FIC: Kaleidoscope (MfU)
Aug. 5th, 2003 05:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
keelywolfeKaleidoscope
by Keelywolfe
Rated R
Illya/Napoleon
Disclaimer: I do not own these wonderful characters, because if I did, all their episodes would be on DVD by now...but I digress. I also make no money off of them.
Summary: Written for the 'red' challenge on![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
muncle Emotions are full of colors.
~~*~~
It's possible he loved Illya the first time he saw him. Possible, but not probable, love was too gentle an emotion for what seemed to pass between them.
No, love came later, its colors muted into the predictable soft pastels that came with it. In the beginning, everything was as stark as the desert at midday. Blazingly hot, ruddy shades that fell between them like shadows.
And nothing in life is free, especially not information, and sometimes sex is almost as good as money, better even for the informant who wanted to carry with him the memory of an agent on his knees. People sold their bodies to UNCLE from the moment they made the choice to become an agent, for death and for sex, and eventually they all became jaded to it, like a statue of cold green. Especially when the body in question was their own. When it wasn't...
Jealousy is only green on paper, in paintings and poetry; behind the eyes it's the dark red of old blood and no barrier at all to an unwanted view that seems to shimmer with heat like desert air.
It's something he can carry with him like an acid-tainted photograph, that memory, hiding it from cool-water eyes as he walks through the rest of the day, one dissonant note souring the tune and that night, between sheets that aren't his own, he is the one on his knees. Only in this scenario he is the one making the demands, his position allowing it without the dark, jagged edge of guilt.
Even though it he can't relax enough to let the harsh stretch of it ease and pain is the brilliant color of the firecrackers of his youth, the first unpleasant bite of orange juice on the tongue, even though the deep orange burn of it makes his eyes water and he has to bite his lip and tastes something like copper pennies, he still wants it. Something hotter than jealousy, burning it away cleanly into dusty white ash.
Illya is giving him exactly what he is begging for, crooning soft, dark obscenities into his ear. A few he understands, the rest are like tatters of yellowed paper in the wind, ripped away before he can puzzle out the words, leaving only a deep, sweet mystery like dark chocolate.
He tears one corner of the sheet free and balls it into a sweaty fist, harsh thrusts deep inside him seeming to last forever, and he wishes with dizzy fierceness that it would, a wash of smoldering lust wiping everything clean, burning it to the ground to start afresh. A fanciful dream that doesn't even border on realistic and when it does end, the warm liquid spill within is colored with regret and Napoleon can't help coming too, white threads of heat over his own hand that smear into the sheets as his shaky knees refuse to accept their combined weight.
"Hold still. I think you might be bleeding." Illya's voice is as raw as Napoleon nerves, and when he pulls out, Napoleon thinks he might be right. He doesn't care. He feels sore and used, driven to lackluster colorlessness and it's just how he wanted to feel.
Illya makes a dissatisfied sound and a moment later there is a cold washcloth pressed against his skin, a blissfully soothing thief that steals away his moment of peace. It was all right, though. If peace weren't soap-bubble frail, they'd both be out of a job.
"Why did you let me hurt you?" No accusation in Illya's voice as he gently cleans away any traces of color from his partner's skin.
Napoleon smiles sleepily, "I would always let you hurt me."
Silence is his only reply and after a moment, Illya tosses the wet cloth to the floor, ignoring Napoleon's half-hearted protests and curls behind him to sleep.
He's brutally sore and tired, and it's what he wanted, something as blue and brilliant as a lightning flash, to burn away the photograph-memory behind his eyes.
But when he dreams, his dreams are of old blood. And Illya on his knees.
-finis-
by Keelywolfe
Rated R
Illya/Napoleon
Disclaimer: I do not own these wonderful characters, because if I did, all their episodes would be on DVD by now...but I digress. I also make no money off of them.
Summary: Written for the 'red' challenge on
muncle Emotions are full of colors. ~~*~~
It's possible he loved Illya the first time he saw him. Possible, but not probable, love was too gentle an emotion for what seemed to pass between them.
No, love came later, its colors muted into the predictable soft pastels that came with it. In the beginning, everything was as stark as the desert at midday. Blazingly hot, ruddy shades that fell between them like shadows.
And nothing in life is free, especially not information, and sometimes sex is almost as good as money, better even for the informant who wanted to carry with him the memory of an agent on his knees. People sold their bodies to UNCLE from the moment they made the choice to become an agent, for death and for sex, and eventually they all became jaded to it, like a statue of cold green. Especially when the body in question was their own. When it wasn't...
Jealousy is only green on paper, in paintings and poetry; behind the eyes it's the dark red of old blood and no barrier at all to an unwanted view that seems to shimmer with heat like desert air.
It's something he can carry with him like an acid-tainted photograph, that memory, hiding it from cool-water eyes as he walks through the rest of the day, one dissonant note souring the tune and that night, between sheets that aren't his own, he is the one on his knees. Only in this scenario he is the one making the demands, his position allowing it without the dark, jagged edge of guilt.
Even though it he can't relax enough to let the harsh stretch of it ease and pain is the brilliant color of the firecrackers of his youth, the first unpleasant bite of orange juice on the tongue, even though the deep orange burn of it makes his eyes water and he has to bite his lip and tastes something like copper pennies, he still wants it. Something hotter than jealousy, burning it away cleanly into dusty white ash.
Illya is giving him exactly what he is begging for, crooning soft, dark obscenities into his ear. A few he understands, the rest are like tatters of yellowed paper in the wind, ripped away before he can puzzle out the words, leaving only a deep, sweet mystery like dark chocolate.
He tears one corner of the sheet free and balls it into a sweaty fist, harsh thrusts deep inside him seeming to last forever, and he wishes with dizzy fierceness that it would, a wash of smoldering lust wiping everything clean, burning it to the ground to start afresh. A fanciful dream that doesn't even border on realistic and when it does end, the warm liquid spill within is colored with regret and Napoleon can't help coming too, white threads of heat over his own hand that smear into the sheets as his shaky knees refuse to accept their combined weight.
"Hold still. I think you might be bleeding." Illya's voice is as raw as Napoleon nerves, and when he pulls out, Napoleon thinks he might be right. He doesn't care. He feels sore and used, driven to lackluster colorlessness and it's just how he wanted to feel.
Illya makes a dissatisfied sound and a moment later there is a cold washcloth pressed against his skin, a blissfully soothing thief that steals away his moment of peace. It was all right, though. If peace weren't soap-bubble frail, they'd both be out of a job.
"Why did you let me hurt you?" No accusation in Illya's voice as he gently cleans away any traces of color from his partner's skin.
Napoleon smiles sleepily, "I would always let you hurt me."
Silence is his only reply and after a moment, Illya tosses the wet cloth to the floor, ignoring Napoleon's half-hearted protests and curls behind him to sleep.
He's brutally sore and tired, and it's what he wanted, something as blue and brilliant as a lightning flash, to burn away the photograph-memory behind his eyes.
But when he dreams, his dreams are of old blood. And Illya on his knees.
-finis-
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no subject
Date: 2003-08-05 03:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-08-10 05:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-08-05 07:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-08-10 05:44 am (UTC)Aww, thank you!!! :)
no subject
Date: 2003-08-21 10:15 am (UTC)This is beautiful. Just so absolutely amazing and powerful and...
wow.
Your writing is just so absoutely amazing. I mean, really. This is lyrical, intelligent, and oh-so emotional.
The way Napolean's emotions play out is exquisite, the way he strives for that catharsis, the way his purged unhappiness returns with that soft, loving care of Illya's, the way it ends with the dream of Illya on his knees...
beautiful, beautiful. *worships you*