👀 or + 👀 take your pick lol
Send “👀” to find my muse wearing nothing but an oversized shirt.
Napoleon, for all his raging narcissism, does not show off his body much outside of the more active moments in his bedroom. Even afterwards, when sweat is still cooling on skin and flush still stains his cheeks, he slips into a robe and pajama pants. The only prolonged look Kuryakin’s ever had of his body, to the best of Napoleon’s knowledge, is when he’s field dressing a wound. Even then Napoleon waits until he’s left the bathroom to change into a clean undershirt.
It’s not for modesty that he hides his skin. Napoleon has found that operating under a tease and withhold and lo they shall come mentality has always drawn more flies to the honey than flagrant displays of flesh. The suits, perfectly tailored to his form, the brief, charming smiles and hints of what could be, have always served him better than anything blatant.
So when Illya opens the door on him in the midst of changing for bed, by himself for once, and he’s in nothing but a large shirt that hangs down just to the underside of his full posterior, he is, to say the least, surprised. Not embarrassed, no, but... modestly surprised. Shifting, he tugs at the hem in the front, willing to sacrifice a bit of bare ass to cover that which needed covering.
“Illya,” he greets with his usual mild politeness. “To what do I owe the honor?”
