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The Top to Bottom to Switch Affair; Chapter 4
-a Man from UNCLE slash fanfic by Taylor Dancinghands
Pairing: Napoleon Solo/Illya Kuryakin
Genre: slash, first time, h/c, BDSM, A/U: BDSM Universe (Origionally created by Xanthe )
Warnings: explicit BDSM (duh!) + m/m; m/f; dubious consent ==>THIS CHAPTER!!!!<==
Rating: adult, aka NC-17
Length: Probably fairly long (30,000-40,000 wds +? 7+ Chapters?). I can't seem to do anything else.
Summary: Set in a BDSM AU. Alpha Top Napoleon Solo, the new CEA at UNCLE, is surprised when he is asked to take a sub on a mission with him. Illya Kuryakin has his secrets, and Napoleon just can't leave well enough alone. Getting the Russian's secrets from him will come with a price, however, for Napoleon has his own secrets -ones that he's keeping from himself, and those are the most dangerous secrets of all.
Intro page and Chapter Index
Disclaimer: I'm old, but still not old enough to be any of the writers or owners of the Man from UNCLE intellectually property. I swear, my own twisted musings are not costing those people a dime, and I won't be making a penny myself.
Napoleon refused to believe in omens, but he would reflect later that there had maybe been some portent in his chess defeat to Illya. Certainly the sense of having the carpet pulled out from under him was oddly familiar. One minute he'd been laying on his back, letting Angelique ride him —as an indulgence, he'd thought— and he'd let himself toy with that dangerous fantasy. Arms stretched out above his head, he'd grabbed ahold of the bars of the bedstead, imagining his hands to be bound there, and pulled against them, feeling an illicit thrill run though him at the thought. Then, all at once, it was not just his imagination at all.
There'd been a soft, fizzing pop and the sensation of some sort of foam hitting and covering his hands where they clung to the bedframe. Before he could react, the foam had solidified, trapping his hands and binding him in truth. It was what she had done next, however, that completely undid him, for Angelique had put a collar on him. It was a restraint collar, no less, with a pair of chains by which it could be fastened to the sides of the bed, and the infernal creature still riding his cock had moved with such blinding swiftness that Napoleon was bound, hand and neck, before he even knew what was happening.
Even so bound, Napoleon might have put up more of a fight, but there was something so shattering about having been collared. He couldn't seem to find the fight in himself, and the next thing he knew he had his ankles cuffed to a spreader bar and hoisted up, so that he was entirely immobilized and utterly exposed. Helpless. Usually being made physically helpless infuriated him, but for some reason on this night he just felt lost... possibly because, in spite of everything, he was still hard as a rock.
She'd stood back and admired him when he was all well and truly trussed up, frighteningly magnificent in her black and green corset and stiletto boots and tapping Napoleon's riding crop against one of those boots. She'd praised him and called him a 'good boy' for 'keeping it up', as if it was by Napoleon's design... and yet at the same time some part of him thrilled at the praise. She'd put a cock ring on him and told him he was forbidden to come until she permitted it... and a part of him had felt something like sweet relief.
Through all this, aside from a single wordless cry of startlement he'd made when his hands had first become trapped, Napoleon had uttered not a word, as though something had become trapped in his throat when the collar was placed around it. He'd made no sound when when Angelique smacked his thighs a few times with the riding crop. He'd thought, she can't really hurt me; she can't possibly be strong enough, but then she'd set down the crop, saying something about not leaving any marks, and gotten out the leather paddle.
As a young man, Napoleon had received private Dom tutoring, as had most young Tops of Napoleon's social circle. His tutor, Master Giuseppe, had been of the school of thought that Tops should never allow themselves to experience any part of what their subs experience, as any such experience would feel fundamentally different to a Top, and it would only give him or her wrong-headed ideas about how to treat their subs. Napoleon had held unthinkingly to that notion all his life, but he never would again.
There was no doubt at all in Napoleon's mind that for that hour or two under Angelique's not-so-gentle ministrations, he'd been a sub, body and soul. He'd writhed and arched his back like as sub, as she'd struck him with the paddle again and again. He'd suddenly found his voice loosed by the building fire in his backside, moaning and gasping like a sub, and his bound and erect cock had shuddered and leaked precum, just like a sub's. He'd begged, just like a sub (reeling with shock to hear his own voice) for her not to put the nipple clamps on him, but she hadn't listened to him any more than he generally did when his subs begged.
Then, with his ass burning from the paddling and his chest on fire from the sharp, pinching bite of the clamps, Angelique had brought the point home in the most fundamental way possible, and she'd fucked him. The strap-on she'd used had been large, but not excessively so, and she'd stretched him first. ("I told you, I wouldn't hurt you in any way that leaves marks," she'd cooed, pressing three slender, lube covered fingers into him.) She'd made sure Napoleon got a good look at the dildo though, pressing it up to his lips, and rubbing it over the nipple clamps, renewing the fire there and making him arch his back and cry out in pain... and ecstasy.
Napoleon was no stranger to anal penetration; Master Giuseppe had made it clear that Napoleon should enjoy all the pleasures his body had to offer, but he'd never really been fucked before. Even now he couldn't quite say what the difference was, but no cock or dildo he'd ever had inside him had ever done to him what Angelique had done to him last night. Napoleon didn't so much have any clear train of memories from that point, but continued to be assaulted by a series of impressions —of moaning and sobbing, hearing the sounds come out of his throat as if it were not his voice at all; of the collar catching him in the neck as he thrashed his head this way and that; of the driving rhythm of Angelique's dildo penetrating him again and again...
It seemed she'd taken some pleasure of her own, though it had nothing to do with him, other than it was him she was using. (And why had it made him harder still, to know that he was being used?) When she'd done with fucking him, she'd leaned forward between his legs —dildo still deep inside him— stroking down his torso with her nails like claws, and she'd breathed over his straining cock, stroking and caressing it like it was hers.
"Does it want to come, poor little thing?" she'd fawned. "I suppose it almost deserves to. If I take this ring off now, does it think it can hold it for thirty whole seconds? Tell me..." and she'd glanced up to meet Napoleon's eyes, demanding an answer in her mere look.
"Please..." Napoleon had begged, voice rough with strain. "Please, I... it can... please..."
"Alright," she said, "but don't you dare displease me!" And Napoleon did not want to displease her; he didn't, though he had no idea why. He moaned when she removed the cock ring, panted and gasped with the effort of not coming. Then, evil creature that she was, Angelique had thrust the dildo inside him again, pressing cruelly against his prostate, and Napoleon had whimpered... and held it, just for her.
Thirty of the longest seconds of his life later, she'd leaned over him and whispered, "Come," while thrusting her dildo deep inside him and he had come, helplessly, and with terrifying intensity. He'd returned to himself to find her putting her clothes back on, telling him something about how the foam securing his hands would break down in another ten minutes or so, and shouldn't have any untoward effects. Then there had been the sound of his hotel room door closing and he was alone... and ten minutes later his hands had come free.
He'd dashed to the bathroom the second he had the last of his shackles undone, sure that he was about to puke his guts out, but then he'd stood over the toilet for several minutes waiting for something that apparently wasn't going to happen. Perhaps he only wanted it to happen, wanted to symbolically purge the last two hours from his body, but that, he realized now, was never going to happen. He could never unlive the experience, never unfeel what he had felt, any more than he could take back the words he'd said and sounds he'd made.
Napoleon had turned to look at himself in the bathroom mirror then, certain that something from the experience must show on his face. This he did not see, but he did see the calling card, tucked into the mirror's frame. Her name, Angelique, was printed in florid script on one side, and by the time Napoleon had removed the card from the mirror and begun to turn it over, he already knew what he would see on the other side: the silhouette of a bird, beak open, as if to strike.
Napoleon was not quite sure how he came to be sitting naked on the bathroom floor with his head in his hands, nor how many hours he'd spent there, when his alarm went off. The sound came like a splash of cold water, as a needed reminder that life went on. He had a mission, an important one. The world was counting on him, and he knew that to be no hyperbole. That was the knowledge that got him off the bathroom floor, and into the disheveled, sex smelling bedroom.
By focusing on his long term goal, he managed to put the room to order, gathering up his toys, taking down the spreader bar, cleaning the strange sticky residue left on the bed frame, where his hands had been stuck. Going through the most familiar of motions, he showered and dressed himself and then made his way down to breakfast, strolling quickly past the darkened bar before entering the restaurant.
He reread the profiles he'd begun last night over breakfast, and after breakfast sat himself down in the hotel lounge to work on them some more. Around midday he took a taxi to the Karelian Cultural Center and got himself invited to lunch there, and by that evening he'd met again with every one of the most active of the rabble rousers. He took his notes back to the hotel restaurant where he read over them again over dinner and then returned to the lounge and rewrote all his profiles, so thoroughly that by the time he was done the THRUSH operative was clear.
It was around one thirty in the morning when he went back to his room (where he had left the window open all day) and called in to UNCLE Helsinki to tell them what he had determined. He called UNCLE New York next, just to check in, then showered and fell into a bed upon which all the linens had (thankfully) been changed. Given the fact that he'd had little or no sleep the night before, and had driven himself hard all day today, Napoleon ought to have dropped off to sleep immediately, but visions and memories from the night before intruded on his well ordered thoughts in that vulnerable space before sleep, and kept sleep at bay for an hour or more.
This boded ill for the future, Napoleon knew perfectly well, but he refused to dwell on it. He felt grateful when his fatigue finally won out, and dismay when his communicator roused him early the next morning. It was good news, however, for UNCLE Helsinki had put a tail on Napoleon's chief suspect last night and followed him to a poorly guarded THRUSH satrap early this morning. Plans for the provoking of an international incident on the border here had been uncovered, as part of an overall plan of international destabilization, and copies of the critical features of this plan would be delivered to Napoleon over breakfast, so that he could use this evidence to pour cold water on the rest of the hotheads in the cultural association.
Napoleon's attention to detail was flawless as he closed down the remainder of the affair. Once he'd left the Karelian rabble rousers well and truly chastened, he traveled back to Helsinki where he made a thorough report to the UNCLE offices there. They had his plane tickets back to New York for the next morning, so he bought himself a bottle of whisky and made sure to have a nice big nightcap before retiring for the night. It sort of worked.
On the flight back to New York he actually got ahead on his paperwork (which should have had Master Waverly pulling him aside and asking him who he was and what he'd done with the real Napoleon Solo) and ordered drinks without flirting with anybody. He arrived back in New York holding on to the feeble hope that being back in his home environs would banish the recurrent memories of his night with Angelique, but it was only a feeble hope. He made sure to stop at a liquor store on the way home regardless.
Back at work, Master Waverly had nothing but good things to say about Napoleon's work on the 'Finnish Borderlands Affair'. He even asked Napoleon's permission to use the profiles he'd written (with critical information redacted, naturally) in the UNCLE training manual. Napoleon agreed graciously while silently wondering how Waverly didn't see Angelique's handprints all over him. How he failed to smell her on him, or notice the smoking crater where Napoleon's sense of self had used to reside.
Apparently Illya was in the final stages of cracking the reverse engineering on the module they'd retrieved, and reportedly hardly even left his lab to eat. Napoleon certainly saw no trace of him. Over the next couple of days Napoleon strove desperately to distract himself, which was doubly difficult because his favorite means of distraction was right off the table. He couldn't even 'take himself in hand' without hearing her poisoned honey voice in his mind's ear, without feeling her nails raking over his skin, or the sharp pain of a paddle stroke on his ass.
Any trace of desire disappeared instantly as those memories manifested themselves, no matter how many times he tried to ignore them. Strong drink seemed to be his only recourse, and Napoleon was smart enough to know that this was a bad sign, and a short term solution at best. Luckily, Master Waverly assigned him another mission before he was forced to confront the issue.
The thing was that, strictly speaking, Napoleon was unfit for field work at the moment, and deep down, he knew it. He kept waiting for Waverly to notice, but Napoleon was his golden boy these days, and the old man had no reason to look for signs of trouble in his CEA. Heart sinking, even as he kept his game face firmly plastered in place, Napoleon listened to his boss outline the scope of his next mission, saying nothing about his internal turmoil. Maybe, he thought to himself hopefully, it would give him something else to focus on.
For a short while, it actually did. His new mission was to follow a THRUSH courier across Africa and note the location of the various outposts and drop sites he visited, without letting the man know he was being tailed. The job wasn't a cakewalk, as this was a top THRUSH courier, and even identifying him had been a bit of a coup. Staying on his tail while not giving himself away called for all the skills Napoleon had acquired as an experienced agent, and during the time he was working actively —trailing the man through the bustling markets of Mogadishu, or catching which flight he was taking out of Mombasa International Airport— Napoleon's focus was razor sharp.
But there was also a lot of waiting, and it was during those times that Napoleon felt his concentration begin to slip. He was haunted by memories and sensory impressions like a plague of ghosts, distracting him again and again at the times when he needed to be vigilant and aware of every aspect of his surroundings. The fatal slip finally came in Cairo, and it was luck alone that caused it to fatal for the courier, and not Napoleon Solo.
Seeing the disappointed scowl on Waverly's face as Napoleon described how he had lost the man, then clumsily stumbled upon him again in a Cairo alleyway was almost worse than the moment of realization that he'd just killed the man that he was supposed to be tailing and that, on top of that, he'd just been shot in the leg. Only the cursed luck of the Solos (and it was a curse, Napoleon would swear to his dying day) kept the mission from being a complete disaster.
In order to make the murder look like a common mugging, Napoleon had taken the courier's watch and wallet as well as his satchel of documents, and while the documents had revealed a few items of interest, it turned out that the watch was a highly valuable and irreplaceable THRUSH code generator. This meant that, while Waverly was momentarily displeased with him, all would be forgiven in a week or two —about the time it would take for his leg to heal— and no further questions would be asked.
Part of Napoleon was pathetically grateful to be spared further scrutiny, while another part knew full well that not only did this only delay the inevitable, it meant that things were going to have to get worse still before they got better. He felt that truth in the weight of the liquor bottles he carried up to his apartment that evening, heart full of dread for the next ten days that he'd been ordered to stay home and recover. With nothing else to occupy his time or his mind, the questions he'd been avoiding since his encounter with the THRUSH femme fatale had already begun hammering at him, and he already knew that no amount of strong drink would keep them at bay.
What had she done to him? How was it possible that he'd let her do what she'd done, and having allowed it, how was it possible that he'd taken any sort of pleasure in it? How in God's name had it been pleasurable? He'd believed all his life that it was impossible for a 'real' Top to take any pleasure in a submissive act, but it had been pleasurable, in spite of the fact that it was also very much unwanted.
Subs were taught that their bodies could betray them, and that they weren't responsible for their body's reactions to certain kinds of stimulations. Tops were never taught such things because their dynamic supposedly required them to be in control in order to feel any pleasure. That's what Napoleon had been told all his life, and by that logic Napoleon must have wanted what Angelique had done to him, subconsciously, at least. But what did that mean? Did that mean that he was really a sub? Had he really always been a sub? But that didn't make any sense, as he'd taken real pleasure in being a Top for all of his adult life.
Had Angelique's assault turned him into a sub? Was that even possible? Napoleon didn't think that it was, but then why had he responded as he had, and why was he still turned on by the memories, even as he was revolted by them? The questions became circular, one leading to another, which lead to another, until he found himself back at the first again. He spent his days in his dressing gown, standing by the window with a drink in his hand. He ordered food to be delivered and then picked at it, his appetite for food as absent as his appetite for anything else.
When the knock came at his door he felt the briefest moment of panic, not in fear of attack but that he'd possibly forgotten some appointment or engagement. He didn't even know what day it was. Pretty much the last person he expected to see through his door's peephole was the blonde headed figure of his one time partner. Napoleon opened the door in a confused daze, not even thinking about what his guest would see, or the conclusions he might draw.
This dawned on him, with a plunging sense of dismay, as he watched Illya take in the disorder in his usually immaculate apartment, the empty liquor bottles, the open boxes of congealing chinese food, is own disheveled state.
"I'm... I'm afraid I wasn't expecting company," he said feebly.
"So I see," Illya replied, without a single note of judgement in his voice. "It may not have occurred to you," he continued, "but it does happen to be Friday. They told me you were laid up and might not feel like going out, so I thought I'd bring the chess set to you." He held up the chess box he'd been holding all this time, but which Napoleon only now took note of. The bark of laughter which escaped him was acidly bitter.
"I appreciate the thought," he said sorrowfully. "But as you can see, there's no way I'll be giving you any sort of decent game this evening. I do apologize."
"So I see," the Russian repeated, giving a slow nod. "Well, now that I am here," he said, moving further into the room to set the chess set down between empties on the coffee table and clearing an assortment of newspapers and magazines off the sofa, "perhaps you'd best tell me what's going on."
For several seconds Napoleon struggled with some manner of denial, but the very directness of Illya's question made any attempt of this sort too pathetic. He was boxed in again, check and mate, and Napoleon found himself powerless to do anything but follow Illya to the sofa and sit on the other end, coming, after a moment, to lower his head into his hands.
"According to the UNCLE procedural manual," Illya contributed after a long silence, "I should be contacting the agency psychiatrist about now. I have a good idea, however, that sessions with the company shrink are about as popular here as they were in the KGB. I offer myself as an alternative, but if you find you cannot accept this alternative then the call will be made."
There was a certain steel in Illya Kuryakin's voice, reminding him of the firmness in Angelique's hands as she'd had her way with him. It seemed to steal his will away, so that his mouth was made to open, letting the first hesitant words out, of its own accord.
"There was... there was a sub in Imatra..." he began uncertainly. "At least, I thought she was a sub at first. It was during the Finland mission... and I'd gone out to pick up a sub for a night of play... nothing unusual, nothing every agent doesn't do if it won't jeopardize the mission." Illya nodded his understanding and Napoleon knew he could go on.
"I... she meant me to think she was a sub," Napoleon continued, admitting to how he'd been fooled. "But she wasn't... I don't know what she was... but we were just getting started... and then suddenly... I wasn't the Top any more, Illya... She... she Topped me... She fucking collared me and... and..." He reached for his glass, filled it with shaking hands and threw back the whole thing, shuddering.
"It... I... I don't know how to explain what it did to me, Illya, I don't know if you can understand..." A gentle touch on his shoulder stilled him and drew his gaze from the whisky stained coffee table to Illya's face. Impossibly, understanding was exactly what he saw there and Napoleon fell silent with astonishment.
"Perhaps," he said, voice gentle and compassionate, "I should tell you a little something about my own background at this point." Napoleon nodded, swallowing wordlessly.
"I presented myself as a sub when I joined the gymnastic team, because I knew that the coach favored subs," Illya began. "But in truth I had no idea what I was. When I joined the Navy I had an opportunity to claim that my dynamic had been incorrectly assigned. There was a sort of test they gave me to confirm it, but I knew I could make this test come out in whatever way I pleased, and I knew that I would have far more opportunities in the Soviet Navy as a Top. I served as a Top for my whole Naval career, and entered the KGB as a Top as well."
"That was how...!" Napoleon burst out, forgetting that he was interrupting.
"That was how," Illya interrupted right back, a knowing smile on his face, "I recieved a full KGB agent's training, and had several years of experience as a field agent, yes, Napoleon. But you see, I was not really a Top either, as much as I loved my work and was very good at it, and as much as I also loved Topping subs, there were still days when I desired more than anything to submit to a Top. There were a very few people I trusted with this secret, mainly people who suffered the same... urges as I. I played with these people exclusively, regardless of the role I was taking for the evening, and even so, one of them saw fit to turn me in, for impersonating a dynamic other than my true one."
"'Impersonating a dynamic'?" Napoleon repeated, not sure he'd heard correctly, for all that he knew of the absurdities of Soviet social restrictions. Illya's answering smile was pained.
"The mechanism of the Workers' Paradise cannot function if every part of the machinery does not know its proper place," Illya quoted wryly. "Subs who do not know their proper place are said to be suffering from ambition, a poison to the order and well being of the state. I was demoted from my position as field agent, all of the accomplishments I'd achieved as a Top were revoked or declared null and void, both in the KGB and the Navy, my pension was accordingly altered, and I was given a state collar, as are all unclaimed subs in the Soviet Union. So you see, Napoleon, I know exactly how it feels to be forced into wearing a collar."
Stunned by this narrative, Napoleon looked at the man sitting next to him on the sofa and saw, for the first time, the truth of who he was and how all the things he hadn't understood before now made perfect sense.
"But," he found himself saying, because one question yet remained to be answered. "You aren't really a Top, are you?"
"No, I am not," Illya agreed. "Nor am I a sub. According to the article I spoke to you about just before our mission, I am one of the rare few who fall right in the middle, fifty-fifty Top and sub."
"You're a switch," Napoleon said, as though it were a revelation. "The real thing."
"You say it as if you've discovered a leprechaun," Illya scowled. "I am a man, far less different from you than you think. Tell me the truth of what happened to you and I think you will come to understand the truth of my words."
Next: Napoleon subs!