**Disclaimer** MGM owns Illya and Napoleon, I just play with them. You should be over 18 and not offended by two boys in love to read this.
It had proved to be a boring mission. Illya had a gut feeling that there was nothing to be had from the Sheikh al Rundi and his soldiers, but he couldn't convince Napoleon to listen to him. The men were not a part of Thrush and proved it admirably by assisting in the destruction of the installation that the U.N.C.L.E. agents had been sent in to liquidate. The sheikh had not even known Thrush was there before U.N.C.L.E. had enlisted his aid in destroying the laboratory complex. The effervescent sheikh insisted they join the evening's victory celebration.
The sheikh had gravitated right to Napoleon, whisking him away to the seat of honor.
'Like to like.' Illya grumbled to himself.
Now, as they waited until the next morning to be retrieved by an U.N.C.L.E. transport, Illya sighed and lay back in the sand. He was sitting with the troops, enjoying the red gold sunset, when he saw a knot of musicians form. There were several drummers and a man with a flute. They began to play very softly. Other men dragged a rug out of a tent and unrolled it near the musicians. Illya smiled. It meant there would be dancing. After a bit of prodding, one of the men got up and began to dance. He danced with his sword, wielding it to the whoops and hissing of his fellows. Illya unconsciously moved with the music. He found himself gazing intently at the dancer, appreciating the way he moved with the sword. The dancer continued until Illya spotted him signaling the musicians to slow. The man had seen Illya watch him and offered the sword to him. Illya swayed with the drumbeat. His decision was fairly quick. In one smooth movement he flowed upright and plucked the sword from the man's hand. He pulled it from the sheath and inspected it. It was an old cavalry sword. A small grin touched his lips.
'The back of this is certainly wide enough,' he mused.
He laid the back edge of the sword on the crown of his head, so that the pommel and the tip hung down near his shoulders. It took a moment but he balanced perfectly. The gentle curve and the thickness of the old blade helped keep it in place. It was still sharp and the edge glinted over his hair. He then began to dance. Near boneless grace mixed with the hypnotic rhythm as he whirled around. The drummers adjusted the beat to his steps and Illya moved as if entranced. In truth, it had been a long time since he had done a sword dance, but he had learned it well and the movements came back quickly. He kept his posture straight until chest level, below which he moved like a snake. He grinned slightly to himself. He knew Napoleon must be watching.
'He can never stop himself from watching me.'
When Napoleon had first met with the sheikh, he had wondered how to proceed. His Arabic, not being up to Illya's standards, forced them to converse in English. Things had proved awkward until the evening's entertainment started. The volume of the drums and flute had made it difficult to talk to his host. He was just about to give up on his attempt to continue the pleasantries, when he heard the sheikh gasp. Napoleon turned and saw Illya slithering around with a sword on his head. Napoleon was stunned. Who knew the blond devil could dance? Who knew the sheikh had a penchant for blond devils that could dance? Napoleon's mind touched lightly on the muscle control something like that would take. He licked his lips at the thought of it. It was only moments before Napoleon's host nudged him.
"How much for the boy?"
Napoleon cleared his throat. He hadn't truly expected the conversation to start quite so bluntly.
"Well, my dear Sheikh, I value him highly and I don't think I could be persuaded to part with him."
"Indeed, he has... talents... does he not?" The sheikh grinned and wiggled his eyebrow at Napoleon suggestively.
It wasn't that Napoleon hadn't already thought about Illya and his associated talents, but he'd never discussed those thoughts with anyone else except Illya. He cleared his throat again and felt himself begin to flush. Yes indeed, Illya was a man of many talents. He smiled at his host with his most knowing smile.
"Does he move like that in bed?" The admiration was evident.
Illya shimmied slightly. His loosely buttoned shirt slipped off one shoulder. He rolled his shoulders, letting everyone watch the muscles move. He followed with several flips of his hips. He stole a quick glance to where his partner was ensconced with the sheikh. Napoleon was changing shades in a way that had little to do with the sun.
'I guess he really didn't know I could dance...'
Illya decided to let the hedonist within display itself. He tuned himself in completely with the music. The drummers followed his cues and slowed into an almost trance-like beat. He rolled his hips with the tempo of the drums. He undulated slowly, the move beginning with a dip of his chin and finishing with a flip of his foot. He flowed around the circle of men, gauging the reactions of each. Appreciation was the general mood of the audience, and some of that was not solely for his dancing.
'No wonder Napoleon fits in so well around here...'
The men started to hiss and clap with the drums. Illya danced slowly across the rug until he stopped in front of the sheikh and Napoleon. With extreme precision he flowed lower and lower until he was on his knees. His shoulders undulated enticingly, his arms beckoning the watchers. Without breaking the balance of the sword, he lay back until his collar scraped the sand. He held his position there for a moment then with a flick of his hand the drummers hastened the tempo. He leapt up, sending the sword from his head into his hand. He began to expertly to thrust and parry with the saber to the beat of the drums. The sheikh's guards jumped until they perceived the movements to be sensual rather than sinister. Illya heard the sheikh call out his appreciation. He surmised that indeed, he had not lost his touch. He spared a glance in Napoleon's direction. The sheikh was speaking rapidly in Napoleon's ear, but their eyes were riveted to him.
Illya twirled fast and reckless across the rug. He stomped his foot and as the drums halted, he stabbed the sword down and dropped. He landed carefully so that his knees and chest were on the ground with his arms stretched forward, the position of a submitting slave. His lips were parted and his breath rasped in his chest. He looked through his lashes at Napoleon and the sheikh. All movement had ceased. He wasn't sure who'd lunge first, Napoleon or the sheikh. He frowned slightly when it was the sheikh who jumped to his feet.
"Again, again!" he shouted in Arabic.
Illya looked at Napoleon. Napoleon's eyebrow was raised in question. Illya knew that he was concerned. He smiled back at Napoleon, who appeared relieved in turn. Illya signaled that he would continue. He looked towards the drummers and called for a certain tune. They nodded and began the smooth, sensual rhythm. He stole glances at Napoleon and the sheikh. Both men continued to stare in rapt attention. He twirled slowly until an evil thought pulled at him.
'Well, it is not as if I get a chance to torment Napoleon like this everyday...'
Napoleon and the sheikh watched transfixed. It was most definitely a masculine dance, but no less erotic than those performed by the cabaret dancers in Cairo. The light was failing and Illya's hair glinted with the last of it, making him sparkle. He moved with an abandon that Napoleon had never before seen. His shirt had come further undone, showing more pink flesh glimmering with sweat. Napoleon sat back and enjoyed the sight, sipping at his tea to hide his growing smile.
"Where is he from?" The sheikh barely seemed to notice anything but Illya.
"I got him from the KGB in Kiev."
"I see he is well trained. He knows how to display himself."
Illya slowly spun himself into position.
'Now let us see what Napoleon will do.'
Napoleon nearly choked on his mint tea as Illya looked him straight in the eye and rolled his stomach in a most unmistakable manner. His eyes were slits of blue and his head lolled back in ecstasy.
"Ho! No wonder you won't share!" The sheikh slapped Napoleon on the back, and laughed boisterously. "He is a devil, is he not? I will leave you two alone in my tent tonight."
Napoleon looked astonished, while the sheikh watched Illya finish the dance. The American's mind whirled. He could see the sweat on Illya's face and the breath heaving in his chest. The blond's expression was one Napoleon had rarely seen, that of complete abandon.
'He's trying to kill me.' Napoleon thought.
Illya ground the dance to a halt with a combined flip of his hip and his hair. Now he remembered why he didn't dance in public; it made him extremely aroused. Most likely it was embarrassingly evident to everyone around him at this point as well. He heaved a sigh and looked towards Napoleon. The sheikh was pushing him out of his chair while clapping loudly and yelling "Fabulous!" in Arabic. Illya noticed Napoleon's look of stunned amazement and supreme embarrassment. He grinned. The whole exercise had been worth it for that alone.
Napoleon awkwardly strolled over to where Illya stood shivering and sweating. The temperature was dropping with the sun. He could not help but notice the amusement dancing in his partner's sapphire eyes or the smile playing over his lips.
"He thinks you're my slave," Napoleon whispered.
Illya's cool gaze rested on him. "Oh?"
Napoleon coughed. He shrugged out of his burnoose and swung it about Illya's shoulders.
"Here, you must be freezing." He tried to look as nonchalant as possible.
"Napoleon, I saw you two talking. He offered you money... how much?" Illya's full pink lips began to pout.
Napoleon smiled. His eyes traveled hungrily over his partner. He brushed some stray sand from Illya's cheek. At this point he didn't trust himself to touch him more than that in public.
"Quite a bit."
"Napoleon..." Illya's voice carried dire warning.
"Illya, my dear friend. The sheikh has offered us the use of his tent for tonight. I for one, intend to enjoy his hospitality. I suggest you do as well."
A golden eyebrow lifted. A quick grin crossed his face before he turned and marched towards the sheik's tent in a swirl of burnoose.
Napoleon entered the tent past swiftly departing servants. His eyes tried to survey the whole room but they were immediately drawn to the burnoose he had given Illya, which was now lying in a pool near his feet. Not far from it lay one boot, then, tumbled nearby, its mate. Khaki trousers looked like they had simply been walked out of. The trail disappeared behind some hangings that seemed to delineate a separate room.
Napoleon heard the splash of water come from behind the curtains. A sweaty, dusty khaki shirt flew over the curtain and flopped on top of the pants. Napoleon felt slightly uncomfortable as he sauntered over. He parted the curtain quietly. Illya stood behind a large bronze bowl on a tripod. Napoleon could see enough to know that his partner was completely naked behind it.
"I had them bring some water in to freshen up." A flash of pale skin vanished as he swirled the towel around his slim hips and stepped from behind the bowl. "They seem very accommodating."
"Erm, yes. The sheikh was most impressed by your dance."
He realized Illya's eyes were boring into him. Blue eyes held hazel.
"Ah," Illya blinked, breaking the impasse, "What about you?"
"Yet another Kuryakin surprise. You never told me about this particular talent."
Napoleon moved closer. He plucked the washcloth from Illya's hand. Without looking, he dipped it in the basin and slowly squeezed the excess from it.
"Discussion of it never seemed to be relevant. You still haven't given your opinion."
Napoleon blotted lightly at Illya's sunburned neck. His eyes drank in the sight of his friend flushed with exertion and unmistakably aroused.
"I certainly like the effect it has on you."
"Er, Illya." Napoleon fumbled for his words. "I was wondering how you did that thing... ahem... with your stomach."
Illya's lips curled in a slight grin. He took Napoleon's free hand and slid it slowly up one muscular thigh and over the towel until it came to rest right above his navel. With a slight huff of breath, he rolled the muscles of his torso. He kept his own hand lightly on top of Napoleon's. He could feel his partner's hand trembling.
"So. Was that helpful?" he purred.
Napoleon swiped the cloth over his own overheated neck.
"Enlightening, yes. Thanks."
Illya's grin widened. He cocked his ear for a moment. The drums were still there. He let himself move with their beat again. He danced in place for a few moments, seemingly unaware of Napoleon's presence. The beat was slow. Napoleon's hand slid around, trying to grip his waist. He chuckled and twirled from Napoleon's grip, but not before the brunet had tried for the tuck on the towel. Illya undulated towards the large divan that was obviously the sheikh's bed. He knew Napoleon was staring, and he was willing to bet that it was an open-mouthed stare at that.
"Why don't you clean up, Napoleon?" he called over his shoulder.
Napoleon started. His jaw snapped shut as he tore his eyes from Illya's plush ass. Blood pounded in his ears, matching rhythm with Illya's dance and the drums.
"Napoleon, it's all right. We have wasted too much time already. They understand what is between us. It is acceptable here."
"Illya... I..." Napoleon moved in closer.
"Enough talk. It is time to put your money into your mouth."
"That's 'your money where your mouth is', my friend." The devil lit his hazel eyes. "OK, here."
Napoleon reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver coin. He trailed it lightly over Illya's full lips, then slowly down his chin, along his neck and over the muscles of his torso. He tickled Illya's navel with the edge of the coin before stuffing it into the tuck of the towel.
"But your mouth isn't there," Illya purred.
With blinding swiftness, Napoleon upended Illya onto the divan and leapt on top of him. With equally blinding swiftness Illya snatched the coin from its secluded spot and popped it into his mouth. His tongue rolled it between his teeth, then he sucked it back in. Napoleon dove for it.
His tongue invaded, seeking the coin and giving his agreement to the role he would play. Illya writhed beneath him, exciting him to even higher levels. Napoleon straddled the blond. His hands slid over the smooth skin with possessiveness and a familiarity that showed him this was not a night for foreplay. The dance had taken care of that for him. Illya bucked at every touch, losing his focus on the battle of their tongues. Napoleon caught the coin and pulled his lips from his moaning partner.
"My, my, Illya, I think I must make you dance for me more often."
Napoleon heard something barely intelligible in Russian about prolonged death.
"Take off the towel."
Illya jumped slightly at the command in Napoleon's voice. He smiled seductively and dipped his finger under the edge of the towel. Even the touch of his own hand brought a flush to his neck and chest. He teased Napoleon by dipping his finger beneath of the towel. He felt like his skin was on fire. He heard Napoleon's growl of frustration. Finally Illya's hand was batted away and he felt teeth tear at the tuck of the towel.
Illya giggled as he felt something wet and metallic slide over his cock.
"Now, my friend, I'll put my mouth where my money is."
Illya cried out as Napoleon's lips caressed him. His legs wrapped around his partner's shoulders.
"Do not tease me. It is...ahhhh..."
Napoleon didn't tease. He took Illya into his mouth and sucked for all he was worth, moving with the drumbeat. He didn't need to hear the drums, he could feel them pulsing in Illya's femoral artery. He held the squirming, clawing blond by the hips so he wouldn't be thrown off. He twirled his tongue over the fine rose cock in front of him, enjoying it like a peppermint stick. He felt hands grasp at his hair. Unlike Illya's blond locks, his were far too short to get a grip on. He felt Illya suddenly go still. With one last breath, he sucked his prize into the back of his throat and constricted all the muscles in his cheeks and throat. The swiftness and intensity of Illya's orgasm surprised both of them. He held tight as Illya's hips bucked wildly off the bed. When Napoleon finally felt the Russian go limp, he let go.
Illya flopped back onto the divan, eyes wild and breath coming in ragged gasps. Napoleon's lips traveled back up his partner's boneless form. He lightly licked one nipple, causing Illya to inhale sharply and nearly jump again.
"Still a bit sensitive, are we?"
Napoleon stroked his cheek. Illya shivered again. He grabbed Napoleon and kissed him voraciously, taking the opportunity to roll himself on top of his torturer. He sprawled over Napoleon, allowing him to touch wherever he pleased. Napoleon's fingers trailed languidly up and down his sweaty spine. They dipped lower and lower, pulling throaty growls out of the trembling blond.
"Illya... Let me..."
A square finger dipped between Illya's plump cheeks. He sighed and clenched against it.
"Napoleon! We are in the middle of the desert!" Illya looked more disappointed than affronted. "How about this..."
Illya slowly rolled his hips. He could feel Napoleon's cock throbbing against him. He was rewarded with a stunned gasp from his dark-haired partner.
"You know, the sheikh asked me if you moved like this in bed."
"Well, now you can tell him that I do."
The blond continued to writhe. He could feel Napoleon's cock straining against its khaki enclosure. He ran his tongue over his partner's neck and whispered in his ear.
"Napoleon, you have too many clothes on."
"You're very perceptive. You should think about becoming a spy..."
Napoleon yelped as Illya bit his shoulder. He flipped the blond onto his back and slipped from the divan. Illya made no protest. He simply smiled and lay back on the pillows. Napoleon watched as his partner started sucking on his index finger.
"I will die of old age soon," the Russian said between licks.
Illya trailed his glistening finger down his quivering torso. Napoleon gulped. Shoes flew in uncharacteristic haste. Bush jacket, shirt and trousers were tossed aside. He slid out of his boxers and on top of Illya in a single motion.
"Now I have you right where I want you."
Napoleon's mouth took possession of Illya's lips as his cock slipped between slick thighs. Illya writhed against him as he tentatively thrust. They were both covered in sweat but it was still not comfortable. He almost jumped as an oily hand insinuated itself between their bodies.
"It would seem that the sheikh is prepared for all eventualities..."
"Perhaps he was a Boy Scout."
Illya slipped his hand around Napoleon's eager cock, lavishing it with the sandalwood scented oil. He trailed his fingers over himself as well. He smiled when Napoleon batted his hand out of the way.
Napoleon cut off further comment with his tongue. He pinned Illya's legs with his knees and caught his wrists. Napoleon's cock slipped easily into its well-prepared place. As he began to move, Illya moved with him.
As the friction built, Napoleon moved his tongue in counterpoint to his hips. He could feel his partner trembling with him. Pleasure washed over him like a wave. He felt Illya go rigid beneath him, his thighs clamping Napoleon with enough force to send him over the edge. A full-throated tenor yowl escaped from the American's throat before he could stop himself. The two men remained frozen, not wanting the moment to end. Finally Napoleon's arms shook too much and he rolled off of Illya, panting.
"Mmmm, such noise this time," the blond murmured.
Napoleon had the nerve to look unabashed.
"And you again so fast. You are definitely dancing for me again and again..."
Napoleon smiled when he realized Illya had drifted off. He reminded himself to tease Illya about either his lack of conditioning or advanced age the next morning. When he caught his breath he got up, straightened their clothes, and checked the perimeter. A bit late on that last point, he realized; they would have to be more careful.
On returning to the sleeping area, Napoleon walked over to the bronze bowl and dipped his finger in the water. It was still a comfortable temperature. He swabbed himself clean and did the same for Illya. He grinned when he realized that the wily Russian had managed to keep the towel between them and the bed. He tossed it aside and slid in next to his partner. Sleep whisked him away almost immediately.
"Come my friends, arise! Your comrades are coming."
Illya leapt up, U.N.C.L.E. special in hand before he was actually awake. He lowered the gun when he realized that he was aiming the weapon at their host. He then realized that he was still naked and that the sheikh was unashamedly enjoying the view. Frowning, he sat back down in the bed and shoved his still dozing partner.
Napoleon's eyes barely opened as he pulled Illya down into a crushing kiss. After a moment he let go of the thrashing blond's lips and acknowledged the laughing sheikh.
"Good morning, my dear Sheikh! I must thank you for your excellent hospitality."
"It looks as though everything was satisfactory," said the sheikh, eying Illya again.
"Absolutely! And oh... I am reminded to tell you that he does indeed move like that in bed."
Illya turned scarlet. His eyes were blue murder.
"Ya budu ubivat' tebya... podlyi syn suki!"*
"You said I could tell him!"
Napoleon fended off Illya's attacks.
"Ah, he is hot blooded as well. Better you than me, my friend. I am getting too old for such a handful." The sheikh laughed once more and escaped.
"Illya... Illya, if we don't get dressed, the Section 3 guys will see us like this!"
That caught the Russian's attention. He stiffly stood and walked over to his clothes, which had been piled nicely the night before. He turned his back to Napoleon and swiftly began to dress.
Napoleon slid from the bed and came up behind his partner. He easily blocked the half-hearted elbow strike and gathered the stiff man into his arms.
"Consider that payback for that thing you did with your stomach," he murmured, lightly kissing a pink ear.
Illya stole a kiss and marched out to the sound of the landing U.N.C.L.E. helicopter. Napoleon smiled and began plotting how he could get Illya to dance in that Moroccan Club that they went to on occasion.
*I will kill you...you wretched son of a bitch!