Clean Sheets

by Spikesgirl

"I just hope you have clean sheets." For anyone else, it might have sounded an odd parting shot, but Illya merely smirked and dropped his gaze to study the report he'd been doodling upon for the past hour.

Napoleon calmly walked out of their shared office, spoke a bit with their secretary, and then headed off for a staff meeting.

It was Napoleon's birthday and while the office loved a party, celebrating birthdays, especially for Section Twos, got to be a bit dicey. Forty loomed like some sort of proverbial tombstone ahead of them. Once you hit that, you could very well find yourself stuck behind a desk or in a classroom. Waverly could, of course, turn a blind eye to the facts and give you a few more years, but probably not for Napoleon. Waverly was anxious to pull him into Section One, start to hand some of the responsibilities that were Napoleon's inheritance over to him. Illya both anticipated and dreaded that day. Anticipated because it meant Napoleon was safely out of the field; dreaded because it would be the end of their working partnership. He'd obviously still see Napoleon, but it wouldn't be the same.

However, that day was still a few years away, Illya refused to dwell on it any more than he had to and there would be a surprise party waiting for Napoleon when he walked into the conference room. April had gone above and beyond and Illya purposefully lagged behind to make sure she got the credit due for her organizational skills.

In the meantime, Illya exchanged a stack of reports from his desk to Napoleon's. All they lacked was Napoleon's signature, Illya's traditional gift to his partner. His more personal gift would have to wait until later that evening.

When Illya had asked Napoleon what he wanted for dessert that night, Napoleon had responded, "I just hope you have clean sheets." Both an invitation and a less-than-coy response. Napoleon expected his piece of the action this evening and Illya was determined to deliver, with all the flair and careful consideration that was his style.

Napoleon was looking a bit flushed as Illya arrived at the conference room. The party was in full swing and the champagne was flowing freely. He knew Napoleon was aware of his presence, even without seeing him. Suddenly Napoleon was in front of him, his arms wide open, his attitude one of a man who'd been celebrating a little too much.

"Мой друг, вы, наконец, сделали это!"( My friend, you finally made it!). Illya held still for the hug and wet kiss to each of his cheeks. It hurt his heart that this was the only way they could be seen exchanging such greeting in public.

"Yes, I am here." Illya wiggled out of Napoleon's embrace, acting much like a man who didn't approve of such displays, when he would much prefer to take Napoleon to the ground and show him his version of 'made it.'

He glanced at the clock and went through a mental list. He'd decided on a more or less traditional Russian dinner for his partner. The caviar was iced, all ready to be served. He had substituted Napoleon's favorite scotch for the traditional vodka. A mushroom salad with apples and cheese was plated and the trout, wrapped in bacon, was ready to be slid into the oven once they started the salad course. He'd taken the time to hunt down and then convince one of the babushkas to make him a traditional cake, dense, chocolaty, and sweet.

He'd set the table with the best he had. This meant that the plates actually matched and none of the glasses had chips missing from their rims. He wore a white shirt, butter soft from many washings, and a loose pair of pants.

At the knock on the door, he took one more look and then went to let Napoleon in. The man entered a bit cautiously, even though he'd been to Illya's many times before.

"You cleaned! You didn't have to shovel out for me," Napoleon said, then stopped and looked a bit embarrassed, unsure if he'd gone too far.

"Housekeeping did, I just made sure they didn't throw out anything unnecessary."

"It looks great. I didn't know you had carpeting in the living room."

"Funny. I'll get you a booking on Ed Sullivan," Illya said, with just enough of a smirk to let Napoleon know it was fine. "So I have scotch or would you prefer—"

Napoleon's lips interrupted him and Illya stood still, only his mouth moving against Napoleon's, each lost in the touch and taste of the other. Hands moved up to cup his face and Illya rested his hands upon Napoleon's forearms, squeezing, encouraging, reassuring.

"God, I've been waiting all day to do that." Napoleon pulled just a breath away from him, just long enough to mutter that before going back for more. "Do you know what it's like to sit so close to you and not be able to touch you?"

"I think I have a pretty good idea." Illya dropped his hands to Napoleon's hips and pulled him in. His hands continued then, sliding back and downward to Napoleon's ass. All the time, they continued to kiss.

"So, are you ready for your first course?" Illya murmured into Napoleon's ear.

"Would that first course be Russian?" Napoleon rubbed his cheek against Illya's to whisper back.

"It would." He sighed and then hissed as Napoleon marked his neck.

"And salty?"

"Too much for some."

"Never enough for me."

"We are talking about the caviar, are we not?"

"Eventually." Napoleon's fingers were busy, undoing buttons, pushing aside fabric. "I want to feel you."

Goose bumps followed the finger tips as they traced delicate designs on the smooth skin or lingered over small ridges of scar tissue. Napoleon pushed the shirt off Illya's shoulders and sighed. "Why Miss Brown, you're beautiful."

"I thought the line was "Are you trying to seduce me, Mrs. Robinson?" Illya shook his hands free of his sleeves.

"That as well." Napoleon slipped his hands underneath the waistband of Illya's pants and down. "Why, Mr. Kuryakin, you aren't wearing any underwear."

"I didn't want to complicate things." He took that moment to push away from Napoleon and fall back a step. He held a hand out to him. "But I do want to do things properly."

He led Napoleon to the bed, the bedspread turned down, the sheets smooth and cool looking. He then turned his attention to Napoleon. Slowly, seductively, he undid Napoleon's tie, leaving it draped around his neck. Just as slowly he undid the shirt buttons, sighing as he pushed shirt and jacket material aside. "Only you would wear an undershirt on a night when you know we're going to make love."

"Just because my lover happens to be a man, that's no excuse for poor couture." Napoleon made a soft, satisfied sound as Illya's fingers caressed his very interested penis through the material of his dress slacks. "Even you can appreciate a finely honed sense of dress."

"I prefer undressed." Suddenly impatient, he grabbed the hem of the tee shirt and pulled it up, over, and off, leaving Napoleon bare from the waist up. "There you are." He attacked the muscular shoulders, the flat stomach, and the smooth chest with equal vigor until neither of them could stay upright for a second longer. Pants, shoes, and underwear marked their path to the bedroom.

Napoleon went first, collapsing onto Illya's bed with a grunt, Illya blanketing him a heartbeat later. Arms, legs, breath intermingled as their bodies twisted together, fueled by passion and need.

Even as reluctant as he was to leave Napoleon's mouth, there was another part of his lover's body that quite literally beckoned to him, hard and insistently pressing into his own groin.

"Tell me." His voice cracked as Napoleon twisted his nipples, applying just the right amount of pressure to make him whine in delight.

"Love you," Napoleon twisted hard, wrapping his legs around Illya's, so that they were trapped groin -to-groin.

"Love you, too, but that's not what I meant. Tell me what you want."


"Again a given." Illya went for his mouth, plunging his tongue in to explore every inch, just in case he'd missed some place earlier on. He retreated, swallowing, breathing deeply to control his own desires. "Tell me how to love you." He found an ear this time, tracing it with the tip of his tongue. "Do you want me in you, or you in me? Do you want my ass or my mouth?"

"You keep that up and it won't matter in another moment." Napoleon's own breath was coming in short pants and reluctantly Illya pushed up and away, to flop back onto the sheets. He stretched his hands above his head, burying them into the pillows.

Both men were quiet for just a moment, sweat shining on their skin, then Napoleon rolled onto his side. Illya reached out to brush the dark hair off his forehead.

"So what say you?"

"Hmm, hard choice..."

"And getting harder with each passing moment." Illya let one of his hands stray down to fondle his own penis, eyes half closed, watching and being watched. "You wait much longer and I'm going to be forced to take things into my own hands."

Napoleon moved his head to pillow it on the firm abdomen, his fingers tracing after Illya's, lips and tongue following after them until Illya could do little more than moan out a protest.

"This is supposed to be your birthday gift."

"Oh, trust me, it will be." Napoleon glided his tongue along Illya's penis and then drew it deep into his mouth, using just enough suction to make Illya thrash and groan.

As delightful as it was, Illya reached down, grabbed a handful of hair and pulled back gently, but firmly, removing himself from that intoxicating warmth. Napoleon knew enough not to fight him and came away easily, swapping penis for mouth, tongue battling tongue.

Even though Napoleon had the advantage, Illya flipped him with little effort, not stopping until he straddled his lover.

"If you can't make up your mind, I'm going to have to do it for you."

"About fucking time," Napoleon said, curling up off the bed to pull Illya down. The Russian grinned. When Napoleon talked like that, Illya knew exactly what the man wanted. A tube of lube sat expectantly upon the night stand and Illya reached for it, mouth never leaving Napoleon's.

Then he freed himself and squeezed a dollop of the gel onto Napoleon's fingers. He leaned back and let Napoleon slather his penis, moaning as Napoleon clamped strong fingers around him and urged him to thrust into it.

"Enough." Illya pushed the hand away. He squeezed more lube onto his fingers and made a rolling motion with his other hand.

Napoleon obliged, coming up onto his knees, head braced on his forearms. Illya smiled and draped himself over Napoleon's back, kissing his way down his spine, lower and lower until Napoleon was practically keening. All the while Illya kept his progress excruciating slow and his mouth in constant motion.

When he knew Napoleon could take no more, he slid a finger into Napoleon, twisting and curling it just so. His reward was a sharp uptake of breath and Napoleon pressing back against him. Illya added a second finger, moving them slowly, even as his mouth continued to pay homage to Napoleon's skin. He sucked the sweat, occasionally leaving a mark behind, as if it was a bread crumb trail to let him know where he'd been.

Satisfied that he'd suitably paved the way, Illya pulled free his fingers and added one last dollop to the tip of his penis. Positioning himself, he pressed in with an even, steady movement, stopping as his glans was swallowed greedily by Napoleon's body. When he was sure Napoleon was ready, he withdrew and pressed in again.

No words now, he simply moved, experience telling him when Napoleon was relaxed and stretched enough to take more of him. Once his pubic bone rested against the crack of Napoleon's ass, he reached around and found Napoleon's penis, rock hard and wet with preseminal fluid.

He found a cadence that pleased him and his hand matched the rhythm until there was nothing but their grunts, the squeaking of the bed and the slick wet sound as their bodies met and parted.

He heard Napoleon's sharp intake of breath and slammed into him hard, the head of his penis pummeling his prostate. Napoleon cried out, his voice muffled by the pillows and Illya pulled him backwards as he came back onto his heels, as deeply buried in Napoleon as was physically possible.

He sank his teeth into Napoleon's shoulder as he climaxed, only partially conscious of his hand growing warm and sticky as Napoleon's anal muscles clutched his penis, coaxing every last drop of semen from him. Only then did Illya rediscover his voice and manage to croak out, "Many happy returns."

"I hope so." Napoleon eased himself down to the bed. "That was a very nice gift, Illya, thank you. And it fit and everything."

"Yes, well, I was hoping it would. I threw the receipt away years ago."

It wasn't until much later that night, after the dinner was just a memory and the last bit of cake had been chased down with strong coffee and even stronger brandy, after they'd exhausted even Napoleon's considerable capacity for lovemaking and settled into bed, that Napoleon ran a hand over the sheets.

"When did you get these? They feel like silk." He brought a corner of the sheet up to stroke it against his cheek. "Very, very soft."

"High weave cotton, according to what I'm told. Satin is too slick for love making and silk is a little too expensive for my wallet, but I liked the feel of these."

"They are head and shoulders above your usual ones. Last time I spent the night, I ended up with friction burns all over my ass."

"I remembered..." He settled down against Napoleon, happy that it was cooler and he could pander to Napoleon's propensity for cuddling without breaking into an immediate sweat. "And by the way, these aren't my new sheets; they're yours... after I wash them of course." He shifted slightly to find a position that wouldn't result in pinching off the blood supply to his arm. "I just thought you'd like to break them in properly."

"Thank you. I will never sleep in these sheets again without thinking of you."

"How about just never sleeping in these sheets without me?"

Napoleon smiled and kissed him, as tender and compassionate as his early kisses had been hard and frantic. "I like the sound of that, poosy cat. Thank you for a wonderful birthday."

"Glad you liked it. I left the dishes for you." And the light snapped off...

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