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tickle-bugs · 1 year

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Compromised

Summary: Napoleon keeps getting caught in increasingly compromising situations. Ilya is a very weak man.

I keep thinking about how Ilya strangles his feelings to death until he can’t anymore and how Napoleon is. Well. a whore. And how it must feel to have to be around him and functioning all the time.

Warning: Canon-typical bondage

Ilya has, terrifyingly, grown to trust Napoleon. Despite how insufferable, dramatic, and distracting he’s proven to be, he’s reliable. Surprisingly so. He can count on Napoleon for daring escapes, reckless last-ditch efforts, and incredible selfless acts--even if he ruins them later by bragging about how selfless he is. The thing Ilya can rely on Napoleon for most, though, is driving him fucking insane.

Ilya contends with the image of Napoleon, strapped to a table, his shirt and vest hanging open. The straps are tight, tight enough to draw notice to the weight of his thighs and the heft of his arms. He files it away into a pile to process later, along with the swirling feelings that rise at the sight of Napoleon’s lopsided grin.

“For a moment there, Peril, I thought you’d come to kill me.” Napoleon laughs in relief. His curls fall into his face.

“Don’t rule that out so soon, cowboy.” Ilya huffs, allowing the slightest of smiles. Napoleon returns it.

Ilya reaches over to free his wrists, bracing himself against Napoleon’s body as gently as he can. Napoleon shudders beneath him, his every atom jumping away from Ilya’s hand. Ilya startles away from the table, returning only when it’s clear that Napoleon isn’t going to disintegrate.

“You’re hurt.” Ilya furrows his brow.

“No.” Napoleon pauses heavily. “Well, yes, but that’s not…oh, nevermind.”

Ilya doesn’t unpack Napoleon’s nonsense, he simply keeps working at his bonds. He’ll get medical attention when they get somewhere safe.

The damn straps—they’re too tight and awkward to cut without risking harm. Ilya worms his fingers beneath a strap that crosses across Napoleon’s chest, nestling his fingers between the leather and his ribcage. Napoleon flinches again, a bright grin flashing across his face. Ilya pokes at him, trying to get him to lean away from the blade, but Napoleon yelps and nearly flips the entire table.

Oh. Oh.

Ilya knows he’s staring, but how can he not? This is priceless.

“Peril…” Napoleon trails off weakly, a nervous smile lighting up his face. Looking him in the eye, Ilya pokes him again, earning the express pleasure of watching Napoleon stifle his laughter through scrunching his entire face.

“You should unlearn this weakness. You never know who may use it against you.” Ilya smirks. Napoleon’s eyes go saucer-wide. For once, he is blessedly quiet. Anticipation hangs thick in the air, but Ilya doesn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he allows himself to be a little less careful--mostly because Solo’s snickers are a regrettable balm on his soul.

Napoleon’s bottom half is significantly easier and quicker to free, especially with Napoleon able to help speed the process. Ilya valiantly doesn’t tease him when a gentle brush to the thigh makes him squeak.

“I’m glad you found me.” Napoleon rubs at his wrists. The straps have left angry red marks as a memento.

Ilya has the brief, burning urge to kiss Napoleon’s wrist, right where it aches. He strangles the thought and lets it die.

“I’ll always find you.” Ilya winds Napoleon’s arm over his shoulder and eases his weight between the both of them.

“Is that a threat?” Napoleon’s head drifts to Ilya’s shoulder.

“A promise.” Ilya nods firmly and carries them to the exit.

…

“You’re an idiot.” Ilya leans against the doorway, unamused.

“And you’re right on time.” Napoleon’s grin is sparkling.

Napoleon’s on his knees, his arms, legs, and head tightly bound behind him to a pole. His dress shirt is a far cry from its usual crisp white, stained with faint bits of blood and dirt. The part that’s worse, though, is that it’s open to his navel. His torso is kept upright by a strap around his ribcage, forcing every part of him into view.

It’s hilariously impractical to bind him this way—he looks more like an art piece than a prisoner, like this. What use does he have, on his knees?

Ilya grits his teeth and tries to regulate his breathing. He kneels before Napoleon.

“One of these days, you will lose this death wish of yours.” Ilya hooks a finger beneath the torso strap.

“Oh, I certainly hope not. How else will we get our quality time?” Napoleon grins impishly. Ilya raises an unimpressed eyebrow.

He circles behind him and crouches, working at his wrists first. The angle is infuriatingly awkward—Ilya basically has to press his head into the back of Napoleon’s just to see the cuffs. He heaves a frustrated sigh and Napoleon shivers, trying pitifully to hide his face in his shoulder.

“Hold still.” Ilya pauses. Napoleon’s ears are pink.

It’s admittedly cute, this weakness of his. Certainly foolish, but cute. A genuine part of Napoleon Solo that cannot be gelled, curled, or primped into a mask. It’s human.

“I can hear you smiling, Peril.”

Ilya rolls his eyes and keeps picking at the lock. He gets Napoleon’s hands free and they both sigh in relief. Napoleon immediately starts working at the restraints on his legs. Ilya moves to the straps around his head. It’s a system not unlike the inside of a helmet, designed to keep his skull completely immobile. Ilya starts undoing the tight buckles as gently as he can. He gets a sour taste in his mouth--what did Solo do that his kidnappers thought they should need this?

Napoleon giggles, his whole body shaking with it, and the thought flees Ilya’s mind.

“Are you going to be a baby about this?” Ilya pokes the nape of Napoleon’s neck. The blush rushes to meet his touch.

“Hurry.” Napoleon grits out.

“Don’t rush me.” But Ilya does move faster. Mostly because he knows reinforcements will be here soon. A quiet part of him wishes they could take their time.

With the final click of a lock, Napoleon slumps forward off of the pole. The restraints clatter into a useless pile behind him.

“You bastard. You just enjoy seeing me writhe.” Napoleon works his jaw and neck, but not without a devilish grin.

Well, that’s a sentence. Ilya’s face heats without his permission.

“You flatter yourself. Can you walk?” He offers Napoleon a hand to stand. Napoleon takes it, wobbly on his feet.

…

“Solo, you’re awful at getting up.” Gaby smacks his sprawled form with a pillow. Napoleon doesn’t flinch.

“That’s not what my partners usually say,” he mumbles, turning further into his pillows. The blanket shifts with him, falling away to reveal his sculpted, scar-riddled back. Ilya scoffs on principle. Napoleon burrows further and stretches his legs, exposing one of his feet to the world.

Without thinking, really, Ilya reaches out and wiggles his fingers over his sole.

Napoleon inhales sharply, upright and wide-awake in an instant. His face turns a bright, beautiful pink, and he narrows his eyes at Ilya. Ilya smirks. Gaby watches their little standoff with a slack jaw.

“Christ, you’re both barbarians.” Napoleon pushes his curls out of his eyes. They flop right back. He huffs.

“What was that?” Gaby laughs in disbelief. She reaches for his foot again but he swivels out of her grasp to stand. She darts to tickle his side. He snatches her hand before it gets close.

“If you value your life, Teller, I’d advise you to change course.” Solo raises his brows, amusement dancing across his face.

“Threatening a lady?” Gaby grins. Napoleon scoffs.

“Threatening an imp.” He releases her hand and traipses off to the bathroom, snagging a pre-selected shirt and pair of pants from the wardrobe as he passes. Ilya does not take notice of the fit of his briefs, nor does he pay particular attention to the adorable cowlick taking over the back of his head. The quiet click of the bathroom door is a relief.

“You’re staring, Ilya.” Gaby smirks. Ilya closes his eyes and exhales sharply. Imp, indeed.

“Would you help me disarm our charming rogue?” Sarcasm drips from her tongue as she whispers.

“You do not need my help.” He crosses his arms and leans against the wall. Gaby stares through his skull. He meets her gaze unflinchingly. She huffs.

“Don’t act like you won’t enjoy it.” Gaby fondly tugs at his collar. He rolls his eyes.

“I do not enjoy children’s games.” He regards her very seriously. She wiggles a single finger beneath his chin and he flinches away, quashing his fleeting smile.

“I won’t tell him about this if you help me.” Gaby raises her eyebrows, finger still curled. Ilya weighs his options but there’s truly nothing to weigh--any upper hand over Solo is worth a compromise. Also, of course, his dignity would never survive Gaby’s wrath.

“Fine. Once.” He points at her. She beams.

Napoleon emerges from the bathroom with his hair slick and his clothes mostly on—a good start, for him. He tucks the room phone into his shoulder as he buttons his shirt, ordering a ridiculous breakfast spread that has Gaby cursing at him and throwing pillows at his head.

“Oh, what was that darling?” Napoleon makes direct eye contact with her and blows a kiss. “Change of plans--bring the whole champagne bottle. Yes, the orange juice too. You’re a gem, Dorothy. Ciao.” Napoleon hangs up. He winks at Gaby as he finishes tying his tie.

She rushes him with a war cry.

“Teller, what—“ He parries her tickling hands as if his life depends on it, but she’s starting to get through to him. She manages to get her hands under his arms and his knees visibly go weak.

It’s her distraction that lets Ilya sneak up behind him. Napoleon whirls to face the greater threat, just barely blocking every twitch of Ilya’s hands, but he can’t fight them both. They back up roughly into the bed, Napoleon ignoring Gaby in favor of keeping Ilya from managing a full pin.

Then, suddenly, he has an armful of boneless Solo. And he’s giggling.

“Gaby!” Napoleon scrabbles against her. Gaby squeezes his sides again and again until Napoleon stops fighting back. His deadweight collapses onto the bed and nearly takes Ilya with him, who’s still cradling him like a damsel in distress.

“Are you going to help? Or just watch?” Gaby nudges Ilya while she worms her fingers deep into the muscle of Napoleon’s stomach. His laughter rockets into cackles and he throws his head back against the mattress.

“This seems cruel.” Ilya can’t take his eyes off of Solo’s smiling face.

“He needs to be knocked down a few pegs. God forbid his ego grow anymore than it already has.” Gaby jams her hand into the crease of Napoleon’s hip. He shrieks in sheer desperation, an honest-to-god snort filtering into his laughter. He tries to curl his knees to his chest but that just fits her hand better into the apparently-deadly spot.

Ilya feels his face burn red, but Gaby’s blessedly too distracted by the murder she’s committing to comment on it. She does, however, direct Ilya’s hand to the twin spot on Napoleon’s other hip, which is infinitely worse.

“How are you still alive? This should have killed you by now,” Ilya muses. Napoleon makes an affronted noise.

“Must have been that Solo luck, no?” Gaby smirks at Ilya.

“Doesn’t seem very lucky now.” Ilya raises a brow.

“Ilya, pleahahahase! God, anywhere else!” Napoleon squints at him through his mirth. When Ilya squeezes again, Napoleon slaps his hand overtop of his and holds it. His skin is warm to the touch.

“Notice he hasn’t said stop yet?” Gaby’s voice is devoid of the innocence that she’s painted across her face. Ilya nods sharply--anything he says will be impossibly incriminating. He noticed. Of course he noticed.

“Cover yourself up. We’re long overdue to check out.” Gaby tosses Napoleon’s vest at his face and he catches it. He makes a face at the wrinkles she’s imposed upon the fabric, but accepts it. Ilya excuses himself back to his post against the wall, where his staring can at least be classified as necessary surveillance.

Napoleon pokes Ilya’s sides as he passes by. Ilya manages not to react, killing the urge to jump before it even appears, but one would think he’d squealed with the way Napoleon’s eyeing him.

“Do not start something that you cannot finish, cowboy.” Ilya stares him down.

“Oh, but Peril…that’s what I’m best at.” Napoleon’s hands dart to tickle Ilya’s sides. His soul lurches within him but he retains control.

“You can’t be serious.” Napoleon whines.

“The death wish returns.” Ilya snatches Napoleon’s hands before he can retract them.

“We can talk about this, can’t we?” Napoleon smiles innocently. He leans imperceptibly closer. Ilya slowly closes the distance, waiting until their lips are merely a brush apart—

“No, but you can beg.” Ilya grins. Napoleon’s eyes blow wide. He tries to plead, but it turns out that it’s difficult to do that with highly-trained Russian hands ruthlessly seeking a weak spot on his ribcage. In an awkward tango, they shuffle back towards the bed yet again.

Gaby yells something at them in German, likely about how incorrigible they are, and slams the door to the adjoining room. Ilya keens for her presence, but then Napoleon surges up to kiss him, still bubbling over with giggles, and Ilya’s never been happier to miss her.

#my fics #the man from uncle #napollya #ticklish!napoleon #napoleon solo #ilya kuryakin #gaby teller #tagging this as ship is encouraged bc in my head they're all dating #ask to tag ig #its truly a crime that they dont let henry cavil keep his lil curls more in roles. so i took matters into my own hands

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