Nikki (nakeisha) wrote,
Nikki
nakeisha

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Fiction - The Man From U.N.C.L.E.

This was written for a challenge on muncle I'm not particularly happy with the title, but it's the only thing that I could think of.

Due to the constraints on my life at the moment, I'm afraid that I haven't had time to get it beta read - my apologies.

TITLE: Lovers on a Train
AUTHOR: Nakeisha
GENRE: Slash. Established Relationship. Episode Related.
PAIRING: Napoleon Solo/Illya Kuryakin
SUMMARY: Set immediately after the last scene of The Adriatic Express Affair, Napoleon shows Illya who matters the most to him.
NOTES: Written for the Number xx ‘Sex on a moving vehicle’ challenge.


~~~~~~~~~~~


“Are you really planning on taking her for a motor boat ride?” The soft Russian voice enquired as though its owner didn’t care less about the answer.

Napoleon hid a smile. Even though Illya had his back to him, with the Russian’s apparent ability to have eyes in the back of his head, Napoleon tended to be careful - especially when antagonizing his friend wasn’t something he wanted to do. “Of course not,” he said, closing the small space between them and slipping his arms around the taut, trim body.

“Then why did you say you would?” Illya demanded.

This time Napoleon didn’t hide his smile as the pout in Illya’s voice became more apparent; he adored a sulky, jealous Illya. This was somewhat odd given the fact that Napoleon usually fled at the first hint of jealousy and possessive behavior. But then Illya and he were best friends and partners as well as lovers, and Napoleon had to admit that he was at least as proprietorial as his younger partner.

He lowered his lips and began to nuzzle beneath the blond silk. “Because, partner mine,” he breathed, delighted when the lithe, deadly body he held in his arms trembled infinitesimally. “It didn’t do any harm. In fact, it made the young lady go to bed with a smile on her face, where she would no doubt have had pleasant dreams.” Illya muttered something - in Russian. Napoleon smiled again. He didn’t know exactly what his lover had said, but he could guess the gist of it. “And don’t you think that after her experiences, she deserved a little pleasure?”

“Maybe,” the Russian conceded reluctantly. “However, some people might say that leading someone on, like you led her on is not something a gentleman does.”

“And more people would say that taking something precious from someone when you cannot offer that person anything more than a little fun, is not something a gentleman does,” Napoleon replied, as he ran the tip of his tongue around Illya’s chilly ear. Again Illya shivered, and the tension began to dissipate.

“Something precious?” Illya asked after a second or two. His accent had increased and his voice had become even softer.

“She was an innocent, beloved, in more ways than one. And you know that I do not sleep with virgins.” He knew that one blond eyebrow was now hidden under the golden bangs. “Except for you, and that was different,” he said firmly. “I already loved you, and I wasn’t going to disappear the next day.”

Illya said nothing for a minute or two and Napoleon just continued to hold his friend. He gathered the thin body more tightly against him, and waited for a sign that the stubborn Russian was interested in ceasing to complain.

Eventually the low voice enquired. “So how will the gentleman extract himself from his offer?”

“A certain uncle of ours will demand our immediate return to New York. We, with a great show of reluctance, will be forced to acquiesce.”

“Speak for yourself. I shall be only too pleased to find a concrete reason to escape the clutches of that woman.”

“Ah, yes, Miss . . What was her name, Illya?” Napoleon enquired with a hint of innocence.

“I do not know. We did not get that friendly,” his once again tense partner snapped back.

Again Napoleon hid his smile. Illya and the ladies; it always amused him. “Oh, I don’t know,” he murmured, once more nuzzling the cool ear. This time he was rewarded by a soft moan as Illya’s body pressed back against his own, the pert backside firm against his groin. Unable to stop himself Napoleon rocked their bodies as he continued to speak. “When I found you in her compartment you seemed very friendly.”

“I was not being friendly. She was. Far too friendly for my liking. And next time, Napoleon, kindly do not leave it so long before you rescue me.” Illya was developing a snit, and that didn’t bode well.

Fighting his instinct to snap back that next time he would try to arrange the discovery of dead bodies to take place elsewhere, Napoleon returned his lips to Illya’s ear and set about trying to warm it up.

Within minutes he had a very lax partner in his arms, and Illya’s soft moans and murmurings in Russian were arousing Napoleon beyond his capacity to hide it. He wanted his lover and he wanted him now. However, despite his whispers and apparent relaxed state, Illya was still not entirely over his sulk.

Napoleon tried something that usually worked: endearments and a little gentle pleading. “Come on, sweetheart,” he whispered. “It’s time we stopped talking. I can think of far better things you can do with your mouth. Like kiss me for example. Now what about it?”

For a heartbeat it seemed as though Illya was seriously considering refusing. But then he sighed, the final piece of tension fled from the body, and he turned within Napoleon’s arms. He slid his own arms up Napoleon’s body and around the taller man’s neck, tilted back his head so that the blond hair shimmered onto his shoulders, and offered his mouth for Napoleon to claim.

As Napoleon brought his own mouth down, Illya’s soft lips, to which he had become addicted from the first time he had kissed them, parted and Napoleon slid his tongue between them. As he slipped into the heated cavern, he noticed how the fire inside Illya’s mouth contrasted with the coolness of his nose. In fact it was quite cold, and Napoleon’s own nose and cheek began to turn chilly as it rubbed against it.

Illya made a soft noise in his throat and pressed more closely against Napoleon, tightening the grip around Napoleon’s neck and holding him firmly in place. Illya’s arousal was clear; it never ceased to amaze Napoleon just how quickly his otherwise-aloof-and-disinterested partner became turned on in Napoleon’s arms. He still tasted of the champagne they had shared with the young ladies, together with mint, scents of the forest, and the essence that was purely Illya. It was an intoxicating mixture and one Napoleon knew he would never tire of.

Breaking away to in order to breathe, Napoleon glanced down at Illya. His pale cheeks were flushed with color high on the cheekbones, his eyes had turned to blue-ringed onyxes and appeared unfocussed, his full lips were red and swollen, and his multi-gold hair was mussed from Napoleon’s fingers. “I want to make love to you,” Napoleon whispered, bringing his lips to Illya’s ear and smiling at the shudder that raced through the slim body. He waited, knowing that Illya would read the message as clearly as he understood his other eight languages.

Illya pulled away slightly and cocked his head to one side. “So what is this one called?” he asked, the humor evident in his heavily accented voice.

Napoleon frowned as their seemingly perfect communication and understanding skills failed him. Illya fluttering his eyelashes, and glancing up at him from under them didn’t help. They merely distracted Napoleon. He caught Illya’s chin and borrowing one of his partner’s trademarks, raised an eyebrow.

Illya widened his eyes and smiled. “The club,” he said brightly. Again Napoleon shook his head. “The one into which you wish to initiate me.”

Napoleon blinked. Then it dawned on him. “Oh, you mean like the . . .” He deliberately trailed off.

“Yes.”

“There isn’t one. Well, at least not one that I’m aware of. Why does it make a difference?”

Illya shook his head. “No,” he said mildly. “I just wanted to be certain. I like to know these things. I just wanted to know whether I was about to become a statistic.”

“You could never be a statistic,” Napoleon replied, returning his lips to Illya’s cheek and beginning to kiss his way down to his lover’s lips. Again they opened for him, and once more he let his tongue infiltrate the place that made him feel as secure as Illya said he felt when Napoleon kissed him.

Minutes later they were naked and entwined on the narrow, hard bed. Their limbs were so mixed up that only the hue of their respective skins allowed Napoleon to see which one belonged to which man. Once more Illya’s eyes were large and glazed, and his hair was fanned out around him, reflecting the single, harsh light that lit them. Putting it out was not an option; Illya never would make love in the dark. Only once had Napoleon asked his lover why and his answer had been a frozen gaze, colder even than a Siberian winter. He had never raised the subject again.

Illya once more began to murmur in his native tongue as Napoleon kissed his way around his lover’s chin, ears and throat. Pausing to suckle where the pulse thumped and raced, Napoleon felt his hand tugged and guided to Illya’s erection, which was already swollen and wet. “Pozhalujsta,” Illya gasped, bucking his hips up from the bed.

One of the many things about making love to and with Illya was that Napoleon never knew what to expect. Sometimes Illya wanted, seemed to need even, a quick climax; other times he wanted it to be leisurely and drawn out. As yet, despite the fact that they had been making love for over three years, Napoleon still couldn’t judge what his complex partner would ask for. Although he did think that a pattern was beginning to form. Whenever Napoleon showed a particular interest, whether it be for the sake of their assignment or not, in a woman, Illya always seemed extra intent on a speedy orgasm.

“Pasha, please,” Illya begged, pulling Napoleon’s attention back to the damp, writhing man he held in his arms.

“Hush, Lusha, hush,” Napoleon whispered. He ceased his suckling, idly noticed that as always he had marked Illya’s pale skin, and returned to kissing his lover’s lips. As he did he gripped Illya’s erection in the way guaranteed to satisfy, and began to move his hand up and down the straining organ.

It didn’t take long, and moments later Napoleon felt Illya’s fingers dig, somewhat painfully, into his shoulder. Napoleon’s other hand was grabbed and held in a death grip, as, crying his lover’s name, Illya’s climaxed over Napoleon’s hand. Illya always reached fulfillment with his entire body, and it shook beneath Napoleon as he rained kisses on the flushed face. He continued to hold Illya’s now shrunken penis long after the spasms had ceased; his touch loose enough not to hurt the sensitive organ, but firm enough for Illya to feel. Napoleon himself didn’t like to be touched for several minutes after climax; nor he understood did most men, but then Illya wasn’t like most men.

After a few minutes Illya’s heart rate slowed down, his eyes became more focused and the bruising grip he still had on Napoleon relaxed. He ceased to mutter in Russian and smiled up at Napoleon, the look touching his eyes and lips. “Thank you,” he said formally. Napoleon lowered his lips and kissed the tip of Illya’s still cold nose.

“I love you,” Napoleon said, because he never quite knew what to say when Illya thanked him for something that gave Napoleon as much pleasure, if not more, as it clearly gave Illya.

The smile widened as Illya lowered his eyes and glanced away. Seconds later Napoleon felt Illya move beneath him and glanced down. Illya had shifted and parted his legs and, as he looked up at Napoleon though his thick lashes, drew his knees up. Napoleon’s throat constricted and his mouth became dry as he gazed down at the trusting, loving body. No matter how often Illya offered, and it wasn’t an infrequent offer, the trust Illya displayed never ceased to move Napoleon. He marveled at it every time, and was in awe of the simplicity and complexion of what would shortly become his. He knew that it would always be this way; even if they lived and loved until they were both into their nineties, he would never cease to react to the sheer poetry of what Illya granted him.

The train swayed as Napoleon slid into Illya’s body, entering somewhere that only he had ever, and would ever, penetrate. Illya gasped once as he gripped Napoleon’s arms, and the blue jewels faded for just a second or two before flaring again with love and joy. What he felt when he was inside Illya transcended anything Napoleon had ever before experienced, or even believed he would know.

Their rocking matched that of the train as Napoleon tried, as he always did, to make the sensation last for a lifetime. Once again Illya’s eyes had become almost black, and the look in them matched that on his face: utter satisfaction and contentment. “Ja lyublyu vas takzhe, Napoleon,” Illya finally said, his tone formal, his gaze confirming his words. As they so often did, they pushed Napoleon over the edge, and all too soon he climaxed, crying variations of his lover’s name over and over again, until even that was too much of an effort.

When he regained a sense of awareness he was lying on his side, pressed close against Illya’s body, with his lover’s two strong arms wrapped around him. Illya was half balanced on one elbow looking down at him. “Hi,” Napoleon managed, gazing lazily up as the blond locks threatened to obscure Illya.

“Hello, Napoleon,” was the response. Then Illya’s lips began to twitch, and Napoleon read amusement as clearly as if Illya had laughed aloud - not that such an outburst was something the Russian did.

“What?” he said, reaching up and kissing the tip of Illya’s nose.

“Nothing.”

“Illya,” Napoleon growled in his Head-of-Section-Two tone.

Illya rolled his eyes. But as always, when his superior used that particular pitch, obediently answered. “It amuses me, that is all.”

Napoleon frowned. “What does?” he demanded.

Illya chuckled and gave Napoleon’s lips a fleeting kiss. “Just that you failed to bring any of our equipment from our hotel room, but somehow managed to remember to pack the lubrication.”

“Always prepared, that’s me,” Napoleon quipped. “Rather like the Boy Scouts.”

“Which you never were.”

“Which I never was,” Napoleon admitted. “But Mr. Waverly taught us that a good spy is always prepared for any eventuality.”

“I am not certain that this is quite the eventuality he had in mind,” Illya responded, moving slightly so that he too was lying down. Once there, he wriggled until he had settled himself into Napoleon’s arms to his own satisfaction, which involved somehow getting his head on to Napoleon’s shoulder.

As he felt Illya growing heavy in his arms, Napoleon spoke softly. “Illya?” Illya made a noise in his throat; Napoleon took it to mean ‘go on.’ “You know they don’t mean anything to me, don’t you?” He waited.

Illya’s voice was heavy with sleep. “Of course I do, dorogoy. If I thought otherwise I would have to kill them. Now kiss me and go to sleep.”

Napoleon without hesitation obliged Illya with the kiss. Settling his lover more comfortably in his arms, Napoleon watched over Illya as he fell asleep. He smiled at the possessiveness of Illya’s gentle threat. However, a small part of him, a very small part of him, didn’t like to think about just how much truth there might be in the Russian’s words.
Tags: fandom: the man from u.n.c.l.e., fanfic: stories
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