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Spies and Thrush Drugs

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Spies and Thrush Drugs

Scrubbing himself in the cold, cold shower, Napoleon reflected that he understood them now.

He didn’t forgive them. Was still fiercely glad that he had killed them, switching his Special from sleep darts to bullets and not giving them a chance, as occupied as they were. And then blowing up the institution afterwards. No. He didn’t forgive and he still wanted them dead, even as dead as they were now.

But he understood.

Pale white skin, gold white hair, deceptively delicate body.

His partner, lying unconscious on the bed in the other room.

Napoleon had barely enough control to dump Illya there and then come to the shower, which wasn’t doing its job. He turned the knob, but it was already on the coldest it could be, and that wasn’t cold enough. At least not for his mind. Thankfully, his body was less imaginative and was no longer inappropriate.

There surely was no greater hell than a person thinking about taking advantage of their partner. Their unconscious partner, who had obviously been the target of more Thrush experiments and Thrush drugs and Thrush weird plans for world domination through sex. Or maybe that was just their version of fun. Wasn’t so fun for them in the end, though. Napoleon smiled grimly at the memory of blowing it all up.

He hadn’t known then that the effects on his partner went beyond the lab, nor that he himself would be affected by what he had not been exposed to. Exposed only by carrying Illya back, by holding the slim but muscled, weighty body, by smelling the lush scent coming off him in waves, by handling his smooth skin and stroking his fingers through the fine hair.

Napoleon groaned and reached for the shower knob again, having no better luck than before. Maybe he could get ice. Lots and lots of ice. Would the ice machines in the hall have enough ice for what he needed?

The shower door slid behind him, and Napoleon turned, his hands reaching for the shampoo bottle. Not much of a weapon, but there was nothing more painful than soap in a person’s eyes if he could squeeze it right.

The shampoo bottle dropped to the ground as slim, pale feet stepped inside the shower. Hands touched his body. A lush mouth parted in invitation.

“Brrr,” Illya purred as he pressed close to Napoleon. “Little chilly in here.”

The water started warming up. Napoleon could only think that Illya had reached behind him and turned the knob the other way. He couldn’t turn to look. He couldn’t turn at all. All his attention was focused on his partner before him. His hands glided along Illya’s shoulders, down his chest. He watched his hands and wondered when he’d given them permission to do that.

Obviously, rinsing off in a shower was having no effect on whatever had been done to Illya. Or what he was doing to Napoleon.

Illya reached up and tugged on Napoleon’s head until he bent down, mouth open and ready for whatever his partner wanted. What he wanted.

Such a kiss. A kiss he’d never had before. A kiss he’d never dreamed about. But what a kiss. Napoleon was an expert on kisses, and this one was not for compare. He wouldn’t compare it. Not this one.

With the warmer water, his body quickly caught up to where his mind was, making it even that much harder to think. Not that there had been any thinking done since Illya had stepped in. Hands roaming over Napoleon’s body, warming him body and soul, bringing his passions to fire, drowning any voice of reason that might yet be lingering.

And that kiss.

Napoleon was getting light-headed. He would blame it on lack of oxygen, but he knew well enough how to breathe through his nose during an open-mouthed kiss. There were other reasons for a lack of oxygen, though, and he suspected all the blood in his body was going south to fuel one very specific part of him, which left none for the rest of him.

One of those clever, clever hands had gone south as well. Illya was obviously doing his best to make sure Napoleon couldn’t think at all, and Illya’s best was very good indeed.

There was a moaning sound echoing in the steamy shower. Napoleon gulped and the sound went away for a moment, only to resume when he opened his mouth again. He tried to switch it up. “Illya,” his partner’s name came out, with the same cadence and rhythm as the moan. All roads lead to Illya.

“Napoleon,” Illya purred, abandoning the southern hemisphere for a return of the north, and more kisses.

At least Illya knew who he was. That was a good sign. Unless all men were Napoleon to Illya.

That thought had Napoleon seeing red and he growled in pure jealous possession. He nipped the edge of Illya’s neck, biting into the skin there. He pulled back to look and noticed the absence of other marks. Of course, Illya had been wearing his sweater, but the lack let him calm down slightly.

“Illya, do you know where you are?” He tried, briefly, even as his hands wandered and explored. Even as they moved back and found his partner still loose and mostly open.

“Hotel somewhere,” Illya murmured. “I know. It’s you, you got me out, as you always do, lubov moya. You came for me, I am yours, always.”

That did it. Any shreds of self-control Napoleon might have thought he had claim to were utterly gone. Not that there was much left. But what there was was now gone completely. There was only Illya left. Illya and the fire.

He turned Illya towards the wall, the shorter man going willingly, his hands already up to brace himself. Napoleon spent a few moments to clean his partner best he could, not wanting there to be anybody else but himself.

“Napoleon.” Illya spoke his name in that confident, ordering way that he had, the enunciation bringing out his accent that wavered between Russian and English depending on where his memories were and how tired he was at any given time.

He had never reacted to his name in this way before. It was now something he’d never forget.

Placing a hand on Illya’s hip and spreading his fingers wide to grip and hold, he pushed slowly in.

“Ah, ah, moya radost!”

It wasn’t fair that Illya still could pronounce full words, though at least his English was gone. Napoleon gritted his teeth, trying not to go too fast.

Illya grumbled and encouraged him on without actual words. His little bossy Russian, never changing.

Finally there was just sensation left. The age-old rhythm, if with a slight variation on the theme. A variation he loved. He wanted more. For now... this. Back and forth and sensation sweeping his senses, from where all the blood was to where there was none. Simply his partner in his hands and whom he was in. Sliding and pushing and wanting closer and closer. He needed this beyond thought and reason. He might even have needed this beyond the drugs, where he’d never thought to go.

This was.

No more adjectives, no more words, it just simply was. Him in Illya, Illya surrounding him. Each of them holding the other.

He wanted to see Illya. Showers didn’t allow for much option in positions. Napoleon ran his hand along the back ridged with various scars – not so smooth here. Illya rumbled at the touch, his own hand reaching behind him to touch what he could of Napoleon, bracing himself now on a single arm against the tiles.

Napoleon dropped his hand to touch Illya’s, then he laced their fingers together and held tightly even as they moved to completion.

It was the press of muscles clenching along him, the vibration through the body that he pushed against that told him one of them was there.

Illya shifted his stance, widening his legs to keep himself upright. Napoleon did his part and wrapped his arm around Illya’s waist, holding him close even as he moved in little slight jerks, all he could manage without letting Illya go.

It was all he ever wanted, all he would ever want from now. It was.

When Napoleon regained his senses, it was to the absence of the water pouring down on him and his partner helping him out of the shower. They did a partial job of drying off, just enough so they weren’t dripping, and then it was over to one of the beds.

There were two beds in the hotel room, but only one was getting used tonight.

They slipped between the covers, towels left on the rug, arms around each other and the feel of smooth cotton sheets against their skin.

Then nothing for awhile.

Later, there was more moving, Illya in Napoleon, while Napoleon learned things he hadn’t known. The drug gave Illya more stamina than Napoleon, apparently, as Illya then moved to take Napoleon in mouth, then his in Napoleon’s, then against his skin.

All while Napoleon floated in some space between heaven and hell. Knowing what he’d done and unable to help any of it. He hoped at least that he would have had more resistance if it hadn’t been Illya. Though shouldn’t that have made it worse? Illya seemed to think it made it better.

He trusted Illya.

Napoleon’s eyelids closed, leaving him in darkness to slip away, even as Illya slid up to lie beside him.


In the morning, he had a headache.

It only took waking up next to a warm body that he recognized instantly as Illya’s to remember what had happened. He vacillated between horror and smugness, tempered by the skin under his hands and the head tucked into his chest, hair tickling his nose.

After awhile, Napoleon gave up on trying to analyze his feelings for it and carefully disentangled himself from the arms that held him close.

What would have worked with almost any other bedmate didn’t work with his partner, and Illya was instantly awake as Napoleon tried to move.

Blue eyes stared at brown for a long moment, then Illya blinked and closed his, scrunching his nose up. “I have a headache.”

“Me too,” Napoleon admitted. He reached a hand for Illya’s forehead. The temperature there was normal at least, no fever.

“If both parties agree on a headache, then does that cancel each other out?” Illya ask wryly, with a partial return to his normal dry wit.

Napoleon chuckled. “I’ve heard of worse ways to cure headaches.” He hesitated for a long moment, searching his partner’s expression, trying to read the unreadable.

Other than the usual morning libido that came with waking up to somebody in his arms, and an odd tenderness that didn’t usually go along with his normal thoughts towards his partner, there didn’t seem to be any overwhelming need to have his way with Illya. Nothing like last night. Maybe it was gone?

“How do you feel?” Napoleon asked hesitantly.

“Other than the headache, and a bit sore otherwise? Not bad.” Illya let go of Napoleon so that he could stretch out. “I’ve had worse Thrush drugs.”

Napoleon huffed an involuntary laugh. It was true enough, especially on the mornings after. He hesitated some more, still watching.

Illya stopped this by moving over and kissing Napoleon.

When Illya was done, Napoleon was on his back and his hands were around Illya’s waist, and this was in no way either last night nor any other nights or mornings previous that he’d had.

“Good morning, Napoleon,” Illya said sweetly, with an impish grin.

Then he got out of bed and walked to the shower. Napoleon couldn’t see it, but he knew that the grin was still there upon his partner’s face.

He waited a moment longer, enjoying the sight, then got up and joined his partner for a drug-free morning.