A Matter of Taste

A Matter of Taste

by brooklinegirl




Summary: Uhm. Napoleon is a slutty bottom.

Ficlet for laughingacademy, who took the most perfect Ray's Pizza picture ever, that was eventually transformed into the cover of the DS Pizza AU.


Napoleon Solo liked women. He liked how they smelled, like cherry blossoms and the faded fragrance of lilies, and other soft, sweet things. He liked the way it felt to press his hand to the small of a woman's back, the feel of silk or satin under his fingers as he guided her across the dance floor. He liked the way their hair brushed against his face as he leaned in for a kiss, how pliant their bodies were under him. He liked how easy he found they were to touch, how delicate his hands had to be to coax them to climax in bed.

But, that said, Napoleon Solo was a man of many tastes and talents. He liked many different things. Case in point: his partner. He liked that Illya was strong - solid - and not at all delicate, not at all someone with whom you had to use care. There was no coaxing when it came to Illya - it was all rough determination that made things happen, and Napoleon was rather all right with that.

He liked how he could trust Illya to always be there for him. He liked how Illya was nearly impossible to bluff, how he kept Napoleon honing his talents. He liked how Illya was immune to his charms, yet stayed with Napoleon, backed him up, out of choice. That was the sort of bond that was not often found, and should be respected.

Napoleon made it a point to value that bond, and he found that he liked many things about Illya besides just that.

He liked that Illya had strong, capable hands. He liked that Illya wasn't careful about holding him down, that he'd do it rough and sure and Napoleon could struggle against him as much as he wanted - Illya quite enjoyed that, actually - but Illya's strength would hold him there no matter what. He liked that Illya wasn't afraid to employ that brute strength - holding Napoleon's wrists pinned to the bed with one huge hand as he nudged Napoleon's legs apart with his knee, and pinned him down with his thigh between his legs - just enough, perfectly enough - for Napoleon to gasp, and not dare move, and be forced to lie there, waiting to see what Illya would do next.

And when Illya leaned down and muttered hotly against his ear in rough, broken Russian, Napoleon would shut his eyes, and smile, and murmur back, "Yes, I like it, yes. Yes."


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