For the QuoteMe - Deux

[glennagirl.livejournal.com]

Charm is the quality in others that makes us more satisfied with ourselves.
Henri Frederic Amiel
~~~~~:
I was inspired to present two stories for this challenge, one each for Napoleon and Illya.  First is the Napoleon story.

Pleasing In Every Way

Napoleon Solo scanned the room, his eyes landing on the hostess of this grand spectacle. Camilla Van Doren Wilde was reigning over the festivities much as a woman might who wielded great power, and to a degree she did have some, if knowledge were to be considered power.  The real power in this room belonged to her husband, Sir Richard Langley Wilde, however, and he was a member of THRUSH.

Luckily for Solo he was unknown, as yet, to Sir Richard.  Unfortunately, Solo’s partner, Illya Kuryakin, had been found out and thrown into a cell somewhere in this old castle.  Napoleon didn’t know the details, but before losing contact with his friend, Illya had indicated that he was being hotly pursued by Lady Wilde.  It was Solo’s theory that, considering Illya’s lack of enthusiasm for playing sex games with THRUSH, Camilla had taken out her ire on the Russian, possibly alerting Sir Richard to the blond’s identity.  It was a quirk of fate, unfortunate now in hindsight, that Camilla knew both UNCLE agents from a previous encounter in Cannes.  Before she married Sir Richard she had been part of the all girl crew employed by Dr. Egret in the Nazarone Affair.

Napoleon’s attention was now focused on the lady in question.  He approached her with all the charm of a knight gallant ready to ride for his lady love.  Turning on the charm was Solo’s specialty and he did it now like someone else might turn on a water faucet.

It was a matter of a few turns on the dance floor before Lady Camilla Van Doren Wilde was ready to take her new discovery upstairs and let him have his way with her.  Being married to a THRUSH chief meant many nights alone, and certainly she was second or third in his list of priorities.  THRUSH occupied his mind, his energies and his virility.  Camilla was a THRUSH widow, albeit a wealthy and pampered one.

Napoleon allowed Camilla to lead him upstairs via a back stairwell.  The swish of Satin against ancient carpets heightened the mood as Napoleon followed the shapely woman up a spiraling staircase and onto a broad, opulently appointed landing.  To the right was a hallway that obviously led to bedrooms, while the left took a turn that seemed to go back down to a lower level.  Napoleon knew he would be returning to this spot sometime this evening.

Camilla opened a door to a beautiful bedroom that Napoleon assumed had been used before for clandestine affairs.  Once safely inside, he wrapped his arms around Camilla, and began the seduction in earnest.

The woman in his embrace was swooning with each kiss, languid within the arms of a man she had barely dared to hope would be the embodiment of all she needed tonight.  The rustle of fabric was the only sound as her gown fell to the floor.  Napoleon picked up the petite beauty in strong arms.  She sighed in satisfaction.

Low lights added to the mood as he gently laid her down on the bed, caressing each earlobe with a brush of his lips; his hands busily unfastened her brassiere before she found herself lying atop the creamy silk duvet.  She was amazed at how deftly he had performed the act, shivering with anticipation of what would surely come next.

“Darling, do you intend to disrobe me completely without removing one bit of your own clothing?”  The smile she received in return disarmed her, caused the air to warm slightly as he continued the ritual of undressing her in spite of the lack of covering.

First the stockings, one at a time, slowly and methodically as though he feared causing a run in the delicate items.  When she started to speak again he shushed her with a kiss, as light as the stockings and nearly as shear.  A deep sigh accompanied the removal of the last piece of lingerie, leaving her lying naked before his admiring eyes.

“You, my love, are a work of art.’  He ran a practiced finger along the curve of her breast, hesitating as she sucked in a breath.  The smile on his lips curved with the crook of his upper lip, a knowing and wise smile from a master of seduction.

“Do you wish for me to continue, or shall I simply tuck you into your bed?”  A shiver made the woman curl into a ball, beckoning this love god to join her as she reached one hand towards him.

“Please Napoleon, you’re tormenting me with all of this delicious foreplay.  I really do hope you intend to prove your worth to me…’ A coy look accompanied that statement.

“After all, I could have turned you over to my husband.  If not for me you would have joined your friend, that blond fellow who is now rotting away in the dungeon of this dreary castle.  I would gladly do it again, but a little sign of appreciation would be… mmmm….”

Napoleon Solo dove in for all it was worth at that moment, kissing the blonde beauty as he explored her with his hands, setting off sighs and groans that told him she was his for the taking.

“Camilla, my darling…”  She cooed as he said her name, ready for him to ravish the willing damsel she imagined herself to be.  At just the right moment, without ever having removed a stitch of his own clothing, Solo brought her to a satisfying climax, complete with shrieks of ecstasy and breaths heavy enough to blow down the proverbial brick house.

 Napoleon took one of her dainty, perfectly manicured hands and raised it above her head and handcuffed her to the ornate brass headboard.

“Napoleon?  Darling, what sort of game are we going to play?”

“Not a game, darling.  That fellow, the one you did betray and who is, as you mentioned, rotting down in the dungeon… he is my friend, and my partner.  I intend to get him out and, unfortunately for you, your husband will find you here like this; naked and … well, you get the idea.”

Camilla gasped at the horror that would probably be hers to endure.  Sir Richard was a jealous man, evil and cruel to his enemies; most probably he would treat an unfaithful wife to the same fate.

“Napoleon, please.  You charmed me completely with this act of yours, I thought you cared for me just a little.”  Her voice was clearly strained by fear of what might happen next.  All of this because of that ill-mannered Russian, if only he had acquiesced to her pursuit.

“I tried to save him, honestly I did.”  Napoleon smirked at the vain attempt to dissuade him for this course of action.

“I seriously doubt that, Camilla.  He rebuffed your advances and so you betrayed him to your husband, lied about who had tried to seduce whom.

She spat at him then.  It was a feeble attempt, and considering her position the spittle landed on her bare belly, much to her disgust.

“I’ll get you for this Napoleon.  Just wait, I’ll make it happen.  And your little friend is probably dead by no….”  Napoleon had removed his handkerchief and stuffed it into the woman’s mouth.  Time was wasting and he needed to get to Illya before what she said came to pass.

“Good-bye Camilla.  You won’t be seeing me again, at least not if you’re lucky.”  He blew her a kiss and exited, aware now of where to look for his unlucky partner.


Illya Kuryakin was chained to a stone wall between two skeletons.  It was a dire situation, although he still had hopes of either escaping or being rescued.  Napoleon knew where he was, that was something at least.

The Lord of this THRUSH infested manor had been less than hospitable to the UNCLE agent, letting two of his brutish lackeys have their fun at the Russian’s expense.  His body was aching now from a thorough beating, and he was fairly certain that at least one of his ribs was broken.  Why was it always a rib?  Better than a leg or an arm, he reckoned.

Kuryakin was stretched to every bit of his ability to reach, his wrists bloodied by now from the stress of metal against skin and bone.  The goons had made him strip down to his underwear before pummeling him within near unconsciousness.  That made his bones ache even more, the nakedness of it all.  It was cold down here, and damp.  Hanging as he was, Illya had a sudden surge of empathy for the two racks of bones that hung next to him.  He hoped that Napoleon was close by; the thought of dying here like this was distasteful.

A creaking sound alerted Illya to someone opening the outer door to his prison.  Unlike the sound of mice or rats that he was sure inhabited this place, the metal sound offered the prospect of human contact.  Illya hoped that it wasn’t more brutality coming his way.

“Illya?”  That voice was unmistakable.

“Napoleon?  It’s about time you got here.”  Solo came into view, a welcome sight in a tailored tuxedo.  He looked as though he hadn’t even breathed hard.

“I see you’re just hanging around the old place.” Napoleon was relieved that his friend wasn’t any worse off than he appeared to be.  A few bruises were expected, after all.

“Very funny.  Now please, get me down from here and … ouch.”  As his arms came down the muscles revolted and seized up in identical cramps.  Illya wrapped his arms around his aching torso, not sure if it was helpful when he encountered the broken rib.

“Illya, can you move quickly?  I don’t think we have much time.”  Solo could easily ascertain the damage, he’d had enough of the same types of injuries to know what was plaguing his partner.

“I can and I will.  Hold on…” Illya headed towards the pile of clothes that he had been forced to remove.  The shirt was in tatters, but the trousers were still intact.  He put his jacket on over his bare shoulders, glad for the warmth it afforded.

“All right, now I’m ready.  Let’s go.”  At that word they were off into the winding staircase by which Napoleon had arrived.  At the top of the stairs Illya stuck his head out, hoping to see nothing.  He was rewarded with that, although the sound of angry voices could be heard a few doors down.

“Oh, well… I think that might be Sir Richard and Camilla.  I might have left her in a compromising position.”  Napoleon shrugged his shoulders as if to indicate his remorse, but Illya didn’t believe it.

“I hope she found you thoroughly worth her indiscretion.  Sir Richard will not be kind to her.”  That made Napoleon wonder if they should rescue her.  After all, he had seduced her.  His charm was like a weapon sometimes, but a weapon of good intentions.

“Perhaps…”  Illya cocked his head, considering what he knew his friend was thinking.

“No, I think not. We had better get out of here, and quickly.  From the sound of it the alarms will sound any time now.”

In fact, they had only minutes to spare as the two men raced through the ballroom and out the front door.  Illya managed to hotwire a Ferrari that was parked nearest the drive, and they were out of reach of Wilde’s men by the time it was known that Illya had escaped.

While the countryside swept by under the cover of night, Illya felt the effects of his ordeal as the adrenalin began to dissipate in his system.  He pulled over to the side of the road, anxious to let Napoleon finish the drive back to London.  Illya’s jacket was pulled tight around his body to keep out the cool air, while Napoleon still looked like he was just stepping out for an elegant evening.  The contrast was not lost on either man.

“You know, Camilla wouldn’t have turned you over to Sir Richard if you had simply given in and … romanced her.  Why didn’t you?”

Illya rolled his eyes, setting off a headache that had been loitering for some time.

“I had a job to do, and at the time … I am not entirely sure why not, Napoleon.  Sometimes I just do not have the inclination to romance every woman who demands it.  Unlike you, charm does not accompany me everywhere I go.  You do have an uncanny ability to make every woman feel wanted, or loved or … something.  Even Camilla, I suppose, was better for having encountered the Solo Charm.”

“Gee, thanks Illya.  I think.”  Napoleon smiled at his irascible Russian friend.  Illya scowled, almost regretting having spoken so kindly about what normally was a source of irritation to him.
“Do not let it go to your head, Napoleon.  I still think you ought to try and turn it off once in a while.”  That made Napoleon smile even more.

“What?  Turn off my charm?  I think not, my grumpy friend.  As long as there are women who need me, I will be there to perform whatever service I can for their benefit; even someone like Camilla.  At least she felt good about herself for a while.”

Both men were silent then, thinking that Camilla probably wasn’t feeling very good right about now.  Fortunes of war, and love.  When it got down to it, there wasn’t much difference between the two.

“Take me home, Napoleon, or as close as we can get to it.  I do not feel very well.”

“Your wish is my command, tovarisch.”  Napoleon turned the key in the ignition and drove into the night while Illya considered how lucky he was to have someone like Napoleon to rescue him.  All things considered, he felt pretty good about it.

:::~~~~~:::~~~~~:::~~~~~:::~~~~~:::~~~~~:::~~~~~:::

O Kuryakin, Where Art Thou?

Illya Kuryakin was not known for his charm, although he did have his own brand of the stuff.  A cool gaze was known to send secretaries into wild imaginings while the timid smile, rare but coveted, had the effect of making a woman feel somehow chosen. Kuryakin’s charm was not dispensed randomly or unknowingly, perhaps making it all the more desirable.

The woman who was currently attempting to swill the Russian like a generous portion of vodka was a THRUSH temptress named Veronica Leghorn.  An unfortunate name to be sure, but it somehow matched her temperament as well as the long limbs upon which she walked so resolutely.  In a skirt that could have doubled as skin for the way it fit, with a slit up to regions normally reserved for intimate relations, Veronica had it bad for the Russian.  If not for her seemingly ardent affection for all things THRUSH, she would gladly have forfeited both fortune and power for one night with the handsome blond known to her only as Kuryakin.  She insisted on calling him only by his last name, as though he were a rock star or fashion designer.

“Oh, Kuryakin, you look very uncomfortable in that position.  I really do want to help you, if only you will renounce UNCLE and come be by my side.  I promise to protect you from anyone who would dare and try to exact revenge on your previous actions against the Hierarchy.  Kuryakin, I adore you.”

Illya was unsure what he had done to merit this devotion from Veronica, but she was correct in assuming that he was in some physical distress.  He was stripped nearly naked, having been allowed to retain his boxers, although he felt they were not long for service since the fabric had been shredded somewhat during an altercation with a knife wielding guard.  It had been a short lived attempt at escape, the result for which he was now enduring.  Illya could feel the cold metal beneath him through the tears in his shorts, something not lost on the lovely Veronica Leghorn.


“I believe that you do honestly wish to help me, Veronica, uh… darling.  If I leave UNCLE, however, my former employer, the Soviet government, will most likely have me killed.  You can see my predicament, I hope, regardless of how tempting you are.”

Veronica sighed, it was the first sign of love from her Russian stud.  If only they hadn’t been fated for this drama.

“We are like Romeo and Juliet, my fair Kuryakin.  The trouble is, I don’t really think I could terminate myself over you, although…”

That didn’t sound very promising, and Illya envisioned (only briefly) the tragic scene where Juliet plunges the knife into her pert breasts.  And then he sighed, realizing how his association with Napoleon had dulled his classical sensitivities.  Nowhere in Shakespeare’s account did he mention pert breasts.  That had Napoleon written all over it.

“Veronica, my dearest… if you could only release me from this  … um, here…”  Blue eyes appeared limpid and loving as he looked at the buxom redhead.  Illya was suddenly a little fearful of what might happen should she let him go; the woman was half a head taller than he and so well endowed, he was slightly intimidated at the prospect of … But he was Russian, and would not be bowed by female attributes.

“Oh Kuryakin, how I would love to do that.  But, you see my love, there is someone on the way here who has stated that he must have you and that he intends to break you.  If you would just give me the information now, then I could let you go and we would be together.”

 That last was said with a tinge of wistfulness, something that Illya didn’t imagine was a normal part of Veronica’s personality.  How did Napoleon deal with this on a regular basis, he wondered?
“I cannot, and I am sure you would think less of me were I to simply give up the information…’  Illya had an idea then, and since he had nothing to lose really, he ventured out into deeper waters.

“However, if you were to pretend that I have told you, then we could both leave here.  You could say that you are taking me to a safe place, and that you will divulge the information after we are well away from here.  Then we can be together… my dove.”

Veronica was considering it, unsure whether or not to believe her blond Adonis; the charm could be deceit, but it made her feel good to be with him, and he had called her his dove…

“All right, I shall do it.  But you must promise me something.”  Veronica suddenly looked vulnerable, something that unnerved the Russian.  He didn’t want to be unkind, but this was THRUSH; she was THRUSH.  It wasn’t a love affair, and he had to shake off his feelings of chivalry and decorum.

“All is fair in love and war, my sweet.  We shouldn’t let what others have ordained stand in the way of our being together.  Should we?”

Veronica was untying the ropes that held the nearly naked agent.  When he sat up the remains of his underwear hung limp from the elastic band at his waist.  Deciding that modesty was not his priority at the moment, Illya stepped out of what was left of his boxers and tossed them aside.  Veronica stood and watched, transfixed by the sight of what she had so long desired.  Without regard to the location and timing, she plunged toward Illya, pinning him to the metal table from which he has just risen.  Her kisses were passionate, her hands frenzied as they reached for him… all of him.

“Veronica… umm… ooh… mmmm…” Illya was finally able to push her away from him, both of them breathless and, much to his chagrin, enlivened by the encounter.

“Oh, Kuryakin…”  She moaned his name, something Illya decided he was tiring of quickly.

“Veronica, we must leave here. Now.  I need some clothing…”  She straightened up and without delay found a THRUSH jumpsuit, throwing it to Illya as she continued to watch him.  He was certain she had licked her lips, but he hurriedly dressed himself, locating a pair of boots in the locker near the door.  (He made a mental note to ask Napoleon why he thought there was always a THRUSH uniform handy when it came time to make an escape.)

“What is the quickest way out of here?  If you want to have dinner with me tonight in Milan, I suggest you lead us out of here now.”   With that suggestion planted in her mind, Veronica began the ascent from the basement of the old villa and up through a winding staircase, out onto a balcony that overlooked a small patio.  Illya clucked his tongue at the lack of security, certain now that he and Veronica could get out of the villa and into a nearby jeep, the vehicle of choice it seemed for many THRUSH outposts.

At that moment Veronica stopped in her tracks, her long legs like Corinthian columns in the fading sunlight.  Illya took a second to reconsider his reasons for not wanting to cooperate with the Amazonian woman.

“Kuryakin, do you love me, just a little?”  There was a plaintive quality to her voice that made Illya feel guilty for his deception.  He might have seduced her and been able to live with himself, but for her to question him now like this…

“Veronica, you are perhaps the most imposing woman I have ever met; and I mean that as a compliment.  Not only are you beautiful, you are clever and, if this is any indication, a romantic at heart.  That is something I do not expect of anyone within THRUSH.”

But that did not answer her question, and it showed on her face in the lone tear that fell from her right eye.  Something about that intrigued Illya.  And then he touched her, running his hand up her arm, over the exposed shoulder and then the smooth skin of Veronica’s back.  What he felt next confirmed a suspicion that he had only allowed to surface in the course of this latest encounter with the perfect woman called Veronica Leghorn.

She saw the look of recognition on Kuryakin’s face, and her heartbreak was so real, so complete, that her entire system broke down, and with one last look into his blue eyes, Veronica went offline.

Illya was stunned into a temporary stupor.  He could hardly believe that this woman, this… creature… had been another THRUSH fembot.  They had certainly perfected them if Veronica was any indication; so human in appearance and, to his surprise, emotionally real.

Illya heard the sound of boots on tile, and with one last look at the beautiful Veronica, he bounded down the last set of stairs and into that waiting jeep.  He was on the road and heading towards Milan before long, unaware that Veronica had come back on, just in time to thwart several THRUSH guards in their attempt to get past her.  Ultimately, she died trying to save her Kuryakin.

Two days later Illya was back in New York, seated at the table around which decisions and dictates were made.  Mr. Waverly had finished reading the report on his mission, and without any apologies for its contents, Illya was ready to answer any and all questions.  Well, almost any and all.

Napoleon was watching his partner, his own take on this affair not yet fully resolved.  Finally, he just had to ask.

“So, Illya, are you telling me that this … fembot, was in love with you?  I can barely believe it, but then again if you’ve actually included it in your report, I don’t think I can doubt it.”  The CEA was both amazed and amused.  Leave it to his stoic Russian partner to be the love object of a robot.

“I assure you, I could never make this up.  She seemed to have developed some type of primal attraction, probably a glitch in their programming.  I wish I could have brought her back.”  Napoleon smirked at that.

“I bet you do.”

Mr. Waverly was not amused.

“Mr. Kuryakin, I’m afraid we may have a bit of a conundrum upon us.”  Both Illya and Napoleon looked quizzically at their boss.

“And what might that be, sir? The robot, fembot… she was disabled.  Unless there were more like her…”

“Ah, yes I see recognition now in your expression.  Our best intelligence assures us that there are, indeed several more of these Leghorn models, and that each of them was programmed with a particular image implanted into their memories.”

Illya looked stricken.

“Several, sir?  Are you quite certain?  I… um… “  He was speechless.  Waverly was less concerned about who the robots might have in mind as love objects, and more agitated that they were out there somewhere, operating at the whim of some THRUSH scientist.

“You and Mr. Solo will, of course, be apprised of any sightings.  I expect you, Mr. Kuryakin, to be doubly on guard for any female that seems overly impressed by your charms.  They may have altered the appearance of the Leghorn model, just to throw us off.  Oh well then, that will be all gentlemen.  Dismissed.”

As Illya and Napoleon stood up to leave, the pneumatic doors whooshed open and a female employee entered.  She was unknown to either agent, but she set her sights on the blond and winked at him.  Illya checked the cut of her skirt and the length of her legs, then satisfied that she wasn’t one of the Leghorn fembots, he smiled in return.

Napoleon thought she might be a fembot, since she had obviously bypassed him.  At least now he had a theory about the women who preferred his partner.

“Bad programming.”  He said it under his breath, and smiled.

Comments

[glennagirl.livejournal.com]

Thanks :D Well, let's face it, IK's adventure was a little larger than life, so comparing her to the entrance of an ancient temple seemed somehow appropriate.