Archive of Our Own

Gaby's second heat, since this menage a trois started:

Illya holds Gaby's wrists against the bed, not hurting her, but very clearly restraining her. He looks detached and implacable. He could be playing chess in his head, he could be plotting murder. Only the thin sheen of sweat, his erection distorting the fabric of his briefs, shows that he's affected by Gaby, her back against the mattress, the scent of her heat sweet and intoxicating.

Napoleon fucks into her, slow and shallow, exactly what she doesn't want. He's pinned her thighs open, so she can't wrap her legs around him, fuck him hard.

She swears at him, demands he fuck her better, spits insults at him.

Without changing expression, Illya leans down, kisses her forehead. Napoleon swats his head away. They'd discussed this.

"There's something I wanted to mention, Fraulein Teller," he begins. 

She rolls her eyes.

"It's about your uncle," he continues and finally he has her attention, through the heat-haze.

"Your little stratagem put me in quite an uncomfortable position," he says, "And I never received an apology."

He slows his thrusts down even more, watches her frown. 

"Illya, would you consider this torture?" he asks idly.

Illya looks long-suffering. "Yes," he says shortly.

"You want me to apologize? Now?" Gaby narrows her eyes, jerks her hips up. Napoleon doesn't let her find satisfaction. He knows all the best places and ways to touch a woman. It takes concentration, but he is determined to give her only the barest pleasure until he chooses.

Napoleon is alight with anticipation. How is she going to play this? 

She lowers her lashes, and when she glances at him, her eyes are brimming with tears. 

Illya sucks in a breath.

One tear trickles form the corner of her eye. Napoleon leans forward, brushes it away with the tips of two fingers. He has a quip about crocodile tears and skilled actresses but he gets distracted by the cool wet of her tear, the softness of her skin. Her lips part and he brushes his fingers across her mouth. 

A fatal miscalculation. 

She opens her mouth, takes his fingers inside, and he's remembering last week, Gaby on her knees before him, Illya fucking into her from behind, the wet heat of her mouth, her tongue swirling around the crown of his dick. 

Gaby laughing as he pulled away, finishing himself off so he could spill across her neck, across the black pearl necklace he'd stolen for her, his spunk shockingly white on her tawny skin.

He shifts his grips from her thighs to her waist, and she bucks up before he can do anything else, driving his cock deep. She locks her legs around his waist, ankles crossed, and he's lost, lost in the grip of her pussy around his shaft. He jerks his hips forward, barely withdrawing before he's thrusting into her again.

Gaby comes and he fucks her through it, past it. He climaxes, a bright burst of pleasure that drags into the leisurely bliss of his knot, filling her up.

Napoleon props himself up on one elbow, watches Gaby arch her back, circle her hips, gain another orgasm from the press of his knot inside her. Finally, she slumps back against the sheets. There is a long sigh of pleasure from her, and then she goes still - the worried stillness of a mouse, under that shadow of a hawk.

Illya shifts his grip, brings her palm to her mouth, kisses it, kisses the pulse point of her wrist. Reassurance.

Gaby's eyes are fixed on Napoleon. He knows what ghosts she's seeing.

(The first time -the very first time- was during his rut. They were in Minsk, and things were dicy enough - and his accent wasn't quite good enough - for Napoleon to spend his ruts as he preferred, with a well-compensated professional. He was petulant and irritable, and the dull relief of his hand didn't do much to curb the wanting. 

It was late evening when Gaby knocked at the door of his bedroom, in the cramped safehouse they were all sharing.

Napoleon forced himself not to leap for the door. The was only one reason an omega would be knocking on the bedroom door of an alpha she knew was in rut.

He made sure he was smiling charmingly when he opened the door. He hadn't bothered with any clothes.

Gaby was there, in the the raspberry frock Illya had picked out for her. Illya himself loomed behind her, still in his KBG uniform.

Napoleon blinked.

"Do you want me to come in?" she asked and he actually laughed. She'd been spending too much time with Illya, if she expected an alpha in rut to give her any other answer but "yes."

Gaby huffed, went to brush past him and enter his room. He put his hands on her waist, lifted her up, and set her against the wall. He kissed her hard and wanting. Her legs wrapped around his waist and he groaned, his aching cock pressed against the satin of her lingerie. He could feel the heat of her, the satin already growing damp.

Illya entered the room, set his uniform cap on the top of the room's armoire. There was an overstuffed armchair and Illya positioned it so he had a clear sight of the bed, and the section of wall where Napoleon was grinding against Gaby.

"Why did you decide to bring your shadow?" he asked, kissing down her neck.

Napoleon had fucked other alphas before, but not during his rut. Even he knew that some sexual adventures were bad ideas from the word go. And Illya, sitting stiff, his hands gripping the armrests like someone was pulling out his teeth, did not look like a man who was about to enjoy the forthcoming evening.

"To make sure you mind your manners," Gaby gasped, hands buried in his hair.

Napoleon couldn't have been more insulted if she'd spit on a Monet and then called his mother a whore.

He understood when he got her on the bed, pulled her dress off. The scars across her left thigh - from the positioning, someone had dragged their nails from the bottom of her hip down six inches, likely just to see her bleed. Worse was the scar tissue he found when he slipped his fingers inside her, deliciously slick folds and then the catch of old scars, where she'd been torn, where someone had been criminally careless or actively cruel. He made her climax twice, with his fingers and his mouth, before he gave her his cock. When she come on it, came from his thrusts, he felt smug triumph curl through him.

When he'd fucked most of the irritation and lust of his rut out, the room was just filling with the grey light of morning. Napoleon was in a good enough mood that he didn't mind Gaby rolling off the bed and padding on bare feet to Ilya, still sitting in the armchair, practically vibrating with tension.

She reached out, cupped the side of his face in her hand. He gazed at her, eyes wide and bright.

"Thank you for keeping me safe," she said.

Napoleon is going to be very offended by that - but later, because Illya grabbed Gaby by the waist, pulled her up– he slid down in the chair enough - Gaby put her knees on the arm rests, Illya put his mouth on her and ate her out like he was a starving man, his fingers spread across her ass, pushing her against his face.

Gaby let her head fall back and keened.

Napoleon was almost worried for a moment, concerned that Illya was too much after the exertions she'd had with him but no–

The way Gaby rocked her hips and moaned Illya's name did not speak of a woman who was feeling ill used.)

Gaby is looking warily at Napoleon and he leans down, bops her nose with his.

"Witch," he says, affectionately. His knot is soft enough, now, for him to slip out of Gaby. He rolls onto his back and Illya gathers Gaby up into his arms.

"Thank you, chop shop girl," he says, voice low.

"For?" she asks. Her voice is tight, her heat sinking its claws into her again. She presses herself against Illya's chest, nips at his collarbone.

Illya smiles, a slow deep smile. "There was a bet. Cowboy lost." He guides her into sinking down onto him. "He thought he could resist you."

"Oh," says Gaby, and Napoleon isn't sure if the sound is in response to Illya's words, or the penetration of his cock.

"What were the terms?" she asks.