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“How is it possible that you're getting more calls now, in Paris, than you ever did in Belgrade?” 

 

Ilija ignored the young man’s disapproving tone on account of half of Belgrade being muffled as he swallowed down his prick enthusiastically. He had ignored many things in the past week and a half because of that eager mouth. It was as talented at sucking cock as it was at reciting the most foolishly beautiful verses of the spy’s ‘plagiarized’ poetry, and sometimes the bandit did one after the other, just to watch Ilija squirm. Thick fingers buried themselves into black hair as the older man pulled Petar away with a weak groan. 

 

“Oh, and you're an expert on how many people can call me? I am-” Turned on beyond belief, Isuse , “an important man.” 

 

Petar looked about as convinced at the statement as the border control officer had been when Ilija had tried to explain away the gun he'd packed into his worn black leather suitcase, stuffed between his boxers and the ugly tracksuit Danica had snuck in when he wasn't watching. They really were going to get divorced over that fucking tracksuit one day. Djura had taken the gun from his hands then, aggressively threatening the bored uniformed men that she'd contact the embassy over this embarrassment, and she'd hugged him close, telling him to stay alive until she could find a way to ship it over to him. He'd nearly wept then. His older sister always had his back.

 

Ilija inhaled shakily as he accepted the call. Would Djura still embrace him if she could see him like this, in only his nightshirt and with fading red flecks on his inner thighs, where Petar had spilled Neka srca ćute upon his skin tenderly? 

 

He felt Petar jerk next to him as his twin's voice filled the bedroom with swears only a brilliant mind like hers could conjure up. She hadn't even waited for the line to open, so Ilija found himself in the middle of a very angry accusation - “ you'd forgotten all about the matters of national security and was probably sipping on some fancy fucking champagne with all the western traitors now, what would our deceased mother say!”-

 

“Djuro, whisper if you don't want the entirety of fucking Paris to hear you-” 

 

She must've drank, and for once he wished Petar wasn't a diabetic, because he wanted nothing more than to scream along with her. Ilija hoped that she was at her own apartment, and not keeping his poor wife up with all this noise. The thought of Danica made him go soft - his wife was waiting for him back home and he was here with - God -

 

“Djuro, I can't talk right now I'm in the middle of the mission, you're too fucking loud!” His sister only parroted the words back to him with a mocking tone, but she lowered her voice as she gave her daily report. Ilija stole a glance at his lover, who had his customary mask of neutrality on. Petar was a professional at looking unbothered, but by now he'd seen enough of him to know that the fingers tapping against his thigh and the twitching eyebrow meant that the younger man was annoyed at the interruption and that was not good. 

 

Petar hadn't said anything since the day they'd crossed paths at the bakery two blocks away from his apartment - Ilija in full spy gear and with a camera strapped to his chest, and the tailor in his casual street wear. There had been digs, of course, as Petar was a fan of sarcasm and passive-aggressiveness, but he'd never once accused him of anything. At first, Ilija had thought him stupid and overly confident - the man had walked by him setting up cameras and had offered nothing but a smile - but now he knew him well enough to know that Petar was doing him a kindness. The neutrality was tolerance. But the spy -- the man wasn't a saint.

 

“I'll send you the newest - Fuck!” The whisper turned into a groan as his cock was once again swallowed down to the hilt. He couldn't take his eyes off of this devil for even a second!

 

“I'm going to fucking kill you- No, Djuro! I'm not talking to you, for Christ's sake, keep talking.” Ilija struggled to keep his voice leveled as Petar cupped his balls, squeezing them while he kissed his tip playfully. He tried to push the man away with his free hand but only managed to make their eyes meet. Petar was smiling. The bastard knew this was a weakness of his, something his wife had never paid much attention to when she'd serviced him. Danica was a proper woman from a good home, and when she got down on her knees before him, there was nothing complicated or indulgent about it. Petar, in contrast, made everything decadent. From the way he cooked to the way he fucked, the younger man performed these tasks like they were life's greatest joy, like Ilija's cock was a gift he'd been given, meant to be enjoyed and revisited often. It was obscene, what the man wanted to do, and what he'd gotten him to agree to in this den of sin he called his apartment. If Ilija's face wasn't already dangerously red, he'd color at the thought.

 

Petar dragged his tongue over his entire length one last time, and then he took him in hand. It was another thing Ilija couldn't help but compare to his wife - the older man watched as his prick disappeared under Petar's hand, completely obscured save for the red cockhead that had precum forming on it. It felt disgusting, seeing the saliva mixing with his own arousal - and the noises, God, the noises , the wet sounds that filled the room and threatened to completely drown out his sister's shrill voice - Ilija felt overwhelmed. But he also couldn't remember ever feeling this turned on.

 

“I'll - nghh - I'll call you later!” Petar was kissing up his belly now, and Ilija knew that if he didn't finish this conversation fast, he'd have a lot more to answer for next time. “No! You don't need to come - motherfuckingshit - I'm fine I just dropped something! Now, goodbye-” Plush lips wrapped around his nipple and Ilija's hips bucked up instinctively. Petar tightened his grip on him, his free hand coming to rest on his other tit. He knew Djura was still yelling in his ear but he couldn't hear her over the pounding in his ears. The younger man thumbed at the hardening flesh, and squeezed the other between his teeth, just hard enough to make him see stars. 

 

The phone slipped from his hand. Petar sped up the pace, roughly fisting his cock until Ilija was a moaning mess, curses and pleas alike slipping from his lips in ecstasy. He felt his orgasm building, balls tightening in preparation, and he cried out his lover's name, his voice breaking over the ‘t’. As though summoned, Petar finally released his abused nipple with a wet kiss and pulled himself up so that they were face to face. How humiliating he must look - with his nose scrunched up and sweat and spit clinging to his skin in equal measure, an old man yelping through his climax. The only sign Petar was at all affected by the scene was his cock, which Ilija could feel grinding slowly against his leg. The bastard hadn't even broken a sweat.

 

“Now, wasn't that much better? Hm?” Ilija only grunted at the teasing before he spilled himself all over Petar's hand and his belly. The young man calling him ‘Mili’ in the same breathy voice Danica would when she was cumming on his prick did him in. He watched in a daze as Petar brought his hand up to his own lips and licked it clean. It's what startled him into awareness.

 

“The- The phone! Give me the phone!” His tongue felt fat and thick in his mouth, and he could barely feel his face. When he raised his arm to take the telephone from the unamused tailor, he saw that he was still shivering. 

 

The line was dead. 

 

“Why do you look like someone has died? Come on, set the phone down.” 

 

“Do you know - fuck, I can't do this…” Ilija covered his face in defeat. Now that the high was gone, his mind had nowhere to go. If Djura had heard - if she had heard him unraveling under this man's touch - he could never come home again, he could never face any of them, especially not his wife - Isuse, his fucking wife, who he'd been humiliating with every kiss he accepted from this spy… He couldn't breathe. There was a sharp pain cutting across his chest, and he could only think he deserved this, to die from his sick heart in a traitor's bed. Would they even accept his body back in Serbia, for this treason?

 

A hand touched his chin.

 

“Ilija.” He peered through his fingers to see Petar's face close enough to notice the green flecks in his eyes. “I cut the call off. Set the phone down and come back to me.”

 

“You-” He took several large breaths, “Well, naturally, it's your fault for distracting me in the first place. It's the least you could do, you fiend.” 

 

“Was I that distracting?” 

 

Ilija moved his hands finally and looked at Petar properly. The man had a perplexing look on his face, one similar to the one he'd come to expect from his wife. This man wore it differently, the lines were all wrong, but it calmed him down anyway. 

 

“You're a menace, that's what you are. Stop grinning!” 

 

Petar pressed a kiss to his temple, and then he rolled over with his back to him.

 

“Good night, Ilija.”

 

Ilija still had drying cum on his belly. “It's not a good night, Jakovljevicu.”

 

Ten minutes later, the older man's face was pressed against Petar's thick black hair, with his arms hugging the skinnier form close. They'd have time for arguing tomorrow.