|Illya pressed his cheek against the cool wall and tried not to
give in to the tears that threatened. Napoleon pulled free of him with
scant regard to his comfort, but the Russian made no sound as the other
man stepped away. Illya didn't move until he heard the shower start,
the sounds of Napoleon making as free with the hotel room's amenities
as he had with his partner.
He pushed away from the wall and stooped to pull up his trousers. Catching sight of the glittering moisture on the wall, he winced, using his shirttail to wipe away the evidence of his climax. He wasn't certain which was worse: to be used, or to so obviously enjoy it.
The sudden silence when the taps were turned off in the bathroom startled him out of his reverie and he moved swiftly away from the dim light cast by the lamp near the bed, not wanting to risk catching Napoleon's eye when he emerged. The door opened; Napoleon yawned, wandered sleepily to the room's single queen-size bed and flopped across it.
Illya counted slowly to a hundred before daring to slip into the bathroom. He stripped, throwing his soiled clothing to the floor with a certain sense of disgust, and turned the shower on as hot as he could stand it. At least this time Napoleon had left him some hot water. Illya's skin grew rosy under the deluge and the rough scrubbing he gave it. He tried to blank his mind, but it refused to lie quiescent.
The worst time yet. Taken up against the wall, with no regard
to his comfort, let alone pleasure. Yet he could hardly deny the
pleasure had been there regardless. He'd shot off all over the wall
like a schoolboy when he felt Napoleon's seed filling him. As always,
he couldn't think when Napoleon touched him, could only helplessly
react. No matter that later he'd ache and feel brutalized, disgusted by
the repeated violations he not only allowed, but enjoyed, physically at
least. He cursed Napoleon for perpetuating the callous cycle, himself
for permitting it and, most of all, Waverly for beginning it.
"You are my best field agent; I will no longer tolerate this state of affairs."
Illya had never heard Waverly so vehement before, especially not when Napoleon was the focus of the Old Man's attention. His partner was slumped in his usual place, feet propped with weary insolence on a nearby chair; recently released from Medical Section, his pallor and listless acceptance of the harsh dressing-down only served to confirm his inadequate return to health. Though Illya felt a twinge of guilt for letting Napoleon take the brunt of Waverly's temper in his obviously weakened condition, he reasoned that the matter was entirely his womanizing partner's fault and resolved to stay out of it as Waverly lit into Napoleon again.
"This is the fourth time in the last six months that your questionable judgment of the women you insist on picking up has nearly resulted in your death. Thrush knows your weaknesses perfectly well and has made a habit of capitalizing on them. You seem determined to help them."
"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir." Napoleon's subdued apology did little to mollify his enraged superior.
"Since you've shown yourself unable, or unwilling, to modify your behavior on your own, more stringent measures will have to be taken. As of now, your sleeping around is at an end. Is that understood?"
Napoleon's mouth dropped open and his feet hit the floor with a loud thump. "Sir?" Illya didn't blame him for stammering; he was having a hard time concealing his own shock.
"You heard me correctly, Mr. Solo. You may date casually as much as you wish -- you seem to be able to keep your wits about you so long as you remain in a vertical position." Illya choked on his coffee. Thankfully, neither Waverly nor Napoleon seemed to notice. "But you will go no further than dinner and drinks. Is that clearly understood?"
"No, sir." Napoleon straightened his shoulders with shaky defiance. "I am a citizen of the United States. My private life is my own business."
"You are an employee of the U.N.C.L.E., Mr. Solo. Your private life is my business so long as you allow it to interfere with your ability to carry out your duties as an U.N.C.L.E. agent. Take one of your women to bed and, rest assured, your employment with this organization will be terminated within forty-eight hours. Am I making myself clear?"
"Perfectly, sir." Napoleon pushed himself to his feet, pulled out his U.N.C.L.E. identification card and tossed it on the table, then turned and strode unsteadily to the door. The weariness that settled into his shoulders when it refused to open pained Illya. Napoleon swung around to stare silently at Waverly.
"You will return to Medical Section, Mr. Solo. You look as if you could use a few more days to recuperate. After that, if you still wish to leave us, I will consider your resignation." He released the door with the push of a button. Napoleon walked out without a single glance at Illya, who was left feeling rather as if the bottom had dropped out of his world. Mr. Waverly turned his gimlet gaze on Illya.
"You don't approve, Mr. Kuryakin."
"No, sir," Illya admitted, though it had not been a question. He wondered if his sense of self-preservation had deserted him. "Napoleon is an extremely sexually active man, sir. He won't take well to chastity."
"I don't require chastity, Mr. Kuryakin. Mr. Solo is perfectly aware of that fact."
"Is he, sir?"
"Of course. We have had several discussions on variations of this theme since he was assigned to the New York office. I am sorry to say he apparently didn't take them much to heart."
Illya was surprised; he'd thought Napoleon's shock to be of the same quality as his own. Apparently, however, it wasn't Waverly's ultimatum itself, but the fact that he had finally chosen to issue one, that had stunned his partner.
"As Mr. Solo is now aware," Waverly continued, "if he wishes to remain an agent of the U.N.C.L.E. he will have to restrict his more physical assignations to an individual of my choosing."
"Excuse me, sir, but he seems to have already made his decision." Illya inclined his head toward the yellow card Napoleon had left on the table.
"Nonsense." Mr. Waverly rumbled. "Mr. Solo has too much time and energy invested in this organization to abandon it now. Once he thinks it through, he will realize remaining an enforcement agent is more important to him than his petty flirtations." The proclamation was made with the same certainty with which one might indicate in which direction the sun rose. Illya, knowing all too well his superior's talent at reading people, could only ferverently hope that his conclusion would prove as accurate in this case as it had in so many others. Waverly carefully tamped tobacco into his pipe and lit it, still musing on the problem. "Mr. Solo makes himself entirely too vulnerable, not only to his bedpartners, but to anyone else waiting an opportunity. From now on, we will see to it he only drops his guard, and his pants," Illya choked on his coffee again, "around a trained U.N.C.L.E. agent. Someone who is not only trustworthy, but capable of assisting Mr. Solo in defending himself, should that prove necessary."
"I see, sir," Illya managed, once he realized Waverly was waiting for a response. "Who did you have in mind? Miss Dancer has shown little interest in a more intimate relationship with Napoleon."
"There's no need to be coy, Mr. Kuryakin. I had you in mind."
"Excuse me, sir?" Really, it was unnecessary for his voice to rise in that undignified manner.
Waverly sighed, uncommonly annoyed at having to explain himself. "I have been aware of your sexual proclivities since the beginning of your employment with U.N.C.L.E., Mr. Kuryakin. Indeed, I understand they were a driving force in your desire to depart the Soviet Union. Nor have you made a secret of your affection for and ... interest in Mr. Solo. This assignment should prove no great hardship to you."
"Sir?!" Illya rose to his feet, shocked into unconscious imitation of his partner. "You can't be suggesting..."
"Indeed I am." Waverly dismissed both Illya and the subject with a brusque gesture. "I will see to it that Mr. Solo is informed of my choice. You're free to go, Mr. Kuryakin."
"Just a minute, sir. If you think you can force me into a sexual relationship with--"
"Would you rather be reassigned?" Waverly interrupted tersely.
"Sir?" Shock constricted Illya's throat.
"If you won't accept the assignment, I'll partner Mr. Solo with someone who will."
Illya sat back down. He knew perfectly well that if he wasn't partnered with Solo he'd never see the man, and he couldn't imagine life without Napoleon. He didn't try to speak until he was certain he could trust his voice. "Our partnership will suffer, sir. Napoleon knows I'm homosexual; he'll blame me for the situation."
"I will make it clear the choice was mine."
"I doubt that will help the matter, sir." Illya ran a shaking hand through his hair. "Mr. Waverly, Napoleon is emphatically heterosexual. Wouldn't it be better not to contravene his natural inclinations? Why not let him have his dalliances with female operatives at headquarters? He's shown interest in just about all of them at one time or another."
"I will not send my agents into the field without backup, Mr. Kuryakin." Waverly gestured so emphatically with his pipe that it went out. Illya reflected with dark amusement that he'd heard an awful lot of strange sexual euphamisms in America, but he'd never heard it called that before. "At any rate, that doesn't address the issue of protection." Waverly paused to relight his pipe.
For a minute, Illya thought Waverly was referring to the risk of Napoleon getting one of the secretaries pregnant. That certainly wouldn't be cause for concern with Illya as his sex partner. He shook his head in bemusement; he wouldn't put it past Waverly to have taken that into consideration, but he couldn't quite see him mentioning the fact. It simply wasn't the done thing for a proper English gentleman to be talking about. But then, your average proper English gentleman didn't make a habit of interfering with his employees' sex lives either.
"Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly puffed around his relit pipe, "speaking as Number Two, Section Two, and as Mr. Solo's partner, who do you consider best qualified to protect him?"
The question was purely rhetorical; Waverly knew the answer as well as Illya himself. That very knowledge, in fact, had no doubt been the ruling factor in Waverly's decision. There was, quite literally, no one better qualified. Certainly, there was no agent to whom Illya would willing turn over protection of his partner. Napoleon might be arrogant, opinionated, overbearing and downright impossible, but he was Illya's to keep safe.
And that, as they say, was that.
Napoleon held out for almost two months before making use of the only relief Waverly had left him. It was not sexual frustration which finally got the better of him, however -- one could take care of that satisfactorily by oneself, after all -- but the need for simple human contact.
Illya saw it coming, but found himself powerless to defuse the situation. It was like going out into the field with a powderkeg. The tension had grown to an almost palpable level by the time their latest mission ended, and the accidental absorbtion of a beautiful and naive young woman into the affair hadn't helped matters. Diana Maitland had been delighted at the opportunity to try out her new-found feminine wiles and Napoleon had borne the brunt of her flirtacious behavior.
Illya returned to their hotel room following the conclusion of the case to find Napoleon already there. Solo was sitting slumped on the edge of the bed, his head buried in his hands. Illya had never before seen his partner in a posture of such abject misery. His heart went out to the man.
He'd only intended to offer comfort, the reassurance of another warm body. Nothing had prepared him for the whirlwind that hit him the moment he slid his arm around Napoleon's shoulders. In the blink of an eye, they were on the floor, rolling over and over in a struggle in which Napoleon was the sole participant. Recognizing that his partner was a hairsbreadth from violence, Illya surrendered at once.
It was over quickly: hard, uncompromising sex, without a single ounce of tenderness or affection. The instant it was done, Napoleon pushed away, going to wash away the act in a scalding shower. Illya had been left gasping for breath and control, bruised both physically and emotionally.
That first time set the tone.
It only happened when they were on a mission, stuck in a hotel room waiting out the next move or preparing to go back to New York. Napoleon never came to Illya's apartment, or invited Illya to his. Never asked permission, never spoke to him during the act or after, never called him by name in the throes of passion, never referred to their physical union at any other time by word, or gesture, or even a shard of memory in his eyes. Their normal existence as partners and friends and this were as religiously segregated as if they were two entirely separate lives. Perhaps Napoleon had convinced himself they were.
He was never deliberately cruel -- oblivious, rather. Since using Illya was the only sexual outlet Waverly had allowed him aside from the solitary vice, he treated Illya as nothing more than that during the times he succumbed to his desire. Not an object of villification, or violence, or anger; just an object. Napoleon took Illya with a stoic practicality that hurt for its lack of emotion more than anything else.
Illya understood quite well what was going on, on both the social and personal levels. Heterosexual society, particularly in America, took a strange comfort in the belief that an act which involved no trace of love or affection could not be truly homosexual. To feel physical pleasure at fucking another man was acceptable, so long as it was only pleasure, not emotion. On a more personal level, Napoleon had always been afraid of his own emotions, which was largely why he bounced so quickly from one affair to another. He rarely permitted himself strong emotions, even with his women. The problem, of course, was that Napoleon did feel emotion for Illya. Not love -- Illya knew better than to allow himself to pretend that -- but certainly affection. Neither man had ever had a closer friend. Allowing that feeling to intrude on the sex risked leaving Napoleon emotionally naked, and he couldn't permit that. So he divorced himself from what he was doing.
He never touched Illya except on the arms and back, and only when absolutely necessary. He didn't allow Illya to go down on him, perhaps because few women of his past acquaintance had been willing to perform that service, and he could see Illya's face besides. He always took Illya from behind, the act nothing more than physical release. Though he was considerate enough to use a lubricant, that was as far as it went.
It was the coldness which bothered Illya the most. If Illya were to dare climb into bed with him, Napoleon wouldn't put his arms around him, even in sleep, or hold him close, or reach for him until the need drove him again.
And he had never once kissed him. That hurt most of all.
Illya swore a few choice oaths as the water turned cold on him, jarring him from his thoughts. Reluctantly, he shut off the shower and stepped out, rubbing himself roughly with a towel.
It affected their partnership, naturally. How could it not? While on the job, Napoleon pretended that nothing was different, but couldn't hide the way he shied away from contact. Illya's growing resentment of the cavalier treatment was beginning to show through as well. Their absolute trust and uncanny ability to read each other were being slowly eroded away. So far, it hadn't damaged their effectiveness, but it was only a matter of time. Only a matter of time before an important mission was botched, or one of them ended up dead.
Once again, Illya cursed Waverly for getting them into this situation. It was unfair, he knew. He doubted his superior had any idea of the practical consequences of his decision. There was no chance either partner would ever speak to him of it. His intentions had been only the best, for U.N.C.L.E., and Illya and Napoleon as well, no doubt. Illya wasn't entirely positive that Waverly wasn't making a, rather heavy-handed, attempt at matchmaking. Whatever his intent, however, Waverly wouldn't back down. If Illya refused to continue this charade, he would be reassigned, regardless of the consequences. It occured to Illya that he'd rather leave U.N.C.L.E. altogether than be repartnered. If he did, however, he'd have no choice but to return to Russia, where imprisionment or death awaited him for his chosen lifestyle. Was it a measure of his love that he saw the separation from Napoleon as a worse punishment than his own demise?
Maybe it was just a sign that things were getting out of hand. Clearly something would have to be done about the situation, and equally clearly he would have to do it himself. But what to do, that was the problem. If they could just talk it through... but Napoleon refused to even acknowledge the situation, let alone sit down and discuss it.
Tossing the towel onto his pile of dirty clothes, Illya strode naked into the bedroom and stood looking down at his sleeping partner. Napoleon was sprawled on his stomach in the center of the bed, his muscular physique clearly defined in the dim room. Moonlight crept stealthily through a chink in the curtains and lovingly caressed the soft swell of Napoleon's ass. As always, the sight took Illya's breath away in a wash of desire.
Something snapped then, something stretched thin a long time. Illya Nicovetch Kuryakin stepped outside himself and watched a man he did not quite recognize return to the bathroom and use Napoleon's straight razor to begin tearing a towel into five long strips with stoic premeditation. Bringing the shredded cloth with him to the bedside, he paused fractionally as the burden of rationality caught up with him. After a moment, he shrugged fatalistically; what did he have to lose? Job, partnership, friendship, life... only everything, but if he did nothing, he'd already lost it all.
Napoleon always slept deeply after sex; it was one of the reasons Waverly wanted someone like Illya around to watch over him. He didn't begin to stir until after Illya had tied the last knot. By then it was far too late. Napoleon jerked awake when his right arm was pulled taut, only to find himself tied securely, spreadeagled face down on the bed. The soft cloth didn't cut into his wrists or ankles, but neither did it give, and Illya had left him no slack to work with. He struggled briefly before giving it up as a lost cause; Illya had been staked out too many times in the course of his career not to know all the tricks.
"What the hell do you think yo--"
The final strip of cloth found its way snugly between Napoleon's teeth before he could finish the heated question. Illya tied it firmly around the back of his head, careful not to make it too tight. Napoleon could breathe easily; he could still make a great deal of noise even, but nothing coherent. Illya didn't want to hear the arguments, or the verbal abuse, he was certain to receive once Napoleon figured out what he was up to. Besides, he wasn't entirely certain Napoleon couldn't talk him out of it, even now.
Illya stroked the short dark hair and considered his actions. It was too late now to turn back, but just how far did he dare go? Napoleon was helpless; he could do anything to him... everything. Everything he had ever wanted, and been denied. But the single thing he wanted most of all couldn't be taken; it had to be freely given. And nothing that Illya could do would force Napoleon to give him his love. Perhaps, however, he could at least restore the balance and return their lives to a semblance of their former status quo.
Illya wasn't naive enough to think that sex would solve anything. However, the one-sided sexual arrangement Napoleon was determined to press upon them had certainly caused all the problems. Possibly, if the tables were turned, the lines of communication at least could be cleared. Or utterly destroyed.
He was playing with fire, he knew. Sexuality, particularly Napoleon's, was nothing to toy with.
Solo had been lying quietly under Illya's lightly stroking hand. No doubt he was trying to figure out what his partner was up to, and was willing to bide his time to find out. However, after a long period of silence, Napoleon apparently grew bored; he jerked suddenly at the bindings, testing their strength. There was no appreciable give, but they both knew Solo was powerful enough to get free, even if it meant breaking the bedframe. So far, however, he had made no concerted effort at escape. Despite their recent problems, trust was still a strong bond between them.
Illya wondered how long Napoleon would continue to remain calm once he began. Knowing that he risked everything made him bold. Considering the price he would almost certainly pay for his actions, there was no reason not to do everything he desired, from touching Napoleon all over with all the love he felt, to daring to plunder his body with the passion he'd kept in check for so long. He would either win the ultimate prize or lose everything he held dear. Adrenaline sang in his veins at the high stakes he gambled.
Illya knelt between Napoleon's splayed legs and ran a single finger lightly down the length of his spine. The muscular body froze at the unexpected touch. Illya did it again, trailing his index finger from the soft hairs at the nape of Napoleon's neck all the way down to the base of his spine. He hesitated there a moment, then continued the same feather-light touch down the crack of his ass until he reached the softly furred balls. Napoleon shuddered and gave a convulsive jerk at the bindings.
"Calm down, Napoleon." Illya leaned over the prone body to bring his mouth to his captive's ear. His voice was soft and even, the tone more reassuring than seductive. "I'm not going to hurt you. You know I would never hurt you. This isn't revenge. You've fought this thing from the beginning; I think it's time you learned what sex between men can really be like." Napoleon groaned, shaking his head violently. Illya gently stroked an errant lock of hair back from his partner's forehead. "Take it easy, 'Polya," he murmured, savoring the taste of the endearment on his tongue -- he'd never before dared speak it aloud. "We can't go on the way things are; we can't go back; this is it, the only way. Don't be afraid. I'll take care of you, just like I've always done. I promise you'll like it. You'll be begging me for it before we're done."
Napoleon twisted his head to fix him with a profoundly disbelieving eye. Illya only chuckled and kissed it closed, heartened by the fact that Solo still hadn't making a serious attempt to escape. He let his mouth wander over what he could reach of Napoleon's face, beginning at the temple, where the pulse pounded frantically against his lips. He traced gently down the cheek, skipping over the gag, to finally rest at the edge of the jaw line, where he once again felt the furious race of Napoleon's blood just under the surface. Napoleon was scared, that much was obvious. Perhaps he had cause to be. Not that Illya would in any way harm him; but he intended to turn Napoleon's perceptions inside out, and that was a frightening thing. If it worked, maybe there would be a way to go forward from here; if it did not... well, Illya had no doubt Napoleon would save him the trouble of returning to Mother Russia. He would welcome death at Napoleon's hands, if it came to that.
Illya drew himself upright and laid his hands flat against Napoleon's back, conforming them to the shape of his shoulderblades. His fingers worked in tiny circles over the tensed muscles until they started to relax involuntarily. He worked his way over the length and breadth of Napoleon's back, learning each clean line and contour intimately. He had not been allowed to touch Napoleon during any of the previous times; he would not be rushed now. His hands ran reconaissance from hip to ankle and back, scouting heavy muscle trained for action, currently leashed into trembling obediance. They travelled up the out-stretched length of sculpted arms and enclosed tensed fists which had yet to give in to the inevitable. The soft silken fall of hair, the lush curve of ripe buttocks, the almost impossibly tender vulnerability at the nape of Napoleon's neck, all fell within his purview.
Illya knew precisely what Napoleon expected, and feared. It was the last thing he would give him.
Next he slid his hands under the bound body, trying not to wonder if there would be a time he could touch Napoleon without restraint. He measured the pulse racing in the hollow of Napoleon's throat, rapid with a flood of arousal to dilute the fear. Then the smooth plane of chest, a quick detour to investigate the soft fur forresting each armpit, and a brisk, teasing brush over sensitive nipples. Napoleon twisted under his hands with a low groan. Illya schooled his hands to continue down over the flat stomach to briefly cup the sharp hipbones against his palms. Finally, he allowed himself to touch Napoleon's genitals.
His fingers slid lightly over the throbbing length of an erection which, undeterred by the mind's confusion, knew only pleasure at the touch. Illya cradled the plump weight of Napoleon's balls in his palm, oddly in awe of their power, and his own. He rolled them tenderly between his fingers and flashed an uncomplicated grin Napoleon could not see at the way the man writhed under the gentle stimulation. The moan that rumbled through Napoleon's throat when he was released was inarguably a sexual sound.
Illya leaned in to press his lips to Napoleon's back. Once again he surveyed his domain, this time with his mouth, keeping the strength of his hands in abeyance. A lick here, a kiss there, a gentle bite to enforce his rule and lay claim to what was his. He covered every square inch, excepting only the buttocks which tensed at his approach, savoring the sharp taste of sweat overlying the bland hint of soap and the sheer elemental musk of Napoleon's skin. Illya returned to the hollow between Napoleon's shoulderblades just below the sturdy column of his neck, pressing a kiss into the intoxicating vulnerability. Hesitating there a moment.
His mind made up, and his will firm, Illya began the slow trek down the length of Napoleon's spine, lips and tongue exploring each bony outcropping with an intensity which in no way disguised his eventual destination. Napoleon tensed again as he approached the soft buttocks, but he only laid his cheek against one firm mound and cupped the other in an appreciative palm. Then he dipped his head to lap delicately at the balls hanging below with such arrogant vulnerability. Napoleon's gasp was audible even through the gag.
Dainty as a cat, Illya carefully laved each millimetre of skin before gently taking the whole sac into his mouth. He sucked on the swollen flesh, eyes closed to focused on the taste, the tender weight, losing, for a time, his careful regard to the tending of Napoleon's pleasure. The realization snapped him back to attention, though he needn't have worried; Napoleon was writhing helplessly under the stimulation and his groan when Illya pulled away was decidedly disappointed. Illya offered the robust orbs a consoling lick before moving on.
Napoleon's movements slowed as Illya tongued the sensitive flesh just behind his balls. There was a sort of waiting stillness in the bound form. Illya licked torturously up that slender strip of skin to the tightly furled opening to Napoleon's body. Solo reacted with an explosive release of breath and sudden movement, quickly curtailed by Illya's strong hands. Large hands, they each cupped a lush buttock, drawing them apart to fully expose the tender portal. Illya lapped gently at it, not attempting penetration, merely making Napoleon accustomed to the touch, shattering a lifetime of heterosexual interdiction. His tongue darted teasingly over hungry flesh, offering what was both dreaded and desired until Napoleon could only pant and moan incoherently. Only then did he allow it to dip inside, piercing the virgin bud.
Napoleon's breath seized in his lungs and was released, an eternity later, in a long whimpering moan. He held perfectly still, helpless under his partner's knowledgeable mouth. Illya's clever tongue found and stimulated every buried nerve. He withdrew before he'd had enough, sat back and reached for the lubricant left on the bedside table. Napoleon was too far gone to notice the slight scrape of the jar being uncapped.
Illya took a steadying breath, then nudged one lubricated finger into Napoleon's body. It slid in easily, its passage prepared by his tongue and soothed by the lotion. Napoleon squirmed with a discomfort more mental than physical, but didn't try to pull away. The finger thrust gently, coaxing its way deeper, until it flickered against the firm bulge of Napoleon's prostate. Illya deliberately withdrew when a surprised grunt told him that the tender node had transmitted its message of pleasure. He stroked gently over the softest of skin, caressing virgin nerves, his every move a seduction.
Illya realized suddenly that he was talking to Napoleon in his mother tongue. Moreover, he had been every moment his mouth was unoccupied since starting this: a steady murmured stream of compliments, reassurance, and endearments. He'd never been entirely sure just how much Russian Napoleon understood; certainly more than he generally let on. Most embarrassing, if he understood even every third word. But no help for it now; nor any desire to stop.
A second finger joined the first, bringing more lotion and more pleasure. Illya let his free hand cradle Napoleon's balls, offering a more familiar pleasure as distraction and reward. His fingers thrust gently, caressing and stretching, stimulating the prostate every couple of strokes. Illya deliberately kept the rhythm irregular, not allowing Napoleon to anticipate the sudden jolts of pleasure. He leaned over his partner to lap at the dew of sweat which covered his skin, nuzzling up into the damp hairline, whispering in his ear. Napoleon was panting heavily, moaning almost continuously. He gasped and jerked when Illya introduced a third finger.
Illya released Napoleon's balls and pressed his hand down into the small of Solo's back. The bound man was undulating against the bed, mindlessly trying to push his aching cock to orgasm. Illya had just enough leverage to counteract the movements and hold him steady. It wasn't time yet. His fingers thrust firmly, massaging Napoleon's prostate at every stroke, working him into a frenzy, then abruptly pulled completely out. Napoleon gave a muffled shout of protest.
Keeping one palm firmly planted on Napoleon's back, Illya leaned forward and worked clumsily at the gag, unknotting and stripping it away. He pressed his lips in wordless apology against the angry red crease at the corner of Napoleon's mouth where the cloth had bitten into tender flesh. He nuzzled his way to the curved shell of an ear and blew gently, making Napoleon shudder, before speaking.
"Your call now, 'Polya," he whispered huskily, "Whatever you want, I'll do." His free hand caressed damp hair back from Napoleon's forehead. It was a calculated risk, to give Napoleon back his voice now. But Illya knew the sensations he had evoked: how empty his lover would feel inside now, desperate to be filled.
"Please," Napoleon's voice was hoarse, tentative.
"Please what, Napoleon? I'll do anything you say. But you have to say it."
"Bastard." Without heat.
"Yes," Illya agreed calmly.
"Please, Illya." Napoleon squirmed unavailingly. "I need..."
"What do you need?" Illya closed his eyes and prayed to a god he didn't believe in.
"You. I need you," Napoleon ground out, against all his inhibitions. His voice became a soft sigh. "I need you, Illya. Please."
"How, Napoleon? Tell me how." Illya leaned his forehead against soft silk hair, trying to still the trembling inside. He didn't know which was sweeter: Napoleon's admission of need, or the sound of his name in that husky tone of arousal.
"Inside. I need you in me. Please, Illya. Please."
Illya pressed his palm over Napoleon's mouth to stop the flow of words he had demanded. It was wrong, hearing Napoleon plead for anything, even though he had sworn his arrogant partner would beg for it before he was through. When he lifted his hand away Napoleon was panting silently, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. Illya knelt up and reached for the jar of lotion again, spreading it on himself with an unsteady hand. Once he was prepared, he sat back on his heels, closed his eyes, and gathered his resources. What he planned would take every shred of strength and self-control he possessed. It wouldn't be enough to simply take Napoleon, even having made him admit he wanted it. To keep him, Illya would have to make it better than anything the jaded man had ever experienced.
He took a deep breath and, pressing his cock against Napoleon, began to inch inside. Moving by almost imperceptible degrees, Illya slowly impaled his partner's virgin body. His eyes kept threatening to close with the pleasure, but he forced himself to remain alert, watching Napoleon for the slightest hint of pain. Though the older man groaned and pressed his forehead hard against the mattress, his reaction did not speak of any anguish but that of overwhelming pleasure.
It seemed aeons before he was fully sheathed in the hot, tight passage. Illya released his breath on a slow sigh and laid himself over Napoleon's back, rubbing his cheek against the outcropping of a shoulderblade. He didn't move for a very long time, basking instead in the feeling of being inside Napoleon, one with him. Letting Napoleon learn the sensations as well. Finally, he sighed again, kissed the center of his lover's back lightly, and began to pull out, moving no more rapidly than he had on the thrust in.
Napoleon seemed to have fallen into a vague sexual abstraction. His urgency abated somewhat, he lay quietly, his eyes closed, appearing to concentrate on the sensation of Illya moving slowly in his body. Certainly, he could not have been oblivious to the gentle inner stroking as Illya's cock slid gradually out. Illya bit his lip and forced himself to complete the stroke, withdrawing entirely from the heat of Napoleon's body.
"No... Illya..." The protest was a barely audible whisper.
Illya waited, ignoring the complaint of his cock, now weeping in the relative cold of the air, knowing Napoleon felt the ache deeper than he. Waited until the feeling of emptiness spread to Napoleon's heart and loosened his tongue to once again plead to be taken. Saw Napoleon's lips part and began his next thrust before he could speak. Once again, he pierced the virgin orifice, taking Napoleon through those first wonderous moments of being stretched and filled. The best moments, as far as Illya was concerned. The words died on Napoleon's lips, replaced by a nearly silent moan as Illya inched once again inside.
His pace maddeningly slow, Illya took himself home again and paused there, as before. This time he didn't remain still, however, but rocked his hips gently. Napoleon gasped as the head of Illya's cock caressed repeatedly over his prostate, sending jolts of pleasure through him. Once Napoleon was writhing under him, Illya began to pull out again. So far, his self-control was up to the task, though his walls had trembled on first feeling the tight sheath of Napoleon's flesh along his length. He wondered vaguely how long he could maintain it, certain he could outlast Napoleon, at any rate, which was all that mattered. Steeling his will, he once again pulled completely free.
This time he was back before Napoleon had time to fully realize his emptiness. Gifting him once more with the moment of penetration, Illya picked up his pace a bit, though he was still moving slowly enough to madden both of them. He went through several strokes without pulling out, pausing at the point of deepest impalement to incite the stimulated gland and send pleasure cascading through his bound lover. Once he realized Napoleon was moving in sync with him, he pulled completely out again.
This time Napoleon sobbed.
Illya caressed lightly over Napoleon's cheek and came away with tears on his fingers. Every muscle in the body trapped under his trembled with unrequited passion. The soft, hoarse sobs stole away Illya's will. It was time to end this.
He slid home in one quick thrust, the pleasure of it jerking through Napoleon's body. A series of short, brisk jabs against Napoleon's prostate set him to writhing as much as his bonds would allow.
"God, Illya. Please... please, touch me."
Illya caressed wildly over Napoleon's back and sides, but he would not slide his hands underneath to cradle the weeping erection. Not this time. This time there could be no excuses of direct stimulation; Napoleon must know without confusion precisely why he came. That he came because Illya was inside him. It was hard to deny himself that; to not touch all of Napoleon. He only hoped he could hold out until the end.
Napoleon's movements changed suddenly; he stopped trying to rub himself against the bed and began lifting up to meet Illya's quickening thrusts.
"Harder, Illya. Oh, god... harder..."
Illya's will broke. He began to pound into Napoleon, lightning-quick strokes which battered his lover's prostate unmercifully. Napoleon cried out, high and sharp, as his body was seized in a series of profound contractions. His muscles spasmed around Illya, sending the Russian into a frenzy. He shoved his hands under Napoleon's chest, grabbing his shoulders from beneath, and used the purchase to force himself harder into the convulsing man. Illya rose up onto his toes, coming even as his last powerful thrusts pounded into Napoleon. Waves of pleasure crashed over him, sweeping his consciousness along with them, his entire being scalded by the climax which flooded from him into the man he loved.
When the timeless eternity of pleasure ended, Illya subsided against Napoleon's back, panting in time with his lover's harsh gasps. He forced himself to remain awake and, finally, to move. Napoleon's eyes were closed and he didn't respond when Illya stroked a finger across his cheek. He appeared to have passed out. Illya quickly untied his ankles and wrists. He was forced to pry the crushed cloth out of Napoleon's clenched fists, where he had grabbed it in the last paroxysm of climax. He cleaned them both up as best he could and pulled a sheet over them, cuddling Napoleon close to his chest. Then he waited.
Sex never solved anything. And what he had done was damn close to rape. Never mind that he had brought Napoleon to a point where he wanted it; he had tied him down and taken what he desired. At least, part of it. For what he most desired was Napoleon's love, and he couldn't take that. Never mind also that what he had done to Napoleon was closer to love than anything Napoleon had done to him in the recent past. When Napoleon awoke, judgment would be passed and meted out. Nothing in the Russian's experience suggested that his partner might find in his favor.
Illya cradled Napoleon to his chest and stroked his hair, reveling in his last chance to touch. He knew Napoleon's gun was tucked under the pillow; he hoped his partner would use it before the echoes of pleasure had entirely faded from his body. When Napoleon stirred against him, he closed his eyes and waited with resignation for the end.
Soft warmth brushed against his lips. Illya's eyes opened in astonishment. Napoleon was looking down at him from very close, his dark eyes shining. He stroked the track of a tear across Illya's cheek, then leaned down to kiss him again, sweet as a first kiss between lovers could be.
Illya closed his eyes and opened his mouth, ignoring the tears which continued to seep from under his lashes. The tongue which explored his mouth with lazy intensity spoke volumes with its passionately gentle touch. Illya wondered suddenly if Napoleon had ever had sex with someone he loved. It escaped his attention that the far more important question was whether Napoleon had ever been made love to by someone who loved him. Illya had done far more than he'd thought. He had filled up the empty spaces in Napoleon, not just with his body, but with his enduring love.
Sex solves nothing, but love, well... love can change everything.
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