the practiced polish that you give everyone else," Illya said, goaded. "I already know you, Napoleon. I want you. I don't want you to pleasure me – I want to, to make love with you."


Dark eyes blinked, and then it was his Napoleon looking back at him, the opacity gone and a world of emotion simmering beneath the surface. "Illya, I --" Napoleon breathed, and shut his eyes.


"Don't do that." Illya tugged on the hair between his fingers, and Napoleon's eyes snapped back open. "I know you, dushka," Illya whispered, the endearment slipping out before he thought. "Don't hide from me."


"Illya." Abruptly Napoleon was up Illya's body and in his arms, face buried in the crook of his neck, whispers lost in his skin. Illya pulled his legs up to cradle Napoleon's hips and wrapped his arms around the broad back and squeezed, hard. He slid one hand up to rub his partner's neck, massaging the tension he found there. The overwhelming sense of connection, of being together, stung at the backs of his eyes, and he wondered if this, even more than the sex, was what he had wanted. And what Napoleon was so leery of.


Illya rubbed his cheek against Napoleon's hair, kissed the small, neat ear nestled in the dark strands. "It's all right," he said, senselessly, as though it was a mission and he was Napoleon's lifeline. "I have you."


A chuff of air against his neck. "You do, don't you. Nothing less than everything." Napoleon's chest expanded as he took a deep breath. "You drive a hard bargain, partner."


Illya smiled. "I'm Russian. It's in the blood."


Napoleon raised his head, and his eyes were warm and very bright, and there. "I still want to taste you." Illya couldn't stop the little frisson that shook him. "You really are beautiful. And delicious."


"I want to see you," Illya said.


"You will," Napoleon said, and started to slide down.


Illya hooked him under the shoulders. "Napoleon." The American stilled. "I want to see you." And before he could stop himself -- "And I want you to see me." He swallowed. "I think."


A new smile, one Illya had never seen before, curved Napoleon's mouth. The next few minutes were spent trying to kiss each other senseless, and succeeding admirably. "If that's really what you want," Napoleon said softly when they had to pause for air, "then I think you'd better drive."


Illya had to grin at that. "As always, I will do most of the work. Typical." He locked his legs around Napoleon's waist and heaved, and a moment later looked down into his partner's laughing face. "Your turn to enjoy the ride," he said, and pounced.


He wanted everything and twice at the very least, but as Napoleon had said, they did have all night. The simplest was probably the best. This time. He licked Napoleon's throat, sucking lightly at the Adam's apple, finding salt and the faintest chemical hint of aftershave. "You have wonderful skin, Polya. Sometimes there has been some woman's lipstick here, or here –" he moved lower, to the deep notch between sharp collarbones. "And I wonder, where else has she been? Did she touch you here?" He brushed his fingers down the center of Napoleon's chest, hair catching at the tips, and followed the curve beneath the muscle. "Here?" Flattening his hand to cup ribs, thumb brushing the very edge of a nipple that pebbled at his touch. "Or here?" And caught the little peak of flesh between thumb and forefinger at the same time as he closed teeth against the big tendon in Napoleon's throat.


Napoleon heaved beneath him, breath catching and fingers clenching at Illya's back. "You like this," Illya murmured, squeezing just a little harder and smiling as the gasp this time was a little louder. Where all these words were coming from, he didn't know. But he would not let Napoleon forget just who it was touching him now. "They forget about these, I think, the women do," he said as he nibbled his way down, hard sucking kisses with more than a hint of teeth. "But I do not."


He gave both nipples the attention they deserved; Napoleon's fingers burrowing into his hair left no doubt that his attentions were being deeply appreciated. His partner would show marks tomorrow, and Illya found he didn't mind that idea at all. But there was more to taste. Giving the nipple he'd been sucking a last, fond lick, Illya made his way further south, following the fine line of hair he'd heard referred to as the "treasure trail", savoring the warmth and piquant tastes. Napoleon did have wonderful skin, fine-grained and taut over the hard muscle of his abdomen, rougher here and there where scars marked him. Illya dipped his tongue into the shadow of Napoleon's navel, surprising what was nearly a giggle from the other man.


Yes, simple would definitely be best. But first things first. Napoleon's breath hissed between his teeth as Illya palmed his erection and stroked, flesh hot and hard beneath damp silk. "Up," Illya said, rolling to one side. Seconds later, patterned fabric sailed off the bed to joined Illya's briefs wherever they had gone, and Illya finally got a long, open look at the fully-aroused object of more than a few of his midnight fantasies. Long and thick and cut, in the American fashion. Illya leaned in close and nuzzled the crease where thigh ran into torso, just close enough that his hair brushed blood-rich flesh. Napoleon's choked sound was nearly a sob this time. Illya inhaled, filling his lungs with the sharp tang of male arousal and the smell of pure, unadulterated Solo. His mouth watered. He needed to taste. Now.


"Illya. Oh God." Napoleon moaned as Illya licked him delicately at the base, the light dusting of hair crinkly against his tongue. "You don't – just because I did, wanted to, you don't, don't have to –"


Illya looked up at the very un-Solo-like babble, but the meaning took a second to penetrate his own lust-fogged brain. "Napoleon," he murmured with great fondness, "do shut up," wrapped his hand around Napoleon's cock and took the head into his mouth.


Fingers yanked at Illya's hair as Napoleon cried out, arching. Illya threw a leg over Napoleon's, pinning him to the mattress and achieving a little friction for his own aching erection in the bargain. It was almost too much: the clean, sharp taste of skin and salt-bitter on his tongue; the reality of Napoleon here with him, in this bed, under his hands. He wallowed in it all as long as he dared, touch and taste and smell, Napoleon panting and eventually starting to swear, moving more urgently against him.


Illya's own body surged at that – Napoleon almost never swore – and he broke away to rest his forehead on his partner's hip, panting and trying not to come. Not yet.


"Goddammit, Illya!'' Illya pulled his head up to see the American propped up on one elbow, dark eyes molten and face touched with sweat, a lock of black hair hanging down. A face Illya had never seen before, only imagined when dreaming and alone, and sometimes even when he wasn't alone. "Why the hell did you stop?"


Illya bared his teeth and moved, crawling up his partner's sweaty body to settle between the strong thighs, breath hissing out as Napoleon's slick cock nudged against his own. "To see you. To be sure you know it is me."


"Oh, it's you, all right," Napoleon ground out, and pulled him down.


It was perfect then, a hot slide, the shivery friction and the sweet grip of Napoleon's hands digging into Illya's rump, locking them together. Illya kissed him hard, tongue moving as their bodies moved, a fierce, mindless climb to the cliff's edge. He broke away as he felt Napoleon stiffen beneath him and looked to see the beloved face twist in ecstasy, mouth open and eyes slamming shut as his partner fell. Wet heat washed between them. Illya's own climax was almost an afterthought when it took him over the edge as well, shaking him like a dog with a rat, curling him down to set his teeth into Napoleon's shoulder and hold on for dear life.


Somewhere in the afterglow, hands moved slowly up Illya's back, arms winding just below his shoulderblades and pulling in tight. When he remembered how to move his own limbs, Illya turned his head and touched his mouth to his partner's high cheekbone in a soft, lazy kiss. Paused. Licked his lips, and found them saltier than sweat would explain.


Illya slipped to one side and pulled Napoleon close, tucking the dark head beneath his chin. And Napoleon let him. Illya closed his eyes then and almost wished he knew a God to believe in, because if he did, he'd pray: let Napoleon die first.