The New ERA Affair

by Nickovetch

Napoleon Solo was arguably the best agent U.N.C.L.E.'d ever had. He was Waverly's fair-haired boy, his heir-apparent, next in line for the Big Chair. Illya doubted the Old Man would take it too kindly if he shot him. He sighed, rolled his eyes heavenward, and took his hand off his Special.

“Napoleon, you know I love you like a brother. You're my partner and my best friend, but if you don't SIT DOWN,” Illya took a deep breath, held it for three seconds and released it, “I'm going to dart you!”

Solo looked at him, eyes red with exhaustion, hectic spots of color over his cheekbones, fine tremors wracking through his solid frame. He crossed the remainder of the space between them and stood in front of Illya, leaning in until he was nose to nose with the Russian. He patted the younger man on the cheek.

“You're cute when you're angry.” He turned on his heel and resumed the frenetic pacing he'd been doing for the last few hours.

Kuryakin hung his head and rubbed his temples. His headache was turning into a full-blown migraine. He'd been babysitting Solo ever since he'd linked up with him and relieved him of his prisoner and purloined information. Solo's in-country back-up had been killed and he'd had to go the mission alone for the last ninety-six hours. They'd stayed on the move to avoid Thrush patrols, and Napoleon had taken ERA-48, an U.N.C.L.E. pharmaceutical that allowed an agent to stay awake and on his feet for extended periods of time, until a reversal agent was ingested. The captured Thrush agent had been given to the local gendarmes for safekeeping, until the Command could debrief him and give the team further instructions.

Their immediate problem was that Illya'd had his own misfortunes coming after Solo, and had been relieved of his field pack by an errant phosphorus grenade fragment. He'd had to leave the smoldering remains behind, and managed to do the same with his pursuer. But it left him with no antidote and a very agitated and garrulous partner. To top things off, a blizzard was headed straight for their safe-house, and Kuryakin was unsure if the U.N.C.L.E. transport would be able to get to them at all.

Illya sat in a kitchenette chair and activated his communicator. “Open overseas relay. Number One, Section One, New York- HQ.” He glanced at his watch and did the math. No matter, Mr. Waverly never seemed to sleep, either. His pen warbled and then Waverly's voice came next, the connection full of static.

“Waverly here, Mr. Kuryakin. Report, please.”

“Yes, sir. I have Mr. Solo in the safe-house in Copenhagen, and he has ingested ERA-48. Repeatedly, from his state of agitation. His prisoner is in the local jail, and the authorities are awaiting your instructions, sir.” Kuryakin watched Solo pace, counting the steps until his partner turned, and resumed his path. He sighed.

“What was that, Mr. Kuryakin?” Waverly asked.

Illya cleared his throat and resumed speaking into the pen. “How goes it with the transport, sir?”

“Not well, Mr. Kuryakin, not well at all, I'm afraid. Blasted weather is creating havoc with the airfields we need. I'm afraid the two of you are on your own for the time being. You'll just have to make do.”

“I understand, sir. We'll do our best here. Keep me advised if there are any changes, sir. Kuryakin out.” He closed the channel and only then did he allow his frustration to vent. He swore in his native language.

“You know, Illya, you shouldn't use language like that. It's unbecoming of an enforcement agent. My grandfather, you know, he hardly ever swore in his life. He said you had to save up words like that for the times you really need them. Then one time, he got kicked by a polo pony and let loose a string of profanity that turned the air blue. I think even the pony was impressed. I sure was. My grandma laughed so hard I thought she was gonna bust a gut.” Solo took a breath and started in again.

“It surely is snowing, isn't it? Does this remind you of Russia, Illya? You know, you don't talk much about Russia. Why is that? Although Denmark is very pretty in the snow, too. How many times have you been here?” Solo held up his hands and counted off on his fingers. “I've been here, let's see, one, two, three, four, five. Guess I need another hand...six...”

Illya groaned and crossed to his partner, grabbed him bodily and dragged him to the couch. “Napoleon,will you please sit down, for the love of God!”

Solo stopped talking long enough to stare at his partner. “I thought all good Communists were atheists, Illya.” He allowed Kuryakin to pull him down on the couch, and then proceeded to tap both feet and fidget all ten fingers on the cushions. “Of course, that could just be a misconception on Westerners' parts. Are you a Communist, Illya? Or an atheist? Or both?”

Illya dropped his head into his hands and groaned.

“Do you have a headache? I have some pills that will make you feel better, partner.” He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a vial of ERA-48. He held it up as Illya, horrified, snatched it out of his hand.

“Give me that, Napoleon.” He stalked to the bathroom and flushed the remainder down the toilet.

“Now, why did you go and do that? Those little babies would have cured your headache, you know. Sometimes, you hare off and do some of the most impetuous things, Illya. Remember when we were in Berlin and that buxom young woman came over to our table and...”

Illya snapped. He returned to the couch and pulled Solo up by his tie and yanked. Solo stared bug-eyed at his partner.

“Napoleon! Will. You. Shut. Up!” This close to his partner, Illya could count the blood shot veins in the whites of Solo's eyes, and feel the heat radiating from his skin. His tie was damp with sweat and the rumpled shirt clung to Napoleon's skin. Illya saw the hurt in the tired brown eyes, and had a moment to feel sorry for his outburst. But then Solo opened his mouth. Again.

“Well, sure I can. I didn't know you were this sensitive, Illya. Is it the headache? Is that making you cranky? Too bad the pills are gone. I had a headache earlier, but the drug must have cleared it up. You know, I hate headaches. Especially the ones that start behind your eyes. Man, those are the worst. I remember this time in Argentina when I thought my head was going to pop open like a ripe melon. I didn't have a field kit then, either, and, boy, was I cranky, too. So I just got some ice from the hotel kitchen and put it over my forehead. It worked like a charm...”

Illya closed his eyes and used every calming technique he knew. If Napoleon would just be quiet for five minutes...

Kuryakin opened his eyes and let go of Solo's tie. He was rambling about his headache cure, his eyes wandering around the room as he droned on and on. Illya could think of only one thing. Silence. In desperation he closed the last few inches between them, took Solo's face in both hands and kissed him.

“...and I felt a lot....mmmmppphh.”

Silence. Complete and utter silence. Illya kept his eyes open during the kiss, as he had no idea if Solo would kill him, or merely knock him on his ass. He did neither. Kuryakin had a split-second to register this and wonder if it were a good or bad thing.

He was about to break off the kiss when Solo did something remarkable. He leaned into the Russian, grasped the back of his neck and threaded his fingers into the thick hair there. His other arm snaked around Illya's shoulder and pulled him in tight. Kuryakin's last coherent thought was that this was a damned peculiar thing for his partner to do. Napoleon's tongue stroking his short-circuited his ability to think at all, and nearly stole his breath as well.

Napoleon sucked Illya's tongue into his mouth, and used the diversion to wrap one leg around Illya's knee and drop him onto the couch underneath his very interested and energized body. Illya used the resulting bounce to break the seal of their lips and drag in a ragged breath. Undaunted, Napoleon kissed his way down the column of his partner's neck, sucking and laving the Adam's apple.

“Napoleon...stop...we can't...I was just trying to get your attention.”

Solo's voice purred underneath his ear. “I'd say you have it, Illya.”

A warm wet tongue licked along his ear lobe and then sharp teeth nipped. Illya's brain was stuck in neutral but his body was in overdrive. He groaned despite himself as Solo ripped open his shirt front and attacked his nipples. He backed up as far as he could go, which was just to the end of the couch. His ploy to put distance between his body and Solo's talented mouth backfired, however, as this just put his lower body in closer proximity.

Solo growled at the turn of events and rubbed his cheek against the cloth-covered bulge of Illya's arousal. When his mouth suckled at the outline of the hard tip, Illya banged his head against the arm of the couch in shock. “Bozhe moy!”

“Praying, milok?”

Illya looked into the glittering eyes of his partner and asked, “Would it do any good?”

Solo snorted and returned to his prize. “It's much too late for that.”

Illya had enough neurons left to realize that now that Napoleon had an outlet for his mania, he was much calmer, although narrowly focused. He dropped his head back onto the couch and swallowed another moan. Snow rattled against the window and he quickly took stock of the situation.

He was:

A. Stuck here for the duration, however long that may be

B. Unable to administer an antidote for Solo's current condition

C. Unable to change either A or B

His scientific demeanor dissolved completely as Solo reached through his fly and grasped his erection. His id grappled with his ego and his superego fled the field entirely. He thought of the old adage,'When in Rome,' sighed, and then stopped thinking altogether.

With his higher functions more or less disengaged, his body was more than willing to catch up to the frenzied pace of his partner's addled state. He looked down to see Napoleon's busy hand sliding up the shaft to the head of his erection, his thumb working the slit softly. Illya closed his eyes and groaned, trying to keep some kind of control. After a deep breath, he opened his eyes and focused on Napoleon. His dress shirt was plastered to his body, his face was ruddy, and perspiration dripped down his temples and neck. He was stroking Illya relentlessly now, faster and with more intent, thrusting his hips against the edge of the couch, frantic for his own release from the torment of his hyperactive state.

Illya sighed, feeling for his partner in his extremism, and took pity on him. He pulled Solo along the length of his body until they were face to face again. Napoleon scowled at him, flushed and disheveled, needy beyond words. Illya took his mouth in a wet and sloppy kiss, licking the drops of sweat from his stubbled cheeks and sideburns. Illya matched Solo's desire with his own aggression, telling his partner that he was a willing participant in their newfound game. Kuryakin snaked his hand between their bodies, undid the zip, and closed his fist around Solo's cock. His partner added his hand and Illya let him set the pace. Napoleon canted his hip a bit to the side to give them more room, and thrust into their circle of hands. Eyes squeezed tightly closed, Napoleon grunted, his entire being a knot of need. The drug still coursed through his system, the extended release of the adrenaline turning his desire to flashpoint. Solo was frantic for relief, keening softly against Illya's chest, “Please, please, please...”

Kuryakin caught Solo's head in his free hand again, kissed him once more, deeply, and then slid his mouth to the side and whispered in Solo's ear, “It's all right, Napoleon, you can let go. Come for me, lyubov, come for me.”

Illya's kiss, his soft words, the tenderness of his plea all worked to undo his partner. With a shudder, Napoleon's arm gripped Illya tighter as he buried his face in Illya's neck, groaning as his orgasm roared through him. Illya hugged the tense body to him, milking Solo's cock and feeling the strong pulses of semen splash onto his stomach and over their hands. His own orgasm caught him by surprise, the feel of the warm emission all it took to make him come as well.

Napoleon...” Illya cried out as his own spasms overtook him. He'd never come like this before, with no direct stimulation. Napoleon sealed Illya's mouth with his own and kissed him, their groans swallowed up as they both pulsed onto each other's bellies. Once spent, they broke apart and gasped their way back to an approximation of normal. Illya realized he was stroking Napoleon's hair while he recovered. He also realized he liked doing so. He tried raising his head, and lacked the energy required, so he let himself drift.

He was just this side of sleeping when he felt strong fingers working his wrinkled tie untied and tearing away the remnants of his wrecked shirt. He opened his eyes and saw Napoleon straddling his hips, bent on divesting them both of the rest of their bedraggled clothes. Moments later, Solo leaned over him, working the trousers down the sturdy legs of his partner. Illya didn't struggle, his post-coital lethargy trying to overwhelm him. He roused fully when a very naked and very aroused Napoleon lay full-length over him, stropping his sweaty body against the solid Russian beneath him. The blunt and heavy erection prodded into his abdomen and Illya groaned out loud.

“Napoleon, you've got to be kidding me!” Illya goggled at his partner's vigor.

Solo licked along his rib cage and bit him under his navel. “Illya, I've never been more serious.” His tongue worked its way down the fine trail of honey-colored hair that led south. “I might as well take advantage of the drugs in my bloodstream and do some good with them.” He hummed deep in his throat and sucked on Illya's hipbone.

“I'm well aware of the taking advantage part, Napoleon. Napoleon, what are you doing?”

Solo laved his way across the flat pelvis and sucked Illya's flaccid penis into his mouth.


Solo released the organ with an obscene slurp. “Are you praying again, Illya? Twice in one day—that has to be a record. Keep it up,” he waggled his eyebrows suggestively, “and I'll have to take you to mass with me next Sunday.”

Chort vozni,” Illya bellowed. “We're lying here fornicating, and you want to take me to church!”

Solo grinned. “Well, church is for sinners, Illya, and I plan on sinning in every way possible with you right now.”

Illya let his head fall back on the cushion, completely at sea. “Have you taken leave of your senses, Napoleon?”

The older agent laughed. “Well, that's the thing, isn't it, partner, mine. Plausible deniability. I'm under the influence of a powerful drug. I overpowered you...”

Illya raised his head and glowered at that.

“...due to your weakened condition from your harrowing escape from Thrush.”

“I take it back. You haven't taken leave. You've gone completely crazy!”

“Crazy like a fox, Illya.” With that, he lowered his head and once again took Illya in his mouth, nibbling and suckling the foreskin back and forth over the sensitive glans.

Yobt'v!” Illya looked down the length of his body and watched his cock disappear into Solo's busy mouth.

“Oh, I intend to, lover. Just not right away. The first time was rushed, frenzied, even. I lost control. But I'm better now. We're going to take it much, much slower this time. And the next.”

“The next...” Illya started to panic just a bit. “I'm trapped in a house with a sex maniac. I am armed, you know.”

Solo tipped his head in the direction of the pile of cast-off clothes. Illya's Special was somewhere near the bottom. “I'm much more interested in your gun at the moment, Illyusha.” He punctuated the statement with a sweeping lick up and down the hardening cock, and then cupped the fuzzed sac and took his time licking every inch.

Otlichno...” Illya groaned. He was running out of expletives.

“Methinks thou dost protest too much, Mr. Kuryakin.” The senior agent purred and then returned his attention to the hard organ, using his lips to pull back the foreskin while his tongue swabbed the slit and crown over and over.

Illya might have had misgivings about this whole affair, but his body was in complete agreement with Mr. Solo. Unconsciously, his hips began to undulate in concert with Solo's rhythm. Napoleon smiled around the hard flesh as he continued to pleasure the smaller man.

Illya's resolve began to weaken under the onslaught of Solo's talented tongue. “ can't...I can't...”

The warm lips pulled away with a pop. “There's no-no from your lips, but there's yes-yes from your cock.” Solo's skin was still flushed rose, still sweating heavily, his lips swollen from a combination of ERA-48 and his lusty attention to Illya's erection.

“Napoleon...” Illya's voice was softer now, his resolve fraying. It fragmented entirely when Solo deep-throated him, taking the cock deeply and completely into his mouth, alternately humming and swallowing repeatedly.

Illya squeezed his eyes shut, moaned from his toes and let Napoleon win. Helpless against the sensual assault battering his defenses, he surged upwards, nearly choking Solo on the upswing.

Napoleon was up to the task. He held Illya's hips down with his forearms and doubled the tempo of his incursion. He rewarded Illya's participation by stroking the soft skin of his abdomen while he gyrated beneath. He heard a desperate cry from above a second before Illya pulled him off his task, yanking the American up to face his lover. His turgid cock slid wetly against Illya's body as he was hauled north. He watched his partner, wondering which way he would run. Illya was panting, his own face flushed with desire and no small amount of shock. He stared back at Solo, seemingly deciding if he was in for a penny or a pound.

He took a deep breath, and said quietly, “You know two can play at this game, partner, mine.”

Napoleon hardly dared breathe, unsure of Illya's meaning. The next second, he had his lap full of a very agreeable and aggressive Soviet. They kissed, all reservations gone, giving and taking as lovers would. Each man explored the other's body, the newness of their lovemaking engulfing all their senses.

Illya broke away first, pushing at Napoleon's shoulders, urging him down on the couch. He began a slow reconnaissance of the Solo-scape before him, leaning forward to take the cleft chin in a slow and thorough mapping, kissing the hard pectoral muscles, nipping at the peaked nipples, traveling slowly, more slowly than Solo had the patience for. He growled at Illya, lifting his hips to prod at him with his hard cock, punctuating his point.

Illya waggled his finger at Solo's head, admonishing his impetuousness. “I thought you wanted to take it, 'slower, much slower,this time,' were, I believe, your exact words, Napoleone. Patience, dushka, patience.”

Solo settled back down with a sigh, and Illya rewarded him by taking his swollen member in hand, milking the thick cock slowly, taking its measure, enjoying the heft and feel of the taut silky skin. Solo was large, larger than most men he'd seen, and he had a few moments of misgiving about taking him. He settled on sucking the wine-red helmet into his mouth, the exquisitely sensitive nerve-endings there enough to give Solo a white-hot jolt of pleasure. He cried out at the sudden sensation and squirmed underneath Illya, trying to force his cock deeper into the bliss.

Grateful for his sexual tactics training, Illya relaxed his throat muscles and took the fevered flesh deeper, laving every millimeter as it slid into his mouth. The feel and smell of Solo's musky maleness caused his mouth to water, and Illya used the lubrication to ease his up and down motion on Napoleon's shaft. Saliva dribbled down his chin and onto Solo's scrotum, and he caressed the heavy balls one at a time. He heard a choked cry and opened his eyes, looking along the prone figure of his partner.

Solo panted, his body rigid as he concentrated on the intense pleasure spiraling out of his crotch. His eyes were screwed shut, and his open mouth tried to suck in much needed oxygen. Illya thought he was beautiful. He stopped his oral assault just to look at his partner.

Napoleon felt the loss of suction and rose up on his elbows to see Illya smiling at him. The blue eyes were full of joy, or mischief; Solo couldn't be sure. But the crooked grin plastered to Kuryakin's pouty lips told the truth. He was enjoying every second of Solo's seduction. Illya pointedly ran his tongue around his lips, swallowing the vestiges of Napoleon essence.

The dark-haired man moaned, the eroticism of that act getting to his nervous system as much as the fellatio itself. He pulled Illya to him, kissed him breathless and then turned on his side, snugged his body against the back of the couch, urging Illya to turn around and let him return the favor.

Heart hammering, Illya again took Solo in hand and made love to him. He felt Solo's body jerk and then his cock was engulfed by a wet warm mouth. Everything else grayed out and Illya lost himself in loving the man beside him. Everything about this act, the closeness, the feel, the smell, the way he felt the electric shocks running through their nervous systems, looping and repeating and completing their circuit of flesh, made him more resolved to give his partner everything he had. And by the way Napoleon was assailing him, alternately rimming the tip and then swallowing the entire length of his cock, the feeling was mutual.

Sweat ran down Illya's head, dripping off his back as their lovemaking peaked to an approaching obliteration. Solo was moaning around his mouthful of cock, and Illya was just trying to hold out. He felt his lover's balls contract in his hand, and he sucked harder, wanted to give as good as he got. The first jet of semen hit the back of his throat and he almost gagged at the intensity, but he bore down and took Solo even deeper, milking his climax as it roared out of him. He couldn't taste Solo, his cock being buried too deeply, but he could feel the contractions of the cockhead as each pulse streamed out. The eroticism of taking his partner's come was too much, and Illya thrust into Solo hard, once, twice, three times, and whimpered around Solo's shaft as he came, shooting off into Solo's waiting mouth.

He felt Solo licking his crown, his fist working the root as Illya pulsed, not as deeply embedded, so as to give Napoleon the pleasure of tasting his essence before swallowing it down.

Kuryakin had to release Solo's organ to breath. He rubbed his cheeks against the still-hard flesh, not wanting the closeness to be over so soon. He heard Napoleon breathing like a bellows and smiled, knowing that they were both completely spent. When he could move, he crawled down to Napoleon's end, and brushed the sweaty forelock back from his forehead. He licked his own semen from Solo's chin, the cleft deep enough to catch it, held it on his tongue and kissed Solo, sharing the essence with him once again. Solo eagerly accepted it, and sucked it into his mouth, swallowing it and Illya's tongue for good measure. Illya then rested his head on Napoleon's chest, running his fingers across the sweaty rivulets dripping down to the couch below. He lazily licked the trails he could reach, and then sighed and closed his eyes.

He was about to drop off, when he felt Solo shaking his shoulder. “Schto?” he asked groggily.

“Well, don't go to sleep yet, partner, mine.”

“Why ever not, Napoleon?”

“Don't you remember my promise to you?”

Illya sighed. “I'm tired, Napoleon. What promise?”

Solo grinned. “The one I made about 'going to take it much, much slower this time. And the next,' I believe my exact words were.”

It took a second for the words to sink into Illya's frazzled mind. He stared in horror at his partner.

“Yes, lover. It's time for round three.” He waggled his eyebrows at the Russian.

As the deadly enforcement agent stalked across his junior partner's body, Illya only had time to say, “You're going to kill aren't going to stop until I'm dead...”

Solo laughed out loud at Illya's expression. “Only 'the little death,' Illya. Only that,” and proceeded to bring Illya back to life.

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