The Revelation Revolution
The entire affair had been a balls-up from the start. Should have listened to my partner's doom and gloom prognostication, thought Napoleon. A wry smile stole over his lips as he thought about how often Illya predicted dire consequences, and decided that he'd be a neurotic by now if he'd bent to all of them.
After many years in Section Two, he'd learned to listen to the niggling voice in the back of his head that surfaced when danger was near. But recently, he'd been too distracted to pay much attention to it. The source of that distraction was a certain blond Russian who was at this moment lying naked, or nearly so, in his bed. Napoleon shook his dark head, as much to clear it as to dispel the gray thoughts residing there. There would be enough time for recriminations later, especially when Mr. Waverly reviewed the fiasco.
The "distraction" groaned under his breath and cracked open one bleary eye to peer at Solo. "What did you give me?" Illya asked. He tried to sound affronted, but the words came out in a cracked whisper.
"Nothing you didn't need, I'm sure," Solo replied, his brusqueness hiding the genuine concern he felt lurking underneath his professionalism. He offered Kuryakin a glass of water, leaning over the bed to do so. Illya tried to sit up and bit off a yelp of pain as his muscles protested the sudden movement. His normally pale complexion turned a shade lighter, and he fell back onto the bed more heavily than he intended. Napoleon was instantly there, pulling the coverlet down and inspecting the previous day's damage to his slight partner's frame. His face clouded when he witnessed the kaleidoscope of colors blooming across Kuryakin's chest and ribcage. "Quite a collection of bruises you have there, my friend," he said dourly.
"Humph," was the succinct reply from the vicinity of the pillow. "I believe I would find a number on you if I were to look, wouldn't I, Napoleon?" Illya countered, again trying to sit up and move off the bed.
"Not so fast, partner," Solo ordered, placing one palm firmly against Illya's chest. "Let's get a few things straight. First, you are only out of the hospital because I agreed to look after you. Second, that means strict bedrest." He stopped at the look Illya gave him, but would not allow him to speak. "Third, if said bedrest is not observed to my satisfaction, your sorry ass will be back in the infirmary before you can say, 'Thrush Central.' Got it?" he asked.
Kuryakin glowered at him, but knew better than to push Napoleon when he was playing the mother hen. Plus, he absolutely despised hospitals, and Solo knew he could use that as leverage against him. Solo took his silence as acquiescence and reached for the bottles of muscle relaxant and pain medication the doctor had prescribed for him.
"Take these now, like a good little Soviet, and Mother Solo may let you sit up," he said, a ghost of a smile on his lips.
Knowing a calculated retreat would work better than a frontal attack, Illya took the proffered pills and swallowed them with the water Napoleon supplied. Nodding his approval, Solo leaned down and gently worked his arm around Illya's shoulders, helping him to sit up without too much pain. He propped him up with the pillows for support and carefully released Illya, hair trigger reflexes ready if he should need him. Kuryakin lay back onto the softness for a moment and then tensed, a grunt of pain escaping despite his clenched jaw.
"Muscle spasms," he ground out, effectively answering Napoleon's arched eyebrow.
Solo hesitated a moment, then slid in behind the Russian, insinuating himself between the slender form and the headboard. His strong hands glided across Illya's shoulders, feeling the tensed muscles quivering beneath them. He began a slow and gentle massage, working the spasms into relaxation and hopefully ameliorating the pain into pleasure. The soft grunts from his partner told him more than the feel of the flesh beneath him, and he continued to work the rigid body. After a few minutes Illya's head began to loll, and his shoulders trembled with the effort to remain upright.
Napoleon stopped, then, and spoke softly into Kuryakin's ear. "Be a lot easier on everybody if we could roll you over, okay?" he asked, sliding carefully to Illya's side. "Don't move, just relax and let me do the work. Your ribs aren't up to any more abuse."
The lack of a caustic reply from Illya concerned him, knowing how much he despised relying on help from any quarter, including from his partner. Solo tucked Illya's arm against the side of his body and in one gentle gliding motion deposited him on his stomach in the middle of the bed. A small grunt of discomfort was the only sound Illya made, but when Napoleon looked at him his color was normal and he appeared to be drowsing. Solo straddled his lean hips and placed his knees on either side of Illya's torso. Leaning into his hands, Napoleon put some weight behind the massage, carefully avoiding the worst of the bruising. Once he hit a particularly tender spot, and Kuryakin gasped softly.
"Sorry about that," he apologized.
"'S okay," came the muffled response.
Illya, for his part, seemed to have put any rebellion aside and had relaxed into Napoleon's touch, whether as a result of the drugs or the exquisite handling he was experiencing was anybody's guess. Every so often, a quiet moan of pleasure would escape Kuryakin. Illya's intimate-sounding gasps of pleasure were becoming more and more difficult to ignore. Solo's body began to respond to the feel of his friend's form underneath him and the sounds emanating from him.
What the hell is that? thought Napoleon uncomfortably. He decided the massage was at an end and carefully eased his hips over Illya's prone form.
At the loss of bodily contact, Illya moaned dejectedly, snuggled deeper into the covers and dropped off to blissful sleep. Napoleon gazed at him, at a loss to explain his body's latest response. No prude, he didn't marvel at becoming aroused by another man, but this was his partner! Granted, they had risked life and limb for each other countless times before, but this was an alien revelation to him.
He thought back to the mission yesterday, and the way his heart had constricted in his chest when the building Illya had been in had come down around him. It had been no different from any other mission when something had gone wrong, and one of them had suffered because of it. But years of partnership between the two now seemed to coalesce into something altogether new.
Napoleon smiled as Illya mumbled something unintelligible in Russian in his sleep. He finally admitted to himself that all the anger over this latest mission's failure had nothing to do with his role in it, and everything to do with almost losing his partner. Partner, he thought, yes. Friend, certainly. Lover...? Could that ever be a reality? His face softened, and he leaned down to place a gentle hand on Illya's forehead. He shivered slightly, mind racing ahead to contemplate the specifics of their possible future together.
At last, the recent events caught up to him and he realized how miserably tired he was. He walked to the bedroom door, glancing back at the sleeping form there.
"Rest well, Illya; you have no idea what you are up against," he whispered, the patented Napoleon Solo seduction smile firmly in place. Soundlessly, he closed the door and headed off to his own bed, squelching down on the sudden desire to whistle.
The sound of a man screaming worked better than any alarm clock Napoleon had ever had. He jerked out of a deep sleep and grabbed his Special, the feel of the cool metal in his hand galvanizing him to complete wakefulness in a fraction of a second. Racing across the hallway, he crouched outside the guest bedroom door, pausing for an agonizing second to steel himself and gauge the situation. It was still dark; street lamps were casting murky light through the apartment windows. He let his eyes adjust to the gloom before taking further action.
"Stoi, stoi, Mama..." He heard Illya's sobbing cries coming from the bed. Cautiously, he opened the door a crack, half expecting to see a mad scientist crouched over his partner with a hypodermic. Instead he saw a terrified and mewling wreck lost in his personal hell of memories. Kuryakin was sweat soaked, tangled in the sheets and twisting frantically back and forth, trying desperately to escape something only he could see.
"Nyet, nyet, stoi! Mama, Mama," his voice was rising to a hysterical pitch and Solo vaulted to the bedside to rouse him. Knowing his deadly partner could inflict serious damage he curbed his desire to take him in his arms and shake him awake. Instead he grasped Illya's wrists in a death grip and spoke clearly to him.
"Illya, Illya, wake up. It's just a dream, Illya, come on, I'm here. Easy, it's me, it's Solo." He continued to ease Illya awake, using the familiar voice and inflection Kuryakin would recognize. His partner opened his eyes, blinked rapidly in the unfamiliar surroundings, his eyes wild and unfocused at first. His breathing was harsh and rapid, but fast dropping off toward more normal respirations as Solo repeated his gentle encouragements. Not releasing his wrists yet, Solo watched the expression on Illya's face go from total panic to total, icy calm in the span of a few seconds. How does he do that? Napoleon thought, wondering at his partner's ability to close down so quickly and completely. Lots of practice, he answered himself. He let go of Illya's wrists, noting the red marks that would be more bruises in a few hours. "Are you all right, Illya?" he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed next to his friend.
Kuryakin raised a shaky hand to wipe the moisture from his face and sighed. "Reasonably well, thank you." The cool Russian's façade was back in place as if it had never left. "I'm sorry if I disturbed your sleep, Napoleon."
"Disturbed my... Illya, you didn't disturb me, you scared the hell out of me! How often do you have these nightmares... or bad memories?" Solo guessed.
Illya hung his head and replied in a voice so small Napoleon had to strain to hear.
"Most of my memories are nightmares, Napoleon."
At that sad admission, Napoleon's heart ached for the man before him. Not knowing how to comfort him without driving him further into "Ice Prince" mode, Solo settled for merely patting his friend's leg and said, "I'm sorry, tovarishch."
"Don't be, Napoleon. The nightmares don't come as often as you think. I believe it was the medication that set me off. I seem to have a singular response to narcotics. Why do you think I have such an aversion to taking pain medication?" he asked Solo.
"Because you're a stubborn Russian, of course," Solo countered, and was pleased to see a shaky smile drift across Illya's mouth. "You know if you need to talk to me, I'm always here, don't you?" Solo let the words hang between them, anxious to see the effect they would have on the stoic, Slavic soul before him.
Illya sighed then, eyes still downcast, embarrassed by his loss of control in front of his superior, his friend. "Some things are better left unsaid, don't you think, Napoleon?" Inwardly, he wished he could unburden himself to someone, anyone, sometimes, but always denied himself that relief as too cowardly, too weak. He had vowed long ago as a small child in the cold that he would never be weak again. But he couldn't tell Solo that, as much as he longed for the spark of companionship it would bring in the telling. He heard another sigh, a sad one from his partner as he inched closer to Illya and took his hand inside his own.
"There is nothing, nothing you could tell me that would change anything, Illya. Don't you know that?" Solo questioned.
Illya kept silent, but knew of one thing that if it were ever exposed to Solo would mean the end of their friendship, their partnership, and his career. Sometimes he hated himself for keeping the lie buried and wanted to tell the one man he had ever cared for this deeply the truth, as he deserved. But the tender look on Solo's face as Illya brought his blue eyes up to lock with hazel was more than he could stand and he dropped his gaze to the bed again.
"Oh, no you don't, Illya. Not this time," Napoleon said. "No retreating behind the great wall," he intoned as he placed his hand underneath Illya's chin and forced his head up to look at him. A single tear had gathered in Illya's eye and in another heartbeat it would have fallen, but Kuryakin savagely scrubbed at his face with the back of his hand.
Napoleon sucked in a quick breath at the sight, and asked in a shaky voice, "Tell me, Illya, please. What is it that hurts you so? Is it me, did I do something to cause this?"
At the naked pain in Solo's voice, Illya did break then, a sob coming out of his throat before he could bite it back. That sound was the single most frightening thing Napoleon had ever heard, and he looked at his partner with blatant concern in his eyes.
What could be so bad that he won't tell me, or even look at me? Solo wondered. Then, in one crystal clear moment of revelation, he knew, absolutely knew. With a cry of his own, Solo reached for Illya, placed both hands on his shoulders and dragged the protesting man into a closer embrace.
"Is this what you're afraid of?" he asked raggedly, breathing quickly and shallowly, feeling the slight body of his friend tremble beneath him. "Oh, Illya, I am such a coward! Afraid to let you know how I feel about you, and all the while you felt the same way. That's it, isn't it, Illya? The one thing you couldn't tell me, because you were afraid it would change things between us irrevocably?"
Illya was shocked, and had no words to give. But silent tears coursing down his cheeks were a mute confirmation of the truth. He nodded once to Napoleon, and fell forward into the older man's arms, leaning his face gratefully into his chest. Another sob rose out in the dark, and Napoleon wasn't sure from whom the cry came, echoing as it did both their feelings of loss and acceptance; loss at how long this revelation had taken, and acceptance that it would change their lives forever.
They stayed locked together for long moments, neither man wanting to be the one who broke the embrace. After a time, Solo felt Illya relax into his arms and his breathing became slow and regular. He smiled at the blond head so close to him and kissed the soft hair. Carefully, he scooted onto the bed and pulled Illya's sleeping form over with him, laying him comfortably across his broad chest as he did so. The warm weight was incredibly light on his body, and he could feel Illya's breath across his skin, as well as count the heartbeats that seemed to thud in counterpoint to his own. Wrapping his arms more tightly around Illya, he breathed a long, contented sigh and said to the quiet form, "You see, Illyusha. I told you that you had no idea what you were in for." A moment later he was sound asleep.
Napoleon Solo drowsed, drifting in that restful place between sleep and wakefulness. He felt the weight of a slender arm across his abdomen and tried to remember which of the secretarial ilk he had gone home with. Opening his eyes, his gaze wandered down his form to glance at the appendage. Michelle must be working out, he mused, noting the taut musculature of the arm and the blonde hair sparsely covering the fair skin.
Still half asleep, he stroked the forearm and rolled onto his side; abruptly realizing he was nose to nose with Illya Kuryakin. His mind did a double take and an idiotic grin stole across his features at the memory of last night's events. Checking his watch, Napoleon was surprised to see it was already afternoon. Sleeping with a warm body in his arms seemed to agree with him. This warm body in particular. He propped one elbow under his head and watched Illya sleep. In repose, Kuryakin's youthful appearance belied his true age, causing his features to soften into a look of adolescence.
This was the Illya Napoleon rarely was allowed to see, for it was the side Kuryakin kept locked away from him and the rest of the world. He watched his friend's lips curl in a slight smile and heard the barest sigh of a whisper escape them. In another moment his eyelids began to flutter and he seemed to be struggling with the claim sleep had over him. Another sigh, and his blue eyes opened and beheld the amused and disheveled face of his partner scant inches away. Suddenly realizing where his right hand was he snatched it from Solo's hip, snapping his eyes shut once again. A quick intake of breath told Napoleon something was wrong.
"Illya. Illya, open your eyes and look at me," he ordered softly.
"No, no, I can't," Kuryakin whispered, balling his hands into fists at his side.
"Why not, Illya?" Napoleon pressed, suddenly concerned that his friend regretted the direction they were taking.
"Because if I open my eyes, this might all be a dream, and I want so desperately for it to be reality." Illya's breath was coming in shakily abrupt pants and he was very pale.
The despairing honesty of that statement, torn as it was from the depths of Illya's lonely soul, touched Napoleon as nothing ever had before. He blinked away hot tears, and reached a hand out to gently stroke Illya's cheek. "Oh, Illya. Does this feel like a dream to you?" Gently he smoothed his fingers over his jaw line, stroking the point of his chin and caressing the silky skin of Kuryakin's throat. He leaned his face closer and brushed his lips tenderly across the flesh where his fingers had been seconds before. "Do I feel like a dream to you?" he asked huskily, waiting for Illya's reaction.
His partner slowly opened his eyes, and Solo noted the tears gathering there, too. He placed slow kisses over Illya's eyelids, tasting the saltiness.
"You do feel like a dream, Napoleon. One that I hope I shall never awake from," Illya whispered.
He snuggled into Napoleon's neck, mouthing the skin there, tasting and memorizing the unique flavor of the man. Solo moaned, allowing Illya free rein, wanting him to be the one in control. He ran his hands along Illya's soft back, rubbing gently where he knew the worst of the bruises still lay. He roamed lower, caressing the cleft of his ass, and felt him stiffen at the intimate touch. Napoleon froze, and removed his hands from Illya's backside. Resuming the soft touches along his flank, he encouraged Illya's explorations of his body with gasps and groans of delight. He could feel the hesitancy of Illya's touch and willed himself to find the self-control he needed in order to play this particular seduction out as slowly as Illya deserved. He took a deep breath, and forced himself to still his hands from exploring his partner's form. The Russian's body was taut as a bowstring and sweat glistened from his skin like a dewy covering. Illya took the cessation from Solo as a comment on his participation.
"I'm sorry that I am so clumsy, Napoleon. I haven't had much experience in love," he admitted painfully. "You must think I am very backward, compared to all the experience you have had." He ducked his head down, his chin practically disappearing as he spoke.
"Illya, you are the sexiest thing I have ever seen, and the only reason I stopped is that I was afraid that... ahem... this might have been over sooner than I wanted, if you know what I mean," Napoleon threw at him. At that Illya looked up at Solo and blushed, his cheeks blazing with color.
"Really, Napoleon?" he asked. "I affect you that much?"
Now it was his turn to blush. "Yes, Illyusha, you do." At the sound of that particular endearment, his friend took a quick intake of breath. Solo caught the sound and pulled Illya's head up with his cupped hand. "Do you mind me calling you that?" he asked, hoping he hadn't just walked into an Illya minefield.
"No, Napoleon. I do not mind. It has just been so long since anyone has used that name..." his voice trailed off and Solo could sense that he was recalling another time in his past, hopefully a happy memory. "My mother used to call me that." At the mention of his mother, Illya teared up, his emotions close to the surface.
"Illya, come here." Napoleon pulled his lover over to him and rolled over so that Illya was cradled on his chest as when they first fell asleep. He wrapped his strong arms around his friend and held him, feeling Illya's tears falling onto his skin. "It's all right, Illya. It's okay. I'm here. And we have all the time in the world."
After a time, he stirred, and Solo relaxed his arms. Illya sat up on the bed facing Napoleon. His blue eyes were bright with unshed tears, but he had a quiet smile on his lips. "Thank you. Thank you, Napoleon, for understanding."
"How many emotional scenes of mine have you weathered, my friend?" Napoleon teased. "About time you start to even the score."
Kuryakin was silent for a moment, digesting the strong emotions that their newfound intimacy seemed to be bringing to the surface. He made a decision, and told himself there would be no turning back now. Eyes downcast, he said softly, "I would like..." He stopped, embarrassed.
Napoleon crept closer. "You would like... what?" he queried, a grin starting at the corners of his mouth.
"I would like carry out and a long, hot shower," Kuryakin stated. "And I would not be averse to company," he added quickly, backing off the bed and heading to the bathroom. He hoped Napoleon did not see the matching grin that ran riot over his face. Now he was really blushing, and he heard Napoleon's quick step right behind him.
Kuryakin headed into the bathroom while Solo called out for Chinese. He then hurriedly stripped and stepped to the closet, pulling out two thick, baby blue Egyptian cotton bath towels. No wonder this color attracted my interest, he mused, his sharp ears picking up the sounds of Illya's ablutions. His shower was turned on and he heard Illya shucking off his shorts and briefs. I believe that would be my cue, he thought wryly, and turned the door handle. The sight of his partner's naked form was almost too much, and he leaned against the bath's door after closing it.
Illya was turned to the side, adjusting the temperature of the water spraying out of the showerhead, leaning over to do so. The sound of the splashing covered Solo's entrance and he had not yet seen Napoleon. Silently gliding behind him, Solo blew out a warm breath onto Illya's neck by way of greeting. He did not fail to notice the goose flesh on his partner's skin his gesture elicited.
"Are you cold, Illya?" Solo teased, his hands glancing across the skin of the Russian's chest to feel the hardness of the younger man's nipples. He used his diversionary tactic to pull Illya back into him until their bodies were skin to skin.
"N-no Napoleon, d-definitely not cold," Illya stuttered, shocking Napoleon for a moment. Illya never stuttered.
Napoleon turned him around then, making eye contact with a slight frown on his features. "Illya, are you afraid of me? Afraid of this?" He gestured at their closeness.
"No, Napoleon. I could never be afraid of you... or us," he stated.
"Then what is it, tovarishch? You want to be with me... don't you?" He asked hesitatingly, afraid to hear the answer. Inside, his guts twisted; concerned that Illya was having second thoughts about their relationship.
Illya sighed, a mournful sound in the small room. "I want to be with you so much that it hurts, Napoleon. I'm just so afraid that I will disappoint you too much. I don't... I'm not..." he stopped and looked at his feet.
"Illya, are you trying to tell me that you've never been with a man?" Napoleon asked gently, trying not to embarrass his friend. A quick shake of his head gave Solo his answer. "But, you have been with women, surely..." he prodded quietly, giving Illya time to explain his reticence.
Illya was blushing and looking at the rug while he spoke. "When the job required it, yes. But, shall we say that my heart was not in it?" A shy smile returned to his face as he gazed at Napoleon.
"What does your heart tell you now, Illyusha?" Napoleon asked seductively.
"That perhaps it is time to stop running from the truth; time to accept who I am."
Illya pulled out of Solo's embrace enough to look up into his face. "In my country this kind of love is forbidden. Not just frowned upon, Napoleon. You can be executed for being a homosexual. That is where I learned to hide my feelings from myself, and others."
"But. Illya, I read your dossier when you joined U.N.C.L.E. Didn't you spend a tour in the Russian Navy?" Solo asked wonderingly, trying to digest this new and powerful information about his lover. "Surely, if you knew that you were gay, then..." he stopped, not quite sure of his voice.
"I've known I was gay since I was very young, Napoleon. Yes, I had a few abortive, clumsy attempts at sex, but I always closed down and could never commit to the act. My shipmates called me, how do you Americans say it, 'a frigid little faggot.' And left me alone for the most part. It's where I earned my 'Ice Prince' label," he added disgustedly. "I think that perhaps they were right."
"Nonsense," Napoleon snorted. "Were you ever in love with any of your paramours, Illya?" he asked directly.
"No," came the terse reply.
"Then how can you think you are frigid? If you've never been with anyone caring, how can you know how special it can be?" Solo's voice caught and Illya looked at him with love. "Illyusha, don't you know how priceless this gift of yours is? How incredibly lucky and undeserving I am to receive it?" He pulled him into a tight embrace, this time Solo's tears falling onto Kuryakin's skin. Napoleon brought his lips near Illya's and as tenderly as possible, kissed him for the first time.
Illya's head was swimming and the touch of his partner's lips was intoxicating. He kissed him back, sucked on Solo's top lip and pulled it into his mouth. Napoleon moaned and gently nudged his friend's mouth with the tip of his tongue, silently asking permission. Illya parted his lips and felt the heady sensation of his lover's tongue darting against his. They tangled together until their need for breath broke them unwillingly apart. They gasped in tandem, and laughed when they realized it.
"I think we'll run out of hot water soon," Solo remarked, pulling Illya along with him into the warm shower's spray. The impact of the sluicing water cascading down their bodies caused them both to moan appreciably. Solo reached for the soap and washcloth and began to lave Illya's body, starting with his shoulders and working his way down to his fingertips. He rubbed gently, sensually over Illya's stomach and back, being careful not to cause pain from the recent injuries.
"Mmmm," Illya murmured. "I won't break, Napoleon," Illya teased, mindful of the great care his partner was taking of him. "I'm not made of glass, you know."
"No, I was thinking more along the lines of alabaster, if you must know," he countered. Illya blushed, his face becoming pink with the warmth of the water and of Solo's words. "Did you know, Illya, that frigid men don't usually have a hard-on this impressive?" he chuckled, as his soapy hands slid over the hard length of Illya's erection. Illya gasped, and tried not to thrust into the strong hands that held him lovingly. He felt Napoleon's jutting cock digging into his hipbone and panted into Solo's ear. "Easy, love, easy," Solo soothed, delving underneath the turgid flesh to slowly roll the soft testicles between his fingers.
"Napoleon," Illya warned, trying to tell him it was too much, too fast. Solo adjusted the spray to rinse the lather from their bodies and reluctantly turned off the taps. He opened the glass door and reached for the towels. He led Illya out of the stall onto the mat and began the pleasant task of drying the dripping man. Illya in his turn rubbed Solo's body dry and stole a quick caress of his manhood before Napoleon pushed his hand away.
"Have pity on an old man, Illya. I want to make this last," he pleaded, the urgency in his eyes mirrored by his lover's fever. They kissed again, this time Illya being the aggressor and laying claim to Napoleon's mouth. They pressed hard against each other, until Solo felt Illya start to thrust against the towel that separated them. "Let's go someplace more comfortable," he whispered, not trusting his voice just then.
They walked to the master bedroom, and sat down on the edge of the bed together. Napoleon undid the towel around Illya's waist, and then did the same for himself. Their erections, released from their confinement jutted up towards one another. Napoleon laid his hand against Illya's cheek for a long minute, searing this moment into his memory.
He knelt down in front of his lover and took Illya's cock in his hand. A strangled groan was his reward and he lowered his mouth over the swollen flesh, taking the purple head and flicking the tip of his tongue against it. It leapt upwards at the touch and Solo sucked the hard helmet for a moment, before taking it into his mouth. He glanced up at his partner, saw him clutching the sheets with his fists, his blue eyes locked onto Solo's hazel ones. Napoleon cradled Illya's balls with his free hand, and felt the familiar tightening of the flesh that he knew so well. His own groin was on fire and it was all he could do to keep from humping the side of the bed in frustration. No, he thought. This is for Illya tonight. My needs can wait, and stifled his urge to come quickly.
"Polya, Polya, pazhaluista..." Illya groaned, the sight of Solo going down on him and the sensations of his lips and throat surrounding his flesh almost too much to bear. Napoleon knew he was close, and relaxed his throat as much as possible, swallowing another inch of Illya's cock as he did so. Another pull on the tender flesh and he convulsed, arching upwards off the bed and into his lover's mouth deeply, spurting his essence down Napoleon's throat. Wave after wave consumed him and he was lost in the exquisite agony of his orgasm. Solo swallowed every drop, sucking gently to milk the last of the orgasm from Illya's body. He licked and cleaned every inch of the rapidly deflating cock, and looked up to meet Illya's unfocused gaze. He was panting strenuously, and just now becoming aware of his surroundings again. Illya slowly withdrew from his lover's mouth with a small groan of reluctance. Napoleon crawled up the length of Illya's body and kissed him deeply to seal their union. Illya explored their combined taste with his own tongue, cataloging yet another new flavor.
"Polya," Illya whispered. "I never knew it could be like that."
"Illya, it will always be like this between us," Solo murmured, kissing the beautiful face under him. Tears ran down the blond man's face and his lover smoothed them away with his lips. Illya realized that Napoleon's need was still heavy against his thigh.
"Polya," he strained. "Let me..." He pushed against Napoleon's grasp, and found himself held fast.
"No, Illyusha, I am fine. This night is for you, to show you how much I love you."
Napoleon caressed Illya's ear, dipping his tongue into the opening. Illya relaxed, and while Napoleon was concentrating on his ear, he used it as a distraction to suddenly flip Solo over onto his back. Not entirely surprised by his partner's strength, Solo was, however, disgruntled that he was caught so easily. "Just what do you think you're doing?" he groused, trying to keep a stern look on his face.
"Returning the favor, hopefully," Illya grinned wickedly in Solo's direction. He felt Napoleon's cock twitch against his pelvis, and was uncertain how to proceed. He did want to love Napoleon but was afraid his lack of experience would be an obstacle. Solo saw the look and understood immediately. He took Illya's hand and slid it between them, placing his fingers around his throbbing flesh. Illya sighed in relief, understanding Solo's intent and grateful for the silent instruction. He fisted the cock in a manner made familiar by his years of solitude, using the pressure and variation that he himself liked. Napoleon gasped his pleasure into Illya's ear and drove upwards into that tight embrace. His thrusts were in counterpoint to Illya's stroking and in no time he was panting, trying desperately to delay the inevitable.
"Polya, my Polya, don't fight it. I want to see you come. Come for me, lyubov," Illya ordered, and increased the speed and pressure on Solo's cock. At the sound of his friend's voice calling him "beloved" Napoleon shouted Illya's name and jetted his release into Kuryakin's hand. Soon both of them were covered in sticky ejaculate, and Napoleon's vision grayed out for a moment. He heard his lover's voice cooing to him in Russian, but it seemed distant. Have to take a Berlitz course in Russian some time, he thought fuzzily. The pounding of his heart grew less, and he looked down to see a blond, perspiring head resting on his shoulder. He lazily stroked his fingers through Illya's hair, and sighed.
"Looks like we'll both need another shower," Napoleon observed. Illya looked up, another wicked grin on his face.
"Perfect," he crooned, "because that's just where I want you for round two."
"Illya, love, you're going to put me in the hospital if you keep this up," Solo complained, secretly pleased that they were both arousing each other so completely.
"Not to worry, Napoleon," Illya deadpanned. "They have beds in hospital, and rather lenient visiting hours, I'm told." He pulled Napoleon toward the edge of the bed and dragged him, protesting all the way, to the shower.
Napoleon Solo walked unsteadily from the bath to the bed and sat down heavily. Wearing only a towel, he glanced at the remains of the carry out and decided it was too far away to make an effort. He lay back on the soft spread and sighed complacently.
Illya Kuryakin appeared in the bath's doorway, grinning at the sight of his partner's lax form. Knowing he was the reason for Napoleon's lassitude only made him grin all the more. He was halfway to the bed when a chirping sound stopped him in his tracks. Looking around, he spotted Solo's jacket in a pile of clothing on the floor and retrieved his communicator, handing it to his fellow agent with a smirk. "I believe it's for you," he said casually. "You really should keep better track of your toys."
"Saved by the bell once again," Napoleon replied. "As you can see, I don't have any pockets at the moment." He uncapped the pen and said, "Solo here," as casually as possible. Alexander Waverly's clipped tones greeted him.
"Mr. Solo, how good to hear from you. One might remember that we here at U.N.C.L.E. do not keep banker's hours," he said drolly.
Stung by the remark, Napoleon coughed to cover his embarrassment. Illya had to stifle a laugh. "Ah, yes, sir. Sorry, sir, I was just about to report in." He threw a withering look at Kuryakin, warning him to behave.
"Yes, well," Waverly harrumphed. "I just read the last report you messengered to me, and the doctor's conclusions as well. I may assume that Mr. Kuryakin is well on the road to recovery?" his boss queried.
And then some, Napoleon thought wryly. Trying to keep his voice even he replied, "He is doing as well as can be expected, sir, but I'm afraid he'll need a couple more days to recuperate," he said smoothly. As will I, he added mentally.
Illya was listening to the conversation with a great deal of glee. It wasn't often he got to see his partner squirm. He sank into an armchair gracefully and eyed Solo mischievously.
Waverly added, "I daresay I can authorize a few more days' medical leave for him, as well as for his 'nurse'" he said pointedly. The jibe was not lost on Solo, but he kept silent. "If I know our Mr. Kuryakin, I am sure you have your hands full keeping him down." Solo rolled his eyes at the remark, wishing he could tell Waverly how right he was. Illya practically fell out of his chair at the double entendre, even knowing that Mr. Waverly's comments were innocent enough.
Solo used the last of his concentration to sound normal. "If I have any trouble, sir, I assume I may call in the Marines?"
He heard a small chuckle escape his usually staid boss. "I will let you use your best judgment, Mr. Solo. Remind Mr. Kuryakin that you are his boss, if need be. At least technically," he added. "Report in at regular intervals. If you need anything from medical, don't hesitate to call." He heard the concern in the old man's voice and felt a little guilty about playing on his sympathies.
"I'm sure Illya will be fine, sir. He has extraordinary healing capabilities."
"A requirement for Section Two agents, so it would seem. Well, I'll not keep you from your duties. Waverly out," he said succinctly, severing the connection.
Illya's quick laughter floated to him from across the room. Solo looked at his partner and frowned. "I don't see what's so funny," he growled.
"The look on your face, milok," he answered, and rose from the chair to walk over to him. Napoleon saw the grimace that movement earned Illya, and patted the bed next to him. Kuryakin sat heavily and they shared a quiet moment.
"How's the pain?" he asked, his eyes warning Illya that he would brook no covering up.
"Negligible, Napoleon. Do not hover over me," he added softly, knowing Solo was concerned.
"I won't 'hover' if you'll agree to be a good patient. At least take the muscle relaxant, if not the codeine," he bargained, hoping this would not escalate to a battle of wills. He didn't have the strength. He saw Illya tense, his body language tightening up at first, but then he sighed.
"All right, Polya. We have better things to do with our time than spar." He turned to Napoleon and captured his face in his strong hands. Pulling his head close, Illya traced Solo's mouth with his lips, and kissed him gently. Forehead to forehead they touched lightly, both lost in their own thoughts. Napoleon broke first, shaking his head lightly to clear it.
"If you think you can distract me, think again," he said resolutely, reaching across Illya to pluck the prescription from the night table. He shook one tablet out in his hand and held it out to Kuryakin. His partner looked evilly at the small pill, but quickly swallowed it before Napoleon could complain. "I believe that deserves a reward," Solo smirked, and wrapped his arms around his lover. Their bodies angled toward each other and Solo kissed him gently at first, until their mutual passion ignited into a need more urgent.
After a time, Solo slid his stubbled face down Illya's neck causing him to shudder in his arms. He drew his arms more tightly around the thin man, his emotions swirling. "If anything happened to you, Illya..." he choked off the sentence, unable to continue.
"We'd be there to handle it together," his partner finished. "Like always." Kuryakin gazed at his friend, drinking in the sight and smell of him so close. He saw the love reflected in those gorgeous hazel eyes and did not flinch from it. "'What does not destroy us...'" he quoted squeezing Napoleon's hand in his.
"'...makes us stronger,'" Solo completed for him.
"Well, I know what would make me stronger right now," he started. A wicked grin broke out on Illya's features, and Solo lurched out of his grasp. "No, Illya, not again. I need food, damn it. You know, sustenance, daily bread and all that. If you want to resume our... uh... activities later, you have to keep my strength up. And that, in my family, involves eating some kind of pasta." He looked at their state of undress and sighed. "Do you want to go out for supper or order in again?" he asked Illya.
Illya frowned, thinking about getting Napoleon in his clutches again as soon as possible. His stomach growled, though, at the mention of food, so he went along with Solo. "If we go out, we'll have to dress, and keep our hands off each other," he ventured out loud. "However, if we stay in, we may never actually get any food eaten at all, so..." his voice trailed off, and he glanced pointedly at Solo. "All right, we'll go out," he decided, much to Napoleon's relief. "I'll consider it a test of my resolve. Though I daresay it will take all of my strength to look but not touch," he bantered. He punctuated his statement with a soft caress of Solo's groin, and felt him respond even then through the barrier of the towel. Napoleon batted the hand away and growled with the effort.
"I can see that you will be the death of me yet, Illyusha," Solo grumbled low in his throat.
Kuryakin took a step back, and walked over to the closet. He sighed resignedly.
"All right; you win, Napoleon. I will behave myself, at least for the time while we are in public. But once we step into this apartment, do not think I will be so easily discouraged," he warned.
"Perish the thought," Solo laughed. He walked to his closet and took out a blue suit. Illya looked at it disapprovingly.
"Wear the brown one," he suggested. Solo's eyebrows quirked upwards. Fashion advice from Illya Kuryakin, he mused. I'll never live it down.
"Why?" he countered, a small smile on his lips as he thought of his partner's usual lack of style.
"Because I wish it," Illya said softly, "and because you look positively edible in brown."
He reached into Solo's closet and pulled out the mocha Italian silk suit that had caused him to go weak in the knees the first time he saw Napoleon wearing it. He held it in front of Solo, his eyes pleading with him to understand.
"All right, Illya, I'll wear it, if it pleases you. I really think, however, that this has something to do with your addiction to chocolate," Napoleon teased, secretly pleased that he could sway his taciturn lover so easily and completely. He began to dress, and saw Illya take out a spare set of clothes that he always kept at Solo's.
An evil thought took over him, and he grinned. "Hey, Illya, you know two can play at this game," he said quickly. "Tit for tat, and what not?" Napoleon sauntered over to his dresser and took out a heather gray, luxuriously soft sweater he had been given by one of his conquests. It had been a tad small for him, but not wanting to hurt any feelings, he'd kept it anyway. Now he was glad he had. "Put this on, will you, love?" he asked with his eyes.
Illya had on his ever present black pants, white shirt, and had been ready to slide on the plain black jacket, but one look at the anticipation on Napoleon's face and he was lost. He nodded to Solo, who took two steps to him and carefully slid the sweater over Illya's head. When his bright head popped out the opening, his hair was wild, static sending it in all directions. Solo smoothed the hair with a caress and stepped back to look at his friend.
"Perfect fit, Illyusha," he said softly.
"Just like us, Polya," Illya breathed back silkily.
"You got that right, partner," Napoleon agreed as he gathered Illya to him for a fierce and possessive kiss.
Anyone looking at the two well-dressed men seated at Table Three would have thought them businessmen in the middle of amiable negotiations and would never have guessed at their real occupation. They conversed in hushed tones, and at first glance gave nothing away as to their emotional states.
Upon closer examination, however, a trained observer (such as an U.N.C.L.E. agent) would have noticed the easy manner the two men employed with each other, and the uncanny knack they had for finishing each other's sentences. An even more astute observer (namely a female U.N.C.L.E. agent) would have sensed the almost palpable chemical connection these two seemed to have, and would have regretfully come to the correct conclusion that these particular gentlemen were "off the market."
Napoleon Solo gazed across the small chintz covered table at his dinner companion, a certain diminutive Russian known for his cool exterior and, if rumors were true, an even cooler heart. How he had captured that heart, a heart he knew to be as fiery and passionate as any that had ever beat, was still a mystery to him. The only part of it he did understand was that they were inextricably bound by forces outside of their control, and were just now beginning to make sense of it. His need for Illya made him uneasy, but it was an unease he decided he could better live with than without. Instead of shrinking from it, this knowledge gave Solo the courage to pursue the path he now knew was the correct one, although it had taken him some time to discover it. That made him smile, a small lift of his lips that Illya Kuryakin was quick to pick up on.
"What?" he asked, trying to get a sense of what Napoleon was thinking.
"Nothing, tovarishch. Just admiring the view," he replied smoothly.
"What view, we're nowhere near..." Illya stopped, suddenly catching Napoleon's drift, and dropped his head down, blushing furiously. "You're breaking the rules, Napoleon," he scolded. "No overt emotional displays in public, remember?" he chided gently, privately pleased that Solo was so enamored of him.
"I'm not the one being overtly emotional, now am I, Agent Kuryakin?" he teased, laughing out loud at the look Illya gave him. "All right, all right, truce," he added, signaling for the waiter to freshen their drinks. The garçon immediately brought Solo a second Glenlivet and another Stoli for Kuryakin. Napoleon leaned back in his chair and sighed blissfully. Neither man spoke, or even felt the need to, so in tune with each other that language was unnecessary. After a few companionable minutes Napoleon asked, "What would you like for dessert, Illya?"
Kuryakin didn't answer right away, merely leaned forward on the table and locked his blue eyes on Napoleon's darker ones. He crooked his finger at Solo and his partner ducked his head closer to his friend. Illya closed the last few inches between them and whispered something softly in Napoleon's ear.
"Check please," Solo nearly shouted and the waiter scurried to the table.
"Yes, sir. Is there anything wrong, sir?" he asked obediently.
"Nothing, garçon, absolutely nothing." He grinned at Illya, who returned the smile, and with a flick of his wrist, tossed the vodka down in one fluid motion. He was up and heading for the exit before Solo could even get out his Diner's Card. Napoleon took a drink of his whiskey, and mentally rebuked himself as he waited to sign the bill. It won't help matters by being impatient, and my smug partner can stand to be taken down a peg or two. I can put on a poker face with the best of them, he thought as he finished his drink and left a generous tip on the tray. He smoothed his jacket and brushed off imaginary lint from his trousers, deliberately stalling. Running a manicured hand through his thick hair, he walked leisurely toward the exit.
Once outside, he casually glanced about for his partner. He found him encased in shadow, leaning against the building's façade, arms folded and an impatient scowl on his face. Solo tried not to show it, but at that moment he felt the depth of the affection he had for this particular man rock him to the very roots of his soul. Forgetting he was playing hard to get, he stepped in front of his pissed-off partner and ended the battle before it began.
Placing a hand against the brick on either side of Illya's shoulders, he closed the gap between their bodies, giving Illya no escape. Now it was his turn to whisper in Kuryakin's ear.
"Do you have any idea what you do to me?" he sighed suggestively. "And what you make me want to do to you?" The hard-edged lines of Illya's body relaxed, and he slumped against the wall, the anger melting out of him and a new, more powerful emotion taking over.
"Please, Napoleon," he begged. "Let's go home."
Solo turned to the curb and put two fingers in his mouth, whistling for a taxi. A Checker pulled up, and waited for the two men to climb inside. After giving the address, neither man spoke, and a few minutes later they arrived at Napoleon's apartment building. Illya paid the fare, and noted that Solo had already called for the elevator. They rode up the floors in silence, each lost in his thoughts. As the car stopped, Napoleon reached for his keys and walked the short length of the hall to his door. He heard Illya right behind him and moved aside so he could enter the apartment. He meant to toss his keys on the end table but never had the time.
He felt strong hands grab him, and was quickly aware of being roughly pushed against his living room wall. His internal sensors flared danger for a moment and he grasped his aggressor's forearms menacingly. A split second later, he saw and smelled Illya in front of him and relaxed into his frenzied embrace. Kuryakin was agitated, and pushed his body flush against Napoleon's, almost crushing in his desire. He darted in for a punishing kiss, and demanded his tongue be allowed entrance. Solo met him with equaled passion and they dueled together until Illya gasped, laying his forehead on Solo's broad shoulder. He was shuddering with emotion, and Napoleon caressed his back gently, trying to tell him he understood the need for urgency.
Illya turned his head and mouthed Solo's neck, his fingers working at his shirt and tie. After getting down to skin, Illya pushed the material apart and worked his lips across his lover's chest. A baser instinct took over his intellect, and he gave in to the sudden urge he had to mark Napoleon as his own. Drawing nearer to Solo's jugular, he nipped and sucked at the exposed flesh, bruising the tender skin beneath his ardent ministrations. Illya felt Napoleon jerk at the contact and push back against him. Growling now, Illya followed the line of dark hair that quested downward into the slacks and impatiently tugged the belt and zipper out of his way.
Napoleon was panting and watched with hooded eyes as Illya roamed over his body. He had never seen his partner so aggressive with desire, so needy, and it excited him beyond belief. He was rock hard and pulsing by the time Illya knelt before him and took his cock in his warm hand. Solo moaned, a deep and heady sound in the dark, and Illya knew there was no turning back. Drops of pre-cum dripped out of the weeping slit, and he hesitantly placed his tongue on the very tip, tasting his lover for the first time.
Napoleon hissed, and involuntarily arched himself closer to his partner's sweet mouth. Illya smiled, knowing how he was affecting Napoleon and determined to play it out. Inexperience made him hesitant at first, but a territorial, almost primal need to please the man before him won out. He licked the shaft along one side and then the other, torturing Napoleon with sensations and causing nerve endings to scream. Illya savored the taste and touch of him, marveling at how he could ever have waited this long to discover how wonderful this act could be; wonderful because he had given his heart so completely to Napoleon.
Solo was panting now, mesmerized by the sight of Illya Kuryakin's fair head bobbing up and down on his glistening cock. He placed his hands on Illya's head, tangling his strong fingers in the whisper soft hair of his partner. He was so very close, but he wanted this to last forever. Napoleon was grunting with each pass of Illya's mouth on his shaft, and tried to vocalize a warning to his lover that he was past the point of no return. Napoleon tried to pull Illya's head back, but he would not be denied. He felt the tightening of Solo's testicles in his hands and answered any questions of intent by taking Napoleon's shaft even deeper into his mouth. Feeling Napoleon bucking against him, Illya ended the torture and gave a series of long, almost brutal pulls on the engorged flesh. Solo stiffened for a split second before he came, gushing into his partner's warm throat, crying Illya's name over and over. He swallowed reflexively, unintentionally milking Solo with his throat muscles, and tearing a howl of completion from Napoleon's mouth. His spent organ began to pull out of Illya, and he continued to caress it lovingly.
Solo slumped against the wall; grateful for the support the solidity gave him, not trusting his legs to hold him up. His breathing slowly returned to normal and he pulled Illya up to him, kissing the swollen lips and tasting himself there. Now it was Illya who moaned, and Napoleon nibbled his way across the pale throat, tonguing the hollow at the juncture of his collarbone. Unfortunately, the combination of spent emotion, vodka, and vestiges of his medication overwhelmed Illya. Knees buckling, he sagged against Napoleon on suddenly rubbery legs.
"Polya," he murmured. His eyes were slits and his breathing ragged. Solo cursed, bent down and easily lifted Illya up and carried him to their bed. He laid him down gently and pulled him over to his chest. "I'm sorry, Polya. I can't keep my eyes open," Illya whispered, already slipping into sleep.
"Shh," Napoleon soothed. "Just sleep, now, Illyusha, sleep." He rubbed his lover's back; still rocked from the force of their lovemaking and the fact that Illya would take him so completely into his body and into his heart. Still early evening, Napoleon wasn't tired, but he was loath to leave his lover's embrace. Consequently, he stayed awake well into the night, listening to Illya breathe, and finally drifted off, secure in the knowledge that he was well loved.
Illya Kuryakin was in the middle of a good dream, a very good dream, when he awoke to discover that real life was even better. He felt the solid warmth that was his partner at his back and a questing hand inching down his belly. Not an unpleasant way to wake up, he thought. Certainly better than any alarm clock. He kept absolutely still, fearing that his lover would stop if he knew he was awake.
Napoleon Solo continued to explore Kuryakin's body, skimming his fingers across his abdominal muscles and lightly raking his fingernails across the delicate skin of Illya's inner thighs. He heard a small gasp from his partner, and smiled to himself. Playing along, he gave no indication that he knew Illya was awake, and resumed his petting with a renewed effort.
Illya was regretting his decision to play possum, every nerve in his body was crying for release. I can hold up under Thrush torture; surely I can withstand friendly fire, he reasoned. Napoleon began an assault on Kuryakin's chest, one hand playing in the small nest of golden hair in the center, and the other hand teasing and rubbing at Illya's flattened nipples. That was nearly his undoing, as Illya had an immediate and pronounced reaction to the massage. His nipples hardened instantly and Napoleon had to stifle a chuckle at the change. Mercilessly, he allowed his wandering digits to creep lower, and a moment later brushed against the head of Kuryakin's erection.
"Napoleon," Illya groaned, having lost the battle but hoping the war would continue. He released a long held breath and pushed back against the body of his friend.
"Yes, milok, you needed something?" he answered, grinning behind Kuryakin's head at the entreaty. Solo took a better hold of Illya's rigid member, feeling it swell and distend even more by the added friction of his palm. "I can see that I finally have your complete... attention?" he quipped, and then added, "Pun intended, of course."
Illya squirmed, trying not to thrust into Napoleon, hoping that he could last longer this time, but all the while knowing that the touch of his lover would bring him to completion much too soon. He tried a different tactic, and rolled over to face Solo.
"Is this how you intend to awaken me every morning, Napoleon?" he asked softly, caressing his face with his long thin fingers. He felt the stubble of Solo's beard and the matching hardness of his cock twitching against his hip. Solo's face grew serious for a moment and he studied Illya's expression carefully.
"Would you like to wake up to this every morning, love?" he questioned, holding in a breath while waiting for the reply.
"Uh, what's not to like?" Illya puzzled, confused by the question.
Napoleon laughed, then, and took Illya's face in his hands. "I think you misunderstood the question, my Illyusha." He tilted his face until their eyes met, and felt his pulse quicken as he saw the love reflected there. "I, ah, meant would you like to make this a more permanent arrangement?"
Illya started at the question, and Solo's stomach tightened. He knew his partner was a very independent type, and wondered if he had just stepped over the line in their budding relationship. He forced himself to relax and waited for a reply.
Sighing, Illya sat up and leaned against the chest of his best friend. He wanted to ensure he didn't make a mess of this and unintentionally hurt Napoleon in the process. Solo reclined against the headboard, cradled Illya's body to him and gave him all the time he needed. They were both silent, not wanting to rush the other into hollow words. Continuing his caresses, Napoleon's hands spoke what he did not say.
Illya caved first, taking Napoleon's hand in his and bringing it to his lips for a soft kiss. "You know I love you, yes, Polya?" he said gently.
Napoleon tightened his grip on Illya's hand as he realized that this was the first time he had told him he loved him. Too emotional to speak, he squeezed and nodded against Illya's neck. Tears tracked down his face and merged with the sweat forming on Kuryakin's skin.
The Russian took a long deep breath before he continued. "I know by most standards my apartment isn't much," he began. "You are constantly teasing me about its austereness. But it's the first place I've ever had that is truly mine, and can't be taken from me. Unlike so many other things in my life that have." His voice became very quiet, and Solo had to concentrate to hear. "My home, my family, almost my life..." he trailed off, and Napoleon hugged him tighter, reassuring through touch that he was not alone now. "I have my books and my records, and I feel very safe there, Polya. Can you understand that?" he finished, turning his face to the side to gauge the reaction Napoleon was having to his speech. "I hope I haven't made a mess of this, Napoleon."
Solo was quiet for a moment, struggling to keep his emotions in check. Illya needed him to be strong now. He sighed and murmured in his ear softly. "How could I argue with that? I had no idea your place meant that much to you or why, Illya. Please forgive me if I've ever hurt you with my teasing. Sometimes I have a very big mouth."
"No, Napoleon, you have never hurt me," Illya quickly reassured his friend. "I've grown quite fond of your sense of humor." He turned in Solo's arms and laid his cheek against Napoleon's heart, listening to the steadying rhythm. His lover placed a soft kiss on his head and simply held him; grateful for the honesty they were able to share. It was a rare day indeed when his reclusive partner opened up and let him glimpse inside of his lonely soul.
Treading delicately, the senior partner solicited, "Will you tell me someday, milok, of the awful things that haunt your dreams? I would give anything to make the horrors go away, you know." Solo closed his eyes; mentally shivering at the experiences he knew his partner had lived through.
"Yes, Polya. I will, someday, but not now. There is too much newness to my life that I need to absorb first. You've given me a lot to be thankful for," he acknowledged.
"Yes, well, speaking of..." Napoleon teased. "I know of something else you'll thank me for in a few minutes." He flipped Illya over and came to rest belly to belly with him. Their erections, flagged by the recent respite began to reassert themselves as they pressed against each other. Illya tried to reach for Solo's cock, but the older man stopped him by wrapping his arms around his chest tightly. Illya hugged back and they began slowly thrusting their hips in counterpoint. Their shafts rubbed against each other, hardness on hardness.
Illya was aroused beyond belief, the feel of Solo's heavy balls sliding against his soft flesh almost more than he could take. Napoleon gazed at his golden lover, marveling at how beautiful he was. "How do you say 'beautiful' in Russian?" he asked.
Kuryakin had to search his addled mind for the correct translation. "Krasivey." He panted as Napoleon jerked harder against him.
"Krasivey, krasivey Illyusha," he sighed. The sound of his Polya crooning to him in his native tongue was more than he could bear. He pushed his arms against Napoleon's, causing him to fall forward against his skin and land atop him, his delicious weight pressing him into the bed. Illya kissed Napoleon greedily, searching his mouth with frantic lips and tongue. Solo thrust faster now, desperate to give his lover a shattering orgasm like the one Illya had given him last night.
"Nyet, Polya, stoi, st-stop, please," Illya begged, his hand pushing against Solo's taut chest. Slipping into Russian was always a betrayal of intense emotion on Illya's part, and it caused Napoleon to stop and raise an eyebrow at him.
"Did I hurt you, Illya?" Napoleon asked quickly, mindful of the injuries Illya had incurred.
"No, of course not, Polya. I just don't want it to end like this, not this time," Illya explained. "Please, Napoleon. I want you to make love to me," he begged.
"Um, I think that's what we're doing, comrade," Solo started to laugh, but the look on Illya's face stopped him. "What do you want, Illyusha? Just tell me."
"The next time I come, I want it to be because you are inside me, Polya. And I want to feel you come in me, too."
Solo stilled at that, and had to take a breath before saying, "Are you sure, Illya? We don't have to rush it. I'm perfectly happy ..."
Illya interrupted him before he could finish. "But I am not, Polya. I know what I want, and I want you inside me, now!" he growled, surprising Napoleon with his need.
The darker man stilled his impatience with a soft caress of his forearms, calming and gentling the fire beginning to rage in his slender lover. "Easy, Illya, easy. We're going to take this slowly, whether you want to or not. I won't rush this, and I won't hurt you. You're already injured enough. Do you understand?" he said firmly, giving Illya the look that he knew meant business. Illya nodded, pleased that Solo cared enough for his well being to slow things down. He was in fact very nervous about taking their lovemaking to the next level. He took a deep breath and rose back up to take Napoleon in a bear hug. They stayed that way for a moment and then lay back down side to side.
Solo went to the bathroom for a minute and came out with a small tube of ointment. He got back into bed with his partner and drew up to his side. "Spread your legs for me, Illya, and just relax. I'm not going to do anything you're not ready for," he soothed. His partner was wide-eyed, pupils dilated with adrenaline and goose bumps racing over his flesh. The American's touch was feather soft and he stroked along Illya's shaft and reached underneath to massage his testicles. Illya was flushed and sweating profusely, but he never flinched from that intimate touch. Napoleon had never seen a more erotic sight in his life; his lover's skin was sweat slicked and pale, his blond hair plastered to his forehead, and his eyes slitted with arousal. Illya's moans were urging Solo on to kneel between his legs. He forced himself to breathe, and willed his impatient body to wait.
"Easy, Illyusha, I'm just going to use some lube now. It may feel a little strange at first."
Napoleon coated his index finger in the gel and slowly rubbed it in the crease of Illya's ass. He constricted involuntarily and Solo continued to caress him open, waiting out the fine tremors that wracked his lover's body. Next he massaged the perineum, trying to loosen and lubricate the exquisitely sensitive flesh. Illya hissed and writhed, wanting to feel more of Solo than just his finger. He bucked against Napoleon's hand trying to speed him along. His cock was straining upwards, trying to make contact with flesh instead of empty air. Illya wondered if it were possible to die from too much stimulation. He was afraid he might just find out.
He closed his eyes and concentrated on relaxing into the touch, tried to still his heaving breaths. Napoleon's other hand was palming his flat stomach, as much to keep Illya from jerking upward as to reassure him of the connection. He watched Illya's expression closely and knew he was ready for the next step.
He crawled up Illya's body, allowing his skin to slide across him, and the younger man groaned almost painfully as he felt their manhoods collide hotly. They met in a passionate and bruising kiss, all of Illya's attention focused on Napoleon's wicked mouth. He used the distraction of his talented tongue to slowly work his finger into the ring of muscle at Illya's opening. His partner moaned into his mouth and tightened only marginally at the intrusion. Up to the first knuckle, Solo began to slip the joint in and out of his lover tenderly. After a few thrusts, he pushed in further until his index finger was completely enveloped. He broke the kiss and looked into Illya's blue eyes.
"Look, love. Look at us. I'm inside you," he wondered, hoping there had not been any pain. Illya's eyes drew open wide and he gazed down at their joined bodies in awe. "Are you all right, Illyusha?" he asked softly. "I'm not hurting you, am I?"
Illya gasped as Napoleon flexed his finger, moving it closer to his prostate.
"Ahh, no, Polya, not hurting at all." His face was flushed and his pulse stood out on his graceful neck. He locked eyes with Solo and begged for more without saying a word. The American added another finger to the first, slowly and carefully drawing them apart inside the tight pucker of flesh. Illya writhed in pleasure when his prostate was touched, and thrust against Napoleon's fingers, trying to recapture the incredible feeling.
Solo knew he was ready and thoroughly coated his erection with generous amounts of lube. He only hoped he could hold off long enough to meet Illya's needs first. Knowing his lover was a virgin was almost too much to bear, and he had to use all the self-control he possessed to delay his release. He pushed his throbbing tip against the opening, and heard Illya take a shuddering breath.
"Look at me," he ordered, and at that commanding tone Illya jerked his head erect. Solo held Illya's gaze and pushed his cock inside the rim, stopping at once to gauge the reaction. Illya closed his eyes, and hissed at the sudden pain and pressure, clamping down on him unintentionally. Napoleon's vision sparked then, and he bit his lip hard to keep from coming immediately. He groaned and Illya relaxed a bit, taking some of the pressure off of Napoleon's beleaguered erection. "Oh, Illyusha, you're so incredibly tight," he ground out and slid forward gently until he was balls deep in his partner. They both groaned out loud, feeling each other's pulse beat in their joining. Illya tried to ignore the pain, and took deep breaths to calm his twitching body.
His partner took hold of his knees and gently spread them until he could settle between Illya's legs. He watched Illya's reaction and remained perfectly still, allowing him to control the situation. His shaft throbbed and pulsed in the tight channel and he was very close. Illya understood the look of intense concentration on Napoleon's face and he began to slowly rock against Solo's hips, feeling pain, but recognizing the pleasure that was there as well. The movements encouraged Napoleon, giving him silent permission to proceed.
Gratefully, Napoleon began to thrust slowly, trying to angle the penetration to arouse Illya even more. After a couple of experimental prods, he heard Illya sob in ecstasy, and kept the rhythm tuned to his partner's need. He fisted Illya's cock in time to his pelvic thrusts. Illya cried out, and looked down at their fused bodies, lost in the sensations his lover was causing deep within him. He rolled his head from side to side on the pillow, trying to keep control.
"Polya, Polya, I can't..." he began, but before he could say another word he convulsed, throwing his head back and arching his perfect neck in exquisite relief. He pulsed out onto his stomach and his lover's hand in incredible waves, his cock jerking and twitching in his orgiastic joy. His spasms contracted his internal muscles, and it was Napoleon's turn to sob as his orgasm roared out of him, spraying the inside of Illya's body with jet after jet of pulsating fluid. Illya felt the spurts of his lover's release deep inside, and he shivered in completion.
Solo, exhausted, collapsed on top of the slight body beneath him, heedless of any discomfort he might have caused, his consciousness hanging by a thread. The men panted together, bodies coming down from their respective highs, and minds trying desperately to function again. Illya was semi-conscious, aware only of the delicious weight of his Napoleon's body across him. He fought his way back to reality with some difficulty and the first thing he focused on was the dark head lying on his shoulder.
Their bodies were plastered with sweat and other fluids, and Illya could feel the perspiration from Napoleon's torso dripping down his side to fall to the sheets below. He reached one languid arm around Solo's back and hugged him to himself. Warm tears were gathering in his eyes and he let them fall heedless of his emotional display. Somehow, Napoleon found the strength to lift his head. Seeing his partner's face was reward enough for the effort. He smiled at Illya and said, "I love you, too, Illyusha." He shifted his weight, and they came apart, both men groaning with the loss of separation. Illya took one of the tangled sheets and with it cleaned their sweating bodies. Napoleon laughed at the way his usually fastidious partner merely tossed the linen on the floor in a heap and pulled the junior agent up to him again to meet in a soft, sated kiss.
They necked tenderly, each man filled with a sense of completion in the other. Napoleon was concerned for his partner's emotional state and asked if he was all right.
"Polya, I have never been better," he assured, his face lit by the smile he gave to the man he loved more than his own life.
Napoleon returned the smile and said wickedly, "I second that opinion, my stoic Russian friend. However I will have to have more than one test run to prove that empirically, you know."
"Of course, Agent Solo. As a scientist, I understand the need to reproduce your results outside of the lab. And, Napoleon, you know that research has always been my favorite part of the job."
"I concur completely, Agent Kuryakin," he said straight-faced, and pulled his gorgeous partner down to his lips for another enjoyable experiment.
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