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keilemlucent · 4 years

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a nice break

(r18+)

hawks | takami keigo x reader

ao3

word count: ~3k

keigo really is just such a good boy for you, isn't he?

warnings: peggings, strap ons, wing kink, praise kink, spit kink, sub hawks, soft hawks, light religious imagery in the literal imagery, aftercare

enjoy some subby hawks pegging ;^)))

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Keigo had the prettiest voice.

Fuck whatever ‘bird of prey’ act he put on, the man was a songbird like no other. Perhaps not always, but it wasn’t particularly hard to get him to sing either. Unabashed pleasure would send Keigo into fits of cries and lamentations.

“Oh fuck, please—!” Keigo’s voice broke above you. He was straining so hard to keep any semblance of usual composure despite his wrecked state. It wasn’t like it was doing him much good with how beyond fucked out he was, but you appreciated the effort.

How long had you had him bouncing on your strap? Long enough that he had begged you to let him rest, his wobbly legs growing weak despite their tone and muscle. Yet, not long enough to award him a moment of respite. You had rolled your hips up, jamming your metaphorical thick cock against his prostate as his eyes rolled back in pleasure.

Keigo’s face had grown bright red, freckles dimming with the flush of his cheeks. His tongue lolled out of his mouth, drool escaping from the corners of his lips. He occasionally tried to wipe up the bodily filth on his face, but the action only served to make him even more of a mess. Keigo didn’t mean to, but his subtle, cute actions just debauched him more.

Keigo had a tendency to be a brat. That was just his private personality. Effortlessly laid back charm was a face he wore incredibly well for the public, but in the solace of his penthouse apartment, the man was a raging devil.

He typically took the lead on things. Throwing you up over tables and counters with the help of his wings, fucking you stupid without a second thought.

You loved it. Immensely.

Nothing made you soak yourself more than being on your knees for Keigo just before he would fuck your face in earnest, cooing and praising about how well you took his cock. He loved to see you sloppy for him, demanding and pushing and pulling you whatever way suited his pleasure (and yours as well, of course.)

But you also loved seeing Keigo sloppy. You relished getting to break him down, picking at his crafted facade with personal pleasures you made all for him, and you made sure to tell him so.

Keigo loved to praise you, any time, not just in bed. He’d tell you what a good girl you were while spanking his hand on your backside for the umpteenth time, you teary-eyed and half-sobbing. He’d coo about how beautiful you were while he fucked you into yet another orgasm with his crooked fingers. He’d smooth you over and tell you how proud he was of you, how good you were for him, as you cuddled into each other, fucked out, boneless and brainless. He’d come up behind you while you cooked dinner, kissing at your neck and whispering about how kind of partner you were. He’d grab your hand in public to lay gentle kisses over your knuckles, speaking lowly about how he cherished you and the time you were able to spend together.

It took you a while into your relationship to realize that Keigo also fed off praise. He showered you with love and compliments and craved receiving similar affections.

And, you weren’t one to deny him.

“Come on, Kei’, you can do it, you’re such a good boy,” You crooned, pushing your hips to press the thick dildo deeper in him.

Keigo sputtered, his hands flying to your chest for purchase, lip wobbling. His eyes flicked to meet your own, widened and pleading.

You just smirked.

“Keep going if you want to come.”

He cried out, lowering his head and wiping at the different smears of fluid that wetted his face. Slowly, he raised himself up, thighs trembling with exertion and exhaustion.

You tucked your arms behind your head, truly getting off on the beautiful sight before you.

Keigo looked god-like most of the time, all feathered and blood-colored. He was sculpted like a marble statue; sometimes, you felt unfit of touching him. Yet, you debauching him was one of your favorite acts. Turning Keigo into some defiled deity riding the silicone cock of a mortal, divine, crimson wings a backdrop to ambrosian pleasures that only the two of you knew. Despite how bratty he was, he loved falling apart while you fucked his cute little hole numb.

Keigo rode your cock so well, he knew it, you told him so. Despite how much his body ached and how he was chasing orgasm but never catching it, he tried really, really hard to make you happy. You could see it in the way how each of his actions was followed by an expectant look, delivered to you with puffy, kiss-bruised lips.

Who would’ve thought Hawks was a crybaby when getting fucked so well?

Below him, you smiled, languidly playing with your own sex while drowning in Keigo’s image. Your own slick coated your thighs, wetting your puffy clit as you stroked yourself slowly to Keigo’s display.

His cock was swollen, bright red, and weeping preek. The ring at its base was wet with lube, tightly holding Keigo back from any sort of proper satisfaction. All the while, his cock was so much more sensitive, not to mention how you’d been teasing him for what felt like hours. You wondered if Keigo felt edged or overstimulated. You could only hope that it was both.

You wrapped your fingers around his cock, moaning with Keigo in tandem. He wailed, voice shattering into pleads and begs for “more, please, more!” as you fucked his cock with your hand. He was so slicked and hot, weeping for release in more ways than one.

You removed your fingers from your own sex, frowning.

The slick covered fingers pressed at Keigo’s parted lips. He opened his mouth for you, letting you fuck his mouth with the digits, pressing gently on his tongue and the back of his throat. You felt the vibrations of his suppressed cries so well, it made your cunt ache.

“Good boys don’t talk with their mouths full, do they?” You taunted, pressing harder and pumping your hand faster around Keigo’s cock.

Keigo screamed against your fingers, sweaty locks falling over his eyes as he shook his head. With all of his hero-refined skills, his thin hips couldn’t figure out how to both fuck down on the strap and fuck into your hand. The infuriating amount of stimulation without a thread of relief made tears leak from Keigo’s eyes anew, running rivers down his cheeks and drip onto your torso.

“Aw, baby, why are you crying?” You loved teasing Keigo like this. He’d never let you do this shit to him unless he was this fucked out. You knew he liked it too, based on how the degradation made his cock throb in your grip.

You squeezed, rubbing a thumb at its leaky head. Keigo sobbed around your fingers, “Pweaze! ”

“Pweaze’? ‘Pweaze’ what, baby? Use your words.” You sneered, watching spittle drip from his mouth onto your lap. To taunt him even more, you pressed your drenched fingers onto the back of his tongue as he tried to speak. Unintelligible, garbled syllables were all he could produce beyond chest sobs.

He just looked at you helplessly, nails digging into your sides.

You relented, removing your fingers and wiping them onto Keigo’s swollen dick, still pumping it slowly.

“Please, let me come, please!” Keigo’s voice curled so well when he begged. You fucked up into him sharply, Keigo’s hands clawing into your ribs as he screamed in white-hot pleasure. His spent thighs trembled around your own, wet with sweat and shaking with exhaustion.

You ran a hand through his hair, feeling the layer of thin sweat and boiling heat. He leaned into your touch immediately, doughy and glassy-eyed.

Keigo was art, sculpted all for you. Any bits of his public, bastardseque persona had been ground away with pleasure and coaxing. He had fallen apart for you, gently pleading for release like it was a hymn to his god.

You crooked a smile.

“I don’t know, baby. Have been good enough to come?” You hummed, grinning smugly as Keigo’s expression fell. His lips moved in horror as he began blubbering, fucking himself again on the strap, harder, faster, and with more vigor than before.

“I have b-been, I’ve been good!” Keigo sobbed, rubbed at his eyes as one of his legs gave out no a particularly rough thrust. Your hand slid up to support the spent muscles, knowing he was beginning to reach his limits.

“Tell me how and you can come, Keigo,” You said his name so sweetly, you felt another flood of pre dribbled sticky from his cock, “Tell me how you’re such a good boy, for me, Keigo.”

He shook his head, breathing harshly, but still managing to fuck himself half-heartedly. He bit his lip as he looked at you with red-rimmed eyes, wings fluttering at his back.

It gave you an idea.

You’d pay for it later, but that was a future problem.

All contact with Keigo’s cock and body went away, holding your hands on your chest, slowly rolling your hips and strap into Keigo’s tight hole.

You stilled for just a moment, drinking him in.

Your hands shot out, just brushing against Keigo’s sides before burying themselves at the tender roots of his wings.

“F-Fuck!” Keigo wailed, bowing his back and falling against your chest, unable to hold himself upright.

You adjusted your legs, allowing yourself to still fuck into Keigo. Even better, this position perfectly allowed you to ram his most sensitive spot, sobs and cries muffled into the skin of your chest. He pawed at one of your tits half-heartedly, but you knew he didn’t really have it in him.

Pleads and cries for mercy spilled from his lips as you massaged at the base of his wings. The downy feathers were petal-soft, all the betters for rubbing deep into as Keigo twitched and wailed.

“Just tell me why you’re a good boy, Keigo, you’re so close,” You encouraged him, shifting so that his head was pressed into your neck. You felt his cock, hard and hot against your stomach. With this position, Keigo could rest his body to some degree. But, it provided an absolutely obscene amount of friction that would be damn-near brutal mentally.

His wings splayed out above the two of you, cocooning you in vibrant reds and scarlets as you thumbed at individual feathers. Keigo finally found his voice as you dragged the strap back from his hole.

“I-I ate your pussy really good,” Keigo’s voice was high, stumbling on his words.

You hummed appreciatively, scrapping your nails down thin bones of his wings. He arched against you, hands flying your hair and pulling. He broke into bawling, tears wetting your neck and the sheets beneath you.

You fucking loved it.

“I l-let you sit on my face, and let you fuck- ME!” Keigo howled as you dug into his feathers, tsking lightly.

“Up, baby. Sit up for me,” You commanded, though softly. Keigo slowly righted himself, shaking like a leaf. You could tell by the way he shifted his hips that he was more than a bit sore and overworked. Not to mention that his cock was turning darker red and bulging hotly by the minute.

“Those are all good things you did, but that’s not why you’re a good boy,” You trailed one of your hands down one of the lovely curves of his lower back, cupping his ass and squeezing.

He sputtered, shaking his head, rubbing at his eyes, “Please, I’m sorry, just let me—”

You’d done this song and dance enough with Keigo to know the way to really get to his cock. After so much mental conditioning and training, parts of him were still left raw. To touch and stroke them just right was an art you had taken upon yourself to master and perfect. You’d do anything for Keigo, anything to help him chase pleasures that could be too fragile or fear-filled to voice.

“Keigo, you’re a good boy because you’re you,” You massaged at his aching, sore parts with warm hands. “You’re such a good boy for me, Kei’. You ride me so well. Can you just a little more?”

If Keigo hadn’t been fully crying, he was now.

He tearfully nodded, bouncing himself on the strap again, sending loud moans far and wide.

You helped him along, rolling your hips, “You’re such a sweet boy, Kei’. You sound so pretty when you wreck yourself for me.”

He keened.

The hand that wasn’t helping to hold him up went to palm at the head of his cock, “You are so sweet and so beautiful when you’re fucked out like this. All stupid for me, right, Kei’?”

You trailed a finger up his shaft as he drooled, eyes struggling to focus, “So good at listening and following my rules. Do you like being a good boy?”

He was fucked too silly to manage anything other than a nod.

“Do you want to come, baby?” You pumped his cock with your slick hand, almost mockingly.

“PLEASE!” Keigo screamed, nails breaking the skin of your breasts, but you could hardly care. His head bent forward as a mix of his tears, snot, and spit dripped between the two of you.

Keigo really did deserve it. You relented.

Your fingers dipped slipped the cock ring off in one motion, grabbing his face by the cheeks with the other hand, “Then, come for me, baby.”

And he did.

Keigo fucked himself down on the strap one final time before screaming in divine rapture.

He collapsed on top of you, crying out and curling into you as his cock sprayed your chests and thighs. Thick spurts of creamy cum dripped between the two of your bodies as Keigo rode out his orgasm, your hand still on his cock, milking him for all he had. Any words he tried to babble out were broken and meaningless, only serving to help Keigo release his pent up need for relief now that it was finally squashed.

You kept your hand wrapped around his cock, rolling your wrist from base to hip as Keigo rattled on top of your own sweaty frame.

He sniffled, pressing into your neck and weakly pushing your hand, “T-too much.”

You released him easily, shushing Keigo when he tried to move or assist you. You carefully slipped from his tight, lube-slicked hole and undid the harness of the strap on. Your own hips ached from exertion, skin bruised by the biting of the straps, but you were sure it was nothing compared to Keigo’s full-body ache. You’d had him every which way throughout the course of the night, you were sure he wouldn’t be standing correctly for a few days. You mentally patted yourself on the back.

You fell back with Keigo, pulling him to your chest. His head fell against you as his wings spread haphazardly and unsupported. For a moment, you worried he’d passed out, but a short groan and gentle squeeze proved you otherwise.

You set upon his trembling form with all the love you could show him.

“Oh, Keigo,” You peppered his forehead and hair with kisses as he hid his face at your sternum. “You did so well, you took me so, so well, baby. I’m so proud of you. I love you so much, 'Kei.”

He nuzzled into you, making small noises with not much sense to them. You gave him a sympathetic smile, rubbing circles into his lower back, “Would you like some water, baby? Or do you want to wait a little longer?”

Keigo shook his head, weakly kissing the top of your breasts, “N-now, please.”

You grabbed a bottle on the nightstand, pre-chilled in preparation for the inevitable outcome. Keigo slowly rose when you offered the bottle to him, hardly going far before downing mo of the liquid in a few gulps. It was obvious he needed it with the harsh flush of his face and the sweat growing cold on his skin.

He passed the bottle back to you, nestling back into you as he did. His wings quivered as they covered your forms, plumage soft and twitching as Keigo sweetly came down from his overstimulation and mushy mental state.

You set upon him with more sweet kisses and enough praise to drown a man with an ego smaller than Keigo’s. It was all gentle, coaxing him from his mental fog with lots of obvious love and attention. Keigo didn’t fall into submissive headspaces easily and that made it all the more imperative to be deliberate and ginger with helping him out.

You started blowing and leaving kisses around his ears, making him jolt and giggle at you. It was something high and airy, a side only you got to see. You loved how it sounded and felt so close to you.

Keigo gently cupped your face, returning your affections, albeit weaker. With his sagging eyelids, he was clearly spent.

“Was all that okay? I know it was intense,” You asked, pressing into Keigo’s gesture. You needed a bit of extra attention too, and Keigo was more than willing to lavish you the best he could in his state.

All gooey himself, Keigo shook his head, wrapping his arms and legs around you in a tight embrace, “Very good. Still kinda fucked out though.”

“I can tell,” You laughed. You kissed into his honeyed hair, tangling your fingers to the scalp to massage and work any tension out of his neck. “Take all the time you need. I’m right here.”

Keigo purred around you, breaths evening out and slowing.

You silently slipped from the bed, running to the bathroom to wet a washcloth to clean him. When you re-entered the dimly lit room, Keigo was sitting up, rubbing at his eyes and finishing his water.

Keigo cracked you a smile, as you came back to kneel on the bed. His voice was hoarse with its prior activities and expletives, “You know, I’m gonna get you back for all of that. Even worse.”

You rolled your eyes, “I look forward to it.”

You pressed a kiss to the corner of Keigo’s mouth, urging him down to the sheets.

He didn’t fight you, but you were sure he would.

#salem writes #takami keigo x reader #hawks x reader #takami x reader #keigo takami x reader #hawks x y/n #hawks reader insert #reader insert #hawks smut #mha smut #mha #bnha #takami keigo x y/n #i tried to write smut without a bunch of lead up i rlly did #soft hawks #sub hawks #sub takami keigo #mha x reader #bnha x reader

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olympivnshq · 5 years

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congratulations laura ! MEGARA is a figure who beyond disney, has not been given much of a voice, nor appreciation. you gave her a real story, something to work towards, her unique way of thinking. your attention to detail in your app was incredible and adheres deeply to your character in a way that invigorates us for our own, so we’re pleased to welcome you with your first faceclaim choice: BENEDETTA GARGARI

☆ﾟ*・ﾟ OOC INFO.

Hi I’m Laura, I’m 22 and live in GMT+10 timezone (Australia). Honestly there isn’t much more to tell.

☆ﾟ*・ﾟ DEITY — GENDER. AGE RANGE.

Megara, Female, 20-25

☆ﾟ*・ﾟ MORTAL NAME. JOB/OCCUPATION. BOROUGH/NEIGHBORHOOD.

Megan Jones, Waitress (Former Student), Greenwich Village, Manhattan

☆ﾟ*・ HOW WOULD YOU PLAY THEM?

The climax of Megara’s life, the moment that forced her to face who she was, and who she had been, was the day she arrived in Hades. Everyone in Hades has a bag, a bag filled to the brim with words. Words you have said, words you have heard, words other people have said about you. Megara’s bag contained very little of herself, most of its contents concerned her husband – Heracles.

It was to such an extent that she wondered if she had existed before her husband.

More shocking than the contents of her own bag, her own life, was the thought of what her husbands would contain once he joined her… If he joined her. Would she be more than a footnote in his tale?

Who was Megara? Often even she does not know. She gave up everything, her identity, her independence, her choices, to ensure that she did right by the people she loved. The father who needed her, the husband she always wished needed her more, and the children she would inevitably fail.

The earlier you die the longer you have to reflect in Hades, to consider your choices, and your mistakes. To reflect on all of the potential that was stripped away.

Megara had never been good at looking back, she didn’t like to regret, and she certainly didn’t like to dwell on the things she could not change. Looking forwards, however, was her specialty, she knew how to dream, how to plan. She knew how to weigh the choices, and the possibilities, how to craft a path that would lead to the greatest outcome for all. It was why she sacrificed, and it was how she realised, in Hades, just how much she would have done, had she been given the choice.

Perhaps that was what she was. Wasted potential. A thousand lifetimes unlived.

For Megan everything was different – and yet everything was very much the same. Some may say she grew up with a very different father to Creon. He certainly was not a wealthy King, yet when he was winning big, he acted like one. He was a man who indulged in all the opulence that he could not afford. For Megan he played the same role.

Megan’s childhood was one of extremes. Her father gambled and gambled often with little regard for the consequences. One day he would win big, would be high on the grand scheme he had planned, a scheme that would set the family up for life, and make up for every mistake her father had made in the past. These times Megan would be showered in gifts, expensive toys, new furniture, and trips to all of her favourite places. Her father treated her like a princess, and her mother like a Queen.

Within a few weeks, however, the men her father had borrowed from would arrive. Stripping everything they had gained, and then some, to ensure her father paid his debts. From there the spiral would be unbearable, until, of course, her father won and the cycle started all over again.

During this time Megan lost herself in stories. Books were one of the few things unlikely to be taken from her, and she cherished them. She chose to live in the dreams her books provided, to protect herself from the reality that waited outside.

Megan became the opposite of her father in every way. Where he spent, she saved. Where he was selfish, she became sacrificing, where he was ruled by indulgence she was led, at all times, by her duty.

It was hard to keep any money or wealth from her father, but as a teenager she managed it, putting money away, little by little, in places he could not access it. A teacher who opened a secret bank account in her name and a hole in her wall where she hid the profits from the gifts she had sold, before the all too familiar loan sharks could do the same.

It was all towards one goal. To leave her hometown for a big city, the biggest city, where she could disappear amongst a mass of people to whom she owed nothing. New York University provided every opportunity she craved.

For a while everything was perfect. She had independence for the first time in her life. Her father knew she was studying at NYU but knew nothing more about her location. She was free to live her life however she saw fit.

She worked part time as a waitress, socialising with other like-minded students and losing herself in her English Literature studies.

She was stupid to think it would last.

It was on the last day of her exams that the men turned up at her door. She did not know them, had never met them before, but she knew the look of them. In a moment everything she had built was torn away from her.

Her choice was simple, give up everything she had to work of her father’s debt, or let her father suffer. It was never really a choice.

Now Megan works full time waitressing, most of the money she earns goes back to the thugs her father owes his life to. It’s never enough, it never will be enough, Megan now watches as every dream she had disappears into dust.

answer these questions:

would you like your character to be entering the roleplay at this stage in the plot, with or without their memories?

I would prefer she enters without her memories, as I think the realisation of who she is, and her place in the universe, will be fun to play with from the beginning.

are they more likely to stand with the pantheon or against it? ( if you are choosing a god they may endeavour to dismantle it for whatever reason )

Megan would snort at this question. What would it matter? She would think, behind her silent sneer. What good would my choice provide to either side?

It would be a hard choice. Duty rules her, duty to those she is affiliated. Now, however, Megan has led a whole life without the pantheon, a whole life in which she felt no loyalty to any of the people asking for her help. Who are the Gods to her? Why should she stand with them, when they would not stand with her if their roles were reversed?

Of course, all of this is just talk, a feeble attempt to regain agency after all she had lost. Megan can pretend all she wants that the pantheon is meaningless to her. Megan stands by her own, even if doing so means giving up everything she has ever wanted. In the end she will stand with the closest thing Megara has to family.

what is their stand on mortals?

I found as I answered this question I was writing from Megan’s perspective, so I have written it in the form of a sample.

“Mortals. Such a dismissive word” Megan wasn’t sure if she was going to laugh or cry. The way the question was asked, it was so typical of the Gods. One word, one turn of phrase, could reduce everything other than themselves to nothing. “What am I? In this thought experiment.” She picked her nails as she leant back, eyes caught somewhere in the distance, unable to meet the gaze of her companion. “Am I mortal? I am no God. I am not divine – nor am I special, I just…” She paused there, despite all the knowledge she had gained it still felt unnatural to consider herself and Megara the same person. “She just… Heracles was the special one. Not me.”

Finally, she was able to meet their gaze. The thread of assertiveness that had always lurked under the surface of her passivity rearing its head. “But when you talk of Mortals you don’t mean me do you? You mean all those we are surrounded by, real and free and so completely oblivious of the truth. You want to know my stand on mortals? I envy them.”

She envied the choices that lay ahead of them; she envied their lives, so self-centred, concerned only with the reality within their own heads. She envied their certainty in their own identity, and their absolute irrelevance to most of the Gods. How she craved that, to disappear amongst the crowd, to be just another mortal.

To be anything other than what she was, both relevant, and yet nothing at the same time.

Megan had studied English Literature. She knew the difference between a character and a plot device.

☆ﾟ*・ GIVE US A SAMPLE OF YOUR WRITING!

The rich black leather of her purse met the top of a corner table roughly, practically mimicking the way she fell into the booth behind it. Hers was a frustration that could not be confined by her form. Hell, she practically emanated it, changing the energy of the otherwise peaceful room. The little cup before her spilled a few drops on the table from such jostling, and she paid them no mind.

“I should become a psychiatrist,” she sneered to herself. “Everyone tells me their problems anyway. Might as well make a little extra money for it.”

—

Leave it alone, the little voice in Megan’s head, the little voice that had an all too annoying habit of being right, was screaming at her right now. Just leave it alone and get on with your work. She never had been good at listening to it, even when she knew she should.

The truth was Megan was bored. She was bored of her late-night shifts at the café. She was bored of the same faces, every day, of eyes that looked right through her, eyes that dismissed her, eyes that treated her as if she were nothing more than a simpleton. She thought she could feel her brains turning to mush the longer she stayed in this café.

So, the woman who had just entered, the woman who seemed to be carrying so much weight, who communicated so much simply in the way she fell into her seat, that was a woman with so much potential that Megan could not let her escape.

Rather than listening to her little voice, therefore, Megan instead found herself approaching the woman’s table, her pot of coffee ready in her hand, the perfect excuse for some form of engaging conversation.

“You might have some competition on that front.” Megan told her, a shy laugh upon her lips. “People seem to think waitresses are a lot like psychiatrists, except, of course, they don’t have to respect us. I’m pretty sure people have told me things they wouldn’t dream of telling their shrink.”

She filled up her coffee nervously, her weight shifting between her feet. Please, she thought, please just give me something interesting. “Of course, until we actually become psychiatrists, we’re under no obligation to keep their secrets. Terrifying thought for everyone else. Fun for us.”

#semi appless rp #lsrpg #literate rp #spn rp #city rp #megara #ohq:accepted

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masshirohebi-moved · 5 years

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Knowing of the Serpent's fodness of warmth and heat, Loke had picked a rock that could be held in the palm of his hand, was pleasant to look upon, and smooth to touch and hold. In said rock, he infused his fire; eternal fire- so that it would always be warm to the touch; soothing and heated like when basking in the heat of the sun. This was made as a gift for Orochimaru, as a trinket of sorts, to keep with them and hold whenever they wished for a source of heat and comfort. A late gift, but hey.

It wasn’t delivered in the most romantic fashion, there was no sweet letter, no added words to make it something more typically “valentines” like. But that wasn’t the type of man the deity was. He was far more subtle, his affections picked up only by those who cared enough to actually look for them. Understanding the Roarer, it would seem, was the first and biggest step in forming any sort of relationship. And the viper, who had always thrived under challenge and puzzles, wouldn’t have it any other way.For many months they had toyed with the idea, wondering if Loke actually liked them, or whether his games were merely being twisted in their mind. They certainly didn’t want to be offering their heart when the man was making a mere fool of them. But after enough time spent with the god, and after finally grasping the very basics, they could drop their guard some. And be open to the small signs he would offer. Dare they tease him about those little tender moments he reveals, they would surely spook him like he were some wild and untamed bronco.

But they preferred it that way, they never wanted to remove that fiery nature from him. Running wild was the only way the man could exist. And so they learn to cherish these acts of revealing affection quietly. When he actually went through the trouble to do something sentimental and endearing, they certainly enjoyed it. It wasn’t often, nor did it need to be. But having them certainly did tickle the vipers fancy.“I didn’t expect a gift,” they hum appreciatively, kissing the tall mans cheek before flashing him a playful smile. They wouldn’t taint the air with sentimentality and all that nonsense. They know the man speaks best when conversations are playful and lighthearted. So instead of a proper thank you, they decide to tease him instead, “you know the first time we met, you thought it would be funny if you locked me in a world of eternal cold. I see you’ve gotten better at reading a room hm? Your people skills are improving darling, I’m most proud of you.”

#haevatein #||●ANSWERED-❝disclosed❞#||●QUEUE-❝the white serpent hides❞

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burmecianblackmage · 7 years

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♪

Send me a ♪ and I’ll shuffle my music, and describe a short scenario involving our muses inspired by the song that pops up! Maybe it’ll inspire a full thread! - Always Accepting!

[[Oooh, this is absolutely not what I expected, but it gives me such a nice idea! In the game, this theme is used when you are told the legend that explains the basic setting for the game, and it’s a story of love and betrayal, of a greedy king and a hurt spirit that curses the world and turns all the animals into monsters. It’s a sad story, but the feeling you get while listening to it and this melody, it is truly magical.]]

Kimitaka Matsumae - Legend of Arcana - Clandestine Meeting (Jade Cocoon OST)

The Kiss of the Goddess

The woods were misted by a thick fog, rendering it difficult for any wanderer to find their way. The path had long since vanished, leaving the lone soul to find it’s own route instead, leading it deeper and deeper, towards the heart of the forest, where they only wanted to find their way back out.

With the misty fog, clinging to the ground as though it flowed forth from it, and the tall treetops covering the sky, it was difficult to tell night and day, and the lonesome wanderer had long since lost track of time. How many days he had spent wandering these woods, he could not tell, All the wanderer knew was that his provisions had run out quite a while ago, and that what little he found in the forest as he continued walking would not be enough to sustain him.

And yet still, he never once gave up, never stopped moving forward.

And it is that, which caught her attention.

This forest was hers, her dominion, her realm. Here, she was at home, here she held power. She knew it’s paths and trees, the animals and plants. Naught in this forest was unknown to her, and there was nothing that escaped her notice.

For she was a deity, a goddess, and such was her essence.

It was far from usual that mortals walked her forest, yet it was not as if it had never happened before. Usually, they would turn back before long, heeding the warning of the mist, and be on their way. Very rarely they dared venture further in, but they always fled before long. For this forest was hers, and hers alone. A mortal held no right to be here.

And yet still…

Something about this one was different…

It was not much longer before the wanderer reached the end of his strength. His vision blurry and his steps unsteady, he still tried to move forward, to keep walking, but he doesn’t come far: A single root is all it takes to trip him up, to throw him to the ground.

And once he was laying there, there was naught left to keep him awake any longer, to prevent him from passing out at last…

It is more than a day later, when the wanderer next opens his sapphire eyes.

At first, he is utterly surprised, confused as to how it can be that he still breathes, how it can be that he feels no hunger. Did he succumb to hunger and die? Is this the afterlife? No, that could not be… but where was he?

Looking around, he recognizes the woods that he had wandered, sees the same trees, the same plants as before, and that old familiar mist. No, he could not be dead, he had to be alive still, for he could not fathom the afterlife to look just as this.

« I see you are awake, Wanderer. It would seem that your resilience serves you well. »

It is a warm voice that reaches the wanderer’s ear, prompting him to abandon his questions in favor of heeding it. A captivating voice, one whose presence seemed unmatched by any mortal’s. But where did it come from? Who had such a voice that it seemed to speak straight to one’s heart rather than one’s mind?

There was a silent elegance and beauty in the step of her bare feet, and the mist parted before her, gently giving way as she approached the mortal. In her hand she held a bow, her bow, cast of silver that shimmered like the light of the early winter’s moon on the first snow. Her hair fell gracefully over her shoulders, colored like the beautiful purple of the iris flower, and her eyes, warm and welcoming in their russet coloration, looked ahead to where the mortal still laid.

For the goddess it must have been something quite normal, something usual and ordinary even, but for the wanderer, it was nothing short of a magnificent spectacle. Her presence, so strong and yet so warm, encompassed all as she drew nearer, and on her fair features was a smile that could melt a man’s heart.

« You have wandered my woods for many days, far longer than any other ever dared. Did you do so due to your resolve? Or was it foolishness that led your steps? I very much would like to hear your answer, thus I took you in and saved you. »

The divine presence she exuded alongside her words proved to be a bit much for the wanderer at first, and so he regarded her with a mixture of confusion and awe. It is only when his sapphire eyes meet the russet of hers, that he seems to grasp the situation.

Getting up on his knees, the wanderer immediately bowed his head in both reverence and thankfulness, before voicing his appreciation in a deep, soothing voice.

“You have my deepest gratitude then, oh Goddess. There is little doubt I would have perished had it not been for your intervention.”

Looking up once more, the wanderer tried to take it all in once again. The presence of the goddess, her beauty, the warmth of her eyes, the mist parting around her, these mystical woods - it was, for lack of a better word, simply divine.

« You seem to wish to ask me something, do you not Wanderer? You gaze at me as though mesmerized and yet still so mystified… »

The goddess’ words take the wanderer by surprise, causing him to blush somewhat in the process and abashedly look away. That… He had been rude, to stare a her like that, he… he should apologize, right…?

“Oh, uhm… please… please do forgive me, I did not mean to… mean to stare at you… I… I have never stood before a being like you, before a deity, and well… I…”

It is the goddess’s amused chuckling that stops the mortals words.

« There is no need to be so nervous, young Wanderer. If it had been my intent to harm you, I would not have saved your life, would you not agree? So you may speak freely. »

“Uhm… Yes, that’s true… so… uhm, well… if I may be so bold… Would you please tell me… who you are…?”

« You are an honest soul, worried I might take offense at your ignorance, are you not? But rest assured: There is no need for such worries. I am naught but a humble Goddess of the Woods and the Hunt. There is no need to feel intimidated. »

“A Goddess of the Woods and the Hunt, I see… - But I wonder, what is your name, fair Goddess?”

« I have no need of a name. I know the Woods and the Woods know me, and that is all I require. It is you mortals that feel the need to give names to all and everything, Wanderer. »

“Ah, I see… So… do you… do you never venture beyond your forest…?“

The deity scoffed at the question, an amused look on her face. To her, this question was a foolish one, for the answer was fairly obvious to her. She was a being of the forest after all, what need would she have for the world beyond it’s borders?

« The woods give me all that I could require, it is home and friend alike to me. What ever could I need of the world beyond, that it could not provide me? »

“…so you have never set foot outside of your forest…? Hmm…”

The wanderer seems deep in thought for a moment, pondering the deity’s words - until an idea strikes him.

“Oh Goddess, I have already wondered what I could offer to you in thanks for saving my life, as words of gratitude seem insufficient to me. What would you thus think of this? In return for your kindness, I could offer you stories and gifts of the world beyond your woods, so that you may see what they could offer you, without the need to leave yourself. What do you say?”

« …You have my ear. Please do continue. »

And so it came to pass, that the wanderer would tell the goddess of his native lands, of a kingdom doused in eternal rain with paths of stone. Capturing the goddess’ interest, he promised that he would return with more stories should she allow him to leave at will, and other gifts as well. Intrigued, the deity showed him a hidden path, one she asked the woods to provide to the mortal and only to him.

After that day, the wanderer would often go and visit the goddess, each time bringing her a little present from the world outside her woods. Not only material things, oh no. While he may have brought her things like food to try or even some small jewelry, he also brought immaterial goods many times. Things like stories, like songs and poems, tales of far-off lands.

And it all pleased the goddess greatly.

So much so, that what had at first been but a pleasant occurence soon became something that even she, a divine being, looked forward to every time. Each day she’d wonder what her mortal friend would bring her the next time. Just what might guide his hand when he picked a new gift to bring her? It had become a fun pasttime to her, one she held quite dear.

Until one day, he did not come. Nor the day after. Or the one after that.

The goddess was distraught, her heart heavy as it never had been before. Why had her little mortal wanderer not returned? Did he no longer wish to see her? Had he grown tired of visiting her, of delighting her with his gifts?

Or had he, perhaps, mortal as he was, lost his life?

The goddess’s heart was filled with sadness and uncertainty, and her woods fell into the same deep depression as she. The mist became thicker, the trees malicious and the ground treacherous. And even the animals, the goddess’ cherished children and prey, became warped, corrupted as the months went by, turning into monsters.

The goddess’ woods had fallen into darkness. And for many a year, no mortal would dare brave them again.

It is nearly twenty years later that a hooded figure with a walking cane passes through a village and hears a rumor about a cursed forest. A rumor of a nameless deity that had suffered betrayal at the hand of man, and turned the woods wicked in her anger. More, the people do not know, they all just know the story from hearsay, and figure it must be true, due to the monsters roaming the nearby forest.

But the hooded figure knows better. He knows that the goddess was not struck with anger, but with sadness instead - and he seeks to right that wrong, even if it may be the last thing he would do in his life.

The villagers consider him a lunatic, a fool, a man running to his own doom, when he tells them he wishes to see the forest for himself. He does not care, remains stubborn in his desire. And so they let him go, fully aware that he will never return. No one that stepped into those woods did.

When the hooded man arrives at the border of the forest, he is out of breath. Twenty long years had left their mark, twenty years that he had suffered. First the war, that engulfed his home and kept him from returning, then his capture and how he was sold into slavery. He knew there was little hope of him ever being free again, but he never stopped thinking of the goddess in the woods.

When his owner found out that the hooded man had fallen ill, destined to perish in but a few short months, he had gifted him his freedom. “Return to these woods you speak of so fondly”, he had said, “I know your heart yearns for this, and I cannot deny a dying man’s wish.” He had served him well, and so the master saw fit to grant him this chance to find some peace of mind. And the slave had thankfully accepted.

Twenty long years it had been, and they had changed him greatly. But the forest too had changed, had grown vile and wicked. And yet still... when the hooded figure whispers those never forgotten mystic words, it remembers as well, recalls the old path it once showed a certain man, and that man alone. And as if he were a shining ray of hope piercing the darkness, it allows him to pass.

Finally. It had waited so long... She had waited so long...

When tired feet, assisted by the wooden cane, finally manage to carry him to the goddess’ sanctuary, the hooded man is greeted by a saddening sight. Where once warmth had reigned, a chilling cold now resided, and the radiance of old had long since vanished. He does not see the goddess, for it has gotten hard to see and the mist is thick here. But he knows she is here. He knows she still waited.

“...I’m sorry it took so long... oh Goddess... but today... I bring you this...”

The hooded man’s voice is weak as he reaches into a pocket, and draws forth a Wild Rose, young and lively as he had once been, and every bit as resilient. When he hears no answer, sees no reaction, he slowly kneels down, his joints aching at the movement. Slowly, carefully, do calloused hands dig a little hole, just barely big enough to house the flower he had brought.

“...I’m truly sorry... I wish I could have been earlier... could have returned sooner... I’m sorry, my Goddess...”

With shaking hands, the hood is slowly lifted from his head, revealing brown hair besieged by strands of silver, and a single, sapphire blue eye, tears brimming at it’s corner. The other eye, it has long since lost it’s light, taken away by an enemy’s blade during the war.

“Please... please believe me... I have never once, not a single day... not a single day... have I forgotten you... have I not wished to return... But I could not... And now, as my time runs out... and I’ve been granted my final wish to come here... all I want is to see you again... one last ime...”

His plea, it does not fall on deaf ears. Hidden from sight by a veil of thick mist, russet eyes slowly open, roused by a voice that seems familiar and yet so different, changed by twenty arduous years. A shimmer of hope shines upon her heart, and a silent prayer finds the way onto her lips.

The mist does not part around her as it once did, not today. Nonetheless, she finds her way with certain steps, trusting the woods to lead her to where he must be. And indeed, she soon finds him, stepping out of the mist - and is greeted by a weak, tired smile as her little wanderer finally sees her.

“Ah... so I do get to see you... one last time... Thank the heavens...”

« My Wanderer... have you truly returned to me, at last...? »

It is alas in the nature of tragedy that the wanderer, finally having returned, is a mortal, and that his time had come. He does not get to answer her, does not have the opportunity to explain to her why he was so late. But he got to see her again, one last time, and that is all that matters to him.

And so, when he collapses onto the cold ground, there is a content little smile on his lips. His life, ended by an illness no healer could cure, at the very moment his wish came true...

« No! This cannot be, no, I... I won’t allow it! »

Never before had the goddess felt such joy only for it to be taken away so abruptly. Never before had she felt loss quite like this. Never before... had she felt so powerless in her own woods.

There was naught she could do for this mortal, and she knows this as soon as she reaches his body, taking it into her arms and cradling it. So long they had waited, and now it all was for naught... She had always known that her dear wanderer would one day perish, that death was inevitable for the mortals. And yet still, she could not help now but to feel tears welling in the corners of her eyes.

« Oh my Wanderer, my dear little Wanderer... we have waited so long, and now, all we had was but a fleeting moment - it is too cruel. I understand that this is how it must be, that your life was always meant to return to the earth, and I will not stop it. I cannot stop it. But.. before I let you go... Grant me too one final wish... »

And so, the goddess would lean down, planting a short kiss on her wanderer’s lips.

A kiss filled with longing. A kiss filled with sadness. A kiss filled dreams. But above it all... a kiss filled with her power...

The legends of the woods would differ in whether it was intentionally done so, or if it had been born from deep felt desire, and happened subconsciously. But what they all would agree on even hundreds of years after that day, is a miracle.

A dead man, rousing from the eternal slumber, no longer a mere mortal but rather like a deity, awoken by the longing kiss of a goddess, forever to be her companion.

These legends, they would speak of a nameless Wanderer that fell in love with a Goddess of the Woods and the Hunt, and that was loved by her in turn. Of a man, that became akin to a deity, sworn eternally to be at her side.

These legends, they would speak of a pair of gods, residing in a forest covered in thick, misty fog, a serene and calm forest where no monster roamed. They would speak of a Goddess, old and wise as the Woods themselves - and of a new, younger God, one of Tales and Songs, of Poems and Legends.

And of how everyday, the God would tell a new story to the Goddess, forever devoted to delighting her.

And of a love, that overcame the boundaries between mortal and deity.

#RequestsHeeded #artemisxbow #This took much longer to write than I first thought #but I quite like it!#Also I noticed something that amuses me #specifically about goddesses of the hunt #Artemis is the best known one #and given Maria's weapon you could say her deity #but you know who's the Norse goddess of the hunt?#It's Skadi #I found it amusing when I finally realized it xD

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wickerjulias · 7 years

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prompt: how about the first time napoleon hugs illya? and it's not just a small hug, but a long one? :D

Alright, here it is. It deals with Illya’s past as well, so you have to suffer through a little bit of angst (I couldn’t help myself, sorry lmao). Fandom and pairing should be obvious I think.Word count: 2,160Thank you for sending the prompt, I hope you like it ❤

In his childhood, Illya had never questioned the love his parents felt for him. He noticed it every time his mother directed a bright smile at him and every time his father listened to his stories, all serious, his chin propped on his folded hands, as if it was the most important thing in the world. His life had consisted of hugs, gentle words and kisses.

Once his father was sent to Gulag, everything changed. The light in his mother’s eyes vanished slowly, with it the hugs and consequently, his own happiness. He still tried to be a good son, because she raised him to be better, but he didn’t succeed. There was too much anger in him.

With his enlistment to the special forces and the KGB came the pain. For the first time he was surrounded by complete darkness, an endless maelstrom of hits and insults. Illya learned to live with it. He had to and ultimately, the training helped him control his anger.

He rose to top ranks quickly, but at the cost of his own gentleness. Whenever his handler unleashed him, like an animal trapped for too long, he acted merciless just like they had taught him to be. Violence took over his life and he stopped visiting his mother - he couldn’t look her in the eyes anymore.

During that time, if someone would’ve asked him what he thought about his job, he would’ve replied with: “I like it.” Even though it was brutal and bloody, he welcomed the challenge. Since Russia stopped being his home, he enjoyed travelling, going to new places and contemplating whether to get a safe house or not.

In the periods between finishing an old mission and waiting for new orders, life seemed almost slow. Illya was able to buy new books, practise his accent, chat with locals and to relax - capitalist indulgences his handler wouldn’t appreciate.

He knew people in his profession didn’t get old, which was the reason why he cherished his free time even more. It was a welcomed distraction from the ugly thoughts and memories that came back as soon as he set foot on Russian ground. There he spent restless nights in his small apartment in St. Petersburg, never knowing if they would be his last.

Until everything changed, again.

“Ich kann dich nicht hören!” Gaby puts both of her hands over her ears and shakes her head.

“Listen, you do not,” Illya starts, his usual accent lacing his words.

A warm hand settles on his shoulder, its pinky stroking the exposed skin of his neck for a brief moment. “Peril, she said she can’t hear you.”

Illya can see the damned grin, even though Napoleon stands behind him. With a scowl he half turns, the light that falls through the big living room windows blinding him for a moment, directing his best glare at his partner. “Stop encouraging her!” he snaps.

Napoleon just lifts his hands in a mock gesture of defeat. “You do know our Gaby, nothing is worth less than my word.”

From the smile that appears on his face only seconds later, Illya can tell that Gaby has probably flipped him off. The confirmation of his analysis follows immediately: “Dummkopf.”

“Could you stop it?” he snaps, focusing on her again.

In a perfect Napoleon impression Gaby draws her eyebrows up, while his partner simply looks away, sighing. He regrets his outburst immediately, because he can see both of them starting to worry again.

Since he got out of bed, he had felt anxious, as if in anticipation for a big event to happen. It had shown during their lunch “date” - a term only used by his partners - when he had bellowed Napoleon to stop playing with his signet ring. Gaby had glared at him for the next three hours, while Cowboy succumbed to complete silence, more pushing the food around the plate than actually eating it.

As soon as they had left the restaurant, Gaby had hit Illya on the arm, stomping off like a horde of enraged elephants afterwards. Napoleon had merely forced a smile before he had followed her.

Their easy camaraderie and how fast they had turned against him hadn’t helped. Illya had nearly flown into a temper then and there, only held back by the observation that he was in a public place.

“Stop what?” Gaby brings him back into the present, crossing her arms and pursing her lips.

“Stop being this childish.”

“Oh? Why don’t you stop mothering us?” she shoots back.

It hits him like a ton of bricks, burying him under the crushing weight of guilt. Illya tenses up, cold shivers running down his arms. He knows now. Knows, why he has been miserable for the whole day.

“Peril? Is everything alright?” Napoleon wraps his fingers around his wrist.

Illya shakes his head and tries to control his trembling hands. Of course he doesn’t succeed.

“I need to be alone,” he forces out, trying to breathe, but failing.

“Gaby, darling, could you give us a minute?” Napoleon asks.

“I-” She looks uncertain for a moment, before she nods. “Yes.”

“Thank you.” Napoleon begins to let go of him, seemingly to hug her goodbye, but Illya makes a low noise of protest.

The other man’s touch anchors him and he fears once he lets go he won’t be able to control himself.

“Tell me if you need something, anything,” he hears Gaby say, but it sounds far away.

There is the sound of a door closing and they are alone. “Peril, what-” Napoleon begins, but Illya shakes his head. “Just-”

“Alright.”

They stay like that for a long time, Illya trying to breathe and Napoleon massaging his wrist with his thumb, rubbing small circles into it. Finally, he looks up. “It’s my mother’s birthday.”

“Haven’t you called her?” Napoleon wants to know.

“No. I haven’t,” he confesses and braces for his partner’s outburst.

Surprisingly, it doesn’t come and he has to remind himself that not everyone’s mother was as gentle and kind as his.

“But you wrote her?”

“No.”

“Why haven’t you? What kept you from contacting her?”

“I don’t know,” he lies.

Napoleon sighs. “So what’s the matter then?”

“Nothing, I-” He licks his lips, a nervous habit he’s picked up from Napoleon. “I just realised I have not seen her in ten years.”

Napoleon’s eyes widen almost comically. “Ten years?!”

“That’s what I said.” Irritated, he looks up.

“Peril, that’s a terribly long time, especially for your standards,” Napoleon explains.

“Do you think I don’t know that?” he hisses, leaning into his personal space.

Instead of answering, Napoleon lets go of his wrist. Before he can protest, he wraps his arms around Illya, pulling him into a fierce hug and crushing him to his chest. A few moments and his brain catches up to what is happening. Reluctantly, he returns the hug, while goosebumps spread over his arms when he feels Napoleon’s warm breath ghosting over his neck.

With a little bit of hesitation, and a sound that is more a sob than a sigh, Illya buries his face in his shoulder. He feels Napoleon squeeze him a little bit tighter for a moment and tries to not think about the shudder that runs through him.

They have shared hugs before, mainly to greet another or to say goodbye, but this one feels different, more significant, as if the natural balance they’ve established has shifted. It also differs from embraces of his past lovers, none of them were able to elicit such a wide range of emotions: closeness and trust - accompany to their friendship, love - the one he doesn’t want to think about - and finally, home.

The epiphany, when it comes, feels more like an universally acknowledged truth he wasn’t able to see until now. Their shared apartment should’ve been enough to indicate a drastic change in Illya’s life: Gaby’s clothes in every room, Napoleon’s library of cooking books, as well as his pans, pots and kettles, his photographs from past missions, the little cactus, a gift from an old lady in Morocco.

“I’m here,” Napoleon whispers.

“I know,” he replies, “Thank you.”

He means it. Silence stretches out between them and he’s able to hear and feel Napoleon breathing, every rise and fall of his chest calming him down a little bit more. He bathes in his presence, because it’s a reassuring anchor to reality and a privilege, to hold Napoleon and to own his trust. Thus he doesn’t want to let go.

Although he doesn’t know how long it will take for things to get awkward between them, he huffs out a pleased sigh and thanks every deity listening Napoleon doesn’t seem inclined to put more space between them. The other man starts to rub his back with languid motions, instinctively applying a little bit more pressure when Illya leans into the touch.

“I’m here,” he whispers again.

This time Illya doesn’t answer and just lets the reassurance wash over him. There isn’t much to say anyway.

A silly thought crosses his mind and he can’t help the laugh bubbling up in his throat.

“What’s the matter?” Napoleon wants to know, sounding amused as well.

Illya separates himself to search his partner’s face, all the while trying to resist the temptation to let his thumbs run over the crinkles around his eyes. He’s never seen a more honest smile on Napoleon’s face and he’s sure he’s never seen a more beautiful one either.

“Nothing, I just thought this was the longest you were silent in my presence,” he says and huffs amused, once Napoleon sputters indignantly, “Even in your sleep, you’re always talking.”

“Be quiet.” Napoleon shakes his head, trying nonchalance, but still appearing embarrassed.

Illya decides against a verbal reply and hugs him again, briefer this time. When they part, although only for a few centimetres, Napoleon stands on his tiptoes and brings their foreheads together.

There is a suspicious click, followed by a delighted: “Wie süß!”

They both start, stumbling back. Napoleon nearly falls over the back of the couch. While Illya has no chance to recover, before Gaby is on him and throws herself into his arms.

“We’re not cute,” he protests.

“A little bit,” she answers and pinches his cheek.

Then, she hugs Napoleon as well. “Well, I am very cute,” he says.

“Dummkopf,” she says again and makes Illya wonder if it isn’t an affectionate nickname by now, because his partner’s smile isn’t forced.

“So after two years of dancing around each other you finally confessed your feelings?” Gaby asks, a smug grin on her face.

“Feelings?” Illya repeats in bewilderment.

“How about you call her,” Napoleon interrupts them, playing with his signet ring again.

“Call who?” Gaby draws her brows together.

Napoleon looks at him, all sheepish and ducks his head. It’s an unfamiliar thing to do for him and if Illya didn’t know better, he would think the other man looks shy.

“My mother,” he answers, “it’s her birthday.”

“Then call her,” Gaby says, as if it was the easiest thing to do and grabs Napoleon’s hand, “And the two of us will have a short chat about-”

“No,” Illya interrupts her, “Please stay.”

“Uhm alright.”

They all settle on the couch, Gaby taking most of the space and forcing Napoleon and Illya to squeeze in beside her. Reluctantly, he leans over his partner and takes the phone from the small side table.

“Do you know her number?” Napoleon wants to know and is about to get up, seemingly to grab their shared address book.

“By heart,” he answers quickly.

The expression on Napoleon’s face changes into a mixture of sadness, sympathy and vulnerability. Before he can open his mouth, Illya shakes his head and leans against him, to avoid loss of contact.

He feels Napoleon’s amused chuckle, before he wraps an arm around Illya. Not around his shoulders, but around his waist. At first, it feels a little bit strange, because Napoleon’s hand worms it’s way along his back, but once it settles, the intimacy of the gesture hits him and he has to suppress a shiver.

“Are you done?” Gaby wants to know, her fingers thrumming against the surface of their second side table rather impatiently.

“Not quite,” Napoleon answers, getting kicked in the side lightly for his smug grin.

He just nudges Gaby’s foot away and turns to Illya. “Are you ready?” he wants to know.

Illya turns his head to look at him, scrutinising his face for a moment. He finds nothing but gentleness and affection. When he looks to Gaby, he finds a similar expression, although she seems ready to grab the receiver and to dial the number herself by now.

They are his friends, his partners, and most importantly, his family.

“Yes,” he answers finally.

Then, with Napoleon’s reassuring warmth pressed to his side, and Gaby’s silent vigil, he takes a deep breath and dials the number.

A shout out to my lovely beta @softshao, as well as @deducitetemporacarmen for helping me :D

#tmfu #the man from uncle #napollya #illya kuryakin #napoleon solo #gaby teller #*mine #*writing #*tmfu #prompt #i'm gonna post this on ao3 as well #i just need a title #(prompts are still open btw)

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