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Napoleon was roused by the cheerful, oscillating ping of his phone. He accepted the video call from Illya, groaning even while he answered as he noticed the time. “You're up late,” he said, propping the phone against the pillow he wasn't using and turning over to face the wall.
“Just finished up. I missed you,” Kuryakin explained. “How is Minsk?”
“The same as when you left, but darker. Everything's taken care of, then?”
“Of course. I'm just sorry you can't be here.”
“Mr. Waverly thought it dangerous.”
Illya scoffed. “So he sends only me, rather than calling in another team. Typical. How are you feeling?”
Napoleon winced, remembering the pain anew as he turned back over to look at Illya. The weight on his cracked ribs made it a little hard to breathe, but he adjusted so his weight was supported more toward his front and gazed at his partner on the screen. Even through the slight grain, the Russian was bright-eyed and awake, still coming back down from an adrenaline high Napoleon would be spared the details of until they turned in their field report. “I'll live,” he answered flippantly.
Illya grinned. “Much to my chagrin.” He lowered his voice. “Turn your video on.”
Napoleon puffed out a surprised breath. Suddenly the late call made perfect sense. “You're certain you aren't being listened to?”
Illya shook his head. “Checked the room three times, not that it needed it. These old, remote hotels are extremely hard to bug without one noticing.”
He was making that last bit up, Napoleon could tell, saying it with extra confidence to bolster its credibility. “It's really dangerous if you get caught,” he whispered, but his lips felt dry and tightness stirred already in his belly, his body confident that they were going to do this despite his mind's reservations.
When Illya wanted something...
“Napoleon. I am entirely aware of the current political climate here. I'm also aware of how much I miss you, and of how excellently pliant you become post-mission. Let me make the broken ribs up to you, and you can make the distance up to me.”
“That doesn't -” Napoleon began, but Illya shushed him and tilted his laptop screen down, and all Napoleon could do was watch, mesmerized, as his partner undid his trousers, hearing him sigh as he took himself in hand and watching the way his abdominal muscles worked as he touched himself with spit-slicked fingers, coaxing his cock to fullness.
“I miss you, Solo. I'd do so much to show you how I miss you.” He gasped, his hips stuttering as he eased his thumb over his slit and he moaned, raising the pre-ejaculate that had begun to accumulate there off-camera to slurp loudly - dramatically - at his own fingers.
“What would you do?” Napoleon challenged, swimming through his lust-and-sleep-filled grog to finally turn on his front-facing camera and play along. He fluffed his pillow and propped himself against it, finding a better angle to watch the blond splay his fingers across his own stomach. Solo knew how he liked that touch, and he imagined his own hands there, running his fingernails through the downy hair and teasing Illya in pursuit of his main goal.
“What would I do – what would I do, indeed?” Illya mused, happy, for a moment, to trail both his hands across his own body, enjoying the way his nerves lit under the touch. He caressed his own chest with one hand while the other stayed spread against his belly, testing his self-control to keep from closing the short gap between his warm fingers and his dick. “That would depend on what you would do for me.” He sank lower in the desk chair, planting his feet firmly on the ground. “Have you missed me enough to make yourself ready for my return? Have you missed me enough to deny yourself release until I'm there to give it to you?”
Napoleon was always pleasantly shocked when Illya became vocal about his desires – it was such a rare thing, such a treat when he could indulge them both in a bit of fantasy, staunch realist that he was. Napoleon wished he could climb into Illya's mind, then, and live in a world where he could submit to Illya's every wild dream of him, whenever they wanted.
Apparently encouraged by the silence on the other end of the line other than Napoleon's increasingly shaky breaths, Illya continued, his English slurring further toward his Russian accent: “I'll tell you what I'll do, Napoleon, when I come back and find you all by yourself in that room, ready and wet and undressed and needy.” He tilted the screen back up so the webcam pointed at his face again, and Napoleon watched him enunciate deliberately, the blond's face flushed and gorgeous, his lips bite-swollen around the words. “I'll bend you over something, anything, and I'll drive inside you and tell you to come and I'll wait and feel you come around me, and then, and then – ah,” - he reached out and pressed the screen down again, a perfect view of his thick cock and full balls once again filling Solo's phone - “then I'll fuck you, Solo, I'll fuck you through another one, and another, and when I think you can't take anymore I'll get you on your knees, up against the wall, and I'll cover your pretty face with my come. I'll make sure you know who owns you, Napoleon, who misses you most.” He was thrusting up into his hand, and Solo mirrored his movement, tonguing the fingers of his free hand to get them soaked with spit and spreading his legs to shove them into himself, moaning loudly when the pad of his index slipped across his prostate.
“You're so filthy,” he breathed at Illya, absently, and heard a low, dark chuckle as response.
“Would that prove it to you, Napoleon? Would that prove how much I miss you, using both ends of you? How many fingers do you have in you now?” The question was abrupt, unexpected, and it shook Napoleon's whole world. “Two,” he gasped, turning to face the camera, still propped against the free pillow.
“Add a third for me,” Illya demanded, reaching down to tug at his balls with his other hand, delaying his imminent release. “You'll need more than two to get ready for me.” He watched Solo's lips part in swallowed protests and his back arch, his head tilting back into the pillow and he could tell he was obeying him by the way his cheeks flushed hot and his lips pursed in concentration.
“That's it. Yes, darling, take that like it's me... like I'm taking you, just think of me fucking you, slowly, over and over and over again, making you mine, making you scream.”
“Illya,” Napoleon warned, his tongue sharp against the roof of his mouth in pronouncing the name, and he felt dizzy, totally lost in this fantasy he hadn't known he and his partner shared. His head buzzed as he got closer and closer, and he pressed harder against the bud inside him, the little button of pleasure ecstatic and blooming under the stimulation. Something in him guided him but it wasn't his brain, it was pure instinct, and he heard himself begging Illya to fuck him, then heard himself begging Illya for release.
“Come for me, little darling. Show me how you miss me,” and Solo could feel even across the Russia-Belarus border that Illya was just behind him, their bodies as in sync as ever as his vision whited out for a moment, and he ground his hips down on his fingers to eke out the last of his orgasm, turning to face Illya through their screens as he came down.
Illya's cock was softening but his hand stayed rested upon it, pumping a last couple of times to a positively delightful full-body shiver effect and then flattening against the now-sticky landscape of his flat stomach as he went completely lax, every muscle feeling warm and pleasantly useless.
They breathed together for a few moments, both wishing the closeness were physical as well as psychic. Napoleon was the one to finally break their comfortable silence. “We should both get some rest,” he offered, and Illya nodded.
“I'll be back tomorrow night. Be ready for me,” he promised, and he was promptly hung up on.