by Nappifan

Illya Kuryakin sighed and sat back into a comfortable leather chair. He wrapped his arms around the exquisite classical guitar Napoleon had given him on his birthday last year. He'd never known an instrument could produce such a responsive, deep, and mellow sound and he'd been stunned by Napoleon's gift. He mindlessly stroked the beautiful cedar wood of the guitar, enjoying the smooth feel of it under his touch.

The guitar was made by Jose Ramirez III, a Spanish musician who had revolutionized classical guitar style. The guitar was somewhat larger than most, with a longer scale length and asymmetrical bracing that took some getting used to. But the sound was unparalleled. Illya was only beginning to learn about the intricacies of this instrument. He was mystified by the romantic, lyrical tones, and sought ways to communicate emotion through his fingers on the strings. If he could only learn how!

He was currently working on a piece by composer Tristram Cary entitled "Sonata for the Guitar Alone." Napoleon had teased him about the title but Illya mastered the composition quite easily. There was, however, something missing from his playing. Technically, it was proficient. He didn't miss a note. The dynamics were exactly as written on the chart. "A studious interpretation" was the comment by the maestro he studied with, Domingo Esteso.

He'd played the piece only once for his partner. Napoleon sat right across from him, folded his hands, and was clearly moved by the performance. Yet Illya was not at all satisfied.

"Relax, Illya." Napoleon had encouraged. "It only needs more of you in it."

The Russian now glanced out across the room and saw Napoleon relaxing out on the balcony. It was an easy Sunday morning in their shared penthouse and Illya smiled as Napoleon's book rested face down on his chest. His feet were up on the balcony and a gentle breeze blew his hair casually about. His head was tilted back and the distinctive cleft chin was raised in the air to meet the sunshine of the day on his handsome face. Eyes closed, Napoleon Solo rested. This was an uncommon occurrence that Illya was glad to witness.

Illya set the guitar aside and watched Napoleon doze. The man was stunning and had always been so to him. They were the perfect compliment to each other in every way, whether circumstances found them together professionally or personally. Clearly they preferred each other's company whenever possible. As their UNCLE partnership solidified and deepened over the years, so did their personal one until a year ago, they finally acknowledged their attraction and feelings for each other and set forth into unchartered waters, becoming deliciously intimate. They never looked back.

Illya thought it ironic that Solo, known as a sociable charmer, was truly the more enigmatic of the pair. Everyone thought they knew him and to a certain degree they did. Napoleon was intelligent, creative, a natural leader, and appeared to handle every precipitous situation with ease and flair. Yet as their relationship evolved, Illya was privy to sides of the man not seen by others. He relished in this knowledge and looked upon it as a treasured gift he selfishly guarded.

"Napoleon." The Russian called softly to his partner. "Come here."

Solo stretched and yawned out on the balcony. He looked in and smiled at Illya, rose, and came inside. Napoleon leaned over Illya and nuzzled his neck gently in greeting.

"Hmmmmmmmmmmm?" Solo murmured.

Kuryakin, still settled comfortably, rested his feet up on a leather ottoman and patted his lap.

"Come sit here"

Smiling at the request, Napoleon straddled his partner on the chair, facing him, with most of his weight resting on his knees on either side of Illya's legs. Illya looked up into Napoleon's soft eyes and grinned at his uncharacteristically ruffled dark hair. He reached for Solo's hips and tugged at his body pulling him closer towards his own groin. Napoleon settled there, sighed happily, and reached to unbutton the Russian's shirt.

"What is it you want, my friend?" Napoleon smiled slipping roving hands over the Russian's smooth chest.

"Nothing platonic, I can assure you, Polya." Illya replied. He grasped Solo's wrists, pulling his hands away from their exploration. "But let's not start this way. I have something else in mind, you see."

Illya stroked Napoleon's cheek lovingly and noticed every detail as Solo's eyes closed and his face leaned into his caressing hand. With his other hand, Illya reached for the belt on Solo's pants, pausing occasionally to grope the American through his trousers. He delighted in Napoleon's reaction, feeling him thrust forward into the contact and gasp in pleasure.

Illya reached in to pull out Napoleon's cock and smiled watching the older man began to pant.

"Sit still now, Polya. Let me get you hard." Illya whispered.

And simply because Illya asked, Napoleon complied. Illya had often wondered what it was about this dynamic that appealed to him so much. It wasn't that he sought to control or dominate his lover. Nor was it about conquest or submission. These were concepts from their world of work. It was more the generous, tender way Napoleon opened himself up so completely allowing Illya to play him like a delicate concerto. And Illya did just that...stroking harder and softer, then feathering fingers slowly across his lover's impossibly hard cock....he played Napoleon to perfection.

Illya felt Napoleon continue to stiffen in his hand as the two held eye contact with each other, finding unison. All of his senses came alive studying the way Napoleon moved, gasped, and responded to his touch.

"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh." Solo moaned. " that."

"Shhhhhhhhhhhh, Polya." He responded. "Patience......I want to watch you...."

Illya continued to arouse Napoleon, memorizing exactly what made him groan or whimper in a particular way. Napoleon's vulnerability was deeply alluring and the Russian quickened the tempo, his eyes fixed with fascination on Napoleon's face. Napoleon arched his back, closed his eyes, and appeared to be approaching release.

Illya smiled at the passion and elation on his lover's face now. He was amazed at Napoleon's reaction to him, sometimes still not believing the effect he had on this man.

Watching closely, Illya circled his thumb around the tip of Napoleon's cock and Solo shook, twitched, and squirmed on his legs.

"Illyaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa....he crooned. "Hmmmmmmm....Illyaaaaaaa."

"Soon, Polya."

Illya now fondled the throbbing organ quickly...enraptured by the way Solo bucked. Napoleon's face seemed to glaze over and the Russian knew it was time. Illya focused solely on Napoleon...the pulse of his body, the timbre of his throaty, urgent groans.

As Solo came apart, his breathe heaved and creamy semen exploded from his cock. Illya continued to work him, determined to make his lover's ecstasy last and hold Napoleon in this state as long as he could. Finally Napoleon fell forward, still trembling, into Illya's arms with his face resting in Illya's neck, nuzzling, kissing, murmuring endearments, and soon, again finding rest.

Illya held Napoleon and lightly stroked his silky, dark hair glancing over at the guitar he'd strummed not thirty minutes ago and smiled with new understanding. In him was the joy of loving, of giving. Tenderness, excitement, and the spectrum of all emotions had been conveyed tonight just through the magic of his hands... everything at his complete disposal and without limits. He held Napoleon Solo close to him and could only think of one word to describe it.


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