Why Napoleon Does Not Carry Windex in His Overnight Bag      Why
Napoleon Does Not Carry Windex in His Overnight Bag by TheRimmerConnection
 
 
Disclaimer: Only mine in my wildest dreams... 

 

He stood in front of the mirror, the last of the true daylight reflecting
back onto his near-naked body, misting it with purples and yellows to
match the bruising all over his upper body. He plucked at a twist in the
elastic of his white underpants, straightening them out. Then he pulled
his shoulder forward and frowned at it as he ran a hand down his arm to
investigate the extent of the bruising on the back of it. He turned back
to face the mirror full-on, staring so intently at his own reflection that
he was taken by surprise when a pair of hands fell on his shoulders. 

His right arm flew back while he elbowed viciously with his left, but the
elbow jab was evaded and his right arm caught and countered. 

'Must you creep up on me like that?' he muttered as he relaxed and started
to work on bringing his adrenaline levels back down to a manageable level.


'Sorry, Illya, I thought you'd seen me coming.' Napoleon let go of his
arm, replacing his hand on Illya's shoulder. 'I didn't think you were the
narcissistic type,' he went on, a chuckle in his voice. 

Illya shot him an ugly look in the mirror. As he moved his head, the
setting sun shone brightly orange through his hair, dazzling them both.
Napoleon reached out and flicked on the room light. 

'Close the damn curtains if you're going to light the room up like a shop
window,' Illya snapped irritably. 

'This is a seventh floor room in a sea of four-floor blocks,' Napoleon
pointed out. 'No-one can see in.' 

'Tell that to the local helicopter police,' Illya grumbled. He stared at
Napoleon's image in the mirror, his white t-shirt and shorts clinging
tightly to what could be seen of him behind Illya. 

'I have to say,' Napoleon said approvingly, 'that I appreciate a hotel
with really clean mirrors. Particularly when the view in the reflection is
so exquisite.' He smirked as Illya harrumphed, struggling to maintain his
grumpy facade, standing up straighter, pretending an attempt to isolate
himself as Napoleon's arm crept around him. 

Napoleon's fingers brushed down Illya's chest, the silky skin of the
inside of his wrist rubbing softly over one cold-erect nipple, giving it a
whole new reason to stand to attention. 

Illya tried to turn to face him, but Napoleon simply tightened his grip,
forcing him to stay facing the mirror, which resolutely returned, as if on
a film, the image of the two of them, holding on tightly to each other
now, as Illya's hand came up to grasp Napoleon's wrist, and somehow failed
to pull it away from his body. The cotton of Napoleon's t-shirt pressed
fresh and soft against Illya's back and he leant slightly against it,
allowing Napoleon to support his weight a little as the flat of his palm
swept across his midriff. Then Napoleon laid his lips on the edge of
Illya's ear, blowing softly across it, and Illya's grip on his wrist
softened to the gentle pressure of holding hands. Napoleon splayed the
fingers of his trapped hand, resting them on collarbone and chest. His
other hand slipped down and brushed lightly across the, now quite
prominent, bulge in Illya's briefs. Illya's body jerked in response and he
gasped, 

'Napoleon, stop!' 

Napoleon's face in the mirror fell slightly. 'You don't want...?' 

'No!' Illya half shouted, then closed his eyes, seeming to will away the
pink flush travelling up to his cheeks from his chest. He opened them
again and focused on Napoleon. Then his gaze became shifty and he broke
eye-contact. 

'I mean, yes, but I'll... if you do that now, I'll...' 

'Honestly, a top UNCLE agent like you on a hair trigger? Illya, I'd never
have believed it,' Napoleon laughed. 

'Only with you,' said Illya quietly. 

Napoleon's hands found his hips and gripped. 'Hmm,' he hummed into Illya's
neck. 

'Why, Napoleon?' asked Illya suddenly, as if to cover his momentary slip. 

'Because,' replied Napoleon, aggravatingly, flicking at the smooth skin in
the crease of Illya's groin, making him shudder. 'Now, if you don't have
any objections, hush up.' 

Illya nodded and closed his eyes again, tipping his head back into the
crook of Napoleon's neck. 

'Open your eyes,' Napoleon murmured into his ear. He slid a hand down over
Illya's thigh, carefully avoiding the telltale bulge and slipping in
between his legs, bending his own knees to make it easier to reach,
resting his chin hard on Illya's shoulder. 

He ran a finger in lazy, tickling circles just below Illya's groin, and
grinned at Illya's sharp intake of breath. He laughed softly, meeting his
eyes in the mirror. He pinched a nipple with his other hand, rubbed it
gently between his fingertips before pinching hard again, watching the
flush rise higher on Illya's face, and his mouth drop slightly open. 

Napoleon's wrist brushed Illya's erection and he threw his hands back
around Napoleon, digging his fingers deep into his buttocks, yanking him
hard against him, so that Napoleon's own fabric-swathed erection pressed
warmly into him. Illya hummed and shut his eyes again. 

'Open,' said Napoleon firmly. 

'Open,' Illya muttered, obeying. His hands released Napoleon' buttocks,
falling instead on his wrists, clawing at the skin, grasping them as
Napoleon rubbed and stroked, running the backs of his fingernails over the
skin below Illya's ribcage. 

Napoleon pulled at Illya's earlobe with his teeth, stretching it gently,
letting go only to press nipping kisses down the side of his neck, keeping
his eyes glued to Illya's in the reflection, forbidding him to close them
or look away. Illya watched himself, his chest rising and falling in
rhythm with the motion of Napoleon's hands, one of which now covered his
erection, chafing it with the fabric of his briefs. He arched back into
him, not daring to close his eyes, watching through his lower lashes as
his head tipped back. 

Napoleon increased his tempo; his other hand rose to cover Illya's mouth,
lazy fingers resting on his lips and slack across his nostrils, third
finger nestling between parted lips to rest against his teeth. Illya took
a sharp breath, failed to get the air he expected, and bit at Napoleon's
fingers. 

'Ah ah,' Napoleon admonished softly, tightening his fingers on Illya's
face, restricting his air-flow even more. He paused, waiting for the
outburst, the: 'I can get myself suffocated by THRUSH any day of the week,
I don't need it from you...' But it didn't come. Instead, Illya's fingers
flexed, pulling Napoleon still closer. His chest heaved as Napoleon
started rubbing again, now running his thumb across the heavy mound of
Illya's bound penis, now cupping it with a warm palm, squeezing harder
until Illya snapped his teeth again and Napoleon laid consoling lips high
on his cheekbone. He returned to the firm strokes, letting Illya push into
his hand now, as he sought relief for his craving for contact, demanding
satisfaction. 

Napoleon dipped his fingertips into Illya's mouth, ignoring the real
danger of his partner biting them hard. He sighed as Illya's tongue
wrapped around them, hot, moist chamois leather. Illya's breathing was
laboured now, galing over his damp fingers, whistling heavily through the
gaps between them. His mouth dropped further open now, trying to find more
air, even as his eyelids dropped shut. 

Napoleon nipped his ear again, 'Watch.' 

Illya heaved them open as Napoleon moved his hand to cover more of his
mouth, pinching his nose gently between thumb and forefinger. As he did
so, he noticed for the first time that he was thrusting against Illya's
backside, and Illya was encouraging him, pulling him closer each time,
working on autopilot while he gasped and drifted in Napoleon's arms,
watching himself in starburst reflection, refracted through his lashes
into dreamlike, fractured images of a someone with a somebody, doing a
something he had never used to dare to wish for himself. 

Napoleon caught his breath and let his control over his hands melt away:
the one grabbing and stroking fast and rough, the other clamped tightly
over Illya's face, letting through only the barest wisps of air as he
leaned forward to allow Illya to continue to watch himself though his head
was pulled back into Napoleon's solid shoulder and the long hair at the
back of his head fell to brush against Napoleon's cotton-covered
shoulder-blades. 

Napoleon felt the change in Illya as his orgasm built and broke, turning
the fabric Napoleon caressed damp and smooth. He leant back into Napoleon,
pressing against him as he gasped for air. Napoleon waited while he rode
the tide, then slowly removed the hand covering Illya's mouth. He listened
to him gasp and gulp at the fresh oxygen, a rhythmic heaving, punctuated
by desperate swallows, that drove him back into Napoleon, pounding against
his groin until he came, sliding his arms around Illya's chest, clutching
him to him, watching his slitted eyes in the mirror when he could force
his own to open. 

'What did you see?' he asked when he had the breath for it. 

'I saw you,' Illya rasped, blinking at him, trying to clear the starburst.


'And yourself.' 

'Not really. I saw you.' 

Napoleon rested his chin on his shoulder again, digging in. Illya grunted
his discomfort and raised a hand to lift it away, supported it on the
flesh at the base of his thumb while his fingers stroked across Napoleon's
cheek. 

Napoleon sighed, 'You looked wonderful. Didn't you notice? I wanted you to
see how wonderful you...' 

Illya let go of his chin and turned in his arms, now that it seemed to be
allowed. He shook his head, his face as serious as it always was when he
was thinking. Napoleon grinned at the immutability of his partner, then
the grin turned sheepish, 

'You didn't mind me half suffocating you, did you?' 

'If I had...' 

'I would have known about it. I know.' 

'I don't mind when you get a result like that.' 

'Good, was it? Napoleon asked, pulling him closer. Illya slipped his hands
up under Napoleon's t-shirt. 

'Stop fishing for compliments. You know it was. I looked like I was about
to keel over. I understand that's a good thing.' 

'Ah, so you were looking then?' Napoleon teased. 

'You didn't give me much choice. But I stand by what I said: I mostly saw
you. It's very hard to concentrate on oneself when one has Napoleon Solo
in the same mirror.' 

Napoleon looked at him, pecked him on the lips, then pushed him away to
look at him. He stood there, swaying, giving Napoleon ample views of each
side of his body. 

Napoleon pouted in decision. 'I give you a seven on those bruises.' 

'Only a seven?' 

'Hurt, do they?' 

'Not now, but they deserve more. They did, before.' 

'If you'd let me see them before, I might have scored them higher.' 

'I deserve more, especially given how uncomfortable you've made me. Why
couldn't you strip me before you did that?' 

'Because, my friend, as I say, I appreciate a hotel with really clean
mirrors, and, ah, I might just want to admire the scenery in this one just
one more time...'  


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