Where You're Meant to Be
Illya yanked at the restraints, twisted his wrists and tried again. They were unyielding. Soft, too, and comfortable—all his pulling hadn't abraded his skin in the slightest—but that brought him no closer to freedom. In fact, if his skin were torn the slickness of blood would assist his escape. Maybe he could work up some sweat. He threw himself into the struggle, using his whole body, but no matter how hard he worked at it the air conditioned cool of the room kept him dry. Cool, and dry, naked, splayed out on black satin sheets, and helpless.
His legs were free, but unless he could manage to use his toes to untie himself, that was of no use. And he couldn't. He'd tried. Of course, if his captor came within range he could land a good solid kick, but he would still be bound to this bed. And all the man would have to do was approach him from the side, or pin his legs down, or even tie them to the foot posts and there would be no way of stopping what was going to happen. No way at all.
Illya knew just what the man wanted. It didn't take a genius to put the restraints together with the satin sheets, his nudity and the big bed, and figure it out. Well, he'd be damned if he'd make it easy. He ground his teeth, and tried twisting his wrists again. Pulled. Blew his bangs off his forehead in irritation and pulled some more.
"Give up?" the man inquired silkily from the door. Illya almost jumped, managed to control himself and swore instead, a blistering string of expletives that only made the man look amused. He held a glass in one hand, and swirled the contents at him. "Want some?"
"No. Leave me alone."
"Sure?" The man came closer. He looked Illya up and down appreciatively. "Has anyone ever told you you look quite fetching against black satin sheets?" He reached down and touched himself through his pants, his erection growing larger even as they both watched it. Illya tore his gaze away.
"Yes. I am quite sure. Leave me... damnit, Napoleon! Now look what you've done!"
"Oh dear," Napoleon said in mock concern. "I seem to have spilled some wine. And on such a sensitive area, too. Well, I'll just have to clean you up, won't I?" He sat on the edge of the bed, leaned over and licked delicately at the area in question. Illya gasped.
"Now how am I supposed to concentrate on these knots if you're going to do that?" he demanded. "Stop... oh, yes... I mean no! Get away from me!" He kicked Napoleon in the ribs with his heel and Napoleon, startled, fell off the bed, spilling the rest of the wine as he did so. Now it was his turn to swear, and Illya laughed at him. "That's what you get." He pulled again at the restraints. "These are good," he allowed. "You were right."
"But you got loose. On your own. Because if you're cheating, Napoleon Solo, if someone came in and rescued you..."
"Now who would have rescued me?"
"I don't know. You tell me. A beautiful blonde, perhaps? Wanting to find out if everything she heard about the great Napoleon Solo is true?"
"The only beautiful blond I'm interested in is right here, tied to this bed. And no, I'm not cheating. I got free on my own. Want me to show you how?"
"No! If you could figure it out, so can I! Just stop distracting me... no, Napoleon. I'm warning you..." he lifted his foot again, threateningly, as Napoleon stood up.
"It's all in that top knot, there," Napoleon said, and when Illya turned his head to look Napoleon jumped on him. He threw himself across Illya's legs, holding them securely to the bed with his weight, and no matter how Illya struggled he couldn't get them out.
"That wasn't fair," he complained. "And when did you get so heavy? Get off me, you... oh." Napoleon had commenced the clean up operation again, and under that warm, persistent tongue, those practiced lips that were depositing kisses down his belly, up his thighs, along the length of his shaft—maddenly light kisses, and delicate licks like a cat tasting a bowl of fresh cream—Illya lost interest in resistance. He tried to push against Napoleon, wordlessly pleading with him for more, harder, deeper. Napoleon chuckled, and Illya couldn't even muster the will to feign anger. "Napoleon..."
"Yes?" Napoleon nuzzled at his balls, his tongue coming out to touch the hidden place just underneath them and Illya yelped, body arching, nearly throwing Napoleon off. "Can I help you?"
"Please," Illya moaned, not caring any more how it sounded, or that he was giving Napoleon this round. There would be another round, another day, and next time it would be Napoleon begging him. But for now... "Please."
"Want me to untie you first?" Napoleon asked. "I mean, if this is a bit much, just say so."
"It's more than a bit much and no, don't untie me. I'm not giving up yet. But please, please..."
"Suck me. Suck me, suck me, oh yes, like that, yes..." Illya's words trailed off and he closed his eyes, pulling again on the restraints, pulling and writhing and crying out as Napoleon's mouth surrounded him, engulfed him in warm wet suction.
He came, screaming Napoleon's name as he did so, sobbing as he poured himself down Napoleon's throat and Napoleon accepted him, welcomed him, cupping Illya's balls in both hands and rolling them gently, depositing a kiss on the very tip of Illya's organ as it shrank within his mouth, kissing his balls too before releasing them, lying slumped across Illya's thighs as if it had been his release too. But it hadn't, and Illya wondered if Napoleon would want him to reciprocate now, would straddle his face and... and he shivered. He would, oh, he wanted to, but Napoleon was making no move to unfasten his fly. He rose instead, and smiled at Illya.
"Want some of that wine now?"
"Yes," Illya managed and Napoleon held the glass for him while he drank.
"Sure you don't need some help there?"
"No. What about you? You look..."
"In need of help. Or he does," Illya added, looking pointedly at the prominent bulge in Napoleon's trousers. Napoleon laughed.
"I'll wait. I'll wait for you to get loose, and then..."
"Yes? And then?"
"Then you can help me. Him." Napoleon kissed Illya's forehead, and left the room. Illya lay there and panted for a little while, amused at the scenario, amused at his own response, but annoyed that he couldn't seem to match Napoleon's escape skills. After his breathing had evened out he began once again trying to free himself. At least now there was a sheen of sweat on his whole body, including his wrists, to help him. He'd have to ask Napoleon about that. Had Napoleon had the same kind of help? Because if he had, Illya would show him... would show him that it hadn't been a patch on what a resourceful Russian field agent could provide. Of that he was quite sure.
It took another half an hour, but Illya finally found the right combination of pushing up, twisting his whole arm and bringing his pinky into play that enabled him to slip his right wrist free. It was then a simple matter to untie his other hand and he sat up, shaking them both out. Napoleon had done a good job. Now it was time for him to reap his reward. He would torment Napoleon, he would make Napoleon beg, the way he had begged, and even then he might withhold release, just to teach Napoleon a lesson.
Illya silently padded into the living room, thankful for Napoleon's thick carpet. He wondered what Napoleon was doing. Was he relieving his own need? Illya wouldn't put it past him, because then Napoleon could come back in and tease him some more while retaining his air of superiority. Or... but Napoleon was working.
Oh. Illya watched him, sitting in his armchair, going through a file folder. He should have known. Maybe Napoleon had taken care of his own needs after all. Or he had just ignored it. Well, he wouldn't be able to ignore this. Illya walked around the chair and stood in front of him. He was hard again just thinking of how he was going to tease Napoleon, but something about the reading glasses pushed down on Napoleon's nose, the lock of hair tumbled over his forehead, the welcoming smile that began to spread across his face when he saw Illya, undid him. Instead he went down on his knees, nudged Napoleon's thighs apart with his elbow, and opened Napoleon's pants. He had lost the desire to hear Napoleon beg, only wanted to hear him groan in pleasure.
Napoleon did, a long hoarse exhalation. He put both hands in Illya's hair but gently, so gently, stroking and patting, lifting one leg to drape it over the arm of the chair to give him better access. Illya sucked him slowly, expertly, using his warm lips and tongue, using his hot breath. After a few minutes, though, Napoleon slid his hands down to Illya's shoulders, down his arms to cup his elbows and lift him to his feet. He put his leg down, brought his knees together and moved Illya up a little, enough so when he gripped Illya's hips he could position him just right, just above... then he reached down, doing something out of Illya's field of vision. Illya waited, trembling, and when Napoleon's finger touched him, touched the entrance to his most private self, he wasn't at all surprised that it was slick with oil. Napoleon was always considerate, always careful, always thinking of him, of his comfort, his pleasure. He sighed with that pleasure now as Napoleon's finger coated him, then slipped inside, making little circles, waking a new heat, deep within him, like a tiny sun there. Illya bent over and now it was he kissing Napoleon's forehead, a benediction and a thank you.
Napoleon's finger left him and Illya felt a piercing sorrow at its loss. He whimpered and Napoleon patted his bottom apologetically. Even as he did that he was drawing Illya down, down onto his cock and Illya was pierced again, with pleasure this time. He pushed against it and Napoleon pushed into him. The burning was brighter now, and hotter as Napoleon went deeper, and deeper still until he was completely encased.
Illya couldn't move, couldn't talk, could barely breathe. But his organ was throbbing against Napoleon's abdomen and Napoleon took it in his hand, stroking it with the expertise born of long knowledge, born of love.
Love. The word hung between them, unspoken. Neither dared speak it because the time wasn't right yet. Words of love, like promises of commitment, had to wait for that day when they no longer went into danger together, when Napoleon no longer had to send Illya, and Illya no longer had to watch him go. Both understood this. But at these times the word surrounded them just as Illya surrounded Napoleon, pierced them just as Napoleon pierced him. And when the finish rushed on them, when Illya ground down against him, and Napoleon held his hips hard so he could push even deeper, when their hearts pounded in unison every pulse beat said the same thing—love. Love, love, love. They cried out incoherently, each gasping out his passion, and both the gasping and the passion said one and the same thing—love.
Finished, Illya wriggled a little bit, made himself comfortable on Napoleon's lap although it wasn't comfortable, of course, not comfortable at all. The chair was too small and he himself was probably too heavy although Napoleon didn't seem to mind. He adjusted his own position to draw Illya even closer, tucked Illya's head into the crook of his neck and ran one hand down his back, slick with sweat.
Oh. That reminded him. "It was easier after the sex," he said into Napoleon's throat, and felt as well as heard his rich laugh.
"Getting out of the ropes. Because of the sweat."
"Did you have someone helping you that way?"
"No. But it was quite warm in there. And my ropes were really ropes. I was bleeding a little too."
Then it hadn't been entirely his fault that it took so long. "So you had an unfair advantage right from the start."
"You could say that. I did do my best to equalize things. With the sex, I mean."
"Hmph. Was that your motive?"
"No. Oh, no. You, naked on that bed, were my motive." Napoleon kissed his temple.
"Aren't I too heavy for you?"
"Are you? I hadn't noticed. But now that you mention it, I am very much afraid that my left thigh is about to cramp."
"Too bad you got wine all over those sheets. Not to mention the sweat."
"Well, Illya, I think I may have a fresh set in my linen closet. Want to relocate?"
"Yes. We don't have anywhere to be tomorrow, do we?"
"Not as of this moment we don't." They struggled up out of the depths of the armchair. Illya had to laugh at Napoleon, still in his suit, having to hold his pants up with one hand as they made their way into the bedroom. Napoleon laughed back at him. Together they first stripped, then made up the bed. Napoleon took off his clothes while Illya removed the restraints from the headboard. He shook them at Napoleon.
"Don't lose these," he said. "I may just have a thing or two to show you myself."
"You show me your thing and I'll show you mine," Napoleon said, and Illya laughed again. They made themselves cozy right in the middle of the big bed. It had been a long day. Illya yawned, and Napoleon pulled the covers over them with one hand, gathered Illya in with the other. Sleep took them down together, and each regular breath, each faint snore sang the same song. Love. Love, love, love.