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“There’s an issue with your cover,” the voice on the phone says.

“Issue,” Illya does his best to keep his voice quiet. Professional. “No issue.”

“There was an issue with the paperwork, entirely on their end,” the exasperated voice responds. “And now they’re not admitting any new guests to the list. No one else can attend except the guests with existing clearance.”

“There must be an exception,” he says.

“Sure. If you can find a clever way to partner with Solo.”


“No good,” Illya’s making a familiar face, nose upturned as Napoleon adjusts his tie for him.

“I don’t know what you’re worried about,” but he ends his statement with a smug grin, “Quite a few wealthy designers bring their partners to this event.”

Illya scoffs.

“We’re living in a new age,” Napoleon makes a pleased expression, inspecting his work on the tie and withdrawing his hands. “Plus, the man of the house has been carrying on a not so private affair with his valet director for the last five years. He’ll understand.”

“This,” he shakes his head, “is not my expertise. It is too much.”

“Of course,” Napoleon smirks at him, “Can’t be having too much fun now, can we?” He almost winks, and reaches out a hand, “Now if you don’t mind, we really should get a move on. Come along, darling.”

Illya stares down at his hand, as if it’s poisonous. “I don’t hold hands.”

“Dear,” but there’s some tension behind his eyes. “I know you’re a bit shy, but I would very much like to enjoy this evening with you.” He pauses. “I hesitate to imagine what would happen if we accidentally gave the wrong impression of, you could say, being at odds with one another.”

Illya almost rolls his eyes, but he does take his hand. Napoleon’s hand is warm and smooth; it’s uncomfortable. But if it’s for the mission…

“There’s a good boy,” Napoleon says, a bit too smug.

Illya squeezes his hand, a bit too tightly.

“Ow,” but he almost laughs.


By far, the most difficult aspect of the evening is Napoleon’s necessary task of controlling his wandering eyes. So many incredible women. So many glittering gems and priceless valuables hovering just beyond his reach. But he’s a designer that is content and successful, and content and successful designers don’t feel a need to line their pockets with someone else’s treasures. Especially not with a handsome man on his arm.

A fidgeting, stubborn, irritated handsome man. He’s really not great at this acting thing.

Once they conclude a charming conversation with a woman that’s quite the stunner, it’s with a slight sigh that Napoleon tugs on Illya’s arm and pulls him aside. “Dear,” he says quietly.

Illya gives him a confused look.

“There is an incredible bar at this place,” Napoleon explains, with a suggestive tilt of his head. “Top shelf liquors from around the world.” He runs a hand up Illya’s arm, and he’s noticing how tense he is beneath his touch. Too tense. This cover won’t fly if he can’t relax; but he keeps his expression friendly and his eyes intently focused on him. “I would very much like to indulge it with you.”

“I don’t drink,” Illya says.

“Not even just this once,” he smiles, but it’s forced and they both know it.

“Bad idea,” Illya says.

“Hm,” Napoleon raises his eyebrows at him. Hooks his hand around his arm and tugs it closer to his body. “You needn’t worry about losing a bit of control, darling,” he smiles. “I can help you manage that.”

“I’ve told you before,” Illya says, flustered but doing his best to keep his voice level. “Never.”

Napoleon pouts at him, but he lets it go for now. No sense in trying to move a boulder. There’s still the very real problem of this man being entirely too tense, though. Bows his head and turns a few thoughts over, as he idly runs a hand up and down his arm.

Illya notices; he almost bristles at his touch.

“You weren’t held much as a child, were you,” Napoleon quips.

Illya sends him a quick glare, but he diffuses it with a casual shake of his head. “That is none of your concern,” he says.

“I beg your pardon,” and he leans in closer, “tonight, you are my concern. Dear.”

Napoleon ghosts a hand across his back, and Illya almost shivers as it travels.

“Let’s make a bee-line for the bar, anyway. There’s a nice opening over there.”


At the bar, a particularly fetching woman is slowly stirring her drink with a thin straw, sending them a small, delighted smirk. “I didn’t think you would ever come around,” she says.

“Madam,” Napoleon takes her hand, kissing it gently. “Niko Katrakis, at your service.” He pauses, with a slight smile, “my partner, Alexander Brauer. You may have heard of his newest work, The Plight of the Appalachian.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t,” she does a slow blink at them, long lashes and a slight nod of her head. “Are you an artist?”

Illya’s posture finally starts to unease a bit. He makes direct eye contact, and gives his best impression of a smile, however subtle it is. “I am a writer, from Berlin.” He makes a vague gesture to Napoleon, “He flatters me. I am only small press.”

“Small press,” she smiles coyly. “I wouldn’t peg you for anything… small.”

Napoleon coughs faintly, but his eyes show his amusement.

“Have you any news,” Napoleon breaks the ice a bit more.

“Lot of fancy names, gossip about families and affairs, blah blah blah,” Gaby almost rolls her eyes, and takes a large swig from her glass. “People are dull here.”

“You certainly aren’t,” Napoleon smirks at her.

“You cad,” but she grins back at him. Sends a look to Illya. “You don’t seem to be having a very nice time.”

“This is not my kind of party,” he says.

“Alexander is used to,” Napoleon searches for the right words, gazing at him fondly, “a different sort of environment.”

“I can imagine,” Gaby winks. “Stallions do not like small spaces.”

Illya does a slow turn of his head, looking away and Napoleon sends her a wide smile, from ear to ear. But he’s quick to diffuse the atmosphere, saying quietly, “Dear, are you sure I can’t get you anything.”

“No,” Illya says, with some degree of annoyance.

Napoleon pats his hand against his arm, and then sidles up to the bar. Puts in an order for a scotch he’s been eyeing for a while. While he waits, Gaby is leaning towards Illya with some discretion, “Perhaps you should work on your mood,” she says.

“Nothing wrong with my mood,” Illya says, but he keeps his expression neutral.

“You look… cold,” she says. “Not spot-on for someone at a luxurious party with his handsome, talented partner. You should see the way people are looking at you.”

A contemplative frown.

“I know of a nice place,” she almost smirks, “If you two need a minute alone. It would suit you.”


“This is someone’s bedroom,” Illya is hissing.

“A perfect escape for a lovers’ rendezvous,” Napoleon purrs, as he reaches into his wallet. “Now where did I put my-”

“Don’t get ideas,” Illya says.

“Relax,” Napoleon gives him an intent look. “I’m not planning to attack you or anything. Just have to make it look convincing.”

“This is not for the mission,” Illya says quietly.

“Shh,” Napoleon gives up on the wallet, and slides it back into his pocket. “This might all be a bust, anyway.”

“No one matches the description,” Illya starts to say; but he frowns when Napoleon takes hold of his hands, almost caressing them as he tugs them close.

“Indeed not,” Napoleon smirks at him, “But we’ve still got a cover for the next three hours.” He moves his way closer to Illya. “Unlike you, I don’t make a habit of darting out before my job is done.”

“If there’s nothing more to do here,” Illya says through tight lips.

“We might as well focus on having a nice time,” Napoleon says. Pauses, and points to the air, gesturing to the faint murmur of music echoing from the ballroom, “Shall we?”

“I don’t dance,” Illya says quietly.

“I heard from a little mouse that you can,” he tilts his head, “not very well, but we all start somewhere.”

“This is not necessary,” Illya says, as Napoleon sidles closer to him. Lets go of one hand, to press it against Illya’s waist.

Slides it across his back, and takes a step closer. Lifts Illya’s hand with his in the air, and glances down to check their body posture.

“Wait,” Illya says firmly. “I don’t like this.”

“What’s the matter,” Napoleon almost frowns at him.

Illya looks down, at their posture. “I am not female role.”

“But I am clearly more experienced in this,” Napoleon says it so matter of factly.

“I am bigger than you. It is embarrassing.”

Napoleon tilts his head. Sighs faintly and repositions his hand, up to Illya’s shoulder. “Better?”

Illya gives him a blank stare. Repositions a hand to Napoleon’s waist.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Napoleon mutters.


He’s not entirely without grace, this Kuryakin.

“Nicely done,” Napoleon says quietly. He’s almost hesitant to speak, because they’re closer than they’ve ever been, and even something so loud as that murmur feels too oppressive.

Illya doesn’t make a sound in response; however, he bows his head and continues through the motions. One hand firm against Napoleon’s back, his other hand pressed firmly against his. A slow turn, and a slight dip of Napoleon’s body, and it’s lower than either of them expect; an almost startled glance from Napoleon when he feels himself falling, for a brief instant; falling and swiftly suspended by that hand against his back, so strong, so supportive.

There’s a lot to like about this brute of a man. He’s thought about it for a while, but…

If it’s not for a mission, Illya would hear nothing of it.

Swoops him up and their bodies nearly collide, pressing together precariously; Napoleon’s left leg aligned against his right, waists pressed tighter than he’s been with anyone in a while. Illya’s hand against his lower back presses them even closer and Napoleon feels his body temperature rising, hoping that-

Oh good lord. There it is.

Illya continues in a slow spin, and then stops. But he doesn’t move; he only frowns. Glances down.

“You’re just so good with your hands,” Napoleon smirks at him.

“This is not a time for jokes,” Illya says curtly.

“Man, you have got to unwind a bit,” Napoleon grimaces at him. “You were doing so well.”

“I am not the one doing-”

“I think you are desperately attractive.”

The hand on his back tenses. Slightly.

“While I do not intend to ravish you, I would much appreciate a kiss.” He keeps his tone playful, but his eyes betray a seriousness, in the way that he so frequently stares down a target. Unwavering and unflinching. “This cover was, after all, my suggestion.”

Illya lets go of him. Withdraws his hands and takes a few steps back. Crosses his arms over his chest.

“Now we’re just going backwards,” Napoleon says.

“I dislike this cover,” Illya says.

Napoleon almost pouts at him. He gestures to Illya, “After I bought you that suit.”

“Was for mission,” Illya points out.

“And it fits you wonderfully, by the way,” Napoleon says.

“You did not even pay,” Illya turns up his lip at him.

“Do I look like I have to,” Napoleon grins faintly. With a nod, “You’re welcome.”

“I am ready to go,” Illya says. “Enough foolishness.”

“We were having such a nice time,” with a slow blink.

“Enough,” he says again, definitively.


When they reunite with Gaby, she’s lounging by the grand staircase, batting her eyelashes at a tall man decked out in a regal suit and golden cufflinks. She glances to see them approaching, and hands him her empty glass. Says something kind, and smiles at him. He nods, with a slight bow and retreats to give her privacy.

“Very respectful,” she says, as Napoleon and Illya approach. She takes a lingering look around, “I like this place.”

She seems to notice their uncomfortable silence.

“You two having fun yet,” she says with some humor. “The music’s getting slow. I might end my night soon.”

“Total bust,” Illya says.

“Easy for you to say,” Gaby quips.

He gives her a sideways look. Even Napoleon frowns at her implication.

“While you two were entertaining yourselves, I answered a few questions for us.” She winks at them, “Easier for me to work without you two in my way.”

“Is that so,” Napoleon crosses his arms over his chest, but there’s humor in his tone.

Gaby leans in, and says quietly, “The man with the yellow tie.” Illya takes a glance towards the crowd behind them, as Gaby puts a hand on Napoleon’s shoulder, “Go make out or something, and when you’re done, I’ll have what we need.”

Illya immediately responds, “Why would we-”

Gaby blinks at him, innocently. “Isn’t that what lovers do? At a nice party like this.” She smirks and waves at them. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

Napoleon takes the hint, and steers a flustered Illya away from Gaby. “It appears our date is not yet finished,” he says quietly.

“It has been,” Illya says. “Why I ever agreed to this-”

“Because you like me so much,” Napoleon suggests.

Illya is tempted to roll his eyes, but he settles for a sharp glance away.

Napoleon puts his hands on his shoulders, delicately so as not to upset him. “Wouldn’t want to be… odd and cut our night short, would we.” He leans in, “Miss Cortez did grant us a personal invitation, and it would be very rude if we were to leave so soon.”

He looks up at Illya, staring at him until Illya returns his gaze. Albeit with annoyance.

“Miss Cortez doesn’t need to deal with such a distraction.”

“Miss Cortez,” Napoleon says with fond emphasis, “is doing just fine with us where we are.” He tilts his head, “So darling, if you don’t mind terribly. I would love to enjoy more of this evening with you.”

Illya sighs deeply; but he does put a hand on Napoleon’s waist. Not only is it their cover, it might quiet this noisy man down a bit. That must count for something.

And soon the other hand, as Napoleon is quick to embrace him. Sensually sliding his hands up his back, as if enjoying the warmth of his body and his broad, strong back-

Oh no. There it goes again.

“If you are…” Illya starts.

“Hold me closer and no one will notice,” Napoleon almost hums.

“Ridiculous,” but he does.


“You’re getting tense again,” Napoleon says.

“It’s been almost thirty minutes. She must be done by now,” Illya murmurs against his ear.

Napoleon takes a quick glance across the ballroom floor, past several people. Finds a glimmer of gold and a familiar silhouette. “Not yet.” Says with a faint smirk, “These things do sometimes take time.”

“Do they,” Illya says. But it’s more of a question than a condemnation. “I’d rather it be done quick.”

“I know,” Napoleon purrs. “You like to go fast. But sometimes slow and steady is the superior method.”

Illya almost rolls his eyes.

Napoleon puts a hand on the side of his neck, but Illya doesn’t start to tense until it reaches his face. Pressed against his cheek and he’s not sure how to respond.

“Kiss me,” Napoleon says.


“Because we haven’t done so in several hours,” Napoleon says through tight-laced lips. “And that is a bit odd, even for a couple of our standing.”

“I don’t much care for-”

“Alex,” Napoleon says, turning his face towards him. “Dear.” And he almost smiles at him, “If you can’t even kiss your partner, what are you possibly doing with him.”

“You can’t settle for embrace,” Illya suggests.

Napoleon makes a face at him.

Illya waits, as if expecting some cue on what more to do.

“You’re not smooth at all,” Napoleon teases. “I don’t know how you ever got a first date with me.”

Illya scoffs.

Freezes still, when he recognizes the contact of lips against his. Warm. Uncomfortably so. And eager; almost too eager. It’s a kiss that starts a bit clumsily and when it breaks, he’s bewildered and not sure how to respond.

“Terrible,” Napoleon says, with a frown. “Let’s try that again.”


And there he goes. Better this time; but it’s not Napoleon’s performance that was ever lacking. Illya chooses to make an effort. Parts his lips slightly and leans down, leans in as Napoleon’s hand runs down his face and to the back of his neck. Fingers gripping the hair at the nape of his neck and when Illya becomes aware of Napoleon’s tongue sliding into his mouth, it feels like too late to backtrack and change his mind.

But he’s not sure if he’d want to, and that’s the frustrating part.

When this kiss breaks, it’s a little wet and naughty. Napoleon’s lips are wet for a moment, until he presses them together. “Better,” he says.

Illya resists the urge to react through his facial expression, but he’s barely moved from where he was. Still leaning in, face inches away from Napoleon’s. It prompts Napoleon to tease him, just a bit. “Don’t make it look like a first kiss, darling.”

“I don’t understand your-”

Napoleon catches that last word into another kiss, this one more spontaneous and bold. Both hands on Illya’s face now, holding him there as that kiss turns into another, keeping him still as he kisses him repeatedly; a bit too fond. But it’s not too fond for a pair of lovers.

Lovers caught up in the moment, and Illya even closes his eyes as gives in just enough, returns those kisses and lets his hands crawl up Napoleon’s waist. Tugs him closer, almost instinctually and there’s a very real hunger in these kisses that’s leaving him dazed.

Napoleon doesn’t stop; he shows no sign of wanting to, barely even to breathe. Illya needs to, though, so he breaks it for a moment, long enough to suggest, “shouldn’t we be alone, darling,” with some sharpness.

“And interrupt this lovely moment,” Napoleon remarks. Swollen lips and glazed eyes. “We have no need of discretion.” An almost hesitant hand on Illya’s face, as if feeling it for the first time and he’s looking at him so intently. It’s unnerving. “I really am… so fond of you,” he says.

“Are you going soft,” Illya says quietly.

“Quite the opposite,” Napoleon says in a near-whisper.

“Is this,” Illya takes a glance downward, to make his implication apparent, “going to be an issue.”

“I can take care of it,” Napoleon says wryly.

“Do you need assistance,” Illya says.

“Do you realize what you’re suggesting,” Napoleon’s eyes widen slightly. “You might actually enjoy yourself.”

“Isn’t that… what lovers do, then.”

“Be careful,” Napoleon says. “We might get a bit comfortable with each other.” His hand lingers on the back of Illya’s neck, fingertips lightly grazing against it. “But you would do well to remember what I said.”

Illya sends him a perplexed look.

“Because of who I am, we have no need of discretion. Lead me to a corner and back me against the wall.”


“This seems,” Illya loses a word or two in a quick kiss, “bit much,” sharp eyes falling downward as Napoleon hooks a leg over his thigh and tugs his body closer.

“Shut up and put some work into it.”

Illya steadies himself with both hands pressed against the wall, but he’s the image of restraint and composure until Napoleon leans up and kisses the side of his face. It’s startling because once it starts, it doesn’t stop.

Illya feels a strange sensation; like he’s crumbling.

Starts to sink lower and he’s returning more of those impulsive, hasty kisses than he intended and Napoleon’s grinding against him. Rolling his hips and Napoleon’s breathing is changing with his movements. Illya feels his eyes growing heavy with something that starts in his lower body and starts to travel.

He doesn’t remember being this warm in recent memory. 

His hands don’t seem like they can support his weight; he sinks further down, into Napoleon and he’s feeling hands, aggressive and assertive, clawing their way up his back. Something engulfing him, and when he parts his lips he’s breathing heavy and slow. Napoleon is licking his neck and when he bites his lip Illya emits a sound he doesn’t recognize, something low and guttural.

Napoleon’s tugging him closer, and his erection is firm against his thigh, pressing until he’s jerked over, just a bit to align with him better. Napoleon straightens his legs, feet firm on the ground and a faint encouragement, “Come on, dear.”

“I don’t know what you want,” is Illya’s immediate response. It’s half-true and half-hesitant.

Napoleon almost smirks at him. Murmurs against his ear, “Grind on me like your life depends on it.”

“Because of who we are,” Illya suggests.

“Because of who you are,” between hurried breaths.

Illya relocates a hand to the back of Napoleon’s waist. Presses down to keep him close, and when Napoleon buckles his hips, Illya leans himself forward. Almost flinches from the sudden contact there; he knew he was hard, but somehow feeling it against his own cock is-

Napoleon gives a low grunt and continues to roll himself forward, staring at Illya until he returns his gaze directly. Kisses him with a half-open mouth and kisses him deeply, wet and warm as they establish a rhythm, Napoleon’s rolling hips and Illya’s slow thrusts against him. Cocks rubbing through fabric that’s thinner than he realized.

But what happens if-

The kiss breaks with an erotic trail of saliva and Napoleon wastes no time in kissing his face as Illya asks in a low voice, “If you come-”

“God,” Napoleon almost breathes, “I hope so.”

Illya frowns, and shakes his head but he doesn’t interrupt his movements. Just goes a little slower, “Bad place.”

Napoleon pauses in his licking of a line across Illya’s jaw; leans back and grins widely. “I had no idea you were so ambitious.”

Illya almost stammers, “Well, if we are to-”

Napoleon presses his lips against his in a teasing half-kiss. “What a wonderful idea, darling.” He almost shrugs, but his face sustains his amusement. “Pleasured as I am… I suppose there’s a limit to our,” and he rolls his hips forward for emphasis, “options here.”

Illya almost rolls his eyes, because he knows where this is going. He just kicked open the door to his own demise. He bears it and allows Napoleon to slowly step back from him, uncomfortable as it is.

Stiff as he is. The pressure. The heat.

“You’re a bastard,” he says faintly.

Napoleon almost laughs, and takes hold of his hand. Playfully leads him towards an open, shadowed doorway. Eyes are on them, but Illya’s realizing he didn’t think to look at their faces. Doesn’t think to let his eyes wander anywhere else.

For how many minutes has it been this way.


He’s never fucked a man before. He’s not about to start now, at a time like this.

But Napoleon’s pants are unbuckled and he’s tugging his zipper open and Illya can’t do much but to watch as Napoleon exposes his cock, hard and even in this dark room, glistening. He’s so forward. He’s so assertive.

It’s intimidating.

He’s smirking up at Illya, but subtle and patient as he reaches up, hands roaming up his broad shoulders and tugging his jacket off. Lets it drop onto the edge of the couch as Illya stares at him, fixated as if uncertain, uneasy and Napoleon doesn’t waste time working at Illya’s pants, unhooking his belt with a loud jingle.

Illya’s not sure what he wants, but he’s hoping to find it if he stares at him enough.

Doesn’t realize his own cock is being let out until he feels the rush of air. Knows by Napoleon’s sudden laughter—quiet, but full of mirth—that he’s just as erect as he imagined. Embarrassing. Idly stretches his neck and gets comfortable above Napoleon. He’s a bit too tall for this couch, and this will be a bit awkward but that’s certainly never stopped someone like the cowboy before.

Few things appear to, though. So why wait this long-

If he was serious at all. Assuming he ever was.

Illya sits upright, straddling Napoleon’s hips for a brief moment as he works quickly to unbutton Napoleon’s shirt. Napoleon raises his eyebrows at the unexpected gesture, but for once he says nothing. Lets Illya work, and when his shirt falls open, he doesn’t argue against the large, clumsy hands now exploring his chest, starting at the top and slowly trailing their way down. For such a brute, he’s so hesitant.

It’s driving Napoleon crazy, so he reaches up and returns the kind gesture. Works a bit faster and with more need, and when a bit more rough and hairy of a chest is revealed beneath that shirt, he’s both delighted and pleasantly surprised.

Rests a hand against his chest and with a turn of his head, says, “Your pulse is racing, dear.”

“I wonder whose fault that is,” Illya says dryly.

The smile Napoleon sends him is smug, but his hands are more direct. Tugs on the edge of Illya’s shirt to encourage him to get a bit closer. “Come back,” he says huskily. “It’s lonely down here.”

Illya does as he’s told, crawling down onto all fours. Straddles Napoleon with their cocks nearly touching, teasingly so. Napoleon looks at him like he’s enamored, like he’s captivated and the lingering smirk at the edge of his lips refuses to go away, refuses to diminish until they resume kissing each other. Like it’s natural, it’s almost effortless and Illya is gradually lowering his body down, sliding slowly as Napoleon makes a sound of low, rough frustration and presses two hands against his back. Pulls him close so suddenly Illya almost loses his stability, almost collapses but he gets the hint. He moves.

There’s not an inch between them and Napoleon’s rolling his hips again, legs slowly kicking against the couch in tension as Illya returns to his steady thrusts. Napoleon’s so certain Illya won’t fuck him, but god, he wishes he would consider it.

Reaches down, working a hand between their bodies—so hot, when did it become so hot in here—and takes hold of his own cock, and then Illya’s. Presses them together and he can hear Illya gasp against his neck and his body shivers as he starts to work his hand. Pumps slowly, and the man’s reaction alone makes this worth it. His hand slowly clenching into a fist beside Napoleon’s face. He breathes so deeply he can’t look at him anymore, can’t face him and it’s almost endearing.

It’s adorable.

Napoleon does what he can to mask his delight, letting his eyes close as he focuses on the restrained, rough sounds Illya is making, the weight of his heavy, hot body and the teasing sensation of sweat on the back of his neck. Feels the body on top of him sink lower, until Illya is breathing with his mouth open, slow and heavy against his shoulder and he continues to work the two of them, dutifully and consistent, even as his own sparks of pleasure get a bit distracting. He’s getting close, now. He’s getting so close.

He wants to come inside him, better yet he wants Illya inside him somewhere, but he doesn’t want to get greedy. He’ll settle. He’ll take what’s been given.

Opens his eyes and Illya’s face is closer to his than he imagined. Presses a kiss to the man’s jawline, almost sentimental even as their eyes don’t meet. Illya’s face is flushed and he won’t look at him dead-on anymore. But Napoleon continues to kiss his face, his spare hand reaching up his back as before, but that’s too hot now so he relocates it to his hair, to his favorite place at the base of his neck.

Illya’s groans are getting more noticeable now, and it makes him wonder if he’s close, too.

His hand is getting a bit tired. Inconvenient.

He distracts himself by bothering Illya, just a little, because that always lifts his spirit a bit. “Peril.”

Illya finally looks at him, glancing at him with a sharpness he’s come to find familiar. Comforting.

“Kiss me.”

Illya hesitates.

“Kiss me like you mean it,” Napoleon grins at him. “Since we’ve come so far.”

Illya does a slow blink at him.

“Don’t start to get shy, now,” Napoleon teases. “I already know quite well how you taste.”

Illya’s face starts to flush, and it’s so endearing Napoleon can’t shake the grin off his face. Wouldn’t want to.

Napoleon keeps his hand moving and it aches so much—he aches everywhere, yes, he’s definitely close now—and between their heavy breathing Illya finally gives him a proper kiss. Feels like the first one in ages, even if it’s only been minutes. A few minutes entirely too long.

His lips are so soft. It almost distracts him a bit too much. Something delicate in the way Illya is kissing him, something sentimental in the way he hovers and doesn’t quite complete the motion, something teasing and emotional in the way he ghosts over his mouth and cautiously slides his tongue between his lips.

Can’t remember if he’s ever been kissed like this.

They’re both slowing down and he almost doesn’t notice that Illya’s coming until he reacts, gasping into the kiss and it’s so erotic Napoleon wants to burn this into his memory.

Illya’s calming down from that high, a tinge of humiliation in his expression and Napoleon soothes it by kissing his face, trailing light kisses from his lips to just below his eyes as Illya sinks a bit lower. Seems to hesitate for a moment—Napoleon’s not sure why—and Illya’s leaning away from him and glancing down, almost to inspect the mess he made.

But Napoleon’s not done-

Illya reaches down, his hand easily eclipsing Napoleon’s as he takes over. Pumps their cocks together, almost wincing at his own sensitive cock but it’s no matter. Pumps them hard and fast and Napoleon is startled at the change of pace, uttering a low moan as his hands dig into the couch, fingernails tracing lines from the sudden surge in stress.

“G-od,” he can barely breathe correctly and he desperately wants to be fucked by this man. Lets his mind wander at the aggression behind those hands, at the mystery of what his body could do if he really applied himself-

He shivers when he comes, arching upwards and he fights to suppress the inevitable moan threatening to escape. Doesn’t want to be too dramatic, but... Damn.

Meanwhile, Illya lets go, almost looks at his hand in amazement and maybe a tinge of that familiar embarrassment. Stares at Napoleon as he calms down, studies him for a moment as he works to regulate his breathing back to normal.

Napoleon gives a slow exhale and looks up at him, almost too tired to be coy or make fun—for once. “We made a small mess, didn’t we.”

Illya looks down with a slight grimace, and then glances around the room. “I can check the bathroom.”

Once he climbs off him, Napoleon slowly sits upright. His body hurts. He’s not sure if it was from the weight of Peril, or the frenzy of what they just did. Everything seemed to happen a bit quicker than he anticipated.

He knew the man was stubborn, but he didn’t expect that he’d cave so suddenly. Honestly thought it’d take a lot more work to even get a kiss out of him.

He’s not sure how to process this information.

When Illya returns, he’s got a handful of toilet paper and Napoleon almost laughs at how blunt and callous he is, handing him a few sheets before he gets to work drying himself off. Yeah, he’s not very romantic or smooth at all.

“That was fun,” Napoleon says quietly.

“Are you satisfied,” Illya quips.

“Are you,” Napoleon responds. But there’s a hint of seriousness in his tone that’s not lost on Illya.

“I asked you first.” He’s a child.

“I think so,” Napoleon says faintly. He doesn’t skip a beat, “Depends on what happens next.”

Illya tilts his head at him, as he finishes dabbing at himself. Quietly tugs his pants back up.

“We finish this, we go home,” Napoleon says, as he focuses on making himself more decent. “The real question is…” and he looks at him directly. Is almost surprised to find Illya’s eyes dead-set on him. “Can I call you again.”

Illya averts his eyes. Stands up and zips up. “I don’t understand your games.”

Napoleon tilts his head. Frowns, almost childishly. “That doesn’t seem to be the case at all, Peril.”

“We are on mission,” he almost harshly whispers at him. “You call me that later.”

“So I can call you,” Napoleon purrs.

“We are not friends,” Illya scolds him.

“Then we can be lovers.”

But Illya doesn’t say a word. Stares at him, almost in contemplation.

Napoleon smirks at him, but only gently.

Illya stares at him for another minute, then picks up his jacket from the edge of the couch.

“I’m not always joking around, you know,” and Napoleon says it as fondly as possible, “I’ve honestly had a lovely time tonight.”

Illya scoffs at him. “Yes, of course. Playboy always has a good time.”

Napoleon’s face falls.

Illya is leaving the room, “I’m going to check on her. Been more than enough time, now.”

Napoleon doesn’t say a word. Slowly grinds his teeth together as he watches him leave.


“Of course,” she’s downright cheerful, her eyes boastful. “I got everything I need,” she leans against the banister as Napoleon saunters up behind them. “I didn’t give you enough credit,” she smiles at Illya, and then at Napoleon with some amusement. “You two are so talented. But I guess we have worn out our welcome.”

“Been a long night,” Napoleon says faintly.

“I’m sure it has,” Gaby says, as they step outside. She says off-handedly, “Thank you, again,” and she waves up a hand to a car that’s sitting and waiting, a limousine that rolls its way up the driveway. “Couldn’t have gotten half of my work done without you distracting everyone.”

“Distracting,” Illya questions.

“Yes,” she glances over her shoulder at him. “It’s very unconventional. Bringing a man here… and what you did,” but she’s almost laughing. “They talked about you all night.”

Napoleon can almost feel a hint of blush on his cheeks.

“Nice work,” Gaby teases. Gives them a small wave as she strolls up to the vehicle that approaches, and steps inside.

“Unconventional,” Illya is almost seething. Turns to Napoleon, “You said-”

“I said what I had to,” Napoleon murmurs. “Otherwise you would’ve been too nervous to perform.”

Illya speaks sharply, from between clenched teeth, “How many lies-”

“Don’t get so worked up,” Napoleon puts a hand on his arm.

Illya gives him a confused stare as Napoleon winds both hands around his arm and stands closely beside him. “What are you doing,” Illya asks quietly.

“Waiting for our taxi,” Napoleon says matter-of-factly.

Illya gives an unimpressed expression, but he doesn’t move beyond that. Doesn’t say another word until the car arrives, as if on cue.

They climb into the car without any words to one another, and Illya is almost startled when Napoleon refuses to let him sit shotgun with the driver. “I want to sit with you. Darling,” he says.

Illya grumpily sits in the backseat, sulking quietly as Napoleon climbs in and closes the door behind him. The driver knows where to go, so he doesn’t say a word and puts the vehicle into motion.

The car rolls on, and Napoleon takes the opportunity to lean against Illya. But he immediately stiffens against the contact. Not good. He’s still irritated. This might take a while.

“A small suggestion,” Napoleon says.

“What other bright idea do you have,” Illya sarcastically asks.

“Spend the night with me,” Napoleon says faintly.

Illya scoffs.

“We can resolve our differences,” as he presses his face against his arm. “I can work on getting you to trust me, for one thing.”

“Impossible,” he turns his lip up.

“I don’t believe you,” Napoleon says quietly.

Illya shrugs.

“I’m a spy,” Napoleon says with some exasperation. “But I’m not a wretched liar, Peril.”

“Oxymoron,” Illya says.

“That’s not...” but he sighs faintly and gives up that petty endeavor. “I’m going to level with you. Because we’re at this point, you understand.”

“Is this another deception,” Illya says in his trademark low, unimpressed tone.

Napoleon yawns subtly. “It’s desire, Peril.”

Illya says nothing in response.

“Quite honestly, I want you inside me, and if I had more of an idea we would get this far so suddenly, I would’ve asked sooner.”

Illya swallows hard.

Napoleon yawns again, more audibly this time.

“Why not,” Illya says.

“Hmm,” Napoleon murmurs. His tiredness is starting to show.

“Why not ask,” Illya says. “For you? Nobody says no.”

“You would have,” Napoleon says dryly. With some humor, “You almost did.”

Illya frowns at that.

“You took a lot longer than anyone I’ve tried,” Napoleon says with some humor.

“A new notch on bedpost.”

Napoleon stiffens up. Leans away intentionally.

“Congratulations,” Illya says flatly. “Now we return to our normal lives.”

“We never really had those,” Napoleon quips.

The car hits a bumpy patch of road. Rumbles through it as Napoleon sighs to himself.

“Believe it or not,” he hangs his head in a rare moment of seriousness. Smiles grimly, “I have feelings, Peril.”

“Feelings connected straight to your dick.”

“Ow,” he almost physically recoils.

But Illya doesn’t react at all. “I have no time for your kind,” he says.

“You’re really not a very good spy, are you,” Napoleon says.

Illya doesn’t respond.

“Guess that’s why you presume to know everything,” Napoleon says, finally looking up. “You don’t like to consider that people can be complicated.” He pauses for emphasis, “For instance, that I might be genuinely fond of you despite my preoccupation with other attractive bodies within my radius.”

“Nothing but games,” Illya shakes his head.

“No, it’s just the truth, Peril. It’s not always simple and clean, whether or not you’d like it to be.”

They sit in silence. The car goes over another bump in the road.

“So again, here’s my suggestion,” Napoleon says with some finality. “Spend the night with me.” He nudges him in the arm, almost playfully, “We’ll keep it low-key. Simple. If you can trust me for more than five minutes, I’ll reward you with some very fine wine-”

“I don’t drink,” Illya says sharply.

“Alright,” Napoleon smirks, "I'll drink some fine wine and indulge you in the presence of a warm body until you see fit to leave.”

Illya sighs; but this one’s different. Quieter. Softer.

Napoleon gives him a hesitant look.

“I can stay a few hours,” Illya says.

“At least,” Napoleon suggests, leaning towards him again.

“Few hours,” he repeats flatly.


“You should remind me, Peril,” as Napoleon stands at the edge of the room, pouring his bottle into a tall glass of wine, “Why it is that you don’t drink.”

“Personal reason,” Illya says.

“Ah,” Napoleon acknowledges. “There’s nothing in your records on this,” he says, walking towards him. His robe falls open slightly, but it’s tied enough at the waist to stay shut as he sits on the edge of the bed.

“It’s… long story,” Illya says.

“I’ve got plenty of time,” Napoleon says.

“I don’t.”

“Are you going to shower,” Napoleon gestures towards him. “These are expensive sheets,” he nods towards the bed. “It would be nice to enjoy them with a clean body, don’t you think.”

Illya looks at him, saying not a word. Takes a faint breath and stands, silently walking towards the bathroom.

Napoleon looks after him with some amusement as he takes a slow sip from his glass.


When Illya returns into the bedroom, Napoleon is hanging up the phone at his bedside.

“News,” Illya is asking.

“Actually, yes,” Napoleon brightens a bit, as he turns to look at him. “Miss Cortez was very impressed upon meeting us. She’s graciously invited us as her guests to Mr Rucci’s private house boat tomorrow. A very nice party, the works, so you’ll want to bring out your nice suit.” He adds, “Nicer suit.”

Illya makes a faint sound of recognition. Napoleon looks up at him, pleased at the sight of Illya walking up to him in a—much more tightly wrapped—bath robe.

“More than a few hours, then,” he says optimistically.

“We will see,” Illya says.

Napoleon watches him with calm, but steady eyes as Illya sits down onto the opposite end of the bed. Smirks faintly and pulls back his end of the bed. Stands and disrobes, and it’s with a faint nervous glance that Illya looks at him and notices he’s nude.

“I like to be comfortable,” Napoleon says with a subdued grin.

Illya follows suit, but a bit more hesitantly. Naked except for a pair of boxers, and he crawls into the bed with some apprehension. Stiff, uncertain body language. Legs slow to move and arms clumsy as he pulls the sheets up around his large body. Napoleon switches the lamp beside them off and the room falls into darkness as Illya continues to fidget with the sheets. Seems to give up; lays there almost like a brick with Napoleon easily sinking into the bed, his body at ease.

Napoleon notices, though. He’s smug and calm, but he’s not clueless. “Peril,” he says.

“Cowboy,” he retorts with some sarcasm.

“Embrace me,” he says.

Illya makes a slight sound of discontent.

“I promised you a warm body, didn’t I,” Napoleon murmurs. He looks over and stares at him, “Unless you don’t want that, after all.”

Illya breathes deeply, with a slow exhale.

“Which would be a shame,” Napoleon says faintly. “After our nice evening.”

“This evening,” Illya says sharply, “Is different from your perspective.”

“You should tell me your thoughts on it, then.”

Illya says nothing.

Napoleon almost laughs, “I’m not trying to make this hard for you, Peril.”

“You say that now-”

“But if I go too easy, nothing happens,” he turns onto his back, eyes gazing towards the ceiling. “And where’s the fun in that.”

“I don’t trust you, Cowboy,” Illya finally says.

“Well,” Napoleon says. “Suit yourself. I’m not exactly leaving anytime soon,” he finally smirks faintly. “You’re my lover for the next week. Beyond that, it’s up to you.”

“Playboy is everyone’s lover.”

“Can’t change how I am,” Napoleon finally sighs to himself, but he keeps some humor in his tone. “I’m afraid I can’t help your jealousy much, Peril.”

Illya scoffs.

“But if you can accept the idea of… just maybe not having me all for yourself, we can have a wonderful time.”

Illya doesn’t respond.

“Well. Think on it,” Napoleon says. “In the meantime, you really should consider putting your arms around me. It’ll help you sleep.” Napoleon turns back onto his side, facing away from him.

Behind him, Illya shuffles around slightly. Moves around a bit.

Napoleon is startled by the weight of a heavy arm draped over his waist. An intent hand that presses against his chest, smoothed flat. Napoleon waits with interest, as Illya moves a bit more, to spoon him properly; his taller legs tucked behind Napoleon’s.

“Almost there,” Napoleon teases.

Illya doesn’t appear to understand.

Napoleon moves himself back, just a bit, to be even closer. Moves until his back is pressed against Illya’s chest. So warm; is he always this warm? Napoleon’s redirecting Illya’s arms, slightly, to a position that’s just a bit more comfortable. “Here’s a secret,” he tells him. “If you can accept being just a bit closer, your face should rest just behind my neck.”

Illya makes a slight noise of disagreement, but he follows him on that lead. Napoleon feels him breathing, slow and hesitant still, but definitely closer now.

“There, just like proper lovers,” Napoleon teases.

“This is silly,” Illya says.

“Silly,” Napoleon chuckles. “That is not a nice thing to say.”

“I am bigger than you,” Illya says.


“And I sleep on my back.”

That piques Napoleon’s interest.

“Why would a taller person who sleeps on his back sleep with his partner in this way.”

“I bet you’re a lot of fun at parties,” but he moves to give Illya more space.

Sure enough, Illya turns to lay on his back. Immediately gives a heavy sigh, almost of relief. Sends a glance at Napoleon, almost as an invitation. For once, there isn’t any smart dialogue exchange for this encounter. Napoleon wordlessly takes the hint. Curls up beside him, lowering his face against his chest and draping his arms across his body, on either side of his shoulders.

“I don’t get this position,” Napoleon finally says. With a nervous glance downwards, ”It’s not very relaxing.”

“It is more natural for our body sizes,” Illya says.

“You have got to be maybe, maybe four inches taller than me.”

Illya says nothing, but Napoleon could swear he almost smirked at that. He almost showed a hint of humor for once. “Do you want to share the bed, or not,” Illya says.

Napoleon sighs faintly, and starts to get more comfortable, until he feels Illya’s arms surrounding him. It’s… surprising. But he doesn’t question it, because he doesn’t want to ruin the moment. It feels so fragile.

But his arms are heavy and warm, and his chest is starting to rise and fall a bit slower now. Whatever he’s doing, it’s working. The Red Peril does have a state of calm he can reach.

Napoleon smiles faintly to himself, keeping his amusement silent. Presses a playful kiss against his chest—hair and all—and says, “Goodnight, Peril.”

Illya murmurs back, almost fond. “Cowboy.”


In the morning, the room is bright and pleasant. And he’s alone.

Doesn’t notice it right away, until he turns and instinctively stretches his arms out. Traces a hand across the bed and it’s still slightly warm. Definitely more than a few hours, then.

He’ll accept it.

Assuming Peril doesn’t make a big fuss about it, as he’s so often wont to do. For being such a stoic, intimidating man he can be very dramatic.

Napoleon sits up slowly, blinking slowly to accustom himself to the brilliance of the day and it feels entirely too early to be alive and conscious. Pretty sure he doesn’t have to be awake for a few more hours still.

Running water.

Tilts his head with some confusion.

“Cowboy,” a low voice from some distance away, and Napoleon groans with some recognition because he’s realizing that now he’s got to stay awake.

“Peril,” he answers back.

Illya appears in the doorway to the bathroom, a small towel pressed over his face. “Why do I have my own hotel room.”

“Beg your pardon,” Napoleon is trying to remember how to use the English language. It’s too early.

“Why would a partner reserve another room when his boyfriend is staying at the same hotel.”

“You didn’t,” Napoleon clarifies. “I rented that room for my secretary, who I might be seeing on the side,” and he stifles a yawn, “but as of this evening I am likely not, because we are on such good terms.”

Illya throws his towel at him.

“I did give you the key,” Napoleon almost whines at him.

“Even your cover,” Illya shakes his head, “Even your cover is playboy.”

“Yeah, and what’s yours,” Napoleon runs a hand over his face.

“Having to deal with you,” Illya says.

“That’s cute,” Napoleon says quietly.

“Why am I not accomplished designer,” Illya says, gesturing with his hands. “Why are you not trophy boyfriend with failing literary career.”

Napoleon smiles ear to ear, a small laugh shaking his chest.

“Why am I your second fiddle,” Illya seems frustrated at Napoleon’s lack of response.

Napoleon shakes his head. “I apologize, Peril. The next time I suggest something,” and he raises his eyebrows in emphasis, “I will make sure to write your character as impressive as you are.”

“Thank you,” but he catches the implication in what he said.

Napoleon’s smile has yet to fade completely.

“I still do not trust you,” Illya says, as he dips back the bathroom.

Napoleon smirks to himself and slumps over slightly. Another miserable yawn escapes before he rises to his feet with some annoyance. “Good thing we have a few more days, then,” he says under his breath.

“I heard that,” Illya calls from the other side of the doorway. Another few minutes of running water, and some shuffling around as Napoleon slowly meanders his way around the room, getting his bearings and checking the time on the far clock.

“And one more thing,” Illya says, as he re-remerges in the doorway.

Napoleon looks up at him, a bit surprised at his enthusiasm—for whatever it is that he’s about to say.

Illya falls silent and stands completely still, as if he’s suddenly too hesitant to say what he intended.

Napoleon raises an eyebrow.

When he speaks, he almost stammers, “This game of yours. …Is not… bad.” He almost bites his own lip, keeps his expression solid and steps back into the bathroom.

Napoleon smirks. He gives it a moment of thought, and says a bit louder, “You know what the best part about it is,” with a sharp-toothed grin. “We can play as long as you like.”

But instead of the sharp come-back he expects, Napoleon hears a very different response than usual. Something he almost doesn’t believe. “There is a tracking device in your wallet.”

“Pardon,” Napoleon asks, to clarify.

An almost suspicious silence. Almost grudgingly, slowly, Illya re-appears in the doorway. A more subdued, almost defeated shadow the intimidating presence he normally is. “The… things you could not find,” he makes a face, almost like a grimace. “Had to make room for it.”

“You threw away my condoms,” Napoleon’s jaw drops.

“Did not expect playboy to need them in middle of the mission,” Illya stresses.

“I am always in need of those,” he makes an exaggerated look of distress. “I might need them for you.”

Illya scoffs.

“Well as your dutiful partner, I insist we pick up some replacements immediately,” Napoleon nods at him.

Illya gives him a heavy stare. Eyelids heavy and mouth in an unimpressed thin line. “Concentrate on breakfast, first.”

“You shouldn’t be going through my wallet, anyway,” Napoleon says with some dismay. “Dear, I appreciate the gesture, but that’s valuable real estate.”

Illya gives him a blank look.

“Oh, I forgot,” Napoleon’s expression lightens, “That’s how you show your affection.”

Illya blinks slowly, with some irritation. …but a slight flush emerges just beneath his eyes.

“Next time, stick to my shoes or something.”

“That worked so well last time,” Illya quips.

“Saved my life once,” Napoleon says in a chipper tone.

“Then you threw them into the river.”

“That was very strong brandy. You know, they should put a warning label on those bottles.”

“Cowboy,” Illya scolds him.


“Get dressed.”