Nikki (nakeisha) wrote,
Nikki
nakeisha

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Fiction - The Man from UNCLE

I wrote this for an MFU challenge.

I've done my best to de-Brit it as much as possible.

Title: Who Needs Hands?
Author: Nakeisha
Genre: Slash. Established Relationship. PWP
Pairing: NS/INK
Summary: Napoleon proves that he doesn’t need his hands to bring Illya pleasure



Title: Who Needs Hands?
Author: Nakeisha
Genre: Slash. Established Relationship. PWP
Pairing: NS/INK
Summary: Napoleon proves that he doesn’t need his hands to bring Illya pleasure

Napoleon Solo whistled silently as he walked along the corridors of U.N.C.L.E.’s New York HQ. He nodded a greeting to the handful of people he passed, but neither slowed down nor allowed himself to be distracted. He was a man on a mission, and the mission was a single word: Illya.

Napoleon had been out of the office, out of New York, and out of America for the past three weeks having been sent on a solo mission. It was an affair that had been more tedious than anything else, and one of Napoleon’s main worries had been staying awake throughout the assignment. However, even boredom hadn’t been the worst aspect; that honor had to be given to the one strict instruction that Napoleon had been given before leaving New York.

The order was that he could not contact anyone at U.N.C.L.E. unless it was absolutely necessary. Somehow Napoleon didn’t think that his boss would consider him contacting his partner to tell him that he loved and missed him ‘absolutely necessary’, even though for Napoleon being able to tell and show Illya just how much he loved him was as vital to him as eating and sleeping.

It was the longest they had been parted since becoming lovers; indeed, when Napoleon thought about it, it was the longest they had ever been parted - at least without any form of contact. However, being the good, rule following (at least when Illya wasn’t there, or in need of rescuing, to help him break the rules), spy that he was, Napoleon had abided by Alexander Waverley’s directive, and as a consequence Illya, unless he really was gifted with second sight, would not even be aware that his partner was back in the office.

Alexander Waverly had seemed pleased enough by the outcome of the affair. So pleased in fact that when Napoleon had completed his report, the aged Brit had given him forty-eight hours leave, adding casually just as Napoleon reached the door, ‘you might as well take Mr. Kuryakin with you, Mr. Solo.’ He had waved his Chief Enforcement Agent away before Napoleon had had time to express his thanks. However, knowing his work-obsessed Russian partner as well as he did, Napoleon was not going to allow himself to get too excited by the prospect of an unexpected forty-eight hours leave. For all he knew Illya would be in the middle of one of his beloved scientific experiments and might refuse to leave, even for the promise of much needed and wanted downtime with his lover.

Napoleon reached their shared office and paused for a moment with his hand on the doorknob. He could hear his partner’s soft, lilting, accented voice through the wood and steel. It always surprised him how clearly Illya could be heard, despite the fact that he rarely raised his voice. At the sound of the voice he loved, he cursed under his breath; he wanted - needed - to see Illya alone, he wasn’t up to making polite conversation with anyone else. He was just reaching for his pen so that he could contact Illya that way and ask the Russian to meet him, when he realized that it was only his friend’s voice that he could hear. He listened for another moment or two and decided that Illya was talking to someone on the telephone. Not perfect, but better than having company.

Napoleon pushed open the door and sensed the tension he had not, until that moment, realized he was feeling, slide from his body as the blond head swiveled round, and the deep sapphire jewels softened and offered so much love, pleasure and affection that for a second, Napoleon had to grip the door to prevent himself from sinking to the ground.

Illya’s smile, the one he only ever offered Napoleon, radiated from his pale face, softening the often times seemingly harsh features and taking another five years of the already boyish looking man. Illya’s hair, dreadfully in need of being cut, was somewhat untidy, making Napoleon certain that his partner had been running a hand through it, as the Russian often did. However, it also reminded the older man of how his lover looked after they had made love, and a vivid picture that came equipped with scents and sounds of a naked Illya, his pale skin glistening, under Napoleon’s hands came into his mind, and he had to bite his lip to prevent himself from groaning aloud.

Suddenly Illya shook his head and dragged his gaze from his partner’s and said into the telephone receiver, “I am sorry, would you mind repeating that?” Napoleon felt happier than he had done in three weeks; Illya had missed him, and he had managed to distract the focused Russian, albeit for only a few seconds. For Illya to confess to being sidetracked was amazing and unprecedented. The man often seemed to many like a robot, more than capable of seeming to be utterly engaged in one thing, and yet able to carry out a conversation on a completely different subject, as well as eat his lunch.

The blue gaze flashed his way again, while at the same time one large hand started to scrawl notes on a piece of paper already covered with Illya’s complex handwriting. Suddenly Napoleon had an idea; it was wicked, evil, but once it had filtered into his mind he knew that he had to carry it out. Nonetheless he hesitated for a moment or two, waiting to see if Illya would wind up the conversation and turn his full attention onto his partner. However, although Illya did make an attempt to do just that, the person to whom he was talking did not seem inclined to let the Russian go.

Thus with only a hint of guilt surfacing inside him, Napoleon turned and locked the door, not missing the way Illya’s eyes widened, nor how the grip his lover had on the telephone receiver and pencil tightened. In four swift strides Napoleon was standing behind his seated partner and had his hands hovering inches from the black-clad shoulders that to his delight were trembling almost imperceptibly. As he lowered his hands and gripped Illya’s shoulders the quivering increased, and Illya’s voice sounded slightly hoarse as he continued to pass single word comments into the telephone handset.

Napoleon began to caress Illya’s shoulders, letting his lover feel his fingertips as he pressed down, he felt Illya’s sigh. Bending forward, he insinuated his mouth and nose under the multi-gold hair and began to nuzzle, lick and nip-kiss Illya’s ear. Knowledge of how Illya reacted to such a touch saved Napoleon from a potentially broken nose, as he pushed down more firmly on the now visibly trembling shoulders, keeping his partner in his seat.

Illya swiftly moved the phone away from his other ear, pressed it to his shoulder and hissed, “Napoleon, please.”

Napoleon smiled to himself at the ambiguity that escaped from the usually articulate and unequivocal man. “Do you know how much I’ve missed you, Lusha?” he breathed into the already damp ear. He felt Illya smoother a moan, and grinned to himself as the tight grip the Russian had on his pencil caused it to snap in half, the two parts shot across the desk.

“I thought about you all the time - especially at night. That was when I missed you most. I missed your warm, soft, firm, tantalizing body. I missed your hands, your lips, your mouth, your eyes, your skin, your voice, your legs, your arms, but most of all I missed your . . . “ Napoleon switched to Illya’s native language for his final word and used a base term, one the Russian himself would never use.

This time Illya’s groan was audible. “No, no. Stephen,” he said hastily. “Just a slight cough,” and to prove the point Illya coughed exaggeratedly twice, and flashed a smoldering look at Napoleon that gave off conflicting messages: ‘stop’ and ‘continue’, before returning his attention to the man on the other end of the phone.

Napoleon glanced over Illya’s shoulder and down into his lap, where was rewarded by the clear sight of Illya’s erection starting to push against the black cloth. He smiled and spent the next few moments simply kissing, licking and nibbling around Illya’s ear and neck.

His partner’s self-control amazed him; Napoleon knew that if the tables were turned - not that his reserved lover would be likely to do such a thing - he would have to have hung up the phone by now. A glance at the paper on which Illya had been making notes, told Napoleon that the stoic Russian maybe wasn’t quite as stoic after all; he only hoped that Illya’s memory would prove as faultless as always. His nose and mouth also picked up the subtle scents of Illya’s arousal and higher body temperature as woodlands, jasmine and salt filtered up into the air.

He returned his lips to Illya’s ear. “I tried to be good, Illya. I really did. But three weeks is too long for me.” The slender body suddenly became taut and Illya began to withdraw, albeit not physically - Napoleon’s grip was too tight. Napoleon cursed his foolishness. “No, sweetheart,” he hastened to reassure. “I didn’t find anyone else. I wouldn’t do that to you. I couldn’t. I meant what I said when I vowed to ‘forsake all others.’ I just meant that I became reacquainted with my right hand.” He felt the tension leave the lithe body and patted the wool-covered shoulders.

He nuzzled Illya’s ear drinking in the clean, fresh apple scent from the silky blond hair, and kissed his way up his friend’s cheek, until his lips hovered over Illya’s temple, where the pulse throbbed and raced.

After several enjoyable seconds he licked his way back down to Illya’s ear and began to whisper to his lover again. “It wasn’t as good as having you touch me, Lusha, but nothing is. And even though I imagined it was your big hands holding and caressing my naked skin,” Illya moaned softly again, turning his face away from the receiver. The hand that had been gripping the paper moved upward, searching for Napoleon’s own hand - a movement that didn’t surprise the standing man. Illya always sought reassurance in their lovemaking, and Napoleon encouraged such dependency, making Illya know that his need was a strength not a weakness.

“I wanted you so much, partner mine. I needed you there with me, by my side. I kept thinking about you alone in our big bed, and I wondered if you missed me even half as much as I missed you. Did you miss me, Lusha?” Napoleon paused, and was rewarded a split second later when Illya nodded firmly and squeezed Napoleon’s hand. As was so often the case, words were not necessary.

“Good,” murmured Napoleon and blew on Illya’s burning ear; the Russian shivered and clutched the phone and his partner’s hand even more tightly. As his lover began to squirm around on the chair and rock very slightly, Napoleon decided to move up into a higher gear.

Sliding his lips even closer to Illya’s ear he began, in a myriad of languages, a steady liturgy of love, passion, eroticism and caring, pushing his blond lover closer and closer to the edge. His hands were merely holding Illya down now, keeping him in his seat, one pressing directly onto the Russian’s shoulder, the other held in a death grip by, and pressing down on, Illya’s own hand which was damp with perspiration. Illya still held the receiver to his ear, but had given up even attempting to comment, not that Stephen Dolton would even notice.

A further glance down at Illya’s lap made Napoleon wince in sympathy at the strain the cloth was under; not that his own groin was that comfortable. It was definitely time to finish things.

He sucked Illya’s earlobe into his mouth briefly, then let it slip away, shifted the grip he had on his lover very subtly, moved his lips until they were right over Illya’s ear, and using his Chief Enforcement Agent’s voice, ordered, “Come for me, Illya. Now.”

Illya’s body reacted as though it had been hit by lightening. He gasped aloud, dug his fingernails into Napoleon’s hand, and slumped forward shaking violently, the receiver crashed to the desk.

It was a game they rarely played, as it was a game they both enjoyed too much; a game that could be too dangerous, given their respective roles within U.N.C.L.E. When they did indulge, it was always when there was no chance of them being called to field duty for at least twenty-four hours.

“Hello? Illya? Illya? Are you all right?” The muffled voice of Stephen Dolton could be heard coming from the vicinity of Illya’s desk.

Napoleon, keeping a firm and loving grip on his trembling lover, snatched the receiver up and said crisply, “I’m afraid that Mr. Kuryakin has been called away on urgent business. I’ll ask him to contact you again when he returns to the office.” Before the man on the other end of the phone could say anything, Napoleon replaced the receiver and turned his full attention onto Illya.

He swung the chair round, never once letting go of his blond lover and tugged Illya to his feet, gathering him into his embrace, and sighing with contentment as Illya’s head found its way with perfect accuracy onto Napoleon’s shoulder. With his arms wrapped tightly around Illya, Napoleon just stood gently rocking the still shuddering man, and once more murmuring words of love in numerous languages.

After several moments the quivering began to subside, and finally Illya raised his head and sapphire ringed ebonies stared unseeingly at Napoleon who, simply unable to wait any longer, lowered his head and found Illya’s mouth with his own and began a kiss that went part of the way to making up for the previous three weeks.

Breaking away when they remembered that even U.N.C.L.E.’s top team needed air, Napoleon looked down at Illya and said tenderly, “I love you, Illyusha, my own little sweetheart.”

“Ja lyublyu vas takzhe, Napasha, moya dorogoy.” His arms slid around Napoleon’s neck into their usual position, and tugging Illya further back into his arms, Napoleon once again instigated a long, loving, cherishing kiss.

It was half-an-hour later before Napoleon unlocked their office door and ushered a somewhat dreamy and relaxed Illya, who had donned Napoleon’s own overcoat, out into the corridor and guided him to the car. Napoleon then proceeded to drive them both home, where they continued to make up for the previous three weeks.

Tags: fandom: the man from u.n.c.l.e., fanfic: stories
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