The Iron Curtain Affair: Act 1
The Iron Curtain Affair
-a Man from UNCLE slash fanfic by Taylor Dancinghands
Pairing: Napoleon Solo/Illya Kuryakin; Characters: Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin
Genre: slash, h/c, BDSM, A/U: Sentinels and Guides, Sentinels are a known institution
Warnings: explicit m/m sex
Rating: Mature/PG 17
Chapter Index
Prologue: A Very dangerous game...
Act 1: Why did it have to be you?
Act 2: I won't start anything if you don't.
Act 3: Good Morning sisters!
Act 4: They call him... KIng of Šumava.
Epilogue: ...unfinished business.
Act 1: "Why did it have to be you?"
"I beg your pardon?" he replied, still playing dumb.
"You're apparently quite the rising star in UNCLE," Angelique continued. "Imagine what they'll say when it comes out that you threw over the traces for a beautiful Thrush Sentinel? I wouldn't be surprised if it sets 'Guides Rights' back a hundred years." She laughed as she said it, even as she reached out to brush Napoleon's cheek with a prettily manicured nail.
The touch sent a chill down Napoleon's spine, all the more because he felt the allure as well. He'd taken a risk, letting himself open up just enough that Angelique had truly believed he wanted to be her Guide when he'd flirted with her. It left him vulnerable now, no matter the revulsion he felt at her touch, and at the very idea that he'd lend his considerable talents to Thrush's evil goals. He jerked back from that touch, and let her see a glimpse of his disgust before shutting their faint connection down, hard.
Alas, he was restrained in his desire to move away by the thug standing at his shoulder, and a second later Angelique had grabbed hold of his chin, her nails cutting like claws. "You'll be mine," she hissed. "And you'll do my bidding. Guides have no right to refuse a Sentinel in Thrush, as it should be."
Now Napoleon began to feel a real dread, for he knew, as well as any Guide, what means might be used to force a Guide to accept a Sentinel who'd 'won' them. One of those means was now in the hands of the thug standing next to Napoleon-a metal mesh collar attached to a power source capable of delivering a painful, or even lethal electric shock if the Guide wandered too far from his Sentinel. In the old days they'd been connected by a cable to a belt worn by the Sentinel, but nowadays they were radio controlled, with an automatic proximity sensor.
There was no question in Napoleon's mind that he'd rather die than submit to such a fate. Modern scientists generally agreed that a Guide couldn't actually be forced to make a bond with an unsuitable Sentinel, but such means as a 'bonding collar' could break a Guide, psychologically, making him easily subjected to brainwashing. Careful not to telegraph his moves, Napoleon prepared to make a grab for the thug's gun. The move was far more likely to result in his being killed than in gaining his freedom, but at the moment, Napoleon was calling that an acceptable outcome.
Napoleon was on the very cusp of his desperate lunge into action when, without warning, there came a splintering crash at the door. It came with such force and suddenness that one of the two goons standing there was down and out by the time he or anyone else figured out what had happened. While Napoleon was keenly interested in knowing who had caused this disruption and why, he also saw a fleeting opportunity to make his gun grabbing move with a much higher chance of success.
Napoleon lunged, just as the thug made his own move to draw his gun and shoot at the intruder. The result was that the gun was knocked out of the thug's grasp and sent skittering across the floor, just as the intruder was putting the second door guard's head through the plate glass window at the front of the cafe. Hands free, the intruder now drew his own gun, and that was when Napoleon recognized him.
There is a certain spareness of style which Napoleon had long come to recognize in agents trained by the KGB. This was what he noticed before he caught the blonde hair or the broad, Slavic cheekbones, but taken all together, they clearly made this surprise rescuer to be Agent Illya Kuryakin, who he'd only just met this afternoon. Before Napoleon even had time to wonder what bizarre coincidence had resulted in Kuryakin's being here, at this particular moment, however, the Sentinel looked out across the room, his eyes finding Napoleons' and locking them into his gaze.
It was like being struck by lightning, or burned by cold fire. The cold fire was in Kuryakin's icy blue gaze, and the bolt that struck was the sudden and irrefutable knowledge that this man was his Sentinel and Napoleon was his Guide. It took the wind out of him, like a body blow, and left both Napoleon and Kuryakin paralyzed for a split second. In that second Napoleon heard Angelique scream in denial, saw her pick up the collar that her thug had dropped, and lunge toward Napoleon.
Wrenching himself into motion, Napoleon threw himself sideways, away from the frustrated Thrush Sentinel, and heard the crack of a bullet striking the collar's power supply. A bright, scorching flash signalled its demise as Napoleon made a grab for the previously dropped gun, still on the floor not far from where he'd landed. Angelique's thug leapt after him, and the two of them grappled for it on the floor.
Even as he struggled to keep his larger and stronger opponent from getting him in a chokehold, Napoleon became aware, somehow, that Kuryakin was covering them, and that if he managed to put a little distance between himself and his opponent, the Sentinel would take him out. Abandoning the gun, Napoleon got a knee into the thug's crotch and then rolled away. A split second later Kuryakin's gun spoke and the thug fell still, an UNCLE sleep dart square in his solar plexus.
Glancing around the shambles of the cafe, Napoleon saw that he and Kuryakin were now alone, save for the unmoving bodies of four or five Thrush goons. Angelique, it seemed, had chosen discretion as the better part of valor. Napoleon rose and dusted himself off, seeing as the coast was clear, but he was no sooner upright than Kuryakin was before him, a grabbing his lapels and jerking him forward to meet him eye to eye.
"You!" he exclaimed, breath harsh in Napoleon's face. "Of all people, why did it have to be you?"
Napoleon was not certain how he would have answered, but he was not given a chance, for the next moment Kuryakin's lips were on his and all the adrenaline of the preceding firefight poured into a searing kiss. Time all but stopped as the two agents, now Sentinel and Guide, stood surrounded by shattered and overturned tables and chairs and shards of the broken front window, and sought to devour one another with passion. It was Napoleon who came up for air first, grabbing his Sentinel by the shoulders to hold him back.
"Communicator," Napoleon said, rough voiced. "You have one?"
He did, though Napoleon had to take it out of his hands once he'd retrieved it from his jacket pocket, as all Kuryakin wanted to do was press his face against Napoleon's bare skin.
"We're going to need a mop up team at, em…" Napoleon began once he'd contacted UNCLE Munich headquarters, prodding Kuryakin to give him the address. "And Agent Kuryakin and myself are going to need a day or two of uninterrupted privacy. Maybe a spare safe house somewhere nearby?"
There was a pause at this request, then, "Are you saying that… you and Agent Kuryakin are… have just…?"
"Agent Kuryakin is no longer an unbonded Sentinel, and I am no longer an unbonded Guide, yes sir," Napoleon answered, one-handedly fending his Sentinel off as he tried to open Napoleon's shirt.
Various clicks and hisses from the communicator told Napoleon that his call was being transferred, and then another voice, one he recognized as belonging to UNCLE Munich's Chief of Operations, Agent Altergott. He began by asking for the agent to whom the communicator was assigned.
"This is Agent Solo, sir. I'm afraid Agent Kuryakin is a little… distracted at the moment," Napoleon answered. "We could really use that private time, and the sooner the better."
"Understood, Agent Solo," Altergott answered. "We're assigning you to a safehouse around half a mile from your location." He gave an address which Napoleon repeated to Kuryakin, who seemed to know, more or less, where it was.
"Consider yourself on leave till you're ready to recommence your duties," Altergott continued. "We can send Agent Blanding with the Czechs, and you'll be rejoin Agent Fischer on the west side of the border whenever you can. Luckily for you, she's a certified trainer for UNCLE Sentinel and Guide pairs, so you'll be able to carry out your mission while undergoing the training."
Napoleon concurred that it was lucky, even as he wondered what this training might consist of, then Altergott congratulated them and signed off. Napoleon handed the communicator back to his Sentinel and suggested they head directly to the safehouse. Kuryakin seemed not to have understood.
"You must stop speaking," he said, sounding dazed and still nuzzling Napoleon's throat where his shirt collar was partially undone. "Your voice… I cannot think when you speak like that…"
"Sentinel!" Napoleon stated firmly, calling on the distant memory of the Guide training he'd gotten in his youth. "Your Guide needs you to take him to the nearest safehouse. You know where it is?"
"Yes… yes," Kuryakin said, struggling to pull himself together. "I know… Follow me."
It was not so much a matter of following, as Kuryakin grabbed hold of Napoleon's hand and towed him along behind as he went. They began at a brisk walk, but had accelerated to a steady trot by the time they stood in a narrow alley, in front of a scuffed and peeling-paint covered door with the window boarded up. Standing before it and breathing hard, Kuryakin seemed on the verge of a zone-out, until Napoleon reminded him, "Key."
He shook himself, throwing an almost incredulous glance back at Napoleon, then walked a few steps further back into the alley, where a piece of conduit tacked to the brick wall joined another. Kuryakin retrieved the key from a false face on the side of the juncture box and returned to open the door. Upon entering and descending a short flight of stairs, it became apparent to Napoleon that the space had originally been used for coal storage, and a disconnected furnace still took up large corner of the room. A fine layer of black dust remained on every wall and surface, but there was also a bed in the adjacent corner, a counter opposite, with a hotplate and cupboards (hopefully containing a few staples) above, a table with 3 chairs and a washroom, where a sink and a flush toilet (thankfully) were visible.
Standing at the bottom of the stairs, Napoleon also noted a wooden chest at the foot of the bed which might contain bedding, but he was not given a chance to investigate. Seizing him by the shoulders, Kuryakin… Illya… his Sentinel, pushed Napoleon back towards the bed, stripping his jacket away even as they crossed the short distance from the entrance. For all of three seconds Napoleon had in mind to resist, balking at the idea of laying on the much stained, bare mattress, then Illya was on top of him, shirtless somehow, and kissing his way over every inch of Napoleon's skin, and nothing else mattered.
Wantonly, Napoleon threw his mind open, baring his soul even as he helped Illya bare their bodies. Since his early adolescence, Napoleon had been protecting himself with layers of carefully constructed psychic walls and mental boundaries as a matter of survival. The stronger the Guide, the more necessary those walls, and Napoleon was lucky that his family was easily able to pay their son's tuition at the exclusive Santa Lucia Academy for Guides and Sentinels. In the old days, Guides at the school weren't given any special education for their needs, but merely kept on the campus for the availability of the young Sentinels being trained there.
In Napoleon's day they were at least given instruction on how to manage their empathic abilities, and how to assist their Sentinels, but they were also still trained to submit to any Sentinel who showed interest in them. Napoleon's family fancied themselves politically progressive, however, and encouraged their highly rated Guide son to make his own choices in life. There'd been days that Napoleon wondered whether he'd been too choosey, spoiled into thinking that the 'perfect' Sentinel would come along if only he waited long enough. All those doubts now vanished like a puff of smoke. Napoleon could no more 'choose' to open his mind to his Sentinel than he 'chose' to be thirsty after a day of toiling under the sun.
For it was as if he were thirsty, insatiably so, for the overwhelming and tumultuous presence of his Sentinel. Fearless in his vulnerability, Napoleon welcomed the presence into him, finding that it did not overwhelm, but fit into him like a long missing piece. Indeed, Illya seemed to be physically trying to crawl into Napoleon's skin, having shed his own clothes and done away with most of Napoleon's. As insatiable as Napoleon had been, Illya seemed to want to immerse himself in his Guide, smelling and tasting over every surface of his body, pressing as much of his own skin as he could against Napoleon's.
"What… what is happening?" Illya moaned. "I can't stop… why can't I… ? I want you… I can't stop wanting you.."
"Illya…" Napoleon replied, reaching out to hold Illya's head in his hands, kissing his face as he spoke. "You're my Sentinel. I'm your Guide. This is what we do…"
With what had to have been tremendous control, Illya now drew himself up, seizing Napoleon's hands in both of his to keep them both connected and yet at a distance. "They told me…" he said with great effort, "that I would not need a Guide. My control, my discipline was strong enough, they said. I was able to stop myself from… sensory distraction, you would say, 'zone out'..."
Napoleon drew in an astonished breath. "You control your own zone outs?" Illya nodded.
"Some few of us, Sentinels, are strong enough. We were all told this. Such Sentinels are prized in the KGB… They say we are better without…" Illya bowed his head, breathing hard with the effort of holding himself back.
"Jesus, Illya," Napoleon breathed, disentangling one hand to reach out and touch his Sentinel's face. A faint moan escaped him at the contact. "Well, you've got a Guide now, Agent Kuryakin. All we can do is let nature take its course, and honestly, we can have a good time if you'll just let it."
With something like a whimper, Illya gave up his restraint and propelled himself into Napoleon's arms, burrowing his face into the crook of his Guide's neck. "Just tell me..." he said, voice muffled. "Tell me this madness will pass."
"Of course," Napoleon said, soothing, as he had been trained. "There couldn't be Sentinel and Guide pairs working in the field for UNCLE if it didn't. The urge to rut like weasels will fade after 48 hours or so, and then we'll have a couple of weeks with Agent Fisher to help us sort out our new skill sets."
"I want…" Illya said, now kissing and tasting his way down Napoleon's torso. "I want… things I have never wanted before."
"Oh, trust me, Sentinel mine," Napoleon said, lifting his head to taste for himself, the smooth skin of Illya's chest, the hardening nubs of his nipples. "I want the very same things. You won't hurt me; you can't. Go ahead and take what you want."
Illya gave a gasping cry as he felt Napoleon's teeth on him, then surged up to smother his Guide with another searing kiss. Arousal seized Napoleon's limbs so that he was unable not to wrap his legs around his Sentinel, not to thrust his hips, his hardening sex against Illya's. The same impulse seemed to have consumed Illya, so that his body moved likewise, arms and legs contesting for mastery, his own cock grinding against Napoleon's. Napoleon cried out his Sentinel's name, finding older, deeper barricades within himself and releasing them, throwing himself open to his core.
It was when he felt Illya's presence touch him there, in the very center of him, that Napoleon's physical release came. Back arching, fingers clutching, head tilted back to release open throated cries of ecstasy, Napoleon felt the climax tear through him, and felt Illya's, following like an echo. Illya sobbed out out his rapture as Napoleon felt his own seed and his Sentinel's mix, warm and slick where they thrust against each other.
Napoleon immersed himself in the momentary lassitude which followed, even if it included the warm weight of his all but insensate partner above him. He knew it would not last. Moreover, it was not the weight on top of him, but the considerable presence of his Sentinel within his psyche that was uppermost in Napoleon's mind. Napoleon would never be alone again, until the day his Sentinel died, and that day might well bring a sort of death for Napoleon as well. Illya would find himself similarly afflicted, if the situation were reversed.
Bonded Sentinels and Guides did not tend to outlive each other by much, and that was one reason that those who were not bonded often thought they were better off. Even now, however, with the intrusion of his Sentinel into his mind new and strange, Napoleon knew he would never regret this… completion of himself. He didn't think Illya would regret it either, once he'd come to terms with it all, but it seemed that his superiors in the KGB had left him entirely unprepared for the possibility. Napoleon had a few things he'd like to say to those responsible… some other time. For now, he wondered if he might prod Illya into rolling aside so that he could procure some kind of bedding before they started going at it again.
Perhaps it was Napoleon's prodding at their new bond, or perhaps it was just Illya's well honed survival skills that impelled him to shift his weight off Napoleon. He raised his head when Napoleon slipped off the bed, watching him as though Napoleon might make a break for it, as he opened the chest and took out one neatly folded set of fairly clean sheets and a blanket. Apparently satisfied, Illya now rose, giving Napoleon room to work, while he padded, naked but for his socks, to the cupboards, where he found a chipped enamel mug, and then to the washroom, where he filled it with water from the sink.
Napoleon heard him drink and then refill it, feeling Illya's thirst slaked even as other urges began to build once again. Napoleon made short work of making up the bed and was just finishing up when Illya returned with water for Napoleon. He was erect again and flushed with arousal, but waited patiently for Napoleon to drink.
"I knew you were thirsty," Illya said, puzzling over it.
Napoleon finished the refreshingly cold, if irony, water in his cup then leaned forward to kiss Illya on the cheek. "And I know what you're thirsty for now," he whispered wickedly into his Sentinel's ear.
"You," Illya murmured, grabbing the cup from Napoleon's hand and casting it carelessly aside as he seized Napoleon's face to ravish him with a kiss. "Everything about you: your taste, your smell…" Now his began to back Napoleon toward the bed again and Napoleon let him take control, clinging to his Sentinel so their kiss went uninterrupted as he was pushed onto the bed.
"The feel of your skin," Illya continued once Napoleon was prone under him. "The sound of your voice… your heartbeat. I want all these things. They're mine; you are mine."
"Yes!" Napoleon cried as Illya kissed his way down Napoleon's body. "You have me, all of me; take whatever you want."
Napoleon doubted that Illya had ever had sex with a man before, and he had a feeling that the Soviets' prohibition against 'gomoseksualizm' was partially behind their encouragement of Sentinels managing without Guides. Nonetheless, there was no hesitation in Illya's approach to Napoleon's eager and upright cock. He took his time inhaling the very essence of Napoleon's arousal at the base of his cock and balls. Then he was tasting, lips and tongue caressing Napoleon's most secret places and Napoleon writhed helplessly on the bed, wordless cries making their way from his throat with no volition of his own.
The sound he made when Illya's mouth finally came to encompass his sex was unlike any sound Napoleon had ever heard himself make. It wasn't that he'd never had a man's mouth on him before, but the reverberation of pleasure between him and his Sentinel was entirely novel, and just a bit earthshaking. He could not stop his hips thrusting up, but Illya did, strong hands on Napoleon's hips pinning him to the bed. Furthermore, Napoleon could feel Illya's sense of mastery, the arousal that sprang from his control of his Guide and was compelled to thrust harder against that restraint, knowing how it would thrill him.
Illya's grasp only tightened, and Napoleon wondered if Illya felt, in turn, how he loved the strength that held him, how it made him feel safe. There was no artistry to Illya's consuming of Napoleon's cock, but that just made it all the hotter. He clutched at Illya's hair, fingers tightening among the silken strands as his climax neared, and Illya just took him deeper, sucking him down to the root. At that, Napoleon came ferociously, bucking under his Sentinel's grasp and tearing hair. Neither of them cared.
Gently, Illya disentangled Napoleon's fingers from his hair so that he could sit back, and Napoleon thought he actually saw fondness on his Sentinel's face as he regarded his Guide, spent and basking in the fading ripples of his climax. Or perhaps it was anticipation. Even in his post-coital state, Napoleon felt his Sentinel's smoldering desire, and knew what he wanted. Napoleon had possibly never wanted anything so much as he wanted Illya to fuck him right now, but that meant…
"We need… something," Illya said, frowning because he really hadn't ever even imagined doing this before and knew he needed Napoleon's guidance.
"In the cupboards," Napoleon managed. "Crisco… ah, shortening… vegetable oil.." There wouldn't be butter, which Napoleon had used once in a pinch, but what else might do? He felt Illya leave the bed and gazed through shuttered eyes at his rather shapely buttocks as he rummaged through the cupboards.
"Olive oil will do, yes?" he said seizing on something.
"Oh hell yes," said Napoleon, feeling his cock actually stir again at the prospect. Illya poured a small measure of oil into his cupped hand, then recapped the bottle and set it on the bedding chest. Coming to kneel on the bed again, he saw Napoleon's readiness, thighs parted, and recently spent cock already firming up again.
"You… want this," he said, half surprised, half aroused.
"Oh, hell yes," Napoleon repeated.
"I want… but I am not sure," Illya said, dipping a couple of fingers in the oil and tracing them around the edge of Napoleon's opening. Napoleon gasped in pleasure.
"Just… follow your instincts," he said, unsteadily. "I want what you want. Trust me." Their eyes met as he said this last, and their minds met in that moment too. He felt Illya understand, at last, how their bond worked, saw the realization in his eyes that they were, at that moment, literally of one mind. Fearlessly, Illya pressed his two fingers into Napoleon's opening, even as he leaned over him to kiss him.
Consumed with longing, Napoleon surged up into the kiss, driven half mad with anticipation as he heard the slick sounds of Illya working the rest of the oil over his cock. He thrust against Illya's penetrating fingers, crying out, "Yes!" when he felt a third join them. He knew what he wanted, what he needed, and so Illya knew as well. The fingers worked into him, pressing deep and stretching, only to withdraw again, leaving him bereft. He only realized he was begging once the words had left his mouth. Illya stopped his pleas with another kiss.
"I'll give you what you need," he murmured against Napoleon's lips. "But I won't hurt you. I'll take you when you're ready; then I'll fill you so full…"
"Please!" Napoleon could not stop the words, nor his hips thrusting, nor his hands clutching at the bedding.
"Soon, now, Guide," Illya promised, kissing and nipping his way over Napoleon's skin. "Very… very soon…" Illya's voice was shaking, for all his pretense of control, and his hands, parting Napoleon's thighs, were less than steady.
Napoleon held still now, for he felt what he could not see, that Illya was positioning his cock, and a moment later he felt it press against his entrance. With panting breaths he felt himself stretched, moaning through the frisson of fear he felt at being penetrated. Then there was the thing he'd desired, the sensation of someone moving inside of him, touching deep within him, just as Illya's presence lived inside his mind now.
"Yes!" Napoleon cried, and heard Illya's cry in unison with his. He laughed, even as he arched his back to take his Sentinel deeper. This was everything he had hoped for and despaired of ever finding. This was what he was meant for, what he had trained all his life for, and worth every day of waiting. Illya seemed lost in the rhythm of his own thrusting, craving more, wanting to move faster, plunge himself deeper. Napoleon wanted nothing less.
Time seemed to slip away from them both, this moment of pleasure taking and giving having neither a beginning nor an end. This was their core, their eternal moment, which would live within each of them as long as they both lived. This was the focal point from which Napoleon would draw his strength as he supported his Sentinel, and the place to which Illya could retreat when his senses became too much.
Even as he felt this truth settle into his heart, Napoleon also felt the tremors moving through his body that signalled an approaching climax. He shouted as he felt himself swept away towards his conclusion, propelled forward with every thrust of Illya's cock into his body. "Illya!" he cried. "My Illya, yes, yes, yes…!"
Molten pleasure coursed through him as Napoleon shouted wordlessly, felt his body contracting around Illya's cock as it continued to thrust. But now Illya's hands on his hips tightened, a sudden profanity escaping him as his whole body seemed to be trying to drive itself into Napoleon's. Illya cried out his Guide's name, long and loud, as if in agony, but Napoleon felt the ecstasy of orgasm echo through him, like an aftershock of his own.
Illya's hips continued to stutter and thrust for several moments as Illya's climax faded. He collapsed beside Napoleon at last, breath sobbing in his throat as he lifted a shaky hand to rest on Napoleon's face.
"My Guide," he said, pale blue eyes wide with wonder.
"My Sentinel," Napoleon whispered, pressing Illya's fingers to his lips. He closed his eyes then, feeling the bond warm and pulsing between them, and discovering a comfort of a sort he never could have imagined. The comfort curled over him like a blanket, and Napoleon fell asleep without even realizing it.
~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~
Act 2: "I won't start anything if you don't."
-a Man from UNCLE slash fanfic by Taylor Dancinghands
Pairing: Napoleon Solo/Illya Kuryakin; Characters: Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin
Genre: slash, h/c, BDSM, A/U: Sentinels and Guides, Sentinels are a known institution
Warnings: explicit m/m sex
Rating: Mature/PG 17
Chapter Index
Prologue: A Very dangerous game...
Act 1: Why did it have to be you?
Act 2: I won't start anything if you don't.
Act 3: Good Morning sisters!
Act 4: They call him... KIng of Šumava.
Epilogue: ...unfinished business.
Act 1: "Why did it have to be you?"
"I beg your pardon?" he replied, still playing dumb.
"You're apparently quite the rising star in UNCLE," Angelique continued. "Imagine what they'll say when it comes out that you threw over the traces for a beautiful Thrush Sentinel? I wouldn't be surprised if it sets 'Guides Rights' back a hundred years." She laughed as she said it, even as she reached out to brush Napoleon's cheek with a prettily manicured nail.
The touch sent a chill down Napoleon's spine, all the more because he felt the allure as well. He'd taken a risk, letting himself open up just enough that Angelique had truly believed he wanted to be her Guide when he'd flirted with her. It left him vulnerable now, no matter the revulsion he felt at her touch, and at the very idea that he'd lend his considerable talents to Thrush's evil goals. He jerked back from that touch, and let her see a glimpse of his disgust before shutting their faint connection down, hard.
Alas, he was restrained in his desire to move away by the thug standing at his shoulder, and a second later Angelique had grabbed hold of his chin, her nails cutting like claws. "You'll be mine," she hissed. "And you'll do my bidding. Guides have no right to refuse a Sentinel in Thrush, as it should be."
Now Napoleon began to feel a real dread, for he knew, as well as any Guide, what means might be used to force a Guide to accept a Sentinel who'd 'won' them. One of those means was now in the hands of the thug standing next to Napoleon-a metal mesh collar attached to a power source capable of delivering a painful, or even lethal electric shock if the Guide wandered too far from his Sentinel. In the old days they'd been connected by a cable to a belt worn by the Sentinel, but nowadays they were radio controlled, with an automatic proximity sensor.
There was no question in Napoleon's mind that he'd rather die than submit to such a fate. Modern scientists generally agreed that a Guide couldn't actually be forced to make a bond with an unsuitable Sentinel, but such means as a 'bonding collar' could break a Guide, psychologically, making him easily subjected to brainwashing. Careful not to telegraph his moves, Napoleon prepared to make a grab for the thug's gun. The move was far more likely to result in his being killed than in gaining his freedom, but at the moment, Napoleon was calling that an acceptable outcome.
Napoleon was on the very cusp of his desperate lunge into action when, without warning, there came a splintering crash at the door. It came with such force and suddenness that one of the two goons standing there was down and out by the time he or anyone else figured out what had happened. While Napoleon was keenly interested in knowing who had caused this disruption and why, he also saw a fleeting opportunity to make his gun grabbing move with a much higher chance of success.
Napoleon lunged, just as the thug made his own move to draw his gun and shoot at the intruder. The result was that the gun was knocked out of the thug's grasp and sent skittering across the floor, just as the intruder was putting the second door guard's head through the plate glass window at the front of the cafe. Hands free, the intruder now drew his own gun, and that was when Napoleon recognized him.
There is a certain spareness of style which Napoleon had long come to recognize in agents trained by the KGB. This was what he noticed before he caught the blonde hair or the broad, Slavic cheekbones, but taken all together, they clearly made this surprise rescuer to be Agent Illya Kuryakin, who he'd only just met this afternoon. Before Napoleon even had time to wonder what bizarre coincidence had resulted in Kuryakin's being here, at this particular moment, however, the Sentinel looked out across the room, his eyes finding Napoleons' and locking them into his gaze.
It was like being struck by lightning, or burned by cold fire. The cold fire was in Kuryakin's icy blue gaze, and the bolt that struck was the sudden and irrefutable knowledge that this man was his Sentinel and Napoleon was his Guide. It took the wind out of him, like a body blow, and left both Napoleon and Kuryakin paralyzed for a split second. In that second Napoleon heard Angelique scream in denial, saw her pick up the collar that her thug had dropped, and lunge toward Napoleon.
Wrenching himself into motion, Napoleon threw himself sideways, away from the frustrated Thrush Sentinel, and heard the crack of a bullet striking the collar's power supply. A bright, scorching flash signalled its demise as Napoleon made a grab for the previously dropped gun, still on the floor not far from where he'd landed. Angelique's thug leapt after him, and the two of them grappled for it on the floor.
Even as he struggled to keep his larger and stronger opponent from getting him in a chokehold, Napoleon became aware, somehow, that Kuryakin was covering them, and that if he managed to put a little distance between himself and his opponent, the Sentinel would take him out. Abandoning the gun, Napoleon got a knee into the thug's crotch and then rolled away. A split second later Kuryakin's gun spoke and the thug fell still, an UNCLE sleep dart square in his solar plexus.
Glancing around the shambles of the cafe, Napoleon saw that he and Kuryakin were now alone, save for the unmoving bodies of four or five Thrush goons. Angelique, it seemed, had chosen discretion as the better part of valor. Napoleon rose and dusted himself off, seeing as the coast was clear, but he was no sooner upright than Kuryakin was before him, a grabbing his lapels and jerking him forward to meet him eye to eye.
"You!" he exclaimed, breath harsh in Napoleon's face. "Of all people, why did it have to be you?"
Napoleon was not certain how he would have answered, but he was not given a chance, for the next moment Kuryakin's lips were on his and all the adrenaline of the preceding firefight poured into a searing kiss. Time all but stopped as the two agents, now Sentinel and Guide, stood surrounded by shattered and overturned tables and chairs and shards of the broken front window, and sought to devour one another with passion. It was Napoleon who came up for air first, grabbing his Sentinel by the shoulders to hold him back.
"Communicator," Napoleon said, rough voiced. "You have one?"
He did, though Napoleon had to take it out of his hands once he'd retrieved it from his jacket pocket, as all Kuryakin wanted to do was press his face against Napoleon's bare skin.
"We're going to need a mop up team at, em…" Napoleon began once he'd contacted UNCLE Munich headquarters, prodding Kuryakin to give him the address. "And Agent Kuryakin and myself are going to need a day or two of uninterrupted privacy. Maybe a spare safe house somewhere nearby?"
There was a pause at this request, then, "Are you saying that… you and Agent Kuryakin are… have just…?"
"Agent Kuryakin is no longer an unbonded Sentinel, and I am no longer an unbonded Guide, yes sir," Napoleon answered, one-handedly fending his Sentinel off as he tried to open Napoleon's shirt.
Various clicks and hisses from the communicator told Napoleon that his call was being transferred, and then another voice, one he recognized as belonging to UNCLE Munich's Chief of Operations, Agent Altergott. He began by asking for the agent to whom the communicator was assigned.
"This is Agent Solo, sir. I'm afraid Agent Kuryakin is a little… distracted at the moment," Napoleon answered. "We could really use that private time, and the sooner the better."
"Understood, Agent Solo," Altergott answered. "We're assigning you to a safehouse around half a mile from your location." He gave an address which Napoleon repeated to Kuryakin, who seemed to know, more or less, where it was.
"Consider yourself on leave till you're ready to recommence your duties," Altergott continued. "We can send Agent Blanding with the Czechs, and you'll be rejoin Agent Fischer on the west side of the border whenever you can. Luckily for you, she's a certified trainer for UNCLE Sentinel and Guide pairs, so you'll be able to carry out your mission while undergoing the training."
Napoleon concurred that it was lucky, even as he wondered what this training might consist of, then Altergott congratulated them and signed off. Napoleon handed the communicator back to his Sentinel and suggested they head directly to the safehouse. Kuryakin seemed not to have understood.
"You must stop speaking," he said, sounding dazed and still nuzzling Napoleon's throat where his shirt collar was partially undone. "Your voice… I cannot think when you speak like that…"
"Sentinel!" Napoleon stated firmly, calling on the distant memory of the Guide training he'd gotten in his youth. "Your Guide needs you to take him to the nearest safehouse. You know where it is?"
"Yes… yes," Kuryakin said, struggling to pull himself together. "I know… Follow me."
It was not so much a matter of following, as Kuryakin grabbed hold of Napoleon's hand and towed him along behind as he went. They began at a brisk walk, but had accelerated to a steady trot by the time they stood in a narrow alley, in front of a scuffed and peeling-paint covered door with the window boarded up. Standing before it and breathing hard, Kuryakin seemed on the verge of a zone-out, until Napoleon reminded him, "Key."
He shook himself, throwing an almost incredulous glance back at Napoleon, then walked a few steps further back into the alley, where a piece of conduit tacked to the brick wall joined another. Kuryakin retrieved the key from a false face on the side of the juncture box and returned to open the door. Upon entering and descending a short flight of stairs, it became apparent to Napoleon that the space had originally been used for coal storage, and a disconnected furnace still took up large corner of the room. A fine layer of black dust remained on every wall and surface, but there was also a bed in the adjacent corner, a counter opposite, with a hotplate and cupboards (hopefully containing a few staples) above, a table with 3 chairs and a washroom, where a sink and a flush toilet (thankfully) were visible.
Standing at the bottom of the stairs, Napoleon also noted a wooden chest at the foot of the bed which might contain bedding, but he was not given a chance to investigate. Seizing him by the shoulders, Kuryakin… Illya… his Sentinel, pushed Napoleon back towards the bed, stripping his jacket away even as they crossed the short distance from the entrance. For all of three seconds Napoleon had in mind to resist, balking at the idea of laying on the much stained, bare mattress, then Illya was on top of him, shirtless somehow, and kissing his way over every inch of Napoleon's skin, and nothing else mattered.
Wantonly, Napoleon threw his mind open, baring his soul even as he helped Illya bare their bodies. Since his early adolescence, Napoleon had been protecting himself with layers of carefully constructed psychic walls and mental boundaries as a matter of survival. The stronger the Guide, the more necessary those walls, and Napoleon was lucky that his family was easily able to pay their son's tuition at the exclusive Santa Lucia Academy for Guides and Sentinels. In the old days, Guides at the school weren't given any special education for their needs, but merely kept on the campus for the availability of the young Sentinels being trained there.
In Napoleon's day they were at least given instruction on how to manage their empathic abilities, and how to assist their Sentinels, but they were also still trained to submit to any Sentinel who showed interest in them. Napoleon's family fancied themselves politically progressive, however, and encouraged their highly rated Guide son to make his own choices in life. There'd been days that Napoleon wondered whether he'd been too choosey, spoiled into thinking that the 'perfect' Sentinel would come along if only he waited long enough. All those doubts now vanished like a puff of smoke. Napoleon could no more 'choose' to open his mind to his Sentinel than he 'chose' to be thirsty after a day of toiling under the sun.
For it was as if he were thirsty, insatiably so, for the overwhelming and tumultuous presence of his Sentinel. Fearless in his vulnerability, Napoleon welcomed the presence into him, finding that it did not overwhelm, but fit into him like a long missing piece. Indeed, Illya seemed to be physically trying to crawl into Napoleon's skin, having shed his own clothes and done away with most of Napoleon's. As insatiable as Napoleon had been, Illya seemed to want to immerse himself in his Guide, smelling and tasting over every surface of his body, pressing as much of his own skin as he could against Napoleon's.
"What… what is happening?" Illya moaned. "I can't stop… why can't I… ? I want you… I can't stop wanting you.."
"Illya…" Napoleon replied, reaching out to hold Illya's head in his hands, kissing his face as he spoke. "You're my Sentinel. I'm your Guide. This is what we do…"
With what had to have been tremendous control, Illya now drew himself up, seizing Napoleon's hands in both of his to keep them both connected and yet at a distance. "They told me…" he said with great effort, "that I would not need a Guide. My control, my discipline was strong enough, they said. I was able to stop myself from… sensory distraction, you would say, 'zone out'..."
Napoleon drew in an astonished breath. "You control your own zone outs?" Illya nodded.
"Some few of us, Sentinels, are strong enough. We were all told this. Such Sentinels are prized in the KGB… They say we are better without…" Illya bowed his head, breathing hard with the effort of holding himself back.
"Jesus, Illya," Napoleon breathed, disentangling one hand to reach out and touch his Sentinel's face. A faint moan escaped him at the contact. "Well, you've got a Guide now, Agent Kuryakin. All we can do is let nature take its course, and honestly, we can have a good time if you'll just let it."
With something like a whimper, Illya gave up his restraint and propelled himself into Napoleon's arms, burrowing his face into the crook of his Guide's neck. "Just tell me..." he said, voice muffled. "Tell me this madness will pass."
"Of course," Napoleon said, soothing, as he had been trained. "There couldn't be Sentinel and Guide pairs working in the field for UNCLE if it didn't. The urge to rut like weasels will fade after 48 hours or so, and then we'll have a couple of weeks with Agent Fisher to help us sort out our new skill sets."
"I want…" Illya said, now kissing and tasting his way down Napoleon's torso. "I want… things I have never wanted before."
"Oh, trust me, Sentinel mine," Napoleon said, lifting his head to taste for himself, the smooth skin of Illya's chest, the hardening nubs of his nipples. "I want the very same things. You won't hurt me; you can't. Go ahead and take what you want."
Illya gave a gasping cry as he felt Napoleon's teeth on him, then surged up to smother his Guide with another searing kiss. Arousal seized Napoleon's limbs so that he was unable not to wrap his legs around his Sentinel, not to thrust his hips, his hardening sex against Illya's. The same impulse seemed to have consumed Illya, so that his body moved likewise, arms and legs contesting for mastery, his own cock grinding against Napoleon's. Napoleon cried out his Sentinel's name, finding older, deeper barricades within himself and releasing them, throwing himself open to his core.
It was when he felt Illya's presence touch him there, in the very center of him, that Napoleon's physical release came. Back arching, fingers clutching, head tilted back to release open throated cries of ecstasy, Napoleon felt the climax tear through him, and felt Illya's, following like an echo. Illya sobbed out out his rapture as Napoleon felt his own seed and his Sentinel's mix, warm and slick where they thrust against each other.
Napoleon immersed himself in the momentary lassitude which followed, even if it included the warm weight of his all but insensate partner above him. He knew it would not last. Moreover, it was not the weight on top of him, but the considerable presence of his Sentinel within his psyche that was uppermost in Napoleon's mind. Napoleon would never be alone again, until the day his Sentinel died, and that day might well bring a sort of death for Napoleon as well. Illya would find himself similarly afflicted, if the situation were reversed.
Bonded Sentinels and Guides did not tend to outlive each other by much, and that was one reason that those who were not bonded often thought they were better off. Even now, however, with the intrusion of his Sentinel into his mind new and strange, Napoleon knew he would never regret this… completion of himself. He didn't think Illya would regret it either, once he'd come to terms with it all, but it seemed that his superiors in the KGB had left him entirely unprepared for the possibility. Napoleon had a few things he'd like to say to those responsible… some other time. For now, he wondered if he might prod Illya into rolling aside so that he could procure some kind of bedding before they started going at it again.
Perhaps it was Napoleon's prodding at their new bond, or perhaps it was just Illya's well honed survival skills that impelled him to shift his weight off Napoleon. He raised his head when Napoleon slipped off the bed, watching him as though Napoleon might make a break for it, as he opened the chest and took out one neatly folded set of fairly clean sheets and a blanket. Apparently satisfied, Illya now rose, giving Napoleon room to work, while he padded, naked but for his socks, to the cupboards, where he found a chipped enamel mug, and then to the washroom, where he filled it with water from the sink.
Napoleon heard him drink and then refill it, feeling Illya's thirst slaked even as other urges began to build once again. Napoleon made short work of making up the bed and was just finishing up when Illya returned with water for Napoleon. He was erect again and flushed with arousal, but waited patiently for Napoleon to drink.
"I knew you were thirsty," Illya said, puzzling over it.
Napoleon finished the refreshingly cold, if irony, water in his cup then leaned forward to kiss Illya on the cheek. "And I know what you're thirsty for now," he whispered wickedly into his Sentinel's ear.
"You," Illya murmured, grabbing the cup from Napoleon's hand and casting it carelessly aside as he seized Napoleon's face to ravish him with a kiss. "Everything about you: your taste, your smell…" Now his began to back Napoleon toward the bed again and Napoleon let him take control, clinging to his Sentinel so their kiss went uninterrupted as he was pushed onto the bed.
"The feel of your skin," Illya continued once Napoleon was prone under him. "The sound of your voice… your heartbeat. I want all these things. They're mine; you are mine."
"Yes!" Napoleon cried as Illya kissed his way down Napoleon's body. "You have me, all of me; take whatever you want."
Napoleon doubted that Illya had ever had sex with a man before, and he had a feeling that the Soviets' prohibition against 'gomoseksualizm' was partially behind their encouragement of Sentinels managing without Guides. Nonetheless, there was no hesitation in Illya's approach to Napoleon's eager and upright cock. He took his time inhaling the very essence of Napoleon's arousal at the base of his cock and balls. Then he was tasting, lips and tongue caressing Napoleon's most secret places and Napoleon writhed helplessly on the bed, wordless cries making their way from his throat with no volition of his own.
The sound he made when Illya's mouth finally came to encompass his sex was unlike any sound Napoleon had ever heard himself make. It wasn't that he'd never had a man's mouth on him before, but the reverberation of pleasure between him and his Sentinel was entirely novel, and just a bit earthshaking. He could not stop his hips thrusting up, but Illya did, strong hands on Napoleon's hips pinning him to the bed. Furthermore, Napoleon could feel Illya's sense of mastery, the arousal that sprang from his control of his Guide and was compelled to thrust harder against that restraint, knowing how it would thrill him.
Illya's grasp only tightened, and Napoleon wondered if Illya felt, in turn, how he loved the strength that held him, how it made him feel safe. There was no artistry to Illya's consuming of Napoleon's cock, but that just made it all the hotter. He clutched at Illya's hair, fingers tightening among the silken strands as his climax neared, and Illya just took him deeper, sucking him down to the root. At that, Napoleon came ferociously, bucking under his Sentinel's grasp and tearing hair. Neither of them cared.
Gently, Illya disentangled Napoleon's fingers from his hair so that he could sit back, and Napoleon thought he actually saw fondness on his Sentinel's face as he regarded his Guide, spent and basking in the fading ripples of his climax. Or perhaps it was anticipation. Even in his post-coital state, Napoleon felt his Sentinel's smoldering desire, and knew what he wanted. Napoleon had possibly never wanted anything so much as he wanted Illya to fuck him right now, but that meant…
"We need… something," Illya said, frowning because he really hadn't ever even imagined doing this before and knew he needed Napoleon's guidance.
"In the cupboards," Napoleon managed. "Crisco… ah, shortening… vegetable oil.." There wouldn't be butter, which Napoleon had used once in a pinch, but what else might do? He felt Illya leave the bed and gazed through shuttered eyes at his rather shapely buttocks as he rummaged through the cupboards.
"Olive oil will do, yes?" he said seizing on something.
"Oh hell yes," said Napoleon, feeling his cock actually stir again at the prospect. Illya poured a small measure of oil into his cupped hand, then recapped the bottle and set it on the bedding chest. Coming to kneel on the bed again, he saw Napoleon's readiness, thighs parted, and recently spent cock already firming up again.
"You… want this," he said, half surprised, half aroused.
"Oh, hell yes," Napoleon repeated.
"I want… but I am not sure," Illya said, dipping a couple of fingers in the oil and tracing them around the edge of Napoleon's opening. Napoleon gasped in pleasure.
"Just… follow your instincts," he said, unsteadily. "I want what you want. Trust me." Their eyes met as he said this last, and their minds met in that moment too. He felt Illya understand, at last, how their bond worked, saw the realization in his eyes that they were, at that moment, literally of one mind. Fearlessly, Illya pressed his two fingers into Napoleon's opening, even as he leaned over him to kiss him.
Consumed with longing, Napoleon surged up into the kiss, driven half mad with anticipation as he heard the slick sounds of Illya working the rest of the oil over his cock. He thrust against Illya's penetrating fingers, crying out, "Yes!" when he felt a third join them. He knew what he wanted, what he needed, and so Illya knew as well. The fingers worked into him, pressing deep and stretching, only to withdraw again, leaving him bereft. He only realized he was begging once the words had left his mouth. Illya stopped his pleas with another kiss.
"I'll give you what you need," he murmured against Napoleon's lips. "But I won't hurt you. I'll take you when you're ready; then I'll fill you so full…"
"Please!" Napoleon could not stop the words, nor his hips thrusting, nor his hands clutching at the bedding.
"Soon, now, Guide," Illya promised, kissing and nipping his way over Napoleon's skin. "Very… very soon…" Illya's voice was shaking, for all his pretense of control, and his hands, parting Napoleon's thighs, were less than steady.
Napoleon held still now, for he felt what he could not see, that Illya was positioning his cock, and a moment later he felt it press against his entrance. With panting breaths he felt himself stretched, moaning through the frisson of fear he felt at being penetrated. Then there was the thing he'd desired, the sensation of someone moving inside of him, touching deep within him, just as Illya's presence lived inside his mind now.
"Yes!" Napoleon cried, and heard Illya's cry in unison with his. He laughed, even as he arched his back to take his Sentinel deeper. This was everything he had hoped for and despaired of ever finding. This was what he was meant for, what he had trained all his life for, and worth every day of waiting. Illya seemed lost in the rhythm of his own thrusting, craving more, wanting to move faster, plunge himself deeper. Napoleon wanted nothing less.
Time seemed to slip away from them both, this moment of pleasure taking and giving having neither a beginning nor an end. This was their core, their eternal moment, which would live within each of them as long as they both lived. This was the focal point from which Napoleon would draw his strength as he supported his Sentinel, and the place to which Illya could retreat when his senses became too much.
Even as he felt this truth settle into his heart, Napoleon also felt the tremors moving through his body that signalled an approaching climax. He shouted as he felt himself swept away towards his conclusion, propelled forward with every thrust of Illya's cock into his body. "Illya!" he cried. "My Illya, yes, yes, yes…!"
Molten pleasure coursed through him as Napoleon shouted wordlessly, felt his body contracting around Illya's cock as it continued to thrust. But now Illya's hands on his hips tightened, a sudden profanity escaping him as his whole body seemed to be trying to drive itself into Napoleon's. Illya cried out his Guide's name, long and loud, as if in agony, but Napoleon felt the ecstasy of orgasm echo through him, like an aftershock of his own.
Illya's hips continued to stutter and thrust for several moments as Illya's climax faded. He collapsed beside Napoleon at last, breath sobbing in his throat as he lifted a shaky hand to rest on Napoleon's face.
"My Guide," he said, pale blue eyes wide with wonder.
"My Sentinel," Napoleon whispered, pressing Illya's fingers to his lips. He closed his eyes then, feeling the bond warm and pulsing between them, and discovering a comfort of a sort he never could have imagined. The comfort curled over him like a blanket, and Napoleon fell asleep without even realizing it.
~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~
Act 2: "I won't start anything if you don't."