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When Napoleon wakes, it is to Illya frowning at him.
Not that Kuryakin has a neutral expression, exactly. His face defaults into a slight grimace. But Napoleon has known him long enough, now, to know the difference between his detached disdain and actual displeasure. He blinks his eyes a few times to clear them, thinks about remarking on how creepy it is that Illya even wakes up looking cool and perfectly put-together. He yawns, and Illya just keeps staring at him.
“Kuryakin,” he says, pulling the side of the blanket that covers Illya’s lap to wrap the entire thing tight round himself - the Russian is sat up, so he figures it’s fair game. “Do I have morning breath so bad that it really warrants waking me up with the heat of your scowl?”
Illya’s eyes soften almost imperceptibly. “Your hair,” he says, and it’s quieter than Solo’s ever heard him; it sounds unsure, vulnerable. Napoleon is deeply confused.
“What about my hair ?” he snaps, and he panics, reaching up to pat the tousle of curls atop his head, and he combs his fingers through them, untangling a couple places where they’ve knotted, but there seem to be no bodily fluids or live insects in his hair, so he drops his hand, unimpressed. “What’s the problem, Illya?”
Kuryakin doesn’t answer; he leans down on one elbow, still scrutinizing Napoleon, and once he settles he reaches a hand out to replace Napoleon’s own in his hair, tugs back on the locks at the crown of his head experimentally. Napoleon closes his eyes, purrs as he leans back into the touch. He remembers last night, Illya wide-eyed and sweat-slicked, as mussed and uncomposed as he’s ever seen him. The hand that’s in his hair now trailing down his stomach, cradling his hip, touching him almost reverently, like he was fine china, breakable and delicate.
Illya takes his hand away, and his curls tickle the nape of his neck as they’re dropped; the light touch makes him shiver. And then he realizes. This is the first time Illya’s woken up beside him, and therefore the first time he’s seen him both dry and unstyled. He suddenly feels very self-conscious, mourning the distance of the pomade in his carryon at the foot of the bed. He turns away from Illya with a whine, flips over in the bed and hides his face in the covers. Illya’s fingertips trail along his shoulder, and a shiver runs through him before he can stop it. Then Illya’s breath is close, hot on the nape of his neck, and he closes his eyes, wanting to surrender to it but feeling so irrationally exposed. He’s never felt like this before, and he’s had plenty of experience waking up next to another person. Perhaps it’s the fact that he will continue to see Illya regularly, that he’s not simply a one-night stand? Perhaps he needs to come to terms with the fact that he very much wants him to not be just a one night stand.
“I like seeing you in the light,” he hears Illya say, and he sounds distant, much farther away than Napoleon knows he is. He curls forward and Illya follows, lips pressed to his neck. He nibbles the thin skin under his ear and Napoleon curses himself for letting that weakness be known so quickly - he doesn’t remember everything they’d done last night, but he has a feeling Illya now knows more about him than he’d need to utterly ruin his reputation. There’s a strange, unsettling softness to Illya’s voice as he whispers into his neck, and Napoleon slowly disentangles himself from the bedspread at his continued insistence. The feeling of his warm skin on Illya’s, slightly cooler, makes him hiss as he’s pulled into the cradle of Illya’s broader hips. “Peril,” he says, practically a plea, and feels Illya smile into his shoulder. He wishes he could see it, but he’ll take what he can get.
Napoleon can feel Illya growing hard against his backside, and he rolls back into him, arching his back and reaching back to take Illya by the hair, pressing him more insistently into the crook between his neck and shoulder. Illya growls and bites down, teeth tugging at his skin. Napoleon presses back harder, rocking his hips side to side. He has expertise here and intends to use it, and he knows Illya has been waiting for an invitation - something he’d learned last night, that Illya is a bundle of nerves waiting to be let loose, but only when he’s sure. Napoleon had certainly done his best to make him sure it was wanted.
Illya’s got a hand threaded back into his hair and the other on his flank, at first tracing but then gripping tight, rolling them over so Solo’s on his front with Illya’s considerable weight pinning him down. He pulls back on Napoleon’s hair again, this time much more confidently, and Napoleon moans loud, feeling a little bit of the fight leave him. But not all of it.
“You planning on doing anything else, Peril, or shall I resign myself to a morning of all bark, no bite?” he asks. Illya growls again and yanks Napoleon up by the hips so he’s on his knees, ass in the air. Napoleon chuckles as he settles onto his elbows, turning to look sideways at Illya behind him. “Enjoying the view?” he asks, and shakes his curls out just to taunt. Since Kuryakin seems to like them so much. He’s not above the use of new tools; he’s always been one to adapt.
“Shut up,” Illya tells him, doing his best to sound angry, but Napoleon just chuckles again. “Make me,” he challenges, wiggling his hips back and forth.
There's a shuffle behind him, a rustling of the bedclothes, and then - well, he has to hand it to Illya, Solo is rendered pretty much speechless. That's not - he's never, the sensation is so much, so overwhelming, what with Illya’s lips and tongue and hand working him all in unison and Napoleon can’t process it; his brain sort of goes haywire, too many neurons firing at once. Nobody’s ever done this for him, though he's considered the concept. He supposes everyone gets shy about something, even him; he’s never been able to bring himself to ask.
One of the best thing about Kuryakin is that he takes without asking. A thief at heart. Illya spits on Napoleon, follows quickly to slick him down with his tongue, kneads his hands, fingertips then knuckles, into the tight muscles of his ass. He sticks a firm tongue inside him and swirls it around and Solo cries out, overcome. He collapses to the bed and Illya just follows, spreading him open to compensate for the new position. Napoleon can feel his nose against his hipbone, the way he exhales through it and sucks in sharp breaths.
Illya pulls away and Napoleon’s left gasping, jaw dropped and panting. He can’t roll over for Illya’s weight distributed over his thighs, so he lies there, wishing Illya would sink his tongue back in, or a finger, or anything he wanted but unable to find the words to ask for it. He wants Illya to fill him like he had last night, but instead of letting Napoleon control the pace he wants him to bury himself to the hilt and take him, hard and fast, steal the breath from him and leave him behind trying to catch up. Illya’s running his strong hands over his back, digging into the tensioned muscles, and upon reaching the small of his back he leans back over and starts in on him again and a low and long moan drags out of Napoleon’s throat. His body takes over, thrusting back to Illya’s face and Kuryakin adapts, gripping his hips from the sides to hold him still. Napoleon tries to squirm, get some friction on the comforter, but Illya hums and squeezes harder to prevent his movement.
“Peril… please,” Napoleon says, pushing down the distress he feels at how desperate he sounds. Kuryakin just hums again, shaking his head a bit to get a different angle, burying his tongue so deep that his lips press against Napoleon’s skin, nose hard at the top of the cleft of his ass. “God!” Napoleon shouts, arching back as best he can. Illya laughs against him, breath ghosting across the slickness of his perineum as he pulls away slightly. Napoleon flips his head around and casts narrowed eyes at his partner. “What do they teach you in the KGB?” he asks, incredulous, and Illya, lips swollen and face flushed, shakes his head, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at the left corner of his mouth. He ignores Napoleon, as he always does, manipulates him so that he’s lying on his back with one foot planted and the other leg at rest on the bed. Illya leans down over him, presses their chests together, kisses Napoleon breathless.
Illya is the first to move, rocking his hips against Napoleon’s, and Napoleon breaks their kiss to let out a loud whine. He nips at Illya’s bottom lip to elicit a growl, and they stare each other down, eye contact sparking electricity as they rut together, friction too much and then immediately not enough. Illya seems to want to reach between them and help them both along with his hand, but it skates along Napoleon’s side without a settled-on destination instead, perhaps prolonging things.
Napoleon prides himself on his stamina, so when he is the first to break and spasm frantically, rubbing himself desperately against Illya’s solid body above him, he figures it’s the softness of the morning, the fact that he wasn’t given the time to go through his routine. Certainly it’s not something Illya specifically does to him, nothing to do with the way his vision blurs when Illya throws his head back, flipping the blond silk of his hair around, and moans Napoleon’s name, spilling hot onto his stomach.
They’re quiet for a long moment. Napoleon’s hand has at some point found its way to the small of Illya’s back, and he holds him there, feeling the beads of sweat pool on his skin, tracing patterns with his thumb. The intimacy of the gesture is not lost on him; he considers their next mission. He considers placing his hand here when they’re surrounded, a private reassure when he senses Illya’s heart beating with panic. Something, simple as a circle with his thumb, that connects and grounds them both, together.