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In his defense, he knew that he couldn’t have kept it a secret forever. 

UNCLE is an intelligence agency, and the fact that the world hasn’t gone to pieces yet means that it is very good at what it does. There isn’t a paper trial for any analyst to follow, nor any reason to give Medical to suspect him, but sooner or later someone would find out through some unlucky twist of fate. It is just a matter of delaying, through a cocktail of pills he’s been taking ever since he knew of them back in England, and being discreet.

 

Being discreet is easy, if at times frustrating. Illya doesn’t go around sleeping with any random alpha looking for a one-night-stand after all. That job is Napoleon’s.

 

Even so, he expected more time. 

 

He’d known it ever since the powder blew up into his face in THRUSH’s lab that they were currently infiltrating. At first he had assumed the powder was harmless - but as he systematically clears out the rest of the guards, he becomes aware of a certain feeling, a slow heat spreading out under his skin. It’s like an itch he wants to scratch but one that he cannot quite reach, and even if it has been years, he recognizes this feeling well enough.

 
He’s going into heat.

Napoleon has yet to realize it, being rightly more focused on taking out people who wants to kill them, and Illya spares a thought about how he might be able to run and lock himself in a room nearby to wait the heat out. He immediately discards the thought - they don’t know how many more men there are, and he would loathe himself forever if he abandons his partner halfway through a mission. It wouldn’t only mean leaving Napoleon to fend for himself, it’d also mean going against Illya’s own values - to run away like a coward while his friend fights for his life. That is a situation he refuses to put himself into.

The only other option is to secure the facility and then lock himself up in a room. That plan might lead to more people figuring out he’s… he’s not what he claims to be, but if Napoleon knows, as he inevitably will, then the cat’s already out of the bag. There is no way the alpha wouldn’t report him to Waverly, not with the security risk he presents. If Illya’s lucky, he wouldn’t be deported back to Russia.

In Russia he can’t get the pills.

He shoots another guard in between the eyes, checking his surroundings once again before holstering his handgun. “All clear,” he says, putting his back towards Napoleon.

“Good work,” Napoleon says - and he sniffs the air. Illya freezes, anticipating. “Do you smell that -"

“No,” Illya says, walking away from Napoleon, down the corridor, towards a room he briefly recalled had a somewhat passable lock. The heat has increased in intensity now, from smoldering embers to a fireplace’s warmth, and Illya has no illusions that it will stop there. He can feel something wet seeping its way down towards his thighs; he walks faster.

“An omega in heat,” Napoleon says, almost in wonder, “Here in a THRUSH facility?"

Damn the man's fine senses.

"Amazing how biological functions do not stop for the destruction of diabolical plans," Illya says curtly, trying to maintain his composure. Heat is now licking at his face, permeating into his brain, and his nose is telling him to turn back, there's a fine alpha behind him he would want to be knotted by. He fights against the urge to run back, drop to his knees and bare his neck for Napoleon.

Napoleon, who'd probably assumed all along that his partner is an irascible beta or maybe a solidarity alpha.

Napoleon, who'd look down at him with eyes darkened; who'd curl a hand around his nape and press him down; who'd tell him to kneel and Illya'd gladly do it, he would -

"Illya," Napoleon breathes. Not Kuryakin. Illya.

The room is a metre away, and if he moves he could lock himself in before Napoelon gets into a rut. He tells himself to move, orders his legs to move, shouts at his body to move, but Napoleon's voice has held him captive, only by the sound of his name.

"Ilya," Napoleon says, "look at me."

He turns around, his body following orders before his head could command otherwise. His body is trembling now, whether due to the fire trapped under his skin or the anticipation of what might come next. Even though he did not want to, he has heard of his partner's legendary prowess in bed; even if he would not admit it, he has imagined.

Maybe it'll be more than imagination now.

Napoleon walks up to him, slowly and leisurely, his movements smooth and graceful, his eyes fixed on Illya's own. Illya holds his gaze as Napoleon steps into his space, holds still as his partner leans in and sniffs delicately at his neck. 

"Illya," Napoleon says again, his mouth curling around the vowels of Ilya's name. His breath is a cool balm over Illya's skin, and his body shudders and tells him, more

"You're an omega," Napoleon says hoarsely, and one of his hand settles around Illya's waist, the other on his lower back. Illya cannot run now even if he has the resolution to, not with the way his body is pressing into Napoleon, wanting more contact, wanting the layers of clothes between them gone. Napoleon himself is pulling Illya closer, burying his nose into the crook of his neck and breathing in deep and deeper.

But Illya's mouth is still working, so he says, "I see now why you are a spy."

Napoleon growls and Ilya feels teeth scraping lightly over the skin below his ear. His breath hitches and slowly, almost imperceptibly, Illya tilts his head to the side and bares his neck.

"How did I not see," Napoleon wonders, slightly mollified by the submission as the hand on Illya's back slips under his turtleneck. Illya hisses as a cool palm brushes his back, and Napoleon presses a soft kiss to Illya's neck as if in apology. "Did you take suppressants?"

"Yes," Illya admits, and Napoleon hums, a pleasant buzz against his throat. He wants Napoleon to go away so he can hide himself away in shame and in peace; he wants Napoleon to force him down and take him right there. He wants, he wants, he wants. 

"How long," Napoleon asks, brushing his fingers downwards past the waistband of Illya's trouser. Ilya bites down a whine, his hips jerking forward and pressing his erection into his partner's thigh. 

"Long enough," he grits out. Napoleon's own scent is getting to his head, musk and sandalwood, and soon enough Illya might just start jerking off on his partner, if Napoleon doesn't fuck him -

"How long, Ilya," Napoleon repeats firmly, grabbing Illya's wrist. He hasn't even noticed that he has been pulling at Napoleon's bow tie, as distracted as he is. 

"London," he finally says as his other hand gives the cloth a final tug, dropping it onto the floor. Napoleon makes a low whistling sort of noise. 

"That's quite a long time to forgo a heat, tovarisch," Napoleon almost chides. Illya snarls, because if Napoleon is this talkative in the face of impending sex he honestly does not know how women can stand the American -

But suddenly there's a warm hand pressing on the nape of his neck, gentling him into a calmer mood. Ilya quiets immediately, his hands curling into Napoleon's side. 

"Let's go, we have what we need," Napoleon is saying but Illya is barely listening. "Follow me."


The gentling starts to wear off in the elevator up to their room. After they had left the facility and after Napoelon had called in for the clean up team, Illya has been pliant, floating in the soft haze of Napoleon's hand on his neck. He still feels uncomfortable, feels an urge to scratch himself out of his skin but Napoleon keeps him rooted, keeps him moving into the car, up the stairs and into the elevator. 

"Illya," Napoleon says when they are alone in the elevator and when the prickling heat starts up again. "Illya, I need to know. Do you want to be alone?"

Yes, he should say, and fuck you for being so attractive. 

"I want you," he says instead, or maybe he's begging. He doesn't know. "Napoleon, please."

Napoleon doesn't answer him, not even as the elevator dings and as he unlocks the room to their suite. Ilya is beginning to think that he's going to be locked in a bathroom because Napoleon Solo is a gentleman and Illya is an omega he's not interested in, and the next hours are going to be hell. 

(He considers Napoleon a friend, he can admit that much. After his heat, he would be sorry to see their relationship go.)

Fortunately, Ilya doesn't get to think beyond that because as soon as the door closes Napoleon is slamming him up against the wall, all but biting at Illya's lips. Illya kisses the man right back, revelling in the way Napoleon's attention is devoted solely to mapping the contours of his mouth, the way the fire under his skin whips itself into a raging inferno. He brings his hands up to pull at the lapels of Napoleon's suit, too preoccupied with the kiss to bother with actually undoing any buttons.

Napoleon breaks away, gently swatting away at Illya's hands. "No, Illya," he says.

Illya growls, impatient, reaching out again to get the thrice-damned clothes out of his way, who cares if Napoleon spent half his fortune on them. But Napoleon is pressing into him again, scraping his teeth along Illya's jawline, using one hand to grab Illya's wrists up and out of the way, the other pushing Illya's sweater up and over his head. The sweater forces his arms to stay over his head, and he can feel the way it stretches when Napoleon hooks it to a nearby light fixture.

He is never going to wear turtleneck sweaters again, they're a viable security risk and work as handcuffs under the appropriate circumstances. Illya pulls at his impromptu restraints, and Napoleon curls a hand around his neck again, placating him.

"Be patient," he soothes, and Illya is about to lean forward and tear his throat off. He revises his plan of action when Napoleon kisses his neck, licking and sucking at his pulse point.

"You always cover your neck," his partner comments. Illya tips his head backwards, resting his entire body's weight against the wall and trusting Napoleon to hold him up. "Are you sensitive here, I wonder?"

"Why don't," Illya gasps as Napoleon nips at his skin, "you find out?"

"I do believe I have," the man murmurs, all too satisfied. His hand wanders down to unzip Illya's trousers, brushing his fingers over his clothed erection. Illya bucks into his hand, biting off a moan, and Napoleon holds him steady. "The results came back positive."

He kisses a trail down to the Russian's collarbone, pushing away at the trousers and allowing it to pool on the floor. Illya kicks them and his shoes to the side, his brain under the haze wondering for a moment if he could just kick his legs up to Napoleon's sides and let Napoleon claim him right there and then. Napoleon could hold him up and Illya could hold on, though the light fixture might just break first.

His train of thought is quickly derailed when the real Napoleon reaches past his cock and under.

"You're soaked," Napoleon says, his voice surprised and maybe a tad pleased. His finger push away at the wet fabric of the boxers, and traces at the edge of Illya's opening, not quite pushing in. Illya whines, trying to thrust himself down but not quite managing to do so with his arms still trapped above his head.

"Napoleon," he begs, "Napoleon, please -" 

The other man slips a finger in and Illya keens.

"There, there," and the damned American pulls the finger out only to slide it back in, searching for something. "You're so wet."

Another tug, and his hands are finally free of the blasted fabric. lllya is going to burn the sweater for its impudence. It's unfair how Napoleon is still dressed in his expensive suit when he has llllya stripped down to his underwear, he should rectify that immediately, he should return the favour. lllya reaches out to rip at the cotton -

Only to curl forward into Napoleon as electricity shoots up his spine. Napoleon, the bastard, looks up at him smugly, crooking both fingers and dragging them out, clearly relishing how it draws out another shudder from Illya.

“Go on, undress me,” he encourages, removing his hand from Illya’s neck to brace himself using the wall and effectively boxing him in. His fingers are unrelenting still, they slip in and out, twisting and dragging and Illya feels his knees go weak. “Don’t rip them."

Slowly, Illya brings his hands up to fumble at Napoleon’s buttons. They’re normal plastic buttons, white and unassuming and entirely frustrating.

“Good boy,” Napoleon coaxes when the first button comes free. “If only you were this obedient in field, hm?"

The praise washes over him in a wave of euphoria, and he quickly tackles the next button. He’s halfway through the third button when Napoleon decides to add a third finger, teasing around the rim before easing it in. The stretch surprises him, and he grabs at the fabric of the shirt, dislodging the remaining buttons in the process.

“I suppose it couldn’t have been that easy,” Napoleon says somewhat mournfully as the buttons hits the floor, removing his fingers. The loss of something filling him up makes his knees buckle - but before he could hit the floor Napoleon catches him. They stare at each other, wide-eyed and expectant.

"Bed," Illya rasps as Napoleon leans in for another kiss.

"Bed," Napoleon agrees, kissing the corner of Illya's mouth and licking at his lips before drawing away.

They stumble over to the bed, Napoleon stealing another feverish kiss halfway through the journey. Illya takes the opportunity to divest him of his ruined shirt and jacket, pushing away at the fabric in vicious satisfaction, before splaying his hand over Napoleon's chest, luxuriating in the warmth of the contact between them. He imagines leaning into the warmth with Napoleon at his back, knotting and stretching him wide open -

"Illya," someone says sharply, and he snaps back to the present, the sad reality where he's not being fucked right now. Napoleon's squeezing the back of his neck, his dark eyes staring down at him - and for a moment, Illya thinks that he's seeing a flicker of displeasure.

And then it's gone and Napoleon is smiling at him, suave and confident and barely forced. 

"Whoever you're thinking of," he says lightly, "he's a very lucky man."

"Damn right you're lucky," Illya says, and takes advantage of Napoleon's confusion to tackle him onto the bed.

If he's destroyed the shirt, there's no reason the pants would match, Illya reasons. He gives himself a moment to reconsider, acknowledges the futility of the moment and rips Napoleon's pants open.

"Hey," Napoleon protests, affronted. Illya pays him no mind, plunging his hand past the confines of Napoleon's waistband and into his briefs. "Illya - oh."

Illya allows himself one smirk. He's earned it.

Napoleon's cock is hot and heavy in his hand, fully hard, and there's a streak of feral pride when Illya knows that it's all because of him. His trainer in the KGB may have made allusions over how he was a failure of an omega, falling short of all expectations miserably when they tried to send him in as a honeypot, but if Illya can make the great Napoleon Solo aroused, he's pretty sure he fits the standard of omega. Granted, Napoleon's standards aren't quite the hurdle everyone makes it out to be, seeing as how he literally flirts with everything that has a pulse.

He considers ripping the briefs too, but decides that the elastic band is too much of a hassle to tear. Instead, he tugs at the briefs with his other hand. Napoleon gets the message soon enough, doing some sort of wriggling with his whole body and hands, and Illya encourages him, twisting his hand and pulling at Napoleon's dick off in long, slow strokes. Judging from the low noises the alpha is making in his throat, he probably likes it.


Illya's rutting against the other man's thigh by the time Napoleon finally gets his underwear somewhere it won't get in between them, timing the strokes in tandem with each thrust of his hip - but it's not enough, it's never enough, he needs something in him and now. Maybe he could ride Napoleon, he thinks feverishly, because Napoleon isn't doing anything, lazy bastard, he has to do all the work again -

And he jerks forward, his face tipping into Napoleon's chest as Napoleon slips three fingers back into his hole with a particularly lewd squelch. His arms are trapped between his own weight and Napoleon's body, hardly able to move, and the smug bastard takes the opportunity to flip them around and nudge Illya's knees wide apart so he could fit in between them.

"Tell me what you want, Illya," Napoleon says, his voice hoarse, and Illya would be impressed at his composure if his very hard dick wasn't poking into the side of Illya's thigh. He's also not sure if Napoleon actually wants him to answer, considering how he's still fucking Illya with his fingers.

He doesn't want fingers, Illya decides.

"Fucking put -" he says and breaks off into a moan when Napoleon presses his fingers down.

"Oh?" Napoleon says, getting into a rhythm of pulling out his fingers, slipping them back in and pressing down. Illya can't breathe with bolts of pleasure flashing through him, electricity coursing through his veins, and he gasps, trying to regain his bearings in the thunderstorm that is Napoleon Solo. "What do you want, Illya?"

He bends down, draping himself over Illya's prone body and positioning himself. The fingers pull out with a final squelch, and Illya feels the head of Napoleon's cock brushing against his hole. He strains downwards, but Napoleon is pinning him in place, keeping him from getting what he wants.

"What do you want," Napoleon repeats, only this time with more steel belying his tone.

"Fuck me," Illya gasps, and stops breathing when Napoleon slams home.

They breathe in tandem, struggling to adjust - Illya to the sensation of something filling him up, something that burns far more than three fingers would. It's not uncomfortable, but Illya wants more. He clenches down on Napoleon and the other man shudders visibly, his shoulders shaking from holding himself up.

"Feisty," Napoleon manages, before he starts moving.

It's slow at first, a steady glide in and out and Illya can tear his hair out because he wants it hard and fast, but soon enough Napoleon is picking up the pace, going faster, drawing out and back in.

It's still not enough.

"I'm not going to break," Illya snarls, and Napoleon seems to get the hint. He moves his hand to Illya's neck, pushing firmly down on his collarbone, enough for Illya to feel the tightening around his throat. He tenses up on reflex, and Napoleon smiles, dark and satisfied, and begins fucking him like he means it.

"You wanted this," he laughs, breathless in between thrusts, and Illya did, he does. He wants the space where he can't think beyond Napoleon's dick and the heat between them, where he can't catch his breath for all the pleasure coursing through him. Illya hooks one of his legs up and Napoleon uses his other hand to hold it, screwing him relentlessly into the bed, and he shouts as the angle changes, as Napoleon goes deeper.

"Illya," Napoleon groans, his head dropping down and turning into the heated flesh of Illya's neck. "Illya."

He tilts his head backwards into the mattress, and Napoleon's mouth attaches itself to the juncture of his collarbone, biting and licking and sucking a greedy mark onto his skin. Illya shudders as Napoleon makes his claim visible to the world, as his blunt nails leave marks down the line of Napoleon's back.

Things are going to change, and Illya doesn't know if he wants them to. He wants to be Napoleon's - out of the many alphas out there, Napoleon is the only one he'd pick. But Illya isn't delusional - Napoleon would tell him that he's not an alpha to be tied down, that Illya would be better off with some other alpha. This mark that Napoleon is leaving means nothing.

He doesn't want to admit it, but it hurts.

"Stop thinking, Illya," Napoleon rebukes after he's given his mark one last suck, but his words are coming out in breathy gasps, puffs of breath against Illya's neck. 

"Make me stop," he challenges in return, rolling his hips to meet Napoleon's every thrust. Napoleon growls, pushing Illya's leg higher and forcing himself deeper, and Illya keens because yes, yes, fuck yes -

And Napoleon is shuddering and coming and Illya can feel the knot forming, pressing up against the rim of his hole. It's what his heat is looking for, because the scorching flames cool down, sated by the feeling of something thick and warm and pulsing far up his ass where it belongs. 

(For now. Heats aren't over in just one fucking, and Illya has been suppressing his for a long, long time. Even if it was a chemically induced heat, he's pretty sure it wouldn't be over just like that.)

But Illya hasn't found release yet, and his dick is still rock hard. He tries to reach down to jerk himself off, tries to rut against the wall of flesh that is Napoleon's stomach - but Napoleon has him pinned down and unable to move. 

"Napoleon," he says, trying to rouse the other man from his stupor so he can finally fucking come. "Napoleon!"

Napoleon stirs faintly, groaning and shifting. Illya feels the knot preventing the man's dick from slipping out of his ass and moans, low and wanton as it jerks in place, stretching at the boundaries.

A wet mouth covers his own, and Napoleon kisses him, rocking into him slowly and lazily. All of Illya's moans he drinks right up, licking into his mouth; his free hand rubs circles into Illya's hip. 

It's not the heated frenzy of before, but Illya feels like he's drowning in warmth and contentment. 

"Come, Illya," Napoleon murmurs into their kiss and reaches down to curl a hand around Illya's cock. 

The request - no, order is what does it in the end. Illya bucks into his partner's hand, and rides out the waves of pleasure that washes over him. 

There's a hazy sort of awareness he's floating around in as Napoleon shifts them into a more comfortable position where they're lying on their sides instead of on top of each other. Fingers are carding through his hair, trailing down to his neck and he presses in closer to the warmth.

Even for one heat, Illya thinks hazily, he would be happy with this. He would.

He breathes and breathes, trying to commit the experience to memory because he would never feel this again, Napoleon plastered to his back and sweat-slick skin between them, and that makes it all the more precious.

(But he does.)