The Off the Rails Affair
UNCLE agents didn't often travel by train, preferring instead the speed of air travel. That was doubly true when speaking of Number One, Section One of the New York office, as well his two top agents. But when there is an important meeting in Chicago that must be attended, and when a freak spring snow closes all of the New York airports, then UNCLE agents must travel by train.
Napoleon closed the door of the compartment and locked it, catching a glimpse of moonlight on snow outside the train window as Illya closed the curtains. It had only been a few months since their partnership had become... well, a partnership, and it amused Napoleon how much he was learning about the extremely private Illya. Some things were understandable, if you knew enough about the man—his need for physical affection, for example, which occasionally reminded Napoleon of a cat that he'd once owned. Whenever they were private and safe, Illya was next to him, leaning against him on the couch, or taking his hand, or his new favorite, laying with his head in Napoleon's lap while reading. Quite frankly, it wouldn't have surprised Napoleon in the slightest if he caught Illya purring.
The other thing that was both a surprise and a trial to Napoleon was Illya's somewhat perverse sense of humor regarding exhibitionism. The Russian had apparently made it his mission in life to bedevil Napoleon unmercifully, and seemed to take unholy glee in trying to get Napoleon to lose his composure. He'd already succeeded in leaving Napoleon as flustered as the spy ever allowed himself to get. The first instance had been a few weeks ago, when they were sitting side-by-side in a booth at a cafe, enjoying a relaxed dinner with April and Mark. As the appetizers had been served, Napoleon had been shocked to feel Illya's hand slipping into his pocket, reaching with unerring accuracy for Napoleon's cock. Somehow, Napoleon had managed to make it through the rest of dinner and hold up his end of the conversation, although he could not, for the life of him, remember just what he'd eaten or what they had talked about. Illya had more than made up for the prank that night, but the impish glee in his eyes should have warned Napoleon that this was not going to be a one-time occurrence. And it hadn't; Illya had an uncanny sense of just how long they were going to be alone, and tailored his attacks for the best response.
The most recent incidence had been just this morning, as they were leaving Napoleon's apartment to meet Mr. Waverly. As the elevator doors had closed, Illya had pounced, pushing Napoleon into the corner, claiming his mouth in a fiercely possessive kiss, his thigh between Napoleon's legs, pressing into his balls. Taken completely by surprise, Napoleon had barely had time to start enjoying it before Illya broke his hold and jumped back, facing forward mere seconds before the elevator doors opened, leaving Napoleon gasping and bereft, disheveled and very glad of the topcoat that he was wearing against the chill. There hadn't been time since for Napoleon to get his lover alone, and this compartment didn't lend itself to any kind of retribution, amorous or otherwise. Especially since Illya had shown one other hidden facet that had startled the life out of Napoleon the first time they'd made love: Illya Kuryakin, quiet, reserved, cool-as-a-cucumber Illya, was, in fact, a screamer.
Napoleon looked around the tiny compartment again, the two bunks along one wall, the tiny sink in the corner, hearing the rustling from the next compartment, where Mr. Waverly had been ensconced, and fought back an evil grin as the barest glimmer of an idea starting to form. It could work, if he could get Illya off his guard. Which wouldn't be easy. Napoleon set his bag on the lower bunk and pulled out his toiletries case.
"Mind if I go first?" he asked, holding up the case. Illya looked over and nodded.
"Go ahead." He settled on the bunk with a copy of the newspaper, flipping it open and shutting out the world.
Napoleon let himself out into the corridor and nodded a greeting as Mr. Waverly came out of his own compartment, a similar case in his hand. The older man nodded in response, turning to face Napoleon. "We should be arriving in Chicago shortly after breakfast. That should leave us plenty of time to reach the meeting." Mr. Waverly studied Napoleon for a moment, and apparently saw something in the younger man's face, because he fixed a gimlet gaze on Napoleon, "Do try to get some sleep, Mr. Solo. And try not to keep me awake?"
Napoleon grinned. "Of course not, sir," he answered, then made his way to the bathroom.
When Illya came back into the compartment, Napoleon was standing just inside, waiting for him. Illya closed and locked the door, then looked up at him and arched an eyebrow, "Is there something wrong, Napoleon?"
Napoleon grinned. Just you wait. But he shook his head no and answered, "Wrong? No, nothing wrong. I just haven't had a chance to thank you for your little... elevator surprise yet."
Illya smiled, a sweet open smile that almost made Napoleon reconsider. Almost. "I thought we'd be in a hotel tonight, and I could... finish the job," Illya said, sounding apologetic. "Considering that the walls here are little better than cardboard, I don't think you'd want me to do anything now. Especially not..." he stopped and gestured at the bunks, and the wall that their compartment shared with Mr. Waverly's. He looked thoughtful, then grinned at Napoleon and whispered, "Do you think he snores?"
Napoleon grinned in response, reaching out and tugging Illya closer, "I think that is the least of your worries." He pulled Illya into his arms and kissed him, catching the back of his lover's neck with one hand, while the other wrapped around his waist. Deftly, Napoleon turned them around and pushed Illya back until the smaller man's shoulders were against the upper bunk. Peeking through his lashes, Napoleon could see Illya's eyes were closed in pleasure. Good. Now to move; he let go of Illya's neck and grabbed the item he'd hidden under the blankets on the upper bunk, then slid his hands down Illya's arms. Napoleon had judged Illya's reactions to perfection—Illya noticed that something was not right just as Napoleon pushed his arms behind his back and locked the handcuffs around his wrists.
Illya caught his breath, straightening and glaring at Napoleon, who took advantage of the Russian's surprise to get out of range. "Napoleon..." Illya growled. "This is..."
"A surprise?" Napoleon finished innocently. He closed on Illya again, pushing him back and kissing him until he felt the other man relax. When he pulled back, Illya was smiling slightly.
"This is not an appropriate place to play this game, Napoleon," he murmured. "Unless you have something better than a pocket square?"
Napoleon smiled, slowly starting to unfasten the buttons on Illya's shirt. It was strange, to say the least, that two men who had spent so much time being tied up and tortured by the worst that humanity had to offer would find bedroom sado-masochism to be so arousing. They traded roles, alternating who was on top, although Napoleon had noticed that Illya seemed to prefer being done to than actually doing. He was definitely louder. At home, Illya's vocalizations weren't an issue—UNCLE provided apartments that were conveniently soundproofed. But when they were in the field, and it was Napoleon's turn to top, he had been forced to try a variety of methods to keep Illya from waking anyone in earshot. They'd tried everything from the aforementioned pocket square to socks to twisted shirt sleeves, and so far nothing had worked.
"No, I had another idea," Napoleon said, sliding Illya's shirt off his shoulders and turning the smaller man around to face the bunk. "We're going to test your willpower." With firm hands, he made Illya bend at the waist, then guided him so that his back was resting against the underside of the top bunk. Using a belt, Napoleon quickly secured Illya's bound wrists to the bunk, and then went to sit down so that he could face Illya. He kept his voice low, so that no one outside the compartment would be able to hear him. "Now, tovarisch, here's the game. We have..." he checked his watch, "... ten minutes before this train stops in Schenectady. I trust you noticed that this compartment is on the station side of the train?"
Illya frowned, "What are you planning, Napoleon?"
Napoleon smiled broadly, "Revenge." He reached past Illya and pulled the curtains open. "You, my darling Russian, need to concentrate on not making a sound while I have my wicked way with you. You need to finish before we pull into the station, or everyone is going to see the reason I'm so fond of you."
Illya craned his neck to get a look at the window, then looked back at Napoleon, "If we are seen, we will be arrested. You are trying to get me deported."
Napoleon laughed, "You won't be deported. But maybe after this you'll remember to behave yourself in public." He gently tugged Illya's undershirt out of his pants and pushed it up, revealing pale skin and toned muscles. From this angle, he almost couldn't see the scars; he could feel them, though, running his fingers over Illya's ribs and up his sides. Illya arched his back and gasped. Loudly.
Napoleon grinned and slid off the bunk, slowly stripping off his own clothes until he stood naked, his cock ready and eager for the game. From his overnight case he retrieved a small tube of lube and a condom—ready for anything, as usual. He rolled the condom over his own length, then moved back to stand behind his bound lover. Reaching around, Napoleon unbuckled Illya's belt, pushing pants and underwear down to around Illya's ankles, freeing his rather substantial cock to stand at attention and showing off his magnificent ass. As he ran his hands up Illya's legs, Napoleon could feel the other man shivering. Not from cold, he knew. From anticipation. Time for the other piece to the puzzle.
"Oh, and Illya? Mr Waverly asked that we not keep him awake." There was a hollow thud from under the bunk, the sound of Illya's head hitting the bottom, no doubt. Then Napoleon heard a groan, quickly silenced, and then Illya whispered one word: "Napoleon..."
The word was tinged with need. Or it might have been a warning. Napoleon couldn't quite tell. He grinned again and squeezed some of the lube into his hand. He thought he heard a muffled moan as he slid one wet finger into Illya's ass, probing gently as he reached around and wrapped his hand around Illya's cock.
"Well, you're more than ready, aren't you?" he murmured, feeling Illya tense and tighten around his finger. He slowly added another finger, catching sight of Illya's face as he did. The blond had his eyes squeezed shut, and a look of intense concentration on his face. "Remember, no noise," Napoleon whispered. A third finger, and now Illya was biting his lip, even as he pushed his hips back, driving Napoleon's fingers deeper. Napoleon smiled and started to slide his hand up and down Illya's cock, "And you don't get free until you shoot."
The only answer was a strangled moan, and Napoleon laughed quietly, twisting his fingers and feeling Illya tighten around him, seeing the other man clench his hands into fists as he fought the handcuffs that held him prisoner. That was when Napoleon decided it wasn't fair that Illya should be having all the fun; he pulled his fingers free, wiped his hands on a towel and checked the time. Then he moved into position, resting his hands on Illya's hips.
"You have six minutes," he murmured, then slowly started to push his way in. There was a moment of resistance, and then Illya relaxed, allowing him entry. Napoleon pressed in deeper and deeper until he was pressed up against Illya's ass, then went still, closing his eyes and enjoying the tightness, the feel of his partner, his lover surrounding him. Then Illya rocked his hips back, pushing against him, begging silently for release. Release that Napoleon would be only too happy to grant him; he started pumping slowly, then picked up speed, fingers gripping Illya's hips tightly. The only sounds inside the cabin were the wet slapping of skin on skin and harsh, rapid breathing. Napoleon could feel his own orgasm building, and closed his eyes to better savor the sensations. He could feel the tension in Illya's muscles, the way his partner was shaking just every so slightly, thrusting his hips back more and more frantically. At this point, if he'd been able to do so, Illya would have been begging in Russian, wanting more, wanting it harder, faster, leading up to a screaming, thrashing come that would usually send Napoleon right over the edge. This time, however, Napoleon came first, gasping and shuddering, thrusting wildly, his fingers leaving livid red marks on Illya's fair skin. He stayed where he was for a moment, then slowly pulled out and stepped away, admiring the view while he stripped off the condom and tossed it into the trash.
Illya's head was hanging, his body visibly shaking, his cock hard and erect, curving up and out proudly. He turned and looked at Napoleon, and and whispered harshly in Russian "...spasibo...."
Napoleon grinned, going over to stand behind Illya and unhitching the belt that held him in place, "Since you ask so nicely." He guided Illya out and helped him stand up, then pushed him back against the upper bunk and kissed him, hard and possessive, feeling Illya moaning against his mouth. With Illya distracted, it was easy to slip the belt around his waist, and then slide it up under his arms and recinch it to the bunk support. Napoleon broke the kiss and stepped back, watching awareness dawn on Illya's face as he realized he was once again helpless.
"That's a nasty swelling you have there, tovarisch," Napoleon said conversationally. "Let's see if I can do anything about it." He dropped to his knees in front of Illya and swallowed him whole.
From above, Napoleon heard a low moan, quickly cut off; he peered upwards through his lashes to see Illya's head thrown back, his mouth open in a silent cry of pleasure. Satisfied, Napoleon returned to his most pleasurable task of worshiping Illya's cock. It was something that he enjoyed immensely, but that never lasted long enough for him—Illya was far too easy when circumstances included his erect cock and Napoleon's agile tongue. Add in the extra spice of being helpless to do anything about what Napoleon was doing to him, and Illya usually went off like a champagne cork. This time was different, though. It seemed that the need to stay quiet was inhibiting his natural reactions; Napoleon made a note of this very interesting development for future reference and then concentrated on breaking down Illya's inhibitions.
It took longer than Napoleon expected, and he was starting to worry when he felt Illya's hips buck forward. He grabbed Illya's ass and held on, feeling Illya's cock pulsing against his lips and tasting the sweet-and-salt warmth as it washed over his tongue. Illya's soft moan of pleasure was lost in the shrill scream of the train whistle, and he went limp in his bonds when Napoleon opened his mouth and pulled away. Napoleon got up slowly, stretched, then reached out and pulled the curtain closed as the station lights started to flash into the window. The train shuddered as it slowed to a stop, and Napoleon had to steady himself before he went and carefully unfastened the belt, catching Illya and lowering the smaller man onto the bunk. He stripped off all of Illya's rumpled clothes that he could, nudged him under the covers, then turned the lights off before joining Illya in the bed.
"You did very well," Napoleon murmured as he pulled Illya into his arms, ignoring when the handcuffs that still held Illya hostage jabbed him in the stomach.
Illya made a soft, tired sound of pleasure, then shifted slightly and looked over his shoulder, "Are you going to let me go?"
Napoleon smiled fondly at him, "Never."
Illya returned the smile, then shifted again, and his hand closed around Napoleon's semi-erect cock; Napoleon gasped and closed his eyes briefly, then kissed Illya's shoulder and held up the keys that he had palmed before getting into bed. "As much as I like what you're doing," he said regretfully. "We really should get some sleep."
Illya smiled and let go of Napoleon, who quickly unlocked the handcuffs and set them aside. Once freed, Illya rolled over to face Napoleon and kissed him deeply. The two curled around each other as the train lurched into motion again. Napoleon yawned and looked at Illya, who had a small smile on his face.
"What are you up to, moy droog?"
Illya looked at him, his blue eyes sparkling, "Planning my revenge. Goodnight, Napoleon."