Chapter Text
Victoria's presence at the hotel is problematic and unfortunately not surprising, given how terribly they mangled their exit from the warehouse.
They sprint for the stairs at a dead run, their cover riding on somehow crafting a bullet-proof alibi in the next two minutes. There's the start of plan forming in the back of Napoleon's head and it's not his favorite but it wouldn't be the first time he played his body like an ace up his sleeve.
They reach the first landing and Illya should be peeling off for his own room, only he doesn't. Napoleon tries to shove him in the right direction without slowing his speed, but all he accomplishes is pressing his hand to rock solid wall of Illya's chest. Illya only grabs him by the wrist and pulls him up the stairs faster.
"We do this my way," he says, something hard and out-of-place in his expression in the brief moment he meets Napoleon's eyes.
"She cannot see us together," Napoleon whisper-shouts back. They're nearly at his room now, but his plan won't work with Illya there and it would be equally bad for their cover if Vicotria saw Jack Devany with Gaby's fiancé. But Illya does not slow, he herds Napoleon through the door as soon as it's open and steps in behind him. If it weren't for the last few hours of mutually saving each other's lives, Napoleon would already be gone, but damn him to hell, he cannot help but trust that whatever crazy plan Illya has is going to work.
"She will not know it is me." There's a dangerous sort of smirk on Illya's face as he says it, then it's gone as he pulls his shirt off over his head. "Strip," he orders.
A pit begins to open up in Napoleon's stomach, the outlines of Illya's idea slowing becoming apparent, but it is too late to back out now. The wet jacket goes first, then his shirt, and even though he wants to stop there Illya is gesturing him on and stepping closer like he's ready to start helping if Napoleon isn't quick enough.
And suddenly, before he's truly had time to think about it, he's naked in front of a shirtless Illya, exposed and pinned like butterfly under his stare.
Napoleon has been naked in front of more people than he can count, but it's never felt like this. People have wanted him before, but Illya looks hungry. Looks like he's going to devour Napoleon, going to take him and ruin him for anyone else. Illya stalks forward and Napoleon cannot help but step back, retreating as fast as Illya approaches, heart jackrabbiting in his chest with a mix of fear and anticipation, even as his dick starts to take an interest.
Napoleon can see the moment Illya notices, his eyes drop to Napoleon's groin and his grin grows shark-like.
Then the wall is behind him.
Illya closes the distance in a step. He tilts his head towards Napoleon's neck and takes a deep breath, then sinks down to his knees with every ounce of his lethal grace.
Somehow he still looks regal, even on his knees, like a painting Napoleon is itching to steal, then he opens his mouth and is a wet dream come to life. Those perfect bow lips and the red cavern of his mouth. It would take a saint to resist this.
Illya leans forward, bracing his huge palms on Napoleon's bare thighs, and swallows him to the root.
Napoleon chokes on his next breath, hips jerking involuntarily and uselessly against Illya's grip. It's warm and wet and hot in every way that's ever mattered. Illya's eyes are fixed on his, so so blue contrasted against the red of his lips stretched around Napoleon's cock.
Napoleon wasn't hard a moment ago, but now he suddenly is, blood rushing south so fast it leaves him putty in Illya's hands. And Illya, god Illya looks smug, but still so hungry, like it isn't enough to have Napoleon like this, like this is only the beginning.
It doesn't matter how many times he repeats it's just for the mission in his head, it feels too good. Illya sucks him down, bobbing his head in perfect rhythm, lips shiny with spit and making the most obscene sounds. Napoleon wants to distance himself, or rather what he wants is to bury his cock even deeper and fuck Illya's throat until he stops looking so pleased with himself, but what he needs is to put a wall up between his body and his brain, needs to let this happen without letting it rock the foundations of his shaky self-control.
Only he can't. Illya is kneading his ass, gently spreading his cheeks, working his tongue against the underside of Napoleon's cock, holding his gaze and hollowing his cheeks and every motion knocks Napoleon back into his body, traps him here and present, experiencing every touch in vibrant technicolor.
He needs Victoria to arrive immediately and save him from this charade, but god, he wants Victoria to never arrive, wants to suspend this moment in glass, balancing on this razor wire of pleasure and tension forever.
And it's worse because he knows this is exactly what Illya planned, two birds with one stone and all he had to do was get on his knees. It's underhanded and clever and as scarily effective as everything else he's done.
Illya had positioned them with a tactician's attention to detail. Illya's back is to the door, his face hidden in Napoleon's groin, his hair darkened to almost brown by the water, his giant height obscured by being on his knees. They're in direct line of sight of the door, posed so perfectly that it's impossible not to know immediately what's happening, with the added benefit of making sure Napoleon's charming mouth is pointed at the door to talk them out of trouble.
Illya swallows around his length and Napoleon cannot hold back the moan that escapes.
He has to endure this. He doesn't have a choice.
But would it be so bad to enjoy it too?
Illya pulls him in deeper and Napoleon stops fighting, lets his body melt into Illya's hands. A moment of weakness slipping into two, into a hundred.
Finally, he lets himself really look. And god, Illya is beautiful. All those perfect pale planes of muscle, the golden dusting of hair on his forearms, those giant hands that make Napoleon's hips look small (fingers that would stretch him just the right side of too far). He looks like untouchable marble, so perfect he would make a sculptor weep, so sharply carved it looks like it should hurt to touch him.
But Napoleon's hands sink into his hair and its soft and silky, and Illya's eyes flutter shut for the barest moment. And still Illya continues to work his cock, bobbing and sucking and licking, and the pleasure builds and builds. Napoleon can feel the first trickle of slick from his hole, can feel the flood that is coming if Illya continues.
"Fuck, Pe--" he cuts himself off aggressively, casting around for something he can say without blowing their cover. He can't say Illya, can't even say Peril, and it feels wrong to say anything else, but the words are bubbling up faster than he can swallow them down. "oh fuck, don't stop."
Memories of his briefing surface, the name Illya Nikolayevich Kuryakin circled in bold ink, and Illya's middle name is spilling from his lips before he can stop it. "Niko, fuck, don't stop. Niko."
Illya moans around his cock at the sound, so he says it again, "Niko, Niko, so good," just to feel the vibrations of Illya's throat.
He nearly misses the soft click of the door opening past his own moans, but the movement catches his eye and suddenly it's showtime. A tremor of tension runs through Illya and he stills, frozen with Napoleon's cock still half filling his mouth. How vulnerable he must feel, his naked back to a known enemy. Napoleon strokes his hand through Illya's hair, swipes a thumb along the cut glass of his cheekbone and is nearly surprised by how Illya settles, eyes locked on Napoleon, trusting him to get them through this. It's a heady feeling.
Napoleon takes a deep breath as Victoria opens the door the rest of the way, stepping into the room. Her expression slips into surprise when she finally sees the picture they make, but she hides it well.
Napoleon raises a pointed eyebrow in her direction, "Ah, Victoria, I apologize, I wasn't expecting you." He pauses for a moment, waiting to see how she reacts, but she only continues to stare, assessing. "Was that you at the phone? I would have answered but I was," he gives a performative glance down at Illya before him, "occupied."
He watches her gaze follow his, sees the predatory way she traces over Illya's bare shoulders. Finally, she speaks, stepping farther into the room with a coy expression that looks wrong her face.
"I suppose that is understandable, he does look like a treat."
It has Napoleon's hackles rising before he can parse out why, never mind the fact that it would blow their cover. He means to say, he doesn't share, which is almost definitely accurate knowing Illya, but what comes out is "I don't share."
It's damning and unhelpful, probably out of character for Jack Devany, but the thought of Victoria touching Illya, coming up on his vulnerable back, which Illya is clearly trusting him to protect, makes something primal and angry well up in his chest. He can feel Illya reacting to his words, moaning so low its more feeling than sound, but Napoleon cannot take his stare off of Victoria.
Somehow its more worrying that she looks thoughtful rather than disappointed, "Some other time then," she says, half smirking like they're both in on a joke but Napoleon cannot read her tone, can barely gauge whether they've managed to convince her at all.
But she leaves, slipping from the room as gracefully as she entered, and the door clicks shut behind her.
The room is still a moment, then he gathers the will to look at Illya, at war within himself because Illya should go now, now that their covers are safe, but Napoleon is hard and dripping with slick and he doesn't have the willpower to stop this.
Illya pulls off and he should feel relief, he should be glad that he won't have to live with the knowledge of what it feels like to come down Illya's throat, but he cannot stop his hands clenching in Illya's hair. He wants more, if this night is all he gets, all he ever lets himself have, then he wants it all.
One side of Illya's mouth quirks up, that half smirk that drives Napoleon to anger and lust. For a moment, he's struck with the desire to kiss it, to know what that shape feels like under his lips, to know if it tastes sweet like pride, if it tastes as good as Illya smells. He quashes the urge, that is so many steps too far, off-limits like this should of have been.
Illya doesn't leave, doesn't pull away, just looks so damn smug, his lips red and shiny with spit. "Do not worry Cowboy, I will not make you beg this time," he says. His voice is gravelly from Napoleon's cock and isn't that a thought?
Then Illya lifts one of Napoleon's legs to pull it over his shoulder and dives down, under Napoleon's cock, pressing his face between Napoleon's legs, trying to get as close as possible to his leaking hole.
Napoleon startles and nearly overbalances, but Illya's hands are still solid on his thighs, holding him steady and spreading his ass, making space for Illya to tuck his nose as deep as possible. Napoleon can hear, can feel the brush of air, as Illya takes a deep breath, breathing in the scent of his slick. It's obscene, somehow dirtier than everything else that's happened. He knew, academically, that Alpha's liked the smell of slick, but Illya looks greedy for it and its…
It's so fucking hot. Napoleon cannot help but stare at the curve of Illya's back, flexing his leg over Illya's shoulder instinctually, trying to pull him even closer.
Illya shifts and suddenly his nose is pressing and dragging from Napoleon's hole to that tender spot under his balls. The barest phantom pressure sending tingles racing over his skin, a shiver that encompasses his whole body. His breath gets cut off into a whine, a murmur of Niko Niko Niko, don't stop repeated under his breath.
Illya pulls back, then hikes Napoleon's leg farther over his shoulder so he can dive back in with his tongue. Napoleon feels it hot and wet on his hole. He can't help but moan and arch into the sensation as it drags, searing hot, between his balls and to the base of his cock.
He knows he's shouting now, but he can't stop, can't focus on anything but Illya's tongue, piercing and sucking and licking. The smell of Illya's arousal is so thick in the air now that Napoleon can taste it, like snowflakes on his tongue, if snowflakes made his whole body tremble with sensation and desire, panting now as he gets closer and closer, filling his lungs with Illya, Illya, Alpha.
His cock is throbbing and dripping with precome when Illya finally emerges. Illya's whole face, from the bridge of his nose south, is shiny with slick and as Napoleon watches, he licks some of it from his lips, smiling and pleased. It sends a bolt of lust straight through Napoleon's core, he watches his own cock jerk at the image, watches Illya notice and lean forward to lick the precome welling at his slit.
He's so hard it hurts, fingers clenching and releasing in Illya's hair. It feels like a single touch could set him off, like Illya could breathe on him and he would come.
Illya's eyes are blown black and the tent in his pants is obscene, and against his better judgement, Napoleon imagines what it would feel like to be filled with something that large. He wants it and hates himself for wanting it.
Then all rational thought is banished from his mind as Illya meets his gaze and sinks down, taking Napoleon's cock back into his throat, tight and hot. He doesn't hold back this time, taking him hard and fast and deep.
Napoleon was already on the edge, and now he's gone, trembling from the lightning shocks of pleasure racing up his body, like sparks every time the head of his cock bumps up against the back of Illya's throat, every time Illya swallows, every time one of Illya's fingers grazes the sensitive rim of ass.
And still Illya is looking at him, lips stretched wide, nearly kissing Napoleon's navel with every bob of his head. He moans, deep and rumbly, when Napoleon uses the hand tangled in his hair to hold him there, and Napoleon feels it vibrate from where he's fucked deep in Illya's throat, and Illya just looks so damn pleased, like he's the one being blown within an inch of his sanity, and then Napoleon is coming.
Everything is white hot and buzzing, he can feel his spine arching, forcing him deeper into that perfect warmth, can feel the waves of pleasure as he spills down Illya's throat, over his tongue. His vision tunnels, the world going perfectly black-and-white except for the twin rings of blue in Illya's eyes. Napoleon is panting, exploding, breaking down and being remade, and he is aware of nothing but the overwhelming pleasure and Illya.