He scowled as he dipped his fingers again into the fridge and with a whoop of triumph held aloft the missing ingredient.  The double cream.  He smiled and caressed the bottle as he mentally made notes.

Solo watched from the doorway not knowing wether to be terrified of the result or eagerly waiting for Illya to finish his kitchen crafting. Normally they would spend their Sunday's in the office, writing reports, thwarting the bad guys or simply walking by the river.  But since the rain drove them indoors Illya had announced that he had always longed to make for
his lover, Pashka.

Pashka, Illya carefully intoned as they cuddled under the thick covers like children, was the high point of any celebration at home.  His babushka would often make it and let him lick the bowl clean before she carefully set the desert to rest.

And now Solo watched amused as the blond bombshell attacked the pots and pans cupboard with fervour looking for the perfect dish to set desert in. Well, the American thought, it couldn't be any worse than the souffle Illya had totally failed to make whilst on a rather strange assignment.

"Ah, I suppose it would be wrong of me to ask if you want help?" Solo finally found his voice as the ingredients were laid out with scientific precision on the work bench, all carefully weighed and measured, all the bowls and spoons gleaming.

"Only If you promise not to get in my way." Illya answered as he checked his ingredient list again and made sure he had the correct implements.

"Heaven forbid." Solo mocked as he rolled his eyes and stepped with great trepidation towards the table. "Illya?"

"Yes?" Illya answered as he sieved the curd cheese into a bowl.

"Do all Russians cook like you do?"

Illya looked up through his fringe and frowned. "Meaning?"

The sugar disappeared into the bowl with the carefully measured vanilla, as Illya took up a large wooden spoon and began to beat vigorously counting the number of strokes as he went.

"Well," Solo ventured as he backed up towards the door, "I mean you never see an Italian measure an ingredient.  Its full of passion and life and every dish is different, no matter how many times you cook it, makes it like and adventure."

Illya paused and looked up, "Da, it is true Napoleon, but not everything has to have passion in it."

"Really?" Solo looked agog at the thought.

"Yes, really. Besides it could account for why you can never cook the same thing twice."

"I resent that, besides I seem to remember a souffle that fell a little flat, despite all you pre-preparations."

"The thermostat on the oven was wrong."

"Ah, it's not like you to make excuses."

"I was not making an excuse I was simply explaining."

"As you like. What can I do to help?"

Illya handed him a metal bowl with the cream and a whisk. "You can lightly whip the cream."

"I know of some other cream I'd rather whip." Solo raked his gaze over the Russian, causing Illya to shiver in his wake.

"You said you'd stay out of my way." Illya answered breathlessly.

"Yes well, I seem to be living a fantasy." Solo began to lightly whip the cream.

"What whipping cream in the kitchen? Really Napasha you need to become a little more imaginative."

"I," Solo answered full of innuendo. "Was referring to seeing you half naked, barefoot and cooking in the kitchen," Solo's gaze travelled the length of the well muscled torso, across the patch of golden hair in the centre of Illya's chest and down to the button that would never stay done up at the top of Illya's almost too tight jeans and the fine line of golden hair darkening in its journey to disappear below the denim.

"Napoleon!" Illya scolded as he felt his cock thicken under the glare.

"What's next? After you whip the cream?" Solo handed the bowl back and took a step closer.

"You fold it into the cheese." Illya flushed as he tried to concentrate on his cooking as the American came up behind him and rested his hands lightly on his waist.  Long fingers danced around the top of the stiff material.

"And then?" Napoleon breathed into an ear and begins a long slow process of tasting Illya's neck.

"Then you add the fruit, and the angelica, and the ginger." Illya's breath caught in his throat as Solo brought his hips forward to collide with Illya' s backside and bumped against him suggestively.

"And then?" Solo asked as he encircled Illya's waist and pulled him full against his body, the silk robe Solo was wearing falling open to allow the warm chest to collide with Illya's broad back.  The Russian shivered and tiny goose bumps appeared as Solo continued his gentle ministrations.

"You add the nuts."  Illya breathed almost silently as Solo's hands came forward to scratch lightly against his crotch, rubbing and teasing the heavy testicles with loving determination.

"What type of nuts?" Solo asked softly as his hands moved to the waistband of Illya's jeans and slowly let the zip down and eased the material from his hips.
 

"Almonds." Illya moaned as he dumped the nuts unceremoniously into the mixture in front of him and attempted to mix as Napoleon laved his buttocks with a hot wet tongue. Napoleon paused only for a moment as he spread Illya opened and closed his eyes savouring the scent of musk that was his lover, before breaching the rim of his body with his tongue.  Illya shivered and groaned as he slowly stirred the mixture, his hands clutching convulsively on the rim of the bowl as Napoleon stroked him.

Illya nearly cried when Napoleon crawled back up his body, hot tongue replaced by warm fingers as he worked his way inside and Illya closed his eyes against the sensation.

"And then what do you do?" The American voice purred in his ear, sending tiny fireworks along each nerve, inflaming them.  His felt his body sparkle like fine wine as he was loved.

Illya sighed and leaned back into the heavenly embrace, all thought of food driven temporarily from his mind.

"Illya?" Napoleon's voice was in his ear, his hand had stopped their intimate caress and Illya moaned aloud.

"Da Leybeouf?"

"Then what do you do?"

"Die happy." Illya mused.

"With the food." Solo insisted as he chuckled.

"Food?"

"Yes.  The Pashka. What do you do with it next?"

"Oh, ah, we put it into the bowl and put something heavy on top."

"As you like." Napoleon whispered as he braced Illya's hips with his hands and drove home, the length of his cock filling the hot channel as he leaned against Illya's back adjusting himself and his position.

Long silent moments filled the room, as Illya sighed and wrapped a strong hand around his cock as he began to pump in time to the pace Napoleon set. Solo looked down his lovers body and watched the rosy topped cock disappear into his partners strong and capable hand, and all too soon felt the first ripples of his orgasm along his cock.

Illya thrust back, almost brutally as he was filled and taken, jets of seed falling over his hand and down the pale thighs, as Solo chanted softly his partners name.

Illya sagged against the body behind him as Napoleon withdrew and dressed him, kissing him lightly on the shoulder as he walked towards the door.

"Napasha?"  Illya voice drifted softly across the room, almost drowned out by the sound of rain hitting the glass.

"Yes love?"

"And that was?"

"Oh, just my way of injecting some passion into a Russian cooking lesson."

Illya smiled as he put the pashka to rest and cleaned the kitchen.

"Pasha?"

"Hmmmm."

"I think I might like to do all the cooking if you don't mind."

"Evil Illya, very evil." Solo smiled as he pulled his partner down onto the couch and into his arms.