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Every blown cover begins with the exact same thing: the flicker of suspicion. Napoleon can always see it in their eyes, almost like a flash, the way a cat’s eyes catch the light in a dark room. Sometimes Napoleon is able to charm himself out of the realm of doubt. Other times, like tonight, he realizes that he should have bolted when he had the chance. The flicker has turned to a glare, and although he valiantly makes his excuses and slips away into the crowd, he already knows it’s too late. He just couldn’t resist the urge to try and talk himself out of it.
The party is noisy and crowded, the perfect sort of place to accidentally bump into a notorious crime kingpin and pass yourself off as a friend of a long-forgotten acquaintance. Napoleon had been charged with his usual task of ingratiation— well, you can’t win them all. If he’s quick he might just be able to make it out the door before the jaws of the trap snap shut.
Up ahead he sees two massive men in matching suits moving to block his path.
Then again, maybe not.
They’ve got him upstairs in a secluded room in record time. Hands on the wall, legs kicked apart, and then he’s roughly, methodically, poked and prodded and groped and stripped of every last thing that could be used as a weapon. Watch, pen, wallet, keys— but not his shoes. Napoleon clenches his toes inside the fine Italian leather, sinking his weight down onto the heels that still hold two tiny Soviet tracking devices. There was a time when he never thought he might be pleased to look up and find the Red Peril looking back at him. Now there’s nothing else in the world he’d rather see.
The kingpin doesn’t even have time to make it upstairs for the interrogation. Illya comes in through the window like a cannonball, showering the matching suits with broken glass and sledgehammer punches. Napoleon grabs up his gear and leads the way back out again, and as he races off into the maze of the city, he’s aware of Illya rushing along behind him, guarding Napoleon’s back from any return fire by blocking it with his own. Napoleon knows how to lose a tail. Within minutes they’ve taken so many turns and doubled back on so many roads that any attempt to pursue them has long ago ended in frustration.
An unlit alley provides a perfect safe harbor. They twist around a corner and all at once they’re cut off from the lights and sounds of the city, the air muffled and hushed except for the sound of their labored breathing.
Napoleon forces his burning lungs to produce a nonchalant chuckle.
“And here I thought I was doing so well.”
“Stupid cowboy,” Illya pants, his hands braced on his knees. “They knew. You knew they knew and you stayed to chat. You think you’re such smooth talker.”
“I don’t think I’m a smooth talker,” Napoleon smirks in spite of himself. “I know.”
But Illya is not amused. He rears back up to his full height, his face still flushed with exertion, every exhale hissing between clenched teeth.
“You are reckless,” he seethes. “This is not a game.”
“Of course it’s a game,” Napoleon breezes back. “But don’t worry, I never risk anything that I’m not prepared to lose.”
Illya takes one forceful stride towards him. “And what about what I am willing to lose?”
The smirk fades from Napoleon’s features. Feeling suddenly guilty, he gives his attention over to the act of replacing everything that was forcefully removed from his person, setting it all back to rights again. He fastens his watch onto his wrist, tucks his pen back into the inner breast pocket of his jacket, all while Illya watches him with keen, unflinching intent.
“They searched you,” he mutters.
“Thoroughly,” Napoleon remarks, stowing his wallet and keys in his pockets.
Illya takes another one of those firm, looming steps, pressing his massive frame into Napoleon’s personal space.
“How thoroughly?” he demands.
Too thoroughly, Napoleon thinks, his skin still feeling raw in the places where cruel hands pawed at his belly and thighs. It’s easier to resort to innuendo than honesty, however, and he employs his usual flirtatious bravado as a smokescreen.
“Well,” he says flippantly, buttoning his jacket. “As far as frisking a suspect goes, I have to say they seemed to particularly enjoy the ‘frisk’ portion of the agenda.” He grins and gestures up and down the length of his body. “Can you blame them?”
He hadn’t even realized his back was almost to the wall, not until Illya slams his hand against it over Napoleon’s shoulder, leaving Napoleon with his spine pressed into the rough brick. His smile falters.
“Steady there, Peril.”
In a strange, rough voice, Illya demands, “And you?”
Napoleon glances about uncertainly. “And I... what, exactly?”
“Did you enjoy it?”
Napoleon looks up and discovers what can only be described as the ghost of an outraged grimace lurking behind those stern Russian features. He looks down and sees Illya’s finger tapping feverishly against his thigh, the telltale sign that his impeccable Soviet control is on the verge of an uncharacteristic slip. Perhaps he’s offended by Napoleon’s brazen carnal implications; how very Western, how very weak. Instantly Napoleon is smitten with the impulse to antagonize him, and he shifts his weight with great deliberation, rocking his shoulders back against the rough brick wall as he offers up a guileless shrug.
“Did I?” he wonders, furrowing his brow. “Hmm. One must admit that there’s a certain sort of... thrill, in being handled so rigorously.” He spares Illya an idle glance. “They sure weren’t shy about it.”
He watches the muscles in Illya’s neck and jaw pull impossibly tighter. His teeth must be groaning in protest, his eyes blazing with silent outrage. It’s obvious, now. He’s not offended. He’s... jealous.
Napoleon is riveted by the sight. It’s not only the fact that jealousy happens to look good on the Red Peril; it’s the simple fact that he’s jealous at all that has Napoleon so captivated. He can’t remember the last time anyone regarded him as something worth being jealous over. He’s grown rather accustomed to being considered something... well, maybe not disposable, exactly...
“They had no right,” Illya says heatedly, and Napoleon breaks out in gooseflesh all along his forearms.
“Oh, but they had every right,” he persists. “I was trespassing. They were only doing their job.” He can’t help himself; he gives a suggestive wink. “A very good job, I might add.”
This time he’s ready for it when Illya’s other hand slices past his shoulder and plants itself behind him. Now he’s bracketed by a pair of arms like steel girders, and with a brick wall at his back and the human equivalent at his front, Napoleon could safely describe himself as well and truly pinned.
“Not such a good job.” Illya’s eyes gleam with triumph. “They didn’t check shoes.”
It’s the way he says it; fierce and proud, almost like he’s staking a claim. Napoleon swallows hard. The raw feeling in his skin has given way to something else entirely. It’s still concentrated in the same places — belly, thighs, ass — but it’s not an ache anymore. It’s an itch. Only a lifetime of bluffing enables him to keep his voice steady.
“And I suppose you think that you could do better?”
Illya curls his lip in distaste. “This is obvious.”
“I’m afraid I can’t take your word on that,” Napoleon says. “You’ll have to prove it.”
There it is— Illya’s eyes go wide with indignation, at the sheer audacity of the suggestion that anyone else might be more skilled or efficient than the KGB’s best agent. He doesn’t even have to speak for Napoleon to know that the challenge has been accepted.
Like a striking cobra, Illya’s left hand darts to Napoleon’s shoulder and rams it back into the wall, his fingers curling around the joint in a viselike grip. With his right hand he deftly pops open the buttons on Napoleon’s jacket— no, of course he wouldn’t tear them off, he could never do that to a Rubinacci— before darting his grip inside, his palm going flat against Napoleon’s chest. Napoleon sucks in a startled breath. It happened so fast.
Illya never breaks eye contact. He stares defiantly at Napoleon, the one hand pinning him to the wall while the other begins a brisk, orderly search, feeling down the length of his torso in increments and hemispheres, top to bottom, left and right. Napoleon stares back at him, eyebrows raised expectantly, keenly aware of the size of Illya’s hands, huge and rough as they crawl all over his willing body.
Flipping open the Rubinacci jacket, Illya dips his fingers into the inner breast pocket and draws out the silver pen. He wags it in front of Napoleon’s nose like an owner waving a shredded slipper at a misbehaving dog, then drops it with a clatter onto the pavement underfoot. He runs his palm out over Napoleon’s arms one after the other; when he reaches the watch he picks apart the clasp one-handed, then stows it in his own pocket because he’s too conscientious to drop it, even in this agitated state.
On he goes, making short work of the buttons of Napoleon’s waistcoat and then running the back of his hand down the line of his shirt buttons, feeling for any irregularities. When he reaches the belt buckle, he slips his thumb between the polished silver and the button of Napoleon’s fly, examining the surface of the metal by touch.
He’s too close. Napoleon gives a clipped, involuntary gasp, his hips twitching towards the warmth of Illya’s hand. He moves just enough that the tented front of his trousers presses up into the waiting spread of Illya’s fingertips, and just like that, his cover is blown.
He expects Illya to yank his hand away in surprise, or even worse, disgust. He does not expect that hand to spasm into a fist, clenched around his belt like a lifeline. Illya’s knuckles dig into the soft spot just below Napoleon’s navel and for a moment the whole world spins out of focus. Then Napoleon’s eyes find Illya’s— just like they always do, whether it’s from across a crowded plaza or just sitting across the table— and their gazes lock, and hold.
They’ve spent months learning how to read each other’s thoughts from a single glance. Now the message passes between them, unbidden and unspoken. The quality of the air changes, abruptly charged with energy, like a bolt of lightning is building up in the sky directly over their heads. The alley is so quiet. Napoleon can hear Illya breathing with the kind of metronomic precision that only comes with concentrated effort.
Then the grip on his shoulder tightens, and with one tremendous heave Illya spins him to face the wall.
Napoleon catches himself on his hands, the rough brick biting into his palms. A moment later and Illya crowds against him from behind, over two hundred pounds of solid muscle and Napoleon grunts under the weight of him, Illya’s broad chest bearing down on the span of his shoulders. He can feel Illya’s answering erection digging into the cleft of his ass, achingly hard even through the layers of clothing that separate them. Napoleon hisses and arches his back into the contact.
He can’t contain his low, shuddering moan as Illya’s hands start to rove over his body— my God, he’s continuing the search. Strong, insistent fingers dig into the pockets over Napoleon’s hips, groping about even after they find them empty. Then they move on to his back pockets, ripping out his wallet and keys and then diving back in again to squeeze his ass through the lining, all while Illya keeps shoving his body against Napoleon until his arms are shaking from the strain of supporting them both.
“Peril,” he gasps, and he gasps again when Illya nuzzles his mouth against the side of his neck in reply.
“You make too much noise,” he growls. “No good for covert operation.”
One powerful arm snakes up Napoleon’s chest, fingertips grazing their way along his throat, over his chin— and then Illya’s left hand clamps down hard over Napoleon’s open, panting mouth. A toe-curling moan bubbles up from Napoleon’s chest and into the creases of Illya’s palm — callused and bitter to the taste — and oh, God, Napoleon quite literally can’t stand it anymore and he folds like a bad hand of poker.
They lurch forward together. Somehow Napoleon manages to catch himself on his left elbow, his body canting instinctively towards the arm Illya has wrapped around him. He’s right up against the wall now, Illya pressed over him from shoulder to heel, so close that Napoleon half-imagines he can feel that formidable heart thundering against the ridge of his spine. He shifts his arm so that it’s laid out on the brick from elbow to wrist, then drops his sweat-drenched forehead against the welcome cushion of his forearm. This is a much better brace position. It leaves one hand free.
“Weak arms,” Illya scolds, his grip still latched securely over Napoleon’s mouth. “Typical American deficien— ah—”
The taunt breaks off into a hiss as Napoleon reaches blindly behind him, knocks the cap off that sleek blond head, and grabs a handful of Illya’s hair. He twists and Illya hisses again, his breath furnace-hot against the side of Napoleon’s neck, his body somehow burrowing even closer around him. They’re fused together now, tangled like the tumblers in a combination lock, impossible to separate by force.
And even now, even like this, Illya hasn’t forgotten the challenge. Stubborn and unstoppable, he carries on with the search, his unencumbered right hand marching relentlessly down the length of Napoleon’s thigh, squeezing around the circumference of it in descending sections. Every pinch and tug causes Napoleon’s trousers to scrape at his aching cock, and he squirms his hips in desperation, trying to steer Illya towards his relief. Illya reprimands him by tightening the fingers curled around Napoleon’s jaw. He’s determined to complete the examination, to touch every place the others would have touched, until no fingerprint remains other than his own. It’s an admirable level of dedication— Napoleon hates to rush him—but the need has spread through his whole body now, his limbs throbbing and his skin pounding, and he can’t wait anymore.
He tries wringing his grip in Illya’s hair to see if that will speed up his work— but Illya just snarls and endures it, well-trained in the art of ignoring pain.
He tries laving his tongue against Illya’s palm, hoping it will urge him on— but Illya just patiently traces an answering lick along the curve of Napoleon’s straining neck, while Napoleon squirms and whines in agonized frustration.
At last, and with no subtlety at all, Napoleon flexes his hips and grinds his ass back against Illya’s hard-on as indecently and insistently as he can.
Illya’s whole body jolts like a car switching gears. His hand clenches into a fist around the material of Napoleon’s pants, a momentary stall before the clutch slams home.
Then he tears into the buckle of Napoleon’s belt, working it open one-handed just like the watch clasp, giving the same swift treatment to his button and fly. He’s so close— so close— Napoleon yanks his hand out of Illya’s hair and clutches at his wrist instead, pushing him down, pushing him in, until finally Illya’s hand slips into his trousers and takes hold of him.
It’s a lucky thing that Illya had the presence of mind to stifle him; Napoleon can’t contain the long, protracted groan that boils up out of his throat, his eyes rolling back in his skull while his forehead digs into his braced arm with such force that he’s sure to have a bruise in the morning. Illya’s hand wraps around his cock the way Illya himself is wrapped around Napoleon, huge and heavy and overwhelming. His voice is little more than a subsonic rumble, not so much heard as felt in the bones.
“How do you like my technique, Cowboy?” he breathes, and Napoleon whimpers in helpless acclamation.
Illya works him fast and rough, the rhythm of his hand matching the rhythm of his hips as he ruts against Napoleon’s ass, his Soviet steel belt buckle jabbing sharp, fierce kisses into the small of Napoleon’s back. Napoleon keeps his hand on Illya’s arm, squeezing to encourage him; though really, there’s no need for him to exert any effort at all. At this point Illya is going to pick him up and carry him to climax with or without his assistance. If Napoleon were feeling lazy, he could abandon himself to the manhandling entirely.
But he’s not feeling lazy. He’s feeling hungry, and he wants Illya to know it, to know that this is more than just a moment of Western weakness. It’s not an indulgence. It’s a need, and you don’t just lie back and take something you need. You fight for it with every ounce of strength you have.
So Napoleon digs his fingernails into Illya’s wrist, hard enough to hurt, maybe even draw blood. He angles his ear so that he doesn’t miss a single second of the muted groan that escapes from Illya’s rigid jaw.
“дикий кот...”
There’s a stutter in the established rhythm; when Illya picks it up again, Napoleon does, too. The tempo evolves naturally, their hips working in tandem to maximize the friction between them, partners even in this endeavor. From the very start there’s been a strange harmony between their bodies, the one responding to the other as if by some long-forgotten instinct. Napoleon thinks of the last time they held each other like this; it was exactly the same, only they were in the water, and their positions were reversed.
Squinting into the darkness and finding the Red Peril silhouetted by the submerged headlights— Napoleon swam out, hooked his arms under Illya’s, and hauled them both up towards the light. When they broke to the surface, Napoleon first drew his own breath, then noted that Illya failed to draw one of his own. There was no sense of panic or urgency. Napoleon simply spoke one clipped order into Illya’s ear — breathe — and Illya complied, water geysering out of his mouth and lungs pulling in oxygen at Napoleon’s command.
At the time Napoleon was distracted by his own disappointment that mouth-to-mouth was not required. With all the beauty of hindsight, however, he can look back and appreciate the magnitude of what really happened: he spoke, and Illya obeyed.
I wonder what would happen, Napoleon thinks, the brick wall swimming before his eyes, if I commanded him to come.
The thought sends a noise like a sob straight into the palm of Illya’s hand, bursting out of Napoleon’s mouth without awareness or intention. Illya constricts his grasp in response, cutting off his ability to speak— well, Napoleon may not get to voice that particular suggestion tonight, but by God, talk about saving a treat for a rainy day.
It won’t be long now. There’s something extraordinarily endearing in the way Illya has brought them both to the razor’s edge of climax with such swift, silent efficiency. Napoleon makes a mental note to work on concepts like relaxation and savoring the experience in the future, but at the moment there’s no time; Illya is accelerating, his hold on Napoleon’s cock slick with pre-come, the sound of it deliciously obscene in the muffled silence of their unlit alley. Napoleon wheezes through his nose, the lower half of his face almost numb from the force of the grip restraining him, his teeth scraping at Illya’s palm. His own free hand finds its way back to Illya’s head, fingers sliding over the sweat-drenched brow before pushing back into the blond hair and grabbing a generous portion for leverage. He yanks down hard, pressing Illya’s face against the side of his neck, hoping to draw his tongue out again. His senses burst with fireworks when Illya answers with his teeth instead, sinking them into the juncture of Napoleon’s shoulder like a lion taking a mate.
That does it. Napoleon squeezes his eyes shut and comes in an unstoppable rush. On a whole his orgasms tend to be neat and polished, almost a performance for the sake of his partner; now he shamelessly yowls out his pleasure, knowing that Illya will catch it and keep it quiet for both their sakes. The sound reverberates in his sinus cavity, emerging as a plaintive, keening whine that he didn’t even know he was capable of producing. Astonished, he gives himself over to the cry, amazed that it’s coming from his own throat, feeling like an instrument that never knew it was being played by amateurs until he heard the music that a professional could coax from his strings. By the time he runs out of breath, Illya has wrung every last drop out of his trembling, exhausted body.
Napoleon twines his shaking fingers in Illya’s hair. He can still feel Illya’s erection pressed into the seat of his trousers, diamond-hard, and he rocks his weight against it with an insistent moan. Come, he thinks, and Illya obeys, his hand jumping from Napoleon’s spent cock to his hip to brace him as he bears down, thrusting hard and fast. Within moments his huge body shudders and he buries his mouth against Napoleon’s shoulder, muffling a series of short, staccato grunts in the material of his Rubinacci jacket.
Dazed and drained, Napoleon opens his eyes and sees his own release splattered against the brick wall in front of him. It makes him smile, and he wonders if Illya can feel it, Napoleon’s lips curling up into the lifeline that crosses the span of his palm. Illya’s breathing is slow and measured behind him, his face still nuzzled in the crook of Napoleon’s neck. He allows them to bask in this manner for only a short moment. Then, with orderly precision, he reaches back to Napoleon’s cock, runs his hand from root to tip to wipe off the worst of the mess, then tucks it carefully back into the front of Napoleon’s trousers. He’s obliged to bring his other hand down to help with the fastenings, leaving Napoleon to smack his lips and savor the taste of the night air on his tongue. He looks down the length of his torso to watch Illya’s hands refasten his belt buckle, noting with amazement that Illya clips it at the exact same notch it was before. Talk about an eye for detail.
When Illya finally lifts his tremendous pressure from Napoleon’s back, the effect is a sense of sudden weightlessness. Napoleon reels away from the wall, his body tingling with aftershocks, his left shoulder feeling particularly sour after holding him up for so long. Never mind all that; he’s desperate to get a look at Illya’s face. He’s not sure what to expect — a surly glare? dawning regret? — but it’s certainly not the flushed, triumphant smirk that he finds waiting for him.
“Now that,” Illya pants, radiant with pride, “was a thorough search.”
Napoleon manages to muster up a blithe chuckle, occupying himself with the buttoning of his waistcoat and jacket even while his heart feels like it’s exploding in his chest. He’s weak at the knees in a hundred different ways, his skin still feeling warm in the places where strong hands stroked at his belly and thighs. It’s a champagne buzz and a motorcycle thrill, unlike anything he’s ever known, and he only hopes he doesn’t look as ludicrously giddy as he feels.
Feigning nonchalance, he stoops and swipes up Illya’s cap from the cold pavement, offering it to him on the crook of his finger.
“It certainly was thorough, I’ll grant you that,” he says, waiting a tantalizing moment before he adds, “Still...”
Illya snatches the cap away with an expression of indignation. “Still?”
Napoleon shrugs. “You didn’t check my shoes.”
Illya’s already got one finger raised for a furious admonition before he realizes that Napoleon is completely correct. His finger curls back in on itself sheepishly, his eyes narrowing in a look somewhere between amusement and exasperation before he tugs his cap decisively back onto his head.
“I was... distracted,” he mutters, and of course Napoleon can’t be one hundred percent sure but he’s definitely pretty damn sure that Illya is trying to hide a smile.
“Hmm,” Napoleon frowns. “I suppose I can let it slide.” He arches an eyebrow. “This time.”
Illya raises both eyebrows in response, his head cocked at an angle that Napoleon really shouldn’t find so adorable. It takes a great deal of effort to keep his own face schooled in mock-admonition.
“Next time,” he continues. “I shall expect a comprehensive demonstration of your most advanced search procedures.” He grins. “And then I suppose I’ll have to show you how to do it my way.”
“That,” Illya smirks, “should be interesting.”
The streets are certainly crawling with hostile agents by now, the city transformed into an obstacle course while they tarried in this little pocket of sanctuary. It’s going to be an interesting dash back to the rendezvous point in this condition, Napoleon’s left shoulder still simmering with pins and needles, Illya’s trousers wet and sticking to the inside of his thighs. Napoleon also happened to be unarmed for his undercover job— but Illya produces a revolver for each of them, his touch lingering when he places one into Napoleon’s waiting hand.
“All right, Cowboy,” he says. “You ready to run?”
“I’m all yours,” Napoleon replies, and he means it, every inch of him.
Away they go.
_____________end.