Chapter Text
“So,” Napoleon said, returning Illya’s smile with one of his own, “Yours or mine?”
“My house Cowboy,” he murmured. It sent a small slice of heat sliding down Napoleon’s spine to pool warmly in his belly. He bit his lip and nodded, pushing the feeling away. There was time. Illya had made sure of that; he wasn’t going anywhere, and Napoleon only wanted to be where he was.
Illya hailed a cab, and it was easy. It was easy to sit beside him and engage in conversation, and it was easy to follow him into his apartment and let the Russian take his coat and pour him a drink. It was easy to take off his tie and his shoes and pad around the apartment in his socks and rolled up shirt sleeves and just be. It was easy to laugh with him, and play chess with him, and sip his drink and bask in the sweltering warmth of the Illya that Napoleon had always craved.
And that was just it; Napoleon was not oblivious to the heat surrounding them. He was not blind to Illya’s attentive stare, the heat of it, licking up his spine, watching his mouth. He was not disregardful of Illya’s lip biting and licking, the loosening of his shirt sleeves, the popping of buttons at his throat, revealing the white alabaster that Napoleon had only ever inspected with the clinical obedience of a field nurse. But Napoleon was also not concerned with it either, the building anticipation of a smouldering want in his gut and burning between the two of them. He wanted to enjoy this, he wanted it to last.
Illya would not move until Napoleon did, and Napoleon really was in no rush.
“Another round Peril?” Napoleon asked, shaking his glass and gesturing to Illya’s.
The Russian hummed as he reset the chessboard, sweeping all Napoleon’s black pieces into his big hands and setting them down gently, one by one.
Napoleon drew his eyes away to meet Illya’s, regretting it immediately when he noticed the absolutely devilish smirk on his lips, the unbridled want in his big blue eyes.
“Oh,” Napoleon hummed, already reaching across the table, “that’s just unfair.”
He fisted the front of Illya’s shirt and drew his face close. The kiss was hot and wet and slow and deep, easy in that obliterating way Illya had set to rights in Napoleon all those months ago. The Russian leaned into it, reaching up to curl a big warm hand around the back of Napoleon’s neck, and sliding his tongue carefully along the seam of Napoleon’s lips, asking a question that was answered with an enthusiasm Napoleon was not sure he possessed until that moment. His tongue curled in alongside Illya’s, tasting the sweet, smokiness of scotch and something crisp and warm and distinctly Illya. He reached out for the broader man’s shoulders to steady himself and instead found his knees smacking none too gracefully into the low table between them.
“Ow, fuck,” Napoleon mumbled against Illya’s mouth, snapping his eyes open to meet Illya’s. He couldn’t stop the helpless laughter that burst bright and loud from his mouth. Illya huffed against his cheek, tracing his lips across Napoleon’s jaw while he continued to chuckle, sending shockwaves down his spine while radiance filled his stomach and chest and continued out in hazy swells.
“Peril,” he hiccupped, “Just stop for a second.”
The Russian leaned back and his eyes were inexplicably fond. Napoleon kissed him again, soft and smooth before disentangling himself to fall back in his chair and rub the bruises on his shins.
“Romantic,” he muttered to himself, laughing again, unable to stop now.
Illya leaned forward and propped his chin on his hands, watching Napoleon with barely concealed want, “You are beautiful,” he murmured, voice low, accent thick like jam and equally as delicious.
Napoleon’s eyes snapped up to meet his, heat finally settling into his spine and abdomen with a ferocity that threatened to consume him and Illya both, and promised to remain untempered for quite a while. He bit his lip and studied Illya’s mouth, drawing his gaze slowly upwards to meet Illya’s own, only to find the Russian’s eyes dragging with a heavy embrace down his own body.
“Fuck,” he breathed, standing abruptly and stretching, letting Illya look, enjoying it, craving it.
Illya rose too, slowly, sinuously, with a sharp smile filled with want and hunger, “Come here,” he said, and Napoleon was helpless to do anything other than respond.
He practically fell into Illya, limbs shaky, mouth greedy, lips forced open by Illya’s own. His senses were filled with nothing but Illya, arms wrapped around his body in an intense iron cage, bodies pressed together from chest to knee. Napoleon was agonisingly aware of the way their crotches rubbed together through all of the layers of clothing. It made his breath hitch and clutched at his lungs, stealing his air. And yet, he found himself unable to care, just grasping for more of Illya, filling his hands and arms and body with as much of the man as he could reach, grasping for the hem of his shirt, fingers aching to make contact with skin.
Illya pulled back to let Napoleon pant against his mouth. One arm looped firmly around Napoleon’s back, while the other rose to run through his hair, fingers gentle against his scalp. Napoleon’s fingers trembled against Illya’s stomach.
“Beautiful,” he whispered.
The choked hum that emanated from the back of Napoleon’s throat made Illya smile again. He pulled Illya’s face back to his and kissed him fervently, heatedly. Desperately hoping that Illya would catch on.
With his mouth occupied, Napoleon took the opportunity to fumble at Illya’s belt buckle with shaking fingers. Illya huffed a laugh into Napoleon’s mouth and kissed him hard, unbuttoning his shirt with deft fingers and licking into Napoleon’s mouth with skill.
Napoleon got his hand into Illya’s trousers just as the Russian popped the last button on his shirt, and sighed into his mouth. He pushed Napoleon’s shirt down his shoulders, forcing the American to disentangle himself and discard his shirt on the coffee table, Illya’s mouth never leaving his.
“We should,” he began, before his mouth was assaulted again and he was pushed and tripping over Illya’s feet down the hallway.
“Bed,” Illya muttered against his mouth, “Want you in bed.”
Napoleon shoved Illya into the hallway wall and palmed his crotch, feeling the hard muscle and groaning as though his own was being touched. Illya tugged his hair harshly, biting at his lips and sucking on his tongue and he could hardly believe it was real. His mind almost separate from his body, breath rushing out in hard huffs. Illya traced his jawline and the tendons standing out on his neck with teeth and tongue. Napoleon could not help the groan, his hips involuntarily rolling into Illya’s, who moaned in turn.
The Russian’s nails raked down his back and cupped his arse firmly, pulling Napoleon close, urging him to continue the movement. Napoleon practically whimpered, burying his face in Illya’s shoulder and panting, blood fizzling.
“Stop,” he huffed, pushing against Illya’s chest, “Stop, or this will be over very quickly.”
Illya laughed and let Napoleon go, breathing equally as heavily. Napoleon smiled; Illya was quite the picture, debauched, pants undone, cock straining in his underwear, a small wet patch evident. Napoleon found he was salivating and staring, gaze broken only when Illya lifted his chin with a finger, still smiling, eyes impossibly warm.
“Bed,” he rumbled, grabbing Napoleon’s arm and steering him to the bedroom. As soon as the door was closed, the darker man launched himself at his partner, ripping his shirt off, pulling at his pants, falling to his knees. He could smell Illya, the musk of him, the arousal; warm and wet and intoxicating. His mouth watered at the prospect of finally getting his mouth on Illya, to feel the weight of him, the flex of his thighs and stomach muscles; the prospect of being able to pull his partner apart with only his lips and tongue, the power of it. It made his limbs feel like they were dissipating into particles.
He worked the trousers down Illya’s thighs, tossing them to the side and gripping the man’s hips, asking, practically begging. The flush in Illya’s cheeks matched the heat of his gaze, eyes wide and blown out, barely an iris; he reached out and ran a hand through Napoleon’s hair again, his fingers grazing his cheekbone, urging him on. Napoleon practically purred.
“You are perfect,” Illya’s accent was thick with want, voice low and breathy, “So beautiful. Made for this.”
Napoleon nosed into Illya’s groin, licking at the skin and trying desperately not to completely lose his mind with what was happening. He wanted to commit it all to memory.
“Do you like that Cowboy?” he rumbled, inordinately pleased with himself. Napoleon blushed and tried to look away but Illya grasped his chin and held him tightly, bringing his lips down to ghost along Napoleon’s own. All he could do was shudder.
“Do you like it when I call you pretty?” he whispered into Napoleon’s mouth, “Answer me, Napoleon, use your words,” he continued, holding Napoleon’s jaw open and forcing him to make eye contact, to see the choice, the options, the want.
Napoleon whimpered, “Fuck,” he breathed.
Illya hummed and smiled, hand gripping the base of his cock like he was trying to starve off an impending orgasm.
The American leaned forward, without breaking eye contact or Illya’s grasp on his chin, and licked a stripe from root to tip, up the Russian’s very hard cock.
The room was quiet, save for the sounds of their harsh breathing, both of them twitching as their muscles struggled to remain upright, to remain in check, to not fight each other and fuck each other into the floor. Napoleon was going to savour this; the blessed silence as Illya was rendered momentarily speechless in the wake of what his partner was about to do.
“Oh blyad’,” he stuttered, pupils blown wide, mouth open in a perfect 'oh'. Napoleon smirked up at him, finally feeling some control of the situation, even as his breath rattled out of him in heavy pants. He leaned forward again, and without any preamble, swallowed down half of Illya’s length before the man could register it. The taller man stuttered out a shocked sigh, met Napoleon’s eyes, and ground out the most filthy noise Napoleon had ever heard in his life. He gripped one of Illya’s thighs, and wrapped his other hand around the base of Illya’s cock, stroking the skin he couldn’t quite reach with his lips.
Illya’s hands sank into his hair, not pushing, just guiding, mumbling things under his breath that Napoleon was sure, to a native Russian speaker, still would not have made any sense. He risked looking up from the task at hand to meet Illya’s wanton and half-lidded stare. His cock twitched in his underwear, and he resisted the urge to fumble for his own fly and free his now painfully hard erection.
Illya’s other hand met the corner of Napoleon’s lips, where they stretched obscenely around his length, puffy and red and glistening in spit.
“So handsome,” he said, voice deep and rich and sending a myriad of shivers down Napoleon’s spine. His skin broke out in gooseflesh, and his cock twitched hard again. His responding moan was loud and lewd.
Illya’s eyes, bright with lust and admiration, never left Napoleon’s face, “So good at this,” he grunted, thrusting his hips forward minutely. Napoleon stretched his jaw, trying to be accomodating. Illya’s hands tightened in his hair, his voice breaking over a thick litany of praise that, if Napoleon wasn’t careful, would have him coming in his pants very soon.
The American could feel the burn in his knees and shoulder blades, the delicious stretch of his muscles as he looked up at Illya, bathed in gold light, sculpted and delicious, eyelashes casting long shadows over his high cheekbones, sweat prickling in his hairline and darkening the strands to an almost brassy hue. His hands tugged on the strands at the back of Napoleon’s head, and he found himself hastening to suck Illya down harder, faster, feeling his thighs shake.
Illya stuttered, “Oh, Cowboy, I’m going to - “ He tried pulling Napoleon’s mouth off and later Napoleon would admit that it was a valiant effort, but he had dreamed of this; of a dark head between Illya’s thighs, sucking him down so intensely he would not be able to stand up straight.
When Illya came, it was with a grunt, an oath. A deep rumbling that shook through his body and down into Napoleon’s, shaking him apart in his core, blinded by how fucking good it felt to do this, to feel Illya’s fingers grip his hair and pull him down hard, to feel him stiffen to beyond measurable proportions and feel his legs and arms and torso shake and dissolve. To taste him, so base and human.
Illya let him go quickly, keeping a hand on his shoulder and he sank to the floor in front of Napoleon shakily, a blissed smile on his face, “You are very good with your mouth,” he said, reaching out to swipe at the corner of Napoleon’s lips.
He beamed under the praise, breathing deeply through his nose. Illya ran a hand through his sweaty hair and then glanced down at the obvious tenting in Napoleon’s underwear. How he hadn’t come when Illya did he would never know, and silently thanked whatever deity was horny enough to listen for this one miracle.
“Do you want some help with that?” The Russian smirked, eyes warm and eager and light.
Napoleon practically launched himself at the man, grabbing him by the shoulders, smashing their lips together in a kiss that lacked finesse and contained more heat than Illya was prepared for. He snaked one arm around Napoleon’s waist, holding him up, and the other slid down his chest to grope him through his underwear.
The smaller man keened loudly, “I won’t last,” he huffed, practically whined, “I’m sorry.”
Illya nuzzled into the junction of his neck and shoulder, “It is okay,” he whispered, reaching into Napoleon’s pants and grasping his weeping cock firmly in a gun calloused hand, “I just want to see you enjoy yourself,” and with that, he began a firm and measured stroke that had Napoleon thrusting up into his hand and keening in seconds.
If it wasn’t for Illya’s firm grip on his waist Napoleon was sure he would have fallen over. Illya’s arm tightened further, reaching around his body to hold him up high, a warm hand under his armpit. Napoleon’s head thumped forward onto Illya’s shoulder as the man increased to an almost punishing pace, in time with Napoleon’s steadily growing pants and groans. Illya could feel his abdominal muscles tensing and relaxing, his thighs quivering. Napoleon was close.
“You look so beautiful like this,” he rasped into Napoleon’s ear, feeling him shudder and whine, “Are you going to come on me, Cowboy?”
And that was all it took really; Napoleon gasped, froze, spasmed and practically shouted his release right there on Illya’s lap, who did not let up his punishing pace until the man was twitching in overstimulation.
“Fuck,” he breathed, breath hitching.
Illya hummed, setting Napoleon back on his floor and reaching for his shirt, to wipe his hand and his and Napoleon’s abdomens.
“So,” Napoleon began, after a few minutes in companionable and warm silence, while they both caught their breath, “Another drink?”
Illya beamed.