MFU Fanfic: Night Train
May. 3rd, 2010 01:01 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
saki101Many thanks to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
utopiantrunks for guidance and encouragement. The shortcomings, however, are all mine.
Title: Night Train
Author: saki101
Fandom: Man from UNCLE
Pairing: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Genre: Slash
Rating: NC-17
Author's Notes: This ficlet, originally written for Prompt #248 at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
slashthedrabble, can be read alone or as a scene between the last scene in Chicago and the one which begins in Boston in Post 5 of Through the Invisible (scroll down). Here it has been slightly amended from the 500-word version for "slashthedrabble". (Also posted on MUNCLE.)
Excerpt:
Above him the bed creaked. Illya could hear the weighted curtains being unsnapped, letting in light from the dim corridor. He could see the outline of Napoleon’s pyjama-clad legs as he swung them over the side of the top bunk, kicking the drapes across his bunk further apart. He watched as Napoleon slid noiselessly to the floor, swaying slightly with the movement of the train rolling them rhythmically east. Napoleon disappeared from view as the curtains swung together.
******************
Above him the bed creaked. Illya could hear the weighted curtains being unsnapped, letting in light from the dim corridor. He could see the outline of Napoleon’s pyjama-clad legs as he swung them over the side of the top bunk, kicking the drapes across his bunk further apart. He watched as Napoleon slid noiselessly to the floor, swaying slightly with the movement of the train rolling them rhythmically east. Napoleon disappeared from view as the curtains swung together.
Weeks had passed since New York and Philadelphia and another week was supposed to pass before their rendezvous in Boston. In those weeks Illya had distanced himself from the feelings Napoleon’s presence provoked, from the intensity of those unexpected days and nights together, despite the cryptic and beautiful messages Napoleon had sent. Illya hadn’t reduced all his reactions to words, but he knew he had been holding something back. Then the telegram had arrived, one more surprise, and now Napoleon was here, on the overnight train from Chicago to Boston.
The curtains parted. Napoleon tossed his robe inside and slipped onto the narrow bunk beside Illya, turning his back for a moment to snap the curtains shut. The bed springs squeaked as he settled on his side, up on one elbow. The darkness was nearly complete, hiding their expressions. A tiny amount of grey seeped up from beneath the hem of the drapery, shifting with the rocking of the train. The passenger in the next bunk coughed and rolled over. Across the corridor, someone snored. They heard slippered feet shuffling past, murmured words and the clearer voice of the conductor explaining that the lavatories were in the next car. Illya reached out and rested his index finger on Napoleon’s lips.
Napoleon leaned forward until their foreheads met, touched the back of his hand to Illya’s cheek, traced along his jaw line to his chin, tilting it up. Illya’s hand found Napoleon's shoulder, fingertips skimming under his pyjama collar to the buttons. He smiled as he undid them. When he unfastened the one at the waist, Napoleon covered the smile with his lips. The motion of the train shifted the kiss back and forth between them until Illya curled his arm around Napoleon and pulled him onto his back, under him. Questions rose in Illya’s mind. He pushed the clothing aside and used his tongue differently, to ask without a sound. Napoleon gripped Illya’s shoulders in response, his hips thrusting upwards. The bed springs shrieked in protest. Napoleon froze.
Gradually, he settled back into the bunk, the springs sighing. Illya followed Napoleon down, resting his head on the pillow, the cadence of his breaths against Napoleon’s ear conveying his impatience. Napoleon stroked Illya’s hair; his other arm across the small of Illya’s back, pressing them together when the train rounded a curve, its brakes squealing.
Napoleon reached into the pocket of his robe. Illya smelt the oil before he felt it against his skin. Napoleon’s hand slipped between them, seeking out their warmest places. Shifting his knees forward, Illya arched his back and tucked his head between Napoleon's neck and shoulder. Napoleon’s hands glided up Illya's sides and back to his hips, his fingers stretching lower and further around with each pass. Illya drew the skin at the base of Napoleon's neck between his teeth and slowly lowered himself. They stilled then, letting the train roll them together.
The whistle blew as the train passed a deserted crossing, resumed its rhythm and picked up speed. It was a long way from the Great Lakes to the Atlantic.
utopiantrunks for guidance and encouragement. The shortcomings, however, are all mine.Title: Night Train
Author: saki101
Fandom: Man from UNCLE
Pairing: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Genre: Slash
Rating: NC-17
Author's Notes: This ficlet, originally written for Prompt #248 at
slashthedrabble, can be read alone or as a scene between the last scene in Chicago and the one which begins in Boston in Post 5 of Through the Invisible (scroll down). Here it has been slightly amended from the 500-word version for "slashthedrabble". (Also posted on MUNCLE.) Excerpt:
Above him the bed creaked. Illya could hear the weighted curtains being unsnapped, letting in light from the dim corridor. He could see the outline of Napoleon’s pyjama-clad legs as he swung them over the side of the top bunk, kicking the drapes across his bunk further apart. He watched as Napoleon slid noiselessly to the floor, swaying slightly with the movement of the train rolling them rhythmically east. Napoleon disappeared from view as the curtains swung together.
******************
Above him the bed creaked. Illya could hear the weighted curtains being unsnapped, letting in light from the dim corridor. He could see the outline of Napoleon’s pyjama-clad legs as he swung them over the side of the top bunk, kicking the drapes across his bunk further apart. He watched as Napoleon slid noiselessly to the floor, swaying slightly with the movement of the train rolling them rhythmically east. Napoleon disappeared from view as the curtains swung together.
Weeks had passed since New York and Philadelphia and another week was supposed to pass before their rendezvous in Boston. In those weeks Illya had distanced himself from the feelings Napoleon’s presence provoked, from the intensity of those unexpected days and nights together, despite the cryptic and beautiful messages Napoleon had sent. Illya hadn’t reduced all his reactions to words, but he knew he had been holding something back. Then the telegram had arrived, one more surprise, and now Napoleon was here, on the overnight train from Chicago to Boston.
The curtains parted. Napoleon tossed his robe inside and slipped onto the narrow bunk beside Illya, turning his back for a moment to snap the curtains shut. The bed springs squeaked as he settled on his side, up on one elbow. The darkness was nearly complete, hiding their expressions. A tiny amount of grey seeped up from beneath the hem of the drapery, shifting with the rocking of the train. The passenger in the next bunk coughed and rolled over. Across the corridor, someone snored. They heard slippered feet shuffling past, murmured words and the clearer voice of the conductor explaining that the lavatories were in the next car. Illya reached out and rested his index finger on Napoleon’s lips.
Napoleon leaned forward until their foreheads met, touched the back of his hand to Illya’s cheek, traced along his jaw line to his chin, tilting it up. Illya’s hand found Napoleon's shoulder, fingertips skimming under his pyjama collar to the buttons. He smiled as he undid them. When he unfastened the one at the waist, Napoleon covered the smile with his lips. The motion of the train shifted the kiss back and forth between them until Illya curled his arm around Napoleon and pulled him onto his back, under him. Questions rose in Illya’s mind. He pushed the clothing aside and used his tongue differently, to ask without a sound. Napoleon gripped Illya’s shoulders in response, his hips thrusting upwards. The bed springs shrieked in protest. Napoleon froze.
Gradually, he settled back into the bunk, the springs sighing. Illya followed Napoleon down, resting his head on the pillow, the cadence of his breaths against Napoleon’s ear conveying his impatience. Napoleon stroked Illya’s hair; his other arm across the small of Illya’s back, pressing them together when the train rounded a curve, its brakes squealing.
Napoleon reached into the pocket of his robe. Illya smelt the oil before he felt it against his skin. Napoleon’s hand slipped between them, seeking out their warmest places. Shifting his knees forward, Illya arched his back and tucked his head between Napoleon's neck and shoulder. Napoleon’s hands glided up Illya's sides and back to his hips, his fingers stretching lower and further around with each pass. Illya drew the skin at the base of Napoleon's neck between his teeth and slowly lowered himself. They stilled then, letting the train roll them together.
The whistle blew as the train passed a deserted crossing, resumed its rhythm and picked up speed. It was a long way from the Great Lakes to the Atlantic.
