Thank you for the prompt! Sorry for being so late, but here, have some good old whump without context LOL. I hope you will enjoy it!
“Wake up, please wake up—”
Before he even manages to open his eyes, he hears the voice, a panicked, constant refrain whispered into his ear. He can’t immediately recall where he is or why there’s something pressing down so hard on his lungs, but he recognizes Solo’s voice by instinct, and he has little choice but to wake up, to find out the reason behind the fear in his words.
He finds that he is propped up against Solo’s chest, held against him by an arm circling his ribs, and that there is an hammering pain in his temple, a tickling sensation down his cheek—blood. He’s bleeding. It isn’t exactly surprising.
His first attempt at speaking is pitiful, more of a grunt than anything else, but Solo takes his uncoordinated squirming as a sign of life, letting out a relieved sigh that almost breaks into a cry. “Shit, Peril, thank Christ—I’m so glad you are okay—hey, hey, easy, don’t move, we don’t want the sniper to finish the job.”
Sniper?
He hadn’t fully realized that they are pressed together, hidden behind the flimsy protection of a car. Solo is still holding tight onto him, his free hand clutching his gun, and Illya instinctively starts looking for his own weapon. He has no choice but to give it up when the smallest movement of his head sends the world spinning. He feels like throwing up.
Describe the same character twice. Once to fall in love with them, then again to be repulsed by them.
Athras
He doesn’t try to stand out much and support his friends from the back. He manages to do this in a subtle way sometimes, they don’t even recognize that they leaned on him in the slightest. Or they notice later. He never would want something back, just a thank you and treating him like everyone else is enough for him.
He’s always looking for new ways to treat wounds, for new information in general. Being able to travel around fills him with joy and nervousness. New places and new people. Adventures that may lead to new knowledge are the ones he would really love to experience. As long as he doesn’t get in trouble. If he would cause trouble he would rather back of than go further.
Which doesn’t mean that he’s running. He is rather confident in his skills, happy to talk about what he knows with others. Confidence in his skills are a must, he was told. Seeking to get better was something he naturally did.
He’s an airhead too. You can find him daydreaming a lot, especially if something happy happened recently. His first action would be reacting according to his feelings which he suppresses most of the time, knowing it isn’t a good thing to do when people have prejudices against elves already.
He’s one of the people who you can trust in regardless what happens when he count’s you to his friends.
He’s trying to read people who are in his company. Especially taverns and other places with a lot of people, most likely to be drunk, are his favorites. Drunk ones are even easier to manipulate than sober people. Doesn’t matter if it’s a card game where he plays the dumb one or a conversation he leads in a direction he wants it to go. That doesn’t mean it’s always successful but if there’s no other way, manipulating people is easier than anything else he could try to think of.
He also doesn’t do anything wrong. He studied hard, asked about things that interest him, some that weren’t interesting. For the sole purpose of being whom he is today. He wouldn’t let others tell him what he does do wrong when they don’t know anything about the topic. The only time he would listen is when they have solid proof of him being wrong. Which they mostly don’t have.
And not to forget the fact that he can be really annoyed by people being assholes. Not that he would show it but if there’s an opportunity to get back on them he gladly takes it. It’s usually something little but it wouldn’t be the first time he left someone in need of help behind just because they didn’t proof worthy of his care. And is he responsible for their possible death if they didn’t want to take his help in the first place? No. He had been called ruthless, left people who needed help on their own but that’s all. The people are to hold themselves at fault for showing their negative feelings towards him.
He’s one who tries to predict others moves and uses his knowledge to his advantage.
How about 💜 or 🥰 for napollya for the hug prompts?
WELL I just kinda mixed them loool, I hope you'll enjoy the result <3
💜 unexpected hug + 🥰 reunion hug
Send me an emoji and a ship for a (hopefully) brief snippet
Napoleon has come prepared.
If he thinks about it too hard he comes dangerously close to the conclusion that this is a little ridiculous and very pathetic, but he didn’t get this far in life by not curating himself down to the smallest detail, and that apparently includes a million mental rehearsals of how this reunion is going to go.
It was a one in a million chance, really. Once Waverly’s little project crashed and burned, they knew they wouldn’t get a second chance, and over the last two years he thinks he has grown comfortably used to the idea.
(The knot in his stomach would beg to differ, but he pointedly ignores it.)
He has all the quips ready, engrained his head to the point that when he sees Illya they roll off his tongue even as his heart falters, and though with the anxiety clogging his throat it gets a little harder to pretend like he is as unaffected as he should be, it’s still some kind of victory.
Illya stands unnaturally still, barely out of arms’ reach, but he smiles just about as soon as Napoleon opens his mouth. It looks warmer than he remembered.
Thanks for playing! This is probably not what the prompt meant but. I just wanted Illya to be sick and miserable, sue me
🙄 unreciprocated hug / squirming or Do Not Want
He’s aware, somewhere beyond the haze of the fever, that the safety he has found is flimsy at best. Perhaps that’s why he wakes so readily upon hearing movement, in spite of the heaviness in his head and the way he can’t seem to force enough air into his lungs.
He is not even sure of how he managed to get himself away, only remembering the blur of adrenaline as he fought his way through more men than he bothered to count and the way everything tilted around him when his body finally gave up. He is still there, curled up on the ground after his attempts at getting up failed.
The quick steps of whoever is approaching make the ground vibrate against his cheek, and though his eyes won’t open more than halfway, burning and leaking tears enough that he’s mostly blinded regardless, his hand still manages to find the handle of one of his knives, held with shaky fingers but still offering some hope that he’ll manage to save himself.
There’s enough light that he thinks it might be day again. He feels a little sick.
Someone is on him before he can even think to react, an arm sliding under his neck, hands guiding him up. He makes a sound of protest, tries to squirm away and only manages to lose his knife in the process. There are words being spoken, the sound familiar in a way, but they are only faint foreign words, easily drowned by the blood rushing to his ears as he is moved.
His stomach flips, and he gulps in some air, trying to twist away and hold down what little food is left in his stomach at the same time.
SO this was supposed to be fluffy. not sure what happened, I guess Napoleon started overthinking LOL.
Thank you so much for the prompt, I hope you will enjoy it <3<3
🤫 sneaky hug / hug from behind
When Illya sneaks up behind him, wrapping his arms around him and resting his chin on Napoleon’s shoulder, he merely leans back against him, unperturbed by the lack of warning. By now, he has almost made his peace with how comfortable he is in his presence.
“If you keep sneaking up on me, I’ll end up shooting you on accident,” he still says, his hand loosely circling Illya’s wrist, resting right under his ribcage.
Illya snorts. “You are too slow.”
Now would be the time to be jokingly offended, to bring up the score that they keep on who has saved whom when, though the count has become somewhat messy over time, yet—nothing is wrong. They are happy, he is happy, he hasn’t heard from Sanders in months, reporting pretty much exclusively to Waverly now, he has no good reason for the anxiety clogging his throat. No good reason to be standing by the window, looking at the familiar street below them, choking on nostalgia like he has already been asked to leave it behind.
“You always think so loud,” Illya huffs, leaning forward to peek over his shoulder. “What are you watching?”
if u want, for the whump wheel - burned + illya? -@set-phasers-to-whump
Here you go! Thank you for the prompts, I love that I immediately got a bunch of Illya whump requests looool <;3
Ao3 link
He wakes to the sound of crying.
Or perhaps ‘wakes’ is a bit of an exaggeration, with the way his eyelids flutter uselessly a couple of times and eventually manage to open less than halfway, allowing him a glimpse of his surroundings.
There’s a lot of light, and a figure hunched next to him blocking most of it out.
Cowboy, he recognizes, just as he registers that he’s lying on his stomach, his head floating and his body awfully heavy in contrast. He can’t put his finger on what happened, at first, but it ceases to matter the moment he fully realizes that Solo is crying. He’s hunched on himself, stifling his sobs in his palm, his full body shaking with the force of it.
As alarmed as Illya is, shock running through him in a wave, he can’t manage to do anything about it, his lips parting slightly and his fingers twitching, but the rest of his body staying locked in place.
He’s sorry, Solo is saying, choked out between a sob and the next. Illya can’t imagine what on earth he’d have to be sorry for: they are both clearly alive, aren’t they? He can see ugly bruising looming on his eye, swallowing a good chunk of his face, but it will heal.
“I should have talked,” Solo is saying, his voice shaking as he hides his face behind his hands. “I’m so sorry, I’m such an idiot.”
Illya remembers it now, if vaguely. The burning pain, his own screams tearing through the air, the shock setting in as the pain kept coming and coming without reprieve. He remembers Solo pleading, screaming for them to stop, with a level of desperation that he had never seen him display before—Illya wasn’t the one with the information they wanted.
Gaby was the one tasked to go with their target, keep him safe until the extraction arrived. Solo was the one tasked with smuggling him out to begin with. Illya was just the diversion.
Don’t be stupid, Illya wants to say. He wants to get up, gather him close and let him know that it’s alright, that he understands and he did the right thing. He wants to say as much, but his mouth won’t move and he can’t gather enough air to speak anyway. We would both be dead if you had talked. Gaby too. You did well. We are okay.
Solo sobs harder, like he somehow heard him and he’s expressing his disagreement. Illya feels phantom burning pain on his back, hurting from every involuntary shift of his body, and he thinks he understands.
It’s okay, he still wants to say. It’s okay, I’ll be fine. I’ve had worse. It’s not your fault.
He’ll tell him, later. Once keeping his eyes open won’t be so hard and his head won’t weigh so much.
spin the whump wheel and send me a prompt + a character!
Hiii, thank you for the prompts! I used a random number generator to pick the one to start with, which is "nightmares", then I'm going to try and get to the others and post them separatedly! Enjoy <3
Ao3 link.
Napoleon doesn’t ask.
That would just make it awkward on both of them, it would force him to explain that deep-seated, all-consuming feeling of lingering worry plaguing his waking hours, let alone the nights, and it would be all but inviting Illya to argue with him and claim that he’s perfectly fine, thank you and fuck off.
So Napoleon doesn’t ask, and instead he slides into Illya’s bed without so much as a word, getting settled in spite of the eyes uncomfortably fixated on him.
In the end, Illya says nothing, of course, merely wishing him goodnight and turning his back to him.
Napoleon stares, mentally mapping all the cuts and bruises along his skin with as much precision as if he could see straight through his shirt and bandages.
He thinks he has manged to drift off, after a while, face to the ceiling and exhaustion heavy on his chest, but once he’s yanked back into consciousness his head throbs like he never closed his eyes to begin with.
Next to him, Illya is whimpering, taking in small choked breaths and twitching in place, like he’s trying to escape but he can’t quite manage. Napoleon has spent the whole week they were looking for him coming up with vivid scenarios of what might be happening to him, so right now he has plenty of guesses ready, if he wants to bet on what he’s seeing.
Having been expecting this, he quickly gets better settled next to him, shifting in his direction and closing his eyes before sliding his arm under Illya’s neck. He blindly moves closer, pressing himself against him and throwing his arm over his side in a bit of an awkward hug.
It doesn’t take long for Illya to come to, inhaling sharply and startling as if about to jump up, only to freeze in place once he realizes that he isn’t alone. Napoleon, from his part, keeps his own breathing nice and even, tightening his hold slightly only when he feels Illya beginning to shift.
It isn’t easy, to lay unmoving and keep his eyes closed at the sound of Illya’s still shaky breathing, not when everything in him wants to see him, but he manages. At first, it seems that Illya might have calmed down on his own, the silence growing more peaceful as the minutes pass, and Napoleon almost draws a sigh of relief. Except then, without much of a warning, Illya’s breathing hitches, his shoulders begin shaking, and in a matter of seconds he turns to suffocate his tears in Napoleon’s shoulder, trembling like a leaf and clinging to his shirt like his life depends on it.
As quiet as he tries to be, he’s still too close and it’s too silent for Napoleon not to hear every sniffle, every little intake of air, and that’s when he stops pretending, wrapping his arms around him and resting his chin over Illya’s hair.
He doesn’t say anything, does nothing more than holding him tight as he shakes and cries, and tries to ignore the way the sound is tearing his chest right open.
In the morning, if Illya likes, they can pretend like he was asleep the whole time and he only clung to him by reflex. He is no more inclined to discuss this than Illya is, after all.
But, for now, he isn’t going to let go for anything in the world.
spin the whump wheel and send me a prompt + a character!
Illya kuryakin + Shock collar for the whump wheel, requested by @huggiebird
It got a little long but it's still barely under 1k so loooool Enjoy!
Napoleon walks into the room in slow, careful steps, gun up and forcing his eyes to keep wandering around even after he recognizes the shadow seated in a corner. His instinct would be to run to Illya immediately, even more so as he registers that his head is hanging motionlessly against his chest and that he didn’t react at all to his arrival.
Still, he takes a few breaths in an attempt to calm his thundering heart, which is trying its best to escape up his throat, and he silently keeps looking around the room, examining the exits and searching for hiding spots that he could be ambushed from.
“Peril?” he can’t help calling, eventually. He hasn’t properly cleared the room, but it should be alright. “Are you alright over there?”
No answer. Not even a twitch.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He walks up to him in barely restrained strides, looking around for any threats and finding none. There’s still the very real possibility that he has missed something and he’ll end up dead on the floor in five minutes, but he can’t bring himself to worry too much about that.
Illya is slumped against the wall, with his hands behind his back, likely cuffed or bound in some way, chin to his chest.
“Peril?” Napoleon calls again, gently pushing his head up to assess the damage: maybe he’s drugged, or they bashed his head in to keep him down, or—or there’s a fucking shock collar secured around his throat.
