It’s Sunday morning, and Napoleon Solo awakens bleary-eyed, a little hungover, and remarkably pleased with himself.
First off, it’s well after noon on a day on which he has no responsibilities or obligations whatsoever to tend to, unless luxuriating in a posh Portuguese hotel bed while sunlight spills in through a bay window, bronze and sea-salty, counts as a responsibility or obligation. U.N.C.L.E successfully completed a mission the afternoon prior, and they won’t get another assignment for a few days, leaving them free to enjoy Lisbon however they please. Napoleon knows exactly how he pleases.
For Napoleon, much to his satisfaction, is currently sprawled out totally naked beside Illya in a hotel bed, their sides adhered together with a film of sleep-sweat. This is a novelty that has yet to lose any of its astounding, stomach-turning brilliance.
The first thing Napoleon does after he properly blinks himself to consciousness and peels himself from Illya is to roll over and just look at him. This vast, terrible shape only partially obscured by a rumpled cotton sheet, so huge and hard and spectacularly golden. All of Illya’s power is muted when he sleeps, the forever tight muscles in his face slack and sweet while he drools onto his pillowcase. Napoleon wants to lean over him, he wants to suck in his sleep-breath and lick up his drool. It’s disgusting; he knows it, but to want someone so badly is also so thrilling he can’t even begin to care what an undignified mess it’s turned him into. He’d rather be a shipwreck in Illya’s bed than docked peacefully anywhere else, so he’s not complaining.
Napoleon yawns, leans over, and bites Illya’s shoulder, firmly but gently. “Good morning, sunshine,” he says very cheerfully, sweeping his tongue over the bite as he withdraws. His eyes flutter closed at the taste of salt and sex in Illya’s skin from the night before, entirely too good for anyone human to endure in a self-respecting manner.
Illya starts awake, twitching before he tries to smack Napoleon away. It would have worked were his senses not sleep-dull, but he’s clumsy and only half-awake, so Napoleon ducks away easily. “Goodness, you’re lucky I wasn’t some assassin sneaking into your bed to try and kill you, Peril. You’d already be dead.”
“How early?” Illya grumbles, yanking a blanket over his head.
Napoleon slides off the mattress and finds Illya’s watch on the bedside table, tapping the face with his index finger and making a tsk sound with his tongue. “Very nearly 1 p.m. You have no excuse for not pulling a gun on me in record speed.”
Illya sits bolt upright, very quickly. “One in the afternoon?” he says, face crumpled in evident dismay. He has lines through his cheek from where the pillowcase bunched up beneath it while he slept, and his hair is an absolute ruin on his head. Napoleon stares at him, thinking with equal parts terror and amazement that he has quite possibly never been so in love in his entire life.
“Yes, 1 in the afternoon. Which is a perfectly reasonable time to wake up if you fall asleep at sunrise and have the following day off. You can relax, no need to begin the Soviet self-flagellation ritual.”
Illya sinks back down onto the bed, groaning from beneath a pillow. “What are you doing to me,” he says. It’s not a question.
Napoleon grins privately and busies himself with making coffee after shrugging on his robe. “Nothing terrible...yet,” he warns, dumping several heaping spoonfuls of grounds into the French press, stealing glances at Illya ever few seconds because he feels like he’s suffocating if he doesn’t.
“It is very bad,” Illya says.
“I disagree,” Napoleon tells him. He drops the needle on the record player, and Ella Fitzgerald starts to sing. “I think I’m bringing some much needed comfort and color to your formerly bleak and banal existence. You should be grateful.”
Illya glares and says nothing, while Ella croons in a soft, sad voice: got a feeling there’s a lot you’re concealing, so won’t you let me know your point of view. Napoleon thinks it’s rather fitting.
He pours two mugs of coffee and hands one to Illya, eyes climbing up and down his chest with poor restraint. Illya is so broad, an expansive stretch of smooth skin even as he hunches his shoulders, head bent to stare at the swirls of steam rising from his coffee in tendrils.
Napoleon pointedly backs away from the bed, leaning against the elegant vanity across from it. He doesn’t feel like he can be very close to Illya without climbing on top of him, spilling his coffee, burning them both. Plus, if he keeps his distance, he has a more comprehensive view of his body.
Illya sips and grimaces, carding a hand through the rucked up mess of his dirty blond hair, trying in vain to smooth it. Napoleon is pleased, for the mess is his doing, from his insistent hands and the friction of his body grinding Illya into the mattress last night. He shivers, a dark feeling coursing through him like he’s just swallowed a shot of liquor. He gulps a mouthful of coffee even though he knows it's still too hot and, sure enough, scalds the roof of his mouth.
After a moment, Illya catches him. “What are you looking at?” he asks, a line through his brow, one Napoleon desperately wants to smooth with his thumb, the heel of his hand.
“That hideous painting of a lighthouse behind you,” he lies, eyes wide. Illya just blinks at him. Napoleon fights the terrible, reckless surge of exasperated affection expanding in his chest and adds,“You, Peril. I’m staring at you. Obviously.”
Illya’s cheeks color, much to Napoleon’s delight. He wants to lick into that heat, he wants to thumb the blood away and kiss the white in its wake. He wants it so badly his stomach aches. “Do I look…,” Illya starts, trailing off and gesturing vaguely in the air with his free hand while he searches for the right word. “Slept on?” he asks eventually, which is probably not what he means.
In one measured motion, Napoleon takes a deep breath and sets his coffee down on the vanity before striding over and plucking Illya’s mug from his hand and setting that aside, too. Illya looks up at him, stunned and a little offended, but not for very long because Napoleon is pushing him back, pinning him to the bed by his shoulders. “Yes, you look slept on,” he murmurs, lips all over the hot, dream-warm skin of Illya’s throat, the frantic flutter of his pulse. He gets his teeth in him, sucks a mouthful of skin past his lips, and bites down. “You look slept on and slept in and well fucked and so, so fucking gorgeous, I can hardly stand to look at you at all.”
Illya grips his shoulders like he might get lost if he doesn’t, like he’ll float out to sea. It’s such a firm grip that it hurts, but Napoleon wants bruises from it, he wants to be able to look in the mirror tomorrow and the day after and have proof that this is really happening, that Illya really does dig his nails into him like he won’t let go. “You are ridiculous,” Illya says, voice rumbling under Napoleon’s lips. “You are lying.”
Napoleon shifts his knee over the broad stretch of Illya’s lap so that he’s straddling him, mouth open as he scrapes his lips raw against stubble. It feels so good it takes him a minute to process what Illya just implied. “What?” he snaps, sitting up but keeping Illya trapped against the mattress with his own hips. “Did you just call me a liar? I’m hurt.”
Illya is distracted, impossibly long, broad-jointed fingers deftly untying the sash of Napoleon’s robe, so it takes him a moment to answer. “Yes,” he says eventually as he palms up Napoleon’s chest, eyes hazy. “You are a liar. It’s your job.”
“Well, sure, but I’m not lying to you,” Napoleon explains, tilting into Illya’s touch. He looks down, stunned by how huge Illya’s hands look on him. He’s accustomed to the opposite feeling, dwarfing women and their slim, delicate wrists and narrow palms, that it feels dirty to be contained like this, to fit beneath the broad span of Illya’s spread fingers. “And I’m certainly not lying about this.You are, without a doubt, the most beautiful man I have ever seen, let alone had the pleasure of straddling on a hotel bed.”
Illya wrinkles his nose, shrugging. “No,” he says simply. “Not at all, not next to you.”
Napoleon is appalled. It never even occurred to him that Illya would be somehow unaware of his blatant, insufferable attractiveness. After all, Napoleon is well acquainted with his own good looks; he knows how to use them, he puts a lot of time and effort and money into maintaining his appearance. He thought that certainly Illya felt the same way about things, maybe to a lesser degree, but that he still knew. How could he not know? “You’re unbelievable,” he says, grinding deliberately down onto Illya’s lap, stomach twisting at the crushed, involuntary groan that falls from Illya’s lips in response. “Half the time you’re next to me it compromises my powers of seduction because the marks are looking at you, not me. Or I’m looking at you, not them. Surely, you’ve noticed that.”
Illya looks at him like he’s crazy. “I never get assigned to seduce marks,” he reminds him.
“That’s because you’re awful company and abhorrent at social events and your attempts at flirtation are downright excruciating. But I assure you, if you were even a fraction as charming as me, Waverly would be throwing you at every unhappily married rich women we needed a name from.”
Illya rolls his eyes. “I don’t think so, Cowboy.”
Napoleon is getting frustrated. He finds it incredibly exasperating that Illya is outright denying the very existence of something that has managed to rob Napoleon of all his sanity, reason, and self-respect. What’s even more troubling is that Illya isn’t acting self-deprecating or compliment-seeking about his appearance the way Napoleon is familiar with, the way he has seen beautiful women call themselves fat or old or ugly, precisely so that onlookers can sweep in and assure them otherwise. Illya doesn’t seem to want anything; he’s just stating what he clearly believes to be fact. But it’s not fact. Napoleon has a very hard time listening silently when people are gravely misinformed about the subject they’re discussing, especially when he is an expert on said subject. “You’re an Adonis,” he says, eyes roving over Illya’s body under him, all his gold skin and sharp lines of flickering muscles and eyes so clear and blue and clean they look like freshly melted slow. “You’re positively statuesque. Sublime.”
Illya makes a face that is dripping in skepticism.
“Why are you looking at me that way?” Napoleon asks, maybe a little desperately.
“I am just a man. Like any man,” Illya explains, slow and even, like Napoleon is stupid.
Napoleon can’t handle it, something snaps, and he dips to bite Illya under his clavicle, across to his shoulder, down to his pectoral. Big, rough, open-mouthed bites that make Illya hiss and writhe and thicken against Napoleon’s bare thigh. He feels raw under Napoleon’s tongue, so hot and hard it’s dizzying. “You are not like any other man, Illya, my god,” he breathes, thumbing over Illya’s nipples, watching them get tight and suckable under his fingers. “Why do you think I’m like this? Why do you think I can’t keep my hands off you? Your personality?”
Illya is shaking under him. His palms are broad and heavy as they rake up Napoleon’s back, but he manages to shrug dismissively anyway, because he’s absolutely insufferable. “Americans have bad taste,” he offers.
Napoleon’s vision actually clouds over in white static. He’s breathing in wild gasps against Illya’s chest, licking up the valley between his pectorals, matting down the fine, soft sprinkling of hair with spit. It shines like gold, and he cannot think of a single thing about Illya that is anything less than criminally attractive. “Tell me,” he breathes, digging fingers into the divots between Illya’s ribs, “why you don’t think you’re beautiful.”
Illya sighs, rolling his head to one side and staring at the window like he finds it to be a particularly irritating thing to look at. “Beautiful is a serious word,” he says. It makes Napoleon’s stomach drop straight out of him because Illya has called him beautiful on multiple occasions. Shoved up against a fitting room wall at a tailor’s in Germany, between rough, wrecking kisses. On a train to Italy, their faces inches apart in the low light of a sleeper car, shoulders bumping together with the rhythmic clacking of the tracks beneath them. Low and wet and strangled in his ear while Napoleon fucked him open on two fingers, staring down at him all raw and blown apart like he had never seen something so good in his life, because he hadn’t. He does not care to know what it says about him that he can remember every single time in stark detail, and that each memory sends a barb of desperate longing into his gut. Something darker than arousal, something bone deep.
He shakes his head and waits for Illya to elaborate. Eventually, he says, “I am very average.”
Napoleon bites back his urge to correct Illya, telling him that one cannot be very average, it defeats the point of being average in the first place. He doesn’t want the correction to hijack this conversation and thus prevent Illya from spewing more absurdities for Napoleon to disprove later. “And?” he asks after a moment. He slides his hands under Illya so he can feel the taut, working muscles of his back, pulled tight and rippling under his nails.
Illya is distracted again, gaze flicking desperately from Napoleon’s parted mouth to his eyes and back again, a dazed kind of longing clouding his pupils. He shakes his head. “Average and…,” he stops, face flushing deeply at whatever he’s trying and failing to say. Napoleon is intrigued, so he lets go of Illya and sits up again, palms flat on the ridges of Illya’s abdominals. “You know,” Illya tells him.
“No, I don’t know. You haven’t said anything at all,” Napoleon reminds him, punctuating his words with short, staccato thrust of his hips. Illya rocks in time with the motion, looking so flushed, so gorgeous, so wrecked under him that Napoleon suddenly wants to learn to paint, just so that he can have this picture forever.
“I am…,” Illya starts, furrowing his brow, cheeks so hot and pink with frustration that Napoleon’s throat is closing up. “It is very hard to say.”
“Well, you better figure out a way to say it because I’m not convinced.”
Illya gestures uselessly in the air, pouting spectacularly as he finally forces out, “I like you inside me.”
Oh, Napoleon thinks, heart suddenly flayed open, stomach clenching and collapsing into a wild surge of heat. “Are you...are you suggesting that that’s supposed to make you less attractive somehow? What do they teach you in Russia?!”
Illya screws up his brow, looking so confused, as if this exchange is the most obvious thing in the world that Napoleon’s lack of comprehension is completely unreasonable. As if Napoleon should of course understand how wanting to be fucked in the ass with the same willingness and desperation that Illya wants to be fucked in the ass devalues his objective attractiveness.
It is in this moment that Napoleon catches sight of his own reflection in the vanity mirror out of the corner of his eye and, in a flash of inspired brilliance, comes up with an idea.
“You,” he says, voice suddenly low, dangerous. He surprises himself and Illya, too, who instantly stills beneath him. “Get up, and go stand facing that mirror with your hands flat on the vanity.”
Illya stares up at him, pupils so dilated that the blue of them has been pushed out to the edge, just a thin tinge of ice frozen around a sea of black. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips, but before he can say anything, Napoleon’s self-control decays to nothingness, and he kisses him, biting his mouth open and licking into it with long, wide, hungry sweeps. Groaning, Illya crumbles into him, like granite into the sea.
Every time they kiss, it feels like this. Like falling off a cliff, so raw and electric it stings. It feels like the first time, as terrifying, as thrilling, and Napoleon is left ever wondering if he can survive such unbearable heat. Illya sucks on his tongue, mauls up his neck with rough fingers until he can make two fists in his hair, holding him down so that he can’t pull away. Napoleon tugs just to feel the pressure and gasps.
It amazes him that a man as huge and solid as Illya can get so soft and pliant for him, liquid beneath his tongue, molten and melting and so fucking easy to push apart, push into. Napoleon sinks his teeth into Illya’s lower lip until he cries out and cants away from the spike of pain. Taking advantage of his faltering grip, Napoleon wrenches out of his hold and reminds him, “Go, to the vanity. Now.” His voice comes out hoarse, broken, and he tries desperately to catch his breath as he watches Illya go.
There he stands, arms braced against the edge of the vanity, head hung as if in shame. Napoleon stares as he clumsily fishes some lubricant out of his suitcase, feeling so lucky, so outraged that Illya isn’t as full of himself as he should be.
He shucks his robe and comes up behind Illya, hands greedy for his broad, hot expanse of skin, hips grinding slow and dirty against his ass. “So you like me inside of you?” he asks, mouth open and wet on the hard curve of Ilya’s shoulder. He’s perspiring slightly, and Napoleon’s eyes fall closed as he licks it up, so deep into his own want that his hands are trembling as they drag up Illya’s abdominals, his chest, thumbs digging sharply at the hollow of his throat. Illya nods and arches his back to fit himself more closely into the cradle of Napoleon’s hips. His face so red, pulse flickering frantically beneath the pressure of Napoleon’s fingers, and Napoleon hates that he cannot swallow him whole.
“I know you do,” Napoleon tells him, sliding his hand down to Illya’s hip, holding him steady while he thrusts against him with shallow, slow strokes. “And it’s so fucking good, Illya, so beautiful, how bad you want it, how much you need it. It’s the best thing I’ve ever seen,” he breathes into his ear, inching his fingers down so he can thumb Illya’s ass apart and hold him open, let him feel the hard, throbbing length of his cock nestled tight up against his hole. “I’m going to bend you over and fuck you on this vanity, and you’re going to watch yourself in the mirror.”
Illya makes a low, strangled sound, chin lolling against his chest. Napoleon tightens the arm he has across his waist, flexing so that he can feel Illya’s breath stutter against his bicep as he asks, “How does that sound?”
“Please,” Illya says simply, pushing back hard against Napoleon, breath coming out hitched and erratic. “Solo.”
Napoleon bites down hard into his shoulder, sliding his cock up and down the length of Illya’s crack where he’s damp and already tender from the last time Napoleon took him like this, the night prior. Napoleon loves the heat of him here, loves how easy Illya opens up and begs, like he was made to fit Napoleon inside him.
He didn’t expect this, the first time they fucked. He didn’t expect much of anything at all; he was so stunned that Illya was even kissing him that anything beyond the wet, desperate drag of their mouths together seemed impossible, unnecessary. He wasn’t expecting Illya to put his hands on him; he wasn’t expecting him to drop to his knees so easily and mouth over the thick line of his cock through his briefs, eyes shut and fluttering beneath the lids like a man lost in prayer.
He certainly hadn’t been expecting what came days later, the first time he rubbed a thumb experimentally over Illya’s spit-slicked asshole while he was sucking him off. He had only been curious if Illya would freeze up and squirm away or pretend like he wasn’t being touched there at all; he didn’t think it would go anywhere, that Illya would give him any purchase or permission to take it further. Any other outcome hadn’t even dawned on Napoleon, so he was destroyed when Illya had opened right up for him, thighs splaying wide as he groaned, pushed down, said more. It was astounding, life-ruining, and Napoleon still hasn’t recovered.
Grinding his brow into the jut of Illya’s spine Napoleon asks, “Are you looking at yourself? Do you see how good you look like this?”
Illya groans. “No. Looking at you, your hand on--ahh,” he gasps as Napoleon bites him hard on the back of the neck, so deep his teeth leave a wet, indented half-moon.
“Stop,” Napoleon says, grabbing a fistful of damp blond hair and pulling Illya back by it, forcing his gaze to the mirror. Illya’s eyes nearly make him double over: there’s a flash of muted rage and humiliation shining back at him, fire and terror and glory, and he has to stop pistoning his hips lest he come in white hot ribbons all over Illya’s rippling back before he wants to. His cock twitches, and Illya spits out an unintelligible curse as he feels it.
“God, you are so beautiful,” Napoleon murmurs, staring at Illya’s heaving chest in the mirror, the rivulets of sweat dripping down his sternum and beading on his chest hair. “Keep looking.”
In one fluid motion, Napoleon drops to his knees behind Illya, desperate to taste him, to split him open on his tongue, to get him ready. He holds him apart and licks up the length of his crack, loving the way Illya clenches and spasms under him, loving the high whine he forces out through his teeth. “Watch yourself,” he says again, biting what he can reach, the swell of his ass, the crease where hard muscle slopes down to meet his thigh. “Want you to see how gorgeous you look with my tongue in your ass, want you to know,” he breathes, and Illya makes a sound that’s not unlike a sob.
Napoleon flicks his tongue over his swollen pucker, where the skin is dark and dusky and raw from him, from being stretched open over the width of his cock. He licks and sucks, making his tongue stiff so he can push up inside Illya, spear him open where he’s dark, bitter, almost metallic. It’s hard to breathe, and his vision keeps whiting out in static behind his eyelids, but he doesn’t care; there’s nothing in the world better than this, and Illya has to see, he has to know how fucking perfect he tastes.
Moaning into the humid crack of Illya’s ass, Napoleon licks him up, gets him wet and slick and shining with his own spit. “God, Peril,” he mumbles, pulling back for a moment to breathe, looking at him all sticky and twitching and spread before him. “You look so good. Don’t you look so good?”
Illya laughs a broken laugh, sounding a little out of control as his powerful hamstrings twitch under Napoleon’s hands. “I don’t know,” he answers after a moment of Napoleon withholding, breathing onto him without using his tongue. “I only look good because you are making me look good.”
“No, you look good because you are good, you’re so fucking good,” Napoleon says, producing a thick, frothy mouthful of spit and drooling it out onto his index and middle fingers. He rubs them up Illya’s crack before pushing inside him, gasping at the way he takes it, so soft and easy, pulling him past the first knuckle like a sucking mouth. “Jesus Christ, Illya,” he breathes, crooking his fingers, stomach dropping at the sound Illya makes when he does it. “You shouldn’t be real.”
Illya tries to scoff, but it turns into a strangled cry as Napoleon twists his fingers inside of him, pushing up against the smooth, infernally hot walls holding him in. “Solo,” he murmurs, clumsily reaching behind him and cuffing the back of Napoleon’s skull, tugging at his hair. “Need you, come here.”
Napoleon stands on shaking legs, keeping his fingers deep in Illya’s ass so he can feel him from the inside out, every second of his want, his agony. “Are you sore from me?” he asks, breath hot and wet against Illya’s ear.
“Yes,” he admits, rocking back against Napoleon’s fingers, impaling himself and turning his head to breathe in Napoleon’s exhalations. “But it’s good.”
Napoleon forces his head back to the mirror. “Look at yourself,” he admonishes, “not me.” He rests his chin on Illya’s shoulder, staring at their reflections, stomach turning over at the deep, shamed flush staining Illya’s cheeks, all the way down his throat, splotchy, like spilled blood as far down as the slice of his clavicles. His face is screwed into a mess of pain and longing, lines through his brow, mouth open and panting, a wet, broken shape Napoleon cannot resist pushing his fingers into.
He hooks his index finger into the side of Illya’s cheek, feeling the slippery raw pink of it, skin so soft it seems impossible that it could even belong to a man like Illya. “I want to fuck you everywhere,” Napoleon whispers, moving his fingers in and out of Illya’s ass and his mouth at the same time, thumbing over his teeth. “Want you every way.” His fingers slide out in a slick of saliva, painting Illya’s cheek.
“Solo,” Illya groans through fiercely gritted teeth, eyes dark and pleading in the mirror. “Please,” he begs. His ass pulses around Napoleon’s fingers, so hot and tight and perfect that Napoleon swears into the skin of his throat.
“Watch while I push into you,” he orders, pulling his fingers out from the terrible clench of Illya’s body to uncap the lubricant. He coats his aching shaft, smearing the excess over Illya’s hole so he’s soft and slick and ready. “Want you to see yourself split open on my cock.”
“Yes,” Illya says mindlessly, arching his back in offering as Napoleon aligns himself and pushes in.
It’s so, so easy. Napoleon has never felt someone loosen and accept his cock so pliantly, has never felt another body open up like this. Heart pounding in sick, hungry amazement, he holds Illya’s hips steady and sinks into the near unbearable burn of his body, slow so he can feel Illya squirm and shift to try and get more, this huge skyline of muscle and power reduced to a wavering mess of want on the vanity. “God,” Napoleon breathes once he’s in all the way, holding Illya in place so he doesn’t create any friction yet; he wants to feel him just like this, sheathed deep in impossible heat.
Illya is shivering to ruin beneath him, around him. Mouth open and lower lip shining with drool, his eyes slide shut involuntarily, and that simply will not do. “Open your eyes,” Napoleon tells him, nudging his nose into the wild thrum of Illya’s pulse, sucking the sheen of salt from his neck. “Look at us.”
A vein flickers in Illya’s temple, and he forces his eyes back on his reflection like it pains him, sweat beaded on his brow, cords in his neck taut and spasming. “I look like it hurts,” he pants, chest heaving beneath Napoleon’s hands as they palm all over him, leaving makes in their wake from his nails. “It doesn’t hurt.”
“What does it feel like?” Napoleon asks quietly, withdrawing so that he can slam back down, the great mass of Illya’s body rocking in impact like a ship at sea. “Does it feel good?” He fucks Illya hard, his chest rubbing against his back in a slick of sweat, cock twitching and pulsing at the incredible, nervy drag of Illya’s insides.
“Cowboy,” he rumbles, licking his lips, eyes flicking to Napoleon’s in the mirror and holding them. “Stop talking.”
“No,” Napoleon says, slamming back down into him hard, making him wince, keening. “I’m not going to stop talking, not going to stop telling you how fucking incredible you look bent over and full of my cock,” he breathes, calves spasming as he rolls onto the balls of his feel to lengthen himself, to create more room for leverage. Napoleon makes a fist in Illya’s hair and twists his neck up so that he has to look, pushes him forward with his hips so Illya’s forehead thuds against the mirror, breath fogging up his reflection. “How do you look?” he asks, words broken around his erratic breath, sweat dripping from his chest onto the ladder of Illya’s spine.
“Red,” Illya admits, voice nothing but a forced whine. He slams against the mirror in time with Napoleon’s thrusts, the vanity creaking beneath the weight of him. “Pathetic.”
“Perfect,” Napoleon corrects him, unclamping the fingers he has bruise-deep on Illya’s hip in favor of palming between his thighs, where he closes a hot, damp fist around Illya’s leaking cock. “Do you see how hard you are for me, dripping while I fuck you? Do you know what you do to me?”
Illya makes an animal noise, low and raw and wordless, and Napoleon’s sac tightens; he’s so close to coming from that sound. “Love the way you look taking me, Illya, love the way you feel, love you,” he says breathlessly, dropping his forehead down to Illya’s shoulder to hide his face, words falling out of him that he only allows to touch the air when it’s like this, hot and damp and close with their sex, electric and pulled taut between them. He can get away with saying anything when he’s splitting Illya apart, so he tells the truth, lets Illya feel him raw and honest and broken open.
Beneath him, Illya goes still for a moment, trembling like a live wire poised to snap before he lets go. An inhuman sound wrenches out of him, and he comes in Napoleon’s hand, the first ribbon of it landing on the mirror before the rest spills over Napoleon’s fist in hot, sticky strings. Napoleon follows, burying himself into the wild pulsing of Illya’s ass, emptying himself as his hips snap gracelessly. “Illya,” he grinds out, mouth open and eyes screwed shut, tongue sweeping desperately over whatever skin he can reach. “God.”
Illya crumples onto his elbows over the vanity, heaving under the weight and pressure of Napoleon’s chest. “Ah,” he says after a few seconds. “Get off, I need to breathe.”
Napoleon slides out of Illya’s body in a mess of his own come, wincing and oversensitive. His legs are shaking. Illya continues to lie motionless, doubled over the vanity while he catches his breath, eyes fluttering beneath the paper-thin skin of his lids, a hectic spot of color staining his cheek like Napoleon had eaten a pomegranate and pressed his open mouth there. His hair is rucked up in one hundred different directions, back and shoulders scoured in marks from Napoleon’s nails. He’s the most lovely thing. Napoleon smoothes the flyaway hairs at the crown of his head, heart aching with so many things he can’t say now, not after they’ve both come and the room is quiet and humid around them. “Well?” he asks.
Illya huffs against the mirror, the cloud of his breath obscuring a portion of his reflection. “Well what?”
“What did you think? Are you not the most astonishing work of art in all of human history?”
Illya turns his head painstakingly slowly to look at him, gazing up critically through the blond sweep of his lashes. “I think you exaggerate.”
“My god,” Napoleon sighs, letting his head fall back. “You’re inconsolable.”
“I do not need to be consoled,” Illya tells him, peeling himself off the vanity with some difficulty, toned arms shaking where he braces against the edge. Napoleon stares, moved that he has done such a thing to Illya, that he has reduced such power and strength to trembles. Illya takes a deep breath. “I do think you look very good when you fuck me,” he admits.
“You weren’t supposed to be looking at me,” Napoleon snaps, even though it makes his stomach flip to hear Illya say those words, the sharp, sudden syllable of fuck. “You were supposed to admire your own reflection and therefore gain sympathy for what torture it is to spend so much time around you under circumstances when it would be entirely inappropriate for me to put you up against the nearest wall.”
Illya turns, wobbling a little bit. It alarms Napoleon, who is uncertain whether he could sustain Illya’s weight in the event he collapsed onto him. However, Illya rights himself and hobbles clumsily to the bed, where he falls, a heap of trembling limbs and flushed skin. “Not sympathy,” he says, voice muffled by the sheets. “The other one...empathy.”
“Empathy? What on earth are you talking about?” Napoleon asks from the bathroom, where he’s cleaning himself up, wiping Illya from his skin with a tinge of reluctance that makes him feel distantly disgusted with himself. He returns to the bedroom with a towel slung over his shoulders, heart breaking a little as he looks at Illya all spread out on the bed like a buffet. He should not still want him so badly; want this profound is as inconvenient as it is dangerous. Napoleon knows this, but all the same, he can’t stop. It feels like a force of physics.
“Yes, empathy. I empathize. You forget I also spend the same time with you,” Illya explains. “You are very hard to be around.”
Napoleon blinks, uncertain they’re talking about the same thing. “Do you think about putting me up against the wall when we’re working?” he tries.
“Every day,” Illya responds. “If we are working or not.” He rolls over onto his back and grimaces, and some of Napoleon’s come leaks out onto his thigh, white tinted pink-brown with blood. Napoleon sees it, and his stomach drops in a surge of unbridled affection. Illya’s words hook deep into him, pulling at places he doesn’t have names for, places he didn’t know existed.
“I see,” he says, swallowing. Then he sinks to his knee by the side of the bed and tugs the towel off his shoulders, using it to wipe Illya’s skin clean while he stares at his used hole, pink and swollen and still so irresistible that Napoleon’s gut aches with useless, idle desire. He rubs his fingers up Illya’s crack, feeling him twitch. “God,” he murmurs. “If I could get hard, I’d fuck you all over again.”
Illya looks down at him, face soft and dark and unreadable as he reaches out and gently touches Napoleon’s hair with the tips of his fingers. “I would let you,” he says quietly.
Napoleon holds Illya’s gaze for a few searing seconds before it begins to hurt, his eyes watering like he’s staring at the sun. There are so many things he wants to say, impossible things that are too much for this room, too much for the whole of Lisbon, for the sea that stretches beyond its shore. He settles on, “Am I really to believe you find me as terribly distracting as I find you? Because if so, your self-restraint is quite remarkable. I hardly ever even catch you looking at me, and I catch nearly everyone looking at me.” He does not sound as convincingly cavalier as he wants to, his voice tight, flat.
Illya blinks as if caught off guard. Then he shrugs, shifting across the mattress so there’s room beside him for Napoleon. “That’s because I am a better spy than you. You don’t notice.”
Napoleon tries hard to think of something to snap back with, but his mind is moving slowly, his throat choked dry on the way Illya looks right now, still so pink and ruined and rucked up from his hands. Before he comes up with a proper barb, Illya reaches for him, drags him close with a hand cupped around the back of his neck, pulling him into the bed and on top of him. “Solo,” he breathes, lips ghosting across Napoleon’s. “I am yours. You are so worried all the time, stop worrying.”
Then he kisses him. Mouth swollen and sweet, warm and kiss-bruised as he catches Napoleon’s lower lip in his teeth. They kiss and kiss, and Napoleon is stunned, is trying in vain to make sense of so many things that should be impossible: the way their bodies fit together so neatly it seems designed, the way Illya cups his face in his palms so he won’t pull away, the way the word yours sounds in Illya’s voice. But all his thoughts get lost in the slick, hot subduction of their mouths, too inelegant to chase.
They part to breathe, and Illya looks at him with eyes so dark it’s terrifying, thumbing messily over the swell of his lip. “You’re beautiful,” he says, before rolling him over easily and crushing him into the mattress, hands all over his chest, his shoulders. “So stupid and beautiful, Cowboy, and you think I am the one who needs mirrors. You are not as vain as you think..” He mouths up Napoleon’s cheek, tongue flicking at the corner of his lips before he’s biting at him again, kissing him like kissing is breathing, like spit is air.
Something expands in Napoleon’s chest, wild and bright and painful like the Portuguese sun spilling in through the bay window. Torn open around it, Napoleon smiles stupidly into Illya’s kisses, feeling bleary-eyed, a little hungover, and remarkably pleased with himself.