The Week Link Affair

by Nickovetch

Illya juggled his briefcase, takeout, and keys as he leaned against the door to his apartment, weary beyond description, and desperately hungry. If he had to drop anything, it wouldn't be his dinner. He made an adjustment, pushed against the jamb with his foot and nearly went ass-over-teakettle into his living room as the door gave way. He caught himself at the last moment, but not before the bag with his Chinese went spilling onto the landing. White cardboard containers bounced along the faded and chipped linoleum, as well as square boxes could, at any rate. One popped open and spilled two eggrolls, and Kuryakin has to sidestep to keep from kicking them with his booted toe.

He dropped his case on the coffee table and tried not to loose the string of Russian profanity curdling on his tongue. He took a moment to calm and then picked up the eggrolls, stuffing one whole in his mouth, relishing the hot spicy taste and the grease dripping down his chin.

He couldn't remember his last meal, so he tore into the remaining boxes and ate sitting on the floor next to his secondhand coffee table. He leaned against the sagging stuffing of the couch, too tired to even get up and sit on it. Light suffused feebly through the grimy windows, leftover from the streetlights below. It was sufficient to eat by, and right now that was enough. He finished off the cartons, scraping the last of the fried rice out with his plastic fork, belched, sighed, and slid down until his head hit the couch cushion. He was asleep before the fork fell from his lax fingers.

Napoleon Solo had monitored the communications board at headquarters, knowing Illya was due back from Venezuela this evening. Solo was on light duty, having broken his left hand on a rather large Thrush jawbone during his last assignment. The rest of the accompanying anatomy had been just as distressingly outsized, and he had taken more than his share of damage before Illya had leaped onto the goon's back and they had taken him down together.

So on this assignment Illya had been, well, solo. Napoleon always worried when his partner was on an affair without him as backup. When the call had come in reporting Kuryakin as in route to H.Q. he had visibly relaxed, and began finishing his work details so he could clock out for the night. By the time Solo could leave, his partner had come and gone, delivering his report and handing in his paperwork to the auditing department. He left though the garage exit and pulled out into the busy weekday Manhattan traffic. He headed toward Greenwich, and Illya.

Traffic was heavy, but Solo knew a few shortcuts that weren't on the tourist maps. He parked a block away from Illya's brownstone, and bounded up the stoop, using the extra key Illya'd given him early in their partnership. He took the flight of stairs to the first hallway, and stopped in front of his door. He didn't hear anything, but caught a whiff of Chinese food, and smiled. Illya was home.

He let himself in, and closed and reset the door lock behind him. It was dark in the apartment, a bit of glow coming in the living room windows. He let his eyes adjust to the gloom, and homed in on the bright blond hair of his lover, asleep on the floor. He was surrounded by the detritus of his supper, and Solo followed the line of destruction from the front door to the coffee table. He shook his dark head, amused by the single-mindedness of his Soviet, particularly where food was involved. He walked over to the couch, sitting on the other end, quietly taking an inventory. Illya was out cold, his head propped up by the cushion and the rest of him sprawled underneath the table. Solo merely sat, taking in the nearness of him, knowing on a subconscious level Kuryakin was aware of his presence, the smell of his aftershave, the character of his footfalls, the cadence of his breathing.

Illya stirred a few moments later, raised his head and blearily looked at his partner. "'Poleon," he managed to mutter, sitting up and running the back of his hand across his mouth. "What am I...oh," he said as he realized he was home. "What are you doing here?" He blinked owlishly at Solo, his eyes doing the crossing thing they did when he was drunk or exhausted.

"Is that any way to greet your long lost partner?" Solo placed his hand over his heart in mock umbrage.

Kuryakin snorted. "'Long lost.' I've been gone a week." He yawned hugely.

Solo smiled. "It's seemed long to me, and I've been lost without you."

Illya was regaining his considerable wits. "I'm sure you were never at a loss for company." He scowled at his partner, who looked impeccably groomed, even at this hour. He must have shaved before he left H.Q. tonight, he thought blearily. He glanced down at the suit he'd worn for thirty-six hours straight and shrugged.

"You have no right coming here looking the way you do after the week I've had, Napoleon." He tried for affrontedness, but sounded petulant. Solo merely raised his eyebrows and inched closer. "I'm tired..." another inch. "I haven't changed clothes..." and another. "I'm dirty..." and Napoleon closed the gap, murmuring against his neck under the ear, "Filthy." He rubbed his silky smooth cheek against Illya's stubbled one and heard his lover groan, despite the exhaustion. Smiling, he took Illya's lips in a bruising and needy kiss, crushing their lips together and bumping chins, nothing at all smooth about it, their need for each other overriding. Solo lapped against Illya's tongue with his own, recognizing the flavor as Hunan spicy beef, Illya's favorite dish. He placed his hand on the Russian's chest, pulling the shirt further apart and dragging the tie askew.

Illya broke the contact and gulped for air, pushing Solo's hand away. "No, Napoleon, I need a shower..."

Solo's hand tangled further into his hair and he pulled Kuryakin closer, his hot breath washing over the open panting mouth. "Now, Illya, I've got what you need..." he whispered, pulling Illya underneath him, straddling his hips and yanking the damaged shirt open, tearing it off and leaving the tie around his neck, teasing and flicking his fingertips over the exposed nipples. He used the tie ends to pull Illya's head to him, sucking on the slender neck and targeting the pouty mouth once again. Illya's protests were swallowed along with his questing tongue and they spent time reacquainting themselves with one another. Illya arched up against his lover, wanting Solo to feel just what his mouth was doing to him, and just where he preferred him to use it.

Napoleon pushed down, not allowing Illya to take control. "Ah, ah, ah, Illusha. Not yet. Not..." (lick) "just..." (lick) "...yet." He wrapped the tie around his good fist, keeping Illya right where he wanted him, and went to work on the peaked and puckered nipples, sucking and blowing hot moist air over them.

Once Illya was a jittering wreck beneath him, he went back up to the neck, laving and biting both earlobes and tickling them with his tongue. He used the casted hand to push against Illya's shoulder, holding him more or less in place. Illya turned his head and used one hand to direct the fingers sticking out of the plaster to his mouth, suckling each digit one at a time, tonguing the knuckles. Solo groaned low and deep until Kuryakin took the entire thumb, fellating it as he would Napoleon's cock. That got his attention, and he relented, moving down the smooth white chest, nosing in the patch of pale hair at Illya's sternum, heading for glory.

Illya let Solo's thumb go with an obscene 'pop,' and sighed, knowing his lover was as needy as he was now. He felt Napoleon's warm hands caressing his abdomen, working his belt open and pulling at the zipper of his slacks. He didn't bother to strip his lover, merely pulled the shorts down far enough to get at the hard column of taut flesh rising out of the nest of dark blond hair. The merest hint of crown showed through the foreskin, and Napoleon exhaled against it, not touching. Illya shivered at the warm scudding breath, and Solo grinned at his conquest of the younger man beneath him. Illya's exhaustion made him needier, beggared of control, swamped by his mutinous nerve endings firing under Solo's onslaught. Napoleon touched the tip of his tongue to the crescent of hood showing and was ready when Illya's hips surged against him, disallowing the blatant show of presumption. He only proceeded when Illya relaxed, and then rewarded the behavior by pulling the foreskin down with his good hand, and kissed the tip. Fluid oozed down the slit and dripped onto Solo's hand, and Illya whimpered.

Napoleon looked up into his lover's eyes, made sure Illya was watching, and licked the pre-cum off his hand and then suckled the rest from his cock, taking him halfway down. Solo heard and felt Illya's deep resonating groan his mouth had caused and pulled the foreskin back and forth over the sensitive tip, masturbating Illya with his mouth alone. Illya was gyrating under his casted hand, and Solo let him have some freedom of movement. The Russian was slowly and steadily fucking his mouth, and Napoleon was lost in the heady taste and smell of his lover using him for his own pleasure. He was the only man Illya'd ever trusted to this degree, to allow the neediness to show, to know that his pleasure sparked an answering one in his partner.

When he felt the energy change, a desperation beginning, he slowed the oral assault, and placed a controlling circle of fingers around the base of Illya's erection. "Napoleeeooon..." he complained, trying to inch away and finish.

"Oh, no you don't, not yet. I'm not through by a long shot. No pun intended." He smirked at Illya, who dropped his head back onto the couch, knowing if he looked at Solo, he'd have to kill him.

Napoleon waited until Illya's abdominal muscles relaxed a bit and then slowly slid the circle of fingers up and down the long erection, taking the loose skin with him and covering the tip at the apex and then pulling it back down at the nadir. He kept the friction steady but loose, and slowly, slowly, too slowly, judging by the slurs of sound Illya was making, tightened his grip on the upturn. Another dribble of fluid slipped down the hard cock, and Solo knew neither of them had much time. He swapped his hand with his mouth and suckled and pulled on Illya, distracting him for a couple of moments while he divested himself of his own encumbering trousers. He kicked off his shoes and then redoubled his mouth action, swirling around the head and deep-throating. Just at the arc of one ascent, he climbed atop Illya's sweaty body and rubbed his rock-hard cock against Illya's. This was where his one-handed approach created a major handicap. He stropped his hardness against Illya's and grunted, thrusting against the smooth skin of Illya's belly.

He groaned out one word. "Illya?"

Illya shook as though chilled, blinked at his lover and saw the problem. "I've got you, Napoleon," he whispered in one pink ear. He snaked a hand between them, linked with his lover's fingers and formed a cage around their combined erections, pushing firm flesh against firmer.

Keeping Illya contained had worked against Solo. Now he was close, so close, yet he wanted this reunion to last. He kissed Illya deeply, grunting into his open mouth at each squeeze from their joined hands. His tongue slid against Illya's and he lapped at the pool of saliva under his tongue. Illya still had one free hand, and he used it to glide along the strongly-muscled back while sucking on Solo's chin, dipping his tongue-tip in the cleft.

Solo pushed harder against his lover, and gasped into his ear, "Illya, I'm...mmmpf."

The Russian didn't let him finish, merely slid his lips across to Napoleon's, fastening to them at the same time he slipped his fingers into the cleft of Solo's ass, sliding across the exquisitely sensitive pucker of flesh there. Solo yowled, the sound muffled by Illya's mouth, and he stiffened, hanging for one glorious moment on the precipice, and then fell headlong into it, pumping against Illya's body, stilling finally as the semen pulsated out of him and bathed their hands in an organic wave. Each jet dragged a grunt of pleasure out of Solo until he was dry, shuddering with pulses of aftershocks.

Illya continued to milk him, wanting it to last. The feel of the hot splatter against his oversensitive flesh, the sounds coming from his lover's throat, and the sense of him under his hands all battered against the shreds of his control, and Illya convulsed, adding his pearly essence to mix with Napoleon's, the older man regaining enough neurons in time to pump his lover's cock, giving him the release he'd just gloried in. Solo felt the strong spurts and rubbed the slit, giving Illya the friction he needed to wrest the last drops out of his spasming head.

Illya broke contact, needing to draw in oxygen to feed his overwrought system, and Napoleon went limp against him, letting his weight drop on the smaller man. He kissed what skin he could reach, the junction between Illya's shoulder and arm, and he felt Illya's panting breath against his neck.

They stayed pressed against each other, until full dark was upon them. Illya reached for the ruins of his shirt, then gently pushed against Solo who flopped weakly against the couch back. Illya's head went between Solo's legs, taking the flaccid penis in his mouth and suckling their combined essence from it and the surrounding skin. He lapped at the pools of drying semen, tasting both of their offerings and then straddled Napoleon, kissing him deeply and bathing his tongue with their seed. They fed from one another, giving and taking, this act reminiscent of their partnership and of their coupling. Illya shed the rest of his clothing, wiped them dry with the wreck of his shirt, and urged Solo back down onto the couch, where he resumed his oral inventory. A week really had been a long time...

Solo sighed, letting Illya lead this time, watching in slit-eyed pleasure as his reawakening cock began to grow and fill Illya's lush mouth. Rather than waning, their earlier release merely waxed the desire they had for each other, and Solo wondered for the thousandth time how he had managed to find a lover the likes of one Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin. The blond chose that moment to look at him, and the love and desire pooling in the blue eyes nearly stole Solo's breath. He touched Illya's cheek, cupping it as it hollowed and filled, the steady pull and suck taking Solo along for the ride. He looked down, saw that Illya was hard again as well, and groaned when he felt Illya's mouth against his testicles, his entire cock enveloped in the inviting mouth.

"Illya. I want you. I want to take you. Hard. Hard and hot." He reluctantly pulled him off his rampant cock, and took Illya's in hand as he sat on his hips. Illya's erection was long and red, the foreskin making it look like a hooded snake. "Do you want me to take you, here, now? Tell me, Illya. Tell me, yes."

Illya leaned into Solo, did something under a cushion with one hand and whispered, "Yes," as he placed a tube of gel into Solo's uncasted hand. Illya wrapped his fingers around Napoleon's and they squeezed a glob of lube onto Solo's erection. Illya slid the lube across the broad head, fascinated as usual by the absence of a foreskin. He'd once told Solo that he thought his cock looked cold without its jacket, and Solo had laughed until he cried. Napoleon took more lube and coated his good hand and then scooted Illya forward on his lap giving him access to his ass. Illya levered up a few inches, allowing Napoleon to slip a finger into him, pushing the gel inside the pucker. Kuryakin rode up and down on the digit, and Solo added more fingers until they were both past ready, and Illya grasped Solo's thick cock and slid down onto it, steadily and gratifyingly for them both.

Napoleon remained still, his earlier orgasm giving him the control he needed not to thrust into the tightness. Illya's eyes were closed, but once his thighs made contact with Solo's and he was completely inside, he groaned and opened them, looking into the face of his lover.

"You're in charge, Illya. Take it any way you want it."

"I want it hard, Napoleon. 'Hard and hot.'" He smiled, parroting Solo's desire.

Napoleon's cock twitched hearing Illya talk dirty to him, and he began to push into the willing body. After a few loosening thrusts, Solo put his back and legs into it, and Illya rose up and down, helping in his own ravishment. When Solo pushed up, Illya pushed down, and they went back and forth like a sexual seesaw, building toward the inevitable. Napoleon was suddenly grateful for all the sit-ups he did on a regular basis, thrusting into his partner faster now, faster.

"Illya, are you ready?"

Past words, his lover nodded, so Solo gathered him in his arms, pulling their chests closer and then really let loose, plunging into the lithe body atop him, hearing Illya's cries of pleasure in his ear, feeling him accept the hard pounding, still trying to push back against him even in this position. Solo felt his orgasm building, and he took Illya's cock and pulled with the same rhythm his own metered out. Illya cried out, sharp and loud as he spasmed a second time, jetting against Solo's stomach and chest, mewling in a transport of carnal ecstasy, as if the earlier orgasm had primed him for this one. Napoleon joined him a few moments later, driving inside one last time, filling Illya with his coming, waiting until the ripples of pleasure abated, then resumed his thrusting while his cock was still fully hard. Illya cried out with each thrust, aftershocks of orgasm sparking along his nerve endings, prolonging the rapture of their joining. Solo could feel his copious emission leaking out around his cock, and thrust even more, wanting to mark Illya as his, wanting to drive his DNA deeply into his tissues, making them even closer than they already were.

Finally, he began to soften and he let himself draw out naturally, hissing with loss as he came away from his lover's snug passage, feeling bereft in a way he could never understand completely. Illya, too, groaned at their separation, and slumped bonelessly against Napoleon's hard body, his satiety hitting him full on. Napoleon lifted Illya off the couch, nearly asleep against him, feeling Illya's legs wrap around his waist automatically, head rolling to its accustomed place on his shoulder. He walked down the hall to the bedroom, yanked the spread down and sat gently, eased Illya over to his side, spooned up behind him, and covered them both with the blanket.

"'Poleon?" Illya managed to mutter.

Napoleon tightened his arms around him in a bear hug, kissed his neck and answered, "It's okay, Illya. We're home. We're both home."