keelywolfe

Coveting Luxury
By Keely
Napoleon/Illya
Rating: NC-17

Notes: This is the ficlet for

mrlnpndrgn. I'm apparently in a weird mood and this is what happened. ;)

~~*~~
He had been too long in the west, he thought. It made him forgetful, memory fading into the whiteness like a chalk drawing. He wouldn't miss most of them, easily contented to lose them, replace them with information and techniques, more useful than dim, yellowed thoughts of childhood. It was not, perhaps, for the best to forget them all. His thoughts, fat and lazy in forgetfulness, to not remember the true meaning of a luxury.

It was not, as he might have once thought, a meal or shoes, or even a mild winter. Those were the thoughts of a child and Illya had left childhood behind years before.

No, there was a difference between necessity and luxury, like between the tough, half-raw chew of cheap beef between his teeth and the melting flavor of filet mignon. Of cheap wine bought in large glass gallons and the dry tang of a pricier vintage; that held the true taste of luxury.

It was in soft pink curl of his tongue against skin that had ached for such a touch for so long he'd forgotten he hadn't been born feeling it.

Illya curled his fingers into damp hair, slicking his palms with sweat and the greasier feel of brylcreem, and wished he could pull Napoleon closer. His nose was already buried in the dark curls of hair that surrounded Illya's cock and it was a wonder the man could even breathe, and Illya didn't care. Couldn't care because Napoleon's tongue was slippery and clever, tracing little shapes against his skin, inching teasingly beneath his foreskin before swirling tenderly over the tip.

He couldn't bear to open his eyes, knowing that if he saw that dark hair clenched between his fingers he would break, would spill all his pleasure in one slick burst and that was a true luxury, the ability to wait, to arch into the dark hot wetness of Napoleon's mouth and simply enjoy it, minute after minute of sweet, luxurious suckling.

Luxury was having Napoleon on his knees in front of him and knowing, knowing, that his eyes were closed in quiet bliss, his lips would be reddened and slightly swollen, so perfect to kiss afterward and taste himself in that mouth. Knowing that Napoleon's free hand was inside his own pants, slowly stroking himself and waiting, that he would never come before Illya. Knowing that he would do anything, anything at all, if Illya only dared to ask.

A slow, deep sigh, a hum of pleasure against his cock and Illya felt his hands tighten, felt the delicate snap of tiny hairs clenched in his fingers and Napoleon took him even deeper, the flickering heat of his tongue the sweetest of any torture and it was coming, so very close, Illya biting his lip and groaning and hoping he would never, ever forget.

-finis-