Work Text:
The Peanut Butter Affair
by Sandra Esparza
"*Mmmm*, Darling," she purred. "Your kiss is so...lifeless."
The blond Agent stared past the head of the equally blond Counter Agent. His blue eyes reflected utter boredom. Her green ones reflected amusement at the situation they found themselves in.
While in-between assignments, the THRUSH Operative stumbled upon her quarry quite by accident. Asking the U.N.C.L.E. Agent for a light, there was no way he could have known she would blow the smoke into his face, causing him to become lightheaded and disoriented.
He tried to brush her off when she slipped her arms around him except he was much too weak.
"Come along, Darling," she cooed in her sardonic drawl, guiding him to her convertible. A few pokes and prods of her handgun and he was marched into the basement of a house in the suburbs---a basement with chains welded to the wall. In short order she had each wrist handcuffed at shoulder level, and his ankles bound together.
"You don't kiss at all like that dreamy partner of yours," Angelique Winter traced her captive's jawline with a long, manicured fingernail painted blood-red. "What's the matter, Darling?" she pouted prettily. "Cat got your tongue?"
Illya Kuryakin continued to deny her very existence.
Temporarily stymied, the viper pressed her body flush with his, rubbing against him like a playful kitten---a kitten with extra sharp claws. Kissing him full on the mouth, she moved a hand luridly between his legs.
As he closed his eyes against her onslaught, the left corner of her mouth curled upwards in a triumphant smile. *No* man could resist her! They were like toys to her. To be manipulated, dominated, punished.
"Could you hurry this along?" Illya said dryly. "I have several reports which are due by the end of the day."
The viper reared back on her long neck, her eyes dark with anger.
"*OH!!*" she snarled at him. "You---You---"
"Sorry, I did not catch what you were saying. It is hard to understand you when you talk out of the side of your mouth. I am guessing you think it is...sexy? And do not get me started on your misguided attempts to sound aristocratic."
"You might do well to remember you are my *captive*, Mr. Kuryakin. I could make your life a living hell!!"
"If you are proposing marriage, thank you, but I am not interested."
"Why you...!" she floundered for a cutting remark to bring the Russian back into line. Instead, she drew her hand back to slap his smug face when lightning-quick he grabbed a handful of her hair with his right hand.
It was satisfying for him to see the momentary look of absolute terror in her green cat eyes. It was instantly replaced with fury as she pounded him with her fists, trying to get loose.
"Surrender or I will pull out your hair by their peroxided roots," Illya gave said hair a smart, painful yank.
Angelique acquiesced, wondering how she got into this mess, and more importantly, how would she get out of it!
Tugging his other wrist free of the too-large handcuffs, he took the keys from her skirt pocket and handed them to her.
"Unlock them," he ordered.
Angelique Winter, renowned femme fatale, Agent provocateur, and feared Neutralizer, bent down on one knee to unlock the chains around her prisoner's ankles, his hand tight in her hair, making her wince and her eyes water---which she refused to admit were tears.
Once free, he shoved her roughly to the floor and scooped up her handgun from where she had set it on a work table. Suddenly, there was a clamor of footsteps on the stairs.
"Well, well, well," Napoleon Solo said, looking around at the various whips, chains, clamps, pokers, and knives tacked to the wall of the soundproof basement. "All the comforts of home, I see."
"You really have a *beastly* partner, Napoleon," she whimpered as he gallantly helped her to her feet. Making her eyes round and heartrending, she said, "He pulled my hair and threw me to the floor!"
"Didn't I warn you not to play with fire? You just wouldn't listen."
"You *will* let me go, though, won't you, Darling?" she lowered her head submissively. "I never *hurt* the miserable---"
"Ah-ah-ah," Napoleon put a finger to her lips. "If you can't say anything nice than don't say anything."
"Mr. Solo?" said a voice from the top of the stairs.
"Down here."
Soon, a man stepped into the room.
"The building is secure, Sir," he informed the Chief Enforcement Agent.
"Very good, Hewlett. Would you be so good as to transport this vixen to our most comfortable holding cell?"
"Napoleon...?" Angelique appealed to him with an innocent whine.
"Oh. Do not allow her to smoke," Illya threw in. "Her cigarettes are drugged."
"This way, Miss," Agent Hewlett led the disbelieving blond from the room.
"Are you all right?" Solo asked his partner as Illya stood rubbing his wrists.
"I am more...inconvenienced," the Russian said.
"Sorry we couldn't get here sooner; traffic, you know," Napoleon smiled winsomely. "Still, we have on THRUSH Agent off the streets, we know without a doubt the homing beacon in your watch works, and we are now the proud owners of this...torture chamber."
"Knowing the rattler as we do, you may want a Sweeper Team to check the attic and the backyard for buried bodies!"
"Hmm, what's this?" Solo used his index finger to wipe off a smudge of red lipstick from around Illya's mouth. "Maybe I should have taken ze scenic route, eh, Pussycat?"
Illya let out a beleaguered sigh. "*You* may enjoy kissing the snake, but I found her kisses to be...wanting."
Napoleon, who *had* kissed---and bedded---the snake, had a baffled look on his face.
"For example...?" he said.
Letting out a second, longer sigh, Illya took Solo's face in the palm of his hands and brought his lips down in a kiss that was commanding, demanding, and heavily spiced with danger.
As they separated, Illya held Napoleon's shoulders until the older Agent caught his balance.
"'Passion'," Illya said. "Her kisses lack 'passion'."
With that, the blond headed for Angelique's car to retrieve his gun from the glove compartment.
Napoleon Solo, renowned Casanova and hedonist, stood with his mouth dropped open and his eyes as big as saucers.
"Are you coming?" Illya called down to him from the landing.
"...almost...!" Napoleon said under his breath, adjusting the crotch of his pants. "...almost...!"
And that's all she wrote!
WEBPAGE: http://www.geocities.com/illyasgirl