Brave New World
How the world sparkled. How beautiful it was. How good Napoleon looked in his trenchcoat, his hands sunk in his pockets like that, and Illya a sylph in black; black jeans, black poloneck, black jacket, and, oh, that black beret perched jauntily on his head.
‘I’ll change,’ he had said, reaching up a hand, really just meaning, I’ll take off the beret, shove it in my pocket, and be Illya again.
But, ‘No, no, pussycat,’ Napoleon had said, sticking to that ridiculous French accent, to that ridiculous expression that he thought was appropriate for a French police inspector. ‘Non, mon ami, leave it on.’
And so Illya had. And they were in a bar somewhere in one of the few original parts of Montparnasse, a dark cellar of a place with glittering mirrors and laughing women and men staring into their drinks. They were in a moving Manet painting, the colour high in the women’s cheeks and the light shining from a thousand facets, and the barmaid there alternately flirting and sulky depending on her clientèle.
‘Absinthe,’ Napoleon insisted, and Illya remembered a few crazy nights at the Sorbonne, absinthe and more, hardly knowing where he was or who he was. That was a dangerous time.
This was a dangerous time, too. Getting flat out drunk wasn’t a good idea, wasn’t even an option. But the memories were tempting, the taste of the absinthe was tempting, the bitter anise on his tongue. How Napoleon even knew where to go to get absinthe, he didn’t know, but then that was Napoleon through and through.
‘One glass,’ Illya said. ‘Just one. And then pastis if you still have the taste. We don’t need to run the risk of arrest.’
And Napoleon agreed, one glass, and then pastis, and he was so alive and happy that Illya felt lit up by him, his face blazing in the heat of Napoleon’s words. Napoleon seemed bigger, closer, more intimate than he had ever been, and all of his habitual flirting was directed solely at Illya, no one else. It was like being under the gaze of the sun.
And when they left the bar they were warm and happy, the pavement rocking ever so slightly beneath their feet, and Napoleon slung his arm across Illya’s shoulders and Illya let that warm weight settle, glad to have it there. The streets were dark and cool and the night sky was ever so clear, and even with the city lights the stars could be seen. They walked by the Seine and light sparkled on the water, and when they stood on one of the spanning bridges Napoleon flicked a centime into the water and said, ‘Make a wish, Illya.’
And Illya’s mind blanked, because what could he wish for? He had it all here. That warm feeling in his chest, and Napoleon at his side, and the cool air and the stars above, and the job that kept his peculiar forms of madness exercised and restrained.
‘But I already have you,’ he said, and then coughed and said, ‘I have this. I have it all. If you would only learn not to put mustard and ketchup on my food then my life would be perfect.’
But Napoleon was staring at him, his eyes a glitter in the lamp light, his mouth a perfect shape, such a perfect shape for everything Illya wanted. And then the question on Napoleon’s lips turned into a smile, and he said in his most seductive voice, ‘Pussycat...’
And how that lit a fire low in Illya’s loins. Just the way Napoleon formed that one word, the look of joy and daring on his face. It had been a long time since Illya had kissed a man on a bridge over the Seine, and now he couldn’t even remember his name. Pascal? Pavel? There, he couldn’t even remember what language he spoke, what country he was from.
‘Inspector,’ Illya replied, tilting his head up, an unaccustomed feeling of shyness suddenly flushing through his body. Napoleon had been flirting with him, really flirting. He was dizzy, his mind was on fire. This wasn’t the alcohol, was it? He hadn’t had enough. Neither of them had had enough. But here he was, an anonymous French assassin for hire, and here was Inspector Javert, tall and confident and looking down at him with an air of command, of appropriation. He had seen that look before. Napoleon gave it to his women, and every time they gave in to him, and Illya understood why. Who could refuse that look?
‘Illya,’ Napoleon said, coming closer more as if by magnetism than perceptible movement, and Illya knew exactly what he meant. He had to be sure this was Illya Kuryakin, no parts to play, no masks, no deception.
‘Yes, Napoleon. Yes, of course,’ Illya replied, and then Napoleon grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back, ever so gently, a parody of that slow mock-wrestle he had shared with Illya on Van Schreeten’s balcony, a parody of the arm lock with which he had held Illya in that luxurious suite. And Napoleon murmured, ‘Pussycat,’ and leant in, holding Illya’s hand hot and firm in his behind his back, tilting Illya’s chin up with his other hand and holding his face so he couldn’t turn away.
‘You will pay for your crimes, huh?’ Napoleon asked in his French accent, and Illya stared into his eyes, let Napoleon’s eyes flood his, and said, ‘Yes, oh, yes, I will pay.’
And Napoleon’s lips were warm and soft and his mouth so mobile. His right hand held so tightly about Illya’s behind his back, his arm locked so firmly he couldn’t move, and his left hand moved from Illya’s chin to cup the back of his head, fingernails drifting through his hair. And Illya opened his lips and Napoleon’s tongue tasted of absinthe and need as it slipped into his mouth. How good Napoleon tasted. How much Illya needed to be in him, around him, part of him.
Finally, needing breath, their lips came apart, but Illya gave such a soft sound of desire that Napoleon was kissing him again, pressing Illya’s hand into the small of his own back, pressing the length of his body against Illya’s slim frame.
‘Bed, now,’ Napoleon said as they came apart again, and Illya laughed, the sudden noise shocking in the night.
‘Napoleon, we’re on a bridge over the Seine and we’re a mile away from our hotel.’
But he could feel Napoleon’s urgent need in the hardness pressed against him, and it was a good thing it was dark because he was in a similar state.
‘How did you do this to me, Illya?’ Napoleon asked, no nicknames, no endearments, just Illya’s own name blazing from his lips like a shooting star.
Illya could think of no platitudes, nothing clever. He felt weak at the knees and light headed, and his only answer was to kiss Napoleon again. It was no good. They were a blazing ball of desire on that dark bridge, and it was a wonder their surroundings didn’t incandesce in the heat. There should have been fire bells ringing, alarms sounding across the city, but there was nothing, nothing at all. It was almost as if the pair were invisible despite being on fire.
‘Bed,’ Illya agreed. ‘Need. You. But where?’
Napoleon unlocked his arm from behind his back. He had forgotten he was even being held, because he hadn’t wanted to move. He wasn’t even sure he could walk, but he walked, the whole long mile back to the safe hotel, Napoleon’s arm around his back, guiding him through the city that dazzled him with its light and darkness. Napoleon led him through the hotel lobby, Napoleon fit the key into the door, Napoleon slammed the door shut behind them and pressed Illya against it, hard, his whole length, and kissed him again, rubbed his hands in a fevered way across his hard torso, through the thin cotton of his top. And Illya moaned, the need so strong in him, and he shrugged off his jacket and started to slip Napoleon’s trenchcoat from his shoulders.
From that point his hands seemed to move of their own accord, peeling, unbuttoning, stripping until he was topless and Napoleon’s chest was naked and Illya was running his hands over the firm muscles, the nubs of his nipples, tracing his collarbones and the hollow just below his throat. He laid butterfly kisses on Napoleon’s skin, and Napoleon’s hands slipped down his naked back to squeeze his buttocks hard through the fabric of his trousers, pulling his hips forward so they ground against Napoleon’s hips.
‘So, mon petit chat,’ Napoleon purred. ‘You ’ave been a very bad boy, n’est-ce pas?’
And Illya straightened so fast that his naked shoulders hit the door behind him, and he dropped his hands and spread them against the glossy wood and brought that ridiculous look of terror to his face.
‘What would you ’ave me do, Inspector?’
And Napoleon leered, actually leered, looking Illya up and down as if he were goods in a shop window. Then he reached into his trouser pocket and brought out something jangling, metal, two circlets of metal joined by a chain.
‘Perhaps I arrest you, huh? Perhaps I take you off to the bastille, and put you in le dark, dark cell for the rest of your days? Perhaps zat will teach you not to be the nasty leetle assassin, mais oui?’
And he dangled the cuffs in front of Illya’s face, and Illya tilted his head back with feigned terror in his eyes, pressed the palms of his hands hard against the door.
‘Oh, but Inspector Javert, I am utterly at your disposal. I see I am under your power entirely now...’
‘Well, in that case – ’
And for a moment the accent was gone, and Napoleon leant in, smelling of musk and aftershave, and he cinched one cuff around Illya’s wrist, and then swiftly spun him around and caught the other wrist to trap it behind his back.
‘Well, then,’ he said, trailing a finger from the nape of Illya’s neck down to the hollow of his back, slipping over each vertebrae so softly that a shiver convulsed Illya’s shoulders. And then Napoleon crouched, and his fingers were on Illya’s bound hands, stroking ever so gently, mapping the contours of each finger, swirling on his palms, back to the fingers. And then something hot and wet – oh god – Napoleon’s mouth, hot and wet, sucking a single finger in, and then another, and then another. Shivers ran through his groin, like electricity striking, as Napoleon’s tongue and lips suckled at his fingers, as his hands traced patterns over the back of his hips.
And then Napoleon reached around to carefully release the button on his trousers and push them down with his underwear, down to his calves, letting his cock spring free from the confining fabric. Illya rested his forehead against the gloss paint of the door, and sighed, looking down at himself, at Napoleon’s fingers coming so, so close, but not quite touching him.
‘I ’ave never ’ad one quite like you in my custody,’ Napoleon said, his voice low, rough, the accent trembling. He was still crouching, and the heat of his breath billowed over Illya’s naked behind, and he felt himself flinch.
‘Oh god,’ he murmured. ‘Oh god...’ And then he remembered his character, remembered the beret that was still, ridiculously, on his head, and sighed out, ‘Please, Monsieur Javert, if you must do it, do it now.’
‘Ah, but what would you ’ave me do?’ Napoleon purred, and Illya replied, his breath hitching, ‘Anything you want, Monsieur. Anything...’
And then Napoleon’s tongue was there, a single stroke along one clenched buttock, and he almost sobbed. The aching in his balls was too much to bear. His cock was so hard it hurt.
‘Please, Monsieur,’ he begged.
‘Mais oui, my little one,’ Napoleon laughed low in his throat.
He stood, put his hands on Illya’s shoulders, ever so gently turned him around. He stroked his fingertips down Illya’s chest, from his collarbones to the ridges of his hips, and then down, across the flat muscle below his navel, and into the curling hair, all the while studiously ignoring the straining erection before him.
‘Oh, please,’ Illya begged, and there was nothing of the French assassin in his voice, just one needful Russian.
And then Napoleon’s mouth came down over him, engulfing him, and he pressed his head back against the door, willing himself not to come straight away with the heat and wetness all around him. Napoleon’s fingers touched his balls, stroked their cool softness, and he whimpered aloud. He wanted to put his fingers in Napoleon’s hair, to push his head further down, and he strained against the cold steel of the handcuffs. There was no give in them at all.
And there was no mercy in Napoleon, as he sucked and tongued, bringing Illya so close and then easing off, letting his panting subside a little, smiling at the tremors that ran through his body.
‘Oh, god, Napoleon, god, please...’
And Napoleon removed his mouth long enough to say, ‘Inspector Javert, please, pussycat.’ And he waited. And Illya waited, the air cool on his bereft cock, Napoleon’s mouth so close, his lips slightly parted.
‘Inspector Javert,’ Illya said when he could bear it no more. ‘Please, Monsieur...’
And Napoleon reached both hands around to clutch at Illya’s buttocks, sinking his mouth back over Illya’s cock, and pulling him forward hard, so that he was deep in Napoleon’s mouth, and he couldn’t stop himself thrusting now as Napoleon sucked and licked oh so skilfully, and suddenly he was coming, coming in waves, a cry grinding out of his mouth as he lost himself in the stars.
The world reformed. Napoleon was still kneeling before him. His cock was softening, slipping from Napoleon’s mouth, and Napoleon smiled, ever so sweetly, and licked his lips. Illya lolled against the door, against his bound hands. His knees felt ready to give way, and Napoleon stood, his hands took Illya’s shoulders, and gently he walked the staggering Russian to the bed and laid him down on the sheets.
‘Well, pussycat,’ he said.
Napoleon was still hard. Illya could see it. He was still wearing his trousers, but he was definitely hard underneath them. He lay there in a kind of daze, conscious that he was still wearing the beret, still handcuffed, his feet looped together by his trousers that were still around his ankles. His shoes were still on. He looked up as Napoleon peeled off the rest of his own clothing, stared at the length of Napoleon’s cock, darkened by blood.
‘Will you pay the price in full?’ Napoleon asked, his accent still in place, but his eyes uncertain. Then he asked, ‘Illya?’
And Illya said, ‘Dear god, Napoleon, do whatever you will. Whatever you want. Please.’
And Napoleon bent to strip off the last vestiges of Illya’s clothes, to toss the beret aside, and he produced the tiny key to release the cuffs, and when Illya brought his red-marked wrists around to the front Napoleon caught them in his hands and kissed them.
‘Whatever?’ Napoleon asked, and Illya breathed, ‘Whatever.’ Then he let his eyes sparkle as he said, ‘I ’ave been so bad through my life, Monsieur, and I ’ave never repented. Now it is time for me to pay my debts.’
‘Well,’ Napoleon said, and he took Illya’s wrist again, kissed the red marks again. ‘Then I think I will ’ave you on the floor, mon ami, on your hands and knees. I will expect you to be very good for me.’
And Illya’s breath hitched as he obediently slipped off the bed and got to his hands and knees on the carpet, resting his head on the floor. Electricity tingled through him, and he closed his eyes, biting his lip into his mouth, as for a while Napoleon did nothing. Then he felt Napoleon’s hands strong on his wrists, pulling them a little forward, clicking the cuffs on again so that his hands were chained to the bed leg. If this were a threat situation Illya could have shouldered the bed off the ground in an instant and slipped his hands free, but he felt no threat apart from that strange, delicious tingling of anticipation, the kind of fear one feels on a fairground ride.
‘There,’ Napoleon said. ‘A little further apart.’
And his foot nudged at Illya’s knee, not hurting, but hard enough that Illya quickly widened his stance. He knew how he must look, ass high in the air, spine curved inwards, balls swaying loosely between his legs. And Napoleon was looking, he knew. The knowledge of Napoleon’s gaze crackled through him. And then there was Napoleon’s hand, stroking him, across one ass cheek, down the back of his thigh, back up the other. The touches became softer, more intimate, intricate in their patterns, but always, always ignoring the re-hardening cock between Illya’s legs, ignoring the soft balls, ignoring the puckered hole which Illya was sure was Napoleon’s ultimate goal.
When it finally came, he whimpered aloud. And it was hot, soft, wet. Napoleon’s tongue, touching him in the most intimate area. It had been so long, oh so long. Years and years... And Illya found himself bending his spine further, offering himself without shame, as Napoleon’s tongue flickered relentlessly across that sensitive muscle, and then ever so slowly, ever so firmly, tried to push its way inside.
Illya groaned, prostituting himself further, trying to widen himself for Napoleon’s tongue. And Napoleon’s hand touched him now, tracing fingernails over the soft skin of his scrotum, grasping around his cock, hot and hard.
‘Please, Monsieur Javert,’ Illya begged, only just remembering the name. ‘Oh, please, ’ave mercy on me...’
He heard the sound of a bottle being uncapped, smelt the subtle scent of massage oil. He pressed his face against his forearm, bit his teeth into his own soft flesh. Then Napoleon touched him again, his finger hard and slick, teasing a little at his opening, and then firming, slipping through, and Illya groaned aloud. He had forgotten how good that felt, how exquisitely sensitive was that place in his body.
‘Aha, you like that, pussycat,’ Napoleon purred.
He put one hand hard on the back of Illya’s neck, holding him, and moved his finger inside, and Illya groaned again. And then that delightful intrusion was joined by another finger, slipping in, widening the muscle, the sensation so close to painful and yet so intoxicatingly good.
‘Oh, god, please,’ Illya begged, his mouth wet and needful against his own arm, ‘please, Monsieur. Fuck me. Please.’
The fingers moved again, found Illya’s prostate, and Illya only just managed to muffle his cry against his arm as the sensation ricocheted through him.
And then Napoleon’s fingers slipped from him, and he gasped, bereft, until he suddenly felt it, Napoleon’s cock, the pure, beautiful intimacy of Napoleon’s cock, hard for him, touching him, slipping with great determination through the tight ring of muscle and into his body. Napoleon filled him so perfectly that he sobbed, and for a moment the American froze, hips pressed against Illya’s behind.
‘Il-’ he began, but Illya couldn’t stand that intrusion of real life and he jerked his bound hands against the bed leg and tilted his hips, feeling the firmness of Napoleon filling him, and cried out, ‘God, please, just fuck me now. Right now.’ And then he caught back some semblance of control and said, ‘S’il vous plaît, Monsieur Javert. I beg of you.’
Napoleon’s hand hardened on his neck for a moment, and then he began, thank god, to do as Illya had begged, to withdraw almost to the point of leaving, and then to come home again. And Illya’s body was set alight. He pushed himself back onto Napoleon’s cock every time he withdrew, begged him to come home, begged him to move harder and faster. He didn’t want to be made love to. He wanted to be fucked. He wanted to free his hands and touch himself, and the fact that he couldn’t just magnified every sensation a hundred times. And then both of Napoleon’s hands took his hips, pulled him back so hard, and Napoleon’s body curled down over his, slick with sweat, Napoleon’s hand came around to touch Illya’s needful cock, to pump it in the same rhythm with which he slammed into Illya’s body. And then Napoleon came with a guttural series of grunts, and Illya came too, his come slipping through Napoleon’s fingers and splashing along his chest.
‘Bozhe moi,’ Illya whispered, losing himself entirely. His entire body was suddenly boneless and slack. ‘Bozhe moi...’
Napoleon said nothing. He just lay over Illya, gasping in breath, utterly spent. His cock slipped from Illya’s body, and Illya’s knees collapsed, and they were lying together, tangled on the carpet, Illya’s hands still chained to the bed. Napoleon’s arm was flung over Illya’s back, slick with sweat, his breath billowing hot against Illya’s side.
‘Illya...’ he said at last.
‘Monsieur?’ Illya asked, and he felt Napoleon shake his head.
‘No. Illya. Just me. Just you. Illya, I want to do that again.’
And Illya laughed. ‘Perhaps not right now. I am not inexhaustible.’
He barely felt as if there were a bone in his body. He wasn’t sure he would be able to move from the carpet for hours.
‘But we will do that again?’ Napoleon asked, suddenly sounding stripped of every veil. ‘Illya, promise me...’
And Illya found it in himself to move, to twist awkwardly onto his back, twisting the cuffs, so that his mouth was very close to Napoleon’s, and he offered up his lips for Napoleon to kiss. And Napoleon did kiss him, very long and slow.
‘I promise you,’ Illya said, understanding that no matter how terribly vulnerable he was with his bound arms stretched up above him and his naked body splayed out here for the taking, Napoleon was a hundred times more vulnerable. ‘Again, and again, and again. I promise you.’
And Napoleon smiled, such a pure, innocent smile for a man who had just done what he had done, and laid his head on Illya’s chest. This was a brave new world.
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