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Illya turns around. Words seem to fail him for a second, and he recalls the last time that had happened. It had been when Oleg had told him he would be working with Napoleon Solo, an American spy, who in turn had ended up being his partner. That very same man is now looking at him with expectant eyes, standing not a few feet away from him and Illya has a sudden urge to vent, not knowing why. Perhaps it is due to the feeling of frustration at his inability to understand why his stomach is in knots or why he is slightly shaking underneath his calm exterior.

In the end, what comes out of his mouth sounds like a whimper of a question. He knows he had not been mistaken, he is quite certain of what he had heard, yet he needs some kind of confirmation from the man who had said it.

“What did you say?”

“I said I might have a little thing for you, which ultimately have been driving me crazy thinking about it all this while and yeah, I just thought that I’d let you in that little detail if you don’t mind.”

And Napoleon is being so fucking brave and honest with his confession, it totally unnerves Illya.

They had returned from their latest mission, bodies sore with aches and bruises, thankfully nothing more than that, and Illya had been looking forward to a good few days of nothing but rest, had said goodbye to Gaby a while ago, and then also to Napoleon, but what he had received in return was a bombshell of a confession from his American partner, something in which Illya had not expected at all.

“Why you tell me this?” he asks, still in disbelief.

Napoleon runs his fingers through his hair like he is nervous, a look that does not really suit him, and Illya feels like taking away all of the apprehension from him. But there is a pressing matter at hand, something in which Illya needs answers to and when Napoleon keeps quiet, Illya repeats his earlier question.

“Cowboy, why? I don’t understand.”

“What is there not to understand, Peril? You like someone, you tell them.”

“You. Like. Me?”

Either Illya is being incredibly stubborn, not wanting to believe something as simple as a ‘hey, I like you, and I think you should know this’, or he simply cannot fathom how Napoleon, his very male partner could actually have feelings for him and had said it out loud for both of them to hear. When he still wears that questioning look, Napoleon lets out a defeated sigh.

“Yes, I like you, Peril and I’m telling you this because you were almost shot during the mission and I didn’t want to leave something this big until it’s too late. I don’t want to regret not telling you what I think I should tell you.”

“And what had happened justifies this reason?”

“Yes,” Napoleon answers breathlessly.

“I see.”

Illya’s short reply, without any real conviction, makes Napoleon’s heart sink a little. But it could have been worse. Illya could have shouted obscenities at him, could have said far more damaging words. Napoleon had taken his chances with him and knowing how Illya is, it really could have been a lot worse. At least, his reply had kept Napoleon’s dignity intact.

“It’s okay if you don’t feel the same, Peril. I completely understand. I just wanted you to know. It’s a good thing to get it out of my chest.”

“You say it is okay?” Illya growls, annoyed that Napoleon is assuming like he always does, assumes he knows exactly what Illya is feeling. “You think it is perfectly normal to do this, to tell me this and pretend after that like it is nothing?”

Napoleon, startled at Illya’s reasons for his little outburst, tries to explain himself.

“I’m not pretending like it’s nothing. I’m just saying I’ll be fine if you didn’t feel the same way. I just thought you should know.”

“Are you lying to me?”

Napoleon is lying of course but he cannot possibly admit that to Illya. He still has his pride to protect.

“No, I’m not lying, Peril.”

“Your words are contradicting, Cowboy. Is confusing. You tell me this and then say it is okay if I do not feel the same. And I am supposed to be just fine with it and we both pretend like you did not tell me anything?”

Napoleon gapes at his partner. This is proving a little more difficult than he had expected.

“Okay, I’m sorry. I’m an idiot, all right? Maybe I didn’t think this through enough. And can you quit trying to read me all the time, Peril, please?”

It is not a demand from Napoleon, it sounded more like a plea. It is not easy to unravel his partner but he sees that little chink in Napoleon’s armour and Illya wants to smile at that.

“What did you really expect me to say after telling me this?”

Suddenly, Illya is all serious and for the first time, Napoleon does not really know what to answer him. What he expects and being fine with an outright rejection from the Russian are totally two different things and Illya is backing him up against the wall with his question. He thought he had figured the whole thing through when he had decided to tell Illya his messed up feelings. Just a few minutes ago, he had been brave, spewing out words he would never have said ages ago and suddenly as he stands there in front of his partner who is looking like he might just strangle him or, interestingly Napoleon thinks Illya might just smother him with a kiss, he thinks maybe he had made a mistake for being too forward with his words. But Napoleon had kept it inside for too long, words had just come spilling out of his mouth without any restraint.

He still does not know why and what this is between them, what he really wants or expects Illya to say. All he knows is Illya had managed to stir up emotions he never thought he could possibly feel for anyone.

“Solo. Tell me,” Illya demands after a few seconds of silence and Napoleon hesitates as he contemplates his partner’s question.

“I don’t know. Maybe, I expect you to walk away, or ask for a transfer from Waverly, or maybe punch me for being too crude, if you want to call me being honest crude, I guess. Those are the worse things I could think of. Or you could…”

Napoleon pauses and he looks so open and helpless, like a little boy lost, it strikes Illya more than anything that he actually does feel the same way for this impossibly infuriating man. He wants to relent and take pity on Napoleon but decides he will have his way first, wants to make Napoleon say what is on his mind.

“Or what, Cowboy?”

“Or you could say you feel the same.”

And when Illya does not say anything at all after it had taken him that momentous effort, Napoleon apologises, says sorry again that he had brought the idea up, and being classic Napoleon, he goes and ramble on about how probably it was for the best that Illya does not feel the same, maybe it would be better with all the complications that might arise between them both, probably trying to convince himself more than Illya. Illya tries to take it all in at first, like it was some kind of a twisted joke what Napoleon had told him until he realises that it is not. In the end, Illya just tells him to shut up.

“I will need to think about it,” is what Illya says after some contemplation because he really does need it. He wants to be sure he is not jumping into something he is not entirely ready for even if his heart is screaming yes, and Napoleon lets out a huge sigh of relief, takes it as a good sign. At least, there is still a little bit of hope that Illya might not be entirely opposed to the idea of them being together.




Two days after Napoleon’s confession, the American is assigned on a lone mission, to steal some important engineering plans hidden in some tycoon’s vault in Turin before the intel falls into the wrong hands, and this raises an issue with Illya, unhappy that Napoleon would be going alone without any backup.

“What is Waverly thinking? Gaby and I should be going as well. You do not have backup,” he grumbles, wrings his hands together as if trying to still the trembling of his fingers.

Napoleon raises an eyebrow at Illya’s complaints.

“Peril. Trust me. I’m a thief, first and foremost, remember? I don’t need a backup for this.”

Illya has started pacing around their office like a caged animal while Napoleon continues to pack in the mission dossiers into his suitcase. And he is still is not convinced enough in spite of all the excuses Napoleon gives him.

“But this is still dangerous, anything could happen. And knowing you and vaults and escape plans, is definitely not a good idea.”

Napoleon smiles at his partner. “You’re worried about me.”

Illya just chews on his lip. He does not say anything because it was not a question from Napoleon but merely a reaffirming statement of what Illya is struggling with at the moment.

Truthfully, he almost always worry for Napoleon, never trusting him to go on any missions alone, even if he had done that numerous times before he had met Illya. But now, after being partners with UNCLE for almost a year, Illya realises Napoleon’s safety is his absolute number one concern. He wants to say this to Napoleon, as he watches him prepare for his trip to Turin, but that would mean admitting to something he is not entirely sure Napoleon needs to hear. He worries his timing might be off and Napoleon’s concentration might be affected by it.

“Do not take this lightly,” he sternly reminds Napoleon again.

“Not going to, Peril.”

“I am serious.”

“I am too, Illya.”

Napoleon knows they could go back and forth with the argument not ending anytime soon because it is not in Illya’s nature to simply give up, especially when he thinks he is right. This time around, however, Illya’s concern for him extends to something more and if Napoleon does not know any better, he suspects it has to do something with what he had said to the Russian although he does not want to get his hopes up.

“Just try to stay out of trouble, Cowboy,” Illya finally says in the end when he realises there is nothing else he could do but let his partner go and Napoleon quickly nods an affirmative.

“I always do.”

And after Napoleon had left, Illya just stands there alone in their office while wondering whether he had accomplished anything at all in delaying the inevitable.




“I cannot believe Solo is in Turin and we’re here stuck doing paperwork. I think somehow Waverly’s starting to favour him over me.”

Gaby has been rambling for a full few minutes but Illya has paid her no attention. He is focused on completing his task but despite seemingly immersed in work, Gaby has noticed his eyes straying a couple of times towards Napoleon’s empty desk. She had earlier on strolled into her partners’ office with multiple files of all the overdue paperwork they needed to complete by the end of the day and Illya had accepted the unchallenging dull prospect without so much of a grumble, but the lack of words from the Russian is starting to get to her.

“I am going to make sure Solo’s going to get his fare share of this when he gets back,” Gaby says and Illya merely hums. She leans back on her chair that is next to Illya and closes the file she has been sifting through.

“You’re not actually thinking about Solo, are you?”

Now that finally got her Illya’s attention.


“If you're worried about him then don’t. Solo’s well equipped to do this job alone and besides, this Italian tycoon Solo is to engage with is not even aware of the importance of that precious blueprint in his vault. For all you know, Solo doesn’t even need to steal it, he’ll just charm his way, do what he does best and that man will give it to him.”

If that was supposed to ease Illya’s concern then perhaps Gaby has failed because somehow the frown he has been wearing has deepened.

“This Italian man, his preference is not...he is not into men. I read his dossier.”

“So?” Gaby asks, tries hard not to smile. She has gotten him where she’d wanted. “That doesn’t mean Solo can’t charm him? I mean, I’ve seen straight men fall for his charms before.”

Illya raises an eyebrow and never good at hiding his emotions, Gaby could see right through the green eyed monster in him. “Who are you talking about? And when did you see this?”

“Right now, I’m seeing it right now, Illya. And just because you’re too daft not to see it doesn’t mean I can’t.”

“I’m not!” Illya exclaims, his cheeks flushing when he suddenly realises what Gaby is implying. “You’re is not what you think.”

“Then what is this worrying and huffing and getting all flushed about Solo called?”

Gaby waits for Illya’s reply, knows Illya cannot lie his way through this anymore than she wants to prod him any longer. But sometimes, the Russian does need a little push so he could see what is right in front of him.


“I do not wish to speak of this,” he mumbles instead and dives straight back into his report although his concentration has been wrecked beyond repair and all he could think about after that is Napoleon.


“Cowboy,” Illya says quietly as he steps into their office space.

Napoleon had returned from his trip unscathed, had fallen asleep on their office couch before Illya’s presence had woken him up. Never had he been more restless than the week Napoleon had been away from him and never had he been more relieved to see his partner. When Illya had heard from Gaby that Napoleon was back from Turin, he could not contain his anxiousness at wanting to get reacquainted with him. His conversation with Gaby a couple of days earlier had definitely helped his case although he will not mention it to her anytime soon.

“Peril? What time is it?” Napoleon says, voice a little croaky from sleep as he blinks at his friend.

“It’s late, Cowboy. Why are you here and not back at your apartment?”

Napoleon yawns and stretches his arms. His hair is tousled, the tie around his neck is loosened and the creases on his shirt obvious from his sleep on the couch with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and suddenly, just looking at Napoleon looking like that, looking almost sinful, Illya cannot help but think when had his partner become incredibly gorgeous? And since when had he started harbouring this ridiculous want for the man?

“I’d wanted to pass some documents to Waverly. Then I was too tired to get home. Decided to crash on the couch instead,” Napoleon answers, the tiredness in his voice apparent, oblivious of Illya’s eyes gazing intently at him.

“What are you doing here, Peril? Aren’t you supposed to be at home?”

“I was, then I heard from Gaby you were back. I looked for you at your apartment but when you didn’t answer your door, I thought maybe you are here.”

Hearing that, a sly grin spreads on Napoleon’s lips. “Anxious to find me?”

Trying to ignore the slight tease in Napoleon’s voice, Illya instinctively edges closer towards him. Other than looking exhausted, there is no visible injury on Napoleon’s face that Illya could see. He is immediately thankful because Napoleon tends to get injured a lot, either beaten up or shot at and all other sorts of things that make him worry and that is something Illya could not stomach.

“You okay? Did not get hurt during mission?” he questions instead. His obvious concern for his well-being warms the American’s heart.

“I’m fine, Peril. No need to worry about me.”

“No, I do worry. Especially when you go on lone missions like this. I do not like it.”

“Yes, you told me this before I left. Anyway, I’m back in one piece.”

“I am glad, Cowboy. You have no idea how much.”

“That is good to know,” Napoleon murmurs, his breath caught in his throat listening to Illya’s choice of words.

Illya shuffles his feet, unsure at the moment of what to do with his hands stiff at his sides as his eyes are locked with Napoleon’s. If Illya wants to give Napoleon the answer he deserves, he must tell him now before Napoleon leaves the office, he must tell him before he gives in to his nerves.

While lost in his own thoughts, Illya does not realise Napoleon is already up on his feet. “Let’s go home, shall we? It’s getting late.”

Illya is uncertain whether Napoleon is trying to avoid the one topic that is still left hanging unresolved between them, or whether it is just him being paranoid for no reasons at all, but him being away had opened Illya’s eyes and he needs to tell him exactly what he wants from Napoleon.

Feeling a surge of inexplicable emotion, Illya reaches forward to clasp Napoleon’s hands in his. The sudden act earns him a curious look from his partner.

“Peril? What’s going on?”

“Do you not want answer for your question the other day?” Illya says, quirks his lips slightly before leaning forward towards Napoleon. The American sucks in a breath.

“Well, yes. Yes, of course. I’m still waiting for it,” Napoleon says. “You’ve been thinking about it while I’ve been away?”

“Yes. All week. I think about this.”

A hopeful smile plays on Napoleon’s lips. “And?”

“I am going to give you my answer, Cowboy.”

“Right now?”

“Yes. Or you prefer to wait?”

Napoleon only shakes his head.

And then it happens.

When their lips touch for the first time, it is more like a short, friendly peck on the lips. Illya pulls away a bit after the chaste kiss and he sees a contented grin on Napoleon’s face. The second time he leans in, Illya moves his body closer and entwines their fingers together. He glances into Napoleon’s blue eyes, beautiful and absolutely spellbinding and his heart starts to beat wildly in his chest. Illya presses his mouth on Napoleon’s again and this time, the kiss is tentative, gentle and searching. When they stop and Illya pulls away, Napoleon is staring at him, his eyes wide and lips slightly puckered. At that sight, Illya squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, feeling a tightness in his chest he has never felt before this.

When he leans in for the third time, it is Napoleon that kisses him first. He lurches forward and captures Illya’s lips in a perfect, calculated precision and the only thing Illya could do is stand there in shock just for a split second before he snaps out of his trance and starts to kiss Napoleon back hungrily, desperate and urgent, and it feels like he is saying ‘I do, I do feel the same way, Cowboy.’

The act translates all the things he could not say to Napoleon.

His hands fly up to cup Napoleon’s neck and he feels like his heart might explode because this is actually real and it is happening right then, right now. Napoleon licks at Illya’s lips and then thrusts his tongue inside, his hands gripping his arms as he kisses Illya over and over and it feels absolutely good, so good Illya can barely comprehend the haze of surprise and the arousal that is taking over his entire being. Illya pushes himself closer to Napoleon’s body, intoxicated and wanting more, wanting to touch and taste and feel Napoleon everywhere.

“Solo,” Illya gasps as Napoleon pulls away from his lips but then he starts to press kisses on Illya’s neck and Illya cannot help but moan when he feels Napoleon’s hot roaming mouth on his feverish skin. Illya’s fingers are tangled in his dark luscious hair, and then down on his chest, then move further down until they are under his shirt, touching as much of his skin as possible. Illya is shuffling closer, backing him up until Napoleon’s legs hit the couch and they fall on it with a dull thud.

“Should we be doing this now? Here?” Napoleon asks breathlessly against Illya’s lips. “Or you want to go back to my place? There’s a perfectly comfy bed…”

“No. Can’t wait. Too long.”

Illya thinks his stuttering sentence had somehow made sense because Napoleon lets out a breathless chuckle before pulling him down for another kiss.

“God, Illya, do you have any idea how long I’d wanted this?”

Illya does not answer, only kisses him back but this time, it is messier and his hands are grappling with the buttons of Napoleon’s shirt, eager to strip that garment off of him. He curses himself because his fingers are trembling so much, but Illya wants Napoleon so badly, he would have to soldier through whatever nerves that are left inside of him.

Napoleon, somehow sensing Illya’s anxiousness, pulls away and stills his hands in his. He manages to slow down the pace of Illya’s rapidly beating heart with a single look into the Russian’s eyes.

“You sure about this?” he asks and Illya nods, unhesitant and Napoleon immediately leans up, kisses Illya with deliberate slowness and Illya feels like he has found a whole new level of something, something he can’t quite find the exact word to describe what he is feeling.

He kisses Napoleon back, slow and hard, and everything is so sensual and intimate and delicious that it feels like he is making love to Napoleon. His heart pounds and his cock throbs hotly in his pants and Illya feels he has never felt anything as amazing as this in his entire life. Feeling aroused, he cannot help but press down against Napoleon, seeking out temporary relief from the throbbing in his body and at the pressure of Illya’s hips, Napoleon groans into his mouth.




Illya studies Napoleon’s flushed naked features underneath his own naked body.

A tiny coil of nervousness has begun to grow inside him but he brushes it aside and reaches down to stroke his partner’s lower stomach with slightly shaking fingertips. Illya pets him until he’s humming and purring like a cat and then, growing in confidence, Illya reaches further down and cover Napoleon’s hardness with his palm for the very first time.

Napoleon exhales shakily and Illya revels in the amazing feeling of the silky hard texture and hot heaviness that is purely Napoleon. His name rings in Illya’s head, and he wonders why he had never even tried this before with this man who is currently writhing in his hand.

“Nothing is more difficult than to be able to decide.”

Napoleon’s sudden words, albeit with a little delicious groan, makes Illya’s eyes narrow.


“That’s one of Napoleon Bonaparte’s famous quotes. I…ahh, thought you should know I took that as my inspiration when I decided to let you know how I feel about you.”

“You quote Bonaparte on me?”

“Followed the advice of my very famous namesake. Just to show you how serious I am.”

Lost for words, because Napoleon has an ability to do that to him, Illya only continues to rub at him experimentally a few times and Napoleon moans and tries to thrust up into the Russian’s hand, searching for a rhythm that will push him over the edge, but Illya only lets go of him and moves down, further down, nudging his legs apart.

“Wait,” Napoleon whispers as he recovers from Illya’s ministrations, realises what his partner is about to do. He reaches for something in his suitcase which is right beside the couch, then lies back down, pressing a small bottle into Illya’s hands. One look at it and Illya smiles.

“Well prepared, Cowboy?”

“Never know when we might need it,” Napoleon answers sheepishly.

Grasping the bottle, Illya then leans forward to press a reassuring kiss to Napoleon’s lips again before uncapping the lotion, squirting some onto his fingertips. Then, slowly, he reaches down to stroke at Napoleon’s cock a bit more, until he is sure the American is ready.

“Illya,” Napoleon whimpers, writhes restlessly at his deft touches.

Illya’s long fingers have trailed lower, finding his entrance, and Illya just rubs there a few times. Napoleon looks up at Illya and his eyes are more vulnerable than Illya had ever seen them, filled with such raw trust it makes Illya’s already speeding heart pound more rapidly against his ribs at the implication of all that is about to happen. Illya kisses him gently before searching his heavy-lidded eyes again for a sign to go on.

Napoleon bites his lower lip and nods in consent and Illya takes another deep breath, watching him carefully before he slides a finger inside him, and Napoleon gasps and stiffens, body unfamiliar with the intrusion.

“Okay?” Illya asks immediately, worried, but Napoleon just licks his lips and nods, breathing hard for a moment before he inhales and starts to relax.

Illya kisses his cheek and strokes his hair with his other hand before slipping a second finger in.

Napoleon squeezes his eyes shut and groans this time, half in discomfort, half in some indiscernible emotion that doesn't sound too displeased. Illya waits a few long seconds until he is sure Napoleon is relaxed enough before he leans forward and strokes his fingers in and out of him experimentally. Illya could see Napoleon’s chest rises and falls gently and he doesn’t seem to be hating it now, so after a few thrusts, and Illya is confident enough to curve his fingers upwards inside of him, earning an explicit loud curse from Napoleon for his effort, and for a second Illya is worried he might have hurt his partner. But then he hears Napoleon hisses something that sounds like again.

“What?” Illya asks teasingly. He pulls his fingers out a little and push it in again. “Like this?”

Illya looks at Napoleon and curves his fingers again and Napoleon practically purrs, his fingers digging into Illya’s upper arms.


Encouraged, Illya starts to stroke his fingers out and then back in, curling them right against that spot and he watches in wonder as Napoleon moans loudly, continuously, and thrashes, trying to buck up and push down against his fingers all at once in frenzied arousal. Illya’s cock throbs almost painfully at the sight. Napoleon is coming apart at the seams and it is all because of Illya.

Hungry for more of that reaction, Illya continues to rub against Napoleon’s delicious spot until his hands are grappling at the back of the sofa for leverage, his body arching, and he’s gasping desperately, his cock flushed and swollen and leaking pre-cum. Then, after he had been teased until he is almost mindless, until he does not think he can stand it a second longer, one of Napoleon’s hands grips at Illya’s arm, forcing him to stop.

Now,” Napoleon whispers raggedly. “Now, Illya. Please.”

Illya nods and kisses him hungrily before he pulls away and finds the lotion bottle again. Accidentally squirting too much in his aroused haste, Illya quickly rubs all that he can onto his cock then leans between Napoleon’s spread out legs. The American instinctively lifts them and hooks them behind Illya’s back as Illya positions himself, nudging the head of his cock into Napoleon’s entrance.

“You okay, Cowboy?” Illya asks as he watches him carefully.

“Fuck, yes, keep going,” Napoleon murmurs and bites his lip.

Illya thrusts into him a bit more and cannot help but groan loudly, his cock throbbing sensually inside Napoleon’s unbelievably tight heat. Pausing for several seconds, he tries to collect himself but Napoleon’s legs tighten around him, pulling him closer, and suddenly Illya’s fully sheathed inside him, and he moans and gasps for breath as he tries to calm his frenzied nerve at the sensation he is feeling. Illya realises that he fits so perfectly inside of Napoleon and vaguely wonders if there really is such thing as soul mates because he figures like he has found his. And he dazedly realises that this man, this American thief who has somehow managed to steal that one thing inside of him, his so-called soul mate, is currently thrashing beneath him, trying to rock his hips up.

“More, Illya, more,” he demands then and Illya obliges, extracting his cock and thrusting back into him.

Napoleon moans, his entire body shudders instantly and Illya knows he has hit his spot. At that, the Russian adjusts his positioning and thrusts inside him again hard, knowing he is going to hit it head-on this time.

At the contact, Napoleon throws his head back and practically howls, his fingers clawing at Illya’s shoulders, and the sight is so fucking sexy Illya can't help but repeat his action again, and again, driving Napoleon insane. He thrusts into him, starting off slow but eventually working up a faster rhythm, his cock begging for more and more of Napoleon’s delicious tight friction.

Illya leans forward to bite and suck on the exposed skin of Napoleon’s arched neck, needing to taste him as he continues to grind into him. A dizzyingly amazing pressure Illya has never felt before is building to an unbearable peak deep inside of him and it is driving him absolutely crazy. Napoleon’s tight walls stroke his cock over and over and he feels so fucking high, so close to him, so privileged to get to be with him like this, to make him feel like this.

“God, Cowboy,” Illya grunts and breathes harshly against his skin, his sweaty forehead resting on Napoleon’s shoulder. Illya is so close. So close to reaching this incredible, impossible place and he needs it so badly like he has never needed anything like this.

And Napoleon, he’s trembling beneath Illya now, his hands holding onto his arms weakly as he concentrates on the pleasure that Illya’s giving him. Unable to hold back anymore, Illya reaches down and grabs Napoleon’s hot swollen cock in his hand. He rubs at the underside of the wet tip with his thumb and then he palms him, stroking down once and then up roughly. And Napoleon, at that incredible touch, comes apart at Illya’s first stroke upward, cursing as he shudders and comes hard. His cock jerks in Illya’s palm and spills great big spurts all over Ilya’s hand, onto his own chest, and his breathing stops completely for a second before he moans, the breath falling from his parted lips in hot little gasps. His walls clench around Illya’s cock and it’s just the last little push the Russian needs.

Illya comes, finally comes, grunting loudly as his cock throbs and gushes hot come deep inside Napoleon’s body and he feels like passing out from the waves of pleasure that wash over him, long and hard and intense. His lungs feel they’re about to capsize and his heart feels like it might give out from this lightning fast rush of blood and adrenaline that seems to fill his entire body, from his strained arms and legs, right down to his very toes. And his entire body trembles, as he continues to thrust weakly into Napoleon just to hear the delicious moans and whimpers Napoleon’s making, panting breathlessly and riding out the last of his orgasm before finally collapsing atop of him.

Illya stays there for several long seconds, trying to regain his breathing and calm the shaking in his limbs before managing to drag himself away a bit so that only half of his weight is crushing Napoleon. Even so, Illya keeps his face buried in Napoleon’s neck and his arm draped across his sweaty chest, his mind reeling from what had just happened, of how fucking good it had felt.

So fucking good.

So fucking good Illya can’t help but mutter that exact sentiment aloud against Napoleon’s neck and the American just chuckles and curls his arms around Illya’s shoulders.

“Hmm, so does this mean you feel the same way?” he asks, despite himself.

“If what we had done just now does not answer your question, Solo, I do not know what does.”

Napoleon smiles against Illya’s cheeks and kisses it softly. “I’m glad you feel the same, Peril.”

Illya does not reply, only hums. Although a little scared, he knows this new found intimacy will not change anything between them. Inexplicably, it had made everything feel more right, it had made more sense, because, as much as Illya wants to deny it, he had a feeling whatever it was between them had been waiting to happen for a long time coming. Either way, Illya does not want to think about it too much when he can certainly enjoy his Cowboy and what awaits them instead.

With ragged breath, Illya then kisses Napoleon’s neck, his cheeks, his jaw, every inch of Napoleon’s skin his lips could reach, hands skimming over his sides as Napoleon squirms a little underneath him.

“We need to ask Waverly for new sofa. Get bigger one,” Illya murmurs and then Napoleon’s lips curve at him, at the subtle joke Illya’s just made.

Squeezing their hands tight, with fingers entwining, Napoleon cannot help the huge grin that stays glued to his face for the rest of the night.