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Open Road

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It’s Illya’s turn to drive – or, more accurately, he insists on taking a turn, because sitting idle for too long makes his legs jitter and his skin prickle. Napoleon looks dubious, but Gaby tells him he gets two hours at the wheel, no more, and if he injures this lovely convertible, she’ll have several sensitive parts of his anatomy in a vise.

Then she orders Solo into the back seat so that she can take a nap; he goes without protest, expression amused and fond as she arranges him to her satisfaction and curls up in his arms, his jacket draped over her legs. Illya watches all this through the rear view mirror, more wistful than properly jealous, which is as much of a miracle as their escape from Castello di Fierro. Gaby seems so small and fragile bracketed by Napoleon’s arms, but he’s so careful – nearly reverent – that Illya knows she’s as safe as can be.

They’ve been taking the A1 north through the Apennines because Gaby likes the speed, but Illya enjoys driving for his surroundings as much as for its own sake, so he turns off when he spots a local road that seems to run more or less in the right direction.

He’s spent so long in cities, keeping his head down and his eyes peeled for people – pursuers, targets, threats – that he relishes the view of so much sparsely-populated and uninterrupted green space, from neatly-tilled farmland to forested hillsides to rocky mountain slopes. Napoleon thrives in cities, and Gaby doesn’t care where she is so long as it’s not occupied, but Illya is starting to become enamored of open spaces, fresh air, and no one in sight for miles.

Aside from his partners, of course. It could very well be their company that’s making him biased.

Illya glances back at them through the mirror. Napoleon has his head bent, mouth curved in a smile as he murmurs something in Gaby’s ear, too low for Illya to catch over the sound of the engine and the wind rushing by. Gaby’s face is mostly obscured, but whatever Napoleon’s said is making her tip her head back on his shoulder, teeth flashing as she bites her lower lip.

Distracted, Illya drags his attention back to the road. He’s still not used to seeing them that way; something like jealousy surges in his chest, but it subsides when he recognizes that they’re not hiding from him because they consider him a part of them. ‘They’ are not a couple, but a trio, and the strangest thing about all of it is how it feels like a natural extension of their prior dynamic, their extant partnership.

Gaby makes a high, choked off noise, and Illya can’t help but look. Her head is further back, neck arched in a long line. Napoleon’s mouth skips a wet line down the side of her throat; his shoulders shift as he tightens his arms around Gaby’s slight frame and–

No, Napoleon’s arms shift because his hands are busy doing something that Illya can’t see in the narrow mirror. He glances forward at the road and then turns his head to peer over his shoulder. The coat has slid almost entirely off the seat, baring Gaby’s legs. She has one foot planted against the door and the other leg angled towards the floor, both braced, thighs flexing, but that’s all he can see.

He turns back to face forward, feeling flushed, his knuckles white around the steering wheel. In the mirror, Napoleon looks up, catching Illya’s eye as he lifts one hand into view, two fingers glistening even before he slips them into his mouth.

“Oh, you хуесо́с1,” Illya mutters, hearing Napoleon’s laugh as he scans their surroundings and pulls the car over onto the uneven shoulder, into the shade of a dense cluster of trees. With little regard for the twinge in his side, Illya hauls himself out of the car and slams the door, walking around to the passenger side. When he yanks open the rear door, he finds Gaby still sprawled gracelessly, sideways on the seat, a bright grin as she reaches for him, pulling him in to join them. “You filthy son of a–” he says to Napoleon, the rest of his sentence lost as they kiss, Napoleon’s amusement humming against his teeth and tongue.

Gaby nips at Illya’s neck and he breaks away to kiss her, too, one hand curving around her calf, sliding up to snag the sides of her panties. “You keep watch,” he tells Napoleon, backing up to pull the lace down and off and away from Gaby’s legs.

“I think I can manage that,” Napoleon replies, hands pulling up the hem of her skirt so that there’s nothing in the way when Illya kneels on the doorsill, stretching out with his stomach and chest along the seat, trailing his teeth and lips up the inside of her thigh.

“Mm,” Gaby says when he reaches her cunt, licking through her folds and into the core of her, “Napo – oh! – Napoleon said you wouldn’t–” she gasps as he drags the flat of his tongue over her clit "–be able to just watch.”

“Sure, blame me,” Napoleon says, trying to sound aggrieved but landing somewhere around smug instead. “As if you didn’t start it by telling me just how much you enjoyed driving this beautiful machine.” He pats the cream leather upholstery, and Illya can hear the slick sounds of their kissing. “The feel of the motor rumbling through the frame…”

Gaby draws breath as if to reply, but Illya considers coherence to be a mark against his skills, and redoubles his efforts, adding suction and hearing her exhale in a wordless, wanton moan.

Without such direct distraction, Napoleon keeps speaking. “You know, I do love seeing her behind the wheel during a chase – remember the night we met, Illya? the spark in her eye, the set of her jaw? Beautiful. You should have seen her in the shop, grease up to her elbows and streaked on her face, bent over the engine.” Illya strokes his fingertips around her entrance in little circles, going deeper until he finds the sensitive, shallow place near the swell of her pubic bone that makes her squirm for more, more pressure or more friction. Despite the hand she threads through his hair, he keeps her there, right on the edge, while he listens to her breathing hitch and stagger and sigh. “I wonder, do you think the next time we find her in the garage, working on one of the prizes Waverly’s let her bring home, we should give it another go, each of us trying to seduce her to our side?”

For some reason, this makes Gaby laugh, high and breathless. Illya adds another finger, pushing in and curling up, adding the slightest hint of teeth beside the hood of her clit until her laugh becomes a shuddering sob with slurred traces of profanity lingering around the edges. Her hand clutches at Illya’s hair, holding him in place while he rides out the crest of her orgasm and the smaller tremors of the aftershocks, mouth gentling against her skin.

He rolls his hips, grinding his erection into the seat a little before lifting himself up carefully, getting his knees under him. “I don’t think so,” he says, plucking a hair from his tongue absently. “I don’t like thinking about how close we came, Solo.” He doesn’t like knowing what he would have done had he caught them.

Napoleon stretches out one hand and reels Illya in, lapping at the traces of Gaby still coating his face, almost a kiss but not quite, lascivious and wicked and strange. “What if I let you bend me over the hood?”

Admittedly, it’s a pretty mental image, Napoleon with his pants shoved down to his knees, begging to be fucked. They haven’t done that yet. One of Gaby’s hands find Illya’s belt, the other pulls the collar of his shirt aside so she can suck a bruise into the skin. “We could take turns,” she says, and Illya thinks she means letting him fuck them. “One of the things Napoleon promised to replace…”

“Oh, the harness,” Napoleon says, delighted. “I wasn’t sure if you’d figured that one out.”

Gaby’s hands are inside Illya’s trousers now, freeing his erection, and he pushes into her touch blindly. “What–?” he pants, though he thinks he knows.

“Leather straps,” Gaby says, “that buckle around my legs and my hips so that I can wear something like this–” she grips his cock tighter and Illya shakes, picturing it "–letting me turn the tables. If you wanted.”

He imagines her smirking at him, stroking her calloused hands down his thighs, pressing his knees apart, looking up at him through her lashes as she eases into him and– “Scheisse2,” he hisses through his teeth as he spills into her hands, across the soft skin of her thigh, over the seat. He can feel her smile against his cheek as she ghosts a light kiss over the scar near his temple.

“Oh!” Napoleon says, swiping up that last streak, “watch the upholstery, there, Peril.” He puts his sticky thumb in his mouth and Illya has to close his eyes at the sight, overwhelmed.

“Get me his handkerchief,” Gaby says to Illya, and he backs up, retrieving Napoleon’s jacket from the floor and removing its pocket square for her as requested. She wipes off her hands as Illya closes up his trousers again; they both look at Napoleon, then at each other. “What do you think, darling?” she asks Illya. “He has been patient.”

“We don’t have much room,” Illya notes.

“You’re both clever,” Napoleon says, eyes warm as he adjusts himself through his trousers, pushing his hips up into the pressure with an impatient shiver. “I have faith in you.”

They end up shoving the front seat as far forward as it can go, Gaby straddling Napoleon’s lap, moving her hips in little circles as she rides him. Desperation looks good on him, his cheeks flushed and the sleek curls in his hair getting increasingly disheveled. And yet he doesn’t move to speed her up, doesn’t push back harder than she wants him to, just stares up at her with wide, wild blue eyes.

Illya kisses him, partly to divert his attention but mostly because he’s so tempting like this. When Napoleon’s trying to be seductive, he’s polished and glossy and controlled; Illya much prefers him without that mask. He suspects Gaby does, too, likes getting under his skin and making him–

“Say please,” she says, her fingers in Solo’s hair, pulling his head back. Illya bites at the angle of Napoleon’s jaw, at the line of muscle in his neck. He slips a hand between their bodies, finds where she’s stretched around Napoleon’s cock and crooks a knuckle so she has a little something extra to grind against.

“Please,” Napoleon whispers brokenly, honestly, “please please–” Illya feels Gaby speed up, muscles clenching.

“Come on,” she tells him, “come on du hundesohn3, mein schöne4– ah!”

“Oh, fuck,” Napoleon says, tensing like a drawn wire as he comes, dick twitching under Illya’s fingertips in heated pulses while Gaby follows him into bliss, her head tucked into the crook of Napoleon’s neck.

Illya extracts his hand, making them both shudder, and shakes the cramps out of it, kissing Gaby’s bare shoulder. Napoleon tugs him over and Illya kisses him, too, slow and messy; when he’s done, Solo looks thoroughly undone, mouth red, hair tousled, eyes half-lidded, and limbs lax.

“We should go,” Illya tells them ruefully, realizing where they are.

“Mm,” Gaby mumbles, shifting to the side with an unhappy noise. Illya leaves them to tidy themselves up, returning to the front seat and shifting it back into place, passing them a canteen of water after taking a long draught himself.

“Whose car is this, anyway?” Illya asks, getting a map from the glovebox and finding a nice pair of sunglasses beneath it.

“Fellippo’s,” Napoleon says, smiling at him through the mirror. “I figured he didn’t need it anymore, so…”

“It’s ours now,” Gaby declares, curling up again in Napoleon’s arms, well and truly drowsy this time. “We’re keeping it.”

Illya smiles to himself as he turns the key in the ignition, feeling the rumble of the engine as it starts, and pulls back onto the road.



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