#tellermechanic

"Is tempting to close one eye," Illya murmurs, standing close enough to converse without sounding as though he is lecturing. "Don't do this. Keep both open."

He would like to say it had been his idea to get a firearm in Gaby's hands, but no matter his insistence that she be formally trained to defend herself at once, that had been the plan all along. Since Illya's voice had been the loudest, he'd been afforded the task - or the opportunity, Waverly had supplied - to do the honors. At least until other arrangements could be made.

"Is also tempting to pull trigger. Don't do this, either." His own finger just barely presses in along hers to demonstrate, and only because the gun is currently unloaded.

For one awful moment, he fears that he’s somehow broken the spell, and that Gaby will move away and decide she is not in the mood for this. They have been through far too many close calls together for Illya to willingly risk such a thing, but he resists the urge to reach out and touch her in case she decides to take the gesture as one of attempted control on his part. 

Honestly, he feels as though he has never had less control in his life.

Illya’s breath leaves him in a long and shaky exhale when she continues on after all, and he must steel his jaw in order to deal with how badly he feels he is dealing with her teasing. Gaby does well not to tell him she’s been getting advice from Napoleon - never mind that he has himself grudgingly accepted a tidbit of advice here and there - but the American just so happens to be absolutely correct. The movement of her fingers, the way her mouth lingers so close yet so far, is fit to grit his teeth.

        In his lifetime, Napoleon has experienced a plethora of methods of torture. All creative, all colorful, all the favorite of some captor or another with different levels of dedication in sticking to their routines. The thing is, he’s never begged; he’s never been broken under that sort of attention, which always works against him as much as it does for him. But this is a sweeter sort of torture, something else entirely that has long since left Solo’s patience fraying at the edges, perhaps even since she’d undone the topmost button of her pajamas, since she’d shrugged the shirt off like it was little more than a nuisance. She’s so terribly close and so terribly far all at once, and he nearly aches to reach up to grasp her hips, draw her onto the cradle of his own.

         ❝ This might border on cruelty, ❞ he counters, but he makes no effort to suggest that he’d like this little dance of theirs to end. It’s far too much fun, and the torment might be worth the reward, if the way Teller’s flushed cheeks and catching breaths are any striking indication to go by. He’s transfixed, and having her lean down for even just a moment is likely another nail in his coffin; it’d be so easy to close that small space between them, to murmur a number of promises against her lips --- far more than any game can bring.  ❝ I’d never pegged you as a sadist. ❞

*kill bill sirens in background*

Community Sentence Meme: (Accepting)

“Listen, Tonya Harding! If you have a better idea, I’m all ears!”