Two Days
Napoleon’s brain sent him signals. Sensory input telling him he had never been so scared in his entire life. Not even that time the brakes had vanished on his first bike while speeding down the hill behind their house.
Excellent agents knew how to be afraid, which was good, but this; this superseded anything he had experienced. He was paralyzed with fear, no matter how embarrassing that was.
“You’re awake. You stay awake!” Magda Melrose, apparently Thrush’s latest version of Mother Fear, slapped him…again. She also had to be stupid; who wouldn’t obey that monster of a woman? There was no need for more slapping.
“Mnfh,” he managed through the nauseating gag-ball. Although he wished desperately for oblivion, he couldn’t let that happen. Illya. He had to get loose and find Illya.
Napoleon searched desperately for something, anything to give him an edge, just like he had since they were abducted a blurry time ago. But the only edge around was embedded in Monster Magda’s shaving knife, which she had applied diligently to most of his body. There was only one area left, which gave him not only the shivers, but major shakes.
During her shaving marathon he had been slapped, beaten and cut, but not enough to make him lose consciousness. Napoleon groaned and shuddered, wishing he wasn’t quite so capable of visualizing what could easily happen when she started again.
“Keep still.” She slapped his thigh this time, and Napoleon tried to still the shivers running through him. He knew she only waited for an excuse to cut him again, despite her words.
What to concentrate on? Oh. If they had wanted him dead, they could have killed him five times over. They wouldn’t have bothered with dressing his wounds. They had put up quite a fight, Illya and he, despite having no warning whatsoever before Thrushies had poured into their living room. He only hoped Illya was alive. It was too much to hope that he had gotten away.
He didn’t know how much time had passed since his, or most probably, their abduction, it was at least a day. By now someone at headquarter should have been alerted to their disappearance. Hopefully, they had also found the button he had managed to tear off one of the uniforms before being knifed down with his own damned kitchen knife, which had been wrenched from him. He had been out for the count before he saw what had happened to Illya. That was the worst kind of torture. Worse than this, even.
“Be careful to move now, Solo, or you won’t be much fun later,” Magda purred. Napoleon found that rather obscene. Yes, he would be quiet he woved, even as she grabbed his balls; none to gently either, and shaved beneath them.
“I always heard you were such a man,” she taunted, and tugged at his cock. “But this little raisin; how can it satisfy even a schoolgirl?”
Napoleon blinked back his reaction. I don’t feed on fear, he wanted to say. Let me loose and I’ll show you just how forceful I can be. Instead he swallowed around the gag; he knew he had to get himself together and get out of the ropes securing him to the narrow bench.
But where would he go?
Napoleon bit back a yelp when she nicked into his skin beside his balls; his heart rate soaring; his imagination helpfully adding more severe cuts. The consequent trickle of blood itched, adding to the discomfort he was trying to ignore.
He forced his thoughts back to planning ahead. They were on board a blasted airliner, for the fuck of it. He searched desperately around the small cabin, like he had done countless times already. When he turned his head a little, he could make out what had to be the galley or kitchenette. But it was like no galley he had ever seen. Each time Monster Magda opened one of the tiny cabinets it was like a visit to hell. She would pull out tongs, scissors, chains, leather whatsits; everything evil-looking and used on him.
The worst was a huge syringe, filled with a bluish liquid, which she had taunted him with several times already, and he knew it was only a matter of time before the needle found its way through his skin and into his body.
The quiet rumble from the jet engine told him they were in the air. Could he get to the flight deck and take over the plane? He would have felt better about it with Illya at his side. He would have felt better with Illya here, period.
“So. Solo.” Magda leaned over him, making his eyes go level with her cleavage. “You are not feeling so good, now.” She made it a statement and fixed him with her steely eyes.
Napoleon wished he could gouge them out, but satisfied himself with rolling his own.
“None of that!” I’ll show you who is boss.”
He wouldn’t have guessed that.
“You will tell me the code words. Then I might let you live.” She poked at him with the sharp knife, making his heart beat double again and his already dehydrated body sweat. She had demanded, from the start, the codes for accessing UNCLE’s main computers, which he of course couldn’t give her.
I might let you live. Did Thrush only employ predictable and stupid people? That standard phrase wasn’t fooling anyone.
“I will…Solo,” she was suddenly by his head and grabbed his chin. “Let you live, but only if you give me a good performance.”
Performance? Did the woman expect him to… His train of thoughts was stopped, because; aah...
Napoleon strained to see…a cock-ring. The woman was fastening a cock-ring around the base of his member, and none too gently either. It gleamed black leather and steel against his clean-shaven skin.
Well, he had perf…
“You will wear this one. It suits you, prune boy.”
It fit tight over his cock, together with the leather sheet she covered it with. More fumbling, and he could sense something around his balls, too, and a strap around his back that clicked it all together.
“There!” Her smile was ugly and predatory, if he ever had seen one.
She turned her back on him, not letting him see what she was doing, and yelled for Walther.
Walther was, Napoleon knew, one of the muscled villains who had broken into their apartment.
Their. Illya!
But first; survive this.
“Prepare him.” Magda commanded, and turned to face Napoleon again. He wished she hadn’t. In her hand she held that evil-looking syringe; the bluish substance dripping from the bevel when she tapped it. It almost made him miss the first, blunt press against his anus.
Napoleon closed his eyes. So this was how it was to be. Raped and drugged. Some fine alternative to the Mile High Club activities he usually engaged in. Where did the pause to let him reveal the code words fit in? Before, or after?
Magda, the epitome of evil, clamped down on his elbow and plunged the needle into his arm in synchronization with the fingers burning into him, there. Where only Illya was welcome.
He felt so dizzy, he didn’t even notice till after that she had also fastened studded, black leather sleeves above his wrists, covering his lower arms.
“This is so perfect,” Magda whispered into his ear, a sick parody of a lover’s sweet talk, of Illya’s rare, murmured endearments when they were alone.
“You will boost my career, Solo.” She smiled. “One; the code words. Two; blackmail material. Three; a willing guinea pig for my experimental stamina drug.”
What was the madwoman implying? Napoleon could feel through his dizziness the heart rate speeding up again. He wasn’t sure it could take this any longer. His mind grabbed on to blackmail material. For that to happen, he would have to be alive. He could feel hope surge through him, despite the pickle he was in.
Magda waved Walther up and pointed to the straps binding him down. Was he perhaps to be let free?
“I will carve it on your tomb stone; Here rests the great Napoleon Solo. He fornicated himself to death.”
Her ugly laughter screeched in his ears. This was probably the scariest he had heard so far; he wanted desperately to faint away. Instead, his eyes opened wide of their own volition when a pleasurable tingle spread its way through his body, spiraling out from the needle point in his arm. His cock stirred, and to his utter humiliation, the feeling of being stretched by a Thrush goon; Walther, who had return to his appointed task, was turning him on. Walther, Napoleon could see through the haze before his eyes, had taken out his own cock and was jerking viciously, grunting, in time with the fingers moving inside Napoleon.
Napoleon groaned. His body was saying more, more, while his mind was screaming intrusion! and abuse!. He thrashed his head from side to side, wanting to do something.
“Solo. You want to put that little raisin of yours to better use?” Napoleon couldn’t stop the images Magda’s words conjured up, and felt his cock fill and strain against the sheeting.
“You want to fuck your tight little partner? Kuryakin?” she squeezed his arm, and tugged him up just as Walther withdrew his fingers and came, roaring and spilling over Napoleon’s bare chest.
Napoleon sagged down again when she let go of him and concentrated on one thing; one person. You pronounced it wrong, he wanted to say. All wrong. Besides, Illya had to be alive if they talked about him now, hadn’t he?
Napoleon swallowed around the gag-ball and couldn’t deny that yes; he did indeed want to fuck Illya. Badly. He wanted Illya dressed up in leather, tied down like himself a moment ago. He wanted Illya to take it, and take it hard. His mind screamed with the wrongness of what his body demanded. No. No, this was not him. This wasn't how it should be.
“Walther! Clean it up!” She slapped Napoleon’s hip to underline her point, which only made Napoleon’s arousal soar. Apparently Magda wanted him clean and hairless. Was she planning on making her own porn flick, perhaps, with Napoleon in the lead role?
She hit him again, this time to his head. Could this woman not hit him anymore? Napoleon wanted to laugh nervously at his own silliness. This again made him wonder if he should just give in to the panic that lurked below the surface of his mind. Despite Magda’s stated plans, it was a real possibility that he wouldn’t survive to see another day.
But Illya.
Walther cleaned up his spunk from Napoleon’s skin but didn’t touch the blood drying all over, and dragged him to his feet. The drug and dehydration made it almost impossible to stay on his feet; he had to lean heavily against the bench, and swallowed eagerly the water he was fed through a straw from a bottle in Walther’s hand. It was gone all too soon.
Napoleon blinked and tried to collect his thoughts, but could do nothing when he was dragged along between his tormentors.
“You will do exactly as I say.” Magda instructed.
How many times had he heard that particular command? It was probably written in the Thrush manual. Napoleon limped along the aisle between them, feeling both painfully aroused and humiliated. He tried not to look at the black thing jotting out from his groin. At least he had to be feeling marginally better, to be able to joke despite his terror.
Napoleon was stopped with a squeeze to the knife wound on his upper arm; Walther this time. He groaned around the gag.
“Shut up! Magda shook him and mysteriously removed his gag. It felt wonderful.
“As you wish, madam.” His voice sounded thin and pathetic even to himself.
“I will open this door,” she pointed at the cabin door that had appeared in front of them, “for each sound you make I will give one cut to the person in there.”
Illya. Could it be his partner? The last traces of hope that maybe, perhaps, Illya had escaped when he had screamed run Illya, run, just before blacking out in their hallway, left him.
But nothing, no thing in the world could have prepared him for the sight behind that door. Napoleon blinked desperately, incapable of denying the arousal shocking through him.
This was no ordinary passenger cabin, the walls were gleaming with unnameable instruments and devices. Bubbling chemicals where secured in glass bottles on a work bench on one side.
It all faded out into grays though, compared to the sight of the one person he wanted the least and the most to see.
Illya.
Illya was the one he trusted the most to find a way out of this mess. Illya didn’t look his best but Napoleon nearly snickered in relief; he was at least alive. But Illya’s naked body was covered in cuts, matching Napoleon there, and he was pale and forlorn looking. Was he conscious? Napoleon couldn’t decide.
Illya was also blindfolded, tied up to a chair-like metal device, arms bound behind him, leather straps around his chest. Napoleon let his eyes trail down Illya’s body; his proud erection was standing out with the help of a slim cock ring. Illya had probably been injected with the same concoction Napoleon felt in his veins.
Still, Illya was a force to be reckoned with.
“Now.” Magda’s voice held a hint of anticipation, “suck him.”
Napoleon stumbled forward, just as Walther raised a camera to click off the first picture. So that was it then.
He could only hope Illya recognized his mouth on him, making the ordeal bearable. Maybe even good, if his own unwanted arousal was anything to go by. And maybe…
Napoleon kneeled between Illya’s legs and gripped his hairy thighs. No shaving there, Illya was as softly furry as always.
He wobbled forward when the Thrush woman pushed him, sucking the tip of Illya’s erection carefully in. Illya jerked, nearly throwing Napoleon off, but stilled when Magda demanded no moving and no talking.
Napoleon hid his grin with a deeper suck, and set out to try his newly hatched plan.
Carefully, very carefully, he placed his thumbs in the junction between Illya’s hips and legs, pressing the pads to Illya’s body.
He could feel Illya relax, and ignored everything else, including Walther’s incessant snapping with the blasted camera. He wasted no time, sucked and licked Illya’s tumescent cock and tapped minute signals with his thumbs against Illya’s skin.
DiDit Dah DiDit DiDiDit DahDah Dit ‘It is me.’ Straight forward, no subtlety. The international version of the Morse code, which Illya and he had long ago agreed to use. If only Illya would recognize it. He engulfed Illya's straining cock, tasting precome, blood and a trace of the leather from the thong around the base.
“Enough!” Magda ripped his mouth off Illya’s cock with a thug at his hair. But not before Napoleon had gotten Illya’s not so subtle message tapped into his palate by that same, hard cock.
Fool. Napoleon managed a smirk at that typical message. Knife in window. Trust Illya to find a way.
He was jerked to his feet and somehow managed to pretend to stumble, landing with his shoulder against the small window. A glimpse, and yes, miraculously there, behind the curtain, was an ugly-looking knife. How Illya had managed to hide something there, was a mystery. How he was supposed to rescue them in the air with only a knife for a weapon, was an even greater mystery.
He got no more chance to ponder their rescue. Magda beckoned him back with a grimace and a wave.
“Fuck him, Solo. Make it forceful. As hard as your tiny stick can manage.”
He had to forcibly wrench from his mind the urge to lash out at her. That would have been stupendously foolish of him. Instead he sank to his knees again between Illya's thighs, watching him squirm on the seat and growl low in his throat. Not a sound came from Illya's mouth; he had attended the same course as Napoleon. He probed Illya’s anus carefully. Illya was slick and prepared, just like himself, but Napoleon wished he could spare Illya the indignity and go straight to what he guessed was the next part of Magda’s plan; him being penetrated by Illya.
“I must change the film,” Walther groaned, and that was Napoleon's cue wasn't it?
He stroke Illya's thighs absently and watched out of the corner of his eye as Walther walked back through the door they had entered, and closed it behind him.
Before sense could kick in, Napoleon jumped up, ramming the back of his head straight into Magda's chin. So much for being nosy and wanting a clear view of them.
By some twist of fate, she fell against a cupboard, knocked her head against an edge, and sagged to the floor, unconscious.
Napoleon wasted no time, grabbed Illya's ungodly looking knife, slit the bindings holding Illya, and ripped the blindfold from Illya's sharp eyes.
“Took you long enough.” But Illya's shit-eating grin belied the words, and Napoleon just nodded shakily and carefully loosened the bindings around Illya's cock, before working off his own bindings. He didn't really want to watch Illya too closely, lest the drugs in his system took over. Then he wouldn't be able to resist the lure of Illya's body.
“Walther first, then the pilot. Any more Thrushies onboard?” Illya came as usual straight to the point.
“There's a co-pilot, he didn't seem like much of a fighter.” Napoleon grabbed the lab coat Illya threw at him. “This looks like a closed mission, it's purpose to bring Mad Magda to power and glory.”
“Notorious glory...shhh.” Illya closed his mouth and ran to the side of the door, Napoleon jumped to the other side.
It was surprisingly easy to incapacitate Walther and bind and gag the both of them.
“Illya?” Can you pilot this plane?” Napoleon wasn't sure what he would do if Illya said no, but he had to ask.
“I am a trained pilot, Napoleon. Have our hosts told you where we are?” Illya turned around after rifling through the cabinets, holding another knife in his right hand.
Napoleon finished buttoning up the lab coat, studiously ignoring his erection, which poked against the rough fabric. “No, but given that at one point I was promised a humiliating return to my home, I would guess that we are still in US air space.”
“Good.” Illya buttoned up his own coat and patted the matching bulge at the front there. “We will soon enough be home and able to take care of this little problem, then.”
“Little?” Napoleon whispered as he followed Illya through the door and passed the galley. ”I'll have you know I'm above average in size.”
Illya only grinned at him and pointed at the door to the cockpit. “Shall we?”
“On three,” Napoleon confirmed, ignoring the fact that neither of them was in good fighting form at the moment. ”Every measure?”
“Every measure,” Illya nodded, a hard glint surfacing in his normally innocent eyes. Napoleon didn't doubt that his fiery Russian would kill as readily as he had done on previous missions, either. Illya wanted to succeed in his undertakings.
Napoleon kicked in the door, squeezed in behind the pilot and pressed Illya's ugly knife against his throat. On his right, he could hear Illya doing the same to the co-pilot.
“One move and you're dead.” He underlined the threat with a small cut, letting the pilot feel the blood trickle down his throat. Napoleon stared fascinated at the red drops, his mind transported back to the nightmare he had endured a short time ago.
“Napoleon Solo!” Illya's urgent voice jerked him back to the present, and he saw that he had pressed the knife further into the pilot's neck, making the blood flow freely down, coloring the collar of his white shirt. He was gurgling something incomprehensible, so Napoleon lessened the press of the knife. He turned and saw that Illya had already deposited the co-pilot on the floor behind them, gagged and bound.
He must have been out of it for some moments then. It was a wonder the pilot hadn't seized the opportunity and crashed the airplane.
“Get up!” Napoleon forced the pilot up with a slide of the knife under his chin, and let Illya, efficient as always, bind and gag him. It looked like the same gag that had been in Napoleon's mouth, Illya must have picked it up. Still, the pilot managed some muffled sounds through the gag, so Napoleon clocked him in the head, resisting the urge to seriously harm him. He would be useful later, when he spilled his guts in an interview room.
Napoleon grabbed the pilot under his armpits and dragged him out, placing him on the floor as far away from the other Thrushie as possible. For good measure, he tied him to one of the table legs on the bench he had been strapped to.
Returning to the cockpit, he saw that Illya had already taken command of the airplane, turning switches and watching the instruments with a keen eye.
“
“You might be glad to hear then, Napoleon, that
we will be landing in
“Wonder if we get a reward for shanghaiing the plane?” Napoleon said.
“You mean like someone from the British fleet during the Napoleonic wars when they captured a hostile ship?” Illya raised an eyebrow.
“Exactly.”
“My guess is that you will be scolded for ruining another set of perfectly good clothes, moi droog.” Ilya patted Napoleon’s knee, which stuck out, bare, from under the coat. “Fasten your seat belt, Napoleon, can you?”
Napoleon shuddered. He would rather not. The memory was still too raw. It was only a short time ago, he had been lying helpless and...
“I'd rather not, Illya.” He wasn't ashamed to admit it. They had both had their ordeals to struggle with. Illya would understand.
Illya nodded and started their descent. “Keep still in the seat then.”
Sitting still in his seat was easy; Napoleon could feel fatigue washing over him, warring with the still present and unwanted arousal. His wounds, especially the knife-cut in his arm, ached, and his stomach grumbled hungrily. All in all, he felt miserable, and wanted nothing more than to magically jump forward in time. To a time when he had forgotten that he had almost raped Illya, to a time when he was well-dressed, well-fed, and...
He must have faded into unconsciousness, because the next he knew, Illya had landed the airliner and they were surrounded by blinking cars and waving people. He watched the activities outside feeling detached, saw Illya click and twist and turn off, and finally turning towards him.
“Illya...”
“I know, Napoleon.” Illya took his hand in his warm, solid one, and they were home.