Eternity in an Hour

by Keelywolfe

Three a.m. was a dangerous time to be wandering alone. Nighttime in a city was as unfaithful as a whore; it belonged to whoever wished to use it. Still, there was little in the ordinary veneer of the world that Illya could not handle and even at this late hour, his journey was no more remarkable than a midday stroll.

That his knock went unanswered was no surprise and Illya leaned against the wall to wait, refusing to sit on the dusty floor. He never considered going inside. Illya did own a key for emergency purposes but it was never wise to enter an agent's apartment unannounced. One never knew what surprises one might find, and he preferred to fall asleep on his own terms this night.

His communicator was in his pocket, cold, tempting metal and he knew that regardless of what he was doing, Napoleon would answer it. If he had to drag himself from between the woman's thighs, he would do it without a thought and Illya was certain he could think of a perfectly reasonable excuse for calling him, even at this late hour.

He didn't touch it; some pleasures were worth waiting for, though it was moments like this he knew what Blake meant when he said you could feel eternity in an hour.

There was a flavor to jealousy, a chemical reaction on the back of the tongue that was as unpleasant as biting into foil and as accustomed as he had become to it, tonight it had simmered in his mouth like acid until he thought it might burn its way through his flesh and be washed away by the taste of blood.

It was that burn that had driven him here tonight, to wait in this empty hallway and he knew he had no right to the emotion, but if there was one lesson life had taught him, rights were often of little consequence in these matters. Possessiveness he could not allow and if the jealousy would not be banished at the very least he wanted to see the object of it, feel the full blaze.

A soft creak several floors down alerted him, and he tensed, knowing it had to be Napoleon; no one else would be taking the stairs at this time of night. Soft steps, leading upward and he rounded the landing with the same grace as he did anything, stilling only when he saw Illya standing next to his door and the careless warmth in his dark eyes shifted into wariness.

He looked almost awkward, waiting for Illya to speak, and then impatient when he didn't, finally breaking the silence himself with slow, cool tones. "Illya. I wasn't expecting you tonight."

There was no hint of a question in Napoleon's words. Illya answered him anyway, unnecessarily. "No. You weren't."

It was the turning point that Illya had been waiting for, needle-sharp and it could cut him just as easily. Napoleon could simply turn away, unlock his door and close it behind him, leaving Illya to stare at a barrier of metal and mahogany that was no less unbreachable than the metaphorical wall between them. Leave him alone with the burning on his tongue shifting into his gut and tomorrow when they met in the morning he would have to conceal it beneath a layer of ice and do nothing, until Napoleon finally relented and allowed him inside.

Or there was always the second option, and when Napoleon hesitated at the entrance, holding the door for him, Illya felt a surge of unnamed emotion deep within, cooling the burn. Perhaps it was merely relief at not being left outside, perhaps not. But this was always the way of it; Napoleon said yes only by the default that he did not say no.

Illya waited near the entryway, politely averting his eyes while Napoleon moved around the room, disarming various security measures before waving an impatient hand towards Illya, motioning him inside.

It was all the invitation Illya wanted and in the next moment he had his partner pinned beneath him, his wrists caught and held in the unforgiving circle of Illya's fingers. The faintest tremor went through him, yet Napoleon was unresisting, as pliant as Illya had known he would be from the moment he was allowed inside.

"What did she look like?" Illya lowered his head to murmur in Napoleon's ear, felt him shiver at the touch of breath. Napoleon's thighs trembled beneath his own in a reaction of some sort and Illya could not bring himself to care of what kind.

"Brunette," Napoleon gasped, arching beneath Illya as the blond mouthed his ear, catching the soft lobe between his teeth and biting down until Napoleon made a faint sound of protest. His eyes were closed when Illya raised his head and as he watched, the tip of his tongue flicked out to wet his lips, almost nervously.

"Brunette," he prompted, brushing a light kiss on Napoleon's mouth and pulling away before he could deepen it.

A soft, frustrated sigh before Napoleon gave in and murmured, "Pretty. Lived in a cheap downtown apartment and drinks cheaper gin."

It was the way the game was always played, and once he was allowed inside the door, the flames shifted from red into the purer heat of blue, and Illya knew he was the only one allowed to do this, his jealousy proved ridiculous in the face of this sweet yielding.

There was a shadow of purple at the base of Napoleon's throat, a bruise that had not been there earlier. Illya lowered his head and mouthed it, briefly tempted to leave his own mark over it and remove any claim the unknown brunette might have on his partner. Yet there was no flavor to the skin, not of bitter lipstick or even sweat. Only the faintest taint of soap that had to have belonged to the lady. Napoleon would never be accused of being prosaic but even he didn't generally use lilac soap.

He wasn't strong enough to hold Napoleon down with only one hand, they both knew it, but there was no resistance when he did so, using his free hand to tug shirt buttons recklessly free. Nothing marred the smoothness of Napoleon's chest, only the barest scattering of hair that stirred with Illya's breath as he leaned down and licked softly at the dark circle of his nipple. A harsh sound caught in Napoleon's throat, rising in pitch with the sudden, sharp pinch of Illya's teeth before he soothed the abused skin again with the decadent little swirls of his tongue.

There were scars further down, he knew, and he passed them by, finally releasing Napoleon's wrists, trusting him to remain still while he slid lower. Tasted nothing but sweet, clean skin and he wished for the sharp salt bite of sweat, hating this false purity.

He wrestled for a moment with the fastenings of Napoleon's pants, cursing whoever it was that invented hidden zippers and when the material finally parted beneath his fingers, he yanked it aside, tugging pants and shorts past Napoleon's hips into a tangle at his ankles before surging back up to press his face into the silken heat between Napoleon's legs. The hard line of his cock burned against Illya's cheek as he inhaled deeply, and finally, finally there was a scent, darker and hotter than lilacs, utterly Napoleon, and when he nuzzled at the damp flesh Napoleon choked out a cry. His hands seemed to forget the unspoken rules as they flew to catch the back of Illya's head, fingers struggling to clutch at short blond hair.

It would have been so terribly easy to part his lips, to let Napoleon press inside, again and again until the heavy pulses of slick-salt fell across his tongue and Napoleon's thighs shuddered under his hands, and he could hold that harsh tang in his mouth until it overshadowed anything else.

Easy, yes, too easy, and instead he suckled his own fingers, wetting them with no less eagerness before pulling them free and letting them rove over the soft skin behind Napoleon's balls, and lower, to press against the stubborn resistance of too-tight muscles.

Napoleon was gasping harshly above him, struggling to kick out of his pants without dislodging Illya and he sighed deeply when he finally freed one leg, raising it and spreading his thighs in decadent invitation, one that Illya would never refuse.

Much easier now to slide a finger inside, and the sudden heat surrounding his finger made Illya moan softly, the vibration dragging a startled curse from Napoleon. The frantic patter of his pulse fluttered through his cock and against Illya's tongue as he licked long, smooth patterns over the hard flesh, hoping to distract him from the persistent stretch of fingers within.

The feel of Napoleon twisted beneath him, the blind, frantic enthusiasm behind every squirm was a worse torture than any THRUSH could conceive of, and Illya pushed in his fingers feverishly, wanting nothing more than to sink into that brutal heat, to hear Napoleon whimper.

Now there was the taste of sweat, slick beneath his tongue and enough waiting, enough of jealousy and enough of dark-haired whores. Illya did not know if he meant Napoleon or that blasted brunette, and didn't care. The only thing that mattered was pulling open his own pants, the sudden ease of pressure around his cock making him sigh in relief before he crawled up between Napoleon's unresisting legs, pulling them upward and over his shoulders. Wonderfully flexible, he folded beneath Illya easily, his face tight with need and that was Illya's as well.

The first soft touch was nothing but bliss and Illya slowly pushed inside, the slick glide of it nearly unbearable and even the soft hiss that was certainly of pain from Napoleon only sweetened it. His, only his, no matter whose legs Napoleon chose to spend his time between, this was Illya's alone.

So utterly incredible, Illya couldn't remain still, not even for a moment, slowly rocking in and then out, savoring the tight clench surrounding him.

"Oh," Napoleon breathed, eyes wide. It made him look oddly younger and Illya couldn't resist a true kiss, sliding his tongue against Napoleon's and tasting the soft gust of his breath. Slow, ruthless thrusts within, just to feel those desperate little gasps and Napoleon was writhing beneath him now, more like a man who hadn't been fucked in years than one who'd already come at least once this night.

"...good," Illya murmured distractedly, "So fucking good." He felt a tremor go through Napoleon at the obscenity and grinned damply against his neck, thrusting in viciously hard and fast for just a moment before slowing again and whispering, over and over, "You're so good, so fucking good..."

Illya could have gone on forever, if it weren't for the dismal limitations of flesh, whispering dark words about how terribly hot Napoleon was inside, so tight, incredible, so fucking incredible and it kept other words from slipping free, words that could never be said aloud between them. He thought maybe Napoleon already knew entirely too much of love and that sometimes it should be unspoken, and when Napoleon came it was without a sound, only the hot spatter of warmth between them, glistening stains against the darkness of Illya's shirt.

Mine. The word nearly blundered out, literally bitten off at the last second and Illya tasted warm copper as he pushed in hard a final time and fell, lost in the heat of it, scalded by it and when he finally collapsed, soaked through with sweat and come, Napoleon was waiting for him, wrapping his arms around him and soothing him with silent, gentle touches.

Illya could feel Napoleon's legs cramping over his arms, flexibility only carrying so far and though Napoleon wasn't complaining, he knew he'd have to move in a minute. He'd have to let go and move away, and in a day or so the burn would return, sharp and acrid as a just-lit match on the back of his tongue and it would swell within until he found himself here again. A game they played, over and over, and perhaps next time Napoleon would close the door between them, or perhaps not.

For the moment, he was here, sticky-warm and utterly content and it was enough. For now.

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