Old story post

[leethet]

This story was written for the long-ago "No Touch" challenge on ... the Yahoo list? Like I can even remember. In looking through old files I discovered, duh, it's not actually archived anywhere.  It's slash, for those who don't want to waste their time going under the cut. 

The Naked Truth

 

 

They'd come through his open bedroom window, four of them, black-clad, black-masked, slick as cat burglars, at 4 in the morning. If he hadn't been still awake, prowling his living room, full of smooth scotch and rough thoughts, they'd have had an easier time of it. As it was he'd put some of the frustration he'd been feeling into the fight, and he'd made a good show of it before one of them had gassed him.

Napoleon tried the knots again. No dice.

Now here he was, tied to a post in some windowless basement with one metal door.

They hadn't been too rough on him. They'd just tied him to the pole in the middle of the room and left. All he had to complain about was that the room was warm, his feet were getting numb from the ropes, and he had a headache from the gas. And he was starting to get bored. They'd been gone half an hour.

He looked down. His best tux had gotten the worst of the fight. He'd gotten home about 2 a.m. from the latest in a string of social events at which they'd served as high-priced bodyguards for a visiting dignitary from the sort of war-torn speck of a country that inevitably produced assassins from various factions and interest in takeover from THRUSH. Long, tedious, unrelieved by even the faintest hint of an assassination attempt, the evening had been redeemed only by the brief impromptu party he and his partner had managed to hold on the balcony of the hotel with a couple of pilfered bottles of Champagne, after all the VIPs had been seen safely to their beds and to the second shift of bodyguards.

They'd engaged in a fiendish roast of the fat-headed, loud-mouthed witless dignitary and his hangers-on, discussed how glad they'd be to hand the pompous ass over to THRUSH, and elaborated on some colorful suggestions for what to do to him once they'd done so.

Finally the hotel staff had politely requested they take their party home. They'd shared a final toast with the last of the Champagne.

"To friends," Illya had said.

On impulse Napoleon had added, "At least."

The look on his partner's face before they'd gone their separate ways was what had left him pacing the apartment at 4 in the morning while THRUSH kidnappers were scaling his building.

What were they waiting for?

Someone knocked on the door. Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. Napoleon's heart leaped. Illya's "code" knock. He sang out:

"Come in."  Why the hell was Illya knocking?

The door creaked open and Illya came in, gun in hand but by his posture clearly not expecting any resistance. True to form, he wore bluejeans and a black t-shirt -- he'd probably doffed the dreaded tuxedo the second he'd gotten home. He shut the door behind him and approached Napoleon.

"Are you all right?"

Napoleon sighed. "Reasonably. Can you believe there's no room service in this dump?"

"Everything's taken care of," Illya said calmly. "The gentlemen who carried you off into the sunset are all collected and on their way to HQ."

"That's nice," Napoleon said. "Were you going to untie me?"

Instead, the Russian holstered his gun and went to the door. Napoleon clearly heard the bolt slide home.

"What are you doing?"

Illya turned around. "Is that a trick question?"

"Illya...what are you ... hey, wait a minute. What time is it?" He couldn't believe he'd been out for very long.

Illya glanced at his watch. "It's five."

"How'd you find me so fast?"

"I went to your place. When you didn't answer my knock I was concerned. I went inside. They'd left quite a mess. They were easy to follow."

He circled the post and Napoleon, then stopped in front, regarded his partner thoughtfully. Napoleon was mystified.

"You came to my place at four in the morning? What for?" Only after he'd said it did it occur to him that he wasn't being very gracious about being rescued. If only, so far, from boredom.

"I had something to tell you."

"At four in the morning? What?"

Illya crossed his arms over his chest and looked his partner in the eye. The look then traveled southward, a meandering route Napoleon could feel on his skin as if he were naked. The look came back up, bringing Napoleon's heartrate with it.

"Illya..?"

The Russian shrugged off his holster, a quick flex of limber shoulders, and drew his gun, setting the latter atop the former on the floor.

"Come on. Cut me loose. It's hot in here."

"Is it?" Illya dug into his back pocket -- despite the situation Napoleon couldn't help thinking damn those jeans are tight -- and came out with a good-sized folding knife. He opened it, locked it, stared at Napoleon.

Napoleon cleared his throat. "If this is about your last pay raise..."

Illya moved the knife toward Napoleon's face. With a quick twist it caught the end of his dangling bow tie and whipped it away.

Then the knife proceeded in little bunny hops down the front of the dress shirt, severing buttons from their function and Napoleon from the remains of his calm. He had an inkling -- a wild hope -- as to what Illya was doing, and just that inkling was like lighting up his spine and whisky down his throat.

Despite how close the knife was, he had too much faith in his partner's skill to need to watch its deft movements. He watched his partner, intent, eyes narrowed, glittering as he considered his next move. He tapped the flat of the blade against his chin for a moment. Napoleon knew what he was pondering.

"If you untied me," he said softly, "It would be easier."

The wickedness of Illya's smile melted Napoleon's remaining coherent thoughts. The Russian shook his head slowly. He took hold of Napoleon's jacket cuff and set the knife to the edge.

Napoleon made a sound of protest and Illya looked up.

"Tell me to stop," he said.

Their eyes touched. Napoleon swallowed.

In one swift motion -- Jesus that knife was sharp! -- Illya sliced it open from cuff to shoulder. He did the same on the other side. Two more quick cuts from shoulder to lapel and the jacket fell to the floor. The shirt went the same route, and the cummerbund easily followed them to the floor. Then there was only the t-shirt, tight to his body, damp with his sweat. Illya reached out, laid his fingertips against the thin cotton, just above the button of Napoleon's trousers.

Napoleon sucked in a sharp breath. His blood surged, a spear of fire that went straight to his cock.

"Oh boy ..." He panted, tense from his toes to his hair as he watched his partner pull the t-shirt, felt it slide out of his trousers. Illya stretched the shirt out with one hand and with the other sliced upward, up to the collar, his eyes following the same path. At the top he held the collar away from Napoleon's neck and severed it with a sharp outward flick. Again, two more swift side cuts and the t-shirt joined the pile at Napoleon's feet.

Illya paused to admire his handiwork. Napoleon shivered inside to see his partner's flush, to see the pulse pounding in his neck. Illya wiped his brow with the back of his hand.

"You're bleeding," Napoleon said, laughing in his mind at the crackling roughness of his own voice. You sound like a god-damned teen-ager with a hard-on. Well, you're half right.

Illya looked at his hand, uninterested. He squeezed his index finger and a drop of blood fell fat to the floor.

"You cut yourself," Napoleon said. "I know how to fix that."

Illya shot him a suspicious glare. Napoleon held his eyes.

"Trust me," he said. "Come here."

Illya approached. "Don't try anything," he growled.

Napoleon said only, "Come here. It's an old family remedy."

Illya inched nearer.

"Your hand," Napoleon ordered. Illya's scowl eased as he somehow divined Napoleon's intent, and he raised his hand, laid his finger against his partner's lips.

Napoleon embraced the injured digit in his mouth, licking slowly, languorously. He watched his partner's clear eyes glaze over as he bathed Illya's finger thoroughly. Illya leaned closer, pliant, almost touching...

...then he pulled back, blinking, drawing his hand away. Napoleon's groan of frustration turned to a smile when he saw how hard his partner was breathing, saw that those tight jeans were tighter around the buttons than before. He might be tied up, but he was far from powerless.

"Is that better?" he purred. Illya looked up at him, wild-eyed.

"Yes," he grated. "Thank you."

"Then could you do something about my feet?" Napoleon asked.

"Your feet?"

"I can't feel them very well any more."

Illya knelt down and shoved the ruined clothing aside, started cutting the ropes that bound Napoleon's ankles.

He wiped one forearm across his face and cursed. "It's hot." He grabbed the bottom of his t-shirt with his free hand and ripped it over his head, flinging it away and continuing to work. Napoleon stared down at his partner's back and shoulders, muscles bunching and relaxing under the golden skin, and his heart jolted into higher gear, pumping hungry life into his erection.

Illya paused, glanced up sideways. "Did you say something?"

Napoleon shook his head, unable to speak.

Illya kept sawing. Finally he stood up, panting, sweat trickling down the sides of his face, down his body. He looked at Napoleon in triumph. "There. Better?"

Napoleon moved his feet a more comfortable distance apart, choking back the groan as his erection pulsed at the motion.

He forced out the word. "Thanks." His eyes followed a glistening drop of perspiration down, down from one smooth collarbone, just around one pink nipple, then slowly over the flat hard stomach to the waistband of his partner's jeans. There the droplet stopped. Napoleon's eyes did not.

"Napoleon."

He yanked his eyes up, heat strobing through his body.

"Tell me what you want," Illya said, his knifeless hand moving between his own legs, stroking the bulge there once, deliberately. Napoleon nearly bit his tongue in half.

"Jesus..." The word slipped out a whisper. "Come over here and I'll tell you."

Illya stepped closer, his hands at his sides. Closer, compressing the warm air between them until it was palpable, a hot inch of awareness, its own faint caress.

Illya tilted his head up a fraction, a familiar gesture that never failed to thrill along Napoleon's nerves; his partner's breath touched the damp skin of his throat in short, rapid strokes. "Tell me," he said, so low Napoleon felt the vibration in his chest. His eyes sparked. Napoleon yearned forward, aching for contact, and Illya drew back the perfect distance, keeping them body-heat close.

"Damn it. Untie me." He didn't raise his voice, but the tension in it made Illya step back a little, examining him to see how much danger he was in.

The corners of his mouth twitched and Napoleon, knowing he'd lost, cursed again. He knew -- hoped? No, knew -- that if he ordered Illya, his partner would release him. Did he really want to be released?

"Not yet," Illya said. He folded the knife and put it back into his pocket.

Napoleon groaned. "God ... do that slower..."

Illya paused, glanced down at himself, then actually smiled. He came close again, unbuttoned Napoleon's trousers, unzipped them, eased them down around his ankles.

Napoleon's jaw clamped shut. He was running with sweat at this point, aching, hard, hard all over his body. "If you aren't going to do anything..."

Illya glanced up. "Yes?"

"Just kill me and be done with it."

The Russian paused. "Are you hot, Napoleon?"

Napoleon closed his eyes. "What do you think?"

His eyes flew open as Illya's tongue traced a fiery path from his navel to his throat. The Russian stopped, face to face with his partner, tip of his tongue still showing. He drew it slowly inside, then smiled.

"I think you're running a temperature."

"Bastard." Napoleon darted his head forward and snapped at his partner.

Illya jumped back, then snaked forward briefly to strafe one damp nipple.

"Teasing..." Napoleon gasped, his body straining toward Illya. "...bastard."

"You're repeating yourself."  Illya crossed his arms again, smiling at the obvious effect the posture had on his partner.

"You are a son of a bitch," Napoleon snarled. "A teasing, untrustworthy, half-naked, jeans-wearing, sadistic son of a bitch and if you don't get over here right now and do something I will kill you with my bare hands."

"Something?" Illya echoed.

He sidled around Napoleon, out of his sight but still close enough to feel. Napoleon wrapped his hands around the pole. Illya's breath stroked his ear.

"Something?" his partner repeated softly. "Like what?"

 Napoleon shivered, thought anything, everything, but couldn't form the words.

Then, in his other ear, lower: "Do you know what I want to do, Napoleon?"

Napoleon leaned his head back, toward his partner, breathing in his scent, listening to the short, agitated breaths that tickled the nape of his neck. It was all he could do to speak clearly, and his words came out strangled with desire.

"Do it."

Illya's hands slid down Napoleon's back and eased his briefs off, cupping his partner's hard ass briefly. Not gently. Napoleon's hips jerked forward, his cock thrust upward ... and he was naked except for his shoes.

And then his partner stood in front of him again, just out of reach. Flushed and short of breath, but smiling.

"I will," he promised.

Panting, pounding, dripping with hot perspiration, Napoleon heard a low hum and realized it was coming from himself -- a growl deep in his chest. He was ready to explode.

"Napoleon?" A flicker of uncertainty touched his partner's sapphire eyes.

No more. "Take off those goddamned jeans right now," Napoleon commanded him.

To his astonishment, Illya began to comply.

"Slowly!" Napoleon barked.

Illya kicked off the loafers he wore and began to unbutton the jeans. Napoleon's hands clenched in counterpoint pulses with his erection, harder with each button freed, each golden inch revealed. Illya slid the jeans down and Napoleon nearly came at that second to see that his partner wore no underwear. Illya stepped away from his clothes and stood before Napoleon, naked, aroused, gleaming.

The soaked ropes gave suddenly and Napoleon pulled his hands free.

****

Napoleon started awake, nearly falling off his couch. He grabbed the back of the sofa and sat up gasping, strangling in his twisted-up tuxedo.

Jesus. What a dream. Hard as a headstone, heart racing, he planted his elbows on his knees and cradled his head in his hands. No more champagne. No more late-night "parties." No more sleeping on the couch in your tux. No more dreaming about your partner. No more thinking about making that dream a reality...

He shook his head, laughing at himself, knowing he wasn't likely to be keeping any of those promises. He glanced at the clock. It was 4:13 in the morning.

And someone knocked on the door.

Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap.

 

 

The End

Comments

[madmogs.livejournal.com]

Oh wow. That was incredibly hot. I do like Napoleon's imagination (& love the phrase 'hard as a headstone')!

[leethet.livejournal.com]

Thanks. :-) It's so difficult to come up with a metaphor for a hard on, isn't it? I liked that one too. :-)

[vysila.livejournal.com]

Whew! Talk about steamy. What an intense scene. I loved how Napoleon unraveled and Illya's gamesmanship. What a fun read.

[leethet.livejournal.com]

Thanks. :-) I basically failed at the "no touch" thing, but ... it was fun trying. I'm glad you liked it.

[veronicaluv.livejournal.com]

Wowser - that was a lot of sexy fun for a Monday! I'm so glad you found it and posted it to share with us - thanks for the lovely treat!

V

[leethet.livejournal.com]

Thanks so much. :-) I thought this one was out there somewhere (heck, it may be), but I noticed it wasn't archived. I really should be sure stuff is all archived somewhere. I'm a believer in archiving fic so that down the road people can find it all (I discovered that when I recently plunged into K/S and tried to follow very tempting recs ... only to hit dead links. EVERYONE should archive ALL their stuff, I feel *g*).

[shayheyred.livejournal.com]

YAY! A LeetheT new/old story!

And a HOT one, phew! ::flicks off sweat drop::

Great stuff.

Note my icon.

[leethet.livejournal.com]

I love the idea of IK as the ruthless bastard. :-) He's no wilting little flower. :-) I'm glad you liked the story.

[dinahmt.livejournal.com]

What a treat for a Monday! Any more where that came from???

[leethet.livejournal.com]

Didn't you do one of these too??? It's been so long I can't remember, but you and Nat and I did this challenge, didn't we?

There are all kinds of half-finished stories floating around on my hard drive. It's just getting them done that's the issue. :-)

[gilda-elise.livejournal.com]

Illya's not the only tease around here. ;-) Hot! So glad you posted this. Will it be archived soon?

[leethet.livejournal.com]

I do need to archive it and probably get my other stuff to the Madhouse. Since I've become a massive convert to the archiving thing. :-) As for when ...

[elijahwildchild.livejournal.com]

*groans* See - this is why I keep on scouring the interweb-thingy. I just hope that if I keep looking for long enough I'll find something else wonderful of yours. It would be nice to have them all in one place, though, so that I could visit them often and lay tributes at their feet...

Thank you.

Phew...

[leethet.livejournal.com]

I wish I could promise to someday get them all into some archive or other. It could happen, but it involves recoding them all, and that's just so damn' tedious.

I am glad you like my stuff, though. :-) Sorry it's so scattery. I mean, really, it's all at File 40 except for just a couple, and they're either at the Madhouse or at Loretta's site (only one's there) or here.