Be Careful What You Ask For
Damn the man and his Russian sensibilities, Napoleon Solo thought as he stormed down the hall to his office where he could raise holy hell in private. Only two things could infuriate him this way: Thrush and Illya Kuryakin.
Thrush seemingly had been on vacation lately, so that just left one irascible, blond-haired, blue-eyed Ukrainian left in the Irritation Department. And that was quite enough for Solo.
All I did was suggest that we go somewhere romantic for Valentine's Day, Napoleon mused. He didn't have to bite my head off and give me one of his glacial stares, after all. Why did I have to fall irreparably in love with one of hell's minions, anyway?
Napoleon let out a deep sigh and tried to rein in his temper. Illya was the most infuriating lover sometimes, but he was also the best thing that had ever happened to Napoleon, and he reminded himself of that fact even though he wanted to stay angry with him. Anger lost and a feeling of intense longing overcame Solo as he thought of how he could show his love for Illya without embarrassing him or making him run for cover.
For all their differences, they had become competent partners first, best friends second, and inseparable lovers last. But Illya was a Russian and the traits of his homeland were ingrained in his soul with an ink deeper than indigo. Consequently, he tried to hide his true feelings from Napoleon and everyone else that looked his way.
Solo smiled as he recalled their first few floundering attempts at intimacy. Illya was skittish as a newborn colt, still looking over his shoulder for the KGB or a duplicitous neighbor he was certain was watching. Napoleon had worn him down with constancy and finally breached the Thick Red Line with his love and his sense of humor.
In private, Illya was as fierce and furious a lover as Napoleon had ever had, and Napoleon was always inventing new ways to show their love. It made for very interesting bed-fellows, he smiled.
In public, they were both extremely careful, for obvious reasons. Their particular career was full of enough pitfalls without making themselves even bigger targets. Illya was almost too reserved, and Napoleon never missed an opportunity to lay hands on the gorgeous body as often as possible. This quietly infuriated Illya, which in turn made Napoleon even more prone to the behavior. Solo had tried to explain using convoluted logic how being physical with his partner would throw off the onlookers, making them sure nothing was actually going on. Because, really, why would Napoleon be so handsy in public if they actually were lovers?
Illya had given him a scathing look and replied that Napoleon's logic escaped him and gave him a headache to boot. But he allowed the touches and the affection and Napoleon had won another round in Spy vs. Spy.
Now, Valentine's Day, that was another matter entirely. It was one of Solo's favorite holidays, as he was Italian and loved romance. He would love nothing better than to take Illya to a romantic hideaway, a place dripping with sentiment and candle wax. Using food, words, and passion, Napoleon would sculpt an encounter that his lovely Russian would not soon forget. At least that had been his game plan until Illya had gotten wind of it. He had coldly informed Napoleon that the day was overtly commercial and the only people who truly got anything out of the whole overblown spectacle were the card and flower salesmen.
Napoleon had been hurt by the curt reply to his inroad, but he had brushed it off so Illya wouldn't see how deeply he had been wounded. Retreating to his office was his usual ploy, since it was a place where he could lick his wounds in private.
Now that he was sitting in his comfy chair and staring at his orderly and highly-polished desk, Solo felt a bit better. He hated to let his temper get the best of him and he knew that there was little he could do to change Illya's mind. Perhaps he could just plan on having a quiet, if a bit more romantic than usual, dinner at his place. Or maybe he should just forget it and carry on as normal. Illya was difficult to live with sometimes, but he was the only game in town for Napoleon now. He wanted no other as he did Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin.
He sighed one last time and let the tension drain out of his body with the release. Illya was just being Illya and to want any differently was a waste of time and effort. He looked at the report on top of the "In" basket and started on the pile of paperwork.
He had almost finished the report when he heard a tentative knock on the side of the door panel. Illya was pointedly standing outside the threshold, waiting to see if he were invited in. He wore a sheepish, hang-dog look, and Napoleon's heart melted at first glance. He waved Illya in and pushed back in his chair and placed his size nines on the desk.
Illya looked at his shoes for a moment and then gazed up at Solo through his blond lashes. Napoleon never had a chance.
"I, ah..." Illya cleared his throat and Napoleon thought he looked about eleven years old just then. If he scuffs his shoe on the carpet, I'm going to take him right here on the rug in front of Waverly and everybody, he thought.
"Napoleon, I'm sorry about my behavior earlier. I know how you are about romantic holidays." Illya grinned at him and continued, "You're Italian: you can't help yourself."
Solo chuckled and replied, "And you're Russian, and you can't help it, either." Inwardly, Solo swelled with emotion. It wasn't very often Illya swallowed his pride and apologized. It took a lot for him to come to his office and make the first effort.
Illya sat in the chair opposite his lover and sighed. "So how can we compromise and make this right for both of us?"
Careful, Napoleon, he thought. Don't make light of this and don't blow it.
Solo thought for a moment before he replied. "Well, we could get a hotel room to ensure neutrality. Something halfway between a honeymoon suite and a no-tell motel should work." He looked at Kuryakin to see how his offer stood.
Illya allowed a germ of a smile to start before he added, "And we could order room service instead of going the romantic candlelight route."
Why bother at all, Solo wanted to say, but he gave Illya a smile of his own instead. He was trying: he had to give the man credit. Napoleon nodded and asked, "Who makes the arrangements?" He was rather surprised when Illya voiced that he would take care of the details. Still don't trust me, do you, Illya?
As if reading his mind, Kuryakin smiled openly and said, "You'll have to trust me, Napoleon."
Without missing a beat, Solo replied, "With my life, Illyusha. With my life."
Valentine's Day. It was nearly five o'clock and Napoleon hadn't heard a word from Illya all day. It was maddening to know that hearts were being wooed all over the world today and Napoleon hadn't been allowed one word or one gesture to his one true love today. He'd been jittery all day, jumping up each time he heard the door whoosh open, hoping to get a glimpse of Illya or a message of some kind from his elusive lover.
The desk clock ticked over to precisely five o'clock as the door to his office parted to reveal a mail clerk with a yellow inter-office memo. It was sealed and bore the stamp "Number One, Section Two: Eyes Only."
The boy left as quickly as he came and Napoleon was alone with the envelope. He set it down on his desk and made himself wait exactly two minutes. He tore into the seal, slitting it open with his thumbnail and pulling out the paper inside. It was in Cyrillic. He groaned and pulled out his Russian/English dictionary and turned to the page with the flowery lettering and the English equivalents.
Minutes later a wide grin took over his features and he shouldered into his coat. "Waldorf-Astoria. Room 1013. Seven o'clock." He had just enough time to get home, shave, shower and suit up. Things were looking up already, he thought.
At six forty-five, Napoleon stepped out of a cab and stopped outside the entrance to the Waldorf. A flower vendor offered him his choice of any color rose for his love, and only a half-dollar. He plucked a rich, red rose from the vase and gave the old man a dollar. "Keep the change." The doorman held open the door for Solo, and he sauntered through it like he was a returning knight collecting his victory prize from his king. An elegantly dressed woman passed him and eyed the cut of his coat and the package inside it appreciatively. Her companion glared at Solo and steered her away quickly. He smiled at the encounter and thought of just what awaited him upstairs on the tenth floor.
He removed his overcoat and admired himself in the mirrored wall opposite the desk. His new charcoal wool suit set off his dark looks and his perfect skin flawlessly. He patted his forelock back into place and turned on his heel for the elevator.
He'd followed Illya's rules so far. No candy, cards, or overtly sentimental displays had come from him today and he chafed under the restrictions. He could only guess at the practical arrangements Illya had surely made left to his own pragmatic devices. He wouldn't fault anything, however. Solo was relieved to be seeing his coy lover at all today.
The door chimed floor ten and he stepped out into the muted hallway lighting. Down the hall to the right were the even numbers, so he turned left and saw with surprise that 1013 was a suite on one of the "T" intersections at the end of the hall.
Sneaky little Russian, he laughed. He knocked softly on the door and looked down at the rose in his hand. Thinking quickly, he snapped off the long stem, pricking himself in the process, and deftly placed the bud in the boutonniere slot on his jacket. The door opened just then and Illya smiled at him, noting the red rose in its proper place. He nodded and swept Solo in with a wave of his hand.
Napoleon nearly gasped when he took in the living area of the suite. Every available spot was covered with candles of varying sizes and colors, each throwing off a cheerful circle of yellow light into the dark of the room. There was an intimate setting for two against the wall of glass overlooking the city and a bottle sat chilling in a bucket. Solo gaped at Illya who wore an enigmatic smile as he took Napoleon's hand to draw him closer. He felt something damp on his hand and saw a well of blood on Solo's finger from the rose thorn.
Napoleon's knees nearly buckled as Illya drew the injured digit to his lips and kissed the puncture and then suckled the finger into his warm mouth. He felt the silky-soft tongue of his lover slipping over the sore spot and he began to feel a familiar ache in his groin. Shaking his head to clear it he pulled Illya close to him and ran his hands across the chest of the dark blue silk robe Illya wore. He bent to the full lips but felt Illya pull back before he completed the kiss.
"Patience, Napoleon. Aren't you always telling me to slow down?"
Solo groaned but nodded. Illya led him to the couch and drew the bottle out of the ice. He let Solo see the label and handed the opener to him. Napoleon lifted an eyebrow at the expensive Dom, and expertly had the cork out and poured two flutes. This time, Illya made no protest as he pulled him flush against him.
Napoleon raised his glass slightly and said, "To overtly sentimental displays."
Illya smiled and clinked his glass against Solo's. "To compromising situations." His eyebrows arched wickedly at his partner as Napoleon tried to swallow without sputtering.
After a polite amount of champagne was imbibed, Napoleon took both glasses and placed them on the coffee table. He had other wine he wanted to taste. He leaned down and placed his hand against Illya's nape and tasted the heady flavor of his lover's lips. Continuing the seduction, Solo drew Illya even closer, crushing the slender body against his as evidence of their passion strained against the confines of clothing.
Napoleon eased his lover's lips apart and slipped his tongue into the warm confines of the Russian's mouth. He felt the matching slickness playing with him, and groaned as he felt Illya shift against him, brushing their erections together fleetingly. He broke the kiss for a quick intake of air and plundered that sweet taste of Illya and Dom Perignon again.
Illya's hands were doing riotous things to his self-control and he pulled away at last with a pang of regret. Panting, he willed himself to calm down and dragged Illya into a simple hug. He smelled the clean Illya-scent that was concentrated so wonderfully behind his ear lobe and filled his starving lungs with the bouquet. Illya was kissing the side of his neck and tonguing the cleft of his chin before he could bear to separate them.
"If we don't stop now, I won't be held responsible for my actions," he managed to slur out. Illya seemed to understand and took his hand and walked to the small table. There was a red rose on each seat and petals strewn across the tablecloth. A thin taper held sway in the center and Illya inclined his head at it.
As he lit the slender ivory candle he said huskily, "We have until the taper reaches the edge of the sconce to enjoy our meal. After that, we enjoy each other." His eyes were smoldering with passion, and Napoleon was sure his patience would give out long before the candle burned down.
The meal was sumptuously laid out and lovingly detailed and Napoleon remembered not a morsel of it as he watched the damnably thick candle melt away much too slowly. I wonder if shooting it would be allowed, he mused half-seriously as Illya slowly and languorously licked his chocolate mousse from the dessert spoon. Napoleon groaned under his breath and turned away from the erotic sight. He was hard as stone and ready to take Illya on top of the candle if necessary.
He had to laugh to himself as he saw the trap Illya had sprung so neatly upon him. Who was the impatient one now, and who held the romance in his back pocket tonight? That clever little Russian spy turned the tables on me expertly. And on Valentine's Day, too.
He turned back to the meal and pretended to taste the cold chocolate concoction. He purposefully smeared a bit on his lower lip and tongued the spot off while Illya watched. He was inordinately pleased when Illya glanced at the candle this time to check its progress.
They locked gazes and blew out what was left of the taper simultaneously.
Leaping from their respective chairs, they met at the side of the table, Napoleon taking Illya in a clinch and kissing that pert mouth again and again. Napoleon parted the silk robe, running his warm hands across the small chest and flat belly of his partner. Illya moaned at the familiar touch and let the robe fall at his feet. His lover began kissing his shoulders and neck, feverishly touching every place he could. Slender fingers worked at the silk tie and both wool jacket and linen shirt joined the puddle of clothes on the carpet. Chest to chest, both men shivered at the sensations of heated flesh and Illya bent to take Napoleon's nipple in his mouth.
Aching with need, Solo could only whimper as his cock drew tighter and his desire grew heavy. He ghosted his fingers across Illya's groin, feeling the answering rigidness and reached underneath to knead the taut balls.
"Napoleon!" Illya cried against his chest as the desire reached flashpoint. Solo bent and picked Illya up and into his arms as he swept down the hallway to the master bedroom. More candles greeted him and he gently laid Illya down onto the circular bed. Stripping off the rest of the encumbering clothes, Napoleon took a moment to watch the play of candlelight across Illya's fair skin. He was wonderfully golden in the softness, and Napoleon's heart ached at how much he loved him.
Illya saw the tears in his love's eyes and tugged him onto the bed beside him. Rolling sideways, he pulled Solo to him and wrapped a leg around his hip. He kissed the tears from his face and said, "I love you, Polya. With all my heart. Forgive me if I'm not as demonstrative as you would like..." He was silenced by Solo's finger brushing against his full lips.
"No, Illyusha. There is nothing to forgive. You show me every day how much you love me. Tonight, tonight...just took me by surprise, that's all."
Illya shifted against Solo's hip and said, "But a good surprise, yes, Polya?"
Napoleon sighed. "The best kind, Illya."
Illya pushed Napoleon onto his back and began a trail of kisses from his neck to his navel. Solo felt something whispery soft against his skin and looked down to see Illya rubbing rose petals against him. He arched against his lover as he felt his wet, warm mouth descend on his throbbing erection. It was too much. The entire night had been Illya slowly making love to him and he was ready to go off like a rocket. He cried out and thrust deeply into him and tried to warn the golden wolf devouring him. Illya merely smiled around his prize and worked the heated flesh harder. One tongue swipe to the overly-sensitive slit and Solo spasmed like an epileptic in a seizure of ecstasy. He spurted hot and heavy into Illya's waiting mouth and felt the agile tongue milking him as he roared out his release. He grunted with each strong pulse of semen and felt Illya swallowing around the column of hardness.
When he could think again, he looked down his body to see the blond, sweaty head lying against his stomach. He growled once and pulled the slight body up against him, wanting to get at the mouth that had given him such incredible pleasure. Illya was compliant against him and he plundered his mouth and tongue once again, tasting dinner and his own essence in the heady mix that was Illya.
After a few moments of kissing, Napoleon felt Illya begin to thrust himself against the soft skin of Solo's abdomen. He reached between them and stroked his beautiful lover to full hardness, teasing him with a slow, sensual rhythm meant to inflame but not give release. Illya whimpered against the wet warmth of Solo's tongue and began to push harder into the strong fist. Napoleon released the heavy warmth and Illya looked at him, puzzled. But only for a moment as Solo placed two of Illya's fingers in his mouth and bathed them with his saliva.
Napoleon rolled over onto his stomach and blatantly offered himself to Illya's touch. The smaller man moaned, closing his eyes in anticipation as he realized what his lover wanted. He came up close behind Napoleon, stroking across the broad, strong back gently, feeling the heat of his skin and the sheen of sweat starting anew at his touch.
Illya placed his hand under a pillow and came out with a tube of lubricant. He coated a finger and gently stroked against Solo's perineum, watching the shivers race through the body he loved as his own. Napoleon's head arched back as Illya slipped inside the pucker of muscle, keeping a gentle touch as he prepared him. Another finger slipped in and a throaty growl came from Napoleon. He pushed back against Illya's hand and said, "More. Now..."
Illya tried to work the opening harder but Napoleon was thrashing against him so powerfully that he gave up and took hold of his aching cock. He lubed it quickly and placed the head between Solo's cheeks. That got Napoleon's attention and he became still, holding his breath as he anticipated the next step. As Illya pressed forward, Napoleon pushed back, aiding in his own penetration. A long moan began in Solo's throat as he felt the hard cock-head of his lover split his flesh in two and delve deeply into the recesses of his body.
Illya hissed in pleasure as the pressure snugged around him and made him want to thrust immediately. He held back, not wanting to hurt Napoleon, but the way he was grunting around him and pushing back told Illya his dark lover wanted more. Driving into him to the hilt, Illya cried out in completion as he felt his pelvis connect with Napoleon's ass.
He held completely still until Napoleon's aggrieved, "Illya!" caused him to begin thrusting into that wonderful warmth. He kissed the sturdy, sweaty back before him and reached around to pull Napoleon close as he began a steady pumping. He was lost in the sensation of oiled bliss as he coupled with the man he loved more than life itself. Napoleon spoke his name over and over as his lover took his hardening cock in his fist and drew him closer to another blinding orgasm.
It was too much and the Russian began pounding into Solo, lost in the primitive bloodlust racing through him. "Napoleon!" he shouted as his cock expanded inside Solo and his seed erupted into the tight passage, spurt after strong spurt pulsing out of him into the thrashing body beneath him. Napoleon arched once again, the release splashing inside him causing him to erupt in his own spasms, his cock jerking against Illya's encouraging hand. His earlier passion had seemed to prime him for this, and he had the most dizzyingly blinding orgasm of his life. He shouted his lover's name as strands of white semen spewed from him, splashing against Illya's hand, his own stomach and the headboard of the bed.
He was paralyzed with pleasure and felt his shudders matched by his lover draped on top of him. Both of their orgasms seemed to go on and on as time suspended, warped and finally coalesced into reality around them. Napoleon felt Illya collapse fully onto his back as they returned from the pinnacle. Illya's hot breath blasted across him like a freight train as they panted their way back to normal.
He felt Illya withdraw from him with a sigh of regret and almost cried out loud at the loss. It was short-lived, however, as Illya gathered him to his chest and wrapped his body around him like a coiled snake.
"Polya, Polya..." Illya whispered gently against Napoleon's neck, burying his face in the soft hair at his nape, shivering with aftershocks of passion.
"I know, baby, I know." He turned in Illya's arms and rested his dark head against the golden down on his chest. He was completely spent and emotionally shattered. Illya had broken down all the barriers between them tonight and he was blissfully happy. And absolutely amazed at his Russian lover.
After a few minutes' respite, Napoleon raised his head on an elbow and gazed tenderly at Illya's serene face.
"I'm just thinking. Sometimes people can really surprise you."
"Which 'people' would that be, Napoleon?" Illya teased, running his hands across Solo's tightly muscled arms.
Solo chuckled and swept the room with his hand. "You did all this?"
Illya gave him a wicked grin and said, "Yes. And you haven't even seen the Jacuzzi yet..."
Napoleon dropped his head and groaned deep in his chest. His romantic little Russian was going to be the death of him. He reminded himself to be careful what he wished for in the future as he felt a furtive hand sneak down his exhausted body.
Happy Valentine's Day to all fans!