"Bubba."
Napoleon smiled to himself; obviously Fitzhugh's men hadn't done any serious damage to Illya when they'd captured him if all he was mumbling about was his displeasure with this week's code names.
"Alfred, yes, Nikolai, yes, James, even—but Bubba?"
Illya had raised his voice slightly so Napoleon could overhear the "muttering" as he trailed in Illya's wake through the lobby of their hotel. Sydney looked much the same as they'd left it—they, however, looked slightly worse for wear.
He was dirty and sweaty, but he'd merely been detained, drugged, and then forced to escape into the almost desert-like conditions of the Outback. On the other hand, Illya, as always, seemed to have gotten the worst end of the bargain: his black turtleneck and black trousers were caked with dried mud from the sewer tunnels and then covered in the dust of the Outback; his pale blond hair stuck out in all directions, the finger combing on the helicopter having had no effect on the disarray. The stiffness of the dirt-encrusted material didn't seem to affect his dancer's gait, however; he was crossing the lobby with a swiftness that revealed his eagerness to achieve the privacy of their suite—or at least the shower.
At Illya's insistence, Waverly had dropped them off at the hotel after they'd landed on the airstrip, admonishing them to get cleaned up and rested before they flew back to New York.
Napoleon's grin turned salacious as he watched Illya; somehow, he doubted either of them would be very rested tomorrow.
Illya reached the elevator first and turned to hurry Napoleon, who had the room key. The mocking frown that appeared on Illya's face told Napoleon that Illya had caught the smile he'd quickly tried to cover up with an innocent look.
"Really, Sonny, must you dawdle?"
Oh, there was no doubt about it; Illya was going to make him pay for this week's code names. Thankfully his "punishments" were pretty creative. And very erotic...
Napoleon smiled wickedly and perversely slowed his progress towards the elevator even more.
Illya held the elevator door open with his hand, eyebrow cocked as he watched Napoleon strolling towards him. "Hurry up, Dad, or you'll miss the train."
"Well, looking at the two of us, I'd have to say you're the more likely candidate to have missed the train, Bubba."
Napoleon saw Illya's eyes narrow as he removed his hand and punched the button for their floor. Napoleon slid sideways through the rapidly closing door, hands still firmly in his pockets. He turned to lean nonchalantly against the elevator wall and saw Illya was already propped against the opposite wall, facing forward. Napoleon let his eyes devour his lover's seductive form, slowly moving from where Illya's right foot was hooked over his left ankle, along the lean legs, then up the muscular thighs to the strong arms crossed over his chest.
Another raised eyebrow and a sidelong glance were all Napoleon received in response to his slow appraisal.
"What? I can look, can't I? Or is that now part of the, ah, deal—not even letting me look?"
A small, devilish smile flitted across Illya's lips before he managed to control it.
Napoleon let a few moments go by in silence. He was just opening his mouth again when a soft ding announced the imminent arrival of the elevator at their floor. Illya straightened up and uncrossed his arms, still resolutely facing forward and fighting to keep his face blank.
Napoleon leaned over and whispered in his ear. "Going my way?"
A barely repressed shiver of anticipation ran down Illya's spine and Napoleon grinned ferally. Illya threw him a sidelong glance as he waited for the doors to open, then quickly strode out of the elevator and down the hall to the right.
Napoleon once more trailed in Illya's wake, drinking in the view of his athletic partner in motion.
He enjoyed watching Illya move; there was something almost awe-inspiring about the energy with which Illya attacked life. Napoleon smiled to himself; Illya was a compact powerhouse, always ready to leap into the fray—wielding feet, elbows, and fists with surprising enthusiasm. Most of the time the bad guys never knew what had hit them.
And when all that energy was focused exclusively on him...
Napoleon could feel his cock growing hard in anticipation. He slowed to adjust himself slightly; Illya always had this effect on him and it was usually at the most inopportune times. His smile grew. Thankfully he wouldn't have to wait long before finding relief today.
He turned right at the T-intersection and blinked in surprise. Instead of standing impatiently next to the door as Napoleon had expected, Illya was nowhere to be found. Napoleon glanced down the hallway behind him and the one from which he'd just come. No Illya.
Napoleon shrugged and dug in his pants pocket for the room key as he finished walking the last few feet to their door. He heard the quiet snick of the well-oiled lock, turned the handle and moved forward, only to bump his nose on the door as he was brought up short by the security chain.
Napoleon stared at the door, speechless with shock.
He shut the door and reopened it, just to make sure he had full control of his body and he wasn't still drugged.
Yep, the chain was still there.
"Illya, what—"
Was that the shower he heard?
"Illya!" He rattled the door in frustration.
No answer.
Frowning slightly, he let go of the door handle and dug into his other pocket, searching for his Swiss army knife. Flipping it open to the Phillips screwdriver, he carefully slid his hand in through the small opening and started to remove the screws from the chain's anchor on the doorframe.
Ten minutes later he finally managed to work the last screw free. The plate banged softly and began scraping against the door, swinging slowly back and forth by the chain. The door opened and he entered quickly, shutting it behind him. He'd have to ask what Illya had jimmied the door with later; he couldn't figure out what Illya could have used, since they'd been searched and had lost all of their toys; which proved yet again that his partner was one of the most resourceful men he knew—and the shower was still running. Napoleon locked the door—he'd make Illya fix the chain later—and headed towards the bathroom, intent on making sure Illya didn't use up all the hot water by himself.
Only to be stopped by another locked door.
Napoleon banged his forehead softly against the door as a sound perilously close to a whimper escaped him.
Fine. He'd take care of himself. See if he'd wait for Illya.
But it was so much more fun when he waited for Illya...
Napoleon heaved a great sigh. He could still hear the sound of the water running in the shower. In his mind's eye he could see the drops running down Illya's lithe body...trickling through the light thatch of golden hair on the broad chest...washing over the surprisingly sensitive nipples...
He squirmed in the tight jeans he'd donned yesterday for this mission; they left little room for the kind of growth spurt he was experiencing right now. It never ceased to amaze Napoleon how quickly Illya could enflame him—even when his stubborn partner wasn't doing anything.
Napoleon straightened his shoulders and turned to look at the large bed that occupied the center of the room. They hadn't gotten to use it when they'd arrived in Sydney—they'd gone straight to the Bedlam after securing the room and preparing themselves for a visit to the club.
He leaned back against the door, gazing thoughtfully at the king-size bed. Perhaps it was time to give Illya a taste of his own medicine. He could take care of himself before Illya deigned to exit the shower. Perhaps finding his lover temporarily sated and sprawled across the bed would spur Illya to do something interesting to catch up. Yes, that was exactly what he'd—
Before Napoleon could move, however, the door he was leaning against swung open. He stumbled backwards slightly before landing squarely against his partner's solid chest.
A low and husky voice whispered in his ear. "Really, Napoleon, you seem so distracted. What if I had been a Thrush agent?" A sharp nip to his earlobe punctuated the softly delivered words.
"I'd be in trouble if you were Thrush, Illya," Napoleon replied as he tilted his head back to bare his neck. "I'd probably have to switch sides."
"Or we could meet like this, upon occasion—a regular tryst in an exotic locale..." Illya bit down firmly on the exposed tendons of Napoleon's neck and then licked the same spot, causing delicious shivers to wrack Napoleon's weary body. The feel of Illya's cool, damp hair against his overheated skin was making it sizzle.
"We'd spend most of our time in a dangerous game of cat and mouse, but would set that aside to come together on neutral ground..." Illya's arms snaked around Napoleon's middle, one arm sliding underneath the tatty sweater to hold Napoleon up with a hand firmly planted on his stomach, while the other slowly moved down to brush lightly along Napoleon's hardness. A strangled groan escaped Napoleon's suddenly dry throat.
A loud and exaggerated sniff startled him as Illya began to nose about at the nape of his neck. "Really, Napoleon, personal hygiene is something you mustn't neglect. Just because we saved the world yet again and were nearly blown up in the process doesn't mean you can expect me to overlook your rankness." A sharp slap to his denim-covered thigh caused Napoleon to jump in surprise. "Go get your shower."
Napoleon turned an incredulous look on his lover. "Now?!? But—"
Illya cut off further protests by covering Napoleon's mouth with his own and invading it with a demanding sweep of his tongue. Napoleon could feel his traitorous body turning against him, as his knees slowly turned to Jell-O and his hands grabbed Illya's shoulders to keep himself from melting into a puddle on the floor.
"Just do it, Napoleon, while I prepare my 'neutral ground,'" Illya whispered, in between planting light kisses along Napoleon's stubble-roughened cheek.
Another soft moan issued from Napoleon—it really wasn't fair how easily Illya could get him to do whatever he wanted. Not that he ever didn't enjoy Illya's surprises when he got in this mood, but still...
"Please?" Illya murmured softly, nipping gently along Napoleon's chin and up to his other ear.
"All right," he whispered back, taking Illya's face between his hands and bringing it back to where his lips could reach Illya's. His tongue stroked his lover's, wrapping around and dueling for space until they broke apart for air. Smiling, Napoleon stepped back and quickly shut the bathroom door in Illya's face.
Fifteen long minutes later, a freshly scrubbed Napoleon exited the bathroom, still drying his hair. He emerged from under the towel to find the suite dimmed to a premature twilight. Blinking several times as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he gradually took in the mostly-closed curtains and the pulled-down bedclothes.
To the side of the bed, he could just make out Illya lounging in a chair, arm draped over the armrest with a brandy snifter held laconically in his hand. Illya was slowly swirling the glass, causing what little sunlight still filtered between the blinds to sparkle as it shone through the liquor.
Illya's still-damp hair was rumpled and stood in occasional spikes around his head, the wheat blond nearly white in the dimness of the room, in sharp contrast to the dark leather of the wingback chair he was seated in. His legs were stretched out in front and crossed at the ankle, allowing Napoleon a glimpse of the muscular body that lay under his robe.
The wet towel was dropped and quickly forgotten along the way as Napoleon moved slowly towards Illya. He could feel the smoldering gaze on him as he neared his lover, causing anticipation to fire rapidly along his nerves. He stopped next to the arm of the chair, his leg brushing Illya's, returning look for look.
A knowing smile twisted Illya's mouth as he reached a hand out to the belt of Napoleon's robe, ever so slowly pulling on one tie and then the other, until the loose knot came undone and the silk robe fell open. Illya grabbed the edges of the robe and tugged again, pulling Napoleon forward the few remaining steps between them, then loosed the robe from his grasp and slowly parted the folds.
The pace was maddening and exquisite at the same time, causing Napoleon's breath to catch in his throat as one hand lifted the snifter to his lover's full lips and the other slipped between the silk and his skin, gently stroking over his stomach, along his thigh and buttock. It was indecent torture, watching the twinkle in Illya's eyes as he swallowed a sip of the brandy and feeling the wandering hand that stroked much too lightly and not where Napoleon wanted it most.
A forward thrust of his hips almost achieved his goal, but Illya just shook his head and moved his hand to the small of Napoleon's back. Illya spread his fingers out, brushing the top of Napoleon's cleft with one finger.
A quick shrug of his shoulders and Napoleon was shed of the robe. He stood there, naked and aroused, absolutely fascinated by the expression on his lover's face. Illya was staring hungrily at him, as if he couldn't decide which appetizer to eat first. A small snicker escaped him as he visualized that picture: Illya of the iron-cast stomach—who would eat anything—feasting on him for hours...
His cock gave an involuntary jump as the blood rushed through his veins and Illya flashed a quick look up at his face, smiling wickedly as if he knew exactly what Napoleon was thinking.
"Why don't you get in bed?" Illya murmured. "You'll be much more comfortable, Sonny."
A chuckle escaped Napoleon. "You're just not going to let that one slide, are you, Bubba?"
"Not in this lifetime."
Napoleon rolled his eyes in mock exasperation, but moved toward the bed all the same. As soon as he was settled in the middle of the bed he sighed, luxuriating in the softness and enjoying finally being off his feet after this long and tedious mission.
"Don't fall asleep on me, Napoleon."
"Mmmmmm." Napoleon closed his eyes and stretched, feeling the pull in every muscle. He smiled, hoping it would drive Illya as crazy as he was driving Napoleon. "Do something, then."
Napoleon shivered as the cool glass of the snifter was set on his chest. Reaching up, he held it in place and opened his eyes to see Illya standing next to the bed, slowly untying the belt to his robe. "Oh, I will, never fear."
Napoleon smiled and closed his eyes again as he felt the bed dip. "Fear? You? Who are you trying to kid, Illya?"
"Not you, apparently," said a voice very near to his ear.
"That's good," he replied, letting go of the glass as Illya retrieved it.
"You look so smug, Napoleon. What in the world do you have to be smug about at this moment, I wonder." There was no mistaking the teasing tone of Illya's voice, belying the actual words he spoke. "It's nearly half an hour after the time you originally thought you'd be 'ravished,' as you've so elegantly put it in the past; you're not likely to be completely satisfied any time soon, nor am I going to give you any satisfaction without making you work for it."
A low groan issued from deep inside Napoleon. He wasn't quite sure if it was a groan of satisfaction, anticipation, or frustration. Knowing Illya, it was sure to be all three.
He felt Illya's wet finger tracing along his lips a moment later. His tongue darted out, tasting the liquor that coated it before sucking it into his mouth. He tried to keep hold of the finger by biting down slightly as Illya pulled away, but lost the skirmish when Illya tickled the roof of his mouth.
Napoleon lay there, breathing raggedly as he waited with eyes firmly shut to see what Illya would do next. He jumped in surprise when he felt the brandy being dripped on his nipples and his collarbone, then slowly down to his navel. Illya licked all over Napoleon's smooth chest, lapping up the brandy with his slightly rough tongue, then poured more on him and began the process all over again.
Several minutes later, Napoleon heard a soft clink as Illya set the glass down on the bedside table.
"Why don't you just put me out of my misery and we'll call it even?" he asked hopefully.
"Sorry, Sonny."
"All right, all right! I give! We won't use those again, ok?"
"Hmmmmm." Napoleon could feel Illya's hand hovering just over his chest—just far enough away that he wasn't actually touching but close enough that Napoleon could sense it. "If you say so."
"Hunh? If I say so? What does that mean?"
"Nothing at all," Illya replied calmly as he began tweaking Napoleon's nipple.
"Nothing? Illya—" The warm hand that firmly grabbed his cock put an end to whatever protest Napoleon was going to make. "Ohhhhhh..."
"Shhhh. We're meeting in secret, remember, Mr. U.N.C.L.E.-man?"
"Oh, uh, yeah," Napoleon panted. "I can be—aaahhh!"
A soft chuckle, then: "I can see that." Napoleon could hear the smug grin in Illya's voice, so close as his lover nibbled up and down his neck and ear.
"Listen, you—" Napoleon started to roll towards Illya, but was stopped by the grip on his aching cock and Illya's lean weight pressing against his chest.
"No, you listen. Roll the other way."
Napoleon did as he was told, letting Illya arrange him as desired. He ended up laying on his side and leaning slightly forward, with his left leg draped over his now abandoned cock. Another groan emerged from deep in his chest as Illya gently parted his buttocks and began to press relentlessly forward, moaning softly as his already-slicked hardness entered Napoleon's tightness. Illya didn't stop until he was all the way inside.
"I don't know, Mr. Thrush-man," Napoleon gasped as Illya slowly rocked his slender hips, gently brushing his cock against Napoleon's prostate, "this certainly doesn't feel like neutral ground to me. Feels like it has a definite opinion about the proceedings."
A loud groan sounded near his ear, and he felt Illya's forehead rest on his shoulder. "Napoleon, your puns are going to be the death of me yet."
"Just trying to be helpful. You know me, always eager to—ouch!"
Illya dropped a quick kiss on the new mark on Napoleon's neck and then snorted in disgust. "Just as you were trying to be helpful when you said 'These will be the best code names we've ever had,' correct? If you must insist on helping in that fashion, I'll take my chances against Thrush, thank you very much. Now, if you really wish to be helpful, give me your hand."
"What?"
"Give. Me. Your. Hand."
"You know, a man could get a complex with a lover like you around."
"You could get a lot of things with a lover like me around, but a complex is not one of them. I am not rich enough to build a great useless monument to your ego."
"Oh ho! As if your ego—mmmmmph!" Napoleon arched back as Illya guided their entwined hands down to his erection. Illya released Napoleon's hand, then took a gentle grasp on the hip beneath him, slowly sliding almost entirely out. He straddled Napoleon's right leg and then quickly slid back in, gradually building the tempo while encouraging Napoleon to stroke himself in counterpoint to his thrusts.
Napoleon tried again between pants. "I feel—I must point out—that I'm not the only egotistical—man in this partnership."
"You never give up, do you?" Illya gasped as he stopped thrusting. "Fine, I'm a justifiably egotistical spy who doesn't like being called Bubba. Are you happy now?"
A big chuckle worked its way up through Napoleon and escaped, despite his best efforts to stifle it. "Ecstatic."
Illya growled in his ear. "Now, may I get back to what I was doing, Daddy-o?"
"By all means."
"Thank you, o gracious and benevolent Emperor. Your wish is my command."
Napoleon snorted. "If that's true, how come you never do what I tell you to do?"
"I do," Illya replied as he gently chewed along Napoleon's shoulder and arm. "Just not in the manner you want me to do it."
"But—"
"Hush, Mr. U.N.C.L.E.-man," Illya whispered as he covered Napoleon's mouth with his hand. "Don't be 'square,' just enjoy the moment."
"Crazy, Daddy-o."
A soft laugh sounded behind him as Illya began to thrust in earnest, pushing them both further and further until Napoleon could stand it no more and came, bringing Illya along with him.
Illya remained plastered to his back for a few minutes as they caught their breath, before rolling them both onto their sides. The blankets mysteriously settled over them as he felt Illya working an arm underneath his sweaty and limp form, cradling him snugly against his chest. He heard the sounds of a huge yawn as Illya settled in for the night and murmured a soft, "Goodnight, Napoleon."
"Goodnight, Bubba."
Ok, I have to say that "Howling Teenagers" is probably some of the worst writing I've ever read. And the prose is so terribly purple—I mean, Illya's a "Russian leprechaun" and an "impish modern-day Prince Valiant"?!? You really have to wonder at times if the author had ever seen the show... That said, I must admit I laughed myself silly the whole way through—it was just so bad it was funny, you know?
But the one thing that really hit my goofy button was the use of "Sonny" and "Bubba" (Bubba?!?) as code names throughout the story. (Well, that and the slang that sounds so terribly dated to my young ears. *eg*) The only way I could think of Illya submitting to answering to "Bubba" was under duress or if he was going to make Napoleon pay for it later, so there you have it, that's how Code Names was born. *bg* (And yes, Napoleon will get his revenge eventually. *g*)
Thanks go, as usual, to Veronica (It's all her fault. Honest. *vbg* "Have you read any of the magazine stories, A? No? Well, here ya go...")—she's survived yet another "death by slow slash" story *bg*; to Deanna, who answers silly questions about security chains and how they're attached in the middle of the night; to Tiriel who demands that I learn to "write faster, damn it!"; and, last but most certainly not least, to the generous folks who take the time to write and let me know what they like and what they don't like and why. Thank you. :)
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