Smudged

by jesse

Napoleon sprawled back across the ugly hotel bedspread, arms flung wide, sweaty and panting. Illya collapsed practically on top of him, catching himself just barely on elbows and forearms, head dropping to rest on Napoleon's heaving chest. He was exhausted in all the best ways, sticky and sweaty and content.

Well, almost content. When he had a little muscle control back, he raised his head.

Napoleon was a sated heap beneath him, eyes closed, skin still delightfully flushed. They'd not stopped this time for anything more than removing their clothes; a shower would have taken entirely too long. So there were still dirtier streaks running across Napoleon's shoulder where his shirt had been torn, and down across his broad chest to where the skin was Irish-pale, where the sun rarely touched. A dark smudge marred one high cheekbone, but Illya thought that was only dirt as well. He leaned himself on one elbow and reached to brush his finger lightly over the spot. Yes, only dirt. This time.

Napoleon made a happy noise and turned his head into the touch. Illya obliged him, running fingertips along the bridge of his nose and across the dark, straight brows, caressing his temple for a minute before moving to stroke Napoleon's damp hair back from his forehead. Illya carded all five fingers through the thick strands, disordering them so that he could order them again to his own desire.

Centimeter by centimeter Illya reacquainted himself with his partner, with warm, unbroken flesh and hard muscle and the Napoleon no one ever saw. No one but Illya.

"Happy?" Napoleon murmured after a while, eyes still closed, his voice warm and potent as Irish coffee. "Deed signed, flag planted? Ouch," as Illya pinched him. "Don't make me think you care, or anything."

"I'll try not to," Illya said, breathless all over again.