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leethet* * *
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Illya opened the door, clearly surprised. “Na–”
Napoleon strode into the apartment, took in its familiar utilitarian furnishings, turned around. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”
Illya stared at him, at a loss, taking a few hesitant steps farther into the living room. He wore only pajama bottoms; the shirt was in his hand, forgotten for the moment.
“Mr. Waverly showed me the note.” He watched realization color Illya’s expression. “All that to protect me? Why didn’t you just tell me?” Seeing the cuts and bruises scattered across that pale skin, he was suddenly angry again, fumingly angry, thinking about all Illya had gone through, how much he would have preferred to have suffered it himself. And the reality that it could easily happen again.
“There is nothing,” he growled, “nothing you cannot trust me with. I understand that there are some things you wish to keep private, but never let it be out of fear. Don’t ever be afraid to talk to me. That is an insult to me, and to our friendship.”
“I was just–” Illya began.
“Just what? Out of your goddamned mind? You have no faith in me. In my ability to defend myself. Keep myself alive.”
“That’s not true,” Illya said, closing and relocking his front door. “How many times can you come within a few inches of death before you realize you aren’t immortal?”
That was a truth Napoleon didn’t want to look at just then, so he took another tack. “Don’t you know that I’d rather have just let those bastards try to kill me than see you hand yourself over to them like that? What the hell were you thinking?”
Illya’s eyes met his, a revelation that Napoleon was too angry to understand immediately. Then Illya shook his head, breaking the contact.
“I was thinking,” he began tiredly, passing one hand over his face, as if he’d had this discussion a dozen times already tonight, “that I would do anything to keep you alive.” The words were a surrender. Napoleon felt his eyes prickle.
“God damn it...” He covered the distance between them and drew his partner into an embrace. “Don’t ever do that again,” he said, his voice breaking, before he dropped his face against Illya’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” Illya whispered, holding him as tightly as he was being held. Napoleon, breathing in the scent of warm, freshly washed skin, felt a laugh shudder out of him.
“You’re sorry?” he said, lifting his face. “If it weren’t for me you wouldn’t have had to go through all this in the first place.” He examined his partner’s taut face. “Jesus. Don’t ever do that to me again.”
“No promises,” Illya said softly.
“No?”
“Not that one, anyway. And it wasn’t because of you. It was because of me. My past. You were just a convenient ... carrot.”
“Hm,” Napoleon said dubiously, leaning back to look at his partner’s face. “Anyway, if it happens again, don’t leave the carrot in the dark, all right? We work better as a team.”
Staring resolutely over Napoleon’s right shoulder, Illya said, “Is this an official reprimand?”
He looked and sounded exactly like a sullen teen-ager. Napoleon smiled, shook him gently. “You never listen to them anyway.” He reached up to brush overlong blond bangs away from Illya’s eyes. Illya jumped – only a little, but Napoleon felt it under his hands – and leaned away, looking at Napoleon with startled eyes. It was the easiest, most natural thing in the world for Napoleon to draw him closer and kiss him.
The first contact sent a strange, cool tickle across the surface of Napoleon’s skin, like a sudden sprinkling of fresh water. He held his partner lightly, exploring Illya’s warm mouth with his own, ready for a violent reaction if he was wrong. The hard-muscled shoulders relaxed under his hands, sending a thrill through him. Sliding his palms down his partner’s bare back, he pulled Illya closer and deepened the kiss, just a little, teasing with his tongue. Illya released a soft sound and melted against him, commandeering the kiss with hunger and surprising skill; Napoleon’s body responded with a surge of liquid fire and one of the quickest erections he’d gotten since he was a teen-ager.
Then Illya broke away, pushing him back. “No.”
“What ..?” Napoleon let himself be held off, gasping. Had he – could he possibly have – misread Illya this badly?
Flushed, eyes sparking, Illya growled, “You ... don’t need to ... humor me ...”
Napoleon blinked, dumbfounded. “What?” Every artery in his body throbbed to the hammering of his heart. He traced unsteady hands up Illya’s arms, a gentle request to continue. “I don’t understand.”
“Just ...” Illya pushed past him. “Go home, Napoleon.” He disappeared down the hall.
Humor...Napoleon wrapped his lust-hazed mind around Illya’s words. He thought he was being humored ... that Napoleon was ... going along with his desire out of ... pity?
Napoleon spun around, followed his partner. That misapprehension was about to take one hell of a fall.
Napoleon silently followed Illya into the bathroom, where the Russian stood by the sink, one hand, fisted, hovering near the bulge at his groin.
Grinning inside, he sidled up behind Illya, laying his hands on his partner’s shoulders and glancing in the mirror. Illya froze, reddened.
Napoleon didn’t allow him a chance to get away. Instead he plastered himself full length against the Russian’s back, sliding both arms around the slender, muscular body, one at waist height, the other lower, pushing Illya’s hand out of the way.
“Allow me,” Napoleon purred in Illya’s ear. Illya began to protest – and the sound turned to a gasp as Napoleon cupped his erection, squeezed gently through the silky cloth. He held Illya’s body firmly against him, glancing in the mirror to see the Russian’s face, flushed, eyes lidded.
“Napoleon–” he again attempted protest, hands grasping spasmodically at Napoleon’s arms. Anyone else would be dead by now – that knowledge fueled Napoleon’s excitement.
“Yes?” Napoleon hummed, drawing the word out. He released his partner to swiftly draw the loose pajamas down, where they fell about Illya’s ankles. Both arms then roved across Illya’s chest before pulling the Russian taut against him. Again Napoleon locked one arm about Illya’s waist while the other hand danced teasingly down and around before coiling about Illya’s cock like a boa constrictor. Slowly. Napoleon squeezed, glancing in the mirror to see Illya’s jaw clench – though not fast enough to prevent a groan that sounded suspiciously like pleasure. He grinned, teeth grazing the back of Illya’s neck as his hand stroked.
“Shut up and enjoy it. I am.”
Illya, reached behind him, wrapping his hands around Napoleon’s firm cheeks and forcing them even closer together.
“Ah, god....” Napoleon groaned. “No fair.” He sank his teeth gently into Illya’s shoulder as the Russian leaned his head back. Napoleon kissed up his neck, waiting for Illya to turn his head to take his mouth in a deep, dizzying kiss as his hand moved faster, tighter. Illya pumped against him, clutching at Napoleon’s ass, and Napoleon found himself thrusting too.
Illya tensed and shuddered as he came; the sound, and the sight of his partner in the mirror, in his arms, flushed, eyes closed, mouth open, nearly made Napoleon come too, but he finished Illya off with a few more gentle strokes and another kiss, then moved away, turning his partner to look at him.
“That was better than doing it by yourself, I hope?”
Illya stared at him, wide-eyed, stunned. Napoleon, overcome by the trust and love he saw there – knowing he wasn’t likely to see it so plainly again – grabbed Illya’s face between his hands and drew him into a caressing kiss. When breathing became necessary, he drew back a few inches, still holding his partner’s face, confident that Illya, who knew him better than anyone, would see the truth of what he was feeling in his eyes.
Illya held his gaze a long silent moment, soft wonder focusing into firm intent as he ran his eyes along Napoleon’s body. The proprietary heat of that stare made Napoleon suck in his breath.
“What about you?” Illya asked, his voice low, languid.
Napoleon glanced down too, as if his entire body wasn’t throbbing with need. “What about me?”
Illya undid Napoleon’s belt, trousers button, zipper. Napoleon felt his breath coming faster at the sight of those nimble fingers stripping away all barriers between them. Illya pulled everything down, out of the way, then looked up at Napoleon with that mischievous half smile his partner knew so well.
Napoleon actually cried out when Illya slid slowly down to his knees, hands on Napoleon’s thighs, and took Napoleon’s cock in his mouth.
“Ah ... good god ... you are dangerous,” he gasped as Illya’s tongue danced around the head of his erection. His legs trembled and he leaned back against the sink – Jesus, when was the last time you got weak in the knees? he mocked himself – then had no more thought for mockery, no thought for anything, nothing but electric sensation as Illya took him into his mouth. If not for the sink behind – which he clutched mindlessly – he’d have sunk to the floor as that mouth embraced him, squeezed and teased him, bringing him to orgasm in a blaze of sensation that left him trembling and dazed.
Illya rose, and Napoleon stared at him. Limp, panting, he reached out to pull his partner close, leaning on that strength as he had countless times before.
After a long, calming silence, Illya said, laughter in his deep voice, “I do own a bed.”
Napoleon chuckled. “Is that so?”
Illya leaned back to look at him, eyes sparkling. “I can prove it.”
Napoleon’s hands traveled down his partner’s back, careful of the cuts he could feel under his palms. “It could be useful for further ... interrogations,” he admitted.
Illya’s brows rose. “Interrogations?”
Napoleon cupped his partner’s firm cheeks, pulling him tightly against his body. “Let’s just say there’s a lot more I want to know.” His lips took a leisurely tour of Illya’s face, neck, shoulders ... feeling his partner’s pulse accelerate under his mouth.
“Come on,” Illya said brusquely, pulling him bodily out of the bathroom and down the hall to the darkened bedroom.
“In a hurry?” Napoleon asked in mock-innocence – then grunted as his partner shoved him backward onto the bed, crawling over him, stopping to unbutton and remove his shirt. Napoleon sat up to facilitate removal of his vestiges of clothing, then laughed when he was again shoved back onto the bed. It was thrilling to be on the receiving end of his partner’s steely strength – literally; his nerves tingled as Illya pinned him down and covered his body in kisses, kisses with teeth in them.
No woman had ever made him feel like this – like a live wire, every touch a jolt along his spine. Even the illicit dalliances with THRUSH beauties faded in comparison. Because it was Illya. The only person in the world he trusted blindly.
Touching him, tasting him, Illya whispered Russian endearments as he explored Napoleon’s body. Illya’s rich tone, heated, breathless, speaking words he’d never spoken to Napoleon, made his blood surge, rekindling his arousal. He stroked Illya’s warm, velvety skin, every familiar inch new and exciting.
Napoleon pulled Illya close, closer, breathed across his ear, “I want to make love to you.”
He felt Illya’s silent laugh against his chest. “You are.” He slid his hands down his partner’s warm back, touching Illya intimately, stroking, caressing, his erection swelling again as Illya started, gasping at the contact.
Illya lifted up a little, meeting his eyes, seeing his desire.
Napoleon held the look, the words crossing his mind but not his lips: He was asking, not demanding; the decision was Illya’s and he would have no complaint, whatever Illya chose. He knew he didn’t have to say any of it. That knowledge made him rise up to kiss his partner, a deep, languorous melding. When he lay back down, his partner straddled him, flushed, panting, hands braced trembling on Napoleon’s chest.
“You talked me into it,” he whispered, and slid his body downward, just a little.
“Oh, God...not so fast.” Napoleon caught him. “We need ... something to make this easier on you.” He sought for the words to explain, but Illya slipped out of his grasp, rolled and landed on his feet beside the bed. Napoleon was almost too startled to enjoy the view as his partner stalked into the adjacent bathroom, returning with a small bottle.
“Hey...” Napoleon began as Illya straddled him again, sitting on his thighs and opening the bottle. “How is it –?”
“Shut up,” Illya growled, handing Napoleon the lid. “You talk too much.” He tilted the bottle and trickled some clear liquid onto his fingers, then gave Napoleon the bottle. “Close that now,” he said, low, stroking his fingers across his palm and smiling. “I don’t want you to spill it.”
Napoleon fumbled the lid on and dropped the bottle on the bedside table.
Illya curled his fingers around Napoleon, stroking upward, lightly. Too lightly. Napoleon gritted his teeth as his hips tightened, pumping into Illya’s loose hold.
“Not yet,” Illya purred. “This isn’t what you want.”
Napoleon squinted at his partner, sat up and grabbed him by the hips. “You’re asking for it,” he warned, pulling Illya forward. Illya stroked him once more, hard, then let go, rising up. Napoleon caressed his cheeks, drawing him nearer, aching to have Illya’s body tight around him.
Illya grasped Napoleon’s erection and guided it, his own cock engorged, his eyes locked onto his partner’s as he sank down, slowly, thigh muscles tensed. Napoleon let him choose the pace, though his body was clenched with the need to pump into the slick tight heat that enveloped him.
Illya’s head fell back, eyes closed, feeling Napoleon inside him, filling him, braided pleasurepain. His cock pulsed, and he pulled Napoleon’s hands from his ass, guiding them to his erection as he eased himself completely onto his partner.
“God...” Napoleon gasped for air, for control, forcing himself not to push, his sweat-slicked hand squeezing Illya’s erection as if it were his own, frantic with his need to move. “God ... you feel good...”
Panting like a lion, Illya rose up again, slowly. He braced his hands on his partner’s chest, and Napoleon choked back a cry as Illya began to move. Slow, exquisitely tight strokes, then less slow, a steady hard rhythm, counterpoint to Illya’s uncontrolled sounds. Flaming, beyond thought, Napoleon let go his partner’s leaking cock and grasped his hips, pumping desperately.
Illya seized his hands – Napoleon froze, fear that he had hurt his partner reining in his need for an instant – until Illya gasped out, “More,” and drove down on him, forcing them together. Illya’s body squeezed, sparking lightning in Napoleon’s brain; he shouted as he came, hard, exploding into his partner, endlessly, draining strength and thought. Illya’s body trembled against him and, without thinking, he grasped his partner’s turgid cock, stroking hard as Illya came with a strangled groan. Hot fluid spurted across Napoleon’s chest, followed by the panting weight of his partner as Napoleon gently drew free of him, limp as a pool of water.
Napoleon wrapped his arms around Illya’s lax, damp form and held him close, savoring his presence with every inhalation. He waited until their breathing had eased, then said, “Is now a good time to get you to promise me something?”
Sated silence was followed by a warm murmur filling his ear: “I’ll come straight home from school unless I get kidnapped by THRUSH, I won’t talk to strangers unless I have to in order to save the world, and I’ll eat my vegetables unless they’ve been poisoned by one of the many criminal factions who want me dead.” He took Napoleon’s earlobe into his mouth briefly. “All right?” He pressed his face against Napoleon’s neck, exhaling a slow breath of sleepy satisfaction.
Napoleon sighed. How could he ask Illya to stop being who he was? “You read my mind,” he said, closing his eyes.
Illya awoke to the gentle sensation of feathery touches against his back. Smiling into the pillow, he tried to work up the energy to ask Napoleon what he was doing, but while the energy lay languid in his body, his partner’s tongue stroked across his right shoulderblade, over an old knife wound, and he understood.
At his shoulder, Napoleon paused. “Did I wake you?”
Illya forced the words out past his lassitude. “You can wake me like this any time.”
He closed his eyes and relaxed again under his partner’s soft laugh.
Deftly avoiding the new injuries, Napoleon explored every scar. Most of them he knew by heart already; he found himself murmuring as his lips traced them.
“
Illya finally chuckled. “You sound like a travelogue.”
Some of them, Napoleon didn’t know. His silence, as he loved those scars with fingers and mouth, made Illya raise his head and say, “If you want to know ... I’ll tell you.”
Napoleon lifted his face from a long scar on the back of Illya’s right arm. He looked at his partner, shook his head. “It’s enough that you’d tell me. I don’t need to know, unless you need to say.”
Illya turned over, holding his gaze, eyes soft with amazement. “Napoleon ...”
Napoleon smiled. “I know.”
Illya looked away, expression hardening, and Napoleon knew he’d finally allowed himself to go past the moment, to look at the consequences. When he spoke, his tone was exactly as Napoleon had expected it to be. Grim, hesitant, the voice of a man who saw a rough road ahead, to be traveled in the dark to an unknown destination.
“We crossed a line tonight–”
Napoleon shook his head. “We crossed that line a long time ago. Tonight was just admitting it. I’m sorry it took so long.” He wasn’t prepared to discuss consequences yet, but he was ready to face them. What matter how rough, if it was the road they chose?
“I think it had to.”
Napoleon considered. “Yes. With you, I was afraid–”
Illya chuckled.
“I’m serious. I was afraid of losing what we have. As much as I wanted you, I wouldn’t have risked losing everything else just for sex.”
“Was it just sex?” Illya looked at him, calmly. Napoleon took his hand, twining their fingers together, looking down at the knot he’d made. Two hard, square, strong, capable hands. Perfectly matched.
“No. That’s exactly it. The women ... I like them, don’t misunderstand, and it’s fun and exciting, but ... they don’t matter. You matter. More than anyone or anything. I wanted you to know that. I wasn’t sure you would.”
“I wasn’t sure either.” Illya smiled. “I’m sure now.”
Napoleon raised his brows. “You doubted me? You, of all people?”
“I’m sorry.”
“I always thought you could read me like a book.”
“Maybe I didn’t believe what I was reading.”
Napoleon grinned. “That’s you. Always the skeptic.”
“Speaking of skeptics ... you know this book isn’t likely to have a happy ending?”
“When did we ever expect that?”
The End
happy sigh
Date: 12 August 2004 04:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 27 July 2005 09:21 am (UTC)May I friend you?
Ack!
Date: 31 August 2005 08:35 pm (UTC)Re: Ack!
Date: 31 August 2005 09:28 pm (UTC)I assumed you hadn't seen the message, so no worries! Since writing it, I've worked my way through most of your MFU and you've become one of my favourite writers in any fandom. (I hope you don't mind that I downloaded and took one of your stories on holiday to read over and over.)
I'll post a little more on which ones are my favourites when I'm not just about to go to bed :) I hope you do post more fics soon!
Re: Ack!
Date: 31 August 2005 09:50 pm (UTC)Anyway -- thanks again.
no subject
Date: 31 August 2005 06:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 31 August 2005 08:33 pm (UTC)Thanks again!