Section Two agents all loved sportscars. That was no secret as far as anyone was concerned, and usually Napoleon would agree with them, but there was something about being unceremoniously dumped in the passenger seat of one that left much to be desired.
Not that he had much choice in the matter, given that his ankle was currently swollen to three times its usual size, so Illya had been forced to half-carry him across the last half-mile or so to where the car was hidden. No matter how invulnerable he might usually feel, Napoleon had known straight away that he wouldn't be walking on that foot for a while, let alone driving, and had handed the keys to the MGB GT over without a word of complaint.
"You weigh a ton," Illya said, settling into the drivers seat.
"Morphine?" Napoleon heard his voice emerge in an unseemly croak and shifted uncomfortably, which only led to his ankle brushing against the side of the footwell. He bit back the hiss of pain that threatened to sneak out after his request.
"Sorry." For once, Illya actually looked a little apologetic, which wasn't usually the case when he was apologizing. "Not till we get to Medical."
"Damn."
Napoleon's hands tightened on the seat cover, his white-knuckled grip immediately obvious to the two of them. This was going to be a painful journey, no matter how carefully his partner drove.
There was silence for a moment; Napoleon closed his eyes and waited for the familiar purr of the motor. That was one of the things the Section Two agents loved - there was often a good reason for speed, of course, in their line of work, but the growl of a well-tuned engine also added something to the appeal. The sleek lines of a car like this didn't hurt either, particularly when it came to either attracting the attention of beautiful women or making the agents in question feel like the next best thing to James Bond.
Illya didn't start the car.
If he hadn't been gripping the edge of the seat so hard, Napoleon would probably have jumped at the first touch, the tentative brushing of Illya's fingers across the cloth that covered Napoleon's groin. He kept his eyes closed, almost certain he was imagining this, that the pain from his ankle had somehow made him go crazy. Illya's breath was hot on the side of his face, the whispered words almost inaudible.
It was Russian, no doubt about it, full of the slang only a native would know, much of which Napoleon had picked up along the way. Disgusting slang, full of muttered references to sexual practices, ones which Illya was now telling him he intended they try the next time they had a bed available to the two of them.
The words had an almost-Pavlovian response, as Napoleon felt himself begin to get hard, just as Illya's fingers slipped between the buttons of his fly and began to work their magic, freeing him from his pants with a deft twist.
"Bozhe moy," he groaned, as Illya's hand wrapped around his length, pumping him once, twice in quick succession.
There was no let up in the torrent of words, even though it was all Napoleon could do to concentrate on the images Illya was describing, the things he'd always wanted Napoleon to do to him and that he intended to do in return. Things Napoleon would happily do and have done to him, if only those fingers didn't stop what they were doing now, the slow exploration of his cock, thumbing over the foreskin and tracing the long vein that ran underneath.
He was close now, his grip on the material of the car seat tightening till he heard the fabric groan, imagined his fingernails digging through into the horsehair and springs beneath. Napoleon's hips jerked, urging Illya on, and jerked again when his hand sped up once more, as if following the movement.
The words stopped, suddenly, and Napoleon opened his eyes just in time to see Illya go down on him, taking his length in one swift movement and pulling the orgasm from him with consummate ease. Try as he might, and Napoleon had certainly tried, he had never been able to emulate Illya's expertise with giving blowjobs. He groaned again, no words this time, as the world swam around him.
"That was... unexpected," Napoleon said, once he had got the feeling back in his hands and tucked himself back into his pants. "Great, but unexpected."
Illya had clambered back into the driver's seat by this time and looked at him like he'd sucked Napoleon's brain out through his cock, which was such a familiar expression Napoleon couldn't help but smile.
"Do you want to be the one explaining to the UNCLE mechanics how your semen came to be all over the car?" he asked, then turned the key in the ignition.
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Disclaimer: Not mine. This story is written for entertainment purposes only - no money whatsoever has changed hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations and storyline are the property of the author - not to be archived elsewhere without permission.