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“Would you like a glass of wine first, or would you prefer just to commit a crime with me without any further delay?”
Illya snorts at Napoleon, who is attempting to lie seductively on their bed, fresh out of the bath. The effect would be a little more striking if he, handsome and magnetic as he remains, was wearing something else than his very comfortable, fluffy old bathrobe.
“Do you have to keep calling it that when we are intimate, or about to be, Napoleon? Do you think being reminded of New York’s penal law somehow adds to my enjoyment?”
“Oh, it wouldn’t surprise me if it did, my darling,” Napoleon comments. He jumps up from the bed, comes to stand in front of Illya and takes Illya’s face in his hands. “Considering my very proper Director of Innocent and Family Protection has a rather shady history.”
“Does he now?”
“Oh, yes. He used to engage in all kinds of behaviour that would have been very much frowned upon in polite society, had he not had a simple piece of cardboard on him at the time.”
“Care to remind me?” Illya asks innocently. He is still a very serious man who has just turned forty, but tonight might be just the night for trying to make his eyes look as big as possible.
The day has been the kind of emotionally exhausting that tends to improve best by forgetting everything else but Napoleon for a while. Especially when Napoleon is freshly washed and in a slightly mischievous mood. So Illya starts opening the belt on Napoleon’s bathrobe. No matter how wonderfully sensual the man in it can be, that garment is the most unerotic thing he owns and promptly needs to go somewhere else. Illya prides himself on not being a shallow man, but there are limits.
Napoleon starts to give Illya quick, soft kisses, and between them, offers examples on offences Illya would have been guilty of committing if his actions hadn’t taken place in the line of duty.
“Eavesdropping.”
Illya pulls the bathrobe off Napoleon’s shoulders. It falls to the floor, and Illya kicks it out of their way while he’s at it.
“Criminal trespassing.”
Napoleon tugs at Illya’s towel. That falls to the floor.
“Arson.”
Illya hooks his leg behind Napoleon’s shins and gives his chest a gentle push. Napoleon flops back onto the bed. Illya dives after him, Napoleon wrapping his legs around Illya. Feeling his chest against Illya’s, his hands on Illya’s back, hardening pricks slotting together, it never gets old.
“And firework offences, to think of a few.” Another kiss, and Napoleon gives Illya’s lower lip the friendliest little bite as he retreats from it. “My very own spitfire.”
Illya shakes his head, but he does return the smile Napoleon is sporting. Illya’s partner is frequently the dearest, even as he spouts absolute drivel on a daily basis. “Napoleon, it rather sounds like it is you who is excited by my bad boy past. I have it on good authority that I am, in fact, a very safe pair of hands these days.”
“Oh, I have some ideas on what you could do with your hands. And your mouth, and your – Mmmph.”
Illya felt this was a suitable moment to commence with more passionate kissing. Napoleon agrees.
“Hey, Number One,” Illya, a little out of breath, forces himself to say after they have been rocking against one another for a while, and that has started to be a little too effective. “This is in danger of becoming more of the same than the last five times have been, at least. And those encounters have all been wonderful, but it was you who requested being more thorough tonight.”
“Thank you for the excellent reminder,” Napoleon gasps, opening his legs so Illya can pull back and they can cool down a little. “Must you call me Number One when we are in bed, though? If this year has taught me one thing, it is that I don’t possess that sort of authority kink.”
“Maybe I do, have you ever thought of that?”
Napoleon laughs out loud. “Right, Illya. I’ve always had the feeling you’d get off on me trying to tell you what to do, considering the utmost, sincere respect you have consistently held for me for the past ten years.”
“Fair enough.” Illya traces Napoleon’s nose with his forefinger. He has always loved how it isn’t completely straight. Matching the rest of his Napoleon, one might argue. “I still feel compelled to say that among all men, you are very much my number one. I’m not always talking about UNCLE when I call you that.”
Saying something like that out loud will probably always be a little embarrassing for Illya, but Napoleon blushes without fail whenever he does it and looks so very touched. So, for him, Illya can take the slight awkwardness.
“And I hope this doesn’t spoil the mood, Illya, but you are the best man I’ve ever known, and I do love you very much.”
Illya chuckles and cups Napoleon’s cheek. “You’re catching me in the best mood I have been in all day, so for once, flattery will get you everywhere, dear Napoleon. Would you like my fingers in you first?”
Napoleon lets out an entertained huff at the change in topic, gives Illya a final quick kiss and turns around to open the bedside drawer. “You really know how to seduce a man. Next time, buy a guy at least some flowers first, you demon.”
“Don’t try to pretend you are in the need of any actual seducing, Number One. Now, give me that jelly and choose if you prefer your side or your back, please.”
Considering how Napoleon always has something pithy to say, it is immensely gratifying to find that button in him that reduces his output to panting and whiny moaning, with an occasional “holyhellholyhell” or “jesusIIIyawhatyoudotome” thrown in. And of course Illya appreciates how Napoleon can let any pleasure he feels show on his face without reservation, black hair tousled, face flushed, eyes half-closed, occasionally the tip of the tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth for a while. Even after six years of sharing intimacy, it still goes to Illya’s bloodstream every single time.
“Do you think we could make you climax from this?” Illya asks quietly after the moans have become louder, listening to them has made him so hard it almost hurts, and Napoleon has just started to buck his hips up to meet Illya’s fingers.
“We will if we continue, love,” Napoleon says weakly, but stops moving and takes a few deep breaths. “I’d prefer you replacing those fingers with something more substantial, though.” He lifts a hand to pet Illya’s prick a little, presumably in case Illya has recently grown so incredibly naïve he won’t understand the hint. If you can even call it a hint, as that would imply some subtlety.
“Come on now Napoleon, it’s not a kitten.”
“Very much not, my handsome man.” Napoleon turns onto his side, facing away from Illya. “Let’s go, please.”
Illya could write an essay on all the ways he adores Napoleon’s body (if he was someone else, someone more like Napoleon), but Illya is particularly fond of his lovely arse. Unlike some, Napoleon actually has one, and like some other parts of him, it is both firm and soft at once, and ample enough to withstand some squeezing. And even though he was repressing so much for the first years he was working with Napoleon, even then Illya was already a great admirer of what happened to that backside whenever Napoleon bent over in his slacks.
So, some animal part in Illya has never minded that when Napoleon is the one being penetrated, nine times out of ten he wants it from behind. That means his arse is usually right there to be caressed and patted and lightly slapped, and his hips are there to be gripped. Even if Illya would sometimes love to look into Napoleon’s eyes or kiss him properly while he is in Napoleon. It is doable, but Napoleon has to turn his head in an awkward way.
Then again, Illya gets plenty of eye contact and smooches when Napoleon is the one doing this to him. When IIIya is on the receiving end, he can’t really relax unless he sees Napoleon, so they are always face-to-face then. Well, once there was quite a convenient mirror in a hotel room in Paris, but that is another story altogether.
“Ah, blyat.” They haven’t done this in a while. Entering Napoleon already feels glorious enough that Illya must get reacquainted with the sensation first. He tries to remain still, an arm thrown around Napoleon, a leg hooked around his hip, breathing into the back of his neck. “Sorry, sorry. I need a moment.”
“You seem to find that rather pleasant,” Napoleon gasps, sounding pleased himself. “And you’re filling me up really nicely. Oh,” he continues as Illya gives his shoulder a friendly little nibble. “Are we that worked up already, pocket rocket?”
“Warm. Tight.” Illya ignores Napoleon’s dick, as sometimes touching it at this point can make Napoleon tighten up involuntarily. Instead, he uses the opportunity to stroke Napoleon’s chest and stomach all over. “Just delightful to touch.”
Napoleon laughs a little. “You dropped any unnecessary words quite fast, Illya.” Then he makes one of his little grumbles and puts his face into his pillow, as Illya’s hands have moved to pet his lower abdomen and the little belly he now has there.
“Self-conscious?” Illya asks.
“A little,” Napoleon agrees, but he does turn his head to look back at Illya.
Illya would love to explain to Napoleon that from the very beginning, he was (reluctantly) attracted to Napoleon’s charisma and his particular mix of solidity, gentleness, resolve, and playfulness he has never encountered in any other man and probably won’t again. And the many, many things Napoleon was able to do with the body he had been given, a body which he optimised for performance, not for a bodybuilding contest. Napoleon didn’t need a completely flat stomach or a Greek god’s chest to fight or to run or to climb or to hang from heights or to impress women left and right across the globe, or to wear any cover identity handed to him like a glove, or to look incredibly stylish. Above all, Illya would love Napoleon to understand that the small amount of extra body fat he already carried by the time Illya met him had only added to his handsomeness, instead of being something to graciously overlook. It’s not just that Illya has always found that comforting in a man. It also made Napoleon less of a Platonic ideal in favour of something even better: someone real. Not any less unattainable, Illya still thought back then, but nonetheless a living, breathing human by Illya’s side most days.
But Napoleon will never quite understand, so tonight, Illya saves his breath and only says this:
“Napoleon, you are allowed to look like you aren’t in fieldwork anymore. And you still have plenty of both strength and softness in you, just as I like it. I even love the scars. Even as I abhor either of us having to carry them.”
“Please kiss me,” Napoleon whispers in reply, and Illya does. “Now could you please just move already, Illya Nickovetch?” Napoleon then groans almost mournfully, probably as he has been kept waiting for all of two minutes in total. So Illya does.
“Why do you like to be done from behind?” Illya asks amidst a haze of throbbing, pink arousal currently doing a rather effective job on cooking his brain. That question is not for information value, just pure titillation.
“The angle is the absolute best from there. Mmh. Just something about the way we fit together.” Napoleon exhales and reaches back to squeeze the top of Illya’s thigh. “Speaking of… You wouldn’t mind shifting down just a tad, would you?” he asks, true to form, more interested in increasing pleasure than appearing coy.
Illya isn’t that much shorter than Napoleon, but apparently just enough that sometimes adjusting their bodies an inch or two can affect the outcome very favourably. Illya drops his hips a little, resulting in a drawn-out “Yesss” from Napoleon.
Continuing to thrust, Illya hides little moans into Napoleon’s shoulder and listens to Napoleon making all sorts of lovely noises again, too.
“Would you like me to touch your dick?” Illya asks after a while, almost breathless. One of his hands has been gripping Napoleon’s shoulder and the other pushing down on a buttock, so Illya could spare one if necessary. He doesn’t find it a very alluring word, dick, but it’s Napoleon’s preferred one.
Napoleon shakes his head. “Ah, no.”
“Would you like to touch it yourself, and finish there?” Illya continues. Just in case this was supposed to be some sort of power play Napoleon forgot to mention and is waiting for permission to bring himself off.
“No. Too much, for now.”
“All right. Oh. Do you want to try finishing from the inside?”
“Yes, please.”
An orgasm almost sneaks up on Illya not long after that. After trying some extremely mindful breathing, lying still a bit more, and nipping at the back of Napoleon’s neck to distract himself and to excite Napoleon, he decides to be honest to both himself and his partner and pulls out.
“Sorry, Napoleon. If you’d still like to be stimulated there, I’ll have to give you fingers again,” Illya laments and reaches for the lubricant. “I keep veering a little too close to the edge, I’m afraid.”
“Do you hear me protest, darling?”
“No,” Illya admits and coats his fingers with more K-Y Jelly, one of the very few material perks Napoleon’s current role has brought into his life. He wouldn’t have been surprised to learn Napoleon had just been stealing it from Medical’s dispensary, but apparently he approached this the responsible way and talked to their physician. Not that Illya cares to know how that conversation played out. “I just feel too old to be this trigger-happy.”
Napoleon winks at him. “You’re maybe a little excited, and a little out of practice. I’m flattered more than anything. Come on, I’ve got this itch I need your help with.”
“What a nauseating way to put it.”
It doesn’t take too long to get Napoleon over the line after that. He grabs Illya’s free hand, moans Illya’s name, tenses his entire body for a second, and bangs the headboard with his other hand while making a howl that turns into laughter halfway through.
“That sounds like you rather liked this.” Illya takes his fingers out.
“Liked it?” Napoleon does a full-body-stretch, smiling up at Illya like a loon. “I don’t know what it’s like for you, but I feel those ones all over, like I’m dipped in, I don’t know, a vat of cotton candy. And of course, there’s the satisfaction of it being you who helps me feel like that.”
Illya smiles a little. “I can promise you the satisfaction is mutual. Now, if I come back in, do you want your dick touched then, or would you prefer me to give you head afterwards?”
“Well, aren’t you in a hurry,” Napoleon pretends to chide. “But you know what I’ll pick every time.” He turns to his front, his messed-up hair flopping about a little. “I suggest we continue from here, you’ll get to put your back into it a little better.”
“Are you sure we shouldn’t wait a few minutes?” Illya asks, giving Napoleon’s arse a slap and caressing the same area right away. It’s the noise he likes, not inflicting actual pain. They have both lived through enough physical discomfort for that to be something Illya personally finds exciting.
Napoleon thinks about it. “Nah, I don’t think it’s become the wrong kind of sensitive. Pound away.”
Illya tries to proceed with caution, but Napoleon reminds him this doesn’t need to be artificially prolonged, as Illya technically just promised him fellatio on the other side of it. So Illya believes him, stops holding back and allows himself to be enveloped by the warm snugness, by Napoleon’s body prone on the bed and Illya lying on top of him, the feeling of that much skin-to-skin contact almost short-circuiting Illya’s mind. And the smell of shampoo in Napoleon’s hair and his little moans, because he still hasn’t stopped making those, because Napoleon loves being fucked at least as much as he loves to fuck, and Illya is the one who got to teach him that.
It all becomes too much in just under three minutes, as Illya finishes inside Napoleon and that feels so, so good he laughs into Napoleon’s back.
Illya gives Napoleon’s cheek some little kisses before he falls off his partner, ending up on his back next to a chipper Napoleon. “Oh, wow,” Illya says, steadying his breath. “If I can just have a minute, I’ll see to you soon enough.”
“Oh, I have time,” Napoleon says and runs a hand over Illya’s chest. He claims he likes the way the hairs there feel. “It’s so wonderful to hear completely sincere laughter from you, Illya. I’m far more used to you laughing sarcastically or because you feel embarrassed. You’ve sounded more cheerful in the past two months than I’ve heard you be in the entire past decade.”
“Really? That’s interesting, especially when we consider all the ups and downs we had just today. And all the implications in this current Affair.”
“Yes, but I feel you’re able to take breaks from the gloom with greater ease now, instead of sitting in it around the clock.” Napoleon turns onto his back as well, so they are both looking at the ceiling, shoulders touching. “I think the Director of IFP opening came aptly; it was the right decision to take you out of fieldwork a couple of months early.”
“Perhaps,” Illya agrees. His breath has slowed down enough that he scoots down on the bed and starts to give Napoleon’s dick gentle licks.
“Nnngh,” is pretty much what comes out of Napoleon when Illya takes him into his mouth. “This will probably be over pretty fast as well, considering – Oh heavens and holy smoke.”
Napoleon’s hands find Illya’s hair soon enough. “I don’t mind if you tug on it,” Illya says to him like he always does, and Napoleon hums like he always does, but doesn’t tug. Ah well, maybe some other day.
It’s true that it doesn’t take too long, because Illya has worked hard in his time to become a highly proficient amateur at this in general, and then honed his craft further according to Napoleon’s preferences.
“Illya, love, you need to stop now if you don’t want to swallow.”
Illya can’t be bothered to pause for a reply, as he has a good rhythm going and would be loath to disturb it. So he just shows Napoleon the thumbs up, followed by the OK sign.
“OK, watch out then,” Napoleon sighs, and sperm hits the back of Illya’s throat as Napoleon pets his hair and gasps.
--
“Has this been layered enough for your liking, now?” Illya asks as he returns from the bathroom with the trusty washcloth and a glass of water. He hands the glass to Napoleon, but also coaxes him to turn his lower body so Illya can check his backside.
“Very much so,” Napoleon says, and downs the glass. He sounds a little tired, but satisfied. “I feel positively spoiled, in all honesty. You did all the work.”
“Everything looks as it should down here. I really don’t miss Vaseline,” Illya says.
“You weren’t feeling generous out of guilt, were you, Illya? You sounded so regretful earlier about the argument we had.”
“Huh?” Illya looks up at Napoleon looking at him. “No, it wasn’t that. I felt you could use some spoiling. How many hours of work have you been averaging in a week, Number One? Sixty, seventy?” Napoleon looks away. “I’d say you deserve some nice things every once in a while, Napoleon.”
“It just never ends,” Napoleon says, turning to the ceiling again. Illya hangs the washcloth from the headboard and takes his place in the crook of Napoleon's arm. “There’s always something I could be doing.”
“And that is why you’ll have to learn to delegate. And learn to decide for yourself what work can wait until the next day.” Illya knows it’s easy for him to say, he’s never been Number One. But still.
“I know.” Napoleon gives Illya a little kiss. “That’s what Alexander keeps telling me, too.”
“Oh it’s Alexander now, is it? Should I be jealous?”
“Aren’t you hilarious. I actually call him quite often. He feels we are past Sir and Mr. Waverly by now.”
“Quite.”
“It has been bothering you, Illya. How much I’ve been working.” It is not a question.
“A little. You know me and hard work are far from strangers, even if I say so myself. But there needs to be balance.” Illya brushes Napoleon’s forelock out of his eye. “And it has been bothering you, how hurried and unvaried our intimate life has been for at least a month.”
“A little.”
Illya groans a little in frustration. “Isn’t it hypocritical not to say anything, when you always chastise me for keeping things from you?”
Napoleon kisses his hair. “You hadn’t seemed that bothered, and I assumed your new role is preoccupying you. Besides, why haven’t you said anything to me about the work, apart from some light sarcasm?”
“You serve the noblest of causes and carry an awfully heavy weight on your shoulders now. And then there’s Muriel, of course. I have felt I can hardly complain about not receiving enough attention, like some teenage girlfriend.”
“Please do complain a little about that every now and then. I’ve missed you too, Illya.”
“Isn’t that a strange thing to admit, when I’m right here every day.”
“Uh-uh,” Napoleon agrees and strokes Illya’s back a little. “This sounds like we could both use a little more time where we focus on one another and no-one else. The way everything else fills up a week these days, we might even need to invent some new traditions for just you and me.”
Napoleon is right, as he often is with these issues. But it does give Illya an idea.
“What would you say if we agreed on Wednesday evening as an evening you don’t bring any surplus files home, Napoleon? And I wouldn’t try to get distracted by any journals or checking in on Mimi and Muriel? We could concentrate on us, maybe even go out if something worthwhile comes up.”
“You mean like on a date, sunflower?” Napoleon kisses Illya’s cheek and smiles.
“If you want to call it that. Or we could stay in, and, you know.”
“Oh, you know I do love me some you know, Illya. I can’t ever see myself getting tired of you know with you.”
“So, what do you think?”
Napoleon pulls Illya closer. It is such an interesting feeling, what lying against a naked body feels like when the desire has already been taken care of and just lovely, relaxed serenity remains, at least for a moment or two. “Oh, I don’t know, Illya,” Napoleon says, maybe a little amused, “Doesn’t that sound an awful lot like what a married couple would do, to try to keep the spark alive?”
True, and yet. “Aren’t you the one who is always going on about how we practically are married?”
“Well, yes.” Napoleon slides a leg between Illya’s legs and his hand into Illya’s hair. “I suppose I should just accept that even The Napoleon Solo might need to establish some scheduled structure to his romancing, once there’s executive positions and family involved.”
“I know you’ve always been a follower of spontaneity,” Illya agrees. That characteristic has led to Illya having to discourage his advances in some unconventional places over the years. Once when they were trapped down a well, because a rescue team was on its way but an hour away still, and Napoleon got bored in ten minutes. “But I happen to know you are also thrilled by anticipation. Let’s put it in the calendar, so we always have something to look forward to.”
“My sensible Illya, even in the affairs of the heart,” Number One sighs, and looks at Illya so fondly it makes Illya grin back. “This is why you are the brains in this enterprise. Wednesday night is now our night, like Tuesday and Friday are Muriel nights.”
“Good. From next week. If you don’t mind, I’d like us to go over the preliminary plan once more, so I can write it down for tomorrow.”
Napoleon nods. “I’m going to need it too for Section Two, so let’s do that.”
Illya puts on pyjamas and fetches a notepad and a pen from the study. Then he makes tea and takes two cups to the bedroom.
“I already made tea,” Illya calls after Napoleon, as he hears his partner open a cupboard in the kitchen a little later.
“I noticed. I’m making you a sandwich.”
Illya, content, puts on his glasses, lies on his stomach on the bed with the notebook, and starts scribbling. Napoleon comes to sit next to him, hands Illya the sandwich, and starts drinking his tea as they resume discussions on The Extracurricular Affair.