by GeorgiaMagnolia

His grandmother would cluck her tongue at him for it, but he was using dried herbs nonetheless. It was what was in the cupboard and he wasn't planning to leave the apartment for a while so her memory would just have to forgive him. He hummed to himself as he chopped the fresh garlic and diced the onion, matchstick between his teeth, his grandmother's cure for onion crying. He never noticed it working all that well, but it was part of the tradition of home cooking, in her opinion. So he did it, if only because the memories of sitting on a stool at the counter in her kitchen as a small boy and watching her peel and chop and dice with hands that flew so fast he could barely follow, made him smile. He remembered her talking around that match, like it was one of the cheroots she and his grandfather sometimes smoked on a Summer evening, claiming the smoke kept the mosquitoes away.

The oil in the pan was hot so he scraped the onion and garlic off the cutting board into the warmed oil and sprinkled it all liberally with oregano and basil and thyme from the little metal cans on the shelf over the stove.

When that was cooked down he added in the tomatoes, mushrooms, wine and more garlic, there was never enough garlic, he could hear his grandmother say. He put the lid on and checked the flame under the stock pot, it was going to be simmering for half the day, he preferred not to burn the place down or scorch his masterpiece.

He cleared away all that mess and started over again. He mixed the ground beef and pork with eggs and oatmeal and cheese, more spices, more garlic, a little more onion and when that was done covered the pan and set it in the icebox since he wouldn't need to put that in the oven for a while yet. And again he cleaned the debris away and finished cleaning the kitchen.

He realized that the reason almost all his memories of his grandmother centered in the kitchen was that cooking the kinds of meals she specialized in took most of the day, spending time with her had meant spending time in the kitchen. He remembered it being worth it though, for the meals she had prepared were wonderful and full of laughter and love. He hoped that trait had been handed down with the recipes.

He could hear in the back of his head the tsking his grandmother would be doing, seeing him using store bought pasta. "Grandmama," he found himself talking aloud to his memory of her, "you will just have to understand that I do not have the space or the patience for handmade pasta." Or the kitchen chairs. Or the woodstove, for that matter. He remembered watching her cut the dough into strips and hang it across the ladderback chairs before the fire to dry. He and his sister used to steal the half dried noodles to eat, chewy and dusty with flour. She always let them have a few before pretending she had just caught them and sending them on an errand to keep them from eating every last one of them and making themselves ill.

The scents from the oven and stovetop were full of warm familiar memories, and his mouth watered. Yes, this was surely worth the effort.

The coded knock at the door was right on time, and then the scrape of the key as his partner let himself in, the soft beeps as the security alarm was reset, all of it a welcome sequence of sounds that set his world right.

He had just dished up his grandmother's homemade pasta sauce and meatballs, and was taking the bread from the oven, crunchy and golden on the outside and fragrant with garlic and butter and parsley inside. He turned from setting the bread on the stove as his partner came in the kitchen, jacket off and looking relaxed with his thin dark tie loose at his collar. Napoleon smiled, knowing he looked entirely too pleased and not caring.

"Honey, you're home."

Illya rolled his eyes. "Honestly, Napoleon."

Napoleon just laughed and pulled out a chair, gesturing for Illya to sit. He transferred the bread to the table, joining the dinner already there. He sat as well and poured the wine.

"I'm glad you got here on time, I'm starving."

"Isn't that my line?" Illya shot a look at Napoleon out of the corner of his eye. He took up the napkin and spread it across his lap as Napoleon offered him the bowl of pasta. He gladly took a heaping mound of noodles and added meatballs and sauce. He ignored the salad in favor of the warm main course that smelled so good.

They were quiet for much of the meal, Napoleon knew better than to get between Illya and the dinner at hand. But it was a familiar silence, a comfortable one. Napoleon watched as Illya put away two huge plates of pasta and all his salad and half the garlic bread. He could feel a satisfied smile tug at the corner of his mouth. He put a huge dent of his own in the dinner, finally sitting back to just watch his partner finish.

Many people, familiar with Illya and his ability to eat his weight in whatever food was put before him, were surprised to find that he was a neat dinner companion. He was not finicky or picky, he would eat whatever was served him, but when he actually liked the offering, it was a joy to watch him savor the experience. Sometimes he would take a bite and then close his eyes, as if just sitting and letting his taste buds discern the different spices and components of the dish. Other times Napoleon could see him testing the textures of the bites, perhaps comparing the taste and the texture to see how well they meshed. Napoleon had no idea what his partner was thinking or sensing at those times, but he didn't want to break the concentration Illya showed to ask. Illya very often, when it was just the two of them on their own, approached his dinner as another man might approach his daily prayers, with reverence. So Napoleon never interrupted when he saw it happen, so infrequently. And most of the time when they ate, it was just sustenance and it seemed silly to ask then, when Illya was just eating like any other diner. While Napoleon knew himself to be a sensualist and often enjoyed his food as such, he understood that there was another dynamic at work in Illya.

Finally Illya pushed his cleaned plate away and picked up his wine to finish it. He sat the glass down and leaned back with a satisfied look.

"Thank you for dinner, Napoleon, that was," Illya paused, looking up for a moment toward the ceiling as if the perfect word would write itself there for him to pick as if it were a ripe apple off a tree, he sighed, "that was delicious. Napoleon, wherever that came from, we must go there, often."

Napoleon grinned. "Why thank you, partner, and Chez Napoleon thanks you."

Illya looked at the stove, then back to his partner. Then he did it a couple more times.


"Is it so surprising?"

Illya thought for a moment. "No. But we usually order in, I expected that you had just gotten it earlier in the day and warmed it up nicely."

"Well it has been on the stove most of the day. My grandmother's recipe for red sauce is a whole day affair. The meatballs are faster, and her noodles are too time consuming so I cheated. She'd never forgive me if she could see it. But on the whole, yes, dinner was a product of my very own kitchen," his smile was full of satisfaction.

"In that case, my compliments to you and your culinary genius of a grandmother."

"Dessert now or later?"

Illya raised an eyebrow.

"The tiramisu and cannoli are from the patisserie around the corner, my kitchen skills do not extend so far."

"Later. I'll wash while you make drinks, it's only fair if you were slaving over the hot stove all day," Illya grinned past his sarcasm.

Napoleon rolled his eyes and got up from the table. "Fine, I'll come back and dry in a minute."

They had a rhythm to taking care of household chores like washing and drying dishes, one that Napoleon found comforting, familiar, reassuring. And much like working together in the field, that rhythm just came naturally. So while they washed and dried and paused to sip their after dinner drinks, they talked about work and the latest speculation on THRUSH's next bid at world domination. Illya caught Napoleon up on the latest news from the UNCLE water cooler.

They put away the last of the dishes and moved into the living room, Illya refilled their drinks and sat next to Napoleon on the couch. They sat, as they had hundreds of times in the past, shoulder to shoulder, relaxed and shoeless, just enjoying the quiet or the talk as it flowed back and forth.

"This is your last weekend of freedom, back in harness on Monday."

"And none too soon. This has been the most boring week on record."

Illya looked over at Napoleon, who was leaning with his head on the couch back. The bruises were gone now and his voice was normal again, its usual smoothness thankfully returned.

As if he felt the scrutiny, Napoleon opened his eyes and turned his head just enough to look at his partner, eyes still half closed.

"It has been. Boring. Except the parts where you brought dinner over. Those were pretty good. And getting to sleep in my own comfortable bed. Those were ok, too." What Napoleon wasn't saying was that the parts where Illya spent the night every night were not boring. Frustrating, certainly. But not boring. Napoleon sighed with a contented sound. "No, you are not boring, partner mine."

"I have enjoyed your company this week as well, my friend."

They finished their drinks and Napoleon held up his glass, asking with out saying a thing if Illya wanted another.

"Later," was Illya's answer. Napoleon put both glasses on the coffee table and settled back again.

"You can ask, you know."

Illya again looked at his partner. The only sound was the quiet music from the radio, a mix of swing and jazz that they usually listened to when they were having dinner together in Napoleon's apartment. Finally, Illya cleared his throat. "I, ah, thought I would wait for you to..." Illya paused, too long.

"You choose the oddest times to be overly polite and too patient."

"I didn't want to, ah, well. I didn't want to push, Napoleon."

Napoleon turned, lighting fast, and put his arm around his partner's neck, pressing his mouth close to Illya's ear. "You have never pushed, tovarisch, unless I asked." Napoleon knew the effect his whisper in Illya's ear would have and let his breath out in a half sigh and then inhaled sharply, also knowing how that would curl Illya's toes. It did his when Illya did it to him. "I'm asking."

The smile that Illya gave him was like fireworks on Independence Day, it sparked and flared and lit his eyes bright. Napoleon returned it with one of his own, like the warmth of a picnic day in the park. Then he leaned in to press his lips to that illuminated smile. The heat between them was instant and welcome and benedictional, flowing like a rising tide, swelling steady and filling them with a joy full of renewal.

When Illya had finally found where the latest THRUSH enemy had been keeping Napoleon, he was sickened to the bottom of whatever he thought his soul was, the place was no better than a modernized Inquisition chamber. And they had taken notes. The first time Napoleon had tried to escape, they beat him severely. The second time he tried to escape, they beat the soles of his feet. The third time he tried to escape, they blistered the soles of his already bleeding feet with cigarettes. The 'interrogator' in charge had noted that the next attempt would lead to cutting the tendons behind the subject's knees. There had not been another attempt because by that time Napoleon was too weakened by lack of food and water and the blisters and the beatings. Not to mention the choking. They choked him repeatedly into unconsciousness, reviving him to ask their questions and starting over again with the straps and the blows. By the time Illya had found the place and gotten to the room Napoleon was locked in, his partner could no longer speak. He had been afraid that he would never again hear that teasing charm or the slick humour in the voice he had come to think of as dear to him, though he had never been able to admit that, even to himself.

The first week in Medical, the doctors had kept Napoleon sedated in order for his injuries to start to heal and to keep him from trying to speak. The second week, they only kept him comfortably drugged, groggy but responsive, but still would not allow him to do more than mouth the words he wanted to say. They brought him paper and pencils to communicate. He didn't write very much unless Illya came in, and then only to ask what had been done to the THRUSH nest. Illya simply told him that it had been burned out.

What Illya hadn't told Napoleon was that after salvaging every note taken about his incarceration, as well as the financial contributors list that Napoleon had originally infiltrated the nest to get, he had set enough explosives to blow the place up twice over. And then he had carried Napoleon on his own back all the miles it took to get back to the pick up point where UNCLE reinforcements were planning to meet them.

The third week that Napoleon was in Medical was hellish. The bruising and the blisters had started to fade, his throat was still circled by purple and yellow and he was allowed to walk again. But he was not allowed to talk. He wrote furiously on the pad of paper that the doctors were lousy with over-caution. The doctors threatened to sedate him again. He made a few rude gestures that didn't need written translation, but stayed quiet.

He was allowed to dress and walk in the park if accompanied by another UNCLE agent. Illya faithfully came everyday at lunch to escort him out into the sunshine. Even on days it rained, Napoleon insisted on going out, his pocket sized pad of paper and pencil in hand. But they rarely needed the paper and pencil, their own form of communication in gesture and look, mouthed words and subtle touches was enough. Illya did speak to tell Napoleon what was going on with current affairs and news from other sections. It was an odd reversal of roles, Illya doing the talking for the both of them and Napoleon the silent one.

They finally allowed Napoleon solid food that wasn't mashed potatoes and broth and the despised flavoured gelatin during that week, and then when his feet were completely healed and most of the bruising had gone away, they allowed him to speak. His voice was a rasping shadow of itself. The internal bruising was not gone. The doctors told him not to do more speaking unless they asked. But it hurt less and less to speak when they asked, and so the doctors agreed that he could go home if he agreed to stay quiet and do absolutely no singing, yelling or strenuous activities that would strain the still healing muscles and tissues of his throat and windpipe.

At that point he would have agreed to do his own paperwork for a year if they would just let him out of the dreary windowless Medical Section.

The nurses agreed that Napoleon was perfectly capable of flirting without saying a word, but it was unnerving. Illya laughingly reported this tidbit on one of their walks in the park, and Napoleon had only shrugged and used his pencil to write "leopard spots no change" and they had both smiled.

Finally, the doctors had agreed to let him out. The doctor had loaded him up with instructions and a vial of sleeping pills he knew he wouldn't need.

"Remember, no singing, no shouting, no yelling for a cab or doing anything that is going to strain your throat. And try not to throw up." Dr. Finlay handed over a printout of proscribed activities and a bottle of tiny white pills.

Napoleon just raised a brow.

"Try not to trigger a gag reflex or to vomit, these cause a muscle spasm in your throat and it may re-injure or cause worse damage to the tissues there. I would recommend not putting anything larger than your toothbrush or a spoon and fork in your mouth for the next week. Cut your food into very small pieces and chew it very well, your throat is too hurt to be taking big bites out of life, quite yet. I want to see you in here a week from Friday, and if your voice sounds good and I see nothing amiss, I will sign you back to active duty."

Napoleon's voice was whisky rough when he spoke, "Right, no gagging, no singing, no yelling, no strenuous activity. Got that." He folded up the paper, unread, and put it and the pill bottle in his pocket. "May I go?"

"One more thing, Napoleon." Dr. Finlay looked down at the paperwork on his desk, and if Napoleon didn't know better, he would have thought the doctor was hiding a blush.


"Well, uh, I don't want to be indelicate," he paused, "but you will need to, ah, go easy on the, ah, romantic activity."

"Come again?" Napoleon winced as his unintended double entendre, though the doctor didn't look up or comment on it.

"Whichever of the lovely nurses or secretaries you have picked out to be your welcome back to the land of the free and living, you need to, ah, go easy, ah I mean, gentle, um." He ground to a halt, having verbally painted himself into a spot he couldn't gracefully extricate himself from now. He sighed and looked up at Napoleon standing over his desk. "Napoleon, you should probably not even kiss too rigorously for now, and try not to, ah, engage in overly excitable, ah," he found he still couldn't find a delicate way to say it.

"You mean I should rest alone in my own bed and not in the arms of some winsome and available young thing offering comfort?"

"Ah, that puts it nicely, yes."

"Dr. Finlay, I promise to be good. As long as you promise that it is temporary." Napoleon gave him the most charming smile he could.

"A week from Friday, Napoleon. If you have healed sufficiently to be back in the field, you should be ready to go back to all the fields." Dr. Finlay smiled.

His first night at home had consisted of chicken noodle soup from his favourite deli and watching the rain outside his apartment window waiting for his partner to show up. When Illya had finally come in from his surveillance shift of a suspected THRUSH supporter, one of the names on the list he had retrieved from the nest where he had rescued Napoleon, he was greeted by a quiet partner.

Napoleon had warmed up left over soup on the stove while Illya took a hot shower to counteract the affects of skulking in the dark rain for half the night. Napoleon left the paper from the doctor on the table with the soup and resumed his vigil at the rain grey window with a glass of scotch.

Illya cleaned up after himself in the kitchen and joined Napoleon at the window. Napoleon picked up a glass of vodka he had already poured for his partner, his best friend, his lover. He handed it over and looked at Illya, finally.

Napoleon's voice was low and rasping, "I have missed you, so damn much."

"And I, you." Illya stepped closer, his shoulder resting against Napoleon's as they stood at the window, sipping and silent.

"Did I remember to say thank you?"

"For doing my job?"

"And mine, it would seem."

"Napoleon..." Illya started, but Napoleon interrupted him.

"Illya, I'm sorry. I wanted this particular homecoming to be somewhat," he paused, "ah, different."

"It'll keep, Napoleon."

"Speak for yourself, tovarisch." Napoleon's voice was low and still rasped, but finally Illya could hear the wry humour he was used to.

"We will just have to be, well, creative. And careful."

But that night they simply went to bed, subdued and quietly grateful. They didn't discuss it, they just got ready for sleep, as if they had found themselves sharing a motel room on a mission. They took turns in the bath, checked the doors and windows and secured their weapons under mattress and on nightstand table. But once the lights were out, they turned to one another.

Illya put his arms around Napoleon and kissed his hair and forehead, in the dark he would let himself touch and reassure them both that they lived. Napoleon rubbed his cheek against Illya's, feeling the familiar scratch of a day's growth of beard and inhaling the familiar warmth of his partner. They both relaxed into sleep without another word.

There was no air. He struggled to take in a breath but there was nothing. He was paralyzed and could find no way to take in even a small sip of air. He tried to thrash and call out but there was no use, he could do nothing.

Strong hands on his shoulders pulled him from the bands that kept him immobile and he came fully awake to the familiar scent and feel of home, Illya's voice murmuring to him, calming him, freeing him. He took in a deep breath of sweet cool air, sighed and relaxed against the strong chest at his back.

"Try not to sleep on your stomach, Napoleon, it will make the nightmares worse."

"Are you a mind reader now?"

"I have a very fertile imagination."

"I didn't expect the nightmare, it's been weeks now."

Illya stroked his hands through his partner's hair, soothing. "You have been given sedation every night for weeks. Perhaps that suppressed them. Shall I get the bottle?"

"No. I want..." Napoleon let out another sigh. "I want to forget the whole misbegotten affair, really. No, let me try again, if it keeps up, I will consider it, in a few days. Thank you."

Illya simply kept petting and soothing him, lulling him back into sleep.

Napoleon spent his days reading and when he finished the library books that Illya had brought him when he was trapped in Medical, he took them back to the library. He smiled to himself, watching the sweet young librarian lean over her desk to hear his still too quiet voice. Under other conditions, he realized he would have enjoyed the extra attention she paid him. He charmed and smiled and chose more books, leaving without her number, though she certainly dropped enough hints that it could be his for the asking.

In the evenings, Illya would show up, sometimes directly from work, other times having stopped and gotten dinner. Napoleon told him that he could cook just fine, but Illya, for whom food was more than sustenance, insisted that he should be convalescing not cooking.

The routine settled. They both could feel the weight of the time passing, slowly ticking by, unspoken and stretching out in front of them.

Illya woke to feel a familiar heaviness against his back, his partner. Since his return home from Medical, Napoleon had been sleeping restlessly and to keep him secured from nightmares, Illya often spent a great deal of the night awake, holding his lover and listening for his distress. The nightmares had not returned. This was the first morning he had awoken to the familiar pattern they often found themselves in, Napoleon spooned against his back, as they usually slept. It felt wonderful and Illya smiled, for the first time feeling like Napoleon was really on the mend. Something else was also familiar this morning, hard and insistent against the small of his back, his partner.

As he was devising a strategy for extricating himself from the tangle of limbs and bedclothes, Napoleon woke.

"Mmmm, missed this," his voice muffled by the crown of Illya's head where we was placing little kisses, Napoleon's voice sounded like a smile. "And this," he said as his hands smoothed down Illya's chest and belly, coming to rest on Illya's own awakening morning cock.

Illya placed his hands over Napoleon's, lacing their fingers together to draw his hands back up again, settling their joined hands at his midsection. "As have I, Napoleon. But we shouldn't."

"It's only a few more days."

"I know." Illya's voice betrayed a similar strain as his lover's.

"You know that I want you here, with me, for more than," Napoleon pushed his hard cock against Illya, sliding down a bit so it barely pressed between the cheeks of his ass, "but I miss that near as much as I missed you."

"I know."

"Let me, please," Napoleon moved so his lips brushed Illya's ear, knowing that it would ignite him like the explosives he so enjoyed, "let me take care of you, let me hear you come for me, mon coeur, spasibo, let me hear you, feel you." Napoleon slid his hands down again, carrying Illya's along with.

Illya's voice was rough with the early morning and with want, "No, Napoleon, not until you may join me, not until we can..." he broke off with a moan when Napoleon wrapped their joined hands around his hard cock, cupping his balls and lightly stroking his lover. Illya's hands gripped the ones stroking him.

"Please, Illya, there is no need for both of us to go without. Let me enjoy your pleasure, give that to me, won't you?" All the while, Napoleon lightly, teasingly stroked, long fingers enticing and loving.

"I, ah, Napoleon..." Illya arched against his lover's chest as Napoleon increased the pressure by the very smallest amount. "I shouldn't..."

"You should. You should let me please you as it pleases me," Napoleon whispered in Illya's ear, breath warm and maddening against his skin. "This isn't about equal shares Illya, it's about giving me what I want, mon coeur, it's about nothing but pleasure, for us both." Napoleon increased the pressure just a tiny fraction more, knowing that the teasing stroke would drive Illya mad. "Come for me, moyO sErtse, mon coeur, my heart," and with each endearment and each stroke Napoleon increased the pressure, his grip firm, knowing exactly what his lover enjoyed.

Napoleon felt the moment Illya gave himself over into his wishes, pressing himself against Napoleon's chest, hips starting to push in time to his lover's strokes, neck arching and hands no longer trying to direct his partner's away from him. Napoleon kept up the whispering litany of endearments and encouragements in as many languages as he could remember. Illya finally arched hard, exploding in Napoleon's arms and hands. Napoleon brought one hand up to lick his lover off the tips of his fingers.

"Mmm, miss that, too." Napoleon whispered. "Promise me something, lyubov," Napoleon asked, knowing he had Illya at a disadvantage now.


"Never feel guilt for pleasure, never deny yourself pleasure for me."

Illya turned enough to look his lover in the eye, sleepy and sated. "I... I wouldn't..."

"Yes, my Responsible Russian, you do. And while I admire your restraint, I thank you for letting me give you this gift, for being a gift to me."

Illya couldn't think of a response, brain still fuzzy from its recent lack of blood. He pressed a careful closed mouth kiss to Napoleon's lips, then turned to continue placing kisses, gentle and soft, to his eyelids and forehead and chin. "I could, if you can stay still and quiet, I could..."

"Non, mon coeur, I haven't your measure of restraint. But in a few days, we will make up for all the privations, yes?"


The last days of the week dragged by the way Napoleon remembered the last days of each school year seemed to drag by when he was a boy and eager for the freedom of Summer and play.

Friday morning, Napoleon thought it was never going to dawn. He woke early, slipping from the warm bed and his lover, showering and finding when he emerged that Illya had made coffee and was reading the paper at the table.

"Good morning."

"Here's hoping," Napoleon saluted Illya with his coffee mug.

Illya went and had his own shower, dressed from the guest room closet where the majority of his clothes resided and rejoined Napoleon in the kitchen.

"Shall we stop for some breakfast?" Napoleon asked. "We have plenty of time. Or I think there's still eggs left?"

"Breakfast out might be good, yes." Illya settled his coat over his shoulder holster, adjusting the hang of the jacket and looking back to Napoleon. "What time do you report to Medical?"

"As early as I think the right doctors are there." Napoleon smiled as he said it. Neither of them enjoyed mandatory trips to Medical, but today was an exception.

At the door, before they left for breakfast and then their workplace, Illya reached out and stopped his partner as he was ready to set the alarm. When Napoleon turned to him, Illya put one hand on Napoleon's cheek and then leaned in to press a chaste kiss on his lips. "Bonne chance, lyubov," he whispered.

Napoleon slipped his tongue along Illya's lips, insinuating inside, teeth lightly nipping Illya's lower lip and then tongue soothing, sliding along the curve and dipping in again, pushing along teeth that parted to allow him entrance, dancing his tongue along his partner's, tasting every inch of his warm mouth, sliding his hands up Illya's back to bury his hands in bright golden hair and pull him closer, encouraging him over to drape across him on the couch, all the while savoring the taste he had missed so much these last several endless weeks. Illya kissed him back with enthusiastic warmth, tongue exploring and teasing his, giving back everything Napoleon offered, exchanging the seeking back and forth, stroking his mouth with the same hunger that Napoleon gave him. Their breathing matched and steady, they knew how to keep this up for as long as it took to reacquaint themselves with each other.

When they broke the kiss, neither knowing how much time had passed, Illya kissed his way to Napoleon's ear, "Things went well at Medical, then." There was a smile in his voice.

"Yes. I've been returned to duty, certified one hundred percent fine for all fields of operation."

"One hundred percent fine, indeed."

"Illya, you mean you didn't think I was before? I'm crushed." Napoleon parted his thighs to hold his lover closer, to push his hard and frustratingly still clothed cock against Illya's equal hardness.

"Napoleon, how do you fit your ego through the door?" But the nipping kisses his partner placed along his jaw didn't really back up his words.

"Let me show you fit, my Doubting Russian." Napoleon pressed his hands down Illya's back to his ass to push him tighter to his body, massaging his hands over Illya's ass and thighs, pushing his hips up and Illya arched against him. Illya placed more nipping kisses down Napoleon's neck, softly teasing with his tongue and then back up again to his ear, laving the sensitive spot behind his ear and up into his hairline and down again, feeling the hum that Napoleon let out to show his appreciation, his arousal, his welcome.

Napoleon pulled the loose tie off and it landed somewhere behind the couch, then started working on the buttons of Illya's shirt. He pushed it open and then pulled the undershirt up so he could touch bare skin. He kissed down Illya's throat to his chest, licking and nibbling his way from one pebbled nipple to the other and then his hands slid to return to the firm ass and grip as he sucked and kissed and tasted.

Illya pressed closer, hands stroking Napoleon's hair and then sliding down to slip his hand between them and rub his palm against the bulge of Napoleon's interest in the proceedings. He leaned close, breath feather soft against Napoleon's ear, "Napoleon, let us move this to somewhere more suited, yes?" the only answer he got was a hum.

Napoleon, without taking his mouth from Illya's skin, pushed his lover back to a seated position, but rather than standing, he slid to the floor at Illya's feet, finally taking his mouth from his lover.


"A minute, mon coeur." Napoleon reached up and unbuckled the belt at Illya's waist, then slipped the button of his pants free and slid the zipper so slowly down that Illya knew he was doing it with purpose. He continued until the suit pants were open and then slid his hands down Illya's thighs and removed his socks before returning up to peel the pants and shorts off, Illya helped by taking off the holster and shirt, undershirt flying back to join the tie behind them. He watched Napoleon's face where a look of revelation glowed, as if he were opening the best gift he had ever gotten on Christmas morning and his birthday combined.

Napoleon bent to kiss the instep of one foot, then the ankle above the other, then working his way slowly up, pressed kisses up his lover's legs, pressing his knees open to kneel closer. Then he leaned up to press more nibbled kisses along Illya's belly and back down his thighs, hands smoothing over skin, massaging strong muscles, teasing fingertips along the soft skin behind Illya's knees. Finally centering back to the hard cock that was his goal all along. The tip of his tongue came out to flick and tease, his breath warm and maddening.


"Shhh. You wanted dessert later, I want mine now."

Napoleon slipped his lips around the head of Illya's cock, hard and soft at once, the texture so soft and the flesh so hard. He swirled his tongue around and around, tasting and humming as he did. Slowly he sucked Illya into his mouth, sliding him hilt deep one small bit at a time, Illya's hands fisted by his thighs with the effort of not thrusting his hips to bury himself in that tempting warmth. Napoleon stopped then, Illya as deep in his mouth as he'd ever been, and looked up to see his partner's eyes darkened to black, the smallest circle of blue rimmed the black dilated pupils. Napoleon hummed and Illya arched his neck back, eyes falling shut and then he let out a moan. Napoleon started stroking then, hands and mouth devouring his lover, stopping to lave his tongue over Illya's balls and then swallowing him again and stroking with his hands, tongue, lips. He slipped his saliva slick fingers down and between Illya's cheeks, seeking entrance, finding his way deep enough to stroke Illya's prostate and humming when that stroke made Illya's cock pulse against the roof of his mouth.

Illya let out another moan, barely able to warn Napoleon, but he knew. Napoleon knew his lover and every sensual trigger he had, and he swallowed every drop Illya gave him, not stopping until Illya relaxed again above him. Then he kissed his way back up, pulling his lover forward to reach his lips finally, again, and was rewarded with a shattering kiss, Illya plundering his mouth, his hands sliding into Napoleon's hair to hold him while he drank in the scent and taste of himself on his lover's mouth.

Illya finally broke the kiss, sliding his mouth to his lover's ear to whisper, "Come to bed with me, Napoleon."


Somehow between the couch and the bed, Illya managed to strip Napoleon as bare as he was, an uncharacteristic spill of clothing marking their trail. Skin to skin at last, they tumbled to the bed, Illya kissing and stroking every part of his lover he could reach, pushing him into the soft sheets with his weight, stroking his body against his lover's.

Illya slid down tasting his way across the bared field of his partner, licking and sucking and biting and soothing with hands and mouth, teasing nipples into pebbled hardness, laving his tongue on the cords in Napoleon's neck, suckling his Adam's apple at throat, dipping his fingers and then tip of tongue in his navel, biting kisses along the crease of his thigh, he was everywhere at once, it seemed to a delighted Napoleon. And then that warm wicked mouth was swallowing him, licking up and down and up again to engulf his hard cock, tongue and lips working him, mastering him, pushing his desperate arousal higher and harder, sucking him impossibly hard and Napoleon cried out as he spilled into the hot swallowing mouth of his lover.

Illya looked up when his partner let out the hoarse sound, saw only bliss on that beloved face and settled himself over his lover, supporting himself on his elbows as he leaned in to kiss Napoleon, the mix of their musky tastes melding on their tongues. The rasp of Napoleon's voice was reassuringly normal for his climaxing cry, and Illya smiled into the kiss.

"Come closer, moyO sErtse," Napoleon whispered.

Illya put his lips to Napoleon's ear, "How much closer can I get, lyubov?"

Napoleon rubbed his hand down Illya's chest and belly, taking his again hard cock in his hand and stroking with firm, knowing pressure, and his other hand ran up under the pillow to pull out a vial of petroleum jelly, "Closer, Illya, as close as you can be, I want you in me, now."

Illya let out a growl in Napoleon's ear, causing Napoleon to moan with need in response. He took the vial from his partner and opened it, slicking his fingers with it and sliding them slowly into his lover. As he worked his fingers, first one and then two inside, he suckled at Napoleon's shoulder, sucking hard until red bloomed there, then moved down, applying his teeth and tongue and lips leaving a trail of lovebites as he worked a third finger in, stroking his lover's prostate and growling with satisfaction at the increased moans of pleasure.

"Now Illya, I need you, have needed you so much."

Illya moved back up to kiss the words from Napoleon's mouth, "As I have need of you, Napoleon."

Illya moved to position himself, pushing Napoleon's knees up and over his arms, pulling his hips up and angling himself, stopping to just look at the abandon in his partner's face, the love there in his eyes.

"Please," it was a whisper full of want and a command as well.

Illya pushed, slow and steady, filling Napoleon with his hard length, seating his cock all the way to the hilt, feeling Napoleon's muscles constricting around him, knowing when he was stimulating Napoleon's prostate again by the arching of his back and the moaned 'yes' he ground out. He repositioned Napoleon's legs so he could push forward and kiss his partner, then pulled back to thrust again and again into the welcoming heat. He held himself up one handed so he could reach between them and stroke his lover's cock in time with his thrusts.

Napoleon's eyes were dark, never leaving Illya's as they pushed faster toward climax, Napoleon rising to meet Illya, matching strokes, one hand braced against the headboard of the bed, the other on Illya's shoulder, gripped tightly, supporting his lover, pulling him into him, as deep as he could encourage him.

"Come for me, lyubov, I want to hear it, come for me," and Illya increased the speed of his hand on Napoleon's cock, pushing deep and pulling back almost entirely out to plunge in again, steady and sure in a dance they knew well. "Close, Napoleon, so close," he leaned in to growl close to his lover's ear and Napoleon arched and came, hard, never stopped watching Illya, crying out his pleasure with inarticulate half words in their own loving language.

Illya climaxed then, feeling Napoleon clench around him, his own back arching and joining in the cry of satisfaction, adding his voice to the chorus.

Sated, they lay in one another's arms, breath slowing, hands lazily stroking. Napoleon rolled and with a kiss to Illya moved to get up only to have a broad hand push him back down. "No, stay." Another kiss and Illya stood and went to the bath, returning with a warm wet washcloth and went through their ritual of washing, a loving aftertouch they performed for one another, as much a part of their lovemaking as kissing was, or stroking or any of the intimate acts they gifted to each other. Illya disappeared again into the bath and when he came back, the bed was empty.

Illya found Napoleon in the kitchen, still bare as the day he was born, gathering spoons from the drawer, pastries already on a plate.

Napoleon turned and gave Illya a brilliant smile. He shoved the drawer shut with a hip and picked up the plate, kissed Illya on his way by and led the way back to the couch. Illya followed.

One plate, half the tiramisu and two of the cream filled cannoli, two spoons and refilled glasses, Napoleon grinned up at his partner from his place on the couch.

"It's later, isn't it?"

"Yes, Napoleon, it is." Illya sat at his side, took up a spoon and took a bite of the tiramisu.

"Thank you, tovarisch," Napoleon leaned in and whispered in Illya's ear.

Illya turned toward his partner and raised one brow, head slightly tilted to one side.

"For waiting for me."

"Good things come for those who wait, is that not what your people say?" Illya grinned.

Napoleon laughed, head thrown back in delight.

"Yes, indeed they do, partner mine, indeed they do."

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