Apr. 21st, 2017

yumyumpm: Napoleon and Illya (Man from UNCLE)

Originally in YumYumPM Collected Zine



(Inspired by two of Suzan Lovett’s Beautiful Drawings)

A simple courier assignment turns into more than Solo bargains for.  While personal issues don’t effect his handling this assignment it definitely results in changes in his relationship with his partner.


Napoleon Solo bit down on his bottom lip as he searched for signs of his partner’s blond head in the room below.  Room…what a laugh… it was more intimate alcoves than anything else.  True the room did have a richly colored Mahogany bar.  The large mirror behind it was lined with glass shelves that held every type of liquor one could want.  The whole room was that way, opulent, with an old world charm, dark paneling, intimate niches… a place to take that special someone.  It was increasingly obvious that the old man knew what he was letting them in for.  But something about the room below felt wrong - off.  His stomach tightened as he considered what his partner could be doing down there on the main floor and with whom.  


Twenty-four hours previously their boss, Alexander Waverly, had briefed them.


“Gentlemen, this next assignment is unusual in nature,” Waverly said dourly.


“In what way, sir?”  Kuryakin taking the lead kept his tone all business.

“I’d rather not say.” Waverly paused to light his pipe, and then took a couple of puffs on it before continuing.  “I would like the two of you to fly to New Orleans.  Sometime within the next three days between the hours of 10:30 p.m. and 12:30 a.m. you will be contacted and given a roll of film at the…” he reached for a paper lying in the folder that was open in front of him. “…the Cafe Lafitte in Exile.”


Illya Kuryakin looked across the table at his superior, his blue eyes hidden behind tinted glasses. “That is rather scant information, Sir.”


“I’m afraid it’s all we have to go on at the present time,” Waverly said as he continued to puff on his pipe.   He closed the folder with finality and sent it around to land in front of his senior agents.  He leaned forward as Kuryakin picked it up and examined the few papers it contained.  “The information you bring back could be of earth shattering importance.  You must use any means at your disposal to obtain it.” His tone reflected the seriousness of the assignment.  “You best be off, your plane leaves in two hours and you have much to do.”


He turned his chair away, summarily dismissing the two agents as they left the room. 


Napoleon had been uncharacteristically silent during the entire briefing.  Something about this assignment seemed to be bothering him, bringing back memories long since forgotten.


Kuryakin rifled through the few papers in the folder as they walked down the hallway of U.N.C.L.E.  “There is nothing here.  Just our tickets, along with a single sheet of paper containing dates and times.”  He frowned at the scantiness of information, then stared intensely at his partner.  “You have been awfully quiet.  Is something wrong?”


Solo took in a deep breath. “I just have a bad feeling about this one.  I’m sure I’ve heard that name before…the café.”


“Lafitte?  It’s a common enough name for that New Orleans.”  Illya glanced at his watch.  “And right now we don’t have time to investigate it more thoroughly.  Besides, Napoleon, what can possibly go wrong?  This is just a simple pickup.  Maybe we will even have some time to listen to some jazz,” Illya said cheerfully in an effort to dispel his friend’s morose mood.


 “You and your Jazz,” Napoleon muttered as he shook his head.  The two chuckled as the two continued walking down the hall, never realizing it might be the last time they were to do so for some while.


Upon their arrival the two agents checked into the Creole House Hotel, which was located two blocks from Bourbon St. in the French Quarter, after which they contacted the local U.N.C.L.E. office.  Their lack of information was even more puzzling.  Down in the lobby Illya was checking a discretely place rack with brochures of local tourist attractions.

“Hey, Napoleon.  Look.”  Illya handed him one of the brochures.


Napoleon took one look at the slip of paper.  ‘Oh hell’ he thought; now he knew why the name was familiar. 

“Isn’t this....?”  Illya asked.

“Ohhh, yes,” Napoleon confirmed.   This was indeed a brochure about the 'Cafe Lafitte in Exile' blatantly proclaiming quite clearly the type of cafe it was.  Very, very odd.

That night they had made their way to this obscure club located on a corner in the French Quarter.  Solo, as was his custom, had worn a tuxedo, while his partner had dressed down for this assignment.  Black turtleneck, dark slacks, and charcoal grey jacket.  Napoleon deliberately had trouble finding the place making them late and they split up on arrival.  

“You are looking distinctly uncomfortable, my friend,” came the softly accented voice from behind him.


Solo’s body relaxed.  He hadn’t realized how tense he was. 


“And you’re not?” he countered giving the slender young man next to him a quick glance before turning his gaze back to the room below.


“I am KGB trained after all,” Kuryakin reminded him, keeping his face bland, although his eyes danced with amusement or was it devilment. He moved to stand next to Napoleon, his hands placed wide on the wrought iron railing that encircled the room and looked down as well.


“I forgot,” Napoleon admitted absently.  He sometimes forgot that Illya had a life before joining U.N.C.L.E., before they had been paired as partners.  Or perhaps he just chose not to remember.


Illya sent a quick glance his way and shook his head aware of his partner’s uneasiness.  “Perhaps we should contact Mr. Waverly and inform him that you are unable to complete this assignment?”  


“I can do the assignment,” Napoleon snapped as he continued to search below for signs of their contact.  “It’s just been awhile since…” His voice reflected his uncertainty.


Kuryakin pressed his lips tightly together, more to keep from laughing than anything. His eyes roamed around the room below - searching.  He didn’t believe his partner for a moment.  He couldn’t help pointing out the obvious. “You’re usual seduction techniques will not work here, Napoleon.  Most homosexuals that frequent clubs such as this are seeking instant gratification not prolonged foreplay.”


Solo turned his back to the room and leaned against the railing.  He checked his watch, it was almost one a.m.; their contact was not going to make an appearance tonight.  “He’s not going to show.  We might as well leave.” 


Their walk back to the hotel had been in silence.




Kuryakin entered the room first.  Once again, due to budgetary constraints, the two agents were forced to share a room with two double beds.   As they went through the routine of checking and verifying that the room was clean, Illya thought now was as good a chance to pull Napoleon’s leg just a little. 


“Perhaps it would be wise to hold a run through-that is the correct wording, is it not, so that you would know what to expect tomorrow night,” he suggested. 


He fully expected Napoleon to decline and was surprised when Napoleon replied, “How do you suggest we proceed?”


Illya opened his mouth, intending to inform his partner that he was only joking when he caught the glint in Solo’s eyes and considered the amount of teasing he would receive once this assignment was over and they were back in New York.  Snapping his mouth shut, he put on his most unrevealing face and said, “I suggest we remove our clothing.”  He still half expected Napoleon to demur and was shocked when he nodded agreement.


He watched as Napoleon undid his tie and slowly pulled it from beneath his collar, setting it down on the chair next to the bed before slipping out of his tuxedo jacket and moving his hands to unbutton his waistcoat.  Unable to see any way out of it, Illya removed his own jacket and holster before gripping the bottom of his turtleneck and pulling it off over his head.  Soon both men stood there without a stitch of clothing on.


“So what now?”  Napoleon asked conversationally.


Illya moved closer, deciding to give as good as he got, thrust his chin forward and said, “Well, I could take you against the wall… or we could use the bed.”


“Bed.”  Napoleon’s eyes were hooded; Illya was unable to read them.


Kuryakin stretched out on the bed, his weight on his elbows, his legs crossed at the ankles. He tilted his blond head to one side and teasingly asked, “See something you like?”


Solo stood to the side of the bed, his eyes feasting on the lean torso, the rock hard abdomen, the, at the moment, lax genitalia, a pity that, and the pale but firm thighs.  “Don’t get so cocky, Kuryakin,” he said mockingly as he sat down beside his partner and faced him. His cock had already started rising to the occasion.


“Is that what it’s called?”  Illya murmured as his gaze shifted from Napoleon’s face down toward his partner’s groin.


Napoleon ran one hand sensuously down Illya’s arm, feeling him tremble slightly.  He brought his hand up to run through the blond tresses, brushing them back, only to have the Illya’s head move beyond his reach.  Without taking his eyes off his partner’s face, that same hand gently trailed down Illya’s cheek, under his firm chin before running his thumb over the lush lower lip.  “It’s a shame you know, such a luscious mouth – wasted,” he murmured.


Illya’s eyebrows arched questioningly.


“You said my usual seduction techniques would not work - no extensive foreplay?”  Napoleon was on unfamiliar ground here, however a little experimenting couldn’t hurt.


“You’re always welcome to try,” Illya challenged with a shrug.


Accepting the dare, Napoleon slipped onto the bed facing his partner, his hip aligned with Illya’s as he brought his legs up onto the bed.  His dark eyes looked with intensity into the cool blue ones of his partner.  Illya was obviously playing hard to get, but Solo was confident in his abilities. He reached pulling the Russian close, cradling him to his chest. 


Using his immense skills as a master seducer he lowered his head, first a gentle touching before invading the warm depths of his partner’s mouth, marveling at how well their lips melted together, almost as if they were made for each other.  Illya’s mouth tasted deliciously spicy.   He felt the Russian melt into his arms and was aware of Illya’s arms coming around him, embracing him, amazed that his normally prickly partner was acquiescing so easily.


Needing to explore the man in his arms, Napoleon regretfully withdrew from Illya’s mouth to look down upon the face of his partner as he lay in the crook of his arm.  Heated blue eyes were slowly closing behind long lashes.


God, he’d never realized just how beautiful the man was, he thought as he returned his lips to lay a trail of kisses down the strong jaw, his hand trailing gently down Illya’s back, and a low moan vibrated the air between their two open mouths, not leaving a clue as to who issued the passionate sound. 


Queido,” he whispered softly while one hand ran through the thick blond tresses.


Napoleon’s lips soon found the area on the Russian’s neck where he could feel his partner’s heart beating through the vein.  As he lapped at the site, Illya stretched his neck moving his head to one side, exposing his throat for Napoleon’s attention.  A growl issued from Napoleon’s throat as he started to suckle and nip at the area with his teeth, leaving a slightly red area that would darken over time.  Lifting his head, Napoleon viewed the mark he had made, pleased with the result. His mark….no one else’s. 


Bello,” he said softly.   Slowly his lips trailed down the succulent neck as he continued to whisper endearments. “Innamorato.”  As the words issued in the language of Love from his mouth, Napoleon couldn’t help but wonder what had come over him; never had he used these words to anyone before. 



Napoleon’s fingers ghosted down the side of Illya’s body, skimming over the naked flesh of his partner’s hip.  Illya shifted his hip and bent his right leg slightly into a more comfortable position.  Napoleon’s bent leg was currently supporting the Russian’s upper body, holding him close.  Illya’s eyes were still closed as Napoleon slowly leaned back, lowering himself beside the captivating blond, and Illya’s head was gently lowered to rest on the older agent’s firm abdomen.  He let out a sigh of contentment and heard an answering sigh from his partner. 

The need for more had Napoleon turning his face to view Illya’s now fully exposed genitals.  The hard slender staff nestled in soft curls begged for attention.  A single glistering tear from the hard cock awoke the need within Napoleon to taste his partner.  Napoleon firmly gripped the Russian’s bent leg, using it as leverage to encourage his partner to turn slightly more toward him, giving him full access to the hard cock and balls of his partner.  The moans issuing from his stoic partner were music to Napoleon’s ears and he planned to do his best to incite more delectable groans.   Gently, Napoleon stroked one lean thigh down to the bent knee, his lips retracing a path up it.  Feeling the muscles as they trembled beneath his lips, Napoleon let his mouth move down to gently suck on one of Illya’s balls.  He brought the hand that had stopped to rest on Illya’s knee back down, sliding it into the crevice, his thumb massaging the area before gently rubbing the puckered hole.  Napoleon let out a sigh before regretfully moving on. 


Lying as they were, facing each other’s groin, Napoleon’s arousal was evident.  Illya’s hand had moved to claim his partner’s hard cock and Napoleon stilled it, moving the hand to his abdomen, pressing upon it with his hand, silently asking him to keep it there.  It felt comforting and soothing resting there.  It amused him to think that Illya thought him ignorant as to the pleasuring of another man.  How wrong he was.  Releasing the sac from his mouth, he licked his way up Illya’s aroused organ, determined to show the Russian just how wrong.  His tongue reached out to capture the dew from its head as Napoleon closed his eyes to savor the taste. The slender staff swelled even more as Napoleon brought it into his mouth engulfing it totally.


Illya was taken somewhat by surprise by the expertise of Napoleon’s kisses, not to mention what his mouth was currently doing to his aching cock.  Was this what lovemaking all about?  He felt himself sinking into the spell of seduction that his partner was weaving around him.  The firm embrace was comforting and he was unable to keep his moaning from his lips as the Napoleon’s skillful hands and mouth explored his more than willing body.  Illya could hear the endearments that Napoleon spoke so passionately in Italian, surprised that the other man would feel it necessary to use such words on him. This was not the frantic resorting to find pleasure that was often the norm between two people of the same sex, but a slow, erotic, sensual experience.   It wasn’t until a warm, wet mouth covered his hard cock that he regained his senses.


“Napoleon, no!”  He sat up suddenly, pulling away from his partner’s warm wet mouth.  “We shouldn’t…this is sheer madness.” Illya quickly scrambled off the bed and pulled on his clothing, rushing blindly out the door, unaware that he was leaving a disappointed partner behind.  He took the stairways two at a time, hurrying through the hotel lobby and out the door, ignoring the stunned looks of the hotel staff and other guest.


In his mad dash to escape, he narrowly missed being hit by a car as he crossed a street that even at this early hour of the morning was busy, not stopping until he got to a rail that bordered the banks of the Mississippi.  Exhausted, Illya leaned against the railing and waited for his heart to resume its normal rate.   His labored breathing gradually slowed to an acceptable rate and he brought his head down to rest on his arm.  It was many long moments before he felt steady enough to examine what had almost occurred between him and his partner.   It was insane; he had gone mad, crazy, barmy.  They had almost crossed the line, gone from mere partners to something more. Ever the pragmatic Russian, the closeness and intimacy they had almost shared scared him deeply. His cock was still hard and he reluctantly admitted to himself that he had enjoyed the attention Napoleon had bestowed on him.  Much too much.


Getting a grip on himself, he straightened and prepared to head back to their room.  Hopefully Napoleon would be willing to put this all behind them and continue their partnership.


Getting his bearings, he slowly made his way back, not sure of the path he had taken to get where he had ended.  Finally exiting the elevator and heading down the hall to their room, he paused to take in a deep breath before unlocking the door. Should he tell Napoleon why he hadn’t been able to go through with it?  “Napoleon, I can explain …” He stopped.  The room was empty. 




Illya searched, finding not only Napoleon gone, but his luggage as well. Sitting on the edge of one bed, his head drooped, his soul empty, he pulled out his communicator.  “Open channel L, Napoleon, come in.”  His communicator bleep sounded for long seconds before “Solo,” was heard in response.


“Where are you?”




“The floor above yours.” 


Illya automatically looked up at the ceiling.  Before he could ask why, a sigh sounded over the communicator.  “I…need some distance right now,” there was a sad chuckle. “I’ve really blown it this time haven’t I?  I just can’t be in the same room with you…not now.” 


The communicator went silent. 


Illya stretched out on the bed, fully clothed.  There was nothing more he could do tonight, but sleep would not come.  What had he done?




The beeping of his communicator interrupted what little sleep Illya had managed to get.  Reaching out and activating his communicator, he croaked, “Kuryakin.”






“I’ve been in touch with the old man.  There is nothing we can do until tonight.  Why don’t you play tourist today?  I’ll see you tonight.”


“Napoleon…” It was too late; the American had already rung off.


As the morning light filtered through the windows, Illya sought to examine his reaction to what had occurred the night before.  Was it the use of endearments that Napoleon probably used with every woman he had been with?  Or was it the gentle touches that were, even now, arousing him?  Or that it was not a stranger, but his partner with whom he worked so closely?  Illya hadn’t been prepared for the intense feeling of arousal Napoleon’s touches had fired in him, nor for his own subsequent flight.


Giving up on trying to figure it out, he got out of bed and made his way to the bathroom to shower and shave.




Solo, his eyes adjusting to the dimness stood to one side of the stairway before heading down into the smoke filled room.  Wearing a faultless white dinner jacket, he placed his hands in his pocket, his gaze wandering around the room below.  His thoughts went to his youth, and how he’d come by his knowledge.  Even on the GI bill, money had been scarce.  During his college years he had found an easy way to make money.  It had been easy at first to keep it all from being personal and the proceeds had been used to squire various and sundry girls around town and more often into the backseat of his car.  However, he’d found out that by his senior year, at which time he had been contact by U.N.C.L.E., that he was beginning to enjoy his part time job a little too much.  It had taken amazing willpower to resist continuing but he had managed…until last night.


“Hey, cheri`.  You looking for a good time maybe?” a soft baritone with a Cajun accent said from off to one side.  Solo turned, his eyes wandering from the curly blond hair to the purple shirt unbuttoned to the waist past the hip hugger pants and back up to the green eyes.  In his present mood the man looked delectable. He was just debating what answer he should give when he felt a hand on his arm and a gruff Russian voice said, “He’s already taken.”  He noticed with grim amusement the two men facing and measuring each other up.  Illya’s stance enough to cause the newcomer, with regret, to back down and turn away.


“Where have you been?”  Kuryakin hissed grimly as his grip on Napoleon’s arm tightened.


“Oh here and there.”  Napoleon looked down at the hand gripping his arm. “Feeling a little possessive are we? You go that way and I’ll go this,” he suggested abruptly, unable to stand being this close, before he brushed past Kuryakin heading down the stairs. 


Illya stood there, frustration radiating from every pore.  The Cajun-accented voice behind him said, “Lovers’ spat, non?  Perhaps I can help you feel better, heh, cheri`?”  The irritation was so much that it was all Illya could do to keep from throwing the man over the railing.


Napoleon, once down on the main level, kept all his senses were on alert as he casually moved about the room. 


 “Ah, Mr. Solo.  Such a pleasure to meet you again,” A deep and melodious voice called from one of the many private alcoves that ran around the large room.  A voice he recognized instantly.


“Victor Marton.”  Napoleon turned leisurely toward the alcove to discover the continentally dressed gentleman seated at a table, cigarette in one hand and a brandy snifter in the other.  Marton was a top level Thrush agent, which meant the information he and Illya were to retrieve must indeed be important.  “I’m surprised to see you here.” 


 “And where is your charming blond associate…. Kuryakin, wasn’t it?”  Marton asked as he flicked the ashes from his cigarette into an astray before running a finger over his elegant mustache.


Napoleon debated telling Marton that he had left Illya in New York and decided it would probably make matters worse.  “Oh, he’s around…. somewhere.”  Napoleon inclined his head toward the rest of the club.  “Not your usual sort of meeting place.”


Marton got up out of his chair and shrugged. “We all have our little weaknesses.”  He moved closer to Napoleon, close enough that his brandy-laced breath was evident.  “Alexander assured me he was sending someone experienced.  It never occurred to me that it would be you.”  He paused before continuing, “You do know why you are here?”  His French accented voice seductive.  He moved closer to cup Napoleon’s crotch.  If Napoleon had not been sure before, he was sure now.  “Follow me.  I think we will need more…privacy,” Marton suggested as he moved toward the red velvet curtains that ran around the inside of the alcove.


Napoleon took the time to glance around the club before following Marton through the parted curtain into a room beyond.  He was relieved to see that the room did not contain a bed, merely a chaise lounge, along with a comfortable leather chair and ottoman.  There was also a table on which a crystal decanter lay.  Now fully inside the room, two henchmen grabbed him roughly from behind while Marton drew close enough to effectively remove his gun and his communicator from his jacket. Much to his chagrin, he soon found his hands cuffed behind his back, restricting him the use of his hands. 


“I assure you this is merely a precaution measure and I don’t believe you will need these,” Marton said as he placed the items in the table’s draw before pouring a glass of brandy from the decanter.  “I’d offer you some…but that is not why you are here,” he said as he sipped his drink.  He set the glass down and pulled Napoleon closer, bringing their lips together.  Disappointed with the lack of response he was receiving from Solo, he backed away and called to his henchman.  “Go… see if you can find Kuryakin.  Perhaps he will prove to be more….agreeable.”  It pleased him to note that Solo stiffened at the order.


“You want we should rough him up?” the henchman asked.


“No, Otto.  While I have a distinct dislike for that young man, I would not wish any harm to come to him.  I may have a use of him if things do not work out to my satisfaction.  Just hold him outside.  Quietly,” Marton ordered, not taking his eyes off Napoleon’s face.  “Good help is so hard to find,” he apologized as he undid Solo’s tie and unbuttoned his white shirt.  Running his manicured hands over the strong chest, he leaned in for another kiss, pleased that this time Solo’s lips parted to admit his probing tongue.  Backing away reluctantly, he pushed Napoleon to sit on the ottoman.  “Alexander promised that whoever he sent would be talented.  Are you talented, Mr. Solo?”  Marton asked, as he pulled down his zipper to release his burgeoning erection. 



Illya had stayed at the top of the stairway, his eyes following Napoleon.  He knew that he too should be searching for their elusive contact, but some unknown sense told him it would be better to keep an eye on his partner.  He watched as Napoleon stopped, his body rigid, and turned toward a curtained alcove.  From this vantage point, he could not make out to whom Solo was talking.  While Napoleon glanced furtively around the room, Illya was already halfway down the stairs, feeling an urgent need to act as back-up for his partner.  Hands grabbed at him as he pushed his way through the crowd, and precious minutes were lost as someone pulled him in an embrace, taking possession of his mouth.  He pulled away and was almost at the alcove when more hands caught him from behind and relieved him of his gun and communicator.  A piece of tape was placed over his mouth and he was pushed into a chair, a gun pointed to his head, while another man pulled the curtains, closing off the alcove to the rest of the room.  He remained still; realizing that struggling would only get him killed and wouldn’t help Solo as all.


Napoleon regarded the erect cock staring him in the face and contemplated his next move.  Touching him had obviously made Marton excited, and if he worked it right, it shouldn’t take long to finish this.  Wiggling his fingers behind his back, he looked up into Marton’s face and offered suggestively, “If my hands were free I could ….”


Marton chuckled.  “It’s not that I don’t trust you.”  Then his face froze, all amusement gone.  “But I don’t.”


Napoleon sighed, and then leaned forward, taking the jutting erection into his mouth, and working it with all the talent at his disposal, which was considerable.  Soon he had Marton moaning, much to his satisfaction.  He was surprised, however, when Marton took hold of his head, pushing him away. 


Marton got a grip on Napoleon’s jacket, hauling him to a standing position.  “Alexander was correct.  You are very talented, however…” Marton efficiently unzipped Solo’s trousers and pushed them down the agent’s thighs.  He then turned the U.N.C.L.E. agent around, arranging him face down across the table.  Unable to resist, he stoked the bare ass, so beautifully invitingly, just the way he liked it.  He paused to ask in the politely snide tone he used on a number of occasions, “Perhaps we should get your Russian friend to join us?”


Napoleon struggled to rise.  Illya being put in this position was the last thing he wanted. 


“No!” he cried out involuntarily, wondering where this unwarranted protectiveness of his partner came from. The wind was knocked out of him as he hit the hard surface of the tabletop when Marton callously pushed him back down again.  Napoleon hadn’t counted on this happening when Waverly assigned this task to him and Illya and now there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. 


 “As you wish,” Marton replied as he dipped his fingers into his glass of brandy, taunting the semi-naked U.N.C.L.E. agent.  “Brandy has many uses …don’t you agree?  Other internal uses,” he said with amusement as he thrust the fingers into Solo’s tight hole, ignoring the hissing sound issuing from the man under his control, produced no doubt by the volatile liquid he was using.  “It might have been interesting for your friend to watch.”   Marton worked his fingers, stretching the passage while he continued his humiliation of Solo. “You are extremely tight.  I would have thought your Russian associate would have managed to remedy that by now.”  Coating his eager erection, Marton lined his swollen cock up with the dark-haired agent’s stretched passageway before pushing in with a single thrust, eliciting a sharp cry of pain from Solo.


Grunting Marton began thrusting back and forth with his hips, lost in a world of his own pleasure, not paying the least bit of attention to the words streaming from Solo’s mouth.  The tightness and the brandy were causing an exquisite burning sensation, heating him and his cock up to greater heights. Moving one hand to fondle his tightening balls, it wasn’t long before Marton’s swollen cock was ready to explode.  With a sigh of satisfaction, Marton made a final thrust before releasing his load of semen into the hot tight channel.  With extreme reluctance, the THRUSH agent pulled out of the nice haven his cock had found before using his handkerchief to clean himself.  Once clean, Marton tucked himself away, zipping up his pants as he maliciously remarked, “I really must commend you to Alexander the next time I see him.”


“Don’t bother,” Napoleon answered, careful to keep his tone free of emotion, especially sarcasm, as Marton pulled him back to a standing position and uncuffed his hands.  Rubbing them to get the circulation back, Napoleon moved to pull up his pants and zip them back up, grateful that the brandy used in his anal passage had left a burning sensation that kept his erection laxed, and avoided looking in Marton’s direction.


“As you wish.”  Marton went to the drawer and removed the gun and communicator, handing them back along with a roll of film.  “This is what you came for – it is worth much more than the payment extracted.”   He settled rather limply on the chaise lounge and lit a cigarette, his expression one of complete contentment.  Raising his voice he ordered, “Otto, you can let Kuryakin go now.”


Kuryakin had no choice but to sit there, unable to block out the sounds coming from behind the curtain.  He heard the sounds of passion, then silence as a zipper was being pulled and recognized Marton’s voice.  He could only imagine what had been going on when he heard the grunt of pain that issued from Napoleon.


His head dropped as sounds of Marton’s pleasure being taken could be clearly heard.  He feared that Napoleon would respond to what was happening with the same Italian endearments that he had used the night before.  He was relieved to hear not Italian, but Russian – Napoleon was running through every Russian curse that Illya had ever taught him, plus some that he hadn’t even known Solo knew.  He tried to block out the sounds after that and was surprised when rough hands removed the tape from his mouth and his hands were uncuffed, his gun and communicator left on the table.  Reaching for his gun, he watched as his captor disappeared.  Before he could do anything, another curtain to the side was pushed open and Napoleon appeared.  His usually immaculate appearance gone, his tie undone and chest still exposed bore testament to what had occurred.  Illya stepped forward. “Napoleon…” Only to be met by a stony gaze.


“This is what we came for,” Solo said, his voice grim as he thrust the film into Kuryakin’s hand.  Not bothering to wait for a response, he continued moving, leaving his partner behind.


Illya looked down at the roll of film left in his hand, hoping it was worth the price paid.  When he looked back up, Napoleon was gone.




Kuryakin contacted New York, and was told to take the next available flight back.  He tried contacting Solo with no success, but left a message with the local office just in case.  He didn’t bother to pick up his luggage, leaving it to the local office to pack and send to him.  Worry about his friend had made him careless and arriving at the airport parking lot, he found himself accosted by a man with a gun and ordered to hand over the film.  Before he could do so, however, the man fell to the ground.  Illya bent over the body to find a sleep dart buried in his neck.  Suddenly Solo was at his side.


“Why didn’t you answer my call earlier?”  Illya demanded as he stood up, feeling relief: evidently Solo was watching his back.


With a look of surprise, Napoleon reached into his jacket and withdrew his communicator.  Twisting the activator, he muttered, “Damn.” when no sound ventured out.  “They’re obviously on to us.  You go ahead and I’ll catch up.  Maybe they’ll follow me,” and he was off again.


What was Solo playing at, Illya wondered.  With more caution, he made his way inside the terminal and picked up two tickets to New York.  He waited until the last call for boarding for Napoleon, but he never showed.  He contacted Mr. Waverly, who showed no concern and ordered him to board the plane.  The flight was one of the longest and loneliest he had ever taken.


When he arrived at his destination, he was met by two fellow agents from Section Two and escorted directly to Waverly’s office from the airport.  He was surprised by Waverly’s appearance as he made his verbal report and handed over the film.  The man looked like he had not slept since Illya had last seen him. 


“I will get started on my written report.”


“There is to be no written report,” Waverly ordered uncomfortably, before continuing more quietly. “Mr. Kuryakin…Illya, I regret the position I placed you in.  Unfortunately there was no choice.  I suggest you take some time off…to recuperate.”


Illya left the office puzzled.  Evidently Waverly thought it was he, not Solo, who had gotten the information, and he was evidently more than aware of how.  His mind was elsewhere as he walked back to his office, more than a little worried about Napoleon, when he met Mark Slate coming out of the elevator.  Mark took one look at Illya’s face and remarked, “That mission must have really been rough.  Napoleon looked like death warmed over too.”


“You’ve seen Napoleon?”  Illya asked anxiously, grabbing Mark’s arm.


“Sure, not more than half an hour ago,” Mark replied sounding puzzled.


Illya let go of Mark’s arm and raced to the exit.  “Is Napoleon still here?”


“He left right before you got here,” the receptionist informed him.


“Did he say where he was going?”


“I’m afraid not.  Was it important?”  The receptionist replied.


“It could be,” Illya said absently as he turned in his badge.  How had Napoleon managed to get back to New York before him, and more important, where was he now?


He fell back on the basics.  If Napoleon wasn’t at work, he’d check his apartment.




Solo, having let his partner into his apartment, said not a word as he headed back toward his bedroom where he was packing a duffle bag.  Closing the door behind him, Kuryakin followed him into the bedroom, unable to keep from noticing that the living area was a complete shamble.  Furniture had been thrown around and tables knocked over.


As if nothing was unusual, Illya asked politely, “Going somewhere?”


“I thought I’d take out the Pursang,” Napoleon responded, not looking up from his task.  It had been stupid of him not to realize his communicator was damaged.  He had been a little, no make that quite a bit, distracted after his meeting with Marton and as unprofessional as that may have been, he knew Illya would make the necessary arrangements for getting them to New York.  Besides, he had felt it necessary to keep contact with Kuryakin to a minimum at the time. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t stayed close, just in case he was needed.  Just far enough away that his feelings couldn’t get in the way of the assignment.  In the end he’d had to take another flight, leading THRUSH away from Illya and somehow managing to reach New York before him.


His previous experience with men had not prepared him for the sensuality he had experienced with his partner. Remembering the feelings that holding his partner had engendered, the eroticism of it all, he realized he had needed some quiet time to come to terms with it.  He still felt that way.  That was why he was taking out the Pursang.




“I’ve sailed alone before,” Napoleon answered indignantly.


Not exactly sure how to broach the subject, Illya let out a sigh. “I can understand your being upset about Marton.”


Napoleon stiffened and shot a hard look at his friend.  “Marton…now why would I be upset about him? He was nothing more than an assignment.   It could have been worse.”




“It could have been you,” Napoleon whispered.


Illya plopped down on the bed next to the duffle bag.  “It was supposed to have been me.”


“What makes you say that?”  Napoleon demanded to know.


“Mr. Waverly intimated as much when I turned in the film,” Illya admitted reluctantly.


“Waverly actually said you were supposed to have sex with Marton!  Why?”


“Not in so many words, but yes.  After all, you had never had sex with a man.”


“And how the hell do you know that?”  There was that indignation again.


“Have you had sex with a man?’


“No.  Yes.  Well, not exactly. But that’s beside the point.” Napoleon sat down hard on the bed.  While he had gone down on many men, until now he’d never actually…been fucked before.  He frowned, his mind in a whirl trying to put it all together.  “Let me get this straight.  Do you mean to say I was supposed to say ‘Hey Victor, wait a minute, you’re supposed to fuck my partner’?  Get real.”


Illya got off the bed and went to lean against the door-jam, his arms folded across his chest.  “That is real.  I’ve had experience and you haven’t.”


“If you’ve had experience…why did you run?”  Napoleon tried to keep the hurt out of his voice.


“Is that what this is all about?”  Illya asked, waving his hand at the ransacked living area.  “You’re angry because I didn’t stay?”


“Okay...so I was a little…upset.”  Napoleon picked up a hairbrush to pack in his bag and ended up snapping it in two as he glared at his partner.


“A little!  Look at this place.”  Illya waved his arm toward the living area.


“You had me hot and you ran,” Napoleon accused.


“I had to.”  Illya’s voice was adamant.




“It was all too…” Illya wasn’t sure how to say it.


“Too what?” 


“Too…gentle.”  There he’d said it.


“Huh…What did you expect me to do?  Rape you?”


Illya winced. “It would have been more...familiar,” he admitted.


Napoleon was shocked. 


“My God, Illya.”  He hadn’t been aware that violence was part of Illya’s experience with male sex. Up until that night, he’d never even really thought much about having sex with another man, much less Illya’s perception of what it was like.  There was a slight pause.  “So what do we do now?”


Illya bit his lip.  “We could continue were we left off?”


Napoleon shook his head.  “Being rough with you is not an option.”


Illya had a wicked thought.  “Allow me to demonstrate.”  He walked over to Napoleon and grabbed him by his shirtfront, turning him around and pushing him forcefully against the wall.  “Assume the position,” he commanded.




“You heard me.  Hands on the wall, feet apart,” Illya ordered as he placed his hands on Napoleon’s hips, pulling the American’s body away from the wall and against his own.  Efficiently, Illya kicked Solo’s legs apart in the classic police search position.  “Keep those hands on the wall,” he ordered again as Solo’s hands started to leave it with the intention of turning to look at Illya. 


Taking a firmer grip on Napoleon’s hips and using one hand on the back of his neck, the Russian encouraged his partner to lean forward so his partner’s face rested against the wall.  This permitted Illya to quickly pull Napoleon’s shirt free, allowing one hand to slide under it to stroke his partner’s powerful chest.  The blond smiled as he quickly found one of Napoleon’s nipples, teasing it until it was hard, before gently tugging and rolling the aroused flesh between his fingers.  All of it letting Solo know who was in charge of giving pleasure this time. Pressing himself more firmly against his partner, Illya nuzzled on Napoleon’s earlobe before giving it a sharp nip.  He could hear Napoleon’s erratic breathing as he snaked his hand down to unbuttoned and unzipped his partner’s trousers before running his hand across the hair at the base of the brunet’s groin.  The Russian’s hand slowly made its way down to cup and then to roll the heavy sacs below Napoleon’s arousal, while he continued to nip and suck at his partner’s neck, leaving his own set of claim marks for everyone else to see.


Napoleon lowered his head.  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”  A low moan escaped his lips.  “God…I could get used to rough.”


Illya chuckled into Napoleon’s neck, pleased with the response, as one hand continued to tweak the hard nub of Napoleon’s nipple while his other hand firmly surrounded his partner’s erection, stroking it to rock hardness.  As he continued to stroke Napoleon, Illya moved his free hand down and under his partner’s waistband to stroke the smooth globes of his ass.


It was as if he’d been hit with ice water, Napoleon’s erection collapsed as his body stiffened.  “No!”


Illya quickly backed away, unsure as to the cause of the outburst.


Solo slowly pulled up his pants before he turned around, leaning his back against the wall, his breathing ragged.  He looked at his friend, seeing the other’s intense stare, rigid body, hands curled into tight fists, and the distinctive bulge in the blond’s pants.  “I’m sorry.”


Angered at being balked, Illya accused, “Is this your way of getting back at me for New Orleans?”


He opened his mouth; did Illya really think him that petty?  His legs were shaking and he found he couldn’t remain standing.  Sliding down the wall, he finally managed a shake of his head.  “I’m just not sure I’m ready to….go all the way,” he muttered.


The tension left Kuryakin’s body; he moved to the wall next to his partner and slid down it.  “Marton?” he asked softly.


“No. That’s not it.  I understand the necessity of what I did and accept responsibility for it,” his voice was only slightly stronger.


“Then what?”


“I’m not really sure,” he said contemplatively.


Illya’s erection was making him feel uncomfortable and he had to get up.  “When you are sure, let me know.”


“Hold on here.”  Napoleon grabbed him by the ankle, pulling him down.  “Where do you think you’re going?”


Illya who had fallen on his face, quickly rolled over.


Napoleon pounced, covering the Russian’s body with his own and quickly trapping his hands above his head.  In the instant that Illya had tried to leave, Napoleon came to a decision.  It didn’t matter what had happened or not happened before – only what was happening now.  Rough or not, he’d been enjoying it.  He looked down into the Russian’s mystified face, trying to decide how to explain it.  Explanations could wait, he decided.   Lowering his mouth, he confidently laid claim to Illya’s lips. 


Illya’s eyes opened wide with surprise at this sudden change of attitude.  They quickly change to acquisition, when Napoleon, loosened his hold on the trapped hands, began to unbutton, unzip and pull Illya’s slacks down, just enough to free the burgeoning staff. 


“What have we here?  Feeling neglected are we?”  Napoleon murmured as he brought his finger to the slit and recovered the seepage that escaped, bringing it to his lips.  This he knew, this – this he understood.  His eyes closed as he savored the taste, then the scent of Illya before engulfing the organ and sucking away.  He knew all the tricks and used them.


Illya lay there, having been taken by surprise.   As his trousers made their way down, he had lifted his hips to help in their removal.  He had thought he was hard, until he watched as his partner licked the semen off his finger, ever so erotic.  Running his hands through the dark hair, he moaned, his hands tightening on the thick hair, as the lips engulfing him finally brought him to a swift release.  Too swiftly he thought, wishing it had lasted longer.  Limp and sated, he wanted to ask what that had been all about, but fell asleep.


That was it, Napoleon realized as he let go of the limp organ.  That was his fear, not the fear of the act itself, but this losing of himself in the enjoyment of the physical pleasures that were definitely illegal in most states.  He looked up to share his sudden insight with his friend and found him fast asleep.  Oh well, it had been a long day – he lay his head back on the taut stomach and soon he too was asleep.


Illya woke up the next morning with an aching back, surprised to find his pants still down and his partner napping on his stomach.  He groaned.  Napoleon’s head lifted from its resting place.  “Good morning,” he said with a smile before letting his head fall back to its comfortable position.


“I’m glad you think so,” Illya muttered.  “Get off, my back aches and I have to go,” he said louder as he pushed Napoleon off of him and went in search of the bathroom, Napoleon’s laughter floating behind him.  When he came out, Napoleon was no longer lying where he’d left him.  He found him in the living area straightening it up and decided to join him.


Napoleon didn’t look up from where he was replacing an upturned chair to its rightful position. “Do you know how frustrating it is to crave something and not realize you crave it?  I’ve been wanting… carnal pleasure…with someone for some time and didn’t realize it.”


“Ah.  And Marton?” Illya asked as he went to the far side of the room to pick up papers that had been scattered around.


“Doesn’t count.”  Napoleon paused before continuing.  “Besides in our line of work … an addiction like this could be fatal.”  The coffee table was now back in place.


“Hmmmm.”  What Napoleon was saying was quite true, Illya thought.  Even he was susceptible to this type of addiction.


“So you were right,” Napoleon stated as he straightened a picture on the wall.


“I was?  About what?”  Illya looked up in surprise from setting an end-table upright.


“Running away,” Napoleon admitted, turning to look directly at Illya.


“Wait a minute…thought we decided last night we weren’t running.”  Illya moved to come opposite Napoleon.


“You’re right again.”  Napoleon nodded.


 A puzzled Russian asked. “So?”


“This is not just a one-time deal.  Right?”  Napoleon reached out and pulled his blond partner into his arms.


“I hadn’t planned on it being one time.  After all, I too have cravings.”  Illya pulled back to gather the bottom of Napoleon’s polo shirt and pull it up over his head, tossing it aside.


“Always doing it here could pose a problem.  We don’t want to arouse suspicion,” Napoleon counseled as he returned the favor, removing Illya’s jacket, holster and shirt, leaving the tie in place.


“That’s true,” Illya said, between nibbles on Napoleon’s neck. “How about whenever we’re in New Orleans?”


Napoleon’s eyes were closed and he brought his head up to allow Illya access to his throat before asking breathlessly. “San Francisco?”


“Paris?”  Illya suggested, moving on to an earlobe.


Napoleon not to be outdone ran his fingers through the soft pale blond hair.  “Toronto?” he whispered.


“The map room?”  Even Illya knew he’d gone too far with that suggestion.


Napoleon gripped Illya’s tie and pulled him close as he took Illya’s face between his two hands and looked intensely into the laughing blue eyes.  “Let’s be serious here, okay?  I want you…badly.  And furthermore I want you to want me.”


“Oh I do.”  The laughter had gone from the blue eyes as he returned the deep look in the dark eyes.  “However, there is a problem.  You seem to have way too much clothing on.”


Napoleon had just been on the cusp of claiming that luscious mouth and was forced to pull back.  “I do?  Well there is something I can do about that.”


“Ummm, could you possibly do it in the bedroom?  My back is still hurting from the floor,” Illya complained.


Reluctantly letting go, Napoleon walked to the bedroom with Illya not far behind.  Shoes, trousers and underwear went flying across the room.  Soon two very naked men were staring at each other.


Déjà vu,” Napoleon said nervously.


“Only this time – I’m not running,” Illya consoled him.


“Illya?”  Napoleon asked hesitantly, “I don’t think I can be as rough as you want.  After all I’m basically not a violent person.”


Illya laughed.  Napoleon could be very violent when he needed to be.  Then seriously, “I didn’t say I wanted it….only that it was what I was used to.”


Relief spread though Napoleon’s body.  He wanted to look, he wanted to touch, he wanted to…  Reigning in his desires, he backed into the bathroom, leaving a frustrated Russian looking puzzled.  Soon however he was back with a jar of lotion.


Understanding dawned in Illya’s eyes.  “Are you sure?”


“Not really,” Napoleon admitted.  “But New Orleans left a bad taste in my mouth…as well as in other regions.”


“Then perhaps we shouldn’t?”


“This time will be different.  I’m not under duress, and my hands aren’t chained behind my back,” Napoleon assured him.


“Your hands were behind you?”  Illya asked in surprise; he hadn’t been aware of that fact.  “Kinky.”


Napoleon laughed.  “Only if you do it.  I think I really need this,” he said seriously as he handed over the lotion and lay face down upon the bed.


Illya sat down beside him and turned him over face up.  “I wish I could have spared you that.” 


Napoleon looked up at him and brought his hand to Illya’s face.  “Why do you think I did it?  To spare you.”


As Illya lowered his face down to Napoleon’s, he murmured, “Stupid American.”  After several intense moments, he pulled away and opened the jar of cream.  “I want you to see that it is me loving you… not Marton,” Illya stated softly as he brought his cream coated fingers between Napoleon’s thighs.  Gently preparing the tight channel, he kept a close watch on Napoleon’s face.  After the first grimace as the finger slipped in, Napoleon closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation, amazed at the difference.  His hips moved, savoring the movement of that one finger.  One finger was joined by more, massaging the inside of the channel as it stretched it, preparing it. The wonderful feeling as one finger stroked his prostate caused Napoleon to push up, his body demanding more.  He even whimpered a little as the fingers were removed.


“Napoleon, open your eyes,” Illya commanded gently as he placed pillows under Napoleon’s hips and spread his thighs apart, pushing his knees toward his chest opening him up.


“Ah, Illya.   Isn’t there some other way?  I mean this seems like it would be uncomfortable.”


“No, this is the only way for me to be sure you know it is me,” Illya stated, not looking directly at Napoleon as he coated his engorged erection.  Positioning himself, he looked deeply into Solo’s eyes.  “Don’t be afraid.”


“Who’s afraid?”  Napoleon responded, his voice trembling as his body was entered in one smooth stroke.  After the first moment of pain he opened his eyes, not realizing he’d closed them.  “Stop.  Don’t move.”


Illya froze. 


Napoleon’s senses were in overload as he felt the cock within him growing, and he couldn’t resist squeezing the muscles surrounding it, taking in the shape and angle of penetration.  He wiggled his body, eliciting a moan of frustration from Illya.  It felt…good… right.  And he wanted more.  Nodding he signaled continuation and was rewarded as Illya withdrew slowly before thrusting in again.  He found himself pushing up to meet Illya’s thrust.  Gasping, he commanded, “Harder.  Faster.” and was gratified when Illya honored his request.  His own cock was hard, and the friction against Illya’s rock hard stomach was immensely pleasing.


 Illya’s arms were to each side of Napoleon, supporting his weight, as he plunged into his partner’s body.  The tightness was incredible and he knew he wouldn’t last long, which was good, for Napoleon’s sake.   Three more delicious strokes and he felt Napoleon shudder under him as he came, his hot sperm coating the inside of Napoleon’s anal cavity.  Collapsing on top of Napoleon, Illya was surprised by the dampness that met him.  Napoleon’s arms surrounded him, holding him in place.  After a few minutes Illya moved to the side, his cock reluctantly leaving its safe haven.  One hand came up to brush dark damp hair from Napoleon’s face, a face that radiated contentment.


“That was nice,” Napoleon said sleepily.


“Yes, it was,” Illya said his voice tight with amazement.


“You sound surprised.”  Napoleon chuckled as he pulled Illya’s head down to his shoulder.  “I think we must find an excuse to return to New Orleans,” he said to Illya drowsily, only to find Illya already asleep once again.


The End.






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