Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Illya/Napoleon
Genre: Fluff, Slash
Words: 2,279
Thanks: to cynaravurzyn for inspiration and Saki for editing.
Notes: This was inspired by comments cynaravurzyn made as to how Illya might get himself and Napoleon out of a tight spot, where they were bound back to back. Apart from the fact that the guys are tied back to back in both, the picture that prompted the comments and this story are unrelated. I love fannish cross-pollination. ♥
"Well," said Illya, "this is another fine mess."
"I've gotten us into?" Napoleon offered.
Illya tilted his head to one side, his hair brushing the back of Napoleon's neck. "No," he said thoughtfully, "I'd say we were equally to blame for bad planning and lack of vigilance, this time."
Napoleon shifted his shoulders. The ropes tying him to Illya, back to back, creaked. His lower back itched, well out of reach. "No," he said, "that's the line. From--never mind." He sighed. "It's big of you to share credit for this."
"Just fair," Illya said mildly.
Under the ropes coiled tightly around them from their waists halfway up their chests, their arms were crossed one over the other so that Napoleon's hands rested uncomfortably by Illya's knees and vice versa. Another length of rope bound each agent's left hand to his right across his partner's stomach, ensuring they stayed in that position.
They were seated in the rear compartment of a THRUSH plane, surrounded by boxes of computer components and the extensive traveling wardrobe of Amandine Pascal, THRUSH France's newly promoted Number Three.
Illya's palms and the backs of his fingers brushed against Napoleon's legs as he twisted his wrists and arms at various angles, seeking a flaw in the knots. He gave a soft huff. "It's quite a good technique for holding two men. I'll have to remember it."
Napoleon wiggled, but achieved no satisfactory friction. "You couldn't get a finger or two near my lower back to scratch, could you?"
Illya hummed pensively and twisted around some more. "Sorry."
Napoleon sighed again. "What do you think? Wait till we land and one of the muscle twins gets close enough to kick?"
"I'd rather not wait that long," said Illya. "I have an idea."
Napoleon perked up. "What can I do?"
"Hold still, for the moment," said Illya. "I'll see if it's workable."
Illya's hands beside Napoleon's legs shifted and twisted some more, then his left palm flattened against Napoleon's thigh. Napoleon sat up straighter as Illya's hand slid over his leg, to the inside. He blinked several times before saying, "Illya?" and winced at the squeak at the end of the name.
"I need your button," Illya answered.
"My what?" Napoleon started when Illya's hand slid up. His little finger touched the juncture of Napoleon's thigh.
"Your trouser button," Illya said. He gave a small grunt of exertion and forced his left shoulder down. His hand swiveled onto its back and slid up the front of Napoleon's trousers.
There was nothing small or quiet about Napoleon's squeak, this time. He cleared his throat and forced his voice down an octave. "But I like these slacks." Illya's knuckles dragged down and up again as his fingers fumbled for purchase backwards. Napoleon swallowed.
"My apologies," said Illya. "You want to arrive at THRUSH France impeccably dressed. It is Paris."
"Well--" Napoleon took an uneven breath as Illya's knuckles slid back and forth again. "No," he managed. "But, I--" He coughed to disguise a less dignified sound. "What do you need the button for, anyway?"
"If I can break it, it should give me a sharp edge to do something about these ropes. You always have good buttons--it's not plastic, is it?"
"Tortoise shell."
"Perfect."
"Oh, but Illya--"
"You can get them fixed later," Illya said.
"The buttons are unique." Napoleon caught his breath as two of Illya's fingers slid through the top of his fly, under the button. His nails grazed Napoleon's skin.
"Have some sense of priority, Napoleon," Illya sighed.
"I'm trying." Napoleon bit his lip as Illya's hand bent and flexed against him, pulling at the button. "You're playing merry havoc with it."
"Merry hell, don't you mean?" Illya worked his shoulder down again and gave the button a yank.
Napoleon squawked. "Whatever you want, just be careful! You want my priorities? It's not just the button down there!" Illya's snicker was not well-disguised enough. Napoleon sniffed. "You ought to care more about my w--ahhh!"
"Your what?" Illya asked innocently, tone entirely betrayed by the actions of his hand.
"That's not a button," Napoleon said.
"I know. I needed some leverage."
"Is that what we're calling it. You devious Russian."
"I think I've got it."
"You've got something." Napoleon screwed his eyes shut and tried to shift certain parts of himself out of the way. To no avail, as Illya adjusted his hand for a better grip on the button, rubbing his knuckles just about everywhere Napoleon didn't want them.
"Brace yourself," Illya said. Napoleon flinched, but only felt a slight shove against his pelvic bone, where it was safe, and heard the snap of the thread giving. "Got it," said Illya.
Napoleon sighed in relief as his hand slipped away, then again when he heard the button snap against the floor. He'd already used the spare for these trousers. The original button had gone missing thanks to Illya's overenthusiastic efforts at disrobing him six months ago in a pension in Belgium. Napoleon's face heated. Remembering that incident did nothing to help the real source of his distress. He shifted position uncomfortably.
"Don't squirm," Illya said. "I'll lose my place."
"Easy for you to say," Napoleon muttered, but he subsided to suffer in silence and stillness. It was a long wait, with only the muted rumble of the engines and the quiet scratch of Illya sawing through the hemp for distraction. Napoleon's mind didn't do well with long, unoccupied waits. That was when his imagination engaged, and at the moment, it was fixated below the belt--or below his lack thereof: the lovely Ms. Pascal had confiscated it, earlier. Personally. Slowly. Napoleon gave himself a mental shake. Illya's strong fingers trailing a teasing path down his inner thigh. No. Tax forms. The paperwork for his ruined suit claim. Illya's fingers grazing his stomach as they slipped under his waistband to ruin it. Napoleon tensed his shoulders to repress a shiver. He imagined the cold shower he'd taken the previous month when the boiler exploded. Cold, cold, witheringly cold. Until he'd stepped out and Illya had wrapped him in a towel and his arms and kissed him like the coming of summer. He pictured Mr. Waverly's face. His eyes snapped open. "Eugh."
"What?" Illya asked.
"Nothing. Have you--"
"Pull," Illya commanded.
Napoleon threw himself forward. Illya hauled in the other direction. The ropes groaned, then Napoleon jerked a tiny bit further forward, then again, then the rope around their waists hissed and snapped. The ropes went slack and slithered apart as they kept pulling. Illya leaned right, lifting his left hand over Napoleon's head so he could bring his arms forward. He was quicker to work the ropes off his wrists than Napoleon, and was on his feet the next moment. He leaned over Napoleon's shoulder and something dropped into his lap. "Thank you for the loan."
Napoleon blinked, and by the time he looked up, Illya had moved away. Napoleon scooped up the half-button that had fallen between his legs. "Loan? It's ruined."
"Sacrifices for the good of the world, partner," said Illya. "Up you get."
Napoleon pushed himself slowly onto all fours and clambered to his feet from there. Illya, behind him, was rooting through suitcases for something to be used as a weapon. Napoleon found his way to the wall and sagged against it as he finished freeing his wrists. He prodded sullenly at the abraded skin beneath.
Illya turned around with a hairdryer and a pair of tweezers in his hands. "This is the best I found. Which do you want?" Napoleon looked at him. "What?" Illya asked.
"Illya," said Napoleon.
"Yes, hello."
"Illya," Napoleon repeated, the edge of a whine lifting the end of the name.
Illya's eyes flicked down Napoleon's body, then up. He lifted an eyebrow and smiled out of one corner of his mouth. "You don't appear to be that upset about me ruining your favorite trousers."
Napoleon's lip jutted just slightly. "I'll be upset about something else if you don't remedy the situation."
Illya's second eyebrow rose to join the first. "You can't be serious," he said. "In the back of a THRUSH aeroplane. With armed enemy agents in the next cabin."
Napoleon tried a glower, which came out wrong, to judge by Illya's widening smile. "Fine," Napoleon sniffed, "then you'll have to storm the cabin by yourself."
Illya shrugged. "All right."
"Illya!"
Illya crossed the compartment in three long strides and planted a hand on the wall beside Napoleon's cheek. He looked up into Napoleon's eyes, freezing him in place. "You really do need looking after," he said in subterranean tones. Before Napoleon could respond, Illya tilted up his chin and kissed him, the sheer force and heat of it pinning Napoleon bodily to the wall. His other hand traveled down over Napoleon's chest, over his abused waistband, and below. Napoleon moaned into Illya's mouth and bucked his hips. Illya's wide hand covered him through the soft wool of his slacks, warm and strong. He stroked down and up again slowly, almost pensively, lightly massaging the hardness beneath. His lips curved against Napoleon's.
Napoleon broke from the kiss with a gasp. "Illya."
Illya kissed him behind the ear. His breath raised the hair at Napoleon's nape and made him shudder. "For shame," Illya murmured. "In such a state in the middle of a mission. What of your duty?"
Napoleon growled and grabbed Illya's shoulders. "It's your fault. What was that, earlier?" He rocked his hips, seeking after pressure and friction, but Illya's hand withdrew, then resumed its own pace.
Illya licked the pulse point under Napoleon's jaw. His fingers flexed, below, making Napoleon's clench on his shoulders. "I was doing my utmost to complete the mission," Illya whispered. His breath tingled over Napoleon's damp skin.
Napoleon whimpered and flushed at the sound. "Don't be cruel."
Illya lifted his head to meet his eyes. "To you, Napoleon, never." Illya's tone when he said his name twisted something in Napoleon's chest and gut. Napoleon sealed his lips over Illya's and kissed him ravenously. Illya cupped Napoleon's cheek in one hand as his other flicked down Napoleon's zipper and slid inside. He swallowed Napoleon's moans and cries as he stroked him, pressing Napoleon back against the wall as he arched uncontrollably towards his partner. Illya's strong fingers wrapped fully around his erection, pulled him up, free of his clothes. Napoleon gasped and wrapped his arms around Illya's neck, pressed his face into his hair.
Illya finally allowed him the freedom to move, and he thrust into that warm, callused grip. Illya's hand moved in time with him, firm, yet gentle pressure setting Napoleon's nerves alight, bringing the thrills of sensation rapidly to a peak. Napoleon leaned more heavily against the wall, held tighter to Illya as his knees threatened to fail him.
Illya kissed his throat, nuzzled at his jaw. "My dear Napoleon," he murmured, lips moving against his skin like a long kiss. "How I do love you like this."
His voice cut through Napoleon like a knife, locking all his muscles in place, impossibly tight. Napoleon drew a sharp breath, then groaned as it all swept out of him, tension leaving him in one tidal rush.
Illya's arms curved around Napoleon's waist and pulled him close. He pressed his cheek to Napoleon's. Napoleon held him back, riding out the sensation, and tried not to fall. He closed his eyes and breathed deep the scent of Illya's hair, flexed his fingers against his partner's back. Sometimes, the way Illya held him, afterwards, was just as exquisite as what had come before.
Illya kissed Napoleon's ear, then pulled back enough to look into his face. "Better?" he asked.
"Mmm," Napoleon said.
Illya smiled. "Then, may we now storm the cabin?"
Oh, right. The mission. Napoleon sighed. "I suppose, if we must."
Illya stepped away, his eyes creased with fond amusement. They warmed Napoleon through. He didn't mind being made fun of a little if Illya looked at him that way.
"We must, Napasha," Illya said. "We must." He produced a handkerchief that had apparently survived their earlier body searches and performed what rapid tidying he could on both of them. Then he folded it and, after a moment's hesitation, tucked it into his pocket. He caught Napoleon's sympathetic grimace and shrugged. "For the good of the world."
Napoleon looked down at himself through the hair that had fallen into his eyes. His shirt and slacks were creased and rumpled every which way. The latter, missing their button, did not seem terribly well-disposed to stay up. "Well, Illya," he said, "here's another fine mess you've gotten me into."
Illya looked him over from head to foot and back again, his scrutiny raising goose bumps on Napoleon's arms. Illya's eyes gleamed. "It is an exceedingly fine mess."
Napoleon blinked, then averted his eyes, heat creeping up from his neck through his face. He busied himself trying to shore up his slacks. He glanced up. "Illya, what about you?"
Illya had bent to retrieve the hairdryer. He straightened, looked at Napoleon over his shoulder, and smiled like the world's blondest, most beautiful shark. "After we have saved the day, and I have landed this aeroplane and turned over its contents to U.N.C.L.E. Paris--" his eyes narrowed-- "you will reciprocate."
A shiver rippled through Napoleon from his shoulders to his toes. He looked around and grabbed the nearest heavy object to hand--a hard-shelled suitcase in pastel blue. "What are we waiting for?" He hoisted it over his head and rushed the cabin door. "The day won't save itself!"
END
The Man from U.N.C.L.E. Fanfiction
East of Sanity