The Assault on the Senses Affair

by Ceindreadh

"Illya," called Napoleon softly. There was no response. "Illya?" he tried again, still with no success. "Illya, Illya, Illya, Illya, Illya, Illya."

"No," said Illya, his attention focused on the work in front of him.

"Illya," said Napoleon again, an air of seductiveness in his voice as he approached the table where Illya was working. "You've been working for ages...isn't it time you took a break?"

"It's because of taking so many breaks that I am overdue with this," said Illya, continuing to write. He could hear Napoleon sit down in the chair across the table from him, but he refused to look at him, knowing that the sight of his lover would only serve to distract him from the task at hand.

"You know that you'd be finished a lot faster if you let me help," commented Napoleon as he watched the blond head across the table from him. He wanted so much to just reach across and pull Illya into his arms. One kiss and he was sure he could convince him to forget all about the paperwork he was busily intent on completing.

"A deal is a deal. I lost the bet, so I must do all of this," said Illya. True, there was no agency in the world that could enforce the agreement that he had entered into with Napoleon, namely that whichever of them could bring the other to orgasm fastest would have their share of the work completed by their partner. He really should have known better than to gamble with Napoleon like that. Although he prided himself on his self-control, a few caresses from his lover and he had melted under his touch. Napoleon had had him screaming in ecstasy in half the time it had taken Illya to return the favor. Not that Napoleon's release had been any the less satisfactory...but Illya was used to concentrating on prolonging the experience for his partner, and had been unable to speed up the process...even to win a bet. Signing his name at the bottom of the page he put it to one side before reaching for another one. A hand on the page made him stop and look at his lover, an expression of exasperation on his face as he said warningly, "Napoleon!"

"Stubborn Russian," said Napoleon, trying to look his most soulful.

"Irrepressible American," replied Illya, carefully removing Napoleon's hand and taking the page. With an effort, he tore his eyes away from Napoleon's face and tried to concentrate on what he was writing. But it was difficult to blot that face from his mind and Illya could feel himself growing hard at the image. Biting the inside of his cheek, he continued to write, digging the pen into the paper in an effort to hide the shaking of his hand.

Napoleon scowled as he watched the hand moving over the paper. Okay, so 'the voice' hadn't worked. He had to admire the way that Illya was always able to focus so completely on his work no matter what external distractions there were. Oh sure, he was able to concentrate as well, when the occasion demanded it, but it was one thing to keep ones mind on the job when it came to setting explosives while bullets zinged around you and quite another matter to be able to concentrate on paperwork when there were oh so many other more 'interesting' things to be him for instance.

But Illya had always had that ability to tune out things when he wanted to. There was a standing joke around UNCLE that a bomb could go off while Mr. Kuryakin was writing a report and he wouldn't even notice until he had finished. But nobody dared to put it to the least not since the time when an agent had landed in sickbay with a broken nose after he'd snuck up on Illya and yelled 'boo!' while the senior agent had been engaged in writing. At times he envied the younger man's single mindedness when faced with a not particularly pleasant task. The last time *he* had been working on papers at home, all it had taken was Illya's 'Napoleon, I'm home', for him to be distracted. He had grabbed Illya and pulled him onto the table, kissing him passionately. One thing had led to another, and both he and Illya had ended up with a considerable amount of ink all over their bodies...but then they had had the fun of removing it together in the shower, and when Mr. Waverly had commented on how Mr. Solo's latest report had appeared to be more untidy and smudged than usual, both agents had been hard pressed to keep a straight face.

So Napoleon knew that he would have to try something other than talking dirty to Illya if he wanted to get any attention from him.

Hmm, he thought, as he pondered the problem. He could always strip naked and strike a pose across the table from Illya. Surely the sight of his body only inches away would prove a sufficient motivation to scrap the paperwork for at least a little while. But then, the last time he had stripped in the living room, he had neglected to close the drapes and the manager of the building had received several complaints from offended neighbors. Of course, there had been several compliments received as well...but that wasn't the point. The point was, he would have to close the drapes before doing it, and Illya would be sure to figure out what his plan was and might possibly go to the extreme of asking him to leave their apartment so he could finish what he was doing without being interrupted. No, the trick was to get Illya's attention almost without him realizing it.

On a previous occasion, Napoleon had stripped naked—closing the drapes first, of course—and had covered his chest with chocolate body paint before inviting Illya to come and lick it off of him. Unfortunately, by the time Illya had been able to join him, Napoleon had fallen asleep and rolled over on the bed. He had woken to find himself stuck firmly to the sheet and Illya in fits of laughter as he tried to release him. Removing the sheet had been a slow and painful affair as it had been firmly affixed and took much of his chest hair with it. But then, Illya had been there to 'kiss it better' for him, so it hadn't worked out *too* badly.

So the sound of his voice, the sight of his body, and the taste of him...none of those options were appropriate. But Napoleon wasn't out of ideas yet...he was nothing if not creative. Once he had even applied an aphrodisiac cream to his genitals, having being assured that the scent of it mingled with his own bodily aroma would be sure to drive his lover crazy with desire...especially when the wearer pranced nude in front of him.

To be fair, the cream had actually worked and Illya had been suitably distracted. Unfortunately, there had been an unforeseen side effect, and Napoleon had been forced to ask at sickbay for some soothing lotion to ease the pain of the rash, which had appeared by the next morning. It could have been worse he thought, wincing slightly at the memory. Illya had called in sick rather than have to explain to the UNCLE doctor just what was the origin of the rash around his mouth.

After that little incident, Napoleon had felt the need to approach Mr. Waverly. He had carefully not mentioned any names, but had told his superior that rather than have him hear it from rumors that he was indeed in a serious relationship with another man. He had insisted that it would not affect his work, but he had no wish to put himself in a potential blackmail situation. Mr. Waverly had puffed away on his pipe for a few minutes before dismissing Napoleon with the instructions to be sure and not let his personal life interfere with his work. Napoleon had been almost at the door when Mr. Waverly had commented—almost in passing—that Mr. Kuryakin had been telling him a similar tale only a few hours earlier. Napoleon had waited on tenterhooks to find out if he would be ordered to partner with another agent in the field, but Mr. Waverly had only said that as long as their work continued at the same high standard, then there was nothing further to discuss...much to Napoleon and Illya's relief.

"No more pretending to flirt with all the female agents," Napoleon had told Illya with glee when they were in bed that night. "No more hiding in corners and having to keep my hands to myself whenever we go out."

"Hmm, I was kind of enjoying watching you try to keep your hands to yourself," Illya had commented, deadpan. "It always made you so much more...enthusiastic when we finally *did* get out of sight."

"Oh I'm going to be just as enthusiastic now that we don't have to hide our feelings," Napoleon had said, before whispering in Illya's ear just *how* 'enthusiastic he was planning to be. Illya's response had been to demonstrate *his* enthusiasm...and that had been the end of any rational conversation for *that* night.

A smile crept over Napoleon's face at the memory of their relationship. Far from dulling their feelings for each other, being 'out' had only intensified it. The sound of a stifled Russian curse, and a piece of paper being crumpled up, brought him back to the present where Illya had just thrown a wasted sheet of paper into the corner of the room. "Hmm," thought Napoleon. "If I leave Illya alone, then he will only get more and more annoyed by what he is's my *duty* to distract him and prevent him from getting into a bad mood."

Sight, sound, taste and smell had been ruled out...but there was one sense that Napoleon could still try to use to stimulate his partner. Sliding the chair back slowly, he stood and rubbed his hands gently together, wiggling his fingers to get the blood moving.

Illya frowned as he heard the movement from the other side of the table, but he resolutely kept his mind on his work, ignoring all externals and focusing on the lines of handwriting that were flowing across the page. The sudden touch of a hand on the tip of his ear, made the line of ink take a sudden jerk upwards.

"Napoleon!" he gasped, feeling the hand gently caress his ear. "don't...I have to fini...ahh," he moaned involuntarily as a second set of fingers started working their magic on his other ear.

"Shh," ordered Napoleon. "You're too tense...I'm just trying to relax you a bit so you can finish up faster." One hand remained on Illya's ear, the other was moving gradually downwards, massaging away tension that Illya hadn't even realized was there.

Illya tried to gather his scattered thoughts and write his name on the paper, but for some reason his hand was shaking badly. Possibly because by now Napoleon's hands had worked their way round to the front of his body and were now teasing his nipples through the light shirt he wore. Plus, his lover had moved in even closer to him, and Illya could feel the hot breath on the back of his neck. "Damn you, Napoleon," he swore as the pen dropped from his hand and clattered on the table. "You know I have to finish these." But his body was already turning to pull Napoleon's head down to his and kiss him on the lips.

Napoleon wrapped one arm around Illya, pulling him to his feet. With the other, he swept away the bundle of papers and notes onto the floor. Lifting Illya onto the table, he ripped open his shirt and leaned in closer to flick his tongue over the oh so inviting nipples.

Much much later, when they had finally made it as far as the bedroom, Illya lay exhausted but contented in Napoleon's arms. "You know that I will have to finish them eventually," he said idly, his head resting on Napoleon's chest.

Napoleon made a dismissive gesture with one hand. "I keep telling you, that it's perfectly acceptable to phone people to thank them for house warming don't have to send them 'thank you' notes."

"It is good manners," said Illya.

"Stubborn Russian," teased Napoleon, dropping a kiss onto the top of Illya's head.

", *insatiable* American," said Illya, maneuvering himself so that he could snuggle up to Napoleon. "But I am not so stubborn...tomorrow, I will let you help me finish them...but tonight...ah, tonight is another story."

And the both went to sleep with a smile on their faces.

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