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keelywolfePaperwork
by Keelywolfe
(Illya/m, Insinuation of Illya/Napoleon)
NC-17
~~*~~
There was a large mirror on the opposite wall from where he was sitting, and though the bar was smoky and dim, he could just see his own face. Illya turned a little, looking away from the pale eyes reflected at him and instead concentrated on the skilled mouth working between his legs.
He shouldn't be here. Even though he had taken dozens of precautions, a winding route over half the city before coming here, going so far as to buy a completely new set of clothing to eliminate any possible trace that might be on him, it was still a heavy chance to be taking.
The young man on his knees in front of him looked up, his eyes a dark and sultry gleam in the murky light as he ran his tongue in a teasing little circle over the head of Illya's cock. Once, twice, until he earned a restless little thrust and finally took it all in and again, Illya luxuriated in the slick, dark heat of that swollen mouth.
There were places like this to be found even in Russia, if one had enough influence and had the money to back it, though Illya would never have attempted to find one even if he'd had both. The dangers, in his opinion, outweighed the benefit. The idea of being 'cured' of homosexuality was off-putting to even the most persistent of desires, even more so than simply being killed.
But here, in the United States, such places were so much easier to find and far more tempting, too much for him to resist. Just once, he'd told himself the first time, just once, but promises made in the dark were terribly easy to break.
Were he discovered it was doubtful that UNCLE would try any of the Soviet tactics; instead, they could do something far more sinister. They could send him home with a curt explanation on his paperwork and the results of that, his indiscretions embarrassing the Soviet Union, would result in something far worse than death. He knew it, knew it far too well but sometimes the moonless nights called to him, swept him away in a shuddering wind of desire and shame.
Illya trembled slightly, though whether in response to the warm suction surrounding his cock or revulsion at the thought of his disgrace he couldn't say. Either could have caused the surge of adrenaline in his system, fiery and potent, and that too was part of the charm of these nights. Completely addictive in a very familiar fashion and he would not be a very good agent if he didn't crave that rush.
He spread his legs a little wider and the young man eagerly accepted his encouragement, squirming closer and his mouth was wet and deliberate and far too wonderful, and oh, he shouldn't be here, but the pull of it, the need of it scratched viciously inside his veins with razor-tipped nails, a relentless burn that would not be soothed by either the touch of his own hands or the smoothness between a woman's thighs.
Illya slid his fingers into the young man's dark, untidy hair and urged him silently to continue. Such a pretty boy, with big eyes and lipstick-smudged lips, and Illya wondered briefly what he had been doing before he'd attached himself to Illya's side. It hardly mattered. All he cared about was this moment, the flicker of a soft tongue over his skin as if to learn the shape by touch.
This was what he had craved, the simple lewdness of it. Dark shadows sitting in other chairs having the same thing done to them, the smell of sweat and sex mingled with tobacco. The feel of a masculine hand creeping into his trousers, cupping his balls as the blowjob started to get brutal and messy and wild and Illya dug his nails into the man's scalp, a warning, and the chair was digging into the backs of his thighs as he arched and came without a sound, spurting helplessly into that sweet, warm mouth. Orgasm was as sharp as a knife blade, quick and messy, and Illya dimly felt the young man swallow before he pulled away, discreetly taking a sip from the glass sitting on the table.
After a moment, Illya took a drink of his own, the harsh burn of cheap vodka an insult to his palate, before standing shakily and fastening his pants. He didn't say a word to the young man, merely slipped bills in the agreed upon amount beneath the glass, plus a little extra as a tip.
The young man watched him silently, his lips barely curved in a smile and perhaps it was that, or perhaps it was something in those dark eyes that made Illya ruffle his hair softly before he turned to leave. Either way, both parties had forgotten the gesture by the time Illya had stepped back onto the street.
The journey back to his apartment wasn’t nearly as complex. There was no need to lose a non-existent tail and even if he had been followed, there was nothing he could hide now. His itch had been scratched, he decided, keeping his thoughts deliberately crude. No use making false promises about never returning. Illya hated lying to himself.
By the time he was unlocking his apartment, Illya's eyes were achingly dry with exhaustion and it was that same exhaustion that made him a split second closer to shooting than he was comfortable with before he recognized the voice.
"You're back sooner than I expected."
His partner seemed supremely unconcerned about the gun pointed at his head, sprawled lazily across the shabby sofa, and Illya couldn't make himself lower it at first, his heart rabbiting painfully in his chest.
"Napoleon?" Illya managed, his voice hoarse from hours of nonuse. He cleared his throat and started again. "Napoleon, it is nearly," A glance at the clock. "Three a.m. What are you doing here?"
"You're quick on your feet," Napoleon's voice was very soft, not a good sign. "But I wanted to let you know, you aren't fooling anyone."
"What do you mean?" A useless question and he could see the answer in Napoleon's eyes. Not careful enough this time, it would seem. Perhaps they had known all along and had simply been waiting to see any developments before they confronted him. Illya realized he still had his gun leveled at Napoleon's temple and he hastily let it roll down to rest on his index finger before setting it carefully on the side table, trying to convey with every movement that he was not a threat.
"I mean, I know where you were tonight." Napoleon stretched, sighing deeply and stood, crossing his arms over his chest as he regarded Illya. The silence seemed to last an age, hazel eyes on blue before Illya finally looked away.
"Why are you telling me this here? Why you?" Illya asked tightly, the cheap vodka from earlier churning in his stomach. He stepped into the kitchenette and poured a glass of water, trying to ignore the red lights strobing behind his eyes. Not fear, certainly not, but something closer to shame, to disgust, that it was Napoleon speaking to him, and he was completely unmanned by his partner's knowledge.
"Because I am your partner and CEO, and why not here? If I did this at headquarters, I'd have to drive home, too."
The water was cool and oddly soothing, and Illya drank deeply, resting the damp glass against his cheek. There was a sound behind him, the quiet shuffle of paper and he turned to see a folder laying on his coffee table with pink and white documents spilling out.
"Your personnel file," Napoleon explained and his lips quirked in a smile. "Well, part of it."
Unspoken was the order to look at it and Illya obeyed mechanically, skimming over the blunt, sterile glimpse of his life. Credentials, commendations, a single reprimand for the time he'd broken another agent's arm while they were sparring. Napoleon was obviously waiting for him to find something, and it took him a moment to see it. In the middle of first page, beneath his designation as Section 2, was one neatly typed sentence.
Sexual orientation: bisexual.
It did not make sense. The papers were handled enough to not be newly made, which meant...Illya wasn't sure what it meant. "Why...?" he whispered, confused.
"UNCLE can't afford not to know everything about their agents." Napoleon shrugged lazily. "Everything. Any little detail that might be a vulnerability is documented. If we didn't, we'd be handling blackmail threats left and right, and Accounting hates spending frivolously, you know that," he drawled, flapping one hand negligently. "We protect our agents. It would be an even bigger waste of resources to lose an agent over something so trivial as sexuality. Do you know how much it costs to train one agent?"
Illya ignored that, still puzzling over this new knowledge. "So why are you telling me this now?"
"Because if you don't know that we know, you're still vulnerable," Napoleon exclaimed, clearly exasperated. "Besides, as amusing as it is to watch you shimmy down a drain pipe, and it was," Napoleon's eyes glittered with amusement and Illya felt himself flush in a painful mixture of embarrassment and anger. "I thought you'd like to know you can just take the stairs from now on."
"Thank you for the information," Illya said, handing back the file with exaggerated courtesy. "Now, if you're quite finished, I am very..."
"What did he look like?" Napoleon broke in, softly, and Illya choked on his own words, coughing painfully and glaring at Napoleon who was watching him with great interest. "I'll bet he was pretty. You look like you'd go for the pretty type."
"I am not about to discuss this with you," Illya said icily, turning away from the dark curiosity glowing in Napoleon's eyes.
"I was afraid you'd say that," Napoleon replied mournfully. "Well, then, I'll see you tomorrow." He brushed a few imaginary wrinkles from his pants before turning to go, stopping abruptly after only a few steps. "Oh, I nearly forgot. Here."
Napoleon retrieved another folder that had been sitting, unseen, on the sofa, tossing it and its mate on the table before walking out the door without another word.
It was almost too much of a shock to the system; after years of preparing for at the very least death, at the most a series of electric shock treatments, to be told merely to use the stairs was, in a strange way, a letdown. Illya let the folder rest on the table for nearly a half hour out of sheer spite while he ate the remains of the Chinese takeout in his refrigerator before his curiosity got the best of him.
Napoleon's personnel file. Part of it, he amended. His list of degrees and certifications was pathetic in comparison to Illya's, and his list of commendations was nearly as long as his list of reprimands, though not quite. Some of the reprimands were quite interesting and Illya raised his eyebrows so high they had nearly climbed off his forehead by the time he finished. How had this man ever managed to get promoted to CEA?
He had read nearly the entire file before he returned to the first page, his eyes seeking out the line he had deliberately avoided. There, under sexual orientation.
Bisexual.
Illya stared at that single word until he could see it behind his eyes when he blinked. Then he returned the papers to the folder, stacked it neatly with his own file and went to take a shower.
He tried not to think of what he might be doing next Sunday; he did need his sleep.
-finis-
by Keelywolfe
(Illya/m, Insinuation of Illya/Napoleon)
NC-17
~~*~~
There was a large mirror on the opposite wall from where he was sitting, and though the bar was smoky and dim, he could just see his own face. Illya turned a little, looking away from the pale eyes reflected at him and instead concentrated on the skilled mouth working between his legs.
He shouldn't be here. Even though he had taken dozens of precautions, a winding route over half the city before coming here, going so far as to buy a completely new set of clothing to eliminate any possible trace that might be on him, it was still a heavy chance to be taking.
The young man on his knees in front of him looked up, his eyes a dark and sultry gleam in the murky light as he ran his tongue in a teasing little circle over the head of Illya's cock. Once, twice, until he earned a restless little thrust and finally took it all in and again, Illya luxuriated in the slick, dark heat of that swollen mouth.
There were places like this to be found even in Russia, if one had enough influence and had the money to back it, though Illya would never have attempted to find one even if he'd had both. The dangers, in his opinion, outweighed the benefit. The idea of being 'cured' of homosexuality was off-putting to even the most persistent of desires, even more so than simply being killed.
But here, in the United States, such places were so much easier to find and far more tempting, too much for him to resist. Just once, he'd told himself the first time, just once, but promises made in the dark were terribly easy to break.
Were he discovered it was doubtful that UNCLE would try any of the Soviet tactics; instead, they could do something far more sinister. They could send him home with a curt explanation on his paperwork and the results of that, his indiscretions embarrassing the Soviet Union, would result in something far worse than death. He knew it, knew it far too well but sometimes the moonless nights called to him, swept him away in a shuddering wind of desire and shame.
Illya trembled slightly, though whether in response to the warm suction surrounding his cock or revulsion at the thought of his disgrace he couldn't say. Either could have caused the surge of adrenaline in his system, fiery and potent, and that too was part of the charm of these nights. Completely addictive in a very familiar fashion and he would not be a very good agent if he didn't crave that rush.
He spread his legs a little wider and the young man eagerly accepted his encouragement, squirming closer and his mouth was wet and deliberate and far too wonderful, and oh, he shouldn't be here, but the pull of it, the need of it scratched viciously inside his veins with razor-tipped nails, a relentless burn that would not be soothed by either the touch of his own hands or the smoothness between a woman's thighs.
Illya slid his fingers into the young man's dark, untidy hair and urged him silently to continue. Such a pretty boy, with big eyes and lipstick-smudged lips, and Illya wondered briefly what he had been doing before he'd attached himself to Illya's side. It hardly mattered. All he cared about was this moment, the flicker of a soft tongue over his skin as if to learn the shape by touch.
This was what he had craved, the simple lewdness of it. Dark shadows sitting in other chairs having the same thing done to them, the smell of sweat and sex mingled with tobacco. The feel of a masculine hand creeping into his trousers, cupping his balls as the blowjob started to get brutal and messy and wild and Illya dug his nails into the man's scalp, a warning, and the chair was digging into the backs of his thighs as he arched and came without a sound, spurting helplessly into that sweet, warm mouth. Orgasm was as sharp as a knife blade, quick and messy, and Illya dimly felt the young man swallow before he pulled away, discreetly taking a sip from the glass sitting on the table.
After a moment, Illya took a drink of his own, the harsh burn of cheap vodka an insult to his palate, before standing shakily and fastening his pants. He didn't say a word to the young man, merely slipped bills in the agreed upon amount beneath the glass, plus a little extra as a tip.
The young man watched him silently, his lips barely curved in a smile and perhaps it was that, or perhaps it was something in those dark eyes that made Illya ruffle his hair softly before he turned to leave. Either way, both parties had forgotten the gesture by the time Illya had stepped back onto the street.
The journey back to his apartment wasn’t nearly as complex. There was no need to lose a non-existent tail and even if he had been followed, there was nothing he could hide now. His itch had been scratched, he decided, keeping his thoughts deliberately crude. No use making false promises about never returning. Illya hated lying to himself.
By the time he was unlocking his apartment, Illya's eyes were achingly dry with exhaustion and it was that same exhaustion that made him a split second closer to shooting than he was comfortable with before he recognized the voice.
"You're back sooner than I expected."
His partner seemed supremely unconcerned about the gun pointed at his head, sprawled lazily across the shabby sofa, and Illya couldn't make himself lower it at first, his heart rabbiting painfully in his chest.
"Napoleon?" Illya managed, his voice hoarse from hours of nonuse. He cleared his throat and started again. "Napoleon, it is nearly," A glance at the clock. "Three a.m. What are you doing here?"
"You're quick on your feet," Napoleon's voice was very soft, not a good sign. "But I wanted to let you know, you aren't fooling anyone."
"What do you mean?" A useless question and he could see the answer in Napoleon's eyes. Not careful enough this time, it would seem. Perhaps they had known all along and had simply been waiting to see any developments before they confronted him. Illya realized he still had his gun leveled at Napoleon's temple and he hastily let it roll down to rest on his index finger before setting it carefully on the side table, trying to convey with every movement that he was not a threat.
"I mean, I know where you were tonight." Napoleon stretched, sighing deeply and stood, crossing his arms over his chest as he regarded Illya. The silence seemed to last an age, hazel eyes on blue before Illya finally looked away.
"Why are you telling me this here? Why you?" Illya asked tightly, the cheap vodka from earlier churning in his stomach. He stepped into the kitchenette and poured a glass of water, trying to ignore the red lights strobing behind his eyes. Not fear, certainly not, but something closer to shame, to disgust, that it was Napoleon speaking to him, and he was completely unmanned by his partner's knowledge.
"Because I am your partner and CEO, and why not here? If I did this at headquarters, I'd have to drive home, too."
The water was cool and oddly soothing, and Illya drank deeply, resting the damp glass against his cheek. There was a sound behind him, the quiet shuffle of paper and he turned to see a folder laying on his coffee table with pink and white documents spilling out.
"Your personnel file," Napoleon explained and his lips quirked in a smile. "Well, part of it."
Unspoken was the order to look at it and Illya obeyed mechanically, skimming over the blunt, sterile glimpse of his life. Credentials, commendations, a single reprimand for the time he'd broken another agent's arm while they were sparring. Napoleon was obviously waiting for him to find something, and it took him a moment to see it. In the middle of first page, beneath his designation as Section 2, was one neatly typed sentence.
Sexual orientation: bisexual.
It did not make sense. The papers were handled enough to not be newly made, which meant...Illya wasn't sure what it meant. "Why...?" he whispered, confused.
"UNCLE can't afford not to know everything about their agents." Napoleon shrugged lazily. "Everything. Any little detail that might be a vulnerability is documented. If we didn't, we'd be handling blackmail threats left and right, and Accounting hates spending frivolously, you know that," he drawled, flapping one hand negligently. "We protect our agents. It would be an even bigger waste of resources to lose an agent over something so trivial as sexuality. Do you know how much it costs to train one agent?"
Illya ignored that, still puzzling over this new knowledge. "So why are you telling me this now?"
"Because if you don't know that we know, you're still vulnerable," Napoleon exclaimed, clearly exasperated. "Besides, as amusing as it is to watch you shimmy down a drain pipe, and it was," Napoleon's eyes glittered with amusement and Illya felt himself flush in a painful mixture of embarrassment and anger. "I thought you'd like to know you can just take the stairs from now on."
"Thank you for the information," Illya said, handing back the file with exaggerated courtesy. "Now, if you're quite finished, I am very..."
"What did he look like?" Napoleon broke in, softly, and Illya choked on his own words, coughing painfully and glaring at Napoleon who was watching him with great interest. "I'll bet he was pretty. You look like you'd go for the pretty type."
"I am not about to discuss this with you," Illya said icily, turning away from the dark curiosity glowing in Napoleon's eyes.
"I was afraid you'd say that," Napoleon replied mournfully. "Well, then, I'll see you tomorrow." He brushed a few imaginary wrinkles from his pants before turning to go, stopping abruptly after only a few steps. "Oh, I nearly forgot. Here."
Napoleon retrieved another folder that had been sitting, unseen, on the sofa, tossing it and its mate on the table before walking out the door without another word.
It was almost too much of a shock to the system; after years of preparing for at the very least death, at the most a series of electric shock treatments, to be told merely to use the stairs was, in a strange way, a letdown. Illya let the folder rest on the table for nearly a half hour out of sheer spite while he ate the remains of the Chinese takeout in his refrigerator before his curiosity got the best of him.
Napoleon's personnel file. Part of it, he amended. His list of degrees and certifications was pathetic in comparison to Illya's, and his list of commendations was nearly as long as his list of reprimands, though not quite. Some of the reprimands were quite interesting and Illya raised his eyebrows so high they had nearly climbed off his forehead by the time he finished. How had this man ever managed to get promoted to CEA?
He had read nearly the entire file before he returned to the first page, his eyes seeking out the line he had deliberately avoided. There, under sexual orientation.
Bisexual.
Illya stared at that single word until he could see it behind his eyes when he blinked. Then he returned the papers to the folder, stacked it neatly with his own file and went to take a shower.
He tried not to think of what he might be doing next Sunday; he did need his sleep.
-finis-
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no subject
Date: 2003-07-08 05:22 pm (UTC)So, where's the next one? *ducks and runs*
no subject
Date: 2003-07-11 05:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-07-08 07:22 pm (UTC)I like the idea of Illya sneaking out, spy-like, for a tryst, loving the thrill of it with a nature that just feels so like him. And I don't have to tell you the affect the anon scene had on me. Needless to say, the windows are steaming up in here. ;-)
And five more Sundays to go! *rubs hands gleefully*
no subject
Date: 2003-07-10 07:18 pm (UTC)Hehehe...
Date: 2003-07-09 01:28 am (UTC)Re: Hehehe...
Date: 2003-07-10 07:18 pm (UTC)*shivers*
Date: 2003-08-07 09:31 am (UTC)And I laughed out loud at the idea of Napoleon watching Illya's gyrations and laughing at him. HA!
Re: *shivers*
Date: 2003-08-20 04:22 am (UTC)Can't you just see Illya sneaking all over the city, trying to be discreet and Napoleon is just watching him the whole time? *G*